It was not, however, to be so.
A few days before the above conversation took place between the legal officials, the Resident, Mr. van Gulpendam, received an unexpected visit.
Yes, the visit was a wholly unexpected one, for it was Sunday, and about two o’clock in the afternoon, at a time when, of all others, no man in Dutch India looks to be disturbed. About eleven o’clock that same morning, Mr. van Gulpendam had gone to his club, and had amused himself with a game or two at billiards. He liked to show his subordinates that, though he had not cruised about Delft or Leyden, he yet was just as handy as they were at cutting a ball into the middle pocket, and had not forgotten how to put on side. About one o’clock, he had gone home, had made an excellent and hearty luncheon, and then, in the pleasing consciousness of being able to enjoy the Lord’s Day undisturbed, had put on his pyjamas and kabaai, and was just preparing to turn in for his afternoon nap. His hand was already on the handle of his bedroom door, when lo, his chief servant appeared in his usual quiet, stealthy way, slid down to the ground, made a most respectful “sembah,” and softly whispered that Babah Lim Yang Bing requested the honour of a few moments’ interview with the Kandjeng toean.
“Babah Lim Yang Bing,” exclaimed van Gulpendam, in surprise. “What? the Opium farmer?”
“Engèh, Kandjeng toean.”
“Show him in at once,” ordered the master.
“But, van Gulpendam,” said his wife, “what are you thinking about? In that costume?”
“It does not matter, my dear,” replied the husband, “we must sail when the wind blows fair. But—oh yes—” and, calling another attendant, he ordered, “Go and fetch the pajoeng stand here.”
Laurentia shrugged her shoulders. “There’s a pretty thing, the Resident in pyjamas and kabaai, and the golden pajoeng by his side.”
“It looks more dignified, my dear. You leave me to manage, we are having a fair breeze, I tell you. Now you run away to your nest.”