Chapter 7

"I suppose he is paid a good deal for his services?" I said.

"Eight hundred guineas"--she answered--"But, you see, he has to leave his patients in London, and find another man to attend to them during his absence. He is so very clever and so much sought after--I don't know what I should do without him, I'm sure!"

"Has he any special treatment for you?" I asked.

"Oh yes,--he gives me electricity. He has a wonderful battery--he has got it fitted up here in the next cabin--and while I hold two handles he turns it on and it runs all over me. I feel always better for the moment--but the effect soon passes."

I looked at her with a smile.

"I should think so! Dear Miss Harland, do you really believe in that way of administering electricity?"

"Of course I do!" she answered--"You see, it's all a question of what they call bacteriology nowadays. Medicine is no use unless it can kill the microbes that are eating us up inside and out. And there's scarcely any drug that can do that. Electricity is the only remedy. It gives the little brutes a shock;"--and the poor lady laughed weakly--"and it kills some, but not all. It's a dreadful scheme of creation, don't you think, to make human beings no better than happy hunting grounds for invisible creatures to feed upon?"

"It depends on what view you take of it,"--I said, laying down my work and trying to fix her attention, a matter which was always difficult--"We human beings are composed of good and evil particles. If the good are encouraged, they drive out the evil,--if the evil, they drive out the good. It's the same with the body as the soul,--if we encourage the health-working 'microbes' as you call them, they will drive out disease from the human organism altogether."

She sank back on her pillow wearily.

"We can't do it,"--she said--"All the chances are against us. What's the use of our trying to encourage 'health-working microbes'? The disease-working ones have got the upper hand. Just think!--our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents are to blame for half our evils. Their diseases become ours in various new forms. It's cruel,--horrible! How anyone can believe that a God of Love created such a frightful scheme passes my comprehension! The whole thing is a mere business of eating to be eaten!"

She looked so wan and wild that I pitied her greatly.

"Surely that is not what you think at the bottom of your heart?" I said, gently--"I should be very sorry for you if I thought you really meant what you say."

"Well, you may be as sorry for me as you like"--and the poor lady blinked away tears from her eyes--"I need someone to be sorry for me! I tell you my life is a perfect torture. Every day I wonder how long I can bear it! I have such dreadful thoughts! I picture the horrible things that are happening to different people all over the world, nobody helping them or caring for them, and I almost feel as if I must scream for mercy. It wouldn't be any use screaming,--but the scream is in my soul all the same. People in prisons, people in shipwrecks, people dying by inches in hospitals, no good in their lives and no hope--and not a sign of comfort from the God whom the Churches praise! It's awful! I don't see how anybody can do anything or be ambitious for anything--it's all mere waste of energy. One of the reasons that made me so anxious to have you come on this trip with us is that you always seem contented and happy,--and I want to know why? It's a question of temperament, I suppose--but do tell me why!"

She stretched out her hand and touched mine appealingly. I took her worn and wasted fingers in my own and pressed them sympathetically.

"My dear Miss Harland,"--I began.

"Oh, call me Catherine"--she interrupted--"I'm so tired of being Miss Harland!"

"Well, Catherine, then,"--I said, smiling a little--"Surely you know why I am contented and happy?"

"No, I do not,"--she said, with quick, almost querulous? eagerness--"I don't understand it at all. You have none of the things that please women. You don't seem to care about dress though you are always well-gowned--you don't go to balls or theatres or race-meetings,--you are a general favourite, yet you avoid society,--you've never troubled yourself to take your chances of marriage,--and so far as I know or have heard tell about you, you haven't even a lover!"

My cheeks grew suddenly warm. A curious resentment awoke in me at her words--had I indeed no lover? Surely I had!--one that I knew well and had known for a long time,--one for whom I had guarded my life sacredly as belonging to another as well as to myself,--a lover who loved me beyond all power of human expression,--here the rush of strange and inexplicable emotion in me was hurled back on my mind with a shock of mingled terror and surprise from a dead wall of stony fact,--it was true, of course, and Catherine Harland was right--I had no lover. No man had ever loved me well enough to be called by such a name. The flush cooled off my face,--the hurry of my thoughts slackened,--I took up my embroidery and began to work at it again.

"That is so, isn't it?" persisted Miss Harland--"Though you blush and grow pale as if there was someone in the background."

I met her inquisitive glance and smiled.

"There is no one,"--I said--"There never has been anyone." I paused; I could almost feel the warmth of the strong hand that had held mine in my dream of the past night. It was mere fancy, and I went on--"I should not care for what modern men and women call love. It seems very unsatisfactory."

She sighed.

"It is frequently very selfish,"--she said--"I want to tell you my love-story--may I?"

"Why, of course!" I answered, a little wonderingly, for I had not thought she had a love-story to tell.

"It's very brief,"--she said, and her lip quivered--"There was a man who used to visit our house very often when I first came out,--he made me believe he was very fond of me. I was more than fond of him--I almost worshipped him. He was all the world to me, and though father did not like him very much he wished me to be happy, so we were engaged. That was the time of my life--the only time I ever knew what happiness was. One evening, just about three months before we were to be married, we were together at a party in the house of one of our mutual friends, and I heard him talking rather loudly in a room where he and two or three other men had gone to smoke. He said something that made me stand still and wonder whether I was mad or dreaming. 'Pity me when I'm married to Catherine Harland!' Pity him? I listened,--I knew it was wrong to listen, but I could not help myself. 'Well, you'll get enough cash with her to set you all right in the world, anyhow,'--said another man, 'You can put up with a plain wife for the sake of a pretty fortune.' Then he,--my love!--spoke again--'Oh, I shall make the best of it,' he said--'I must have money somehow, and this is the easiest way. There's one good thing about modern life,--husbands and wives don't hunt in couples as they used to do, so when once the knot is tied I shall shift my matrimonial burden off my shoulders as much as I can. She'll amuse herself with her clothes and the household,--and she's fond of me, so I shall always have my own way. But it's an awful martyrdom to have to marry one woman on account of empty pockets when you're in love with another.' I heard,--and then--I don't know what happened."

Her eyes stared at me so pitifully that I was full of sorrow for her.

"Oh, you poor Catherine!" I said, and taking her hand, I kissed it gently. The tears in her eyes brimmed over.

"They found me lying on the floor insensible,"--she went on, tremulously--"And I was very ill for a long time afterwards. People could not understand it when I broke off my engagement. I told nobody why--except HIM. He seemed sorry and a little ashamed,--but I think he was more vexed at losing my fortune than anything else. I said to him that I had never thought about being plain,--that the idea of his loving me had made me feel beautiful. That was true!--my dear, I almost believe I should have grown into beauty if I had been sure of his love."

I understood that; she was perfectly right in what to the entirely commonplace person would seem a fanciful theory. Love makes all things fair, and anyone who is conscious of being tenderly loved grows lovely, as a rose that is conscious of the sun grows into form and colour.

"Well, it was all over then,"--she ended, with a sigh, "I never was quite myself again--I think my nerves got a sort of shock such as the great novelist, Charles Dickens had when he was in the railway accident--you remember the tale in Forster's 'Life'? How the carriage hung over the edge of an embankment but did not actually fall,--and Dickens was clinging on to it all the time. He never got over it, and it was the remote cause of his death five years later. Now I have felt just like that,--my life has hung over a sort of chasm ever since I lost my love, and I only cling on."

"But surely,"--I ventured to say--"surely there are other things to live for than just the memory of one man's love which was not love at all! You seem to think there was some cruelty or unhappiness in the chance that separated you from him,--but really it was a special mercy and favour of God--only you have taken it in the wrong way."

"I have taken it in the only possible way,"--she said--"With resignation."

"Oh, do you call it resignation?" I exclaimed--"To make a misery of what should have been a gladness? Think of the years and years of wretchedness you might have passed with a man who was a merely selfish fortune-hunter! You would have had to see him grow colder and more callous every day--your heart would have been torn, your spirit broken--and God spared you all this by giving you your chance of freedom! Such a chance! You might have made much of it, if you had only chosen!"

She looked at me, but did not speak.

"Love comes to us in a million beautiful ways,"--I went on, heedless of how she might take my words--"The ordinary love,--or, I would say, the ordinary mating and marriage is only ONE way. You cannot live in the world without being loved--if you love!"

She moved on her pillows restlessly.

"I can't see what you mean,"--she said--"How can I love? I have nothing to love!"

"But do you not see that you are shutting yourself out from love?" I said--"You will not have it! You bar its approach. You encourage your sad and morbid fancies, and think of illness when you might just as well think of health. Oh, I know you will say I am 'up in the air' as your father expresses it,--but it's true all the same that if you love everything in Nature--yes, everything!--sunshine, air, cloud, rain, trees, birds, blossom,--they will love you in return and give you some of their life and strength and beauty."

She smiled,--a very bitter little smile.

"You talk like a poet,"--she said--"And of all things in the world I hate poetry! There!--don't think me cross! Go along and be happy in your own strange fanciful way! I cannot be other than I am,--Dr. Brayle will tell you that I'm not strong enough to share in other people's lives and aims and pleasures,--I must always consider myself."

"Dr. Brayle tells you that?" I queried--"To consider yourself?"

"Of course he does. If I had not considered myself every hour and every day, I should have been dead long ago. I have to consider everything I eat and drink lest it should make me ill."

I rose from my seat beside her.

"I wish I could cure you!" I murmured.

"My dear girl, if you could, you would, I am sure,"--she answered--"You are very kind-hearted. It has done me good to talk to you and tell you all my sad little history. I shall get up presently and have my electricity and feel quite bright for a time. But as for a cure, you might as well try to cure my father."

"None are cured of any ailment unless they resolve to help along the cure themselves," I said.

She gave a weary little laugh.

"Ah, that's one of your pet theories, but it's no use to me! I'm past all helping of myself, so you may give me up as a bad job!"

"But you asked me," I went on--"did you not, to tell you why it is that I am contented and happy? Do you really want to know?"

A vague distrust crept into her faded eyes.

"Not if it's a theory!" she said--"I should not have the brain or the patience to think it out."

I laughed.

"It's not a theory, it's a truth"--I answered--"But truth is sometimes more difficult than theory."

She looked at me half in wonder, half in appeal.

"Well, what is it?"

"Just this"--and I knelt beside her for a moment holding her hand--"I KNOW that there are no external surroundings which we do not make for ourselves, and that our troubles are born of our own wrong thinking, and are not sent from God. I train my Soul to be calm,--and my body obeys my Soul. That's all!"

Her fingers closed on mine nervously.

"But what's the use of telling me this?" she half whispered--"I don't believe in God or the Soul!"

I rose from my kneeling attitude.

"Poor Catherine!" I said--"Then indeed it is no use telling you anything! You are in darkness instead of daylight, and no one can make you see. Oh, what can I do to help you?"

"Nothing,"--she answered--"My faith--it was never very much,--was taken from me altogether when I was quite young. Father made it seem absurd. He's a clever man, you know--and in a few words he makes out religion to be utter nonsense."

"I understand!"

And indeed I did entirely understand. Her father was one of a rapidly increasing class of men who are a danger to the community,--a cold, cynical shatterer of every noble ideal,--a sneerer at patriotism and honour,--a deliberate iconoclast of the most callous and remorseless type. That he had good points in his character was not to be denied,--a murderer may have these. But to be in his company for very long was to feel that there is no good in anything--that life is a mistake of Nature, and death a fortunate ending of the blunder--that God is a delusion and the 'Soul' a mere expression signifying certain intelligent movements of the brain only.

I stood silently thinking these things, while she watched me rather wistfully. Presently she said:

"Are you going on deck now?"

"Yes."

"I'll join you all at luncheon. Don't lose that bit of heather in your dress,--it's really quite brilliant--like a jewel."

I hesitated a moment.

"You're not vexed with me for speaking as I have done?" I asked her.

"Vexed? No, indeed! I love to hear you and see you defending your own fairy ground! For it IS like a fairy tale, you know--all that YOU believe!"

"It has practical results, anyway!"--I answered--"You must admit that."

"Yes--I know,--and it's just what I can't understand. We'll have another talk about it some day. Would you tell Dr. Brayle that I shall be ready for him in ten minutes?"

I assented, and left her. I made for the deck directly, the air meeting me with a rush of salty softness as I ran up the saloon stairway. What a glorious day it was! Sky, sea and mountains were bathed in brilliant sunshine; the 'Diana' was cutting her path swiftly through waters which marked her course on either side by a streak of white foam. I mentally contrasted the loveliness of the scene around me with the stuffy cabin I had just left, and seeing Dr. Brayle smoking comfortably in a long reclining chair and reading a paper I went up to him and touched him on the shoulder.

"Your patient wants you in ten minutes,"--I said.

He rose to his feet at once, courteously offering me a chair, which I declined, and drew his cigar from his mouth.

"I have two patients on board,"--he answered, smiling--"Which one?"

"The one who is your patient from choice, not necessity,"--I replied, coolly.

"My dear lady!" His eyes blinked at me with a furtive astonishment--"If you were not so charming I should say you were--well!--SHALL I say it?--a trifle opinionated!"

I laughed.

"Granted!" I said--"If it is opinionated to be honest I plead guilty! Miss Harland is as well as you or I,--she's only morbid."

"True!--but morbidness is a form of illness,--a malady of the nerves--"

I laughed again, much to his visible annoyance.

"Curable by outward applications of electricity?" I queried--"When the mischief is in the mind? But there!--I mustn't interfere, I suppose! Nevertheless you keep Miss Harland ill when she might be quite well."

A disagreeable line furrowed the corners of his mouth.

"You think so? Among your many accomplishments do you count the art of medicine?"

I met his shifty brown eyes, and he dropped them quickly.

"I know nothing about it,"--I answered--"Except this--that the cure of any mind trouble must come from within--not from without. And I'm not a Christian Scientist either?"

He smiled cynically. "Really not? I should have thought you were!"

"You would make a grave error if you thought so," I responded, curtly.

A keen and watchful interest flashed over his dark face.

"I should very much like to know what your theories are"--he said, suddenly--"You interest me greatly."

"I'm sure I do!" I answered, smiling.

He looked me up and down for a moment in perplexity--then shrugged his shoulders.

"You are a strange creature!" he said--"I cannot make you out. If I were asked to give a 'professional' opinion of you I should say you were very neurotic and highly-strung, and given over to self-delusions."

"Thanks!"--and I made him a demure little curtsy. "I look it, don't I?"

"No--you don't look it; but looks are deceptive."

"There I agree with you,"--I said--"But one has to go by them sometimes. If I am 'neurotic,' my looks do not pity me, and my condition of health leaves nothing to desire."

His brows met in a slight frown. He glanced at his watch.

"I must go,"--he said--"Miss Harland will be waiting."

"And the electricity will get cold!" I added, gaily. "See if you can feel my 'neurotic' pulse!"

He took the hand I extended--and remained quite still. Conscious of the secret force I had within myself I resolved to try if I could use it upon him in such a way as to keep him a prisoner till I chose to let him go. I watched him till his eyes began to look vague and a kind of fixity settled on his features,--he was perfectly unconscious that I held him at my pleasure,--and presently, satisfied with my experiment, I relaxed the spell and withdrew my hand.

"Quite regular, isn't it?" I said, carelessly.

He started as if roused from a sleep, but replied quickly:

"Yes--oh yes--perfectly!--I had almost forgotten what I was doing. I was thinking of something else. Miss Harland--"

"Yes, Miss Harland is ready for you by this time"--and I smiled. "You must tell her I detained you."

He nodded in a more or less embarrassed manner, and turning away from me, went rather slowly down the saloon stairs.

I gave a sigh of relief when he was gone. I had from the first moment of our meeting recognised in him a mental organisation which in its godless materialism and indifference to consequences, was opposed to every healthful influence that might be brought to bear on his patients for their well-being, whatever his pretensions to medical skill might be. It was to his advantage to show them the worst side of a disease in order to accentuate his own cleverness in dealing with it,--it served his purpose to pamper their darkest imaginings, play with their whims and humour their caprices,--I saw all this and understood it. And I was glad that so far as I might be concerned, I had the power to master him.

V

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

To spend a few days on board a yacht with the same companions is a very good test of the value of sympathetic vibration in human associations. I found it so. I might as well have been quite alone on the 'Diana' as with Morton Harland and his daughter, though they were always uniformly kind to me and thoughtful of my comfort. But between us there was 'a great gulf fixed,' though every now and again Catherine Harland made feeble and pathetic efforts to cross that gulf and reach me where I stood on the other side. But her strength was not equal to the task,--her will-power was sapped at its root, and every day she allowed herself to become more and more pliantly the prey of Dr. Brayle, who, with a subconscious feeling that I knew him to be a mere medical charlatan, had naturally warned her against me as an imaginative theorist without any foundation of belief in my own theories. I therefore shut myself within a fortress of reserve, and declined to discuss any point of either religion or science with those for whom the one was a farce and the other mere materialism. At all times when we were together I kept the conversation deliberately down to commonplaces which were safe, if dull,--and it amused me not a little to see that at this course of action on my part Mr. Harland was first surprised, then disappointed and finally bored. And I was glad. That I should bore him as much as he bored me was the happy consummation of my immediate desires. I talked as all conventional women talk, of the weather, of our minimum and maximum speed, of the newspaper 'sensations' and vulgarities that were served up to us whenever we called at a port for the mails,--of the fish that frequented such and such waters, of sport, of this and that millionaire whose highland castle or shooting-box was crammed with the 'elite' whose delight is to kill innocent birds and animals,--of the latest fool-flyers in aeroplanes,--in short, no fashionable jabberer of social inanities could have beaten me in what average persons call 'common-sense talk,'--talk which resulted after a while in the usual vagueness of attention accompanied by smothered yawning. I was resolved not to lift the line of thought 'up in the air' in the manner whereof I had often been accused, but to keep it level with the ground. So that when we left Tobermory, where we had anchored for a couple of days, the limits of the yacht were becoming rather cramped and narrow for our differing minds, and a monotony was beginning to set in that threatened to be dangerous, if not unbearable. As the 'Diana' steamed along through the drowsy misty light of the summer afternoon, past the jagged coast of the mainland, I sat quite by myself on deck, watching the creeping purple haze that partially veiled the mountains of Ardnamurchan and Moidart, and I began to wonder whether after all it might not be better to write to my friend Francesca and tell her that her prophecies had already come true,--that I was beginning to be weary of a holiday passed in an atmosphere bereft of all joyousness, and that she must expect me in Inverness-shire at once. And yet I was reluctant to end my trip with the Harlands too soon. There was a secret wish in my heart which I hardly breathed to myself,--a wish that I might again see the strange vessel that had appeared and disappeared so suddenly, and make the acquaintance of its owner. It would surely be an interesting break in the present condition of things, to say the least of it. I did not know then (though I know now) why my mind so persistently busied itself with the fancied personality of the unknown possessor of the mysterious craft which, as Captain Derrick said, 'sailed without wind,' but I found myself always thinking about him and trying to picture his face and form.