The Secret Power, Marie Corelli [good romance books to read .TXT] 📗

by the flashing society butterfly once Lydia Herbert, who in these early days of her marriage was getting everything she could out of her millionaire— “And NOT to Morgana! Just think! What a disappointment for her!—I’m sure she was in love with him!”

“I thought so”—Gwent answered, cautiously—“And he with her! But— one never knows—”

“No, one never does!” laughed the fair Lydia—“Poor Morgana! Left on the stalk! But she’s so rich it won’t matter. She can marry anybody she likes.”

“Marriage isn’t everything,” said Gwent—“To some it may be heaven,- but to others-”

“The worser place!”—agreed Lydia—“And Morgana is not like ordinary women. I wonder what she’s doing, and when we shall see her again?”

“Yes—I wonder!” Gwent responded vaguely,—and the subject dropped.

They might have had more than ordinary cause to “wonder” had they been able to form even a guess as to the manner and intentions of life held by the strange half spiritual creature whom they imagined to be but an ordinary mortal moved by the same ephemeral aims and desires as the rest of the grosser world. Who,—even among scientists, accustomed as they are to study the evolution of grubs into lovely rainbow-winged shapes, and the transformation of ordinary weeds into exquisite flowers of perfect form and glorious colour, goes far enough or deep enough to realise similar capability of transformation in a human organism self-trained to so evolve and develop itself? Who, at this time of day,—even with the hourly vivid flashes kindled by the research lamps of science, reverts to former theories of men like De Gabalis, who held that beings in process of finer evolution and formation, and known as “elementals,” nourishing their own growth into exquisite existence, through the radio-force of air and fire, may be among us, all unrecognised, yet working their way out of lowness to highness, indifferent to worldly loves, pleasures and opinions, and only bent on the attainment of immortal life? Such beliefs serve only as material for the scoffer and iconoclast,—nevertheless they may be true for all that, and may in the end confound the mockery of materialism which in itself is nothing but the deep shadow cast by a great light.

The strangest and most dramatic happenings have the knack of settling down into the commonplace,—and so in due course the days at the Palazzo d’Oro went on tranquilly,—Manella being established there and known as “la bella Signora Seaton” by the natives of the little surrounding villages, who were gradually brought to understand the helpless condition of her husband and pitied her accordingly. Lady Kingswood had agreed to stay as friend and protectress to the girl as long as Morgana desired it,—indeed she had no wish to leave the beautiful Sicilian home she had so fortunately found, and where she was treated with so much kindness and consideration.

There was no lack or stint of wealth to carry out every arranged plan, and Manella was too simple and primitive in her nature to question anything that her “little white angel” as she called her, suggested or commanded. Intensely grateful for the affectionate care bestowed upon her, she acquiesced in what she understood to be the methods of possible cure for the ruined man to whom she had bound her life.

“If he gets well—quite, quite well”—she said, lifting her splendid dark eyes to Morgana’s blue as “love-in-a-mist” “I will go away and give him to you!”

And she meant it, having no predominant idea in her mind save that of making her elect beloved happy.

Meanwhile Morgana announced her intention of taking another aerial voyage in the “White Eagle”—much to the joy of Giulio Rivardi. Receiving his orders to prepare the wonderful air-ship for a long flight, he and Gaspard worked energetically to perfect every detail. Where he had previously felt a certain sense of fear as to the capabilities of the great vessel, controlled by a force of which Morgana alone had the secret, he was now full of certainty and confidence, and told her so.

“I am glad”—he said—“that you are leaving this place where you have installed people who to me seem quite out of keeping with it. That terrible man who shouts ‘I am master of the world’!—ah, cara Madonna!—I did not work at your fairy Palazzo d’Oro for such an occupant!”

“I know you did not;”she answered, gently-“Nor did I intend it to be so occupied. I dreamed of it as a home of pleasure where I should dwell—alone! And you said it would be lonely!—you remember?”

“I said it was a place for love!” he replied.

“You were right! And love inhabits it—love of the purest, most unselfish nature—”

“Love that is a cruel martyrdom!” he interposed.

“True!” and her eyes shone with a strange brilliancy—“But love—as the world knows it—is never anything else! There, do not frown, my friend! You will never wear its crown of thorns! And you are glad I am going away?”

“Yes!—glad that you will have a change”—he said—“Your constant care and anxiety for these people whom we rescued from death must have tired you out unconsciously. You will enjoy a free flight through space,—and the ship is in perfect condition; she will carry you like an angel in the air!”

She smiled and gave him her hand.

“Good Giulio!—you are quite a romancist!—you talk of angels without believing in them!”

“I believe in them when I look at YOU!” he said, with all an Italian’s impulsive gallantry,

“Very pretty of you!” and she withdrew her hand from his too fervent clasp,—“I feel sorry for myself that I cannot rightly appreciate so charming a compliment!”

“It is not a compliment”—he declared, vehemently; “It is a truth!”

Her eyes dwelt on him with a wistful kindness.

“You are what some people call ‘a good fellow,’ Giulio!” she said— “And you deserve to be very happy. I hope you will be so! I want you to prosper so that you may restore your grand old villa to its former beauty,—I also want you to marry—and bring up a big family”—here she laughed a little—“A family of sons and daughters who will be grateful to you, and not waste every penny you give them—though that is the modern way of sons and daughters.”

She paused, smiling at his moody expression. “And you say everything is ready?—the ‘White Eagle’ is prepared for flight?”

“She will leave the shed at a moment’s touch”—he answered—“when YOU supply the motive power!”

She nodded comprehensively, and thought a moment. “Come to me the day after to-morrow”—she said—“You will then have your orders.”

“Is it to be a long flight this time?” he asked.

“Not so long as to California!” she answered—“But long enough!”

With that she left him. And he betook himself to the air-shed where the superb “White Eagle” rested all a-quiver for departure, palpitating, or so it seemed to him, with a strange eagerness for movement which struck him as unusual and “uncanny” in a mere piece of mechanism.

The next day moved on tranquilly. Morgana wrote many letters—and varied this occupation by occasionally sitting in the loggia to talk with Manella and Lady Kingswood, both of whom now seemed the natural inhabitants of the Palazzo d’Oro. She spoke easily of her intended air-trip,—so that they accepted her intention as a matter of course, Manella only entreating—“Do not be long away!” her lovely, eloquent eyes emphasising her appeal. Now and again the terrible cries of “There shall be no more wars! There can be none! My Great Secret! I am Master of the World!” rang through the house despite the closed doors,—cries which they feigned not to hear, though Manella winced with pain, as at a dagger thrust, each time the sounds echoed on the air.

And the night came,—mildly glorious, with a full moon shining in an almost clear sky—clear save for little delicate wings of snowy cloud drifting in the east like wandering shapes of birds that haunted the domain of sunrise. Giulio Rivardi, leaning out of one of the richly sculptured window arches of his half-ruined villa, looked at the sky with pleasurable anticipation of the morrow’s intended voyage in the “White Eagle.”

“The weather will be perfect!” he thought—“She will be pleased. And when she is pleased no woman can be more charming! She is not beautiful, like Manella—but she is something more than beautiful— she is bewitching! I wonder where she means to go!”

Suddenly a thought struck him,—a vivid impression coming from he knew not whence—an idea that he had forgotten a small item of detail in the air-ship which its owner might or might not notice, but which would certainly imply some slight forgetfulness on his part. He glanced at his watch,—it was close on midnight. Acting on a momentary impulse he decided not to wait till morning, but to go at once down to the shed and see that everything in and about the vessel was absolutely and finally in order. As he walked among the perfumed tangles of shrub and flower in his garden, and out towards the sea-shore he was impressed by the great silence everywhere around him. Everything looked like a moveless picture—a study in still life. Passing through a little olive wood which lay between his own grounds and the sea, he paused as he came out of the shadow of the trees and looked towards the height crowned by the Palazzo d’Oro, where from the upper windows twinkled a few lights showing the position of the room where the “master of the world” lay stretched in brainless immobility, waited upon by medical nurses ever on the watch, and a wife of whom he knew nothing, guarding him with the fixed devotion of a faithful dog rather than of a human being. Going onwards in a kind of abstract reverie, he came to a halt again on reaching the shore, enchanted by the dreamy loveliness of the scene. In an open stretch of dazzling brilliancy the sea presented itself to his eyes like a delicate network of jewels finely strung on swaying threads of silver, and he gazed upon it as one might gaze on the “fairy lands forlorn” of Keats in his enchanting poesy. Never surely, he thought, had he seen a night so beautiful,—so perfect in its expression of peace. He walked leisurely,—the long shed which sheltered the air-ship was just before him, its black outline silhouetted against the sky—but as he approached it more nearly, something caused him to stop abruptly and stare fixedly as though stricken by some sudden terror—then he dashed off at a violent run, till he came to a breathless halt, crying out—“Gran’ Dio! It has gone!”

Gone! The shed was empty! No air-ship was there, poised trembling on its own balance all prepared for flight,—the wonderful “White Eagle” had unfurled its wings and fled! Whither? Like a madman he rushed up and down, shouting and calling in vain—it was after midnight and there was no one about to hear him. He started to run to the Palazzo d’Oro to give the alarm—but was held back—held by an indescribable force which he was powerless to resist. He struggled with all his might,—uselessly.

“Morganna!” he cried in a desperate voice—“Morganna!”

Running down to the edge of the sea he gazed across it and up to the wonderful sky through which the moon rolled lazily like a silver ball. Was there nothing to be seen there save that moon and the moon-dimmed stars? With eager straining eyes he searched every quarter of the visible space—stay! Was that a white dove soaring eastwards?—or a cloud sinking to its rest?

“Morgana!” he cried again, stretching out his arms in despair—“She has gone! And alone!”

Even as he spoke the dove-like shape was lost to sight beyond the shining of