THE DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP HIS FREEDOM

THE morning after Bernardine began her book, she and old Zerviah were sitting together in the shop. He had come from the little inner room where he had been reading Gibbon for the last two hours. He still held the volume in his hand; but he did not continue reading, he watched her arranging the pages of a dilapidated book.

Suddenly she looked up from her work.

“Uncle Zerviah,” she said brusquely, “you have lived through a long life, and must have passed through many different experiences. Was there ever a time when you cared for people rather than books?”

“Yes,” he answered a little uneasily. He was not accustomed to have questions asked of him.

“Tell me about it,” she said.

“It was long ago,” he said half dreamily, “long before I married Malvina. And she died. That was all.”

“That was all,” repeated Bernardine, looking at him wonderingly. Then she drew nearer to him.

“And you have loved, Uncle Zerviah? And you were loved?”

“Yes, indeed,” he answered, softly.

“Then you would not laugh at me if I were to unburden my heart to you?”

For answer, she felt the touch of his old hand on her head. And thus encouraged, she told him the story of the Disagreeable Man. She told him how she had never before loved any one until she loved the Disagreeable Man.

It was all very quietly told, in a simple and dignified manner: nevertheless, for all that, it was an unburdening of her heart; her listener being an old scholar who had almost forgotten the very name of love.

She was still talking, and he was still listening, when the shop door creaked. Zerviah crept quietly away, and Bernardine looked up.

The Disagreeable Man stood at the counter.

“You little thing,” he said, “I have come to see you. It is eight years since I was in England.”

Bernardine leaned over the counter.

“And you ought not to be here now,” she said, looking at his thin face. He seemed to have shrunk away since she had last seen him.

“I am free to do what I choose,” he said. “My mother is dead.”

“I know.” Bernardine said gently. “But you are not free.”

He made no answer to that, but slipped into the chair.

“You look tired,” he said. “What have you been doing?”

“I have been dusting the books,” she answered, smiling at him. “You remember you told me I should be content to do that. The very oldest and shabbiest have had my tenderest care. I found the shop in disorder. You see it now.”

“I should not call it particularly tidy now,” he said grimly. “Still, I suppose you have done your best. Well, and what else?”

“I have been trying to take care of my old uncle,” she said. “We are just beginning to understand each other a little. And he is beginning to feel glad to have me. When I first discovered that, the days became easier to me. It makes us into dignified persons when we find out that there is a place for us to fill.”

“Some people never find it out,” he said.

“Probably, like myself, they went on for a long time, without caring,” she answered. “I think I have had more luck than I deserve.”

“Well,” said the Disagreeable Man. “And you are glad to take up your life again?”

“No,” she said quietly. “I have not got as far as that yet. But I believe that after some little time I may be glad. I hope so, I am working for that. Sometimes I begin to have a keen interest in everything. I wake up with an enthusiasm. After about two hours I have lost it again.”

“Poor little child,” he said tenderly. “I, too know what that is. But you will get back to gladness: not the same kind of satisfaction as before; but some other satisfaction, that compensation which is said to be included in the scheme.”

“And I have begun my book,” she said, pointing to a few sheets lying on the counter: that is to say, I have written the Prologue.”

“Then the dusting of the books has not sufficed?” he said, scanning her curiously.

“I wanted not to think of myself,” Bernardine, said. “Now that I have begun it, I shall enjoy going on with it. I hope it will be a companion to me.”

“I wonder whether you will make a failure or a success of it?” he remarked. “I wish I could have seen.”

“So you will,” she said. “I shall finish it, and you will read it in Petershof.”

“I shall not be going back to Petershof,” he said. “Why should I go there now?”

“For the same reason that you went there eight years ago,” she said.

“I went there for my mother’s sake,” he said.

“Then you will go there now for my sake,” she said deliberately.

He looked up quickly my little

“Little Bernardine,” he cried, “my Little Bernardine is it possible that you care what becomes of me?”

She had been leaning against the counter, and now she raised herself, and stood erect, a proud, dignified little figure.

“Yes, I do care,” she said simply, and with true earnestness. “I care with all my heart. And even if I did not care, you know you would not be free. No one is free. You know that better than I do. We do not belong to ourselves: there are countless people depending on us, people whom we have never seen, and whom we never shall see. What we do, decides what they will be.”

He still did not speak.

“But it is not for those others that I plead,” she continued. “I plead for myself. I can’t spare you, indeed, indeed I can’t spare you! . . .”

Her voice trembled, but she went on bravely:

“So you will go back to the mountains,” she said. “You will live out your life like a man. Others may prove themselves cowards, but the Disagreeable Man has a better part to play.”

He still did not speak. Was it that he could not trust himself to words? But in that brief time, the thoughts which passed through his mind were such as to overwhelm him. A picture rose up before him: a picture of a man and woman leading their lives together, each happy in the other’s love; not a love born of fancy, but a love based on comradeship and true understanding of the soul. The picture faded, and the Disagreeable Man raised his eyes and looked at the little figure standing near him.

“Little child, little child,” he said wearily, “since it is your wish, I will go back to the mountains.”

Then he bent over the counter, and put his hand on hers.

“I will come and see you to-morrow,” he said. “I think there are one or two things I want to say to you.”

The next moment he was gone.

In the afternoon of that same day Bernardine went to the City. She was not unhappy: she had been making plans for herself. She would work hard, and fill her life as full as possible. There should be no room for unhealthy thought. She would go and spend her holidays in Petershof. There would be pleasure in that for him and for her. She would tell him so to-morrow. She knew he would be glad.

“Above all,” she said to herself, “there shall be no room for unhealthy thought. I must cultivate my garden.”

That was what she was thinking of at four in the afternoon: how she could best cultivate her garden.

At five she was lying unconscious in the accident-ward of the New Hospital: she had been knocked down by a waggon, and terribly injured.

She will not recover, the Doctor said to the nurse. “You see she is sinking rapidly. Poor little thing!”

At six she regained consciousness, and opened her eyes. The nurse bent over her. Then she whispered:

“Tell the Disagreeable Man how I wish I could have seen him to-morrow. We had so much to say to each other. And now . . .”

The brown eyes looked at the nurse so entreatingly. It was a long time before she could forget the pathos of those brown eyes.

A few minutes later, she made another sign as though she wished to speak. Nurse Katharine bent nearer. Then she whispered:

“Tell the Disagreeable Man to go back to the mountains, and begin to build his bridge: it must be strong and . . .”

Bernardine died.