“In the Force that is BEHIND your system of electrons and atoms” — I said— “For by whatever means or substances the Universe is composed, a mighty Intelligence governs it — and I look to the Cause more than the Effect. For even I am a part of the whole, — I belong to the source of the stream as much as to the stream itself. An abstract, lifeless principle without will or intention or intelligence could not have evolved the splendours of Nature or the intellectual capabilities of man — it could not have given rise to what was not in itself.”
He fixed his eyes steadily upon me.
“That last sentence is sound argument,” he said, as though reluctantly admitting the obvious,— “And I suppose I am to presume that ‘Itself’ is the well-spring from which you draw, or imagine you draw, your psychic force?”
“If I have any psychic force at all,” I responded,— “where do you suppose it should come from but that which gives vitality to all animate Nature? I cannot understand why you blind yourself to the open and visible fact of a Divine Intelligence working in and through all things. If you could but acknowledge it and set yourself in tune with it you would find life a new and far more dominant joy than it is to you now. I firmly believe that your very illness has arisen from your determined attitude of unbelief.”
“That’s what a Christian Scientist would say,” he answered, with a touch of scorn,— “I begin to think Dr. Brayle is right in his estimate of you.”
I held my peace.
“Have you no curiosity?” he demanded— “Don’t you want to know his opinion?”
“No,” — and I smiled— “My dear Mr. Harland, with all your experience of the world, has it never occurred to you that there are some people whose opinions don’t matter?”
“Brayle is a clever man,” — he said, somewhat testily, “And you are merely an imaginative woman.”
“Then why do you trouble about me?” I asked him, quickly— “Why do you want to find out that something in me which baffles both Dr. Brayle and yourself?”
It was now his turn to be silent, and he remained so for some time, his eyes fixed on the shadowing heavens. The waves were roughening slightly and a swell from the Atlantic lifted the ‘Diana’ curtsying over their foam-flecked crests as she ploughed her way swiftly along. Presently he turned to me with a smile.
“Let us strike a truce!” — he said— “I promise not to try and ‘draw’ you any more! But please do not isolate yourself from us, — try to feel that we are your friends. I want you to enjoy this trip if possible, — but I fear that we are proving rather dull company for you. We are making for Skye at good speed and shall probably anchor in Loch Scavaig to-night. To-morrow we might land and do the excursion to Loch Coruisk if you care for that, though Catherine is not a good walker.”
I felt rather remorseful as he said these words in a kindly tone. Yet I knew very well that, notwithstanding all the strenuous efforts which might be made by the rules of conventional courtesy, it would be impossible for me to feel quite at home in the surroundings which he had created for himself. I inwardly resolved, however, to make the best of it and to try and steer clear of any possibilities or incidents which might tend to draw the line of demarcation too strongly between us. Some instinct told me that present conditions were not to remain as they were, so I answered my host gently and assured him of my entire willingness to fall in with any of his plans. Our conversation then gradually drifted into ordinary topics till towards sunset, when I went down to my cabin to dress for dinner. I had a fancy to wear the bunch of pink bell-heather that still kept its fresh and waxen-looking delicacy of bloom, and this, fastened in the lace of my white gown, was my only adornment.
That night there was a distinct attempt on everybody’s part to make things sociable and pleasant. Catherine Harland was, for once, quite cheerful and chatty, and proposed that as there was a lovely moonlight, we should all go after dinner into the deck saloon, where there was a piano, and that I should sing for them. I was rather surprised at this suggestion, as she was not fond of music. Nevertheless, there had been such an evident wish shown by her and her father to lighten the monotony which had been creeping like a mental fog over us all that I readily agreed to anything which might perhaps for the moment give them pleasure.
We went up on deck accordingly, and on arriving there were all smitten into awed silence by the wonderful beauty of the scene. We were anchored in Loch Scavaig — and the light of the moon fell with a weird splendour on the gloom of the surrounding hills, a pale beam touching the summits here and there and deepening the solemn effect of the lake and the magnificent forms of its sentinel mountains. A low murmur of hidden streams sounded on the deep stillness and enhanced the fascination of the surrounding landscape, which was more like the landscape of a dream than a reality. The deep breadths of dense darkness lying lost among the cavernous slopes of the hills were broken at intervals by strange rifts of light arising as it were from the palpitating water, which now and again showed gleams of pale emerald and gold phosphorescence, — the stars looked large and white like straying bits of the moon, and the mysterious ‘swishing’ of slow ripples heaving against the sides of the yacht suggested the whisperings of uncanny spirits. We stood in a silent group, entranced by the grandeur of the night and by our own loneliness in the midst of it, for there was no sign of a fisherman’s hut or boat moored to the shore, or anything which could give us a sense of human companionship. A curious feeling of disappointment suddenly came over me, — I lifted my eyes to the vast dark sky with a kind of mute appeal — and moon and stars appeared to float up there like ships in a deep sea, — I had expected something more in this strange, almost spectral-looking landscape, and yet I knew not why I should expect anything. Beautiful as the whole scene was, and fully as I recognised its beauty, an overpowering depression suddenly gripped me as with a cold hand, — there was a dreary emptiness in this majestic solitude that seemed to crush my spirit utterly.
I moved a little away from my companions, and leaned over the deck rail, looking far into the black shadows of the shore, defined more deeply by the contrasting brilliance of the moon, and my thoughts flew with undesired swiftness to the darkest line of life’s horizon — I had for the moment lost the sense of joy. How wretched all we human creatures are! — I said to my inner self, — what hope after all is there for us, imprisoned in a world which has no pity for us whatever may be our fate, — a world that goes on in precisely the same fashion whether we live or die, work or are idle? These tragic hills, this cold lake, this white moon, were the same when Caesar lived, and would still be the same when we who gazed upon them now were all gone into the Unknown. It seemed difficult to try and realise this obvious fact — so difficult as to be almost unnatural. Supposing that any towns or villages had ever existed on this desolate shore, they had proved useless against the devouring forces of Nature, — just as the splendid buried cities of South America had proved useless in all their magnificence, — useless as the ‘Golden Age of Lanka’ in Ceylon more than two thousand years ago. Of what avail then is the struggle of human life? Is it for the many or only for the few? Is all the toil and sorrow of millions merely for the uplifting and perfecting of certain individual types, and is this what Christ meant when He said ‘Many are called but few are chosen’? If so, why such waste of brain and heart and love and patience? Tears came suddenly into my eyes and I started as from a bad dream when Dr. Brayle approached me softly from behind.
“I am sorry to disturb your reverie!” — he said— “But Miss Harland has gone into the deck saloon and we are all waiting to hear you sing.”
I looked up at him.
“I don’t feel as if I could sing to-night,” — I replied, rather tremulously— “This lonely landscape depresses me—”
He saw that my eyes were wet, and smiled.
“You are overwrought,” he said— “Your own theories of health and vitality are not infallible! You must be taken care of. You think too much.”
�
�Or too little?” I suggested.
“Really, my dear lady, you cannot possibly think too little where health and happiness are concerned! The sanest and most comfortable people on earth are those who eat well and never think at all. An empty brain and a full stomach make the sum total of a contented life.”
“So YOU imagine!” I said, with a slight gesture of veiled contempt.
“So I KNOW!” he answered, with emphasis— “And I have had a wide experience. Now don’t look daggers at me! — come and sing!”
He offered me his arm, but I put it aside and walked by myself towards the deck saloon. Mr. Harland and Catherine were seated there, with all the lights turned full on, so that the radiance of the moon through the window was completely eclipsed. The piano was open. As I came in Catherine looked at me with a surprised air.
“Why, how pale you are!” she exclaimed— “One would think you had seen a ghost!”
I laughed.
“Perhaps I have! Loch Scavaig is sufficient setting for any amount of ghosts. It’s such a lonely place,” — and a slight tremor ran through me as I played a few soft chords— “What shall I sing to you?”
“Something of the country we are in,” — said Mr. Harland— “Don’t you know any of those old wild Gaelic airs?”
I thought a moment, and then to a low rippling accompaniment I sang the old Celtic ‘Fairy’s Love Song’ —
“Why should I sit and sigh,
Pu’in’ bracken, pu’in’ bracken,
Why should I sit and sigh,
On the hill-side dreary —
When I see the plover rising,
Or the curlew wheeling,
Then I know my mortal lover
Back to me is stealing.
When the day wears away
Sad I look adown the valley,
Every sound heard around
Sets my heart a-thrilling, —
Why should I sit and sigh,
Pu’in’ bracken, pu’in’ bracken,
Why should I sit and sigh
All alone and weary!
Ah, but there is something wanting,
Oh but I am weary!
Come, my true and tender lover,
O’er the hills to cheer me!
Why should I sit and sigh,
Pu’in’ bracken, pu’in’ bracken,
Why should I sit and sigh,
All alone and weary!”
I had scarcely finished the last verse when Captain Derrick suddenly appeared at the door of the saloon in a great state of excitement.
“Come out, Mr. Harland!” he almost shouted— “Come quickly, all of you! There’s that strange yacht again!”
I rose from my seat at the piano trembling a little — at last! — I thought — at last! My heart was beating tumultuously, though I could not explain my own emotion to myself. In another moment we were all standing speechless and amazed, gazing at surely the most wonderful sight that had ever been seen by human eyes. There on the dark and lonely waters of Loch Scavaig was poised, rather than anchored, the fairy vessel of my dreams, with all sails spread, — sails that were white as milk and seemingly drenched with a sparkling dewy radiance, for they scintillated like hoar-frost in the sun and glittered against the sombre background of the mountainous shore with an almost blinding splendour. Our whole crew of sailors and servants on the ‘Diana’ came together in astonished groups, whispering among themselves, all evidently more or less scared by the strange spectacle. Captain Derrick waited for someone to hazard a remark, then, as we remained silent, he addressed Mr. Harland —
“Well, sir, what do you make of it?”
Mr. Harland did not answer. For a man who professed indifference to all events and circumstances he seemed startled for once and a little afraid. Catherine caught me by the arm, — she was shivering nervously.
“Do you think it is a REAL yacht?” she whispered.
I was amused at this question, coming as it did from a woman who denied the supernatural.
“Of course it is!” I answered— “Don’t you see people moving about on board?”
For, in the brilliant light shed by those extraordinary sails, the schooner appeared to be fully manned. Several of the crew were busy on her deck and there was nothing of the phantom in their movements.
“Her sails must surely be lit up in that way by electricity” — said Dr. Brayle, who had been watching her attentively— “But how it is done and why, is rather puzzling! I never saw anything quite to resemble it.”
“She came into the loch like a flash,” — said Captain Derrick— “I saw her slide in round the point, and then without a sound of any kind, there she was, safe anchored before you could whistle. She behaved in just the same way when we first sighted her off Mull.”
I listened to what they were saying, impatiently wondering what would be the end of their surmises and speculations.
“Why not exchange courtesies?” I said, suddenly,— “Here we are — two yachts anchored near each other in a lonely lake, — why should we not know each other? Then all the mysteries you are talking about would be cleared up.”
“Quite true!” said Mr. Harland, breaking his silence at last— “But isn’t it rather late to pay a call? What time is it?”
“About half-past ten,” — answered Dr. Brayle, glancing at his watch.
“Oh, let us get to bed!” murmured Miss Catherine, pleadingly— “What’s the good of making any enquiries to-night?”
“Well, if you don’t make them to-night ten to one you won’t have the chance to-morrow!” — said Captain Derrick, bluntly— “That yacht will repeat her former manoeuvres and vanish at sunrise.”
“As all spectres are traditionally supposed to do!” said Dr. Brayle, lighting a cigarette as he spoke and beginning to smoke it with a careless air— “I vote for catching the ghost before it melts away into the morning.”
While this talk went on Mr. Harland stepped back into the saloon and wrote a note which he enclosed in a sealed envelope. With this in his hand he came out to us again.
“Captain, will you get the boat lowered, please?” he said — then, as Captain Derrick hastened to obey this order, he turned to his secretary:— “Mr. Swinton, I want you to take this note to the owner of that yacht, whoever he may be, with my compliments. Don’t give it to anyone else but himself.”
Mr. Swinton, looking very pale and uncomfortable, took the note gingerly between his fingers.
“Himself — yes!” — he stammered— “And — er — if there should be no one—”
“What do you mean?” and Mr. Harland frowned in his own particularly unpleasant way— “There’s sure to be SOMEONE, even if he were the devil! You can say to him that the ladies of our party are very much interested in the beautiful illumination of his yacht, and that we’ll be glad to see him on board ours, if he cares to come. Be as polite as you can, and as agreeable as you like.”
“It has not occurred to you — I suppose you have not thought — that — that it may be an illusion?” faltered Mr. Swinton, uneasily, glancing at the glistening sails that shamed the silver sheen of the moon— “A sort of mirage in the atmosphere—”
Mr. Harland gave vent to a laugh — the heartiest I had ever heard from him.
“Upon my word, Swinton!” he exclaimed— “I should never have thought you capable of nerves! Come, come! — be off with you! The boat is lowered — all’s ready!”
Thus commanded, there was nothing for the reluctant Mr. Swinton but to obey, and I could not help smiling at his evident discomfiture. All his precise and matter-of-fact self-satisfaction was gone in a moment, — he was nothing but a very timorous creature, afraid to examine into what he could not at once understand. No such terrors, however, were displayed by the sailors who undertook to row him over to the yacht. They, as well as their captain, were anxious to discover the mystery, if mystery there was, — and we all, by one instinct, pressed to the gangway as he descended the companion ladder and entered the boat, whi
ch glided away immediately with a low and rhythmical plash of oars. We could watch it as it drew nearer and nearer the illuminated vessel, and our excitement grew more and more intense. For once Mr. Harland and his daughter had forgotten all about themselves, — and Catherine’s customary miserable expression of face had altogether disappeared in the keenness of her interest for something more immediately thrilling than her own ailments. So far as I was concerned, I could hardly endure the suspense that seemed to weigh on every nerve of my body during the few minutes’ interval that elapsed between the departure of the boat and its drawing up alongside the strange yacht. My thoughts were all in a whirl, — I felt as if something unprecedented and almost terrifying was about to happen, — but I could not reason out the cause of my mental agitation.
“There they go!” said Mr. Harland— “They’re alongside! See! — those fellows are lowering the companion ladder — there’s nothing supernatural about THEM! Swinton’s all right — look, he’s on board!”
We strained our eyes through the brilliant flare shed by the illuminated sails on the darkness and could see Mr. Swinton talking to a group of sailors. One of them went away, but returned almost immediately, followed by a man clad in white yachting flannels, who, standing near one of the shining sails, caught some of the light on his own figure with undeniably becoming effect. I was the first to perceive him, and as I looked, the impression came upon me that he was no stranger, — I had seen him often before. This sudden consciousness swiftly borne in upon me calmed all the previous tumult of my mind and I was no longer anxious as to the result of our possible acquaintance. Catherine Harland pressed my arm excitedly.
“There he is!” she said— “That must be the owner of the yacht. He’s reading father’s letter.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 764