Chapter XIII: Act II (3)

The younger ones looked mischievously at Caroline and Frederica.

“It has always struck me as strange, Van Arlen, that there are so many old maids at the Hague. What in the world is the cause of that?”

“Because the girls are rather hard to please, uncle,” said Leida.

“Oh, that’s the reason, is it?” said Prigson, with an air of simple faith. “I’m sorry to hear it—I’ve just come to look for a wife at the Hague.”

“For Cousin Cornelius, uncle?” asked Leida. “I suppose he’s about twenty now, isn’t he?”

“Good for nothing, girl! And have you heard, Van Arlen?” he continued, turning to his brother-in-law.

“What?” asked the latter.

“Oh! you know well enough,—you’re only pretending, because you want to make out it’s a State secret.”

“On my word, as an honest man——”

“That’s worth something, as we know. So you haven’t heard? Next week your Minister’s going to resign.”

“Prigson!”

“The day before yesterday, it was brought before the Cabinet Council, and His Majesty made as little difficulty over the matter as I should have done. He’ll get the Grand Cross now, and perhaps be Minister of State—but _you’ll_ be rid of him!”

Van Arlen sat looking at his brother-in-law, without moving a muscle of his face, and the girls felt convinced that papa knew just as much about the business as Prigson.

“And the best of it all is, that your friend Regenstein has been doing his level best to pull His Excellency down! Well—reap as you’ve sown!”

“Prigson, we’re not alone here.”

“I see no earthly reason why your wife and daughters may not know it. I hate these mysteries. They may shout the whole thing from the housetops, for all I care.”

“But think of my position!”

“It will be greatly improved, Van Arlen. Regenstein has made his own terms, like a sensible man; but I’ll tell you about that later. As soon as I heard that His Excellency was going to close his portfolio, I came to the Hague at once; last night I had a talk with him, and now my business is done. The Minister wasn’t of the same mind as a certain fellow I know, when _he_ found himself set aside.”

“But, Prigson!”

“All men are not equally conscientious, my dear man. His Excellency had too much common sense to make difficulties,—but that’s not to the point. Enough that the matter’s settled! By Jove, but I’m sick of it! To Amsterdam yesterday—to Rotterdam this morning—but now I’m going to get some rest!”

Van Arlen shook his head doubtfully over such lack of principle.

“And are you remaining in town some days?” asked Madame, with distinction.

“That depends, Hortense. I’ve told you what I came for.”

“Uncle is sorry for the Hague ladies,” said Leida. “But remember, uncle, they’re very hard to please.”

“I think I shall have to run off with one. What would you do, Van Arlen, if a fellow ran off with one of your daughters?”

“Prigson, my daughters are far too well brought up, ever to be exposed to the danger of such a thing.”

“But supposing a man comes and proposes in due form?”

“I think it’s going to rain,” said Marie.

“Dear me! isn’t that picture hanging all on one side,” exclaimed Hendriek, at the same moment.

“Mamma, have you noticed that the edge of the tablecloth is all ravelled out here?” asked Hortense.

Frederica rose to pick up her napkin, which she had dropped.

“Shall we have tea in the front or back room, mamma?” asked Antoinette, whose turn it was to see to the housekeeping this week; and they rose, followed by Caroline, who went over to mamma, to whisper a very confidential communication with regard to a ribbon in the latter’s cap. Leida was lighting a spill for papa. “You might as well ask, uncle, what is the amount of the dowry papa is going to give us,” she said, handing Uncle Prigson a light at the same time.

“Pretty girls need no dowry,” answered Prigson.

“Thanks for the compliment to your nieces,” said Leida, with a roguish curtsey, as she left the room.

Prigson and Van Arlen were once more alone.

“Prigson,” said the official, “I must repeat to you candidly what I have already told you—you’re not playing a fair game.”

“Do you think I want to turn your daughters’ heads?”

“I didn’t mean that—your enterprise, which now seems about to succeed——”

“Say, which _is_ going to succeed; but let that matter rest just now.”

“Surely you have a conscience, Prigson?”

“An amazingly big one, Van Arlen; and, between ourselves, I think it’s made of some elastic substance, most likely of the same material as your Minister’s and your friend Regenstein’s.”

“Prigson! Prigson! a time will come——”

“Dear me! Van Arlen, what a platitude!”

“You’re scoffing, Prigson; but listen, you set store by the respect of your fellow-creatures—mine, for instance; you told me once that I was better than many men.”

“Well remembered; but have I forfeited that respect?”

“Not quite, yet—but still——”

“The greater part? Good. Now the proof of the sum; Van Arlen, I want to ask you for the hand of your daughter.”[37]

“Prigson, do remember that we are discussing serious matters.”

“But, Van Arlen, I’m speaking as seriously as I ever did in my life. Your Leida is a nice, pleasant, merry girl, with a good heart, and—excuse my having seen a little deeper into your domestic economy than perhaps you like—Leida knows how to keep house.”

“Your age!”

“Do you reckon by the heart or the head?”

“You might be her father!”

“If I had six more daughters, like you, I wouldn’t envy their position. I don’t understand, Van Arlen, why you should make any difficulty about it; a father of seven girls ought surely to be glad enough to get rid of one of them.”

“You forget that a daughter’s marriage involves expenses too heavy for a household like mine.”

“I will bear the cost of everything.”

Van Arlen was silent, and reflected. He had just been calling Prigson a dishonest man,—was he going to give him his daughter? Could he answer for such a step to his own conscience?... But it was a good match after all ... and then ... seven daughters! And the outfit! But perhaps that was only a nominal present after all ...; perhaps Prigson only meant to reckon it as cancelling the money still due to him.

“Our debt—” he began.

“Cancelled on the wedding-day.”

The prospect was, in truth, a seductive one; but how could he give his daughter to a man without a conscience? Suddenly there occurred to him a way of escape, which united in itself all possible advantages.

“Prigson, with me everything must give way to my children’s happiness; I have never forced any of them into a marriage” (in fact, the opportunity had never offered), “and I would not attempt to prevent a union which——”

Van Arlen paused—Prigson waited.

“Which may, perhaps, lead to your happiness—even your higher happiness, Prigson. The influence over you may have the power to inspire you with better feelings, with—let me speak plainly—more moral principles.”

It was an inspiration of the moment,—but Van Arlen, by this time, was quite convinced that it was his principal motive in consenting.

“Will you let us hope so, Van Arlen?”

“But——”

“Well?”

“Would not Caroline, who is nearer your own age——”

“I am convinced that Leida’s influence will act on me more powerfully,” said Prigson, humbly. “What do you think of taking a drive out to the baths now? I shall have a better chance of getting a few words with Leida than here, where there are always six more of them sitting sorrowing that the offer was not for them.”

“I do not think my daughters would take that view of each other’s happiness.”

“Come! we’re getting on!—you call it happiness, do you? Will you have a fly ordered?”

“The nearest driver is a Roman Catholic.”

“No, of course he must not drive us; that would begin to play the mischief with the moral principles at once. I’ll go and find a Calvinist cabman.”

That same evening Leida called her uncle by his first name; and in two months’ time the Van Arlens were giving a ball in honour of the engagement,—a thing they had never done before,—with Prigson’s money. Talm appeared at this festivity; and the man with the handwriting, who was accustomed to amuse his leisure hours with the clarionet (purely for the love of art, of course), also assisted—at a distance. He told his friends next morning that he had been one of the invited guests, and that Mr Talm would probably get a good piece of promotion before long, for he had been dancing all the evening with one and the same Miss Van Arlen—who, moreover, gave him her bouquet when he left!

The ball had important consequences, moreover, for five more of the Van Arlen girls; and the old man now lives on his pension, with his wife and eldest daughter. He often calls to mind his important position,—especially the time when he was entrusted with such very, very confidential business, of which no one knew anything at the time, and no one knows anything to this day.

GERARD KELLER.

_ROUGH DRAFT OF A NEW SET OF REGULATIONS._

FOR THE BENEFIT OF SERVANTS AND THEIR EMPLOYERS.

The milkman must be made to understand that it will not do to ring people out of their beds at seven in the morning, and make them catch cold at the front door.

Pianos are not to be locked by the family after using; the servants would like a little music now and then.

The master and mistress must consult the servants before subscribing to newspapers and magazines. The foolish choice that is often made in this respect is very trying to the feelings of the latter.

Another practice that cannot be too strongly reprobated, is that of carrying off books and magazines from the circulating library to people’s bedrooms before the servants have read them.

Madame and the daughters of the house should always knock properly before entering the kitchen.

When visiting the servants’ own rooms, they should always send some one up to announce them first.

When the housemaid is sent to order a cab, it by no means follows that she is to tell the cabman to drive her home by the shortest way.

If the master and mistress are medically attended by a Professor, it will not do to let the servants be treated by an ordinary doctor.

Stale bread will no longer be eaten.

When a serious misfortune is impending—_e.g._, a bankruptcy or the like—the servants ought always to be warned in time.

If the family have a box at the theatre or the opera, the servants should have the full use of it.

The family should not speak French at table while the maid is in the room, unless it has been previously ascertained that she understands that language.

Tips ought to be compounded for, just as much as tithes.

_Uilenspiegel._

_THE STORY OF A BOUQUET._

Alfred possessed two qualities common to many young men besides himself,—he was in love, and he had very little money.

His condition was therefore a sad one; but he cherished the hope that the lovely Clara would not only make a good wife, but also put an end to all his pecuniary embarrassments. So he neglected nothing that he thought might please her.

Every one knows that homage when offered in the shape of flowers is, as a rule, well pleasing to ladies. But, unhappily, the world is at present so prosaically constituted, that even the perfumed children of Flora are not to be had except for money,—and this point constituted, as we have already seen, the Achilles sinew of our enamoured here.

Day and night his thoughts were occupied with this difficulty, and, when it did not keep him awake, his sleep was filled with uncomfortable dreams.

After one of these weary nights, another bright morning had dawned,—the larks were singing, the roses were in bloom, and Alfred was busy cleaning his pipe.

In the midst of this poetic occupation, he was suddenly inspired with a practical idea. He sketched out a plan which would have done no discredit to the most finished diplomatist, and executed it with an energy worthy of a worse cause.

He had been accustomed to sell his cast-off garments to a humble citizen of much experience in retail trading; and, considering the man’s astuteness and eloquence, he had often been seized by a suspicion that he (Alfred) had not got the best of the bargain.

This must be put an end to. He broke off his commercial relations with the experienced dealer, and concluded a treaty with a nursery-gardener’s boy, to whom he presented his worn-out clothes; in return for which the boy engaged to gather him a bouquet, from time to time, late in the evening, and bring it to him with the necessary discretion.

This plan answered well enough for a time. The boy brought the flowers, and received in return, gifts of equal value,—a hat, adorned with dints like a Homeric shield; a waistcoat, wofully stained down the front; and a coat, whose collar shone like a meteor; and furthermore, a pair of shoes, on which the cobbler’s art could no further go.

On the morning of a bright summer day, the gardener’s boy, being unable to come in person, sent up by another hand a magnificent bouquet of roses, which Alfred, without loss of time, despatched to his adored Clara.

Full of joyous hope, and sure of a friendly welcome, he sped the same evening to the house of his chosen one, but found, to his great disappointment, that he was received with decided coolness.

“You sent me a note this morning,” began Clara, after an awkward pause.

“A note?” he asked, in astonishment; “I?”

“Yes, with the flowers—”

“YES, WITH THE FLOWERS—”
]

“Yes, I did send some flowers—roses——”

“Into which this note was stuck,” went on Clara, freezingly. “Here it is—do you deny having sent it?”

And she handed the miserable man a piece of paper, on which he read, to his consternation—

“_Don’t forget the old boots you said you would give me last week._”

_Uilenspiegel._

“TO HOLD UP FOR THE KISS.”
]

_UNBIDDEN GUESTS._

I.

Notary van Elst generally comes home from his office about five in the afternoon, and his return to the bosom of his family is a pretty sight.

The Van Elsts’ neighbour,—unsociable old bachelor that he was,—noticing how eagerly this return was watched for every afternoon and greeted with joyful acclamation, had a way of turning away his head, and muttering crossly, “I might have known that sort of thing too, if only——”

In the _bendy_[38] sent to fetch Van Elst, the curly head of his eldest child was always to be seen; Nonnie and little Ada were always watching for him on the verandah steps when he drove up; and no sooner did the wheels crunch over the gravel than a pretty little wife would come flying out with the brightest, pleasantest face imaginable, which she never forgot to hold up for the kiss which was always forthcoming, unless the children interfered, clinging about him as they did, and clamouring for attention.

Then came an interval of peace. Papa went to dress, and mamma sent the little ones out for a walk; and when the old bachelor returned to his verandah,—having been away for his bath meanwhile,—he would see his gentle little neighbour seated at the tea-tray as placidly as if she had not been busy the whole day running here and there,—now urging a perverse “boy” to work, now disposing of a contumacious pedlar or unreasonable _lengànan_,[39] or, most frequent occupation of all, flying to soothe the children in the countless infantine woes and accidents which were always occurring.

“WHEN THE OLD BACHELOR RETURNED TO HIS VERANDAH.”
]

It really _was_, and not merely in the old bachelor’s fancy, a pretty sight.

The wife got all the newspapers and letters, and the master of the house innumerable cups of tea. He would retail all the items of news,—she, the children’s pretty sayings and doings; and if she felt a craving to unburden herself of domestic grievances, she found him ready to listen, as far as appearances went, at least.

“Is there no news to-day?” she asks, when the little disturbers of the peace have been sent out, and her husband throws himself back luxuriously in his lounging-chair.

“Oh! yes, a great piece of news. Just guess.”

“Oh! come; do tell me. You know I hate guessing.”

“Well, then, a letter from our cousins the Martendijks. Where on earth did I put it? Oh! here it is in my coat pocket. Well, there’s not much in it, except that they ask if we will have them on a visit.”

“The _Martendijks_!” Jo exclaims, her face lengthening. But immediately she recollects that they are relations of her husband’s; and as this is rather a sore point with him, she hastens to add: “What do _you_ say to it, Max?”

“Well, you see,” answers Max, “I have been wondering whether we should not write that you are not yet strong enough for visitors.”

Jo does not indeed look strong, with her fitful colour, and that languid droop of the eyelids, but, like most mothers of a family who know how ill they can be spared, she is loath to allow that she is not robust, and does her best to persuade herself and every one else that, once she has got over this or that, she will be perfectly strong.

“No; you must not do that. We can’t let them stay on at that hot Soeka-Manies, especially with the bad season coming on. When do they propose to come?”

“On the 5th.”

“Good gracious! the day after to-morrow! And I have to put clean curtains on the beds! They might have given us longer notice, I think. Surely Emily knows as well as I do that there are always some arrangements to make in a busy household.”

“Then am I to write that they are welcome?”

“Yes; we can’t well do anything else. Another cup of tea, dear?”

Here follows a pause. Mr Van Elst puffs away contentedly at his cigar, while his wife begins to fidget a little. At last, laying her hand on her husband’s, she says, hesitatingly, “Do you know why their coming is not very convenient just now, dear boy? the _godown_ is nearly empty.”

“Empty _again_? My dear Jo, what on earth becomes of the things?”

And as if this remark—a favourite one with married men, and generally as unjust as it is senseless—were not enough, he continues, in an aggrieved tone: “Good gracious, child! it is not three months since I ordered in a whole supply. Are the four boxes of wine finished? And all those tinned things? And all the casks of butter?”

“No, not yet. If no visitors were coming, we could easily hold out for another month; but you absolutely must order in a new supply now.”

“A new supply! And the beer not paid for yet at the bazaar! It’s all very well for you to talk, but you forget it’s easier to order than to pay.”

“Oh, Max! how can you speak so?” was Jo’s only answer. She might, if she chose, have retorted that it was he who drank so much wine,—though certainly _she_ required the stimulant more than he did,—that the tins were rarely opened except on the numerous occasions when he brought home friends to dinner, and that it was he who grumbled if the dinner ever chanced to be a little scrimp. But she made no remark, and merely turned a piteous little face to her husband, which resulted in his immediately exclaiming: “Well, dear! don’t worry about it.” And then he continued, impelled to vent his wrath on something,—“But living is so confoundedly dear here, that a fellow is at his wits’ end to know what to do. And then come visitors to ruin you altogether.... They asked for an answer by wire,” he added, after a pause.

“Well, it does cost a good deal of money,” said Jo; “but, oh dear! if it is to please them!—”

When the morning of the 5th came, the Van Elsts’ neighbour over the way congratulated himself on his single blessedness, remarking to his dog, “That’s what comes of getting married.” He relented after a little, however, when his cup of coffee had put him in a somewhat better humour, and added: “After all, Van Elst is not so much more tied than I am. It isn’t often he’s interfered with. It’s a marvel how that woman always finds time for everything.”

To-day, however, Mrs Van Elst found it rather difficult to fit in everything. She was dreadfully busy; and, as might be expected, lost her temper a little, got cross with the “boys,” gave Nonnie a push, and Max a sharp answer, and then was stung with remorse, and said, resentfully, “that she could not understand why Cousin Martendijk had not written sooner; it was such short notice,—such a nuisance!”

It was indeed. For when Van Elst came home at mid-day, and she met him with the query if everything did not look nice? he saw by her flushed cheeks, and the dark rings under her eyes, that she had over-exerted herself.

“Yes, very nice indeed; but you have been doing far too much again,” he said, reproachfully. “Do take a rest now,” he added, pouring her out a glass of port.

“Thanks, dear; but I must go and dress first.”

“Yes, yes, presently,” he said, as he seated himself beside her on the couch, holding her back as she struggled to free herself, and then resorting to endearments and caresses which he well knew would retard her escape.

Presently a carriage drove up to the door. Jo sprang up in dismay, and made a bold attempt at flight; but she was caught in the act, and found herself face to face with the Martendijks! Very smart did Mrs Martendijk look in her white gown, flounced and embroidered; and Jo became painfully conscious of her own dishevelled hair, her soiled and crumpled _kabaja_, and old faded _sarong_[40].

“My wife was just going to dress,” remarked Van Elst, aware of her embarrassment; “we did not expect you before two o’clock.”

“Yes, so we wrote; but we changed our plans. It would have made us so late for luncheon, and that does not suit my complaint, you see,” said Martendijk.

“If you had sent me word, I’d have made a point of being ready,” said Jo.

“Well, of course, I had not time to think of that with all the bustle of starting. How d’ye do, Njo?”[41]

Now the reader must know that Njo, to whom Mrs Martendijk addressed this remark, was the Van Elsts’ pride and joy. They had two dear little girls besides—very fine children, too,—but Njo; their Njo! when _he_ came into the room, the father’s and mother’s eyes wandered involuntarily in his direction, and instinctively they would pause in their conversation to allow their visitors an opportunity of expressing their admiration, and their amazement, over “_Such_ a fine little fellow! Such a _huge_ child!”

“Our Njo” looked perfectly charming to-day. Mamma had brushed the pretty brown curls herself, to do him justice in the eyes of her husband’s relations; and it was with his most roguish expression, and his usual winning manner, that he held up his little face with a merry laugh for the new aunt to kiss. And Aunt said nothing but “How d’ye do, Njo?”

Max glanced at his wife; but she replied by a sign which was meant to convey some such remark: “You can’t blame her for it; she doesn’t understand children,” and that checked Max’s rising resentment.

All this time the poor hostess was sitting very ill at ease; she kept up the conversation for a few minutes, and then asked if her cousin would not like to be shown to her room.

But Mrs Martendijk preferred to drink a glass of port first, so Jo had to remain sitting in the _kabaja_ and _sarong_, which seemed to her more soiled and faded every moment.

II.

It was doubly annoying to the dainty little hostess to be surprised in such slovenly attire, because this was her first introduction to the Martendijks, and she had set her heart on making a good impression on them.

Though Emily and Johanna now met for the first time, their husbands were cousins and old acquaintances. Van Elst had been under some obligation to Martendijk’s father; and although he had not much in common with his cousin, he had always remained on friendly terms with him, in acknowledgment of his uncle’s past kindness.

They had both gone abroad at the same time, and after the lapse of ten years they thus met again, both married—the one managing partner in a sugar factory, the other notary in a prosperous place in the eastern province of Java.

There was no resemblance, not even a trace of family likeness, between the cousins.

Max was a strongly built man of middle height, broad-shouldered, and remarkably robust, with clear blue eyes, fresh colour, a full beard, and a laughing mouth; while Piet Martendijk was one of those long lean men whose appearance suggests that they have not been over fed in their young days, with scanty whiskers and hair, a long neck, and alarmingly thin legs; his complexion was sallow, his eyes lack-lustre, and his lips without a smile, which made some ladies pronounce him interesting, others distinguished, and men declare it a sin that he should have such a fine-looking wife.

She _was_ a good-looking woman, with her handsome and graceful figure, her regular features, her luxuriant mass of dark hair, and her tasteful dress. But, after a few days’ acquaintance, one found oneself wondering curiously if there was nothing could call forth a change in the expression of her eyes,—so cool was their gaze, and so indifferent, that a warm heart involuntarily shrank before them. Impassive faces of that sort have sometimes a certain fascination,—one is ready to imagine that the well-controlled features mask some deeply hidden sorrow, some tragic secret, that there is warm blood in the pale cheeks, and a passionate heart beating in the seemingly placid bosom. But Mrs Martendijk’s whole personality was so insignificant, her talk so trifling, and her smile so cold, that it would have been difficult for the most romantically inclined to find her interesting; and for the Van Elsts it was absolutely impossible, as they knew her whole history.

A most commonplace one it was. The eldest daughter of a man who had made his money in the cheese trade, she had known Martendijk for years without thinking of a tenderer relationship, and had got engaged to him by correspondence, after he had been some time in the Indies, and the idea suddenly occurred to him of winning her as his wife. As soon as the old cheesemonger had made satisfactory inquiries into the prospects of the sugar trade, all arrangements had been completed by letter, and she had “come out.”

“ONE OF THOSE LONG THIN MEN.”
]

It was a childless marriage. Both professed themselves highly satisfied with this state of matters,—an assertion which usually suggests the old story of the fox and the grapes, but which might gain credence in this case considering the peculiar tastes and dispositions of the couple.

Fresh from her toilet, in her dainty white _kabaja_, with the faintest touch of colour lending a downy softness to her pretty little face, Mrs Van Elst stood in the verandah awaiting her guests.

With the self-complacency of an active housewife she let her eye rove over the tempting table, to the sideboard with its sparkling crystal, and to the side-table where the dishes stood ready to be handed round. “What a shame to let everything get cold,” she said to herself, greeting Max as he entered with the query if the “boy” had not announced luncheon.

“Yes, and I have called them myself too,” says Max, a little crossly, for he loves to have the curry served hot, “but they don’t seem to be ready yet. How splendid it looks,” he continues, and, with a furtive glance round to make sure that the children are out of the way, he helps himself from one of the dishes to a leg of roast fowl. He has abundant time to pick the bone leisurely before the guests appear, with the immediate request from Emily that the door may be closed.

“Oh, cousin,” Max exclaims, “it will be so frightfully stuffy here!”

“Yes, but there’s such a draught just now; and that’s so dangerous for Piet’s complaint, you see. So—if you don’t mind?”

They seat themselves, and the “boys” begin to wait. Jo is glad to see that the cook has exerted herself to the very utmost, and throws a contented little nod across to her husband, as much as to say, “Now, haven’t you a clever little wife?” to which he replies convincingly by helping himself very liberally from the various dishes.

All at once Jo discovers that Cousin Martendijk is eating away at _dry rice_!

“Won’t you have some curry?” she asks; “or perhaps you would rather——”

“No, thank you, cousin, I often eat my rice dry.”

“Do have a little piece of fricassee, then!” she exclaims in dismay, as he lets even that indispensable dish pass.

“No, it’s so dangerous to eat fricassee. You never know what it’s made of. And when one is a martyr to indigestion——”

“Oh, come,” Max exclaims impatiently, “you don’t need to be afraid of anything of that kind here. Jo always makes the fricassee herself, and most delicious it is, I assure you.”

“Well, a small piece then.”

Mrs Martendijk ate very little also; and Jo could not help noticing how Cousin Martendijk, who was rather shortsighted, gave a disdainful sniff every now and then at one or other of the dishes, and how his wife, without even honouring them with a glance, sent away one after another with a brief but decisive “_tida_.”[42]

My gentle readers will admit that this was a very trying experience for a hostess. Jo begins all at once to doubt her own domestic capabilities, and the painful conviction grows upon her that the fowl must be very tough, and the fish not fresh, and that there is a want of variety. A sort of dumb rage at the cook gradually takes possession of her,—she has such a trick of making the _sambalans_ too hot; and she casts a vindictive glance at the “boy” when he forgets to hand round the pickles. And when the pickles are likewise smelt, and examined, and declined, she feels her face blaze, and her appetite vanish, and a wild longing comes over her for the moment when she can give the signal to rise from table.

“My dear cousin,” began Emily the next morning, following Jo into the store-room, where she was busy giving out provisions, “I think you were rather hurt at our eating so little yesterday, were you not?”

“Well, to tell the truth——”

“Now then, to put it all right, I’ll just tell you what was the real reason. You use cocoa-nut oil, don’t you? and you don’t make it at home! I tasted that at once.”

“No, that is true; the cook has enough to do as it is.”

“Oh, my dear! don’t you pay any attention to a cook like that. They can easily get through all their work. And do you know why Piet ate so little? Everything was too strong for him. I’m just telling you, you know, so that you may manage things better another time.”

“Yes, but that won’t be so very easy,” Jo ventured, “because—well, you see, my husband likes his food very highly seasoned.”

“That _is_ a pity. But,” continued Emily, with an amiable little laugh, “I know what you can do. Have some _sambal_[43] made separately for him, and he can mix it with his food. We must adapt ourselves to one another, must we not?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Jo, “if there happens to be anything else you don’t care for, or that is bad for Cousin Martendijk’s inside——”

“Oh, no, thank you! We had a delicious dinner yesterday evening. Your cook is a capital hand. Oh, wait a moment, though, I had nearly forgotten. My good man is accustomed to have a cup of _bouillon_ about eleven o’clock, and I a cup of chocolate—but it must be _chicken_-broth; he is not allowed beef-tea.”

“Very well,” said Jo, a vision immediately rising before her of the wrath of her cook when told that not only was she expected to make the cocoa-nut oil herself, but to prepare _kaldoe_[44] and chocolate at the very busiest hour of the morning. It was enough to make her give notice on the spot.

Mrs Van Elst, to tell the truth, stood in considerable awe of this cook, who was highly proficient in her art, used little butter, and did not appropriate much of the marketing money; and, I appeal to you, what mistress would not tremble at the thought of losing such a treasure?

She paved the way, therefore, with some friendly remarks, and even went the length of promising a new _sarong_ before she broached _the_ subject; and flattered herself that all was going to end smoothly, when cook all at once snatched up a basket of potatoes with one vicious jerk, and with another laid hold of the rice, and closed the door of the store-room behind her with a bang that thrilled her mistress from head to foot. Jo knew what to expect.

For the rest, Emily supplied a ready answer to the great question which haunts Indian no less than Dutch housewives: what are we to have for dinner to-day? It was virtually she who proposed the _menu_ every day. “Do you know what I’d make to-day?” she would remark to Jo;—“one of those dishes of macaroni, with ham and cheese.” Or, “If you want to give Martendijk a treat, dear cousin, give him asparagus, he’s wild about that.” Or, “Do you never make tarts, Jo?—You do?—Well, I have a delicious recipe for one I can lend you if you like.”

It was really very kind of Emily, Jo thought; and she had little more cause to complain of her guest’s want of appetite, especially as Mrs Martendijk had taken upon herself to make sure that nothing came to table which might prove injurious to her husband’s digestion.

III.

Visiting is more of a burden than a pleasure in Holland, where people are confined within such narrow limits, and where the usual routine of daily life must be gone on with as usual.

The Dutch host may express the hope that you will “make yourself quite at home,” adding that you are perfectly free to do what you like; but when bedtime comes, he also informs you that they breakfast at eight sharp, and his wife asks you in the sweetest manner possible to be so good as not to keep the light burning; and both are rather hurt if you do not evince any great anxiety to cultivate the acquaintance of all their friends, and think it rather “strange” if you go out on your own account.

Only in the Indies can one “make one’s self quite at home,” and that undoubtedly accounts for the interchange of visits being so much more common there than with us, and for people who are barely acquainted beforehand finding it possible to stay weeks and even months with one another without inconvenience to host or guest.

Even in the Indies, however, much depends on whether or not the visitors are located in a detached part of the house. This is an arrangement which commends itself especially to those who have children with them. There are so many details to be attended to, and arrangements made in that case, that the close proximity to strangers is a little awkward, and the visitor has rather an anxious time of it in Holland. Every mother knows the haunting dread lest the baby should take it into its head to indulge in a prolonged fit of screaming in the middle of her host’s mid-day nap, and she is painfully aware that childish freaks and misdemeanours may not always meet with sympathy in their new surroundings.

But in the Indies these fears and worries are unknown. The children are quartered in the detached part of the house, where they may romp and scream to their hearts’ content; and there is no risk of interference if punishment is required, nor need to blush for shame at one’s powerlessness under the rule of a spoilt four-year-old tyrant.

Others, besides happy parents, have reason to be grateful for the Indian arrangement,—the young man with his late hours, the young lady with her delicate little traffic in _billets-doux_ and bouquets, for instance. And it commends itself highly to many a young couple, when the husband takes a fancy to revive the days of courtship, or the young wife has set her heart on a charming blue dress in the bazaar,—so cheap, and blue is just the colour he likes her best in,—and so on. (We all know the sort of talk that goes on, and how it ends.) And should it happen—for such things _do_ occur—that they have a slight disagreement, and the tender husband’s tone waxes warm, and his sweet little wife has recourse to tears,—well, the courtyard is wide, and the host and hostess are totally unaware of any disturbance; so, presently they trip into the verandah as staid and as charming as if they never heard of “spooning,” not to speak of squabbling. It is not at all unlikely that the host himself may have profited by their absence, “_pour laver son linge sale en famille_.”

The Van Elsts had a very nice visitors’ room detached from the rest of the house, with a verandah opening on a pretty flower-garden. Jo was in the habit of having her visitors’ breakfast set in this front verandah, chiefly because she liked to devote the morning undisturbed to her husband and children, and because, moreover, it was more convenient for all domestic arrangements.

But the very first morning after their arrival, Emily came, laughing, to say that they thought it would be so much more sociable to breakfast altogether, especially as Piet fancied it was a little damp over the way, and he had to guard carefully against damp on account of his complaint.

The Van Elsts thought it charming of their guests to be so sociably inclined, but it was a little awkward nevertheless; and Jo wondered, with some surprise, how Emily did not understand that, though it might be pleasanter for herself, it might be decidedly inconvenient for the mother of three children to have her visitors about her so early.

Jo had a great deal to do in the mornings, like all Indian ladies, though Dutch housewives, we know, are inclined to be sceptical on that point. The children had to be bathed,—an operation she liked to superintend in person,—the clothes to be looked over, the washing and sewing given out, the dinner ordered, and the thousand and one little domestic duties attended to; it was generally eleven o’clock before she was ready to sit down quietly.

There was, of course, more than usual to do with the Martendijks in the house, but Jo was ready at last, and having just about an hour to spare, she was anxious to finish the little frock over which she had been busy for some time, and which was only waiting for the buttons and trimming.

“I hope I’m not intruding, Cousin Jo?” said a suave voice, and Emily came in, and continued, regardless of the frock Jo held in her hand, “Look here! I have a skirt which doesn’t hang well; do you think you can see what’s the matter with it? I hear you are so neat-handed!”

Jo laid the little frock aside with a sigh, and began with deft fingers to examine the drapery. The fault was soon detected. The skirt must be unpicked, the folds relaid and pinned down; and in the middle of this process, Emily suggested sweetly that it was more than time Piet had his broth. Jo ran off with all speed to the kitchen, where cook received her with a withering glance, and when her mistress asked for the _kaldoe_, assumed an air of dense stupidity which checked all further inquiry. Only by dint of lifting one lid after another did Mrs Van Elst at length discover a fowl floating in tepid water.

Jo was not accustomed to yield,—not even to her invaluable cook,—nor had she forgotten how to work in the Indies; so, soon she had the _kaldoe_ simmering over a moderate fire, and the chocolate all ready save the boiling water. But to procure boiling water seemed to require some magic quite beyond the powers of an ordinary cook; an immense kettle, full to the brim, was suspended over a low fire, the wood was apparently damp, the kitchen full of smoke, and not a single clean saucepan was to be found.... When Mrs Van Elst at last carried in the two cups, it certainly was not only the heat which flushed her cheeks and made her hands tremble!

Emily did not seem to notice her agitation; she thanked her cousin quite cordially for the trouble she had taken, evidently found the fragrant chocolate very much to her liking, tasted the _kaldoe_ critically, and when Jo expressed the fear that it was not strong enough, she smiled good-naturedly, and had no doubt it would be better to-morrow!

Her next proceeding was to beg Jo to try on the altered skirt, so that she could judge better of the draping, and the time was spent in pinning and laying folds till the “boy” came to announce dinner.

Jo laid away the unfinished frock, hoping that perhaps to-morrow she might make up for lost time. But next morning Emily proposed a visit to the Chinese quarter, if her cousin would be so good as go with her,—she had some shopping to do. And the third morning, just as Jo had once more produced her work, Emily, who was sociably inclined, and did not care to be alone, came to beg her cousin to be so very kind as to explain to her how that lovely collar was made that she had on yesterday.

Oh, certainly! Jo would tell her,—so much embroidery, and lace, and.... “Wait a minute!” cried Emily; “I’ll just fetch what we need, and you can help me; you are so clever at these things—much cleverer than I am! This is a splendid chance, Jo, for me to go over my wardrobe; it is so much cheaper to do up things one’s self than to be always going to a milliner or dressmaker—and you _will_ help me, won’t you?”

IV.

“Just listen to this!” exclaimed Van Elst, reading the foreign telegrams at the tea-table that afternoon. “Russia has declared war against Turkey.”

“Indeed!” remarked Martendijk indifferently. “Well, I thought it would come to that in the end.”

“It’s really terrible,” Max went on. “How many wars does that make within our recollection? And in our much-vaunted nineteenth century too! I hoped they would have been able to avert this.”

“Have your people Turkish or Russian bonds?”

“No; why on earth should you think that?”

“Oh, because you are so interested in that war. You would be in a bad way in that case. It is great folly. We don’t have anything to do with that sort of thing either—do we, Emily?”

“No, indeed,” said Emily. “As far as we are concerned, all Europe can go to war.”

“Alas!” cried Jo, who had not been listening to this dialogue between the couple. “What terrible news, Max! To think of the waste of strong young lives, and all the wives and mothers who are left at home.” And instinctively she drew little Jan towards her, and pressed him close.

“Well, there’s no danger for _him_ in the meantime,” said Martendijk; and Mr and Mrs Van Elst glanced at one another, as they had so often done during the past few days, as if to ask what manner of people these cousins could be.

Mrs Martendijk was also glancing through a newspaper, and, suddenly turning to her husband, she exclaimed, “What did I prophesy, Piet? Van Dalem is in the bankruptcy court.”

“Well, well!” said Piet. “After all, what else was to be expected. It’s the last straw breaks the camel’s back! It is the man’s own fault. You must understand, Max,” he continued, addressing his cousin, “this Van Dalem was a near neighbour of ours. He came into a splendid business, and might have been rolling in wealth in a few years; but you never saw such a spendthrift. He was always thrusting himself forward, always entertaining, always having visitors——”

“Yes,” affirmed Emily; “and the worst of it was, while his wife was giving parties, he was lending money right and left,—standing security, advancing money to every beggar who came to him; he said he could not refuse.”

“Real good-natured folk, then?” asked Van Elst.

“Oh, yes, good-natured enough as far as that went. I can’t tell you how many widows he has given shelter to, how many little waifs she took in from the native village (they have no children of their own), how many forced sales he has put a stop to——”

“Poor fellow,” cried Max, “I wish I could do something for him.”

“It’s easy to say that, Max,” interposed Martendijk; “but,” and he pulled his thin whiskers meditatively, “it comes to be a question if it is right to sympathise with people of that kind. Is it not their own fault that they have gone down in the world? Is it not inexcusable to run through one’s money in that way?”

“Inexcusable? I don’t agree with you there. At least he has run through it in a way which speaks well for his heart, if not for his good sense.”

“I am anxious to see if people will help him in his turn,” said Emily, in a tone which irritated Van Elst beyond measure.

“Of course they will,” he said, curtly.

“Do you think so?” asked Martendijk, with some expression for once in his weak face. “People are, as a rule, more ready to look you up when they need you than when you need them. He certainly had a great many friends; but we know what that amounts to. In any case,” he continued after a pause, “it is safest to make sure that you will never be dependent on any one’s help.”

“That is true,” said Max. But as he spoke he left his seat abruptly, and went to have a look at the flowers with little Jan. Jo very soon followed him. It was very evident that he had lost his temper; and she was always ready in such an emergency to do her best to drive away the clouds as quickly as possible.

“What’s the matter, dear?”

“Oh! nothing. Rather disgusted; that’s all. How do you like the Martendijks, Jo?”

“Oh! not particularly. Perhaps it would be better to suspend our judgment of them for a little, Max.”

“I don’t see it,” said Max, sharply. “But, Jo, do you know what we might do?” he added, hastily, seeing her shrink at his vehemence, “go for a drive just now; then Jan can go too.”

“Oh! yes, papa,” cried Jan, delightfully, “and sit on the box.”

“My dear, the horses have been too far to-day already. Emily drove to the Chinese camp, and was out for more than two hours.”

“_Indeed!_” said Max. “Well, then, for goodness’ sake, let us stop at home. That will be very nice too, won’t it, Jan? and we’ll build a fortress.”

Jo was satisfied that the clouds were fast dispersing; she took her husband’s arm, and exerted herself to be specially bright and charming, chattering to him about the children, and all sorts of interesting things, and finally assisting at his toilet,—a favour he particularly enjoyed,—and prattling all manner of pretty compliments to him.

Max was in high good-humour when he left her to go for a turn with Jan.

When Jo appeared, after a hasty toilet, she found their cousins in the verandah before her, busy with the illustrated papers.

That was a most innocent pastime certainly; but, alas! Martendijk had taken possession of Max’s place and chair.

Now Mrs Van Elst was the most accommodating little person imaginable, and would have given up _her_ chair to any one in the world; but she was quite different where _Max_ was concerned.

“Oh! there’s my husband coming,” she exclaimed in a minute or two, as he came up the drive with Jan; and as Martendijk showed not the slightest disposition to take the hint, she added, as pleasantly as she could, “Martendijk, I’m sure you are not aware that that is Max’s place?”

“Yes, dear cousin,” said Martendijk, stretching himself with an air of contentment. “To tell you the truth, I was quite aware of the fact; but Emily chose this place for me, because there are such draughts everywhere else.”

“Oh! I am sure Cousin Max will be glad to give up his place to you for a little,—won’t you, Max?” Emily struck in.

To Jo’s relief, her husband assented, and Martendijk made himself as comfortable as he could in his host’s chair.

The children came in from their walk, and stayed as usual with papa and mamma till bedtime,—a habit as pleasant for parents as for guests.

They formed a pretty group, the three innocent child-heads, and at the sight Max’s and Jo’s beaming eyes met, and at last the happy little wife could not refrain from the question,—

“Don’t you two think our children are little angels?”

“Yes, darlings!” responded Emily. “So good and sweet-tempered; especially little Jan, he doesn’t give you much trouble now.”

“_Trouble!_” exclaimed Jo. “Oh! not one of them gives any trouble,—only a very little when they are ill. But as long as they keep well I have nothing but pleasure in them.”

And she spoke the truth, for all cares and anxieties were light to her, because so willingly borne.

“I’d not mind having a boy like this, about three or four,” Emily continued, drawing little Jan to her caressingly; “but a baby like _that_” (with a glance at “charming little Ada”) “I consider _horrible_.”

“_Horrible!_” Jo shrank from her in dismay, indignant that any one should speak so. But her anger was transient, for she immediately remembered that it was not poor Emily’s fault that she had such strange ideas; she really did not know what it was to have children of her own.

V.

The Martendijks had been about three weeks with the Van Elsts, when the solitary bachelor over the way began to observe some change in his neighbours.

The notary began to go earlier to his office, and to come home later. The little wife, of whom he was growing rather fond by dint of watching her so long, did not take her walks so regularly; and when she played with the children in the garden in the morning, her laugh sounded less merry than it once did. When the old gentleman (who seemed to have assumed this privilege of observing his neighbours with special interest because it _might have been_ his lot to have just such another family) noticed that Mr Van Elst looked cross, and his wife very wearied, he began to grow uneasy, and at last set on foot inquiries through the medium of his own “boys” and those of his neighbours, which resulted in the reassuring news that no one was ill. After that the old bachelor did not know what to make of it.

And yet the explanation was simple enough!

To be ousted from your favourite seat, to have tasteless food set before you, to see your delicate wife tired to death, your horses over-driven, your store-room plundered, all this is very easy to bear,—nay, may even be reckoned among the pleasures of hospitality, if your visitors are agreeable people, whose society compensates for the lack of the usual cosy _tête-à-tête_, and whose cordial interest in all your concerns proves that they like you and appreciate the friendship you show them. But, when you see that your guests regard you merely as convenient people to spend some time with,—that they take advantage of your hospitality, and honour you with no special cordiality in return,—when they remind you, by their treatment, of certain fruits you throw away once the juice is squeezed out, it is impossible to submit to the visitation with a very good grace!

That certainly was the case here.