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

loggia and glistening on certain white flowering shrubs with the smooth sheen of polished pearl. The magical loveliness of the scene, made lovelier by the intense silence of the hour, held them as with a binding spell, and Morgana, standing by one of the slender columns which not only supported the loggia but the whole Palazzo d’Oro as with the petrified stems of trees, made a figure completely in harmony with her surroundings.

“Could anything be more enchantingly beautiful!” sighed Lady Kingswood—“One ought to thank God for eyes to see it!”

“And many people with eyes would not see it at all,”—said Don Aloysius—“They would go indoors, shut the shutters and play Bridge! But those who can see it are the happiest!”

And he quoted—

“‘On such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees And they did make no noise,—on such a night Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls And sighed his soul towards the Grecian tents Where Cressid lay!’”

“You know your Shakespeare!” said Rivardi.

“Who would not know him!” replied Aloysius—“One is not blind to the sun!”

“Ah, poor Shakespeare!” said Morgana—“What a lesson he gives us miserable little moderns in the worth of fame! So great, so unapproachable,—and yet!—doubted and slandered and reviled three hundred years after his death by envious detractors who cannot write a line!”

“But what does that matter?” returned Aloysius. “Envy and detraction in their blackness only emphasise his brightness, just as a star shines more brilliantly in a dark sky. One always recognises a great spirit by the littleness of those who strive to wound it,—if it were not great it would not be worth wounding!”

“Shakespeare might have imagined my air-ship!” said Morgana, suddenly—“He was perhaps dreaming vaguely of something like it when he wrote about—”

‘A winged messenger of heaven When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air!’

“The ‘White Eagle’ sails upon the bosom of the air!”

“Quite true”—said the Marchese Rivardi, looking at her as she stood, bathed in the moonlight, a nymph-like figure of purely feminine charm, as unlike the accepted idea of a “science” scholar as could well be imagined—“And the manner of its sailing is a mystery which you only can explain! Surely you will reveal this secret?—especially when so many rush into the air-craft business without any idea of the scientific laws by which you uphold your great design? Much has been said and written concerning new schemes for air-vessels moved by steam—”

“That is so like men!” interrupted Morgana, with a laugh—“They will think of steam power when they are actually in possession of electricity!—and they will stick to electricity without moving the one step further which would give them the full use of radio- activity! They will ‘bungle’ to the end!—and their bungling is always brought about by an ineffable conceit of their own so-called ‘logical’ conclusions! Poor dears!—they ‘get there’ at last—and in the course of centuries find out what they could have discovered in a month if they had opened their minds as well as their eyes!”

“Well, then,—help them now,” said Rivardi—“Give them the chance to learn your secret!”

Morgana moved away from the column where she had leaned, and came more fully into the broad moonlight.

“My dear Marchese Giulio!” she said, indulgently, “You really are a positive child in your very optimistic look-out on the world of to- day! Suppose I were to ‘give them the chance,’ as you suggest, to learn my secret, how do you think I should be received? I might go to the great scientific institutions of London and Paris and I might ask to be heard—I might offer to give a ‘demonstration,’” here she began to laugh; “Oh dear!—it would never do for a woman to ‘demonstrate’ and terrify all the male professors, would it! No!— well, I should probably have to wait months before being ‘heard,’— then I should probably meet with the chill repudiation dealt out to that wonderful Hindu scientist, Jagadis Bose, by Burdon Sanderson when the brilliant Indian savant tried to teach men what they never knew before about the life of plants. Not only that, I should be met with incredulity and ridicule—‘a woman! a WOMAN dares to assume knowledge superior to ours!’ and so forth. No, no! Let the wise men try their steam air-ships and spoil the skies by smoke and vapour, so that agriculture becomes more and more difficult, and sunshine an almost forgotten benediction!—let them go their own foolish way till they learn wisdom of themselves—no one could ever teach them what they refuse to learn, till they tumble into a bog or quicksand of dilemma and have to be forcibly dragged out.”

“By a woman?” hinted Don Aloysius, with a smile.

She shrugged her shoulders carelessly.

“Very often! Marja Sklodowska Curie, for example, has pulled many scientists out of the mud, but they are not grateful enough to acknowledge it. One of the greatest women of the age, she is allowed to remain in comparative obscurity,—even Anatole France, though he called her a ‘genius,’ had not the generosity or largeness of mind to praise her as she deserves. Though, of course, like all really great souls she is indifferent to praise or blame—the notice of the decadent press, noisy and vulgar like the beating of the cheap- jack’s drum at a country fair, has no attraction for her. Nothing is known of her private life,—not a photograph of her is obtainable— she has the lovely dignity of complete reserve. She is one of my heroines in this life—she does not offer herself to the cheap journalist like a milliner’s mannequin or a film face. She will not give herself away—neither will I!”

“But you might benefit the human race”—said Rivardi—“Would not that thought weigh with you?”

“Not in the least!”—and she smiled—“The human race in its present condition is ‘an unweeded garden, things rank and gross in nature possess it merely,’ and it wants clearing. I have no wish to benefit it. It has always murdered its benefactors. It deludes itself with the idea that the universe is for IT alone,—it ignores the fact that there are many other sharers in its privileges and surroundings—presences and personalities as real as itself. I am almost a believer in what the old-time magicians called ‘elementals’—especially now.”

Don Aloysius rose from his chair and put aside his emptied coffee- cup. His tall fine figure silhouetted more densely black by the whiteness of the moon-rays had a singularly imposing effect.

“Why especially now?” he asked, almost imperatively—“What has chanced to make you accept the idea—an old idea, older than the lost continent of Atlantis!—of creatures built up of finer life- cells than ours?”

Morgana looked at him, vaguely surprised by his tone and manner.

“Nothing has chanced that causes me any wonder,” she said—“or that would ‘make’ me accept any theory which I could not put to the test for myself. But, out in New York while I have been away, a fellow- student of mine—just a boy,—has found out the means of ‘creating energy from some unknown source’—that is, unknown to the scientists of rule-and-line. They call his electric apparatus ‘an atmospheric generator.’ Naturally this implies that the atmosphere has something to ‘generate’ which has till now remained hidden and undeveloped. I knew this long ago. Had I NOT known it I could not have thought out the secret of the ‘White Eagle’!”

She paused to allow the murmured exclamations of her hearers to subside,—then she went on—“You can easily understand that if atmosphere generates ONE form of energy it is capable of many other forms,—and on these lines there is nothing to be said, against the possibility of ‘elementals.’ I feel quite ‘elemental’ myself in this glorious moonlight!—just as if I could slip out of my body like a butterfly out of a chrysalis and spread my wings!”

She lifted her fair arms upward with a kind of expansive rapture,— the moonbeams seemed to filter through the delicate tissue of her garments adding brightness to their folds and sparkling frostily on the diamonds in her hair,—and even Lady Kingswood’s very placid nature was conscious of an unusual thrill, half of surprise and half of fear, at the quite “other world” appearance she thus presented.

“You have rather the look of a butterfly!” she said, kindly—“One of those beautiful tropical things—or a fairy!—only we don’t know what fairies are like as we have never seen any!”

Morgana laughed, and let her arms drop at her sides. She felt rather than saw the admiring eyes of the two men upon her and her mood changed.

“Yes—it is a lovely night,—for Sicily,”—she said. “But it would be lovelier in California!”

“In California!” echoed Rivardi—“Why California?”

“Why? Oh, I don’t know why! I often think of California—it is so vast! Sicily is a speck of garden-land compared with it—and when the moon rises full over the great hills and spreads a wide sheet of silver over the Pacific Ocean you begin to realise a something beyond ordinary nature—it helps you to get to the ‘beyond’ yourself if you have the will to try!”

Just then the soft slow tolling of a bell struck through the air and Don Aloysius prepared to take his leave.

“The ‘beyond’ calls to me from the monastery,” he said, smiling—“I have been too long absent. Will you walk with me, Giulio?”

“Willingly!” and the Marchese bowed over Lady Kingswood’s hand as he bade her “Good night.”

“I will accompany you both to the gate,”—said Morgana, suddenly— “and then—when you are both gone I shall wander a little by myself in the light of the moon!”

Lady Kingswood looked dubiously at her, but was too tactful to offer any objection such as the “danger of catching cold” which the ordinary duenna would have suggested, and which would have seemed absurd in the warmth and softness of such a summer night. Besides, if Morgana chose to “wander by the light of the moon “who could prevent her? No one! She stepped off the loggia on to the velvety turf below with an aerial grace more characteristic of flying than walking, and glided along between the tall figures of the Marchese and Don Aloysius like a dream-spirit of the air, and Lady Kingswood, watching her as she descended the garden terraces and gradually disappeared among the trees, was impressed, as she had often been before, by a strange sense of the supernatural,—as if some being wholly unconnected with ordinary mortal happenings were visiting the world by a mere chance. She was a little ashamed of this “uncanny” feeling,—and after a few minutes’ hesitation she decided to retire within the house and to her own apartments, rightly judging that Morgana would be better pleased to find her so gone than waiting for her return like a sentinel on guard. She gave a lingering look at the exquisite beauty of the moonlit scene, and thought with a sigh—

“What it would be if one were young once more!”

And then she turned, slowly pacing across the loggia and entering the Palazzo, where the gleam of electric lamps within rivalled the moonbeams and drew her out of sight.

Meanwhile, Morgana, between her two escorts stepped lightly along, playfully arguing with them both on their silence.

“You are so very serious, you good Padre Aloysius!” she said—“And you, Marchese—you who are generally so charming!—to-night you are a