4There was much to read from the Peking papers, and something was made clear at last regarding the purpose of his travel. His work though political was imposing. It was of China yet above China. Full knowledge of his undertaking was promised at the next point of his journey, Wampli, but Romney had enough now to understand that there was no illusion about the bigness of the thing he was called upon to do. For a time he was lifted a little from the intensity of the present episode—at least, from what the world would have called madness in connection with it.That was Romney's longest night. When the dawn came in, cold and yellowish gray, he felt that much which had been his the night before, was gone from him. He arose quietly and went forth. The outer room was empty, the house, even the forward room, still. Outside the chill was leaving, a day of bright heat promised. No one was abroad. He located the Rest House with difficulty, and finally touched Bamban's shoulder."Find the camel drivers," he said. "Get the party ready as soon as you can. We start for Wampli at once."Bamban looked up quickly—the nearest thing to a start that his master had ever noted. In ordinary course, there would have been a halt of several days in Nadiram, and even under the pressure of speed, the camels would have been permitted to rest for one day. Moreover, it meant passage alone to Wampli, since the three Tartar merchants were now to continue by a northeastward trail to the Post Road. Romney laughed at his own sensitiveness in feeling so keenly the surprise of the little man. He did not hasten back to the Consulate, yet it was impossible to loiter. Turning into the gate of the court he saw a movement of the woman within. It was very early. The feeding and saddling of the camels and the procuring of stores would require at least an hour.... Anna Erivan came to the door. He saw something of her morning joyousness fade as she glanced into his face. This numbed him further."How early you rise," she said. "I heard your step and made haste to join you, but you had gone.... You have been gone a long time. The tea is ready.""Thanks," he said briefly.There was no sound from the forward room. She stood behind his chair waiting for him to be seated. He glanced at her. There was a hard thing in his breast; it seemed as if his breath did not go lower than his throat. He sat down to the table. The woman brought a covered dish hot from the fire, placed it before him and poured tea. She cleared her voice before speaking:"Did you rest?"Something gray had come into her face."No. Did you?"She winced. Yet there had been something in her mind to say. She let it forth, but the gladness was gone."It was as we said last night—a strange and sweet kind of rest at first. I went to sleep like a little child—drifting away so pleasantly. But it didn't last. Something awoke me—some change. I could not have slept an hour. Since then, I have been waiting for the day."They were like two melancholy strangers meeting on a strange road, each having lost his way, debating vaguely.She ate nothing. Just as he was about to remind her, she suggested to him that he try the contents of the dish before him. He put the spoon into it and discovered that he was forced to follow each movement with his mind lest his hand stop; that he must give separate thought to each gesture, the placing of food upon her plate and upon his own, then a thought for each morsel that he lifted—a thought even to taste it. If he did not keep up the thinking, movement stopped altogether. His eyes were called to her face. The gray widened there, her eyes very large.He heard Bamban bring in the camels to the court at last. The voice of the driver with him was like a voice from the pit. Anna Erivan cleared her throat:"Are you going at once?""Yes.""But my brother.... You see, I did not call him because every moment of sleep helps him—like this. I shall get him—"Her dismay was rending to him."Don't trouble. What I had to say isn't vital. It will hold until I come back from Wampli if—"Her throat was like a flower. This that she wore at the throat was black. He could see her hand clearly and her throat. Above was enveloped in the pervading grayness, all but the eyes. Always as the face cleared, the low voice of Bamban, or the voice of that camel-driver from the pit, blurred it. Again Romney began to think of the food, morsel by morsel. One spoonful remained on his plate. It seemed as if he could never come to the end. And now he saw the tea. He drank it eagerly. That seemed to help her, too, as if something of life had come into the room—something human and grippable. She took his cup and thankfully refilled it. He drank this more slowly, because it had not cooled.In the open door was sunlight. It was not like the sun of yesterday, yet it was sunshine. This brought him a swift picture of the day's journey, a long and full day's passage, then nightfall. Every league, every mile, every camel-pace would take him farther away from this room.... He heard her voice."What did you say?" he asked."I said your face looked gray," she answered.The horror of the journey held his mind again, twelve hours in swift passage, and two more like it to Wampli—every camel-pace away from this room.She cleared her voice. He turned to her."Your camels should have rested.""They are good," he said.And now he was debating if there remained strength enough for him to rise and depart. All he could say was good-bye and the lie about Wampli, that he would come again. He was not sure of his limbs. He was very tired and her hands were so near—just across the little board. His eyes lifted from them to her throat, and he felt the burn of her eyes, without really looking higher. Back to her hands again. They were never still—lovely quick hands, waiting now to fill his cup.A queer thought came to him—that he should some time bring her a yellow rose, and she would hold it in the arch of her hand, her thumb beneath.... He arose. He could stand. He turned from her to locate the door, so that he would make no mistake after he spoke. He did not know what he said—some huddled, unintelligible phrase. All that he knew well was that he took her hand, that he had to leave it almost instantly or fail, since a mist came over him—even over the single madness that he held to. It was madness to leave her, yet it was the one strong prevailing thing.His feet stumbled on the way to the door. In the bright light of the court, his camel was already kneeling. Bamban stood there ready to take his ankle. He reached the seat. The camel arose.... Voices of the pit in his ears, and now he saw her there below. She had come forth into the light. Her face was clear. He saw her hand below on the leather near his foot, her lips forming to speak. He bent to them."Why don't youtellme?" she said softly.Romney brushed his hand across his eyes and bent again."What did you say?" he asked."Why don't you tell me?" she repeated.Romney glanced about till he found Bamban."Tell the driver to bring this camel down," he said.The beast knelt obediently.Romney stood before her in the court. He brushed his hand across his eyes again, then turned to Bamban:"Tell the drivers to put the beasts away. It's a long journey and they had better rest for to-day.""What have I done?" she asked. "I would not delay you. Oh, no, I would not hold any one from his journey—""Don't make it harder," he said abruptly. "Let us go in.""But—nothing but misery comes to a woman for holding a man from his journey.""How do you know that?" he asked hoarsely.5The second camel sprawled out of the court. He looked elongated like a dog that stretches as he walks. The man and the woman went in and took their former places at the table. It did not occur to them to move the chairs."I had been thinking only of myself," he said at last.She smiled faintly, as if she had met that from men for ages and ages. Then the gray cold came again to her face."It's a fact," he repeated, "I was thinking only of myself—I didn't know I was like that.""It has always been man's way to forget woman's part in a crisis—and woman's to turn to man. You don't know me at all.""But I do know you," he said. "You must have seen that. In fact, never before did I know so much from a first meeting—""But man always believes that a woman is at war with his work. I have always said that I should not care to be the rival of a man's work.""And yet, you said—'Why don't you tell me?' ... Anna Erivan, I shall always hear that question. I am going to tell you."She did not help him to begin. There was a kind of core of silence from the forward room, which was as distracting as the sound of breathing had been. He had to organise himself repeatedly."... I was sent out here because I hadfancy."He laughed a little harshly. "Because you have that you will understand. I have been forwarded from Peking somewhat like a valuable package. My next point is Wampli, as you know. I had looked forward to the real desert from this point. It would have been desert right enough had I gone on this morning."Her eyes gleamed at him."I can't tell you all—not even all I know—I pick up my orders on the way; but this much I can tell you, and it mainly became known to me from papers read only last night, for they were not to be opened until I reached Nadiram—"He told her hastily, something of the world-crisis, of the parties of China, of the Japanese danger, and of the big dream of the truly great men of the Empire, and something of his own relation with Nifton Bend, Minglapo and Ti Kung."This new party in China is not great enough to have a large following," he said, "and yet, though there are some things about it that trouble, possibly because I am a bit of an Occidental still, it seems to me that the power and the vision of the men I have met in it must become a terrific constructive force in the future of Asia and the world. You see Japan threatens to become a Japanese Asia, if it is not met with vision and force. The two older Chinese parties have neither. At the heart of any Empire is its religion, and it happens that the centre of the religion of the Chinese Empire is yonder in this desert—the Inner Temple, even the great Lohan himself—""You are sent to that Inner Temple?" she asked breathlessly."Yes.""To bring forth a sign for the people of Young China?""Come to think of it—it is something like that.""And you let me delay you this morning?""I had not thought of it as a bringing forth a sign," he mused, watching her, "but that is really what it amounts to. If the new social order in China is recognised by the Inner Temple; if its dream of progress and power is found to be a true dream by the Holy Men of the Inner Temple—don't you see, the support of all the people touched by this religion will be turned from the old to the new?""They chose a white man, an American, for this mission—and I am delaying him?"Still Romney evaded the issue."I always thought it queer that they chose me," he said. "These Holy Men are free from racial prejudice. They are said to be super-national. Our leaders in Peking felt that if they sent a Chinese, the Holy Men might see in him one nation's ambition, but if they chose an Occidental who was called to the struggle of New China because he had found it the purest dream for all Asia; one also who could place before the wise men the position relatively of other nations—""What an equipment!""I'm afraid it sounds more than it is," he said hastily. "You see they did not have many foreign adherents to choose from. Nifton Bend would have accomplished the mission far more wisely than I, but he is the Centre—needed every hour in Peking.""I'm afraid you can't make me see anything insignificant now—about your being here. They thought you pure enough—real priest enough—to enter the Inner Temple and bring forth a sign to the many. You know the many always demand a sign. They did in Judea—"He did not look above her hands. They were tightly shut."I asked you last night—if you ever had any sense about the Gobi, other than that of its terror and menace," he said, in an effort that he knew was vain to lift her from her part in keeping him from the journey. "The Chinese believe that the heart of the desert is a spirit-haunted land; that the Inner Pavilion holds all the ancient writings, all the seeds of wisdom and magic out of the past, the essence of truths gathered by forgotten civilisations."In fact, the myths and legends which surround this country make the stories of Peru and Central America seem paltry and commonplace. There are forests, it is said, in which no white man has penetrated, buried gold and statuary and all that—" Romney smiled."You do not need to be afraid of me," she whispered. "I love to believe such things.""Ten years away from America—perhaps I am too ready to believe," Romney finished. "Anyway the Chinese leaders say there are wise men, whom the world never hears of as persons, doing the great constructive tasks behind the scenes, and that the central pavilion of these wise men is in the heart of the Gobi, and not in Thibet.... But all these things belonged to yesterday. I know now that there are meeting-places in a man's life, and that in the hours of meeting he cannot reckon even with missions of mercy.... This—last night—here in the court—has taken me almost like death takes a man—as the cups have taken him in there—something resistless—"He saw one hand leave the table between them. It was held out to him, palm outward, as if trying to stop his words. Her eyes were wide with terror.... Now a change came. She turned to the forward room, listening."Hush," she whispered.Strangeness was all about them. Romney came down from his story, with the sense that he had not done well. The silence crowded in again, as if from the desert."Perhaps he is awake," she said quietly. "Go on.""That's all. I learned a great deal last night.""You say that a day or two would make no difference, and yet this morning you were up very early. You ordered the camels—""I thought only of myself.""You thought it would be easier to go to-day—though the camels needed rest—""I could not hold it in the night that the meeting meant anything to you.""You were out on the quest and I appeared in the way—" she smiled and added, "a dragon to be overcome.""I have not imagination enough to make you that—""A dragon to test the courage of the quester. A man must never forget his mission—must remember first of all the little ones, the many little ones, who require a sign."In spite of the tearing-down, it was a pinnacle moment to Romney. She was lovely as he had not seen her before. Her swift and absolute understanding liberated his whole nature upon her. Had she chosen to captivate him, there could not have been conceived a more perfect design. Had she met him level-eyed, weakness for weakness, it would have sounded, temporarily, at least, the knell for his infatuation. Had she clung or pressed him to linger, it would have become a mere episode.He arose, his lips smiling, his eyes burning with tributes to her—moved about the table, placed his hands upon her shoulders and bent his lips to hers."Won't you come with me?" he whispered.... "We will go to the Temple together. We will bring forth a sign to the people."... Her fingers closed gently upon his wrists, lifting his hands outward from her shoulders and letting them fall. Then she arose and looked at him tenderly."You are dear—I think you could not be so dear if you were not bewildered. These meetings are wonderful, but don't you see—that you are dreaming? Don't you see that a man must travel alone on his quest? It's like the old stories—he must slay the dragon that stands between. A man does not take a woman to the Inner Temple. A man who passes the threshold of the Inner Temple cannot have a woman in his eyes or heart. They would say, 'Why, this is a mere mortal. He cannot enter here.' Do you not see, do you not see?""Anna Erivan."She smiled and put down his hands that lifted to her."You are the quest," he said intensely. "It was our meeting. The Gobi—why, it was but a means of bringing me to you. Last night, as I stood in the court, I knew that. Today, when in a sentence you made all the meanings of my life clear, taking up my story and completing it briefly—today, just now, I saw that I could never look beyond you—""Don't say that. I should not have let you say that. We are asked to renounce nothing that lasts. You must not fail through me. This is not a good beginning for our story. You know this. You are only bewildered."Romney began to understand her strength. She had risen above him. Her vision was clearer. In getting down from the camel he had become altogether human. The fury of his ardour was for the woman. Because he was moved with desire, he was not at his best. He took her in his arms, the tempest of emotions blinding him....Women with a touch of the savage left in them, may be captured with strength, but he had given her a dream of greater days than these.She did not resist, but the wonder of their first kiss did not come again. Instead, through his mind, crippling his arms, flashed the picture of his own red passion—and that in his arms chilled him to the heart. Utterly passive, she had allowed him to wound himself in a way that would never be forgotten.He felt suddenly small and altered before her. He drew back, lowering his eyes from her face, his hand reaching behind him until he found the arm of his chair. He sat down, covering his face.Presently she came and touched his hands, whispering:"Do not grieve—I was thinking of something. Do not grieve. I do not care for you less. A woman loves the boy—the boy-tumult in a man—""You were in my arms—and yet I was alone," he said strangely. "I never knew such a sudden loneliness—all that I had for you—flung back to me—""I would not have hurt you so. But suddenly as you held me—I thought of the many little ones waiting for a sign—"He was still shocked at the lifelessness which had confronted his passion. The shame of his untimely bestowal did not pass.His life had seemed full of perfect gifts for her, and a sudden desire had blinded him, bringing down upon his head a rebuke more magic than any blow."You have made me afraid," he said dully. "It could never happen again. I could not go to you so again—unless you held out your arms—""After you have entered the Inner Temple," she whispered.The seven words numbered and registered themselves in his consciousness. He looked up at her and there was something endless in her beauty."You must not be hurt," she said tenderly. "It is the man in you that is wounded. You must know that you cannot really be wounded, unless I am wounded, too—and oh, a woman is not wounded by loving, by passion—that's why we are women. It was only the others I thought of. Believe me, all is well—""Would you have me go to-day—now—into the desert?" he asked."Wait," she answered. "I do not hear him. It would seem that he would be about—now that we hear him no longer—"6Romney arose, but did not follow her to the door. He watched her as she opened it, a breeze seeming to take it from her hands. He saw her hands lift quietly, tighten and press across her lips. She seemed to become less in height. She ran to him, and for the briefest instant touched her forehead to his breast—the queerest murmuring little cry from her throat. Something of the picture in the other room had come to him from her mind. They did not speak. He did not draw her closely, merely sustained her.Romney saw it on the floor, the face flattened against the stone, the arms out. His hand went out to her and pressed upon her breast to keep the shock from rending her—as if she were carrying a child. The look of her face frightened him so that he drew her away; yet all the time he had the sense that the tragedy had somehow set them free."You will let me take care of him—come," he whispered.She followed, obediently. He did not know the way to her room, but took her to the one he had used, pressed her to lie down. She covered her face in the pillow where he had lain. Romney feared she was not breathing and turned her face outward. There he knelt a moment. Her eyes were open, but did not seem to hold him. Moments passed and then he heard her words:"You said you would go to him.""Yes, but I thought you needed me more, just now," he said."You said you would go to him."Romney left her.The Russian's body was heavy and still hot. The silence of it was almost unbelievable, with the great damp chest still radiating heat. The weight was dead, but disgustingly soft. The American had a fear, with the feet dragging across the floor, that the body might break and cover the stones. He laid it upon the couch and listened again for the heart. It was still, as if pinned to the walls of the chest. Romney wiped his brow and found that there was a door into the street. He went forth quickly.Bamban, so constantly in evidence, was queerly enough not so easy to find this time. He had to go to the Rest House and ask questions. At last he could not go further, but bid them to send his servant to him and hastened back. The face of Anna Erivan, as she had looked into the open door, was still held in his mind. Bamban was running behind him before he reached the Consulate. He understood quickly and took charge of affairs in the Forward Room....She had not stirred. Romney shut the door and knelt beside her again. It was a moment before she realised his nearness."Did you go to him?" she asked."Yes.""He is dead?""Yes. Everything is being done for him.... Anna Erivan, if I could only do everything for you! I suffer for your suffering. I feel it all—"Her hand came out and touched his cheek, her eyelids closed."Dearest stranger," she whispered.... A moment later she repeated with a smile, "Stranger."Her face changed. The unspeakable thing to Romney was that part of the smile lingered, though her eyes opened and white rays of purest horror shone in them. Her lips parted, the smile holding to them, as something holds to life, her fingers plucking his cheek."To-night—don't go away from me to-night! I will hear them. They always come when any one dies. I knew they would come for him, that he would die or go mad, and they would come."They are out in the rocks and sand, they come closer where death is.... And he was good as a boy; a good brother. I came to him and he was changed. I knew he would never go back. When I heard them the first time and saw how they affected him, I knew they would come for him."Romney crushed her leaping fingers in his hand."Listen," he said sharply. "Tell me what you mean.""Oh, have you not heard them laughing and sobbing at night?""The hyenas—"She shuddered full length, hiding her face in his arms."I could not have spoken the word," she cried.He repeated, "I shall be with you, I shall be with you—""They always come to the lonely," she whispered. "They would have come last night, only you were here. No one will ever know what they bring to me. They are the spirits of the waste-places. They are the darkness that moves around the night-fires. Where there is death, they come in. They cry so—where there is death. They know. They are living death. They are the spirit of the Gobi—""No," he said. "They are just fright-things, the saddest of all beasts, mere cowardly night-roamers. It is only human nerves that make them terrible. You and I, alone and well, could laugh at them, as at coyotes and jackals.""You are but saying that. Have you seen them when the moon-light is upon the sand and rocks? They have passed death. They are going the other way. The yellow men understand, but they bring madness to those who are white. Have you heard that it is not food they want from a corpse? Have you heard that?""It is food that they want," he said softly. "I have seen that. Please don't think of them. I will be here—""Always when he drank, I seemed to see them around him. When he shut himself in there, I could hear them. Do you know what frightens me? It is not the poor body that they will find in the desert. They always find the bodies. One cannot dig so deep, or cover so heavily with stones, but they will find them. It is not that. I think the drink has brought something like them to his soul! Perhaps he is meeting them now. He feared them so, when he drank.""Listen," said Romney. "He has done no great harm. The desert is too much for many men. He did the best he could. The desert was too hard for him. I think he has taken up already the old good that you knew, the good that you came out here to find in him.""Oh, do you think that?" she whispered. "Or do you just say that for me? Tell me, if you really think that."7Anna Erivan had arisen. She moved about her work in the house, accepting the fresh ordeal, as one accustomed to darkness and difficulty. Romney, in the afternoon, saw the sudden triumph of her will after hours of utter prostration, an almost irresistible force of spirit. Bamban had done all that mortal yellow man could do. The day had been very still and hot; the town had shown an unreasoning curiosity. In the lull of evening they were very weary. The tea-table was drawn near the open door by the court. Shadows moved softly between them."To-morrow you must go on your journey," she said.Coldness and premonition came to the American. He had met her will before. This from her was a sort of "I have spoken." He seemed to recognise it in the silence as an old familiar. She had strength, an integrity terribly-earned and delivered in fulness and order. It was something hers so absolutely that even her lover could not impinge upon it. Perhaps it was the sacred thing about her; the essence of a character, rapidly unfolding to him in the twenty-four hours; a character that would meet all crises and that had formed itself by ancient acquaintance with grief.... In the stress of the moment, Romney tried to evade the issue, but realised the futility of that. His own volition was upstanding. Very rarely in his life had he felt its power as now. It was without variableness, too. There was no shadow of turning in his heart."I cannot leave you," he said.She was very quiet. "I was weak this morning. It was so wonderful for you to come. When I think of your coming just at this time, I am in awe before life—the deepness and strangeness of life. We knew each other; we did not need words. I haunted and tempted you this morning. You were strong; you would have ridden away. I caught at your foot quite as a woman does. I asked you twice a question designed to make you linger. And I knew the answer before the question. I knew that you could not tell me, without showing how hard it was for you to go; that you had not trusted yourself to tell me. I knew it all. I loved your courage. I should have let you go. That was my failing—""You would have been here alone to-day, had I gone. You would have opened the door to the forward room and there would have been none to stand behind you—""Yes," she whispered.They were silent. She looked out apprehensively at the creeping darkness."But that is past. Perhaps I was meant to have help this one day, but I cannot take more time from your journey. I think I must have kept some one from his quest—some time. I must have learned some terrible lesson that way, for it is so close to me! The price one pays, for keeping a man from his quest! It is untellable. You must not think of me. You must not think of staying with me now. When you have finished your mission, then you may come—quickly.""I cannot leave you," he said."Don't say that again. That hurts me. I can never have a sense of innocence for my weakness this morning if you hold to that. Won't you give it back to me?""Do you think I would leave you here alone—a white woman in this place, to arrange your own journey of so many days to Europe, to pass the nights alone here, till you are ready, to start all alone?""I should not leave here for a journey to Europe till I am relieved. There should be a Russian to attend to all the papers here. The little but imperative work day by day—I have done most of that heretofore. There is no one but me to do it now.... I shall be safe enough here. At most, my part is a little thing. My fears at night-fall—they are not to be considered now. You are the one to be considered. Do you think I have failed to comprehend the significance of your mission?"He followed her eyes into the darkness, thick upon the little court."It is not only that," he said. "You have comprehended everything. You always know before I finish a sentence. I could be with you years and never explain a meaning.... My mission does not call me to-night. If I were to go, I should never be able to see past your face, your frightened face, the face of you here alone at night-fall. I think I was guided here to be with you through these hard days. Many have said, 'Put love away,' but the greatest have said, 'Give all to love!'"The night seemed heavy upon her; her words came from the heart of it:"Can it be that you would lower the meaning of the great ones who say, 'Give all to love'? I'm afraid they do not mean the love of man and woman. Give all to the loveof the world. Give all to the love of the weak and the little ones—that is the meaning of the great ones. No one knows that better than you. This is the place of meetings and partings. You know that. Was there ever a lingering together of lovers here that was proof againstennui, against satiety? It is only the weak who linger, who make their beds at the meeting-places. The great ones go on."She had arisen. She was farther from him, but higher to his eyes.... And just then there came from out the darkness of the desert, a horrid puking laugh—like a jangling of stones in a thick glass bottle. It had nothing to do with distance. From near or far it reached them, and seemed to linger in the room like an evil odour.It broke the woman for the moment. She caught him in her arms and cried out words that were like a command:"... You cannot, you must not leave me now!"8It was not capitulation. The clinging of Anna Erivan was but momentary. Though they had already talked together almost from the first as if the relation of man and woman were old and established, nothing of the exterior obstacles had been removed. In each of the three days that followed, Anna Erivan asked him in a different way to continue his journey. He refused. They spoke little otherwise. There were occasional passages of kindness between them, when they seemed to touch the great yearning of heart for heart, but their emotions were not brought to words. Toward evening they would draw together a little, but separate early to their rooms. The second night, soon after he had entered his room, the laugh of the hyenas came again from the desert. He went to the living-room, and stood near her door.He saw the knob turn from within—knew she was pressing against it—but the laugh was not repeated. She mastered her terror.... These nights were hard for him, for he slept little; and the days were hard. Though he was near her, the woman was very far away. He had the sense of carrying a broken courage; that he was a weakling remaining in camp with the women, while the warriors went forth for the hunt. He missed nothing of the pull of the task, but the holding of the woman was greater.His will did not change. Nadiram was all that was sinister and detestable. He could not leave her there alone. Sometimes he yearned for the mission, the perils of it, subtle and open, the worst that it could bring in exposure and famine and fear. Her presence haunted him with every beauty and mystery. He found himself dwelling for many rapt moments on the scenes of their meeting—the first night and morning. Sometimes he felt that this was only a door that was shut between them; that all the love was there, waiting for one will to break. Sometimes again he was in the utter darkness that came from the conviction that he had forfeited everything by remaining. In the main, she gave no sign.It was a very still place in his life. He had no thought of food, though to pass the time he explored the town to purchase little delicacies for the table and comforts for the house. He did not go near the Rest House. In the sight of the resting camels was something both indolent and insolent. Bamban was ever within call—apparently true and uncritical, though sometimes Romney fancied a reproach. The forward room where the brother had lain, was opened and clear. The few callers were received there, the woman attending.Romney ate little or nothing. He thought he would see more clearly, and all his inclinations were against food. On the third day, though she did not speak, he saw that he was making her suffer. The fear came that she might think he was trying for her pity—that nauseated him. He fell to—and perceived her relief."I thought it was a good chance. A man ought to fast occasionally," he explained. "Especially a man who does not work, should not eat.""A woman sees something personal in a man's fasting," she said with a trace of a smile.They laboured again that third night at the old subject—but all had been covered. Their eyes were weary. She would lift her eyes to him, saying that his mission awaited; and he could only reply that he would not leave her.... The fourth night something hard and resolute was in her eyes. He knew that she would speak when the tea was poured. He waited, more afraid than he had ever been before:"Do you know," she said steadily, "it is not just the thing for you to be here with me. I am alone. One does not live alone in a house with a man—"Her finger was tapping the table. She saw that he regarded it and dropped her hand to her knee. It was the hardest moment since their first trial together. It did not seem to belong to her. They had needed no laws. They were human adults. They were a universe apart in the same house. It hurt him to the core—such words from her. Many times of late the sense of his own smallness had come, but he had never fallen so little that he could not ignore a sham of this kind."I did not think of that. We seemed to be under a law of our own—""But the others," she said steadily."You mean Nadiram?""Yes—you see I have the office—""Ah, yes—the office.... I shall go to the Rest House, of course. Shall I go to-night—or to-morrow morning?""To-morrow morning.""Very well."She was whiter than ever. There was no word at all at breakfast. Bamban came for the bags."Please," he said, as he was leaving, "don't fail to use me. We are not enemies. Do you know—it is hard for us to remember—that all there is between us is a difference of opinion—each for the other's good. We cannot go far astray that way. Please use me. The days are so long."Her lips moved. They moved again into a smile. It was one of the bravest smiles."Of course, I shall try to think of something—"That night he came to her court a little before sundown. There was a stone there by the west wall, and he sat and smoked until long after full darkness. As a rule the hyenas were heard early in the evening, when they were near Nadiram. She came to the door several times before dusk, smiled and waved to him. When he turned away in the full night, it was as if there was some part of him that refused to leave; and when he pushed on, straightening his shoulders, this part tore loose from him with numbing pain.Bamban sat on the floor across the room at the Rest House. Bamban's eyes gleamed."Since there are no orders here, and to-morrow is the fifth day, it might be well for the messenger and his servant to push on to Wampli tomorrow.""It might be well," said Romney, "But I don't think I shall be able to clear to-morrow. Your country and your countrymen have taught me how to wait, Bamban.... I recall Tushi-kow when I was very impatient and the delightful Fai Ming would not let us even talk about the matter of our journey for nearly as many days as we have waited here in Nadiram—""Might it not be well for the messenger's servant to travel on to Wampli alone if the interval of waiting is still to be extended, in order to ascertain the orders there, or to be there if orders come?""Would orders be delivered to the messenger's servant?" Romney asked."In case the messenger is unavoidably detained."There was no longer any doubt in the American's mind that Minglapo had given him more than a servant."I may think more about that," said he.But he didn't. He thought about the woman. His faith was shaken now, and his pride was harshly wounded. The devotion he had come to know was a madness and a martyrdom. Compared to it, all the things that men do with their boundaries, ambitions, conspiracies, and sundry national businesses, belonged to a lower dimension of life. He saw all his activities of the past as little and lesser movements. He could not have lived through them had he known how futile they were, how empty his heart was.The great burden now was this meeting of the old world in her heart—her sending him away because they were man and woman alone. Man and woman, as he had thought, in the strangest and deepest moments of their lives. He loved the quest spirit in her eyes; he loved her capacity to sacrifice; he loved her mighty will for him to go and the cry of her most human heart for him to stay in the fright from the hyenas. He loved her now with this taint of the old upon her—that was the torturing truth. But he was disappointed.He had been so far from the truck of convention, that he had neglected to speak of this point first. Had he spoken of it, he would have expected her to deny any cause for his changing from the Consulate to the Rest House in so far as a convention was concerned.... He felt himself in the old madness. These were the days of Hankow again, with all the added forces and energies of his life making hell for him. He was like an engine thrashing itself to pieces with its own power, because she had cut herself from him. He saw ahead a redder rending than he had known before, and which had brought him close to death.He felt at rage with the world; capable even of telling Anna Erivan how vindictive was this hurt for a man who would die for her. But Romney unfrequently spoke in his rage. It came very seldom, and he had made it a law to laugh and speak of other things until it passed."Bamban," he said, "you Chinese men do not consider a woman.""Ah, yes," said the wise little man."You do not consider the interests of the heart of man or woman comparable to the interests of one's country or business—""We keep them apart.""That does not answer. If one's country or business demand the man, the woman must wait—""Yes."Romney laughed. Bamban waited for him to speak."You keep them behind lattices. You do not give them the breath of life. You feel that they belong to a man's weakness rather than his strength. You do not see that the girl is equal to the boy; that the two are one so far as the future is concerned. You think that all women are wanton, unless they are repressed.""We do not consider that women belong to the larger affairs of man's life," said Bamban.Romney laughed again."That's why as a nation, the Chinese Empire is ninety-seven hundredths putrified," said he.There was not a look in Bamban's clearly-formed face to denote if the depth and delicacy of his regard were shaken."You are the messenger of our country," he said."Hardly that—a messenger of the remaining three per cent," said Romney.
4
There was much to read from the Peking papers, and something was made clear at last regarding the purpose of his travel. His work though political was imposing. It was of China yet above China. Full knowledge of his undertaking was promised at the next point of his journey, Wampli, but Romney had enough now to understand that there was no illusion about the bigness of the thing he was called upon to do. For a time he was lifted a little from the intensity of the present episode—at least, from what the world would have called madness in connection with it.
That was Romney's longest night. When the dawn came in, cold and yellowish gray, he felt that much which had been his the night before, was gone from him. He arose quietly and went forth. The outer room was empty, the house, even the forward room, still. Outside the chill was leaving, a day of bright heat promised. No one was abroad. He located the Rest House with difficulty, and finally touched Bamban's shoulder.
"Find the camel drivers," he said. "Get the party ready as soon as you can. We start for Wampli at once."
Bamban looked up quickly—the nearest thing to a start that his master had ever noted. In ordinary course, there would have been a halt of several days in Nadiram, and even under the pressure of speed, the camels would have been permitted to rest for one day. Moreover, it meant passage alone to Wampli, since the three Tartar merchants were now to continue by a northeastward trail to the Post Road. Romney laughed at his own sensitiveness in feeling so keenly the surprise of the little man. He did not hasten back to the Consulate, yet it was impossible to loiter. Turning into the gate of the court he saw a movement of the woman within. It was very early. The feeding and saddling of the camels and the procuring of stores would require at least an hour.... Anna Erivan came to the door. He saw something of her morning joyousness fade as she glanced into his face. This numbed him further.
"How early you rise," she said. "I heard your step and made haste to join you, but you had gone.... You have been gone a long time. The tea is ready."
"Thanks," he said briefly.
There was no sound from the forward room. She stood behind his chair waiting for him to be seated. He glanced at her. There was a hard thing in his breast; it seemed as if his breath did not go lower than his throat. He sat down to the table. The woman brought a covered dish hot from the fire, placed it before him and poured tea. She cleared her voice before speaking:
"Did you rest?"
Something gray had come into her face.
"No. Did you?"
She winced. Yet there had been something in her mind to say. She let it forth, but the gladness was gone.
"It was as we said last night—a strange and sweet kind of rest at first. I went to sleep like a little child—drifting away so pleasantly. But it didn't last. Something awoke me—some change. I could not have slept an hour. Since then, I have been waiting for the day."
They were like two melancholy strangers meeting on a strange road, each having lost his way, debating vaguely.
She ate nothing. Just as he was about to remind her, she suggested to him that he try the contents of the dish before him. He put the spoon into it and discovered that he was forced to follow each movement with his mind lest his hand stop; that he must give separate thought to each gesture, the placing of food upon her plate and upon his own, then a thought for each morsel that he lifted—a thought even to taste it. If he did not keep up the thinking, movement stopped altogether. His eyes were called to her face. The gray widened there, her eyes very large.
He heard Bamban bring in the camels to the court at last. The voice of the driver with him was like a voice from the pit. Anna Erivan cleared her throat:
"Are you going at once?"
"Yes."
"But my brother.... You see, I did not call him because every moment of sleep helps him—like this. I shall get him—"
Her dismay was rending to him.
"Don't trouble. What I had to say isn't vital. It will hold until I come back from Wampli if—"
Her throat was like a flower. This that she wore at the throat was black. He could see her hand clearly and her throat. Above was enveloped in the pervading grayness, all but the eyes. Always as the face cleared, the low voice of Bamban, or the voice of that camel-driver from the pit, blurred it. Again Romney began to think of the food, morsel by morsel. One spoonful remained on his plate. It seemed as if he could never come to the end. And now he saw the tea. He drank it eagerly. That seemed to help her, too, as if something of life had come into the room—something human and grippable. She took his cup and thankfully refilled it. He drank this more slowly, because it had not cooled.
In the open door was sunlight. It was not like the sun of yesterday, yet it was sunshine. This brought him a swift picture of the day's journey, a long and full day's passage, then nightfall. Every league, every mile, every camel-pace would take him farther away from this room.... He heard her voice.
"What did you say?" he asked.
"I said your face looked gray," she answered.
The horror of the journey held his mind again, twelve hours in swift passage, and two more like it to Wampli—every camel-pace away from this room.
She cleared her voice. He turned to her.
"Your camels should have rested."
"They are good," he said.
And now he was debating if there remained strength enough for him to rise and depart. All he could say was good-bye and the lie about Wampli, that he would come again. He was not sure of his limbs. He was very tired and her hands were so near—just across the little board. His eyes lifted from them to her throat, and he felt the burn of her eyes, without really looking higher. Back to her hands again. They were never still—lovely quick hands, waiting now to fill his cup.
A queer thought came to him—that he should some time bring her a yellow rose, and she would hold it in the arch of her hand, her thumb beneath.... He arose. He could stand. He turned from her to locate the door, so that he would make no mistake after he spoke. He did not know what he said—some huddled, unintelligible phrase. All that he knew well was that he took her hand, that he had to leave it almost instantly or fail, since a mist came over him—even over the single madness that he held to. It was madness to leave her, yet it was the one strong prevailing thing.
His feet stumbled on the way to the door. In the bright light of the court, his camel was already kneeling. Bamban stood there ready to take his ankle. He reached the seat. The camel arose.... Voices of the pit in his ears, and now he saw her there below. She had come forth into the light. Her face was clear. He saw her hand below on the leather near his foot, her lips forming to speak. He bent to them.
"Why don't youtellme?" she said softly.
Romney brushed his hand across his eyes and bent again.
"What did you say?" he asked.
"Why don't you tell me?" she repeated.
Romney glanced about till he found Bamban.
"Tell the driver to bring this camel down," he said.
The beast knelt obediently.
Romney stood before her in the court. He brushed his hand across his eyes again, then turned to Bamban:
"Tell the drivers to put the beasts away. It's a long journey and they had better rest for to-day."
"What have I done?" she asked. "I would not delay you. Oh, no, I would not hold any one from his journey—"
"Don't make it harder," he said abruptly. "Let us go in."
"But—nothing but misery comes to a woman for holding a man from his journey."
"How do you know that?" he asked hoarsely.
5
The second camel sprawled out of the court. He looked elongated like a dog that stretches as he walks. The man and the woman went in and took their former places at the table. It did not occur to them to move the chairs.
"I had been thinking only of myself," he said at last.
She smiled faintly, as if she had met that from men for ages and ages. Then the gray cold came again to her face.
"It's a fact," he repeated, "I was thinking only of myself—I didn't know I was like that."
"It has always been man's way to forget woman's part in a crisis—and woman's to turn to man. You don't know me at all."
"But I do know you," he said. "You must have seen that. In fact, never before did I know so much from a first meeting—"
"But man always believes that a woman is at war with his work. I have always said that I should not care to be the rival of a man's work."
"And yet, you said—'Why don't you tell me?' ... Anna Erivan, I shall always hear that question. I am going to tell you."
She did not help him to begin. There was a kind of core of silence from the forward room, which was as distracting as the sound of breathing had been. He had to organise himself repeatedly.
"... I was sent out here because I hadfancy."
He laughed a little harshly. "Because you have that you will understand. I have been forwarded from Peking somewhat like a valuable package. My next point is Wampli, as you know. I had looked forward to the real desert from this point. It would have been desert right enough had I gone on this morning."
Her eyes gleamed at him.
"I can't tell you all—not even all I know—I pick up my orders on the way; but this much I can tell you, and it mainly became known to me from papers read only last night, for they were not to be opened until I reached Nadiram—"
He told her hastily, something of the world-crisis, of the parties of China, of the Japanese danger, and of the big dream of the truly great men of the Empire, and something of his own relation with Nifton Bend, Minglapo and Ti Kung.
"This new party in China is not great enough to have a large following," he said, "and yet, though there are some things about it that trouble, possibly because I am a bit of an Occidental still, it seems to me that the power and the vision of the men I have met in it must become a terrific constructive force in the future of Asia and the world. You see Japan threatens to become a Japanese Asia, if it is not met with vision and force. The two older Chinese parties have neither. At the heart of any Empire is its religion, and it happens that the centre of the religion of the Chinese Empire is yonder in this desert—the Inner Temple, even the great Lohan himself—"
"You are sent to that Inner Temple?" she asked breathlessly.
"Yes."
"To bring forth a sign for the people of Young China?"
"Come to think of it—it is something like that."
"And you let me delay you this morning?"
"I had not thought of it as a bringing forth a sign," he mused, watching her, "but that is really what it amounts to. If the new social order in China is recognised by the Inner Temple; if its dream of progress and power is found to be a true dream by the Holy Men of the Inner Temple—don't you see, the support of all the people touched by this religion will be turned from the old to the new?"
"They chose a white man, an American, for this mission—and I am delaying him?"
Still Romney evaded the issue.
"I always thought it queer that they chose me," he said. "These Holy Men are free from racial prejudice. They are said to be super-national. Our leaders in Peking felt that if they sent a Chinese, the Holy Men might see in him one nation's ambition, but if they chose an Occidental who was called to the struggle of New China because he had found it the purest dream for all Asia; one also who could place before the wise men the position relatively of other nations—"
"What an equipment!"
"I'm afraid it sounds more than it is," he said hastily. "You see they did not have many foreign adherents to choose from. Nifton Bend would have accomplished the mission far more wisely than I, but he is the Centre—needed every hour in Peking."
"I'm afraid you can't make me see anything insignificant now—about your being here. They thought you pure enough—real priest enough—to enter the Inner Temple and bring forth a sign to the many. You know the many always demand a sign. They did in Judea—"
He did not look above her hands. They were tightly shut.
"I asked you last night—if you ever had any sense about the Gobi, other than that of its terror and menace," he said, in an effort that he knew was vain to lift her from her part in keeping him from the journey. "The Chinese believe that the heart of the desert is a spirit-haunted land; that the Inner Pavilion holds all the ancient writings, all the seeds of wisdom and magic out of the past, the essence of truths gathered by forgotten civilisations.
"In fact, the myths and legends which surround this country make the stories of Peru and Central America seem paltry and commonplace. There are forests, it is said, in which no white man has penetrated, buried gold and statuary and all that—" Romney smiled.
"You do not need to be afraid of me," she whispered. "I love to believe such things."
"Ten years away from America—perhaps I am too ready to believe," Romney finished. "Anyway the Chinese leaders say there are wise men, whom the world never hears of as persons, doing the great constructive tasks behind the scenes, and that the central pavilion of these wise men is in the heart of the Gobi, and not in Thibet.... But all these things belonged to yesterday. I know now that there are meeting-places in a man's life, and that in the hours of meeting he cannot reckon even with missions of mercy.... This—last night—here in the court—has taken me almost like death takes a man—as the cups have taken him in there—something resistless—"
He saw one hand leave the table between them. It was held out to him, palm outward, as if trying to stop his words. Her eyes were wide with terror.... Now a change came. She turned to the forward room, listening.
"Hush," she whispered.
Strangeness was all about them. Romney came down from his story, with the sense that he had not done well. The silence crowded in again, as if from the desert.
"Perhaps he is awake," she said quietly. "Go on."
"That's all. I learned a great deal last night."
"You say that a day or two would make no difference, and yet this morning you were up very early. You ordered the camels—"
"I thought only of myself."
"You thought it would be easier to go to-day—though the camels needed rest—"
"I could not hold it in the night that the meeting meant anything to you."
"You were out on the quest and I appeared in the way—" she smiled and added, "a dragon to be overcome."
"I have not imagination enough to make you that—"
"A dragon to test the courage of the quester. A man must never forget his mission—must remember first of all the little ones, the many little ones, who require a sign."
In spite of the tearing-down, it was a pinnacle moment to Romney. She was lovely as he had not seen her before. Her swift and absolute understanding liberated his whole nature upon her. Had she chosen to captivate him, there could not have been conceived a more perfect design. Had she met him level-eyed, weakness for weakness, it would have sounded, temporarily, at least, the knell for his infatuation. Had she clung or pressed him to linger, it would have become a mere episode.
He arose, his lips smiling, his eyes burning with tributes to her—moved about the table, placed his hands upon her shoulders and bent his lips to hers.
"Won't you come with me?" he whispered.... "We will go to the Temple together. We will bring forth a sign to the people."
... Her fingers closed gently upon his wrists, lifting his hands outward from her shoulders and letting them fall. Then she arose and looked at him tenderly.
"You are dear—I think you could not be so dear if you were not bewildered. These meetings are wonderful, but don't you see—that you are dreaming? Don't you see that a man must travel alone on his quest? It's like the old stories—he must slay the dragon that stands between. A man does not take a woman to the Inner Temple. A man who passes the threshold of the Inner Temple cannot have a woman in his eyes or heart. They would say, 'Why, this is a mere mortal. He cannot enter here.' Do you not see, do you not see?"
"Anna Erivan."
She smiled and put down his hands that lifted to her.
"You are the quest," he said intensely. "It was our meeting. The Gobi—why, it was but a means of bringing me to you. Last night, as I stood in the court, I knew that. Today, when in a sentence you made all the meanings of my life clear, taking up my story and completing it briefly—today, just now, I saw that I could never look beyond you—"
"Don't say that. I should not have let you say that. We are asked to renounce nothing that lasts. You must not fail through me. This is not a good beginning for our story. You know this. You are only bewildered."
Romney began to understand her strength. She had risen above him. Her vision was clearer. In getting down from the camel he had become altogether human. The fury of his ardour was for the woman. Because he was moved with desire, he was not at his best. He took her in his arms, the tempest of emotions blinding him....
Women with a touch of the savage left in them, may be captured with strength, but he had given her a dream of greater days than these.
She did not resist, but the wonder of their first kiss did not come again. Instead, through his mind, crippling his arms, flashed the picture of his own red passion—and that in his arms chilled him to the heart. Utterly passive, she had allowed him to wound himself in a way that would never be forgotten.
He felt suddenly small and altered before her. He drew back, lowering his eyes from her face, his hand reaching behind him until he found the arm of his chair. He sat down, covering his face.
Presently she came and touched his hands, whispering:
"Do not grieve—I was thinking of something. Do not grieve. I do not care for you less. A woman loves the boy—the boy-tumult in a man—"
"You were in my arms—and yet I was alone," he said strangely. "I never knew such a sudden loneliness—all that I had for you—flung back to me—"
"I would not have hurt you so. But suddenly as you held me—I thought of the many little ones waiting for a sign—"
He was still shocked at the lifelessness which had confronted his passion. The shame of his untimely bestowal did not pass.
His life had seemed full of perfect gifts for her, and a sudden desire had blinded him, bringing down upon his head a rebuke more magic than any blow.
"You have made me afraid," he said dully. "It could never happen again. I could not go to you so again—unless you held out your arms—"
"After you have entered the Inner Temple," she whispered.
The seven words numbered and registered themselves in his consciousness. He looked up at her and there was something endless in her beauty.
"You must not be hurt," she said tenderly. "It is the man in you that is wounded. You must know that you cannot really be wounded, unless I am wounded, too—and oh, a woman is not wounded by loving, by passion—that's why we are women. It was only the others I thought of. Believe me, all is well—"
"Would you have me go to-day—now—into the desert?" he asked.
"Wait," she answered. "I do not hear him. It would seem that he would be about—now that we hear him no longer—"
6
Romney arose, but did not follow her to the door. He watched her as she opened it, a breeze seeming to take it from her hands. He saw her hands lift quietly, tighten and press across her lips. She seemed to become less in height. She ran to him, and for the briefest instant touched her forehead to his breast—the queerest murmuring little cry from her throat. Something of the picture in the other room had come to him from her mind. They did not speak. He did not draw her closely, merely sustained her.
Romney saw it on the floor, the face flattened against the stone, the arms out. His hand went out to her and pressed upon her breast to keep the shock from rending her—as if she were carrying a child. The look of her face frightened him so that he drew her away; yet all the time he had the sense that the tragedy had somehow set them free.
"You will let me take care of him—come," he whispered.
She followed, obediently. He did not know the way to her room, but took her to the one he had used, pressed her to lie down. She covered her face in the pillow where he had lain. Romney feared she was not breathing and turned her face outward. There he knelt a moment. Her eyes were open, but did not seem to hold him. Moments passed and then he heard her words:
"You said you would go to him."
"Yes, but I thought you needed me more, just now," he said.
"You said you would go to him."
Romney left her.
The Russian's body was heavy and still hot. The silence of it was almost unbelievable, with the great damp chest still radiating heat. The weight was dead, but disgustingly soft. The American had a fear, with the feet dragging across the floor, that the body might break and cover the stones. He laid it upon the couch and listened again for the heart. It was still, as if pinned to the walls of the chest. Romney wiped his brow and found that there was a door into the street. He went forth quickly.
Bamban, so constantly in evidence, was queerly enough not so easy to find this time. He had to go to the Rest House and ask questions. At last he could not go further, but bid them to send his servant to him and hastened back. The face of Anna Erivan, as she had looked into the open door, was still held in his mind. Bamban was running behind him before he reached the Consulate. He understood quickly and took charge of affairs in the Forward Room....
She had not stirred. Romney shut the door and knelt beside her again. It was a moment before she realised his nearness.
"Did you go to him?" she asked.
"Yes."
"He is dead?"
"Yes. Everything is being done for him.... Anna Erivan, if I could only do everything for you! I suffer for your suffering. I feel it all—"
Her hand came out and touched his cheek, her eyelids closed.
"Dearest stranger," she whispered.... A moment later she repeated with a smile, "Stranger."
Her face changed. The unspeakable thing to Romney was that part of the smile lingered, though her eyes opened and white rays of purest horror shone in them. Her lips parted, the smile holding to them, as something holds to life, her fingers plucking his cheek.
"To-night—don't go away from me to-night! I will hear them. They always come when any one dies. I knew they would come for him, that he would die or go mad, and they would come.
"They are out in the rocks and sand, they come closer where death is.... And he was good as a boy; a good brother. I came to him and he was changed. I knew he would never go back. When I heard them the first time and saw how they affected him, I knew they would come for him."
Romney crushed her leaping fingers in his hand.
"Listen," he said sharply. "Tell me what you mean."
"Oh, have you not heard them laughing and sobbing at night?"
"The hyenas—"
She shuddered full length, hiding her face in his arms.
"I could not have spoken the word," she cried.
He repeated, "I shall be with you, I shall be with you—"
"They always come to the lonely," she whispered. "They would have come last night, only you were here. No one will ever know what they bring to me. They are the spirits of the waste-places. They are the darkness that moves around the night-fires. Where there is death, they come in. They cry so—where there is death. They know. They are living death. They are the spirit of the Gobi—"
"No," he said. "They are just fright-things, the saddest of all beasts, mere cowardly night-roamers. It is only human nerves that make them terrible. You and I, alone and well, could laugh at them, as at coyotes and jackals."
"You are but saying that. Have you seen them when the moon-light is upon the sand and rocks? They have passed death. They are going the other way. The yellow men understand, but they bring madness to those who are white. Have you heard that it is not food they want from a corpse? Have you heard that?"
"It is food that they want," he said softly. "I have seen that. Please don't think of them. I will be here—"
"Always when he drank, I seemed to see them around him. When he shut himself in there, I could hear them. Do you know what frightens me? It is not the poor body that they will find in the desert. They always find the bodies. One cannot dig so deep, or cover so heavily with stones, but they will find them. It is not that. I think the drink has brought something like them to his soul! Perhaps he is meeting them now. He feared them so, when he drank."
"Listen," said Romney. "He has done no great harm. The desert is too much for many men. He did the best he could. The desert was too hard for him. I think he has taken up already the old good that you knew, the good that you came out here to find in him."
"Oh, do you think that?" she whispered. "Or do you just say that for me? Tell me, if you really think that."
7
Anna Erivan had arisen. She moved about her work in the house, accepting the fresh ordeal, as one accustomed to darkness and difficulty. Romney, in the afternoon, saw the sudden triumph of her will after hours of utter prostration, an almost irresistible force of spirit. Bamban had done all that mortal yellow man could do. The day had been very still and hot; the town had shown an unreasoning curiosity. In the lull of evening they were very weary. The tea-table was drawn near the open door by the court. Shadows moved softly between them.
"To-morrow you must go on your journey," she said.
Coldness and premonition came to the American. He had met her will before. This from her was a sort of "I have spoken." He seemed to recognise it in the silence as an old familiar. She had strength, an integrity terribly-earned and delivered in fulness and order. It was something hers so absolutely that even her lover could not impinge upon it. Perhaps it was the sacred thing about her; the essence of a character, rapidly unfolding to him in the twenty-four hours; a character that would meet all crises and that had formed itself by ancient acquaintance with grief.... In the stress of the moment, Romney tried to evade the issue, but realised the futility of that. His own volition was upstanding. Very rarely in his life had he felt its power as now. It was without variableness, too. There was no shadow of turning in his heart.
"I cannot leave you," he said.
She was very quiet. "I was weak this morning. It was so wonderful for you to come. When I think of your coming just at this time, I am in awe before life—the deepness and strangeness of life. We knew each other; we did not need words. I haunted and tempted you this morning. You were strong; you would have ridden away. I caught at your foot quite as a woman does. I asked you twice a question designed to make you linger. And I knew the answer before the question. I knew that you could not tell me, without showing how hard it was for you to go; that you had not trusted yourself to tell me. I knew it all. I loved your courage. I should have let you go. That was my failing—"
"You would have been here alone to-day, had I gone. You would have opened the door to the forward room and there would have been none to stand behind you—"
"Yes," she whispered.
They were silent. She looked out apprehensively at the creeping darkness.
"But that is past. Perhaps I was meant to have help this one day, but I cannot take more time from your journey. I think I must have kept some one from his quest—some time. I must have learned some terrible lesson that way, for it is so close to me! The price one pays, for keeping a man from his quest! It is untellable. You must not think of me. You must not think of staying with me now. When you have finished your mission, then you may come—quickly."
"I cannot leave you," he said.
"Don't say that again. That hurts me. I can never have a sense of innocence for my weakness this morning if you hold to that. Won't you give it back to me?"
"Do you think I would leave you here alone—a white woman in this place, to arrange your own journey of so many days to Europe, to pass the nights alone here, till you are ready, to start all alone?"
"I should not leave here for a journey to Europe till I am relieved. There should be a Russian to attend to all the papers here. The little but imperative work day by day—I have done most of that heretofore. There is no one but me to do it now.... I shall be safe enough here. At most, my part is a little thing. My fears at night-fall—they are not to be considered now. You are the one to be considered. Do you think I have failed to comprehend the significance of your mission?"
He followed her eyes into the darkness, thick upon the little court.
"It is not only that," he said. "You have comprehended everything. You always know before I finish a sentence. I could be with you years and never explain a meaning.... My mission does not call me to-night. If I were to go, I should never be able to see past your face, your frightened face, the face of you here alone at night-fall. I think I was guided here to be with you through these hard days. Many have said, 'Put love away,' but the greatest have said, 'Give all to love!'"
The night seemed heavy upon her; her words came from the heart of it:
"Can it be that you would lower the meaning of the great ones who say, 'Give all to love'? I'm afraid they do not mean the love of man and woman. Give all to the loveof the world. Give all to the love of the weak and the little ones—that is the meaning of the great ones. No one knows that better than you. This is the place of meetings and partings. You know that. Was there ever a lingering together of lovers here that was proof againstennui, against satiety? It is only the weak who linger, who make their beds at the meeting-places. The great ones go on."
She had arisen. She was farther from him, but higher to his eyes.... And just then there came from out the darkness of the desert, a horrid puking laugh—like a jangling of stones in a thick glass bottle. It had nothing to do with distance. From near or far it reached them, and seemed to linger in the room like an evil odour.
It broke the woman for the moment. She caught him in her arms and cried out words that were like a command:
"... You cannot, you must not leave me now!"
8
It was not capitulation. The clinging of Anna Erivan was but momentary. Though they had already talked together almost from the first as if the relation of man and woman were old and established, nothing of the exterior obstacles had been removed. In each of the three days that followed, Anna Erivan asked him in a different way to continue his journey. He refused. They spoke little otherwise. There were occasional passages of kindness between them, when they seemed to touch the great yearning of heart for heart, but their emotions were not brought to words. Toward evening they would draw together a little, but separate early to their rooms. The second night, soon after he had entered his room, the laugh of the hyenas came again from the desert. He went to the living-room, and stood near her door.
He saw the knob turn from within—knew she was pressing against it—but the laugh was not repeated. She mastered her terror.... These nights were hard for him, for he slept little; and the days were hard. Though he was near her, the woman was very far away. He had the sense of carrying a broken courage; that he was a weakling remaining in camp with the women, while the warriors went forth for the hunt. He missed nothing of the pull of the task, but the holding of the woman was greater.
His will did not change. Nadiram was all that was sinister and detestable. He could not leave her there alone. Sometimes he yearned for the mission, the perils of it, subtle and open, the worst that it could bring in exposure and famine and fear. Her presence haunted him with every beauty and mystery. He found himself dwelling for many rapt moments on the scenes of their meeting—the first night and morning. Sometimes he felt that this was only a door that was shut between them; that all the love was there, waiting for one will to break. Sometimes again he was in the utter darkness that came from the conviction that he had forfeited everything by remaining. In the main, she gave no sign.
It was a very still place in his life. He had no thought of food, though to pass the time he explored the town to purchase little delicacies for the table and comforts for the house. He did not go near the Rest House. In the sight of the resting camels was something both indolent and insolent. Bamban was ever within call—apparently true and uncritical, though sometimes Romney fancied a reproach. The forward room where the brother had lain, was opened and clear. The few callers were received there, the woman attending.
Romney ate little or nothing. He thought he would see more clearly, and all his inclinations were against food. On the third day, though she did not speak, he saw that he was making her suffer. The fear came that she might think he was trying for her pity—that nauseated him. He fell to—and perceived her relief.
"I thought it was a good chance. A man ought to fast occasionally," he explained. "Especially a man who does not work, should not eat."
"A woman sees something personal in a man's fasting," she said with a trace of a smile.
They laboured again that third night at the old subject—but all had been covered. Their eyes were weary. She would lift her eyes to him, saying that his mission awaited; and he could only reply that he would not leave her.... The fourth night something hard and resolute was in her eyes. He knew that she would speak when the tea was poured. He waited, more afraid than he had ever been before:
"Do you know," she said steadily, "it is not just the thing for you to be here with me. I am alone. One does not live alone in a house with a man—"
Her finger was tapping the table. She saw that he regarded it and dropped her hand to her knee. It was the hardest moment since their first trial together. It did not seem to belong to her. They had needed no laws. They were human adults. They were a universe apart in the same house. It hurt him to the core—such words from her. Many times of late the sense of his own smallness had come, but he had never fallen so little that he could not ignore a sham of this kind.
"I did not think of that. We seemed to be under a law of our own—"
"But the others," she said steadily.
"You mean Nadiram?"
"Yes—you see I have the office—"
"Ah, yes—the office.... I shall go to the Rest House, of course. Shall I go to-night—or to-morrow morning?"
"To-morrow morning."
"Very well."
She was whiter than ever. There was no word at all at breakfast. Bamban came for the bags.
"Please," he said, as he was leaving, "don't fail to use me. We are not enemies. Do you know—it is hard for us to remember—that all there is between us is a difference of opinion—each for the other's good. We cannot go far astray that way. Please use me. The days are so long."
Her lips moved. They moved again into a smile. It was one of the bravest smiles.
"Of course, I shall try to think of something—"
That night he came to her court a little before sundown. There was a stone there by the west wall, and he sat and smoked until long after full darkness. As a rule the hyenas were heard early in the evening, when they were near Nadiram. She came to the door several times before dusk, smiled and waved to him. When he turned away in the full night, it was as if there was some part of him that refused to leave; and when he pushed on, straightening his shoulders, this part tore loose from him with numbing pain.
Bamban sat on the floor across the room at the Rest House. Bamban's eyes gleamed.
"Since there are no orders here, and to-morrow is the fifth day, it might be well for the messenger and his servant to push on to Wampli tomorrow."
"It might be well," said Romney, "But I don't think I shall be able to clear to-morrow. Your country and your countrymen have taught me how to wait, Bamban.... I recall Tushi-kow when I was very impatient and the delightful Fai Ming would not let us even talk about the matter of our journey for nearly as many days as we have waited here in Nadiram—"
"Might it not be well for the messenger's servant to travel on to Wampli alone if the interval of waiting is still to be extended, in order to ascertain the orders there, or to be there if orders come?"
"Would orders be delivered to the messenger's servant?" Romney asked.
"In case the messenger is unavoidably detained."
There was no longer any doubt in the American's mind that Minglapo had given him more than a servant.
"I may think more about that," said he.
But he didn't. He thought about the woman. His faith was shaken now, and his pride was harshly wounded. The devotion he had come to know was a madness and a martyrdom. Compared to it, all the things that men do with their boundaries, ambitions, conspiracies, and sundry national businesses, belonged to a lower dimension of life. He saw all his activities of the past as little and lesser movements. He could not have lived through them had he known how futile they were, how empty his heart was.
The great burden now was this meeting of the old world in her heart—her sending him away because they were man and woman alone. Man and woman, as he had thought, in the strangest and deepest moments of their lives. He loved the quest spirit in her eyes; he loved her capacity to sacrifice; he loved her mighty will for him to go and the cry of her most human heart for him to stay in the fright from the hyenas. He loved her now with this taint of the old upon her—that was the torturing truth. But he was disappointed.
He had been so far from the truck of convention, that he had neglected to speak of this point first. Had he spoken of it, he would have expected her to deny any cause for his changing from the Consulate to the Rest House in so far as a convention was concerned.... He felt himself in the old madness. These were the days of Hankow again, with all the added forces and energies of his life making hell for him. He was like an engine thrashing itself to pieces with its own power, because she had cut herself from him. He saw ahead a redder rending than he had known before, and which had brought him close to death.
He felt at rage with the world; capable even of telling Anna Erivan how vindictive was this hurt for a man who would die for her. But Romney unfrequently spoke in his rage. It came very seldom, and he had made it a law to laugh and speak of other things until it passed.
"Bamban," he said, "you Chinese men do not consider a woman."
"Ah, yes," said the wise little man.
"You do not consider the interests of the heart of man or woman comparable to the interests of one's country or business—"
"We keep them apart."
"That does not answer. If one's country or business demand the man, the woman must wait—"
"Yes."
Romney laughed. Bamban waited for him to speak.
"You keep them behind lattices. You do not give them the breath of life. You feel that they belong to a man's weakness rather than his strength. You do not see that the girl is equal to the boy; that the two are one so far as the future is concerned. You think that all women are wanton, unless they are repressed."
"We do not consider that women belong to the larger affairs of man's life," said Bamban.
Romney laughed again.
"That's why as a nation, the Chinese Empire is ninety-seven hundredths putrified," said he.
There was not a look in Bamban's clearly-formed face to denote if the depth and delicacy of his regard were shaken.
"You are the messenger of our country," he said.
"Hardly that—a messenger of the remaining three per cent," said Romney.