AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

by Joseph Conrad

_Pues el delito mayor Del hombre es haber nacito_ CALDERON

TO EDWARD LANCELOT SANDERSON

AUTHOR'S NOTE

"An Outcast of the Islands" is my second novel in the absolute sense ofthe word; second in conception, second in execution, second as it werein its essence. There was no hesitation, half-formed plan, vague idea, or the vaguest reverie of anything else between it and "Almayer'sFolly. " The only doubt I suffered from, after the publication of"Almayer's Folly, " was whether I should write another line for print. Those days, now grown so dim, had their poignant moments. Neither inmy mind nor in my heart had I then given up the sea. In truth I wasclinging to it desperately, all the more desperately because, againstmy will, I could not help feeling that there was something changed in myrelation to it. "Almayer's Folly, " had been finished and done with. Themood itself was gone. But it had left the memory of an experience that, both in thought and emotion was unconnected with the sea, and I supposethat part of my moral being which is rooted in consistency was badlyshaken. I was a victim of contrary stresses which produced a state ofimmobility. I gave myself up to indolence. Since it was impossible forme to face both ways I had elected to face nothing. The discovery ofnew values in life is a very chaotic experience; there is a tremendousamount of jostling and confusion and a momentary feeling of darkness. Ilet my spirit float supine over that chaos. 

A phrase of Edward Garnett's is, as a matter of fact, responsible forthis book. The first of the friends I made for myself by my pen itwas but natural that he should be the recipient, at that time, of myconfidences. One evening when we had dined together and he had listenedto the account of my perplexities (I fear he must have been growing alittle tired of them) he pointed out that there was no need to determinemy future absolutely. Then he added: "You have the style, you have thetemperament; why not write another?" I believe that as far as one manmay wish to influence another man's life Edward Garnett had a greatdesire that I should go on writing. At that time, and I may say, everafterwards, he was always very patient and gentle with me. What strikesme most however in the phrase quoted above which was offered to me in atone of detachment is not its gentleness but its effective wisdom. Hadhe said, "Why not go on writing, " it is very probable he would havescared me away from pen and ink for ever; but there was nothing eitherto frighten one or arouse one's antagonism in the mere suggestion to"write another. " And thus a dead point in the revolution of my affairswas insidiously got over. The word "another" did it. At about eleveno'clock of a nice London night, Edward and I walked along interminablestreets talking of many things, and I remember that on getting homeI sat down and wrote about half a page of "An Outcast of the Islands"before I slept. This was committing myself definitely, I won't say toanother life, but to another book. There is apparently something in mycharacter which will not allow me to abandon for good any piece of workI have begun. I have laid aside many beginnings. I have laid them asidewith sorrow, with disgust, with rage, with melancholy and even withself-contempt; but even at the worst I had an uneasy consciousness thatI would have to go back to them. 

"An Outcast of the Islands" belongs to those novels of mine that werenever laid aside; and though it brought me the qualification of "exoticwriter" I don't think the charge was at all justified. 

For the life of me I don't see that there is the slightest exotic spiritin the conception or style of that novel. It is certainly the most_tropical_ of my eastern tales. The mere scenery got a great hold onme as I went on, perhaps because (I may just as well confess that) thestory itself was never very near my heart. 

It engaged my imagination much more than my affection. As to my feelingfor Willems it was but the regard one cannot help having for one's owncreation. Obviously I could not be indifferent to a man on whose head Ihad brought so much evil simply by imagining him such as he appears inthe novel--and that, too, on a very slight foundation. 

The man who suggested Willems to me was not particularly interesting inhimself. My interest was aroused by his dependent position, his strange, dubious status of a mistrusted, disliked, worn-out European living onthe reluctant toleration of that Settlement hidden in the heart of theforest-land, up that sombre stream which our ship was the only whitemen's ship to visit. With his hollow, clean-shaved cheeks, a heavy greymoustache and eyes without any expression whatever, clad always in aspotless sleeping suit much be-frogged in front, which left his leanneck wholly uncovered, and with his bare feet in a pair of strawslippers, he wandered silently amongst the houses in daylight, almost asdumb as an animal and apparently much more homeless. I don't knowwhat he did with himself at night. He must have had a place, a hut, a palm-leaf shed, some sort of hovel where he kept his razor and hischange of sleeping suits. An air of futile mystery hung over him, something not exactly dark but obviously ugly. The only definitestatement I could extract from anybody was that it was he who had"brought the Arabs into the river. " That must have happened many yearsbefore. But how did he bring them into the river? He could hardly havedone it in his arms like a lot of kittens. I knew that Almayer foundedthe chronology of all his misfortunes on the date of that fatefuladvent; and yet the very first time we dined with Almayer there wasWillems sitting at table with us in the manner of the skeleton at thefeast, obviously shunned by everybody, never addressed by any one, andfor all recognition of his existence getting now and then from Almayera venomous glance which I observed with great surprise. In the courseof the whole evening he ventured one single remark which I didn't catchbecause his articulation was imperfect, as of a man who had forgottenhow to speak. I was the only person who seemed aware of the sound. Willems subsided. Presently he retired, pointedly unnoticed--into theforest maybe? Its immensity was there, within three hundred yards ofthe verandah, ready to swallow up anything. Almayer conversing with mycaptain did not stop talking while he glared angrily at the retreatingback. Didn't that fellow bring the Arabs into the river! NeverthelessWillems turned up next morning on Almayer's verandah. From the bridge ofthe steamer I could see plainly these two, breakfasting together, tetea tete and, I suppose, in dead silence, one with his air of being nolonger interested in this world and the other raising his eyes now andthen with intense dislike. 

It was clear that in those days Willems lived on Almayer's charity. Yeton returning two months later to Sambir I heard that he had gone on anexpedition up the river in charge of a steam-launch belonging to theArabs, to make some discovery or other. On account of the strangereluctance that everyone manifested to talk about Willems it wasimpossible for me to get at the rights of that transaction. Moreover, Iwas a newcomer, the youngest of the company, and, I suspect, not judgedquite fit as yet for a full confidence. I was not much concerned aboutthat exclusion. The faint suggestion of plots and mysteries pertainingto all matters touching Almayer's affairs amused me vastly. Almayer wasobviously very much affected. I believe he missed Willems immensely. Hewore an air of sinister preoccupation and talked confidentially withmy captain. I could catch only snatches of mumbled sentences. Then onemorning as I came along the deck to take my place at the breakfast tableAlmayer checked himself in his low-toned discourse. My captain's facewas perfectly impenetrable. There was a moment of profound silence andthen as if unable to contain himself Almayer burst out in a loud vicioustone:

"One thing's certain; if he finds anything worth having up there theywill poison him like a dog. "

Disconnected though it was, that phrase, as food for thought, wasdistinctly worth hearing. We left the river three days afterwards and Inever returned to Sambir; but whatever happened to the protagonist ofmy Willems nobody can deny that I have recorded for him a less squalidfate. 

J. C. 1919. 

PART I

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

CHAPTER ONE

When he stepped off the straight and narrow path of his peculiarhonesty, it was with an inward assertion of unflinching resolve to fallback again into the monotonous but safe stride of virtue as soon as hislittle excursion into the wayside quagmires had produced the desiredeffect. It was going to be a short episode--a sentence in brackets, soto speak--in the flowing tale of his life: a thing of no moment, to bedone unwillingly, yet neatly, and to be quickly forgotten. He imaginedthat he could go on afterwards looking at the sunshine, enjoying theshade, breathing in the perfume of flowers in the small garden beforehis house. He fancied that nothing would be changed, that he would beable as heretofore to tyrannize good-humouredly over his half-castewife, to notice with tender contempt his pale yellow child, to patronizeloftily his dark-skinned brother-in-law, who loved pink neckties andwore patent-leather boots on his little feet, and was so humble beforethe white husband of the lucky sister. Those were the delights of hislife, and he was unable to conceive that the moral significance of anyact of his could interfere with the very nature of things, could dimthe light of the sun, could destroy the perfume of the flowers, thesubmission of his wife, the smile of his child, the awe-struck respectof Leonard da Souza and of all the Da Souza family. That family'sadmiration was the great luxury of his life. It rounded and completedhis existence in a perpetual assurance of unquestionable superiority. He loved to breathe the coarse incense they offered before the shrine ofthe successful white man; the man that had done them the honour to marrytheir daughter, sister, cousin; the rising man sure to climb veryhigh; the confidential clerk of Hudig & Co. They were a numerous and anunclean crowd, living in ruined bamboo houses, surrounded by neglectedcompounds, on the outskirts of Macassar. He kept them at arm's lengthand even further off, perhaps, having no illusions as to their worth. They were a half-caste, lazy lot, and he saw them as they were--ragged, lean, unwashed, undersized men of various ages, shuffling aboutaimlessly in slippers; motionless old women who looked like monstrousbags of pink calico stuffed with shapeless lumps of fat, and depositedaskew upon decaying rattan chairs in shady corners of dusty verandahs;young women, slim and yellow, big-eyed, long-haired, moving languidlyamongst the dirt and rubbish of their dwellings as if every stepthey took was going to be their very last. He heard their shrillquarrellings, the squalling of their children, the grunting of theirpigs; he smelt the odours of the heaps of garbage in their courtyards:and he was greatly disgusted. But he fed and clothed that shabbymultitude; those degenerate descendants of Portuguese conquerors; he wastheir providence; he kept them singing his praises in the midst of theirlaziness, of their dirt, of their immense and hopeless squalor: and hewas greatly delighted. They wanted much, but he could give them all theywanted without ruining himself. In exchange he had their silent fear, their loquacious love, their noisy veneration. It is a fine thing to bea providence, and to be told so on every day of one's life. It gives onea feeling of enormously remote superiority, and Willems revelled init. He did not analyze the state of his mind, but probably his greatestdelight lay in the unexpressed but intimate conviction that, shouldhe close his hand, all those admiring human beings would starve. Hismunificence had demoralized them. An easy task. Since he descendedamongst them and married Joanna they had lost the little aptitude andstrength for work they might have had to put forth under the stress ofextreme necessity. They lived now by the grace of his will. This waspower. Willems loved it. In another, and perhaps a lower plane, his daysdid not want for their less complex but more obvious pleasures. He likedthe simple games of skill--billiards; also games not so simple, andcalling for quite another kind of skill--poker. He had been theaptest pupil of a steady-eyed, sententious American, who had driftedmysteriously into Macassar from the wastes of the Pacific, and, afterknocking about for a time in the eddies of town life, had drifted outenigmatically into the sunny solitudes of the Indian Ocean. The memoryof the Californian stranger was perpetuated in the game of poker--whichbecame popular in the capital of Celebes from that time--and ina powerful cocktail, the recipe for which is transmitted--in theKwang-tung dialect--from head boy to head boy of the Chinese servants inthe Sunda Hotel even to this day. Willems was a connoisseur in the drinkand an adept at the game. Of those accomplishments he was moderatelyproud. Of the confidence reposed in him by Hudig--the master--he wasboastfully and obtrusively proud. This arose from his great benevolence, and from an exalted sense of his duty to himself and the world at large. He experienced that irresistible impulse to impart information which isinseparable from gross ignorance. There is always some one thing whichthe ignorant man knows, and that thing is the only thing worth knowing;it fills the ignorant man's universe. Willems knew all about himself. On the day when, with many misgivings, he ran away from a DutchEast-Indiaman in Samarang roads, he had commenced that study ofhimself, of his own ways, of his own abilities, of those fate-compellingqualities of his which led him toward that lucrative position whichhe now filled. Being of a modest and diffident nature, his successesamazed, almost frightened him, and ended--as he got over the succeedingshocks of surprise--by making him ferociously conceited. He believed inhis genius and in his knowledge of the world. Others should know of italso; for their own good and for his greater glory. All those friendlymen who slapped him on the back and greeted him noisily should havethe benefit of his example. For that he must talk. He talked to themconscientiously. In the afternoon he expounded his theory of successover the little tables, dipping now and then his moustache in thecrushed ice of the cocktails; in the evening he would often hold forth, cue in hand, to a young listener across the billiard table. The billiardballs stood still as if listening also, under the vivid brilliance ofthe shaded oil lamps hung low over the cloth; while away in the shadowsof the big room the Chinaman marker would lean wearily against thewall, the blank mask of his face looking pale under the mahoganymarking-board; his eyelids dropped in the drowsy fatigue of late hoursand in the buzzing monotony of the unintelligible stream of words pouredout by the white man. In a sudden pause of the talk the game wouldrecommence with a sharp click and go on for a time in the flowing softwhirr and the subdued thuds as the balls rolled zig-zagging towards theinevitably successful cannon. Through the big windows and the open doorsthe salt dampness of the sea, the vague smell of mould and flowers fromthe garden of the hotel drifted in and mingled with the odour of lampoil, growing heavier as the night advanced. The players' heads divedinto the light as they bent down for the stroke, springing back againsmartly into the greenish gloom of broad lamp-shades; the clock tickedmethodically; the unmoved Chinaman continuously repeated the score in alifeless voice, like a big talking doll--and Willems would win the game. With a remark that it was getting late, and that he was a married man, he would say a patronizing good-night and step out into the long, empty street. At that hour its white dust was like a dazzling streak ofmoonlight where the eye sought repose in the dimmer gleam of rare oillamps. Willems walked homewards, following the line of walls overtoppedby the luxuriant vegetation of the front gardens. The houses right andleft were hidden behind the black masses of flowering shrubs. Willemshad the street to himself. He would walk in the middle, his shadowgliding obsequiously before him. He looked down on it complacently. The shadow of a successful man! He would be slightly dizzy with thecocktails and with the intoxication of his own glory. As he often toldpeople, he came east fourteen years ago--a cabin boy. A small boy. Hisshadow must have been very small at that time; he thought with a smilethat he was not aware then he had anything--even a shadow--whichhe dared call his own. And now he was looking at the shadow of theconfidential clerk of Hudig & Co. Going home. How glorious! How goodwas life for those that were on the winning side! He had won the gameof life; also the game of billiards. He walked faster, jingling hiswinnings, and thinking of the white stone days that had marked the pathof his existence. He thought of the trip to Lombok for ponies--thatfirst important transaction confided to him by Hudig; then he reviewedthe more important affairs: the quiet deal in opium; the illegal trafficin gunpowder; the great affair of smuggled firearms, the difficultbusiness of the Rajah of Goak. He carried that last through by sheerpluck; he had bearded the savage old ruler in his council room; he hadbribed him with a gilt glass coach, which, rumour said, was used as ahen-coop now; he had over-persuaded him; he had bested him in every way. That was the way to get on. He disapproved of the elementary dishonestythat dips the hand in the cash-box, but one could evade the laws andpush the principles of trade to their furthest consequences. Some callthat cheating. Those are the fools, the weak, the contemptible. Thewise, the strong, the respected, have no scruples. Where there arescruples there can be no power. On that text he preached often to theyoung men. It was his doctrine, and he, himself, was a shining exampleof its truth. 

Night after night he went home thus, after a day of toil and pleasure, drunk with the sound of his own voice celebrating his own prosperity. Onhis thirtieth birthday he went home thus. He had spent in good companya nice, noisy evening, and, as he walked along the empty street, thefeeling of his own greatness grew upon him, lifted him above the whitedust of the road, and filled him with exultation and regrets. He had notdone himself justice over there in the hotel, he had not talked enoughabout himself, he had not impressed his hearers enough. Never mind. Someother time. Now he would go home and make his wife get up and listen tohim. Why should she not get up?--and mix a cocktail for him--and listenpatiently. Just so. She shall. If he wanted he could make all the DaSouza family get up. He had only to say a word and they would all comeand sit silently in their night vestments on the hard, cold ground ofhis compound and listen, as long as he wished to go on explaining tothem from the top of the stairs, how great and good he was. They would. However, his wife would do--for to-night. 

His wife! He winced inwardly. A dismal woman with startled eyes anddolorously drooping mouth, that would listen to him in pained wonderand mute stillness. She was used to those night-discourses now. She hadrebelled once--at the beginning. Only once. Now, while he sprawled inthe long chair and drank and talked, she would stand at the furtherend of the table, her hands resting on the edge, her frightened eyeswatching his lips, without a sound, without a stir, hardly breathing, till he dismissed her with a contemptuous: "Go to bed, dummy. " She woulddraw a long breath then and trail out of the room, relieved but unmoved. Nothing could startle her, make her scold or make her cry. She didnot complain, she did not rebel. That first difference of theirswas decisive. Too decisive, thought Willems, discontentedly. It hadfrightened the soul out of her body apparently. A dismal woman! Adamn'd business altogether! What the devil did he want to go and saddlehimself. . . . Ah! Well! he wanted a home, and the match seemed toplease Hudig, and Hudig gave him the bungalow, that flower-bowered houseto which he was wending his way in the cool moonlight. And he hadthe worship of the Da Souza tribe. A man of his stamp could carry offanything, do anything, aspire to anything. In another five years thosewhite people who attended the Sunday card-parties of the Governor wouldaccept him--half-caste wife and all! Hooray! He saw his shadow dartforward and wave a hat, as big as a rum barrel, at the end of anarm several yards long. . . . Who shouted hooray? . . . He smiledshamefacedly to himself, and, pushing his hands deep into his pockets, walked faster with a suddenly grave face. Behind him--to the left--acigar end glowed in the gateway of Mr. Vinck's front yard. Leaningagainst one of the brick pillars, Mr. Vinck, the cashier of Hudig &Co. , smoked the last cheroot of the evening. Amongst the shadows ofthe trimmed bushes Mrs. Vinck crunched slowly, with measured steps, thegravel of the circular path before the house. 

"There's Willems going home on foot--and drunk I fancy, " said Mr. Vinckover his shoulder. "I saw him jump and wave his hat. "

The crunching of the gravel stopped. 

"Horrid man, " said Mrs. Vinck, calmly. "I have heard he beats his wife. "

"Oh no, my dear, no, " muttered absently Mr. Vinck, with a vague gesture. The aspect of Willems as a wife-beater presented to him no interest. Howwomen do misjudge! If Willems wanted to torture his wife he would haverecourse to less primitive methods. Mr. Vinck knew Willems well, andbelieved him to be very able, very smart--objectionably so. As he tookthe last quick draws at the stump of his cheroot, Mr. Vinck reflectedthat the confidence accorded by Hudig to Willems was open, under thecircumstances, to loyal criticism from Hudig's cashier. 

"He is becoming dangerous; he knows too much. He will have to be got ridof, " said Mr. Vinck aloud. But Mrs. Vinck had gone in already, and aftershaking his head he threw away his cheroot and followed her slowly. 

Willems walked on homeward weaving the splendid web of his future. Theroad to greatness lay plainly before his eyes, straight and shining, without any obstacle that he could see. He had stepped off the pathof honesty, as he understood it, but he would soon regain it, neverto leave it any more! It was a very small matter. He would soon put itright again. Meantime his duty was not to be found out, and he trustedin his skill, in his luck, in his well-established reputation that woulddisarm suspicion if anybody dared to suspect. But nobody would dare!True, he was conscious of a slight deterioration. He had appropriatedtemporarily some of Hudig's money. A deplorable necessity. But he judgedhimself with the indulgence that should be extended to the weaknessesof genius. He would make reparation and all would be as before; nobodywould be the loser for it, and he would go on unchecked toward thebrilliant goal of his ambition. 

Hudig's partner!

Before going up the steps of his house he stood for awhile, his feetwell apart, chin in hand, contemplating mentally Hudig's future partner. A glorious occupation. He saw him quite safe; solid as the hills;deep--deep as an abyss; discreet as the grave. 

CHAPTER TWO

The sea, perhaps because of its saltness, roughens the outside but keepssweet the kernel of its servants' soul. The old sea; the sea of manyyears ago, whose servants were devoted slaves and went from youth to ageor to a sudden grave without needing to open the book of life, becausethey could look at eternity reflected on the element that gave the lifeand dealt the death. Like a beautiful and unscrupulous woman, the seaof the past was glorious in its smiles, irresistible in its anger, capricious, enticing, illogical, irresponsible; a thing to love, a thingto fear. It cast a spell, it gave joy, it lulled gently into boundlessfaith; then with quick and causeless anger it killed. But its crueltywas redeemed by the charm of its inscrutable mystery, by the immensityof its promise, by the supreme witchery of its possible favour. Strongmen with childlike hearts were faithful to it, were content to live byits grace--to die by its will. That was the sea before the time when theFrench mind set the Egyptian muscle in motion and produced a dismalbut profitable ditch. Then a great pall of smoke sent out by countlesssteam-boats was spread over the restless mirror of the Infinite. Thehand of the engineer tore down the veil of the terrible beauty inorder that greedy and faithless landlubbers might pocket dividends. Themystery was destroyed. Like all mysteries, it lived only in the heartsof its worshippers. The hearts changed; the men changed. The once lovingand devoted servants went out armed with fire and iron, and conqueringthe fear of their own hearts became a calculating crowd of cold andexacting masters. The sea of the past was an incomparably beautifulmistress, with inscrutable face, with cruel and promising eyes. The seaof to-day is a used-up drudge, wrinkled and defaced by the churned-upwakes of brutal propellers, robbed of the enslaving charm of itsvastness, stripped of its beauty, of its mystery and of its promise. 

Tom Lingard was a master, a lover, a servant of the sea. The sea tookhim young, fashioned him body and soul; gave him his fierce aspect, hisloud voice, his fearless eyes, his stupidly guileless heart. Generouslyit gave him his absurd faith in himself, his universal love of creation, his wide indulgence, his contemptuous severity, his straightforwardsimplicity of motive and honesty of aim. Having made him what he was, womanlike, the sea served him humbly and let him bask unharmed in thesunshine of its terribly uncertain favour. Tom Lingard grew rich on thesea and by the sea. He loved it with the ardent affection of a lover, he made light of it with the assurance of perfect mastery, he feared itwith the wise fear of a brave man, and he took liberties with it as aspoiled child might do with a paternal and good-natured ogre. He wasgrateful to it, with the gratitude of an honest heart. His greatestpride lay in his profound conviction of its faithfulness--in the deepsense of his unerring knowledge of its treachery. 

The little brig Flash was the instrument of Lingard's fortune. They camenorth together--both young--out of an Australian port, and after a veryfew years there was not a white man in the islands, from Palembang toTernate, from Ombawa to Palawan, that did not know Captain Tom andhis lucky craft. He was liked for his reckless generosity, for hisunswerving honesty, and at first was a little feared on account of hisviolent temper. Very soon, however, they found him out, and the wordwent round that Captain Tom's fury was less dangerous than many a man'ssmile. He prospered greatly. After his first--and successful--fight withthe sea robbers, when he rescued, as rumour had it, the yacht of somebig wig from home, somewhere down Carimata way, his great popularitybegan. As years went on it grew apace. Always visiting out-of-the-wayplaces of that part of the world, always in search of new markets forhis cargoes--not so much for profit as for the pleasure of findingthem--he soon became known to the Malays, and by his successfulrecklessness in several encounters with pirates, established theterror of his name. Those white men with whom he had business, and whonaturally were on the look-out for his weaknesses, could easily see thatit was enough to give him his Malay title to flatter him greatly. Sowhen there was anything to be gained by it, and sometimes out of pureand unprofitable good nature, they would drop the ceremonious "CaptainLingard" and address him half seriously as Rajah Laut--the King of theSea. 

He carried the name bravely on his broad shoulders. He had carried itmany years already when the boy Willems ran barefooted on the deck ofthe ship Kosmopoliet IV. In Samarang roads, looking with innocent eyeson the strange shore and objurgating his immediate surroundings withblasphemous lips, while his childish brain worked upon the heroic ideaof running away. From the poop of the Flash Lingard saw in the earlymorning the Dutch ship get lumberingly under weigh, bound for theeastern ports. Very late in the evening of the same day he stood on thequay of the landing canal, ready to go on board of his brig. The nightwas starry and clear; the little custom-house building was shut up, andas the gharry that brought him down disappeared up the long avenue ofdusty trees leading to the town, Lingard thought himself alone on thequay. He roused up his sleeping boat-crew and stood waiting for them toget ready, when he felt a tug at his coat and a thin voice said, verydistinctly--

"English captain. "

Lingard turned round quickly, and what seemed to be a very lean boyjumped back with commendable activity. 

"Who are you? Where do you spring from?" asked Lingard, in startledsurprise. 

From a safe distance the boy pointed toward a cargo lighter moored tothe quay. 

"Been hiding there, have you?" said Lingard. "Well, what do you want?Speak out, confound you. You did not come here to scare me to death, forfun, did you?"

The boy tried to explain in imperfect English, but very soon Lingardinterrupted him. 

"I see, " he exclaimed, "you ran away from the big ship that sailed thismorning. Well, why don't you go to your countrymen here?"

"Ship gone only a little way--to Sourabaya. Make me go back to theship, " explained the boy. 

"Best thing for you, " affirmed Lingard with conviction. 

"No, " retorted the boy; "me want stop here; not want go home. Get moneyhere; home no good. "

"This beats all my going a-fishing, " commented the astonished Lingard. "It's money you want? Well! well! And you were not afraid to run away, you bag of bones, you!"

The boy intimated that he was frightened of nothing but of being sentback to the ship. Lingard looked at him in meditative silence. 

"Come closer, " he said at last. He took the boy by the chin, and turningup his face gave him a searching look. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen. "

"There's not much of you for seventeen. Are you hungry?"

"A little. "

"Will you come with me, in that brig there?"

The boy moved without a word towards the boat and scrambled into thebows. 

"Knows his place, " muttered Lingard to himself as he stepped heavilyinto the stern sheets and took up the yoke lines. "Give way there. "

The Malay boat crew lay back together, and the gig sprang away from thequay heading towards the brig's riding light. 

Such was the beginning of Willems' career. 

Lingard learned in half an hour all that there was of Willems'commonplace story. Father outdoor clerk of some ship-broker inRotterdam; mother dead. The boy quick in learning, but idle in school. The straitened circumstances in the house filled with small brothers andsisters, sufficiently clothed and fed but otherwise running wild, whilethe disconsolate widower tramped about all day in a shabby overcoat andimperfect boots on the muddy quays, and in the evening piloted wearilythe half-intoxicated foreign skippers amongst the places of cheapdelights, returning home late, sick with too much smoking anddrinking--for company's sake--with these men, who expected suchattentions in the way of business. Then the offer of the good-naturedcaptain of Kosmopoliet IV. , who was pleased to do something for thepatient and obliging fellow; young Willems' great joy, his still greaterdisappointment with the sea that looked so charming from afar, butproved so hard and exacting on closer acquaintance--and then thisrunning away by a sudden impulse. The boy was hopelessly at variancewith the spirit of the sea. He had an instinctive contempt for thehonest simplicity of that work which led to nothing he cared for. Lingard soon found this out. He offered to send him home in an Englishship, but the boy begged hard to be permitted to remain. He wrote abeautiful hand, became soon perfect in English, was quick at figures;and Lingard made him useful in that way. As he grew older his tradinginstincts developed themselves astonishingly, and Lingard left himoften to trade in one island or another while he, himself, made anintermediate trip to some out-of-the-way place. On Willems expressinga wish to that effect, Lingard let him enter Hudig's service. He felta little sore at that abandonment because he had attached himself, ina way, to his protege. Still he was proud of him, and spoke up for himloyally. At first it was, "Smart boy that--never make a seaman though. "Then when Willems was helping in the trading he referred to him as "thatclever young fellow. " Later when Willems became the confidential agentof Hudig, employed in many a delicate affair, the simple-hearted oldseaman would point an admiring finger at his back and whisper to whoeverstood near at the moment, "Long-headed chap that; deuced long-headedchap. Look at him. Confidential man of old Hudig. I picked him up in aditch, you may say, like a starved cat. Skin and bone. 'Pon my word Idid. And now he knows more than I do about island trading. Fact. I amnot joking. More than I do, " he would repeat, seriously, with innocentpride in his honest eyes. 

From the safe elevation of his commercial successes Willems patronizedLingard. He had a liking for his benefactor, not unmixed with somedisdain for the crude directness of the old fellow's methods of conduct. There were, however, certain sides of Lingard's character for whichWillems felt a qualified respect. The talkative seaman knew how tobe silent on certain matters that to Willems were very interesting. Besides, Lingard was rich, and that in itself was enough to compelWillems' unwilling admiration. In his confidential chats with Hudig, Willems generally alluded to the benevolent Englishman as the "luckyold fool" in a very distinct tone of vexation; Hudig would grunt anunqualified assent, and then the two would look at each other in asudden immobility of pupils fixed by a stare of unexpressed thought. 

"You can't find out where he gets all that india-rubber, hey Willems?"Hudig would ask at last, turning away and bending over the papers on hisdesk. 

"No, Mr. Hudig. Not yet. But I am trying, " was Willems' invariablereply, delivered with a ring of regretful deprecation. 

"Try! Always try! You may try! You think yourself clever perhaps, "rumbled on Hudig, without looking up. "I have been trading with himtwenty--thirty years now. The old fox. And I have tried. Bah!"

He stretched out a short, podgy leg and contemplated the bare instep andthe grass slipper hanging by the toes. "You can't make him drunk?" hewould add, after a pause of stertorous breathing. 

"No, Mr. Hudig, I can't really, " protested Willems, earnestly. 

"Well, don't try. I know him. Don't try, " advised the master, and, bending again over his desk, his staring bloodshot eyes close to thepaper, he would go on tracing laboriously with his thick fingers theslim unsteady letters of his correspondence, while Willems waitedrespectfully for his further good pleasure before asking, with greatdeference--

"Any orders, Mr. Hudig?"

"Hm! yes. Go to Bun-Hin yourself and see the dollars of that paymentcounted and packed, and have them put on board the mail-boat forTernate. She's due here this afternoon. "

"Yes, Mr. Hudig. "

"And, look here. If the boat is late, leave the case in Bun-Hin's godowntill to-morrow. Seal it up. Eight seals as usual. Don't take it awaytill the boat is here. "

"No, Mr. Hudig. "

"And don't forget about these opium cases. It's for to-night. Use my ownboatmen. Transship them from the Caroline to the Arab barque, " wenton the master in his hoarse undertone. "And don't you come to me withanother story of a case dropped overboard like last time, " he added, with sudden ferocity, looking up at his confidential clerk. 

"No, Mr. Hudig. I will take care. "

"That's all. Tell that pig as you go out that if he doesn't make thepunkah go a little better I will break every bone in his body, " finishedup Hudig, wiping his purple face with a red silk handkerchief nearly asbig as a counterpane. 

Noiselessly Willems went out, shutting carefully behind him the littlegreen door through which he passed to the warehouse. Hudig, pen in hand, listened to him bullying the punkah boy with profane violence, bornof unbounded zeal for the master's comfort, before he returned to hiswriting amid the rustling of papers fluttering in the wind sent down bythe punkah that waved in wide sweeps above his head. 

Willems would nod familiarly to Mr. Vinck, who had his desk close to thelittle door of the private office, and march down the warehouse with animportant air. Mr. Vinck--extreme dislike lurking in every wrinkle ofhis gentlemanly countenance--would follow with his eyes the white figureflitting in the gloom amongst the piles of bales and cases till itpassed out through the big archway into the glare of the street. 

CHAPTER THREE

The opportunity and the temptation were too much for Willems, and underthe pressure of sudden necessity he abused that trust which was hispride, the perpetual sign of his cleverness and a load too heavy for himto carry. A run of bad luck at cards, the failure of a small speculationundertaken on his own account, an unexpected demand for money from oneor another member of the Da Souza family--and almost before he was wellaware of it he was off the path of his peculiar honesty. It was such afaint and ill-defined track that it took him some time to find out howfar he had strayed amongst the brambles of the dangerous wilderness hehad been skirting for so many years, without any other guide than hisown convenience and that doctrine of success which he had found forhimself in the book of life--in those interesting chapters that theDevil has been permitted to write in it, to test the sharpness of men'seyesight and the steadfastness of their hearts. For one short, dark andsolitary moment he was dismayed, but he had that courage that will notscale heights, yet will wade bravely through the mud--if there be noother road. He applied himself to the task of restitution, and devotedhimself to the duty of not being found out. On his thirtieth birthday hehad almost accomplished the task--and the duty had been faithfully andcleverly performed. He saw himself safe. Again he could look hopefullytowards the goal of his legitimate ambition. Nobody would dare tosuspect him, and in a few days there would be nothing to suspect. Hewas elated. He did not know that his prosperity had touched then itshigh-water mark, and that the tide was already on the turn. 

Two days afterwards he knew. Mr. Vinck, hearing the rattle of thedoor-handle, jumped up from his desk--where he had been tremulouslylistening to the loud voices in the private office--and buried his facein the big safe with nervous haste. For the last time Willems passedthrough the little green door leading to Hudig's sanctum, which, duringthe past half-hour, might have been taken--from the fiendish noisewithin--for the cavern of some wild beast. Willems' troubled eyes tookin the quick impression of men and things as he came out from the placeof his humiliation. He saw the scared expression of the punkah boy; theChinamen tellers sitting on their heels with unmovable faces turned upblankly towards him while their arrested hands hovered over thelittle piles of bright guilders ranged on the floor; Mr. Vinck'sshoulder-blades with the fleshy rims of two red ears above. He saw thelong avenue of gin cases stretching from where he stood to the archeddoorway beyond which he would be able to breathe perhaps. A thin rope'send lay across his path and he saw it distinctly, yet stumbled heavilyover it as if it had been a bar of iron. Then he found himself in thestreet at last, but could not find air enough to fill his lungs. Hewalked towards his home, gasping. 

As the sound of Hudig's insults that lingered in his ears grew fainterby the lapse of time, the feeling of shame was replaced slowly by apassion of anger against himself and still more against the stupidconcourse of circumstances that had driven him into his idioticindiscretion. Idiotic indiscretion; that is how he defined his guiltto himself. Could there be anything worse from the point of view of hisundeniable cleverness? What a fatal aberration of an acute mind! He didnot recognize himself there. He must have been mad. That's it. A suddengust of madness. And now the work of long years was destroyed utterly. What would become of him?

Before he could answer that question he found himself in the gardenbefore his house, Hudig's wedding gift. He looked at it with a vaguesurprise to find it there. His past was so utterly gone from him thatthe dwelling which belonged to it appeared to him incongruous standingthere intact, neat, and cheerful in the sunshine of the hot afternoon. The house was a pretty little structure all doors and windows, surrounded on all sides by the deep verandah supported on slendercolumns clothed in the green foliage of creepers, which also fringed theoverhanging eaves of the high-pitched roof. Slowly, Willems mounted thedozen steps that led to the verandah. He paused at every step. Hemust tell his wife. He felt frightened at the prospect, and his alarmdismayed him. Frightened to face her! Nothing could give him a bettermeasure of the greatness of the change around him, and in him. Anotherman--and another life with the faith in himself gone. He could not beworth much if he was afraid to face that woman. 

He dared not enter the house through the open door of the dining-room, but stood irresolute by the little work-table where trailed a whitepiece of calico, with a needle stuck in it, as if the work had been lefthurriedly. The pink-crested cockatoo started, on his appearance, intoclumsy activity and began to climb laboriously up and down his perch, calling "Joanna" with indistinct loudness and a persistent screechthat prolonged the last syllable of the name as if in a peal of insanelaughter. The screen in the doorway moved gently once or twice in thebreeze, and each time Willems started slightly, expecting his wife, buthe never lifted his eyes, although straining his ears for the sound ofher footsteps. Gradually he lost himself in his thoughts, in the endlessspeculation as to the manner in which she would receive his news--andhis orders. In this preoccupation he almost forgot the fear of herpresence. No doubt she will cry, she will lament, she will be helplessand frightened and passive as ever. And he would have to drag that limpweight on and on through the darkness of a spoiled life. Horrible!Of course he could not abandon her and the child to certain misery orpossible starvation. The wife and the child of Willems. Willems thesuccessful, the smart; Willems the conf . . . . Pah! And what wasWillems now? Willems the. . . . He strangled the half-born thought, andcleared his throat to stifle a groan. Ah! Won't they talk to-night inthe billiard-room--his world, where he had been first--all those men towhom he had been so superciliously condescending. Won't they talk withsurprise, and affected regret, and grave faces, and wise nods. Some ofthem owed him money, but he never pressed anybody. Not he. Willems, theprince of good fellows, they called him. And now they will rejoice, nodoubt, at his downfall. A crowd of imbeciles. In his abasement he wasyet aware of his superiority over those fellows, who were merely honestor simply not found out yet. A crowd of imbeciles! He shook his fist atthe evoked image of his friends, and the startled parrot fluttered itswings and shrieked in desperate fright. 

In a short glance upwards Willems saw his wife come round the corner ofthe house. He lowered his eyelids quickly, and waited silently till shecame near and stood on the other side of the little table. He wouldnot look at her face, but he could see the red dressing-gown he knew sowell. She trailed through life in that red dressing-gown, with its rowof dirty blue bows down the front, stained, and hooked on awry; a tornflounce at the bottom following her like a snake as she moved languidlyabout, with her hair negligently caught up, and a tangled wispstraggling untidily down her back. His gaze travelled upwards from bowto bow, noticing those that hung only by a thread, but it did notgo beyond her chin. He looked at her lean throat, at the obtrusivecollarbone visible in the disarray of the upper part of her attire. Hesaw the thin arm and the bony hand clasping the child she carried, and he felt an immense distaste for those encumbrances of his life. Hewaited for her to say something, but as he felt her eyes rest on him inunbroken silence he sighed and began to speak. 

It was a hard task. He spoke slowly, lingering amongst the memories ofthis early life in his reluctance to confess that this was the end ofit and the beginning of a less splendid existence. In his conviction ofhaving made her happiness in the full satisfaction of all material wantshe never doubted for a moment that she was ready to keep him companyon no matter how hard and stony a road. He was not elated by thiscertitude. He had married her to please Hudig, and the greatness of hissacrifice ought to have made her happy without any further exertion onhis part. She had years of glory as Willems' wife, and years of comfort, of loyal care, and of such tenderness as she deserved. He had guardedher carefully from any bodily hurt; and of any other suffering he hadno conception. The assertion of his superiority was only another benefitconferred on her. All this was a matter of course, but he told her allthis so as to bring vividly before her the greatness of her loss. Shewas so dull of understanding that she would not grasp it else. And nowit was at an end. They would have to go. Leave this house, leavethis island, go far away where he was unknown. To the EnglishStrait-Settlements perhaps. He would find an opening there for hisabilities--and juster men to deal with than old Hudig. He laughedbitterly. 

"You have the money I left at home this morning, Joanna?" he asked. "Wewill want it all now. "

As he spoke those words he thought he was a fine fellow. Nothing newthat. Still, he surpassed there his own expectations. Hang it all, thereare sacred things in life, after all. The marriage tie was one of them, and he was not the man to break it. The solidity of his principlescaused him great satisfaction, but he did not care to look at his wife, for all that. He waited for her to speak. Then he would have to consoleher; tell her not to be a crying fool; to get ready to go. Go where?How? When? He shook his head. They must leave at once; that was theprincipal thing. He felt a sudden need to hurry up his departure. 

"Well, Joanna, " he said, a little impatiently---"don't stand there in atrance. Do you hear? We must. . . . "

He looked up at his wife, and whatever he was going to add remainedunspoken. She was staring at him with her big, slanting eyes, thatseemed to him twice their natural size. The child, its dirty littleface pressed to its mother's shoulder, was sleeping peacefully. The deepsilence of the house was not broken, but rather accentuated, by thelow mutter of the cockatoo, now very still on its perch. As Willems waslooking at Joanna her upper lip was drawn up on one side, giving to hermelancholy face a vicious expression altogether new to his experience. He stepped back in his surprise. 

"Oh! You great man!" she said distinctly, but in a voice that was hardlyabove a whisper. 

Those words, and still more her tone, stunned him as if somebody hadfired a gun close to his ear. He stared back at her stupidly. 

"Oh! you great man!" she repeated slowly, glancing right and left asif meditating a sudden escape. "And you think that I am going to starvewith you. You are nobody now. You think my mamma and Leonard would letme go away? And with you! With you, " she repeated scornfully, raisingher voice, which woke up the child and caused it to whimper feebly. 

"Joanna!" exclaimed Willems. 

"Do not speak to me. I have heard what I have waited for all theseyears. You are less than dirt, you that have wiped your feet on me. Ihave waited for this. I am not afraid now. I do not want you; do notcome near me. Ah-h!" she screamed shrilly, as he held out his hand in anentreating gesture--"Ah! Keep off me! Keep off me! Keep off!"

She backed away, looking at him with eyes both angry and frightened. Willems stared motionless, in dumb amazement at the mystery of anger andrevolt in the head of his wife. Why? What had he ever done to her? Thiswas the day of injustice indeed. First Hudig--and now his wife. He felta terror at this hate that had lived stealthily so near him for years. He tried to speak, but she shrieked again, and it was like a needlethrough his heart. Again he raised his hand. 

"Help!" called Mrs. Willems, in a piercing voice. "Help!"

"Be quiet! You fool!" shouted Willems, trying to drown the noise ofhis wife and child in his own angry accents and rattling violently thelittle zinc table in his exasperation. 

From under the house, where there were bathrooms and a tool closet, appeared Leonard, a rusty iron bar in his hand. He called threateninglyfrom the bottom of the stairs. 

"Do not hurt her, Mr. Willems. You are a savage. Not at all like we, whites. "

"You too!" said the bewildered Willems. "I haven't touched her. Is thisa madhouse?" He moved towards the stairs, and Leonard dropped the barwith a clang and made for the gate of the compound. Willems turned backto his wife. 

"So you expected this, " he said. "It is a conspiracy. Who's that sobbingand groaning in the room? Some more of your precious family. Hey?"

She was more calm now, and putting hastily the crying child in the bigchair walked towards him with sudden fearlessness. 

"My mother, " she said, "my mother who came to defend me from you--manfrom nowhere; a vagabond!"

"You did not call me a vagabond when you hung round my neck--before wewere married, " said Willems, contemptuously. 

"You took good care that I should not hang round your neck after wewere, " she answered, clenching her hands, and putting her face close tohis. "You boasted while I suffered and said nothing. What has become ofyour greatness; of our greatness--you were always speaking about? NowI am going to live on the charity of your master. Yes. That is true. Hesent Leonard to tell me so. And you will go and boast somewhere else, and starve. So! Ah! I can breathe now! This house is mine. "

"Enough!" said Willems, slowly, with an arresting gesture. 

She leaped back, the fright again in her eyes, snatched up the child, pressed it to her breast, and, falling into a chair, drummed insanelywith her heels on the resounding floor of the verandah. 

"I shall go, " said Willems, steadily. "I thank you. For the first timein your life you make me happy. You were a stone round my neck; youunderstand. I did not mean to tell you that as long as you lived, butyou made me--now. Before I pass this gate you shall be gone from mymind. You made it very easy. I thank you. "

He turned and went down the steps without giving her a glance, while shesat upright and quiet, with wide-open eyes, the child crying querulouslyin her arms. At the gate he came suddenly upon Leonard, who had beendodging about there and failed to get out of the way in time. 

"Do not be brutal, Mr. Willems, " said Leonard, hurriedly. "It isunbecoming between white men with all those natives looking on. "Leonard's legs trembled very much, and his voice wavered between highand low tones without any attempt at control on his part. "Restrain yourimproper violence, " he went on mumbling rapidly. "I am a respectable manof very good family, while you . . . It is regrettable . . . They allsay so . . . "

"What?" thundered Willems. He felt a sudden impulse of mad anger, andbefore he knew what had happened he was looking at Leonard da Souzarolling in the dust at his feet. He stepped over his prostratebrother-in-law and tore blindly down the street, everybody making wayfor the frantic white man. 

When he came to himself he was beyond the outskirts of the town, stumbling on the hard and cracked earth of reaped rice fields. How didhe get there? It was dark. He must get back. As he walked towards thetown slowly, his mind reviewed the events of the day and he felt a senseof bitter loneliness. His wife had turned him out of his own house. He had assaulted brutally his brother-in-law, a member of the Da Souzafamily--of that band of his worshippers. He did. Well, no! It was someother man. Another man was coming back. A man without a past, withouta future, yet full of pain and shame and anger. He stopped and lookedround. A dog or two glided across the empty street and rushed past himwith a frightened snarl. He was now in the midst of the Malay quarterwhose bamboo houses, hidden in the verdure of their little gardens, weredark and silent. Men, women and children slept in there. Human beings. Would he ever sleep, and where? He felt as if he was the outcast of allmankind, and as he looked hopelessly round, before resuming his wearymarch, it seemed to him that the world was bigger, the night more vastand more black; but he went on doggedly with his head down as if pushinghis way through some thick brambles. Then suddenly he felt planks underhis feet and, looking up, saw the red light at the end of the jetty. Hewalked quite to the end and stood leaning against the post, under thelamp, looking at the roadstead where two vessels at anchor swayed theirslender rigging amongst the stars. The end of the jetty; and here in onestep more the end of life; the end of everything. Better so. What elsecould he do? Nothing ever comes back. He saw it clearly. The respectand admiration of them all, the old habits and old affections finishedabruptly in the clear perception of the cause of his disgrace. Hesaw all this; and for a time he came out of himself, out of hisselfishness--out of the constant preoccupation of his interests and hisdesires--out of the temple of self and the concentration of personalthought. 

His thoughts now wandered home. Standing in the tepid stillness of astarry tropical night he felt the breath of the bitter east wind, he sawthe high and narrow fronts of tall houses under the gloom of a cloudedsky; and on muddy quays he saw the shabby, high-shouldered figure--thepatient, faded face of the weary man earning bread for the childrenthat waited for him in a dingy home. It was miserable, miserable. But itwould never come back. What was there in common between those things andWillems the clever, Willems the successful. He had cut himself adriftfrom that home many years ago. Better for him then. Better for them now. All this was gone, never to come back again; and suddenly he shivered, seeing himself alone in the presence of unknown and terrible dangers. 

For the first time in his life he felt afraid of the future, because hehad lost his faith, the faith in his own success. And he had destroyedit foolishly with his own hands!

CHAPTER FOUR

His meditation which resembled slow drifting into suicide wasinterrupted by Lingard, who, with a loud "I've got you at last!" droppedhis hand heavily on Willems' shoulder. This time it was the old seamanhimself going out of his way to pick up the uninteresting waif--allthat there was left of that sudden and sordid shipwreck. To Willems, the rough, friendly voice was a quick and fleeting relief followed by asharper pang of anger and unavailing regret. That voice carried himback to the beginning of his promising career, the end of which was veryvisible now from the jetty where they both stood. He shook himself freefrom the friendly grasp, saying with ready bitterness--

"It's all your fault. Give me a push now, do, and send me over. I havebeen standing here waiting for help. You are the man--of all men. Youhelped at the beginning; you ought to have a hand in the end. "

"I have better use for you than to throw you to the fishes, " saidLingard, seriously, taking Willems by the arm and forcing him gently towalk up the jetty. "I have been buzzing over this town like a bluebottlefly, looking for you high and low. I have heard a lot. I will tell youwhat, Willems; you are no saint, that's a fact. And you have not beenover-wise either. I am not throwing stones, " he added, hastily, asWillems made an effort to get away, "but I am not going to mincematters. Never could! You keep quiet while I talk. Can't you?"

With a gesture of resignation and a half-stifled groan Willems submittedto the stronger will, and the two men paced slowly up and down theresounding planks, while Lingard disclosed to Willems the exact mannerof his undoing. After the first shock Willems lost the faculty ofsurprise in the over-powering feeling of indignation. So it was Vinckand Leonard who had served him so. They had watched him, tracked hismisdeeds, reported them to Hudig. They had bribed obscure Chinamen, wormed out confidences from tipsy skippers, got at various boatmen, and had pieced out in that way the story of his irregularities. Theblackness of this dark intrigue filled him with horror. He couldunderstand Vinck. There was no love lost between them. But Leonard!Leonard!

"Why, Captain Lingard, " he burst out, "the fellow licked my boots. "

"Yes, yes, yes, " said Lingard, testily, "we know that, and you did yourbest to cram your boot down his throat. No man likes that, my boy. "

"I was always giving money to all that hungry lot, " went on Willems, passionately. "Always my hand in my pocket. They never had to asktwice. "

"Just so. Your generosity frightened them. They asked themselveswhere all that came from, and concluded that it was safer to throw youoverboard. After all, Hudig is a much greater man than you, my friend, and they have a claim on him also. "

"What do you mean, Captain Lingard?"

"What do I mean?" repeated Lingard, slowly. "Why, you are not going tomake me believe you did not know your wife was Hudig's daughter. Comenow!"

Willems stopped suddenly and swayed about. 

"Ah! I understand, " he gasped. "I never heard . . . Lately I thoughtthere was . . . But no, I never guessed. "

"Oh, you simpleton!" said Lingard, pityingly. "'Pon my word, " hemuttered to himself, "I don't believe the fellow knew. Well! well!Steady now. Pull yourself together. What's wrong there. She is a goodwife to you. "

"Excellent wife, " said Willems, in a dreary voice, looking far over theblack and scintillating water. 

"Very well then, " went on Lingard, with increasing friendliness. "Nothing wrong there. But did you really think that Hudig was marryingyou off and giving you a house and I don't know what, out of love foryou?"

"I had served him well, " answered Willems. "How well, you knowyourself--through thick and thin. No matter what work and what risk, Iwas always there; always ready. "

How well he saw the greatness of his work and the immensity of thatinjustice which was his reward. She was that man's daughter!

In the light of this disclosure the facts of the last five years of hislife stood clearly revealed in their full meaning. He had spoken firstto Joanna at the gate of their dwelling as he went to his work inthe brilliant flush of the early morning, when women and flowers arecharming even to the dullest eyes. A most respectable family--two womenand a young man--were his next-door neighbours. Nobody ever came totheir little house but the priest, a native from the Spanish islands, now and then. The young man Leonard he had met in town, and wasflattered by the little fellow's immense respect for the great Willems. He let him bring chairs, call the waiters, chalk his cues when playingbilliards, express his admiration in choice words. He even condescendedto listen patiently to Leonard's allusions to "our beloved father, " aman of official position, a government agent in Koti, where he died ofcholera, alas! a victim to duty, like a good Catholic, and a good man. It sounded very respectable, and Willems approved of those feelingreferences. Moreover, he prided himself upon having no colour-prejudicesand no racial antipathies. He consented to drink curacoa one afternoonon the verandah of Mrs. Da Souza's house. He remembered Joanna that day, swinging in a hammock. She was untidy even then, he remembered, and thatwas the only impression he carried away from that visit. He had no timefor love in those glorious days, no time even for a passing fancy, butgradually he fell into the habit of calling almost every day at thatlittle house where he was greeted by Mrs. Da Souza's shrill voicescreaming for Joanna to come and entertain the gentleman from Hudig& Co. And then the sudden and unexpected visit of the priest. Heremembered the man's flat, yellow face, his thin legs, his propitiatorysmile, his beaming black eyes, his conciliating manner, his veiled hintswhich he did not understand at the time. How he wondered what the manwanted, and how unceremoniously he got rid of him. And then came vividlyinto his recollection the morning when he met again that fellow comingout of Hudig's office, and how he was amused at the incongruous visit. And that morning with Hudig! Would he ever forget it? Would he everforget his surprise as the master, instead of plunging at once intobusiness, looked at him thoughtfully before turning, with a furtivesmile, to the papers on the desk? He could hear him now, his nose in thepaper before him, dropping astonishing words in the intervals of wheezybreathing. 

"Heard said . . . Called there often . . . Most respectable ladies . . . Knew the father very well . . . Estimable . . . Best thing for a youngman . . . Settle down. . . . Personally, very glad to hear . . . Thingarranged. . . . Suitable recognition of valuable services. . . . Bestthing--best thing to do. "

And he believed! What credulity! What an ass! Hudig knew the father!Rather. And so did everybody else probably; all except himself. Howproud he had been of Hudig's benevolent interest in his fate! How proudhe was when invited by Hudig to stay with him at his little house in thecountry--where he could meet men, men of official position--as a friend. Vinck had been green with envy. Oh, yes! He had believed in the bestthing, and took the girl like a gift of fortune. How he boasted to Hudigof being free from prejudices. The old scoundrel must have been laughingin his sleeve at his fool of a confidential clerk. He took the girl, guessing nothing. How could he? There had been a father of some kindto the common knowledge. Men knew him; spoke about him. A lank man ofhopelessly mixed descent, but otherwise--apparently--unobjectionable. The shady relations came out afterward, but--with his freedom fromprejudices--he did not mind them, because, with their humble dependence, they completed his triumphant life. Taken in! taken in! Hudig had foundan easy way to provide for the begging crowd. He had shifted the burdenof his youthful vagaries on to the shoulders of his confidential clerk;and while he worked for the master, the master had cheated him; hadstolen his very self from him. He was married. He belonged to thatwoman, no matter what she might do! . . . Had sworn . . . For all life!. . . Thrown himself away. . . . And that man dared this very morningcall him a thief! Damnation!

"Let go, Lingard!" he shouted, trying to get away by a sudden jerk fromthe watchful old seaman. "Let me go and kill that . . . "

"No you don't!" panted Lingard, hanging on manfully. "You want to kill, do you? You lunatic. Ah!--I've got you now! Be quiet, I say!"

They struggled violently, Lingard forcing Willems slowly towards theguard-rail. Under their feet the jetty sounded like a drum in the quietnight. On the shore end the native caretaker of the wharf watched thecombat, squatting behind the safe shelter of some big cases. The nextday he informed his friends, with calm satisfaction, that two drunkenwhite men had fought on the jetty. 

It had been a great fight. They fought without arms, like wild beasts, after the manner of white men. No! nobody was killed, or there wouldhave been trouble and a report to make. How could he know why theyfought? White men have no reason when they are like that. 

Just as Lingard was beginning to fear that he would be unable torestrain much longer the violence of the younger man, he felt Willems'muscles relaxing, and took advantage of this opportunity to pin him, bya last effort, to the rail. They both panted heavily, speechless, theirfaces very close. 

"All right, " muttered Willems at last. "Don't break my back over thisinfernal rail. I will be quiet. "

"Now you are reasonable, " said Lingard, much relieved. "What made youfly into that passion?" he asked, leading him back to the end of thejetty, and, still holding him prudently with one hand, he fumbled withthe other for his whistle and blew a shrill and prolonged blast. Overthe smooth water of the roadstead came in answer a faint cry from one ofthe ships at anchor. 

"My boat will be here directly, " said Lingard. "Think of what you aregoing to do. I sail to-night. "

"What is there for me to do, except one thing?" said Willems, gloomily. 

"Look here, " said Lingard; "I picked you up as a boy, and considermyself responsible for you in a way. You took your life into your ownhands many years ago--but still . . . "

He paused, listening, till he heard the regular grind of the oars in therowlocks of the approaching boat then went on again. 

"I have made it all right with Hudig. You owe him nothing now. Go backto your wife. She is a good woman. Go back to her. "

"Why, Captain Lingard, " exclaimed Willems, "she . . . "

"It was most affecting, " went on Lingard, without heeding him. "Iwent to your house to look for you and there I saw her despair. It washeart-breaking. She called for you; she entreated me to find you. Shespoke wildly, poor woman, as if all this was her fault. "

Willems listened amazed. The blind old idiot! How queerly hemisunderstood! But if it was true, if it was even true, the very idea ofseeing her filled his soul with intense loathing. He did not breakhis oath, but he would not go back to her. Let hers be the sin of thatseparation; of the sacred bond broken. He revelled in the extreme purityof his heart, and he would not go back to her. Let her come back to him. He had the comfortable conviction that he would never see her again, and that through her own fault only. In this conviction he told himselfsolemnly that if she would come to him he would receive her withgenerous forgiveness, because such was the praiseworthy solidity of hisprinciples. But he hesitated whether he would or would not disclose toLingard the revolting completeness of his humiliation. Turned out of hishouse--and by his wife; that woman who hardly dared to breathe in hispresence, yesterday. He remained perplexed and silent. No. He lacked thecourage to tell the ignoble story. 

As the boat of the brig appeared suddenly on the black water close tothe jetty, Lingard broke the painful silence. 

"I always thought, " he said, sadly, "I always thought you were somewhatheartless, Willems, and apt to cast adrift those that thought most ofyou. I appeal to what is best in you; do not abandon that woman. "

"I have not abandoned her, " answered Willems, quickly, with conscioustruthfulness. "Why should I? As you so justly observed, she has been agood wife to me. A very good, quiet, obedient, loving wife, and I loveher as much as she loves me. Every bit. But as to going back now, tothat place where I . . . To walk again amongst those men who yesterdaywere ready to crawl before me, and then feel on my back the sting oftheir pitying or satisfied smiles--no! I can't. I would rather hide fromthem at the bottom of the sea, " he went on, with resolute energy. "Idon't think, Captain Lingard, " he added, more quietly, "I don't thinkthat you realize what my position was there. "

In a wide sweep of his hand he took in the sleeping shore from north tosouth, as if wishing it a proud and threatening good-bye. For a shortmoment he forgot his downfall in the recollection of his brillianttriumphs. Amongst the men of his class and occupation who slept in thosedark houses he had been indeed the first. 

"It is hard, " muttered Lingard, pensively. "But whose the fault? Whosethe fault?"

"Captain Lingard!" cried Willems, under the sudden impulse of afelicitous inspiration, "if you leave me here on this jetty--it'smurder. I shall never return to that place alive, wife or no wife. Youmay just as well cut my throat at once. "

The old seaman started. 

"Don't try to frighten me, Willems, " he said, with great severity, andpaused. 

Above the accents of Willems' brazen despair he heard, with considerableuneasiness, the whisper of his own absurd conscience. He meditated forawhile with an irresolute air. 

"I could tell you to go and drown yourself, and be damned to you, " hesaid, with an unsuccessful assumption of brutality in his manner, "butI won't. We are responsible for one another--worse luck. I am almostashamed of myself, but I can understand your dirty pride. I can!By . . . "

He broke off with a loud sigh and walked briskly to the steps, at thebottom of which lay his boat, rising and falling gently on the slightand invisible swell. 

"Below there! Got a lamp in the boat? Well, light it and bring it up, one of you. Hurry now!"

He tore out a page of his pocketbook, moistened his pencil with greatenergy and waited, stamping his feet impatiently. 

"I will see this thing through, " he muttered to himself. "And I willhave it all square and ship-shape; see if I don't! Are you going tobring that lamp, you son of a crippled mud-turtle? I am waiting. "

The gleam of the light on the paper placated his professional anger, andhe wrote rapidly, the final dash of his signature curling the paper upin a triangular tear. 

"Take that to this white Tuan's house. I will send the boat back for youin half an hour. "

The coxswain raised his lamp deliberately to Willem's face. 

"This Tuan? Tau! I know. "

"Quick then!" said Lingard, taking the lamp from him--and the man wentoff at a run. 

"Kassi mem! To the lady herself, " called Lingard after him. 

Then, when the man disappeared, he turned to Willems. 

"I have written to your wife, " he said. "If you do not return for good, you do not go back to that house only for another parting. You must comeas you stand. I won't have that poor woman tormented. I will see to itthat you are not separated for long. Trust me!"

Willems shivered, then smiled in the darkness. 

"No fear of that, " he muttered, enigmatically. "I trust you implicitly, Captain Lingard, " he added, in a louder tone. 

Lingard led the way down the steps, swinging the lamp and speaking overhis shoulder. 

"It is the second time, Willems, I take you in hand. Mind it is thelast. The second time; and the only difference between then and now isthat you were bare-footed then and have boots now. In fourteen years. With all your smartness! A poor result that. A very poor result. "

He stood for awhile on the lowest platform of the steps, the light ofthe lamp falling on the upturned face of the stroke oar, who held thegunwale of the boat close alongside, ready for the captain to step in. 

"You see, " he went on, argumentatively, fumbling about the top ofthe lamp, "you got yourself so crooked amongst those 'longshorequill-drivers that you could not run clear in any way. That's what comesof such talk as yours, and of such a life. A man sees so much falsehoodthat he begins to lie to himself. Pah!" he said, in disgust, "there'sonly one place for an honest man. The sea, my boy, the sea! But younever would; didn't think there was enough money in it; and now--look!"

He blew the light out, and, stepping into the boat, stretched quicklyhis hand towards Willems, with friendly care. Willems sat by him insilence, and the boat shoved off, sweeping in a wide circle towards thebrig. 

"Your compassion is all for my wife, Captain Lingard, " said Willems, moodily. "Do you think I am so very happy?"

"No! no!" said Lingard, heartily. "Not a word more shall pass my lips. I had to speak my mind once, seeing that I knew you from a child, soto speak. And now I shall forget; but you are young yet. Life is verylong, " he went on, with unconscious sadness; "let this be a lesson toyou. "

He laid his hand affectionately on Willems' shoulder, and they both satsilent till the boat came alongside the ship's ladder. 

When on board Lingard gave orders to his mate, and leading Willems onthe poop, sat on the breech of one of the brass six-pounders withwhich his vessel was armed. The boat went off again to bring back themessenger. As soon as it was seen returning dark forms appeared on thebrig's spars; then the sails fell in festoons with a swish of theirheavy folds, and hung motionless under the yards in the dead calm ofthe clear and dewy night. From the forward end came the clink of thewindlass, and soon afterwards the hail of the chief mate informingLingard that the cable was hove short. 

"Hold on everything, " hailed back Lingard; "we must wait for theland-breeze before we let go our hold of the ground. "

He approached Willems, who sat on the skylight, his body bent down, hishead low, and his hands hanging listlessly between his knees. 

"I am going to take you to Sambir, " he said. "You've never heard of theplace, have you? Well, it's up that river of mine about which peopletalk so much and know so little. I've found out the entrance for a shipof Flash's size. It isn't easy. You'll see. I will show you. You havebeen at sea long enough to take an interest. . . . Pity you didn't stickto it. Well, I am going there. I have my own trading post in the place. Almayer is my partner. You knew him when he was at Hudig's. Oh, he livesthere as happy as a king. D'ye see, I have them all in my pocket. Therajah is an old friend of mine. My word is law--and I am the onlytrader. No other white man but Almayer had ever been in that settlement. You will live quietly there till I come back from my next cruise to thewestward. We shall see then what can be done for you. Never fear. I haveno doubt my secret will be safe with you. Keep mum about my river whenyou get amongst the traders again. There's many would give their earsfor the knowledge of it. I'll tell you something: that's where I get allmy guttah and rattans. Simply inexhaustible, my boy. "

While Lingard spoke Willems looked up quickly, but soon his head fell onhis breast in the discouraging certitude that the knowledge he and Hudighad wished for so much had come to him too late. He sat in a listlessattitude. 

"You will help Almayer in his trading if you have a heart for it, "continued Lingard, "just to kill time till I come back for you. Only sixweeks or so. "

Over their heads the damp sails fluttered noisily in the first faintpuff of the breeze; then, as the airs freshened, the brig tended to thewind, and the silenced canvas lay quietly aback. The mate spoke with lowdistinctness from the shadows of the quarter-deck. 

"There's the breeze. Which way do you want to cast her, CaptainLingard?"

Lingard's eyes, that had been fixed aloft, glanced down at the dejectedfigure of the man sitting on the skylight. He seemed to hesitate for aminute. 

"To the northward, to the northward, " he answered, testily, as ifannoyed at his own fleeting thought, "and bear a hand there. Every puffof wind is worth money in these seas. "

He remained motionless, listening to the rattle of blocks and thecreaking of trusses as the head-yards were hauled round. Sail was madeon the ship and the windlass manned again while he stood still, lost inthought. He only roused himself when a barefooted seacannie glided pasthim silently on his way to the wheel. 

"Put the helm aport! Hard over!" he said, in his harsh sea-voice, to theman whose face appeared suddenly out of the darkness in the circle oflight thrown upwards from the binnacle lamps. 

The anchor was secured, the yards trimmed, and the brig began to moveout of the roadstead. The sea woke up under the push of the sharpcutwater, and whispered softly to the gliding craft in that tender andrippling murmur in which it speaks sometimes to those it nurses andloves. Lingard stood by the taff-rail listening, with a pleased smiletill the Flash began to draw close to the only other vessel in theanchorage. 

"Here, Willems, " he said, calling him to his side, "d'ye see that barquehere? That's an Arab vessel. White men have mostly given up the game, but this fellow drops in my wake often, and lives in hopes of cutting meout in that settlement. Not while I live, I trust. You see, Willems, I brought prosperity to that place. I composed their quarrels, and sawthem grow under my eyes. There's peace and happiness there. I am moremaster there than his Dutch Excellency down in Batavia ever will be whensome day a lazy man-of-war blunders at last against the river. I mean tokeep the Arabs out of it, with their lies and their intrigues. I shallkeep the venomous breed out, if it costs me my fortune. "

The Flash drew quietly abreast of the barque, and was beginning to dropit astern when a white figure started up on the poop of the Arab vessel, and a voice called out--

"Greeting to the Rajah Laut!"

"To you greeting!" answered Lingard, after a moment of hesitatingsurprise. Then he turned to Willems with a grim smile. "That's Abdulla'svoice, " he said. "Mighty civil all of a sudden, isn't he? I wonderwhat it means. Just like his impudence! No matter! His civility or hisimpudence are all one to me. I know that this fellow will be under wayand after me like a shot. I don't care! I have the heels of anythingthat floats in these seas, " he added, while his proud and loving glanceran over and rested fondly amongst the brig's lofty and graceful spars. 

CHAPTER FIVE

"It was the writing on his forehead, " said Babalatchi, adding a coupleof small sticks to the little fire by which he was squatting, andwithout looking at Lakamba who lay down supported on his elbow on theother side of the embers. "It was written when he was born that heshould end his life in darkness, and now he is like a man walking in ablack night--with his eyes open, yet seeing not. I knew him well when hehad slaves, and many wives, and much merchandise, and trading praus, andpraus for fighting. Hai--ya! He was a great fighter in the days beforethe breath of the Merciful put out the light in his eyes. He was apilgrim, and had many virtues: he was brave, his hand was open, and hewas a great robber. For many years he led the men that drank blood onthe sea: first in prayer and first in fight! Have I not stood behindhim when his face was turned to the West? Have I not watched by his sideships with high masts burning in a straight flame on the calm water?Have I not followed him on dark nights amongst sleeping men that woke uponly to die? His sword was swifter than the fire from Heaven, and struckbefore it flashed. Hai! Tuan! Those were the days and that was a leader, and I myself was younger; and in those days there were not so manyfireships with guns that deal fiery death from afar. Over the hill andover the forest--O! Tuan Lakamba! they dropped whistling fireballs intothe creek where our praus took refuge, and where they dared not followmen who had arms in their hands. "

He shook his head with mournful regret and threw another handful offuel on the fire. The burst of clear flame lit up his broad, dark, andpock-marked face, where the big lips, stained with betel-juice, lookedlike a deep and bleeding gash of a fresh wound. The reflection of thefirelight gleamed brightly in his solitary eye, lending it for a momenta fierce animation that died out together with the short-lived flame. With quick touches of his bare hands he raked the embers into a heap, then, wiping the warm ash on his waistcloth--his only garment--heclasped his thin legs with his entwined fingers, and rested his chinon his drawn-up knees. Lakamba stirred slightly without changing hisposition or taking his eyes off the glowing coals, on which they hadbeen fixed in dreamy immobility. 

"Yes, " went on Babalatchi, in a low monotone, as if pursuing aloud atrain of thought that had its beginning in the silent contemplation ofthe unstable nature of earthly greatness--"yes. He has been rich andstrong, and now he lives on alms: old, feeble, blind, and withoutcompanions, but for his daughter. The Rajah Patalolo gives him rice, andthe pale woman--his daughter--cooks it for him, for he has no slave. "

"I saw her from afar, " muttered Lakamba, disparagingly. "A she-dog withwhite teeth, like a woman of the Orang-Putih. "

"Right, right, " assented Babalatchi; "but you have not seen her near. Her mother was a woman from the west; a Baghdadi woman with veiled face. Now she goes uncovered, like our women do, for she is poor and he isblind, and nobody ever comes near them unless to ask for a charm or ablessing and depart quickly for fear of his anger and of the Rajah'shand. You have not been on that side of the river?"

"Not for a long time. If I go . . . "

"True! true!" interrupted Babalatchi, soothingly, "but I go oftenalone--for your good--and look--and listen. When the time comes; when weboth go together towards the Rajah's campong, it will be to enter--andto remain. "

Lakamba sat up and looked at Babalatchi gloomily. 

"This is good talk, once, twice; when it is heard too often it becomesfoolish, like the prattle of children. "

"Many, many times have I seen the cloudy sky and have heard the wind ofthe rainy seasons, " said Babalatchi, impressively. 

"And where is your wisdom? It must be with the wind and the clouds ofseasons past, for I do not hear it in your talk. "

"Those are the words of the ungrateful!" shouted Babalatchi, with suddenexasperation. "Verily, our only refuge is with the One, the Mighty, theRedresser of . . . "

"Peace! Peace!" growled the startled Lakamba. "It is but a friend'stalk. "

Babalatchi subsided into his former attitude, muttering to himself. After awhile he went on again in a louder voice--

"Since the Rajah Laut left another white man here in Sambir, thedaughter of the blind Omar el Badavi has spoken to other ears thanmine. "

"Would a white man listen to a beggar's daughter?" said Lakamba, doubtingly. 

"Hai! I have seen . . . "

"And what did you see? O one-eyed one!" exclaimed Lakamba, contemptuously. 

"I have seen the strange white man walking on the narrow path beforethe sun could dry the drops of dew on the bushes, and I have heard thewhisper of his voice when he spoke through the smoke of the morning fireto that woman with big eyes and a pale skin. Woman in body, but in hearta man! She knows no fear and no shame. I have heard her voice too. "

He nodded twice at Lakamba sagaciously and gave himself up to silentmusing, his solitary eye fixed immovably upon the straight wall offorest on the opposite bank. Lakamba lay silent, staring vacantly. Underthem Lingard's own river rippled softly amongst the piles supporting thebamboo platform of the little watch-house before which they were lying. Behind the house the ground rose in a gentle swell of a low hill clearedof the big timber, but thickly overgrown with the grass and bushes, nowwithered and burnt up in the long drought of the dry season. This oldrice clearing, which had been several years lying fallow, was framedon three sides by the impenetrable and tangled growth of the untouchedforest, and on the fourth came down to the muddy river bank. Therewas not a breath of wind on the land or river, but high above, in thetransparent sky, little clouds rushed past the moon, now appearing inher diffused rays with the brilliance of silver, now obscuring her facewith the blackness of ebony. Far away, in the middle of the river, afish would leap now and then with a short splash, the very loudness ofwhich measured the profundity of the overpowering silence that swallowedup the sharp sound suddenly. 

Lakamba dozed uneasily off, but the wakeful Babalatchi sat thinkingdeeply, sighing from time to time, and slapping himself over his nakedtorso incessantly in a vain endeavour to keep off an occasional andwandering mosquito that, rising as high as the platform above the swarmsof the riverside, would settle with a ping of triumph on the unexpectedvictim. The moon, pursuing her silent and toilsome path, attainedher highest elevation, and chasing the shadow of the roof-eaves fromLakamba's face, seemed to hang arrested over their heads. Babalatchirevived the fire and woke up his companion, who sat up yawning andshivering discontentedly. 

Babalatchi spoke again in a voice which was like the murmur of a brookthat runs over the stones: low, monotonous, persistent; irresistiblein its power to wear out and to destroy the hardest obstacles. Lakambalistened, silent but interested. They were Malay adventurers; ambitiousmen of that place and time; the Bohemians of their race. In the earlydays of the settlement, before the ruler Patalolo had shaken off hisallegiance to the Sultan of Koti, Lakamba appeared in the river withtwo small trading vessels. He was disappointed to find already somesemblance of organization amongst the settlers of various races whorecognized the unobtrusive sway of old Patalolo, and he was not politicenough to conceal his disappointment. He declared himself to be a manfrom the east, from those parts where no white man ruled, and to be ofan oppressed race, but of a princely family. And truly enough he hadall the gifts of an exiled prince. He was discontented, ungrateful, turbulent; a man full of envy and ready for intrigue, with brave wordsand empty promises for ever on his lips. He was obstinate, but his willwas made up of short impulses that never lasted long enough to carry himto the goal of his ambition. Received coldly by the suspicious Patalolo, he persisted--permission or no permission--in clearing the ground ona good spot some fourteen miles down the river from Sambir, and builthimself a house there, which he fortified by a high palisade. As he hadmany followers and seemed very reckless, the old Rajah did not thinkit prudent at the time to interfere with him by force. Once settled, hebegan to intrigue. The quarrel of Patalolo with the Sultan of Koti wasof his fomenting, but failed to produce the result he expected becausethe Sultan could not back him up effectively at such a great distance. Disappointed in that scheme, he promptly organized an outbreak of theBugis settlers, and besieged the old Rajah in his stockade with muchnoisy valour and a fair chance of success; but Lingard then appeared onthe scene with the armed brig, and the old seaman's hairy forefinger, shaken menacingly in his face, quelled his martial ardour. No man caredto encounter the Rajah Laut, and Lakamba, with momentary resignation, subsided into a half-cultivator, half-trader, and nursed in hisfortified house his wrath and his ambition, keeping it for use on amore propitious occasion. Still faithful to his character of aprince-pretender, he would not recognize the constituted authorities, answering sulkily the Rajah's messenger, who claimed the tribute for thecultivated fields, that the Rajah had better come and take it himself. By Lingard's advice he was left alone, notwithstanding his rebelliousmood; and for many days he lived undisturbed amongst his wives andretainers, cherishing that persistent and causeless hope of bettertimes, the possession of which seems to be the universal privilege ofexiled greatness. 

But the passing days brought no change. The hope grew faint and thehot ambition burnt itself out, leaving only a feeble and expiring sparkamongst a heap of dull and tepid ashes of indolent acquiescence with thedecrees of Fate, till Babalatchi fanned it again into a bright flame. Babalatchi had blundered upon the river while in search of a safe refugefor his disreputable head. 

He was a vagabond of the seas, a true Orang-Laut, living by rapine andplunder of coasts and ships in his prosperous days; earning his livingby honest and irksome toil when the days of adversity were upon him. So, although at times leading the Sulu rovers, he had also served as Serangof country ships, and in that wise had visited the distant seas, beheld the glories of Bombay, the might of the Mascati Sultan; had evenstruggled in a pious throng for the privilege of touching with his lipsthe Sacred Stone of the Holy City. He gathered experience and wisdom inmany lands, and after attaching himself to Omar el Badavi, he affectedgreat piety (as became a pilgrim), although unable to read the inspiredwords of the Prophet. He was brave and bloodthirsty without anyaffection, and he hated the white men who interfered with the manlypursuits of throat-cutting, kidnapping, slave-dealing, and fire-raising, that were the only possible occupation for a true man of the sea. Hefound favour in the eyes of his chief, the fearless Omar el Badavi, theleader of Brunei rovers, whom he followed with unquestioning loyaltythrough the long years of successful depredation. And when that longcareer of murder, robbery and violence received its first serious checkat the hands of white men, he stood faithfully by his chief, lookedsteadily at the bursting shells, was undismayed by the flames of theburning stronghold, by the death of his companions, by the shrieksof their women, the wailing of their children; by the sudden ruin anddestruction of all that he deemed indispensable to a happy and gloriousexistence. The beaten ground between the houses was slippery with blood, and the dark mangroves of the muddy creeks were full of sighs of thedying men who were stricken down before they could see their enemy. Theydied helplessly, for into the tangled forest there was no escape, andtheir swift praus, in which they had so often scoured the coast and theseas, now wedged together in the narrow creek, were burning fiercely. Babalatchi, with the clear perception of the coming end, devoted all hisenergies to saving if it was but only one of them. He succeeded in time. When the end came in the explosion of the stored powder-barrels, he wasready to look for his chief. He found him half dead and totally blinded, with nobody near him but his daughter Aissa:--the sons had fallenearlier in the day, as became men of their courage. Helped by the girlwith the steadfast heart, Babalatchi carried Omar on board the lightprau and succeeded in escaping, but with very few companions only. Asthey hauled their craft into the network of dark and silent creeks, theycould hear the cheering of the crews of the man-of-war's boats dashingto the attack of the rover's village. Aissa, sitting on the highafter-deck, her father's blackened and bleeding head in her lap, lookedup with fearless eyes at Babalatchi. "They shall find only smoke, bloodand dead men, and women mad with fear there, but nothing else living, "she said, mournfully. Babalatchi, pressing with his right hand the deepgash on his shoulder, answered sadly: "They are very strong. When wefight with them we can only die. Yet, " he added, menacingly--"some of usstill live! Some of us still live!"

For a short time he dreamed of vengeance, but his dream was dispelled bythe cold reception of the Sultan of Sulu, with whom they sought refugeat first and who gave them only a contemptuous and grudging hospitality. While Omar, nursed by Aissa, was recovering from his wounds, Babalatchiattended industriously before the exalted Presence that had extended tothem the hand of Protection. For all that, when Babalatchi spoke intothe Sultan's ear certain proposals of a great and profitable raid, thatwas to sweep the islands from Ternate to Acheen, the Sultan was veryangry. "I know you, you men from the west, " he exclaimed, angrily. "Yourwords are poison in a Ruler's ears. Your talk is of fire and murderand booty--but on our heads falls the vengeance of the blood you drink. Begone!"

There was nothing to be done. Times were changed. So changed that, whena Spanish frigate appeared before the island and a demand was sentto the Sultan to deliver Omar and his companions, Babalatchi wasnot surprised to hear that they were going to be made the victims ofpolitical expediency. But from that sane appreciation of danger to tamesubmission was a very long step. And then began Omar's second flight. Itbegan arms in hand, for the little band had to fight in the night onthe beach for the possession of the small canoes in which those thatsurvived got away at last. The story of that escape lives in the heartsof brave men even to this day. They talk of Babalatchi and of the strongwoman who carried her blind father through the surf under the fireof the warship from the north. The companions of that piratical andson-less Aeneas are dead now, but their ghosts wander over the watersand the islands at night--after the manner of ghosts--and haunt thefires by which sit armed men, as is meet for the spirits of fearlesswarriors who died in battle. There they may hear the story of their owndeeds, of their own courage, suffering and death, on the lips of livingmen. That story is told in many places. On the cool mats in breezyverandahs of Rajahs' houses it is alluded to disdainfully by impassivestatesmen, but amongst armed men that throng the courtyards it is a talewhich stills the murmur of voices and the tinkle of anklets; arrests thepassage of the siri-vessel, and fixes the eyes in absorbed gaze. Theytalk of the fight, of the fearless woman, of the wise man; of longsuffering on the thirsty sea in leaky canoes; of those who died. . . . Many died. A few survived. The chief, the woman, and another one whobecame great. 

There was no hint of incipient greatness in Babalatchi's unostentatiousarrival in Sambir. He came with Omar and Aissa in a small prau loadedwith green cocoanuts, and claimed the ownership of both vessel andcargo. How it came to pass that Babalatchi, fleeing for his life in asmall canoe, managed to end his hazardous journey in a vessel full of avaluable commodity, is one of those secrets of the sea that bafflethe most searching inquiry. In truth nobody inquired much. There wererumours of a missing trading prau belonging to Menado, but they werevague and remained mysterious. Babalatchi told a story which--it must besaid in justice to Patalolo's knowledge of the world--was not believed. When the Rajah ventured to state his doubts, Babalatchi asked him intones of calm remonstrance whether he could reasonably suppose that twooldish men--who had only one eye amongst them--and a young woman werelikely to gain possession of anything whatever by violence? Charity wasa virtue recommended by the Prophet. There were charitable people, andtheir hand was open to the deserving. Patalolo wagged his aged headdoubtingly, and Babalatchi withdrew with a shocked mien and put himselfforthwith under Lakamba's protection. The two men who completed theprau's crew followed him into that magnate's campong. The blindOmar, with Aissa, remained under the care of the Rajah, and the Rajahconfiscated the cargo. The prau hauled up on the mud-bank, at thejunction of the two branches of the Pantai, rotted in the rain, warpedin the sun, fell to pieces and gradually vanished into the smoke ofhousehold fires of the settlement. Only a forgotten plank and a rib ortwo, sticking neglected in the shiny ooze for a long time, served toremind Babalatchi during many months that he was a stranger in the land. 

Otherwise, he felt perfectly at home in Lakamba's establishment, wherehis peculiar position and influence were quickly recognized and soonsubmitted to even by the women. He had all a true vagabond's pliabilityto circumstances and adaptiveness to momentary surroundings. In hisreadiness to learn from experience that contempt for early principlesso necessary to a true statesman, he equalled the most successfulpoliticians of any age; and he had enough persuasiveness and firmnessof purpose to acquire a complete mastery over Lakamba's vacillatingmind--where there was nothing stable but an all-pervading discontent. He kept the discontent alive, he rekindled the expiring ambition, hemoderated the poor exile's not unnatural impatience to attain a highand lucrative position. He--the man of violence--deprecated the use offorce, for he had a clear comprehension of the difficult situation. Fromthe same cause, he--the hater of white men--would to some extent admitthe eventual expediency of Dutch protection. But nothing should be donein a hurry. Whatever his master Lakamba might think, there was no use inpoisoning old Patalolo, he maintained. It could be done, of course;but what then? As long as Lingard's influence was paramount--as longas Almayer, Lingard's representative, was the only great trader ofthe settlement, it was not worth Lakamba's while--even if it had beenpossible--to grasp the rule of the young state. Killing Almayer andLingard was so difficult and so risky that it might be dismissed asimpracticable. What was wanted was an alliance; somebody to set upagainst the white men's influence--and somebody who, while favourable toLakamba, would at the same time be a person of a good standing withthe Dutch authorities. A rich and considered trader was wanted. Such aperson once firmly established in Sambir would help them to oust the oldRajah, to remove him from power or from life if there was no other way. Then it would be time to apply to the Orang Blanda for a flag; for arecognition of their meritorious services; for that protection whichwould make them safe for ever! The word of a rich and loyal trader wouldmean something with the Ruler down in Batavia. The first thing to dowas to find such an ally and to induce him to settle in Sambir. Awhite trader would not do. A white man would not fall in with theirideas--would not be trustworthy. The man they wanted should be rich, unscrupulous, have many followers, and be a well-known personalityin the islands. Such a man might be found amongst the Arab traders. Lingard's jealousy, said Babalatchi, kept all the traders out of theriver. Some were afraid, and some did not know how to get there; othersignored the very existence of Sambir; a good many did not think itworth their while to run the risk of Lingard's enmity for the doubtfuladvantage of trade with a comparatively unknown settlement. The greatmajority were undesirable or untrustworthy. And Babalatchi mentionedregretfully the men he had known in his young days: wealthy, resolute, courageous, reckless, ready for any enterprise! But why lament the pastand speak about the dead? There is one man--living--great--not faroff . . . 

Such was Babalatchi's line of policy laid before his ambitiousprotector. Lakamba assented, his only objection being that it wasvery slow work. In his extreme desire to grasp dollars and power, theunintellectual exile was ready to throw himself into the arms ofany wandering cut-throat whose help could be secured, and Babalatchiexperienced great difficulty in restraining him from unconsideredviolence. It would not do to let it be seen that they had any hand inintroducing a new element into the social and political life of Sambir. There was always a possibility of failure, and in that case Lingard'svengeance would be swift and certain. No risk should be run. They mustwait. 

Meantime he pervaded the settlement, squatting in the course of eachday by many household fires, testing the public temper and publicopinion--and always talking about his impending departure. 

At night he would often take Lakamba's smallest canoe and departsilently to pay mysterious visits to his old chief on the other side ofthe river. Omar lived in odour of sanctity under the wing of Patalolo. Between the bamboo fence, enclosing the houses of the Rajah, and thewild forest, there was a banana plantation, and on its further edgestood two little houses built on low piles under a few precious fruittrees that grew on the banks of a clear brook, which, bubbling up behindthe house, ran in its short and rapid course down to the big river. Along the brook a narrow path led through the dense second growth ofa neglected clearing to the banana plantation and to the houses in itwhich the Rajah had given for residence to Omar. The Rajah was greatlyimpressed by Omar's ostentatious piety, by his oracular wisdom, byhis many misfortunes, by the solemn fortitude with which he bore hisaffliction. Often the old ruler of Sambir would visit informally theblind Arab and listen gravely to his talk during the hot hours of anafternoon. In the night, Babalatchi would call and interrupt Omar'srepose, unrebuked. Aissa, standing silently at the door of one of thehuts, could see the two old friends as they sat very still by the firein the middle of the beaten ground between the two houses, talking inan indistinct murmur far into the night. She could not hear their words, but she watched the two formless shadows curiously. Finally Babalatchiwould rise and, taking her father by the wrist, would lead him backto the house, arrange his mats for him, and go out quietly. Instead ofgoing away, Babalatchi, unconscious of Aissa's eyes, often sat again bythe fire, in a long and deep meditation. Aissa looked with respect onthat wise and brave man--she was accustomed to see at her father'sside as long as she could remember--sitting alone and thoughtful inthe silent night by the dying fire, his body motionless and his mindwandering in the land of memories, or--who knows?--perhaps groping for aroad in the waste spaces of the uncertain future. 

Babalatchi noted the arrival of Willems with alarm at this new accessionto the white men's strength. Afterwards he changed his opinion. He metWillems one night on the path leading to Omar's house, and noticed lateron, with only a moderate surprise, that the blind Arab did not seemto be aware of the new white man's visits to the neighbourhood of hisdwelling. Once, coming unexpectedly in the daytime, Babalatchi fanciedhe could see the gleam of a white jacket in the bushes on the other sideof the brook. That day he watched Aissa pensively as she moved aboutpreparing the evening rice; but after awhile he went hurriedly awaybefore sunset, refusing Omar's hospitable invitation, in the name ofAllah, to share their meal. That same evening he startled Lakamba byannouncing that the time had come at last to make the first move intheir long-deferred game. Lakamba asked excitedly for explanation. Babalatchi shook his head and pointed to the flitting shadows of movingwomen and to the vague forms of men sitting by the evening fires in thecourtyard. Not a word would he speak here, he declared. But when thewhole household was reposing, Babalatchi and Lakamba passed silentamongst sleeping groups to the riverside, and, taking a canoe, paddledoff stealthily on their way to the dilapidated guard-hut in the oldrice-clearing. There they were safe from all eyes and ears, and couldaccount, if need be, for their excursion by the wish to kill a deer, thespot being well known as the drinking-place of all kinds of game. Inthe seclusion of its quiet solitude Babalatchi explained his plan tothe attentive Lakamba. His idea was to make use of Willems for thedestruction of Lingard's influence. 

"I know the white men, Tuan, " he said, in conclusion. "In many landshave I seen them; always the slaves of their desires, always ready togive up their strength and their reason into the hands of some woman. The fate of the Believers is written by the hand of the Mighty One, but they who worship many gods are thrown into the world with smoothforeheads, for any woman's hand to mark their destruction there. Let onewhite man destroy another. The will of the Most High is that they shouldbe fools. They know how to keep faith with their enemies, but towardseach other they know only deception. Hai! I have seen! I have seen!"

He stretched himself full length before the fire, and closed his eye inreal or simulated sleep. Lakamba, not quite convinced, sat for a longtime with his gaze riveted on the dull embers. As the night advanced, a slight white mist rose from the river, and the declining moon, bowedover the tops of the forest, seemed to seek the repose of the earth, like a wayward and wandering lover who returns at last to lay his tiredand silent head on his beloved's breast. 

CHAPTER SIX

"Lend me your gun, Almayer, " said Willems, across the table on which asmoky lamp shone redly above the disorder of a finished meal. "I have amind to go and look for a deer when the moon rises to-night. "

Almayer, sitting sidewise to the table, his elbow pushed amongst thedirty plates, his chin on his breast and his legs stretched stiffly out, kept his eyes steadily on the toes of his grass slippers and laughedabruptly. 

"You might say yes or no instead of making that unpleasant noise, "remarked Willems, with calm irritation. 

"If I believed one word of what you say, I would, " answered Almayerwithout changing his attitude and speaking slowly, with pauses, as ifdropping his words on the floor. "As it is--what's the use? You knowwhere the gun is; you may take it or leave it. Gun. Deer. Bosh! Huntdeer! Pah! It's a . . . Gazelle you are after, my honoured guest. Youwant gold anklets and silk sarongs for that game--my mighty hunter. Andyou won't get those for the asking, I promise you. All day amongst thenatives. A fine help you are to me. "

"You shouldn't drink so much, Almayer, " said Willems, disguising hisfury under an affected drawl. "You have no head. Never had, as far as Ican remember, in the old days in Macassar. You drink too much. "

"I drink my own, " retorted Almayer, lifting his head quickly and dartingan angry glance at Willems. 

Those two specimens of the superior race glared at each other savagelyfor a minute, then turned away their heads at the same moment as if byprevious arrangement, and both got up. Almayer kicked off his slippersand scrambled into his hammock, which hung between two wooden columnsof the verandah so as to catch every rare breeze of the dry season, and Willems, after standing irresolutely by the table for a short time, walked without a word down the steps of the house and over the courtyardtowards the little wooden jetty, where several small canoes and a coupleof big white whale-boats were made fast, tugging at their short paintersand bumping together in the swift current of the river. He jumped intothe smallest canoe, balancing himself clumsily, slipped the rattanpainter, and gave an unnecessary and violent shove, which nearly senthim headlong overboard. By the time he regained his balance the canoehad drifted some fifty yards down the river. He knelt in the bottom ofhis little craft and fought the current with long sweeps of the paddle. Almayer sat up in his hammock, grasping his feet and peering over theriver with parted lips till he made out the shadowy form of man andcanoe as they struggled past the jetty again. 

"I thought you would go, " he shouted. "Won't you take the gun? Hey?"he yelled, straining his voice. Then he fell back in his hammock andlaughed to himself feebly till he fell asleep. On the river, Willems, his eyes fixed intently ahead, swept his paddle right and left, unheeding the words that reached him faintly. 

It was now three months since Lingard had landed Willems in Sambir andhad departed hurriedly, leaving him in Almayer's care. 

The two white men did not get on well together. Almayer, remembering thetime when they both served Hudig, and when the superior Willems treatedhim with offensive condescension, felt a great dislike towards hisguest. He was also jealous of Lingard's favour. Almayer had married aMalay girl whom the old seaman had adopted in one of his accesses ofunreasoning benevolence, and as the marriage was not a happy one from adomestic point of view, he looked to Lingard's fortune for compensationin his matrimonial unhappiness. The appearance of that man, who seemedto have a claim of some sort upon Lingard, filled him with considerableuneasiness, the more so because the old seaman did not choose toacquaint the husband of his adopted daughter with Willems' history, orto confide to him his intentions as to that individual's future fate. Suspicious from the first, Almayer discouraged Willems' attempts tohelp him in his trading, and then when Willems drew back, he made, withcharacteristic perverseness, a grievance of his unconcern. From coldcivility in their relations, the two men drifted into silent hostility, then into outspoken enmity, and both wished ardently for Lingard'sreturn and the end of a situation that grew more intolerable from dayto day. The time dragged slowly. Willems watched the succeeding sunriseswondering dismally whether before the evening some change would occurin the deadly dullness of his life. He missed the commercial activity ofthat existence which seemed to him far off, irreparably lost, buried outof sight under the ruins of his past success--now gone from him beyondthe possibility of redemption. He mooned disconsolately about Almayer'scourtyard, watching from afar, with uninterested eyes, the up-countrycanoes discharging guttah or rattans, and loading rice or European goodson the little wharf of Lingard & Co. Big as was the extent of groundowned by Almayer, Willems yet felt that there was not enough room forhim inside those neat fences. The man who, during long years, becameaccustomed to think of himself as indispensable to others, felt a bitterand savage rage at the cruel consciousness of his superfluity, of hisuselessness; at the cold hostility visible in every look of the onlywhite man in this barbarous corner of the world. He gnashed his teethwhen he thought of the wasted days, of the life thrown away in theunwilling company of that peevish and suspicious fool. He heard thereproach of his idleness in the murmurs of the river, in the unceasingwhisper of the great forests. Round him everything stirred, moved, sweptby in a rush; the earth under his feet and the heavens above his head. The very savages around him strove, struggled, fought, worked--if onlyto prolong a miserable existence; but they lived, they lived! And it wasonly himself that seemed to be left outside the scheme of creation in ahopeless immobility filled with tormenting anger and with ever-stingingregret. 

He took to wandering about the settlement. The afterwards flourishingSambir was born in a swamp and passed its youth in malodorous mud. The houses crowded the bank, and, as if to get away from the unhealthyshore, stepped boldly into the river, shooting over it in a close row ofbamboo platforms elevated on high piles, amongst which the current belowspoke in a soft and unceasing plaint of murmuring eddies. There was onlyone path in the whole town and it ran at the back of the houses alongthe succession of blackened circular patches that marked the place ofthe household fires. On the other side the virgin forest bordered thepath, coming close to it, as if to provoke impudently any passer-by tothe solution of the gloomy problem of its depths. Nobody would acceptthe deceptive challenge. There were only a few feeble attempts at aclearing here and there, but the ground was low and the river, retiringafter its yearly floods, left on each a gradually diminishing mudhole, where the imported buffaloes of the Bugis settlers wallowed happilyduring the heat of the day. When Willems walked on the path, theindolent men stretched on the shady side of the houses looked at himwith calm curiosity, the women busy round the cooking fires would sendafter him wondering and timid glances, while the children would onlylook once, and then run away yelling with fright at the horribleappearance of the man with a red and white face. These manifestationsof childish disgust and fear stung Willems with a sense of absurdhumiliation; he sought in his walks the comparative solitude of therudimentary clearings, but the very buffaloes snorted with alarm at hissight, scrambled lumberingly out of the cool mud and stared wildly in acompact herd at him as he tried to slink unperceived along the edge ofthe forest. One day, at some unguarded and sudden movement of his, thewhole herd stampeded down the path, scattered the fires, sent the womenflying with shrill cries, and left behind a track of smashed pots, trampled rice, overturned children, and a crowd of angry men brandishingsticks in loud-voiced pursuit. The innocent cause of that disturbanceran shamefacedly the gauntlet of black looks and unfriendly remarks, and hastily sought refuge in Almayer's campong. After that he left thesettlement alone. 

Later, when the enforced confinement grew irksome, Willems took oneof Almayer's many canoes and crossed the main branch of the Pantai insearch of some solitary spot where he could hide his discouragementand his weariness. He skirted in his little craft the wall of tangledverdure, keeping in the dead water close to the bank where the spreadingnipa palms nodded their broad leaves over his head as if in contemptuouspity of the wandering outcast. Here and there he could see thebeginnings of chopped-out pathways, and, with the fixed idea of gettingout of sight of the busy river, he would land and follow the narrow andwinding path, only to find that it led nowhere, ending abruptly inthe discouragement of thorny thickets. He would go back slowly, with abitter sense of unreasonable disappointment and sadness; oppressed bythe hot smell of earth, dampness, and decay in that forest which seemedto push him mercilessly back into the glittering sunshine of theriver. And he would recommence paddling with tired arms to seek anotheropening, to find another deception. 

As he paddled up to the point where the Rajah's stockade came down tothe river, the nipas were left behind rattling their leaves over thebrown water, and the big trees would appear on the bank, tall, strong, indifferent in the immense solidity of their life, which endures forages, to that short and fleeting life in the heart of the man who creptpainfully amongst their shadows in search of a refuge from the unceasingreproach of his thoughts. Amongst their smooth trunks a clear brookmeandered for a time in twining lacets before it made up its mind totake a leap into the hurrying river, over the edge of the steep bank. There was also a pathway there and it seemed frequented. Willems landed, and following the capricious promise of the track soon found himself ina comparatively clear space, where the confused tracery of sunlight fellthrough the branches and the foliage overhead, and lay on the streamthat shone in an easy curve like a bright sword-blade dropped amongstthe long and feathery grass. 

Further on, the path continued, narrowed again in the thick undergrowth. At the end of the first turning Willems saw a flash of white and colour, a gleam of gold like a sun-ray lost in shadow, and a vision of blacknessdarker than the deepest shade of the forest. He stopped, surprised, and fancied he had heard light footsteps--growing lighter--ceasing. He looked around. The grass on the bank of the stream trembled and atremulous path of its shivering, silver-grey tops ran from the water tothe beginning of the thicket. And yet there was not a breath of wind. Somebody kind passed there. He looked pensive while the tremor died outin a quick tremble under his eyes; and the grass stood high, unstirring, with drooping heads in the warm and motionless air. 

He hurried on, driven by a suddenly awakened curiosity, and entered thenarrow way between the bushes. At the next turn of the path he caughtagain the glimpse of coloured stuff and of a woman's black hair beforehim. He hastened his pace and came in full view of the object of hispursuit. The woman, who was carrying two bamboo vessels full of water, heard his footsteps, stopped, and putting the bamboos down half turnedto look back. Willems also stood still for a minute, then walkedsteadily on with a firm tread, while the woman moved aside to lethim pass. He kept his eyes fixed straight before him, yet almostunconsciously he took in every detail of the tall and graceful figure. As he approached her the woman tossed her head slightly back, and with afree gesture of her strong, round arm, caught up the mass of loose blackhair and brought it over her shoulder and across the lower part of herface. The next moment he was passing her close, walking rigidly, like aman in a trance. He heard her rapid breathing and he felt the touch ofa look darted at him from half-open eyes. It touched his brain and hisheart together. It seemed to him to be something loud and stirring likea shout, silent and penetrating like an inspiration. The momentum of hismotion carried him past her, but an invisible force made up of surpriseand curiosity and desire spun him round as soon as he had passed. 

She had taken up her burden already, with the intention of pursuing herpath. His sudden movement arrested her at the first step, and again shestood straight, slim, expectant, with a readiness to dart away suggestedin the light immobility of her pose. High above, the branches of thetrees met in a transparent shimmer of waving green mist, through whichthe rain of yellow rays descended upon her head, streamed in glints downher black tresses, shone with the changing glow of liquid metal on herface, and lost itself in vanishing sparks in the sombre depths of hereyes that, wide open now, with enlarged pupils, looked steadily at theman in her path. And Willems stared at her, charmed with a charm thatcarries with it a sense of irreparable loss, tingling with that feelingwhich begins like a caress and ends in a blow, in that sudden hurt of anew emotion making its way into a human heart, with the brusque stirringof sleeping sensations awakening suddenly to the rush of new hopes, newfears, new desires--and to the flight of one's old self. 

She moved a step forward and again halted. A breath of wind that camethrough the trees, but in Willems' fancy seemed to be driven by hermoving figure, rippled in a hot wave round his body and scorched hisface in a burning touch. He drew it in with a long breath, the lastlong breath of a soldier before the rush of battle, of a lover beforehe takes in his arms the adored woman; the breath that gives courage toconfront the menace of death or the storm of passion. 

Who was she? Where did she come from? Wonderingly he took his eyes offher face to look round at the serried trees of the forest that stood bigand still and straight, as if watching him and her breathlessly. Hehad been baffled, repelled, almost frightened by the intensity of thattropical life which wants the sunshine but works in gloom; which seemsto be all grace of colour and form, all brilliance, all smiles, but isonly the blossoming of the dead; whose mystery holds the promise ofjoy and beauty, yet contains nothing but poison and decay. He had beenfrightened by the vague perception of danger before, but now, as helooked at that life again, his eyes seemed able to pierce the fantasticveil of creepers and leaves, to look past the solid trunks, to seethrough the forbidding gloom--and the mystery was disclosed--enchanting, subduing, beautiful. He looked at the woman. Through the checkered lightbetween them she appeared to him with the impalpable distinctness ofa dream. The very spirit of that land of mysterious forests, standingbefore him like an apparition behind a transparent veil--a veil woven ofsunbeams and shadows. 

She had approached him still nearer. He felt a strange impatiencewithin him at her advance. Confused thoughts rushed through his head, disordered, shapeless, stunning. Then he heard his own voice asking--

"Who are you?"

"I am the daughter of the blind Omar, " she answered, in a low butsteady tone. "And you, " she went on, a little louder, "you are the whitetrader--the great man of this place. "

"Yes, " said Willems, holding her eyes with his in a sense of extremeeffort, "Yes, I am white. " Then he added, feeling as if he spoke aboutsome other man, "But I am the outcast of my people. "

She listened to him gravely. Through the mesh of scattered hair herface looked like the face of a golden statue with living eyes. The heavyeyelids dropped slightly, and from between the long eyelashes she sentout a sidelong look: hard, keen, and narrow, like the gleam of sharpsteel. Her lips were firm and composed in a graceful curve, but thedistended nostrils, the upward poise of the half-averted head, gave toher whole person the expression of a wild and resentful defiance. 

A shadow passed over Willems' face. He put his hand over his lips as ifto keep back the words that wanted to come out in a surge of impulsivenecessity, the outcome of dominant thought that rushes from the heart tothe brain and must be spoken in the face of doubt, of danger, of fear, of destruction itself. 

"You are beautiful, " he whispered. 

She looked at him again with a glance that running in one quick flash ofher eyes over his sunburnt features, his broad shoulders, his straight, tall, motionless figure, rested at last on the ground at his feet. Thenshe smiled. In the sombre beauty of her face that smile was like thefirst ray of light on a stormy daybreak that darts evanescent and palethrough the gloomy clouds: the forerunner of sunrise and of thunder. 

CHAPTER SEVEN

There are in our lives short periods which hold no place in memorybut only as the recollection of a feeling. There is no remembrance ofgesture, of action, of any outward manifestation of life; those are lostin the unearthly brilliance or in the unearthly gloom of such moments. We are absorbed in the contemplation of that something, within ourbodies, which rejoices or suffers while the body goes on breathing, instinctively runs away or, not less instinctively, fights--perhapsdies. But death in such a moment is the privilege of the fortunate, itis a high and rare favour, a supreme grace. 

Willems never remembered how and when he parted from Aissa. He caughthimself drinking the muddy water out of the hollow of his hand, whilehis canoe was drifting in mid-stream past the last houses of Sambir. With his returning wits came the fear of something unknown that hadtaken possession of his heart, of something inarticulate and masterfulwhich could not speak and would be obeyed. His first impulse was that ofrevolt. He would never go back there. Never! He looked round slowly atthe brilliance of things in the deadly sunshine and took up his paddle!How changed everything seemed! The river was broader, the sky washigher. How fast the canoe flew under the strokes of his paddle! Sincewhen had he acquired the strength of two men or more? He looked up anddown the reach at the forests of the bank with a confused notion thatwith one sweep of his hand he could tumble all these trees into thestream. His face felt burning. He drank again, and shuddered with adepraved sense of pleasure at the after-taste of slime in the water. 

It was late when he reached Almayer's house, but he crossed the dark anduneven courtyard, walking lightly in the radiance of some light of hisown, invisible to other eyes. His host's sulky greeting jarred himlike a sudden fall down a great height. He took his place at the tableopposite Almayer and tried to speak cheerfully to his gloomy companion, but when the meal was ended and they sat smoking in silence he felt anabrupt discouragement, a lassitude in all his limbs, a sense of immensesadness as after some great and irreparable loss. The darkness of thenight entered his heart, bringing with it doubt and hesitation anddull anger with himself and all the world. He had an impulse to shouthorrible curses, to quarrel with Almayer, to do something violent. Quitewithout any immediate provocation he thought he would like to assaultthe wretched, sulky beast. He glanced at him ferociously from underhis eyebrows. The unconscious Almayer smoked thoughtfully, planningto-morrow's work probably. The man's composure seemed to Willems anunpardonable insult. Why didn't that idiot talk to-night when he wantedhim to? . . . On other nights he was ready enough to chatter. And suchdull nonsense too! And Willems, trying hard to repress his own senselessrage, looked fixedly through the thick tobacco-smoke at the stainedtablecloth. 

They retired early, as usual, but in the middle of the night Willemsleaped out of his hammock with a stifled execration and ran down thesteps into the courtyard. The two night watchmen, who sat by a littlefire talking together in a monotonous undertone, lifted their headsto look wonderingly at the discomposed features of the white man as hecrossed the circle of light thrown out by their fire. He disappeared inthe darkness and then came back again, passing them close, but withno sign of consciousness of their presence on his face. Backwards andforwards he paced, muttering to himself, and the two Malays, after ashort consultation in whispers left the fire quietly, not thinking itsafe to remain in the vicinity of a white man who behaved in such astrange manner. They retired round the corner of the godown and watchedWillems curiously through the night, till the short daybreak wasfollowed by the sudden blaze of the rising sun, and Almayer'sestablishment woke up to life and work. 

As soon as he could get away unnoticed in the bustle of the busyriverside, Willems crossed the river on his way to the place where hehad met Aissa. He threw himself down in the grass by the side of thebrook and listened for the sound of her footsteps. The brilliant lightof day fell through the irregular opening in the high branches of thetrees and streamed down, softened, amongst the shadows of big trunks. Here and there a narrow sunbeam touched the rugged bark of a tree with agolden splash, sparkled on the leaping water of the brook, or restedon a leaf that stood out, shimmering and distinct, on the monotonousbackground of sombre green tints. The clear gap of blue above his headwas crossed by the quick flight of white rice-birds whose wings flashedin the sunlight, while through it the heat poured down from the sky, clung about the steaming earth, rolled among the trees, and wrapped upWillems in the soft and odorous folds of air heavy with the faint scentof blossoms and with the acrid smell of decaying life. And in thatatmosphere of Nature's workshop Willems felt soothed and lulled intoforgetfulness of his past, into indifference as to his future. Therecollections of his triumphs, of his wrongs and of his ambitionvanished in that warmth, which seemed to melt all regrets, all hope, all anger, all strength out of his heart. And he lay there, dreamilycontented, in the tepid and perfumed shelter, thinking of Aissa's eyes;recalling the sound of her voice, the quiver of her lips--her frowns andher smile. 

She came, of course. To her he was something new, unknown and strange. He was bigger, stronger than any man she had seen before, and altogetherdifferent from all those she knew. He was of the victorious race. Witha vivid remembrance of the great catastrophe of her life he appeared toher with all the fascination of a great and dangerous thing; of a terrorvanquished, surmounted, made a plaything of. They spoke with just sucha deep voice--those victorious men; they looked with just such hardblue eyes at their enemies. And she made that voice speak softly to her, those eyes look tenderly at her face! He was indeed a man. She could notunderstand all he told her of his life, but the fragments she understoodshe made up for herself into a story of a man great amongst his ownpeople, valorous and unfortunate; an undaunted fugitive dreaming ofvengeance against his enemies. He had all the attractiveness of thevague and the unknown--of the unforeseen and of the sudden; of a beingstrong, dangerous, alive, and human, ready to be enslaved. 

She felt that he was ready. She felt it with the unerring intuition of aprimitive woman confronted by a simple impulse. Day after day, when theymet and she stood a little way off, listening to his words, holding himwith her look, the undefined terror of the new conquest became faint andblurred like the memory of a dream, and the certitude grew distinct, and convincing, and visible to the eyes like some material thing in fullsunlight. It was a deep joy, a great pride, a tangible sweetness thatseemed to leave the taste of honey on her lips. He lay stretched at herfeet without moving, for he knew from experience how a slight movementof his could frighten her away in those first days of their intercourse. He lay very quiet, with all the ardour of his desire ringing in hisvoice and shining in his eyes, whilst his body was still, like deathitself. And he looked at her, standing above him, her head lost in theshadow of broad and graceful leaves that touched her cheek; while theslender spikes of pale green orchids streamed down from amongst theboughs and mingled with the black hair that framed her face, as ifall those plants claimed her for their own--the animated and brilliantflower of all that exuberant life which, born in gloom, struggles forever towards the sunshine. 

Every day she came a little nearer. He watched her slow progress--thegradual taming of that woman by the words of his love. It was themonotonous song of praise and desire that, commencing at creation, wrapsup the world like an atmosphere and shall end only in the end of allthings--when there are no lips to sing and no ears to hear. He toldher that she was beautiful and desirable, and he repeated it againand again; for when he told her that, he had said all there was withinhim--he had expressed his only thought, his only feeling. And he watchedthe startled look of wonder and mistrust vanish from her face with thepassing days, her eyes soften, the smile dwell longer and longer on herlips; a smile as of one charmed by a delightful dream; with the slightexaltation of intoxicating triumph lurking in its dawning tenderness. 

And while she was near there was nothing in the whole world--for thatidle man--but her look and her smile. Nothing in the past, nothing inthe future; and in the present only the luminous fact of her existence. But in the sudden darkness of her going he would be left weak andhelpless, as though despoiled violently of all that was himself. He whohad lived all his life with no preoccupation but that of his own career, contemptuously indifferent to all feminine influence, full of scornfor men that would submit to it, if ever so little; he, so strong, so superior even in his errors, realized at last that his veryindividuality was snatched from within himself by the hand of a woman. Where was the assurance and pride of his cleverness; the belief insuccess, the anger of failure, the wish to retrieve his fortune, thecertitude of his ability to accomplish it yet? Gone. All gone. All thathad been a man within him was gone, and there remained only the troubleof his heart--that heart which had become a contemptible thing; whichcould be fluttered by a look or a smile, tormented by a word, soothed bya promise. 

When the longed-for day came at last, when she sank on the grass by hisside and with a quick gesture took his hand in hers, he sat up suddenlywith the movement and look of a man awakened by the crash of his ownfalling house. All his blood, all his sensation, all his life seemed torush into that hand leaving him without strength, in a cold shiver, inthe sudden clamminess and collapse as of a deadly gun-shot wound. He flung her hand away brutally, like something burning, and satmotionless, his head fallen forward, staring on the ground and catchinghis breath in painful gasps. His impulse of fear and apparent horrordid not dismay her in the least. Her face was grave and her eyes lookedseriously at him. Her fingers touched the hair of his temple, ran ina light caress down his cheek, twisted gently the end of his longmoustache: and while he sat in the tremor of that contact she ran offwith startling fleetness and disappeared in a peal of clear laughter, in the stir of grass, in the nod of young twigs growing over the path;leaving behind only a vanishing trail of motion and sound. 

He scrambled to his feet slowly and painfully, like a man with a burdenon his shoulders, and walked towards the riverside. He hugged to hisbreast the recollection of his fear and of his delight, but toldhimself seriously over and over again that this must be the end of thatadventure. After shoving off his canoe into the stream he lifted hiseyes to the bank and gazed at it long and steadily, as if taking hislast look at a place of charming memories. He marched up to Almayer'shouse with the concentrated expression and the determined step of a manwho had just taken a momentous resolution. His face was set and rigid, his gestures and movements were guarded and slow. He was keeping a tighthand on himself. A very tight hand. He had a vivid illusion--as vividas reality almost--of being in charge of a slippery prisoner. Hesat opposite Almayer during that dinner--which was their last mealtogether--with a perfectly calm face and within him a growing terror ofescape from his own self. 

Now and then he would grasp the edge of the table and set his teeth hardin a sudden wave of acute despair, like one who, falling down a smoothand rapid declivity that ends in a precipice, digs his finger nails intothe yielding surface and feels himself slipping helplessly to inevitabledestruction. 

Then, abruptly, came a relaxation of his muscles, the giving way of hiswill. Something seemed to snap in his head, and that wish, that ideakept back during all those hours, darted into his brain with the heatand noise of a conflagration. He must see her! See her at once! Go now!To-night! He had the raging regret of the lost hour, of every passingmoment. There was no thought of resistance now. Yet with the instinctivefear of the irrevocable, with the innate falseness of the human heart, he wanted to keep open the way of retreat. He had never absented himselfduring the night. What did Almayer know? What would Almayer think?Better ask him for the gun. A moonlight night. . . . Look for deer. . . . A colourable pretext. He would lie to Almayer. What did it matter! Helied to himself every minute of his life. And for what? For a woman. Andsuch. . . . 

Almayer's answer showed him that deception was useless. Everythinggets to be known, even in this place. Well, he did not care. Cared fornothing but for the lost seconds. What if he should suddenly die. Diebefore he saw her. Before he could . . . 

As, with the sound of Almayer's laughter in his ears, he urged his canoein a slanting course across the rapid current, he tried to tell himselfthat he could return at any moment. He would just go and look at theplace where they used to meet, at the tree under which he lay when shetook his hand, at the spot where she sat by his side. Just go there andthen return--nothing more; but when his little skiff touched the bankhe leaped out, forgetting the painter, and the canoe hung for a momentamongst the bushes and then swung out of sight before he had time todash into the water and secure it. He was thunderstruck at first. Now hecould not go back unless he called up the Rajah's people to get a boatand rowers--and the way to Patalolo's campong led past Aissa's house!

He went up the path with the eager eyes and reluctant steps of a manpursuing a phantom, and when he found himself at a place where a narrowtrack branched off to the left towards Omar's clearing he stood still, with a look of strained attention on his face as if listening to afar-off voice--the voice of his fate. It was a sound inarticulate butfull of meaning; and following it there came a rending and tearingwithin his breast. He twisted his fingers together, and the joints ofhis hands and arms cracked. On his forehead the perspiration stoodout in small pearly drops. He looked round wildly. Above the shapelessdarkness of the forest undergrowth rose the treetops with their highboughs and leaves standing out black on the pale sky--like fragmentsof night floating on moonbeams. Under his feet warm steam rose from theheated earth. Round him there was a great silence. 

He was looking round for help. This silence, this immobility of hissurroundings seemed to him a cold rebuke, a stern refusal, a cruelunconcern. There was no safety outside of himself--and in himself therewas no refuge; there was only the image of that woman. He had a suddenmoment of lucidity--of that cruel lucidity that comes once in life tothe most benighted. He seemed to see what went on within him, and washorrified at the strange sight. He, a white man whose worst fault tillthen had been a little want of judgment and too much confidence in therectitude of his kind! That woman was a complete savage, and . . . Hetried to tell himself that the thing was of no consequence. It was avain effort. The novelty of the sensations he had never experiencedbefore in the slightest degree, yet had despised on hearsay fromhis safe position of a civilized man, destroyed his courage. He wasdisappointed with himself. He seemed to be surrendering to a wildcreature the unstained purity of his life, of his race, of hiscivilization. He had a notion of being lost amongst shapeless thingsthat were dangerous and ghastly. He struggled with the sense of certaindefeat--lost his footing--fell back into the darkness. With a faint cryand an upward throw of his arms he gave up as a tired swimmer gives up:because the swamped craft is gone from under his feet; because the nightis dark and the shore is far--because death is better than strife. 

PART II

CHAPTER ONE

The light and heat fell upon the settlement, the clearings, and theriver as if flung down by an angry hand. The land lay silent, still, and brilliant under the avalanche of burning rays that had destroyed allsound and all motion, had buried all shadows, had choked every breath. No living thing dared to affront the serenity of this cloudless sky, dared to revolt against the oppression of this glorious and cruelsunshine. Strength and resolution, body and mind alike were helpless, and tried to hide before the rush of the fire from heaven. Only thefrail butterflies, the fearless children of the sun, the capricioustyrants of the flowers, fluttered audaciously in the open, and theirminute shadows hovered in swarms over the drooping blossoms, ran lightlyon the withering grass, or glided on the dry and cracked earth. No voicewas heard in this hot noontide but the faint murmur of the river thathurried on in swirls and eddies, its sparkling wavelets chasing eachother in their joyous course to the sheltering depths, to the coolrefuge of the sea. 

Almayer had dismissed his workmen for the midday rest, and, his littledaughter on his shoulder, ran quickly across the courtyard, making forthe shade of the verandah of his house. He laid the sleepy child on theseat of the big rocking-chair, on a pillow which he took out of hisown hammock, and stood for a while looking down at her with tender andpensive eyes. The child, tired and hot, moved uneasily, sighed, andlooked up at him with the veiled look of sleepy fatigue. He picked upfrom the floor a broken palm-leaf fan, and began fanning gently theflushed little face. Her eyelids fluttered and Almayer smiled. Aresponsive smile brightened for a second her heavy eyes, broke with adimple the soft outline of her cheek; then the eyelids dropped suddenly, she drew a long breath through the parted lips--and was in a deep sleepbefore the fleeting smile could vanish from her face. 

Almayer moved lightly off, took one of the wooden armchairs, and placingit close to the balustrade of the verandah sat down with a sigh ofrelief. He spread his elbows on the top rail and resting his chin on hisclasped hands looked absently at the river, at the dance of sunlighton the flowing water. Gradually the forest of the further bank becamesmaller, as if sinking below the level of the river. The outlineswavered, grew thin, dissolved in the air. Before his eyes there wasnow only a space of undulating blue--one big, empty sky growing dark attimes. . . . Where was the sunshine? . . . He felt soothed and happy, asif some gentle and invisible hand had removed from his soul the burdenof his body. In another second he seemed to float out into a coolbrightness where there was no such thing as memory or pain. Delicious. His eyes closed--opened--closed again. 

"Almayer!"

With a sudden jerk of his whole body he sat up, grasping the front railwith both his hands, and blinked stupidly. 

"What? What's that?" he muttered, looking round vaguely. 

"Here! Down here, Almayer. "

Half rising in his chair, Almayer looked over the rail at the foot ofthe verandah, and fell back with a low whistle of astonishment. 

"A ghost, by heavens!" he exclaimed softly to himself. 

"Will you listen to me?" went on the husky voice from the courtyard. "May I come up, Almayer?"

Almayer stood up and leaned over the rail. "Don't you dare, " he said, in a voice subdued but distinct. "Don't you dare! The child sleeps here. And I don't want to hear you--or speak to you either. "

"You must listen to me! It's something important. "

"Not to me, surely. "

"Yes! To you. Very important. "

"You were always a humbug, " said Almayer, after a short silence, in anindulgent tone. "Always! I remember the old days. Some fellows used tosay there was no one like you for smartness--but you never took me in. Not quite. I never quite believed in you, Mr. Willems. "

"I admit your superior intelligence, " retorted Willems, with scornfulimpatience, from below. "Listening to me would be a further proof of it. You will be sorry if you don't. "

"Oh, you funny fellow!" said Almayer, banteringly. "Well, come up. Don'tmake a noise, but come up. You'll catch a sunstroke down there and dieon my doorstep perhaps. I don't want any tragedy here. Come on!"

Before he finished speaking Willems' head appeared above the level ofthe floor, then his shoulders rose gradually and he stood at last beforeAlmayer--a masquerading spectre of the once so very confidential clerkof the richest merchant in the islands. His jacket was soiled and torn;below the waist he was clothed in a worn-out and faded sarong. He flungoff his hat, uncovering his long, tangled hair that stuck in wisps onhis perspiring forehead and straggled over his eyes, which glittereddeep down in the sockets like the last sparks amongst the black embersof a burnt-out fire. An unclean beard grew out of the caverns of hissunburnt cheeks. The hand he put out towards Almayer was very unsteady. The once firm mouth had the tell-tale droop of mental suffering andphysical exhaustion. He was barefooted. Almayer surveyed him withleisurely composure. 

"Well!" he said at last, without taking the extended hand which droppedslowly along Willems' body. 

"I am come, " began Willems. 

"So I see, " interrupted Almayer. "You might have spared me this treatwithout making me unhappy. You have been away five weeks, if I am notmistaken. I got on very well without you--and now you are here you arenot pretty to look at. "

"Let me speak, will you!" exclaimed Willems. 

"Don't shout like this. Do you think yourself in the forest with your. . . Your friends? This is a civilized man's house. A white man's. Understand?"

"I am come, " began Willems again; "I am come for your good and mine. "

"You look as if you had come for a good feed, " chimed in theirrepressible Almayer, while Willems waved his hand in a discouragedgesture. "Don't they give you enough to eat, " went on Almayer, in a toneof easy banter, "those--what am I to call them--those new relations ofyours? That old blind scoundrel must be delighted with your company. Youknow, he was the greatest thief and murderer of those seas. Say! doyou exchange confidences? Tell me, Willems, did you kill somebody inMacassar or did you only steal something?"

"It is not true!" exclaimed Willems, hotly. "I only borrowed. . . . Theyall lied! I . . . "

"Sh-sh!" hissed Almayer, warningly, with a look at the sleeping child. "So you did steal, " he went on, with repressed exultation. "I thoughtthere was something of the kind. And now, here, you steal again. "

For the first time Willems raised his eyes to Almayer's face. 

"Oh, I don't mean from me. I haven't missed anything, " said Almayer, with mocking haste. "But that girl. Hey! You stole her. You did not paythe old fellow. She is no good to him now, is she?"

"Stop that. Almayer!"

Something in Willems' tone caused Almayer to pause. He looked narrowlyat the man before him, and could not help being shocked at hisappearance. 

"Almayer, " went on Willems, "listen to me. If you are a human being youwill. I suffer horribly--and for your sake. "

Almayer lifted his eyebrows. "Indeed! How? But you are raving, " headded, negligently. 

"Ah! You don't know, " whispered Willems. "She is gone. Gone, " herepeated, with tears in his voice, "gone two days ago. "

"No!" exclaimed the surprised Almayer. "Gone! I haven't heard thatnews yet. " He burst into a subdued laugh. "How funny! Had enough of youalready? You know it's not flattering for you, my superior countryman. "

Willems--as if not hearing him--leaned against one of the columns of theroof and looked over the river. "At first, " he whispered, dreamily, "mylife was like a vision of heaven--or hell; I didn't know which. Sinceshe went I know what perdition means; what darkness is. I know what itis to be torn to pieces alive. That's how I feel. "

"You may come and live with me again, " said Almayer, coldly. "After all, Lingard--whom I call my father and respect as such--left you under mycare. You pleased yourself by going away. Very good. Now you wantto come back. Be it so. I am no friend of yours. I act for CaptainLingard. "

"Come back?" repeated Willems, passionately. "Come back to you andabandon her? Do you think I am mad? Without her! Man! what are youmade of? To think that she moves, lives, breathes out of my sight. I amjealous of the wind that fans her, of the air she breathes, of the earththat receives the caress of her foot, of the sun that looks at her nowwhile I . . . I haven't seen her for two days--two days. "

The intensity of Willems' feeling moved Almayer somewhat, but heaffected to yawn elaborately, "You do bore me, " he muttered. "Why don'tyou go after her instead of coming here?"

"Why indeed?"

"Don't you know where she is? She can't be very far. No native craft hasleft this river for the last fortnight. "

"No! not very far--and I will tell you where she is. She is in Lakamba'scampong. " And Willems fixed his eyes steadily on Almayer's face. 

"Phew! Patalolo never sent to let me know. Strange, " said Almayer, thoughtfully. "Are you afraid of that lot?" he added, after a shortpause. 

"I--afraid!"

"Then is it the care of your dignity which prevents you from followingher there, my high-minded friend?" asked Almayer, with mock solicitude. "How noble of you!"

There was a short silence; then Willems said, quietly, "You are a fool. I should like to kick you. "

"No fear, " answered Almayer, carelessly; "you are too weak for that. Youlook starved. "

"I don't think I have eaten anything for the last two days; perhapsmore--I don't remember. It does not matter. I am full of live embers, "said Willems, gloomily. "Look!" and he bared an arm covered with freshscars. "I have been biting myself to forget in that pain the fire thathurts me there!" He struck his breast violently with his fist, reeledunder his own blow, fell into a chair that stood near and closed hiseyes slowly. 

"Disgusting exhibition, " said Almayer, loftily. "What could father eversee in you? You are as estimable as a heap of garbage. "

"You talk like that! You, who sold your soul for a few guilders, "muttered Willems, wearily, without opening his eyes. 

"Not so few, " said Almayer, with instinctive readiness, and stoppedconfused for a moment. He recovered himself quickly, however, and wenton: "But you--you have thrown yours away for nothing; flung it underthe feet of a damned savage woman who has made you already the thing youare, and will kill you very soon, one way or another, with her love orwith her hate. You spoke just now about guilders. You meant Lingard'smoney, I suppose. Well, whatever I have sold, and for whatever price, Inever meant you--you of all people--to spoil my bargain. I feel prettysafe though. Even father, even Captain Lingard, would not touch you nowwith a pair of tongs; not with a ten-foot pole. . . . "

He spoke excitedly, all in one breath, and, ceasing suddenly, glared atWillems and breathed hard through his nose in sulky resentment. Willemslooked at him steadily for a moment, then got up. 

"Almayer, " he said resolutely, "I want to become a trader in thisplace. "

Almayer shrugged his shoulders. 

"Yes. And you shall set me up. I want a house and trade goods--perhaps alittle money. I ask you for it. "

"Anything else you want? Perhaps this coat?" and here Almayer unbuttonedhis jacket--"or my house--or my boots?"

"After all it's natural, " went on Willems, without paying any attentionto Almayer--"it's natural that she should expect the advantages which. . . And then I could shut up that old wretch and then . . . "

He paused, his face brightened with the soft light of dreamy enthusiasm, and he turned his eyes upwards. With his gaunt figure and dilapidatedappearance he looked like some ascetic dweller in a wilderness, findingthe reward of a self-denying life in a vision of dazzling glory. He wenton in an impassioned murmur--

"And then I would have her all to myself away from her people--allto myself--under my own influence--to fashion--to mould--to adore--tosoften--to . . . Oh! Delight! And then--then go away to some distantplace where, far from all she knew, I would be all the world to her! Allthe world to her!"

His face changed suddenly. His eyes wandered for awhile and then becamesteady all at once. 

"I would repay every cent, of course, " he said, in a business-like tone, with something of his old assurance, of his old belief in himself, init. "Every cent. I need not interfere with your business. I shall cutout the small native traders. I have ideas--but never mind that now. AndCaptain Lingard would approve, I feel sure. After all it's a loan, and Ishall be at hand. Safe thing for you. "

"Ah! Captain Lingard would approve! He would app . . . " Almayer choked. The notion of Lingard doing something for Willems enraged him. His facewas purple. He spluttered insulting words. Willems looked at him coolly. 

"I assure you, Almayer, " he said, gently, "that I have good grounds formy demand. "

"Your cursed impudence!"

"Believe me, Almayer, your position here is not so safe as you maythink. An unscrupulous rival here would destroy your trade in a year. It would be ruin. Now Lingard's long absence gives courage to certainindividuals. You know?--I have heard much lately. They made proposals tome . . . You are very much alone here. Even Patalolo . . . "

"Damn Patalolo! I am master in this place. "

"But, Almayer, don't you see . . . "

"Yes, I see. I see a mysterious ass, " interrupted Almayer, violently. "What is the meaning of your veiled threats? Don't you think I knowsomething also? They have been intriguing for years--and nothing hashappened. The Arabs have been hanging about outside this river foryears--and I am still the only trader here; the master here. Do youbring me a declaration of war? Then it's from yourself only. I know allmy other enemies. I ought to knock you on the head. You are not worthpowder and shot though. You ought to be destroyed with a stick--like asnake. "

Almayer's voice woke up the little girl, who sat up on the pillow with asharp cry. He rushed over to the chair, caught up the child in his arms, walked back blindly, stumbled against Willems' hat which lay on thefloor, and kicked it furiously down the steps. 

"Clear out of this! Clear out!" he shouted. 

Willems made an attempt to speak, but Almayer howled him down. 

"Take yourself off! Don't you see you frighten the child--you scarecrow!No, no! dear, " he went on to his little daughter, soothingly, whileWillems walked down the steps slowly. "No. Don't cry. See! Bad man goingaway. Look! He is afraid of your papa. Nasty, bad man. Never come backagain. He shall live in the woods and never come near my little girl. Ifhe comes papa will kill him--so!" He struck his fist on the rail of thebalustrade to show how he would kill Willems, and, perching the consoledchild on his shoulder held her with one hand, while he pointed towardthe retreating figure of his visitor. 

"Look how he runs away, dearest, " he said, coaxingly. "Isn't he funny. Call 'pig' after him, dearest. Call after him. "

The seriousness of her face vanished into dimples. Under the longeyelashes, glistening with recent tears, her big eyes sparkled anddanced with fun. She took firm hold of Almayer's hair with one hand, while she waved the other joyously and called out with all her might, ina clear note, soft and distinct like the pipe of a bird:--

"Pig! Pig! Pig!"

CHAPTER TWO

A sigh under the flaming blue, a shiver of the sleeping sea, a coolbreath as if a door had been swung upon the frozen spaces of theuniverse, and with a stir of leaves, with the nod of boughs, with thetremble of slender branches the sea breeze struck the coast, rushed upthe river, swept round the broad reaches, and travelled on in a softripple of darkening water, in the whisper of branches, in the rustle ofleaves of the awakened forests. It fanned in Lakamba's campong the dullred of expiring embers into a pale brilliance; and, under its touch, the slender, upright spirals of smoke that rose from every glowing heapswayed, wavered, and eddying down filled the twilight of clustered shadetrees with the aromatic scent of the burning wood. The men who had beendozing in the shade during the hot hours of the afternoon woke up, andthe silence of the big courtyard was broken by the hesitating murmurof yet sleepy voices, by coughs and yawns, with now and then a burst oflaughter, a loud hail, a name or a joke sent out in a soft drawl. Smallgroups squatted round the little fires, and the monotonous undertone oftalk filled the enclosure; the talk of barbarians, persistent, steady, repeating itself in the soft syllables, in musical tones of thenever-ending discourses of those men of the forests and the sea, whocan talk most of the day and all the night; who never exhaust a subject, never seem able to thresh a matter out; to whom that talk is poetry andpainting and music, all art, all history; their only accomplishment, their only superiority, their only amusement. The talk of camp fires, which speaks of bravery and cunning, of strange events and of farcountries, of the news of yesterday and the news of to-morrow. The talkabout the dead and the living--about those who fought and those wholoved. 

Lakamba came out on the platform before his own house and satdown--perspiring, half asleep, and sulky--in a wooden armchair under theshade of the overhanging eaves. Through the darkness of the doorwayhe could hear the soft warbling of his womenkind, busy round the loomswhere they were weaving the checkered pattern of his gala sarongs. Rightand left of him on the flexible bamboo floor those of his followers towhom their distinguished birth, long devotion, or faithful service hadgiven the privilege of using the chief's house, were sleeping on matsor just sat up rubbing their eyes: while the more wakeful had musteredenough energy to draw a chessboard with red clay on a fine mat and werenow meditating silently over their moves. Above the prostrate formsof the players, who lay face downward supported on elbow, the soles oftheir feet waving irresolutely about, in the absorbed meditation of thegame, there towered here and there the straight figure of an attentivespectator looking down with dispassionate but profound interest. On theedge of the platform a row of high-heeled leather sandals stood rangedcarefully in a level line, and against the rough wooden rail leaned theslender shafts of the spears belonging to these gentlemen, the broadblades of dulled steel looking very black in the reddening light ofapproaching sunset. 

A boy of about twelve--the personal attendant of Lakamba--squattedat his master's feet and held up towards him a silver siri box. SlowlyLakamba took the box, opened it, and tearing off a piece of green leafdeposited in it a pinch of lime, a morsel of gambier, a small bit ofareca nut, and wrapped up the whole with a dexterous twist. He paused, morsel in hand, seemed to miss something, turned his head from sideto side, slowly, like a man with a stiff neck, and ejaculated in anill-humoured bass--

"Babalatchi!"

The players glanced up quickly, and looked down again directly. Thosemen who were standing stirred uneasily as if prodded by the sound ofthe chief's voice. The one nearest to Lakamba repeated the call, aftera while, over the rail into the courtyard. There was a movementof upturned faces below by the fires, and the cry trailed over theenclosure in sing-song tones. The thumping of wooden pestles huskingthe evening rice stopped for a moment and Babalatchi's name rangafresh shrilly on women's lips in various keys. A voice far off shoutedsomething--another, nearer, repeated it; there was a short hubbub whichdied out with extreme suddenness. The first crier turned to Lakamba, saying indolently--

"He is with the blind Omar. "

Lakamba's lips moved inaudibly. The man who had just spoken was againdeeply absorbed in the game going on at his feet; and the chief--as ifhe had forgotten all about it already--sat with a stolid face amongsthis silent followers, leaning back squarely in his chair, his hands onthe arms of his seat, his knees apart, his big blood-shot eyes blinkingsolemnly, as if dazzled by the noble vacuity of his thoughts. 

Babalatchi had gone to see old Omar late in the afternoon. The delicatemanipulation of the ancient pirate's susceptibilities, the skilfulmanagement of Aissa's violent impulses engrossed him to the exclusionof every other business--interfered with his regular attendance upon hischief and protector--even disturbed his sleep for the last three nights. That day when he left his own bamboo hut--which stood amongst others inLakamba's campong--his heart was heavy with anxiety and with doubt asto the success of his intrigue. He walked slowly, with his usual air ofdetachment from his surroundings, as if unaware that many sleepy eyeswatched from all parts of the courtyard his progress towards a smallgate at its upper end. That gate gave access to a separate enclosurein which a rather large house, built of planks, had been prepared byLakamba's orders for the reception of Omar and Aissa. It was a superiorkind of habitation which Lakamba intended for the dwelling of his chiefadviser--whose abilities were worth that honour, he thought. But afterthe consultation in the deserted clearing--when Babalatchi had disclosedhis plan--they both had agreed that the new house should be used atfirst to shelter Omar and Aissa after they had been persuaded to leavethe Rajah's place, or had been kidnapped from there--as the case mightbe. Babalatchi did not mind in the least the putting off of his ownoccupation of the house of honour, because it had many advantages forthe quiet working out of his plans. It had a certain seclusion, havingan enclosure of its own, and that enclosure communicated also withLakamba's private courtyard at the back of his residence--a place setapart for the female household of the chief. The only communication withthe river was through the great front courtyard always full of armed menand watchful eyes. Behind the whole group of buildings there stretchedthe level ground of rice-clearings, which in their turn were closed inby the wall of untouched forests with undergrowth so thick and tangledthat nothing but a bullet--and that fired at pretty close range--couldpenetrate any distance there. 

Babalatchi slipped quietly through the little gate and, closing it, tiedup carefully the rattan fastenings. Before the house there was a squarespace of ground, beaten hard into the level smoothness of asphalte. Abig buttressed tree, a giant left there on purpose during the processof clearing the land, roofed in the clear space with a high canopy ofgnarled boughs and thick, sombre leaves. To the right--and some smalldistance away from the large house--a little hut of reeds, covered withmats, had been put up for the special convenience of Omar, who, beingblind and infirm, had some difficulty in ascending the steep plankwaythat led to the more substantial dwelling, which was built on low postsand had an uncovered verandah. Close by the trunk of the tree, andfacing the doorway of the hut, the household fire glowed in a smallhandful of embers in the midst of a large circle of white ashes. Anold woman--some humble relation of one of Lakamba's wives, who had beenordered to attend on Aissa--was squatting over the fire and lifted upher bleared eyes to gaze at Babalatchi in an uninterested manner, as headvanced rapidly across the courtyard. 

Babalatchi took in the courtyard with a keen glance of his solitary eye, and without looking down at the old woman muttered a question. Silently, the woman stretched a tremulous and emaciated arm towards the hut. Babalatchi made a few steps towards the doorway, but stopped outside inthe sunlight. 

"O! Tuan Omar, Omar besar! It is I--Babalatchi!"

Within the hut there was a feeble groan, a fit of coughing and anindistinct murmur in the broken tones of a vague plaint. Encouragedevidently by those signs of dismal life within, Babalatchi entered thehut, and after some time came out leading with rigid carefulness theblind Omar, who followed with both his hands on his guide's shoulders. There was a rude seat under the tree, and there Babalatchi led his oldchief, who sat down with a sigh of relief and leaned wearily against therugged trunk. The rays of the setting sun, darting under the spreadingbranches, rested on the white-robed figure sitting with head thrown backin stiff dignity, on the thin hands moving uneasily, and on the stolidface with its eyelids dropped over the destroyed eyeballs; a face setinto the immobility of a plaster cast yellowed by age. 

"Is the sun near its setting?" asked Omar, in a dull voice. 

"Very near, " answered Babalatchi. 

"Where am I? Why have I been taken away from the place which Iknew--where I, blind, could move without fear? It is like black night tothose who see. And the sun is near its setting--and I have not heard thesound of her footsteps since the morning! Twice a strange hand has givenme my food to-day. Why? Why? Where is she?"

"She is near, " said Babalatchi. 

"And he?" went on Omar, with sudden eagerness, and a drop in his voice. "Where is he? Not here. Not here!" he repeated, turning his head fromside to side as if in deliberate attempt to see. 

"No! He is not here now, " said Babalatchi, soothingly. Then, after apause, he added very low, "But he shall soon return. "

"Return! O crafty one! Will he return? I have cursed him three times, "exclaimed Omar, with weak violence. 

"He is--no doubt--accursed, " assented Babalatchi, in a conciliatingmanner--"and yet he will be here before very long--I know!"

"You are crafty and faithless. I have made you great. You were dirtunder my feet--less than dirt, " said Omar, with tremulous energy. 

"I have fought by your side many times, " said Babalatchi, calmly. 

"Why did he come?" went on Omar. "Did you send him? Why did he come todefile the air I breathe--to mock at my fate--to poison her mind andsteal her body? She has grown hard of heart to me. Hard and mercilessand stealthy like rocks that tear a ship's life out under the smoothsea. " He drew a long breath, struggled with his anger, then brokedown suddenly. "I have been hungry, " he continued, in a whimperingtone--"often I have been very hungry--and cold--and neglected--andnobody near me. She has often forgotten me--and my sons are dead, andthat man is an infidel and a dog. Why did he come? Did you show him theway?"

"He found the way himself, O Leader of the brave, " said Babalatchi, sadly. "I only saw a way for their destruction and our own greatness. And if I saw aright, then you shall never suffer from hunger any more. There shall be peace for us, and glory and riches. "

"And I shall die to-morrow, " murmured Omar, bitterly. 

"Who knows? Those things have been written since the beginning of theworld, " whispered Babalatchi, thoughtfully. 

"Do not let him come back, " exclaimed Omar. 

"Neither can he escape his fate, " went on Babalatchi. "He shall comeback, and the power of men we always hated, you and I, shall crumbleinto dust in our hand. " Then he added with enthusiasm, "They shall fightamongst themselves and perish both. "

"And you shall see all this, while, I . . . "

"True!" murmured Babalatchi, regretfully. "To you life is darkness. "

"No! Flame!" exclaimed the old Arab, half rising, then falling back inhis seat. "The flame of that last day! I see it yet--the last thing Isaw! And I hear the noise of the rent earth--when they all died. AndI live to be the plaything of a crafty one, " he added, withinconsequential peevishness. 

"You are my master still, " said Babalatchi, humbly. "You are verywise--and in your wisdom you shall speak to Syed Abdulla when he comeshere--you shall speak to him as I advised, I, your servant, the man whofought at your right hand for many years. I have heard by a messengerthat the Syed Abdulla is coming to-night, perhaps late; for those thingsmust be done secretly, lest the white man, the trader up the river, should know of them. But he will be here. There has been a suratdelivered to Lakamba. In it, Syed Abdulla says he will leave his ship, which is anchored outside the river, at the hour of noon to-day. He willbe here before daylight if Allah wills. "

He spoke with his eye fixed on the ground, and did not become aware ofAissa's presence till he lifted his head when he ceased speaking. Shehad approached so quietly that even Omar did not hear her footsteps, andshe stood now looking at them with troubled eyes and parted lips, asif she was going to speak; but at Babalatchi's entreating gesture sheremained silent. Omar sat absorbed in thought. 

"Ay wa! Even so!" he said at last, in a weak voice. "I am to speakyour wisdom, O Babalatchi! Tell him to trust the white man! I do notunderstand. I am old and blind and weak. I do not understand. I am verycold, " he continued, in a lower tone, moving his shoulders uneasily. Heceased, then went on rambling in a faint whisper. "They are the sons ofwitches, and their father is Satan the stoned. Sons of witches. Sonsof witches. " After a short silence he asked suddenly, in a firmervoice--"How many white men are there here, O crafty one?"

"There are two here. Two white men to fight one another, " answeredBabalatchi, with alacrity. 

"And how many will be left then? How many? Tell me, you who are wise. "

"The downfall of an enemy is the consolation of the unfortunate, " saidBabalatchi, sententiously. "They are on every sea; only the wisdom ofthe Most High knows their number--but you shall know that some of themsuffer. "

"Tell me, Babalatchi, will they die? Will they both die?" asked Omar, insudden agitation. 

Aissa made a movement. Babalatchi held up a warning hand. 

"They shall, surely, die, " he said steadily, looking at the girl withunflinching eye. 

"Ay wa! But die soon! So that I can pass my hand over their faces whenAllah has made them stiff. "

"If such is their fate and yours, " answered Babalatchi, withouthesitation. "God is great!"

A violent fit of coughing doubled Omar up, and he rocked himself to andfro, wheezing and moaning in turns, while Babalatchi and the girl lookedat him in silence. Then he leaned back against the tree, exhausted. 

"I am alone, I am alone, " he wailed feebly, groping vaguely about withhis trembling hands. "Is there anybody near me? Is there anybody? I amafraid of this strange place. "

"I am by your side, O Leader of the brave, " said Babalatchi, touchinghis shoulder lightly. "Always by your side as in the days when we bothwere young: as in the time when we both went with arms in our hands. "

"Has there been such a time, Babalatchi?" said Omar, wildly; "I haveforgotten. And now when I die there will be no man, no fearless man tospeak of his father's bravery. There was a woman! A woman! And she hasforsaken me for an infidel dog. The hand of the Compassionate is heavyon my head! Oh, my calamity! Oh, my shame!"

He calmed down after a while, and asked quietly--

"Is the sun set, Babalatchi?"

"It is now as low as the highest tree I can see from here, " answeredBabalatchi. 

"It is the time of prayer, " said Omar, attempting to get up. 

Dutifully Babalatchi helped his old chief to rise, and they walkedslowly towards the hut. Omar waited outside, while Babalatchi went inand came out directly, dragging after him the old Arab's prayingcarpet. Out of a brass vessel he poured the water of ablution onOmar's outstretched hands, and eased him carefully down into a kneelingposture, for the venerable robber was far too infirm to be able tostand. Then as Omar droned out the first words and made his first bowtowards the Holy City, Babalatchi stepped noiselessly towards Aissa, whodid not move all the time. 

Aissa looked steadily at the one-eyed sage, who was approaching herslowly and with a great show of deference. For a moment they stoodfacing each other in silence. Babalatchi appeared embarrassed. With asudden and quick gesture she caught hold of his arm, and with the otherhand pointed towards the sinking red disc that glowed, rayless, throughthe floating mists of the evening. 

"The third sunset! The last! And he is not here, " she whispered; "whathave you done, man without faith? What have you done?"

"Indeed I have kept my word, " murmured Babalatchi, earnestly. "Thismorning Bulangi went with a canoe to look for him. He is a strangeman, but our friend, and shall keep close to him and watch him withoutostentation. And at the third hour of the day I have sent another canoewith four rowers. Indeed, the man you long for, O daughter of Omar! maycome when he likes. "

"But he is not here! I waited for him yesterday. To-day! To-morrow Ishall go. "

"Not alive!" muttered Babalatchi to himself. "And do you doubt yourpower, " he went on in a louder tone--"you that to him are more beautifulthan an houri of the seventh Heaven? He is your slave. "

"A slave does run away sometimes, " she said, gloomily, "and then themaster must go and seek him out. "

"And do you want to live and die a beggar?" asked Babalatchi, impatiently. 

"I care not, " she exclaimed, wringing her hands; and the black pupils ofher wide-open eyes darted wildly here and there like petrels before thestorm. 

"Sh! Sh!" hissed Babalatchi, with a glance towards Omar. "Do you think, O girl! that he himself would live like a beggar, even with you?"

"He is great, " she said, ardently. "He despises you all! He despises youall! He is indeed a man!"

"You know that best, " muttered Babalatchi, with a fugitive smile--"butremember, woman with the strong heart, that to hold him now you must beto him like the great sea to thirsty men--a never-ceasing torment, and amadness. "

He ceased and they stood in silence, both looking on the ground, andfor a time nothing was heard above the crackling of the fire but theintoning of Omar glorifying the God--his God, and the Faith--his faith. Then Babalatchi cocked his head on one side and appeared to listenintently to the hum of voices in the big courtyard. The dull noiseswelled into distinct shouts, then into a great tumult of voices, dyingaway, recommencing, growing louder, to cease again abruptly; and inthose short pauses the shrill vociferations of women rushed up, as ifreleased, towards the quiet heaven. Aissa and Babalatchi started, butthe latter gripped in his turn the girl's arm and restrained her with astrong grasp. 

"Wait, " he whispered. 

The little door in the heavy stockade which separated Lakamba's privateground from Omar's enclosure swung back quickly, and the noble exileappeared with disturbed mien and a naked short sword in his hand. Histurban was half unrolled, and the end trailed on the ground behind him. His jacket was open. He breathed thickly for a moment before he spoke. 

"He came in Bulangi's boat, " he said, "and walked quietly till he wasin my presence, when the senseless fury of white men caused him to rushupon me. I have been in great danger, " went on the ambitious noblemanin an aggrieved tone. "Do you hear that, Babalatchi? That eater of swineaimed a blow at my face with his unclean fist. He tried to rush amongstmy household. Six men are holding him now. "

A fresh outburst of yells stopped Lakamba's discourse. Angry voicesshouted: "Hold him. Beat him down. Strike at his head. "

Then the clamour ceased with sudden completeness, as if strangled bya mighty hand, and after a second of surprising silence the voice ofWillems was heard alone, howling maledictions in Malay, in Dutch, and inEnglish. 

"Listen, " said Lakamba, speaking with unsteady lips, "he blasphemes hisGod. His speech is like the raving of a mad dog. Can we hold him forever? He must be killed!"

"Fool!" muttered Babalatchi, looking up at Aissa, who stood with setteeth, with gleaming eyes and distended nostrils, yet obedient to thetouch of his restraining hand. "It is the third day, and I have keptmy promise, " he said to her, speaking very low. "Remember, " he addedwarningly--"like the sea to the thirsty! And now, " he said aloud, releasing her and stepping back, "go, fearless daughter, go!"

Like an arrow, rapid and silent she flew down the enclosure, anddisappeared through the gate of the courtyard. Lakamba and Babalatchilooked after her. They heard the renewed tumult, the girl's clear voicecalling out, "Let him go!" Then after a pause in the din no longerthan half the human breath the name of Aissa rang in a shout loud, discordant, and piercing, which sent through them an involuntaryshudder. Old Omar collapsed on his carpet and moaned feebly; Lakambastared with gloomy contempt in the direction of the inhuman sound; butBabalatchi, forcing a smile, pushed his distinguished protector throughthe narrow gate in the stockade, followed him, and closed it quickly. 

The old woman, who had been most of the time kneeling by the fire, nowrose, glanced round fearfully and crouched hiding behind the tree. Thegate of the great courtyard flew open with a great clatter before afrantic kick, and Willems darted in carrying Aissa in his arms. Herushed up the enclosure like a tornado, pressing the girl to his breast, her arms round his neck, her head hanging back over his arm, her eyesclosed and her long hair nearly touching the ground. They appeared fora second in the glare of the fire, then, with immense strides, he dashedup the planks and disappeared with his burden in the doorway of the bighouse. 

Inside and outside the enclosure there was silence. Omar lay supportinghimself on his elbow, his terrified face with its closed eyes giving himthe appearance of a man tormented by a nightmare. 

"What is it? Help! Help me to rise!" he called out faintly. 

The old hag, still crouching in the shadow, stared with bleared eyesat the doorway of the big house, and took no notice of his call. Helistened for a while, then his arm gave way, and, with a deep sigh ofdiscouragement, he let himself fall on the carpet. 

The boughs of the tree nodded and trembled in the unsteady currents ofthe light wind. A leaf fluttered down slowly from some high branch andrested on the ground, immobile, as if resting for ever, in the glow ofthe fire; but soon it stirred, then soared suddenly, and flew, spinningand turning before the breath of the perfumed breeze, driven helplesslyinto the dark night that had closed over the land. 

CHAPTER THREE

For upwards of forty years Abdulla had walked in the way of his Lord. Son of the rich Syed Selim bin Sali, the great Mohammedan trader of theStraits, he went forth at the age of seventeen on his first commercialexpedition, as his father's representative on board a pilgrim shipchartered by the wealthy Arab to convey a crowd of pious Malays to theHoly Shrine. That was in the days when steam was not in those seas--or, at least, not so much as now. The voyage was long, and the young man'seyes were opened to the wonders of many lands. Allah had made it hisfate to become a pilgrim very early in life. This was a great favourof Heaven, and it could not have been bestowed upon a man who prized itmore, or who made himself more worthy of it by the unswerving piety ofhis heart and by the religious solemnity of his demeanour. Later on itbecame clear that the book of his destiny contained the programme of awandering life. He visited Bombay and Calcutta, looked in at the PersianGulf, beheld in due course the high and barren coasts of the Gulf ofSuez, and this was the limit of his wanderings westward. He was thentwenty-seven, and the writing on his forehead decreed that the time hadcome for him to return to the Straits and take from his dying father'shands the many threads of a business that was spread over all theArchipelago: from Sumatra to New Guinea, from Batavia to Palawan. 

Very soon his ability, his will--strong to obstinacy--his wisdom beyondhis years, caused him to be recognized as the head of a family whosemembers and connections were found in every part of those seas. An unclehere--a brother there; a father-in-law in Batavia, another in Palembang;husbands of numerous sisters; cousins innumerable scattered north, south, east, and west--in every place where there was trade: the greatfamily lay like a network over the islands. They lent money toprinces, influenced the council-rooms, faced--if need be--with peacefulintrepidity the white rulers who held the land and the sea under theedge of sharp swords; and they all paid great deference to Abdulla, listened to his advice, entered into his plans--because he was wise, pious, and fortunate. 

He bore himself with the humility becoming a Believer, who neverforgets, even for one moment of his waking life, that he is the servantof the Most High. He was largely charitable because the charitable manis the friend of Allah, and when he walked out of his house--built ofstone, just outside the town of Penang--on his way to his godowns in theport, he had often to snatch his hand away sharply from under the lipsof men of his race and creed; and often he had to murmur deprecatingwords, or even to rebuke with severity those who attempted to touch hisknees with their finger-tips in gratitude or supplication. He was veryhandsome, and carried his small head high with meek gravity. His loftybrow, straight nose, narrow, dark face with its chiselled delicacy offeature, gave him an aristocratic appearance which proclaimed his puredescent. His beard was trimmed close and to a rounded point. His largebrown eyes looked out steadily with a sweetness that was belied by theexpression of his thin-lipped mouth. His aspect was serene. He had abelief in his own prosperity which nothing could shake. 

Restless, like all his people, he very seldom dwelt for many daystogether in his splendid house in Penang. Owner of ships, he was oftenon board one or another of them, traversing in all directions the fieldof his operations. In every port he had a household--his own or thatof a relation--to hail his advent with demonstrative joy. In every portthere were rich and influential men eager to see him, there wasbusiness to talk over, there were important letters to read: an immensecorrespondence, enclosed in silk envelopes--a correspondence which hadnothing to do with the infidels of colonial post-offices, but came intohis hands by devious, yet safe, ways. It was left for him by taciturnnakhodas of native trading craft, or was delivered with profound salaamsby travel-stained and weary men who would withdraw from his presencecalling upon Allah to bless the generous giver of splendid rewards. Andthe news was always good, and all his attempts always succeeded, andin his ears there rang always a chorus of admiration, of gratitude, ofhumble entreaties. 

A fortunate man. And his felicity was so complete that the good genii, who ordered the stars at his birth, had not neglected--by a refinementof benevolence strange in such primitive beings--to provide him with adesire difficult to attain, and with an enemy hard to overcome. The envyof Lingard's political and commercial successes, and the wish to get thebest of him in every way, became Abdulla's mania, the paramount interestof his life, the salt of his existence. 

For the last few months he had been receiving mysterious messages fromSambir urging him to decisive action. He had found the river a couple ofyears ago, and had been anchored more than once off that estuary wherethe, till then, rapid Pantai, spreading slowly over the lowlands, seemsto hesitate, before it flows gently through twenty outlets; over a mazeof mudflats, sandbanks and reefs, into the expectant sea. He had neverattempted the entrance, however, because men of his race, although braveand adventurous travellers, lack the true seamanlike instincts, and hewas afraid of getting wrecked. He could not bear the idea of the RajahLaut being able to boast that Abdulla bin Selim, like other and lessermen, had also come to grief when trying to wrest his secret from him. Meantime he returned encouraging answers to his unknown friends inSambir, and waited for his opportunity in the calm certitude of ultimatetriumph. 

Such was the man whom Lakamba and Babalatchi expected to see for thefirst time on the night of Willems' return to Aissa. Babalatchi, who hadbeen tormented for three days by the fear of having over-reachedhimself in his little plot, now, feeling sure of his white man, feltlighthearted and happy as he superintended the preparations in thecourtyard for Abdulla's reception. Half-way between Lakamba's house andthe river a pile of dry wood was made ready for the torch that wouldset fire to it at the moment of Abdulla's landing. Between this andthe house again there was, ranged in a semicircle, a set of lowbamboo frames, and on those were piled all the carpets and cushions ofLakamba's household. It had been decided that the reception was to takeplace in the open air, and that it should be made impressive by thegreat number of Lakamba's retainers, who, clad in clean white, withtheir red sarongs gathered round their waists, chopper at side and lancein hand, were moving about the compound or, gathering into small knots, discussed eagerly the coming ceremony. 

Two little fires burned brightly on the water's edge on each side ofthe landing place. A small heap of damar-gum torches lay by each, andbetween them Babalatchi strolled backwards and forwards, stopping oftenwith his face to the river and his head on one side, listening to thesounds that came from the darkness over the water. There was no moon andthe night was very clear overhead, but, after the afternoon breeze hadexpired in fitful puffs, the vapours hung thickening over the glancingsurface of the Pantai and clung to the shore, hiding from view themiddle of the stream. 

A cry in the mist--then another--and, before Babalatchi could answer, two little canoes dashed up to the landing-place, and two of theprincipal citizens of Sambir, Daoud Sahamin and Hamet Bahassoen, who hadbeen confidentially invited to meet Abdulla, landed quickly and aftergreeting Babalatchi walked up the dark courtyard towards the house. Thelittle stir caused by their arrival soon subsided, and another silenthour dragged its slow length while Babalatchi tramped up and downbetween the fires, his face growing more anxious with every passingmoment. 

At last there was heard a loud hail from down the river. At a call fromBabalatchi men ran down to the riverside and, snatching the torches, thrust them into the fires, then waved them above their heads till theyburst into a flame. The smoke ascended in thick, wispy streams, and hungin a ruddy cloud above the glare that lit up the courtyard and flashedover the water, showing three long canoes manned by many paddlers lyinga little off; the men in them lifting their paddles on high and dippingthem down together, in an easy stroke that kept the small flotillamotionless in the strong current, exactly abreast of the landing-place. A man stood up in the largest craft and called out--

"Syed Abdulla bin Selim is here!"

Babalatchi answered aloud in a formal tone--

"Allah gladdens our hearts! Come to the land!"

Abdulla landed first, steadying himself by the help of Babalatchi'sextended hand. In the short moment of his passing from the boat to theshore they exchanged sharp glances and a few rapid words. 

"Who are you?"

"Babalatchi. The friend of Omar. The protected of Lakamba. "

"You wrote?"

"My words were written, O Giver of alms!"

And then Abdulla walked with composed face between the two lines ofmen holding torches, and met Lakamba in front of the big fire that wascrackling itself up into a great blaze. For a moment they stood withclasped hands invoking peace upon each other's head, then Lakamba, stillholding his honoured guest by the hand, led him round the fire to theprepared seats. Babalatchi followed close behind his protector. Abdullawas accompanied by two Arabs. He, like his companions, was dressed in awhite robe of starched muslin, which fell in stiff folds straight fromthe neck. It was buttoned from the throat halfway down with a close rowof very small gold buttons; round the tight sleeves there was a narrowbraid of gold lace. On his shaven head he wore a small skull-cap ofplaited grass. He was shod in patent leather slippers over his nakedfeet. A rosary of heavy wooden beads hung by a round turn from his rightwrist. He sat down slowly in the place of honour, and, dropping hisslippers, tucked up his legs under him decorously. 

The improvised divan was arranged in a wide semi-circle, of which thepoint most distant from the fire--some ten yards--was also the nearestto Lakamba's dwelling. As soon as the principal personages were seated, the verandah of the house was filled silently by the muffled-up forms ofLakamba's female belongings. They crowded close to the rail and lookeddown, whispering faintly. Below, the formal exchange of complimentswent on for some time between Lakamba and Abdulla, who sat side by side. Babalatchi squatted humbly at his protector's feet, with nothing but athin mat between himself and the hard ground. 

Then there was a pause. Abdulla glanced round in an expectant manner, and after a while Babalatchi, who had been sitting very still in apensive attitude, seemed to rouse himself with an effort, and began tospeak in gentle and persuasive tones. He described in flowing sentencesthe first beginnings of Sambir, the dispute of the present ruler, Patalolo, with the Sultan of Koti, the consequent troubles endingwith the rising of Bugis settlers under the leadership of Lakamba. Atdifferent points of the narrative he would turn for confirmation toSahamin and Bahassoen, who sat listening eagerly and assented togetherwith a "Betul! Betul! Right! Right!" ejaculated in a fervent undertone. 

Warming up with his subject as the narrative proceeded, Babalatchi wenton to relate the facts connected with Lingard's action at the criticalperiod of those internal dissensions. He spoke in a restrained voicestill, but with a growing energy of indignation. What was he, thatman of fierce aspect, to keep all the world away from them? Was he agovernment? Who made him ruler? He took possession of Patalolo's mindand made his heart hard; he put severe words into his mouth and causedhis hand to strike right and left. That unbeliever kept the Faithfulpanting under the weight of his senseless oppression. They had to tradewith him--accept such goods as he would give--such credit as he wouldaccord. And he exacted payment every year . . . 

"Very true!" exclaimed Sahamin and Bahassoen together. 

Babalatchi glanced at them approvingly and turned to Abdulla. 

"Listen to those men, O Protector of the oppressed!" he exclaimed. "Whatcould we do? A man must trade. There was nobody else. "

Sahamin got up, staff in hand, and spoke to Abdulla with ponderouscourtesy, emphasizing his words by the solemn flourishes of his rightarm. 

"It is so. We are weary of paying our debts to that white man here, who is the son of the Rajah Laut. That white man--may the grave of hismother be defiled!--is not content to hold us all in his hand with acruel grasp. He seeks to cause our very death. He trades with the Dyaksof the forest, who are no better than monkeys. He buys from them guttahand rattans--while we starve. Only two days ago I went to him andsaid, 'Tuan Almayer'--even so; we must speak politely to that friend ofSatan--'Tuan Almayer, I have such and such goods to sell. Will you buy?'And he spoke thus--because those white men have no understanding of anycourtesy--he spoke to me as if I was a slave: 'Daoud, you are a luckyman'--remark, O First amongst the Believers! that by those words hecould have brought misfortune on my head--'you are a lucky man to haveanything in these hard times. Bring your goods quickly, and I shallreceive them in payment of what you owe me from last year. ' And helaughed, and struck me on the shoulder with his open hand. May Jehannumbe his lot!"

"We will fight him, " said young Bahassoen, crisply. "We shall fight ifthere is help and a leader. Tuan Abdulla, will you come among us?"

Abdulla did not answer at once. His lips moved in an inaudible whisperand the beads passed through his fingers with a dry click. All waited inrespectful silence. "I shall come if my ship can enter this river, " saidAbdulla at last, in a solemn tone. 

"It can, Tuan, " exclaimed Babalatchi. "There is a white man herewho . . . "

"I want to see Omar el Badavi and that white man you wrote about, "interrupted Abdulla. 

Babalatchi got on his feet quickly, and there was a general move. 

The women on the verandah hurried indoors, and from the crowd that hadkept discreetly in distant parts of the courtyard a couple of men ranwith armfuls of dry fuel, which they cast upon the fire. One of them, ata sign from Babalatchi, approached and, after getting his orders, wenttowards the little gate and entered Omar's enclosure. While waitingfor his return, Lakamba, Abdulla, and Babalatchi talked together in lowtones. Sahamin sat by himself chewing betel-nut sleepily with a slightand indolent motion of his heavy jaw. Bahassoen, his hand on the hiltof his short sword, strutted backwards and forwards in the full light ofthe fire, looking very warlike and reckless; the envy and admiration ofLakamba's retainers, who stood in groups or flitted about noiselessly inthe shadows of the courtyard. 

The messenger who had been sent to Omar came back and stood at adistance, waiting till somebody noticed him. Babalatchi beckoned himclose. 

"What are his words?" asked Babalatchi. 

"He says that Syed Abdulla is welcome now, " answered the man. 

Lakamba was speaking low to Abdulla, who listened to him with deepinterest. 

". . . We could have eighty men if there was need, " he wassaying--"eighty men in fourteen canoes. The only thing we want isgunpowder . . . "

"Hai! there will be no fighting, " broke in Babalatchi. "The fear of yourname will be enough and the terror of your coming. "

"There may be powder too, " muttered Abdulla with great nonchalance, "ifonly the ship enters the river safely. "

"If the heart is stout the ship will be safe, " said Babalatchi. "We willgo now and see Omar el Badavi and the white man I have here. "

Lakamba's dull eyes became animated suddenly. 

"Take care, Tuan Abdulla, " he said, "take care. The behaviour of thatunclean white madman is furious in the extreme. He offered tostrike . . . "

"On my head, you are safe, O Giver of alms!" interrupted Babalatchi. 

Abdulla looked from one to the other, and the faintest flicker of apassing smile disturbed for a moment his grave composure. He turned toBabalatchi, and said with decision--

"Let us go. "

"This way, O Uplifter of our hearts!" rattled on Babalatchi, with fussydeference. "Only a very few paces and you shall behold Omar the brave, and a white man of great strength and cunning. This way. "

He made a sign for Lakamba to remain behind, and with respectful toucheson the elbow steered Abdulla towards the gate at the upper end of thecourt-yard. As they walked on slowly, followed by the two Arabs, he kepton talking in a rapid undertone to the great man, who never looked athim once, although appearing to listen with flattering attention. Whennear the gate Babalatchi moved forward and stopped, facing Abdulla, withhis hand on the fastenings. 

"You shall see them both, " he said. "All my words about them are true. When I saw him enslaved by the one of whom I spoke, I knew he would besoft in my hand like the mud of the river. At first he answered mytalk with bad words of his own language, after the manner of whitemen. Afterwards, when listening to the voice he loved, he hesitated. He hesitated for many days--too many. I, knowing him well, made Omarwithdraw here with his . . . Household. Then this red-faced man ragedfor three days like a black panther that is hungry. And this evening, this very evening, he came. I have him here. He is in the grasp of onewith a merciless heart. I have him here, " ended Babalatchi, exultinglytapping the upright of the gate with his hand. 

"That is good, " murmured Abdulla. 

"And he shall guide your ship and lead in the fight--if fight there be, "went on Babalatchi. "If there is any killing--let him be the slayer. Youshould give him arms--a short gun that fires many times. "

"Yes, by Allah!" assented Abdulla, with slow thoughtfulness. 

"And you will have to open your hand, O First amongst the generous!"continued Babalatchi. "You will have to satisfy the rapacity of awhite man, and also of one who is not a man, and therefore greedy ofornaments. "

"They shall be satisfied, " said Abdulla; "but . . . " He hesitated, looking down on the ground and stroking his beard, while Babalatchiwaited, anxious, with parted lips. After a short time he spoke againjerkily in an indistinct whisper, so that Babalatchi had to turn hishead to catch the words. "Yes. But Omar is the son of my father's uncle. . . And all belonging to him are of the Faith . . . While that man isan unbeliever. It is most unseemly . . . Very unseemly. He cannot liveunder my shadow. Not that dog. Penitence! I take refuge with my God, " hemumbled rapidly. "How can he live under my eyes with that woman, who isof the Faith? Scandal! O abomination!"

He finished with a rush and drew a long breath, then added dubiously--

"And when that man has done all we want, what is to be done with him?"

They stood close together, meditative and silent, their eyes roamingidly over the courtyard. The big bonfire burned brightly, and a waveringsplash of light lay on the dark earth at their feet, while the lazysmoke wreathed itself slowly in gleaming coils amongst the black boughsof the trees. They could see Lakamba, who had returned to his place, sitting hunched up spiritlessly on the cushions, and Sahamin, who hadgot on his feet again and appeared to be talking to him with dignifiedanimation. Men in twos or threes came out of the shadows into the light, strolling slowly, and passed again into the shadows, their faces turnedto each other, their arms moving in restrained gestures. Bahassoen, hishead proudly thrown back, his ornaments, embroideries, and sword-hiltflashing in the light, circled steadily round the fire like a planetround the sun. A cool whiff of damp air came from the darkness of theriverside; it made Abdulla and Babalatchi shiver, and woke them up fromtheir abstraction. 

"Open the gate and go first, " said Abdulla; "there is no danger?"

"On my life, no!" answered Babalatchi, lifting the rattan ring. "He isall peace and content, like a thirsty man who has drunk water after manydays. "

He swung the gate wide, made a few paces into the gloom of theenclosure, and retraced his steps suddenly. 

"He may be made useful in many ways, " he whispered to Abdulla, who hadstopped short, seeing him come back. 

"O Sin! O Temptation!" sighed out Abdulla, faintly. "Our refuge is withthe Most High. Can I feed this infidel for ever and for ever?" he added, impatiently. 

"No, " breathed out Babalatchi. "No! Not for ever. Only while he servesyour designs, O Dispenser of Allah's gifts! When the time comes--andyour order . . . "

He sidled close to Abdulla, and brushed with a delicate touch the handthat hung down listlessly, holding the prayer-beads. 

"I am your slave and your offering, " he murmured, in a distinct andpolite tone, into Abdulla's ear. "When your wisdom speaks, there may befound a little poison that will not lie. Who knows?"

CHAPTER FOUR

Babalatchi saw Abdulla pass through the low and narrow entrance into thedarkness of Omar's hut; heard them exchange the usual greetings andthe distinguished visitor's grave voice asking: "There is nomisfortune--please God--but the sight?" and then, becoming aware ofthe disapproving looks of the two Arabs who had accompanied Abdulla, he followed their example and fell back out of earshot. He did itunwillingly, although he did not ignore that what was going to happenin there was now absolutely beyond his control. He roamed irresolutelyabout for awhile, and at last wandered with careless steps towards thefire, which had been moved, from under the tree, close to the hut and alittle to windward of its entrance. He squatted on his heels and beganplaying pensively with live embers, as was his habit when engrossed inthought, withdrawing his hand sharply and shaking it above his head whenhe burnt his fingers in a fit of deeper abstraction. Sitting therehe could hear the murmur of the talk inside the hut, and he coulddistinguish the voices but not the words. Abdulla spoke in deep tones, and now and then this flowing monotone was interrupted by a querulousexclamation, a weak moan or a plaintive quaver of the old man. Yes. Itwas annoying not to be able to make out what they were saying, thoughtBabalatchi, as he sat gazing fixedly at the unsteady glow of the fire. But it will be right. All will be right. Abdulla inspired him withconfidence. He came up fully to his expectation. From the very firstmoment when he set his eye on him he felt sure that this man--whom hehad known by reputation only--was very resolute. Perhaps too resolute. Perhaps he would want to grasp too much later on. A shadow flitted overBabalatchi's face. On the eve of the accomplishment of his desires hefelt the bitter taste of that drop of doubt which is mixed with thesweetness of every success. 

When, hearing footsteps on the verandah of the big house, he lifted hishead, the shadow had passed away and on his face there was an expressionof watchful alertness. Willems was coming down the plankway, into thecourtyard. The light within trickled through the cracks of the badlyjoined walls of the house, and in the illuminated doorway appearedthe moving form of Aissa. She also passed into the night outside anddisappeared from view. Babalatchi wondered where she had got to, and forthe moment forgot the approach of Willems. The voice of the white manspeaking roughly above his head made him jump to his feet as if impelledupwards by a powerful spring. 

"Where's Abdulla?"

Babalatchi waved his hand towards the hut and stood listening intently. The voices within had ceased, then recommenced again. He shot an obliqueglance at Willems, whose indistinct form towered above the glow of dyingembers. 

"Make up this fire, " said Willems, abruptly. "I want to see your face. "

With obliging alacrity Babalatchi put some dry brushwood on the coalsfrom a handy pile, keeping all the time a watchful eye on Willems. When he straightened himself up his hand wandered almost involuntarilytowards his left side to feel the handle of a kriss amongst the folds ofhis sarong, but he tried to look unconcerned under the angry stare. 

"You are in good health, please God?" he murmured. 

"Yes!" answered Willems, with an unexpected loudness that causedBabalatchi to start nervously. "Yes! . . . Health! . . . You . . . "

He made a long stride and dropped both his hands on the Malay'sshoulders. In the powerful grip Babalatchi swayed to and fro limply, buthis face was as peaceful as when he sat--a little while ago--dreaming bythe fire. With a final vicious jerk Willems let go suddenly, and turningaway on his heel stretched his hands over the fire. Babalatchi stumbledbackwards, recovered himself, and wriggled his shoulders laboriously. 

"Tse! Tse! Tse!" he clicked, deprecatingly. After a short silence hewent on with accentuated admiration: "What a man it is! What a strongman! A man like that"--he concluded, in a tone of meditative wonder--"aman like that could upset mountains--mountains!"

He gazed hopefully for a while at Willems' broad shoulders, andcontinued, addressing the inimical back, in a low and persuasive voice--

"But why be angry with me? With me who think only of your good? Did Inot give her refuge, in my own house? Yes, Tuan! This is my own house. I will let you have it without any recompense because she must have ashelter. Therefore you and she shall live here. Who can know a woman'smind? And such a woman! If she wanted to go away from that other place, who am I--to say no! I am Omar's servant. I said: 'Gladden my heart bytaking my house. ' Did I say right?"

"I'll tell you something, " said Willems, without changing his position;"if she takes a fancy to go away from this place it is you who shallsuffer. I will wring your neck. "

"When the heart is full of love there is no room in it for justice, "recommenced Babalatchi, with unmoved and persistent softness. "Why slayme? You know, Tuan, what she wants. A splendid destiny is her desire--asof all women. You have been wronged and cast out by your people. Sheknows that. But you are brave, you are strong--you are a man; and, Tuan--I am older than you--you are in her hand. Such is the fate ofstrong men. And she is of noble birth and cannot live like a slave. Youknow her--and you are in her hand. You are like a snared bird, becauseof your strength. And--remember I am a man that has seen much--submit, Tuan! Submit! . . . Or else . . . "

He drawled out the last words in a hesitating manner and broke off hissentence. Still stretching his hands in turns towards the blaze andwithout moving his head, Willems gave a short, lugubrious laugh, andasked--

"Or else what?"

"She may go away again. Who knows?" finished Babalatchi, in a gentle andinsinuating tone. 

This time Willems spun round sharply. Babalatchi stepped back. 

"If she does it will be the worse for you, " said Willems, in a menacingvoice. "It will be your doing, and I . . . "

Babalatchi spoke, from beyond the circle of light, with calm disdain. 

"Hai--ya! I have heard before. If she goes--then I die. Good! Will thatbring her back do you think--Tuan? If it is my doing it shall be welldone, O white man! and--who knows--you will have to live without her. "

Willems gasped and started back like a confident wayfarer who, pursuinga path he thinks safe, should see just in time a bottomless chasmunder his feet. Babalatchi came into the light and approached Willemssideways, with his head thrown back and a little on one side so as tobring his only eye to bear full on the countenance of the tall whiteman. 

"You threaten me, " said Willems, indistinctly. 

"I, Tuan!" exclaimed Babalatchi, with a slight suspicion of irony in theaffected surprise of his tone. "I, Tuan? Who spoke of death? Was itI? No! I spoke of life only. Only of life. Of a long life for a lonelyman!"

They stood with the fire between them, both silent, both aware, eachin his own way, of the importance of the passing minutes. Babalatchi'sfatalism gave him only an insignificant relief in his suspense, becauseno fatalism can kill the thought of the future, the desire of success, the pain of waiting for the disclosure of the immutable decrees ofHeaven. Fatalism is born of the fear of failure, for we all believe thatwe carry success in our own hands, and we suspect that our hands areweak. Babalatchi looked at Willems and congratulated himself upon hisability to manage that white man. There was a pilot for Abdulla--avictim to appease Lingard's anger in case of any mishap. He would takegood care to put him forward in everything. In any case let the whitemen fight it out amongst themselves. They were fools. He hated them--thestrong fools--and knew that for his righteous wisdom was reserved thesafe triumph. 

Willems measured dismally the depth of his degradation. He--a white man, the admired of white men, was held by those miserable savages whose toolhe was about to become. He felt for them all the hate of his race, ofhis morality, of his intelligence. He looked upon himself with dismayand pity. She had him. He had heard of such things. He had heard ofwomen who . . . He would never believe such stories. . . . Yet theywere true. But his own captivity seemed more complete, terrible, andfinal--without the hope of any redemption. He wondered at the wickednessof Providence that had made him what he was; that, worse still, permitted such a creature as Almayer to live. He had done his duty bygoing to him. Why did he not understand? All men were fools. He gavehim his chance. The fellow did not see it. It was hard, very hard onhimself--Willems. He wanted to take her from amongst her own people. That's why he had condescended to go to Almayer. He examined himself. With a sinking heart he thought that really he could not--somehow--livewithout her. It was terrible and sweet. He remembered the first days. Her appearance, her face, her smile, her eyes, her words. A savagewoman! Yet he perceived that he could think of nothing else but of thethree days of their separation, of the few hours since their reunion. Very well. If he could not take her away, then he would go to her. . . . He had, for a moment, a wicked pleasure in the thought that what he haddone could not be undone. He had given himself up. He felt proud of it. He was ready to face anything, do anything. He cared for nothing, fornobody. He thought himself very fearless, but as a matter of fact he wasonly drunk; drunk with the poison of passionate memories. 

He stretched his hands over the fire, looked round and called out--

"Aissa!"

She must have been near, for she appeared at once within the light ofthe fire. The upper part of her body was wrapped up in the thick foldsof a head covering which was pulled down over her brow, and one end ofit thrown across from shoulder to shoulder hid the lower part of herface. Only her eyes were visible--sombre and gleaming like a starrynight. 

Willems, looking at this strange, muffled figure, felt exasperated, amazed and helpless. The ex-confidential clerk of the rich Hudig wouldhug to his breast settled conceptions of respectable conduct. He soughtrefuge within his ideas of propriety from the dismal mangroves, fromthe darkness of the forests and of the heathen souls of the savages thatwere his masters. She looked like an animated package of cheap cottongoods! It made him furious. She had disguised herself so because a manof her race was near! He told her not to do it, and she did not obey. Would his ideas ever change so as to agree with her own notions of whatwas becoming, proper and respectable? He was really afraid theywould, in time. It seemed to him awful. She would never change! Thismanifestation of her sense of proprieties was another sign of theirhopeless diversity; something like another step downwards for him. Shewas too different from him. He was so civilized! It struck him suddenlythat they had nothing in common--not a thought, not a feeling; he couldnot make clear to her the simplest motive of any act of his . . . And hecould not live without her. 

The courageous man who stood facing Babalatchi gasped unexpectedly witha gasp that was half a groan. This little matter of her veilingherself against his wish acted upon him like a disclosure of somegreat disaster. It increased his contempt for himself as the slave ofa passion he had always derided, as the man unable to assert his will. This will, all his sensations, his personality--all this seemed to belost in the abominable desire, in the priceless promise of that woman. He was not, of course, able to discern clearly the causes of his misery;but there are none so ignorant as not to know suffering, none so simpleas not to feel and suffer from the shock of warring impulses. Theignorant must feel and suffer from their complexity as well as thewisest; but to them the pain of struggle and defeat appears strange, mysterious, remediable and unjust. He stood watching her, watchinghimself. He tingled with rage from head to foot, as if he had beenstruck in the face. Suddenly he laughed; but his laugh was like adistorted echo of some insincere mirth very far away. 

From the other side of the fire Babalatchi spoke hurriedly--

"Here is Tuan Abdulla. "

CHAPTER FIVE

Directly on stepping outside Omar's hut Abdulla caught sight of Willems. He expected, of course, to see a white man, but not that white man, whomhe knew so well. Everybody who traded in the islands, and who had anydealings with Hudig, knew Willems. For the last two years of his stay inMacassar the confidential clerk had been managing all the local tradeof the house under a very slight supervision only on the part of themaster. So everybody knew Willems, Abdulla amongst others--but he wasignorant of Willems' disgrace. As a matter of fact the thing had beenkept very quiet--so quiet that a good many people in Macassar wereexpecting Willems' return there, supposing him to be absent on someconfidential mission. Abdulla, in his surprise, hesitated on thethreshold. He had prepared himself to see some seaman--some old officerof Lingard's; a common man--perhaps difficult to deal with, but stillno match for him. Instead, he saw himself confronted by an individualwhose reputation for sagacity in business was well known to him. How didhe get here, and why? Abdulla, recovering from his surprise, advanced ina dignified manner towards the fire, keeping his eyes fixed steadily onWillems. When within two paces from Willems he stopped and lifted hisright hand in grave salutation. Willems nodded slightly and spoke aftera while. 

"We know each other, Tuan Abdulla, " he said, with an assumption of easyindifference. 

"We have traded together, " answered Abdulla, solemnly, "but it was farfrom here. "

"And we may trade here also, " said Willems. 

"The place does not matter. It is the open mind and the true heart thatare required in business. "

"Very true. My heart is as open as my mind. I will tell you why I amhere. "

"What need is there? In leaving home one learns life. You travel. Travelling is victory! You shall return with much wisdom. "

"I shall never return, " interrupted Willems. "I have done with mypeople. I am a man without brothers. Injustice destroys fidelity. "

Abdulla expressed his surprise by elevating his eyebrows. At the sametime he made a vague gesture with his arm that could be taken as anequivalent of an approving and conciliating "just so!"

Till then the Arab had not taken any notice of Aissa, who stood by thefire, but now she spoke in the interval of silence following Willems'declaration. In a voice that was much deadened by her wrappings sheaddressed Abdulla in a few words of greeting, calling him a kinsman. Abdulla glanced at her swiftly for a second, and then, with perfectgood breeding, fixed his eyes on the ground. She put out towards him herhand, covered with a corner of her face-veil, and he took it, pressed ittwice, and dropping it turned towards Willems. She looked at the twomen searchingly, then backed away and seemed to melt suddenly into thenight. 

"I know what you came for, Tuan Abdulla, " said Willems; "I have beentold by that man there. " He nodded towards Babalatchi, then went onslowly, "It will be a difficult thing. "

"Allah makes everything easy, " interjected Babalatchi, piously, from adistance. 

The two men turned quickly and stood looking at him thoughtfully, asif in deep consideration of the truth of that proposition. Under theirsustained gaze Babalatchi experienced an unwonted feeling of shyness, and dared not approach nearer. At last Willems moved slightly, Abdullafollowed readily, and they both walked down the courtyard, their voicesdying away in the darkness. Soon they were heard returning, and thevoices grew distinct as their forms came out of the gloom. By the firethey wheeled again, and Babalatchi caught a few words. Willems wassaying--

"I have been at sea with him many years when young. I have used myknowledge to observe the way into the river when coming in, this time. "

Abdulla assented in general terms. 

"In the variety of knowledge there is safety, " he said; and then theypassed out of earshot. 

Babalatchi ran to the tree and took up his position in the solidblackness under its branches, leaning against the trunk. There he wasabout midway between the fire and the other limit of the two men's walk. They passed him close. Abdulla slim, very straight, his head high, andhis hands hanging before him and twisting mechanically the string ofbeads; Willems tall, broad, looking bigger and stronger in contrast tothe slight white figure by the side of which he strolled carelessly, taking one step to the other's two; his big arms in constant motion ashe gesticulated vehemently, bending forward to look Abdulla in the face. 

They passed and repassed close to Babalatchi some half a dozen times, and, whenever they were between him and the fire, he could see themplain enough. Sometimes they would stop short, Willems speakingemphatically, Abdulla listening with rigid attention, then, when theother had ceased, bending his head slightly as if consenting to somedemand, or admitting some statement. Now and then Babalatchi caughta word here and there, a fragment of a sentence, a loud exclamation. Impelled by curiosity he crept to the very edge of the black shadowunder the tree. They were nearing him, and he heard Willems say--

"You will pay that money as soon as I come on board. That I must have. "

He could not catch Abdulla's reply. When they went past again, Willemswas saying--

"My life is in your hand anyway. The boat that brings me on board yourship shall take the money to Omar. You must have it ready in a sealedbag. "

Again they were out of hearing, but instead of coming back they stoppedby the fire facing each other. Willems moved his arm, shook his handon high talking all the time, then brought it down jerkily--stamped hisfoot. A short period of immobility ensued. Babalatchi, gazing intently, saw Abdulla's lips move almost imperceptibly. Suddenly Willems seizedthe Arab's passive hand and shook it. Babalatchi drew the long breath ofrelieved suspense. The conference was over. All well, apparently. 

He ventured now to approach the two men, who saw him and waited insilence. Willems had retired within himself already, and wore a look ofgrim indifference. Abdulla moved away a step or two. Babalatchi lookedat him inquisitively. 

"I go now, " said Abdulla, "and shall wait for you outside the river, Tuan Willems, till the second sunset. You have only one word, I know. "

"Only one word, " repeated Willems. 

Abdulla and Babalatchi walked together down the enclosure, leaving thewhite man alone by the fire. The two Arabs who had come with Abdullapreceded them and passed at once through the little gate into the lightand the murmur of voices of the principal courtyard, but Babalatchi andAbdulla stopped on this side of it. Abdulla said--

"It is well. We have spoken of many things. He consents. "

"When?" asked Babalatchi, eagerly. 

"On the second day from this. I have promised every thing. I mean tokeep much. "

"Your hand is always open, O Most Generous amongst Believers! You willnot forget your servant who called you here. Have I not spoken thetruth? She has made roast meat of his heart. "

With a horizontal sweep of his arm Abdulla seemed to push away that laststatement, and said slowly, with much meaning--

"He must be perfectly safe; do you understand? Perfectly safe--as if hewas amongst his own people--till . . . "

"Till when?" whispered Babalatchi. 

"Till I speak, " said Abdulla. "As to Omar. " He hesitated for a moment, then went on very low: "He is very old. "

"Hai-ya! Old and sick, " murmured Babalatchi, with sudden melancholy. 

"He wanted me to kill that white man. He begged me to have him killed atonce, " said Abdulla, contemptuously, moving again towards the gate. 

"He is impatient, like those who feel death near them, " exclaimedBabalatchi, apologetically. 

"Omar shall dwell with me, " went on Abdulla, "when . . . But no matter. Remember! The white man must be safe. "

"He lives in your shadow, " answered Babalatchi, solemnly. "It isenough!" He touched his forehead and fell back to let Abdulla go first. 

And now they are back in the courtyard wherefrom, at their appearance, listlessness vanishes, and all the faces become alert and interestedonce more. Lakamba approaches his guest, but looks at Babalatchi, whoreassures him by a confident nod. Lakamba clumsily attempts a smile, and looking, with natural and ineradicable sulkiness, from under hiseyebrows at the man whom he wants to honour, asks whether he wouldcondescend to visit the place of sitting down and take food. Or perhapshe would prefer to give himself up to repose? The house is his, and whatis in it, and those many men that stand afar watching the interview arehis. Syed Abdulla presses his host's hand to his breast, and informs himin a confidential murmur that his habits are ascetic and his temperamentinclines to melancholy. No rest; no food; no use whatever for thosemany men who are his. Syed Abdulla is impatient to be gone. Lakamba issorrowful but polite, in his hesitating, gloomy way. Tuan Abdulla musthave fresh boatmen, and many, to shorten the dark and fatiguing road. Hai-ya! There! Boats!

By the riverside indistinct forms leap into a noisy and disorderlyactivity. There are cries, orders, banter, abuse. Torches blaze sendingout much more smoke than light, and in their red glare Babalatchi comesup to say that the boats are ready. 

Through that lurid glare Syed Abdulla, in his long white gown, seemsto glide fantastically, like a dignified apparition attended by twoinferior shades, and stands for a moment at the landing-place totake leave of his host and ally--whom he loves. Syed Abdulla says sodistinctly before embarking, and takes his seat in the middle of thecanoe under a small canopy of blue calico stretched on four sticks. Before and behind Syed Abdulla, the men squatting by the gunwales holdhigh the blades of their paddles in readiness for a dip, all together. Ready? Not yet. Hold on all! Syed Abdulla speaks again, while Lakambaand Babalatchi stand close on the bank to hear his words. His words areencouraging. Before the sun rises for the second time they shall meet, and Syed Abdulla's ship shall float on the waters of this river--atlast! Lakamba and Babalatchi have no doubt--if Allah wills. They are inthe hands of the Compassionate. No doubt. And so is Syed Abdulla, thegreat trader who does not know what the word failure means; and so isthe white man--the smartest business man in the islands--who is lyingnow by Omar's fire with his head on Aissa's lap, while Syed Abdullaflies down the muddy river with current and paddles between the sombrewalls of the sleeping forest; on his way to the clear and open sea wherethe Lord of the Isles (formerly of Greenock, but condemned, sold, andregistered now as of Penang) waits for its owner, and swings erraticallyat anchor in the currents of the capricious tide, under the crumblingred cliffs of Tanjong Mirrah. 

For some time Lakamba, Sahamin, and Bahassoen looked silently into thehumid darkness which had swallowed the big canoe that carried Abdullaand his unvarying good fortune. Then the two guests broke into a talkexpressive of their joyful anticipations. The venerable Sahamin, asbecame his advanced age, found his delight in speculation as to theactivities of a rather remote future. He would buy praus, he would sendexpeditions up the river, he would enlarge his trade, and, backed byAbdulla's capital, he would grow rich in a very few years. Very few. Meantime it would be a good thing to interview Almayer to-morrow and, profiting by the last day of the hated man's prosperity, obtain somegoods from him on credit. Sahamin thought it could be done by skilfulwheedling. After all, that son of Satan was a fool, and the thing wasworth doing, because the coming revolution would wipe all debts out. Sahamin did not mind imparting that idea to his companions, with muchsenile chuckling, while they strolled together from the riversidetowards the residence. The bull-necked Lakamba, listening with poutedlips without the sign of a smile, without a gleam in his dull, bloodshoteyes, shuffled slowly across the courtyard between his two guests. Butsuddenly Bahassoen broke in upon the old man's prattle with the generousenthusiasm of his youth. . . . Trading was very good. But was thechange that would make them happy effected yet? The white man should bedespoiled with a strong hand! . . . He grew excited, spoke very loud, and his further discourse, delivered with his hand on the hilt of hissword, dealt incoherently with the honourable topics of throat-cutting, fire-raising, and with the far-famed valour of his ancestors. 

Babalatchi remained behind, alone with the greatness of his conceptions. The sagacious statesman of Sambir sent a scornful glance after his nobleprotector and his noble protector's friends, and then stood meditatingabout that future which to the others seemed so assured. Not so toBabalatchi, who paid the penalty of his wisdom by a vague sense ofinsecurity that kept sleep at arm's length from his tired body. When hethought at last of leaving the waterside, it was only to strike a pathfor himself and to creep along the fences, avoiding the middle of thecourtyard where small fires glimmered and winked as though the sinisterdarkness there had reflected the stars of the serene heaven. He slunkpast the wicket-gate of Omar's enclosure, and crept on patiently alongthe light bamboo palisade till he was stopped by the angle where itjoined the heavy stockade of Lakamba's private ground. Standing there, he could look over the fence and see Omar's hut and the fire before itsdoor. He could also see the shadow of two human beings sitting betweenhim and the red glow. A man and a woman. The sight seemed to inspire thecareworn sage with a frivolous desire to sing. It could hardly be calleda song; it was more in the nature of a recitative without any rhythm, delivered rapidly but distinctly in a croaking and unsteady voice; andif Babalatchi considered it a song, then it was a song with a purposeand, perhaps for that reason, artistically defective. It had all theimperfections of unskilful improvisation and its subject was gruesome. It told a tale of shipwreck and of thirst, and of one brother killinganother for the sake of a gourd of water. A repulsive story which mighthave had a purpose but possessed no moral whatever. Yet it must havepleased Babalatchi for he repeated it twice, the second time even inlouder tones than at first, causing a disturbance amongst the whiterice-birds and the wild fruit-pigeons which roosted on the boughs ofthe big tree growing in Omar's compound. There was in the thick foliageabove the singer's head a confused beating of wings, sleepy remarks inbird-language, a sharp stir of leaves. The forms by the fire moved; theshadow of the woman altered its shape, and Babalatchi's song was cutshort abruptly by a fit of soft and persistent coughing. He did not tryto resume his efforts after that interruption, but went away stealthilyto seek--if not sleep--then, at least, repose. 

CHAPTER SIX

As soon as Abdulla and his companions had left the enclosure, Aissaapproached Willems and stood by his side. He took no notice of herexpectant attitude till she touched him gently, when he turned furiouslyupon her and, tearing off her face-veil, trampled upon it as thoughit had been a mortal enemy. She looked at him with the faint smile ofpatient curiosity, with the puzzled interest of ignorance watching therunning of a complicated piece of machinery. After he had exhausted hisrage, he stood again severe and unbending looking down at the fire, butthe touch of her fingers at the nape of his neck effaced instantly thehard lines round his mouth; his eyes wavered uneasily; his lips trembledslightly. Starting with the unresisting rapidity of a particle ofiron--which, quiescent one moment, leaps in the next to a powerfulmagnet--he moved forward, caught her in his arms and pressed herviolently to his breast. He released her as suddenly, and she stumbled alittle, stepped back, breathed quickly through her parted lips, and saidin a tone of pleased reproof--

"O Fool-man! And if you had killed me in your strong arms what would youhave done?"

"You want to live . . . And to run away from me again, " he said gently. "Tell me--do you?"

She moved towards him with very short steps, her head a little on oneside, hands on hips, with a slight balancing of her body: an approachmore tantalizing than an escape. He looked on, eager--charmed. She spokejestingly. 

"What am I to say to a man who has been away three days from me? Three!"she repeated, holding up playfully three fingers before Willems' eyes. He snatched at the hand, but she was on her guard and whisked it behindher back. 

"No!" she said. "I cannot be caught. But I will come. I am coming myselfbecause I like. Do not move. Do not touch me with your mighty hands, Ochild!"

As she spoke she made a step nearer, then another. Willems did not stir. Pressing against him she stood on tiptoe to look into his eyes, andher own seemed to grow bigger, glistening and tender, appealing andpromising. With that look she drew the man's soul away from him throughhis immobile pupils, and from Willems' features the spark of reasonvanished under her gaze and was replaced by an appearance of physicalwell-being, an ecstasy of the senses which had taken possession of hisrigid body; an ecstasy that drove out regrets, hesitation and doubt, and proclaimed its terrible work by an appalling aspect of idioticbeatitude. He never stirred a limb, hardly breathed, but stood in stiffimmobility, absorbing the delight of her close contact by every pore. 

"Closer! Closer!" he murmured. 

Slowly she raised her arms, put them over his shoulders, and claspingher hands at the back of his neck, swung off the full length of herarms. Her head fell back, the eyelids dropped slightly, and her thickhair hung straight down: a mass of ebony touched by the red gleams ofthe fire. He stood unyielding under the strain, as solid and motionlessas one of the big trees of the surrounding forests; and his eyeslooked at the modelling of her chin, at the outline of her neck, atthe swelling lines of her bosom, with the famished and concentratedexpression of a starving man looking at food. She drew herself up to himand rubbed her head against his cheek slowly and gently. He sighed. She, with her hands still on his shoulders, glanced up at the placid starsand said--

"The night is half gone. We shall finish it by this fire. By thisfire you shall tell me all: your words and Syed Abdulla's words; andlistening to you I shall forget the three days--because I am good. Tellme--am I good?"

He said "Yes" dreamily, and she ran off towards the big house. 

When she came back, balancing a roll of fine mats on her head, he hadreplenished the fire and was ready to help her in arranging a couchon the side of it nearest to the hut. She sank down with a quick butgracefully controlled movement, and he threw himself full length withimpatient haste, as if he wished to forestall somebody. She took hishead on her knees, and when he felt her hands touching his face, herfingers playing with his hair, he had an expression of being takenpossession of; he experienced a sense of peace, of rest, of happiness, and of soothing delight. His hands strayed upwards about her neck, andhe drew her down so as to have her face above his. Then he whispered--"Iwish I could die like this--now!" She looked at him with her big sombreeyes, in which there was no responsive light. His thought was so remotefrom her understanding that she let the words pass by unnoticed, likethe breath of the wind, like the flight of a cloud. Woman thoughshe was, she could not comprehend, in her simplicity, the tremendouscompliment of that speech, that whisper of deadly happiness, sosincere, so spontaneous, coming so straight from the heart--like everycorruption. It was the voice of madness, of a delirious peace, ofhappiness that is infamous, cowardly, and so exquisite that the debasedmind refuses to contemplate its termination: for to the victims of suchhappiness the moment of its ceasing is the beginning afresh of thattorture which is its price. 

With her brows slightly knitted in the determined preoccupation of herown desires, she said--

"Now tell me all. All the words spoken between you and Syed Abdulla. "

Tell what? What words? Her voice recalled back the consciousness thathad departed under her touch, and he became aware of the passing minutesevery one of which was like a reproach; of those minutes that falling, slow, reluctant, irresistible into the past, marked his footsteps on theway to perdition. Not that he had any conviction about it, any notion ofthe possible ending on that painful road. It was an indistinct feeling, a threat of suffering like the confused warning of coming disease, an inarticulate monition of evil made up of fear and pleasure, ofresignation and of revolt. He was ashamed of his state of mind. Afterall, what was he afraid of? Were those scruples? Why that hesitation tothink, to speak of what he intended doing? Scruples were for imbeciles. His clear duty was to make himself happy. Did he ever take an oath offidelity to Lingard? No. Well then--he would not let any interest ofthat old fool stand between Willems and Willems' happiness. Happiness?Was he not, perchance, on a false track? Happiness meant money. Muchmoney. At least he had always thought so till he had experienced thosenew sensations which . . . 

Aissa's question, repeated impatiently, interrupted his musings, andlooking up at her face shining above him in the dim light of the firehe stretched his limbs luxuriously and obedient to her desire, he spokeslowly and hardly above his breath. She, with her head close to hislips, listened absorbed, interested, in attentive immobility. The manynoises of the great courtyard were hushed up gradually by the sleep thatstilled all voices and closed all eyes. Then somebody droned out a songwith a nasal drawl at the end of every verse. He stirred. She put herhand suddenly on his lips and sat upright. There was a feeble coughing, a rustle of leaves, and then a complete silence took possession of theland; a silence cold, mournful, profound; more like death than peace;more hard to bear than the fiercest tumult. As soon as she removed herhand he hastened to speak, so insupportable to him was that stillnessperfect and absolute in which his thoughts seemed to ring with theloudness of shouts. 

"Who was there making that noise?" he asked. 

"I do not know. He is gone now, " she answered, hastily. "Tell me, youwill not return to your people; not without me. Not with me. Do youpromise?"

"I have promised already. I have no people of my own. Have I not toldyou, that you are everybody to me?"

"Ah, yes, " she said, slowly, "but I like to hear you say thatagain--every day, and every night, whenever I ask; and never to be angrybecause I ask. I am afraid of white women who are shameless and havefierce eyes. " She scanned his features close for a moment and added:

"Are they very beautiful? They must be. "

"I do not know, " he whispered, thoughtfully. "And if I ever did know, looking at you I have forgotten. "

"Forgotten! And for three days and two nights you have forgotten mealso! Why? Why were you angry with me when I spoke at first of TuanAbdulla, in the days when we lived beside the brook? You rememberedsomebody then. Somebody in the land whence you come. Your tongue isfalse. You are white indeed, and your heart is full of deception. I knowit. And yet I cannot help believing you when you talk of your love forme. But I am afraid!"

He felt flattered and annoyed by her vehemence, and said--

"Well, I am with you now. I did come back. And it was you that wentaway. "

"When you have helped Abdulla against the Rajah Laut, who is the firstof white men, I shall not be afraid any more, " she whispered. 

"You must believe what I say when I tell you that there never wasanother woman; that there is nothing for me to regret, and nothing butmy enemies to remember. "

"Where do you come from?" she said, impulsive and inconsequent, in apassionate whisper. "What is that land beyond the great sea from whichyou come? A land of lies and of evil from which nothing but misfortuneever comes to us--who are not white. Did you not at first ask me to gothere with you? That is why I went away. "

"I shall never ask you again. "

"And there is no woman waiting for you there?"

"No!" said Willems, firmly. 

She bent over him. Her lips hovered above his face and her long hairbrushed his cheeks. 

"You taught me the love of your people which is of the Devil, " shemurmured, and bending still lower, she said faintly, "Like this?"

"Yes, like this!" he answered very low, in a voice that trembledslightly with eagerness; and she pressed suddenly her lips to his whilehe closed his eyes in an ecstasy of delight. 

There was a long interval of silence. She stroked his head with gentletouches, and he lay dreamily, perfectly happy but for the annoyance ofan indistinct vision of a well-known figure; a man going away from himand diminishing in a long perspective of fantastic trees, whose everyleaf was an eye looking after that man, who walked away growing smaller, but never getting out of sight for all his steady progress. He felt adesire to see him vanish, a hurried impatience of his disappearance, andhe watched for it with a careful and irksome effort. There was somethingfamiliar about that figure. Why! Himself! He gave a sudden start andopened his eyes, quivering with the emotion of that quick return from sofar, of finding himself back by the fire with the rapidity of a flash oflightning. It had been half a dream; he had slumbered in her arms fora few seconds. Only the beginning of a dream--nothing more. But it wassome time before he recovered from the shock of seeing himself go awayso deliberately, so definitely, so unguardedly; and going away--where?Now, if he had not woke up in time he would never have come back againfrom there; from whatever place he was going to. He felt indignant. Itwas like an evasion, like a prisoner breaking his parole--that thingslinking off stealthily while he slept. He was very indignant, and wasalso astonished at the absurdity of his own emotions. 

She felt him tremble, and murmuring tender words, pressed his headto her breast. Again he felt very peaceful with a peace that was ascomplete as the silence round them. He muttered--

"You are tired, Aissa. "

She answered so low that it was like a sigh shaped into faint words. 

"I shall watch your sleep, O child!"

He lay very quiet, and listened to the beating of her heart. That sound, light, rapid, persistent, and steady; her very life beating against hischeek, gave him a clear perception of secure ownership, strengthened hisbelief in his possession of that human being, was like an assurance ofthe vague felicity of the future. There were no regrets, no doubts, no hesitation now. Had there ever been? All that seemed far away, agesago--as unreal and pale as the fading memory of some delirium. All theanguish, suffering, strife of the past days; the humiliation and angerof his downfall; all that was an infamous nightmare, a thing born insleep to be forgotten and leave no trace--and true life was this: thisdreamy immobility with his head against her heart that beat so steadily. 

He was broad awake now, with that tingling wakefulness of the tired bodywhich succeeds to the few refreshing seconds of irresistible sleep, andhis wide-open eyes looked absently at the doorway of Omar's hut. Thereed walls glistened in the light of the fire, the smoke of which, thinand blue, drifted slanting in a succession of rings and spirals acrossthe doorway, whose empty blackness seemed to him impenetrable andenigmatical like a curtain hiding vast spaces full of unexpectedsurprises. This was only his fancy, but it was absorbing enough to makehim accept the sudden appearance of a head, coming out of the gloom, aspart of his idle fantasy or as the beginning of another short dream, of another vagary of his overtired brain. A face with drooping eyelids, old, thin, and yellow, above the scattered white of a long beard thattouched the earth. A head without a body, only a foot above the ground, turning slightly from side to side on the edge of the circle of lightas if to catch the radiating heat of the fire on either cheek insuccession. He watched it in passive amazement, growing distinct, as ifcoming nearer to him, and the confused outlines of a body crawlingon all fours came out, creeping inch by inch towards the fire, witha silent and all but imperceptible movement. He was astounded at theappearance of that blind head dragging that crippled body behind, without a sound, without a change in the composure of the sightlessface, which was plain one second, blurred the next in the play of thelight that drew it to itself steadily. A mute face with a kriss betweenits lips. This was no dream. Omar's face. But why? What was he after?

He was too indolent in the happy languor of the moment to answer thequestion. It darted through his brain and passed out, leaving himfree to listen again to the beating of her heart; to that precious anddelicate sound which filled the quiet immensity of the night. Glancingupwards he saw the motionless head of the woman looking down at him ina tender gleam of liquid white between the long eyelashes, whose shadowrested on the soft curve of her cheek; and under the caress of thatlook, the uneasy wonder and the obscure fear of that apparition, crouching and creeping in turns towards the fire that was its guide, were lost--were drowned in the quietude of all his senses, as pain isdrowned in the flood of drowsy serenity that follows upon a dose ofopium. 

He altered the position of his head by ever so little, and now could seeeasily that apparition which he had seen a minute before and had nearlyforgotten already. It had moved closer, gliding and noiseless like theshadow of some nightmare, and now it was there, very near, motionlessand still as if listening; one hand and one knee advanced; the neckstretched out and the head turned full towards the fire. He could seethe emaciated face, the skin shiny over the prominent bones, the blackshadows of the hollow temples and sunken cheeks, and the two patches ofblackness over the eyes, over those eyes that were dead and could notsee. What was the impulse which drove out this blind cripple intothe night to creep and crawl towards that fire? He looked at him, fascinated, but the face, with its shifting lights and shadows, let outnothing, closed and impenetrable like a walled door. 

Omar raised himself to a kneeling posture and sank on his heels, withhis hands hanging down before him. Willems, looking out of his dreamynumbness, could see plainly the kriss between the thin lips, a baracross the face; the handle on one side where the polished wood caught ared gleam from the fire and the thin line of the blade running to a dullblack point on the other. He felt an inward shock, which left his bodypassive in Aissa's embrace, but filled his breast with a tumult ofpowerless fear; and he perceived suddenly that it was his own death thatwas groping towards him; that it was the hate of himself and the hate ofher love for him which drove this helpless wreck of a once brilliant andresolute pirate, to attempt a desperate deed that would be the gloriousand supreme consolation of an unhappy old age. And while he looked, paralyzed with dread, at the father who had resumed his cautiousadvance--blind like fate, persistent like destiny--he listened withgreedy eagerness to the heart of the daughter beating light, rapid, andsteady against his head. 

He was in the grip of horrible fear; of a fear whose cold hand robs itsvictim of all will and of all power; of all wish to escape, to resist, or to move; which destroys hope and despair alike, and holds the emptyand useless carcass as if in a vise under the coming stroke. It was notthe fear of death--he had faced danger before--it was not even the fearof that particular form of death. It was not the fear of the end, for heknew that the end would not come then. A movement, a leap, a shout wouldsave him from the feeble hand of the blind old man, from that hand thateven now was, with cautious sweeps along the ground, feeling for hisbody in the darkness. It was the unreasoning fear of this glimpseinto the unknown things, into those motives, impulses, desires he hadignored, but that had lived in the breasts of despised men, close by hisside, and were revealed to him for a second, to be hidden again behindthe black mists of doubt and deception. It was not death that frightenedhim: it was the horror of bewildered life where he could understandnothing and nobody round him; where he could guide, control, comprehendnothing and no one--not even himself. 

He felt a touch on his side. That contact, lighter than the caress of amother's hand on the cheek of a sleeping child, had for him the force ofa crushing blow. Omar had crept close, and now, kneeling above him, heldthe kriss in one hand while the other skimmed over his jacket up towardshis breast in gentle touches; but the blind face, still turned tothe heat of the fire, was set and immovable in its aspect of stonyindifference to things it could not hope to see. With an effort Willemstook his eyes off the deathlike mask and turned them up to Aissa's head. She sat motionless as if she had been part of the sleeping earth, thensuddenly he saw her big sombre eyes open out wide in a piercing stareand felt the convulsive pressure of her hands pinning his arms alonghis body. A second dragged itself out, slow and bitter, like a day ofmourning; a second full of regret and grief for that faith in her whichtook its flight from the shattered ruins of his trust. She was holdinghim! She too! He felt her heart give a great leap, his head slipped downon her knees, he closed his eyes and there was nothing. Nothing! It wasas if she had died; as though her heart had leaped out into the night, abandoning him, defenceless and alone, in an empty world. 

His head struck the ground heavily as she flung him aside in her suddenrush. He lay as if stunned, face up and, daring not move, did not seethe struggle, but heard the piercing shriek of mad fear, her low angrywords; another shriek dying out in a moan. When he got up at last helooked at Aissa kneeling over her father, he saw her bent back in theeffort of holding him down, Omar's contorted limbs, a hand thrown upabove her head and her quick movement grasping the wrist. He made animpulsive step forward, but she turned a wild face to him and called outover her shoulder--

"Keep back! Do not come near! Do not. . . . "

And he stopped short, his arms hanging lifelessly by his side, as ifthose words had changed him into stone. She was afraid of his possibleviolence, but in the unsettling of all his convictions he was struckwith the frightful thought that she preferred to kill her father allby herself; and the last stage of their struggle, at which he lookedas though a red fog had filled his eyes, loomed up with an unnaturalferocity, with a sinister meaning; like something monstrous anddepraved, forcing its complicity upon him under the cover of that awfulnight. He was horrified and grateful; drawn irresistibly to her--andready to run away. He could not move at first--then he did not wantto stir. He wanted to see what would happen. He saw her lift, witha tremendous effort, the apparently lifeless body into the hut, andremained standing, after they disappeared, with the vivid image in hiseyes of that head swaying on her shoulder, the lower jaw hanging down, collapsed, passive, meaningless, like the head of a corpse. 

Then after a while he heard her voice speaking inside, harshly, with anagitated abruptness of tone; and in answer there were groans andbroken murmurs of exhaustion. She spoke louder. He heard her sayingviolently--"No! No! Never!"

And again a plaintive murmur of entreaty as of some one begging for asupreme favour, with a last breath. Then she said--

"Never! I would sooner strike it into my own heart. "

She came out, stood panting for a short moment in the doorway, and thenstepped into the firelight. Behind her, through the darkness came thesound of words calling the vengeance of heaven on her head, risinghigher, shrill, strained, repeating the curse over and over again--tillthe voice cracked in a passionate shriek that died out into hoarsemuttering ending with a deep and prolonged sigh. She stood facingWillems, one hand behind her back, the other raised in a gesturecompelling attention, and she listened in that attitude till all wasstill inside the hut. Then she made another step forward and her handdropped slowly. 

"Nothing but misfortune, " she whispered, absently, to herself. "Nothingbut misfortune to us who are not white. " The anger and excitement diedout of her face, and she looked straight at Willems with an intense andmournful gaze. 

He recovered his senses and his power of speech with a sudden start. 

"Aissa, " he exclaimed, and the words broke out through his lips withhurried nervousness. "Aissa! How can I live here? Trust me. Believe inme. Let us go away from here. Go very far away! Very far; you and I!"

He did not stop to ask himself whether he could escape, and how, andwhere. He was carried away by the flood of hate, disgust, and contemptof a white man for that blood which is not his blood, for that racewhich is not his race; for the brown skins; for the hearts false likethe sea, blacker than night. This feeling of repulsion overmastered hisreason in a clear conviction of the impossibility for him to live withher people. He urged her passionately to fly with him because out of allthat abhorred crowd he wanted this one woman, but wanted her away fromthem, away from that race of slaves and cut-throats from which shesprang. He wanted her for himself--far from everybody, in some safe anddumb solitude. And as he spoke his anger and contempt rose, his hatebecame almost fear; and his desire of her grew immense, burning, illogical and merciless; crying to him through all his senses;louder than his hate, stronger than his fear, deeper than hiscontempt--irresistible and certain like death itself. 

Standing at a little distance, just within the light--but on thethreshold of that darkness from which she had come--she listened, onehand still behind her back, the other arm stretched out with the handhalf open as if to catch the fleeting words that rang around her, passionate, menacing, imploring, but all tinged with the anguish of hissuffering, all hurried by the impatience that gnawed his breast. Andwhile she listened she felt a slowing down of her heart-beats as themeaning of his appeal grew clearer before her indignant eyes, as she sawwith rage and pain the edifice of her love, her own work, crumble slowlyto pieces, destroyed by that man's fears, by that man's falseness. Hermemory recalled the days by the brook when she had listened to otherwords--to other thoughts--to promises and to pleadings for other things, which came from that man's lips at the bidding of her look or her smile, at the nod of her head, at the whisper of her lips. Was there then inhis heart something else than her image, other desires than the desiresof her love, other fears than the fear of losing her? How could that be?Had she grown ugly or old in a moment? She was appalled, surprised andangry with the anger of unexpected humiliation; and her eyes lookedfixedly, sombre and steady, at that man born in the land of violenceand of evil wherefrom nothing but misfortune comes to those who are notwhite. Instead of thinking of her caresses, instead of forgetting allthe world in her embrace, he was thinking yet of his people; of thatpeople that steals every land, masters every sea, that knows no mercyand no truth--knows nothing but its own strength. O man of strong armand of false heart! Go with him to a far country, be lost in the throngof cold eyes and false hearts--lose him there! Never! He was mad--madwith fear; but he should not escape her! She would keep him here a slaveand a master; here where he was alone with her; where he must live forher--or die. She had a right to his love which was of her making, to thelove that was in him now, while he spoke those words without sense. Shemust put between him and other white men a barrier of hate. He must notonly stay, but he must also keep his promise to Abdulla, the fulfilmentof which would make her safe. 

"Aissa, let us go! With you by my side I would attack them with my nakedhands. Or no! Tomorrow we shall be outside, on board Abdulla's ship. You shall come with me and then I could . . . If the ship went ashore bysome chance, then we could steal a canoe and escape in the confusion. . . . You are not afraid of the sea . . . Of the sea that would give mefreedom . . . "

He was approaching her gradually with extended arms, while he pleadedardently in incoherent words that ran over and tripped each other in theextreme eagerness of his speech. She stepped back, keeping her distance, her eyes on his face, watching on it the play of his doubts and of hishopes with a piercing gaze, that seemed to search out the innermostrecesses of his thought; and it was as if she had drawn slowly thedarkness round her, wrapping herself in its undulating folds that madeher indistinct and vague. He followed her step by step till at last theyboth stopped, facing each other under the big tree of the enclosure. The solitary exile of the forests, great, motionless and solemn in hisabandonment, left alone by the life of ages that had been pushed awayfrom him by those pigmies that crept at his foot, towered high andstraight above their heads. He seemed to look on, dispassionate andimposing, in his lonely greatness, spreading his branches wide in agesture of lofty protection, as if to hide them in the sombre shelterof innumerable leaves; as if moved by the disdainful compassion of thestrong, by the scornful pity of an aged giant, to screen this struggleof two human hearts from the cold scrutiny of glittering stars. 

The last cry of his appeal to her mercy rose loud, vibrated under thesombre canopy, darted among the boughs startling the white birds thatslept wing to wing--and died without an echo, strangled in the densemass of unstirring leaves. He could not see her face, but he heardher sighs and the distracted murmur of indistinct words. Then, as helistened holding his breath, she exclaimed suddenly--

"Have you heard him? He has cursed me because I love you. You broughtme suffering and strife--and his curse. And now you want to take me faraway where I would lose you, lose my life; because your love is mylife now. What else is there? Do not move, " she cried violently, as hestirred a little--"do not speak! Take this! Sleep in peace!"

He saw a shadowy movement of her arm. Something whizzed past and struckthe ground behind him, close to the fire. Instinctively he turned roundto look at it. A kriss without its sheath lay by the embers; a sinuousdark object, looking like something that had been alive and was nowcrushed, dead and very inoffensive; a black wavy outline very distinctand still in the dull red glow. Without thinking he moved to pick it up, stooping with the sad and humble movement of a beggar gathering thealms flung into the dust of the roadside. Was this the answer to hispleading, to the hot and living words that came from his heart? Was thisthe answer thrown at him like an insult, that thing made of wood andiron, insignificant and venomous, fragile and deadly? He held it by theblade and looked at the handle stupidly for a moment before he letit fall again at his feet; and when he turned round he faced only thenight:--the night immense, profound and quiet; a sea of darkness inwhich she had disappeared without leaving a trace. 

He moved forward with uncertain steps, putting out both his hands beforehim with the anguish of a man blinded suddenly. 

"Aissa!" he cried--"come to me at once. "

He peered and listened, but saw nothing, heard nothing. After a whilethe solid blackness seemed to wave before his eyes like a curtaindisclosing movements but hiding forms, and he heard light and hurriedfootsteps, then the short clatter of the gate leading to Lakamba'sprivate enclosure. He sprang forward and brought up against the roughtimber in time to hear the words, "Quick! Quick!" and the sound of thewooden bar dropped on the other side, securing the gate. With his armsthrown up, the palms against the paling, he slid down in a heap on theground. 

"Aissa, " he said, pleadingly, pressing his lips to a chink between thestakes. "Aissa, do you hear me? Come back! I will do what you want, giveyou all you desire--if I have to set the whole Sambir on fire and putthat fire out with blood. Only come back. Now! At once! Are you there?Do you hear me? Aissa!"

On the other side there were startled whispers of feminine voices; afrightened little laugh suddenly interrupted; some woman's admiringmurmur--"This is brave talk!" Then after a short silence Aissa cried--

"Sleep in peace--for the time of your going is near. Now I am afraid ofyou. Afraid of your fear. When you return with Tuan Abdulla you shallbe great. You will find me here. And there will be nothing but love. Nothing else!--Always!--Till we die!"

He listened to the shuffle of footsteps going away, and staggered to hisfeet, mute with the excess of his passionate anger against that beingso savage and so charming; loathing her, himself, everybody he hadever known; the earth, the sky, the very air he drew into his oppressedchest; loathing it because it made him live, loathing her because shemade him suffer. But he could not leave that gate through which she hadpassed. He wandered a little way off, then swerved round, came back andfell down again by the stockade only to rise suddenly in another attemptto break away from the spell that held him, that brought him back there, dumb, obedient and furious. And under the immobilized gesture of loftyprotection in the branches outspread wide above his head, under thehigh branches where white birds slept wing to wing in the shelter ofcountless leaves, he tossed like a grain of dust in a whirlwind--sinkingand rising--round and round--always near that gate. All through thelanguid stillness of that night he fought with the impalpable; he foughtwith the shadows, with the darkness, with the silence. He fought withouta sound, striking futile blows, dashing from side to side; obstinate, hopeless, and always beaten back; like a man bewitched within theinvisible sweep of a magic circle. 

PART III

CHAPTER ONE

"Yes! Cat, dog, anything that can scratch or bite; as long as it isharmful enough and mangy enough. A sick tiger would make you happy--ofall things. A half-dead tiger that you could weep over and palm uponsome poor devil in your power, to tend and nurse for you. Never mindthe consequences--to the poor devil. Let him be mangled or eaten up, ofcourse! You haven't any pity to spare for the victims of your infernalcharity. Not you! Your tender heart bleeds only for what is poisonousand deadly. I curse the day when you set your benevolent eyes on him. Icurse it . . . "

"Now then! Now then!" growled Lingard in his moustache. Almayer, who hadtalked himself up to the choking point, drew a long breath and went on--

"Yes! It has been always so. Always. As far back as I can remember. Don't you recollect? What about that half-starved dog you brought onboard in Bankok in your arms. In your arms by . . . ! It went mad nextday and bit the serang. You don't mean to say you have forgotten? Thebest serang you ever had! You said so yourself while you were helpingus to lash him down to the chain-cable, just before he died in his fits. Now, didn't you? Two wives and ever so many children the man left. Thatwas your doing. . . . And when you went out of your way and riskedyour ship to rescue some Chinamen from a water-logged junk in FormosaStraits, that was also a clever piece of business. Wasn't it? Thosedamned Chinamen rose on you before forty-eight hours. They werecut-throats, those poor fishermen. You knew they were cut-throats beforeyou made up your mind to run down on a lee shore in a gale of windto save them. A mad trick! If they hadn't been scoundrels--hopelessscoundrels--you would not have put your ship in jeopardy for them, Iknow. You would not have risked the lives of your crew--that crew youloved so--and your own life. Wasn't that foolish! And, besides, you werenot honest. Suppose you had been drowned? I would have been in a prettymess then, left alone here with that adopted daughter of yours. Yourduty was to myself first. I married that girl because you promised tomake my fortune. You know you did! And then three months afterwards yougo and do that mad trick--for a lot of Chinamen too. Chinamen! You haveno morality. I might have been ruined for the sake of those murderousscoundrels that, after all, had to be driven overboard after killingever so many of your crew--of your beloved crew! Do you call thathonest?"

"Well, well!" muttered Lingard, chewing nervously the stump of hischeroot that had gone out and looking at Almayer--who stamped wildlyabout the verandah--much as a shepherd might look at a pet sheep inhis obedient flock turning unexpectedly upon him in enraged revolt. Heseemed disconcerted, contemptuously angry yet somewhat amused; and alsoa little hurt as if at some bitter jest at his own expense. Almayerstopped suddenly, and crossing his arms on his breast, bent his bodyforward and went on speaking. 

"I might have been left then in an awkward hole--all on account of yourabsurd disregard for your safety--yet I bore no grudge. I knew yourweaknesses. But now--when I think of it! Now we are ruined. Ruined!Ruined! My poor little Nina. Ruined!"

He slapped his thighs smartly, walked with small steps this way andthat, seized a chair, planted it with a bang before Lingard, and satdown staring at the old seaman with haggard eyes. Lingard, returning hisstare steadily, dived slowly into various pockets, fished out at last abox of matches and proceeded to light his cheroot carefully, rolling itround and round between his lips, without taking his gaze for a momentoff the distressed Almayer. Then from behind a cloud of tobacco smoke hesaid calmly--

"If you had been in trouble as often as I have, my boy, you wouldn'tcarry on so. I have been ruined more than once. Well, here I am. "

"Yes, here you are, " interrupted Almayer. "Much good it is to me. Hadyou been here a month ago it would have been of some use. But now! . . You might as well be a thousand miles off. "

"You scold like a drunken fish-wife, " said Lingard, serenely. He got upand moved slowly to the front rail of the verandah. The floor shook andthe whole house vibrated under his heavy step. For a moment he stoodwith his back to Almayer, looking out on the river and forest of theeast bank, then turned round and gazed mildly down upon him. 

"It's very lonely this morning here. Hey?" he said. 

Almayer lifted up his head. 

"Ah! you notice it--don't you? I should think it is lonely! Yes, CaptainLingard, your day is over in Sambir. Only a month ago this verandahwould have been full of people coming to greet you. Fellows would becoming up those steps grinning and salaaming--to you and to me. But ourday is over. And not by my fault either. You can't say that. It's allthe doing of that pet rascal of yours. Ah! He is a beauty! You shouldhave seen him leading that hellish crowd. You would have been proud ofyour old favourite. "

"Smart fellow that, " muttered Lingard, thoughtfully. Almayer jumped upwith a shriek. 

"And that's all you have to say! Smart fellow! O Lord!"

"Don't make a show of yourself. Sit down. Let's talk quietly. I want toknow all about it. So he led?"

"He was the soul of the whole thing. He piloted Abdulla's ship in. Heordered everything and everybody, " said Almayer, who sat down again, with a resigned air. 

"When did it happen--exactly?"

"On the sixteenth I heard the first rumours of Abdulla's ship being inthe river; a thing I refused to believe at first. Next day I could notdoubt any more. There was a great council held openly in Lakamba's placewhere almost everybody in Sambir attended. On the eighteenth the Lord ofthe Isles was anchored in Sambir reach, abreast of my house. Let's see. Six weeks to-day, exactly. "

"And all that happened like this? All of a sudden. You never heardanything--no warning. Nothing. Never had an idea that something was up?Come, Almayer!"

"Heard! Yes, I used to hear something every day. Mostly lies. Is thereanything else in Sambir?"

"You might not have believed them, " observed Lingard. "In fact you oughtnot to have believed everything that was told to you, as if you had beena green hand on his first voyage. "

Almayer moved in his chair uneasily. 

"That scoundrel came here one day, " he said. "He had been away from thehouse for a couple of months living with that woman. I only heard abouthim now and then from Patalolo's people when they came over. Well oneday, about noon, he appeared in this courtyard, as if he had been jerkedup from hell-where he belongs. "

Lingard took his cheroot out, and, with his mouth full of white smokethat oozed out through his parted lips, listened, attentive. After ashort pause Almayer went on, looking at the floor moodily--

"I must say he looked awful. Had a bad bout of the ague probably. Theleft shore is very unhealthy. Strange that only the breadth of the river. . . "

He dropped off into deep thoughtfulness as if he had forgotten hisgrievances in a bitter meditation upon the unsanitary condition of thevirgin forests on the left bank. Lingard took this opportunity to expelthe smoke in a mighty expiration and threw the stump of his cheroot overhis shoulder. 

"Go on, " he said, after a while. "He came to see you . . . "

"But it wasn't unhealthy enough to finish him, worse luck!" went onAlmayer, rousing himself, "and, as I said, he turned up here with hisbrazen impudence. He bullied me, he threatened vaguely. He wantedto scare me, to blackmail me. Me! And, by heaven--he said you wouldapprove. You! Can you conceive such impudence? I couldn't exactly makeout what he was driving at. Had I known, I would have approved him. Yes!With a bang on the head. But how could I guess that he knew enough topilot a ship through the entrance you always said was so difficult. And, after all, that was the only danger. I could deal with anybody here--butwhen Abdulla came. . . . That barque of his is armed. He carries twelvebrass six-pounders, and about thirty men. Desperate beggars. Sumatramen, from Deli and Acheen. Fight all day and ask for more in theevening. That kind. "

"I know, I know, " said Lingard, impatiently. 

"Of course, then, they were cheeky as much as you please after heanchored abreast of our jetty. Willems brought her up himself inthe best berth. I could see him from this verandah standing forward, together with the half-caste master. And that woman was there too. Closeto him. I heard they took her on board off Lakamba's place. Willems saidhe would not go higher without her. Stormed and raged. Frightened them, I believe. Abdulla had to interfere. She came off alone in a canoe, andno sooner on deck than she fell at his feet before all hands, embracedhis knees, wept, raved, begged his pardon. Why? I wonder. Everybody inSambir is talking of it. They never heard tell or saw anything like it. I have all this from Ali, who goes about in the settlement and brings methe news. I had better know what is going on--hadn't I? From what Ican make out, they--he and that woman--are looked upon as somethingmysterious--beyond comprehension. Some think them mad. They live alonewith an old woman in a house outside Lakamba's campong and are greatlyrespected--or feared, I should say rather. At least, he is. He is veryviolent. She knows nobody, sees nobody, will speak to nobody but him. Never leaves him for a moment. It's the talk of the place. There areother rumours. From what I hear I suspect that Lakamba and Abdulla aretired of him. There's also talk of him going away in the Lord of theIsles--when she leaves here for the southward--as a kind of Abdulla'sagent. At any rate, he must take the ship out. The half-caste is notequal to it as yet. "

Lingard, who had listened absorbed till then, began now to walk withmeasured steps. Almayer ceased talking and followed him with his eyes ashe paced up and down with a quarter-deck swing, tormenting and twistinghis long white beard, his face perplexed and thoughtful. 

"So he came to you first of all, did he?" asked Lingard, withoutstopping. 

"Yes. I told you so. He did come. Came to extort money, goods--I don'tknow what else. Wanted to set up as a trader--the swine! I kicked hishat into the courtyard, and he went after it, and that was the last ofhim till he showed up with Abdulla. How could I know that he could doharm in that way? Or in any way at that! Any local rising I could putdown easy with my own men and with Patalolo's help. "

"Oh! yes. Patalolo. No good. Eh? Did you try him at all?"

"Didn't I!" exclaimed Almayer. "I went to see him myself on the twelfth. That was four days before Abdulla entered the river. In fact, same dayWillems tried to get at me. I did feel a little uneasy then. Pataloloassured me that there was no human being that did not love me in Sambir. Looked as wise as an owl. Told me not to listen to the lies of wickedpeople from down the river. He was alluding to that man Bulangi, wholives up the sea reach, and who had sent me word that a strange ship wasanchored outside--which, of course, I repeated to Patalolo. He would notbelieve. Kept on mumbling 'No! No! No!' like an old parrot, his head allof a tremble, all beslobbered with betel-nut juice. I thought there wassomething queer about him. Seemed so restless, and as if in a hurry toget rid of me. Well. Next day that one-eyed malefactor who lives withLakamba--what's his name--Babalatchi, put in an appearance here! Cameabout mid-day, casually like, and stood there on this verandah chattingabout one thing and another. Asking when I expected you, and so on. Then, incidentally, he mentioned that they--his master and himself--werevery much bothered by a ferocious white man--my friend--who was hangingabout that woman--Omar's daughter. Asked my advice. Very deferential andproper. I told him the white man was not my friend, and that they hadbetter kick him out. Whereupon he went away salaaming, and protestinghis friendship and his master's goodwill. Of course I know now theinfernal nigger came to spy and to talk over some of my men. Anyway, eight were missing at the evening muster. Then I took alarm. Did notdare to leave my house unguarded. You know what my wife is, don't you?And I did not care to take the child with me--it being late--so I senta message to Patalolo to say that we ought to consult; that there wererumours and uneasiness in the settlement. Do you know what answer Igot?"

Lingard stopped short in his walk before Almayer, who went on, after animpressive pause, with growing animation. 

"All brought it: 'The Rajah sends a friend's greeting, and does notunderstand the message. ' That was all. Not a word more could Ali getout of him. I could see that Ali was pretty well scared. He hung about, arranging my hammock--one thing and another. Then just before goingaway he mentioned that the water-gate of the Rajah's place was heavilybarred, but that he could see only very few men about the courtyard. Finally he said, 'There is darkness in our Rajah's house, but no sleep. Only darkness and fear and the wailing of women. ' Cheerful, wasn't it?It made me feel cold down my back somehow. After Ali slipped away Istood here--by this table, and listened to the shouting and drumming inthe settlement. Racket enough for twenty weddings. It was a little pastmidnight then. "

Again Almayer stopped in his narrative with an abrupt shutting of lips, as if he had said all that there was to tell, and Lingard stood staringat him, pensive and silent. A big bluebottle fly flew in recklessly intothe cool verandah, and darted with loud buzzing between the two men. Lingard struck at it with his hat. The fly swerved, and Almayer dodgedhis head out of the way. Then Lingard aimed another ineffectual blow;Almayer jumped up and waved his arms about. The fly buzzed desperately, and the vibration of minute wings sounded in the peace of the earlymorning like a far-off string orchestra accompanying the hollow, determined stamping of the two men, who, with heads thrown back andarms gyrating on high, or again bending low with infuriated lunges, wereintent upon killing the intruder. But suddenly the buzz died out in athin thrill away in the open space of the courtyard, leaving Lingardand Almayer standing face to face in the fresh silence of the young day, looking very puzzled and idle, their arms hanging uselessly by theirsides--like men disheartened by some portentous failure. 

"Look at that!" muttered Lingard. "Got away after all. "

"Nuisance, " said Almayer in the same tone. "Riverside is overrun withthem. This house is badly placed . . . Mosquitos . . . And these bigflies . . . . Last week stung Nina . . . Been ill four days . . . Poorchild. . . . I wonder what such damned things are made for!"

CHAPTER TWO

After a long silence, during which Almayer had moved towards the tableand sat down, his head between his hands, staring straight before him, Lingard, who had recommenced walking, cleared his throat and said--

"What was it you were saying?"

"Ah! Yes! You should have seen this settlement that night. I don't thinkanybody went to bed. I walked down to the point, and could see them. They had a big bonfire in the palm grove, and the talk went on theretill the morning. When I came back here and sat in the dark verandah inthis quiet house I felt so frightfully lonely that I stole in and tookthe child out of her cot and brought her here into my hammock. If ithadn't been for her I am sure I would have gone mad; I felt so utterlyalone and helpless. Remember, I hadn't heard from you for four months. Didn't know whether you were alive or dead. Patalolo would have nothingto do with me. My own men were deserting me like rats do a sinking hulk. That was a black night for me, Captain Lingard. A black night as I sathere not knowing what would happen next. They were so excited and rowdythat I really feared they would come and burn the house over my head. I went and brought my revolver. Laid it loaded on the table. There weresuch awful yells now and then. Luckily the child slept through it, andseeing her so pretty and peaceful steadied me somehow. Couldn't believethere was any violence in this world, looking at her lying so quiet andso unconscious of what went on. But it was very hard. Everything was atan end. You must understand that on that night there was no governmentin Sambir. Nothing to restrain those fellows. Patalolo had collapsed. Iwas abandoned by my own people, and all that lot could vent their spiteon me if they wanted. They know no gratitude. How many times haven't Isaved this settlement from starvation? Absolute starvation. Only threemonths ago I distributed again a lot of rice on credit. There wasnothing to eat in this infernal place. They came begging on theirknees. There isn't a man in Sambir, big or little, who is not in debt toLingard & Co. Not one. You ought to be satisfied. You always saidthat was the right policy for us. Well, I carried it out. Ah! CaptainLingard, a policy like that should be backed by loaded rifles . . . "

"You had them!" exclaimed Lingard in the midst of his promenade, thatwent on more rapid as Almayer talked: the headlong tramp of a manhurrying on to do something violent. The verandah was full of dust, oppressive and choking, which rose under the old seaman's feet, and madeAlmayer cough again and again. 

"Yes, I had! Twenty. And not a finger to pull a trigger. It's easy totalk, " he spluttered, his face very red. 

Lingard dropped into a chair, and leaned back with one hand stretchedout at length upon the table, the other thrown over the back of hisseat. The dust settled, and the sun surging above the forest floodedthe verandah with a clear light. Almayer got up and busied himself inlowering the split rattan screens that hung between the columns of theverandah. 

"Phew!" said Lingard, "it will be a hot day. That's right, my boy. Keepthe sun out. We don't want to be roasted alive here. "

Almayer came back, sat down, and spoke very calmly--

"In the morning I went across to see Patalolo. I took the child with me, of course. I found the water-gate barred, and had to walk round throughthe bushes. Patalolo received me lying on the floor, in the dark, allthe shutters closed. I could get nothing out of him but lamentationsand groans. He said you must be dead. That Lakamba was coming now withAbdulla's guns to kill everybody. Said he did not mind being killed, as he was an old man, but that the wish of his heart was to make apilgrimage. He was tired of men's ingratitude--he had no heirs--hewanted to go to Mecca and die there. He would ask Abdulla to let him go. Then he abused Lakamba--between sobs--and you, a little. You preventedhim from asking for a flag that would have been respected--he was rightthere--and now when his enemies were strong he was weak, and you werenot there to help him. When I tried to put some heart into him, tellinghim he had four big guns--you know the brass six-pounders you left herelast year--and that I would get powder, and that, perhaps, together wecould make head against Lakamba, he simply howled at me. No matter whichway he turned--he shrieked--the white men would be the death of him, while he wanted only to be a pilgrim and be at peace. My belief is, "added Almayer, after a short pause, and fixing a dull stare uponLingard, "that the old fool saw this thing coming for a long time, andwas not only too frightened to do anything himself, but actuallytoo scared to let you or me know of his suspicions. Another of yourparticular pets! Well! You have a lucky hand, I must say!"

Lingard struck a sudden blow on the table with his clenched hand. Therewas a sharp crack of splitting wood. Almayer started up violently, thenfell back in his chair and looked at the table. 

"There!" he said, moodily, "you don't know your own strength. This tableis completely ruined. The only table I had been able to save frommy wife. By and by I will have to eat squatting on the floor like anative. "

Lingard laughed heartily. "Well then, don't nag at me like a woman at adrunken husband!" He became very serious after awhile, and added, "Ifit hadn't been for the loss of the Flash I would have been here threemonths ago, and all would have been well. No use crying over that. Don'tyou be uneasy, Kaspar. We will have everything ship-shape here in a veryshort time. "

"What? You don't mean to expel Abdulla out of here by force! I tell you, you can't. "

"Not I!" exclaimed Lingard. "That's all over, I am afraid. Great pity. They will suffer for it. He will squeeze them. Great pity. Damn it! Ifeel so sorry for them if I had the Flash here I would try force. Eh!Why not? However, the poor Flash is gone, and there is an end of it. Poor old hooker. Hey, Almayer? You made a voyage or two with me. Wasn'tshe a sweet craft? Could make her do anything but talk. She was betterthan a wife to me. Never scolded. Hey? . . . And to think that it shouldcome to this. That I should leave her poor old bones sticking on a reefas though I had been a damned fool of a southern-going man who must havehalf a mile of water under his keel to be safe! Well! well! It's onlythose who do nothing that make no mistakes, I suppose. But it's hard. Hard. "

He nodded sadly, with his eyes on the ground. Almayer looked at him withgrowing indignation. 

"Upon my word, you are heartless, " he burst out; "perfectlyheartless--and selfish. It does not seem to strike you--in allthat--that in losing your ship--by your recklessness, I am sure--youruin me--us, and my little Nina. What's going to become of me and ofher? That's what I want to know. You brought me here, made me yourpartner, and now, when everything is gone to the devil--through yourfault, mind you--you talk about your ship . . . Ship! You can getanother. But here. This trade. That's gone now, thanks to Willems. . . . Your dear Willems!"

"Never you mind about Willems. I will look after him, " said Lingard, severely. "And as to the trade . . . I will make your fortune yet, myboy. Never fear. Have you got any cargo for the schooner that brought mehere?"

"The shed is full of rattans, " answered Almayer, "and I have abouteighty tons of guttah in the well. The last lot I ever will have, nodoubt, " he added, bitterly. 

"So, after all, there was no robbery. You've lost nothing actually. Well, then, you must . . . Hallo! What's the matter! . . . Here! . . . "

"Robbery! No!" screamed Almayer, throwing up his hands. 

He fell back in the chair and his face became purple. A little whitefoam appeared on his lips and trickled down his chin, while he lay back, showing the whites of his upturned eyes. When he came to himself he sawLingard standing over him, with an empty water-chatty in his hand. 

"You had a fit of some kind, " said the old seaman with much concern. "What is it? You did give me a fright. So very sudden. "

Almayer, his hair all wet and stuck to his head, as if he had beendiving, sat up and gasped. 

"Outrage! A fiendish outrage. I . . . "

Lingard put the chatty on the table and looked at him in attentivesilence. Almayer passed his hand over his forehead and went on in anunsteady tone:

"When I remember that, I lose all control, " he said. "I told you heanchored Abdulla's ship abreast our jetty, but over to the other shore, near the Rajah's place. The ship was surrounded with boats. From here itlooked as if she had been landed on a raft. Every dugout in Sambir wasthere. Through my glass I could distinguish the faces of people on thepoop--Abdulla, Willems, Lakamba--everybody. That old cringing scoundrelSahamin was there. I could see quite plain. There seemed to be much talkand discussion. Finally I saw a ship's boat lowered. Some Arab got intoher, and the boat went towards Patalolo's landing-place. It seemsthey had been refused admittance--so they say. I think myself thatthe water-gate was not unbarred quick enough to please the exaltedmessenger. At any rate I saw the boat come back almost directly. Iwas looking on, rather interested, when I saw Willems and some more goforward--very busy about something there. That woman was also amongstthem. Ah, that woman . . . "

Almayer choked, and seemed on the point of having a relapse, but by aviolent effort regained a comparative composure. 

"All of a sudden, " he continued--"bang! They fired a shot intoPatalolo's gate, and before I had time to catch my breath--I wasstartled, you may believe--they sent another and burst the gate open. Whereupon, I suppose, they thought they had done enough for a while, andprobably felt hungry, for a feast began aft. Abdulla sat amongstthem like an idol, cross-legged, his hands on his lap. He's too greataltogether to eat when others do, but he presided, you see. Willems kepton dodging about forward, aloof from the crowd, and looking at my housethrough the ship's long glass. I could not resist it. I shook my fist athim. "

"Just so, " said Lingard, gravely. "That was the thing to do, of course. If you can't fight a man the best thing is to exasperate him. "

Almayer waved his hand in a superior manner, and continued, unmoved:"You may say what you like. You can't realize my feelings. He saw me, and, with his eye still at the small end of the glass, lifted his armas if answering a hail. I thought my turn to be shot at would come nextafter Patalolo, so I ran up the Union Jack to the flagstaff in the yard. I had no other protection. There were only three men besides Ali thatstuck to me--three cripples, for that matter, too sick to get away. Iwould have fought singlehanded, I think, I was that angry, but there wasthe child. What to do with her? Couldn't send her up the river with themother. You know I can't trust my wife. I decided to keep very quiet, but to let nobody land on our shore. Private property, that; under adeed from Patalolo. I was within my right--wasn't I? The morning wasvery quiet. After they had a feed on board the barque with Abdulla mostof them went home; only the big people remained. Towards three o'clockSahamin crossed alone in a small canoe. I went down on our wharf withmy gun to speak to him, but didn't let him land. The old hypocrite saidAbdulla sent greetings and wished to talk with me on business; would Icome on board? I said no; I would not. Told him that Abdulla may writeand I would answer, but no interview, neither on board his ship nor onshore. I also said that if anybody attempted to land within my fencesI would shoot--no matter whom. On that he lifted his hands to heaven, scandalized, and then paddled away pretty smartly--to report, I suppose. An hour or so afterwards I saw Willems land a boat party at the Rajah's. It was very quiet. Not a shot was fired, and there was hardly anyshouting. They tumbled those brass guns you presented to Patalolo lastyear down the bank into the river. It's deep there close to. The channelruns that way, you know. About five, Willems went back on board, andI saw him join Abdulla by the wheel aft. He talked a lot, swinging hisarms about--seemed to explain things--pointed at my house, then down thereach. Finally, just before sunset, they hove upon the cable and dredgedthe ship down nearly half a mile to the junction of the two branches ofthe river--where she is now, as you might have seen. "

Lingard nodded. 

"That evening, after dark--I was informed--Abdulla landed for the firsttime in Sambir. He was entertained in Sahamin's house. I sent Ali to thesettlement for news. He returned about nine, and reported that Patalolowas sitting on Abdulla's left hand before Sahamin's fire. There was agreat council. Ali seemed to think that Patalolo was a prisoner, buthe was wrong there. They did the trick very neatly. Before midnighteverything was arranged as I can make out. Patalolo went back to hisdemolished stockade, escorted by a dozen boats with torches. It appearshe begged Abdulla to let him have a passage in the Lord of the Isles toPenang. From there he would go to Mecca. The firing business was alludedto as a mistake. No doubt it was in a sense. Patalolo never meantresisting. So he is going as soon as the ship is ready for sea. He wenton board next day with three women and half a dozen fellows as old ashimself. By Abdulla's orders he was received with a salute of sevenguns, and he has been living on board ever since--five weeks. I doubtwhether he will leave the river alive. At any rate he won't live toreach Penang. Lakamba took over all his goods, and gave him a draft onAbdulla's house payable in Penang. He is bound to die before he getsthere. Don't you see?"

He sat silent for a while in dejected meditation, then went on:

"Of course there were several rows during the night. Various fellowstook the opportunity of the unsettled state of affairs to pay off oldscores and settle old grudges. I passed the night in that chair there, dozing uneasily. Now and then there would be a great tumult and yellingwhich would make me sit up, revolver in hand. However, nobody waskilled. A few broken heads--that's all. Early in the morning Willemscaused them to make a fresh move which I must say surprised me not alittle. As soon as there was daylight they busied themselves in settingup a flag-pole on the space at the other end of the settlement, whereAbdulla is having his houses built now. Shortly after sunrise there wasa great gathering at the flag-pole. All went there. Willems was standingleaning against the mast, one arm over that woman's shoulders. They hadbrought an armchair for Patalolo, and Lakamba stood on the right handof the old man, who made a speech. Everybody in Sambir was there: women, slaves, children--everybody! Then Patalolo spoke. He said that by themercy of the Most High he was going on a pilgrimage. The dearest wishof his heart was to be accomplished. Then, turning to Lakamba, he beggedhim to rule justly during his--Patalolo's--absence There was a bitof play-acting there. Lakamba said he was unworthy of the honourableburden, and Patalolo insisted. Poor old fool! It must have been bitterto him. They made him actually entreat that scoundrel. Fancy a mancompelled to beg of a robber to despoil him! But the old Rajah wasso frightened. Anyway, he did it, and Lakamba accepted at last. ThenWillems made a speech to the crowd. Said that on his way to the west theRajah--he meant Patalolo--would see the Great White Ruler in Bataviaand obtain his protection for Sambir. Meantime, he went on, I, an OrangBlanda and your friend, hoist the flag under the shadow of which thereis safety. With that he ran up a Dutch flag to the mast-head. It wasmade hurriedly, during the night, of cotton stuffs, and, being heavy, hung down the mast, while the crowd stared. Ali told me there was agreat sigh of surprise, but not a word was spoken till Lakamba advancedand proclaimed in a loud voice that during all that day every onepassing by the flagstaff must uncover his head and salaam before theemblem. "

"But, hang it all!" exclaimed Lingard--"Abdulla is British!"

"Abdulla wasn't there at all--did not go on shore that day. Yet Ali, whohas his wits about him, noticed that the space where the crowd stoodwas under the guns of the Lord of the Isles. They had put a coir warpashore, and gave the barque a cant in the current, so as to bring thebroadside to bear on the flagstaff. Clever! Eh? But nobody dreamt ofresistance. When they recovered from the surprise there was a littlequiet jeering; and Bahassoen abused Lakamba violently till one ofLakamba's men hit him on the head with a staff. Frightful crack, Iam told. Then they left off jeering. Meantime Patalolo went away, andLakamba sat in the chair at the foot of the flagstaff, while the crowdsurged around, as if they could not make up their minds to go. Suddenlythere was a great noise behind Lakamba's chair. It was that woman, whowent for Willems. Ali says she was like a wild beast, but he twisted herwrist and made her grovel in the dust. Nobody knows exactly what it wasabout. Some say it was about that flag. He carried her off, flung herinto a canoe, and went on board Abdulla's ship. After that Sahaminwas the first to salaam to the flag. Others followed suit. Before nooneverything was quiet in the settlement, and Ali came back and told meall this. "

Almayer drew a long breath. Lingard stretched out his legs. 

"Go on!" he said. 

Almayer seemed to struggle with himself. At last he spluttered out:

"The hardest is to tell yet. The most unheard-of thing! An outrage! Afiendish outrage!"

CHAPTER THREE

"Well! Let's know all about it. I can't imagine . . . " began Lingard, after waiting for some time in silence. 

"Can't imagine! I should think you couldn't, " interrupted Almayer. "Why!. . . You just listen. When Ali came back I felt a little easier in mymind. There was then some semblance of order in Sambir. I had the Jackup since the morning and began to feel safer. Some of my men turned upin the afternoon. I did not ask any questions; set them to work as ifnothing had happened. Towards the evening--it might have been five orhalf-past--I was on our jetty with the child when I heard shouts at thefar-off end of the settlement. At first I didn't take much notice. Byand by Ali came to me and says, 'Master, give me the child, there ismuch trouble in the settlement. ' So I gave him Nina and went in, tookmy revolver, and passed through the house into the back courtyard. AsI came down the steps I saw all the serving girls clear out from thecooking shed, and I heard a big crowd howling on the other side ofthe dry ditch which is the limit of our ground. Could not see them onaccount of the fringe of bushes along the ditch, but I knew that crowdwas angry and after somebody. As I stood wondering, that Jim-Eng--youknow the Chinaman who settled here a couple of years ago?"

"He was my passenger; I brought him here, " exclaimed Lingard. "Afirst-class Chinaman that. "

"Did you? I had forgotten. Well, that Jim-Eng, he burst through the bushand fell into my arms, so to speak. He told me, panting, that they wereafter him because he wouldn't take off his hat to the flag. He was notso much scared, but he was very angry and indignant. Of course he had torun for it; there were some fifty men after him--Lakamba's friends--buthe was full of fight. Said he was an Englishman, and would not take offhis hat to any flag but English. I tried to soothe him while the crowdwas shouting on the other side of the ditch. I told him he must take oneof my canoes and cross the river. Stop on the other side for a couple ofdays. He wouldn't. Not he. He was English, and he would fight the wholelot. Says he: 'They are only black fellows. We white men, ' meaning meand himself, 'can fight everybody in Sambir. ' He was mad with passion. The crowd quieted a little, and I thought I could shelter Jim-Engwithout much risk, when all of a sudden I heard Willems' voice. Heshouted to me in English: 'Let four men enter your compound to get thatChinaman!' I said nothing. Told Jim-Eng to keep quiet too. Then aftera while Willems shouts again: 'Don't resist, Almayer. I give you goodadvice. I am keeping this crowd back. Don't resist them!' That beggar'svoice enraged me; I could not help it. I cried to him: 'You are a liar!'and just then Jim-Eng, who had flung off his jacket and had tucked uphis trousers ready for a fight; just then that fellow he snatches therevolver out of my hand and lets fly at them through the bush. There wasa sharp cry--he must have hit somebody--and a great yell, and before Icould wink twice they were over the ditch and through the bush and ontop of us! Simply rolled over us! There wasn't the slightest chance toresist. I was trampled under foot, Jim-Eng got a dozen gashes about hisbody, and we were carried halfway up the yard in the first rush. My eyesand mouth were full of dust; I was on my back with three or four fellowssitting on me. I could hear Jim-Eng trying to shout not very far fromme. Now and then they would throttle him and he would gurgle. I couldhardly breathe myself with two heavy fellows on my chest. Willems cameup running and ordered them to raise me up, but to keep good hold. Theyled me into the verandah. I looked round, but did not see either Ali orthe child. Felt easier. Struggled a little. . . . Oh, my God!"

Almayer's face was distorted with a passing spasm of rage. Lingard movedin his chair slightly. Almayer went on after a short pause:

"They held me, shouting threats in my face. Willems took down my hammockand threw it to them. He pulled out the drawer of this table, and foundthere a palm and needle and some sail-twine. We were making awnings foryour brig, as you had asked me last voyage before you left. He knew, ofcourse, where to look for what he wanted. By his orders they laid me outon the floor, wrapped me in my hammock, and he started to stitch me in, as if I had been a corpse, beginning at the feet. While he worked helaughed wickedly. I called him all the names I could think of. Hetold them to put their dirty paws over my mouth and nose. I was nearlychoked. Whenever I moved they punched me in the ribs. He went on takingfresh needlefuls as he wanted them, and working steadily. Sewed me up tomy throat. Then he rose, saying, 'That will do; let go. ' That woman hadbeen standing by; they must have been reconciled. She clapped her hands. I lay on the floor like a bale of goods while he stared at me, and thewoman shrieked with delight. Like a bale of goods! There was a grin onevery face, and the verandah was full of them. I wished myselfdead--'pon my word, Captain Lingard, I did! I do now whenever I thinkof it!"

Lingard's face expressed sympathetic indignation. Almayer droppedhis head upon his arms on the table, and spoke in that position in anindistinct and muffled voice, without looking up. 

"Finally, by his directions, they flung me into the big rocking-chair. I was sewed in so tight that I was stiff like a piece of wood. He wasgiving orders in a very loud voice, and that man Babalatchi saw thatthey were executed. They obeyed him implicitly. Meantime I lay there inthe chair like a log, and that woman capered before me and made faces;snapped her fingers before my nose. Women are bad!--ain't they? I neversaw her before, as far as I know. Never done anything to her. Yet shewas perfectly fiendish. Can you understand it? Now and then she wouldleave me alone to hang round his neck for awhile, and then she wouldreturn before my chair and begin her exercises again. He looked on, indulgent. The perspiration ran down my face, got into my eyes--my armswere sewn in. I was blinded half the time; at times I could see better. She drags him before my chair. 'I am like white women, ' she says, herarms round his neck. You should have seen the faces of the fellows inthe verandah! They were scandalized and ashamed of themselves to see herbehaviour. Suddenly she asks him, alluding to me: 'When are you goingto kill him?' Imagine how I felt. I must have swooned; I don't rememberexactly. I fancy there was a row; he was angry. When I got my wits againhe was sitting close to me, and she was gone. I understood he sent herto my wife, who was hiding in the back room and never came out duringthis affair. Willems says to me--I fancy I can hear his voice, hoarseand dull--he says to me: 'Not a hair of your head shall be touched. ' Imade no sound. Then he goes on: 'Please remark that the flag you havehoisted--which, by the by, is not yours--has been respected. TellCaptain Lingard so when you do see him. But, ' he says, 'you first firedat the crowd. ' 'You are a liar, you blackguard!' I shouted. He winced, Iam sure. It hurt him to see I was not frightened. 'Anyways, ' he says, 'ashot had been fired out of your compound and a man was hit. Still, allyour property shall be respected on account of the Union Jack. Moreover, I have no quarrel with Captain Lingard, who is the senior partner inthis business. As to you, ' he continued, 'you will not forget thisday--not if you live to be a hundred years old--or I don't know yournature. You will keep the bitter taste of this humiliation to the lastday of your life, and so your kindness to me shall be repaid. I shallremove all the powder you have. This coast is under the protection ofthe Netherlands, and you have no right to have any powder. There are theGovernor's Orders in Council to that effect, and you know it. Tell mewhere the key of the small storehouse is?' I said not a word, and hewaited a little, then rose, saying: 'It's your own fault if there is anydamage done. ' He ordered Babalatchi to have the lock of the office-roomforced, and went in--rummaged amongst my drawers--could not find thekey. Then that woman Aissa asked my wife, and she gave them the key. After awhile they tumbled every barrel into the river. Eighty-threehundredweight! He superintended himself, and saw every barrel roll intothe water. There were mutterings. Babalatchi was angry and tried toexpostulate, but he gave him a good shaking. I must say he was perfectlyfearless with those fellows. Then he came back to the verandah, sat downby me again, and says: 'We found your man Ali with your little daughterhiding in the bushes up the river. We brought them in. They areperfectly safe, of course. Let me congratulate you, Almayer, upon thecleverness of your child. She recognized me at once, and cried "pig"as naturally as you would yourself. Circumstances alter feelings. Youshould have seen how frightened your man Ali was. Clapped his hands overher mouth. I think you spoil her, Almayer. But I am not angry. Really, you look so ridiculous in this chair that I can't feel angry. ' I madea frantic effort to burst out of my hammock to get at that scoundrel'sthroat, but I only fell off and upset the chair over myself. He laughedand said only: 'I leave you half of your revolver cartridges and takehalf myself; they will fit mine. We are both white men, and should backeach other up. I may want them. ' I shouted at him from under the chair:'You are a thief, ' but he never looked, and went away, one hand roundthat woman's waist, the other on Babalatchi's shoulder, to whom he wastalking--laying down the law about something or other. In less than fiveminutes there was nobody inside our fences. After awhile Ali came tolook for me and cut me free. I haven't seen Willems since--nor anybodyelse for that matter. I have been left alone. I offered sixty dollars tothe man who had been wounded, which were accepted. They released Jim-Engthe next day, when the flag had been hauled down. He sent six cases ofopium to me for safe keeping but has not left his house. I think he issafe enough now. Everything is very quiet. "

Towards the end of his narrative Almayer lifted his head off the table, and now sat back in his chair and stared at the bamboo rafters of theroof above him. Lingard lolled in his seat with his legs stretched out. In the peaceful gloom of the verandah, with its lowered screens, theyheard faint noises from the world outside in the blazing sunshine: ahail on the river, the answer from the shore, the creak of a pulley;sounds short, interrupted, as if lost suddenly in the brilliance ofnoonday. Lingard got up slowly, walked to the front rail, and holdingone of the screens aside, looked out in silence. Over the water and theempty courtyard came a distinct voice from a small schooner anchoredabreast of the Lingard jetty. 

"Serang! Take a pull at the main peak halyards. This gaff is down on theboom. "

There was a shrill pipe dying in long-drawn cadence, the song of the menswinging on the rope. The voice said sharply: "That will do!" Anothervoice--the serang's probably--shouted: "Ikat!" and as Lingard droppedthe blind and turned away all was silent again, as if there had beennothing on the other side of the swaying screen; nothing but the light, brilliant, crude, heavy, lying on a dead land like a pall of fire. Lingard sat down again, facing Almayer, his elbow on the table, in athoughtful attitude. 

"Nice little schooner, " muttered Almayer, wearily. "Did you buy her?"

"No, " answered Lingard. "After I lost the Flash we got to Palembang inour boats. I chartered her there, for six months. From young Ford, youknow. Belongs to him. He wanted a spell ashore, so I took charge myself. Of course all Ford's people on board. Strangers to me. I had to go toSingapore about the insurance; then I went to Macassar, of course. Hadlong passages. No wind. It was like a curse on me. I had lots of troublewith old Hudig. That delayed me much. "

"Ah! Hudig! Why with Hudig?" asked Almayer, in a perfunctory manner. 

"Oh! about a . . . A woman, " mumbled Lingard. 

Almayer looked at him with languid surprise. The old seaman had twistedhis white beard into a point, and now was busy giving his moustaches afierce curl. His little red eyes--those eyes that had smarted under thesalt sprays of every sea, that had looked unwinking to windward in thegales of all latitudes--now glared at Almayer from behind the loweredeyebrows like a pair of frightened wild beasts crouching in a bush. 

"Extraordinary! So like you! What can you have to do with Hudig's women?The old sinner!" said Almayer, negligently. 

"What are you talking about! Wife of a friend of . . . I mean of a man Iknow . . . "

"Still, I don't see . . . " interjected Almayer carelessly. 

"Of a man you know too. Well. Very well. "

"I knew so many men before you made me bury myself in this hole!"growled Almayer, unamiably. "If she had anything to do with Hudig--thatwife--then she can't be up to much. I would be sorry for the man, "added Almayer, brightening up with the recollection of the scandaloustittle-tattle of the past, when he was a young man in the second capitalof the Islands--and so well informed, so well informed. He laughed. Lingard's frown deepened. 

"Don't talk foolish! It's Willems' wife. "

Almayer grasped the sides of his seat, his eyes and mouth opened wide. 

"What? Why!" he exclaimed, bewildered. 

"Willems'--wife, " repeated Lingard distinctly. "You ain't deaf, are you?The wife of Willems. Just so. As to why! There was a promise. And I didnot know what had happened here. "

"What is it. You've been giving her money, I bet, " cried Almayer. 

"Well, no!" said Lingard, deliberately. "Although I suppose I shall haveto . . . "

Almayer groaned. 

"The fact is, " went on Lingard, speaking slowly and steadily, "the factis that I have . . . I have brought her here. Here. To Sambir. "

"In heaven's name! why?" shouted Almayer, jumping up. The chair tiltedand fell slowly over. He raised his clasped hands above his head andbrought them down jerkily, separating his fingers with an effort, as iftearing them apart. Lingard nodded, quickly, several times. 

"I have. Awkward. Hey?" he said, with a puzzled look upwards. 

"Upon my word, " said Almayer, tearfully. "I can't understand you at all. What will you do next! Willems' wife!"

"Wife and child. Small boy, you know. They are on board the schooner. "

Almayer looked at Lingard with sudden suspicion, then turning awaybusied himself in picking up the chair, sat down in it turning his backupon the old seaman, and tried to whistle, but gave it up directly. Lingard went on--

"Fact is, the fellow got into trouble with Hudig. Worked upon myfeelings. I promised to arrange matters. I did. With much trouble. Hudigwas angry with her for wishing to join her husband. Unprincipled oldfellow. You know she is his daughter. Well, I said I would see herthrough it all right; help Willems to a fresh start and so on. I spoketo Craig in Palembang. He is getting on in years, and wanted a manageror partner. I promised to guarantee Willems' good behaviour. We settledall that. Craig is an old crony of mine. Been shipmates in the forties. He's waiting for him now. A pretty mess! What do you think?"

Almayer shrugged his shoulders. 

"That woman broke with Hudig on my assurance that all would be well, "went on Lingard, with growing dismay. "She did. Proper thing, of course. Wife, husband . . . Together . . . As it should be . . . Smart fellow. . . Impossible scoundrel . . . Jolly old go! Oh! damn!"

Almayer laughed spitefully. 

"How delighted he will be, " he said, softly. "You will make two peoplehappy. Two at least!" He laughed again, while Lingard looked at hisshaking shoulders in consternation. 

"I am jammed on a lee shore this time, if ever I was, " muttered Lingard. 

"Send her back quick, " suggested Almayer, stifling another laugh. 

"What are you sniggering at?" growled Lingard, angrily. "I'll work itout all clear yet. Meantime you must receive her into this house. "

"My house!" cried Almayer, turning round. 

"It's mine too--a little isn't it?" said Lingard. "Don't argue, "he shouted, as Almayer opened his mouth. "Obey orders and hold yourtongue!"

"Oh! If you take it in that tone!" mumbled Almayer, sulkily, with agesture of assent. 

"You are so aggravating too, my boy, " said the old seaman, withunexpected placidity. "You must give me time to turn round. I can't keepher on board all the time. I must tell her something. Say, for instance, that he is gone up the river. Expected back every day. That's it. D'yehear? You must put her on that tack and dodge her along easy, while Itake the kinks out of the situation. By God!" he exclaimed, mournfully, after a short pause, "life is foul! Foul like a lee forebrace on a dirtynight. And yet. And yet. One must see it clear for running before goingbelow--for good. Now you attend to what I said, " he added, sharply, "ifyou don't want to quarrel with me, my boy. "

"I don't want to quarrel with you, " murmured Almayer with unwillingdeference. "Only I wish I could understand you. I know you are mybest friend, Captain Lingard; only, upon my word, I can't make you outsometimes! I wish I could . . . "

Lingard burst into a loud laugh which ended shortly in a deep sigh. Heclosed his eyes, tilting his head over the back of his armchair; and onhis face, baked by the unclouded suns of many hard years, there appearedfor a moment a weariness and a look of age which startled Almayer, likean unexpected disclosure of evil. 

"I am done up, " said Lingard, gently. "Perfectly done up. All night ondeck getting that schooner up the river. Then talking with you. Seems tome I could go to sleep on a clothes-line. I should like to eat somethingthough. Just see about that, Kaspar. "

Almayer clapped his hands, and receiving no response was going to call, when in the central passage of the house, behind the red curtain of thedoorway opening upon the verandah, they heard a child's imperious voicespeaking shrilly. 

"Take me up at once. I want to be carried into the verandah. I shall bevery angry. Take me up. "

A man's voice answered, subdued, in humble remonstrance. The faces ofAlmayer and Lingard brightened at once. The old seaman called out--

"Bring the child. Lekas!"

"You will see how she has grown, " exclaimed Almayer, in a jubilant tone. 

Through the curtained doorway Ali appeared with little Nina Almayer inhis arms. The child had one arm round his neck, and with the other shehugged a ripe pumelo nearly as big as her own head. Her little pink, sleeveless robe had half slipped off her shoulders, but the long blackhair, that framed her olive face, in which the big black eyes looked outin childish solemnity, fell in luxuriant profusion over her shoulders, all round her and over Ali's arms, like a close-meshed and delicate netof silken threads. Lingard got up to meet Ali, and as soon as she caughtsight of the old seaman she dropped the fruit and put out both her handswith a cry of delight. He took her from the Malay, and she laid hold ofhis moustaches with an affectionate goodwill that brought unaccustomedtears into his little red eyes. 

"Not so hard, little one, not so hard, " he murmured, pressing with anenormous hand, that covered it entirely, the child's head to his face. 

"Pick up my pumelo, O Rajah of the sea!" she said, speaking in ahigh-pitched, clear voice with great volubility. "There, under thetable. I want it quick! Quick! You have been away fighting with manymen. Ali says so. You are a mighty fighter. Ali says so. On the greatsea far away, away, away. "

She waved her hand, staring with dreamy vacancy, while Lingard looked ather, and squatting down groped under the table after the pumelo. 

"Where does she get those notions?" said Lingard, getting up cautiously, to Almayer, who had been giving orders to Ali. 

"She is always with the men. Many a time I've found her with her fingersin their rice dish, of an evening. She does not care for her motherthough--I am glad to say. How pretty she is--and so sharp. My veryimage!"

Lingard had put the child on the table, and both men stood looking ather with radiant faces. 

"A perfect little woman, " whispered Lingard. "Yes, my dear boy, we shallmake her somebody. You'll see!"

"Very little chance of that now, " remarked Almayer, sadly. 

"You do not know!" exclaimed Lingard, taking up the child again, and beginning to walk up and down the verandah. "I have my plans. Ihave--listen. "

And he began to explain to the interested Almayer his plans for thefuture. He would interview Abdulla and Lakamba. There must be someunderstanding with those fellows now they had the upper hand. Herehe interrupted himself to swear freely, while the child, who had beendiligently fumbling about his neck, had found his whistle and blew aloud blast now and then close to his ear--which made him wince and laughas he put her hands down, scolding her lovingly. Yes--that would beeasily settled. He was a man to be reckoned with yet. Nobody knew thatbetter than Almayer. Very well. Then he must patiently try and keep somelittle trade together. It would be all right. But the great thing--andhere Lingard spoke lower, bringing himself to a sudden standstill beforethe entranced Almayer--the great thing would be the gold hunt up theriver. He--Lingard--would devote himself to it. He had been in theinterior before. There were immense deposits of alluvial gold there. Fabulous. He felt sure. Had seen places. Dangerous work? Of course! Butwhat a reward! He would explore--and find. Not a shadow of doubt. Hangthe danger! They would first get as much as they could for themselves. Keep the thing quiet. Then after a time form a Company. In Batavia orin England. Yes, in England. Much better. Splendid! Why, of course. Andthat baby would be the richest woman in the world. He--Lingard--wouldnot, perhaps, see it--although he felt good for many years yet--butAlmayer would. Here was something to live for yet! Hey?

But the richest woman in the world had been for the last five minutesshouting shrilly--"Rajah Laut! Rajah Laut! Hai! Give ear!" while the oldseaman had been speaking louder, unconsciously, to make his deep bassheard above the impatient clamour. He stopped now and said tenderly--

"What is it, little woman?"

"I am not a little woman. I am a white child. Anak Putih. A white child;and the white men are my brothers. Father says so. And Ali says so too. Ali knows as much as father. Everything. "

Almayer almost danced with paternal delight. 

"I taught her. I taught her, " he repeated, laughing with tears in hiseyes. "Isn't she sharp?"

"I am the slave of the white child, " said Lingard, with playfulsolemnity. "What is the order?"

"I want a house, " she warbled, with great eagerness. "I want a house, and another house on the roof, and another on the roof--high. High!Like the places where they dwell--my brothers--in the land where the sunsleeps. "

"To the westward, " explained Almayer, under his breath. "She rememberseverything. She wants you to build a house of cards. You did, last timeyou were here. "

Lingard sat down with the child on his knees, and Almayer pulled outviolently one drawer after another, looking for the cards, as if thefate of the world depended upon his haste. He produced a dirty doublepack which was only used during Lingard's visit to Sambir, when he wouldsometimes play--of an evening--with Almayer, a game which he calledChinese bezique. It bored Almayer, but the old seaman delighted in it, considering it a remarkable product of Chinese genius--a race for whichhe had an unaccountable liking and admiration. 

"Now we will get on, my little pearl, " he said, putting together withextreme precaution two cards that looked absurdly flimsy between his bigfingers. Little Nina watched him with intense seriousness as he went onerecting the ground floor, while he continued to speak to Almayer withhis head over his shoulder so as not to endanger the structure with hisbreath. 

"I know what I am talking about. . . . Been in California in forty-nine. . . . Not that I made much . . . Then in Victoria in the early days. . . . I know all about it. Trust me. Moreover a blind man could . . . Be quiet, little sister, or you will knock this affair down. . . . My handpretty steady yet! Hey, Kaspar? . . . Now, delight of my heart, we shallput a third house on the top of these two . . . Keep very quiet. . . . As I was saying, you got only to stoop and gather handfuls of gold . . . Dust . . . There. Now here we are. Three houses on top of one another. Grand!"

He leaned back in his chair, one hand on the child's head, which hesmoothed mechanically, and gesticulated with the other, speaking toAlmayer. 

"Once on the spot, there would be only the trouble to pick up the stuff. Then we shall all go to Europe. The child must be educated. We shall berich. Rich is no name for it. Down in Devonshire where I belong, therewas a fellow who built a house near Teignmouth which had as many windowsas a three-decker has ports. Made all his money somewhere out here inthe good old days. People around said he had been a pirate. We boys--Iwas a boy in a Brixham trawler then--certainly believed that. He wentabout in a bath-chair in his grounds. Had a glass eye . . . "

"Higher, Higher!" called out Nina, pulling the old seaman's beard. 

"You do worry me--don't you?" said Lingard, gently, giving her a tenderkiss. "What? One more house on top of all these? Well! I will try. "

The child watched him breathlessly. When the difficult feat wasaccomplished she clapped her hands, looked on steadily, and after awhile gave a great sigh of content. 

"Oh! Look out!" shouted Almayer. 

The structure collapsed suddenly before the child's light breath. Lingard looked discomposed for a moment. Almayer laughed, but the littlegirl began to cry. 

"Take her, " said the old seaman, abruptly. Then, after Almayer wentaway with the crying child, he remained sitting by the table, lookinggloomily at the heap of cards. 

"Damn this Willems, " he muttered to himself. "But I will do it yet!"

He got up, and with an angry push of his hand swept the cards off thetable. Then he fell back in his chair. 

"Tired as a dog, " he sighed out, closing his eyes. 

CHAPTER FOUR

Consciously or unconsciously, men are proud of their firmness, steadfastness of purpose, directness of aim. They go straight towardstheir desire, to the accomplishment of virtue--sometimes of crime--in anuplifting persuasion of their firmness. They walk the road of life, theroad fenced in by their tastes, prejudices, disdains or enthusiasms, generally honest, invariably stupid, and are proud of never losing theirway. If they do stop, it is to look for a moment over the hedges thatmake them safe, to look at the misty valleys, at the distant peaks, atcliffs and morasses, at the dark forests and the hazy plains where otherhuman beings grope their days painfully away, stumbling over the bonesof the wise, over the unburied remains of their predecessors who diedalone, in gloom or in sunshine, halfway from anywhere. The man ofpurpose does not understand, and goes on, full of contempt. He neverloses his way. He knows where he is going and what he wants. Travellingon, he achieves great length without any breadth, and battered, besmirched, and weary, he touches the goal at last; he grasps thereward of his perseverance, of his virtue, of his healthy optimism: anuntruthful tombstone over a dark and soon forgotten grave. 

Lingard had never hesitated in his life. Why should he? He had beena most successful trader, and a man lucky in his fights, skilful innavigation, undeniably first in seamanship in those seas. He knew it. Had he not heard the voice of common consent?

The voice of the world that respected him so much; the whole world tohim--for to us the limits of the universe are strictly defined by thosewe know. There is nothing for us outside the babble of praise and blameon familiar lips, and beyond our last acquaintance there lies onlya vast chaos; a chaos of laughter and tears which concerns us not;laughter and tears unpleasant, wicked, morbid, contemptible--becauseheard imperfectly by ears rebellious to strange sounds. ToLingard--simple himself--all things were simple. He seldom read. Bookswere not much in his way, and he had to work hard navigating, trading, and also, in obedience to his benevolent instincts, shaping straylives he found here and there under his busy hand. He remembered theSunday-school teachings of his native village and the discourses ofthe black-coated gentleman connected with the Mission to Fishermen andSeamen, whose yawl-rigged boat darting through rain-squalls amongst thecoasters wind-bound in Falmouth Bay, was part of those precious picturesof his youthful days that lingered in his memory. "As clever a sky-pilotas you could wish to see, " he would say with conviction, "and the bestman to handle a boat in any weather I ever did meet!" Such were theagencies that had roughly shaped his young soul before he went away tosee the world in a southern-going ship--before he went, ignorant andhappy, heavy of hand, pure in heart, profane in speech, to give himselfup to the great sea that took his life and gave him his fortune. Whenthinking of his rise in the world--commander of ships, then shipowner, then a man of much capital, respected wherever he went, Lingard in aword, the Rajah Laut--he was amazed and awed by his fate, that seemed tohis ill-informed mind the most wondrous known in the annals of men. His experience appeared to him immense and conclusive, teaching him thelesson of the simplicity of life. In life--as in seamanship--there wereonly two ways of doing a thing: the right way and the wrong way. Commonsense and experience taught a man the way that was right. The otherwas for lubbers and fools, and led, in seamanship, to loss of spars andsails or shipwreck; in life, to loss of money and consideration, orto an unlucky knock on the head. He did not consider it his duty tobe angry with rascals. He was only angry with things he could notunderstand, but for the weaknesses of humanity he could find acontemptuous tolerance. It being manifest that he was wise andlucky--otherwise how could he have been as successful in life as he hadbeen?--he had an inclination to set right the lives of other people, just as he could hardly refrain--in defiance of nautical etiquette--frominterfering with his chief officer when the crew was sending up a newtopmast, or generally when busy about, what he called, "a heavy job. " Hewas meddlesome with perfect modesty; if he knew a thing or two there wasno merit in it. "Hard knocks taught me wisdom, my boy, " he used to say, "and you had better take the advice of a man who has been a fool in histime. Have another. " And "my boy" as a rule took the cool drink, theadvice, and the consequent help which Lingard felt himself bound inhonour to give, so as to back up his opinion like an honest man. CaptainTom went sailing from island to island, appearing unexpectedlyin various localities, beaming, noisy, anecdotal, commendatory orcomminatory, but always welcome. 

It was only since his return to Sambir that the old seaman had for thefirst time known doubt and unhappiness, The loss of the Flash--plantedfirmly and for ever on a ledge of rock at the north end of GasparStraits in the uncertain light of a cloudy morning--shook himconsiderably; and the amazing news which he heard on his arrivalin Sambir were not made to soothe his feelings. A good many yearsago--prompted by his love of adventure--he, with infinite trouble, hadfound out and surveyed--for his own benefit only--the entrances to thatriver, where, he had heard through native report, a new settlement ofMalays was forming. No doubt he thought at the time mostly of personalgain; but, received with hearty friendliness by Patalolo, he soon cameto like the ruler and the people, offered his counsel and his help, and--knowing nothing of Arcadia--he dreamed of Arcadian happiness forthat little corner of the world which he loved to think all his own. His deep-seated and immovable conviction that only he--he, Lingard--knewwhat was good for them was characteristic of him and, after all, not sovery far wrong. He would make them happy whether or no, he said, and hemeant it. His trade brought prosperity to the young state, and the fearof his heavy hand secured its internal peace for many years. 

He looked proudly upon his work. With every passing year he loved morethe land, the people, the muddy river that, if he could help it, wouldcarry no other craft but the Flash on its unclean and friendly surface. As he slowly warped his vessel up-stream he would scan with knowinglooks the riverside clearings, and pronounce solemn judgment upon theprospects of the season's rice-crop. He knew every settler on the banksbetween the sea and Sambir; he knew their wives, their children; heknew every individual of the multi-coloured groups that, standing onthe flimsy platforms of tiny reed dwellings built over the water, wavedtheir hands and shouted shrilly: "O! Kapal layer! Hai!" while the Flashswept slowly through the populated reach, to enter the lonely stretchesof sparkling brown water bordered by the dense and silent forest, whose big trees nodded their outspread boughs gently in the faint, warmbreeze--as if in sign of tender but melancholy welcome. He loved it all:the landscape of brown golds and brilliant emeralds under the dome ofhot sapphire; the whispering big trees; the loquacious nipa-palms thatrattled their leaves volubly in the night breeze, as if in haste to tellhim all the secrets of the great forest behind them. He loved the heavyscents of blossoms and black earth, that breath of life and of deathwhich lingered over his brig in the damp air of tepid and peacefulnights. He loved the narrow and sombre creeks, strangers to sunshine:black, smooth, tortuous--like byways of despair. He liked even thetroops of sorrowful-faced monkeys that profaned the quiet spots withcapricious gambols and insane gestures of inhuman madness. He lovedeverything there, animated or inanimated; the very mud of the riverside;the very alligators, enormous and stolid, basking on it with impertinentunconcern. Their size was a source of pride to him. "Immense fellows!Make two of them Palembang reptiles! I tell you, old man!" he wouldshout, poking some crony of his playfully in the ribs: "I tell you, big as you are, they could swallow you in one gulp, hat, boots and all!Magnificent beggars! Wouldn't you like to see them? Wouldn't you! Ha!ha! ha!" His thunderous laughter filled the verandah, rolled over thehotel garden, overflowed into the street, paralyzing for a short momentthe noiseless traffic of bare brown feet; and its loud reverberationswould even startle the landlord's tame bird--a shameless mynah--intoa momentary propriety of behaviour under the nearest chair. In the bigbilliard-room perspiring men in thin cotton singlets would stop thegame, listen, cue in hand, for a while through the open windows, thennod their moist faces at each other sagaciously and whisper: "The oldfellow is talking about his river. "

His river! The whispers of curious men, the mystery of the thing, were to Lingard a source of never-ending delight. The common talk ofignorance exaggerated the profits of his queer monopoly, and, althoughstrictly truthful in general, he liked, on that matter, to misleadspeculation still further by boasts full of cold raillery. His river!By it he was not only rich--he was interesting. This secret of his whichmade him different to the other traders of those seas gave intimatesatisfaction to that desire for singularity which he shared with therest of mankind, without being aware of its presence within his breast. It was the greater part of his happiness, but he only knew it after itsloss, so unforeseen, so sudden and so cruel. 

After his conversation with Almayer he went on board the schooner, sentJoanna on shore, and shut himself up in his cabin, feeling very unwell. He made the most of his indisposition to Almayer, who came to visit himtwice a day. It was an excuse for doing nothing just yet. He wanted tothink. He was very angry. Angry with himself, with Willems. Angry atwhat Willems had done--and also angry at what he had left undone. The scoundrel was not complete. The conception was perfect, butthe execution, unaccountably, fell short. Why? He ought to have cutAlmayer's throat and burnt the place to ashes--then cleared out. Gotout of his way; of him, Lingard! Yet he didn't. Was it impudence, contempt--or what? He felt hurt at the implied disrespect of hispower, and the incomplete rascality of the proceeding disturbed himexceedingly. There was something short, something wanting, somethingthat would have given him a free hand in the work of retribution. Theobvious, the right thing to do, was to shoot Willems. Yet how could he?Had the fellow resisted, showed fight, or ran away; had he shown anyconsciousness of harm done, it would have been more possible, morenatural. But no! The fellow actually had sent him a message. Wantedto see him. What for? The thing could not be explained. An unexampled, cold-blooded treachery, awful, incomprehensible. Why did he do it? Why?Why? The old seaman in the stuffy solitude of his little cabin on boardthe schooner groaned out many times that question, striking with an openpalm his perplexed forehead. 

During his four days of seclusion he had received two messages from theouter world; from that world of Sambir which had, so suddenly and sofinally, slipped from his grasp. One, a few words from Willems writtenon a torn-out page of a small notebook; the other, a communicationfrom Abdulla caligraphed carefully on a large sheet of flimsy paperand delivered to him in a green silk wrapper. The first he could notunderstand. It said: "Come and see me. I am not afraid. Are you? W. "He tore it up angrily, but before the small bits of dirty paper had thetime to flutter down and settle on the floor, the anger was gone and wasreplaced by a sentiment that induced him to go on his knees, pick upthe fragments of the torn message, piece it together on the top of hischronometer box, and contemplate it long and thoughtfully, as if he hadhoped to read the answer of the horrible riddle in the very form of theletters that went to make up that fresh insult. Abdulla's letter he readcarefully and rammed it into his pocket, also with anger, but with angerthat ended in a half-resigned, half-amused smile. He would never give inas long as there was a chance. "It's generally the safest way to stickto the ship as long as she will swim, " was one of his favourite sayings:"The safest and the right way. To abandon a craft because it leaks iseasy--but poor work. Poor work!" Yet he was intelligent enough to knowwhen he was beaten, and to accept the situation like a man, withoutrepining. When Almayer came on board that afternoon he handed him theletter without comment. 

Almayer read it, returned it in silence, and leaning over the taffrail(the two men were on deck) looked down for some time at the play of theeddies round the schooner's rudder. At last he said without looking up--

"That's a decent enough letter. Abdulla gives him up to you. I told youthey were getting sick of him. What are you going to do?"

Lingard cleared his throat, shuffled his feet, opened his mouth withgreat determination, but said nothing for a while. At last he murmured--

"I'll be hanged if I know--just yet. "

"I wish you would do something soon . . . "

"What's the hurry?" interrupted Lingard. "He can't get away. As itstands he is at my mercy, as far as I can see. "

"Yes, " said Almayer, reflectively--"and very little mercy he deservestoo. Abdulla's meaning--as I can make it out amongst all thosecompliments--is: 'Get rid for me of that white man--and we shall live inpeace and share the trade. "'

"You believe that?" asked Lingard, contemptuously. 

"Not altogether, " answered Almayer. "No doubt we will share the tradefor a time--till he can grab the lot. Well, what are you going to do?"

He looked up as he spoke and was surprised to see Lingard's discomposedface. 

"You ain't well. Pain anywhere?" he asked, with real solicitude. 

"I have been queer--you know--these last few days, but no pain. " Hestruck his broad chest several times, cleared his throat with a powerful"Hem!" and repeated: "No. No pain. Good for a few years yet. But I ambothered with all this, I can tell you!"

"You must take care of yourself, " said Almayer. Then after a pause headded: "You will see Abdulla. Won't you?"

"I don't know. Not yet. There's plenty of time, " said Lingard, impatiently. 

"I wish you would do something, " urged Almayer, moodily. "You know, thatwoman is a perfect nuisance to me. She and her brat! Yelps all day. Andthe children don't get on together. Yesterday the little devil wanted tofight with my Nina. Scratched her face, too. A perfect savage! Likehis honourable papa. Yes, really. She worries about her husband, andwhimpers from morning to night. When she isn't weeping she is furiouswith me. Yesterday she tormented me to tell her when he would beback and cried because he was engaged in such dangerous work. I saidsomething about it being all right--no necessity to make a fool ofherself, when she turned upon me like a wild cat. Called me a brute, selfish, heartless; raved about her beloved Peter risking his life formy benefit, while I did not care. Said I took advantage of his generousgood-nature to get him to do dangerous work--my work. That he was worthtwenty of the likes of me. That she would tell you--open your eyes asto the kind of man I was, and so on. That's what I've got to put up withfor your sake. You really might consider me a little. I haven't robbedanybody, " went on Almayer, with an attempt at bitter irony--"or soldmy best friend, but still you ought to have some pity on me. It's likeliving in a hot fever. She is out of her wits. You make my house arefuge for scoundrels and lunatics. It isn't fair. 'Pon my wordit isn't! When she is in her tantrums she is ridiculously ugly andscreeches so--it sets my teeth on edge. Thank God! my wife got a fit ofthe sulks and cleared out of the house. Lives in a riverside hut sincethat affair--you know. But this Willems' wife by herself is almost morethan I can bear. And I ask myself why should I? You are exacting and nomistake. This morning I thought she was going to claw me. Only think!She wanted to go prancing about the settlement. She might have heardsomething there, so I told her she mustn't. It wasn't safe outside ourfences, I said. Thereupon she rushes at me with her ten nails up to myeyes. 'You miserable man, ' she yells, 'even this place is not safe, andyou've sent him up this awful river where he may lose his head. If hedies before forgiving me, Heaven will punish you for your crime . . . 'My crime! I ask myself sometimes whether I am dreaming! It will make meill, all this. I've lost my appetite already. "

He flung his hat on deck and laid hold of his hair despairingly. Lingardlooked at him with concern. 

"What did she mean by it?" he muttered, thoughtfully. 

"Mean! She is crazy, I tell you--and I will be, very soon, if thislasts!"

"Just a little patience, Kaspar, " pleaded Lingard. "A day or so more. "

Relieved or tired by his violent outburst, Almayer calmed down, pickedup his hat and, leaning against the bulwark, commenced to fan himselfwith it. 

"Days do pass, " he said, resignedly--"but that kind of thing makes aman old before his time. What is there to think about?--I can't imagine!Abdulla says plainly that if you undertake to pilot his ship out andinstruct the half-caste, he will drop Willems like a hot potato and beyour friend ever after. I believe him perfectly, as to Willems. It's sonatural. As to being your friend it's a lie of course, but we neednot bother about that just yet. You just say yes to Abdulla, and thenwhatever happens to Willems will be nobody's business. "

He interrupted himself and remained silent for a while, glaring aboutwith set teeth and dilated nostrils. 

"You leave it to me. I'll see to it that something happens to him, " hesaid at last, with calm ferocity. Lingard smiled faintly. 

"The fellow isn't worth a shot. Not the trouble of it, " he whispered, asif to himself. Almayer fired up suddenly. 

"That's what you think, " he cried. "You haven't been sewn up in yourhammock to be made a laughing-stock of before a parcel of savages. Why!I daren't look anybody here in the face while that scoundrel is alive. Iwill . . . I will settle him. "

"I don't think you will, " growled Lingard. 

"Do you think I am afraid of him?"

"Bless you! no!" said Lingard with alacrity. "Afraid! Not you. I knowyou. I don't doubt your courage. It's your head, my boy, your head thatI . . . "

"That's it, " said the aggrieved Almayer. "Go on. Why don't you call me afool at once?"

"Because I don't want to, " burst out Lingard, with nervous irritability. "If I wanted to call you a fool, I would do so without asking yourleave. " He began to walk athwart the narrow quarter-deck, kicking ropes'ends out of his way and growling to himself: "Delicate gentleman . . . What next? . . . I've done man's work before you could toddle. Understand . . . Say what I like. "

"Well! well!" said Almayer, with affected resignation. "There's notalking to you these last few days. " He put on his hat, strolled tothe gangway and stopped, one foot on the little inside ladder, as ifhesitating, came back and planted himself in Lingard's way, compellinghim to stand still and listen. 

"Of course you will do what you like. You never take advice--I knowthat; but let me tell you that it wouldn't be honest to let that fellowget away from here. If you do nothing, that scoundrel will leave inAbdulla's ship for sure. Abdulla will make use of him to hurt you andothers elsewhere. Willems knows too much about your affairs. He willcause you lots of trouble. You mark my words. Lots of trouble. Toyou--and to others perhaps. Think of that, Captain Lingard. That's allI've got to say. Now I must go back on shore. There's lots of work. Wewill begin loading this schooner to-morrow morning, first thing. All thebundles are ready. If you should want me for anything, hoist some kindof flag on the mainmast. At night two shots will fetch me. " Thenhe added, in a friendly tone, "Won't you come and dine in the houseto-night? It can't be good for you to stew on board like that, day afterday. "

Lingard did not answer. The image evoked by Almayer; the picture ofWillems ranging over the islands and disturbing the harmony ofthe universe by robbery, treachery, and violence, held him silent, entranced--painfully spellbound. Almayer, after waiting for a littlewhile, moved reluctantly towards the gangway, lingered there, thensighed and got over the side, going down step by step. His headdisappeared slowly below the rail. Lingard, who had been staring at himabsently, started suddenly, ran to the side, and looking over, calledout--

"Hey! Kaspar! Hold on a bit!"

Almayer signed to his boatmen to cease paddling, and turned his headtowards the schooner. The boat drifted back slowly abreast of Lingard, nearly alongside. 

"Look here, " said Lingard, looking down--"I want a good canoe with fourmen to-day. "

"Do you want it now?" asked Almayer. 

"No! Catch this rope. Oh, you clumsy devil! . . . No, Kaspar, " went onLingard, after the bow-man had got hold of the end of the brace he hadthrown down into the canoe--"No, Kaspar. The sun is too much for me. Andit would be better to keep my affairs quiet, too. Send the canoe--fourgood paddlers, mind, and your canvas chair for me to sit in. Send itabout sunset. D'ye hear?"

"All right, father, " said Almayer, cheerfully--"I will send Ali for asteersman, and the best men I've got. Anything else?"

"No, my lad. Only don't let them be late. "

"I suppose it's no use asking you where you are going, " said Almayer, tentatively. "Because if it is to see Abdulla, I . . . "

"I am not going to see Abdulla. Not to-day. Now be off with you. "

He watched the canoe dart away shorewards, waved his hand in responseto Almayer's nod, and walked to the taffrail smoothing out Abdulla'sletter, which he had pulled out of his pocket. He read it overcarefully, crumpled it up slowly, smiling the while and closing hisfingers firmly over the crackling paper as though he had hold thereof Abdulla's throat. Halfway to his pocket he changed his mind, andflinging the ball overboard looked at it thoughtfully as it spun roundin the eddies for a moment, before the current bore it away down-stream, towards the sea. 

PART IV

CHAPTER ONE

The night was very dark. For the first time in many months the EastCoast slept unseen by the stars under a veil of motionless cloud that, driven before the first breath of the rainy monsoon, had drifted slowlyfrom the eastward all the afternoon; pursuing the declining sun withits masses of black and grey that seemed to chase the light with wickedintent, and with an ominous and gloomy steadiness, as though consciousof the message of violence and turmoil they carried. At the sun'sdisappearance below the western horizon, the immense cloud, in quickenedmotion, grappled with the glow of retreating light, and rolling downto the clear and jagged outline of the distant mountains, hung arrestedabove the steaming forests; hanging low, silent and menacing over theunstirring tree-tops; withholding the blessing of rain, nursing thewrath of its thunder; undecided--as if brooding over its own power forgood or for evil. 

Babalatchi, coming out of the red and smoky light of his little bamboohouse, glanced upwards, drew in a long breath of the warm and stagnantair, and stood for a moment with his good eye closed tightly, as ifintimidated by the unwonted and deep silence of Lakamba's courtyard. When he opened his eye he had recovered his sight so far, that he coulddistinguish the various degrees of formless blackness which marked theplaces of trees, of abandoned houses, of riverside bushes, on the darkbackground of the night. 

The careworn sage walked cautiously down the deserted courtyard to thewaterside, and stood on the bank listening to the voice of the invisibleriver that flowed at his feet; listening to the soft whispers, to thedeep murmurs, to the sudden gurgles and the short hisses of the swiftcurrent racing along the bank through the hot darkness. 

He stood with his face turned to the river, and it seemed to him that hecould breathe easier with the knowledge of the clear vast space beforehim; then, after a while he leaned heavily forward on his staff, hischin fell on his breast, and a deep sigh was his answer to the selfishdiscourse of the river that hurried on unceasing and fast, regardless ofjoy or sorrow, of suffering and of strife, of failures and triumphs thatlived on its banks. The brown water was there, ready to carry friends orenemies, to nurse love or hate on its submissive and heartless bosom, to help or to hinder, to save life or give death; the great and rapidriver: a deliverance, a prison, a refuge or a grave. 

Perchance such thoughts as these caused Babalatchi to send anothermournful sigh into the trailing mists of the unconcerned Pantai. Thebarbarous politician had forgotten the recent success of his plottingsin the melancholy contemplation of a sorrow that made the night blacker, the clammy heat more oppressive, the still air more heavy, the dumbsolitude more significant of torment than of peace. He had spent thenight before by the side of the dying Omar, and now, after twenty-fourhours, his memory persisted in returning to that low and sombre reedhut from which the fierce spirit of the incomparably accomplished piratetook its flight, to learn too late, in a worse world, the error ofits earthly ways. The mind of the savage statesman, chastened bybereavement, felt for a moment the weight of his loneliness withkeen perception worthy even of a sensibility exasperated by all therefinements of tender sentiment that a glorious civilization brings inits train, among other blessings and virtues, into this excellent world. For the space of about thirty seconds, a half-naked, betel-chewingpessimist stood upon the bank of the tropical river, on the edge of thestill and immense forests; a man angry, powerless, empty-handed, with acry of bitter discontent ready on his lips; a cry that, had it come out, would have rung through the virgin solitudes of the woods, as true, asgreat, as profound, as any philosophical shriek that ever came from thedepths of an easy-chair to disturb the impure wilderness of chimneys androofs. 

For half a minute and no more did Babalatchi face the gods in thesublime privilege of his revolt, and then the one-eyed puller of wiresbecame himself again, full of care and wisdom and far-reaching plans, and a victim to the tormenting superstitions of his race. The night, nomatter how quiet, is never perfectly silent to attentive ears, and nowBabalatchi fancied he could detect in it other noises than those causedby the ripples and eddies of the river. He turned his head sharply tothe right and to the left in succession, and then spun round quickly ina startled and watchful manner, as if he had expected to see the blindghost of his departed leader wandering in the obscurity of the emptycourtyard behind his back. Nothing there. Yet he had heard a noise;a strange noise! No doubt a ghostly voice of a complaining and angryspirit. He listened. Not a sound. Reassured, Babalatchi made a few pacestowards his house, when a very human noise, that of hoarse coughing, reached him from the river. He stopped, listened attentively, but nowwithout any sign of emotion, and moving briskly back to the watersidestood expectant with parted lips, trying to pierce with his eye thewavering curtain of mist that hung low over the water. He could seenothing, yet some people in a canoe must have been very near, for heheard words spoken in an ordinary tone. 

"Do you think this is the place, Ali? I can see nothing. "

"It must be near here, Tuan, " answered another voice. "Shall we try thebank?"

"No! . . . Let drift a little. If you go poking into the bank in thedark you might stove the canoe on some log. We must be careful. . . . Let drift! Let drift! . . . This does seem to be a clearing ofsome sort. We may see a light by and by from some house or other. InLakamba's campong there are many houses? Hey?"

"A great number, Tuan . . . I do not see any light. "

"Nor I, " grumbled the first voice again, this time nearly abreast of thesilent Babalatchi who looked uneasily towards his own house, the doorwayof which glowed with the dim light of a torch burning within. Thehouse stood end on to the river, and its doorway faced down-stream, soBabalatchi reasoned rapidly that the strangers on the river could notsee the light from the position their boat was in at the moment. Hecould not make up his mind to call out to them, and while he hesitatedhe heard the voices again, but now some way below the landing-placewhere he stood. 

"Nothing. This cannot be it. Let them give way, Ali! Dayong there!"

That order was followed by the splash of paddles, then a sudden cry--

"I see a light. I see it! Now I know where to land, Tuan. "

There was more splashing as the canoe was paddled sharply round and cameback up-stream close to the bank. 

"Call out, " said very near a deep voice, which Babalatchi felt sure mustbelong to a white man. "Call out--and somebody may come with a torch. Ican't see anything. "

The loud hail that succeeded these words was emitted nearly under thesilent listener's nose. Babalatchi, to preserve appearances, ran withlong but noiseless strides halfway up the courtyard, and only thenshouted in answer and kept on shouting as he walked slowly back againtowards the river bank. He saw there an indistinct shape of a boat, notquite alongside the landing-place. 

"Who speaks on the river?" asked Babalatchi, throwing a tone of surpriseinto his question. 

"A white man, " answered Lingard from the canoe. "Is there not one torchin rich Lakamba's campong to light a guest on his landing?"

"There are no torches and no men. I am alone here, " said Babalatchi, with some hesitation. 

"Alone!" exclaimed Lingard. "Who are you?"

"Only a servant of Lakamba. But land, Tuan Putih, and see my face. Hereis my hand. No! Here! . . . By your mercy. . . . Ada! . . . Now you aresafe. "

"And you are alone here?" said Lingard, moving with precaution a fewsteps into the courtyard. "How dark it is, " he muttered to himself--"onewould think the world had been painted black. "

"Yes. Alone. What more did you say, Tuan? I did not understand yourtalk. "

"It is nothing. I expected to find here . . . But where are they all?"

"What matters where they are?" said Babalatchi, gloomily. "Have you cometo see my people? The last departed on a long journey--and I am alone. Tomorrow I go too. "

"I came to see a white man, " said Lingard, walking on slowly. "He is notgone, is he?"

"No!" answered Babalatchi, at his elbow. "A man with a red skin and hardeyes, " he went on, musingly, "whose hand is strong, and whose heart isfoolish and weak. A white man indeed . . . But still a man. "

They were now at the foot of the short ladder which led to thesplit-bamboo platform surrounding Babalatchi's habitation. The faintlight from the doorway fell down upon the two men's faces as they stoodlooking at each other curiously. 

"Is he there?" asked Lingard, in a low voice, with a wave of his handupwards. 

Babalatchi, staring hard at his long-expected visitor, did not answer atonce. "No, not there, " he said at last, placing his foot on the lowestrung and looking back. "Not there, Tuan--yet not very far. Will you sitdown in my dwelling? There may be rice and fish and clear water--notfrom the river, but from a spring . . . "

"I am not hungry, " interrupted Lingard, curtly, "and I did not come hereto sit in your dwelling. Lead me to the white man who expects me. I haveno time to lose. "

"The night is long, Tuan, " went on Babalatchi, softly, "and there areother nights and other days. Long. Very long . . . How much time ittakes for a man to die! O Rajah Laut!"

Lingard started. 

"You know me!" he exclaimed. 

"Ay--wa! I have seen your face and felt your hand before--many yearsago, " said Babalatchi, holding on halfway up the ladder, and bendingdown from above to peer into Lingard's upturned face. "You do notremember--but I have not forgotten. There are many men like me: there isonly one Rajah Laut. "

He climbed with sudden agility the last few steps, and stood on theplatform waving his hand invitingly to Lingard, who followed after ashort moment of indecision. 

The elastic bamboo floor of the hut bent under the heavy weight of theold seaman, who, standing within the threshold, tried to look into thesmoky gloom of the low dwelling. Under the torch, thrust into the cleftof a stick, fastened at a right angle to the middle stay of the ridgepole, lay a red patch of light, showing a few shabby mats and a cornerof a big wooden chest the rest of which was lost in shadow. In theobscurity of the more remote parts of the house a lance-head, a brasstray hung on the wall, the long barrel of a gun leaning against thechest, caught the stray rays of the smoky illumination in tremblinggleams that wavered, disappeared, reappeared, went out, came back--as ifengaged in a doubtful struggle with the darkness that, lying in wait indistant corners, seemed to dart out viciously towards its feeble enemy. The vast space under the high pitch of the roof was filled with a thickcloud of smoke, whose under-side--level like a ceiling--reflected thelight of the swaying dull flame, while at the top it oozed out throughthe imperfect thatch of dried palm leaves. An indescribable andcomplicated smell, made up of the exhalation of damp earth below, ofthe taint of dried fish and of the effluvia of rotting vegetable matter, pervaded the place and caused Lingard to sniff strongly as he strodeover, sat on the chest, and, leaning his elbows on his knees, took hishead between his hands and stared at the doorway thoughtfully. 

Babalatchi moved about in the shadows, whispering to an indistinct formor two that flitted about at the far end of the hut. Without stirringLingard glanced sideways, and caught sight of muffled-up human shapesthat hovered for a moment near the edge of light and retreated suddenlyback into the darkness. Babalatchi approached, and sat at Lingard's feeton a rolled-up bundle of mats. 

"Will you eat rice and drink sagueir?" he said. "I have waked up myhousehold. "

"My friend, " said Lingard, without looking at him, "when I come tosee Lakamba, or any of Lakamba's servants, I am never hungry and neverthirsty. Tau! Savee! Never! Do you think I am devoid of reason? Thatthere is nothing there?"

He sat up, and, fixing abruptly his eyes on Babalatchi, tapped his ownforehead significantly. 

"Tse! Tse! Tse! How can you talk like that, Tuan!" exclaimed Babalatchi, in a horrified tone. 

"I talk as I think. I have lived many years, " said Lingard, stretchinghis arm negligently to take up the gun, which he began to examineknowingly, cocking it, and easing down the hammer several times. "Thisis good. Mataram make. Old, too, " he went on. 

"Hai!" broke in Babalatchi, eagerly. "I got it when I was young. Hewas an Aru trader, a man with a big stomach and a loud voice, andbrave--very brave. When we came up with his prau in the grey morning, hestood aft shouting to his men and fired this gun at us once. Only once!". . . He paused, laughed softly, and went on in a low, dreamy voice. "Inthe grey morning we came up: forty silent men in a swift Sulu prau; andwhen the sun was so high"--here he held up his hands about three feetapart--"when the sun was only so high, Tuan, our work was done--andthere was a feast ready for the fishes of the sea. "

"Aye! aye!" muttered Lingard, nodding his head slowly. "I see. Youshould not let it get rusty like this, " he added. 

He let the gun fall between his knees, and moving back on his seat, leaned his head against the wall of the hut, crossing his arms on hisbreast. 

"A good gun, " went on Babalatchi. "Carry far and true. Better thanthis--there. "

With the tips of his fingers he touched gently the butt of a revolverpeeping out of the right pocket of Lingard's white jacket. 

"Take your hand off that, " said Lingard sharply, but in a good-humouredtone and without making the slightest movement. 

Babalatchi smiled and hitched his seat a little further off. 

For some time they sat in silence. Lingard, with his head tilted back, looked downwards with lowered eyelids at Babalatchi, who was tracinginvisible lines with his finger on the mat between his feet. Outside, they could hear Ali and the other boatmen chattering and laughing roundthe fire they had lighted in the big and deserted courtyard. 

"Well, what about that white man?" said Lingard, quietly. 

It seemed as if Babalatchi had not heard the question. He went ontracing elaborate patterns on the floor for a good while. Lingard waitedmotionless. At last the Malay lifted his head. 

"Hai! The white man. I know!" he murmured absently. "This white man oranother. . . . Tuan, " he said aloud with unexpected animation, "you area man of the sea?"

"You know me. Why ask?" said Lingard, in a low tone. 

"Yes. A man of the sea--even as we are. A true Orang Laut, " went onBabalatchi, thoughtfully, "not like the rest of the white men. "

"I am like other whites, and do not wish to speak many words when thetruth is short. I came here to see the white man that helped Lakambaagainst Patalolo, who is my friend. Show me where that white man lives;I want him to hear my talk. "

"Talk only? Tuan! Why hurry? The night is long and death is swift--asyou ought to know; you who have dealt it to so many of my people. Manyyears ago I have faced you, arms in hand. Do you not remember? It was inCarimata--far from here. "

"I cannot remember every vagabond that came in my way, " protestedLingard, seriously. 

"Hai! Hai!" continued Babalatchi, unmoved and dreamy. "Many yearsago. Then all this"--and looking up suddenly at Lingard's beard, heflourished his fingers below his own beardless chin--"then all this waslike gold in sunlight, now it is like the foam of an angry sea. "

"Maybe, maybe, " said Lingard, patiently, paying the involuntary tributeof a faint sigh to the memories of the past evoked by Babalatchi'swords. 

He had been living with Malays so long and so close that the extremedeliberation and deviousness of their mental proceedings had ceased toirritate him much. To-night, perhaps, he was less prone to impatiencethan ever. He was disposed, if not to listen to Babalatchi, then to lethim talk. It was evident to him that the man had something to say, andhe hoped that from the talk a ray of light would shoot through the thickblackness of inexplicable treachery, to show him clearly--if only fora second--the man upon whom he would have to execute the verdict ofjustice. Justice only! Nothing was further from his thoughts than suchan useless thing as revenge. Justice only. It was his duty that justiceshould be done--and by his own hand. He did not like to think how. Tohim, as to Babalatchi, it seemed that the night would be long enough forthe work he had to do. But he did not define to himself the natureof the work, and he sat very still, and willingly dilatory, under thefearsome oppression of his call. What was the good to think about it?It was inevitable, and its time was near. Yet he could not command hismemories that came crowding round him in that evil-smelling hut, whileBabalatchi talked on in a flowing monotone, nothing of him moving butthe lips, in the artificially inanimated face. Lingard, like an anchoredship that had broken her sheer, darted about here and there on the rapidtide of his recollections. The subdued sound of soft words rang aroundhim, but his thoughts were lost, now in the contemplation of the pastsweetness and strife of Carimata days, now in the uneasy wonder at thefailure of his judgment; at the fatal blindness of accident that hadcaused him, many years ago, to rescue a half-starved runaway from aDutch ship in Samarang roads. How he had liked the man: his assurance, his push, his desire to get on, his conceited good-humour and hisselfish eloquence. He had liked his very faults--those faults that hadso many, to him, sympathetic sides. 

And he had always dealt fairly by him from the very beginning; andhe would deal fairly by him now--to the very end. This last thoughtdarkened Lingard's features with a responsive and menacing frown. Thedoer of justice sat with compressed lips and a heavy heart, while in thecalm darkness outside the silent world seemed to be waiting breathlesslyfor that justice he held in his hand--in his strong hand:--ready tostrike--reluctant to move. 

CHAPTER TWO

Babalatchi ceased speaking. Lingard shifted his feet a little, uncrossedhis arms, and shook his head slowly. The narrative of the events inSambir, related from the point of view of the astute statesman, thesense of which had been caught here and there by his inattentive ears, had been yet like a thread to guide him out of the sombre labyrinth ofhis thoughts; and now he had come to the end of it, out of the tangledpast into the pressing necessities of the present. With the palms of hishands on his knees, his elbows squared out, he looked down on Babalatchiwho sat in a stiff attitude, inexpressive and mute as a talking doll themechanism of which had at length run down. 

"You people did all this, " said Lingard at last, "and you will be sorryfor it before the dry wind begins to blow again. Abdulla's voice willbring the Dutch rule here. "

Babalatchi waved his hand towards the dark doorway. 

"There are forests there. Lakamba rules the land now. Tell me, Tuan, doyou think the big trees know the name of the ruler? No. They are born, they grow, they live and they die--yet know not, feel not. It is theirland. "

"Even a big tree may be killed by a small axe, " said Lingard, drily. "And, remember, my one-eyed friend, that axes are made by white hands. You will soon find that out, since you have hoisted the flag of theDutch. "

"Ay--wa!" said Babalatchi, slowly. "It is written that the earth belongsto those who have fair skins and hard but foolish hearts. The fartheraway is the master, the easier it is for the slave, Tuan! You were toonear. Your voice rang in our ears always. Now it is not going to be so. The great Rajah in Batavia is strong, but he may be deceived. He mustspeak very loud to be heard here. But if we have need to shout, then hemust hear the many voices that call for protection. He is but a whiteman. "

"If I ever spoke to Patalolo, like an elder brother, it was for yourgood--for the good of all, " said Lingard with great earnestness. 

"This is a white man's talk, " exclaimed Babalatchi, with bitterexultation. "I know you. That is how you all talk while you load yourguns and sharpen your swords; and when you are ready, then to those whoare weak you say: 'Obey me and be happy, or die! You are strange, youwhite men. You think it is only your wisdom and your virtue and yourhappiness that are true. You are stronger than the wild beasts, but notso wise. A black tiger knows when he is not hungry--you do not. He knowsthe difference between himself and those that can speak; you do notunderstand the difference between yourselves and us--who are men. Youare wise and great--and you shall always be fools. "

He threw up both his hands, stirring the sleeping cloud of smoke thathung above his head, and brought the open palms on the flimsy floor oneach side of his outstretched legs. The whole hut shook. Lingard lookedat the excited statesman curiously. 

"Apa! Apa! What's the matter?" he murmured, soothingly. "Whom did I killhere? Where are my guns? What have I done? What have I eaten up?"

Babalatchi calmed down, and spoke with studied courtesy. 

"You, Tuan, are of the sea, and more like what we are. Therefore I speakto you all the words that are in my heart. . . . Only once has the seabeen stronger than the Rajah of the sea. "

"You know it; do you?" said Lingard, with pained sharpness. 

"Hai! We have heard about your ship--and some rejoiced. Not I. Amongstthe whites, who are devils, you are a man. "

"Trima kassi! I give you thanks, " said Lingard, gravely. 

Babalatchi looked down with a bashful smile, but his face becamesaddened directly, and when he spoke again it was in a mournful tone. 

"Had you come a day sooner, Tuan, you would have seen an enemy die. Youwould have seen him die poor, blind, unhappy--with no son to dig hisgrave and speak of his wisdom and courage. Yes; you would have seen theman that fought you in Carimata many years ago, die alone--but for onefriend. A great sight to you. "

"Not to me, " answered Lingard. "I did not even remember him tillyou spoke his name just now. You do not understand us. We fight, wevanquish--and we forget. "

"True, true, " said Babalatchi, with polite irony; "you whites are sogreat that you disdain to remember your enemies. No! No!" he went on, inthe same tone, "you have so much mercy for us, that there is no room forany remembrance. Oh, you are great and good! But it is in my mind thatamongst yourselves you know how to remember. Is it not so, Tuan?"

Lingard said nothing. His shoulders moved imperceptibly. He laid his gunacross his knees and stared at the flint lock absently. 

"Yes, " went on Babalatchi, falling again into a mournful mood, "yes, hedied in darkness. I sat by his side and held his hand, but he could notsee the face of him who watched the faint breath on his lips. She, whomhe had cursed because of the white man, was there too, and wept withcovered face. The white man walked about the courtyard making manynoises. Now and then he would come to the doorway and glare at us whomourned. He stared with wicked eyes, and then I was glad that he who wasdying was blind. This is true talk. I was glad; for a white man's eyesare not good to see when the devil that lives within is looking outthrough them. "

"Devil! Hey?" said Lingard, half aloud to himself, as if struck with theobviousness of some novel idea. Babalatchi went on:

"At the first hour of the morning he sat up--he so weak--and saidplainly some words that were not meant for human ears. I held his handtightly, but it was time for the leader of brave men to go amongst theFaithful who are happy. They of my household brought a white sheet, andI began to dig a grave in the hut in which he died. She mourned aloud. The white man came to the doorway and shouted. He was angry. Angry withher because she beat her breast, and tore her hair, and mourned withshrill cries as a woman should. Do you understand what I say, Tuan?That white man came inside the hut with great fury, and took her by theshoulder, and dragged her out. Yes, Tuan. I saw Omar dead, and I saw herat the feet of that white dog who has deceived me. I saw his face grey, like the cold mist of the morning; I saw his pale eyes looking down atOmar's daughter beating her head on the ground at his feet. At the feetof him who is Abdulla's slave. Yes, he lives by Abdulla's will. That iswhy I held my hand while I saw all this. I held my hand because we arenow under the flag of the Orang Blanda, and Abdulla can speak into theears of the great. We must not have any trouble with white men. Abdullahas spoken--and I must obey. "

"That's it, is it?" growled Lingard in his moustache. Then in Malay, "Itseems that you are angry, O Babalatchi!"

"No; I am not angry, Tuan, " answered Babalatchi, descending from theinsecure heights of his indignation into the insincere depths of safehumility. "I am not angry. What am I to be angry? I am only an OrangLaut, and I have fled before your people many times. Servant of thisone--protected of another; I have given my counsel here and there for ahandful of rice. What am I, to be angry with a white man? What is angerwithout the power to strike? But you whites have taken all: the land, the sea, and the power to strike! And there is nothing left for us inthe islands but your white men's justice; your great justice that knowsnot anger. "

He got up and stood for a moment in the doorway, sniffing the hot air ofthe courtyard, then turned back and leaned against the stay of the ridgepole, facing Lingard who kept his seat on the chest. The torch, consumednearly to the end, burned noisily. Small explosions took place in theheart of the flame, driving through its smoky blaze strings of hard, round puffs of white smoke, no bigger than peas, which rolled out ofdoors in the faint draught that came from invisible cracks of the bamboowalls. The pungent taint of unclean things below and about the hutgrew heavier, weighing down Lingard's resolution and his thoughts in anirresistible numbness of the brain. He thought drowsily of himself andof that man who wanted to see him--who waited to see him. Who waited!Night and day. Waited. . . . A spiteful but vaporous idea floatedthrough his brain that such waiting could not be very pleasant to thefellow. Well, let him wait. He would see him soon enough. And for howlong? Five seconds--five minutes--say nothing--say something. What? No!Just give him time to take one good look, and then . . . 

Suddenly Babalatchi began to speak in a soft voice. Lingard blinked, cleared his throat--sat up straight. 

"You know all now, Tuan. Lakamba dwells in the stockaded house ofPatalolo; Abdulla has begun to build godowns of plank and stone; and nowthat Omar is dead, I myself shall depart from this place and live withLakamba and speak in his ear. I have served many. The best of them allsleeps in the ground in a white sheet, with nothing to mark his gravebut the ashes of the hut in which he died. Yes, Tuan! the white mandestroyed it himself. With a blazing brand in his hand he strode around, shouting to me to come out--shouting to me, who was throwing earth onthe body of a great leader. Yes; swearing to me by the name of yourGod and ours that he would burn me and her in there if we did not makehaste. . . . Hai! The white men are very masterful and wise. I draggedher out quickly!"

"Oh, damn it!" exclaimed Lingard--then went on in Malay, speakingearnestly. "Listen. That man is not like other white men. You know he isnot. He is not a man at all. He is . . . I don't know. "

Babalatchi lifted his hand deprecatingly. His eye twinkled, and hisred-stained big lips, parted by an expressionless grin, uncovered astumpy row of black teeth filed evenly to the gums. 

"Hai! Hai! Not like you. Not like you, " he said, increasing the softnessof his tones as he neared the object uppermost in his mind during thatmuch-desired interview. "Not like you, Tuan, who are like ourselves, only wiser and stronger. Yet he, also, is full of great cunning, andspeaks of you without any respect, after the manner of white men whenthey talk of one another. "

Lingard leaped in his seat as if he had been prodded. 

"He speaks! What does he say?" he shouted. 

"Nay, Tuan, " protested the composed Babalatchi; "what matters his talkif he is not a man? I am nothing before you--why should I repeat wordsof one white man about another? He did boast to Abdulla of havinglearned much from your wisdom in years past. Other words I haveforgotten. Indeed, Tuan, I have . . . "

Lingard cut short Babalatchi's protestations by a contemptuous wave ofthe hand and reseated himself with dignity. 

"I shall go, " said Babalatchi, "and the white man will remain here, alone with the spirit of the dead and with her who has been the delightof his heart. He, being white, cannot hear the voice of those thatdied. . . . Tell me, Tuan, " he went on, looking at Lingard withcuriosity--"tell me, Tuan, do you white people ever hear the voices ofthe invisible ones?"

"We do not, " answered Lingard, "because those that we cannot see do notspeak. "

"Never speak! And never complain with sounds that are not words?"exclaimed Babalatchi, doubtingly. "It may be so--or your ears aredull. We Malays hear many sounds near the places where men are buried. To-night I heard . . . Yes, even I have heard. . . . I do not want tohear any more, " he added, nervously. "Perhaps I was wrong when I . . . There are things I regret. The trouble was heavy in his heart when hedied. Sometimes I think I was wrong . . . But I do not want to hearthe complaint of invisible lips. Therefore I go, Tuan. Let the unquietspirit speak to his enemy the white man who knows not fear, or love, or mercy--knows nothing but contempt and violence. I have been wrong! Ihave! Hai! Hai!"

He stood for awhile with his elbow in the palm of his left hand, thefingers of the other over his lips as if to stifle the expression ofinconvenient remorse; then, after glancing at the torch, burnt outnearly to its end, he moved towards the wall by the chest, fumbled aboutthere and suddenly flung open a large shutter of attaps woven in a lightframework of sticks. Lingard swung his legs quickly round the corner ofhis seat. 

"Hallo!" he said, surprised. 

The cloud of smoke stirred, and a slow wisp curled out through the newopening. The torch flickered, hissed, and went out, the glowing endfalling on the mat, whence Babalatchi snatched it up and tossed itoutside through the open square. It described a vanishing curve of redlight, and lay below, shining feebly in the vast darkness. Babalatchiremained with his arm stretched out into the empty night. 

"There, " he said, "you can see the white man's courtyard, Tuan, and hishouse. "

"I can see nothing, " answered Lingard, putting his head through theshutter-hole. "It's too dark. "

"Wait, Tuan, " urged Babalatchi. "You have been looking long at theburning torch. You will soon see. Mind the gun, Tuan. It is loaded. "

"There is no flint in it. You could not find a fire-stone for a hundredmiles round this spot, " said Lingard, testily. "Foolish thing to loadthat gun. "

"I have a stone. I had it from a man wise and pious that lives in MenangKabau. A very pious man--very good fire. He spoke words over that stonethat make its sparks good. And the gun is good--carries straight andfar. Would carry from here to the door of the white man's house, Ibelieve, Tuan. "

"Tida apa. Never mind your gun, " muttered Lingard, peering into theformless darkness. "Is that the house--that black thing over there?" heasked. 

"Yes, " answered Babalatchi; "that is his house. He lives there by thewill of Abdulla, and shall live there till . . . From where you stand, Tuan, you can look over the fence and across the courtyard straight atthe door--at the door from which he comes out every morning, lookinglike a man that had seen Jehannum in his sleep. "

Lingard drew his head in. Babalatchi touched his shoulder with a gropinghand. 

"Wait a little, Tuan. Sit still. The morning is not far off now--amorning without sun after a night without stars. But there will be lightenough to see the man who said not many days ago that he alone has madeyou less than a child in Sambir. "

He felt a slight tremor under his hand, but took it off directly andbegan feeling all over the lid of the chest, behind Lingard's back, forthe gun. 

"What are you at?" said Lingard, impatiently. "You do worry about thatrotten gun. You had better get a light. "

"A light! I tell you, Tuan, that the light of heaven is very near, "said Babalatchi, who had now obtained possession of the object of hissolicitude, and grasping it strongly by its long barrel, grounded thestock at his feet. 

"Perhaps it is near, " said Lingard, leaning both his elbows on the lowercross-piece of the primitive window and looking out. "It is very blackoutside yet, " he remarked carelessly. 

Babalatchi fidgeted about. 

"It is not good for you to sit where you may be seen, " he muttered. 

"Why not?" asked Lingard. 

"The white man sleeps, it is true, " explained Babalatchi, softly; "yethe may come out early, and he has arms. "

"Ah! he has arms?" said Lingard. 

"Yes; a short gun that fires many times--like yours here. Abdulla had togive it to him. "

Lingard heard Babalatchi's words, but made no movement. To the oldadventurer the idea that fire arms could be dangerous in other handsthan his own did not occur readily, and certainly not in connection withWillems. He was so busy with the thoughts about what he consideredhis own sacred duty, that he could not give any consideration to theprobable actions of the man of whom he thought--as one may think of anexecuted criminal--with wondering indignation tempered by scornful pity. While he sat staring into the darkness, that every minute grew thinnerbefore his pensive eyes, like a dispersing mist, Willems appeared to himas a figure belonging already wholly to the past--a figure that couldcome in no way into his life again. He had made up his mind, and thething was as well as done. In his weary thoughts he had closed thisfatal, inexplicable, and horrible episode in his life. The worst hadhappened. The coming days would see the retribution. 

He had removed an enemy once or twice before, out of his path; he hadpaid off some very heavy scores a good many times. Captain Tom had beena good friend to many: but it was generally understood, from Honoluluround about to Diego Suarez, that Captain Tom's enmity was rather morethan any man single-handed could easily manage. He would not, as he saidoften, hurt a fly as long as the fly left him alone; yet a man does notlive for years beyond the pale of civilized laws without evolving forhimself some queer notions of justice. Nobody of those he knew had evercared to point out to him the errors of his conceptions. 

It was not worth anybody's while to run counter to Lingard's ideas ofthe fitness of things--that fact was acquired to the floating wisdomof the South Seas, of the Eastern Archipelago, and was nowhere betterunderstood than in out-of-the-way nooks of the world; in those nookswhich he filled, unresisted and masterful, with the echoes of his noisypresence. There is not much use in arguing with a man who boasts ofnever having regretted a single action of his life, whose answer to amild criticism is a good-natured shout--"You know nothing about it. I would do it again. Yes, sir!" His associates and his acquaintancesaccepted him, his opinions, his actions like things preordained andunchangeable; looked upon his many-sided manifestations with passivewonder not unmixed with that admiration which is only the rightful dueof a successful man. But nobody had ever seen him in the mood he was innow. Nobody had seen Lingard doubtful and giving way to doubt, unable tomake up his mind and unwilling to act; Lingard timid and hesitating oneminute, angry yet inactive the next; Lingard puzzled in a word, becauseconfronted with a situation that discomposed him by its unprovokedmalevolence, by its ghastly injustice, that to his rough butunsophisticated palate tasted distinctly of sulphurous fumes from thedeepest hell. 

The smooth darkness filling the shutter-hole grew paler and becameblotchy with ill-defined shapes, as if a new universe was being evolvedout of sombre chaos. Then outlines came out, defining forms without anydetails, indicating here a tree, there a bush; a black belt of forestfar off; the straight lines of a house, the ridge of a high roof nearby. Inside the hut, Babalatchi, who lately had been only a persuasivevoice, became a human shape leaning its chin imprudently on the muzzleof a gun and rolling an uneasy eye over the reappearing world. The daycame rapidly, dismal and oppressed by the fog of the river and by theheavy vapours of the sky--a day without colour and without sunshine:incomplete, disappointing, and sad. 

Babalatchi twitched gently Lingard's sleeve, and when the old seamanhad lifted up his head interrogatively, he stretched out an arm and apointing forefinger towards Willems' house, now plainly visible to theright and beyond the big tree of the courtyard. 

"Look, Tuan!" he said. "He lives there. That is the door--his door. Through it he will appear soon, with his hair in disorder and his mouthfull of curses. That is so. He is a white man, and never satisfied. Itis in my mind he is angry even in his sleep. A dangerous man. As Tuanmay observe, " he went on, obsequiously, "his door faces this opening, where you condescend to sit, which is concealed from all eyes. Facesit--straight--and not far. Observe, Tuan, not at all far. "

"Yes, yes; I can see. I shall see him when he wakes. "

"No doubt, Tuan. When he wakes. . . . If you remain here he can not seeyou. I shall withdraw quickly and prepare my canoe myself. I am only apoor man, and must go to Sambir to greet Lakamba when he opens his eyes. I must bow before Abdulla who has strength--even more strength than you. Now if you remain here, you shall easily behold the man who boasted toAbdulla that he had been your friend, even while he prepared to fightthose who called you protector. Yes, he plotted with Abdulla for thatcursed flag. Lakamba was blind then, and I was deceived. But you, Tuan!Remember, he deceived you more. Of that he boasted before all men. "

He leaned the gun quietly against the wall close to the window, and saidsoftly: "Shall I go now, Tuan? Be careful of the gun. I have put thefire-stone in. The fire-stone of the wise man, which never fails. "

Lingard's eyes were fastened on the distant doorway. Across his lineof sight, in the grey emptiness of the courtyard, a big fruit-pigeonflapped languidly towards the forests with a loud booming cry, likethe note of a deep gong: a brilliant bird looking in the gloom ofthreatening day as black as a crow. A serried flock of white rice birdsrose above the trees with a faint scream, and hovered, swaying in adisordered mass that suddenly scattered in all directions, as if burstasunder by a silent explosion. Behind his back Lingard heard a shuffleof feet--women leaving the hut. In the other courtyard a voice was heardcomplaining of cold, and coming very feeble, but exceedingly distinct, out of the vast silence of the abandoned houses and clearings. Babalatchi coughed discreetly. From under the house the thumping ofwooden pestles husking the rice started with unexpected abruptness. Theweak but clear voice in the yard again urged, "Blow up the embers, Obrother!" Another voice answered, drawling in modulated, thin sing-song, "Do it yourself, O shivering pig!" and the drawl of the last wordsstopped short, as if the man had fallen into a deep hole. Babalatchicoughed again a little impatiently, and said in a confidential tone--

"Do you think it is time for me to go, Tuan? Will you take care of mygun, Tuan? I am a man that knows how to obey; even obey Abdulla, who hasdeceived me. Nevertheless this gun carries far and true--if you wouldwant to know, Tuan. And I have put in a double measure of powder, andthree slugs. Yes, Tuan. Now--perhaps--I go. "

When Babalatchi commenced speaking, Lingard turned slowly round andgazed upon him with the dull and unwilling look of a sick man waking toanother day of suffering. As the astute statesman proceeded, Lingard'seyebrows came close, his eyes became animated, and a big vein stood outon his forehead, accentuating a lowering frown. When speaking his lastwords Babalatchi faltered, then stopped, confused, before the steadygaze of the old seaman. 

Lingard rose. His face cleared, and he looked down at the anxiousBabalatchi with sudden benevolence. 

"So! That's what you were after, " he said, laying a heavy hand onBabalatchi's yielding shoulder. "You thought I came here to murder him. Hey? Speak! You faithful dog of an Arab trader!"

"And what else, Tuan?" shrieked Babalatchi, exasperated into sincerity. "What else, Tuan! Remember what he has done; he poisoned our ears withhis talk about you. You are a man. If you did not come to kill, Tuan, then either I am a fool or . . . "

He paused, struck his naked breast with his open palm, and finished in adiscouraged whisper--"or, Tuan, you are. "

Lingard looked down at him with scornful serenity. After his long andpainful gropings amongst the obscure abominations of Willems' conduct, the logical if tortuous evolutions of Babalatchi's diplomatic mindwere to him welcome as daylight. There was something at last he couldunderstand--the clear effect of a simple cause. He felt indulgenttowards the disappointed sage. 

"So you are angry with your friend, O one-eyed one!" he said slowly, nodding his fierce countenance close to Babalatchi's discomfited face. "It seems to me that you must have had much to do with what happened inSambir lately. Hey? You son of a burnt father. "

"May I perish under your hand, O Rajah of the sea, if my words are nottrue!" said Babalatchi, with reckless excitement. "You are here in themidst of your enemies. He the greatest. Abdulla would do nothing withouthim, and I could do nothing without Abdulla. Strike me--so that youstrike all!"

"Who are you, " exclaimed Lingard contemptuously--"who are you todare call yourself my enemy! Dirt! Nothing! Go out first, " he went onseverely. "Lakas! quick. March out!"

He pushed Babalatchi through the doorway and followed him down the shortladder into the courtyard. The boatmen squatting over the fire turnedtheir slow eyes with apparent difficulty towards the two men; then, unconcerned, huddled close together again, stretching forlornly theirhands over the embers. The women stopped in their work and with upliftedpestles flashed quick and curious glances from the gloom under thehouse. 

"Is that the way?" asked Lingard with a nod towards the littlewicket-gate of Willems' enclosure. 

"If you seek death, that is surely the way, " answered Babalatchi in adispassionate voice, as if he had exhausted all the emotions. "He livesthere: he who destroyed your friends; who hastened Omar's death; whoplotted with Abdulla first against you, then against me. I have beenlike a child. O shame! . . . But go, Tuan. Go there. "

"I go where I like, " said Lingard, emphatically, "and you may go to thedevil; I do not want you any more. The islands of these seas shall sinkbefore I, Rajah Laut, serve the will of any of your people. Tau? But Itell you this: I do not care what you do with him after to-day. And Isay that because I am merciful. "

"Tida! I do nothing, " said Babalatchi, shaking his head with bitterapathy. "I am in Abdulla's hand and care not, even as you do. No! no!"he added, turning away, "I have learned much wisdom this morning. Thereare no men anywhere. You whites are cruel to your friends and mercifulto your enemies--which is the work of fools. "

He went away towards the riverside, and, without once looking back, disappeared in the low bank of mist that lay over the water and theshore. Lingard followed him with his eyes thoughtfully. After awhile heroused himself and called out to his boatmen--

"Hai--ya there! After you have eaten rice, wait for me with your paddlesin your hands. You hear?"

"Ada, Tuan!" answered Ali through the smoke of the morning fire that wasspreading itself, low and gentle, over the courtyard--"we hear!"

Lingard opened slowly the little wicket-gate, made a few steps intothe empty enclosure, and stopped. He had felt about his head the shortbreath of a puff of wind that passed him, made every leaf of the bigtree shiver--and died out in a hardly perceptible tremor of branches andtwigs. Instinctively he glanced upwards with a seaman's impulse. Abovehim, under the grey motionless waste of a stormy sky, drifted low blackvapours, in stretching bars, in shapeless patches, in sinuous wisps andtormented spirals. Over the courtyard and the house floated a round, sombre, and lingering cloud, dragging behind a tail of tangled and filmystreamers--like the dishevelled hair of a mourning woman. 

CHAPTER THREE

"Beware!"

The tremulous effort and the broken, inadequate tone of the faint cry, surprised Lingard more than the unexpected suddenness of the warningconveyed, he did not know by whom and to whom. Besides himself there wasno one in the courtyard as far as he could see. 

The cry was not renewed, and his watchful eyes, scanning warily themisty solitude of Willems' enclosure, were met everywhere only by thestolid impassiveness of inanimate things: the big sombre-looking tree, the shut-up, sightless house, the glistening bamboo fences, the damp anddrooping bushes further off--all these things, that condemned to lookfor ever at the incomprehensible afflictions or joys of mankind, assertin their aspect of cold unconcern the high dignity of lifeless matterthat surrounds, incurious and unmoved, the restless mysteries of theever-changing, of the never-ending life. 

Lingard, stepping aside, put the trunk of the tree between himselfand the house, then, moving cautiously round one of the projectingbuttresses, had to tread short in order to avoid scattering a small heapof black embers upon which he came unexpectedly on the other side. Athin, wizened, little old woman, who, standing behind the tree, had beenlooking at the house, turned towards him with a start, gazed with faded, expressionless eyes at the intruder, then made a limping attempt to getaway. She seemed, however, to realize directly the hopelessness or thedifficulty of the undertaking, stopped, hesitated, tottered back slowly;then, after blinking dully, fell suddenly on her knees amongst the whiteashes, and, bending over the heap of smouldering coals, distended hersunken cheeks in a steady effort to blow up the hidden sparks into auseful blaze. Lingard looked down on her, but she seemed to have madeup her mind that there was not enough life left in her lean body foranything else than the discharge of the simple domestic duty, and, apparently, she begrudged him the least moment of attention. 

After waiting for awhile, Lingard asked--

"Why did you call, O daughter?"

"I saw you enter, " she croaked feebly, still grovelling with herface near the ashes and without looking up, "and I called--the cry ofwarning. It was her order. Her order, " she repeated, with a moaningsigh. 

"And did she hear?" pursued Lingard, with gentle composure. 

Her projecting shoulder-blades moved uneasily under the thin stuff ofthe tight body jacket. She scrambled up with difficulty to her feet, and hobbled away, muttering peevishly to herself, towards a pile of drybrushwood heaped up against the fence. 

Lingard, looking idly after her, heard the rattle of loose planks thatled from the ground to the door of the house. He moved his head beyondthe shelter of the tree and saw Aissa coming down the inclined way intothe courtyard. After making a few hurried paces towards the tree, shestopped with one foot advanced in an appearance of sudden terror, andher eyes glanced wildly right and left. Her head was uncovered. A bluecloth wrapped her from her head to foot in close slanting folds, withone end thrown over her shoulder. A tress of her black hair strayedacross her bosom. Her bare arms pressed down close to her body, withhands open and outstretched fingers; her slightly elevated shoulders andthe backward inclination of her torso gave her the aspect of one defiantyet shrinking from a coming blow. She had closed the door of the housebehind her; and as she stood solitary in the unnatural and threateningtwilight of the murky day, with everything unchanged around her, sheappeared to Lingard as if she had been made there, on the spot, outof the black vapours of the sky and of the sinister gleams of feeblesunshine that struggled, through the thickening clouds, into thecolourless desolation of the world. 

After a short but attentive glance towards the shut-up house, Lingardstepped out from behind the tree and advanced slowly towards her. Thesudden fixity of her--till then--restless eyes and a slight twitch ofher hands were the only signs she gave at first of having seen him. She made a long stride forward, and putting herself right in his path, stretched her arms across; her black eyes opened wide, her lips partedas if in an uncertain attempt to speak--but no sound came out to breakthe significant silence of their meeting. Lingard stopped and looked ather with stern curiosity. After a while he said composedly--

"Let me pass. I came here to talk to a man. Does he hide? Has he sentyou?"

She made a step nearer, her arms fell by her side, then she put themstraight out nearly touching Lingard's breast. 

"He knows not fear, " she said, speaking low, with a forward throw ofher head, in a voice trembling but distinct. "It is my own fear that hassent me here. He sleeps. "

"He has slept long enough, " said Lingard, in measured tones. "I amcome--and now is the time of his waking. Go and tell him this--or elsemy own voice will call him up. A voice he knows well. "

He put her hands down firmly and again made as if to pass by her. 

"Do not!" she exclaimed, and fell at his feet as if she had been cutdown by a scythe. The unexpected suddenness of her movement startledLingard, who stepped back. 

"What's this?" he exclaimed in a wondering whisper--then added in a toneof sharp command: "Stand up!"

She rose at once and stood looking at him, timorous and fearless; yetwith a fire of recklessness burning in her eyes that made clear herresolve to pursue her purpose even to the death. Lingard went on in asevere voice--

"Go out of my path. You are Omar's daughter, and you ought to know thatwhen men meet in daylight women must be silent and abide their fate. "

"Women!" she retorted, with subdued vehemence. "Yes, I am a woman!Your eyes see that, O Rajah Laut, but can you see my life? I also haveheard--O man of many fights--I also have heard the voice of fire-arms;I also have felt the rain of young twigs and of leaves cut up by bulletsfall down about my head; I also know how to look in silence at angryfaces and at strong hands raised high grasping sharp steel. I also sawmen fall dead around me without a cry of fear and of mourning; and Ihave watched the sleep of weary fugitives, and looked at night shadowsfull of menace and death with eyes that knew nothing but watchfulness. And, " she went on, with a mournful drop in her voice, "I have faced theheartless sea, held on my lap the heads of those who died raving fromthirst, and from their cold hands took the paddle and worked so thatthose with me did not know that one man more was dead. I did all this. What more have you done? That was my life. What has been yours?"

The matter and the manner of her speech held Lingard motionless, attentive and approving against his will. She ceased speaking, and fromher staring black eyes with a narrow border of white above and below, adouble ray of her very soul streamed out in a fierce desire to lightup the most obscure designs of his heart. After a long silence, whichserved to emphasize the meaning of her words, she added in the whisperof bitter regret--

"And I have knelt at your feet! And I am afraid!"

"You, " said Lingard deliberately, and returning her look with aninterested gaze, "you are a woman whose heart, I believe, is greatenough to fill a man's breast: but still you are a woman, and to you, I, Rajah Laut, have nothing to say. "

She listened bending her head in a movement of forced attention; and hisvoice sounded to her unexpected, far off, with the distant and unearthlyring of voices that we hear in dreams, saying faintly things startling, cruel or absurd, to which there is no possible reply. To her he hadnothing to say! She wrung her hands, glanced over the courtyard withthat eager and distracted look that sees nothing, then looked up at thehopeless sky of livid grey and drifting black; at the unquiet mourningof the hot and brilliant heaven that had seen the beginning of her love, that had heard his entreaties and her answers, that had seen his desireand her fear; that had seen her joy, her surrender--and his defeat. Lingard moved a little, and this slight stir near her precipitated herdisordered and shapeless thoughts into hurried words. 

"Wait!" she exclaimed in a stifled voice, and went on disconnectedly andrapidly--"Stay. I have heard. Men often spoke by the fires . . . Men ofmy people. And they said of you--the first on the sea--they said that tomen's cries you were deaf in battle, but after . . . No! even while youfought, your ears were open to the voice of children and women. Theysaid . . . That. Now I, a woman, I . . . "

She broke off suddenly and stood before him with dropped eyelids andparted lips, so still now that she seemed to have been changed into abreathless, an unhearing, an unseeing figure, without knowledge of fearor hope, of anger or despair. In the astounding repose that came onher face, nothing moved but the delicate nostrils that expanded andcollapsed quickly, flutteringly, in interrupted beats, like the wings ofa snared bird. 

"I am white, " said Lingard, proudly, looking at her with a steady gazewhere simple curiosity was giving way to a pitying annoyance, "and menyou have heard, spoke only what is true over the evening fires. My earsare open to your prayer. But listen to me before you speak. For yourselfyou need not be afraid. You can come even now with me and you shall findrefuge in the household of Syed Abdulla--who is of your own faith. Andthis also you must know: nothing that you may say will change my purposetowards the man who is sleeping--or hiding--in that house. "

Again she gave him the look that was like a stab, not of anger but ofdesire; of the intense, over-powering desire to see in, to see through, to understand everything: every thought, emotion, purpose; everyimpulse, every hesitation inside that man; inside that white-cladforeign being who looked at her, who spoke to her, who breathedbefore her like any other man, but bigger, red-faced, white-haired andmysterious. It was the future clothed in flesh; the to-morrow; the dayafter; all the days, all the years of her life standing there before heralive and secret, with all their good or evil shut up within the breastof that man; of that man who could be persuaded, cajoled, entreated, perhaps touched, worried; frightened--who knows?--if only first he couldbe understood! She had seen a long time ago whither events were tending. She had noted the contemptuous yet menacing coldness of Abdulla; shehad heard--alarmed yet unbelieving--Babalatchi's gloomy hints, covertallusions and veiled suggestions to abandon the useless white man whosefate would be the price of the peace secured by the wise and good whohad no need of him any more. And he--himself! She clung to him. Therewas nobody else. Nothing else. She would try to cling to him always--allthe life! And yet he was far from her. Further every day. Every day heseemed more distant, and she followed him patiently, hopefully, blindly, but steadily, through all the devious wanderings of his mind. Shefollowed as well as she could. Yet at times--very often lately--she hadfelt lost like one strayed in the thickets of tangled undergrowth of agreat forest. To her the ex-clerk of old Hudig appeared as remote, asbrilliant, as terrible, as necessary, as the sun that gives life tothese lands: the sun of unclouded skies that dazzles and withers; thesun beneficent and wicked--the giver of light, perfume, and pestilence. She had watched him--watched him close; fascinated by love, fascinatedby danger. He was alone now--but for her; and she saw--she thought shesaw--that he was like a man afraid of something. Was it possible? Heafraid? Of what? Was it of that old white man who was coming--who hadcome? Possibly. She had heard of that man ever since she could remember. The bravest were afraid of him! And now what was in the mind of thisold, old man who looked so strong? What was he going to do with thelight of her life? Put it out? Take it away? Take it away for ever!--forever!--and leave her in darkness:--not in the stirring, whispering, expectant night in which the hushed world awaits the return of sunshine;but in the night without end, the night of the grave, where nothingbreathes, nothing moves, nothing thinks--the last darkness of cold andsilence without hope of another sunrise. 

She cried--"Your purpose! You know nothing. I must . . . "

He interrupted--unreasonably excited, as if she had, by her look, inoculated him with some of her own distress. 

"I know enough. "

She approached, and stood facing him at arm's length, with both herhands on his shoulders; and he, surprised by that audacity, closed andopened his eyes two or three times, aware of some emotion arisingwithin him, from her words, her tone, her contact; an emotion unknown, singular, penetrating and sad--at the close sight of that strangewoman, of that being savage and tender, strong and delicate, fearful andresolute, that had got entangled so fatally between their two lives--hisown and that other white man's, the abominable scoundrel. 

"How can you know?" she went on, in a persuasive tone that seemed toflow out of her very heart--"how can you know? I live with him allthe days. All the nights. I look at him; I see his every breath, everyglance of his eye, every movement of his lips. I see nothing else!What else is there? And even I do not understand. I do not understandhim!--Him!--My life! Him who to me is so great that his presence hidesthe earth and the water from my sight!"

Lingard stood straight, with his hands deep in the pockets of hisjacket. His eyes winked quickly, because she spoke very close to hisface. She disturbed him and he had a sense of the efforts he was makingto get hold of her meaning, while all the time he could not help tellinghimself that all this was of no use. 

She added after a pause--"There has been a time when I could understandhim. When I knew what was in his mind better than he knew it himself. When I felt him. When I held him. . . . And now he has escaped. "

"Escaped? What? Gone away!" shouted Lingard. 

"Escaped from me, " she said; "left me alone. Alone. And I am ever nearhim. Yet alone. "

Her hands slipped slowly off Lingard's shoulders and her arms fellby her side, listless, discouraged, as if to her--to her, the savage, violent, and ignorant creature--had been revealed clearly in that momentthe tremendous fact of our isolation, of the loneliness impenetrable andtransparent, elusive and everlasting; of the indestructible lonelinessthat surrounds, envelopes, clothes every human soul from the cradle tothe grave, and, perhaps, beyond. 

"Aye! Very well! I understand. His face is turned away from you, " saidLingard. "Now, what do you want?"

"I want . . . I have looked--for help . . . Everywhere . . . Againstmen. . . . All men . . . I do not know. First they came, the invisiblewhites, and dealt death from afar . . . Then he came. He came to me whowas alone and sad. He came; angry with his brothers; great amongst hisown people; angry with those I have not seen: with the people where menhave no mercy and women have no shame. He was of them, and great amongstthem. For he was great?"

Lingard shook his head slightly. She frowned at him, and went on indisordered haste--

"Listen. I saw him. I have lived by the side of brave men . . . Ofchiefs. When he came I was the daughter of a beggar--of a blind manwithout strength and hope. He spoke to me as if I had been brighter thanthe sunshine--more delightful than the cool water of the brook by whichwe met--more . . . " Her anxious eyes saw some shade of expression passon her listener's face that made her hold her breath for a second, andthen explode into pained fury so violent that it drove Lingard backa pace, like an unexpected blast of wind. He lifted both his hands, incongruously paternal in his venerable aspect, bewildered and soothing, while she stretched her neck forward and shouted at him. 

"I tell you I was all that to him. I know it! I saw it! . . . There aretimes when even you white men speak the truth. I saw his eyes. Ifelt his eyes, I tell you! I saw him tremble when I came near--when Ispoke--when I touched him. Look at me! You have been young. Look at me. Look, Rajah Laut!"

She stared at Lingard with provoking fixity, then, turning her headquickly, she sent over her shoulder a glance, full of humble fear, atthe house that stood high behind her back--dark, closed, rickety andsilent on its crooked posts. 

Lingard's eyes followed her look, and remained gazing expectantly at thehouse. After a minute or so he muttered, glancing at her suspiciously--

"If he has not heard your voice now, then he must be far away--or dead. "

"He is there, " she whispered, a little calmed but still anxious--"heis there. For three days he waited. Waited for you night and day. AndI waited with him. I waited, watching his face, his eyes, his lips;listening to his words. --To the words I could not understand. --To thewords he spoke in daylight; to the words he spoke at night in his shortsleep. I listened. He spoke to himself walking up and down here--by theriver; by the bushes. And I followed. I wanted to know--and I could not!He was tormented by things that made him speak in the words of his ownpeople. Speak to himself--not to me. Not to me! What was he saying? Whatwas he going to do? Was he afraid of you?--Of death? What was inhis heart? . . . Fear? . . . Or anger? . . . What desire? . . . Whatsadness? He spoke; spoke; many words. All the time! And I could notknow! I wanted to speak to him. He was deaf to me. I followed himeverywhere, watching for some word I could understand; but his mindwas in the land of his people--away from me. When I touched him he wasangry--so!"

She imitated the movement of some one shaking off roughly an importunatehand, and looked at Lingard with tearful and unsteady eyes. 

After a short interval of laboured panting, as if she had been out ofbreath with running or fighting, she looked down and went on--

"Day after day, night after night, I lived watching him--seeing nothing. And my heart was heavy--heavy with the presence of death that dweltamongst us. I could not believe. I thought he was afraid. Afraid of you!Then I, myself, knew fear. . . . Tell me, Rajah Laut, do you know thefear without voice--the fear of silence--the fear that comes when thereis no one near--when there is no battle, no cries, no angry faces orarmed hands anywhere? . . . The fear from which there is no escape!"

She paused, fastened her eyes again on the puzzled Lingard, and hurriedon in a tone of despair--

"And I knew then he would not fight you! Before--many days ago--I wentaway twice to make him obey my desire; to make him strike at his ownpeople so that he could be mine--mine! O calamity! His hand was false asyour white hearts. It struck forward, pushed by my desire--by hisdesire of me. . . . It struck that strong hand, and--O shame!--it killednobody! Its fierce and lying blow woke up hate without any fear. Roundme all was lies. His strength was a lie. My own people lied to me and tohim. And to meet you--you, the great!--he had no one but me? But mewith my rage, my pain, my weakness. Only me! And to me he would not evenspeak. The fool!"

She came up close to Lingard, with the wild and stealthy aspect of alunatic longing to whisper out an insane secret--one of those misshapen, heart-rending, and ludicrous secrets; one of those thoughts that, likemonsters--cruel, fantastic, and mournful, wander about terrible andunceasing in the night of madness. Lingard looked at her, astounded butunflinching. She spoke in his face, very low. 

"He is all! Everything. He is my breath, my light, my heart. . . . Goaway. . . . Forget him. . . . He has no courage and no wisdom any more. . . And I have lost my power. . . . Go away and forget. There are otherenemies. . . . Leave him to me. He had been a man once. . . . You aretoo great. Nobody can withstand you. . . . I tried. . . . I know now. . . . I cry for mercy. Leave him to me and go away. "

The fragments of her supplicating sentences were as if tossed on thecrest of her sobs. Lingard, outwardly impassive, with his eyes fixedon the house, experienced that feeling of condemnation, deep-seated, persuasive, and masterful; that illogical impulse of disapproval whichis half disgust, half vague fear, and that wakes up in our hearts in thepresence of anything new or unusual, of anything that is not runinto the mould of our own conscience; the accursed feeling made up ofdisdain, of anger, and of the sense of superior virtue that leaves usdeaf, blind, contemptuous and stupid before anything which is not likeourselves. 

He answered, not looking at her at first, but speaking towards the housethat fascinated him--

"_I_ go away! He wanted me to come--he himself did! . . . _You_ must goaway. You do not know what you are asking for. Listen. Go to your ownpeople. Leave him. He is . . . "

He paused, looked down at her with his steady eyes; hesitated, as ifseeking an adequate expression; then snapped his fingers, and said--

"Finish. "

She stepped back, her eyes on the ground, and pressed her templeswith both her hands, which she raised to her head in a slow and amplemovement full of unconscious tragedy. The tone of her words was gentleand vibrating, like a loud meditation. She said--

"Tell the brook not to run to the river; tell the river not to run tothe sea. Speak loud. Speak angrily. Maybe they will obey you. But it isin my mind that the brook will not care. The brook that springs out ofthe hillside and runs to the great river. He would not care for yourwords: he that cares not for the very mountain that gave him life; hethat tears the earth from which he springs. Tears it, eats it, destroysit--to hurry faster to the river--to the river in which he is lost forever. . . . O Rajah Laut! I do not care. "

She drew close again to Lingard, approaching slowly, reluctantly, as ifpushed by an invisible hand, and added in words that seemed to be tornout of her--

"I cared not for my own father. For him that died. I would have rather. . . You do not know what I have done . . . I . . . "

"You shall have his life, " said Lingard, hastily. 

They stood together, crossing their glances; she suddenly appeased, andLingard thoughtful and uneasy under a vague sense of defeat. And yetthere was no defeat. He never intended to kill the fellow--not after thefirst moment of anger, a long time ago. The days of bitter wonder hadkilled anger; had left only a bitter indignation and a bitter wish forcomplete justice. He felt discontented and surprised. Unexpectedly hehad come upon a human being--a woman at that--who had made him disclosehis will before its time. She should have his life. But she must betold, she must know, that for such men as Willems there was no favourand no grace. 

"Understand, " he said slowly, "that I leave him his life not in mercybut in punishment. "

She started, watched every word on his lips, and after he finishedspeaking she remained still and mute in astonished immobility. Asingle big drop of rain, a drop enormous, pellucid and heavy--like asuper-human tear coming straight and rapid from above, tearing its waythrough the sombre sky--struck loudly the dry ground between them in astarred splash. She wrung her hands in the bewilderment of the new andincomprehensible fear. The anguish of her whisper was more piercing thanthe shrillest cry. 

"What punishment! Will you take him away then? Away from me? Listen towhat I have done. . . . It is I who . . . "

"Ah!" exclaimed Lingard, who had been looking at the house. 

"Don't you believe her, Captain Lingard, " shouted Willems from thedoorway, where he appeared with swollen eyelids and bared breast. Hestood for a while, his hands grasping the lintels on each side of thedoor, and writhed about, glaring wildly, as if he had been crucifiedthere. Then he made a sudden rush head foremost down the plankway thatresponded with hollow, short noises to every footstep. 

She heard him. A slight thrill passed on her face and the words thatwere on her lips fell back unspoken into her benighted heart; fell backamongst the mud, the stones--and the flowers, that are at the bottom ofevery heart. 

CHAPTER FOUR

When he felt the solid ground of the courtyard under his feet, Willemspulled himself up in his headlong rush and moved forward with a moderategait. He paced stiffly, looking with extreme exactitude at Lingard'sface; looking neither to the right nor to the left but at the face only, as if there was nothing in the world but those features familiar anddreaded; that white-haired, rough and severe head upon which he gazed ina fixed effort of his eyes, like a man trying to read small print atthe full range of human vision. As soon as Willems' feet had left theplanks, the silence which had been lifted up by the jerky rattle of hisfootsteps fell down again upon the courtyard; the silence of the cloudysky and of the windless air, the sullen silence of the earth oppressedby the aspect of coming turmoil, the silence of the world collecting itsfaculties to withstand the storm. Through this silence Willems pushedhis way, and stopped about six feet from Lingard. He stopped simplybecause he could go no further. He had started from the door with thereckless purpose of clapping the old fellow on the shoulder. He hadno idea that the man would turn out to be so tall, so big and sounapproachable. It seemed to him that he had never, never in his life, seen Lingard. 

He tried to say--

"Do not believe . . . "

A fit of coughing checked his sentence in a faint splutter. Directlyafterwards he swallowed--as it were--a couple of pebbles, throwing hischin up in the act; and Lingard, who looked at him narrowly, saw a bone, sharp and triangular like the head of a snake, dart up and down twiceunder the skin of his throat. Then that, too, did not move. Nothingmoved. 

"Well, " said Lingard, and with that word he came unexpectedly to the endof his speech. His hand in his pocket closed firmly round the butt ofhis revolver bulging his jacket on the hip, and he thought how soon andhow quickly he could terminate his quarrel with that man who had been soanxious to deliver himself into his hands--and how inadequate would bethat ending! He could not bear the idea of that man escaping from him bygoing out of life; escaping from fear, from doubt, from remorse into thepeaceful certitude of death. He held him now. And he was not going tolet him go--to let him disappear for ever in the faint blue smoke of apistol shot. His anger grew within him. He felt a touch as of a burninghand on his heart. Not on the flesh of his breast, but a touch on hisheart itself, on the palpitating and untiring particle of matter thatresponds to every emotion of the soul; that leaps with joy, with terror, or with anger. 

He drew a long breath. He could see before him the bare chest of the manexpanding and collapsing under the wide-open jacket. He glancedaside, and saw the bosom of the woman near him rise and fall in quickrespirations that moved slightly up and down her hand, which was pressedto her breast with all the fingers spread out and a little curved, as ifgrasping something too big for its span. And nearly a minute passed. Oneof those minutes when the voice is silenced, while the thoughts flutterin the head, like captive birds inside a cage, in rushes desperate, exhausting and vain. 

During that minute of silence Lingard's anger kept rising, immense andtowering, such as a crested wave running over the troubled shallows ofthe sands. Its roar filled his cars; a roar so powerful and distractingthat, it seemed to him, his head must burst directly with the expandingvolume of that sound. He looked at that man. That infamous figureupright on its feet, still, rigid, with stony eyes, as if its rottensoul had departed that moment and the carcass hadn't had the time yetto topple over. For the fraction of a second he had the illusion and thefear of the scoundrel having died there before the enraged glance of hiseyes. Willems' eyelids fluttered, and the unconscious and passing tremorin that stiffly erect body exasperated Lingard like a fresh outrage. Thefellow dared to stir! Dared to wink, to breathe, to exist; here, rightbefore his eyes! His grip on the revolver relaxed gradually. Asthe transport of his rage increased, so also his contempt for theinstruments that pierce or stab, that interpose themselves between thehand and the object of hate. He wanted another kind of satisfaction. Naked hands, by heaven! No firearms. Hands that could take him by thethroat, beat down his defence, batter his face into shapeless flesh;hands that could feel all the desperation of his resistance andoverpower it in the violent delight of a contact lingering and furious, intimate and brutal. 

He let go the revolver altogether, stood hesitating, then throwing hishands out, strode forward--and everything passed from his sight. Hecould not see the man, the woman, the earth, the sky--saw nothing, as ifin that one stride he had left the visible world behind to step into ablack and deserted space. He heard screams round him in that obscurity, screams like the melancholy and pitiful cries of sea-birds that dwell onthe lonely reefs of great oceans. Then suddenly a face appeared within afew inches of his own. His face. He felt something in his left hand. Histhroat . . . Ah! the thing like a snake's head that darts up and down. . . He squeezed hard. He was back in the world. He could see the quickbeating of eyelids over a pair of eyes that were all whites, the grin ofa drawn-up lip, a row of teeth gleaming through the drooping hair of amoustache . . . Strong white teeth. Knock them down his lying throat. . . He drew back his right hand, the fist up to the shoulder, knucklesout. From under his feet rose the screams of sea-birds. Thousands ofthem. Something held his legs . . . What the devil . . . He deliveredhis blow straight from the shoulder, felt the jar right up his arm, and realized suddenly that he was striking something passive andunresisting. His heart sank within him with disappointment, with rage, with mortification. He pushed with his left arm, opening the hand withhaste, as if he had just perceived that he got hold by accidentof something repulsive--and he watched with stupefied eyes Willemstottering backwards in groping strides, the white sleeve of his jacketacross his face. He watched his distance from that man increase, whilehe remained motionless, without being able to account to himself for thefact that so much empty space had come in between them. It should havebeen the other way. They ought to have been very close, and . . . Ah! Hewouldn't fight, he wouldn't resist, he wouldn't defend himself! Acur! Evidently a cur! . . . He was amazed and aggrieved--profoundly, bitterly--with the immense and blank desolation of a small child robbedof a toy. He shouted--unbelieving:

"Will you be a cheat to the end?"

He waited for some answer. He waited anxiously with an impatience thatseemed to lift him off his feet. He waited for some word, some sign;for some threatening stir. Nothing! Only two unwinking eyes glitteredintently at him above the white sleeve. He saw the raised arm detachitself from the face and sink along the body. A white clad arm, witha big stain on the white sleeve. A red stain. There was a cut onthe cheek. It bled. The nose bled too. The blood ran down, made onemoustache look like a dark rag stuck over the lip, and went on in a wetstreak down the clipped beard on one side of the chin. A drop of bloodhung on the end of some hairs that were glued together; it hung for awhile and took a leap down on the ground. Many more followed, leapingone after another in close file. One alighted on the breast and glideddown instantly with devious vivacity, like a small insect running away;it left a narrow dark track on the white skin. He looked at it, lookedat the tiny and active drops, looked at what he had done, with obscuresatisfaction, with anger, with regret. This wasn't much like an act ofjustice. He had a desire to go up nearer to the man, to hear him speak, to hear him say something atrocious and wicked that would justify theviolence of the blow. He made an attempt to move, and became aware of aclose embrace round both his legs, just above the ankles. Instinctively, he kicked out with his foot, broke through the close bond and felt atonce the clasp transferred to his other leg; the clasp warm, desperateand soft, of human arms. He looked down bewildered. He saw the body ofthe woman stretched at length, flattened on the ground like a dark bluerag. She trailed face downwards, clinging to his leg with both arms in atenacious hug. He saw the top of her head, the long black hair streamingover his foot, all over the beaten earth, around his boot. He couldn'tsee his foot for it. He heard the short and repeated moaning of herbreath. He imagined the invisible face close to his heel. With one kickinto that face he could free himself. He dared not stir, and shouteddown--

"Let go! Let go! Let go!"

The only result of his shouting was a tightening of the pressure of herarms. With a tremendous effort he tried to bring his right foot up tohis left, and succeeded partly. He heard distinctly the rub of her bodyon the ground as he jerked her along. He tried to disengage himself bydrawing up his foot. He stamped. He heard a voice saying sharply--

"Steady, Captain Lingard, steady!"

His eyes flew back to Willems at the sound of that voice, and, in thequick awakening of sleeping memories, Lingard stood suddenly still, appeased by the clear ring of familiar words. Appeased as in days ofold, when they were trading together, when Willems was his trusted andhelpful companion in out-of-the-way and dangerous places; when thatfellow, who could keep his temper so much better than he could himself, had spared him many a difficulty, had saved him from many an act ofhasty violence by the timely and good-humoured warning, whispered orshouted, "Steady, Captain Lingard, steady. " A smart fellow. He hadbrought him up. The smartest fellow in the islands. If he had onlystayed with him, then all this . . . He called out to Willems--

"Tell her to let me go or . . . "

He heard Willems shouting something, waited for awhile, then glancedvaguely down and saw the woman still stretched out perfectly mute andunstirring, with her head at his feet. He felt a nervous impatiencethat, somehow, resembled fear. 

"Tell her to let go, to go away, Willems, I tell you. I've had enough ofthis, " he cried. 

"All right, Captain Lingard, " answered the calm voice of Willems, "shehas let go. Take your foot off her hair; she can't get up. "

Lingard leaped aside, clean away, and spun round quickly. He saw her situp and cover her face with both hands, then he turned slowly on hisheel and looked at the man. Willems held himself very straight, but wasunsteady on his feet, and moved about nearly on the same spot, like atipsy man attempting to preserve his balance. After gazing at him for awhile, Lingard called, rancorous and irritable--

"What have you got to say for yourself?"

Willems began to walk towards him. He walked slowly, reeling a littlebefore he took each step, and Lingard saw him put his hand to his face, then look at it holding it up to his eyes, as if he had there, concealedin the hollow of the palm, some small object which he wanted to examinesecretly. Suddenly he drew it, with a brusque movement, down the frontof his jacket and left a long smudge. 

"That's a fine thing to do, " said Willems. 

He stood in front of Lingard, one of his eyes sunk deep in theincreasing swelling of his cheek, still repeating mechanically themovement of feeling his damaged face; and every time he did this hepressed the palm to some clean spot on his jacket, covering the whitecotton with bloody imprints as of some deformed and monstrous hand. Lingard said nothing, looking on. At last Willems left off staunchingthe blood and stood, his arms hanging by his side, with his face stiffand distorted under the patches of coagulated blood; and he seemedas though he had been set up there for a warning: an incomprehensiblefigure marked all over with some awful and symbolic signs of deadlyimport. Speaking with difficulty, he repeated in a reproachful tone--

"That was a fine thing to do. "

"After all, " answered Lingard, bitterly, "I had too good an opinion ofyou. "

"And I of you. Don't you see that I could have had that fool over therekilled and the whole thing burnt to the ground, swept off the face ofthe earth. You wouldn't have found as much as a heap of ashes had Iliked. I could have done all that. And I wouldn't. "

"You--could--not. You dared not. You scoundrel!" cried Lingard. 

"What's the use of calling me names?"

"True, " retorted Lingard--"there's no name bad enough for you. "

There was a short interval of silence. At the sound of their rapidlyexchanged words, Aissa had got up from the ground where she had beensitting, in a sorrowful and dejected pose, and approached the two men. She stood on one side and looked on eagerly, in a desperate effort ofher brain, with the quick and distracted eyes of a person trying for herlife to penetrate the meaning of sentences uttered in a foreigntongue: the meaning portentous and fateful that lurks in the sounds ofmysterious words; in the sounds surprising, unknown and strange. 

Willems let the last speech of Lingard pass by; seemed by a slightmovement of his hand to help it on its way to join the other shadows ofthe past. Then he said--

"You have struck me; you have insulted me . . . "

"Insulted you!" interrupted Lingard, passionately. "Who--what can insultyou . . . You . . . "

He choked, advanced a step. 

"Steady! steady!" said Willems calmly. "I tell you I sha'n't fight. Isit clear enough to you that I sha'n't? I--shall--not--lift--a--finger. "

As he spoke, slowly punctuating each word with a slight jerk of hishead, he stared at Lingard, his right eye open and big, the left smalland nearly closed by the swelling of one half of his face, that appearedall drawn out on one side like faces seen in a concave glass. And theystood exactly opposite each other: one tall, slight and disfigured; theother tall, heavy and severe. 

Willems went on--

"If I had wanted to hurt you--if I had wanted to destroy you, it waseasy. I stood in the doorway long enough to pull a trigger--and you knowI shoot straight. "

"You would have missed, " said Lingard, with assurance. "There is, underheaven, such a thing as justice. "

The sound of that word on his own lips made him pause, confused, like anunexpected and unanswerable rebuke. The anger of his outraged pride, the anger of his outraged heart, had gone out in the blow; and thereremained nothing but the sense of some immense infamy--of somethingvague, disgusting and terrible, which seemed to surround him on allsides, hover about him with shadowy and stealthy movements, like a bandof assassins in the darkness of vast and unsafe places. Was there, underheaven, such a thing as justice? He looked at the man before him withsuch an intensity of prolonged glance that he seemed to see rightthrough him, that at last he saw but a floating and unsteady mist inhuman shape. Would it blow away before the first breath of the breezeand leave nothing behind?

The sound of Willems' voice made him start violently. Willems wassaying--

"I have always led a virtuous life; you know I have. You always praisedme for my steadiness; you know you have. You know also I never stole--ifthat's what you're thinking of. I borrowed. You know how much I repaid. It was an error of judgment. But then consider my position there. I hadbeen a little unlucky in my private affairs, and had debts. Could Ilet myself go under before the eyes of all those men who envied me? Butthat's all over. It was an error of judgment. I've paid for it. An errorof judgment. "

Lingard, astounded into perfect stillness, looked down. He looked downat Willems' bare feet. Then, as the other had paused, he repeated in ablank tone--

"An error of judgment . . . "

"Yes, " drawled out Willems, thoughtfully, and went on with increasinganimation: "As I said, I have always led a virtuous life. More so thanHudig--than you. Yes, than you. I drank a little, I played cards alittle. Who doesn't? But I had principles from a boy. Yes, principles. Business is business, and I never was an ass. I never respected fools. They had to suffer for their folly when they dealt with me. The evil wasin them, not in me. But as to principles, it's another matter. I keptclear of women. It's forbidden--I had no time--and I despised them. NowI hate them!"

He put his tongue out a little; a tongue whose pink and moist end ranhere and there, like something independently alive, under his swollenand blackened lip; he touched with the tips of his fingers the cut onhis cheek, felt all round it with precaution: and the unharmed side ofhis face appeared for a moment to be preoccupied and uneasy about thestate of that other side which was so very sore and stiff. 

He recommenced speaking, and his voice vibrated as though with repressedemotion of some kind. 

"You ask my wife, when you see her in Macassar, whether I have no reasonto hate her. She was nobody, and I made her Mrs. Willems. A half-castegirl! You ask her how she showed her gratitude to me. You ask . . . Never mind that. Well, you came and dumped me here like a load ofrubbish; dumped me here and left me with nothing to do--nothing good toremember--and damn little to hope for. You left me here at the mercy ofthat fool, Almayer, who suspected me of something. Of what? Devil onlyknows. But he suspected and hated me from the first; I suppose becauseyou befriended me. Oh! I could read him like a book. He isn't verydeep, your Sambir partner, Captain Lingard, but he knows how to bedisagreeable. Months passed. I thought I would die of sheer weariness, of my thoughts, of my regrets And then . . . "

He made a quick step nearer to Lingard, and as if moved by the samethought, by the same instinct, by the impulse of his will, Aissa alsostepped nearer to them. They stood in a close group, and the two mencould feel the calm air between their faces stirred by the light breathof the anxious woman who enveloped them both in the uncomprehending, inthe despairing and wondering glances of her wild and mournful eyes. 

CHAPTER FIVE

Willems turned a little from her and spoke lower. 

"Look at that, " he said, with an almost imperceptible movement of hishead towards the woman to whom he was presenting his shoulder. "Look atthat! Don't believe her! What has she been saying to you? What? I havebeen asleep. Had to sleep at last. I've been waiting for you three daysand nights. I had to sleep some time. Hadn't I? I told her to remainawake and watch for you, and call me at once. She did watch. You can'tbelieve her. You can't believe any woman. Who can tell what's insidetheir heads? No one. You can know nothing. The only thing you can knowis that it isn't anything like what comes through their lips. They liveby the side of you. They seem to hate you, or they seem to love you;they caress or torment you; they throw you over or stick to you closerthan your skin for some inscrutable and awful reason of their own--whichyou can never know! Look at her--and look at me. At me!--her infernalwork. What has she been saying?"

His voice had sunk to a whisper. Lingard listened with great attention, holding his chin in his hand, which grasped a great handful of his whitebeard. His elbow was in the palm of his other hand, and his eyes werestill fixed on the ground. He murmured, without looking up--

"She begged me for your life--if you want to know--as if the thing wereworth giving or taking!"

"And for three days she begged me to take yours, " said Willems quickly. "For three days she wouldn't give me any peace. She was never still. Sheplanned ambushes. She has been looking for places all over here where Icould hide and drop you with a safe shot as you walked up. It's true. Igive you my word. "

"Your word, " muttered Lingard, contemptuously. 

Willems took no notice. 

"Ah! She is a ferocious creature, " he went on. "You don't know . . . I wanted to pass the time--to do something--to have something to thinkabout--to forget my troubles till you came back. And . . . Look at her. . . She took me as if I did not belong to myself. She did. I did notknow there was something in me she could get hold of. She, a savage. I, a civilized European, and clever! She that knew no more than a wildanimal! Well, she found out something in me. She found it out, and Iwas lost. I knew it. She tormented me. I was ready to do anything. Iresisted--but I was ready. I knew that too. That frightened me more thananything; more than my own sufferings; and that was frightful enough, Iassure you. "

Lingard listened, fascinated and amazed like a child listening to afairy tale, and, when Willems stopped for breath, he shuffled his feet alittle. 

"What does he say?" cried out Aissa, suddenly. 

The two men looked at her quickly, and then looked at one another. 

Willems began again, speaking hurriedly--

"I tried to do something. Take her away from those people. I wentto Almayer; the biggest blind fool that you ever . . . Then Abdullacame--and she went away. She took away with her something of me which Ihad to get back. I had to do it. As far as you are concerned, the changehere had to happen sooner or later; you couldn't be master here forever. It isn't what I have done that torments me. It is the why. It'sthe madness that drove me to it. It's that thing that came over me. Thatmay come again, some day. "

"It will do no harm to anybody then, I promise you, " said Lingard, significantly. 

Willems looked at him for a second with a blank stare, then went on--

"I fought against her. She goaded me to violence and to murder. Nobodyknows why. She pushed me to it persistently, desperately, all the time. Fortunately Abdulla had sense. I don't know what I wouldn't have done. She held me then. Held me like a nightmare that is terrible and sweet. By and by it was another life. I woke up. I found myself beside ananimal as full of harm as a wild cat. You don't know through what I havepassed. Her father tried to kill me--and she very nearly killed him. I believe she would have stuck at nothing. I don't know which was moreterrible! She would have stuck at nothing to defend her own. And whenI think that it was me--me--Willems . . . I hate her. To-morrow shemay want my life. How can I know what's in her? She may want to kill menext!"

He paused in great trepidation, then added in a scared tone--

"I don't want to die here. "

"Don't you?" said Lingard, thoughtfully. 

Willems turned towards Aissa and pointed at her with a bony forefinger. 

"Look at her! Always there. Always near. Always watching, watching . . . For something. Look at her eyes. Ain't they big? Don't they stare? Youwouldn't think she can shut them like human beings do. I don't believeshe ever does. I go to sleep, if I can, under their stare, and when Iwake up I see them fixed on me and moving no more than the eyes of acorpse. While I am still they are still. By God--she can't move themtill I stir, and then they follow me like a pair of jailers. They watchme; when I stop they seem to wait patient and glistening till I am offmy guard--for to do something. To do something horrible. Look at them!You can see nothing in them. They are big, menacing--and empty. The eyesof a savage; of a damned mongrel, half-Arab, half-Malay. They hurt me!I am white! I swear to you I can't stand this! Take me away. I am white!All white!"

He shouted towards the sombre heaven, proclaiming desperately under thefrown of thickening clouds the fact of his pure and superior descent. He shouted, his head thrown up, his arms swinging about wildly; lean, ragged, disfigured; a tall madman making a great disturbance aboutsomething invisible; a being absurd, repulsive, pathetic, and droll. Lingard, who was looking down as if absorbed in deep thought, gave him aquick glance from under his eyebrows: Aissa stood with clasped hands. Atthe other end of the courtyard the old woman, like a vague and decrepitapparition, rose noiselessly to look, then sank down again with astealthy movement and crouched low over the small glow of the fire. Willems' voice filled the enclosure, rising louder with every word, andthen, suddenly, at its very loudest, stopped short--like water stopsrunning from an over-turned vessel. As soon as it had ceased the thunderseemed to take up the burden in a low growl coming from the inlandhills. The noise approached in confused mutterings which kept onincreasing, swelling into a roar that came nearer, rushed down theriver, passed close in a tearing crash--and instantly sounded faint, dying away in monotonous and dull repetitions amongst the endlesssinuosities of the lower reaches. Over the great forests, over all theinnumerable people of unstirring trees--over all that living peopleimmense, motionless, and mute--the silence, that had rushed in on thetrack of the passing tumult, remained suspended as deep and complete asif it had never been disturbed from the beginning of remote ages. Then, through it, after a time, came to Lingard's ears the voice of therunning river: a voice low, discreet, and sad, like the persistent andgentle voices that speak of the past in the silence of dreams. 

He felt a great emptiness in his heart. It seemed to him that there waswithin his breast a great space without any light, where his thoughtswandered forlornly, unable to escape, unable to rest, unable to die, to vanish--and to relieve him from the fearful oppression of theirexistence. Speech, action, anger, forgiveness, all appeared to him alikeuseless and vain, appeared to him unsatisfactory, not worth the effortof hand or brain that was needed to give them effect. He could not seewhy he should not remain standing there, without ever doing anything, tothe end of time. He felt something, something like a heavy chain, thatheld him there. This wouldn't do. He backed away a little from Willemsand Aissa, leaving them close together, then stopped and looked at both. The man and the woman appeared to him much further than they reallywere. He had made only about three steps backward, but he believed fora moment that another step would take him out of earshot for ever. Theyappeared to him slightly under life size, and with a great cleanness ofoutlines, like figures carved with great precision of detail and highlyfinished by a skilful hand. He pulled himself together. The strongconsciousness of his own personality came back to him. He had a notionof surveying them from a great and inaccessible height. 

He said slowly: "You have been possessed of a devil. "

"Yes, " answered Willems gloomily, and looking at Aissa. "Isn't itpretty?"

"I've heard this kind of talk before, " said Lingard, in a scornful tone;then paused, and went on steadily after a while: "I regret nothing. Ipicked you up by the waterside, like a starving cat--by God. I regretnothing; nothing that I have done. Abdulla--twenty others--no doubtHudig himself, were after me. That's business--for them. But that youshould . . . Money belongs to him who picks it up and is strong enoughto keep it--but this thing was different. It was part of my life. . . . I am an old fool. "

He was. The breath of his words, of the very words he spoke, fannedthe spark of divine folly in his breast, the spark that made him--thehard-headed, heavy-handed adventurer--stand out from the crowd, from thesordid, from the joyous, unscrupulous, and noisy crowd of men that wereso much like himself. 

Willems said hurriedly: "It wasn't me. The evil was not in me, CaptainLingard. "

"And where else confound you! Where else?" interrupted Lingard, raisinghis voice. "Did you ever see me cheat and lie and steal? Tell me that. Did you? Hey? I wonder where in perdition you came from when I found youunder my feet. . . . No matter. You will do no more harm. "

Willems moved nearer, gazing upon him anxiously. Lingard went on withdistinct deliberation--

"What did you expect when you asked me to see you? What? You know me. Iam Lingard. You lived with me. You've heard men speak. You knew what youhad done. Well! What did you expect?"

"How can I know?" groaned Willems, wringing his hands; "I was alone inthat infernal savage crowd. I was delivered into their hands. After thething was done, I felt so lost and weak that I would have called thedevil himself to my aid if it had been any good--if he hadn't put inall his work already. In the whole world there was only one man that hadever cared for me. Only one white man. You! Hate is better than beingalone! Death is better! I expected . . . Anything. Something to expect. Something to take me out of this. Out of her sight!"

He laughed. His laugh seemed to be torn out from him against his will, seemed to be brought violently on the surface from under his bitterness, his self-contempt, from under his despairing wonder at his own nature. 

"When I think that when I first knew her it seemed to me that my wholelife wouldn't be enough to . . . And now when I look at her! She didit all. I must have been mad. I was mad. Every time I look at her Iremember my madness. It frightens me. . . . And when I think that ofall my life, of all my past, of all my future, of my intelligence, of mywork, there is nothing left but she, the cause of my ruin, and you whomI have mortally offended . . . "

He hid his face for a moment in his hands, and when he took them awayhe had lost the appearance of comparative calm and gave way to a wilddistress. 

"Captain Lingard . . . Anything . . . A deserted island . . . Anywhere. . . I promise . . . "

"Shut up!" shouted Lingard, roughly. 

He became dumb, suddenly, completely. 

The wan light of the clouded morning retired slowly from the courtyard, from the clearings, from the river, as if it had gone unwillingly tohide in the enigmatical solitudes of the gloomy and silent forests. Theclouds over their heads thickened into a low vault of uniform blackness. The air was still and inexpressibly oppressive. Lingard unbuttoned hisjacket, flung it wide open and, inclining his body sideways a little, wiped his forehead with his hand, which he jerked sharply afterwards. Then he looked at Willems and said--

"No promise of yours is any good to me. I am going to take your conductinto my own hands. Pay attention to what I am going to say. You are myprisoner. "

Willems' head moved imperceptibly; then he became rigid and still. Heseemed not to breathe. 

"You shall stay here, " continued Lingard, with sombre deliberation. "Youare not fit to go amongst people. Who could suspect, who could guess, who could imagine what's in you? I couldn't! You are my mistake. I shallhide you here. If I let you out you would go amongst unsuspecting men, and lie, and steal, and cheat for a little money or for some woman. Idon't care about shooting you. It would be the safest way though. ButI won't. Do not expect me to forgive you. To forgive one must have beenangry and become contemptuous, and there is nothing in me now--no anger, no contempt, no disappointment. To me you are not Willems, the man Ibefriended and helped through thick and thin, and thought much of . . . You are not a human being that may be destroyed or forgiven. You are abitter thought, a something without a body and that must be hidden . . . You are my shame. "

He ceased and looked slowly round. How dark it was! It seemed to himthat the light was dying prematurely out of the world and that the airwas already dead. 

"Of course, " he went on, "I shall see to it that you don't starve. "

"You don't mean to say that I must live here, Captain Lingard?" saidWillems, in a kind of mechanical voice without any inflections. 

"Did you ever hear me say something I did not mean?" asked Lingard. "Yousaid you didn't want to die here--well, you must live . . . Unless youchange your mind, " he added, as if in involuntary afterthought. 

He looked at Willems narrowly, then shook his head. 

"You are alone, " he went on. "Nothing can help you. Nobody will. You areneither white nor brown. You have no colour as you have no heart. Youraccomplices have abandoned you to me because I am still somebody to bereckoned with. You are alone but for that woman there. You say you didthis for her. Well, you have her. "

Willems mumbled something, and then suddenly caught his hair with bothhis hands and remained standing so. Aissa, who had been looking at him, turned to Lingard. 

"What did you say, Rajah Laut?" she cried. 

There was a slight stir amongst the filmy threads of her disorderedhair, the bushes by the river sides trembled, the big tree noddedprecipitately over them with an abrupt rustle, as if waking with astart from a troubled sleep--and the breath of hot breeze passed, light, rapid, and scorching, under the clouds that whirled round, unbroken butundulating, like a restless phantom of a sombre sea. 

Lingard looked at her pityingly before he said--

"I have told him that he must live here all his life . . . And withyou. "

The sun seemed to have gone out at last like a flickering light away upbeyond the clouds, and in the stifling gloom of the courtyard the threefigures stood colourless and shadowy, as if surrounded by a black andsuperheated mist. Aissa looked at Willems, who remained still, as thoughhe had been changed into stone in the very act of tearing his hair. Thenshe turned her head towards Lingard and shouted--

"You lie! You lie! . . . White man. Like you all do. You . . . WhomAbdulla made small. You lie!"

Her words rang out shrill and venomous with her secret scorn, with heroverpowering desire to wound regardless of consequences; in her woman'sreckless desire to cause suffering at any cost, to cause it by the soundof her own voice--by her own voice, that would carry the poison of herthought into the hated heart. 

Willems let his hands fall, and began to mumble again. Lingard turnedhis ear towards him instinctively, caught something that sounded like"Very well"--then some more mumbling--then a sigh. 

"As far as the rest of the world is concerned, " said Lingard, afterwaiting for awhile in an attentive attitude, "your life is finished. Nobody will be able to throw any of your villainies in my teeth;nobody will be able to point at you and say, 'Here goes a scoundrel ofLingard's up-bringing. ' You are buried here. "

"And you think that I will stay . . . That I will submit?" exclaimedWillems, as if he had suddenly recovered the power of speech. 

"You needn't stay here--on this spot, " said Lingard, drily. "There arethe forests--and here is the river. You may swim. Fifteen miles up, orforty down. At one end you will meet Almayer, at the other the sea. Takeyour choice. "

He burst into a short, joyless laugh, then added with severe gravity--

"There is also another way. "

"If you want to drive my soul into damnation by trying to drive me tosuicide you will not succeed, " said Willems in wild excitement. "I willlive. I shall repent. I may escape. . . . Take that woman away--she issin. "

A hooked dart of fire tore in two the darkness of the distant horizonand lit up the gloom of the earth with a dazzling and ghastly flame. Then the thunder was heard far away, like an incredibly enormous voicemuttering menaces. 

Lingard said--

"I don't care what happens, but I may tell you that without that womanyour life is not worth much--not twopence. There is a fellow here who. . . And Abdulla himself wouldn't stand on any ceremony. Think of that!And then she won't go. "

He began, even while he spoke, to walk slowly down towards the littlegate. He didn't look, but he felt as sure that Willems was followinghim as if he had been leading him by a string. Directly he had passedthrough the wicket-gate into the big courtyard he heard a voice, behindhis back, saying--

"I think she was right. I ought to have shot you. I couldn't have beenworse off. "

"Time yet, " answered Lingard, without stopping or looking back. "But, you see, you can't. There is not even that in you. "

"Don't provoke me, Captain Lingard, " cried Willems. 

Lingard turned round sharply. Willems and Aissa stopped. Another forkedflash of lightning split up the clouds overhead, and threw upon theirfaces a sudden burst of light--a blaze violent, sinister and fleeting;and in the same instant they were deafened by a near, single crash ofthunder, which was followed by a rushing noise, like a frightened sighof the startled earth. 

"Provoke you!" said the old adventurer, as soon as he could make himselfheard. "Provoke you! Hey! What's there in you to provoke? What do Icare?"

"It is easy to speak like that when you know that in the whole world--inthe whole world--I have no friend, " said Willems. 

"Whose fault?" said Lingard, sharply. 

Their voices, after the deep and tremendous noise, sounded to them veryunsatisfactory--thin and frail, like the voices of pigmies--and theybecame suddenly silent, as if on that account. From up the courtyardLingard's boatmen came down and passed them, keeping step in a singlefile, their paddles on shoulder, and holding their heads straight withtheir eyes fixed on the river. Ali, who was walking last, stopped beforeLingard, very stiff and upright. He said--

"That one-eyed Babalatchi is gone, with all his women. He tookeverything. All the pots and boxes. Big. Heavy. Three boxes. "

He grinned as if the thing had been amusing, then added with anappearance of anxious concern, "Rain coming. "

"We return, " said Lingard. "Make ready. "

"Aye, aye, sir!" ejaculated Ali with precision, and moved on. He hadbeen quartermaster with Lingard before making up his mind to stay inSambir as Almayer's head man. He strutted towards the landing-placethinking proudly that he was not like those other ignorant boatmen, andknew how to answer properly the very greatest of white captains. 

"You have misunderstood me from the first, Captain Lingard, " saidWillems. 

"Have I? It's all right, as long as there is no mistake about mymeaning, " answered Lingard, strolling slowly to the landing-place. Willems followed him, and Aissa followed Willems. 

Two hands were extended to help Lingard in embarking. He steppedcautiously and heavily into the long and narrow canoe, and sat in thecanvas folding-chair that had been placed in the middle. He leaned backand turned his head to the two figures that stood on the bank alittle above him. Aissa's eyes were fastened on his face in a visibleimpatience to see him gone. Willems' look went straight above the canoe, straight at the forest on the other side of the river. 

"All right, Ali, " said Lingard, in a low voice. 

A slight stir animated the faces, and a faint murmur ran along theline of paddlers. The foremost man pushed with the point of his paddle, canted the fore end out of the dead water into the current; and thecanoe fell rapidly off before the rush of brown water, the stern rubbinggently against the low bank. 

"We shall meet again, Captain Lingard!" cried Willems, in an unsteadyvoice. 

"Never!" said Lingard, turning half round in his chair to look atWillems. His fierce red eyes glittered remorselessly over the high backof his seat. 

"Must cross the river. Water less quick over there, " said Ali. 

He pushed in his turn now with all his strength, throwing his bodyrecklessly right out over the stern. Then he recovered himself just intime into the squatting attitude of a monkey perched on a high shelf, and shouted: "Dayong!"

The paddles struck the water together. The canoe darted forward and wenton steadily crossing the river with a sideways motion made up of its ownspeed and the downward drift of the current. 

Lingard watched the shore astern. The woman shook her hand at him, andthen squatted at the feet of the man who stood motionless. After a whileshe got up and stood beside him, reaching up to his head--and Lingardsaw then that she had wetted some part of her covering and was trying towash the dried blood off the man's immovable face, which did not seemto know anything about it. Lingard turned away and threw himself back inhis chair, stretching his legs out with a sigh of fatigue. His headfell forward; and under his red face the white beard lay fan-like on hisbreast, the ends of fine long hairs all astir in the faint draughtmade by the rapid motion of the craft that carried him away from hisprisoner--from the only thing in his life he wished to hide. 

In its course across the river the canoe came into the line of Willems'sight and his eyes caught the image, followed it eagerly as it glided, small but distinct, on the dark background of the forest. He could seeplainly the figure of the man sitting in the middle. All his life he hadfelt that man behind his back, a reassuring presence ready with help, with commendation, with advice; friendly in reproof, enthusiasticin approbation; a man inspiring confidence by his strength, by hisfearlessness, by the very weakness of his simple heart. And now that manwas going away. He must call him back. 

He shouted, and his words, which he wanted to throw across the river, seemed to fall helplessly at his feet. Aissa put her hand on his arm ina restraining attempt, but he shook it off. He wanted to call back hisvery life that was going away from him. He shouted again--and this timehe did not even hear himself. No use. He would never return. And hestood in sullen silence looking at the white figure over there, lyingback in the chair in the middle of the boat; a figure that struck himsuddenly as very terrible, heartless and astonishing, with its unnaturalappearance of running over the water in an attitude of languid repose. 

For a time nothing on earth stirred, seemingly, but the canoe, whichglided up-stream with a motion so even and smooth that it did not conveyany sense of movement. Overhead, the massed clouds appeared solid andsteady as if held there in a powerful grip, but on their uneven surfacethere was a continuous and trembling glimmer, a faint reflection of thedistant lightning from the thunderstorm that had broken already on thecoast and was working its way up the river with low and angry growls. Willems looked on, as motionless as everything round him and above him. Only his eyes seemed to live, as they followed the canoe on its coursethat carried it away from him, steadily, unhesitatingly, finally, as ifit were going, not up the great river into the momentous excitement ofSambir, but straight into the past, into the past crowded yet empty, like an old cemetery full of neglected graves, where lie dead hopes thatnever return. 

From time to time he felt on his face the passing, warm touch of animmense breath coming from beyond the forest, like the short panting ofan oppressed world. Then the heavy air round him was pierced by a sharpgust of wind, bringing with it the fresh, damp feel of the falling rain;and all the innumerable tree-tops of the forests swayed to the leftand sprang back again in a tumultuous balancing of nodding branches andshuddering leaves. A light frown ran over the river, the clouds stirredslowly, changing their aspect but not their place, as if they hadturned ponderously over; and when the sudden movement had died out ina quickened tremor of the slenderest twigs, there was a short periodof formidable immobility above and below, during which the voice of thethunder was heard, speaking in a sustained, emphatic and vibratingroll, with violent louder bursts of crashing sound, like a wrathful andthreatening discourse of an angry god. For a moment it died out, andthen another gust of wind passed, driving before it a white mist whichfilled the space with a cloud of waterdust that hid suddenly fromWillems the canoe, the forests, the river itself; that woke him up fromhis numbness in a forlorn shiver, that made him look round despairinglyto see nothing but the whirling drift of rain spray before thefreshening breeze, while through it the heavy big drops fell about himwith sonorous and rapid beats upon the dry earth. He made a few hurriedsteps up the courtyard and was arrested by an immense sheet of waterthat fell all at once on him, fell sudden and overwhelming from theclouds, cutting his respiration, streaming over his head, clinging tohim, running down his body, off his arms, off his legs. He stood gaspingwhile the water beat him in a vertical downpour, drove on him slantingin squalls, and he felt the drops striking him from above, fromeverywhere; drops thick, pressed and dashing at him as if flung from allsides by a mob of infuriated hands. From under his feet a great vapourof broken water floated up, he felt the ground become soft--melt underhim--and saw the water spring out from the dry earth to meet the waterthat fell from the sombre heaven. An insane dread took possession ofhim, the dread of all that water around him, of the water that ran downthe courtyard towards him, of the water that pressed him on every side, of the slanting water that drove across his face in wavering sheetswhich gleamed pale red with the flicker of lightning streaming throughthem, as if fire and water were falling together, monstrously mixed, upon the stunned earth. 

He wanted to run away, but when he moved it was to slide about painfullyand slowly upon that earth which had become mud so suddenly under hisfeet. He fought his way up the courtyard like a man pushing througha crowd, his head down, one shoulder forward, stopping often, andsometimes carried back a pace or two in the rush of water which hisheart was not stout enough to face. Aissa followed him step by step, stopping when he stopped, recoiling with him, moving forward with himin his toilsome way up the slippery declivity of the courtyard, of thatcourtyard, from which everything seemed to have been swept away by thefirst rush of the mighty downpour. They could see nothing. The tree, thebushes, the house, and the fences--all had disappeared in the thicknessof the falling rain. Their hair stuck, streaming, to their heads; theirclothing clung to them, beaten close to their bodies; water ran offthem, off their heads over their shoulders. They moved, patient, upright, slow and dark, in the gleam clear or fiery of the fallingdrops, under the roll of unceasing thunder, like two wandering ghostsof the drowned that, condemned to haunt the water for ever, had come upfrom the river to look at the world under a deluge. 

On the left the tree seemed to step out to meet them, appearing vaguely, high, motionless and patient; with a rustling plaint of its innumerableleaves through which every drop of water tore its separate way withcruel haste. And then, to the right, the house surged up in themist, very black, and clamorous with the quick patter of rain on itshigh-pitched roof above the steady splash of the water running off theeaves. Down the plankway leading to the door flowed a thin and pellucidstream, and when Willems began his ascent it broke over his foot asif he were going up a steep ravine in the bed of a rapid and shallowtorrent. Behind his heels two streaming smudges of mud stained for aninstant the purity of the rushing water, and then he splashed his way upwith a spurt and stood on the bamboo platform before the open door underthe shelter of the overhanging eaves--under shelter at last!

A low moan ending in a broken and plaintive mutter arrested Willems onthe threshold. He peered round in the half-light under the roof and sawthe old woman crouching close to the wall in a shapeless heap, and whilehe looked he felt a touch of two arms on his shoulders. Aissa! He hadforgotten her. He turned, and she clasped him round the neck instantly, pressing close to him as if afraid of violence or escape. He stiffenedhimself in repulsion, in horror, in the mysterious revolt of his heart;while she clung to him--clung to him as if he were a refuge from misery, from storm, from weariness, from fear, from despair; and it was on thepart of that being an embrace terrible, enraged and mournful, in whichall her strength went out to make him captive, to hold him for ever. 

He said nothing. He looked into her eyes while he struggled with herfingers about the nape of his neck, and suddenly he tore her handsapart, holding her arms up in a strong grip of her wrists, and bendinghis swollen face close over hers, he said--

"It is all your doing. You . . . "

She did not understand him--not a word. He spoke in the language of hispeople--of his people that know no mercy and no shame. And he was angry. Alas! he was always angry now, and always speaking words that she couldnot understand. She stood in silence, looking at him through her patienteyes, while he shook her arms a little and then flung them down. 

"Don't follow me!" he shouted. "I want to be alone--I mean to be leftalone!"

He went in, leaving the door open. 

She did not move. What need to understand the words when they are spokenin such a voice? In that voice which did not seem to be his voice--hisvoice when he spoke by the brook, when he was never angry and alwayssmiling! Her eyes were fixed upon the dark doorway, but her handsstrayed mechanically upwards; she took up all her hair, and, incliningher head slightly over her shoulder, wrung out the long black tresses, twisting them persistently, while she stood, sad and absorbed, like onelistening to an inward voice--the voice of bitter, of unavailingregret. The thunder had ceased, the wind had died out, and the rain fellperpendicular and steady through a great pale clearness--the light ofremote sun coming victorious from amongst the dissolving blackness ofthe clouds. She stood near the doorway. He was there--alone in the gloomof the dwelling. He was there. He spoke not. What was in his mind now?What fear? What desire? Not the desire of her as in the days when heused to smile . . . How could she know? . . . 

A sigh coming from the bottom of her heart, flew out into the worldthrough her parted lips. A sigh faint, profound, and broken; a sighfull of pain and fear, like the sigh of those who are about to face theunknown: to face it in loneliness, in doubt, and without hope. She letgo her hair, that fell scattered over her shoulders like a funeral veil, and she sank down suddenly by the door. Her hands clasped her ankles;she rested her head on her drawn-up knees, and remained still, verystill, under the streaming mourning of her hair. She was thinking ofhim; of the days by the brook; she was thinking of all that had beentheir love--and she sat in the abandoned posture of those who sitweeping by the dead, of those who watch and mourn over a corpse. 

PART V

CHAPTER ONE

Almayer propped, alone on the verandah of his house, with both hiselbows on the table, and holding his head between his hands, staredbefore him, away over the stretch of sprouting young grass in hiscourtyard, and over the short jetty with its cluster of small canoes, amongst which his big whale-boat floated high, like a white motherof all that dark and aquatic brood. He stared on the river, past theschooner anchored in mid-stream, past the forests of the left bank; hestared through and past the illusion of the material world. 

The sun was sinking. Under the sky was stretched a network of whitethreads, a network fine and close-meshed, where here and there werecaught thicker white vapours of globular shape; and to the eastward, above the ragged barrier of the forests, surged the summits of a chainof great clouds, growing bigger slowly, in imperceptible motion, as ifcareful not to disturb the glowing stillness of the earth and of thesky. Abreast of the house the river was empty but for the motionlessschooner. Higher up, a solitary log came out from the bend above andwent on drifting slowly down the straight reach: a dead and wanderingtree going out to its grave in the sea, between two ranks of treesmotionless and living. 

And Almayer sat, his face in his hands, looking on and hating all this:the muddy river; the faded blue of the sky; the black log passing by onits first and last voyage; the green sea of leaves--the sea that glowedshimmered, and stirred above the uniform and impenetrable gloom of theforests--the joyous sea of living green powdered with the brilliant dustof oblique sunrays. 

He hated all this; he begrudged every day--every minute--of his lifespent amongst all these things; he begrudged it bitterly, angrily, withenraged and immense regret, like a miser compelled to give up some ofhis treasure to a near relation. And yet all this was very precious tohim. It was the present sign of a splendid future. 

He pushed the table away impatiently, got up, made a few stepsaimlessly, then stood by the balustrade and again looked at theriver--at that river which would have been the instrument for the makingof his fortune if . . . If . . . 

"What an abominable brute!" he said. 

He was alone, but he spoke aloud, as one is apt to do under the impulseof a strong, of an overmastering thought. 

"What a brute!" he muttered again. 

The river was dark now, and the schooner lay on it, a black, a lonely, and a graceful form, with the slender masts darting upwards from itin two frail and raking lines. The shadows of the evening crept up thetrees, crept up from bough to bough, till at last the long sunbeamscoursing from the western horizon skimmed lightly over the topmostbranches, then flew upwards amongst the piled-up clouds, giving thema sombre and fiery aspect in the last flush of light. And suddenly thelight disappeared as if lost in the immensity of the great, blue, and empty hollow overhead. The sun had set: and the forests becamea straight wall of formless blackness. Above them, on the edge oflingering clouds, a single star glimmered fitfully, obscured now andthen by the rapid flight of high and invisible vapours. 

Almayer fought with the uneasiness within his breast. He heard Ali, who moved behind him preparing his evening meal, and he listened withstrange attention to the sounds the man made--to the short, dry bangof the plate put upon the table, to the clink of glass and the metallicrattle of knife and fork. The man went away. Now he was coming back. Hewould speak directly; and Almayer, notwithstanding the absorbing gravityof his thoughts, listened for the sound of expected words. He heardthem, spoken in English with painstaking distinctness. 

"Ready, sir!"

"All right, " said Almayer, curtly. He did not move. He remained pensive, with his back to the table upon which stood the lighted lamp broughtby Ali. He was thinking: "Where was Lingard now? Halfway down theriver probably, in Abdulla's ship. He would be back in about threedays--perhaps less. And then? Then the schooner would have to be got outof the river, and when that craft was gone they--he and Lingard--wouldremain here; alone with the constant thought of that other man, thatother man living near them! What an extraordinary idea to keep himthere for ever. For ever! What did that mean--for ever? Perhaps a year, perhaps ten years. Preposterous! Keep him there ten years--or may betwenty! The fellow was capable of living more than twenty years. And forall that time he would have to be watched, fed, looked after. There wasnobody but Lingard to have such notions. Twenty years! Why, no! In lessthan ten years their fortune would be made and they would leave thisplace, first for Batavia--yes, Batavia--and then for Europe. England, no doubt. Lingard would want to go to England. And would they leave thatman here? How would that fellow look in ten years? Very old probably. Well, devil take him. Nina would be fifteen. She would be rich and verypretty and he himself would not be so old then. . . . "

Almayer smiled into the night. 

. . . Yes, rich! Why! Of course! Captain Lingard was a resourceful man, and he had plenty of money even now. They were rich already; but notenough. Decidedly not enough. Money brings money. That gold business wasgood. Famous! Captain Lingard was a remarkable man. He said the gold wasthere--and it was there. Lingard knew what he was talking about. But hehad queer ideas. For instance, about Willems. Now what did he want tokeep him alive for? Why?

"That scoundrel, " muttered Almayer again. 

"Makan Tuan!" ejaculated Ali suddenly, very loud in a pressing tone. 

Almayer walked to the table, sat down, and his anxious visage droppedfrom above into the light thrown down by the lamp-shade. He helpedhimself absently, and began to eat in great mouthfuls. 

. . . Undoubtedly, Lingard was the man to stick to! The man undismayed, masterful and ready. How quickly he had planned a new future whenWillems' treachery destroyed their established position in Sambir! Andthe position even now was not so bad. What an immense prestige thatLingard had with all those people--Arabs, Malays and all. Ah, it wasgood to be able to call a man like that father. Fine! Wonder how muchmoney really the old fellow had. People talked--they exaggerated surely, but if he had only half of what they said . . . 

He drank, throwing his head up, and fell to again. 

. . . Now, if that Willems had known how to play his cards well, had hestuck to the old fellow he would have been in his position, he wouldbe now married to Lingard's adopted daughter with his futureassured--splendid . . . 

"The beast!" growled Almayer, between two mouthfuls. 

Ali stood rigidly straight with an uninterested face, his gaze lost inthe night which pressed round the small circle of light that shone onthe table, on the glass, on the bottle, and on Almayer's head as heleaned over his plate moving his jaws. 

. . . A famous man Lingard--yet you never knew what he would do next. It was notorious that he had shot a white man once for less than Willemshad done. For less? . . . Why, for nothing, so to speak! It was not evenhis own quarrel. It was about some Malay returning from pilgrimagewith wife and children. Kidnapped, or robbed, or something. A stupidstory--an old story. And now he goes to see that Willems and--nothing. Comes back talking big about his prisoner; but after all he said verylittle. What did that Willems tell him? What passed between them?The old fellow must have had something in his mind when he let thatscoundrel off. And Joanna! She would get round the old fellow. Sure. Then he would forgive perhaps. Impossible. But at any rate he wouldwaste a lot of money on them. The old man was tenacious in his hates, but also in his affections. He had known that beast Willems from a boy. They would make it up in a year or so. Everything is possible: why didhe not rush off at first and kill the brute? That would have been morelike Lingard. . . . 

Almayer laid down his spoon suddenly, and pushing his plate away, threwhimself back in the chair. 

. . . Unsafe. Decidedly unsafe. He had no mind to share Lingard'smoney with anybody. Lingard's money was Nina's money in a sense. Andif Willems managed to become friendly with the old man it would bedangerous for him--Almayer. Such an unscrupulous scoundrel! He wouldoust him from his position. He would lie and slander. Everything wouldbe lost. Lost. Poor Nina. What would become of her? Poor child. For hersake he must remove that Willems. Must. But how? Lingard wanted to beobeyed. Impossible to kill Willems. Lingard might be angry. Incredible, but so it was. He might . . . 

A wave of heat passed through Almayer's body, flushed his face, andbroke out of him in copious perspiration. He wriggled in his chair, andpressed his hands together under the table. What an awful prospect!He fancied he could see Lingard and Willems reconciled and going awayarm-in-arm, leaving him alone in this God-forsaken hole--in Sambir--inthis deadly swamp! And all his sacrifices, the sacrifice of hisindependence, of his best years, his surrender to Lingard's fancies andcaprices, would go for nothing! Horrible! Then he thought of hislittle daughter--his daughter!--and the ghastliness of his suppositionoverpowered him. He had a deep emotion, a sudden emotion that made himfeel quite faint at the idea of that young life spoiled before it hadfairly begun. His dear child's life! Lying back in his chair he coveredhis face with both his hands. 

Ali glanced down at him and said, unconcernedly--"Master finish?"

Almayer was lost in the immensity of his commiseration for himself, forhis daughter, who was--perhaps--not going to be the richest woman inthe world--notwithstanding Lingard's promises. He did not understand theother's question, and muttered through his fingers in a doleful tone--

"What did you say? What? Finish what?"

"Clear up meza, " explained Ali. 

"Clear up!" burst out Almayer, with incomprehensible exasperation. "Devil take you and the table. Stupid! Chatterer! Chelakka! Get out!"

He leaned forward, glaring at his head man, then sank back in his seatwith his arms hanging straight down on each side of the chair. And hesat motionless in a meditation so concentrated and so absorbing, withall his power of thought so deep within himself, that all expressiondisappeared from his face in an aspect of staring vacancy. 

Ali was clearing the table. He dropped negligently the tumbler into thegreasy dish, flung there the spoon and fork, then slipped in the platewith a push amongst the remnants of food. He took up the dish, tucked upthe bottle under his armpit, and went off. 

"My hammock!" shouted Almayer after him. 

"Ada! I come soon, " answered Ali from the doorway in an offended tone, looking back over his shoulder. . . . How could he clear the tableand hang the hammock at the same time. Ya-wa! Those white men were allalike. Wanted everything done at once. Like children . . . 

The indistinct murmur of his criticism went away, faded and died outtogether with the soft footfall of his bare feet in the dark passage. 

For some time Almayer did not move. His thoughts were busy at workshaping a momentous resolution, and in the perfect silence of the househe believed that he could hear the noise of the operation as if the workhad been done with a hammer. He certainly felt a thumping of strokes, faint, profound, and startling, somewhere low down in his breast; andhe was aware of a sound of dull knocking, abrupt and rapid, in his ears. Now and then he held his breath, unconsciously, too long, and had torelieve himself by a deep expiration that whistled dully through hispursed lips. The lamp standing on the far side of the table threw asection of a lighted circle on the floor, where his out-stretched legsstuck out from under the table with feet rigid and turned up like thefeet of a corpse; and his set face with fixed eyes would have been alsolike the face of the dead, but for its vacant yet conscious aspect;the hard, the stupid, the stony aspect of one not dead, but only buriedunder the dust, ashes, and corruption of personal thoughts, of basefears, of selfish desires. 

"I will do it!"

Not till he heard his own voice did he know that he had spoken. Itstartled him. He stood up. The knuckles of his hand, somewhat behindhim, were resting on the edge of the table as he remained still with onefoot advanced, his lips a little open, and thought: It would not do tofool about with Lingard. But I must risk it. It's the only way I cansee. I must tell her. She has some little sense. I wish they were athousand miles off already. A hundred thousand miles. I do. And ifit fails. And she blabs out then to Lingard? She seemed a fool. No;probably they will get away. And if they did, would Lingard believe me?Yes. I never lied to him. He would believe. I don't know . . . Perhapshe won't. . . . "I must do it. Must!" he argued aloud to himself. 

For a long time he stood still, looking before him with an intense gaze, a gaze rapt and immobile, that seemed to watch the minute quivering of adelicate balance, coming to a rest. 

To the left of him, in the whitewashed wall of the house that formedthe back of the verandah, there was a closed door. Black letters werepainted on it proclaiming the fact that behind that door there was theoffice of Lingard & Co. The interior had been furnished by Lingard whenhe had built the house for his adopted daughter and her husband, and ithad been furnished with reckless prodigality. There was an office desk, a revolving chair, bookshelves, a safe: all to humour the weakness ofAlmayer, who thought all those paraphernalia necessary to successfultrading. Lingard had laughed, but had taken immense trouble to get thethings. It pleased him to make his protege, his adopted son-in-law, happy. It had been the sensation of Sambir some five years ago. Whilethe things were being landed, the whole settlement literally lived onthe river bank in front of the Rajah Laut's house, to look, to wonder, to admire. . . . What a big meza, with many boxes fitted all over it andunder it! What did the white man do with such a table? And look, look, OBrothers! There is a green square box, with a gold plate on it, a boxso heavy that those twenty men cannot drag it up the bank. Let us go, brothers, and help pull at the ropes, and perchance we may see what'sinside. Treasure, no doubt. Gold is heavy and hard to hold, O Brothers!Let us go and earn a recompense from the fierce Rajah of the Sea whoshouts over there, with a red face. See! There is a man carrying a pileof books from the boat! What a number of books. What were they for?. . . And an old invalided jurumudi, who had travelled over many seas andhad heard holy men speak in far-off countries, explained to a small knotof unsophisticated citizens of Sambir that those books were books ofmagic--of magic that guides the white men's ships over the seas, thatgives them their wicked wisdom and their strength; of magic that makesthem great, powerful, and irresistible while they live, and--praise beto Allah!--the victims of Satan, the slaves of Jehannum when they die. 

And when he saw the room furnished, Almayer had felt proud. In hisexultation of an empty-headed quill-driver, he thought himself, by thevirtue of that furniture, at the head of a serious business. He hadsold himself to Lingard for these things--married the Malay girl of hisadoption for the reward of these things and of the great wealth thatmust necessarily follow upon conscientious book-keeping. He found outvery soon that trade in Sambir meant something entirely different. Hecould not guide Patalolo, control the irrepressible old Sahamin, orrestrain the youthful vagaries of the fierce Bahassoen with pen, ink, and paper. He found no successful magic in the blank pages of hisledgers; and gradually he lost his old point of view in the sanerappreciation of his situation. The room known as the office becameneglected then like a temple of an exploded superstition. At first, whenhis wife reverted to her original savagery, Almayer, now and again, hadsought refuge from her there; but after their child began to speak, toknow him, he became braver, for he found courage and consolation in hisunreasoning and fierce affection for his daughter--in the impenetrablemantle of selfishness he wrapped round both their lives: round himself, and that young life that was also his. 

When Lingard ordered him to receive Joanna into his house, he had atruckle bed put into the office--the only room he could spare. The bigoffice desk was pushed on one side, and Joanna came with her littleshabby trunk and with her child and took possession in her dreamy, slack, half-asleep way; took possession of the dust, dirt, and squalor, where she appeared naturally at home, where she dragged a melancholy anddull existence; an existence made up of sad remorse and frightened hope, amongst the hopeless disorder--the senseless and vain decay of all theseemblems of civilized commerce. Bits of white stuff; rags yellow, pink, blue: rags limp, brilliant and soiled, trailed on the floor, lay on thedesk amongst the sombre covers of books soiled, grimy, but stiff-backed, in virtue, perhaps, of their European origin. The biggest set ofbookshelves was partly hidden by a petticoat, the waistband of which wascaught upon the back of a slender book pulled a little out of the row soas to make an improvised clothespeg. The folding canvas bedstead stoodnearly in the middle of the room, stood anyhow, parallel to no wall, asif it had been, in the process of transportation to some remote place, dropped casually there by tired bearers. And on the tumbled blanketsthat lay in a disordered heap on its edge, Joanna sat almost all daywith her stockingless feet upon one of the bed pillows that were somehowalways kicking about the floor. She sat there, vaguely tormentedat times by the thought of her absent husband, but most of the timethinking tearfully of nothing at all, looking with swimming eyes ather little son--at the big-headed, pasty-faced, and sickly LouisWillems--who rolled a glass inkstand, solid with dried ink, about thefloor, and tottered after it with the portentous gravity of demeanourand absolute absorption by the business in hand that characterize thepursuits of early childhood. Through the half-open shutter a ray ofsunlight, a ray merciless and crude, came into the room, beat in theearly morning upon the safe in the far-off corner, then, travellingagainst the sun, cut at midday the big desk in two with its solid andclean-edged brilliance; with its hot brilliance in which a swarm offlies hovered in dancing flight over some dirty plate forgotten thereamongst yellow papers for many a day. And towards the evening thecynical ray seemed to cling to the ragged petticoat, lingered on it withwicked enjoyment of that misery it had exposed all day; lingered on thecorner of the dusty bookshelf, in a red glow intense and mocking, tillit was suddenly snatched by the setting sun out of the way of the comingnight. And the night entered the room. The night abrupt, impenetrableand all-filling with its flood of darkness; the night cool and merciful;the blind night that saw nothing, but could hear the fretful whimperingof the child, the creak of the bedstead, Joanna's deep sighs as sheturned over, sleepless, in the confused conviction of her wickedness, thinking of that man masterful, fair-headed, and strong--a man hardperhaps, but her husband; her clever and handsome husband to whom shehad acted so cruelly on the advice of bad people, if her own people; andof her poor, dear, deceived mother. 

To Almayer, Joanna's presence was a constant worry, a worry unobtrusiveyet intolerable; a constant, but mostly mute, warning of possibledanger. In view of the absurd softness of Lingard's heart, every one inwhom Lingard manifested the slightest interest was to Almayer a naturalenemy. He was quite alive to that feeling, and in the intimacy of thesecret intercourse with his inner self had often congratulated himselfupon his own wide-awake comprehension of his position. In that way, andimpelled by that motive, Almayer had hated many and various persons atvarious times. But he never had hated and feared anybody so much as hedid hate and fear Willems. Even after Willems' treachery, which seemedto remove him beyond the pale of all human sympathy, Almayer mistrustedthe situation and groaned in spirit every time he caught sight ofJoanna. 

He saw her very seldom in the daytime. But in the short and opal-tintedtwilights, or in the azure dusk of starry evenings, he often saw, beforehe slept, the slender and tall figure trailing to and fro the raggedtail of its white gown over the dried mud of the riverside in front ofthe house. Once or twice when he sat late on the verandah, with his feetupon the deal table on a level with the lamp, reading the seven months'old copy of the North China Herald, brought by Lingard, he heard thestairs creak, and, looking round the paper, he saw her frail and meagreform rise step by step and toil across the verandah, carrying withdifficulty the big, fat child, whose head, lying on the mother's bonyshoulder, seemed of the same size as Joanna's own. Several times she hadassailed him with tearful clamour or mad entreaties: asking about herhusband, wanting to know where he was, when he would be back; and endingevery such outburst with despairing and incoherent self-reproaches thatwere absolutely incomprehensible to Almayer. On one or two occasions shehad overwhelmed her host with vituperative abuse, making him responsiblefor her husband's absence. Those scenes, begun without any warning, ended abruptly in a sobbing flight and a bang of the door; stirred thehouse with a sudden, a fierce, and an evanescent disturbance; like thoseinexplicable whirlwinds that rise, run, and vanish without apparentcause upon the sun-scorched dead level of arid and lamentable plains. 

But to-night the house was quiet, deadly quiet, while Almayer stoodstill, watching that delicate balance where he was weighing all hischances: Joanna's intelligence, Lingard's credulity, Willems'reckless audacity, desire to escape, readiness to seize an unexpectedopportunity. He weighed, anxious and attentive, his fears and hisdesires against the tremendous risk of a quarrel with Lingard. . . . Yes. Lingard would be angry. Lingard might suspect him of someconnivance in his prisoner's escape--but surely he would not quarrelwith him--Almayer--about those people once they were gone--gone to thedevil in their own way. And then he had hold of Lingard through thelittle girl. Good. What an annoyance! A prisoner! As if one could keephim in there. He was bound to get away some time or other. Of course. A situation like that can't last. Anybody could see that. Lingard'seccentricity passed all bounds. You may kill a man, but you mustn'ttorture him. It was almost criminal. It caused worry, trouble, andunpleasantness. . . . Almayer for a moment felt very angry with Lingard. He made him responsible for the anguish he suffered from, for theanguish of doubt and fear; for compelling him--the practical andinnocent Almayer--to such painful efforts of mind in order to findout some issue for absurd situations created by the unreasonablesentimentality of Lingard's unpractical impulses. 

"Now if the fellow were dead it would be all right, " said Almayer to theverandah. 

He stirred a little, and scratching his nose thoughtfully, revelled ina short flight of fancy, showing him his own image crouching in a bigboat, that floated arrested--say fifty yards off--abreast of Willems'landing-place. In the bottom of the boat there was a gun. A loadedgun. One of the boatmen would shout, and Willems would answer--from thebushes. The rascal would be suspicious. Of course. Then the man wouldwave a piece of paper urging Willems to come to the landing-place andreceive an important message. "From the Rajah Laut" the man would yellas the boat edged in-shore, and that would fetch Willems out. Wouldn'tit? Rather! And Almayer saw himself jumping up at the right moment, taking aim, pulling the trigger--and Willems tumbling over, his head inthe water--the swine!

He seemed to hear the report of the shot. It made him thrill fromhead to foot where he stood. . . . How simple! . . . Unfortunate . . . Lingard . . . He sighed, shook his head. Pity. Couldn't be done. Andcouldn't leave him there either! Suppose the Arabs were to get hold ofhim again--for instance to lead an expedition up the river! Goodnessonly knows what harm would come of it. . . . 

The balance was at rest now and inclining to the side of immediateaction. Almayer walked to the door, walked up very close to it, knockedloudly, and turned his head away, looking frightened for a moment atwhat he had done. After waiting for a while he put his ear against thepanel and listened. Nothing. He composed his features into an agreeableexpression while he stood listening and thinking to himself: I hear her. Crying. Eh? I believe she has lost the little wits she had and is cryingnight and day since I began to prepare her for the news of her husband'sdeath--as Lingard told me. I wonder what she thinks. It's just likefather to make me invent all these stories for nothing at all. Out ofkindness. Kindness! Damn! . . . She isn't deaf, surely. 

He knocked again, then said in a friendly tone, grinning benevolently atthe closed door--

"It's me, Mrs. Willems. I want to speak to you. I have . . . Have . . . Important news. . . . "

"What is it?"

"News, " repeated Almayer, distinctly. "News about your husband. Yourhusband! . . . Damn him!" he added, under his breath. 

He heard a stumbling rush inside. Things were overturned. Joanna'sagitated voice cried--

"News! What? What? I am coming out. "

"No, " shouted Almayer. "Put on some clothes, Mrs. Willems, and let mein. It's . . . Very confidential. You have a candle, haven't you?"

She was knocking herself about blindly amongst the furniture in thatroom. The candlestick was upset. Matches were struck ineffectually. Thematchbox fell. He heard her drop on her knees and grope over the floorwhile she kept on moaning in maddened distraction. 

"Oh, my God! News! Yes . . . Yes. . . . Ah! where . . . Where . . . Candle. Oh, my God! . . . I can't find . . . Don't go away, for the loveof Heaven . . . "

"I don't want to go away, " said Almayer, impatiently, through thekeyhole; "but look sharp. It's coni . . . It's pressing. "

He stamped his foot lightly, waiting with his hand on the door-handle. He thought anxiously: The woman's a perfect idiot. Why should I go away?She will be off her head. She will never catch my meaning. She's toostupid. 

She was moving now inside the room hurriedly and in silence. He waited. There was a moment of perfect stillness in there, and then she spokein an exhausted voice, in words that were shaped out of an expiringsigh--out of a sigh light and profound, like words breathed out by awoman before going off into a dead faint--

"Come in. "

He pushed the door. Ali, coming through the passage with an armfulof pillows and blankets pressed to his breast high up under his chin, caught sight of his master before the door closed behind him. He was soastonished that he dropped his bundle and stood staring at the door fora long time. He heard the voice of his master talking. Talking to thatSirani woman! Who was she? He had never thought about that really. Hespeculated for a while hazily upon things in general. She was a Siraniwoman--and ugly. He made a disdainful grimace, picked up the bedding, and went about his work, slinging the hammock between two uprights ofthe verandah. . . . Those things did not concern him. She was ugly, and brought here by the Rajah Laut, and his master spoke to her in thenight. Very well. He, Ali, had his work to do. Sling the hammock--goround and see that the watchmen were awake--take a look at the mooringsof the boats, at the padlock of the big storehouse--then go to sleep. To sleep! He shivered pleasantly. He leaned with both arms over hismaster's hammock and fell into a light doze. 

A scream, unexpected, piercing--a scream beginning at once in thehighest pitch of a woman's voice and then cut short, so short that itsuggested the swift work of death--caused Ali to jump on one sideaway from the hammock, and the silence that succeeded seemed to himas startling as the awful shriek. He was thunderstruck with surprise. Almayer came out of the office, leaving the door ajar, passed closeto his servant without taking any notice, and made straight for thewater-chatty hung on a nail in a draughty place. He took it down andcame back, missing the petrified Ali by an inch. He moved with longstrides, yet, notwithstanding his haste, stopped short before the door, and, throwing his head back, poured a thin stream of water down histhroat. While he came and went, while he stopped to drink, while he didall this, there came steadily from the dark room the sound of feeble andpersistent crying, the crying of a sleepy and frightened child. After hehad drunk, Almayer went in, closing the door carefully. 

Ali did not budge. That Sirani woman shrieked! He felt an immensecuriosity very unusual to his stolid disposition. He could not take hiseyes off the door. Was she dead in there? How interesting and funny! Hestood with open mouth till he heard again the rattle of the door-handle. Master coming out. He pivoted on his heels with great rapidity and madebelieve to be absorbed in the contemplation of the night outside. Heheard Almayer moving about behind his back. Chairs were displaced. Hismaster sat down. 

"Ali, " said Almayer. 

His face was gloomy and thoughtful. He looked at his head man, whohad approached the table, then he pulled out his watch. It was going. Whenever Lingard was in Sambir Almayer's watch was going. He would setit by the cabin clock, telling himself every time that he must reallykeep that watch going for the future. And every time, when Lingardwent away, he would let it run down and would measure his wearinessby sunrises and sunsets in an apathetic indifference to mere hours; tohours only; to hours that had no importance in Sambir life, in the tiredstagnation of empty days; when nothing mattered to him but the qualityof guttah and the size of rattans; where there were no small hopes tobe watched for; where to him there was nothing interesting, nothingsupportable, nothing desirable to expect; nothing bitter but theslowness of the passing days; nothing sweet but the hope, the distantand glorious hope--the hope wearying, aching and precious, of gettingaway. 

He looked at the watch. Half-past eight. Ali waited stolidly. 

"Go to the settlement, " said Almayer, "and tell Mahmat Banjer to comeand speak to me to-night. "

Ali went off muttering. He did not like his errand. Banjer and his twobrothers were Bajow vagabonds who had appeared lately in Sambir and hadbeen allowed to take possession of a tumbledown abandoned hut, on threeposts, belonging to Lingard & Co. , and standing just outside theirfence. Ali disapproved of the favour shown to those strangers. Any kindof dwelling was valuable in Sambir at that time, and if master did notwant that old rotten house he might have given it to him, Ali, who washis servant, instead of bestowing it upon those bad men. Everybodyknew they were bad. It was well known that they had stolen a boatfrom Hinopari, who was very aged and feeble and had no sons; and thatafterwards, by the truculent recklessness of their demeanour, theyhad frightened the poor old man into holding his tongue about it. Yeteverybody knew of it. It was one of the tolerated scandals of Sambir, disapproved and accepted, a manifestation of that base acquiescence insuccess, of that inexpressed and cowardly toleration of strength, thatexists, infamous and irremediable, at the bottom of all hearts, in allsocieties; whenever men congregate; in bigger and more virtuous placesthan Sambir, and in Sambir also, where, as in other places, one mancould steal a boat with impunity while another would have no right tolook at a paddle. 

Almayer, leaning back in his chair, meditated. The more he thought, themore he felt convinced that Banjer and his brothers were exactly the menhe wanted. Those fellows were sea gipsies, and could disappear withoutattracting notice; and if they returned, nobody--and Lingard least ofall--would dream of seeking information from them. Moreover, they hadno personal interest of any kind in Sambir affairs--had taken nosides--would know nothing anyway. 

He called in a strong voice: "Mrs. Willems!"

She came out quickly, almost startling him, so much did she appear asthough she had surged up through the floor, on the other side of thetable. The lamp was between them, and Almayer moved it aside, looking upat her from his chair. She was crying. She was crying gently, silently, in a ceaseless welling up of tears that did not fall in drops, butseemed to overflow in a clear sheet from under her eyelids--seemedto flow at once all over her face, her cheeks, and over her chin thatglistened with moisture in the light. Her breast and her shoulders wereshaken repeatedly by a convulsive and noiseless catching in her breath, and after every spasmodic sob her sorrowful little head, tied up ina red kerchief, trembled on her long neck, round which her bony handgathered and clasped the disarranged dress. 

"Compose yourself, Mrs. Willems, " said Almayer. 

She emitted an inarticulate sound that seemed to be a faint, a very faroff, a hardly audible cry of mortal distress. Then the tears went onflowing in profound stillness. 

"You must understand that I have told you all this because I am yourfriend--real friend, " said Almayer, after looking at her for some timewith visible dissatisfaction. "You, his wife, ought to know the dangerhe is in. Captain Lingard is a terrible man, you know. "

She blubbered out, sniffing and sobbing together. 

"Do you . . . You . . . Speak . . . The . . . The truth now?"

"Upon my word of honour. On the head of my child, " protested Almayer. "Ihad to deceive you till now because of Captain Lingard. But I couldn'tbear it. Think only what a risk I run in telling you--if ever Lingardwas to know! Why should I do it? Pure friendship. Dear Peter was mycolleague in Macassar for years, you know. "

"What shall I do . . . What shall I do!" she exclaimed, faintly, lookingaround on every side as if she could not make up her mind which way torush off. 

"You must help him to clear out, now Lingard is away. He offendedLingard, and that's no joke. Lingard said he would kill him. He will doit, too, " said Almayer, earnestly. 

She wrung her hands. "Oh! the wicked man. The wicked, wicked man!" shemoaned, swaying her body from side to side. 

"Yes. Yes! He is terrible, " assented Almayer. "You must not lose anytime. I say! Do you understand me, Mrs. Willems? Think of your husband. Of your poor husband. How happy he will be. You will bring him hislife--actually his life. Think of him. "

She ceased her swaying movement, and now, with her head sunk betweenher shoulders, she hugged herself with both her arms; and she stared atAlmayer with wild eyes, while her teeth chattered, rattling violentlyand uninterruptedly, with a very loud sound, in the deep peace of thehouse. 

"Oh! Mother of God!" she wailed. "I am a miserable woman. Will heforgive me? The poor, innocent man. Will he forgive me? Oh, Mr. Almayer, he is so severe. Oh! help me. . . . I dare not. . . . You don't knowwhat I've done to him. . . . I daren't! . . . I can't! . . . God helpme!"

The last words came in a despairing cry. Had she been flayed alive shecould not have sent to heaven a more terrible, a more heartrending andanguished plaint. 

"Sh! Sh!" hissed Almayer, jumping up. "You will wake up everybody withyour shouting. "

She kept on sobbing then without any noise, and Almayer stared at herin boundless astonishment. The idea that, maybe, he had done wrong byconfiding in her, upset him so much that for a moment he could not finda connected thought in his head. 

At last he said: "I swear to you that your husband is in such a positionthat he would welcome the devil . . . Listen well to me . . . Thedevil himself if the devil came to him in a canoe. Unless I am muchmistaken, " he added, under his breath. Then again, loudly: "If youhave any little difference to make up with him, I assure you--I swear toyou--this is your time!"

The ardently persuasive tone of his words--he thought--would havecarried irresistible conviction to a graven image. He noticed withsatisfaction that Joanna seemed to have got some inkling of his meaning. He continued, speaking slowly--

"Look here, Mrs. Willems. I can't do anything. Daren't. But I will tellyou what I will do. There will come here in about ten minutes a Bugisman--you know the language; you are from Macassar. He has a large canoe;he can take you there. To the new Rajah's clearing, tell him. They arethree brothers, ready for anything if you pay them . . . You have somemoney. Haven't you?"

She stood--perhaps listening--but giving no sign of intelligence, and stared at the floor in sudden immobility, as if the horror of thesituation, the overwhelming sense of her own wickedness and of herhusband's great danger, had stunned her brain, her heart, her will--hadleft her no faculty but that of breathing and of keeping on her feet. Almayer swore to himself with much mental profanity that he had neverseen a more useless, a more stupid being. 

"D'ye hear me?" he said, raising his voice. "Do try to understand. Haveyou any money? Money. Dollars. Guilders. Money! What's the matter withyou?"

Without raising her eyes she said, in a voice that sounded weak andundecided as if she had been making a desperate effort of memory--

"The house has been sold. Mr. Hudig was angry. "

Almayer gripped the edge of the table with all his strength. He resistedmanfully an almost uncontrollable impulse to fly at her and box herears. 

"It was sold for money, I suppose, " he said with studied and incisivecalmness. "Have you got it? Who has got it?"

She looked up at him, raising her swollen eyelids with a great effort, in a sorrowful expression of her drooping mouth, of her whole besmudgedand tear-stained face. She whispered resignedly--

"Leonard had some. He wanted to get married. And uncle Antonio; he satat the door and would not go away. And Aghostina--she is so poor . . . And so many, many children--little children. And Luiz the engineer. Henever said a word against my husband. Also our cousin Maria. She cameand shouted, and my head was so bad, and my heart was worse. Then cousinSalvator and old Daniel da Souza, who . . . "

Almayer had listened to her speechless with rage. He thought: I mustgive money now to that idiot. Must! Must get her out of the way nowbefore Lingard is back. He made two attempts to speak before he managedto burst out--

"I don't want to know their blasted names! Tell me, did all thoseinfernal people leave you anything? To you! That's what I want to know!"

"I have two hundred and fifteen dollars, " said Joanna, in a frightenedtone. 

Almayer breathed freely. He spoke with great friendliness--

"That will do. It isn't much, but it will do. Now when the man comes Iwill be out of the way. You speak to him. Give him some money; onlya little, mind! And promise more. Then when you get there you will beguided by your husband, of course. And don't forget to tell him thatCaptain Lingard is at the mouth of the river--the northern entrance. Youwill remember. Won't you? The northern branch. Lingard is--death. "

Joanna shivered. Almayer went on rapidly--

"I would have given you money if you had wanted it. 'Pon my word! Tellyour husband I've sent you to him. And tell him not to lose any time. And also say to him from me that we shall meet--some day. That I couldnot die happy unless I met him once more. Only once. I love him, youknow. I prove it. Tremendous risk to me--this business is!"

Joanna snatched his hand and before he knew what she would be at, pressed it to her lips. 

"Mrs. Willems! Don't. What are you . . . " cried the abashed Almayer, tearing his hand away. 

"Oh, you are good!" she cried, with sudden exaltation, "You are noble. . . I shall pray every day . . . To all the saints . . . I shall . . . "

"Never mind . . . Never mind!" stammered out Almayer, confusedly, without knowing very well what he was saying. "Only look out forLingard. . . . I am happy to be able . . . In your sad situation . . . Believe me. . . . "

They stood with the table between them, Joanna looking down, and herface, in the half-light above the lamp, appeared like a soiled carvingof old ivory--a carving, with accentuated anxious hollows, of old, veryold ivory. Almayer looked at her, mistrustful, hopeful. He was sayingto himself: How frail she is! I could upset her by blowing at her. Sheseems to have got some idea of what must be done, but will she have thestrength to carry it through? I must trust to luck now!

Somewhere far in the back courtyard Ali's voice rang suddenly in angryremonstrance--

"Why did you shut the gate, O father of all mischief? You a watchman!You are only a wild man. Did I not tell you I was coming back? You . . . "

"I am off, Mrs. Willems, " exclaimed Almayer. "That man is here--with myservant. Be calm. Try to . . . "

He heard the footsteps of the two men in the passage, and withoutfinishing his sentence ran rapidly down the steps towards the riverside. 

CHAPTER TWO

For the next half-hour Almayer, who wanted to give Joanna plenty oftime, stumbled amongst the lumber in distant parts of his enclosure, sneaked along the fences; or held his breath, flattened against grasswalls behind various outhouses: all this to escape Ali's inconvenientlyzealous search for his master. He heard him talk with the headwatchman--sometimes quite close to him in the darkness--then moving off, coming back, wondering, and, as the time passed, growing uneasy. 

"He did not fall into the river?--say, thou blind watcher!" Ali wasgrowling in a bullying tone, to the other man. "He told me to fetchMahmat, and when I came back swiftly I found him not in the house. Thereis that Sirani woman there, so that Mahmat cannot steal anything, but itis in my mind, the night will be half gone before I rest. "

He shouted--

"Master! O master! O mast . . . "

"What are you making that noise for?" said Almayer, with severity, stepping out close to them. 

The two Malays leaped away from each other in their surprise. 

"You may go. I don't want you any more tonight, Ali, " went on Almayer. "Is Mahmat there?"

"Unless the ill-behaved savage got tired of waiting. Those men knownot politeness. They should not be spoken to by white men, " said Ali, resentfully. 

Almayer went towards the house, leaving his servants to wonder where hehad sprung from so unexpectedly. The watchman hinted obscurely at powersof invisibility possessed by the master, who often at night . . . Aliinterrupted him with great scorn. Not every white man has the power. Now, the Rajah Laut could make himself invisible. Also, he could bein two places at once, as everybody knew; except he--the uselesswatchman--who knew no more about white men than a wild pig! Ya-wa!

And Ali strolled towards his hut, yawning loudly. 

As Almayer ascended the steps he heard the noise of a door flung to, and when he entered the verandah he saw only Mahmat there, close to thedoorway of the passage. Mahmat seemed to be caught in the very act ofslinking away, and Almayer noticed that with satisfaction. Seeing thewhite man, the Malay gave up his attempt and leaned against the wall. Hewas a short, thick, broad-shouldered man with very dark skin and a wide, stained, bright-red mouth that uncovered, when he spoke, a close rowof black and glistening teeth. His eyes were big, prominent, dreamy andrestless. He said sulkily, looking all over the place from under hiseyebrows--

"White Tuan, you are great and strong--and I a poor man. Tell me what isyour will, and let me go in the name of God. It is late. "

Almayer examined the man thoughtfully. How could he find out whether. . . He had it! Lately he had employed that man and his two brothers asextra boatmen to carry stores, provisions, and new axes to a camp ofrattan cutters some distance up the river. A three days' expedition. Hewould test him now in that way. He said negligently--

"I want you to start at once for the camp, with surat for the Kavitan. One dollar a day. "

The man appeared plunged in dull hesitation, but Almayer, who knew hisMalays, felt pretty sure from his aspect that nothing would induce thefellow to go. He urged--

"It is important--and if you are swift I shall give two dollars for thelast day. "

"No, Tuan. We do not go, " said the man, in a hoarse whisper. 

"Why?"

"We start on another journey. "

"Where?"

"To a place we know of, " said Mahmat, a little louder, in a stubbornmanner, and looking at the floor. 

Almayer experienced a feeling of immense joy. He said, with affectedannoyance--

"You men live in my house and it is as if it were your own. I may wantmy house soon. "

Mahmat looked up. 

"We are men of the sea and care not for a roof when we have a canoe thatwill hold three, and a paddle apiece. The sea is our house. Peace bewith you, Tuan. "

He turned and went away rapidly, and Almayer heard him directlyafterwards in the courtyard calling to the watchman to open the gate. Mahmat passed through the gate in silence, but before the bar had beenput up behind him he had made up his mind that if the white man everwanted to eject him from his hut, he would burn it and also as many ofthe white man's other buildings as he could safely get at. And he beganto call his brothers before he was inside the dilapidated dwelling. 

"All's well!" muttered Almayer to himself, taking some loose Javatobacco from a drawer in the table. "Now if anything comes out I amclear. I asked the man to go up the river. I urged him. He will say sohimself. Good. "

He began to charge the china bowl of his pipe, a pipe with a long cherrystem and a curved mouthpiece, pressing the tobacco down with his thumband thinking: No. I sha'n't see her again. Don't want to. I will giveher a good start, then go in chase--and send an express boat afterfather. Yes! that's it. 

He approached the door of the office and said, holding his pipe awayfrom his lips--

"Good luck to you, Mrs. Willems. Don't lose any time. You may get alongby the bushes; the fence there is out of repair. Don't lose time. Don'tforget that it is a matter of . . . Life and death. And don't forgetthat I know nothing. I trust you. "

He heard inside a noise as of a chest-lid falling down. She made a fewsteps. Then a sigh, profound and long, and some faint words which hedid not catch. He moved away from the door on tiptoe, kicked off hisslippers in a corner of the verandah, then entered the passage puffingat his pipe; entered cautiously in a gentle creaking of planks andturned into a curtained entrance to the left. There was a big room. Onthe floor a small binnacle lamp--that had found its way to the houseyears ago from the lumber-room of the Flash--did duty for a night-light. It glimmered very small and dull in the great darkness. Almayer walkedto it, and picking it up revived the flame by pulling the wick with hisfingers, which he shook directly after with a grimace of pain. Sleepingshapes, covered--head and all--with white sheets, lay about on the matson the floor. In the middle of the room a small cot, under a squarewhite mosquito net, stood--the only piece of furniture between the fourwalls--looking like an altar of transparent marble in a gloomy temple. Awoman, half-lying on the floor with her head dropped on her arms, whichwere crossed on the foot of the cot, woke up as Almayer strode overher outstretched legs. She sat up without a word, leaning forward, and, clasping her knees, stared down with sad eyes, full of sleep. 

Almayer, the smoky light in one hand, his pipe in the other, stoodbefore the curtained cot looking at his daughter--at his little Nina--atthat part of himself, at that small and unconscious particle of humanitythat seemed to him to contain all his soul. And it was as if he had beenbathed in a bright and warm wave of tenderness, in a tenderness greaterthan the world, more precious than life; the only thing real, living, sweet, tangible, beautiful and safe amongst the elusive, the distortedand menacing shadows of existence. On his face, lit up indistinctly bythe short yellow flame of the lamp, came a look of rapt attentionwhile he looked into her future. And he could see things there! Thingscharming and splendid passing before him in a magic unrolling ofresplendent pictures; pictures of events brilliant, happy, inexpressiblyglorious, that would make up her life. He would do it! He would do it. He would! He would--for that child! And as he stood in the still night, lost in his enchanting and gorgeous dreams, while the ascending, thinthread of tobacco smoke spread into a faint bluish cloud above his head, he appeared strangely impressive and ecstatic: like a devout and mysticworshipper, adoring, transported and mute; burning incense before ashrine, a diaphanous shrine of a child-idol with closed eyes; before apure and vaporous shrine of a small god--fragile, powerless, unconsciousand sleeping. 

When Ali, roused by loud and repeated shouting of his name, stumbledoutside the door of his hut, he saw a narrow streak of trembling goldabove the forests and a pale sky with faded stars overhead: signs of thecoming day. His master stood before the door waving a piece of paper inhis hand and shouting excitedly--"Quick, Ali! Quick!" When he saw hisservant he rushed forward, and pressing the paper on him objurgated him, in tones which induced Ali to think that something awful had happened, to hurry up and get the whale-boat ready to go immediately--at once, at once--after Captain Lingard. Ali remonstrated, agitated also, havingcaught the infection of distracted haste. 

"If must go quick, better canoe. Whale-boat no can catch, same as smallcanoe. "

"No, no! Whale-boat! whale-boat! You dolt! you wretch!" howled Almayer, with all the appearance of having gone mad. "Call the men! Get alongwith it. Fly!"

And Ali rushed about the courtyard kicking the doors of huts open to puthis head in and yell frightfully inside; and as he dashed from hovelto hovel, men shivering and sleepy were coming out, looking after himstupidly, while they scratched their ribs with bewildered apathy. It washard work to put them in motion. They wanted time to stretch themselvesand to shiver a little. Some wanted food. One said he was sick. Nobodyknew where the rudder was. Ali darted here and there, ordering, abusing, pushing one, then another, and stopping in his exertions at times towring his hands hastily and groan, because the whale-boat was muchslower than the worst canoe and his master would not listen to hisprotestations. 

Almayer saw the boat go off at last, pulled anyhow by men that werecold, hungry, and sulky; and he remained on the jetty watching it downthe reach. It was broad day then, and the sky was perfectly cloudless. Almayer went up to the house for a moment. His household was all astirand wondering at the strange disappearance of the Sirani woman, who hadtaken her child and had left her luggage. Almayer spoke to no one, gothis revolver, and went down to the river again. He jumped into asmall canoe and paddled himself towards the schooner. He worked veryleisurely, but as soon as he was nearly alongside he began to hailthe silent craft with the tone and appearance of a man in a tremendoushurry. 

"Schooner ahoy! schooner ahoy!" he shouted. 

A row of blank faces popped up above the bulwark. After a while a manwith a woolly head of hair said--

"Sir!"

"The mate! the mate! Call him, steward!" said Almayer, excitedly, makinga frantic grab at a rope thrown down to him by somebody. 

In less than a minute the mate put his head over. He asked, surprised--

"What can I do for you, Mr. Almayer?"

"Let me have the gig at once, Mr. Swan--at once. I ask in CaptainLingard's name. I must have it. Matter of life and death. "

The mate was impressed by Almayer's agitation

"You shall have it, sir. . . . Man the gig there! Bear a hand, serang!. . . It's hanging astern, Mr. Almayer, " he said, looking down again. "Get into it, sir. The men are coming down by the painter. "

By the time Almayer had clambered over into the stern sheets, fourcalashes were in the boat and the oars were being passed over thetaffrail. The mate was looking on. Suddenly he said--

"Is it dangerous work? Do you want any help? I would come . . . "

"Yes, yes!" cried Almayer. "Come along. Don't lose a moment. Go and getyour revolver. Hurry up! hurry up!"

Yet, notwithstanding his feverish anxiety to be off, he lolled backvery quiet and unconcerned till the mate got in and, passing over thethwarts, sat down by his side. Then he seemed to wake up, and calledout--

"Let go--let go the painter!"

"Let go the painter--the painter!" yelled the bowman, jerking at it. 

People on board also shouted "Let go!" to one another, till it occurredat last to somebody to cast off the rope; and the boat drifted rapidlyaway from the schooner in the sudden silencing of all voices. 

Almayer steered. The mate sat by his side, pushing the cartridges intothe chambers of his revolver. When the weapon was loaded he asked--

"What is it? Are you after somebody?"

"Yes, " said Almayer, curtly, with his eyes fixed ahead on the river. "Wemust catch a dangerous man. "

"I like a bit of a chase myself, " declared the mate, and then, discouraged by Almayer's aspect of severe thoughtfulness, said nothingmore. 

Nearly an hour passed. The calashes stretched forward head first and layback with their faces to the sky, alternately, in a regular swingthat sent the boat flying through the water; and the two sitters, veryupright in the stern sheets, swayed rhythmically a little at everystroke of the long oars plied vigorously. 

The mate observed: "The tide is with us. "

"The current always runs down in this river, " said Almayer. 

"Yes--I know, " retorted the other; "but it runs faster on the ebb. Lookby the land at the way we get over the ground! A five-knot current here, I should say. "

"H'm!" growled Almayer. Then suddenly: "There is a passage between twoislands that will save us four miles. But at low water the two islands, in the dry season, are like one with only a mud ditch between them. Still, it's worth trying. "

"Ticklish job that, on a falling tide, " said the mate, coolly. "You knowbest whether there's time to get through. "

"I will try, " said Almayer, watching the shore intently. "Look out now!"

He tugged hard at the starboard yoke-line. 

"Lay in your oars!" shouted the mate. 

The boat swept round and shot through the narrow opening of a creek thatbroadened out before the craft had time to lose its way. 

"Out oars! . . . Just room enough, " muttered the mate. 

It was a sombre creek of black water speckled with the gold of scatteredsunlight falling through the boughs that met overhead in a soaring, restless arc full of gentle whispers passing, tremulous, aloft amongstthe thick leaves. The creepers climbed up the trunks of serried treesthat leaned over, looking insecure and undermined by floods which hadeaten away the earth from under their roots. And the pungent, acridsmell of rotting leaves, of flowers, of blossoms and plants dying inthat poisonous and cruel gloom, where they pined for sunshine in vain, seemed to lay heavy, to press upon the shiny and stagnant water in itstortuous windings amongst the everlasting and invincible shadows. 

Almayer looked anxious. He steered badly. Several times the blades ofthe oars got foul of the bushes on one side or the other, checking theway of the gig. During one of those occurrences, while they were gettingclear, one of the calashes said something to the others in a rapidwhisper. They looked down at the water. So did the mate. 

"Hallo!" he exclaimed. "Eh, Mr. Almayer! Look! The water is running out. See there! We will be caught. "

"Back! back! We must go back!" cried Almayer. 

"Perhaps better go on. "

"No; back! back!"

He pulled at the steering line, and ran the nose of the boat into thebank. Time was lost again in getting clear. 

"Give way, men! give way!" urged the mate, anxiously. 

The men pulled with set lips and dilated nostrils, breathing hard. 

"Too late, " said the mate, suddenly. "The oars touch the bottom already. We are done. "

The boat stuck. The men laid in the oars, and sat, panting, with crossedarms. 

"Yes, we are caught, " said Almayer, composedly. "That is unlucky!"

The water was falling round the boat. The mate watched the patches ofmud coming to the surface. Then in a moment he laughed, and pointing hisfinger at the creek--

"Look!" he said; "the blamed river is running away from us. Here's thelast drop of water clearing out round that bend. "

Almayer lifted his head. The water was gone, and he looked only at acurved track of mud--of mud soft and black, hiding fever, rottenness, and evil under its level and glazed surface. 

"We are in for it till the evening, " he said, with cheerful resignation. "I did my best. Couldn't help it. "

"We must sleep the day away, " said the mate. "There's nothing to eat, "he added, gloomily. 

Almayer stretched himself in the stern sheets. The Malays curled downbetween thwarts. 

"Well, I'm jiggered!" said the mate, starting up after a long pause. "I was in a devil of a hurry to go and pass the day stuck in the mud. Here's a holiday for you! Well! well!"

They slept or sat unmoving and patient. As the sun mounted higher thebreeze died out, and perfect stillness reigned in the empty creek. Atroop of long-nosed monkeys appeared, and crowding on the outer boughs, contemplated the boat and the motionless men in it with grave andsorrowful intensity, disturbed now and then by irrational outbreaks ofmad gesticulation. A little bird with sapphire breast balanced a slendertwig across a slanting beam of light, and flashed in it to and fro likea gem dropped from the sky. His minute round eye stared at the strangeand tranquil creatures in the boat. After a while he sent out a thintwitter that sounded impertinent and funny in the solemn silence of thegreat wilderness; in the great silence full of struggle and death. 

CHAPTER THREE

On Lingard's departure solitude and silence closed round Willems; thecruel solitude of one abandoned by men; the reproachful silence whichsurrounds an outcast ejected by his kind, the silence unbroken by theslightest whisper of hope; an immense and impenetrable silence thatswallows up without echo the murmur of regret and the cry of revolt. The bitter peace of the abandoned clearings entered his heart, in whichnothing could live now but the memory and hate of his past. Not remorse. In the breast of a man possessed by the masterful consciousness ofhis individuality with its desires and its rights; by the immovableconviction of his own importance, of an importance so indisputable andfinal that it clothes all his wishes, endeavours, and mistakes with thedignity of unavoidable fate, there could be no place for such a feelingas that of remorse. 

The days passed. They passed unnoticed, unseen, in the rapid blaze ofglaring sunrises, in the short glow of tender sunsets, in the crushingoppression of high noons without a cloud. How many days? Two--three--ormore? He did not know. To him, since Lingard had gone, the time seemedto roll on in profound darkness. All was night within him. All was gonefrom his sight. He walked about blindly in the deserted courtyards, amongst the empty houses that, perched high on their posts, looked downinimically on him, a white stranger, a man from other lands; seemedto look hostile and mute out of all the memories of native life thatlingered between their decaying walls. His wandering feet stumbledagainst the blackened brands of extinct fires, kicking up a light blackdust of cold ashes that flew in drifting clouds and settled to leewardon the fresh grass sprouting from the hard ground, between the shadetrees. He moved on, and on; ceaseless, unresting, in widening circles, in zigzagging paths that led to no issue; he struggled on wearily witha set, distressed face behind which, in his tired brain, seethed histhoughts: restless, sombre, tangled, chilling, horrible and venomous, like a nestful of snakes. 

From afar, the bleared eyes of the old serving woman, the sombre gazeof Aissa followed the gaunt and tottering figure in its unceasing prowlalong the fences, between the houses, amongst the wild luxuriance ofriverside thickets. Those three human beings abandoned by all werelike shipwrecked people left on an insecure and slippery ledge by theretiring tide of an angry sea--listening to its distant roar, livinganguished between the menace of its return and the hopeless horror oftheir solitude--in the midst of a tempest of passion, of regret, ofdisgust, of despair. The breath of the storm had cast two of them there, robbed of everything--even of resignation. The third, the decrepitwitness of their struggle and their torture, accepted her own dullconception of facts; of strength and youth gone; of her useless oldage; of her last servitude; of being thrown away by her chief, by hernearest, to use up the last and worthless remnant of flickering lifebetween those two incomprehensible and sombre outcasts: a shrivelled, anunmoved, a passive companion of their disaster. 

To the river Willems turned his eyes like a captive that looks fixedlyat the door of his cell. If there was any hope in the world it wouldcome from the river, by the river. For hours together he would stand insunlight while the sea breeze sweeping over the lonely reach flutteredhis ragged garments; the keen salt breeze that made him shiver nowand then under the flood of intense heat. He looked at the brown andsparkling solitude of the flowing water, of the water flowing ceaselessand free in a soft, cool murmur of ripples at his feet. The world seemedto end there. The forests of the other bank appeared unattainable, enigmatical, for ever beyond reach like the stars of heaven--and asindifferent. Above and below, the forests on his side of the river camedown to the water in a serried multitude of tall, immense trees toweringin a great spread of twisted boughs above the thick undergrowth; great, solid trees, looking sombre, severe, and malevolently stolid, like agiant crowd of pitiless enemies pressing round silently to witnesshis slow agony. He was alone, small, crushed. He thought of escape--ofsomething to be done. What? A raft! He imagined himself working at it, feverishly, desperately; cutting down trees, fastening the logs togetherand then drifting down with the current, down to the sea into thestraits. There were ships there--ships, help, white men. Men likehimself. Good men who would rescue him, take him away, take him far awaywhere there was trade, and houses, and other men that could understandhim exactly, appreciate his capabilities; where there was proper food, and money; where there were beds, knives, forks, carriages, brass bands, cool drinks, churches with well-dressed people praying in them. He wouldpray also. The superior land of refined delights where he could sit ona chair, eat his tiffin off a white tablecloth, nod to fellows--goodfellows; he would be popular; always was--where he could be virtuous, correct, do business, draw a salary, smoke cigars, buy things inshops--have boots . . . Be happy, free, become rich. O God! What waswanted? Cut down a few trees. No! One would do. They used to make canoesby burning out a tree trunk, he had heard. Yes! One would do. One treeto cut down . . . He rushed forward, and suddenly stood still as ifrooted in the ground. He had a pocket-knife. 

And he would throw himself down on the ground by the riverside. Hewas tired, exhausted; as if that raft had been made, the voyageaccomplished, the fortune attained. A glaze came over his staring eyes, over his eyes that gazed hopelessly at the rising river where big logsand uprooted trees drifted in the shine of mid-stream: a long processionof black and ragged specks. He could swim out and drift away on one ofthese trees. Anything to escape! Anything! Any risk! He could fastenhimself up between the dead branches. He was torn by desire, by fear;his heart was wrung by the faltering of his courage. He turned over, face downwards, his head on his arms. He had a terrible vision ofshadowless horizons where the blue sky and the blue sea met; or acircular and blazing emptiness where a dead tree and a dead man driftedtogether, endlessly, up and down, upon the brilliant undulations of thestraits. No ships there. Only death. And the river led to it. 

He sat up with a profound groan. 

Yes, death. Why should he die? No! Better solitude, better hopelesswaiting, alone. Alone. No! he was not alone, he saw death looking at himfrom everywhere; from the bushes, from the clouds--he heard her speakingto him in the murmur of the river, filling the space, touching hisheart, his brain with a cold hand. He could see and think of nothingelse. He saw it--the sure death--everywhere. He saw it so close thathe was always on the point of throwing out his arms to keep it off. Itpoisoned all he saw, all he did; the miserable food he ate, the muddywater he drank; it gave a frightful aspect to sunrises and sunsets, tothe brightness of hot noon, to the cooling shadows of the evenings. Hesaw the horrible form among the big trees, in the network of creepersin the fantastic outlines of leaves, of the great indented leaves thatseemed to be so many enormous hands with big broad palms, with stifffingers outspread to lay hold of him; hands gently stirring, or handsarrested in a frightful immobility, with a stillness attentive andwatching for the opportunity to take him, to enlace him, to stranglehim, to hold him till he died; hands that would hold him dead, thatwould never let go, that would cling to his body for ever till itperished--disappeared in their frantic and tenacious grasp. 

And yet the world was full of life. All the things, all the men he knew, existed, moved, breathed; and he saw them in a long perspective, faroff, diminished, distinct, desirable, unattainable, precious . . . Lostfor ever. Round him, ceaselessly, there went on without a sound the madturmoil of tropical life. After he had died all this would remain! Hewanted to clasp, to embrace solid things; he had an immense craving forsensations; for touching, pressing, seeing, handling, holding on, toall these things. All this would remain--remain for years, for ages, forever. After he had miserably died there, all this would remain, wouldlive, would exist in joyous sunlight, would breathe in the coolness ofserene nights. What for, then? He would be dead. He would be stretchedupon the warm moisture of the ground, feeling nothing, seeing nothing, knowing nothing; he would lie stiff, passive, rotting slowly; while overhim, under him, through him--unopposed, busy, hurried--the endless andminute throngs of insects, little shining monsters of repulsive shapes, with horns, with claws, with pincers, would swarm in streams, in rushes, in eager struggle for his body; would swarm countless, persistent, ferocious and greedy--till there would remain nothing but the whitegleam of bleaching bones in the long grass; in the long grass that wouldshoot its feathery heads between the bare and polished ribs. There wouldbe that only left of him; nobody would miss him; no one would rememberhim. 

Nonsense! It could not be. There were ways out of this. Somebody wouldturn up. Some human beings would come. He would speak, entreat--useforce to extort help from them. He felt strong; he was very strong. Hewould . . . The discouragement, the conviction of the futility of hishopes would return in an acute sensation of pain in his heart. He wouldbegin again his aimless wanderings. He tramped till he was ready todrop, without being able to calm by bodily fatigue the trouble of hissoul. There was no rest, no peace within the cleared grounds of hisprison. There was no relief but in the black release of sleep, of sleepwithout memory and without dreams; in the sleep coming brutal and heavy, like the lead that kills. To forget in annihilating sleep; to tumbleheadlong, as if stunned, out of daylight into the night of oblivion, wasfor him the only, the rare respite from this existence which he lackedthe courage to endure--or to end. 

He lived, he struggled with the inarticulate delirium of his thoughtsunder the eyes of the silent Aissa. She shared his torment in thepoignant wonder, in the acute longing, in the despairing inability tounderstand the cause of his anger and of his repulsion; the hate ofhis looks; the mystery of his silence; the menace of his rare words--ofthose words in the speech of white people that were thrown at her withrage, with contempt, with the evident desire to hurt her; to hurt herwho had given herself, her life--all she had to give--to that white man;to hurt her who had wanted to show him the way to true greatness, whohad tried to help him, in her woman's dream of everlasting, enduring, unchangeable affection. From the short contact with the whites in thecrashing collapse of her old life, there remained with her the imposingidea of irresistible power and of ruthless strength. She had found a manof their race--and with all their qualities. All whites are alike. Butthis man's heart was full of anger against his own people, full of angerexisting there by the side of his desire of her. And to her it had beenan intoxication of hope for great things born in the proud and tenderconsciousness of her influence. She had heard the passing whisper ofwonder and fear in the presence of his hesitation, of his resistance, of his compromises; and yet with a woman's belief in the durablesteadfastness of hearts, in the irresistible charm of her ownpersonality, she had pushed him forward, trusting the future, blindly, hopefully; sure to attain by his side the ardent desire of her life, ifshe could only push him far beyond the possibility of retreat. She didnot know, and could not conceive, anything of his--so exalted--ideals. She thought the man a warrior and a chief, ready for battle, violence, and treachery to his own people--for her. What more natural? Was he nota great, strong man? Those two, surrounded each by the impenetrablewall of their aspirations, were hopelessly alone, out of sight, outof earshot of each other; each the centre of dissimilar and distanthorizons; standing each on a different earth, under a different sky. She remembered his words, his eyes, his trembling lips, his outstretchedhands; she remembered the great, the immeasurable sweetness of hersurrender, that beginning of her power which was to last until death. Heremembered the quaysides and the warehouses; the excitement of a life ina whirl of silver coins; the glorious uncertainty of a money hunt; hisnumerous successes, the lost possibilities of wealth and consequentglory. She, a woman, was the victim of her heart, of her woman's beliefthat there is nothing in the world but love--the everlasting thing. He was the victim of his strange principles, of his continence, of hisblind belief in himself, of his solemn veneration for the voice of hisboundless ignorance. 

In a moment of his idleness, of suspense, of discouragement, she hadcome--that creature--and by the touch of her hand had destroyed hisfuture, his dignity of a clever and civilized man; had awakened in hisbreast the infamous thing which had driven him to what he had done, andto end miserably in the wilderness and be forgotten, or else rememberedwith hate or contempt. He dared not look at her, because now wheneverhe looked at her his thought seemed to touch crime, like an outstretchedhand. She could only look at him--and at nothing else. What else wasthere? She followed him with a timorous gaze, with a gaze for everexpecting, patient, and entreating. And in her eyes there was the wonderand desolation of an animal that knows only suffering, of the incompletesoul that knows pain but knows not hope; that can find no refuge fromthe facts of life in the illusory conviction of its dignity, of anexalted destiny beyond; in the heavenly consolation of a belief in themomentous origin of its hate. 

For the first three days after Lingard went away he would not evenspeak to her. She preferred his silence to the sound of hated andincomprehensible words he had been lately addressing to her with a wildviolence of manner, passing at once into complete apathy. And duringthese three days he hardly ever left the river, as if on that muddy bankhe had felt himself nearer to his freedom. He would stay late; he wouldstay till sunset; he would look at the glow of gold passing away amongstsombre clouds in a bright red flush, like a splash of warm blood. Itseemed to him ominous and ghastly with a foreboding of violent deaththat beckoned him from everywhere--even from the sky. 

One evening he remained by the riverside long after sunset, regardlessof the night mist that had closed round him, had wrapped him up andclung to him like a wet winding-sheet. A slight shiver recalled him tohis senses, and he walked up the courtyard towards his house. Aissa rosefrom before the fire, that glimmered red through its own smoke, whichhung thickening under the boughs of the big tree. She approached himfrom the side as he neared the plankway of the house. He saw her stop tolet him begin his ascent. In the darkness her figure was like the shadowof a woman with clasped hands put out beseechingly. He stopped--couldnot help glancing at her. In all the sombre gracefulness of the straightfigure, her limbs, features--all was indistinct and vague but the gleamof her eyes in the faint starlight. He turned his head away and movedon. He could feel her footsteps behind him on the bending planks, but hewalked up without turning his head. He knew what she wanted. She wantedto come in there. He shuddered at the thought of what might happen inthe impenetrable darkness of that house if they were to find themselvesalone--even for a moment. He stopped in the doorway, and heard her say--

"Let me come in. Why this anger? Why this silence? . . . Let me watch. . . By your side. . . . Have I not watched faithfully? Did harm evercome to you when you closed your eyes while I was by? . . . I havewaited . . . I have waited for your smile, for your words . . . I canwait no more. . . . Look at me . . . Speak to me. Is there a bad spiritin you? A bad spirit that has eaten up your courage and your love? Letme touch you. Forget all . . . All. Forget the wicked hearts, the angryfaces . . . And remember only the day I came to you . . . To you! O myheart! O my life!"

The pleading sadness of her appeal filled the space with the tremor ofher low tones, that carried tenderness and tears into the great peaceof the sleeping world. All around them the forests, the clearings, theriver, covered by the silent veil of night, seemed to wake up and listento her words in attentive stillness. After the sound of her voice haddied out in a stifled sigh they appeared to listen yet; and nothingstirred among the shapeless shadows but the innumerable firefliesthat twinkled in changing clusters, in gliding pairs, in wandering andsolitary points--like the glimmering drift of scattered star-dust. 

Willems turned round slowly, reluctantly, as if compelled by main force. Her face was hidden in her hands, and he looked above her bent head, into the sombre brilliance of the night. It was one of those nights thatgive the impression of extreme vastness, when the sky seems higher, whenthe passing puffs of tepid breeze seem to bring with them faint whispersfrom beyond the stars. The air was full of sweet scent, of the scentcharming, penetrating and violent like the impulse of love. He lookedinto that great dark place odorous with the breath of life, with themystery of existence, renewed, fecund, indestructible; and he feltafraid of his solitude, of the solitude of his body, of the lonelinessof his soul in the presence of this unconscious and ardent struggle, of this lofty indifference, of this merciless and mysterious purpose, perpetuating strife and death through the march of ages. For the secondtime in his life he felt, in a sudden sense of his significance, theneed to send a cry for help into the wilderness, and for the second timehe realized the hopelessness of its unconcern. He could shout for helpon every side--and nobody would answer. He could stretch out his hands, he could call for aid, for support, for sympathy, for relief--and nobodywould come. Nobody. There was no one there--but that woman. 

His heart was moved, softened with pity at his own abandonment. Hisanger against her, against her who was the cause of all his misfortunes, vanished before his extreme need for some kind of consolation. Perhaps--if he must resign himself to his fate--she might help him toforget. To forget! For a moment, in an access of despair so profoundthat it seemed like the beginning of peace, he planned the deliberatedescent from his pedestal, the throwing away of his superiority, ofall his hopes, of old ambitions, of the ungrateful civilization. Fora moment, forgetfulness in her arms seemed possible; and lured by thatpossibility the semblance of renewed desire possessed his breast in aburst of reckless contempt for everything outside himself--in a savagedisdain of Earth and of Heaven. He said to himself that he would notrepent. The punishment for his only sin was too heavy. There was nomercy under Heaven. He did not want any. He thought, desperately, thatif he could find with her again the madness of the past, the strangedelirium that had changed him, that had worked his undoing, he would beready to pay for it with an eternity of perdition. He was intoxicated bythe subtle perfumes of the night; he was carried away by the suggestivestir of the warm breeze; he was possessed by the exaltation of thesolitude, of the silence, of his memories, in the presence of thatfigure offering herself in a submissive and patient devotion; coming tohim in the name of the past, in the name of those days when he could seenothing, think of nothing, desire nothing--but her embrace. 

He took her suddenly in his arms, and she clasped her hands round hisneck with a low cry of joy and surprise. He took her in his arms andwaited for the transport, for the madness, for the sensations rememberedand lost; and while she sobbed gently on his breast he held her and feltcold, sick, tired, exasperated with his failure--and ended by cursinghimself. She clung to him trembling with the intensity of herhappiness and her love. He heard her whispering--her face hidden on hisshoulder--of past sorrow, of coming joy that would last for ever; of herunshaken belief in his love. She had always believed. Always! Even whilehis face was turned away from her in the dark days while his mind waswandering in his own land, amongst his own people. But it would neverwander away from her any more, now it had come back. He would forget thecold faces and the hard hearts of the cruel people. What was there toremember? Nothing? Was it not so? . . . 

He listened hopelessly to the faint murmur. He stood still and rigid, pressing her mechanically to his breast while he thought that there wasnothing for him in the world. He was robbed of everything; robbed ofhis passion, of his liberty, of forgetfulness, of consolation. She, wildwith delight, whispered on rapidly, of love, of light, of peace, oflong years. . . . He looked drearily above her head down into the deepergloom of the courtyard. And, all at once, it seemed to him that he waspeering into a sombre hollow, into a deep black hole full of decayand of whitened bones; into an immense and inevitable grave full ofcorruption where sooner or later he must, unavoidably, fall. 

In the morning he came out early, and stood for a time in the doorway, listening to the light breathing behind him--in the house. She slept. Hehad not closed his eyes through all that night. He stood swaying--thenleaned against the lintel of the door. He was exhausted, done up;fancied himself hardly alive. He had a disgusted horror of himself that, as he looked at the level sea of mist at his feet, faded quickly intodull indifference. It was like a sudden and final decrepitude of hissenses, of his body, of his thoughts. Standing on the high platform, helooked over the expanse of low night fog above which, here and there, stood out the feathery heads of tall bamboo clumps and the round topsof single trees, resembling small islets emerging black and solid from aghostly and impalpable sea. Upon the faintly luminous background of theeastern sky, the sombre line of the great forests bounded that smoothsea of white vapours with an appearance of a fantastic and unattainableshore. 

He looked without seeing anything--thinking of himself. Before his eyesthe light of the rising sun burst above the forest with the suddennessof an explosion. He saw nothing. Then, after a time, he murmuredwith conviction--speaking half aloud to himself in the shock of thepenetrating thought:

"I am a lost man. "

He shook his hand above his head in a gesture careless and tragic, thenwalked down into the mist that closed above him in shining undulationsunder the first breath of the morning breeze. 

CHAPTER FOUR

Willems moved languidly towards the river, then retraced his steps tothe tree and let himself fall on the seat under its shade. On the otherside of the immense trunk he could hear the old woman moving about, sighing loudly, muttering to herself, snapping dry sticks, blowing upthe fire. After a while a whiff of smoke drifted round to where he sat. It made him feel hungry, and that feeling was like a new indignity addedto an intolerable load of humiliations. He felt inclined to cry. He feltvery weak. He held up his arm before his eyes and watched for a littlewhile the trembling of the lean limb. Skin and bone, by God! How thinhe was! . . . He had suffered from fever a good deal, and now he thoughtwith tearful dismay that Lingard, although he had sent him food--andwhat food, great Lord: a little rice and dried fish; quite unfit for awhite man--had not sent him any medicine. Did the old savage think thathe was like the wild beasts that are never ill? He wanted quinine. 

He leaned the back of his head against the tree and closed his eyes. He thought feebly that if he could get hold of Lingard he would liketo flay him alive; but it was only a blurred, a short and a passingthought. His imagination, exhausted by the repeated delineations of hisown fate, had not enough strength left to grip the idea of revenge. He was not indignant and rebellious. He was cowed. He was cowed bythe immense cataclysm of his disaster. Like most men, he had carriedsolemnly within his breast the whole universe, and the approaching endof all things in the destruction of his own personality filled himwith paralyzing awe. Everything was toppling over. He blinked his eyesquickly, and it seemed to him that the very sunshine of the morningdisclosed in its brightness a suggestion of some hidden and sinistermeaning. In his unreasoning fear he tried to hide within himself. Hedrew his feet up, his head sank between his shoulders, his arms huggedhis sides. Under the high and enormous tree soaring superbly out of themist in a vigorous spread of lofty boughs, with a restless and eagerflutter of its innumerable leaves in the clear sunshine, he remainedmotionless, huddled up on his seat: terrified and still. 

Willems' gaze roamed over the ground, and then he watched with idioticfixity half a dozen black ants entering courageously a tuft of longgrass which, to them, must have appeared a dark and a dangerous jungle. Suddenly he thought: There must be something dead in there. Some deadinsect. Death everywhere! He closed his eyes again in an access oftrembling pain. Death everywhere--wherever one looks. He did not want tosee the ants. He did not want to see anybody or anything. He sat in thedarkness of his own making, reflecting bitterly that there was no peacefor him. He heard voices now. . . . Illusion! Misery! Torment! Who wouldcome? Who would speak to him? What business had he to hear voices? . . . Yet he heard them faintly, from the river. Faintly, as if shouted faroff over there, came the words "We come back soon. " . . . Delirium andmockery! Who would come back? Nobody ever comes back! Fever comes back. He had it on him this morning. That was it. . . . He heard unexpectedlythe old woman muttering something near by. She had come round to hisside of the tree. He opened his eyes and saw her bent back beforehim. She stood, with her hand shading her eyes, looking towards thelanding-place. Then she glided away. She had seen--and now she was goingback to her cooking; a woman incurious; expecting nothing; without fearand without hope. 

She had gone back behind the tree, and now Willems could see a humanfigure on the path to the landing-place. It appeared to him to be awoman, in a red gown, holding some heavy bundle in her arms; it was anapparition unexpected, familiar and odd. He cursed through his teeth. . . It had wanted only this! See things like that in broad daylight!He was very bad--very bad. . . . He was horribly scared at this awfulsymptom of the desperate state of his health. 

This scare lasted for the space of a flash of lightning, and in thenext moment it was revealed to him that the woman was real; that she wascoming towards him; that she was his wife! He put his feet down to theground quickly, but made no other movement. His eyes opened wide. He wasso amazed that for a time he absolutely forgot his own existence. Theonly idea in his head was: Why on earth did she come here?

Joanna was coming up the courtyard with eager, hurried steps. Shecarried in her arms the child, wrapped up in one of Almayer's whiteblankets that she had snatched off the bed at the last moment, beforeleaving the house. She seemed to be dazed by the sun in her eyes;bewildered by her strange surroundings. She moved on, looking quicklyright and left in impatient expectation of seeing her husband at anymoment. Then, approaching the tree, she perceived suddenly a kind of adried-up, yellow corpse, sitting very stiff on a bench in the shade andlooking at her with big eyes that were alive. That was her husband. 

She stopped dead short. They stared at one another in profoundstillness, with astounded eyes, with eyes maddened by the memoriesof things far off that seemed lost in the lapse of time. Their lookscrossed, passed each other, and appeared to dart at them throughfantastic distances, to come straight from the incredible. 

Looking at him steadily she came nearer, and deposited the blanket withthe child in it on the bench. Little Louis, after howling with terror inthe darkness of the river most of the night, now slept soundly and didnot wake. Willems' eyes followed his wife, his head turning slowly afterher. He accepted her presence there with a tired acquiescence in itsfabulous improbability. Anything might happen. What did she come for?She was part of the general scheme of his misfortune. He half expectedthat she would rush at him, pull his hair, and scratch his face. Whynot? Anything might happen! In an exaggerated sense of his great bodilyweakness he felt somewhat apprehensive of possible assault. At any rate, she would scream at him. He knew her of old. She could screech. He hadthought that he was rid of her for ever. She came now probably to seethe end. . . . 

Suddenly she turned, and embracing him slid gently to the ground. 

This startled him. With her forehead on his knees she sobbednoiselessly. He looked down dismally at the top of her head. What wasshe up to? He had not the strength to move--to get away. He heardher whispering something, and bent over to listen. He caught the word"Forgive. "

That was what she came for! All that way. Women are queer. Forgive. Nothe! . . . All at once this thought darted through his brain: How did shecome? In a boat. Boat! boat!

He shouted "Boat!" and jumped up, knocking her over. Before she had timeto pick herself up he pounced upon her and was dragging her up by theshoulders. No sooner had she regained her feet than she clasped himtightly round the neck, covering his face, his eyes, his mouth, hisnose with desperate kisses. He dodged his head about, shaking her arms, trying to keep her off, to speak, to ask her. . . . She came in aboat, boat, boat! . . . They struggled and swung round, tramping in asemicircle. He blurted out, "Leave off. Listen, " while he tore at herhands. This meeting of lawful love and sincere joy resembled fight. Louis Willems slept peacefully under his blanket. 

At last Willems managed to free himself, and held her off, pressingher arms down. He looked at her. He had half a suspicion that he wasdreaming. Her lips trembled; her eyes wandered unsteadily, always comingback to his face. He saw her the same as ever, in his presence. Sheappeared startled, tremulous, ready to cry. She did not inspire him withconfidence. He shouted--

"How did you come?"

She answered in hurried words, looking at him intently--

"In a big canoe with three men. I know everything. Lingard's away. Icome to save you. I know. . . . Almayer told me. "

"Canoe!--Almayer--Lies. Told you--You!" stammered Willems in adistracted manner. "Why you?--Told what?"

Words failed him. He stared at his wife, thinking with fear thatshe--stupid woman--had been made a tool in some plan of treachery . . . In some deadly plot. 

She began to cry--

"Don't look at me like that, Peter. What have I done? I come to beg--tobeg--forgiveness. . . . Save--Lingard--danger. "

He trembled with impatience, with hope, with fear. She looked at him andsobbed out in a fresh outburst of grief--

"Oh! Peter. What's the matter?--Are you ill? . . . Oh! you look soill . . . "

He shook her violently into a terrified and wondering silence. 

"How dare you!--I am well--perfectly well. . . . Where's that boat? Willyou tell me where that boat is--at last? The boat, I say . . . You! . . . "

"You hurt me, " she moaned. 

He let her go, and, mastering her terror, she stood quivering andlooking at him with strange intensity. Then she made a movement forward, but he lifted his finger, and she restrained herself with a long sigh. He calmed down suddenly and surveyed her with cold criticism, with thesame appearance as when, in the old days, he used to find fault with thehousehold expenses. She found a kind of fearful delight in this abruptreturn into the past, into her old subjection. 

He stood outwardly collected now, and listened to her disconnectedstory. Her words seemed to fall round him with the distracting clatterof stunning hail. He caught the meaning here and there, and straightwaywould lose himself in a tremendous effort to shape out some intelligibletheory of events. There was a boat. A boat. A big boat that could takehim to sea if necessary. That much was clear. She brought it. Why didAlmayer lie to her so? Was it a plan to decoy him into some ambush?Better that than hopeless solitude. She had money. The men were ready togo anywhere . . . She said. 

He interrupted her--

"Where are they now?"

"They are coming directly, " she answered, tearfully. "Directly. Thereare some fishing stakes near here--they said. They are coming directly. "

Again she was talking and sobbing together. She wanted to be forgiven. Forgiven? What for? Ah! the scene in Macassar. As if he had time tothink of that! What did he care what she had done months ago? He seemedto struggle in the toils of complicated dreams where everything wasimpossible, yet a matter of course, where the past took the aspects ofthe future and the present lay heavy on his heart--seemed to take him bythe throat like the hand of an enemy. And while she begged, entreated, kissed his hands, wept on his shoulder, adjured him in the name of God, to forgive, to forget, to speak the word for which she longed, to lookat his boy, to believe in her sorrow and in her devotion--his eyes, inthe fascinated immobility of shining pupils, looked far away, far beyondher, beyond the river, beyond this land, through days, weeks, months;looked into liberty, into the future, into his triumph . . . Into thegreat possibility of a startling revenge. 

He felt a sudden desire to dance and shout. He shouted--

"After all, we shall meet again, Captain Lingard. "

"Oh, no! No!" she cried, joining her hands. 

He looked at her with surprise. He had forgotten she was there till thebreak of her cry in the monotonous tones of her prayer recalled himinto that courtyard from the glorious turmoil of his dreams. It was verystrange to see her there--near him. He felt almost affectionate towardsher. After all, she came just in time. Then he thought: That other one. I must get away without a scene. Who knows; she may be dangerous! . . . And all at once he felt he hated Aissa with an immense hatred thatseemed to choke him. He said to his wife--

"Wait a moment. "

She, obedient, seemed to gulp down some words which wanted to come out. He muttered: "Stay here, " and disappeared round the tree. 

The water in the iron pan on the cooking fire boiled furiously, belchingout volumes of white steam that mixed with the thin black thread ofsmoke. The old woman appeared to him through this as if in a fog, squatting on her heels, impassive and weird. 

Willems came up near and asked, "Where is she?"

The woman did not even lift her head, but answered at once, readily, asthough she had expected the question for a long time. 

"While you were asleep under the tree, before the strange canoe came, she went out of the house. I saw her look at you and pass on with agreat light in her eyes. A great light. And she went towards the placewhere our master Lakamba had his fruit trees. When we were many here. Many, many. Men with arms by their side. Many . . . Men. And talk . . . And songs . . . "

She went on like that, raving gently to herself for a long time afterWillems had left her. 

Willems went back to his wife. He came up close to her and found he hadnothing to say. Now all his faculties were concentrated upon his wish toavoid Aissa. She might stay all the morning in that grove. Why did thoserascally boatmen go? He had a physical repugnance to set eyes on her. And somewhere, at the very bottom of his heart, there was a fear of her. Why? What could she do? Nothing on earth could stop him now. He feltstrong, reckless, pitiless, and superior to everything. He wanted topreserve before his wife the lofty purity of his character. He thought:She does not know. Almayer held his tongue about Aissa. But if she findsout, I am lost. If it hadn't been for the boy I would . . . Free of bothof them. . . . The idea darted through his head. Not he! Married. . . . Swore solemnly. No . . . Sacred tie. . . . Looking on his wife, he feltfor the first time in his life something approaching remorse. Remorse, arising from his conception of the awful nature of an oath before thealtar. . . . She mustn't find out. . . . Oh, for that boat! He must runin and get his revolver. Couldn't think of trusting himself unarmed withthose Bajow fellows. Get it now while she is away. Oh, for that boat!. . . He dared not go to the river and hail. He thought: She might hearme. . . . I'll go and get . . . Cartridges . . . Then will be all ready. . . Nothing else. No. 

And while he stood meditating profoundly before he could make up hismind to run to the house, Joanna pleaded, holding to his arm--pleadeddespairingly, broken-hearted, hopeless whenever she glanced up at hisface, which to her seemed to wear the aspect of unforgivingrectitude, of virtuous severity, of merciless justice. And she pleadedhumbly--abashed before him, before the unmoved appearance of the man shehad wronged in defiance of human and divine laws. He heard not a word ofwhat she said till she raised her voice in a final appeal--

". . . Don't you see I loved you always? They told me horrible thingsabout you. . . . My own mother! They told me--you have been--you havebeen unfaithful to me, and I . . . "

"It's a damned lie!" shouted Willems, waking up for a moment intorighteous indignation. 

"I know! I know--Be generous. --Think of my misery since you wentaway--Oh! I could have torn my tongue out. . . . I will never believeanybody--Look at the boy--Be merciful--I could never rest till I foundyou. . . . Say--a word--one word. . . "

"What the devil do you want?" exclaimed Willems, looking towards theriver. "Where's that damned boat? Why did you let them go away? Youstupid!"

"Oh, Peter!--I know that in your heart you have forgiven me--You are sogenerous--I want to hear you say so. . . . Tell me--do you?"

"Yes! yes!" said Willems, impatiently. "I forgive you. Don't be a fool. "

"Don't go away. Don't leave me alone here. Where is the danger? I am sofrightened. . . . Are you alone here? Sure? . . . Let us go away!"

"That's sense, " said Willems, still looking anxiously towards the river. 

She sobbed gently, leaning on his arm. 

"Let me go, " he said. 

He had seen above the steep bank the heads of three men glide alongsmoothly. Then, where the shore shelved down to the landing-place, appeared a big canoe which came slowly to land. 

"Here they are, " he went on, briskly. "I must get my revolver. "

He made a few hurried paces towards the house, but seemed to catch sightof something, turned short round and came back to his wife. She staredat him, alarmed by the sudden change in his face. He appeared muchdiscomposed. He stammered a little as he began to speak. 

"Take the child. Walk down to the boat and tell them to drop it out ofsight, quick, behind the bushes. Do you hear? Quick! I will come to youthere directly. Hurry up!"

"Peter! What is it? I won't leave you. There is some danger in thishorrible place. "

"Will you do what I tell you?" said Willems, in an irritable whisper. 

"No! no! no! I won't leave you. I will not lose you again. Tell me, whatis it?"

From beyond the house came a faint voice singing. Willems shook his wifeby the shoulder. 

"Do what I tell you! Run at once!"

She gripped his arm and clung to him desperately. He looked up to heavenas if taking it to witness of that woman's infernal folly. 

The song grew louder, then ceased suddenly, and Aissa appeared in sight, walking slowly, her hands full of flowers. 

She had turned the corner of the house, coming out into the fullsunshine, and the light seemed to leap upon her in a stream brilliant, tender, and caressing, as if attracted by the radiant happiness of herface. She had dressed herself for a festive day, for the memorable dayof his return to her, of his return to an affection that would last forever. The rays of the morning sun were caught by the oval clasp of theembroidered belt that held the silk sarong round her waist. The dazzlingwhite stuff of her body jacket was crossed by a bar of yellow and silverof her scarf, and in the black hair twisted high on her small headshone the round balls of gold pins amongst crimson blossoms and whitestar-shaped flowers, with which she had crowned herself to charm hiseyes; those eyes that were henceforth to see nothing in the world buther own resplendent image. And she moved slowly, bending her face overthe mass of pure white champakas and jasmine pressed to her breast, in adreamy intoxication of sweet scents and of sweeter hopes. 

She did not seem to see anything, stopped for a moment at the foot ofthe plankway leading to the house, then, leaving her high-heeled woodensandals there, ascended the planks in a light run; straight, graceful, flexible, and noiseless, as if she had soared up to the door oninvisible wings. Willems pushed his wife roughly behind the tree, andmade up his mind quickly for a rush to the house, to grab his revolverand . . . Thoughts, doubts, expedients seemed to boil in his brain. Hehad a flashing vision of delivering a stunning blow, of tying up thatflower bedecked woman in the dark house--a vision of things done swiftlywith enraged haste--to save his prestige, his superiority--something ofimmense importance. . . . He had not made two steps when Joanna boundedafter him, caught the back of his ragged jacket, tore out a big piece, and instantly hooked herself with both hands to the collar, nearlydragging him down on his back. Although taken by surprise, he managed tokeep his feet. From behind she panted into his ear--

"That woman! Who's that woman? Ah! that's what those boatmen weretalking about. I heard them . . . Heard them . . . Heard . . . In thenight. They spoke about some woman. I dared not understand. I would notask . . . Listen . . . Believe! How could I? Then it's true. No. Say no. . . . Who's that woman?"

He swayed, tugging forward. She jerked at him till the button gave way, and then he slipped half out of his jacket and, turning round, remainedstrangely motionless. His heart seemed to beat in his throat. Hechoked--tried to speak--could not find any words. He thought with fury:I will kill both of them. 

For a second nothing moved about the courtyard in the great vividclearness of the day. Only down by the landing-place a waringan-tree, all in a blaze of clustering red berries, seemed alive with the stir oflittle birds that filled with the feverish flutter of their feathersthe tangle of overloaded branches. Suddenly the variegated flock rosespinning in a soft whirr and dispersed, slashing the sunlit haze withthe sharp outlines of stiffened wings. Mahmat and one of his brothersappeared coming up from the landing-place, their lances in their hands, to look for their passengers. 

Aissa coming now empty-handed out of the house, caught sight of the twoarmed men. In her surprise she emitted a faint cry, vanished back and ina flash reappeared in the doorway with Willems' revolver in her hand. To her the presence of any man there could only have an ominous meaning. There was nothing in the outer world but enemies. She and the man sheloved were alone, with nothing round them but menacing dangers. She didnot mind that, for if death came, no matter from what hand, they woulddie together. 

Her resolute eyes took in the courtyard in a circular glance. Shenoticed that the two strangers had ceased to advance and now werestanding close together leaning on the polished shafts of their weapons. The next moment she saw Willems, with his back towards her, apparentlystruggling under the tree with some one. She saw nothing distinctly, and, unhesitating, flew down the plankway calling out: "I come!"

He heard her cry, and with an unexpected rush drove his wife backwardsto the seat. She fell on it; he jerked himself altogether out of hisjacket, and she covered her face with the soiled rags. He put his lipsclose to her, asking--

"For the last time, will you take the child and go?"

She groaned behind the unclean ruins of his upper garment. She mumbledsomething. He bent lower to hear. She was saying--

"I won't. Order that woman away. I can't look at her!"

"You fool!"

He seemed to spit the words at her, then, making up his mind, spun roundto face Aissa. She was coming towards them slowly now, with a look ofunbounded amazement on her face. Then she stopped and stared at him--whostood there, stripped to the waist, bare-headed and sombre. 

Some way off, Mahmat and his brother exchanged rapid words in calmundertones. . . . This was the strong daughter of the holy man who haddied. The white man is very tall. There would be three women and thechild to take in the boat, besides that white man who had the money. . . . The brother went away back to the boat, and Mahmat remainedlooking on. He stood like a sentinel, the leaf-shaped blade of hislance glinting above his head. 

Willems spoke suddenly. 

"Give me this, " he said, stretching his hand towards the revolver. 

Aissa stepped back. Her lips trembled. She said very low: "Your people?"

He nodded slightly. She shook her head thoughtfully, and a few delicatepetals of the flowers dying in her hair fell like big drops of crimsonand white at her feet. 

"Did you know?" she whispered. 

"No!" said Willems. "They sent for me. "

"Tell them to depart. They are accursed. What is there between them andyou--and you who carry my life in your heart!"

Willems said nothing. He stood before her looking down on the ground andrepeating to himself: I must get that revolver away from her, atonce, at once. I can't think of trusting myself with those men withoutfirearms. I must have it. 

She asked, after gazing in silence at Joanna, who was sobbing gently--

"Who is she?"

"My wife, " answered Willems, without looking up. "My wife according toour white law, which comes from God!"

"Your law! Your God!" murmured Aissa, contemptuously. 

"Give me this revolver, " said Willems, in a peremptory tone. He felt anunwillingness to close with her, to get it by force. 

She took no notice and went on--

"Your law . . . Or your lies? What am I to believe? I came--I ran todefend you when I saw the strange men. You lied to me with your lips, with your eyes. You crooked heart! . . . Ah!" she added, after an abruptpause. "She is the first! Am I then to be a slave?"

"You may be what you like, " said Willems, brutally. "I am going. "

Her gaze was fastened on the blanket under which she had detected aslight movement. She made a long stride towards it. Willems turned halfround. His legs seemed to him to be made of lead. He felt faint and soweak that, for a moment, the fear of dying there where he stood, beforehe could escape from sin and disaster, passed through his mind in a waveof despair. 

She lifted up one corner of the blanket, and when she saw the sleepingchild a sudden quick shudder shook her as though she had seen somethinginexpressibly horrible. She looked at Louis Willems with eyes fixed inan unbelieving and terrified stare. Then her fingers opened slowly, anda shadow seemed to settle on her face as if something obscure and fatalhad come between her and the sunshine. She stood looking down, absorbed, as though she had watched at the bottom of a gloomy abyss the mournfulprocession of her thoughts. 

Willems did not move. All his faculties were concentrated upon the ideaof his release. And it was only then that the assurance of it came tohim with such force that he seemed to hear a loud voice shouting in theheavens that all was over, that in another five, ten minutes, he wouldstep into another existence; that all this, the woman, the madness, thesin, the regrets, all would go, rush into the past, disappear, become asdust, as smoke, as drifting clouds--as nothing! Yes! All would vanish inthe unappeasable past which would swallow up all--even the very memoryof his temptation and of his downfall. Nothing mattered. He cared fornothing. He had forgotten Aissa, his wife, Lingard, Hudig--everybody, inthe rapid vision of his hopeful future. 

After a while he heard Aissa saying--

"A child! A child! What have I done to be made to devour this sorrow andthis grief? And while your man-child and the mother lived you told methere was nothing for you to remember in the land from which you came!And I thought you could be mine. I thought that I would . . . "

Her voice ceased in a broken murmur, and with it, in her heart, seemedto die the greater and most precious hope of her new life. 

She had hoped that in the future the frail arms of a child would bindtheir two lives together in a bond which nothing on earth could break, a bond of affection, of gratitude, of tender respect. She the first--theonly one! But in the instant she saw the son of that other woman shefelt herself removed into the cold, the darkness, the silence ofa solitude impenetrable and immense--very far from him, beyond thepossibility of any hope, into an infinity of wrongs without any redress. 

She strode nearer to Joanna. She felt towards that woman anger, envy, jealousy. Before her she felt humiliated and enraged. She seized thehanging sleeve of the jacket in which Joanna was hiding her face andtore it out of her hands, exclaiming loudly--

"Let me see the face of her before whom I am only a servant and a slave. Ya-wa! I see you!"

Her unexpected shout seemed to fill the sunlit space of cleared grounds, rise high and run on far into the land over the unstirring tree-topsof the forests. She stood in sudden stillness, looking at Joanna withsurprised contempt. 

"A Sirani woman!" she said, slowly, in a tone of wonder. 

Joanna rushed at Willems--clung to him, shrieking: "Defend me, Peter!Defend me from that woman!"

"Be quiet. There is no danger, " muttered Willems, thickly. 

Aissa looked at them with scorn. "God is great! I sit in the dust atyour feet, " she exclaimed jeeringly, joining her hands above her head ina gesture of mock humility. "Before you I am as nothing. " She turned toWillems fiercely, opening her arms wide. "What have you made of me?" shecried, "you lying child of an accursed mother! What have you made of me?The slave of a slave. Don't speak! Your words are worse than the poisonof snakes. A Sirani woman. A woman of a people despised by all. "

She pointed her finger at Joanna, stepped back, and began to laugh. 

"Make her stop, Peter!" screamed Joanna. "That heathen woman. Heathen!Heathen! Beat her, Peter. "

Willems caught sight of the revolver which Aissa had laid on the seatnear the child. He spoke in Dutch to his wife, without moving his head. 

"Snatch the boy--and my revolver there. See. Run to the boat. I willkeep her back. Now's the time. "

Aissa came nearer. She stared at Joanna, while between the short gustsof broken laughter she raved, fumbling distractedly at the buckle of herbelt. 

"To her! To her--the mother of him who will speak of your wisdom, ofyour courage. All to her. I have nothing. Nothing. Take, take. "

She tore the belt off and threw it at Joanna's feet. She flung downwith haste the armlets, the gold pins, the flowers; and the long hair, released, fell scattered over her shoulders, framing in its blacknessthe wild exaltation of her face. 

"Drive her off, Peter. Drive off the heathen savage, " persisted Joanna. She seemed to have lost her head altogether. She stamped, clinging toWillems' arm with both her hands. 

"Look, " cried Aissa. "Look at the mother of your son! She is afraid. Whydoes she not go from before my face? Look at her. She is ugly. "

Joanna seemed to understand the scornful tone of the words. As Aissastepped back again nearer to the tree she let go her husband's arm, rushed at her madly, slapped her face, then, swerving round, darted atthe child who, unnoticed, had been wailing for some time, and, snatchinghim up, flew down to the waterside, sending shriek after shriek in anaccess of insane terror. 

Willems made for the revolver. Aissa passed swiftly, giving him anunexpected push that sent him staggering away from the tree. She caughtup the weapon, put it behind her back, and cried--

"You shall not have it. Go after her. Go to meet danger. . . . Go tomeet death. . . . Go unarmed. . . . Go with empty hands and sweet words. . . As you came to me. . . . Go helpless and lie to the forests, tothe sea . . . To the death that waits for you. . . . "

She ceased as if strangled. She saw in the horror of the passingseconds the half-naked, wild-looking man before her; she heard the faintshrillness of Joanna's insane shrieks for help somewhere down by theriverside. The sunlight streamed on her, on him, on the mute land, onthe murmuring river--the gentle brilliance of a serene morning that, to her, seemed traversed by ghastly flashes of uncertain darkness. Hatefilled the world, filled the space between them--the hate of race, thehate of hopeless diversity, the hate of blood; the hate against the manborn in the land of lies and of evil from which nothing but misfortunecomes to those who are not white. And as she stood, maddened, she hearda whisper near her, the whisper of the dead Omar's voice saying in herear: "Kill! Kill!"

She cried, seeing him move--

"Do not come near me . . . Or you die now! Go while I remember yet . . . Remember. . . . "

Willems pulled himself together for a struggle. He dared not go unarmed. He made a long stride, and saw her raise the revolver. He noticed thatshe had not cocked it, and said to himself that, even if she did fire, she would surely miss. Go too high; it was a stiff trigger. He made astep nearer--saw the long barrel moving unsteadily at the end of herextended arm. He thought: This is my time . . . He bent his kneesslightly, throwing his body forward, and took off with a long bound fora tearing rush. 

He saw a burst of red flame before his eyes, and was deafened by areport that seemed to him louder than a clap of thunder. Somethingstopped him short, and he stood aspiring in his nostrils the acrid smellof the blue smoke that drifted from before his eyes like an immensecloud. . . . Missed, by Heaven! . . . Thought so! . . . And he saw hervery far off, throwing her arms up, while the revolver, very small, layon the ground between them. . . . Missed! . . . He would go and pick itup now. Never before did he understand, as in that second, the joy, the triumphant delight of sunshine and of life. His mouth was full ofsomething salt and warm. He tried to cough; spat out. . . . Whoshrieks: In the name of God, he dies!--he dies!--Who dies?--Must pickup--Night!--What? . . . Night already. . . . 

* * * * * *

Many years afterwards Almayer was telling the story of the greatrevolution in Sambir to a chance visitor from Europe. He was aRoumanian, half naturalist, half orchid-hunter for commercial purposes, who used to declare to everybody, in the first five minutes ofacquaintance, his intention of writing a scientific book about tropicalcountries. On his way to the interior he had quartered himself uponAlmayer. He was a man of some education, but he drank his gin neat, oronly, at most, would squeeze the juice of half a small lime into theraw spirit. He said it was good for his health, and, with that medicinebefore him, he would describe to the surprised Almayer the wonders ofEuropean capitals; while Almayer, in exchange, bored him by expounding, with gusto, his unfavourable opinions of Sambir's social and politicallife. They talked far into the night, across the deal table on theverandah, while, between them, clear-winged, small, and flabby insects, dissatisfied with moonlight, streamed in and perished in thousands roundthe smoky light of the evil-smelling lamp. 

Almayer, his face flushed, was saying--

"Of course, I did not see that. I told you I was stuck in the creek onaccount of father's--Captain Lingard's--susceptible temper. I am sure Idid it all for the best in trying to facilitate the fellow's escape; butCaptain Lingard was that kind of man--you know--one couldn't argue with. Just before sunset the water was high enough, and we got out of thecreek. We got to Lakamba's clearing about dark. All very quiet; Ithought they were gone, of course, and felt very glad. We walked up thecourtyard--saw a big heap of something lying in the middle. Out ofthat she rose and rushed at us. By God. . . . You know those stories offaithful dogs watching their masters' corpses . . . Don't let anybodyapproach . . . Got to beat them off--and all that. . . . Well, 'pon myword we had to beat her off. Had to! She was like a fury. Wouldn't letus touch him. Dead--of course. Should think so. Shot through the lung, on the left side, rather high up, and at pretty close quarters too, forthe two holes were small. Bullet came out through the shoulder-blade. After we had overpowered her--you can't imagine how strong that womanwas; it took three of us--we got the body into the boat and shoved off. We thought she had fainted then, but she got up and rushed into thewater after us. Well, I let her clamber in. What could I do? The river'sfull of alligators. I will never forget that pull up-stream in the nightas long as I live. She sat in the bottom of the boat, holding his headin her lap, and now and again wiping his face with her hair. There wasa lot of blood dried about his mouth and chin. And for all the six hoursof that journey she kept on whispering tenderly to that corpse! . . . I had the mate of the schooner with me. The man said afterwards thathe wouldn't go through it again--not for a handful of diamonds. And Ibelieved him--I did. It makes me shiver. Do you think he heard? No! Imean somebody--something--heard? . . . "

"I am a materialist, " declared the man of science, tilting the bottleshakily over the emptied glass. 

Almayer shook his head and went on--

"Nobody saw how it really happened but that man Mahmat. He always saidthat he was no further off from them than two lengths of his lance. Itappears the two women rowed each other while that Willems stood betweenthem. Then Mahmat says that when Joanna struck her and ran off, theother two seemed to become suddenly mad together. They rushed hereand there. Mahmat says--those were his very words: 'I saw her standingholding the pistol that fires many times and pointing it all over thecampong. I was afraid--lest she might shoot me, and jumped on one side. Then I saw the white man coming at her swiftly. He came like our masterthe tiger when he rushes out of the jungle at the spears held by men. She did not take aim. The barrel of her weapon went like this--from sideto side, but in her eyes I could see suddenly a great fear. There wasonly one shot. She shrieked while the white man stood blinking his eyesand very straight, till you could count slowly one, two, three; thenhe coughed and fell on his face. The daughter of Omar shrieked withoutdrawing breath, till he fell. I went away then and left silence behindme. These things did not concern me, and in my boat there was that otherwoman who had promised me money. We left directly, paying no attentionto her cries. We are only poor men--and had but a small reward for ourtrouble!' That's what Mahmat said. Never varied. You ask him yourself. He's the man you hired the boats from, for your journey up the river. "

"The most rapacious thief I ever met!" exclaimed the traveller, thickly. 

"Ah! He is a respectable man. His two brothers got themselvesspeared--served them right. They went in for robbing Dyak graves. Goldornaments in them you know. Serve them right. But he kept respectableand got on. Aye! Everybody got on--but I. And all through that scoundrelwho brought the Arabs here. "

"De mortuis nil ni . . . Num, " muttered Almayer's guest. 

"I wish you would speak English instead of jabbering in your ownlanguage, which no one can understand, " said Almayer, sulkily. 

"Don't be angry, " hiccoughed the other. "It's Latin, and it's wisdom. Itmeans: Don't waste your breath in abusing shadows. No offence there. Ilike you. You have a quarrel with Providence--so have I. I was meant tobe a professor, while--look. "

His head nodded. He sat grasping the glass. Almayer walked up and down, then stopped suddenly. 

"Yes, they all got on but I. Why? I am better than any of them. Lakambacalls himself a Sultan, and when I go to see him on business sends thatone-eyed fiend of his--Babalatchi--to tell me that the ruler isasleep; and shall sleep for a long time. And that Babalatchi! He is theShahbandar of the State--if you please. Oh Lord! Shahbandar! The pig! Avagabond I wouldn't let come up these steps when he first came here. . . . Look at Abdulla now. He lives here because--he says--here he isaway from white men. But he has hundreds of thousands. Has a house inPenang. Ships. What did he not have when he stole my trade from me!He knocked everything here into a cocked hat, drove father togold-hunting--then to Europe, where he disappeared. Fancy a man likeCaptain Lingard disappearing as though he had been a common coolie. Friends of mine wrote to London asking about him. Nobody ever heard ofhim there! Fancy! Never heard of Captain Lingard!"

The learned gatherer of orchids lifted his head. 

"He was a sen--sentimen--tal old buc--buccaneer, " he stammered out, "Ilike him. I'm sent--tal myself. "

He winked slowly at Almayer, who laughed. 

"Yes! I told you about that gravestone. Yes! Another hundred and twentydollars thrown away. Wish I had them now. He would do it. And theinscription. Ha! ha! ha! 'Peter Willems, Delivered by the Mercy of Godfrom his Enemy. ' What enemy--unless Captain Lingard himself? And then ithas no sense. He was a great man--father was--but strange in many ways. . . . You haven't seen the grave? On the top of that hill, there, on theother side of the river. I must show you. We will go there. "

"Not I!" said the other. "No interest--in the sun--too tiring. . . . Unless you carry me there. "

As a matter of fact he was carried there a few months afterwards, andhis was the second white man's grave in Sambir; but at present he wasalive if rather drunk. He asked abruptly--

"And the woman?"

"Oh! Lingard, of course, kept her and her ugly brat in Macassar. Sinfulwaste of money--that! Devil only knows what became of them since fatherwent home. I had my daughter to look after. I shall give you a word toMrs. Vinck in Singapore when you go back. You shall see my Nina there. Lucky man. She is beautiful, and I hear so accomplished, so . . . "

"I have heard already twenty . . . A hundred times about your daughter. What ab--about--that--that other one, Ai--ssa?"

"She! Oh! we kept her here. She was mad for a long time in a quiet sortof way. Father thought a lot of her. He gave her a house to live in, in my campong. She wandered about, speaking to nobody unless she caughtsight of Abdulla, when she would have a fit of fury, and shriek andcurse like anything. Very often she would disappear--and then we all hadto turn out and hunt for her, because father would worry till she wasbrought back. Found her in all kinds of places. Once in the abandonedcampong of Lakamba. Sometimes simply wandering in the bush. She had onefavourite spot we always made for at first. It was ten to one on findingher there--a kind of a grassy glade on the banks of a small brook. Whyshe preferred that place, I can't imagine! And such a job to get heraway from there. Had to drag her away by main force. Then, as the timepassed, she became quieter and more settled, like. Still, all my peoplefeared her greatly. It was my Nina that tamed her. You see the child wasnaturally fearless and used to have her own way, so she would go toher and pull at her sarong, and order her about, as she did everybody. Finally she, I verily believe, came to love the child. Nothing couldresist that little one--you know. She made a capital nurse. Once whenthe little devil ran away from me and fell into the river off the endof the jetty, she jumped in and pulled her out in no time. I very nearlydied of fright. Now of course she lives with my serving girls, but doeswhat she likes. As long as I have a handful of rice or a piece of cottonin the store she sha'n't want for anything. You have seen her. Shebrought in the dinner with Ali. "

"What! That doubled-up crone?"

"Ah!" said Almayer. "They age quickly here. And long foggy nights spentin the bush will soon break the strongest backs--as you will find outyourself soon. "

"Dis . . . Disgusting, " growled the traveller. 

He dozed off. Almayer stood by the balustrade looking out at the bluishsheen of the moonlit night. The forests, unchanged and sombre, seemedto hang over the water, listening to the unceasing whisper of the greatriver; and above their dark wall the hill on which Lingard had buriedthe body of his late prisoner rose in a black, rounded mass, uponthe silver paleness of the sky. Almayer looked for a long time atthe clean-cut outline of the summit, as if trying to make out throughdarkness and distance the shape of that expensive tombstone. When heturned round at last he saw his guest sleeping, his arms on the table, his head on his arms. 

"Now, look here!" he shouted, slapping the table with the palm of hishand. 

The naturalist woke up, and sat all in a heap, staring owlishly. 

"Here!" went on Almayer, speaking very loud and thumping the table, "Iwant to know. You, who say you have read all the books, just tell me. . . Why such infernal things are ever allowed. Here I am! Done harm tonobody, lived an honest life . . . And a scoundrel like that is born inRotterdam or some such place at the other end of the world somewhere, travels out here, robs his employer, runs away from his wife, and ruinsme and my Nina--he ruined me, I tell you--and gets himself shot at lastby a poor miserable savage, that knows nothing at all about him really. Where's the sense of all this? Where's your Providence? Where's the goodfor anybody in all this? The world's a swindle! A swindle! Why should Isuffer? What have I done to be treated so?"

He howled out his string of questions, and suddenly became silent. The man who ought to have been a professor made a tremendous effort toarticulate distinctly--

"My dear fellow, don't--don't you see that the ba-bare fac--the fact ofyour existence is off--offensive. . . . I--I like you--like . . . "

He fell forward on the table, and ended his remarks by an unexpected andprolonged snore. 

Almayer shrugged his shoulders and walked back to the balustrade. 

He drank his own trade gin very seldom, but when he did, a ridiculouslysmall quantity of the stuff could induce him to assume a rebelliousattitude towards the scheme of the universe. And now, throwing his bodyover the rail, he shouted impudently into the night, turning his facetowards that far-off and invisible slab of imported granite upon whichLingard had thought fit to record God's mercy and Willems' escape. 

"Father was wrong--wrong!" he yelled. "I want you to smart for it. Youmust smart for it! Where are you, Willems? Hey? . . . Hey? . . . Wherethere is no mercy for you--I hope!"

"Hope, " repeated in a whispering echo the startled forests, the riverand the hills; and Almayer, who stood waiting, with a smile of tipsyattention on his lips, heard no other answer.