"I think him quite an exceptional man," I said--"Good and
great-hearted,--and I fancy he must have gone through much difficult
experience to make him what he is."
"I entirely disagree with you,"--said Dr. Brayle, quickly--"I've taken
his measure, and I think it's a fairly correct one. I believe him to be
a very clever and subtle charlatan, who affects a certain profound
mysticism in order to give himself undue importance--"
There was a sudden clash. Mr. Harland had brought his clenched fist
down upon the table with a force that made the glasses ring.
"I won't have that, Brayle!" he said, sharply--"I tell you I won't have
it! Santoris is no charlatan--never was!--he won his honours at Oxford
like a man--his conduct all the time I ever knew him was perfectly open
and blameless--he did no mean tricks, and pandered to nothing base--and
if some of us fellows were frightened of him (as we were) it was
because he did everything better than we could do it, and was superior
to us all. That's the truth!--and there's no getting over it. Nothing
gives small minds a better handle for hatred than
superiority--especially when that superiority is never asserted, but
only felt."
"You surprise me,"--murmured Brayle, half apologetically--"I thought--"
"Never mind what you thought!" said Mr. Harland, with a sudden ugly
irritation of manner that sometimes disfigured him--"Your thoughts are
not of the least importance!"
Dr. Brayle flushed angrily and Catherine looked surprised and visibly
indignant.
"Father! How can you be so rude!"
"Am I rude?" And Mr. Harland shrugged his shoulders
indifferently--"Well! I may be--but I never take a man's hospitality
and permit myself to listen to abuse of him afterwards."
"I assure you--" began Dr. Brayle, almost humbly.
"There, there! If I spoke hastily, I apologise. But Santoris is too
straightforward a man to be suspected of any dishonesty or
chicanery--and certainly no one on board this vessel shall treat his
name with anything but respect." Here he turned to me--"Will you come
on deck for a little while before bedtime, or would you rather rest?"
I saw that he wished to speak to me, and willingly agreed to accompany
him. Dinner being well over, we left the saloon, and were soon pacing
the deck together under the light of a brilliant moon. Instinctively we
both looked towards the 'Dream' yacht,--there was no illumination about
her this evening save the usual lamp hung in the rigging and the tiny
gleams of radiance through her port-holes,--and her graceful masts and
spars were like fine black pencillings seen against the bare slope of a
mountain made almost silver to the summit by the singularly searching
clearness of the moonbeams. My host paused in his walk beside me to
light a cigar.
"I'm sure you are convinced that Santoris is honest," he said--"Are you
not?"
"In what way should I doubt him?"--I replied, evasively--"I scarcely
know him!"
Hardly had I said this when a sudden self-reproach stung me. How dare I
say that I scarcely knew one who had been known to me for ages? I
leaned against the deck rail looking up at the violet sky, my heart
beating quickly. My companion was still busy lighting his cigar, but
when this was done to his satisfaction he resumed.
"True! You scarcely know him, but you are quick to form opinions, and
your instincts are often, though perhaps not always, correct. At any
rate, you have no distrust of him? You like him?"
"Yes,"--I answered, slowly--"I--I like him--very much."
And the violet sky, with its round white moon, seemed to swing in a
circle about me as I spoke--knowing that the true answer of my heart
was love, not liking!--that love was the magnet drawing me
irresistibly, despite my own endeavour, to something I could neither
understand nor imagine.
"I'm glad of that," said Mr. Harland--"It would have worried me a
little if you had taken a prejudice or felt any antipathy towards him.
I can see that Brayle hates him and has imbued Catherine with something
of his own dislike."