The Life Everlasting: A Reality of Romance Part 11

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 anch.o.r.ed, 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 h.o.a.r-frost in the sun and glittered against the sombre background of the mountainous sh.o.r.e 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 circ.u.mstances he seemed startled for once and a little afraid. Catherine caught me by the arm,--she was s.h.i.+vering 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 anch.o.r.ed 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 anch.o.r.ed 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, which 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 s.h.i.+ning 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."

He was,--we could see the little sheet of paper turning over in his hands. And while we waited, wondering what would be his answer, the light on the sails of his vessel began to pale and die away,--beam after beam of radiance slipped off as it were like drops of water, and before we could quite realise it there was darkness where all had lately been so bright; and the canvas was hauled down. With the quenching of that intense brilliancy we lost sight of the human figures on deck and could not imagine what was to happen next. The dark sh.o.r.e looked darker than ever,--the outline of the yacht was now truly spectral, like a s.h.i.+p of black cobweb against the moon, and we looked questioningly at each other in silence. Then Mr. Harland spoke in a low tone.

"The boat is coming back,"--he said,--"I hear the oars."

I leaned over the side of our vessel and tried to see through the gloom. How still the water was!--not a ripple disturbed its surface.

But there were strange gleams of wandering light in its depths like dropped jewels lost on sands far below. The regular dip of oars sounded nearer and nearer. My heart was beating with painful quickness,--I could not understand the strange feeling that overpowered me. I felt as if my very soul were going out of my body to meet that oncoming boat which was cleaving its way through the darkness. Another brief interval and then we saw it shoot out into a patch of moonlight--we could perceive Mr. Swinton seated in the stern with another figure beside him--that of a man who stood up as he neared our yacht and lifted his cap with an easy gesture of salutation, and then as the boat came alongside, caught at the guide rope and sprang lightly on the first step of the companion ladder.

"Why, he's actually come over to us himself!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mr.

Harland,--and he hurried to the gangway just in time to receive the visitor as he stepped on deck.

"Well, Harland, how are you?" said a mellow voice in the cheeriest of accents--"It's strange we should meet like this after so many years!"

VI

RECOGNITION

At these words and at sight of the speaker, Morton Harland started back as if he had been shot.

"Santoris!" he exclaimed--"Not possible! Rafel Santoris! No! You must be his son!"

The stranger laughed.

"My good Harland! Always the sceptic! Miracles are many, but there is one which is beyond all performance. A man cannot be his own offspring!

I am that very Santoris who saw you last in Oxford. Come, come!--you ought to know me!"

He stepped more fully into the light which was shed from the open door of the deck saloon, and showed himself to be a man of distinguished appearance, apparently about forty years of age. He was well built, with the straight back and broad shoulders of an athlete,--his face was finely featured and radiant with the glow of health and strength, and as he smiled and laid one hand on Mr. Harland's shoulder he looked the very embodiment of active, powerful manhood. Morton Harland stared at him in amazement and something of terror.

"Rafel Santoris!" he repeated--"You are his living image,--but you cannot be himself--you are too young!"

A gleam of amus.e.m.e.nt sparkled in the stranger's eyes.

"Don't let us talk of age or youth for the moment"--he said. "Here I am,--your 'eccentric' college acquaintance whom you and several other fellows fought shy of years ago! I a.s.sure you I am quite harmless! Will you present me to the ladies?"