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.”
[Illustration:
“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!