They managed their intrigue with skill. He had a broad back, he told her ("I will not have you swank about your figure," she interrupted lightly), and it did not matter about him; but for her sake they mustn't take the smallest risk. They could not meet often alone, not half often enough for him, but he had to think of her first, sometimes in the curio shop, now and then after luncheon in her house when no one was about; but she saw him a good deal here and there. It amused her then to see the formal way he spoke to her, jovial, for he was always that, with the same manner he used with every one. Who could imagine when they heard him chaff her with that charming humour of his that so lately he had held her in his passionate arms?
She worshipped him. He was splendid, in his smart top boots and his white breeches, when he played polo. In tennis clothes he looked a mere boy. Of course he was proud of his figure: it was the best figure she had ever seen. He took pains to keep it. He never ate bread or potatoes or butter. And he took a great deal of exercise. She liked the care he took of his hands; he was manicured once a week. He was a wonderful athlete and the year before he had won the local tennis championship. Certainly he was the best dancer she had ever danced with; it was a dream to dance with him. No one would think he was forty. She told him she did not believe it.
"I believe it's all bluff and you're really twenty-five."
He laughed. He was well pleased.
"Oh, my dear, I have a boy of fifteen. I'm a middle-aged gent. In another two or three years I shall just be a fat old party."
"You'll be adorable when you're a hundred."
She liked his black, bushy eyebrows. She wondered whether it was they that gave his blue eyes their disturbing expression.
He was full of accomplishments. He could play the piano quite well, rag-time, of course, and he could sing a comic song with a rich voice and good humour. She did not believe there was anything he could not do. He was very clever at his work too and she shared his pleasure when he told her that the Governor had particularly congratulated him on the way he had done some difficult job.
"Although it's I as says it," he laughed, his eyes charming with the love he bore her, "there's not a fellow in the Service who could have done it better."
Oh, how she wished that she were his wife rather than Walter's!
Of course it was not certain yet that Walter knew the truth, and if he didn't it was better perhaps to leave well alone; but if he did, well, in the end it would be the best thing for all of them. At first she had been, if not satisfied, at least resigned to seeing Charlie only by stealth; but time had increased her passion and for some while now she had been increasingly impatient of the obstacles which prevented them from being always together. He had told her so often that he cursed his position which forced him to be so discreet, the ties which bound him, and the ties which bound her: how marvellous it would have been, he said, if they were both free! She saw his point of view; no one wanted a scandal, and of course it required a good deal of thinking over before you changed the course of your life; but if freedom were thrust upon them, ah, then, how simple everything would be!
It was not as though any one would suffer very much. She knew exactly what his relations were with his wife. She was a cold woman and there had been no love between them for years. It was habit that held them together, convenience, and of course the children. It was easier for Charlie than for her: Walter loved her; but after all, he was absorbed in his work; and a man always had his club, he might be upset at first, but he would get over it; there was no reason why he should not marry somebody else. Charlie had told her that he could not make out how she came to throw herself away on Walter Fane.
She wondered, half smiling, why a little while before she had been terrified at the thought that Walter had caught them. Of course it was startling to see the handle of the door slowly turn. But after all they knew the worst that Walter could do, and they were ready for it. Charlie would feel as great a relief as she that what they both desired more than anything in the world should be thus forced upon them.
Walter was a gentleman, she would do him the justice to acknowledge that, and he loved her; he would do the right thing and allow her to divorce him. They had made a mistake and the lucky thing was that they had found it out before it was too late. She made up her mind exactly what she was going to say to him and how she would treat him. She would be kind, smiling, and firm. There was no need for them to quarrel. Later on she would always be glad to see him. She hoped honestly that the two years they had spent together would remain with him as a priceless memory.
"I don't suppose Dorothy Townsend will mind divorcing Charlie a bit," she thought. "Now the youngest boy is going back to England it will be much nicer for her to be in England too. There's absolutely nothing for her to do in Tching-Yen. She'll be able to spend all the holidays with her boys. And then she's got her father and mother in England."
It was all very simple and everything could be managed without scandal or ill-feeling. And then she and Charlie could marry. Kitty drew a long sigh. They would be very happy. It was worth going through a certain amount of bother to achieve that. Confusedly, one picture jostling another, she thought of the life they would lead together, of the fun they would have and the little journeys they would take together, the house they would live in, the positions he would rise to and the help she would be to him. He would be very proud of her and she, she adored him.
But through all these day-dreams ran a current of apprehension. It was funny: it was as though the wood and the strings of an orchestra played Arcadian melodies and in the bass the drums, softly but with foreboding, beat a grim tattoo. Sooner or later Walter must come home and her heart beat fast at the thought of meeting him. It was strange that he had gone away that afternoon without saying a word to her. Of course she was not frightened of him; after all what could he do, she repeated to herself; but she could not quite allay her uneasiness. Once more she repeated what she would say to him. What was the good of making a scene? She was very sorry, Heaven knew she didn't want to cause him pain, but she couldn't help it if she didn't love him. It was no good pretending and it was always better to tell the truth. She hoped he wouldn't be unhappy, but they had made a mistake and the only sensible thing was to acknowledge it. She would always think kindly of him.
But even as she said this to herself a sudden gust of fear made the sweat start out in the palms of her hands. And because she was frightened she grew angry with him. If he wanted to make a scene, that was his lookout; he must not be surprised if he got more than he bargained for. She would tell him that she had never cared two pins for him and that not a day had passed since their marriage without her regretting it. He was dull. Oh, how he'd bored her, bored her, bored her! He thought himself so much better than anyone else, it was laughable; he had no sense of humour; she hated his supercilious air, his coldness, and his self-control. It was easy to be self-controlled when you were interested in nothing and nobody but yourself. He was repulsive to her. She hated to let him kiss her. What had he to be so conceited about? He danced rottenly, he was a wet blanket at a party, he couldn't play or sing, he couldn't play polo and his tennis was no better than anybody else's. Bridge? Who cared about bridge?
Kitty worked herself up into a towering passion. Let him dare to reproach her. All that had happened was his own fault. She was thankful that he knew the truth at last. She hated him and wished never to see him again. Yes, she was thankful that it was all over. Why couldn't he leave her alone? He had pestered her into marrying him and now she was fed up.
"Fed up," she repeated aloud, trembling with anger. "Fed up! Fed up!"
She heard the car draw up to the gate of their garden. He was coming up the stairs.
He came into the room. Her heart was beating wildly and her hands were shaking; it was lucky that she lay on the sofa. She was holding an open book as though she had been reading. He stood for an instant on the threshold and their eyes met. Her heart sank; she felt on a sudden a cold chill pass through her limbs and she shivered. She had that feeling which you describe by saying that someone was walking over your grave. His face was deathly pale; she had seen it like that once before, when they sat together in the Park and he asked her to marry him. His dark eyes, immobile and inscrutable, seemed preternaturally large. He knew everything.
"You're back early," she remarked.
Her lips trembled so that she could hardly frame the words. She was terrified. She was afraid she would faint.
"I think it's about the usual time."
His voice sounded strange to her. It was raised on the last word in order to give his remark a casual air, but it was forced. She wondered if he saw that she was shaking in every limb. It was only by an effort that she did not scream. He dropped his eyes.
"I'm just going to dress."
He left the room. She was shattered. For two or three minutes she could not stir, but at last, raising herself from the sofa with difficulty, as though she had had an illness and were still weak, she found her feet. She did not know if her legs would support her. She felt her way by means of chairs and tables to the veranda and then with one hand on the wall went to her room. She put on a tea-gown and when she went back into her boudoir (they only used the drawing-room when there was a party) he was standing at a table looking at the pictures of theSketch. She had to force herself to enter.
"Shall we go down? Dinner is ready."
"Have I kept you waiting?"
It was dreadful that she could not control the trembling of her lips.
When was he going to speak?
They sat down and for a moment there was silence between them. Then he made a remark and because it was so commonplace it had a sinister air.
"TheEmpressdidn't come in to-day," he said. "I wonder if she's been delayed by a storm."
"Was she due to-day?"
"Yes."
She looked at him now and saw that his eyes were fixed on his plate. He made another observation, equally trivial, about a tennis tournament that was about to be played, and he spoke at length. His voice as a rule was agreeable, with a variety of tone, but now he spoke on one note. It was strangely unnatural. It gave Kitty the impression that he was speaking from a long way off. And all the time his eyes were directed to his plate, or the table, or to a picture on the wall. He would not meet hers. She realised that he could not bear to look at her.
"Shall we go upstairs?" he said when dinner was finished.
"If you like."
She rose and he held open the door for her. His eyes were cast down as she passed him. When they reached the sitting-room he took up the illustrated paper once more.
"Is this a newSketch? I don't think I've seen it."
"I don't know. I haven't noticed."
It had been lying about for a fortnight and she knew that he had looked it through and through. He took it and sat down. She lay again on the sofa and took her book. As a rule in the evening, when they were alone, they played coon-can or patience. He was leaning back in an arm-chair, in a comfortable attitude, and his attention seemed absorbed by the illustration he was looking at. He did not turn the page. She tried to read, but she could not see the print before her eyes. The words were blurred. Her head began to ache violently.
When would he speak?
They sat in silence for an hour. She gave up the pretence of reading, and letting her novel fall on her lap, gazed into space. She was afraid to make the smallest gesture or the smallest sound. He sat quite still, in that same easy attitude, and stared with those wide, immobile eyes of his at the picture. His stillness was strangely menacing. It gave Kitty the feeling of a wild beast prepared to spring.
When suddenly he stood up she started. She clenched her hands and she felt herself grow pale. Now!
"I have some work to do," he said in that quiet, toneless voice, his eyes averted. "If you don't mind I'll go into my study. I daresay you'll have gone to bed by the time I've finished."
"Iamrather tired to-night."
"Well, good night."
"Good night."
He left the room.
As soon as she could next morning she rang Townsend up at his office.
"Yes, what is it?"
"I want to see you."
"My dear, I'm awfully busy. I'm a working man."
"It's very important. Can I come down to the office?"
"Oh, no, I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Well, come here then."
"I can't possibly get away. What about this afternoon? And don't you think it would be better if I didn't come to your house?"
"I must see you at once."
There was a pause and she was afraid that she had been cut off.
"Are you there?" she asked anxiously.
"Yes, I was thinking. Has anything happened?"
"I can't tell you over the telephone."
There was another silence before he spoke again.
"Well, look here, I can manage to see you for ten minutes at one if that'll do. You'd better go to Ku-Chou's and I'll come along as soon as I can."
"The curio shop?" she asked in dismay.
"Well, we can't meet in the lounge at the Tching Yen Hotel very well," he answered.
She noticed a trace of irritation in his voice.
"Very well. I'll go to Ku-Chou's."
She got out of her rickshaw in the Victoria Road and walked up the steep, narrow lane till she came to the shop. She lingered outside a moment as though her attention were attracted by the bric-à-brac which was displayed. But a boy who was standing there on the watch for customers, recognising her at once, gave her a broad smile of connivance. He said something in Chinese to someone within and the master, a little, fat-faced man in a black gown, came out and greeted her. She walked in quickly.
"Mr. Townsend no come yet. You go top-side, yes?"
She went to the back of the shop and walked up the rickety, dark stairs. The Chinese followed her and unlocked the door that led into the bedroom. It was stuffy and there was an acrid smell of opium. She sat down on a sandalwood chest.
In a moment she heard a heavy step on the creaking stairs. Townsend came in and shut the door behind him. His face bore a sullen look, but as he saw her it vanished, and he smiled in that charming way of his. He took her quickly in his arms and kissed her lips.
"Now what's the trouble?"
"It makes me feel better just to see you," she smiled.
He sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette.
"You look rather washed out this morning."
"I don't wonder," she answered. "I don't think I closed my eyes all night."
He gave her a look. He was smiling still, but his smile was a little set and unnatural. She thought there was a shade of anxiety in his eyes.
"He knows," she said.
There was an instant's pause before he answered.
"What did he say?"
"He hasn't said anything."
"What!" He looked at her sharply. "What makes you think he knows then?"
"Everything. His look. The way he talked at dinner."
"Was he disagreeable?"
"No, on the contrary, he was scrupulously polite. For the first time since we married he didn't kiss me good night."
She dropped her eyes. She was not sure if Charlie understood. As a rule Walter took her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers and would not let them go. His whole body grew tender and passionate with his kiss.
"Why do you imagine he didn't say anything?"
"I don't know."
There was a pause. Kitty sat very still on the sandalwood box and looked with anxious attention at Townsend. His face once more was sullen and there was a frown between his brows. His mouth drooped a little at the corners. But all at once he looked up and a gleam of malicious amusement came into his eyes.
"I wonder if heisgoing to say anything."
She did not answer. She did not know what he meant.
"After all, he wouldn't be the first man who's shut his eyes in a case of this sort. What has he to gain by making a row? If he'd wanted to make a row he would have insisted on coming into your room." His eyes twinkled and his lips broke into a broad smile. "We should have looked a pair of damned fools."
"I wish you could have seen his face last night."
"I expect he was upset. It was naturally a shock. It's a damned humiliating position for any man. He always looks a fool. Walter doesn't give me the impression of a fellow who'd care to wash a lot of dirty linen in public."
"I don't think he would," she answered reflectively. "He's very sensitive, I've discovered that."
"That's all to the good as far as we're concerned. You know, it's a very good plan to put yourself in somebody else's shoes and ask yourself how you would act in his place. There's only one way in which a man can save his face when he's in that sort of position and that is to pretend he knows nothing. I bet you anything you like that that is exactly what he's going to do."
The more Townsend talked the more buoyant he became. His blue eyes sparkled and he was once more his gay and jovial self. He irradiated an encouraging confidence.
"Heaven knows, I don't want to say anything disagreeable about him, but when you come down to brass tacks a bacteriologist is no great shakes. The chances are that I shall be Colonial Secretary when Simmons goes home, and it's to Walter's interest to keep on the right side of me. He's got his bread and butter to think of, like the rest of us: do you think the Colonial Office are going to do much for a fellow who makes a scandal? Believe me, he's got everything to gain by holding his tongue and everything to lose by kicking up a row."
Kitty moved uneasily. She knew how shy Walter was and she could believe that the fear of a scene, and the dread of public attention, might have influence upon him; but she could not believe that he would be affected by the thought of a material advantage. Perhaps she didn't know him very well, but Charlie didn't know him at all.
"Has it occurred to you that he's madly in love with me?"
He did not answer, but he smiled at her with roguish eyes. She knew and loved that charming look of his.
"Well, what is it? I know you're going to say something awful."
"Well, you know, women are often under the impression that men are much more madly in love with them than they really are."
For the first time she laughed. His confidence was catching.
"What a monstrous thing to say!"
"I put it to you that you haven't been bothering much about your husband lately. Perhaps he isn't quite so much in love with you as he was."
"At all events I shall never delude myself thatyouare madly in love with me," she retorted.
"That's where you're wrong."
Ah, how good it was to hear him say that! She knew it and her belief in his passion warmed her heart. As he spoke he rose from the bed and came and sat down beside her on the sandalwood box. He put his arm round her waist.
"Don't worry your silly little head a moment longer," he said. "I promise you there's nothing to fear. I'm as certain as I am of anything that he's going to pretend he knows nothing. You know, this sort of thing is awfully difficult to prove. You say he's in love with you; perhaps he doesn't want to lose you altogether. I swear I'd accept anything rather than that if you were my wife."
She leaned towards him. Her body became limp and yielding against his arm. The love she felt for him was almost torture. His last words had struck her: perhaps Walter loved her so passionately that he was prepared to accept any humiliation if sometimes she would let him love her. She could understand that; for that was how she felt towards Charlie. A thrill of pride passed through her, and at the same time a faint sensation of contempt for a man who could love so slavishly.
She put her arm lovingly round Charlie's neck.
"You're simply wonderful. I was shaking like a leaf when I came here and you've made everything all right."
He took her face in his hand and kissed her lips.
"Darling."
"You're such a comfort to me," she sighed.
"I'm sure you need not be nervous. And you know I'll stand by you. I won't let you down."
She put away her fears, but for an instant unreasonably she regretted that her plans for the future were shattered. Now that all danger was past she almost wished that Walter were going to insist on a divorce.
"I knew I could count on you," she said.
"So I should hope."
"Oughtn't you to go and have your tiffin?"
"Oh, damn my tiffin."
He drew her more closely to him and now she was held tight in his arms. His mouth sought hers.
"Oh, Charlie, you must let me go."
"Never."
She gave a little laugh, a laugh of happy love and of triumph; his eyes were heavy with desire. He lifted her to her feet and not letting her go but holding her close to his breast he locked the door.
All through the afternoon she thought of what Charlie had said about Walter. They were dining out that evening and when he came back from the Club she was dressing. He knocked at her door.
"Come in."
He did not open.
"I'm going straight along to dress. How long will you be?"
"Ten minutes."
He said nothing more, but went to his own room. His voice had that constrained note which she had heard in it the night before. She felt fairly sure of herself now. She was ready before he was and when he came downstairs she was already seated in the car.
"I'm afraid I've kept you waiting," he said.
"I shall survive it," she replied, and she was able to smile as she spoke.
She made an observation or two as they drove down the hill, but he answered curtly. She shrugged her shoulders; she was growing a trifle impatient: if he wanted to sulk, let him, she didn't care. They drove in silence till they reached their destination. It was a large dinner party. There were too many people and too many courses. While Kitty chatted gaily with her neighbours she watched Walter. He was deathly pale and his face was pinched.
"Your husband is looking rather washed out. I thought he didn't mind the heat. Has he been working very hard?"
"He always works hard."
"I suppose you're going away soon?"
"Oh, yes, I think I shall go to Japan as I did last year," she said. "The doctor says I must get out of the heat if I don't want to go all to pieces."
Walter did not as usual when they were dining out give her a little smiling glance now and then. He never looked at her. She had noticed that when he came down to the car he kept his eyes averted, and he did the same when, with his usual politeness, he gave her his hand to alight. Now, talking with the women on either side of him, he did not smile, but looked at them with steady and unblinking eyes; and really his eyes looked enormous and in that pale face coal black. His face was set and stern.
"He must be an agreeable companion," thought Kitty ironically.
The idea of those unfortunate ladies trying to indulge in small talk with that grim mask not a little diverted her.
Of course he knew; there was no doubt about that, and he was furious with her. Why hadn't he said anything? Was it really because, though angry and hurt, he loved her as much that he was afraid she would leave him. The thought made her ever so slightly despise him, but good-naturedly: after all, he was her husband and he provided her with board and lodging; so long as he didn't interfere with her and let her do as she liked she would be quite nice to him. On the other hand, perhaps his silence was due merely to a morbid timidity. Charlie was right when he said that no one would hate a scandal more than Walter. He never made a speech if he could help it. He had told her once that when he was subpœnaed as a witness on a case where he was to give expert evidence he had hardly slept for a week before. His shyness was a disease.
And there was another thing: men were very vain, and so long as no one knew what had happened it might be that Walter would be content to ignore it. Then she wondered whether by any possibility Charlie was right when he suggested that Walter knew which side his bread was buttered. Charlie was the most popular man in the Colony and soon would be Colonial Secretary. He could be very useful to Walter; on the other hand he could make himself very unpleasant if Walter put his back up. Her heart exulted as she thought of her lover's strength and determination; she felt so defenceless in his virile arms. Men were strange: it would never have occurred to her that Walter was capable of such baseness, and yet you never knew; perhaps his seriousness was merely a mask for a mean and pettifogging nature. The more she considered it the more likely it seemed that Charlie was right; and she turned her glance once more on her husband. There was no indulgence in it.
It happened that just then the women on either side of him were talking with their neighbours and he was left alone. He was staring straight in front of him, forgetful of the party, and his eyes were filled with a mortal sadness. It gave Kitty a shock.
Next day when she was lying down after luncheon dozing, she was aroused by a knock at her door.
"Who is it?" she cried irritably.
At that hour she was unaccustomed to be disturbed.
"I."
She recognized her husband's voice and she sat up quickly.
"Come in."
"Did I wake you?" he asked as he entered.
"In point of fact you did," she answered in the natural tone she had adopted with him for the last two days.
"Will you come into the next room? I want to have a little talk with you."
Her heart gave a sudden beat against her ribs.
"I'll put on a dressing-gown."
He left her. She slipped her bare feet into mules and wrapped herself in a kimono. She looked in the glass; she was very pale and she put on some rouge. She stood at the door for a moment, nerving herself for the interview, and then with a bold face joined him.
"How did you manage to get away from the Laboratory at this hour?" she said. "I don't often see you at this sort of time."
"Won't you sit down?"
He did not look at her. He spoke gravely. She was glad to do as he asked: her knees were a little shaky, and unable to continue in that jocular tone she kept silent. He sat also and lit a cigarette. His eyes wandered restlessly about the room. He seemed to have some difficulty in starting.
Suddenly he looked full at her; and because he had held his eyes so long averted, his direct gaze gave her such a fright that she smothered a cry.
"Have you ever heard of Mei-tan-fu?" he asked. "There's been a good deal about it in the papers lately."
She stared at him in astonishment. She hesitated.
"Is that the place where there's cholera? Mr. Arbuthnot was talking about it last night."
"There's an epidemic. I believe it's the worst they've had for years. There was a medical missionary there. He died of cholera three days ago. There's a French convent there and of course there's the Customs man. Everyone else has got out."
His eyes were still fixed on her and she could not lower hers. She tried to read his expression, but she was nervous, and she could only discern a strange watchfulness. How could he look so steadily? He did not even blink.
"The French nuns are doing what they can. They've turned the orphanage into a hospital. But the people are dying like flies. I've offered to go and take charge."
"You?"
She started violently. Her first thought was that if he went she would be free and without let or hindrance could see Charlie. But the thought shocked her. She felt herself go scarlet. Why did he watch her like that? She looked away in embarrassment.
"Is that necessary?" she faltered.
"There's not a foreign doctor in the place."
"But you're not a doctor, you're a bacteriologist."
"I am an M.D., you know, and before I specialised I did a good deal of general work in a hospital. The fact that I'm first and foremost a bacteriologist is all to the good. It will be an admirable chance for research work."
He spoke almost flippantly and when she glanced at him she was surprised to see in his eyes a gleam of mockery. She could not understand.
"But won't it be awfully dangerous?"
"Awfully."
He smiled. It was a derisive grimace. She leaned her forehead on her hand. Suicide. It was nothing short of that. Dreadful! She had not thought he would take it like that. She couldn't let him do that. It was cruel. It was not her fault if she did not love him. She couldn't bear the thought that he should kill himself for her sake. Tears flowed softly down her cheeks.
"What are you crying for?"
His voice was cold.
"You're not obliged to go, are you?"
"No, I go of my own free will."
"Please don't, Walter. It would be too awful if something happened. Supposing you died?"
Though his face remained impassive the shadow of a smile once more crossed his eyes. He did not answer.
"Where is this place?" she asked after a pause.
"Mei-tan-fu? It's on a tributary of the Western River. We should go up the Western River and then by chair."
"Who is we?"
"You and I."
She looked at him quickly. She thought she had heard amiss. But now the smile in his eyes had travelled to his lips. His dark eyes were fixed on her.
"Are you expecting me to come too?"
"I thought you'd like to."
Her breath began to come very fast. A shudder passed through her.
"But surely it's no place for a woman. The missionary sent his wife and children down weeks ago and the A. P. C. man and his wife came down. I met her at a tea-party. I've just remembered that she said they left some place on account of cholera."
"There are five French nuns there."
Panic seized her.
"I don't know what you mean. It would be madness for me to go. You know how delicate I am. Dr. Hayward said I must get out of Tching-Yen on account of the heat. I could never stand the heat up there. And cholera. I should be frightened out of my wits. It's just asking for trouble. There's no reason for me to go. I should die."
He did not answer. She looked at him in her desperation and she could hardly restrain a cry. His face had a sort of black pallor which suddenly terrified her. She saw in it a look of hatred. Was it possible that he wanted her to die? She answered her own outrageous thought.
"It's absurd. If you think you ought to go it's your own lookout. But really you can't expect me to. I hate illness. A cholera epidemic. I don't pretend to be very brave and I don't mind telling you that I haven't pluck for that. I shall stay here until it's time for me to go to Japan."
"I should have thought that you would want to accompany me when I am about to set out on a dangerous expedition."
He was openly mocking her now. She was confused. She did not quite know whether he meant what he said or was merely trying to frighten her.
"I don't think anyone could reasonably blame me for refusing to go to a dangerous place where I had no business or where I could be of no use."
"You could be of the greatest use; you could cheer and comfort me."
She grew even a little paler.
"I don't understand what you're talking about."
"I shouldn't have thought it needed more than average intelligence."
"I'm not going, Walter. It's monstrous to ask me."
"Then I shall not go either. I shall immediately file my petition."
She looked at him blankly. What he said was so unexpected that at the first moment she could hardly gather its sense.
"What on earth are you talking about?" she faltered.
Even to herself her reply rang false, and she saw the look of disdain which it called forth on Walter's stern face.
"I'm afraid you've thought me a bigger fool than I am."
She did not quite know what to say. She was undecided whether indignantly to assert her innocence or to break out into angry reproaches. He seemed to read her thoughts.
"I've got all the proof necessary."
She began to cry. The tears flowed from her eyes without any particular anguish and she did not dry them: to weep gave her a little time to collect herself. But her mind was blank. He watched her without concern, and his calmness frightened her. He grew impatient.
"You're not going to do much good by crying, you know."
His voice, so cold and hard, had the effect of exciting in her a certain indignation. She was recovering her nerve.
"I don't care. I suppose you have no objection to my divorcing you. It means nothing to a man."
"Will you allow me to ask why I should put myself to the smallest inconvenience on your account?"
"It can't make any difference to you. It's not much to ask you to behave like a gentleman."
"I have much too great a regard for your welfare."
She sat up now and dried her eyes.
"Whatdoyou mean?" she asked him.
"Townsend will marry you only if he is correspondent and the case is so shameless that his wife is forced to divorce him."
"You don't know what you're talking about," she cried.
"You stupid fool."
His tone was so contemptuous that she flushed with anger. And perhaps her anger was greater because she had never before heard him say to her any but sweet, flattering and delightful things. She had been accustomed to find him subservient to all her whims.
"If you want the truth you can have it. He's only too anxious to marry me. Dorothy Townsend is perfectly willing to divorce him and we shall be married the moment we're free."
"Did he tell you that in so many words or is that the impression you have gained from his manner?"
Walter's eyes shone with bitter mockery. They made Kitty a trifle uneasy. She was not quite sure that Charlie had ever said exactly that in so many words.
"He's said it over and over again."
"That's a lie and you know it's a lie."
"He loves me with all his heart and soul. He loves me as passionately as I love him. You've found out. I'm not going to deny anything. Why should I? We've been lovers for a year and I'm proud of it. He means everything in the world to me and I'm glad that you know at last. We're sick to death of secrecy and compromise and all the rest of it. It was a mistake that I ever married you, I never should have done it, I was a fool. I never cared for you. We never had anything in common. I don't like the people you like and I'm bored by the things that interest you. I'm thankful it's finished."
He watched her without a gesture and without a movement of his face. He listened attentively and no change in his expression showed that what she said affected him.
"Do you know why I married you?"
"Because you wanted to be married before your sister Doris."
It was true, but it gave her a funny little turn to realise that he knew it. Oddly enough, even in that moment of fear and anger, it excited her compassion. He faintly smiled.
"I had no illusions about you," he said. "I knew you were silly and frivolous and empty-headed. But I loved you. I knew that your aims and ideals were vulgar and commonplace. But I loved you. I knew that you were second-rate. But I loved you. It's comic when I think how hard I tried to be amused by the things that amused you and how anxious I was to hide from you that I wasn't ignorant and vulgar and scandal-mongering and stupid. I knew how frightened you were of intelligence and I did everything I could to make you think me as big a fool as the rest of the men you knew. I knew that you'd only married me for convenience. I loved you so much, I didn't care. Most people, as far as I can see, when they're in love with someone and the love isn't returned feel that they have a grievance. They grow angry and bitter. I wasn't like that. I never expected you to love me, I didn't see any reason that you should, I never thought myself very lovable. I was thankful to be allowed to love you and I was enraptured when now and then I thought you were pleased with me or when I noticed in your eyes a gleam of good-humoured affection. I tried not to bore you with my love; I knew I couldn't afford to do that and I was always on the lookout for the first sign that you were impatient with my affection. What most husbands expect as a right I was prepared to receive as a favour."
Kitty, accustomed to flattery all her life, had never heard such things said to her before. Blind wrath, driving out fear, arose in her heart: it seemed to choke her, and she felt the blood-vessels in her temples swell and throb. Wounded vanity can make a woman more vindictive than a lioness robbed of her cubs. Kitty's jaw, always a little too square, protruded with an apish hideousness and her beautiful eyes were black with malice. But she kept her temper in check.
"If a man hasn't what's necessary to make a woman love him, it's his fault, not hers."
"Evidently."
His derisive tone increased her irritation. She felt that she could wound him more by maintaining her calm.
"I'm not very well educated and I'm not very clever. I'm just a perfectly ordinary young woman. I like the things that the people like among whom I've lived all my life. I like dancing and tennis and theatres and I like the men who play games. It's quite true that I've always been bored by you and by the things you like. They mean nothing to me and I don't want them to. You dragged me round those interminable galleries in Venice: I should have enjoyed myself much more playing golf at Sandwich."
"I know."
"I'm sorry if I haven't been all that you expected me to be. Unfortunately I always found you physically repulsive. You can hardly blame me for that."
"I don't."
Kitty could more easily have coped with the situation if he had raved and stormed. She could have met violence with violence. His self-control was inhuman and she hated him now as she had never hated him before.
"I don't think you're a man at all. Why didn't you break into the room when you knew I was there with Charlie? You might at least have tried to thrash him. Were you afraid?"
But the moment she had said this she flushed, for she was ashamed. He did not answer, but in his eyes she read an icy disdain. The shadow of a smile flickered on his lips.
"It may be that, like a historical character, I am too proud to fight."
Kitty, unable to think of anything to answer, shrugged her shoulders. For a moment longer he held her in his immobile gaze.
"I think I've said all I had to say: if you refuse to come to Mei-tan-fu I shall file my petition."
"Why won't you consent to let me divorce you?"
He took his eyes off her at last. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. He smoked it to the end without saying a word. Then, throwing away the butt, he gave a little smile. He looked at her once more.
"If Mrs. Townsend will give me her assurance that she will divorce her husband and if he will give me his written promise to marry you within a week of the two decrees being made absolute, I will do that."
There was something in the way he spoke which disconcerted her. But her self-respect obliged her to accept his offer in the grand manner.
"That is very generous of you, Walter."
To her astonishment he burst suddenly into a shout of laughter. She flushed angrily.
"What are you laughing at? I see nothing to laugh at."
"I beg your pardon. I daresay my sense of humour is peculiar."
She looked at him, frowning. She would have liked to say something bitter and wounding, but no rejoinder occurred to her. He looked at his watch.
"You had better look sharp if you want to catch Townsend at his office. If you decide to come with me to Mei-tan-fu it would be necessary to start the day after to-morrow."
"Do you want me to tell him to-day?"
"They say there is no time like the present."
Her heart began to beat a little faster. It was not uneasiness that she felt, it was, she didn't quite know what it was. She wished she could have had a little longer; she would have liked to prepare Charlie. But she had the fullest confidence in him, he loved her as much as she loved him, and it was treacherous even to let the thought cross her mind that he would not welcome the necessity that was forced upon them. She turned to Walter gravely.
"I don't think you know what love is. You can have no conception how desperately in love Charlie and I are with one another. It really is the only thing that matters and every sacrifice that our love calls for will be as easy as falling off a log."
He gave a little bow, but said nothing, and his eyes followed her as she walked with measured step from the room.
She sent in a little note to Charlie on which she had written: "Please see me. It is urgent." A Chinese boy asked her to wait and brought the answer that Mr. Townsend would see her in five minutes. She was unaccountably nervous. When at last she was ushered into his room Charlie came forward to shake hands with her, but the moment the boy, having closed the door, left them alone he dropped the affable formality of his manner.
"I say, my dear, you really mustn't come here in working hours. I've got an awful lot to do and we don't want to give people a chance to gossip."
She gave him a long look with those beautiful eyes of hers and tried to smile, but her lips were stiff and she could not.
"I wouldn't have come unless it was necessary."
He smiled and took her arm.
"Well, since you're here come and sit down."
It was a long bare room, narrow, with a high ceiling; its walls were painted in two shades of terra cotta. The only furniture consisted of a large desk, a revolving chair for Townsend to sit in and a leather arm-chair for visitors. It intimidated Kitty to sit in this. He sat at the desk. She had never seen him in spectacles before; she did not know that he used them. When he noticed that her eyes were on them he took them off.
"I only use them for reading," he said.
Her tears came easily and now, she hardly knew why, she began to cry. She had no deliberate intention of deceiving, but rather an instinctive desire to excite his sympathy. He looked at her blankly.
"Is anything the matter? Oh, my dear, don't cry."
She took out her handkerchief and tried to check her sobs. He rang the bell and when the boy came to the door went to it.
"If anyone asks for me say I'm out."
"Very good, sir."
The boy closed the door. Charlie sat on the arm of the chair and put his arm round Kitty's shoulders.
"Now, Kitty dear, tell me all about it."
"Walter wants a divorce," she said.
She felt the pressure of his arm on her shoulder cease. His body stiffened. There was a moment's silence, then Townsend rose from her chair and sat down once more in his.
"What exactly do you mean?" he said.
She looked at him quickly, for his voice was hoarse, and she saw that his face was dully red.
"I've had a talk with him. I've come straight from the house now. He says he has all the proof he wants."
"You didn't commit yourself, did you? You didn't acknowledge anything?"
Her heart sank.
"No," she answered.
"Are you quite sure?" he asked, looking at her sharply.
"Quite sure," she lied again.
He leaned back in his chair and stared vacantly at the map of China which was hanging on the wall in front of him. She watched him anxiously. She was somewhat disconcerted at the manner in which he had received the news. She had expected him to take her in his arms and tell her he was thankful, for now they could be together always; but of course men were funny. She was crying softly, not now to arouse sympathy, but because it seemed the natural thing to do.
"This is a bloody mess we've got into," he said at length. "But it's no good losing our heads. Crying isn't going to do us any good, you know."
She noticed the irritation in his voice and dried her eyes.
"It's not my fault, Charlie. I couldn't help it."
"Of course you couldn't. It was just damned bad luck. I was just as much to blame as you were. The thing to do now is to see how we're going to get out of it. I don't suppose you want to be divorced any more than I do."
She smothered a gasp. She gave him a searching look. He was not thinking of her at all.
"I wonder what his proofs really are. I don't know how he can actually prove that we were together in that room. On the whole we've been about as careful as anyone could be. I'm sure that old fellow at the curio shop wouldn't have given us away. Even if he'd seen us go in there's no reason why we shouldn't hunt curios together."
He was talking to himself rather than to her.
"It's easy enough to bring charges, but it's damned difficult to prove them; any lawyer will tell you that. Our line is to deny everything, and if he threatens to bring an action we'll tell him to go to hell and we'll fight it."
"I couldn't go into court, Charlie."
"Why on earth not? I'm afraid you'll have to. God knows, I don't want a row, but we can't take it lying down."
"Why need we defend it?"
"What a question to ask! After all, it's not only you that are concerned, I'm concerned too. But as a matter of fact I don't think you need be afraid of that. We shall be able to square your husband somehow. The only thing that worries me is the best way to set about it."
It looked as though an idea occurred to him, for he turned towards her with his charming smile and his tone, a moment before abrupt and business-like, became ingratiating.
"I'm afraid you've been awfully upset, poor little woman. It's too bad." He stretched out his hand and took hers. "It's a scrape we've got into, but we shall get out of it. It's not . . ." He stopped and Kitty had a suspicion that he had been about to say that it was not the first he had got out of. "The great thing is to keep our heads. You know I shall never let you down."
"I'm not frightened. I don't care what he does."
He smiled still, but perhaps his smile was a trifle forced.
"If the worst comes to the worst I shall have to tell the Governor. He'll curse me like hell, but he's a good fellow and a man of the world. He'll fix it up somehow. It wouldn't do him any good if there was a scandal."
"What can he do?" asked Kitty.
"He can bring pressure to bear on Walter. If he can't get at him through his ambition he'll get at him through his sense of duty."
Kitty was a little chilled. She did not seem able to make Charlie see how desperately grave the situation was. His airiness made her impatient. She was sorry that she had come to see him in his office. The surroundings intimidated her. It would have been much easier to say what she wanted if she could have been in his arms with hers round his neck.
"You don't know Walter," she said.
"I know that every man has his price."
She loved Charlie with all her heart, but his reply disconcerted her; for such a clever man it was a stupid thing to say.
"I don't think you realise how angry Walter is. You haven't seen his face and the look of his eyes."
He did not reply for a moment, but looked at her with a slight smile. She knew what he was thinking. Walter was the bacteriologist and occupied a subordinate position; he would hardly have the impudence to make himself a nuisance to the upper officials of the Colony.
"It's no good deceiving yourself, Charlie," she said earnestly. "If Walter has made up his mind to bring an action nothing that you or anybody else can say will have the slightest influence."
His face once more grew heavy and sulky.
"Is it his idea to make me co-respondent?"
"At first it was. At last I managed to get him to consent to let me divorce him."
"Oh, well, that's not so terrible." His manner relaxed again and she saw the relief in his eyes. "That seems to me a very good way out. After all, it's the least a man can do, it's the only decent thing."
"But he makes a condition."
He gave her an inquiring glance and he seemed to reflect.
"Of course I'm not a very rich man, but I'll do anything in my power."
Kitty was silent. Charlie was saying things which she would never have expected him to say. And they made it difficult for her to speak. She had expected to blurt it out in one breath, held in his loving arms, with her burning face hid on his breast.
"He agrees to my divorcing him if your wife will give him the assurance that she will divorce you."
"Anything else?"
Kitty could hardly find her voice.
"And—it's awfully hard to say, Charlie, it sounds dreadful—if you'll promise to marry me within a week of the decrees being made absolute."
For a moment he was silent. Then he took her hand again and pressed it gently.
"You know, darling," he said, "whatever happens we must keep Dorothy out of this."
She looked at him blankly.
"But I don't understand. How can we?"
"Well, we can't only think of ourselves in this world. You know, other things being equal, there's nothing in the world I'd love more than to marry you. But it's quite out of the question. I know Dorothy: nothing would induce her to divorce me."
Kitty was becoming horribly frightened. She began to cry again. He got up and sat down beside her with his arm round her waist.
"Try not to upset yourself, darling. Wemustkeep our heads."
"I thought you loved me . . ."
"Of course I love you," he said tenderly. "You surely can't have any doubt of that now."
"If she won't divorce you Walter will make you co-respondent."
He took an appreciable time to answer. His tone was dry.
"Of course that would ruin my career, but I'm afraid it wouldn't do you much good. If the worst came to the worst I should make a clean breast of it to Dorothy; she'd be dreadfully hurt and wretched, but she'd forgive me." He had an idea. "I'm not sure if the best plan wouldn't be to make a clean breast of it anyhow. If she went to your husband I daresay she could persuade him to hold his tongue."
"Does that mean you don't want her to divorce you?"
"Well, I have got my boys to think of, haven't I? And naturally I don't want to make her unhappy. We've always got on very well together. She's been an awfully good wife to me, you know."
"Why did you tell me that she meant nothing to you?"
"I never did. I said I wasn't in love with her. We haven't slept together for years except now and then, on Christmas Day for instance, or the day before she was going home or the day she came back. She isn't a woman who cares for that sort of thing. But we've always been excellent friends. I don't mind telling you that I depend on her more than anyone has any idea of."
"Don't you think it would have been better to leave me alone then?"
She found it strange that with terror catching her breath she could speak so calmly.
"You were the loveliest little thing I'd seen for years. I just fell madly in love with you. You can't blame me for that."
"After all, you said you'd never let me down."
"But, good God, I'm not going to let you down. We've got in an awful scrape and I'm going to do everything that's humanly possible to get you out of it."
"Except the one obvious and natural thing."
He stood up and returned to his own chair.
"My dear, you must be reasonable. We'd much better face the situation frankly. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but really I must tell you the truth. I'm very keen on my career. There's no reason why I shouldn't be a Governor one of these days, and it's a damned soft job to be a Colonial Governor. Unless we can hush this up I don't stand a dog's chance. I may not have to leave the service, but there'll always be a black mark against me. If I do have to leave the service then I must go into business in China, where I know people. In either case my only chance is for Dorothy to stick to me."
"Was it necessary to tell me that you wanted nothing in the world but me?"
The corners of his mouth drooped peevishly.
"Oh, my dear, it's rather hard to take quite literally the things a man says when he's in love with you."
"Didn't you mean them?"
"At the moment."
"And what's to happen to me if Walter divorces me?"
"If we really haven't a leg to stand on of course we won't defend. There shouldn't be any publicity and people are pretty broad-minded nowadays."
For the first time Kitty thought of her mother. She shivered. She looked again at Townsend. Her pain now was tinged with resentment.
"I'm sure you'd have no difficulty in bearing any inconvenience that I had to suffer," she said.
"We're not going to get much further by saying disagreeable things to one another," he answered.
She gave a cry of despair. It was dreadful that she should love him so devotedly and yet feel such bitterness towards him. It was not possible that he understood how much he meant to her.
"Oh, Charlie, don't you know how I love you?"
"But, my dear, I love you. Only we're not living in a desert island and we've got to make the best we can out of the circumstances that are forced upon us. You really must be reasonable."
"How can I be reasonable? To me our love was everything and you were my whole life. It is not very pleasant to realise that to you it was only an episode."
"Of course it wasn't an episode. But you know, when you ask me to get my wife, to whom I'm very much attached, to divorce me, and ruin my career by marrying you, you're asking a good deal."
"No more than I'm willing to do for you."
"The circumstances are rather different."
"The only difference is that you don't love me."
"One can be very much in love with a woman without wishing to spend the rest of one's life with her."
She gave him a quick look and despair seized her. Heavy tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Oh, how cruel! How can you be so heartless?"
She began to sob hysterically. He gave an anxious glance at the door.
"My dear, do try and control yourself."
"You don't know how I love you," she gasped. "I can't live without you. Have you no pity for me?"
She could not speak any more. She wept without restraint.
"I don't want to be unkind and, Heaven knows, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I must tell you the truth."
"It's the ruin of my whole life. Why couldn't you leave me alone? What harm had I ever done you?"
"Of course if it does you any good to put all the blame on me you may."
Kitty blazed with sudden anger.
"I suppose I threw myself at your head. I suppose I gave you no peace till you yielded to my entreaties."
"I don't say that. But I certainly should never have thought of making love to you if you hadn't made it perfectly clear that you were ready to be made love to."
Oh, the shame of it! She knew that what he said was true. His face now was sullen and worried and his hands moved uneasily. Every now and then he gave her a little glance of exasperation.
"Won't your husband forgive you?" he said after a while.
"I never asked him."
Instinctively he clenched his hands. She saw him suppress the exclamation of annoyance which came to his lips.
"Why don't you go to him and throw yourself on his mercy? If he's as much in love with you as you say he's bound to forgive you."
"How little you know him!"
She wiped her eyes. She tried to pull herself together.
"Charlie, if you desert me I shall die."
She was driven now to appeal to his compassion. She ought to have told him at once. When he knew the horrible alternative that was placed before her his generosity, his sense of justice, his manliness, would be so vehemently aroused that he would think of nothing but her danger. Oh, how passionately she desired to feel his dear, protecting arms around her!
"Walter wants me to go to Mei-tan-fu."
"Oh, but that's the place where the cholera is. They've got the worst epidemic that they've had for fifty years. It's no place for a woman. You can't possibly go there."
"If you let me down I shall have to."
"What do you mean? I don't understand."
"Walter is taking the place of the missionary doctor who died. He wants me to go with him."
"When?"
"Now. At once."
Townsend pushed back his chair and looked at her with puzzled eyes.
"I may be very stupid, but I can't make head or tail out of what you're saying. If he wants you to go to this place with him, what about a divorce?"
"He's given me my choice. I must either go to Mei-tan-fu or else he'll bring an action."
"Oh, I see." Townsend's tone changed ever so slightly. "I think that's rather decent of him, don't you?"
"Decent?"
"Well, it's a damned sporting thing of him to go there. It's not a thing I'd fancy. Of course he'll get a C.M.G. for it when he comes back."
"But me, Charlie?" she cried, with anguish in her voice.
"Well, I think if he wants you to go, under the circumstances I don't see how you can very well refuse."
"It means death. Absolutely certain death."
"Oh, damn it all, that's rather an exaggeration. He would hardly take you if he thought that. It's no more risk for you than for him. In point of fact there's no great risk if you're careful. I've been here when there's been cholera and I haven't turned a hair. The great thing is not to eat anything uncooked, no raw fruit or salads, or anything like that, and see that your drinking water is boiled." He was gaining confidence as he proceeded, and his speech was fluent; he was even becoming less sullen and more alert; he was almost breezy. "After all, it's his job, isn't it? He's interested in bugs. It's rather a chance for him if you come to think of it."
"But me, Charlie?" she repeated, not with anguish now, but with consternation.
"Well, the best way to understand a man is to put yourself in his shoes. From his point of view you've been rather a naughty little thing and he wants to get you out of harm's way. I always thought he never wanted to divorce you, he doesn't strike me as that sort of chap; but he made what he thought was a very generous offer and you put his back up by turning it down. I don't want to blame you, but really for all our sakes I think you ought to have given it a little consideration."
"But don't you see it'll kill me? Don't you know that he's taking me there because heknowsit'll kill me."
"Oh, my dear, don't talk like that. We're in a damned awkward position and really it's no time to be melodramatic."
"You've made up your mind not to understand." Oh, the pain in her heart, and the fear! She could have screamed. "You can't send me to certain death. If you have no love or pity for me you must have just ordinary human feeling."
"I think it's rather hard on me to put it like that. As far as I can make out your husband is behaving very generously. He's willing to forgive you if you'll let him. He wants to get you away and this opportunity has presented itself to take you to some place where for a few months you'll be out of harm's way. I don't pretend that Mei-tan-fu is a health resort, I never knew a Chinese city that was, but there's no reason to get the wind up about it. In fact that's the worst thing you can do. I believe as many people die from sheer fright in an epidemic as because they get infected."
"But I'm frightened now. When Walter spoke of it I almost fainted."
"At the first moment I can quite believe it was a shock, but when you come to look at it calmly you'll be all right. It'll be the sort of experience that not everyone has had."
"I thought, I thought . . ."
She rocked to and fro in an agony. He did not speak, and once more his face wore that sullen look which till lately she had never known. Kitty was not crying now. She was dry-eyed, calm, and though her voice was low it was steady.
"Do you want me to go?"
"It's Hobson's choice, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"It's only fair to you to tell you that if your husband brought an action for divorce and won it I should not be in a position to marry you."
It must have seemed an age to him before she answered. She rose slowly to her feet.
"I don't think that my husband ever thought of bringing an action."
"Then why in God's name have you been frightening me out of my wits?" he asked.
She looked at him coolly.
"He knew that you'd let me down."
She was silent. Vaguely, as when you are studying a foreign language and read a page which at first you can make nothing of, till a word or a sentence gives you a clue; and on a sudden a suspicion, as it were, of the sense flashes across your troubled wits, vaguely she gained an inkling into the workings of Walter's mind. It was like a dark and ominous landscape seen by a flash of lightning and in a moment hidden again by the night. She shuddered at what she saw.
"He made that threat only because he knew that you'd crumple up at it, Charlie. It's strange that he should have judged you so accurately. It was just like him to expose me to such a cruel disillusion."
Charlie looked down at the sheet of blotting paper in front of him. He was frowning a little and his mouth was sulky. But he did not reply.