“I expect you to be generous,” she said.
“To you?”
“Well—to me. Yes—if you like to me alone.”
“To you alone! And you know everything!” His voice dropped. “You want your happiness.”
She made an impatient movement and he saw her clench the hand that was lying on the table.
“I want my husband back,” she said, sharply.
“Yes. Yes. It’s what I was saying. Same thing,” he muttered with strange placidity. She looked at him searchingly. He had a large simplicity that filled one’s vision. She found herself slowly invaded by this masterful figure. He was not mediocre. Whatever he might have been he was not mediocre. The glamour of a lawless life stretched over him like the sky over the sea down on all sides to an unbroken horizon. Within, he moved very lonely, dangerous and romantic. There was in him crime, sacrifice, tenderness, devotion, and the madness of a fixed idea. She thought with wonder that of all the men in the world he was indeed the one she knew the best and yet she could not foresee the speech or the act of the next minute. She said distinctly:
“You’ve given me your confidence. Now I want you to give me the life of these two men. The life of two men whom you do not know, whom tomorrow you will forget. It can be done. It must be done. You cannot refuse them to me.” She waited.
“Why can’t I refuse?” he whispered, gloomily, without looking up.
“You ask!” she exclaimed. He made no sign. He seemed at a loss for words.
“You ask … Ah!” she cried. “Don’t you see that I have no kingdoms to conquer?”
III
A slight change of expression which passed away almost directly showed that Lingard heard the passionate cry wrung from her by the distress of her mind. He made no sign. She perceived clearly the extreme difficulty of her position. The situation was dangerous; not so much the facts of it as the feeling of it. At times it appeared no more actual than a tradition; and she thought of herself as of some woman in a ballad, who has to beg for the lives of innocent captives. To save the lives of Mr. Travers and Mr. d’Alcacer was more than a duty. It was a necessity, it was an imperative need, it was an irresistible mission. Yet she had to reflect upon the horrors of a cruel and obscure death before she could feel for them the pity they deserved. It was when she looked at Lingard that her heart was wrung by an extremity of compassion. The others were pitiful, but he, the victim of his own extravagant impulses, appeared tragic, fascinating, and culpable. Lingard lifted his head. Whispers were heard at the door and Hassim followed by Immada entered the cabin.
Mrs. Travers looked at Lingard, because of all the faces in the cabin his was the only one that was intelligible to her. Hassim began to speak at once, and when he ceased Immada’s deep sigh was heard in the sudden silence. Then Lingard looked at Mrs. Travers and said:
“The gentlemen are alive. Rajah Hassim here has seen them less than two hours ago, and so has the girl. They are alive and unharmed, so far. And now. …”
He paused. Mrs. Travers, leaning on her elbow, shaded her eyes under the glint of suspended thunderbolts.
“You must hate us,” she murmured.
“Hate you,” he repeated with, as she fancied, a tinge of disdain in his tone. “No. I hate myself.”
“Why yourself?” she asked, very low.
“For not knowing my mind,” he answered. “For not knowing my mind. For not knowing what it is that’s got hold of me since—since this morning. I was angry then. … Nothing but very angry. …”
“And now?” she murmured.
“I am … unhappy,” he said. After a moment of silence which gave to Mrs. Travers the time to wonder how it was that this man had succeeded in penetrating into the very depths of her compassion, he hit the table such a blow that all the heavy muskets seemed to jump a little.
Mrs. Travers heard Hassim pronounce a few words earnestly, and a moan of distress from Immada.
“I believed in you before you … before you gave me your confidence,” she began. “You could see that. Could you not?”
He looked at her fixedly. “You are not the first that believed in me,” he said.
Hassim, lounging with his back against the closed door, kept his eye on him watchfully and Immada’s dark and sorrowful eyes rested on the face of the white woman. Mrs. Travers felt as though she were engaged in a contest with them; in a struggle for the possession of that man’s strength and of that man’s devotion. When she looked up at Lingard she saw on his face—which should have been impassive or exalted, the face of a stern leader or the face of a pitiless dreamer—an expression of utter forgetfulness. He seemed to be tasting the delight of some profound and amazing sensation. And suddenly in the midst of her appeal to his generosity, in the middle of a phrase, Mrs. Travers faltered, becoming aware that she was the object of his contemplation.
“Do not! Do not look at that woman!” cried Immada. “O! Master—look away. …” Hassim threw one arm round the girl’s neck. Her voice sank. “O! Master—look at us.” Hassim, drawing her to himself, covered her lips with his hand. She struggled a little like a snared bird and submitted, hiding her face on his shoulder, very quiet, sobbing without noise.
“What do they say to you?” asked Mrs. Travers with a faint and pained smile. “What can they say? It is intolerable to think that their words which have no meaning for me may go straight to your heart. …”
“Look away,” whispered Lingard without making the slightest movement.
Mrs. Travers sighed.
“Yes, it is very hard to think that I who want to touch you cannot make myself understood as well as they. And yet
