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."