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Almayer.  Avoiding that shed, with its black smoke and the warbling of soft, feminine voices, Dain would turn to the left.  There, on the edge of a banana plantation, a clump of palms and mango trees formed a shady spot, a few scattered bushes giving it a certain seclusion into which only the serving women’s chatter or an occasional burst of laughter could penetrate.  Once in, he was invisible; and hidden there, leaning against the smooth trunk of a tall palm, he waited with gleaming eyes and an assured smile to hear the faint rustle of dried grass under the light footsteps of Nina.

From the very first moment when his eyes beheld this — to him — perfection of loveliness he felt in his inmost heart the conviction that she would be his; he felt the subtle breath of mutual understanding passing between their two savage natures, and he did not want Mrs. Almayer’s encouraging smiles to take every opportunity of approaching the girl; and every time he spoke to her, every time he looked into her eyes, Nina, although averting her face, felt as if this bold-looking being who spoke burning words into her willing ear was the embodiment of her fate, the creature of her dreams — reckless, ferocious, ready with flashing kriss for his enemies, and with passionate embrace for his beloved — the ideal Malay chief of her mother’s tradition.

She recognised with a thrill of delicious fear the mysterious consciousness of her identity with that being.  Listening to his words, it seemed to her she was born only then to a knowledge of a new existence, that her life was complete only when near him, and she abandoned herself to a feeling of dreamy happiness, while with half-veiled face and in silence — as became a Malay girl — she listened to Dain’s words giving up to her the whole treasure of love and passion his nature was capable of with all the unrestrained enthusiasm of a man totally untrammelled by any influence of civilised self-discipline.

And they used to pass many a delicious and fast fleeting hour under the mango trees behind the friendly curtain of bushes till Mrs. Almayer’s shrill voice gave the signal of unwilling separation.  Mrs. Almayer had undertaken the easy task of watching her husband lest he should interrupt the smooth course of her daughter’s love affair, in which she took a great and benignant interest.  She was happy and proud to see Dain’s infatuation, believing him to be a great and powerful chief, and she found also a gratification of her mercenary instincts in Dain’s open-handed generosity.

On the eve of the day when Babalatchi’s suspicions were confirmed by ocular demonstration, Dain and Nina had remained longer than usual in their shady retreat.  Only Almayer’s heavy step on the verandah and his querulous clamour for food decided Mrs. Almayer to lift a warning cry.  Maroola leaped lightly over the low bamboo fence, and made his way stealthily through the banana plantation down to the muddy shore of the back creek, while Nina walked slowly towards the house to minister to her father’s wants, as was her wont every evening.  Almayer felt happy enough that evening; the preparations were nearly completed; to-morrow he would launch his boats.  In his mind’s eye he saw the rich prize in his grasp; and, with tin spoon in his hand, he was forgetting the plateful of rice before him in the fanciful arrangement of some splendid banquet to take place on his arrival in Amsterdam.  Nina, reclining in the long chair, listened absently to the few disconnected words escaping from her father’s lips.  Expedition!  Gold!  What did she care for all that?  But at the name of Maroola mentioned by her father she was all attention.  Dain was going down the river with his brig to-morrow to remain away for a few days, said Almayer.  It was very annoying, this delay.  As soon as Dain returned they would have to start without loss of time, for the river was rising.  He would not be surprised if a great flood was coming.  And he pushed away his plate with an impatient gesture on rising from the table.  But now Nina heard him not.  Dain going away!  That’s why he had ordered her, with that quiet masterfulness it was her delight to obey, to meet him at break of day in Bulangi’s creek.  Was there a paddle in her canoe? she thought.  Was it ready?  She would have to start early — at four in the morning, in a very few hours.

She rose from her chair, thinking she would require rest before the long pull in the early morning.  The lamp was burning dimly, and her father, tired with the day’s labour, was already in his hammock.  Nina put the lamp out and passed into a large room she shared with her mother on the left of the central passage.  Entering, she saw that Mrs. Almayer had deserted the pile of mats serving her as bed in one corner of the room, and was now bending over the opened lid of her large wooden chest.  Half a shell of cocoanut filled with oil, where a cotton rag floated for a wick, stood on the floor, surrounding her with a ruddy halo of light shining through the black and odorous smoke.  Mrs. Almayer’s back was bent, and her head and shoulders hidden in the deep box.  Her hands rummaged in the interior, where a soft clink as of silver money could be heard.  She did not notice at first her daughter’s approach, and Nina, standing silently by her, looked down on many little canvas bags ranged in the bottom of the chest, wherefrom her mother extracted handfuls of shining guilders and Mexican dollars, letting them stream slowly back again through her claw-like fingers.  The music of tinkling silver seemed to delight her, and her eyes sparkled with the reflected gleam of freshly-minted coins.  She was muttering to herself: “And this, and this, and yet this!  Soon he will give more — as much more as I ask.  He is a great Rajah — a Son of Heaven!  And she will be a Ranee — he gave all this for her!  Who ever gave anything for me?  I am a slave!  Am I?  I am the mother of a great Ranee!”  She became aware suddenly of her daughter’s presence, and ceased her droning, shutting the lid down violently; then, without rising from her crouching position, she looked up at the girl standing by with a vague smile on her dreamy face.

“You have seen.  Have you?” she shouted, shrilly.  “That is all mine, and for you.  It is not enough!  He will have to give more before he takes you away to the southern island where his father is king.  You hear me?  You are worth more, granddaughter of Rajahs!  More!  More!”

The sleepy voice of Almayer was heard on the verandah recommending silence.  Mrs. Almayer extinguished the light and crept into her corner of the room.  Nina laid down on her back on a pile of soft mats, her hands entwined under her head, gazing through the shutterless hole, serving as a window at the stars twinkling on the black sky; she was awaiting the time of start for her appointed meeting-place.  With quiet happiness she thought of that meeting in the great forest, far from all human eyes and sounds.  Her soul, lapsing again into the savage mood, which the genius of civilisation working by the hand of Mrs. Vinck could never destroy, experienced a feeling of pride and of some slight trouble at the high value her worldly-wise mother had put upon her person; but she remembered the expressive glances and words of Dain, and, tranquillised, she closed her eyes in a shiver of pleasant anticipation.

There are some situations where the barbarian and the, so-called, civilised man meet upon the same ground.  It may be supposed that Dain Maroola was not exceptionally delighted with his prospective mother-in-law, nor that he actually approved of that worthy woman’s appetite for shining dollars.  Yet on that foggy morning when Babalatchi, laying aside the cares of state, went to visit his fish-baskets in the Bulangi creek, Maroola had no misgivings, experienced no feelings but those of impatience and longing, when paddling to the east side of the island forming the back-water in question.  He hid his canoe in the bushes and strode rapidly across the islet, pushing with impatience through the twigs of heavy undergrowth intercrossed over his path.  From motives of prudence he would not take his canoe to the meeting-place, as Nina had done.  He had left it in the main stream till his return from the other side of the island.  The heavy warm fog was closing rapidly round him, but he managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of a light away to the left, proceeding from Bulangi’s house.  Then he could see nothing in the thickening vapour, and kept to the path only by a sort of instinct, which also led him to the very point on the opposite shore he wished to reach.  A great log had stranded there, at right angles to the bank, forming a kind of jetty against which the swiftly flowing stream broke with a loud ripple.  He stepped on it with a quick but steady motion, and in two strides found himself at the outer end, with the rush and swirl of the foaming water at his feet.

Standing there alone, as if separated from the world; the heavens, earth; the very water roaring under him swallowed up in the thick veil of the morning fog, he breathed out the name of Nina before him into the apparently limitless space, sure of being heard, instinctively sure of the nearness of the delightful creature; certain of her being aware of his near presence as he was aware of hers.

The bow of Nina’s canoe loomed up close to the log, canted high out of the water by the weight of the sitter in the stern.  Maroola laid his hand on the stem and leaped lightly in, giving it a vigorous shove off.  The light craft, obeying the new impulse, cleared the log by a hair’s breadth, and the river, with obedient complicity, swung it broadside to the current, and bore it off silently and rapidly between the invisible banks.  And once more Dain, at the feet of Nina, forgot the world, felt himself carried away helpless by a great wave of supreme emotion, by a rush of joy, pride, and desire; understood once more with overpowering certitude that there was no life possible without that being he held clasped in his arms with passionate strength in a prolonged embrace.

Nina disengaged herself gently with a low laugh.

“You will overturn the boat, Dain,” she whispered.

He looked into her eyes eagerly for a minute and let her go with a sigh, then lying down in the canoe he put his head on her knees, gazing upwards and stretching his arms backwards till his hands met round the girl’s waist.  She bent over him, and, shaking her head, framed both their faces in the falling locks of her long black hair.

And so they drifted on, he speaking with all the rude eloquence of a savage nature giving itself up without restraint to an overmastering passion, she bending low to catch the murmur of words sweeter to her than life itself.  To those two nothing existed then outside the gunwales of the narrow and fragile craft.  It was their world, filled with their intense and all-absorbing love.  They took no heed of thickening mist, or of the breeze dying away before sunrise; they forgot the existence of the great forests surrounding them, of all the tropical nature awaiting the advent of the sun in a solemn and impressive silence.

Over the low river-mist hiding the boat with its freight of young passionate life and all-forgetful happiness, the stars paled, and a silvery-grey tint crept over the sky from the eastward.  There was not a breath of wind, not a rustle of stirring leaf, not a splash of leaping fish to disturb the serene repose of all living things on the banks of the great river.  Earth, river, and sky were wrapped up in a deep sleep, from which it seemed there would be no waking.  All the seething life and movement of tropical nature seemed concentrated in the ardent eyes, in the tumultuously beating hearts of the two beings drifting in the canoe, under the white canopy of mist, over the smooth surface of the river.

Suddenly a great sheaf of yellow rays shot upwards from behind the black curtain of trees lining the banks of the Pantai.  The stars went out; the little black clouds at the zenith glowed for a moment with crimson tints, and the thick mist, stirred by the gentle breeze, the sigh of waking nature, whirled round and broke into fantastically torn pieces, disclosing the wrinkled surface of the river sparkling in the broad light of day.  Great flocks of white birds wheeled screaming above the swaying tree-tops.  The sun had risen on the east coast.

Dain was the first to return to the cares of everyday life.  He rose and glanced rapidly up and down the river.  His eye detected Babalatchi’s boat astern, and another small black speck on the glittering water, which was Taminah’s canoe.  He moved cautiously forward, and, kneeling, took up a paddle; Nina at the stern took hers.  They bent their bodies to the work, throwing up the water at every stroke, and the small craft went swiftly ahead, leaving a narrow wake fringed with a lace-like border of white and gleaming foam.  Without turning his head, Dain spoke.

“Somebody behind us, Nina.  We must not let him gain.  I think he is too far to recognise us.”

“Somebody before us also,” panted out Nina, without ceasing to paddle.

“I think I know,” rejoined Dain.  “The sun shines over there, but I fancy it is the girl Taminah.  She comes down every morning to my brig to sell cakes — stays often all day.  It does not matter; steer more into the bank; we must get under the bushes.  My canoe is hidden not far from here.”

As he spoke his eyes watched the broad-leaved nipas which they were brushing in their swift and silent course.

“Look out, Nina,” he said at last; “there, where the water palms end and the twigs hang down under the leaning tree.  Steer for the big green branch.”

He stood up attentive, and the boat drifted slowly in shore, Nina guiding it by a gentle and skilful movement of her paddle.  When near enough Dain laid hold of the big branch, and leaning back shot the canoe under a low green archway of thickly matted creepers giving access to a miniature bay formed by the caving in of the bank during the last great flood.  His own boat was there anchored by a stone, and he stepped into it, keeping his hand on the gunwale of Nina’s canoe.  In a moment the two little nutshells with their occupants floated quietly side by side, reflected by the black water in the dim light struggling through a high canopy of dense foliage; while above, away up in the broad day, flamed immense red blossoms sending down on their heads a shower of great dew-sparkling petals that descended rotating slowly in a continuous and perfumed stream; and over them, under them, in the sleeping water; all around them in a ring of luxuriant vegetation bathed in the warm air charged with strong and harsh perfumes, the intense work of tropical nature went on: plants shooting upward, entwined, interlaced in inextricable confusion, climbing madly and brutally over each other in the terrible silence of a desperate struggle towards the life-giving sunshine above — as if struck with sudden horror at the seething mass of corruption below, at the death and decay from which they sprang.

“We must part now,” said Dain, after a long silence.  “You must return at once, Nina.  I will wait till the brig drifts down here, and shall get on board then.”

“And will you be long away, Dain?” asked Nina, in a low voice.

“Long!” exclaimed Dain.  “Would a man willingly remain long in a dark place?  When I am not near you, Nina, I am like a man that is blind.  What is life to me without light?”

Nina leaned over, and with a proud and happy smile took Dain’s face between her hands, looking into his eyes with a fond yet questioning gaze.  Apparently she found there the confirmation of the words just said, for a feeling of grateful security lightened for her the weight of sorrow at the hour of parting.  She believed that he, the descendant of many great Rajahs, the son of a great chief, the master of life and death, knew the sunshine of life only in her presence.  An immense wave of gratitude and love welled forth out of her heart towards him.  How could she make an outward and visible sign of all she felt for the man who had filled her heart with so much joy and so much pride?  And in the great tumult of passion, like a flash of lightning came to her the reminiscence of that despised and almost forgotten civilisation she had only glanced at in her days of restraint, of sorrow, and of anger.  In the cold ashes of that hateful and miserable past she would find the sign of love, the fitting expression of the boundless felicity of the present, the pledge of a bright and splendid future.  She threw her arms around Dain’s neck and pressed her lips to his in a long and burning kiss.  He closed his eyes, surprised and frightened at the storm raised in his breast by the strange and to him hitherto unknown contact, and long after Nina had pushed her canoe into the river he remained motionless, without daring to open his eyes, afraid to lose the sensation of intoxicating delight he had tasted for the first time.

Now he wanted but immortality, he thought, to be the equal of gods, and the creature that could open so the gates of paradise must be his — soon would be his for ever!

He opened his eyes in time to see through the archway of creepers the bows of his brig come slowly into view, as the vessel drifted past on its way down the river.  He must go on board now, he thought; yet he was loth to leave the place where he had learned to know what happiness meant.  “Time yet.  Let them go,” he muttered to himself; and he closed his eyes again under the red shower of scented petals, trying to recall the scene with all its delight and all its fear.

He must have been able to join his brig in time, after all, and found much occupation outside, for it was in vain that Almayer looked for his friend’s speedy return.  The lower reach of the river where he so often and so impatiently directed his eyes remained deserted, save for the rapid flitting of some fishing canoe; but down the upper reaches came black clouds and heavy showers heralding the final setting in of the rainy season with its thunderstorms and great floods making the river almost impossible of ascent for native canoes.

Almayer, strolling along the muddy beach between his houses, watched uneasily the river rising inch by inch, creeping slowly nearer to the boats, now ready and hauled up in a row under the cover of dripping Kajang-mats.  Fortune seemed to elude his grasp, and in his weary tramp backwards and forwards under the steady rain falling from the lowering sky, a sort of despairing indifference took possession of him.  What did it matter?  It was just his luck!  Those two infernal savages, Lakamba and Dain, induced him, with their promises of help, to spend his last dollar in the fitting out of boats, and now one of them was gone somewhere, and the other shut up in his stockade would give no sign of life.  No, not even the scoundrelly Babalatchi, thought Almayer, would show his face near him, now they had sold him all the rice, brass gongs, and cloth necessary for his expedition.  They had his very last coin, and did not care whether he went or stayed.  And with a gesture of abandoned discouragement Almayer would climb up slowly to the verandah of his new house to get out of the rain, and leaning on the front rail with his head sunk between his shoulders he would abandon himself to the current of bitter thoughts, oblivious of the flight of time and the pangs of hunger, deaf to the shrill cries of his wife calling him to the evening meal.  When, roused from his sad meditations by the first roll of the evening thunderstorm, he stumbled slowly towards the glimmering light of his old house, his half-dead hope made his ears preternaturally acute to any sound on the river.  Several nights in succession he had heard the splash of paddles and had seen the indistinct form of a boat, but when hailing the shadowy apparition, his heart bounding with sudden hope of hearing Dain’s voice, he was disappointed each time by the sulky answer conveying to him the intelligence that the Arabs were on the river, bound on a visit to the home-staying Lakamba.  This caused him many sleepless nights, spent in speculating upon the kind of villainy those estimable personages were hatching now.  At last, when all hope seemed dead, he was overjoyed on hearing Dain’s voice; but Dain also appeared very anxious to see Lakamba, and Almayer felt uneasy owing to a deep and ineradicable distrust as to that ruler’s disposition towards himself.  Still, Dain had returned at last.  Evidently he meant to keep to his bargain.  Hope revived, and that night Almayer slept soundly, while Nina watched the angry river under the lash of the thunderstorm sweeping onward towards the sea.

CHAPTER VI.

Dain was not long in crossing the river after leaving Almayer.  He landed at the water-gate of the stockade enclosing the group of houses which composed the residence of the Rajah of Sambir.  Evidently somebody was expected there, for the gate was open, and men with torches were ready to precede the visitor up the inclined plane of planks leading to the largest house where Lakamba actually resided, and where all the business of state was invariably transacted.  The other buildings within the enclosure served only to accommodate the numerous household and the wives of the ruler.

Lakamba’s own house was a strong structure of solid planks, raised on high piles, with a verandah of split bamboos surrounding it on all sides; the whole was covered in by an immensely high-pitched roof of palm-leaves, resting on beams blackened by the smoke of many torches.

The building stood parallel to the river, one of its long sides facing the water-gate of the stockade.  There was a door in the short side looking up the river, and the inclined plank-way led straight from the gate to that door.  By the uncertain light of smoky torches, Dain noticed the vague outlines of a group of armed men in the dark shadows to his right.  From that group Babalatchi stepped forward to open the door, and Dain entered the audience chamber of the Rajah’s residence.  About one-third of the house was curtained off, by heavy stuff of European manufacture, for that purpose; close to the curtain there was a big arm-chair of some black wood, much carved, and before it a rough deal table.  Otherwise the room was only furnished with mats in great profusion.  To the left of the entrance stood a rude arm-rack, with three rifles with fixed bayonets in it.  By the wall, in the shadow, the body-guard of Lakamba — all friends or relations — slept in a confused heap of brown arms, legs, and multi-coloured garments, from whence issued an occasional snore or a subdued groan of some uneasy sleeper.  An European lamp with a green shade standing on the table made all this indistinctly visible to Dain.

“You are welcome to your rest here,” said Babalatchi, looking at Dain interrogatively.

“I must speak to the Rajah at once,” answered Dain.

Babalatchi made a gesture of assent, and, turning to the brass gong suspended under the arm-rack, struck two sharp blows.

The ear-splitting din woke up the guard.  The snores ceased; outstretched legs were drawn in; the whole heap moved, and slowly resolved itself into individual forms, with much yawning and rubbing of sleepy eyes; behind the curtains there was a burst of feminine chatter; then the bass voice of Lakamba was heard.

“Is that the Arab trader?”

“No, Tuan,” answered Babalatchi; “Dain has returned at last.  He is here for an important talk, bitcharra — if you mercifully consent.”

Evidently Lakamba’s mercy went so far — for in a short while he came out from behind the curtain — but it did not go to the length of inducing him to make an extensive toilet.  A short red sarong tightened hastily round his hips was his only garment.  The merciful ruler of Sambir looked sleepy and rather sulky.  He sat in the arm-chair, his knees well apart, his elbows on the arm-rests, his chin on his breast, breathing heavily and waiting malevolently for Dain to open the important talk.

But Dain did not seem anxious to begin.  He directed his gaze towards Babalatchi, squatting comfortably at the feet of his master, and remained silent with a slightly bent head as if in attentive expectation of coming words of wisdom.

Babalatchi coughed discreetly, and, leaning forward, pushed over a few mats for Dain to sit upon, then lifting up his squeaky voice he assured him with eager volubility of everybody’s delight at this long-looked-for return.  His heart had hungered for the sight of Dain’s face, and his ears were withering for the want of the refreshing sound of his voice.  Everybody’s hearts and ears were in the same sad predicament, according to Babalatchi, as he indicated with a sweeping gesture the other bank of the river where the settlement slumbered peacefully, unconscious of the great joy awaiting it on the morrow when Dain’s presence amongst them would be disclosed.  “For” — went on Babalatchi — ”what is the joy of a poor man if not the open hand of a generous trader or of a great — ”

Here he checked himself abruptly with a calculated embarrassment of manner, and his roving eye sought the floor, while an apologetic smile dwelt for a moment on his misshapen lips.  Once or twice during this opening speech an amused expression flitted across Dain’s face, soon to give way, however, to an appearance of grave concern.  On Lakamba’s brow a heavy frown had settled, and his lips moved angrily as he listened to his Prime Minister’s oratory.  In the silence that fell upon the room when Babalatchi ceased speaking arose a chorus of varied snores from the corner where the body-guard had resumed their interrupted slumbers, but the distant rumble of thunder filling then Nina’s heart with apprehension for the safety of her lover passed unheeded by those three men intent each on their own purposes, for life or death.

After a short silence, Babalatchi, discarding now the flowers of polite eloquence, spoke again, but in short and hurried sentences and in a low voice.  They had been very uneasy.  Why did Dain remain so long absent?  The men dwelling on the lower reaches of the river heard the reports of big guns and saw a fire-ship of the Dutch amongst the islands of the estuary.  So they were anxious.  Rumours of a disaster had reached Abdulla a few days ago, and since then they had been waiting for Dain’s return under the apprehension of some misfortune.  For days they had closed their eyes in fear, and woke up alarmed, and walked abroad trembling, like men before an enemy.  And all on account of Dain.  Would he not allay their fears for his safety, not for themselves?  They were quiet and faithful, and devoted to the great Rajah in Batavia — may his fate lead him ever to victory for the joy and profit of his servants!  “And here,” went on Babalatchi, “Lakamba my master was getting thin in his anxiety for the trader he had taken under his protection; and so was Abdulla, for what would wicked men not say if perchance — ”

“Be silent, fool!” growled Lakamba, angrily.

Babalatchi subsided into silence with a satisfied smile, while Dain, who had been watching him as if fascinated, turned with a sigh of relief towards the ruler of Sambir.  Lakamba did not move, and, without raising his head, looked at Dain from under his eyebrows, breathing audibly, with pouted lips, in an air of general discontent.

“Speak!  O Dain!” he said at last.  “We have heard many rumours.  Many nights in succession has my friend Reshid come here with bad tidings.  News travels fast along the coast.  But they may be untrue; there are more lies in men’s mouths in these days than when I was young, but I am not easier to deceive now.”

“All my words are true,” said Dain, carelessly.  “If you want to know what befell my brig, then learn that it is in the hands of the Dutch.  Believe me, Rajah,” he went on, with sudden energy, “the Orang Blanda have good friends in Sambir, or else how did they know I was coming thence?”

Lakamba gave Dain a short and hostile glance.  Babalatchi rose quietly, and, going to the arm-rack, struck the gong violently.

Outside the door there was a shuffle of bare feet; inside, the guard woke up and sat staring in sleepy surprise.

“Yes, you faithful friend of the white Rajah,” went on Dain, scornfully, turning to Babalatchi, who had returned to his place, “I have escaped, and I am here to gladden your heart.  When I saw the Dutch ship I ran the brig inside the reefs and put her ashore.  They did not dare to follow with the ship, so they sent the boats.  We took to ours and tried to get away, but the ship dropped fireballs at us, and killed many of my men.  But I am left, O Babalatchi!  The Dutch are coming here.  They are seeking for me.  They are coming to ask their faithful friend Lakamba and his slave Babalatchi.  Rejoice!”

But neither of his hearers appeared to be in a joyful mood.  Lakamba had put one leg over his knee, and went on gently scratching it with a meditative air, while Babalatchi, sitting cross-legged, seemed suddenly to become smaller and very limp, staring straight before him vacantly.  The guard evinced some interest in the proceedings, stretching themselves full length on the mats to be nearer the speaker.  One of them got up and now stood leaning against the arm-rack, playing absently with the fringes of his sword-hilt.

Dain waited till the crash of thunder had died away in distant mutterings before he spoke again.

“Are you dumb, O ruler of Sambir, or is the son of a great Rajah unworthy of your notice?  I am come here to seek refuge and to warn you, and want to know what you intend doing.”

“You came here because of the white man’s daughter,” retorted Lakamba, quickly.  “Your refuge was with your father, the Rajah of Bali, the Son of Heaven, the ‘Anak Agong’ himself.  What am I to protect great princes?  Only yesterday I planted rice in a burnt clearing; to-day you say I hold your life in my hand.”

Babalatchi glanced at his master.  “No man can escape his fate,” he murmured piously.  “When love enters a man’s heart he is like a child — without any understanding.  Be merciful, Lakamba,” he added, twitching the corner of the Rajah’s sarong warningly.

Lakamba snatched away the skirt of the sarong angrily.  Under the dawning comprehension of intolerable embarrassments caused by Dain’s return to Sambir he began to lose such composure as he had been, till then, able to maintain; and now he raised his voice loudly above the whistling of the wind and the patter of rain on the roof in the hard squall passing over the house.

“You came here first as a trader with sweet words and great promises, asking me to look the other way while you worked your will on the white man there.  And I did.  What do you want now?  When I was young I fought.  Now I am old, and want peace.  It is easier for me to have you killed than to fight the Dutch.  It is better for me.”

The squall had now passed, and, in the short stillness of the lull in the storm, Lakamba repeated softly, as if to himself, “Much easier.  Much better.”

Dain did not seem greatly discomposed by the Rajah’s threatening words.  While Lakamba was speaking he had glanced once rapidly over his shoulder, just to make sure that there was nobody behind him, and, tranquillised in that respect, he had extracted a siri-box out of the folds of his waist-cloth, and was wrapping carefully the little bit of betel-nut and a small pinch of lime in the green leaf tendered him politely by the watchful Babalatchi.  He accepted this as a peace-offering from the silent statesman — a kind of mute protest against his master’s undiplomatic violence, and as an omen of a possible understanding to be arrived at yet.  Otherwise Dain was not uneasy.  Although recognising the justice of Lakamba’s surmise that he had come back to Sambir only for the sake of the white man’s daughter, yet he was not conscious of any childish lack of understanding, as suggested by Babalatchi.  In fact, Dain knew very well that Lakamba was too deeply implicated in the gunpowder smuggling to care for an investigation the Dutch authorities into that matter.  When sent off by his father, the independent Rajah of Bali, at the time when the hostilities between Dutch and Malays threatened to spread from Sumatra over the whole archipelago, Dain had found all the big traders deaf to his guarded proposals, and above the temptation of the great prices he was ready to give for gunpowder.  He went to Sambir as a last and almost hopeless resort, having heard in Macassar of the white man there, and of the regular steamer trading from Singapore — allured also by the fact that there was no Dutch resident on the river, which would make things easier, no doubt.  His hopes got nearly wrecked against the stubborn loyalty of Lakamba arising from well-understood self-interest; but at last the young man’s generosity, his persuasive enthusiasm, the prestige of his father’s great name, overpowered the prudent hesitation of the ruler of Sambir.  Lakamba would have nothing to do himself with any illegal traffic.  He also objected to the Arabs being made use of in that matter; but he suggested Almayer, saying that he was a weak man easily persuaded, and that his friend, the English captain of the steamer, could be made very useful — very likely even would join in the business, smuggling the powder in the steamer without Abdulla’s knowledge.  There again Dain met in Almayer with unexpected resistance; Lakamba had to send Babalatchi over with the solemn promise that his eyes would be shut in friendship for the white man, Dain paying for the promise and the friendship in good silver guilders of the hated Orang Blanda.  Almayer, at last consenting, said the powder would be obtained, but Dain must trust him with dollars to send to Singapore in payment for it.  He would induce Ford to buy and smuggle it in the steamer on board the brig.  He did not want any money for himself out of the transaction, but Dain must help him in his great enterprise after sending off the brig.  Almayer had explained to Dain that he could not trust Lakamba alone in that matter; he would be afraid of losing his treasure and his life through the cupidity of the Rajah; yet the Rajah had to be told, and insisted on taking a share in that operation, or else his eyes would remain shut no longer.  To this Almayer had to submit.  Had Dain not seen Nina he would have probably refused to engage himself and his men in the projected expedition to Gunong Mas — the mountain of gold.  As it was he intended to return with half of his men as soon as the brig was clear of the reefs, but the persistent chase given him by the Dutch frigate had forced him to run south and ultimately to wreck and destroy his vessel in order to preserve his liberty or perhaps even his life.  Yes, he had come back to Sambir for Nina, although aware that the Dutch would look for him there, but he had also calculated his chances of safety in Lakamba’s hands.  For all his ferocious talk, the merciful ruler would not kill him, for he had long ago been impressed with the notion that Dain possessed the secret of the white man’s treasure; neither would he give him up to the Dutch, for fear of some fatal disclosure of complicity in the treasonable trade.  So Dain felt tolerably secure as he sat meditating quietly his answer to the Rajah’s bloodthirsty speech.  Yes, he would point out to him the aspect of his position should he — Dain — fall into the hands of the Dutch and should he speak the truth.  He would have nothing more to lose then, and he would speak the truth.  And if he did return to Sambir, disturbing thereby Lakamba’s peace of mind, what then?  He came to look after his property.  Did he not pour a stream of silver into Mrs. Almayer’s greedy lap?  He had paid, for the girl, a price worthy of a great prince, although unworthy of that delightfully maddening creature for whom his untamed soul longed in an intensity of desire far more tormenting than the sharpest pain.  He wanted his happiness.  He had the right to be in Sambir.

He rose, and, approaching the table, leaned both his elbows on it; Lakamba responsively edged his seat a little closer, while Babalatchi scrambled to his feet and thrust his inquisitive head between his master’s and Dain’s.  They interchanged their ideas rapidly, speaking in whispers into each other’s faces, very close now, Dain suggesting, Lakamba contradicting, Babalatchi conciliating and anxious in his vivid apprehension of coming difficulties.  He spoke most, whispering earnestly, turning his head slowly from side to side so as to bring his solitary eye to bear upon each of his interlocutors in turn.  Why should there be strife? said he.  Let Tuan Dain, whom he loved only less than his master, go trustfully into hiding.  There were many places for that.  Bulangi’s house away in the clearing was best.

Bulangi was a safe man.  In the network of crooked channels no white man could find his way.  White men were strong, but very foolish.  It was undesirable to fight them, but deception was easy.  They were like silly women — they did not know the use of reason, and he was a match for any of them — went on Babalatchi, with all the confidence of deficient experience.  Probably the Dutch would seek Almayer.  Maybe they would take away their countryman if they were suspicious of him.  That would be good.  After the Dutch went away Lakamba and Dain would get the treasure without any trouble, and there would be one person less to share it.  Did he not speak wisdom?  Will Tuan Dain go to Bulangi’s house till the danger is over, go at once?

Dain accepted this suggestion of going into hiding with a certain sense of conferring a favour upon Lakamba and the anxious statesman, but he met the proposal of going at once with a decided no, looking Babalatchi meaningly in the eye.  The statesman sighed as a man accepting the inevitable would do, and pointed silently towards the other bank of the river.  Dain bent his head slowly.

“Yes, I am going there,” he said.

“Before the day comes?” asked Babalatchi.

“I am going there now,” answered Dain, decisively.  “The Orang Blanda will not be here before to-morrow night, perhaps, and I must tell Almayer of our arrangements.”

“No, Tuan.  No; say nothing,” protested Babalatchi.  “I will go over myself at sunrise and let him know.”

“I will see,” said Dain, preparing to go.

The thunderstorm was recommencing outside, the heavy clouds hanging low overhead now.

There was a constant rumble of distant thunder punctuated by the nearer sharp crashes, and in the continuous play of blue lightning the woods and the river showed fitfully, with all the elusive distinctness of detail characteristic of such a scene.  Outside the door of the Rajah’s house Dain and Babalatchi stood on the shaking verandah as if dazed and stunned by the violence of the storm.  They stood there amongst the cowering forms of the Rajah’s slaves and retainers seeking shelter from the rain, and Dain called aloud to his boatmen, who responded with an unanimous “Ada!  Tuan!” while they looked uneasily at the river.

“This is a great flood!” shouted Babalatchi into Dain’s ear.  “The river is very angry.  Look!  Look at the drifting logs!  Can you go?”

Dain glanced doubtfully on the livid expanse of seething water bounded far away on the other side by the narrow black line of the forests.  Suddenly, in a vivid white flash, the low point of land with the bending trees on it and Almayer’s house, leaped into view, flickered and disappeared.  Dain pushed Babalatchi aside and ran down to the water-gate followed by his shivering boatmen.

Babalatchi backed slowly in and closed the door, then turned round and looked silently upon Lakamba.  The Rajah sat still, glaring stonily upon the table, and Babalatchi gazed curiously at the perplexed mood of the man he had served so many years through good and evil fortune.  No doubt the one-eyed statesman felt within his savage and much sophisticated breast the unwonted feelings of sympathy with, and perhaps even pity for, the man he called his master.  From the safe position of a confidential adviser, he could, in the dim vista of past years, see himself — a casual cut-throat — finding shelter under that man’s roof in the modest rice-clearing of early beginnings.  Then came a long period of unbroken success, of wise counsels, and deep plottings resolutely carried out by the fearless Lakamba, till the whole east coast from Poulo Laut to Tanjong Batu listened to Babalatchi’s wisdom speaking through the mouth of the ruler of Sambir.  In those long years how many dangers escaped, how many enemies bravely faced, how many white men successfully circumvented!  And now he looked upon the result of so many years of patient toil: the fearless Lakamba cowed by the shadow of an impending trouble.  The ruler was growing old, and Babalatchi, aware of an uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach, put both his hands there with a suddenly vivid and sad perception of the fact that he himself was growing old too; that the time of reckless daring was past for both of them, and that they had to seek refuge in prudent cunning.  They wanted peace; they were disposed to reform; they were ready even to retrench, so as to have the wherewithal to bribe the evil days away, if bribed away they could be.  Babalatchi sighed for the second time that night as he squatted again at his master’s feet and tendered him his betel-nut box in mute sympathy.  And they sat there in close yet silent communion of betel-nut chewers, moving their jaws slowly, expectorating decorously into the wide-mouthed brass vessel they passed to one another, and listening to the awful din of the battling elements outside.

“There is a very great flood,” remarked Babalatchi, sadly.

“Yes,” said Lakamba.  “Did Dain go?”

“He went, Tuan.  He ran down to the river like a man possessed of the Sheitan himself.”

There was another long pause.

“He may get drowned,” suggested Lakamba at last, with some show of interest.

“The floating logs are many,” answered Babalatchi, “but he is a good swimmer,” he added languidly.

“He ought to live,” said Lakamba; “he knows where the treasure is.”

Babalatchi assented with an ill-humoured grunt.  His want of success in penetrating the white man’s secret as to the locality where the gold was to be found was a sore point with the statesman of Sambir, as the only conspicuous failure in an otherwise brilliant career.

A great peace had now succeeded the turmoil of the storm.  Only the little belated clouds, which hurried past overhead to catch up the main body flashing silently in the distance, sent down short showers that pattered softly with a soothing hiss over the palm-leaf roof.

Lakamba roused himself from his apathy with an appearance of having grasped the situation at last.

“Babalatchi,” he called briskly, giving him a slight kick.

“Ada Tuan!  I am listening.”

“If the Orang Blanda come here, Babalatchi, and take Almayer to Batavia to punish him for smuggling gunpowder, what will he do, you think?”

“I do not know, Tuan.”

“You are a fool,” commented Lakamba, exultingly.  “He will tell them where the treasure is, so as to find mercy.  He will.”

Babalatchi looked up at his master and nodded his head with by no means a joyful surprise.  He had not thought of this; there was a new complication.

“Almayer must die,” said Lakamba, decisively, “to make our secret safe.  He must die quietly, Babalatchi.  You must do it.”

Babalatchi assented, and rose wearily to his feet.  “To-morrow?” he asked.

“Yes; before the Dutch come.  He drinks much coffee,” answered Lakamba, with seeming irrelevancy.

Babalatchi stretched himself yawning, but Lakamba, in the flattering consciousness of a knotty problem solved by his own unaided intellectual efforts, grew suddenly very wakeful.

“Babalatchi,” he said to the exhausted statesman, “fetch the box of music the white captain gave me.  I cannot sleep.”

At this order a deep shade of melancholy settled upon Babalatchi’s features.  He went reluctantly behind the curtain and soon reappeared carrying in his arms a small hand-organ, which he put down on the table with an air of deep dejection.  Lakamba settled himself comfortably in his arm-chair.

“Turn, Babalatchi, turn,” he murmured, with closed eyes.

Babalatchi’s hand grasped the handle with the energy of despair, and as he turned, the deep gloom on his countenance changed into an expression of hopeless resignation.  Through the open shutter the notes of Verdi’s music floated out on the great silence over the river and forest.  Lakamba listened with closed eyes and a delighted smile; Babalatchi turned, at times dozing off and swaying over, then catching himself up in a great fright with a few quick turns of the handle.  Nature slept in an exhausted repose after the fierce turmoil, while under the unsteady hand of the statesman of Sambir the Trovatore fitfully wept, wailed, and bade good-bye to his Leonore again and again in a mournful round of tearful and endless iteration.

CHAPTER VII.

The bright sunshine of the clear mistless morning, after the stormy night, flooded the main path of the settlement leading from the low shore of the Pantai branch of the river to the gate of Abdulla’s compound.  The path was deserted this morning; it stretched its dark yellow surface, hard beaten by the tramp of many bare feet, between the clusters of palm trees, whose tall trunks barred it with strong black lines at irregular intervals, while the newly risen sun threw the shadows of their leafy heads far away over the roofs of the buildings lining the river, even over the river itself as it flowed swiftly and silently past the deserted houses.  For the houses were deserted too.  On the narrow strip of trodden grass intervening between their open doors and the road, the morning fires smouldered untended, sending thin fluted columns of smoke into the cool air, and spreading the thinnest veil of mysterious blue haze over the sunlit solitude of the settlement.  Almayer, just out of his hammock, gazed sleepily at the unwonted appearance of Sambir, wondering vaguely at the absence of life.  His own house was very quiet; he could not hear his wife’s voice, nor the sound of Nina’s footsteps in the big room, opening on the verandah, which he called his sitting-room, whenever, in the company of white men, he wished to assert his claims to the commonplace decencies of civilisation.  Nobody ever sat there; there was nothing there to sit upon, for Mrs. Almayer in her savage moods, when excited by the reminiscences of the piratical period of her life, had torn off the curtains to make sarongs for the slave-girls, and had burnt the showy furniture piecemeal to cook the family rice.  But Almayer was not thinking of his furniture now.  He was thinking of Dain’s return, of Dain’s nocturnal interview with Lakamba, of its possible influence on his long-matured plans, now nearing the period of their execution.  He was also uneasy at the non-appearance of Dain who had promised him an early visit.  “The fellow had plenty of time to cross the river,” he mused, “and there was so much to be done to-day.  The settling of details for the early start on the morrow; the launching of the boats; the thousand and one finishing touches.  For the expedition must start complete, nothing should be forgotten, nothing should — ”

The sense of the unwonted solitude grew upon him suddenly, and in the unusual silence he caught himself longing even for the usually unwelcome sound of his wife’s voice to break the oppressive stillness which seemed, to his frightened fancy, to portend the advent of some new misfortune.  “What has happened?” he muttered half aloud, as he shuffled in his imperfectly adjusted slippers towards the balustrade of the verandah.  “Is everybody asleep or dead?”

The settlement was alive and very much awake.  It was awake ever since the early break of day, when Mahmat Banjer, in a fit of unheard-of energy, arose and, taking up his hatchet, stepped over the sleeping forms of his two wives and walked shivering to the water’s edge to make sure that the new house he was building had not floated away during the night.

The house was being built by the enterprising Mahmat on a large raft, and he had securely moored it just inside the muddy point of land at the junction of the two branches of the Pantai so as to be out of the way of drifting logs that would no doubt strand on the point during the freshet.  Mahmat walked through the wet grass saying bourrouh, and cursing softly to himself the hard necessities of active life that drove him from his warm couch into the cold of the morning.  A glance showed him that his house was still there, and he congratulated himself on his foresight in hauling it out of harm’s way, for the increasing light showed him a confused wrack of drift-logs, half-stranded on the muddy flat, interlocked into a shapeless raft by their branches, tossing to and fro and grinding together in the eddy caused by the meeting currents of the two branches of the river.  Mahmat walked down to the water’s edge to examine the rattan moorings of his house just as the sun cleared the trees of the forest on the opposite shore.  As he bent over the fastenings he glanced again carelessly at the unquiet jumble of logs and saw there something that caused him to drop his hatchet and stand up, shading his eyes with his hand from the rays of the rising sun.  It was something red, and the logs rolled over it, at times closing round it, sometimes hiding it.  It looked to him at first like a strip of red cloth.  The next moment Mahmat had made it out and raised a great shout.

“Ah ya!  There!” yelled Mahmat.  “There’s a man amongst the logs.”  He put the palms of his hand to his lips and shouted, enunciating distinctly, his face turned towards the settlement: “There’s a body of a man in the river!  Come and see!  A dead — stranger!”

The women of the nearest house were already outside kindling the fires and husking the morning rice.  They took up the cry shrilly, and it travelled so from house to house, dying away in the distance.  The men rushed out excited but silent, and ran towards the muddy point where the unconscious logs tossed and ground and bumped and rolled over the dead stranger with the stupid persistency of inanimate things.  The women followed, neglecting their domestic duties and disregarding the possibilities of domestic discontent, while groups of children brought up the rear, warbling joyously, in the delight of unexpected excitement.

Almayer called aloud for his wife and daughter, but receiving no response, stood listening intently.  The murmur of the crowd reached him faintly, bringing with it the assurance of some unusual event.  He glanced at the river just as he was going to leave the verandah and checked himself at the sight of a small canoe crossing over from the Rajah’s landing-place.  The solitary occupant (in whom Almayer soon recognised Babalatchi) effected the crossing a little below the house and paddled up to the Lingard jetty in the dead water under the bank.  Babalatchi clambered out slowly and went on fastening his canoe with fastidious care, as if not in a hurry to meet Almayer, whom he saw looking at him from the verandah.  This delay gave Almayer time to notice and greatly wonder at Babalatchi’s official get-up.  The statesman of Sambir was clad in a costume befitting his high rank.  A loudly checkered sarong encircled his waist, and from its many folds peeped out the silver hilt of the kriss that saw the light only on great festivals or during official receptions.  Over the left shoulder and across the otherwise unclad breast of the aged diplomatist glistened a patent leather belt bearing a brass plate with the arms of Netherlands under the inscription, “Sultan of Sambir.”  Babalatchi’s head was covered by a red turban, whose fringed ends falling over the left cheek and shoulder gave to his aged face a ludicrous expression of joyous recklessness.  When the canoe was at last fastened to his satisfaction he straightened himself up, shaking down the folds of his sarong, and moved with long strides towards Almayer’s house, swinging regularly his long ebony staff, whose gold head ornamented with precious stones flashed in the morning sun.  Almayer waved his hand to the right towards the point of land, to him invisible, but in full view from the jetty.

“Oh, Babalatchi! oh!” he called out; “what is the matter there? can you see?”

Babalatchi stopped and gazed intently at the crowd on the river bank, and after a little while the astonished Almayer saw him leave the path, gather up his sarong in one hand, and break into a trot through the grass towards the muddy point.  Almayer, now greatly interested, ran down the steps of the verandah.  The murmur of men’s voices and the shrill cries of women reached him quite distinctly now, and as soon as he turned the corner of his house he could see the crowd on the low promontory swaying and pushing round some object of interest.  He could indistinctly hear Babalatchi’s voice, then the crowd opened before the aged statesman and closed after him with an excited hum, ending in a loud shout.

As Almayer approached the throng a man ran out and rushed past him towards the settlement, unheeding his call to stop and explain the cause of this excitement.  On the very outskirts of the crowd Almayer found himself arrested by an unyielding mass of humanity, regardless of his entreaties for a passage, insensible to his gentle pushes as he tried to work his way through it towards the riverside.

In the midst of his gentle and slow progress he fancied suddenly he had heard his wife’s voice in the thickest of the throng.  He could not mistake very well Mrs. Almayer’s high-pitched tones, yet the words were too indistinct for him to understand their purport.  He paused in his endeavours to make a passage for himself, intending to get some intelligence from those around him, when a long and piercing shriek rent the air, silencing the murmurs of the crowd and the voices of his informants.  For a moment Almayer remained as if turned into stone with astonishment and horror, for he was certain now that he had heard his wife wailing for the dead.  He remembered Nina’s unusual absence, and maddened by his apprehensions as to her safety, he pushed blindly and violently forward, the crowd falling back with cries of surprise and pain before his frantic advance.

On the point of land in a little clear space lay the body of the stranger just hauled out from amongst the logs.  On one side stood Babalatchi, his chin resting on the head of his staff and his one eye gazing steadily at the shapeless mass of broken limbs, torn flesh, and bloodstained rags.  As Almayer burst through the ring of horrified spectators, Mrs. Almayer threw her own head-veil over the upturned face of the drowned man, and, squatting by it, with another mournful howl, sent a shiver through the now silent crowd.  Mahmat, dripping wet, turned to Almayer, eager to tell his tale.

In the first moment of reaction from the anguish of his fear the sunshine seemed to waver before Almayer’s eyes, and he listened to words spoken around him without comprehending their meaning.  When, by a strong effort of will, he regained the possession of his senses, Mahmat was saying —

“That is the way, Tuan.  His sarong was caught in the broken branch, and he hung with his head under water.  When I saw what it was I did not want it here.  I wanted it to get clear and drift away.  Why should we bury a stranger in the midst of our houses for his ghost to frighten our women and children?  Have we not enough ghosts about this place?”

A murmur of approval interrupted him here.  Mahmat looked reproachfully at Babalatchi.

“But the Tuan Babalatchi ordered me to drag the body ashore” — he went on looking round at his audience, but addressing himself only to Almayer — ”and I dragged him by the feet; in through the mud I have dragged him, although my heart longed to see him float down the river to strand perchance on Bulangi’s clearing — may his father’s grave be defiled!”

There was subdued laughter at this, for the enmity of Mahmat and Bulangi was a matter of common notoriety and of undying interest to the inhabitants of Sambir.  In the midst of that mirth Mrs. Almayer wailed suddenly again.

“Allah!  What ails the woman!” exclaimed Mahmat, angrily.  “Here, I have touched this carcass which came from nobody knows where, and have most likely defiled myself before eating rice.  By orders of Tuan Babalatchi I did this thing to please the white man.  Are you pleased, O Tuan Almayer?  And what will be my recompense?  Tuan Babalatchi said a recompense there will be, and from you.  Now consider.  I have been defiled, and if not defiled I may be under the spell.  Look at his anklets!  Who ever heard of a corpse appearing during the night amongst the logs with gold anklets on its legs?  There is witchcraft there.  However,” added Mahmat, after a reflective pause, “I will have the anklet if there is permission, for I have a charm against the ghosts and am not afraid.  God is great!”

A fresh outburst of noisy grief from Mrs. Almayer checked the flow of Mahmat’s eloquence.  Almayer, bewildered, looked in turn at his wife, at Mahmat, at Babalatchi, and at last arrested his fascinated gaze on the body lying on the mud with covered face in a grotesquely unnatural contortion of mangled and broken limbs, one twisted and lacerated arm, with white bones protruding in many places through the torn flesh, stretched out; the hand with outspread fingers nearly touching his foot.

“Do you know who this is?” he asked of Babalatchi, in a low voice.

Babalatchi, staring straight before him, hardly moved his lips, while Mrs. Almayer’s persistent lamentations drowned the whisper of his murmured reply intended only for Almayer’s ear.

“It was fate.  Look at your feet, white man.  I can see a ring on those torn fingers which I know well.”

Saying this, Babalatchi stepped carelessly forward, putting his foot as if accidentally on the hand of the corpse and pressing it into the soft mud.  He swung his staff menacingly towards the crowd, which fell back a little.

“Go away,” he said sternly, “and send your women to their cooking fires, which they ought not to have left to run after a dead stranger.  This is men’s work here.  I take him now in the name of the Rajah.  Let no man remain here but Tuan Almayer’s slaves.  Now go!”

The crowd reluctantly began to disperse.  The women went first, dragging away the children that hung back with all their weight on the maternal hand.  The men strolled slowly after them in ever forming and changing groups that gradually dissolved as they neared the settlement and every man regained his own house with steps quickened by the hungry anticipation of the morning rice.  Only on the slight elevation where the land sloped down towards the muddy point a few men, either friends or enemies of Mahmat, remained gazing curiously for some time longer at the small group standing around the body on the river bank.

“I do not understand what you mean, Babalatchi,” said Almayer.  “What is the ring you are talking about?  Whoever he is, you have trodden the poor fellow’s hand right into the mud.  Uncover his face,” he went on, addressing Mrs. Almayer, who, squatting by the head of the corpse, rocked herself to and fro, shaking from time to time her dishevelled grey locks, and muttering mournfully.

“Hai!” exclaimed Mahmat, who had lingered close by.  “Look, Tuan; the logs came together so,” and here he pressed the palms of his hands together, “and his head must have been between them, and now there is no face for you to look at.  There are his flesh and his bones, the nose, and the lips, and maybe his eyes, but nobody could tell the one from the other.  It was written the day he was born that no man could look at him in death and be able to say, ‘This is my friend’s face.’”

“Silence, Mahmat; enough!” said Babalatchi, “and take thy eyes off his anklet, thou eater of pigs flesh.  Tuan Almayer,” he went on, lowering his voice, “have you seen Dain this morning?”

Almayer opened his eyes wide and looked alarmed.  “No,” he said quickly; “haven’t you seen him?  Is he not with the Rajah?  I am waiting; why does he not come?”

Babalatchi nodded his head sadly.

“He is come, Tuan.  He left last night when the storm was great and the river spoke angrily.  The night was very black, but he had within him a light that showed the way to your house as smooth as a narrow backwater, and the many logs no bigger than wisps of dried grass.  Therefore he went; and now he lies here.”  And Babalatchi nodded his head towards the body.

“How can you tell?” said Almayer, excitedly, pushing his wife aside.  He snatched the cover off and looked at the formless mass of flesh, hair, and drying mud, where the face of the drowned man should have been.  “Nobody can tell,” he added, turning away with a shudder.

Babalatchi was on his knees wiping the mud from the stiffened fingers of the outstretched hand.  He rose to his feet and flashed before Almayer’s eyes a gold ring set with a large green stone.

“You know this well,” he said.  “This never left Dain’s hand.  I had to tear the flesh now to get it off.  Do you believe now?”

Almayer raised his hands to his head and let them fall listlessly by his side in the utter abandonment of despair.  Babalatchi, looking at him curiously, was astonished to see him smile.  A strange fancy had taken possession of Almayer’s brain, distracted by this new misfortune.  It seemed to him that for many years he had been falling into a deep precipice.  Day after day, month after month, year after year, he had been falling, falling, falling; it was a smooth, round, black thing, and the black walls had been rushing upwards with wearisome rapidity.  A great rush, the noise of which he fancied he could hear yet; and now, with an awful shock, he had reached the bottom, and behold! he was alive and whole, and Dain was dead with all his bones broken.  It struck him as funny.  A dead Malay; he had seen many dead Malays without any emotion; and now he felt inclined to weep, but it was over the fate of a white man he knew; a man that fell over a deep precipice and did not die.  He seemed somehow to himself to be standing on one side, a little way off, looking at a certain Almayer who was in great trouble.  Poor, poor fellow!  Why doesn’t he cut his throat?  He wished to encourage him; he was very anxious to see him lying dead over that other corpse.  Why does he not die and end this suffering?  He groaned aloud unconsciously and started with affright at the sound of his own voice.  Was he going mad?  Terrified by the thought he turned away and ran towards his house repeating to himself, I am not going mad; of course not, no, no, no!  He tried to keep a firm hold of the idea.

Not mad, not mad.  He stumbled as he ran blindly up the steps repeating fast and ever faster those words wherein seemed to lie his salvation.  He saw Nina standing there, and wished to say something to her, but could not remember what, in his extreme anxiety not to forget that he was not going mad, which he still kept repeating mentally as he ran round the table, till he stumbled against one of the arm-chairs and dropped into it exhausted.  He sat staring wildly at Nina, still assuring himself mentally of his own sanity and wondering why the girl shrank from him in open-eyed alarm.  What was the matter with her?  This was foolish.  He struck the table violently with his clenched fist and shouted hoarsely, “Give me some gin!  Run!”  Then, while Nina ran off, he remained in the chair, very still and quiet, astonished at the noise he had made.

Nina returned with a tumbler half filled with gin, and found her father staring absently before him.  Almayer felt very tired now, as if he had come from a long journey.  He felt as if he had walked miles and miles that morning and now wanted to rest very much.  He took the tumbler with a shaking hand, and as he drank his teeth chattered against the glass which he drained and set down heavily on the table.  He turned his eyes slowly towards Nina standing beside him, and said steadily —

“Now all is over, Nina.  He is dead, and I may as well burn all my boats.”

He felt very proud of being able to speak so calmly.  Decidedly he was not going mad.  This certitude was very comforting, and he went on talking about the finding of the body, listening to his own voice complacently.  Nina stood quietly, her hand resting lightly on her father’s shoulder, her face unmoved, but every line of her features, the attitude of her whole body expressing the most keen and anxious attention.

“And so Dain is dead,” she said coldly, when her father ceased speaking.

Almayer’s elaborately calm demeanour gave way in a moment to an outburst of violent indignation.

“You stand there as if you were only half alive, and talk to me,” he exclaimed angrily, “as if it was a matter of no importance.  Yes, he is dead!  Do you understand?  Dead!  What do you care?  You never cared; you saw me struggle, and work, and strive, unmoved; and my suffering you could never see.  No, never.  You have no heart, and you have no mind, or you would have understood that it was for you, for your happiness I was working.  I wanted to be rich; I wanted to get away from here.  I wanted to see white men bowing low before the power of your beauty and your wealth.  Old as I am I wished to seek a strange land, a civilisation to which I am a stranger, so as to find a new life in the contemplation of your high fortunes, of your triumphs, of your happiness.  For that I bore patiently the burden of work, of disappointment, of humiliation amongst these savages here, and I had it all nearly in my grasp.”

He looked at his daughter’s attentive face and jumped to his feet upsetting the chair.

“Do you hear?  I had it all there; so; within reach of my hand.”

He paused, trying to keep down his rising anger, and failed.

“Have you no feeling?” he went on.  “Have you lived without hope?”  Nina’s silence exasperated him; his voice rose, although he tried to master his feelings.

“Are you content to live in this misery and die in this wretched hole?  Say something, Nina; have you no sympathy?  Have you no word of comfort for me?  I that loved you so.”

He waited for a while for an answer, and receiving none shook his fist in his daughter’s face.

“I believe you are an idiot!” he yelled.

He looked round for the chair, picked it up and sat down stiffly.  His anger was dead within him, and he felt ashamed of his outburst, yet relieved to think that now he had laid clear before his daughter the inner meaning of his life.  He thought so in perfect good faith, deceived by the emotional estimate of his motives, unable to see the crookedness of his ways, the unreality of his aims, the futility of his regrets.  And now his heart was filled only with a great tenderness and love for his daughter.  He wanted to see her miserable, and to share with her his despair; but he wanted it only as all weak natures long for a companionship in misfortune with beings innocent of its cause.  If she suffered herself she would understand and pity him; but now she would not, or could not, find one word of comfort or love for him in his dire extremity.  The sense of his absolute loneliness came home to his heart with a force that made him shudder.  He swayed and fell forward with his face on the table, his arms stretched straight out, extended and rigid.  Nina made a quick movement towards her father and stood looking at the grey head, on the broad shoulders shaken convulsively by the violence of feelings that found relief at last in sobs and tears.

Nina sighed deeply and moved away from the table.  Her features lost the appearance of stony indifference that had exasperated her father into his outburst of anger and sorrow.  The expression of her face, now unseen by her father, underwent a rapid change.  She had listened to Almayer’s appeal for sympathy, for one word of comfort, apparently indifferent, yet with her breast torn by conflicting impulses raised unexpectedly by events she had not foreseen, or at least did not expect to happen so soon.  With her heart deeply moved by the sight of Almayer’s misery, knowing it in her power to end it with a word, longing to bring peace to that troubled heart, she heard with terror the voice of her overpowering love commanding her to be silent.  And she submitted after a short and fierce struggle of her old self against the new principle of her life.  She wrapped herself up in absolute silence, the only safeguard against some fatal admission.  She could not trust herself to make a sign, to murmur a word for fear of saying too much; and the very violence of the feelings that stirred the innermost recesses of her soul seemed to turn her person into a stone.  The dilated nostrils and the flashing eyes were the only signs of the storm raging within, and those signs of his daughter’s emotion Almayer did not see, for his sight was dimmed by self-pity, by anger, and by despair.

Had Almayer looked at his daughter as she leant over the front rail of the verandah he could have seen the expression of indifference give way to a look of pain, and that again pass away, leaving the glorious beauty of her face marred by deep-drawn lines of watchful anxiety.  The long grass in the neglected courtyard stood very straight before her eyes in the noonday heat.  From the river-bank there were voices and a shuffle of bare feet approaching the house; Babalatchi could be heard giving directions to Almayer’s men, and Mrs. Almayer’s subdued wailing became audible as the small procession bearing the body of the drowned man and headed by that sorrowful matron turned the corner of the house.  Babalatchi had taken the broken anklet off the man’s leg, and now held it in his hand as he moved by the side of the bearers, while Mahmat lingered behind timidly, in the hopes of the promised reward.

“Lay him there,” said Babalatchi to Almayer’s men, pointing to a pile of drying planks in front of the verandah.  “Lay him there.  He was a Kaffir and the son of a dog, and he was the white man’s friend.  He drank the white man’s strong water,” he added, with affected horror.  “That I have seen myself.”

The men stretched out the broken limbs on two planks they had laid level, while Mrs. Almayer covered the body with a piece of white cotton cloth, and after whispering for some time with Babalatchi departed to her domestic duties.  Almayer’s men, after laying down their burden, dispersed themselves in quest of shady spots wherein to idle the day away.  Babalatchi was left alone by the corpse that laid rigid under the white cloth in the bright sunshine.

Nina came down the steps and joined Babalatchi, who put his hand to his forehead, and squatted down with great deference.

“You have a bangle there,” said Nina, looking down on Babalatchi’s upturned face and into his solitary eye.

“I have, Mem Putih,” returned the polite statesman.  Then turning towards Mahmat he beckoned him closer, calling out, “Come here!”

Mahmat approached with some hesitation.  He avoided looking at Nina, but fixed his eyes on Babalatchi.

“Now, listen,” said Babalatchi, sharply.  “The ring and the anklet you have seen, and you know they belonged to Dain the trader, and to no other.  Dain returned last night in a canoe.  He spoke with the Rajah, and in the middle of the night left to cross over to the white man’s house.  There was a great flood, and this morning you found him in the river.”

“By his feet I dragged him out,” muttered Mahmat under his breath.  “Tuan Babalatchi, there will be a recompense!” he exclaimed aloud.

Babalatchi held up the gold bangle before Mahmat’s eyes.  “What I have told you, Mahmat, is for all ears.  What I give you now is for your eyes only.  Take.”

Mahmat took the bangle eagerly and hid it in the folds of his waist-cloth.  “Am I a fool to show this thing in a house with three women in it?” he growled.  “But I shall tell them about Dain the trader, and there will be talk enough.”

He turned and went away, increasing his pace as soon as he was outside Almayer’s compound.

Babalatchi looked after him till he disappeared behind the bushes.  “Have I done well, Mem Putih?” he asked, humbly addressing Nina.

“You have,” answered Nina.  “The ring you may keep yourself.”

Babalatchi touched his lips and forehead, and scrambled to his feet.  He looked at Nina, as if expecting her to say something more, but Nina turned towards the house and went up the steps, motioning him away with her hand.

Babalatchi picked up his staff and prepared to go.  It was very warm, and he did not care for the long pull to the Rajah’s house.  Yet he must go and tell the Rajah — tell of the event; of the change in his plans; of all his suspicions.  He walked to the jetty and began casting off the rattan painter of his canoe.

The broad expanse of the lower reach, with its shimmering surface dotted by the black specks of the fishing canoes, lay before his eyes.  The fishermen seemed to be racing.  Babalatchi paused in his work, and looked on with sudden interest.  The man in the foremost canoe, now within hail of the first houses of Sambir, laid in his paddle and stood up shouting —

“The boats! the boats!  The man-of-war’s boats are coming!  They are here!”

In a moment the settlement was again alive with people rushing to the riverside.  The men began to unfasten their boats, the women stood in groups looking towards the bend down the river.  Above the trees lining the reach a slight puff of smoke appeared like a black stain on the brilliant blue of the cloudless sky.

Babalatchi stood perplexed, the painter in his hand.  He looked down the reach, then up towards Almayer’s house, and back again at the river as if undecided what to do.  At last he made the canoe fast again hastily, and ran towards the house and up the steps of the verandah.

“Tuan!  Tuan!” he called, eagerly.  “The boats are coming.  The man-of-war’s boats.  You had better get ready.  The officers will come here, I know.”

Almayer lifted his head slowly from the table, and looked at him stupidly.

“Mem Putih!” exclaimed Babalatchi to Nina, “look at him.  He does not hear.  You must take care,” he added meaningly.

Nina nodded to him with an uncertain smile, and was going to speak, when a sharp report from the gun mounted in the bow of the steam launch that was just then coming into view arrested the words on her parted lips.  The smile died out, and was replaced by the old look of anxious attention.  From the hills far away the echo came back like a long-drawn and mournful sigh, as if the land had sent it in answer to the voice of its masters.

CHAPTER VIII.

The news as to the identity of the body lying now in Almayer’s compound spread rapidly over the settlement.  During the forenoon most of the inhabitants remained in the long street discussing the mysterious return and the unexpected death of the man who had become known to them as the trader.  His arrival during the north-east monsoon, his long sojourn in their midst, his sudden departure with his brig, and, above all, the mysterious appearance of the body, said to be his, amongst the logs, were subjects to wonder at and to talk over and over again with undiminished interest.  Mahmat moved from house to house and from group to group, always ready to repeat his tale: how he saw the body caught by the sarong in a forked log; how Mrs. Almayer coming, one of the first, at his cries, recognised it, even before he had it hauled on shore; how Babalatchi ordered him to bring it out of the water.  “By the feet I dragged him in, and there was no head,” exclaimed Mahmat, “and how could the white man’s wife know who it was?  She was a witch, it was well known.  And did you see how the white man himself ran away at the sight of the body?  Like a deer he ran!”  And here Mahmat imitated Almayer’s long strides, to the great joy of the beholders.  And for all his trouble he had nothing.  The ring with the green stone Tuan Babalatchi kept.  “Nothing!  Nothing!”  He spat down at his feet in sign of disgust, and left that group to seek further on a fresh audience.

The news spreading to the furthermost parts of the settlement found out Abdulla in the cool recess of his godown, where he sat overlooking his Arab clerks and the men loading and unloading the up-country canoes.  Reshid, who was busy on the jetty, was summoned into his uncle’s presence and found him, as usual, very calm and even cheerful, but very much surprised.  The rumour of the capture or destruction of Dain’s brig had reached the Arab’s ears three days before from the sea-fishermen and through the dwellers on the lower reaches of the river.  It had been passed up-stream from neighbour to neighbour till Bulangi, whose clearing was nearest to the settlement, had brought that news himself to Abdulla whose favour he courted.  But rumour also spoke of a fight and of Dain’s death on board his own vessel.  And now all the settlement talked of Dain’s visit to the Rajah and of his death when crossing the river in the dark to see Almayer.

They could not understand this.  Reshid thought that it was very strange.  He felt uneasy and doubtful.  But Abdulla, after the first shock of surprise, with the old age’s dislike for solving riddles, showed a becoming resignation.  He remarked that the man was dead now at all events, and consequently no more dangerous.  Where was the use to wonder at the decrees of Fate, especially if they were propitious to the True Believers?  And with a pious ejaculation to Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate, Abdulla seemed to regard the incident as closed for the present.

Not so Reshid.  He lingered by his uncle, pulling thoughtfully his neatly trimmed beard.

“There are many lies,” he murmured.  “He has been dead once before, and came to life to die again now.  The Dutch will be here before many days and clamour for the man.  Shall I not believe my eyes sooner than the tongues of women and idle men?”

“They say that the body is being taken to Almayer’s compound,” said Abdulla.  “If you want to go there you must go before the Dutch arrive here.  Go late.  It should not be said that we have been seen inside that man’s enclosure lately.”

Reshid assented to the truth of this last remark and left his uncle’s side.  He leaned against the lintel of the big doorway and looked idly across the courtyard through the open gate on to the main road of the settlement.  It lay empty, straight, and yellow under the flood of light.  In the hot noontide the smooth trunks of palm trees, the outlines of the houses, and away there at the other end of the road the roof of Almayer’s house visible over the bushes on the dark background of forest, seemed to quiver in the heat radiating from the steaming earth.  Swarms of yellow butterflies rose, and settled to rise again in short flights before Reshid’s half-closed eyes.  From under his feet arose the dull hum of insects in the long grass of the courtyard.  He looked on sleepily.

From one of the side paths amongst the houses a woman stepped out on the road, a slight girlish figure walking under the shade of a large tray balanced on its head.  The consciousness of something moving stirred Reshid’s half-sleeping senses into a comparative wakefulness.  He recognised Taminah, Bulangi’s slave-girl, with her tray of cakes for sale — an apparition of daily recurrence and of no importance whatever.  She was going towards Almayer’s house.  She could be made useful.  He roused himself up and ran towards the gate calling out, “Taminah O!”  The girl stopped, hesitated, and came back slowly.

Reshid waited, signing to her impatiently to come nearer.

When near Reshid Taminah stood with downcast eyes.  Reshid looked at her a while before he asked —

“Are you going to Almayer’s house?  They say in the settlement that Dain the trader, he that was found drowned this morning, is lying in the white man’s campong.”

“I have heard this talk,” whispered Taminah; “and this morning by the riverside I saw the body.  Where it is now I do not know.”

“So you have seen it?” asked Reshid, eagerly.  “Is it Dain?  You have seen him many times.  You would know him.”

The girl’s lips quivered and she remained silent for a while, breathing quickly.

“I have seen him, not a long time ago,” she said at last.  “The talk is true; he is dead.  What do you want from me, Tuan?  I must go.”

Just then the report of the gun fired on board the steam launch was heard, interrupting Reshid’s reply.  Leaving the girl he ran to the house, and met in the courtyard Abdulla coming towards the gate.

“The Orang Blanda are come,” said Reshid, “and now we shall have our reward.”

Abdulla shook his head doubtfully.  “The white men’s rewards are long in coming,” he said.  “White men are quick in anger and slow in gratitude.  We shall see.”

He stood at the gate stroking his grey beard and listening to the distant cries of greeting at the other end of the settlement.  As Taminah was turning to go he called her back.

“Listen, girl,” he said: “there will be many white men in Almayer’s house.  You shall be there selling your cakes to the men of the sea.  What you see and what you hear you may tell me.  Come here before the sun sets and I will give you a blue handkerchief with red spots.  Now go, and forget not to return.”

He gave her a push with the end of his long staff as she was going away and made her stumble.

“This slave is very slow,” he remarked to his nephew, looking after the girl with great disfavour.

Taminah walked on, her tray on the head, her eyes fixed on the ground.  From the open doors of the houses were heard, as she passed, friendly calls inviting her within for business purposes, but she never heeded them, neglecting her sales in the preoccupation of intense thinking.  Since the very early morning she had heard much, she had also seen much that filled her heart with a joy mingled with great suffering and fear.  Before the dawn, before she left Bulangi’s house to paddle up to Sambir she had heard voices outside the house when all in it but herself were asleep.  And now, with her knowledge of the words spoken in the darkness, she held in her hand a life and carried in her breast a great sorrow.  Yet from her springy step, erect figure, and face veiled over by the everyday look of apathetic indifference, nobody could have guessed of the double load she carried under the visible burden of the tray piled up high with cakes manufactured by the thrifty hands of Bulangi’s wives.  In that supple figure straight as an arrow, so graceful and free in its walk, behind those soft eyes that spoke of nothing but of unconscious resignation, there slept all feelings and all passions, all hopes and all fears, the curse of life and the consolation of death.  And she knew nothing of it all.  She lived like the tall palms amongst whom she was passing now, seeking the light, desiring the sunshine, fearing the storm, unconscious of either.  The slave had no hope, and knew of no change.  She knew of no other sky, no other water, no other forest, no other world, no other life.  She had no wish, no hope, no love, no fear except of a blow, and no vivid feeling but that of occasional hunger, which was seldom, for Bulangi was rich and rice was plentiful in the solitary house in his clearing.  The absence of pain and hunger was her happiness, and when she felt unhappy she was simply tired, more than usual, after the day’s labour.  Then in the hot nights of the south-west monsoon she slept dreamlessly under the bright stars on the platform built outside the house and over the river.  Inside they slept too: Bulangi by the door; his wives further in; the children with their mothers.  She could hear their breathing; Bulangi’s sleepy voice; the sharp cry of a child soon hushed with tender words.  And she closed her eyes to the murmur of the water below her, to the whisper of the warm wind above, ignorant of the never-ceasing life of that tropical nature that spoke to her in vain with the thousand faint voices of the near forest, with the breath of tepid wind; in the heavy scents that lingered around her head; in the white wraiths of morning mist that hung over her in the solemn hush of all creation before the dawn.

Such had been her existence before the coming of the brig with the strangers.  She remembered well that time; the uproar in the settlement, the never-ending wonder, the days and nights of talk and excitement.  She remembered her own timidity with the strange men, till the brig moored to the bank became in a manner part of the settlement, and the fear wore off in the familiarity of constant intercourse.  The call on board then became part of her daily round.  She walked hesitatingly up the slanting planks of the gangway amidst the encouraging shouts and more or less decent jokes of the men idling over the bulwarks.  There she sold her wares to those men that spoke so loud and carried themselves so free.  There was a throng, a constant coming and going; calls interchanged, orders given and executed with shouts; the rattle of blocks, the flinging about of coils of rope.  She sat out of the way under the shade of the awning, with her tray before her, the veil drawn well over her face, feeling shy amongst so many men.  She smiled at all buyers, but spoke to none, letting their jests pass with stolid unconcern.  She heard many tales told around her of far-off countries, of strange customs, of events stranger still.  Those men were brave; but the most fearless of them spoke of their chief with fear.  Often the man they called their master passed before her, walking erect and indifferent, in the pride of youth, in the flash of rich dress, with a tinkle of gold ornaments, while everybody stood aside watching anxiously for a movement of his lips, ready to do his bidding.  Then all her life seemed to rush into her eyes, and from under her veil she gazed at him, charmed, yet fearful to attract attention.  One day he noticed her and asked, “Who is that girl?”  “A slave, Tuan!  A girl that sells cakes,” a dozen voices replied together.  She rose in terror to run on shore, when he called her back; and as she stood trembling with head hung down before him, he spoke kind words, lifting her chin with his hand and looking into her eyes with a smile.  “Do not be afraid,” he said.  He never spoke to her any more.  Somebody called out from the river bank; he turned away and forgot her existence.  Taminah saw Almayer standing on the shore with Nina on his arm.  She heard Nina’s voice calling out gaily, and saw Dain’s face brighten with joy as he leaped on shore.  She hated the sound of that voice ever since.

After that day she left off visiting Almayer’s compound, and passed the noon hours under the shade of the brig awning.  She watched for his coming with heart beating quicker and quicker, as he approached, into a wild tumult of newly-aroused feelings of joy and hope and fear that died away with Dain’s retreating figure, leaving her tired out, as if after a struggle, sitting still for a long time in dreamy languor.  Then she paddled home slowly in the afternoon, often letting her canoe float with the lazy stream in the quiet backwater of the river.  The paddle hung idle in the water as she sat in the stern, one hand supporting her chin, her eyes wide open, listening intently to the whispering of her heart that seemed to swell at last into a song of extreme sweetness.  Listening to that song she husked the rice at home; it dulled her ears to the shrill bickerings of Bulangi’s wives, to the sound of angry reproaches addressed to herself.  And when the sun was near its setting she walked to the bathing-place and heard it as she stood on the tender grass of the low bank, her robe at her feet, and looked at the reflection of her figure on the glass-like surface of the creek.  Listening to it she walked slowly back, her wet hair hanging over her shoulders; laying down to rest under the bright stars, she closed her eyes to the murmur of the water below, of the warm wind above; to the voice of nature speaking through the faint noises of the great forest, and to the song of her own heart.

She heard, but did not understand, and drank in the dreamy joy of her new existence without troubling about its meaning or its end, till the full consciousness of life came to her through pain and anger.  And she suffered horribly the first time she saw Nina’s long canoe drift silently past the sleeping house of Bulangi, bearing the two lovers into the white mist of the great river.  Her jealousy and rage culminated into a paroxysm of physical pain that left her lying panting on the river bank, in the dumb agony of a wounded animal.  But she went on moving patiently in the enchanted circle of slavery, going through her task day after day with all the pathos of the grief she could not express, even to herself, locked within her breast.  She shrank from Nina as she would have shrunk from the sharp blade of a knife cutting into her flesh, but she kept on visiting the brig to feed her dumb, ignorant soul on her own despair.  She saw Dain many times.  He never spoke, he never looked.  Could his eyes see only one woman’s image?  Could his ears hear only one woman’s voice?  He never noticed her; not once.

And then he went away.  She saw him and Nina for the last time on that morning when Babalatchi, while visiting his fish baskets, had his suspicions of the white man’s daughter’s love affair with Dain confirmed beyond the shadow of doubt.  Dain disappeared, and Taminah’s heart, where lay useless and barren the seeds of all love and of all hate, the possibilities of all passions and of all sacrifices, forgot its joys and its sufferings when deprived of the help of the senses.  Her half-formed, savage mind, the slave of her body — as her body was the slave of another’s will — forgot the faint and vague image of the ideal that had found its beginning in the physical promptings of her savage nature.  She dropped back into the torpor of her former life and found consolation — even a certain kind of happiness — in the thought that now Nina and Dain were separated, probably for ever.  He would forget.  This thought soothed the last pangs of dying jealousy that had nothing now to feed upon, and Taminah found peace.  It was like the dreary tranquillity of a desert, where there is peace only because there is no life.

And now he had returned.  She had recognised his voice calling aloud in the night for Bulangi.  She had crept out after her master to listen closer to the intoxicating sound.  Dain was there, in a boat, talking to Bulangi.  Taminah, listening with arrested breath, heard another voice.  The maddening joy, that only a second before she thought herself incapable of containing within her fast-beating heart, died out, and left her shivering in the old anguish of physical pain that she had suffered once before at the sight of Dain and Nina.  Nina spoke now, ordering and entreating in turns, and Bulangi was refusing, expostulating, at last consenting.  He went in to take a paddle from the heap lying behind the door.  Outside the murmur of two voices went on, and she caught a word here and there.  She understood that he was fleeing from white men, that he was seeking a hiding-place, that he was in some danger.  But she heard also words which woke the rage of jealousy that had been asleep for so many days in her bosom.  Crouching low on the mud in the black darkness amongst the piles, she heard the whisper in the boat that made light of toil, of privation, of danger, of life itself, if in exchange there could be but a short moment of close embrace, a look from the eyes, the feel of light breath, the touch of soft lips.  So spoke Dain as he sat in the canoe holding Nina’s hands while waiting for Bulangi’s return; and Taminah, supporting herself by the slimy pile, felt as if a heavy weight was crushing her down, down into the black oily water at her feet.  She wanted to cry out; to rush at them and tear their vague shadows apart; to throw Nina into the smooth water, cling to her close, hold her to the bottom where that man could not find her.  She could not cry, she could not move.  Then footsteps were heard on the bamboo platform above her head; she saw Bulangi get into his smallest canoe and take the lead, the other boat following, paddled by Dain and Nina.  With a slight splash of the paddles dipped stealthily into the water, their indistinct forms passed before her aching eyes and vanished in the darkness of the creek.

She remained there in the cold and wet, powerless to move, breathing painfully under the crushing weight that the mysterious hand of Fate had laid so suddenly upon her slender shoulders, and shivering, she felt within a burning fire, that seemed to feed upon her very life.  When the breaking day had spread a pale golden ribbon over the black outline of the forests, she took up her tray and departed towards the settlement, going about her task purely from the force of habit.  As she approached Sambir she could see the excitement and she heard with momentary surprise of the finding of Dain’s body.  It was not true, of course.  She knew it well.  She regretted that he was not dead.  She should have liked Dain to be dead, so as to be parted from that woman — from all women.  She felt a strong desire to see Nina, but without any clear object.  She hated her, and feared her and she felt an irresistible impulse pushing her towards Almayer’s house to see the white woman’s face, to look close at those eyes, to hear again that voice, for the sound of which Dain was ready to risk his liberty, his life even.  She had seen her many times; she had heard her voice daily for many months past.  What was there in her?  What was there in that being to make a man speak as Dain had spoken, to make him blind to all other faces, deaf to all other voices?

She left the crowd by the riverside, and wandered aimlessly among the empty houses, resisting the impulse that pushed her towards Almayer’s campong to seek there in Nina’s eyes the secret of her own misery.  The sun mounting higher, shortened the shadows and poured down upon her a flood of light and of stifling heat as she passed on from shadow to light, from light to shadow, amongst the houses, the bushes, the tall trees, in her unconscious flight from the pain in her own heart.  In the extremity of her distress she could find no words to pray for relief, she knew of no heaven to send her prayer to, and she wandered on with tired feet in the dumb surprise and terror at the injustice of the suffering inflicted upon her without cause and without redress.

The short talk with Reshid, the proposal of Abdulla steadied her a little and turned her thoughts into another channel.  Dain was in some danger.  He was hiding from white men.  So much she had overheard last night.  They all thought him dead.  She knew he was alive, and she knew of his hiding-place.  What did the Arabs want to know about the white men?  The white men want with Dain?  Did they wish to kill him?  She could tell them all — no, she would say nothing, and in the night she would go to him and sell him his life for a word, for a smile, for a gesture even, and be his slave in far-off countries, away from Nina.  But there were dangers.  The one-eyed Babalatchi who knew everything; the white man’s wife — she was a witch.  Perhaps they would tell.  And then there was Nina.  She must hurry on and see.

In her impatience she left the path and ran towards Almayer’s dwelling through the undergrowth between the palm trees.  She came out at the back of the house, where a narrow ditch, full of stagnant water that overflowed from the river, separated Almayer’s campong from the rest of the settlement.  The thick bushes growing on the bank were hiding from her sight the large courtyard with its cooking shed.  Above them rose several thin columns of smoke, and from behind the sound of strange voices informed Taminah that the Men of the Sea belonging to the warship had already landed and were camped between the ditch and the house.  To the left one of Almayer’s slave-girls came down to the ditch and bent over the shiny water, washing a kettle.  To the right the tops of the banana plantation, visible above the bushes, swayed and shook under the touch of invisible hands gathering the fruit.  On the calm water several canoes moored to a heavy stake were crowded together, nearly bridging the ditch just at the place where Taminah stood.  The voices in the courtyard rose at times into an outburst of calls, replies, and laughter, and then died away into a silence that soon was broken again by a fresh clamour.  Now and again the thin blue smoke rushed out thicker and blacker, and drove in odorous masses over the creek, wrapping her for a moment in a suffocating veil; then, as the fresh wood caught well alight, the smoke vanished in the bright sunlight, and only the scent of aromatic wood drifted afar, to leeward of the crackling fires.

Taminah rested her tray on a stump of a tree, and remained standing with her eyes turned towards Almayer’s house, whose roof and part of a whitewashed wall were visible over the bushes.  The slave-girl finished her work, and after looking for a while curiously at Taminah, pushed her way through the dense thicket back to the courtyard.  Round Taminah there was now a complete solitude.  She threw herself down on the ground, and hid her face in her hands.  Now when so close she had no courage to see Nina.  At every burst of louder voices from the courtyard she shivered in the fear of hearing Nina’s voice.  She came to the resolution of waiting where she was till dark, and then going straight to Dain’s hiding-place.  From where she was she could watch the movements of white men, of Nina, of all Dain’s friends, and of all his enemies.  Both were hateful alike to her, for both would take him away beyond her reach.  She hid herself in the long grass to wait anxiously for the sunset that seemed so slow to come.

On the other side of the ditch, behind the bush, by the clear fires, the seamen of the frigate had encamped on the hospitable invitation of Almayer.  Almayer, roused out of his apathy by the prayers and importunity of Nina, had managed to get down in time to the jetty so as to receive the officers at their landing.  The lieutenant in command accepted his invitation to his house with the remark that in any case their business was with Almayer — and perhaps not very pleasant, he added.  Almayer hardly heard him.  He shook hands with them absently and led the way towards the house.  He was scarcely conscious of the polite words of welcome he greeted the strangers with, and afterwards repeated several times over again in his efforts to appear at ease.  The agitation of their host did not escape the officer’s eyes, and the chief confided to his subordinate, in a low voice, his doubts as to Almayer’s sobriety.  The young sub-lieutenant laughed and expressed in a whisper the hope that the white man was not intoxicated enough to neglect the offer of some refreshments.  “He does not seem very dangerous,” he added, as they followed Almayer up the steps of the verandah.

“No, he seems more of a fool than a knave; I have heard of him,” returned the senior.

They sat around the table.  Almayer with shaking hands made gin cocktails, offered them all round, and drank himself, with every gulp feeling stronger, steadier, and better able to face all the difficulties of his position.  Ignorant of the fate of the brig he did not suspect the real object of the officer’s visit.  He had a general notion that something must have leaked out about the gunpowder trade, but apprehended nothing beyond some temporary inconveniences.  After emptying his glass he began to chat easily, lying back in his chair with one of his legs thrown negligently over the arm.  The lieutenant astride on his chair, a glowing cheroot in the corner of his mouth, listened with a sly smile from behind the thick volumes of smoke that escaped from his compressed lips.  The young sub-lieutenant, leaning with both elbows on the table, his head between his hands, looked on sleepily in the torpor induced by fatigue and the gin.  Almayer talked on —

“It is a great pleasure to see white faces here.  I have lived here many years in great solitude.  The Malays, you understand, are not company for a white man; moreover they are not friendly; they do not understand our ways.  Great rascals they are.  I believe I am the only white man on the east coast that is a settled resident.  We get visitors from Macassar or Singapore sometimes — traders, agents, or explorers, but they are rare.  There was a scientific explorer here a year or more ago.  He lived in my house: drank from morning to night.  He lived joyously for a few months, and when the liquor he brought with him was gone he returned to Batavia with a report on the mineral wealth of the interior.  Ha, ha, ha!  Good, is it not?”

He ceased abruptly and looked at his guests with a meaningless stare.  While they laughed he was reciting to himself the old story: “Dain dead, all my plans destroyed.  This is the end of all hope and of all things.”  His heart sank within him.  He felt a kind of deadly sickness.

“Very good.  Capital!” exclaimed both officers.  Almayer came out of his despondency with another burst of talk.

“Eh! what about the dinner?  You have got a cook with you.  That’s all right.  There is a cooking shed in the other courtyard.  I can give you a goose.  Look at my geese — the only geese on the east coast — perhaps on the whole island.  Is that your cook?  Very good.  Here, Ali, show this Chinaman the cooking place and tell Mem Almayer to let him have room there.  My wife, gentlemen, does not come out; my daughter may.  Meantime have some more drink.  It is a hot day.”

The lieutenant took the cigar out of his mouth, looked at the ash critically, shook it off and turned towards Almayer.

“We have a rather unpleasant business with you,” he said.

“I am sorry,” returned Almayer.  “It can be nothing very serious, surely.”

“If you think an attempt to blow up forty men at least, not a serious matter you will not find many people of your opinion,” retorted the officer sharply.

“Blow up!  What?  I know nothing about it,” exclaimed Almayer.  “Who did that, or tried to do it?”

“A man with whom you had some dealings,” answered the lieutenant.  “He passed here under the name of Dain Maroola.  You sold him the gunpowder he had in that brig we captured.”

“How did you hear about the brig?” asked Almayer.  “I know nothing about the powder he may have had.”

“An Arab trader of this place has sent the information about your goings on here to Batavia, a couple of months ago,” said the officer.  “We were waiting for the brig outside, but he slipped past us at the mouth of the river, and we had to chase the fellow to the southward.  When he sighted us he ran inside the reefs and put the brig ashore.  The crew escaped in boats before we could take possession.  As our boats neared the craft it blew up with a tremendous explosion; one of the boats being too near got swamped.  Two men drowned — that is the result of your speculation, Mr. Almayer.  Now we want this Dain.  We have good grounds to suppose he is hiding in Sambir.  Do you know where he is?  You had better put yourself right with the authorities as much as possible by being perfectly frank with me.  Where is this Dain?”

Almayer got up and walked towards the balustrade of the verandah.  He seemed not to be thinking of the officer’s question.  He looked at the body laying straight and rigid under its white cover on which the sun, declining amongst the clouds to the westward, threw a pale tinge of red.  The lieutenant waited for the answer, taking quick pulls at his half-extinguished cigar.  Behind them Ali moved noiselessly laying the table, ranging solemnly the ill-assorted and shabby crockery, the tin spoons, the forks with broken prongs, and the knives with saw-like blades and loose handles.  He had almost forgotten how to prepare the table for white men.  He felt aggrieved; Mem Nina would not help him.  He stepped back to look at his work admiringly, feeling very proud.  This must be right; and if the master afterwards is angry and swears, then so much the worse for Mem Nina.  Why did she not help?  He left the verandah to fetch the dinner.

“Well, Mr. Almayer, will you answer my question as frankly as it is put to you?” asked the lieutenant, after a long silence.

Almayer turned round and looked at his interlocutor steadily.  “If you catch this Dain what will you do with him?” he asked.

The officer’s face flushed.  “This is not an answer,” he said, annoyed.

“And what will you do with me?” went on Almayer, not heeding the interruption.

“Are you inclined to bargain?” growled the other.  “It would be bad policy, I assure you.  At present I have no orders about your person, but we expected your assistance in catching this Malay.”

“Ah!” interrupted Almayer, “just so: you can do nothing without me, and I, knowing the man well, am to help you in finding him.”

“This is exactly what we expect,” assented the officer.  “You have broken the law, Mr. Almayer, and you ought to make amends.”

“And save myself?”

“Well, in a sense yes.  Your head is not in any danger,” said the lieutenant, with a short laugh.

“Very well,” said Almayer, with decision, “I shall deliver the man up to you.”

Both officers rose to their feet quickly, and looked for their side-arms which they had unbuckled.  Almayer laughed harshly.

“Steady, gentlemen!” he exclaimed.  “In my own time and in my own way.  After dinner, gentlemen, you shall have him.”

“This is preposterous,” urged the lieutenant.  “Mr. Almayer, this is no joking matter.  The man is a criminal.  He deserves to hang.  While we dine he may escape; the rumour of our arrival — ”

Almayer walked towards the table.  “I give you my word of honour, gentlemen, that he shall not escape; I have him safe enough.”

“The arrest should be effected before dark,” remarked the young sub.

“I shall hold you responsible for any failure.  We are ready, but can do nothing just now without you,” added the senior, with evident annoyance.

Almayer made a gesture of assent.  “On my word of honour,” he repeated vaguely.  “And now let us dine,” he added briskly.

Nina came through the doorway and stood for a moment holding the curtain aside for Ali and the old Malay woman bearing the dishes; then she moved towards the three men by the table.

“Allow me,” said Almayer, pompously.  “This is my daughter.  Nina, these gentlemen, officers of the frigate outside, have done me the honour to accept my hospitality.”

Nina answered the low bows of the two officers by a slow inclination of the head and took her place at the table opposite her father.  All sat down.  The coxswain of the steam launch came up carrying some bottles of wine.

“You will allow me to have this put upon the table?” said the lieutenant to Almayer.

“What!  Wine!  You are very kind.  Certainly, I have none myself.  Times are very hard.”

The last words of his reply were spoken by Almayer in a faltering voice.  The thought that Dain was dead recurred to him vividly again, and he felt as if an invisible hand was gripping his throat.  He reached for the gin bottle while they were uncorking the wine and swallowed a big gulp.  The lieutenant, who was speaking to Nina, gave him a quick glance.  The young sub began to recover from the astonishment and confusion caused by Nina’s unexpected appearance and great beauty.  “She was very beautiful and imposing,” he reflected, “but after all a half-caste girl.”  This thought caused him to pluck up heart and look at Nina sideways.  Nina, with composed face, was answering in a low, even voice the elder officer’s polite questions as to the country and her mode of life.  Almayer pushed his plate away and drank his guest’s wine in gloomy silence.

CHAPTER IX.

“Can I believe what you tell me?  It is like a tale for men that listen only half awake by the camp fire, and it seems to have run off a woman’s tongue.”

“Who is there here for me to deceive, O Rajah?” answered Babalatchi.  “Without you I am nothing.  All I have told you I believe to be true.  I have been safe for many years in the hollow of your hand.  This is no time to harbour suspicions.  The danger is very great.  We should advise and act at once, before the sun sets.”

“Right.  Right,” muttered Lakamba, pensively.

They had been sitting for the last hour together in the audience chamber of the Rajah’s house, for Babalatchi, as soon as he had witnessed the landing of the Dutch officers, had crossed the river to report to his master the events of the morning, and to confer with him upon the line of conduct to pursue in the face of altered circumstances.  They were both puzzled and frightened by the unexpected turn the events had taken.  The Rajah, sitting crosslegged on his chair, looked fixedly at the floor; Babalatchi was squatting close by in an attitude of deep dejection.

“And where did you say he is hiding now?” asked Lakamba, breaking at last the silence full of gloomy forebodings in which they both had been lost for a long while.

“In Bulangi’s clearing — the furthest one, away from the house.  They went there that very night.  The white man’s daughter took him there.  She told me so herself, speaking to me openly, for she is half white and has no decency.  She said she was waiting for him while he was here; then, after a long time, he came out of the darkness and fell at her feet exhausted.  He lay like one dead, but she brought him back to life in her arms, and made him breathe again with her own breath.  That is what she said, speaking to my face, as I am speaking now to you, Rajah.  She is like a white woman and knows no shame.”

He paused, deeply shocked.  Lakamba nodded his head.  “Well, and then?” he asked.

“They called the old woman,” went on Babalatchi, “and he told them all — about the brig, and how he tried to kill many men.  He knew the Orang Blanda were very near, although he had said nothing to us about that; he knew his great danger.  He thought he had killed many, but there were only two dead, as I have heard from the men of the sea that came in the warship’s boats.”

“And the other man, he that was found in the river?” interrupted Lakamba.

“That was one of his boatmen.  When his canoe was overturned by the logs those two swam together, but the other man must have been hurt.  Dain swam, holding him up.  He left him in the bushes when he went up to the house.  When they all came down his heart had ceased to beat; then the old woman spoke; Dain thought it was good.  He took off his anklet and broke it, twisting it round the man’s foot.  His ring he put on that slave’s hand.  He took off his sarong and clothed that thing that wanted no clothes, the two women holding it up meanwhile, their intent being to deceive all eyes and to mislead the minds in the settlement, so that they could swear to the thing that was not, and that there could be no treachery when the white-men came.  Then Dain and the white woman departed to call up Bulangi and find a hiding-place.  The old woman remained by the body.”

“Hai!” exclaimed Lakamba.  “She has wisdom.”

“Yes, she has a Devil of her own to whisper counsel in her ear,” assented Babalatchi.  “She dragged the body with great toil to the point where many logs were stranded.  All these things were done in the darkness after the storm had passed away.  Then she waited.  At the first sign of daylight she battered the face of the dead with a heavy stone, and she pushed him amongst the logs.  She remained near, watching.  At sunrise Mahmat Banjer came and found him.  They all believed; I myself was deceived, but not for long.  The white man believed, and, grieving, fled to his house.  When we were alone I, having doubts, spoke to the woman, and she, fearing my anger and your might, told me all, asking for help in saving Dain.”

“He must not fall into the hands of the Orang Blanda,” said Lakamba; “but let him die, if the thing can be done quietly.”

“It cannot, Tuan!  Remember there is that woman who, being half white, is ungovernable, and would raise a great outcry.  Also the officers are here.  They are angry enough already.  Dain must escape; he must go.  We must help him now for our own safety.”

“Are the officers very angry?” inquired Lakamba, with interest.

“They are.  The principal chief used strong words when speaking to me — to me when I salaamed in your name.  I do not think,” added Babalatchi, after a short pause and looking very worried — ”I do not think I saw a white chief so angry before.  He said we were careless or even worse.  He told me he would speak to the Rajah, and that I was of no account.”

“Speak to the Rajah!” repeated Lakamba, thoughtfully.  “Listen, Babalatchi: I am sick, and shall withdraw; you cross over and tell the white men.”

“Yes,” said Babalatchi, “I am going over at once; and as to Dain?”

“You get him away as you can best.  This is a great trouble in my heart,” sighed Lakamba.

Babalatchi got up, and, going close to his master, spoke earnestly.

“There is one of our praus at the southern mouth of the river.  The Dutch warship is to the northward watching the main entrance.  I shall send Dain off to-night in a canoe, by the hidden channels, on board the prau.  His father is a great prince, and shall hear of our generosity.  Let the prau take him to Ampanam.  Your glory shall be great, and your reward in powerful friendship.  Almayer will no doubt deliver the dead body as Dain’s to the officers, and the foolish white men shall say, ‘This is very good; let there be peace.’  And the trouble shall be removed from your heart, Rajah.”

“True! true!” said Lakamba.

“And, this being accomplished by me who am your slave, you shall reward with a generous hand.  That I know!  The white man is grieving for the lost treasure, in the manner of white men who thirst after dollars.  Now, when all other things are in order, we shall perhaps obtain the treasure from the white man.  Dain must escape, and Almayer must live.”

“Now go, Babalatchi, go!” said Lakamba, getting off his chair.  “I am very sick, and want medicine.  Tell the white chief so.”

But Babalatchi was not to be got rid of in this summary manner.  He knew that his master, after the manner of the great, liked to shift the burden of toil and danger on to his servants’ shoulders, but in the difficult straits in which they were now the Rajah must play his part.  He may be very sick for the white men, for all the world if he liked, as long as he would take upon himself the execution of part at least of Babalatchi’s carefully thought-of plan.  Babalatchi wanted a big canoe manned by twelve men to be sent out after dark towards Bulangi’s clearing.  Dain may have to be overpowered.  A man in love cannot be expected to see clearly the path of safety if it leads him away from the object of his affections, argued Babalatchi, and in that case they would have to use force in order to make him go.  Would the Rajah see that trusty men manned the canoe?  The thing must be done secretly.  Perhaps the Rajah would come himself, so as to bring all the weight of his authority to bear upon Dain if he should prove obstinate and refuse to leave his hiding-place.  The Rajah would not commit himself to a definite promise, and anxiously pressed Babalatchi to go, being afraid of the white men paying him an unexpected visit.  The aged statesman reluctantly took his leave and went into the courtyard.

Before going down to his boat Babalatchi stopped for a while in the big open space where the thick-leaved trees put black patches of shadow which seemed to float on a flood of smooth, intense light that rolled up to the houses and down to the stockade and over the river, where it broke and sparkled in thousands of glittering wavelets, like a band woven of azure and gold edged with the brilliant green of the forests guarding both banks of the Pantai.  In the perfect calm before the coming of the afternoon breeze the irregularly jagged line of tree-tops stood unchanging, as if traced by an unsteady hand on the clear blue of the hot sky.  In the space sheltered by the high palisades there lingered the smell of decaying blossoms from the surrounding forest, a taint of drying fish; with now and then a whiff of acrid smoke from the cooking fires when it eddied down from under the leafy boughs and clung lazily about the burnt-up grass.

As Babalatchi looked up at the flagstaff over-topping a group of low trees in the middle of the courtyard, the tricolour flag of the Netherlands stirred slightly for the first time since it had been hoisted that morning on the arrival of the man-of-war boats.  With a faint rustle of trees the breeze came down in light puffs, playing capriciously for a time with this emblem of Lakamba’s power, that was also the mark of his servitude; then the breeze freshened in a sharp gust of wind, and the flag flew out straight and steady above the trees.  A dark shadow ran along the river, rolling over and covering up the sparkle of declining sunlight.  A big white cloud sailed slowly across the darkening sky, and hung to the westward as if waiting for the sun to join it there.  Men and things shook off the torpor of the hot afternoon and stirred into life under the first breath of the sea breeze.

Babalatchi hurried down to the water-gate; yet before he passed through it he paused to look round the courtyard, with its light and shade, with its cheery fires, with the groups of Lakamba’s soldiers and retainers scattered about.  His own house stood amongst the other buildings in that enclosure, and the statesman of Sambir asked himself with a sinking heart when and how would it be given him to return to that house.  He had to deal with a man more dangerous than any wild beast of his experience: a proud man, a man wilful after the manner of princes, a man in love.  And he was going forth to speak to that man words of cold and worldly wisdom.  Could anything be more appalling?  What if that man should take umbrage at some fancied slight to his honour or disregard of his affections and suddenly “amok”?  The wise adviser would be the first victim, no doubt, and death would be his reward.  And underlying the horror of this situation there was the danger of those meddlesome fools, the white men.  A vision of comfortless exile in far-off Madura rose up before Babalatchi.  Wouldn’t that be worse than death itself?  And there was that half-white woman with threatening eyes.  How could he tell what an incomprehensible creature of that sort would or would not do?  She knew so much that she made the killing of Dain an impossibility.  That much was certain.  And yet the sharp, rough-edged kriss is a good and discreet friend, thought Babalatchi, as he examined his own lovingly, and put it back in the sheath, with a sigh of regret, before unfastening his canoe.  As he cast off the painter, pushed out into the stream, and took up his paddle, he realised vividly how unsatisfactory it was to have women mixed up in state affairs.  Young women, of course.  For Mrs.