sea.
“If I lose you now, having known and loved you,” he went on–“I lose my art. Not that this would matter–“
Her voice trembled on the air.
“It would matter a great deal”–she said, softly–“to the world!”
“The world!” he echoed–“What need I care for it? Nothing seems of value to me where you are not–I am nerveless, senseless, hopeless without you. My inspiration–such as it is–comes from you–“
She moved restlessly–her face was turned slightly away so that I could not see it.
“My inspiration comes from you,”–he repeated–“The tender look of your eyes fills me with dreams which might–I do not say would– realise themselves in a life’s renown–but all this is perhaps nothing to you. What, after all, can I offer you? Nothing but love! And here in Florence you could command more lovers than there are days in the week, did you choose–but people say you are untouchable by love even at its best. Now I–“
Here he stopped abruptly and laid down his brush, looking full at her.
“I,” he continued–“love you at neither best nor worst, but simply and entirely with all of myself–all that a man can be in passionate heart, soul and body!”
(How the words rang out! I could have sworn they were spoken close beside me and not by dream-voices in a dream!)
“If you loved me–ah God!–what that would mean! If you dared to brave everything–if you had the courage of love to break down all barriers between yourself and me!–but you will not do this–the sacrifice would be too great–too unusual–“
“You think it would?”
The question was scarcely breathed. A look of sudden amazement lightened his face–then he replied, gently–
“I think it would! Women are impulsive,–generous to a fault–they give what they afterwards regret–who can blame them! You have much to lose by such a sacrifice as I should ask of you–I have all to gain. I must not be selfish. But I love you!–and your love would be to more than the hope of Heaven!”
And now strange echoes of a modern poet’s rhyme became mingled in my dream:
“You have chosen and clung to the chance they sent you– Life sweet as perfume and pure as prayer, But will it not one day in heaven repent you? Will they solace you wholly, the days that were? Will you lift up your eyes between sadness and bliss, Meet mine and see where the great love is? And tremble and turn and be changed?–Content you; The gate is strait; I shall not be there.
Yet I know this well; were you once sealed mine, Mine in the blood’s beat, mine in the breath, Mixed into me as honey in wine,
Not time that sayeth and gainsayeth, Nor all strong things had severed us then, Not wrath of gods nor wisdom of men,
Nor all things earthly nor all divine, Nor joy nor sorrow, nor life nor death!”
I watched with a deepening thrill of anxiety the scene in the studio, and my thoughts centred themselves upon the woman who sat there so quietly, seeming all unmoved by the knowledge that she held a man’s life and future fame in her hands. The artist took up his palette and brushes again and began to work swiftly, his hand trembling a little.
“You have my whole confession now!”–he said–“You know that you are the eyes of the world to me–the glory of the sun and the moon! All my art is in your smile–all my life responds to your touch. Without you I am–can be nothing–Cosmo de Medicis–“
At this name a kind of shadow crept upon the scene, together with a sense of cold.
“Cosmo de Medicis”–he repeated, slowly–“my patron, would scarcely thank me for the avowals I have made to his fair ward!–one whom he intends to honour with his own alliance. I am here by his order to paint the portrait of his future bride!–not to look at her with the eyes of a lover. But the task is too difficult–“
A little sound escaped her, like a smothered cry of pain. He turned towards her.
“Something in your face,”–he said–“a touch of longing in your sweet eyes, has made me risk telling you all, so that you may at least choose your own way of love and life–for there is no real life without love.”
Suddenly she rose and confronted him–and once again, as in a magic mirror, I saw MY OWN REFLECTED PERSONALITY. There were tears in her eyes,–yet a smile quivered on her mouth.
“My beloved!”–she said–and then paused, as if afraid.
A look of wonder and rapture came on his face like the light of sunrise, and I RECOGNISED THE NOW FAMILIAR FEATURES OF SANTORIS! Very gently he laid down his palette and brushes and stood waiting in a kind of half expectancy, half doubt.
“My beloved!” she repeated–“Have you not seen?–do you not know? O my genius!–my angel!–am I so hard to read?–so difficult to win?”
Her voice broke in a sob–she made an uncertain step forward, and he sprang to meet her.
“I love you, love you!”–she cried, passionately–“Let the whole world forsake me, if only you remain! I am all yours!–do with me as you will!”
He caught her in his arms–straining her to his heart with all the passion of a long-denied lover’s embrace–their lips met–and for a brief space they were lost in that sudden and divine rapture that comes but once in a lifetime,–when like a shivering sense of cold the name again was whispered:
“Cosmo de Medicis!”
A shadow fell across the scene, and a woman, dark and heavy- featured, stood like a blot in the sunlit brightness of the studio,- -a woman very richly attired, who gazed fixedly at the lovers with round, suspicious eyes and a sneering smile. The artist turned and saw her–his face changed from joy to a pale anxiety–yet, holding his love with one arm, he flung defiance at her with uplifted head and fearless demeanour.
“Spy!”–he exclaimed–“Do your worst! Let us have an end of your serpent vigilance and perfidy!–better death than the constant sight of you! What! Have you not watched us long enough to make discovery easy? Do your worst, I say, and quickly!”
The cruel smile deepened on the woman’s mouth,–she made no answer, but simply raised her hand. In immediate obedience to the signal, a man, clad in the Florentine dress of the sixteenth century, and wearing a singular collar of jewels, stepped out from behind a curtain, attended by two other men, who, by their dress, were, or seemed to be, of inferior rank. Without a word, these three threw themselves upon the unarmed and defenceless painter with the fury of wild animals pouncing on prey. There was a brief and breathless struggle–three daggers gleamed in air–a shriek rang through the stillness–another instant and the victim lay dead, stabbed to the heart, while she who had just clung to his living body and felt the warmth of his living lips against hers, dropped on her knees beside the corpse with wild waitings of madness and despair.
“Another crime on your soul, Cosmo de Medicis!”–she cried–“Another murder of a nobler life than your own!–may Heaven curse you for it! But you have not parted my love from me–no!–you have but united us for ever! We escape you and your spies–thus!”
And snatching a dagger from the hand of one of the assassins before he could prevent her, she plunged it into her own breast. She fell without a groan, self-slain,–and I saw, as in a mist of breath on a mirror, the sudden horror on the faces of the men and the one woman who were left to contemplate the ghastly deed they had committed. And then–noting as in some old blurred picture the features of the man who wore the collar of jewels, I felt that I knew him–yet I could not place him in any corner of my immediate recognition. Gradually this strange scene of cool white marble vastness with its brilliant vista of flowers and foliage under the bright Italian sky, and the betrayed lovers lying dead beside each other in the presence of their murderers, passed away like a floating cloud,–and the same slow, calm Voice I had heard once before now spoke again in sad, stern accents:
“Jealousy is cruel as the grave!–the coals thereof are coals of fire which hath a most vehement flame! Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it–if a man would give all his substance for love it would be utterly contemned!”
* * *
* *
*
I closed my eyes,–or thought I closed them–a vague terror was growing upon me,–a terror of myself and a still greater terror of the man beside me who held my hand,–yet something prevented me from turning my head to look at him, and another still stronger emotion possessed me with a force so overpowering that I could hardly breathe under the weight and pain of it, but I could give it no name. I could not think at all–and I had ceased even to wonder at the strangeness and variety of these visions or dream-episodes full of colour and sound which succeeded each other so swiftly. Therefore it hardly seemed remarkable to me when I saw the heavy curtain of mist which hung in front of my eyes suddenly reft asunder in many places and broken into a semblance of the sea.
* * *
* *
*
A wild sea! Gloomily grey and grand in its onsweeping wrath, its huge billows rose and fell like moving mountains convulsed by an earthquake,–light and shadow combated against each other in its dark abysmal depths and among its toppling crests of foam–I could hear the savage hiss and boom of breakers dashing themselves to pieces on some unseen rocky coast far away,–and my heart grew cold with dread as I beheld a ship in full sail struggling against the heavy onslaught of the wind on that heaving wilderness of waters, like a mere feather lost from a sea-gull’s wing. Flying along like a hunted creature she staggered and plunged, her bowsprit dipping into deep chasms from which she was tossed shudderingly upward again as in light contempt, and as she came nearer and nearer into my view I could discern some of the human beings on board–the man at the wheel, with keen eyes peering into the gathering gloom of the storm, his hair and face dashed with spray,–the sailors, fighting hard to save the rigging from being torn to pieces and flung into the sea,– then–a sudden huge wave swept her directly in front of me, and I saw the two distinct personalities that had been so constantly presented to me during this strange experience,–THE MAN WITH THE FACE OF SANTORIS–THE WOMAN WITH MY OWN FACE SO TRULY REFLECTED that I might have been looking at myself in a mirror. And just now the resemblance to us both was made more close and striking than it had been in any of the previous visions–that is to say, the likenesses of ourselves were given almost as we now existed. The man held the woman beside him closely clasped with one arm, supporting her and himself, with the other thrown round one of the shaking masts. I saw her look up to him with the light of a great and passionate love in her eyes. And I heard him say:–
“The end of sorrow and the beginning of joy! You are not afraid?”
“Afraid?” And her voice had no tremor–“With you?”
He caught her closer to his heart and kissed her not once but many times in a kind of mingled rapture and despair.
“This is death, my beloved!”–he said.
And her answer pealed out with tender certainty. “No!–not death, but life!–and love!”
A cry went up from the sailors–a cry of heartrending agony,–a mass of enormous billows rolling steadily on together hurled themselves like giant assassins upon the frail and helpless vessel and engulfed it–it disappeared with awful swiftness, like a small blot on the ocean sucked down into the whirl of water–the vast and solemn greyness of the sea spread over it like a pall–it was a nothing, gone into nothingness! I watched one giant wave rise in a crystalline glitter of dark sapphire and curl over the spot where all that human life and human love had disappeared,–and then–there came upon my soul a sudden sense of intense calm. The great sea smoothed itself out before my eyes into fine ripples which dispersed gradually into mist again–and almost I found my voice–almost my lips opened to ask: “What means this vision of the sea?” when a sound of music checked me on the verge of utterance–the music of delicate strings as of a thousand harps in heaven. I listened with every sense caught and entranced–my gaze still fixed half unseeingly upon the heavy grey film which hung before me–that mystic sky-canvas upon which some Divine painter had depicted in life-like form and colour scenes which I, in a sort of dim strangeness, recognised yet could not understand–and as I looked a rainbow, with every hue intensified to such a burning depth of brilliancy that its light was almost intolerably dazzling, sprang in a perfect arch across the cloud! I uttered an involuntary cry of rapture–for it was like no earthly rainbow I had ever seen. Its palpitating radiance seemed to penetrate into the very core and centre of space,–aerially delicate yet deep, each separate colour glowed with the fervent splendour of a heaven undreamed of by mere mortality and too glorious for mortal description. It was the shining repentance of the storm,–the assurance of joy after sorrow- -the passionate love of the soul rising upwards in perfect form and beauty after long imprisonment in ice-bound depths of repression and solitude–it was anything and everything that could be thought or imagined of divinest promise!
My heart beat quickly–tears sprang to my eyes–and almost unconsciously I pressed the kind, strong hand that held mine. It trembled ever so slightly–but I was too absorbed in watching that triumphal arch across the sky to heed the movement. By degrees the lustrous hues began to pale very slowly, and almost imperceptibly they grew fainter and fainter till at last all was misty grey as before, save in one place where there were long rays of light like the falling of silvery rain. And then came strange rapidly passing scenes as of cloud forms constantly shifting and changing, in all of which I discerned the same two personalities so like and yet so unlike ourselves who were the dumb witnesses of every episode,–but everything now passed in absolute silence–there was no mysterious music,–the voices had ceased–all was mute.
Suddenly there came a change over the face of what I thought the sky–the clouds were torn asunder as it were to show a breadth of burning amber and rose, and I beheld the semblance of a great closed Gateway barred across as with gold. Here a figure slowly shaped itself,–the figure of a woman who knelt against the closed barrier with hands clasped and uplifted in pitiful beseeching. So strangely desolate and solitary was her aspect in all that heavenly brilliancy that I could almost have wept for her, shut out as she seemed from some mystic unknown glory. Round her swept the great circle of the heavens–beneath her and above her were the deserts of infinite space–and she, a fragile soul rendered immortal by quenchless fires of love and hope and memory, hovered between the deeps of immeasurable vastness like a fluttering leaf or flake of snow! My heart ached for her–my lips moved unconsciously in prayer:
“O leave her not always exiled and alone!” I murmured, inwardly– “Dear God, have pity! Unbar the gate and let her in! She has waited so long!”
The hand holding mine strengthened its clasp,–and the warm, close pressure sent a thrill through my veins. Almost I would have turned to look at my companion–had I not suddenly seen the closed gateway in the heavens begin to open slowly, allowing a flood of golden radiance to pour out like the steady flowing of a broad stream. The kneeling woman’s figure remained plainly discernible, but seemed to be gradually melting into the light which surrounded it. And then– something–I know not what–shook me down from the pinnacle of vision,–hardly aware of my own action, I withdrew my hand from my companion’s, and saw–just the solemn grandeur of Loch Coruisk, with a deep amber glow streaming over the summit of the mountains, flung upward by the setting sun! Nothing more!–I heaved an involuntary sigh–and at last, with some little hesitation and dread, looked full at Santoris. His eyes met mine steadfastly–he was very pale. So we faced each other for a moment–then he said, quietly:–
“How quickly the time has passed! This is the best moment of the sunset,–when that glory fades we shall have seen all!”
IX
DOUBTFUL DESTINY
His voice was calm and conventional, yet I thought I detected a thrill of sadness in it which touched me to a kind of inexplicable remorse, and I turned to him quickly, hardly conscious of the words I uttered.
“Must the glory fade?”–I said, almost pleadingly–“Why should it not remain with us?”
He did not reply at once. A shadow of something like sternness clouded his brows, and I began to be afraid–yet afraid of what? Not of him–but of myself, lest I should unwittingly lose all I had gained. But then the question presented itself–What had I gained? Could I explain it, even to myself? There was nothing in any way tangible of which to say–“I possess this,” or “I have secured that,”–for, reducing all circumstances to a prosaic level, all that I knew was that I had met in my present companion a man who had a singular, almost compelling attractiveness, and with whose personality I seemed to be familiar; also, that under some power which he might possibly have exerted, I had in an unexpected place and at an unexpected time seen certain visions or ‘impressions’ which might or might not be the working of my own brain under a temporary magnetic influence. I was fully aware that such things could happen–and yet–I was not by any means sure that they had so happened in this case. And while I was thus hurriedly trying to think out the problem, he replied to my question.
“That depends on ourselves,”–he said–“On you perhaps more than any other.”
I looked up at him wonderingly.
“On me?” I echoed.
He smiled a little.
“Why, yes! A woman always decides.”
I turned my eyes again towards the sky. Long lines of delicate pale blue and green were now intermingled with the amber light of the after-glow, and the whole scene was one of indescribable grandeur and beauty.
“I wish I could understand,”–I murmured.
“Let me help you,”–he said, gently. “Possibly I can make things clearer for you. You are just now under the spell of your own psychic impressions and memories. You think you have seen strange episodes–these are nothing but pictures stored far away back in the cells of your spiritual brain, which (through the medium of your present material brain) project on your vision not only presentments and reflections of past scenes and events, but which also reproduce the very words and sounds attending those scenes and events. That is all. Loch Coruisk has shown you nothing but itself in varying effects of light and cloud–there is no mystery here but the everlasting mystery of Nature in which you and I play our several parts. What you have seen or heard I do not know–for each individual experience is and always must be different. All that I am fully conscious of is, that our having met and our being here together to-day is, as it were, the mending of a broken chain. But it rests with you–and even with me–to break it once more if we choose.”
I was silent, not because I could not but because I dared not speak. All my life seemed suddenly to hang on the point of a hair’s-breadth of possibility.
“I think,”–he continued in the same quiet voice–“that just now we may let things take their ordinary course. You and I”–here he paused, and impelled by some secret emotion I lifted my eyes to his. Instinctively, and with a rush of feeling, we stretched out our hands to each other. He clasped mine in his own, and stooping his head kissed them tenderly. “You and I,”–he went on–“have met before in many a phase of life and on many a plane of thought–and I believe we know and realise this. Let us be satisfied so far–and if destiny has anything of happiness or wisdom in store for us let us try to assist its fulfilment and not stand in the way.”
I found my voice suddenly.
“But–if others stand in the way?”–I said.
He smiled.
“Surely it will be our own fault if we allow them to assume such a position!” he answered.
I left my hands in his another moment. The fact that he held them gave me a sense of peace and security.
“Sometimes on a long walk through field and forest,” I said, softly- -“one may miss the nearest road home. And one is glad to be told which path to follow–“
“Yes,”–he interrupted me–“One is glad to be told!”
His eyes were bent upon me with an enigmatical expression, half commanding, half appealing.
“Then, will you tell me–” I began.
“All that I can!” he said, drawing me a little closer towards him– “All that I may! And you–you must tell me–“
“I! What can I tell you?” and I smiled–“I know nothing!”
“You know one thing which is all things,”–he answered–“But for that I must still wait.”
He let go my hands and turned away, shading his eyes from the glare of gold which now spread far and wide over the heavens, turning the sullen waters of Loch Coruisk to a tawny orange against the black purple of the surrounding hills.
“I see our men,”–he then said, in his ordinary tone, “They are looking for us. We must be going.”
My heart beat quickly. A longing to speak what I hardly dared to think, was strong upon me. But some inward restraint gripped me as with iron–and my spirit beat itself like a caged bird against its prison bars in vain. I left my rocky throne and heather canopy with slow reluctance, and he saw this.
“You are sorry to come away,”–he said, kindly, and with a smile–“I can quite understand it. It is a beautiful scene.”
I stood quite still, looking at him. A host of recollections began to crowd upon me, threatening havoc to my self-control.
“Is it not something more than beautiful?” I asked, and my voice trembled in spite of myself–“To you as well as to me?”
He met my earnest gaze with a sudden deeper light in his own eyes.
“Dear, to me it is the beginning of a new life!”–he said–“But whether it is the same to you I cannot say. I have not the right to think so far. Come!”
A choking sense of tears was in my throat as I moved on by his side. Why could I not speak frankly and tell him that I knew as well as he did that now there was no life anywhere for me where he was not? But–had it come to this? Yes, truly!–it had come to this! Then was it a real love that I felt, or merely a blind obedience to some hypnotic influence? The doubt suggested itself like a whisper from some evil spirit, and I strove not to listen. Presently he took my hand in his as before, and guided me carefully over the slippery boulders and stones, wet with the overflowing of the mountain torrent and the underlying morass which warned us of its vicinity by the quantity of bog-myrtle growing in profusion everywhere. Almost in silence we reached the shore where the launch was in waiting for us, and in silence we sat together in the stern as the boat cut its swift way through little waves like molten gold and opal, sparkling with the iridescent reflections of the sun’s after-glow.
“I see Mr. Harland’s yacht has returned to her moorings,”–he said, after a while, addressing his men, “When did she come back?”
“Immediately after you left, sir,”–was the reply.
I looked and saw the two yachts–the ‘Dream’ and the ‘Diana,’ anchored in the widest part of Loch Scavaig–the one with the disfiguring funnels that make even the most magnificent steam yacht unsightly as compared with a sailing vessel,–the other a perfect picture of lightness and grace, resting like a bird with folded wings on the glittering surface of the water. My mind was disturbed and bewildered,–I felt that I had journeyed through immense distances of space and cycles of time during that brief excursion to Loch Coruisk,–and as the launch rushed onward and we lost sight of the entrance to what for me had been a veritable Valley of Vision, it seemed that I had lived through centuries rather than hours. One thing, however, remained positive and real in my experience, and this was the personality of Santoris. With each moment that passed I knew it better–the flash of his blue eyes–his sudden fleeting smile–the turn of his head–the very gesture of his hand,–all these were as familiar to me as the reflection of my own face in a mirror. And now there was no wonderment mingled with the deepening recognition,–I found it quite natural that I should know him well,- -indeed, it was to me evident that I had known him always. What troubled me, however, was a subtle fear that crept insidiously through my veins like a shuddering cold,–a terror lest something to which I could give no name, should separate us or cause us to misunderstand each other. For the psychic lines of attraction between two human beings are finer than the finest gossamer and can be easily broken and scattered even though they may or must be brought together again after long lapses of time. But so many opportunities had already been wasted, I thought, through some recklessness or folly, either on his part or mine. Which of us was to blame? I looked at him half in fear, half in appeal, as he sat in the boat with his head turned a little aside from me,–he seemed grave and preoccupied. A sudden thrill of emotion stirred my heart– tears sprang to my eyes so thickly that for a moment I could scarcely see the waves that glittered and danced on all sides like millions of diamonds. A change had swept over my life,–a change so great that I was hardly able to bear it. It was too swift, too overpowering to be calmly considered, and I was glad when we came alongside the ‘Dream’ and I saw Mr. Harland on deck, waiting for us at the top of the companion ladder.
“Well!” he called to me–“Was it a good sunset?”
“Glorious!” I answered him–“Did you see nothing of it?”
“No. I slept soundly, and only woke up when Brayle came over to explain that Catherine had taken it into her head to have a short cruise, that he had humoured her accordingly, and that they had just come back to anchorage.”
By this time I was standing beside him, and Santoris joined us.
“So your doctor came to look after you,”–he said, with a smile–“I thought he would not trust you out of his sight too long!”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Harland–then his face lightened and he laughed–“Well, I must own you have been a better physician than he for the moment–it is months since I have been so free from pain.”
“I’m very glad,”–Santoris answered–“And now would you and your friend like to take the launch back to your own yacht, or will you stay and dine with me?”
Mr. Harland thought a moment.
“I’m afraid we must go”–he said, at last, with obvious reluctance– “Captain Derrick went back with Brayle. You see, Catherine is not strong, and she has not been quite herself–and we must not leave her alone. To-morrow, if you are willing, I should like to try a race with our two yachts in open sea–electricity against steam! What do you say?”
“With pleasure!” and Santoris looked amused–“But as I am sure to be the winner, you must give me the privilege of entertaining you all to dinner afterwards. Is that settled?” “Certainly!–you are hospitality itself, Santoris!” and Mr. Harland shook him warmly by the hand–“What time shall we start the race?”
“Suppose we say noon?”
“Agreed!”
We then prepared to go. I turned to Santoris and in a quiet voice thanked him for his kindness in escorting me to Loch Coruisk, and for the pleasant afternoon we had passed. The conventional words of common courtesy seemed to myself quite absurd,–however, they had to be uttered, and he accepted them with the usual conventional acknowledgment. When I was just about to descend the companion ladder, he asked me to wait a moment, and going down to the saloon, brought me the bunch of Madonna lilies I had found in that special cabin which, as he had said, was destined ‘for a princess.’
“You will take these, I hope?” he said, simply.
I raised my eyes to his as I received the white blossoms from his hand. There was something indefinable and fleeting in his expression, and for a moment it seemed as if we had suddenly become strangers. A sense of loss and pain affected me, such as happens when someone to whom we are deeply attached assumes a cold and distant air for which we can render no explanation. He turned from me as quickly as I from him, and I descended the companion ladder followed by Mr. Harland. In a few seconds we had put several boat- lengths between ourselves and the ‘Dream,’ and a rush of foolish tears to my eyes blurred the figure of Santoris as he lifted his cap to us in courteous adieu. I thought Mr. Harland glanced at me a little inquisitively, but he said nothing–and we were soon on board the ‘Diana,’ where Catherine, stretched out in a deck chair, watched our arrival with but languid interest. Dr. Brayle was beside her, and looked up as we drew near with a supercilious smile.
“So the electric man has not quite made away with you,”–he said, carelessly–“Miss Harland and I had our doubts as to whether we should ever see you again!”
Mr. Harland’s fuzzy eyebrows drew together in a marked frown of displeasure.
“Indeed!” he ejaculated, drily–“Well, you need have had no fears on that score. The ‘electric man,’ as you call Mr. Santoris, is an excellent host and has no sinister designs on his friends.”
“Are you quite sure of that?” and Brayle, with an elaborate show of courtesy, set chairs for his patron and for me near Catherine– “Derrick tells me that the electric appliances on board his yacht are to him of a terrifying character and that he would not risk passing so much as one night on such a vessel!”
Mr. Harland laughed.
“I must talk to Derrick,”–he said–then, approaching his daughter, he asked her kindly if she was better. She replied in the affirmative, but with some little pettishness.
“My nerves are all unstrung,”–she said–“I think that friend of yours is one of those persons who draw all vitality out of everybody else. There are such people, you know, father!–people who, when they are getting old and feeble, go about taking stores of fresh life out of others.”
He looked amused.
“You are full of fancies, Catherine,”–he said–“And no logical reasoning will ever argue you out of them. Santoris is all right. For one thing, he gave me great relief from pain to-day.”
“Ah! How was that?”–and Brayle looked up sharply with sudden interest.
“I don’t know how,”–replied Harland,–“A drop or two of harmless- looking fluid worked wonders for me–and in a few moments I felt almost well. He tells me my illness is not incurable.”
A curious expression difficult to define flitted over Brayle’s face.
“You had better take care,” he said, curtly–“Invalids should never try experiments. I’m surprised that a man in your condition should take any drug from the hand of a stranger.”
“Most dangerous!” interpolated Catherine, feebly–“How could you, father?”
“Well, Santoris isn’t quite a stranger,”–said Mr. Harland–“After all, I knew him at college–“
“You think you knew him,”–put in Brayle–“He may not be the same man.”
“He is the same man,”–answered Mr. Harland, rather testily–“There are no two of his kind in the world.”
Brayle lifted his eyebrows with a mildly affected air of surprise.
“I thought you had your doubts–“
“Of course!–I had and have my doubts concerning everybody and everything”–said Mr. Harland, “And I suppose I shall have them to the end of my days. I have sometimes doubted even your good intentions towards me.”
A dark flush overspread Brayle’s face suddenly, and as suddenly paled. He laughed a little forcedly.
“I hardly think you have any reason to do so,” he said.
Mr. Harland did not answer, but turning round, addressed me.
“You enjoyed yourself at Loch Coruisk, didn’t you?”
“Indeed I did!” I replied, with emphasis–“It was a lovely scene!– never to be forgotten,”
“You and Mr. Santoris would be sure to get on well together,” said Catherine, rather crossly–“‘Birds of a feather,’ you know!”
I smiled. I was too much taken up with my own thoughts to pay attention to her evident ill-humour. I was aware that Dr. Brayle watched me furtively, and with a suspicious air, and there was a curious feeling of constraint in the atmosphere that made me feel I had somehow displeased my hostess, but the matter seemed to me too trifling to consider, and as soon as the conversation became general I took the opportunity to slip away and get down to my cabin, where I locked the door and gave myself up to the freedom of my own meditations. They were at first bewildered and chaotic–but gradually my mind smoothed itself out like the sea I had looked upon in my vision,–and I began to arrange and connect the various incidents of my strange experience in a more or less coherent form. According to psychic consciousness I knew what they all meant,–but according to merely material and earthly reasoning they were utterly incomprehensible. If I listened to the explanation offered by my inner self, it was this:–That Rafel Santoris and I had known each other for ages,–longer than we were permitted to remember,–that the brain-pictures, or rather soul-pictures, presented to me were only a few selected out of thousands which equally concerned us, and which were stored up among eternal records,–and that these few were only recalled to remind me of circumstances which I might erroneously think were all entirely forgotten. If, on the other hand, I preferred to accept what would be called a reasonable and practical solution of the enigma, I would say:–That, being imaginative and sensitive, I had been easily hypnotised by a stronger will than my own, and that for his amusement, or because he had seen in me the possibility of a ‘test case,’ Santoris had tried his power upon me and forced me to see whatever he chose to conjure up in order to bewilder and perplex me. But if this were so, what could be his object? If I were indeed an utter stranger to him, why should he take this trouble? I found myself harassed by anxiety and dragged between two opposing influences–one which impelled me to yield myself to the deep sense of exquisite happiness, peace and consolation that swept over my spirit like the touch of a veritable benediction from heaven,–the other which pushed me back against a hard wall of impregnable fact and bade me suspect my dawning joy as though it were a foe.
That night we were a curious party at dinner. Never were five human beings more oddly brought into contact and conversation with each other. We were absolutely opposed at all points; in thought, in feeling and in sentiment, I could not help remembering the wonderful network of shining lines I had seen in that first dream of mine,– lines which were apparently mathematically designed to meet in reciprocal unity. The lines on this occasion between us five human beings were an almost visible tangle. I found my best refuge in silence,–and I listened in vague wonderment to the flow of senseless small talk poured out by Dr. Brayle, apparently for the amusement of Catherine, who on her part seemed suddenly possessed by a spirit of wilfulness and enforced gaiety which moved her to utter a great many foolish things, things which she evidently imagined were clever. There is nothing perhaps more embarrassing than to hear a woman of mature years giving herself away by the childish vapidness of her talk, and exhibiting not only a lack of mental poise, but also utter tactlessness. However, Catherine rattled on, and Dr. Brayle rattled with her,–Mr. Harland threw in occasional monosyllables, but for the most part was evidently caught in a kind of dusty spider’s web of thought, and I spoke not at all unless spoken to. Presently I met Catherine’s eyes fixed upon me with a sort of round, half-malicious curiosity.
“I think your day’s outing has done you good,” she said–“You look wonderfully well!”
“I AM well!” I answered her–“I have been well all the time.”
“Yes, but you haven’t looked as you look to-night,” she said–“You have quite a transformed air!”
“Transformed?”–I echoed, smiling–“In what way?”
Mr. Harland turned and surveyed me critically.
“Upon my word, I think Catherine is right!” he said–“There is something different about you, though I cannot explain what it is!”
I felt the colour rising hotly to my face, but I endeavoured to appear unconcerned.
“You look,” said Dr. Brayle, with a quick glance from his narrowly set eyes–“as if you had been through a happy experience.”
“Perhaps I have!” I answered quietly–“It has certainly been a very happy day!” “What is your opinion of Santoris?” asked Mr. Harland, suddenly–“You’ve spent a couple of hours alone in his company,–you must have formed some idea.”
I replied at once, without taking thought.
“I think him quite an exceptional man,” I said–“Good and great- hearted,–and I fancy he must have gone through much difficult experience to make him what he is.”
“I entirely disagree with you,”–said Dr. Brayle, quickly–“I’ve taken his measure, and I think it’s a fairly correct one. I believe him to be a very clever and subtle charlatan, who affects a certain profound mysticism in order to give himself undue importance–“
There was a sudden clash. Mr. Harland had brought his clenched fist down upon the table with a force that made the glasses ring.
“I won’t have that, Brayle!” he said, sharply–“I tell you I won’t have it! Santoris is no charlatan–never was!–he won his honours at Oxford like a man–his conduct all the time I ever knew him was perfectly open and blameless–he did no mean tricks, and pandered to nothing base–and if some of us fellows were frightened of him (as we were) it was because he did everything better than we could do it, and was superior to us all. That’s the truth!–and there’s no getting over it. Nothing gives small minds a better handle for hatred than superiority–especially when that superiority is never asserted, but only felt.”
“You surprise me,”–murmured Brayle, half apologetically–“I thought–“
“Never mind what you thought!” said Mr. Harland, with a sudden ugly irritation of manner that sometimes disfigured him–“Your thoughts are not of the least importance!”
Dr. Brayle flushed angrily and Catherine looked surprised and visibly indignant.
“Father! How can you be so rude!”
“Am I rude?” And Mr. Harland shrugged his shoulders indifferently– “Well! I may be–but I never take a man’s hospitality and permit myself to listen to abuse of him afterwards.”
“I assure you–” began Dr. Brayle, almost humbly.
“There, there! If I spoke hastily, I apologise. But Santoris is too straightforward a man to be suspected of any dishonesty or chicanery–and certainly no one on board this vessel shall treat his name with anything but respect.” Here he turned to me–“Will you come on deck for a little while before bedtime, or would you rather rest?”
I saw that he wished to speak to me, and willingly agreed to accompany him. Dinner being well over, we left the saloon, and were soon pacing the deck together under the light of a brilliant moon. Instinctively we both looked towards the ‘Dream’ yacht,–there was no illumination about her this evening save the usual lamp hung in the rigging and the tiny gleams of radiance through her port-holes,- -and her graceful masts and spars were like fine black pencillings seen against the bare slope of a mountain made almost silver to the summit by the singularly searching clearness of the moonbeams. My host paused in his walk beside me to light a cigar.
“I’m sure you are convinced that Santoris is honest,” he said–“Are you not?”
“In what way should I doubt him?”–I replied, evasively–“I scarcely know him!”
Hardly had I said this when a sudden self-reproach stung me. How dare I say that I scarcely knew one who had been known to me for ages? I leaned against the deck rail looking up at the violet sky, my heart beating quickly. My companion was still busy lighting his cigar, but when this was done to his satisfaction he resumed.
“True! You scarcely know him, but you are quick to form opinions, and your instincts are often, though perhaps not always, correct. At any rate, you have no distrust of him? You like him?”
“Yes,”–I answered, slowly–“I–I like him–very much.”
And the violet sky, with its round white moon, seemed to swing in a circle about me as I spoke–knowing that the true answer of my heart was love, not liking!–that love was the magnet drawing me irresistibly, despite my own endeavour, to something I could neither understand nor imagine.
“I’m glad of that,” said Mr. Harland–“It would have worried me a little if you had taken a prejudice or felt any antipathy towards him. I can see that Brayle hates him and has imbued Catherine with something of his own dislike.”
I was silent.
“He is, of course, an extraordinary man,” went on Mr. Harland–“and he is bound to offend many and to please few. He is not likely to escape the usual fate of unusual characters. But I think–indeed I may say I am sure–his integrity is beyond question. He has curious opinions about love and marriage–almost as curious as the fixed ideas he holds concerning life and death.”
Something cold seemed to send a shiver through my blood–was it some stray fragment of memory from the past that stirred me to a sense of pain? I forced myself to speak.
“What are those opinions?” I asked, and looking up in the moonlight to my companion’s face I saw that it wore a puzzled expression– “Hardly conventional, I suppose?”
“Conventional! Convention and Santoris are farther apart than the poles! No–he doesn’t fit into any accepted social code at all. He looks upon marriage itself as a tacit acknowledgment of inconstancy in love, and declares that if the passion existed in its truest form between man and woman any sort of formal or legal tie would be needless,–as love, if it be love, does not and cannot change. But it is no use discussing such a matter with him. The love that he believes in can only exist, if then, once in a thousand years! Men and women marry for physical attraction, convenience, necessity or respectability,–and the legal bond is necessary both for their sakes and the worldly welfare of the children born to them; but love which is physical and transcendental together,–love that is to last through an imagined eternity of progress and fruition, this is a mere dream–a chimera!–and he feasts his brain upon it as though it were a nourishing fact. However, one must have patience with him–he is not like the rest of us.”
“No!” I murmured–and then stood silently beside him watching the moonbeams ripple on the waters in wavy links of brightness.
“When you married,” I said, at last–“did you not marry for love?”
He puffed at his cigar thoughtfully.
“Well, I hardly know,” he replied, after a long pause,–“Looking back upon everything, I rather doubt it! I married as most men marry–on impulse. I saw a pretty face–and it seemed advisable that I should marry–but I cannot say I was moved by any great or absorbing passion for the woman I chose. She was charming and amiable in our courting days–as a wife she became peevish and querulous,–apt to sulk, too,–and she devoted herself almost entirely to the most commonplace routine of life;–however, I had nothing to justly complain of. We lived five years together before her child Catherine was born,–and then she died. I cannot say that either her life or her death left any deep mark upon me–not if I am honest. I don’t think I understand love–certainly not the love which Rafel Santoris looks upon as the secret key of the Universe.”
Instinctively my eyes turned towards the ‘Dream’ at anchor. She looked like a phantom vessel in the moonlight. Again the faint shiver of cold ran through my veins like a sense of spiritual terror. If I should lose now what I had lost before! This was my chief thought,–my hidden shuddering fear. Did the whole responsibility rest with me, I wondered? Mr. Harland laid his hand kindly on my arm.
“You look like a wan spirit in the moonbeams,” he said–“So pale and wistful! You are tired, and I am selfish in keeping you up here to talk to me. Go down to your cabin. I can see you are full of mystical dreams, and I am afraid Santoris has rather helped you to indulge in them. He is of the same nature as you are–inclined to believe that this life as we live it is only one phase of many that are past and of many yet to come. I wish I could accept that faith!”
“I wish you could!” I said–“You surely would be happier.”
“Should I?” He gave a quick sigh. “I have my doubts! If I could be young and strong and lie through many lives always possessed of that same youth and strength, then there would be something in it–but to be old and ailing, no! The Faust legend is an eternal truth–Life is only worth living as long as we enjoy it.”
“Your friend Santoris enjoys it!” I said.
“Ah! There you touch me! He does enjoy it, and why? Because he is young! Though nearly as old in years as I am, he is actually young! That’s the mystery of him! Santoris is positively young–young in heart, young in thought, ambition, feeling and sentiment, and yet– “
He broke off for a moment, then resumed.
“I don’t know how he has managed it, but he told me long ago that it was a man’s own fault if he allowed himself to grow old. I laughed at him then, but he has certainly carried his theories into fact. He used to declare that it was either yourself or your friends that made you old. ‘You will find,’ he said, ‘as you go on in years, that your family relations, or your professing dear friends, are those that will chiefly insist on your inviting and accepting the burden of age. They will remind you that twenty years ago you did so and so,–or that they have known you over thirty years–or they will tell you that considering your age you look well, or a thousand and one things of that kind, as if it were a fault or even a crime to be alive for a certain span of time,–whereas if you simply shook off such unnecessary attentions and went your own way, taking freely of the constant output of life and energy supplied to you by Nature, you would outwit all these croakers of feebleness and decay and renew your vital forces to the end. But to do this you must have a constant aim in life and a ruling passion.’ As I told you, I laughed at him and at what I called his ‘folly,’ but now–well, now–it’s a case of ‘let those laugh who win.'”
“And you think he has won?” I asked.
“Most assuredly–I cannot deny it. But the secret of his victory is beyond me.”
“I should think it is beyond most people,” I replied–“For if we could all keep ourselves young and strong we would take every means in our power to attain such happiness–“
“Would we, though?” And his brows knitted perplexedly–“If we knew, would we take the necessary trouble? We will hardly obey a physician’s orders for our good even when we are really ill–would we in health follow any code of life in order to keep well?”
I laughed.
“Perhaps not!” I said–“I expect it will always be the same thing– ‘Many are called, but few are chosen.’ Goodnight!”
I held out my hand. He took it in his own and kept it a moment.
“It’s curious we should have met Santoris so soon after my telling you about him,” he said–“It’s one of those coincidences which one cannot explain. You are very like him in some of your ideas–you two ought to be very great friends.”
“Ought we?”–and I smiled–“Perhaps we shall be! Again, Good-night!”
“Good-night!” And I left him to his meditations and went down to my cabin, only stopping for a moment to say good-night to Catherine and Dr. Brayle, who were playing bridge with Mr. Swinton and Captain Derrick in the saloon. Once in my room, I was thankful to be alone. Every extraneous thing seemed an intrusion or an impertinence,–the thoughts that filled my brain were all absorbing, and went so far beyond the immediate radius of time and space that I could hardly follow their flight. I smiled as I imagined what ordinary people would think of the experience through which I had passed and was passing. ‘Foolish fancies!’ ‘Neurotic folly!’ and other epithets of the kind would be heaped upon me if they knew–they, the excellent folk whose sole objects in life are so ephemeral as to be the things of the hour, the day, or the month merely, and who if they ever pause to consider eternal possibilities at all, do so reluctantly perhaps in church on Sundays, comfortably dismissing them for the more solid prospect of dinner. And of Love? What view of the divine passion do they take as a rule? Let the millions of mistaken marriages answer! Let the savage lusts and treacheries and cruelties of merely brutish and unspiritualised humanity bear witness? And how few shall be found who have even the beginnings of the nature of true love–‘the love of soul for soul, angel for angel, god for god!’–the love that accepts this world and its events as one phase only of divine and immortal existence–a phase of trial and proving in which the greater number fail to pass even a first examination! As for myself, I felt and knew that _I_ had failed hopelessly and utterly in the past–and I stood now as it were on the edge of new circumstances–in fear, yet not without hope, and praying that whatsoever should chance to me I might not fail again!
X
STRANGE ASSOCIATIONS
The next day the race agreed upon was run in the calmest of calm weather. There was not the faintest breath of wind,–the sea was still as a pond and almost oily in its smooth, motionless shining– and it was evident at first that our captain entertained no doubt whatever as to the ‘Diana,’ with her powerful engines, being easily able to beat the aerial-looking ‘Dream’ schooner, which at noon-day, with all sails spread, came gliding up beside us till she lay point to point at equal distance and at nearly equal measurement with our more cumbersome vessel. Mr. Harland was keenly excited; Dr. Brayle was ready to lay any amount of wagers as to the impossibility of a sailing vessel, even granted she was moved by electricity, out- racing one of steam in such a dead calm. As the two vessels lay on the still waters, the ‘Diana’ fussily getting up steam, and the ‘Dream’ with sails full out as if in a stiff breeze, despite the fact that there was no wind, we discussed the situation eagerly–or rather I should say my host and his people discussed it, for I had nothing to say, knowing that the victory was sure to be with Santoris. We were in very lonely waters,–there was room and to spare for plenty of racing, and when all was ready and Santoris saluted us from the deck, lifting his cap and waving it in response to a similar greeting from Mr. Harland and our skipper, the signal to start was given. We moved off together, and for at least half an hour or more the ‘Dream’ floated along in a kind of lazy indolence, keeping up with us easily, her canvas filled, and her keel cutting the water as if swept by a favouring gale. The result of the race was soon a foregone conclusion,–for presently, when well out on the mirror-like calm of the sea, the ‘Dream’ showed her secret powers in earnest, and flew like a bird with a silent swiftness that was almost incredible. Our yacht put on all steam in the effort to keep up with her,–in vain! On, on, with light grace and celerity her white sails carried her like the wings of a sea-gull, and almost before we could realise it she vanished altogether from our sight! I saw a waste of water spread around us emptily like a wide circle of crystal reflecting the sky, and a sense of desolation fell upon me in the mere fact that we were temporarily left alone. We steamed on and on in the direction of the vanished ‘Dream,’–our movements suggesting those of some clumsy four-footed animal panting its way after a bird, but unable to come up with her.
“Wonderful!” said Mr. Harland, at last, drawing a long breath,–“I would never have believed it possible!”
“Nor I!” agreed Captain Derrick–“I certainly thought she would never have managed it in such a dead calm. For though I have seen some of her mechanism I cannot entirely understand it.”
Dr. Brayle was silent. It was evident that he was annoyed–though why he should be so was not apparent. I myself was full of secret anxiety–for the ‘Dream’ yacht’s sudden and swift disappearance had filled me with a wretched sense of loneliness beyond all expression. Suppose she should not return! I had no clue to her whereabouts–and with the loss of Santoris I knew I should lose all that was worth having in my life. While these miserable thoughts were yet chasing each other through my brain I suddenly caught a far glimpse of white sails on the horizon.
“She’s coming back!” I cried, enraptured, and heedless of what I said–“Oh, thank God! She’s coming back!”
They all looked at me in amazement.
“Why, what’s the matter with you?” asked Mr. Harland, smiling. “You surely didn’t think she was in any danger?”
My cheeks grew warm.
“I didn’t know–I could not imagine–” I faltered, and turning away I met Dr. Brayle’s eyes fixed upon me with a gleam of malice in them.
“I’m sure,” he said, suavely, “you are greatly interested in Mr. Santoris! Perhaps you have met each other before?”
“Never!” I answered, hurriedly,–and then checked myself, startled and confused. He kept his narrow brown eyes heedfully upon me and smiled slightly.
“Really! I should have thought otherwise!”
I did not trouble myself to reply. The white sails of the ‘Dream’ were coming nearer and nearer over the smooth width of the sunlit water, and as she approached my heart grew warm with gratitude. Life was again a thing of joy!–the world was no longer empty! That ship looked to me like a beautiful winged spirit coming towards me with radiant assurances of hope and consolation, and I lost all fear, all sadness, all foreboding, as she gradually swept up alongside in the easy triumph she had won. Our crew assembled to welcome her, and cheered lustily. Santoris, standing on her deck, lightly acknowledged the salutes which gave him the victory, and presently both our vessels were once more at their former places of anchorage. When all the excitement was over, I went down to my cabin to rest for a while before dressing for the dinner on board the ‘Dream’ to which we were all invited,–and while I lay on my sofa reading, Catherine Harland knocked at my door and asked to come in, I admitted her at once, and she flung herself into an arm-chair with a gesture of impatience.
“I’m so tired of all this yachting!” she said, peevishly. “It isn’t amusing to me!”
“I’m very sorry!” I answered;–“If you feel like that, why not give it up at once?”
“Oh, it’s father’s whim!” she said-“And if he makes up his mind there’s no moving him. One thing, however, I’m determined to do–and that is–” Here she stopped, looking at me curiously.
I returned her gaze questioningly.
“And that is–what?”
“To get as far away as ever we can from that terrible ‘Dream’ yacht and its owner!”–she replied–“That man is a devil!”
I laughed. I could not help laughing. The estimate she had formed of one so vastly her superior as Santoris struck me as more amusing than blamable. I am often accustomed to hear the hasty and narrow verdict of small-minded and unintelligent persons pronounced on men and women of high attainment and great mental ability; therefore, that she should show herself as not above the level of the common majority did not offend so much as it entertained me. However, my laughter made her suddenly angry.
“Why do you laugh?” she demanded. “You look quite pagan in that lace rest-gown–I suppose you call it a restgown!–with all your hair tumbling loose about you! And that laugh of yours is a pagan laugh!”
I was so surprised at her odd way of speaking that for a moment I could find no words. She looked at me with a kind of hard disfavour in her eyes.
“That’s the reason,”–she went on–“why you find life agreeable. Pagans always did. They revelled in sunshine and open air, and found all sorts of excuses for their own faults, provided they got some pleasure out of them. That’s quite your temperament! And they laughed at serious things–just as you do!”
The mirror showed me my own reflection, and I saw myself still smiling.
“Do I laugh at serious things?” I said. “Dear Miss Harland, I am not aware of it! But I cannot take Mr. Santoris as a ‘devil’ seriously!”
“He is!” And she nodded her head emphatically–“And all those queer beliefs he holds–and you hold them too!–are devilish! If you belonged to the Church of Rome, you would not be allowed to indulge in such wicked theories for a moment.”
“Ah! The Church of Rome fortunately cannot control thought!”–I said–“Not even the thoughts of its own children! And some of the beliefs of the Church of Rome are more blasphemous and barbarous than all the paganism of the ancient world! Tell me, what are my ‘wicked theories’?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” she replied, vaguely and inconsequently–“You believe there’s no death–and you think we all make our own illnesses and misfortunes,–and I’ve heard you say that the idea of Eternal Punishment is absurd–so in a way you are as bad as father, who declares there’s nothing in the Universe but gas and atoms–no God and no anything. You really are quite as much of an atheist as he is! Dr. Brayle says so.”
I had been standing in front of her while she thus talked, but now I resumed my former reclining attitude on the sofa and looked at her with a touch of disdain.
“Dr. Brayle says so!”–I repeated–“Dr. Brayle’s opinion is the least worth having in the world! Now, if you really believe in devils, there’s one for you!”
“How can you say so?” she exclaimed, hotly–“What right have you–“
“How can he call ME an atheist?” I demanded-“What right has HE to judge me?”
The flush died off her face, and a sudden fear filled her eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that!” she said, almost in a whisper–“It reminds me of an awful dream I had the other night!”–She paused.– “Shall I tell it to you?”
I nodded indifferently, yet watched her curiously the while. Something in her hard, plain face had become suddenly and unpleasantly familiar.
“I dreamed that I was in a painter’s studio watching two murdered people die–a man and a woman. The man was like Santoris–the woman resembled you! They had been stabbed,–and the woman was clinging to the man’s body. Dr. Brayle stood beside me also watching–but the scene was strange to me, and the clothes we wore were all of some ancient time. I said to Dr. Brayle: ‘We have killed them!’ and he replied: ‘Yes! They are better dead than living!’ It was a horrible dream!–it seemed so real! I have been frightened of you and of that man Santoris ever since!”
I could not speak for a moment. A recollection swept over me to which I dared not give utterance,–it seemed too improbable.
“I’ve had nerves,” she went on, shivering a little–“and that’s why I say I’m tired of this yachting trip. It’s becoming a nightmare to me!”
I lay back on the sofa looking at her with a kind of pity.
“Then why not end it?” I said–“Or why not let me go away? It is I who have displeased you somehow, and I assure you I’m very sorry! You and Mr. Harland have both been most kind to me–I’ve been your guest for nearly a fortnight,–that’s quite sufficient holiday for me–put me ashore anywhere you like and I’ll go home and get myself out of your way. Will that be any comfort to you?”
“I don’t know that it will,” she said, with a short, querulous sigh- -“Things have happened so strangely.” She paused, looking at me– “Yes–you have the face of that woman I saw in my dream!–and you have always reminded me of–“
I waited eagerly. She seemed afraid to go on.
“Well!” I said, as quietly as I could–“Do please finish what you were saying!”
“It goes back to the time when I first saw you,” she continued, now speaking quickly as though anxious to get it over–“You will perhaps hardly remember the occasion. It was at that great art and society “crush” in London where there was such a crowd that hundreds of people never got farther than the staircase. You were pointed out to me as a “psychist”–and while I was still listening to what was being said about you, my father came up with you on his arm and introduced us. When I saw you I felt that your features were somehow familiar,–though I could not tell where I had met you before,–and I became very anxious to see more of you. In fact, you had a perfect fascination for me! You have the same fascination now,–only it is a fascination that terrifies me!”
I was silent.
“The other night,” she went on–“when Mr. Santoris first came on board I had a singular impression that he was or had been an enemy of mine,–though where or how I could not say. It was this that frightened me, and made me too ill and nervous to go with you on that excursion to Loch Coruisk. And I want to get away from him! I never had such impressions before–and even now,–looking at you,–I feel there’s something in you which is quite “uncanny,”–it troubles me! Oh!–I’m sure you mean me no harm–you are bright and amiable and adaptable and all that–but–I’m afraid of you!”
“Poor Catherine!” I said, very gently–“These are merely nervous ideas! There is nothing to fear from me–no, nothing!” For here she suddenly leaned forward and took my hand, looking earnestly in my face–“How can you imagine such a thing possible?”
“Are you sure?” she half whispered–“When I called you “pagan” just now I had a sort of dim recollection of a fair woman like you,–a woman I seemed to know who was really a pagan! Yet I don’t know how I knew her, or where I met her–a woman who, for some reason or other, was hateful to me because I was jealous of her! These curious fancies have haunted my mind only since that man Santoris came on board,–and I told Dr. Brayle exactly what I felt.”
“And what did he say?” I asked.
“He said that it was all the work of Santoris, who was an evident professor of psychical imposture–“
I sprang up.
“Let him say that to ME!” I exclaimed–“Let him dare to say it! and I will prove who is the impostor to his face!”
She retreated from me with wide-open eyes of alarm.
“Why do you look at me like that?” she said. “We didn’t really kill you–except–in a dream!”
A sudden silence fell between us; something cold and shadowy and impalpable seemed to possess the very air. If by some supernatural agency we had been momentarily deprived of life and motion, while a vast dark cloud, heavy with rain, had made its slow way betwixt us, the sense of chill and depression could hardly have been greater.
Presently Catherine spoke again, with a little forced laugh.
“What silly things I say!” she murmured–“You can see for yourself my nerves are in a bad state!–I am altogether unstrung!”
I stood for a moment looking at her, and considering the perplexity in which we both seemed involved.
“If you would rather not dine with Mr. Santoris this evening,” I said, at last,–“and if you think his presence has a bad effect on you, let us make some excuse not to go. I will willingly stay with you, if you wish me to do so.”
She gave me a surprised glance.
“You are very unselfish,” she said–“and I wish I were not so fanciful. It’s most kind of you to offer to stay with me and to give up an evening’s pleasure–for I suppose it IS a pleasure? You like Mr. Santoris?”
The colour rushed to my face in a warm glow.
“Yes,” I answered, turning slightly away from her–“I like him very much.”
“And he likes YOU better than he likes any of us,” she said–“In fact, I believe if it had not been for you, we should never have met him in this strange way–“
“Why, how can you make that out?” I asked, smiling. “I never heard of him till your father spoke of him,–and never saw him till–“
“Till when?”–she demanded, quickly.
“Till the other night,” I answered, hesitatingly.
She searched my face with questioning eyes.
“I thought you were going to say that you, like myself, had some idea or recollection of having met him before,” she said. “However, I shall not ask you to sacrifice your pleasure for me,–in fact, I have made up my mind to go to this dinner, though Dr. Brayle doesn’t wish it.”
“Oh! Dr. Brayle doesn’t wish it!” I echoed–“And why?”
“Well, he thinks it will not be good for me–and–and he hates the very sight of Santoris!”
I said nothing. She rose to leave my cabin.
“Please don’t think too hardly of me!” she said, pleadingly,–“I’ve told you frankly just how I feel,–and you can imagine how glad I shall be when this yachting trip comes to an end.”
She went away then, and I stood for some minutes lost in thought. I dared not pursue the train of memories with which she had connected herself in my mind. My chief idea now was to find some convenient method of immediately concluding my stay with the Harlands and leaving their yacht at some easy point of departure for home. And I resolved I would speak to Santoris on this subject and trust to him for a means whereby we should not lose sight of each other, for I felt that this was imperative. And my spirit rose up within me full of joy and pride in its instinctive consciousness that I was as necessary to him as he was to me.
It was a warm, almost sultry evening, and I was able to discard my serge yachting dress for one of soft white Indian silk, a cooler and more presentable costume for a dinner-party on board a yacht which was furnished with such luxury as was the ‘Dream.’ My little sprig of bell-heather still looked bright and fresh in the glass where I always kept it–but to-night when I took it in my hand it suddenly crumbled into a pinch of fine grey dust. This sudden destruction of what had seemed well-nigh indestructible startled me for a moment till I began to think that after all the little bunch of blossom had done its work,–its message had been given–its errand completed. All the Madonna lilies Santoris had given me were as fresh as if newly gathered,–and I chose one of these with its companion bud as my only ornament. When I joined my host and his party in the saloon he looked at me with inquisitive scrutiny.
“I cannot quite make you out,” he said–“You look several years younger than you did when you came on board at Rothesay! Is it the sea air, the sunshine, or–Santoris?”
“Santoris!” I repeated, and laughed. “How can it be Santoris?”
“Well, he makes HIMSELF young,” Mr. Harland answered–“And perhaps he may make others young too. There’s no telling the extent of his powers!”
“Quite the conjurer!” observed Dr. Brayle, drily–“Faust should have consulted him instead of Mephistopheles!”
“‘Faust’ is a wonderful legend, but absurd in the fact that the old philosopher sold his soul to the Devil, merely for the love of woman,”–said Mr. Harland. “The joy, the sensation and the passion of love were to him supreme temptation and the only satisfaction on earth.”
Dr. Brayle’s eyes gleamed.
“But, after all, is this not a truth?” he asked–“Is there anything that so completely dominates the life of a man as the love of a woman? It is very seldom the right woman–but it is always a woman of some kind. Everything that has ever been done in the world, either good or evil, can be traced back to the influence of women on men–sometimes it is their wives who sway their actions, but it is far more often their mistresses. Kings and emperors are as prone to the universal weakness as commoners,–we have only to read history to be assured of the fact. What more could Faust desire than love?”
“Well, to me love is a mistake,” said Mr. Harland, throwing on his overcoat carelessly–“I agree with Byron’s dictum ‘Who loves, raves!’ Of course it should be an ideal passion–but it never is. Come, are we all ready?”
We were–and we at once left the yacht in our own launch. Our party consisted of Mr. Harland, his daughter, myself, Dr. Brayle and Mr. Swinton, and with such indifferent companions I imagined it would be difficult, if not impossible, to get even a moment with Santoris alone, to tell him of my intention to leave my host and hostess as soon as might be possible. However, I determined to make some effort in this direction, if I could find even the briefest opportunity.
We made our little trip across the water from the ‘Diana’ to the ‘Dream’ in the light of a magnificent sunset. Loch Scavaig was a blaze of burning colour,–and the skies above us were flushed with deep rose divided by lines of palest blue and warm gold. Santoris was waiting on the deck to receive us, attended by his captain and one or two of the principals of the crew, but what attracted and charmed our eyes at the moment was a beautiful dark youth of some twelve or thirteen years of age, clad in Eastern dress, who held a basket full of crimson and white rose petals, which, with a graceful gesture, he silently emptied at our feet as we stepped on board. I happened to be the first one to ascend the companion ladder, so that it looked as if this fragrant heap of delicate leaves had been thrown down for me to tread upon, but even if it had been so intended it appeared as though designed for the whole party. Santoris welcomed us with the kindly courtesy which always distinguished his manner, and he himself escorted Miss Harland down to one of the cabins, there to take off the numerous unnecessary wraps and shawls with which she invariably clothed herself on the warmest day,–I followed them as they went, and he turned to me with a smile, saying:–
“You know your room? The same you had yesterday afternoon.”
I obeyed his gesture, and entered the exquisitely designed and furnished apartment which he had said was for a ‘princess,’ and closing the door I sat down for a few minutes to think quietly. It was evident that things were coming to some sort of crisis in my life,–and shaping to some destiny which I must either accept or avoid. Decisive action would rest, as I saw, entirely with myself. To avoid all difficulty, I had only to hold my peace and go my own way–refuse to know more of this singular man who seemed to be so mysteriously connected with my life, and return home to the usual safe, if dull, routine of my ordinary round of work and effort. On the other hand, to accept the dawning joy that seemed showering upon me like a light from Heaven, was to blindly move on into the Unknown,–to trust unquestioningly to the secret spiritual promptings of my own nature and to give myself up wholly and ungrudgingly to a love which suggested all things yet promised nothing! Full of the most conflicting thoughts, I paced the room up and down slowly–the tall mirror reflected my face and figure and showed me the startlingly faithful presentment of the woman I had seen in my strange series of visions,–the woman who centuries ago had fought against convention and custom, only to be foolishly conquered by them in a thousand ways,–the woman who had slain love, only that it should rise again and confront her with deathless eyes of eternal remembrance–the woman who, drowned at last for love’s sake in a sea of wrath and trembling, knelt outside the barred gate of Heaven praying to enter in! And in my mind I heard again the words spoken by that sweet and solemn Voice which had addressed me in the first of my dreams:
“One rose from all the roses in Heaven! One–fadeless and immortal– only one, but sufficient for all! One love from all the million loves of men and women–one, but enough for Eternity! How long the rose has awaited its flowering–how long the love has awaited its fulfilment–only the recording angels know! Such roses bloom but once in the wilderness of space and time; such love comes but once in a Universe of worlds!”
And then I remembered the parting command: “Rise and go hence! Keep the gift God sends thee!–take that which is thine!–meet that which hath sought thee sorrowing for many centuries! Turn not aside again, neither by thine own will nor by the will of others, lest old errors prevail. Pass from vision into waking!–from night to day!–from seeming death to life!–from loneliness to love!–and keep within thy heart the message of a Dream!”
Dared I trust to these suggestions which the worldly-wise would call mere imagination? A profound philosopher of these latter days has defined Imagination as ‘an advanced perception of truth,’ and avers that the discoveries of the future can always be predicted by the poet and the seer, whose receptive brains are the first to catch the premonitions of those finer issues of thought which emanate from the Divine intelligence. However this may be, my own experience of life had taught me that what ordinary persons pin their faith upon as real, is often unreal,–while such promptings of the soul as are almost incapable of expression lead to the highest realities of existence. And I decided at last to let matters take their own course, though I was absolutely resolved to get away from the Harlands within the next two or three days. I meant to ask Mr. Harland to land me at Portree, where I could take the steamer for Glasgow;–any excuse would serve for a hurried departure–and I felt now that departure was necessary.
A soft sound of musical bells reached my ears at this moment announcing dinner,–and leaving the ‘princess’s’ apartment, I met Santoris at the entrance to the saloon. There was no one else there for the moment but himself, and as I came towards him he took my hands in his own and raised them to his lips.
“You are not yet resolved!” he said, in a low tone, smiling–“Take plenty of time!”
I lifted my eyes to his, and all doubt seemed swept away in the light of our mutual glances–I smiled in response to his look,–and we loosened our hands quickly as Mr. Harland with his doctor and secretary came down from the deck, Catherine joining us from the cabin where she had disburdened herself of her invalid wrappings. She was rather more elegantly attired than usual–she wore a curious purple-coloured gown with threads of gold interwoven in the stuff, and a collar of lace turned back at the throat gave her the aspect of an old Italian picture–a sort of ‘Portrait of a lady,–Artist unknown.’ Not a pleasant portrait, perhaps–but characteristic of a certain dull and self-centred type of woman. We were soon seated at table–a table richly, yet daintily, appointed, and adorned with the costliest flowers and fruits. The men who waited upon us were all Easterns, dark-eyed and dark-skinned, and wore the Eastern dress,– all their movements were swift yet graceful and dignified–they made no noise in the business of serving,–not a dish clattered, not a glass clashed. They were perfect servants, taking care to avoid the common but reprehensible method of offering dishes to persons conversing, thus interrupting the flow of talk at inopportune moments. And what talk it was!–all sorts of subjects, social and impersonal, came up for discussion, and Santoris handled them with such skill that he made us forget that there was anything remarkable or unusual about himself or his surroundings, though, as a matter of fact, no more princely banquet could ever have been served in the most luxurious of palaces. Half-way through the meal, when the conversation came for a moment to a pause, the most exquisite music charmed our ears–beginning softly and far away, it swelled out to rich and glorious harmonies like a full orchestra playing under the sea. We looked at each other and then at our host in charmed enquiry.
“Electricity again!” he said–“So simply managed that it is not worth talking about! Unfortunately, it is mechanical music, and this can never be like the music evolved from brain and fingers; however, it fills in gaps of silence when conventional minds are at a strain for something to say–something quite ‘safe’ and unlikely to provoke discussion!”
His keen blue eyes flashed with a sudden gleam of scorn in them. I looked at him half questioningly, and the scorn melted into a smile.
“It isn’t good form to start any subject which might lead to argument,” he went on–“The modern brain must not be exercised too strenuously,–it is not strong enough to stand much effort. What do you say, Harland?”
“I agree,” answered Mr. Harland. “As a rule people who dine as well as we are dining to-night have no room left for mentality–they become all digestion!”
Dr. Brayle laughed.
“Nothing like a good dinner if one has an appetite for it. I think it quite possible that Faust would have left his Margaret for a full meal!”
“I’m sure he would!” chimed in Mr. Swinton–“Any man would!”
Santoris looked down the table with a curious air of half-amused inspection. His eyes, clear and searching in their swift glance, took in the whole group of us–Mr. Harland enjoying succulent asparagus; Dr. Brayle drinking champagne; Mr. Swinton helping himself out of some dish of good things offered to him by one of the servants; Catherine playing in a sort of demure, old-maidish way with knife and fork as if she were eating against her will–and finally they rested on me, to whom the dinner was just a pretty pageant of luxury in which I scarcely took any part.
“Well, whatever Faust would or would not do,” he said, half laughingly–“it’s certain that food is never at a discount. Women frequently are.”
“Women,” said Mr. Harland, poising a stem of asparagus in the air, “are so constituted as to invariably make havoc either of themselves or of the men they profess to love. Wives neglect their husbands, and husbands naturally desert their wives. Devoted lovers quarrel and part over the merest trifles. The whole thing is a mistake.”
“What whole thing?” asked Santoris, smiling.
“The relations between man and woman,” Harland answered. “In my opinion we should conduct ourselves like the birds and animals, whose relationships are neither binding nor lasting, but are just sufficient to preserve the type. That’s all that is really needed. What is called love is mere sentiment.”
“Do you endorse that verdict, Miss Harland?” Santoris asked, suddenly.
Catherine looked up, startled–her yellow skin flushed a pale red.
“I don’t know,” she answered–“I scarcely heard–“”
“Your father doesn’t believe in love,” he said–“Do you?”
“I hope it exists,” she murmured–“But nowadays people are so VERY practical–“
“Oh, believe me, they are no more practical now than they ever were!” averred Santoris, laughing. “There’s as much romance in the modern world as in the ancient;–the human heart has the same passions, but they are more deeply suppressed and therefore more dangerous. And love holds the same eternal sway–so does jealousy.”
Dr. Brayle looked up.
“Jealousy is an uncivilised thing,” he said–“It is a kind of primitive passion from which no well-ordered mind should suffer.”
Santoris smiled.
“Primitive passions are as forceful as they ever were,” he answered. “No culture can do away with them. Jealousy, like love, is one of the motive powers of progress. It is a great evil–but a necessary one–as necessary as war. Without strife of some sort the world would become like a stagnant pool breeding nothing but weeds and the slimy creatures pertaining to foulness. Even in love, the most divine of passions, there should be a wave of uncertainty and a sense of unsolved mystery to give it everlastingness.”
“Everlastingness?” queried Mr. Harland–“Or simply life lastingness?”
“Everlastingness!” repeated Santoris. “Love that lacks eternal stability is not love at all, but simply an affectionate understanding and agreeable companionship in this world only. For the other world or worlds–“
“Ah! You are going too far,” interrupted Mr. Harland–“You know I cannot follow you! And with all due deference to the fair sex I very much doubt if any one of them would care for a love that was destined to last for ever.”
“No MAN would,” interrupted Brayle, sarcastically.
Santoris gave him a quick glance.
“No man is asked to care!” he said–“Nor woman either. SOULS are not only asked, but COMMANDED, to care! This, however, is beyond you!”
“And beyond most people,” answered Brayle–“Such ideas are purely imaginary and transcendental.”
“Granted!” And Santoris gave him a quick, straight glance–“But what do you mean by ‘imaginary’ and ‘transcendental’? Imagination is the faculty of conceiving in the brain ideas which may with time spring to the full fruition of realisation. Every item of our present-day civilisation has been ‘imagined’ before taking practical shape. ‘Transcendental’ means BEYOND the ordinary happenings of life and life’s bodily routine–and this ‘beyond’ expresses itself so often that there are few lives lived for a single day without some touch of its inexplicable marvel. It is on such lines as these that human beings drift away from happiness,–they will only believe what they can see, while all the time their actual lives depend on what they do NOT see!”
There was a moment’s silence. The charm of his voice was potent–and still more so the fascination of his manner and bearing, and Mr. Harland looked at him in something of wonder and appeal.
“You are a strange fellow, Santoris!” he said, at last, “And you always were! Even now I can hardly believe that you are really the very Santoris that struck such terror into the hearts of some of us undergrads at Oxford! I say I can hardly believe it, though I know you ARE the man. But I wish you would tell me–“
“All about myself?” And Santoris smiled–“I will, with pleasure!–if the story does not bore you. There is no mystery about it–no ‘black magic,’ or ‘occultism’ of any kind. I have done nothing since I left college but adapt myself to the forces of Nature, AND TO USE THEM WHEN NECESSARY. The same way of life is open to all–and the same results are bound to follow.”
“Results? Such as–?” queried Brayle.
“Health, youth and power!” answered Santoris, with an involuntary slight clenching of the firm, well-shaped hand that rested lightly on the table,–“Command of oneself!–command of body, command of spirit, and so on through an ever ascending scale! Every man with the breath of God in him is a master, not a slave!”
My heart beat quickly as he spoke; something rose up in me like a response to a call, and I wondered–Did he assume to master ME? No! I would not yield to that! If yielding were necessary, it must be my own free will that gave in, not his compelling influence! As this thought ran through my brain I met his eyes,–he smiled a little, and I saw he had guessed my mind. The warm blood rushed to my cheeks in a fervent glow, nevertheless the defiance of my soul was strong– as strong as the love which had begun to dominate me. And I listened eagerly as he went on.
“I began at Oxford by playing the slave part,” he said–“a slave to conventions and fossil-methods of instruction. One can really learn more from studying the actual formation of rocks than from those worthy Dons whom nothing will move out of their customary ruts of routine. Even at that early time I felt that, given a man of health and good physical condition, with sound brain, sound lungs and firm nerves, it was not apparent why he, evidently born to rule, should put himself into the leading strings of Oxford or any other forcing- bed of intellectual effort. That it would be better if such an one took HIMSELF in hand and tried to find out HIS OWN meaning, both in relation to the finite and infinite gradations of Spirit and Matter. And I resolved to enter upon the task–without allowing myself to fear failure or to hope for success. My aim was to discover Myself and my meaning, if such a thing were possible. No atom, however infinitesimal, is without origin, history, place and use in the Universe–and I, a conglomerated mass of atoms called Man, resolved to search out the possibilities, finite and infinite, of my own entity. With this aim I began–with this aim I continued.”
“Your task is not finished, then?” put in Dr. Brayle, with a smilingly incredulous air.
“It will never be finished,” answered Santoris–“An eternal thing has no end.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Well,–go on, Santoris!” said Mr. Harland, with a touch of impatience,–“And tell us especially what we all of us are chiefly anxious to know–how it is that you are young when according to the time of the world you should be old?”
Santoris smiled again.
“Ah! That is a purely personal touch of inquisitiveness!” he answered–“It is quite human and natural, of course, but not always wise. In every great lesson of life or scientific discovery people ask first of all ‘How can _I_ benefit by it?’ or ‘How will it affect ME?’ And while asking the question they yet will not trouble to get an answer OUT OF THEMSELVES,–but they turn to others for the solution of the mystery. To keep young is not at all difficult; when certain simple processes of Nature are mastered the difficulty is to grow old!”
We all sat silent, waiting in mute expectancy. The servants had left us, and only the fruits and dainties of dessert remained to tempt us in baskets and dishes of exquisitely coloured Venetian glass, contrasting with the graceful clusters of lovely roses and lilies which added their soft charm to the decorative effect of the table, and Santoris passed the wine, a choice Chateau-Yquem, round to us all before beginning to speak again. And when he did speak, it was in a singularly quiet, musical voice which exercised a kind of spell upon my ears–I had heard that voice before–ah!–how often! How often through the course of my life had I listened to it wonderingly in dreams of which the waking morning brought no explanation! How it had stolen upon me like an echo from far away, when alone in the pauses of work and thought I had longed for some comprehension and sympathy! And I had reproached myself for my own fancies and imaginings, deeming them wholly foolish and irresponsible! And now! Now its gentle and familiar tone went straight to the centre of my spiritual consciousness, and forced me to realise that for the Soul there is no escape from its immortal remembrance!
XI
ONE WAY OF LOVE
“When I left Oxford,” he said–“as I told you before, I left what I conceived to be slavery–that is, a submissively ordered routine of learning in which there occurred nothing new–nothing hopeful– nothing really serviceable. I mastered all there was to master, and carried away ‘honours’ which I deemed hardly worth winning. It was supposed then–most people would suppose it–that as I found myself the possessor of an income of between five and six thousand a year, I would naturally ‘live my life,’ as the phrase goes, and enter upon what is called a social career. Now to my mind a social career simply means social sham–and to live my life had always a broader application for me than for the majority of men. So, having ascertained all I could concerning myself and my affairs from my father’s London solicitors, and learning exactly how I was situated with regard to finances and what is called the ‘practical’ side of life, I left England for Egypt, the land where I was born. I had an object in view,–and that object was not only to see my own old home, but to find out the whereabouts of a certain great sage and mystic philosopher long known in the East by the name of Heliobas.”
I started, and the blood rushed to my cheeks in a burning flame.
“I think YOU knew him,” he went on, addressing me directly, with a straight glance–“You met him some years back, did you not?”
I bent my head in silent assent,–and saw the eyes of my host and hostess turned upon me in questioning scrutiny.
“In a certain circle of students and mystics he was renowned,” continued Santoris,–“and I resolved to see what he could make of me–what he would advise, and how I should set to work to discover what I had resolved to find. However, at the end of a long and tedious journey, I met with disappointment–Heliobas had removed to another sphere of action–“
“He was dead, you mean,” interposed Mr. Harland.
“Not at all,” answered Santoris, calmly. “There is no death. To put it quite simply, he had reached the top of his class in this particular school of life and learning and, therefore, was ready and willing to pass on into the higher grade. He, however, left a successor capable of maintaining the theories he inculcated,–a man named Aselzion, who elected to live in an almost inaccessible spot among mountains with a few followers and disciples. Him I found after considerable difficulty–and we came to understand each other so well that I stayed with him some time studying all that he deemed needful before I started on my own voyage of discovery. His methods of instruction were arduous and painful–in fact, I may say I went through a veritable ordeal of fire–“
He broke off, and for a moment seemed absorbed in recollections.
“You are speaking, I suppose, of some rule of life, some kind of novitiate to which you had to submit yourself,” said Mr. Harland– “Or was it merely a course of study?”
“In one sense it was a sort of novitiate or probation,” answered Santoris, slowly, with the far-away, musing look still in his eyes– “In another it was, as you put it, ‘merely’ a course of study. Merely! It was a course of study in which every nerve, every muscle, every sinew was tested to its utmost strength–and in which a combat between the spiritual and material was fiercely fought till the one could master the other so absolutely as to hold it in perfect subjection. Well! I came out of the trial fairly well–strong enough at any rate to stand alone–as I have done ever since.”
“And to what did your severe ordeal lead?” asked Dr. Brayle, who by this time appeared interested, though still wearing his incredulous, half-sneering air–“To anything which you could not have gained just as easily without it?”
Santoris looked straight at him. His keen eyes glowed as though some bright fire of the soul had leaped into them.
“In the first place,” he answered–“it led me to power! Power,–not only over myself but over all things small and great that surround or concern my being. I think you will admit that if a man takes up any line of business, it is necessary for him to understand all its technical methods and practical details. My business was and IS Life!–the one thing that humanity never studies, and therefore fails to master.”
Mr. Harland looked up.
“Life is mysterious and inexplicable,” he said–“We cannot tell why we live. No one can fathom that mystery. We are Here through no conscious desire of our own,–and again we are NOT here just as we have learned to accommodate ourselves to the fact of being Anywhere!”
“True!” answered Santoris–“But to understand the ‘why’ of life we must first of all realise that its origin Is Love. Love creates life because it MUST; even agnostics, when pushed to the wall in argument grant that some mysterious and mighty Force is at the back of creation,–a Force which is both intelligent and beneficent. The trite saying ‘God is Love’ is true enough, but it is quite as true to say ‘Love is God.’ The commencement of universes, solar systems and worlds is the desire of Love to express Itself. No more and no less than this. From desire springs action,–from action life. It only remains for each living unit to bring itself into harmonious union with this one fundamental law of the whole cosmos,–the expression and action of Love which is based, as naturally it must be, on a dual entity.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Dr. Brayle.
“As a physician, and I presume as a scientist, you ought scarcely to ask,” replied Santoris, with a slight smile. “For you surely know there is no single thing in the Universe. The very microbes of disease or health go in pairs. Light and darkness,–the up and the down,–the right and the left,–the storm and the calm,–the male and the female,–all things are dual; and the sorrows of humanity are for the most part the result of ill-assorted numbers,–figures brought together that will not count up properly–wrong halves of the puzzle that will never fit into place. The mischief runs through all civilization,–wrong halves of races brought together which do not and never can assimilate,–and in an individual personal sense wrong halves of spirit and matter are often forced together which are bound by law to separate in time with some attendant disaster. The error is caused by the obstinate miscomprehension of man himself as to the nature and extent of his own powers and faculties. He forgets that he is not ‘as the beasts that perish,’ but that he has the breath of God in him,–that he holds within himself the seed of immortality which is perpetually re-creative. He is bound by all the laws of the Universe to give that immortal life its dual entity and attendant power, without which he cannot attain his highest ends. It may take him thousands of years–cycles of time,–but it has to be done. Materially speaking, he may perhaps consider that he has secured his dual entity by a pleasing or fortunate marriage–but if he is not spiritually mated, his marriage is useless,–ay! worse than useless, as it only interposes fresh obstacles between himself and his intended progress.”
“Marriage can hardly be called a useless institution,” said Dr. Brayle, with an uplifting of his sinister brows; “It helps to populate the world.”
“It does,” answered Santoris, calmly–“But if the pairs that are joined in marriage have no spiritual bond between them and nothing beyond the attraction of the mere body–they people the world with more or less incapable, unthinking and foolish creatures like themselves. And supposing these to be born in tens of millions, like ants or flies, they will not carry on the real purpose of man’s existence to anything more than that stoppage and recoil which is called Death, but which in reality is only a turning back of the wheels of time when the right road has been lost and it becomes imperative to begin the journey all over again.”
We sat silent; no one had any comment to offer.
“We are arriving at that same old turning-point once more,” he continued–“The Western civilisation of two thousand years, assisted (and sometimes impeded) by the teachings of Christianity, is nearing its end. Out of the vast wreckage of nations, now imminent, only a few individuals can be saved,–and the storm is so close at hand that one can almost hear the mutterings of the thunder! But why should I or you or anyone else think about it? We have our own concerns to attend to–and we attend to these so well that we forget all the most vital necessities that should make them of any importance! However–in this day–nothing matters! Shall I go on with my own story, or have you heard enough?”
“Not half enough!” said Catherine Harland, quite suddenly–she had scarcely spoken before, but she now leaned forward, looking eagerly interested–“You speak of power over yourself,–do you possess the same power over others?”
“Not unless they come into my own circle of action,” he answered. “It would not be worth my while to exert any influence on persons who are, and ever must be, indifferent to me. I can, of course, defend myself against enemies–and that without lifting a hand.”
Everyone, save myself, looked at him inquisitively,–but he did not explain his meaning. He went on very quietly with his own personal narrative.
“As I have told you,” he said–“I came out of my studies with Aselzion successfully enough to feel justified in going on with my work alone. I took up my residence in Egypt in my father’s old home- -a pretty place enough with wide pleasure grounds planted thickly with palm trees and richly filled with flowers,–and here I undertook the mastery and comprehension of the most difficult subject ever propounded for learning–the most evasive, complex, yet exact piece of mathematics ever set out for solving–Myself! Myself was my puzzle! How to unite myself with Nature so thoroughly as to insinuate myself into her secrets,–possess all she could offer me,- -and yet detach myself from Self so completely as to be ready to sacrifice all I had gained at a moment’s notice should that moment come.”
“You are paradoxical,” said Mr. Harland, irritably. “What’s the use of gaining anything if it is to be lost at a moment’s bidding?”
“It is the only way to hold and keep whatever there is to win,” answered Santoris, calmly–“And the paradox is no greater than that of ‘He that loveth his life shall lose it.’ The only ‘moment’ of supreme self-surrender is Love–when that comes everything else must go. Love alone can compass life, perfect it, complete it and carry it on to eternal happiness. But please bear in mind that I am speaking of real Love,–not mere physical attraction. The two things are as different as light from darkness.”