"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!"
Dared I trust to these suggestions which the worldly-wise would call
mere imagination? A profound philosopher of these latter days has
defined Imagination as 'an advanced perception of truth,' and avers
that the discoveries of the future can always be predicted by the poet
and the seer, whose receptive brains are the first to catch the
premonitions of those finer issues of thought which emanate from the
Divine intelligence. However this may be, my own experience of life had
taught me that what ordinary persons pin their faith upon as real, is
often unreal,--while such promptings of the soul as are almost
incapable of expression lead to the highest realities of existence. And
I decided at last to let matters take their own course, though I was
absolutely resolved to get away from the Harlands within the next two
or three days. I meant to ask Mr. Harland to land me at Portree, where
I could take the steamer for Glasgow;--any excuse would serve for a
hurried departure--and I felt now that departure was necessary.
A soft sound of musical bells reached my ears at this moment announcing
dinner,--and leaving the 'princess's' apartment, I met Santoris at the
entrance to the saloon. There was no one else there for the moment but
himself, and as I came towards him he took my hands in his own and
raised them to his lips.
"You are not yet resolved!" he said, in a low tone, smiling--"Take
plenty of time!"
I lifted my eyes to his, and all doubt seemed swept away in the light
of our mutual glances--I smiled in response to his look,--and we
loosened our hands quickly as Mr. Harland with his doctor and secretary
came down from the deck, Catherine joining us from the cabin where she
had disburdened herself of her invalid wrappings. She was rather more
elegantly attired than usual--she wore a curious purple-coloured gown
with threads of gold interwoven in the stuff, and a collar of lace
turned back at the throat gave her the aspect of an old Italian
picture--a sort of 'Portrait of a lady,--Artist unknown.' Not a
pleasant portrait, perhaps--but characteristic of a certain dull and
self-centred type of woman. We were soon seated at table--a table
richly, yet daintily, appointed, and adorned with the costliest flowers
and fruits. The men who waited upon us were all Easterns, dark-eyed and
dark-skinned, and wore the Eastern dress,--all their movements were
swift yet graceful and dignified--they made no noise in the business of
serving,--not a dish clattered, not a glass clashed. They were perfect
servants, taking care to avoid the common but reprehensible method of
offering dishes to persons conversing, thus interrupting the flow of
talk at inopportune moments. And what talk it was!--all sorts of
subjects, social and impersonal, came up for discussion, and Santoris
handled them with such skill that he made us forget that there was
anything remarkable or unusual about himself or his surroundings,
though, as a matter of fact, no more princely banquet could ever have
been served in the most luxurious of palaces. Half-way through the
meal, when the conversation came for a moment to a pause, the most
exquisite music charmed our ears--beginning softly and far away, it
swelled out to rich and glorious harmonies like a full orchestra
playing under the sea. We looked at each other and then at our host in
charmed enquiry.
"Electricity again!" he said--"So simply managed that it is not worth
talking about! Unfortunately, it is mechanical music, and this can
never be like the music evolved from brain and fingers; however, it
fills in gaps of silence when conventional minds are at a strain for
something to say--something quite 'safe' and unlikely to provoke
discussion!"
His keen blue eyes flashed with a sudden gleam of scorn in them. I
looked at him half questioningly, and the scorn melted into a smile.
"It isn't good form to start any subject which might lead to argument,"
he went on--"The modern brain must not be exercised too
strenuously,--it is not strong enough to stand much effort. What do you
say, Harland?"
"I agree," answered Mr. Harland. "As a rule people who dine as well as
we are dining to-night have no room left for mentality--they become all
digestion!"
Dr. Brayle laughed.
"Nothing like a good dinner if one has an appetite for it. I think it
quite possible that Faust would have left his Margaret for a full meal!"
"I'm sure he would!" chimed in Mr. Swinton--"Any man would!"
Santoris looked down the table with a curious air of half-amused
inspection. His eyes, clear and searching in their swift glance, took
in the whole group of us--Mr. Harland enjoying succulent asparagus; Dr.
Brayle drinking champagne; Mr. Swinton helping himself out of some dish
of good things offered to him by one of the servants; Catherine playing
in a sort of demure, old-maidish way with knife and fork as if she were
eating against her will--and finally they rested on me, to whom the
dinner was just a pretty pageant of luxury in which I scarcely took any
part.
"Well, whatever Faust would or would not do," he said, half
laughingly--"it's certain that food is never at a discount. Women
frequently are."
"Women," said Mr. Harland, poising a stem of asparagus in the air, "are
so constituted as to invariably make havoc either of themselves or of
the men they profess to love. Wives neglect their husbands, and
husbands naturally desert their wives. Devoted lovers quarrel and part
over the merest trifles. The whole thing is a mistake."
"What whole thing?" asked Santoris, smiling.
"The relations between man and woman," Harland answered. "In my opinion
we should conduct ourselves like the birds and animals, whose
relationships are neither binding nor lasting, but are just sufficient
to preserve the type. That's all that is really needed. What is called
love is mere sentiment."
"Do you endorse that verdict, Miss Harland?" Santoris asked, suddenly.
Catherine looked up, startled--her yellow skin flushed a pale red.
"I don't know," she answered--"I scarcely heard--""
"Your father doesn't believe in love," he said--"Do you?"
"I hope it exists," she murmured--"But nowadays people are so VERY
practical--"
"Oh, believe me, they are no more practical now than they ever were!"
averred Santoris, laughing. "There's as much romance in the modern
world as in the ancient;--the human heart has the same passions, but
they are more deeply suppressed and therefore more dangerous. And love
holds the same eternal sway--so does jealousy."
Dr. Brayle looked up.
"Jealousy is an uncivilised thing," he said--"It is a kind of primitive
passion from which no well-ordered mind should suffer."
Santoris smiled.
"Primitive passions are as forceful as they ever were," he answered.
"No culture can do away with them. Jealousy, like love, is one of the
motive powers of progress. It is a great evil--but a necessary one--as
necessary as war. Without strife of some sort the world would become
like a stagnant pool breeding nothing but weeds and the slimy creatures
pertaining to foulness. Even in love, the most divine of passions,
there should be a wave of uncertainty and a sense of unsolved mystery
to give it everlastingness."
"Everlastingness?" queried Mr. Harland--"Or simply life lastingness?"
"Everlastingness!" repeated Santoris. "Love that lacks eternal
stability is not love at all, but simply an affectionate understanding
and agreeable companionship in this world only. For the other world or
worlds--"
"Ah! You are going too far," interrupted Mr. Harland--"You know I
cannot follow you! And with all due deference to the fair sex I very
much doubt if any one of them would care for a love that was destined
to last for ever."
"No MAN would," interrupted Brayle, sarcastically.
Santoris gave him a quick glance.
"No man is asked to care!" he said--"Nor woman either. SOULS are not
only asked, but COMMANDED, to care! This, however, is beyond you!"
"And beyond most people," answered Brayle--"Such ideas are purely
imaginary and transcendental."
"Granted!" And Santoris gave him a quick, straight glance--"But what do
you mean by 'imaginary' and 'transcendental'? Imagination is the
faculty of conceiving in the brain ideas which may with time spring to
the full fruition of realisation. Every item of our present-day
civilisation has been 'imagined' before taking practical shape.
'Transcendental' means BEYOND the ordinary happenings of life and
life's bodily routine--and this 'beyond' expresses itself so often that
there are few lives lived for a single day without some touch of its
inexplicable marvel. It is on such lines as these that human beings
drift away from happiness,--they will only believe what they can see,
while all the time their actual lives depend on what they do NOT see!"
There was a moment's silence. The charm of his voice was potent--and
still more so the fascination of his manner and bearing, and Mr.
Harland looked at him in something of wonder and appeal.
"You are a strange fellow, Santoris!" he said, at last, "And you always
were! Even now I can hardly believe that you are really the very
Santoris that struck such terror into the hearts of some of us
undergrads at Oxford! I say I can hardly believe it, though I know you
ARE the man. But I wish you would tell me--"
"All about myself?" And Santoris smiled--"I will, with pleasure!--if
the story does not bore you. There is no mystery about it--no 'black
magic,' or 'occultism' of any kind. I have done nothing since I left
college but adapt myself to the forces of Nature, AND TO USE THEM WHEN
NECESSARY. The same way of life is open to all--and the same results
are bound to follow."
"Results? Such as--?" queried Brayle.
"Health, youth and power!" answered Santoris, with an involuntary
slight clenching of the firm, well-shaped hand that rested lightly on
the table,--"Command of oneself!--command of body, command of spirit,
and so on through an ever ascending scale! Every man with the breath of
God in him is a master, not a slave!"
My heart beat quickly as he spoke; something rose up in me like a
response to a call, and I wondered--Did he assume to master ME? No! I
would not yield to that! If yielding were necessary, it must be my own
free will that gave in, not his compelling influence! As this thought
ran through my brain I met his eyes,--he smiled a little, and I saw he
had guessed my mind. The warm blood rushed to my cheeks in a fervent
glow, nevertheless the defiance of my soul was strong--as strong as the
love which had begun to dominate me. And I listened eagerly as he went
on.
"I began at Oxford by playing the slave part," he said--"a slave to
conventions and fossil-methods of instruction. One can really learn
more from studying the actual formation of rocks than from those worthy
Dons whom nothing will move out of their customary ruts of routine.
Even at that early time I felt that, given a man of health and good
physical condition, with sound brain, sound lungs and firm nerves, it
was not apparent why he, evidently born to rule, should put himself
into the leading strings of Oxford or any other forcing-bed of
intellectual effort. That it would be better if such an one took
HIMSELF in hand and tried to find out HIS OWN meaning, both in relation
to the finite and infinite gradations of Spirit and Matter. And I
resolved to enter upon the task--without allowing myself to fear
failure or to hope for success. My aim was to discover Myself and my
meaning, if such a thing were possible. No atom, however infinitesimal,
is without origin, history, place and use in the Universe--and I, a
conglomerated mass of atoms called Man, resolved to search out the
possibilities, finite and infinite, of my own entity. With this aim I
began--with this aim I continued."
"Your task is not finished, then?" put in Dr. Brayle, with a smilingly
incredulous air.
"It will never be finished," answered Santoris--"An eternal thing has
no end."
There was a moment's silence.
"Well,--go on, Santoris!" said Mr. Harland, with a touch of
impatience,--"And tell us especially what we all of us are chiefly
anxious to know--how it is that you are young when according to the
time of the world you should be old?"
Santoris smiled again.
"Ah! That is a purely personal touch of inquisitiveness!" he
answered--"It is quite human and natural, of course, but not always
wise. In every great lesson of life or scientific discovery people ask
first of all 'How can _I_ benefit by it?' or 'How will it affect ME?'
And while asking the question they yet will not trouble to get an
answer OUT OF THEMSELVES,--but they turn to others for the solution of
the mystery. To keep young is not at all difficult; when certain simple
processes of Nature are mastered the difficulty is to grow old!"
We all sat silent, waiting in mute expectancy. The servants had left
us, and only the fruits and dainties of dessert remained to tempt us in
baskets and dishes of exquisitely coloured Venetian glass, contrasting
with the graceful clusters of lovely roses and lilies which added their
soft charm to the decorative effect of the table, and Santoris passed
the wine, a choice Chateau-Yquem, round to us all before beginning to
speak again. And when he did speak, it was in a singularly quiet,
musical voice which exercised a kind of spell upon my ears--I had heard
that voice before--ah!--how often! How often through the course of my
life had I listened to it wonderingly in dreams of which the waking
morning brought no explanation! How it had stolen upon me like an echo
from far away, when alone in the pauses of work and thought I had
longed for some comprehension and sympathy! And I had reproached myself
for my own fancies and imaginings, deeming them wholly foolish and
irresponsible! And now! Now its gentle and familiar tone went straight
to the centre of my spiritual consciousness, and forced me to realise
that for the Soul there is no escape from its immortal remembrance!