THE COLLECTED EDITION OF
THE WORKS OF W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM





_W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM_




THE
PAINTED VEIL



LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN LTD




". . . _the painted veil which those who live call Life._"




PREFACE


This story was suggested by the lines of Dante that run
as follows:


_Deh, quando tu sarai tornato al mondo,
E riposato della lunga via,
Seguitò 'l terzo spirito al secondo,
Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia:
Siena mi fé; disfecemi Maremma:
Salsi colui, che, 'nnanellata pria
Disposando m'avea con la sua gemma._


"Pray, when you are returned to the world, and rested
from the long journey," followed the third spirit on the
second, "remember me, who am Pia. Siena made me,
Maremma unmade me: this he knows who after
betrothal espoused me with his ring."


I was a student at St. Thomas's Hospital and the Easter vacation gave me
six weeks to myself. With my clothes in a gladstone bag and twenty
pounds in my pocket I set out. I was twenty. I went to Genoa and Pisa
and then to Florence. Here I took a room in the via Laura, from the
window of which I could see the lovely dome of the Cathedral, in the
apartment of a widow lady, with a daughter, who offered me board and
lodging (after a good deal of haggling) for four lire a day. I am afraid
that she did not make a very good thing out of it, since my appetite was
enormous, and I could devour a mountain of macaroni without
inconvenience. She had a vineyard on the Tuscan hills, and my
recollection is that the Chianti she got from it was the best I have
ever drunk in Italy. Her daughter gave me an Italian lesson every day.
She seemed to me then of mature age, but I do not suppose that she was
more than twenty-six. She had had trouble. Her betrothed, an officer,
had been killed in Abyssinia and she was consecrated to virginity. It
was an understood thing that on her mother's death (a buxom,
grey-haired, jovial lady who did not mean to die a day before the dear
Lord saw fit) Ersilia would enter religion. But she looked forward to
this with cheerfulness. She loved a good laugh. We were very gay at
luncheon and dinner, but she took her lessons seriously, and when I was
stupid or inattentive rapped me over the knuckles with a black ruler. I
should have been indignant at being treated like a child if it had not
reminded me of the old-fashioned pedagogues I had read of in books and
so made me laugh.

I lived laborious days. I started each one by translating a few pages of
one of Ibsen's plays so that I might acquire mastery of technique and
ease in writing dialogue; then, with Ruskin in my hand, I examined the
sights of Florence. I admired according to instructions the tower of
Giotto and the bronze doors of Ghiberti. I was properly enthusiastic
over the Botticellis in the Uffizi and I turned the scornful shoulder of
extreme youth on what the master disapproved of. After luncheon I had my
Italian lesson and then going out once more I visited the churches and
wandered day-dreaming along the Arno. When dinner was done I went out to
look for adventure, but such was my innocence, or at least my shyness, I
always came home as virtuous as I had gone out. The Signora, though she
had given me a key, sighed with relief when she heard me come in and
bolt the door, for she was always afraid I should forget to do this, and
I returned to my perusal of the history of the Guelphs and Ghibellines.
I was bitterly conscious that not thus behaved the writers of the
romantic era, though I doubt whether any of them managed to spend six
weeks in Italy on twenty pounds, and I much enjoyed my sober and
industrious life.

I had already read the Inferno (with the help of a translation, but
conscientiously looking out in a dictionary the words I did not know),
so with Ersilia started on the Purgatorio. When we came to the passage I
have quoted above she told me that Pia was a gentlewoman of Siena whose
husband, suspecting her of adultery and afraid on account of her family
to put her to death, took her down to his castle in the Maremma the
noxious vapours of which he was confident would do the trick; but she
took so long to die that he grew impatient and had her thrown out of the
window. I do not know where Ersilia learnt all this, the note in my own
Dante was less circumstantial, but the story for some reason caught my
imagination. I turned it over in my mind and for many years from time to
time would brood over it for two or three days. I used to repeat to
myself the line: _Siena mi fé; disfecemi Maremma_. But it was one among
many subjects that occupied my fancy and for long periods I forgot it.
Of course I saw it as a modern story, and I could not think of a setting
in the world of to-day in which such events might plausibly happen. It
was not till I made a long journey in China that I found this.

I think this is the only novel I have written in which I started from a
story rather than from a character. It is difficult to explain the
relation between character and plot. You cannot very well think of a
character in the void; the moment you think of him, you think of him in
some situation, doing something; so that the character and at least his
principle action seem to be the result of a simultaneous act of the
imagination. But in this case the characters were chosen to fit the
story I gradually evolved; they were constructed from persons I had long
known in different circumstances.

I had with this book some of the difficulties that are apt to befall an
author. I had originally called my hero and heroine Lane, a common
enough name, but it appeared that there were people of that name in
Hong-Kong. They brought an action, which the proprietors of the magazine
in which my novel was serialised, settled for two hundred and fifty
pounds, and I changed the name to Fane. Then the Assistant Colonial
Secretary, thinking himself libelled, threatened to institute
proceedings. I was surprised, since in England we can put a Prime
Minister on the stage or use him as the character of a novel, an
Archbishop of Canterbury or a Lord Chancellor, and the tenants of these
exalted offices do not turn a hair. It seemed to me strange that the
temporary occupant of so insignificant a post should think himself aimed
at, but in order to save trouble I changed Hong-Kong to an imaginary
colony of Tching-Yen. The book had already been published when the
incident arose and was recalled. A certain number of astute reviewers
who had received it did not on one pretext and another return their
copies. These have now acquired a bibliographical value, I think there
are about sixty of them in existence, and are bought by collectors at a
high price.




THE PAINTED VEIL




_i_


She gave a startled cry.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

Notwithstanding the darkness of the shuttered room he saw her face on a
sudden distraught with terror.

"Some one just tried the door."

"Well, perhaps it was the amah, or one of the boys."

"They never come at this time. They know I always sleep after tiffin."

"Who else could it be?"

"Walter," she whispered, her lips trembling.

She pointed to his shoes. He tried to put them on, but his nervousness,
for her alarm was affecting him, made him clumsy, and besides, they were
on the tight side. With a faint gasp of impatience she gave him a
shoe-horn. She slipped into a kimono and in her bare feet went over to
her dressing-table. Her hair was shingled and with a comb she had
repaired its disorder before he had laced his second shoe. She handed
him his coat.

"How shall I get out?"

"You'd better wait a bit. I'll look out and see that it's all right."

"It can't possibly be Walter. He doesn't leave the laboratory till
five."

"Who is it then?"

They spoke in whispers now. She was quaking. It occurred to him that in
an emergency she would lose her head and on a sudden he felt angry with
her. If it wasn't safe why the devil had she said it was? She caught her
breath and put her hand on his arm. He followed the direction of her
glance. They stood facing the windows that led out on the verandah. They
were shuttered and the shutters were bolted. They saw the white china
knob of the handle slowly turn. They had heard no one walk along the
verandah. It was terrifying to see that silent motion. A minute passed
and there was no sound. Then, with the ghastliness of the supernatural,
in the same stealthy, noiseless and horrifying manner, they saw the
white china knob of the handle at the other window turn also. It was so
frightening that Kitty, her nerves failing her, opened her mouth to
scream; but, seeing what she was going to do, he swiftly put his hand
over it and her cry was smothered in his fingers.

Silence. She leaned against him, her knees shaking, and he was afraid
she would faint. Frowning, his jaw set, he carried her to the bed and
sat her down upon it. She was as white as the sheet and notwithstanding
his tan his cheeks were pale too. He stood by her side looking with
fascinated gaze at the china knob. They did not speak. Then he saw that
she was crying.

"For God's sake don't do that," he whispered irritably. "If we're in for
it we're in for it. We shall just have to brazen it out."

She looked for her handkerchief and knowing what she wanted he gave her
bag.

"Where's your topee?"

"I left it downstairs."

"Oh, my God!"

"I say, you must pull yourself together. It's a hundred to one it wasn't
Walter. Why on earth should he come back at this hour? He never does
come home in the middle of the day, does he?"

"Never."

"I'll bet you anything you like it was the amah."

She gave him the shadow of a smile. His rich, caressing voice reassured
her and she took his hand and affectionately pressed it. He gave her a
moment to collect herself.

"Look here, we can't stay here for ever," he said then. "Do you feel up
to going out on the verandah and having a look?"

"I don't think I can stand."

"Have you got any brandy in here?"

She shook her head. A frown for an instant darkened his brow, he was
growing impatient, he did not quite know what to do. Suddenly she
clutched his hand more tightly.

"Suppose he's waiting there?"

He forced his lips to smile and his voice retained the gentle,
persuasive tone the effect of which he was so fully conscious of.

"That's not very likely. Have a little pluck, Kitty. How can it possibly
be your husband? If he'd come in and seen a strange topee in the hall
and come upstairs and found your room locked, surely he would have made
some sort of row. It must have been one of the servants. Only a Chinese
would turn a handle in that way."

She did feel more herself now.

"It's not very pleasant even if it was only the amah."

"She can be squared and if necessary I'll put the fear of God into her.
There are not many advantages in being a government official, but you
may as well get what you can out of it."

He must be right. She stood up and turning to him stretched out her
arms: he took her in his and kissed her on the lips. It was such rapture
that it was pain. She adored him. He released her and she went to the
window. She slid back the bolt and opening the shutter a little looked
out. There was not a soul. She slipped on to the verandah, looked into
her husband's dressing-room and then into her own sitting-room. Both
were empty. She went back to the bedroom and beckoned to him.

"Nobody."

"I believe the whole thing was an optical delusion."

"Don't laugh. I was terrified. Go into my sitting-room and sit down.
I'll put on my stockings and some shoes."




_ii_


He did as she bade and in five minutes she joined him. He was smoking a
cigarette.

"I say, could I have a brandy and soda?"

"Yes, I'll ring."

"I don't think it would hurt _you_ by the look of things."

They waited in silence for the boy to answer. She gave the order.

"Ring up the laboratory and ask if Walter is there," she said then.
"They won't know your voice."

He took up the receiver and asked for the number. He inquired whether
Dr. Fane was in. He put down the receiver.

"He hasn't been in since tiffin," he told her. "Ask the boy whether he
has been here."

"I daren't. It'll look so funny if he has and I didn't see him."

The boy brought the drinks and Townsend helped himself. When he offered
her some she shook her head.

"What's to be done if it was Walter?" she asked.

"Perhaps he wouldn't care."

"Walter?"

Her tone was incredulous.

"It's always struck me he was rather shy. Some men can't bear scenes,
you know. He's got sense enough to know that there's nothing to be
gained by making a scandal. I don't believe for a minute it was Walter,
but even if it was my impression is that he'll do nothing. I think he'll
ignore it."

She reflected for a moment.

"He's awfully in love with me."

"Well, that's all to the good. You'll get round him."

He gave her that charming smile of his which she had always found so
irresistible. It was a slow smile which started in his clear blue eyes
and travelled by perceptible degrees to his shapely mouth. He had small
white even teeth. It was a very sensual smile and it made her heart melt
in her body.

"I don't very much care," she said, with a flash of gaiety. "It was
worth it."

"It was my fault."

"Why did you come? I was amazed to see you."

"I couldn't resist it."

"You dear."

She leaned a little towards him, her dark and shining eyes gazing
passionately into his, her mouth a little open with desire, and he put
his arms round her. She abandoned herself with a sigh of ecstasy to
their shelter.

"You know you can always count on me," he said.

"I'm so happy with you. I wish I could make you as happy as you make
me."

"You're not frightened any more?"

"I hate Walter," she answered.

He did not quite know what to say to this, so he kissed her. Her face
was very soft against his.

But he took her wrist on which was a little gold watch and looked at the
time.

"Do you know what I must do now?"

"Bolt?" she smiled.

He nodded. For one instant she clung to him more closely, but she felt
his desire to go, and she released him.

"It's shameful the way you neglect your work. Be off with you."

He could never resist the temptation to flirt.

"You seem in a devil of a hurry to get rid of me," he said lightly.

"You know that I hate to let you go."

Her answer was low and deep and serious. He gave a flattered laugh.

"Don't worry your pretty little head about our mysterious visitor. I'm
quite sure it was the amah. And if there's any trouble I guarantee to
get you out of it."

"Have you had a lot of experience?"

His smile was amused and complacent.

"No, but I flatter myself that I've got a head screwed on my shoulders."




_iii_


She went out on to the veranda and watched him leave the house. He waved
his hand to her. It gave her a little thrill as she looked at him; he
was forty-one, but he had the lithe figure and the springing step of a
boy.

The veranda was in shadow; and lazily, her heart at ease with satisfied
love, she lingered. Their house stood in the Pleasant Vale, on the side
of the hill, for they could not afford to live on the more eligible but
expensive Mount. But her abstracted gaze scarcely noticed the blue sea
and the crowded shipping in the harbour. She could think only of her
lover.

Of course it was stupid to behave as they had done that afternoon, but
if he wanted her how could she be prudent? He had come two or three
times after tiffin, when in the heat of the day no one thought of
stirring out, and not even the boys had seen him come and go. It was
very difficult at Tching-Yen. She hated the Chinese city and it made her
nervous to go into the filthy little house off the Victoria Road in
which they were in the habit of meeting. It was a curio dealer's; and
the Chinese who were sitting about stared at her unpleasantly; she hated
the ingratiating smile of the old man who took her to the back of the
shop and then up a dark flight of stairs. The room into which he led her
was frowsy and the large wooden bed against the wall made her shudder.

"This is dreadfully sordid, isn't it?" she said to Charlie the first
time she met him there.

"It was till you came in," he answered.

Of course the moment he took her in his arms she forgot everything.

Oh, how hateful it was that she wasn't free, that they both weren't
free! She didn't like his wife. Kitty's wandering thoughts dwelt now for
a moment on Dorothy Townsend. How unfortunate to be called Dorothy! It
dated you. She was thirty-eight at least. But Charlie never spoke of
her. Of course he didn't care for her; she bored him to death. But he
was a gentleman. Kitty smiled with affectionate irony: it was just like
him, silly old thing; he might be unfaithful to her, but he would never
allow a word in disparagement of her to cross his lips. She was a
tallish woman, taller than Kitty, neither stout nor thin, with a good
deal of pale brown hair; she could never have been pretty with anything
but the prettiness of youth; her features were good enough without being
remarkable and her blue eyes were cold. She had a skin that you would
never look at twice and no colour in her cheeks. And she dressed
like--well, like what she was, the wife of the Assistant Colonial
Secretary at Tching-Yen. Kitty smiled and gave her shoulders a faint
shrug.

Of course no one could deny that Dorothy Townsend had a pleasant voice.
She was a wonderful mother, Charlie always said that of her, and she was
what Kitty's mother called a gentlewoman. But Kitty did not like her.
She did not like her casual manner; and the politeness with which she
treated you when you went there, to tea or dinner, was exasperating
because you could not but feel how little interest she took in you. The
fact was, Kitty supposed, that she cared for nothing but her children:
there were two boys at school in England, and another boy of six whom
she was going to take home next year. Her face was a mask. She smiled
and in her pleasant, well-mannered way said the things that were
expected of her; but for all her cordiality held you at a distance. She
had a few intimate friends in the Colony and they greatly admired her.
Kitty wondered whether Mrs. Townsend thought her a little common. She
flushed. After all there was no reason for her to put on airs. It was
true that her father had been a Colonial Governor and of course it was
very grand while it lasted--every one stood up when you entered a room
and men took off their hats to you as you passed in your car--but what
could be more insignificant than a Colonial Governor when he had
retired? Dorothy Townsend's father lived on a pension in a small house
at Earl's Court. Kitty's mother would think it a dreadful bore if she
asked her to call. Kitty's father, Bernard Garstin, was a K.C., and
there was no reason why he should not be made a judge one of these days.
Anyhow they lived in South Kensington.




_iv_


Kitty, coming to Tching-Yen on her marriage, had found it hard to
reconcile herself to the fact that her social position was determined by
her husband's occupation. Of course every one had been very kind and for
two or three months they had gone out to parties almost every night;
when they dined at Government House the Governor took her in as a bride;
but she had understood quickly that as the wife of the Government
bacteriologist she was of no particular consequence. It made her angry.

"It's too absurd," she told her husband. "Why, there's hardly any one
here that one would bother about for five minutes at home. Mother
wouldn't dream of asking any of them to dine at our house."

"You mustn't let it worry you," he answered. "It doesn't really matter,
you know."

"Of course it doesn't matter, it only shows how stupid they are, but it
is rather funny when you think of all the people who used to come to our
house at home that here we should be treated like dirt."

"From a social standpoint the man of science does not exist," he smiled.

She knew that now, but she had not known it when she married him.

"I don't know that it exactly amuses me to be taken in to dinner by the
agent of the P. and O.," she said, laughing in order that what she said
might not seem snobbish.

Perhaps he saw the reproach behind her lightness of manner, for he took
her hand and shyly pressed it.

"I'm awfully sorry, Kitty dear, but don't let it vex you."

"Oh, I'm not going to let it do that."




_v_


It couldn't have been Walter that afternoon. It must have been one of
the servants and after all they didn't matter. Chinese servants knew
everything anyway. But they held their tongues.

Her heart beat a little faster as she remembered the way in which that
white china knob slowly turned. They mustn't take risks like that again.
It was better to go to the curio shop. No one who saw her go in would
think anything of it, and they were absolutely safe there. The owner of
the shop knew who Charlie was and he was not such a fool as to put up
the back of the Assistant Colonial Secretary. What did anything matter
really but that Charlie loved her?

She turned away from the verandah and went back into her sitting-room.
She threw herself down on the sofa and stretched out her hand to get a
cigarette. Her eye caught sight of a note lying on the top of a book.
She opened it. It was written in pencil.


_Dear Kitty_,

_Here is the book you wanted. I was just going to send it when I met Dr.
Fane and he said he'd bring it round himself as he was passing the
house._


_V.H._


She rang the bell and when the boy came asked him who had brought the
book and when.

"Master bring it, missy, after tiffin," he answered.

Then it had been Walter. She rang up the Colonial Secretary's Office at
once and asked for Charlie. She told him what she had just learned.
There was a pause before he answered.

"What shall I do?" she asked.

"I'm in the middle of an important consultation. I'm afraid I can't talk
to you now. My advice to you is to sit tight."

She put down the receiver. She understood that he was not alone and she
was impatient with his business.

She sat down again, at a desk, and resting her face in her hands sought
to think out the situation. Of course Walter might merely have thought
she was sleeping: there was no reason why she should not lock herself
in. She tried to remember if they had been talking. Certainly they had
not been talking loud. And there was the hat. It was maddening of
Charlie to have left it downstairs. But it was no use blaming him for
that, it was natural enough, and there was nothing to tell that Walter
had noticed it. He was probably in a hurry and had just left the book
and the note on his way to some appointment connected with his work. The
strange thing was that he should have tried the door and then the two
windows. If he thought she was asleep it was unlike him to disturb her.
What a fool she had been!

She shook herself a little and again she felt that sweet pain in her
heart which she always felt when she thought of Charlie. It had been
worth it. He had said that he would stand by her, and if the worse came
to the worst, well. . . . Let Walter kick up a row if he chose. She had
Charlie; what did she care? Perhaps it would be the best thing for him
to know. She had never cared for Walter and since she had loved Charlie
Townsend it had irked and bored her to submit to her husband's caresses.
She wanted to have nothing more to do with him. She didn't see how he
could prove anything. If he accused her she would deny, and if it came
to pass that she could deny no longer, well, she would fling the truth
in his teeth, and he could do what he chose.




_vi_


Within three months of her marriage she knew that she had made a
mistake; but it had been her mother's fault even more than hers.

There was a photograph of her mother in the room and Kitty's harassed
eyes fell on it. She did not know why she kept it there, for she was not
very fond of her mother; there was one of her father too, but that was
downstairs on the grand piano. It had been done when he took silk and it
represented him in wig and gown. Even they could not make him imposing;
he was a little, wizened man, with tired eyes, a long upper lip, and a
thin mouth: a facetious photographer had told him to look pleasant, but
he had succeeded only in looking severe. It was on this account, for as
a rule the downturned corners of his mouth and the dejection of his eyes
gave him an air of mild depression, that Mrs. Garstin, thinking it made
him look judicial, had chosen it from among the proofs. But her own
photograph showed her in the dress in which she had gone to Court when
her husband was made a King's Counsel. She was very grand in the velvet
gown, the long train so disposed as to show to advantage, with feathers
in her hair and flowers in her hand. She held herself erect. She was a
woman of fifty, thin and flat-chested, with prominent cheek-bones and a
large, well-shaped nose. She had a great quantity of very smooth black
hair and Kitty had always suspected that, if not dyed, it was at least
touched up. Her fine black eyes were never still and this was the most
noticeable thing about her; for when she was talking to you it was
disconcerting to see those restless eyes in that impassive, unlined and
yellow face. They moved from one part of you to another, to other
persons in the room, and then back to you; you felt that she was
criticising you, summing you up, watchful meanwhile of all that went on
around her, and that the words she spoke had no connection with her
thoughts.




_vii_


Mrs. Garstin was a hard, cruel, managing, ambitious, parsimonious and
stupid woman. She was the daughter, one of five, of a solicitor in
Liverpool and Bernard Garstin had met her when he was on the Northern
Circuit. He had seemed then a young man of promise and her father said
he would go far. He hadn't. He was painstaking, industrious and capable,
but he had not the will to advance himself. Mrs. Garstin despised him.
But she recognised, though with bitterness, that she could only achieve
success through him, and she set herself to drive him on the way she
desired to go. She nagged him without mercy. She discovered that if she
wanted him to do something which his sensitiveness revolted against she
had only to give him no peace and eventually, exhausted, he would yield.
On her side she set herself to cultivate the people who might be useful.
She flattered the solicitors who would send her husband briefs and was
familiar with their wives. She was obsequious to the judges and their
ladies. She made much of promising politicians.

In twenty-five years Mrs. Garstin never invited any one to dine at her
house because she liked him. She gave large dinner parties at regular
intervals. But parsimony was as strong in her as ambition. She hated to
spend money. She flattered herself that she could make as much show as
any one else at half the price. Her dinners were long and elaborate, but
thrifty, and she could never persuade herself that people when they were
eating and talking knew what they drank. She wrapped sparkling Moselle
in a napkin and thought her guests took it for champagne.

Bernard Garstin had a fair, though not a large practice. Men who had
been called after him had long outstripped him. Mrs. Garstin made him
stand for Parliament. The expense of the election was borne by the
party, but here again her parsimony balked her ambition, and she could
not bring herself to spend enough money to nurse the constituency. The
subscriptions Bernard Garstin made to the innumerable funds a candidate
is expected to contribute to, were always just a little less than
adequate. He was beaten. Though it would have pleased Mrs. Garstin to be
a member's wife she bore her disappointment with fortitude. The fact of
her husband's standing had brought her in contact with a number of
prominent persons and she appreciated the addition to her social
consequence. She knew that Bernard would never make his mark in the
House. She wanted him to be a member only that he might have a claim on
the gratitude of his party and surely to fight two or three losing seats
would give him that.

But he was still a junior and many younger men than he had already taken
silk. It was necessary that he should too, not only because otherwise he
could scarcely hope to be made a judge, but on her account also: it
mortified her to go in to dinner after women ten years younger than
herself. But here she encountered in her husband an obstinacy which she
had not for years been accustomed to. He was afraid that as a K.C. he
would get no work. A bird in the hand was worth two in the bush, he told
her, to which she retorted that a proverb was the last refuge of the
mentally destitute. He suggested to her the possibility that his income
would be halved and he knew that there was no argument which could have
greater weight with her. She would not listen. She called him
pusillanimous. She gave him no peace and at last, as always, he yielded.
He applied for silk and it was promptly awarded him.

His misgivings were justified. He made no headway as a leader and his
briefs were few. But he concealed any disappointment he may have felt,
and if he reproached his wife it was in his heart. He grew perhaps a
little more silent, but he had always been silent at home, and no one in
his family noticed a change in him. His daughters had never looked upon
him as anything but a source of income; it had always seemed perfectly
natural that he should lead a dog's life in order to provide them with
board and lodging, clothes, holiday and money for odds and ends; and
now, understanding that through his fault money was less plentiful, the
indifference they had felt for him was tinged with an exasperated
contempt. It never occurred to them to ask themselves what were the
feelings of the subdued little man who went out early in the morning and
came home at night only in time to dress for dinner. He was a stranger
to them, but because he was their father they took it for granted that
he should love and cherish them.




_viii_


But there was a quality of courage in Mrs. Garstin which in itself was
admirable. She let no one in her immediate circle, which to her was the
world, see how mortified she was by the frustration of her hopes. She
made no change in her style of living. By careful management she was
able to give as showy dinners as she had done before, and she met her
friends with the same bright gaiety which she had so long cultivated.
She had a hard and facile fund of chit-chat which in the society she
moved in passed for conversation. She was a useful guest among persons
to whom small talk did not come easily, for she was never at a loss with
a new topic and could be trusted immediately to break an awkward silence
with a suitable observation.

It was unlikely now that Bernard Garstin would ever be made a judge of
the High Court, but he might still hope for a County Court judgeship or
at the worst an appointment in the Colonies. Meanwhile she had the
satisfaction of seeing him appointed Recorder of a Welsh town. But it
was on her daughters that she set her hopes. By arranging good marriages
for them she expected to make up for all the disappointments of her
career. There were two, Kitty and Doris. Doris gave no sign of good
looks, her nose was too long and her figure was lumpy; so that Mrs.
Garstin could hope no more for her than that she should marry a young
man who was well off and in a suitable profession.

But Kitty was a beauty. She gave promise of being so when she was still
a child, for she had large, dark eyes, liquid and vivacious, brown,
curling hair in which there was a reddish tint, exquisite teeth and a
lovely skin. Her features would never be very good, for her chin was too
square and her nose, though not so long as Doris's, too big. Her beauty
depended a good deal on her youth, and Mrs. Garstin realised that she
must marry in the first flush of her maidenhood. When she came out she
was dazzling: her skin was still her greatest beauty, but her eyes with
their long lashes were so starry and yet so melting that it gave you a
catch at the heart to look into them. She had a charming gaiety and the
desire to please. Mrs. Garstin bestowed upon her all the affection, a
harsh, competent, calculating affection, of which she was capable; she
dreamed ambitious dreams; it was not a good marriage she aimed at for
her daughter, but a brilliant one.

Kitty had been brought up with the knowledge that she was going to be a
beautiful woman and she more than suspected her mother's ambition. It
accorded with her own desires. She was launched upon the world and Mrs.
Garstin performed prodigies in getting herself invited to dances where
her daughter might meet eligible men. Kitty was a success. She was
amusing as well as beautiful, and very soon she had a dozen men in love
with her. But none was suitable, and Kitty, charming and friendly with
all, took care to commit herself with none. The drawing-room in South
Kensington was filled on Sunday afternoons with amorous youth, but Mrs.
Garstin observed, with a grim smile of approval, that it needed no
effort on her part to keep them at a distance from Kitty. Kitty was
prepared to flirt with them, and it diverted her to play one off against
the other, but when they proposed to her, as none failed to do, she
refused them with tact but decision.

Her first season passed without the perfect suitor presenting himself,
and the second also; but she was young and could afford to wait. Mrs.
Garstin told her friends that she thought it a pity for a girl to marry
till she was twenty-one. But a third year passed and then a fourth. Two
or three of her old admirers proposed again, but they were still
penniless, one or two boys younger than herself proposed; a retired
Indian Civilian, a K.C.I.E., did the same: he was fifty-three. Kitty
still danced a great deal, she went to Wimbledon and Lord's, to Ascot
and Henley; she was thoroughly enjoying herself; but still no one whose
position and income were satisfactory asked her to marry him. Mrs.
Garstin began to grow uneasy. She noticed that Kitty was beginning to
attract men of forty and over. She reminded her that she would not be
any longer so pretty in a year or two and that young girls were coming
out all the time. Mrs. Garstin did not mince her words in the domestic
circle and she warned her daughter tartly that she would miss her
market.

Kitty shrugged her shoulders. She thought herself as pretty as ever,
prettier perhaps, for she had learnt how to dress in the last four
years, and she had plenty of time. If she wanted to marry just to be
married there were a dozen boys who would jump at the chance. Surely the
right man would come along sooner or later. But Mrs. Garstin judged the
situation more shrewdly: with anger in her heart for the beautiful
daughter who had missed her chances she set her standard a little lower.
She turned back to the professional class at which she had sneered in
her pride and looked about for a young lawyer or a business man whose
future inspired her with confidence.

Kitty reached the age of twenty-five and was still unmarried. Mrs.
Garstin was exasperated and she did not hesitate often to give Kitty a
piece of her very unpleasant mind. She asked her how much longer she
expected her father to support her. He had spent sums he could ill
afford in order to give her a chance and she had not taken it. It never
struck Mrs. Garstin that perhaps her own hard affability had frightened
the men, sons of wealthy fathers or heirs to a title, whose visits she
had too cordially encouraged. She put down Kitty's failure to stupidity.
Then Doris came out. She had a long nose still, and a poor figure, and
she danced badly. In her first season she became engaged to Geoffrey
Dennison. He was the only son of a prosperous surgeon who had been given
a baronetcy during the war. Geoffrey would inherit a title--it is not
very grand to be a medical baronet, but a title, thank God, is still a
title--and a very comfortable fortune.

Kitty in a panic married Walter Fane.




_ix_


She had known him but a little while and had never taken much notice of
him. She had no idea when or where they had first met till after their
engagement he told her that it was at a dance to which some friends had
brought him. She certainly paid no attention to him then and if she
danced with him it was because she was good-natured and was glad to
dance with any one who asked her. She didn't know him from Adam when a
day or two later at another dance he came up and spoke to her. Then she
remarked that he was at every dance she went to.

"You know, I've danced with you at least a dozen times now and you must
tell me your name," she said to him at last in her laughing way.

He was obviously taken aback.

"Do you mean to say you don't know it? I was introduced to you."

"Oh, but people always mumble. I shouldn't be at all surprised if you
hadn't the ghost of an idea what mine was."

He smiled at her. His face was grace and a trifle stern, but his smile
was very sweet.

"Of course I know it." He was silent for a moment or two. "Have you no
curiosity?" he asked then.

"As much as most women."

"It didn't occur to you to ask somebody or other what my name was?"

She was faintly amused; she wondered why he thought it could in the
least interest her; but she liked to please, so she looked at him with
that dazzling smile of hers, and her beautiful eyes, dewy ponds under
forest trees, held an enchanting kindness.

"Well, what is it?"

"Walter Fane."

She did not know why he came to dances, he did not dance very well, and
he seemed to know few people. She had a passing thought that he was in
love with her; but she dismissed it with a shrug of the shoulders: she
had known girls who thought every man they met was in love with them and
had always found them absurd. But she gave Walter Fane just a little
more of her attention. He certainly did not behave like any of the other
youths who had been in love with her. Most of them told her so frankly
and wanted to kiss her: a good many did. But Walter Fane never talked of
her and very little of himself. He was rather silent; she did not mind
that because she had plenty to say and it pleased her to see him laugh
when she made a facetious remark: but when he talked it was not
stupidly. He was evidently shy. It appeared that he lived in the East
and was home on leave.

One Sunday afternoon he appeared at their house in South Kensington.
There were a dozen people there, and he sat for some time, somewhat ill
at ease, and then went away. Her mother asked her later who he was.

"I haven't a notion. Did you ask him to come here?"

"Yes, I met him at the Baddeleys. He said he'd seen you at various
dances. I said I was always at home on Sundays."

"His name is Fane and he's got some sort of job in the East."

"Yes, he's a doctor. Is he in love with you?"

"Upon my word, I don't know."

"I should have thought you knew by now when a young man was in love with
you."

"I wouldn't marry him if he were," said Kitty lightly.

Mrs. Garstin did not answer. Her silence was heavy with displeasure.
Kitty flushed: she knew that her mother did not care now whom she
married so long as somehow she got her off her hands.




_x_


During the next week she met him at three dances and now, his shyness
perhaps wearing off a little, he was somewhat more communicative. He was
a doctor, certainly, but he did not practice; he was a bacteriologist
(Kitty had only a very vague idea what that meant) and he had a job at
Tching-Yen. He was going back in the autumn. He talked a good deal about
China. She made it a practice to appear interested in whatever people
talked to her of, but indeed the life in Tching-Yen sounded quite jolly;
there were clubs and tennis and racing and polo and golf.

"Do people dance much there?"

"Oh, yes, I think so."

She wondered whether he told her these things with a motive. He seemed
to like her society, but never by a pressure of the hand, by a glance or
by a word, did he give the smallest indication that he looked upon her
as anything but a girl whom you met and danced with. On the following
Sunday he came again to their house. Her father happened to come in, it
was raining and he had not been able to play golf, and he and Walter
Fane had a long chat. She asked her father afterwards what they had
talked of.

"It appears he's stationed in Tching-Yen. The Chief Justice is an old
friend of mine at the Bar. He seems an unusually intelligent young man."

She knew that her father was as a rule bored to death by the young
people whom for her sake and now her sister's he had been forced for
years to entertain.

"It's not often you like any of my young men, father," she said.

His kind, tired eyes rested upon her.

"Are you going to marry him by any chance?"

"Certainly not."

"Is he in love with you?"

"He shows no sign of it."

"Do you like him?"

"I don't think I do very much. He irritates me a little."

He was not her type at all. He was short, but not thick-set, slight
rather and thin; dark and clean-shaven, with very regular, clear-cut
features. His eyes were almost black, but not large, they were not very
mobile and they rested on objects with a singular persistence; they were
curious, but not very pleasant eyes. With his straight, delicate nose,
his fine brow and well-shaped mouth he ought to have been good-looking.
But surprisingly enough he was not. When Kitty began to think of him at
all she was surprised that he should have such good features when you
took them one by one and yet be so far from handsome. His face was cold.
His expression was slightly sarcastic and now that Kitty knew him better
she realised that she was not quite at ease with him. He had no gaiety.

By the time the season drew to its end they had seen a good deal of one
another, but he had remained as aloof and impenetrable as ever. He was
not exactly shy with her, but embarrassed; his conversation remained
strangely impersonal. Kitty came to the conclusion that he was not in
the least in love with her. He liked her and found her easy to talk to,
but when he returned to Tching-Yen in November he would not think of her
again. She thought it not impossible that he was engaged all the time to
some nurse in a hospital at Tching-Yen, the daughter of a clergyman,
dull, plain, flat-footed and strenuous; that was the wife that would
exactly suit him.

Then came the announcement of Doris's engagement to Geoffrey Dennison.
Doris, at eighteen, was making quite a good marriage, and she was
twenty-five and single. Supposing she did not marry at all? That season the
only person who had proposed to her was a boy of twenty who was still at
Oxford: she couldn't marry a boy five years younger than herself. She
had made a hash of things. Last year she had refused a widowed Knight of
the Bath with three children. She almost wished she hadn't. Mother would
be horrible now, and Doris, Doris who had always been sacrificed because
she, Kitty, was expected to make the brilliant match, would not fail to
crow over her. Kitty's heart sank.




_xi_


But one afternoon when she was walking home from Harrod's she chanced to
meet Walter Fane in the Brompton Road. He stopped and talked to her.
Then, casually, he asked her if she would not take a turn with him in
the Park. She had no particular wish to go home: it was not just then a
very agreeable place. They strolled along, talking as they always
talked, of casual things, and he asked her where she was going for the
summer.

"Oh, we always bury ourselves in the country. You see, father is
exhausted after the term's work and we just go to the quietest place we
can find."

Kitty spoke with her tongue in her cheek, for she knew quite well that
her father had not nearly enough work to tire him and even if he had his
convenience would never have been consulted in the choice of a holiday.
But a quiet place was a cheap place.

"Don't you think those chairs look rather inviting?" said Walter
suddenly.

She followed his eyes and saw two green chairs by themselves under a
tree on the grass.

"Let us sit in them," she said.

But when they were seated he seemed to grow strangely abstracted. He was
an odd creature. She chattered on, however, gaily enough and wondered
why he had asked her to walk with him in the Park. Perhaps he was going
to confide in her his passion for the flat-footed nurse in Tching-Yen.
Suddenly he turned to her, interrupting her in the middle of a sentence,
so that she could not but see that he had not been listening, and his
face was chalk white.

"I want to say something to you."

She looked at him quickly and she saw that his eyes were filled with a
painful anxiety. His voice was strained, low and not quite steady. But
before she could ask herself what this agitation meant he spoke again.

"I want to ask you if you'll marry me."

"You could knock me down with a feather," she answered so surprised that
she looked at him blankly.

"Didn't you know I was awfully in love with you?"

"You never showed it."

"I'm very awkward and clumsy. I always find it more difficult to say the
things I mean than the things I don't."

Her heart began to beat a little more quickly. She had been proposed to
often before, but gaily or sentimentally, and she had answered in the
same fashion. No one had ever asked her to marry him in a manner which
was so abrupt and yet strangely tragic.

"It's very kind of you," she said, doubtfully.

"I fell in love with you the first time I saw you. I wanted to ask you
before, but I could never bring myself to it."

"I'm not sure if that's very well put," she chuckled.

She was glad to have an opportunity to laugh a little, for on that fine,
sunny day the air about them seemed on a sudden heavy with foreboding.
He frowned darkly.

"Oh, you know what I mean. I didn't want to lose hope. But now you're
going away and in the autumn I have to go back to China."

"I've never thought of you in that way," she said helplessly.

He said nothing more. He looked down on the grass sullenly. He was a
very odd creature. But now that he had told her she felt in some
mysterious way that his love was something she had never met before. She
was a little frightened, but she was elated also. His impassivity was
vaguely impressive.

"You must give me time to think."

Still he did not say anything. He did not stir. Did he mean to keep her
there till she had decided? That was absurd. She must talk it over with
her mother. She ought to have got up when she spoke, she had waited
thinking he would answer, and now, she did not know why, she found it
difficult to make a movement. She did not look at him, but she was
conscious of his appearance; she had never seen herself marrying a man
so little taller than herself. When you sat close to him you saw how
good his features were, and how cold his face. It was strange when you
couldn't help being conscious of the devastating passion which was in
his heart.

"I don't know you, I don't know you at all," she said tremulously.

He gave her a look and she felt her eyes drawn to his.

They had a tenderness which she had never seen in them before, but there
was something beseeching in them, like a dog's that has been whipped,
which slightly exasperated her.

"I think I improve on acquaintance," he said.

"Of course you're shy, aren't you?"

It was certainly the oddest proposal she had ever had. And even now it
seemed to her that they were saying to one another the last things you
would have expected on such an occasion. She was not in the least in
love with him. She did not know why she hesitated to refuse him at once.

"I'm awfully stupid," he said, "I want to tell you that I love you more
than anything in the world, but I find it so awfully difficult to say."

Now that was odd too, for inexplicably enough it touched her; he wasn't
really cold, of course, it was his manner that was unfortunate: she
liked him at that moment better than she had ever liked him before.
Doris was to be married in November. He would be on his way to China
then and if she married him she would be with him. It wouldn't be very
nice to be a bridesmaid at Doris's wedding. She would be glad to escape
that. And then Doris as a married woman and herself still single! Every
one knew how young Doris was and it would make her seem older. It would
put her on the shelf. It wouldn't be a very good marriage for her, but
it was a marriage, and the fact that she would live in China made it
easier. She was afraid of her mother's bitter tongue. Why, all the girls
who had come out with her were married long ago and most of them had
children; she was tired of going to see them and gushing over their
babies. Walter Fane offered her a new life. She turned to him with a
smile which she well knew the effect of.

"If I were so rash as to say I'd marry you when would you want to marry
me?"

He gave a sudden gasp of delight, and his white cheeks flushed.

"Now. At once. As soon as possible. We'd go to Italy for our honeymoon.
August and September."

That would save her from spending the summer in a country vicarage,
hired at five guineas a week, with her father and mother. In a flash she
saw in her mind's eye the announcement in the _Morning Post_ that, the
bridegroom having to return to the East, the wedding would take place at
once. She knew her mother well enough, she could be counted on to make a
splash; for the moment at least Doris would be in the background and
when Doris's much grander wedding took place she would be far away.

She stretched out her hand.

"I think I like you very much. You must give me time to get used to
you."

"Then it's yes?" he interrupted.

"I suppose so."




_xii_


She knew him very little then, and now, though they had been married for
nearly two years, she knew him but little more. At first she had been
touched by his kindness and flattered, though surprised, by his passion.
He was extremely considerate; he was very attentive to her comfort; she
never expressed the slightest wish without his hastening to gratify it.
He was constantly giving her little presents. When she happened to feel
ill no one could have been kinder or more thoughtful. She seemed to do
him a favour when she gave him the opportunity of doing something
tiresome for her. And he was always exceedingly polite. He rose to his
feet when she entered a room, he gave her his hand to help her out of a
car, if he chanced to meet her in the street he took off his hat, he was
solicitous to open the door for her when she left a room, he never came
into her bedroom or her boudoir without a knock. He treated her not as
Kitty had seen most men treat their wives, but as though she were a
fellow-guest in a country house. It was pleasing and yet a trifle comic.
She would have felt more at home with him if he had been more casual.
Nor did their conjugal relations draw her closer to him. He was
passionate then, fierce, oddly hysterical too, and sentimental.

It disconcerted her to realise how emotional he really was. His
self-control was due to shyness or to long training, she did not know
which; it seemed to her faintly contemptible that when she lay in his
arms, his desire appeased, he who was so timid of saying absurd things,
who so feared to be ridiculous, should use baby talk. She had offended
him bitterly once by laughing and telling him that he was talking the
most fearful slush. She had felt his arms grow limp about her, he
remained quite silent for a little while, and then without a word
released her and went into his own room. She didn't want to hurt his
feelings and a day or two later she said to him:

"You silly old thing, I don't mind what nonsense you talk to me."

He had laughed in a shamefaced way. She had discovered very soon that he
had an unhappy disability to lose himself. He was self-conscious. When
there was a party and every one started singing Walter could never bring
himself to join in. He sat there smiling to show that he was pleased and
amused, but his smile was forced; it was more like a sarcastic smirk,
and you could not help feeling that he thought all those people enjoying
themselves a pack of fools. He could not bring himself to play the round
games which Kitty with her high spirits found such a lark. On their
journey out to China he had absolutely refused to put on fancy dress
when every one else was wearing it. It disturbed her pleasure that he
should so obviously think the whole thing a bore.

Kitty was lively; she was willing to chatter all day long and she
laughed easily. His silence disconcerted her. He had a way which
exasperated her of returning no answer to some casual remark of hers. It
was true that it needed no answer, but an answer all the same would have
been pleasant. If it was raining and she said: "It's raining cats and
dogs," she would have liked him to say: "Yes, isn't it?" He remained
silent. Sometimes she would have liked to shake him.

"I said it was raining cats and dogs," she repeated.

"I heard you," he answered, with his affectionate smile.

It showed that he had not meant to be offensive. He did not speak
because he had nothing to say. But if nobody spoke unless he had
something to say, Kitty reflected, with a smile, the human race would
very soon lose the use of speech.




_xiii_


The fact was, of course, that he had no charm. That was why he was not
popular, and she had not been long in Tching-Yen before she discovered
that he was not. She remained very vague about his work. It was enough
for her to realise, and she did this quite distinctly, that to be the
government bacteriologist was no great fry. He seemed to have no desire
to discuss that part of his life with her. Because she was willing to be
interested in anything at first she had asked him about it. He put her
off with a jest.

"It's very dull and technical," he said on another occasion. "And it's
grossly underpaid."

He was very reserved. All she knew about his antecedents, his birth, his
education, and his life before he met her, she had elicited by direct
questioning. It was odd, the only thing that seemed to annoy him was a
question; and when, in her natural curiosity, she fired a string of them
at him, his answers became at every one more abrupt. She had the wit to
see that he did not care to reply because he had anything to hide from
her, but merely from a natural secretiveness. It bored him to talk about
himself. It made him shy and uncomfortable. He did not know how to be
open. He was fond of reading, but he read books which seemed to Kitty
very dull. If he was not busy with some scientific treatise he would
read books about China or historical works. He never relaxed. She did
not think he could. He was fond of games: he played tennis and bridge.

She wondered why he had ever fallen in love with her. She could not
imagine any one less suited than herself to this restrained, cold and
self-possessed man. And yet it was quite certain that he loved her
madly. He would do anything in the world to please her. He was like wax
in her hands. When she thought of one side he showed her, a side which
only she had seen, she a little despised him. She wondered whether his
sarcastic manner, with its contemptuous tolerance for so many persons
and things she admired, was merely a façade to conceal a profound
weakness. She supposed he was clever, every one seemed to think he was,
but except very occasionally when he was with two or three people he
liked and was in the mood, she had never found him entertaining. He did
not precisely bore her, he left her indifferent.




_xiv_


Though Kitty had met his wife at various tea-parties she had been some
weeks in Tching-Yen before she saw Charles Townsend. She was introduced
to him only when with her husband she went to dine at his house. Kitty
was on the defensive. Charles Townsend was Assistant Colonial Secretary
and she had no mind to allow him to use her with the condescension
which, notwithstanding her good manners, she discerned in Mrs. Townsend.
The room in which they were received was spacious. It was furnished as
was every other drawing-room she had been in at Tching-Yen in a
comfortable and homely style. It was a large party. They were the last
to come and as they entered Chinese servants in uniform were handing
round cocktails and olives. Mrs. Townsend greeted them in her casual
fashion and looking at a list told Walter whom he was to take in to
dinner.

Kitty saw a tall and very handsome man bear down on them.

"This is my husband."

"I am to have the privilege of sitting next to you," he said.

She immediately felt at ease and the sense of hostility vanished from
her bosom. Though his eyes were smiling she had seen in them a quick
look of surprise. She understood it perfectly and it made her inclined
to laugh.

"I shan't be able to eat any dinner," he said, "and if I know Dorothy
the dinner's damned good."

"Why not?"

"I ought to have been told. Some one really ought to have warned me."

"What about?"

"No one said a word. How was I to know that I was going to meet a raging
beauty?"

"Now what am I to say to that?"

"Nothing. Leave me to do the talking. And I'll say it over and over
again."

Kitty, unmoved, wondered what exactly his wife had told him about her.
He must have asked. And Townsend, looking down on her with his laughing
eyes, suddenly remembered.

"What is she like?" he had enquired when his wife told him she had met
Dr. Fane's bride.

"Oh, quite a nice little thing. Actressy."

"Was she on the stage?"

"Oh, no, I don't think so. Her father's a doctor or a lawyer or
something. I suppose we shall have to ask them to dinner."

"There's no hurry, is there?"

When they were sitting side by side at table he told her that he had
known Walter Fane ever since he came to the Colony.

"We play bridge together. He's far and away the best bridge player at
the Club."

She told Walter on the way home.

"That's not saying very much, you know."

"How does he play?"

"Not badly. He plays a winning hand very well, but when he has bad cards
he goes all to pieces."

"Does he play as well as you?"

"I have no illusions about my play. I should describe myself as a very
good player in the second class. Townsend thinks he's in the first. He
isn't."

"Don't you like him?"

"I neither like him nor dislike him. I believe he's not bad at his job
and every one says he's a good sportsman. He doesn't very much interest
me."

It was not the first time that Walter's moderation had exasperated her.
She asked herself why it was necessary to be so prudent: you either
liked people or you didn't. She had liked Charles Townsend very much.
And she had not expected to. He was probably the most popular man in the
Colony. It was supposed that the Colonial Secretary would retire soon
and every one hoped that Townsend would succeed him. He played tennis
and polo and golf. He kept racing ponies. He was always ready to do any
one a good turn. He never let red tape interfere with him. He put on no
airs. Kitty did not know why she had resented hearing him so well spoken
of, she could not help thinking he must be very conceited: she had been
extremely silly; that was the last thing you could accuse him of.

She had enjoyed her evening. They had talked of the theatres in London,
and of Ascot and Cowes, all the things she knew about, so that really
she might have met him at some nice house in Lennox Gardens; and later,
when the men came into the drawing-room after dinner, he had strolled
over and sat beside her again. Though he had not said anything very
amusing, he had made her laugh; it must have been the way he said it:
there was a caressing sound in his deep, rich voice, a delightful
expression in his kind, shining blue eyes, which made you feel very much
at home with him. Of course he had charm. That was what made him so
pleasant.

He was tall, six foot two at least, she thought, and he had a beautiful
figure; he was evidently in very good condition and he had not a spare
ounce of fat on him. He was well-dressed, the best-dressed man in the
room, and he wore his clothes well. She liked a man to be smart. Her
eyes wandered to Walter: he really should try to be a little better
turned out. She noticed Townsend's cuff-links and waistcoat buttons; she
had seen similar ones at Cartier's. Of course the Townsends had private
means. His face was deeply sunburned, but the sun had not taken the
healthy colour from his cheeks. She liked the little trim curly
moustache which did not conceal his full red lips. He had black hair,
short and brushed very sleek. But of course his eyes, under thick, bushy
eyebrows, were his best feature: they were so very blue, and they had a
laughing tenderness which persuaded you of the sweetness of his
disposition. No man who had those blue eyes could bear to hurt any one.

She could not but know that she had made an impression on him. If he had
not said charming things to her his eyes, warm with admiration,
would have betrayed him. His ease was delightful. He had no
self-consciousness. Kitty was at home in these circumstances and she
admired the way in which amid the banter which was the staple of their
conversation he insinuated every now and then a pretty, flattering speech.
When she shook hands with him on leaving he gave her hand a pressure
that she could not mistake.

"I hope we shall see you again soon," he said casually but his eyes gave
his words a meaning which she could not fail to see.

"Tching-Yen is very small, isn't it?" she said.




_xv_


Who would have thought then that within three months they would be on
such terms? He had told her since that he was crazy about her on that
first evening. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He
remembered the dress she wore; it was her wedding dress, and he said she
looked like a lily of the valley. She knew that he was in love with her
before he told her, and a little frightened she kept him at a distance.
He was impetuous and it was difficult. She was afraid to let him kiss
her, for the thought of his arms about her made her heart beat so fast.
She had never been in love before. It was wonderful. And now that she
knew what love was she felt a sudden sympathy for the love that Walter
bore her. She teased him, playfully, and saw that he enjoyed it. She had
been perhaps a little afraid of him, but now she had more confidence.
She chaffed him and it amused her to see the slow smile with which at
first he received her banter. He was surprised and pleased. One of these
days, she thought, he would become quite human. Now that she had learnt
something of passion it diverted her to play lightly, like a harpist
running his fingers across the strings of his harp, on his affections.
She laughed when she saw how she bewildered and confused him.

And when Charlie became her lover the situation between herself and
Walter seemed exquisitely absurd. She could hardly look at him, so grave
and self-controlled, without laughing. She was too happy to feel
unkindly towards him. Except for him, after all, she would never have
known Charlie. She had hesitated some time before the final step, not
because she did not want to yield to Charlie's passion, her own was
equal to his, but because her upbringing and all the conventions of her
life intimidated her. She was amazed afterwards (and the final act was
due to accident; neither of them had seen the opportunity till it was
face to face with them) to discover that she felt in no way different
from what she had before. She had expected that it would cause some, she
hardly knew what, fantastic change in her so that she would feel like
somebody else; and when she had a chance to look at herself in the glass
she was bewildered to see the same woman she had seen the day before.

"Are you angry with me?" he asked her.

"I adore you," she whispered.

"Don't you think you were very silly to waste so much time?"

"A perfect fool."




_xvi_


Her happiness, sometimes almost more than she could bear, renewed her
beauty. Just before she married, beginning to lose her first freshness,
she had looked tired and drawn. The uncharitable said that she was going
off. But there is all the difference between a girl of twenty-five and a
married woman of that age. She was like a rosebud that is beginning to
turn yellow at the edges of the petals, and then suddenly she was a rose
in full bloom. Her starry eyes gained a more significant expression; her
skin (that feature which had always been her greatest pride and most
anxious care) was dazzling: it could not be compared to the peach or to
the flower; it was they that demanded comparison with it. She looked
eighteen once more. She was at the height of her glowing loveliness. It
was impossible not to remark it and her women friends asked her in
little friendly asides if she was going to have a baby. The indifferent
who had said she was just a very pretty woman with a long nose admitted
that they had misjudged her. She was what Charlie had called her the
first time he saw her, a raging beauty.

They managed their intrigue with skill. He had a broad back, he told her
("I will not have you swank about your figure," she interrupted
lightly), and it did not matter about him; but for her sake they mustn't
take the smallest risk. They could not meet often alone, not half often
enough for him, but he had to think of her first, sometimes in the curio
shop, now and then after luncheon in her house when no one was about;
but she saw him a good deal here and there. It amused her then to see
the formal way he spoke to her, jovial, for he was always that, with the
same manner he used with every one. Who could imagine when they heard
him chaff her with that charming humour of his that so lately he had
held her in his passionate arms?

She worshipped him. He was splendid, in his smart top boots and his
white breeches, when he played polo. In tennis clothes he looked a mere
boy. Of course he was proud of his figure: it was the best figure she
had ever seen. He took pains to keep it. He never ate bread or potatoes
or butter. And he took a great deal of exercise. She liked the care he
took of his hands; he was manicured once a week. He was a wonderful
athlete and the year before he had won the local tennis championship.
Certainly he was the best dancer she had ever danced with; it was a
dream to dance with him. No one would think he was forty. She told him
she did not believe it.

"I believe it's all bluff and you're really twenty-five."

He laughed. He was well pleased.

"Oh, my dear, I have a boy of fifteen. I'm a middle-aged gent. In
another two or three years I shall just be a fat old party."

"You'll be adorable when you're a hundred."

She liked his black, bushy eyebrows. She wondered whether it was they
that gave his blue eyes their disturbing expression.

He was full of accomplishments. He could play the piano quite well,
rag-time, of course, and he could sing a comic song with a rich voice
and good humour. She did not believe there was anything he could not do.
He was very clever at his work too and she shared his pleasure when he
told her that the Governor had particularly congratulated him on the way
he had done some difficult job.

"Although it's I as says it," he laughed, his eyes charming with the
love he bore her, "there's not a fellow in the Service who could have
done it better."

Oh, how she wished that she were his wife rather than Walter's!




_xvii_


Of course it was not certain yet that Walter knew the truth, and if he
didn't it was better perhaps to leave well alone; but if he did, well,
in the end it would be the best thing for all of them. At first she had
been, if not satisfied, at least resigned to seeing Charlie only by
stealth; but time had increased her passion and for some while now she
had been increasingly impatient of the obstacles which prevented them
from being always together. He had told her so often that he cursed his
position which forced him to be so discreet, the ties which bound him,
and the ties which bound her: how marvellous it would have been, he
said, if they were both free! She saw his point of view; no one wanted a
scandal, and of course it required a good deal of thinking over before
you changed the course of your life; but if freedom were thrust upon
them, ah, then, how simple everything would be!

It was not as though any one would suffer very much. She knew exactly
what his relations were with his wife. She was a cold woman and there
had been no love between them for years. It was habit that held them
together, convenience, and of course the children. It was easier for
Charlie than for her: Walter loved her; but after all, he was absorbed
in his work; and a man always had his club, he might be upset at first,
but he would get over it; there was no reason why he should not marry
somebody else. Charlie had told her that he could not make out how she
came to throw herself away on Walter Fane.

She wondered, half smiling, why a little while before she had been
terrified at the thought that Walter had caught them. Of course it was
startling to see the handle of the door slowly turn. But after all they
knew the worst that Walter could do, and they were ready for it. Charlie
would feel as great a relief as she that what they both desired more
than anything in the world should be thus forced upon them.

Walter was a gentleman, she would do him the justice to acknowledge
that, and he loved her; he would do the right thing and allow her to
divorce him. They had made a mistake and the lucky thing was that they
had found it out before it was too late. She made up her mind exactly
what she was going to say to him and how she would treat him. She would
be kind, smiling, and firm. There was no need for them to quarrel. Later
on she would always be glad to see him. She hoped honestly that the two
years they had spent together would remain with him as a priceless
memory.

"I don't suppose Dorothy Townsend will mind divorcing Charlie a bit,"
she thought. "Now the youngest boy is going back to England it will be
much nicer for her to be in England too. There's absolutely nothing for
her to do in Tching-Yen. She'll be able to spend all the holidays with
her boys. And then she's got her father and mother in England."

It was all very simple and everything could be managed without scandal
or ill-feeling. And then she and Charlie could marry. Kitty drew a long
sigh. They would be very happy. It was worth going through a certain
amount of bother to achieve that. Confusedly, one picture jostling
another, she thought of the life they would lead together, of the fun
they would have and the little journeys they would take together, the
house they would live in, the positions he would rise to and the help
she would be to him. He would be very proud of her and she, she adored
him.

But through all these day-dreams ran a current of apprehension. It was
funny: it was as though the wood and the strings of an orchestra played
Arcadian melodies and in the bass the drums, softly but with foreboding,
beat a grim tattoo. Sooner or later Walter must come home and her heart
beat fast at the thought of meeting him. It was strange that he had gone
away that afternoon without saying a word to her. Of course she was not
frightened of him; after all what could he do, she repeated to herself;
but she could not quite allay her uneasiness. Once more she repeated
what she would say to him. What was the good of making a scene? She was
very sorry, Heaven knew she didn't want to cause him pain, but she
couldn't help it if she didn't love him. It was no good pretending and
it was always better to tell the truth. She hoped he wouldn't be
unhappy, but they had made a mistake and the only sensible thing was to
acknowledge it. She would always think kindly of him.

But even as she said this to herself a sudden gust of fear made the
sweat start out in the palms of her hands. And because she was
frightened she grew angry with him. If he wanted to make a scene, that
was his lookout; he must not be surprised if he got more than he
bargained for. She would tell him that she had never cared two pins for
him and that not a day had passed since their marriage without her
regretting it. He was dull. Oh, how he'd bored her, bored her, bored
her! He thought himself so much better than anyone else, it was
laughable; he had no sense of humour; she hated his supercilious air,
his coldness, and his self-control. It was easy to be self-controlled
when you were interested in nothing and nobody but yourself. He was
repulsive to her. She hated to let him kiss her. What had he to be so
conceited about? He danced rottenly, he was a wet blanket at a party, he
couldn't play or sing, he couldn't play polo and his tennis was no
better than anybody else's. Bridge? Who cared about bridge?

Kitty worked herself up into a towering passion. Let him dare to
reproach her. All that had happened was his own fault. She was thankful
that he knew the truth at last. She hated him and wished never to see
him again. Yes, she was thankful that it was all over. Why couldn't he
leave her alone? He had pestered her into marrying him and now she was
fed up.

"Fed up," she repeated aloud, trembling with anger. "Fed up! Fed up!"

She heard the car draw up to the gate of their garden. He was coming up
the stairs.




_xviii_


He came into the room. Her heart was beating wildly and her hands were
shaking; it was lucky that she lay on the sofa. She was holding an open
book as though she had been reading. He stood for an instant on the
threshold and their eyes met. Her heart sank; she felt on a sudden a
cold chill pass through her limbs and she shivered. She had that feeling
which you describe by saying that someone was walking over your grave.
His face was deathly pale; she had seen it like that once before, when
they sat together in the Park and he asked her to marry him. His dark
eyes, immobile and inscrutable, seemed preternaturally large. He knew
everything.

"You're back early," she remarked.

Her lips trembled so that she could hardly frame the words. She was
terrified. She was afraid she would faint.

"I think it's about the usual time."

His voice sounded strange to her. It was raised on the last word in
order to give his remark a casual air, but it was forced. She wondered
if he saw that she was shaking in every limb. It was only by an effort
that she did not scream. He dropped his eyes.

"I'm just going to dress."

He left the room. She was shattered. For two or three minutes she could
not stir, but at last, raising herself from the sofa with difficulty, as
though she had had an illness and were still weak, she found her feet.
She did not know if her legs would support her. She felt her way by
means of chairs and tables to the veranda and then with one hand on the
wall went to her room. She put on a tea-gown and when she went back into
her boudoir (they only used the drawing-room when there was a party) he
was standing at a table looking at the pictures of the _Sketch_. She had
to force herself to enter.

"Shall we go down? Dinner is ready."

"Have I kept you waiting?"

It was dreadful that she could not control the trembling of her lips.

When was he going to speak?

They sat down and for a moment there was silence between them. Then he
made a remark and because it was so commonplace it had a sinister air.

"The _Empress_ didn't come in to-day," he said. "I wonder if she's been
delayed by a storm."

"Was she due to-day?"

"Yes."

She looked at him now and saw that his eyes were fixed on his plate. He
made another observation, equally trivial, about a tennis tournament
that was about to be played, and he spoke at length. His voice as a rule
was agreeable, with a variety of tone, but now he spoke on one note. It
was strangely unnatural. It gave Kitty the impression that he was
speaking from a long way off. And all the time his eyes were directed to
his plate, or the table, or to a picture on the wall. He would not meet
hers. She realised that he could not bear to look at her.

"Shall we go upstairs?" he said when dinner was finished.

"If you like."

She rose and he held open the door for her. His eyes were cast down as
she passed him. When they reached the sitting-room he took up the
illustrated paper once more.

"Is this a new _Sketch_? I don't think I've seen it."

"I don't know. I haven't noticed."

It had been lying about for a fortnight and she knew that he had looked
it through and through. He took it and sat down. She lay again on the
sofa and took her book. As a rule in the evening, when they were alone,
they played coon-can or patience. He was leaning back in an arm-chair,
in a comfortable attitude, and his attention seemed absorbed by the
illustration he was looking at. He did not turn the page. She tried to
read, but she could not see the print before her eyes. The words were
blurred. Her head began to ache violently.

When would he speak?

They sat in silence for an hour. She gave up the pretence of reading,
and letting her novel fall on her lap, gazed into space. She was afraid
to make the smallest gesture or the smallest sound. He sat quite still,
in that same easy attitude, and stared with those wide, immobile eyes of
his at the picture. His stillness was strangely menacing. It gave Kitty
the feeling of a wild beast prepared to spring.

When suddenly he stood up she started. She clenched her hands and she
felt herself grow pale. Now!

"I have some work to do," he said in that quiet, toneless voice, his
eyes averted. "If you don't mind I'll go into my study. I daresay you'll
have gone to bed by the time I've finished."

"I _am_ rather tired to-night."

"Well, good night."

"Good night."

He left the room.




_xix_


As soon as she could next morning she rang Townsend up at his office.

"Yes, what is it?"

"I want to see you."

"My dear, I'm awfully busy. I'm a working man."

"It's very important. Can I come down to the office?"

"Oh, no, I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Well, come here then."

"I can't possibly get away. What about this afternoon? And don't you
think it would be better if I didn't come to your house?"

"I must see you at once."

There was a pause and she was afraid that she had been cut off.

"Are you there?" she asked anxiously.

"Yes, I was thinking. Has anything happened?"

"I can't tell you over the telephone."

There was another silence before he spoke again.

"Well, look here, I can manage to see you for ten minutes at one if
that'll do. You'd better go to Ku-Chou's and I'll come along as soon as
I can."

"The curio shop?" she asked in dismay.

"Well, we can't meet in the lounge at the Tching Yen Hotel very well,"
he answered.

She noticed a trace of irritation in his voice.

"Very well. I'll go to Ku-Chou's."




_xx_


She got out of her rickshaw in the Victoria Road and walked up the
steep, narrow lane till she came to the shop. She lingered outside a
moment as though her attention were attracted by the bric-à-brac which
was displayed. But a boy who was standing there on the watch for
customers, recognising her at once, gave her a broad smile of
connivance. He said something in Chinese to someone within and the
master, a little, fat-faced man in a black gown, came out and greeted
her. She walked in quickly.

"Mr. Townsend no come yet. You go top-side, yes?"

She went to the back of the shop and walked up the rickety, dark stairs.
The Chinese followed her and unlocked the door that led into the
bedroom. It was stuffy and there was an acrid smell of opium. She sat
down on a sandalwood chest.

In a moment she heard a heavy step on the creaking stairs. Townsend came
in and shut the door behind him. His face bore a sullen look, but as he
saw her it vanished, and he smiled in that charming way of his. He took
her quickly in his arms and kissed her lips.

"Now what's the trouble?"

"It makes me feel better just to see you," she smiled.

He sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette.

"You look rather washed out this morning."

"I don't wonder," she answered. "I don't think I closed my eyes all
night."

He gave her a look. He was smiling still, but his smile was a little set
and unnatural. She thought there was a shade of anxiety in his eyes.

"He knows," she said.

There was an instant's pause before he answered.

"What did he say?"

"He hasn't said anything."

"What!" He looked at her sharply. "What makes you think he knows then?"

"Everything. His look. The way he talked at dinner."

"Was he disagreeable?"

"No, on the contrary, he was scrupulously polite. For the first time
since we married he didn't kiss me good night."

She dropped her eyes. She was not sure if Charlie understood. As a rule
Walter took her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers and would not
let them go. His whole body grew tender and passionate with his kiss.

"Why do you imagine he didn't say anything?"

"I don't know."

There was a pause. Kitty sat very still on the sandalwood box and looked
with anxious attention at Townsend. His face once more was sullen and
there was a frown between his brows. His mouth drooped a little at the
corners. But all at once he looked up and a gleam of malicious amusement
came into his eyes.

"I wonder if he _is_ going to say anything."

She did not answer. She did not know what he meant.

"After all, he wouldn't be the first man who's shut his eyes in a case
of this sort. What has he to gain by making a row? If he'd wanted to
make a row he would have insisted on coming into your room." His eyes
twinkled and his lips broke into a broad smile. "We should have looked a
pair of damned fools."

"I wish you could have seen his face last night."

"I expect he was upset. It was naturally a shock. It's a damned
humiliating position for any man. He always looks a fool. Walter doesn't
give me the impression of a fellow who'd care to wash a lot of dirty
linen in public."

"I don't think he would," she answered reflectively. "He's very
sensitive, I've discovered that."

"That's all to the good as far as we're concerned. You know, it's a very
good plan to put yourself in somebody else's shoes and ask yourself how
you would act in his place. There's only one way in which a man can save
his face when he's in that sort of position and that is to pretend he
knows nothing. I bet you anything you like that that is exactly what
he's going to do."

The more Townsend talked the more buoyant he became. His blue eyes
sparkled and he was once more his gay and jovial self. He irradiated an
encouraging confidence.

"Heaven knows, I don't want to say anything disagreeable about him, but
when you come down to brass tacks a bacteriologist is no great shakes.
The chances are that I shall be Colonial Secretary when Simmons goes
home, and it's to Walter's interest to keep on the right side of me.
He's got his bread and butter to think of, like the rest of us: do you
think the Colonial Office are going to do much for a fellow who makes a
scandal? Believe me, he's got everything to gain by holding his tongue
and everything to lose by kicking up a row."

Kitty moved uneasily. She knew how shy Walter was and she could believe
that the fear of a scene, and the dread of public attention, might have
influence upon him; but she could not believe that he would be affected
by the thought of a material advantage. Perhaps she didn't know him very
well, but Charlie didn't know him at all.

"Has it occurred to you that he's madly in love with me?"

He did not answer, but he smiled at her with roguish eyes. She knew and
loved that charming look of his.

"Well, what is it? I know you're going to say something awful."

"Well, you know, women are often under the impression that men are much
more madly in love with them than they really are."

For the first time she laughed. His confidence was catching.

"What a monstrous thing to say!"

"I put it to you that you haven't been bothering much about your husband
lately. Perhaps he isn't quite so much in love with you as he was."

"At all events I shall never delude myself that _you_ are madly in love
with me," she retorted.

"That's where you're wrong."

Ah, how good it was to hear him say that! She knew it and her belief in
his passion warmed her heart. As he spoke he rose from the bed and came
and sat down beside her on the sandalwood box. He put his arm round her
waist.

"Don't worry your silly little head a moment longer," he said. "I
promise you there's nothing to fear. I'm as certain as I am of anything
that he's going to pretend he knows nothing. You know, this sort of
thing is awfully difficult to prove. You say he's in love with you;
perhaps he doesn't want to lose you altogether. I swear I'd accept
anything rather than that if you were my wife."

She leaned towards him. Her body became limp and yielding against his
arm. The love she felt for him was almost torture. His last words had
struck her: perhaps Walter loved her so passionately that he was
prepared to accept any humiliation if sometimes she would let him love
her. She could understand that; for that was how she felt towards
Charlie. A thrill of pride passed through her, and at the same time a
faint sensation of contempt for a man who could love so slavishly.

She put her arm lovingly round Charlie's neck.

"You're simply wonderful. I was shaking like a leaf when I came here and
you've made everything all right."

He took her face in his hand and kissed her lips.

"Darling."

"You're such a comfort to me," she sighed.

"I'm sure you need not be nervous. And you know I'll stand by you. I
won't let you down."

She put away her fears, but for an instant unreasonably she regretted
that her plans for the future were shattered. Now that all danger was
past she almost wished that Walter were going to insist on a divorce.

"I knew I could count on you," she said.

"So I should hope."

"Oughtn't you to go and have your tiffin?"

"Oh, damn my tiffin."

He drew her more closely to him and now she was held tight in his arms.
His mouth sought hers.

"Oh, Charlie, you must let me go."

"Never."

She gave a little laugh, a laugh of happy love and of triumph; his eyes
were heavy with desire. He lifted her to her feet and not letting her go
but holding her close to his breast he locked the door.




_xxi_


All through the afternoon she thought of what Charlie had said about
Walter. They were dining out that evening and when he came back from the
Club she was dressing. He knocked at her door.

"Come in."

He did not open.

"I'm going straight along to dress. How long will you be?"

"Ten minutes."

He said nothing more, but went to his own room. His voice had that
constrained note which she had heard in it the night before. She felt
fairly sure of herself now. She was ready before he was and when he came
downstairs she was already seated in the car.

"I'm afraid I've kept you waiting," he said.

"I shall survive it," she replied, and she was able to smile as she spoke.

She made an observation or two as they drove down the hill, but he
answered curtly. She shrugged her shoulders; she was growing a trifle
impatient: if he wanted to sulk, let him, she didn't care. They drove in
silence till they reached their destination. It was a large dinner
party. There were too many people and too many courses. While Kitty
chatted gaily with her neighbours she watched Walter. He was deathly
pale and his face was pinched.

"Your husband is looking rather washed out. I thought he didn't mind the
heat. Has he been working very hard?"

"He always works hard."

"I suppose you're going away soon?"

"Oh, yes, I think I shall go to Japan as I did last year," she said.
"The doctor says I must get out of the heat if I don't want to go all to
pieces."

Walter did not as usual when they were dining out give her a little
smiling glance now and then. He never looked at her. She had noticed
that when he came down to the car he kept his eyes averted, and he did
the same when, with his usual politeness, he gave her his hand to
alight. Now, talking with the women on either side of him, he did not
smile, but looked at them with steady and unblinking eyes; and really
his eyes looked enormous and in that pale face coal black. His face was
set and stern.

"He must be an agreeable companion," thought Kitty ironically.

The idea of those unfortunate ladies trying to indulge in small talk
with that grim mask not a little diverted her.

Of course he knew; there was no doubt about that, and he was furious
with her. Why hadn't he said anything? Was it really because, though
angry and hurt, he loved her as much that he was afraid she would leave
him. The thought made her ever so slightly despise him, but
good-naturedly: after all, he was her husband and he provided her with
board and lodging; so long as he didn't interfere with her and let her
do as she liked she would be quite nice to him. On the other hand,
perhaps his silence was due merely to a morbid timidity. Charlie was
right when he said that no one would hate a scandal more than Walter. He
never made a speech if he could help it. He had told her once that when
he was subpœnaed as a witness on a case where he was to give expert
evidence he had hardly slept for a week before. His shyness was a
disease.

And there was another thing: men were very vain, and so long as no one
knew what had happened it might be that Walter would be content to
ignore it. Then she wondered whether by any possibility Charlie was
right when he suggested that Walter knew which side his bread was
buttered. Charlie was the most popular man in the Colony and soon would
be Colonial Secretary. He could be very useful to Walter; on the other
hand he could make himself very unpleasant if Walter put his back up.
Her heart exulted as she thought of her lover's strength and
determination; she felt so defenceless in his virile arms. Men were
strange: it would never have occurred to her that Walter was capable of
such baseness, and yet you never knew; perhaps his seriousness was
merely a mask for a mean and pettifogging nature. The more she
considered it the more likely it seemed that Charlie was right; and she
turned her glance once more on her husband. There was no indulgence in
it.

It happened that just then the women on either side of him were talking
with their neighbours and he was left alone. He was staring straight in
front of him, forgetful of the party, and his eyes were filled with a
mortal sadness. It gave Kitty a shock.




_xxii_


Next day when she was lying down after luncheon dozing, she was aroused
by a knock at her door.

"Who is it?" she cried irritably.

At that hour she was unaccustomed to be disturbed.

"I."

She recognized her husband's voice and she sat up quickly.

"Come in."

"Did I wake you?" he asked as he entered.

"In point of fact you did," she answered in the natural tone she had
adopted with him for the last two days.

"Will you come into the next room? I want to have a little talk with
you."

Her heart gave a sudden beat against her ribs.

"I'll put on a dressing-gown."

He left her. She slipped her bare feet into mules and wrapped herself in
a kimono. She looked in the glass; she was very pale and she put on some
rouge. She stood at the door for a moment, nerving herself for the
interview, and then with a bold face joined him.

"How did you manage to get away from the Laboratory at this hour?" she
said. "I don't often see you at this sort of time."

"Won't you sit down?"

He did not look at her. He spoke gravely. She was glad to do as he
asked: her knees were a little shaky, and unable to continue in that
jocular tone she kept silent. He sat also and lit a cigarette. His eyes
wandered restlessly about the room. He seemed to have some difficulty in
starting.

Suddenly he looked full at her; and because he had held his eyes so long
averted, his direct gaze gave her such a fright that she smothered a
cry.

"Have you ever heard of Mei-tan-fu?" he asked. "There's been a good deal
about it in the papers lately."

She stared at him in astonishment. She hesitated.

"Is that the place where there's cholera? Mr. Arbuthnot was talking
about it last night."

"There's an epidemic. I believe it's the worst they've had for years.
There was a medical missionary there. He died of cholera three days ago.
There's a French convent there and of course there's the Customs man.
Everyone else has got out."

His eyes were still fixed on her and she could not lower hers. She tried
to read his expression, but she was nervous, and she could only discern
a strange watchfulness. How could he look so steadily? He did not even
blink.

"The French nuns are doing what they can. They've turned the orphanage
into a hospital. But the people are dying like flies. I've offered to go
and take charge."

"You?"

She started violently. Her first thought was that if he went she would
be free and without let or hindrance could see Charlie. But the thought
shocked her. She felt herself go scarlet. Why did he watch her like
that? She looked away in embarrassment.

"Is that necessary?" she faltered.

"There's not a foreign doctor in the place."

"But you're not a doctor, you're a bacteriologist."

"I am an M.D., you know, and before I specialised I did a good deal of
general work in a hospital. The fact that I'm first and foremost a
bacteriologist is all to the good. It will be an admirable chance for
research work."

He spoke almost flippantly and when she glanced at him she was surprised
to see in his eyes a gleam of mockery. She could not understand.

"But won't it be awfully dangerous?"

"Awfully."

He smiled. It was a derisive grimace. She leaned her forehead on her
hand. Suicide. It was nothing short of that. Dreadful! She had not
thought he would take it like that. She couldn't let him do that. It was
cruel. It was not her fault if she did not love him. She couldn't bear
the thought that he should kill himself for her sake. Tears flowed
softly down her cheeks.

"What are you crying for?"

His voice was cold.

"You're not obliged to go, are you?"

"No, I go of my own free will."

"Please don't, Walter. It would be too awful if something happened.
Supposing you died?"

Though his face remained impassive the shadow of a smile once more
crossed his eyes. He did not answer.

"Where is this place?" she asked after a pause.

"Mei-tan-fu? It's on a tributary of the Western River. We should go up
the Western River and then by chair."

"Who is we?"

"You and I."

She looked at him quickly. She thought she had heard amiss. But now the
smile in his eyes had travelled to his lips. His dark eyes were fixed on
her.

"Are you expecting me to come too?"

"I thought you'd like to."

Her breath began to come very fast. A shudder passed through her.

"But surely it's no place for a woman. The missionary sent his wife and
children down weeks ago and the A. P. C. man and his wife came down. I
met her at a tea-party. I've just remembered that she said they left
some place on account of cholera."

"There are five French nuns there."

Panic seized her.

"I don't know what you mean. It would be madness for me to go. You know
how delicate I am. Dr. Hayward said I must get out of Tching-Yen on
account of the heat. I could never stand the heat up there. And cholera.
I should be frightened out of my wits. It's just asking for trouble.
There's no reason for me to go. I should die."

He did not answer. She looked at him in her desperation and she could
hardly restrain a cry. His face had a sort of black pallor which
suddenly terrified her. She saw in it a look of hatred. Was it possible
that he wanted her to die? She answered her own outrageous thought.

"It's absurd. If you think you ought to go it's your own lookout. But
really you can't expect me to. I hate illness. A cholera epidemic. I
don't pretend to be very brave and I don't mind telling you that I
haven't pluck for that. I shall stay here until it's time for me to go
to Japan."

"I should have thought that you would want to accompany me when I am
about to set out on a dangerous expedition."

He was openly mocking her now. She was confused. She did not quite know
whether he meant what he said or was merely trying to frighten her.

"I don't think anyone could reasonably blame me for refusing to go to a
dangerous place where I had no business or where I could be of no use."

"You could be of the greatest use; you could cheer and comfort me."

She grew even a little paler.

"I don't understand what you're talking about."

"I shouldn't have thought it needed more than average intelligence."

"I'm not going, Walter. It's monstrous to ask me."

"Then I shall not go either. I shall immediately file my petition."




_xxiii_


She looked at him blankly. What he said was so unexpected that at the
first moment she could hardly gather its sense.

"What on earth are you talking about?" she faltered.

Even to herself her reply rang false, and she saw the look of disdain
which it called forth on Walter's stern face.

"I'm afraid you've thought me a bigger fool than I am."

She did not quite know what to say. She was undecided whether
indignantly to assert her innocence or to break out into angry
reproaches. He seemed to read her thoughts.

"I've got all the proof necessary."

She began to cry. The tears flowed from her eyes without any particular
anguish and she did not dry them: to weep gave her a little time to
collect herself. But her mind was blank. He watched her without concern,
and his calmness frightened her. He grew impatient.

"You're not going to do much good by crying, you know."

His voice, so cold and hard, had the effect of exciting in her a certain
indignation. She was recovering her nerve.

"I don't care. I suppose you have no objection to my divorcing you. It
means nothing to a man."

"Will you allow me to ask why I should put myself to the smallest
inconvenience on your account?"

"It can't make any difference to you. It's not much to ask you to behave
like a gentleman."

"I have much too great a regard for your welfare."

She sat up now and dried her eyes.

"What _do_ you mean?" she asked him.

"Townsend will marry you only if he is correspondent and the case is so
shameless that his wife is forced to divorce him."

"You don't know what you're talking about," she cried.

"You stupid fool."

His tone was so contemptuous that she flushed with anger. And perhaps
her anger was greater because she had never before heard him say to her
any but sweet, flattering and delightful things. She had been accustomed
to find him subservient to all her whims.

"If you want the truth you can have it. He's only too anxious to marry
me. Dorothy Townsend is perfectly willing to divorce him and we shall be
married the moment we're free."

"Did he tell you that in so many words or is that the impression you
have gained from his manner?"

Walter's eyes shone with bitter mockery. They made Kitty a trifle
uneasy. She was not quite sure that Charlie had ever said exactly that
in so many words.

"He's said it over and over again."

"That's a lie and you know it's a lie."

"He loves me with all his heart and soul. He loves me as passionately as
I love him. You've found out. I'm not going to deny anything. Why should
I? We've been lovers for a year and I'm proud of it. He means everything
in the world to me and I'm glad that you know at last. We're sick to
death of secrecy and compromise and all the rest of it. It was a mistake
that I ever married you, I never should have done it, I was a fool. I
never cared for you. We never had anything in common. I don't like the
people you like and I'm bored by the things that interest you. I'm
thankful it's finished."

He watched her without a gesture and without a movement of his face. He
listened attentively and no change in his expression showed that what
she said affected him.

"Do you know why I married you?"

"Because you wanted to be married before your sister Doris."

It was true, but it gave her a funny little turn to realise that he knew
it. Oddly enough, even in that moment of fear and anger, it excited her
compassion. He faintly smiled.

"I had no illusions about you," he said. "I knew you were silly and
frivolous and empty-headed. But I loved you. I knew that your aims and
ideals were vulgar and commonplace. But I loved you. I knew that you
were second-rate. But I loved you. It's comic when I think how hard I
tried to be amused by the things that amused you and how anxious I was
to hide from you that I wasn't ignorant and vulgar and scandal-mongering
and stupid. I knew how frightened you were of intelligence and I did
everything I could to make you think me as big a fool as the rest of the
men you knew. I knew that you'd only married me for convenience. I loved
you so much, I didn't care. Most people, as far as I can see, when
they're in love with someone and the love isn't returned feel that they
have a grievance. They grow angry and bitter. I wasn't like that. I
never expected you to love me, I didn't see any reason that you should,
I never thought myself very lovable. I was thankful to be allowed to
love you and I was enraptured when now and then I thought you were
pleased with me or when I noticed in your eyes a gleam of good-humoured
affection. I tried not to bore you with my love; I knew I couldn't
afford to do that and I was always on the lookout for the first sign
that you were impatient with my affection. What most husbands expect as
a right I was prepared to receive as a favour."

Kitty, accustomed to flattery all her life, had never heard such things
said to her before. Blind wrath, driving out fear, arose in her heart:
it seemed to choke her, and she felt the blood-vessels in her temples
swell and throb. Wounded vanity can make a woman more vindictive than a
lioness robbed of her cubs. Kitty's jaw, always a little too square,
protruded with an apish hideousness and her beautiful eyes were black
with malice. But she kept her temper in check.

"If a man hasn't what's necessary to make a woman love him, it's his
fault, not hers."

"Evidently."

His derisive tone increased her irritation. She felt that she could
wound him more by maintaining her calm.

"I'm not very well educated and I'm not very clever. I'm just a
perfectly ordinary young woman. I like the things that the people like
among whom I've lived all my life. I like dancing and tennis and
theatres and I like the men who play games. It's quite true that I've
always been bored by you and by the things you like. They mean nothing
to me and I don't want them to. You dragged me round those interminable
galleries in Venice: I should have enjoyed myself much more playing golf
at Sandwich."

"I know."

"I'm sorry if I haven't been all that you expected me to be.
Unfortunately I always found you physically repulsive. You can hardly
blame me for that."

"I don't."

Kitty could more easily have coped with the situation if he had raved
and stormed. She could have met violence with violence. His self-control
was inhuman and she hated him now as she had never hated him before.

"I don't think you're a man at all. Why didn't you break into the room
when you knew I was there with Charlie? You might at least have tried to
thrash him. Were you afraid?"

But the moment she had said this she flushed, for she was ashamed. He
did not answer, but in his eyes she read an icy disdain. The shadow of a
smile flickered on his lips.

"It may be that, like a historical character, I am too proud to fight."

Kitty, unable to think of anything to answer, shrugged her shoulders.
For a moment longer he held her in his immobile gaze.

"I think I've said all I had to say: if you refuse to come to Mei-tan-fu
I shall file my petition."

"Why won't you consent to let me divorce you?"

He took his eyes off her at last. He leaned back in his chair and lit a
cigarette. He smoked it to the end without saying a word. Then, throwing
away the butt, he gave a little smile. He looked at her once more.

"If Mrs. Townsend will give me her assurance that she will divorce her
husband and if he will give me his written promise to marry you within a
week of the two decrees being made absolute, I will do that."

There was something in the way he spoke which disconcerted her. But her
self-respect obliged her to accept his offer in the grand manner.

"That is very generous of you, Walter."

To her astonishment he burst suddenly into a shout of laughter. She
flushed angrily.

"What are you laughing at? I see nothing to laugh at."

"I beg your pardon. I daresay my sense of humour is peculiar."

She looked at him, frowning. She would have liked to say something
bitter and wounding, but no rejoinder occurred to her. He looked at his
watch.

"You had better look sharp if you want to catch Townsend at his office.
If you decide to come with me to Mei-tan-fu it would be necessary to
start the day after to-morrow."

"Do you want me to tell him to-day?"

"They say there is no time like the present."

Her heart began to beat a little faster. It was not uneasiness that she
felt, it was, she didn't quite know what it was. She wished she could
have had a little longer; she would have liked to prepare Charlie. But
she had the fullest confidence in him, he loved her as much as she loved
him, and it was treacherous even to let the thought cross her mind that
he would not welcome the necessity that was forced upon them. She turned
to Walter gravely.

"I don't think you know what love is. You can have no conception how
desperately in love Charlie and I are with one another. It really is the
only thing that matters and every sacrifice that our love calls for will
be as easy as falling off a log."

He gave a little bow, but said nothing, and his eyes followed her as she
walked with measured step from the room.




_xxiv_


She sent in a little note to Charlie on which she had written: "_Please
see me. It is urgent._" A Chinese boy asked her to wait and brought the
answer that Mr. Townsend would see her in five minutes. She was
unaccountably nervous. When at last she was ushered into his room
Charlie came forward to shake hands with her, but the moment the boy,
having closed the door, left them alone he dropped the affable formality
of his manner.

"I say, my dear, you really mustn't come here in working hours. I've got
an awful lot to do and we don't want to give people a chance to gossip."

She gave him a long look with those beautiful eyes of hers and tried to
smile, but her lips were stiff and she could not.

"I wouldn't have come unless it was necessary."

He smiled and took her arm.

"Well, since you're here come and sit down."

It was a long bare room, narrow, with a high ceiling; its walls were
painted in two shades of terra cotta. The only furniture consisted of a
large desk, a revolving chair for Townsend to sit in and a leather
arm-chair for visitors. It intimidated Kitty to sit in this. He sat at
the desk. She had never seen him in spectacles before; she did not know
that he used them. When he noticed that her eyes were on them he took
them off.

"I only use them for reading," he said.

Her tears came easily and now, she hardly knew why, she began to cry.
She had no deliberate intention of deceiving, but rather an instinctive
desire to excite his sympathy. He looked at her blankly.

"Is anything the matter? Oh, my dear, don't cry."

She took out her handkerchief and tried to check her sobs. He rang the
bell and when the boy came to the door went to it.

"If anyone asks for me say I'm out."

"Very good, sir."

The boy closed the door. Charlie sat on the arm of the chair and put his
arm round Kitty's shoulders.

"Now, Kitty dear, tell me all about it."

"Walter wants a divorce," she said.

She felt the pressure of his arm on her shoulder cease. His body
stiffened. There was a moment's silence, then Townsend rose from her
chair and sat down once more in his.

"What exactly do you mean?" he said.

She looked at him quickly, for his voice was hoarse, and she saw that
his face was dully red.

"I've had a talk with him. I've come straight from the house now. He
says he has all the proof he wants."

"You didn't commit yourself, did you? You didn't acknowledge anything?"

Her heart sank.

"No," she answered.

"Are you quite sure?" he asked, looking at her sharply.

"Quite sure," she lied again.

He leaned back in his chair and stared vacantly at the map of China
which was hanging on the wall in front of him. She watched him
anxiously. She was somewhat disconcerted at the manner in which he had
received the news. She had expected him to take her in his arms and tell
her he was thankful, for now they could be together always; but of
course men were funny. She was crying softly, not now to arouse
sympathy, but because it seemed the natural thing to do.

"This is a bloody mess we've got into," he said at length. "But it's no
good losing our heads. Crying isn't going to do us any good, you know."

She noticed the irritation in his voice and dried her eyes.

"It's not my fault, Charlie. I couldn't help it."

"Of course you couldn't. It was just damned bad luck. I was just as much
to blame as you were. The thing to do now is to see how we're going to
get out of it. I don't suppose you want to be divorced any more than I
do."

She smothered a gasp. She gave him a searching look. He was not thinking
of her at all.

"I wonder what his proofs really are. I don't know how he can actually
prove that we were together in that room. On the whole we've been about
as careful as anyone could be. I'm sure that old fellow at the curio
shop wouldn't have given us away. Even if he'd seen us go in there's no
reason why we shouldn't hunt curios together."

He was talking to himself rather than to her.

"It's easy enough to bring charges, but it's damned difficult to prove
them; any lawyer will tell you that. Our line is to deny everything, and
if he threatens to bring an action we'll tell him to go to hell and
we'll fight it."

"I couldn't go into court, Charlie."

"Why on earth not? I'm afraid you'll have to. God knows, I don't want a
row, but we can't take it lying down."

"Why need we defend it?"

"What a question to ask! After all, it's not only you that are
concerned, I'm concerned too. But as a matter of fact I don't think you
need be afraid of that. We shall be able to square your husband somehow.
The only thing that worries me is the best way to set about it."

It looked as though an idea occurred to him, for he turned towards her
with his charming smile and his tone, a moment before abrupt and
business-like, became ingratiating.

"I'm afraid you've been awfully upset, poor little woman. It's too bad."
He stretched out his hand and took hers. "It's a scrape we've got into,
but we shall get out of it. It's not . . ." He stopped and Kitty had a
suspicion that he had been about to say that it was not the first he had
got out of. "The great thing is to keep our heads. You know I shall
never let you down."

"I'm not frightened. I don't care what he does."

He smiled still, but perhaps his smile was a trifle forced.

"If the worst comes to the worst I shall have to tell the Governor.
He'll curse me like hell, but he's a good fellow and a man of the world.
He'll fix it up somehow. It wouldn't do him any good if there was a
scandal."

"What can he do?" asked Kitty.

"He can bring pressure to bear on Walter. If he can't get at him through
his ambition he'll get at him through his sense of duty."

Kitty was a little chilled. She did not seem able to make Charlie see
how desperately grave the situation was. His airiness made her
impatient. She was sorry that she had come to see him in his office. The
surroundings intimidated her. It would have been much easier to say what
she wanted if she could have been in his arms with hers round his neck.

"You don't know Walter," she said.

"I know that every man has his price."

She loved Charlie with all her heart, but his reply disconcerted her;
for such a clever man it was a stupid thing to say.

"I don't think you realise how angry Walter is. You haven't seen his
face and the look of his eyes."

He did not reply for a moment, but looked at her with a slight smile.
She knew what he was thinking. Walter was the bacteriologist and
occupied a subordinate position; he would hardly have the impudence to
make himself a nuisance to the upper officials of the Colony.

"It's no good deceiving yourself, Charlie," she said earnestly. "If
Walter has made up his mind to bring an action nothing that you or
anybody else can say will have the slightest influence."

His face once more grew heavy and sulky.

"Is it his idea to make me co-respondent?"

"At first it was. At last I managed to get him to consent to let me
divorce him."

"Oh, well, that's not so terrible." His manner relaxed again and she saw
the relief in his eyes. "That seems to me a very good way out. After
all, it's the least a man can do, it's the only decent thing."

"But he makes a condition."

He gave her an inquiring glance and he seemed to reflect.

"Of course I'm not a very rich man, but I'll do anything in my power."

Kitty was silent. Charlie was saying things which she would never have
expected him to say. And they made it difficult for her to speak. She
had expected to blurt it out in one breath, held in his loving arms,
with her burning face hid on his breast.

"He agrees to my divorcing him if your wife will give him the assurance
that she will divorce you."

"Anything else?"

Kitty could hardly find her voice.

"And--it's awfully hard to say, Charlie, it sounds dreadful--if you'll
promise to marry me within a week of the decrees being made absolute."




_xxv_


For a moment he was silent. Then he took her hand again and pressed it
gently.

"You know, darling," he said, "whatever happens we must keep Dorothy out
of this."

She looked at him blankly.

"But I don't understand. How can we?"

"Well, we can't only think of ourselves in this world. You know, other
things being equal, there's nothing in the world I'd love more than to
marry you. But it's quite out of the question. I know Dorothy: nothing
would induce her to divorce me."

Kitty was becoming horribly frightened. She began to cry again. He got
up and sat down beside her with his arm round her waist.

"Try not to upset yourself, darling. We _must_ keep our heads."

"I thought you loved me . . ."

"Of course I love you," he said tenderly. "You surely can't have any
doubt of that now."

"If she won't divorce you Walter will make you co-respondent."

He took an appreciable time to answer. His tone was dry.

"Of course that would ruin my career, but I'm afraid it wouldn't do you
much good. If the worst came to the worst I should make a clean breast
of it to Dorothy; she'd be dreadfully hurt and wretched, but she'd
forgive me." He had an idea. "I'm not sure if the best plan wouldn't be
to make a clean breast of it anyhow. If she went to your husband I
daresay she could persuade him to hold his tongue."

"Does that mean you don't want her to divorce you?"

"Well, I have got my boys to think of, haven't I? And naturally I don't
want to make her unhappy. We've always got on very well together. She's
been an awfully good wife to me, you know."

"Why did you tell me that she meant nothing to you?"

"I never did. I said I wasn't in love with her. We haven't slept
together for years except now and then, on Christmas Day for instance,
or the day before she was going home or the day she came back. She isn't
a woman who cares for that sort of thing. But we've always been
excellent friends. I don't mind telling you that I depend on her more
than anyone has any idea of."

"Don't you think it would have been better to leave me alone then?"

She found it strange that with terror catching her breath she could
speak so calmly.

"You were the loveliest little thing I'd seen for years. I just fell
madly in love with you. You can't blame me for that."

"After all, you said you'd never let me down."

"But, good God, I'm not going to let you down. We've got in an awful
scrape and I'm going to do everything that's humanly possible to get you
out of it."

"Except the one obvious and natural thing."

He stood up and returned to his own chair.

"My dear, you must be reasonable. We'd much better face the situation
frankly. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but really I must tell you
the truth. I'm very keen on my career. There's no reason why I shouldn't
be a Governor one of these days, and it's a damned soft job to be a
Colonial Governor. Unless we can hush this up I don't stand a dog's
chance. I may not have to leave the service, but there'll always be a
black mark against me. If I do have to leave the service then I must go
into business in China, where I know people. In either case my only
chance is for Dorothy to stick to me."

"Was it necessary to tell me that you wanted nothing in the world but
me?"

The corners of his mouth drooped peevishly.

"Oh, my dear, it's rather hard to take quite literally the things a man
says when he's in love with you."

"Didn't you mean them?"

"At the moment."

"And what's to happen to me if Walter divorces me?"

"If we really haven't a leg to stand on of course we won't defend. There
shouldn't be any publicity and people are pretty broad-minded nowadays."

For the first time Kitty thought of her mother. She shivered. She looked
again at Townsend. Her pain now was tinged with resentment.

"I'm sure you'd have no difficulty in bearing any inconvenience that I
had to suffer," she said.

"We're not going to get much further by saying disagreeable things to
one another," he answered.

She gave a cry of despair. It was dreadful that she should love him so
devotedly and yet feel such bitterness towards him. It was not possible
that he understood how much he meant to her.

"Oh, Charlie, don't you know how I love you?"

"But, my dear, I love you. Only we're not living in a desert island and
we've got to make the best we can out of the circumstances that are
forced upon us. You really must be reasonable."

"How can I be reasonable? To me our love was everything and you were my
whole life. It is not very pleasant to realise that to you it was only
an episode."

"Of course it wasn't an episode. But you know, when you ask me to get my
wife, to whom I'm very much attached, to divorce me, and ruin my career
by marrying you, you're asking a good deal."

"No more than I'm willing to do for you."

"The circumstances are rather different."

"The only difference is that you don't love me."

"One can be very much in love with a woman without wishing to spend the
rest of one's life with her."

She gave him a quick look and despair seized her. Heavy tears rolled
down her cheeks.

"Oh, how cruel! How can you be so heartless?"

She began to sob hysterically. He gave an anxious glance at the door.

"My dear, do try and control yourself."

"You don't know how I love you," she gasped. "I can't live without you.
Have you no pity for me?"

She could not speak any more. She wept without restraint.

"I don't want to be unkind and, Heaven knows, I don't want to hurt your
feelings, but I must tell you the truth."

"It's the ruin of my whole life. Why couldn't you leave me alone? What
harm had I ever done you?"

"Of course if it does you any good to put all the blame on me you may."

Kitty blazed with sudden anger.

"I suppose I threw myself at your head. I suppose I gave you no peace
till you yielded to my entreaties."

"I don't say that. But I certainly should never have thought of making
love to you if you hadn't made it perfectly clear that you were ready to
be made love to."

Oh, the shame of it! She knew that what he said was true. His face now
was sullen and worried and his hands moved uneasily. Every now and then
he gave her a little glance of exasperation.

"Won't your husband forgive you?" he said after a while.

"I never asked him."

Instinctively he clenched his hands. She saw him suppress the
exclamation of annoyance which came to his lips.

"Why don't you go to him and throw yourself on his mercy? If he's as
much in love with you as you say he's bound to forgive you."

"How little you know him!"




_xxvi_


She wiped her eyes. She tried to pull herself together.

"Charlie, if you desert me I shall die."

She was driven now to appeal to his compassion. She ought to have told
him at once. When he knew the horrible alternative that was placed
before her his generosity, his sense of justice, his manliness, would be
so vehemently aroused that he would think of nothing but her danger. Oh,
how passionately she desired to feel his dear, protecting arms around
her!

"Walter wants me to go to Mei-tan-fu."

"Oh, but that's the place where the cholera is. They've got the worst
epidemic that they've had for fifty years. It's no place for a woman.
You can't possibly go there."

"If you let me down I shall have to."

"What do you mean? I don't understand."

"Walter is taking the place of the missionary doctor who died. He wants
me to go with him."

"When?"

"Now. At once."

Townsend pushed back his chair and looked at her with puzzled eyes.

"I may be very stupid, but I can't make head or tail out of what you're
saying. If he wants you to go to this place with him, what about a
divorce?"

"He's given me my choice. I must either go to Mei-tan-fu or else he'll
bring an action."

"Oh, I see." Townsend's tone changed ever so slightly. "I think that's
rather decent of him, don't you?"

"Decent?"

"Well, it's a damned sporting thing of him to go there. It's not a thing
I'd fancy. Of course he'll get a C.M.G. for it when he comes back."

"But me, Charlie?" she cried, with anguish in her voice.

"Well, I think if he wants you to go, under the circumstances I don't
see how you can very well refuse."

"It means death. Absolutely certain death."

"Oh, damn it all, that's rather an exaggeration. He would hardly take
you if he thought that. It's no more risk for you than for him. In point
of fact there's no great risk if you're careful. I've been here when
there's been cholera and I haven't turned a hair. The great thing is not
to eat anything uncooked, no raw fruit or salads, or anything like that,
and see that your drinking water is boiled." He was gaining confidence
as he proceeded, and his speech was fluent; he was even becoming less
sullen and more alert; he was almost breezy. "After all, it's his job,
isn't it? He's interested in bugs. It's rather a chance for him if you
come to think of it."

"But me, Charlie?" she repeated, not with anguish now, but with
consternation.

"Well, the best way to understand a man is to put yourself in his shoes.
From his point of view you've been rather a naughty little thing and he
wants to get you out of harm's way. I always thought he never wanted to
divorce you, he doesn't strike me as that sort of chap; but he made what
he thought was a very generous offer and you put his back up by turning
it down. I don't want to blame you, but really for all our sakes I think
you ought to have given it a little consideration."

"But don't you see it'll kill me? Don't you know that he's taking me
there because he _knows_ it'll kill me."

"Oh, my dear, don't talk like that. We're in a damned awkward position
and really it's no time to be melodramatic."

"You've made up your mind not to understand." Oh, the pain in her heart,
and the fear! She could have screamed. "You can't send me to certain
death. If you have no love or pity for me you must have just ordinary
human feeling."

"I think it's rather hard on me to put it like that. As far as I can
make out your husband is behaving very generously. He's willing to
forgive you if you'll let him. He wants to get you away and this
opportunity has presented itself to take you to some place where for a
few months you'll be out of harm's way. I don't pretend that Mei-tan-fu
is a health resort, I never knew a Chinese city that was, but there's no
reason to get the wind up about it. In fact that's the worst thing you
can do. I believe as many people die from sheer fright in an epidemic as
because they get infected."

"But I'm frightened now. When Walter spoke of it I almost fainted."

"At the first moment I can quite believe it was a shock, but when you
come to look at it calmly you'll be all right. It'll be the sort of
experience that not everyone has had."

"I thought, I thought . . ."

She rocked to and fro in an agony. He did not speak, and once more his
face wore that sullen look which till lately she had never known. Kitty
was not crying now. She was dry-eyed, calm, and though her voice was low
it was steady.

"Do you want me to go?"

"It's Hobson's choice, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"It's only fair to you to tell you that if your husband brought an
action for divorce and won it I should not be in a position to marry
you."

It must have seemed an age to him before she answered. She rose slowly
to her feet.

"I don't think that my husband ever thought of bringing an action."

"Then why in God's name have you been frightening me out of my wits?" he
asked.

She looked at him coolly.

"He knew that you'd let me down."

She was silent. Vaguely, as when you are studying a foreign language and
read a page which at first you can make nothing of, till a word or a
sentence gives you a clue; and on a sudden a suspicion, as it were, of
the sense flashes across your troubled wits, vaguely she gained an
inkling into the workings of Walter's mind. It was like a dark and
ominous landscape seen by a flash of lightning and in a moment hidden
again by the night. She shuddered at what she saw.

"He made that threat only because he knew that you'd crumple up at it,
Charlie. It's strange that he should have judged you so accurately. It
was just like him to expose me to such a cruel disillusion."

Charlie looked down at the sheet of blotting paper in front of him. He
was frowning a little and his mouth was sulky. But he did not reply.

"He knew that you were vain, cowardly and self-seeking. He wanted me to
see it with my own eyes. He knew that you'd run like a hare at the
approach of danger. He knew how grossly deceived I was in thinking that
you were in love with me, because he knew that you were incapable of
loving anyone but yourself. He knew you'd sacrifice me without a pang to
save your own skin."

"If it really gives you any satisfaction to say beastly things to me I
suppose I've got no right to complain. Women always are unfair and they
generally manage to put a man in the wrong. But there is something to be
said on the other side."

She took no notice of his interruption.

"And now I know all that he knew. I know that you're callous and
heartless. I know that you're selfish, selfish beyond words, and I know
that you haven't the nerve of a rabbit, I know you're a liar and a
humbug, I know that you're utterly contemptible. And the tragic part
is"--her face was on a sudden distraught with pain--"the tragic part is
that notwithstanding I love you with all my heart."

"Kitty."

She gave a bitter laugh. He had spoken her name in that melting, rich
tone of his which came to him so naturally and meant so little.

"You fool," she said.

He drew back quickly, flushing and offended; he could not make her out.
She gave him a look in which there was a glint of amusement.

"You're beginning to dislike me, aren't you? Well, dislike me. It
doesn't make any difference to me now."

She began to put on her gloves.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Oh, don't be afraid, you'll come to no harm. You'll be quite safe."

"For God's sake, don't talk like that, Kitty," he answered and his deep
voice rang with anxiety. "You must know that everything that concerns
you concerns me. I shall be frightfully anxious to know what happens.
What are you going to say to your husband?"

"I'm going to tell him that I'm prepared to go to Mei-tan-fu with him."

"Perhaps when you consent he won't insist."

He could not have known why, when he said this, she looked at him so
strangely.

"You're not really frightened?" he asked her.

"No," she said. "You've inspired me with courage. To go into the midst
of a cholera epidemic will be a unique experience and if I die of
it--well, I die."

"I was trying to be as kind to you as I could."

She looked at him again. Tears sprang into her eyes once more and her
heart was very full. The impulse was almost irresistible to fling
herself on his breast and crush her lips against his. It was no use.

"If you want to know," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "I go
with death in my heart and fear. I do not know what Walter has in that
dark, twisted mind of his, but I'm shaking with terror. I think it may
be that death will be really a release."

She felt that she could not hold on to her self control for another
moment. She walked swiftly to the door and let herself out before he had
time to move from his chair. Townsend gave a long sigh of relief. He
badly wanted a brandy and soda.




_xxvii_


Walter was in when she got home. She would have liked to go straight to
her room, but he was downstairs, in the hall, giving instructions to one
of the boys. She was so wretched that she welcomed the humiliation to
which she must expose herself. She stopped and faced him.

"I'm coming with you to that place," she said.

"Oh, good."

"When do you want me to be ready?"

"To-morrow night."

She did not know what spirit of bravado entered into her. His
indifference was like the prick of a spear. She said a thing that
surprised herself.

"I suppose I needn't take more than a few summer things and a shroud,
need I?"

She was watching his face and knew that her flippancy angered him.

"I've already told your amah what you'll want."

She nodded and went up to her room. She was very pale.




_xxviii_


They were reaching their destination at last. They were borne in chairs,
day after day, along a narrow causeway between interminable rice-fields.
They set out at dawn and travelled till the heat of the day forced them
to take shelter in a wayside inn and then went on again till they
reached the town where they had arranged to spend the night. Kitty's
chair headed the procession and Walter followed her; then in a
straggling line came the coolies that bore their bedding, stores and
equipment. Kitty passed through the country with unseeing eyes. All
through the long hours, the silence broken only by an occasional remark
from one of the bearers or a snatch of uncouth song, she turned over in
her tortured mind the details of that heart-rending scene in Charlie's
office. Recalling what he had said to her and what she had said to him,
she was dismayed to see what an arid and business-like turn their
conversation had taken. She had not said what she wanted to say and she
had not spoken in the tone she intended. Had she been able to make him
see her boundless love, the passion in her heart, and her helplessness,
he could never have been so inhuman as to leave her to her fate. She had
been taken unawares. She could hardly believe her ears when he told her,
more clearly than with words, that he cared nothing for her. That was
why she had not even cried very much, she had been so dazed. She had
wept since, wept miserably.

At night in the inns, sharing the principal guest chamber with her
husband and conscious that Walter, lying on his camp bed, a few feet
away from her, lay awake, she dug her teeth in the pillow so that no
sound might escape her. But in the daytime, protected by the curtains of
her chair, she allowed herself to give way. Her pain was so great that
she could have screamed at the top of her voice; she had never known
that one could suffer so much; and she asked herself desperately what
she had done to deserve it. She could not make out why Charlie did not
love her: it was her fault, she supposed, but she had done everything
she knew to make him fond of her. They had always got on so well, they
laughed all the time they were together, they were not only lovers but
good friends. She could not understand; she was broken. She told herself
that she hated and despised him; but she had no idea how she was going
to live if she was never to see him again. If Walter was taking her to
Mei-tan-fu as a punishment he was making a fool of himself, for what did
she care now what became of her? She had nothing to live for any more.
It was rather hard to be finished with life at twenty-seven.




_xxix_


On the steamer that took them up the Western River Walter read
incessantly, but at meal-times he endeavoured to make some kind of
conversation. He talked to her as though she were a stranger with whom
he happened to be making the journey, of indifferent things, from
politeness, Kitty imagined, or because so he could render more marked
the gulf that separated them.

In a flash of insight she had told Charlie that Walter had sent her to
him with the threat of divorce as the alternative to her accompanying
him to the stricken city in order that she might see for herself how
indifferent, cowardly and selfish he was. It was true. It was a trick
which accorded very well with his sardonic humour. He knew exactly what
would happen and he had given her amah necessary instructions before her
return. She had caught in his eyes a disdain which seemed to include her
lover as well as herself. He said to himself, perhaps, that if he had
been in Townsend's place nothing in the world would have hindered him
from making any sacrifice to gratify her smallest whim. She knew that
was true also. But then, when her eyes were opened, how could he make
her do something which was so dangerous, and which he must know
frightened her so terribly? At first she thought he was only playing
with her and till they actually started, no, later, till they left the
river and took to the chairs for the journey across country, she thought
he would give that little laugh of his and tell her that she need not
come. She had no inkling what was in his mind. He could not really
desire her death. He had loved her so desperately. She knew what love
was now and she remembered a thousand signs of his adoration. For him
really, in the French phrase, she did make fine weather and foul. It was
impossible that he did not love her still. Did you cease to love a
person because you had been treated cruelly? She had not made him suffer
as Charlie had made her suffer and yet, if Charlie made a sign,
notwithstanding everything, even though she knew him now, she would
abandon all the world had to offer and fly to his arms. Even though he
had sacrificed her and cared nothing for her, even though he was callous
and unkind, she loved him.

At first she thought that she had only to bide her time, and sooner or
later Walter would forgive her. She had been too confident of her power
over him to believe that it was gone for ever. Many waters could not
quench love. He was weak if he loved her, and she felt that love her he
must. But now she was not quite sure. When in the evening he sat reading
in the straight-backed blackwood chair of the inn with the light of a
hurricane lamp on his face she was able to watch him at her ease. She
lay on the pallet on which her bed presently would be set and she was in
shadow. Those straight, regular features of his made his face look very
severe. You could hardly believe that it was possible for them on
occasion to be changed by so sweet a smile. He was able to read as
calmly as though she were a thousand miles away; she saw him turn the
pages and she saw his eyes move regularly as they travelled from line to
line. He was not thinking of her. And when, the table being set and
dinner brought in, he put aside his book and gave her a glance (not
knowing how the light on his face threw into distinctness his
expression), she was startled to see in his eyes a look of physical
distaste. Yes, it startled her. Was it possible that his love had left
him entirely? Was it possible that he really designed her death? It was
absurd. That would be the act of a madman. It was odd, the little shiver
that ran through her as the thought occurred to her that perhaps Walter
was not quite sane.




_xxx_


Suddenly her bearers, long silent, began to speak and one of them,
turning round, with words she could not understand and with a gesture,
sought to attract her attention. She looked in the direction he pointed
and there, on the top of a hill, saw an archway; she knew by now that it
was a memorial in compliment of a fortunate scholar or a virtuous widow,
she had passed many of them since they left the river; but this one,
silhouetted against the westering sun, was more fantastic and beautiful
than any she had seen. Yet, she knew not why, it made her uneasy; it had
a significance which she felt but could not put into words: Was it a
menace that she vaguely discerned or was it derision? She was passing a
grove of bamboos and they leaned over the causeway strangely as if they
would detain her; though the summer evening was windless their narrow
green leaves shivered a little. It gave her the sensation that someone
hidden among them was watching her as she passed. Now they came to the
foot of the hill and the rice-fields ceased. The bearers took it with a
swinging stride. The hill was covered close with little green mounds,
close, close to one another, so that the ground was ribbed like the
sea-sand when the tide has gone out; and this she knew too, for she had
passed just such a spot as they approached each populous city and left
it. It was the graveyard. Now she knew why the bearers had called her
attention to the archway that stood on the crest of the hill: they had
reached the end of their journey.

They passed through the archway and the chair-bearers paused to change
the pole from shoulder to shoulder. One of them wiped his sweating face
with a dirty rag. The causeway wound down. There were bedraggled houses
on each side. Now the night was falling. But the bearers on a sudden
broke into excited talk and with a jump that shook her ranged themselves
as near as they could to the wall. In a moment she knew what had
startled them, for as they stood there, chattering to one another, four
peasants passed, quick and silent, bearing a new coffin, unpainted, and
its fresh wood gleamed white in the approaching darkness. Kitty felt her
heart beat in terror against her ribs. The coffin passed, but the
bearers stood still; it seemed as though they could not summon up the
will to go on. But there was a shout from behind and they started. They
did not speak now.

They walked for a few minutes longer and then turned sharply into an
open gateway. The chair was set down. She had arrived.




_xxxi_


It was a bungalow and she entered the sitting-room. She sat down while
the coolies, straggling in one by one, brought in their loads. Walter in
the courtyard gave directions where this or that was to be placed. She
was very tired. She was startled to hear an unknown voice.

"May I come in?"

She flushed and grew pale. She was overwrought and it made her nervous
to meet a stranger. A man came out of the darkness, for the long low
room was lit only by a shaded lamp, and held out his hand.

"My name is Waddington. I am the Deputy Commissioner."

"Oh, the Customs. I know. I heard that you were here."

In that dim light she could see only that he was a little thin man, no
taller than she, with a bald head and a small, bare face.

"I live just at the bottom of the hill, but coming in this way you
wouldn't have seen my house. I thought you'd be too fagged to come and
dine with me, so I've ordered your dinner here and I've invited myself."

"I'm delighted to hear it."

"You'll find the cook's not bad. I kept on Watson's boys for you."

"Watson was the missionary who was here?"

"Yes. Very nice fellow. I'll show you his grave to-morrow if you like."

"How kind you are," said Kitty, with a smile.

At that moment Walter came in. Waddington had introduced himself to him
before coming in to see Kitty and now he said:

"I've just been breaking it to your missus that I'm dining with you.
Since Watson died I haven't had anybody much to talk to but the nuns,
and I can never do myself justice in French. Besides, there is only a
limited number of subjects you can talk to them about."

"I've just told the boy to bring in some drinks," said Walter.

The servant brought whisky and soda and Kitty noticed that Waddington
helped himself generously. His manner of speaking and his easy chuckle
had suggested to her when he came in that he was not quite sober.

"Here's luck," he said. Then, turning to Walter: "You've got your work
cut out for you here. They're dying like flies. The magistrate's lost
his head and Colonel Yü, the officer commanding the troops, is having a
devil of a job to prevent them from looting. If something doesn't happen
soon we shall all be murdered in our beds. I tried to get the nuns to
go, but of course they wouldn't. They all want to be martyrs, damn
them."

He spoke lightly and there was in his voice a sort of ghostly laughter
so that you could not listen to him without smiling.

"Why haven't you gone?" asked Walter.

"Well, I've lost half my staff and the others are ready to lie down and
die at any minute. Somebody's got to stay and keep things together."

"Have you been inoculated?"

"Yes. Watson did me. But he did himself too, and it didn't do him much
good, poor blighter." He turned to Kitty and his funny little face was
gaily puckered. "I don't think there's any great risk if you take proper
precautions. Have your milk and water boiled and don't eat fresh fruit
or uncooked vegetables. Have you brought any gramophone records with
you?"

"No, I don't think so," said Kitty.

"I'm sorry for that. I was hoping you would. I haven't had any for a
long time and I'm sick of my old ones."

The boy came in to ask if they would have dinner.

"You won't dress to-night, will you?" asked Waddington. "My boy died
last week and the boy I have now is a fool, so I haven't been dressing
in the evening."

"I'll go and take off my hat," said Kitty.

Her room was next door to that in which they sat. It was barely
furnished. An amah was kneeling on the floor, the lamp beside her,
unpacking Kitty's things.




_xxxii_


The dining-room was small and the greater part of it was filled by an
immense table. On the walls were engravings of scenes from the Bible and
illuminated texts.

"Missionaries always have large dining-tables," Waddington explained.
"They get so much a year more for every child they have and they buy
their tables when they marry so that there shall be plenty of room for
little strangers."

From the ceiling hung a large paraffin lamp, so that Kitty was able to
see better what sort of a man Waddington was. His baldness had deceived
her into thinking him no longer young, but she saw now that he must be
well under forty. His face, small under a high, rounded forehead, was
unlined and fresh-coloured; it was ugly like a monkey's, but with an
ugliness that was not without charm; it was an amusing face. His
features, his nose and his mouth, were hardly larger than a child's, and
he had small, very bright blue eyes. His eyebrows were fair and scanty.
He looked like a funny little old boy. He helped himself constantly to
liquor and as dinner proceeded it became evident that he was far from
sober. But if he was drunk it was without offensiveness, gaily, as a
satyr might be who had stolen a wine-skin from a sleeping shepherd.

He talked of Tching-Yen; he had many friends there and he wanted to know
about them. He had been down for the races a year before and he talked
of ponies and their owners.

"By the way, what about Townsend?" he asked suddenly. "Is he going to
become Colonial Secretary?"

Kitty felt herself flush, but her husband did not look at her.

"I shouldn't wonder," he answered.

"He's the sort that gets on."

"Do you know him?" asked Walter.

"Yes, I know him pretty well. We travelled out from home together once."

From the other side of the river they heard the beating of gongs and the
clatter of fire-crackers. There, so short a way from them, the great
city lay in terror; and death, sudden and ruthless, hurried through its
tortuous streets. But Waddington began to speak of London. He talked of
the theatres. He knew everything that was being played at the moment and
he told them what pieces he had seen when he was last home on leave. He
laughed as he recollected the humour of this low comedian and sighed as
he reflected on the beauty of that star of musical comedy. He was
pleased to be able to boast that a cousin of his had married one of the
most celebrated. He had lunched with her and she had given him her
photograph. He would show it to them when they came and dined with him
at the Customs.

Walter looked at his guest with a cold and ironic gaze, but he was
evidently not a little amused by him, and he made an effort to show a
civil interest in topics of which Kitty was well aware he knew nothing.
A faint smile lingered on his lips. But Kitty, she knew not why, was
filled with awe. In the house of that dead missionary, over against the
stricken city, they seemed immeasurably apart from all the world. Three
solitary creatures and strangers to each other.

Dinner was finished and she rose from the table.

"Do you mind if I say good-night to you? I'm going to bed."

"I'll take myself off, I expect the doctor wants to go to bed, too,"
answered Waddington. "We must be out early to-morrow."

He shook hands with Kitty. He was quite steady on his feet, but his eyes
were shining more than ever.

"I'll come and fetch you," he told Walter, "and take you to see the
Magistrate and Colonel Yü, and then we'll go along to the Convent.
You've got your work cut out, I can tell you."




_xxxiii_


Her night was tortured with strange dreams. She seemed to be carried in
her chair and she felt the swaying motion as the bearers marched with
their long, uneven stride. She entered cities, vast and dim, where the
multitude thronged about her with curious eyes. The streets were narrow
and tortuous and in the open shops, with their strange wares, all
traffic stopped as she went by and those who bought and those who sold,
paused. Then she came to the memorial arch and its fantastic outline
seemed on a sudden to gain a monstrous life; its capricious contours
were like the waving arms of a Hindu god, and, as she passed under it,
she heard the echo of mocking laughter. But then Charlie Townsend came
towards her and took her in his arms, lifting her out of the chair, and
said it was all a mistake, he had never meant to treat her as he had,
for he loved her and he couldn't live without her. She felt his kisses
on her mouth and she wept with joy, asking him why he had been so cruel,
but though she asked she knew it did not matter. And then there was a
hoarse, abrupt cry and they were separated and between, hurrying
silently, coolies passed in their ragged blue and they bore a coffin.

She awoke with a start.

The bungalow stood half way down a steep hill and from her window she
saw the narrow river below her and opposite, the city. The dawn had just
broken and from the river rose a white mist shrouding the junks that lay
moored close to one another like peas in a pod. There were hundreds of
them, and they were silent, mysterious in that ghostly light, and you
had a feeling that their crews lay under an enchantment, for it seemed
that it was not sleep, but something strange and terrible, that held
them so still and mute.

The morning drew on and the sun touched the mist so that it shone
whitely like the ghost of snow on a dying star. Though on the river it
was light so that you could discern palely the lines of the crowded
junks and the thick forest of their masts, in front it was a shining
wall the eye could not pierce. But suddenly from that white cloud a
tall, grim and massive bastion emerged. It seemed not merely to be made
visible by the all-discovering sun but rather to rise out of nothing at
the touch of a magic wand. It towered, the stronghold of a cruel and
barbaric race, over the river. But the magician who built worked swiftly
and now a fragment of coloured wall crowned the bastion; in a moment,
out of the mist, looming vastly and touched here and there by a yellow
ray of sun, there was seen a cluster of green and yellow roofs. Huge
they seemed and you could make out no pattern; the order, if order there
was, escaped you; wayward and extravagant, but of an unimaginable
richness. This was no fortress, nor a temple, but the magic palace of
some emperor of the gods where no man might enter. It was too airy,
fantastic and unsubstantial to be the work of human hands; it was the
fabric of a dream.

The tears ran down Kitty's face and she gazed, her hands clasped to her
breast and her mouth, for she was breathless, open a little. She had
never felt so light of heart and it seemed to her as though her body
were a shell that lay at her feet and she pure spirit. Here was beauty.
She took it as the believer takes in his mouth the wafer which is God.




_xxxiv_


Since Walter went out early in the morning, came back at tiffin only for
half an hour, and did not then return till dinner was just ready, Kitty
found herself much alone. For some days she did not stir from the
bungalow. It was very hot and for the most part she lay in a long chair
by the open window, trying to read. The hard light of midday had robbed
the magic palace of its mystery and now it was no more than a temple on
the city wall, garish and shabby, but because she had seen it once in
such an ecstasy it was never again quite commonplace; and often at dawn
or at dusk, and again at night, she found herself able to recapture
something of that beauty. What had seemed to her a mighty bastion was
but the city wall and on this, massive and dark, her eyes rested
continually. Behind its crenellations lay the city in the dread grip of
the pestilence.

Vaguely she knew that terrible things were happening there, not from
Walter who when she questioned him (for otherwise he rarely spoke to
her) answered with a humorous nonchalance which sent a shiver down her
spine; but from Waddington and from the amah. The people were dying at
the rate of a hundred a day, and hardly any of those who were attacked
by the disease recovered from it; the gods had been brought out from the
abandoned temples and placed in the streets; offerings were laid before
them and sacrifices made, but they did not stay the plague. The people
died so fast that it was hardly possible to bury them. In some houses
the whole family had been swept away and there was none to perform the
funeral rights. The officer commanding the troops was a masterful man
and if the city was not given over to riot and arson it was due to his
determination. He forced his soldiers to bury such as there was no one
else to bury and he had shot with his own hand an officer who demurred
at entering a stricken house.

Kitty sometimes was so frightened that her heart sank within her and she
would tremble in every limb. It was very well to say that the risk was
small if you took reasonable precautions: she was panic-stricken. She
turned over in her mind crazy plans of escape. To get away, just to get
away, she was prepared to set out as she was and make her way alone,
without anything but what she stood up in, to some place of safety. She
thought of throwing herself on the mercy of Waddington, telling him
everything and beseeching him to help her to get back to Tching-Yen. If
she flung herself on her knees before her husband, and admitted that she
was frightened, frightened, even though he hated her now he must have
enough human feeling in him to pity her.

It was out of the question. If she went, where could she go? Not to her
mother; her mother would make her see very plainly that, having married
her off, she counted on being rid of her; and besides she did not want
to go to her mother. She wanted to go to Charlie, and he did not want
her. She knew what he would say if she suddenly appeared before him. She
saw the sullen look of his face and the shrewd hardness behind his
charming eyes. It would be difficult for him to find words that sounded
well. She clenched her hands. She would have given anything to humiliate
him as he had humiliated her. Sometimes she was seized with such a
frenzy that she wished she had let Walter divorce her, ruining herself
if only she could have ruined him too. Certain things he had said to her
made her blush with shame when she recalled them.




_xxxv_


The first time she was alone with Waddington she brought the
conversation round to Charlie. Waddington had spoken of him on the
evening of their arrival. She pretended that he was no more than an
acquaintance of her husband.

"I never much cared for him," said Waddington. "I've always thought him
a bore."

"You must be very hard to please," returned Kitty, in the bright,
chaffing way she could assume so easily. "I suppose he's far and away
the most popular man in Tching-Yen."

"I know. That is his stock in trade. He's made a science of popularity.
He has the gift of making every one he meets feel that he is the one
person in the world he wants to see. He's always ready to do a service
that isn't any trouble to himself, and even if he doesn't do what you
want he manages to give you the impression that it's only because it's
not humanly possible."

"That is surely an attractive trait."

"Charm and nothing but charm at last grows a little tiresome, I think.
It's a relief then to deal with a man who isn't quite so delightful but
a little more sincere. I've known Charlie Townsend for a good many years
and once or twice I've caught him with the mask off--you see, I never
mattered, just a subordinate official in the Customs--and I know that he
doesn't in his heart give a damn for any one in the world but himself."

Kitty, lounging easily in her chair, looked at him with smiling eyes.
She turned her wedding-ring round and round her finger.

"Of course he'll get on. He knows all the official ropes. Before I die I
have every belief that I shall address him as Your Excellency and stand
up when he enters the room."

"Most people think he deserves to get on. He's generally supposed to
have a great deal of ability."

"Ability? What nonsense! He's a very stupid man. He gives you the
impression that he dashes off his work and gets it through from sheer
brilliancy. Nothing of the kind. He's as industrious as a Eurasian
clerk."

"How has he got the reputation of being so clever?"

"There are many foolish people in the world and when a man in a rather
high position puts on no frills, slaps them on the back, and tells them
he'll do anything in the world for them, they are very likely to think
him clever. And then of course, there's his wife. There's an able woman
if you like. She has a good sound head and her advice is always worth
taking. As long as Charlie Townsend's got her to depend on he's pretty
safe never to do a foolish thing, and that's the first thing necessary
for a man to get on in Government service. They don't want clever men;
clever men have ideas, and ideas cause trouble; they want men who have
charm and tact and who can be counted on never to make a blunder. Oh,
yes, Charlie Townsend will get to the top of the tree all right."

"I wonder why you dislike him?"

"I don't dislike him."

"But you like his wife better?" smiled Kitty.

"I'm an old-fashioned little man and I like a well-bred woman."

"I wish she were well-dressed as well as well-bred."

"Doesn't she dress well? I never noticed."

"I've always heard that they were a devoted couple," said Kitty,
watching him through her eyelashes.

"He's very fond of her: I will give him that credit. I think that is the
most decent thing about him."

"Cold praise."

"He has his little flirtations, but they're not serious. He's much too
cunning to let them go to such lengths as might cause him inconvenience.
And of course he isn't a passionate man; he's only a vain one. He likes
admiration. He's fat and forty now, he does himself too well, but he was
very good-looking when he first came to the Colony. I've often heard his
wife chaff him about his conquests."

"She doesn't take his flirtations very seriously?"

"Oh, no, she knows they don't go very far. She says she'd like to be
able to make friends of the poor little things who fall to Charlie; but
they're always so common. She says it's really not very flattering to
her that the women who fall in love with her husband are so uncommonly
second-rate."




_xxxvi_


When Waddington left her Kitty thought over what he had so carelessly
said. It hadn't been very pleasant to hear and she had had to make
something of an effort not to show how much it touched her. It was
bitter to think that all he said was true. She knew that Charlie was
stupid and vain, hungry for flattery, and she remembered the complacency
with which he had told her little stories to prove his cleverness. He
was proud of a low cunning. How worthless must she be if she had given
her heart so passionately to such a man because--because he had nice
eyes and a good figure! She wished to despise him, because so long as
she only hated him she knew that she was very near loving him. The way
he had treated her should have opened her eyes. Walter had always held
him in contempt. Oh, if she could only get him out of her mind
altogether! And had his wife chaffed him about her obvious infatuation
for him? Dorothy would have liked to make a friend of her, but that she
found her second-rate. Kitty smiled a little: how indignant her mother
would be to know that her daughter was considered that!

But at night she dreamt of him again. She felt his arms pressing her
close and the hot passion of his kisses on her lips. What did it matter
if he was fat and forty? She laughed with soft affection because he
minded so much; she loved him all the more for his childlike vanity and
she could be sorry for him and comfort him. When she awoke tears were
streaming from her eyes.

She did not know why it seemed to her so tragic to cry in her sleep.




_xxxvii_


She saw Waddington every day, for he strolled up the hill to the Fanes'
bungalow when his day's work was done; and so after a week they had
arrived at an intimacy which under other circumstances they could
scarcely have achieved in a year. Once when Kitty told him she didn't
know what she would do there without him he answered, laughing:

"You see, you and I are the only people here who walk quite quietly and
peaceably on solid ground. The nuns walk in heaven and your husband--in
darkness."

Though she gave a careless laugh she wondered what he meant. She felt
that his merry little blue eyes were scanning her face with an amiable,
but disconcerting attention. She had discovered already that he was
shrewd and she had a feeling that the relations between herself and
Walter excited his cynical curiosity. She found a certain amusement in
baffling him. She liked him and she knew that he was kindly disposed
towards her. He was not witty nor brilliant, but he had a dry and
incisive way of putting things which was diverting, and his funny,
boyish face under that bald skull, all screwed up with laughter, made
his remarks sometimes extremely droll. He had lived for many years in
outports, often with no man of his own colour to talk to, and his
personality had developed in eccentric freedom. He was full of fads and
oddities. His frankness was refreshing. He seemed to look upon life in a
spirit of banter, and his ridicule of the Colony at Tching-Yen was acid;
but he laughed also at the Chinese officials in Mei-tan-fu and at the
cholera which decimated the city. He could not tell a tragic story or
one of heroism without making it faintly absurd. He had many anecdotes
of his adventures during twenty years in China, and you concluded from
them that the earth was a very grotesque, bizarre and ludicrous place.

Though he denied that he was a Chinese scholar (he swore that the
Sinologues were as mad as march hares) he spoke the language with ease.
He read little and what he knew he had learned from conversation. But he
often told Kitty stories from the Chinese novels and from Chinese
history and though he told them with that airy badinage which was
natural to him it was good-humoured and even tender. It seemed to her
that, perhaps unconsciously, he had adopted the Chinese view that the
Europeans were barbarians and their life a folly: in China alone was it
so led that a sensible man might discern in it a sort of reality. Here
was food for reflection: Kitty had never heard the Chinese spoken of as
anything but decadent, dirty and unspeakable. It was as though the corner
of a curtain were lifted for a moment, and she caught a glimpse of a
world rich with a colour and significance she had not dreamt of.

He sat there, talking, laughing and drinking.

"Don't you think you drink too much," said Kitty to him boldly.

"It's my great pleasure in life," he answered. "Besides, it keeps the
cholera out."

When he left her he was generally drunk, but he carried his liquor well.
It made him hilarious, but not disagreeable.

One evening Walter, coming back earlier than usual, asked him to stay to
dinner. A curious incident happened. They had their soup and their fish
and then with the chicken a fresh green salad was handed to Kitty by the
boy.

"Good God, you're not going to eat that," cried Waddington, as he saw
Kitty take some.

"Yes, we have it every night."

"My wife likes it," said Walter.

The dish was handed to Waddington, but he shook his head.

"Thank you very much, but I'm not thinking of committing suicide just
yet."

Walter smiled grimly and helped himself. Waddington said nothing more,
in fact he became strangely taciturn, and soon after dinner he left
them.

It was true that they ate salad every night. Two days after their
arrival the cook, with the unconcern of the Chinese, had sent it in and
Kitty, without thinking, took some. Walter leaned forward quickly.

"You oughtn't to eat that. The boy's crazy to serve it."

"Why not?" asked Kitty, looking at him full in the face.

"It's always dangerous, it's madness now. You'll kill yourself."

"I thought that was the idea," said Kitty.

She began to eat it coolly. She was seized with she knew not what spirit
of bravado. She watched Walter with mocking eyes. She thought that he
grew a trifle pale, but when the salad was handed to him he helped
himself. The cook, finding they did not refuse it, sent them some in
every day and every day, courting death, they ate it. It was grotesque
to take such a risk. Kitty, in terror of the disease, took it with the
feeling not only that she was thus maliciously avenging herself on
Walter, but that she was flouting her own desperate fears.




_xxxviii_


It was the day after this that Waddington, coming to the bungalow in the
afternoon, when he had sat a little asked Kitty if she would not go for
a stroll with him. She had not been out of the compound since her
arrival. She was glad enough.

"There are not many walks, I'm afraid," he said. "But we'll go to the
top of the hill."

"Oh, yes, where the archway is. I've seen it often from the terrace."

One of the boys opened the heavy doorway for them and they stepped out
into the dusty lane. They walked a few yards and then Kitty seizing
Waddington's arm in fright, gave a startled cry.

"Look!"

"What's the matter?"

At the foot of the wall that surrounded the compound a man lay on his
back with his legs stretched out and his arms thrown over his head. He
wore the patched blue rags and the wild mop of hair of the Chinese
beggar.

"He looks as if he were dead," Kitty gasped.

"He is dead. Come along; you'd better look the other way. I'll have him
moved when we come back."

But Kitty was trembling so violently that she could not stir.

"I've never seen anyone dead before."

"You'd better hurry up and get used to it then, because you'll see a
good many before you've done with this cheerful spot."

He took her hand and drew it in his arm. They walked for a little in
silence.

"Did he die of cholera?" she said at last.

"I suppose so."

They walked up the hill till they came to the archway. It was richly
carved. Fantastic and ironical it stood like a landmark in the
surrounding country. They sat down on the pedestal and faced the wide
plain. The hill was sown close with the little green mounds of the dead,
not in lines but disorderly, so that you felt that beneath the surface
they must strangely jostle one another. The narrow causeway meandered
sinuously among the green rice fields. A small boy seated on the neck of
a water-buffalo drove it slowly home, and three peasants in wide straw
hats lolloped with sidelong gait under their heavy loads. After the heat
of the day it was pleasant in that spot to catch the faint breeze of the
evening and the wide expanse of country brought a sense of restful
melancholy to the tortured heart. But Kitty could not rid her mind of
the dead beggar.

"How can you talk and laugh and drink whisky when people are dying all
around you?" she asked suddenly.

Waddington did not answer. He turned round and looked at her, then he
put his hand on her arm.

"You know, this is no place for a woman," he said gravely. "Why don't
you go?"

She gave him a sidelong glance from beneath her long lashes and there
was the shadow of a smile on her lips.

"I should have thought under the circumstances a wife's place was by her
husband's side."

"When they telegraphed to me that you were coming with Fane I was
astonished. But then it occurred to me that perhaps you'd been a nurse
and all this sort of thing was in the day's work. I expected you to be
one of those grim-visaged females who lead you a dog's life when you're
ill in hospital. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I
came into the bungalow and saw you sitting down and resting. You looked
very frail and white and tired."

"You couldn't expect me to look my best after nine days on the road."

"You look frail and white and tired now, and if you'll allow me to say
so, desperately unhappy."

Kitty flushed because she could not help it, but she was able to give a
laugh that sounded merry enough.

"I'm sorry you don't like my expression. The only reason I have for
looking unhappy is that since I was twelve I've known that my nose was a
little too long. But to cherish a secret sorrow is a most effective
pose: you can't think how many sweet young men have wanted to console
me."

Waddington's blue and shining eyes rested on her and she knew that he
did not believe a word she said. She did not care so long as he
pretended to.

"I knew that you hadn't been married very long and I came to the
conclusion that you and your husband were madly in love with each other.
I couldn't believe that he had wished you to come, but perhaps you had
absolutely refused to stay behind."

"That's a very reasonable explanation," she said lightly.

"Yes, but it isn't the right one."

She waited for him to go on, fearful of what he was about to say, for
she had a pretty good idea of his shrewdness and was aware that he never
hesitated to speak his mind, but unable to resist the desire to hear him
talk about herself.

"I don't think for a moment that you're in love with your husband. I
think you dislike him, I shouldn't be surprised if you hated him. But
I'm quite sure you're afraid of him."

For a moment she looked away. She did not mean to let Waddington see
that anything he said affected her.

"I have a suspicion that you don't very much like my husband," she said
with cool irony.

"I respect him. He has brains and character; and that, I may tell you,
is a very unusual combination. I don't suppose you know what he is doing
here, because I don't think he's very expansive with you. If any man
single-handed can put a stop to this frightful epidemic he's going to do
it. He's doctoring the sick, cleaning the city up, trying to get the
drinking water pure. He doesn't mind where he goes nor what he does.
He's risking his life twenty times a day. He's got Colonel Yü in his
pocket and he's induced him to put the troops at his disposal. He's even
put a little pluck into the magistrate and the old man is really trying
to do something. And the nuns at the convent swear by him. They think
he's a hero."

"Don't you?"

"After all this isn't his job, is it? He's a bacteriologist. There was
no call for him to come here. He doesn't give me the impression that
he's moved by compassion for all these dying Chinamen. Watson was
different. He loved the human race. Though he was a missionary it didn't
make any difference to him if they were Christian, Buddhist or
Confucian; they were just human beings. Your husband isn't here because
he cares a damn if a hundred thousand Chinese die of cholera; he isn't
here either in the interests of science. Why is he here?"

"You'd better ask him."

"It interests me to see you together. I sometimes wonder how you behave
when you're alone. When I'm there you're acting, both of you, and acting
damned badly, by George. You'd neither of you get thirty bob a week in a
touring company if that's the best you can do."

"I don't know what you mean," smiled Kitty, keeping up a pretence of
frivolity which she knew did not deceive.

"You're a very pretty woman. It's funny that your husband should never
look at you. When he speaks to you it sounds as though it were not his
voice but somebody's else's."

"Do you think he doesn't love me?" asked Kitty in a low voice, hoarsely,
putting aside suddenly her lightness.

"I don't know. I don't know if you fill him with such a repulsion that
it gives him goose-flesh to be near you or if he's burning with a love
that for some reason he will not allow himself to show. I've asked
myself if you're both here to commit suicide."

Kitty had seen the startled glance and then the scrutinising look
Waddington gave them when the incident of the salad took place.

"I think you're attaching too much importance to a few lettuce leaves,"
she said flippantly. She rose. "Shall we go home? I'm sure you want a
whisky and soda."

"You're not a heroine at all events. You're frightened to death. Are you
sure you don't want to go away?"

"What has it got to do with you?"

"I'll help you."

"Are _you_ going to fall to my look of secret sorrow? Look at my profile
and tell me if my nose isn't a trifle too long."

He gazed at her reflectively, that malicious, ironical look in his
bright eyes, but mingled with it, a shadow, like a tree standing at a
river's edge and its reflection in the water, was an expression of
singular kindliness. It brought sudden tears to Kitty's eyes.

"Must you stay?"

"Yes."

They passed under the flamboyant archway and walked down the hill. When
they came to the compound they saw the body of the dead beggar. He took
her arm, but she released herself. She stood still.

"It's dreadful, isn't it?"

"What? Death."

"Yes. It makes everything else seem so horribly trivial. He doesn't look
human. When you look at him you can hardly persuade yourself that he's
ever been alive. It's hard to think that not so very many years ago he
was just a little boy tearing down the hill and flying a kite."

She could not hold back the sob that choked her.




_xxxix_


A few days later Waddington, sitting with Kitty, a long glass of whisky
and soda in his hand, began to speak to her of the convent.

"The Mother Superior is a very remarkable woman," he said. "The Sisters
tell me that she belongs to one of the greatest families in France, but
they won't tell me which; the Mother Superior, they say, doesn't wish it
to be talked of."

"Why don't you ask her if it interests you?" smiled Kitty.

"If you knew her you'd know it was impossible to ask her an indiscreet
question."

"She must certainly be very remarkable if she can impress you with awe."

"I am the bearer of a message from her to you. She has asked me to say
that, though of course you may not wish to adventure into the very
centre of the epidemic, if you do not mind that it will give her great
pleasure to show you the convent."

"It's very kind of her. I shouldn't have thought she was aware of my
existence."

"I've spoken about you; I go there two or three times a week just now to
see if there's anything I can do; and I daresay your husband has told
them about you. You must be prepared to find that they have an unbounded
admiration for him."

"Are you a Catholic?"

His malicious eyes twinkled and his funny little face was puckered with
laughter.

"Why are you grinning at me?" asked Kitty.

"Can any good come out of Galilee? No, I'm not a Catholic. I describe
myself as a member of the Church of England, which, I suppose, is an
inoffensive way of saying that you don't believe in anything very much.
. . . When the Mother Superior came here ten years ago she brought seven
nuns with her and of those all but three are dead. You see, at the best
of times, Mei-tan-fu is not a health resort. They live in the very
middle of the city, in the poorest district, they work very hard and
they never have a holiday."

"But are there only three and the Mother Superior now?"

"Oh, no, more have taken their places. There are six of them now. When
one of them died of cholera at the beginning of the epidemic two others
came up from Canton."

Kitty shivered a little.

"Are you cold?"

"No, it was only some one walking over my grave."

"When they leave France they leave it for ever. They're not like the
Protestant missionaries who have a year's leave every now and then. I
always think that must be the hardest thing of all. We English have no
very strong attachment to the soil, we can make ourselves at home in any
part of the world, but the French, I think, have an attachment to their
country which is almost a physical bond. They're never really at ease
when they're out of it. It always seems to me very moving that these
women should make just that sacrifice. I suppose if I _were_ a Catholic
it would seem very natural to me."

Kitty looked at him coolly. She could not quite understand the emotion
with which the little man spoke and she asked herself whether it was a
pose. He had drunk a good deal of whisky and perhaps he was not quite
sober.

"Come and see for yourself," he said, with his bantering smile, quickly
reading her thought. "It's not nearly so risky as eating a tomato."

"If you're not frightened there's no reason why I should be."

"I think it'll amuse you. It's like a little bit of France."




_xl_


They crossed the river in a sampan. A chair was waiting for Kitty at the
landing-stage and she was carried up the hill to the water-gate. It was
through this that the coolies came to fetch water from the river and
they hurried to and fro with huge buckets hanging from the yoke on their
shoulder, splashing the causeway so that it was as wet as though it had
heavily rained. Kitty's bearers gave short, sharp cries to urge them to
make way.

"Of course all business is at a standstill," said Waddington, walking by
her side. "Under normal circumstances you have to fight your way through
the coolies carrying loads up and down to the junks."

The street was narrow and winding so that Kitty lost all sense of the
direction in which she was going. Many of the shops were closed. She had
grown used on the journey up to the untidiness of a Chinese street, but
here was the litter of weeks, garbage and refuse; and the stench was so
horrible that she had to put her handkerchief to her face. Passing
through Chinese cities she had been incommoded by the staring of the
crowd, but now she noticed that no more than an indifferent glance was
thrown at her. The passers-by, scattered rather than as usual thronging,
seemed intent on their own affairs. They were cowed and listless. Now
and then as they went by a house they heard the beating of gongs and the
shrill, sustained lament of unknown instruments. Behind those closed
doors one was lying dead.

"Here we are," said Waddington at last.

The chair was set down at a small doorway, surmounted by a cross, in a
long white wall, and Kitty stepped out. He rang the bell.

"You mustn't expect anything very grand, you know. They're miserably
poor."

The door was opened by a Chinese girl, and after a word or two from
Waddington she led them into a little room on the side of the corridor.
It contained a large table covered with a chequered oilcloth and round
the walls was a set of stiff chairs. At one end of the room was a
statue, in plaster, of the Blessed Virgin. In a moment a nun came in,
short and plump, with a homely face, red cheeks and merry eyes.
Waddington, introducing Kitty to her, called her Sœur St. Joseph.

"_C'est la dame du docteur?_" she asked, beaming, and then added that
the Mother Superior would join them directly.

Sister St. Joseph could speak no English and Kitty's French was halting;
but Waddington, fluent, voluble and inaccurate, maintained a stream of
facetious comment, which convulsed the good-humoured nun. Her cheerful,
easy laughter not a little astonished Kitty. She had an idea that the
religious were always grave and this sweet and childlike merriment
touched her.




_xli_


The door opened, to Kitty's fancy not quite naturally, but as though it
swung back of itself on its hinges, and the Mother Superior entered the
little room. She stood for an instant on the threshold and a grave smile
hovered upon her lips as she looked at the laughing Sister and
Waddington's puckered, clownish face. Then she came forward and held out
her hand to Kitty.

"Mrs. Fane?" She spoke in English with a good deal of accent, but with a
correct pronunciation, and she gave the shadow of a bow. "It is a great
pleasure to me to make the acquaintance of the wife of our good and
brave doctor."

Kitty felt that the Superior's eyes held her in a long and unembarrassed
look of appraisal. It was so frank that it was not uncivil; you felt
that here was a woman whose business it was to form an opinion of others
and to whom it never occurred that subterfuge was necessary. With a
dignified affability she motioned to her visitors to take chairs and
herself sat down. Sister St. Joseph, smiling still but silent, stood at
the side but a little behind the Superior.

"I know you English like tea," said the Mother Superior, "and I have
ordered some. But I must make my excuses if it is served in the Chinese
fashion. I know that Mr. Waddington prefers whisky, but that I am afraid
I cannot offer him."

She smiled and there was a hint of malice in her grave eyes.

"Oh, come, _ma mère_, you speak as if I were a confirmed drunkard."

"I wish you could say that you never drink, Mr. Waddington."

"I can at all events say that I never drink except to excess."

The Mother Superior laughed and translated into French for Sister St.
Joseph the flippant remark. She looked at him with lingering, friendly
eyes.

"We must make allowances for Mr. Waddington because two or three times
when we had no money at all and did not know how we were to feed our
orphans Mr. Waddington came to our rescue."

The convert who had opened the door for them now came in with a tray on
which were Chinese cups, a tea-pot and a little plate of the French
cakes called _Madeleines_.

"You must eat the _Madeleines_," said the Mother Superior, "because
Sister St. Joseph made them for you herself this morning."

They talked of commonplace things. The Mother Superior asked Kitty how
long she had been in China and if the journey from Tching-Yen had
greatly tired her. She asked her if she had been in France and if she
did not find the climate of Tching-Yen trying. It was a conversation,
trivial but friendly, which gained a peculiar savour from the
circumstances. The parlour was very quiet, so that you could hardly
believe that you were in the midst of a populous city. Peace dwelt
there. And yet all round about the epidemic was raging and the people,
terrified and restless, were kept in check but by the strong will of a
soldier who was more than half a brigand. Within the convent walls the
infirmary was crowded with sick and dying soldiers, and of the orphans
in the nuns' charge a quarter were dead.

Kitty, impressed she hardly knew why, observed the grave lady who asked
her these amiable questions. She was dressed in white and the only
colour on her habit was the red heart that burned on her breast. She was
a woman of middle age, she might have been forty or fifty, it was
impossible to say, for there were few wrinkles on her smooth, pale face,
and you received the impression that she was far from young chiefly from
the dignity of her bearing, her assurance, and the emaciation of her
strong and beautiful hands. The face was long with a large mouth and
large, even teeth; the nose though not small, was delicate and
sensitive; but it was the eyes, under their thin black brows, which gave
her face its intense and tragic character. They were very large, black,
and though not exactly cold, by their calm steadiness strangely
compelling. Your first thought when you looked at the Mother Superior
was that as a girl she must have been beautiful, but in a moment you
realised that this was a woman whose beauty, depending on character, had
grown with advancing years. Her voice was deep, low and controlled, and
whether she spoke in English or in French she spoke slowly. But the most
striking thing about her was the air she had of authority tempered by
Christian charity; you felt in her the habit of command. To be obeyed
was natural to her, but she accepted obedience with humility. You could
not fail to see that she was deeply conscious of the authority of the
church which upheld her. But Kitty had a surmise that notwithstanding
her austere demeanour she had for human frailty a human tolerance and it
was impossible to look at her grave smile when she listened to
Waddington, unabashed, talking nonsense, without being sure that she had
a lively sense of the ridiculous.

But there was some other quality in her which Kitty vaguely felt, but
could not put a name to. It was something that notwithstanding the
Mother Superior's cordiality and the exquisite manners which made Kitty
feel like an awkward school-girl, held her at a distance.




_xlii_


"_MONSIEUR ne mange rien_," said Sister St. Joseph.

"Monsieur's palate is ruined by Manchu cooking," replied the Mother
Superior.

The smile left Sister St. Joseph's face and she assumed an expression of
some primness. Waddington, a roguish glance in his eyes, took another
cake. Kitty did not understand the incident.

"To prove to you how unjust you are, _ma mère_, I will ruin the
excellent dinner that awaits me."

"If Mrs. Fane would like to see over the convent I shall be glad to show
her." The Mother Superior turned to Kitty with a deprecating smile. "I
am sorry you should see it just now when everything is in disorder. We
have so much work and not enough Sisters to do it. Colonel Yü has
insisted on our putting our infirmary at the disposal of sick soldiers
and we have had to make the _réfectoire_ into an infirmary for our
orphans."

She stood at the door to allow Kitty to pass and together, followed by
Sister St. Joseph and Waddington, they walked along cool white
corridors. They went first into a large, bare room where a number of
Chinese girls were working at elaborate embroideries. They stood up when
the visitors entered and the Mother Superior showed Kitty specimens of
the work.

"We go on with it notwithstanding the epidemic because it takes their
minds off the danger."

They went to a second room in which younger girls were doing plain
sewing, hemming and stitching, and then into a third where there were
only tiny children under the charge of a Chinese convert. They were
playing noisily and when the Mother Superior came in they crowded round
her, mites of two and three, with their black Chinese eyes and their
black hair; and they seized her hands and hid themselves in her great
skirts. An enchanting smile lit up her grave face, and she fondled them;
she spoke little chaffing words which Kitty, ignorant though she was of
Chinese, could tell were like caresses. She shuddered a little, for in
their uniform dress, sallow-skinned, stunted, with their flat noses,
they looked to her hardly human. They were repulsive. But the Mother
Superior stood among them like Charity itself. When she wished to leave
the room they would not let her go, but clung to her, so that, with
smiling expostulations, she had to use a gentle force to free herself.
They at all events found nothing terrifying in this great lady.

"You know of course," she said, as they walked along another corridor,
"that they are only orphans in the sense that their parents have wished
to be rid of them. We give them a few cash for every child that is
brought in, otherwise they will not take the trouble, but do away with
them." She turned to the Sister. "Have any come to-day?" she asked.

"Four."

"Now, with the cholera, they are more than ever anxious not to be
burdened with useless girls."

She showed Kitty the dormitories and then they passed a door on which
was painted the word _infirmerie_. Kitty heard groans and loud cries and
sounds as though beings not human were in pain.

"I will not show you the infirmary," said the Mother Superior in her
placid tones. "It is not a sight that one would wish to see." A thought
struck her. "I wonder if Dr. Fane is there?"

She looked interrogatively at the Sister and she, with her merry smile,
opened the door and slipped in. Kitty shrank back as the open door
allowed her to hear more horribly the tumult within. Sister St. Joseph
came back.

"No, he has been and will not be back again till later."

"What about number six?"

"_Pauvre garçon_, he's dead."

The Mother Superior crossed herself and her lips moved in a short and
silent prayer.

They passed by a courtyard and Kitty's eyes fell upon two long shapes
that lay side by side on the ground covered with a piece of blue cotton.
The Superior turned to Waddington.

"We are so short of beds that we have to put two patients in one and the
moment a sick man dies he must be bundled out in order to make room for
another." But she gave Kitty a smile. "Now we will show you our chapel.
We are very proud of it. One of our friends in France sent us a little
while ago a life-size statue of the Blessed Virgin."




_xliii_


The chapel was no more than a long low room with white-washed walls and
rows of deal benches; at the end was the altar on which stood the image;
it was in plaster of Paris painted in crude colours; it was very bright
and new and garish. Behind it was a picture in oils of the Crucifixion
with the two Maries at the foot of the Cross in extravagant attitudes of
grief. The drawing was bad and the dark pigments were put on with an eye
that knew nothing of the beauty of colour. Around the walls were the
Stations of the Cross painted by the same unfortunate hand. The chapel
was hideous and vulgar.

The two nuns on entering knelt down to say a prayer and then, rising, the
Mother Superior began once more to chat with Kitty.

"Everything that can be broken is broken when it comes here, but the
statue presented to us by our benefactor came from Paris without so much
as the smallest chip. There is no doubt that it was a miracle."

Waddington's malicious eyes gleamed, but he held his tongue.

"The altarpiece and the Stations of the Cross were painted by one of our
Sisters, Sœur St. Anselme." The Mother Superior crossed herself. "She
was a real artist. Unfortunately, she fell a victim to the epidemic. Do
you not think that they are very beautiful?"

Kitty faltered an affirmative. On the altar were bunches of paper
flowers and the candlesticks were distractingly ornate.

"We have the privilege of keeping here the Blessed Sacrament."

"Yes?" said Kitty, not understanding.

"It has been a great comfort to us during this time of so terrible
trouble."

They left the chapel and retraced their steps to the parlour in which
they had first sat.

"Would you like to see the babies that came in this morning before you
go?"

"Very much," said Kitty.

The Mother Superior led them into a tiny room on the other side of the
passage. On a table, under a cloth, there was a singular wriggling. The
Sister drew back the cloth and displayed four tiny, naked infants. They
were very red and they made funny restless movements with their arms and
legs; their quaint little Chinese faces were screwed up into strange
grimaces. They looked hardly human; queer animals of an unknown species,
and yet there was something singularly moving in the sight. The Mother
Superior looked at them with an amused smile.

"They seem very lively. Sometimes they are brought in only to die. Of
course we baptize them the moment they come."

"The lady's husband will be pleased with them," said Sister St. Joseph.
"I think he could play by the hour with the babies. When they cry he has
only to take them up, and he makes them comfortable in the crook of his
arm, so that they laugh with delight."

Then Kitty and Waddington found themselves at the door. Kitty gravely
thanked the Mother Superior for the trouble she had taken. The nun bowed
with a condescension that was at once dignified and affable.

"It has been a great pleasure. You do not know how kind and helpful your
husband has been to us. He has been sent to us by Heaven. I am glad that
you came with him. When he goes home it must be a great comfort to him
to have you there with your love and your--your sweet face. You must
take care of him and not let him work too hard. You must look after him
for all our sakes."

Kitty flushed. She did not know what to say. The Mother Superior held
out her hand and while she held it Kitty was conscious of those cool,
thoughtful eyes which rested on her with detachment and yet with
something that looked like a profound understanding.

Sister St. Joseph closed the door behind them and Kitty got into her
chair. They went back through the narrow, winding streets. Waddington
made a casual remark; Kitty did not answer. He looked round, but the
side curtains of the chair were drawn and he could not see her. He
walked on in silence. But when they reached the river and she stepped
out to his surprise he saw that her eyes were streaming with tears.

"What is the matter?" he asked, his face puckered into an expression of
dismay.

"Nothing." She tried to smile. "Only foolishness."




_xliv_


Alone once more in the sordid parlour of the dead missionary, lying on
the long chair that faced the window, her abstracted eyes on the temple
across the river (now again at the approach of evening aerial and
lovely), Kitty tried to set in order the feelings in her heart. She
would never have believed that this visit to the convent could so have
moved her. She had gone from curiosity. She had nothing else to do and
after looking for so many days at the walled city across the water she
was not unwilling to have at least a glimpse of its mysterious streets.

But once within the convent it had seemed to her that she was
transported into another world situated strangely neither in space nor
time. Those bare rooms and the white corridors, austere and simple,
seemed to possess the spirit of something remote and mystical. The
little chapel, so ugly and vulgar, in its very crudeness was pathetic;
it had something which was wanting in the greatness of a cathedral, with
its stained glass and its pictures it was very humble; and the faith
which had adorned it, the affection which cherished it, had endued it
with a delicate beauty of the soul. The methodical way in which the
convent's work was carried on in the midst of the pestilence showed a
coolness in the face of danger and a practical sense, almost ironical it
was so matter of fact, which were deeply impressive. In Kitty's ears
rang still the ghastly sounds she heard when for a moment Sister St.
Joseph opened the infirmary door.

It was unexpected the way they had spoken of Walter. First the Sister
and then the Mother Superior herself, and the tone of her voice had been
very gentle when she praised him. Oddly enough it gave her a little
thrill of pride to know that they thought so well of him. Waddington
also had told something of what Walter was doing; but it was not only
his competence that the nuns praised (in Tching-Yen she had known that
he was thought clever), they spoke of his thoughtfulness and his
tenderness. Of course he could be very tender. He was at his best when
you were ill; he was too intelligent to exasperate, and his touch was
pleasant, cool and soothing. By some magic he seemed able by his mere
presence to relieve your suffering. She knew that she would never see
again in his eyes the look of affection which she had once been so used
to that she found it merely exasperating. She knew now how immense was
his capacity for loving; in some odd way he was pouring it out on these
wretched sick who had only him to look to. She did not feel jealousy,
but a sense of emptiness; it was as though a support that she had grown
so accustomed to as not to realise its presence were suddenly withdrawn
from her so that she swayed this way and that like a thing that was
top-heavy.

She had only contempt for herself because once she had felt contempt for
Walter. He must have known how she regarded him and he had accepted her
estimate without bitterness. She was a fool and he knew it and because
he loved her it had made no difference to him. She did not hate him now,
nor feel resentment of him, but fear rather and perplexity. She could
not but admit that he had remarkable qualities, sometimes she thought
that there was even in him a strange and unattractive greatness; it was
curious then that she could not love him, but loved still a man whose
worthlessness was now so clear to her. After thinking, thinking, all
through those long days she rated accurately Charles Townsend's value;
he was a common fellow and his qualities were second-rate. If she could
only tear from her heart the love that still lingered there! She tried
not to think of him.

Waddington too thought highly of Walter. She alone had been blind to his
merit. Why? Because he loved her and she did not love him. What was it
in the human heart that made you despise a man because he loved you? But
Waddington had confessed that he did not like Walter. Men didn't. It was
easy to see that those two nuns had for him a feeling which was very
like affection. He was different with women; notwithstanding his shyness
you felt in him an exquisite kindliness.




_xlv_


But after all it was the nuns that had most deeply touched her. Sister
St. Joseph, with her merry face and apple red cheeks; she had been one
of the little band that came out to China with the Mother Superior ten
years before and she had seen one after another of her companions die of
disease, privation and homesickness; and yet she remained cheerful and
happy. What was it that gave her that naïve and charming humour? And
the Mother Superior. Kitty in fancy stood again in her presence and once
more she felt humble and ashamed. Though she was so simple and
unaffected she had a native dignity which inspired awe, and you could
not imagine that any one could treat her without respect. Sister St.
Joseph by the way she stood, by every small gesture and the intonation
of her answers, had shown the deep submission in which she held herself;
and Waddington, frivolous and impertinent, had shown by his tone that he
was not quite at his ease. Kitty thought it unnecessary to have told her
that the Mother Superior belonged to one of the great families of
France; there was that in her bearing which suggested ancient race; and
she had the authority of one who has never known that it is possible to
be disobeyed. She had the condescension of a great lady and the humility
of a saint. There was in her strong, handsome and ravaged face an
austerity that was passionate; and at the same time she had a solicitude
and a gentleness which permitted those little children to cluster, noisy
and unafraid, in the assurance of her deep affection. When she had
looked at the four new-born babies she had worn a smile that was sweet
and yet profound: it was like a ray of sunshine on a wild and desolate
heath. What Sister St. Joseph had said so carelessly of Walter moved
Kitty strangely; she knew that he had desperately wanted her to bear a
child, but she had never suspected from his reticence that he was
capable with a baby of showing without embarrassment a charming and
playful tenderness. Most men were silly and awkward with babies. How
strange he was!

But to all that moving experience there had been a shadow (a dark lining
to the silver cloud), insistent and plain, which disconcerted her. In
the sober gaiety of Sister St. Joseph, and much more in the beautiful
courtesy of the Mother Superior, she had felt an aloofness which
oppressed her. They were friendly and even cordial, but at the same time
they held something back, she knew not what, so that she was conscious
that she was nothing but a casual stranger. There was a barrier between
her and them. They spoke a different language not only of the tongue but
of the heart. And when the door was closed upon her she felt that they
had put her out of their minds so completely, going about their
neglected work again without delay, that for them she might never have
existed. She felt shut out not only from that poor little convent, but
from some mysterious garden of the spirit after which with all her soul
she hankered. She felt on a sudden alone as she had never felt alone
before. That was why she had wept.

And now, throwing back her head wearily, she sighed: "Oh, I'm so
worthless."




_xlvi_


That evening Walter came back to the bungalow a little earlier than
usual. Kitty was lying on the long chair by the open window. It was
nearly dark.

"Don't you want a lamp?" he asked.

"They'll bring it when dinner is ready."

He talked to her always quite casually, of trifling things, as though
they were friendly acquaintances, and there was never anything in his
manner to suggest that he harboured malice in his heart. He never met
her eyes and he never smiled. He was scrupulously polite.

"Walter, what do you propose we should do if we get through the
epidemic?" she asked.

He waited for a moment before answering. She could not see his face.

"I haven't thought."

In the old days she said carelessly whatever came into her head; it
never occurred to her to think before she spoke; but now she was afraid
of him; she felt her lips tremble and her heart beat painfully.

"I went to the convent this afternoon."

"So I heard."

She forced herself to speak though she could hardly frame the words.

"Did you really want me to die when you brought me here?"

"If I were you I'd leave well alone, Kitty. I don't think any good will
come of talking about what we should do much better to forget."

"But you don't forget; neither do I. I've been thinking a great deal
since I came here. Won't you listen to what I have to say?"

"Certainly."

"I treated you very badly. I was unfaithful to you."

He stood stock still. His immobility was strangely terrifying.

"I don't know whether you'll understand what I mean. That sort of thing
doesn't mean very much to a woman when it's over. I think women have
never quite understood the attitude that men take up." She spoke
abruptly, in a voice she would hardly have recognised as her own. "You
know what Charlie was and you knew what he'd do. Well, you were quite
right. He's a worthless creature. I suppose I shouldn't have been taken
in by him if I hadn't been as worthless as he. I don't ask you to
forgive me. I don't ask you to love me as you used to love me. But
couldn't we be friends? With all these people dying in thousands round
us, and with those nuns in their convent . . ."

"What have they got to do with it?" he interrupted.

"I can't quite explain. I had such a singular feeling when I went there
to-day. It all seems to mean so much. It's all so terrible and their
self-sacrifice is so wonderful; I can't help feeling it's absurd and
disproportionate, if you understand what I mean, to distress yourself
because a foolish woman has been unfaithful to you. I'm much too
worthless and insignificant for you to give me a thought."

He did not answer, but he did not move away; he seemed to be waiting for
her to continue.

"Mr. Waddington and the nuns have told me such wonderful things about
you. I'm very proud of you, Walter."

"You used not to be; you used to feel contempt for me. Don't you still?"

"Don't you know that I'm afraid of you?"

Again he was silent.

"I don't understand you," he said at last. "I don't know what it is you
want."

"Nothing for myself. I only want you to be a little less unhappy."

She felt him stiffen and his voice was very cold when he answered.

"You're mistaken in thinking I'm unhappy. I have a great deal too much
to do to think of you very often."

"I have wondered if the nuns would allow me to go and work at the
convent. They are very short handed and if I could be of any help I
should be grateful to them."

"It is not easy work or pleasant work. I doubt if it would amuse you
long."

"Do you absolutely despise me, Walter?"

"No." He hesitated and his voice was strange. "I despise myself."




_xlvii_


It was after dinner. As usual Walter sat by the lamp and read. He read
every evening till Kitty went to bed and then went into a laboratory
which he had fitted up in one of the bungalow's empty rooms. Here he
worked late into the night. He slept little. He was occupied with she
knew not what experiments. He told her nothing of his work; but even in
the old days he had been reticent on this: he was not by nature
expansive. She thought deeply of what he had just said to her: the
conversation had led to nothing. She knew him so little that she could
not be sure if he was speaking the truth or not. Was it possible that,
whereas he now existed so ominously for her, she had entirely ceased to
exist for him? Her conversation which had entertained him once because
he loved her, now that he loved her no longer might be merely tedious to
him. It mortified her.

She looked at him. The light of the lamp displayed his profile as though
it were a cameo. With his regular and finely-cut features it was very
distinguished, but it was more than severe, it was grim: that immobility
of his, only his eyes moving as he perused each page, was vaguely
terrifying. Who would have thought that this hard face could be melted
by passion to such a tenderness of expression? She knew and it excited
in her a little shiver of distaste. It was strange that though he was
good-looking as well as honest, reliable and talented, it had been so
impossible for her to love him. It was a relief that she need never
again submit to his caresses.

He would not answer when she had asked him whether in forcing her to
come here he had really wished to kill her. The mystery of this
fascinated and horrified her. He was so extraordinarily kind; it was
incredible that he could have had such a devilish intention. He must
have suggested it only to frighten her and to get back on Charlie (that
would be like his sardonic humour) and then from obstinacy or from fear
of looking foolish insisted on her going through with it.

Yes, he said he despised himself. What did he mean by that? Once again
Kitty looked at his calm cool face. She might not even be in the room,
he was so unconscious of her.

"Why do you despise yourself?" she asked, hardly knowing that she spoke,
as though she were continuing without a break the earlier conversation.

He put down his book and observed her reflectively. He seemed to gather
his thoughts from a remote distance.

"Because I loved you."

She flushed and looked away. She could not bear his cold, steady and
appraising gaze. She understood what he meant. It was a little while
before she answered.

"I think you do me an injustice," she said. "It's not fair to blame me
because I was silly and frivolous and vulgar. I was brought up like
that. All the girls I know are like that. . . . It's like reproaching
someone who has no ear for music because he's bored at a symphony
concert. Is it fair to blame me because you ascribed to me qualities I
hadn't got? I never tried to deceive you by pretending I was anything I
wasn't. I was just pretty and gay. You don't ask for a pearl necklace or
a sable coat at a booth in a fair; you ask for a tin trumpet and a toy
balloon."

"I don't blame you."

His voice was weary. She was beginning to feel a trifle impatient with
him. Why could he not realise, what suddenly had become so clear to her,
that beside all the terror of death under whose shadow they lay and
beside the awe of the beauty which she had caught a glimpse of that day,
their own affairs were trivial? What did it really matter if a silly
woman had committed adultery and why should her husband, face to face
with the sublime, give it a thought? It was strange that Walter with all
his cleverness should have so little sense of proportion. Because he had
dressed a doll in gorgeous robes and set her in a sanctuary to worship
her, and then discovered that the doll was filled with sawdust he could
neither forgive himself nor her. His soul was lacerated. It was all
make-believe that he had lived on, and when the truth shattered it he
thought reality itself was shattered. It was true enough, he would not
forgive her because he could not forgive himself.

She thought that she heard him give a faint sigh and she shot a rapid
glance at him. A sudden thought struck her and it took her breath away.
She only just refrained from giving a cry.

Was it what they called--a broken heart--that he suffered from?




_xlviii_


All the next day Kitty thought of the convent; and the morning after,
early, soon after Walter had gone, taking the amah with her to get
chairs, she crossed the river. It was barely day and the Chinese
crowding the ferry boat, some in the blue cotton of the peasant, others
in the black robes of respectability, had a strange look of the dead
being borne over the water to the land of shadow. And when they stepped
ashore they stood for a little at the landing-place uncertainly as
though they did not quite know where to go, before desultorily, in twos
and threes, they wandered up the hill.

At that hour the streets of the city were very empty so that more than
ever it seemed a city of the dead. The passers-by had an abstracted air
so that you might almost have thought them ghosts. The sky was unclouded
and the early sun shed a heavenly mildness on the scene; it was
difficult to imagine, on that blithe, fresh and smiling morn, that the
city lay gasping, like a man whose life is being throttled out of him by
a maniac's hands, in the dark clutch of the pestilence. It was
incredible that nature (the blue of the sky was clear like a child's
heart) should be so indifferent when men were writhing in agony and
going to their death in fear. When the chairs were set down at the
convent door a beggar arose from the ground and asked Kitty for alms. He
was clad in faded and shapeless rags that looked as though he had raked
them out of a muck-heap, and through their rents you saw his skin hard
and rough and tanned like the hide of a goat; his bare legs were
emaciated, and his head, with its shock of coarse grey hair (the cheeks
hollow, the eyes wild), was the head of a madman. Kitty turned from him
in frightened horror, and the chair-bearers in gruff tones bade him
begone, but he was importunate, and to be rid of him, shuddering, Kitty
gave him a few cash.

The door was opened and the amah explained that Kitty wished to see the
Mother Superior. She was taken once more into the stiff parlour in which
it seemed a window had never been opened, and here she sat so long that
she began to think her message had not been delivered. At last the
Mother Superior came in.

"I must ask you to excuse me for keeping you waiting," she said. "I did
not expect you and I was occupied."

"Forgive me for troubling you. I am afraid I have come at an
inconvenient moment."

The Mother Superior gave her a smile, austere but sweet, and begged her
to sit down. But Kitty saw that her eyes were swollen. She had been
weeping. Kitty was startled, for she had received from the Mother
Superior the impression that she was a woman whom earthly troubles could
not greatly move.

"I am afraid something has happened," she faltered. "Would you like me
to go away? I can come another time."

"No, no. Tell me what I can do for you. It is only--only that one of our
Sisters died last night." Her voice lost its even tone and her eyes
filled with tears. "It is wicked of me to grieve, for I know that her
good and simple soul has flown straight to Heaven; she was a saint; but
it is difficult always to control one's weakness. I am afraid I am not
always very reasonable."

"I'm so sorry, I'm so dreadfully sorry," said Kitty.

Her ready sympathy brought a sob into her voice.

"She was one of the Sisters who came out from France with me ten years
ago. There are only three of us left now. I remember, we stood in a
little group at the end of the boat (what do you call it, the bow?) and
as we steamed out of the harbour at Marseilles and we saw the golden
figure of Saint-Marie la Grace, we said a prayer together. It had been
my greatest wish since I entered religion to be allowed to come to
China, but when I saw the land grow distant I could not prevent myself
from weeping. I was their Superior; it was not a very good example I was
giving my daughters. And then Sister St. Francis Xavier--that is the
name of the Sister who died last night--took my hand and told me not to
grieve; for wherever we were, she said, there was France and there was
God."

That severe and handsome face was distorted by the grief which human
nature wrung from her and by the effort to restrain the tears which her
reason and her faith refused. Kitty looked away. She felt that it was
indecent to peer into that struggle.

"I have been writing to her father. She, like me, was her mother's only
daughter. They were fisher folk in Brittany, and it will be hard for
them. Oh, when will this terrible epidemic cease? Two of our girls have
been attacked this morning and nothing but a miracle can save them.
These Chinese have no resistance. The loss of Sister St. Francis is very
severe. There is so much to do and now fewer than ever to do it. We have
Sisters at our other houses in China who are eager to come, all our
Order, I think, would give anything in the world (only they have
nothing) to come here; but it is almost certain death; and so long as we
can manage with the Sisters we have I am unwilling that others should
be sacrificed."

"That encourages me, _ma mère_," said Kitty. "I have been feeling that
I had come at a very unfortunate moment. You said the other day that
there was more work than the Sisters could do, and I was wondering if
you would allow me to come and help them. I do not mind what I do if I
can only be useful. I should be thankful if you just set me to scrub the
floors."

The Mother Superior gave an amused smile and Kitty was astonished at the
mobile temperament which could so easily pass from mood to mood.

"There is no need to scrub the floors. That is done after a fashion by
the orphans." She paused and looked kindly at Kitty. "My dear child, do
you not think that you have done enough in coming with your husband
here? That is more than many wives would have had the courage to do, and
for the rest how can you be better occupied than in giving him peace and
comfort when he comes home to you after the day's work? Believe me, he
needs then all your love and all your consideration."

Kitty could not easily meet the eyes which rested on her with a detached
scrutiny and with an ironical kindliness.

"I have nothing whatever to do from morning till night," said Kitty. "I
feel that there is so much to be done that I cannot bear to think that I
am idle. I don't want to make a nuisance of myself, and I know that I
have no claim either on your kindness or on your time, but I mean what I
say and it would be a charity that you were doing me if you would let me
be of some help to you."

"You do not look very strong. When you did us the pleasure of coming to
see us the day before yesterday it seemed to me that you were very pale.
Sister St. Joseph thought that perhaps you were going to have a baby."

"No, no," cried Kitty, flushing to the roots of her hair.

The Mother Superior gave a little, silvery laugh.

"It is nothing to be ashamed of, my dear child, nor is there anything
improbable in the supposition. How long have you been married?"

"I am pale because I am naturally pale, but I am very strong, and I
promise you I am not afraid of work."

Now the Superior was complete mistress of herself. She assumed
unconsciously the air of authority which was habitual to her and she
held Kitty in an appraising scrutiny. Kitty felt unaccountably nervous.

"Can you speak Chinese?"

"I'm afraid not," answered Kitty.

"Ah, that is a pity. I could have put you in charge of the elder girls.
It is very difficult just now, and I am afraid they will get--what do
you call? Out of hand?" she concluded with a tentative sound.

"Could I not be of help to the Sisters in nursing? I am not at all
afraid of the cholera. I could nurse the girls or the soldiers."

The Mother Superior, unsmiling now, a reflective look on her face, shook
her head.

"You do not know what the cholera is. It is a dreadful thing to see. The
work in the infirmary is done by soldiers and we need a Sister only to
supervise. And so far as the girls are concerned . . . no, no, I am
sure your husband would not wish it; it is a terrible and frightening
sight."

"I should grow used to it."

"No, it is out of the question. It is our business and our privilege to
do such things, but there is no call for you to do so."

"You make me feel very useless and very helpless. It seems incredible
that there should be nothing that I can do."

"Have you spoken to your husband of your wish?"

"Yes."

The Mother Superior looked at her as though she were delving into the
secrets of her heart, but when she saw Kitty's anxious and appealing
look she gave a smile.

"Of course you are a Protestant?" she asked.

"Yes."

"It doesn't matter. Dr. Watson, the missionary who died, was a
Protestant and it made no difference. He was all that was most charming
to us. We owe him a deep debt of gratitude."

Now the flicker of a smile passed over Kitty's face, but she did not say
anything. The Mother Superior seemed to reflect. She rose to her feet.

"It is very good of you. I think I can find something for you to do. It
is true that now Sister St. Francis has been taken from us, it is
impossible for us to cope with the work. When will you be ready to
start?"

"Now."

"_À la bonne heure._ I am content to hear you say that."

"I promise you I will do my best. I am very grateful to you for the
opportunity that you are giving me."

The Mother Superior opened the parlour door, but as she was going out
she hesitated. Once more she gave Kitty a long, searching and sagacious
look. Then she laid her hand gently on her arm.

"You know, my dear child, that one cannot find peace in work or in
pleasure, in the world or in a convent, but only in one's soul."

Kitty gave a little start, but the Mother Superior passed swiftly out.




_xlix_


Kitty found the work a refreshment to her spirit. She went to the
convent every morning soon after sunrise and did not return to the
bungalow till the westering sun flooded the narrow river and its crowded
junks with gold. The Mother Superior gave into her case the smaller
children. Kitty's mother had brought to London from her native Liverpool
a practical sense of housewifery and Kitty, notwithstanding her air of
frivolity, had always had certain gifts to which she referred only in
bantering tones. Thus she could cook quite well and she sewed
beautifully. When she disclosed this talent she was set to supervise the
stitching and hemming of the younger girls. They knew a little French
and every day she picked up a few words of Chinese so that it was not
difficult for her to manage. At other times she had to see that the
smallest children did not get into mischief; she had to dress and
undress them and take care that they rested when rest was needed. There
were a good many babies and these were in charge of amahs, but she was
bidden to keep an eye on them. None of the work was very important and
she would have liked to do something which was more arduous; but the
Mother Superior paid no attention to her entreaties and Kitty stood
sufficiently in awe of her not to be importunate.

For the first few days she had to make something of an effort to
overcome the faint distaste she felt for these little girls, in their
ugly uniforms, with their stiff black hair, their round yellow faces,
and their staring, sloe-black eyes. But she remembered the soft look
which had transfigured so beautifully the countenance of the Mother
Superior when on Kitty's first visit to the convent she had stood
surrounded by those ugly little things, and she would not allow herself
to surrender to her instinct. And presently, taking in her arms one or
other of the tiny creatures, crying because of a fall or a cutting
tooth, when Kitty found that a few soft words, though in a language the
child could not understand, the pressure of her arms and the softness of
her cheek against the weeping yellow face, could comfort and console,
she began to lose all her feeling of strangeness. The small children,
without any fear of her, came to her in their childish troubles and it
gave her a peculiar happiness to discern their confidence. It was the
same with the older girls, those to whom she taught sewing; their
bright, clever smiles and the pleasure she could give them by a word of
praise, touched her. She felt that they liked her and, flattered and
proud, she liked them in return.

But there was one child that she could not grow used to. It was a little
girl of six, an idiot with a huge hydrocephalic head that swayed
top-heavily on a small, squat body, large vacant eyes and a drooling
mouth; the creature spoke hoarsely a few mumbled words; it was revolting
and horrible; and for some reason it conceived an idiot attachment for
Kitty so that it followed her about as she changed her place from one
part of the large room to another. It clung to her skirt and rubbed its
face against her knees. It sought to fondle her hands. She shivered with
disgust. She knew it yearned for caresses and she could not bring
herself to touch it.

Once, speaking of it to Sister St. Joseph, she said that it was a pity
it lived. Sister St. Joseph smiled and stretched out her hand to the
misformed thing. It came and rubbed its bulging forehead against it.

"Poor little mite," said the nun. "She was brought here positively
dying. By the mercy of Providence I was at the door just as she came. I
thought there was not a moment to lose, so I baptized her at once. You
would not believe what trouble we have had to keep her with us. Three or
four times we thought that her little soul would escape to Heaven."

Kitty was silent. Sister St. Joseph in her loquacious way began to
gossip of other things. And next day when the idiot child came to her
and touched her hand Kitty nerved herself to place it in a caress on the
great bare skull. She forced her lips into a smile. But suddenly the
child, with an idiot perversity, left her; it seemed to lose interest in
her, and that day and the following days paid her no attention. Kitty
did not know what she had done and tried to lure it to her with smiles
and gestures, but it turned away and pretended not to see her.




_l_


Since the nuns were busy from morning till night with a hundred duties
Kitty saw little of them but at the services in the bare, humble chapel.
On her first day the Mother Superior, catching sight of her seated at
the back behind the girls on the benches according to their ages,
stopped and spoke to her.

"You must not think it necessary for you to come to the chapel when we
do," she said. "You are a Protestant and you have your own convictions."

"But I like to come, Mother. I find that it rests me."

The Mother Superior gave her a moment's glance and slightly inclined her
grave head.

"Of course you will do exactly as you choose. I merely wanted you to
understand that you are under no obligation."

But with Sister St. Joseph Kitty soon became on terms not of intimacy
perhaps but of familiarity. The economy of the convent was in her charge
and to look after the material well-being of that big family kept the
Sister on her feet all day. She said that the only time she had to rest
was that which she devoted to prayer. But it pleased her towards evening
when Kitty was with the girls at their work to come in and, vowing that
she was tired out and had not a moment to spare, sit down for a few
minutes and gossip. When she was not in the presence of the Mother
Superior she was a talkative, merry creature, fond of a joke, and she
did not dislike a bit of scandal. Kitty stood in no fear of her, her
habit did not prevent Sister St. Joseph from being a good-natured,
homely woman, and she chattered with her gaily. She did not mind with
her showing how badly she talked French and they laughed with one
another over Kitty's mistakes. The Sister taught her every day a few
useful words of Chinese. She was a farmer's daughter and at heart she
was still a peasant.

"I used to keep the cows when I was little," she said, "like St. Joan of
Arc. But I was too wicked to have visions. It was fortunate, I think,
for my father would certainly have whipped me if I had. He used often to
whip me, the good old man, for I was a very naughty little girl. I am
ashamed sometimes when I think now of the pranks I used to play."

Kitty laughed at the thought that this corpulent, middle-aged nun could
ever have been a wayward child. And yet there was something childlike in
her still so that your heart went out to her: she seemed to have about
her an aroma of the countryside in autumn when the apple trees are laden
with fruit and the crops are in and safely housed. She had not the
tragic and austere saintliness of the Mother Superior, but a gaiety that
was simple and happy.

"Do you never wish to go home again, _ma sœur_?" asked Kitty.

"Oh, no. It would be too hard to come back. I love to be here and I am
never so happy as when I am among the orphans. They're so good, they're
so grateful. But it is all very well to be a nun (_on a beau être
religieuse_) still one has a mother and one cannot forget that one drank
the milk of her breasts. She is old, my mother, and it is hard never to
see her again; but then she is fond of her daughter-in-law, and my
brother is good to her. His son is growing up now, I should think they
will be glad of an extra pair of strong arms on the farm; he was only a
child when I left France, but he promised to have a fist that you could
fell an ox with."

It was almost impossible in that quiet room, listening to the nun, to
realise that on the other side of these four walls cholera was raging.
Sister St. Joseph had an unconcern which conveyed itself to Kitty.

She had a naïve curiosity about the world and its inhabitants. She
asked Kitty all kinds of questions about London and England, a country,
she thought, where so thick was the fog that you could not see your hand
at midday, and she wanted to know if Kitty went to balls and whether she
lived in a grand house and how many brothers and sisters she had. She
spoke often of Walter. The Mother Superior said he was wonderful and
every day they prayed for him. How lucky Kitty was to have a husband who
was so good and so brave and so clever.




_li_


But sooner or later Sister St. Joseph returned to the subject of the
Mother Superior. Kitty had been conscious from the beginning that the
personality of this woman dominated the convent. She was regarded by all
that dwelt there with love certainly and with admiration, but also with
awe and not a little dread. Notwithstanding her kindliness Kitty herself
felt like a schoolgirl in her presence. She was never quite at her ease
with her, for she was filled with a sentiment which was so strange that
it embarrassed her: reverence. Sister St. Joseph with an ingenious
desire to impress, told Kitty how great the family was to which the
Mother Superior belonged; she had among her ancestors persons of
historic importance and she was _un peu cousine_ with half the kings in
Europe: Alphonso of Spain had hunted at her father's, and they had
châteaux all over France. It must have been hard to leave so much
grandeur. Kitty listened smilingly, but not a little impressed.

"_Du reste_, you have only to look at her," said the Sister, "to see
that, _comme famille, c'est le dessus du panier._"

"She has the most beautiful hands that I have ever seen," said Kitty.

"Ah, but if you only knew how she had used them. She is not afraid of
work, _notre bonne mère._"

When they had come to this city there had been nothing. They had built
the convent. The Mother Superior had made the plans and supervised the
work. The moment they arrived they began to save the poor little
unwanted girls from the baby-tower and the cruel hands of the midwife.
At first they had had no beds to sleep in and no glass to keep out the
night air ("and there is nothing," said Sister St. Joseph, "which is
more unwholesome"); and often they had no money left, not only to pay
the builders, but even to buy their simple fare; they lived like
peasants, what was she saying? the peasants in France, _tenez_, the men
who worked for her father, would have thrown to the pigs the food they
ate. And then the Mother Superior would collect her daughters round her
and they would kneel and pray; and the Blessed Virgin would send money.
A thousand francs would arrive by post next day, or a stranger, an
Englishman (a Protestant, if you please) or even a Chinaman would knock
at the door while they were actually on their knees and bring them a
present. Once they were in such straits that they all made a vow to the
Blessed Virgin that they would recite a _neuvaine_ in her honour if she
succoured them, and, would you believe it? that funny Mr. Waddington
came to see us next day and saying that we looked as though we all
wanted a good plate of roast beef gave us a hundred dollars.

What a comic little man he was, with his bald head and his little shrewd
eyes (_ses petits yeux malins_) and his jokes. _Mon Dieu_, how he
murdered the French language, and yet you could not help laughing at
him. He was always in a good humour. All through this terrible epidemic
he carried himself as if he were enjoying a holiday. He had a heart
quite French and a wit so that you would hardly believe he was English.
Except for his accent. But sometimes Sister St. Joseph thought he spoke
badly on purpose to make you laugh. Of course his morals were not all
one could wish; but still that was his business (with a sigh, a shrug
and a shake of the head) and he was a bachelor and a young man.

"What is wrong with his morals, ma sœur?" asked Kitty smiling.

"Is it possible that you do not know? It is a sin for me to tell you. I
have no business to say such things. He lives with a Chinese woman, that
is to say, not a Chinese woman, but a Manchu. A princess, it appears,
and she loves him to distraction."

"That sounds quite impossible," cried Kitty.

"No, no, I promise you, it is everything that is most true. It is very
wicked of him. Those things are not done. Did you not hear, when you
first came to the convent and he would not eat the _madeleines_ that I
had made expressly, that _notre bonne mère_ said his stomach was
deranged by Manchu cooking? That was what she meant and you should have
seen the head that he made. It is a story altogether curious. It appears
that he was stationed at Hankow during the revolution when they were
massacring the Manchus and this good little Waddington saved the lives
of one of their great families. They are related to the Imperial Family.
The girl fell violently in love with him and--well, the rest you can
imagine. And then when he left Hankow she ran away and followed him and
now she follows him everywhere, and he has had to resign himself to keep
her, poor fellow, and I daresay he is very fond of her; they are quite
charming sometimes, these Manchu women. But what am I thinking of? I
have a thousand things to do and I sit here. I am a bad religious. I am
ashamed of myself."




_lii_


Kitty had a queer feeling that she was growing. The constant occupation
distracted her mind and the glimpses she had of other lives and other
outlooks awakened her imagination. She began to regain her spirits; she
felt better and stronger. It had seemed to her that she could do nothing
now but weep; but to her surprise, and not a little to her confusion,
she caught herself laughing at this and that. It began to seem quite
natural to live in the midst of a terrible epidemic. She knew that
people were dying to the right and left of her, but she ceased very much
to think of it. The Mother Superior had forbidden her to go into the
infirmaries and the closed doors excited her curiosity. She would have
liked to peep in, but could not do so without being seen, and she did
not know what punishment the Mother Superior would inflict upon her. It
would be dreadful to be sent away. She was devoted to the children now
and they would miss her if she went; in fact she did not know what they
would do without her.

And one day it occurred to her that she had neither thought of Charles
Townsend nor dreamt of him for a week. Her heart gave a sudden thud
against her ribs: she was cured. She could think of him now with
indifference. She loved him no longer. Oh, the relief and the sense of
liberation! It was strange to look back and remember how passionately
she had yearned for him; she thought she would die when he failed her;
she thought life thenceforward had nothing to offer but misery. And now
already she was laughing. A worthless creature. What a fool she had made
of herself! And now, considering him calmly, she wondered what on earth
she had seen in him. It was lucky that Waddington knew nothing, she
could never have endured his malicious eyeing and his ironical
innuendoes. She was free, free at last, free! She could hardly prevent
herself from laughing aloud.

The children were playing some romping game and it was her habit to look
on with an indulgent smile, restraining them when they made too much
noise and taking care that in their boisterousness none was hurt; but
now in her high spirits, feeling as young as any of them, she joined in
the game. The little girls received her with delight. They chased up and
down the room, shouting at the top of their shrill voices, with
fantastic and almost barbarous glee. They grew so excited that they
leaped into the air with joy. The noise was terrific.

Suddenly the door opened and the Mother Superior stood on the threshold.
Kitty, abashed, extricated herself from the clutches of a dozen little
girls who with wild shrieks had seized her.

"Is this how you keep these children good and quiet?" asked the Mother
Superior, a smile on her lips.

"We were having a game, Mother. They got excited. It is my fault, I led
them on."

The Mother Superior came forward and as usual the children clustered
about her. She put her hands round their narrow shoulders and playfully
pulled their little yellow ears. She looked at Kitty with a long, soft
look. Kitty was flushed and she was breathing quickly. Her liquid eyes
were shining and her lovely hair, disarranged in all the struggling and
the laughter, was in adorable confusion.

"_Que vous êtes belle, ma chère enfant_," said the Mother Superior.
"It does the heart good to look at you. No wonder these children adore
you."

Kitty blushed deeply and, she knew not why, tears suddenly filled her
eyes. She covered her face with her hands.

"Oh, Mother, you make me ashamed."

"Come, do not be silly. Beauty is also a gift of God, one of the most
rare and precious, and we should be thankful if we are happy enough to
possess it and thankful, if we are not, that others possess it for our
pleasure."

She smiled again and as though Kitty were a child too gently patted her
soft cheek.




_liii_


Since she had been working at the convent Kitty had seen less of
Waddington. Two or three times he had come down to the river bank to
meet her and they had walked up the hill together. He came in to drink a
whisky and soda, but he would seldom stay to dinner. One Sunday,
however, he suggested that they should take their luncheon with them and
go in chairs to a Buddhist monastery. It was situated ten miles from the
city and had some reputation as a place of pilgrimage. The Mother
Superior, insisting that Kitty must have a day's rest, would not let her
work on Sundays and Walter of course was as busy then as usual.

They started early in order to arrive before the heat of the day and
were carried along a narrow causeway between the rice fields. Now and
then they passed comfortable farm-houses nestling with friendly intimacy
in a grove of bamboos. Kitty enjoyed the idleness; it was pleasant after
being cooped up in the city to see about her the wide country. They came
to the monastery, straggling low buildings by the side of the river,
agreeably shaded by trees, and were led by smiling monks through
courtyards, empty with a solemn emptiness, and shown temples with
grimacing gods. In the sanctuary sat the Buddha, remote and sad,
wistful, abstracted and faintly smiling. There was about everything a
sense of dejection; the magnificence was shoddy and ruined; the gods
were dusty and the faith that had made them was dying. The monks seemed
to stay on sufference, as though they awaited a notice to quit; and in
the smile of the abbot, with his beautiful politeness, was the irony of
resignation. One of these days the monks would wander away from the
shady, pleasant wood, and the buildings, crumbling and neglected, would
be battered by fierce storms and besieged by the surrounding nature.
Wild creepers would twine themselves about the dead images and trees
would grow in the courtyards. Then the gods would dwell there no longer,
but evil spirits of darkness.




_liv_


They sat on the steps of a little building (four lacquered columns and a
high, tiled roof under which stood a great bronze bell) and watched the
river flow sluggish and with many a bend towards the stricken city. They
could see its crenellated walls. The heat hung over it like a pall. But
the river, though it flowed so slowly, had still a sense of movement and
it gave one a melancholy feeling of the transitoriness of things.
Everything passed, and what trace of its passage remained? It seemed to
Kitty that they were all, the human race, like the drops of water in
that river and they flowed on, each so close to the other and yet so far
apart, a nameless flood, to the sea. When all things lasted so short a
time and nothing mattered very much, it seemed pitiful that men,
attaching an absurd importance to trivial objects, should make
themselves and one another so unhappy.

"Do you know Harrington Gardens?" she asked Waddington, with a smile in
her beautiful eyes.

"No. Why?"

"Nothing; only it's a long way from here. It's where my people live."

"Are you thinking of going home?"

"No."

"I suppose you'll be leaving here in a couple of months. The epidemic
seems to be abating and the cool weather should see the end of it."

"I almost think I shall be sorry to go."

For a moment she thought of the future. She did not know what plans
Walter had in mind. He told her nothing. He was cool, polite, silent and
inscrutable. Two little drops in that river that flowed silently towards
the unknown; two little drops that to themselves had so much
individuality and to the onlooker were but an undistinguishable part of
the water.

"Take care the nuns don't start converting you," said Waddington, with
his malicious little smile.

"They're much too busy. Nor do they care. They're wonderful and so kind;
and yet--I hardly know how to explain it--there is a wall between them
and me. I don't know what it is. It is as though they possessed a secret
which made all the difference in their lives and which I was unworthy to
share. It is not faith; it is something deeper and more--more
significant: they walk in a different world from ours and we shall
always be strangers to them. Each day when the convent door closes
behind me I feel that for them I have ceased to exist."

"I can understand that it is something of a blow to your vanity," he
returned mockingly.

"My vanity."

Kitty shrugged her shoulders. Then, smiling once more, she turned to him
lazily.

"Why did you never tell me that you lived with a Manchu princess?"

"What have those gossiping old women been telling you? I am sure that it
is a sin for nuns to discuss the private affairs of the Customs
officials."

"Why should you be so sensitive?"

Waddington glanced down, sideways, so that it gave him an air of
shyness. He faintly shrugged his shoulders.

"It's not a thing to advertise. I do not know that it would greatly add
to my chances of promotion in the service."

"Are you very fond of her?"

He looked up now and his ugly little face had the look of a naughty
schoolboy's.

"She's abandoned everything for my sake, home, family, security and
self-respect. It's a good many years now since she threw everything to
the winds to be with me. I've sent her away two or three times, but
she's always come back; I've run away from her myself, but she's always
followed me. And now I've given it up as a bad job; I think I've got to
put up with her for the rest of my life."

"She must really love you to distraction."

"It's a rather funny sensation, you know," he answered, wrinkling a
perplexed forehead. "I haven't the smallest doubt that if I really left
her, definitely, she would commit suicide. Not with any ill-feeling
towards me, but quite naturally, because she was unwilling to live
without me. It is a curious feeling it gives one to know that. It can't
help meaning something to you."

"But it's loving that's the important thing, not being loved. One's not
even grateful to the people who love one; if one doesn't love them, they
only bore one."

"I have no experience of the plural," he replied. "Mine is only in the
singular."

"Is she really an Imperial Princess?"

"No, that is a romantic exaggeration of the nuns. She belongs to one of
the great families of the Manchus, but they have, of course, been ruined
by the revolution. She is all the same a very great lady."

He said it in a tone of pride, so that a smile flickered in Kitty's
eyes.

"Are you going to stay here for the rest of your life then?"

"In China? Yes. What would she do elsewhere? When I retire I shall take
a little Chinese house in Peking and spend the rest of my days there."

"Have you any children?"

"No."

She looked at him curiously. It was strange that this little bald-headed
man with his monkey face should have aroused in the alien woman so
devastating a passion. She could not tell why the way he spoke of her,
notwithstanding his casual manner and his flippant phrases, gave her the
impression so strongly of the woman's intense and unique devotion. It
troubled her a little.

"It does seem a long way to Harrington Gardens," she smiled.

"Why do you say that?"

"I don't understand anything. Life is so strange. I feel like someone
who's lived all his life by a duck-pond and suddenly is shown the sea.
It makes me a little breathless, and yet it fills me with elation. I
don't want to die, I want to live. I'm beginning to feel a new courage.
I feel like one of those old sailors who set sail for undiscovered seas
and I think my soul hankers for the unknown."

Waddington looked at her reflectively. Her abstracted gaze rested on the
smoothness of the river. Two little drops that flowed silently, silently
towards the dark, eternal sea.

"May I come and see the Manchu lady?" asked Kitty, suddenly raising her
head.

"She can't speak a word of English."

"You've been very kind to me, you've done a great deal for me, perhaps I
could show her by my manner that I had a friendly feeling towards her."

Waddington gave a thin, mocking little smile, but he answered with good
humour.

"I will come and fetch you one day and she shall give you a cup of
jasmine tea."

She would not tell him that this story of an alien love had from the
first moment strangely intrigued her fancy, and the Manchu Princess
stood now as the symbol of something that vaguely, but insistently,
beckoned to her. She pointed enigmatically to a mystic land of the
spirit.




_lv_


But a day or two later Kitty made an unforeseen discovery.

She went to the convent as usual and set about her first work of seeing
that the children were washed and dressed. Since the nuns held firmly
that the night air was harmful, the atmosphere in the dormitory was
close and fetid. After the freshness of the morning it always made Kitty
a little uncomfortable and she hastened to open such windows as would.
But to-day she felt on a sudden desperately sick and with her head
swimming she stood at a window trying to compose herself. It had never
been as bad as this before. Then nausea overwhelmed her and she vomited.
She gave a cry so that the children were frightened, and the older girl
who was helping her ran up and, seeing Kitty white and trembling,
stopped short with an exclamation. Cholera! The thought flashed through
Kitty's mind and then a deathlike feeling came over her; she was seized
with terror, she struggled for a moment against the night that seemed
agonisingly to run through her veins; she felt horribly ill; and then
darkness.

When she opened her eyes she did not at first know where she was. She
seemed to be lying on the floor and, moving her head slightly, she
thought that there was a pillow under it. She could not remember. The
Mother Superior was kneeling by her side, holding smelling salts to her
nose, and Sister St. Joseph stood looking at her. Then it came back.
Cholera! She saw the consternation on the nuns' faces. Sister St. Joseph
looked huge and her outline was blurred. Once more terror overwhelmed
her.

"Oh, Mother, Mother," she sobbed. "Am I going to die? I don't want to
die."

"Of course you're not going to die," said the Mother Superior.

She was quite composed and there was even amusement in her eyes.

"But it's cholera. Where's Walter? Has he been sent for? Oh, Mother,
Mother."

She burst into a flood of tears. The Mother Superior gave her hand and
Kitty seized it as though it were a hold upon the life she feared to
lose.

"Come, come, my dear child, you mustn't be so silly. It's not cholera or
anything of the kind."

"Where's Walter?"

"Your husband is much too busy to be troubled. In five minutes you'll be
perfectly well."

Kitty looked at her with staring, harassed eyes. Why did she take it so
calmly? It was cruel.

"Keep perfectly quiet for a minute," said the Mother Superior. "There is
nothing to alarm yourself about."

Kitty felt her heart beat madly. She had grown so used to the thought of
cholera that it had ceased to seem possible that she could catch it. Oh,
the fool she had been! She knew she was going to die. She was
frightened. The girls brought in a long rattan chair and placed it by
the window.

"Come, let us lift you," said the Mother Superior. "You will be more
comfortable on the _chaise longue_. Do you think you can stand?"

She put her hands under Kitty's arms and Sister St. Joseph helped her to
her feet. She sank exhausted into the chair.

"I had better shut the window," said Sister St. Joseph. "The early
morning air cannot be good for her."

"No, no," said Kitty. "Please leave it open."

It gave her confidence to see the blue sky. She was shaken, but
certainly she began to feel better. The two nuns looked at her for a
moment in silence, and Sister St. Joseph said something to the Mother
Superior which she could not understand. Then the Mother Superior sat on
the side of the chair and took her hand.

"Listen, _ma chère enfant_ . . ."

She asked her one or two questions. Kitty answered them without knowing
what they meant. Her lips were trembling so that she could hardly frame
the words.

"There is no doubt about it," said Sister St. Joseph. "I am not one to
be deceived in such a matter."

She gave a little laugh in which Kitty seemed to discern a certain
excitement and not a little affection. The Mother Superior, still
holding Kitty's hand, smiled with soft tenderness.

"Sister St. Joseph has more experience of these things than I have, dear
child, and she said at once what was the matter with you. She was
evidently quite right."

"What do you mean?" asked Kitty anxiously.

"It is quite evident. Did the possibility of such a thing never occur to
you? You are with child, my dear."

The start that Kitty gave shook her from head to foot, and she put her
feet to the ground as though to spring up.

"Lie still, lie still," said the Mother Superior.

Kitty felt herself blush furiously and she put her hands to her breasts.

"It's impossible. It isn't true."

"_Qu'est ce qu'elle dit?_" asked Sister St. Joseph.

The Mother Superior translated. Sister St. Joseph's broad simple face,
with its red cheeks, was beaming.

"No mistake is possible. I give you my word of honour."

"How long have you been married, my child?" asked the Mother Superior.
"Why, when my sister-in-law had been married as long as you she had
already two babies."

Kitty sank back into the chair. There was death in her heart.

"I'm so ashamed," she whispered.

"Because you are going to have a baby? Why, what can be more natural?"

"_Quelle joie pour le docteur_," said Sister St. Joseph.

"Yes, think what a happiness for your husband. He will be overwhelmed
with joy. You have only to see him with babies, and the look on his face
when he plays with them, to see how enchanted he will be to have one of
his own."

For a little while Kitty was silent. The two nuns looked at her with
tender interest and the Mother Superior stroked her hand.

"It was silly of me not to have suspected it before," said Kitty. "At
all events I'm glad it's not cholera. I feel very much better. I will
get back to my work."

"Not to-day, my dear child. You have had a shock, you had much better go
home and rest yourself."

"No, no, I would much rather stay and work."

"I insist. What would our good doctor say if I let you be imprudent?
Come to-morrow, if you like, or the day after, but to-day you must be
quiet. I will send for a chair. Would you like me to let one of our
young girls go with you?"

"Oh, no, I shall be all right alone."




_lvi_


Kitty was lying on her bed and the shutters were closed. It was after
luncheon and the servants slept. What she had learnt that morning (and
now she was certain that it was true) filled her with consternation.
Ever since she came home she had been trying to think; but her mind was
a blank, and she could not collect her thoughts. Suddenly she heard a
step, the feet were booted so that it could not be one of the boys; with
a gasp of apprehension she realised that it could only be her husband.
He was in the sitting-room and she heard herself called. She did not
reply. There was a moment's silence and then a knock on her door.

"Yes?"

"May I come in?"

Kitty rose from her bed and slipped into a dressing-gown.

"Yes."

He entered. She was glad that the closed shutters shadowed her face.

"I hope I didn't wake you. I knocked very, very gently."

"I haven't been asleep."

He went to one of the windows and threw open the shutter. A flood of
warm light streamed into the room.

"What is it?" she asked. "Why are you back so early?"

"The Sisters said that you weren't very well. I thought I had better
come and see what was the matter."

A flash of anger passed through her.

"What would you have said if it had been cholera?"

"If it had been you certainly couldn't have made your way home this
morning."

She went to the dressing-table and passed the comb through her shingled
hair. She wanted to gain time. Then, sitting down, she lit a cigarette.

"I wasn't very well this morning and the Mother Superior thought I'd
better come back here. But I'm perfectly all right again. I shall go to
the convent as usual to-morrow."

"What was the matter with you?"

"Didn't they tell you?"

"No. The Mother Superior said that you must tell me yourself."

He did now what he did seldom; he looked her full in the face; his
professional instincts were stronger than his personal. She hesitated.
Then she forced herself to meet his eyes.

"I'm going to have a baby," she said.

She was accustomed to his habit of meeting with silence a statement
which you would naturally expect to evoke an exclamation, but never had
it seemed to her more devastating. He said nothing; he made no gesture;
no movement on his face nor change of expression in his dark eyes
indicated that he had heard. She felt suddenly inclined to cry. If a man
loved his wife and his wife loved him, at such a moment they were drawn
together by a poignant emotion. The silence was intolerable and she
broke it.

"I don't know why it never occurred to me before. It was stupid of me,
but . . . what with one thing and another . . ."

"How long have you . . . when do you expect to be confined?"

The words seemed to issue from his lips with difficulty. She felt that
his throat was as dry as hers. It was a nuisance that her lips trembled
so when she spoke; if he was not of stone it must excite his pity.

"I suppose I've been like this between two and three months."

"Am I the father?"

She gave a little gasp. There was just a shadow of a tremor in his
voice; it was dreadful that cold self-control of his which made the
smallest token of emotion so shattering. She did not know why she
thought suddenly of an instrument she had been shown in Tching-Yen upon
which a needle oscillated a little and she had been told that this
represented an earthquake a thousand miles away in which perhaps a
thousand persons had lost their lives. She looked at him. He was ghastly
pale. She had seen that pallor on him once, twice before. He was looking
down, a little sideways.

"Well?"

She clasped her hands. She knew that if she could say yes it would mean
everything in the world to him. He would believe her, of course he would
believe her, because he wanted to; and then he would forgive. She knew
how deep was his tenderness and how ready he was, for all his shyness,
to expend it. She knew that he was not vindictive; he would forgive her
if she could but give him an excuse to, an excuse that touched his
heart, and he would forgive completely. She could count on him never to
throw the past in her teeth. Cruel he might be, cold and morbid, but he
was neither mean nor petty. It would alter everything if she said yes.

And she had an urgent need for sympathy. The unexpected knowledge that
she was with child had overwhelmed her with strange hopes and unforeseen
desires. She felt weak, frightened a little, alone and very far from any
friends. That morning, though she cared little for her mother, she had
had a sudden craving to be with her. She needed help and consolation.
She did not love Walter, she knew that she never could, but at this
moment she longed with all her heart for him to take her in his arms so
that she could lay her head on his breast; clinging to him she could
have cried happily; she wanted him to kiss her and she wanted to twine
her arms around his neck.

She began to weep. She had lied so much and she could lie so easily.
What could a lie matter when it could only do good? A lie, a lie, what
was a lie? It was so easy to say yes. She saw Walter's eyes melt and his
arms outstretched towards her. She couldn't say it; she didn't know why,
she just couldn't. All she had gone through during these bitter weeks,
Charlie and his unkindness, the cholera and all these people dying, the
nuns, oddly enough even that funny, drunken little Waddington, it all
seemed to have changed her so that she did not know herself; though she
was so deeply moved, some bystander in her soul seemed to watch her with
terror and surprise. She _had_ to tell the truth. It did not seem worth
while to lie. Her thoughts wandered strangely: on a sudden she saw that
dead beggar at the foot of the compound wall. Why should she think of
him? She did not sob; the tears streamed down her face, quite easily,
from wide eyes. At last she answered the question. He had asked her if
he was the child's father.

"I don't know," she said.

He gave the ghost of a chuckle. It made Kitty shudder.

"It's a bit awkward, isn't it?"

His answer was characteristic, it was exactly what she would have
expected him to say, but it made her heart sink. She wondered if he
realised how hard it had been for her to tell the truth (at the same
moment she recognised that it had not been in the least hard, but
inevitable) and if he gave her credit for it. Her answer, _I don't know,
I don't know_, hammered away in her head. It was impossible now to take
it back. She got her handkerchief from her bag and dried her eyes. They
did not speak. There was a syphon on the table by her bed and he got her
a glass of water. He brought it to her and held the glass while she
drank. She noticed how thin his hand was, it was a fine hand, slender,
with long fingers, but now it was nothing but skin and bone; it trembled
a little: he could control his face, but his hand betrayed him.

"Don't mind my crying," she said. "It's nothing really; it's only that I
can't help the water running out of my eyes."

She drank the water and he put the glass back. He sat down on a chair
and lit a cigarette. He gave a little sigh. Once or twice before she had
heard him sigh like that and it always gave her a catch at the heart.
Looking at him now, for he was staring with abstracted gaze out of the
window, she was surprised that she had not noticed before how terribly
thin he had grown during the last weeks. His temples were sunken and the
bones of his face showed through the skin. His clothes hung on him
loosely as though they had been made for a larger man. Through his
sunburn his face had a greenish pallor. He looked exhausted. He was
working too hard, sleeping little and eating nothing. In her own grief
and perturbation she found room to pity him. It was cruel to think that
she could do nothing for him.

He put his hand over his forehead, as though his head were aching, and
she had a feeling that in his brain too those words hammered madly: _I
don't know, I don't know._ It was strange that this moody, cold and shy
man should have such a natural affection for very little babies; most
men didn't care much even for their own, but the nuns, touched and a
little amused, had more than once spoken of it. If he felt like that
about those funny little Chinese babies what would he have felt about
his own? Kitty bit her lips in order to prevent herself from crying
again.

He looked at his watch.

"I'm afraid I must go back to the city. I have a great deal to do
to-day. . . . Shall you be all right?"

"Oh, yes. Don't bother about me."

"I think you'd better not wait for me this evening. I may be very late
and I'll get something to eat from Colonel Yü."

"Very well."

He rose.

"If I were you, I wouldn't try to do anything to-day. You'd better take
it easy. Is there anything you want before I go?"

"No, thanks. I shall be quite all right."

He paused for an instant, as though he were undecided, and then,
abruptly and without looking at her, took his hat and walked out of the
room. She heard him go through the compound. She felt terribly alone.
There was no need for self-restraint now and she gave herself up to a
passion of tears.




_lvii_


The night was sultry and Kitty sat at the window looking at the
fantastic roofs, dark against the starlight, of the Chinese temple, when
at last Walter came in. Her eyes were heavy with weeping, but she was
composed. Notwithstanding all there was to harass her she felt, perhaps
only from exhaustion, strangely at peace.

"I thought you'd be already in bed," said Walter as he came in.

"I wasn't sleepy. I thought it cooler to sit up. Have you had any
dinner?"

"All I want."

He walked up and down the long room and she saw that he had something to
say to her. She knew that he was embarrassed. Without concern she waited
for him to summon up his resolution. He began abruptly.

"I've been thinking about what you told me this afternoon. It seems to
me that it would be better if you went away. I have spoken to Colonel
Yü and he will give you an escort. You could take the amah with you.
You will be quite safe."

"Where is there for me to go?"

"You can go to your mother's."

"Do you think she would be pleased to see me?"

He paused for a moment, hesitating, as though for reflection.

"Then you can go to Tching-Yen."

"What should I do there?"

"You will need a good deal of care and attention. I don't think it's
fair to ask you to stay here."

She could not prevent the smile, not only of bitterness but of frank
amusement, that crossed her face. She gave him a glance and very nearly
laughed.

"I don't know why you should be so anxious about my health."

He came over to the window and stood looking out at the night. There had
never been so many stars in the unclouded sky.

"This isn't the place for a woman in your condition."

She looked at him, white in his thin clothes against the darkness; there
was something sinister in his fine profile, and yet oddly enough at this
moment it excited in her no fear.

"When you insisted on my coming here did you want it to kill me?" she
asked suddenly.

He was so long answering that she thought he had refused to hear.

"At first."

She gave a little shudder, for it was the first time he had admitted his
intention. But she bore him no ill will for it. Her feeling surprised
herself; there was a certain admiration in it and a faint amusement. She
did not quite know why, but suddenly thinking of Charlie Townsend he
seemed to her an abject fool.

"It was a terrible risk you were taking," she answered. "With your
sensitive conscience I wonder if you could ever have forgiven yourself
if I had died."

"Well, you haven't. You've thrived on it."

"I've never felt better in my life."

She had an instinct to throw herself on the mercy of his humour. After
all they had gone through, when they were living amid these scenes of
horror and desolation, it seemed inept to attach importance to the
ridiculous act of fornication. When death stood round the corner, taking
lives like a gardener digging up potatoes, it was foolishness to care
what dirty things this person or that did with his body. If she could
only make him realise how little Charlie meant to her, so that now
already she had difficulty in calling up his features to her
imagination, and how entirely the love of him had passed out of her
heart! Because she had no feeling for Townsend the various acts she had
committed with him had lost their significance. She had regained her
heart and what she had given of her body seemed not to matter a rap. She
was inclined to say to Walter: "Look here, don't you think we've been
silly long enough? We've sulked with one another like children. Why
can't we kiss and be friends. There's no reason why we shouldn't be
friends just because we're not lovers."

He stood very still and the lamplight made the pallor of his impassive
face startling. She did not trust him; if she said the wrong thing he
would turn upon her with such an icy sternness. She knew by now his
extreme sensitiveness, for which his acid irony was a protection, and
how quickly he could close his heart if his feelings were hurt. She had
a moment's irritation at his stupidity. Surely what troubled him most
was the wound to his vanity: she vaguely realised that this is the
hardest of all wounds to heal. It was singular that men attached so much
importance to their wives' faithfulness; when first she had gone with
Charlie she had expected to feel quite different, a changed woman; but
she had seemed to herself exactly the same, she had experienced only
wellbeing and a greater vitality. She wished now that she had been able
to tell Walter that the child was his; the lie would have meant so
little to her, and the assurance would have been so great a comfort to
him. And after all it might not be a lie; it was funny, that something
in her heart which had prevented her from giving herself the benefit of
the doubt. How silly men were! Their part in procreation was so
unimportant; it was the woman who carried the child through long months
of uneasiness and bore it with pain, and yet a man because of his
momentary connection made such preposterous claims. Why should that make
any difference to him in his feeling towards the child? Then Kitty's
thoughts wandered to the child which she herself would bear; she thought
of it not with emotion nor with a passion of maternity, but with an idle
curiosity.

"I daresay you'd like to think it over a little," said Walter, breaking
the long silence.

"Think what?"

He turned a little as if he were surprised.

"About when you want to go?"

"But I don't want to go."

"Why not?"

"I like my work at the convent. I think I'm making myself useful. I
should prefer to stay as long as you do."

"I think I should tell you that in your present condition you are
probably more liable to catch any infection that happens to be about."

"I like the discreet way you put it," she smiled ironically.

"You're not staying for my sake?"

She hesitated. He little knew that now the strongest emotion he excited
in her, and the most unexpected, was pity.

"No. You don't love me. I often think I rather bore you."

"I shouldn't have thought you were the sort of person to put yourself
out for a few stuffy nuns and a parcel of Chinese brats."

Her lips outlined a smile.

"I think it's rather unfair to despise me so much because you made such
a mistake in your judgment of me. It's not my fault that you were such
an ass."

"If you're determined to stay you are of course at liberty to do so."

"I'm sorry I can't give you the opportunity of being magnanimous." She
found it strangely hard to be quite serious with him. "As a matter of
fact you're quite right, it's not only for the orphans that I'm staying:
you see, I'm in the peculiar position that I haven't got a soul in the
world that I can go to. I know no one who wouldn't think me a nuisance.
I know no one who cares a row of pins if I'm alive or dead."

He frowned. But he did not frown in anger.

"We have made a dreadful hash of things, haven't we?" he said.

"Do you still want to divorce me? I don't think I care any more."

"You must know that by bringing you here I've condoned the offence."

"I didn't know. You see, I haven't made a study of infidelity. What are
we going to do then when we leave here? Are we going on living
together?"

"Oh, don't you think we can let the future take care of itself?"

There was the weariness of death in his voice.




_lviii_


Two or three days later Waddington fetched Kitty from the convent (for
her restlessness had induced her immediately to resume her work) and
took her to drink the promised cup of tea with his mistress. Kitty had
on more than one occasion dined at Waddington's house. It was a square,
white and pretentious building, such as the Customs build for their
officials all over China; and the dining-room in which they ate, the
drawing-room in which they sat, were furnished with prim and solid
furniture. They had the appearance of being partly offices and partly
hotel; there was nothing homelike in them and you understood that these
houses were merely places of haphazard sojourn to their successive
occupants. It would never have occurred to you that on an upper floor
mystery and perhaps romance dwelt shrouded. They ascended a flight of
stairs and Waddington opened a door. Kitty went into a large, bare room
with white-washed walls on which hung scrolls in various calligraphies.
At a square table, on a stiff armchair, both of blackwood and heavily
carved, sat the Manchu. She rose as Kitty and Waddington entered, but
made no step forward.

"Here she is," said Waddington, and added something in Chinese.

Kitty shook hands with her. She was slim in her long embroidered gown
and somewhat taller than Kitty, used to the Southern people, had
expected. She wore a jacket of pale green silk with tight sleeves that
came over her wrists and on her black hair, elaborately dressed, was the
head-dress of the Manchu women. Her face was coated with powder and her
cheeks from the eyes to the mouth heavily rouged; her plucked eyebrows
were a thin dark line and her mouth was scarlet. From this mask her
black, slightly slanting, large eyes burned like lakes of liquid jet.
She seemed more like an idol than a woman. Her movements were slow and
assured. Kitty had the impression that she was slightly shy but very
curious. She nodded her head two or three times, looking at Kitty, while
Waddington spoke of her. Kitty noticed her hands; they were
preternaturally long, very slender, of the colour of ivory; and the
exquisite nails were painted. Kitty thought she had never seen anything
so lovely as those languid and elegant hands. They suggested the
breeding of uncounted centuries.

She spoke a little, in a high voice, like the twittering of birds in an
orchard, and Waddington, translating, told Kitty that she was glad to
see her; how old was she and how many children had she got? They sat
down on three straight chairs at the square table and a boy brought in
bowls of tea, pale and scented with jasmine. The Manchu lady handed
Kitty a green tin of Three Castles cigarettes. Beside the table and the
chairs the room contained little furniture; there was a wide pallet bed
on which was an embroidered head rest and two sandalwood chests.

"What does she do with herself all day long?" asked Kitty.

"She paints a little and sometimes she writes a poem. But she mostly
sits. She smokes, but only in moderation, which is fortunate, since one
of my duties is to prevent the traffic in opium."

"Do you smoke?" asked Kitty.

"Seldom. To tell you the truth I much prefer whisky."

There was in the room a faintly acrid smell; it was not unpleasant, but
peculiar and exotic.

"Tell her that I am sorry I cannot talk to her. I am sure we have many
things to say to one another."

When this was translated to the Manchu she gave Kitty a quick glance in
which there was the hint of a smile. She was impressive as she sat,
without embarrassment, in her beautiful clothes; and from the painted
face the eyes looked out wary, self-possessed and unfathomable. She was
unreal, like a picture, and yet had an elegance which made Kitty feel
all thumbs. Kitty had never paid anything but passing and somewhat
contemptuous attention to the China in which fate had thrown her. It was
not done in her set. Now she seemed on a sudden to have an inkling of
something remote and mysterious. Here was the East, immemorial, dark and
inscrutable. The beliefs and the ideals of the West seemed crude beside
ideals and beliefs of which in this exquisite creature she seemed to
catch a fugitive glimpse. Here was a different life, lived on a
different plane. Kitty felt strangely that the sight of this idol, with
her painted face and slanting, wary eyes, made the efforts and the pains
of the everyday world she knew slightly absurd. That coloured mask
seemed to hide the secret of an abundant, profound and significant
experience: those long, delicate hands with their tapering fingers held
the key of riddles undivined.

"What does she think about all day long?" asked Kitty.

"Nothing," smiled Waddington.

"She's wonderful. Tell her I've never seen such beautiful hands. I
wonder what she sees in _you_."

Waddington, smiling, translated the question.

"She says I'm good."

"As if a woman ever loved a man for his virtue," Kitty mocked.

The Manchu laughed but once. This was when Kitty, for something to say,
expressed admiration of a jade bracelet she wore. She took it off and
Kitty, trying to put it on, found, though her hands were small enough,
that it would not pass over her knuckles. Then the Manchu burst into
childlike laughter. She said something to Waddington and called for an
amah. She gave her an instruction and the amah in a moment brought in a
pair of very beautiful Manchu shoes.

"She wants to give you these if you can wear them," said Waddington.
"You'll find they make quite good bedroom slippers."

"They fit me perfectly," said Kitty, not without satisfaction.

But she noticed a roguish smile on Waddington's face.

"Are they too big for her?" she asked quickly.

"Miles."

Kitty laughed and when Waddington translated, the Manchu and the amah
laughed also.

When Kitty and Waddington, a little later, were walking up the hill
together, she turned to him with a friendly smile.

"You did not tell me that you had a great affection for her."

"What makes you think I have?"

"I saw it in your eyes. It's strange, it must be like loving a phantom
or a dream. Men are incalculable; I thought you were like everybody else
and now I feel that I don't know the first thing about you."

As they reached the bungalow he asked her abruptly:

"Why did you want to see her?"

Kitty hesitated for a moment before answering.

"I'm looking for something and I don't quite know what it is. But I know
that it's very important for me to know it, and if I did it would make
all the difference. Perhaps the nuns know it; when I'm with them I feel
that they hold a secret which they will not share with me. I don't know
why it came into my head that if I saw this Manchu woman I should have
an inkling of what I am looking for. Perhaps she would tell me if she
could."

"What makes you think she knows it?"

Kitty gave him a sidelong glance, but did not answer. Instead she asked
him a question.

"Do you know it?"

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"Tao. Some of us look for the Way in opium and some in God, some of us
in whisky and some in love. It is all the same Way and it leads
nowhither."




_lix_


Kitty fell again into the comfortable routine of her work and though in
the early morning feeling far from well she had spirit enough not to let
it discompose her. She was astonished at the interest the nuns took in
her: sisters who, when she saw them in a corridor, had done no more than
bid her good morning now on a flimsy pretext came into the room in which
she was occupied and looked at her, chatting a little, with a sweet and
childlike excitement. Sister St. Joseph told her with a repetition which
was sometimes tedious how she had been saying to herself for days past:
"Now, I wonder," or: "I shouldn't be surprised"; and then, when Kitty
fainted: "There can be no doubt, it jumps to the eyes." She told Kitty
long stories of her sister-in-law's confinements, which but for Kitty's
quick sense of humour would have been not a little alarming. Sister St.
Joseph combined in a pleasant fashion the realistic outlook of her
upbringing (a river wound through the meadows of her father's farm and
the poplars that stood on its bank trembled in the faintest breeze) with
a charming intimacy with religious things. One day, firmly convinced
that a heretic could know nothing of such matters, she told Kitty of the
Annunciation.

"I can never read those lines in the Holy Writ without weeping," she
said. "I do not know why, but it gives me such a funny feeling."

And then in French, in words that to Kitty sounded unfamiliar and in
their precision a trifle cold, she quoted:

"_And the angel came in unto her, and said. Hail full of grace, the Lord
is with thee: blessed art thou among women._"

The mystery of birth blew through the convent like a little fitful wind
playing among the white blossoms of an orchard. The thought that Kitty
was with child disturbed and excited those sterile women. She frightened
them a little now and fascinated them. They looked upon the physical
side of her condition with robust common sense, for they were the
daughters of peasants and fishermen; but in their childlike hearts was
awe. They were troubled by the thought of her burden and yet happy and
strangely exalted. Sister St. Joseph told her that they all prayed for
her, and Sister St. Martin had said what a pity it was she was not a
Catholic; but the Mother Superior had reproved her; she said that it was
possible to be a good woman--_une brave femme_, she put it--even though
one was Protestant and _le Bon Dieu_ would in some way or other arrange
all that.

Kitty was both touched and diverted by the interest she aroused, but
surprised beyond measure when she found that even the Mother Superior,
so austere in her saintliness, treated her with a new complaisance. She
had always been kind to Kitty, but in a remote fashion; now she used her
with a tenderness in which there was something maternal. Her voice had
in it a new and gentle note and in her eyes was a sudden playfulness as
though Kitty were a child who had done a clever and amusing thing. It
was oddly moving. Her soul was like a calm, grey sea rolling
majestically, awe-inspiring in its sombre greatness, and then suddenly a
ray of sunshine made it alert, friendly and gay. Often now in the
evening she would come and sit with Kitty.

"I must take care that you do not tire yourself, _mon enfant_," she
said, making a transparent excuse to herself, "or Dr. Fane will never
forgive me. Oh, this British self-control! There he is delighted beyond
measure and when you speak to him of it he becomes quite pale."

She took Kitty's hand and patted it affectionately.

"Dr. Fane told me that he wished you to go away, but you would not
because you could not bear to leave us. That was kind of you, my dear
child, and I want you to know that we appreciate the help you have been
to us. But I think that you did not want to leave him either, and that
is better, for your place is by his side, and he needs you. Ah, I do not
know what we should have done without that admirable man."

"I am glad to think that he has been able to do something for you," said
Kitty.

"You must love him with all your heart, my dear. He is a saint."

Kitty smiled and in her heart sighed. There was only one thing she could
do for Walter now and that she could not think how to. She wanted him to
forgive her, not for her sake any more, but for his own; for she felt
that this alone could give him peace of mind. It was useless to ask him
for his forgiveness, and if he had a suspicion that she desired it for
his good rather than hers his stubborn vanity would make him refuse at
all costs (it was curious that his vanity now did not irritate her, it
seemed natural and only made her sorrier for him); and the only chance
was that some unexpected occurrence might throw him off his guard. She
had an idea that he would welcome an uprush of emotion which would
liberate him from this nightmare of resentment, but that, in his
pathetic folly, he would fight when it came with all his might against
it.

Was it not pitiful that men, tarrying so short a space in a world where
there was so much pain, should thus torture themselves?




_lx_


Though the Mother Superior talked with Kitty not more than three or four
times and once or twice but ten minutes the impression she made upon
Kitty was profound. Her character was like a country which on first
acquaintance seems grand, but inhospitable; but in which presently you
discover smiling little villages among fruit trees in the folds of the
majestic mountains, and pleasant ambling rivers that flow kindly through
lush meadows. But these comfortable scenes, though they surprise and
even reassure you, are not enough to make you feel at home in the land
of tawny heights and windswept spaces. It would have been impossible to
become intimate with the Mother Superior; she had that something
impersonal about her which Kitty had felt with the other nuns, even with
the good-humoured, chatty Sister St. Joseph, but with her it was a
barrier which was almost palpable. It gave you quite a curious
sensation, chilling but awe-inspiring, that she could walk on the same
earth as you, attend to mundane affairs, and yet live so obviously upon
a plane you could not reach. She once said to Kitty:

"It is not enough that a religious should be continually in prayer with
Jesus; she should be herself a prayer."

Though her conversation was interwoven with her religion, Kitty felt
that this was natural to her and that no effort was made to influence
the heretic. It seemed strange to her that the Mother Superior, with her
deep sense of charity, should be content to leave Kitty in a condition
of what must seem to her sinful ignorance.

One evening the two of them were sitting together. The days were
shortening now and the mellow light of the evening was agreeable and a
little melancholy. The Mother Superior looked very tired. Her tragic
face was drawn and white; her fine dark eyes had lost their fire. Her
fatigue perhaps urged her to a rare mood of confidence.

"This is a memorable day for me, my child," she said, breaking from a
long reverie, "for this is the anniversary of the day on which I finally
determined to enter religion. For two years I had been thinking of it,
but I had suffered as it were a fear of this calling, for I dreaded that
I might be recaptured by the spirit of the world. But that morning when
I communicated I made the vow that I would before nightfall announce my
wish to my dear mother. After I had received the Holy Communion I asked
Our Lord to give me peace of mind: Thou shalt have it only, the answer
seemed to come to me, when thou hast ceased to desire it."

The Mother Superior seemed to lose herself in thoughts of the past.

"That day, one of our friends, Madame de Viernot, had left for the
Carmel without telling any of her relatives. She knew that they were
opposed to her step, but she was a widow and thought that as such she
had the right to do as she chose. One of my cousins had gone to bid
farewell to the dear fugitive and did not come back till the evening.
She was much moved. I had not spoken to my mother, I trembled at the
thought of telling her what I had in mind, and yet I wished to keep the
resolution I had made at Holy Communion. I asked my cousin all manner of
questions. My mother, who appeared to be absorbed in her tapestry, lost
no word. While I talked I said to myself: If I want to speak to-day I
have not a minute to lose."

"It is strange how vividly I remember the scene. We were sitting round
the table, a round table covered with a red cloth, and we worked by the
light of a lamp with a green shade. My two cousins were staying with us
and we were all working at tapestries to re-cover the chairs in the
drawing-room. Imagine, they had not been recovered since the days of
Louis XIV, when they were bought, and they were so shabby and faded, my
mother said it was a disgrace."

"I tried to form the words, but my lips would not move; and then,
suddenly, after a few minutes of silence my mother said to me: 'I really
cannot understand the conduct of your friend. I do not like this leaving
without a word all those to whom she is so dear. The gesture is
theatrical and offends my taste. A well-bred woman does nothing which
shall make people talk of her. I hope that if ever you caused us the
great sorrow of leaving us you would not take flight as though you were
committing a crime.'

"It was the moment to speak, but such was my weakness that I could only
say: 'Ah, set your mind at rest, _maman_, I should not have the
strength.'

"My mother made no answer and I repented because I had not dared to
explain myself. I seemed to hear the word of Our Lord to St. Peter:
'Peter, lovest thou me?' Oh, what weakness, what ingratitude was mine! I
loved my comfort, the manner of my life, my family and my diversions. I
was lost in these bitter thoughts when a little later, as though the
conversation had not been interrupted, my mother said to me: 'Still, my
Odette, I do not think that you will die without having done something
that will endure.'

"I was still lost in my anxiety and my reflections, while my cousins,
never knowing the beating of my heart, worked quietly, when suddenly my
mother, letting her tapestry fall and looking at me attentively, said:
'Ah, my dear child, I am very sure that you will end by becoming a
religious.'

"'Are you speaking seriously, my good mother,' I answered. 'You are
laying bare the innermost thought and desire of my heart.'

"'_Mais oui_,' cried my cousins without giving me time to finish, 'For
two years Odette has thought of nothing else. But you will not give your
permission, _ma tante_, you must not give your permission.'

"'By what right, my dear children, should we refuse it,' said my mother,
'if it is the Will of God?'

"My cousins then, wishing to make a jest of the conversation, asked me
what I intended to do with the trifles that belonged to me and
quarrelled gaily about which should take possession of this and which of
that. But these first moments of gaiety lasted a very little while and
we began to weep. Then we heard my father come up the stairs."

The Mother Superior paused for a moment and sighed.

"It was very hard for my father. I was his only daughter and men often
have a deeper feeling for their daughters than they ever have for their
sons."

"It is a great misfortune to have a heart," said Kitty, with a smile.

"It is a great good fortune to consecrate that heart to the love of
Jesus Christ."

At that moment a little girl came up to the Mother Superior and
confident in her interest showed her a fantastic toy that she had
somehow got hold of. The Mother Superior put her beautiful, delicate
hand round the child's shoulder and the child nestled up to her. It
intrigued Kitty to observe how sweet her smile was and yet how
impersonal.

"It is wonderful to see the adoration that all your orphans have for
you, Mother," she said. "I think I should be very proud if I could
excite so great a devotion."

The Mother Superior gave once more her aloof and yet beautiful smile.

"There is only one way to win hearts and that is to make oneself like
unto those of whom one would be loved."




_lxi_


Walter did not come back to dinner that evening. Kitty waited for him a
little, for when he was detained in the city he always managed to send
her word, but at last she sat down. She made no more than a pretence of
eating the many courses which the Chinese cook, with his regard for
propriety notwithstanding pestilence and the difficulty of provisioning,
invariably set before her; and then, sinking into the long rattan chair
by the open window, surrendered herself to the beauty of the starry
night. The silence rested her.

She did not try to read. Her thoughts floated upon the surface of her
mind like little white clouds reflected on a still lake. She was too
tired to seize upon one, follow it up and absorb herself in its
attendant train. She wondered vaguely what there was for her in the
various impressions which her conversations with the nuns had left upon
her. It was singular that, though their way of life so profoundly moved
her, the faith which occasioned it left her untouched. She could not
envisage the possibility that she might at any time be captured by the
ardour of belief. She gave a little sigh: perhaps it would make
everything easier if that great white light should illuminate her soul.
Once or twice she had had the desire to tell the Mother Superior of her
unhappiness and its cause; but she dared not: she could not bear that
this austere woman should think ill of her. To her what she had done
would naturally seem a grievous sin. The odd thing was that she herself
could not regard it as wicked so much as stupid and ugly.

Perhaps it was due to an obtuseness in herself that she looked upon her
connection with Townsend as regrettable and shocking even, but to be
forgotten rather than to be repented of. It was like making a blunder at
a party; there was nothing to do about it, it was dreadfully mortifying,
but it showed a lack of sense to ascribe too much importance to it. She
shuddered as she thought of Charlie with his large frame too well
covered, the vagueness of his jaw and the way he had of standing with
his chest thrown out so that he might not seem to have a paunch. His
sanguine temperament showed itself in the little red veins which soon
would form a network on his ruddy cheeks. She had liked his bushy
eyebrows: there was to her in them now something animal and repulsive.

And the future? It was curious how indifferent it left her; she could
not see into it at all. Perhaps she would die when her baby was born.
Her sister Doris had always been much stronger than she, and Doris had
nearly died. (She had done her duty and produced an heir to the new
baronetcy; Kitty smiled as she thought of her mother's satisfaction.) If
the future was so vague it meant perhaps that she was destined never to
see it. Walter would probably ask her mother to take care of the
child--if the child survived; and she knew him well enough to be sure
that, however uncertain of his paternity, he would treat it with
kindness. Walter could be trusted under any circumstances to behave
admirably.

It was a pity that with his great qualities, his unselfishness and
honour, his intelligence and sensibility, he should be so unlovable. She
was not in the least frightened of him now, but sorry for him, and at
the same time she could not help thinking him slightly absurd. The depth
of his emotion made him vulnerable and she had a feeling that somehow
and at some time she so could work upon it as to induce him to forgive
her. The thought haunted her now that in thus giving him peace of mind
she would make the only possible amends for the anguish she had caused
him. It was a pity he had so little sense of humour: she could see them
both, some day, laughing together at the way they had tormented
themselves.

She was tired. She took the lamp into her room and undressed. She went
to bed and presently fell asleep.




_lxii_


But she was awakened by a loud knocking. At first, since it was
interwoven with the dream from which she was roused, she could not
attach the sound to reality. The knocking went on and she was conscious
that it must be at the gateway of the compound. It was quite dark. She
had a watch with phosphorised hands and saw that it was half-past two.
It must be Walter coming back--how late he was--and he could not awake
the boy. The knocking went on, louder and louder, and in the silence of
the night it was really not a little alarming. The knocking stopped and
she heard the withdrawing of the heavy bolt. Walter had never come back
so late. Poor thing, he must be tired out! She hoped he would have the
sense to go straight to bed instead of working as usual in that
laboratory of his.

There was a sound of voices, and people came into the compound. That was
strange, for Walter coming home late, in order not to disturb her, took
pains to be quiet. Two or three persons ran swiftly up the wooden steps
and came into the room next door. Kitty was a little frightened. At the
back of her mind was always the fear of an anti-foreign riot. Had
something happened? Her heart began to beat quickly. But before she had
time to put her vague apprehension into shape some one walked across the
room and knocked at her door.

"Mrs. Fane."

She recognised Waddington's voice.

"Yes. What is it?"

"Will you get up at once. I have something to say to you."

She rose and put on a dressing-gown. She unlocked the door and opened
it. Her glance took in Waddington in a pair of Chinese trousers and a
pongee coat, the house-boy holding a hurricane lamp, and a little
further back three Chinese soldiers in khaki. She started as she saw the
consternation on Waddington's face; his head was tousled as though he
had just jumped out of bed.

"What is the matter?" she gasped.

"You must keep calm. There's not a moment to lose. Put on your clothes
at once and come with me."

"But what is it? Has something happened in the city?"

The sight of the soldiers suggested to her at once that there had been
an outbreak and they were come to protect her.

"Your husband's been taken ill. We want you to come at once."

"Walter?" she cried.

"You mustn't be upset. I don't exactly know what's the matter. Colonel
Yü sent this officer to me and asked me to bring you to the Yamen at
once."

Kitty stared at him for a moment, she felt a sudden cold in her heart,
and then she turned.

"I shall be ready in two minutes."

"I came just as I was," he answered. "I was asleep, I just put on a coat
and some shoes."

She did not hear what he said. She dressed by the light of the stars,
taking the first things that came to hand; her fingers on a sudden were
so clumsy that it seemed to take her an age to find the little clasps
that closed her dress. She put round her shoulders the Cantonese shawl
she had worn in the evening.

"I haven't put a hat on. There's no need, is there?"

"No."

The boy held the lantern in front of them and they hurried down the
steps and out of the compound gate.

"Take care you don't fall," said Waddington. "You'd better hang on to my
arm."

The soldiers followed immediately behind them.

"Colonel Yü has sent chairs. They're waiting on the other side of the
river."

They walked quickly down the hill. Kitty could not bring herself to
utter the question that trembled so horribly on her lips. She was
mortally afraid of the answer. They came to the bank and there, with a
thread of light at the bow, a sampan was waiting for them.

"Is it cholera?" she said then.

"I'm afraid so."

She gave a little cry and stopped short.

"I think you ought to come as quickly as you can."

He gave her his hand to help her into the boat. The passage was short
and the river almost stagnant; they stood in a bunch at the bow, while a
woman with a child tied on her hip with one oar impelled the sampan
across.

"He was taken ill this afternoon, the afternoon of yesterday that is,"
said Waddington.

"Why wasn't I sent for at once?"

Although there was no reason for it they spoke in whispers. In the
darkness Kitty could only feel how intense was her companion's anxiety.

"Colonel Yü wanted to, but he wouldn't let him. Colonel Yü has been
with him all the time."

"He ought to have sent for me all the same. It's heartless."

"Your husband knew that you had never seen anyone with cholera. It's a
terrible and revolting sight. He didn't want you to see it."

"After all he is my husband," she said in a choking voice.

Waddington made no reply.

"Why am I allowed to come now?"

Waddington put his hand on her arm.

"My dear, you must be very brave. You must be prepared for the worst."

She gave a wail of anguish and turned away a little, for she saw that
the three Chinese soldiers were looking at her. She had a sudden strange
glimpse of the whites of their eyes.

"Is he dying?"

"I only know the message Colonel Yü gave to this officer who came and
fetched me. As far as I can judge collapse has set in."

"Is there no hope at all?"

"I'm dreadfully sorry, I'm afraid that if we don't get there quickly we
shan't find him alive."

She shuddered. The tears began to stream down her cheeks.

"You see, he's been overworking, he has no powers of resistance."

She withdrew from the pressure of his arm with a gesture of irritation.
It exasperated her that he should talk in that low, anguished voice.

They reached the side and two men, Chinese coolies, standing on the bank
helped her to step on shore. The chairs were waiting. As she got into
hers Waddington said to her:

"Try and keep a tight hold on your nerves. You'll want all your
self-control."

"Tell the bearers to make haste."

"They have orders to go as fast as they can."

The officer, already in his chair, passed by and as he passed called out
to Kitty's bearers. They raised the chair smartly, arranged the poles on
their shoulders, and at a swift pace set off. Waddington followed close
behind. They took the hill at a run, a man with a lantern going before
each chair, and at the water-gate the gate-keeper was standing with a
torch. The officer shouted to him as they approached and he flung open
one side of the gate to let them through. He uttered some sort of
interjection as they passed and the bearers called back. In the dead of
the night those guttural sounds in a strange language were mysterious
and alarming. They slithered up the wet and slippery cobbles of the
alley and one of the officer's bearers stumbled. Kitty heard the
officer's voice raised in anger, the shrill retort of the bearer, and
then the chair in front hurried on again. The streets were narrow and
tortuous. Here in the city was deep night. It was a city of the dead.
They hastened along a narrow lane, turned a corner, and then at a run
took a flight of steps; the bearers were beginning to blow hard; they
walked with long, rapid strides, in silence; one took out a ragged
handkerchief and as he walked wiped from his forehead the sweat that ran
down into his eyes; they wound this way and that so that it might have
been a maze through which they sped; in the shadow of the shuttered
shops sometimes a form seemed to be lying, but you did not know whether
it was a man who slept to awake at dawn or a man who slept to awake
never; the narrow streets were ghostly in their silent emptiness and
when on a sudden a dog barked loudly it sent a shock of terror through
Kitty's tortured nerves. She did not know where they went. The way
seemed endless. Could they not go faster? Faster. Faster. The time was
going and any moment it might be too late.




_lxiii_


Suddenly, walking along a blank long wall they came to a gateway flanked
by sentry boxes, and the bearers set down the chairs. Waddington hurried
up to Kitty. She had already jumped out. The officer knocked loudly on
the door and shouted. A postern was opened and they passed into a
courtyard. It was large and square. Huddled against the walls, under the
eaves of the overhanging roofs, soldiers wrapped in their blankets were
lying in huddled groups. They stopped for a moment while the officer
spoke to a man who might have been a sergeant on guard. He turned and
said something to Waddington.

"He's still alive," said Waddington in a low voice. "Take care how you
walk."

Still preceded by the men with lanterns they made their way across the
yard, up some steps, through a great doorway and then down into another
wide court. On one side of this was a long chamber with lights in it;
the lights within shining through the rice paper silhouetted the
elaborate pattern of the lattice. The lantern-bearers led them across
the yard towards this room and at the door the officer knocked. It was
opened immediately and the officer with a glance at Kitty stepped back.

"Will you walk in," said Waddington.

It was a long, low room and the smoky lamps that lit it made the gloom
ominous. Three or four orderlies stood about. On a pallet against the
wall opposite the door a man was lying huddled under a blanket. An
officer was standing motionless at the foot.

Kitty hurried up and leaned over the pallet. Walter lay with his eyes
closed and in that sombre light his face had the greyness of death. He
was horribly still.

"Walter, Walter," she gasped, in a low, terrified tone.

There was a slight movement in the body, or the shadow of a movement; it
was so slight it was like a breath of air which you cannot feel and yet
for an instant ruffles the surface of still water.

"Walter, Walter, speak to me."

The eyes were opened slowly, as though it were an infinite effort to
raise those heavy lids, but he did not look, he stared at the wall a few
inches from his face. He spoke; his voice, low and weak, had the hint of
a smile in it.

"This is a pretty kettle of fish," he said.

Kitty dared not breathe. He made no further sound, no beginning of a
gesture, but his eyes, those dark, cold eyes of his (seeing now what
mysteries?) stared at the white-washed wall. Kitty raised herself to her
feet. With haggard gaze she faced the man who stood there.

"Surely something can be done. You're not going to stand there and do
nothing?"

She clasped her hands. Waddington spoke to the officer who stood at the
end of the bed.

"I'm afraid they've done everything that was possible. The regimental
surgeon has been treating him. Your husband has trained him and he's
done all that your husband could do himself."

"Is that the surgeon?"

"No, that is Colonel Yü. He's never left your husband's side."

Distracted, Kitty gave him a glance. He was a tallish man, but stockily
built, and he seemed ill at ease in his khaki uniform. He was looking at
Walter and she saw that his eyes were wet with tears. It gave her a
pang. Why should that man with his yellow, flat face have tears in his
eyes? It exasperated her.

"It's awful to be able to do nothing."

"At least he's not in pain any more," said Waddington.

She leaned once more over her husband. Those ghastly eyes of his still
stared vacantly in front of him. She could not tell if he saw with them.
She did not know whether he had heard what was said. She put her lips
close to his ears.

"Walter, isn't there something we can do?"

She thought that there must be some drug they could give him which would
stay the dreadful ebbing of his life. Now that her eyes were more
accustomed to the dimness she saw with horror that his face had fallen.
She would hardly have recognised him. It was unthinkable that in a few
short hours he should look like another man; he hardly looked like a man
at all; he looked like death.

She thought that he was making an effort to speak. She put her ear
close.

"Don't fuss. I've had a rough passage, but I'm all right now."

Kitty waited for a moment, but he was silent. His immobility rent her
heart with anguish; it was terrifying that he should lie so still. He
seemed prepared already for the stillness of the grave. Some one, the
surgeon or a dresser, came forward and with a gesture motioned her
aside; he leaned over the dying man and with a dirty rag wet his lips.
Kitty stood up once more and turned to Waddington despairingly.

"Is there no hope at all?" she whispered.

He shook his head.

"How much longer can he live?"

"No one can tell. An hour perhaps."

Kitty looked round the bare chamber and her eyes rested for an instant
on the substantial form of Colonel Yü.

"Can I be left alone with him for a little while?" she asked. "Only for
a minute."

"Certainly, if you wish it."

Waddington stepped over to the Colonel and spoke to him. The Colonel
gave a little bow and then in a low tone an order.

"We shall wait on the steps," said Waddington as they trooped out. "You
have only to call."

Now that the incredible had overwhelmed her consciousness, like a drug
coursing through her veins, and she realised that Walter was going to
die she had but one thought, and that was to make his end easier for him
by dragging from his soul the rancour which poisoned it. If he could die
at peace with her it seemed to her that he would die at peace with
himself. She thought now not of herself at all but only of him.

"Walter, I beseech you to forgive me," she said, leaning over him. For
fear that he could not bear the pressure she took care not to touch him.
"I'm so desperately sorry for the wrong I did you. I so bitterly regret
it."

He said nothing. He did not seem to hear. She was obliged to insist. It
seemed to her strangely that his soul was a fluttering moth and its
wings were heavy with hatred.

"Darling."

A shadow passed over his wan and sunken face. It was less than a
movement, and yet it gave all the effect of a terrifying convulsion. She
had never used that word to him before. Perhaps in his dying brain there
passed the thought, confused and difficulty grasped, that he had only
heard her use it, a commonplace of her vocabulary, to dogs and babies
and motor-cars. Then something horrible occurred. She clenched her
hands, trying with all her might to control herself, for she saw two
tears run slowly down his wasted cheeks.

"Oh, my precious, my dear, if you ever loved me--I know you loved me and
I was hateful--I beg you to forgive me. I've no chance now to show my
repentance. Have mercy on me. I beseech you to forgive."

She stopped. She looked at him, all breathless, waiting passionately for
a reply. She saw that he tried to speak. Her heart gave a great bound.
It seemed to her that it would be in a manner a reparation for the
suffering she had caused him if at this last moment she could effect his
deliverance from that load of bitterness. His lips moved. He did not
look at her. His eyes stared unseeing at the white-washed wall. She
leaned over him so that she might hear. But he spoke quite clearly.

"The dog it was that died."

She stayed as still as though she were turned to stone. She could not
understand and gazed at him in terrified perplexity. It was meaningless.
Delirium. He had not understood a word she said.

It was impossible to be so still and yet to live. She stared and stared.
His eyes were open. She could not tell if he breathed. She began to grow
frightened.

"Walter," she whispered. "Walter."

At last, suddenly, she raised herself. A sudden fear seized her. She
turned and went to the door.

"Will you come, please. He doesn't seem to . . ."

They stepped in. The little Chinese surgeon went up to the bed. He had
an electric torch in his hand and he lit it and looked at Walter's eyes.
Then he closed them. He said something in Chinese. Waddington put his
arm round Kitty.

"I'm afraid he's dead."

Kitty gave a deep sigh. A few tears fell from her eyes. She felt dazed
rather than overcome. The Chinese stood about, round the bed,
helplessly, as though they did not quite know what to do next.
Waddington was silent. In a minute the Chinese began to speak in a low
tone among themselves.

"You'd better let me take you back to the bungalow," said Waddington.
"He'll be brought there."

Kitty passed her hand wearily across her forehead. She went up to the
pallet bed and leaned over it. She kissed Walter gently on the lips. She
was not crying now.

"I'm sorry to give you so much trouble."

The officers saluted as she passed and she gravely bowed. They walked
back across the courtyard and got into their chairs. She saw Waddington
light a cigarette. A little smoke lost in the air, that was the life of
man.




_lxiv_


Dawn was breaking now, and here and there a Chinaman was taking down the
shutters of his shop. In its dark recesses, by the light of a taper, a
woman was washing her hands and face. In a tea-house at a corner a group
of men were eating an early meal. The grey, cold light of the rising day
sidled along the narrow lanes like a thief. There was a pale mist on the
river and the masts of the crowded junks loomed through it like the
lances of a phantom army. It was chilly as they crossed and Kitty
huddled herself up in her gay and coloured shawl. They walked up the
hill and they were above the mist. The sun shone from an unclouded sky.
It shone as though this were a day like another and nothing had happened
to distinguish it from its fellows.

"Wouldn't you like to lie down?" said Waddington when they entered the
bungalow.

"No. I'll sit at the window."

She had sat at the window so often and so long during the weeks that had
passed and her eyes now were so familiar with the fantastic, garish,
beautiful and mysterious temple on its great bastion that it rested her
spirit. It was so unreal, even in the crude light of midday, that it
withdrew her from the reality of life.

"I'll get the boy to make you some tea. I'm afraid it will be necessary
to bury him this morning. I'll make all arrangements."

"Thank you."




_lxv_


They buried him three hours later. It seemed horrible to Kitty that he
must be put into a Chinese coffin, as though in so strange a bed he must
rest uneasily, but there was no help for it. The nuns, learning of
Walter's death as they learned everything that happened in the city,
sent by a messenger a cross of dahlias, stiff and formal, but made as
though by the accustomed hands of a florist; and the cross, alone on the
Chinese coffin, looked grotesque and out of place. When all was ready
they had to wait for Colonel Yü who had sent to Waddington to say that
he desired to attend the funeral. He came accompanied by an A.D.C. They
walked up the hill, the coffin borne by half a dozen coolies, to a
little plot of land where lay buried the missionary whose place Walter
had taken. Waddington had found among the missionary's effects an
English prayer-book and in a low voice, with an embarrassment that was
unusual to him, read the burial service. Perhaps, reciting those solemn
but terrible words, the thought hovered in his mind that if he in his
turn fell a victim to the pestilence there would be no one now to say
them over him. The coffin was lowered into the grave and the
grave-diggers began to throw in the earth.

Colonel Yü, who had stood with bared head by the grave-side, put on his
hat, saluted Kitty gravely, said a word or two to Waddington and
followed by his A.D.C. walked away. The coolies, curious to watch a
Christian burial, had lingered and now in a straggling group, their
yokes trailing in their hands, sauntered off. Kitty and Waddington
waited till the grave was filled and then placed on the mound, smelling
of fresh earth, the nuns' prim dahlias. She had not wept, but when the
first shovelful of earth rattled on the coffin she felt a dreadful pang
at her heart.

She saw that Waddington was waiting for her to come away.

"Are you in a hurry?" she asked. "I don't want to go back to the
bungalow just yet."

"I have nothing to do. I am entirely in your hands."




_lxvi_


They sauntered along the causeway till they came to the top of the hill
on which stood that archway, the memorial to a virtuous widow, which had
occupied so large a part of Kitty's impression of the place. It was a
symbol, but of what she scarcely knew; she could not tell why it bore a
note of so sardonic irony.

"Shall we sit down a little? We haven't sat here for ages." The plain
was spread before her widely; it was tranquil and serene in the morning
light. "It's only a few weeks that I've been here and it seems a
lifetime."

He did not answer and for a while she allowed her thoughts to wander.
She gave a sigh.

"Do you think that the soul is immortal?" she asked.

He did not seem surprised at the question.

"How should I know?"

"Just now, when they'd washed Walter, before they put him into the
coffin I looked at him. He looked very young. Too young to die. Do you
remember that beggar that we saw the first time you took me for a walk?
I was frightened not because he was dead, but because he looked as
though he'd never been a human being. He was just a dead animal. And now
again, with Walter, it looked so like a machine that has run down.
That's what is so frightening. And if it is only a machine how futile is
all this suffering and the heart pains and the misery."

He did not answer, but his eyes travelled over the landscape at their
feet. The wide expanse on that gay and sunny morning filled the heart
with exultation. The trim little rice fields stretched as far as the eye
could see and in many of them the blue-clad peasants with their
buffaloes were working industriously. It was a peaceful and a happy
scene. Kitty broke the silence.

"I can't tell you how deeply moved I've been by all I've seen at the
convent. They're wonderful, those nuns, they make me feel utterly
worthless. They give up everything, their home, their country, love,
children, freedom; and all the little things which I sometimes think
must be harder still to give up, flowers and green fields, going for a
walk on an autumn day, books and music, comfort, everything they give
up, everything. And they do it so that they may devote themselves to a
life of sacrifice and poverty, obedience, killing work and prayer. To
all of them this world is really and truly a place of exile. Life is a
cross which they willingly bear, but in their hearts all the time is the
desire--oh, it's so much stronger than desire, it's a longing, an eager,
passionate longing for the death which shall lead them to life
everlasting."

Kitty clasped her hands and looked at him with anguish.

"Well?"

"Supposing there is no life everlasting? Think what it means if death is
really the end of all things. They've given up all for nothing. They've
been cheated. They're dupes."

Waddington reflected for a little while.

"I wonder. I wonder if it matters that what they have aimed at is
illusion. Their lives are in themselves beautiful. I have an idea that
the only thing which makes it possible to regard this world we live in
without disgust is the beauty which now and then men create out of the
chaos. The pictures they paint, the music they compose, the books they
write, and the lives they lead. Of all these the richest in beauty is
the beautiful life. That is the perfect work of art."

Kitty sighed. What he said seemed hard. She wanted more.

"Have you ever been to a symphony concert?" he continued.

"Yes," she smiled. "I know nothing of music, but I'm rather fond of it."

"Each member of the orchestra plays his own little instrument, and what
do you think he knows of the complicated harmonies which unroll
themselves on the indifferent air? He is concerned only with his own
small share. But he knows that the symphony is lovely, and though
there's none to hear it, it is lovely still, and he is content to play
his part."

"You spoke of Tao the other day," said Kitty, after a pause. "Tell me
what it is."

Waddington gave her a little look, hesitated an instant, and then with a
faint smile on his comic face answered:

"It is the Way and the Waygoer. It is the eternal road along which walk
all beings, but no being made it, for itself is being. It is everything
and nothing. From it all things spring, all things conform to it, and to
it at last all things return. It is a square without angles, a sound
which ears cannot hear, and an image without form. It is a vast net and
though its meshes are as wide as the sea it lets nothing through. It is
the sanctuary where all things find refuge. It is nowhere, but without
looking out of the window you may see it. Desire not to desire, it
teaches, and leave all things to take their course. He that humbles
himself shall be preserved entire. He that bends shall be made straight.
Failure is the foundation of success and success is the lurking-place of
failure; but who can tell when the turning point will come? He who
strives after tenderness can become even as a little child. Gentleness
brings victory to him who attacks and safety to him who defends. Mighty
is he who conquers himself."

"Does it mean anything?"

"Sometimes, when I've had half a dozen whiskies and look at the stars, I
think perhaps it does."

Silence fell upon them and when it was broken it was again by Kitty.

"Tell me, is: the dog it was that died, a quotation?"

Waddington's lips outlined a smile and he was ready with his answer. But
perhaps at that moment his sensibilities were abnormally acute. Kitty
was not looking at him, but there was something about her expression
which made him change his mind.

"If it is I don't know it," he answered warily. "Why?"

"Nothing. It crossed my mind. It had a familiar ring."

There was another silence.

"When you were alone with your husband," said Waddington presently, "I
had a talk with the regimental surgeon. I thought we ought to have some
details."

"Well?"

"He was in a very hysterical state. I couldn't really quite understand
what he meant. So far as I can make out your husband got infected during
the course of experiments he was making."

"He was always experimenting. He wasn't really a doctor, he was a
bacteriologist; that is why he was so anxious to come here."

"But I can't quite make out from the surgeon's statements whether he was
infected accidentally or whether he was actually experimenting on
himself."

Kitty grew very pale. The suggestion made her shudder. Waddington took
her hand.

"Forgive me for talking about this again," he said gently, "but I
thought it might comfort you--I know how frightfully difficult it is on
these occasions to say anything that is of the least use--I thought it
might mean something to you that Walter died a martyr to science and to
his duty."

Kitty shrugged her shoulders with a suspicion of impatience.

"Walter died of a broken heart," she said.

Waddington did not answer. She turned and looked at him slowly. Her face
was white and set.

"What did he mean by saying: the dog it was that died? What is it?"

"It's the last line of Goldsmith's _Elegy_."




_lxvii_


Next morning Kitty went to the convent. The girl who opened the door
seemed surprised to see her and when Kitty had been for a few minutes
about her work the Mother Superior came in. She went up to Kitty and
took her hand.

"I am glad to see you, my dear child. You show a fine courage in coming
back here so soon after your great sorrow; and wisdom, for I am sure
that a little work will keep you from brooding."

Kitty cast down her eyes, reddening a little; she did not want the
Mother Superior to see into her heart.

"I need not tell you how sincerely all of us here sympathise with you."

"You are very kind," whispered Kitty.

"We all pray for you constantly and for the soul of him you have lost."

Kitty made no reply. The Mother Superior released her hand and in her
cool, authoritative tone imposed various tasks upon her. She patted two
or three children on the head, gave them her aloof, but winning smile,
and went about her more pressing affairs.




_lxviii_


A week went by. Kitty was sewing. The Mother Superior entered the room
and sat down beside her. She gave Kitty's work a shrewd glance.

"You sew very well, my dear. It is a rare accomplishment for young women
of your world nowadays."

"I owe it to my mother."

"I am sure that your mother will be very glad to see you again."

Kitty looked up. There was that in the Mother Superior's manner which
prevented the remark from being taken as a casual politeness. She went
on.

"I allowed you to come here after the death of your dear husband because
I thought occupation would distract your mind. I did not think you were
fit at that moment to take the long journey to Tching-Yen by yourself,
nor did I wish you to sit alone in your house with nothing to do but to
remember your loss. But now eight days have passed. It is time for you
to go."

"I don't want to go, Mother. I want to stay here."

"There is nothing for you to stay for. You came to be with your husband.
You husband is dead. You are in a condition in which you will shortly
need a care and attention which it is impossible for you to get here. It
is your duty, my dear child, to do everything in your power for the
welfare of the being that God has entrusted to your care."

Kitty was silent for a moment. She looked down.

"I was under the impression that I was of some use here. It has been a
great pleasure to me to think that I was. I hoped that you would allow
me to go on with my work till the epidemic had come to an end."

"We are all very grateful for what you have done for us," answered the
Superior, with a slight smile, "but now that the epidemic is waning the
risk of coming here is not so great and I am expecting two sisters from
Canton. They should be here very shortly and when they arrive I do not
think that I shall be able to make any use of your services."

Kitty's heart sank. The Mother Superior's tone admitted of no reply; she
knew her well enough to know that she would be insensible to entreaty.
That she found it necessary to reason with Kitty had brought into her
voice a note, if hardly of irritation, at least of the peremptoriness
which might lead to it.

"Mr. Waddington was good enough to ask my advice."

"I wish he could have minded his own business," interrupted Kitty.

"If he hadn't I should all the same have felt obliged to give it him,"
said the Mother Superior gently. "At the present moment your place is
not here, but with your mother. Mr. Waddington has arranged with Colonel
Yü to give you a strong escort so that you will be perfectly safe on
the journey, and he has arranged for bearers and coolies. The amah will
go with you and arrangements will be made at the cities you pass
through. In fact, everything possible for your comfort has been done."

Kitty's lips tightened. She thought that they might at least have
consulted her in a matter which only concerned herself. She had to
exercise some self-control in order not to answer sharply.

"And when am I to start?"

The Mother Superior remained quite placid.

"The sooner you can get back to Tching-Yen and then sail to England the
better, my dear child. We thought you would like to start at dawn the
day after to-morrow."

"So soon."

Kitty felt a little inclined to cry. But it was true enough; she had no
place there.

"You all seem in a great hurry to be rid of me," she said ruefully.

Kitty was conscious of a relaxation in the Superior's demeanour. She saw
that Kitty was prepared to yield and unconsciously she assumed a more
gracious tone. Kitty's sense of humour was acute and her eyes twinkled
as she reflected that even the saints liked to have their own way.

"Don't think that I fail to appreciate the goodness of your heart, my
dear child, and the admirable charity which makes you unwilling to
abandon your self-imposed duties."

Kitty stared straight in front of her. She faintly shrugged her
shoulders. She knew that she could ascribe to herself no such exalted
virtues. She wanted to stay because she had nowhere else to go. It was a
curious sensation this, that nobody in the world cared two straws
whether she was alive or dead.

"I cannot understand that you should be reluctant to go home," pursued
the Superior amiably. "There are many foreigners in this country who
would give a great deal to have your chance!"

"But not you, Mother?"

"Oh, with us it is different, my dear child. When we come here we know
that we have left our homes for ever."

Out of her own wounded feelings emerged the desire in Kitty's mind,
malicious perhaps, to seek the joint in the armour of faith which
rendered the nuns so aloofly immune to all the natural feelings. She
wanted to see whether there was left in the Superior any of the weakness
of humanity.

"I should have thought that sometimes it was hard never to see again
those that are dear to you and the scenes amid which you were brought
up."

The Mother Superior hesitated for a moment, but Kitty watching her could
see no change in the serenity of her beautiful and austere face.

"It is hard for my mother who is old now, for I am her only daughter and
she would dearly like to see me once more before she dies. I wish I
could give her that joy. But it cannot be and we shall wait till we can
meet in paradise."

"All the same, when one thinks of those to whom one is so dear, it must
be difficult not to ask oneself if one was right in cutting oneself off
from them."

"Are you asking me if I have ever regretted the step I took?" On a
sudden the Mother Superior's face grew radiant. "Never, never. I have
exchanged a life that was trivial and worthless for one of sacrifice and
prayer."

There was a brief silence and then the Mother Superior, assuming a
lighter manner, smiled.

"I am going to ask you to take a little parcel and post it for me when
you get to Marseilles. I do not wish to entrust it to the Chinese
post-office. I will fetch it at once."

"You can give it to me to-morrow," said Kitty.

"You will be too busy to come here to-morrow, my dear. It will be more
convenient for you to bid us farewell to-night."

She rose and with the easy dignity which her voluminous habit could not
conceal left the room. In a moment Sister St. Joseph came in. She was
come to say good-bye. She hoped that Kitty would have a pleasant
journey; she would be quite safe, for Colonel Yü was sending a strong
escort with her; and the sisters constantly did the journey alone and no
harm came to them. And did she like the sea? _Mon Dieu_, how ill she was
when there was a storm in the Indian ocean, _Madame_ her mother would be
pleased to see her daughter, and she must take care of herself; after
all she had another little soul in her care now, and they would all pray
for her; she would pray constantly for her and the dear little baby and
for the soul of the poor, brave doctor. She was voluble, kindly and
affectionate; and yet Kitty was deeply conscious that for Sister St.
Joseph (her gaze intent on eternity) she was but a wraith without body
or substance. She had a wild impulse to seize the stout, good-natured
nun by the shoulders and shake her, crying: "Don't you know that I'm a
human being, unhappy and alone, and I want comfort and sympathy and
encouragement; oh, can't you turn a minute away from God and give me a
little compassion; not the Christian compassion that you have for all
suffering things, but just human compassion for me?" The thought brought
a smile to Kitty's lips: how very surprised Sister St. Joseph would be!
She would certainly be convinced of what now she only suspected, that
all English people were mad.

"Fortunately I am a very good sailor," Kitty answered. "I've never been
sea-sick yet."

The Mother Superior returned with a small, neat parcel.

"They're handkerchiefs that I've had made for the name-day of my
mother," she said. "The initials have been embroidered by our young
girls."

Sister St. Joseph suggested that Kitty would like to see how beautifully
the work was done and the Mother Superior with an indulgent, deprecating
smile untied the parcel. The handkerchiefs were of very fine lawn and
the initials embroidered in a complicated cypher were surmounted by a
crown of strawberry leaves. When Kitty had properly admired the
workmanship the handkerchiefs were wrapped up again and the parcel
handed to her. Sister St. Joseph, with an "_eh bien, Madame, je vous
quitte_" and a repetition of her polite and impersonal salutations, went
away. Kitty realised that this was the moment to take her leave of the
Superior. She thanked her for her kindness to her. They walked together
along the bare, white-washed corridors.

"Would it be asking too much of you to register the parcel when you
arrive at Marseilles?" said the Superior.

"Of course I'll do that," said Kitty.

She glanced at the address. The name seemed very grand, but the place
mentioned attracted her attention.

"But that is one of the _châteaux_ I've seen. I was motoring with
friends in France."

"It is very possible," said the Mother Superior. "Strangers are
permitted to view it on two days a week."

"I think if I had ever lived in such a beautiful place I should never
have had the courage to leave it."

"It is of course a historical monument. It is scarcely intimate. If I
regretted anything it would not be that, but the little _château_ that
we lived in when I was a child. It was in the Pyrenees. I was born
within sound of the sea. I do not deny that sometimes I should like to
hear the waves beating against the rocks."

Kitty had an idea that the Mother Superior, divining her thought and the
reason for her remarks, was slyly making fun of her. But they reached
the little, unpretentious door of the convent. To Kitty's surprise the
Mother Superior took her in her arms and kissed her. The pressure of her
pale lips on Kitty's cheeks, she kissed her first on one side and then
on the other, was so unexpected that it made her flush and inclined to
cry.

"Good-bye, God bless you, my dear child." She held her for a moment in
her arms. "Remember that it is nothing to do your duty, that is demanded
of you and is no more meritorious than to wash your hands when they are
dirty; the only thing that counts is the love of duty; when love and
duty are one, then grace is in you and you will enjoy a happiness which
passes all understanding."

The convent door closed for the last time behind her.




_lxix_


Waddington walked with Kitty up the hill and they turned aside for a
moment to look at Walter's grave; at the memorial arch he said good-bye
to her, and looking at it for the last time she felt that she could
reply to the enigmatic irony of its appearance with an equal irony of
her own. She stepped into her chair.

One day passed after the other. The sights of the wayside served as a
background to her thoughts. She saw them as it were in duplicate,
rounded as though in a stereoscope, with an added significance because
to everything she saw was added the recollection of what she had seen
when but a few short weeks before she had taken the same journey in the
contrary direction. The coolies with their loads straggled disorderly,
two or three together, and then a hundred yards behind one by himself,
and then two or three more; the soldiers of the escort shuffled along
with a clumsy walk that covered five and twenty miles a day; the amah
was carried by two bearers and Kitty, not because she was heavier, but
for face's sake, by four. Now and then they met a string of coolies
lolloping by in line with their heavy burdens, now and then a Chinese
official in a sedan who looked at the white woman with inquisitive eyes;
now they came across peasants in faded blue and huge hats on their way
to market and now a woman, old or young, tottering along on her bound
feet. They passed up and down little hills laid out with trim rice
fields and farm-houses nestling cosily in a grove of bamboos; they
passed through ragged villages and populous cities walled like the
cities in a missal. The sun of the early autumn was pleasant, and if at
daybreak, when the shimmering dawn lent the neat fields the enchantment
of a fairy tale, it was cold, the warmth later was very grateful. Kitty
was filled by it with a sense of beatitude which she made no effort to
resist.

The vivid scenes with their elegant colour, their unexpected
distinction, and their strangeness, were like an arras before which,
like mysterious, shadowy shapes, played the phantoms of Kitty's fancy.
They seemed wholly unreal. Mei-tan-fu with its crenellated walls was
like the painted canvas placed on the stage in an old play to represent
a city. The nuns, Waddington and the Manchu woman who loved him, were
fantastic characters in a masque; and the rest, the people sidling along
the tortuous streets and those who died, were nameless supers. Of course
it had, they all had, a significance of some sort, but what was it? It
was as though they performed a ritual dance, elaborate and ancient, and
you knew that those complicated measures had a meaning which it was
important for you to know; and yet you could see no clue, no clue.

It seemed incredible to Kitty (an old woman was passing along the
causeway, in blue, and the blue in the sunshine was like lapis lazuli;
her face with its thousand little wrinkles was like a mask of old ivory;
and she leaned, as she walked on her tiny feet, on a long black staff),
it seemed incredible to Kitty that she and Walter had taken part in that
strange and unreal dance. They had played important parts too. She might
easily have lost her life: he had. Was it a joke? Perhaps it was nothing
but a dream from which she would suddenly awake with a sigh of relief.
It seemed to have taken place a long time ago and in a far-off place. It
was singular how shadowy the persons of that play seemed against the
sunny background of real life. And now it seemed to Kitty like a story
that she was reading; it was a little startling that it seemed to
concern her so little. She found already that she could not recall with
distinctness Waddington's face which had been so familiar to her.

This evening they should reach the city on the Western River from which
she was to take the steamer. Thence it was but a night's run to
Tching-Yen.




_lxx_


At first because she had not wept when Walter died she was ashamed. It
seemed dreadfully callous. Why, the eyes of the Chinese officer, Colonel
Yü, had been wet with tears. She was dazed by her husband's death. It
was difficult to understand that he would not come into the bungalow
again and that when he got up in the morning she would not hear him take
his bath, in the Suchow tub. He was alive and now he was dead. The
sisters wondered at her Christian resignation and admired the courage
with which she bore her loss. But Waddington was shrewd; for all his
grave sympathy she had a feeling that--how should she put it?--that he
had his tongue in his cheek. Of course, Walter's death had been a shock
to her. She didn't want him to die. But after all she didn't love him,
she had never loved him; it was decent to bear herself with becoming
sorrow; it would be ugly and vulgar even to let anyone see into her
heart; but she had gone through too much to make pretences to herself.
It seemed to her that this at least the last few weeks had taught her,
that if it is necessary sometimes to lie to others it is always
despicable to lie to oneself. She was sorry that Walter had died in that
tragic manner, but she was sorry with a purely human sorrow such as she
might have felt if it had been an acquaintance. She would acknowledge
that Walter had admirable qualities; it just happened that she did not
like him; he had always bored her. She would not admit that his death
was a relief to her, she could say honestly that if by a word of hers
she could bring him back to life she would say it, but she could not
resist the feeling that his death made her way to some extent a trifle
easier. They would never have been happy together and yet to part would
have been terribly difficult. She was startled at herself for feeling as
she did; she supposed that people would think her heartless and cruel if
they knew. Well, they shouldn't know. She wondered if all her fellows
had in their hearts shameful secrets which they spent their time
guarding from curious glances.

She looked very little into the future and she made no plans. The only
thing she knew was that she wanted to stay in Tching-Yen as short a
while as might be. She looked forward to arriving there with horror. It
seemed to her that she would like to wander for ever through that
smiling and friendly country in her rattan chair, and, an indifferent
spectator for ever of the phantasmagoria of life, pass each night under
a different roof. But of course the immediate future must be faced: she
would go to the hotel when she reached Tching-Yen, she would arrange
about getting rid of the house and selling the furniture; there would be
no need to see Townsend. He would have the grace to keep out of her way.
She would like, all the same, to see him once more in order to tell him
what a despicable creature she thought him.

But what did Charles Townsend matter?

Like a rich melody on a harp that rang in exultant arpeggios through the
complicated harmonies of a symphony, one thought beat in her heart
insistently. It was this thought which gave their exotic beauty to the
rice fields, which made a little smile break on her pale lips as a
smooth-faced lad swung past her on his way to the market town with
exultation in his carriage and audacity in his eyes, and which gave the
magic of a tumultuous life to the cities she passed through. The city of
the pestilence was a prison from which she was escaped, and she had
never known before how exquisite was the blueness of the sky and what a
joy there was in the bamboo copses that leaned with such an adorable
grace across the causeway. Freedom! That was the thought that sung in
her heart so that even though the future was so dim, it was iridescent
like the mist over the river where the morning sun fell upon it.
Freedom! Not only freedom from a bond that irked, and a companionship
which depressed her; freedom, not only from the death which had
threatened, but freedom from the love that had degraded her; freedom
from all spiritual ties, the freedom of a disembodied spirit; and with
freedom, courage and a valiant unconcern for whatever was to come.




_lxxi_


When the boat docked at Tching-Yen Kitty, who had been standing on deck
to look at the coloured, gay and vivacious traffic of the river, went
into her cabin to see that the amah had left nothing behind. She gave
herself a look in the glass. She wore black, the nuns had dyed a dress
for her, but not mourning; and the thought crossed her mind that the
first thing she must do was to see to this. The habiliments of woe could
not but serve as an effective disguise to her unexpected feelings. There
was a knock on her cabin door. The amah opened it.

"Mrs. Fane."

Kitty turned round and saw a face which at the first moment she did not
recognise. Then her heart gave a sudden quick beat and she flushed. It
was Dorothy Townsend. Kitty so little expected to see her that she knew
neither what to do nor what to say. But Mrs. Townsend came into the
cabin and with an impulsive gesture took Kitty in her arms.

"Oh, my dear, my dear, I'm so dreadfully sorry for you."

Kitty allowed herself to be kissed. She was a little surprised at this
effusiveness in a woman whom she had always thought cold and distant.

"It's very kind of you," murmured Kitty.

"Come on deck. The amah will look after your things and my boys are
here."

She took Kitty's hand and Kitty, allowing herself to be led, noticed
that her good-natured, weather-beaten face bore an expression of real
concern.

"Your boat's early, I very nearly didn't get down in time," said Mrs.
Townsend. "I couldn't have borne it if I'd missed you."

"But you didn't come to meet me?" exclaimed Kitty.

"Of course I did."

"But how did you know I was coming?"

"Mr. Waddington sent me a telegram."

Kitty turned away. She had a lump in her throat. It was funny that a
little unexpected kindness should so affect her. She did not want to
cry; she wished Dorothy Townsend would go away. But Dorothy took the
hand that was hanging by Kitty's side and pressed it. It embarrassed
Kitty that this shy woman should be so demonstrative.

"I want you to do me a great favour. Charlie and I want you to come and
stay with us while you're in Tching-Yen."

Kitty snatched her hand away.

"It's awfully kind of you. I couldn't possibly."

"But you must. You can't go and live all by yourself in your own house.
It would be dreadful for you. I've prepared everything. You shall have
your own sitting-room. You can have your meals there if you don't care
to have them with us. We both want you to come."

"I wasn't thinking of going to the house. I was going to get myself a
room at the Tching-Yen Hotel. I couldn't possibly put you to so much
trouble."

The suggestion had taken her by surprise. She was confused and vexed. If
Charlie had had any sense of decency he would never have allowed his
wife to make the invitation. She did not wish to be under an obligation
to either of them.

"Oh, but I couldn't bear the idea of your living at a hotel. And you'd
hate the Tching-Yen Hotel just now. With all those people about and the
band playing jazz all the time. Please say you'll come to us. I promise
you that Charlie and I won't bother you."

"I don't know why you should be so kind to me." Kitty was getting a
little short of excuses; she could not bring herself to utter a blunt
and definite no. "I'm afraid I'm not very good company among strangers
just now."

"But need we be strangers to you? Oh, I do so want not to be, I so want
you to allow me to be your friend." Dorothy clasped her hands and her
voice, her cool, deliberate and distinguished voice, was tremulous with
tears. "I so awfully want you to come. You see, I want to make amends to
you."

Kitty did not understand. She did not know what amends Charlie's wife
owed her.

"I'm afraid I didn't very much like you at first. I thought you rather
fast. You see, I'm old-fashioned and I suppose I'm intolerant."

Kitty gave her a passing glance. What she meant was that at first she
had thought Kitty vulgar. Though Kitty allowed no shadow of it to show
on her face in her heart she laughed. Much she cared for what any one
thought of her now!

"And when I heard that you'd gone with your husband into the jaws of
death, without a moment's hesitation, I felt such a frightful cad. I
felt so humiliated. You've been so wonderful, you've been so brave, you
make all the rest of us look so dreadfully cheap and second-rate." Now
the tears were pouring down her kind, homely face. "I can't tell you how
much I admire you and what a respect I have for you. I know I can do
nothing to make up for your terrible loss, but I want you to know how
deeply, how sincerely I feel for you. And if you'll only allow me to do
a little something for you it will be a privilege. Don't bear me a
grudge because I misjudged you. You're heroic and I'm just a silly fool
of a woman."

Kitty looked down at the deck. She was very pale. She wished that
Dorothy would not show such uncontrollable emotion. She was touched, it
was true, but she could not help a slight feeling of impatience that
this simple creature should believe such lies.

"If you really mean that you'd like to have me, of course I shall be
glad to come," she sighed.




_lxxii_


The Townsends lived on the Mount in a house with a wide view over the
sea, and Charlie did not as a rule come up to luncheon, but on the day
of Kitty's arrival Dorothy (they were Kitty and Dorothy to one another
by now) told her that if she felt up to seeing him he would like to come
and bid her welcome. Kitty reflected that since she must see him she
might just as well see him at once and she looked forward with grim
amusement to the embarrassment she must cause him. She saw very well
that the invitation to stay had arisen in his wife's fancy and
notwithstanding his own feelings he had immediately approved. Kitty knew
how great his desire was always to do the right thing and to offer her a
gracious hospitality was obviously very much the right thing. But he
could hardly remember that last interview of theirs without
mortification: to a man so vain as Townsend it must be galling like an
ulcer that would not heal. She hoped that she had hurt him as much as he
had hurt her. He must hate her now. She was glad to think that she did
not hate, but only despised him. It gave her a sardonic satisfaction to
reflect that whatever his feelings he would be obliged to make much of
her. When she left his office that afternoon he must have hoped with all
his heart that he would never set eyes on her again.

And now, sitting with Dorothy, she waited for him to come in. She was
conscious of her delight in the sober luxury of the drawing-room. She
sat in an armchair, there were lovely flowers here and there, on the
walls were pleasing pictures; the room was shaded and cool, it was
friendly and homelike. She remembered with a faint shudder the bare and
empty parlour of the missionary's bungalow; the rattan chairs and the
kitchen-table with its cotton cloth, the stained shelves with all those
cheap editions of novels, and the little skimpy red curtains that had
such a dusty look. Oh, it had been so uncomfortable! She supposed that
Dorothy had never thought of that.

They heard a motor drive up, and Charlie strode into the room.

"Am I late? I hope I haven't kept you waiting. I had to see the Governor
and I simply couldn't get away."

He went up to Kitty, and took both her hands.

"I'm so very, very glad you've come here. I know Dorothy has told you
that we want you to stay as long as ever you like and that we want you
to look upon our house as your home. But I want to tell you so myself as
well. If there's anything in the world I can do for you I shall only be
too happy." His eyes wore a charming expression of sincerity; she
wondered if he saw the irony in hers. "I'm awfully stupid at saying some
things and I don't want to seem a clumsy fool, but I do want you to know
how deeply I sympathise with you in your husband's death. He was a
thundering good chap, and he'll be missed here more than I can say."

"Don't, Charlie," said his wife. "I'm sure Kitty understands. . . . Here
are the cocktails."

Following the luxurious custom of the foreigners in China two boys in
uniform came into the room with savouries and cocktails. Kitty refused.

"Oh, you must have one," insisted Townsend in his breezy, cordial way.
"It'll do you good and I'm sure you haven't had such a thing as a
cocktail since you left Tching-Yen. Unless I'm very much mistaken you
couldn't get ice at Mei-tan-fu."

"You're not mistaken," said Kitty.

For a moment she had a picture before her mind's eye of that beggar with
the tousled head in the blue rags through which you saw the emaciated
limbs, who had lain dead against the compound wall.




_lxxiii_


They went in to luncheon. Charlie, sitting at the head of his table,
easily took charge of the conversation. After those first few words of
sympathy he treated Kitty, not as though she had just suffered a
devastating experience, but rather as though she had come in from
Shanghai for a change after an operation for appendicitis. She needed
cheering and he was prepared to cheer her. The best way of making her
feel at home was to treat her as one of the family. He was a tactful
man. He began talking of the autumn race meeting, and the polo--by Jove,
he would have to give up playing polo if he couldn't get his weight
down--and a chat he had had that morning with the Governor. He spoke of
a party they had been to on the Admiral's flag-ship, the state of
affairs in Canton, and of the links at Lushan. In a few minutes Kitty
felt that she might have been away for no longer than a week-end. It was
incredible that over there, up-country, six hundred miles away only (the
distance from London to Edinburgh, wasn't it?) men, women and children
had been dying like flies. Soon she found herself asking about so and so
who had broken a collar-bone at polo and if Mrs. This had gone home or
Mrs. That was playing in the tennis tournament. Charlie made his little
jokes and she smiled at them. Dorothy with her faint air of superiority
(which now included Kitty and so was no longer slightly offensive, but a
bond of union rather) was gently ironic about various persons in the
colony. Kitty began to feel more alert.

"Why, she's looking better already," said Charlie to his wife. "She was
so pale before tiffin that I was quite startled; she's really got some
colour in her cheeks now."

But while she took her part in the conversation, if not with gaiety (for
she felt that neither Dorothy nor Charlie with his admirable sense of
decorum would approve of that) at least with cheerfulness, Kitty
observed her host. In all those weeks during which her fancy had been
revengefully occupied with him she had built up in her mind a very vivid
impression of him. His thick curling hair was a little too long and too
carefully brushed, in order to hide the fact that it was greying there
was too much oil on it; his face was too red, with its network of mauve
veins on the cheeks, and his jowl was too massive: when he did not hold
his head up to hide it you saw that he had a double chin; and there was
something apelike in those bushy grizzled eyebrows of his that vaguely
disgusted her. He was heavy in his movements, and all the care he took
in his diet and all his exercise did not prevent him from being fat; his
bones were much too well covered and his joints had a middle-aged
stiffness. His smart clothes were a little tight for him and a little
too young.

But when he came into the drawing-room before luncheon Kitty received
quite a shock (this perhaps was why her pallor had been so marked), for
she discovered that her imagination had played an odd trick on her: he
did not in the least look as she had pictured him. She could hardly help
laughing at herself. His hair was not grey at all, oh, there were a few
white hairs on the temple but they were becoming; and his face was not
red, but sunburned; his head was very well placed on his neck; and he
wasn't stout and he wasn't old: in fact he was almost slim and his
figure was admirable--could you blame him if he was a trifle vain of
it?--he might have been a young man. And of course he did know how to
wear his clothes; it was absurd to deny that: he looked neat and clean
and trim. Whatever could have possessed her to think him this and that?
He was a very handsome man. It was lucky that she knew how worthless he
was. Of course she had always admitted that his voice had a winning
quality, and his voice was exactly as she remembered it: it made the
falseness of every word he said more exasperating; its richness of tone
and its warmth rang now in her ears with insincerity and she wondered
how she could ever have been taken in by it. His eyes were beautiful:
that was where his charm lay, they had such a soft, blue brilliance and
even when he was talking balderdash an expression which was so
delightful; it was almost impossible not to be moved by them.

At last the coffee was brought in and Charlie lit his cheroot. He looked
at his watch and rose from the table.

"Well, I must leave you two young women to your own devices. It's time
for me to get back to the office." He paused and then with his friendly,
charming eyes on Kitty said to her: "I'm not going to bother you for a
day or two till you're rested, but then I want to have a little business
talk with you."

"With me?"

"We must make arrangements about your house, you know, and then there's
the furniture."

"Oh, but I can go to a lawyer. There's no reason why I should bother you
about that."

"Don't think for a moment I'm going to let you waste your money on legal
expenses. I'm going to see to everything. You know you're entitled to a
pension: I'm going to talk to H. E. about it and see if by making
representations in the proper quarter we can't get something extra for
you. You put yourself in my hands. But don't bother about anything just
yet. All we want you to do now is to get fit and well: isn't that right,
Dorothy?"

"Of course."

He gave Kitty a little nod and then passing by his wife's chair took her
hand and kissed it. Most Englishmen look a little foolish when they kiss
a woman's hand; he did it with a graceful ease.




_lxxiv_


It was not till Kitty was fairly settled at the Townsends' that she
discovered that she was weary. The comfort and the unaccustomed amenity
of this life broke up the strain under which she had been living. She
had forgotten how pleasant it was to take one's ease, how lulling to be
surrounded by pretty things, and how agreeable it was to receive
attention. She sank back, with a sigh of relief into the facile
existence of the luxurious East. It was not displeasing to feel that in
a discreet and well-bred fashion she was an object of sympathetic
interest. Her bereavement was so recent that it was impossible for
entertainments to be given for her, but ladies of consequence in the
Colony (His Excellency's wife, the wives of the Admiral and of the Chief
Justice) came to drink a quiet cup of tea with her. His Excellency's
wife said that His Excellency was most anxious to see her and if she
would come very quietly to luncheon at Government House ("not a party,
of course, only ourselves and the A.D.C.'s!"), it would be very nice.
These ladies used Kitty as though she were a piece of porcelain which
was as fragile as it was precious. She could not fail to see that they
looked upon her as a little heroine, and she had sufficient humour to
play the part with modesty and discretion. She wished sometimes that
Waddington were there; with his malicious shrewdness he would have seen
the fun of the situation; and when alone they might have had a good
laugh over it together. Dorothy had had a letter from him, and he had
said all manner of things about her devoted work at the convent, about
her courage and her self-control. Of course he was skilfully pulling
their legs: the dirty dog.




_lxxv_


Kitty did not know whether it was by chance or by design that she never
found herself for a moment alone with Charlie. His tact was exquisite.
He remained kindly, sympathetic, pleasant and amiable. No one could have
guessed that they had ever been more than acquaintances. But one
afternoon when she was lying on a sofa outside her room reading he
passed along the verandah and stopped.

"What is that you're reading?" he asked.

"A book."

She looked at him with irony. He smiled.

"Dorothy's gone to a garden-party at Government House."

"I know. Why haven't you gone too?"

"I didn't feel I could face it and I thought I'd come back and keep you
company. The car's outside, would you like to come for a drive round the
island?"

"No, thank you."

He sat down on the foot of the sofa on which she lay.

"We haven't had the chance of a talk by ourselves since you got here."

She looked straight into his eyes with cool insolence.

"Do you think we have anything to say to one another?"

"Volumes."

She shifted her feet a little so that she should not touch him.

"Are you still angry with me?" he asked, the shadow of a smile on his
lips and his eyes melting.

"Not a bit," she laughed.

"I don't think you'd laugh if you weren't."

"You're mistaken; I despise you much too much to be angry with you."

He was unruffled.

"I think you're rather hard on me. Looking back calmly, don't you
honestly think I was right?"

"From your standpoint."

"Now that you know Dorothy, you must admit she's rather nice?"

"Of course. I shall always be grateful for her great kindness to me."

"She's one in a thousand. I should never have had a moment's peace if
we'd bolted. It would have been a rotten trick to play on her. And after
all I had to think of my children; it would have been an awful handicap
for them."

For a minute she held him in her reflective gaze. She felt completely
mistress of the situation.

"I've watched you very carefully during the week I've been here. I've
come to the conclusion that you really are fond of Dorothy. I should
never have thought you capable of it."

"I told you I was fond of her. I wouldn't do anything to cause her a
moment's uneasiness. She's the best wife a man ever had."

"Have you never thought that you owed her any loyalty?"

"What the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve for," he smiled.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"You're despicable."

"I'm human. I don't know why you should think me such a cad because I
fell head over ears in love with you. I didn't particularly want to, you
know."

It gave her a little twist of the heart-strings to hear him say that.

"I was fair game," she answered bitterly.

"Naturally I couldn't foresee that we were going to get into such a
devil of a scrape."

"And in any case you had a pretty shrewd idea that if anyone suffered it
wouldn't be you."

"I think that's a bit thick. After all, now it's all over, you must see
I acted for the best for both of us. You lost your head and you ought to
be jolly glad that I kept mine. Do you think it would have been a
success if I'd done what you wanted me to? We were dashed uncomfortable
in the frying-pan, but we should have been a damned sight worse off in
the fire. And you haven't come to any harm. Why can't we kiss and make
friends?"

She almost laughed.

"You can hardly expect me to forget that you sent me to almost certain
death without a shadow of compunction?"

"Oh, what nonsense! I told you there was no risk if you took reasonable
precautions. Do you think I'd have let you go for a moment if I hadn't
been perfectly convinced of that?"

"You were convinced because you wanted to be. You're one of those
cowards who only think what it's profitable for them to think."

"Well, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. You have come back,
and if you don't mind my saying anything so objectionable you've come
back prettier than ever."

"And Walter?"

He could not resist the facetious answer which came to his mind. Charlie
smiled.

"Nothing suits you so well as black."

She stared at him for a moment. Tears filled her eyes and she began to
cry. Her beautiful face was distorted with grief. She did not seek to
hide it, but lay on her back with her hands along her sides.

"For God's sake don't cry like that. I didn't mean to say anything
unkind. It was only a joke. You know how sincerely I feel for you in
your bereavement."

"Oh, hold your stupid tongue."

"I'd give anything to have Walter back again."

"He died because of you and me."

He took her hand, but she snatched it away from him.

"Please go away," she sobbed. "That's the only thing you can do for me
now. I hate and despise you. Walter was worth ten of you and I was too
big a fool to see it. Go away. Go away."

She saw he was going to speak again and she sprang to her feet and went
into her room. He followed her, and as he entered, with instinctive
prudence, drew the shutter so that they were almost in darkness.

"I can't leave you like this," he said, putting his arms round her. "You
know I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Don't touch me. For God's sake go. Go away."

She tried to tear herself from him, but he would not let her. She was
crying hysterically now.

"Darling, don't you know that I've always loved you," he said in his
deep, charming voice. "I love you more than ever."

"How can you tell such lies! Let me go. Damn you, let me go."

"Don't be unkind to me, Kitty. I know I've been a brute to you, but
forgive me."

She was shaking and sobbing, struggling to get away from him, but the
pressure of his arms was strangely comforting. She had so longed to feel
them round her once more, just once, and all her body trembled. She felt
dreadfully weak. It seemed as though her bones were melting, and the
sorrow she felt for Walter shifted into pity for herself.

"Oh, how could you be so unkind to me?" she sobbed. "Don't you know that
I loved you with all my heart. No one has ever loved you as I loved
you."

"Darling."

He began to kiss her.

"No, no," she cried.

He sought her face, but she turned it away; he sought her lips; she did
not know what he was saying, broken, passionate words of love; and his
arms held her so firmly that she felt like a child that has been lost
and now at last is safe at home. She moaned faintly. Her eyes were
closed and her face was wet with tears. And then he found her lips and
the pressure of his upon them shot through her body like the flame of
God. It was an ecstasy and she was burnt to a cinder and she glowed as
though she were transfigured. In her dreams, in her dreams she had known
this rapture. What was he doing with her now? She did not know. She was
not a woman, her personality was dissolved, she was nothing but desire.
He lifted her off her feet, she was very light in his arms, he carried
her and she clung to him, desperate and adoring; her head sank on the
pillow and his lips clung to hers.




_lxxvi_


She sat on the edge of the bed hiding her face with her hands.

"Would you like a drop of water?"

She shook her head. He went over to the washing stand, filled the
tooth-glass and brought it to her.

"Come along, have a little drink and you'll feel better."

He put the glass to her lips and she sipped the water. Then, with
horrified eyes, she stared at him. He was standing over her, looking
down, and in his eyes was a twinkle of self-satisfaction.

"Well, do you think I'm such a dirty dog as you did?" he asked.

She looked down.

"Yes. But I know that I'm not a bit better than you. Oh, I'm so
ashamed."

"Well, I think you're very ungrateful."

"Will you go now?"

"To tell you the truth I think it's about time. I'll just go and tidy
myself up before Dorothy comes in."

He went out of the room with a jaunty step.

Kitty sat for a while, still on the edge of the bed, hunched up like an
imbecile. Her mind was vacant. A shudder passed through her. She
staggered to her feet and, going to the dressing-table, sank into a
chair. She stared at herself in the glass. Her eyes were swollen with
tears; her face was stained and there was a red mark on one cheek where
his had rested. She looked at herself with horror. It was the same face.
She had expected in it she knew not what change of degradation.

"Swine," she flung at her reflection. "Swine."

Then, letting her face fall on her arms, she wept bitterly. Shame,
shame! She did not know what had come over her. It was horrible. She
hated him and she hated herself. It had been ecstasy. Oh, hateful! She
could never look him in the face again. He was so justified. He had been
right not to marry her, for she was worthless; she was no better than a
harlot. Oh, worse, for those poor women gave themselves for bread. And
in this house too into which Dorothy had taken her in her sorrow and
cruel desolation! Her shoulders shook with her sobs. Everything was gone
now. She had thought herself changed, she had thought herself strong,
she thought she had returned to Tching-Yen a woman who possessed
herself; new ideas flitted about her heart like little yellow
butterflies in the sunshine and she had hoped to be so much better in
the future; freedom like a spirit of light had beckoned her on, and the
world was like a spacious plain through which she could walk light of
foot and with head erect. She had thought herself free from lust and
vile passions, free to live the clean and healthy life of the spirit;
she had likened herself to the white egrets that fly with leisurely
flight across the rice fields at dusk and they are like the soaring
thoughts of a mind at rest with itself; and she was a slave. Weak, weak!
It was hopeless, it was no good to try, she was a slut.

She would not go in to dinner. She sent the boy to tell Dorothy that she
had a headache and preferred to remain in her room. Dorothy came in and,
seeing her red, swollen eyes, talked for a little in her gentle,
commiserating way of trivial things. Kitty knew that Dorothy thought she
had been crying on account of Walter and, sympathising like the good and
loving wife she was, respected the natural sorrow.

"I know it's very hard, dear," she said as she left Kitty. "But you must
try to have courage. I'm sure your dear husband wouldn't wish you to
grieve for him."




_lxxvii_


But next morning Kitty rose early and leaving a note for Dorothy to say
that she was gone out on business took a tram down the hill. She made
her way through the crowded streets with their motor cars, rickshaws and
chairs, and the motley throng of Europeans and Chinese, to the offices
of the P. & O. Company. A ship was sailing in two days, the first ship
out of the port, and she had made up her mind that at all costs she must
go on it. When the clerk told her that every berth was booked she asked
to see the chief agent. She sent in her name and the agent, whom she had
met before, came out to fetch her into his office. He knew her
circumstances and when she told him what she wished he sent for the
passenger list. He looked at it with perplexity.

"I beseech you to do what you can for me," she urged him.

"I don't think there's any one in the Colony who wouldn't do anything in
the world for you, Mrs. Fane," he answered.

He sent for a clerk and made enquiries. Then he nodded.

"I'm going to shift one or two people. I know you want to get home and I
think we ought to do our best for you. I can give you a little cabin to
yourself. I expect you'd prefer that."

She thanked him. She left him with an elated heart. Flight: that was her
only thought. Flight! She sent a cable to her father to announce her
immediate return; she had already cabled to him to say that Walter was
dead; and then went back again to the Townsends' to tell Dorothy what she
had done.

"We shall be dreadfully sorry to lose you," the kind creature said, "but
of course I understand that you want to be with your mother and father."

Since her return to Tching-Yen Kitty had hesitated from day to day to go
to her house. She dreaded entering it again and meeting face to face the
recollections with which it was peopled. But now she had no alternative.
Townsend had arranged for the sale of the furniture and he had found
some one eager to take on the lease, but there were all her clothes and
Walter's, for they had taken next to nothing to Mei-tan-fu, and there
were books, photographs, and various odds and ends. Kitty, indifferent
to everything and anxious to cut herself off completely from the past,
realised that it would outrage the susceptibilities of the Colony if she
allowed these things to go with the rest to an auction-room. They must
be packed and sent to her. So after tiffin she prepared to go to the
house. Dorothy, eager to give her help, offered to accompany her, but
Kitty begged to be allowed to go alone. She agreed that two of Dorothy's
boys should come and assist in the packing.

The house had been left in charge of the head boy and he opened the door
for Kitty. It was curious to go into her own house as though she were a
stranger. It was neat and clean. Everything was in its place, ready for
her use, but although the day was warm and sunny there was about the
silent rooms a chill and desolate air. The furniture was stiffly
arranged, exactly where it should be, and the vases which should have
held flowers were in their places; the book which Kitty had laid face
downwards she did not remember when still lay face downwards. It was as
though the house had been left empty but a minute before and yet that
minute was fraught with eternity so that you could not imagine that ever
again that house would echo with talk and resound with laughter. On the
piano the open music of a foxtrot seemed to wait to be played, but you
had a feeling that if you struck the keys no sound would come. Walter's
room was as tidy as when he was there. On the chest of drawers were two
large photographs of Kitty, one in her presentation dress and one in her
wedding-gown.

But the boys fetched up the trunks from the box-room and she stood over
them watching them pack. They packed neatly and quickly. Kitty reflected
that in the two days she had it would be easy to get everything done.
She must not let herself think; she had no time for that. Suddenly she
heard a step behind her and turning round saw Charles Townsend. She felt
a sudden chill at her heart.

"What do you want?" she said.

"Will you come into your sitting-room? I have something to say to you."

"I'm very busy."

"I shall only keep you five minutes."

She said no more, but with a word to the boys to go on with what they
were doing, preceded Charles into the next room. She did not sit down,
in order to show him that she expected him not to detain her. She knew
that she was very pale and her heart was beating fast, but she faced him
coolly, with hostile eyes.

"What is it you want?"

"I've just heard from Dorothy that you're going the day after to-morrow.
She told me that you'd come here to do your packing and she asked me to
ring up and find out if there was anything I could do for you."

"I'm grateful to you, but I can manage quite well by myself."

"So I imagined. I didn't come here to ask you that. I came to ask if
your sudden departure is due to what happened yesterday."

"You and Dorothy have been very good to me. I didn't wish you to think I
was taking advantage of your good nature."

"That's not a very straight answer."

"What does it matter to you?"

"It matters a great deal. I shouldn't like to think that anything I'd
done had driven you away."

She was standing at the table. She looked down. Her eyes fell on the
_Sketch_. It was months old now. It was that paper which Walter had
stared at all through the terrible evening when--and Walter now
was. . . . She raised her eyes.

"I feel absolutely degraded. You can't possibly despise me as much as I
despise myself."

"But I don't despise you. I meant every word that I said yesterday.
What's the good of running away like this? I don't know why we can't be
good friends. I hate the idea of your thinking I've treated you badly."

"Why couldn't you leave me alone?"

"Hang it all, I'm not a stick or a stone. It's so unreasonable, the way
you look at it; it's so morbid. I thought after yesterday you'd feel a
little more kindly to me. After all, we're only human."

"I don't feel human. I feel like an animal. A pig or a rabbit or a dog.
Oh, I don't blame you, I was just as bad. I yielded to you because I
wanted you. But it wasn't me, it wasn't the real me. I'm not that
hateful, beastly, lustful woman. I disown her. It wasn't me that lay on
that bed panting for you when my husband was hardly cold in his grave
and your wife had been so kind to me, so indescribably kind. It was only
the animal in me, dark and fearful like an evil spirit, and I disown,
and hate, and despise it. And ever since, when I've thought of it, my
gorge rises and I feel that I must vomit."

He frowned a little and gave a short, uneasy snigger.

"Well, I'm fairly broadminded, but sometimes you say things that
positively shock me."

"I should be sorry to do that. You'd better go now. You're a very
unimportant little man and I'm silly to talk to you seriously."

He did not answer for a while and she saw by the shadow in his blue eyes
that he was angry with her. He would heave a sigh of relief when,
tactful and courteous as ever, he had finally seen her off. It amused
her to think of the politeness with which, while they shook hands and he
wished her a pleasant journey, she would thank him for his hospitality.
But she saw his expression change.

"Dorothy tells me you're going to have a baby," he said.

She felt herself colour, but she allowed no gesture to escape her.

"I am."

"Am I by any chance the father?"

"No, no. It's Walter's child."

She spoke with an emphasis which she could not prevent, but even as she
spoke she knew that it was not the tone with which to carry conviction.

"Are you quite sure?" He was now roguishly smiling. "After all, you were
married to Walter a couple of years and nothing happened. The dates seem
to fit all right. I think it's much more likely to be mine than
Walter's."

"I would rather kill myself than have a child of yours."

"Oh, come now, that's nonsense. I should be awfully pleased and proud.
I'd like it to be a girl, you know. I've only had boys with Dorothy. You
won't be able to be in doubt very long, you know: my three kiddies are
absolutely the living image of me."

He had regained his good humour and she knew why. If the child was his,
though she might never see him again, she could never entirely escape
him. His power over her would reach out and he would still, obscurely
but definitely, influence every day of her life.

"You really are the most vain and fatuous ass that it's ever been my bad
luck to run across," she said.




_lxxviii_


As the ship steamed into Marseilles Kitty, looking at the rugged and
beautiful outline of the coast glowing in the sunlight, on a sudden
caught sight of the golden statue of the Blessed Virgin which stands
upon the church of Sainte Marie de la Grace as a symbol of safety to the
mariner at sea. She remembered how the Sisters of the convent at
Mei-tan-fu, leaving their own land for ever, had knelt as the figure
faded in the distance so that it was no more than a little golden flame
in the blue sky and sought in prayer to allay the pang of separation.
She clasped her hands in supplication to what power she knew not.

During the long, quiet journey she had thought incessantly of the
horrible thing that had happened to her. She could not understand
herself. It was so unexpected. What was it that had seized her, so that,
despising him, despising him with all her heart, she had yielded
passionately to Charlie's foul embrace? Rage filled her and disgust of
herself obsessed her. She felt that she could never forget her
humiliation. She wept. But as the distance from Tching-Yen increased she
found that she was insensibly losing the vividness of her resentment.
What had happened seemed to have happened in another world. She was like
a person who has been stricken with sudden madness and recovering is
distressed and ashamed at the grotesque things he vaguely remembers to
have done when he was not himself. But because he knows he was not
himself he feels that in his own eyes at least he can claim indulgence.
Kitty thought that perhaps a generous heart might pity rather than
condemn her. But she sighed as she thought how woefully her
self-confidence had been shattered. The way had seemed to stretch before
her straight and easy and now she saw that it was a tortuous way and
that pitfalls awaited her. The vast spaces and the tragic and beautiful
sunsets of the Indian Ocean rested her. She seemed borne then to some
country where she might in freedom possess her soul. If she could only
regain her self-respect at the cost of a bitter conflict, well, she must
find the courage to affront it.

The future was lonely and difficult. At Port Said she had received a
letter from her mother in answer to her cable. It was a long letter
written in the large and fanciful writing which was taught to young
ladies in her mother's youth. Its ornateness was so neat that it gave
you an impression of insincerity. Mrs. Garstin expressed her regret at
Walter's death and sympathised properly with her daughter's grief. She
feared that Kitty was left inadequately provided for, but naturally the
Colonial Office would give her a pension. She was glad to know that
Kitty was coming back to England and of course she must come and stay
with her father and mother till her child was born. Then followed
certain instructions that Kitty must be sure to follow and various
details of her sister Doris's confinement. The little boy weighed so and
so much and his paternal grandfather said he had never seen a finer
child. Doris was expecting again and they hoped for another boy in order
to make the succession to the baronetcy quite sure.

Kitty saw that the point of the letter lay in the definite date set for
the invitation. Mrs. Garstin had no intention of being saddled with a
widowed daughter in modest circumstances. It was singular, when she
reflected how her mother had idolised her, that now, disappointed in
her, she found her merely a nuisance. How strange was the relation
between parents and children! When they were small the parents doted on
them, passed through agonies of apprehension at each childish ailment,
and the children clung to their parents with love and adoration; a few
years passed, the children grew up, and persons not of their kin were
more important to their happiness than father or mother. Indifference
displaced the blind and instinctive love of the past. Their meetings
were a source of boredom and irritation. Distracted once at the thought
of a month's separation they were able now to look forward with
equanimity to being parted for years. Her mother need not worry: as soon
as she could she would make herself a home of her own. But she must have
a little time; at present everything was vague and she could not form
any picture of the future: perhaps she would die at childbirth; that
would be a solution of many difficulties.

But when they docked two letters were handed to her. She was surprised
to recognise her father's writing: she did not remember that he had ever
written to her. He was not effusive, and began: dear Kitty. He told her
that he was writing instead of her mother who had not been well and was
obliged to go into a nursing home to have an operation. Kitty was not to
be frightened and was to keep to her intention of going round by sea; it
was much more expensive to come across by land and with her mother away
it would be inconvenient for Kitty to stay at the house in Harrington
Gardens. The other was from Doris; it started: Kitty darling, not
because Doris had any particular affection for her, but because it was
her way thus to address every one she knew.


_Kitty darling_,

_I expect Father has written to you. Mother has got to have an
operation. It appears that she has been rotten for the last year, but
you know she hates doctors and she's been taking all sorts of patent
medicines. I don't quite know what's the matter with her as she insists
on making a secret of the whole thing and flies into a passion if you
ask her questions. She has been looking simply awful and if I were you I
think I'd get off at Marseilles and come back as quick as you can. But
don't let on that I told you to come as she pretends there's nothing
much the matter with her and she doesn't want you to get here till she's
back at home. She's made the doctors promise that she shall be moved in
a week. Best love._


_Doris._


_I'm awfully sorry about Walter. You must have had a hell of a time,
poor darling. I'm simply dying to see you. It's rather funny our both
having babies together. We shall be able to hold one another's hands._


Kitty lost in reflection, stood for a little while on the deck. She
could not imagine her mother ill. She never remembered to have seen her
other than active and resolute; she had always been impatient of other
people's ailments. Then a steward came up to her with a telegram.


_Deeply regret to inform you that your mother died this morning.
Father._




_lxxix_


Kitty rang the bell at the house in Harrington Gardens. She was told
that her father was in his study and going to the door she opened it
softly: he was sitting by the fire reading the last edition of the
evening paper. He looked up as she entered, put down the paper, and
sprang nervously to his feet.

"Oh, Kitty, I didn't expect you till the later train."

"I thought you wouldn't want the bother of coming to meet me so I didn't
wire the time I expected to arrive."

He gave her his cheek to kiss in the manner she so well remembered.

"I was just having a look at the paper," he said. "I haven't read the
paper for the last two days."

She saw that he thought it needed some explanation if he occupied
himself with the ordinary affairs of life.

"Of course," she said. "You must be tired out. I'm afraid mother's death
has been a great shock to you."

He was older, and thinner than when she had last seen him. A little,
lined, dried-up man, with a precise manner.

"The surgeon said there had never been any hope. She hadn't been herself
for more than a year, but she refused to see a doctor. The surgeon told
me that she must have been in constant pain, he said it was a miracle
that she had been able to endure it."

"Did she never complain?"

"She said she wasn't very well. But she never complained of pain." He
paused and looked at Kitty. "Are you very tired after your journey?"

"Not very."

"Would you like to go up and see her?"

"Is she here?"

"Yes, she was brought here from the nursing home."

"Yes, I'll go now."

"Would you like me to come with you?"

There was something in her father's tone that made her look at him
quickly. His face was slightly turned from her; he did not want her to
catch his eye. Kitty had acquired of late a singular proficiency at
reading the thoughts of others. After all, day after day she had applied
all her sensibilities to divine from a casual word or an unguarded
gesture the hidden thoughts of her husband. She guessed at once what her
father was trying to hide from her. It was relief he felt, an infinite
relief, and he was frightened of himself. For hard on thirty years he
had been a good and faithful husband, he had never uttered a single word
in dispraise of his wife, and now he should grieve for her. He had
always done the things that were expected of him. It would have been
shocking to him by the flicker of an eyelid or by the smallest hint to
betray that he did not feel what under the circumstances a bereaved
husband should feel.

"No, I would rather go by myself," said Kitty.

She went upstairs and into the large, cold and pretentious bedroom in
which her mother for so many years had slept. She remembered so well
those massive pieces of mahogany and the engravings after Marcus Stone
which adorned the walls. The things on the dressing-table were arranged
with the stiff precision which Mrs. Garstin had all her life insisted
upon. The flowers looked out of place; Mrs. Garstin would have thought
it silly, affected and unhealthy to have flowers in her bedroom. Their
perfume did not cover that acrid, musty smell, as of freshly washed
linen, which Kitty remembered as characteristic of her mother's room.

Mrs. Garstin lay on the bed, her hands folded across her breast with a
meekness which in life she would have had no patience with. With her
strong sharp features, the cheeks hollow with suffering and the temples
sunken, she looked handsome and even imposing. Death had robbed her face
of its meanness and left only an impression of character. She might have
been a Roman empress. It was strange to Kitty that of the dead persons
she had seen this was the only one who in death seemed to preserve a
look as though that clay had been once a habitation of the spirit. Grief
she could not feel, for there had been too much bitterness between her
mother and herself to leave in her heart any deep feeling of affection;
and looking back on the girl she had been she knew that it was her
mother who had made her what she was. But when she looked at that hard,
domineering and ambitious woman who lay there so still and silent with
all her petty aims frustrated by death, she was aware of a vague pathos.
She had schemed and intrigued all her life and never had she desired
anything but what was base and unworthy. Kitty wondered whether perhaps
in some other sphere she looked upon her earthly course with
consternation.

Doris came in.

"I thought you'd come by this train. I felt I must look in for a moment.
Isn't it dreadful? Poor darling mother."

Bursting into tears, she flung herself into Kitty's arms. Kitty kissed
her. She knew how her mother had neglected Doris in favour of her and
how harsh she had been with her because she was plain and dull. She
wondered whether Doris really felt the extravagant grief she showed. But
Doris had always been emotional. She wished she could cry: Doris would
think her dreadfully hard. Kitty felt that she had been through too much
to feign a distress she did not feel.

"Would you like to come and see father?" she asked her when the strength
of the outburst had somewhat subsided.

Doris wiped her eyes. Kitty noticed that her sister's pregnancy had
blunted her features and in her black dress she looked gross and blousy.

"No, I don't think I will. I shall only cry again. Poor old thing, he's
bearing it wonderfully."

Kitty showed her sister out of the house and then went back to her
father. He was standing in front of the fire and the newspaper was
neatly folded. He wanted her to see that he had not been reading it
again.

"I haven't dressed for dinner," he said. "I didn't think it was
necessary."




_lxxx_


They dined. Mr. Garstin gave Kitty the details of his wife's illness and
death, and he told her the kindness of the friends who had written
(there were piles of sympathetic letters on his table and he sighed when
he considered the burden of answering them) and the arrangements he had
made for the funeral. Then they went back into his study. This was the
only room in the house which had a fire. He mechanically took from the
chimney-piece his pipe and began to fill it, but he gave his daughter a
doubtful look and put it down.

"Aren't you going to smoke?" she asked.

"Your mother didn't very much like the smell of a pipe after dinner and
since the war I've given up cigars."

His answer gave Kitty a little pang. It seemed dreadful that a man of
sixty should hesitate to smoke what he wanted in his own study.

"I like the smell of a pipe," she smiled.

A faint look of relief crossed his face and taking his pipe once more he
lit it. They sat opposite one another on each side of the fire. He felt
that he must talk to Kitty of her own troubles.

"You received the letter your mother wrote to you to Port Said, I
suppose. The news of poor Walter's death was a great shock to both of
us. I thought him a very nice fellow."

Kitty did not know what to say.

"Your mother told me that you were going to have a baby."

"Yes."

"When do you expect it?"

"In about four months."

"It will be a great consolation to you. You must go and see Doris's boy.
He's a fine little fellow."

They were talking more distantly than if they were strangers who had
just met, for if they had been he would have been interested in her just
because of that, and curious, but their common past was a wall of
indifference between them. Kitty knew too well that she had done nothing
to beget her father's affection, he had never counted in the house and
had been taken for granted, the bread-winner who was a little despised
because he could provide no more luxuriously for his family; but she had
taken for granted that he loved her just because he was her father, and
it was a shock to discover that his heart was empty of feeling for her.
She had known that they were all bored by him, but it had never occurred
to her that he was equally bored by them. He was as ever kind and
subdued, but the sad perspicacity which she had learnt in suffering
suggested to her that, though he had probably never acknowledged it to
himself and never would, in his heart he disliked her.

His pipe was not drawing and he rose to find something to poke it with.
Perhaps it was an excuse to hide his nervousness.

"Your mother wished you to stay here till your baby was born and she was
going to have your old room got ready for you."

"I know. I promise you I won't be a bother."

"Oh, it's not that. Under the circumstances it was evident that the only
place for you to come to was your father's house. But the fact is that
I've just been offered the post of Chief Justice of the Bahamas and I
have accepted it."

"Oh, father, I'm so glad. I congratulate you with all my heart."

"The offer arrived too late for me to tell your poor mother. It would
have given her a great satisfaction."

The bitter irony of fate! After all her efforts, intrigues and
humiliations, Mrs. Garstin had died without knowing that her ambition,
however modified by past disappointments, was at last achieved.

"I am sailing early next month. Of course this house will be put in the
agent's hands and my intention was to sell the furniture. I'm sorry that
I shan't be able to have you to stay here, but if you'd like any of the
furniture to furnish a flat I shall be extremely pleased to give it
you."

Kitty looked into the fire. Her heart beat quickly; it was curious that
on a sudden she should be so nervous. But at last she forced herself to
speak. In her voice was a little tremor.

"Couldn't I come with you, father?"

"You? Oh, my dear Kitty." His face fell. She had often heard the
expression, but thought it only a phrase, and now for the first time in
her life she saw the movement that it described. It was so marked that
it startled her. "But all your friends are here and Doris is here. I
should have thought you'd be much happier if you took a flat in London.
I don't exactly know what your circumstances are, but I shall be very
glad to pay the rent of it."

"I have enough money to live on."

"I'm going to a strange place. I know nothing of the conditions."

"I'm used to strange places. London means nothing to me any more. I
couldn't breathe here."

He closed his eyes for a moment and she thought he was going to cry. His
face bore an expression of utter misery. It wrung her heart. She had
been right; the death of his wife had filled him with relief and now
this chance to break entirely with the past had offered him freedom. He
had seen a new life spread before him and at last after all these years
rest and the mirage of happiness. She saw dimly all the suffering that
had preyed on his heart for thirty years. At last he opened his eyes. He
could not prevent the sigh that escaped him.

"Of course if you wish to come I shall be very pleased."

It was pitiful. The struggle had been short and he had surrendered to
his sense of duty. With those few words he abandoned all his hopes. She
rose from her chair and going over to him knelt down and seized his
hands.

"No, father, I won't come unless you want me. You've sacrificed yourself
enough. If you want to go alone, go. Don't think of me for a minute."

He released one of his hands and stroked her pretty hair.

"Of course I want you, my dear. After all I'm your father and you're a
widow and alone. If you want to be with me it would be very unkind of me
not to want you."

"But that's just it, I make no claims on you because I'm your daughter,
you owe me nothing."

"Oh, my dear child."

"Nothing," she repeated vehemently. "My heart sinks when I think how
we've battened on you all our lives and have given you nothing in
return. Not even a little affection. I'm afraid you've not had a very
happy life. Won't you let me try to make up a little for all I've failed
to do in the past?"

He frowned a little. Her emotion embarrassed him.

"I don't know what you mean. I've never had any complaint to make of
you."

"Oh, father, I've been through so much, I've been so unhappy. I'm not
the Kitty I was when I went away. I'm terribly weak, but I don't think
I'm the filthy cad I was then. Won't you give me a chance? I have nobody
but you in the world now. Won't you let me try to make you love me? Oh,
father, I'm so lonely and so miserable; I want your love so badly."

She buried her face in his lap and cried as though her heart were
breaking.

"Oh, my Kitty, my little Kitty," he murmured.

She looked up and put her arms round his neck.

"Oh, father, be kind to me. Let us be kind to one another."

He kissed her, on the lips as a lover might, and his cheeks were wet
with her tears.

"Of course you shall come with me."

"Do you want me to? Do you really want me to?"

"Yes."

"I'm so grateful to you."

"Oh, my dear, don't say things like that to me. It makes me feel quite
awkward."

He took out his handkerchief and dried her eyes. He smiled in a way that
she had never seen him smile before. Once more she threw her arms round
his neck.

"We'll have such a lark, father dear. You don't know what fun we're
going to have together."

"You haven't forgotten that you're going to have a baby."

"I'm glad she'll be born out there within sound of the sea and under a
wide blue sky."

"Have you already made up your mind about the sex?" he murmured, with
his thin, dry smile.

"I want a girl because I want to bring her up so that she shan't make
the mistakes I've made. When I look back upon the girl I was I hate
myself. But I never had a chance. I'm going to bring up my daughter so
that she's free and can stand on her own feet. I'm not going to bring a
child into the world, and love her, and bring her up, just so that some
man may want to sleep with her so much that he's willing to provide her
with board and lodging for the rest of her life."

She felt her father stiffen. He had never spoken of such things and it
shocked him to hear these words in his daughter's mouth.

"Let me be frank just this once, father. I've been foolish and wicked
and hateful. I've been terribly punished. I'm determined to save my
daughter from all that. I want her to be fearless and frank. I want her
to be a person, independent of others because she is possessed of
herself, and I want her to take life like a free man and make a better
job of it than I have."

"Why, my love, you talk as though you were fifty. You've got all your
life before you. You mustn't be downhearted."

Kitty shook her head and slowly smiled.

"I'm not. I have hope and courage. The past is finished; let the dead
bury their dead. It's all uncertain, life and whatever is to come to me,
but I enter upon it with a light and buoyant heart. It's all confused,
but vaguely I discern a pattern, and I see before me an inexhaustible
richness, the mystery and the strangeness of everything, compassion and
charity, the Way and the Wayfarer, and perhaps in the end--God."




THE END