“They call me Uncle Ben—comprenny?” one man explained very slowly to another for the sixth time across a small iron table set out upon the pavement.
They were seated in front of the humble1 Café de l'Europe, which lies concealed2 in an alley3 that runs between the Keize Straat and the lighthouse of Scheveningen. It was quite dark and a lonely reveler at the next table seemed to be asleep. The economical proprietor4 of the Café de l'Europe had conceived the idea of constructing a long-shaped lantern, not unlike the arm of a railway signal, which should at once bear the insignia of his house and afford light to his out-door custom. But the idea, like many of the higher flights of the human imagination, had only left the public in the dark.
“Yes,” continued the unchallenged speaker, in a voice which may be heard issuing from the door of any tavern5 in England on almost any evening of the week—the typical voice of the tavern-talker—“yes, they've always called me Uncle Ben. Seems as if they're sort o' fond of me. Me has seen many hundreds of 'em come and go. But nothing like this. Lord save us!”
His hand fell heavily on the iron table, and he looked round him in semi-intoxicated6 stupefaction. He was in a confidential7 humour, and when a man is in this humour, drunk or sober, he is in a parlous8 state. It was certainly rather unfortunate that Uncle Ben should have in this expansive moment no more sympathetic companion than an ancient, intoxicated Frenchman, who spoke9 no word of English.
“What I want to know, Frenchy,” continued the Englishman, in a thick, aggrieved10 voice, “is how long you've been at this trade, and how much you know about it—you and the other Frenchy. But there's none of us speaks the other's lingo11. It is a regular Tower of Babble12 we are!” And Uncle Ben added to his mental confusion a further alcoholic13 fog. “That's why I showed yer the way out of the works over the iron fence by the empty casks, and brought yer by the beach to this 'ere house of entertainment, and stood yer a bottle of brandy between two of us—which is handsome, not bein' my own money, seeing as how the others deputed me to do it—me knowing a bit of French, comprenny?” Benjamin, like most of his countrymen, considering that if one speaks English in a loud, clear voice, and adds “comprenny” rather severely14, as indicating the intention of standing15 no nonsense, the previous remarks will translate themselves miraculously16 in the hearer's mind. “You comprenny—eh? Yes. Oui.” “Oui,” replied the Frenchman, holding out his glass; and Uncle Ben's was that pride which goes with a gift of tongues.
He struck a match to light his pipe—one of the wooden, sulphur-headed matches supplied by the café—and the guest at the next table turned in his chair. The match flared17 up and showed two faces, which he studied keenly. Both faces were alike unwashed and deeply furrowed18. White, straggling beards and whiskers accentuated19 the redness of the eyelids20, the dull yellow of the skin. They were hopeless and debased faces, with that disquieting21 resemblance which is perceptible in the faces of men of dissimilar features and no kinship, who have for a number of years followed a common calling, or suffered a common pain.
These two men were both half blind; they had equally unsteady hands. The clothing of both alike, and even their breath, was scented22 by a not unpleasant odour of sealing-wax.
It was quite obvious that not only were they at present half intoxicated, but in their soberest moments they could hardly be of a high intelligence.
“Englishman?” he inquired.
“That's me,” answered Uncle Ben, with commendable24 pride, “from the top of my head to me boots. Not that I've anything to say against foreigners.”
“Nor I; but it's pleasant to meet a countryman in a foreign land.” Cornish deliberately25 brought his chair forward. “Your bottle is empty,” he added; “I'll order another. Friend's a Frenchman, eh?”
“That he is—and doesn't understand his own language either,” answered Uncle Ben, in a voice indicating that that lack of comprehension rather intensified26 his friend's Frenchness than otherwise.
The proprietor of the Café de l'Europe now came out in answer to Cornish's rap on the iron table, and presently brought a small bottle of brandy.
“Yes,” said Cornish, pouring out the spirit, which his companions drank in its undiluted state from small tumblers—“yes, I'm glad to meet an Englishman. I suppose you are in the works—the Malgamite?”
“I am. And what do you know about malgamite, mister?”
“Well, not much, I am glad to say.”
“There is precious few that knows anything,” said the man, darkly, and his eye for a moment sobered into cunning.
“I have heard that it is a very dangerous trade, and if you want to get out of it I'm connected with an association in London to provide situations for elderly men who are no longer up to their work,” said Cornish, carelessly.
“Thank ye, mister; not for me. I'm making my five-pound note a week, I am, and each cove27 that dies off makes the survivors28 one richer, so to speak—survival of the fittest, they call it. So we don't talk much, and just pockets the pay.”
“Ah, that is the arrangement, is it?” said Cornish, indifferently. “Yes. We've got a clever financier, as they call it, I can tell yer. We're a good-goin' concern, we are. Some of us are goin' pretty quick, too.”
“Are there many deaths, then?”
“Ah! there you're asking a question,” returned the man, who came of a class which has no false shame in refusing a reply.
Cornish looked at the man beneath the dim light of the unsuccessful lamp—a piteous specimen29 of humanity, depraved, besotted, without outward sign of a redeeming30 virtue31, although a certain courage must have been there—this and such as this stood between him and Dorothy Roden. Uncle Ben had known starvation at one time, for starvation writes certain lines which even turtle soup may never wipe out—lines which any may read and none may forget. Tony Cornish had seen them before—on the face of an old dandy coming down the steps of a St. James's Street club. The malgamiter had likewise known drink long and intimately, and it is no exaggeration to say that he had stood cheek by jowl with death nearly all his life.
Cornish turned to the Frenchman—a little, cunning, bullet-headed Lyonnais, who would not speak of his craft at all, though he expressed every desire to be agreeable to monsieur.
“When one is en fête,” he cried, “it is good to drink one's glass or two and think no more of work.”
“I knew one or two of your men once,” said Cornish, returning to the genial33 Uncle Ben. “William Martins, I remember, was a decent fellow, and had seen a bit of the world. I will come to the works and look him up some day.”
“You can look him up, mister, but you won't find him.”
“Ah, has he gone home?”
“He's gone to his long home, that's where he's gone.”
“And his brother, Tom Martins, both London men, like myself?” inquired Cornish, without asking that question which Uncle Ben considered such exceedingly bad form.
“Tom's dead, too.”
“And there were two Americans, I recollect—I came across from Harwich in the same boat with them—Hewlish they were called.”
“Hewlishes has stepped round the corner, too,” admitted Uncle Ben. “Oh yes; there's been changes in the works, there's no doubt. And there's only one sort o' change in the malgamite trade. Come on, Frenchy, time's up.”
The men stood up and bade Cornish good night, each after his own manner, and went away steadily34 enough. It was only their heads that were intoxicated, and perhaps the brandy of the Café de l'Europe had nothing to do with this.
Cornish followed them, and, in the Keize Straat, he called a cab, telling the man to drive to the house at the corner of Oranje Straat and Park Straat, occupied by Mrs. Vansittart. That lady, the servant said, in reply to his careful inquiry35, was at home and alone, and, moreover, did not expect visitors. The man was not at all sure that madame would receive.
“I will try,” said Cornish, writing two words in German on the corner of his visiting-card. “You see,” he continued, noticing a well-trained glance, “that I am not dressed, so if other visitors arrive, I would rather not be discovered in madame's salon36, you understand?”
Mrs. Vansittart shook hands with Cornish in silence, her quick eyes noted37 the change in him which the shrewd butler had noticed in the entrance-hall. The Cornish of a year earlier would have gone back to the hotel to dress.
“I was just going out to the Witte society concert,” said Mrs. Vansittart. “I thought the open air and the wood would be pleasant this evening. Shall we go or shall we remain?” She stood with her hand on the bell looking at him.
“Let us remain here,” he answered.
She rang the bell and countermanded38 the carriage. Then she sat slowly down, moving as under a sort of oppression, as if she foresaw what the next few minutes contained, and felt herself on the threshold of one of the surprises that Fate springs upon us at odd times, tearing aside the veils behind which human hearts have slept through many years. For indifference39 is not the death, but only the sleep of the heart.
“You have just arrived?”
“No; I have been here a week.”
“At The Hague?”
“No,” answered Cornish, with a grave smile; “at a little inn in Scheveningen, where no questions are asked.”
Mrs. Vansittart nodded her head slowly. “Then, mon ami,” she said, “the time has come for plain speaking?”
“I suppose so.”
“It is always the woman who wants to get to the plain speaking,” she said, with a smile, “and who speaks the plainest when one gets there. You men are afraid of so many words; you think them, but you dare not make use of them. And how are women to know that you are thinking them?” She spoke with a sort of tolerant bitterness, as if all these questions no longer interested her personally. She sat forward, with one hand on the arm of her chair. “Come,” she said, with a little laugh that shook and trembled on the brink40 of a whole sea of unshed tears, “I will speak the first word. When my husband died, my heart broke—and it was Otto von Holzen who killed him.” Her eyes flashed suddenly, and she threw herself back in the chair. Her hands were trembling.
Cornish made a quick gesture of the hand—a trick he had learnt somewhere on the Continent, more eloquent41 than a hundred words—which told of his sympathy and his comprehension of all that she had left unsaid. For truly she had told him her whole history in a dozen words.
“I have followed him and watched him ever since,” she went on at length, in a quiet voice; “but a woman is so helpless. I suppose if any of us were watched and followed as he has been our lives would appear a strange mixture of a little good and much bad, mixed with a mass of neutral idleness. But surely his life is worse than the rest—not that it matters. Whatever his life had been, if he had been a living saint, Tony, he would have had to pay—for what he has done to me.”
She looked steadily into the keen face that was watching hers. She was not in the least melodramatic, and what was stranger, perhaps, she was not ashamed. According to her lights, she was a good woman, who went to church regularly, and did a little conventional good with her superfluous42 wealth. She obeyed the unwritten laws of society, and busied herself little in her neighbours' affairs. She was kind to her servants, and did not hate her neighbours more than is necessary in a crowded world. She led a blameless, unoccupied, and apparently43 purposeless life. And now she quietly told Tony Cornish that her life was not purposeless, but had for its aim the desire of an eye for an eye and a life for a life.
“You remember my husband,” continued Mrs. Vansittart, after a pause. “He was always absorbed in his researches. He made a great discovery, and confided44 in Otto von Holzen, who thought that he could make a fortune out of it. But Von Holzen cheated and was caught. There was a great trial, and Von Holzen succeeded in incriminating my husband, who was innocent, instead of himself. The company, of course, failed, which meant ruin and dishonour45. In a fit of despair my husband shot himself. And afterwards it transpired46 that by shooting himself at that time he saved my money. One cannot take proceedings47 against a dead man, it appears. So I was left a rich woman, after all, and my husband had frustrated48 Otto von Holzen. The world did not believe that my husband had done it on purpose; but I knew better. It is one of those beliefs that one keeps to one's self, and is indifferent whether the world believes or not. So there remain but two things for me to do—the one is to enjoy the money, and to let my husband see that I spend it as he would have wished me to spend it—upon myself; the other is to make Otto von Holzen pay—when the time comes. Who knows? the Malgamite is perhaps the time; you are perhaps the man.” She gave her disquieting little laugh again, and sat looking at him.
“I understand,” he said at length. “Before, I was puzzled. There seemed no reason why you should take any interest in the scheme.”
“My interest in the Malgamite scheme narrows down to an interest in one person,” answered Mrs. Vansittart, “which is what really happens to all human interests, my friend.”
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1
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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3
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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6
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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7
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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parlous
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| adj.危险的，不确定的，难对付的 | |
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9
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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10
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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11
lingo
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| n.语言不知所云，外国话，隐语 | |
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12
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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13
alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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14
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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15
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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17
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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18
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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20
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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21
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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22
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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23
reveller
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| n.摆设酒宴者，饮酒狂欢者 | |
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24
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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26
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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28
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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29
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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31
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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32
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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34
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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35
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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36
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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38
countermanded
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| v.取消（命令），撤回( countermand的过去分词 ) | |
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39
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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40
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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41
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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42
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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43
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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44
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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45
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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46
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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47
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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48
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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