Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Dr. Brayle looked amused.

  “Well, I can give you no history of them,” he said— “A friend of mine bought the collar from an old Jew curiosity dealer in a back street of Florence and sent it to me to wear with a Florentine dress at a fancy dress ball. Curiously enough I chose to represent one of the Medicis, some artist having told me my features resembled their type of countenance. That’s the chronicle, so far as I am concerned. I rather liked it on account of its antiquity. I could have sold it many times over, but I have no desire to part with it.”

  “Naturally!” — and Santoris passed on the collar to everyone to examine— “You feel a sense of proprietorship in it.”

  Catherine Harland had the trinket in her hand, and a curious vague look of terror came over her face as she presently passed it back to its owner. But she made no remark and it was Mr. Harland who resumed the conversation.

  “That’s an odd idea of yours about unhappy jewels,” he said— “Perhaps the misfortune attending the possessors of the famous blue Hope diamond could be traced to some early tragedy connected with it.”

  “Unquestionably!” replied Santoris. “Now look at this!” — and he drew from his watch pocket a small fine gold chain to which was attached a moonstone of singular size and beauty, set in a circle of diamonds— “Here is a sort of talismanic jewel — it has never known any disastrous influences, nor has it been disturbed by malevolent surroundings. It is a perfectly happy, unsullied gem! As you see, the lustre is perfect — as clear as that of a summer moon in heaven. Yet it is a very old jewel and has seen more than a thousand years of life.”

  We all examined the beautiful ornament, and as I held it in my hand a moment it seemed to emit tiny sparks of luminance like a flash of moonlight on rippling waves.

  “Women should take care that their jewels are made happy,” he continued, looking at me with a slight smile, “That is, if they want them to shine. Nothing that lives is at its best unless it is in a condition of happiness — a condition which after all is quite easy to attain.”

  “Easy! I should have thought nothing was so difficult!” said Mr. Harland.

  “Nothing certainly is so difficult in the ordinary way of life men choose to live,” answered Santoris— “For the most part they run after the shadow and forsake the light. Even in work and the creative action of thought each ordinary man imagines that his especial work being all-important, it is necessary for him to sacrifice everything to it. And he does, — if he is filled with worldly ambition and selfish concentration; and he produces something — anything — which frequently proves to be ephemeral as gossamer dust. It is only when work is the outcome of a great love and keen sympathy for others that it lasts and keeps its influence. Now we have talked enough about all these theories, which are not interesting to anyone who is not prepared to accept them — shall we go up on deck?”

  We all rose at once, Santoris holding out a box of cigars to the men to help themselves. Catherine and I preceded them up the saloon stairs to the deck, which was now like a sheet of silver in the light shed by one of the loveliest moons of the year. The water around was sparkling with phosphorescence and the dark mountains looked higher and more imposing than ever, rising as they seemed to do sheer up from the white splendour of the sea. I leaned over the deck rail, gazing down into the deep liquid mirror of stars below, and my heart was heavy and full of a sense of bitterness and tears. Catherine had dropped languidly into a chair and was leaning back in it with a strange, far-away expression on her tired face. Suddenly she spoke with an almost mournful gentleness.

  “Do you like his theories?”

  I turned towards her enquiringly.

  “I mean, do you like the idea of there being no death and that we only change from one life to another and so on for ever?” she continued. “To me it is appalling! Sometimes I think death the kindest thing that can happen — especially for women.”

  I was in the mood to agree with her. I went up to her and knelt down by her side.

  “Yes!” I said, and I felt the tremor of tears in my voice— “Yes, for women death often seems very kind! When there is no love and no hope of love, — when the world is growing grey and the shadows are deepening towards night, — when the ones we most dearly love misjudge and mistrust us and their hearts are closed against our tenderness, then death seems the greatest god of all! — one before whom we may well kneel and offer up our prayers! Who could, who WOULD live for ever quite alone in an eternity without love? Oh, how much kinder, how much sweeter would be utter extinction—”

  My voice broke; and Catherine, moved by some sudden womanly impulse, put her arm round me.

  “Why, you are crying!” she said, softly. “What is it? You, who are always so bright and happy!”

  I quickly controlled the weakness of my tears.

  “Yes, it is foolish!” I said— “But I feel to-night as if I had wasted a good part of my life in useless research, — in looking for what has been, after all, quite close to my hand, — only that I failed to see it! — and that I must go back upon the road I thought I had passed—”

  Here I paused. I saw she could not understand me.

  “Catherine,” I went on, abruptly— “Will you let me leave you in a day or two? I have been quite a fortnight with you on board the ‘Diana,’ and I think I have had enough holiday. I should like” — and I looked up at her from where I knelt— “I should like to part from you while we remain good friends — and I have an idea that perhaps we shall not agree so well if we learn to know more of each other.”

  She bent her eyes upon me with a half-frightened expression.

  “How strange you should think that!” she murmured— “I have felt the same — and yet I really like you very much — I always liked you — I wish you would believe it!”

  I smiled.

  “Dear Catherine,” I said— “it is no use shutting our eyes to the fact that while there is something which attracts us to each other, there is also something which repels. We cannot argue about it or analyse it. Such mysterious things DO occur, — and they are beyond our searching out—”

  “But,” she interrupted, quickly— “we were not so troubled by these mysterious things till we met this man Santoris—”

  She broke off, and I rose to my feet, as just then Santoris approached, accompanied by Mr. Harland and the others.

  “I have suggested giving you a sail by moonlight before you leave,” he said. “It will be an old experience for you under new conditions. Sailing by moonlight in an ordinary sense is an ordinary thing, — but sailing by moonlight with the moonlight as part of our motive power has perhaps a touch of originality.”

  As he spoke he made a sign to one of his men who came up to receive his orders, which were given in too low a tone for us to hear. Easy deck chairs were placed for all the party, and we were soon seated in a group together, somewhat silently at first, our attention being entirely riveted on the wonderful, almost noiseless way in which the sails of the ‘Dream’ were unfurled. There was no wind, — the night was warm and intensely still — the sea absolutely calm. Like broad white wings, the canvas gradually spread out under the deft, quick hands of the sailors employed in handling it, — the anchor was drawn up in the same swift and silent manner — then there came an instant’s pause. Mr. Harland drew his cigar from his mouth and looked up amazed, as we all did, at the mysterious way in which the sails filled out, pulling the cordage tightly into bands of iron strength, — and none of us could restrain an involuntary cry of wonder and admiration as their whiteness began to glitter with the radiance of hoar-frost, the strange luminance deepening in intensity till it seemed as if the whole stretch of canvas from end to end of the magnificent schooner was a mass of fine jewel-work sparkling under the moon.

  “Well! However much I disagree with your theories of life, Santoris,” said Mr. Harland,— “I will give you full credit for this extraordinary yacht of yours! It’s the most wonderful thing I ever saw, and you are a wonder
ful fellow to have carried out such an unique application of science. You ought to impart your secret to the world.”

  Santoris laughed lightly.

  “And the world would take a hundred years or more to discuss it, consider it, deny it, and finally accept it,” he said— “No! One grows tired of asking the world to be either wise or happy. It prefers its own way — just as I prefer mine. It will discover the method of sailing without wind, and it will learn how to make every sort of mechanical progress without steam in time — but not in our day, — and I, personally, cannot afford to wait while it is slowly learning its ABC like a big child under protest. You see we’re going now!”

  We were ‘going’ indeed, — it would have been more correct to say we were flying. Over the still water our vessel glided like a moving beautiful shape of white fire, swiftly and steadily, with no sound save the little hissing murmur of the water cleft under her keel. And then like a sudden whisper from fairyland came the ripple of harp-strings, running upward in phrases of exquisite melody, and a boy’s voice, clear, soft and full, began to sing, with a pure enunciation which enabled us to hear every word:

  Sailing, sailing! Whither?

  What path of the flashing sea

  Seems best for you and me?

  No matter the way,

  By night or day,

  So long as we sail together!

  Sailing, sailing! Whither?

  Into the rosy grace

  Of the sun’s deep setting-place?

  We need not know

  How far we go,

  So long as we sail together!

  Sailing, sailing! Whither?

  To the glittering rainbow strand

  Of Love’s enchanted land?

  We ask not where

  In earth or air,

  So long as we sail together!

  Sailing, sailing! Whither?

  On to the life divine, —

  Your soul made one with mine!

  In Heaven or Hell

  All must be well,

  So long as we sail together!

  The song finished with a passionate chord which, played as it was with swift intensity, seemed to awaken a response from the sea, — at any rate a strange shivering echo trembled upward as it were from the water and floated into the spacious silence of the night. My heart beat with uncomfortable quickness and my eyes grew hot with the weight of suppressed tears; — why could I not escape from the cruel, restraining force that held my real self prisoner as with manacles of steel? I could not even speak; and while the others were clapping their hands in delighted applause at the beauty of both voice and song, I sat silent.

  “He sings well!” said Santoris— “He is the Eastern lad you saw when you came on deck this morning. I brought him from Egypt. He will give us another song presently. Shall we walk a little?”

  We rose and paced the deck slowly, gradually dividing in couples, Catherine and Dr. Brayle — Mr. Harland and his secretary, — Santoris and myself. We two paused together at the stern of the vessel looking towards the bowsprit, which seemed to pierce the distance of sea and sky like a flying arrow.

  “You wish to speak to me alone,” said Santoris, then— “Do you not? Though I know what you want to say!”

  I glanced at him with a touch of defiance.

  “Then I need not speak,” I answered.

  “No, you need not speak, unless you give utterance to what is in your true soul,” he said— “I would rather you did not play at conventions with me.”

  For the moment I felt almost angry.

  “I do not play at conventions,” I murmured.

  “Oh, do you not? Is that quite candid?”

  I raised my eyes and met his, — he was smiling. Some of the oppression in my soul suddenly gave way, and I spoke hurriedly in a low tone.

  “Surely you know how difficult it is for me?” I said. “Things have happened so strangely, — and we are surrounded here by influences that compel conventionality. I cannot speak to you as frankly as I would under other circumstances. It is easy for YOU to be yourself; — you have gained the mastery over all lesser forces than your own. But with me it is different — perhaps when I am away I shall be able to think more calmly—”

  “You are going away?” he asked, gently.

  “Yes. It is better so.”

  He remained silent. I went on, quickly.

  “I am going away because I feel inadequate and unable to cope with my present surroundings. I have had some experience of the same influences before — I know I have—”

  “I also!” he interrupted.

  “Well, you must realise this better than I,” and I looked at him now with greater courage— “and if you have, you know they have led to trouble. I want you to help me.”

  “I? To help you?” he said. “How can I help you when you leave me?”

  There was something infinitely sad in his voice, — and the old fear came over me like a chill— ‘lest I should lose what I had gained!’

  “If I leave you,” I said, tremblingly— “I do so because I am not worthy to be with you! Oh, can you not see this in me?” For as I spoke he took my hand in his and held it with a kindly clasp— “I am so self-willed, so proud, so unworthy! There are a thousand things I would say to you, but I dare not — not here, or now!”

  “No one will approach us,” he said, still holding my hand— “I am keeping the others, unconsciously to themselves, at a distance till you have finished speaking. Tell me some of these thousand things!”

  I looked up at him and saw the deep lustre of his eyes filled with a great tenderness. He drew me a little closer to his side.

  “Tell me,” he persisted, softly— “Is there very much that we do not, if we are true to each other, know already?”

  “YOU know more than I do!” I answered— “And I want to be equal with you! I do! I cannot be content to feel that I am groping in the dark weakly and blindly while you are in the light, strong and self-contained! You can help me — and you WILL help me! You will tell me where I should go and study as you did with Aselzion!”

  He started back, amazed.

  “With Aselzion! Dear, forgive me! You are a woman! It is impossible that you should suffer so great an ordeal, — so severe a strain! And why should you attempt it? If you would let me, I would be sufficient for you.” “But I will not let you!” I said, quickly, roused to a kind of defiant energy— “I wish to go to the very source of your instruction, and then I shall see where I stand with regard to you! If I stay here now—”

  “It will be the same old story over again!” he said— “Love — and mistrust! Then drifting apart in the same weary way! Is it not possible to avoid the errors of the past?”

  “No!” I said, resolutely— “For me it is not possible! I cannot yield to my own inward promptings. They offer me too much happiness! I doubt the joy, — I fear the glory!”

  My voice trembled — the very clasp of his hand unnerved me.

  “I will tell you,” he said, after a brief pause, “what you feel. You are perfectly conscious that between you and myself there is a tie which no power, earthly or heavenly, can break, — but you are living in a matter-of-fact world with matter-of-fact persons, and the influence they exert is to make you incredulous of the very truths which are an essential part of your spiritual existence. I understand all this. I understand also why you wish to go to the House of Aselzion, and you shall go—”

  I uttered an exclamation of relief and pleasure. His eyes grew dark with earnest gravity as he looked at me.

  “You are pleased at what you cannot realise,” he said, slowly— “If you go to the House of Aselzion — and I see you are determined — it will be a matter of such vital import that it can only mean one of two things, — your entire happiness or your entire misery. I cannot contemplate with absolute calmness the risk you run, — and yet it is better that you should follow the dictates of your own soul than be as you are now — irresolute, — uncertain of yourself and re
ady to lose all you have gained!”

  ‘To lose all I have gained.’ The old insidious terror! I met his searching gaze imploringly.

  “I must not lose anything!” I said, and my voice sank lower,— “I cannot bear — to lose YOU!”

  His hand closed on mine with a tighter grasp.

  “Yet you doubt!” he said, softly.

  “I must KNOW!” I said, resolutely.

  He lifted his head with a proud gesture that was curiously familiar to me.

  “So the old spirit is not dead in you, my queen,” he said, smiling. “The old indomitable will! — the desire to probe to the very centre of things! Yet love defies analysis, — and is the only thing that binds the Universe together. A fact beyond all proving — a truth which cannot be expounded by any given rule or line but which is the most emphatic force of life! My queen, it is a force that must either bend or break you!”

  I made no reply. He still held my hand, and we looked out together on the shining expanse of the sea where there was no vessel visible and where our schooner alone flew over the watery, moonlit surface like a winged flame.

  “In your working life,” he continued, gently, “you have done much. You have thought clearly, and you have not been frightened away from any eternal fact by the difficulties of research. But in your living life you have missed more than you will care to know. You have been content to remain a passive recipient of influences — you have not thoroughly learned how to combine and use them. You have overcome altogether what are generally the chief obstacles in the way of a woman’s higher progress, — her inherent childishness — her delight in imagining herself wronged or neglected, — her absurd way of attaching weighty importance to the merest trifles — her want of balance, and the foolish resentment she feels at being told any of her faults, — this is all past in you, and you stand free of the shackles of sheer stupidity which makes so many women impossible to deal with from a man’s standpoint, and which renders it almost necessary for men to estimate them at a low intellectual standard. For even in the supreme passion of love, millions of women are only capable of understanding its merely physical side, while the union of soul with soul is never consummated: