A NEW DISCIPLE.
“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'hôte_ 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'hôte_, 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.