Complete Works

looked doubtful.
    “Sometimes the devil of strong gin makes him keep awake, and he walks up and down the verandah all night, cursing; then we stand afar off,” explained Mrs. Almayer, with the fuller knowledge born of twenty odd years of married life.
    “But then he does not hear, nor understand, and his hand, of course, has no strength.  We do not want him to hear to-night.”
    “No,” assented Mrs. Almayer, energetically, but in a cautiously subdued voice.  “If he hears he will kill.”
    Babalatchi looked incredulous.
    “Hai Tuan, you may believe me.  Have I not lived many years with that man?  Have I not seen death in that man’s eyes more than once when I was younger and he guessed at many things.  Had he been a man of my own people I would not have seen such a look twice; but he — ”
    With a contemptuous gesture she seemed to fling unutterable scorn on Almayer’s weak-minded aversion to sudden bloodshed.
    “If he has the wish but not the strength, then what do we fear?” asked Babalatchi, after a short silence during which they both listened to Almayer’s loud talk till it subsided into the murmur of general conversation.  “What do we fear?” repeated Babalatchi again.
    “To keep the daughter whom he loves he would strike into your heart and mine without hesitation,” said Mrs. Almayer.  “When the girl is gone he will be like the devil unchained.  Then you and I had better beware.”
    “I am an old man and fear not death,” answered Babalatchi, with a mendacious assumption of indifference.  “But what will you do?”
    “I am an old woman, and wish to live,” retorted Mrs. Almayer.  “She is my daughter also.  I shall seek safety at the feet of our Rajah, speaking in the name of the past when we both were young, and he — ”
    Babalatchi raised his hand.
    “Enough.  You shall be protected,” he said soothingly.
    Again the sound of Almayer’s voice was heard, and again interrupting their talk, they listened to the confused but loud utterance coming in bursts of unequal strength, with unexpected pauses and noisy repetitions that made some words and sentences fall clear and distinct on their ears out of the meaningless jumble of excited shoutings emphasised by the thumping of Almayer’s fist upon the table.  On the short intervals of silence, the high complaining note of tumblers, standing close together and vibrating to the shock, lingered, growing fainter, till it leapt up again into tumultuous ringing, when a new idea started a new rush of words and brought down the heavy hand again.  At last the quarrelsome shouting ceased, and the thin plaint of disturbed glass died away into reluctant quietude.
    Babalatchi and Mrs. Almayer had listened curiously, their bodies bent and their ears turned towards the passage.  At every louder shout they nodded at each other with a ridiculous affectation of scandalised propriety, and they remained in the same attitude for some time after the noise had ceased.
    “This is the devil of gin,” whispered Mrs. Almayer.  “Yes; he talks like that sometimes when there is nobody to hear him.”
    “What does he say?” inquired Babalatchi, eagerly.  “You ought to understand.”
    “I have forgotten their talk.  A little I understood.  He spoke without any respect of the white ruler in Batavia, and of protection, and said he had been wronged; he said that several times.  More I did not understand.  Listen!  Again he speaks!”
    “Tse! tse! tse!” clicked Babalatchi, trying to appear shocked, but with a joyous twinkle of his solitary eye.  “There will be great trouble between those white men.  I will go round now and see.  You tell your daughter that there is a sudden and a long journey before her, with much glory and splendour at the end.  And tell her that Dain must go, or he must die, and that he will not go alone.”
    “No, he will not go alone,” slowly repeated Mrs. Almayer, with a thoughtful air, as she crept into the passage after seeing Babalatchi disappear round the corner of the house.
    The statesman of Sambir, under the impulse of vivid curiosity, made his way quickly to the front of the house, but once there he moved slowly and cautiously as he crept step by step up the stairs of the verandah.  On the highest step he sat down quietly, his feet on the steps below, ready for flight should his presence prove unwelcome.  He felt pretty safe so.  The table stood nearly endways to him, and he saw Almayer’s