Ships That Pass in the Night Part 2

"Good day, Warli," she said, glancing hurriedly at a tiny broken mirror suspended on the wall. "I suppose you have a letter for me. How delightful!"

"Never mind about the letter just now," he said, waving his hand as though wis.h.i.+ng to dismiss the subject. "How nice to hear you singing so sweetly, Marie! Dear me, in the old days at Grusch, how often I have heard that song of the spinning-wheels. You have forgotten the old days, Marie, though you remember the song."

"Give me my letter, Warli, and go about your work," said Marie, pretending to be impatient. But all the same her eyes looked extremely friendly. There was something very winning about the hunchback's face.

"Ah, ah! Marie," he said, shaking his curly head; "I know how it is with you: you only like people in fine binding. They have not always fine hearts."

"What nonsense you talk Warli!" said Marie "There, just hand me the oil-can. You can fill this lamp for me. Not too full, you goose! And this one also, ah, you're letting the oil trickle down! Why, you're not fit for anything except carrying letters! Here, give me my letter."

"What pretty flowers," said Warli. "Now if there is one thing I do like, it is a flower. Can you spare me one, Marie? Put one in my b.u.t.ton-hole, do!"

"You are a nuisance this afternoon," said Marie, smiling and pinning a flower on Warli's blue coat. Just then a bell rang violently.

"Those Portuguese ladies will drive me quite mad," said Marie. "They always ring just when I am enjoying myself?"

"When you are enjoying yourself!" said Warli triumphantly.

"Of course," returned Marie; "I always do enjoy cleaning the oil-lamps; I always did!"

"Ah, I'd forgotten the oil-lamps!" said Warli.

"And so had I!" laughed Marie. "Na, na, there goes that bell again!

Won't they be angry! Won't they scold at me! Here, Warli, give me my letter, and I'll be off."

"I never told you I had any letter for you," remarked Warli. "It was entirely your own idea. Good afternoon, Fraulein Marie."

The Portuguese ladies' bell rang again, still more pa.s.sionately this time; but Marie did not seem to hear nor care. She wished to be revenged on that impudent postman. She went to the top of the stairs and called after Warli in her most coaxing tones:

"Do step down one moment; I want to show you something!"

"I must deliver the registered letters," said Warli, with official haughtiness. "I have already wasted too much of my time."

"Won't you waste a few more minutes on me?" pleaded Marie pathetically.

"It is not often I see you now."

Warli came down again, looking very happy.

"I want to show you such a beautiful photograph I've had taken," said Marie. "Ach, it is beautiful!"

"You must give one to me," said Warli eagerly.

"Oh, I can't do that," replied Marie, as she opened the drawer and took out a small packet. "It was a present to me from the Polish gentleman himself. He saw me the other day here in the pantry. I was so tired, and I had fallen asleep with my broom, just as you see me here. So he made a photograph of me. He admires me very much. Isn't it nice? and isn't the Polish gentleman clever? and isn't it nice to have so much attention paid to one? Oh, there's that horrid bell again! Good afternoon, Herr Warli. That is all I have to say to you, thank you."

Warli's feelings towards the Polish gentleman were not of the friendliest that day.

CHAPTER V.

THE DISAGREEABLE MAN.

ROBERT ALLITSEN told Bernardine that she was not likely to be on friendly terms with the English people in the Kurhaus.

"They will not care about you, and you will not care about the foreigners. So you will thus be thrown on your own resources, just as I was when I came."

"I cannot say that I have any resources," Bernardine answered. "I don't feel well enough to try to do any writing, or else it would be delightful to have the uninterrupted leisure."

So she had probably told him a little about her life and occupation; although it was not likely that she would have given him any serious confidences. Still, people are often surprisingly frank about themselves, even those who pride themselves upon being the most reticent mortals in the world.

"But now, having the leisure," she continued, "I have not the brains!"

"I never knew any writer who had," said the Disagreeable Man grimly.

"Perhaps your experience has been limited," she suggested.

"Why don't you read?" he said. "There is a good library here. It contains all the books we don't want to read."

"I am tired of reading," Bernardine said. "I seem to have been reading all my life. My uncle, with whom I live, keeps, a second-hand book-shop, and ever since I can remember, I have been surrounded by books. They have not done me much good, nor any one else either."

"No, probably not," he said. "But now that you have left off reading, you will have a chance of learning something, if you live long enough.

It is wonderful how much one does learn when one does not read. It is almost awful. If you don't care about reading now, why do you not occupy yourself with cheese-mites?"

"I do not feel drawn towards cheese-mites."

"Perhaps not, at first; but all the same they form a subject which is very engaging. Or any branch of bacteriology."

"Well, if you were to lend me your microscope, perhaps I might begin."

"I could not do that," he answered quickly. "I never lend my things."

"No, I did not suppose you would," she said. "I knew I was safe in making the suggestion."

"You are rather quick of perception in spite of all your book reading,"

he said. "Yes, you are quite right. I am selfish. I dislike lending my things, and I dislike spending my money except on myself. If you have the misfortune to linger on as I do you will know that it is perfectly legitimate to be selfish in small things, _if one has made the one great sacrifice_."

"And what may that be?"

She asked so eagerly that he looked at her, and then saw how worn and tired her face was; and the words which he was intending to speak, died on his lips.

"Look at those a.s.ses of people on toboggans," he said brusquely. "Could you manage to enjoy yourself in that way? That might do you good."

"Yes," she said; "but it would not be any pleasure to me."

She stopped to watch the toboggans flying down the road. And the Disagreeable Man went his own solitary way, a forlorn figure, with a face almost expressionless, and a manner wholly impenetrable.

He had lived nearly seven years at Petershof, and, like many others was obliged to continue staying there if he wished to continue staying in this planet. It was not probable that he had any wish to prolong his frail existence, but he did his duty to his mother by conserving his life; and this feeble flame of duty and affection was the only lingering bit of warmth in a heart frozen almost by ill health and disappointed ambitions. The moralists tell us that suffering enn.o.bles, and that a right acceptation of hindrances goes towards forming a beautiful character. But this result must largely depend on the original character: certainly, in the case of Robert Allitsen, suffering had not enn.o.bled his mind, nor disappointment sweetened his disposition. His t.i.tle of "Disagreeable Man" had been fairly earned, and he hugged it to himself with a triumphant secret satisfaction.