“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.”