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

by Marie Corelli

  “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!”

  VI. RECOGNITION

  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 s
ort 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— “Perhaps Mr. 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 t
he 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?”

  “No — I believe he called you ‘the shentleman that owns the yacht.’”

  “Oh well!” and Santoris laughed— “There are so many ‘shentlemen’ that own yachts! He may have got mixed in his customers. In any case, I am glad to have some little thing in common with your friend — if only a bunch of heather!”

  “HER bunch behaves very curiously,” — put in Catherine— “It never fades.”