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.