HSIEN SGAM
Nightfall found the _Manchester's_ prow bearing into a thin mist. The
rain had slackened to a fine diamond-drizzle; lightning no longer wrote
livid ideographs upon the sky, but flashed far away in faded flares.
Trent did not see Dana Charteris at dinner, as he expected. "_Dummkopf
Englischer_"--thus he was catalogued by a German merchant from Celebes
who sat at the same table in the dining-salon and succeeded in drawing
only monosyllables from him. The gentleman from Celebes was hot, damp
and irritable, and he found fuel for his ill-humor in the Englishman who
sat beside him and ate mangosteens with the air of one who liked such
beastly heathen food.
After the meal Trent sought the smoking-room with a volume of lyrics,
much to the disgust of his German dinner-companion, who, in passing,
read, "Poems of Alan Seeger" over his shoulder. But Trent could not fix
his attention upon the reading matter, and he sat with the book in one
hand, a lighted cheroot in the other, and his interest nowhere in
particular. He was suffering the first anaesthetizing effects of a drowsy
boredom.
"... You'll have to go higher than that if you want to see me!" rasped
a voice close by, and there followed a click of chips, a laugh.
Clouds of grayish smoke, fanned into fantastic shapes by electric
punkas, floated on dead atmosphere, personifying the languor that had
suddenly quartered in Trent. A white-clad deck-steward slid through the
vaporous whorls, serving frosty glasses of _arrica_, or whiskey and soda
to those less favorably inclined toward exotic liquors.
"... But surely, my friend, you would resent it if _we_ sent
missionaries to your country," a voice not far behind him was saying; a
quiet voice that separated itself from the drone of conversation, a
voice with a peculiar, alien note that caused Trent to wonder, after he
heard it, why it had not penetrated to him before. "Why, imagine the
indignation of your--what do you call them, New Yorkers?--if Buddhist
priests established a mission in that vast and bewildering city; if they
so presumed as to try to press their creed upon those of another
religion."
Trent was possessed of a desire to turn; he merely sat expelling smoke
from his nostrils, listening without consciousness of eavesdropping.
Another voice, quieter still and more reserved--an American
voice--answered. "The result of such a thing," it said, "would be ...
well, in the first place no Christian would...."
"That is precisely it. Do you wonder, then," resumed the voice with the
alien note, "that we resent the intrusion of missionaries? What does it
matter if Deity is symbolized by Buddah, Mohammed or a Nazarene? God is
one. No, my friend, you cannot convince me that it is better for my
people to substitute your God for theirs. In other relationships they
should be friendly, and they are, but in religion ... a colossal
misunderstanding. My people are declining; soon, as a man of letters
once said, the rust of our departed glory will corrode us and reduce us
to the dust into which our empire has dwindled. Russian wine, Japanese
greed and Western vices--a combination too strong for the slender
potencies of our flesh. On the other hand, you Anglo-Saxons, Celts,
Normans, Huns and Slavs will continue to build your empires; to fight
among yourselves (there will be no war between East and West); to go
forward in science and invention.... Yes, I am returning home."
The American voice asked a question. A laugh, selvaged with irony,
answered it, and--
"No, I shall not attempt to 'enlighten' my people. I have studied in
your universities, dipped into your learning; now, true to the blood, I
go back. Perhaps, were you to see me in a few months, you would be
shocked, for I shall be a 'barbarian'.... What? Satisfied? Yes, I
believe I will. Your country has its dramas, its libraries--so very
much--yet I could not but feel, when I was there, that the structure of
your land is a--a _Frankenstein_, do you call it?--of self-stimulated
delight, something soulless. Millions worshipping the false gods of
body-pleasure; vassals of the senses, ignoring the fact that there are
hungers above mere flesh-appetite."
The voice fascinated Trent, gave him a picture of deft fingers inlaying
a mosaic; thoughts chosen with care and spoken as though filtered
through many translations before they left the tongue in the integument
of English.
"... I hope I have not offended you," the voice resumed. "I feel no
rancour, you understand, only an ache--a very great ache--over this
colossal misunderstanding.... You must go? Then, good night!"
A chair moved. After a moment a man in somber clerical garb passed and
left the smoking-room. Trent closed his book; placed his burnt-out
cheroot in an ash-bowl; got up. And the quiet voice behind him asked:
"Your pardon. Have you a match?"
Trent turned. Whatever he expected, he was surprised at what he saw. An
Oriental of no common type. He registered an impression of bronze,
almost beautiful, features; a high, Mongoloid skull; dark eyes, veiled
by an impalpable haze of tobacco smoke; moist, sensitive lips, rather
thin and too red. Features that drew and repelled him in the same
instant--face of a Buddha, and eyes.... He groped in an effort to
understand the eyes. The man wore tweeds with the air of one accustomed
to Western clothing, and he had a poise, a finish to the minutest detail
of dress, that, in a yellow man, seems sleek and "dossied" to the eyes
of the Occident.
"Thank you," said the Oriental, as Trent gave him a match.
The Englishman nodded perfunctorily and left the smoking-room, a picture
of the bronze, beautiful face, lighted by the flaring match, engraved
upon his brain.
His curiosity led him to the purser's office where he consulted the
register. His eyes paused as they encountered the name "Dana Charteris";
roved down the list of first-class passengers to a signature that stood
out from the others by its very _bizarrerie_.
"Hsien Sgam," he mused aloud. "Hmm.... Sgam--Sgam.... Mongolian."
And he went to his cabin to fetch a raincoat, still thinking of the
bronze face of Hsien Sgam.
2
Trent twice circled the promenade deck. The faint drizzle had ceased,
but there was a dampness in the mist that moistened his face as with
spray. Yet he could not bring himself to the point of turning in. The
scene exerted an irresistible fascination over him. The spectral pallor
of cabin walls; portholes aglow in the murk; a gentle vibration
underfoot; the _swish-swish_ of the tide against the hull.
On his third round of the ship he paused aft, at a point that yielded a
view of gaping cargo-well and the steerage. He could see the forms of
steerage-passengers--amorphous blurs in the hazy night. A tongue of
yellow lapped out from a bleary deck-lamp and licked across crowded
bodies, groping stanchions and hatches, touching twin ventilators that
reared up, like phantom cobras, out of the jungle of human beings. Some
one was piping on a reed flageolet--an eerie, tuneless wailing. He
almost imagined the pink turban of Tambusami among the spot-like
head-dresses below.
As he passed the wireless-house, at a turn of the promenade-deck, he
caught a glimpse of green-shaded lights. A breath of tobacco warmly
brushed his face; he heard the crackle of static trickling in.
It was not yet ten-thirty when he went to his cabin. He undressed
leisurely, reflecting the while. Then, lighted pipe between his teeth,
he established himself in his berth with a newspaper. But the restful
churn of the engines had a somnolent effect upon him, and presently he
tossed the news-sheet away, put out the light and settled himself for
sleep.
And did not.
Of late, since the night he found Manlove in the ruined temple at Gaya,
he had formed the habit of reviewing, after retiring, the incidents of
the day. This habit clung. Sleep that a moment ago courted him, now
evaded his advances. A picture of the Mongol created itself in illusive
imagery before him. A woman's mouth--and a woman's hands, for the skin
that touched his as he gave the Oriental a match had the feel of satin.
Long hands, they were; but he fancied that beneath the silken smoothness
was sinuous, fibrous strength. They.... But why in Tophet was he
thinking of this Buddha-faced heathen? He shut his mind. But thoughts
refused to be excluded from their dominion. Nor could he sleep. His
eyelids rebelled against closing, and when now and then he succeeded in
downing their resistance, it was only to have them lift the next instant
and show him the dim monotony of the state-room, relieved by the murky
gray porthole.
And as he stared at the porthole, contemplating it vindictively, as if
it were responsible for his wakefulness, it suddenly darkened.
When he became fully cognizant of the fact that a face was peering in at
him, it had vanished--but as he sat up, his every nerve alive, he
witnessed a second apparition.
The murk outside the porthole gave birth to a hand that sank into the
dim obscurity within, then reappeared, stamped momentarily in relief
upon the gray circle, and withdrew into the foggy gloom that had yielded
it.
Trent sprang from his berth. As his feet touched the floor, he heard a
thudding sound on the deck; a low exclamation; running footsteps. At the
door he fumbled with the lock, then stepped into the cross-corridor
vestibule-way and rushed out upon the deck.
A nearby deck-lamp shone in the mist like a nebula-ringed planet,
shedding paltry light upon moist timbers and begrudgingly revealing a
pale turban as it disappeared around a projection of the deckhouse.
And there was not only one turban, for another followed the first!
Trent threw a glance right and left; broke into a run, his bare feet
padding on the damp planks; paused at the corner of the deckhouse. A few
yards beyond, a companionway spilled a plenitude of light. Voices came
to him above the rumble of the steamer's screws; a woman's laugh. He
stood motionless for a moment, hesitating; then, chagrined, returned to
his cabin and switched on the light.
No recess from intrigue, even on the ship! Mystery ever at his heels.
Was this another demonstration of the power whose hand he felt at
Benares and Calcutta?
He fastened the wingbolts upon the brass-bound port-glass; pulled the
curtain to insure against observation from outside. Not until then did
the glittering object at his feet capture his attention. As he saw it a
charge, as of an electric current, tingled the length of his body. It
seemed unreal, impossible--until he picked it up. The contact assured
him it was no vision, that he held in his hand a coral silver-chased
oval with a broken clasp--the pendant that he had found in Manlove's
dead fingers.
Cold anticipation settled upon him. He inserted a fingernail under the
band that bound the oval; hesitated, stayed by a queer reluctance. He
held what he believed to be a key to the mystery of Manlove's death. A
single move and the name engraved within would be disclosed--the
identity.... But suppose there was no name; suppose--
He pressed under the silver band ... and a knock sounded on the door.
3
Trent did not stir for a space of several seconds. Then, reluctantly, he
placed the pendant under his pillow and opened the door.
A grotesque effigy grinned at him. After an intent scrutiny he
recognized Tambusami--Tambusami, turbanless, blood welling from a cut in
his cheek, but, despite the wound, smiling.
"I have him, Presence!" he announced.
"Who?"
The native looked amazed at what he evidently considered gross
stupidity, and elucidated:
"The he-goat that came to your window! It was he who--"
Trent cut in. "Where is he?"
"There, Presence!"--with an indefinite wave of his hand. "By the
wireless-house!"
"Why didn't you bring him here?"
"He is tied, Presence, to a--what do you call them?"
"Go watch him," Trent rapped. "I'll be there directly."
Trent slipped into trousers and coat and made his way aft, up a flight
of iron stairs, to the turn of the promenade deck. There, in the zone of
greenish light cast from the door of the wireless-house, he beheld a
startling tableau.
Tambusani, in the grip of two white-uniformed men (from the
wireless-house or the deck-watch, Trent surmised), was protesting and
gesticulating excitedly toward a huddled figure by the rail. The latter
was a native, bound to a stanchion with a pink turban-cloth, the end of
which was stuffed into his mouth.
"I can vouch for that man," Trent announced crisply, coming up. "The
other fellow"--pointing at the native by the rail--"is a thief. He tried
to enter my cabin. My servant happened along and followed him up here."
He saw, then, that one of the uniformed men wore chevrons of gold
sparks; the other was a deck-steward. To the latter he spoke first.
"Will you call the captain? I want a word with him.... Thanks." Then to
the wireless-operator: "I'll take charge of this fellow now. And you
might keep this affair quiet."
The operator smiled wisely (he didn't have to see credentials to spot
'em!) and withdrew into the room where the powerful machines buzzed and
crackled.
"Now, you fellow," said Trent, removing the improvised gag from the
"thief's" mouth. "Who put you up to this?"
Sullen eyes glowed. "Yonder devourer of pork lies, Sahib!"--with a
venomous look at Tambusani.
"Son of a dog!" flung back the other. "Mohammedan whelp!"
"Stop it, both of you!" ordered Trent. "Tambusami, what have you to
say?"
One hand pressed to his cheek, Tambusami explained.
"He is a liar and a thief, O Presence. It was he I caught in your room
in Calcutta--who got away from me! I recognized him as he passed me in
the steerage--and I followed. He went to your cabin and--"
Trent broke in, directing a question at the suspected one.
"Do you deny that?"
"I am an honest man, Sahib!"--sullenness giving away to fright. "That
body-louse is a sink of lies!"
Trent pressed on. "Will you tell me who gave you that--? Well, you know
what you dropped in my cabin."
"I am an honest man, Sahib! I was walking along the deck and--"
"Whose servant are you?"
"No man's. My name is Guru Singh. I go to Rangoon to--"
"If you're not a servant, then you had no business out of the steerage.
I'm going to have you put in irons, and when we reach port you'll be
taken up by the police--"
"No, no, Sahib! By Allah, I am an honest man!"
Trent reflected a moment before he spoke again. "You insist, then, that
you didn't drop--something--into my cabin?"
"Yes, Sahib!"
The captain arrived at that juncture, a subordinate at his heels. Trent
explained to him what had happened, adding--a shade too darkly, he
thought--certain words that impressed upon that worthy officer his
authority to conclude with: "And I want him locked up."
The captain gave an order to his subordinate, who hastened away, and
Trent addressed Guru Singh in Hindustani, which he felt certain the
master of the vessel did not understand.
"You would rather be put in irons than tell who your master is?"
"I have no master, Sahib!"
"Very well. We will see how you feel about it to-morrow."
Shortly two men appeared and led the protesting Guru Singh below--but
not before Tambusami had rescued his turban-cloth.
"It is defiled," he said, looking at it regretfully and letting it drop
over the rail.
"Come with me," directed Trent. "I'll take a look at your cut."
It was only a flesh wound Trent ascertained when they were in his
state-room, and after bathing it in a sterilizing solution and binding
it with an adhesive strip, he dismissed Tambusami with a brief
commendation for his prowess.
"It is nothing, O Presence," declared the native, magnanimously. "With a
lord who deals in magic medicines, why should not I watch over him, as a
keeper over his cheetah?"
And the Englishman was not quite certain that Tambusami didn't wink as
he went out.
Subconsciously, Trent had been thinking all the while of the coral
pendant; now it filled his mind. Again he felt the chill anticipation.
His hand shook as he jerked aside the pillow; shook, as he stared in
blank stupefaction.
The oval was not there.
As yet scarcely believing, he stripped back the sheet; turned over the
mattress; searched every crevice of the berth. But the pendant had
disappeared. It rather dazed him. Stolen. Once more a mysterious hand
had reached out and spirited away the oval. One thing it proved: that
there were two elements at work, lurking elements. But how swiftly! He
was gone only a few minutes!... Why in thundering hades hadn't he looked
inside before he went on deck? What a monumental fool!
Which verifies for the millionth time the truth of a certain fable about
an _Equus caballus_ and a stable.
4
The next morning in the dining-salon Trent saw Dana Charteris, merely a
glimpse--a smile and a nod. She was at a table across the room. However,
later, as he was moving toward the purser's office, he came upon her aft
on the promenade deck, elbows upon the rail, eyes upon the steerage. She
turned as his step sounded behind her.
"Isn't it glorious?" was her greeting, motioning toward the sea where
the sun had painted a glittering dragon on the intense blue.
"Quite," he agreed, having forgotten the purser in the eternal wonder
of her eyes. "I hope you weren't ill last night?"
"Not physically. I was doing penance."
"I shouldn't think that would require all evening."
A smile. "Would you like to become father-confessor?"
"Perhaps."
She let her eyes rest upon him in a curious, contemplative look.
"How absolutely British!" she remarked. "An American would have agreed
instantly, but you, being British, only commit yourself half-way."
"Isn't that diplomacy?" he asked, entering into her mood. She was
revealing another side of her nature. Each time he saw her she unfolded
more and bared to his gaze new and stimulating mysteries of her
personality.
"Perhaps. But I sha'n't confess to you now--just for that.... I
understand you didn't have a very quiet night."
The only surprise he betrayed was a tightening of the muscles of the
jaw.
"Really?"
Her smile grew into a laugh. "Show some surprise, Stone-man, instead of
trying to impress me with the fact that you've suddenly acquired an
interest down there"--her white hand flashed toward the steerage.
"You're wondering how I know it, and seething with curiosity. You
wouldn't be human if you weren't."
"I'm not"--forcing a smile. "But if you wish it, then how _do_ you know
it?"
"Well, it's considered excellent marine etiquette to visit the
wireless-house and worry the operator when one is bored--as I happened
to be this morning in the interim between my rising hour and
breakfast--"
"And as feminine charm is an 'Open Sesame' to the secrets of
wireless-operators," Trent finished up, "this particular one told all he
knew."
"Am I to accept that as flattery?"
"Is it?" he countered; then, eager to learn just how much she knew, he
remarked casually: "Thieves are thick as mosquitoes in Asiatic
countries."
"I know," was her unsatisfactory response, and, proof that a woman can
be quite uncommunicative when she wishes, she diverted conversation into
another channel. "I'm afraid, Mr. Tavernake, I've impressed you as
being--well, a foolish flippant child."
His eyes met hers--barely a second.
"Why should you think that?"
She shrugged. "Oh, my endless talk of--of travel."
He took out his pipe, asked permission to smoke; filled the bowl and
lighted it before he quoted:
We are those fools who could not rest
In the dull earth we left behind....
She took him up: "Doesn't it go on with--"
The world where wise men live at ease
Fades from our unregretful eyes,
And blind across uncharted seas
We stagger on our enterprise.
He nodded. While she was speaking he thought of the _andante
appassionato_ comparison. Music always--she was that to him.
"Uncharted seas!" she repeated. "They've always lured me. I felt the
call, but couldn't understand it until I read a tale several years ago.
'The White Waterfall' it was called. It seemed to open magic doors.
After that, 'Treasure Island' again, and 'She.' Stevenson, Kipling,
Conrad and Haggard--they are the masters that taught me the doctrine of
Romance and Adventure. Oh, I've always wanted a crowded
hour--excitement--the sting of winds not in books! I think after one
excursion into the reality I'd be willing to settle back into my
peaceful alcove of imaginings. Then I'd have food for my
fancies--something to remember in the quiet that followed. Don't you
think it would be alluring, in mellower years, to close your eyes and
dream--of wanderings in the 'Caves of Kor'--or the time you spent on a
pirate island?"
"It's youth," he philosophized to himself. "Youth craving the open
spaces; hours of breathless living!"
"It would," he said aloud.
"But perhaps"--her voice sank to a dreamy tempo--"perhaps I'm having my
adventure now."
(And many days passed before he understood what she really meant by
that.)
Below them, in the steerage, a snake-charmer--a villainous-looking
fellow with a scar across one cheek and a drooping eyelid--was making
two cobras ripple to the sounds of a reed flageolet. The eerie,
tuneless wails were reminiscent of the previous night when Trent stood
on the same spot and looked below.
"What would you think, Mr. Tavernake," the girl began, her voice very
solemn, "if you discovered that some one whom you trusted and believed
your friend was secretly striving for the thing you were working for.
Would you call it fair competition?"
He applied a match to his burnt-out pipe, then regarded her--quite as
intently as she regarded him.
"Are you making me father-confessor, after all?"
She laughed, thus ending a very solemn moment.
"Good heavens, no!... But come, shall we take a walk?"
They tramped about the ship for nearly an hour; then he established her
comfortably in a deck-chair and sat down at her side. They talked,
mostly frivolously--conversation that only now and then carried a vein
of seriousness. Not until after tiffin (he sat at her table, for she
quite naively suggested that he have the steward change his seat) did
they part, she for her cabin, he for the purser's office, which place he
suddenly remembered as his goal when he came on deck earlier in the day.
He consulted the passenger-list, lingering over each name in search of
one that might seem likely as that of the person who had directed Guru
Singh's activities. There were thirty-one first-class passengers, the
majority English, with a scattering of Americans; the only Easterns
were, namely, an Indian gentleman (Dr. Dhan Gopal Singh, of Calcutta
University, his signature read), a Japanese and Hsien Sgam. Of the
group only one seemed likely, and he by virtue of his name and
nationality--Dr. Dhan Gopal Singh.
Trent then sought the captain and after a short conversation (during
which he made a request that seemed rather extraordinary to the master
of the _Manchester_) he visited the imprisoned Guru Singh. Abuses,
threats, even promises of clemency, brought forth only: "I am an honest
man, Sahib!"
His next move was to visit the steerage. A naked child with a ring in
its nose begged for a gift; brown bodies lay asleep on mats; the cobras
were still performing for the wicked-looking juggler. Stupid,
unintelligent faces....
On the fore-deck a dark-skinned gentleman in European clothing was
talking with the clergyman to whom the Mongol had expressed his beliefs
the previous night. The former, Trent guessed, was Dr. Dhan Gopal Singh.
One glance eliminated him as a suspect.
5
Toward dusk the captain of the ship approached Trent in his deck-chair.
"One of my men searched the steerage," he said, "and there wasn't a sign
of the ornament you described." Then politely, if not a little
curiously, "Was it of--er--particular value?"
"It had its significance," was Trent's meager reply.
"It's quite distressing, quite, to have thieves aboard. But in these
waters.... Is there anything else I can do for you?"
There wasn't. And Trent went to his cabin to shave.
After dinner he and Dana Charteris walked another mile around the
vessel; stood for some time in the bow, watching the flying-fish skim
the glassy undulations in greenish, phosphorescent flashes; sat in their
deck-chairs in the shadow of a looming cabin (and the spell of low-hung
Oriental stars) and talked of inconsequentials.
For some time after she left, he sat sunken in cavernous absorption. He
was aroused by a voice close by--a quiet familiar voice that asked if it
were not a rare night. He turned to see a tall figure near his chair.
Starlight dwelt on even mobile features, a high forehead, slender hands
and eyes that looked inquisitively into his.
He answered that it was indeed a rare night. Whereupon Hsien Sgam
politely enquired if he might occupy the chair next to Trent's. As he
moved, the Englishman noticed that he slued slightly to the left--saw
the twisted limb. The Mongol lit a cigarette. The flare of the match
brought his face into ruddy prominence. In that brief moment Trent felt
that ancient wickedness, refined to an exquisite degree, looked at him
from beneath the bronze lids; then the match died and Hsien Sgam spoke
in his quiet cultured voice, and Trent realized to what fantastic
borders imagination can extend.
The Oriental asked perfunctorily if Trent intended to remain long in
Rangoon, and ventured that it was a very quaint city; and, quite as
perfunctorily, Trent responded that he wasn't sure how long he'd be in
Rangoon, and that from all he'd heard it must be very quaint.
Conversation threatened to pursue a dull course until Trent opened the
subject of the political situation in Mongolia.
"Ah, Mongolia!" Hsien Sgam drew a deep breath. "It is there as it is
elsewhere in the East. The Holy Lands, as you call them, are
dead--sterile as eunuchs. Ghandi preaches--is _Swaraj_ the word?--in
India; China is locked in inner convulsions; Japan is a dragon with fire
in its nostrils; Korea and Manchuria are but manikins that act as Tokyo
directs; Siam, Indo-China, Malaya and Burma are the only peaceful
spheres, and their people are children, thoughtless children. Asia has
red wrath in her bowels. I am afraid for her. But Mongolia--you asked
about Mongolia?...
"The world moves in cycles," the Easterner continued. "It is the
inexorable law. Asia was at its--er--pinnacle about twelve hundred and
twenty-seven; then Europe. Europe is dipping; next America--and after
that?" The slender hands shaped into an oddly expressive gesture. "The
failure of Sultan Baber was the beginning of a slow death for my
country. Now there seems but one future--that of a base from which Japan
can operate in Asia. Japan must have food, too, and already the
Szechuanese and other border people have pressed into Mongolia and
proved it fertile. And we have unworked mineral resources...."
"But Japan is apparently retrenching in her policy," Trent reminded him,
finding himself interested. "What of the Allied Consortium?"
He imagined he could see a smile upon the Mongol's face.
"The Consortium is--forgive me--a bubble, a beautiful bubble with magic
prisms and exquisite tints. Japan will see to it that loans to China are
made as she wishes them."
"Japan improved Korea"--thus baiting conversation.
The reply came quietly, but vehemently. "Yes, my friend, Japan improved
Korea. She scientifically reforested its mountains, built roads and
railways, public buildings and sanitary houses.... But Japan slew soul
to erect in its stead a structure without conscience or heart. Japan may
improve China--but it is not for China, but for the time when Japan
controls China and compels her four hundred millions to form a unit of
her military organization."
Quiet ensued for a space. The myriad sounds that brew in the bowels of a
vessel came to them--the jangle of bells, smothered by decks, and the
ponderous, deep-throated roar of funnels.
"An example of Japan's purpose and her power is the cancellation of
Mongolian autonomy," pursued Hsien Sgam. "When my people formed a
government of their own, they expected the protection of Russia. But
Russia failed. Semenov, the Cossack adventurer and agent of Japan,
threatened invasion, and my people, frightened, appealed to China. The
consequences you know. Hsu Shu-cheng, with four thousand troops,
occupied Urga. Hsu forced the Hut'ukt'u to sign a petition returning
Mongolia to China. Later it was learned that Hsu's troops were equipped
with Japanese money."
Trent settled deeper in his chair, his eyes lifted to the roaring
funnels where volumes of smoke were sucked up as by invisible vacua.
"But there is a key to supremacy in Mongolia," Hsien Sgam resumed. "It
is the projected extension of the railway from Kalgan to Kiachta.
Whoever finances that, thus linking China with Europe, through Mongolia,
will be the sovereign power. Will Japan--or your Allied Consortium? I
think, my friend, the former--unless it is prevented. And how can that
be done?"
Trent took him up. "How?"
Hsien Sgam did not answer immediately. Finally:
"Mongolia can assert her rights--by force."
Trent lowered his eyes to the indistinct outline of the Mongol's face.
"She hasn't arms or ammunition or organization--and, furthermore, what
good would a revolution do?"
Hsien Sgam answered the latter half of his question.
"It would give Mongolia self-government; and she could refuse a
concession to any power to construct a railway through her territory.
Organization? You spoke of that. No, they have no organization. But I
have a dream--an ultimate--do you say Utopia? It is a union of the
Mongols of Barga, the Buriats of Transbaikalia, the Chakhar tribe, the
Khalkas, and even the Hung-hu-tzees, into a single unit--or, if you wish
it, an empire. Tibet might be included. But that--that is only a dream.
There is but one man who could possibly bring that about--and he is a
pawn of China. The Dalai Lama...."
In the pause that followed, the glow of his cigarette showed Trent an
imperial profile--like a bronze head of some Mongol conqueror he had
once seen. A queer analogy struck him. Timur the Lame, who seared Asia
with his vitriol. But there was an alien element in the likeness that he
conjured--dust on the reflection. It haunted Trent and eluded analysis.
"The Church dominates Mongolia," the quiet voice went on, "and the Dalai
Lama is its--how do you say it, Pope? He lost much power when the
English drove him from Lhassa, but after years of wandering he came into
his pontificate again. However, the President of China had a purpose in
restoring him. He knew the power of Tubdan Gyatso--knew also that he
would be safer in Tibet than Mongolia."
They smoked on. Presently Trent asked other questions, about customs and
people and history. The subject swung to literature. Hsien Sgam talked
at random of Chinese philosophers and poets: Confucius, Mencius, Lao
Tzu, Yang Chu, Kang-hsi. There were giant dimensions of mentality behind
his speech. Every word was surcharged with restless energy; thoughts hot
from the vortices of emotion. But, underneath, was a current of
bitterness that surged up at intervals and injected into his usual calm
a passionate, almost terrible, intensity. It was more evident when he
referred to his affliction.
"My father, who was a prince of the house of Hlaje Khan, believed that
one of his sons should be sent into your world and acquire learning and
enlighten the people," he said. "I, being lame and never entering into
physical activities, was considered a student--and I was sent. Among the
elders it was looked upon as an honor, but those with whom I played as a
boy and grew up.... Well, in Mongolia, as elsewhere, virtue is in muscle
and cowardice in morality. I went into your world and--I say this with
no meanness--it hurt me. I took back wounds. Many things I was taught,
among them a realization of the truth of a certain Manchu proverb about
women. Yes--I wonder, my friend, why I tell you this, but perhaps it is
the night and the sea--a woman entered my life for the first time--a
woman who came as a leopard and left the mark of her claws."
As he talked on, unfolding with a readiness that puzzled yet did not
fail to interest Trent, the latter closed his eyes and smoked, and
imagined he was transported, through some reversed medium of
metempsychosis, across a dead interval of time and was listening to the
voice of Timur the Lame. The stars drowsed above them, like sleepy eyes,
and the ship was a dim, prowling world when they parted.
As Trent undressed he reflected upon the conversation with Hsien Sgam.
He felt that he had looked upon a tragic anomaly in the person of the
lame Mongol. Learning had refined his primitive impulses to a higher
degree of intellectuality; affliction had warped his vision.
Civilization, with him, was a varnish; he did not possess its essence.
In a day less modern, when men were not so well equipped to kill one
another, he might have risen to formidability; now, Trent felt, he could
go no further than that group of idealistic radicals whose careers are
meteoric, attaining little political significance and ending in the
pathetic justice of a firing squad.
He wondered, too, if the encounter on deck was coincidence, or if Hsien
Sgam had deliberately sought him. The Mongol would bear watching, he
decided, simply for the reason that his own position was one of
insecurity and tampering fingers might send it toppling.
Until he went to sleep the memory of Hsien Sgam haunted him, like the
shadow of Timur the Lame cast down through the centuries.
6
Morning and another day of peacock-blue and gold.
After breakfast Trent visited the confined Guru Singh. The native was no
more communicative than before but Trent did not press his point, for a
better plan than blatant questioning had asserted itself.
When he returned to the deck he found Dana Charteris stretched out in
her chair, her slim person a symphony in white.
"Good morning," was her greeting as she motioned him into the chair
beside her. "I reached a very definite decision last night."
He smiled. _Andantino con languore_ this time. There was a refreshing
draught in the mood that he instantly felt--light, golden wine to the
senses. Her eyes were like liquid amber.
"Really?"
"Yes. I used to think that all Englishmen were cold-mannered creatures
and quite indifferent to their wives, as fiction has it. I've undergone
a metamorphosis."
He continued to smile as he packed his pipe.
"Are you accusing us as a nation of polygamous practices?" he asked.
She made a grimace. "Please don't try to be clever or you'll spoil my
opinion--and you know countries are judged by single representatives. I
warn you that I'm in a desperately serious mood, despite all
indications. As proof, I've been wondering if too much travel, too long
a sojourn in foreign lands, doesn't affect one's ideas and
philosophies--in other words, intoxicate one and leave a craving for the
wine of exotic environment."
He contemplated the possibility that her remark was intended as
personal; dismissed it; waited for her to continue. Which she did.
"Since you won't be human and ask why I think that, you force me to
confess that I'm leading up to a--a personal example."
"Namely?"
"Well--yourself."
Another smile; he lighted his pipe. "Go on."
"Really, would you be satisfied in a prosaic English or American
city--after--all this?"--with a vague gesture.
He didn't know; hadn't thought about it. Perhaps--perhaps not.
"I don't believe you would," was her opinion. "You've absorbed a certain
amount of atmosphere that has poisoned you in so far as living elsewhere
is concerned. I shouldn't be at all surprised, either, to learn that you
think Indian and Chinese religions superior to ours?"
"Aren't they?"
"Are they?"
"You, yourself, spoke a few days ago, if I remember correctly, of the
philosophies and doctrines of the East--doctrines that have nothing to
do with mints or stock-exchanges, as you expressed it."
"Yes. But now I'm comparing the principles of religion--those adopted by
our thinkers and real philosophers. Oh, we have our nobler types, who
haven't been blinded by earth-dust! It may be a taint of the flesh in
me, but I can't adjust myself to the belief that the ascetics and
shrivelled yogis that I've seen are the proper habitations for pure
spirituality. If the manifestation isn't wholesome, how can the inner
conception be? You wouldn't fill an unclean vessel with holy water,
would you? It's the methods and instruments through which the East
voices its philosophies that I rebel against. That which mutilates, or
even neglects, the body, can't be a true religion.... But really, I'm
afraid I'm getting beyond my depth. What I originally intended to say is
this: occultism is dangerous to those of the West, minds and bodies of a
different substance than those of the Orient. I knew a man who became
interested in theosophy. After a time he entered some secret cult that
had a temple in the Himalayas. It grew to be an obsession, and now ...
well, he tried to touch flames that were not conceived for man-tampering
and they seared him."
Trent chuckled. "In other words," he said, "you're afraid I'm a Buddhist
or a Mohammedan at heart, or, if by good fortune I'm not, you wish to
warn me against exotic religions." Another chuckle. "It's flattering.
What other conclusions have you drawn?"
"Just at present," she responded, smiling maliciously, "I think you're
horrid."
He sobered. "Please go on. It's like looking into your house from the
neighbor's window. I'm really interested."
"Or curious? Men who have not ventured into matrimony are, as a rule,
inquisitive. And that suggests another question. It seems to me that one
alone would be much more receptive to these"--she smiled--"these
paganisms than one in union with another. Loneliness--that is,
isolation--is food for heresies."
That showed him an old vista at a new angle. There was no
misinterpreting her meaning.... Women. A few, but none of consequence;
puerile passions and brief affairs of the starlight, never the full
ruddy glow of a riper devotion, the finding of the One Woman.... And
again, that might not have been her meaning at all. She--At a sudden
inspiration he spoke--before he considered.
"Why, no, I'm not married, if that's what you mean."
She gave him a queer look--half smiling, half vexed. There was a faint
suffusion of color in her cheeks.
"I'm not quite sure," she announced, swinging her feet to the deck, "but
I've almost decided that you're impossible. However, I'll leave you
alone to decide for yourself."
And she did.
7
At dinner Trent sensed a change in Dana Charteris. She was quite
friendly, even inquired banteringly if he were angry because of the
manner in which she left him that morning, but there was, invisible,
indefinable, a reserve in her attitude that forbade a resumption of the
former intimacy. This troubled him.
Later, on deck, he was brought out of his reflections by the sound of
uneven footsteps. Hsien Sgam approached. He was dressed in white and
seemed to Trent almost grotesque--the twisted limb and the beautiful,
yet strangely sinister, face!
In the course of conversation he asked Trent's business. The answer
brought forth a short discourse upon precious stones. He then touched
the war--inquired if Trent had "seen service," as he termed it in a
thoroughly Occidental way. Realizing that he was being catechized, Trent
replied guardedly. In the East, quizzed the Mongol? No, on the Western
front, Trent lied. In the infantry, Hsien Sgam assumed? Yes, the
infantry....
Of course Trent had traveled a great deal, he presumed. Well, a bit, the
Englishman admitted. If it were not too impertinent (thus the Mongol) he
imagined Mr. Tavernake had not always been "of the trade." He had the
appearance of--well, a soldier rather than a "business man"; one eager
for ranges and color and action, so to speak.
It was then that Trent became more communicative. He was rather a
soldier of fortune, he acknowledged; intrigue lured him. But the Mongol
was as wary as he, for, perceiving the change in tactics, he turned the
talk into another channel.
A few minutes later he moved on. Trent watched him limp off and puzzled
over this anomaly of a man. What was his object in catechizing him? He
could not even surmise; but he determined to take a drastic step toward
finding out.
His first move led him to the purser's office. Closing the door quietly
behind him, he said:
"I would like to borrow your pass-key a moment."
"Sorry, sir," came the polite reply, "but it's against orders. I can
unlock your door--if you've lost the key--but--"
"Suppose you call the captain," Trent suggested.
"Tell him Mr. Tavernake wants to borrow the key. I'll be responsible for
it."
While the purser was telephoning, Trent scanned the register. "Hsien
Sgam--No. 227," he read.
"It's all right, sir," reported the purser, hanging up the receiver, a
new note of respect in his voice.
Trent circled the deck, assured himself that Hsien Sgam was in the
smoking-room, then went aft to cabin No. 227. A turn of the key, a
glance behind into the vestibule-way, and he was inside. He locked the
door; drew the curtain across the window.
A thorough search gained him little knowledge. Only clothing and a
hand-grip containing perfunctory toilet articles; there were no letters,
not even a passport. Evidently the Mongol carried all papers of
importance upon his person.
Hardly assured, yet satisfied to a degree, Trent returned the key to the
purser and made his way toward his cabin--and as he rounded a corner of
the deckhouse he almost collided with Dana Charteris. She backed, half
in surprise, half in fright, to the rail, and gripped the white enameled
iron.
"Oh!" she flared. "You _do_ appear at the most inopportune times!"
And she stalked past him, entering the cabin before he could recover
himself enough to speak.
Perplexed, he continued to his state-room. "Inopportune, indeed," he
muttered as he closed the door--for as she darted to the rail he saw her
fling something overboard, an object that flashed white as it shot past
the scuppers.
He sat down on the edge of the berth; filled his pipe.
What was she carrying that she did not want him to see? It could not
have been of value or she would not have disposed of it in that manner.
But....
He ran his fingers through his hair; puffed on his pipe.
Was it possible--? No, the very suspicion was preposterous; he was
surprised that it should even occur to him. Yet, he acknowledged, a
certain king of Ithaca believed in the beauty of Calypso. Forcing
himself to face the situation, he reviewed his short acquaintance with
Dana Charteris in a cold, scrutinizing light. The result was not
altogether pleasing. Their midnight encounter on the portico at Benares
was hardly reassuring, now that he looked at it through a different
lens, nor was the meeting in the Chinese quarter, in Calcutta....
_Intermezzo!_ Would it end in discord? He smiled grimly, confessing to
himself that grave doubts (and, deeper than doubts, an ache that was not
physical) had arisen from this new development. Had he been a fool?
He fortified his mind against such thoughts. What substantial reason had
he to suspect that her interest in him was other than personal?
(Personal! That word was fine ego.) The incident on deck--Well, he
evaded, it might have been anything that she threw overboard, a
handkerchief ... or.... At least, he would not be so unjust as to
suspicion her--or anyone, he enlarged--upon such meager suppositions.
Only partially satisfied, he retired. He did not go to sleep for some
time--and when he awakened in the morning, with the sun raining bronze
needles at the blue sea, his first recollection was of the incident on
the previous night. Considered in daylight, it lost its dark
significance, but, nevertheless, made him vaguely uneasy.
This brooding discontent grew with the day. Dana Charteris was not in
the dining-salon at breakfast, nor did she come on deck during the
morning. He sat near her chair, waiting, his mind barred against either
condemnation or justification. He would reserve his decision until he
heard what she had to say. When she appeared (and it seemed that she
never would) she could probably clear the incident with a few words, an
explanation that would no doubt shed a light of absurdity upon his
apprehensions.
But she did not appear, not even at tiffin, and he passed a restless
afternoon. He walked the vessel from bow to stern, from bridge to the
torrid depths where beings heaved fuel into her hungry stomach,
impatient with the unseen forces that controlled his affairs.
He saw Hsien Sgam several times, but avoided him, for his mood was not a
friendly one. A short interview with Guru Singh--who clung to the
integrity of his honor--only served to irritate him, and a few minutes
later when he came upon Tambusami, in the steerage, confabbing with the
snake-charmer (he of the scar and the drooping eyelid) he snapped him
up in his laconic way for having removed the dressing from his cut.
(And it would not have improved his mental estate had he seen the manner
in which the snake-charmer's afflicted eye watched him leave the
steerage.)
The sun sank. Its sullen crimson bled upon cirrus clouds; faded with
dusk; was absorbed as night bound the sky with gauzy blue and stars came
forth to cool the fevered pulse of day.
Trent had just taken his seat in the dining-salon when Dana Charteris
entered. White shoulders rose above the silver-cloth and flame-blue
tulle of an evening frock. The startling shade of blue challenged out
the deeper tints of her eyes; her pallor was made more lustrous by red
lips and russet-gold hair. At sight of her he felt the blood throb in
his throat.
"I hope you haven't been ill," he said as he placed her chair.
She smiled in a rather strained manner, he thought.
"I've been a poor sailor to-day."
A pause; then he plunged. "I should like to have a word with
you--alone."
She met his gaze unsmilingly. For a moment he thought she would refuse.
"There's to be a dance to-night--you knew it?" He shook his head.
"Suppose I give you--the third?"
"I'd prefer not to dance," he returned solemnly.
"Then we'll go on deck."
8
The night was blue and moonless; no ordinary blue, but the clear, rich
shade found in the depths of a sapphire, and it poured out as from an
invisible fountain, blending the sky and sea; it caught a thousand stars
in its flood and they, like diamonds cast into an unstirred pool, pulsed
with lazy insolence above the oily swells.
Trent, leaning on the port rail, pipe between his teeth, heard the
throbbing violins cease. He straightened up sharply. There was a patter
of applause from the main salon; an encore. He knocked the dottle from
his pipe and sauntered nearer the doorway; there he waited impatiently
for the encore to end.
Once more the violins ceased; a ripple of applause. But the music did
not resume. Several couples emerged from the salon. Dana Charteris
appeared as Trent was within several paces of the door; paused a moment
in the frame, her hair glimmering in the brazen light. Then she saw him;
joined him.
"Shall we walk?" she asked. He thought there was a tremor in her voice.
"Yes."
Their mutual inclination led them toward the fore-deck. In the bow,
beyond a monster coil of rope, they halted as with one accord. He stood
looking out over the blue-black sea; she backward, across decks, at the
huge funnels where smoke piled upward into darkness.
"Miss Charteris," he began, quite calmly, "I daresay you know why I
asked for a word with you."
She was still watching the smoke. "I daresay I do," she replied, not so
calmly.
He went on.
"I'm going to be frank--even abrupt. Will you tell me what you threw
overboard last night?"
Silence followed. The big ship throbbed, but it seemed far away, part of
another world; in his sphere there was but the girl, himself and the
stars. He thought he saw her shiver--although it was not chilly.
Finally she spoke.
"Before I answer, there's something I must say. You are frank; I, too,
will be frank." Her eyes shifted to his face. "I feel sure you're aware
that I am not so stupid as to believe your name is Tavernake--or that
you are a--a jeweller. Furthermore, you know I saw you in uniform in
Benares. Your story about the brother was--rather flat." She smiled
faintly. "I'm no child, Mr.--yes, I'll continue to call you Tavernake. I
have imagination; I have guessed you are engaged in some sort of
important work--work that you must not be distracted from. At first, I
didn't care--particularly--or perhaps I was weak. So I let myself drift
along. It's so easy to drift, isn't it?"
A new tone had come into her voice; a softer, more poignant quality. It
carried to him a lofty exhilaration. He knew it was dangerous, yet, for
the while, it thrilled him. The looming masts beyond the coil of rope
were transformed, in his eyes, into the enchanted rigging of a dream
ship.
"... So I took the easiest course--because I found you interesting. Then
it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I was interfering with your
duty. I knew I must stop. I resolved to--to end our friendship as easily
as possible, without hurting you--or me. I hoped, after my outburst last
night, you wouldn't try to see me again; that you'd be angry."
She smiled; let her hand rest lightly, he knew unconsciously, upon his
arm.
"You understand? To-day I was--well, afraid of you and of myself. I had
my meals served in my state-room. But I realized I had acted in a way
that would seem strange to you; so I came out to-night to explain. If I
give you my word that what I did last night is of no consequence to you,
will you spare me the embarrassment of explaining? It _will_ be
embarrassing, Mr. Tavernake, very. Yet it was such a small incident!"
Her hand slipped from his arm; she lowered her eyes. Trent, watching
her, felt that at last he had explored to the inner shrine of that
arcanum in her eyes. He saw altar-flames there.
"Don't you think it wise," she resumed, looking up, "that we discontinue
our association--not our friendship--now, to-night? To-morrow, in
Rangoon...."
Her voice died out in silence. They were quite alone, there in the bow,
lifted, so it seemed, into a realm of blue starlight. Her face swam in
the shadow, very close to his own. He obeyed an impulse. He took her in
his arms; kissed her. Her eyes were closed, but an instant later the
lids lifted. What he saw was not rebuke, but surprise, astonishment.
Vaguely, from that other world, came the strains of music. It seemed an
endless period before she spoke.
"I--I have this dance...."
She turned; paused, as if to speak; disappeared behind the coil of rope.
Trent did not stir for some time. Then it was to draw out his pipe. He
lighted it calmly; inhaled the smoke. For at least a half hour he stood
there, the wind in his face, smoking steadily. When he left the bow and
moved aft to walk, to accelerate his brain, a figure emerged from the
door of the smoking-room and joined him. A figure that limped, that fell
in with Trent.
"I have been looking for you," the Mongol announced.
Trent smiled an amiable contradiction of his real feelings.
"Shall we sit down?" He halted.
"No. I merely wish a moment of your time to explain my actions of last
night, and to ask a question."
The orchestra was playing, and the music came as a bitter-sweet reminder
to Trent.
"Well?" and the word was almost abrupt.
"I presume you think me very inquisitive"--Hsien Sgam's eyes were upon
him, watching him closely--"and I have been. But I had a purpose. I
wished to sound you, as they say in America; to find out if your
business connections were permanent, and--well, other things, too."
Silence followed.
"Suppose," the Mongol resumed, "I were to say that plans for such
a--you recall what we discussed the other evening? Well, suppose I were
to say I spoke the truth: that there is a possibility of my dream
crystallizing into reality; also that we need men who have had military
experience, who can command. Soldiers of fortune, as it were, to cast
their lots with a worthy cause...."
Trent's eyes evenly met his. He smiled, very slightly.
"Are you--making an offer?" he asked quietly.
Another silence. Then Hsien Sgam laughed.
"Perhaps I am; perhaps I am not. But if you are interested, go to the
House of the Golden Joss, in Rangoon, to-morrow night. I will be there."
And with that he limped off and vanished in the door of the
smoking-room.
Trent stared after him. Presently he laughed, without humor.
Of a certainty, he told himself, there was madness in the night.
9
The _Manchester_ swung into the Rangoon River some twenty hours late.
Trent, who had risen early, saw the dome of the Shwe Dagon in the dawn,
like a rippling flame against the purple haze. Before the ship dropped
anchor, he sought the captain.
"I've decided not to press charges against the fellow confined below,"
he announced. "Let him go--but not until a half hour after we come to
anchor."
The captain, his eyes following Trent's receding shoulders, reflected
that he'd see the blighter in blazing hades before he'd let him off so
easily. But, not being clairvoyant, he could not know that Trent had a
few minutes before issued certain specific instructions to Tambusami.
Later, after Trent had concluded with the tiresome customs details, he
saw Dana Charteris. She was preparing to go ashore. She wore the black
hat with the sheaf of cornflowers and wheat about the crown, and her
face, shadowed by the wide brim, had the pallor of ivory.
"I suppose I ought to say something," he began, halting in front of her,
"but I don't know whether I want to ask your forgiveness for what
occurred last night."
It was a strained moment, for both were painfully conscious. She averted
her face.
"Perhaps," she suggested, "it would be better to say--nothing."
Then she looked at him; smiled; extended her hand.
Not until she was gone, a creature of white and russet-gold in the
sunshine, did he remember that he did not know her address. This
realization brought a new and enveloping sense of isolation....
Interlude! And this was the end--_andante dolento_!