They looked hardly human; queer animals of an unknown species, and yet there was something singularly moving in the sight.
The Mother Superior looked at them with an amused smile.
"They seem very lively.
Sometimes they are brought in only to die.
Of course we baptize them the moment they come."
"The lady's husband will be pleased with them," said Sister St Joseph. "I think he could play by the hour with the babies.
When they cry he has only to take them up, and he makes them comfortable in the crook of his arm, so that they laugh with delight."
Then Kitty and Waddington found themselves at the door. Kitty gravely thanked the Mother Superior for the trouble she had taken.
The nun bowed with a condescension that was at once dignified and affable.
"It has been a great pleasure.
You do not know how kind and helpful your husband has been to us.
He has been sent to us by Heaven.
I am glad that you came with him.
When he goes home it must be a great comfort to him to have you there with your love and your - your sweet face.
You must take care of him and not let him work too hard.
You must look after him for all our sakes."
Kitty flushed. She did not know what to say.
The Mother Superior held out her hand and while she held it Kitty was conscious of those cool, thoughtful eyes which rested on her with detachment and yet with something that looked like a profound understanding.
Sister St Joseph closed the door behind them and Kitty got into her chair.
They went back through the narrow, winding streets.
Waddington made a casual remark; Kitty did not answer.
He looked round, but the side curtains of the chair were drawn and he could not see her.
He walked on in silence.
But when they reached the river and she stepped out, to his surprise he saw that her eyes were streaming with tears.
"What is the matter?" he asked, his face puckered into an expression of dismay.
"Nothing."
She tried to smile.
"Only foolishness."
XLIV
ALONE once more in the sordid parlour of the dead missionary, lying on the long chair that faced the window, her abstracted eyes on the temple across the river (now again at the approach of evening aerial and lovely), Kitty tried to set in order the feelings in her heart.
She would never have believed that this visit to the convent could so have moved her.
She had gone from curiosity.
She had nothing else to do and after looking for so many days at the walled city across the water she was not unwilling to have at least a glimpse of its mysterious streets.
But once within the convent it had seemed to her that she was transported into another world situated strangely neither in space nor time.
Those bare rooms and the white corridors, austere and simple, seemed to possess the spirit of something remote and mystical.
The little chapel, so ugly and vulgar, in its very crudeness was pathetic; it had something which was wanting in the greatness of a cathedral, with its stained glass and its pictures: it was very humble; and the faith which had adorned it, the affection which cherished it, had endued it with a delicate beauty of the soul.
The methodical way in which the convent's work was carried on in the midst of the pestilence* showed a coolness in the face of danger and a practical sense, almost ironical it was so matter of fact, which were deeply impressive.
In Kitty's ears rang still the ghastly sounds she heard when for a moment Sister St Joseph opened the infirmary door.
It was unexpected the way they had spoken of Walter. First the Sister and then the Mother Superior herself, and the tone of her voice had been very gentle when she praised him.
Oddly enough it gave her a little thrill of pride to know that they thought so well of him.
Waddington also had told something of what Walter was doing; but it was not only his competence that the nuns praised (in Hong Kong she had known that he was thought clever), they spoke of his thoughtfulness and his tenderness.
Of course he could be very tender.
He was at his best when you were ill; he was too intelligent to exasperate, and his touch was pleasant, cool, and soothing.
By some magic he seemed able by his mere presence to relieve your suffering.
She knew that she would never see again in his eyes the look of affection which she had once been so used to that she found it merely exasperating.
She knew now how immense was his capacity for loving; in some odd way he was pouring it out on these wretched sick who had only him to look to.
She did not feel jealousy, but a sense of emptiness; it was as though a support that she had grown so accustomed to as not to realize its presence were suddenly withdrawn from her so that she swayed this way and that like a thing that was top-heavy.
She had only contempt for herself because once she had felt contempt for Walter.
He must have known how she regarded him and he had accepted her estimate without bitterness.
She was a fool and he knew it and because he loved her it had made no difference to him.