"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.