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."