“Well, my dear father,” replied the fair girl with a blush and a most bewitching smile, “I suppose every girl would; however, I am not particularly fond of all these things.”
“Oh, no,” interrupted the Resident with a laugh, “we know all about that. All girls talk just as you do when they are your age. It is always the same thing, ‘Beauty when unadorned &c., &c.’ But,” he continued, “all that sentiment does not last very long; in time women begin to see that the vital question is to appear as beautiful as possible. And now, my girl, you run away, and go and have a look to my breakfast; I have ordered it to be laid in the verandah and I have asked my secretary van Nes to come and have it with me. You know he is a man who knows what is good—so mind you look to the honour of the galley.”
When his daughter had left the pandoppo to do her father’s bidding, he turned to his wife and said: “Now, my dear Laurentia, just you listen to me. In a day or two I have to pay our bill to John Pryce of Batavia, it comes to 20,000 guilders, as you know, and of that sum I haven’t got the first thousand together yet. Now, if I am right about this Lim Ho business, why then you will see, we shall have fair weather enough for our money-question; oh yes, and we shall log a good bit more than that—we shall have a nice little sum in the locker after the bill is paid—that may come in handy—what do you say, eh?”
“Of course,” replied his wife thoughtfully, “but then that running away of Dalima, I don’t like—”
“Now, now,” cried her husband, “just you wait a bit, don’t be in a hurry, don’t go running off the stocks too fast! If the girl’s yarn be true, then—yes—I am afraid that Lim Ho has been fishing behind the net. And yet, when I come to look at it that is not so bad for us either. It will only make him clap on more sail and—if we can only keep our helm steady, then that little job may turn out a very nice little breeze for us. A Chinaman, you know, will go far—aye he will go very far to gratify his passions. So you just let me brace up, and mind don’t you go taking the wind out of my sails.”
It was growing rather late in the evening—about half past seven—when the Oppas, who had been sent out, returned and reported to his master that, with Dalima’s help, he had found Ardjan. The news came to Mr. van Gulpendam just after he had risen from table, and was sitting with his wife and daughter in the cool front gallery of the sumptuous Residential mansion. They were awaiting the arrival of some friends and acquaintances who were, on that evening, to partake of the family’s friendly and sociable hospitality. Yes—we use the words friendly and sociable hospitality; for the van Gulpendams, with all their faults, were very hospitable, and could be most friendly and sociable. Of course their intense worldliness and love of display had a great deal to do with their hospitality; but it was so tempered by the bon-ton of both host and hostess that, on such evenings as this, their ostentation was hardly, if at all, perceptible. This was to be a friendly and sociable evening. On such evenings not every one had the entrée of the Residence; they were, in fact, quite different from the grand official receptions.
These formal receptions took place regularly, once a week, on Wednesday. Then lower officials, subaltern officers, leading men of commerce, planters, strangers, in one word mere official visitors were received. On these grand occasions the Lord Resident would appear in state, clad in light-blue cloth coat with silver buttons, in white cashmere trousers, in all the splendour, in short, which his high office could shed upon poor mortal man. Then also his handsome wife decked out in all her jewellery would flaunt about like a gorgeous peacock. But at such receptions not a gleam, not a vestige of friendliness or sociability could be discovered within the walls of the house. Then on the one side, there was nothing but pride, conceit and arrogance, and, on the other, all was humility and obsequious cringing with here and there a little touch of half-concealed mockery. But the ordinary evening gatherings were for intimate friends and highly-placed officials who, by reason of their position or wealth, could venture familiarly to approach the Residential throne. Invitations there were none; but certain dignitaries were sure to put in an appearance, such as the Commandant of the garrison who was a Colonel at least, the President of the High Court of Justice, the Chief of the Medical Staff, the President of the Local Board of Trade, and such like. All these good people came without ceremony, without compliment, stood and chatted for a moment or two with Mrs. van Gulpendam or said a few pretty things to her fair daughter, shook hands with the Resident in a friendly way, talked over the bits of news of the day and then settled down at the little card-tables for a quiet game. As a rule Mrs. van Gulpendam would take a hand, and, it must be said, that she was by no means amongst the least lucky of the players, especially when, towards the end of the evening, the play began to run rather high. Of this love of play dear little Anna used to make excellent use. As soon as she had seen the guests properly attended to, she would slip away indoors, take her seat at her piano, and there would give herself up to the full enjoyment of Chopin or Beethoven or Mozart, whose masterpieces the young girl revelled in and would study with the enthusiasm of a born musician.
Such was to be this evening’s programme, though as the sequel will show, the music was to serve quite another purpose.
When the “Oppas” had, in minute detail, reported all he had learnt to know about poor Ardjan, and how he had conveyed the Javanese who was in a burning fever, to the hospital to be there further taken care of—the countenance of his chief brightened up wonderfully.
“The deuce, the deuce,” he muttered between his teeth, “that bit of a joke with the devil-nettle may come to cost Lim Ho’s worthy papa a pretty penny!”