“SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING

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 of in quality and quantity. 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 wishing 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 Fraeulein Mueller 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 passed 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 gratitude 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 companionship, 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 astonishing, 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 circumstances: 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 companionship, 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 snatches of serious talk, the contradictions, and all the petty details of six months’ close companionship.

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.

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.