'It must be very lonely,' I said.
'I think I prefer it so,' he answered, looking at one of the pictures on the wall. 'They'd only be business people, and you know' -- he smiled -- 'they haven't much use for missionaries. And they're not so intellectual that it is a great hardship to be deprived of their company.'
'And of course we're not really alone, you know,' said Mrs. Wingrove. 'We have two evangelists and then there are two young ladies who teach. And there are the school children.'
Tea was brought in and we gossiped desultorily. Mr. Wingrove seemed to speak with effort, and I had increasingly that feeling in him of perturbed repression. He had pleasing manners and was certainly trying to be cordial and yet I had a sense of effort. I led the conversation to Oxford, mentioning various friends whom he might know, but he gave me no encouragement.
'It's so long since I left home,' he said, 'and I haven't kept up with anyone. There's a great deal of work in a mission like this and it absorbs one entirely.'
I thought he was exaggerating a little, so I remarked :
'Well, by the number of books you have I take it that you get a certain amount of time for reading.'
'I very seldom read,' he answered with abruptness, in a voice that I knew already was not quite his own.
I was puzzled. There was something odd about the man. At last, as was inevitable, I suppose, he began to talk of the Chinese. Mrs. Wingrove said the same things about them that I had already heard so many missionaries say. They were a lying people, untrustworthy, cruel, and dirty, but a faint light was visible in the East; though the results of missionary endeavour were not very noteworthy as yet, the future was promising. They no longer believed in their old gods and the power of the literati was broken. It is an attitude of mistrust and dislike tempered by optimism. But Mr. Wingrove mitigated his wife's strictures. He dwelt on the good-nature of the Chinese, on their devotion to their parents and on their love for their children.
'Mr. Wingrove won't hear a word against the Chinese,' said his wife, 'he simply loves them.'
'I think they have great qualities,' he said. 'You can't walk through those crowded streets of theirs without having that impressed on you.'
'I don't believe Mr. Wingrove notices the smells,' his wife laughed.
At that moment there was a knock at the door and a young woman came in. She had the long skirts and the unbound feet of the native Christian, and on her face a look that was at once cringing and sullen. She said something to Mrs. Wingrove. I happened to catch sight of Mr. Wingrove's face. When he saw her there passed over it an expression of the most intense physical repulsion, it was distorted as though by an odour that nauseated him, and then immediately it vanished and his lips twitched to a pleasant smile; but the effort was too great and he showed only a tortured grimace. I looked at him with amazement. Mrs. Wingrove with an 'excuse me' got up and left the room.
'That is one of our teachers,' said Mr. Wingrove in that same set voice which had a little puzzled me before. 'She's invaluable. I put infinite reliance on her. She has a very fine character.'
Then, I hardly know why, in a flash I saw the truth; I saw the disgust in his soul for all that his will loved. I was filled with the excitement which an explorer may feel when after a hazardous journey he comes upon a country with features new and unexpected. Those tortured eyes explained themselves, the unnatural voice, the measured restraint with which he praised, that air hehad of a hunted man. Notwithstanding all he said he hated the Chinese with a hatred beside which his wife's distaste was insignificant. When he walked through the teeming streets of the city it was an agony to him, his missionary life revolted him, his soul was like the raw shouldersof the coolies and the carrying pole burnt the bleeding wound. He would not go home because he could not bear to see again what he cared for so much, he would not read his books because they reminded him of the life he loved so passionately, and perhaps he had married that vulgar wife in order to cut himself off more resolutely from a world that his every instinct craved for. He martyred his tortured soul with a passionate exasperation.
I tried to see how the call had come. I think that for years he had been completely happy in. his easy ways at Oxford; and he had loved his work, with its pleasant companionship, his books*, his holidays in France and Italy. He was a contented man and asked nothing better than to spend the rest of his days in just such a fashion; but I know not what obscure feeling had gradually taken hold of him that his life was too lazy, too contented; I think he was always a religious man and perhaps some early belief, instilled into him. in childhood and long forgotten, of a jealous God who hated his creatures to be happy on earthy rankled in the depths of his heart; I think because he was so well satisfied with his life he began to think it was sinful. A restless anxiety seized him. Whatever he thought with his intelligence his instincts began to tremble with the dread of eternal punishment. I do not know what put the idea of China into his head, but at first he must have thrust it aside with violent repulsion; and perhaps the very violence of his repulsion impressed the idea on him, for he found it haunting him. I think he said that he would not go, but I think he felt that he would have to. God was pursuing him and wherever he hid himself God followed. With his reason he struggled, but with his heart he was caught. He could not help himself. At least he gave in.
I knew I should never see him again and I had not the time to spend on the commonplaces of conversation before a reasonable familiarity would permit me to talk of more intimate matters. I seized the opportunity while we were still alone.
'Tell me,' I said, 'do you believe God will condemn the Chinese to eternal punishment if they don't accept Christianity?'
I am sure my question was crude and tactless, for the old man in him tightened his lips. But nevertheless he answered.
'The whole teaching of the gospel forces one to that conclusion. There is not a single argument which people have adduced to the contrary which has the force of the plain words of Jesus Christ.'
XII
THE PICTURE
I DO not know whether he was a mandarin bound for the capital of the province, or some student travelling to a seat of learning, nor what the reason that delayed him in the most miserable of all the miserable inns in China. Perhaps one or other of his bearers, hidden somewhere to smoke a pipe of opium (for it is cheap in that neighborhood and you must be prepared for trouble with your coolies) could not be found. Perhaps a storm of torrential rain had held him for an hour an unwilling prisoner.
The room was so low that you could easily touch the rafters with your hand. The mud walls were covered with dirty whitewash, here and there worn away, and all round on wooden pallets were straw beds for the coolies who
