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

“Yes! I want to see her again!” A puzzled look contracted her brows. “Since she spoke to me I have always thought of her,—I cannot get her out of my mind! She just HOLDS me—yes!—in one of her little white hands! There are few women like that I think!—women who hold the souls of others as prisoners till they choose to let them go!”

Mr. Senator Gwent was fairly nonplussed. This dark-eyed Spanish beauty with her romantic notions was almost too much for him. Had he met her in a novel he would have derided the author of the book for delineating such an impossible character,—but coming in contact with her in real life, he was at a loss what to say. Especially as he himself was quite aware of the mysterious “hold” exercised by Morgana Royal on those whom she chose to influence either near or at a distance. After a few seconds of deliberation he answered—

“Yes—I should say there are very few women of that rather uncomfortable sort of habit,—the fewer the better, in my opinion. Now Miss Manella Soriso, remember what I say to you! Don’t think about being ‘held’ by anybody except by a lover and husband! See? Play the game! With such looks as God has given you, it should be easy! Win your ‘god’ away from his thunderbolts before he begins havoc with them from his miniature Olympus. If he wants the ‘moon’ (and possibly he doesn’t!) he won’t say no to a star,—it’s the next best thing. Seriously now,”—and Gwent threw away the end of his cigar and laid a hand gently on her arm—“be a good girl and think over what I’ve said to you. Marry him if you can!—it will be the making of him!”

Manella gazed about her in the darkness, bewildered. A glittering little mob of fire-flies danced above her head like a net of jewels.

“Oh, you talk so strangely!” she said—“You forget!—I am a poor girl—I have no money—”

“Neither has he,”—and Gwent gave a short laugh. “But he could make a million dollars to-morrow—if he chose. Having only himself to consider, he DOESN’T choose! If he had YOU, he’d change his opinion. Seaton’s not the man to have a wife without keeping her in comfort. I tell you again, you can be the making of him. You can save his life!”

She clasped her hands nervously. A little gasping sigh came from her lips.

“Oh!—Santa Madonna!—to save his life!”

“Ah, just that!” said Gwent impressively—“Think of it! I’m not speaking lies—that’s not my way. The man is making for himself what we in the European war called a ‘danger zone,’ where everybody not ‘in the know’ was warned off hidden mines. Hidden mines! He’s got them! That’s so! You can take my word! It’s no good looking for them, no one will ever find them but himself, and he thinks of nothing else. But if he fell in love with YOU---”

She gave a hopeless gesture.

“He will not—he thinks nothing of me—nothing!—no!—though he says I am beautiful!”

“Oh, he says that, does he?” and Gwent smiled—“Well, he’d be a fool if he didn’t!”

“Ah, but he does not care for beauty!” Manella went on. “He sees it and he smiles at it, but it does not move him!”

Gwent looked at her in perplexity, not knowing quite how to deal with the subject he himself had started. Truth to tell his nerves had been put distinctly “on edge” by Seaton’s cool, calculating and seemingly callous assertion as to the powers he possessed to destroy, if he chose, a nation,—and all sorts of uncomfortable scraps of scientific information gleaned from books and treatises suggested themselves vividly to his mind at this particular moment when he would rather have forgotten them. As, for example—“A pound weight of radio-active energy, if it could be extracted in as short a time as we pleased, instead of in so many million years, could do the work of a hundred and fifty tons of dynamite.” This agreeable fact stuck in his brain as a bone may stick in a throat, causing a sense of congestion. Then the words of one of the “pulpit thunderers” of New York rolled back on his ears—“This world will be destroyed, not by the hand of God, but by the wilful and devilish malingering of Man!” Another pleasant thought! And he felt himself to be a poor weak fool to even try to put up a girl’s beauty, a girl’s love as a barrier to the output of a destroying force engineered by a terrific human intention,—it was like the old story of the Scottish heroine who thrust a slender arm through the great staple of a door to hold back the would-be murderers of a King.

“Beauty does not move him!” she said.

She was right. Nothing was likely to move Roger Seaton from any purpose he had once resolved upon. What to him was beauty? Merely a “fortuitous concourse of atoms” moving for a time in one personality. What was a girl? Just the young “female of the species”—no more. And love? Sexual attraction, of which there was enough and too much in Seaton’s opinion. And the puzzled Gwent wondered whether after all he would not have acted more wisely—or diplomatically—in accepting Seaton’s proposal to part with his secret to the United States Government, even with the proviso and State pledge that it was to be “used” should occasion arise, rather than leave him to his own devices to do as he pleased with the apparently terrific potentiality of which he alone had the knowledge and the mastery. And while his thoughts thus buzzed in his head like swarming bees, Manella stood regarding him in a kind of pitiful questioning like a child with a broken toy who can not understand “why” it is broken. As he did not speak at once she took up the thread of conversation.

“You see how it is no use,” she said. “No use to think of his ever loving ME! But love for HIM—ah!—that I have, and that I will ever keep in my heart!—and to save his life I would myself gladly die!”

Gwent uttered a sound between a grunt and a sigh.

“There it is! You women always run to extremes! ‘Gladly die’ indeed! Poor girl, why should you ‘die’ for him or for any man! That’s sheer sentimental nonsense! There’s not a man that ever lived, or that ever will live, that’s worth the death of a woman! That’s so! Men think too much of themselves—they’ve been killing women ever since they were born—it’s time they stopped a bit.”

Manella’s beautiful eyes expressed bewilderment.

“Killing women? Is that what they do?”

“Yes, my good girl!—that is what they do! The silly trusting creatures go to them like lambs, and get their throats cut! In marriage or out of it—the throat-cutting goes on, for men are made of destructive stuff and love the sport of killing. They are never satisfied unless they can kill something—a bird, a fox or a woman. I’m a man myself and I know!”

“YOU would kill a woman?” Manella’s voice was a horrified whisper.

Gwent laughed.

“No,—not I, my child! I’m too old. I’ve done with love-making and ‘sport’ of all kinds. I don’t even drive a golf-ball, in make- believe that it’s a woman I’m hitting as fast and far as I can. Oh, yes!—you stare!—you are wondering why, if I have such ideas, I should suggest love-making and marriage to YOU,—well, I don’t actually recommend it!—but I’m rather thinking more of your ‘god’ than of you. You might possibly help him a bit—”

“Ah, I am not clever!” sighed Manella.

“No—you’re not clever—thank God for it! But you’re devoted—and devotion is sometimes more than cleverness.” He paused, reflectively. “Well, I’ll have to go away tomorrow—it wouldn’t be any use my staying on here. In fact, I’d rather be out of the way. But I’ve a notion I may be able to do something for Seaton in Washington when I get back—in the meantime I’ll leave a letter for you to give him—”

“You will not write of me in that letter!” interrupted the girl, hastily. “No—you must not—you could not!---”

Gwent raised a deprecating hand.

“Don’t be afraid, my girl! I’m not a cad. I wouldn’t give you away for the world! I’ve no right to say a word about you, and I shall not. My letter will be a merely business one—you shall read it if you like---”

“Oh no!”—she said at once, with proud frankness; “I would not doubt your word!”

Gwent gave her a comprehensively admiring glance. Even in the dusk of evening her beauty shone with the brilliance of a white flower among the dark foliage. “What a sensation she would make in New York!” he thought—“With those glorious eyes and that hair!”

And a vague regret for his lost youth moved him; he was a very wealthy man, and had he been in his prime he would have tried a matrimonial chance with this unspoilt beautiful creature,—it would have pleased him to robe her in queenly garments and to set the finest diamonds in her dark tresses, so that she should be the wonder and envy of all beholders. He answered her last remark with a kindly little nod and smile.

“Good! You needn’t doubt it ever!”—he said—“If at any time you want a friend you can bet on Sam Gwent. I’m a member of Congress and you can always find me easily. But remember my advice—don’t make a ‘god’ of any man;—he can’t live up to it---”

As he spoke a sudden jagged flash of lightning tore the sky, followed almost instantaneously by a long, low snarl of thunder rolling through the valley. Great drops of rain began to fall.

“Come along! Let us get in!” and Gwent caught Manella’s hand—“Run!”

And like children they ran together through the garden into the Plaza lounge, reaching it just before a second lightning flash and peal of thunder renewed double emphasis.

“Storm!” observed a long-faced invalid man in a rocking-chair, looking at them as they hurried in.

“Yes! Storm it is!” responded Gwent, releasing the hand of his companion—“Good-night, Miss Soriso!”

She inclined her head graceful, smiling.

“Good-night, Senor!”

CHAPTER XIV

Convention is still occasionally studied even in these unconventional days, and Morgana Royal, independent and wealthy young woman as she was, had subscribed to its rule and ordinance by engaging a chaperone,—a “dear old English lady of title,” as she had described her to the Marchese Rivardi. Lady Kingswood merited the description thus given of her, for she was distinctly a dear old English lady, and her title was the least thing about her, especially in her own opinion. There was no taint of snobbery in her simple, kindly disposition, and when her late husband, a distinguished military officer, had been knighted for special and splendid service in the war, she had only deplored that the ruin of his health and disablement by wounds, prevented him from taking any personal pleasure in the “honour.” His death followed soon after the King’s recognition of his merit, and she was left with his pension to live upon, and a daughter who having married in haste repented at leisure, being deserted by a drunken husband and left with two small children to nourish and educate. Naturally, Lady Kingswood took much of their care upon herself—but the pension of a war widow will not stretch further than a given point, and she found it both necessary and urgent to think of some means by which she could augment her slender income. She was not a clever woman,—she had no special talents,—her eyes would not stand her in good stead for plain sewing,