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

by Marie Corelli

  But Manella was gazing intently at the figure on the bed — she saw its grey lips move. With startling suddenness a harsh voice smote the air —

  “There shall be no more wars! There can be none! My Great Secret! I am Master of the World!”

  She shrank and shivered, and a faint sobbing cry escaped her.

  “Come!” said Morgana again, — and gently led her away. The spray of orange-blossom fell from her hair as she moved, and Don Aloyslus, stooping, picked it up. Marco Ardini saw his action.

  “You will keep that as a souvenir of this strange marriage?” he said.

  “No,—” and Don Aloysius touched the white fragrant flower with his crucifix— “I will lay it as a votive offering on the altar of the Eternal Virgin!”

  About a fortnight later life at the Palazzo d’Oro had settled into organised lines of method and routine. Professor Ardini had selected two competent men attendants, skilled in surgery and medicine to watch Seaton’s case with all the care trained nursing could give, and himself had undertaken to visit the patient regularly and report his condition. Seaton’s marriage to Manella Soriso had been briefly announced in the European papers and cabled to the American Press, Senator Gwent being one of the first who saw it thus chronicled, much to his amazement.

  “He has actually become sane at last!” he soliloquised, “And beauty has conquered science! I gave the girl good advice — I told her to marry him if she could, — and she’s done it! I wonder how they escaped that earthquake? Perhaps that brought him to his senses! Well, well! I daresay I shall be seeing them soon over here — I suppose they are spending their honeymoon with Morgana. Curious affair! I’d like to know the ins and outs of it!”

  “Have you seen that Roger Seaton is married?” was the question asked of him by every one he knew, especially by the flashing society butterfly once Lydia Herbert, who in these early days of her marriage was getting everything she could out of her millionaire— “And NOT to Morgana! Just think! What a disappointment for her! — I’m sure she was in love with him!”

  “I thought so” — Gwent answered, cautiously— “And he with her! But — one never knows—”

  “No, one never does!” laughed the fair Lydia— “Poor Morgana! Left on the stalk! But she’s so rich it won’t matter. She can marry anybody she likes.”

  “Marriage isn’t everything,” said Gwent— “To some it may be heaven, — but to others—”

  “The worser place!” — agreed Lydia— “And Morgana is not like ordinary women. I wonder what she’s doing, and when we shall see her again?”

  “Yes — I wonder!” Gwent responded vaguely, — and the subject dropped.

  They might have had more than ordinary cause to “wonder” had they been able to form even a guess as to the manner and intentions of life held by the strange half spiritual creature whom they imagined to be but an ordinary mortal moved by the same ephemeral aims and desires as the rest of the grosser world. Who, — even among scientists, accustomed as they are to study the evolution of grubs into lovely rainbow-winged shapes, and the transformation of ordinary weeds into exquisite flowers of perfect form and glorious colour, goes far enough or deep enough to realise similar capability of transformation in a human organism self-trained to so evolve and develop itself? Who, at this time of day, — even with the hourly vivid flashes kindled by the research lamps of science, reverts to former theories of men like De Gabalis, who held that beings in process of finer evolution and formation, and known as “elementals,” nourishing their own growth into exquisite existence, through the radio-force of air and fire, may be among us, all unrecognised, yet working their way out of lowness to highness, indifferent to worldly loves, pleasures and opinions, and only bent on the attainment of immortal life? Such beliefs serve only as material for the scoffer and iconoclast, — nevertheless they may be true for all that, and may in the end confound the mockery of materialism which in itself is nothing but the deep shadow cast by a great light.

  The strangest and most dramatic happenings have the knack of settling down into the commonplace, — and so in due course the days at the Palazzo d’Oro went on tranquilly, — Manella being established there and known as “la bella Signora Seaton” by the natives of the little surrounding villages, who were gradually brought to understand the helpless condition of her husband and pitied her accordingly. Lady Kingswood had agreed to stay as friend and protectress to the girl as long as Morgana desired it, — indeed she had no wish to leave the beautiful Sicilian home she had so fortunately found, and where she was treated with so much kindness and consideration.

  There was no lack or stint of wealth to carry out every arranged plan, and Manella was too simple and primitive in her nature to question anything that her “little white angel” as she called her, suggested or commanded. Intensely grateful for the affectionate care bestowed upon her, she acquiesced in what she understood to be the methods of possible cure for the ruined man to whom she had bound her life.

  “If he gets well — quite, quite well” — she said, lifting her splendid dark eyes to Morgana’s blue as “love-in-a-mist” “I will go away and give him to you!”

  And she meant it, having no predominant idea in her mind save that of making her elect beloved happy.

  Meanwhile Morgana announced her intention of taking another aerial voyage in the “White Eagle” — much to the joy of Giulio Rivardi. Receiving his orders to prepare the wonderful air-ship for a long flight, he and Gaspard worked energetically to perfect every detail. Where he had previously felt a certain sense of fear as to the capabilities of the great vessel, controlled by a force of which Morgana alone had the secret, he was now full of certainty and confidence, and told her so.

  “I am glad” — he said— “that you are leaving this place where you have installed people who to me seem quite out of keeping with it. That terrible man who shouts ‘I am master of the world’! — ah, cara Madonna! — I did not work at your fairy Palazzo d’Oro for such an occupant!”

  “I know you did not;”-=she answered, gently— “Nor did I intend it to be so occupied. I dreamed of it as a home of pleasure where I should dwell — alone! And you said it would be lonely! — you remember?”

  “I said it was a place for love!” he replied.

  “You were right! And love inhabits it — love of the purest, most unselfish nature—”

  “Love that is a cruel martyrdom!” he interposed.

  “True!” and her eyes shone with a strange brilliancy— “But love — as the world knows it — is never anything else! There, do not frown, my friend! You will never wear its crown of thorns! And you are glad I am going away?”

  “Yes! — glad that you will have a change” — he said— “Your constant care and anxiety for these people whom we rescued from death must have tired you out unconsciously. You will enjoy a free flight through space, — and the ship is in perfect condition; she will carry you like an angel in the air!”

  She smiled and gave him her hand.

  “Good Giulio! — you are quite a romancist! — you talk of angels without believing in them!”

  “I believe in them when I look at YOU!” he said, with all an Italian’s impulsive gallantry.

  “Very pretty of you!” and she withdrew her hand from his too fervent clasp,— “I feel sorry for myself that I cannot rightly appreciate so charming a compliment!”

  “It is not a compliment” — he declared, vehemently; “It is a truth!”

  Her eyes dwelt on him with a wistful kindness.

  “You are what some people call ‘a good fellow,’ Giulio!” she said— “And you deserve to be very happy. I hope you will be so! I want you to prosper so that you may restore your grand old villa to its former beauty, — I also want you to marry — and bring up a big family” — here she laughed a little— “A family of sons and daughters who will be grateful to you, and not waste every penny you give them — though that is the modern way of sons and daughters.”

  She paus
ed, smiling at his moody expression. “And you say everything is ready? — the ‘White Eagle’ is prepared for flight?”

  “She will leave the shed at a moment’s touch” — he answered— “when YOU supply the motive power!”

  She nodded comprehensively, and thought a moment. “Come to me the day after to-morrow” — she said— “You will then have your orders.”

  “Is it to be a long flight this time?” he asked.

  “Not so long as to California!” she answered— “But long enough!”

  With that she left him. And he betook himself to the air-shed where the superb “White Eagle” rested all a-quiver for departure, palpitating, or so it seemed to him, with a strange eagerness for movement which struck him as unusual and “uncanny” in a mere piece of mechanism.

  The next day moved on tranquilly. Morgana wrote many letters — and varied this occupation by occasionally sitting in the loggia to talk with Manella and Lady Kingswood, both of whom now seemed the natural inhabitants of the Palazzo d’Oro. She spoke easily of her intended air-trip, — so that they accepted her intention as a matter of course, Manella only entreating— “Do not be long away!” her lovely, eloquent eyes emphasising her appeal. Now and again the terrible cries of “There shall be no more wars! There can be none! My Great Secret! I am Master of the World!” rang through the house despite the closed doors, — cries which they feigned not to hear, though Manella winced with pain, as at a dagger thrust, each time the sounds echoed on the air.

  And the night came, — mildly glorious, with a full moon shining in an almost clear sky — clear save for little delicate wings of snowy cloud drifting in the east like wandering shapes of birds that haunted the domain of sunrise. Giulio Rivardi, leaning out of one of the richly sculptured window arches of his half-ruined villa, looked at the sky with pleasurable anticipation of the morrow’s intended voyage in the “White Eagle.”

  “The weather will be perfect!” he thought— “She will be pleased. And when she is pleased no woman can be more charming! She is not beautiful, like Manella — but she is something more than beautiful — she is bewitching! I wonder where she means to go!”

  Suddenly a thought struck him, — a vivid impression coming from he knew not whence — an idea that he had forgotten a small item of detail in the air-ship which its owner might or might not notice, but which would certainly imply some slight forgetfulness on his part. He glanced at his watch, — it was close on midnight. Acting on a momentary impulse he decided not to wait till morning, but to go at once down to the shed and see that everything in and about the vessel was absolutely and finally in order. As he walked among the perfumed tangles of shrub and flower in his garden, and out towards the sea-shore he was impressed by the great silence everywhere around him. Everything looked like a moveless picture — a study in still life. Passing through a little olive wood which lay between his own grounds and the sea, he paused as he came out of the shadow of the trees and looked towards the height crowned by the Palazzo d’Oro, where from the upper windows twinkled a few lights showing the position of the room where the “master of the world” lay stretched in brainless immobility, waited upon by medical nurses ever on the watch, and a wife of whom he knew nothing, guarding him with the fixed devotion of a faithful dog rather than of a human being. Going onwards in a kind of abstract reverie, he came to a halt again on reaching the shore, enchanted by the dreamy loveliness of the scene. In an open stretch of dazzling brilliancy the sea presented itself to his eyes like a delicate network of jewels finely strung on swaying threads of silver, and he gazed upon it as one might gaze on the “fairy lands forlorn” of Keats in his enchanting poesy. Never surely, he thought, had he seen a night so beautiful, — so perfect in its expression of peace. He walked leisurely, — the long shed which sheltered the air-ship was just before him, its black outline silhouetted against the sky — but as he approached it more nearly, something caused him to stop abruptly and stare fixedly as though stricken by some sudden terror — then he dashed off at a violent run, till he came to a breathless halt, crying out— “Gran’ Dio! It has gone!”

  Gone! The shed was empty! No air-ship was there, poised trembling on its own balance all prepared for flight, — the wonderful “White Eagle” had unfurled its wings and fled! Whither? Like a madman he rushed up and down, shouting and calling in vain — it was after midnight and there was no one about to hear him. He started to run to the Palazzo d’Oro to give the alarm — but was held back — held by an indescribable force which he was powerless to resist. He struggled with all his might, — uselessly.

  “Morganna!” he cried in a desperate voice— “Morganna!”

  Running down to the edge of the sea he gazed across it and up to the wonderful sky through which the moon rolled lazily like a silver ball. Was there nothing to be seen there save that moon and the moon-dimmed stars? With eager straining eyes he searched every quarter of the visible space — stay! Was that a white dove soaring eastwards? — or a cloud sinking to its rest?

  “Morgana!” he cried again, stretching out his arms in despair— “She has gone! And alone!”

  Even as he spoke the dove-like shape was lost to sight beyond the shining of the evening star.

  L’ENVOI

  Several months ago the ruin of a great air-ship was found on the outskirts of the Great Desert so battered and broken as to make its mechanism unrecognisable. No one could trace its origin, — no one could discover the method of its design. There was no remnant of any engine, and its wings were cut to ribbons. The travellers who came upon its fragments half buried in the sand left it where they found it, deciding that a terrible catastrophe had overtaken the unfortunate aviators who had piloted it thus far. They spoke of it when they returned to Europe, but came upon no one who could offer a clue to its possible origin. These same travellers were those who a short time since filled a certain section of the sensational press with tales of a “Brazen City” seen from the desert in the distance, with towers and cupolas that shone like brass or like “the city of pure gold,” revealed to St. John the Divine, where “in the midst of the street of it” is the Tree of Life. Such tales were and are received with scorn by the world’s majority, for whom food and money constitute the chief interest of existence, — nevertheless tradition sometimes proves to be true, and dreams become realities. However this may be, Morgana lives, — and can make her voice heard when she will along the “Sound Ray” — that wonderful “wireless” which is soon to be declared to the world. For there is no distance that is not bridged by light, — and no separation of sounds that cannot be again brought into unison and harmony. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy,” — and the “Golden City” is one of those things! “Masters of the world” are poor creatures at best, — but the secret Makers of the New Race are the gods of the Future!

  THE END

  The Shorter Fiction

  Paris, 1870 — Corelli was educated at a Paris convent school from 1866-1870

  Cameos

  CONTENTS

  THREE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM.

  ANGEL’S WICKEDNESS.

  THE DISTANT VOICE.

  THE WITHERING OF A ROSE.

  NEHEMIAH P. HOSKINS, ARTIST.

  AN OLD BUNDLE.

  MADEMOISELLE ZEPHYR.

  TINY TRAMPS.

  THE LADY WITH THE CARNATIONS.

  MY WONDERFUL WIFE.

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THREE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM.

  THE Three Wise Men sat together in their club smoking-room. They were met there for a purpose — a solemnly resolved purpose — though that fact was not to be discovered in the expression of their faces or their attitudes. The casual observer, glancing at them in that ignorant yet opiniated fashion which casual observers generally
affect, would have sternly pronounced them to be idle loafers and loungers without a purpose of any sort, and only fit to be classified with the “drones” or do-nothings of the social hive. Three stalwart bodies reclined at ease in the soft depths of three roomy saddle-bag chairs; and from three cigars of the finest flavour three little spiral wreaths of pale blue smoke mounted steadily towards the ceiling. It was a fine day: the window was open, and outside roared the surging sea of human life in Piccadilly. Rays of sunshine danced round the Wise Men, polishing up the bald spot on head number one, malignly bringing into prominence the grey hairs on head number two, and shining a warm approval on the curly brown locks of head number three. The screech of the wild newsboy echoed up and down the street—” Hextra speshul!

  Evening piper! Evening pepper! Piper! Westyminister speshul! Hall the winners!” A spruce dandy alighting from a hansom commenced a lively altercation with the cabby thereof, creating intense excitement in the breasts of four Christian brethren — to wit, a dirty crossing-sweeper, a match-seller, a District Messenger-boy and a man carrying a leaden water-pipe. “Call yerself a masher!” cried cabby vociferously. “Git along with yer, an’ hask one of the club blokes to lend yer ‘arf a crown!” Here the man carrying the leaden water-pipe became convulsed with mirth, and observed, “Bully, aint it?” confidentially to the messenger-boy, who grinningly agreed, the smartly dressed young dandy growing scarlet with rage and insulted dignity. The dispute was noisy, and some minutes elapsed before it was settled — yet through it all the mystic Three Wise Men never stirred to see what was the matter, but smoked on in tranquil silence with closed eyes.

  At last one of them moved, yawned, and broke the spell. He was fair, stoutish and florid; and when he opened his eyes they proved to be of a good clear blue — honest in expression, and evidently meant for fun; so much so, indeed, that though their owner was by no means in a laughing humour at the moment, he was powerless to repress their comic twinkle. His name was George — George Fairfax — and he was a “gentleman at ease,” with nothing to do but to look after his estates, which, as he was not addicted to either betting, drinking, or gambling, brought him in a considerably substantial yearly income.