by A. J. Cronin
She broke off, gazing again, remote and troubled, through the window.
Father Chisholm soon perceived that the two under Sisters went out of their way to avoid him.
Clotilde was not yet thirty, flat-bosomed and delicate, with bloodless lips and a nervous smile. She was very devout and when she prayed, with her head inclined to one side, tears would gush from her pale green eyes. Martha was a different person: past forty, stocky and strong, a peasant type, dark-complexioned and with a net of wrinkles round her eyes. Bustling and outspoken, a trifle coarse in manner, she looked as though she would be immediately at home in a kitchen or a farmyard.
When by chance he met them in the garden the Belgian sister would drop a quick curtsey while Clotilde’s sallow face flushed nervously as she smiled and fluttered on. He knew himself to be the subject of their whisperings. He had the impulse, often, to stop them violently. ‘Don’t be so scared of me. We’ve made a stupid beginning. But I’m a much better fellow than I look.’
He restrained himself. He had no grounds whatsoever for complaint. Their work was executed scrupulously, with minute perfection of purpose. New altar linen, exquisitely stitched, appeared in the sacristy; and an embroidered stole which must have taken days of patient labour. Bandages and dressings, rolled, cut to all sizes, filled the store-cupboard in the surgery.
The children had come and were comfortably housed in the big ground-floor dormitory of the Sisters’ house. And presently the schoolroom hummed with little voices, or with the chanted rhythm of a much-repeated lesson. He would stand outside, open breviary in hand, sheltered by the bushes, listening. It meant so much to him, this tiny school, he had so joyfully anticipated its opening. Now he rarely went in; and never without a sense of intrusion. He withdrew into himself, accepting the situation with a sombre logic. It was very simple. Mother Maria-Veronica was a good woman, fine, fastidious, devoted to her work. Yet from the first she had conceived a natural aversion to him. Such things cannot be overcome. After all, he was not a prepossessing character, he had been right when he judged himself no squire of dames. It had a sad disappointment, nevertheless.
The dispensary brought them together on three afternoons each week when, for four hours at a stretch, Maria-Veronica worked close beside him. He could see that she was interested, often so deeply as to forget her aversion. Though they spoke little he had on such occasions a strange sense of comradeship with her.
One day, a month after her arrival, as he finished dressing a severe whitlow, she exclaimed, involuntarily: ‘You would have made a surgeon.’
He flushed. ‘I’ve always liked working with my hands.’
‘That is because you are clever with them.’
He was ridiculously pleased. Her manner was friendlier than it had ever been. At the end of the clinic, as he put away his simple medicines, she gazed at him questioningly. ‘ I’ve been meaning to ask you … Sister Clotilde has had too much to do lately, preparing the children’s meals with Martha in the kitchen. She isn’t strong and I’m afraid it is too much for her. If you have no objection I would like to get some help.’
‘But of course.’ He agreed at once – even happier that she should have asked permission. ‘ Shall I find you a servant?’
‘No thank you. I already have a good couple in mind!’
Next morning when crossing the compound, he observed on the convent balcony, airing and brushing the matting, the unmistakable figures of Hosannah and Philomena Wang. He stopped short, his face darkening, then he took immediate steps towards the Sisters’ house.
He found Maria-Veronica in the linen room checking over the sheets. He spoke hurriedly: ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. But – these new servants – I’m afraid you won’t find them satisfactory.’
She turned slowly from the cupboard, sudden displeasure in her face. ‘Surely I am the best judge of that?’
‘I don’t want you to think I’m interfering. But I’m bound to warn you that they are far from reliable characters.’
Her lip curled. ‘ Is that your Christian charity?’
He paled. She was placing him in a horrible postion. But he went on determinedly. ‘I am obliged to be practical. I am thinking of the mission. And of you.’
‘Please do not trouble about me.’ Her smile was icy. ‘I am quite capable of looking after myself.’
‘I tell you these Wangs are a really bad lot.’
She answered with peculiar emphasis: ‘I know they’ve had a really bad time. They told me.’
His temper flared. ‘I advise you to get rid of them.’
‘I won’t get rid of them!’ Her voice was cold as steel. She always suspected him, and now she knew. Because she had relaxed her vigilance yesterday, for a moment, in the dispensary, he had rushed to interfere, to show his authority, on this frivolous pretext. Never, never would she be weak with him again. ‘You already agreed that I am not responsible to you for the administration of my house. I must ask you to keep your word.’
He was silent. There was nothing more that he could say. He had meant to help her. But he had made a bad mistake. As he turned away he knew that their relationship, which he had thought to be improving, was now worse than it had been before.
The situation began to affect him seriously. It was hard to keep his expression unruffled when the Wangs passed him, with an air of muted triumph, many times a day. One morning towards the end of July, Joseph brought him his breakfast of fruit and tea with swollen knuckles and a sheepish air – part triumphant, part subdued.
‘Master, I am sorry. I have had to give that rascal Wang a beating.’
Father Chisholm sat up sharply, his eye stern: ‘Why so, Joseph?’
Joseph hung his head. ‘ He says many unkind words about us. That Reverend Mother is a great lady and we are simply dust.’
‘We are all dust, Joseph.’ The priest’s smile was faint.
‘He says harder words than that.’
‘We can put up with hard words.’
‘It is more than words, Master. He has become puffed-up beyond measure. And all the time he is making a bad squeeze on the Sisters’ housekeeping.’
It was quite true. Because of his oppostion, the Reverend Mother was indulgent towards the Wangs. Hosannah was now the majordomo of Sisters’ house while Philomena departed, every day, with a basket on her arm, to do the shopping as if she owned the place. At the end of each month, when Martha paid the bills with the roll of notes which the Reverend Mother gave her, the precious pair would depart for the town, in their best clothes, to collect a staggering commission from the tradesmen. It was barefaced robbery, anathema to Francis’ Scottish thrift.
Gazing at Joseph he said grimly: ‘I hope you did not hurt Wang much.’
‘Alas! I fear I hurt him greatly, Master.’
‘I am cross with you, Joseph. As a punishment you shall have a holiday tomorrow. And that new suit you have long been asking of me.’
That afternoon, in the dispensary, Maria-Veronica broke her rule of silence. Before the patients were admitted she said to Francis:
‘So you have chosen to victimize poor Wang again?’
He answered bluntly: ‘ On the contrary. It is he who is victimizing you.’
‘I do not understand you.’
‘He is robbing you. The man is a born thief and you are encouraging him.’
She bit her lip fiercely. ‘ I do not believe you. I am accustomed to trust my servants.’
‘Very well then, we shall see.’ He dismissed the matter quietly.
In the next few weeks his silent face showed deeper lines of strain. It was dreadful to live in close community with a person who detested, despised, him – and to be responsible for that person’s spiritual welfare. Maria-Veronica’s confessions, which contained nothing, were torture to him. And he judged they were equal torture for her. When he placed the sacred wafer between her lips while her long delicate fingers upheld the altar cloth in the still and pallid dawn of each new day, her upturned pale face,
with eyelids veined and tremulous, seemed still to scorn him. He began to rest badly and to walk in the garden at night. So far, their disagreement had been limited to the sphere of her authority. Constrained, more silent than ever, he waited for the moment when he must enforce his will.
It was autumn when that necessity arose, quite simply, out of her inexperience. Yet he could not pass it by. He sighed as he walked over to the Sisters’ house.
‘Reverend Mother …’ To his annoyance he found himself trembling. He stood before her, his eyes upon those memorable boots. ‘ You have been going into the city these last few afternoons with Sister Clotilde?’
She looked surprised. ‘Yes, that is true.’
There was a pause.
On guard, she inquired with irony: ‘Are you curious to know what we are doing?’
‘I already know.’ He spoke as mildly as he could. ‘You go to visit the sick poor of the city. As far away as the Manchu Bridge. It is commendable. But I’m afraid it must cease.’
‘May I ask why?’ She tried to match his quietness but did not quite succeed.
‘Really, I’d rather not tell you.’
Her fine nostrils were tense. ‘ If you are prohibiting my acts of charity … I have a right … I insist on knowing.’
‘Joseph tells me there are bandits in the city. Wai-Chu has begun fighting again. His soldiers are dangerous.’
She laughed outright proudly, contemptuously.
‘I am not afraid. The men in my family have always been soldiers.’
‘That is most interesting.’ He gazed at her steadily. ‘But you are not a man, nor is Sister Clotilde. And Wai-Chu’s soldiers are not exactly the kid-gloved cavalry officers infallibly found in the best Bavarian families.’
He had never used that tone with her before. She reddened, then paled. Her features, her whole figure seemed to contract. ‘ Your outlook is common and cowardly. You forget that I have given myself to God. I came here prepared for anything – sickness, accident, disaster, if necessary death – but not to listen to a lot of cheap sensational rubbish.’
His eyes remained fixed on her, so that they burned her, like points of light. He said unconditionally: ‘ Then we will cease to be sensational. It would, as you infer, be a small matter if you were captured and carried off. But there is a stronger reason why you should restrain your charitable promenades. The position of women in China is very different from that to which you are accustomed. In China women have been rigidly excluded from society for centuries. You give grave offence by walking openly in the streets. From a religious standpoint it is highly damaging to the work of the mission. For that reason I forbid you, absolutely, to enter Pai-tan unescorted, without my permission.’
She flushed, as though he had struck her in the face. There was a mortal stillness. She had nothing whatever to say.
He was about to leave her when there came a sudden scud of footsteps in the passage and Sister Martha bundled into the room. Her agitation was so great she did not observe Francis half-hidden by the shadow of the door. Nor did she guess the tension of the moment. Her gaze, distraught beneath her rumpled wimple, was bent on Maria-Veronica. Wringing her hands, she lamented wildly:
‘They’ve run away … taken everything … the ninety dollars you gave me yesterday to pay the bills … the silver … even Sister Clotilde’s ivory crucifix … they’ve gone, gone …’
‘Who has gone?’ The words came, with a dreadful effort, from Maria-Veronica’s stiff lips.
‘The Wangs, of course … the low, dirty thieves. I always knew they were a pair of rogues and hypocrites.’
Francis did not dare to look at the Mother Superior. She stood there, motionless. He felt a strange pity for her. He made his way clumsily from the room.
V
As Father Chisholm returned to his own house he became aware, through the strained preoccupation of his mind, of Mr Chia and his son, standing by the fish pond, watching the carp, with a quiet air of waiting. Both figures were warmly padded against the chill, – it was a ‘six-coat cold day,’ – the boy’s hand was in his father’s, and the slow dusk, stealing from the shadows of the banyan tree, seemed reluctant to envelop them, and to efface a charming picture.
The two were frequent visitors to the mission and perfectly at home there; they smiled, as Father Chisholm hurried over, greeted him with courteous formality. But Mr Chia, for once, gently turned aside the priest’s invitation to enter his house.
‘We come instead to bid you to our house. Yes, tonight, we are leaving for our mountain retreat. It would afford me the greatest happiness if you would accompany us.’
Francis stood amazed. ‘ But we are entering upon winter!’
‘It is true, my friend, that I and my unworthy family have hitherto ventured to our secluded villa in the Kwangs only during the inclement heat of summer.’ Mr Chia paused blandly. ‘Now we make an innovation which may be even more agreeable. We have many cords of wood and much store of food. Do you not think, Father, it would be edifying to meditate, a little, amongst these snowy peaks?’
Searching the maze of circumlocution with a puzzled frown, Father Chisholm shot a swift glance of interrogation at the merchant.
‘Is Wai-Chu about to loot the town?’
Mr Chia shoulders mildly deprecated the directness of the query but his expression did not falter. ‘ On the contrary, I myself have paid Wai considerable tribute and billeted him comfortably. I trust he will remain in Pai-tan for many days.’
A silence. Father Chisholm’s brows were drawn in complete perplexity.
‘However, my dear friend, there are other matters which occasionally make the wise man seek the solitudes. I beg of you to come.’
The priest shook his head slowly. ‘I am sorry, Mr Chia – I am too busy in the mission … How could I leave this noble place which you have so generously given me?’
Mr Chia smiled amiably. ‘ It is most salubrious here at present. If you change your mind do not fail to inform me. Come, Yu … the wagons will be loaded now. Give your hand to the holy Father in the English fashion.’
Father Chisholm shook hands with the little wrapped-up boy. Then he blessed them both. The air of restrained regret in Mr Chia’s manner disturbed him. His heart was strangely heavy as he watched them go.
The next two days passed in a queer atmosphere of stress. He saw little of the Sisters. The weather turned worse. Great flocks of birds were seen flying to the South. The sky darkened and lay like lead upon all living things. But except for a few flurries no snow came. Even the cheerful Joseph showed unusual signs of grievance, coming to the priest and expressing his desire to go home.
‘It is a long time since I have seen my parents. It is fitting for me to visit them.’
When questioned, he waved his hand around vaguely, grumbling that there were rumours in Pai-tan of evil things travelling from the North, the East, the West.
‘Wait till the evil spirits come, Joseph, before you run away.’ Father Chisholm tried to rally his servant’s spirits. And his own.
Next morning, after early mass, he went down to the town, alone, in determined quest of news. The streets were teeming, life apparently pulsed undisturbed, but a hush hung about the larger dwellings and many of the shops were closed. In the Street of the Netmakers, he found Hung boarding up his windows with unobtrusive urgency.
‘There is no denying it, Shang-Foo!’ The old shopkeeper paused to give the Father a calamitous glance over his small pebble spectacles. ‘It is sickness … the great coughing sickness which they name the Black Death. Already six provinces are stricken. People are fleeing with the wind. The first came last night to Pai-tan. And one of the women fell dead inside the Manchu Gate. A wise man knows what that portends. Ay, ay, when there is famine we march and when there is pestilence we march again. Life is not easy when the gods show their wrath.’
Father Chisholm climbed the hill to the mission with a shadow upon his face. He seemed already to smell the sickness in the air.
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Suddenly he drew up. Outside the mission wall, and directly in his path, lay three dead rats. Judging by the priest’s expression there was, in this stiff trinity, a dire foreboding. He shivered unexpectedly, thinking of his children. He went himself for kerosene, and poured it on the corpses of the rats, ignited the oil, and watched their slow cremation. Hurriedly, he took up the remains with tongs and buried them.
He stood thinking deeply. He was five hundred miles from the nearest telegraph terminal. To send a messenger to Sen-siang by sampan, even by the fastest pony, might take at least six days. And yet he must at all costs establish some contact with the outer world.
Suddenly his expression lifted. He found Joseph and led him quickly by the arm to his room. His face was set with gravity as he addressed the boy.
‘Joseph! I am sending you on an errand of the first importance. You will take Mr Chia’s new launch. Tell the kapong you have Mr Chia’s permission and mine. I even command you to steal the launch if it is necessary. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Father.’ Joseph’s eyes flashed. ‘It will not be a sin.’
‘When you have the boat, proceed with all speed to Sen-siang. There you will go to Father Thibodeau at the mission. If he is away go to the offices of the American oil company. Find someone in authority. Tell him the plague is upon us, that we need immediately medicine, supplies, and doctors. Then go to the telegraph company, send these two messages I have written for you. See … take the papers … the first to the Vicariate at Peking, the second to the Union General Hospital at Nankin. Here is money. Do not fail me, Joseph. Now go … go. And the good God go with you!’