MALAY HOUSE
Morning and the dazzle of sunlight on sea. The water glittered east
and west, glittered north and south, in corrugated blue. A heat-mist
danced in the sun's path, impalpable as smoke; to Lhassa, indefinite
as the future. The previous night Conquest had told her that morning
would bring sight of land; so she was on deck early, half expecting to
see the coast-line, but the blue and gold sea melted into the flawless,
burning sky.
Throughout the morning--a morning interminable--she sat under the
awning, eagerly watching. Conquest, as usual, did not show himself; she
presumed he was in the chart-house, where he spent most of his time.
Since the night he told her of Indra's consort she had seen little
of him, partly because she avoided him and partly because he avoided
her. A tense restraint had come between them.... Just before noon a
thread appeared on the horizon. She saw it with a tremor of excitement;
watched it gradually expand until it lay against the sky like a green
rind. At lunch Conquest told her the ship would be within two miles of
land by three o'clock and then follow the shore to Sadok. After the
meal she returned to her post.
As five bells clanged out, Conquest joined her, but for only a moment.
"Borneo," he said with a sweeping gesture. "Land of every boy's dreams;
jungles and swampy trails; orang-utans and head-hunters!"
He left her a pair of marine glasses with which she scanned the coast.
At first it was blurred because of the lenses, but she adjusted them,
and, like some fabulous continent emerging from mists, Borneo came into
focus.
White beaches and spumy surf; the green of jungles, blue hollows in the
shrubbery where trails groped inland. Beyond this savage stronghold
rose slate towers--mountains whose misty ranges melted into the
sumptuous blend of color. Their bases seemed dissolved, their peaks
floating, detached, like aërial kingdoms. An off-shore breeze, warm
from lush soil, brought a scented balm, a greeting soft and sensuous.
Lhassa experienced an exhilarating sense of discovery, of having come
upon a new world. Yet, strangely, it seemed familiar; just a flicker--a
hand sweeping the dust of centuries from a mirror--then the glass was
clouded again. The _Narcissus_ had shifted her course and was steaming
parallel with the coast. Lhassa gazed through the binoculars until her
vision quivered, then closed her eyes and lay back in the chair; closed
her eyes and dreamed of empires buried beyond the mountains, of races
whose history died with them, leaving to the world only a legacy of
mystery.
Toward late afternoon the yacht dropped in close to shore, and,
shortly before sunset, rounded a promontory, entering a small harbor.
Trees rose black and somber against a wounded sky. On one side of the
tiny bay, some distance from a break that suggested the mouth of a
river, cliffs strove up from the beach, their crests luxuriant with
palms. With the marine glasses Lhassa verified the impression that a
river emptied into the harbor. Flanking its estuary, on the left side,
were rows of huts on poles, and, beyond these, whitewashed houses. On
the opposite bank, bordering a low landing-stage, stood what appeared
to be a series of warehouses. She perceived several people on the dock,
half-naked pygmies. One figure stood apart, a man whose white garments
seemed to draw the light and gleam white in the garnet sunset.
The approach of Conquest interrupted further observation.
"I came to suggest that you pack in a hand-bag the things you'll
need immediately and leave your heavier luggage to be brought up in
the morning. I shall have to go ashore as soon as we drop anchor.
The captain will send you when you're ready, and I'll be waiting. Up
there"--with a gesture toward the promontory--"in the palm grove, is my
palace where I play at being rajah of Kawaras. I call it Malay House."
Malay House. She repeated the name; gazed at the fronds that concealed
it. He had said that Sadok was the port of Kawaras, a trading-post,
so undoubtedly there would be others besides his household. And his
household----Was Garon a member? A thrill of expectation traveled over
her. Malay House! Intrigue in the words. What would she find there?
Whom would she find there? The Black Parrot's band?
Her conjectures were cut short by a muffled detonation that rumbled out
across the water. The sound seemed a signal for the sun to disappear,
for it dropped suddenly and dusk settled, hydrangea-blue. Conquest
glanced toward a wisp of smoke that hung over the landing.
"A salute to the Tuan Rajah," he explained, smiling.
A moment later the engines were stilled, and the anchor plunged into
mud bedding some five hundred yards from the landing. Lhassa remained
on deck until Conquest was rowed to the dock. The figures by the
warehouses had been reduced to shadows, all but the white-clad one. He
seemed suspended in gloom, a creature unrelated to earth. Her curiosity
was stirred as she watched him move forward to meet Conquest. Garon?...
When she returned to the deck with her bag night had fallen. The somber
trees were merged with the sable sky; water met land blackly. All about
her was darkness made more intense by the stars and a few lights on
shore. In the direction of the landing a lantern rocked through the
gloom like a strayed and drunken star. She felt frightened as she was
helped down the ladder and into the stern-sheets of a life-boat. The
night was oppressive as a prison.
Conquest was waiting on the dock, a friendly figure in a hostile
world, and she forgot the strain that had come between them. He had
a companion who she thought, at first, was the white-clad man but
who proved to be a turbaned East Indian, evidently a servant, for he
relieved her of her bag. As they moved off, Conquest leading with the
lantern, she had the impression that the East Indian deliberately
smiled at her. It startled her, left her vaguely uneasy. The expression
was no sorcery of the shadows: he had smiled, smiled in a furtive,
prescient manner. Why? Puzzled, she stared at his turban bobbing along
in front.
An unpleasant odor tainted the air, and Conquest volunteered the
explanation that it was from sago in the godowns. "The plantation is up
the river, near the sultan's village," he added.
A path led past the warehouses and among trees, sloping upward. At the
top were many palms, their valences motionless against the starry sky.
Although she could not see the water, she could hear the smothered beat
of waves; she knew they were on the headland. Conquest did not speak
until they reached a wall of shrubs, and, ahead, a torn waste of roofs
was outlined upon the deeper darkness of trees. Then:
"Malay House," he announced, "or the Astana, as the natives call it,
which means the palace."
The house was huge and white, and a walk curved about it to a screened
portico. Several Malays stood near the doorway. "Tuan rajah baik?" they
inquired in one voice. To which Conquest nodded gravely, and entered.
Within, Lhassa gained a swift impression of spaciousness and white
walls. The East Indian had disappeared; a Malay "boy" had her bag.
"We dine about eight," Conquest said. "If you prefer, you may----"
"We?" she interposed.
"Yes, my head overseer and I."
"A white man?"
"Of course."
"No others?"
He shook his head. She decided quickly.
"I shall be ready at eight."
He spoke to two of the Malays, then informed her:
"These will be your personal boys."
"Guards," she thought as she moved up a stairway and along a dim
corridor. One of the Malays opened a door, lighted a lamp; the other
entered with her bag. The room was large and white, the furniture
stained green. A casement opened upon a veranda.
When the "boys" had gone she stood in the middle of the floor,
thinking. Her new surroundings, so obviously foreign, made real
her captivity and forced her to realize that she was shut off from
the world, with chance her only ally. A prisoner. The thought
was incongruous. It frightened her; but also it strengthened her
determination to use every opportunity. She would find out, among
other things, why the East Indian had smiled. She sensed in the head
overseer, who she fancied was the white-clad man on the dock, an
instrument. Suddenly, without reason, she thought of Garon. What of
him? Was he in Sadok or Saigon?
2
Shortly before eight o'clock Lhassa descended into the main hall.
Her finger-tips were cold, and a mild attack of vertigo, result of
suppressed excitement, made her vision dance. Conquest was waiting--and
with him a man in a white silk suit. Both men seemed blurred, out of
focus.
"Miss Camber," began Conquest, "this is my head overseer--Tuan Muda the
Malays call him. Tuan Muda, you know, means 'Young Lord.'"
The dizziness passed, and Lhassa saw a face deeply bronzed and clean
shaven. The mouth was impatient, almost hard, the eyes steady; green
eyes that met her gaze rather insolently. This expression, she
perceived, was due to a scar on his temple, a white crescent that drew
his left eyebrow into an impudent slant. She was acutely conscious
of his appraising look. He bowed slightly in acknowledgment of the
introduction; said nothing. It was an awkward situation, and Conquest
quickly relieved it with the announcement that dinner was ready.
Throughout the meal Tuan Muda commanded Lhassa's gaze. There was
something vaguely familiar about him, an element in personality rather
than a physical feature. His hands--long, lithe hands--called to mind
what Barthélemy had told her of Garon. But Tuan Muda could not be
Garon: Garon had a humped back. Tuan Muda: Young Lord. Who was he? Had
she seen him somewhere before or was the familiarity only imaginary?
She remembered that previous to her meeting with him she had considered
him a possible instrument; and, figuratively, she smiled. His face
proclaimed him a type not easily cajoled or coerced. His taciturnity,
his indifference, irritated her. He spoke only when Conquest addressed
him; he had no accent but a clearness of pronunciation that was
foreign. He apparently took little notice of her. Oh, yes, she knew
his type! she assured herself. Head overseer. It was a position to
which he was well suited. A driver of men, exacting, relentless in his
judgment of all, even himself. What secrets, she wondered, were hidden
behind his impassive face? What part had he in Conquest's schemes? He
was a partner surely, for his personality was not that of an underling.
As she contemplated him she was possessed, suddenly, of a desire to
subject him to her will, to force from him his secrets, to drive him as
she fancied he drove others.
After dinner they retired to a room lined with shelves of books,
and while the men had claret and cigars, she pretended to examine
several heavily bound volumes. Her impulse had been to go to her room
immediately, but curiosity persuaded her to linger. However, their talk
yielded nothing. Conquest asked if certain shipments had been made; if
there had been any news from the plantation; when Salazar was coming.
Tuan Muda answered each query tersely. She was at the point of leaving
when Conquest addressed her.
"Miss Camber, I would like to show you a few of my collections. I've
some rather interesting treasures, you know." He rose, taking from
the table one of a pair of brass candelabra and moving to an arched
doorway. "This"--as he thrust aside draperies--"is the Chinese room."
Lhassa joined him, observing that Tuan Muda sat motionless, staring
into gray whirls of smoke and restlessly fingering his lapel. The
Chinese room, like all the rooms she had seen in Malay House, was
white-plastered, and paneled and floored with teak. A gorgeously
embroidered screen and a vermilion-lacquered chest glowed in the
candle-light; porcelains and bronzes were arranged on shelves.
"Notice that carved bell," he said, pointing toward a glass cabinet.
"It's of the Kien-lung Period, made from a piece of Rasham Darya jade.
And that coral and silver _tse-boum_, there, is from Tibet, from your
name-sake, Lhassa. This"--crossing the room to a second arched doorway
and parting portières--"this is what I call the Damascus room."
Numberless weapons were on the walls and in glass cases: blades from
Damascus and Nirmul; slim Rajput swords, hilts of Jeypore enamel;
simitars and lances from North Africa; broadswords and sabers, some
jeweled, others cruelly plain; straight blades and curved blades,
small blades and large blades, the reflected candle-light trickling and
crawling along their keen edges.
"These rugs," Conquest went on, indicating three faded patterns hung
like tapestries upon the walls, and one on the floor, "are part of my
collection. The one in the corner is an old Persian silk prayer-rug
from Shiraz; that one"--gesturing--"is a Baku. The rose-pink and blue
affair we're standing on is a Sehna Khilim."
On the opposite wall, between sword-cases, was a long carpet of rose
and blue and green, bordered with a lancet leaf and palmette design.
Its bold colors attracted Lhassa, and she moved to it, studying the
exquisite weave.
"An Ispahan of the sixteenth century," Conquest informed her; "a
legacy of the Sufi reigns. I got it from a mosque in Tabriz. Quite an
adventure connected with it."
She raised one corner, running her hand over the frayed texture, and,
to her surprise, saw that the carpet was hung to conceal a door.
"That's the entrance to the Djinnee's Cave," spoke up the man in answer
to her questioning look. "It's taboo--even to my servants. In it I keep
my most valuable treasures--and my past. Oh, it's securely locked and
the key hidden!"
He smiled whimsically, but the candle-light, flickering across his
white face, hinted at suppressed bitterness. He turned quickly and
took a small dagger from a case.
"I picked up this misericorde in Smyrna," he told her, changing the
subject. "You see the blade: it's channeled and perforated for poison.
Daggers like this were used during the Crusades, and after, to give
the death-blow to a fallen knight." He balanced the misericorde on
his palm: candle-light licked along its blade and spread in a lambent
tongue on the heavily chased hilt. "When I go up-country I carry
this to use in the event any of the Dyak tribes suddenly decide to
swing a few more heads in their communal houses. Of course I take a
revolver, too--but it's not for myself. No; to die under the point of
a misericorde is more romantic than to be shot or beheaded! However,
I don't expect to have to make use of the dagger, as the Dyaks are a
peaceful lot now--especially those in Kawaras and Sarawak. The Malays
are more likely to give me trouble than the Dyaks. You see, when I
took over Kawaras the sultan was forced to agree to certain conditions
that didn't please him. So he removed his court from Sadok up the
river, to a spot near the fort; the fort's on the plantation, you
know. His palace, where he plays at being sultan, is in a conventional
Malay stockade, and built about the village are a number of Sea Dyak
communal houses. It's the usual Far-Eastern comic-opera court: the
intrigues, the jealousies, the plots and counter-plots. The sultan's
cousin, Nakoda Mubin, the commander-in-chief of the army, aspires to
the throne. He's a decent sort of chap, quite willing to bow to British
sovereignty. But the sultan is a violent irreconcilable. However, he
doesn't dare do more than fume and rage, because he knows Nakoda Mubin
is powerful, and he's afraid trouble with the raj might cost him his
throne."
Lhassa listened, but all the while she was thinking of the hidden door.
The Djinnee's Cave he had called it. "In it I keep ... my past." His
past! She determined, instantly, to explore the taboo room; she would
find a way; she felt intuitively that behind the door was the secret of
the scarred wrists--and the scarred heart.
Conquest had started toward the library, but he paused and turned.
"We may as well have an understanding now," he announced. "Your
boundary lines are the cliffs on the east and south, and the warehouses
on the north; it's unnecessary for me to forbid you to go into the
jungle. I don't think it wise to let you cross the river; however,
if you're interested, some day I'll arrange for you to see the Malay
village and the Chinese bazaar. You see, Tuan Muda and I are the only
white men in Sadok; my employees are Chinese and Klings. A word about
the servants: I explained to them that you are a ranee from across
the water, very powerful in your country, but"--with a smile--"not as
powerful as I. That's diplomacy, of course. Now, have I your word that
you'll stay within bounds?"
She gave it readily, for she believed that for the present she would
find sufficient to interest her in and about Malay House.
They returned to the library, where Tuan Muda sat, smoking and playing
solitaire. He rose at her entrance. She did not even glance at him, but
moved into the hall and up-stairs.
When she reached her room she sank into a great wicker chair and
thought; thought of Conquest, of the forbidden room, and of Tuan Muda.
Mainly of Tuan Muda. There was a challenging element of mystery about
him. His indifference antagonized her, yet, queerly, her hostility was
tinged with admiration. She realized he could not easily be subjected
by a woman's charms. She resented it and resolved, resolved coldly, to
reduce him to a state of thraldom. As she sat there planning, the lines
that Barthélemy had quoted ran through her mind:
Who slays and passes, looking not again;
Who, all too lovely to be loved, still goes
Guarding with steadfast eyes her breast of snows....
Lhassa was aware of the fact that she was beautiful. But she was not
vain beyond a normal degree. She regarded bodily perfection as an
instrument, one not to be neglected nor, on the other hand, misused.
Fortunately, she had a sense of proportion which never failed to
discriminate between the unscrupulous and the essentially proper though
unconventional.
Conquest's collections, his bronzes, swords, and rugs, presented a
new angle for conjecture. In Bangkok she had heard that the Black
Parrot was reputed to be a thief who stole art treasures, antiques of
intrinsic worth, and sold them to collectors. Was it not plausible,
then, to assume that either Garon or Tuan Muda was the Black
Parrot--working for Conquest? The convicts who escaped from Cayenne
fitted into this theory: they were members of a band, the Black
Parrot's band. It was possible, she argued, that the Black Parrot was
an organization instead of an individual; possible, yes, but it was an
unconvincing conjecture. The Black Parrot was a man. Of the two, Garon
or Tuan Muda, the former seemed the more likely suspect. She believed
that he stole the Emerald Buddha and killed Dr. Garth; stole the god
for Conquest and killed the doctor while attempting to rob him. Garon,
she assured herself, was undoubtedly Letourneau, the garroter, who had
escaped from Cayenne and aided others. But Tuan Muda? A mystery, a
rather irritating mystery.
She rose; exchanged her dress for the dragon kimono; seated herself
before the mirror. She continued to think of Tuan Muda as she ran a
comb through her long burnished hair; and as she thought of him, an
anticipatory smile touched her lips.
Lhassa did not go to sleep immediately. Her faculties were too
thoroughly aroused. She lay in darkness and stared at the ceiling,
wishing some noise would break the quiet. The stillness--the hush
of a tropical night--was profound except when a languorous breeze
stirred the window-curtains or whispered in the trees. Once she heard
footsteps below; another time, voices somewhere close by. The silence
evoked recollections and staged a pageant, a pageant imposed upon
the shifting backgrounds of the last six weeks. She saw herself with
Barthélemy in the café in Singapore; visualized the landing at Bangkok,
the temple of the Emerald Buddha, and her meeting with Conquest; heard
again the story of Le Perroquet Noir, the history of Angkor, and the
legend of Pi-noi, the bayadere. Faces and scenes became confused and
clogged her mind. She shut her eyes; tried to sleep; failed. The
moments lengthened into eons.
She was growing drowsy when she started involuntarily and raised
herself on one arm. The cause was a sound, a knock, a tap, something;
she did not know what. But as she listened she heard only the increased
palpitations of her heart. After a moment she decided, without being
convinced, that she must have been dreaming, and dropped back on the
pillow.
_Cr-rr-rr-atch!_
It came suddenly, distinctly; came from the veranda; sounded as though
some one had scratched upon the screen.
She lay motionless, ears strained.
Again: _cr-rr-rr-atch!_
No mistake; from the veranda. A moment of irresolution; then, quietly,
she swung out of the bed. At the casement she paused, peering out. Gray
darkness, stars and the loom of trees. No sound except the rustle of
leaves.
She took a step; halted.
The end of a pole had appeared outside the screen and scratched across
the wire.
As it dropped from sight she moved forward fearlessly. Standing several
feet from the screen it was possible for her to see below, and she
distinguished a dark figure against mottled shadows. It was a man, and
he held, upright, a pole fully four yards long. She could make out the
oval of his face--and a white turban. Turban! The East Indian!
As she watched, he lifted the pole tentatively, then, suddenly, dropped
it and ran, disappearing behind the house. Almost instantly another
figure, this one entirely in white, materialized in the opposite
direction and hurried to the spot where the pole lay. She gained an
impression of height and broad shoulders; knew it was Tuan Muda. As
she recognized him, he looked up, and she stepped back. Her heart was
thumping loudly. Scarcely a second he stood there, gaze lifted, then he
swung off into the gloom that had absorbed the first figure.
Lhassa waited for several minutes, and, when nothing more happened,
crept into the room. Seating herself on the side of the bed, she stared
at the gray rectangle of the casement and reviewed what she had seen.
Why had the East Indian (she was sure it was he) scratched on the
screen? Obviously he had come to tell her something--and obviously
Tuan Muda had frightened him away. And what was the East Indian doing
prowling about at this hour?
She rose; found a match; struck it; saw that the time was ten minutes
to eleven.
Once more she lay down. She was not frightened but puzzled, and wider
awake than before. She pictured the pantomime of the two men. In the
morning, she resolved, she would question the East Indian. And Tuan
Muda, too. Meanwhile, she needed sleep. But it was some time before
oblivion came, and even then she was restless, disturbed by strange
dreams and spells of semi-consciousness.
3
Breakfast was brought to her room by a "boy," and as she ate, sitting
on the cool veranda, she reflected upon the affair of the previous
night. There was tangible proof of its reality, for the pole lay in the
grass below.
She dressed leisurely and went down-stairs. The great white hall was
deserted; nor was there any one on the portico. In the daylight,
Malay House seemed larger than her first impression. It was, in fact,
two long two-storied white bungalows joined by spacious verandas.
The blinds and shingles were green, and palms and fragrant shrubs
surrounded it. In front the foliage had been partly cleared, and a
walk, dappled with sunlight, led under an arch of trees to the blue
glimmer of water. In that direction, she presumed, were the cliffs.
While she was standing on the portico, surveying the grounds, two
Malays, each in jacket, sarong and headkerchief, appeared from behind
the house; she recognized the "boys" assigned to her.
Where was Mr. Conquest? she inquired.
The Tuan Rajah was at the godowns, one of the Malays replied.
And Tuan Muda, too?
Yes.
She then asked where she could find the East Indian who had brought her
bag from the dock the night before.
The spokesman answered that he had not seen Abdulla Khan since early
morning. However, he suggested, Tuan Muda might know where he was;
Abdulla was the Young Lord's servant.
"Why do you call him Tuan Muda?" she probed. "What is his name?"
"We call him Tuan Muda," said the Malay, with characteristic dignity,
"because he is Tuan Muda, the Young Lord, and adviser of the Tuan
Rajah. He has no other name."
She made no further effort to pry information from the Malays, but went
to her room, and, procuring her sun-helmet, started for the warehouses.
Some distance from the house she glanced behind and saw her "boys"
following. Annoyed, she waited until they caught up with her.
"Go back," she ordered. "I wish to go alone."
"It is the Tuan Rajah's command that we follow," she was placidly
informed. "Ahmad and Pangku obey, Rajah Ranee."
Resentment glowed; but she would have been more displeased had she
understood the inference of the title "Rajah Ranee."
"He said you were my servants," she declared imperiously. "In that
case, who is to be obeyed, he or I?"
"The Tuan Rajah is lord of Kawaras," was the Malay's reply.
Chagrined, but realizing the futility of argument, she resumed her walk
to the warehouses.
As she approached the large zinc-roofed buildings, the odor of sago
assailed her. Brown men, naked but for sarongs, were at work on the
dock, and across the river, hazed by blistering sunlight, were other
figures. Several canoes made rippling paths in midstream. A tall man,
tan as his cork helmet, was standing in the doorway of the farthest
godown. She recognized him.
"Wait!" she called, for as he saw her he turned and started to enter.
"I want to speak to you."
Tuan Muda halted, frowning. He wore brown drill breeches and puttees;
his pongee shirt was damp with perspiration. The fact that he did not
remove his helmet was fuel to her mood. She knew that men did not stand
bareheaded in tropical sunlight, but she did not wish to justify what
she chose to think was lack of chivalry.
"Where is Mr. Conquest?" she asked.
"Across the river"--negligently. Thumbs were thrust under his belt;
fingers tapped his hips. She noticed his nervousness and interpreted it
as impatience.
A glance over her shoulder showed her Ahmad and Pangku a few yards away.
"Will you send them off? I can't make them go--and I wish to talk to
you alone."
He lifted his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. It was curly
and reddish; streaked with gold where the sunlight touched it.
"What can you have to say"--replacing the head-gear--"that they should
not hear?"
A flare of anger whipped color into her cheeks.
"Do you discuss your affairs in the presence of servants?"
He shrugged. "It is often safer than with friends," he remarked
impudently. However, he flung a few words in Malayan to the natives,
and instantly they moved off. Their prompt obedience to his command
humiliated her.
"Well?"
She deliberately waited a moment, smothering her wrath, then announced:
"I saw what happened under my veranda last night. Perhaps you can
explain."
"Explain?" A lift of his eyebrows. "What is there to explain?"
"Why you were there," she snapped, "and what you were doing."
"Are you sure," he countered, "you have the right to an explanation?
How do you know it concerned you, that bit of mummery?"
"I was awakened by some one scratching on my screen"--her indignation
growing--"and I saw the East Indian below. He came for a purpose,
evidently to tell me something, but you prevented it. If you don't
explain, I shall ask him and----"
"He is my servant," Tuan Muda cut in.
"That doesn't necessarily imply that he wouldn't tell if the proper
inducement were offered."
He smiled slightly, a rather pleasant expression that momentarily
relaxed his stern features.
"No," he agreed. "But Abdulla left Kawaras this morning."
"You sent him away deliberately!" she flashed.
"I did. I thought it wise."
She prevented an outburst only by holding her tongue. For an instant
she looked at him, eyes burning, then swung about. However, realizing
he had spoken the last word, she turned back.
"You were afraid," she accused, "afraid for me to know why he came.
That's why you sent him away--why you won't explain now."
"No," he declared, unruffled. "No, that is not the reason. It would
be futile for me to attempt to explain. Absolutely. If I were so
indiscreet as to tell the truth, you wouldn't believe, and if I
lied.... But why should I lie? Therefore, it is better, under the
circumstances, to keep silent."
With that he entered the warehouse. She wanted to follow, to catch him
by the shoulders and shake him--or strike him. She hated Tuan Muda.
But, even in anger, she realized her animosity was not dislike but a
healthy resentment against his attitude.
She did not return to the house, but walked down to the landing-stage,
where several canoes were moored. Her impulse was to get into one and
paddle up the river; this, she felt, might act as an exhaust for her
temper. However, she only stood there on the dock, eyes shaded, and
gazed across the stream at the pole-raised shacks.
A long proa, as Malay craft are called, was gliding away from the
opposite bank, manned by many natives. In the stern, seated beneath a
yellow umbrella, was a figure in white--some dignitary she presumed.
But after a moment she perceived it was Conquest. She debated whether
to remain or return to the house. Curiosity conquered.
As the proa drew nearer, its white occupant saluted her. When the long
boat came alongside, two of the crew leaped upon the landing, making
fast the craft. Then Conquest was assisted out, the yellow umbrella
held over him by a tall, immobile individual in gold-trimmed jacket and
silk sarong.
"You behold me in state for the first time," was his greeting. "I've
just made my official rounds. A devilish lot of exertion on a hot day
like this."
She considered telling what had happened under her veranda and of the
interview with Tuan Muda, but decided negatively.
"It's quite impressive," she commented coolly, glancing at his retinue.
"Do you go about this way all the time?"
"Yes." He smiled. "It's one of the prices of sovereignty. However, this
bit of swank is nothing; to-morrow you'll witness a really spectacular
performance. I just received word from Salazar, my manager at the fort,
saying that he and Abu Hassan, the sultan, are arriving to-morrow
morning to pay an official call. I think I told you the sultan's
village is a five days' journey up-river, situated near the sago
plantation. The old reprobate will appear with about ten or more canoes
and Heaven only knows how large an escort of Malays and Dyaks. The
occasion rates a celebration, so I've given instructions to prepare for
a reception to-morrow night. You'll find it interesting. I see"--his
gaze straying beyond her--"that you're properly attended."
She knew without looking that Ahmad and Pangku were behind.
"They are exemplary servants," she remarked icily. "Yet I feel they are
unnecessary. I gave my word that----"
"You misunderstand. They are guardians. Perhaps you forget that you're
not in civilization. In this instance my judgment is wiser than yours.
Furthermore, these primitive people expect a certain amount of ceremony
of those who pretend to be superior. Every lady of rank must have
attendants."
She was not in a conciliatory mood. His tone, the faint irony in his
speech, was a flame in which to forge her ire. She felt inclined to
make a sharp retort, but instead she merely smiled, a smile that might
have meant anything, and marched off toward Malay House, followed at a
respectful distance by Ahmad and Pangku.
4
The world drew on black armor; steely chinks were the stars.
When Lhassa descended into the library, shortly before eight, she found
Tuan Muda seated beside the lamp reading, and she turned and went on
the veranda, remaining there, in spite of the mosquitos, until summoned
to dinner. She would have preferred the congenial atmosphere of her
room, but she knew that only by association with her captors (a unique
expression! she reflected) could she learn their secrets.
To her surprise and annoyance Conquest was not in the dining-room.
Tuan Muda seated her but gave no explanation of the former's absence;
that is, not until she asked; then he replied, meagerly, that the Tuan
Rajah--a faint inflexion in his voice as he pronounced the title--had
been called across the river.
It was a meal of awkward silences. He seemed to tolerate her presence,
that was all; and she pretended to ignore him. When it was over
Lhassa felt profoundly relieved. Tuan Muda strolled outside, and she
retreated to the library, where, from a window, she watched him vanish
in the darkness under the trees.
She was more chagrined than angry, and for the first time in her life
she deliberately planned to conquer a man--to satisfy her vanity.
It was a cold, calculating desire aroused by what she termed gross
indifference. She intended to reduce Tuan Muda to a state of thraldom,
even at the cost of hurting him. In the preliminaries (she assured
herself the campaign had only begun) she had failed, but defeat served
to galvanize her will. Impulsively, as she stood there staring after
him, she came to a decision: she would launch her offensive without
delay.
She hurried out of the house and along the path he had taken. It led
toward the crest of the promontory; she could hear the melancholy
plaint of the sea. Ahead, stars flecked the shadows; shadows that
seemed to melt and reveal Tuan Muda outlined half against the sky and
half against the water. He was not aware of her approach until she was
directly behind; then, evidently startled, he swung about. She was
instantly conscious of tension; indeed, she half expected to see him
stride off. But he did not. Nor did he speak. He merely ceased smoking
and gazed at her inquisitively.
"Doubtless," she began coolly, "you know I'm not here by accident."
She paused, then plunged. "I came to gratify my curiosity; in other
words, to find out why you act as if I were a piece of furniture, an
undesirable piece, at that. There's some definite reason. Are you
afraid of women? Or simply rude?"
They stood less than a yard from the break of the cliff. Before
answering, he flung away his cigarette; watched it roll over the rocks
and vanish in a shower of sparks. Presently:
"Afraid?" he said. "No, I am not afraid of women. As to being rude:
well, perhaps. But, in this case, it is because I am impatient. Name of
God! You are in the way!"
"Am I responsible for my presence in Sadok?" she demanded, finding
herself on the defensive.
"Indirectly. You chose to interfere. You knew you might suffer
unpleasant consequences."
"Yes, I interfered--after a man had been murdered, a blind man;
brutally strangled. I wanted justice; I intend to have it."
She felt that she was being ineffectual, banal. The man made an
incoherent sound, following it with:
"Justice! I am amused. Justice at a price! Are you sure your clues
are not false? No, and without being certain, you set about to send
unfortunates back to Cayenne! God of Gods! A woman's inconsistency!"
"Cayenne?" The blood beat in her cheeks as she pronounced the name.
"What do you know of Cayenne?"
He laughed; an ugly sound.
"I know," he declared, calm passion in his voice, "that it is called
Le Guillotine Sec; that it is named well.... What do I know of it?
Hah! One can learn much in five months! Five months--in Cayenne! Can
you conceive what that means?... Torture! I thought I knew pity before
I was initiated into the mysteries of La Guyane, but after I had lived
a few weeks among those miserables I found that what I had called pity
was not even altruistic sympathy! You ask what I know? Good! Listen
well!"
He lighted a cigarette; tossed the match away. In the amber flicker his
face was rigid as bronze. Something of his bitterness, a bitterness
insurgent against long suppression, was transmitted to her with the
shock of high voltage. She felt that he was opening a breach in the
rampart.
"Cayenne!" he repeated, spat the word as though it were a curse.
"To over half the world it means nothing; to a few millions, red
pepper--grim humor, that, eh?--and to a small group of unfortunates
it means, as Lamartine said, the Dry Guillotine!... Cayenne! God!
Pestilence and death! Mother of a hundred nameless plagues! And the
fever! Ah, the fever! Fièvre paludéenne! Can one ever forget that! In
the harbor; the yellow rivers; crawling on the earth; fouling the very
air! The governor, the warders and the Military Corps are so stagnant
with it that it is of no consequence to them if convicts die because of
inefficiency, because of insanitation and cruelty! Convicts! Canaille!"
As he spoke, the beat of the waves, below, seemed to sustain his
passion.
"Indeed," he went on, "what is it to Monsieur le Gouverneur if the
food of Convict Number Sixty-one Two Thirty-four is appropriated by a
_surveillant_? Monsieur le Gouverneur is well fed! It is against the
law to send new-comers to work in the forest until after six months;
the sun is fatal unless one is inured to it. But why should Monsieur le
Gouverneur be concerned if this law is evaded? It is cool in Monsieur
le Gouverneur's residence! Name of God! In such a climate one must
not excite himself! Ah, no! The heat! The fever! Indeed, no! One
must control his emotions in the tropics! And, after all, what is a
_déporté_ or a dog of a _relégué_ in the great abacus of life? A unit
that can be easily replaced! Let him suffocate in Le Prison de Nuit! If
he is insubordinate, give him the _bagne_ and _cachot_! Vive la Guyane!"
He finished with that ugly laugh. She was facing him, and he seemed,
standing with his back to the precipice, incredibly large, a being
of such physical magnitude that his shoulders effaced a portion of
sea and firmament. He dominated her, a principle instead of a man. It
required a moment for her to adjust herself to the fact that he was an
individual of flesh and blood. Even then she felt flippant when she
remarked with studied indifference:
"You are capable of emotion, aren't you?"
In the blue half-light his features took on a cruel sharpness.
"Emotion!" he echoed. "What do you know of emotion? Of pity? Of hate?
Pah! I went there hating the--I called them beasts, then--hating the
unfortunates with whom I was to be imprisoned, but I soon discovered
that my hatred was misplaced, that the beasts were those in authority
who did nothing to improve the colony, but clogged it, as refuse clogs
a sewer! Emotion! One can learn emotion in the Guyane! One can learn to
pity, to hate, to suffer! Because of my former rank I was a _libéré_,
a paroled prisoner, and I visited Ile Diable and Ile St. Joseph, and
saw men, immediately after death, thrown to the sharks--not even
decent burial! With _chantiers_ I hunted the escaped; witnessed the
spectacle of white men being beaten by bush negroes and Caribs! Yes,
I suffered--in spirit. I suffered so much that now, when you speak of
justice, of sending miserable wretches back to a living death, I am
angered at your ignorance. That is why I am rude, why I am impatient.
Are you satisfied with the explanation?"
She was not. She had penetrated behind one barricade only to find
herself confronted by another, more baffling than the first. A phrase
clung to her mind: "Because of my former rank...." What was his rank
before he was sent to the penal colony? And why was he exiled? She
realized she had not forced him to speak; he had deliberately revealed
the fact that at one time he was confined at Cayenne--why?
"You plead your cause well," she said, determined to appear unaffected.
"But what would become of civilization if your liberal principles were
accepted?"
He gestured impatiently. "Do you call it _liberal_ to crush a vile
system? Convicts have the same fundamental emotions as other humans.
Do they not love and hate? Are they not hungry and thirsty? Penal
servitude as a means of punishment is primarily just, but when it is
corrupted by inefficiency and cruelty it becomes a monstrous evil. Ah,
God, if you could but.... But, no, you couldn't, you who have known
so little pain. You say to yourself, 'A criminal is a criminal; let
him suffer.' You do not take into consideration that there may be
extenuating circumstances, that----"
"Wait," she interposed. "Are you pleading a cause--or your individual
case?"
He returned her steady gaze for a moment, then shrugged.
"Who knows?"
"If you are being personal," she resumed, "then why not explain the
extenuating circumstances? What have you done? Murdered? Stolen? What?
Perhaps"--with irony--"I have been hasty in my judgment. If I knew----"
She halted significantly. But he did not take the cue. "Is your defense
so weak that you dare not present it?" Another silence. She pressed
on ruthlessly. "Taking all into consideration, don't you think I am
justified in condemning you? Silence is generally guilt, not fortitude.
Two men are murdered, both my friends. Because I have discovered
certain facts, clues dangerous to those guilty, I am abducted, brought
here by a man who is either the Black Parrot or an associate, and I
find you, admittedly an escaped convict, in his employ. Isn't the
evidence damning? What do you know about the death of Dr. Garth in
Bangkok? Or the death of Captain Barthélemy? What do you know about
the Emerald Buddha and the other valuables said to have been stolen
by the Black Parrot? What do you know about all these things? Surely
a little--possibly a great deal. You may even be the Black Parrot
himself! How do I know?" She paused; drew a breath. "But I intend
to know. Do you understand? I am going to learn the truth, and, if
circumstances justify it, see that you're sent back to Guiana!"
With that she turned and hurried away, not giving him a chance to speak
again.
As she moved hastily toward the house she exulted in her dramatic
departure. The thrill of her new knowledge did not permit analysis
of the situation until she reached her room, but there, her dress
discarded for the dragon kimono, she gave herself over to sane
reflection.
Heretofore her thoughts of the Guyane had been attended by mental
pictures of the creative activity characteristic of the penitentiaries
in her own country, but now the word "Guiana," a word suddenly charged
with grim meaning, suggested the horrors of the old Tasmanian prisons.
And he, Tuan Muda, had been there. She shuddered; felt an involuntary
pity for him. As she visualized him, standing on the cliff, bitterly
recounting the wrongs he had witnessed, he assumed a picturesque rôle.
Tuan Muda--the Black Parrot ... that shadowy, almost mythical creature
who liberated prisoners from Cayenne ... who, having made some sort
of agreement with Conquest (Conquest, the romantic), had the men
transported to Kawaras ... to work on the sago plantation. A splendid
impulse. But it was misdirected philanthropy....
She brought herself up with a jerk. Romancing. Nevertheless, a new
vista had been opened, a view that placed Tuan Muda--and Conquest,
too--in a different light. But, as always, there were flecks on
the mirror. Dr. Garth, Barthélemy, and the green god. Could she be
mistaken? She wondered, her conviction momentarily shaken; was it
possible that she had made a monumental error? No. Ridiculous even
to consider it. Her presence at Sadok was proof of the legitimacy
of her suspicions. These men, Tuan Muda, Conquest, Garon, and their
associates, were a menace to society. They must be crushed.
"I am going to learn the truth, and, if circumstances justify it, see
that you're sent back to Guiana!"
She remembered her threat. She would keep it--if it was humanly
possible. But a faint twinge of regret accompanied the resolution. It
was pity, she told herself. Pity for an unfortunate. Only pity. What
else?
5
In the daylight, Lhassa looked back with a feeling of unreality
upon the encounter on the cliff. What Tuan Muda had told her (scant
information when reduced to naked fact) did not bring her any nearer a
solution of the puzzle; indeed, it added to its complexity. She felt,
as she reviewed the last few days, that she had been drifting, waiting
for something to occur without herself hastening its advent, although,
upon summarizing the situation, she realized there was little she
could do but wait. There was, however, the secret room to be explored.
Conquest had called it the Djinnee's Cave, had said his past was locked
in it. There might be another door, a hidden door, or a passage. The
idea appealed to her fancy but not to her reason. Secret passages
abounded in adventure tales; in reality, they were a negligible
quantity. Furthermore, what sane purpose was there for such a passage?
None. But that did not prevent her from imagining, with a certain
pleasurable thrill, that there might be a masked entrance to the room.
Dressed in white and wearing her sun-helmet, she descended to the
lower house and made her way into the Damascus room. She had an
uncanny feeling that she was being watched as she lifted the Ispahan
carpet that hung over the forbidden door. But she did not falter.
She examined the lock; tried the knob; stared belligerently at the
unyielding panels. The fact that the room seemed inaccessible added to
her determination to enter.
From the Damascus room she moved outside, casually strolling around
the house. The Damascus room, she discovered, was on the northwest
corner, and, built out from the rear of it, was another room--obviously
the so-called Djinnee's Cave. To her amazement, there were no windows
in it. She stared, perplexed, wondering how air was admitted.
Involuntarily she raised her eyes. The green-shingled roof slanted
down, and on it was a skylight.
For some time she regarded the glassed rectangle, regarded it
speculatively, then circled the house, studying the peculiar
architecture. Her room was on the southwest corner of the main
bungalow, and, but for the screen, one could step from her veranda upon
the sloping roof. From there it was possible to crawl to the northwest
corner, to another veranda, and drop from the eaves to the lower roof,
that of the forbidden room.
She was so absorbed in her observations that she was not aware of Ahmad
and Pangku until she returned to the front veranda. But she pretended
not to notice them, and entered; they did not follow. Once more she
went into the Damascus room. This time she stood for a moment just
within the archway, peering through the division of the curtains,
then, assured, approached one of the glass cases and removed a Barbary
scimitar. Holding it behind her, she hurried into the hall and to her
room, breathing a sigh of relief as she locked the saber in her trunk.
After debating how she would spend the morning, she selected a book
from the library, and, with the inevitable Ahmad and Pangku at her
heels, sought the spot where she had talked with Tuan Muda the night
before. She recalled that Conquest had said the manager from the
fort and the sultan, the latter attended by many warriors, would
arrive during the morning; and she recalled also that a view of the
harbor--river mouth, warehouses, and village--could be gained from the
promontory.
Palms grew close to the cliff, and, seating herself in their shade,
she opened the book. And did not read. Below, waves crooned on the
sand, and, out over the water, birds were diving and crying. She could
see tiny canoes on the river, tiny people at the godowns. She was
distracted further by the two Malays, who were comfortably established
at a respectful distance. Their presence annoyed her. Repeatedly
she tried to focus upon the printed pages, and at length gave up,
surrendering to the lure of the sea, the brilliantly blue sea with its
gifts of dreams and fancies.
Toward noon the faint breeze fled; a burnt-orange sun glared from an
aureate sky. The heat became unbearable, the shade meager, and Lhassa
was at the point of retreating to the house when she observed a small
crowd assembling on the bank opposite the landing-stage. The cause of
the gathering, she knew, was the approach of the sultan and his escort.
There were no canoes in sight. However, the stream turned a short
distance from the mouth, thus precluding a view of its further reaches.
Presently the prows of several long boats emerged, seemingly, from the
mangroves and other tropical luxuriance that bordered the river. The
proas were larger than any she had ever seen, great black craft that
leaped forward to the sweep of many flashing paddles. Each boat was
filled with naked brown men and had a roofed compartment amidships.
They swept into the river mouth; made for shore; sank their keels into
mud. She watched the men disembark. From one boat stepped a figure in
khaki and a cork helmet, evidently the manager from the fort. She did
not see Conquest or Tuan Muda; wondered why they were not there.
Her interest in the pygmy activity waned, and she moved to the house.
There she found Conquest, seated on the portico, surrounded by a number
of Malays.
"Salazar and the sultan have just arrived," he said, rising. "I'm
expecting them here any minute."
She nodded in her imperial manner. "I saw them. Isn't it good form in
Kawaras to meet guests at the landing?"
"Not when the guest is a Malay Sultan," he replied, with a smile, "and
the host Tuan Rajah. I sent Tuan Muda as my ambassador to greet Abu
Hassan and inform him I'd receive him at the Astana. Will you wait and
see the show?"
"No," she decided. Then, prompted by a sudden thought, inquired: "This
manager--will he stay here while in Sadok? If so, I prefer my meals
alone."
"Yes, he'll be at the house, but I assure you he's quite harmless."
She laughed; it lacked genuineness. "Oh, I'm not afraid of him; I
simply don't care to meet another of your--what shall I say?"
He ignored the thrust and queried: "But surely you'll go to the feast
to-night, won't you? You really shouldn't miss it."
She considered, temporizing, "Perhaps."
"I'll arrange an inconspicuous place. We'll leave the house about
eight-thirty--I'll send Tuan Muda and Salazar ahead." He added, "It's
to be in the village, you know."
She did not answer definitely, but gave him an exasperatingly cool
smile, and ascended to her room. She had not the slightest intention of
missing the festival....
The afternoon was dull, enervating. Soon after lunch Lhassa lay down
and fell asleep, and when she awakened night had powdered the earth
with black dust.
While she was dressing she heard a gramophone playing down-stairs.
The tune was familiar--one that her grandfather used to play often in
the great dim mansion in Washington. "Deep River" ... a sorrowful,
plaintive strain that conjured a picture of the shrunken old
adventurer who died with his secrets. Whenever she thought of him (a
gray man sitting in the dusk) she felt cheated; felt that a relentless
fate had prevented her from learning what she rightfully should have
known. Now, as she listened to the music, a deep weariness came over
her. It brought dissatisfaction, doubt, loneliness. She wondered if in
the end, after she had probed the mysteries of Kawaras, the knowledge
would be worth the striving. There would be always, insoluble, the
mystery of her own life, the unexplained heritage of contrasted
emotions bequeathed her by the impatient-mouthed man and the woman in
the peacock shawl. She had no doubt that she would fulfil the mission
she had taken upon herself. But then?... The gramophone ceased, and
dissatisfaction, doubt, and loneliness passed. Humming lightly to
herself, she threw a cape over her shoulders and left the room.
Conquest was waiting alone in the hall, as she knew he would be. A
sudden, and almost fierce, hunger came into his face as she joined him:
she wore a gown of mauve that emphasized her olive pallor.... Outside,
an escort of Malays was waiting. Neither she nor the man spoke until
they reached the warehouses; then he said:
"I've arranged for you to sit with some of the chiefs' wives. One or
two of them speak English, and they'll explain the show. Malays, you
know, are rather keen on touching hands, so you'll have to go through
with that performance. They turn up the palms of their hands and bend
their fingers, then you hook your finger-tips under theirs."
A long proa was waiting at the landing, and she was assisted into the
stern. When Conquest was seated, the boatmen shoved off.
A vast silence lay on the river, intruded upon only by the regular
splash of the paddles and the _chik-chak_ of lizards on the bank. A
warm wind drifted seaward from the mangrove swamps, laden with an odor
half aromatic and half sickly. To her, it was the breath of the jungle,
savage and voluptuous: and it challenged her. A restlessness seized
her, a desire to follow the river through forests and over mountains to
its hidden source.
The canoe glided toward a row of pile-raised houses that, in the
darkness, seemed to float on the water. On the bank a torch wavered.
Beyond it were other lights: flecks among blackly-etched shacks and
foliage. The boat scraped a wharf, and Lhassa was helped out in the
midst of a group of natives. Conquest took her arm and guided her
forward between huts built on poles, to a large wattled and thatched
building. A notched ladder leaned against a platform of split bamboo
lashed together with ratan, and she climbed up awkwardly with the aid
of two Malays.
Within, primitive lamps--bowls of cocoanut-oil in which floated flaming
wicks--revealed a motley of color. The great hall was festooned with
palm fronds and with yellow and crimson cloths. Around the walls,
squatting on mats, were numberless natives. Lhassa, swiftly absorbing
the scene, perceived a mixture of races: brown-eyed Malays, the men
turbaned, and gaudy with beads and bright braid, the women dressed
in silks, stiff brocades and embroidered garments; a few Arabs,
picturesque in flowing robes; somberly garbed Chinamen; Dyaks naked but
for waist-cloths and plumed with hornbill-feathers; Tanjong girls in
blue cotton skirts and jackets of gold brocade, with wire rings about
their legs; and strange, wild-looking warriors, carrying shields and
spears, and bristling with pheasants' wings and egrets.
Conscious of the many stares that were upon her, she followed Conquest
to the far end, where, in a corner, yellow-skinned Malay women were
gathered about an improvised divan of draperies and cushions. She was
confused, disconcerted, but she sank upon the silks with the air of a
Roman empress. At a word from Conquest several of the women approached
shyly. That was the beginning of a hand-touching ceremony that lasted
two or three minutes. When it was over, Lhassa noticed that Conquest
had taken a seat on a raised portion of the floor in the opposite
corner. On one side of him, the side nearest her, sat Tuan Muda, and
on the other, in shadow, another man, presumably the manager from the
plantation. The latter's face was hidden behind Conquest's head, but
she could see his hands, resting on the arms of his chair--hands warped
with great knuckles.
There was a long silence, during which the three white men sat
motionless and the natives stirred and shifted uneasily. Suddenly
a gorgeously panoplied Malay--Lhassa knew by his dress that he was
of high rank--sprang up from the pile of mats upon which he had been
sitting and strode proudly, insolently toward Conquest. He halted in
front of the white man and thrust out his hands. One of the women
whispered to Lhassa that he was the sultan. After he had touched hands
with Conquest, his chiefs and warriors followed the example. This
Bornean etiquette, though impressive, was rather lengthy. In its wake
came another silence.
Presently Conquest lifted his hand: that was a cue for the feasting to
begin.
Long-robed Malays approached a corner where numerous brass bowls and
bamboo platters rested on a cloth on the floor. Lhassa shuddered at
thought of what they contained. However, the food, when served, proved
more savory than she imagined. There were yellow rice, maize cakes,
sago biscuits, mangosteens, custard apples, bananas, mangos, pomelos,
wild oranges, sweetmeats, and bowls of cocoanut-milk. She ate the fruit
and drank the milk with relish, but doubt as to how the other food had
been prepared made it less palatable.
Several times she caught a glimpse of the man who sat on Conquest's
right, only a dim impression of blistered skin and dark eyes; eyes that
she felt upon her frequently. She did not see Tuan Muda glance in her
direction once; often Conquest's hungering gaze sought her.
The feasting over, a larger space was cleared in the center of the
hall. Again a hush swathed the assembly. Lhassa wondered whether it was
customary or due to embarrassment on the part of the natives. A moment
passed; then a Malay squatting at Conquest's feet rose and made a hasty
exit, returning almost immediately, followed by a number of young men
who carried musical instruments--bamboo guitars, gongs, and drums.
The musicians seated themselves; struck a few notes; looked about
inquisitively; began to play.
A song of the jungle, wistful and melancholy. From the gongs came a
sound as of running water, from the guitars whining, wind-like notes,
this strain given a certain rhythm by the drums. Lhassa had often heard
the "jazz" of her country called jungle-music, had, herself, believed
it an echo of savagery; but now as she listened to this cadenced plaint
she realized that syncopation was not the voice of the wild nor even
of its human inhabitants, whose music, though barbaric and at times
frenzied, was never sophisticated.
From the musicians her attention was drawn to a file of young girls
who were entering, walking slowly, sedately, their eyelids half
lowered. Arms and cheeks were smeared with turmeric. Their skirts were
short and beaded, their jackets hung with cowry shells. Brass anklets
_cling-clonged_ as they walked.
They formed rows in the center of the hall. The tempo of the music
changed; became even slower; and the girls bent their wrists and arms
in quaint little gestures, keeping in perfect time. This pantomime
continued for a few minutes; then the dancers swayed right and left,
languidly, and began a slow, undulating motion--a dance that in its
dignity, its utter lack of sex appeal, reminded Lhassa of a temple
dance she had seen in Siam.
Suddenly, almost abruptly, the music stopped. The girls remained
in graceful postures for a moment; then with a whisper of silken
draperies, with the clash of anklets and the patter of naked feet, they
glided out.
Immediately following their departure, the Malay who acted as master
of ceremonies rose and uttered what sounded to Lhassa like a volume of
unintelligible words. As he resumed his seat she looked askance at one
of the women, who leaned nearer and explained:
"He tell warriors to dance, Rajah Ranee. Dyak war-dance. Sea Dyaks make
war on Kayan tribe; cut off heads; take them home to decorate kampong."
Twelve Dyaks, resplendent in fringe, beads, silver bangles, ivory
armlets, and plumes, paraded out into the center of the floor. Some
were armed with spears, others with parangs; all carried painted
shields. The men, dividing into two groups, crouched. One of the
musicians began to play on a gourd-like instrument that produced an
eery, wailing sound. Drums throbbed. And the dance began.
To Lhassa, the first part was rather wearisome. The warriors leaped
and jumped about, gesturing and grimacing at one another. But toward
the end their movements seemed suddenly accelerated. Now (so ran the
story) the rival tribes met in battle. Parangs drew arcs of fire;
spears darted back and forth in luminous play. Now and then the dancers
uttered war-cries: shuddering falsetto screams that scaled to a high
pitch and broke. Something of their intensity was transmitted to the
onlookers; fierce yells augmented with the cries of the whirling,
gyrating warriors. The drums were beating with doubled rhythm, and
through their _throom-throoming_ wove the eery wailing, needle-sharp.
_Throom-throom! Throom-throom!_
Monotonously, maddeningly the drums continued. Lhassa found herself
fascinated. As she stared at the sweat-glazed figures she felt vaguely
frightened. She knew the savage mind was tinder for the spark of
frenzy; and already there was a glow in many eyes. Particularly, in
the eyes of a tattooed warrior who sat opposite her. Whose body was
tense. Who gripped his parang so tightly that the veins were rigid
on his hands. A sudden dread ran through her. There could be but one
end if this went on. She glanced toward Conquest, hoping to catch his
attention and signal him to stop the dance. But he was staring ahead.
_Throom-throom! Throom-throom._
The drums seemed in her body, beating wildly; beating, beating as
though to break their frail prison. She wanted to scream. Not because
of the drums, but because of the tattooed warrior who sat opposite her.
She had the mad illusion that she saw a spark in his eyes, that, as she
saw it, the spark exploded----
The warrior shot up as though from a catapult. Flame-like his parang
flickered before him. Coincident with his spring came the cough of a
revolver. Lhassa saw Conquest on his feet; beside him was Tuan Muda, a
gleaming cylinder in the Frenchman's hand. It was all swift, like the
lightning print of a camera. In the center of the confusion--the chaos
of naked arms and legs, of plumes and shields--flashed a figure in
white. The man made a quick movement, and she glimpsed something yellow
in his hands. She did not understand, knew only that the next instant
the crazed warrior was jerked backward and fell against the white man's
legs.
As suddenly as the disturbance broke, it ceased. The hall was quiet but
for the tinkle of beads, but for the sharp crescendo of the sultan's
voice. The dancers seemed to melt into the humanity packed against the
walls, leaving the floor occupied by a grim tableau.
Standing near the dais where a moment before he had been sitting was
he of the swarthy skin and dark eyes--a linen-clad figure towering
above the warrior who, maddened by the dance, had sought to quench
his passion by slaying. Around the native's neck was a roll of
yellow cloth, the ends of which were gripped in the white man's
fists. The latter--he was dark as a half-caste, with amazingly broad
shoulders--stood there for a second, no more, gazing dispassionately at
the body; then he released the improvised garrote and strode back to
his seat. Instantly two Malays ran out and picked up the body, carrying
it from the hall....
To Lhassa, the rest of the celebration was clouded. She remembered it
afterward as a puppet show enacted behind a gauze drop. The master
of ceremonies, at a word from Conquest, herded several bashful girls
into the middle of the hall, and they went through the motions of an
ineffectual pantomime. She scarcely noticed them, for her attention
was focused upon the swarthy man, who, having resumed his seat, was
invisible but for his black hair and his hands. At the conclusion of
the girls' dance the affair ended--to her relief. The tiresome ceremony
of touching hands was repeated; then Conquest approached her, and they
were out in the cool darkness. Faintly, she heard him saying something
about being sorry that the disturbance had occurred; faintly, she heard
the rhythm of the paddles.
When they reached Malay House she hurried to her room, locked the door,
and lay against the panels, aflame with excitement. Black eyes seemed
to gaze into hers, dispassionately, as they had gazed upon the Dyak's
body. She shuddered as she remembered the warped hands--hands that had
garroted the warrior ... snapped his neck.... It was not plausible,
she told herself, yet ... yet he might have been in Bangkok ... might
have.... What had Conquest called him--Salazar? What swiftness, what
brutal strength! He was no novice at garroting.
Her fingers trembled as she unhooked her dress. She did not go to
bed immediately--the fever of conjecture was too hot--but, clad in
night-dress and kimono, sat on the veranda, absorbed in thought.
Sight of the sloping roof brought to mind the Barbary simitar and
its purpose. To-morrow night she would make use of it, she decided;
to-night she was too tired. She remained there until the excitement
burned to ash; remained for nearly an hour.
As she crept into bed, yielding to its luxury, the thin wail of an owl
rippled the stillness. It sounded like a Dyak war-cry. In the following
quiet she thought she heard drums, drums that rumbled, crashed to a
climax. She fell asleep wondering if they would haunt her, if in years
to come she would hear them, rumbling, crashing.
6
Lhassa considered it wise to remain in her room throughout the next
day. However, in the cooler hours she ventured forth, and, followed by
Ahmad and Pangku, went out on the promontory to watch the sunset.
The _Narcissus_, riding at anchor, gleamed on the purple bay. It
stirred in her a desire to be aboard, to order the canvas hoisted and
sail away--anywhere. She did not wish to leave Sadok--not at this
juncture, just when the doors of mystery were beginning to swing
back--but she felt that a brief excursion at sea, with the wind
whipping the canvas and the water singing under the hull, would buoy
her spirits. For a reason she could not understand she was depressed.
This puzzled and annoyed her, and she tried to account for it by saying
to herself that the affair of the previous night had left a shadow
upon her, but that explanation did not satisfy.
Darkness shut down, and she returned to the house. When she made
a light in her room a gleaming object on the table winked at her.
She stared; picked it up; examined it. Her first thought was that
it was her automatic which for some inexplicable reason Conquest
had returned, but she perceived it was not: it was a man's weapon,
a forty-five-caliber nickel-plated revolver. She snapped it open.
Cartridges in the breech. She wondered who had placed it there;
wondered why. Strangely, the finding of it gave her an unwelcome
sense of insecurity. It seemed significant: she was in danger, and
some one was trying to warn and prepare her. Who? Conquest? Tuan
Muda? Undoubtedly the latter. And, again, why? Intuitively she felt
that Salazar was the reason. The elusiveness of this sudden danger,
if indeed it existed outside her fancy, invited investigation. She
resolved to speak with Tuan Muda.
Accordingly, when the dinner-gong sounded, she responded. She could
not deny that she experienced relief when she found only Tuan Muda and
Conquest below, and she voiced the query that sprang to her lips:
"Where is your pretty gorilla from the plantation?"
An instant after she spoke, a linen-clad figure appeared in the doorway
of the library. It was the first time she had seen him at close range,
and she observed thick, heavy lips and a broad neck, corded under the
chin. His skin was pachydermal, his hair and mustache blue-black.
The sheer physical strength of him was almost obscene. Fearlessly she
returned his gaze, realizing that he must have heard. It was a tense
moment, but she did not lose her poise. She chose what she considered
the best means of escape from a difficult situation: she swept out on
the veranda in majestic silence. On the top step she paused, a rush of
blood mounting to her cheeks; then she hurried down and along the path
to the promontory.
Her cheeks were still hot when she reached the cliff. She was
chagrined, and somewhat alarmed, that Salazar had heard her call him
a gorilla. She judged him, from the brief glimpses, to be saturnine,
utterly without the essential quality of humor. That was a type
she--well, not feared, but distrusted. Oppressed by a sense of
something imminent and hidden in the atmosphere, she sat down, gazing
at the sea. In the moonless night it had no allure; it was vast and
terrifying; it separated her from civilization, from aid if she needed
it. Aid. The word revolved in her mind. If there should come a time
when she was in jeopardy, what would she do? To whom would she appeal?
Coincident with the thought she saw, in fancy, the face of Tuan Muda,
immobile features and scar that gave a touch of insolence. Why trust
him more than Conquest? She wondered; and continued to wonder as she
stared into plum-black darkness.
The sound of some one approaching sent a cold tremor over her. She got
up quickly. As the steps crunched nearer a white blot among the trees
took form. The man was not recognizable until he was within a few yards
of her; then she laughed--involuntarily.
"How did you know where to find me?"
Tuan Muda made one of his expressive gestures. That was his reply.
"Is it wise for you to come here? Won't----"
"They have gone down to the river," he interposed. "I am to follow." A
pause. "Perhaps I am a fool, but----To the devil with explanations! If
I arrange for you to leave Sadok to-night, will you go?"
His abruptness, the suddenness of his offer, bewildered her. She stared
at him searchingly.
"Will you?" he persisted.
To cover her confusion she assumed a cynical pose.
"I don't understand you," she said. "First you ignore me; then, out of
a clear sky, you make an absurd offer. Of course you put the revolver
in my room this afternoon; why?"
"You did not answer my question."
"Nor did you answer mine."
He gestured again. "Name of a pig! What does it matter why I put it
there? Sufficient that I did!" But he added, "I am going on a mission
up the river to-morrow."
A faint dread touched her.
"For how long?"
He shrugged.
She hesitated, then asked, "Who is this Salazar?"
Another shrug.
"What is he?" she pressed.
"Part French and part Spanish; perhaps a touch of the tar-brush."
"You knew him at Cayenne?"
"Questions! Questions!"
She shifted her gaze to the sea, reflecting upon what he had told her.
He was going up the river to-morrow. What for? And she would be alone
with Conquest--and Salazar. But he had said something else....
"What did you mean," she prompted, "when you spoke of arranging for me
to leave to-night? How could I?"
He waved seaward. "Kuching, Sarawak, is up the coast; it is under an
English rajah. I could have some Malay boatmen take you or----"
"I would be afraid of them," she cut in.
"Not if you really wished to go."
She smiled. "That's it."
A long silence followed. She was the first to speak.
"It would be running from something I have set out to do."
An exclamation of impatience from him. "It would be getting out of the
way!"
She baited him deliberately. "Getting out of the way of what? What is
going to happen? You mystify me more and more. If I accepted your offer
it would mean ... you know what it would mean. There must be a trick
in it. Men don't sacrifice themselves without some personal reason.
What is your object? I confess I am at loss to understand."
He compressed his mouth; there was a glitter in his eye.
"Then you refuse?"
"Of course."
"I shall not make the offer again."
"I realize that."
Before she could say more he whirled and strode off. That was
unexpected. Her impulse was to call him back, to tell him she had
not meant to seem ungrateful, but a foolish pride restrained her.
She knew, intuitively, that his desire for her to leave Sadok sprang
from a sincere motive. Now he would go on his journey believing his
generous impulse unappreciated. She had only tried to exasperate him,
hoping that in anger he would disclose the reason for his offer. She
realized, too late, that his indifference was not real but a cloak for
an interest he dared not, or would not, display. Pity for him sent a
sharp charge into her throat. Cayenne had not been kind: it had left
the grooves of suffering. To him had been given the gift of pain that
he might see a hideous injustice; and in his way, a way warped by
circumstance, he had sought to remedy it. Undoubtedly Tuan Muda was
the Black Parrot, that mysterious being who freed convicts. All was
quite evident to her now: out of his bitterness had grown a desire to
aid his fellow-sufferers. Whatever his sins against society, he had
compassion; and compassion, in a world of ancient hatreds, was a god's
mission.
She sat down by the edge of the cliff, her mind an arena where rival
thoughts charioted. Below, waves broke gently on the sand, weaving a
coruscant pattern; a warm, briny wind came in from the sea. There was,
in the night, a tranquillity which a growing depression within herself
denied. Out in the darkness hung a red star, seemingly on a level with
her gaze. It was Medusa's eye--no longer green and coldly hypnotic, but
suffused with blood, and definitely portentous. It affirmed her mood.
The colors of the design--the fabulous tapestry of Romance that had
been started by the blue slendong--were rapidly deepening to ominous
shades. A shadow had dyed them ... Salazar's?
Fully half an hour passed before she stirred. Suddenly, in the midst
of her brooding, she remembered that Tuan Muda had said Conquest and
Salazar were down at the river. Of that recollection was generated a
plan. She rose, brushed the limestone dust from her dress, and returned
to the house. After looking in the library, the Chinese room, and the
Damascus room, she went up-stairs.
In the darkness she removed the Barbary simitar from her trunk. A
spirit of enterprise lightened her depression as she moved out on the
veranda and thrust the sword into a corner of the screen. The sharp
blade made an incision at a point where the wire was tacked to the
woodwork, and, by cutting upward, she succeeded in ripping one side
from its fastenings. She then slashed the wire beneath a cross-segment
of wood and bent the screen back, thus creating a triangular opening.
This done, she crawled through to the sloping roof, leaving the simitar
on the veranda, and crept over the shingles to the northwest corner.
There the main roof slanted past a veranda identical with her own,
ending above a lower roof--that of the forbidden room. The drop was
short, and she lowered herself noiselessly.
The skylight was open, its glassed frame propped above a black
rectangle. As she peered down into darkness as dense as that of a
tar-vat, she was challenged to a more venturesome effort. If she
dropped into that well of night----But that would be trapping herself.
There was a wiser, though probably not so interesting, course. In
her room were matches; with their aid she could at least glimpse the
Djinnee's Cave.
So she made her way back cautiously. In possession of the matches, she
again crawled across the shingles. At the edge of the main roof she
halted, startled.
An oblong yellowish patch outlined the skylight.
Conquest! Who but he would be in the room? She crouched there for a
moment, uncertain, then, slowly, lowered herself upon the other roof.
Her very breathing repressed, she crept to the skylight; looked down.
The rectangle was screened, and through the fine wire she saw a room
whose floor was patterned with rich rugs. The corners were beyond
range, but she imagined they were filled with bronzes, with vases and
heavy brocades. Near the center of the room, almost under the skylight,
was a painting on an easel, and, beside it, a table littered with
tubes, cups, and several paint-daubed palettes. In front of the canvas
stood Conquest.
She strained her eyes in effort to make out the subject of the picture,
but, placed as it was, the light glossed it. The man stood motionless,
gazing at the painting, enrapt, as a seer gazes into a crystal. She
fancied she could hear his slow, even breathing. What was on the canvas
that so fascinated him? Even as she wondered, she resolved to know.
It would be a daring experiment, but she felt capable of carrying it
through.
She crawled to the metal drain bordering the roof and measured the
distance to the ground. Fifteen feet at the most. Her heart beat a
swift tattoo as she crept back to the skylight. Conquest was still
gazing at the painting.
After a moment of hesitation, she deliberately struck the glass of the
skylight.
At the sharp crack, Conquest jerked out of his absorption. He looked
up, dazedly. She knew that her face was dimly visible in the opening,
that he could not help but recognize her. Without giving him time to
speak, she got up and ran to the break of the main roof; there she
halted, listening. From the room below, muffled, came the sounds of
hurrying footsteps, of an opening door. She waited for a few seconds,
then moved past the skylight to the drain. Seating herself, she swung
her feet over the side, and, turning obliquely, dropped. Her arms
seemed wrenched from her body. Followed a moment of exquisite suspense;
then she was on the ground, her limbs burning as though clamped in a
steel trap.
Swiftly recovering, she hurried to the front of the house. On the
portico she paused to glance through the doorway into the empty hall,
then entered. Her ankles ached, and she was almost breathless when she
reached the darkened Damascus room; but a thrilling realization that
her ruse was succeeding atoned for the pain. In the gloom she found the
Ispahan carpet; swept it aside; gripped the knob. But the door did not
yield. Cold disappointment formed in her breast, only to melt instantly
as her hand encountered a key in the lock. A metallic snap ... and she
stood in the Djinnee's Cave.
The light was dim, the somber tapestries and hangings, the luxury of
silks, of deep rugs and mellow paintings, blending as though shaded
by a brush. As she moved toward the canvas on the easel, over which a
curtain had been dropped, a glow of green in one corner diverted her,
and she came to a standstill, a tremor of excitement traveling the
length of her body.
Green fire. The little figure seemed a magnet for the light: clear
flames were caught and imprisoned in its translucent body. Instantly
it dominated her, as it had done that day in Bangkok. It was Asia in
symbolism, source of light and serenity, of darkness and chaos; and it
conjured scenes sharp with contrast: the quiet of a bamboo garden,
a temple court at dusk; the heaving turmoil of empires unrooted and
trampled; the ignorance and omniscience of ages. It carried her,
unresisting, into a new dimension of imagination, a dimension she had
sensed but not explored, and from which she was recalled abruptly by
the harshness of a voice. She knew before she turned that Conquest had
entered.
He stood, back to the wall, smiling. It was not the familiar smile of
mingled whimsy and melancholy, but a smile of anger and--and something
else, something she could not define. His intense pallor seemed to
strike at her and wound her.
"That was clever," he declared. "But you remember what happened to
Pandora; you know the story, of course. She freed little devils,
hundreds of little evil spirits."
The blood was throbbing in her throat. But she was not afraid. Not of
Conquest. She framed a cool reply.
"But in the end they were returned to the box," she said.
"Yes--after they'd taught her a lesson."
His eyes were brilliant, glazed, as with fever. A red spot stained
either cheek. She remembered the simile he had suggested in Saigon:
a silken sheath for emotions too violent to be restrained by a frail
fabric. Her calm was shot through with sudden dread.
He spoke again. "I told you this room was forbidden, that not even the
servants were admitted. You recall that, don't you? But you tricked
your way in, pried into affairs that do not concern you. Very well.
Now I'll show you what you'll never--never, do you hear?--never be able
to forget!"
He strode quickly to one end of the room, to a shrouded picture on
the wall, and flung back its covering. In the frame, upon a dark
background, was a woman, gyved wrist and limb. Her white body stood out
from the shadows, seemed almost to leap out. The face was immobile,
superb in its apparent indifference to pain. But its very impassivity
was eloquent of agony.
"That," he declared passionately, "that is my past. From that I sprung,
marked from the very first!" He jerked back his cuffs, exposing the
scars. "Marked!" he repeated. "I painted her face from a photograph,
putting into it the torture, the humiliation, that she must have
endured. What fortitude! Look! I've inherited none of it; only the
bitterness, only----"
He broke off, shuddering. With that shudder his passion seemed to
exhaust itself. When he spoke again it was calmly.
"You, with your pride, your heritage of aristocratic blood, can never
understand what it means to have been born in a shadow, to have had a
father and mother sentenced to penal servitude!" Once more he shuddered
"Such colossal cruelty! Such injustice! In these days, when Tasmania
is no longer an evil word, the horrors of the old convict settlements
seem like weird tales, awful tales. There's a book that tells the
truth--'For the Term of His Natural Life.'... For the term of his
natural life! My father heard that pronounced upon him at the circuit
court; my mother, too. He was a bush-ranger, a king of bush-rangers;
in common words, a horse and cattle thief.... My mother used to ride
with him. She was with him when he shot a man.... For the term of his
natural life! He got that and she, too. He was sent to Port Arthur,
and she to the woman's prison at Inverness. And they did that to
her"--flinging one arm toward the painting--"that. I don't know why.
But they did. And when I was born these were on my wrists--these badges
of the prisons!"
He paused, wrists extended. The livid marks hurt her, hurt her more
than his pallor. She wanted to stop this outpouring of bitterness, to
tell him to hide his scars, but she was helpless in the spell of the
grim recital.
"My mother's sister took me away when I was still a baby," he went on.
"There was money, a great deal; bush-rangers were often rich. I went to
school in Sydney until my aunt died. Then I took the money and started
out to conquer the world. I was fifteen--alone--with several thousand
pounds, with these marks on my wrists and gall in my heart. I won--that
is, I added to the pounds, I doubled them, tripled them. I gratified
the love of luxury that I'd inherited from my mother, the craving
for the adventure that filled my father's life. Money! Famous art
treasures! Power! But there was something else"--his voice rising to an
emotional pitch--"something that I couldn't find. I had come so far--I
had risen from that"--indicating the picture--"but I couldn't make the
pinnacle, I couldn't reach this!"
As he spoke he approached the easel and drew back the cover from the
canvas. The painting, like the other, was of a woman. Beyond that there
was no similarity. A pillar of light, done with a hazy aureate tone,
slanted down upon a bronze girl clad only in an elaborate girdle and a
barbaric head-dress. Many bracelets were on her arms, many necklaces
about her throat. There was no lure of sex in the smooth, burnished
body: its perfection, its beauty of form, lifted it above mere desire.
And the face----
"Pi-noi, the bayadere," she heard the man saying. "The woman of stone,
the ideal, magnificent, inaccessible! Do you see anything strange in
the face, anything striking? It looks as though she had come to life,
here in this room...."
As Lhassa stared at the face, she felt that she was looking into a
mirror, that the flawless features, the proud lips and the fine sweep
of the brow were her own. She had the wild illusion that that was she
on the canvas and the body standing a few feet away was only a copy, an
imperfect replica.
"Here in this room!" Conquest repeated. "The ideal, no longer stone, no
longer inaccessible. Do you understand? Do you?"
She did not. Nor did she understand why he suddenly crushed her in
his arms. Nor why he pressed his mouth to hers. Nor why he released
her as abruptly as he had seized her. She knew only that the touch
of his lips seemed to turn her into stone. She was not angry; her
sensibilities were frozen. The very absence of visible resentment, she
realized, was more deadly than voiced reproof.
Without a word she turned and left the room; left him standing, dazed,
between the gyved woman and the creature in the pillar of light.
7
She was in her room.
She stood in the center of the floor, as motionless as the picture
of Pi-noi, the bayadere. She was thinking of Pi-noi. Of the flawless
bronze features, the proud lips, and the fine sweep of the brow.
It was unbelievable, what was in her mind, yet she could not deny the
conviction with which it possessed her. After years of groping in a
labyrinth, with only the smile of a canvas woman to guide her, she
had found a door. A door that opened upon bewildering possibilities.
Possibilities that startled her; that made her gasp; that seemed the
mist from which dreams were distilled, a vapor too impalpable to be
touched:
Pi-noi, the sacred courtesan, beneath whose statue women sat and
prayed. Women in travail. Prayers for the unborn. One woman had
been granted her prayer: her child--the child of a white father, an
adventurer from beyond her small horizon--had the features of Indra's
consort....
Conquest's story unfolded. And woven into it were the threads of
another story. The story which Dr. Garth had not finished. The story
of her grandfather. Slowly, like grains of sand sifting in an
hour-glass, the facts passed through her mind. Her grandfather ... an
adventurer ... who had traveled in Upper Siam.... But he had never
told her.... He had tried to prevent her from going to Asia.... Why?
Because he was afraid? Because she looked like the woman in the peacock
shawl? Because the woman in the peacock shawl resembled Pi-noi, the
bayadere?... Was that his secret?...
She drew a deep breath and gazed at her hands. The royal blood of
the Khmers? The blood of conquerors? of the ultimately conquered?
She wondered; wondered if Conquest knew more than he had told. For
instance, the name of the man whose child was born with Pi-noi's
features?
But she could not go to him to-night. Not in that room where the white
body seemed to leap out from the shadows. No. But in the morning, when
the sun would be shining, when the earth would be real, and not mist
from which dreams were distilled....
8
It was late when Lhassa awakened. The early morning coolness had gone,
and the trees shivered in the white glare. Like a memory of delirium
was the recollection of the happenings in the forbidden room. It was
as though she had drunk of strong wine; and the taste of it, lingering
on her tongue, was the only proof that it was real. As she dressed she
dwelt on each detail with growing wonder, almost unbelief.
She did not wait for her breakfast, but went down-stairs immediately.
In the dining-room she found one of the house-boys. The Tuan Rajah had
eaten early and left the house, was his answer to her query. Was the
Rajah Ranee ready for her breakfast? She decided to eat and then go
down to the warehouses. Undoubtedly he would be there or in the village.
She swallowed the food quickly and set out for the godowns. On the way
she met Ahmad and Pangku. They informed her that the Tuan Rajah was not
at the warehouses. Nor Tuan Muda. Nor the Tuan from the plantation.
Did they know where the Tuan Rajah was? she asked.
Yes. Early, before dawn, the sultan had left, and the Tuan Rajah had
accompanied him.
This information vaguely alarmed her. Left? she echoed. How long would
he be away?
Perhaps a day, perhaps a week, perhaps a month. But before he went he
instructed them to watch over the Rajah Ranee.
Lhassa then inquired if Tuan Muda had gone with him; and the Tuan from
the plantation.
They did not know; neither of the white lords was at the godowns.
Surprised and disappointed, scarcely knowing what to think, she
retraced her steps. It did not seem consistent that Conquest would stay
away long, she thought. Surely he was not bound for the plantation! She
remembered he had told her the journey required five days; remembered
also that Tuan Muda had departed on a mission up the river. Were they
together? A dread seized her. Suppose Salazar had not accompanied the
sultan----She wished, suddenly, that she had accepted Tuan Muda's offer.
The encounter in the Djinnee's Cave--the finding of the Emerald Buddha
and Conquest's revelations--had left her with a sense of sordidness. It
proved that she had not been mistaken in her suspicions. If Conquest
himself had not stolen the Buddha--and she did not think he committed
the actual theft--it was removed from the Wat Phra Keo by some one in
his pay, presumably Garon. Perhaps, after all, he, Conquest, was the
Black Parrot, and had helped the convicts to escape from Cayenne for
the obvious motive of employing them to obtain such treasures as filled
his house. She felt that she was daily getting nearer the truth. And it
frightened her. She realized that, without being aware of it, she had
trusted Tuan Muda, and she was afraid the truth might incriminate him.
But the pivot of her thoughts was Conquest. She did not understand his
sudden departure. How could he be sure she would not get away in his
absence? However, escape, when considered, was practically impossible.
Even if she succeeded in evading Ahmad and Pangku, what could she do?
Go into the jungle or put to sea in a canoe--either of which would be
folly. She only wished she was as certain of him as he was of her! He
held, she believed, a secret--a secret that Fate seemed intent upon
keeping--and she was impatient with the forces that prevented her from
seeing and questioning him immediately.
By the time she reached the house she had come to a decision: she would
not suffer the strain of uncertainty. Therefore, she instructed Ahmad
and Pangku:
"Find out if Monsieur Salazar went with the sultan this morning. If
not, tell him I wish to see him. I'll be in the library."
She would have liked to believe that Salazar had gone, but she could
not. The thought that he was the only other white in Sadok was not a
pleasant one. Yet, if he was, she wanted to know.
As she sat in the library, waiting, a cerement of fear formed about
her; she grew restless, nervous. Close by, on a table, were cigarettes,
and she took one. The tobacco, black and bitter, burned her tongue.
But it occupied her, and, after finishing the cigarette, she lighted
another. It was reduced almost to the cork tip before she heard some
one cross the portico. Her heart doubled its count; she pressed the
cigarette into a bowl. It might be one of the "boys."
A linen-clad form appeared in the doorway.
"I met your boys on the way here," he informed her. "They said you
wanted to see me. Yes?"
There was a husky note in his voice. The thought came to her that he
might relieve it if he cleared his throat.
"Yes," she verified rather sharply, for it displeased her that he had
found her gauzed in smoke. It seemed to weaken her prestige.
He stood in the doorway, his shoulders sagging with lazy strength. He
did not remove his helmet, and his dark eyes gazed at her questioningly
from under its brim. She wondered, involuntarily, if at that moment he
was remembering that she had called him a gorilla....
"Yes," she repeated. "Do you know where Mr. Conquest has gone?"
He made a sucking sound as he cleared his teeth; it was rather obscene.
"To the plantation," he replied shortly.
She tried to appear unaffected by the announcement.
"How long will he be away?"
He shrugged and stepped out of the doorway, placing his hands on his
hips. At the movement she imagined that great muscles rippled and
flexed. There was a persistent brutishness about him that shocked her.
"Why?" he quizzed. "You want to see him?"
"Yes"--reluctantly. She resented a certain indefinite menace in his
manner. "I asked how long he'd be gone."
"Oh, a month perhaps--maybe two months." Another shrug; he frowned.
"Belly of St. Gray! How am I to tell?" Then, after a moment, he
pursued: "Is it important that you see him?"
His conduct was in keeping with his thick, plethoric neck and
pachydermal skin. Her resentment was increasing. She remembered Tuan
Muda's allusion to black blood. At thought of the Frenchman she queried:
"How long will Tuan Muda be away?"
"Tuan Muda? Oh, yes, Tuan Muda! I can't say how long; I don't know.
But you want to see Monsieur the Rajah--and it's important, eh?" He
appeared to be contemplating a prospect that rather pleased him. Again
he sucked through his teeth. "No"--after a pause--"I can't tell how
long he will be away. Is that all you wish to know?"
"What's to become of me?" she demanded.
He did not answer immediately; he seemed to put her every question
through some mental process before deciding upon a reply. He was either
very dull or an excellent actor.
"I have had instructions," he said at length; and she did not like the
tone in which he said it.
"Well?" she prompted.
"After two weeks, if you give your word to forget everything you
know--you understand what I mean--I am to put you aboard the yacht and
send you anywhere you care to go. If not, then"--a shrug--"then you
stay here--indefinitely."
"You mean, until he returns," she corrected, speaking more to herself
than to him. "Which may be a month or may be longer." She drew a sharp
breath. "And you have no idea when Tuan Muda will be back?"
"No; I told you no before. However, I can assure you it won't be soon.
Is that all?"
She made no reply, but walked to the window and looked out
thoughtfully. She heard Salazar leave. "I can assure you it won't be
soon." Those words lodged in her mind. He, Tuan Muda, had gone up the
river, knowing she would be alone with Salazar. But, she realized, she
was being inconsistent: he had offered to send her to Sarawak. And she
had refused--foolishly.
She shuddered. The taste of stale tobacco was sickening.
9
Day fled; night locked the world in a grim prison. To Lhassa, the chill
of evening was like the chill of stone flagging and iron bars. Darkness
made real the fears that through the day had seemed too fantastic to
be other than imaginary. From her window she saw the red star that
she had watched from the cliff on the previous night. It was darker,
almost a garnet hue: to her, a bloodshot eye. It conjured a picture
of Salazar. He had been in her mind all afternoon, but now he assumed
a more definite shape. He was a being that she associated with dark
colors, a personality sultry and saturnine; and the star seemed in some
mysterious way related to him, a part of his individuality--an eye
that watched her inexorably. She had intended to stay in her room,
but as the dinner-hour drew near she questioned this policy. Salazar
might interpret her absence to mean that she was afraid of him. And he
must not know the truth.... She confessed to herself that his presence
caused her alarm. He was not a type with whom a woman could match wits:
his only weapons, thews and biceps, were too powerful for the subtlety
of fencing.
Shortly after seven o'clock she descended to the lower hall with an
unconcern that was not genuine. As she reached the bottom step she
glimpsed a white suit on the portico. A quiver of dread shook her. But
she did not pause: she would prove to herself that she was not afraid.
Casually she strolled out to where he stood leaning against a post. She
pretended not to notice him and gazed up at the sky. Instead of stars,
she saw his eyes, black as the spaces into which she looked. He stirred.
"I have been thinking," he announced abruptly.
She did not speak; kept her gaze on the sky.
"I've been thinking of what you said. How important is it that you see
Monsieur the Rajah?"
She wondered what motive was behind his words. But she did not look at
him.
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing"--she imagined he shrugged--"except that I might arrange
it--if it's important."
Suddenly she understood and lowered her gaze. His face was a mottle on
the darkness, his eyes black hollows.
"You mean--send me after him?"
His reply was preceded by that usual moment of silence. "I mean--take
you after him."
She smiled to herself, without humor. Bovine ... even in the
preliminaries.
"We could leave to-night," he went on. "We might overtake him; if not,
we could get there ... mmm ... about Saturday--perhaps. He might not be
pleased, but"--a shrug--"you said it was important." A pause; then he
added, "If you're afraid of the trip----"
"I assure you I am not afraid,"--quickly.
"If you're afraid," he repeated, "I can relieve that. You'll be well
protected. Nothing to harm you; the Dyaks aren't wild any more; no
beasts; only a few pythons and crocodiles. No discomfort. There's a
shelter in the canoe--and at night you'll be under a lanko on the bank.
Of course, if you don't----"
"You forget Ahmad and Pangku," she interrupted.
"Ahmad? Pangku?"
"Yes, my boys--whom Mr. Conquest told to watch me."
He snapped his fingers. "Malays! Cattle! I can attend to them." He
laughed. "Belly of St. Gray! If only they stand in the way----" His
sentence ended in another laugh. "There's a path back of the house,"
he continued, "that leads to a landing below the warehouses. I could
be waiting there with the boatmen and the proa, and you could slip out
unseen by this Ahmad or this Pangku. It is simple--quite--if you wish
to do it."
Silence followed. Lhassa imagined she could hear the irregular measure
of her heart. Five days in the jungle with.... No. And yet was it a
greater hazard than remaining in Sadok with him for a month or longer?
Of course, Tuan Muda might return----
The sound of the dinner-gong came throbbing from within. It had a ring
of security that decided her.
"No," she announced; "I don't care to go."
She went inside, followed by Salazar.
Throughout the meal she felt that every atom within her had turned into
a living coal. She burned, whether with excitement, strain, or what,
she could not decide; nor did she try to analyze. Her mind was a smoky
forest. There formed before her pictures of dark rivers, of swamps,
of damp jungles; and always Salazar was included. The man himself was
silent. He ate quickly and left the table without a word. A few minutes
later the smell of tobacco drifted to her.
She sat motionless, her eyes directed upon an insect that was crawling
up one of the candlesticks toward the flame. Although she saw it, it
occupied no place in her thoughts. She was thinking of the stillness of
the house, of the quiet outside; thinking that every night for a month
or more she would have to endure that solitude with him.
The insect neared the top of the candle; paused just below the flame.
Could she tolerate his boorishness or, worse than that, the uncertainty
that tensioned the atmosphere? A thousand things might happen in thirty
days, but in five.... She shut her eyes.
When she opened them the insect was trembling on the lip of the candle.
She perceived it, consciously, for the first time; expected to see it
consumed. But suddenly it turned and crawled down the candle unsinged.
Her eyes narrowed. She gazed steadily at the candle-flame for a moment,
then smiled, fearlessly.
She rose and followed the scent of tobacco.