"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 p.r.o.nounced 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 G.o.d 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 att.i.tude 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 a.s.sure 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 ash.o.r.e 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?"