ROUND THE CORNER.
“Les heureux ne rient pas; ils sourient.”
Soon after Mr. Wade and Cornish had quitted their carriage, on that
which is known as the New Scheveningen Road, and were walking across
the dunes to the malgamite works, they met a policeman running towards
them.
“It is,” he answered breathlessly, to their inquiries--“it is the
English Chemical Works on the dunes, which have caught fire. I am
hurrying to the Artillery Station to telegraph for the fire-engines;
but it will be useless. It will all be over in half an hour--by this
wind and after so much dry weather; see the black smoke, excellencies.”
And the man pointed towards a column of smoke, blown out over the
sand-hills by the strong wind, characteristic of these flat coasts.
Then, with a hurried salutation, he ran on.
Cornish and Mr. Wade proceeded more leisurely on their way; for the
banker was not of a build to hurry even to a fire. Before they had gone
far they perceived another man coming across the Dunes towards The
Hague. As he approached, Cornish recognized the man known as Uncle Ben.
He was shambling along on unsteady legs, and carried his earthly
belongings in a canvas sack of doubtful cleanliness. The recognition
was apparently mutual; for Uncle Ben deviated from his path to come and
speak to them.
“It's me, mister,” he said to Cornish, not disrespectfully. “And I
don't mind tellin' yer that I'm makin' myself scarce. That place is
gettin' a bit too hot for me. They're just pullin' it down and makin' a
bonfire of it. And if you or Mr. Roden goes there, they'll just take
and chuck yer on top of it--and that's God's truth. They're a rough lot
some of them, and they don't distinguish 'tween you and Mr. Roden like
as I do. Soddim and Gomorrer, I say. Soddim and Gomorrer! There won't
be nothin' left of yer in half an hour.” And he turned and shook a
dirty fist towards the rising smoke, which was all that remained of the
malgamite works. He hurried on a few paces, then stopped and laid down
his bag. He ran back, calling out “Mister!” as he neared Cornish and
Mr. Wade. “I don't mind tellin' yer,” he said to Cornish, with a
ludicrous precautionary look round the deserted dunes to make sure that
he would not be overheard; for he was sober, and consequently
stupid--“I don't mind tellin' yer--seein' as I'm makin' myself scarce,
and for the sake o' Miss Roden, who has always been a good friend to
me--as there's a hundred and twenty of 'em looking for Mr. Roden at this
minute, meanin' to twist his neck; and what's worse, there's
others--men of dedication like myself--who has gone to the
murder, or something. And they'll get it too, with the story they've got
to tell, and them poor devils planted thick as taters in the cheap corner
of the cemetery. I've warned yer, mister.” Uncle Ben expectorated with
much emphasis, looked towards the malgamite works with a dubious shake
of the head, and went on his way, muttering, “Soddim and Gomorrer.”
His hearers walked on over the sand-hills towards the smoke, of which
the pungent odour, still faintly suggestive of sealing-wax, reached
their nostrils. At the top of a high dune, surmounted with considerable
difficulty, Mr. Wade stopped. Cornish stood beside him, and from that
point of vantage they saw the last of the malgamite works. Amid the
flames and smoke the forms of men flitted hither and thither, adding
fuel to the fire.
“They are, at all events, doing the business thoroughly,” said the
banker. “And there is nothing to be gained by our disturbing them at
it--and a good deal to be lost--namely, our lives. They are not burning
the cottages, I see; only the factory. There is nothing heroic about
me, Tony. Let us go back.”
But Mr. Wade returned to The Hague alone; for Cornish had matters of
importance requiring his attention. It was now doubly necessary to get
Roden safely away from Holland, and with the necessity increased the
difficulty. For Holland is a small country, well watched, highly
civilized. Cornish knew that it would be next to impossible for Roden
to leave the country by rail or road. There remained, therefore, the
sea. Cornish had, during his sojourn at the humble Swan at
Scheveningen, made certain friends there. And it was to the old village
under the dunes, little known to visitors, and a place apart from the
fashionable bathing resort, that he went in his difficulty. He spent
nearly the whole day in these narrow streets; indeed, he lunched at the
Swan in company of a seafaring gentleman clad in soft blue flannel, and
addicted to the mediaeval coiffure still affected in certain parts of
Zeeland.
From this quiet retreat Cornish also wrote a note to Dorothy at the
Villa des Dunes, informing her of Roden's new danger, and warning her
not to attempt to communicate with her brother, or even send him his
baggage. In the afternoon Cornish made a few purchases, which he duly
packed in a sailor's kit-bag, and at nightfall Roden arrived on foot.
The weather was squally, as it often is in August on these coasts;
indeed, the summer seemed to have come to an end before its time.
“It is raining like the deuce,” said Roden, “and I am wet through,
though I came under the trees of the Oude Weg.”
He spoke with his usual suggestion of a grievance, which made Cornish
answer him rather curtly--“We shall be wetter before we get on board.”
It was raining when they quitted the modest Swan, and hurried through
the sparsely lighted, winding streets. Cornish had borrowed two
oil-skin coats and caps, which at once disguised them and protected
them from the rain. Any passer-by would have taken them for a couple of
fishermen going about their business. But there were few in the
streets.
“Why are you doing all this for me?” asked Roden, suddenly.
“To avoid a scandal,” replied Cornish, truthfully enough; for he had
been brought up in a world where the longevity of scandal is fully
understood.
The wide stretch of sand was entirely deserted when they emerged from
the narrow streets and gained the summit of the sea-wall. A
thunderstorm was growling in the distance, and every moment a flash of
thin summer lightning shimmered on the horizon. The wind was strong, as
it nearly always is here, and shallow white surf stretched seaward
across the flats. The sea roared continuously without that rise and
fall of the breakers which marks a deeper coast, and from the face of
the water there arose a filmy mist--part foam, part phosphorescence.
As Roden and Cornish passed the little lighthouse, two policemen
emerged from the shadow of the wall, and watched them, half
suspiciously. “Good evening,” said one of them.
“Good evening,” answered Cornish, mimicking the sing-song accent of the
Scheveningen streets.
They walked on in silence.
“Whew!” ejaculated Roden, when the danger seemed to be past, and they
could breathe again.
They went down a flight of steps to the beach, and stumbled across the
soft sand towards the sea. One or two boats were lying out in the
surf--heavy Dutch fishing-boats, known technically as “pinks,”
flat-bottomed, round-prowed, keel less, heavy and ungainly vessels, but
strong as wood and iron and workmanship could make them. Some seemed to
be afloat, others bumped heavily and continuously; while a few lay
stolidly on the ground with the waves breaking right over them as over
rocks.
The noise of the sea was so great that Cornish touched his companion's
arm, and pointed, without speaking, to one of the vessels where a light
twinkled feebly through the spray breaking over her. It seemed to be
the only vessel preparing to go to sea on the high tide, and, in truth,
the weather looked anything but encouraging.
“How are we going to get on board?” shouted Roden, amid the roar of the
waves.
“Walk,” answered Cornish, and he led the way into the sea.
Hampered as they were by their heavy oil skins, their progress was
slow, although the water barely reached their knees. The _Three
Brothers_ was bumping when they reached her and clambered on board over
the bluff sides, sticky with salt water and tar.
“She'll be afloat in ten minutes,” said a man in oil-skins, who helped
them over the low bulwarks. He spoke good English, and seemed to have
learned some of the taciturnity of the seafaring portion of that nation
with their language; for he went aft to the tiller without more words
and took his station there.
Roden seated himself on the rail and looked back towards Scheveningen.
Cornish stood beside him in silence. The spray broke over them
continuously, and the boat rolled and bumped in such a manner that it
was impossible to stand or even sit without holding on to the clumsy
rigging.
The lights of Scheveningen were stretched out in a line before them;
the lighthouse winked a glaring eye that seemed to stare over their
heads far out to sea. The summer lightning showed the sands to be bare
and deserted. There were no unusual lights on the sea wall. The Kurhaus
and the hotels were illuminated and gay. The shore took no heed of the
sea tonight.
“We've succeeded,” said Roden, curtly, and quite suddenly he rolled
over in a faint at Cornish's feet.
The next morning, Dorothy received a letter at the Villa des Dunes,
posted the evening before by Cornish at Scheveningen.
“We hope to get away tonight,” he wrote, “in the 'pink,' the _Three
Brothers_. Our intention is to knock about the North Sea until we find
a suitable vessel--either a sailing ship trading between Norway and
Spain on its way south, or a steamer going direct from Hamburg to South
America. When I have seen your brother safely on board one of these
vessels, I shall return in the _Three Brothers_ to Scheveningen. She is
a small boat, and has a large white patch of new canvas at the top of
her mainsail. So if you see her coming in, or waiting for the tide, you
may conclude that your brother is in safety.”
Later in the day, Mr. Wade called, having driven from The Hague very
comfortably in an open carriage.
“The house,” he said placidly, “is still watched, but I have no doubt
that Tony has outwitted them all. Creil arrived last night, and seems a
capable man. He tells me that half of the malgamiters are in jail at
The Hague for intoxication and uproariousness last night. He is
selecting those he wants, and the rest he will send to their homes. So
we are balancing our affairs very comfortably; and if there is anything
I can do for you, Miss Roden, I am at your command.”
“Oh, Dorothy is all right,” said Marguerite, rather hurriedly; and when
her father took his leave, she slipped her hand within his solid arm,
and walked with him across the sand towards the carriage. “Haven't you
seen,” she asked--“you old stupid!--that Dorothy is all right? Tony is
in love with her.”
“No,” replied the banker, rather humbly--“no, my dear. I am afraid I
had not noticed it.”
Marguerite pressed his arm, not unkindly. “You can't help it,” she
explained. “You are only a man, you know.”
The following days were quiet enough at the Villa des Dunes, and it is
in quiet days that a friendship ripens best. The two girls left there
scarcely expected to hear of Cornish's return for some days; but they
fell into the habit of walking towards the sea whenever they went
out-of-doors, and spent many afternoon hours on the dunes. During these
hours Dorothy had many confidential and lively conversations with her
new-found friend. Indeed, confidence and gaiety were so bewilderingly
mingled that Dorothy did not always understand her companion.
One afternoon, three days after the departure of Percy Roden, when Von
Holzen was buried, and the authorities had expressed themselves content
with the verdict that he had come accidentally by his death, Marguerite
took occasion to congratulate herself, and all concerned, in the fact
that what she vaguely called “things” were beginning to straighten
themselves out.
“We are round the corner,” she said decisively. “And now papa and I
shall go home again, and Miss Williams will come back. Miss
Williams--oh, lord! She is one of those women who have a stick inside
them instead of a heart. And papa will trot out his young men--likely
young men from the city. Papa married the bank, you know. And he wants
me to marry another bank and live gorgeously ever afterwards. Poor old
dear!”
“I think he would rather you were happy than gorgeous,” said Dorothy,
with a laugh, who had seen some of the honest banker's perplexity with
regard to this most delicate financial affair.
“Perhaps he would. At all events, he does his best--his very best. He
has tried at least fifty of these gentle swains since I came back from
Dresden--red hair and a temper, black hair and an excellent opinion of
one's self, fair hair and stupidity. But they wouldn't do--they
wouldn't do, Dorothy!”
Marguerite paused, and made a series of holes in the sand with her
walking-stick.
“There was only one,” she said quietly, at length. “I suppose there is
always--only one--eh, Dorothy?”
“I suppose so,” answered Dorothy, looking straight in front of her.
Marguerite was silent for a while, looking out to sea with a queer
little twist of the lips that made her look older--almost a woman. One
could imagine what she would be like when she was middle-aged, or quite
old, perhaps.
“He would have done,” she said. “Quite easily. He was a million times
cleverer than the rest--a million times--well, he was quite different,
I don't know how. But he was paternal. He thought he was much too old,
so he didn't try----”
She broke off with a light laugh, and her confidential manner was gone
in a flash. She stuck her stick firmly into the ground, and threw
herself back on the soft sand.
“So,” she cried gaily. _“Vogue la galère_. It's all for the best. That
is the right thing to say when it cannot be helped, and it obviously
isn't for the best. But everybody says it, and it is always wise to
pass in with the crowd, and be conventional--if you swing for it.”
She broke off suddenly, looking at her companion's face. A few boats
had been leisurely making for the shore all the afternoon before a
light wind, and Dorothy had been watching them. They were coming closer
now.
“Dorothy, do you see the _Three Brothers_?”
“That is the _Three Brothers_,” answered Dorothy, pointing with her
walking-stick.
For a time they were silent, until, indeed, the boat with the patched
sail had taken the ground gently, a few yards from the shore. A number
of men landed from her, some of them carrying baskets of fish. One,
walking apart, made for the dunes, in the direction of the New
Scheveningen Road.
“And that is Tony,” said Marguerite. “I should know his walk--if I saw
him coming out of the Ark, which, by the way, must have been rather
like the _Three Brothers_ to look at. He has taken your brother safely
away, and now he is coming--to take you.”
“He may remember that I am Percy's sister,” suggested Dorothy.
“It doesn't matter whose sister you are,” was the decisive reply.
“Nothing matters”--Marguerite rose slowly, and shook the sand from her
dress--“nothing matters, except one thing, and that appears to be a
matter of absolute chance.”
She climbed slowly to the summit of the dune under which they had been
sitting, and there, pausing, she looked back. She nodded gaily down at
Dorothy. Then suddenly, she held out her hands before her, and Cornish,
looking up, saw her slim young form poised against the sky in a mock
attitude of benediction.
“Bless you, my dears,” she cried, and with a short laugh turned and
walked towards the Villa des Dunes.
THE END