Delphi collected works o.., p.772
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 772
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
He smiled a little.
“Why, yes! A woman always decides.”
I turned my eyes again towards the sky. Long lines of delicate pale blue and green were now intermingled with the amber light of the after-glow, and the whole scene was one of indescribable grandeur and beauty.
“I wish I could understand,” — I murmured.
“Let me help you,” — he said, gently. “Possibly I can make things clearer for you. You are just now under the spell of your own psychic impressions and memories. You think you have seen strange episodes — these are nothing but pictures stored far away back in the cells of your spiritual brain, which (through the medium of your present material brain) project on your vision not only presentments and reflections of past scenes and events, but which also reproduce the very words and sounds attending those scenes and events. That is all. Loch Coruisk has shown you nothing but itself in varying effects of light and cloud — there is no mystery here but the everlasting mystery of Nature in which you and I play our several parts. What you have seen or heard I do not know — for each individual experience is and always must be different. All that I am fully conscious of is, that our having met and our being here together to-day is, as it were, the mending of a broken chain. But it rests with you — and even with me — to break it once more if we choose.”
I was silent, not because I could not but because I dared not speak. All my life seemed suddenly to hang on the point of a hair’s-breadth of possibility.
“I think,” — he continued in the same quiet voice— “that just now we may let things take their ordinary course. You and I” — here he paused, and impelled by some secret emotion I lifted my eyes to his. Instinctively, and with a rush of feeling, we stretched out our hands to each other. He clasped mine in his own, and stooping his head kissed them tenderly. “You and I,” — he went on— “have met before in many a phase of life and on many a plane of thought — and I believe we know and realise this. Let us be satisfied so far — and if destiny has anything of happiness or wisdom in store for us let us try to assist its fulfilment and not stand in the way.”
I found my voice suddenly.
“But — if others stand in the way?” — I said.
He smiled.
“Surely it will be our own fault if we allow them to assume such a position!” he answered.
I left my hands in his another moment. The fact that he held them gave me a sense of peace and security.
“Sometimes on a long walk through field and forest,” I said, softly— “one may miss the nearest road home. And one is glad to be told which path to follow—”
“Yes,” — he interrupted me— “One is glad to be told!”
His eyes were bent upon me with an enigmatical expression, half commanding, half appealing.
“Then, will you tell me—” I began.
“All that I can!” he said, drawing me a little closer towards him— “All that I may! And you — you must tell me—”
“I! What can I tell you?” and I smiled— “I know nothing!”
“You know one thing which is all things,” — he answered— “But for that I must still wait.”
He let go my hands and turned away, shading his eyes from the glare of gold which now spread far and wide over the heavens, turning the sullen waters of Loch Coruisk to a tawny orange against the black purple of the surrounding hills.
“I see our men,” — he then said, in his ordinary tone, “They are looking for us. We must be going.”
My heart beat quickly. A longing to speak what I hardly dared to think, was strong upon me. But some inward restraint gripped me as with iron — and my spirit beat itself like a caged bird against its prison bars in vain. I left my rocky throne and heather canopy with slow reluctance, and he saw this.
“You are sorry to come away,” — he said, kindly, and with a smile— “I can quite understand it. It is a beautiful scene.”
I stood quite still, looking at him. A host of recollections began to crowd upon me, threatening havoc to my self-control.
“Is it not something more than beautiful?” I asked, and my voice trembled in spite of myself— “To you as well as to me?”
He met my earnest gaze with a sudden deeper light in his own eyes.
“Dear, to me it is the beginning of a new life!” — he said— “But whether it is the same to you I cannot say. I have not the right to think so far. Come!”
A choking sense of tears was in my throat as I moved on by his side. Why could I not speak frankly and tell him that I knew as well as he did that now there was no life anywhere for me where he was not? But — had it come to this? Yes, truly! — it had come to this! Then was it a real love that I felt, or merely a blind obedience to some hypnotic influence? The doubt suggested itself like a whisper from some evil spirit, and I strove not to listen. Presently he took my hand in his as before, and guided me carefully over the slippery boulders and stones, wet with the overflowing of the mountain torrent and the underlying morass which warned us of its vicinity by the quantity of bog-myrtle growing in profusion everywhere. Almost in silence we reached the shore where the launch was in waiting for us, and in silence we sat together in the stern as the boat cut its swift way through little waves like molten gold and opal, sparkling with the iridescent reflections of the sun’s after-glow.
“I see Mr. Harland’s yacht has returned to her moorings,” — he said, after a while, addressing his men, “When did she come back?”
“Immediately after you left, sir,” — was the reply.
I looked and saw the two yachts — the ‘Dream’ and the ‘Diana,’ anchored in the widest part of Loch Scavaig — the one with the disfiguring funnels that make even the most magnificent steam yacht unsightly as compared with a sailing vessel, — the other a perfect picture of lightness and grace, resting like a bird with folded wings on the glittering surface of the water. My mind was disturbed and bewildered, — I felt that I had journeyed through immense distances of space and cycles of time during that brief excursion to Loch Coruisk, — and as the launch rushed onward and we lost sight of the entrance to what for me had been a veritable Valley of Vision, it seemed that I had lived through centuries rather than hours. One thing, however, remained positive and real in my experience, and this was the personality of Santoris. With each moment that passed I knew it better — the flash of his blue eyes — his sudden fleeting smile — the turn of his head — the very gesture of his hand, — all these were as familiar to me as the reflection of my own face in a mirror. And now there was no wonderment mingled with the deepening recognition, — I found it quite natural that I should know him well, — indeed, it was to me evident that I had known him always. What troubled me, however, was a subtle fear that crept insidiously through my veins like a shuddering cold, — a terror lest something to which I could give no name, should separate us or cause us to misunderstand each other. For the psychic lines of attraction between two human beings are finer than the finest gossamer and can be easily broken and scattered even though they may or must be brought together again after long lapses of time. But so many opportunities had already been wasted, I thought, through some recklessness or folly, either on his part or mine. Which of us was to blame? I looked at him half in fear, half in appeal, as he sat in the boat with his head turned a little aside from me, — he seemed grave and preoccupied. A sudden thrill of emotion stirred my heart — tears sprang to my eyes so thickly that for a moment I could scarcely see the waves that glittered and danced on all sides like millions of diamonds. A change had swept over my life, — a change so great that I was hardly able to bear it. It was too swift, too overpowering to be calmly considered, and I was glad when we came alongside the ‘Dream’ and I saw Mr. Harland on deck, waiting for us at the top of the companion ladder.
“Well!” he called to me— “Was it a good sunset?”
“Glorious!” I answered him— “Did you see nothing of it?”
“No. I slept soundly, and only woke up when Brayle came over to explain that Catherine had taken it into her head to have a short cruise, that he had humoured her accordingly, and that they had just come back to anchorage.”
By this time I was standing beside him, and Santoris joined us.
“So your doctor came to look after you,” — he said, with a smile— “I thought he would not trust you out of his sight too long!”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Harland — then his face lightened and he laughed— “Well, I must own you have been a better physician than he for the moment — it is months since I have been so free from pain.”
“I’m very glad,” — Santoris answered— “And now would you and your friend like to take the launch back to your own yacht, or will you stay and dine with me?”
Mr. Harland thought a moment.
“I’m afraid we must go” — he said, at last, with obvious reluctance— “Captain Derrick went back with Brayle. You see, Catherine is not strong, and she has not been quite herself — and we must not leave her alone. To-morrow, if you are willing, I should like to try a race with our two yachts in open sea — electricity against steam! What do you say?”
“With pleasure!” and Santoris looked amused— “But as I am sure to be the winner, you must give me the privilege of entertaining you all to dinner afterwards. Is that settled?” “Certainly! — you are hospitality itself, Santoris!” and Mr. Harland shook him warmly by the hand— “What time shall we start the race?”
“Suppose we say noon?”
“Agreed!”
We then prepared to go. I turned to Santoris and in a quiet voice thanked him for his kindness in escorting me to Loch Coruisk, and for the pleasant afternoon we had passed. The conventional words of common courtesy seemed to myself quite absurd, — however, they had to be uttered, and he accepted them with the usual conventional acknowledgment. When I was just about to descend the companion ladder, he asked me to wait a moment, and going down to the saloon, brought me the bunch of Madonna lilies I had found in that special cabin which, as he had said, was destined ‘for a princess.’
“You will take these, I hope?” he said, simply.
I raised my eyes to his as I received the white blossoms from his hand. There was something indefinable and fleeting in his expression, and for a moment it seemed as if we had suddenly become strangers. A sense of loss and pain affected me, such as happens when someone to whom we are deeply attached assumes a cold and distant air for which we can render no explanation. He turned from me as quickly as I from him, and I descended the companion ladder followed by Mr. Harland. In a few seconds we had put several boat-lengths between ourselves and the ‘Dream,’ and a rush of foolish tears to my eyes blurred the figure of Santoris as he lifted his cap to us in courteous adieu. I thought Mr. Harland glanced at me a little inquisitively, but he said nothing — and we were soon on board the ‘Diana,’ where Catherine, stretched out in a deck chair, watched our arrival with but languid interest. Dr. Brayle was beside her, and looked up as we drew near with a supercilious smile.
“So the electric man has not quite made away with you,” — he said, carelessly— “Miss Harland and I had our doubts as to whether we should ever see you again!”
Mr. Harland’s fuzzy eyebrows drew together in a marked frown of displeasure.
“Indeed!” he ejaculated, drily— “Well, you need have had no fears on that score. The ‘electric man,’ as you call Mr. Santoris, is an excellent host and has no sinister designs on his friends.”
“Are you quite sure of that?” and Brayle, with an elaborate show of courtesy, set chairs for his patron and for me near Catherine— “Derrick tells me that the electric appliances on board his yacht are to him of a terrifying character and that he would not risk passing so much as one night on such a vessel!”
Mr. Harland laughed.
“I must talk to Derrick,” — he said — then, approaching his daughter, he asked her kindly if she was better. She replied in the affirmative, but with some little pettishness.
“My nerves are all unstrung,” — she said— “I think that friend of yours is one of those persons who draw all vitality out of everybody else. There are such people, you know, father! — people who, when they are getting old and feeble, go about taking stores of fresh life out of others.”
He looked amused.
“You are full of fancies, Catherine,” — he said— “And no logical reasoning will ever argue you out of them. Santoris is all right. For one thing, he gave me great relief from pain to-day.”
“Ah! How was that?” — and Brayle looked up sharply with sudden interest.
“I don’t know how,” — replied Harland,— “A drop or two of harmless-looking fluid worked wonders for me — and in a few moments I felt almost well. He tells me my illness is not incurable.”
A curious expression difficult to define flitted over Brayle’s face.
“You had better take care,” he said, curtly— “Invalids should never try experiments. I’m surprised that a man in your condition should take any drug from the hand of a stranger.”
“Most dangerous!” interpolated Catherine, feebly— “How could you, father?”
“Well, Santoris isn’t quite a stranger,” — said Mr. Harland— “After all, I knew him at college—”
“You think you knew him,” — put in Brayle— “He may not be the same man.”
“He is the same man,” — answered Mr. Harland, rather testily— “There are no two of his kind in the world.”
Brayle lifted his eyebrows with a mildly affected air of surprise.
“I thought you had your doubts—”
“Of course! — I had and have my doubts concerning everybody and everything” — said Mr. Harland, “And I suppose I shall have them to the end of my days. I have sometimes doubted even your good intentions towards me.”
A dark flush overspread Brayle’s face suddenly, and as suddenly paled. He laughed a little forcedly.
“I hardly think you have any reason to do so,” he said.
Mr. Harland did not answer, but turning round, addressed me.
“You enjoyed yourself at Loch Coruisk, didn’t you?”
“Indeed I did!” I replied, with emphasis— “It was a lovely scene! — never to be forgotten.”
“You and Mr. Santoris would be sure to get on well together,” said Catherine, rather crossly—”’Birds of a feather,’ you know!”
I smiled. I was too much taken up with my own thoughts to pay attention to her evident ill-humour. I was aware that Dr. Brayle watched me furtively, and with a suspicious air, and there was a curious feeling of constraint in the atmosphere that made me feel I had somehow displeased my hostess, but the matter seemed to me too trifling to consider, and as soon as the conversation became general I took the opportunity to slip away and get down to my cabin, where I locked the door and gave myself up to the freedom of my own meditations. They were at first bewildered and chaotic — but gradually my mind smoothed itself out like the sea I had looked upon in my vision, — and I began to arrange and connect the various incidents of my strange experience in a more or less coherent form. According to psychic consciousness I knew what they all meant, — but according to merely material and earthly reasoning they were utterly incomprehensible. If I listened to the explanation offered by my inner self, it was this: — That Rafel Santoris and I had known each other for ages, — longer than we were permitted to remember, — that the brain-pictures, or rather soul-pictures, presented to me were only a few selected out of thousands which equally concerned us, and which were stored up among eternal records, — and that these few were only recalled to remind me of circumstances which I might erroneously think were all entirely forgotten. If, on the other hand, I preferred to accept what would be called a reasonable and practical solution of the enigma, I would say: — That, being imaginative and sensitive, I had been easily hypnotised by a stronger will than my own, and that for his amusement, or because he had seen in me the possibility of a ‘test case,’ Santoris had tried his power upon me and forced me to see whatever he chose to conjure up in order to bewilder and perplex me. But if this were so, what could be his object? If I were indeed an utter stranger to him, why should he take this trouble? I found myself harassed by anxiety and dragged between two opposing influences — one which impelled me to yield myself to the deep sense of exquisite happiness, peace and consolation that swept over my spirit like the touch of a veritable benediction from heaven, — the other which pushed me back against a hard wall of impregnable fact and bade me suspect my dawning joy as though it were a foe.
That night we were a curious party at dinner. Never were five human beings more oddly brought into contact and conversation with each other. We were absolutely opposed at all points; in thought, in feeling and in sentiment, I could not help remembering the wonderful network of shining lines I had seen in that first dream of mine, — lines which were apparently mathematically designed to meet in reciprocal unity. The lines on this occasion between us five human beings were an almost visible tangle. I found my best refuge in silence, — and I listened in vague wonderment to the flow of senseless small talk poured out by Dr. Brayle, apparently for the amusement of Catherine, who on her part seemed suddenly possessed by a spirit of wilfulness and enforced gaiety which moved her to utter a great many foolish things, things which she evidently imagined were clever. There is nothing perhaps more embarrassing than to hear a woman of mature years giving herself away by the childish vapidness of her talk, and exhibiting not only a lack of mental poise, but also utter tactlessness. However, Catherine rattled on, and Dr. Brayle rattled with her, — Mr. Harland threw in occasional monosyllables, but for the most part was evidently caught in a kind of dusty spider’s web of thought, and I spoke not at all unless spoken to. Presently I met Catherine’s eyes fixed upon me with a sort of round, half-malicious curiosity.
“I think your day’s outing has done you good,” she said— “You look wonderfully well!”
“I AM well!” I answered her— “I have been well all the time.”
