The Hidden Force Part 2

"Very well, papa ... I'll see to it."

"Where are you going to?"

"With Theo ... to the band."

Van Oudijck became red and angry:

"To the band? But you might have asked my leave first!" he exclaimed, in a sudden temper.

Doddie pouted.

"I don't like you to go out, without my knowing where you go. You were out this afternoon too, when I wanted you to come for a walk with me."

"Well, doesn't matter then!" said Doddie, bursting into tears.

"You can go if you want to," said Van Oudijck, "but I insist on your asking me first."

"No, I don't care about it now," said Doddie, in tears. "Doesn't matter! No band."

They could hear the first strains in the distance, coming from the Concordia garden.

Van Oudijck returned to his office. Doddie and Theo flung themselves into two rocking-chairs in the verandah and swung furiously to and fro, skating with the chairs over the smooth marble.

"Come," said Theo, "let's go. Addie expects you."

"No," she pouted. "Don't care. I'll tell Addie to-morrow papa so unkind. He spoils my pleasure. And ... I'll put no flowers in mamma's room."

Theo grinned.

"Say," whispered Doddie, "that papa ... eh? So in love, always. He blushed when he asked me about the flowers."

Theo grinned once more and hummed in unison with the band in the distance.

CHAPTER THREE

Next morning Theo went in the landau to fetch his step-mother from the station at half-past eleven.

Van Oudijck, who was in the habit of taking the police-cases at that hour, had made no suggestion to his son; but, when from his office he saw Theo step into the carriage and drive off, he thought it nice of the boy. He had idolized Theo as a child, had spoilt him as a lad, had often come into conflict with him as a young man; but the old paternal fondness still often flickered up in him, irresistibly. At this moment he loved his son better than Doddie, who had maintained her sulky att.i.tude that morning and had put no flowers in his wife's room, so that he had ordered Kario to see to them. He now felt sorry that he had not said a kind word to Theo for some days and he resolved to mend matters at once. The boy was scatter-brained: in three years he had been employed on at least five different coffee-plantations; now he was once more without a berth and was hanging around at home, looking out for something else.

Theo had not long to wait at the station before the train arrived. He at once saw Mrs. van Oudijck and the two little boys, Rene and Ricus--two little half-castes, as compared with himself--whom she was bringing back from Batavia for the long holidays, and her maid, Oorip.

Theo helped his step-mother to alight; the station-master offered a respectful greeting to the wife of his resident. She nodded in return with her queenly smile. Still smiling, a trifle ambiguously, she allowed her step-son to kiss her on the cheek. She was a tall woman, with a fair complexion and fair hair; she had turned thirty and possessed the languid dignity of women born in Java, daughters of European parents on both sides. Something about her attracted attention at once. It was perhaps her white skin, her creamy complexion, her very light fair hair, her strange grey eyes, which were sometimes a little pinched and always wore an ambiguous expression, or it might be her eternal smile, sometimes very sweet and charming and often insufferable and tiresome. One could never tell at the first sight of her whether she concealed anything behind that glance, whether there was any depth, any soul behind it, or whether it was merely her look and her laugh, both of them slightly equivocal. Soon, however, one perceived an observant indifference in her smiles, as though there were very little that she cared for, as though it would hardly matter to her should the heavens fall, as though she would watch the event with a smile.

Her gait was leisurely. She wore a pink pique skirt and bolero, a white satin ribbon round her waist and a white sailor-hat with a white satin bow; and her summer travelling-costume was very smart, compared with that of a couple of other ladies on the platform, lounging in stiffly starched was.h.i.+ng-frocks that looked like night-dresses, with tulle hats topped with feathers! And, in her very European aspect, perhaps that leisurely walk, that languid dignity was the only Indian characteristic that distinguished her from a woman newly arrived from Holland.

Theo had given her his arm and she let him lead her to the carriage, the "chariot," followed by the two dark little brothers. She had been away two months. She had a nod and a smile for the station-master; she had a nod for the coachman and the groom; and she took her seat slowly, a languid, fair sultana, still smiling. The three step-sons followed her into the carriage; the maid rode behind in a dog-cart. Mrs. van Oudijck looked out once or twice and thought Labuw.a.n.gi unchanged. But she said nothing. She turned away slowly, languidly leaning back. Her face displayed a certain satisfaction, but especially that radiant, laughing indifference, as though nothing could harm her, as though she were protected by a mysterious force. There was something strong about this woman, something powerful in her sheer indifference; there was something invulnerable about her. She looked as though life would have no hold on her, neither on her complexion nor on her soul. She looked as though she were incapable of suffering; and it seemed as though she smiled and were thus contented because no sickness, no suffering, no poverty, no misery existed for her. An irradiation of glittering egoism encompa.s.sed her. And yet she was, for the most part, lovable. She was charming and prepossessing because she was so pretty. This woman, with her sparkling self-satisfaction, was loved, whatever people might say about her. When she spoke, when she laughed, she was disarming and, even more, engaging. This was despite, and, perhaps, just because of her unfathomable indifference. She took an interest only in her own body and her own soul: everything else, everything, was totally indifferent to her. Unable to give anything of her soul, she was incapable of feeling save for herself, but she smiled so peacefully and enchantingly that she was always thought lovable, adorable. It was perhaps because of the contour of her cheeks, the strange ambiguity of her glance, her ineffaceable smile, the elegance of her figure, the tone of her voice and her knack of always. .h.i.tting on the right word. If at first one thought her insufferable, she did not notice it and simply made herself absolutely charming. If anyone was jealous, she did not notice it and just praised, intuitively, indifferently--for she did not care in the least--something in which that other had thought herself deficient. She could admire with the sweetest expression on her face a dress which she thought hideous; and, because she was so completely indifferent, she betrayed no insincerity afterwards and did not gainsay her admiration. Her vital power was her boundless indifference. She had accustomed herself to do everything that she felt inclined to do, but she smiled as she did it; and, however people might talk behind her back, she remained so correct in her behaviour, so bewitching, that they forgave her. She was not loved while she was not seen; but so soon as people saw her, she had won back all that she had lost. Her husband wors.h.i.+pped her; her step-children--she had no children of her own--could not help being fond of her, despite themselves; her servants were all under the influence of her charm. She never grumbled; she gave an order with a word and the thing was done. If something went wrong, if something was broken, her smile died away for a moment ... and that was all. And if her own moral or physical interests were in danger, she was generally able to avoid the danger and settle things to her advantage, without even allowing her smile to fade. But she had gathered this personal interest so closely about her that she could usually control its circ.u.mstances. No destiny seemed to weigh upon this woman. Her indifference was radiant, was absolutely indifferent, devoid of contempt, or envy, or emotion: it was merely indifference. And the tact with which, instinctively, without ever giving much thought to it, she guided and ruled her life was so great that possibly if she had lost everything that she now possessed--her beauty, her position, for instance--she would still contrive to remain indifferent, in her incapacity for suffering.

The carriage drove into the residency-grounds just as the police cases were beginning. The native a.s.sessor was already with Van Oudijck in the office; the chief constable and the police led the procession of the accused; the natives tripped along, holding on to the corners of one another's jackets; but the few women among them walked alone. They all squatted in waiting under a banyan tree, at a short distance from the steps of the office. A messenger, hearing the clock in the verandah, struck half-past twelve on the great bell by the lodge. The loud stroke reverberated like a brazen voice through the scorching mid-day heat. But Van Oudijck had heard the sound of the carriage-wheels and let the native magistrate wait: he went to welcome his wife. His face brightened; he kissed her tenderly, effusively, asked how she was. He was glad to see the boys back. And, remembering what he had been thinking about Theo, he found a kind word for his first-born. Doddie, her little mouth still pouting and sulky, kissed mamma. Mrs. van Oudijck allowed herself to be kissed, resignedly, smilingly; she returned the kisses calmly, without coldness or warmth, just doing what she had to do. Her husband, Theo and Doddie admired her perceptibly, and audibly said that she was looking well; Doddie asked where mamma had got that pretty travelling-dress. In her room she noticed the flowers, and, as she knew that Van Oudijck always saw to these, she gently stroked his arm.

The resident went back to his office, where the a.s.sessor was waiting; the hearing began. Pushed along by a policeman, the accused came one by one and squatted on the steps, outside the office-door, while the a.s.sessor squatted on a mat and the resident sat at his writing-table. During the first case, Van Oudijck was still listening to his wife's voice in the middle gallery, when the prisoner, defending himself, gave a loud cry of:

"No, no!"

The resident knitted his brows and listened attentively....

The voice in the middle gallery ceased. Mrs. van Oudijck had gone to take off her things and put on her native dress for lunch. She wore the dress gracefully: a Solo sarong, a transparent kabaai, jewelled pins, white leather slippers with a little white bow. She was just ready when Doddie came to her door and said:

"Mamma! Mamma!... Mrs. van Does is here!"

The smile died away for a moment; the soft eyes looked dark.

"I'll come at once, dear...."

But she sat down instead; Oorip, the maid, sprinkled some scent on her handkerchief. Mrs. van Oudijck put up her feet and lay musing, after the fatigue of her journey. She found Labuw.a.n.gi desperately dull after Batavia, where she had spent two months staying with relations and friends, free and untrammelled by obligations. Here, as the wife of the resident, she had certain duties, though she delegated most of them to the secretary's wife. She felt tired in herself, out of sorts, dissatisfied. Despite her complete indifference, she was human enough to have her silent moods, in which she wished everything at the bottom of the sea. At one time she suddenly longed to do something mad, at another she vaguely longed for Paris.... She would never let any one see all this. She was able to control herself; and she controlled herself now, before making her appearance again. Her vague Baccha.n.a.lian longings melted away in her fatigue. She stretched herself out at greater ease. She mused, with eyes almost closed. Through her almost superhuman indifference a curious fancy sometimes crept, hidden from the world. She preferred to live in her bedroom her life of fragrant imagination, especially after her month in Batavia. After one of those months of perversity, she felt a need to let her vagrant, rosy imaginings rise like a whirling mist before her half-closed eyes. There was in her otherwise utterly barren soul as it were an unnatural growth of little azure flowers, which she cherished with the only feeling that she could ever experience. She felt for no living creature, but she felt for those little flowers. It was delicious to dream like this of what she would have liked to be if she were not compelled to be what she was. Her fancies rose in a whirling mist: she saw a white palace, with little cupids everywhere....

"Mamma ... do come! Mrs. van Does is here, Mrs. van Does, with two stoppered bottles...."

It was Doddie, at the door. Leonie van Oudijck stood up and went to the back verandah, where the Indian lady was sitting, the wife of the postmaster. She kept cows and sold milk. But she also drove other trades. She was a stout woman, rather dark-skinned, with a prominent stomach; she wore a very simple little kabaai with a narrow band of lace round it; and she sat stroking her stomach with her fat hands. In front of her, on the table, stood two small phials, with something glittering in them. What was it, Mrs. van Oudijck wondered: sugar, crystals? Then she suddenly remembered....

Mrs. van Does said that she was glad to see her again. Two months away from Labuw.a.n.gi. Too bad, Mrs. van Oudijck! And she pointed to the bottles. Mrs. van Oudijck smiled. What was inside them?

With a great air of mystery, Mrs. van Does laid a fat, double-jointed forefinger on one of the jam-pots and said:

"Diamonds!"

"Oh, really?" said Mrs. van Oudijck.

Doddie, wide-eyed, and Theo, greatly amused stared at the stoppered bottles.

"Yes ... you know ... that lady's, of whom I spoke to you.... She doesn't want her name mentioned. Poor thing, her husband once a great swell ... and now ... yes, so unfortunate; she has nothing left! All gone. Only these two little bottles. Had all her jewels unset and keeps the stones in the bottles. All counted. She trusts them to me to sell. Know her through my milk-business. Will you look at, Mrs. van Oudijck, yes? Lovely stones! The residen he buy for you, now you back home again. Doddie, give me a bit of black stuff: velvet best...."

Doddie sent the seamstress to fetch a bit of black velvet from a cupboard of odds and ends. A boy brought gla.s.ses with tamarind-syrup and ice. Mrs. van Does, holding a little pair of tongs in her double-jointed fingers, laid a couple of stones carefully on the velvet:

"Ah!" she cried. "Look at that water, mevrouw! Ser-per-len-did!"

Mrs. van Oudijck looked on. She gave her most charming smile and then said, in her gentle voice:

"That stone is not real, dear mevrouw."

"Not real?" screamed Mrs. van Does. "Not real?"

Mrs. van Oudijck looked at the other stones: