She did not hate him now, nor feel resentment of him, but fear rather and perplexity.
She could not but admit that he had remarkable qualities, sometimes she thought that there was even in him a strange and unattractive greatness; it was curious then that she could not love him, but loved still a man whose worthlessness was now so clear to her.
After thinking, thinking, all through those long days she rated accurately Charles Townsend's value; he was a common fellow and his qualities were second-rate.
If she could only tear from her heart the love that still lingered there!
She tried not to think of him.
Waddington too thought highly of Walter.
She alone had been blind to his merit.
Why?
Because he loved her and she did not love him.
What was it in the human heart that made you despise a man because he loved you?
But Waddington had confessed that he did not like Walter.
Men didn't.
It was easy to see that those two nuns had for him a feeling which was very like affection.
He was different with women; notwithstanding his shyness you felt in him an exquisite kindliness.
XLV
BUT after all it was the nuns that had most deeply touched her.
Sister St Joseph, with her merry face and apple-red cheeks; she had been one of the little band that came out to China with the Mother Superior ten years before and she had seen one after another of her companions die of disease, privations, and homesickness; and yet she remained cheerful and happy.
What was it that gave her that naive and charming humour?
And the Mother Superior. Kitty in fancy stood again in her presence and once more she felt humble and ashamed.
Though she was so simple and unaffected she had a native dignity which inspired awe, and you could not imagine that any one could treat her without respect.
Sister St Joseph by the way she stood, by every small gesture and the intonation of her answers, had shown the deep submission in which she held herself; and Waddington, frivolous and impertinent, had shown by his tone that he was not quite at his ease.
Kitty thought it unnecessary to have told her that the Mother Superior belonged to one of the great families of France; there was that in her bearing which suggested ancient race, and she had the authority of one who has never known that it is possible to be disobeyed.
She had the condescension of a great lady and the humility of a saint.
There was in her strong, handsome, and ravaged face an austerity that was passionate; and at the same time she had a solicitude and a gentleness which permitted those little children to cluster, noisy and unafraid, in the assurance of her deep affection.
When she had looked at the four new-born babies she had worn a smile that was sweet and yet profound: it was like a ray of sunshine on a wild and desolate heath.
What Sister St Joseph had said so carelessly of Walter moved Kitty strangely; she knew that he had desperately wanted her to bear a child, but she had never suspected from his reticence that he was capable with a baby of showing without embarrassment a charming and playful tenderness.
Most men were silly and awkward with babies.
How strange he was!
But to all that moving experience there had been a shadow (a dark lining to the silver cloud), insistent and plain, which disconcerted her.
In the sober gaiety of Sister St Joseph, and much more in the beautiful courtesy of the Mother Superior, she had felt an aloofness which oppressed her.
They were friendly and even cordial, but at the same time they held something back, she knew not what, so that she was conscious that she was nothing but a casual stranger.
There was a barrier between her and them.
They spoke a different language not only of the tongue but of the heart.
And when the door was closed upon her she felt that they had put her out of their minds so completely, going about their neglected work again without delay, that for them she might never have existed.
She felt shut out not only from that poor little convent, but from some mysterious garden of the spirit after which with all her soul she hankered.
She felt on a sudden alone as she had never felt alone before.
That was why she had wept.
And now, throwing back her head wearily, she sighed:
"Oh, I'm so worthless."
XLVI
THAT evening Walter came back to the bungalow a little earlier than usual.
Kitty was lying on the long chair by the open window.
It was nearly dark.
"Don't you want a lamp?" he asked.
"They'll bring it when dinner is ready."
He talked to her always quite casually, of trifling things, as though they were friendly acquaintances, and there was never anything in his manner to suggest that he harboured malice in his heart.
He never met her eyes and he never smiled.
He was scrupulously polite.
"Walter, what do you propose we should do if we get through the epidemic?" she asked.
He waited a moment before answering. She could not see his face.