After both her parents, who were so strangely unlike their high-minded child, had employed every means in their power to induce Anna to join their conspiracy1 by using the influence she had over van Nerekool, the girl had replied: “No, never!” just as firmly and just as resolutely3 as Charles himself had uttered those words in reply to Mrs. van Gulpendam in the garden of the Residence.
“No, never, never!” said the true-hearted girl as emphatically as it was possible to pronounce the words.
“But remember,” cried Laurentia, “his whole career depends upon the attitude you choose to assume in this matter!”
“Charles shall never condescend4 to seek promotion5 by stooping to a mean, dishonourable action,” was the girl’s reply.
“Anna!” shouted the Resident, in a furious rage, “take care what you say! I advise you to keep some check upon your tongue!”
“For goodness sake, Gulpie,” interposed Laurentia soothingly7, “now do be quiet—anger will not mend matters.” And then turning again to her daughter, she continued: “And Anna, I wish you not to lose sight of the fact that the possibility of your union with van Nerekool depends wholly on your present line of conduct.”
“My union!” sadly exclaimed the poor girl.
“A woman who is really in love,” continued her mother, “has a very considerable amount of power to influence the man upon whom she has set her affections.” [295]
“But, mother, do you then really wish me to try and persuade Charles to lend himself to an infamous8 breach9 of duty?”
“Anna, don’t go too far!” roared van Gulpendam, beside himself with anger.
“Would you,” continued Anna, “would you have me deliberately10 widen the gap which is already growing between us? No, no, I shall not do that. All joy has been swept out of my life for ever; and I have now but one wish left, and that is that my image, pure and unsullied, may continue to live in his memory. I can never become his wife, that I know well; but my name at least shall remain with him as fair and as spotless as the remembrance of a blissful dream!”
“But, Anna,” persisted her mother, speaking in her most honeyed and winning tones, “but, Anna, my dear girl, why should you talk thus? Why should there be no joy for you in this life? Surely that is tormenting11 yourself quite needlessly.”
“Oh, mother!” cried the poor girl, “do spare me the pain and the sorrow of having to utter words which will be most distressing12 to you and most painful to my father to hear. No, no! Of happiness for me there can be no further question—of a union with van Nerekool, I must never again allow myself to think!”
“Ah,” sighed Laurentia, “if you would but—”
“Yes, mother, just so, if I could but—But I will not. Suppose, for a moment, that Charles were weak enough to yield to my persuasion13. Suppose I could succeed in talking him over, and could get him to consent to your proposals. Why then, from that very moment, every tender feeling would be wiped clean out of my breast. If such a thing ever could be—why then, I would utterly14 despise a man who is ready to offer up his duty to his inclination15; and who could be base enough to stoop to a crime, in order to win the girl upon whom he has set his heart.”
“Anna, not another word!” cried van Gulpendam, in the most threatening accents.
“But, father,” she continued, “surely I ought to tell you what my feelings are. I must give utterance16 to thoughts which seem to choke me! As certainly as I know that I wish him to keep a pure and stainless17 memory of me—so surely am I convinced that he also, on his part, desires nothing more fervently18 than that his name should dwell with me, as it does now, great, noble, and strictly19 upright! Oh, I could not, indeed, bear to face the life of utter desolation, which would be in store for [296]me were I compelled to despise him whom now, above all human beings, I look up to as noble and great. No, no, if such a thing could ever come to pass—then my misery20 would be too great a burden to bear! Come what will, the memory of Charles shall always remain unsullied in my heart.”
Mrs. van Gulpendam could but heave a deep sigh, while her husband was trembling with suppressed rage.
At length he exclaimed, in the tones of a man who has fully21 made up his mind, “Let us cut this short, it has lasted too long. I take it then, Anna, that you absolutely and finally refuse to accede22 to your mother’s suggestion?”
“Yes, father—I do refuse most positively23,” said Anna, in a tone not one whit24 less resolute2 than her father’s.
“Better that,” was her reply, “much better, than that I should rob him of his honour.”
“It makes your marriage with him impossible.”
“I know it but too well,” sighed Anna, “but I cannot help that—the fault of that lies with my parents.”
“How can you make that out?” exclaimed Laurentia.
“He cannot, and he never shall, marry the daughter of parents who could venture to make him such infamous proposals!”
“Anna!” roared her father, “you are utterly forgetting yourself—it is time we should have no more of this. A girl who dares to make use of such language to her parents shows herself unworthy of them. I fully intended to put an end to this nonsensical love-story altogether. It has, indeed, already compromised you. I intended to send you away, for a while, on a visit to Karang Anjer; and I meant you to start on your journey next week. Now, however, I change my mind; and you must be off at once—to-morrow morning.”
“To-morrow morning!” exclaimed Laurentia. “What will the Steenvlaks say to this sudden change of plan?”
“Assistant Resident Steenvlak,” replied her husband, “has been suddenly called away to Batavia. He has been obliged to leave Mrs. Steenvlak and her daughters at Karang Anjer, and, as he may be away from home for a considerable time, the family will no doubt be glad enough to have someone to stay with them during his absence. However that may be, Anna will, I am sure, be welcome. I am going to my office this moment and will at once send off a telegram to Karang Anjer. To-morrow morning Anna will start for Poerworedjo, a friend [297]of mine will be there to meet her, and he will take her on in his carriage to the Steenvlaks. She will travel by way of Koetoe Ardjo and Keboemen.”
Laurentia heaved a deep sigh. “We shall have but very little time to get her things ready,” said she. The remark itself and still more the way she made it, showed plainly enough that the bother of this sudden departure touched her much more nearly than the separation from her child.
“Oh! mother,” said Anna as quietly as possible, “pray leave all that entirely27 to me. I shall be quite ready to start to-morrow, as early as ever you please.”
“Do you intend her to stay long with the Steenvlaks?” asked Laurentia.
“That will very much depend upon herself,” was van Gulpendam’s reply. “I don’t want to see her face again, unless she consents to return in a much more submissive mood, and is prepared to behave in a dutiful and becoming manner to her parents.”
As he uttered these words, van Gulpendam glanced at his daughter hoping—perhaps expecting—that he might detect in her some signs of relenting. But, though she was deadly pale, Anna did not betray the feelings which were stirring within her. On her placid28 features there was no trace either of irresolution29 or of defiance30; there was nothing but quiet determination and settled purpose.
“You have, I presume,” continued the Resident, “well weighed and thoroughly31 understood what I said?” He rose and prepared to go to his office.
“Certainly, father, I have understood you perfectly32. To-morrow morning I leave this house never to set foot in it again. Even if you had not so decided33, I myself would have insisted upon an immediate34 separation.”
“Oh, ho! Does the wind sit in that quarter? And pray, may I be allowed to ask my proud and independent daughter what plans she may have formed for the future? She surely must be aware that she cannot quarter herself for an indefinite period of time upon the Steenvlaks?”
Van Gulpendam, as he put the question, assumed a tone and manner in the highest degree offensive and taunting35.
“You ask me, father, what are my plans for the future, and I must beg you to allow me to keep my intentions to myself. [298]For the present moment I gladly accept the hospitality of the Steenvlaks. You know how fond I am of the two girls and how much I respect and admire their mother. But, as to the future, my plans are, at present, I must confess, very vague. I do not very well know what to say about them; and, even if I were ever so anxious to give you my confidence, I could hardly tell you what I intend to do. Of one thing, however, you may rest assured—whatever may happen, I shall never again be a source of trouble or expense to you.”
“Indeed!” replied van Gulpendam, still in his sneering37 tone. “Indeed! And so my daughter seems to fancy that she can step out into the wide world without a penny in her pocket! I am very curious to learn what impressions she may have formed of that world.”
“You must pardon me, father,” replied the young girl still very quietly; “but now you compel me to touch upon a subject which I feel is a very delicate one. You have given me an education which has but very poorly fitted me to provide for my own maintenance. Yes—I might, perhaps, earn something by giving music lessons; but here in Java I could not well do so without casting a reflection upon your name. To go to Holland and there have to roam about the streets in search of employment—the very thought is repugnant to my feelings. But all these are matters for future consideration.”
“Oh, you think so?” sneered38 van Gulpendam, “for future consideration! Now, it appears to me, that in such schemes, the earning of money ought to be the first and most important consideration.”
“Such being your opinion,” replied Anna with a sigh, but no less resolutely and calmly than before, “I must now come to business. I did not think I should ever have had to speak to you on this subject at all—indeed the matter would never have crossed my lips, had not necessity compelled me to speak out freely. Two years ago, you remember, we received the news that Grandmamma van Gulpendam had died at Gouda. The same mail which brought us the sad tidings of her death, brought me a letter forwarded by her lawyer. In that letter the dear old lady took a most affectionate leave of me and told me how much she regretted that she had never had the opportunity of seeing me or becoming acquainted with me. She informed me further that, in her will, she had left me the sum of 30,000 guilders, and that, as soon as I was nineteen, the money would be at my disposal. She begged me, however, [299]not to mention the matter to you as she did not wish to deprive you of the pleasure of giving me that surprise on my nineteenth birthday. Her lawyer merely added a few words confirming my grandmother’s communication; and he went on to tell me that he had invested the capital in the 4? per cents, and that, by the express desire of the deceased, the money was not to be realised. Well, the interest of this sum, which is mine and which you will hardly refuse to give me, is amply sufficient for my present wants. Next year I shall be nineteen and I shall then have the power to dispose of the capital. By that time I shall have made up my mind as to the manner in which I can most usefully employ it.”
All this, the young girl spoke40 so naturally and so quietly that both her parents, who latterly had gained some insight into the character of their daughter, understood perfectly well that they had to deal with a resolution which nothing could shake. They were, indeed, greatly surprised to find that Anna was so well informed as to the dispositions41 which her grandmother had made in her favour; but they felt that denial or resistance to her claim were alike impossible. Indeed her better nature began to prevail over the mother, and tears stood in her eyes as she said:
“Anna! poor child! what a terrible future you are laying up for yourself!”
“Mother,” was the girl’s reply, “a future more terrible than that which must await me here, I cannot possibly conceive. What worse misfortunes can overtake me? I defy Fortune to be more cruel to me in the time to come than she has already shown herself in the past.”
At these words van Gulpendam rose from the seat he had resumed. He put his hand to his throat as if to clear away something which was rising there and threatened to choke him. But, his was a tyrannical nature, and he at once repressed the natural emotion which, he feared, might overcome him. The very consciousness, indeed, of the fact that his child was so much purer, so much better and stronger than he was himself, was unbearable42 to him.
“Yes! yes!” he exclaimed, “that is all mighty43 fine—very fine and very romantic! Unfortunately it lacks common sense. We have now said all we have to say to each other and the upshot of it is that I stick to my resolution; and that to-morrow morning early, you leave for Karang Anjer.”
“I am not aware, father,” said the girl with much dignity, [300]“I am not aware that I have made any attempt to alter your decision.”
“Very good, that settles the matter!” cried van Gulpendam, and then, with concentrated fury in his voice, he continued: “We shall find some way of breaking that little temper.”
These were his parting words as he turned to go.
On the morrow of this most painful interview, just as day was about to dawn, a carriage stood waiting at the steps of the residential44 mansion45. It was one of those light conveyances46 drawn47 by four horses which Europeans often use in the interior of Java where railways are unknown, and which are well suited to traverse long distances along broken roads and steep mountain paths. Under the back seat of this vehicle was strapped48 a small travelling bag, only just big enough to contain a few necessary articles of clothing. Anna had made up her mind that she would not take away with her out of her father’s house any single thing but what was strictly necessary. Even that she would have left behind, but for the consideration that the interest of the money left her by her aunt which, for the last two years, had not been paid to her, amply sufficed to cover the value of the few things she packed up. Not a single jewel, not one silk dress, not the least bit of lace, did that little bag contain. She carefully left all those superfluities behind her, and would carry away nothing but a little underclothing and a couple of plain muslin dresses.
The small travelling trunk had scarcely been strapped into its place before Anna herself appeared in the front gallery. She was clad with the utmost simplicity49 in a black dress, and dark-coloured bonnet50. There was on her person nothing whatever to catch the eye but the plain linen51 collar and the cuffs52 round her wrists, and these narrow strips of white seemed only to increase the demureness53 and earnestness of her appearance. As she thus prepared to leave her parents’ home, she was alone, not a soul was by to comfort her. The rosy54 dawn was casting its friendly light over the garden, upon the shrubs55, the flowers, the leaves, and even over the furniture of the verandah; and the young girl cast a yearning56, sorrowful glance upon all these familiar objects which awakened57 so many memories in her breast. For an instant it seemed as if she hesitated; but it was only for an instant, for hastily brushing away the tears which were silently stealing down her cheeks, she sprang upon a splendid Devoniensis which was growing [301]against the balustrade, and hastily plucked one just opening bud which she put into her bosom58 as she muttered with a sob59: “My darling flower, you shall go with me into exile!” and the next moment she had jumped into the carriage which immediately started.
Not another sigh, not another look. The final separation was thus accomplished60. The vehicle rumbled61 heavily through the massive and highly ornamented62 gates, and then with all speed made for the hill-country of the interior of Java. Anna meanwhile throwing herself back in the carriage gave way to sad reflections.
But all the while, hidden by the Venetian blinds, Anna’s mother had been standing63 and watching her daughter with feverish64 anxiety. She had caught the desolate65 expression in Anna’s eyes as she glanced around upon all those familiar objects which from childhood had been so dear to her; she had seen the girl plucking that rosebud66, and her eyes had eagerly followed her as she sprang into the carriage. Then a hoarse67 cry escaped from her lips, “My God, my God,” she sobbed68, “has it come to this? Where there was everything to ensure happiness! How will all this end?”
Aye indeed; how was it all to end? That was a question to which the future was to give a terrible answer.
Late on that afternoon, Anna arrived at a small dessa in the interior, and left her carriage while a change of horses was being made. She asked the postmaster if he would allow her to sit down and rest awhile in his bamboo verandah, and he very readily granted her request. Then she drew forth69 her writing materials and was soon wholly absorbed in the work of writing a letter. For a few moments she sat irresolute70, her pale and careworn71 face plainly enough showing that she had a most difficult and serious task before her. First she heaved a deep sigh; then two big, burning tears slowly trickled72 down and fell heavily on the paper before her. But at length, by degrees she appeared to be carried away by her subject, and she wrote on in feverish haste. Yes, the subject of that letter was indeed to the young girl a serious and difficult one; for she was composing her last letter to her lover van Nerekool. In the condition of utter loneliness in which she then was, she laid bare her whole soul to him, and, although words thus written were intended to meet the eye only of him to whom they were addressed; yet the novelist is guilty of no indiscretion if he should glance over the young girl’s shoulder to gain an insight [302]into her feelings and thus give the motive73 for her actions. The letter was not a very long one; yet it cost poor Anna a great deal of anxious thought.
“Mr. van Nerekool,” she wrote, “from the evening when we met on the occasion of the ball at the Residence, I have, in spite of all your endeavours to obtain another interview, purposely avoided seeing you again. On that occasion you asked me to become your wife, and I allowed you to speak to my parents on the subject. Under those circumstances you were no doubt perfectly justified74 in seeking for further intercourse75 with me, and it is for this reason that I now address these last words to you. After I left you in the garden, you had a long interview with my mother, and it was not until the following morning that I learned what had been the subject of conversation between you. Pardon me, Mr. van Nerekool, for I know that a child ought not to criticise76 the actions of her parents; but it is that conversation and the fact that my father endorses77 everything my mother then said, that makes my union with you impossible. Yours is an upright and loyal nature, and you cannot and must not think of making me your wife after the infamous proposals which have been made to you. You will say perhaps that a child is not guilty of the actions of her parents and cannot be held responsible for them. In that you are perfectly right, and I must tell you that my conscience is as clear, and that, if in my present forlorn condition I may be allowed so to speak, I, at this present moment, hold up my head as high as before I knew anything of my mother’s designs. But to be always face to face with the man to whom the odious78 propositions were made; to be ever conscious, even in our tenderest moments, of the fact that I was flung to the man I love as the price of dishonour6, that is a prospect26 which to me is utterly unendurable. You are a gentleman, and, as such, you would, no doubt, always have treated my parents with deference79 and with the proper show of respect; but to know that all this must be a mere39 empty show put on in deference to a daughter’s natural affections, O Charles!—allow me for the last time to call you by that dear name—O Charles! that would have made life an intolerable burden to me, and must inevitably80, in the end, have destroyed your happiness also.
“I am writing these words to you from Sapoeran where I am resting for a few minutes while we are changing horses. You have, no doubt, heard that I am going on to Karang Anjer to [303]stay with the Steenvlaks. My father, I know, has proclaimed that fact loudly enough and it must have come to your ears. Yes! I am now on my way to that lonely retreat; but that is only the first stage on the long and difficult road which lies before me. Do you ask what I intend to do? Well, my dear friend, I myself do not yet know what my future course will be. It is most probable that I shall try and get away to Europe, or perhaps to Australia. This much, however, is quite certain; that after my visit to the Steenvlaks I shall disappear altogether; for the very name of van Gulpendam has become hateful to me. But, Charles, when I shall have vanished, when even my very name shall no longer be mentioned, and I shall be as one over whom the grave has closed; then, I know, you will be generous enough to give a thought now and then to the poor girl who, innocent of even a thought of evil, would have esteemed81 herself only too happy to have been able to call herself yours; but for whom such happiness was not reserved. One request I have to make. Do not lose sight of Dalima. I know her sad condition. I know all about it. I know more about her misfortunes, at least as far as its authors are concerned, than you can do. But, for my sake, I know you will not leave that unhappy girl to her fate. I have no doubt that on the pretended accusation82 of opium83 smuggling84, she will be found guilty, and condemned85. I know it but too well! With our false notions of right and wrong, whenever opium enters into any question, no other result is, I fear, possible. But, oh! I beg of you, do not abandon her. Do not allow her, when once she regains86 her freedom, to sink into that pool of infamy87 into which all her countrymen inevitably fall, when, guilty, or not guilty, they have once come under the ban of our criminal law. And now, dearest Charles, farewell! In this world we shall meet no more. I will not, I cannot, ask you to forget me, a passing thought you will sometimes bestow88 upon her who now will bear no other name than
“Anna.”
This letter the poor girl put into the hands of the postmaster, and it was sent off in due course though not so soon as she wished; for in those inland parts the mail goes out but twice a week.
Although the distance between Sapoeran and Poerworedjo was not very great, yet the sun had fairly set before the carriage reached the latter place. Anna put up at the hotel, and, after having partaken of some refreshment89, she lay down thoroughly [304]wearied out by the journey, and fortunately she was soon fast asleep.
After this short digression which the thread of our story required, we return to the Residence at Santjoemeh.
When the secretary left the room, Resident van Gulpendam had bitterly exclaimed: “Oh, if Anna would but consent!”
For a while he seemed lost in thought and sat turning over in his mind how matters would have stood if Anna could have persuaded van Nerekool to give way, and if he, on the conditions proposed to him, had been appointed President of the court.
“Well!” he muttered at length, “it can’t be helped. However, we shall manage I suppose to weather this Norwester and to get our boat safe into harbour.”
“But,” he continued, “what did the secretary mean by alluding91 to that clause in the opium-law? Let me see, which was it? Oh yes, I have it, clause 23. Just let us have another look at it!”
Herewith he took up the bundle of papers which he had replaced among other documents on the ledge92 over his writing-table. For some time he fingered the pages, turning them over impatiently, at length he exclaimed: “Oh, here we are! No. 228. Now let us see, clause 23—‘All offences committed against the regulations herein laid down to which no special penalties are attached, are punishable by a fine of one thousand to ten thousand guilders for every hundred katies of opium or under, and of one hundred guilders for every additional katie?’ By Jove! the fellow is right after all!—that’s where the coast lies, is it? We shall have to get out another anchor. It is not at all a bad idea, but—”
“The inspector93 requests the honour of an interview with you Kandjeng toean!” cried one of the oppassers, as he flung open the door to announce Mr. Meidema.
“Show him in,” was the reply.
“Resident,” began the inspector as he entered, “I just now met your secretary, and he told me that you wished to see me.”
“Quite right, Mr. Meidema, pray be seated. I have just seen your report on that smuggling business at Moeara Tjatjing; but I am surprised to find that your statement does not at all agree with the actual facts of the case.”
“How is that, Resident?”
“No, Mr. Meidema, no it does not. Will you please try to [305]recall our conversation on the very evening of the discovery?” continued the Resident with his eye steadily94 fixed95 upon his subordinate.
“I remember that conversation perfectly, Resident.”
“Well,” resumed van Gulpendam, “if my memory serves me, I then pointed90 out to you—and I did so by means of witnesses—that the opium was found in the possession of the Javanese called Ardjan. At the time you seemed to agree with me.”
“Certainly, Resident, I did not just then venture to contradict the opinion you had formed, and which you so positively stated as your conviction. It was, however, my duty to investigate the matter—”
“And?”—interrupted van Gulpendam.
“And the result of that investigation96 has led me to the conclusions I have embodied97 in the report of the case which, as head of the police, it was my duty to draw up.”
“Yes,” hastily said the Resident, “against all probability, and in the teeth of the evidence!”
“By your leave, Resident,” said Meidema, “the report—”
“Shall I tell you,” broke in van Gulpendam, “shall I tell you to what your investigation has led you?”
“That’s a good job too,” said van Gulpendam, somewhat sarcastically100; “but I asked you just now to what your inquiry101 has led you.”
“To what it has led me, Resident?” replied Meidema. “I think that is a very strange question, coming from you. I have, as I was in duty bound, held an inquiry simply for the sake of arriving at the truth.”
“Of course, Mr. Meidema, that is supposed to be the object of every inquiry; but I think that this particular investigation may have led you to a somewhat different result.”
“What may that be, Resident?” asked the other, calmly.
“It has led you to the discovery that the fines, which are to be divided among the finders of the smuggled102 opium, can more easily be recovered from the wealthy farmer than from the poor Javanese fellow out of which no one can screw anything at all.”
“Resident!” cried Meidema, “such language—”
“Mr. Meidema, pray be calm. My words merely express [306]the impression which your report has made upon my mind.”
“But, Resident, I have nothing whatever to do with the fines. They are no business of mine. I am perfectly acquainted with the law on the subject, and I really do not know what meaning I must attach to your insinuations.”
“Oh, come,” said van Gulpendam scornfully, “do you think I am not up to all the dodges103 by which the law may be evaded104?”
“Resident,” said Meidema, indignantly, “I must really request you to modify your opinion of me. I never have stooped to any of the dodges you think fit to allude105 to. Not a single penny of the fines, not a single grain of the opium has ever come into my hands. And, allow me to say, that if you do not feel thoroughly convinced that when I say so I speak the bare truth—why then the office you hold compels you to lodge106 an accusation against me at head quarters.”
“Mr. Meidema,” said van Gulpendam, coolly, “we are, I fear, wandering away from our subject. You tell me that you have been holding an inquiry—do you not? Now pray let me know, whose evidence may you have heard?”
“Whose evidence? Why, in the first place that of the prisoner Ardjan—”
“Of course, he has told you that he has nothing to do with the matter, that I can quite understand. Whom else did you examine?”
“I next took the evidence of baboe Dalima—”
“Oh, yes, she also is locked up on a charge of opium smuggling; she has no doubt given her lover a most excellent character. Fine witnesses those of yours, Mr. Meidema, I must say. Have you any others?”
“Yes,” replied the Inspector, quietly, “I have examined the dessa people who were that night pressed to assist in Ardjan’s arrest.”
“And?” cried van Gulpendam, impatiently. “Come, look sharp!”
“And their story contradicts, on almost every point, that of the police oppassers.”
“Of course it does, those dessa dogs always hang together; but all that ought not to have satisfied you as Chief Inspector of Police.”
“No, Resident, it ought not, I confess; and what is more, it has not,” continued Meidema. “When the evidence appeared to me so very contradictory107, I myself went down in [307]person to Moeara Tjatjing, to inspect the boat in which Ardjan is said to have brought the opium ashore108.”
“And you found nothing?” inquired van Gulpendam.
“Oh, yes, Resident, I did. I found the surf-boat, and I am fully satisfied that it was much too small to contain the captured opium.”
“If I remember rightly, Mr. Meidema,” observed van Gulpendam, “that boat is said to have held two persons, Ardjan and Dalima?”
“Quite so, Resident.”
“The boat then was large enough to hold those two, eh?”
“Yes, Resident, it might have done so; but there was room for nothing more.”
“But,” asked van Gulpendam, “supposing now that baboe Dalima never was in that boat at all—what would you say to that, Mr. Meidema?”
“Never in the boat at all, Resident!” exclaimed the other, in astonishment109.
“In that case,” continued the Resident, “I suppose there might have been room for the opium if carefully stowed away?”
“Well, yes, perhaps,” said Meidema; “but the proof—”
“Oh, yes, the proof—I can find you proof enough. I myself can solemnly declare that, during the whole of that night, baboe Dalima never left my house at all. And not only so, but all the members of my family are ready to declare as much.”
“Well!” said Meidema, “then all I can say is that the case is beginning to assume a very serious aspect.”
“Why! What are you driving at now?” exclaimed van Gulpendam. “Come, man, fire away!”
“I mean that your statement directly contradicts the word of your daughter.”
“Not so, Resident,” continued Meidema, very seriously, “I have in my possession a formal statement in Miss van Gulpendam’s own handwriting, in which she gives a detailed111 account of baboe Dalima’s abduction, of her forcible detention112 on board the schooner113 brig Kiem Ping Hin, and of her rescue by Ardjan.”
Van Gulpendam turned pale at those words, he felt as if he had received a stunning114 blow; Mr. Meidema, however, did not allow him time to recover his composure, but continued:
“I have further in my possession the sworn testimony115 of the [308]mate and the crew of the coastguard ship Matamata, which proves that on the night in question they manned the cutter in order to give chase to a surf-boat which contained two persons. That they fired upon them; but that they were compelled to give up the chase because of the tremendous sea that was running at Moeara Tjatjing in which their clumsy craft would have had no chance to keep afloat. Thus you perceive, Resident, that there were actually two persons in that boat, and that, consequently, there could have been no room for the opium. Moreover—”
“What else?” broke in van Gulpendam, who was gradually recovering from his surprise.
“Moreover, the surf-boat was dashed to pieces on the beach. I saw the wreck116 lying partly in the water and partly covered with mud, and I have witnesses to prove that the cases, in which the smuggled opium was packed, had not been in contact with sea-water at all. No, no, Resident, I am firmly persuaded that the stuff never came ashore in that boat, and further, that Ardjan has had no hand in the transaction.”
For a few moments the Resident sat lost in thought.
“Mr. Meidema,” he said at length, “have you, as you were bound to do, employed an expert to ascertain117 the quantity, the quality, and the particular kind of opium that was found?”
“Yes, Resident, I have done so.”
“Have you secured the surf-boat itself?”
“Yes, Resident,” replied Meidema, “I did so; but, owing to some strange neglect for which I am unable to account, the watchman at the town jail, who had charge of the boat and with whom I had deposited it for safety, had broken up the boat and used the timber for firewood.”
A smile flitted over van Gulpendam’s features, as he muttered, inaudibly: “I have found the leak, I can caulk118 it,” and then, aloud, he said: “That’s a thousand pities—to whose negligence119 do you ascribe that?—But, never mind, we can look into that some other time. Now, Mr. Meidema, will you allow me to give you a piece of good advice?”
“Oh, Resident, you know, I am always most happy to receive good advice,” was the reply.
“Your finances,” continued van Gulpendam, “are not in the most flourishing condition, I think. Eh?”
“Resident!”
“You have a large family—and your expenses must be considerable. [309]Well then, my advice to you is this: Try and arrange matters quietly with the opium farmer.”
“You are shrewd enough, Mr. Meidema, to understand my drift. Lim Yang Bing is a wealthy man, and a kind, indulgent father. His son, you know, is on the eve of making an excellent match. He won’t be so very particular just now as to what he pays.”
“Resident!”
“And then,” continued van Gulpendam, “another piece of advice let me give you. Very luckily for you the court, which was to have sat to-day and given judgment121 on that opium-case, has been adjourned122. You see, you have yet time to alter that report of yours; which, I must say, appears to me to be drawn up with too much partiality.”
“That I will never do!” cried Meidema, vehemently123 interrupting his chief.
“Mr. Meidema,” resumed van Gulpendam, “I am merely giving you friendly advice. You have a large family—there are a good many mouths to feed. However, think the matter over well.”
“No, never, never, Resident!”
“Very well, in that case our interview may be considered at an end. But don’t be in a hurry, think it over well.”
When Mr. Meidema had left, the Resident stood for a while gazing after him. At length, hoarse with passion, he cried out: “That opposition124 must be overcome.”
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1
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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2
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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3
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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4
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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6
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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7
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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8
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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9
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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10
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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11
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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12
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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13
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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14
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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15
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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16
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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17
stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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18
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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19
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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20
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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21
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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23
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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24
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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25
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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26
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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27
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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28
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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29
irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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30
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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31
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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32
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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33
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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34
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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35
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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36
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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37
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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38
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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40
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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41
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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42
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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43
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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44
residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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45
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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46
conveyances
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| n.传送( conveyance的名词复数 )；运送；表达；运输工具 | |
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47
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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48
strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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49
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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50
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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51
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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52
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
demureness
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| n.demure（拘谨的，端庄的）的变形 | |
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54
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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55
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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56
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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57
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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58
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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59
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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60
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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61
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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62
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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64
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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65
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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66
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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67
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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68
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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69
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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70
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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71
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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72
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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73
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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75
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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76
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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77
endorses
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| v.赞同( endorse的第三人称单数 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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78
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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79
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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80
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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81
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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82
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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83
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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84
smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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85
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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86
regains
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| 复得( regain的第三人称单数 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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87
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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88
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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89
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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90
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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91
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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92
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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93
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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94
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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95
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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97
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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98
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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99
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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100
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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101
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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102
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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103
dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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104
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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105
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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106
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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107
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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108
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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109
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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110
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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111
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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112
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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113
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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114
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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115
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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116
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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117
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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118
caulk
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| v.堵缝 | |
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119
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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120
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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121
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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122
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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124
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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