Chapter 11

He preceded us out of the saloon and showed us the State-rooms, of which there were five, daintily furnished in white and blue and white and rose.

"These are for my guests when I have any," he said, "Which is very seldom. This for a princess--if ever one should honour me with her presence!"

And he opened a door on his right, through which we peered into a long, lovely room, gleaming with iridescent hues and sparkling with touches of gold and crystal. The bed was draped with cloudy lace through which a shimmer of pale rose-colour made itself visible, and the carpet of dark moss-green formed a perfect setting for the quaintly shaped furniture, which was all of sandal-wood inlaid with ivory. On a small table of carved ivory in the centre of the room lay a bunch of Madonna lilies tied with a finely twisted cord of gold. We murmured our admiration, and Santoris addressed himself directly to me for the first time since we had come on board.

"Will you go in and rest for a while till luncheon?" he said--"I placed the lilies there for your acceptance."

The colour rushed to my cheeks,--I looked up at him in a little wonderment.

"But I am not a princess!"

His eyes smiled down into mine.

"No? Then I must have dreamed you were!"

My heart gave a quick throb,--some memory touched my brain, but what it was I could not tell. Mr. Harland glanced at me and laughed.

"What did I tell you the other day?" he said--"Did I not call you the princess of a fairy tale? I was not far wrong!"

They left me to myself then, and as I stood alone in the beautiful room which had thus been placed at my disposal, a curious feeling came over me that these luxurious surroundings were, after all, not new to my experience. I had been accustomed to them for a great part of my life. Stay!--how foolish of me!--'a great part of my life'?--then what part of it? I briefly reviewed my own career,--a difficult and solitary childhood,--the hard and uphill work which became my lot as soon as I was old enough to work at all,--incessant study, and certainly no surplus of riches. Then where had I known luxury? I sank into a chair, dreamily considering. The floating scent of sandal-wood and the perfume of lilies commingled was like the breath of an odorous garden in the East, familiar to me long ago, and as I sat musing I became conscious of a sudden inrush of power and sense of dominance which lifted me as it were above myself, as though I had, without any warning, been given the full control of a great kingdom and its people. Catching sight of my own reflection in an opposite mirror, I was startled and almost afraid at the expression of my face, the proud light in my eyes, the smile on my lips.

"What am I thinking of!" I said, half aloud--"I am not my true self to-day,--some remnant of a cast-off pride has arisen in me and made me less of a humble student. I must not yield to this overpowering demand on my soul,--it is surely an evil suggestion which asserts itself like the warning pain or fever of an impending disease. Can it be the influence of Santoris? No!--I will never believe it!"

And yet a vague uneasiness beset me, and I rose and paced about restlessly,--then pausing where the lovely Madonna lilies lay on the ivory table, I remembered they had been put there for me. I raised them gently, inhaling their delicious fragrance, and as I did so, saw, lying immediately underneath them, a golden Cross of a mystic shape I knew well,--its upper half set on the face of a seven-pointed Star, also of gold. With joy I took it up and kissed it reverently, and as I compared it with the one I always secretly wore on my own person, I knew that all was well, and that I need have no distrust of Rafel Santoris. No injurious effect on my mind could possibly be exerted by his influence--and I was thrown back on myself for a clue to that singular wave of feeling, so entirely contrary to my own disposition, which had for a moment overwhelmed me. I could not trace its source, but I speedily conquered it. Fastening one of the snowy lilies in my waistband, as a contrast to the bright bit of bell-heather which I cherished even more than if it were a jewel, I presently went up on deck, where I found my host, Mr. Harland, Captain Derrick and Marino Fazio all talking animatedly together.

"The mystery is cleared up,"--said Mr. Harland, addressing me as I approached--"Captain Derrick is satisfied. He has learned how one of the finest schooners he has ever seen can make full speed in any weather without wind."

"Oh no, I haven't learned how to do it,--I'm a long way off that!"--said Derrick, good-humouredly--"But I've seen how it's done. And it's marvellous! If that invention could be applied to all ships--"

"Ah!--but first of all it would be necessary to instruct the shipbuilders!"--put in Fazio--"They would have to learn their trade all over again. Our yacht looks as though she were built on the same lines as all yachts,--but you know--you have seen--she is entirely different!"

Captain Derrick gave a nod of grave emphasis. Santoris meantime had come to my side. Our glances met,--he saw that I had received and understood the message of the lilies, and a light and colour came into his eyes that made them beautiful.

"Men have not yet fully enjoyed their heritage," he said, taking up the conversation--"Our yacht's motive power seems complex, but in reality it is very simple,--and the same force which propels this light vessel would propel the biggest liner afloat. Nature has given us all the materials for every kind of work and progress, physical and mental--but because we do not at once comprehend them we deny their uses. Nothing in the air, earth or water exists which we may not press into our service,--and it is in the study of natural forces that we find our conquest. What hundreds of years it took us to discover the wonders of steam!--how the discoverer was mocked and laughed at!--yet it was not really 'wonderful'--it was always there, waiting to be employed, and wasted by mere lack of human effort. One can say the same of electricity, sometimes called 'miraculous'--it is no miracle, but perfectly common and natural, only we have, until now, failed to apply it to our needs,--and even when wider disclosures of science are being made to us every day, we still bar knowledge by obstinacy, and remain in ignorance rather than learn. A few grains in weight of hydrogen have power enough to raise a million tons to a height of more than three hundred feet,--and if we could only find a way to liberate economically and with discretion the various forces which Spirit and Matter contain, we might change the whole occupation of man and make of him less a labourer than thinker, less mortal than angel! The wildest fairy-tales might come true, and earth be transformed into a paradise! And as for motive power, in a thimbleful of concentrated fuel we might take the largest ship across the widest ocean. I say if we could only find a way! Some think they are finding it--"

"You, for example?"--suggested Mr. Harland.

He laughed.

"I--if you like!--for example! Will you come to luncheon?"

He led the way, and Mr. Harland and I followed. Captain Derrick, who I saw was a little afraid of him, had arranged to take his luncheon with Fazio and the other officers of the crew apart. We were waited upon by dark-skinned men attired in the picturesque costume of the East, who performed their duties with noiseless grace and swiftness. The yacht had for some time slackened speed, and appeared to be merely floating lazily on the surface of the calm water. We were told she could always do this and make almost imperceptible headway, provided there was no impending storm in the air. It seemed as if we were scarcely moving, and the whole atmosphere surrounding us expressed the most delicious tranquillity. The luncheon prepared for us was of the daintiest and most elegant description, and Mr. Harland, who on account of his ill-health seldom had any appetite, enjoyed it with a zest and heartiness I had never seen him display before. He particularly appreciated the wine, a rich, ruby-coloured beverage which was unlike anything I had ever tasted.

"There is nothing remarkable about it,"--said Santoris, I when questioned as to its origin--"It is simply REAL wine,--though you may say that of itself is remarkable, there being none in the market. It is the pure juice of the grape, prepared in such a manner as to nourish the blood without inflaming it. It can do you no harm,--in fact, for you, Harland, it is an excellent thing."

"Why for me in particular?" queried Harland, rather sharply.

"Because you need it,"--answered Santoris--"My dear fellow, you are not in the best of health. And you will never get better under your present treatment."

I looked up eagerly.

"That is what I, too, have thought,"--I said--"only I dared not express it!"

Mr. Harland surveyed me with an amused smile.

"Dared not! I know nothing you would not dare!--but with all your boldness, you are full of mere theories,--and theories never made an ill man well yet."

Santoris exchanged a swift glance with me. Then he spoke:--

"Theory without practice is, of course, useless,"--he said--"But surely you can see that this lady has reached a certain plane of thought on which she herself dwells in health and content? And can she not serve you as an object lesson?"

"Not at all,"--replied Mr. Harland, almost testily--"She is a woman whose life has been immersed in study and contemplation, and because she has allowed herself to forego many of the world's pleasures she can be made happy by a mere nothing--a handful of roses--or the sound of sweet music--"

"Are they 'nothings'?"--interrupted Santoris.

"To business men they are--"

"And business itself? Is it not also from some points of view a 'nothing'?"

"Santoris, if you are going to be 'transcendental' I will have none of you!" said Mr. Harland, with a vexed laugh--"What I wish to say is merely this--that my little friend here, for whom I have a great esteem, let me assure her!--is not really capable of forming an opinion of the condition of a man like myself, nor can she judge of the treatment likely to benefit me. She does not even know the nature of my illness--but I can see that she has taken a dislike to my physician, Brayle--"

"I never 'take dislikes,' Mr. Harland,"--I interrupted, quickly--"I merely trust to a guiding instinct which tells me when a man is sincere or when he is acting a part. That's all."

"Well, you've decided that Brayle is not sincere,"--he replied--"And you hardly think him clever. But if you would consider the point logically--you might enquire what motive could he possibly have for playing the humbug with me?"

Santoris smiled.

"Oh, man of 'business'! YOU can ask that?"

We were at the end of luncheon,--the servants had retired, and Mr. Harland was sipping his coffee and smoking a cigar.

"You can ask that?" he repeated--"You, a millionaire, with one daughter who is your sole heiress, can ask what motive a man like Brayle,--worldly, calculating and without heart--has in keeping you both--both, I say--you and your daughter equally--in his medical clutches?"

Mr. Harland's sharp eyes flashed with a sudden menace.

"If I thought--" he began--then he broke off. Presently he resumed--"You are not aware of the true state of affairs, Santoris. Wizard and scientist as you are, you cannot know everything! I need constant medical attendance--and my disease is incurable--"

"No!"--said Santoris, quietly--"Not incurable."

A sudden hope illumined Harland's worn and haggard face.

"Not incurable! But--my good fellow, you don't even know what it is!"

"I do. I also know how it began, and when,--how it has progressed, and how it will end. I know, too, how it can be checked--cut off in its development, and utterly destroyed,--but the cure would depend on yourself more than on Dr. Brayle or any other physician. At present no good is being done and much harm. For instance, you are in pain now?"

"I am--but how can you tell?"

"By the small, almost imperceptible lines on your face which contract quite unconsciously to yourself. I can stop that dreary suffering at once for you, if you will let me."

"Oh, I will 'let' you, certainly!" and Mr. Harland smiled incredulously,--"But I think you over-estimate your abilities."

"I was never a boaster,"--replied Santoris, cheerfully--"But you shall keep whatever opinion you like of me." And he drew from his pocket a tiny crystal phial set in a sheath of gold. "A touch of this in your glass of wine will make you feel a new man."

We watched him with strained attention as he carefully allowed two small drops of liquid, bright and clear as dew to fall one after the other into Mr. Harland's glass.

"Now,"--he continued--"drink without fear, and say good-bye to all pain for at least forty-eight hours."

With a docility quite unusual to him Mr. Harland obeyed.

"May I go on smoking?" he asked.

"You may."

A minute passed, and Mr. Harland's face expressed a sudden surprise and relief.

"Well! What now?" asked Santoris--"How is the pain?"

"Gone!" he answered--"I can hardly believe it--but I'm bound to admit it!"

"That's right! And it will not come back--not to-day, at any rate, nor to-morrow. Shall we go on deck now?"

We assented. As we left the saloon he said:

"You must see the glow of the sunset over Loch Coruisk. It's always a fine sight and it promises to be specially fine this evening,--there are so many picturesque clouds floating about. We are turning back to Loch Scavaig,--and when we get there we can land and do the rest of the excursion on foot. It's not much of a climb; will you feel equal to it?"

This question he put to me personally.

I smiled.

"Of course! I feel equal to anything! Besides, I've been very lazy on board the 'Diana,' taking no real exercise. A walk will do me good."

Mr. Harland seated himself in one of the long reclining chairs which were placed temptingly under an awning on deck. His eyes were clearer and his face more composed than I had ever seen it.

"Those drops you gave me are magical, Santoris!"--he said--"I wish you'd let me have a supply!"

Santoris stood looking down upon him kindly.

"It would not be safe for you,"--he answered--"The remedy is a sovereign one if used very rarely, and with extreme caution, but in uninstructed hands it is dangerous. Its work is to stimulate certain cells--at the same time (like all things taken in excess) it can destroy them. Moreover, it would not agree with Dr. Brayle's medicines."

"You really and truly think Brayle an impostor?"

"Impostor is a strong word! No!--I will give him credit for believing in himself up to a certain point. But of course he knows that the so-called 'electric' treatment he is giving to your daughter is perfectly worthless, just as he knows that she is not really ill."

"Not really ill!"

Mr. Harland almost bounced up in his chair, while I felt a secret thrill of satisfaction. "Why, she's been a miserable, querulous invalid for years--"

"Since she broke off her engagement to a worthless rascal"--said Santoris, calmly. "You see, I know all about it."

I listened, astonished. How did he know, how could he know, the intimate details of a life like Catherine's which could scarcely be of interest to a man such as he was?

"Your daughter's trouble is written on her face"--he went on--"Warped affections, slain desires, disappointed hopes,--and neither the strength nor the will to turn these troubles to blessings. Therefore they resemble an army of malarious germs which are eating away her moral fibre. Brayle knows that what she needs is the belief that someone has an interest not only in her, but in the particularly morbid view she has taught herself to take of life. He is actively showing that interest. The rest is easy,--and will be easier when--well!--when you are gone."

Mr. Harland was silent, drawing slow whiffs from his cigar. After a long pause, he said--

"You are prejudiced, and I think you are mistaken. You only saw the man for a few minutes last night, and you know nothing of him--"

"Nothing,--except what he is bound to reveal,"--answered Santoris.

"What do you mean?"

"You will not believe me if I tell you,"--and Santoris, drawing a chair close to mine, sat down,--"Yet I am sure this lady, who is your friend and guest, will corroborate what I say,--though, of course, you will not believe HER! In fact, my dear Harland, as you have schooled yourself to believe NOTHING, why urge me to point out a truth you decline to accept? Had you lived in the time of Galileo you would have been one of his torturers!"

"I ask you to explain," said Mr. Harland, with a touch of pique--"Whether I accept your explanation or not is my own affair."

"Quite!" agreed Santoris, with a slight smile--"As I told you long ago at Oxford, a man's life is his own affair entirely. He can do what he likes with it. But he can no more command the RESULT of what he does with it than the sun can conceal its rays. Each individual human being, male and female alike, moves unconsciously in the light of self-revealment, as though all his or her faults and virtues were reflected like the colours in a prism, or were set out in a window for passers-by to gaze upon. Fortunately for the general peace of society, however, most passers-by are not gifted with the sight to see the involuntary display."

"You speak in enigmas," said Harland, impatiently--"And I'm not good at guessing them."

Santoris regarded him fixedly. His eyes were luminous and compassionate.

"The simplest truths are to you 'enigmas,'" he said, regretfully--"A pity it is so! You ask me what I mean when I say a man is 'bound to reveal himself.' The process of self-revealment accompanies self-existence, as much as the fragrance of a rose accompanies its opening petals. You can never detach yourself from your own enveloping aura neither in body nor in soul. Christ taught this when He said:--'Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven.' Your 'light'--remember!--that word 'light' is not used here as a figure of speech but as a statement of fact. A positive 'light' surrounds you--it is exhaled and produced by your physical and moral being,--and those among us who have cultivated their inner organs of vision see IT before they see YOU. It can be of the purest radiance,--equally it can be a mere nebulous film,--but whatever the moral and physical condition of the man or woman concerned it is always shown in the aura which each separate individual expresses for himself or herself. In this way Dr. Brayle reveals his nature to me as well as the chief tendency of his thoughts,--in this way YOU reveal yourself and your present state of health,--it is a proved test that cannot go wrong."

Mr. Harland listened with his usual air of cynical tolerance and incredulity.

"I have heard this sort of nonsense before,"--he said--"I have even read in otherwise reliable scientific journals about the 'auras' of people affecting us with antipathies or sympathies for or against them. But it's a merely fanciful suggestion and has no foundation in reality."

"Why did you wish me to explain, then?" asked Santoris--"I can only tell you what I know, and--what I see!"

Harland moved restlessly, holding his cigar between his fingers and looking at it curiously to avoid, as I thought, the steadfast brilliancy of the compelling eyes that were fixed upon him.

"These 'auras,'" he went on, indifferently, "are nothing but suppositions. I grant you that certain discoveries are being made concerning the luminosity of trees and plants which in some states of the atmosphere give out rays of light,--but that human beings do the same I decline to believe."

"Of course!" and Santoris leaned back in his chair easily, as though at once dismissing the subject from his mind--"A man born blind must needs decline to believe in the pleasures of sight."

Harland's wrinkled brow deepened its furrows in a frown.

"Do you mean to tell me,--do you DARE to tell me"--he said--"that you see any 'aura,' as you call it, round my personality?"

"I do, most assuredly,"--answered Santoris--"I see it as distinctly as I see yourself in the midst of it. But there is no actual light in it,--it is mere grey mist,--a mist of miasma."

"Thank you!" and Harland laughed harshly--"You are complimentary!"

"Is it a time for compliments?" asked Santoris, with sudden sternness--"Harland, would you have me tell you ALL?"

Harland's face grew livid. He threw up his hand with a warning gesture.

"No!" he said, almost violently. He clutched the arm of his chair with a nervous grip, and for one instant looked like a hunted creature caught red-handed in some act of crime. Recovering himself quickly, he forced a smile.

"What about our little friend's 'aura'?"-he queried, glancing at me--"Does she 'express' herself in radiance?"

Santoris did not reply for a moment. Then he turned his eyes towards me almost wistfully.

"She does!"--he answered--"I wish you could see her as I see her!"

There was a moment's silence. My face grew warm, and I was vaguely embarrassed, but I met his gaze fully and frankly.

"And _I_ wish I could see myself as you see me,"--I said, half laughingly--"For I am not in the least aware of my own aura."

"It is not intended that anyone should be visibly aware of it in their own personality,"--he answered--"But I think it is right we should realise the existence of these radiant or cloudy exhalations which we ourselves weave around ourselves, so that we may 'walk in the light as children of the light.'"

His voice sank to a grave and tender tone which checked Mr. Harland in something he was evidently about to say, for he bit his lip and was silent.

I rose from my chair and moved away then, looking--from the smooth deck of the 'Dream' shadowed by her full white sails out to the peaks of the majestic hills whose picturesque beauties are sung in the wild strains of Ossian, and the projecting crags, deep hollows and lofty pinnacles outlining the coast with its numerous waterfalls, lochs and shadowy creeks. A thin and delicate haze of mist hung over the land like a pale violet veil through which the sun shot beams of rose and gold, giving a vaporous unsubstantial effect to the scenery as though it were gliding with us like a cloud pageant on the surface of the calm water. The shores of Loch Scavaig began to be dimly seen in the distance, and presently Captain Derrick approached Mr. Harland, spy-glass in hand.

"The 'Diana' must have gone for a cruise,"--he said, in rather a perturbed way--"As far as I can make out, there's no sign of her where we left her this morning."

Mr. Harland heard this indifferently.

"Perhaps Catherine wished for a sail,"--he answered. "There are plenty on board to manage the vessel. You're not anxious?"

"Oh, not at all, sir, if you are satisfied,"--Derrick answered.

Mr. Harland stretched himself luxuriously in his chair.

"Personally, I don't mind where the 'Diana' has gone to for the moment,"--he said, with a laugh--"I'm particularly comfortable where I am. Santoris!"

"Here!" And Santoris, who had stepped aside to give some order to one of his men, came up at the call.

"What do you say to leaving me on board while you and my little friend go and see your sunset effect on Loch Coruisk by yourselves?"

Santoris heard this suggestion with an amused look.

"You don't care for sunsets?"

"Oh yes, I do,--in a way. But I've seen so many of them--"

"No two alike"--put in Santoris.

"I daresay not. Still, I don't mind missing a few. Just now I should like a sound sleep rather than a sunset. It's very unsociable, I know,--but--" here he half closed his eyes and seemed inclined to doze off there and then.

Santoris turned to me.