The Secret Power by Marie Corelli (the reading strategies book txt) 📕

His voice had a strange thrill in it, and Giulio looked at him curiously.

“You admire her very much, my father!” he said, with a touch of delicate irony in his tone.

“I do, my son!” responded Aloysius, composedly, “But only as a poor priest may—at a distance!”

The Marchese glanced at him again quickly,—almost suspiciously—and seemed about to say something further, but checked himself,—and the two walked on to join their hostess, side by side together.

CHAPTER VIII

Early dawn peered through the dark sky like the silvery light of a pale lamp carried by an advancing watchman,—and faintly illumined the outline of a long, high, vastly extending wooden building which, at about a mile distant from Morgana’s “palazzo” ran parallel with the sea-shore. The star-sparkle of electric lamps within showed it to be occupied—and the murmur of men’s voices and tinkle of working tools suggested that the occupants were busy. The scarcely visible sea made pleasant little kissing murmurs on the lip-edges of the sand, and Nature, drowsing in misty space, seemed no more than the formless void of the traditional beginning of things.

Outside the building which, by its shape, though but dimly defined among shadows, was easily recognisable as a huge aerodrome, the tall figure of Giulio Rivardi paced slowly up and down like a sentinel on guard. He, whose Marquisate was inherited from many noble Sicilian houses renowned in Caesar’s day, apparently found as much satisfaction in this occupation as any warrior of a Roman Legion might have experienced in guarding the tent of his Emperor,—and every now and then he lifted his eyes to the sky with a sense of impatience at the slowness of the sun’s rising. In his mind he reviewed the whole chapter of events which during the past three years had made him the paid vassal of a rich woman’s fancy—his entire time taken up, and all the resources of his inventive and artistic nature (which were exceptionally great) drawn upon for the purpose of carrying out designs which at first seemed freakish and impossible, but which later astonished him by the extraordinary scientific acumen they displayed, as well as by their adaptability to the forces of nature. Then, the money!—the immense sums which this strange creature, Morgana Royal, had entrusted to him!—and with it all, the keen, business aptitude she had displayed, knowing to a centime how much she had spent, though there seemed no limit to how much she yet intended to spend! He looked back to the time he had first seen her, when on visiting Sicily apparently as an American tourist only, she had taken a fancy to a ruined “palazzo” once an emperor’s delight, but crumbling slowly away among its glorious gardens, and had purchased the whole thing then and there. Her guide to the ruins at that period had been Don Aloysius, a learned priest, famous for his archaeological knowledge—and it was through Don Aloysius that he, the Marchese Rivardi, had obtained the commission to restore to something of its pristine grace and beauty the palace of ancient days. And now everything was done, or nearly done; but much more than the “palazzo” had been undertaken and completed, for the lady of many millions had commanded an air-ship to be built for her own personal use and private pleasure with an aerodrome for its safe keeping and anchorage. This airship was the crux of the whole business, for the men employed to build it were confident that it would never fly, and laughed with one another as they worked to carry out a woman’s idea and a woman’s design. How could it fly without an engine?—they very sensibly demanded,—for engine there was none! However, they were paid punctually and most royally for their labours; and when, despite their ominous predictions, the ship was released on her trial trip, manipulated by Giulio Rivardi, who ascended in her alone, sailing the ship with an ease and celerity hitherto unprecedented, they were more scared than enthusiastic. Surely some devil was in it!—for how could the thing fly without any apparent force to propel it? How was it that its enormous wings spread out on either side as by self-volition and moved rhythmically like the wings of a bird in full flight? Every man who had worked at the design was more or less mystified. They had, according to plan and instructions received, “plumed” the airship for electricity in a new and curious manner, but there was no battery to generate a current. Two small boxes or chambers, made of some mysterious metal which would not “fuse” under the strongest heat, were fixed, one at either end of the ship;—these had been manufactured secretly in another country and sent to Sicily by Morgana herself,—but so far, they contained nothing. They seemed unimportant—they were hardly as large as an ordinary petrol-can holding a gallon. When Rivardi had made a trial ascent he had inserted in each of these boxes a cylindrical tube made to fit an interior socket as a candle fits into a candle-stick,—all the workmen watched him, waiting for a revelation, but he made none. He was only particular and precise as to the firm closing down of the boxes when the tubes were in. And then in a few minutes the whole machine began to palpitate noiselessly like a living thing with a beating heart,—and to the amazement and almost fear of all who witnessed what seemed to be a miracle, the ship sprang up like a bird springing from the ground, and soared free and away into space, its vast white wings cleaving the air with a steady rise and fall of rhythmic power. Once aloft she sailed in level flight, apparently at perfect ease—and after several rapid “runs,” and circlings, descended slowly and gracefully, landing her pilot without shock or jar. He was at once surrounded and was asked a thousand questions which it was evident he could not answer.

“How can I tell!” he replied, to all interrogations. “The secret is the secret of a woman!”

A woman! Man’s pretty toy!—man’s patient slave! How should a woman master any secret! Engineers and mechanics laughed scornfully and shrugged their shoulders—yet—yet—the great airship stared them in the face as a thing created,—a thing of such power and possibility as seemed wholly incredible. And now the creator,—the woman—had arrived,—the woman whose rough designs on paper had been carefully followed and elaborated into actual shape;—and there was a tense state of expectation among all the workers awaiting her presence. Meanwhile the lantern-gleam in the sky broadened and the web of mist which veiled the sea began to lift and Giulio Rivardi, pacing to and fro, halted every now and then to look in the direction of a path winding downward from the mainland to the shore, in watchful expectation of seeing an elfin figure, more spiritlike than mortal, floating towards him through the dividing vapours of the morning. The words of Don Aloysius haunted him strangely, though his common sense sharply rejected the fantastic notions to which they had given rise. She,—Morgana Royal,—was “not capable” of love, the priest had implied,—and yet, at times—only at times,—she seemed eminently lovable. At times,—again, only at times—he was conscious of a sweeping passion of admiration for her that well-nigh robbed him of his self-control. But a strong sense of honour held him in check—he never forgot that he was her paid employe, and that her wealth was so enormous that any man presuming too personally upon her indulgence could hardly be exonerated from ulterior sordid aims. And while he mused, somewhat vexedly, on all the circumstances of his position, the light widened in the heavens, showing the very faintest flush of rose in the east as an indication of the coming sun. He lifted his eyes. . . .

“At last!” he exclaimed, with relief, as he saw a small gliding shadow among shadows approaching him,—he figure of Morgana so wrapped in a grey cloak and hood as to almost seem part of the slowly dispersing mists of the morning. She pushed back the hood as she came near, showing a small eager white face in which the eyes glittered with an almost unearthly brightness.

“I have slept till now,”—she said—“Imagine!—all night through without waking! So lazy of me!—but the long rest has done me good and I’m ready for anything! Are you? You look very solemn and morose!—like a warrior in bronze! Anything gone wrong?”

“Not that I am aware of”—he replied—“The men are finishing some small detail of ornament. I have only looked in to tell them you are coming.”

“And are they pleased?”

“Madama, they are not of a class to be either pleased or displeased”—he said—“They are instructed to perform certain work, and they perform it. In all that they have been doing for you, according to your orders, I truly think they are more curious than interested.”

A streak of rose and silver flared through the sky flushing the pallor of Morgana’s face as she lifted it towards him, smiling.

“Quite natural!” she said—“No man is ever ‘interested’ in woman’s work, but he is always ‘curious.’ Woman is a many-cornered maze—and man is always peeping round one corner or another in the hope to discover her—but he never does!”

Rivardi gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

“Never?” he queried.

“Never!” she affirmed, emphatically—“Don’t be sarcastic, amico!— even in this dim morning light I can see the scornful curve of your upper lip!—you are really very good-looking, you know!—and you imply the same old Garden of Eden story of man giving away woman as a wholly incomprehensible bad job! Adam flung her back as a reproach to her Creator—‘the woman thou gavest me;’—oh, that woman and that apple! But he had to confess ‘I did eat.’ He always eats,—he eats everything woman can give him—he will even eat HER if he gets the chance!” She laughed and pointed to the brightening sky. “See? ‘‘Tis almost morning!’ as Shakespeare’s Juliet remarked—but I would not ‘have thee gone’—not unless I go also. Whither shall we fly?”

He looked at her, moved as he often was by a thrill of admiration and wonder.

“It is for you to decide”—he answered—“You know best the possibilities-and the risks---”

“I know the possibilities perfectly,”—she said—“But I know nothing of risks—there are none. This is our safety”—and she drew out from the folds of her cloak, two small packets of cylindrical form—“This emanation of Nature’s greatest force will keep us going for a year if needful! Oh man!—I do not mean YOU particularly, but man generally!—why could you not light on this little, little clue!— why was it left to a woman! Come!—let us see the White Eagle in its nest,—it shall spread its wings and soar to-day—we will give it full liberty!”

The dawn was spreading in threads of gold and silver and blue all over the heavens, and the sea flushed softly under the deepening light, as she went towards the aerodrome, he walking slowly by her side.

“Are you so sure?” he said—“Will you not risk your life in this attempt?”

She stopped abruptly.

“My life? What is it? The life of a midge in the sun! It is no good to me unless I do something with it! I would live for ever if I could!—here, on this dear little ball of Earth—I do not want a better heaven. The heaven which the clergy promise us is so remarkably unattractive! But I run no risk of losing my life or yours in our aerial adventures; we carry the very essence of vitality with us. Come!—I want to see my flying palace! When I