The Secret Power - Marie Corelli (books to get back into reading TXT) 📗

deepest depth of all is God!”

There was a sudden hush as he spoke. He went on in gentle accents.

“How wonderful it is that He should be THERE,—and yet HERE! No one need ‘dive deep’ to find Him. He is close to us as our very breathing! Ah!” and he sighed—“I am sorry for all the busy ‘discoverers’—they will never arrive at the end,—and meanwhile they miss the clue—the little secret by the way!”

Another pause ensued. Then Morgana spoke, in a very quiet and submissive tone.

“Dear Don Aloysius, you are a ‘religious’ as they say—and naturally you mistrust all seekers of science—science which is upsetting to your doctrine.”

Aloysius raised a deprecating hand.

“My child, there is no science that can upset the Source of all science! The greatest mathematician that lives did not institute mathematics—he only copies the existing Divine law.”

“That is perfectly true”—said the Marchese Rivardi—“But la Signora Royal means that the dogma of the Church is in opposition to scientific discovery—”

“I have not found it so”—said Don Aloysius, tranquilly—“We have believed in what you call your ‘wireless telephony’—for centuries;- when the Sanctus bell rings at Mass, we think and hope a message from Our Lord comes to every worshipper whose soul is ‘in tune’ with the heavenly current; that is one of your ‘scientific discoveries’- and there are hundreds of others which the Church has incorporated through a mystic fore-knowledge and prophetic instinct. No—I find nothing upsetting in science,—the only students who are truly upset both physically and morally, are they who seek to discover God while denying His existence.”

There followed a silence. The group in the loggia seemed for the moment mesmerised by the priest’s suave calm voice, steady eyes and noble expression, A bell rang slowly and sweetly—a call to prayer in some not far distant monastery, and the first glimmer of the stars began to sparkle faintly in the darkening heavens. A little sigh from Morgana stirred the stillness.

“If one could always live in this sort of mood!” she suddenly exclaimed—“This lovely peace in the glow of the sunset and the perfume of the flowers!—and you, Don Aloysius, talking beautiful things!—why then, one would be perpetually happy and good! But such living would not be life!—one must go with the time—”

Don Aloysius smiled indulgently.

“Must one? Is it so vitally necessary? If I might take the liberty to go on speaking I would tell you a story—a mere tradition—but it might weary you—”

A general chorus of protest from all present assured him of their eagerness to hear.

“As if YOU could weary anybody!” Morgana said. “You never do—only you have an effect upon ME which is not very flattering to my self- love!—you make me feel so small!”

You ARE small, physically”—said Don Aloysius—Do you mind that? Small things are always sweetest!”

She flushed, and turned her head away as she caught the Marchese Rivardi’s eyes fixed upon her.

“You should not make pretty compliments to a woman, reverend father!” she said, lightly—“It is not your vocation!”

His grave face brightened and he laughed with real heartiness.

“Dear lady, what do you know of my vocation?” he asked—“Will you teach it to me? No!—I am sure you will not try! Listen now!—as you all give me permission—let me tell you of certain people who once ‘went with the time’—and decided to stop en route, and are still at the stopping-place. Perhaps some of you who travel far and often, have heard of the Brazen City?”

Each one looked at the other enquiringly, but with no responsive result.

“Those who visit the East know of it”—went on Aloysius—“And some say they have seen a glimpse of its shining towers and cupolas in the far distance. However this may be, tradition declares that it exists, and that it was founded by St. John, the ‘beloved disciple.’ You will recall that when Our Lord was asked when and how John should die He answered—‘If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?’ So—as we read—the rumour went forth that John was the one disciple for whom there should be no death. And now—to go on with the legend—it is believed by many, that deep in the as yet unexplored depths of the deserts of Egypt—miles and miles over rolling sand-waves which once formed the bed of a vast ocean, there stands a great city whose roofs and towers are seemingly of brass,— a city barricaded and built in by walls of brass and guarded by gates of brass. Here dwells a race apart—a race of beautiful human creatures who have discovered the secret of perpetual youth and immortality on this earth. They have seen the centuries come and go,—the flight of time touches them not,—they only await the day when the whole world will be free to them—that ‘world to come’ which is not made for the ‘many,’ but the ‘few.’ All the discoveries of our modern science are known to them—our inventions are their common everyday appliances—and on the wings of air and rays of light they hear and know all that goes on in every country. Our wars and politics are no more to them than the wars and politics of ants in ant-hills,—they have passed beyond all trivialities such as these. They have discovered the secret of life’s true enjoyment— and—they enjoy!”

“That’s a fine story if true!” said Colonel Boyd—

“But all the same, it must be dull work living shut up in a city with nothing to do,—doomed to be young and to last for ever!”

Morgana had listened intently,—her eyes were brilliant.

“Yes—I think it would be dull after a couple of hundred years or so”—she said—“One would have tested all life’s possibilities and pleasures by then.”

“I am not so sure of that!” put in the Marchese Rivardi—“With youth nothing could become tiresome—youth knows no ennui.”

Some of the other listeners to the conversation laughed.

“I cannot quite agree to that”—said a lady who had not yet spoken— “Nowadays the very children are ‘bored’ and ever looking for something new—it is just as if the world were ‘played out’—and another form of planet expected.”

“That is where we retain the vitality of our faith—” said Don Aloysius—“We expect—we hope! We believe in an immortal progress towards an ever Higher Good.”

“But I think even a soul may grow tired!” said Morgana, suddenly— “so tired that even the Highest Good may seem hardly worth possessing!”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Povera figlia!” murmured Aloysius, hardly above his breath,—but she caught the whisper, and smiled.

“I am too analytical and pessimistic,” she said—“Let us all go for a ramble among the flowers and down to the sea! Nature is the best talker, for the very reason that she has no speech!”

The party broke up in twos and threes and left the loggia for the garden. Rivardi remained a moment behind, obeying a slight sign from Aloysius.

“She is not happy!” said the priest—“With all her wealth, and all her gifts of intelligence she is not happy, nor is she satisfied. Do you not find it so?”

“No woman is happy or satisfied till love has kissed her on the mouth and eyes!” answered Rivardi, with a touch of passion in his voice,—“But who will convince her of that? She is satisfied with her beautiful surroundings,—all the work I have designed for her has pleased her,—she has found no fault—”

“And she has paid you loyally!” interpolated Aloysius—“Do not forget that! She has made your fortune. And no doubt she expects you to stop at that and go no further in an attempt to possess herself as well as her millions!”

The Marchese flushed hotly under the quiet gaze of the priest’s steady dark eyes.

“It is a great temptation,” went on Aloysius, gently—“But you must resist it, my son! I know what it would mean to you—the restoration of your grand old home—that home which received a Roman Emperor in the long ago days of history and which presents now to your eyes so desolate a picture with its crumbling walls and decaying gardens beautiful in their wild desolation!—yes, I know all this!—I know how you would like to rehabilitate the ancient family and make the venerable genealogical tree sprout forth into fresh leaves and branches by marriage with this strange little creature whose vast wealth sets her apart in such loneliness,—but I doubt the wisdom or the honour of such a course—I also doubt whether she would make a fitting wife for you or for any man!”

The Marchese raised his eyebrows expressively with the slightest shrug of his shoulders.

“You may doubt that of every modern woman!” he said—“Few are really ‘fitting’ for marriage nowadays. They want something different— something new!—God alone knows what they want!”

Don Aloysius sighed.

“Aye! God alone knows! And God alone will decide what to give them!”

“It must be something more ‘sensational’ than husband and children!” said Rivardi a trifle bitterly—“Only a primitive woman will care for these!”

The priest laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Come, come! Do not be cynical, my son! I think with you that if anything can find an entrance to a woman’s soul it is love—but the woman must be capable of loving. That is the difficulty with the little millionairess Royal. She is not capable!”

He uttered the last words slowly and with emphasis.

Rivardi gave him a quick searching glance.

“You seem to know that as a certainty”—he said, “How and why do you know it?”

Aloysius raised his eyes and looked straight ahead of him with a curious, far-off, yet searching intensity.

“I cannot tell you how or why”—he answered—“You would not believe me if I told you that sometimes in this wonderful world of ours, beings are born who are neither man nor woman, and who partake of a nature that is not so much human as elemental and ethereal—or might one not almost say, atmospheric? That is, though generated of flesh and blood, they are not altogether flesh and blood, but possess other untested and unproved essences mingled in their composition, of which as yet we can form no idea. We grope in utter ignorance of the greatest of mysteries—Life!—and with all our modern advancement, we are utterly unable to measure or to account for life’s many and various manifestations. In the very early days of imaginative prophecy, the ‘elemental’ nature of certain beings was accepted by men accounted wise in their own time,—in the long ago discredited assertions of the Count de Gabalis and others of his mystic cult,—and I am not entirely sure that there does not exist some ground for their beliefs. Life is many-sided;—humanity can only be one facet of the diamond.”

Giulio Rivardi had listened with surprised attention.

“You seem to imply then”—he said—“that this rich woman, Morgana Royal, is hardly a woman at all?—a kind of sexless creature incapable of love?”

“Incapable of the usual kind of so-called ‘love’—yes!” answered Aloysius—“But of love in other forms I can say nothing, for I know nothing!—she may be capable of a passion deep and mysterious as life itself. But come!—we might talk all night and arrive no closer to the solving of this little feminine problem! You are fortunate in your vocation of artist and designer, to have been chosen by her to carry out her conceptions of structural and picturesque beauty—let the romance stay there!—and do not try to become the husband of a Sphinx!”

He smiled, resting his hand on the Marchese’s shoulder with easy familiarity.

“See where she stands!” he continued,—and they both looked towards the beautiful flower-bordered terrace at the verge of the gardens overhanging the