Mr. Cornelius,” I said, “the time will never come.”  He took a few seconds to gather this in.  “What!” he fairly squealed.  “Why,” I continued from my side of the gate, “haven’t you heard him say so himself?  He will never go home.”  “Oh! this is too much,” he shouted.  He would not address me as “honoured sir” any more.  He was very still for a time, and then without a trace of humility began very low:  “Never go—­ah!  He—­he—­he comes here devil knows from where—­comes here—­devil knows why—­to trample on me till I die—­ah—­trample” (he stamped softly with both feet), “trample like this—­nobody knows why—­till I die. . . .”  His voice became quite extinct; he was bothered by a little cough; he came up close to the fence and told me, dropping into a confidential and piteous tone, that he would not be trampled upon.  “Patience—­patience,” he muttered, striking his breast.  I had done laughing at him, but unexpectedly he treated me to a wild cracked burst of it.  “Ha! ha! ha!  We shall see!  We shall see!  What!  Steal from me!  Steal from me everything!  Everything!  Everything!” His head drooped on one shoulder, his hands were hanging before him lightly clasped.  One would have thought he had cherished the girl with surpassing love, that his spirit had been crushed and his heart broken by the most cruel of spoliations.  Suddenly he lifted his head and shot out an infamous word.  “Like her mother—­she is like her deceitful mother.  Exactly.  In her face, too.  In her face.  The devil!” He leaned his forehead against the fence, and in that position uttered threats and horrible blasphemies in Portuguese in very weak ejaculations, mingled with miserable plaints and groans, coming out with a heave of the shoulders as though he had been overtaken by a deadly fit of sickness.  It was an inexpressibly grotesque and vile performance, and I hastened away.  He tried to shout something after me.  Some disparagement of Jim, I believe—­not too loud though, we were too near the house.  All I heard distinctly was, “No more than a little child—­a little child."’

CHAPTER 35

’But next morning, at the first bend of the river shutting off the houses of Patusan, all this dropped out of my sight bodily, with its colour, its design, and its meaning, like a picture created by fancy on a canvas, upon which, after long contemplation, you turn your back for the last time.  It remains in the memory motionless, unfaded, with its life arrested, in an unchanging light.  There are the ambitions, the fears, the hate, the hopes, and they remain in my mind just as I had seen them—­intense and as if for ever suspended in their expression.  I had turned away from the picture and was going back to the world where events move, men change, light flickers, life flows in a clear stream, no matter whether over mud or over stones.  I wasn’t going to dive into it; I would have enough to do to keep my head above the surface.  But as to what