"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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d or the Soul!"

I rose from my kneeling att.i.tude.

"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 cla.s.s of men who are a danger to the community,--a cold, cynical shatterer of every n.o.ble 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sented, 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?"