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

by Marie Corelli

  “You wrong yourself, my child” — he said, slowly— “You wrong yourself very greatly! You have a power of which you appear to be unconscious — a great, a terrible power! — you compel interest — you attract the love of others even if you yourself love no one — you draw the very soul out of a man—”

  He paused, abruptly.

  Morgana raised her eyes, — the blue lightning gleam flashed in their depths.

  “Ah, yes!” she half whispered— “I know I have THAT power!”

  Don Aloysius rose to his feet.

  “Then, — if you know it, — in God’s name do not exercise it!” he said.

  His voice shook — and with his right hand he gripped the crucifix he wore as though it were a weapon of self-defence. Morgana looked at him wonderingly for a moment, — then drooped her head with a strange little air of sudden penitence. Aloysius drew a quick sharp breath as of one in effort, — then he spoke again, unsteadily —

  “I mean” — he said, smiling forcedly— “I mean that you should not — you should not break the heart of — of — the poor Giulio for instance!... it would not be kind.”

  She lifted her eyes again and fixed them on him.

  “No, it would not be kind!” she said, softly— “Dear Don Aloysius, I understand! And I will remember!” She glanced at a tiny diamond-set watch-bracelet on her wrist— “How late it is! — nearly all the morning gone! I have kept you so long listening to my talk — forgive me! I will run away now and leave you to think about my ‘intervals’ of happiness, — will you? — they are so few compared to yours!”

  “Mine?” he echoed amazedly.

  “Yes, indeed! — yours! Your whole life is an interval of happiness between this world and the next, because you are satisfied in the service of God!”

  “A poor service!” he said, turning his gaze away from her elfin figure and shining hair— “Unworthy, — shameful! — marred by sin at every moment! A priest of the Church must learn to do without happiness such as ordinary life can give — and without love, — such as woman may give — but — after all — the sacrifice is little.”

  She smiled at him, sweetly — tenderly,

  “Very little!” she said— “So little that it is not worth a regret! Good-bye! But not for long! Come and see me soon!”

  Moving across the cloister with her light step she seemed to float through the sunshine like a part of it, and as she disappeared a kind of shadow fell, though no cloud obscured the sun. Don Aloysius watched her till she had vanished, — then turned aside into a small chapel opening out on the cloistered square — a chapel which formed part of the monastic house to which he belonged as Superior, — and there, within that still, incense-sweetened sanctuary, he knelt before the noble, pictured Head of the Man of Sorrows in silent confession and prayer.

  CHAPTER X

  Roger Seaton was a man of many philosophies. He had one for every day in the week, yet none wherewith to thoroughly satisfy himself. While still a mere lad he had taken to the study of science as a duck takes to water, — no new discovery or even suggestion of a new discovery missed his instant and close attention. His avidity for learning was insatiable, — his intense and insistent curiosity on all matters of chemistry gave a knife-like edge to the quality of his brain, making it sharp, brilliant and incisive. To him the ordinary social and political interests of the world were simply absurd. The idea that the greater majority of men should be created for no higher purpose than those of an insect, just to live, eat, breed, and die, was to him preposterous.

  “Think of it!” he would exclaim— “All this wondrous organisation of our planet for THAT! For a biped so stupid as to see nothing in his surroundings but conveniences for satisfying his stomach and his passions! We men are educated chiefly in order to learn how to make money, and all we can do with the money WHEN made, is to build houses to live in, eat as much as we want and more, and breed children to whom we leave all the stuff we have earned, and who either waste it or add to it, whichever suits their selfishness best. Such lives are absolutely useless, — they repeat the same old round, leading nowhere. Occasionally, in the course of centuries a real Brain is born — and at once, all who are merely Bodies leap up against it, like famished wolves, striving to tear it to pieces and devour it — if it survives the attack its worth is only recognised long after its owner has perished. The whole scheme is manifestly unintelligent and ludicrous, but it is not intended to be so — of that I am sure. THERE MUST BE SOMETHING ELSE!”

  When urged to explain what he conceived as this “something else,” he would answer —

  “There has always been ‘something else’ in our environment, — something that stupid humanity has taken centuries to discover. Sound-waves for example — light-rays, — electricity — these have been freely at our service from the beginning. Electricity might have been used ages ago, had not dull-witted man refused to find anything better for lighting purposes than an oil-lamp or a tallow candle! If, in past periods, he had been told ‘there is something else’ — he would have laughed his informant to scorn. So with our blundering methods of living— ‘there is something else’ — not after death, but NOW and HERE. We are going about in the darkness with a candle when a great force of wider light is all round us, only awaiting connection and application to our uses.”

  Those who heard him speak in this way — (and they were few, for Seaton seldom discussed his theories with others) — convinced themselves that he was either a fool or a madman, — the usual verdict given for any human being who dares break away from convention and adopt an original line of thought and action. But they came to the conclusion that as he was direfully poor, and nevertheless refused various opportunities of making money, his folly or his madness would be brought home to him sooner or later by strong necessity, and that he would then either arrive at a sane every-day realisation of “things as they are” — or else be put away in an asylum and quietly forgotten. This being the sagacious opinion of those who knew him best, there was a considerable flutter in such limited American circles as call themselves “upper” when the wealthiest young woman in the States, Morgana Royal, suddenly elected to know him and to bring him into prominent notice at her parties as “the most wonderful genius of the time”— “a man whose scientific discoveries might change the very face of the globe” — and other fantastically exaggerated descriptions of her own which he himself strongly repudiated and resented. Gossip ran amok concerning the two, and it was generally agreed that if the “madman” of science were to become the husband of a woman multi-millionaire, he would not have to be considered so mad after all! But the expected romance did not materialise, — there came apparently a gradual “cooling off” in the sentiments of both parties concerned, — and though Roger Seaton was still occasionally seen with Morgana in her automobile, in her opera-box, or at her receptions, his appearances were fewer, and other men, in fact many other men, were more openly encouraged and flattered, — Morgana herself showing as much indifference towards him as she had at first shown interest. When, therefore, he suddenly left the social scene of action, his acquaintances surmised that he had got an abrupt dismissal, or as they more brusquely expressed it— “the game’s up”!

  “He’s lost his chance!” they said, shaking their heads forlornly— “And he’s poorer than Job! He’ll be selling newspapers in the cars for a living by and by!”

  However, he was never met engaged in this lucrative way of business, — he simply turned his back on everybody, Morgana Royal included, and so far as “society” was concerned, just disappeared. In the “hut of the dying” on that lonely hill-slope in California he was happy, feeling a relief from infinite boredom, and thankful to be alone. He had much to think about and much to do — inhabited places and the movement of people were to him tedious and fatiguing, and he decided that nature, — wild nature in a solitary and savage aspect, — would suit his speculative and creative tendencies best. Yet, like all human beings, he had his odd, almost
child-like moods, inexplicable even to himself — moods illogical, almost pettish, and wholly incongruous with his own accepted principles of reasoning. For instance, he maintained that women had neither attraction nor interest for him — yet he found himself singularly displeased when after two or three days of utter solitude, and when he was rather eagerly expecting Manella to arrive with the new milk which was his staple food, a lanky, red-haired ugly boy appeared instead of her — a boy who slouched along, swinging the milk pail in one hand and clutching a half-munched slice of pine-apple in the other.

  “Hello — o!” called this individual. “Not dead yet?”

  For answer Seaton strode forward and taking the milk-pail from him gripped him by the dirty cotton shirt and gave him a brief but severe shaking.

  “No, — not dead yet!” he said— “You insolent young monkey! Who are you?”

  The boy wriggled in his captor’s clutch, and tried to squirm himself out of it.

  “I’m — I’m Jake — they calls me Irish Jake” — he gasped— “O Blessed Mary! — my breath! I clean the knives at the Plaza—”

  “I’ll clean knives for you presently!” remarked Seaton, with a threatening gesture— “Yes, Irish Jake, I will! Who sent you here?”

  “SHE did — oh, Mary mother!” and the youth gave a further wriggle— “Miss Soriso — the girl they call Manella. She told me to say she’s too busy to come herself.”

  Seaton let go the handful of shirt he had held.

  “Too busy to come herself!” he repeated, slowly — then smiled— “Well! That’s all right!” Here he lifted the pail of milk, took it into his hut and brought it back empty, while “Irish Jake,” as the boy had called himself, stood staring— “Tell Miss Soriso that I quite understand! And that I’m delighted to hear she is so busy! Now, let us see!” Here he pulled some money out of his pocket, and fingered a few dirty paper notes— “There, Irish Jake! You’ll find that’s correct. And when you come here again don’t forget your manners! See? Then you may be able to keep that disgraceful shirt of yours on! Otherwise it’s likely to be torn off! If you are Irish you should remember that in very ancient days there used to be manners in the Emerald Isle. Yes, positively! Fine, gracious, lovely manners! It doesn’t look as if that will be ever any more — but we live in hope. Anyway, YOU — you young offspring of an Irish hybrid gorilla — you’d best remember what I say, or there’ll be trouble! And” — here he made a mock solemn bow— “My compliments to Miss Soriso!”

  The red-haired youth remained for a moment stock-still with mouth and eyes open, — then, snatching up the empty milk-pail he scampered down the hill-slope at a lightning quick run.

  Seaton looked after him with an air of contemptuous amusement.

  “Ugly little devil!” he soliloquised— “And yet Nature made him, — as she makes many hideous things — in a hurry, I presume, without any time for details or artistic finish. Well!” — here he stretched his arms out with a long sigh— “And the silly girl is ‘too busy’ to come! As if I could not see through THAT little game! She’d give her eyes to come! — fine eyes they are, too! She just thinks she’ll pay me out for being rough with her the other day — she’s got an idea that she’ll vex me, and make me want to see her. She’s right, — I AM vexed! — and I DO want to see her!”

  It was mid-morning, and the sun blazed down upon the hill-side with the scorching breath of a volcano. He turned into his hut, — it was a dark, cool little dwelling, comfortable enough for a single inhabitant. There was a camp-bed in one corner — and there were a couple of wicker chairs made for easy transposition into full-length couches if so required, A good sized deal table occupied the centre of the living-room, — and on the table was a clear crystal bowl full of what appeared at a first glance to be plain water, but which on closer observation showed a totally different quality. Unlike water it was never still, — some interior bubbling perpetually moved it to sway and sparkle, throwing out tiny flashes as though the smallest diamond cuttings were striving to escape from it — while it exhaled around itself an atmosphere of extreme coldness and freshness like that of ice. Seaton threw himself indolently into one of wicker chairs by the window — a window which was broad and wide, commanding a full view of distant mountains, and far away to the left a glimpse of sea.

  “I am vexed, and I want to see her” — he repeated, speaking aloud to himself— “Now — WHY? Why am I vexed? — and why do I want to see her? Reason gives no answer! If she were here she would bore me to death. I could do nothing. She would ask me questions — and if I answered them she would not understand, — she is too stupid. She has no comprehension of any thing beyond simple primitive animalism. Now if it were Morgana—”

  He stopped in his talk, and started as if he had been stung. Some subtle influence stole over him like the perfumed mist of incense — he leaned back in his chair and half closed his eyes. What was the stealthy, creeping magnetic power that like an invisible hand touched his brain and pulled at his memory, and forced him to see before him a small elf-like figure clad in white, with a rope of gold hair twisting, snake-like, down over its shoulders and glistening in the light of the moon? For the moment he lost his usual iron mastery of will and let himself go on the white flood of a dream. He recalled his first meeting with Morgana, — one of accident, not design — in the great laboratory of a distinguished scientist, — he had taken her for a little girl student trying to master a few principles of chemistry, and was astonished and incredulous when the distinguished scientist himself had introduced her as “one of our most brilliant theorists on the future development of radio activity.” Such a description seemed altogether absurd, applied to a little fair creature with beseeching blue eyes and gold hair! They had left the laboratory together, walking some way in company and charmed with each other’s conversation, then, when closer acquaintance followed, and he had learned her true position in social circles and the power she wielded owing to her vast wealth, he at once withdrew from her as much as was civilly possible, disliking the suggestion of any sordid motive for his friendship. But she had so sweetly reproached him for this, and had enticed him on — yes! — he swore it within himself, — she had enticed him on in a thousand ways, — most especially by the amazing “grip” she had of scientific problems in which he was interested and which puzzled him, but which she seemed to unravel as easily as she might unravel a skein of wool. Her clear brightness of brain and logical precision of argument first surprised him into unqualified admiration, calling to his mind the assertion of a renowned physiologist that “From the beginning woman had lived in another world than man. Formed of finer vibrations and consequently finer chemical atoms she is in touch with more subtle planes of existence and of sensation and ideation. She holds unchallenged the code of Life.” Then admiration yielded to the usual under-sense of masculine resentment against feminine intellectuality, and a kind of smouldering wrath and opposition took the place of his former chivalry and the almost tender pleasure he had previously felt in her exceptional genius and ability. And there came an evening — why did he think of it now, he wondered? — when, after a brilliant summer ball given at the beautiful residence of a noted society woman on Long Island, he had taken Morgana out into their hostess’s garden which sloped to the sea, and they had strolled together almost unknowingly down to the shore where, under the light of the moon, the Atlantic waves, sunken to little dainty frills of lace-like foam, broke murmuringly at their feet, — and he, turning suddenly to his companion, was all at once smitten by a sense of witchery in her looks as she stood garmented in her white, vaporous ball-gown, with diamonds in her hair and on her bosom — smitten with an overpowering lightning-stroke of passion which burnt his soul as a desert is burnt by the hot breath of the simoon, and, yielding to its force, he had caught the small, fine, fairy creature in his arms and kissed her wildly on lips and eyes and hair. And she, — she had not resisted. Then — as swiftly as he had clasped her he let her go — and stood before her in a
strange spirit of defiance.

  “Forgive me!” he said, in low uneven tones— “I — I did not mean it!”

  She lifted her eyes to his, half proudly half appealingly.

  “You did not mean it?” she asked, quietly.

  An amazed scorn flashed into her face, clouding its former sweetness — then she smiled coldly, turned away and left him. In a kind of stupor he watched her go, her light figure disappearing by degrees, as she went up the ascending path from the sea to the house where gay music was still sounding for dancers not yet grown weary. And from that evening a kind of silence fell between them, — they were separated as by an ice-floe. They met often in the social round, but scarcely spoke more than the ordinary words of conventional civility, and Morgana apparently gave herself up to frivolity, coquetting with her numerous admirers and would-be husbands in a casual, not to say heartless, manner which provoked Seaton past endurance, — so much so that he worked himself up to a kind of cynical detestation and contempt for her, both as a student of science and a woman of wealth. And yet — and yet — he had almost loved her! And a thing that goaded him to the quick was that so far as scientific knowledge and attainment were concerned she was more than his equal. Irritated by his own quarrelsome set of sentiments which pulled him first this way and then that, he decided that the only thing possible for him was to put a “great divide” of distance between himself and her. This he had done — and to what purpose? Apparently merely to excite her ridicule! — and to prick her humor up to the mischievous prank of finding out where he had fled and following him! And she — even she — who had kept him aloof ever since that fatal moment on the seashore, — had discovered him on this lonely hill-side, and had taunted him with her light mockery — and actually said that “to kiss him would be like kissing a bunch of nettles!” — SHE said that! — she who for one wild moment he had held in his arms — bah! — he sprang up from his chair in a kind of rage with himself, as his thoughts crowded thick and fast one on the other — why did he think of her at all! It was as if some external commanding force compelled him to do so. Then — she had seen Manella, and had naturally drawn her own conclusions, based on the girl’s rich beauty which was so temptingly set within his reach. He began to talk to himself aloud once more, picking up the thread of his broken converse where he had left it —