“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—­”