"Thought-reading is only a society amus.e.m.e.nt, as you have just observed," he said--"And I have been amusing myself with it for the last few minutes. Come!--let us see your treasure!"

Dr. Brayle was thoroughly embarra.s.sed,--but he tried to cover his confusion by an awkward laugh.

"Well, you have made a very clever hit!" he said--"Quite a random shot, of course--which by mere coincidence went to its mark! It's quite true I have brought with me a curious piece of jewel-work which I always carry about wherever I go--and something moved me to-night to ask your opinion of its value, as well as to place its period. It is old Italian; but even experts are not agreed as to its exact date."

He put his hand in his breast pocket and drew out a small silk bag from which he took with great care a collar of jewels, designed in a kind of chain-work which made it perfectly flexible. He laid it out on the table,--and I bit my lip hard to suppress an involuntary exclamation.

For I had seen the thing before--and for the immediate moment could not realise where, till a sudden flash of light through the cells of my brain reminded me of that scene of love and death in the vision of the artist's studio when the name 'Cosmo de Medicis' had been whispered like an evil omen. The murderer in that dream-picture had worn a collar of jewels precisely similar to the one I now saw; but I could only keep silence and listen with every nerve strained to utmost attention while Santoris took the ornament in his hand and looked at it with an intent earnestness in which there was almost a touch of compa.s.sion.

"A beautiful piece of workmanship," he said, at last, slowly, while Mr.

Harland, Catherine, and Swinton the secretary all drew up closer to him at the table and leaned eagerly forward--"And I should say"--here he raised his eyes and looked full at the dark, brooding, sinister face of Brayle--"I should say that it belonged to the Medici period. It must have been part of the dress of a n.o.bleman of that time--the design seems to me to be Florentine. Perhaps if these jewels could speak they might tell a strange story!--they are unhappy stones!"

"Unhappy!" exclaimed Catherine--"You mean unlucky?"

"No!--there is no such thing as luck," answered Santoris, quietly, turning the collar over and over in his hands--"Not for either jewels or men! But there IS unhappiness,--and unhappiness simply means life being put to wrong uses. I call these gems 'unhappy' because they have been wrongfully used. A precious stone is a living thing--it absorbs influences as the earth absorbs light, and these jewels have absorbed some sense of evil that renders them less beautiful than they might be.

These diamonds and rubies, these emeralds and sapphires, have not the full l.u.s.tre of their own true nature,--they are in the condition of pining flowers. It will take centuries before they resume their natural brilliancy. There is some tragedy hidden among them."

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 l.u.s.tre 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 phosph.o.r.escence 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed--"

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 a.n.a.lyse 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 h.o.a.r-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 ma.s.s 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 wonderful 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!