Part 24 (1/2)

”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.

”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 pa.s.sed 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 comrades.h.i.+p 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.”