CHAPTER XI
The next day Diana entered upon her work,—and for a fortnight following she was kept fully employed. But nothing mysterious, nothing alarming or confusing to the mind was presented for her contemplation or co-operation. Not once was she called upon to enter the laboratory where the strange wheel whirled at the bidding of the influence of light, going faster or slower, according to the ascension or declension of the sun; and not once did Dimitrius refer to the subject of his discourse with her on that first moonlight night of her arrival. Her knowledge of Latin and Greek stood her in good stead, for she was set to translate some musty rolls of vellum, on which were inscribed certain abstruse scientific propositions of a thousand years old,—problems propounded by the Assyrians, and afterwards copied by the Latins, who for the most part, had left out some of the original phraseology, thereby losing valuable hints and suggestions, which Dimitrius was studying to discover and replace. Diana was a careful, clever, and devotedly conscientious worker; nothing escaped her, and she shirked no pains to unravel the difficulties, which to less interested students, might have seemed insuperable. Much as she desired to know more of Dimitrius himself and his own special line of research, she held her peace and asked no questions, merely taking his instructions and faithfully doing exactly as she was told. She worked in the great library where he had at first received her, and where the curious steel instrument she had noticed on entering, swung to and fro continuously, striking off a pin’s point of fire as it moved. Sometimes in the pauses of her close examination of the faded and difficult Latin script on which all her energies were bent, she would lift her eyes and look at this strange object as though it were a living companion in the room, and would almost mentally ask it to disclose its meaning; and one morning, impelled by a sudden fancy, she put her watch open on the table, and measured the interval between one spark of fire and the next. She at once found that the dots of flame were struck off with precision at every second. They were, in fact, seconds of time.
“So that, if one had leisure to watch the thing,” she mused, “one would know that when sixty fire-flashes have flown into air, one minute has passed. And I wonder what becomes of these glittering particles?”
She knew well enough that they did not perish, but were only absorbed into another elemental organism. She had observed, too, that the movement of the whole machine, delicately balanced on its crystal pedestal, was sharp and emphatic when the sun was at the meridian, and more subdued though not less precise in the afternoon. She had very little opportunity, however, to continue a long watching of this inexplicable and apparently meaningless contrivance after midday, as then her hours of work were considered over and she was free to do as she liked. Sometimes she remained in her own apartments, practising her music, or reading,—and more often than not she went for a drive out into the open country with Madame Dimitrius with the light victoria and pair, which was a gift from Dimitrius to his mother, who could not be persuaded to drive in a motor-car. It was a charming turn-out, recognised in the neighbourhood as “the Doctor’s carriage”—for though Geneva and its environs are well supplied with many professors of medicine and surgery, Dimitrius seemed at this period to have gained a reputation apart from the rest as “the” doctor,par excellence. Once Diana asked him whether he had a large practice? He laughed.
“None at all!” he replied. “I tell everybody that I have retired from the profession in order to devote all my time to scientific research—and this is true. But it does not stop people from sending for me at a critical moment when all other efforts to save a life have failed. And then of course I do my best.”
“And are you always successful?” she went on.
“Not always. How can I be? If I am sent for to rescue a man who has overfed and over-drunken himself from his youth onwards, and who, as a natural consequence, has not a single organ in his body free from disease, all my skill is of no avail—I cannot hinder him from toppling into the unconsciousness of the next embryo, where, it is to be hoped, he will lose his diseases with his fleshy particles. I can save a child’s life generally—and the lives of girls and women who have not been touched by man. The life-principle is very strong in these,—it has not been tampered with.”
He closed the conversation abruptly, and she perceived that he had no inclination to talk of his own healing power or ability.
After about a month or six weeks at the Château Fragonard, Diana began to feel very happy,—happier than she had ever been in her life. Though she sometimes thought of her parents, she knew perfectly that they were not people to grieve long about any calamity,—besides which, her “death” was not a calamity so far as they were concerned. They would call it such, for convention’s sake and in deference to social and civil observances—but “Ma” would console herself with a paid “companion-housekeeper”—and if that companion-housekeeper chanced to be in the least good-looking or youthful, “Pa” would blossom out into such a juvenility of white and “fancy” waistcoats and general conduct as frequently distinguishes elderly gentlemen who are loth to lose their reputation for gallantry. And Diana wasted no time in what would have been foolish regret, had she felt it, for her complete and fortunate severance from “home” which was only home to her because her duty made her consider it so. A great affection had sprung up between her and Madame Dimitrius; the handsome old lady was a most lovable personality, simple, pious, unaffected, and full of a devotion for her son which was as touching as it was warm and deep. She had absolute confidence in him, and never worried him by any inquisitiveness concerning the labours which kept him nearly all day away from her, shut up in his laboratory, which he alone had the secret of opening or closing. Hers was the absolute reliance of “the perfect love which casteth out fear;” all that he did was right andmustbe right in her eyes,—and when she saw how whole-heartedly and eagerly Diana threw herself into the tedious and difficult work he had put before her to do, she showed towards that hitherto lonely and unloved woman a tenderness and consideration to which for years she had been unaccustomed. Very naturally Diana responded to this kindness with impulsive warmth and gratitude, and took pleasure in performing little services, such as a daughter might do, for the sweet-natured and gentle lady whose friendship and sympathy she appreciated more and more each day. She loved to help her in little household duties,—to mend an occasional tiny hole in the fine old lace which Madame generally wore with her rich black silk gowns,—to see that her arm-chair and foot-stool were placed just as she liked them to be,—to wind the wool for her knitting, and to make her laugh with some quaint or witty story. Diana was an admirableraconteuse, and she had a wonderful memory,—moreover, her impressions of persons and things were tinged with the gaiety of a perceptive humour. Sometimes Dimitrius himself, returning from a walk or from a drive in his small open auto-car, would find the two sitting together by a cheerful log fire in the drawing-room, laughing and chatting like two children, Diana busy with her embroidery, her small, well-shaped, white hands moving swiftly and gracefully among the fine wools from which she worked her “Jacobean” designs, and his mother knitting comforts for the poor in preparation for the winter which was beginning to make itself felt in keen airs and gusts of snow. On one of these occasions he stood for some minutes on the threshold, looking at them as they sat, their backs turned towards him, so that they were not at once aware of his presence. Diana’s head, crowned with its bright twists of hair, was for the moment the chief object of his close attention,—he noted its compact shape, and the line of the nape of the neck which carried it—a singularly strong and perfect line, if judged by classic methods. It denoted health and power, with something of pride,—and he studied it anatomically and physiologically with all the interest of a scholar. Suddenly she turned, and seeing him apparently waiting at the door, smiled a greeting.
“Do you want me?” she asked.
He advanced into the room.
“Ought I to want you?” he counter-queried. “These are not working hours! If you were a British workman such an idea as my wanting you ‘out of time’ would never enter your head! As a British workingwoman, you should stipulate for the same privileges as a British working man.”
He drew a chair to the fire, and as his mother looked at him with loving, welcoming eyes, he took her hand and kissed it.
“Winter is at hand,” he continued, giving a stir with the poker to the blazing logs in the grate. “It is cold to-day—with the cold of the glaciers, and I hear that the snow blocks all the mountain passes. We are at the end of October—we must expect some bitter weather. But in Switzerland the cold is dry and bracing—it strengthens the nerves and muscles and improves the health. How do you stand a severe winter, Miss May?”
“I have never thought about it,” she answered. “All seasons have beauty for me, and I have never suffered very much by either the cold or the heat. I think I have been more interested in other things.”
He looked at her intently.
“What other things?”
She hesitated. A faint colour stole over her cheeks.
“Well,—I hardly know how to express it—things of life and death. I have always been rather a suppressed sort of creature—with all my aims and wishes pent up,—pressed into a bottle, as it were, and corked tight!” She laughed, and went on. “Perhaps if the cork were drawn there might be an explosion! But, wrongly or rightly, I have judged myself as an atom of significance madeinsignificant by circumstances and environment, and I have longed to make my ‘significance,’ however small, distinct and clear, even though it were only a pin’s point of meaning. If I said this to ordinary people, they would probably exclaim ‘How dull!’ and laugh at me for such an idea——”
“Of course!—dull people would laugh,” agreed Dimitrius. “People in the aggregate laugh at most things, except lack of money. That makes them cry—if not outwardly, then inwardly. But I do not laugh,—for if you can forget heat and cold and rough weather in the dream of seeking to discover your own significance and meaning in a universe where truly nothing exists without its set place and purpose, you are a woman of originality as well as intelligence. But that much of you I have already discovered.”
She glanced at him brightly.
“You are very kind!”
“Now do you mean that seriously or ironically?” he queried, with a slight smile. “I am not really ‘very kind’—I consider myself very cruel to have kept you chained for more than a month to rolls of vellum inscribed with crabbed old Latin characters, illegible enough to bewilder the strongest eyes. But you have done exceedingly well,—and we have all three had time to know each other and to like each other, so that a harmony between us is established. Yes—you have done more than exceedingly well——”
“I am glad you are pleased,” said Diana, simply, resting one hand on her embroidery frame and looking at him with somewhat tired, anxious eyes. “I was rather hoping to see you this evening, though it is, as you say, after working hours, for I wanted very much to tell you that the manuscript I am now deciphering seems to call for your own particular attention. I should prefer your reading it with me before I go further.”
“You are very conscientious,” he said, fixing his eyes keenly upon her—“Is she not, mother mine? She is afraid she will learn something important and necessary to my work before I have a chance to study it for myself. Loyal Miss Diana!”
Madame Dimitrius glanced wistfully from her son to Diana, and from Diana back to her son again.
“Yes, she is loyal, Féodor! You have found a treasure in her,” she said—“I am sure of it. It seems a providence that she came to us.”
“Is it not Shakespeare who says, ‘There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow’?” he queried lightly. “How much more ‘special’ then is the coming of a Diana!”
It was the first time he had used her Christian name without any ceremonious prefix in her presence, and she was conscious of a thrill of pleasure, for which she instantly reproached herself. “I have no business to care what or how he calls me,” she thought. “He’s my employer,—nothing more.”
“Diana,” repeated Dimitrius, watching her narrowly from under his now half-shut eyelids. “Diana is a name fraught with beautiful associations—the divine huntress—the goddess of the moon! Diana, the fleet of foot—the lady of the silver bow! What poets’ dreams, what delicate illusions, what lovely legends are clustered round the name!”
She looked at him, half amused, half indifferent.
“Yes,—it is a thousand pities I was ever given such a name,” she said. “If I were a Martha, a Deborah or a Sarah, it would suit me much better. But Diana! It suggests a beautiful young woman——”
“You were young once!” he suggested, meaningly.
“Ah, yes, once!” and she sighed. “Once is a long time ago!”
“I never regret youth,” said Madame Dimitrius. “My age has been much happier and more peaceful. I would not go back to my young days.”
“That is because you have fulfilled your particular destiny,” interposed her son,—“You fell in love with my father—what happy times they must have been when the first glamour of attraction drew you both to one another!—you married him,—and I am the result! Dearest mother, there was nothing more for you to do, with your devoted and gentle nature! You became the wife of a clever man,—he died, having fulfilledhisdestiny in giving you—may I say so?—a clever son,—myself! What more can any woman ask of ordinary nature?”
He laughed gaily, and putting his arm round his mother, fondled her as if she were a child.
“Yes, beloved!—you have done all your duty!” he went on. “But you have sacrificed your own identity—the thing that Miss Diana calls her ‘significance.’ You lost that willingly when you married—all women lose it when they marry:—and you have never quite found it again. But youwillfind it! The slow process of evolution will make of you a ‘fine spirit’ when the husk of material life is cast off for wider expansion.”
As he spoke, Diana looked at mother and son with the odd sense of being an outside spectator of two entirely unconnected identities,—the one overpowering and shadowing the other, but wholly unrelated and more or less opposed in temperament. Madame Dimitrius was distinguished by an air of soft and placid dignity, made sympathetic by a delicate touch of lassitude indicative of age and a desire for repose, while Féodor Dimitrius himself gave the impression of a strong energy restrained and held within bounds as a spirited charger is reined and held in by his rider, and, above all, of a man aware of his own possibilities and full of set resolve to fulfil them.
“Is that embroidery of a very pressing nature?” he suddenly said, then, with a smile. “Or do you think you could spare a few moments away from it?”
She at once put aside her frame and rose.
“Did I not ask you when you came in if you wanted me?” she queried. “Somehow I was quite sure you did! You know I am always ready to serve you if I can.”
He still had one arm round his mother,—but he raised his eyes and fixed them on Diana with an expression which was to her new and strange.
“I know you are!” he said, slowly. “And I shall need your service in a difficulty—very soon! But not just now. I have only a few things to say which I think should not be put off till to-morrow. We’ll go into the library and talk there.”
He bent down and kissed his mother’s snowy and still luxuriant hair, adding for her benefit:
“We shall not be long, dearest of women! Keep warm and cosy by the fire, and you will not care for the ‘significance’ of yourself so long as you are loved! That is all some women ask for,—love.”
“Is it not enough?” said Diana, conscious of her own “asking” in that direction.
“Enough? No!—not half or quarter enough! Not for some women or some men—they demand more than this (and they have a right to demand more) out of the infinite riches of the Universe, Love,—or what is generally accepted under that name, is a mere temporary physical attraction between two persons of opposite sex, which lessens with time as it is bound to lessen because of the higher claims made on the soul,—a painful thing to realise!—but we must not shiver away from truth like a child shivering away from its first dip in the sea, or be afraid of it. Lovers forget lovers, friends forget friends, husbands forget wives andvice versa,—the closest ties are constantly severed——”
“You are wrong, Féodor—we donotforget!” said Madame Dimitrius, with tender reproach in her accents. “I do not forget your father—he is dear to me as lover and husband still. And whether God shall please to send my soul to heaven or to hell, I could never forget my love foryou!”
“Beloved, I know!—I feel all you say—but you are an exception to the majority—and we will not talk personalities! I cannot”—here he laughed and kissed her hand again—“I cannot have my theories upset by apetite Maman!”
He left the room then and Diana followed him. Once in the library he shut the door and locked it.
“Now you spoke of something in your translations that seemed to call for my attention,” he said. “I am ready to hear what it is.”
Diana went to the table desk where she habitually worked, and took up some pages of manuscript, neatly fastened together in readable form.
“It is a curious subject,” she said. “In the Assyrian originals it seems to have been called ‘The problem of the Fourth, Sixth and Seventh, culminating in the Eighth.’ Whether the Latin rendering truly follows the ancient script, it is, of course, impossible to say,—but while deciphering the Latin, I came to the conclusion that the Fourth, Sixth and Seventh were named in the problem as ‘rays’ or ‘tones’ of light, and the proposed culmination of the Eighth——”
“Stop!” exclaimed Dimitrius, in a strained, eager voice. “Give me your papers!—let me see!”
She handed them to him at once, and he sat down to read. While he was thus occupied, her gaze constantly wandered to the small, scythe-like instrument mowing off the seconds in dots of flame as a mower sweeps off the heads of daisies in the grass. A curious crimson colour seemed to be diffused round the whole piece of mechanism,—an effect she had never noticed before, and then she remembered it was late in the afternoon and that the sun had set. The rosy light emanating from the instrument and deeply reflected in the crystal pedestal on which it was balanced, seemed like an after-glow from the sky,—but the actual grey twilight outside was too pronounced and cold to admit of such an explanation.
Suddenly Dimitrius looked up.
“You are right!” he said. “This ancient problem demands my closest study. And yet it is no problem at all, but only an exposition of my inmost thought!” He paused,—then: “Come here, Diana May!” he continued—“I may as well begin with you. Come and sit close beside me.”
She obeyed. With his eyes fixed upon her face, he went on:
“You, as a woman of superior intelligence, have never supposed, I am sure, that I have secured your services merely to decipher and copy out old Latin script? No!—I see by your look that you have fully realised that such is not all the actual need I have of you. I have waited to find out, by a study of your character and temperament, when and how I could state plainly my demands. I think I need not wait much longer. Now this ancient treatise on ‘Problems,’ obscure and involved in wording as it is, helps me to the conviction that I am on the right track of discovery. It treats of Light. ‘The problem of the Fourth, Sixth and Seventh,’ with its ‘ultimate culmination of the Eighth’ is the clue. In that ‘ultimate culmination’ is the Great Secret!”
His eyes flashed,—his features were transfigured by an inward fervour.
“Have the patience to follow me but a little,” he continued. “You have sense and ability and you can decipher a meaning from an apparent chaos of words. Consider, then, that within the limitations of this rolling ball, the earth, we are permitted to recognise seven tones of music and seven tones of colour. The existing numbers of the creative sum, so far as we can count them, are Seven and Five, which added together make Twelve, itself a ‘creative’ number. Man recognises in himself Five Senses, Touch, Taste, Sight, Hearing, Smell—but as a matter of fact he has Seven, for he should include Intuition and Instinct, which are more important than all the others as the means of communicating with his surroundings. Now ‘the culmination of the Eighth’ is neither Five nor Seven nor Twelve,—it is the close or rebound of the Octave—the end of the leading Seven—the point where a fresh Seven begins. It is enough for humanity to have arrived at this for the present—for we have not yet sounded the heights or depths of even thefirstSeven radiations which we all agree to recognise. We admit seven tones of music, and seven tones of colour, but what of our seven rays of light? We have the ‘violet ray,’ the ‘X ray’—and a newly discovered ray showing the working bodily organism of man,—but there areSevenRays piercing the density of ether, which are intended for the use and benefit of the human being, and which are closely connected with his personality, his needs and his life. Seven Rays!—and it is for us to prove and test them all!—which is the very problem you have brought to my notice in this old Latin document: ‘the Fourth, Sixth and Seventh, culminating in the Eighth.’”
He put the papers carefully together on the table beside him, and turned to Diana.
“You have understood me?”
She bent her head.
“Perfectly!”
“You recall the incidents of the first day of your arrival here?—your brief visit to my laboratory, and what you saw there?”
She smiled.
“Do you think I could ever forget?”
“Well!—that being so I do not see why I should wait,” he said, musingly, and speaking more to himself than to her. “There is no reason why I should not begin at once the task which is bound to be long and difficult! My ‘subject’ is at my disposal—I am free to operate!”
He rose and went to an iron-bound cabinet which he unlocked and took from thence a small phial containing what appeared to be a glittering globule like an unset jewel, which moved restlessly to and fro in its glass prison. He held it up before her eyes.
“Suppose I ask you to swallow this?” he said.
For all answer, she stretched out her hand to take the phial. He laughed.
“Upon my word, you are either very brave or very reckless!” he exclaimed—“I hardly know what to think of you! But you shall not be deceived. This is a single drop of the liquid you saw in process of distillation within its locked-up cell,—it has a potent, ay, a terrific force and may cause you to swoon. On the other hand it may have quite the contrary effect. Itshouldre-vivify—itmaydisintegrate,—but I cannot guarantee its action. I know its composition, but, mark you!—I have never tested it on any human creature.I cannot try it on myself—for if it robbed me of my capacity to work, I have no one to carry on my researches,—and I would not try it on my mother,—she is too old, and her life is too precious to me——”
“Well, my life is precious to nobody,” said Diana, calmly. “Not even to myself. Shall I take your ‘little dram’ now?”
Dimitrius looked at her in amazement that was almost admiration.
“If you would rather wait a few days, or even weeks longer, do so,” he answered. “I will not persuade you to any act of this kind in a hurry. For it is only the first test of many to come.”
“And if I survive the first I shall be good for the last,” said Diana, merrily. “So come, Doctor Féodor!—give me the mysterious ‘drop’ of liquid fire!”
Her face was bright with animation and courage—but his grew pale and haggard with sudden fear. As he still hesitated, she sprang up and took the phial from his hand.
“Diana! Let me hold you!” he cried, in real agitation—and he caught her firmly round the waist—“Believe me—there is danger!——But—if youwill——”
“One, two, three, and away!” said she, and taking the tiny glass stopper from the phial she swallowed its contents.
“One, two, three, and away!” it was, indeed!—for she felt herself whirled off into a strange, dark, slippery vortex of murderous cold—which suddenly changed to blazing heat—then again to cold,—she saw giant pinnacles of ice, and enormous clouds of flame rolling upon her as from a burning sky—then, she seemed to be flying along over black chasms and striving to escape from a whirlwind which enveloped her as though she were a leaf in a storm,—till at last no thought, no personal consciousness remained to her, and, giving up all resistance, she allowed herself to fall,—down, down ever so far!—when, all at once a vital freshness and elasticity possessed her as though she had been suddenly endowed with wings, and she came to herself standing upright as before, with Dimitrius holding her in the strong grasp of one arm.
“Well!” she said, aware that she trembled violently, but otherwise not afraid: “It wasn’t bad! Not much taste about it!”
She saw that he was deadly pale—his eyes were misty with something like tears in them.
“You brave woman!” he said, in a low tone—“You daring soul!—But—are you sure you are all right?—Can you stand alone?”
She drew away from his hold.
“Of course! Firm as a rock!”
He looked at her wonderingly,—almost with a kind of terror.
“Thank God!” he murmured—“thank God I have not killed you! If I had——!”
He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
Still trembling a little as she was, she felt deeply touched by his evident emotion, and with that sudden, new and surprising sense of lightness and buoyancy upon her she ran to him and impulsively knelt down beside him.
“Don’t think of it, please!” she said, entreatingly, her always sweet voice striking a soothing note on the air—“Don’t worry! All is well! I’m as alive as I can be. If you had killed me I quite understand you would have been very sorry,—but it really wouldn’t have mattered—in the interests of science! The only trouble for you would have been to get rid of my body,—bodies are always such a nuisance! But with all your knowledge I daresay you could have ground me into a little heap of dust!” And she laughed, quite merrily. “Please don’t sit in such an attitude of despair!—you’re not half cold-hearted enough for a scientist!”
He raised his head and looked at her.
“That’s true!” he said, and smiled. “But—I wonder what has made you the strange woman you are? No fear of the unknown!—No hesitation, even when death might be the result of your daring,—surely there never was one of your sex like you!”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure there have been, and are many!” she answered, rising from her knees, and smiling in cheerful response to his happier expression: “Women are queer things!—and there’s a part of their ‘queerness’ which men never understand. When they’ve lost everything—I mean everything which they, with their particular nature and sentiment, regard as precious, the chief of these being love, whichyoudon’t think matters much to anybody, they get reckless. Some of them take to drink—others to drugs—others to preaching in the streets—others to an openly bad life,—or to any crooked paths leading away and as far as possible from their spoilt womanhood. Men are to blame for it,—entirely to blame for treating them as toys instead of as friends—men are like children who break the toys they have done with. And a woman who has been broken in this way has ‘no fear of the unknown’ because the known is bad enough,—and she does not ‘hesitate to face death,’ being sure it cannot be worse than life. At any rate, that’s how I feel—or, rather, how Ihavefelt;—just now I’m extraordinarily glad to be alive!”
“That is because you are conscious of a narrow escape,” he said, with a keen glance at her. “Isn’t it so?”
She considered for a moment.
“No, I don’t believe it is!” she replied. “It’s something quite different to that. I’m not in the least aware that I’ve had a narrow escape!—but Idoknow that I feel as happy as a schoolgirl out for her first holiday! That’s rather an odd sensation for a woman ‘of mature years!’ Oh, I know what it is! It’s the globule!”
She laughed, and clapped her hands.
“That’s it! Doctor, you may thank your stars that your first test has succeeded! Here I am, living!—andsomethingis dancing about in my veins like a new sort of air and a new sort of sunshine! It’s a lovely feeling!”
He rose from the chair where he had thrown himself in his momentary dejection, and approaching her, took her hand and laid his fingers on her pulse. He had entirely recovered his usual air of settled and more or less grave composure.
“Yes,” he said, after a pause, “your pulse is firmer—andyounger. So far, so good! Now, obey me. Go and lie down in your own room for a couple of hours. Sleep, if you can,—but, at any rate, keep in a recumbent position. You have a charming view from your windows,—and even in a grey autumn twilight like this, there is something soothing in the sight of the Alpine snow-line. Rest absolutely quiet till dinner time. And—afterwards—you will tell me how you feel,—or, rather, I shall be able to judge for myself.” He released her hand, but before doing so, kissed it with a Russian’s usual courtesy. “I repeat,—you are a brave woman!—as brave as any philosopher that ever swallowed hemlock! And, if your courage holds out sufficiently to endure the whole of my experiment, I shall owe you the triumph and gratitude of a life-time!”