Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “Love is not Love that loves Itself,” — went on the Voice— “Self is the Image, not the God. Wouldst thou have Eternal Life? Then find the secret in Eternal Love!— ‘Love, which can move worlds and create universes, — the love of soul for soul, angel for angel, god for god!”

  I raised my head, and, uncovering my eyes, looked up. But I could see nothing save that all-penetrating light which imprisoned me as it were in a circle of fire.

  “Love is that Power which clasps the things of eternity and makes them all its own,” — said the Voice in stronger tones of deeper music— “It builds its solar system, its stars, its planets with a thought! — it wakes all beauty, all delight with a smile! — it lives not only now, but for ever, in a heaven of pure joy where every thousand years is but one summer day! To Love there is no time, no space, no age, no death! — what it gives it receives again, — what it longs for comes to it without seeking — God withholds nothing from the faithful soul!”

  I still knelt, wondering if these words were intended only for me or for some other listener, for I could not now feel sure that I was without a companion in this strange experience.

  “There is only one Way of Life,” — went on the Voice— “Only one way — the Way of Love! Whosoever loves greatly lives greatly; whosoever misprizes Love is dead though living. Give all thy heart and soul to Love if thou wouldst be immortal! — for without Love thou mayst seek God through all Eternity and never find Him!”

  I waited, — there was a brief silence. Then a sudden wave of music broke upon my ears, — a breaking foam of rhythmic melody that rose and fell in a measured cadence of solemn sound. Raising my eyes in fear and awe, I saw the lambent light around me begin to separate into countless gradations of delicate colour till presently it resembled a close and brilliant network of rainbow tints intermingled with purest gold. It was as if millions of lines had been drawn with exquisite fineness and precision so as to cause intersection or ‘reciprocal meeting’ at given points of calculation, and these changed into various dazzling forms too brilliant for even my dreaming sight to follow. Yet I felt myself compelled to study one particular section of these lines which shone before me in a kind of pale brightness, and while I looked it varied to more and more complex ‘moods’ of colour and light, if one might so express it, till, by gradual degrees, it returned again to the simpler combination.

  “Thus are the destinies of human lives woven and interwoven,” — said the Voice— “From infinite and endless points of light they grow and part and mingle together, till the destined two are one. Often they are entangled and disturbed by influences not their own — but from interference which through weakness or fear they have themselves permitted. But the tangle is for ever unravelled by Time, — the parted threads are brought together again in the eternal weaving of Spirit and Matter. No power, human or divine, can entirely separate the lives which God has ordained shall come together. Man’s ordainment is not God’s ordainment! Wrong threads in the weaving are broken — no matter how, — no matter when! Love must be tender yet resolved! — Love must not swerve from its given pledge! — Love must be All or Nothing!”

  The light network of living golden rays still quivered before my eyes, till all at once they seemed to change to a rippling sea of fine flame with waves that gently swayed to and fro, tipped with foam-crests of prismatic hue like broken rainbows. Wave after wave swept forward and broke in bright amethystine spray close to me where I knelt, and as I watched this moving mass of radiant colour in absorbed fascination, one wave, brilliant as the flush of a summer’s dawn, rippled towards me, and then gently retiring, left a single rose, crimson and fragrant, close within my reach. I stooped and caught it quickly — surely it was a real rose from some dewy garden of the earth, and no dream!

  “One rose from all the roses in Heaven!” said the mystic Voice, in tones of enthralling sweetness— “One — fadeless and immortal! — only one, but sufficient for all! One love from all the million loves of men and women — one, but enough for Eternity! How long the rose has awaited its flowering, — how long the love has awaited its fulfilment — only the recording angels know! Such roses bloom but once in the wilderness of space and time; such love comes but once in a Universe of worlds!”

  I listened, trembling; I held the rose against my breast between my clasped hands.

  “O Sorrowful Star!” went on the Voice— “What shall become of thee if thou forsakest the way of Love! O little Sphere of beauty and delight, why are thy people so blind! O that their eyes were lifted unto Heaven! — their hearts to joy! — their souls to love! Who is it that darkens life with sorrow? — who is it that creates the delusion of death?”

  I found my speech suddenly.

  “Nay, surely,” — I said, half whispering— “We must all die!”

  “Not so!” and the mystic Voice rang out imperatively— “There is no death! For God is alive! — and from Him Life only can emanate!”

  I held my peace, moved by a sudden sweet awe.

  “From Eternal Life no death can come,” — continued the Voice— “from Eternal Love flows Eternal Joy. Change there is, — change there must be to higher forms and higher planes, — but Life and Love remain as they are, indestructible— ‘the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever!’”

  I bent my face over the rose against my breast, — its perfume was deliciously soft and penetrating, and half unconsciously I kissed its velvet petals. As I did this a swift and dazzling radiance poured shower-like through the air, and again I heard mysterious chords of rhythmic melody rising and falling like distant waves of the sea. The grave, tender Voice spoke once again:

  “Rise and go hence!” it said, in tones of thrilling gentleness— “Keep the gift God sends thee! — take that which is thine! Meet that which hath sought thee sorrowing for many centuries! Turn not aside again, neither by thine own will nor by the will of others, lest old errors prevail! Pass from vision into waking! — from night to day! — from seeming death to life! — from loneliness to love! — and keep within thy heart the message of a Dream!”

  The light beating about me like curved wings slowly paled and as slowly vanished — yet I felt that I must still kneel and wait. This atmosphere of awe and trembling gradually passed away, — and then, rising as I thought, and holding the mystic rose with one hand still against my breast, I turned to feel my way through the darkness which now encompassed me. As I did this my other hand was caught by someone in a warm, eager clasp, and I was guided along with an infinitely tender yet masterful touch which I had no hesitation in obeying. Step by step I moved with a strange sense of happy reliance on my unseen companion — darkness or distance had no terrors for me. And as I Went onward with my hand held firmly in that close yet gentle grasp, my thoughts became as it were suddenly cleared into a heaven of comprehension — I looked back upon years of work spread out like an arid desert uncheered by any spring of sweet water — and I saw all that my life had lacked — all to which I had unconsciously pressed forward longingly without any distinct recognition of my own aims, and only trusting to the infinite powers of God and Nature to amend my incompleteness by the perfection of the everlasting Whole. And now — had the answer come? At any rate, I felt I was no longer alone. Someone who seemed the natural other half of myself was beside me in the shadows of sleep — I could have spoken, but would not, for fear of breaking the charm.

  And so I went on and on, caring little how long the journey might be, and even vaguely wishing it might continue for ever, — when presently a faint light began to peer through the gloom — I saw a glimmer of blue and grey, then white, then rose-colour — and I awoke — to find nothing of a visionary character about me unless perhaps a shaft of early morning sunshine streaming through the port-hole of my cabin could be called a reflex of the mystic glory which had surrounded me in sleep. I then remembered where I was, — yet I was so convinced of the reality of what I had seen and heard that I looked about me everywhere for that lovely crimson rose I had
brought away with me from Dreamland — for I could actually feel its stem still between my fingers. It was not to be seen — but there was delicate fragrance on the air as if it were blooming near me — a fragrance so fine that nothing could describe its subtly pervading odour. Every word spoken by the Voice of my dream was vividly impressed on my brain, and more vivid still was the recollection of the hand that had clasped mine and led me out of sleep to waking. I was conscious of its warmth yet, — and I was troubled, even while I was soothed, by the memory of the lingering caress with which it had been at last withdrawn. And I wondered as I lay for a few moments in my bed inert, and thinking of all that had chanced to me in the night, whether the long earnest patience of my soul, ever turned as it had been for years towards the attainment of a love higher than all earthly attraction, was now about to be recompensed? I knew, and had always known, that whatsoever we strongly WILL to possess comes to us in due season; and that steadily resolved prayers are always granted; the only drawback to the exertion of this power is the doubt as to whether the thing we desire so ardently will work us good or ill. For there is no question but that what we seek we shall find. I had sought long and unwearyingly for the clue to the secret of life imperishable and love eternal, — was the mystery about to be unveiled? I could not tell — and I dare not humour the mere thought too long. Shaking my mind free from the web of marvel and perplexity in which it had been caught by the visions of the night, I placed myself in a passively receptive attitude — demanding nothing, fearing nothing, hoping nothing — but simply content with actual Life, feeling Life to be the outcome and expression of perfect Love.

  IV. A BUNCH OF HEATHER

  It was a glorious morning, and so warm that I went up on deck without any hat or cloak, glad to have the sunlight playing on my hair and the soft breeze blowing on my face. The scene was perfectly enchanting; the mountains were bathed in a delicate rose-purple glow reflected from the past pomp of the sun’s rising, — the water was still as an inland lake, and every mast and spar of the ‘Diana’ was reflected in it as in a mirror. A flock of sea-gulls floated round our vessel, like fairy boats — some of them rising every now and then with eager cries to wing their graceful flight high through the calm air, and alight again with a flash of silver pinions on the translucent blue. While I stood gazing in absorbed delight at the beauty which everywhere surrounded me, Captain Derrick called to me from his little bridge, where he stood with folded arms, looking down.

  “Good morning! What do you think of the mystery now?”

  “Mystery?” And then his meaning flashed upon me. “Oh, the yacht that anchored near us last night! Where is she?”

  “Just so!” And the captain’s look expressed volumes— “Where is she?”

  Oddly enough, I had not thought of the stranger vessel till this moment, though the music sounding from her deck had been the last thing which had haunted my ears before I had slept — and dreamed! And now — she was gone! There was not a sign of her anywhere.

  I looked up at the captain on his bridge and smiled. “She must have started very early!” I said.

  The captain’s fuzzy brows met portentously.

  “Ay! Very early! So early that the watch never saw her go. He must have missed an hour and she must have gained one.”

  “It’s rather strange, isn’t it?” I said— “May I come on the bridge?”

  “Certainly.”

  I ran up the little steps and stood beside him, looking out to the farthest line of sea and sky.

  “What do you think about it?” I asked, laughingly, “Was she a real yacht or a ghost?”

  The captain did not smile. His brow was furrowed with perplexed consideration.

  “She wasn’t a ghost,” he said— “but her ways were ghostly. That is, she made no noise, — and she sailed without wind. Mr. Harland may say what he likes, — I stick to that. She had no steam, but she carried full sail, and she came into the Sound with all her canvas bellying out as though she were driven by a stormy sou’wester. There’s been no wind all night — yet she’s gone, as you see — and not a man on board heard the weighing of her anchor. When she went and how she went beats me altogether!”

  At that moment we caught sight of a small rowing boat coming out to us from the shore, pulled by one man, who bent to his oars in a slow, listless way as though disinclined for the labour.

  “Boat ahoy!” shouted the captain.

  The man looked up and signalled in answer. A couple of our sailors went to throw him a rope as he brought his craft alongside. He had come, so he slowly explained in his soft, slow, almost unintelligible Highland dialect, with fresh eggs and butter, hoping to effect a sale. The steward was summoned, and bargaining began. I listened and looked on, amused and interested, and I presently suggested to the captain that it might be as well to ask this man if he too had seen the yacht whose movements appeared so baffling and inexplicable. The captain at once took the hint.

  “Say, Donald,” he began, invitingly— “did you see the big yacht that came in last night about ten o’clock?”

  “Ou ay!” was the slow answer— “But my name’s no Tonald, — it’s just Jamie.”

  Captain Derrick laughed jovially.

  “Beg pardon! Jamie, then! Did you see the yacht?”

  “Ou ay! I’ve seen her mony a day. She’s a real shentleman.”

  I smiled.

  “The yacht?”

  Jamie looked up at me.

  “Ah, my leddy, ye’ll pe makin’ a fule o’ Jamie wi’ a glance like a sun-sparkle on the sea! Jamie’s no fule wi’ the right sort, an’ the yacht is a shentleman, an’ the shentleman’s the yacht, for it’s the shentleman that pays whateffer.”

  Captain Derrick became keenly interested.

  “The gentleman? The owner of the yacht, you mean?”

  Jamie nodded— “Just that!” — and proceeded to count out his store of new-laid eggs with great care as he placed them in the steward’s basket.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ah, that’s ower mickle learnin’,” — said Jamie, with a cunning look— “I canna say it rightly.”

  “Can you say it wrongly?” I suggested.

  “I wadna!” he replied, and he lifted his eyes, which were dark and piercing, to my face— “I daurna!”

  “Is he such a very terrible gentleman, then?” enquired Captain Derrick, jocosely.

  Jamie’s countenance was impenetrable.

  “Ye’ll pe seein’ her for yourself whateffer,” — he said— “Ye’ll no miss her in the waters ‘twixt here an’ Skye.”

  He stooped and fumbled in his basket, presently bringing out of it a small bunch of pink bell-heather, — the delicate waxen type of blossom which is found only in mossy, marshy places.

  “The shentleman wanted as much as I could find o’ this,” — he said— “An’ he had it a’ but this wee bittie. Will my leddy wear it for luck?”

  I took it from his hand.

  “As a gift?” I asked, smiling.

  “I wadna tak ony money for’t,” — he answered, with a curious expression of something like fear passing over his brown, weather-beaten features—”’Tis fairies’ making.”

  I put the little bunch in my dress. As I did so, he doffed his cap.

  “Good day t’ye! I’ll be no seein’ ye this way again!”

  “Why not? How do you know?”

  “One way in and another way out!” he said, his voice sinking to a sort of meditative croon— “One road to the West, and the other to the East! — and round about to the meeting-place! Ou ay! Ye’ll mak it clear sailin’!”

  “Without wind, eh?” interposed Captain Derrick— “Like your friend the ‘shentleman’? How does he manage that business?”

  Jamie looked round with a frightened air, like an animal scenting danger, — then, shouldering his empty basket, he gave us a hasty nod of farewell, and, scrambling down the companion ladder without another word, was soon in his boat again, rowing away steadily and nev
er once looking back.

  “A wild chap!” said the captain— “Many of these fellows get half daft, living so much alone in desolate places like Mull, and seeing nothing all their time but cloud and mountain and sea. He seems to know something about that yacht, though!”

  “That yacht is on your brain, Captain!” I said, merrily— “I feel quite sorry for you! And yet I daresay if we meet her again the mystery will turn out to be very simple.”

  “It will have to be either very simple or very complex!” he answered, with a laugh— “I shall need a good deal of teaching to show me how a sailing yacht can make steam speed without wind. Ah, good morning, sir!”

  And we both turned to greet Mr. Harland, who had just come up on deck. He looked ill and careworn, as though he had slept badly, and he showed but faint interest in the tale of the strange yacht’s sudden exit.

  “It amuses you, doesn’t it?” — he said, addressing me with a little cynical smile wrinkling up his forehead and eyes— “Anything that cannot be at once explained is always interesting and delightful to a woman! That is why spiritualistic ‘mediums’ make money. They do clever tricks which cannot be explained, hence their success with the credulous.”

  “Quite so” — I replied— “but just allow me to say that I am no believer in ‘mediums.’”

  “True, — I forgot!” He rubbed his hand wearily over his brows — then asked— “Did you sleep well?”

  “Splendidly! And I must really thank you for my lovely rooms, — they are almost too luxurious! They are fit for a princess.”

  “Why a princess?” he queried, ironically— “Princesses are not always agreeable personages. I know one or two, — fat, ugly and stupid. Some of them are dirty in their persons and in their habits. There are certain ‘princesses’ in Europe who ought to be washed and disinfected before being given any rooms anywhere!”

  I laughed.

  “Oh, you are very bitter!” I said.

  “Not at all. I like accuracy. ‘Princess’ to the ingenuous mind suggests a fairy tale. I have not an ingenuous mind. I know that the princesses of the fairy tales do not exist, — unless you are one.”