UNBIDDEN GUESTS.

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 thebendy[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 unreasonablelengànan,[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 reallywas, 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.”

“TheMartendijks!” 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 doyousay 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 haveto 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? thegodownis nearly empty.”

“Emptyagain? 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 certainlysherequired 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 toher 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 freeherself, 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 crumpledkabaja, and old fadedsarong[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! whenhecame 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 “Sucha fine little fellow! Such ahugechild!”

“Our Njo” looked perfectly charming to-day. Mamma had brushed the pretty brown curls herself, to do himjustice 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 thekabajaandsarong, which seemed to her more soiled and faded every moment.

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.

Shewasa 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 whitekabaja, 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 veryutmost, 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 atdry 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 thesambalanstoo 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.”

“Thatisa pity. But,” continued Emily, with an amiable little laugh, “I know what you can do. Have somesambal[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 ofbouillonabout eleven o’clock,and I a cup of chocolate—but it must bechicken-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 preparekaldoe[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 newsarongbefore she broachedthesubject; 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 themenuevery 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 ofappetite, 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.

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 herhost’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 inbillets-douxand 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 thingsdooccur—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 cookreceived her with a withering glance, and when her mistress asked for thekaldoe, 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 thekaldoesimmering 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 thekaldoecritically, 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 hercousin 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 youwillhelp me, won’t you?”

“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 forhimin 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 upherchair to any one in the world; but she was quite different whereMaxwas 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 usualwith 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 likethat” (with a glance at “charming little Ada”) “I considerhorrible.”

“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.

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 thegarden 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 itmight have beenhis 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 cosytête-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, intea,” 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.

Moneywas 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.

“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 inyour 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 hisbouillon; “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 theiregoïsme 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 ‘almosttoogood’ 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 wellas 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, “thatisa 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 amsotired! 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.

“IfIundertook 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 recommenddishes 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 themenu, 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 sheis bent on having her own way,—but I’ll soon see who is master in my house. The party willnotgo 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 thepâtésarethething. 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 Emilyseated 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.”

“Thepunchwon’t keep, I suppose?” asked Max.

“Oh no! itisa 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.

Jo didnotappear 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, inspite 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,—Janwould 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.

With apparent unconcern he sauntered across his own grounds, where he had lain in ambush for some time; for ever since he had witnessed the doctor’s repeated visits, his curiosity had known no bounds.

“Well, Mr Van Elst,” he began, feigning great surprise at meeting him there, “and how are you all at home?”

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