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

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THE SECRET POWER

BY MARIE CORELLI

AUTHOR OF

“God’s Good Man” “The Master Christian” “Innocent,” “The Treasure of Heaven,” etc.

THE SECRET POWER

CHAPTER I

A cloud floated slowly above the mountain peak. Vast, fleecy and white as the crested foam of a sea-wave, it sailed through the sky with a divine air of majesty, seeming almost to express a consciousness of its own grandeur. Over a spacious tract of Southern California it extended its snowy canopy, moving from the distant Pacific Ocean across the heights of the Sierra Madre, now and then catching fire at its extreme edge from the sinking sun, which burned like a red brand flung on the roof of a roughly built hut situated on the side of a sloping hollow in one of the smaller hills. The door of the hut stood open; there were a couple of benches on the burnt grass outside, one serving as a table, the other as a chair. Papers and books were neatly piled on the table,—and on the chair, if chair it might be called, a man sat reading. His appearance was not prepossessing at a first glance, though his actual features could hardly be seen, so concealed were they by a heavy growth of beard. In the way of clothing he had little to trouble him. Loose woollen trousers, a white shirt, and a leathern belt to keep the two garments in place, formed his complete outfit, finished off by wide canvas shoes. A thatch of dark hair, thick and ill combed, apparently served all his need of head covering, and he seemed unconscious of, or else indifferent to, the hot glare of the summer sky which was hardly tempered by the long shadow of the floating cloud. At some moments he was absorbed in reading,—at others in writing. Close within his reach was a small note-book in which from time to time he jotted down certain numerals and made rapid calculations, frowning impatiently as though the very act of writing was too slow for the speed of his thought. There was a wonderful silence everywhere,—a silence such as can hardly be comprehended by anyone who has never visited wide-spreading country, over-canopied by large stretches of open sky, and barricaded from the further world by mountain ranges which are like huge walls built by a race of Titans. The dwellers in such regions are few—there is no traffic save the coming and going of occasional pack-mules across the hill tracks—no sign of modern civilisation. Among such deep and solemn solitudes the sight of a living human being is strange and incongruous, yet the man seated outside his hut had an air of ease and satisfied proprietorship not always found with wealthy owners of mansions and park-lands. He was so thoroughly engrossed in his books and papers that he hardly saw, and certainly did not hear, the approach of a woman who came climbing wearily up the edge of the sloping hill against which his cabin presented itself to the view as a sort of fitment, and advanced towards him carrying a tin pail full of milk. This she set down within a yard or so of him, and then, straightening her back, she rested her hands on her hips and drew a long breath. For a minute or two he took no notice of her. She waited. She was a big handsome creature, sun-browned and black- haired, with flashing dark eyes lit by a spark that was not originally caught from heaven. Presently, becoming conscious of her presence, he threw his book aside and looked up.

“Well! So you’ve come after all! Yesterday you said you wouldn’t.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I do not wish you to starve.”

“Very kind of you! But nothing can starve me.”

“If you had no food—”

“I should find some”—he said—“Yes!—I should find some,— somewhere! I want very little.”

He rose, stretching his arms lazily above his head,—then, stooping, he lifted the pail of milk and carried it into his cabin. Disappearing for a moment, he returned, bringing back the pail empty.

“I have enough for two days now,” he said—“and longer. What you brought me at the beginning of the week has turned beautifully sour,—a ‘lovely curd’ as our cook at home used to say—, and with that ‘lovely curd’ and plenty of fruit I’m living in luxury.” Here he felt in his pockets and took out a handful of coins. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

She counted them over as he gave them to her—bit one with her strong white teeth and nodded.

“You don’t pay ME”—she said, emphatically—“It’s the Plaza you pay.”

“How many times will you remind me of that!” he replied, with a laugh—“Of course I know I don’t pay YOU! Of course I know I pay the Plaza!—that amazing hotel and ‘sanatorium’ with a tropical garden and no comfort—”

“It is more comfortable than this”—she said, with a disparaging glance at his log dwelling.

“How do YOU know?” and he laughed again—“What have YOU ever experienced in the line of hotels? You are employed at the Plaza to fetch and carry;—to wait on the wretched invalids who come to California for a ‘cure’ of diseases incurable—”

“YOU are not an invalid!” she said with a slight accent of contempt.

“No! I only pretend to be!”

“Why do you pretend?”

“Oh, Manella! What a question! Why do we all pretend?—all!—every human being from the child to the dotard! Simply because we dare not face the truth! For example, consider the sun! It is a furnace with flames five thousand miles high, but we ‘pretend’ it is our beautiful orb of day! We must pretend! If we didn’t we should go mad!”

Manella knitted her black brows perplexedly.

“I do not understand you”—she said—“Why do you talk nonsense about the sun? I suppose you ARE ill after all,—you have an illness of the head.”

He nodded with mock solemnity.

“That’s it! You’re a wise woman, Manella! That’s why I’m here. Not tubercles on the lungs,—tubercles on the brain! Oh, those tubercles! They could never stand the Plaza!—the gaiety, the brilliancy—the—the all-too dazzling social round!. . .” he paused, and a gleam of even white teeth under his dark moustache gave the suggestion of a smile—“That’s why I stay up here.”

“You make fun of the Plaza”—said Manella, biting her lips vexedly— “And of me, too. I am nothing to you!”

“Absolutely nothing, dear! But why should you be any thing?”

A warm flush turned her sunburnt skin to a deeper tinge.

“Men are often fond of women”—she said.

“Often? Oh, more than often! Too often! But what does that matter?”

She twisted the ends of her rose-coloured neckerchief nervously with one hand.

“You are a man”—she replied, curtly—“You should have a woman.”

He laughed—a deep, mellow, hearty laugh of pleasure.

“Should I? You really think so? Wonderful Manella? Come here!—come quite close to me!”

She obeyed, moving with the soft tread of a forest animal, and, face to face with him, looked up. He smiled kindly into her dark fierce eyes, and noted with artistic approval the unspoiled beauty of natural lines in her form, and the proud poise of her handsome head on her full throat and splendid shoulders.

“You are very good-looking, Manella”—he then remarked, lazily— “Quite the model for a Juno. Be satisfied with yourself. You should have scores of lovers!”

She stamped her foot suddenly and impatiently.

“I have none!” she said—“And you know it! But you do not care!”

He shook a reproachful forefinger at her.

“Manella, Manella, you are naughty! Temper, temper!