cursed through his teeth . . . It had wanted only this! See
things like that in broad daylight! He was very bad--very bad. .

. . He was horribly scared at this awful symptom of the
desperate state of his health.

This scare lasted for the space of a flash of lightning, and in
the next moment it was revealed to him that the woman was real;

that she was coming towards him; that she was his wife! He put
his feet down to the ground quickly, but made no other movement.

His eyes opened wide. He was so amazed that for a time he
absolutely forgot his own existence. The only idea in his head

was: Why on earth did she come here?
Joanna was coming up the courtyard with eager, hurried steps.

She carried in her arms the child, wrapped up in one of Almayer's
white blankets that she had snatched off the bed at the last

moment, before leaving the house. She seemed to be dazed by the
sun in her eyes; bewildered by her strange surroundings. She

moved on, looking quickly right and left in impatient expectation
of seeing her husband at any moment. Then, approaching the tree,

she perceived suddenly a kind of a dried-up, yellow corpse,
sitting very stiff on a bench in the shade and looking at her

with big eyes that were alive. That was her husband.
She stopped dead short. They stared at one another in profound

stillness, with astounded eyes, with eyes maddened by the
memories of things far off that seemed lost in the lapse of time.

Their looks crossed, passed each other, and appeared to dart at
them through fantastic distances, to come straight from the

incredible.
Looking at him steadily she came nearer, and deposited the

blanket with the child in it on the bench. Little Louis, after
howling with terror in the darkness of the river most of the

night, now slept soundly and did not wake. Willems' eyes
followed his wife, his head turning slowly after her. He

accepted her presence there with a tired acquiescence in its
fabulous improbability. Anything might happen. What did she

come for? She was part of the general scheme of his misfortune.
He half expected that she would rush at him, pull his hair, and

scratch his face. Why not? Anything might happen! In an
exaggerated sense of his great bodilyweakness he felt somewhat

apprehensive of possible assault. At any rate, she would scream
at him. He knew her of old. She could screech. He had thought

that he was rid of her for ever. She came now probably to see
the end. . . .

Suddenly she turned, and embracing him slid gently to the ground.
This startled him. With her forehead on his knees she sobbed

noiselessly. He looked down dismally at the top of her head.
What was she up to? He had not the strength to move--to get

away. He heard her whispering something, and bent over to
listen. He caught the word "Forgive."

That was what she came for! All that way. Women are queer.
Forgive. Not he! . . . All at once this thought darted through

his brain: How did she come? In a boat. Boat! boat!
He shouted "Boat!" and jumped up, knocking her over. Before she

had time to pick herself up he pounced upon her and was dragging
her up by the shoulders. No sooner had she regained her feet

than she clasped him tightly round the neck, covering his face,
his eyes, his mouth, his nose with desperate kisses. He dodged

his head about, shaking her arms, trying to keep her off, to
speak, to ask her. . . . She came in a boat, boat, boat! . . .

They struggled and swung round, tramping in a semicircle. He
blurted out, "Leave off. Listen," while he tore at her hands.

This meeting of lawful love and sincere joy resembled fight.
Louis Willems slept peacefully under his blanket.

At last Willems managed to free himself, and held her off,
pressing her arms down. He looked at her. He had half a

suspicion that he was dreaming. Her lips trembled; her eyes
wandered unsteadily, always coming back to his face. He saw her

the same as ever, in his presence. She appeared startled,
tremulous, ready to cry. She did not inspire him with

confidence. He shouted--
"How did you come?"

She answered in hurried words, looking at him intently--
"In a big canoe with three men. I know everything. Lingard's

away. I come to save you. I know. . . . Almayer told me."
"Canoe!--Almayer--Lies. Told you--You!" stammered Willems in a

distracted manner. "Why you?--Told what?"
Words failed him. He stared at his wife, thinking with fear that

she--stupid woman--had been made a tool in some plan of treachery
. . . in some deadly plot.

She began to cry--
"Don't look at me like that, Peter. What have I done? I come to

beg--to beg--forgiven" target="_blank" title="forgive的过去分词">forgiveness. . . . Save--Lingard--danger."
He trembled with impatience, with hope, with fear. She looked at

him and sobbed out in a fresh outburst of grief--
"Oh! Peter. What's the matter?--Are you ill? . . . Oh! you look

so ill . . ."
He shook her violently into a terrified and wondering silence.

"How dare you!--I am well--perfectly well. . . . Where's that
boat? Will you tell me where that boat is--at last? The boat, I

say . . . You! . . ."
"You hurt me," she moaned.

He let her go, and, mastering her terror, she stood quivering and
looking at him with strange intensity. Then she made a movement

forward, but he lifted his finger, and she restrained herself
with a long sigh. He calmed down suddenly and surveyed her with

cold criticism, with the same appearance as when, in the old
days, he used to find fault with the household expenses. She

found a kind of fearful delight in this abrupt return into the
past, into her old subjection.

He stood outwardly collected now, and listened to her
disconnected story. Her words seemed to fall round him with the

distracting clatter of stunning hail. He caught the meaning here
and there, and straightway would lose himself in a tremendous

effort to shape out some intelligible theory of events. There
was a boat. A boat. A big boat that could take him to sea if

necessary. That much was clear. She brought it. Why did
Almayer lie to her so? Was it a plan to decoy him into some

ambush? Better that than hopelesssolitude. She had money. The
men were ready to go anywhere . . . she said.

He interrupted her--
"Where are they now?"

"They are coming directly," she answered, tearfully. "Directly.
There are some fishing stakes near here--they said. They are

coming directly."
Again she was talking and sobbing together. She wanted to be

forgiven" target="_blank" title="forgive的过去分词">forgiven. Forgiven? What for? Ah! the scene in Macassar. As
if he had time to think of that! What did he care what she had

done months ago? He seemed to struggle in the toils of
complicated dreams where everything was impossible, yet a matter

of course, where the past took the aspects of the future and the
present lay heavy on his heart--seemed to take him by the throat

like the hand of an enemy. And while she begged, entreated,
kissed his hands, wept on his shoulder, adjured him in the name

of God, to forgive, to forget, to speak the word for which she
longed, to look at his boy, to believe in her sorrow and in her

devotion--his eyes, in the fascinated immobility of shining