“Or a Lower,” — I put in, quietly.
“Ah yes! There must be a Down grade, of course, if there is an Up. The two would be part of each other’s existence. But as I accept neither, the point does not matter.”
I looked at him, and I suppose my looks expressed wonder or pity or both, for he averted his glance from mine.
“You are something of a spiritualist, I believe?” — said Dr. Brayle, lifting his hard eyes from the scrutiny of the tablecloth and fixing them upon me.
“Not at all,” — I answered, at once, and with emphasis. “That is, if you mean by the term ‘spiritualist’ a credulous person who believes in mediumistic trickery, automatic writing and the like. That is sheer nonsense and self-deception.”
“Several experienced scientists give these matters considerable attention,” — suggested Mr. Swinton, primly.
I smiled.
“Science, like everything else, has its borderland,” I said— “from which the brain can easily slip off into chaos. The most approved scientific professors are liable to this dire end of their speculations. They forget that in order to understand the Infinite they must first be sure of the Infinite in themselves.”
“You speak like an oracle, fair lady!” — said Mr. Harland— “But despite your sage utterances Man remains as finite as ever.”
“If he chooses the finite state certainly he does,” — I answered— “He is always what he elects to be.”
Mr. Harland seemed desirous of continuing the argument, but I would say no more. The topic was too serious and sacred with me to allow it to be lightly discussed by persons whose attitude of mind was distinctly opposed and antipathetic to all things beyond the merely mundane.
After dinner, Miss Catherine professed herself to be suffering from neuralgia, and gathering up her shawls and wraps asked me to excuse her for going to bed early. I bade her good-night, and, leaving my host and the two other men to their smoke, I went up on deck. We were anchored off Mull, and against a starlit sky of exceptional clearness the dark mountains of Morven were outlined with a softness as of black velvet. The yacht rested on perfectly calm waters, shining like polished steel, — and the warm stillness of the summer night was deliciously soothing and restful. Our captain and one or two of the sailors were about on duty, and I sat in the stern of the vessel looking up into the glorious heavens. The tapering bow-sprit of the ‘Diana’ pointed aloft as it were into a woven web of stars, and I lost myself in imaginary flight among those glittering unknown worlds, oblivious of my material surroundings, and forgetting that despite the splendid evidences of a governing Intelligence in the beauty and order of the Universe spread about them every day, my companions in the journey of pleasure we were undertaking together were actually destitute of all faith in God, and had less perception of the existing Divine than the humblest plant may possess that instinctively forces its way upward to the light. I did not think of this, — it was no use thinking about it as I could not better the position, — but I found myself curiously considering the story Mr. Harland had told about his college friend at Oxford. I tried to picture his face and figure till presently it seemed as if I saw him, — indeed I could have sworn that a man’s shadowy form stood immediately in front of me, bending upon me a searching glance from eyes that were strangely familiar. Startled at this wraith of my own fancy, I half rose from my chair — then sank back again with a laugh at my imagination’s too vivid power of portrayal. A figure did certainly present itself, but one of sufficient bulk to convince me of its substantiality. This was the captain of the ‘Diana,’ a cheery-looking personage of a thoroughly nautical type, who, approaching me, lifted his cap and said:
“That’s a wonderfully fine yacht that has just dropped anchor behind us. She’s illuminated, too. Have you seen her?”
“No,” I answered, and turned in the direction he indicated. An involuntary exclamation escaped me. There, about half a mile to our rear, floated a schooner of exquisite proportions and fairy-like grace, outlined from stem to stern by delicate borderings of electric light as though decorated for some great festival, and making quite a glittering spectacle in the darkness of the deepening night. We could see active figures at work on deck — the sails were dropped and quickly furled, — but the quivering radiance remained running up every tapering mast and spar, so that the whole vessel seemed drawn on the dusky air with pencil points of fire. I stood up, gazing at the wonderful sight in silent amazement and admiration, with the captain beside me, and it was he who first spoke.
“I can’t make her out,” — he said, perplexedly,— “We never heard a sound except just when she dropped anchor, and that was almost noiseless. How she came round the point yonder so suddenly is a mystery! I was keeping a sharp look-out, too.”
“Surely she’s very large for a sailing vessel?” I queried.
“The largest I’ve ever seen,” — he replied— “But how did she sail? That’s what I want to know!”
He looked so puzzled that I laughed.
“Well, I suppose in the usual way,” — I said— “With sails.”
“Ay, that’s all very well!” — and he glanced at me with a compassionate air as at one who knew nothing about seafaring— “But sails must have wind, and there hasn’t been a capful all the afternoon or evening. Yet she came in with crowded canvas full out as if there was a regular sou’wester, and found her anchorage as easy as you please. All in a minute, too. If there was a wind it wasn’t a wind belonging to this world! Wouldn’t Mr. Harland perhaps like to see her?”
I took the hint and ran down into the saloon, which by this time was full of the stifling odours of smoke and whisky. Mr. Harland was there, drinking and talking somewhat excitedly with Dr. Brayle, while his secretary listened and looked on. I explained why I had ventured to interrupt their conversation, and they accompanied me up on deck. The strange yacht looked more bewilderingly brilliant than ever, the heavens having somewhat clouded over, and as we all, the captain included, leaned over our own deck rail and gazed at her shining outlines, we heard the sound of delicious music and singing floating across the quiet sea.
“Some millionaire’s toy,” — said Mr. Harland— “She’s floating from the mysterious yacht.” It was a music full of haunting sweetness and rhythmic melody, and I was not sure whether it was evolved from stringed instruments or singing voices. By climbing up on the sofa in my sitting-room I could look out through the port-hole on the near sea, rippling close to me, and bringing, as I fancied, with every ripple a new cadence, a tenderer snatch of tune. A subtle scent was on the salt air, as of roses mingling with the freshness of the scarcely moving waters, — it came, I thought, from the beautiful blossoms which so lavishly adorned my rooms. I could not see the yacht from my point of observation, but I could hear the music she had on board, and that was enough for immediate delight.
Leaving the port-hole open, I lay down on the sofa immediately beneath it and comprised myself to listen. The soft breath of the sea blew on my cheeks, and with every breath the delicate vibrations of appealing harmony rose and fell — it was as if these enchanting sounds were being played or sung for me alone. In a delicious languor I drowsed, as it were, with my eyes open, — losing myself in a labyrinth of happy dreams and fancies which came to me unbidden, — till presently the music died softly away like a retreating wave and ceased altogether. I waited a few minutes — listening breathlessly lest it should begin again and I lose some note of it, — then hearing no more, I softly closed the port-hole and drew the curtain. I did this with an odd reluctance, feeling somehow that I had shut out a friend; and I half apologised to this vague sentiment by reminding myself of the lateness of the hour. It was nearly midnight. I had intended writing to Francesca, — but I was now disinclined for anything but rest. The music which had so entranced me throbbed still in my ears and made my heart beat with a quick sense of joy,-children — there may be several inoffensive reasons for his lighting up, and he may think no more of advertisement than y
ou or I.”
“That’s true,” — assented Dr. Brayle, with a quick concession to his patron’s humour. “But people nowadays do so many queer things for mere notoriety’s sake that it is barely possible to avoid suspecting them. They will even kill themselves in order to be talked about.”
“Fortunately they don’t hear what’s said of them,” — returned Mr. Harland— “or they might alter their minds and remain alive. It’s hardly worth while to hang yourself in order to be called a fool!”
While this talk went on I remained silent, watching the illuminated schooner with absorbed fascination. Suddenly, while I still gazed upon her, every spark with which she was, as it were, bejewelled, went out, and only the ordinary lamps common to the watches of the night on board a vessel at anchorage burned dimly here and there like red winking eyes. For the rest, she was barely visible save by an indistinct tracery of blurred black lines. The swiftness with which her brilliancy had been eclipsed startled us all and drew from Captain Derrick the remark that it was ‘rather queer.’
“What pantomimists call a ‘quick change’” — said Mr. Harland, with a laugh— “The show is over for to-night. Let us turn in. To-morrow morning we’ll try and make acquaintance with the stranger, and find out for Captain Derrick’s comfort how she managed to sail without wind!”
We bade each other good-night then, and descended to our several quarters.
When I found myself alone in the luxurious state-room ‘suite’ allotted to me, the first thing I did was to open one of the port-holes and listen to the music which still came superbly built, — sailing vessels are always more elegant than steam, though not half so useful. I expect she’ll lie becalmed here for a day or two.”
“It’s a wonder she’s got round here at all,” — said the captain— “There wasn’t any wind to bring her.”
Mr. Harland looked amused.
“There must have been SOME wind, Derrick,” — he answered— “Only it wasn’t boisterous enough for a hardy salt like you to feel it.”
“There wasn’t a breath,” — declared Derrick, firmly— “Not enough to blow a baby’s curl.”
“Then how did she get here?” asked Dr. Brayle.
Captain Derrick’s lifted eyebrows expressed his inability to solve the enigma.
“I said just now if there was a wind it wasn’t a wind belonging to this world—”
Mr. Harland turned upon him quickly.
“Well, there are no winds belonging to other worlds that will ever disturb OUR atmosphere,” — he said— “Come, come, Derrick, you don’t think that yacht is a ghost, do you? — a sort of ‘Flying Dutchman’ spectre?”
Captain Derrick smiled broadly.
“No, sir — I don’t! There’s flesh and blood aboard — I’ve seen the men hauling down canvas, and I know that. But the way she sailed in bothers me.”
“All that electric light is rather ostentatious,” — said Dr. Brayle— “I suppose the owner wants to advertise his riches.”
“That doesn’t follow,” said Mr. Harland, with some sharpness— “I grant you we live in an advertising age, but I don’t fancy the owner of that vessel is a Pill or a Plaster or even a Special Tea. He may want to amuse himself — it may be the birthday of his wife or one of his and a warm atmosphere of peace and comfort came over me when at last I lay down in my luxurious bed, and slipped away into the land of sleep. Ah, what a land it is, that magic Land of Sleep! — a land ‘shadowing with wings,’ where amid many shifting and shimmering wonders of darkness and light, the Palace of Vision stands uplifted, stately and beautiful, with golden doors set open to the wanderer! I made my entrance there that night; — often and often as I had been within its enchanted precincts before, there were a million halls of marvel as yet unvisited, — and among these I found myself, — under a dome which seemed of purest crystal lit with fire, — listening to One invisible, who, — speaking as from a great height, discoursed to me of Love.”
III. THE ANGEL OF A DREAM
The Voice that spoke to me was silvery clear, and fell as it were through the air, dividing space with sweetness. It was soft and resonant, and the thrill of tenderness within it was as though an angel sang through tears. Never had I heard anything so divinely pure and compassionate, — and all my being strove to lift itself towards that supernal height which seemed to be the hidden source of its melodious utterance.
“O Soul, wandering in the region of sleep and dreams!” said the Voice,— “What is all thy searching and labour worth without Love? Why art thou lost in a Silence without Song?”
I raised my eyes, seeking for the one who thus spoke to me, but could see nothing.
“In Life’s great choral symphony” — the Voice continued— “the keynote of the dominant melody is Love! Without the keynote there can be no music, — there is dumbness where there should be sound, — there is discord where there should be harmony. Love! — the one vibrant tone to which the whole universe moves in tune, — Love, the breath of God, the pulsation of His Being, the glory of His work, the fulfilment of His Eternal Joy, — Love, and Love alone, is the web and texture and garment of happy Immortality! O Soul that seekest the way to wisdom and to power, what dost thou make of Love?”
I trembled and stood mute. It seemed that I was surrounded by solemn Presences whose nearness I could feel but not see, and unknowing who it was that spoke to me, I was afraid to answer.
“Far in the Past, thousands of ages ago,” went on the Voice— “the world we call the Sorrowful Star was a perfect note in a perfect scale. It was in tune with the Divine Symphony. But with the sweep of centuries it has lagged behind; it has fallen from Light into Shadow. And rather than rise to Light again, it has made of itself a discord opposed to the eternal Harmony. It has chosen for its keynote Hate, — not Love! Each nation envies or despises the other, — each man struggles against his fellow-man and grudges his neighbour every small advantage, — and more than all, each Creed curses the other, blasphemously calling upon God to verify and fulfil the curse! Hate, not Love! — this is the false note struck by the pitiful Earth-world to-day, swinging out of all concordance with spherical sweetness! — Hate that prefers falsehood to truth, malice to kindness, selfishness to generosity! O Sorrowful Star! — doomed so soon to perish! — turn, turn, even in thy last moments, back to the Divine Ascendant before it is too late!”
I listened, — and a sense of hopeless fear possessed me. I tried to speak, and a faint whisper crept from my lips. “Why,” — I murmured to myself, for I did not suppose anyone could or would hear me— “why should we and our world perish? We knew so little at the beginning, and we know so little now, — is it altogether our fault if we have lost our way?”
A silence followed. A vague, impalpable sense of restraint and captivity seemed closing me in on every side, — I was imprisoned, as I thought, within invisible walls. Then all at once this density of atmosphere was struck asunder by a dazzling light as of cloven wings, but I could see no actual shape or even suggestion of substance — the glowing rays were all. And the Voice spoke again with grave sweetness and something of reproach.
“Who speaks of losing the way?” it asked— “when the way is, and has ever been, clear and plain? Nature teaches it, — Law and Order support it. Obey and ye shall live: disobey and ye shall die! There is no other ruling than this out of Chaos! Who is it that speaks of losing the way, when the way is, and has been and ever shall be, clear and plain?”
I stretched out my hands involuntarily. My eyes filled with tears.
“O Angel invisible!” I prayed— “Forgive my weakness and unwisdom! How can the world be saved or comforted by a Love it never finds!”
Again a silence. Again that dazzling, quivering radiance, flashing as in an atmosphere of powdered gold.
“What does the world seek most ardently?” it demanded— “The Love of God? — or the Love of Self? If it seeks the first, all things in heaven and earth shall be added to its desire — if the second, all shal
l be taken from it, even that which it hath!”
I had, as I thought, no answer to give, but I covered my weeping eyes with both hands and knelt before the unseen speaker as to some great Spirit enthroned.
“Love is not Love that loves Itself,” — went on the Voice— “Self is the Image, not the God. Wouldst thou have Eternal Life? Then find the secret in Eternal Love!— ‘Love, which can move worlds and create universes, — the love of soul for soul, angel for angel, god for god!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 760