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

by Marie Corelli

  “I’m so tired of all this yachting!” she said, peevishly. “It isn’t amusing to me!”

  “I’m very sorry!” I answered;— “If you feel like that, why not give it up at once?”

  “Oh, it’s father’s whim!” she said-”And if he makes up his mind there’s no moving him. One thing, however, I’m determined to do — and that is—” Here she stopped, looking at me curiously.

  I returned her gaze questioningly.

  “And that is — what?”

  “To get as far away as ever we can from that terrible ‘Dream’ yacht and its owner!” — she replied— “That man is a devil!”

  I laughed. I could not help laughing. The estimate she had formed of one so vastly her superior as Santoris struck me as more amusing than blamable. I am often accustomed to hear the hasty and narrow verdict of small-minded and unintelligent persons pronounced on men and women of high attainment and great mental ability; therefore, that she should show herself as not above the level of the common majority did not offend so much as it entertained me. However, my laughter made her suddenly angry.

  “Why do you laugh?” she demanded. “You look quite pagan in that lace rest-gown — I suppose you call it a restgown! — with all your hair tumbling loose about you! And that laugh of yours is a pagan laugh!”

  I was so surprised at her odd way of speaking that for a moment I could find no words. She looked at me with a kind of hard disfavour in her eyes.

  “That’s the reason,” — she went on— “why you find life agreeable. Pagans always did. They revelled in sunshine and open air, and found all sorts of excuses for their own faults, provided they got some pleasure out of them. That’s quite your temperament! And they laughed at serious things — just as you do!”

  The mirror showed me my own reflection, and I saw myself still smiling.

  “Do I laugh at serious things?” I said. “Dear Miss Harland, I am not aware of it! But I cannot take Mr. Santoris as a ‘devil’ seriously!”

  “He is!” And she nodded her head emphatically— “And all those queer beliefs he holds — and you hold them too! — are devilish! If you belonged to the Church of Rome, you would not be allowed to indulge in such wicked theories for a moment.”

  “Ah! The Church of Rome fortunately cannot control thought!” — I said— “Not even the thoughts of its own children! And some of the beliefs of the Church of Rome are more blasphemous and barbarous than all the paganism of the ancient world! Tell me, what are my ‘wicked theories’?”

  “Oh, I don’t know!” she replied, vaguely and inconsequently— “You believe there’s no death — and you think we all make our own illnesses and misfortunes, — and I’ve heard you say that the idea of Eternal Punishment is absurd — so in a way you are as bad as father, who declares there’s nothing in the Universe but gas and atoms — no God and no anything. You really are quite as much of an atheist as he is! Dr. Brayle says so.”

  I had been standing in front of her while she thus talked, but now I resumed my former reclining attitude on the sofa and looked at her with a touch of disdain.

  “Dr. Brayle says so!” — I repeated— “Dr. Brayle’s opinion is the least worth having in the world! Now, if you really believe in devils, there’s one for you!”

  “How can you say so?” she exclaimed, hotly— “What right have you—”

  “How can he call ME an atheist?” I demanded-”What right has HE to judge me?”

  The flush died off her face, and a sudden fear filled her eyes.

  “Don’t look at me like that!” she said, almost in a whisper— “It reminds me of an awful dream I had the other night!” — She paused.— “Shall I tell it to you?”

  I nodded indifferently, yet watched her curiously the while. Something in her hard, plain face had become suddenly and unpleasantly familiar.

  “I dreamed that I was in a painter’s studio watching two murdered people die — a man and a woman. The man was like Santoris — the woman resembled you! They had been stabbed, — and the woman was clinging to the man’s body. Dr. Brayle stood beside me also watching — but the scene was strange to me, and the clothes we wore were all of some ancient time. I said to Dr. Brayle: ‘We have killed them!’ and he replied: ‘Yes! They are better dead than living!’ It was a horrible dream! — it seemed so real! I have been frightened of you and of that man Santoris ever since!”

  I could not speak for a moment. A recollection swept over me to which I dared not give utterance, — it seemed too improbable.

  “I’ve had nerves,” she went on, shivering a little— “and that’s why I say I’m tired of this yachting trip. It’s becoming a nightmare to me!”

  I lay back on the sofa looking at her with a kind of pity.

  “Then why not end it?” I said— “Or why not let me go away? It is I who have displeased you somehow, and I assure you I’m very sorry! You and Mr. Harland have both been most kind to me — I’ve been your guest for nearly a fortnight, — that’s quite sufficient holiday for me — put me ashore anywhere you like and I’ll go home and get myself out of your way. Will that be any comfort to you?”

  “I don’t know that it will,” she said, with a short, querulous sigh— “Things have happened so strangely.” She paused, looking at me— “Yes — you have the face of that woman I saw in my dream! — and you have always reminded me of—”

  I waited eagerly. She seemed afraid to go on.

  “Well!” I said, as quietly as I could— “Do please finish what you were saying!”

  “It goes back to the time when I first saw you,” she continued, now speaking quickly as though anxious to get it over— “You will perhaps hardly remember the occasion. It was at that great art and society “crush” in London where there was such a crowd that hundreds of people never got farther than the staircase. You were pointed out to me as a “psychist” — and while I was still listening to what was being said about you, my father came up with you on his arm and introduced us. When I saw you I felt that your features were somehow familiar, — though I could not tell where I had met you before, — and I became very anxious to see more of you. In fact, you had a perfect fascination for me! You have the same fascination now, — only it is a fascination that terrifies me!”

  I was silent.

  “The other night,” she went on— “when Mr. Santoris first came on board I had a singular impression that he was or had been an enemy of mine, — though where or how I could not say. It was this that frightened me, and made me too ill and nervous to go with you on that excursion to Loch Coruisk. And I want to get away from him! I never had such impressions before — and even now, — looking at you, — I feel there’s something in you which is quite “uncanny,” — it troubles me! Oh! — I’m sure you mean me no harm — you are bright and amiable and adaptable and all that — but — I’m afraid of you!”

  “Poor Catherine!” I said, very gently— “These are merely nervous ideas! There is nothing to fear from me — no, nothing!” For here she suddenly leaned forward and took my hand, looking earnestly in my face— “How can you imagine such a thing possible?”

  “Are you sure?” she half whispered— “When I called you “pagan” just now I had a sort of dim recollection of a fair woman like you, — a woman I seemed to know who was really a pagan! Yet I don’t know how I knew her, or where I met her — a woman who, for some reason or other, was hateful to me because I was jealous of her! These curious fancies have haunted my mind only since that man Santoris came on board, — and I told Dr. Brayle exactly what I felt.”

  “And what did he say?” I asked.

  “He said that it was all the work of Santoris, who was an evident professor of psychical imposture—”

  I sprang up.

  “Let him say that to ME!” I exclaimed— “Let him dare to say it! and I will prove who is the impostor to his face!”

  She retreated from me with wide-open eyes of alarm.

  “Why do you look at me like that?” she said
. “We didn’t really kill you — except — in a dream!”

  A sudden silence fell between us; something cold and shadowy and impalpable seemed to possess the very air. If by some supernatural agency we had been momentarily deprived of life and motion, while a vast dark cloud, heavy with rain, had made its slow way betwixt us, the sense of chill and depression could hardly have been greater.

  Presently Catherine spoke again, with a little forced laugh.

  “What silly things I say!” she murmured— “You can see for yourself my nerves are in a bad state! — I am altogether unstrung!”

  I stood for a moment looking at her, and considering the perplexity in which we both seemed involved.

  “If you would rather not dine with Mr. Santoris this evening,” I said, at last,— “and if you think his presence has a bad effect on you, let us make some excuse not to go. I will willingly stay with you, if you wish me to do so.”

  She gave me a surprised glance.

  “You are very unselfish,” she said— “and I wish I were not so fanciful. It’s most kind of you to offer to stay with me and to give up an evening’s pleasure — for I suppose it IS a pleasure? You like Mr. Santoris?”

  The colour rushed to my face in a warm glow.

  “Yes,” I answered, turning slightly away from her— “I like him very much.”

  “And he likes YOU better than he likes any of us,” she said— “In fact, I believe if it had not been for you, we should never have met him in this strange way—”

  “Why, how can you make that out?” I asked, smiling. “I never heard of him till your father spoke of him, — and never saw him till—”

  “Till when?” — she demanded, quickly.

  “Till the other night,” I answered, hesitatingly.

  She searched my face with questioning eyes.

  “I thought you were going to say that you, like myself, had some idea or recollection of having met him before,” she said. “However, I shall not ask you to sacrifice your pleasure for me, — in fact, I have made up my mind to go to this dinner, though Dr. Brayle doesn’t wish it.”

  “Oh! Dr. Brayle doesn’t wish it!” I echoed— “And why?”

  “Well, he thinks it will not be good for me — and — and he hates the very sight of Santoris!”

  I said nothing. She rose to leave my cabin.

  “Please don’t think too hardly of me!” she said, pleadingly,— “I’ve told you frankly just how I feel, — and you can imagine how glad I shall be when this yachting trip comes to an end.”

  She went away then, and I stood for some minutes lost in thought. I dared not pursue the train of memories with which she had connected herself in my mind. My chief idea now was to find some convenient method of immediately concluding my stay with the Harlands and leaving their yacht at some easy point of departure for home. And I resolved I would speak to Santoris on this subject and trust to him for a means whereby we should not lose sight of each other, for I felt that this was imperative. And my spirit rose up within me full of joy and pride in its instinctive consciousness that I was as necessary to him as he was to me.

  It was a warm, almost sultry evening, and I was able to discard my serge yachting dress for one of soft white Indian silk, a cooler and more presentable costume for a dinner-party on board a yacht which was furnished with such luxury as was the ‘Dream.’ My little sprig of bell-heather still looked bright and fresh in the glass where I always kept it — but to-night when I took it in my hand it suddenly crumbled into a pinch of fine grey dust. This sudden destruction of what had seemed well-nigh indestructible startled me for a moment till I began to think that after all the little bunch of blossom had done its work, — its message had been given — its errand completed. All the Madonna lilies Santoris had given me were as fresh as if newly gathered, — and I chose one of these with its companion bud as my only ornament. When I joined my host and his party in the saloon he looked at me with inquisitive scrutiny.

  “I cannot quite make you out,” he said— “You look several years younger than you did when you came on board at Rothesay! Is it the sea air, the sunshine, or — Santoris?”

  “Santoris!” I repeated, and laughed. “How can it be Santoris?”

  “Well, he makes HIMSELF young,” Mr. Harland answered— “And perhaps he may make others young too. There’s no telling the extent of his powers!”

  “Quite the conjurer!” observed Dr. Brayle, drily— “Faust should have consulted him instead of Mephistopheles!”

  “‘Faust’ is a wonderful legend, but absurd in the fact that the old philosopher sold his soul to the Devil, merely for the love of woman,” — said Mr. Harland. “The joy, the sensation and the passion of love were to him supreme temptation and the only satisfaction on earth.”

  Dr. Brayle’s eyes gleamed.

  “But, after all, is this not a truth?” he asked— “Is there anything that so completely dominates the life of a man as the love of a woman? It is very seldom the right woman — but it is always a woman of some kind. Everything that has ever been done in the world, either good or evil, can be traced back to the influence of women on men — sometimes it is their wives who sway their actions, but it is far more often their mistresses. Kings and emperors are as prone to the universal weakness as commoners, — we have only to read history to be assured of the fact. What more could Faust desire than love?”

  “Well, to me love is a mistake,” said Mr. Harland, throwing on his overcoat carelessly— “I agree with Byron’s dictum ‘Who loves, raves!’ Of course it should be an ideal passion — but it never is. Come, are we all ready?”

  We were — and we at once left the yacht in our own launch. Our party consisted of Mr. Harland, his daughter, myself, Dr. Brayle and Mr. Swinton, and with such indifferent companions I imagined it would be difficult, if not impossible, to get even a moment with Santoris alone, to tell him of my intention to leave my host and hostess as soon as might be possible. However, I determined to make some effort in this direction, if I could find even the briefest opportunity.

  We made our little trip across the water from the ‘Diana’ to the ‘Dream’ in the light of a magnificent sunset. Loch Scavaig was a blaze of burning colour, — and the skies above us were flushed with deep rose divided by lines of palest blue and warm gold. Santoris was waiting on the deck to receive us, attended by his captain and one or two of the principals of the crew, but what attracted and charmed our eyes at the moment was a beautiful dark youth of some twelve or thirteen years of age, clad in Eastern dress, who held a basket full of crimson and white rose petals, which, with a graceful gesture, he silently emptied at our feet as we stepped on board. I happened to be the first one to ascend the companion ladder, so that it looked as if this fragrant heap of delicate leaves had been thrown down for me to tread upon, but even if it had been so intended it appeared as though designed for the whole party. Santoris welcomed us with the kindly courtesy which always distinguished his manner, and he himself escorted Miss Harland down to one of the cabins, there to take off the numerous unnecessary wraps and shawls with which she invariably clothed herself on the warmest day, — I followed them as they went, and he turned to me with a smile, saying: —

  “You know your room? The same you had yesterday afternoon.”

  I obeyed his gesture, and entered the exquisitely designed and furnished apartment which he had said was for a ‘princess,’ and closing the door I sat down for a few minutes to think quietly. It was evident that things were coming to some sort of crisis in my life, — and shaping to some destiny which I must either accept or avoid. Decisive action would rest, as I saw, entirely with myself. To avoid all difficulty, I had only to hold my peace and go my own way — refuse to know more of this singular man who seemed to be so mysteriously connected with my life, and return home to the usual safe, if dull, routine of my ordinary round of work and effort. On the other hand, to accept the dawning joy that seemed showering upon me like a light from Heaven, was to blindly move on
into the Unknown, — to trust unquestioningly to the secret spiritual promptings of my own nature and to give myself up wholly and ungrudgingly to a love which suggested all things yet promised nothing! Full of the most conflicting thoughts, I paced the room up and down slowly — the tall mirror reflected my face and figure and showed me the startlingly faithful presentment of the woman I had seen in my strange series of visions, — the woman who centuries ago had fought against convention and custom, only to be foolishly conquered by them in a thousand ways, — the woman who had slain love, only that it should rise again and confront her with deathless eyes of eternal remembrance — the woman who, drowned at last for love’s sake in a sea of wrath and trembling, knelt outside the barred gate of Heaven praying to enter in! And in my mind I heard again the words spoken by that sweet and solemn Voice which had addressed me in the first of my dreams:

  “One rose from all the roses in Heaven! 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!”

  And then I remembered the parting command: “Rise and go hence! 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!”