Routledge rides alone

No one hurried a destroyer after this torpedo of a man, the “Horse-killer.” Now and then a Bingley bullet, when it is not aimed too accurately, gives a tired man a rest which his energy would not permit by any less drastic measure. Certain heroic temperaments must needs receive a jolt every little while to force them to lie down.

There are two kinds of men in the world—those who have a sense of brotherhood, and those whose every thought is an explosion designed to increase their own personal impetus. The one makes war; the other peace. Perhaps the ultimate relation between the two is suggested in the race for the cable—and its result.

Routledge healed in a month, and incidentally found his first rest in years. Noreen was with him—a tremendous thing. The two had been long apart, pent and hungering.... Meanwhile, the world read and commented upon the great story of Liaoyang. Bingley’s story led in London.

On their last day in Shanhaikwan, they walked along the Wall—Routledge and Noreen—and that night were together in the Yellow Sea. The ship was the Tung Shing, a little steamer that breasted the waves in her own way, but quite correctly. So clean and clever was she, that everyone was refreshed. There were no distractions, nor counter-attractions, and every night-view was beautiful. The loom of the Wu Tung light was over the shoulder of the East, and a cliff to avoid on the starboard. A rising wind decided not to bother, and boomed away north, before the near sea was aroused to a fit of temper.

Routledge was so happy that he did not care for utterance. Noreen drank the chill breeze in silence for a long time. Once she placed her hand upon the sleeve of the great frieze coat.... Thus they sailed down the variegated and populous coast of China—a different breath from every big and little harbor. Noreen caught them all and was glad, divining far at sea the places she had tarried, but Routledge was Asia and countless continents to her. One night when only the pilot and the ship-lights and themselves were burning, the thought came to embrace—but they refrained.

Presently they were down to Singapore; then across to Calcutta, where the Ganges opens her mighty throats to the sea; then up by devious travels—to catch the breath of the Hills after the Heats. Morning and nightfall, Routledge looked down into Noreen’s eyes and found his world. Night-winds of India soothed them, though apart. And they had their thoughts of the day’s travel together.

At length, up over the crest of the world in their wanderings, they looked, from the amethyst Himalayas, down upon that strange dead civilization of China, a vista for eagles. Tight in the heart of it was the Leper Valley.

This is reached by one of the lost trails of the world. A few gallant explorers have picked the way, but failed to publish since the people would think such a report a fiction, and their reputations for veracity be broken. Traders pass the rim of the gap regularly, but do not know it.

Routledge had learned it from a Sannyasi. The way is tortuous and a bit perilous, so he arranged for Noreen and himself to follow a party of traders. Among these men was a Boy. There was cleanness in his gray eye, and you could not think of taint and look at his cheeks so ruddy under the tan. The Boy searched Noreen’s face with the guilelessness of a child and the valor of a man. When he rode beside her, the air that she breathed was new.

Of course the saddle was torture to her, a cumulative torture with the hours, but it was only physical, and night bore down with the sleep of healing, from the twilight of evening to the twilight of dawn. The journey melted into a strange composite of cool mountain winds; brief, warm showers which released the fragrance of the valleys; humans in dim doors and upon the highways, held, as they passed, in tableaux of freezing horror—suffering, sunlight, sleep. And always ancient China unfolded greater vistas of hills, fields, huts, and glowering yellow faces; and always the Boy walked beside and served—a ragged chaperon.

Routledge would smile on his way and note the large relation. The traders, too, were respectful—brave men whom the Open had kept mainly pure. There is a curse upon a white man in Asia, if he relaxes.

Once the Boy said: “Don’t be afraid, lady. This is the sleepiest part of China. Any way, I would take care of you.”

Routledge bent over from his mount and patted the Boy’s shoulder.

They parted by the wayside with a smile—the Boy and Noreen. She proffered him her purse, but he answered:

“I don’t want that. But any time I can help you—hail out! What are you going to do—stopping off here?”

She threw a kiss to him, but did not answer. The traders were far ahead, and the Boy turned his back.

“The world has gone,” Noreen said, after they had walked long through a tangled way. “Look below.”

“Yes—the Leper Valley—our bravest man!”

It was mid-afternoon. Routledge paused at the verge of a steep declivity, and they saw a radiant hollow evenly rimmed by mountains on every side. A lake gleamed at the bottom of this finger-bowl of the Gods, and moist tropical perfumes were borne softly upward with a far sound of bells—faint as the tinkle of drops of water falling upon thin metal.

And together they went down into the fragrance. Noreen could feel her heart; she could feel her soul; and too there was an enchanting beauty in this delve of the world. It sustained. It was so wonderful—like a child laughing alone in paradise! There was a sound of chimes in the vast silence, and God seemed to speak above.

The thatches below were trimmed and even. There were spaces between them, and from the heights these spaces had the clean look of a brown polished floor. There was depth and purity in the green of the lake, and the little temple, in the midst of its gardens, was white as Truth.

They were in a swept and shaded village. The woman was walking swiftly, her lips parted, her eyes feverishly bright. Routledge laughed quietly at her ardor to see the man whom his heart knew to be there and always waiting. The huts seemed deserted, except for those who could not leave.

A voice reached them at last—the voice that had echoed through the inner consciousness of each so long.... His back was toward them. The people upon the earth before him, they did not see—save as factors of the scene. Swiftly they moved forward now.

Rawder’s hand was raised in the sunlight. It was slender, nervously responsive to his emotion—but whole, whole! A little way off they halted, inspired by a glimpse of his profile.... It was the face of the man who had climbed to the roof of the world, lived through ice and flame; it was sun-darkened, storm-bitten, gaunt from suffering under the irons of self-repression, mystical in its manifestation of a cosmos within. It was the face of an exile who has felt the hate of man, the absence of women, and the Presence of God. And it was whole, whole.

He turned suddenly and saw the two standing together. There was something beautiful in his bewilderment, and in the expression of sadness which followed—since this was to be his last meeting with Routledge. A gesture, and the lowly ones were dismissed; and when the temple-court was empty, save for the Three—they joined hands.

Whispering, he led them into the temple gardens at the edge of the lake. The water was glorified in the sunset, and by the stones of his doorway the drowsy lilies drank the last rays. Magicians of ancient and wondrous patience had conserved the verdure and mastered the flowerings. There were none but flawless leaves and none but classic blooms. The pebbles on the shore had been touched into mosaics, and the vines which fixed the coolness in the stones of his dwelling had seemingly been guided into perfection by fingers in the night. Out of love his people served him; out of love they had charmed a fountain from the ground near his doorway; placed sounding-shells to lure music from the dropping water, and forced Emperor roses lavishly to arise and shelter and perfume his bathing-place.

“All these things my people have done for me, blessed friends,” Rawder said, “and all I asked when I came was to share a hut with the least of them.”

At the arbored doorway, he stepped aside and bowed their entrance. Far within a figure moved to and fro without a sound.

The perfection of the little home in the gardens of the temple was like singing in the hearts of the lovers.... As they entered, the Name, marvellously intoned, reached them from the figure which had moved but a moment before, but they could not see clearly in the dim twilight. When the candles were brought, Routledge found that it was Sekar, the Hindu Master. So ancient and withered was he, that his sitting erect on a mat of kusa grass seemed a miracle.

Rawder served them with food and drink; and afterward, outside, the Three talked long at the edge of the fountain. Always, from within, they heard the ineffable syllable, OM, at intervals, like a distant sound of the sea on a rocky beach. From the huts of the afflicted there was steady silence.

At last the meditation was broken, and they heard quaveringly from Sekar within these words in Tibetan. Rawder translated hastily:

“My son, my chela!... To-morrow we arise and ascend the goodly mountains to our Long Home. We are very weary, and I have seen that our work is finished here.”

The Three entered. Sekar beheld them. After a moment, Sekar spoke:

“And this is the friend of my chela; and this, the woman?”

Rawder bowed.

“To-morrow, in the first light,” the Hindu said fervently, “my chela and I depart for the Hills where the Snows are—where none may follow. And you, man and woman, go back to the world.”

Noreen turned a quick glance from Routledge to Rawder. “Ask him,” she said swiftly to the latter, “if there is not a great work for us to do here in the Leper Valley!”

The face of the bravest man was frightened, ghastly, as he interpreted. The eyes of Routledge were fixed upon the woman as never before.

“No,” the Hindu said. “We have left our disciples here among the Chinese. The Valley will be sweetened by them. You, man and woman, have a greater work in the world, as my chela and I have a greater work—far above the world!”

Deep into the night the Three listened to the music of the fountain, in the pure ardor of the lilies; and there was a moment in which Rawder wept.... In the full light of morning, the Four were at the parting of their ways.

“Remember,” said the bravest man, “always, to you both, whom I have had the joy to make One, goes out constantly—the dearest of my heart—from the Hills or from the Stars!”

Routledge and Noreen watched, as he helped his Master—until the two were lost in the winding, rising trail. Then they looked down, a last time, upon the silence and sunrise which brooded upon the Leper Valley.

END.