barred. She left him, but did not shut the door.
He stood waiting in the centre. There was just a cot with blankets and
a table at the head, upon which the candle sat in solitude. He thought
of his travel-bags just then, but she was bringing them and he hastened
to the door, for they were heavy and the camel-reek was upon them. She
left him again for a pitcher of water and a cup, very pleasing and
graceful in her services.
"And now is there not something I can do for you?" he said.
"No--unless--" She laughed.
"Yes?"
"Unless you think of me sleeping like a little child, my face turned
toward to-morrow--"
She was gone. Still she had not shut his door.
It was all a kind of blur to Romney until he lay down. Then the picture
straightened and steadied. Could it be that he, Romney, had hypnotised
himself--so that the first possible woman had fallen straight into his
heart? He had reached the period of life when a man begins consciously
to look for his woman. Does not such a search make the man blind? One
cannot see clearly so long as he doesn't want anything. Was he so
shallow and common as to be caught in a whirlwind of the artificial? It
was not that he lowered Anna Erivan in this thought, but could she be
the one woman in the world for him?
Then he thought of her from the first moment to the last, reviewed her
every gesture and movement of face and hand. It was not what she said,
though there was much in that for him, but her comprehension was so
instantaneous. She had _fancy_. She loved the half-lights; she had
passion; the whole strength of her had to do with that. Was her
strength the strength of repression? She had beauty, but was it the
kind of beauty that goes with terrible self-love? ... She seemed tender
and brave and imaginative.
Romney sat up on the cot with a suddenness that made the whole fabric
creak. And what of his task? The possibility of his penetrating to the
heart of the great Gobi mystery seemed far and intolerable compared to
the next morning, when she would come into the outer room.... Would she
be there first and he emerge to join her, or would he be waiting?
He laughed. Even this simple question had absorbed him utterly,
banishing the mystery of the desert. There could not be two missions.
As for her beauty, it seemed as if he had created it in his own highest
moments, touch by touch.... Might she not journey on with him,
thrilled, too, by the strange thing he had set out to accomplish? This
was madness. Even the physical dangers forbade that.... The task,
whatever it was, looked little and fanatical beside her. The Big Three
and Fai Ming seemed altered, their zeal misguided; his own former
seriousness in relation to man's accomplishment, seemed absurdly
young.... This is what a woman had done for him in one evening.
There could not be two missions. He must stay or go on.... Perhaps
after reading the Nadiram documents he could tell her something of what
he was out after, but it would change nothing. There could not be two
tasks. He must cleave to the one and forsake the other....
Romney was sweating. It would not have been so hard, had she not made
the whole business appear insignificant. Must he be a ghost-chaser,
leaving this superb creature here? ... Wickedness in her? He could not
find it anywhere. She might become a saint or a wanton, but there would
be greatness in her giving in either case. In that she was like Moira
Kelvin. Splendours flashed for his eyes about her repressions, and yet
what had her repressions to do with him? She had merely talked with
him, and she was dying to talk. She would have talked with any one who
would listen and furnish understanding. After all, Romney relied upon
the one fact that such meetings as he had known in the twilight in the
court of the Consulate, did not in the nature of things rouse one heart
alone. There was no magic in life, if meetings such as that did not
contain magic. Still he had not won Moira Kelvin.... It may have been
only a waver, a gleam to her, so far, yet he felt that if he remained,
Anna Erivan would know something of this that had come to him in an
instant.... There was a kind of bruise in his heart that all his old
life had been lessened. Suppose she was destined to be only a passing
face to him. Would the old zeal for the world come back? Did he want
back anything that had been spoiled? A woman great enough to diminish
everything else, even for a night, was great enough for any man. But
the things he had set himself to do.... Romney's lip tightened with
self-scorn. He could come to no decision. The episode was making him
yellow already. He had hitherto prided himself upon his faculties for
decision. He arose and paced the room in bare feet. The night cold
came in....
He thought of journeying with her in the evenings together on the
dromedary--she sitting forward, sun and moon and sand, the deep drinking
at evening, the fire on the desert, the tents--the tent.
He had stopped in the centre of the room and now paced on again. He was
not quite the same after that last. He wished for the day. He tried
the cot again, but could not stay; paced the room, longing for the day.
At last he thought of papers given him to be opened at this stage of the
journey.
*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 you _tell_ me?" 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 had _fancy_."
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*