I laughed. It would have been hard not to laugh, for the mere idea of comparing the two men, Santoris in such splendid prime and Morton Harland in his bent, lean and wizened condition, as being of the same or nearly the same age was quite ludicrous. Even Catherine smiled–a weak and timorous smile.
“I suppose you have grown old more quickly, father,” she said– “Perhaps Mr. Santoris has not lived at such high pressure.”
Santoris, standing by the saloon centre table tinder the full blaze of the electric lamp, looked at her with a kindly interest.
“High or low, I live each moment of my days to the full, Miss Harland,”–he said–“I do not drowse it or kill it–I LIVE it! This lady,”–and he turned his eyes towards me–“looks as if she did the same!”
“She does!” said Mr. Harland, quickly, and with emphasis–“That’s quite true! You were always a good reader of character, Santoris! I believe I have not introduced you properly to our little friend”– here he presented me by name and I held out my hand. Santoris took it in his own with a light, warm clasp–gently releasing it again as he bowed. “I call her our little friend, because she brings such an atmosphere of joy along with her wherever she goes. We persuaded her to come with us yachting this summer for a very selfish reason– because we are disposed to be dull and she is always bright,–the advantage, you see, is all on our side! Oddly enough, I was talking to her about you the other night–the very night, by the by, that your yacht came behind us off Mull. That was rather a curious coincidence when you come to think of it!”
“Not curious at all,”–said Santoris–“but perfectly natural. When will you realise that there is no such thing as ‘coincidence’ but only a very exact system of mathematics?”
Mr. Harland gave a slight, incredulous gesture.
“Your theories again,” he said–“You hold to them still! But our little friend is likely to agree with you,–when I was speaking of you to her I told her she had somewhat the same ideas as yourself. She is a sort of a ‘psychist’–whatever that may mean!”
“Do you not know?” queried Santoris, with a grave smile–“It is easy to guess by merely looking at her!”
My cheeks grew warm and my eyes fell beneath his steadfast gaze. I wondered whether Mr. Harland or Catherine would notice that in his coat he wore a small bunch of the same kind of bright pink bell- heather which was my only ‘jewel of adorning’ that night. The ice of introductory recognition being broken, we gathered round the saloon table and sat down, while the steward brought wine and other refreshments to offer to our guest. Mr. Harland’s former uneasiness and embarrassment seemed now at an end, and he gave himself up to the pleasure of renewing association with one who had known him as a young man, and they began talking easily together of their days at college, of the men they had both been acquainted with, some of whom were dead, some settled abroad and some lost to sight in the vistas of uncertain fate. Catherine took very little part in the conversation, but she listened intently–her colourless eyes were for once bright, and she watched the face of Santoris as one might watch an animated picture. Presently Dr. Brayle and Mr. Swinton, who had been pacing the deck together and smoking, paused near the saloon door. Mr. Harland beckoned them.
“Come in, come in!” he said–“Santoris, this is my physician, Dr. Brayle, who has undertaken to look after me during this trip,”– Santoris bowed–“And this is my secretary, Mr. Swinton, whom I sent over to your yacht just now.” Again Santoris bowed. His slight, yet perfectly courteous salutation, was in marked contrast with the careless modern nod or jerk of the head by which the other men barely acknowledged their introduction to him. “He was afraid of his life to go to you”–continued Mr. Harland, with a laugh–“He thought you might be an illusion–or even the devil himself, with those fiery sails!” Mr. Swinton looked sheepish; Santoris smiled. “This fair dreamer of dreams”–here he singled me out for notice–“is the only one of us who has not expressed either surprise or fear at the sight of your vessel or the possible knowledge of yourself, though there was one little incident connected with the pretty bunch of bell-heather she is wearing–why!–you wear the same flower yourself!”
There was a moment’s silence. Everyone stared. The blood burned in my veins,–I felt my face crimsoning, yet I knew not why I should be embarrassed or at a loss for words. Santoris came to my relief.
“There’s nothing remarkable in that, is there?” he queried, lightly- -“Bell-heather is quite common in this part of the world. I shouldn’t like to try and count up the number of tourists I’ve lately seen wearing it!”
“Ah, but you don’t know the interest attaching to this particular specimen!” persisted Mr. Harland–“It was given to our little friend by a wild Highland fellow, presumably a native of Mull, the very morning after she had seen your yacht for the first time, and he told her that on the previous night he had brought all of the same kind he could gather to you! Surely you see the connection?”
Santoris shook his head.
“I’m afraid I don’t!” he said, smilingly. “Did the ‘wild Highland fellow’ name me?”
“No–I believe he called you ‘the shentleman that owns the yacht.'”
“Oh well!” and Santoris laughed–“There are so many ‘shentlemen’ that own yachts! He may have got mixed in his customers. In any case, I am glad to have some little thing in common with your friend–if only a bunch of heather!”
“HER bunch behaves very curiously,”–put in Catherine–“It never fades.”
Santoris made no comment. It seemed as if he had not heard, or did not wish to hear. He changed the conversation, much to my comfort, and for the rest of the time he stayed with us, rather avoided speaking to me, though once or twice I met his eyes fixed earnestly upon me. The talk drifted in a desultory manner round various ordinary topics, and I, moving a little aside, took a seat near the window where I could watch the moon-rays striking a steel-like glitter on the still waters of Loch Scavaig, and at the same time hear all that was being said without taking any part in it. I did not wish to speak,–the uplifted joy of my soul was too intense for anything but silence. I could not tell why I was so happy,–I only knew by inward instinct that some point in my life had been reached towards which I had striven for a far longer period than I myself was aware of. There was nothing for me now but to wait with faith and patience for the next step forward–a step which I felt would not be taken alone. And I listened with interest while Mr. Harland put his former college friend through a kind of inquisitorial examination as to what he had been doing and where he had been journeying since they last met. Santoris seemed not at all unwilling to be catechised.
“When I escaped from Oxford,”–he said–but here Mr. Harland interposed.
“Escaped!” he exclaimed–“You talk as if you had been kept in prison.”
“So I was”–Santoris replied–“Oxford is a prison, to all who want to feed on something more than the dry bones of learning. While there I was like the prodigal son,–exiled from my Father’s House. And I ‘did eat the husks that the swine did eat.’ Many fellows have to do the same. Sometimes–though not often–a man arrives with a constitution unsuited to husks. Mine was–and is–such an one.”
“You secured honours with the husks,” said Mr. Harland.
Santoris gave a gesture of airy contempt.
“Honours! Such honours! Any fellow unaddicted to drinking, with a fair amount of determined plod could win them. The alleged ‘difficulties’ in the way are perfectly childish. They scarcely deserve to be called the pothooks and hangers of an education. I always got my work done in two or three hours–the rest of my time at college was pure leisure,–which I employed in other and wiser forms of study than those of the general curriculum–as you know.”
“You mean occult mysteries and things of that sort?”
“‘Occult’ is a word of such new coinage that it is not found in many dictionaries,”–said Santoris, with a mirthful look–“You will not find it, for instance, in the earlier editions of Stormonth’s reliable compendium. I do not care for it myself; I prefer to say ‘Spiritual science.'”
“You believe in that?” asked Catherine, abruptly.
“Assuredly! How can I do otherwise, seeing that it is the Key to the Soul of Nature?” “That’s too deep for me!” said Dr. Brayle, pouring himself out a glass of whisky and mixing it with soda-water–“If it’s a riddle I give it up!”
Santoris was silent. There was a moment’s pause. Then Catherine leaned forward across the table, looking at him with tired, questioning eyes.
“Could you not explain?” she murmured.
“Easily!” he answered–“Anyone can understand it with a little attention. What I mean is this,–you know that the human body outwardly expresses its inward condition of health, mentality and spirituality–well, in exactly the same way Nature, in her countless varying presentations of beauty and wisdom, expresses the Soul of herself, or the spiritual force which supports her existence. ‘Spiritual science’ is the knowledge, not of the outward effect so much as of the inward cause which makes the effect manifest. It is a knowledge which can be applied to the individual daily uses of life,–the more it is studied, the more reward it bestows, and the smallest portion of it thoroughly mastered, is bound to lead to some discovery, simple or complex, which lifts the immortal part of a man a step higher on the way it should go.”
“You are satisfied with your researches, then?” asked Mr. Harland.
Santoris smiled gravely.
“Do I look like a man that has failed?” he answered.
Mr. Harland studied his handsome face and figure with ill-concealed envy.
“You went abroad from Oxford?” he queried.
“Yes. I went back to the old home in Egypt–the house where I was born and bred. It had been well kept and cared for by the faithful servant to whom my father had entrusted it–as well kept as a Royal Chamber in the Pyramids with the funeral offerings untouched and a perpetual lamp burning. It was the best of all possible places in which to continue my particular line of work without interruption– and I have stayed there most of the time, only coming away, as now, when necessary for a change and a look at the world as the world lives in these days.”
“And”–here Mr. Harland hesitated, then went on–“Are you married?”
Santoris lifted his eyes and regarded his former college acquaintance fixedly.
“That question is unnecessary”–he said–“You know I am not.”
There was a brief awkward pause. Dr. Brayle looked up with a satirical smile.
“Spiritual science has probably taught you to beware of the fair sex”–he said.
“I do not entirely understand you”–answered Santoris, coldly–“But if you mean that I am not a lover of women in the plural you are right.”
“Perhaps of the one woman–the one rare pearl in the deep sea”– hinted Dr. Brayle, unabashed.
“Come, you are getting too personal, Brayle,” interrupted Mr. Harland, quickly, and with asperity–“Santoris, your health!”
He raised a glass of wine to his lips–Santoris did the same–and this simple courtesy between the two principals in the conversation had the effect of putting their subordinate in his proper place.
“It seems superfluous to wish health to Mr. Santoris,” said Catherine then–“He evidently has it in perfection.”
Santoris looked at her with kindly interest.
“Health is a law, Miss Harland”–he said–“It is our own fault if we trespass against it.”
“Ah, you say that because you are well and strong,” she answered, in a plaintive tone–“But if you were afflicted and suffering you would take a different view of illness.”
He smiled, somewhat compassionately.
“I think not,”–he said–“If I were afflicted and suffering, as you say, I should know that by my own neglect, thoughtlessness, carelessness or selfishness I had injured my organisation mentally and physically, and that, therefore, the penalty demanded was just and reasonable.”
“Surely you do not maintain that a man is responsible for his own ailments?” said Mr. Harland–“That would be too far-fetched, even for YOU! Why, as a matter of fact a wretched human being is not only cursed with his own poisoned blood but with the poisoned blood of his forefathers, and, according to the latest medical science, the very air and water swarm with germs of death for the unsuspecting victim.”
“Or germs of life!” said Santoris, quietly–“According to my knowledge or ‘theory,’ as you prefer to call it, there are no germs of actual death. There are germs which disintegrate effete forms of matter merely to allow the forces of life to rebuild them again–and these may propagate in the human system if it so happens that the human system is prepared to receive them. Their devastating process is called disease, but they never begin their work till the being they attack has either wasted a vital opportunity or neglected a vital necessity. Far more numerous are the beneficial germs of revivifying and creative power–and if these find place, they are bound to conquer those whose agency is destructive. It all depends on the soil and pasture you offer them. Evil thoughts make evil blood, and in evil blood disease germinates and flourishes. Pure thoughts make pure blood and rebuild the cells of health and vitality. I grant you there is such a thing as inherited disease, but this could be prevented in a great measure by making the marriage of diseased persons a criminal offence,–while much of it could be driven out by proper care in childhood. Unfortunately, the proper care is seldom given.”
“What would you call proper care?” asked Catherine.
“Entire absence of self-indulgence, to begin with,”–he answered– “No child should be permitted to have its own way or expect to have it. The first great lesson of life should be renunciation of self.”
A faint colour crept into Catherine’s faded cheeks. Mr. Harland fidgeted in his chair.
“Unless a man looks after himself, no one else will look after him”- -he said.
“Reasonable care of one’s self is UNselfishness,” replied Santoris– “But anything in excess of reasonable care is pure vice. A man should work for his livelihood chiefly in order not to become a burden on others. In the same way he should take care of his health so that he may avoid being a troublesome invalid, dependent on others’ compassion. To be ill is to acknowledge neglect of existing laws and incapacity of resistance to evil.”
“You lay down a very hard and fast rule, Mr. Santoris”–said Dr. Brayle–“Many unfortunate people are ill through no fault of their own.”
“Pardon me for my dogmatism when I say such a thing is impossible”– answered Santoris–“If a human being starts his life in health he cannot be ill UNLESS through some fault of his own. It may be a moral or a physical fault, but the trespass against the law has been made. And suppose him to be born with some inherited trouble, he can eliminate even that from his blood if he so determines. Man was not meant to be sickly, but strong–he is not intended to dwell on this earth as a servant but as a master,–and all the elements of strength and individual sovereignty are contained in Nature for his use and advantage if he will but accept them as frankly as they are offered ungrudgingly. I cannot grant you “–and he smiled–“even the smallest amount of voluntary or intended mischief in the Divine plan!”
At that moment Captain Derrick looked in at the saloon door to remind us that the boat was still waiting to take our visitor back to his own yacht. He rose at once, with a briefly courteous apology for having stayed so long, and we all vent with him to see him off. It was arranged that we were to join him on board his vessel next day, and either take a sail with him along the island coast or else do the excursion on foot to Loch Coruisk, which was a point not to be missed. As we walked all together along the moonlit deck a chance moment placed him by my side while the others were moving on ahead. I felt rather than saw his eyes upon me, and looked up swiftly in obedience to his compelling glance. There was a light of eloquent meaning in the expression of his face, but he spoke in perfectly conventional tones:–
“I am glad to have met you at last,”–he said, quietly–“I have known you by name–and in the spirit–a long time.”
I did not answer. My heart was beating rapidly with an excitation of nameless joy and fear commingled.
“To-morrow”–he went on–“we shall be able to talk together, I hope,–I feel that there are many things in which we are mutually interested.”
Still I could not speak.
“Sometimes it happens”–he continued, in a voice that trembled a little–“that two people who are not immediately conscious of having met before, feel on first introduction to each other as if they were quite old friends. Is it not so?”
I murmured a scarcely audible assent.
He bent his head and looked at me searchingly,–a smile was on his lips and his eyes were full of tenderness.
“Till to-morrow is not long to wait,”–he said–“Not long–after so many years! Good-night!”
A sense of calm and sweet assurance swept over me.
“Good-night!” I answered, with a smile of happy response to his own- -“Till to-morrow!”
We were close to the gangway where the others already stood. In another couple of minutes he had made his adieux to our whole party and was on his way back to his own vessel. The boat in which he sat, rowed strongly by our men, soon disappeared like a black blot on the general darkness of the water, yet we remained for some time watching, as though we could see it even when it was no longer visible.
“A strange fellow!” said Dr. Brayle when we moved away at last, flinging the end of his cigar over the yacht side–“Something of madness and genius combined.”
Mr. Harland turned quickly upon him.
“You mistake,”–he answered–“There’s no madness, though there is certainly genius. He’s of the same mind as he was when I knew him at college. There never was a saner or more brilliant scholar.”
“It’s curious you should meet him again like this,”–said Catherine- -“But surely, father, he’s not as old as you are?”
“He’s about three and a half years younger–that’s all.”
Dr. Brayle laughed.
“I don’t believe it for a moment!” he said–“I think he’s playing a part. He’s probably not the man you knew at Oxford at all.”
We were then going to our cabins for the night, and Mr. Harland paused as these words were said and faced us.
“He IS the man!”–he said, emphatically–“I had my doubts of him at first, but I was wrong. As for ‘playing a part,’ that would be impossible to him. He is absolutely truthful–almost to the verge of cruelty!” A curious expression came into his eyes, as of hidden fear. “In one way I am glad to have met him again–in another I am sorry. For he is a disturber of the comfortable peace of conventions. You”–here he regarded me suddenly, as if he had almost forgotten my presence–“will like him. You have many ideas in common and will be sure to get on well together. As for me, I am his direct opposite,–the two poles are not wider apart than we are in our feelings, sentiments and beliefs.” He paused, seeming to be troubled by the passing cloud of some painful thought–then he went on– “There is one thing I should perhaps explain, especially to you, Brayle, to save useless argument. It is, of course, a ‘craze’–but craze or not, he is absolutely immovable on one point which he calls the great Fact of Life,–that there is and can be no Death,–that Life is eternal and therefore in all its forms indestructible.”
“Does he consider himself immune from the common lot of mortals?” asked Dr. Brayle, with a touch of derision.
“He denies ‘the common lot’ altogether”–replied Mr. Harland–“For him, each individual life is a perpetual succession of progressive changes, and he holds that a change IS never and CAN never be made till the person concerned has prepared the next ‘costume’ or mortal presentment of immortal being, according to voluntary choice and liking.”
“Then he is mad!” exclaimed Catherine. “He must be mad!”
I smiled.
“Then I am mad too,”–I said–“For I believe as he does. May I say good-night?”
And with that I left them, glad to be alone with myself and my heart’s secret rapture.
VII
MEMORIES
Perfect happiness is the soul’s acceptance of a sense of joy without question. And this is what I felt through all my being on that never-to-be-forgotten night. Just as a tree may be glad of the soft wind blowing its leaves, or a daisy in the grass may rejoice in the warmth of the sun to which it opens its golden heart without either being able to explain the delicious ecstasy, so I was the recipient of light and exquisite felicity which could have no explanation or analysis. I did not try to think,–it was enough for me simply to BE. I realised, of course, that with the Harlands and their two paid attendants, the materialist Dr. Brayle, and the secretarial machine, Swinton, Rafel Santoris could have nothing in common,–and as I know, by daily experience, that not even the most trifling event happens without a predestined cause for its occurrence and a purpose in its result, I was sure that the reason for his coming into touch with us at all was to be found in connection, through some mysterious intuition, with myself. However, as I say, I did not think about it,–I was content to breathe the invigorating air of peace and serenity in which my spirit seemed to float on wings. I slept like a child who is only tired out with play and pleasure,–I woke like a child to whom the world is all new and brimful of beauty. That it was a sunny day seemed right and natural–clouds and rain could hardly have penetrated the brilliant atmosphere in which I lived and moved. It was an atmosphere of my own creating, of course, and therefore not liable to be disturbed by storms unless I chose. It is possible for every human being to live in the sunshine of the soul whatever may be the material surroundings of the body. The so-called ‘practical’ person would have said to me:–‘Why are you happy?’ There is no real cause for this sudden elation. You think you have met someone who is in sympathy with your tastes, ideas and feelings,–but you may be quite wrong, and this bright wave of joy into which you are plunging heedlessly may fling you bruised and broken on a desolate shore for the remainder of your life. One would think you had fallen in love at first sight.
To which I should have replied that there is no such thing as falling in love at first sight,–that the very expression–‘falling in love’–conveys a false idea, and that what the world generally calls ‘love’ is not love at all. Moreover, there was nothing in my heart or mind with regard to Rafel Santoris save a keen interest and sense of friendship. I was sure that his beliefs were the same as mine, and that he had been working along the same lines which I had endeavoured to follow; and just as two musicians, inspired by a mutual love of their art, may be glad to play their instruments together in time and tune, even so I felt that he and I had met on a plane of thought where we had both for a long time been separately wandering.
The ‘Dream’ yacht, with its white sails spread ready for a cruise, was as beautiful by day in the sunshine under a blue sky as by night with its own electric radiance flashing its outline against the stars, and I was eager to be on board. We were, however, delayed by an ‘attack of nerves’ on the part of Catherine, who during the morning was seized with a violent fit of hysteria to which she completely gave way, sobbing, laughing and gasping for breath in a manner which showed her to be quite unhinged and swept from self- control. Dr. Brayle took her at once in charge, while Mr. Harland fumed and fretted, pacing up and down in the saloon with an angry face and brooding eyes. He looked at me where I stood waiting, ready dressed for the excursion of the day, and said:
“I’m sorry for all this worry. Catherine gets worse and worse. Her nerves tear her to pieces.”
“She allows them to do so,”–I answered–“And Dr. Brayle allows her to give them their way.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You don’t like Brayle,”–he said–“But he’s clever, and he does his best.”
“To keep his patients,”–I hinted, with a smile.
He turned on his heel and faced me.
“Well now, come!” he said–“Could YOU cure her?”
“I could have cured her in the beginning,”–I replied, “But hardly now. No one can cure her now but herself.”
He paced up and down again.
“She won’t be able to go with us to visit Santoris,” he said–“I’m sure of that.”
“Shall we put it off?” I suggested.
His eyebrows went up in surprise at me.
“Why no, certainly not. It will be a change for you and a pleasure of which I would not deprive you. Besides, I want to go myself. But Catherine–“
Dr. Brayle here entered the saloon with his softest step and most professional manner.
“Miss Harland is better now,”–he said–“She will be quite calm in a few minutes. But she must remain quiet. It will not be safe for her to attempt any excursion today.”
“Well, that need not prevent the rest of us from going.”–said Mr. Harland.
“Oh no, certainly not! In fact, Miss Harland said she hoped you would go, and make her excuses to Mr. Santoris. I shall, of course, be in attendance on her.”
“You won’t come, then?”–and an unconscious look of relief brightened Mr. Harland’s features–“And as Swinton doesn’t wish to join us, we shall be only a party of three–Captain Derrick, myself and our little friend here. We may as well be off. Is the boat ready?”
We were informed that Mr. Santoris had sent his own boat and men to fetch us, and that they had been waiting for some few minutes. We at once prepared to go, and while Mr. Harland was getting his overcoat and searching for his field-glasses, Dr. Brayle spoke to me in a low tone–
“The truth of the matter is that Miss Harland has been greatly upset by the visit of Mr. Santoris and by some of the things he said last night. She could not sleep, and was exceedingly troubled in her mind by the most distressing thoughts. I am very glad she has decided not to see him again to-day.”
“Do you consider his influence harmful?” I queried, somewhat amused.
“I consider him not quite sane,”–Dr. Brayle answered, coldly–“And highly nervous persons like Miss Harland are best without the society of clever but wholly irresponsible theorists.”
The colour burned in my cheeks.
“You include me in that category, of course,”–I said, quietly–“For I said last night that if Mr. Santoris was mad, then I am too, for I hold the same views.”
He smiled a superior smile.
“There is no harm in you,”–he answered, condescendingly–“You may think what you like,–you are only a woman. Very clever–very charming–and full of the most delightful fancies,–but weighted (fortunately) with the restrictions of your sex. I mean no offence, I assure you,–but a woman’s ‘views,’ whatever they are, are never accepted by rational beings.”
I laughed.
“I see! And rational beings must always be men!” I said–“You are quite certain of that?”
“In the fact that men ordain the world’s government and progress, you have your answer,”–he replied.
“Alas, poor world!” I murmured–“Sometimes it rebels against the ‘rationalism’ of its rulers!”
Just then Mr. Harland called me, and I hastened to join him and Captain Derrick. The boat which was waiting for us was manned by four sailors who wore white jerseys trimmed with scarlet, bearing the name of the yacht to which they belonged–the ‘Dream.’ These men were dark-skinned and dark-eyed,–we took them at first for Portuguese or Malays, but they turned out to be from Egypt. They saluted us, but did not speak, and as soon as we were seated, pulled swiftly away across the water. Captain Derrick watched their movements with great interest and curiosity.
“Plenty of grit in those chaps,”–he said, aside to Mr. Harland– “Look at their muscular arms! I suppose they don’t speak a word of English.”
Mr. Harland thereupon tried one of them with a remark about the weather. The man smiled–and the sudden gleam of his white teeth gave a wonderful light and charm to his naturally grave cast of countenance.
“Beautiful day!”–he said,–“Very happy sky!”
This expression ‘happy sky’ attracted me. It recalled to my mind a phrase I had once read in the translation of an inscription found in an Egyptian sarcophagus–“The peace of the morning befriend thee, and the light of the sunset and the happiness of the sky.” The words rang in my ears with an odd familiarity, like the verse of some poem loved and learned by heart in childhood.
In a very few minutes we were alongside the ‘Dream’ and soon on board, where Rafel Santoris received us with kindly courtesy and warmth of welcome. He expressed polite regret at the absence of Miss Harland–none for that of Dr. Brayle or Mr. Swinton–and then introduced us to his captain, an Italian named Marino Fazio, of whom Santoris said to us, smilingly:–
“He is a scientist as well as a skipper–and he needs to be both in the management of such a vessel as this. He will take Captain Derrick in his charge and explain to him the mystery of our brilliant appearance at night, and also the secret of our sailing without wind.”
Fazio saluted, and smiled a cheerful response.
“Are you ready to start now?” he asked, speaking very good English with just the slightest trace of a foreign accent.
“Perfectly!”
Fazio lifted his hand with a sign to the man at the wheel. Another moment and the yacht began to move. Without the slightest noise,– without the grinding of ropes, or rattling of chains, or creaking boards, she swung gracefully round, and began to glide through the water with a swiftness that was almost incredible. The sails filled, though the air was intensely warm and stirless–an air in which any ordinary schooner would have been hopelessly becalmed,–and almost before we knew it we were out of Loch Scavaig and flying as though borne on the wings of some great white bird, all along the wild and picturesque coast of Skye towards Loch Bracadale. One of the most remarkable features about the yacht was the extraordinary lightness with which she skimmed the waves–she seemed to ride on their surface rather than part them with her keel. Everything on board expressed the finest taste as well as the most perfect convenience, and I saw Mr. Plarland gazing about him in utter amazement at the elegant sumptuousness of his surroundings. Santoris showed us all over the vessel, talking to us with the ease of quite an old friend.
“You know the familiar axiom,”–he said–“‘Anything worth doing at all is worth doing well.’ The ‘Dream’ was first of all nothing but a dream in my brain till I set to work with Fazio and made it a reality. Owing to our discovery of the way in which to compel the waters to serve us as our motive power, we have no blackening smoke or steam, so that our furniture and fittings are preserved from dinginess and tarnish. It was possible to have the saloon delicately painted, as you see,”–here he opened the door of the apartment mentioned, and we stepped into it as into a fairy palace. It was much loftier than the usual yacht saloon, and on all sides the windows were oval shaped, set in between the most exquisitely painted panels of sea pieces, evidently the work of some great artist. Overhead the ceiling was draped with pale turquoise blue silk forming a canopy, which was gathered in rich folds on all four sides, having in its centre a crystal lamp in the shape of a star.
“You live like a king”–then said Mr. Harland, a trifle bitterly– “You know how to use your father’s fortune.”
“My father’s fortune was made to be used,” answered Santoris, with perfect good-humour–“And I think he is perfectly satisfied with my mode of expending it. But very little of it has been touched. I have made my own fortune.”
“Indeed! How?” And Harland looked as he evidently felt, keenly interested.
“Ah, that’s asking too much of me!” laughed Santoris. “You may be satisfied, however, that it’s not through defrauding my neighbours. It’s comparatively easy to be rich if you have coaxed any of Mother Nature’s secrets out of her. She is very kind to her children, if they are kind to her,–in fact, she spoils them, for the more they ask of her the more she gives. Besides, every man should make his own money even if he inherits wealth,–it is the only way to feel worthy of a place in this beautiful, ever-working world.”
He preceded us out of the saloon and showed us the State-rooms, of which there were five, daintily furnished in white and blue and white and rose.
“These are for my guests when I have any,” he said, “Which is very seldom. This for a princess–if ever one should honour me with her presence!”
And he opened a door on his right, through which we peered into a long, lovely room, gleaming with iridescent hues and sparkling with touches of gold and crystal. The bed was draped with cloudy lace through which a shimmer of pale rose-colour made itself visible, and the carpet of dark moss-green formed a perfect setting for the quaintly shaped furniture, which was all of sandal-wood inlaid with ivory. On a small table of carved ivory in the centre of the room lay a bunch of Madonna lilies tied with a finely twisted cord of gold. We murmured our admiration, and Santoris addressed himself directly to me for the first time since we had come on board.
“Will you go in and rest for a while till luncheon?” he said–“I placed the lilies there for your acceptance.”
The colour rushed to my cheeks,–I looked up at him in a little wonderment.
“But I am not a princess!”
His eyes smiled down into mine.
“No? Then I must have dreamed you were!”
My heart gave a quick throb,–some memory touched my brain, but what it was I could not tell. Mr. Harland glanced at me and laughed.
“What did I tell you the other day?” he said–“Did I not call you the princess of a fairy tale? I was not far wrong!”
They left me to myself then, and as I stood alone in the beautiful room which had thus been placed at my disposal, a curious feeling came over me that these luxurious surroundings were, after all, not new to my experience. I had been accustomed to them for a great part of my life. Stay!–how foolish of me!–‘a great part of my life’?– then what part of it? I briefly reviewed my own career,–a difficult and solitary childhood,–the hard and uphill work which became my lot as soon as I was old enough to work at all,–incessant study, and certainly no surplus of riches. Then where had I known luxury? I sank into a chair, dreamily considering. The floating scent of sandal-wood and the perfume of lilies commingled was like the breath of an odorous garden in the East, familiar to me long ago, and as I sat musing I became conscious of a sudden inrush of power and sense of dominance which lifted me as it were above myself, as though I had, without any warning, been given the full control of a great kingdom and its people. Catching sight of my own reflection in an opposite mirror, I was startled and almost afraid at the expression of my face, the proud light in my eyes, the smile on my lips.
“What am I thinking of!” I said, half aloud–“I am not my true self to-day,–some remnant of a cast-off pride has arisen in me and made me less of a humble student. I must not yield to this overpowering demand on my soul,–it is surely an evil suggestion which asserts itself like the warning pain or fever of an impending disease. Can it be the influence of Santoris? No!–I will never believe it!”
And yet a vague uneasiness beset me, and I rose and paced about restlessly,–then pausing where the lovely Madonna lilies lay on the ivory table, I remembered they had been put there for me. I raised them gently, inhaling their delicious fragrance, and as I did so, saw, lying immediately underneath them, a golden Cross of a mystic shape I knew well,–its upper half set on the face of a seven- pointed Star, also of gold. With joy I took it up and kissed it reverently, and as I compared it with the one I always secretly wore on my own person, I knew that all was well, and that I need have no distrust of Rafel Santoris. No injurious effect on my mind could possibly be exerted by his influence–and I was thrown back on myself for a clue to that singular wave of feeling, so entirely contrary to my own disposition, which had for a moment overwhelmed me. I could not trace its source, but I speedily conquered it. Fastening one of the snowy lilies in my waistband, as a contrast to the bright bit of bell-heather which I cherished even more than if it were a jewel, I presently went up on deck, where I found my host, Mr. Harland, Captain Derrick and Marino Fazio all talking animatedly together.
“The mystery is cleared up,”–said Mr. Harland, addressing me as I approached–“Captain Derrick is satisfied. He has learned how one of the finest schooners he has ever seen can make full speed in any weather without wind.”
“Oh no, I haven’t learned how to do it,–I’m a long way off that!”– said Derrick, good-humouredly–“But I’ve seen how it’s done. And it’s marvellous! If that invention could be applied to all ships–“
“Ah!–but first of all it would be necessary to instruct the shipbuilders!”–put in Fazio–“They would have to learn their trade all over again. Our yacht looks as though she were built on the same lines as all yachts,–but you know–you have seen–she is entirely different!”
Captain Derrick gave a nod of grave emphasis. Santoris meantime had come to my side. Our glances met,–he saw that I had received and understood the message of the lilies, and a light and colour came into his eyes that made them beautiful.
“Men have not yet fully enjoyed their heritage,” he said, taking up the conversation–“Our yacht’s motive power seems complex, but in reality it is very simple,–and the same force which propels this light vessel would propel the biggest liner afloat. Nature has given us all the materials for every kind of work and progress, physical and mental–but because we do not at once comprehend them we deny their uses. Nothing in the air, earth or water exists which we may not press into our service,–and it is in the study of natural forces that we find our conquest. What hundreds of years it took us to discover the wonders of steam!–how the discoverer was mocked and laughed at!–yet it was not really ‘wonderful’–it was always there, waiting to be employed, and wasted by mere lack of human effort. One can say the same of electricity, sometimes called ‘miraculous’–it is no miracle, but perfectly common and natural, only we have, until now, failed to apply it to our needs,–and even when wider disclosures of science are being made to us every day, we still bar knowledge by obstinacy, and remain in ignorance rather than learn. A few grains in weight of hydrogen have power enough to raise a million tons to a height of more than three hundred feet,–and if we could only find a way to liberate economically and with discretion the various forces which Spirit and Matter contain, we might change the whole occupation of man and make of him less a labourer than thinker, less mortal than angel! The wildest fairy-tales might come true, and earth be transformed into a paradise! And as for motive power, in a thimbleful of concentrated fuel we might take the largest ship across the widest ocean. I say if we could only find a way! Some think they are finding it–“
“You, for example?”–suggested Mr. Harland.
He laughed.
“I–if you like!–for example! Will you come to luncheon?”
He led the way, and Mr. Harland and I followed. Captain Derrick, who I saw was a little afraid of him, had arranged to take his luncheon with Fazio and the other officers of the crew apart. We were waited upon by dark-skinned men attired in the picturesque costume of the East, who performed their duties with noiseless grace and swiftness. The yacht had for some time slackened speed, and appeared to be merely floating lazily on the surface of the calm water. We were told she could always do this and make almost imperceptible headway, provided there was no impending storm in the air. It seemed as if we were scarcely moving, and the whole atmosphere surrounding us expressed the most delicious tranquillity. The luncheon prepared for us was of the daintiest and most elegant description, and Mr. Harland, who on account of his ill-health seldom had any appetite, enjoyed it with a zest and heartiness I had never seen him display before. He particularly appreciated the wine, a rich, ruby-coloured beverage which was unlike anything I had ever tasted.
“There is nothing remarkable about it,”–said Santoris, I when questioned as to its origin–“It is simply REAL wine,–though you may say that of itself is remarkable, there being none in the market. It is the pure juice of the grape, prepared in such a manner as to nourish the blood without inflaming it. It can do you no harm,–in fact, for you, Harland, it is an excellent thing.”
“Why for me in particular?” queried Harland, rather sharply.
“Because you need it,”–answered Santoris–“My dear fellow, you are not in the best of health. And you will never get better under your present treatment.”
I looked up eagerly.
“That is what I, too, have thought,”–I said–“only I dared not express it!”
Mr. Harland surveyed me with an amused smile.
“Dared not! I know nothing you would not dare!–but with all your boldness, you are full of mere theories,–and theories never made an ill man well yet.”
Santoris exchanged a swift glance with me. Then he spoke:–
“Theory without practice is, of course, useless,”–he said–“But surely you can see that this lady has reached a certain plane of thought on which she herself dwells in health and content? And can she not serve you as an object lesson?”
“Not at all,”–replied Mr. Harland, almost testily–“She is a woman whose life has been immersed in study and contemplation, and because she has allowed herself to forego many of the world’s pleasures she can be made happy by a mere nothing–a handful of roses–or the sound of sweet music–“
“Are they ‘nothings’?”–interrupted Santoris.
“To business men they are–“
“And business itself? Is it not also from some points of view a ‘nothing’?”
“Santoris, if you are going to be ‘transcendental’ I will have none of you!” said Mr. Harland, with a vexed laugh–“What I wish to say is merely this–that my little friend here, for whom I have a great esteem, let me assure her!–is not really capable of forming an opinion of the condition of a man like myself, nor can she judge of the treatment likely to benefit me. She does not even know the nature of my illness–but I can see that she has taken a dislike to my physician, Brayle–“
“I never ‘take dislikes,’ Mr. Harland,”–I interrupted, quickly–“I merely trust to a guiding instinct which tells me when a man is sincere or when he is acting a part. That’s all.”
“Well, you’ve decided that Brayle is not sincere,”–he replied–“And you hardly think him clever. But if you would consider the point logically–you might enquire what motive could he possibly have for playing the humbug with me?”
Santoris smiled.
“Oh, man of ‘business’! YOU can ask that?”
We were at the end of luncheon,–the servants had retired, and Mr. Harland was sipping his coffee and smoking a cigar.
“You can ask that?” he repeated–“You, a millionaire, with one daughter who is your sole heiress, can ask what motive a man like Brayle,–worldly, calculating and without heart–has in keeping you both–both, I say–you and your daughter equally–in his medical clutches?”
Mr. Harland’s sharp eyes flashed with a sudden menace.
“If I thought–” he began–then he broke off. Presently he resumed– “You are not aware of the true state of affairs, Santoris. Wizard and scientist as you are, you cannot know everything! I need constant medical attendance–and my disease is incurable–“
“No!”–said Santoris, quietly–“Not incurable.”
A sudden hope illumined Harland’s worn and haggard face.
“Not incurable! But–my good fellow, you don’t even know what it is!”
“I do. I also know how it began, and when,–how it has progressed, and how it will end. I know, too, how it can be checked–cut off in its development, and utterly destroyed,–but the cure would depend on yourself more than on Dr. Brayle or any other physician. At present no good is being done and much harm. For instance, you are in pain now?”
“I am–but how can you tell?”
“By the small, almost imperceptible lines on your face which contract quite unconsciously to yourself. I can stop that dreary suffering at once for you, if you will let me.”
“Oh, I will ‘let’ you, certainly!” and Mr. Harland smiled incredulously,–“But I think you over-estimate your abilities.”
“I was never a boaster,”–replied Santoris, cheerfully–“But you shall keep whatever opinion you like of me.” And he drew from his pocket a tiny crystal phial set in a sheath of gold. “A touch of this in your glass of wine will make you feel a new man.”
We watched him with strained attention as he carefully allowed two small drops of liquid, bright and clear as dew to fall one after the other into Mr. Harland’s glass.
“Now,”–he continued–“drink without fear, and say good-bye to all pain for at least forty-eight hours.”
With a docility quite unusual to him Mr. Harland obeyed.
“May I go on smoking?” he asked.
“You may.”
A minute passed, and Mr. Harland’s face expressed a sudden surprise and relief.
“Well! What now?” asked Santoris–“How is the pain?”
“Gone!” he answered–“I can hardly believe it–but I’m bound to admit it!”
“That’s right! And it will not come back–not to-day, at any rate, nor to-morrow. Shall we go on deck now?”
We assented. As we left the saloon he said:
“You must see the glow of the sunset over Loch Coruisk. It’s always a fine sight and it promises to be specially fine this evening,– there are so many picturesque clouds floating about. We are turning back to Loch Scavaig,–and when we get there we can land and do the rest of the excursion on foot. It’s not much of a climb; will you feel equal to it?”
This question he put to me personally.
I smiled.
“Of course! I feel equal to anything! Besides, I’ve been very lazy on board the ‘Diana,’ taking no real exercise. A walk will do me good.”
Mr. Harland seated himself in one of the long reclining chairs which were placed temptingly under an awning on deck. His eyes were clearer and his face more composed than I had ever seen it.
“Those drops you gave me are magical, Santoris!”–he said–“I wish you’d let me have a supply!”
Santoris stood looking down upon him kindly.
“It would not be safe for you,”–he answered–“The remedy is a sovereign one if used very rarely, and with extreme caution, but in uninstructed hands it is dangerous. Its work is to stimulate certain cells–at the same time (like all things taken in excess) it can destroy them. Moreover, it would not agree with Dr. Brayle’s medicines.”
“You really and truly think Brayle an impostor?”
“Impostor is a strong word! No!–I will give him credit for believing in himself up to a certain point. But of course he knows that the so-called ‘electric’ treatment he is giving to your daughter is perfectly worthless, just as he knows that she is not really ill.”
“Not really ill!”
Mr. Harland almost bounced up in his chair, while I felt a secret thrill of satisfaction. “Why, she’s been a miserable, querulous invalid for years–“
“Since she broke off her engagement to a worthless rascal”–said Santoris, calmly. “You see, I know all about it.”
I listened, astonished. How did he know, how could he know, the intimate details of a life like Catherine’s which could scarcely be of interest to a man such as he was?
“Your daughter’s trouble is written on her face”–he went on– “Warped affections, slain desires, disappointed hopes,–and neither the strength nor the will to turn these troubles to blessings. Therefore they resemble an army of malarious germs which are eating away her moral fibre. Brayle knows that what she needs is the belief that someone has an interest not only in her, but in the particularly morbid view she has taught herself to take of life. He is actively showing that interest. The rest is easy,–and will be easier when–well!–when you are gone.”
Mr. Harland was silent, drawing slow whiffs from his cigar. After a long pause, he said–
“You are prejudiced, and I think you are mistaken. You only saw the man for a few minutes last night, and you know nothing of him–“
“Nothing,–except what he is bound to reveal,”–answered Santoris.
“What do you mean?”
“You will not believe me if I tell you,”–and Santoris, drawing a chair close to mine, sat down,–“Yet I am sure this lady, who is your friend and guest, will corroborate what I say,–though, of course, you will not believe HER! In fact, my dear Harland, as you have schooled yourself to believe NOTHING, why urge me to point out a truth you decline to accept? Had you lived in the time of Galileo you would have been one of his torturers!”
“I ask you to explain,” said Mr. Harland, with a touch of pique– “Whether I accept your explanation or not is my own affair.”
“Quite!” agreed Santoris, with a slight smile–“As I told you long ago at Oxford, a man’s life is his own affair entirely. He can do what he likes with it. But he can no more command the RESULT of what he does with it than the sun can conceal its rays. Each individual human being, male and female alike, moves unconsciously in the light of self-revealment, as though all his or her faults and virtues were reflected like the colours in a prism, or were set out in a window for passers-by to gaze upon. Fortunately for the general peace of society, however, most passers-by are not gifted with the sight to see the involuntary display.”
“You speak in enigmas,” said Harland, impatiently–“And I’m not good at guessing them.”
Santoris regarded him fixedly. His eyes were luminous and compassionate.
“The simplest truths are to you ‘enigmas,'” he said, regretfully–“A pity it is so! You ask me what I mean when I say a man is ‘bound to reveal himself.’ The process of self-revealment accompanies self- existence, as much as the fragrance of a rose accompanies its opening petals. You can never detach yourself from your own enveloping aura neither in body nor in soul. Christ taught this when He said:–‘Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven.’ Your ‘light’–remember!–that word ‘light’ is not used here as a figure of speech but as a statement of fact. A positive ‘light’ surrounds you–it is exhaled and produced by your physical and moral being,– and those among us who have cultivated their inner organs of vision see IT before they see YOU. It can be of the purest radiance,– equally it can be a mere nebulous film,–but whatever the moral and physical condition of the man or woman concerned it is always shown in the aura which each separate individual expresses for himself or herself. In this way Dr. Brayle reveals his nature to me as well as the chief tendency of his thoughts,–in this way YOU reveal yourself and your present state of health,–it is a proved test that cannot go wrong.”
Mr. Harland listened with his usual air of cynical tolerance and incredulity.
“I have heard this sort of nonsense before,”–he said–“I have even read in otherwise reliable scientific journals about the ‘auras’ of people affecting us with antipathies or sympathies for or against them. But it’s a merely fanciful suggestion and has no foundation in reality.”
“Why did you wish me to explain, then?” asked Santoris–“I can only tell you what I know, and–what I see!”
Harland moved restlessly, holding his cigar between his fingers and looking at it curiously to avoid, as I thought, the steadfast brilliancy of the compelling eyes that were fixed upon him.
“These ‘auras,'” he went on, indifferently, “are nothing but suppositions. I grant you that certain discoveries are being made concerning the luminosity of trees and plants which in some states of the atmosphere give out rays of light,–but that human beings do the same I decline to believe.”
“Of course!” and Santoris leaned back in his chair easily, as though at once dismissing the subject from his mind–“A man born blind must needs decline to believe in the pleasures of sight.”
Harland’s wrinkled brow deepened its furrows in a frown.
“Do you mean to tell me,–do you DARE to tell me”–he said–“that you see any ‘aura,’ as you call it, round my personality?”
“I do, most assuredly,”–answered Santoris–“I see it as distinctly as I see yourself in the midst of it. But there is no actual light in it,–it is mere grey mist,–a mist of miasma.”
“Thank you!” and Harland laughed harshly–“You are complimentary!”
“Is it a time for compliments?” asked Santoris, with sudden sternness–“Harland, would you have me tell you ALL?”
Harland’s face grew livid. He threw up his hand with a warning gesture.
“No!” he said, almost violently. He clutched the arm of his chair with a nervous grip, and for one instant looked like a hunted creature caught red-handed in some act of crime. Recovering himself quickly, he forced a smile.
“What about our little friend’s ‘aura’?”-he queried, glancing at me- -“Does she ‘express’ herself in radiance?”
Santoris did not reply for a moment. Then he turned his eyes towards me almost wistfully.
“She does!”–he answered–“I wish you could see her as I see her!”
There was a moment’s silence. My face grew warm, and I was vaguely embarrassed, but I met his gaze fully and frankly.
“And _I_ wish I could see myself as you see me,”–I said, half laughingly–“For I am not in the least aware of my own aura.”
“It is not intended that anyone should be visibly aware of it in their own personality,”–he answered–“But I think it is right we should realise the existence of these radiant or cloudy exhalations which we ourselves weave around ourselves, so that we may ‘walk in the light as children of the light.'”
His voice sank to a grave and tender tone which checked Mr. Harland in something he was evidently about to say, for he bit his lip and was silent.
I rose from my chair and moved away then, looking–from the smooth deck of the ‘Dream’ shadowed by her full white sails out to the peaks of the majestic hills whose picturesque beauties are sung in the wild strains of Ossian, and the projecting crags, deep hollows and lofty pinnacles outlining the coast with its numerous waterfalls, lochs and shadowy creeks. A thin and delicate haze of mist hung over the land like a pale violet veil through which the sun shot beams of rose and gold, giving a vaporous unsubstantial effect to the scenery as though it were gliding with us like a cloud pageant on the surface of the calm water. The shores of Loch Scavaig began to be dimly seen in the distance, and presently Captain Derrick approached Mr. Harland, spy-glass in hand.
“The ‘Diana’ must have gone for a cruise,”–he said, in rather a perturbed way–“As far as I can make out, there’s no sign of her where we left her this morning.”
Mr. Harland heard this indifferently.
“Perhaps Catherine wished for a sail,”–he answered. “There are plenty on board to manage the vessel. You’re not anxious?”
“Oh, not at all, sir, if you are satisfied,”–Derrick answered.
Mr. Harland stretched himself luxuriously in his chair.
“Personally, I don’t mind where the ‘Diana’ has gone to for the moment,”–he said, with a laugh–“I’m particularly comfortable where I am. Santoris!”
“Here!” And Santoris, who had stepped aside to give some order to one of his men, came up at the call.
“What do you say to leaving me on board while you and my little friend go and see your sunset effect on Loch Coruisk by yourselves?”
Santoris heard this suggestion with an amused look.
“You don’t care for sunsets?”
“Oh yes, I do,–in a way. But I’ve seen so many of them–“
“No two alike”–put in Santoris.
“I daresay not. Still, I don’t mind missing a few. Just now I should like a sound sleep rather than a sunset. It’s very unsociable, I know,–but–” here he half closed his eyes and seemed inclined to doze off there and then.
Santoris turned to me.
“What do you say? Can you put up with my company for an hour or two and allow me to be your guide to Loch Coruisk? Or would you, too, rather not see the sunset?”,
Our eyes met. A thrill of mingled joy and fear ran through me, and again I felt that strange sense of power and dominance which had previously overwhelmed me.
“Indeed, I have set my heart on going to Loch Coruisk”–I answered, lightly–“And I cannot let you off your promise to take me there! We will leave Mr. Harland to his siesta.”
“You’re sure you do not mind?”–said Harland, then, opening his eyes drowsily–“You will be perfectly safe with Santoris.”
I smiled. I did not need that assurance. And I talked gaily with Captain Derrick on the subject of the ‘Diana’ and the course of her possible cruise, while he scanned the waters in search of her,–and I watched with growing impatience our gradual approach to Loch Scavaig, which in the bright afternoon looked scarcely less dreary than at night, especially now that the ‘Diana’ was no longer there to give some air of human occupation to the wild and barren surroundings. The sun was well inclined towards the western horizon when the ‘Dream’ reached her former moorings and noiselessly dropped anchor, and about twenty minutes later the electric launch belonging to the vessel was lowered and I entered it with Santoris, a couple of his men managing the boat as it rushed through the dark steel- coloured water to the shore.
VIII
VISIONS
The touch of the earth seemed strange to me after nearly a week spent at sea, and as I sprang from the launch on to the rough rocks, aided by Santoris, I was for a moment faint and giddy. The dark mountain summits seemed to swirl round me,–and the glittering water, shining like steel, had the weird effect of a great mirror in which a fluttering vision of something undefined and undeclared rose and passed like a breath. I recovered myself with an effort and stood still, trying to control the foolish throbbing of my heart, while my companion gave a few orders to his men in a language which I thought I knew, though I could not follow it.
“Are you speaking Gaelic?” I asked him, with a smile.
“No!–only something very like it–Phoenician.”
He looked straight at me as he said this, and his eyes, darkly blue and brilliant, expressed a world of suggestion. He went on:–
“All this country was familiar ground to the Phoenician colonists of ages ago. I am sure you know that! The Gaelic tongue is the genuine dialect of the ancient Phoenician Celtic, and when I speak the original language to a Highlander who only knows his native Gaelic he understands me perfectly.”
I was silent. We moved away from the shore, walking slowly side by side. Presently I paused, looking back at the launch we had just left.
“Your men are not Highlanders?”
“No–they are from Egypt.”
“But surely,”–I said, with some hesitation–“Phoenician is no longer known or spoken?”
“Not by the world of ordinary men,”–he answered–“I know it and speak it,–and so do most of those who serve me. You have heard it before, only you do not quite remember.” I looked at him, startled. He smiled, adding gently:–“Nothing dies–not even a language!”
We were not yet out of sight of the men. They had pushed the launch off shore again and were starting it back to the yacht, it being arranged that they should return for us in a couple of hours. We were following a path among slippery stones near a rushing torrent, but as we turned round a sharp bend we lost the view of Loch Scavaig itself and were for the first time truly alone. Huge mountains, crowned with jagged pinnacles, surrounded us on all sides,–here and there tufts of heather clinging to large masses of dark stone blazed rose-purple in the declining sunshine,–the hollow sound of the falling stream made a perpetual crooning music in our ears, and the warm, stirless air seemed breathless, as though hung in suspense above us waiting for the echo of some word or whisper that should betray a life’s secret. Such a silence held us that it was almost unbearable,–every nerve in my body seemed like a strained harp- string ready to snap at a touch,–and yet I could not speak. I tried to get the mastery over the rising tide of thought, memory and emotion that surged in my soul like a tempest–swiftly and peremptorily I argued with myself that the extraordinary chaos of my mind was only due to my own imaginings,–nevertheless, despite my struggles, I remained caught as it were in a web that imprisoned every faculty and sense,–a web fine as gossamer, yet unbreakable as iron. In a kind of desperation I raised my eyes, burning with the heat of restrained tears, and saw Santoris watching me with patient, almost appealing tenderness. I felt that he could read my unexpressed trouble, and involuntarily I stretched out my hands to him.
“Tell me!” I half whispered-“What is it I must know? We are strangers–and yet–“
He caught my hands in his own.
“Not strangers!” he said, his voice trembling a little–“You cannot say that! Not strangers–but old friends!”
The strong gentleness of his clasp recalled the warm pressure of the invisible hands that had guided me out of darkness in my dream of a few nights past. I looked up into his face, and every line of it became suddenly, startlingly familiar. The deep-set blue eyes,–the broad brows and intellectual features were all as well known to me as might be the portrait of a beloved one to the lover, and my heart almost stood still with the wonder and terror of the recognition.
“Not strangers,”–he repeated, with quiet emphasis, as though to reassure me–“Only since we last met we have travelled far asunder. Have yet a little patience! You will presently remember me as well as I remember you!”
With the rush of startled recollection I found my voice.
“I remember you now!”–I said, in low, unsteady tones–“I have seen you often–often! But where? Tell me where? Oh, surely you know!”
He still held my hands with the tenderest force,–and seemed, like myself, to find speech difficult. If two deeply attached friends, parted for many years, were all unexpectedly to meet in some solitary place where neither had thought to see a living soul, their emotion could hardly be keener than ours,–and yet–there was an invisible barrier between us–a barrier erected either by him or by myself,–something that held us apart. The sudden and overpowering demand made upon our strength by the swift and subtle attraction which drew us together was held in check by ourselves,–and it was as if we were each separately surrounded by a circle across which neither of us dared to pass. I looked at him in mingled fear and questioning–his eyes were gravely thoughtful and full of light.
“Yes, I know,”–he answered, at last, speaking very softly–while, gently releasing one of my hands, he held the other–“I know,–but we need not speak of that! As I have already said, you will remember all by gradual degrees. We are never permitted to entirely forget. But it is quite natural that now–at this immediate hour–we should find it strange–you, perhaps, more than I–that something impels us one to the other,–something that will not be gainsaid,–something that if all the powers of earth and heaven could intervene, which by simplest law they cannot, will take no denial!”
I trembled, not with fear, but with an exquisite delight I dared not pause to analyse. He pressed my hand more closely.
“We had better walk on,”–he continued, averting his gaze from mine for the moment–“If I say more just now I shall say too much–and you will be frightened,–perhaps offended. I have been guilty of so many errors in the past,–you must help me to avoid them in the future. Come!”–and he turned his eyes again upon me with a smile– “Let us see the sunset!”
We moved on for a few moments in absolute silence, he still holding my hand and guiding me up the rough path we followed. The noise of the rushing torrent sounded louder in my ears, sometimes with a clattering insistence as though it sought to match itself against the surging of my own quick blood in an endeavour to drown my thoughts. On we went and still onward,–the path seemed interminable, though it was in reality a very short journey. But there was such a weight of unutterable things pressing on my soul like a pent-up storm craving for outlet, that every step measured itself as almost a mile.
At last we paused; we were in full view of Loch Coruisk and its weird splendour. On all sides arose bare and lofty mountains, broken and furrowed here and there by deep hollows and corries,–supremely grand in their impressive desolation, uplifting their stony peaks around us like the walls and turrets of a gigantic fortress, and rising so abruptly and so impenetrably encompassing the black stretch of water below, that it seemed impossible for a sunbeam to force its shining entrance into such a circle of dense gloom. Yet there was a shower of golden light pouring aslant down one of the highest of the hills, brightening to vivid crimson stray clumps of heather, touching into pale green some patches of moss and lichen, and giving the dazzling flash of silver to the white wings of a sea- gull which soared above our heads uttering wild cries like a creature in pain. Pale blue mists were rising from the surface of the lake, and the fitful gusts of air that rushed over the rocky summits played with these impalpable vapours borne inland from the Atlantic, and tossed them to and fro into fantastic shapes–some like flying forms with long hair streaming behind them–some like armed warriors, hurtling their spears against each other,–and some like veiled ghosts hurrying past as though driven to their land of shadows by shuddering fear. We stood silently hand in hand, watching the uneasy flitting of these cloud phantoms, and waiting for the deepening glow, which, when it should spread upwards from the rays of the sinking sun, would transform the wild, dark scene to one of almost supernatural splendour. Suddenly Santoris spoke:
“Now shall I tell you where we last met?” he asked, very gently– “And may I show you the reasons why we meet again?”
I lifted my eyes to his. My heart beat with suffocating quickness, and thoughts were in my brain that threatened to overwhelm my small remaining stock of self-control and make of me nothing but a creature of tears and passion. I moved my lips in an effort to speak, but no sound came from them.
“Do not be afraid,”–he continued, in the same quiet tone–“It is true that we must be careful now as in the past we were careless,– but perfect comprehension of each other rests with ourselves. May I go on?”
I gave a mute sign of assent. There was a rough craig near us, curiously shaped like a sort of throne and canopy, the canopy being formed by a thickly overhanging mass of rock and heather, and here he made me sit down, placing himself beside me. From this point we commanded a view of the head of the lake and the great mountain which closes and dominates it,–and which now began to be illumined with a strange witch-like glow of orange and purple, while a thin mist moved slowly across it like the folds of a ghostly stage curtain preparing to rise and display the first scene of some great drama.
“Sometimes,” he then said,–“it happens, even in the world of cold and artificial convention, that a man and woman are brought together who, to their own immediate consciousness, have had no previous acquaintance with each other, and yet with the lightest touch, the swiftest glance of an eye, a million vibrations are set quivering in them like harp-strings struck by the hand of a master and responding each to each in throbbing harmony and perfect tune. They do not know how it happens–they only feel it is. Then, nothing–I repeat this with emphasis–nothing can keep them apart. Soul rushes to soul,– heart leaps to heart,–and all form and ceremony, custom and usage crumble into dust before the power that overwhelms them. These sudden storms of etheric vibration occur every day among the most ordinary surroundings and with the most unlikely persons, and Society as at present constituted frowns and shakes its head, or jeers at what it cannot understand, calling such impetuosity folly, or worse, while remaining wilfully blind to the fact that in its strangest aspect it is nothing but the assertion of an Eternal Law. Moreover, it is a law that cannot be set aside or broken with impunity. Just as the one point of vibration sympathetically strikes the other in the system of wireless telegraphy, so, despite millions and millions of intervening currents and lines of divergence, the immortal soul-spark strikes its kindred fire across a waste of worlds until they meet in the compelling flash of that God’s Message called Love!”
He paused–then went on slowly:–
“No force can turn aside one from the other,–nothing can intervene- -not because it is either romance or reality, but simply because it is a law. You understand?”
I bent my head silently.
“It may be thousands of years before such a meeting is consummated,”–he continued–“For thousands of years are but hours in the eternal countings. Yet in those thousands of years what lives must be lived!–what lessons must be learned!–what sins committed and expiated!–what precious time lost or found!–what happiness missed or wasted!”
His voice thrilled–and again he took my hand and held it gently clasped.
“You must believe in yourself alone,”–he said,–“if any lurking thought suggests a disbelief in me! It is quite natural that you should doubt me a little. You have studied long and deeply–you have worked hard at problems which puzzle the strongest man’s brain, and you have succeeded in many things because you have kept what most men manage to lose when grappling with Science,–Faith. You have always studied with an uplifted heart–uplifted towards the things unseen and eternal. But it has been a lonely heart, too,–as lonely as mine!”
A moment’s silence followed,–a silence that seemed heavy and dark, like a passing cloud, and instinctively I looked up to see if indeed a brooding storm was not above us. A heaven of splendid colour met my gaze–the whole sky was lighted with a glory of gold and blue. But below this flaming radiance there was a motionless mass of grey vapour, hanging square as it seemed across the face of the lofty mountain at the head of the lake, like a great canvas set ready for an artist’s pencil and prepared to receive the creation of his thought. I watched this in a kind of absorbed fascination, conscious that the warm hand holding mine had strengthened its close grasp,– when suddenly something sharp and brilliant, like the glitter of a sword or a forked flash of lightning, passed before my eyes with a dizzying sensation, and the lake, the mountains, the whole landscape, vanished like a fleeting mirage, and in all the visible air only the heavy curtain of mist remained. I made an effort to move–to speak–in vain! I thought some sudden illness must have seized me–yet no!–for the half-swooning feeling that had for a moment unsteadied my nerves had already passed–and I was calm enough. Yet I saw more plainly than I have ever seen anything in visible Nature, a slowly moving, slowly passing panorama of scenes and episodes that presented themselves in marvellous outline and colouring,–pictures that were gradually unrolled and spread out to my view on the grey background of that impalpable mist which like a Shadow hung between myself and impenetrable Mystery, and I realised to the full that an eternal record of every life is written not only in sound, but in light, in colour, in tune, in mathematical proportion and harmony,–and that not a word, not a thought, not an action is forgotten!
A vast forest rose before me. I saw the long shadows of the leafy boughs flung thick upon the sward and the wild tropical vines hanging rope-like from the intertwisted stems. A golden moon looked warmly in between the giant branches, flooding the darkness of the scene with rippling radiance, and within its light two human beings walked,–a man and woman–their arms round each other,–their faces leaning close together. The man seemed pleading with his companion for some favour which she withheld, and presently she drew herself away from him altogether with a decided movement of haughty rejection. I could not see her face,–but her attire was regal and splendid, and on her head there shone a jewelled diadem. Her lover stood apart for a moment with bent head–then he threw himself on his knees before her and caught her hand in an evident outburst of passionate entreaty. And while they stood thus together, I saw the phantom-like figure of another woman moving towards them–she came directly into the foreground of the picture, her white garments clinging round her, her fair hair flung loosely over her shoulders, and her whole demeanour expressing eagerness and fear. As she approached, the man sprang up from his knees and, with a gesture of fury, drew a dagger from his belt and plunged it into her heart! I saw her reel back from the blow–I saw the red blood well up through the whiteness of her clothing, and as she turned towards her murderer, with a last look of appeal, I recognised MY OWN FACE IN HERS!–and in his THE FACE OF SANTORIS! I uttered a cry,–or thought I uttered it–a darkness swept over me–and the vision vanished!
* * *
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*
Another vivid flash struck my eyes, and I found myself looking upon the crowded thoroughfares of a great city. Towers and temples, palaces and bridges, presented themselves to my gaze in a network of interminable width and architectural splendour, moving and swaying before me like a wave glittering with a thousand sparkles uplifted to the light. Presently this unsteadiness of movement resolved itself into form and order, and I became, as it were, one unobserved spectator among thousands, of a scene of picturesque magnificence. It seemed that I stood in the enormous audience hall of a great palace, where there were crowds of slaves, attendants and armed men,–on all sides arose huge pillars of stone on which were carved the winged heads of monsters and fabulous gods,–and looming out of the shadows I saw the shapes of four giant Sphinxes which guarded a throne set high above the crowd. A lambent light played quiveringly on the gorgeous picture, growing more and more vivid as I looked, and throbbing with colour and motion,–and I saw that on the throne there sat a woman crowned and veiled,–her right hand held a sceptre blazing with gold and gems. Slaves clad in costumes of the richest workmanship and design abased themselves on either side of her, and I heard the clash of brazen cymbals and war-like music, as the crowd of people surged and swayed, and murmured and shouted, all apparently moved by some special excitement or interest. Suddenly I perceived the object on which the general attention was fixed–the swooning body of a man, heavily bound in chains and lying at the foot of the throne. Beside him stood a tall black slave, clad in vivid scarlet and masked,–this sinister-looking creature held a gleaming dagger uplifted ready to strike,–and as I saw this, a wild yearning arose in me to save the threatened life of the bound and helpless victim. If I could only rush to defend and drag him away from impending peril, I thought!–but no!–I was forced to stand helplessly watching the scene, with every fibre of my brain burning with pent-up anguish. At this moment, the crowned and veiled woman on the throne suddenly rose and stood upright,–with a commanding gesture she stretched out her glittering sceptre–the sign was given! Swiftly the dagger gleamed through the air and struck its deadly blow straight home! I turned away my eyes in shuddering horror,–but was compelled by some invincible power to raise them again,–and the scene before me glowed red as with the hue of blood- -I saw the slain victim,–the tumultuous crowd–and above all, the relentless Queen who, with one movement of her little hand, had swept away a life,–and as I looked upon her loathingly, she threw back her shrouding golden veil. MY OWN FACE LOOKED FULL AT ME from under the jewelled arch of her sparkling diadem–ah, wicked soul!–I wildly cried–pitiless Queen!–then, as they lifted the body of the murdered man, his livid countenance was turned towards me, and I saw again the face of Santoris! Dumb and despairing I sank as it were within myself, chilled with inexplicable misery, and I heard for the first time in this singular pageant of vision a Voice–slow, calm, and thrilling with infinite sadness:
“A life for a life!”–it said–“The old eternal law!–a life for a life! There is nothing taken which shall not be returned again– nothing lost which shall not be found–a life for a life!”
Then came silence and utter darkness.
* * *
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*
Slowly brightening, slowly widening, a pale radiance like the earliest glimmer of dawn stole gently on my eyes when I again raised them. I saw the waving curve of a wide, sluggishly flowing river, and near it a temple of red granite stood surrounded with shadowing foliage and bright clumps of flowers. Huge palms lifted their fronded heads to the sky, and on the edge of the quiet stream there loitered a group of girls and women. One of these stood apart, sad and alone, the others looking at her with something of pity and scorn. Near her was a tall upright column of black basalt, as it seemed, bearing the sculptured head of a god. The features were calm and strong and reposeful, expressive of dignity, wisdom and power. And as I looked, more people gathered together–I heard strains of solemn music pealing from the temple close by–and I saw the solitary woman draw herself farther apart and almost disappear among the shadows. The light grew brighter in the east,–the sun shot a few advancing rays upward,–suddenly the door of the temple was thrown open, and a long procession of priests carrying flaming tapers and attended by boys in white garments and crowned with flowers made their slow and stately way towards the column with the god-like Head upon it and began to circle round it, chanting as they walked, while the flower-crowned boys swung golden censers to and fro, impregnating the air with rich perfume. The people all knelt– and still the priests paced round and round, chanting and murmuring prayers,–till at last the great sun lifted the edge of its glowing disc above the horizon, and its rays springing from the east like golden arrows, struck the brow of the Head set on its basalt pedestal. With the sudden glitter of this morning glory the chanting ceased,–the procession stopped; and one priest, tall and commanding of aspect, stepped forth from the rest, holding up his hands to enjoin silence. And then the Head quivered as with life,–its lips moved–there was a rippling sound like the chord of a harp smitten by the wind,–and a voice, full, sweet and resonant, spoke aloud the words:–
“I face the Sunrise!”
With a shout of joy priests and people responded:
“We face the Sunrise!”
And he who seemed the highest in authority, raising his arms invokingly towards heaven, exclaimed:
“Even so, O Mightiest among the Mighty, let us ever remember that Thy Shadow is but part of Thy Light,–that Sorrow is but the passing humour of Joy–and that Death is but the night which dawns again into Life! We face the Sunrise!”
Then all who were assembled joined in singing a strange half- barbaric song and chorus of triumph, to the strains of which they slowly moved off and disappeared like shapes breathed on a mirror and melting away. Only the tall high priest remained,–and he stood alone, waiting, as it were, for something eagerly expected and desired. And presently the woman who had till now remained hidden among the shadows of the surrounding trees, came swiftly forward. She was very pale–her eyes shone with tears–and again I saw MY OWN FACE IN HERS. The priest turned quickly to greet her, and I distinctly heard every word he spoke as he caught her hands in his own and drew her towards him.
“Everything in this world and the next I will resign,” he said–“for love of thee! Honour, dignity and this poor earth’s renown I lay at thy feet, thou most beloved of women! What other thing created or imagined can be compared to the joy of thee?–to the sweetness of thy lips, the softness of thy bosom–the love that trembles into confession with thy smile! Imprison me but in thine arms and I will count my very soul well lost for an hour of love with thee! Ah, deny me not!–turn me not away from thee again!–love comes but once in life–such love as ours!–early or late, but once!”
She looked at him with tender passion and pity–a look in which I thankfully saw there was no trace of pride, resentment or affected injury.
“Oh, my beloved!” she answered, and her voice, plaintive and sweet, thrilled on the silence like a sob of pain–“Why wilt thou rush on destruction for so poor a thing as I am? Knowest thou not, and wilt thou not remember that, to a priest of thy great Order, the love of woman is forbidden, and the punishment thereof is death? Already the people view thee with suspicion and me with scorn–forbear, O dearest, bravest soul!–be strong!”
“Strong?” he echoed–“Is it not strong to love?–ay, the very best of strength! For what avails the power of man if he may not bend a woman to his will? Child, wherever love is there can be no death, but only life! Love is as the ever-flowing torrent of eternity in my veins–the pulse of everlasting youth and victory! What are the foolish creeds of man compared with this one Truth of Nature–Love! Is not the Deity Himself the Supreme Lover?–and wouldst thou have me a castaway from His holiest ordinance? Ah no!–come to me, my beloved!–soul of my soul–inmost core of my heart! Come to me in the silence when no one sees and no one hears–come when–“
He broke off, checked by her sudden smile and look of rapture. Some thought had evidently, like a ray of light, cleared her doubts away.
“So be it!” she said–“I give thee all myself from henceforth!–I will come!”
He uttered an exclamation of relief and joy, and drew her closer, till her head rested on his breast and her loosened hair fell in a shower across his arms.
“At last!” he murmured–“At last! Mine–all mine this tender soul, this passionate heart!–mine this exquisite life to do with as I will! O crown of my best manhood!–when wilt thou come to me?”
She answered at once without hesitation.
“To-night!” she said–“To-night, when the moon rises, meet me here in this very place,–this sacred grove where Memnon hears thy vows to him broken, and my vows consecrated to thee!–and as I live I swear I will be all thine! But now–leave me to pray!”
She lifted her head and looked into his adoring eyes,–then kissed him with a strange, grave tenderness as though bidding him farewell, and with a gentle gesture motioned him away. Elated and flushed with joy, he obeyed her sign, and left her, disappearing in the same phantom-like way in which all the other figures in this weird dream- drama had made their exit. She watched him go with a wistful yearning gaze–then in apparent utter desperation she threw herself on her knees before the impassive Head on its rocky pedestal and prayed aloud:
“O hidden and unknown God whom we poor earthly creatures symbolise!- -give me the strength to love unselfishly–the patience to endure uncomplainingly! Thou, Heart of Stone, temper with thy coldest wisdom my poor throbbing heart of flesh! Help me to quell the tempest in my soul, and let me be even as thou art–inflexible, immovable,–save when the sun strikes music from thy dreaming brows and tells thee it is day! Forgive, O great God, forgive the fault of my beloved!–a fault which is not his, but mine, merely because I live and he hath found me fair,–let all be well for him,–but for me let nothing evermore be either well or ill–and teach me–even me–to face the Sunrise!”
Her voice ceased–a mist came before me for a moment–and when this cleared, the same scene was presented to me under the glimmer of a ghostly moon. And she who looked so like myself, lay dead at the foot of the great Statue, her hands clasped on her breast, her eyes closed, her mouth smiling as in sleep, while beside her raved and wept her priestly lover, invoking her by every tender name, clasping her lifeless body in his arms, covering her face with useless passionate kisses, and calling her back with wild grief from the silence into which her soul had fled. And I knew then that she had put all thought of self aside in a sense of devotion to duty,–she had chosen what she imagined to be the only way out of difficulty,– to save the honour of her lover she had slain herself. But–was it wise? Or foolish? This thought pressed itself insistently home to my mind. She had given her life to serve a mistaken creed,–she had bowed to the conventions of a temporary code of human law–yet– surely God was above all strange and unnatural systems built up by man for his own immediate convenience, vanity or advantage, and was not Love the nearest thing to God? And if those two souls were destined lovers, COULD they be divided, even by their own rashness? These questions were curiously urged upon my inward consciousness as I looked again upon the poor fragile corpse among the reeds and palms of the sluggishly flowing river, and heard the clamorous despair of the man to whom she might have been joy, inspiration and victory had not the world been then as it is not now–the man, who as the light of the moonbeams fell upon him, showed me in his haggard and miserable features the spectral likeness of Santoris. Was it right, I asked myself, that the two perfect lines of a mutual love should be swept asunder?–or if it was, as some might conceive it, right according to certain temporary and conventional views of ‘rightness.’ was it POSSIBLE to so sever them? Would it not be well if we all occasionally remembered that there is an eternal law of harmony between souls as between spheres?–and that if we ourselves bring about a divergence we also bring about discord? And again,– that if discord results by our inter-meddling, it is AGAINST THE LAW, and must by the working of natural forces be resolved into concord again, whether such resolvance take ten, a hundred, a thousand or ten thousand years? Of what use, then, is the struggle we are for ever making in our narrow and limited daily lives to resist the wise and holy teaching of Nature? Is it not best to yield to the insistence of the music of life while it sounds in our ears? For everything must come round to Nature’s way in the end–her way being God’s way, and God’s way the only way! So I thought, as in half-dreaming fashion I watched the vision of the dead woman and her despairing lover fade into the impenetrable shadows of mystery veiling the record of the light beyond.
* * *
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*
Presently I became conscious of a deep murmuring sound tike the subdued hum of many thousands of voices,–and lifting my eyes I saw the wide circular sweep of a vast arena crowded with people. In the centre, and well to the front of the uplifted tiers of seats, there was a gorgeous pavilion of gold, draped with gaudy coloured silk and hung with festoons of roses, wherein sat a heavily-built, brutish- looking man royally robed and crowned, and wearing jewels In such profusion as to seem literally clothed in flashing points of light. Beautiful women were gathered round him,–boys with musical instruments crouched at his feet–attendants stood on every hand to minister to his slightest call or signal,–and all eyes were fixed upon him as upon some worshipped god of a nation’s idolatry. I felt and knew that I was looking upon the ‘shadow-presentment’ of the Roman tyrant Nero; and I wondered vaguely how it chanced that he, in all the splendour of his wild and terrible career of wickedness, should be brought into this phantasmagoria of dream in which I and One Other alone seemed to be chiefly concerned. There were strange noises in my ears,–the loud din of trumpets–the softer sound of harps played enchantingly in some far-off distance–the ever- increasing loud buzzing of the voices of the multitude–and then all at once the roar as of angry wild beasts in impatience or pain. The time of this vision seemed to be late afternoon–I thought I could see a line of deep rose colour in a sky where the sun had lately set–the flare of torches glimmered all round the arena and beyond it, striking vivid brilliancy from the jewels on Nero’s breast and throwing into strong relief the groups of soldiers and people immediately around him. I perceived now that the centre of the arena, previously empty, had become the one spot on which the looks of the people began to turn–one woman stood there all alone, clad in white, her arms crossed on her breast. So still was she,–so apparently unconscious of her position, that the mob, ever irritated by calmness, grew suddenly furious, and a fierce cry arose:–“Ad leones! Ad leones!” The great Emperor stirred from his indolent, half-reclining position and leaned forward with a sudden look of interest on his lowering features,–and as he did so a man attired in the costume of a gladiator entered the arena from one of its side doors and with a calm step and assured demeanour walked up to the front of the royal dais and there dropped on one knee. Then quickly rising he drew himself erect and waited, his eyes fixed on the woman who stood as immovably as a statue, apparently resigned to some untoward fate. And again the vast crowd shouted “Ad leones! Ad leones!” There came a heavy grating noise of drawn bolts and bars– the sound of falling chains–then a savage animal roar–and two lean and ferocious lions sprang into the arena, lashing their tails, their manes bristling and their eyes aglare. Quick as thought, the gladiator stood in their path–and I swiftly recognised the nature of the ‘sport’ that had brought the Emperor and all this brave and glittering show of humanity out to watch what to them was merely a ‘sensation’–the life of a Christian dashed out by the claws and fangs of wild beasts–a common pastime, all unchecked by either the mercy of man or the intervention of God! I understood as clearly as if the explanation had been volunteered to me in so many words, that the woman who awaited her death so immovably had only one chance of rescue, and that chance was through the gladiator, who, to please the humour of the Emperor, had been brought hither to combat and frighten them off their intended victim,–the reward for him, if he succeeded, being the woman herself. I gazed with aching, straining eyes on the wonderful dream-spectacle, and my heart thrilled as I saw one of the lions stealthily approach the solitary martyr and prepare to spring. Like lightning, the gladiator was upon the famished brute, fighting it back in a fierce and horrible contest, while the second lion, pouncing forward and bent on a similar attack, was similarly repulsed. The battle between man and beasts was furious, prolonged and terrible to witness–and the excitement became intense. “Ad leones! Ad leones!” was now the universal wild shout, rising ever louder and louder into an almost frantic clamour. The woman meanwhile never stirred from her place–she might have been frozen to the ground where she stood. She appeared to notice neither the lions who were ready to devour her, nor the gladiator who combated them in her defence–and I studied her strangely impassive figure with keen interest, waiting to see her face,–for I instinctively felt I should recognise it. Presently, as though in response to my thought, she turned towards me,–and as in a mirror I saw MY OWN REFLECTED PERSONALITY again as I had seen it so many times in this chain of strange episodes with which I was so singularly concerned though still an outside spectator. Between her Shadow-figure and what I felt of my own existing Self there seemed to be a pale connecting line of light, and all my being thrilled towards her with a curiously vague anxiety. A swirling mist came before my eyes suddenly,–and when this cleared I saw that the combat was over–the lions lay dead and weltering in their blood on the trampled sand of the arena, and the victorious gladiator stood near their prone bodies triumphant, amid the deafening cheers of the crowd. Wreaths of flowers were tossed to him from the people, who stood up in their seats all round the great circle to hail him with their acclamations, and the Emperor, lifting his unwieldy body from under his canopy of gold, stretched out his hand as a sign that the prize which the dauntless combatant had fought to win was his. He at once obeyed the signal;–but now the woman, hitherto so passive and immovable, stirred. Fixing upon the gladiator a glance of the deepest reproach and anguish, she raised her arms warningly as though forbidding him to approach her–and then fell face forward on the ground. He rushed to her side, and kneeling down sought to lift her;–then suddenly he sprang erect with a loud cry:–
“Great Emperor! I asked of thee a living love!–and this is dead!”
A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd. The Emperor leaned forward from his throne and smiled.
“Thank your Christian God for that!” he said–“Our pagan deities are kinder! They give us love for love!”
The gladiator gave a wild gesture of despair and turned his face upward to the light–THE FACE OF SANTORIS!
“Dead!–dead!”–he cried–“Of what use then is life? Dark are the beloved eyes!–cold is the generous heart!–the fight has been in vain–my victory mocks me with its triumph! The world is empty!”
Again the laughter of the populace stirred the air.
“Go to, man!”–and the rough voice of Nero sounded harshly above the murmurous din–“The world was never the worse for one woman the less! Wouldst thou also be a Christian? Take heed! Our lions are still hungry! Thy love is dead, ’tis true, but WE have not killed her! She trusted in her God, and He has robbed thee of thy lawful possession. Blame Him, not us! Go hence, with thy laurels bravely won! Nero commends thy prowess!”
He flung a purse of gold at the gladiator’s feet–and then I saw the whole scene melt away into a confused mass of light and colour till all was merely a pearl-grey haze floating before my eyes. Yet I was hardly allowed a moment’s respite before another scene presented itself like a painting upon the curtain of vapour which hung so persistently in front of me–a scene which struck a closer chord upon my memory than any I had yet beheld.
* * *
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*
The cool, spacious interior of a marble-pillared hall or studio slowly disclosed itself to my view–it was open to an enchanting vista of terraced gardens and dark undulating woods, and gay parterres of brilliant blossom were spread in front of it like a wonderfully patterned carpet of intricate and exquisite design. Within it was all the picturesque grace and confusion of an artist’s surroundings; and at a great easel, working assiduously, was one who seemed to be the artist himself, his face turned from me towards his canvas. Posed before him, in an attitude of indolent grace, was a woman, arrayed in clinging diaphanous drapery, a few priceless jewels gleaming here and there like stars upon her bosom and arms– her hair, falling in loose waves from a band of pale blue velvet fastened across it, was of a warm brown hue like an autumn leaf with the sun upon it, and I could see that whatever she might be according to the strictest canons of beauty, the man who was painting her portrait considered her more than beautiful. I heard his voice, in the low, murmurous yet perfectly distinct way in which all sounds were conveyed to me in this dream pageant–it was exactly as if persons on the stage were speaking to an audience.
“If we could understand each other,”–he said–“I think all would be well with us in time and eternity!”
There was a pause. The picturesque scene before me seemed to glow and gather intensity as I gazed.
“If you could see what is in my heart,”–he continued–“you would be satisfied that no greater love was ever given to woman than mine for you! Yet I would not say I give it to you–for I have striven against it.” He paused–and when he spoke again his words were so distinct that they seemed close to my ears.
“It has been wrung out of my very blood and soul–I can no more resist it than I can resist the force of the air by which I live and breathe. I ought not to love you,–you are a joy forbidden to me– and yet I feel, rightly speaking, that you are already mine–that you belong to me as the other half of myself, and that this has been so from the beginning when God first ordained the mating of souls. I tell you I FEEL this, but cannot explain it,–and I grasp at you as my one hope of joy!–I cannot let you go!”
She was silent, save for a deep sigh that stirred her bosom under its folded lace and made her jewels sparkle like sunbeams on the