The Yellow Flower
The girl sat in a great chair before the fire, huddled, staringinto the glow of the smoldering logs.Her dark hair clouded her face. The evening gown was twisted andcrumpled about her. There was no ornament on her; her arms, hershoulders, the exquisite column of her throat were bare.She sat with her eyes wide, unmoving, in a profound reflection.The library was softly lighted; richly furnished, a little beyondthe permission of good taste. On a table at the girl's elbowwere two objects; a ruby necklace, and a dried flower. Theflower, fragile with age, seemed a sort of scrub poppy of adelicate yellow; the flower of some dwarfed bush, prickly like acactus.The necklace made a great heap of jewels on the buhl top of thetable, above the intricate arabesque of silver andtortoise-shell.It was nearly midnight. Outside, the dull rumble of Londonseemed a sound, continuous, unvarying, as though it were thedistant roar of a world turning in some stellar space.It was a great old house in Park Lane, heavy and of that gloomyarchitecture with which the feeling of the English people, at anearlier time, had been so strangely in accord. It stood beforeSt. James's Park oppressive and monumental, and now in the midstof yellow fog its heavy front was like a mausoleum.But within, the house had been treated to a modern re-casting,not entirely independent of the vanity of wealth.After the dinner at the Ritz, the girl felt that she could not goon; and Lady Mary's party, on its way to the dancing, put herdown at the door. She gave the excuse of a crippling headache.But it was a deeper, more profound aching that disturbed her.She was before the tragic hour, appearing in the lives of manywomen, when suddenly, as by the opening of a door, one realizesthe irrevocable aspect of a marriage of which the details arebeginning to be arranged. That hour in which a woman mustconsider, finally, the clipping of all threads, except the singleone that shall cord her to a mate for life.Until to-night, in spite of preparations on the way, the girl hadnot felt this marriage as inevitable. Her aunt had pressed forit, subtly, invisibly, as an older woman is able to do.Her situation was always, clearly before her. She was alone inthe world; with very little, almost nothing. The estate herfather inherited he had finally spent in making greatexplorations. There was no unknown taste of the world that hehad not undertaken to enter. The final driblets of his fortunehad gone into his last adventure in the Great Gobi Desert fromwhich he had never returned.The girl had been taken by this aunt in London, incredibly rich,but on the fringes of the fashionable society of England, whichshe longed to enter. Even to the young girl, her aunt's plan wasvisible. With a great settlement, such as this ambitious womancould manage, the girl could be a duchess.The marriage to Lord Eckhart in the diplomatic service, who wouldone day be a peer of England, had been a lure dangledunavailingly before her, until that night, when, on his returnfrom India, he had carried her off her feet with his amazingincredible sacrifice. It was the immense idealism, the immenseromance of it that had swept her into this irrevocable thing.She got up now, swiftly, as though she would again realize howthe thing had happened and stooped over the table above the heapof jewels. They were great pigeon-blood rubies, twenty-seven ofthem, fastened together with ancient crude gold work. She liftedthe long necklace until it hung with the last jewel on the table.The thing was a treasure, an immense, incredible treasure. Andit was for this - for the privilege of putting this into herhands, that the man had sold everything he had in England - andendured what the gossips said - endured it during the five yearsin India - kept silent and was now silent. She remembered everydetail the rumor of a wild life, a dissolute reckless life, thegradual, piece by piece sale of everything that could be turnedinto money. London could not think of a ne'er-do-well to equalhim in the memory of its oldest gossips - and all the time withevery penny, he was putting together this immense treasure - forher. A dreamer writing a romance might imagine a thing likethis, but had it any equal in the realities of life?She looked down at the chain of great jewels, and the fragment ofprickly shrub with its poppy-shaped yellow flower. They weresymbols, each, of an immense idealism, an immense conception ofsacrifice that lifted the actors in their dramas into giganticfigures illumined with the halos of romance.Until to-night it had been this ideal figure of Lord Eckhart thatthe girl considered in this marriage. And to-night, suddenly,the actual physical man had replaced it. And, alarmed, she haddrawn back. Perhaps it was the Teutonic blood in him - agrandmother of a German house. And, yet, who could say, perhapsthis piece of consuming idealism was from that ancient extinctGermany of Beethoven.But the man and the ideal seemed distinct things having norelation. She drew back from the one, and she stood on tip-toe,with arms extended longingly toward the other.What should she do?Had the example of her father thrown on Lord Eckhart a goldenshadow? She moved the bit of flower, gently as in a caress. Hehad given up the income of a leading profession and gone to hisdeath. His fortune and his life had gone in the same highcareless manner for the thing he sought. For the treasure thathe believed lay in the Gobi Desert - not for himself, but forevery man to be born into the world. He was the great dreamer,the great idealist, a vague shining figure before the girl likethe cloud in the Hebraic Myth.The girl stood up and linked her fingers together behind herback. If her father were only here - for an hour, for a moment!Or if, in the world beyond sight and hearing, he could somehowget a message to her!At this moment a bell, somewhere in the deeps of the house,jangled, and she heard the old butler moving through the hall tothe door. The other servants had been dismissed for the night,and her aunt on the preliminaries of this marriage was in Paris.A moment later the butler appeared with a card on his tray. Itwas a card newly engraved in some English shop and bore the name"Dr. Tsan-Sgam." The girl stood for a moment puzzled at thequeer name, and then the memory of the strange outlandish humancreatures, from the ends of the world, who used sometimes tovisit her father, in the old time, returned, and with it therecame a sudden upward sweep of the heart - was there an answer toher longing, somehow, incredibly on the way!She gave a direction for the visitor to be brought in. He was abig old man. His body looked long and muscular like that of sometype of Englishmen, but his head and his features were Mongolian.He was entirely bald, as bald as the palm of a hand, as thoughbald from his mother he had so remained to this incredible age.And age was the impression that he profoundly presented. But itwas age that a tough vitality in the man resisted; as though theassault of time wore it down slowly and with almost animperceptible detritus. The great naked head and the wideMongolian face were unshrunken; they presented, rather, theaspect of some old child. "He was dressed with extreme care, inthe very best evening clothes that one could buy in a Londonshop.He bowed, oddly, with a slow doubling of the body, and when hespoke the girl felt that he was translating his words throughmore than one language; as though one were to put one's sentencesinto French or Italian and from that, as a sort of intermediary,into English - as though the way were long, and unfamiliar fromthe medium in which the man thought to the one in which he wasundertaking to express it. But at the end of this involvedmental process his English sentences appeared correctly, and withan accurate selection in the words."You must pardon the hour, Miss Carstair," he said, in his slow,precise articulation, "but I am required to see you and it is theonly time I have."Then his eyes caught the necklace on the table, and advancingwith two steps he stooped over it.For a moment everything else seemed removed, from about the man.His angular body, in its unfamiliar dress, was doubled like afinger; his great head with its wide Mongolian face was closedown over the buhl top of the table and his finger moved the heapof rubies.The girl had a sudden inspiration."Lord Eckhart got these jewels from you?"The man paused, he seemed to be moving the girl's words backwardthrough the intervening languages.Then he replied."Yes," he said, "from us."The girl's inspiration was now illumined by a further light."And you have not been paid for them?"The man stood up now. And again this involved process of movingthe words back through various translations was visible - and theanswer up."Yes - " he said, "we have been paid."Then he added, in explanation of his act."These rubies have no equal in the world - and the gold-workattaching them together is extremely old. I am always curious toadmire it."He looked down at the girl, at the necklace, at the space aboutthem, as though he were deeply, profoundly puzzled."We had a fear," he said, " - it was wrong!"Then he put his hand swiftly into the bosom pocket of his eveningcoat, took out a thin packet wrapped in a piece of vellum andhanded it to the girl."It became necessary to treat with the English Government aboutthe removal of records from Lhassa and I was sent - I wasdirected to get this packet to you from London. To-night, atdinner with Sir Henry Marquis in St. James's Square, I learnedthat you were here. I had then only this hour to come, as myboat leaves in the morning." He spoke with the extreme care ofone putting together a delicate mosaic.The girl stood staring at the thin packet. A single thoughtalone consumed her."It is a message from - my - father."She spoke almost in a whisper.The big Oriental replied immediately."No," he said, "your father is beyond sight and hearing."The girl had no hope; only the will to hope. The reply wasconfirmation of what she already knew. She removed the thinvellum wrapper from the packet. Within she found a drawing on aplate of ivory. It represented a shaft of some white stonestanding on the slight elevation of what seemed to be a barrenplateau. And below on the plate, in fine English characters likean engraving, was the legend, "Erected to the memory of MajorJudson Carstair by the monastery at the Head."The man added a word of explanation."The Brotherhood thought that you would wish to know that yourfather's body had been recovered, and that it had receivedChristian burial, as nearly as we were able to interpret theforms. The stone is a sort of granite."The girl wished to ask a thousand questions: How did her fathermeet his death, and where? What did they know? What had theyrecovered with his body?The girl spoke impulsively, her words crowding one another. Andthe Oriental seemed able only to disengage the last query fromthe others."Unfortunately," he said, "some band of the desert people hadpassed before our expedition arrived, nothing was recovered butthe body. It was not mutilated."They had been standing. The girl now indicated the big librarychair in which she had been huddled and got another for herself.Then she wished to know what they had learned about her father'sdeath.The Oriental sat down. He sat awkwardly, his big body, in a kindof squat posture, the broad Mongolian face emerging, as in a sortof deformity, from the collar of his evening coat. Then he beganto speak, with that conscious effect of bringing his wordsthrough various mediums from a distance."We endeavored to discourage Major Carstair from undertaking thisadventure. We were greatly concerned about his safety. Thesunken plateau of the Gobi Desert, north of the Shan States, isexceedingly dangerous for an European, not so much on account ofmurderous attacks from the desert people, for this peril we couldprevent; but there is a chill in this sunken plain after sunsetthat the native people only can resist. No white man has evercrossed the low land of the Gobi."He paused."And there is in fact no reason why any one should wish to crossit. It is absolutely barren. We pointed out all this verycarefully to Major Carstair when we learned what he had in plan,for as I have said his welfare was very pressingly on ourconscience. We were profoundly puzzled about what he was seekingin the Gobi. He was not, evidently, intending to plot the regionor to survey any route, or to acquire any scientific data. Hisequipment lacked all the implements for such work. It was a longtime before we understood the impulse that was moving MajorCarstair to enter this waste region of the Gobi to the north."The man stopped, and sat for some moments quite motionless."Your father," he went on, "was a distinguished man in one of thedepartments of human endeavor which the East has alwaysneglected; and in it he had what seemed to us incredible skill -with ease he was able to do things which we consideredimpossible. And for this reason the impulse taking him into theGobi seemed entirely incredible to us; it seemed entirelyinconsistent with this special ability which we knew the man topossess; and for a long time we rejected it, believing ourselvesto be somehow misled."The girl sat straight and silent, in her chair near the brassfender to the right of the buhl table; the drawing, showing thewhite granite shaft, held idly in her fingers; the illuminatedvellum wrapper fallen to the floor.The man continued speaking slowly."When, finally, it was borne in upon us that Major Carstair wasseeking a treasure somewhere on the barren plateau of the Gobi,we took every measure, consistent with a proper courtesy, to showhim how fantastic this notion was. We had, in fact, to exercisea certain care lest the very absurdity of the conception appeartoo conspicuously in our discourse."He looked across the table at the girl.The man's great bald head seemed to sink a little into his,shoulders, as in some relaxation."We brought out our maps of the region and showed him the oldroutes and trails veining the whole of it. We explained thetopography of this desert plateau; the exact physical characterof its relief. There was hardly a square mile of it that we didnot know in some degree, and of which we did not possess somefairly accurate data. It was entirely inconceivable that anyobject of value could exist in this region without our knowledgeof it."The man was speaking like one engaged in some extremely delicatemechanical affair, requiring an accurracy almost painful in itsexactness."Then, profoundly puzzled, we endeavored to discover what dataMajor Carstair possessed that could in any way encourage him inthis fantastic idea. It was a difficult thing to do, for we heldhim in the highest esteem and, outside of this bizarre notion, wehad before us, beyond any question, the evidence of his especialknowledge; and, as I have said, his, to us, incredible skill."He paused, as though the careful structure of the long sentencehad fatigued him."Major Carstair's explanations were always in the imagery ofromance. He sought `a treasure - a treasure that would destroy aKingdom.' And his indicatory data seemed to be the dried blossomof our desert poppy."Again the Oriental paused. He put up his hand and passed hisfingers over his face. The gaunt hand contrasted with the fullcontour."I confess that we did not know what to do. We realized that wehad to deal with a nature possessing in one direction the exactaccurate knowledge of a man of science, and in another the wonderextravagances of a child. The Dalai Lama was not yet able to beconsulted, and it seemed to us a better plan to say no more aboutthe impossible treasure, and address our endeavors to thepractical side of Major Carstair's intelligence instead. We nowpointed out the physical dangers of the region. The deadly chillin it coming on at sunset could not fail to inflame the lungs ofa European, accustomed to an equable temperature, fever wouldfollow; and within a few days the unfortunate victim would findhis whole breathing space fatally congested."The man removed his hand. The care in his articulation wasmarked."Major Carstair was not turned aside by these facts, and wepermitted him to go on."Again he paused as though troubled by a memory."In this course," he continued, "the Dalai Lama considered us tohave acted at the extreme of folly. But it is to be remembered,in our behalf, that somewhat of the wonder at Major Carstair'sknowledge of Western science dealing with the human body was onus, and we felt that perhaps the climatic peril of the Gobi mightpresent no difficult problem to him."We were fatally misled."Then he added."We were careful to direct him along the highest route of theplateau, and to have his expedition followed. But chanceintervened. Major Carstair turned out of the route and ourpatrol went on, supposing him to be ahead on the course which wehad indicated to him. When the error was at last discovered, ourpatrol was entering the Sirke range. No one could say at whatpoint on the route Major Carstair had turned out, and our searchof the vast waste of the Gobi desert began. The high wind on theplateau removes every trace of human travel. The whole of theregion from the Sirke, south, had to be gone over. It took along time."The man stopped like one who has finished a story. The girl hadnot moved; her face was strained and white. The fog outside hadthickened; the sounds of the city seemed distant. The girl hadlistened without a word, without a gesture. Now she spoke."But why were you so concerned about my father?"The big Oriental turned about in the chair. He looked steadilyat the girl, he seemed to be treating the query to his involvedmethod of translation; and Miss Carstair felt that the man,because of this tedious mental process, might have difficulty tounderstand precisely what she meant.What he wished to say, he could control and, therefore, couldaccurately present - but what was said to him began in thedistant language."What Major Carstair did," he said, "it has not been made clearto you?""No," she replied, "I do not understand."The man seemed puzzled."You have not understood!"He repeated the sentence; his face reflective, his great barehead settling into the collar of his evening coat as though theman's neck were removed.He remained for a moment thus puzzled and reflective. Then hebegan to speak as one would set in motion some delicate involvedmachinery running away into the hidden spaces of a workshop."The Dalai Lama had fallen - he was alone in the Image Room. Hishead striking the sharp edge of a table was cut. He had lost agreat deal of blood when we found him and was close to death.Major Carstair was at this time approaching the monastery fromthe south; his description sent to us from Lhassa contained thestatement that he was an American surgeon. We sent at onceasking him to visit the Dalai Lama, for the skill of Westernpeople in this department of human knowledge is known to us."The Oriental went on, slowly, with extreme care."Major Carstair did not at once impress us. `What this manneeds,' he said, `is blood.' That was clear to everybody. Oneof our, how shall I say it in your language, Cardinals, repliedwith some bitterness, that the Dalai Lama could hardly beimagined to lack anything else. Major Carstair paid no attentionto the irony. `This man must have a supply of blood,' he added.The Cardinal, very old, and given to imagery in his discourseanswered, that blood could be poured out but it could not begathered up . . . and that man could spill it but only God couldmake."We interrupted then, for Major Carstair was our guest andentitled to every courtesy, and inquired how it would be possibleto restore blood to the Dalai Lama; it was not conceivable thatthe lost blood could be gathered up."He explained then that he would transfer it from the veins of ahealthy man into the unconscious body."The Oriental hesitated; then he went on."The thing seemed to us fantastic. But our text treating thelife of the Dalai Lama admits of no doubt upon one point - `nomeasure presenting itself in extremity can be withheld.' He wasin clear extremity and this measure, even though of foreignorigin, had presented itself, and we felt after a briefreflection that we were bound to permit it."He added."The result was a miracle to us. In a short time the Dalai Lamahad recovered. But in the meantime Major Carstair had gone oninto the Gobi seeking the fantastic treasure."The girl turned toward the man, a wide-eyed, eager, lighted face."Do you realize," she said, "the sort of treasure that my fathersacrificed his life to search for?"The Oriental spoke slowly."It was to destroy a Kingdom," he said."To destroy the Kingdom of Pain!" She replied, "My father wasseeking an anesthetic more powerful than the derivatives ofdomestic opium. He searched the world for it. In the little,wild desert flower lay, he thought, the essence of this treasure.And he would seek it at any cost. Fortune was nothing; life wasnothing. Is it any wonder that you could not stop him? Aflaming sword moving at the entrance to the Gobi could not havebarred him out!"The big Oriental made a vague gesture as of one removingsomething clinging to his face."Wherefore this blindness?" he said.The girl had turned away in an effort to control the emotion thatpossessed her. But the task was greater than her strength; whenshe came back to the table tears welled up in her eyes andtrickled down her face. Emotion seemed now to overcome her."If my father were only here," her voice was broken, "if he wereonly here!"The big Oriental moved his whole body, as by one motion, towardher. The house was very still; there was only the faintcrackling of the logs on the fire."We had a fear," he said. "It remains!"The girl went over and stood before the fire, her foot on thebrass fender, her fingers linked behind her back. For sometimeshe was silent. Finally she spoke, without turning her head, ina low voice."You know Lord Eckhart?"A strange expression passed over the Oriental's face."Yes, when Lhassa was entered, the Head moved north to ourmonastery on the edge of the Gobi - the English sovereigntyextends to the Kahn line. Lord Eckhart was the political agentof the English government in the province nearest to us."When the girl got up, the Oriental also rose. He stoodawkwardly, his body stooped; his hand as for support resting onthe corner of the table. The girl spoke again, in the sameposture. Her face toward the fire."How do you feel about Lord Eckhart?""Feel!" The man repeated the word.He hesitated a little."We trusted Lord Eckhart. We have found all English honorable.""Lord Eckhart is partly German," the girl went on.The man's voice in reply was like a foot-note to a discourse."Ah!" He drawled the expletive as though it were some Orientalword.The girl continued. "You have perhaps heard that a marriage isarranged between us."Her voice was steady, low, without emotion.For a long time there was utter silence in the room.Then, finally, when the Oriental spoke his voice had changed. Itwas gentle, and packed with sympathy. It was like a voice withinthe gate of a confessional."Do you love him?" it said."I do not know."The vast sympathy in the voice continued. "You do not know? - itis impossible! Love is or it is not. It is the longing ofelements torn asunder, at the beginning of things, to berejoined."The girl turned swiftly, her body erect, her face lifted."But this great act," she cried. "My father, I, all of ourblood, are moved by romance - by the romance of sacrifice. Lookhow my father died seeking an antidote for the pain of the world.How shall I meet this sacrifice of Lord Eckhart?"Something strange began to dawn in the wide Mongolian face."What sacrifice?"The girl came over swiftly to the table. She scattered the massof jewels with a swift gesture."Did he not give everything he possessed, everything piece bypiece, for this?"She took the necklace up and twisted it around her fingers. Herhands appeared to be a mass of rubies.A great light came into the Oriental's face."The necklace," he said, "is a present to you from the DalaiLama. It was entrusted to Lord Eckhart to deliver."
zpostcode
Recruit
weather
mreligion
Yellowpages
sport
constellation
shopping
name
game
directory
literature
Word
tour
furnish
Lottery
tftnews
lyrics
News
digital
car
dir
Edu
Finance
