Since that afternoon when the gentlemen, as Lingard called them, had been brought on board, Mrs. Travers and Lingard had not exchanged one significant word.
When Lingard had decided to proceed by way of negotiation she had asked him on what he based his hope of success; and he had answered her: “On my luck.” What he really depended on was his prestige; but even if he had been aware of such a word he would not have used it, since it would have sounded like a boast. And, besides, he did really believe in his luck. Nobody, either white or brown, had ever doubted his word and that, of course, gave him great assurance in entering upon the negotiation. But the ultimate issue of it would be always a matter of luck. He said so distinctly to Mrs. Travers at the moment of taking leave of her, with Jörgenson already waiting for him in the boat that was to take them across the lagoon to Belarab’s stockade.
Startled by his decision (for it had come suddenly clinched by the words “I believe I can do it”), Mrs. Travers had dropped her hand into his strong open palm on which an expert in palmistry could have distinguished other lines than the line of luck. Lingard’s hand closed on hers with a gentle pressure. She looked at him, speechless. He waited for a moment, then in an unconsciously tender voice he said: “Well, wish me luck then.”
She remained silent. And he still holding her hand looked surprised at her hesitation. It seemed to her that she could not let him go, and she didn’t know what to say till it occurred to her to make use of the power she knew she had over him. She would try it again. “I am coming with you,” she declared with decision. “You don’t suppose I could remain here in suspense for hours, perhaps.”
He dropped her hand suddenly as if it had burnt him—“Oh, yes, of course,” he mumbled with an air of confusion. One of the men over there was her husband! And nothing less could be expected from such a woman. He had really nothing to say but she thought he hesitated.—“Do you think my presence would spoil everything? I assure you I am a lucky person, too, in a way. … As lucky as you, at least,” she had added in a murmur and with a smile which provoked his responsive mutter—“Oh, yes, we are a lucky pair of people.”—“I count myself lucky in having found a man like you to fight my—our battles,” she said, warmly. “Suppose you had not existed? … You must let me come with you!” For the second time before her expressed wish to stand by his side he bowed his head. After all, if things came to the worst, she would be as safe between him and Jörgenson as left alone on board the Emma with a few Malay spearmen for all defence. For a moment Lingard thought of picking up the pistols he had taken out of his belt preparatory to joining Jörgenson in the boat, thinking it would be better to go to a big talk completely unarmed. They were lying on the rail but he didn’t pick them up. Four shots didn’t matter. They could not matter if the world of his creation were to go to pieces. He said nothing of that to Mrs. Travers but busied himself in giving her the means to alter her personal appearance. It was then that the sea-chest in the deckhouse was opened for the first time before the interested Mrs. Travers who had followed him inside. Lingard handed to her a Malay woman’s light cotton coat with jewelled clasps to put over her European dress. It covered half of her yachting skirt. Mrs. Travers obeyed him without comment. He pulled out a long and wide scarf of white silk embroidered heavily on the edges and ends, and begged her to put it over her head and arrange the ends so as to muffle her face, leaving little more than her eyes exposed to view.—“We are going amongst a lot of Mohammedans,” he explained.—“I see. You want me to look respectable,” she jested.—“I assure you, Mrs. Travers,” he protested, earnestly, “that most of the people there and certainly all the great men have never seen a white woman in their lives. But perhaps you would like better one of those other scarves? There are three in there.”—“No, I like this one well enough. They are all very gorgeous. I see that the Princess is to be sent back to her land with all possible splendour. What a thoughtful man you are, Captain Lingard. That child will be touched by your generosity. … Will I do like this?”
“Yes,” said Lingard, averting his eyes. Mrs. Travers followed him into the boat where the Malays stared in silence while Jörgenson, stiff and angular, gave no sign of life, not even so much as a movement of the eyes. Lingard settled her in the stern sheets and sat down by her side. The ardent sunshine devoured all colours. The boat swam forward on the glare heading for the strip of coral beach dazzling like a crescent of metal raised to a white heat. They landed. Gravely, Jörgenson opened above Mrs. Travers’ head a big white cotton parasol and she advanced between the two men, dazed, as if in a dream and having no other contact with the earth but through the soles of her feet. Everything was still, empty, incandescent, and fantastic. Then when the gate of the stockade was thrown open she perceived an expectant and still multitude of bronze figures draped in coloured stuffs. They crowded the patches of shade under the three lofty forest trees left within the enclosure between the sun-smitten empty spaces of hard-baked ground. The broad blades of the spears decorated with crimson tufts of horsehair had a cool gleam under the outspread
