Complete Works

the bank.
    “You Abdulla?” said Almayer, doubtfully.
    A grave voice answered —
    “Tuan Almayer is speaking to a friend.  There is no Arab here.”
    Almayer’s heart gave a great leap.
    “Dain!” he exclaimed.  “At last! at last!  I have been waiting for you every day and every night.  I had nearly given you up.”
    “Nothing could have stopped me from coming back here,” said the other, almost violently.  “Not even death,” he whispered to himself.
    “This is a friend’s talk, and is very good,” said Almayer, heartily.  “But you are too far here.  Drop down to the jetty and let your men cook their rice in my campong while we talk in the house.”
    There was no answer to that invitation.
    “What is it?” asked Almayer, uneasily.  “There is nothing wrong with the brig, I hope?”
    “The brig is where no Orang Blanda can lay his hands on her,” said Dain, with a gloomy tone in his voice, which Almayer, in his elation, failed to notice.
    “Right,” he said.  “But where are all your men?  There are only two with you.”
    “Listen, Tuan Almayer,” said Dain.  “To-morrow’s sun shall see me in your house, and then we will talk.  Now I must go to the Rajah.”
    “To the Rajah!  Why?  What do you want with Lakamba?”
    “Tuan, to-morrow we talk like friends.  I must see Lakamba to-night.”
    “Dain, you are not going to abandon me now, when all is ready?” asked Almayer, in a pleading voice.
    “Have I not returned?  But I must see Lakamba first for your good and mine.”
    The shadowy head disappeared abruptly.  The bush, released from the grasp of the bowman, sprung back with a swish, scattering a shower of muddy water over Almayer, as he bent forward, trying to see.
    In a little while the canoe shot into the streak of light that streamed on the river from the big fire on the opposite shore, disclosing the outline of two men bending to their work, and a third figure in the stern flourishing the steering paddle, his head covered with an enormous round hat, like a fantastically exaggerated mushroom.
    Almayer watched the canoe till it passed out of the line of light.  Shortly after the murmur of many voices reached him across the water.  He could see the torches being snatched out of the burning pile, and rendering visible for a moment the gate in the stockade round which they crowded.  Then they went in apparently.  The torches disappeared, and the scattered fire sent out only a dim and fitful glare.
    Almayer stepped homewards with long strides and mind uneasy.  Surely Dain was not thinking of playing him false.  It was absurd.  Dain and Lakamba were both too much interested in the success of his scheme.  Trusting to Malays was poor work; but then even Malays have some sense and understand their own interest.  All would be well — must be well.  At this point in his meditation he found himself at the foot of the steps leading to the verandah of his home.  From the low point of land where he stood he could see both branches of the river.  The main branch of the Pantai was lost in complete darkness, for the fire at the Rajah’s had gone out altogether; but up the Sambir reach his eye could follow the long line of Malay houses crowding the bank, with here and there a dim light twinkling through bamboo walls, or a smoky torch burning on the platforms built out over the river.  Further away, where the island ended in a low cliff, rose a dark mass of buildings towering above the Malay structures.  Founded solidly on a firm ground with plenty of space, starred by many lights burning strong and white, with a suggestion of paraffin and lamp-glasses, stood the house and the godowns of Abdulla bin Selim, the great trader of Sambir.  To Almayer the sight was very distasteful, and he shook his fist towards the buildings that in their evident prosperity looked to him cold and insolent, and contemptuous of his own fallen fortunes.
    He mounted the steps of his house slowly.
    In the middle of the verandah there was a round table.  On it a paraffin lamp without a globe shed a hard glare on the three inner sides.  The fourth side was open, and faced the river.  Between the rough supports of the high-pitched roof hung torn rattan screens.  There was no ceiling, and the harsh brilliance of the lamp was toned above into a soft half-light that lost itself in the obscurity amongst the rafters.  The front wall was cut in two by the doorway of a central passage closed by a