“pour être heureux, il ne faut avoir rien à oublier.”
there is in the atmosphere of the hotel of the vieux doelen at the hague something as old-world, as quiet and peaceful, as there is in the very name of this historic house. the stairs are softly carpeted; the great rooms are hung with tapestry, and otherwise decorated in a massive and somewhat gloomy style, little affected in the newer caravanserais. the house itself, more than three hundred years old, is of dark red brick with facings of stone, long since worn by wind and weather. the windows are enormous, and would appear abnormal in any other city but this. the hotel of the old shooting gallery stands on the toornoifeld and the unobservant may pass by without distinguishing it from the private houses on either side. this, indeed, is not so much a house of hasty rest for the passing traveler as it is a halting-place for that great army which is ever moving quietly on and on through the cities of the old world—the corps diplomatique—the army whose greatest victory is peace. the traveller passing a night or two at the hotel may well be faintly surprised at the atmosphere in which he finds himself. if he be what is called a practical man, he will probably shake his head forebodingly over the prospects of the proprietor. there seems, indeed, to be a singular dearth of visitors. the winding stairs are nearly always deserted. the salon is empty. there are no sounds of life, no trunks in the hall, and no idlers at the door. and yet at the hour of the table d'h?te quiet doors are opened, and quiet men emerge from rooms that seemed before to be uninhabited. they are mostly smooth-haired men with a pensive reserve of manner, a certain polished cosmopolitan air, and the inevitable frock-coat. they bow gravely to each other, and seat themselves at separate tables. as often as not they produce books or newspapers, and read during the solemn meal. it is as well to watch these men and take note of them. many of them are grey-headed. no one of them is young. but they are beginners, mere apprentices, at a very difficult trade, and in the days to come they will have the making of the history of europe. for these men are attachés and secretaries of embassies. they will talk to you in almost any european tongue you may select, but they are not communicative persons.
during the winter—the gay season at the hague—there are usually a certain number of residents in the hotel. at the time with which we are dealing, mrs. vansittart was staying there, alone with her maid. mrs. vansittart was in the habit of dining at the small table near the stove—a gorgeous erection of steel and brass, which stands nearly in the centre of the smaller dining-room used in winter. mrs. vansittart seemed, moreover, to be quite at home in the hotel, and exchanged bows with a few of the gentlemen of the corps diplomatique. she was a graceful, dark-haired woman, with deep brown eyes that looked upon the world without much interest. this was not, one felt, a woman to lavish her attention or her thoughts upon a toy spaniel, as do so many ladies travelling alone with their maids in continental hotels. perhaps this woman of thirty-five years or so preferred to be frankly bored, rather than set up for herself a shivering four-legged object in life. perhaps she was not bored at all. one never knows. the gentlemen from the embassies glanced at her over their books or their newspapers, and wondered who and what she might be. they knew, at all events, that she took no interest in those affairs of the great world which rumble on night and day without rest, with spasmodic bursts of clumsy haste, and with a never-failing possibility of surprise in their movements. this was no political woman, whatever else she might be. she would talk in quite a number of languages of such matters as the opera, a new book, or an old picture, and would then relapse again into a sort of waiting silence. at thirty-five it is perhaps not well to wait too patiently for those things that make a woman's life worth living. mrs. vansittart had not the air, however, of one who would wait indefinitely.
when mr. percy roden arrived at the hotel, he was assigned, at the hour of table d'h?te, a small table between those occupied respectively by mrs. vansittart and the secretary of the belgian embassy. some subtle sense conveyed to percy roden that he had aroused mrs. vansittart's interest—the sense called vanity, perhaps, which conveys so much to young men, and so much that is erroneous. on the second evening, therefore, when he had returned from a busy day in the neighbourhood of scheveningen, roden half looked for the bow which was half accorded to him. that evening mrs. vansittart spoke to the waiter in english, which was obviously her native language, and roden overheard. after dinner mrs. vansittart lingered in the salon and a woman, had such been present, would have perceived that she made it easy for roden to pause in passing and offer her his english newspaper, which had arrived by the evening post. the subtle is so often the obvious that to be unobservant is a social duty.
“thank you,” she replied. “i like newspapers. although i have not been in england for years, i still take an interest in the affairs of my country.”
her manner was easy and natural, without that taint of a too sudden familiarity which is characteristic of the present generation. we are apt to allow ourselves to feel too much at home.
“i, on the contrary,” replied roden, with his tired air, “have never till now been out of england or english-speaking colonies.”
his voice had a hollow sound. although he was tall and broad-shouldered, his presence had no suggestion of strength. mrs. vansittart looked at him quickly as she took the newspaper from his hand. she had clever, speculative eyes, and was obviously wondering why he had gone to the colonies and why he had returned thence. so many sail to those distant havens of the unsuccessful under one cloud and return under another, that it seems wiser to remain stationary and snatch what passing sunshine there may be. roden had not a colonial manner. he was well dressed. he was, in fact, the sort of man who would pass in any society. and it is probable that mrs. vansittart summed him up in her quick mind with perfect success. despite our clothes, despite our airs and graces, we mostly appear to be exactly what we are. mrs. vansittart, who knew the world and men, did not need to be informed by percy roden that he was unacquainted with the continent. comparing him with the other men passing through the salon to their rooms or their club, it became apparent that he had one sort of stiffness which they had not, and lacked another sort of stiffness which grows upon those who live and take their meals in public places. mrs. vansittart could probably have made a fair guess at the sort of education percy roden had received. for a man carries his school mark through life with him.
“ah,” she said, taking the newspaper and glancing at it with just sufficient interest to prolong the conversation, “then you do not know the hague. it is a place that grows upon one. it is one of the social capitals of the world. vienna, st. petersburg, paris, are the others. madrid, berlin, new york, are—nowhere.”
she laughed, bowed with a little half—foreign gesture of thanks, and left him—left him, moreover, with the desire to see more of her. it seemed that she knew the secret of that other worldling, tony cornish, that the way to rule men is to make them want something and keep them wanting. as roden passed through the hall he paused, and entered into conversation with the hall porter. during the course of this talk he made some small inquiries respecting mrs. vansittart. that lady had no need to make inquiries respecting roden. has it not been stated that she was travelling with her maid?
“i see,” she said, when she saw him again the next day after dinner in the salon, “that your great philanthropic scheme is now an established fact. i have taken a great interest in its progress, and of course know the names of some who are associated with you in it.”
roden laughed indifferently, well pleased to be recognized. his notoriety was new enough and narrow enough to please him still. there is no man so much at the mercy of his own vanity as he who enjoys a limited notoriety.
“yes,” he answered, “we have got it into shape. do you know lord ferriby?”
“no,” answered mrs. vansittart, slowly, “i have not that pleasure.
“oh, ferriby is a good enough fellow,” said roden, kindly; and mrs. vansittart gave a little nod as she looked at him. roden had drawn forward a chair, and she sat down, after a moment's hesitation, in front of the open fire.
“so i have always heard,” she answered, “and a great philanthropist.”
“oh—yes.” roden paused and took a chair. “oh yes; but tony cornish is our right-hand man. the people seem to place greater faith in him than they do in lord ferriby. when it is cornish who asks, they give readily enough. he is business-like and quick, and that always tells in the long run.”
percy roden seemed disposed to be communicative, and mrs. vansittart's attitude was distinctly encouraging. she leant sideways on the arm of her chair, and looked at her companion with speculation in her intelligent eyes. she was perhaps reflecting that this was not the sort of man one usually finds engaged in philanthropic enterprise. it is likely that her thoughts were of this nature, and were, as thoughts so often are, transmitted silently to her companion's mind, for he proceeded, unasked, to explain.
“it is not, properly speaking, a charity, you know,” he said. “it is more in the nature of a trade union. this is a practical age, mrs. vansittart, and it is necessary that charity should keep pace with the march of progress and be self-supporting.”
there was a faint suggestion of glibness in his manner. it was probable that he had made use of the same arguments before.
“and who else is associated with you in this great enterprise?” asked the lady, keeping him with the cleverness of her sex upon the subject in which he was obviously deeply interested. the shrewdest women usually treat men thus, and they generally know what subject interests a man most—namely, himself.
“herr von holzen is the most important person,” replied roden.
“ah!” said mrs. vansittart, looking into the fire; “and who is herr von holzen?”
roden paused for a moment, and the lady, looking half indifferently into the fire, noticed the hesitation.
“oh, he is a scientist—a professor at one of the universities over here, i believe. at all events, he is a very clever fellow—analytical chemist and all that, you know. it is he who has made the discovery upon which we are working. he has always been interested in malgamite, and he has now found out how it may be manufactured without injury to the workers. malgamite, you understand, is an essential in the manufacture of paper, and the world will never require less paper than it does now, but more. look at the tons that pass through the post-offices daily. paper-making is one of the great industries of the world, and without malgamite, paper cannot be made at a profit to-day.”
roden seemed to have his subject at his fingers' ends, and if he spoke without enthusiasm, the reason was probably that he had so often said the same thing before.
“i am much interested,” said mrs. vansittart, in her half-foreign way, which was rather pleasing. “tell me more about it.”
“the malgamite makers,” went on roden, willingly enough, “are fortunately but few in numbers and they are experts. they are to be found in twos and threes in manufacturing cities—amsterdam, gothenburg, leith, new york, and even barcelona. of course there are a number in england. our scheme, briefly, is to collect these men together, to build a manufactory and houses for them—to form them, in fact, into a close corporation, and then supply the world with malgamite.”
“it is a great scheme, mr. roden.”
“yes, it is a great scheme; and it is, i think, laid upon the right lines. these people require to be saved from themselves. as they now exist, they are well paid. they are engaged in a deadly industry, and know it. there is nothing more demoralizing to human nature than this knowledge. they have a short and what they take to be a merry life.” the tired—looking man paused and spread out his hands in a gesture of careless scorn. he had almost allowed himself to lapse into enthusiasm. “there is no reason,” he went on, “why they should not become a happy and respectable community. the first thing we shall have to teach them is that their industry is comparatively harmless, as it will undoubtedly be with von holzen's new process. the rest will, i think, come naturally. altered circumstances will alter the people themselves.”
“and where do you intend to build this manufactory?” inquired mrs. vansittart, to whom was vouch-safed that rare knowledge of the fine line that is to be drawn between a kindly interest and a vulgar curiosity. the two are nearer than is usually suspected.
“here in holland,” was the reply. “i have almost decided on the spot—on the dunes to the north of scheveningen. that is why i am staying at the hague. there are many reasons why this coast is suitable. we shall be in touch with the canal system, and we shall have a direct outfall to the sea for our refuse, which is necessary. i shall have to live in the hague—my sister and i.”
“ah! you have a sister?” said mrs. vansittart, turning in her chair and looking at him. a woman's interest in a man's undertaking is invariably centred upon that point where another woman comes into it.
“yes.”
“unmarried?”
“yes; dorothy is unmarried.”
mrs. vansittart gave several quick little nods of the head.
“i am wondering two things,” she said—“whether she is like you, and whether she is interested in this scheme. but i am wondering more than that. is she pretty, mr. roden?”
“yes, i think she is pretty.”
“i am glad of that. i like girls to be pretty. it makes their lives so much more interesting—to the onlooker, bien entendu, but not to themselves. the happiest women i have known have been the plain ones. but perhaps your sister will be pretty and happy too. that would be so nice, and so very rare, mr. roden. i shall look forward to making her acquaintance. i live in the hague, you know. i have a house in park straat, and i am only at this hotel while the painters are in possession. you will allow me to call on your sister when she joins you?”
“we shall be most gratified,” said roden.
mrs. vansittart had risen with a little glance at the clock, and her companion rose also. “i am greatly interested in your scheme,” she said. “much more than i can tell you. it is so refreshing to find charity in such close connection with practical common sense. i think you are doing a great work, mr. roden.”
“i do what i can,” he replied, with a bow.
“and mr. von holzen,” inquired mrs. vansittart, stopping for a moment as she moved towards the doorway, which is large and hung with curtains—“does mr. von holzen work from purely philanthropic motives also?”
“well—yes, i think so. though, of course, he, like myself, will be paid a salary. perhaps, however, he is more interested in malgamite from a scientific point of view.”
“ah, yes, from a scientific point of view, of course. good night, mr. roden.”
and she left him.
