Chapter XII: Act II (2)

Where was he to get them? He _must_ have them. Sell his possessions? The furniture was worth nothing. The pictures?—who knew if the English engravings might not be rare and valuable? He did not understand such things. He had indeed pretended to some knowledge of art, but he had none. If he had only the smallest grain! What would a collector give him for them? Two hundred and fifty guilders each? Surely they might be worth that. Perhaps more—perhaps——

Then arrived documents for signature, and Van Arlen signed his name—signed again, and yet again, and imagined that he was endorsing bank-notes. Why was his name not of equal efficacy when written on a cheque? He could always pay the amount later on; it was only for the time he wanted it.

Suddenly Van Arlen stood still. “Temporary—only temporary—and if I pay it back, no one will ever ask after it.” He opened a locked cash-box; it contained more than enough to help him; it did not belong to him; it had only been left in his care, to give account of when the sum was complete. He stood up, and wiped his forehead, and once more paced up and down.

Who was going to inquire after it? The Minister? He had other things to think of. His colleagues? The affair did not concern them; they did not even know of its existence. His inferiors? They would certainly mind their own business; and if they did not,—after all, he was their chief, and could give them what answer he thought fit. There it lay. He opened the little parcel. Surely no one knew the numbers!

There was a knock at the door. Van Arlen started as if he had committed a crime, yet kept looking at the money that had been entrusted to him. It was in an unsteady voice that he said, “Come in.”

“Mijnheer Van Teuten would like to speak to you.”

“Van Teuten?—I’m busy—well, one minute, then. Tell him to come in.”

The man ushered into the private room wrote a magnificent hand. For the moment that was nothing to the point—yet, after all, it was something, for Van Teuten owed his career to it—“the best hand in the department.” He did not write quickly—that was beneath his dignity—but for really beautiful writing no one could come near him.

Van Teuten was visibly disturbed, as he stood facing Van Arlen, who sat leaning over his desk. The cash-box was shut.

“Well, Mr Van Teuten?”

“Mr Van Arlen—I’m come—I hope you’ll excuse it. I’ve come to make a request, on which my future depends.”

Van Arlen looked up from his paper, and coughed importantly, fixing his dark eyes on the chief clerk, as though he suspected him of high treason.

“You know perhaps that—that I have absolutely no means of my own, and, with the title of assistant secretary (which I owe to my handwriting)”—here Van Teuten raised his head with a certain pride—“in spite of my handwriting, still only draw the salary of chief clerk.”

“Do you want to be promoted, Mr Van Teuten?”

“Promoted—that is to say, sir—not exactly; but, Mr Van Arlen, I can’t live! I’m poor, sir, and—if I write a good hand—Heaven forbid, sir, that I should boast of it; but, well, it is hard that one should have one’s merits, and be forced to suffer from poverty.”

Van Arlen gazed fixedly at the owner of the fine handwriting, and asked him for a definite statement of what he wanted—his time was valuable.

“Do excuse me, sir; but I’m nervous—I’m agitated. I shall have to pay my rent on Saturday—three-quarters’ rent, sir,—and I’ve nothing—nothing—not so much as _that_!”

“Very sad for you, Mr Van Teuten, but you know that I can be of no use to you in this matter.”

“Nay, Mr Van Arlen, you can. I only want two hundred guilders—nothing more, and then I am saved—saved! And, you see, if I stood alone, sir, I shouldn’t care—I should find some way out of it,—but I have a wife and five children. Oh, God! Mr Van Arlen, it’s my last hope. Don’t let me go like this!”

Van Teuten pulled out a red pocket-handkerchief, and dried a few tears with it. Van Arlen stared at him, still lost in thought, and forgot the man’s request in the comparison he was drawing in his own mind, between this case and his own. At last he asked slowly, “What do you want me to do?”

“Lend me two hundred guilders, sir,—that’s all that I hope, I entreat, I beg of you——”

“Just listen to me, my good Van Teuten, and don’t get excited,—tears are not becoming in a man of your age. We’ve all got to work for our families, and some men in this world happen to be better off than others—but that’s no reason for giving way to passionate grief. As to your request, it’s out of my power to grant it. Next time there is any question of increase in salaries, I will do my best to improve your position, but for the moment I cannot help you. If I did, I should have all your colleagues asking me for the same thing to-morrow, and my position will not allow of my coming to the assistance of officials in this way.”

Van Teuten was searching his mind for a word—a sentence. To-morrow, when he did not want them, he might think of hundreds; now, he could find none that would add force to his entreaty. He soon gave up the effort, and tried another tack:

“The Minister is rich, sir,—don’t you think he might give or lend me two hundred guilders?”

Van Arlen looked straight at him. True, the Minister was rich, and what he refused Van Teuten he might yet be induced to grant to Van Arlen.

“If you would only speak for me, Mr Van Arlen,—I don’t want to exalt myself—and yet, I believe—don’t take it ill of me if I say so—I think my services are worth something—and if His Excellency would be willing to give me the money, I should be saved.”

“Probably His Excellency would have the same reasons for declining as myself; but I cannot conceive, Mr Van Teuten, that there is not one of your colleagues who would be willing to help you out of a temporary inconvenience.”

Would Van Arlen himself have found one so quickly?

“Oh! plenty!—but they want security—they want a guarantee; and ... do you think His Excellency would become security for me?—or you, sir—your name will do anything you like.”

“My good friend, you understand that I, in my position, cannot afford to get mixed up with any such affair, nor can the Minister either. Try and come to some arrangement with your landlord, but don’t expect anything from _these_ quarters, under such circumstances. We can’t have anything to do with such matters.”

Van Teuten bowed his head—he had exhausted his arguments, and all to no purpose; he had completely forgotten the eloquent address, thought out last night; the courage with which he had armed himself had oozed away—he went out silently. But suddenly he turned back.

“If it were _outside_ the official circle, sir, could you help me then? I could get money at an interest of one per cent. per month—only I must have the security of one of the superior officials.”

“I have told you, Mr Van Teuten, that I, in my position, cannot occupy myself with any matters of the kind. I am sorry for you, but I can do nothing.”

The man with the fine hand went away, slowly and dejectedly, and Van Arlen was once more alone with—or rather without—his thousand guilders.

* * * * *

It is a mistake to suppose that, for the preparation of jugged hare, a hare is necessary. Mrs Van Arlen understood very well how to give a dinner, which, to the uninitiate, seemed the finest kind of “company” dinner, and yet consisted of the most commonplace everyday dishes. But there is an infinite difference between rice in a dish and rice in a mould—more especially when the latter is served with lemon sauce. The ham was prepared _à la mayonnaise_—Van Arlen was so fond of that dish,—he always partook of it when on those mysterious journeys of his; and then—you need not have a whole ham for it, a few slices are quite enough. Moreover, there stood, on the side-table, besides the never-failing ginger and cheese, a silver dish with ten little halfpenny tarts on it. It was quite a splendid dinner; papa and uncle had each a bottle to himself, and besides the ordinary wine glasses there were others of smaller size for the better wine.

But, with all this magnificence, a certain gloom prevailed among the Van Arlens. This is the way with the great ones of the earth; they enjoy wealth and ease without appreciating them.

Prigson, on the other hand, was, as usual, in excellent spirits. He felt in nowise overawed by the splendour of the feast, or the eight silk skirts which rustled round about him.

“You see, it’s just our ordinary family dinner,” said madame, with a pleasant little laugh. Prigson gave the obligatory answer, and paid no attention whatever to the material part of the dinner.

“Which of you girls are going out with me this evening?” he asked. “I can’t take all seven—three is the maximum—or else your father will have to come too.”

“You know, Prigson, my position is such that I cannot devote a single hour to mere enjoyment.”

Madame sighed, and said, in a compassionate tone, that brother could form no idea of the life Van Arlen led.

“No doubt,” said Prigson; “but I admit that it is far from appearing to most people what it really is.” Prigson made the remark entirely without sarcastic intention, and went on, with a smile, “I would bet something that you haven’t even read the paper yet, Van Arlen.”

Van Arlen usually read his daily paper from title to imprint while taking his breakfast; but to-day he had entirely forgotten it.

“I haven’t once looked into it; and here’s the proof,” he said, taking it still unopened from his pocket.

“So you haven’t seen my advertisement?”

“Your advertisement?—no—did you insert one?”

“Do you remember our talk at your office?”

Van Arlen had not forgotten it for one moment, and if Prigson had paid more attention to him, and less to Caroline and Leida (who, in fact, were very pretty girls), he would have noticed that Van Arlen’s looks continually took the vague direction which indicated that his mind was elsewhere. His wife, who noticed it, ascribed it to the responsibilities of his office; his daughters were thinking, this evening, more of their uncle than of him. Certainly papa was the very type of a handsome man, but uncle had something very distinguished about him—especially since Leida had told them about seeing him in the club.

“What advertisement is that, brother?” asked Mrs Van Arlen.

“Oh, my dear Hortense, it belongs to those matters which ladies can’t understand; but if it comes to anything, and Van Arlen is willing to take a hand in it, he has only to say the word. You can make your fortune over it, Van Arlen.”

The word “fortune” awakened in the Van Arlens a feeling which used to come over them day by day, and had as regularly to be suppressed. Now, however, they were able to give way to it for a moment, and Van Arlen himself—still under the influence of what he had endured that afternoon—looked at Van Noost Prigson with interest.

“How could that be done?” asked Mrs Van Arlen almost indifferently; while all the girls, holding their breath, looked at Prigson in order to form their own conclusions as to whether his project were practicable.

“In the first place, you would have to give up your situation; in the next, to leave the place; and in the third, to work rather harder than you do at present; but, on the other hand, you would earn six times as much money.”

“You evidently don’t know what the life of a Government official is,” said Van Arlen, with a contemptuous smile at the mention of harder work than his.

“Oh, dear, no!” said his wife; and the daughters looked in consternation at the man who had dared to cast the slightest doubt on the extent and importance of papa’s duties.

“Well, what now, Van Arlen?” said Prigson, seeing that his brother-in-law seemed once more lost in a brown study, “are you off to that office of yours again? You had better come to the opera with us this evening; that is to say, if these ladies are inclined to come.”

A cold shudder—but it was one of delight—completely overpowered the self-control of Frederica and Marie. They scarcely knew the opera, except by name,—papa never went there,—and it was very long since they had been invited by any one else.

“The opera?” said Van Arlen, “I don’t care about that; it’s a sin against common sense.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Prigson, perplexed.

“Why, all the people there die singing—I can’t get over that.”

“Eh?” said Prigson, evidently much taken aback; “well, I never thought about that. But now I do think about it, I should say that the opera is the most natural picture of life. There are so many people that weep and wail all their lives; is that so very much more unnatural than that they should sing when they die? But, granting that it is as you say, let’s go to an opera in which nobody dies. Isn’t _Don Pasquale_ on to-night, young ladies?”

“I think so, uncle,” answered Frederica, blushing, for none of the girls even thought of looking at the theatrical announcements. What was the good?

“Yes, yes—_Don Pasquale_. Come, Van Arlen—that’s a comic opera—just the thing for you!”

Van Arlen shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t mind a comic opera—not if it’s _really_ comic,” he said.

“Come along, then—you’re sure to like _Don Pasquale_.”

“No, I can’t—another time, perhaps—I’ve too much to do to-night,” said Van Arlen, absently looking at the alabaster clock that did not go, but nevertheless seemed able to tell him that it was now _his_ time.

“Yes,” said his wife, “and if we’re to go to the opera we shall have to dress.”

“Hortense! Hortense!” said Prigson, with a mischievous glance.

“What do you mean, Prigson? Of course I can’t let the girls go to the opera with a strange gentleman. I’ve always done my best, brother, to give my daughters a _good_ bringing-up.”

Prigson was too polite to answer; Van Arlen had folded his hands,—his wife did the same, and soliloquised in silence.

“Six of the ten tarts left over ... perhaps the confectioner would take them back ... at any rate, one might try. Leentje might go and see.... The opera ... that has not happened in the last ten years—what are we to do about dresses?—we shall have to be quick about it.... Amen.”

Her reflections were brought to an abrupt conclusion, for Van Arlen had opened his eyes with a sigh, and once more saw Prigson before him. Oh! what would he not have given not to see him—to have opened his eyes in the consciousness that he had been sleeping! Sleeping, from the moment of meeting his brother-in-law in the street; sleeping, when the latter reminded him of the debt, when he had been alone after Prigson’s departure, when Van Teuten stood over him; sleeping, too, that last quarter of an hour, when he stood before his desk after Van Teuten had left him.... But he had not slept—all, all was real ... and then to go to a comic opera on the top of that!

“Excuse me, Prigson, but I must go back to work immediately, there are some documents wanted in a hurry.”

“Oh! so things _are_ sometimes wanted in a hurry at a Government office?” asked Prigson. “No, thank you—take one of my cigars—real Havannah, fifteen cents—delicious—just try one.”

“Oh, uncle, it’s positively sinful!” said Leida, who had nearly forgotten etiquette so far as to hand him a light, which at a ceremonial dinner would have been highly unfitting.

“Sinful is it?... How old are you now, Leida?”

“Eighteen next birthday, uncle.”

“Good-bye, then—till later—no, don’t apologise. But don’t go to sleep, Van Arlen,” Prigson shouted jocularly after his host, and then added, turning to Leida, “A happy time of life, Leida, I wish it were mine still;—but when I was that age, I didn’t think fifteen cents too much to pay for anything I liked.”

“How do you mean, uncle?”

“Just what I say, my dear girl. What is life, after all? isn’t it always seeking for what you like, whether you understand by that the smoking of a good Havannah, or the consciousness of having done a good action? Enjoyment means just what people like—and the older they are, the more they want of it. It’s unjust of old people to say that it’s the young ones that always want to enjoy themselves—the old ones are just as set on it, but they get their enjoyment out of other things. Well, any man who can get himself one enjoyment for fifteen cents is certainly not cheated out of his money.”

“But, uncle, must one always have money to enjoy one’s self?” asked Leida, naïvely, but very much _à contre cœur_—for her whole life was in evidence to prove that, as a rule, one must.

“Certainly not, my very charming Leida,” said Prigson, rising, and added, as he embraced his niece, “That’s a treat for nothing, do you see?”

“Not for me, uncle,” said Leida, laughing mischievously, as she ran out of the room.

“It’s really a pity that Van Arlen’s such a harlequin!” muttered Van Noost Prigson to himself, and then went to join his elder nieces at the window.

Van Arlen was once more in his room, and had locked the door—but he didn’t go to sleep. He had his hand in his breast-pocket, and his fingers were clutching a little packet that seemed to burn them.

Borrowed? No—not borrowed; it was stolen—it was not his. And yet he was not a thief—he had already as good as put it back,—only the execution was awanting to complete his intention. He strained his ears listening for Prigson and the others to go out at the front door. As soon as they were gone, he would hurry to the office and put back the money! Why were they dawdling like that? If anything happened to prevent his going—if he were to find the lock out of order. Why did they not start? If there were a fire in a street he had to pass—if he were to meet with an accident.... Do be quick, Prigson! the money is burning me—if I start now, we shall be in the street at the same time—then I shall have to go with him, and he will have to walk slowly on account of the ladies. Which way shall I go? My hat—where did I put my hat? If Prigson were to take my hat by mistake—happily it has a mourning band on it. Why don’t you go, Prigson? Have you given up the plan?

There was a knock at the door, and his wife entered.

“Are you going out, Van Arlen?”

“No, my dear, no.”

“I thought you looked as if you were going to start.”

“Certainly not, certainly not! Go now, make haste, or you’ll be late.”

“Perhaps you’re going to give us a surprise.”

“No, no—I’ve too much to do—and I don’t care about operas, where people die singing. Good-bye, Hortense, good-bye! Don’t let the girls come up, I’m too busy.”

At last, at last, he heard the door close! and when Caroline, as the eldest available daughter, came to bring papa his cup of tea, his room was empty.

“Papa has surely gone too,” she said, as she went down again.

“I don’t think it’s very nice of him if he has. Why, he said that if he went we should go too.”

“Papa doesn’t care for operas.”

“Oh! _I_ think he likes them well enough, really—only——”

She stopped herself just in time, keeping back the word, the great word, which might be thought, but never spoken, in the Van Arlen household.

When the family came home that night Van Arlen was even more silent than he had been at dinner, but his silence was a dull apathetic calm. The ladies had enjoyed themselves “_awfully_”; their flushed cheeks and dancing eyes spoke volumes for the effect of this unwonted gaiety.

“Oh, papa, you _must_ go some time!”

“Was it comic opera?” asked papa.

“Oh, yes! indeed it was—awfully!”

“Yes—but _really_ comic, _good_ comedy?”

“Oh, yes, very good,” said mamma.

Van Arlen’s position was too important for him to let himself be guided by any chance person who chose to label an opera as comic. A thing must really be what it is given out for.

“I suppose you care nothing at all for tragedy, then?” remarked Prigson.

“Well, not altogether that, but a tragedy must be _really_ tragic.”

The conversation, of which some fragments are thus reported, will scarcely make the reader long to hear the rest. The Van Arlens consistently kept up their depreciation of sour grapes, to the great delight of Prigson, who amused himself by defending all sorts of paradoxes. But though the hands of the alabaster clock unchangeably pointed to half-past one, it was getting late. Uncle Van Noost Prigson prepared to take his leave, and Van Arlen made no great effort to detain him. He thought his brother-in law a good fellow, and, under certain circumstances, an indispensable person; to-day, however, Prigson reminded him of so much that he would willingly have forgotten, that his presence became well-nigh intolerable. He breathed more freely when Prigson got up to go; and it was with a certain cheerfulness that he remarked, as he looked out at the front door at the stars, “I see you’ve a fine night.”

“We’ll hope so,” said Prigson; “but now, business for a moment. I asked you for something this morning—not for the sake of embarrassing you, but of getting myself out of a hole. When can I have that money?”

“Will to-morrow evening do?” asked Van Arlen, with a sigh of thankfulness that it was no longer in his pocket.

“Don’t let it be later than that—you know you’ve always told me I could have it when I liked, otherwise I shouldn’t have asked at such a moment.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble to me!” said Van Arlen, though he was wondering all the time where the money was to come from.

“Now for my plan. I will guarantee that you get the money back three days after the King has signed this concession—but then you will have to work the Minister!”

“I?”

“No one is in a better position to do it; the business is honest enough, but, like all business, it has a shady side to it: and the authorities have a nasty way of seeing the black before the white. There _is_ some black about it, I won’t deny; but if you can manage to show up the white, we shall be that thousand guilders to the good.”

“But I don’t see——”

“No need you should, for the moment. Take the papers to your room, read them, think over them, and, once more, three days after the granting of the concession, your debt is no longer in existence.”

“Prigson!”

“Van Arlen!”

“What you ask—can it be reconciled with an honest man’s conscience?”

“What do you take me for, Van Arlen?”

Van Arlen was silent for a moment, and then said slowly, “For a man who wants to be rich.”

“Quite right, my dear fellow, and you should do the same. With this concession your fortune is made. You will have a situation with a salary of ten thousand guilders.” And with a cheerful “Good-night,” Prigson departed, while Van Arlen went up to his room.

It was many hours before he rose from his chair. The sun was shining in at the window, but he had no inclination to sleep; he had been absorbed in the documents. He read from beginning to end, thought for a while, folded them up, and muttered—

“Heaven preserve me from it!”

Thoughtfully he went to his office that morning. He could find no solution to the Prigson question, and there was nothing to help him.

He was summoned to the Minister’s presence, and found him extraordinarily amiable—a bad sign.

“Sit down, Mr Van Arlen, sit down,” said His Excellency. Van Arlen obeyed.

“Mr Van Arlen—it is possible I may be mistaken—but it seems to me as if, just lately, you had shown—_passez-moi le mot_—less zeal for business than I formerly thought was the case with you.”

“Your Excellency, I was not aware that I had felt less zeal for my duties than at any other time.”

“Is there anything worrying you? Your health?”

“It is excellent, thank you.”

“Domestic trouble?—it might be indiscreet to inquire—but I take an interest in all my subordinates. Is there perhaps any financial trouble? Just tell me freely. Our salaries are not high, I know, but, if I am rightly informed, you have some private means.”

“At your Excellency’s service,” assented Van Arlen.

“I thought so, otherwise we might have thought of offering you some assistance in this respect. But as it is, I suppose the extent of your work is such that it presses too heavily on one man; and so I have been considering the feasibility of appointing one more official to my department, subject to His Majesty’s approval of my nomination.”

Van Arlen turned deathly pale; now he understood the Minister’s friendliness, and the fate that lay before him; he understood also that the first offer was by way of gilding the pill. He had refused the gilding from pride, but had to swallow the pill all the same.

“I assure your Excellency that I do not know what work could be entrusted to such an official.”

“That is quite a minor detail,” said His Excellency, naïvely. “However, I wished to consult you first about the matter, and perhaps you will be so kind as to have the proposal drawn up. Baron Regenstein is the person meant.”

“The son of your colleague?”

“I believe so; but he is a man of great acquirements, whose help will be extremely useful to you. I shall want the paper before two o’clock.”

Van Arlen bowed and rose.

“Oh, as to salary, we shall give him eighteen hundred guilders.”

“Your Excellency will allow me to remark, that in that case you will have exceeded the estimate for the department.”

“Then we must see how we can manage with the smaller salaries. Didn’t some one die a month or two back?”

“Yes, an assistant secretary.”

“Very good; and I just heard this morning that we’ve probably lost another. Van Teuten left town quietly last night.”

“Van Teuten!” exclaimed Van Arlen, in consternation.

“Yes. Do you know anything in particular about him?”

“He came and asked me for two hundred guilders yesterday.”

“Well, why couldn’t you let him have an advance? or you might have sent him to me; if necessary, we could have helped him by getting up a collection. But you’re too busy to attend to such things; it’s a good thing we’re going to have some extra help. Good-morning, Mr Van Arlen.”

“That, too!” said Van Arlen, when he was back in his own room, and then called out to the messenger that he could see no one.

“A gentleman has been here; he said he would come back.”

“Can’t see any one to-day.”

“Mr Van Arlen!” said a voice, just as the door was closing.

“Impossible, sir, the Minister is in a hurry.”

The door was shut, and the voice—and all persons with whom it subsequently came in contact—were aware that there was “something up,” perhaps a reorganisation of the whole department.... So much only was certain, that no one knew what it was but the Minister and Van Arlen, which still further increased the latter’s importance.

But the drawing up of a proposal for the appointment of a supernumerary official was no joke. It was long since Van Arlen had such a ticklish document in hand, and the only reason it seemed to him that he could give was,—“Whereas it is our pleasure ... to supersede Van Arlen.” At last, however, he found the way to do it. By noon the document was ready, and one of the copying clerks, in whose discretion he placed unlimited confidence, was sent for to prepare the mysterious paper for its high destiny, in Van Arlen’s own room. At a quarter to two it was fairly written out, and Van Arlen presented himself before the Minister, who took the document, thanked him courteously, and glanced through it.

“You have forgotten the date when the new appointment is to begin,—the 1st of the following month,” said His Excellency, in a tone which clearly conveyed: “Really, Mr Van Arlen, your work is too much for you.”

Van Arlen returned to his room with the paper in his hand, and found Prigson at the door.

“Good-morning, Van Arlen.”

“Excuse me, Prigson; I haven’t a moment to spare.”

“What is it now? Country in danger? What’s that document?”

“Ministerial business.... Where is Mr Zuigman?” This to the messenger.

“Gone away, sir.”

“Tell him to come here immediately.”

But after his highly important activity in his superior’s private room, the copying clerk Zuigman had understood that he was in need of some slight recreation, and, alleging a commission in town, he had gone off for a stroll round the square. His immediate superior had given him leave at once. One doesn’t refuse modest requests like that to a man perceptibly high in Van Arlen’s favour.

“What now?” said Van Arlen. “My head is going round. Zuigman must come to my room the very first thing to-morrow morning.”

“Can I help you, Van Arlen? What is it has to be done?”

“Writing, man, writing!—a proposal addressed to the King that will have to come before the Cabinet Council.... I don’t know what to do.”

“Can’t you do it yourself?”

“I!” said Van Arlen, in consternation.

“Well, a good writing is not your strong point,” laughed Prigson, “otherwise you never would have risen so high. The man with the worst hand gets on best, because they can’t keep him on as a copying clerk. Just give me a pen.”

“But, Prigson, it’s a great document! strictly secret—no one is to know anything about it!”

“I’ll promise not to tell; let’s have a look.” And before Van Arlen could prevent it, his brother-in-law had already glanced over the paper.

“Heaven be good to us! a magnificent bargain!”

“A bargain?”

“Why, of course! Now-a-days it’s not their own sons that ministers help forward; they do it for each other’s. Regenstein is to get this, and your man’s son has just been put into a good thing by his father’s colleague. Splendid exchange! Did you draw up the proposal?”

“I have no time now, Prigson. Do be kind enough to let me alone.”

Van Arlen rang the bell, and sent for one of the clerks. Van Teuten entered.

“Mr Van Teuten!”

“Sir, I have—”

“We’ll see to that presently. Sit down, Mr Van Teuten, and write—here—recopy this page; but mind you put in the insertion! The first time a document of mine has been disfigured by an insertion! My head’s going!”

Van Teuten wrote as he was told, and in a quarter of an hour the work was finished. He perceived, with visible complacency, how much better his writing was than that of his colleague.

“Two different kinds of writing! Never yet happened with a document of mine; and it’s got to go to the King and the Cabinet Council!”

With these words Van Arlen rushed out of the room, leaving Prigson alone with Van Teuten.

“Can you copy decently?” asked Prigson.

“I venture to say, sir, that there isn’t another hand like mine in this department.”

“What do you earn at this work, now?”

“Six hundred guilders, sir. Mr Van Arlen has perhaps told you that I am financially in circumstances of great difficulty.”

“Well, it is indeed too little for a man who writes a hand like that; but surely you’re out of all your troubles now?”

“I?—I just wish I were!”

“Why, a man who knows all about a secret document like this need not be poor any longer than he likes.”

“Secret, sir?”

“Most particularly so,” said Prigson, turning away, while Van Teuten considered with himself whether it could really be the case, and whether, if so, he could profit by it.

Van Arlen came back, thanked the copying clerk, and recommended him to keep the matter secret.

Prigson stole a glance at Van Teuten, who was now convinced of the truth of his words.

“Do you want anything, Mr Van Teuten?” asked Van Arlen, for the man remained standing.

“May I venture to remind you of my request yesterday, sir? Perhaps you know that ... that I ... yesterday....”

“Yes, I know—nothing takes place in this department without my knowledge; but the Minister and I have agreed to take no notice of such ill-considered action on the part of a member of this department—provided, of course, it is never repeated.”

“No, sir, I give you my word it shall not. Oh, if you had only known what I felt this morning, when I thought of my wife and children searching for me! I couldn’t stand it any longer, sir, and I came back.”

“The wisest thing you could have done.”

“But that does not save me! I have obtained two days’ respite; but after that—I am hopelessly lost, if no help comes. If you will allow me, sir, I will go before the court to-morrow.”

“I’ll do better for you than that,—I’ll send a subscription list round the office, and let you have the amount. His Excellency is sure to put his name down too.”

“And if there is any deficiency, I’ll make it up,” said Prigson.

“Certainly a State secret,” thought Van Teuten, amazed and confused at the turn matters had taken,—which he ascribed entirely to the secret. He too was involved in it,—but, alas! he had read nothing, that was not his habit. A good copying clerk never reads—he only writes. “To begin on Aug. 1st,”—that was all he could remember. But it must be a secret of the highest importance,—and the stranger who seemed to have the principal share in the business was—yes, what could he be? Then he remembered that Talm had spoken of an English millionaire, introduced by him at the White Club, and somehow connected with Van Arlen;—but the millionaire, according to Talm, knew not a word of Dutch—it was for that very reason that Van Arlen had entrusted him to Talm’s guidance; and now the secret document, and the unexpected help, and the change in his fortunes—had Van Arlen, perhaps, been raised to the ministry?...

Van Arlen and Prigson were left alone.

“Did you look over my papers?”

“Yes.”

“And——?”

“I don’t want to be in it; your business is not—not honest.”

“What do you call honest, Van Arlen?”

“Perhaps I expressed myself rather harshly—it is not what it seems to be.”

“_You_ say that?” sneered Prigson. “Come, Van Arlen, _that_ can be no reason for you to dislike a thing. But we’ll grant that it is more profitable for the contractor than for the State—that’s a matter of course. Do you think we’re going to make the State presents, while the Ministers put their sons into all the fat Government places? Just tell me, on your conscience, Van Arlen, is that an honest business, that appointment? I bet something you had a heap of trouble to give the thing a decent appearance?”

Van Arlen nodded.

“Well, now, there’s a present of eighteen hundred guilders being made to Regenstein. I suppose your Minister’s son is getting double that? And am I to be fool enough not to get my share out of the ‘Widow Woman’ too? Let’s be wise, and follow the good example set us.”

Van Arlen was silent.

“Shall I tell you something? The functionary now being smuggled in—for whose coming you have been obliged to find the reasons—is really appointed in order to oust you. He is to do your work, and you are to become supernumerary, and then who knows how soon you’ll be pensioned off?”

“Then I shall fall honourably.”

“Cold comfort that; it’s surely no dishonour to prevent the blow. Once more, I’ll give you a receipt for that debt; I offer you a well-paid position, and if the concern comes to smash—for that _might_ happen—I will guarantee that you shall lose nothing.”

“So you admit that the thing is not honest?”

“My good Van Arlen, you’re the very type of infantile innocence. If it were quite safe and certain to be profitable, I could do without your help. One word more,—if you still refuse, Regenstein is a good friend of mine; he gets his appointment on the first, and within a month from that date I shall get what I want without applying to you. Just think over that.”

“Prigson, you are a tempter.”

“Van Arlen, you are a fool.”

“If it should come out that I have been playing a double game?”

“If this Minister is still in office, just remind him of that appointment; if there is another, you can lay the blame on his predecessor, and the disorder occasioned by the unnecessary nomination of new officials.”

“But—I took an oath——”

“And didn’t the Minister do so too? Come, shut up shop for to-day, and come and dine with me.”

“With you?”

“Why not? Yesterday I was your guest, to-day you are mine. I am staying at the Bellevue; but if there are too many princes there for your taste, we’ll go and dine at the Badhuis restaurant.”

“Impossible; I can’t leave the office till four. If you’ll believe me, Prigson, I envy the clerks, who can take their hats and go whenever they like.”

“The burdens of greatness.... So you’re free at four, are you? Well, I’ll drive round and fetch you.”

Accordingly, at four, Prigson arrived in a cab, and conveyed not only Van Arlen, but his wife and Leida, to the garden restaurant at Scheveningen known as the Badhuis. They dined sumptuously, and did not even refuse champagne. This was an unheard-of event in their lives—but they were not paying the bill.

After dinner, as they were sitting on the terrace, they perceived Mr Talm. Mr Talm had on flesh-coloured kid gloves, and an eye-glass prominently fixed in his left eye, the cord waving in the wind like the web of a gigantic spider. Talm was quite presentable, and, being now of opinion that the Van Arlens were presentable also, he accosted them, and was honoured with an invitation to join their party.

Madame thought it would be nice to walk up and down the terrace, and Leida also showed herself pleased with the idea. Talm offered his escort, and Prigson was once more alone with his brother-in-law.

“The business is clinched now, isn’t it?”

“No,” said Van Arlen, “I have been thinking it over, and I must abide by my first answer.”

“That’s a pity,” said Prigson—“a pity for you—for, as I said, the matter will have to be got into shape without you; but I should have liked to have you in it, because I’m heartily sorry for you. Just excuse me a minute,” he went on, rising and signalling to a stranger, who was casting sinister glances at the teacups—“it is my friend Valtoucourt, one of the associate concessionaires.... I’m sorry, for I could have introduced you to each other—in fact, I shall have to do it after all,”—and Prigson, continuing in French, presented Baron de Valtoucourt to his brother-in-law, for whom he invented a high-sounding title on the spur of the moment. Van Arlen had never thought that his name would sound so well in French. But French was not his forte, and now his silence made him seem more solemn than ever; and he was convinced in his soul that Baron Valtoucourt thought him the pivot of all the home and foreign politics of Holland. Prigson did his best to strengthen this hypothetical opinion. “You see, my dear fellow,” he said to the stranger, “if Van Arlen is willing, he can do anything, but he is fond of raising objections—_ce cher_ Van Arlen.”

The stranger muttered, with amazing rapidity, a long French sentence, of which Van Arlen could not seize a word. He therefore confined himself to ejaculating now and then “_oui_” or “_peut-être_,” and at the close wrapped himself in a diplomatic silence. His wife and Leida returned with their cavalier; the stranger greeted them with a bow, as deep and solemn as though he were announcing her death-sentence to the Queen of Spain; he then bowed no less deeply to Talm, who, on his part, was not to be outdone, and, deeply impressed by the high solemnity of the occasion, made another low bow before Van Arlen. The latter, having witnessed the performance three times, involuntarily saluted his assistant secretary in a similar manner.

It was, in fact, most impressively solemn.

The stranger was a man who knew life, and could understand that a man might fill a highly important position without being an accomplished French scholar. He therefore slackened the flow of his words, and assured them that he should consider it a great honour to have Van Arlen as a director.

“But,” said Van Arlen, “I never said that!”

“_Si, si_,” said the stranger, “we understand one another perfectly;” and then he pressed his hand and gave utterance to a friendly wish, whereat Van Arlen (unwilling to acknowledge even to himself that he did not understand) replied, “_Nous verrons_.”

Next morning he sent for his wife and Leida to his own room, and completely bewildered them, first by swearing them to secrecy with regard to a conversation they had neither heard nor understood, and next by completely losing his temper, when Leida innocently asked: “Why, papa, you frighten me—one would think it was high treason!” He was so violent that Leida went off into hysterics, the girls came up to see what was the matter, and Van Arlen left for the office in a very bad temper.

He found that Prigson had been there, and was coming back at three o’clock.

The Minister not only refused to have anything to do with the subscription list for Van Teuten, but hinted disapprobation of those who had got it up; and let fall expressions which tortured Van Arlen all the morning, making him wonder whether His Excellency had penetrated his secret. At last Van Teuten came, and he was forced to acknowledge his failure. The poor man, nearly in despair, was about to make a last effort, and ask the Minister to become security for him, when Van Arlen had a luminous idea.

“I will——” he said. Van Teuten was overwhelming him with thanks and blessings, when he interrupted him:

“On these conditions I will become security. First, the money must be here by two; secondly, you must borrow, not two hundred, but twelve hundred; thirdly, the whole matter must be kept secret.”

Van Teuten was ready to promise anything,—he would willingly have made him a present of his soul into the bargain. Not long afterwards a former Government clerk, who was now “in business on his own account,” was admitted to Van Arlen’s private room. The money-lender was inclined to make objections—twelve hundred guilders was a large sum for a clerk whose income only amounted to the half of that sum.

“If I don’t raise that difficulty,” said Van Arlen indifferently, “I see no reason why you should.”

“Yes, you see—but you are mortal like the rest of us; you might have to retire, or be put on half-pay—excuse my suggesting such things, but they’re all possible.”

“You’re not lending money to me, but to Mr Van Teuten; if anything of the sort were to happen, he would find you a new security.”

At last the matter was settled, at an interest of seven and a half per cent. The money-lender produced the twelve hundred guilders, and carried off the bill, duly stamped, and signed by Van Arlen and Van Teuten.

When the man with the handwriting was once more alone with his chief, the latter said, “Two hundred guilders are all you want for the present; I’ll keep the rest for you, in case you should get into difficulties again. Never mind about the interest—I’ll pay that.”

Van Teuten was fairly dazzled by such liberality. There must be something behind it—probably the State secret.

The news went like wildfire through the department how that unlucky devil of a Van Teuten had been set on his legs again by Van Arlen! Zuigman knew what to think of it—_he_ had seen documents; but he never spoke, and that his colleagues knew right well.

Talm, too, had his say on the subject,—Talm, who had introduced the millionaire, and had, yesterday evening, walked on the terrace at Scheveningen arm in arm with his chief’s wife. Further and further spread the fire, and every one made his conjectures. Van Teuten’s rescue remained the great event of the day.

It struck three, when Prigson was announced. Van Arlen was deep in his work.

“What zeal! But of course you want to leave the books in good order when you go!”

“I’m not thinking of going, Prigson.”

“What do you say? And our agreement?”

“I have made no definite agreement; but, in so far as I have made any promise to join you, I withdraw it.”

“What the deuce! Van Arlen, aren’t you right in your head?”

“On the contrary, I have come to my senses. When one has been an honest man for thirty years, Prigson, one is thoroughly in love with honesty.”

“Especially the way it is appreciated! The reward of all your honesty will be, that you fall from the tree, like an over-ripe fruit, and lie there till somebody treads you flat.”

“Better so than trample on one’s self.”

“That is a gymnastic feat I would rather leave to a Münchausen. But you’re mad, Van Arlen—the matter is getting into shape after all.”

“Do you think so?” Van Arlen stood up, and looked his brother-in-law straight in the face. “Do you think I would ever allow it?”

“My good friend, you won’t be asked. Regenstein is going to negotiate the business.”

“Then I’ll inform the Minister. The supernumerary will be on his guard.”

“Like the dying gladiator—_moriturus salutat_—it’s heroic, but comic too. I’d be more sensible, if I were you, Van Arlen.”

“Prigson, when I came here this morning, with the feeling that I had broken my oath and betrayed my country.... Oh! I couldn’t stay here a day—I couldn’t live—I should lay hands on myself.”

“Treason—perjury—you do choose such fine words! and the real point is, whether you’re going to depart from an old habit or not. Believe me, you’re the slave of habit.”

“I prefer to remain so.”

Prigson looked at him, and saw that his mind was made up. But he had one resource left, “Well, I suppose you’re your own master, and can do as you like.... But I’m sorry—I shall have to remind you of what I asked you for the other day.”

Van Arlen put his hand in his breast-pocket, and laid a small parcel on the table before Prigson, “Will you kindly see if that’s all right?” he said.

Prigson was disappointed. He did not need the money—in fact, Van Arlen’s utter inability to pay would have been worth another thousand guilders to him.

“I suppose it’s all right,” he said, glancing over the notes. “There, Van Arlen,” he said, with a sudden change of tone, and a quaver in his voice, “give me your hand, old fellow! you’re better than most men. Good-bye! Stay as you are!”

He left the room, and Van Arlen, finding himself alone, felt like a man saved from shipwreck.

It is some weeks after the first of August. The new official has long been installed, and the Minister does nothing without consulting him. Everything passes through Mr Regenstein’s hands.

It is Sunday afternoon. On Sunday afternoons, as a rule, it is too hot for a walk; or, if not too hot, it is too cold. If neither too hot nor too cold, it most likely threatens rain; and if none of these three atmospheric conditions prevails,—well, formerly Van Arlen always had urgent work to do. This Sunday, however, he is quite at leisure, and the weather is perfect, but—it is the anniversary of Aunt Cornelia’s death.

Van Arlen looks over the blinds at the passers-by, most of whom are on their way to the Bosch. Here and there a quietly dressed lady, with a Bible in her hand, threads her way through the throng.

“I think I’ll go to afternoon church,” says Caroline. “Will you come, Frederica?”

“Oh, yes, Caroline,” answers Frederica, with a little sigh, and they go.

Leida and Hendrika made a slight grimace.

“Papa really might go out for a walk with us.”

“Oh, fie! girls!” said their mother, “that would not be at all proper on a day like this.”

“Couldn’t we keep the day just as well to-morrow, mamma?” asked Leida simply. “I don’t see why we should have to keep it up for twenty years; I’m quite sure that Uncle Van Noost Prigson himself doesn’t remember it now.”

The name made Van Arlen look up.

“Oh, papa—have you heard anything more about the situation uncle was talking about at dinner that day?” asked Marie.

“That’s all come to nothing, dear child; I have been talking it over, but they say they can’t do without me at the office.”

“But, papa,” asked Hortense, “if they can’t do without you, how does it happen that you have less to do than you had?”

“Does the importance of a position lie in the mere amount of work?” asked Van Arlen, with dignity.

“Papa has this secret business now, you see,” said his wife, anxious to help him out—she was looking straight before her. “This business is, by itself, of tremendous importance.”

“Is that since Uncle Prigson was here?” asked Leida, going up to her father, and laying her arm over his shoulder. “You’re not angry with me any more, are you, papa?—you know—since that morning?”

Van Arlen bent down to his daughter and kissed her on the forehead. “No, little girl,—I can’t be angry with you.”

“But you never travel now, papa. Has that part of your work been taken away? That’s stupid!”

“The travelling has come to an end,” said Van Arlen thoughtfully,—“come to an end for good and all.”

The item “Travelling expenses,” in the Van Arlen budget, was now replaced by another, which was, “Instalments and interest on debt.”

“That’s a pity,” said Caroline, “because now you can never take two of us with you, as you promised to do long ago.”

“That plan has come to nothing too, child. Besides, I’m getting old.”

“Oh, papa!—you old! that’s the first we’ve heard of it. It must be since you gave up your glass of wine at dinner.”

“Papa has to keep his head clear, you see,” said Mrs Van Arlen. “That’s the penalty of greatness, girls!”

She was silent, and they all followed suit. No one had anything more to say. If only a caller would come!—but since papa had entered on his important position as supernumerary in the office, callers had been scarce. So the dull Sunday wore away. The two eldest girls came home from church; the dinner hour drew near, and, still in silence, the Van Arlens took their places round the big table, on which a soup tureen was the only dish visible. It does not take long to eat soup, and the dessert, as usual, remained untouched. Already Leentje had stuck her shining Sunday face, and her hat with the flowers in it, through a crack of the door, to give notice of her departure—for it was her day out, and “it suited.” The family were still seated round the table. Why should they rise?—the evening was long enough. Suddenly, however, they were startled out of their inertia by the front door bell. Leida went to answer it, and immediately returned with Van Noost Prigson. Van Arlen felt himself turn pale—was he to be tempted again?

His wife, too, was seized with panic—supposing Prigson had not dined! Fortunately, he set her mind at ease forthwith.

“I left the dinner-table before dessert, fearing that otherwise I should not find you at home. I suppose you’re going to Scheveningen?”

“No; it’s rather too crowded for me at the Badhuis on Sundays,” said Van Arlen, feeling that it would not quite do to allege to the widower the anniversary of his wife’s death as their reason for remaining at home.

“Crowded! The father of seven daughters ought simply to revel in crowds. What do you say, nieces?”

The nieces had no opinion to offer on that point.

“Really, Van Arlen,” Prigson went on, throwing himself back in his chair, and surveying the seven girls, one by one, with a well-pleased expression,—“really, my dear fellow, you ought not to stay at home on Sunday evenings! At any rate you should send your daughters to church.”