"To as much purpose as anyone else, I suppose,"--I answered--"But to
put it plainly, I work because I love work."
The lines of his mouth grew harder.
"So did I love work when I was your age,"--he said--"I thought I could
carve out a destiny. So I could. I have done it. But now it's done I'm
tired! I'm sick of my destiny,--the thing I carved out so cleverly,--it
has the stone face of a Sphinx and its eyes are blank and without
meaning."
I was silent. My silence seemed to irritate him, and he gave me a
sharp, enquiring glance.
"Do you hear me?" he demanded--"If you do, I don't believe you
understand!"
"I hear--and I quite understand,"--I replied, quietly, "Your destiny,
as you have made it, is that of a rich man. And you do not care about
it. I think that's quite natural."
He laughed harshly.
"There you are again!" he exclaimed--"Up in the air and riding a theory
like a witch on a broomstick! It's NOT natural. That's just where
you're wrong! It's quite UN-natural. If a man has plenty of money he
ought to be perfectly happy and satisfied,--he can get everything he
wants,--he can move the whole world of commerce and speculation, and
can shake the tree of Fortune so that the apples shall always fall at
his own feet. But if the apples are tasteless there's something wrong."
"Not with the apples," I said.
"Oh, I know what you mean! You would say the fault is with me, not with
Fortune's fruit. You may be right. Catherine says you are. Poor mopish
Catherine!--always ailing, always querulous! Come and cheer her!"
"But"--I ventured to say--"I hardly know her."
"That's true. But she has taken a curious fancy to you. She has very
few fancies nowadays,--none that wealth can gratify. Her life has been
a complete disillusion. If you would do her and me a kindness, come!"
I was a little troubled by his pertinacity. I had never liked Morton
Harland. His reputation, both as a man of wealth and a man of letters,
was to me unenviable. He did no particular good with his money,--and
such literary talent as he possessed he squandered in attacking nobler
ideals than he had ever been able to attain. He was not agreeable to
look at either; his pale, close-shaven face was deeply marked by lines
of avarice and cunning,--his tall, lean figure had an aggressive air in
its very attitude, and his unkind mouth never failed, whether in
speaking or smiling, to express a sneer. Apparently he guessed the
vague tenor of my thoughts, for he went on:--
"Don't be afraid of me! I'm not an ogre, and I shan't eat you! You
think me a disagreeable man--well, so I am. I've had enough in my life
to make me disagreeable. And"--here he paused, passing his hand across
his eyes with a worried and impatient gesture--"I've had an unexpected
blow just lately. The doctors tell me that I have a mortal disease for
which there is no remedy. I may live on for several years, or I may die
suddenly; it's all a matter of care--or chance. I want to forget the
sad news for a while if I can. I've told Catherine, and I suppose I've
added to her usual burden of vapours and melancholy--so we're a couple
of miserable wretches. It's not very unselfish of us to ask you to come
and join us under such circumstances--"
As he spoke my mind suddenly made itself up. I would go. Why not? A
cruise on a magnificent steam yacht, replete with every comfort and
luxury, was surely a fairly pleasant way of taking a holiday, even with
two invalids for company.
"I'm sorry," I said, as gently as I could--"very sorry that you are
ill. Perhaps the doctors may be mistaken. They are not always
infallible. Many of their doomed patients have recovered in spite of
their verdict. And--as you and Miss Harland wish it so much--I will
certainly come."
His frowning face lightened, and for a moment looked almost kind.
"That's right!" he said--"The fresh air and the sea will do you good.
As for ourselves, sickly people though we are, we shall not obtrude our
ailments upon your attention. At least _I_ shall not. Catherine
may--she has got into an unfortunate habit of talking about her aches
and pains, and if her acquaintances have no aches and pains to discuss
with her she is at a loss for conversation. However, we shall do our
best to make the time go easily with you. There will be no other
company on board--except my private secretary and my attendant
physician,--both decent fellows who know their place and keep it."
The hard look settled again in his eyes, and his ugly mouth closed
firmly in its usual cruel line. My subconscious dislike of him gave me
a sharp thrust of regret that, after all, I had accepted his invitation.
"I was going to Scotland for a change,"--I murmured, hesitatingly.
"Were you? Then our plans coincide. We join the yacht at Rothesay--you
can meet us there. I propose a cruise among the Western isles--the
Hebrides--and possibly on to Norway and its fjords. What do you say?"
My heart thrilled with a sudden sense of expectant joy. In my fancy I
already saw the heather-crowned summits of the Highland hills, bathed
in soft climbing mists of amethyst and rose,--the lovely purple light
that dances on the mountain lochs at the sinking of the sun,--the
exquisite beauty of wild moor and rocky foreland,--and almost I was
disposed to think this antipathetic millionaire an angel of blessing in
disguise.
"It will be delightful!" I said, with real fervour--"I shall love it!
I'm glad you are going to keep to northern seas."
"Northern seas are the only seas possible for summer," he
replied--"With the winter one goes south, as a matter of course, though
I'm not sure that it is always advisable. I have found the
Mediterranean tiresome very often." He broke off and seemed to lose
himself for a moment in a tangle of vexed thought. Then he resumed
quickly:--"Well, next week, then. Rothesay bay, and the yacht 'Diana.'"
Things being thus settled, we shook hands and parted. In the interval
between his visit and my departure from home I had plenty to do, and I
heard no more of the Harlands, except that I received a little note
from Miss Catherine expressing her pleasure that I had agreed to
accompany them on their cruise.
"You will be very dull, I fear,"--she wrote, kindly--"But not so dull
as we should be without you."
This was a gracious phrase which meant as much or as little as most
such phrases of a conventionally amiable character. Dulness, however,
is a condition of brain and body of which I am seldom conscious, so
that the suggestion of its possibility did not disturb my outlook.
Having resolved to go, I equally resolved to enjoy the trip to the
utmost limit of my capacity for enjoyment, which--fortunately for
myself--is very great. Before my departure from home I had to listen,
of course, to the usual croaking chorus of acquaintances in the
neighbourhood who were not going yachting and who, according to their
own assertion, never would on any account go yachting. There is a
tendency in many persons to decry every pleasure which they have no
chance of sharing, and this was not lacking among my provincial gossips.
"The weather has been so fine lately that we're sure to have a break
soon,"--said one--"I expect you'll meet gales at sea."
"I hear," said another, "that heavy rains are threatening the west
coast of Scotland."
"Such a bore, yachting!" declared a worthy woman who had never been on
a yacht in her life--"The people on board get sick of each other's
company in a week!"
"Well, you ought to pity me very much, then!"--I said,
laughing--"According to your ideas, a yachting cruise appears to be the
last possible form of physical suffering that can be inflicted on any
human being. But I shall hope to come safely out of it all the same!"
My visitors gave me a wry smile. It was quite easy to see that they
envied what they considered my good fortune in getting a holiday under
the most luxurious circumstances without its costing me a penny. This
was the only view they took of it. It is the only view people generally
take of any situation,--namely, the financial side.
The night before I left home was to me a memorable one. Nothing of any
outward or apparent interest happened, and I was quite alone, yet I was
conscious of a singular elation of both mind and body as though I were
surrounded by a vibrating atmosphere of light and joy. It was an
impression that came upon me suddenly, seeming to have little or
nothing to do with my own identity, yet withal it was still so personal
that I felt eager to praise for such a rich inflow of happiness. The
impression was purely psychic I knew,--but it was worth a thousand
gifts of material good. Nothing seemed sad,--nothing seemed difficult
in the whole Universe--every shadow of trouble seemed swept away from a
shining sky of peace. I threw open the lattice window of my study and
stepping out on the balcony which overhung the garden, I stood there
dreamily looking out upon the night. There was no moon; only a million
quivering points of light flashing from the crowded stars in a heaven
of dusky blue. The air was warm, and fragrant with the sweet scent of
stocks and heliotrope,--there was a great silence, for it was fully
midnight, and not even the drowsy twitter of a bird broke the intense
quiet. The world was asleep--or seemed so--although for fifty living
organisms in Nature that sleep there are a thousand that wake, to whom
night is the working day. I listened,--and fancied I could hear the
delicate murmuring of voices hidden among the leaves and behind the
trees, and the thrill of soft music flowing towards me on the
sound-waves of the air. It was one of those supreme moments when I
almost thought I had made some marked progress towards the attainment
of my highest aims,--when the time I had spent and the patience I had
exercised in cultivating and training what may be called the INWARD
powers of sight and hearing were about to be rewarded by a full opening
to my striving spirit of the gates which had till now been only set
ajar. I knew,--for I had studied and proved the truth,--that every
bodily sense we possess is simply an imperfect outcome of its original
and existent faculty in the Soul,--that our bodily ears are only the
material expressions of that spiritual hearing which is fine and keen
enough to catch the lightest angel whisper,--that our eyes are but the
outward semblance of those brilliant inner orbs of vision which are
made to look upon the supernal glories of Heaven itself without fear or
flinching,--and that our very sense of touch is but a rough and
uncertain handling of perishable things as compared with that sure and
delicate contact of the Soul's personal being with the etheric
substances pertaining to itself. Despite my eager expectation, however,
nothing more was granted to me then but just that exquisite sensation
of pure joy, which like a rain of light bathed every fibre of my being.
It was enough, I told myself--surely enough!--and yet it seemed to me
there should be something more. It was a promise with the fulfilment
close at hand, yet undeclared,--like a snow-white cloud with the sun
behind it. But I was given no solution of the rapturous mystery
surrounding me,--and--granting my soul an absolute freedom, it could
plunge no deeper than through the immensity of stars to immensities
still more profound, there to dream and hope and wait. For years I had
done this,--for years I had worked and prayed, watching the pageant of
poor human pride and vanity drift past me like shadows on the shore of
a dead sea,--succeeding little by little in threading my way through
the closest labyrinths of life, and finding out the beautiful reasons
of living;--and every now and then,--as to-night,--I had felt myself on
the verge of a discovery which in its divine simplicity should make all
problems clear and all difficulties easy, when I had been gently but
firmly held back by a force invisible, and warned, 'Thus far, and no
farther!' To oppose this force or make any personal effort to rebel
against it, is no part of my faith,--therefore at such moments I had
always yielded instantly and obediently as I yielded now. I was not
allowed to fathom the occult source of my happiness, but the happiness
remained,--and when I retired to rest it was with more than ordinary
gratitude that I said my usual brief prayer:--For the day that is past,
I thank Thee, O God my Father! For the night that has come, I thank
Thee! As one with Thee and with Nature I gratefully take the rest Thou
hast lovingly ordained. Whether I sleep or wake my body and soul are
Thine. Do with them as Thou wilt, for Thy command is my joy. Amen.
I slept as soundly and peacefully as a child, and the next day started
on my journey in the brightest of bright summer weather. A friend
travelled with me--one of those amiable women to whom life is always
pleasant because of the pleasantness in their own natures; she had
taken a house for the season in Inverness-shire, and I had arranged to
join her there when my trip with the Harlands was over, or rather, I
should say, when they had grown weary of me and I of them. The latter
chance was, thought my friend, whom I will call Francesca, most likely.
"There's no greater boredom,"--she declared--"than the society of an
imaginative invalid. Such company will not be restful to you,--it will
tire you out. Morton Harland himself may be really ill, as he says--I
shouldn't wonder if he is, for he looks it!--but his daughter has
nothing whatever the matter with her,--except nerves."
"Nerves are bad enough,"--I said.
"Nerves can be conquered,"--she answered, with a bright smile of
wholesome conviction--"Nerves are generally--well!--just selfishness!"
There was some truth in this, but we did not argue the point further.
We were too much engrossed with the interests of our journey north, and
with the entertainment provided for us by our fellow-travellers. The
train for Edinburgh and Glasgow was crowded with men of that particular
social class who find grouse-shooting an intelligent way of using their
brain and muscle, and gun-cases cumbered the ground in every corner. It
wanted yet several days to the famous Twelfth of August, but the
weather was so exceptionally fine and brilliant that the exodus from
town had begun earlier than was actually necessary for the purposes of
slaughter. Francesca and I studied the faces and figures of our
companions with lively and unabated interest. We had a reserved
compartment to ourselves, and from its secluded privacy we watched the
restless pacing up and down in the adjacent corridor of sundry male
creatures who seemed to have nothing whatever to think about but the
day's newspaper, and nothing to do but smoke.
"I am sure," said Francesca, suddenly--"that in the beginning of
creation we were all beasts and birds of prey, eating each other up and
tearing each other to pieces. The love of prey is in us still."
"Not in you, surely?" I queried, with a smile.
"Oh, I am not talking or thinking of myself. I'm just--a woman. So are
you--a woman--and something more, perhaps--something not like the rest
of us." Here her kind eyes regarded me a trifle wistfully. "I can't
quite make you out sometimes,--I wish I could! But--apart from you and
me--look at a few of these men! One has just passed our window who has
the exact physiognomy of a hawk,--cruel eyes and sharp nose like a
voracious beak. Another I noticed a minute ago with a perfectly
pig-like face,--he does not look rightly placed on two legs, his
natural attitude is on four legs, grunting with his snout in the
gutter!"