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—”
[Illustration:
“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._
[Illustration:
“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.
[Illustration:
“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.