Lingard's new attitude was accepted
as only "his way." There was nothing in it, maintained some. Others
dissented. A good deal of curiosity, however, remained and the faint
rumour of something big being in preparation followed him into every
harbour he went to, from Rangoon to Hongkong.
He felt nowhere so much at home as when his brig was anchored on the
inner side of the great stretch of shoals. The centre of his life had
shifted about four hundred miles--from the Straits of Malacca to the
Shore of Refuge--and when there he felt himself within the circle of
another existence, governed by his impulse, nearer his desire. Hassim
and Immada would come down to the coast and wait for him on the islet.
He always left them with regret.
At the end of the first stage in each trip, Jorgenson waited for him
at the top of the boat-stairs and without a word fell into step at his
elbow. They seldom exchanged three words in a day; but one evening about
six months before Lingard's last trip, as they were crossing the
short bridge over the canal where native craft lie moored in clusters,
Jorgenson lengthened his stride and came abreast. It was a moonlight
night and nothing stirred on earth but the shadows of high clouds.
Lingard took off his hat and drew in a long sigh in the tepid breeze.
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