Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “I thank you, my friends!” she said— “You have done well the work I entrusted you to do under the guidance of the Marchese Rivardi, and you can now judge for yourselves the result It mystifies you I can see! You think it is a kind of ‘black magic’? Not so! — unless all our modern science is ‘black magic’ as well, born of the influence of those evil spirits who, as we are told in tradition, descended in rebellion from heaven and lived with the daughters of men! From these strange lovers sprang a race of giants, — symbolical I think of the birth of the sciences, which mingle in their composition the active elements of good and evil. You have built this airship of mine on lines which have never before been attempted; — you have given it wings which are plumed like the wings of a bird, not with quills, but with channels many and minute, to carry the runlets of the ‘emanation’ from the substance held in the containers at either end of the vessel, — its easy flight therefore should not surprise you. Briefly — we have filled a piece of mechanism with the composition or essence of Life! — that is the only answer I can give to your enquiring looks! — let it be enough!”

  “But, Madama” — ventured Gaspard— “that composition or essence of Life! — what is it?”

  There was an instant’s silence. Every man’s head craned forward eagerly to hear the reply. Morgana smiled strangely.

  “That,” she said— “is MY secret!”

  CHAPTER IX

  “And now you have attained your object, what is the use of it?” said Don Aloysius.

  The priest was pacing slowly up and down the old half-ruined cloister of an old half-ruined monastery, and beside his stately, black-robed figure moved the small aerial form of Morgana, clad in summer garments of pure white, her golden head uncovered to the strong Sicilian sunshine which came piercing in sword-like rays through the arches of the cloister, and filtered among the clustering leaves which hung in cool twining bunches from every crumbling grey pillar of stone.

  “What is the use of it?” he repeated, his calm eyes resting gravely on the little creature gliding sylph-like beside him. “Suppose your invention out-reaped every limit of known possibility — suppose your air-ship to be invulnerable, and surpassing in speed and safety everything ever experienced, — suppose it could travel to heights unimaginable, what then? Suppose even that you could alight on another star — another world than this — what purpose is served? — what peace is gained? — what happens?”

  Morgana stopped abruptly in her walk beside him.

  “I have not worked for peace or happiness,” — she said and there was a thrill of sadness in her voice— “because to my mind neither peace nor happiness exist. From all we can see, and from the little we can learn, I think the Maker of the universe never meant us to be happy or peaceful. All Nature is at strife with itself, incessantly labouring for such attainment as can hardly be won, — all things seem to be haunted by fear and sorrow. And yet it seems to me that there are remedies for most of our evils in the very composition of the elements — if we were not ignorant and stupid enough to discourage our discoverers on the verge of discovery. My application of a certain substance, known to scientists, but scarcely understood, is an attempt to solve the problem of swift aerial motion by light and heat — light and heat being the chiefest supports of life. To use a force giving out light and heat continuously seemed to me the way to create and command equally continuous movement. I have — I think and hope — fairly succeeded, and in order to accomplish my design I have used wealth that would not have been at the service of most inventors, — wealth which my father left to me quite unconditionally, — but were I able to fly with my ‘White Eagle’ to the remotest parts of the Milky Way itself, I should not look to find peace or happiness!”

  “Why?”

  The priest’s simple query had a note of tender pity in it. Morgana looked up at him with a little smile, but her eyes were tearful.

  “Dear Don Aloysius, how can I tell ‘why’? Nobody is really happy, and I cannot expect to have what is denied to the whole world!”

  Aloysius resumed his slow walk to and fro, and she kept quiet pace with him.

  “Have you ever thought what happiness is?” he asked, then— “Have you ever felt it for a passing moment?”

  “Yes” — she answered quickly— “But only at rare intervals — oh so rare!...”

  “Poor little rich child!” he said, kindly— “Tell me some of those ‘intervals’! Cannot they be repeated? Let us sit here” — and he moved towards a stone bench which fronted an ancient disused well in the middle square of the cloistered court, — a well round which a crimson passion-flower twined in a perfect arch of blossom— “What was the first ‘interval’?”

  He sat down, and the sunshine sent a dazzling ray on the silver crucifix he wore, giving it the gleam of a great jewel. Morgana took her seat beside him.

  “Interval one!” he said, playfully— “What was this little lady’s first experience of happiness? When she played with her dolls?”

  “No, oh no!” cried Morgana, with sudden energy— “That was anything but happiness! I hated dolls! — abominable little effigies!”

  Don Aloysius raised his eyebrows in surprise and amusement.

  “Horrid little stuffed things of wood and wax and saw-dust!” continued Morgana, emphatically— “With great beads for eyes — or eyes made to look like beads — and red cheeks, — and red lips with a silly smile on them! Of course they are given to girl-children to encourage the ‘maternal instinct’ as it is called — to make them think of babies, — but I never had any ‘maternal instinct’! — and real babies have always seemed to me as uninteresting as sham ones!”

  “Dear child, you were a baby yourself once!” — said Aloysius gently.

  A shadow swept over her face.

  “Do you think I was?” she queried meditatively— “I cannot imagine it! I suppose I must have been, but I never remember being a child at all. I had no children to play with me — my father suspected all children of either disease or wickedness, and imagined I would catch infection of body or of soul by association with them. I was always alone — alone! — yet not lonely!” She broke off a moment, and her eyes grew dark with the intensity of her thought “No — never lonely! And the very earliest ‘interval’ of happiness I can recall was when I first saw the inside of a sun-ray!”

  Don Aloysius turned to look at her, but said nothing. She laughed.

  “Dear Father Aloysius, what a wise priest you are! Not a word falls from those beautifully set lips of yours! If you were a fool — (so many men are!) you would have repeated my phrase, ‘the inside of a sun-ray,’ with an accent of scornful incredulity, and you would have stared at me with all a fool’s contempt! But you are not a fool, — you know or you perceive instinctively exactly what I mean. The inside of a sun-ray! — it was disclosed to me suddenly — a veritable miracle! I have seen it many times since, but not with all the wonder and ecstasy of the first revelation. I was so young, too! I told a renowned professor at one of the American colleges just what I saw, and he was so amazed and confounded at my description of rays that had taken the best scientists years to discover, that he begged to be allowed to examine my eyes! He thought there must be something unusual about them. In fact there IS! — and after his examination he seemed more puzzled than ever. He said something about ‘an exceptionally strong power of vision,’ but frankly admitted that power of vision alone would not account for it. Anyhow I plainly saw all the rays within one ray — there were seven. The ray itself was — or so I fancied — the octave of colour. I was little more than a child when this ‘interval’ of happiness — PERFECT happiness! — was granted to me — I felt as if a window had been opened for me to look through it into heaven!”

  “Do you believe in heaven?” asked Aloysius, suddenly.

  She hesitated.

  “I used to, — in those days. As I have just said I was only a child, and heaven was a real place to me, — even the angels were real presences—”
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  “And you have lost them now?”

  She gave a little gesture of resignation.

  “They left me” — she answered— “I did not lose them. They simply went.”

  He was silent. His fine, calm features expressed a certain grave patience, but nothing more.

  She resumed —

  “That was my first experience of real ‘happiness.’ Till then I had lived the usual monotonous life of childhood, doing what I was told, and going whither I was taken, but the disclosure of the sun-ray was a key to individuality, and seemed to unlock my prison doors. I began to think for myself, and to find my own character as a creature apart from others. My second experience was years after, — just when I left school and when my father took me to see the place where I was born, in the north of Scotland. Oh, it is such a wild corner of the world! Beautiful craggy hills and dark, deep lakes — rough moorlands purple with heather and such wonderful skies at sunset! The cottage where my father had lived as a boy when he herded sheep is still there — I have bought it for myself now, — it is a little stone hut of three rooms, — and another one about a mile off where he took my mother to live, and where I came into the world! — I have bought that too. Yes — I felt a great thrill of happiness when I stood there knee-deep among the heather, my father clasping my hand, and looking, with me, on those early scenes of his boyhood when he had scarcely a penny to call his own! Yet HE was sad! — very sad! and told me then that he would give all his riches to feel as light of heart and free from care as he did in those old days! And then — then we went to see old Alison—” Here she broke off, — a strange light came into her eyes and she smiled a little. “I think I had better not tell you about old Alison!” she said.

  “Why not?” and Don Aloysius returned her smile. “If old Alison has anything to do with your happiness I should like to hear.”

  “Well, you see, you are a priest,” went on Morgana, slowly, “and she is a witch. Oh yes, truly! — a real witch! There is no one in all that part of the Highlands that does not know of her, and the power she has! She is very, very old — some folks say she is more than a hundred. She knew my father and grandfather — she came to my father’s cottage the night I was born, and said strange things about a ‘May child’ — I was born in May. We went — as I tell you — to see her, and found her spinning. She looked up from her wheel as we entered — but she did not seem surprised at our coming. Her eyes were very bright — not like the eyes of an old person. She spoke to my father at once — her voice was very clear and musical. ‘Is it you, John Royal?’ she said— ‘and you have brought your fey lass along with you!’ That was the first time I ever heard the word ‘fey.’ I did not understand it then.”

  “And do you understand it now?” asked Aloysius.

  “Yes” — she replied,— “I understand it now! It is a wonderful thing to be born ‘fey’! But it is a kind of witchcraft, — and you would be displeased—”

  “At what should I be displeased?” and the priest bent his eyes very searchingly upon her— “At the fact, — which none can disprove, — that ‘there are things in heaven and earth’ which are beyond our immediate knowledge? That there are women strangely endowed with premonitory instincts land preternatural gifts? Dear child, there is nothing in all this that can or could displease me! My faith — the faith of my Church — is founded on the preternatural endowment of a woman!”

  She lifted her eyes to his, and a little sigh came from her lips.

  “Yes, I know what you mean!” — she said— “But I am sure you cannot possibly realise the weird nature of old Alison! She made me stand before her, just where the light of the sun streamed through the open doorway, and she looked at me for a long time with such a steady piercing glance that I felt as if her eyes were boring through my flesh. Then she got up from her spinning and pushed away the wheel, and stretched out both her hands towards me, crying out in quite a strange, wild voice— ‘Morgana! Morgana! Go your ways, child begotten of the sun and shower! — go your ways! Little had mortal father or mother to do with your making, for you are of the fey folk! Go your ways with your own people! — you shall hear them whispering in the night and singing in the morning, — and they shall command you and you shall obey! — they shall beckon and you shall follow! Nothing of mortal flesh and blood shall hold you — no love shall bind you, — no hate shall wound you! — the clue is given into your hand, — the secret is disclosed — and the spirits of air and fire and water have opened a door that you may enter in! Hark! — I can hear their voices calling “Morgana! Morgana!” Go your ways, child! — go hence and far! — the world is too small for your wings!’ She looked so fierce and grand and terrible that I was frightened — I was only a girl of sixteen, and I ran to my father and caught his hand. He spoke quite gently to Alison, but she seemed quite beyond herself and unable to listen. ‘Your way lies down a different road, John Royal’ — she said— ‘You that herded sheep on these hills and that now hoard millions of money — of what use to you is your wealth? You are but the worker, — gathering gold for HER — the “fey” child born in an hour of May moonlight! You must go, but she must stay, — her own folk have work for her to do!’ Then my father said, ‘Dear Alison, don’t frighten the child!’ and she suddenly changed in her tone and manner. ‘Frighten her?’ she muttered. ‘I would not frighten her for the world!’ And my father pushed me towards her and whispered— ‘Ask her to bless you before you go.’ So I just knelt before her, trembling very much, and said, ‘Dear Alison, bless me!’ — and she stared at me and lifted her old brown wrinkled hands and laid them on my head. Then she spoke some words in a strange language as to herself, and afterwards she said, ‘Spirit of all that is and ever shall be, bless this child who belongs to thee, and not to man! Give her the power to do what is commanded, to the end.’ And at this she stopped suddenly and bending down she lifted my head in her two hands and looked at me hard— ‘Poor child, poor child! Never a love for you — never a love! Alone you are, alone you must be! Never a love for a “fey” woman!’ And she let me go, and sat down again to her spinning-wheel, nor would she say another word — neither to me nor to my father.”

  “And you call THIS your second experience of happiness?” said Don Aloysius, wonderingly— “What happiness did you gain by your interview with this old Alison?”

  “Ah!” and Morgana smiled— “You would not understand me if I tried to explain! Everything came to me! — yes, everything! I began to live in a world of my own—” she paused, and her eyes grew dark and pensive, “and I have lived in it ever since. That is why I say my visit to old Alison was my second experience of happiness. I’ve seen her again many times since then, but not with quite the same impression.”

  “She is alive still?”

  “Oh, yes! I often fancy she will never die!”

  There was a silence of some minutes. Morgana rose, and crossing over to the old well, studied the crimson passion-flowers which twined about it, with almost loving scrutiny.

  “How beautiful they are!” she said— “And they seem to serve no purpose save that of simple beauty!”

  “That is enough for many of God’s creatures” — said Aloysius— “To give joy and re-create joy is the mission of perfection.”

  She looked at him wistfully.

  “Alas, poor me!” she sighed— “I can neither give joy nor create it!”

  “Not even with all your wealth?”

  “Not even with all my wealth!” she echoed. “Surely you — a priest — know what a delusion wealth really is so far as happiness goes? — mere happiness? course you can buy everything with it — and there’s the trouble! When everything is bought there’s nothing left! And if you try to help the poor they resent it — they think you are doing it because you are afraid of them! Perhaps the worst of all things to do is to help artists — artists of every kind! — for THEY say you want to advertise yourself as a ‘generous patron’! Oh, I’ve tried it all and it’s no use. I was just crazy to h
elp all the scientists, — once! — but they argued and quarrelled so much as to which ‘society’ deserved most money that I dropped the whole offer, and started ‘scientising’ myself. There is one man I tried to lift out of his brain-bog, — but he would have none of me, and he is still in his bog!”

  “Oh! There is one man!” said Aloysius, with a smile.

  “Yes, good father!” And Morgana left the passion-flowers and moved slowly back to her seat on the stone-bench— “There is one man! He was my third and last experience of happiness. When I first met him, my whole heart gave itself in one big pulsation — but like a wave of the sea, the pulsation recoiled, and never again beat on the grim rock of human egoism!” She laughed gaily, and a delicate colour flushed her face. “But I was happy while the ‘wave’ lasted, — and when it broke, I still played on the shore with its pretty foam-bells.”

  “You loved this man?” and the priest’s grave eyes dwelt on her searchingly.

  “I suppose so — for the moment! Yet no, — it was not love — it was just an ‘attraction’ — he was — he IS — clever, and thinks he can change the face of the world. But he is fooling with fire! I tell you I tried to help him — for he is deadly poor. But he would have none of me nor of what he calls my ‘vulgar wealth.’ This is a case in point where wealth is useless! You see?”

  Don Aloysius was silent.

  “Then” — Morgana went on— “Alison is right. The witchery of the Northern Highlands is in my blood, — never a love for me — alone I am — alone I must be! — never a love for a ‘fey’ woman!”

  Over the priest’s face there passed a quiver as of sudden pain.