IV.
“Just listen to this!” exclaimed Van Elst, reading the foreign telegrams at the tea-table that afternoon. “Russia has declared war against Turkey.”
“Indeed!” remarked Martendijk indifferently. “Well, I thought it would come to that in the end.”
“It’s really terrible,” Max went on. “How many wars does that make within our recollection? And in our much-vaunted nineteenth century too! I hoped they would have been able to avert this.”
“Have your people Turkish or Russian bonds?”
“No; why on earth should you think that?”
“Oh, because you are so interested in that war. You would be in a bad way in that case. It is great folly. We don’t have anything to do with that sort of thing either—do we, Emily?”
“No, indeed,” said Emily. “As far as we are concerned, all Europe can go to war.”
“Alas!” cried Jo, who had not been listening to this dialogue between the couple. “What terrible news, Max! To think of the waste of strong young lives, and all the wives and mothers who are left at home.” And instinctively she drew little Jan towards her, and pressed him close.
“Well, there’s no danger for him in the meantime,” said Martendijk; and Mr and Mrs Van Elst glanced at one another, as they had so often done during the past few days, as if to ask what manner of people these cousins could be.
Mrs Martendijk was also glancing through a newspaper, and, suddenly turning to her husband, she exclaimed, “What did I prophesy, Piet? Van Dalem is in the bankruptcy court.”
“Well, well!” said Piet. “After all, what else was to be expected. It’s the last straw breaks the camel’s back! It is the man’s own fault. You must understand, Max,” he continued, addressing his cousin, “this Van Dalem was a near neighbour of ours. He came into a splendid business, and might have been rolling in wealth in a few years; but you never saw such a spendthrift. He was always thrusting himself forward, always entertaining, always having visitors——”
“Yes,” affirmed Emily; “and the worst of it was, while his wife was giving parties, he was lending money right and left,—standing security, advancing money to every beggar who came to him; he said he could not refuse.”
“Real good-natured folk, then?” asked Van Elst.
“Oh, yes, good-natured enough as far as that went. I can’t tell you how many widows he has given shelter to, how many little waifs she took in from the native village (they have no children of their own), how many forced sales he has put a stop to——”
“Poor fellow,” cried Max, “I wish I could do something for him.”
“It’s easy to say that, Max,” interposed Martendijk; “but,” and he pulled his thin whiskers meditatively, “it comes to be a question if it is right to sympathise with people of that kind. Is it not their own fault that they have gone down in the world? Is it not inexcusable to run through one’s money in that way?”
“Inexcusable? I don’t agree with you there. At least he has run through it in a way which speaks well for his heart, if not for his good sense.”
“I am anxious to see if people will help him in his turn,” said Emily, in a tone which irritated Van Elst beyond measure.
“Of course they will,” he said, curtly.
“Do you think so?” asked Martendijk, with some expression for once in his weak face. “People are, as a rule, more ready to look you up when they need you than when you need them. He certainly had a great many friends; but we know what that amounts to. In any case,” he continued after a pause, “it is safest to make sure that you will never be dependent on any one’s help.”
“That is true,” said Max. But as he spoke he left his seat abruptly, and went to have a look at the flowers with little Jan. Jo very soon followed him. It was very evident that he had lost his temper; and she was always ready in such an emergency to do her best to drive away the clouds as quickly as possible.
“What’s the matter, dear?”
“Oh! nothing. Rather disgusted; that’s all. How do you like the Martendijks, Jo?”
“Oh! not particularly. Perhaps it would be better to suspend our judgment of them for a little, Max.”
“I don’t see it,” said Max, sharply. “But, Jo, do you know what we might do?” he added, hastily, seeing her shrink at his vehemence, “go for a drive just now; then Jan can go too.”
“Oh! yes, papa,” cried Jan, delightfully, “and sit on the box.”
“My dear, the horses have been too far to-day already. Emily drove to the Chinese camp, and was out for more than two hours.”
“Indeed!” said Max. “Well, then, for goodness’ sake, let us stop at home. That will be very nice too, won’t it, Jan? and we’ll build a fortress.”
Jo was satisfied that the clouds were fast dispersing; she took her husband’s arm, and exerted herself to be specially bright and charming, chattering to him about the children, and all sorts of interesting things, and finally assisting at his toilet,—a favour he particularly enjoyed,—and prattling all manner of pretty compliments to him.
Max was in high good-humour when he left her to go for a turn with Jan.
When Jo appeared, after a hasty toilet, she found their cousins in the verandah before her, busy with the illustrated papers.
That was a most innocent pastime certainly; but, alas! Martendijk had taken possession of Max’s place and chair.
Now Mrs Van Elst was the most accommodating little person imaginable, and would have given up her chair to any one in the world; but she was quite different where Max was concerned.
“Oh! there’s my husband coming,” she exclaimed in a minute or two, as he came up the drive with Jan; and as Martendijk showed not the slightest disposition to take the hint, she added, as pleasantly as she could, “Martendijk, I’m sure you are not aware that that is Max’s place?”
“Yes, dear cousin,” said Martendijk, stretching himself with an air of contentment. “To tell you the truth, I was quite aware of the fact; but Emily chose this place for me, because there are such draughts everywhere else.”
“Oh! I am sure Cousin Max will be glad to give up his place to you for a little,—won’t you, Max?” Emily struck in.
To Jo’s relief, her husband assented, and Martendijk made himself as comfortable as he could in his host’s chair.
The children came in from their walk, and stayed as usual with papa and mamma till bedtime,—a habit as pleasant for parents as for guests.
They formed a pretty group, the three innocent child-heads, and at the sight Max’s and Jo’s beaming eyes met, and at last the happy little wife could not refrain from the question,—
“Don’t you two think our children are little angels?”
“Yes, darlings!” responded Emily. “So good and sweet-tempered; especially little Jan, he doesn’t give you much trouble now.”
“Trouble!” exclaimed Jo. “Oh! not one of them gives any trouble,—only a very little when they are ill. But as long as they keep well I have nothing but pleasure in them.”
And she spoke the truth, for all cares and anxieties were light to her, because so willingly borne.
“I’d not mind having a boy like this, about three or four,” Emily continued, drawing little Jan to her caressingly; “but a baby like that” (with a glance at “charming little Ada”) “I consider horrible.”
“Horrible!” Jo shrank from her in dismay, indignant that any one should speak so. But her anger was transient, for she immediately remembered that it was not poor Emily’s fault that she had such strange ideas; she really did not know what it was to have children of her own.