Chapter 10 STRANGE ASSOCIATIONS

The next day the race agreed upon was run in the calmest of calm weather. There was not the faintest breath of wind,-the sea was still as a pond and almost oily in its smooth, motionless shining-and it was evident at first that our captain entertained no doubt whatever as to the 'Diana,' with her powerful engines, being easily able to beat the aerial-looking 'Dream' schooner, which at noon-day, with all sails spread, came gliding up beside us till she lay point to point at equal distance and at nearly equal measurement with our more cumbersome vessel. Mr. Harland was keenly excited; Dr.

Brayle was ready to lay any amount of wagers as to the impossibility of a sailing vessel, even granted she was moved by electricity, out-racing one of steam in such a dead calm. As the two vessels lay on the still waters, the 'Diana' fussily getting up steam, and the 'Dream' with sails full out as if in a stiff breeze, despite the fact that there was no wind, we discussed the situation eagerly-or rather I should say my host and his people discussed it, for I had nothing to say, knowing that the victory was sure to be with Santoris. We were in very lonely waters,-there was room and to spare for plenty of racing, and when all was ready and Santoris saluted us from the deck, lifting his cap and waving it in response to a similar greeting from Mr. Harland and our skipper, the signal to start was given. We moved off together, and for at least half an hour or more the 'Dream' floated along in a kind of lazy indolence, keeping up with us easily, her canvas filled, and her keel cutting the water as if swept by a favouring gale. The result of the race was soon a foregone conclusion,-for presently, when well out on the mirror-like calm of the sea, the 'Dream' showed her secret powers in earnest, and flew like a bird with a silent swiftness that was almost incredible. Our yacht put on all steam in the effort to keep up with her,-in vain! On, on, with light grace and celerity her white sails carried her like the wings of a sea-gull, and almost before we could realise it she vanished altogether from our sight! I saw a waste of water spread around us emptily like a wide circle of crystal reflecting the sky, and a sense of desolation fell upon me in the mere fact that we were temporarily left alone. We steamed on and on in the direction of the vanished 'Dream,'-our movements suggesting those of some clumsy four-footed animal panting its way after a bird, but unable to come up with her.

"Wonderful!" said Mr. Harland, at last, drawing a long breath,-"I would never have believed it possible!"

"Nor I!" agreed Captain Derrick-"I certainly thought she would never have managed it in such a dead calm. For though I have seen some of her mechanism I cannot entirely understand it."

Dr. Brayle was silent. It was evident that he was annoyed-though why he should be so was not apparent. I myself was full of secret anxiety-for the 'Dream' yacht's sudden and swift disappearance had filled me with a wretched sense of loneliness beyond all expression. Suppose she should not return! I had no clue to her whereabouts-and with the loss of Santoris I knew I should lose all that was worth having in my life. While these miserable thoughts were yet chasing each other through my brain I suddenly caught a far glimpse of white sails on the horizon.

"She's coming back!" I cried, enraptured, and heedless of what I said-"Oh, thank God! She's coming back!"

They all looked at me in amazement.

"Why, what's the matter with you?" asked Mr. Harland, smiling. "You surely didn't think she was in any danger?"

My cheeks grew warm.

"I didn't know-I could not imagine-" I faltered, and turning away I met Dr. Brayle's eyes fixed upon me with a gleam of malice in them.

"I'm sure," he said, suavely, "you are greatly interested in Mr.

Santoris! Perhaps you have met each other before?"

"Never!" I answered, hurriedly,-and then checked myself, startled and confused. He kept his narrow brown eyes heedfully upon me and smiled slightly.

"Really! I should have thought otherwise!"

I did not trouble myself to reply. The white sails of the 'Dream' were coming nearer and nearer over the smooth width of the sunlit water, and as she approached my heart grew warm with gratitude. Life was again a thing of joy!-the world was no longer empty! That ship looked to me like a beautiful winged spirit coming towards me with radiant assurances of hope and consolation, and I lost all fear, all sadness, all foreboding, as she gradually swept up alongside in the easy triumph she had won. Our crew assembled to welcome her, and cheered lustily. Santoris, standing on her deck, lightly acknowledged the salutes which gave him the victory, and presently both our vessels were once more at their former places of anchorage. When all the excitement was over, I went down to my cabin to rest for a while before dressing for the dinner on board the 'Dream' to which we were all invited,-and while I lay on my sofa reading, Catherine Harland knocked at my door and asked to come in, I admitted her at once, and she flung herself into an arm-chair with a gesture of impatience.

"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!"

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!