"He looks about thirty-eight or forty,"—said Brayle, "And I should say that is his age." "That his age!" Mr. Harland gave a short, derisive laugh—"Why, he's over sixty if he's a day! That's the mystery of it. There is not a touch of 'years' about him. Instead of growing old, he grows young."

Brayle looked up quizzically at his patron.

"I've already hinted," he said, "that he may not be the Santoris you knew at Oxford. He may be a relative, cleverly masquerading as the original man—"

"That won't stand a moment's argument," interposed Mr. Harland—"And I'll tell you how I know it won't. We had a quarrel once, and I slashed his arm with a clasp-knife pretty heavily." Here a sudden quiver of something,—shame or remorse perhaps—came over his hard face and changed its expression for a moment. "It was all my fault— I had a devilish temper, and he was calm—his calmness irritated me;—moreover, I was drunk. Santoris knew I was drunk,—and he wanted to get me home to my rooms and to bed before I made too great a disgrace of myself—then—THAT happened. I remember the blood pouring from his arm—it frightened me and sobered me. Well, when he came on board here the other night he showed me the scar of the very wound I had inflicted. So I know he's the same man."

We all sat silent.

"He was always studying the 'occult'"—went on Mr. Harland—"And I was scarcely surprised that he should 'think out' that antique piece of jewellery from your pocket last night. He actually told me it belonged to you ages ago, when you were quite another and more important person!"

Dr. Brayle laughed loudly, almost boisterously.

"What a fictionist the man must be!" he exclaimed. "Why doesn't he write a novel? Mr. Swinton, I wish you would take a few notes for me of what Mr. Santoris said about that collar of jewels,—I should like to keep the record."

Mr. Swinton smiled an obliging assent.

"I certainly will,"—he said. "I was fortunately present when Mr. Santoris expressed his curious ideas about the jewels to Mr. Harland."

"Oh, well, if you are going to record it,"—said Mr. Harland, half laughingly—"you had better be careful to put it all down. The collar—according to Santoris—belonged to Dr. Brayle when his personality was that of an Italian nobleman residing in Florence about the year 1537—he wore it on one unfortunate occasion when he murdered a man, and the jewels have not had much of a career since that period. Now they have come back into his possession—"

"Father, who told you all this?"

The voice was sharp and thin, and we turned round amazed to see Catherine standing in the doorway of the saloon, white and trembling, with wild eyes looking as though they saw ghosts. Dr. Brayle hastened to her.

"Miss Harland, pray go back to your cabin—you are not strong enough—"

"What's the matter, Catherine?" asked her father—"I'm only repeating some of the nonsense Santoris told me about that collar of jewels—"

"It's not nonsense!" cried Catherine. "It's all true! I remember it all—we planned the murder together—he and I!"—and she pointed to Dr. Brayle—" I told him how the lovers used to meet in secret,—the poor hunted things!—how he—that great artist he patronised—came to her room from the garden entrance at night, and how they talked for hours behind the rose-trees in the avenue—and she—she!—I hated her because I thought you loved her—YOU!" and again she turned to Dr. Brayle, clutching at his arm—"Yes—I thought you loved her!—but she—she loved HIM!—and—" here she paused, shuddering violently, and seemed to lose herself in chaotic ideas— "And so the yacht has gone, and there is peace!—and perhaps we shall forget again!—we were allowed to forget for a little while, but it has all come back to haunt and terrify us—"

And with these words, which broke off in a kind of inarticulate cry, she sank downward in a swoon, Dr. Brayle managing to save her from falling quite to the ground.

Everything was at once in confusion, and while the servants were busy hurrying to and fro for cold water, smelling salts and other reviving cordials, and Catherine was being laid on the sofa and attended to by Dr. Brayle, I slipped away and went up on deck, feeling myself quite overpowered and bewildered by the suddenness and strangeness of the episodes in which I had become involved. In a minute or two Mr. Harland followed me, looking troubled and perplexed.

"What does all this mean?" he said—"I am quite at a loss to understand Catherine's condition. She is hysterical, of course,—but what has caused it? What mad idea has she got into her head about a murder?"

I looked away from him across the sunlit expanse of sea.

"I really cannot tell you," I said, at last—"I am quite as much in the dark as you are. I think she is overwrought, and that she has perhaps taken some of the things Mr. Santoris said too much to heart. Then"—here I hesitated—"she said the other day that she was tired of this yachting trip—in fact, I think it is simply a case of nerves."

"She must have very odd nerves if they persuade her to believe that she and Brayle committed a murder together ages ago"—said Mr. Harland, irritably;—"I never heard of such nonsense in all my life!"

I was silent.

"I have told Captain Derrick to weigh anchor and get out of this,"— he continued, brusquely. "We shall make for Portree at once. There is something witch-like and uncanny about the place"—and he looked round as he spoke at the splendour of the mountains, shining with almost crystalline clearness in the glory of the morning sun—"I feel as if it were haunted!"

"By what?" I asked.

"By memories," he answered—"And not altogether pleasant ones!"

I looked at him, and a moment's thought decided me that the opportunity had come for me to broach the subject of my intended departure, and I did so. I said that I felt I had allowed myself sufficient holiday, and that it would be necessary for me to take the ordinary steamer from Portree the morning after our arrival there in order to reach Glasgow as soon as possible. Mr. Harland surveyed me inquisitively.

"Why do you want to go by the steamer?" he asked—"Why not go with us back to Rothesay, for example?"

"I would rather lose no time,"—I said—then I added impulsively:— "Dear Mr. Harland, Catherine will be much better when I am gone—I know she will! You will be able to prolong the yachting trip which will benefit your health,—and I should be really most unhappy if you curtailed it on my account—"

He interrupted me.

"Why do you say that Catherine will be better when you are gone?" he demanded—"It was her own most particular wish that you should accompany us."

"She did not know what moved her to such a desire," I said,—then, seeing his look of astonishment, I smiled; "I am not a congenial spirit to her, nor to any of you, really! but she has been most kind, and so have you—and I thank you ever so much for all you have done for me—you have done much more than you know!—only I feel it is better to go now—now, before—"

"Before what?" he asked.

"Well, before we all hate each other!" I said, playfully—"It is quite on the cards that we shall come to that! Dr. Brayle thinks my presence quite as harmful to Catherine as that of Mr. Santoris;—I am full of 'theories' which he considers prejudicial,—and so, perhaps, they ARE—to HIM!"

Mr. Harland drew closer to me where I stood leaning against the deck rail and spoke in a lower tone.

"Tell me," he said,—"and be perfectly frank about it—what is it you see in Brayle that rouses such a spirit of antagonism in you?"

"If I give you a straight answer, such as I feel to be the truth in myself, will you be offended?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"No"—he answered—"I shall not be offended. I simply want to know what you think, and I shall remember what you say and see if it proves correct."

"Well, in the first place," I said—"I see nothing in Dr. Brayle but what can be seen in hundreds of worldly-minded men such as he. But he is not a true physician, for he makes no real effort to cure you of your illness, while Catherine has no illness at all that demands a cure. He merely humours the weakness of her nerves, a weakness she has created by dwelling morbidly on her own self and her own particular miseries,—and all his future plans with regard to her and to you are settled. They are quite clear and reasonable. You will die,—in fact, it is, in his opinion, necessary for you to die,—it would be very troublesome and inconvenient to him if, by some chance, you were cured, and continued to live. When you are gone he will marry Catherine, your only child and heiress, and he will have no further personal anxieties. I dislike this self-seeking attitude on his part, and my only wonder is that you do not perceive it. For the rest, my antagonism to Dr. Brayle is instinctive and has its origin far back—perhaps in a bygone existence!"

He listened to my words with attentive patience.

"Well, I shall study the man more carefully,"—he said, after a pause;—"You may be right. At present I think you are wrong. As for any cure for me, I know there is none. I have consulted medical works on the subject and am perfectly convinced that Brayle is doing his best. He can do no more. And now one word to yourself;"—here he laid a hand kindly on mine—"I have noticed—I could not help noticing that you were greatly taken by Santoris—and I should almost have fancied him rather fascinated by you had I not known him to be absolutely indifferent to womenkind. But let me tell you he is not a safe friend or guide for anyone. His theories are extravagant and impossible—his idea that there is no death, for example, when death stares us in the face every day, is perfectly absurd—and he is likely to lead you into much perplexity, the more so as you are too much of a believer in occult things already. I wish I could persuade you to listen to me seriously on one or two points—"

I smiled. "I am listening!" I said.

"Well, child, you listen perhaps, but you are not convinced. Realise, if you can, that these fantastic chimeras of a past and future life exist only in the heated imagination of the abnormal idealist. There is nothing beyond our actual sight and immediate living consciousness;—we know we are born and that we die—but why, we cannot tell and never shall be able to tell. We must try and manage the 'In-Between,'—the gap dividing birth and death,—as best we can, and that's all. I wish you would settle down to these facts reasonably—you would be far better balanced in mind and action—"

"If I thought as you do,"—I interrupted him—"I would jump from this vessel into the sea and let the waters close over me! There would be neither use nor sense in living for an 'In-Between' leading merely to nothingness."

He passed his hand across his brows perplexedly.

"It certainly seems useless,"—he admitted—"but there it is. It is better to accept it than run amok among inexplicable infinities."

We were interrupted here by the sailors busying themselves in preparations for getting the yacht under way, and our conversation being thus broken off abruptly was not again resumed. By eleven o'clock we were steaming out of Loch Scavaig, and as I looked back on the sombre mountain-peaks that stood sentinel-wise round the deeply hidden magnificence of Loch Coruisk, I wondered if my visionary experience there had been only the work of my own excited imagination, or whether it really had foundation in fact? The letter from Santoris lay against my heart as actual testimony that he at least was real—that I had met and known him, and that so far as anything could be believed he had declared himself my 'lover'! But was ever love so expressed?—and had it ever before such a far-off beginning?

I soon ceased to perplex myself with futile speculations on the subject, however, and as the last peaks of the Scavaig hills vanished in pale blue distance I felt as if I had been brought suddenly back from a fairyland to a curiously dull and commonplace world. Everyone on board the 'Diana' seemed occupied with the veriest trifles,—Catherine remained too ill to appear all day, and Dr. Brayle was in almost constant attendance upon her. A vague sense of discomfort pervaded the whole atmosphere of the yacht,—she was a floating palace filled with every imaginable luxury, yet now she seemed a mere tawdry upholsterer's triumph compared with the exquisite grace and taste of the 'Dream'—and I was eager to be away from her. I busied myself during the day in packing my things ready for departure with the eagerness of a child leaving school for the holidays, and I was delighted when we arrived at Portree and anchored there that evening. It was after dinner, at about nine o'clock, that Catherine sent for me, hearing I had determined to go next morning. I found her in her bed, looking very white and feeble, with a scared look in her eyes which became intensified the moment she saw me.

"You are really going away?" she said, faintly—"I hope we have not offended you?"

I went up to her, took her poor thin hand and kissed it.

"No indeed!"—I answered—"Why should I be offended?"

"Father is vexed you are going,"—she went on—"He says it is all my silly nonsense and hysterical fancies—do you think it is?"

"I prefer not to say what I think,"—I replied, gently. "Dear Catherine, there are some things in life which cannot be explained, and it is better not to try and explain them. But believe me, I can never thank you enough for this yachting trip—you have done more for me than you will ever know!—and so far from being 'offended' I am grateful!—grateful beyond all words!"

She held my hands, looking at me wistfully.

"You will go away,"—she said, in a low tone—"and we shall perhaps never meet again. I don't think it likely we shall. People often try to meet again and never do—haven't you noticed that? It seems fated that they shall only know each other for a little while just to serve some purpose, and then part altogether. Besides, you live in a different world from ours. You believe in things that I can't even understand—You think there is a God—and you think each human being has a soul—"

"Are you not taught the same in your churches?" I interrupted.

She looked startled.

"Oh yes!—but then one never thinks seriously about it! You know that if we DID think seriously about it we could never live as we do. One goes to church for convention's sake—because it's respectable; but suppose you were to say to a clergyman that if your soul is 'immortal' it follows in reason that it must always have existed and always will exist, he would declare you to be 'unorthodox.' That's where all the puzzle and contradiction comes in—so that I don't believe in the soul at all."

"Are you sure you do not?" I enquired, meaningly.

She was silent. Then she suddenly broke out.

"Well, I don't want to believe in it! I don't want to think about it! I'd rather not! It's terrible! If a soul has never died and never will die, its burden of memories must be awful!—horrible!—no hell could be worse!"

"But suppose they are beautiful and happy memories?" I suggested.

She shuddered.

"They couldn't be! We all fail somewhere."

This was true enough, and I offered no comment.

"I feel,"—she went on, hesitatingly—"that you are leaving us for some undiscovered country—and that you will reach some plane of thought and action to which we shall never rise. I don't think I am sorry for this. I am not one of those who want to rise. I should be perfectly content to live a few years in a moderate state of happiness and then drop into oblivion—and I think most people are like me."

"Very unambitious!" I said, smiling.

"Yes—I daresay it is—but one gets tired of it all. Tired of things and people—at least I do. Now that man Santoris—"

Despite myself, I felt the warm blood flushing my cheeks.

"Yes? What of him?" I queried, lightly.

"Well, I can understand that HE has always been alive!" and she turned her eyes upon me with an expression of positive dread— "Immensely, actively, perpetually alive! He seems to hold some mastery over the very air! I am afraid of him—terribly afraid! It is a relief to me to know that he and his strange yacht have gone!"

"But, Catherine,"—I ventured to say—"the yacht was not really 'strange,'—it was only moved by a different application of electricity from that which the world at present knows. You would not call it 'strange' if the discovery made by Mr. Santoris were generally adopted?"

She sighed.

"Perhaps not! But just now it seems a sort of devil's magic to me. Anyhow, I'm glad he's gone. You're sorry, I suppose?"

"In a way I am,"—I answered, quietly—"I thought him very kind and charming and courteous—no one could be a better host or a pleasanter companion. And I certainly saw nothing 'devilish' about him. As for that collar of jewels, there are plenty of so-called 'thought-readers' who could have found out its existence and said as much of it as he did—"

She uttered a low cry.

"Don't speak of it!" she said—"For Heaven's sake, don't speak of it!"

She buried her face in her pillow, and I waited silently for her to recover. When she turned again towards me, she said—

"I am not well yet,—I cannot bear too much. I only want you to know before you go away that I have no unkind feeling towards you,— things seem pushing me that way, but I have not really!—and you surely will believe me—"

"Surely!" I said, earnestly—"Dear Catherine, do not worry yourself! These impressions of yours will pass."

"I hope so!" she said—"I shall try to forget! And you—you will meet Mr. Santoris again, do you think?"

I hesitated.

"I do not know."

"You seem to have some attraction for each other," she went on—"And I suppose your beliefs are alike. To me they are dreadful beliefs!— worse than barbarism!"

I looked at her with all the compassion I truly felt.

"Why? Because we believe that God is all love and tenderness and justice?—because we cannot think He would have created life only to end in death?—because we are sure that He allows nothing to be wasted, not even a thought?—and nothing to go unrecompensed, either in good or in evil? Surely these are not barbarous beliefs?"

A curious look came over her face.

"If I believed in anything,"—she said—"I would rather be orthodox, and believe in the doctrine of original sin and the Atonement."

"Then you would start with the idea that the supreme and all-wise Creator could not make a perfect work!" I said—"And that He was obliged to invent a scheme to redeem His own failure! Catherine, if you speak of barbarism, this is the most barbarous belief of all!"

She stared at me, amazed.

"You would be put out of any church in Christendom for such a speech as that!" she said.

"Possibly!" I answered, quietly—"But I should not and could not be put out of God's Universe—nor, I am certain, would He reject my soul's eternal love and adoration!"

A silence fell between us. Then I heard her sobbing. I put my arm round her, and she laid her head on my shoulder.

"I wish I could feel as you do,"—she whispered—"You must be very happy! The world is all beautiful in your eyes—and of course with your ideas it will continue to be beautiful—and even death will only come to you as another transition into life. But you must not think anybody will ever understand you or believe you or follow you- -people will only look upon you as mad, or the dupe of your own foolish imagination!"

I smiled as I smoothed her pillow for her and laid her gently back upon it.

"I can stand that!" I said—"If somebody who is lost in the dark jeers at me for finding the light, I shall not mind!"

We did not speak much after that—and when I said good-night to her I also said good-bye, as I knew I should have to leave the yacht early in the morning.

I spent the rest of the time at my disposal in talking to Mr. Harland, keeping our conversation always on the level of ordinary topics. He seemed genuinely sorry that I had determined to go, and if he could have persuaded me to stay on board a few days longer I am sure he would have been pleased.

"I shall see you off in the morning,"—he said—"And believe me I shall miss you very much. We don't agree on certain subjects—but I like you all the same."

"That's something!" I said, cheerfully—"It would never do if we were all of the same opinion!"

"Will you meet Santoris again, do you think?"

This was the same question Catherine had put to me, and I answered it in the same manner.

"I really don't know!"

"Would you LIKE to meet him again?" he urged.

I hesitated, smiling a little.

"Yes, I think so!"

"It is curious," he pursued—"that I should have been the means of bringing you together. Your theories of life and death are so alike that you must have thoughts in common. Many years have passed since I knew Santoris—in fact, I had completely lost sight of him, though I had never forgotten his powerful personality—and it seemt rather odd to me that he should suddenly turn up again while you were with me—"

"Mere coincidence,"—I said, lightly—"and common enough, after all. Like attracts like, you know."

"That may be. There is certainly something in the law of attraction between human beings which we do not understand,"—he answered, musingly—"Perhaps if we did—"

He broke off and relapsed into silence.

That night, just before going to bed, I was met by Dr. Brayle in the corridor leading to my cabin. I was about to pass him with a brief good-night, but he stopped me.

"So you are really going to-morrow!" he said, with a furtive narrowing of his eyelids as he looked at me—"Well! Perhaps it is best! You are a very disturbing magnet."

I smiled.

"Am I? In what way?"

"I cannot tell you without seeming to give the lie to reason,"—he answered, brusquely. "I believe to a certain extent in magnetism—in fact, I have myself tested its power in purely nervous patients,— but I have never accepted the idea that persons can silently and almost without conscious effort, influence others for either malign or beneficial purposes. In your presence, however, the thing is forced upon me as though it were a truth, while I know it to be a fallacy."

"Isn't it too late to talk about such things to-night?" I asked, wishing to cut short the conversation.

"Perhaps it is—but I shall probably never have the chance to say what I wish to say,"—he replied,—and he leaned against the stairway just where the light in the saloon sent forth a bright ray upon his face, showing it to be dark with a certain frowning perplexity—"You have studied many things in your own impulsive feminine fashion, and you are beyond all the stupidity of the would- be agreeable female who thinks a prettily feigned ignorance becoming, so that I can speak frankly. I can now tell you that from the first day I saw you I felt I had known you before—and you filled me with a curious emotion of mingled liking and repulsion. One night when you were sitting with us on deck—it was before we met that fellow Santoris—I watched you with singular interest— every turn of your head, every look of your eyes seemed familiar— and for a moment I—I almost loved you! Oh, you need not mind my saying this!"—and he laughed a little at my involuntary exclamation—"it was nothing—it was only a passing mood,—for in another few seconds I hated you as keenly! There you have it. I do not know why I should have been visited by these singular experiences—but I own they exist—that is why I am rather glad you are going."

"I am glad, too,"—I said—and I held out my hand in parting—"I should not like to stay where my presence caused a moment's uneasiness or discomfort."

"That's not putting it quite fairly,"—he answered, taking my offered hand and holding it loosely in his own—"But you are an avowed psychist, and in this way you are a little 'uncanny.' I should not like to offend you—"

"You could not if you tried," I said, quickly.

"That means I am too insignificant in your mind to cause offence,"— he observed—"I daresay I am. I live on the material plane and am content to remain there. You are essaying very high flights and ascending among difficulties of thought and action which are entirely beyond the useful and necessary routine of life,—and in the end these things may prove too much for you." Here he dropped my hand. "You bring with you a certain atmosphere which is too rarefied for ordinary mortals—it has the same effect as the air of a very high mountain on a weak heart—it is too strong—one loses breath, and the power to think coherently. You produce this result on Miss Harland, and also to some extent on me—even slightly on Mr. Harland,—and poor Swinton alone does not fall under the spell, having no actual brain to impress. You need someone who is accustomed to live in the same atmosphere as yourself to match you in your impressions and opinions. We are on a different range of thought and feeling and experience—and you must find us almost beyond endurance—"

"As you find me!" I interposed, smiling.

"I will not say that—no! For there seems to have been a time when we were all on the same plane—"

He paused, and there was a moment's tense silence. The little silvery chime of a clock in the saloon struck twelve.

"Good-night, Dr. Brayle!" I said.

He lifted his brooding eyes and looked at me.

"Good-night! If I have annoyed you by my scepticism in certain matters, you must make allowances for temperament and pardon me. I should be sorry if you bore me any ill-will—"

What a curious note of appeal there was in his voice! All at once it seemed to me that he was asking me to forgive him for that long-ago murder which I had seen reflected in a vision!—and my blood grew suddenly heated with an involuntary wave of deep resentment.

"Dr. Brayle," I said,—"pray do not trouble yourself to think any more about me. Our ways will always be apart, and we shall probably never see each other again. It really does not matter to you in the least what my feeling may be with regard to you,—it can have no influence on either your present or your future. Friendships cannot be commanded."

"You will not say," he interrupted me—"that you have no dislike of me?"

I hesitated—then spoke frankly.

"I will not,"—I answered—"because I cannot!"

For one instant our eyes met—then came SOMETHING between us that suggested an absolute and irretrievable loss—"Not yet!" he murmured—"Not yet!" and with a forced smile, he bowed and allowed me to pass to my cabin. I was glad to be there—glad to be alone— and overwhelmed as I was by the consciousness that the memories of my soul had been too strong for me to resist, I was thankful that I had had the courage to express my invincible opposition to one who had, as I seemed instinctively to realise, been guilty of an unrepented crime.

That night I slept dreamlessly, and the next morning before seven o'clock I had left the luxurious 'Diana' for the ordinary passenger steamer plying from Portree to Glasgow. Mr. Harland kept his promise of seeing me off, and expressed his opinion that I was very foolish to travel with a crowd of tourists and other folk, when I might have had the comfort and quiet of his yacht all the way; but he could not move me from my resolve, though in a certain sense I was sorry to say good-bye to him.

"You must write to us as soon as you get home,"—he said, at parting—"A letter will find us this week at Gairloch—I shall cruise about a bit longer."

I made no reply for the moment. He had no idea that I was not going home at all, nor did I intend to tell him.

"You shall hear from me as soon as possible,"—I said at last, evasively—" I shall be very busy for a time—"

He laughed.

"Oh, I know! You are always busy! Will you ever get tired, I wonder?"

I smiled. "I hope not!"

With that we shook hands and parted, and within the next twenty minutes the steamer had started, bearing me far away from the Isle of Skye, that beautiful, weird and mystic region full of strange legends and memories, which to me had proved a veritable wonderland. I watched the 'Diana' at anchor in the bay of Portree till I could see her no more,—and it was getting on towards noon when I suddenly noticed the people on board the steamer making a rush to one side of the deck to look at something that was evidently both startling and attractive. I followed the crowd,—and my heart gave a quick throb of delight when I saw poised on the sparkling waters the fairylike 'Dream'!—her sails white as the wings of a swan, and her cordage gleaming like woven gold in the brilliant sunshine. She was a thing of perfect beauty as she seemed to glide on the very edge of the horizon like a vision between sky and sea. And as I pressed forward among the thronging passengers to look at her, she dipped her flag in salutation—a salutation I knew was meant for me alone. When the flag ran up again to its former position, murmurs of admiration came from several people around me—

"The finest schooner afloat!"—I heard one man remark—"They say she goes by electricity as well as sailing power."

"She's often seen about here," said another—"She belongs to a foreigner—some prince or other named Santoris."

And I watched and waited,—with unconscious tears in my eyes, till the exquisite fairy vessel disappeared suddenly as though it had become absorbed and melted into the sun; then all at once I thought of the words spoken by the wild Highland 'Jamie' who had given me the token of the bell-heather—"One way in and another way out! One road to the West, and the other to the East, and round about to the meeting-place!"

The meeting-place! Where would it be? I could only think and wonder, hope and pray, as the waves spread their silver foaming distance between me and the vanished 'Dream.'



XIII

THE HOUSE OF ASELZION

It is not necessary to enter into particular details of the journey I now entered upon and completed during the ensuing week. My destination was a remote and mountainous corner of the Biscayan coast, situated a little more than three days' distance from Paris. I went alone, knowing that this was imperative, and arrived without any untoward adventure, scarcely fatigued though I had travelled by night as well as by day. It was only at the end of my journey that I found myself confronted by any difficulty, and then I had to realise that though the 'Chateau d'Aselzion,' as it was called, was perfectly well known to the inhabitants of the surrounding district, no one seemed inclined to show me the nearest way there or even to let me have the accommodation of a vehicle to take me up the steep ascent which led to it. The Chateau itself could be seen from all parts of the village, especially from the seashore, over which it hung like a toppling crown of the fortress-like rock on which it was erected.

"It is a monastery,"—said a man of whom I asked the way, speaking in a curious kind of guttural patois, half French and half Spanish— "No woman goes there."

I explained that I was entrusted with an important message.

He shook his head.

"Not for any money would I take you," he declared. "I should be afraid for myself."

Nothing could move him from his resolve, so I made up my mind to leave my small luggage at the inn and walk up the steep road which I could see winding like a width of white ribbon towards the goal of my desires. A group of idle peasants watched me curiously as I spoke to the landlady and asked her to take care of my few belongings till I either sent for them or returned to fetch them, to which arrangement she readily consented. She was a buxom, pleasant little Frenchwoman, and inclined to be friendly.

"I assure you, Mademoiselle, you will return immediately!" she said, with a bright smile—"The Chateau d'Aselzion is a place where no woman is ever seen—and a lady alone!—ah, mon Dieu!—impossible! There are terrible things done there, so they say—it is a house of mystery! In the daytime it looks as it does now—dark, as though it were a prison!—but sometimes at night one sees it lit up as though it were on fire—every window full of something that shines like the sun! It is a Brotherhood that lives there,—not of the Church—ah no! Heaven forbid!—but they are rich and powerful men—and it is said they study some strange science—our traders serve them only at the outer gates and never go beyond. And in the midnight one hears the organ playing in their chapel, and there is a sound of singing on the very waves of the sea! I beg of you, Mademoiselle, think well of what you do before you go to such a place!—for they will send you away—I am sure they will send you away!"

I smiled and thanked her for her well-meant warning.

"I have a message to give to the Master of the Brotherhood," I said- -"If I am not allowed to deliver it and the gate is shut in my face, I can only come back again. But I must do my best to gain an entrance if possible."

And with these words I turned away and commenced my solitary walk. I had arrived in the early afternoon and the sun was still high in the heavens,—the heat was intense and the air was absolutely still. As I climbed higher and higher, the murmuring noises of human life in the little village I had left behind me grew less and less and presently sank altogether out of hearing, and I became gradually aware of the great and solemn solitude that everywhere encompassed me. No stray sheep browsed on the burnt brown grass of the rocky height I was slowly ascending—no bird soared through the dazzling deep blue of the vacant sky. The only sound I could hear was the soft, rhythmic plash of small waves on the beach below, and an indefinite deeper murmur of the sea breaking through a cave in the far distance. There was something very grand in the silence and loneliness of the scene,—and something very pitiful too, so I thought, about my own self, toiling up the rocky path in mingled hope and fear towards that grim pile of dark stone towers and high forbidding walls, where it was just possible I might meet with but a discouraging reception. Yet with the letter from him who signed himself 'Your lover' lying against my heart, I felt I had a talisman to open doors even more closely barred. Nevertheless, my courage gave way a little when I at last stood before the heavy iron gates set in a lofty archway of stone through which I could see nothing but cavernous blackness. The road I had followed ended in a broad circular sweep opposite this archway, and a few tall pines twisted and gnarled in bough and stem, as though the full force of many storm winds had battered and bent them out of their natural shapes, were the only relief to the barrenness of the ground. An iron chain with a massive ring at the end suggested itself as the possible means of pulling a bell or otherwise attracting attention; but for some minutes I had not the boldness to handle it.

I stood gazing at the frowning portal with a sense of utter loneliness and desolation,—the quick, resistless impulse that had fired me to make the journey and which, as it were, had driven me along by its own impetus, suddenly died away into a dreary consciousness of inadequateness and folly on my own part,—and I began to reproach myself for yielding so utterly to the casual influence of one who, after all, must in a reasonable way be considered a stranger. For what was Rafel Santoris to me? Merely an old college friend of the man who for a fortnight had been my host, and with whom he chanced to renew acquaintanceship during a yachting tour. Anything more simple and utterly commonplace never occurred,— yet, here was I full of strange impressions and visions, which were possibly only the result of clever hypnotism, practised on me because the hypnotist had possibly discovered in my temperament some suitable 'subject' matter for an essay of his skill. And I had so readily succumbed to his influence as to make a journey of hundreds of miles to a place I had never heard of before on the chance of seeing a man of whom I knew nothing!—except—that, according to what Rafel Santoris had said of him, he was the follower of a great psychic Teacher whom once I had known.

Such doubtful and darkening thoughts as these, chasing one another rapidly through my brain, made me severely accuse myself of rash and unpardonable folly in all I had done or was doing,—and I was almost on the point of turning away and retracing my steps, when a sudden ray of light, not of the sun, struck itself sharply as it were before my eyes and hurt them with its blinding glitter. It was like a whip of fire lashing my hesitating mind, and it startled me into instant action. Without pausing further to think what I was about, I went straight up to the entrance of the Chateau and pulled at the iron chain. The gates swung open at once and swiftly, without sound- -and I stepped into the dark passage within—whereupon they as noiselessly closed again behind me. There was no going back now,— and nerving myself to resolution, I walked quickly on through what was evidently a long corridor with a lofty arched roof of massive stone; it was dark and cool and refreshing after the great heat outside, and I saw a faint light at the end towards which I made my way. The light widened as I drew near, and an exclamation of relief and pleasure escaped me as I suddenly found myself in a picturesque quadrangle, divided into fair green lawns and parterres of flowers. Straight opposite me as I approached, a richly carved double oaken door stood wide open, enabling me to look into a vast circular domed hall, in the centre of which a fountain sent up tall silver columns of spray which fell again with a tinkling musical splash into a sunken pool bordered with white marble, where delicate pale blue water-lilies floated on the surface of the water. Enchanted by this glimpse of loveliness, I went straight on and entered without seeking the right of admission,—and then stood looking about me in wonder and admiration. If this was the House of Aselzion, where such difficult lessons had to be learned and such trying ordeals had to be faced, it certainly did not seem like a house of penance and mortification but rather of luxury. Exquisite white marble statues were set around the hall in various niches between banked-up masses of roses and other blossoms—many of them perfect copies of the classic models, and all expressing either strength and resolution, or beauty and repose. And most wonderful of all was the light, that poured in from the high dome—I could have said with truth that it was like that 'light which never was on sea or land.' It was not the light of the sun, but something more softened and more intense, and was totally indescribable.

Fascinated by the restful charm of my surroundings, I seated myself on a marble bench near the fountain and watched the sparkle of the water as it rose in rainbow radiance and fell again into the darker shadows of the pool,—and I had for a moment lost myself in a kind of waking dream,—so that I started with a shock of something like terror when I suddenly perceived a figure approaching me,—that of a man, clothed in white garments fashioned somewhat after the monastic type, yet hardly to be called a monk's dress, though he wore a sort of hood or cowl pulled partially over his face. My heart almost stopped beating and I could scarcely breathe for nervous fear as he came towards me with an absolutely noiseless tread,—he appeared to be young, and his eyes, dark and luminous, looked at me kindly and, as I fancied, with a touch of pity.

"You are seeking the Master?" he enquired, in a gentle voice—"He has instructed me to receive you, and when you have rested for an hour, to take you to his presence."

I had risen as he spoke, and his quiet manner helped me to recover myself a little.

"I am not tired,"—I answered—"I could go to him at once—"

He smiled.

"That is not possible!" he said—"He is not ready. If you will come to the apartment allotted to you I am sure you will be glad of some repose. May I ask you to follow me?"

He was perfectly courteous in demeanour, and yet there was a certain impressive authority about him which silently impelled obedience. I had nothing further to demand or to suggest, and I followed him at once. He preceded me out of the domed hall into a long stone passage, where every sign of luxury, beauty or comfort disappeared in cold vastness, and where at every few steps large white boards with the word 'Silence!' printed upon them in prominent black letters confronted the eyes. The way we had to go seemed long and dreary and dungeon-like, but presently we turned towards an opening where the sun shone through, and my guide ascended a steep flight of stone stairs, at the top of which was a massive door of oak, heavily clamped with iron. Taking a key from his girdle, he unlocked this door, and throwing it open, signed to me to pass in. I did so, and found myself in a plain stone-walled room with a vaulted roof, and one very large, lofty, uncurtained window which looked out upon the sea and sheer down the perpendicular face of the rock on which the Chateau d'Aselzion was built. The furniture consisted of one small camp bedstead, a table, and two easy chairs, a piece of rough matting on the floor near the bed, and a hanging cupboard for clothes. A well-fitted bathroom adjoined this apartment, but beyond this there was nothing of modern comfort and certainly no touch of luxury. I moved instinctively to the window to look out at the sea,- -and then turned to thank my guide for his escort, but he had gone. Thrilled with a sudden alarm, I ran to the door—it was locked! I was a prisoner! I stood breathless and amazed;—then a wave of mingled indignation and terror swept over me. How dared these people restrain my liberty? I looked everywhere round the room for a bell or some means of communication by which I could let them know my mind—but there was nothing to help me. I went to the window again, and finding it was like a French casement, merely latched in the centre, I quickly unfastened and threw it open. The scent of the sea rushed at me with a delicious freshness, reminding me of Loch Scavaig and the 'Dream'—and I leaned out, looking longingly over the wide expanse of glittering water just now broken into little crests of foam by a rising breeze. Then I saw that my room was a kind of turret chamber, projecting itself sheer over a great wall of rock which evidently had its base in the bed of the ocean. There was no escape for me that way, even if I had sought it. I drew back from the window and paced round and round my room like a trapped animal— angry with myself for having ventured into such a place, and forgetting entirely my previous determination to go through all that might happen to me with patience and unflinching nerve.

Presently I sat down on my narrow camp bed and tried to calm myself. After all, what was the use of my anger or excitement? I had come to the House of Aselzion of my own wish and will,—and so far I had endured nothing difficult. Apparently Aselzion was willing to receive me in his own good time—and I had only to wait the course of events. Gradually my blood cooled, and in a few minutes I found myself smiling at my own absurdly useless indignation. True, I was locked up in my own room like a naughty child, but did it matter so very much? I assured myself it did not matter at all,—and as I accustomed my mind to this conviction I became perfectly composed and quite at home in my strange surroundings. I took off my hat and cloak and put them by—then I went into the bathroom and refreshed my face with delicious splashes of cold water. The bathroom possessed a full-length mirror fitted into the wall, a fact which rather amused me, as I felt it must have been there always and could not have been put up specially for me, so that it would seem these mystic 'Brothers' were not without some personal vanity. I surveyed myself in it with surprise as I took down my hair and twisted it up again more tidily, for I had expected to look fagged and tired, whereas my face presented a smiling freshness which was unexpected and astonishing to myself. The plain black dress I wore was dusty with travel—and I shook it as free as I could from railway grimness, feeling that it was scarcely the attire I should have chosen for an audience of Aselzion.

"However,"—I said to myself—"if he has me locked up like this, and gives me no chance of sending for my luggage at the inn, I can only submit and make the best of it."

And returning from the bathroom to the bedroom, I again looked out of my lofty window across the sea. As I did so, leaning a little over the ledge, something soft and velvety touched my hand;—it was a red rose clambering up the turret just within my reach. Its opening petals lifted themselves towards me like sweet lips turned up for kisses, and I was for a moment startled, for I could have sworn that no rose of any kind was there when I first looked out. 'One rose from all the roses in Heaven!' Where had I heard those words? And what did they signify? Then—I remembered! Carefully and with extreme tenderness, I bent over that beautiful, appealing flower:

"I will not gather you!"—I whispered, following the drift of my own dreaming fancy—"If you are a message—and I think you are I—stay there as long as you can and talk to me! I shall understand!"

And so for a while we made silent friends with each other till I might have said with the poet—'The soul of the rose went into my blood.' At any rate something keen, fine and subtle stole over my senses, moving me to an intense delight in merely being alive. I forgot that I was in a strange place among strange men,—I forgot that I was to all intents and purposes a prisoner—I forgot everything except that I lived, and that life was ecstasy!

I had no very exact idea of the time,—my watch had stopped. But the afternoon light was deepening, and long lines of soft amber and crimson in the sky were beginning to spread a radiant path for the descent of the sun. While I still remained at the window I suddenly heard the rise and swell of deep organ music, solemn and sonorous; it was as though the waves of the sea had set themselves to song. Some instinct then told me there was someone in the room,—and I turned round quickly to find my former guide in the white garments standing silently behind me, waiting. I had intended to complain at once of the way in which I had been imprisoned as though I were a criminal—but at sight of his grave, composed figure I lost all my hardihood and could say nothing. I merely stood still, attendant on his pleasure. His dark eyes, gleaming from under his white cowl, looked at me with a searching enquiry as though he expected me to speak, but as I continued to keep silence, he smiled.

"You are very patient!" he said, quietly—"And that is well! The Master awaits you."

A tremor ran through me, and my heart began to beat violently. I was to have my wilful desires granted, then! I was actually to see and speak with the man to whom Rafel Santoris owed his prolonged youth and power, and under whose training he had passed through an ordeal which had taught him some of the deepest mysteries of life! The result of my own wishes seemed now so terrifying to me that I could not have uttered a word had I tried, I followed my escort in absolute silence;—once in my nervous agitation I slipped on the stone staircase and nearly fell,—he at once caught me by the hand and supported me, and the kindness and gentle strength of his touch renewed my courage. His wonderful eyes looked steadily into mine.

"Do not be afraid!" he said, in a low tone—"There is really nothing to fear!"

We passed the domed hall and its sparkling fountain, and in two or three minutes came to a deep archway veiled by a portiere of some rich stuff woven in russet brown and gold,—this curtain my guide threw back noiselessly, showing a closed door. Here he came to a standstill and waited—I waited with him, trying to be calm, though my mind was in a perfect tumult of expectation mingled with doubt and dread,—that closed door seemed to me to conceal some marvellous secret with which my whole future life and destiny were likely to be involved. Suddenly it opened,—I saw a beautiful octagonal room, richly furnished, with the walls lined, so it appeared, from floor to ceiling with books,—one or two great stands and vases of flowers made flashes of colour among the shadows, and a quick upward glance showed me that the ceiling was painted in fresco, then my guide signed to me to enter.

"The Master will be with you in a moment,"—he said—"Please sit down"—here he gave me an encouraging smile—"You are a little nervous—try and compose yourself! You need not be at all anxious or frightened!"

I tried to smile in response, but I felt far more ready to weep. I was possessed by a sudden hopeless and helpless depression which I could not overcome. My guide went away at once, and the door closed after him in the same mysteriously silent fashion in which it had opened. I was left to myself,—and I sat down on one of the numerous deep easy chairs which were placed about the room, trying hard to force myself into at least the semblance of quietude. But, after all, what was the use of even assuming composure when the man I had come to meet probably had the power to gauge the whole gamut of a human being's emotion at a moment's notice? Instinctively I pressed my hand against my heart and felt the letter my 'lover' had given me—surely that was no dream?

I drew a long breath like a sigh, and turned my eyes towards the window, which was set in a sort of double arch of stone, and which showed me a garden stretching far away from the edges of soft lawns and flower borders into a picturesque vista of woodland and hill. A warmth of rosy light illumined the fair scene, indicating that the glory of the sunset had begun. Impulsively I rose to go and look out—then stopped—checked and held back by a swift compelling awe— I was no longer alone. I was confronted by the tall commanding figure of a man wearing the same white garments as those of my guide,—a man whose singular beauty and dignity of aspect would have enforced admiration from even the most callous and unobservant—and I knew that I was truly at last in the presence of Aselzion. Overpowered by this certainty, I could not speak—I could only look and wonder as he drew near me. His cowl was thrown back, fully displaying his fine intellectual head—his eyes, deep blue and full of light, studied my face with a keen scrutiny which I could FEEL as though it were a searching ray burning into every nook and cranny of my heart and soul. The blood rushed to my cheeks in a warm wave— then suddenly rallying my forces I returned him glance for glance. Thus we moved, each on our own lines of spiritual attraction, closer together; till presently a slight smile brightened the gravity of his handsome features, and he extended both hands to me.

"You are welcome!" he said, in a voice that expressed the most perfect music of human speech—"Rash and undisciplined as you are, you are welcome!"

Timidly I laid my hands in his, grateful for the warm, strong clasp he gave them,—then, all at once, hardly knowing how it happened, I sank on my knees as before some saint or king, silently seeking his blessing. There was a moment's deep stillness,—and he laid his hands on my bowed head.

"Poor child!" he said, gently—"You have adventured far for love and life!—it will be hard if you should fail! May all the powers of God and Nature help you!"

This said, he raised me with an infinitely courteous kindness, and placed a chair for me near a massive table-desk on which there were many papers—some neatly tied up and labelled,—others lying about in apparent confusion—and when we were both seated he began conversation in the simplest and easiest fashion.

"You know, of course, that I have been prepared for your arrival here,"—he said—"by one of my students, Rafel Santoris. He has been seeking you for a long time, but now he has found you he is hardly better off—for you are a rebellious child and unwilling to recognise him—is it not so?"

I felt a little more courageous now, and answered him at once.

"I am not unwilling to recognise any true thing," I said—"But I do not wish to be deceived—or to deceive myself."

He smiled.

"Do you not? How do you know that you have not been deceiving yourself ever since your gradual evolvement from subconscious into conscious life? Nature has not deceived you—Nature always takes herself seriously—but you—have you not tried in various moods or phases of existence, to do something cleverer than Nature?—to more or less outwit her as it were? Come, come!—don't look so puzzled about it!—you have only done what all so-called 'reasonable' human beings do, and think themselves justified in doing. But now, in your present state,—which is an advancement, and not a retrogression,— you have begun to gain a little wider knowledge, with a little deeper humility—and I am inclined to have great patience with you!"

I raised my eyes and was reassured by his kindly glance.

"Now, to begin with,"—he went on—"you should know at once that we do not receive women here. It is against our rule and Order. We are not prepared for them,—we do not want them. They are never more than HALF souls!"

My heart gave an indignant bound,—but I held my peace. He looked straight at me, while with one hand he put together a few stray papers on his desk.

"Well, why do you not give me the obvious answer?" he queried—"Why do you not say that if women are half souls, men are the same,—and that the two halves must conjoin to make one? Foolish child!—you need not burn with suppressed offence at what sounds a slighting description of your sex—it is not meant as such. You ARE half souls,—and the chief trouble with you is that you seldom have the sense to see it, or to make any endeavour to form the perfect and indivisible union,—a sacred task which is left in your hands. Nature is for ever working to bring the right halves together,—man is for ever striving to scatter them apart—and though it all comes right at the last, as it must, there is no need for delay involving either months or centuries. You women were meant to be the angels of salvation, but instead of this you are the ruin of your own 'ideals.'"

I could offer no contradiction to this, for I felt it to be true.

"As I have just said," he went on—"this is no place for women. The mere idea that you should imagine yourself, capable of submitting to the ordeal of a student here is, on the face of it, incredible. Only for Rafel's sake have I consented to see you and explain to you how impossible it is that you should remain—"

I interrupted him.

"I MUST remain!" I said, firmly. "Do with me whatever you like—put me in a cell and keep me a prisoner,—give me any hardship to endure and I will endure it—but do not turn me away without teaching me something of your peace and power—the peace and power which Rafel possesses, and which I too must possess if I would help him and be all in all to him—"

Here I paused, overcome by my own emotion. Aselzion looked full at me.

"That is your desire?—to help him and to be all in all to him?" he said—"Why did you not realise this ages ago? And even now you have wavered in the allegiance you owe to him—you have doubted him, though all your inward instincts tell you that he is your soul's true mate, and that your own heart beats towards him like a bird in a cage beating against the bars towards liberty!"

I was silent. My fate seemed in a balance,—but I left it to Aselzion, who, if his power meant anything, could read my thoughts better than I could express them. He rose from his desk and paced slowly up and down, absorbed in meditation. Presently he stopped abruptly in front of me.

"If you stay here," he said—"you must understand what it means. It means that you must dwell as one apart in your own room, entirely alone except when summoned to receive instruction—your meals will be served there—and you will feel like a criminal undergoing punishment rather than enlightenment—and you may speak to no one unless spoken to first. Moreover"—he interrupted himself and beckoned me to follow him into another room adjoining the one we were in. Here, leading me to a window, he showed me a very different view from the sunlit landscape and garden I had lately looked upon,- -a dismal square of rank grass in which stood a number of black crosses.

"These do not mark deaths,"—he said—"but failures! Failures—not in a worldly sense—but failures in making of life the eternal and creative thing it is—eternal HERE and now,—as long as we shall choose! Do you seek to be one of them?"

"No,"—I answered, quietly—"I shall not fail!"

He gave a slight, impatient sigh.

"So they all said—they whose records are here"—and he pointed to the crosses with an impressive gesture—"Some of the men who have thus left their mark with us, are at this moment among the world's most brilliant and successful personalities—wealthy, and in great social request,—and only they themselves know where the canker lies—only they are aware of their own futility,—and they live, knowing that their life must lead into other lives, and dreading that inevitable Change which is bound by law to bring them into whatever position they have chiefly sought!"

His voice was grave and compassionate, and a faint tremor of fear ran through me.

"These were—and are—MEN!"—he continued—"And you—a woman—would boldly attempt the adventures in which they failed! Think for a moment how weak and ignorant and all unprepared you are! When you first began your psychic studies with a Teacher whom we both loved and honoured—one whom you knew by the name of Heliobas—you had scarcely lived at all in the world;—since then you have worked hard and done much, but in your close application to the conquest of difficulties you have missed many things by the way. I give you credit for patience and faith—these have accomplished much for you- -and now you are at a crucial point in your career when your Will, like the rudder of a ship, trembles in your hand, and you are plunging into unknown further deeps where there may be storm and darkness. There is danger ahead for any doubting, proud, or rebellious soul,—it is but fair to warn you!"

"I am not afraid!" I said, in a low tone—"I can but die!"

"Child, that is just what you cannot do! Grasp that fact firmly at once and for ever! You cannot die,—there is no such thing as death! If you could die and have done with all duties, cares, perplexities and struggles altogether, the eternal problem would be greatly simplified. But the idea of death is only one of a million human delusions. Death is an impossibility in the scheme of Life—what is called by that name is merely a shifting and re-investiture of imperishable atoms. The endless varying forms of this shifting and re-investiture of atoms is the secret we and our students have set ourselves to master—and some of us have mastered it sufficiently to control both the matter and spirit whereof we are made. But the way of learning is not an easy way—Rafel Santoris himself could have told you that he was all but overcome in the trial—for I spare no one!—and if you persist in your rash intention I cannot spare you simply because of your sex."

"I do not ask to be spared,"—I said, gently—"I have already told you I will endure anything."

A slight smile crossed his face.

"So you will, I believe!" he answered—"In the old days I can well understand your enduring martyrdom! I can see you facing lions in the Roman arena,"—as he thus spoke I started, and the warm blood rushed to my cheeks—"rather than not carry out your own fixed resolve, whether such resolve was right or wrong! I can see you preparing to drown yourself in the waters of the Nile rather than break through man's stupid superstition and convention! Why do you look so amazed? Am I touching on some old memory? Come, let us leave these black embers of coward mortality and return to the more cheerful room."

We re-entered the library together, and he seated himself again at his desk, turning towards me with an air of settled and impressive authority.

"What you want to learn,—and what every beginner in the study of psychic law generally wants to learn first of all, is how to obtain purely personal satisfaction and advantage,"—he said—"You want to know three things—the secret of life—the secret of youth—the secret of love! Thousands of philosophers and students have entered upon the same research, and one perhaps out of the thousand has succeeded where all the rest have failed. The story of Faust is perpetually a thing of interest, because it treats of these secrets, which according to the legend are only discoverable through the aid of the devil. WE know that there is no devil, and that everything is divinely ordained by a Divine Intelligence, so that in the deepest researches which we are permitted to make there is nothing to fear— but Ourselves! Failure is always brought about by the students, not by the study in which they are engaged,—the reason of this being that when they know a little, they think they know all,—with the result that they become intellectually arrogant, an attitude that instantly nullifies all previous attainment. The secret of life is a comparatively easy matter to understand—the secret of youth a little more difficult—the secret of love the most difficult of all, because out of love is generated both the perpetuity of life and of youth. Now your object in coming here is, down at the root of it, absolutely personal—I will not say selfish, because that sounds hard—and I will give you credit for the true womanly feeling you have, that being conscious in your own soul of Rafel Santoris as your superior and master as well as your lover, you wish to be worthy of him, if only in the steadfastness and heroism of your character. I will grant you all that. I will also grant that it is perfectly natural, and therefore right, that you should wish to retain youth and beauty and health for his sake,—and I would even urge that this desire should be SOLELY for his sake! But just now you are not quite sure whether it is for his sake,—you wish to hold, for YOURSELF, the secret of life and the power of life's continuance—the secret of youth and the power of youth's continuance,—and you most certainly wish to have for yourself, as well as for Rafel, the secret of love and the power of love's continuance. None of these secrets can be disclosed to worldlings— by which term I mean those who allow themselves to be moved from their determination, and distracted by a thousand ephemeral matters. I do not say you are such an one,—but you, like all who live in the world, have your friends and acquaintances—people who are ready to laugh at you and make mock of your highest aims—people whose delight would be to block the way to your progress—and the question with me is—Are you strong enough to ensure the mental strain which will be put upon you by ignorant and vulgar opposition and even positive derision? You may be,—you are self-willed enough, though not always rightly so—for example, you want to gain knowledge apart from and independently of Rafel Santoris, yet you are an incomplete identity without him! The women of your day all follow this vicious policy—the desire to be independent and apart from men—which is the suicide of their nobler selves. None of them are complete creatures without their stronger halves—they are like deformed birds with only one wing,—and a straight flight is impossible to them."

He ceased, and I looked up.

"Whether I agree with you or not hardly matters,"—I said—"I admit all my faults and am ready to amend them. But I want to learn from you all that I may—all that you think I am capable of learning—and I promise absolute obedience—"

A slight smile lightened his eyes.

"And humility?"

I bent my head.

"And humility!"

"You are resolved, then?"

"I am resolved!"

He paused a moment, then appeared to make up his mind.

"So be it!" he said—"But on your own head be your own mischance, if any mischance should happen! I take no responsibility. Of your own will you have come here—of your own will you elect to stay here, where there is no one of your own sex with whom you can communicate- -and of your own will you must accept all the consequences. Is that agreed?"

His steel-blue eyes flashed with an almost supernatural brilliancy as he put the question, and I was conscious of a sense of fear. But I conquered this and answered simply:

"It is agreed!"

He gave me a keen glance that swept me as it were from head to foot- -then turning from me abruptly, struck a handle on his desk which set a loud bell clanging in some outer corridor. My former guide entered almost immediately, and Aselzion addressed him:

"Honorius,"—he said—"show this lady to her room, She will follow the course of a probationer and student"—as he spoke, Honorius gave me a look of undisguised amazement and pity—"The moment she desires to leave, every facility for her departure is to be granted to her. As long as she remains under instruction the rule for her, as you know, is solitude and silence."

I looked at him, and thought how swiftly his face had changed. It was no longer softened by the grave benevolence and kindness that had sustained my courage,—a stern shadow darkened it, and his eyes were averted. I saw I was expected to leave the room, but I hesitated.

"You will let me thank you,"—I murmured, holding out my hands timidly—almost pleadingly.

He turned to me slowly and took my hands in his own.

"Poor child, you have nothing to thank me for!"—he said. "Bear in mind, as one of your first lessons in the difficult way you are going, that you have nothing to thank anyone for, and nothing to blame anyone for in the shaping of your destiny but—Yourself! Go!— and may you conquer your enemy!"

"My enemy?" I repeated, wonderingly.

"Yes—again Yourself! The only power any man or woman has ever had, or ever will have, to contend with!"

He dropped my hands, and I suppose I must have expressed some mute appeal in my upward glance at him, for the faintest shadow of a smile came on his lips.

"God be with you!" he said, softly, and then with a gentle gesture signed to me to leave him. I at once obeyed, and followed the guide Honorius, who led me back to my own room, where, without speaking a word, he closed and locked the door upon me as before. To my surprise, I found my luggage which I had left at the inn placed ready for me—and on a small dresser set in a niche of the wall which I had not noticed before, there was a plate of fruit and dry bread, with a glass of cold water. On going to look at this little refection, which was simply yet daintily set out, I saw that the dresser was really a small lift, evidently connected with the domestic offices of the house, and I concluded that this would be the means by which all my meals would be served. I did not waste much time in thinking about it, however,—I was only too glad to be allowed to remain in the House of Aselzion on any terras, and the fact that I was imprisoned under lock and key did not now trouble me. I unpacked my few things, among which were three or four favourite books,—then I sat down to my frugal repast, for which hunger provided a keen appetite. When I had finished, I took a chair to the open window and sat there, looking out on the sea. I saw my friendly little rose leaning its crimson head against the wall just below me with quite a confidential air, and it gave me a sense of companionship, otherwise the solitude was profound. The sky was darkening into night, though one or two glowing bars of deep crimson still lingered as memories of the departed sun—and a pearly radiance to the eastward showed a suggestion of the coming moon. I felt the sense of deep environing silence closing me in like a wall- -and looking back over my shoulder from the window to the interior of my room it seemed full of drifting shadows, dark and impalpable. I remembered I had no candle or any other sort of light—and this gave me a passing uneasiness, but only for a moment. I could go to bed, I thought, when I was tired of watching the sea. At any rate, I would wait for the moonrise,—the scene I looked upon was divinely peaceful and beautiful,—one that a painter or poet would have revelled in—and I was content. I was not conscious of any fear,— but I did feel myself being impressed as it were and gradually overcome by the deepening stillness and great loneliness of my surroundings. 'The rule for her is solitude and silence.' So had said Aselzion. And evidently the rule was being enforced.



XIV

CROSS AND STAR

The moon rose slowly between two bars of dark cloud which gradually whitened into silver beneath her shining presence, and a scintillating pathway of diamond-like reflections began to spread itself across the sea. I remained at the window, feeling an odd disinclination to turn away into the darkness of my room. And I began to think that perhaps it was rather hard that I should be left all by myself locked up in this way;—surely I might have been allowed a light of some sort! Then I at once reproached myself for allowing the merest suggestion of a complaint to enter my mind, for, after all, I was an uninvited guest in the House of Aselzion—I was not wanted—and I remembered the order that had been issued concerning me: 'The moment she desires to leave, every facility for departure is to be granted to her.' I was much more afraid of this 'facility for departure' than I was of my present solitude, and I determined to look upon the whole adventure in the best and most cheerful light. If it was best I should be alone, then loneliness was good—if it was necessary I should be in darkness, then darkness was also agreeable to me.

Scarcely had I thus made up my mind to these conditions when my room was suddenly illumined by a soft yet effulgent radiance-and I started up in amazement, wondering where it came from. I could see no lamps or electric burners,—it was as if the walls glowed with some surface luminance. When my first surprise had passed, I was charmed and delighted with the warm and comforting brightness around me,—it rather reminded me of the electric brilliancy on the sails of the 'Dream.' I moved away from the window, leaving it open, as the night was very close and warm, and sat down at the table to read a little, but after a few minutes laid the book aside to listen to a strange whispering music that floated towards me, apparently from the sea, and thrilled me to the soul. No eloquent description could give any idea of the enthralling sweetness of the harmonies that were more BREATHED upon the air than sounded—and I became absorbed in following the rhythm of the delicious cadences as they rose and fell. Then by degrees my thoughts wandered away to Rafel Santoris,— where was he now?—in what peaceful expanse of shining waters had his fairy vessel cast anchor? I pictured him in my brain till I could almost see his face,—the broad brow,—the fearless, tender eyes and smile—and I could fancy that I heard the deep, soft accents of his voice, always so gentle when he spoke to me—me, who had half resented his influence! And a quick wave of long pent-up tenderness rose in my heart—my whole soul ran out, as it were, to greet him with outstretched arms—I knew in my own consciousness that he was more than all the world to me, and I said aloud:—"My beloved, I love you! I love you!" to the silence, almost as if I thought it could convey the words to him whom most I desired to hear them.

Then I felt how foolish and futile it was to talk to the empty air when I might have confessed myself to the real lover of my life face to face, had I been less sceptical,—less proud! Was not my very journey to the House of Aselzion a testimony of my own doubting attitude?—for I had come, as I now admitted to myself, first to make sure that Aselzion really existed—and secondly, to prove to my own satisfaction that he was truly able to impart the mystical secrets which Rafel seemed to know. I wearied myself out at last with thinking to no purpose, and closing the window I undressed and went to bed. As I lay down, the light in my room was suddenly extinguished, and all was darkness again except for the moon, which sent a clear white ray straight through the lattice, there being no curtain to shut it out. For some time I remained awake on my hard little couch, looking at this ray, and steadily refusing to allow any sense of fear or loneliness to gain the mastery over me—the music which had so enchanted me ceased—and everything was perfectly still. And by and by my eyes closed—my tired limbs relaxed,—and I fell into a sound and dreamless sleep.

When I awoke it was full morning, and the sunshine poured into my room like a shower of gold. I sprang up, full of delight that the night had passed so peacefully and that nothing strange or terrifying had occurred, though I do not know why I should have expected this. Everything seemed wonderfully fresh and beautiful in the brightness of the new day, and the very plainness of my room had a fascination greater than any amount of luxury. The only unusual thing I noticed was that the soft cold water with which my bath was supplied sparkled as though it were effervescent,—once or twice it seemed to ripple with a diamond-like foam, and it was never actually still. I watched its glittering movement for some minutes before bathing—then, feeling certain it was charged with some kind of electricity, I plunged into it without hesitation and enjoyed to the utmost the delicious sense of invigoration it gave me. When my toilet was completed and I had attired myself in a simple morning gown of white linen, as being more suitable to the warmth of the weather than the black one I had travelled in, I went to throw open my window and let in all the freshness of the sea-air, and was surprised to see a small low door open in the side of the turret, through which I discovered a winding stair leading downward. Yielding to the impulse of the moment, I descended it, and at the end found myself in an exquisite little rock garden abutting on the seashore. I could actually open a gate, and walk to the very edge of the sea. I was no longer a prisoner, then!—I could run away if I chose!

I looked about me—and smiled as I saw the impossibility of any escape. The little garden belonged exclusively to the turret, and on each side of it impassable rocks towered up almost to the height of the Chateau d'Aselzion itself, while the bit of shore on which I stood was equally hemmed in by huge boulders against which the waves had dashed for centuries without making much visible impression. Yet it was delightful to feel I was allowed some liberty and open air, and I stayed for some minutes watching the sea and revelling in the warmth of the southern sun. Then I retraced my steps slowly, looking everywhere about me as I went, to see if there was anyone near. Not a soul was in sight.

I returned to my room to find my bed made as neatly as though it had never been slept upon,—and my breakfast, consisting of a cup of milk and some wheaten biscuits, set out upon the table. I was quite ready for the meal, and enjoyed it. When I had finished, I took my empty cup and plate and put them on the dresser in the niche, whereupon the dresser was instantly lowered, and very soon disappeared. Then I began to wonder how I should employ myself. It was no use writing letters, though I had my own travelling desk ready for this purpose,—I did not wish my friends or acquaintances to know where I was—and even if I had written to any of them it was hardly likely that my correspondence would ever reach them. For I felt sure the mystic Brotherhood of Aselzion would not allow me to communicate with the outside world so long as I remained with them. I sat meditating,—and I began to consider that several days passed thus aimlessly would be difficult to bear. I could not keep correct count of time, my watch having stopped, and there was no clock or chime of any sort in the place that I could hear. The stillness around me would have been oppressive but for the soft dash of little waves breaking on the beach below my window. All at once, to my great joy, the door of my room opened, and the personage called Honorius entered. He bent his head slightly by way of salutation, and then said briefly,—

"You are commanded to follow me."

I rose obediently, and stood ready. He looked at me intently and with curiosity, as though he sought to read my mind. Remembering that Aselzion had said I was not to speak unless spoken to, I only returned his look steadfastly, and with a smile.

"You are not unhappy, or afraid, or restless,"—he said, slowly— "That is well! You are making a good beginning. And now, whatever you see or hear, keep silence! If you desire to speak, speak now— but after we leave this room not a word must escape your lips—not a single exclamation,—your business is to listen, learn and obey!"

He waited—giving me the opportunity to say something in reply—but I preferred to hold my peace. He then handed me a folded length of soft white material, opaque, yet fine and silky as gossamer.

"Cover yourself with this veil,"—he said—"and do not raise it till you return here."

I unfolded it and threw it quickly over me—it was as delicate as a filmy cloud and draped me from head to foot, effectually concealing me from the eyes of others though I myself could see through it perfectly. Honorius then signed to me to follow, and I did so, my heart beating quickly with excitement and expectation.

We went through many passages with intricate turnings that seemed to have no outlet,—it was like threading one's way through a maze— till at last I found myself shut within a small cell-like place with an opening in front of me through which I gazed upon a strange and picturesque scene. I saw the interior of a small but perfectly beautiful Gothic chapel, exquisitely designed, and lit by numerous windows of stained glass, through which the sunlight filtered in streams of radiant colour, patterning with gold, crimson and blue, the white marble flooring below. Between every tapering column that supported the finely carved roof, were two rows of benches, one above the other, and here sat an array of motionless white figures,- -men in the garb of their mysterious Order, their faces almost concealed by their drooping cowls. There was no altar in this chapel,—but at its eastern end where the altar might have been, was a dark purple curtain against which blazed in brilliant luminance a Cross and Seven-pointed Star. The rays of light shed by this uplifted Symbol of an unwritten Creed were so vivid as to be almost blinding, and nearly eclipsed the summer glory of the sun itself. Awed by the strange and silent solemnity of my surroundings, I was glad to be hidden under the folds of my enshrouding white veil, though I realised that I was in a sort of secret recess made purposely for the use of those who were summoned to see all that went on in the chapel without being seen. I waited, full of eager anticipation,—and presently the low vibrating sound of the organ trembled on the air, gradually increasing in volume and power till a magnificent rush of music poured from it like a sudden storm breaking through clouds. I drew a long breath of pure ecstasy,—I could have knelt and wept tears of gratitude for the mere sense of hearing! Such music was divine!—the very idea of mortality was swallowed up in it and destroyed, and the imprisoned soul mounted up to the highest life on wings of light, rejoicing!

When it ceased, as it did all too soon, there followed a profound silence,—so profound that I could hear the quick beating of my own heart as if I were the only living thing in the place. I turned my eyes towards the dazzling Cross and Star with its ever darting rays of fiery brilliancy, and the effect of its perpetual sparkle of lambent fire was as if an electric current were giving off messages which no mortal skill would ever be able to decipher or put into words, but which found their way to one's deepest inward consciousness. All at once there was a slight movement among the rows of white-garmented, white-cowled figures hitherto sitting so motionless,—and with one accord they rose to their feet as a figure, tall, stately and imposing, came walking slowly across the chapel and stood directly in front of the flaming Symbol, holding both hands outstretched as though invoking a blessing. It was the Master, Aselzion,—Aselzion invested with such dignity and splendour as I had never thought possible to man. He might have posed for some god or hero,—his aspect was one of absolute power and calm self- poise,—other men might entertain doubts of themselves at the intention of their lives, but this one in his mere bearing expressed sureness, strength and authority. He wore his cowl thrown back, and from where I sat in my secluded corner I could see his features distinctly, and could watch the flash of his fine steadfast eyes as he turned them upon his followers. Keeping his hands extended, he said, in a firm, clear voice:

"To the Creator of all things visible and invisible let us offer up our gratitude and praise, and so begin this day!"

And a responsive murmur of voices answered him:

"We praise Thee, O Divine Power of Love and Life eternal! We praise Thee for all we are! We praise Thee for all we have been! We praise Thee for all we hope to be!—Amen."

There followed a moment's tense silence. Then the assembled brethren sat down in their places, and Aselzion spoke in measured, distinct accents, with the easy and assured manner of a practised orator.

"Friends and Brethren!

"We are gathered here together to consider in this moment of time the things we have done in the past, and the things we are preparing to do in the future. We know that from the Past, stretching back into infinity, we have ourselves made the Present,—and according to Divine law we also know that from this Present, stretching forward into infinity, we shall ourselves evolve all that is yet To Come. There is no power, no deity, no chance, no 'fortuitous concurrence of atoms' in what is simply a figure of the Universal Mathematics. Nothing can be 'forgiven' under the eternal law of Compensation,— nothing need be 'prayed for,' since everything is designed to accomplish each individual spirit's ultimate good. You are here to learn not only the secret of life, but something of how to live that life; and I, in my capacity, am only striving to teach what Nature has been showing you for thousands of centuries, though you have not cared to master her lessons. The science of to-day is but Nature's first primer—a spelling-book as it were, with the alphabet set out in pictures. You are told by sagacious professors,—who after all are no more than children in their newly studied wisdom,—that human life was evolved in the first instance from protoplasm—as they THINK,—but they lack the ability to tell you how the protoplasm was itself evolved—and WHY; where the material came from that went to the making of millions of solar systems and trillions of living organisms concerning whose existence we have no knowledge or perception. Some of them deny a God,—but most of them are driven to confess that there must be an Intelligence, supreme and omnipotent, behind the visible Universe. Order cannot come out of Chaos without a directing Mind; and Order would be quickly submerged into Chaos again were not the directing Mind of a nature to sustain its method and condition.

"We start, therefore, with this Governing Intelligence or directing Mind, which must, like the brain of man, be dual, combining the male and female attributes, since we see that it expresses itself throughout all creation in dual form and type. Intelligence, Mind, or Spirit, whichever we may elect to call it, is inherently active and must find an outlet for its powers,—and the very fact of this necessity produces Desire to perpetuate Itself in varied ways: this again is the first attribute of Love. Hence Love is the foundation of worlds, and the source of all living organisms,—the dual atoms, or ions of spirit and matter yielding to Attraction, Union and Reproduction. If we master this fact reasonably and thoroughly, we shall be nearer the comprehension of life."

He paused a moment,—then advanced a step or two and went on, the flaming Symbol behind him seeming literally to envelop him in its beams,

"What we have to learn first of all is, how these laws affect us as individual human beings and as separate personalities. It is necessary to avoid all obscurity of language in setting forth the simple principles which should guide and preserve each human existence, and my explanation shall be as brief and plain as I can make it. Granted that there is a Divine Mind or Governing Intelligence behind the infinitude of vital and productive atoms which in their union and reproduction build up the wonders of the Universe, we see and admit that one of the chief results of the working of this Divine Mind is Man. He is, so we have been told— 'the image of God.' This expression may be taken as a poetic line in the Scriptures, meaning no more than poetic imagery,—but it is nevertheless a truth. Man is a kind of Universe in himself—he too is a conglomeration of atoms—atoms that are active, reproductive, and desirous of perpetual creativeness. Behind them, as in the nature of the Divine, there is the Governing Intelligence, the Mind, the Spirit,—dual in type, double-sexed in action. Without the Mind to control it, the constitution of Man is chaos,—just as the Universe itself would be without the Creator's governance. What we have chiefly to remember is, that just as the Spirit behind visible Nature is Divine and eternal, so is the Spirit behind each one of our individual selves also Divine and eternal. It HAS BEEN always,— it WILL BE always, and we move as distinct personalities through successive phases of life, each one under the influence of his or her own controlling Soul, to higher and ever higher perception and attainment. The great majority of the world's inhabitants live with less consciousness of this Spirit than flies or worms—they build up religions in which they prate of God and immortality as children prattle, without the smallest effort to understand either,—and at the Change which they call death, they pass out of this life without having taken the trouble to discover, acknowledge or use the greatest gift God has bestowed upon them. But we,—we who are here to realise the existence of the all-powerful Force which gives us complete mastery over the things of space and time and matter—we, who know that over that individual moving universe of atoms called Man, It can hold absolute control,—we can prove for ourselves that the whole earth is subject to the dominance of the immortal Soul,— ay!—and the very elements of air, fire and water!—for these are but the ministers and servants to Its sovereign authority!"

He paused again—and after a minute or two of silence, went on—

"This beautiful earth, this over-arching sky, the exquisite things of Nature's form and loveliness, are all given to Man, not only for his material needs, but for his spiritual growth and evolvement. From the light of the sun he may draw fresh warmth and colour for his blood—from the air new supplies of life—from the very trees and herbs and flowers he may renew his strength,—and there is nothing created that is not intended to add in some measure to his pleasure and well-being. For if the foundation of the Universe be Love, as it is, then Love desires to see its creatures happy. Misery has no place in the Divine scheme of things—it is the result of Man's own opposition to Natural Law. In Natural Law, all things work calmly, slowly and steadfastly together for good—Nature silently obeys God's ordinance. Man, on the contrary, questions, argues, denies, rebels,—with the result that he scatters his force and fails in his highest effort. It is in his own power to renew his own youth—his own vitality,—yet we see him sink of his own accord into feebleness and decrepitude, giving himself up, as it were, to be devoured by the disintegrating influences which he could easily repel. For, as the directing Spirit of God governs the infinitude of atoms and star-dust which go to make up universes, so the mind of a Man should govern the atoms and star-dust of which he himself is composed—guiding their actions and renewing them at pleasure,— forming them into suns and systems of thought and creative power, and wasting no particle of his eternal life forces. He can be what he elects to be,—a god,—or merely one of a mass of units in embryo, drifting away from one phase of existence to another in unintelligent indifference, and so compelling himself to pass centuries of aimless movement before entering upon any marked or decisive path of individual and separate action. The greater number prefer to be nothings in this way, though they cannot escape the universal grinding mill,—they must be used for some purpose in the end, be they never so reluctant. Therefore, we, who study the latent powers of man, judge it wiser to meet and accept our destiny rather than fall back in the race and allow destiny to overtake US and whip us into place with rods of sharp experience. If there is anyone here present who now desires to speak,—to ask a question,—or deny a statement, let him come forward boldly and say what he has to say without fear."

As he thus spoke, I, looking from my little hidden recess, saw a movement among the seated brethren; one of them rose and descending from his place, walked slowly towards Aselzion till he was within a few paces of him—then he paused, and threw back his cowl, showing a worn handsome face on which some great sorrow seemed to be marked too strongly to be ever erased.

"I do not wish to live!"—he said—"I came here to study life, but not to learn how to keep it. I would lose it gladly for the merest trifle! For life is to me a bitter thing—a hideous and inexplicable torment! Why should you, O Aselzion, teach us how to live long? Why not rather teach us how to die soon?"

Aselzion's eyes were bent upon him with a grave and tender compassion.

"What accusation do you bring against life?" he asked—"How has life wronged you?"

"How has life wronged me?" and the unhappy man threw up his hands with a gesture of desperation—"You, who profess to read thought and gauge the soul, can you ask? How has life wronged me? By sheer injustice! From my first breath—for I never asked to be born!—from my early days when all my youthful dreams and aspirations were checked, smothered and killed by loving parents!—loving parents, forsooth!—whose idea of 'love' was money! Every great ambition frustrated—every higher hope slain!—and in my own love—that love of woman which is man's chief curse—even she was false and worthless as a spurious coin—caring nothing whether my life was saved or ruined—it was ruined, of course!—but what matter?—who need care! Only the weariness of it all!—the day after day burden of time!—the longing to lie down and hide beneath the comfortable grass in peace,—where no false friend, no treacherous love, no 'kind' acquaintances, glad to see me suffer, can ever point their mocking hands or round their cruel eyes at me again! Aselzion, if the God you serve is half as wicked as the men He made, then Heaven itself is Hell!"

He spoke deliberately, yet with passion. Aselzion silently regarded him. The fiery Cross and Star blazed with strange colours like millions of jewels, and the deep stillness in the chapel was for many minutes unbroken. All at once, as though impelled by some irresistible force, he sank on his knees.

"Aselzion! As you are strong, have patience with the weak! As you see the Divine, pity those who are blind! As you stand firm, stretch a hand to those whose feet are on the shifting quicksands, and if death and oblivion are among the gifts of your bestowal, withhold them not from me, for I would rather die than live!"