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

Of course I do not care! Be reasonable! Why should I?”

She pressed both hands tightly against her bosom, seeking to control her quick, excited breathing.

“Why should you? I do not know! But I care! I would be your woman! I would be your slave! I would wait upon you and serve you faithfully! I would obey your every wish. I am a good servant,—I can cook and sew and wash and sweep—I can do everything in a house and you should have no trouble. You should write and read all day,— I would not speak a word to disturb you. I would guard you like a dog that loves his master!”

He listened, with a strange look in his eyes,—a look of wonder and something of compassion. There was a pause. The silence of the hills was, or seemed more intense and impressive—the great white cloud still spread itself in large leisure along the miles of slowly darkening sky. Presently he spoke. “And what wages, Manella? What wages should I have to pay for such a servant?—such a dog?”

Her head drooped, she avoided his steady, searching gaze.

“What wages, Manella? None, you would say, except—love! You tell me you would be my woman,—and I know you mean it. You would be my slave—you mean that, too. But you would want me to love you! Manella, there is no such thing as love!—not in this world! There is animal attraction,—the magnetism of the male for the female, the female for the male,—the magnetism that pulls the opposite sexes together in order to keep this planet supplied with an ever new crop of fools,—but love! No, Manella! There is no such thing!”

Here he gently took her two hands away from their tightly folded position on her bosom and held them in his own.

“No such thing, my dear!” he went on, speaking softly and soothingly, as though to a child—“Except in the dreams of poets, and you—fortunately!—know nothing about poetry! The wild animal in you is attracted to the tame, ruminating animal in me,—and you would be my woman, though I would not be your man. I quite believe that it is the natural instinct of the female to select her mate,— but, though the rule may hold good in the forest world, it doesn’t always work among the human herd. Man considers that he has the right of selection—quite a mistake of his I’m sure, for he has no real sense of beauty or fitness, and generally selects most vilely. All the same he is an obstinate brute, and sticks to his brutish ideas as a snail sticks to its shell. I am an obstinate brute!—I am absolutely convinced that I have the right to choose my own woman, if I want one—which I don’t,—or if ever I do want one— which I never shall!”

She drew her hands quickly from his grasp. There were tears in her splendid dark eyes.

“You talk, you talk!” she said, with a kind of sob in her voice—“It is all talk with you—talk which I cannot understand! I don’t WANT to understand!—I am only a poor, ignorant girl. I cannot talk—but I can love! Ah yes, I can love! You say there is no such thing as love! What is it then, when one prays every night and morning for a man?—when one would work one’s fingers to the bone for him?—when one would die to keep him from sickness and harm? What do you call it?”

He smiled.

“Self-delusion, Manella! The beautiful self-delusion of every nature-bred woman when her fancy is attracted by a particular sort of man. She makes an ideal of him in her mind and imagines him to be a god, when he is nothing but a devil!”

Something sinister and cruel in his look startled her,—she made the sign of the cross on her bosom.

“A devil?” she murmured—“a devil—?”

“Ah, now you are frightened!” he said, with a flash of amusement in his eyes—“You are a good Catholic, and you believe in devils. So you make the sign of the cross as a protection. That’s right! That’s the way to defend yourself from my evil influence! Wise Manella!”

The light mockery of his tone roused her pride,—that pride which had been suppressed in her by the force of a passionate emotion she could not restrain. She lifted her head and regarded him with an air of sorrow and scorn.

“After all, I think you must be a wicked man!” she said—“You have no heart! You are not worthy to be loved!”

“Quite true, Manella! You’ve hit the bull’s eye in the very middle three times! I am a wicked man,—I have no heart,—I’m not worthy to be loved. No I’m not. I should find it a bore!”

“Bore?” she echoed—“What is that?”

“What is that? It is itself, Manella! ‘Bore’ is just ‘bore.’ It means tiredness—worn-out-ness—a state in which you wish yourself in a hot bath or a cold one, so that nobody can come near you. To be ‘loved’ would finish me off in a month!”

Her big eyes opened more widely than their wont in piteous perplexity.

“But how?” she asked.

“How? Why, just as you have put it,—to be prayed for night and morning,—to be worked for and waited on till fingers turned to bones,—to be guarded from sickness and harm,—heavens!—think of it! No more adventures in life,—no more freedom!—just love, love, love, which would not be love at all but the chains of a miserable wretch in prison!”

She flushed an angry crimson.

“Who is it that would chain you?” she demanded, “Not I! You could do as you liked with me—you know it!—and when you go away from this place, you could leave me and forget me,—I should never trouble you or remind you that I lived!! I should have had my happiness,—enough for my day!”

The pathos in her voice moved him though he was not easily moved. On a sudden impulse he put an arm about her, drew her to him and kissed her. She trembled at his caress, while he smiled at her emotion.

“A kiss is nothing, Manella!” he said—“We kiss children as I kiss you! You are a child,—a child-woman. Physically you are a Juno,— mentally you are an infant! By and by you will grow up,—and you will be glad I did no more than kiss you! It’s getting late,—you must go home.”

He released her and put her gently away from him. Then, as he saw her eyes still uplifted questioningly to his face, he laughed.

“Upon my word!” he exclaimed—“I am making a nice fool of myself! Actually wasting time on a woman. Go home, Manella, go home! If you are wise you won’t stop here another minute! See now! You are full of curiosity—all women are! You want to know why I stay up here in this hill cabin by myself instead of staying at the ‘Plaza.’ You think I’m a rich Englishman. I’m not. No Englishman is ever rich,— not up to his own desires. He wants the earth and all that therein is—does the Englishman, and of course he can’t have it. He rather grudges America her large slice of rich plum-pudding territory, forgetting that he could have had it himself for the price of tea. But I don’t grudge anybody anything—America is welcome to the whole bulk as far as I’m concerned—Britain ditto,—let them both eat and be filled. All I want is to be left alone. Do you hear that, Manella? To be left alone! Particularly by women. That’s one reason why I came here. This cabin is supposed to be a sort of tuberculosis ‘shelter,’ where a patient in hopeless condition comes with a special nurse to die. I don’t want a nurse, and I’m not going to die. Tubercles don’t touch me—they don’t flourish on my soil. So this solitude just suits me. If I were at the ‘Plaza’ I should have to meet a lot of women—”

“No, you wouldn’t,” interrupted Manella, suddenly and sharply—“only one woman.”

“Only one? You?”

She sighed, and moved impatiently.

“Oh, no! Not me. A stranger.”

He looked at her with a touch of inquisitiveness.

“An invalid?”

“She may be. I don’t know. She has golden hair.”

He gave a gesture of dislike.

“Dreadful! That’s enough! I can imagine her,—a die-away creature with a cough and a straw-coloured wig. Yes!—that will do, Manella! You’d better go and wait upon her. I’ve got all I want for a couple of days at least.” He seated himself and took up his note-book. She turned away.

“Stop a minute, Manella!”

She obeyed.

“Golden hair, you said?”

She nodded.

“Old or young?”

“She might be either”—and Manella gazed dreamily at the darkening sky—“There is nobody old nowadays—or so it seems to me.”

“An invalid?”

“I don’t think so. She looks quite well. She arrived at the Plaza only yesterday.”

“Ah! Well, good-night, Manella! And if you want to know anything more about me, I don’t mind telling you this,—that there’s nothing in the world I so utterly detest as a woman with golden hair! There!”

She looked at him, surprised at his harsh tone. He shook his forefinger at her.

“Fact!” he said—“Fact as hard as nails! A woman with golden hair is a demon—a witch—a mischief and a curse! See? Always has been and always will be! Good-night!”

But Manella paused, meditatively.

“She looks like a witch,” she said slowly—“One of those creatures they put in pictures of fairy tales,—small and white. Very small,— I could carry her.”

“I wouldn’t try it if I were you”—he answered, with visible impatience—“Off you go! Good-night!”

She gave him one lingering glance; then, turning abruptly picked up her empty milk pail and started down the hill at a run.

The man she left gave a sigh, deep and long of intense relief. Evening had fallen rapidly, and the purple darkness enveloped him in its warm, dense gloom. He sat absorbed in thought, his eyes turned towards the east, where the last stretches of the afternoon’s great cloud trailed filmy threads of woolly black through space. His figure seemed gradually drawn within the coming night so as almost to become part of it, and the stillness around him had a touch of awe in its impalpable heaviness. One would have thought that in a place of such utter loneliness, the natural human spirit of a man would instinctively desire movement,—action of some sort, to shake off the insidious depression which crept through the air like a creeping shadow, but the solitary being, seated somewhat like an Aryan idol, hands on knees and face bent forwards, had no inclination to stir. His brain was busy; and half unconsciously his thoughts spoke aloud in words—

“Have we come to the former old stopping place?” he said, as though questioning some invisible companion; “Must we cry ‘halt!’ for the thousand millionth time? Or can we go on? Dare we go on? If actually we discover the secret—wrapped up like the minutest speck of a kernel in the nut of an electron,—what then? Will it be well or ill? Shall we find it worth while to live on here with nothing to do?—nothing to trouble us or compel us to labour? Without pain shall we be conscious of health?—without sorrow shall we understand joy?”

A sudden whiteness flooded the dark landscape, and a full moon leaped to the edge of the receding cloud. Its rising had been veiled in the drift of black woolly vapour, and its silver glare, sweeping through the darkness flashed over the land with astonishing abruptness. The man lifted his eyes.

“One would think that done for effect!” he