“L'indifference est le sommeil du coeur.”
The village of Scheveningen, as many know, is built on the sand dunes, and only sheltered from the ocean by a sea-wall. A new Scheveningen has sprung up on this sea-wall—a mere terrace of red brick houses, already faded and weather-worn, which stare forlornly at the shallow sea. Inland, except where building enterprise has constructed roads and built villas are sand dunes. To the south, beyond the lighthouse, are sand dunes. To the north, more especially and most emphatically, are sand dunes as far as the eye may see. This tract of country is a very desert, where thin maritime grasses are shaken by the wind, where suggestive spars lie bleaching, where the sand, driven before the breeze like snow, travels to and fro through all the ages.
This afternoon, the dunes presented as forlorn an appearance as it is possible in one's gloomiest moments to conceive. The fog had, indeed, lifted a little, but a fine rain now drove before the wind, freezing as it fell, so that the earth was covered by a thin sheet of ice. The short January day was drawing to its close.
To the north of the waterworks, three hundred yards away from that solitary erection, the curious may find to-day a few low buildings clustering round a water-tower. These buildings are of wood, with roofs of corrugated iron; and when they were newly constructed, not so many years ago, presented a gay enough appearance, with their green shutters and ornamental eaves. The whole was enclosed in a fence of corrugated iron, and approached by a road not too well constructed on its sandy bed.
“We do not want the place to become the object of an excursion for tourists to The Hague,” said Roden to Cornish, as they approached the malgamite works in a closed carriage.
Cornish looked out of the window and made no remark. So far as he could see on all sides, there was nothing but sand-hills and grey grass. The road was a narrow one, and led only to the little cluster of houses within the fence. It was a lonely spot, cut off from all communication with the outer world. Men might pass within a hundred yards and never know that the malgamite works existed. The carriage drove through the high gateway into the enclosure. There were a number of cottages, two long, low buildings, and the water-tower.
“You see,” said Roden, “we have plenty of room to increase our accommodation when there is need of it. But we must go slowly and feel our way. It would never do to fail. We have accommodation here for a couple of hundred workers and their families; but in time we shall have five hundred of them in here—all the malgamite workers in the world.”
He broke off with a laugh, and looked round him. There was a ring in his voice suggestive of a keen excitement. Could Percy Roden, after all, be an enthusiast? Cornish glanced at him uneasily. In Cornish's world sincere enthusiasm was so rare that it was never well received.
Roden's manner changed again, however, and he explained the plan of the little village with his usual half-indifferent air.
“These two buildings are the factories,” he said. “In them three hundred men can work at once. There we shall build sheds for the storage of the raw material. Here we shall erect a warehouse. But I do not anticipate that we shall ever have much malgamite on our hands. We shall turn over our money very quickly.”
Cornish listened with the respectful attention which business details receive nowadays from those whose birth and education unfit them for such pursuits. It was obvious that he did not fully understand the terms of which Roden made use; but he tapped his smart boot with his cane, gave a quick nod of the head, and looked intelligently around him. He had a certain respect for Percy Roden, while that philanthropist did not perhaps appear quite at his best in his business moments.
“And do you—and that foreign individual, Mr. Von Holzen—live inside this—zareba?” he asked.
“No; Von Holzen lives as yet in Scheveningen, in a hotel there. And I have taken a small villa on the dunes, with my sister to keep house for me.”
“Ah! I did not know you had a sister,” said Cornish, still looking about him with intelligent ignorance. “Does she take an interest in the malgamite scheme?”
“Only so far as it affects me,” replied Roden. “She is a good sister to me. The house is between the waterworks and the steam-tram station. We will call in on our way back, if you care to.”
“I should like nothing better,” replied Cornish, conventionally, and they continued their inspection of the little colony. The arrangements were as simple as they were effective. Either Roden or Von Holzen certainly possessed the genius of organization. In one of the cottages a cold collation was set out on two long tables. There was a choice of wines, and notably some bottles of champagne on a side table.
“For the journalists,” explained Roden. “I have a number of them coming this afternoon to witness the arrival of the first batch of malgamite makers. There is nothing like judicious advertisement. We have invited a number of newspaper correspondents. We give them champagne and pay their expenses. If you will be a little friendly, they would like it immensely. They, of course, know who you are. A little flattery, you understand.”
“Flattery and champagne,” laughed Cornish—“the two principal ingredients of popularity.”
“I have here a number of photographs,” continued Roden, “taken by a good man in the neighbourhood. He has thrown in a view of the sea at the back, you see. It is not there; but he has put in the sky and sea from another plate, he tells me, to make a good picture of it. We shall send them to the principal illustrated papers.”
“And I suppose,” said Cornish, with his gay laugh, “that some of the journalists will throw in background also.”
“Of course,” answered Roden, gravely. “And the sentimentalists will be satisfied. The sentimentalists never stop at providing necessaries; they want to pamper. It will please them immensely to think that the malgamite makers, who have been collected from the slums of the world, have a sea view and every modern luxury.”
“We must humour them,” said Cornish, practically. “We should not get far without them.”
At this moment the sound of wheels made them both turn towards the entrance. It was an omnibus—the best omnibus with the finest horses—which brought the journalists. These gentlemen now descended from the vehicle and came towards the cottage, where Cornish and Roden awaited them. They were what is euphemistically called a little mixed. Some were too well dressed, others too badly. But all carried themselves with an air that bespoke a consciousness of greatness not unmingled with good-fellowship. The leader, a stout man, shook hands affably with Cornish, who assumed his best and most gracious manner.
“Aha! Here we are,” he said, rubbing his hands together and looking at the champagne.
Then somehow Cornish came to the front and Roden retired into the background. It was Cornish who opened the champagne and poured it into their glasses. It was Cornish who made the best jokes, and laughed the loudest at the journalistic quips fired off by his companions. Cornish seemed to understand the guests better than did Roden, who was inclined to be stiff towards them. Those who are assured of their position are not always thinking about it. Men who stand much upon their dignity have not, as a rule, much else to stand upon.
“Here's to you, sir,” cried the stout newspaper man, with upraised glass and a heart full of champagne. “Here's to you—whoever you are. And now to business. Perhaps you'll trot us round the works.”
This Cornish did with much success. He then stood beside the correspondents while the malgamite workers descended from the omnibus and took possession of their new quarters. He provided the journalists with photographs and a short printed account of the malgamite trade, which had been prepared by Von Holzen. It was finally Cornish who packed them into the omnibus in high good humour, and sent them back to The Hague.
“Do not forget the sentiment,” he called out after them. “Remember it is a charity.”
The malgamite workers were left to the care of Von Holzen, who had made all necessary preparations for their reception.
“You are a cleverer man than I thought you,” said Roden to Cornish, as they walked over the dunes together in the dusk towards the Rodens' house. And it was difficult to say whether Roden was pleased or not. He did not speak much during the walk, and was evidently wrapped in deep thought.
Cornish was light and inconsequent as usual. “We shall soon raise more money,” he said. “We shall have malgamite balls, and malgamite bazaars, malgamite balloon ascents if that is not flying too high.”
The Villa des Dunes stands, as its name implies, among the sand hills, facing south and west. It is upon an elevation, and therefore enjoys a view of the sea, and, inland, of the spires of The Hague. The garden is an old one, and there are quiet nooks in it where the trees have grown to a quite respectable stature. Holland is so essentially a tidy country that nothing old or moss-grown is tolerated. One wonders where all the rubbish of the centuries has been hidden; for all the ruins have been decently cleared away and cities that teem with historical interest seem, with a few exceptions, to have been built last year. The garden of the Villa des Dunes was therefore more remarkable for cleanliness than luxuriance. The house itself was uninteresting, and resembled a thousand others on the coast in that it was more comfortable than it looked. A suggestion of warmth and lamp-light filtered through the drawn curtains.
Roden led the way into the house, admitting himself with a latch-key. “Dorothy,” he cried, as soon as the door was closed behind them—the two tall men in their heavy coats almost filled the little hall—“Dorothy, where are you?”
The atmosphere of the house—that subtle odour which is characteristic of all dwellings—was pleasant. One felt that there were flowers in the rooms, and that tea was in course of preparation.
The door on the left-hand side of the hall was opened, and a small woman appeared there. She was essentially small—a little upright figure with bright brown hair, a good complexion, and gay, sparkling eyes.
“I have brought Mr. Cornish,” explained Roden. “We are frozen, and want some tea.”
Dorothy Roden came forward and shook hands with Cornish. She looked up at him, taking him all in, in one quick intuitive glance, from his smooth head to his neat boots.
“It is horribly cold,” she said. One cannot always be original and sparkling, and it is wiser not to try too persistently. She turned and re-entered the drawing-room, with Cornish following her. The room itself was prettily furnished in the Dutch fashion, and there were flowers. Dorothy Roden's manner was that of a woman; no longer in her first girlhood, who had seen en and cities. She was better educated than her brother; she was probably cleverer. She had, at all events, the subtle air of self-restraint that marks those women whose lives are passed in the society of a man mentally inferior to themselves. Of course all women are in a sense doomed to this—according to their own thinking.
“Percy said that he would probably bring you in to tea,” said Miss Roden, “and that probably you would be tired out.”
“Thanks; I am not tired. We had a good passage, and everything has run as smoothly. Do you take an active interest in us?”
Miss Roden paused in the action of pouring out tea, and looked across at her interlocutor.
“Not an active one,” she answered, with a momentary gravity; and, after a minute, glanced at Cornish's face again.
“It is going to be a big thing,” he said enthusiastically. “My cousin Joan Ferriby is working hard at it in London. You do not know her, I suppose?”
“I was at school with Joan,” replied Miss Roden, with her soft laugh.
“And we took a school-girl oath to write to each other every week when we parted. We kept it up—for a fortnight.”
Cornish's smooth face betrayed no surprise; although he had concluded that Miss Roden was years older than Joan.
“Perhaps,” he said, with ready tact, “you do not take an interest in the same things as Joan. In what may be called new things—not clothes, I mean. In factory girls' feather clubs, for instance, or haberdashers' assistants, or women's rights, or anything like that.”
“No; I am not clever enough for anything like that. I am profoundly ignorant about women's rights, and do not even know what I want, or ought to want.”
Roden, who had approached the table, laughed, and taking his tea, went and sat down near the fire. He, at all events, was tired and looked worn—as if his responsibilities were already beginning to weigh upon him. Cornish, too, had come forward, and, cup in hand, stood looking down at Miss Roden with a doubtful air.
“I always distrust women who say that,” he said. “One naturally suspects them of having got what they want by some underhand means—and of having abandoned the rest of their sex. This is an age of amalgamation; is not that so, Roden?”
He turned and sat down near to Dorothy. Roden thus appealed to, made some necessary remark, and then lapsed into a thoughtful silence. It seemed that Cornish was quite capable, however, of carrying on the conversation by himself.
“Do you know nothing about your wrongs, either?” he asked Dorothy.
“Nothing,” she replied. “I have not even the wit to know that I have any.”
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “No wonder Joan ceased writing to you. You are a most suspicious case, Miss Roden. Of course you have righted your wrongs—sub rosa—and leave other women to manage their own affairs. That is what is called a blackleg. You are untrue to the Union. In these days we all belong to some cause or another. We cannot help it, and recent legislation adds daily to the difficulty. We must either be rich or poor. At present the only way to live at peace with one's poorer neighbours is to submit to a certain amount of robbery. But some day the classes must combine to make a stand against the masses. The masses are already combined. We must either be a man or a woman. Some day the men must combine against the women, who are already united behind a vociferous vanguard. May I have some more tea?”
“I am afraid I have been left behind in the general advance,” said Miss Roden, taking his cup.
“I am afraid so. Of course I don't know where we are advancing to——” He paused and drank the tea slowly. “No one knows that,” he added.
“Probably to a point where we shall all suddenly begin fighting for ourselves again.”
“That is possible,” he said gravely, setting down his cup. “And now I must find my way back to The Hague. Good night.”
“He is clever,” said Dorothy, when Roden returned after having shown Cornish the way.
“Yes,” answered Roden, without enthusiasm.
“You do not seem to be pleased at the thought,” she said carelessly.
“Oh—it will be all right! If his cleverness runs in the right direction.”
“One may be so much a man of the world as to be nothing inthe world.”
Political Economy will some day have to recognize Philanthropy as a possible—nay, a certain stumbling-block in the world's progress towards that millennium when Supply and Demand shall sit down together in peace. Charity is certainly sowing seed into the ridges of time which will bear startling fruit in the future. For Charity does not hesitate to close up an industry or interfere with a trade that supplies thousands with their daily bread. Thus the Malgamite scheme so glibly inaugurated by Lord Ferriby in his drawing-room bore fruit within a week in a quarter to which probably few concerned had ever thought of casting an eye. The price of a high-class tinted paper fell in all the markets of the world. This paper could only be manufactured with a large addition of malgamite to its other components. In what may be called the prospectus of the Malgamite scheme it was stated that this great charity was inaugurated for the purpose of relieving the distress of the malgamiters—one of the industrial scandals of the day—by enabling these afflicted men to make their deadly product at a cheaper rate and without danger to themselves. This prospectus naturally came to the hands of those most concerned, namely, the manufacturers of coloured papers and the brokers who supply those manufacturers with their raw material.
Thus Lord Ferriby, beaming benignantly from a bower of chrysanthemums on a certain evening one winter not so many years ago, set rolling a small stone upon a steep hill. So, in fact, wags the world; and none of us may know when the echo of a careless word will cease vibrating in the hearts of some that hear.
The malgamite trade was what is called acloseone—that is to say that this product passed out into the world through the hands of a few brokers and these brokers were powerless, in face of Lord Ferriby's announcement, to prevent the price of malgamite from falling. As this fell so fell the prices of the many kinds of paper which could not be manufactured without it. Thus indirectly, Lord Ferriby, with that obtuseness which very often finds itself in company with a highly developed philanthropy, touched the daily lives of thousands and thousands of people. And he did not know it. And Tony Cornish knew it not. And Joan and the subscribers never dreamt or thought of such a thing.
The paper market became what is called sensitive—that is to say, prices rose and fell suddenly without apparent reason. Some men made money and others lost it. Presently, however—that is to say, in the month of March—two months after Tony Cornish had safely conveyed his malgamite makers to their new home on the sand dunes of Scheveningen—the paper markets of the world began to settle down again, and steadier prices ruled. This could be traced—as all commercial changes may be traced—to the original flow at one of the fountain-heads of supply and demand. It arose from the simple fact that a broker in London had bought some of the new malgamite—the Scheveningen malgamite—and had issued it to his clients, who said that it was good. He had, moreover, bought it cheaper. In a couple of days all the world—all the world concerned in the matter—knew of it. Such is commerce at the end of the century.
And Cornish, casually looking in at the little office of the Malgamite Charity, where a German clerk recommended by Herr von Holzen kept the books of the scheme, found his table littered with telegrams. Tony Cornish had a reputation for being clever. He was, as a matter of fact, intelligent. The world nearly always mistakes intelligence for cleverness, just as it nearly always mistakes laughter for happiness. He was, however, clever enough to have found out during the last two months that the Malgamite scheme was a bigger thing than either he or his uncle had ever imagined.
Many questions had arisen during those two months of Cornish's honorary secretary ship of the charity which he had been unable to answer, and which he had been obliged to refer to Roden and Von Holzen. These had replied readily, and the matter as solved by them seemed simple enough. But each question seemed to have side issues—indeed, the whole scheme appeared suddenly to bristle with side issues, and Tony Cornish began to find himself getting really interested in something at last.
The telegrams were not alone upon his office table. There were letters as well. It was a nice little office, furnished by Joan with a certain originality which certainly made it different from any other office in Westminster. It had, moreover, the great recommendation of being above a Ladies' Tea Association, so that afternoon tea could be easily procured. The German clerk quite counted on receiving three half-holidays a week and Joan brought her friends to tea, and her mother to chaperon. These little tea-parties became quite notorious, and there was a question of a cottage piano, which was finally abandoned in favour of a banjo. It happened to be a wire-puzzle winter, and Cornish had the best collection of rings on impossible wire mazes, and glass beads strung upon intertwisted hooks, in Westminster, if not, indeed, in the whole of London. Then, of course, there were the committee meetings—that is to say, the meeting of the lady committees of the bazaar and ball sub-committees. The wire puzzles and the association tea were an immense feature of these.
Cornish was quite accustomed to finding a number of letters awaiting him, and had been compelled to buy a waste-paper basket of abnormal dimensions—so many moribund charities cast envious eyes upon the Malgamite scheme, and wondered how it was done, and, on the chance of it, offered Cornish honourable honorary posts. But the telegrams had been few, and nearly all from Roden. There was a letter from Roden this morning.
“DEAR CORNISH” (he wrote),—
“You will probably receive applications from malgamite workers in different parts of the world for permission to enter our works. Accept them all, and arrange for their enlistment as soon as possible.
“Yours in haste,
Percy Roden was usually in haste, and wrote a bad letter in a beautiful handwriting.
Cornish turned to the telegrams. They were one and all applications from malgamite makers—from Venice to Valparaiso—to be enrolled in the Scheveningen group. He was still reading them when Lord Ferriby came into the little office. His lordship was wearing a new fancy waistcoat. It was the month of April—the month assuredly of fancy waistcoats throughout all nature. Lord Ferriby was, as usual, rather pleased with himself. He had walked down Piccadilly with great effect, and a bishop had bowed to him, recognizing, in a sense, a lay bishop.
“What have you got there, Tony?” he asked, affably, laying his smart walking-stick on an inlaid bureau, which was supposed to be his, and was always closed, and had nothing in it.
“Telegrams,” answered Cornish, “from malgamite makers, who want to join the works at Scheveningen. Seventy-six of them. I don't quite understand this business.”
“Neither do I,” admitted Lord Ferriby, in a voice which clearly indicated that if he only took the trouble he could understand anything. “But I fancy it is one of the biggest things in charity that has ever been started.”
In the company of men, and especially of young men, Lord Ferriby allowed himself a little license in speech. He at times almost verged on the slangy, which is, of course, quite correct andde haut ton, and he did not want to be taken for an old buffer, as were his contemporaries. Therefore he called himself an old buffer whenever he could.Qui s'excuse s'accuse.
“Of course,” he added, “we must take the poor fellows.”
Without comment, Cornish handed him Roden's letter, and while Lord Ferriby read it, employed himself in making out a list of the names and addresses of the applicants. Cornish was, in fact, rising to the occasion. In other circumstances Anthony Cornish might with favourable influence—say that of a Scottish head clerk—have been made into what is called a good business man. Without any training whatever, and with an education which consisted only of a smattering of the classics and a rigid code of honour, he usually perceived what it was wise to do. Some people call this genius; others, luck.
“I see,” said Lord Ferriby, “that Roden is of the same opinion as myself. A shrewd fellow, Roden.” And he pulled down his fancy waistcoat.
“Then I may write, or telegraph, to these men, and tell them to come?” asked Cornish.
“Most certainly, my dear Anthony. We will collect them, or muster them, as White calls it, in London, and then send them to Scheveningen, as before, when Roden and Herr von Holzen are ready for them. Send a note to White, whose department this mustering is. As a soldier he understands the handling of a body of men. You and I are more competent to deal with a sum of money.”
Lord Ferriby glanced towards the door to make sure that it was open, so that the German clerk in the outer office should lose nothing that could only be for his good—might, in fact, pick up a few crumbs from the richly stored table of a great man's mind.
Lord Ferriby leisurely withdrew his gloves and laid them on the inlaid bureau. He had the physique of a director of public companies, and the grave manner that impresses shareholders. He talked of the weather, drew Cornish's attention to a blot of ink on the high-art wallpaper, and then put on his gloves again, well pleased with himself and his morning's work.
“Everything appears to be in order, my dear Anthony,” he said. “So there is nothing to keep me here any longer.”
“Nothing,” replied Cornish; and his lordship departed.
Cornish remained until it was time to go across St. James's Park to his club to lunch. He answered a certain number of letters himself, the others he handed over to the German clerk—a man with all the virtues, smooth, upright hair, and a dreamy eye. The malgamite makers were bidden to come as soon as they liked. After luncheon Cornish had to hurry back to Great George Street. This was one of his busy days. At four o'clock there was to be a meeting of the floor committee of the approaching ball, and Cornish remembered that he had been specially told to get a new bass string for the banjo. The Hon. Rupert Dalkyn had promised to come, but had vowed that he would not touch the banjo again unless it had new strings. So Cornish bought the bass string at the Army and Navy Stores, and the first preparation for the meeting of the floor committee was the tuning of the banjo by the German clerk.
There were, of course, flowers to be bought and arrangedtant bien que malin empty ink-stands, a conceit of Joan's, who refused to spend the fund money in any ornament less serious, while she quite recognized the necessity for flowers on the table of a mixed committee.
The Hon. Rupert was the first to arrive. He was very small and neat and rather effeminate. The experienced could tell at a glance that he came from a fighting stock. He wore a grave and rather preoccupied air. He sat down on the arm of a chair and looked sadly into the fire, while his lips moved.
“Got something on your mind?” asked Cornish, who was putting the finishing touches to the arrangement of the room.
“Yes, a new song composed for the occasion 'The Maudlin Malgamite'; like to hear it?”
“Well, I would rather wait. I think I hear a carriage at the door,” said Cornish, hastily.
Rupert Dalkyn had to be elected to the floor committee because he was Mrs. Courteville's brother, and Mrs. Courteville was the best chaperon in London. She was not only a widow, but her husband had been killed in rather painful circumstances.
“Poor dear,” the people said when she had done something perhaps a little unusual—“poor dear; you know her husband was killed.”
So the late Courteville, in his lone grave by the banks of the Ogowe River, watched over his wife's welfare, and made quite a nice place for her in London society.
Rupert himself had been intended for the Church, but had at Cambridgedeveloped such an exquisite sense of humour and so killing a power ofmimicry that no one of the dons was safe, and his friends told him thathe really mustn't. So he didn't. Since then Rupert had, to tell thetruth, done nothing. The exquisite sense of humour had also slightlyevaporated. People said, “Oh yes, very funny,” than which nothing ismore fatal to humour; and elderly ladies smiled a pinched smile at oneside of their lips. It is so difficult to see a joke through thoselong-handled eye-glasses.
Cornish was quite right when he said that he had heard a carriage, for presently the door opened, and Mrs. Courteville came in. She was small and slight—“a girlish figure,” her maid told her—and well dressed. She was just at that age when she did not look it—at an age, moreover, when some women seem to combine a maximum of experience with a minimum of thought. But who are we to pick holes in our neighbours' garments? If any of us is quite sure that he is not doing more harm than good in the world, let him by all means throw stones at Mrs. Courteville.
Joan arrived next, accompanied by Lady Ferriby, who knew that if she stayed at home she would only have to give tea to a number of people towards whom she did not feel kindly enough disposed to reconcile herself to the expense. Joan glanced hastily from Mrs. Courteville to Tony. She had noticed that Mrs. Courteville always arrived early at the floor committee meetings when these were held at the Malgamite office or in Cornish's rooms. Joan wondered, while Mrs. Courteville was kissing her, whether the widow had come with her brother or before him.
“Has he not made the room look pretty with that mimosa?” asked Mrs. Courteville, vivaciously. People did not know how matters stood between Joan Ferriby and Tony Cornish, and always wanted to know. That is why Mrs. Courteville said “he” only when she drew Joan's attention to the flowers.
The meeting may best be described as lively. We belong, however, to an eminently practical generation, and some business was really transacted. The night for the Malgamite ball was fixed, and a list of stewards drawn up; and then the Hon. Rupert played the banjo.
Lady Ferriby had some calls to pay, so Cornish volunteered to walk across the park with Joan, who had a healthy love of exercise. They talked of various matters, and of course returned again and again to the Malgamite affairs.
“By the way,” said Joan, at the corner of Cambridge Terrace, “I had a letter this morning from Dorothy Roden. I was at school with her, you know, and never dreamt that Mr. Roden was her brother. In fact, I had nearly forgotten her existence. She is coming across for the ball. She says she saw you when you were at The Hague. You never mentioned her, Tony.”
“Didn't I? She is not interested in the Malgamite scheme, you know. And nobody who is not interested in that is worth mentioning.”
They walked on in silence for a few minutes. Then Cornish asked a question.
“What sort of person was she at school?”
“Oh, she was a frivolous sort of girl—never took anything seriously, you know. That is why she is not interested in the Malgamite, I suppose.”
“I suppose so,” said Tony Cornish.
“For this is death, and the sole death,When a man's loss comes to him from his gain.”
Mrs. Vansittart told Roden that her house was in Park Street in The Hague. But she did not mention that it was at the corner of Orange Street, which makes all the difference. For Park Street is long, and the further end of it—the extremity furthest removed from the Royal Palace—is less desirable than the neighbourhood of the Vyverberg. Mrs. Vansittart's house was in the most desirable part of a most desirable little city. She was surrounded with houses inhabited by people bearing names well known in history. These people are, moreover, of a fascinating cosmopolitanism. They come from all parts of the world, in an ancestral sense. There are, for instance, Dutch people living here whose names are Scottish. There are others of French extraction, others again whose forefathers came to Holland with the Don Juan of the religious wars whose history reads like a romance.
Outwardly Mrs. Vansittart's house was of dark red brick, with stone facings, and probably belonged to that period which in England is called Tudor. Inwardly the house was as comfortable as thick carpets and rich curtains and beautiful carvings could make it. The Dutch are pre-eminently the flower-growers of the world, and the observant traveller walking along Orange Street may note even in midwinter that the flowers in the windows are changed each day. In this, as in othermenus plaisirs, Mrs. Vansittart had assumed the ways of the country of her adoption. For Holland suggests to the inquiring mind an elderly gentleman, now getting a little stout, who, after a wild youth, is beginning to appreciate the blessings of repose and comfort; who, having laid by a small sufficiency, sits peaceably by the fire, and reflects upon the days that are no more.
It was Mrs. Vansittart's pleasant habit to surround herself with every comfort. She was an eminently self-respecting person—of that self-respect which denies itself nothing except excess. She liked to be well dressed, well housed, and well served. She possessed money, and with it she bought these adjuncts, which in a minor degree are within the reach of nearly everybody, though few have the wit to value them. She was not, however, a vociferously contented woman. Like many another, she probably wanted something that money could not buy.
Mrs. Vansittart, in fulfilment of her promise to Percy Roden, called on Dorothy at the Villa des Dunes, who in due course came to the house at the corner of Park Street and Orange Street to return the visit. Dorothy had been out when Mrs. Vansittart called, but she thought she knew from her brother's description what sort of woman to expect. For Dorothy Roden had been educated abroad, and was not without knowledge of a certain class of English lady to be met with on the Continent, who is always well connected, invariably idle, and usually refers gracefully to a great sorrow in the past.
But Dorothy knew, as soon as she saw Mrs. Vansittart that she had formed an entirely erroneous conception. This was not the sort of woman to seek the admiration of the first-comer, and Percy Roden had allowed his sister to surmise that, whether it had been sought or not, Mrs. Vansittart had certainly been accorded his highest admiration.
“It is good of you to return my call so soon,” she said, in a friendly voice. “You have walked, I suppose, all the way from the Villa des Dunes. English girls are such great walkers now—a most excellent thing. I belong to the semi-generation older than yours, which preferred a carriage. I am an atrocious walker. You are not at all like your brother.” And she threw back her head and looked speculatively at her visitor. “Sit down,” she said, with a laugh. “You probably came here harbouring a prejudice against me. One should never get to know a woman through her men-folk. That is a rule almost without exception; you may take it from one who is many years older than you. But—well,nous verrons. Perhaps we are the exception.”
“I hope so,” answered Dorothy, who was ready enough of speech. “At all events, all that Percy told me made me anxious to meet you. It is rather lonely, you know, at the Villa des Dunes. You see, Percy is engaged all day with his malgamiters. And, of course, we know no one here yet.”
“There is Herr von Holzen,” suggested Mrs. Vansittart, ringing the bell for tea.
“Oh yes. The man who is associated with Percy at the works? I do not know him. Percy has not brought him to the villa.”
“Ah! Is that so? That is nice of your brother. Sometimes men, you know, make use of their wives or their sisters to help them in their business relationships. I have known a man use his pretty daughter to gain a client. Beauty levels all, you see. Not nice, no; I suppose Herr von Holzen, is—well—let us call him a foreign savant. Such a nice broad term, you know; covers such a plentiful lack of soap.” And she laughed easily, with eyes that were quite grave and alert.
“My brother does not say much about him,” answered Dorothy Roden. “Percy never does tell me much of his affairs, and I am not sorry. I am sure I should not understand them. Stocks and shares and freights and things. I never quite know whether a freight is part of a ship; do you?”
“No. There are so many things more useful to know, are there not?—things about people and human nature, for instance.”
“Yes,” said Dorothy, looking at her companion thoughtfully—“yes.”
And Mrs. Vansittart returned that thoughtful glance. “And the other man,” she said suddenly, “Mr.—Cornish—do you know him?”
“He called at the Villa des Dunes. My brother brought him in to tea the evening of arrival of the first batch of malgamiters,” replied Dorothy.
“Mr. Cornish interests me,” said Mrs. Vansittart. “I knew him when he was a boy—or little more than a boy. He came to Weimar with a tutor to learn German when I happened to be living there. I have heard of him from time to time since. One sees his name in the society papers, you know. He is one of those persons of whom something is expected by his friends—not by himself. The young man who expects something of himself is usually disappointed. Have you ever noticed in the biographies of great men, Miss Roden that people nearly always began to expect something of them when they were quite young? As if they were cast in a different mould from the very first. Really great men, I mean not the fashionable pianist or novelist of the hour whose portrait is in every illustrated journal for perhaps two months, and then he is forgotten.”
Mrs. Vansittart spoke quickly in a foreign manner, asking with a certain vivacity questions which required no answer. Dorothy Roden was not slow of speech, but she touched topics with less airiness. Her mind seemed a trifle insular in its tendencies. One topic attracted her, and the rest were set aside.
“Why does Mr. Cornish interest you?” she asked.
Mrs. Vansittart shrugged her shoulders and leant back in her deep chair.
“He strikes me as a person with infinite capacity for holding his cards. That is all. But perhaps he has no good cards in his hand? Nothing but rubbish—the twos and threes of ordinary drawing-room smartness—and never a trump. Who can tell?Qui vivra verra, Miss. Roden. It may not be in my time that the world shall hear of Tony Cornish—the real world, not the journalistic world, I mean. He may ripen slowly, and I shall be dead. I am getting elderly. How old do you think I am, Miss Roden?”
“Thirty-five,” replied Dorothy; and Mrs. Vansittart turned sharply to look at her.
“Ah!” she said, slowly and thoughtfully. “Yes, you are quite right. That is my age. And I suppose I look it. I suppose others would have guessed with equal facility, but not everybody would have had the honesty to say what they thought.”
Dorothy laughed and changed colour. “I said it without thinking,” she answered. “I hope you do not mind.”
“No, I do not mind,” said Mrs. Vansittart, looking out of the window. “But we were talking of Mr. Cornish.”
“Yes,” answered Dorothy, buttoning her glove and glancing at the clock. “Yes; but I must not talk any longer or I shall be late, and my brother expects to find me at home when he returns from the works.”
She rose and shook hands, looking Mrs. Vansittart in the eyes. When Dorothy had gone, the lady of the house stood for a minute looking at the closed door.
“I wonder what she thinks of me?” she said.
And Dorothy Roden, walking down Park Straat, was doing the same. She was wondering what she thought of Mrs. Vansittart.
Although it was the month of April, the winter mists still rose at evening and swept seawards from the marshes of Leyden. The trees had scarcely begun to break into bud, for it had been a cold spring, and the ice was floating lazily on the canal as Dorothy walked along its bank. The Villa des Dunes was certainly somewhat lonely, standing as it did a couple of hundred yards back from a sandy road—one of the many leading from The Hague to Scheveningen. Between the villa and the road the dunes had scarcely been molested, except indeed, to cut a narrow roadway to the house. When Dorothy reached home, she found that her brother had not yet returned. She looked at the clock. He was later than usual. The malgamite works had during the last few weeks been absorbing more and more of his attention. When he returned home, tired, in the evening, he was not communicative. As for Otto von Holzen, he never showed his face outside the works now, but seemed to live the life of a recluse within the iron fence that surrounded the little colony.
Percy Roden had not returned to the Villa des Dunes at the usual hour because he had other work to do. Von Holzen and he were now standing in one of the little huts in silence. The light of the setting sun glowed through the window upon their faces, upon the bare walls of the room, rendered barer and in no way beautified by a terrible German print purporting to represent the features of Prince Bismarck.
Von Holzen stood, with his hands clasped behind his back, and looked out of the window across the dreary dunes. Roden stood beside him, slouching and heavy-shouldered, with his hands in his trouser pockets. His lower lip was pressed inward between his teeth. His eyes were drawn and anxious.
On the bed, between the two men, lay a third—an old-looking youth with lank red hair. It was the story of St. Jacob Straat over again, and it was new to Percy Roden, who could not turn his eyes elsewhere. The man was dying. He was a Pole who understood no word of English. Indeed, these three men had no language in common in which to make themselves understood.
“Can you do nothing at all?” asked Roden, for the second or third time.
“Nothing,” answered Von Holzen, without turning round. “He was a doomed man when he came here.”
The man lay on the bed and stared at Von Holzen's back. Perhaps that was the reason why Von Holzen so persistently looked out of the window. The work-hours were over, and from some neighbouring cottage the sounds of a concertina came on the quiet air. The musician had chosen a popular music-hall song, which he played over and over again with a maddening pertinacity. Roden bit his lip, and frowned at each repetition of the opening bars. Von Holzen, with a still, pale face and stern eyes, seemed to hear nothing. He had no nerves. At times he twisted his lips, moistening them with his tongue, and suppressed an impatient sigh. The man was a long time in dying. They had been waiting there two hours. This little incident had to be passed over as quietly as possible on account of the feelings of the concertina player and the others.
The door stood ajar, and in the adjoining room a professional nurse, in cap and apron, sat reading a German newspaper. This also was a bedroom. The cottage was, in point of fact, the hospital of the malgamite workers. The nurse, whose services had not hitherto been wanted, had since the inauguration of the works spent some pleasant weeks at a pension at Scheveningen. She read her newspaper very philosophically, and waited.
Roden it was who watched the patient. The dying man never heeded him, but looked persistently towards Von Holzen. The expression of his eyes indicated that if they had had a language in common he would have spoken to him. Roden saw the direction of the man's glance, and perhaps read its meaning. For Percy Roden was handicapped with that greatest of all drags on a successful career—a soft heart. He could speak harshly enough of the malgamiters as a class, but he was drawn towards this dumb individual, with a strong desire to effect the impossible. Von Holzen had not promised that there should be no deaths. He had merely undertaken to reduce the dangers of the malgamite industry gradually and steadily until they ceased to exist. He had, moreover, the strength of mind to give to this incident its proper weight in the balance of succeeding events. He was not, in a word, handicapped as was his colleague.
The sun set beyond the quiet sea and over the sand dunes the shades of evening crept towards the west. The outline of Prince Bismarck's iron face faded slowly in the gathering darkness, until it was nothing but a shadow in a frame on the bare wall. The concertina player had laid aside his instrument. A sudden silence fell upon land and sea.
Von Holzen turned sharply on his heel and leant over the bed.
“Come along,” he said to Roden, with averted eyes. “It is all over. There is nothing more for us to do here.”
With a backward glance towards the bed, Roden followed his companion, out of the room into the adjoining apartment where the nurse was sitting, and where their coats and hats lay on the bed. Von Holzen spoke to the woman in German.
“So!” she answered, with a mild interest, and folded her paper.
The two men went out into the keen air together, and did not look towards each other or speak. Perhaps they knew that if there is any difficulty in speaking of a subject it is better to keep silence. They crossed the sandy space between this cottage and the others grouped round the factory like tents around their headquarters. One of these huts was Von Holzen's—a three-roomed building where he worked and slept. Its windows looked out upon the factory, and commanded the only entrance to the railed enclosure within which the whole colony was confined. It was Von Holzen's habit to shut himself within his cottage for days together, living there in solitude like some crustacean within its shell. At the door he turned, with his fingers on the handle.
“You must not worry yourself about this,” he said to Roden, with averted eyes. “It cannot be helped, you know.”
“No; I know that.”
“And of course we must keep our own counsel. Good night, Roden.”
“Of course. Good night, Von Holzen.”
And Percy Roden passed through the gateway, walking slowly across the dunes towards his own house; while Von Holzen watched him from the window of the little three-roomed cottage.