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

by Marie Corelli

  “An air-ship!” echoed the priest amazedly, — and then was silent, gazing at the shining expanse of sky through which the bird-shaped vessel made its leisurely way like the vision of a fairy tale more than any reality. There was something weirdly terrible in the contrast it made, moving so tranquilly through clear space in apparent safety, while down below on the so-called “solid” earth, all nature had been convulsed and overthrown. The wonderful result of human ingenuity as measured with the remorseless action of natural forces seemed too startling to be real to the mind of a Spanish priest who, despite all the evidences of triumphant materialism, still clung to the Cross and kept his simple, faithful soul high above the waves that threatened to engulf it. Turning anew to his melancholy duties, he bent over a dying youth just lifted from beneath a weight of stones that had crushed him. The boy’s fast glazing eyes were upturned to the sky.

  “See the angel coming?” he whispered, thickly— “Never used to believe in them! — but there’s one sure enough! Glory — !” and his utterance ceased for ever.

  The priest crossed his hands upon his breast and said a prayer — then again looked up to where the air-ship floated in the darkening blue. It was now directly over the canon, — immediately above the huge rift made by the earthquake, through which the clamorous rush of water poured. While he watched it, it suddenly stood still, then dived slowly as though bent on descending into the very depths of the gully. He could not forbear uttering an exclamation, which made all the men about him look in the direction where his own gaze was fixed.

  “That air-ship’s going to kingdom-come!” said one— “Nothing can save it if it takes to nose-diving down there!”

  They all stared amazed — but the dreadful work on which they were engaged left them no time for consideration of any other matter. The priest watched a few minutes longer, more or less held spell-bound with a kind of terror, for he saw that without doubt the great vessel was either purposely descending or being drawn into the vast abyss yawning black beneath it, and that falling thus it must be inevitably doomed to destruction. Whoever piloted it must surely be determined to invite this frightful end to its voyage, for nothing was ever steadier or more resolute than its downward movement towards the whirling waters that rushed through the canon. All suddenly it disappeared, whelmed as it seemed in darkness and the roaring flood, and the watching priest made the sign of the cross in air murmuring —

  “God have mercy on their souls!”

  Had he been able to see what happened he might have thought that the confused brain of the dying boy who had imagined the air-ship to be an angel, was not so far wrong, for no romancer or teller of wild tales could have pictured a stranger or more unearthly sight than the wonderful “White Eagle” poised at ease amid the tossed-up clouds of spray flung from the seething mass of waters, while at her prow stood a woman fair as any fabled goddess — a woman reckless of all danger, and keenly on the alert, with bright eyes searching every nook and cranny that could be discerned through the mist. Clear above the roaring torrent her voice rang like a silver trumpet as she called her instructions to the two men who, equally defying every peril, had ventured on this journey at her command, — Rivardi and Gaspard.

  “Let her down very gently inch by inch!” she cried; “It must be here that we should seek!”

  In absolute silence they obeyed. Both had given themselves up for lost and were resigned and ready to meet death at any moment. From the first they had made no effort to resist Morgana’s orders — she and they had left Sicily at a couple of hours’ notice — and their three days’ journey across the ocean had been accomplished without adventure or accident, at such a speed that it was hardly to be thought of without a thrill of horror. No information had been given them as to the object of their long and rapid aerial voyage, — and only now when the “White Eagle,” swooping over California, reached the scene of the terrific devastation wrought by the earthquake did they begin to think they had submitted their wills and lives to the caprice of a madwoman. However, there was no drawing back, — nothing for it but still to obey, — for even in the stress and terror naturally excited by their amazing position, they did not fail to see that the great air-ship was steadily controlled, and that whatever was the force controlling it, it maintained its level, its mysterious vibrating discs still throbbing with vital and incessant regularity. Apparently nothing could disturb its equilibrium or shatter its mechanism. And, according to its woman-designer’s command, they lowered it gently till it was, so to say, almost immersed in the torrent and covered with spray — indeed Morgana’s light figure itself at the prow looked like a fair spirit risen from the waters rather than any form of flesh and blood, so wreathed and transfigured it was by the dust of the ceaseless foam. She stood erect, bent on a quest that seemed hopeless, watching every eddying curve of water, — every flickering ripple, — her eyes, luminous as stars, searched the black and riven rocks with an eager passion of discovery, — when all suddenly as she gazed, a thin ray of light, — pure gold in colour, — struck sharply like a finger-point on a shallow pool immediately below her. She looked and uttered a cry, beckoning to Rivardi.

  “Come! Come!”

  He hurried to her side, Gaspard following. The pool on which her eyes were fixed was shallow enough to show the pebbly bed beneath the water — and there lay apparently two corpses — one of a man, the other of a woman whose body was half flung across that of the man.

  Morgana pointed to them.

  “They must be brought up here!” she said, insistently— “You must lift them! We have emergency ropes and pulleys — it is easily done! Why do you hesitate?”

  “Because you demand the impossible!” said Rivardi— “You send us to death to rescue the already dead!”

  She turned upon him with wrath in her eyes.

  “You refuse to obey me?”

  What a face confronted him! White as marble, and as terrible in expression as that of a Medusa, it had a paralysing effect on his nerves, and he shrank and trembled at her glance.

  “You refuse to obey me?” she repeated— “Then — if you do — I destroy this air-ship and ourselves in less than two minutes! Choose! Obey, and live! — disobey and die!”

  He staggered back from her in terror at her looks, which gave her a supernatural beauty and authority. The “fey” woman was “fey” indeed! — and the powers with which superstition endows the fairy folk seemed now to invest her with irresistible influence.

  “Choose!” she reiterated.

  Without another word he turned to Gaspard, who in equal silence got out the ropes and pulleys of which she had spoken. The air-ship stopped dead — suspended immovably over the wild waters and almost hidden in spray; and though the strange vibration of its multitudinous discs continued in itself it was fixed as a rock. A smile sweet as sunshine after storm changed and softened Morgana’s features as she saw Rivardi swing over the vessel’s side to the pool below, while Gaspard unwound the gear by which he would be able to lift and support the drowned creatures he was bidden to bring.

  “That’s a true noble!” she exclaimed— “I knew your courage would not fail! Believe me, no harm shall come to you!”

  Inspirited by her words, he flung himself down — and raising the body of the woman first, was entangled by the wet thick strands of her long dark hair which, like sea-weed, caught about his feet and hands and impeded his movements. He had time just to see a face white as marble under the hair, — then he had enough to do to fasten ropes round the body and push it upward while Gaspard pulled — both men doubting whether the weight of it would not alter the balance of the air-ship despite its extraordinary fixity of position. Morgana, bending over from the vessel, watched every action, — she showed neither alarm nor impatience nor anxiety — and when Gaspard said suddenly —

  “It is easier than I thought it would be!” she merely smiled as if she knew. Another few moments and the drowned woman’s body was hauled into the cabin of the ship, where Morgana kn
elt down beside it. Parting the heavy masses of dark hair that enshrouded it she looked — and saw what she had expected to see — the face of Manella Soriso. But it was the death-mask of a face — strangely beautiful — but awful in its white rigidity. Morgana bent over it anxiously, but only for a moment, drawing a small phial from her bosom she forced a few drops of the liquid it contained between the set lips, and with a tiny syringe injected the same at the pulseless wrist and throat. While she busied herself with these restorative measures, the second body, — that of the man, — was landed almost at her feet — and she found herself gazing in a sort of blank stupefaction at what seemed to be the graven image of Roger Seaton. No effigy of stone ever looked colder, harder, greyer than this inert figure of man, — uninjured apparently, for there were no visible marks of wounds or bruises upon his features, which appeared frozen into stiff rigidity, but a man as surely dead as death could make him! Morgana heard, as in a far-off dream, the Marchese Rivardi speaking —

  “I have done your bidding because it was you who bade,” — he said, his voice shaking with the tremor and excitement of his daring effort— “And it was not so very difficult. But it is a vain rescue! They are past recall.”

  Morgana looked up from her awed contemplation of Seaton’s rigid form. Her eyes were heavy with unshed tears.

  “I think not,” — she said— “There is life in them — yes, there is life, though for the time it is paralysed. But” — here she gave him the loveliest smile of tenderness— “You brave Giulio! — you are exhausted and wet through — attend to yourself first — then you can help me with these unhappy ones — and you Gaspard, — Gaspard!”

  “Here, Madama!”

  “You have done so well!” she said— “Without fear or failure!”

  “Only by God’s mercy!” answered Gaspard— “If the rope had broken; if the ship had lost balance—”

  She smiled.

  “So many ‘ifs’ Gaspard? Have I not told you it CANNOT lose balance? And are not my words proved true? Now we have finished our rescue work we may go — we can start at once—”

  He looked at her.

  “There is more weight on board!” he said meaningly, “If we are to carry two dead bodies through the air, it may mean a heavenly funeral for all of us! The ‘White Eagle’ has not been tested for heavy transport.”

  She heard him patiently, — then turned to Rivardi and repeated her words —

  “We can start at once. Steer upwards and onwards.”

  Like a man hypnotised he obeyed, — and in a few moments the air-ship, answering easily to the helm, rose lightly as a bubble from the depths of the canon, through the fiercely dashing showers of spray tossed by the foaming torrent, and soared aloft, high and ever higher, as swiftly as any living bird born for long and powerful flight. Night was falling; and through the dense purple shadows of the Californian sky a big white moon rose, bending ghost-like over the scene of destruction and chaos, lighting with a pale glare the tired and haggard faces of the relief men at their terrible work of digging out the living and the dead from the vast pits of earth into which they had been suddenly engulfed, — while far, far above them flew the “White Eagle,” gradually lessening in size through distance till it looked no bigger than a dove on its homeward way. Some priests watching by a row of lifeless men, women and children killed in the earthquake, chanted the “Nunc Dimittis” as the evening grew darker, — and the only one among them who had first seen the air-ship over the canon, where it fell, as it were in the deep gulf surrounded by flood and foam, now raised his eyes in wonderment as he perceived it once more soaring at liberty towards the moon.

  “Surely a miracle!” he ejaculated, under his breath— “An escape from destruction through God’s mercy! God be praised!”

  And he crossed himself devoutly, joining in the solemn chanting of his brethren, kneeling in the moonlight, which threw a ghastly lustre on the dead faces of the victims of the earthquake, — victims not “struck by the hand of God” but by the hand of man! And he who was responsible for the blow lay unconscious of having dealt it, and was borne through the air swiftly and safely away for ever from the tragic scene of the ruin and desolation he had himself wrought.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  A great silence pervaded the Palazzo d’Oro, — the strained silence of an intense activity weighted with suspense. Servants moved about here and there with noiseless rapidity, — Don Aloysius was seen constantly pacing up and down the loggia absorbed in anxious thought and prayer, and the Marchese Rivardi came and went on errands of which he alone knew the import. Overhead the sky was brilliantly blue and cloudless, — the sun flashed a round shield of dazzling gold all day long on the breast of the placid sea, — but within the house, blinds were drawn to shade and temper the light for eyes that perhaps might never again open to the blessing and glory of the day. A full week had passed since the “White Eagle” had returned from its long and adventurous flight over the vast stretches of ocean, bearing with it the two human creatures cast down to death in the deep Californian canon, — and only one of them had returned to the consciousness of life, — the other still stayed on the verge of the “Great Divide.” Morgana had safely landed the heavy burden of seeming death her ship had carried, — and simply stating to Lady Kingswood and her household staff that it was a case of rescue from drowning, had caused the two corpses — (such as they truly appeared) — to be laid, each in a separate chamber, surrounded with every means that could be devised or thought of for their resuscitation. In an atmosphere glowing with mild warmth, on soft beds they were placed, inert and white as frozen clay, their condition being apparently so hopeless that it seemed mere imaginative folly to think that the least breath could ever again part their set lips or the smallest pulsation of blood stir colour through their veins. But Morgana never wavered in her belief that they lived, and hour after hour, day after day she watched with untiring patience, administering the mysterious balm or portion which she kept preciously in her own possession, — and not till the fifth day of her vigil, when Manella showed faint signs of returning consciousness, did she send to Rome for a famous scientist and physician with whom she had frequently corresponded. She entrusted the dispatch of this message to Rivardi, saying —

  “It is now time for further aid than mine. The girl will recover — but the man — the man is still in the darkness!”

  And her eyes grew heavy with a cloud of sorrow and regret which softened her delicate beauty and made it more than ever unearthly.

  “What are they — what is HE — to you?” demanded Rivardi jealously.

  “My friend, there was a time when I should have considered that question an impertinence from you!” she said, tranquilly— “But yours is the great share of the rescue — and your magnificent bravery wins you my pardon, — for many things!” And she smiled as she saw him flush under her quiet gaze— “What is this man to me, you ask? Why nothing! — not now! Once he was everything, — though he never knew it. Some quality in him struck the keynote of the scale of life for me, — he was the great delusion of a dream! The delusion is ended — the dream is over! But for that he WAS to me, though only in my own thoughts, I have tried to save his life — not for myself, but for the woman who loves him.”

  “The woman we rescued with him? — the woman who is here?”

  She bent her head in assent. Rivardi’s eyes dwelt on her with greater tenderness than he had ever felt before, — she looked so frail and fairy-like, and withal so solitary. He took her little hand and gently kissed it with courteous reverence.

  “Then — after all — you have known love!” he said in a low voice— “You have felt what it is, — though you have assumed to despise it?”

  “My good Giulio, I DO despise most heartily what the world generally understands as love” — she replied; “There is no baser or more selfish sentiment! — a sentiment made up half of animal desire and half of a personal seeking for admiration, appreciation and self-gratification! Yes,
Giulio! — it is so, and I despise it for all these attributes — in truth it is not what I understand or accept as love at all—”

  “What DO you understand and accept?” he asked, softly.

  Her eyes shone kindly as she raised them to his face.

  “Not what you can ever give, Giulio!” she said— “Love — to my mind — is the spiritual part of our being — it should be the complete union of two souls that move as one, — like the two wings of a bird making the body subservient to the highest flights, even as far as heaven! The physical mating of man and woman is seldom higher than the physical mating of any other animals under the sun, — the animals know nothing beyond — but we — we ought to know something!” She paused, then went on— “There is sometimes a great loftiness even in the physical way of so-called ‘love’ — such passion as the woman we have rescued has for the man she was ready to die with, — a primitive passion of primitive woman at her best. Such feeling is out of date in these days — we have passed that boundary line — and a great unexplored world lies open before us — who can say what we may find there! Perhaps we shall discover what all women have sought for from the beginning of things—”

  “And that is?” he asked.

  “Happiness!” she replied— “The perfect happiness of life in love!”

  He had held her hand till now, when he released it.

  “I wish I could give it to you!” he said.

  “You cannot, Giulio! I am not made for any man — as men go!”

  “It is a pity you think so” — he said— “For — after all — you are just — a woman!”

  “Am I?” she murmured, — and a strange flitting smile brightened her features— “Perhaps! — and yet — perhaps not! Who knows!”

  She left him puzzled and uneasy. Somehow she always managed to evade his efforts to become more intimate in his relations with her. Generous and kind-hearted as she was, she held him at a distance, and maintained her own aloof position inexorably. A less intelligent man than Rivardi would have adopted the cynic’s attitude and averred that her rejection of love and marriage arose from her own unlovableness and unmarriageableness, but he knew better than that. He was wise enough to perceive the rareness and delicacy of her physical and mental organisation and temperament, — a temperament so finely strung as to make all other women seem gross and material beside her. He felt and knew her to be both his moral and intellectual superior, — and this very fact rendered it impossible that he could ever master her mind and tame it down to the subservience of married life. That dauntless spirit of hers would never bend to an inferior, — not even love (if she could feel it) would move her thus far. And the man she had adventured across ocean to rescue — what was he? She confessed that she had loved him, though that love was past. And now she had set herself to watch night and day by his dead body (for dead he surely was in Rivardi’s opinion) sparing no pains to recover what seemed beyond recovery; while one of the greatest mysteries of the whole mysterious affair was just this — How had she known the man’s life was in danger?