Part 19 (1/2)

”It's the wind, Oorip.”

”Come, come, mem-sahib: as if Oorip couldn't hear the wind! Boo-ooh: that's how the wind goes; and then the branches move. But this is the little children, moaning in the top boughs; and the branches don't move then. This is a bad omen, mem-sahib.”

”And why should it be a bad omen?”

”Oorip knows but dares not tell. The mem-sahib is sure to be angry.”

”Come, Oorip, tell me.”

”It's because of the excellency, sahib, because of the residen.”

”Why?”

”The other day, with the evening-market in the square and the fancy-fair for the white people in the gardens.”

”Well, what about it?”

”The day wasn't well-chosen, according to the portents. It was an unlucky day.... And with the new well....”

”What about the new well?”

”There was no sacrifice. So no one uses the new well. Every one fetches water from the old well.... The water's not good either. For from the new well the woman rises with the bleeding hole in her breast.... And Miss Doddie....”

”What of her?”

”Miss Doddie has seen the white hadji going by! The white hadji is not a good hadji. He's a ghost.... Miss Doddie saw him twice: at Patjaram and here.... Listen, mem-sahib!”

”What?”

”Don't you hear? The children's little souls are moaning in the top boughs. There's no wind blowing at this moment. Listen, listen: that's not wild cats. The wild cats go kriow, kriow, when they're courting! These are the little souls!”

They all three listened. Leonie mechanically pressed closer to Theo. She looked deathly pale. The roomy back-verandah, with the table always laid, stretched away in the dim light of a single hanging lamp. The half-swamped back-garden gleamed wet out of the darkness of the banyan-trees, full of pattering drops but motionless in the impenetrable ma.s.ses of their velvety foliage. And an inexplicable, almost imperceptible crooning, like a gentle mystery of little tormented souls, whimpered high above their heads, as though in the sky or in the topmost branches of the trees. Now it was a short cry, then a moan as of a sick child, then a soft sobbing as of little girls in misery.

”What sort of animal can it be?” asked Theo. ”Is it birds or insects?”

The moaning and sobbing was very distinct. Leonie looked white as a sheet and was trembling all over.

”Don't be so frightened,” said Theo. ”Of course it's animals.”

But he himself was white as chalk with fear; and, when they looked each other in the eyes, she understood that he too was afraid. She clutched his arm, nestled up against him. The maid squatted low, humbly, as though accepting all fate as an impenetrable mystery. She did not wish to run away. But the eyes of the white man and woman held only one idea, the idea of escaping. Suddenly, both of them, the step-mother and the step-son, who were bringing shame upon the house, were afraid, as with a single fear, afraid as of a threatening punishment. They did not speak, they said nothing to each other; they leant against each other, understanding each other's trembling, two white children of this mysterious Indian soil, who from their childhood had breathed the mystic air of Java and had unconsciously heard the vague, stealthily approaching mystery, as an accustomed music, a music which they had not noticed, as though mystery were an accustomed thing. As they stood thus, trembling and looking at each other, the wind rose, bearing away with it the secret of the tiny souls, bearing away with it the little souls themselves; the interlacing branches swayed angrily and the rain began to fall once more. A shuddering chill came fanning up, filling the house; a sudden draught blew out the lamp. And they remained in the dark, a little longer, she, despite the openness of the verandah, almost in the arm of her step-son and lover; the maid crouching at their feet. But then she flung off his arm, flung off the black oppression of darkness and fear, filled with the rustling of the rain; the wind was cold and s.h.i.+very and she staggered indoors, on the verge of fainting. Theo and Oorip followed her. The middle gallery was lighted. Van Oudijck's office was open. He was working. Leonie stood irresolute, with Theo, not knowing what to do. The maid disappeared, muttering. It was then that she heard a whizzing sound and a small round stone flew through the gallery, fell somewhere near at hand. She gave a cry; and, behind the screen which divided the gallery from the office where Van Oudijck sat at his writing-table, she flung herself once more into Theo's arms, abandoning all her caution. They stood s.h.i.+vering in each other's arms. Van Oudijck had heard her: he stood up, came from behind the screen. His eyes blinked, as though tired with working. Leonie and Theo had recovered themselves.

”What is it, Leonie?”

”Nothing,” she said, not daring to tell him of the little souls or of the stone, afraid of the threatening punishment.

She and Theo stood there like criminals, both of them white and trembling. Van Oudijck, his mind still on his work, did not notice anything.