"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."