Ships That Pass in the Night Part 20

"The wrong letter left at No. 54," she said, "and Madame in a horrid temper in consequence. What a nuisance you are to-day, Warli! Can't you read? Here, give the remaining letters to me. I'll sort them."

Warli took off his little round hat, and wiped his forehead.

"I can't read to-day, Marie," he said; something has gone wrong with me.

Every name I look at turns to Marie Truog. I ought to have brought every one of the letters to you. But I knew they could not be all for you, though you have so many admirers. For they would not be likely to write at the same time, to catch the same post."

"It would be very dull if they did," said Marie, who was polis.h.i.+ng some water-bottles with more diligence than was usual or even necessary.

"But I am the one who loves you, Mariechen," the little postman said.

"I have always loved you ever since I can remember. I am not much to look at, Mariechen: the binding of the book is not beautiful, but the book itself is not a bad book."

Marie went on polis.h.i.+ng the water-bottles. Then she held them up to the light to admire their unwonted cleanness.

"I don't plead for myself," continued Warli. "If you don't love me, that is the end of the matter. But if you do love me, Mariechen, and will marry me, you won't be unhappy. Now I have said all."

Marie put down the water-bottles, and turned to Warli.

"You have been a long time in telling me," she said, pouting. "Why didn't you tell me three months ago? It's too late now."

"Oh, Mariechen!" said the little postman, seizing her hand and covering it with kisses; "you love some one else--you are already betrothed? And now it's too late, and you love some one else!"

"I never said I loved some one else," Marie replied; "I only said it was too late. Why, it must be nearly five o'clock, and my lamps are not yet ready. I haven't a moment to spare. Dear me, and there is no oil in the can; no, not one little drop!

"The devil take the oil!" exclaimed Warli, s.n.a.t.c.hing the can out of her hands. "What do I want to know about the oil in the can? I want to know about the love in your heart. Oh, Mariechen, don't keep me waiting like this! Just tell me if you love me, and make me the merriest soul in all Switzerland."

"Must I tell the truth," she said, in a most melancholy tone of voice; "the truth and nothing else? Well, Warli, if you must know . . . how I grieve to hurt you . . . ." Warli's heart sank, the tears came into his eyes. "But since it must be the truth, and nothing else," continued the torturer, "well Fritz . . . I love you!"

A few minutes afterwards, the Disagreeable Man, having failed to attract any notice by ringing, descended to Marie's pantry, to fetch his lamp.

He discovered Warli embracing his betrothed.

"I am sorry to intrude," he said grimly, and he retreated at once. But directly afterwards he came back.

"The matron has just come upstairs," he said. And he hurried away.

CHAPTER XIX.

"s.h.i.+PS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN Pa.s.sING."

MANY of the guests in the foreign quarter had made a start downwards into the plains; and the Kurhaus itself, though still well filled with visitors, was every week losing some of its invalids. A few of the tables looked desolate, and some were not occupied at all, the lingerers having chosen, now that their party was broken up, to seek the refuge of another table. So that many stragglers found their way to the English dining-board, each bringing with him his own national bad manners, and causing much annoyance to the Disagreeable Man, who was a true John Bull in his contempt of all foreigners. The English table was, so he said, like England herself: the haven of other nation's offscourings.

There were several other signs, too, that the season was far advanced.

The food had fallen off in quality and quant.i.ty. The invalids, some of them better and some of them worse, had become impatient. And plans were being discussed, where formerly temperatures and coughs and general symptoms were the usual subjects of conversation! The caretakers, too, were in a state of agitation; some few keenly anxious to be of to new pastures; and others, who had perhaps formed attachments, an occurrence not unusual in Petershof, were wis.h.i.+ng to hold back time with both hands, and were therefore delighted that the weather, which had not yet broken up, gave no legitimate excuse for immediate departure.

Pretty Fraulein Muller had gone, leaving her Spanish gentleman quite disconsolate for the time being. The French Marchioness had returned to the Parisian circles where she was celebrated for all the domestic virtues, from which she had been taking such a prolonged holiday in Petershof. The little French danseuse and her poodle had left for Monte Carlo. M. Lichinsky and his mother pa.s.sed on to the Tyrol, where Madame would no doubt have plenty of opportunities for quarrelling: or not finding them, would certainly make them without any delay, by this means keeping herself in good spirits and her son in bad health. There were some, too, who had hurried off without paying their doctors: being of course those who had received the greatest attention, and who had expressed the greatest grat.i.tude in their time of trouble, but who were of opinion that thankfulness could very well take the place of francs: an opinion not entirely shared by the doctors themselves.

The Swedish professor had betaken himself off, with his chessmen and his chessboard. The little Polish governess who clutched so eagerly at her paltry winnings, caressing those centimes with the same fondness and fever that a greater gambler grasps his thousands of francs, she, had left too; and, indeed, most of Bernardine's acquaintances had gone their several ways, after six months' constant intercourse, and companions.h.i.+p, saying good-bye with the same indifference as though they were saying good-morning or good-afternoon.

This cold-heartedness struck Bernardine more than once, and she spoke of it to Robert Allitsen. It was the day before her own departure, and she had gone down with him to the restaurant, and sat sipping her coffee, and making her complaint.

"Such indifference is astonis.h.i.+ng, and it is sad too. I cannot understand it," she said.

"That is because you are a goose," he replied, pouring out some more coffee for himself, and as an after thought, for her too. "You pretend to know something about the human heart, and yet you do not seem to grasp the fact that most of us are very little interested in other people: they for us and we for them can spare only a small fraction of time and attention. We may, perhaps, think to the contrary, believing that we occupy an important position in their lives; until one day, when we are feeling most confident of our value, we see an unmistakable sign, given quite unconsciously by our friends, that we are after all nothing to them: we can be done without, put on one side, and forgotten when not present. Then, if we are foolish, we are wounded by this discovery, and we draw back into ourselves. But if we are wise, we draw back into ourselves without being wounded: recognizing as fair and reasonable that people can only have time and attention for their immediate belongings. Isolated persons have to learn this lesson sooner or later; and the sooner they do learn it, the better."

"And you," she asked, "you have learnt this lesson?"

"Long ago," he said decidedly.

"You take a hard view of life," she said.

"Life has not been very bright for me," he answered. "But I own that I have not cultivated my garden. And now it is too late: the weeds have sprung up everywhere. Once or twice I have thought lately that I would begin to clear away the weeds, but I have not the courage now. And perhaps it does not matter much."

"I think it does matter," she said gently. "But I am no better than you, for I have not cultivated my garden."

"It would not be such a difficult business for you as for me," he said, smiling sadly.

They left the restaurant, and sauntered out together.

"And to-morrow you will be gone," he said.

"I shall miss you," Bernardine said.

"That is simply a question of time," he remarked. "I shall probably miss you at first. But we adjust ourselves easily to altered circ.u.mstances: mercifully. A few days, a few weeks at most, and then that state of becoming accustomed, called by pious folk, resignation."

"Then you think that the every-day companions.h.i.+p, the every-day exchange of thoughts and ideas, counts for little or nothing?" she asked.

"That is about the colour of it," he answered, in his old gruff way.

She thought of his words when she was packing: the many pleasant hours were to count for nothing; for nothing the little bits of fun, the little displays of temper and vexation, the s.n.a.t.c.hes of serious talk, the contradictions, and all the petty details of six months' close companions.h.i.+p.

He was not different from the others who had parted from her so lightly.

No wonder, then, that he could sympathise with them.

That last night at Petershof, Bernardine hardened her heart against the Disagreeable Man.

"I am glad I am able to do so," she said to herself. "It makes it easier for me to go."

Then the vision of a forlorn figure rose before her. And the little hard heart softened at once.

In the morning they breakfasted together as usual. There was scarcely any conversation between them. He asked for her address, and she told him that she was going back to her uncle who kept the second-hand book- shop in Stone Street.

"I will send you a guide-book from the Tyrol," he explained. "I shall be going there in a week or two to see my mother."

"I hope you will find her in good health," she said.

Then it suddenly flashed across her mind what he had told her about his one great sacrifice for his mother's sake. She looked up at him, and he met her glance without flinching.