Ships That Pass in the Night Part 21

He said good-bye to her at the foot of the staircase.

It was the first time she had ever shaken hands with him.

"Good-bye," he said gently. "Good luck to you."

"Good-bye," she answered.

He went up the stairs, and turned round as though he wished to say something more. But he changed his mind, and kept his own counsel.

An hour later Bernardine left Petershof. Only the concierge of the Kurhaus saw her off at the station.

CHAPTER XX.

A LOVE-LETTER.

TWO days after Bernardine had left Petershof, the snows began to melt.

Nothing could be drearier than that process: nothing more desolate than the outlook.

The Disagreeable Man sat in his bedroom trying to read Carpenter's Anatomy. It failed to hold him. Then he looked out of the window, and listened to the dripping of the icicles. At last he took a pen, and wrote as follows:

"LITTLE COMRADE, LITTLE PLAYMATE."

"I could not believe that you were really going. When you first said that you would soon be leaving, I listened with unconcern, because it did not seem possible that the time could come when we should not be together; that the days would come and go, and that I should not know how you were; whether you were better, and more hopeful about your life and your work, or whether the old misery of indifference and ill-health was still clinging to you; whether your voice was strong as of one who had slept well and felt refreshed, or whether it was weak like that of one who had watched through the long night.

"It did not seem possible that such a time could come. Many cruel things have happened to me, as to scores of others, but this is the most cruel of all. Against my wish and against my knowledge, you have crept into my life as a necessity, and now I have to give you up. You are better, G.o.d bless you, and you go back to a fuller life, and to carry on your work, and to put to account those talents which no one realises more than I do; and as for myself, G.o.d help me, I am left to wither away.

"You little one, you dear little one, I never wished to love you. I had never loved any one, never drawn near to any one. I have lived lonely all my young life; for I am only a young man yet. I said to myself time after time: 'I will not love her. It will not do me any good, nor her any good.' And then in my state of health, what right had I to think of marriage, and making a home for myself? Of course that was out of the question. And then I thought, that because I was a doomed man, cut off from the pleasures which make a lovely thing of life, it did not follow that I might not love you in my own quiet way, hugging my secret to myself, until the love became all the greater because it was my secret.

I reasoned about it too: it could not harm you that I loved you. No one could be the worse for being loved. So little by little I yielded myself this luxury; and my heart once so dried up, began to flower again; yes, little one, you will smile when I tell you that my heart broke out into flower.

"When I think of it all now, I am not sorry that I let myself go. At least I have learnt what I knew nothing of before: now I understand what people mean when they say that love adds a dignity to life which nothing else can give. That dignity is mine now, nothing can take it from me; it is my own. You are my very own; I love everything about you. From the beginning I recognized that you were clever and capable. Though I often made fun of what you said, that was simply a way I had; and when I saw you did not mind, I continued in that way, hoping always to vex you; your good temper provoked me, because I knew that you made allowances for me being a Petershof invalid. You would never have suffered a strong man to criticize you as I did; you would have flown at him, for you are a feverish little child: not a quiet woolly lamb. At first I was wild that you should make allowances for me. And then I gave in, as weak men are obliged. When you came, I saw that your troubles and sufferings would make you bitter. Do you know who helped to cure you? _It was I_.

I have seen that often before. That is the one little bit of good I have done in the world: I have helped to cure cynicism. You were shocked at the things I said, and you were saved. I did not save you intentionally, so I am not posing as a philanthropist. I merely mention that you came here hard, and you went back tender. That was partly because you have lived in the City of Suffering. Some people live there and learn nothing. But you would learn to feel only too much. I wish that your capacity for feeling were less; but then you would not be yourself, your present self I mean, for you have changed even since I have known you. Every week you seemed to become more gentle. You thought me rough and gruff at parting, little comrade: I meant to be so. If you had only known, there was a whole world of tenderness for you in my heart. I could not trust myself to be tender to you; you would have guessed my secret. And I wanted you to go away undisturbed. You do not feel things lightly, and it was best for you that you should harden your heart against me.

"If you could harden your heart against me. But I am not sure about that. I believe that . . . . Ah, well, I'm a foolish fellow; but some day, dear, I'll tell you what I think . . . . I have treasured many of your sayings in my memory. I can never be as though I had never known you.

Many of your words I have repeated to myself afterwards until they seemed to represent my own thoughts. I specially remember what you said about G.o.d having made us lonely, so that we might be obliged to turn to him. For we are all lonely, though some of us not quite so much as others. You yourself spoke often of being lonely. Oh, my own little one! Your loneliness is nothing compared to mine. How often I could have told you that.

"I have never seen any of your work, but I think you have now something to say to others, and that you will say it well. And if you have the courage to be simple when it comes to the point, you will succeed. And I believe you will have the courage, I believe everything of you.

"But whatever you do or do not, you will always be the same to me: my own little one, my very own. I have been waiting all my life for you; and I have given you my heart entire. If you only knew that, you could not call yourself lonely any more. If any one was ever loved, it is you, dear heart.

"Do you remember how those peasants at the Gasthaus thought we were betrothed? I thought that might annoy you; and though I was relieved at the time, still, later on, I wished you had been annoyed. That would have shown that you were not indifferent. From that time my love for you grew apace. You must not mind me telling you so often; I must go on telling you. Just think, dear, this is the first love-letter I have ever written: and every word of love is a whole world of love. I shall never call my life a failure now. I may have failed in everything else, but not in loving. Oh, little one, it can't be that I am not to be with you, and not to have you for my own! And yet how can that be? It is not I who may hold you in my arms. Some strong man must love and wrap you round with tenderness and softness. You little independent child, in spite of all your wonderful views and theories, you will soon be glad to lean on some one for comfort and sympathy. And then perhaps that troubled little spirit of yours may find its rest. Would to G.o.d I were that strong man!

"But because I love you, my own little darling, I will not spoil your life. I won't ask you to give me even one thought. But if I believed that it were of any good to say a prayer, I should pray that you may soon find that strong man; for it is not well for any of us to stand alone. There comes a time when the loneliness is more than we can bear.

"There is one thing I want you to know: indeed I am not the gruff fellow I have so often seemed. Do believe that. Do you remember how I told you that I dreamed of losing you? And now the dream has come true. I am always looking for you, and cannot find you.

"You have been very good to me; so patient, and genial, and frank. No one before has ever been so good. Even if I did not love you, I should say that.

"But I do love you, no one can take that from me: it is my own dignity, the crown of my life. Such a poor life . . . no, no, I won't say that now. I cannot pity myself now . . . no, I cannot . . . ."

The Disagreeable Man stopped writing, and the pen dropped on the table.

He buried his tear-stained face in his hands. He cried his heart out, this Disagreeable Man.

Then he took the letter which he had just been writing, and he tore it into fragments.

END OF PART I.

PART II.

CHAPTER I.

THE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS.

IT was now more than three weeks since Bernardine's return to London.

She had gone back to her old home, at her uncle's second-hand book-shop.

She spent her time in dusting the books, and arranging them in some kind of order; for old Zerviah Holme had ceased to interest himself much in his belongings, and sat in the little inner room reading as usual Gibbon's "History of Rome." Customers might please themselves about coming: Zerviah Holme had never cared about ama.s.sing money, and now he cared even less than before. A frugal breakfast, a frugal dinner, a box full of snuff, and a shelf full of Gibbon were the old man's only requirements: an undemanding life, and therefore a loveless one; since the less we ask for, the less we get.

When Malvina his wife died, people said: "He will miss her."

But he did not seem to miss her: he took his breakfast, his pinch of snuff, his Gibbon, in precisely the same way as before, and in the same quant.i.ties.

When Bernardine first fell ill, people said: "He will be sorry. He is fond of her in his own queer way."

But he did not seem to be sorry. He did not understand anything about illness. The thought of it worried him; so he put it from him. He remembered vaguely that Bernardine's father had suddenly become ill, that his powers had all failed him, and that he lingered on, just a wreck of humanity, and then died. That was twenty years ago. Then he thought of Bernardine, and said to himself, "History repeats itself."

That was all.

Unkind? No; for when it was told him that she must go away, he looked at her wonderingly, and then went out. It was very rarely that he went out. He came back with fifty pounds.

"When that is done," he told her, "I can find more."

When she went away, people said: "He will be lonely."

But he did not seem to be lonely. They asked him once, and he said: "I always have Gibbon."

And when she came back, they said: "He will be glad."

But her return seemed to make no difference to him.