An Outcast of the Islands

gave him the look that was like a stab, not of anger but of desire; of the intense, overpowering desire to see in, to see through, to understand everything: every thought, emotion, purpose; every impulse, every hesitation inside that man; inside that white-clad foreign being who looked at her, who spoke to her, who breathed before her like any other man, but bigger, red-faced, white-haired and mysterious. It was the future clothed in flesh; the tomorrow; the day after; all the days, all the years of her life standing there before her alive and secret, with all their good or evil shut up within the breast of that man; of that man who could be persuaded, cajoled, entreated, perhaps touched, worried; frightened⁠—who knows?⁠—if only first he could be understood! She had seen a long time ago whither events were tending. She had noted the contemptuous yet menacing coldness of Abdulla; she had heard⁠—alarmed yet unbelieving⁠—Babalatchi’s gloomy hints, covert allusions and veiled suggestions to abandon the useless white man whose fate would be the price of the peace secured by the wise and good who had no need of him any more. And he⁠—himself! She clung to him. There was nobody else. Nothing else. She would try to cling to him always⁠—all the life! And yet he was far from her. Further every day. Every day he seemed more distant, and she followed him patiently, hopefully, blindly, but steadily, through all the devious wanderings of his mind. She followed as well as she could. Yet at times⁠—very often lately⁠—she had felt lost like one strayed in the thickets of tangled undergrowth of a great forest. To her the ex-clerk of old Hudig appeared as remote, as brilliant, as terrible, as necessary, as the sun that gives life to these lands: the sun of unclouded skies that dazzles and withers; the sun beneficent and wicked⁠—the giver of light, perfume, and pestilence. She had watched him⁠—watched him close; fascinated by love, fascinated by danger. He was alone now⁠—but for her; and she saw⁠—she thought she saw⁠—that he was like a man afraid of something. Was it possible? He afraid? Of what? Was it of that old white man who was coming⁠—who had come? Possibly. She had heard of that man ever since she could remember. The bravest were afraid of him! And now what was in the mind of this old, old man who looked so strong? What was he going to do with the light of her life? Put it out? Take it away? Take it away forever!⁠—forever!⁠—and leave her in darkness:⁠—not in the stirring, whispering, expectant night in which the hushed world awaits the return of sunshine; but in the night without end, the night of the grave, where nothing breathes, nothing moves, nothing thinks⁠—the last darkness of cold and silence without hope of another sunrise.

She cried⁠—“Your purpose! You know nothing. I must⁠ ⁠…”

He interrupted⁠—unreasonably excited, as if she had, by her look, inoculated him with some of her own distress.

“I know enough.”

She approached, and stood facing him at arm’s length, with both her hands on his shoulders; and he, surprised by that audacity, closed and opened his eyes two or three times, aware of some emotion arising within him, from her words, her tone, her contact; an emotion unknown, singular, penetrating and sad⁠—at the close sight of that strange woman, of that being savage and tender, strong and delicate, fearful and resolute, that had got entangled so fatally between their two lives⁠—his own and that other white man’s, the abominable scoundrel.

“How can you know?” she went on, in a persuasive tone that seemed to flow out of her very heart⁠—“how can you know? I live with him all the days. All the nights. I look at him; I see his every breath, every glance of his eye, every movement of his lips. I see nothing else! What else is there? And even I do not understand. I do not understand him!⁠—Him!⁠—My life! Him who to me is so great that his presence hides the earth and the water from my sight!”

Lingard stood straight, with his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. His eyes winked quickly, because she spoke very close to his face. She disturbed him and he had a sense of the efforts he was making to get hold of her meaning, while all the time he could not help telling himself that all this was of no use.

She added after a pause⁠—“There has been a time when I could understand him. When I knew what was in his mind better than he knew it himself. When I felt him. When I held him.⁠ ⁠… And now he has escaped.”

“Escaped? What? Gone away!” shouted Lingard.

“Escaped from me,” she said; “left me alone. Alone. And I am ever near him. Yet alone.”

Her hands slipped slowly off Lingard’s shoulders and her arms fell by her side, listless, discouraged, as if to her⁠—to her, the savage, violent, and ignorant creature⁠—had been revealed clearly in that moment the tremendous fact of our isolation, of the loneliness impenetrable and transparent, elusive and everlasting; of the indestructible loneliness that surrounds, envelopes, clothes every human soul from the cradle to the grave, and, perhaps, beyond.

“Aye! Very well! I understand. His face is turned away from you,” said Lingard. “Now, what do you want?”

“I want⁠ ⁠… I have looked⁠—for help⁠ ⁠… everywhere⁠ ⁠… against men.⁠ ⁠… All men⁠ ⁠… I do not know. First they came, the invisible whites, and dealt death from afar⁠ ⁠… then he came. He came to me who was alone and sad. He came; angry with his brothers; great amongst his own people; angry with those I have not seen: with the people where men have no mercy and women have no shame. He was of them, and great amongst them. For he was great?”

Lingard shook his head slightly. She frowned at him, and went on in disordered haste⁠—

“Listen. I saw him. I have lived by the side of brave men⁠ ⁠… of chiefs. When he came I was