I.
Notary van Elst generally comes home from his office about five in the afternoon, and his return to the bosom of his family is a pretty sight.
The Van Elsts’ neighbour,—unsociable old bachelor that he was,—noticing how eagerly this return was watched for every afternoon and greeted with joyful acclamation, had a way of turning away his head, and muttering crossly, “I might have known that sort of thing too, if only——”
In the bendy[[38]] sent to fetch Van Elst, the curly head of his eldest child was always to be seen; Nonnie and little Ada were always watching for him on the verandah steps when he drove up; and no sooner did the wheels crunch over the gravel than a pretty little wife would come flying out with the brightest, pleasantest face imaginable, which she never forgot to hold up for the kiss which was always forthcoming, unless the children interfered, clinging about him as they did, and clamouring for attention.
Then came an interval of peace. Papa went to dress, and mamma sent the little ones out for a walk; and when the old bachelor returned to his verandah,—having been away for his bath meanwhile,—he would see his gentle little neighbour seated at the tea-tray as placidly as if she had not been busy the whole day running here and there,—now urging a perverse “boy” to work, now disposing of a contumacious pedlar or unreasonable lengànan,[[39]] or, most frequent occupation of all, flying to soothe the children in the countless infantine woes and accidents which were always occurring.
“WHEN THE OLD BACHELOR RETURNED TO HIS VERANDAH.”
It really was, and not merely in the old bachelor’s fancy, a pretty sight.
The wife got all the newspapers and letters, and the master of the house innumerable cups of tea. He would retail all the items of news,—she, the children’s pretty sayings and doings; and if she felt a craving to unburden herself of domestic grievances, she found him ready to listen, as far as appearances went, at least.
“Is there no news to-day?” she asks, when the little disturbers of the peace have been sent out, and her husband throws himself back luxuriously in his lounging-chair.
“Oh! yes, a great piece of news. Just guess.”
“Oh! come; do tell me. You know I hate guessing.”
“Well, then, a letter from our cousins the Martendijks. Where on earth did I put it? Oh! here it is in my coat pocket. Well, there’s not much in it, except that they ask if we will have them on a visit.”
“The Martendijks!” Jo exclaims, her face lengthening. But immediately she recollects that they are relations of her husband’s; and as this is rather a sore point with him, she hastens to add: “What do you say to it, Max?”
“Well, you see,” answers Max, “I have been wondering whether we should not write that you are not yet strong enough for visitors.”
Jo does not indeed look strong, with her fitful colour, and that languid droop of the eyelids, but, like most mothers of a family who know how ill they can be spared, she is loath to allow that she is not robust, and does her best to persuade herself and every one else that, once she has got over this or that, she will be perfectly strong.
“No; you must not do that. We can’t let them stay on at that hot Soeka-Manies, especially with the bad season coming on. When do they propose to come?”
“On the 5th.”
“Good gracious! the day after to-morrow! And I have to put clean curtains on the beds! They might have given us longer notice, I think. Surely Emily knows as well as I do that there are always some arrangements to make in a busy household.”
“Then am I to write that they are welcome?”
“Yes; we can’t well do anything else. Another cup of tea, dear?”
Here follows a pause. Mr Van Elst puffs away contentedly at his cigar, while his wife begins to fidget a little. At last, laying her hand on her husband’s, she says, hesitatingly, “Do you know why their coming is not very convenient just now, dear boy? the godown is nearly empty.”
“Empty again? My dear Jo, what on earth becomes of the things?”
And as if this remark—a favourite one with married men, and generally as unjust as it is senseless—were not enough, he continues, in an aggrieved tone: “Good gracious, child! it is not three months since I ordered in a whole supply. Are the four boxes of wine finished? And all those tinned things? And all the casks of butter?”
“No, not yet. If no visitors were coming, we could easily hold out for another month; but you absolutely must order in a new supply now.”
“A new supply! And the beer not paid for yet at the bazaar! It’s all very well for you to talk, but you forget it’s easier to order than to pay.”
“Oh, Max! how can you speak so?” was Jo’s only answer. She might, if she chose, have retorted that it was he who drank so much wine,—though certainly she required the stimulant more than he did,—that the tins were rarely opened except on the numerous occasions when he brought home friends to dinner, and that it was he who grumbled if the dinner ever chanced to be a little scrimp. But she made no remark, and merely turned a piteous little face to her husband, which resulted in his immediately exclaiming: “Well, dear! don’t worry about it.” And then he continued, impelled to vent his wrath on something,—“But living is so confoundedly dear here, that a fellow is at his wits’ end to know what to do. And then come visitors to ruin you altogether.... They asked for an answer by wire,” he added, after a pause.
“Well, it does cost a good deal of money,” said Jo; “but, oh dear! if it is to please them!—”
When the morning of the 5th came, the Van Elsts’ neighbour over the way congratulated himself on his single blessedness, remarking to his dog, “That’s what comes of getting married.” He relented after a little, however, when his cup of coffee had put him in a somewhat better humour, and added: “After all, Van Elst is not so much more tied than I am. It isn’t often he’s interfered with. It’s a marvel how that woman always finds time for everything.”
To-day, however, Mrs Van Elst found it rather difficult to fit in everything. She was dreadfully busy; and, as might be expected, lost her temper a little, got cross with the “boys,” gave Nonnie a push, and Max a sharp answer, and then was stung with remorse, and said, resentfully, “that she could not understand why Cousin Martendijk had not written sooner; it was such short notice,—such a nuisance!”
It was indeed. For when Van Elst came home at mid-day, and she met him with the query if everything did not look nice? he saw by her flushed cheeks, and the dark rings under her eyes, that she had over-exerted herself.
“Yes, very nice indeed; but you have been doing far too much again,” he said, reproachfully. “Do take a rest now,” he added, pouring her out a glass of port.
“Thanks, dear; but I must go and dress first.”
“Yes, yes, presently,” he said, as he seated himself beside her on the couch, holding her back as she struggled to free herself, and then resorting to endearments and caresses which he well knew would retard her escape.
Presently a carriage drove up to the door. Jo sprang up in dismay, and made a bold attempt at flight; but she was caught in the act, and found herself face to face with the Martendijks! Very smart did Mrs Martendijk look in her white gown, flounced and embroidered; and Jo became painfully conscious of her own dishevelled hair, her soiled and crumpled kabaja, and old faded sarong[[40]].
“My wife was just going to dress,” remarked Van Elst, aware of her embarrassment; “we did not expect you before two o’clock.”
“Yes, so we wrote; but we changed our plans. It would have made us so late for luncheon, and that does not suit my complaint, you see,” said Martendijk.
“If you had sent me word, I’d have made a point of being ready,” said Jo.
“Well, of course, I had not time to think of that with all the bustle of starting. How d’ye do, Njo?”[[41]]
Now the reader must know that Njo, to whom Mrs Martendijk addressed this remark, was the Van Elsts’ pride and joy. They had two dear little girls besides—very fine children, too,—but Njo; their Njo! when he came into the room, the father’s and mother’s eyes wandered involuntarily in his direction, and instinctively they would pause in their conversation to allow their visitors an opportunity of expressing their admiration, and their amazement, over “Such a fine little fellow! Such a huge child!”
“Our Njo” looked perfectly charming to-day. Mamma had brushed the pretty brown curls herself, to do him justice in the eyes of her husband’s relations; and it was with his most roguish expression, and his usual winning manner, that he held up his little face with a merry laugh for the new aunt to kiss. And Aunt said nothing but “How d’ye do, Njo?”
Max glanced at his wife; but she replied by a sign which was meant to convey some such remark: “You can’t blame her for it; she doesn’t understand children,” and that checked Max’s rising resentment.
All this time the poor hostess was sitting very ill at ease; she kept up the conversation for a few minutes, and then asked if her cousin would not like to be shown to her room.
But Mrs Martendijk preferred to drink a glass of port first, so Jo had to remain sitting in the kabaja and sarong, which seemed to her more soiled and faded every moment.