ON THE DUNES.
“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.”