three women and the child to take in the boat, besides that white
man who had the money. . . . The brother went away back to the
boat, and Mahmat remained looking on. He stood like a sentinel,
the leaf-shaped blade of his lance glinting above his head.
Willems spoke suddenly.
"Give me this," he said, stretching his hand towards the
revolver.
Aissa stepped back. Her lips trembled. She said very low:
"Your people?"
He nodded
slightly. She shook her head
thoughtfully, and a few
delicate petals of the flowers dying in her hair fell like big
drops of
crimson and white at her feet.
"Did you know?" she whispered.
"No!" said Willems. "They sent for me."
"Tell them to depart. They are
accursed. What is there between
them and you--and you who carry my life in your heart!"
Willems said nothing. He stood before her looking down on the
ground and repeating to himself: I must get that
revolver away
from her, at once, at once. I can't think of
trusting myself with
those men without firearms. I must have it.
She asked, after gazing in silence at Joanna, who was sobbing
gently--
"Who is she?"
"My wife," answered Willems, without looking up. "My wife
according to our white law, which comes from God!"
"Your law! Your God!" murmured Aissa, contemptuously.
"Give me this
revolver," said Willems, in a peremptory tone. He
felt an unwillingness to close with her, to get it by force.
She took no notice and went on--
"Your law . . . or your lies? What am I to believe? I came--I
ran to defend you when I saw the strange men. You lied to me
with your lips, with your eyes. You
crooked heart! . . . Ah!"
she added, after an
abrupt pause. "She is the first! Am I then
to be a slave?"
"You may be what you like," said Willems, brutally. "I am
going."
Her gaze was fastened on the blanket under which she had detected
a slight
movement. She made a long
stride towards it. Willems
turned half round. His legs seemed to him to be made of lead.
He felt faint and so weak that, for a moment, the fear of dying
there where he stood, before he could escape from sin and
disaster, passed through his mind in a wave of despair.
She lifted up one corner of the blanket, and when she saw the
sleeping child a sudden quick
shudder shook her as though she had
seen something inexpressibly
horrible. She looked at Louis
Willems with eyes fixed in an unbelieving and terrified stare.
Then her fingers opened slowly, and a shadow seemed to settle on
her face as if something obscure and fatal had come between her
and the
sunshine. She stood looking down, absorbed, as though
she had watched at the bottom of a
gloomy abyss the mournful
procession of her thoughts.
Willems did not move. All his faculties were concentrated upon
the idea of his
release. And it was only then that the assurance
of it came to him with such force that he seemed to hear a loud
voice shouting in the heavens that all was over, that in another
five, ten minutes, he would step into another
existence; that all
this, the woman, the
madness, the sin, the regrets, all would go,
rush into the past, disappear, become as dust, as smoke, as
drifting clouds--as nothing! Yes! All would
vanish in the
unappeasable past which would
swallow up all--even the very
memory of his
temptation and of his
downfall. Nothing mattered.
He cared for nothing. He had forgotten Aissa, his wife, Lingard,
Hudig--everybody, in the rapid
vision of his
hopeful future.
After a while he heard Aissa saying--
"A child! A child! What have I done to be made to
devour this
sorrow and this grief? And while your man-child and the mother
lived you told me there was nothing for you to remember in the
land from which you came! And I thought you could be mine. I
thought that I would . . ."
Her voice ceased in a broken murmur, and with it, in her heart,
seemed to die the greater and most precious hope of her new life.
She had hoped that in the future the frail arms of a child would
bind their two lives together in a bond which nothing on earth
could break, a bond of
affection, of
gratitude, of tender