death, and drifted along the water-fronts," she said quickly. "Oh, any
one could see that has nothing to do with you now."
Romney gasped, and, leaning forward, placed his wide-stretched hand near
hers, which went to it.
"I was thinking of the woman," she said slowly. "I never thought I
would feel like this."
He was still shaken from the illusion he had suffered, in high voltage.
It suddenly occurred to him what it would mean if she had brought a
story of an affair with a man--an affair that meant as much to her as
Moira Kelvin meant to him. The very thought was torture. There is a
touch of insanity in the best of men on this ground. Romney was amazed
at his own feelings and at his own simplicity; and over all was a
contaminating something that seemed to emerge from his deepest nature--a
gladness for her primitive emotion regarding him where another woman was
concerned. He wanted to take her close in his arms. An uncertain
memory of the night before when he was half-asleep, recurred queerly....
He had not spoken, and yet he knew that in her case, he would want to
ask and ask--also that to ask questions meant to bend a mighty pride.
He was using his will to be fair--holding that woman is as free an
instrument in the world as a man.
"I love your truth," she said hoarsely. "I think that is all that saves
it--saves me--the sense that what you say is true."
"There is no more," he whispered. "I have told you all."
"I love your truth--but I hate myself--"
"Anna Erivan, you are superb to me. I think--there is a bit of madness
or martyrdom about two coming together this way. I didn't understand
what my story could mean to you, until I thought of it the other way--as
if you brought it to me--"
"I have nothing interesting like that," she said with a smile. "I think
if I brought you a story like that, it would change me in your eyes."
"I would not let it," he said.
"Your will could not save me," she answered. "A man might say and
believe (until his own heart was touched) that a woman has all the
rights of man to diffuse herself before her mate arrives, but in his own
heart, he would see her differently if she did. Oh, it is not the
pressure of centuries of man's possession of women--not altogether his
instinctive sense of conservation. That's only physical. There is
something back even of the patriarch idea about women. She cannot give
herself to one and be the same again--not even in her own mind. There
is something sacred about that, which men do not know--and which only
great women know--"
"Then you think a man big enough to place a woman on the same moral
footing as himself has not come to the end of the subject?"
"I think when men are tolerant enough for that, they will be great
enough to accept woman's idea of herself, which is greater still."
"What is it--can you tell me?"
"Just so long as a woman has not the spiritual power to formulate her
ideal of the one man of her heart, she must accept the nearest, the
first or second or third, and must suffer her horrors of mis-mating.
But all the time her dream is forming, literally making the one who
belongs to her and no other. It builds out of her suffering. It comes
out of agony and diffusion, even out of promiscuity. It is the ascent of
woman's character into an integrity which can only be touched by one
human being. It is not touched if he does not come--"
Romney stood before her, looking into two flashing points her eyes had
become.
"It does not play a fortnight--to find out if the man is the one. It
does not play at all. It does not suffer from waiting because it does
not live in sex. It does not meet its own on any basis of sex--not at
first, even though it has passions powerful enough to fire the world--"
"Anna Erivan--have I lost you--am I too far from the dream?"
She arose and came nearer, the table no longer between them.
"I tell you I hate myself because this has hurt me--"
"And I tell you that this morning I feel abysses below you--that you are
revealed to me higher than I knew and dreamed."
"That first night, I thought it was he who had come to me ... and last
night, running after you, I was sure--"
He started forward, his arms outstretched, but remembered and fell back.
"I said I would wait until you held out your arms--"
Her face turned a little to the side, and he saw a smile suffuse with
colour.
"I did last night," she whispered.
*13*
That noon Bamban came and sat in the court for a little period, awaiting
any word from his master. It was in Romney's heart to tell him that he
meant to start for Wampli to-morrow, and yet he had not spoken of that
to Anna Erivan since morning, and he decided to wait until the last
judgment of the woman was heard. Bamban smilingly departed, but back of
the glittering eyes of the little man, the American fancied an
expression:
"You are a tarrier with women."
An Oriental expresses his deepest scorn in a statement somewhat of that
nature. It touched Romney very lightly on this day. He was not
himself--something lifted and expanded far beyond the man he had been;
and yet apart from Anna Erivan he was but a creature of listening and
turning. On this day, Anna Erivan had entered a domain of his heart
which Moira Kelvin had not found. A questing woman brave enough to wait,
a woman above playing with senses, who required no experiments to
uncover her own. And her head had lain a moment on his breast, her waist
in his hard lean arm.... He wasn't untrue to Moira Kelvin in any
thought. Even in the illumination of Anna Erivan, there was still a
laughing splendour about the other. He could view the yellow-rug woman
now with a man's generosity, though he recognised that there was no
answer to Anna Erivan's point. He was proud to the very spirit of his
being that it was so.... They strode out into the desert together, when
the sun was at its highest. She stopped and caught his arm. It was
almost as if the cry of the hyenas had come to her:
"What is it? What is it?" he asked.
"Was she very beautiful?"
Her art was somehow revealed. Anna Erivan had waited until they were
far from the village before asking that question.... He was almost well
again--not so robust, perhaps, as when he had come to Nadiram, but
healed and glowing to-day, as one filled with light. It was only
gradually that he dared let the full light in. Sometimes he seemed to
be holding a door against it, lest it be too much for his heart. He had
followed her about the house that morning until he was amazed at her
power over him, and forced himself apart in the room where he had passed
the long night. He had waited with every ounce of will-force, and
holding was possible so long as he heard her step, but the moment she
was silent he rushed forth as one coming up from deep water.
The day was dazzling bright though the heat was not dangerous. She had
never been out of the court before in his presence, and something of the
gold-brown of the desert came to her, as if all the wasted energy of the
sunlight, deluging fruitless rock and barren sand, gathered about her to
animate the delicate promise of her being. Desert gold was in her eyes,
and noon warmth in her cheeks, her lips parted with joy and ardour and
low laughter he had never heard in the house. Clouds were massed into
gilded mountains in the low west. The dry heat came up from the sand
and the living heat pressed down from the sun. Nadiram was silent
behind them, their voices free now in the open, their hearts drinking
the power of the light.
"Think of it," she said halting, "think if we should go on and on--you
and I. The nights--"
"I thought of that before I came to your door--on the road to Turgim. I
thought of journeying on and on through the desert with the woman
waiting somewhere--"
"I should be dangerous in a desert-night--"
"Dangerous?" he laughed.
"I should be myself at last. You'll find that dangerous. A desert
night would set me free. Perhaps I should find a nature very old and
abandoned--"
"In me?"
"In myself."
"Suppose you should hear the cries?"
Anna Erivan laughed. "There would be no Forward Room out here. It is
the houses and the presence of men that make me afraid."
... He did not care much to speak, but regarded her face as he had never
used his eyes before. Several times during the morning, she had
reverted in her talk to incidents of the night before, when he lay in
exhaustion, with only a waver of consciousness from time to time.
"Did you know that a woman finding her beloved, looks for a man but
finds a child?"
Romney peered closer, his eyelids all but shut in the vivid light.
"This morning as the dawn came in, I saw the child so clearly that I had
to touch your face. I would have wept had I not run away for a little
time."
After a moment, she added in whispers and falterings:
"Did you know, toward morning, but before the light--when the cold came
in--that I was very close to you, leaning forward under the edge of your
blanket? ... You were still. Your breathing was like a child's. And
then I thought again of your coming in the evening to the court--to the
west wall. I don't know how I could have been so hard. I should have
broken down in fright, had you not come."
"I only knew that I could not leave you," he said.
"But to-morrow morning--"
He was silent.
"We need not think of it now," she said slowly. "Not until to-night.
We shall know best to-night--"
She was staring away into the gilded mountains of cloud in the low west.
Romney's eyes followed hers. There seemed a movement there, something
filmy white like a great bird, against the brilliant horizon. He could
not get his mind away from Wampli. Every moment with her, and the
parting seemed harder. The larger consciousness that had come from her,
at the same time bound him to her.... Leaving her in Nadiram--alone
under the Russian flag. It would take seven days at least to get back,
even if his mission made it possible for him to remain as short a time
as a day in Wampli. That was not likely. The chances were, if he were
not held there, his orders would be to push on. The last packet of
orders, designated for reading in Wampli, might contain the open orders
for a farther journey of weeks. Romney shivered. There was little
mercy in the facts. The great continent of Asia was like a dead weight
against him. She touched his arm.
"Look--"
What he saw presently, low upon the sand, had the look of a turtle of
large size, the head uplifted from time to time. The strangeness of the
creature and the way it moved stirred him oddly.... The thing was
yellow--the noon light showed that, the deep satisfying embrowned yellow
of some object in which the sun has sunk for ages and ages. This is the
yellow of the Gobi at a certain moment of evening. It was the yellow of
Moira Kelvin's rug--and this was a robe of a Chinese Holy Man. In India
they would have called him a Sannysin.
Hastening forward, they saw that the head, lifted from time to time, was
shaven and literally fallen in from emaciation. The gray of death
suffused the brown skin, especially where it was thinnest, in lip and
temple and nostril. The creature crawled; his age must have been very
great, his grasp of life a miracle, yet the robe he wore was woven from
the breasts of young camels and coloured, as the priests would say, with
God's own light. This is a colour princes dare not wear. It trailed
upon the sand and took no hurt or stain; it was fine as leather can be,
a protection from the sun and a saving grace from cold.
"He is my Ancient!" Anna Erivan cried. "He is the one who came to the
court long ago, and left me such strength. He is very dear and very
wise."
This robe was first to show Romney the quality of his guest, but he was
soon conscious of something beside, that made him very tender, so that
he knelt and gently lifted the ancient ascetic by the shoulders. The
chin now rested in the hollow of his arm. The old man leaned there as
if in peace. Presently Romney's eyes were called back to the town--a
mere low jagged contour behind in the blinding stillness. Bamban was
running toward them. At a little distance, he halted, dropped to his
knees, and thus came forward, the expression on his face altogether new.
Indeed, it was dissolute with devotion.
And now the old Father appeared to sleep in Romney's arm, and thus was
carried between the men, a light burden, back to the Consulate in
Nadiram.
They brought a cot to the living-room, Anna Erivan joyously preparing
food, filling the begging-bowl with the choicest that her house
afforded. Yet it was hours before the old priest awoke, and during this
time Bamban never moved from his devotional posture by the door of the
court. It appeared now that the aged Buddhist had pushed his
austerities somewhat farther than usual, almost extinguishing the
flicker of life that remained in his wasted breast. His opening speech
had to do with the absolute rightness of all things, especially with the
excellence of the universe and the exceeding rightness of right
knowledge, to all of which Romney attentively agreed and Bamban degraded
himself to accept. The Sannysin advanced deeper into the thought,
enunciating his conviction that all was well in Nadiram and in the
house. He spoke briefly of his all-readiness for departure from this
life, saying that he had been ready three days before in the desert,
that he was ready now to pass or presently. Having impressed his
readiness, he ventured to add his personal point of view to the effect
that he considered it a misery to be called back into life through the
medium of strong food, but qualified this opinion by inquiring if he had
not returned to the hideous pressure of the flesh with some slight
degree of calmness and cheer. Romney encouraged him to believe this,
hastily translating for the woman; and Bamban projected himself in
abasement, whereupon the Sannysin slept again.
Toward evening, the ancient head was once more raised into the hollow of
Romney's arm. Bamban had scarcely left the Consulate for a moment
throughout this extended interval. The Buddhist raised his eyes to
Romney's face, saying that he was now acquainted with the deep reason
for his misery in being so relentlessly called back to the coils of
matter; that he recognised in the white man a younger brother, a true
Brahman, whereupon he gave Romney a small bit of parchment, the size of
three postage-stamps, upon which was written a Sanscrit phrase, having
to do with the inspiration of the soul, and a few further marks which
even Romney, though he deciphered them, could not understand.
Thus was the coming of Rajananda and his passing likewise, for he asked
that he be carried forth at sundown, to the exact spot where they had
first seen the upraised head. There they placed the body upon the sand,
accepted a cold claw and a gesture to return to Nadiram. The Buddhist
then slept, the withered yellow cheek pressed upon the breast of his old
Mother, the desert.
The disquieting part of the whole affair was that Bamban appeared to
have acquired the habit of abasing himself in Romney's presence, though
more than ever his eyes avoided Anna Erivan's. The three returned to
the Consulate in the early darkness and Bamban's impulse to kow tow
again asserted itself on the flags of the court.
"Come, come, Bamban; get up and go to the Rest House for your supper.
I'm the same friend of yours--as always."
The Chinese obeyed, and Romney turned from where he stood in the court,
to the door-way. Anna Erivan stood there--as on the evening of his
arrival.
*14*
They sat down together in the deep shadow, for a time not thinking of
talk or food. Each felt a singular relief with the passing of Bamban,
and the excellent calm that the presence of Rajananda had left behind.
"Did you know he is not Chinese?" Romney said at last.
Anna Erivan shook her head.
"I just thought of it now--the name Rajananda, the Sanscrit on the
little parchment, the character of his sayings, though he spoke in
Chinese. Then he said I was Brahman.... There was much to say, much to
ask him. I don't see how I could have let him go without words--"
"One only thinks of listening when a holy man speaks."
The man smiled at her. "But the thought comes to me again and again
that he might have put me straight on the mission--that he is very high
in power, possibly of the Inner Temple--"
"You may meet him again--perhaps at Wampli. To-morrow you must go on--"
Romney did not resist the thought at this time. He looked about the low
stone room, at the forward door, toward the inner room and at the door
to the court.... It was like a call, a trial of strength. He had found
his own. It would be weak to tarry with a task undone.
"I will be safe," she said, as if following his thoughts.
"I think you will see me differently--if this thing is well done," he
told her. "I remember this morning in our misery over the old story,
the need of doing some great thing to show you that I was not that man
now, but I didn't relate it to going on to Wampli--"
"You are not the man of the Drift, as you call it. I see that, as you
said--a quick review of all the hells of life. You needed it. Nothing
so low as that which held him--" she pointed to the Forward Room,
"--could hold you.... You must go on to-morrow, but the separation is
not for you alone. Perhaps there is a dream that I must form in
readiness for action. It is hard for you to go--but as hard for the one
who must stay. No harder thing could be called from us. I think I
could not have endured it, except for the coming of the Holy Man. He
brought me strength before."
"But if, from the desert, that laughter should come at evening--"
She knelt before him an instant.
"I shall think of you and Rajananda--of your bringing back a sign for
the little ones. I shall think of the days ahead--our journey out of the
desert together--two on the dromedary--the task done--Nadiram behind
forever--"
The thought of the hyenas had unsteadied them in spite of her courage.
Hyenas meant Nadiram to Romney--and one white woman alone in the midst
of a town full of Orientals--bands of desert men passing
through--nothing but a Russian flag. He shivered. Anna Erivan arose to
get supper. They ate in silence. The thought of to-morrow was like a
gray mist between them again. They found themselves very tired; the
power of Rajananda slipped farther and farther from them. Often they
started to speak, but lost the impulse before the words came. Wampli
was inexorable. If Romney failed now, he knew he would find himself less
a man.
"It's no use. It's got to be done," he said impatiently at last, "but
they seem to be binding us closer to-night rather than making it easy--"
"They?" she whispered.
"Did I say _they_? I think I must have meant the Fates or something of
the kind. It isn't all wonder and exaltation--a meeting like this--and
yet if I fail to-morrow, I am not what I thought. My work seemed here
until you came to me--came running after me last night. Now that I have
you, I know that I must go--but there's something impassible in the
thought. I can't get over it. It's like walking along the edge of a
canyon--no wings, no bridge--"
"You will go," she whispered. "To-morrow you will see the way. It will
come with the morning sun. We are very tired to-night. We have been
everything to-day. It's like the little picture of a whole life. Why,
think of it--last night you were unconscious from weakness.... You must
go to your cot now--"
"Leave so soon--the last night?"
"We will arise early. We are helpless in the dark to-night. We can't
think. We are like two desolate beings, lost to each other.... I will
call you early--"
"My God, don't go so soon!"
Romney didn't know his own voice, didn't know the weakness that had come
to him. Her face seemed to be receding in the lamp-light.
"We are not sane!" she whispered. "Have you thought--that it is going
to be too much for us? You must go.... Oh, what shall we do?"
"Let us sit in silence together," he asked her.... "The last night--to
go apart so soon--"
"Do you not see that we must sleep to be sane? You must feel as I do.
We are wearing--wearing. The day has been terrible. This morning, as
you told me of that woman, I thought I should die. Even my Holy Man
only healed me for a little while. I think it is a madness--a man and
woman yearning like this. Words don't help. I look at you--and feel
far off. Your hand that I reach for only tells me that to-morrow you
must go. It seems nothing will do but--oh, I don't understand--I want
to lose myself in your arms. It seems as if all nature were driving me
to you--and that you were going away--"
He held her fast and understood it all as only a lover could, for she
seemed to be speaking from his own heart. Any separation between them
was poignant agony. He wanted to become identified with her--to lose
himself, as she expressed it--yet the horror of the coming day prevailed
upon his mind, making thoughts and words and even the movement of his
hands an indescribable heaviness.
"It seems there should be but two in a world at a time like this. Our
walk in the desert must have maddened me. I want some hill-country for
our Meeting. I want the desert ... I must go. If I do not sleep, I
shall not be strong."
"Do you think you can sleep?"
"I shall try. Perhaps--we are so exhausted."
They stood apart as if by common impulse, searching each other's eyes.
It was the deep look that passes but once between a man and a woman.
She drew back a little, saying quietly:
"It is not our hour."
And then a sudden pity seemed to come to her, akin to that which he had
met the night before--something from his face. She came to him.
"Oh, don't think it has anything to do with the world. I would have no
mere man tell us when we are one. It is nothing like that. Our marriage
must be made in a better place than earth--or else we are very far apart
and mad indeed. No man--none less than a saint, a master--could tell me
when I am your wife--oh, yes, our Holy Man--but I would not wait for
him. But don't you see--this is not the hour? Our hearts are broken.
I feel Nadiram heavy upon me like a low and appraising eye. This place
is full of the _old_. It belongs to the cries in the night--it belongs
to him of the Forward Room.... Listen, to-night we must rest, or we
will break to-morrow. I feel as if nothing mattered but strength for
to-morrow. Go to your room--yes, go to your room and bring your cot
here--"
"Anna--Anna!"
"Yes, and I will bring mine beside it--here beside it.... Yes, and we
shall lie down, hand in hand, and call upon our strength--and
rest--don't you remember?--like little children--"
It was in a kind of ecstasy that he moved about his room, making
ready--the sweetness of the woman overcoming every other thought. He
was hastening, yet he knew she would be longer in coming to the living
room. His love went forth to her, often his hand and his step stilled to
listen for her movement in the house. With a queer laugh, he realised
that she was calling forth from his heart a force that could never come
back to him--that she was necessary for life, that his days would be
very few if she were taken. He was forced into the lover's
establishment of every thought on an immortal basis. "Give all to
love"--he had not known what that meant, even last night.
His hand touched something soft and clinging in the saddle-bags. He did
not draw it forth at once, but knelt beside it, covering his eyes with
his free hand. It was the crumpled bit of chiffon that he had carried
so long and forgotten so remotely of late.... He held it in his hand.
It was very dry and thin--a little dusty from the bag. Many pictures
rushed through his mind--from Longstruth's to the house of Dr. Ti Kung.
It had gone down into the Drift with him, and come up to this hour. It
was done. It was good. He touched it to his cheek, and held it to the
candle-flame, breathing a blessing upon the woman who had stood head and
shoulders above her beloved in the doorway of Minglapo's house.
He folded the blankets and carried forth his cot to the living-room.
The little dining-table was thrust back to the wall. The open fire was
burning low, the lamp was set apart.
"I am almost ready," she called.
"May I not come to help you with your cot?" he answered.
"In a moment. I will let you know."
He went to the pitcher and drank a cup of cool water, then stood
motionless beside the table until her trailing voice:
"Now you may come in."