“le plus sur moyen d'arriver à son but c'est de ne pas faire
de rencontres en chemin.”
“yes, it was long ago—'lang, lang izt's her'—you remember the song frau neumayer always sang. so long ago, mr. cornish, that——well, it must be mr. cornish, and not tony.”
mrs. vansittart leant back in her comfortable chair and looked at her visitor with observant eyes. those who see the most are they who never appear to be observing. it is fatal to have others say that one is so sharp, and people said as much of mrs. vansittart, who had quick dark eyes and an alert manner.
“yes,” answered cornish, “it is long ago, but not so long as all that.”
his smooth fair face was slightly troubled by the knowledge that the recollections to which she referred were those of the weimar days when she who was now a widow had been a young married woman. tony cornish had also been young in those days, and impressionable. it was before the world had polished his surface bright and hard. and the impression left of the mrs. vansittart of weimar was that she was one of the rare women who marry pour le bon motif. he had met her by accident in the streets of the hague a few hours ago, and having learnt her address, had, in duty bound, called at the house at the corner of park straat and oranje straat at the earliest calling hour.
“i am not ignorant of your history since you were at weimar,” said the lady, looking at him with an air of almost maternal scrutiny.
“i have no history,” he replied. “i never had a past even, a few years ago, when every man who took himself seriously had at least one.”
he spoke as he had learnt to speak, with the surface of his mind—with the object of passing the time and avoiding topics that might possibly be painful. many who appear to be egotistical must assuredly be credited with this good motive. one is, at all events, safe in talking of one's self. sufficient for the social day is the effort to avoid glancing at the cupboard where our neighbour keeps his skeleton.
a silence followed cornish's heroic speech, and it was perhaps better to face it than stave it off.
“yes,” said mrs. vansittart, at the end of that pause, “i am a widow and childless. i see the questions in your face.”
cornish gave a little nod of the head, and looked out of the window. mrs. vansittart was only a year older than himself, but the difference in their life and experience, when they had learnt to know each other at weimar, had in some subtle way augmented the seniority.
“then you never—” he said, and paused.
“no,” she answered lightly. “so i am what the world calls independent, you see. no encumbrance of any sort.”
again he nodded without speaking.
“the line between an encumbrance and a purpose is not very clearly defined, is it?” she said lightly; and then added a question, “what are you doing in the hague—malgamite?”
“yes,” he answered, in surprise, “malgamite.”
“oh, i know all about it,” laughed mrs. vansittart. “i see dorothy roden at least once a week.”
“but she takes no part in it.”
“no; she takes no part in it, mon ami, except in so far as it affects her brother and compels her to live in a sad little villa on the dunes.”
“and you—you are interested?”
“most assuredly. i have even given my mite. i am interested in”—she paused and shrugged her shoulders—“in you, since you ask me, in dorothy, and in mr. roden. he gave the flowers at which you are so earnestly looking, by the way.”
“ah!” said cornish, politely.
“yes,” answered mrs. vansittart, with a passing smile. “he is kind enough to give me flowers from time to time. you never gave me flowers, mr. cornish, in the olden times.”
“because i could not afford good ones.”
“and you would not offer anything more reasonable?”
“not to you,” he answered.
“but of course that was long ago.”
“yes. i am glad to hear that you know miss roden. it will make the little villa on the dunes less sad. the atmosphere of malgamite is not cheerful. one sees it at its best in a london drawing-room. it is one of the many realities which have an evil odour when approached too closely.”
“and you are coming nearer to it?”
“it is coming nearer to me.”
“ah!” said mrs. vansittart, examining the rings with which her fingers were laden. “i thought there would be developments.”
“there are developments. hence my presence in the hague. lord ferriby et famille arrive to-morrow. also my friend major white.”
“the fighting man?” inquired mrs. vansittart.
“yes, the fighting man. we are to have a solemn meeting. it has been found necessary to alter our financial basis——”
mrs. vansittart held up a warning hand. “do not talk to me of your financial basis. i know nothing of money. it is not from that point of view that i contemplate your malgamite scheme.”
“ah! then, if one may inquire, from what point of view....?”
“from the human point of view; as does every other woman connected with it. we are advancing, i admit, but i think we shall always be willing to leave the—financial basis—to your down-trodden sex.”
“it is very kind of you to be interested in these poor people,” began cornish; but mrs. vansittart interrupted him vivaciously.
“poor people? gott bewahre!” she cried. “did you think i meant the workers? oh no! i am not interested in them. i am interested in your rodens and your ferribys and your whites, and even in your tony cornish. i wonder who will quarrel and who will—well, do the contrary, and what will come of it all? in my day young people were brought together by a common pleasure, but that has gone out of fashion. and now it is a common endeavour to achieve the impossible, to check the stars in their courses by the holding of mixed meetings, and the enunciation of second-hand platitudes respecting the poor and the masses—this is what brings the present generation into that intercourse which ends in love and marriage and death—the old programme. and it is from that point of view alone, mon ami, that i take a particle of interest in your malgamite scheme.”
all of which tony cornish remembered later; for it was untrue. he rose to take his leave with polite hopes of seeing her again.
“oh, do not hurry away,” she said. “i am expecting dorothy roden, who promised to come to tea. she will be disappointed not to see you.”
cornish laughed in his light way. “you are kind in your assumptions,” he answered. “miss roden is barely aware of my existence, and would not know me from adam.”
nevertheless he stayed, moving about the room for some minutes looking at the flowers and the pictures, of which he knew just as much as was desirable and fashionable. he knew what flowers were “in,” such as fuchsias and tulips, and what were “out,” such as camellias and double hyacinths. about the pictures he knew a little, and asked questions as to some upon the walls that belonged to the dutch school. he was of the universe, universal. then he sat down again unobtrusively, and mrs. vansittart did not seem to notice that he had done so, though she glanced at the clock.
a few minutes later dorothy came in. she changed colour when mrs. vansittart half introduced cornish with the conventional, “i think you know each other.”
“i knew you were coming to the hague,” she said, shaking hands with cornish. “i had a letter from joan the other day. they all are coming, are they not? i am afraid joan will be very much disappointed in me. she thinks i am wrapped up heart and soul in the malgamiters—and i am not, you know.”
she turned with a little laugh, and appealed to mrs. vansittart, who was watching her closely, as if dorothy were displaying some quality or point hitherto unknown to the older woman. the girl's eyes were certainly brighter than usual.
“joan takes some things very seriously,” answered cornish.
“we all do that,” said mrs. vansittart, without looking up from the tea-table at which she was engaged. “yes; it is a mistake, of course.”
“possibly,” assented mrs. vansittart. “do you take sugar, miss roden?”
“yes, please—seriously. two pieces.”
“are you like joan?” asked cornish, as he gave her the cup. “do you take anything else seriously?”
“oh no,” answered dorothy roden, with a laugh.
“and your brother?” inquired mrs. vansittart. “is he coming this afternoon?”
“he will follow me. he is busy with the new malgamiters who arrived this morning. i suppose you brought them, mr. cornish?”
“yes, i brought them. twenty-four of them—the dregs, so to speak. the very last of the malgamiters, collected from all parts of the world. i was not proud of them.”
he sat down and quickly changed the conversation, showing quite clearly that this subject interested him as little as it interested his companions. he brought the latest news from london, which the ladies were glad enough to hear. for to dorothy roden, at least, the hague was a place of exile, where men lived different lives and women thought different thoughts. are there not a hundred little rivulets of news which never flow through the journals, but are passed from mouth to mouth, and seem shallow enough, but which, uniting at last, form a great stream of public opinion, and this, having formed itself imperceptibly, is suddenly found in full flow, and is so obvious that the newspapers forget to mention it? thus colonists and other exiles returning to england, and priding themselves upon having kept in touch with the progress of events and ideas in the old country, find that their thoughts have all the while been running in the wrong channels—that seemingly great events have been considered very small, that small ideas have been lifted high by the babbling crowd which is vaguely called society.
from tony cornish, mrs. vansittart and dorothy learnt that among other
social playthings charity was for the moment being laid aside. we have
inherited, it appears, a great box of playthings, and the careful
student of history will find that none of the toys are new—that they
have indeed been played with by our forefathers, who did just as we do.
they took each toy from the box, and cried aloud that it was new, that
the world had never seen its like before. had it not, indeed? then
presently the toy—be it charity, or a new religion, or sentiment, or
greed of gain, or war—is thrown back into the box again, where it lies
until we of a later day drag it forth with the same cry that it is new.
we grow wild with excitement over south african mines, and never
recognize the old south sea bubble trimmed anew to suit the taste of
the day. we crow with delight over our east end slums, and never
recognize the patched-up remnants of the last crusade that fizzled out
so ignominiously at acre five hundred years ago.
so tony cornish, who was dans le movement gently intimated to his hearers that what may be called a robuster tone ruled the spirit of the age. charity was going down, athletics were coming up. another olympiad had passed away. wise indeed was solon, who allowed four years for men to soften and to harden again. during the olympiads it is to be presumed that men busied themselves with the slums that existed in those days, hearkened to the decadent poetry or fiction of that time, and then, as the robuster period of the games came round, braced themselves once more to the consideration of braver things.
it appeared, therefore, that the malgamite scheme was already a thing of the past so far as social london was concerned. a sensational 'varsity boat-race had given charity its coup de grace, had ushered in the spring, when even the poor must shift for themselves.
“and in the mean time,” commented mrs. vansittart, “here are four hundred industrials landed, if one may so put it, at the hague.”
“yes; but that will be all right,” retorted cornish, with his gay laugh. “they only wanted a start. they have got their start. what more can they desire? is not lord ferriby himself coming across? he is at the moment on board the flushing boat. and he is making a great sacrifice, for he must be aware that he does not look nearly so impressive on the continent as he does, say in piccadilly, where the policemen know him, and even the newspaper boys are dimly aware that this is no ordinary man to whom one may offer a halfpenny radical paper——”
cornish broke off, and looked towards the door, which was at this moment thrown open by a servant, who announced—“herr roden. herr von holzen.”
the two men came forward together, roden slouching and heavy-shouldered, but well dressed; von holzen smaller, compacter, with a thoughtful, still face and calculating eyes. roden introduced his companion to the two ladies. it is possible that a certain reluctance in his manner indicated the fact that he had brought von holzen against his own desire. either von holzen had asked to be brought or mrs. vansittart had intimated to roden that she would welcome his associate, but this was not touched upon in the course of the introduction. cornish looked gravely on. von holzen was betrayed into a momentary gaucheness, as if he were not quite at home in a drawing-room.
roden drew forward a chair, and seated himself near to mrs. vansittart with an air of familiarity which the lady seemed rather to invite than to resent. they had, it appeared, many topics in common. roden had come with the purpose of seeing mrs. vansittart, and no one else. her manner, also, changed as soon as roden entered the room, and seemed to appeal with a sort of deference to his judgment of all that she said or did. it was a subtle change, and perhaps no one noticed it, though dorothy, who was exchanging conventional remarks with von holzen, glanced across the room once.
“ah,” von holzen was saying in his grave way, with his head bent a little forward, as if the rounded brow were heavy—“ah, but i am only the chemist, miss roden. it is your brother who has placed us on our wonderful financial basis. he has a head for finance, your brother, and is quick in his calculations. he understands money, whereas i am only a scientist.”
he spoke english correctly but slowly, with the dutch accent, which is slighter and less guttural than the german. dorothy was interested in him, and continued to talk with him, leaving cornish standing at a little distance, teacup in hand. von holzen was in strong contrast to the two englishmen. he was graver, more thoughtful, a man of deeper purpose and more solid intellect. there was something dimly napoleonic in the direct and calculating glance of his eyes, as if he never looked idly at anything or any man. it was he who made a movement after the lapse of a few moments only, as if, having recovered his slight embarrassment, he did not intend to stay longer than the merest etiquette might demand. he crossed the room, and stood before mrs. vansittart, with his heels clapped well together, making the most formal conversation, which was only varied by a stiff bow.
“i have a friendly recollection,” he said, preparing to take his leave, “of a charles vansittart, a student at leyden, with whom i was brought into contact again in later life. he was, i believe, from amsterdam, of an english mother.”
“ah!” replied mrs. vansittart. “mine is a common name.”
and they bowed to each other in the foreign way.
