II.
It was doubly annoying to the dainty little hostess to be surprised in such slovenly attire, because this was her first introduction to the Martendijks, and she had set her heart on making a good impression on them.
Though Emily and Johanna now met for the first time, their husbands were cousins and old acquaintances. Van Elst had been under some obligation to Martendijk’s father; and although he had not much in common with his cousin, he had always remained on friendly terms with him, in acknowledgment of his uncle’s past kindness.
They had both gone abroad at the same time, and after the lapse of ten years they thus met again, both married—the one managing partner in a sugar factory, the other notary in a prosperous place in the eastern province of Java.
There was no resemblance, not even a trace of family likeness, between the cousins.
Max was a strongly built man of middle height, broad-shouldered, and remarkably robust, with clear blue eyes, fresh colour, a full beard, and a laughing mouth; while Piet Martendijk was one of those long lean men whose appearance suggests that they have not been over fed in their young days, with scanty whiskers and hair, a long neck, and alarmingly thin legs; his complexion was sallow, his eyes lack-lustre, and his lips without a smile, which made some ladies pronounce him interesting, others distinguished, and men declare it a sin that he should have such a fine-looking wife.
She was a 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 white kabaja, with the faintest touch of colour lending a downy softness to her pretty little face, Mrs Van Elst stood in the verandah awaiting her guests.
With the self-complacency of an active housewife she let her eye rove over the tempting table, to the sideboard with its sparkling crystal, and to the side-table where the dishes stood ready to be handed round. “What a shame to let everything get cold,” she said to herself, greeting Max as he entered with the query if the “boy” had not announced luncheon.
“Yes, and I have called them myself too,” says Max, a little crossly, for he loves to have the curry served hot, “but they don’t seem to be ready yet. How splendid it looks,” he continues, and, with a furtive glance round to make sure that the children are out of the way, he helps himself from one of the dishes to a leg of roast fowl. He has abundant time to pick the bone leisurely before the guests appear, with the immediate request from Emily that the door may be closed.
“Oh, cousin,” Max exclaims, “it will be so frightfully stuffy here!”
“Yes, but there’s such a draught just now; and that’s so dangerous for Piet’s complaint, you see. So—if you don’t mind?”
They seat themselves, and the “boys” begin to wait. Jo is glad to see that the cook has exerted herself to the very utmost, and throws a contented little nod across to her husband, as much as to say, “Now, haven’t you a clever little wife?” to which he replies convincingly by helping himself very liberally from the various dishes.
All at once Jo discovers that Cousin Martendijk is eating away at dry rice!
“Won’t you have some curry?” she asks; “or perhaps you would rather——”
“No, thank you, cousin, I often eat my rice dry.”
“Do have a little piece of fricassee, then!” she exclaims in dismay, as he lets even that indispensable dish pass.
“No, it’s so dangerous to eat fricassee. You never know what it’s made of. And when one is a martyr to indigestion——”
“Oh, come,” Max exclaims impatiently, “you don’t need to be afraid of anything of that kind here. Jo always makes the fricassee herself, and most delicious it is, I assure you.”
“Well, a small piece then.”
Mrs Martendijk ate very little also; and Jo could not help noticing how Cousin Martendijk, who was rather shortsighted, gave a disdainful sniff every now and then at one or other of the dishes, and how his wife, without even honouring them with a glance, sent away one after another with a brief but decisive “tida.”[[42]]
My gentle readers will admit that this was a very trying experience for a hostess. Jo begins all at once to doubt her own domestic capabilities, and the painful conviction grows upon her that the fowl must be very tough, and the fish not fresh, and that there is a want of variety. A sort of dumb rage at the cook gradually takes possession of her,—she has such a trick of making the sambalans too hot; and she casts a vindictive glance at the “boy” when he forgets to hand round the pickles. And when the pickles are likewise smelt, and examined, and declined, she feels her face blaze, and her appetite vanish, and a wild longing comes over her for the moment when she can give the signal to rise from table.
“My dear cousin,” began Emily the next morning, following Jo into the store-room, where she was busy giving out provisions, “I think you were rather hurt at our eating so little yesterday, were you not?”
“Well, to tell the truth——”
“Now then, to put it all right, I’ll just tell you what was the real reason. You use cocoa-nut oil, don’t you? and you don’t make it at home! I tasted that at once.”
“No, that is true; the cook has enough to do as it is.”
“Oh, my dear! don’t you pay any attention to a cook like that. They can easily get through all their work. And do you know why Piet ate so little? Everything was too strong for him. I’m just telling you, you know, so that you may manage things better another time.”
“Yes, but that won’t be so very easy,” Jo ventured, “because—well, you see, my husband likes his food very highly seasoned.”
“That is a pity. But,” continued Emily, with an amiable little laugh, “I know what you can do. Have some sambal[[43]] made separately for him, and he can mix it with his food. We must adapt ourselves to one another, must we not?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Jo, “if there happens to be anything else you don’t care for, or that is bad for Cousin Martendijk’s inside——”
“Oh, no, thank you! We had a delicious dinner yesterday evening. Your cook is a capital hand. Oh, wait a moment, though, I had nearly forgotten. My good man is accustomed to have a cup of bouillon about eleven o’clock, and I a cup of chocolate—but it must be chicken-broth; he is not allowed beef-tea.”
“Very well,” said Jo, a vision immediately rising before her of the wrath of her cook when told that not only was she expected to make the cocoa-nut oil herself, but to prepare kaldoe[[44]] and chocolate at the very busiest hour of the morning. It was enough to make her give notice on the spot.
Mrs Van Elst, to tell the truth, stood in considerable awe of this cook, who was highly proficient in her art, used little butter, and did not appropriate much of the marketing money; and, I appeal to you, what mistress would not tremble at the thought of losing such a treasure?
She paved the way, therefore, with some friendly remarks, and even went the length of promising a new sarong before she broached the subject; and flattered herself that all was going to end smoothly, when cook all at once snatched up a basket of potatoes with one vicious jerk, and with another laid hold of the rice, and closed the door of the store-room behind her with a bang that thrilled her mistress from head to foot. Jo knew what to expect.
For the rest, Emily supplied a ready answer to the great question which haunts Indian no less than Dutch housewives: what are we to have for dinner to-day? It was virtually she who proposed the menu every day. “Do you know what I’d make to-day?” she would remark to Jo;—“one of those dishes of macaroni, with ham and cheese.” Or, “If you want to give Martendijk a treat, dear cousin, give him asparagus, he’s wild about that.” Or, “Do you never make tarts, Jo?—You do?—Well, I have a delicious recipe for one I can lend you if you like.”
It was really very kind of Emily, Jo thought; and she had little more cause to complain of her guest’s want of appetite, especially as Mrs Martendijk had taken upon herself to make sure that nothing came to table which might prove injurious to her husband’s digestion.