The Faraway Bride by Stella Benson — Read

"This is very kind of me," thought Wilfred Chew, as he sat in the Seoul-bound train. The train lurched through the black world with an open-throated, gasping roar. "I really seem to be a kind of guardian angel to these Russians. What would they do without me?"

As he thought of the Reverend Oswald Fawcett, who had warned him against every sin except complacency, the hundred and fifty yen that Ostapenko had given him seemed to lie not exactly heavily but perceptibly on his bosom. The money was a foreign body in his conscience, like a splinter of shell in a soldier's flesh. "There is nothing wrong in being paid for one's services," Wilfred replied to the shadow of the Reverend Oswald Fawcett. Poor Wilfred! his conscience was already a naturalised alien in his Chinese body. And now must his Chinese lips turn traitor and serve this Wesleyan conscience? His brain -- Chinese born -- London trained -- sought a compromise. "Men are sometimes made use of, surely, by God for His purposes... used, in fact, as angels or heavenly messengers, in answer to the prayers of unhappy people. Yet those men, so used, still have stomachs that must be filled -- futures that must be provided for. Why, don't you remember, Mr. Fawcett? there was a time when we prayed for more blankets for the school, and that very afternoon, in walked a coolie with a present of army blankets from the Dutch Consul. That gift was none the less Heaven-sent because we had to tip the coolie for bringing it. Money must pass -- even between angels -- especially when honestly earned. What else is money for? Money isn't always mammon -- it is sometimes just simple food and lodging. To continue upon the earth at all, we guardian angels to simple barbarians must be paid -- must be fed -- must be kept alive. Of what use is a dead guardian angel to anyone?"