"I take them for rheumatic gout," said a slight, dark-haired woman to
her neighbour, as she leant back in a low lounging-chair, and sipped
some water an attendant had just brought her. "You would not suppose I
suffered from such a complaint, would you?"--and she held up a small
arched foot, with a scarcely perceptible swelling in the larger joint.
She laughed somewhat affectedly, and the neighbour, who was fat and
coarse, and had decided gouty symptoms herself, looked at her with
something of the contempt an invalid elephant might be supposed to
bestow on a buzzing fly.
"You made that remark the last time you were here," she said; "and I
told you, if you suffered from a suppressed form of the disease, it
would be all the worse for you. Much better for it to come out--my
doctor says."
There was no doubt about the disease having "come out" in the person of
the speaker. It had "come out" in her face, which was brilliantly
rubicund; in her hands, and ankles and feet, which were a distressful
spectacle of "knobs" and "bumps" of an exaggerated phrenological type--
perhaps also in her temper, which was fierce and fiery as her
complexion, as most of the frequenters of the Baths knew, and the
attendants also, to their cost.
The small, dark lady, with the arched feet, lapsed into sulky silence,
and let her eyes wander over the room to see if anyone she knew was
there.
The Baths were of an extensive and sumptuous description--fitted up with
almost oriental luxury and comfort, and attached to a monster hotel,
built by an enterprising Company of speculators, at an English winter
resort, in Hampshire.
The Company had proudly hoped that lavish expenditure, a beautiful
situation, and the disinterested recommendation of fashionable
physicians, would induce English people to discover that there were
spots and places in their own land as healthy and convenient as
Auvergne, or Wiesbaden, or the Riviera. But though the coast views were
fine, and the scenery picturesque, and the monster hotel itself stood on
a commanding eminence, surrounded by darkly-beautiful pine woods, and
was fitted up with every luxury of modern civilisation, including every
specimen of Bath that human ingenuity had devised, the Company looked
blankly at the returns on their balance-sheet, and one or two Directors
murmured audible complaints at special Board meetings, against the
fashionable physicians who had not acted up to their promises, or proved
deserving of the substantial bonus which had been more than hinted at,
as a reward for recommended patients.
On this December morning, some half-dozen ladies, of various ages and
stability of person, and all suffering, in a greater or less degree,
from various fashionable complaints--such as neuralgia, indigestion,
rheumatism, or its aristocratic cousin, rheumatic-gout--were in Room
Number One of the Turkish Bath.
The female form is generally supposed to be "divine," and poets and
painters have, from time immemorial, rhapsodised over "beauty
unadorned." It is probable that such poets and painters have never been
gratified by such a vision of feminine charms as Room Number One
presented.
Light and airy garments were, certainly, to be seen, but not--forms. It
was, of course, a question of taste, as to whether the fat women, or the
thin women, looked the worst--probably the former, if one might judge by
the two samples of the lady who had arched feet, and the lady who had
_not_.
Both were staying at the hotel, and were respectively named--Mrs
Masterman, and Mrs Ray Jefferson. Mrs Masterman was a widow. Mrs
Ray Jefferson had a husband. He was an American, blessed with many
dollars, amassed on the strength of an "Invention." When Mr Jefferson
spoke of the Invention, people usually supposed it to be of a mechanical
nature. As they became more familiar with him, they learnt that it was
something "Chemical." No one quite knew what, but it became associated
in their minds with "vats" and "boilers," and large works somewhere
"down Boston way." There could be no doubt of the excellence of the
Invention, because Mr Ray Jefferson said it was known, and used all
over Europe, and its success was backed by dollars to an apparently
unlimited extent. The Inventor and his wife had sumptuous rooms, but
they were not averse to mixing with their "fellow-man," or rather
"woman,"--for Mrs Jefferson rejoiced in the possession of certain
Parisian _toilettes_, and was not selfish enough to keep them only for
the eyes of her lord and master.
She was grudgingly but universally acknowledged to be the best-dressed
woman in the hotel--except, of course, when she was in the Turkish
Baths, which unfortunately reduced its frequenters to one level of
apparelling, a garment which made up in simplicity for any lack of
elegance.
The shape was always the same--viz., short in the skirt, low in the
neck, and bare as to sleeves. The material was generally pink cotton,
or white with a red border.
Mrs Jefferson was quite American enough to have "notions" on dress,
more or less original and extravagant. Finding her companion was
unusually silent this morning, she gave up her thoughts to the devising
of a special toilet for the Bath.
These garments were so hideous, she told herself, that it was no wonder
people looked such guys in them. Still there was no reason why she
should not have something _chic_ and novel for herself--something which
should arouse the envy of, and make the wearer appear quite different
to, the other women.
The choice of style was easy enough--something Grecian and artistic--but
the material discomposed her. It was hardly possible to have a bath of
this description without one's garment getting into a moist and clinging
condition--leaving alone the after processes of shampooing, _douche_,
and plunge. So silk, or satin, or woollen material was out of the
question, and cotton was common, not to say vulgar.
She knitted her brows with a vigour demanded by so absorbing a subject:
the white head-cloth fell off, and she felt that her fringe was all out
of curl and lay straight on her forehead in most unbecoming fashion.
That also would have to be considered in the question of costume--a
head-dress which should combine use and ornament. The idea of having
only a wet, white rag on one's head! No wonder people looked "objects!"
Perhaps it would be better to coil the hair about the brow and have no
fringe, or at least only a few loose locks that would look equally well,
straight or curled.
As Mrs Ray Jefferson was taking all this trouble about her personal
appearance, when that appearance would only gratify the sight of a few
members of her own sex who were generally too much taken up with their
own ailments or complaints to care what their fellow-sufferers looked
like, it shows the fallacy of a popular superstition that women only
care to dress for men. Believe me, no--they dress for critics, the
critics of their own sex, who with one contemptuous glance can sweep a
_toilette_ into insignificance, and make its wearer miserable, or, by
some envious approbation, are reluctantly compelled to bestow on it the
seal of success.
Is it for men, think you, that those delicate _nuances_ and tints and
shades are harmonised and put together? Such a conceit is only
pardonable in a set of beings who possess not the delicate faculty of
"detail," and who, with a limited knowledge of even cardinal colours,
describe the graces and beauties of a _toilette_ by saying the wearer
had on something white, or something black, or something red, but "it
suited her down to the ground." A few misguided individuals have even
been known to take refuge in the remark (made historic now by comic
papers) that "they never look _under_ the table," when asked what
certain ladies had on. But this is trifling, and only applicable to
dinner parties.
Mrs Ray Jefferson's thoughts had not prevented her from taking stock of
the other inmates of the room. One or two were lying on couches, but
most of them seemed to prefer the low comfortable chairs, that were like
rocking-chairs without the rockers.
No one spoke. They looked solemn and suffering, and appeared intent
merely on the symptoms of distilled moisture on the visible portion of
their persons.
"I think," said Mrs Jefferson, "I shall go into the second room. I can
stand some more heat."
She made the remark, abstractedly, in the direction of her neighbour,
who only looked at her in a bored and ill-tempered fashion, as befitted
one who had gout without arched feet to display as compensation.
"You and I are the only hotel people here," went on Mrs Jefferson, as
she took up the glass of water and the head-cloth preparatory to moving
away. Then she laughed again as she looked at her companion's flushed
countenance and generally distressed appearance. "What a comfort," she
said, "that we won't look quite such objects at dinner-time! I always
find a bath improves my complexion, don't you?"
Mrs Markham gave an impatient grunt. "As if it mattered what one looks
like in a bath!" she said. "Do you Americans live in public all your
lives? You seem to be always thinking of your clothes, or your looks!"
Mrs Jefferson opened her lips to reply with suitable indignation, but
the words were cut short by a gasp of astonishment, and lost themselves
in one wondering, long-drawn monosyllable--"My--!"
The gouty sufferer also looked up, and in the direction of the doorway,
and though she said nothing, her eyes expressed as much surprise as was
compatible with a sluggish temperament, and a disposition to cavil at
most things and persons that were presented to her notice.
The object on which the two pairs of feminine eyes rested was only the
figure of a woman standing between the thick oriental curtains that
partitioned off the dressing from the shampooing and douche rooms.
A woman--but a woman so beautiful that she held even her own sex dumb
with admiration. She was tall, but not too tall for perfect grace; and
slender, but with the slenderness of some young pictured goddess. She
was dark, too, but with a pale clear skin that was more lovely than any
dead blonde whiteness; and to crown her charms, she had long rippling
hair of jet black hue that was parted from her brow and fell like a veil
to her delicate arched feet, and through which the serious, darkly--
glowing eyes looked straight at the wondering faces before her.
The pause she made before entering was brief, but not so brief that
every eye there had not scanned enviously and wonderingly her perfect
beauty--from the clear-cut, exquisite face and bare, beautifully--shaped
arms, to the graceful ankles, gleaming white as sculptured marble
through the veiling hair.
Mrs Jefferson first recovered speech.
"Who is she?" she whispered eagerly. "Not at our hotel I think. Looks
like a walking advertisement of a new hair restorer. She'd be a fortune
to them if she'd have her photograph taken so!"
The newcomer meanwhile advanced and took one of the chairs near Mrs
Jefferson. That lady suffered strongly from the curiosity that is
characteristic of her admirable nation. She re-seated herself for the
purpose of studying the strange vision, and, not being in the least
degree afflicted with English reticence, she set the ball of
conversation going by an immediate remark:
"Had any of these baths before?"
The person addressed looked at her with grave and serious eyes.
"No," she said; and her voice was singularly clear and sweet, but with
something foreign in the slow accentuation of words. "I only arrived at
this hotel last night."
"Oh!" said Mrs Jefferson, "is that so? I thought I hadn't seen you
before. Come for your health?"
"Yes," said the stranger, accepting a glass of water from the attendant,
who had just come forward.
"Not gout, I suppose?" suggested Mrs Jefferson, conscious that there
were arched feet in the world even more exquisite in shape and size than
her own.
"Gout! Oh, no!" said the stranger, smiling faintly. "They say my
nerves are not strong. I sleep badly, I am easily startled, and easily
fatigued." She paused a moment, and one delicate hand, glittering with
rings, pushed back the dark weight of rippling hair from her brow. "I
have had a great mental shock," she said, quietly. "Such things require
time... one cannot easily forget..."
Her eyes had grown dreamy and abstracted. The hand that had pushed back
her heavy hair fell on her lap. She looked at it and its shining rings,
and Mrs Jefferson's sharp glance followed hers. Was there a plain gold
circlet among that glittering array?--was the beautiful stranger wife or
maiden?
"If any man saw her now!" she thought involuntarily. "My! I wouldn't
give much for his peace of mind afterwards! What owls she makes us all
look!"
"Nerves are queer things," she said aloud. "Can't say I'm much troubled
with them, except here," and she moved her foot explanatorily. "Just
that joint. It's agony sometimes. Suppressed gout, you know. You
wouldn't think so to look at it, would you?"
"That the gout was--suppressed? certainly I should," answered the
stranger, smiling. "There is no external sign of it. I always thought
gout meant large lumps, and swellings of the joints."
"So it does," said Mrs Jefferson, with an involuntary glance at the
moist and crimson sufferer on her right. "But my form of it is
different. It is much worse, but no one sympathises with me because it
doesn't _look_ so bad as the other gout."
"It is not often that people do sympathise with illness," said the
beautiful woman. "When we ourselves are well, we think suffering can't
be so very great after all, and when we are ill we are quite sure no one
else has to bear so much pain. Human nature is essentially selfish. It
is a natural incident of living at all that we should estimate our own
life as more important than our neighbours."
"Well," laughed Mrs Jefferson, "if we sacrificed it to them, it might
be a doubtful benefit. I often thank my stars I wasn't born in the age
of martyrs. If J. had been, I'm sure the very sight of the rack or the
faggot would have made me swear anything."
"The history of religions is a very curious history," said the stranger
in her low clear tones. "Looked at dispassionately, it has done very
little for mankind in general, save to prove one fundamental truth that
is more significant than any doctrine or dogma. That truth is the
inherent need in all humanity of something to worship. From the highest
to the lowest degrees of civilisation that need has made itself the
exponent of external forms. It is the kernel of all religions."
"A kernel that is surrounded with a very hard shell," said Mrs
Jefferson glibly. She liked discussions, and was accustomed to say she
could talk on any subject--having indeed come from a country where women
did talk on any subject, whether they were acquainted, with it or not.
"I don't think there is much spirituality in any modern religion," she
went on. "I surmise it's dead. Science has got the upper hand of
theology and means to keep it. People are not content now-a-days with
being told `you must believe so and so.' They want a reason for
believing. You're not a Romanist, are you?" she added suddenly.
"I--oh no," said the stranger with a faint smile.
"I'm glad of that, for I was just going to say that the Church of Rome
has done more to retard rational and spiritual progress than any other.
I don't believe in the voice of man barring the way to inquiry. God
made man, and, as far as I have ever been able to learn, He made them
all on one pattern. The offices and dignities they give themselves
won't make them one whit greater or more important in His eyes."
"You are a democrat, I see," said the beautiful woman, looking gravely
and scrutinisingly at the eager flushed face, with its ruffled damp
curls, and quick restless eyes.
"Well," said Mrs Jefferson, "I don't exactly know what I am. My views
are liberal on most subjects. I've travelled a good bit, and I think
that enlarges the mind. I've just run over to have a look at England.
Our people are laughing at her pretty well. The Gladstone party have
made a lovely hash of affairs haven't they? But perhaps you don't care
for politics, being foreign."
"Oh, yes, I do," answered her strange companion. "And I am specially
interested in English politics," she added. "Like yourself I was
curious to see a nation who seemed determined to court their own shame,
and to deify the being whose career is signally marked by obloquy and
disaster."
"His day is pretty well over, I fancy," said Mrs Jefferson, eagerly
scenting an opportunity for a brilliant display of political knowledge.
"That Irish business has settled him. They call him the greatest
statesman of the age! A man at dinner last night was lauding him up to
the skies. There was quite a battle about him. We showed, however,
that, putting his talking powers aside, he really is no statesman--only
a grasping selfish old bungler, who cares nothing for his country except
it keeps him in office, and has done nothing really great or good during
his whole career. They make a fuss about the Education Act, but the
credit of passing that belongs to Foster. As for the Disestablishment
of the Irish Church, that is a disgraceful business--a robbery of the
dead who had left their money to support a faith they believed in. He
is responsible--to my thinking--for all the anarchy, confusion and
misery in that poor unhappy Ireland. I believe," and she leant forward
and dropped her voice, "I believe that at heart the man is more than
half a Romanist. See how he has favoured the High Church party, and if
ever he gives a clerical appointment it is always to a Ritualist priest.
They don't call themselves _clergymen_ now. Well," and she drew
herself up once more, "I, for one, wouldn't like to have his sins on my
shoulders. I should think he ought to be haunted by as many victims as
Napoleon Buonaparte. What with financial humbug, war taxes--the
blunders of the Alabama business--the disgrace and bloodshed of the
Transvaal affair and the Egyptian war--crowned by the undying and never
to be forgotten shame of Gordon's sacrificed life, I wonder he can lay
down his head at night and sleep. When he heard of that hero Gordon's
death he should have taken a pistol and blown out his blundering brains.
But perhaps," she added more calmly, "he was afraid of meeting his
victims until he couldn't help himself. However, he might have gone
into one of those `retreats' his favourite Ritualists are so fond of,
and spared England any more blunders and follies."
"You are very bitter against him," said the stranger calmly. "Be sure
that his own actions will also be his own avengers. Life would be made
much more tolerable if we would only keep that fact before us. To my
mind there is no backbone or support in a religion that teaches
irresponsibility. That is the great fault of you Christians. Your
faith is not a thing you take hold of, and grasp and act upon. Hence
your many national disasters. You shelve your future, or what you call
your salvation, on the merits of a Sacrifice, and think yourselves
relieved of all further trouble. In the world, and in society, religion
is a tabooed subject--it is only kept for Sundays and for churches. I
believe your clergy know no more of the _real_ doctrines of
Christianity, those deep and _mystical_ truths underlying the teachings
of Christ, than the child at his mother's knee. I have been to your
great cathedrals and churches. I saw only lip-service and routine. I
heard only stale maxims, weak explanations of the allegories and
parables that fill your Biblical records; flowing rhetoric and vague
expressions of some undefinable joy and glory in an equally undefinable
Hereafter, that was sometimes described as a place, and sometimes as a
state. That was all. I feel such things cannot long stand against the
tide of advancing thought. Modern Christianity is not the Sermon on the
Mount, and has little title to the name of its founder. It has not a
feather's weight of importance in the minds of the worldly, the
fashionable, the pleasure-seeking; its sentiment is extinct, save in a
few faithful ignorant hearts, who adore what they cannot comprehend, and
live in a state of hope that all will come right in some vague future."
The beautiful eyes had grown sad and thoughtful. They rested on the
eager wondering face before her, yet seemed to look through and beyond
it, as the eyes of one who sees a vision that is mere airy nothingness
to the surrounding crowd.
"It will come right," she went on slowly and dreamily, "but not as men
think, and not because the religion of earth teaches fear of punishment
and hope of reward as the basis of spiritual faith. No. Something
higher and holier and deeper than any motive of self-safety will perfect
what is best in man and eliminate what is vile."
"If that is so," interposed Mrs Jefferson, glibly, as she rose from her
chair to proceed to the Second Room--"I guess man will want a pretty
long time to `perfect' in. I don't see how he's going to do it here."
"I did not say `here,'" answered the stranger, in her slow, calm way, as
she, too, rose and prepared to follow the little American. "For what,
think you, are the ages of Eternity intended?--sleep and dreams?"
Mrs Jefferson gave a little shudder. "I surmise we're getting a little
too deep," she said. "Let's keep to Gladstone and the Irish Question
while the thermometer's at 110."