"It depends on what view you take of it,"—I said, laying down my work and trying to fix her attention, a matter which was always difficult—"We human beings are composed of good and evil particles. If the good are encouraged, they drive out the evil,—if the evil, they drive out the good. It's the same with the body as the soul,—if we encourage the health-working 'microbes' as you call them, they will drive out disease from the human organism altogether."
She sank back on her pillow wearily.
"We can't do it,"—she said—"All the chances are against us. What's the use of our trying to encourage 'health-working microbes'? The disease-working ones have got the upper hand. Just think!—our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents are to blame for half our evils. Their diseases become ours in various new forms. It's cruel,—horrible! How anyone can believe that a God of Love created such a frightful scheme passes my comprehension! The whole thing is a mere business of eating to be eaten!"
She looked so wan and wild that I pitied her greatly.
"Surely that is not what you think at the bottom of your heart?" I said, gently—"I should be very sorry for you if I thought you really meant what you say."
"Well, you may be as sorry for me as you like"—and the poor lady blinked away tears from her eyes—"I need someone to be sorry for me! I tell you my life is a perfect torture. Every day I wonder how long I can bear it! I have such dreadful thoughts! I picture the horrible things that are happening to different people all over the world, nobody helping them or caring for them, and I almost feel as if I must scream for mercy. It wouldn't be any use screaming,—but the scream is in my soul all the same. People in prisons, people in shipwrecks, people dying by inches in hospitals, no good in their lives and no hope—and not a sign of comfort from the God whom the Churches praise! It's awful! I don't see how anybody can do anything or be ambitious for anything—it's all mere waste of energy. One of the reasons that made me so anxious to have you come on this trip with us is that you always seem contented and happy,—and I want to know why? It's a question of temperament, I suppose—but do tell me why!"
She stretched out her hand and touched mine appealingly. I took her worn and wasted fingers in my own and pressed them sympathetically.
"My dear Miss Harland,"—I began.
"Oh, call me Catherine"—she interrupted—"I'm so tired of being MissHarland!"
"Well, Catherine, then,"—I said, smiling a little—"Surely you know why I am contented and happy?"
"No, I do not,"—she said, with quick, almost querulous? eagerness—"I don't understand it at all. You have none of the things that please women. You don't seem to care about dress though you are always well-gowned—you don't go to balls or theatres or race-meetings,—you are a general favourite, yet you avoid society,—you've never troubled yourself to take your chances of marriage,—and so far as I know or have heard tell about you, you haven't even a lover!"
My cheeks grew suddenly warm. A curious resentment awoke in me at her words—had I indeed no lover? Surely I had!—one that I knew well and had known for a long time,—one for whom I had guarded my life sacredly as belonging to another as well as to myself,—a lover who loved me beyond all power of human expression,—here the rush of strange and inexplicable emotion in me was hurled back on my mind with a shock of mingled terror and surprise from a dead wall of stony fact,—it was true, of course, and Catherine Harland was right—I had no lover. No man had ever loved me well enough to be called by such a name. The flush cooled off my face,—the hurry of my thoughts slackened,—I took up my embroidery and began to work at it again.
"That is so, isn't it?" persisted Miss Harland—"Though you blush and grow pale as if there was someone in the background."
I met her inquisitive glance and smiled.
"There is no one,"—I said—"There never has been anyone." I paused; I could almost feel the warmth of the strong hand that had held mine in my dream of the past night. It was mere fancy, and I went on—"I should not care for what modern men and women call love. It seems very unsatisfactory."
She sighed.
"It is frequently very selfish,"—she said—"I want to tell you my love-story—may I?"
"Why, of course!" I answered, a little wonderingly, for I had not thought she had a love-story to tell.
"It's very brief,"—she said, and her lip quivered—"There was a man who used to visit our house very often when I first came out,—he made me believe he was very fond of me. I was more than fond of him—I almost worshipped him. He was all the world to me, and though father did not like him very much he wished me to be happy, so we were engaged. That was the time of my life—the only time I ever knew what happiness was. One evening, just about three months before we were to be married, we were together at a party in the house of one of our mutual friends, and I heard him talking rather loudly in a room where he and two or three other men had gone to smoke. He said something that made me stand still and wonder whether I was mad or dreaming. 'Pity me when I'm married to Catherine Harland!' Pity him? I listened,—I knew it was wrong to listen, but I could not help myself. 'Well, you'll get enough cash with her to set you all right in the world, anyhow,'—said another man, 'You can put up with a plain wife for the sake of a pretty fortune.' Then he,—my love!—spoke again—'Oh, I shall make the best of it,' he said—'I must have money somehow, and this is the easiest way. There's one good thing about modern life,—husbands and wives don't hunt in couples as they used to do, so when once the knot is tied I shall shift my matrimonial burden off my shoulders as much as I can. She'll amuse herself with her clothes and the household,—and she's fond of me, so I shall always have my own way. But it's an awful martyrdom to have to marry one woman on account of empty pockets when you're in love with another.' I heard,—and then—I don't know what happened."
Her eyes stared at me so pitifully that I was full of sorrow for her.
"Oh, you poor Catherine!" I said, and taking her hand, I kissed it gently. The tears in her eyes brimmed over.
"They found me lying on the floor insensible,"—she went on, tremulously—"And I was very ill for a long time afterwards. People could not understand it when I broke off my engagement. I told nobody why—except HIM. He seemed sorry and a little ashamed,—but I think he was more vexed at losing my fortune than anything else. I said to him that I had never thought about being plain,—that the idea of his loving me had made me feel beautiful. That was true!—my dear, I almost believe I should have grown into beauty if I had been sure of his love."
I understood that; she was perfectly right in what to the entirely commonplace person would seem a fanciful theory. Love makes all things fair, and anyone who is conscious of being tenderly loved grows lovely, as a rose that is conscious of the sun grows into form and colour.
"Well, it was all over then,"—she ended, with a sigh, "I never was quite myself again—I think my nerves got a sort of shock such as the great novelist, Charles Dickens had when he was in the railway accident—you remember the tale in Forster's 'Life'? How the carriage hung over the edge of an embankment but did not actually fall,—and Dickens was clinging on to it all the time. He never got over it, and it was the remote cause of his death five years later. Now I have felt just like that,—my life has hung over a sort of chasm ever since I lost my love, and I only cling on."
"But surely,"—I ventured to say—"surely there are other things to live for than just the memory of one man's love which was not love at all! You seem to think there was some cruelty or unhappiness in the chance that separated you from him,—but really it was a special mercy and favour of God—only you have taken it in the wrong way."
"I have taken it in the only possible way,"—she said—"With resignation."
"Oh, do you call it resignation?" I exclaimed—"To make a misery of what should have been a gladness? Think of the years and years of wretchedness you might have passed with a man who was a merely selfish fortune-hunter! You would have had to see him grow colder and more callous every day—your heart would have been torn, your spirit broken—and God spared you all this by giving you your chance of freedom! Such a chance! You might have made much of it, if you had only chosen!"
She looked at me, but did not speak.
"Love comes to us in a million beautiful ways,"—I went on, heedless of how she might take my words—"The ordinary love,—or, I would say, the ordinary mating and marriage is only ONE way. You cannot live in the world without being loved—if you love!"
She moved on her pillows restlessly.
"I can't see what you mean,"—she said—"How can I love? I have nothing to love!"
"But do you not see that you are shutting yourself out from love?" I said—"You will not have it! You bar its approach. You encourage your sad and morbid fancies, and think of illness when you might just as well think of health. Oh, I know you will say I am 'up in the air' as your father expresses it,—but it's true all the same that if you love everything in Nature—yes, everything!—sunshine, air, cloud, rain, trees, birds, blossom,—they will love you in return and give you some of their life and strength and beauty."
She smiled,—a very bitter little smile.
"You talk like a poet,"—she said—"And of all things in the world I hate poetry! There!—don't think me cross! Go along and be happy in your own strange fanciful way! I cannot be other than I am,—Dr. Brayle will tell you that I'm not strong enough to share in other people's lives and aims and pleasures,—I must always consider myself."
"Dr. Brayle tells you that?" I queried—"To consider yourself?"
"Of course he does. If I had not considered myself every hour and every day, I should have been dead long ago. I have to consider everything I eat and drink lest it should make me ill."
I rose from my seat beside her.
"I wish I could cure you!" I murmured.
"My dear girl, if you could, you would, I am sure,"—she answered—"You are very kind-hearted. It has done me good to talk to you and tell you all my sad little history. I shall get up presently and have my electricity and feel quite bright for a time. But as for a cure, you might as well try to cure my father."
"None are cured of any ailment unless they resolve to help along the cure themselves," I said.
She gave a weary little laugh.
"Ah, that's one of your pet theories, but it's no use to me! I'm past all helping of myself, so you may give me up as a bad job!"
"But you asked me," I went on—"did you not, to tell you why it is thatI am contented and happy? Do you really want to know?"
A vague distrust crept into her faded eyes.
"Not if it's a theory!" she said—"I should not have the brain or the patience to think it out."
I laughed.
"It's not a theory, it's a truth"—I answered—"But truth is sometimes more difficult than theory."
She looked at me half in wonder, half in appeal.
"Well, what is it?"
"Just this"—and I knelt beside her for a moment holding her hand—"I KNOW that there are no external surroundings which we do not make for ourselves, and that our troubles are born of our own wrong thinking, and are not sent from God. I train my Soul to be calm,—and my body obeys my Soul. That's all!"
Her fingers closed on mine nervously.
"But what's the use of telling me this?" she half whispered—"I don't believe in God or the Soul!"
I rose from my kneeling attitude.
"Poor Catherine!" I said—"Then indeed it is no use telling you anything! You are in darkness instead of daylight, and no one can make you see. Oh, what can I do to help you?"
"Nothing,"—she answered—"My faith—it was never very much,—was taken from me altogether when I was quite young. Father made it seem absurd. He's a clever man, you know—and in a few words he makes out religion to be utter nonsense."
"I understand!"
And indeed I did entirely understand. Her father was one of a rapidly increasing class of men who are a danger to the community,—a cold, cynical shatterer of every noble ideal,—a sneerer at patriotism and honour,—a deliberate iconoclast of the most callous and remorseless type. That he had good points in his character was not to be denied,—a murderer may have these. But to be in his company for very long was to feel that there is no good in anything—that life is a mistake of Nature, and death a fortunate ending of the blunder—that God is a delusion and the 'Soul' a mere expression signifying certain intelligent movements of the brain only.
I stood silently thinking these things, while she watched me rather wistfully. Presently she said:
"Are you going on deck now?"
"Yes."
"I'll join you all at luncheon. Don't lose that bit of heather in your dress,—it's really quite brilliant—like a jewel."
I hesitated a moment.
"You're not vexed with me for speaking as I have done?" I asked her.
"Vexed? No, indeed! I love to hear you and see you defending your own fairy ground! For it IS like a fairy tale, you know—all that YOU believe!"
"It has practical results, anyway!"—I answered—"You must admit that."
"Yes—I know,—and it's just what I can't understand. We'll have another talk about it some day. Would you tell Dr. Brayle that I shall be ready for him in ten minutes?"
I assented, and left her. I made for the deck directly, the air meeting me with a rush of salty softness as I ran up the saloon stairway. What a glorious day it was! Sky, sea and mountains were bathed in brilliant sunshine; the 'Diana' was cutting her path swiftly through waters which marked her course on either side by a streak of white foam. I mentally contrasted the loveliness of the scene around me with the stuffy cabin I had just left, and seeing Dr. Brayle smoking comfortably in a long reclining chair and reading a paper I went up to him and touched him on the shoulder.
"Your patient wants you in ten minutes,"—I said.
He rose to his feet at once, courteously offering me a chair, which I declined, and drew his cigar from his mouth.
"I have two patients on board,"—he answered, smiling—"Which one?"
"The one who is your patient from choice, not necessity,"—I replied, coolly.
"My dear lady!" His eyes blinked at me with a furtive astonishment—"If you were not so charming I should say you were—well!—SHALL I say it?—a trifle opinionated!"
I laughed.
"Granted!" I said—"If it is opinionated to be honest I plead guilty!Miss Harland is as well as you or I,—she's only morbid."
"True!—but morbidness is a form of illness,—a malady of the nerves—"
I laughed again, much to his visible annoyance.
"Curable by outward applications of electricity?" I queried—"When the mischief is in the mind? But there!—I mustn't interfere, I suppose! Nevertheless you keep Miss Harland ill when she might be quite well."
A disagreeable line furrowed the corners of his mouth.
"You think so? Among your many accomplishments do you count the art of medicine?"
I met his shifty brown eyes, and he dropped them quickly.
"I know nothing about it,"—I answered—"Except this—that the cure of any mind trouble must come from within—not from without. And I'm not a Christian Scientist either?"
He smiled cynically. "Really not? I should have thought you were!"
"You would make a grave error if you thought so," I responded, curtly.
A keen and watchful interest flashed over his dark face.
"I should very much like to know what your theories are"—he said, suddenly—"You interest me greatly."
"I'm sure I do!" I answered, smiling.
He looked me up and down for a moment in perplexity—then shrugged his shoulders.
"You are a strange creature!" he said—"I cannot make you out. If I were asked to give a 'professional' opinion of you I should say you were very neurotic and highly-strung, and given over to self-delusions."
"Thanks!"—and I made him a demure little curtsy. "I look it, don't I?"
"No—you don't look it; but looks are deceptive."
"There I agree with you,"—I said—"But one has to go by them sometimes. If I am 'neurotic,' my looks do not pity me, and my condition of health leaves nothing to desire."
His brows met in a slight frown. He glanced at his watch.
"I must go,"—he said—"Miss Harland will be waiting."
"And the electricity will get cold!" I added, gaily. "See if you can feel my 'neurotic' pulse!"
He took the hand I extended—and remained quite still. Conscious of the secret force I had within myself I resolved to try if I could use it upon him in such a way as to keep him a prisoner till I chose to let him go. I watched him till his eyes began to look vague and a kind of fixity settled on his features,—he was perfectly unconscious that I held him at my pleasure,—and presently, satisfied with my experiment, I relaxed the spell and withdrew my hand.
"Quite regular, isn't it?" I said, carelessly.
He started as if roused from a sleep, but replied quickly:
"Yes—oh yes—perfectly!—I had almost forgotten what I was doing. I was thinking of something else. Miss Harland—"
"Yes, Miss Harland is ready for you by this time"—and I smiled. "You must tell her I detained you."
He nodded in a more or less embarrassed manner, and turning away from me, went rather slowly down the saloon stairs.
I gave a sigh of relief when he was gone. I had from the first moment of our meeting recognised in him a mental organisation which in its godless materialism and indifference to consequences, was opposed to every healthful influence that might be brought to bear on his patients for their well-being, whatever his pretensions to medical skill might be. It was to his advantage to show them the worst side of a disease in order to accentuate his own cleverness in dealing with it,—it served his purpose to pamper their darkest imaginings, play with their whims and humour their caprices,—I saw all this and understood it. And I was glad that so far as I might be concerned, I had the power to master him.
To spend a few days on board a yacht with the same companions is a very good test of the value of sympathetic vibration in human associations. I found it so. I might as well have been quite alone on the 'Diana' as with Morton Harland and his daughter, though they were always uniformly kind to me and thoughtful of my comfort. But between us there was 'a great gulf fixed,' though every now and again Catherine Harland made feeble and pathetic efforts to cross that gulf and reach me where I stood on the other side. But her strength was not equal to the task,—her will-power was sapped at its root, and every day she allowed herself to become more and more pliantly the prey of Dr. Brayle, who, with a subconscious feeling that I knew him to be a mere medical charlatan, had naturally warned her against me as an imaginative theorist without any foundation of belief in my own theories. I therefore shut myself within a fortress of reserve, and declined to discuss any point of either religion or science with those for whom the one was a farce and the other mere materialism. At all times when we were together I kept the conversation deliberately down to commonplaces which were safe, if dull,—and it amused me not a little to see that at this course of action on my part Mr. Harland was first surprised, then disappointed and finally bored. And I was glad. That I should bore him as much as he bored me was the happy consummation of my immediate desires. I talked as all conventional women talk, of the weather, of our minimum and maximum speed, of the newspaper 'sensations' and vulgarities that were served up to us whenever we called at a port for the mails,—of the fish that frequented such and such waters, of sport, of this and that millionaire whose highland castle or shooting-box was crammed with the 'elite' whose delight is to kill innocent birds and animals,—of the latest fool-flyers in aeroplanes,—in short, no fashionable jabberer of social inanities could have beaten me in what average persons call 'common-sense talk,'—talk which resulted after a while in the usual vagueness of attention accompanied by smothered yawning. I was resolved not to lift the line of thought 'up in the air' in the manner whereof I had often been accused, but to keep it level with the ground. So that when we left Tobermory, where we had anchored for a couple of days, the limits of the yacht were becoming rather cramped and narrow for our differing minds, and a monotony was beginning to set in that threatened to be dangerous, if not unbearable. As the 'Diana' steamed along through the drowsy misty light of the summer afternoon, past the jagged coast of the mainland, I sat quite by myself on deck, watching the creeping purple haze that partially veiled the mountains of Ardnamurchan and Moidart, and I began to wonder whether after all it might not be better to write to my friend Francesca and tell her that her prophecies had already come true,—that I was beginning to be weary of a holiday passed in an atmosphere bereft of all joyousness, and that she must expect me in Inverness-shire at once. And yet I was reluctant to end my trip with the Harlands too soon. There was a secret wish in my heart which I hardly breathed to myself,—a wish that I might again see the strange vessel that had appeared and disappeared so suddenly, and make the acquaintance of its owner. It would surely be an interesting break in the present condition of things, to say the least of it. I did not know then (though I know now) why my mind so persistently busied itself with the fancied personality of the unknown possessor of the mysterious craft which, as Captain Derrick said, 'sailed without wind,' but I found myself always thinking about him and trying to picture his face and form.
I took myself sharply to task for what I considered a foolish mental attitude,—but do what I would, the attitude remained unchanged. It was helped, perhaps, in a trifling way by the apparently fadeless quality of the pink bell-heather which had been given me by the weird-looking Highland fellow who called himself Jamie, for though three or four days had now passed since I first wore it, it showed no signs of withering. As a rule the delicate waxen bells of this plant turn yellow a few hours after they are plucked,—but my little bunch was as brilliantly fresh as ever. I kept it in a glass without water on the table in my sitting-room and it looked always the same. I was questioning myself as to what I should really do if my surroundings remained as hopelessly inert and uninteresting as they were at present,—go on with the 'Diana' for a while longer on the chance of seeing the strange yacht again—or make up my mind to get put out at some point from which I could reach Inverness easily, when Mr. Harland came up suddenly behind my chair and laid his hand on my shoulder.
"Are you in dreamland?" he enquired—and I thought his voice sounded rather weak and dispirited—"There's a wonderful light on those hills just now."
I raised my eyes and saw the purple shadows being cloven and scattered one after another, by long rays of late sunshine that poured like golden wine through the dividing wreaths of vapour,—above, the sky was pure turquoise blue, melting into pale opal and emerald near the line of the grey sea which showed little flecks of white foam under the freshening breeze. Bringing my gaze down from the dazzling radiance of the heavens, I turned towards Mr. Harland and was startled and shocked to see the drawn and livid pallor of his face and the anguish of his expression.
"You are ill!" I exclaimed, and springing up in haste I offered him my chair—"Do sit down!"
He made a mute gesture of denial, and with slow difficulty drew another chair up beside mine, and dropped into it with an air of heavy weariness.
"I am not ill now,"—he said—"A little while ago I was very ill. I was in pain—horrible pain! Brayle did what he could for me—it was not much. He says I must expect to suffer now and again—until—until the end."
Impulsively I laid my hand on his.
"I am very sorry!" I said, gently—"I wish I could be of some use to you!"
He looked at me with a curious wistfulness.
"You could, no doubt, if I believed as you do,"—he replied, and then was silent for a moment. Presently he spoke again.
"Do you know I am rather disappointed in you?"
"Are you?" And I smiled a little—"Why?"
He did not answer at once. He seemed absorbed in troubled musings. When he resumed, it was in a low, meditative tone, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
"When I first met you—you remember?—at one of those social 'crushes' which make the London season so infinitely tedious,—I was told you were gifted with unusual psychic power, and that you had in yourself the secret of an abounding exhaustless vitality. I repeat the words—an abounding exhaustless vitality. This interested me, because I know that our modern men and women are mostly only half alive. I heard of you that it did people good to be in your company,—that your influence upon them was remarkable, and that there was some unknown form of occult, or psychic science to which you had devoted years of study, with the result that you stood, as it were, apart from the world though in the world. This, I say, is what I heard—"
"But you did not believe it,"—I interposed.
"Why do you say that?" he asked, quickly.
"Because I know you could not believe it,"—I answered—"It would be impossible for you."
A gleam of satire flashed in his sunken eyes.
"Well, you are right there! I did not believe it. But I expected—"
"I know!" And I laughed—"You expected what is called a 'singular' woman—one who makes herself 'singular,' adopts a 'singular' pose, and is altogether removed from ordinary humanity. And of course you are disappointed. I am not at all a type of the veiled priestess."
"It is not that,"—he said, with a little vexation—"When I saw you I recognised you to be a very transparent creature, devoted to innocent dreams which are not life. But that secret which you are reported to possess—the secret of wonderful abounding exhaustless vitality—how does it happen that you have it? I myself see that force expressed in your very glance and gesture, and what puzzles me is that it is not an animal vitality; it is something else."
I was silent.
"You have not a robust physique,"—he went on—"Yet you are more full of the spirit of life than men and women twice as strong as you are. You are a feminine thing, too,—and that goes against you. But one can see in you a worker—you evidently enjoy the exercise of the accomplishments you possess—and nothing comes amiss to you. I wonder how you manage it? When you joined us on this trip a few days ago, you brought a kind of atmosphere with you that was almost buoyant, and now I am disappointed, because you seem to have enclosed yourself within it, and to have left us out!"
"Have you not left yourselves out?" I queried, gently. "I, personally, have really nothing to do with it. Just remember that when we have talked on any subject above the line of the general and commonplace your sole object has been to 'draw' me for the amusement of yourself and Dr. Brayle—"
"Ah, you saw that, did you?" he interrupted, with a faint smile.
"Naturally! Had you believed half you say you were told of me, you would have known I must have seen it. Can you wonder that I refuse to be 'drawn'?"
He looked at me with an odd expression of mingled surprise and annoyance, and I met his gaze fully and frankly. His eyes shifted uneasily away from mine.
"One may feel a pardonable curiosity," he said, "And a desire to know—"
"To know what?" I asked, with some warmth—"How can you obtain what you are secretly craving for, if you persist in denying what is true? You are afraid of death—yet you invite it by ignoring the source of life! The curtain is down,—you are outside eternal realities altogether in a chaos of your own voluntary creation!"
I spoke with some passion, and he heard me patiently.
"Let us try to understand each other," he said, after a pause—"though it will be difficult. You speak of 'eternal realities.' To me there are none, save the constant scattering and re-uniting of atoms. These, so far as we know of the extraordinary (and to me quite unintelligent) plan of the Universe, are for ever shifting and changing into various forms and clusters of forms, such as solar systems, planets, comets, star-dust and the like. Our present view of them is chiefly based on the researches of Larmor and Thomson of Cambridge. From them and other scientists we learn that electricity exists in small particles which we can in a manner see in the 'cathode' rays,—and these particles are called 'electrons.' These compose 'atoms of matter.' Well!—there are a trillion of atoms in each granule of dust,—while electrons are so much smaller, that a hundred thousand of them can lie in the diameter of an atom. I know all this,—but I do not know why the atoms or electrons should exist at all, nor what cause there should be for their constant and often violent state of movement. They apparently always HAVE BEEN, and always WILL be,—therefore they are all that can be called 'eternal realities.' Sir Norman Lockyer tells us that the matter of the Universe is undergoing a continuous process of evolution—but even if it is so, what is that to me individually? It neither helps nor consoles me for being one infinitesimal spark in the general conflagration. Now you believe—"
"In the Force that is BEHIND your system of electrons and atoms"—I said—"For by whatever means or substances the Universe is composed, a mighty Intelligence governs it—and I look to the Cause more than the Effect. For even I am a part of the whole,—I belong to the source of the stream as much as to the stream itself. An abstract, lifeless principle without will or intention or intelligence could not have evolved the splendours of Nature or the intellectual capabilities of man—it could not have given rise to what was not in itself."
He fixed his eyes steadily upon me.
"That last sentence is sound argument," he said, as though reluctantly admitting the obvious,—"And I suppose I am to presume that 'Itself' is the well-spring from which you draw, or imagine you draw, your psychic force?"
"If I have any psychic force at all," I responded,—"where do you suppose it should come from but that which gives vitality to all animate Nature? I cannot understand why you blind yourself to the open and visible fact of a Divine Intelligence working in and through all things. If you could but acknowledge it and set yourself in tune with it you would find life a new and far more dominant joy than it is to you now. I firmly believe that your very illness has arisen from your determined attitude of unbelief."
"That's what a Christian Scientist would say," he answered, with a touch of scorn,—"I begin to think Dr. Brayle is right in his estimate of you."
I held my peace.
"Have you no curiosity?" he demanded—"Don't you want to know his opinion?"
"No,"—and I smiled—"My dear Mr. Harland, with all your experience of the world, has it never occurred to you that there are some people whose opinions don't matter?"
"Brayle is a clever man,"—he said, somewhat testily, "And you are merely an imaginative woman."
"Then why do you trouble about me?" I asked him, quickly—"Why do you want to find out that something in me which baffles both Dr. Brayle and yourself?"
It was now his turn to be silent, and he remained so for some time, his eyes fixed on the shadowing heavens. The waves were roughening slightly and a swell from the Atlantic lifted the 'Diana' curtsying over their foam-flecked crests as she ploughed her way swiftly along. Presently he turned to me with a smile.
"Let us strike a truce!"—he said—"I promise not to try and 'draw' you any more! But please do not isolate yourself from us,—try to feel that we are your friends. I want you to enjoy this trip if possible,—but I fear that we are proving rather dull company for you. We are making for Skye at good speed and shall probably anchor in Loch Scavaig to-night. To-morrow we might land and do the excursion to Loch Coruisk if you care for that, though Catherine is not a good walker."
I felt rather remorseful as he said these words in a kindly tone. Yet I knew very well that, notwithstanding all the strenuous efforts which might be made by the rules of conventional courtesy, it would be impossible for me to feel quite at home in the surroundings which he had created for himself. I inwardly resolved, however, to make the best of it and to try and steer clear of any possibilities or incidents which might tend to draw the line of demarcation too strongly between us. Some instinct told me that present conditions were not to remain as they were, so I answered my host gently and assured him of my entire willingness to fall in with any of his plans. Our conversation then gradually drifted into ordinary topics till towards sunset, when I went down to my cabin to dress for dinner. I had a fancy to wear the bunch of pink bell-heather that still kept its fresh and waxen-looking delicacy of bloom, and this, fastened in the lace of my white gown, was my only adornment.
That night there was a distinct attempt on everybody's part to make things sociable and pleasant. Catherine Harland was, for once, quite cheerful and chatty, and proposed that as there was a lovely moonlight, we should all go after dinner into the deck saloon, where there was a piano, and that I should sing for them. I was rather surprised at this suggestion, as she was not fond of music. Nevertheless, there had been such an evident wish shown by her and her father to lighten the monotony which had been creeping like a mental fog over us all that I readily agreed to anything which might perhaps for the moment give them pleasure.
We went up on deck accordingly, and on arriving there were all smitten into awed silence by the wonderful beauty of the scene. We were anchored in Loch Scavaig—and the light of the moon fell with a weird splendour on the gloom of the surrounding hills, a pale beam touching the summits here and there and deepening the solemn effect of the lake and the magnificent forms of its sentinel mountains. A low murmur of hidden streams sounded on the deep stillness and enhanced the fascination of the surrounding landscape, which was more like the landscape of a dream than a reality. The deep breadths of dense darkness lying lost among the cavernous slopes of the hills were broken at intervals by strange rifts of light arising as it were from the palpitating water, which now and again showed gleams of pale emerald and gold phosphorescence,—the stars looked large and white like straying bits of the moon, and the mysterious 'swishing' of slow ripples heaving against the sides of the yacht suggested the whisperings of uncanny spirits. We stood in a silent group, entranced by the grandeur of the night and by our own loneliness in the midst of it, for there was no sign of a fisherman's hut or boat moored to the shore, or anything which could give us a sense of human companionship. A curious feeling of disappointment suddenly came over me,—I lifted my eyes to the vast dark sky with a kind of mute appeal—and moon and stars appeared to float up there like ships in a deep sea,—I had expected something more in this strange, almost spectral-looking landscape, and yet I knew not why I should expect anything. Beautiful as the whole scene was, and fully as I recognised its beauty, an overpowering depression suddenly gripped me as with a cold hand,—there was a dreary emptiness in this majestic solitude that seemed to crush my spirit utterly.
I moved a little away from my companions, and leaned over the deck rail, looking far into the black shadows of the shore, defined more deeply by the contrasting brilliance of the moon, and my thoughts flew with undesired swiftness to the darkest line of life's horizon—I had for the moment lost the sense of joy. How wretched all we human creatures are!—I said to my inner self,—what hope after all is there for us, imprisoned in a world which has no pity for us whatever may be our fate,—a world that goes on in precisely the same fashion whether we live or die, work or are idle? These tragic hills, this cold lake, this white moon, were the same when Caesar lived, and would still be the same when we who gazed upon them now were all gone into the Unknown. It seemed difficult to try and realise this obvious fact—so difficult as to be almost unnatural. Supposing that any towns or villages had ever existed on this desolate shore, they had proved useless against the devouring forces of Nature,—just as the splendid buried cities of South America had proved useless in all their magnificence,—useless as the 'Golden Age of Lanka' in Ceylon more than two thousand years ago. Of what avail then is the struggle of human life? Is it for the many or only for the few? Is all the toil and sorrow of millions merely for the uplifting and perfecting of certain individual types, and is this what Christ meant when He said 'Many are called but few are chosen'? If so, why such waste of brain and heart and love and patience? Tears came suddenly into my eyes and I started as from a bad dream when Dr. Brayle approached me softly from behind.
"I am sorry to disturb your reverie!"—he said—"But Miss Harland has gone into the deck saloon and we are all waiting to hear you sing."
I looked up at him.
"I don't feel as if I could sing to-night,"—I replied, rather tremulously—"This lonely landscape depresses me—"
He saw that my eyes were wet, and smiled.
"You are overwrought," he said—"Your own theories of health and vitality are not infallible! You must be taken care of. You think too much."
"Or too little?" I suggested.
"Really, my dear lady, you cannot possibly think too little where health and happiness are concerned! The sanest and most comfortable people on earth are those who eat well and never think at all. An empty brain and a full stomach make the sum total of a contented life."
"So YOU imagine!" I said, with a slight gesture of veiled contempt.
"So I KNOW!" he answered, with emphasis—"And I have had a wide experience. Now don't look daggers at me!—come and sing!"
He offered me his arm, but I put it aside and walked by myself towards the deck saloon. Mr. Harland and Catherine were seated there, with all the lights turned full on, so that the radiance of the moon through the window was completely eclipsed. The piano was open. As I came in Catherine looked at me with a surprised air.
"Why, how pale you are!" she exclaimed—"One would think you had seen a ghost!"
I laughed.
"Perhaps I have! Loch Scavaig is sufficient setting for any amount of ghosts. It's such a lonely place,"—and a slight tremor ran through me as I played a few soft chords—"What shall I sing to you?"
"Something of the country we are in,"—said Mr. Harland—"Don't you know any of those old wild Gaelic airs?"
I thought a moment, and then to a low rippling accompaniment I sang the old Celtic 'Fairy's Love Song'—
"Why should I sit and sigh,Pu'in' bracken, pu'in' bracken,Why should I sit and sigh,On the hill-side dreary—When I see the plover rising,Or the curlew wheeling,Then I know my mortal loverBack to me is stealing.
When the day wears awaySad I look adown the valley,Every sound heard aroundSets my heart a-thrilling,—Why should I sit and sigh,Pu'in' bracken, pu'in' bracken,Why should I sit and sighAll alone and weary!
Ah, but there is something wanting,Oh but I am weary!Come, my true and tender lover,O'er the hills to cheer me!Why should I sit and sigh,Pu'in' bracken, pu'in' bracken,Why should I sit and sigh,All alone and weary!"
I had scarcely finished the last verse when Captain Derrick suddenly appeared at the door of the saloon in a great state of excitement.
"Come out, Mr. Harland!" he almost shouted—"Come quickly, all of you!There's that strange yacht again!"
I rose from my seat at the piano trembling a little—at last!—I thought—at last! My heart was beating tumultuously, though I could not explain my own emotion to myself. In another moment we were all standing speechless and amazed, gazing at surely the most wonderful sight that had ever been seen by human eyes. There on the dark and lonely waters of Loch Scavaig was poised, rather than anchored, the fairy vessel of my dreams, with all sails spread,—sails that were white as milk and seemingly drenched with a sparkling dewy radiance, for they scintillated like hoar-frost in the sun and glittered against the sombre background of the mountainous shore with an almost blinding splendour. Our whole crew of sailors and servants on the 'Diana' came together in astonished groups, whispering among themselves, all evidently more or less scared by the strange spectacle. Captain Derrick waited for someone to hazard a remark, then, as we remained silent, he addressed Mr. Harland—
"Well, sir, what do you make of it?"
Mr. Harland did not answer. For a man who professed indifference to all events and circumstances he seemed startled for once and a little afraid. Catherine caught me by the arm,—she was shivering nervously.
"Do you think it is a REAL yacht?" she whispered.
I was amused at this question, coming as it did from a woman who denied the supernatural.
"Of course it is!" I answered—"Don't you see people moving about on board?"
For, in the brilliant light shed by those extraordinary sails, the schooner appeared to be fully manned. Several of the crew were busy on her deck and there was nothing of the phantom in their movements.
"Her sails must surely be lit up in that way by electricity"—said Dr. Brayle, who had been watching her attentively—"But how it is done and why, is rather puzzling! I never saw anything quite to resemble it."
"She came into the loch like a flash,"—said Captain Derrick—"I saw her slide in round the point, and then without a sound of any kind, there she was, safe anchored before you could whistle. She behaved in just the same way when we first sighted her off Mull."
I listened to what they were saying, impatiently wondering what would be the end of their surmises and speculations.
"Why not exchange courtesies?" I said, suddenly,—"Here we are—two yachts anchored near each other in a lonely lake,—why should we not know each other? Then all the mysteries you are talking about would be cleared up."
"Quite true!" said Mr. Harland, breaking his silence at last—"But isn't it rather late to pay a call? What time is it?"
"About half-past ten,"—answered Dr. Brayle, glancing at his watch.
"Oh, let us get to bed!" murmured Miss Catherine, pleadingly—"What's the good of making any enquiries to-night?"
"Well, if you don't make them to-night ten to one you won't have the chance to-morrow!"—said Captain Derrick, bluntly—"That yacht will repeat her former manoeuvres and vanish at sunrise."
"As all spectres are traditionally supposed to do!" said Dr. Brayle, lighting a cigarette as he spoke and beginning to smoke it with a careless air—"I vote for catching the ghost before it melts away into the morning."
While this talk went on Mr. Harland stepped back into the saloon and wrote a note which he enclosed in a sealed envelope. With this in his hand he came out to us again.
"Captain, will you get the boat lowered, please?" he said—then, as Captain Derrick hastened to obey this order, he turned to his secretary:—"Mr. Swinton, I want you to take this note to the owner of that yacht, whoever he may be, with my compliments. Don't give it to anyone else but himself."
Mr. Swinton, looking very pale and uncomfortable, took the note gingerly between his fingers.
"Himself—yes!"—he stammered—"And—er—if there should be no one—"
"What do you mean?" and Mr. Harland frowned in his own particularly unpleasant way—"There's sure to be SOMEONE, even if he were the devil! You can say to him that the ladies of our party are very much interested in the beautiful illumination of his yacht, and that we'll be glad to see him on board ours, if he cares to come. Be as polite as you can, and as agreeable as you like."
"It has not occurred to you—I suppose you have not thought—that—that it may be an illusion?" faltered Mr. Swinton, uneasily, glancing at the glistening sails that shamed the silver sheen of the moon—"A sort of mirage in the atmosphere—"
Mr. Harland gave vent to a laugh—the heartiest I had ever heard from him.
"Upon my word, Swinton!" he exclaimed—"I should never have thought you capable of nerves! Come, come!—be off with you! The boat is lowered—all's ready!"
Thus commanded, there was nothing for the reluctant Mr. Swinton but to obey, and I could not help smiling at his evident discomfiture. All his precise and matter-of-fact self-satisfaction was gone in a moment,—he was nothing but a very timorous creature, afraid to examine into what he could not at once understand. No such terrors, however, were displayed by the sailors who undertook to row him over to the yacht. They, as well as their captain, were anxious to discover the mystery, if mystery there was,—and we all, by one instinct, pressed to the gangway as he descended the companion ladder and entered the boat, which glided away immediately with a low and rhythmical plash of oars. We could watch it as it drew nearer and nearer the illuminated vessel, and our excitement grew more and more intense. For once Mr. Harland and his daughter had forgotten all about themselves,—and Catherine's customary miserable expression of face had altogether disappeared in the keenness of her interest for something more immediately thrilling than her own ailments. So far as I was concerned, I could hardly endure the suspense that seemed to weigh on every nerve of my body during the few minutes' interval that elapsed between the departure of the boat and its drawing up alongside the strange yacht. My thoughts were all in a whirl,—I felt as if something unprecedented and almost terrifying was about to happen,—but I could not reason out the cause of my mental agitation.
"There they go!" said Mr. Harland—"They're alongside! See!—those fellows are lowering the companion ladder—there's nothing supernatural about THEM! Swinton's all right—look, he's on board!"
We strained our eyes through the brilliant flare shed by the illuminated sails on the darkness and could see Mr. Swinton talking to a group of sailors. One of them went away, but returned almost immediately, followed by a man clad in white yachting flannels, who, standing near one of the shining sails, caught some of the light on his own figure with undeniably becoming effect. I was the first to perceive him, and as I looked, the impression came upon me that he was no stranger,—I had seen him often before. This sudden consciousness swiftly borne in upon me calmed all the previous tumult of my mind and I was no longer anxious as to the result of our possible acquaintance. Catherine Harland pressed my arm excitedly.
"There he is!" she said—"That must be the owner of the yacht. He's reading father's letter."
He was,—we could see the little sheet of paper turning over in his hands. And while we waited, wondering what would be his answer, the light on the sails of his vessel began to pale and die away,—beam after beam of radiance slipped off as it were like drops of water, and before we could quite realise it there was darkness where all had lately been so bright; and the canvas was hauled down. With the quenching of that intense brilliancy we lost sight of the human figures on deck and could not imagine what was to happen next. The dark shore looked darker than ever,—the outline of the yacht was now truly spectral, like a ship of black cobweb against the moon, and we looked questioningly at each other in silence. Then Mr. Harland spoke in a low tone.
"The boat is coming back,"—he said,—"I hear the oars."
I leaned over the side of our vessel and tried to see through the gloom. How still the water was!—not a ripple disturbed its surface. But there were strange gleams of wandering light in its depths like dropped jewels lost on sands far below. The regular dip of oars sounded nearer and nearer. My heart was beating with painful quickness,—I could not understand the strange feeling that overpowered me. I felt as if my very soul were going out of my body to meet that oncoming boat which was cleaving its way through the darkness. Another brief interval and then we saw it shoot out into a patch of moonlight—we could perceive Mr. Swinton seated in the stern with another figure beside him—that of a man who stood up as he neared our yacht and lifted his cap with an easy gesture of salutation, and then as the boat came alongside, caught at the guide rope and sprang lightly on the first step of the companion ladder.
"Why, he's actually come over to us himself!" ejaculated Mr. Harland,—and he hurried to the gangway just in time to receive the visitor as he stepped on deck.
"Well, Harland, how are you?" said a mellow voice in the cheeriest of accents—"It's strange we should meet like this after so many years!"
At these words and at sight of the speaker, Morton Harland started back as if he had been shot.
"Santoris!" he exclaimed—"Not possible! Rafel Santoris! No! You must be his son!"
The stranger laughed.
"My good Harland! Always the sceptic! Miracles are many, but there is one which is beyond all performance. A man cannot be his own offspring! I am that very Santoris who saw you last in Oxford. Come, come!—you ought to know me!"
He stepped more fully into the light which was shed from the open door of the deck saloon, and showed himself to be a man of distinguished appearance, apparently about forty years of age. He was well built, with the straight back and broad shoulders of an athlete,—his face was finely featured and radiant with the glow of health and strength, and as he smiled and laid one hand on Mr. Harland's shoulder he looked the very embodiment of active, powerful manhood. Morton Harland stared at him in amazement and something of terror.
"Rafel Santoris!" he repeated—"You are his living image,—but you cannot be himself—you are too young!"
A gleam of amusement sparkled in the stranger's eyes.
"Don't let us talk of age or youth for the moment"—he said. "Here I am,—your 'eccentric' college acquaintance whom you and several other fellows fought shy of years ago! I assure you I am quite harmless! Will you present me to the ladies?"
There was a brief embarrassed pause. Then Mr. Harland turned to us where we had withdrawn ourselves a little apart and addressed his daughter.
"Catherine,"—he said—"This gentleman tells me he knew me at Oxford, and if he is right I also knew HIM. I spoke of him only the other night at dinner—you remember?—but I did not tell you his name. It is Rafel Santoris—if indeed he IS Santoris!—though my Santoris should be a much older man."
"I extremely regret," said our visitor then, advancing and bowing courteously to Catherine and myself—"that I do not fulfil the required conditions of age! Will you try to forgive me?"
He smiled—and we were a little confused, hardly knowing what to say. Involuntarily I raised my eyes to his, and with one glance saw in those clear blue orbs that so steadfastly met mine a world of memories—memories tender, wistful and pathetic, entangled as in tears and fire. All the inward instincts of my spirit told me that I knew him well—as well as one knows the gold of the sunshine or the colour of the sky,—yet where had I seen him often and often before? While my thoughts puzzled over this question he averted his gaze from mine and went on speaking to Catherine.
"I understand," he said—"that you are interested in the lighting of my yacht?"
"It is most beautiful and wonderful,"—answered Catherine, in her coldest tone of conventional politeness, "And so unusual!"
His eyebrows went up with a slightly quizzical.
"Yes, I suppose it is unusual," he said—"I am always forgetting that what is not quite common seems strange! But really the arrangement is very simple. The yacht is called the 'Dream'—and she is, as her name implies, a 'dream' fulfilled. Her sails are her only motive power. They are charged with electricity, and that is why they shine at night in a way that must seem to outsiders like a special illumination. If you will honour me with a visit to-morrow I will show you how it is managed."
Here Captain Derrick, who had been standing close by, was unable to resist the impulse of his curiosity.
"Excuse me, sir,"—he said, suddenly—"but may I ask how it is you sail without wind?"
"Certainly!—you may ask and be answered!" Santoris replied. "As I have just said, our sails are our only motive power, but we do not need the wind to fill them. By a very simple scientific method, or rather let me say by a scientific application of natural means, we generate a form of electric force from the air and water as we move. This force fills the sails and propels the vessel with amazing swiftness wherever she is steered. Neither calm nor storm affects her progress. When there is a good gale blowing our way, we naturally lessen the draft on our own supplies—but we can make excellent speed even in the teeth of a contrary wind. We escape all the inconveniences of steam and smoke and dirt and noise,—and I daresay in about a couple of hundred years or so my method of sailing the seas will be applied to all ships large and small, with much wonder that it was not thought of long ago."
"Why not apply it yourself?" asked Dr. Brayle, now joining in the conversation for the first time and putting the question with an air of incredulous amusement—"With such a marvellous discovery—if it is yours—you should make your fortune!"
Santoris glanced him over with polite tolerance.
"It is possible I do not need to make it,"—he answered, then turning again to Captain Derrick he said, kindly, "I hope the matter seems clearer to you? We sail without wind, it is true, but not without the power that creates wind."
The captain shook his head perplexedly.
"Well, sir, I can't quite take it in,"—he confessed—"I'd like to know more."
"So you shall! Harland, will you all come over to the yacht to-morrow? There may be some excursion we could do together—and you might remain and dine with me afterwards."
Mr. Harland's face was a study. Doubt and fear struggled for the mastery in his expression and he did not at once answer. Then he seemed to conquer his hesitation and to recover himself.
"Give me a moment with you alone,"—he said, with a gesture of invitation towards the deck saloon.
Our visitor readily complied with this suggestion, and the two men entered the saloon together and closed the door.
Silence followed. Catherine looked at me in questioning bewilderment,—then she called to Mr. Swinton, who had been standing about as though awaiting orders in his usual tiresome and servile way.
"What sort of an interview did you have with that gentleman when you got on board his yacht?" she asked.
"Very pleasant—very pleasant indeed"—he replied—"The vessel is magnificently appointed. I have never seen such luxury. Extraordinary! More than princely! Mr. Santoris himself I found particularly agreeable. When he had read Mr. Harland's note, he said he was glad to find it was from an old college companion, and that he would come over with me to renew the acquaintance. As he has done."
"You were not afraid of him, then?" queried Dr. Brayle, sarcastically.
"Oh dear no! He seems quite well-bred, and I should say he must be very wealthy."
"A most powerful recommendation!" murmured Brayle—"The best in the world! What do YOU think of him?" he asked, turning suddenly to me.
"I have no opinion,"—I answered, quietly.
How could I say otherwise? How could I tell such a man as he was, of one who had entered my life as insistently as a flash of light, illumining all that had hitherto been dark!
At that moment Catherine caught my hand.
"Listen!" she whispered.
A window of the deck saloon was open and we stood near it. Dr. Brayle and Mr. Swinton had moved away to light fresh cigars, and we two women were for the moment alone. We heard Mr. Harland's voice raised to a sort of smothered cry.
"My God! You ARE Santoris!"
"Of course I am!" And the deep answering tones were full of music,—the music of a grave and infinitely tender compassion—"Why did you doubt it? And why call upon God? That is a name which has no meaning for you."
There followed a silence. I looked at Catherine and saw her pale face in the light of the moon, haggard in line and older than her years, and my heart was full of pity for her. She was excited beyond her usual self-I could see that the appearance of the stranger from the yacht had aroused her interest and compelled her admiration. I tried to draw her gently to a farther distance from the saloon, but she would not move.
"We ought not to listen,"—I said—"Catherine, come away!"
She shook her head.
"Hush!" she softly breathed—"I want to hear!"
Just then Mr. Harland spoke again.
"I am sorry!" he said—"I have wronged you and I apologise. But you can hardly wonder at my disbelief, considering your appearance, which is that of a much younger man than your actual years should make you."
The rich voice of Santoris gave answer.
"Did I not tell you and others long ago that for me there is no such thing as time, but only eternity? The soul is always young,—and I live in the Spirit of youth, not in the Matter of age."
Catherine turned her eyes upon me in wide-open amazement.
"He must be mad!" she said.
I made no reply either by word or look. We heard Mr. Harland talking, but in a lower tone, and we could not distinguish what he said. Presently Santoris answered, and his vibrant tones were clear and distinct.
"Why should it seem to you so wonderful?" he said—"You do not think it miraculous when the sculptor, standing before a shapeless block of marble, hews it out to conformity with his inward thought. The marble is mere marble, hard to deal with, difficult to shape,—yet out of its resisting roughness the thinker and worker can mould an Apollo or a Psyche. You find nothing marvellous in this, though the result of its shaping is due to nothing but Thought and Labour. Yet when you see the human body, which is far easier to shape than marble, brought into submission by the same forces of Thought and Labour, you are astonished! Surely it is a simpler matter to control the living cells of one's own fleshly organisation and compel them to do the bidding of the dominating spirit than to chisel the semblance of a god out of a block of stone!"
There was a pause after this. Then followed more inaudible talk on the part of Mr. Harland, and while we yet waited to gather further fragments of the conversation, he suddenly threw open the saloon door and called to us to come in. We at once obeyed the summons, and as we entered he said in a somewhat excited, nervous way:—
"I must apologise before you ladies for the rather doubting manner in which I received my former college friend! He IS Rafel Santoris—I ought to have known that there's only one of his type! But the curious part of it is that he should be nearly as old as I am,—yet somehow he is not!"
I laughed. It would have been hard not to laugh, for the mere idea of comparing the two men, Santoris in such splendid prime and Morton Harland in his bent, lean and wizened condition, as being of the same or nearly the same age was quite ludicrous. Even Catherine smiled—a weak and timorous smile.
"I suppose you have grown old more quickly, father," she said—"PerhapsMr. Santoris has not lived at such high pressure."
Santoris, standing by the saloon centre table tinder the full blaze of the electric lamp, looked at her with a kindly interest.
"High or low, I live each moment of my days to the full, Miss Harland,"—he said—"I do not drowse it or kill it—I LIVE it! This lady,"—and he turned his eyes towards me—"looks as if she did the same!"
"She does!" said Mr. Harland, quickly, and with emphasis—"That's quite true! You were always a good reader of character, Santoris! I believe I have not introduced you properly to our little friend"—here he presented me by name and I held out my hand. Santoris took it in his own with a light, warm clasp—gently releasing it again as he bowed. "I call her our little friend, because she brings such an atmosphere of joy along with her wherever she goes. We persuaded her to come with us yachting this summer for a very selfish reason—because we are disposed to be dull and she is always bright,—the advantage, you see, is all on our side! Oddly enough, I was talking to her about you the other night—the very night, by the by, that your yacht came behind us off Mull. That was rather a curious coincidence when you come to think of it!"
"Not curious at all,"—said Santoris—"but perfectly natural. When will you realise that there is no such thing as 'coincidence' but only a very exact system of mathematics?"
Mr. Harland gave a slight, incredulous gesture.
"Your theories again," he said—"You hold to them still! But our little friend is likely to agree with you,—when I was speaking of you to her I told her she had somewhat the same ideas as yourself. She is a sort of a 'psychist'—whatever that may mean!"
"Do you not know?" queried Santoris, with a grave smile—"It is easy to guess by merely looking at her!"
My cheeks grew warm and my eyes fell beneath his steadfast gaze. I wondered whether Mr. Harland or Catherine would notice that in his coat he wore a small bunch of the same kind of bright pink bell-heather which was my only 'jewel of adorning' that night. The ice of introductory recognition being broken, we gathered round the saloon table and sat down, while the steward brought wine and other refreshments to offer to our guest. Mr. Harland's former uneasiness and embarrassment seemed now at an end, and he gave himself up to the pleasure of renewing association with one who had known him as a young man, and they began talking easily together of their days at college, of the men they had both been acquainted with, some of whom were dead, some settled abroad and some lost to sight in the vistas of uncertain fate. Catherine took very little part in the conversation, but she listened intently—her colourless eyes were for once bright, and she watched the face of Santoris as one might watch an animated picture. Presently Dr. Brayle and Mr. Swinton, who had been pacing the deck together and smoking, paused near the saloon door. Mr. Harland beckoned them.
"Come in, come in!" he said—"Santoris, this is my physician, Dr. Brayle, who has undertaken to look after me during this trip,"—Santoris bowed—"And this is my secretary, Mr. Swinton, whom I sent over to your yacht just now." Again Santoris bowed. His slight, yet perfectly courteous salutation, was in marked contrast with the careless modern nod or jerk of the head by which the other men barely acknowledged their introduction to him. "He was afraid of his life to go to you"—continued Mr. Harland, with a laugh—"He thought you might be an illusion—or even the devil himself, with those fiery sails!" Mr. Swinton looked sheepish; Santoris smiled. "This fair dreamer of dreams"—here he singled me out for notice—"is the only one of us who has not expressed either surprise or fear at the sight of your vessel or the possible knowledge of yourself, though there was one little incident connected with the pretty bunch of bell-heather she is wearing—why!—you wear the same flower yourself!"
There was a moment's silence. Everyone stared. The blood burned in my veins,—I felt my face crimsoning, yet I knew not why I should be embarrassed or at a loss for words. Santoris came to my relief.
"There's nothing remarkable in that, is there?" he queried, lightly—"Bell-heather is quite common in this part of the world. I shouldn't like to try and count up the number of tourists I've lately seen wearing it!"
"Ah, but you don't know the interest attaching to this particular specimen!" persisted Mr. Harland—"It was given to our little friend by a wild Highland fellow, presumably a native of Mull, the very morning after she had seen your yacht for the first time, and he told her that on the previous night he had brought all of the same kind he could gather to you! Surely you see the connection?"
Santoris shook his head.
"I'm afraid I don't!" he said, smilingly. "Did the 'wild Highland fellow' name me?"