MRS. REFFOLD LEARNS A LESSON

Petershof was a winter resort for consumptive patients, though, indeed, many people simply needed the change of a bracing climate went there to spend a few months; and came, away wonderfully better for the mountain air. This was what Bernardine Holme hoped to do; she was broken down in every way, but it was thought that a prolonged stay in Petershof might help her back to a reasonable amount of health, or, at least, prevent her from slipping into further decline. She had come alone, because she had no relations except that old uncle, and no money to pay any friend who might have been willing to come with her. But she probably cared very little, and the morning after her arrival, she strolled out by herself, investigating the place where she was about to spend six months. She was dragging herself along, when she met the Disagreeable Man. She stopped him. He was not accustomed to be stopped by any one, and he looked rather astonished.

“You were not very cheering last night,” she said to him.

“I believe I am not generally considered to be lively,” he answered, as he knocked the snow of his boot.

“Still, I am sorry I spoke to you as I did,” she went on frankly. “It was foolish of me to mind what you said.”

He made no reference to his own remark, and passing on his way again, when he turned back and walked with her.

“I have been here nearly seven years,” he said and there was a ring of sadness in his voice as he spoke, which he immediately corrected. “If you want to know anything about the place, I can tell you. If you are able to walk, I can show you some lovely spots, where you will not be bothered with people. I can take you to a snow fairy-land. If you are sad and disappointed, you will find shining comfort there. It is not all sadness in Petershof. In the silent snow forests, if you dig the snow away, you will find the tiny buds nestling in their white nursery. If the sun does not dazzle your eyes, you may always see the great mountains piercing the sky. These wonders have been a happiness to me. You are not too ill but that they may be a happiness to you also.”

“Nothing can be much of a happiness to me,” she said, half to herself, and her lips quivered. “I have had to give up so much: all my work, all my ambitions.”

“You are not the only one who has had to do that,” he said sharply. “Why make a fuss? Things arrange themselves, and eventually we adjust ourselves to the new arrangement. A great deal of caring and grieving, phase one; still more caring and grieving, phase two; less caring and grieving, phase three; no further feeling whatsoever, phase four. Mercifully I am at phase four. You are at phase one. Make a quick journey over the stages.”

He turned and left her, and she strolled along, thinking of his words, wondering how long it would take her to arrive at his indifference. She had always looked upon indifference as paralysis of the soul, and paralysis meant death, nay, was worse than death. And here was this man, who had obviously suffered both mentally and physically, telling her that the only sensible course was to learn not to care. How could she learn not to care? All her life long she had studied and worked and cultivated herself in every direction in the hope of being able to take a high place in literature, or, in any case, to do something in life distinctly better than what other people did. When everything was coming near to her grasp, when there seemed a fair chance of realizing her ambitions, she had suddenly fallen ill, broken up so entirely in every way, that those who knew her when she was well, could scarcely recognize her now that she was ill. The doctors spoke of an overstrained nervous system: the pestilence of these modern days; they spoke of rest, change of work and scene, bracing air. She might regain her vitality; she might not. Those who had played themselves out must pay the penalty. She was thinking of her whole history, pitying herself profoundly, coming to the conclusion, after true human fashion, that she was the worst-used person on earth, and that no one but herself knew what disappointed ambitions were; she was thinking of all this, and looking profoundly miserable and martyr-like, when some one called her by her name. She looked round and saw one of the English ladies belonging to the Kurhaus; Bernardine had noticed her the previous night. She seemed in capital spirits, and had three or four admirers waiting on her very words. She was a tall, handsome woman, dressed in a superb fur-trimmed cloak, a woman of splendid bearing and address. Bernardine looked a contemptible little piece of humanity beside her. Some such impression conveyed itself to the two men who were walking with Mrs. Reffold. They looked at the one woman, and then at the other, and smiled at each other, as men do smile on such occasions.

“I am going to speak to this little thing,” Mrs. Reffold had said to her two companions before they came near Bernardine. “I must find out who she is, and where she comes from. And, fancy, she has come quite alone. I have inquired. How hopelessly out of fashion she dresses. And what a hat!”

“I should not take the trouble to speak to her,” said one of the men. “She may fasten herself on to you. You know what a bore that is.”

“Oh, I can easily snub any one if I wish,” replied Mrs. Reffold, rather disdainfully.

So she hastened up to Bernardine, and held out her well-gloved hand.

“I had not a chance of speaking to you last night, Miss Holme,” she said. “You retired so early. I hope you have rested after your journey. You seemed quite worn out.”

“Thank you,” said Bernardine, looking admiringly at the beautiful woman, and envying her, just as all plain women envy their handsome sisters.

“You are not alone, I suppose?” continued Mrs. Reffold.

“Yes, quite alone,” answered Bernardine.

“But you are evidently acquainted with Mr. Allitsen, your neighbour at table,” said Mrs. Reffold; “so you will not feel quite lonely here. It is a great advantage to have a friend at a place like this.”

“I never saw him before last night,” said Bernardine.

“Is it possible?” said Mrs. Reffold, in her pleasantest voice. “Then you have made a triumph of the Disagreeable Man. He very rarely deigns to talk with any of us. He does not even appear to see us. He sits quietly and reads. It would be interesting to hear what his conversation is like. I should be quite amused to know what you did talk about.”

“I dare say you would,” said Bernardine quietly.

Then Mrs. Behold, wishing to screen her inquisitiveness, plunged into a description of Petershof life, speaking enthusiastically about everything, except the scenery, which she did not mention. After a time she ventured to begin once more taking soundings. But some how or other, those bright eyes of Bernardine, which looked at her so searchingly, made her a little nervous, and, perhaps, a little indiscreet.

“Your father will miss you,” she said tentatively.

“I should think probably not,” answered Bernardine. “One is not easily missed, you know.” There was a twinkle in Bernardine’s eye as she added, “He is probably occupied with other things!”

“What is your father?” asked Mrs. Reffold, in her most coaxing tones.

“I don’t know what he is now,” answered Bernardine placidly. “But he was a genius. He is dead.”

Mrs. Reffold gave a slight start, for she began to feel that this insignificant little person was making fun of her. This would never do, and before witnesses too. So she gathered together her best resources and said:

“Dear me, how very unfortunate: a genius too. Death is indeed cruel. And here one sees so much of it, that unless one learns to steel one’s heart, one becomes melancholy. Ah, it is indeed sad to see all this suffering!” (Mrs Reffold herself had quite succeeded in steeling her heart against her own invalid husband.) She then gave an account of several bad cases of consumption, not forgetting to mention two instances of suicide which had lately taken place in Petershof.

“One gentleman was a Russian,” she said. “Fancy coming all the way, from Russia to this little out-of-the-world place! But people come from the uttermost ends of the earth, though of course there are many Londoners here. I suppose you are from London?”

“I am not living in London now,” said Bernardine cautiously.

“But you know it, without doubt,” continued Mrs. Reffold. “There are several Kensington people here. You may meet some friends: indeed in our hotel there are two or three families from Lexham Gardens.”

Bernardine smiled a little viciously; looked first at Mrs. Reffold’s two companions with an amused sort of indulgence, and then at the lady herself She paused a moment, and then said:

“Have you asked all the questions you wish to ask? And, if so, may I ask one of you. Where does one get the best tea?”

Mrs. Reffold gave an inward gasp, but pointed gracefully to a small confectionery shop on the other side of the road. Mrs. Reffold did everything gracefully.

Bernardine thanked her, crossed the road, and passed into the shop.

“Now I have taught her a lesson not to interfere with me,” said Bernardine to herself. “How beautiful she is.”

Mrs. Reffold and her two companions went silently on their way. At last the silence was broken.

“Well, I’m blessed!” said the taller of the two, lighting a cigar.

“So am I,” said the other, lighting his cigar too.

“Those are precisely my own feelings,” remarked Mrs. Reffold.

But she had learnt her lesson.