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

by Marie Corelli

  “Yes,” she replied at once, with equal softness.

  “Then, listen! I have a message for you!”

  And Morgana listened, — listened intently, — the sapphire hue of the Ray lighting her gold hair, as she knelt, absorbed. What she heard filled her with a certain dread; and a tremor of premonition, like the darkness preceding storm, shook her nerves. But the inward spirit of her was as a warrior clothed in steel, — she was afraid of nothing — least of all of any event or incident passing for “supernatural,” knowing beyond all doubt that the most seeming miraculous circumstances are all the result of natural movement and transmutation. There never had been anything surprising to her in the fact that light is a conveyor of sound; and that she was receiving a message by such means seemed no more extraordinary to her mind than receiving it by the accepted telephonic service. Every word spoken she heard with the closest attention — until — as though a cloud had suddenly covered it, — the “Sound-Ray” vanished, and the Voice ceased.

  She rose at once from her knees, alert and ready for action — her face was pale, her lips set, her eyes luminous.

  “I must not hesitate” — she said— “If I can save him I will!”

  She left the chapel and hurried home, where as soon as she reached her own private room she wrote to the Marchese Rivardi the following note, which was more than unpleasantly startling to him when he received it.

  “I shall need you and Gaspard for a long journey in the ‘White Eagle.’ Prepare everything in the way of provisioning and other necessary details. No time must be lost, and no expense need be spared. We must start as quickly as possible.”

  This message written, sealed and dispatched by one of her servants to the Marchese’s villa, she sat for some moments lost in thought, wistfully looking out on her flower-filled gardens and the shimmering blue of the Mediterranean beyond.

  “I may be too late!” she said, speaking aloud to herself— “But I will take the risk! He will not care — no! — a man like that cares for nothing but himself. He would have broken my life — (had I given him the chance!) — for the sake of an experiment. Now — if I can — I will rescue his for the sake of an ideal!”

  CHAPTER XXI

  “There shall be no more wars! — there CAN be none!”

  Roger Seaton said these words aloud with defiant emphasis, addressing the dumb sky. It was early morning, but an intense heat had so scorched the earth that not the smallest drop of dew glittered on any leaf or blade of grass; it was all arid, brown and burned into a dryness as of fever. But Seaton was far too much engrossed with himself and his own business to note the landscape, or to be troubled by the suffocating closeness of the atmosphere, — he stood gazing with the idolatry of a passionate lover at a small, plain metal case, containing a dozen or more small plain metal cylinders, as small as women’s thimbles, all neatly ranged side by side, divided from contact with one another by folded strips of cotton.

  “There it is!” he went on, apostrophising the still air— “Complete, — perfected! If I sold that to any nation under the sun, that nation could rule the world! — could wipe out everything save itself and its own people! I have wrested the secret from the very womb of Nature! — it is mine — all mine! I would have given it to Britain — or to the United States — but neither will accept my terms — so therefore I hold it — I, only! — which is just as well! I — just I — am master of destiny! — the Power we call God, has put this tiling into my hands! What a marvel and shall I not use it? I will! Let Germany but stir an inch towards aggression, and Germany shall exist no longer! — The same with any other nation that starts a quarrel — I — I alone will settle it!”

  His eyes blazed with the light of fanaticism — he was obsessed by the force of his own ideas and schemes, and the metal case on the table before him was, to his mind, time, life, present and future. He had arrived at that questionable point of intellectual attainment when man forgets that there is any existing force capable of opposing him, and imagines that he has but to go on in his own way to grasp all worlds and the secrets of their being. At this juncture, so often arrived at by many, a kind of super-sureness sets in, persuading the finite nature that it has reached the infinite. The whole mental organisation of the man thrilled with an awful consciousness of power. He said within himself “I hold the lives of millions at my mercy!”

  Other thoughts — other dreams had passed away for the moment — he had forgotten life as it presents itself to the ordinary human being. Now and again a flitting vision of Morgana vaguely troubled him, — her intellectual capacity annoyed him, and yet he would have been glad to discuss with her the scientific unfolding of his great secret — she would understand it in all its bearings, — she might advise — Advice! — no! — he did not need the advice of a woman! As for Manella, he had not seen her since her last violent outburst of what he called “temper” — and he had no wish for her presence. For now he had a thing to do which was of paramount importance, — and this was, to deposit the treasured discovery of his life in a secret hiding-place he had found for it, till he should be ready to remove it to safer quarters — or — TILL HE RESOLVED TO USE IT. Had he been a religious man, of such humility as should accompany true religion, he would have prayed that its use should never be called upon, — but he had trained himself into an attitude of such complete indifferentism towards life and the things of life, that to him it seemed useless to pray for what did not matter. Sometimes the thought, appalling in its truth, flashed across his brain that the force he had discovered and condensed within small compass might as easily destroy half the world as a nation! The fabled thunderbolts of Jove were child’s play compared with those plain-looking, thimble-like cylinders which contained such terrific power! A touch of hesitation — of pure human dread affected his nerves for the moment, — he shivered in the sultry air as with cold, and looked about him right and left as though suspecting some hidden witness of his actions. There was not so much as a bird or a butterfly in sight, and he drew a long deep breath of relief. The day was treading in the steps of dawn with the full blazonry of burning Californian sunlight, and away in the distance the ridges and peaks of distant mountains stood out sharply clear against the intense blue of the sky. There was great stillness everywhere, — a pause, as it seemed, in the mechanism of the universe. The twitter of a bird or the cry of some wild animal would have been a relief, — so Seaton felt, though accustomed to deep silence.

  “Better get through with this at once” — he said, aloud— “Now that a safe place is prepared.” Here he looked at his watch. “In a couple of hours they will be sending up from the Plaza to know if I want anything — Irish Jake or Manilla will be coming on some trivial matter — I’d better take the opportunity of complete secrecy while I can.”

  For the next few minutes or so he hesitated. With the sudden fancy that he had forgotten something, he turned out his pockets, looking for he scarcely knew what. The contents were mixed and various, and among them was a crumpled letter which he had received some days since from Sam Gwent. He smoothed it out carefully and re-read it, especially one passage —

  “I think the States will never get involved in another war, but I am fairly sure Germany will. If she joins up with Russia look out for squalls. In your old country, which appears to be peopled by madmen, there’s a writing chap who spent a fortnight in Russia, not long enough to know the ins and outs of a village, yet assuming to know everything about the biggest territory in Europe, and the press is puffing up his ignorance as if it were wisdom. Germany has her finger on the spot — so perhaps your stuff will come in useful. But don’t forget that if you make up your mind to use it you will ruin America, commercially speaking. And many other countries besides. So think it well over, — more than a hundred times! Lydia Herbert, whom perhaps you remember, and perhaps you don’t, has caught her ‘ancient mariner’ — that is to say, her millionaire, — and all fashionable New York is going to the wedding, including yours truly. I had exp
ected Morgana Royal to grace the function, but I hear she is quite engrossed with the decoration and furnishing of her Sicilian palace, as well as with her advising artist, a very good-looking Marquis or Marchese as he is called. It is also whispered that she has invented a wonderful air-ship which has no engines, and creates its own motive power as it goes! Sounds rather tall talk! — but this is an age of wonders and we never know what next. There is a new Light Ray just out which prospects for gold, oil and all ores and minerals, and finds them in a fifty-mile circuit — so probably nobody need be poor for the future. When we’ve all got most things we want, and there’s nothing left to work for, I wonder what the world will be worth!”

  Seaton left off reading and thrust the letter again in his pocket.

  “What will the world be worth?” he soliloquised— “Why, nothing!”

  Suddenly struck by this thought, which had not always presented itself with such sharp and clear precision as now, he took time to consider it. Capital and Labour, the two forces which are much more prone to rend each other than to co-operate — these would both possibly be non-existent if Science had its full way. If gold, silver and other precious minerals could be “picked up” as on the fabled Tom Tiddler’s ground, by a ray of light, then the striving for wealth would cease and work would be reduced to a minimum. The prospect was stupendous, but hardly entirely pleasing. If there were no need for effort, then the powers of mind and body would sink into inertia.

  “What object should we live for?” he mused— “Merely to propagate our own kind and bring more effortless beings into the world to cumber it? The very idea is horrible! Work is the very blood and bone of existence — without it we should rot! But one must work for something or some one — wife? — children? — Useless labour! — for in nine cases out often the wife becomes a bore, — and the children grow up ungrateful. Why waste strength and feeling on either?”

  Thus mentally arguing, the exquisite lines of Tennyson’s “Lotus Eaters” suddenly rang in his memory like a chime of bells from the old English village where he had lived as a boy, when his mother, one of the past sweet “old-fashioned” women, used to read to him and teach him much of the best in literature, —

  “Death is the end of life; ah, why

  Should life all labour be?

  Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast

  And in a little while our lips are dumb,

  Let us alone. What is it that will last?

  All things are taken from us and become

  Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past,

  Let us alone. What pleasure can we have

  To war with evil? Is there any peace

  In ever climbing up the climbing wave?”

  An effortless existence would be the existence of such as these fabled Lotus Eaters — moreover, it was not possible it could go on, since all Nature shows effort without cessation. Roger Seaton knew this as all know it — but his soul’s demand remained unsatisfied, for he sought to know the CAUSE of all the toil and trouble, — the “why” it should be. And at the back of his mind there was ever a teasing reminder of Morgana and her strange theories, some of which she had half imparted to him when their friendship had first begun. For her Tennyson’s line— “Death is the end of life” — would be the statement of a foolish fallacy, as she held that there is no such thing as death, only failure to adapt the spirit to advancing and higher change in its physical organisation. To-day he remembered with curious clearness what she had said on this subject —

  “Radio-activity is the chief secret of life. It is for us to learn how to absorb it into our systems as we grow, — to add by its means to our supplies of vitality and energy. It never gives out, — nor should we. The Nature-intention is that we should become better, stronger, more beautiful, more mentally and spiritually perfect — and that we do not fulfil this intention is our own fault. The decimation of the human race by wars and plagues and famines has always been traceable to human error. All accidents happen through those who make accidents possible, — diseases are bred through human dirt, greed, ignorance, and neglect. They are no part of the divine scheme of things. The plan is to advance and make progress from one point of excellence to another, — not to stop half way and turn back on the road. Humanity dies, because it will not learn how to live.”

  She had spoken these words with a quiet simplicity and earnestness that impressed him at the time as being almost child-like, considering the depth of thought into which she must have plunged, notwithstanding her youth and her sex — and on this morning of all others, this morning on which he had set himself a task for which he had made long and considerable preparation, he found himself half mechanically repeating her phrase— “Humanity dies because it will not learn how to live.”

  There was no fatalism, — no fixed destiny in this; only the force of Will was implied — the Will to learn, — the Will to know.

  “And why should not humanity die?” he argued within himself— “If, in the long course of ages, it is proved that it will neither learn nor know, — why should it remain? Room should be made for a new race! A clever gardener can produce a perfectly beautiful flower from an insignificant and common weed, — surely this is a lesson to us that it may be possible to produce a god from a man!”

  He bent his eyes lovingly on the case of small cylinders lying open before him; — the just risen sun brightened them to a glitter as of cold steel, — and for a moment he fancied they flashed upon him with an almost sinister gleam.

  “Power of good or power of evil?” he questioned his inward spirit— “Who can decide? If it is good to destroy evil then the force is a good force — if it is evil to destroy good WITH evil, then it is an evil thing. But Nature makes no such particular discriminations — she destroys evil and good together at one blow. Why therefore should I — or anyone — offer to discriminate? — since evil is always the preponderating factor. When the ‘Lusitania’ was torpedoed neither God nor Nature interfered to save the innocent from the guilty — men, women and children were all plunged into the pitiless sea. I — as a part of Nature — if I destroy, I only follow her example. War is an evil, — an abominable crime — and those that attempt to make it should be swept from the face of the earth even if good and peace-loving units are swept along with them. This cannot be helped.”

  He went into his hut, and in a few minutes came out again clothed in thick garments of a dark, earth colour, and carrying a stout staff, steel-pointed at its end something after the fashion of a Swiss alpenstock. He brought with him a small metal box into which he placed the case of cylinders, covering it with a closely fitting lid. Then he put the package into a basket made of rough twigs and strips of bark, having a strong handle, to which he fastened a leather strap, and slung the whole thing over his shoulders like a knapsack. Then, casting another look round to make sure that there was no one about, he started to walk towards a steeper descent of the hill in a totally different direction from that which led to the “Plaza” hotel. He went swiftly, at a steady swinging pace, — and though his way took him among confused masses of rock, and fallen boulders, he thought nothing of these obstacles, vaulting lightly across them with the ease of a chamois, till he came to a point where there was a declivity running sheer down to invisible depths, from whence came the rumbling echo of falling water. In this almost perpendicular wall of rock were a few ledges, like the precarious rungs of a broken ladder, and down these he prepared to go. Clinging at first to the topmost edge of the precipice, he let himself down warily inch by inch till his figure entirely disappeared, sunken, as it were in darkness. As he vanished there was a sudden cry — a rush as of wings — and a woman sprang up from amid bushes where she had lain hidden, — it was Manella. For days and nights she had stolen away in the intervals of her work, to watch him — and nothing had chanced to excite her alarm till now — till now, when she had seen him emerge from his hut and pack up the mysterious box he carried, — and when she had heard him talking strangely to h
imself in a way she could not understand.

  As soon as he started to walk she followed him, pushing through heavy brushwood and crawling along the ground where she could not be seen; — and now, — with dishevelled hair, and staring, terrified eyes she leaned over the edge of the precipice, baffled and desperate. Tearless sobs convulsed her throat, —

  “Oh, God of mercy!” she moaned in suffocated accents— “How can I follow him down there! Oh, help me, Mary mother! Help me! I must — I must be with him!”

  She gathered up her hair in a close coil and wound her skirts tightly about her, looking everywhere for a footing. She saw a deep cranny which had been hollowed out by some torrent of water — it cut sharply through the rock like a path, — she could risk that perhaps, she thought, — and yet her brain reeled — she felt sick and giddy — would it not be wiser to stay where she was and wait for the return of the reckless creature who had ventured all alone into one of the deepest canons of the whole country? While she hesitated she caught a sudden glimpse of him, stepping with apparent ease over huge heaps of stones and fallen pieces of rock at the bottom of the declivity, — she watched his movements in breathless suspense. On he went towards a vast aperture, shaped arch-wise like the entrance to a cavern — he paused a moment — then entered it. This was enough for Manella — her wild love and wilder terror gave her an almost supernatural strength and daring, — and all heedless now of results she sprang boldly towards the deep cutting in the rock, swinging herself from jagged point to point till — reaching the bottom of the declivity at last, bruised and bleeding, but undaunted, — she stopped, checked by a rushing stream which tumbled over great boulders and dashed its cold spray in her face. Looking about her she saw to her dismay that the vaulted cavern wherein Seaton had disappeared was on the other side of this stream — she stood almost opposite to it — but how to get across? Gazing despairingly in every direction she suddenly perceived the fallen trunk of a tree lying half in and half out of the brawling torrent — it was green with slippery moss and offered but a dangerous foothold, — nevertheless she resolved to attempt it.