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.
Van Elst, moreover, with his warm temperament and strength of character,
could ill brook his cold-blooded cousin. He liked men to be firm, and
women tender-hearted; and Piet was so weak, and Emily so cold, and the
two couples so directly opposed to each other in all their sentiments
and opinions, that the most innocent conversations often led to
collision. When, for example, Van Elst brought home the news one day
that one of their acquaintances had been suddenly taken ill, and Jo
asked, with a quaver in her voice and tears in her eyes, if she could do
anything to help the poor wife, Emily scarcely listened, and Piet only
to inquire anxiously what was the matter—he hoped nothing infectious!
With regard to society, there was great diversity of opinion between the
couples. Up country in the Indies it is possible to live on such terms
with all the Europeans as to avoid giving offence, while at the same
time one cannot be intimate with all. One comes across many people there
who are wealthy, who entertain, and are to a certain extent admitted
into society, but of so low a stamp intellectually and morally that it
is impossible for respectable families to associate familiarly with
them.
The Van Elsts had thus soon chosen their own friends, and to this select
circle they had introduced their guests.
But the Martendijks struck up acquaintance with a family with whom they
had no wish to become intimate.
“Good gracious!” said Max, who did not approve of this at all; “what is
there in that man to take your fancy?”
“Not much,” replied Martendijk.
“Surely his wife isn’t the attraction, then?—a stupid insignificant
creature like that!”
“Yes, she is very stupid,” said Martendijk. “But she is a capital cook,”
he added, after a moment.
“Well, but they’re not people to get so very intimate with. Perhaps you
don’t know that he has a very shady reputation,—it is well known that he
got that factory into his hands by a very dirty trick. They say he made
the former owner drunk, and then——”
“That’s very likely true,” interposed Martendijk coolly; “he looks to me
just that sort of man. But that does not prevent his keeping capital
wine, and being very generous with his help——”
“For any sake hold your tongue!” cried Max, suddenly turning his back on
his guest.
But the most violent explosion took place one morning at the
breakfast-table, when the conversation turned upon one of their aunts—a
sister of Martendijk’s father and Max’s mother—who was in great poverty,
and had been very unfortunate.
“I have not troubled my head about her for years,” said Piet. “I may
tell you I make a point of interesting myself only in my respectable
relatives.”
“You mean in those who have got on well in the world,” observed Max.
“Aunt Liza is a worthy respectable woman, whose only fault is her
poverty.”
“But she had no position at all in Delft,” said Emily. (Martendijk was
silent: he preferred not to argue with his cousin when Max’s eyes
flashed like that.) “She dealt in tea, I think, or knitting-cotton, or
something of that kind.”
“Yes, just so, in _tea_,” said Max; “exactly in the same way as your
husband deals in sugar, and your father in cheese. Good-morning!”
“Good gracious, Jo, what a temper your husband is in!” exclaimed Emily,
who was determined not to take offence, because she was very comfortable
with Martendijk’s relatives, and the building at their own place at
Soeka-Manies—the real reason for their visiting—was still going on.
“Yes,” said Martendijk, the courage of his opinions returning as soon as
he heard Max drive away; “I don’t see why on earth he should get so
excited!”
What surprised the Van Elsts more than anything else, was the relation
of the couple to one another. The same man and woman, who had not one
grain of sympathy for the troubles of others, or for the most terrible
national calamity, and who were totally impervious to the sufferings of
even their friends and relations, were full of devotion to one another.
If Piet was not quite the thing, Emily was full of anxiety; and if she
looked worried, Piet did his best to conquer his despondency. In short,
disagreeable though they were in every other respect, they were a model
couple. It was difficult for a third person to start any subject of
conversation with them, because nothing interested them which did not
affect themselves directly or indirectly; but they were never at a loss
for a subject when by themselves, and their conversation was
inexhaustible so long as they could devote themselves unreservedly to
the discussion of their own affairs, bringing every effort of mind to
bear on what concerned them alone.
_Money_ was a favourite topic: how they could enjoy this or that
together—it was always together!—without much expense; how to manage
their domestic expenditure most satisfactorily; how to invest a small
sum securely—and so on.
They spent so long over these interesting details, that it was
impossible for outsiders to take any part in their discussions.
VI.
“Just look here a minute, Max; is it my fancy, or does Jan look a little
pale to-day?” asked Mrs Van Elst one morning, as she went out to the
verandah to see her husband off.
“Of course it is your fancy,” said Max, who made a point of never
allowing that any of the children were ill,—a device intended to calm
their nervous mother, but which always had precisely the contrary effect
“Come here a moment, Njo; your mother says you’re not well. Come, my
boy, tell me what’s the matter with you,” he added less carelessly, as
Jan, usually anything but slow to respond to his father’s call, dragged
himself listlessly towards them, and sank down upon a chair.
“Not comf’ble, papa—headache!” was all he vouchsafed.
Max took him on his knee, and glanced at his wife. Yes, the old story;
she was pale, her lips trembled, and her eyes were bent tenderly and
anxiously on the child. It was this readiness to take alarm which caused
Jo more suffering than the patient, whenever her husband or children
were ailing.
“Shall we just send for the doctor, dear?”
“No; did I ever!” cried Max. “The man would think we were mad. Because
Njo has a little headache, forsooth! Come, my boy, go and play.”
“_Play!_ Good gracious! Max, just feel how hot his head is.”
“Well, put him to bed then. You can do that at least,” and he laughed,
as it seemed to her, heartlessly, and called her “a silly thing”—a
jocular remark which was met by none of Jo’s usual repartees.
“Papa must come too,” was Jan’s command, and we know that no general is
better obeyed by his soldiers than a sick child by its parents. So Max
carried his boy first over one shoulder, then over the other, after
which he had to creep on all fours round the room, roaring like a lion,
before Njo would be laid down. The patient was not particularly disposed
to go to sleep; he allowed papa to coddle him, and mamma to bring him
lemonade, and did as many children do when much notice is taken of their
ailments—made himself out much worse than he really was.
When it was really impossible for his father to remain longer, he coaxed
and whimpered a little, and finally cried himself to sleep, so that Jo
was free to enjoy a quiet hour by his bedside with her work-basket, for
every available moment must be snatched to make up for the time lost
through Emily’s visit.
Their visitors had gone out very early that morning to call on one of
their new acquaintances, a sugar manufacturer like Martendijk. It was so
pleasant to come across some one in your own line, he remarked; they
could discuss one thing and another while driving or walking together,
and one got many a hint and idea in that way.
On their return home, the “boy” told them “Sinjo Jan” was ill.
“Oh, dear! that’s always the worst of visiting where there are
children,” said Martendijk, as he sipped his _bouillon_; “there’s always
something wrong.”
“Well, this would not be much to speak of,” said Emily, “only I’m afraid
it may interfere with to-morrow evening.”
It must be explained that the Martendijks had talked so much about the
attention shown to them on all sides as the Van Elsts’ guests (and they
certainly had not been slow to avail themselves of the social advantages
of the neighbourhood), that Jo felt at last obliged to give a small
party in acknowledgment of the courtesy shown to them.
Her guests need never know all it had cost her to talk Max over, and
how, when one argument after another failed to win over her perverse
lord and master, she had at last taken refuge in that weapon which loses
its power when too often used, and is the very last resort therefore of
a clever woman—I mean tears.
For, though Jo would hardly admit the fact even to herself, Max had not
been just altogether pleasant to deal with of late,—indeed, he had
really been quite disagreeable and cross, and very unwilling to
acknowledge himself in the wrong.
His liver had been bothering him for some little time (no wonder he
grumbled), and Jo, only too ready to find satisfactory excuses for his
ill-temper, was glad enough to reiterate constantly to her visitors, who
had also a good deal to stand from his bearish ways, how the liver
affects the temper, and how wretched it makes one feel.
This did not prevent their cousins from assuring one another repeatedly,
once they were safe in their own room, that Max was a disagreeable
fellow, and that were it not for the comfortable quarters they were in,
and the building going on at home, they would remain no longer. For so
wrapt up were they in themselves and in one another, and so absorbing
was their _egoïsme à deux_, that it was impossible for them to realise
how actions and remarks like theirs affected others; therefore, of
course, they blamed Cousin Max for the rather strained relations which
had come about.
As soon as she had drunk her chocolate, Emily betook herself to the
nursery to see what were the prospects for the party.
“Well, dear cousin,” she began, making no attempt to lower her somewhat
harsh voice, “what is this I hear? Is little Jan ill?”
“I am very much afraid he is,” said Jo; “he is so restless in his
sleep.”
“A little feverish, perhaps,” said Emily, taking the child’s hand in her
own for a moment. “I’d give him a good dose of quinine,” she continued,
“and he’ll be all right by to-morrow evening.”
“Why to-morrow evening,” asked Jo, puzzled.
“Did I ever! Have you forgotten all about that? Why, it was to-morrow
evening we were to have that party.”
“Dear me, so it was,” cried Jo. “I’d nearly forgotten all about it. But,
of course, if he is ill it will have to be put off.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Emily, “if he is ill. But it’s surely nothing
serious. You always get frightened so quickly.”
“Yes, I do, it is true; and it really can’t be anything. But oh, Emily,
he is such an angel, my Njo! and you always see that particularly sweet
children don’t live long.”
The wet eyelashes and quivering lips were not without their effect even
on cold Mrs Martendijk.
“Well, well,” she said kindly, “I would not worry about that. Jan has
his naughty fits just like other boys; and besides, if all the children
were to die whose mothers consider them ‘almost _too_ good’ for this
world, there would not be many left.”
Seeing how nervous Jo got, and how the event generally proved her fears
groundless, Max was always making resolutions not to yield to such
exaggerated anxiety another time. So when he came home at mid-day and
found his wife still occupied with the child, he coolly carried her off
to another room, and gently but firmly forbade her to leave it until she
had rested for a few hours.
Jo was too tired to resist, and soon fell asleep. She did not awake till
late in the afternoon, for which she could not forgive herself, though
it was, in fact, the best thing that could have happened, considering
the disturbed night she was to have. It did not need much persuasion to
induce Max to send for the doctor next morning.
Emily took care to be in the verandah when he stopped to say a few words
to Mrs Van Elst after his visit to the little patient.
“There’s not much the matter is there, doctor?” she asked.
“No—at least I think not,” was his reply. “It’s not easy to predict in a
case of illness, but, as far as appearances go, it seems to me an
ordinary cold.”
“There, you see, Jo, what did we all tell you? You do get anxious so
soon!”
“Well, you see, I have so much to lose,” said Jo deprecatingly.
“If it gives you any pleasure to worry,” said the doctor, “you had
better do so about yourself, and not about that sturdy little chap,”—and
with a compassionate glance at the young wife, who had already been so
often a patient of his, he took her hand in his own. “You’re not looking
so well as you did, Mrs Van Elst,” he said. “You wear yourself out, and
don’t do enough to get up your strength. I shall have to scold in good
earnest—or speak to Van Elst.”
“Oh, no, for goodness’ sake, don’t do that!” exclaimed Jo, glad that Max
was safe in his office. “How angry he would be!”
“Well, Jo,” said her guest, when the doctor had gone, “that _is_ a
relief. An ordinary cold, it will be better in a day or two. Now let us
set to work to get ready for the party.”
“Oh, dear Emily, what do you think? Shall we not rather put it off?”
“Put it off? and why? Come, Jo, what’s the matter with you? All the
invitations are out already.”
“I’d like to have it for your sake,” Jo began again; “you know that,
don’t you? But I am _so_ tired! I never closed an eye last night; and
there is so much to be done—baking, and all that.”
“Well,” said Emily, “surely your maid can help you?”
“Siah? Oh, no; she must stay with Njo—she’s his old ‘baboe.’[45] No,
really, it can’t be managed. Oh, if you only knew how dead tired I am!”
and the poor little woman sank into a chair, and closed her eyes as if
to shut out the mountain of work that the mere thought of the party
conjured up.
“If _I_ undertook all the trouble,” asked Emily, after a moment’s
reflection, “could we go on with it then?”
“Oh yes,” said Jo, “if you would be so very good.”
She was too much absorbed in her sick child to trouble herself much
about the success of the party, else she would have been decidedly
uneasy; for it had gradually dawned upon her that Emily did not know
much of the noble art of cookery. Notwithstanding her great readiness to
recommend dishes and to lend recipes, she had never yet concocted
anything herself; and even when Jo had begged her to help with a few
domestic duties on specially busy days, she had always tried to get out
of it. To-day it was quite different, however.
She asked for the keys, and in ten minutes had all the “boys” and maids
hard at work; while she herself was here, there, and everywhere,
thinking of everything,—making cakes, planning the _menu_, and all with
a deftness and briskness which were quite enviable.
“Oh dear!” thought Jo, when she saw her cousin’s activity, “if she had
only helped me like that sooner, how much nicer it would have been
having visitors.”
Jo arranged the flowers; Martendijk the card-tables; Emily superintended
the supper; and by mid-day everything was ready.
Emily went to take a nap, while her hostess did the same, so as to be
bright and fresh when the evening came.
And so probably she would have been, after a quiet undisturbed sleep;
but the little patient grew worse about the middle of the day; and when
his father came home, he saw at once that the child was feverish.
“Oh, dear Max,” sighed Jo, “what a worry! A sick child, and that party
in the evening!”
“_Party!_” cried Max, to his wife’s great consternation. “It’s out of
the question. Did you think I’d ever allow that? Certainly not. What a
mad idea to think of having people here to-night! Emily’s at the bottom
of that, I’ll be bound.”
“No, indeed, dear. I was quite anxious for it too,” pleaded Jo,
shielding her guest at the expense of her own truthfulness. “And oh,
Max, Emily has been so good; she arranged everything, and I have had
nothing at all to do.”
“Of course she helps you now, as it’s her party, and she is bent on
having her own way,—but I’ll soon see who is master in my house. The
party will _not_ go on, I tell you. I’ll have the people put off. Where
are the boys?”
Van Elst had spoken so loud in his passionate outburst, that it needed
no eavesdropping to find out his intentions; and perhaps that was the
reason that Emily appeared so opportunely just then.
“Oh! excuse me, cousin,” he exclaimed apologetically, running against
her in his hurry. “Do you know where the boys are?”
“They are round at the back,” said Mrs Martendijk, looking brighter and
livelier than he had ever seen her. “Look here, cousin,” and she took
his arm confidentially to lead him to the back verandah, “have we not
worked well to-day? Everything is ready——”
“But the party can——” began Max.
“And should you like to see what you’re going to have to-night?” And in
the same friendly manner he was conducted to the pantry. “Just look at
that magnificent trifle. And are not the tarts a success? But the
_pâtés_ are _the_ thing. They look just as if they came straight from
the best confectioner’s—do they not?”
“I am really sorry you have had so much trouble, and I must say it all
looks beautiful; but the party cannot possibly go on,” repeated Max,
firmly.
“What do you say?”
“Yes; it’s a great pity, and I can understand how annoyed you feel; but
Jan is decidedly worse....”
Emily had recovered her composure by this time.
“Jan worse! My word! I had no idea of that,” she cried. “Gracious!
cousin, if I had known that an hour sooner; and now the punch is made!”
It was now Max’s turn to be disconcerted.
“What do you say?” he exclaimed.
“Well, it was time it was done, you see;” and Emily seated herself. “One
would really need to know everything beforehand,” she went on, coolly;
“then we should at least not have opened those fine wines and the
expensive champagne. The supper will cost a great deal too, to be sure,
and the money’s all thrown away now; but we can eat everything some time
or other among ourselves.”
“The _punch_ won’t keep, I suppose?” asked Max.
“Oh no! it _is_ a pity Jan is so ill.”
“Oh, he’s not so very much worse!” exclaimed Max impatiently. “But what
a wretched amount of stuff,” he added, after a moment, when he had made
a rapid mental calculation of the needless expense, and realised how
odious it would be to see Piet and Emily devouring all the dainties. “If
only Jo was not so very tired.”
“Yes; it would be very unfortunate if she were not able to appear. But
we can always see how Jan is; and if she were to decide at the last
moment to stay with the child,—well, I’d be glad to do the honours.”
“For goodness’ sake let it be, then,” said Max; and as his guest made
her escape as fast as she could, without prejudice to her dignity, he
sent a wish after her which was more expressive than courteous.
Emily only enjoyed a little laugh at his helpless fury, congratulating
herself on the success of her diplomacy, for on hearing about
half-an-hour before that the child was worse, she had given orders to
have the punch mixed; and when she stepped into the store-room, she was
met with a request from Piet, who had been told off to superintend, to
taste and see if the ingredients were right.
VII.
Jo did _not_ appear that evening. Jan complained of sore throat; and the
mother, in her dread of diphtheria, sent for the doctor at once, and
remained at the child’s bedside, in spite of his assurances that nothing
was the matter. Emily did the honours, and appeared to enjoy it.
Though each of the guests had privately resolved not to stay late for
the little boy’s sake, it was two o’clock before the last had departed,
and three before the house was quiet. Indeed absolute quiet there never
was that whole night, for Jo, as she lay awake, heard first all sorts of
unaccountable sounds proceeding from the guests’ apartment, and then an
excited calling out for servants, who either could not or would not
hear, followed by a knocking at her own door, and an agitated demand for
laudanum, and a confused story about salad and punch, which might be the
death of people who suffered from internal complaints. Tea must be
infused, and hot-water bottles filled; but when Jo sprang up eager to go
and help, her husband held her back authoritatively. He had feigned to
be asleep all the time, but when the door was shut, while the strange
sounds continued to be heard, then he was seized with such an
uncontrollable fit of laughter, that Jo was infected by his merriment,
and lay in mortal terror lest Emily should hear them, or Jan be
awakened.
But Jan was the last to think of awaking. He slept not only the whole
night, but far into the morning. Max was not permitted to go to his
office before he should awake, for just as she would have thought it
“very alarming” if he had not slept at all, so it seemed to be “very
alarming” that he should sleep so long.
At last, about nine o’clock, he opened his eyes. The rest seemed to have
done him good, for not only did he demand bread and butter, but, as soon
as his glance fell on the new box of bricks papa had bought for him the
day before, he jumped out of bed, and seated himself on the floor to
play, as if nothing had happened.
“How is the poor little throat?” asked Jo, as soon as she had recovered
from her glad surprise.
“My throat?” repeated the child wonderingly; “my throat is not ill.”
Max was so relieved, and thought it such a capital joke that he burst
out laughing; even the Martendijks laughed; and Jo tried to join in, but
the joy was too sudden after the anxiety she had undergone, and she
broke into a hysterical fit of weeping instead.
“There you are now! I told you so—insisting on the party like that!”
cried Van Elst, losing his temper completely.
“What kind of an outbreak is that?” asked Emily, forgetting the repairs
at home for the moment, in order to give vent to her indignation.
“What is it? It is your fault, Emily, if she is laid up. I could have
told you beforehand,—Jo is not fit for all that worry and fuss!”
Emily followed her husband from the room—the thought of the building
recurring to her; while Van Elst led his wife away.
When the doctor came, he spoke of over-excitement, nervous strain, and
prescribed strong beef-tea, absolute quiet, and keeping to her room. Jo
submitted. Jan was nearly all right again; it had been a mere cold, and
in her joy and gratitude for his recovery, she could have submitted to
much; to remain in one’s room, however, is a trial to appreciate which
one must be the mother of three children.
“Your visitor can surely manage the house for a few days?” the doctor
had said. But, strangely enough, now the party was over Cousin Emily
seemed totally incapable of domestic duties.
So Jo lay listening to piercing cries from Nonnie, who was evidently
tumbling downstairs, and hungry little Ada’s wails would penetrate to
her ears; or the maid would appear one moment, the “boy” the next, to
ply her with questions. Worse than all were the fears she created for
herself,—Jan would be sure to catch cold, or the children would venture
too near the well or the cistern; who was to put away all the plate and
crystal? and would not the servants appropriate all the remains of the
feast?
Luckily Van Elst came home early; but he brought no balm to Jo’s heart,
for when he saw that she was no better, he began by scolding her, and
then abruptly left the house.
This was the very opportunity his neighbour over the way had been
watching for.