“Now, Mr. Assistant Resident, I beg you will allow me to speak.”
These words Mr. van Gulpendam uttered with that measured tone of voice, and with that dignity which only a Resident knows how to assume. They brought about an immediate and entire change in his subordinate’s demeanour. Meidema at once mastered his excitement, he replied not a single word; but only bowed in sign that he was ready to listen.
“I said just now,” began the Resident, “ ‘a queer story’ and now I repeat the words—Yes, it is a very queer story, a very queer story indeed. I will for a moment suppose, Mr. Meidema, that you are an honest man.”
The Assistant Resident gnashed his teeth and writhed with inward passion at the insinuation; but he uttered not a sound. He had made up his mind, outwardly at least, to retain his composure, and to listen in silence.
Without appearing to notice Meidema’s evident anguish, the Resident continued:
“I am ready to admit, for argument’s sake, that you are an honest man; but I think you yourself must allow that appearances are terribly against you. Just put yourself in the position of a Resident; put yourself in my place. I am bound by my office to inquire into these matters calmly and impartially, without fear or prejudice, and, I must add without sympathy either; and then just see on what side probabilities have been accumulating. It is known to everyone, that you are in serious money difficulties—that is an open secret—and, I must tell you, that in your public capacity as chief magistrate, that common report is most injurious to you. When a man is in grave pecuniary difficulties, it is almost impossible to make the public believe that he can be impartial, inaccessible to bribes and strictly honest. The temptations, you see, are too great. On the one side there are tempting offers, which always manage to find a way for themselves, on the other there are the claims of his family, claims which have a powerful voice, and which clamour to be heard. Public opinion, therefore, needs must be against you. Under these painful circumstances, the opium farmer comes to your house and offers presents, in the form of silk dresses, to your wife and daughters, and he offers further a considerable bribe in the tangible shape of money. Now, do you think that you can make anyone believe that all this could occur without there having been some previous relations between you, some quiet understanding to encourage such bare-faced proposals? Surely not! You have told me with your own lips that the opium farmer came to invoke the aid of your wife. Therefore, he must have had some good cause to believe that not only could her aid be purchased; but also that her intercession, when obtained, would be of some value to him. Now, if you are compelled to grant me all this—why, then I say that you can hardly wonder if I come to the conclusion that she was not to-day solicited for the first time. At all events, you must allow that an impartial judge might very easily come to that conclusion. Now this is not all, there is yet another point to be considered. You have yourself confessed that, at least for a time, you yourself believed Mrs. Meidema guilty. Your description of the scene—the deplorable scene—which has just now taken place at your house, amply proves that. And, let me say in passing that I most strongly disapprove of such want of temper and of such want of self-control in my subordinates; but that in the particular case which I have now before me, I am willing to excuse it. However, as I was saying, the scene of which you gave me so graphic a description, amply proves that you yourself did not consider Mrs. Meidema above suspicion.”
Poor Meidema! He sat there before the pitiless inquisitor, pale as death, motionless as a statue. His bloodshot eyes gazed stonily at the Resident who, with a kind of refinement of cruelty, seemed to delight in probing his wound to the quick. At that moment the wretched man sat there accusing himself more bitterly than van Gulpendam or any one else on earth could have done. The voice of conscience is, to the upright man, the most terrible voice of all. Yes—it was but too true, he had been guilty of suspecting the wife of his bosom, he had thought evil of his two innocent daughters. The Resident was pitiless; but he was quite right. And then, alas! that was not the worst of it; his conscience had a still louder reproach to make. He had been so miserably weak that he had not been able to keep that foul suspicion to himself—he had not been man enough to keep it locked up in his own bosom. Honest and loyal as he was himself, he had fancied that the truth—the whole truth—would have proved the strongest bulwark for innocence. Thus, in a moment of blind honesty, he had, for no other purpose than to bring out more strongly the innocence of his family, betrayed to his enemy the excess of violence into which his wild frenzy had led him. And now, the weapon to which he had fondly trusted for his defence, had turned in his hand; not against himself only, but also against those dear ones of whose perfect purity he had no longer the faintest shadow of a doubt. The thought was too terrible to bear, it was maddening—his eyes began to ache as though a red-hot iron were pressed upon them. But, unmindful of his sufferings, his pitiless tormentor quietly continued:
“From all this must we not then reasonably conclude, Mr. Meidema, that your wife, terrified—and very naturally terrified—at your unreasoning violence, must have confined herself to a simple denial after she had attempted to mislead you in the matter of the ten thousand guilders? You see,” continued the Resident with a friendly smile, “after all, the best thing is, that we should give that aspect to a most lamentable occurrence; one cannot very well hold you responsible for the actions of your wife.”
At these words Meidema could restrain himself no longer. “No!” shouted he, “that suspicion shall not be cast upon her—my wife is innocent!”
“Mr. Meidema,” said van Gulpendam, in tones of mock sympathy, “let me implore you to take my advice, and to consider well what you are about. Once you let go that anchor, I have no other alternative than—”