Roden"s Corner.
by Henry Seton Merriman.
CHAPTER I.
IN ST. JACOB STRAAT.
"The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life."
"It is the Professor von Holzen," said a stout woman who still keeps the egg and b.u.t.ter shop at the corner of St. Jacob Straat in The Hague; she is a Jewess, as, indeed, are most of the denizens of St. Jacob Straat and its neighbour, Bezem Straat, where the fruit-sellers live--"it is the Professor von Holzen, who pa.s.ses this way once or twice a week. He is a good man."
"His coat is of a good cloth," answered her customer, a young man with a melancholy dark eye and a racial appreciation of the material things of this world.
Some say that it is not wise to pa.s.s through St. Jacob Straat or Bezem Straat alone and after nightfall, for there are lurking forms within the doorways, and shuffling feet may be heard in the many pa.s.sages.
During the daytime the pa.s.ser-by will, if he looks up quickly enough, see furtive faces at the windows, of men, and more especially of women, who never seem to come abroad, but pa.s.s their lives behind those unwashed curtains, with carefully closed windows, and in an atmosphere which may be faintly imagined by a glance at the wares in the shop below. The pavement of St. Jacob Straat is also pressed into the service of that commerce in old metal and damaged domestic utensils which seems to enable thousands of the accursed people to live and thrive according to their lights. It will be observed that the vendors, with a knowledge of human nature doubtless bred of experience, only expose upon the pavement articles such as bedsteads, stoves, and other heavy ware which may not be s.n.a.t.c.hed up by the fleet of foot. Within the shops are crowded clothes and books and a thousand miscellaneous effects of small value. A hush seems to hang over this street. Even the children, white-faced and melancholy, with deep expressionless eyes and drooping noses, seem to have realized too soon the gravity of life, and rarely indulge in games.
He whom the b.u.t.ter-merchant described as Professor von Holzen pa.s.sed quickly along the middle of the street, with an air suggesting a desire to attract as little attention as possible. He was a heavy-shouldered man with a bad mouth--a greedy mouth, one would think--and mild eyes.
The month was September, and the professor wore a thin black overcoat closely b.u.t.toned across his broad chest. He carried a pair of slate-coloured gloves and an umbrella. His whole appearance bespoke learning and middle-cla.s.s respectability. It is, after all, no use being learned without looking learned, and Professor von Holzen took care to dress according to his station in life. His att.i.tude towards the world seemed to say, "Leave me alone and I will not trouble you,"
which is, after all, as satisfactory an att.i.tude as may be desired. It is, at all events, better than the common att.i.tude of the many, that says, "Let us exchange confidences," leading to the barter of two valueless commodities.
The professor stopped at the door of No. 15, St. Jacob Straat--one of the oldest houses in this old street--and slowly lighted a cigar. There is a shop on the ground-floor of No. 15, where ancient pieces of stove-pipe and a few fire-irons are exposed for sale. Von Holzen, having pushed open the door, stood waiting at the foot of a narrow and grimy staircase. He knew that in such a shop in such a quarter of the town there is always a human spider lurking in the background, who steals out upon any human fly that may pause to look at the wares.
This spider presently appeared--a wizened woman with a face like that of a witch. Von Holzen pointed upward to the room above them. She shook her head regretfully.
"Still alive," she said.
And the professor turned toward the stair, but paused at the bottom step.
"Here," he said, extending his fingers. "Some milk. How much has he had?"
"Two jugs," she replied, "and three jugs of water. One would say he has a fire inside him."
"So he has," said the professor, with a grim smile, as he went upstairs. He ascended slowly, puffing out the smoke of his cigar before him with a certain skill, so that his progress was a form of fumigation. The fear of infection is the only fear to which men will own, and it is hard to understand why this form of cowardice should be less despicable than others. Von Holzen was a German, and that nation combines courage with so deep a caution that mistaken persons sometimes think the former adjunct lacking. The mark of a wound across his cheek told that in his student days this man had, after due deliberation, considered it necessary to fight. Some, looking at Von Holzen"s face, might wonder what mark the other student bore as a memento of that encounter.
Von Holzen pushed open a door that stood ajar at the head of the stair, and went slowly into the room, preceded by a puff of smoke. The place was not full of furniture, properly speaking, although it was littered with many household effects which had no business in a bedroom. It was, indeed, used as a storehouse for such wares as the proprietor of the shop only offered to a chosen few. The atmosphere of the room must have been a very Tower of Babel, where strange foreign bacilli from all parts of the world rose up and wrangled in the air.
Upon a sham Empire table, _tres antique_, near the window, stood three water-jugs and a gla.s.s of imitation Venetian work. A yellow hand stretching from a dark heap of bedclothes clutched the gla.s.s and held it out, empty, when Von Holzen came into the room.
"I have sent for milk," said the professor, smoking hard, and heedful not to look too closely into the dark corner where the bed was situated.
"You are kind," said a voice, and it was impossible to guess whether its tone was sarcastic or grateful.
Von Holzen looked at the empty water-jugs with a smile, and shrugged his shoulders. His intention had perhaps been a kind one. A bad mouth usually indicates a soft heart.
"It is because you have something to gain," said the hollow voice from the bed.
"I have something to gain, but I can do without it," replied Von Holzen, turning to the door and taking a jug of milk from the hand of a child waiting there.
"And the change," he said sharply.
The child laughed cunningly, and held out two small copper coins of the value of half a cent.
Von Holzen filled the tumbler and handed it to the sick man, who a moment later held it out empty.
"You may have as much as you like," said Von Holzen, kindly.
"Will it keep me alive?"
"Nothing can do that, my friend," answered Von Holzen. He looked down at the yellow face peering at him from the darkness. It seemed to be the face of a very aged man, with eyes wide open and blood-shot. A thickness of speech was accounted for by the absence of teeth.
The man laughed gleefully. "All the same, I have lived longer than any of them," he said. How many of us pride ourselves upon possessing an advantage which others never covet!
"Yes," answered Von Holzen, gravely. "How old are you?"
"Nearly thirty-five," was the answer.
Von Holzen nodded, and, turning on his heel, looked thoughtfully out of the window. The light fell full on his face, which would have been a fine one were the mouth hidden. The eyes were dark and steady. A high forehead looked higher by reason of a growth of thick hair standing nearly an inch upright from the scalp, like the fur of a beaver in life, without curl or ripple. The chin was long and pointed. A face, this, that any would turn to look at again. One would think that such a man would get on in the world. But none may judge of another in this respect. It is a strange fact that intimacy with any who has made for himself a great name leads to the inevitable conclusion that he is unworthy of it.
"Wonderful!" murmured Von Holzen--"wonderful! Nearly thirty-five!" And it was hard to say what his thoughts really were. The only sound that came from the bed was the sound of drinking.
"And I know more about the trade than any, for I was brought up to it from boyhood," said the dying man, with an uncanny bravado. "I did not wait until I was driven to it, like most."
"Yes, you were skilful, as I have been told."
"Not all skill--not all skill," piped the metallic voice, indistinctly.
"There was knowledge also."
Von Holzen, standing with his hands in the pockets of his thin overcoat, shrugged his shoulders. They had arrived by an oft-trodden path to an ancient point of divergence. Presently Von Holzen turned and went towards the bed. The yellow hand and arm lay stretched out across the table, and Holzen"s finger softly found the pulse.
"You are weaker," he said. "It is only right that I should tell you."
The man did not answer, but lay back, breathing quickly. Something seemed to catch in his throat. Von Holzen went to the door, and furtive steps moved away down the dark staircase.
"Go," he said authoritatively, "for the doctor, at once." Then he came back towards the bed. "Will you take my price?" he said to its occupant. "I offer it to you for the last time."
"A thousand gulden?"
"Yes."
"It is too little money," replied the dying man. "Make it twelve hundred."
Von Holzen turned away to the window again thoughtfully. A silence seemed to have fallen over the busy streets, to fill the untidy room.
The angel of death, not for the first time, found himself in company with the greed of men.
"I will do that," said Von Holzen at length, "as you are dying."
"Have you the money with you?"