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."