discovered that she was weary. The comfort and the unaccustomed amenity
of this life broke up the strain under which she had been living. She
had forgotten how pleasant it was to take one's ease, how lulling to be
surrounded by pretty things, and how agreeable it was to receive
attention. She sank back, with a sigh of relief into the facile
existence of the luxurious East. It was not displeasing to feel that in
a discreet and well-bred fashion she was an object of sympathetic
interest. Her bereavement was so recent that it was impossible for
entertainments to be given for her, but ladies of consequence in the
Colony (His Excellency's wife, the wives of the Admiral and of the Chief
Justice) came to drink a quiet cup of tea with her. His Excellency's
wife said that His Excellency was most anxious to see her and if she
would come very quietly to luncheon at Government House ("not a party,
of course, only ourselves and the A.D.C.'s!"), it would be very nice.
These ladies used Kitty as though she were a piece of porcelain which
was as fragile as it was precious. She could not fail to see that they
looked upon her as a little heroine, and she had sufficient humour to
play the part with modesty and discretion. She wished sometimes that
Waddington were there; with his malicious shrewdness he would have seen
the fun of the situation; and when alone they might have had a good
laugh over it together. Dorothy had had a letter from him, and he had
said all manner of things about her devoted work at the convent, about
her courage and her self-control. Of course he was skilfully pulling
their legs: the dirty dog.
_lxxv_
Kitty did not know whether it was by chance or by design that she never
found herself for a moment alone with Charlie. His tact was exquisite.
He remained kindly, sympathetic, pleasant and amiable. No one could have
guessed that they had ever been more than acquaintances. But one
afternoon when she was lying on a sofa outside her room reading he
passed along the verandah and stopped.
"What is that you're reading?" he asked.
"A book."
She looked at him with irony. He smiled.
"Dorothy's gone to a garden-party at Government House."
"I know. Why haven't you gone too?"
"I didn't feel I could face it and I thought I'd come back and keep you
company. The car's outside, would you like to come for a drive round the
island?"
"No, thank you."
He sat down on the foot of the sofa on which she lay.
"We haven't had the chance of a talk by ourselves since you got here."
She looked straight into his eyes with cool insolence.
"Do you think we have anything to say to one another?"
"Volumes."
She shifted her feet a little so that she should not touch him.
"Are you still angry with me?" he asked, the shadow of a smile on his
lips and his eyes melting.
"Not a bit," she laughed.
"I don't think you'd laugh if you weren't."
"You're mistaken; I despise you much too much to be angry with you."
He was unruffled.
"I think you're rather hard on me. Looking back calmly, don't you
honestly think I was right?"
"From your standpoint."
"Now that you know Dorothy, you must admit she's rather nice?"
"Of course. I shall always be grateful for her great kindness to me."
"She's one in a thousand. I should never have had a moment's peace if
we'd bolted. It would have been a rotten trick to play on her. And after
all I had to think of my children; it would have been an awful handicap
for them."
For a minute she held him in her reflective gaze. She felt completely
mistress of the situation.
"I've watched you very carefully during the week I've been here. I've
come to the conclusion that you really are fond of Dorothy. I should
never have thought you capable of it."
"I told you I was fond of her. I wouldn't do anything to cause her a
moment's uneasiness. She's the best wife a man ever had."
"Have you never thought that you owed her any loyalty?"
"What the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve for," he smiled.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"You're despicable."
"I'm human. I don't know why you should think me such a cad because I
fell head over ears in love with you. I didn't particularly want to, you
know."
It gave her a little twist of the heart-strings to hear him say that.
"I was fair game," she answered bitterly.
"Naturally I couldn't foresee that we were going to get into such a
devil of a scrape."
"And in any case you had a pretty shrewd idea that if anyone suffered it
wouldn't be you."
"I think that's a bit thick. After all, now it's all over, you must see
I acted for the best for both of us. You lost your head and you ought to
be jolly glad that I kept mine. Do you think it would have been a
success if I'd done what you wanted me to? We were dashed uncomfortable
in the frying-pan, but we should have been a damned sight worse off in
the fire. And you haven't come to any harm. Why can't we kiss and make
friends?"
She almost laughed.
"You can hardly expect me to forget that you sent me to almost certain
death without a shadow of compunction?"
"Oh, what nonsense! I told you there was no risk if you took reasonable
precautions. Do you think I'd have let you go for a moment if I hadn't
been perfectly convinced of that?"
"You were convinced because you wanted to be. You're one of those
cowards who only think what it's profitable for them to think."
"Well, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. You have come back,
and if you don't mind my saying anything so objectionable you've come
back prettier than ever."
"And Walter?"
He could not resist the facetious answer which came to his mind. Charlie
smiled.
"Nothing suits you so well as black."
She stared at him for a moment. Tears filled her eyes and she began to
cry. Her beautiful face was distorted with grief. She did not seek to
hide it, but lay on her back with her hands along her sides.
"For God's sake don't cry like that. I didn't mean to say anything
unkind. It was only a joke. You know how sincerely I feel for you in
your bereavement."
"Oh, hold your stupid tongue."
"I'd give anything to have Walter back again."
"He died because of you and me."
He took her hand, but she snatched it away from him.
"Please go away," she sobbed. "That's the only thing you can do for me
now. I hate and despise you. Walter was worth ten of you and I was too
big a fool to see it. Go away. Go away."
She saw he was going to speak again and she sprang to her feet and went
into her room. He followed her, and as he entered, with instinctive
prudence, drew the shutter so that they were almost in darkness.
"I can't leave you like this," he said, putting his arms round her. "You
know I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Don't touch me. For God's sake go. Go away."
She tried to tear herself from him, but he would not let her. She was
crying hysterically now.
"Darling, don't you know that I've always loved you," he said in his
deep, charming voice. "I love you more than ever."
"How can you tell such lies! Let me go. Damn you, let me go."
"Don't be unkind to me, Kitty. I know I've been a brute to you, but
forgive me."
She was shaking and sobbing, struggling to get away from him, but the
pressure of his arms was strangely comforting. She had so longed to feel
them round her once more, just once, and all her body trembled. She felt
dreadfully weak. It seemed as though her bones were melting, and the
sorrow she felt for Walter shifted into pity for herself.
"Oh, how could you be so unkind to me?" she sobbed. "Don't you know that
I loved you with all my heart. No one has ever loved you as I loved
you."
"Darling."
He began to kiss her.
"No, no," she cried.
He sought her face, but she turned it away; he sought her lips; she did
not know what he was saying, broken, passionate words of love; and his
arms held her so firmly that she felt like a child that has been lost
and now at last is safe at home. She moaned faintly. Her eyes were
closed and her face was wet with tears. And then he found her lips and
the pressure of his upon them shot through her body like the flame of
God. It was an ecstasy and she was burnt to a cinder and she glowed as
though she were transfigured. In her dreams, in her dreams she had known
this rapture. What was he doing with her now? She did not know. She was
not a woman, her personality was dissolved, she was nothing but desire.
He lifted her off her feet, she was very light in his arms, he carried
her and she clung to him, desperate and adoring; her head sank on the
pillow and his lips clung to hers.
_lxxvi_
She sat on the edge of the bed hiding her face with her hands.
"Would you like a drop of water?"
She shook her head. He went over to the washing stand, filled the
tooth-glass and brought it to her.
"Come along, have a little drink and you'll feel better."
He put the glass to her lips and she sipped the water. Then, with
horrified eyes, she stared at him. He was standing over her, looking
down, and in his eyes was a twinkle of self-satisfaction.
"Well, do you think I'm such a dirty dog as you did?" he asked.
She looked down.
"Yes. But I know that I'm not a bit better than you. Oh, I'm so
ashamed."
"Well, I think you're very ungrateful."
"Will you go now?"
"To tell you the truth I think it's about time. I'll just go and tidy
myself up before Dorothy comes in."
He went out of the room with a jaunty step.
Kitty sat for a while, still on the edge of the bed, hunched up like an
imbecile. Her mind was vacant. A shudder passed through her. She
staggered to her feet and, going to the dressing-table, sank into a
chair. She stared at herself in the glass. Her eyes were swollen with
tears; her face was stained and there was a red mark on one cheek where
his had rested. She looked at herself with horror. It was the same face.
She had expected in it she knew not what change of degradation.
"Swine," she flung at her reflection. "Swine."
Then, letting her face fall on her arms, she wept bitterly. Shame,
shame! She did not know what had come over her. It was horrible. She
hated him and she hated herself. It had been ecstasy. Oh, hateful! She
could never look him in the face again. He was so justified. He had been
right not to marry her, for she was worthless; she was no better than a
harlot. Oh, worse, for those poor women gave themselves for bread. And
in this house too into which Dorothy had taken her in her sorrow and
cruel desolation! Her shoulders shook with her sobs. Everything was gone
now. She had thought herself changed, she had thought herself strong,
she thought she had returned to Tching-Yen a woman who possessed
herself; new ideas flitted about her heart like little yellow
butterflies in the sunshine and she had hoped to be so much better in
the future; freedom like a spirit of light had beckoned her on, and the
world was like a spacious plain through which she could walk light of
foot and with head erect. She had thought herself free from lust and
vile passions, free to live the clean and healthy life of the spirit;
she had likened herself to the white egrets that fly with leisurely
flight across the rice fields at dusk and they are like the soaring
thoughts of a mind at rest with itself; and she was a slave. Weak, weak!
It was hopeless, it was no good to try, she was a slut.
She would not go in to dinner. She sent the boy to tell Dorothy that she
had a headache and preferred to remain in her room. Dorothy came in and,
seeing her red, swollen eyes, talked for a little in her gentle,
commiserating way of trivial things. Kitty knew that Dorothy thought she
had been crying on account of Walter and, sympathising like the good and
loving wife she was, respected the natural sorrow.
"I know it's very hard, dear," she said as she left Kitty. "But you must
try to have courage. I'm sure your dear husband wouldn't wish you to
grieve for him."
_lxxvii_
But next morning Kitty rose early and leaving a note for Dorothy to say
that she was gone out on business took a tram down the hill. She made
her way through the crowded streets with their motor cars, rickshaws and
chairs, and the motley throng of Europeans and Chinese, to the offices
of the P. & O. Company. A ship was sailing in two days, the first ship
out of the port, and she had made up her mind that at all costs she must
go on it. When the clerk told her that every berth was booked she asked
to see the chief agent. She sent in her name and the agent, whom she had
met before, came out to fetch her into his office. He knew her
circumstances and when she told him what she wished he sent for the
passenger list. He looked at it with perplexity.
"I beseech you to do what you can for me," she urged him.
"I don't think there's any one in the Colony who wouldn't do anything in
the world for you, Mrs. Fane," he answered.
He sent for a clerk and made enquiries. Then he nodded.
"I'm going to shift one or two people. I know you want to get home and I
think we ought to do our best for you. I can give you a little cabin to
yourself. I expect you'd prefer that."
She thanked him. She left him with an elated heart. Flight: that was her
only thought. Flight! She sent a cable to her father to announce her
immediate return; she had already cabled to him to say that Walter was
dead; and then went back again to the Townsends' to tell Dorothy what she
had done.
"We shall be dreadfully sorry to lose you," the kind creature said, "but
of course I understand that you want to be with your mother and father."
Since her return to Tching-Yen Kitty had hesitated from day to day to go
to her house. She dreaded entering it again and meeting face to face the
recollections with which it was peopled. But now she had no alternative.
Townsend had arranged for the sale of the furniture and he had found
some one eager to take on the lease, but there were all her clothes and
Walter's, for they had taken next to nothing to Mei-tan-fu, and there
were books, photographs, and various odds and ends. Kitty, indifferent
to everything and anxious to cut herself off completely from the past,
realised that it would outrage the susceptibilities of the Colony if she
allowed these things to go with the rest to an auction-room. They must
be packed and sent to her. So after tiffin she prepared to go to the
house. Dorothy, eager to give her help, offered to accompany her, but
Kitty begged to be allowed to go alone. She agreed that two of Dorothy's
boys should come and assist in the packing.
The house had been left in charge of the head boy and he opened the door
for Kitty. It was curious to go into her own house as though she were a
stranger. It was neat and clean. Everything was in its place, ready for
her use, but although the day was warm and sunny there was about the
silent rooms a chill and desolate air. The furniture was stiffly
arranged, exactly where it should be, and the vases which should have
held flowers were in their places; the book which Kitty had laid face
downwards she did not remember when still lay face downwards. It was as
though the house had been left empty but a minute before and yet that
minute was fraught with eternity so that you could not imagine that ever
again that house would echo with talk and resound with laughter. On the
piano the open music of a foxtrot seemed to wait to be played, but you
had a feeling that if you struck the keys no sound would come. Walter's
room was as tidy as when he was there. On the chest of drawers were two
large photographs of Kitty, one in her presentation dress and one in her
wedding-gown.
But the boys fetched up the trunks from the box-room and she stood over
them watching them pack. They packed neatly and quickly. Kitty reflected
that in the two days she had it would be easy to get everything done.
She must not let herself think; she had no time for that. Suddenly she
heard a step behind her and turning round saw Charles Townsend. She felt
a sudden chill at her heart.
"What do you want?" she said.
"Will you come into your sitting-room? I have something to say to you."
"I'm very busy."
"I shall only keep you five minutes."
She said no more, but with a word to the boys to go on with what they
were doing, preceded Charles into the next room. She did not sit down,
in order to show him that she expected him not to detain her. She knew
that she was very pale and her heart was beating fast, but she faced him
coolly, with hostile eyes.
"What is it you want?"
"I've just heard from Dorothy that you're going the day after to-morrow.
She told me that you'd come here to do your packing and she asked me to
ring up and find out if there was anything I could do for you."
"I'm grateful to you, but I can manage quite well by myself."
"So I imagined. I didn't come here to ask you that. I came to ask if
your sudden departure is due to what happened yesterday."
"You and Dorothy have been very good to me. I didn't wish you to think I
was taking advantage of your good nature."
"That's not a very straight answer."
"What does it matter to you?"
"It matters a great deal. I shouldn't like to think that anything I'd
done had driven you away."
She was standing at the table. She looked down. Her eyes fell on the
_Sketch_. It was months old now. It was that paper which Walter had
stared at all through the terrible evening when--and Walter now
was. . . . She raised her eyes.
"I feel absolutely degraded. You can't possibly despise me as much as I
despise myself."
"But I don't despise you. I meant every word that I said yesterday.
What's the good of running away like this? I don't know why we can't be
good friends. I hate the idea of your thinking I've treated you badly."
"Why couldn't you leave me alone?"
"Hang it all, I'm not a stick or a stone. It's so unreasonable, the way
you look at it; it's so morbid. I thought after yesterday you'd feel a
little more kindly to me. After all, we're only human."
"I don't feel human. I feel like an animal. A pig or a rabbit or a dog.
Oh, I don't blame you, I was just as bad. I yielded to you because I
wanted you. But it wasn't me, it wasn't the real me. I'm not that
hateful, beastly, lustful woman. I disown her. It wasn't me that lay on
that bed panting for you when my husband was hardly cold in his grave
and your wife had been so kind to me, so indescribably kind. It was only
the animal in me, dark and fearful like an evil spirit, and I disown,
and hate, and despise it. And ever since, when I've thought of it, my
gorge rises and I feel that I must vomit."
He frowned a little and gave a short, uneasy snigger.
"Well, I'm fairly broadminded, but sometimes you say things that
positively shock me."
"I should be sorry to do that. You'd better go now. You're a very
unimportant little man and I'm silly to talk to you seriously."
He did not answer for a while and she saw by the shadow in his blue eyes
that he was angry with her. He would heave a sigh of relief when,
tactful and courteous as ever, he had finally seen her off. It amused
her to think of the politeness with which, while they shook hands and he
wished her a pleasant journey, she would thank him for his hospitality.
But she saw his expression change.
"Dorothy tells me you're going to have a baby," he said.
She felt herself colour, but she allowed no gesture to escape her.
"I am."
"Am I by any chance the father?"
"No, no. It's Walter's child."
She spoke with an emphasis which she could not prevent, but even as she
spoke she knew that it was not the tone with which to carry conviction.
"Are you quite sure?" He was now roguishly smiling. "After all, you were
married to Walter a couple of years and nothing happened. The dates seem
to fit all right. I think it's much more likely to be mine than
Walter's."
"I would rather kill myself than have a child of yours."
"Oh, come now, that's nonsense. I should be awfully pleased and proud.
I'd like it to be a girl, you know. I've only had boys with Dorothy. You
won't be able to be in doubt very long, you know: my three kiddies are
absolutely the living image of me."
He had regained his good humour and she knew why. If the child was his,
though she might never see him again, she could never entirely escape
him. His power over her would reach out and he would still, obscurely
but definitely, influence every day of her life.
"You really are the most vain and fatuous ass that it's ever been my bad
luck to run across," she said.
_lxxviii_
As the ship steamed into Marseilles Kitty, looking at the rugged and
beautiful outline of the coast glowing in the sunlight, on a sudden
caught sight of the golden statue of the Blessed Virgin which stands
upon the church of Sainte Marie de la Grace as a symbol of safety to the
mariner at sea. She remembered how the Sisters of the convent at
Mei-tan-fu, leaving their own land for ever, had knelt as the figure
faded in the distance so that it was no more than a little golden flame
in the blue sky and sought in prayer to allay the pang of separation.
She clasped her hands in supplication to what power she knew not.
During the long, quiet journey she had thought incessantly of the
horrible thing that had happened to her. She could not understand
herself. It was so unexpected. What was it that had seized her, so that,
despising him, despising him with all her heart, she had yielded
passionately to Charlie's foul embrace? Rage filled her and disgust of
herself obsessed her. She felt that she could never forget her
humiliation. She wept. But as the distance from Tching-Yen increased she
found that she was insensibly losing the vividness of her resentment.
What had happened seemed to have happened in another world. She was like
a person who has been stricken with sudden madness and recovering is
distressed and ashamed at the grotesque things he vaguely remembers to
have done when he was not himself. But because he knows he was not
himself he feels that in his own eyes at least he can claim indulgence.
Kitty thought that perhaps a generous heart might pity rather than
condemn her. But she sighed as she thought how woefully her
self-confidence had been shattered. The way had seemed to stretch before
her straight and easy and now she saw that it was a tortuous way and
that pitfalls awaited her. The vast spaces and the tragic and beautiful
sunsets of the Indian Ocean rested her. She seemed borne then to some
country where she might in freedom possess her soul. If she could only
regain her self-respect at the cost of a bitter conflict, well, she must
find the courage to affront it.
The future was lonely and difficult. At Port Said she had received a
letter from her mother in answer to her cable. It was a long letter
written in the large and fanciful writing which was taught to young
ladies in her mother's youth. Its ornateness was so neat that it gave
you an impression of insincerity. Mrs. Garstin expressed her regret at
Walter's death and sympathised properly with her daughter's grief. She
feared that Kitty was left inadequately provided for, but naturally the
Colonial Office would give her a pension. She was glad to know that
Kitty was coming back to England and of course she must come and stay
with her father and mother till her child was born. Then followed
certain instructions that Kitty must be sure to follow and various
details of her sister Doris's confinement. The little boy weighed so and
so much and his paternal grandfather said he had never seen a finer
child. Doris was expecting again and they hoped for another boy in order
to make the succession to the baronetcy quite sure.
Kitty saw that the point of the letter lay in the definite date set for
the invitation. Mrs. Garstin had no intention of being saddled with a
widowed daughter in modest circumstances. It was singular, when she
reflected how her mother had idolised her, that now, disappointed in
her, she found her merely a nuisance. How strange was the relation
between parents and children! When they were small the parents doted on
them, passed through agonies of apprehension at each childish ailment,
and the children clung to their parents with love and adoration; a few
years passed, the children grew up, and persons not of their kin were
more important to their happiness than father or mother. Indifference
displaced the blind and instinctive love of the past. Their meetings
were a source of boredom and irritation. Distracted once at the thought
of a month's separation they were able now to look forward with
equanimity to being parted for years. Her mother need not worry: as soon
as she could she would make herself a home of her own. But she must have
a little time; at present everything was vague and she could not form
any picture of the future: perhaps she would die at childbirth; that
would be a solution of many difficulties.