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

“Ah yes, dear!” he interrupted, with a smile—“That would be so easy!”

The touch of satire in these words was lost on her,—she took them quite literally, and a sudden softness sweetened her anger.

“Yes!—quite easy!” she said—“And you would be pleased! You would do as you wished with me—men like to rule women!”

“When it is worth while!” he thought, looking at her with a curious pitifulness as one might look at a struggling animal caught in a net. Aloud he said—

“Yes, Manella!—men like to rule women. It is their special privilege—they have enjoyed it always, even in the days when the Indian ‘braves’ beat their squaws out here in California, and killed them outright if they dared to complain of the beating! Women are busy just now trying to rule men—it’s an experiment, but it won’t do! Men are the masters of life! They expect to be obeyed by all the rest of creation. I expect to be obeyed!—and so, Manella, when I tell you to go home, you must go! Yes!—love, tempers and all!—you must go!”

She met his eyes with a resolved look in her own.

“I am going!” she answered—“But I shall come again. Oh, yes! And yet again! and very often! I shall come even if it is only to find you dead on this hill—killed by your own secret! Yes—I shall come!”

He gave an involuntary movement of surprise and annoyance. Had Mr. Senator Gwent discussed his affairs with this beautiful foolish girl who, like some forest animal, cared for nothing but the satisfaction of mating where her wishes inclined.

“What do you mean, Manella?” he demanded, imperatively—“Do you expect to find me dead?”

She nodded vehemently. Tears were in her eyes and she turned her head away that he might not see them.

“What a cheerful prospect!” he exclaimed, gaily—“And I’m to be killed by my own secret, am I? I wonder what it is! Ah, Manella, Manella! That stupid old Gwent has been at you, stuffing your mind with a lot of nonsense—don’t you believe him! I’ve no ‘secret’ that will kill me—I don’t want to be killed; No, Manella! Though you come ‘again and yet again and ever so often’ as you say, you will not find me dead! I’m too strong!”

But Manella, yielding to her inward excitement, pointed a hand at him with a warning air of a tragedy queen.

“Do not boast!” she said—“God is always listening! No man is too strong for God! I am not clever—I have no knowledge of what you do- but this I will tell you surely! You may have a secret,-or you may not have it,—but if you play with the powers of God you will be punished! Yes!—of that I am quite certain! And this I will also say—if you were to pull all the clouds down upon you and the thunders and the lightnings and all the terrible things of destruction in the world, I would be there! And you would know what love is!—Yes!”—her voice choked, and then pealed out like that of a Sybilline prophetess, “If God struck you down to hell, I would be there!”

And with a wild, sobbing cry she rushed away from him down the hill before he could move or utter a word.

CHAPTER XVIII

A red sky burned over Egypt,—red with deep intensity of spreading fire. The slow-creeping waters of the Nile washed patches of dull crimson against the oozy mud-banks, tipping palms and swaying reeds with colour as though touched with vermilion, and here and there long stretches of wet sand gleamed with a tawny gold. All Cairo was out, inhabitants and strangers alike, strangers especially, conceiving it part of their “money’s worth” never to miss a sunset,- and beyond Cairo, where the Pyramids lifted their summits aloft,- stern points of warning or menace from the past to the present and the future,—a crowd of tourists with their Arab guides were assembled, staring upward in, amazement at a white wonder in the red sky, a great air-ship, which, unlike other air-ships, was noiseless, and that moved vast wings up and down with the steady, swift rhythm of a bird’s flight, as though of its own volition. It soared at an immense height so that it was quite impossible to see any pilot or passenger. It hung over the Pyramids almost motionless for three or four minutes as if about to descend, and the watching groups below made the usual alarmist prognostications of evil, taking care to look about for the safest place of shelter for themselves should the huge piece of mechanism above them suddenly escape control and take a downward dive. But apparently nothing was further from the intention of its invisible guides. Its pause above the Pyramids was brief—and almost before any of the observers had time to realise its departure it had floated away with an easy grace, silence and swiftness, miraculous to all who saw it vanish into space towards the Libyan desert and beyond. The Pyramids, even the Sphinx—lost interest for the time being, every eye being strained to watch the strange aerial visitant till it disappeared. Then a babble of question and comment began in all languages among the travellers from many lands, who, though most of them were fairly well accustomed to aeroplanes, air-ships and aerial navigation as having become part of modern civilisation, found themselves nonplussed by the absolute silence and lightning swiftness of this huge bird- shaped thing that had appeared with extraordinary suddenness in the deep rose glow of the Egyptian sunset sky. Meanwhile the object of their wonder and admiration had sped many miles away, and was sailing above a desert which, from the height it had attained, looked little more than a small stretch of sand such as children play upon by the sea. Its speed gradually slackened—and its occupants, Morgana, the Marchese Rivardi and their expert mechanic, Gaspard, gazed down on the unfolding panorama below them with close and eager interest. There was nothing much to see. Every sign of humanity seemed blotted out. The red sky burning on the little stretch of sand was all.

“How small the world looks from the air!” said Morgana—“It’s not worth half the fuss made about it! And yet—it’s such a pretty little God’s toy!”

She smiled,—and in her smiling expressed a lovely sweetness. Rivardi raised his eyes from his steering gear.

“You are not tired, Madama?” he asked.

“Tired? No, indeed! How can I be tired with so short a journey!”

“Yet we have travelled a thousand miles since we left Sicily this morning”—said Rivardi—“We have kept up the pace, have we not, Gaspard?—or rather, the ‘White Eagle’ has proved its speed?”

Gaspard looked up from his place at the end of the ship.

“About two hundred and fifty to three hundred miles an hour,”—he said—“One does not realise it in the movement.”

“But you realise that the flight is as safe as it is quick?” said Morgana—“Do you not?”

“Madama, I confess my knowledge is outdistanced by yours,”—replied Gaspard—“I am baffled by your secret—but I freely admit its power and success.”

“Good! Now let us dine!” said Morgana, opening a leather case such as is used for provisions in motoring, set plates, glasses, wine and food on the table—“A cold collation—but we’ll have hot coffee to finish. We could have dined in Cairo, but it would have been a bore! Marchese, we’ll stop here, suspended in mid-air, and the stars shall be our festal lamps, vying with our own!” and she turned on a switch which illumined the whole interior of the air-ship with a soft bright radiance—“Whereabouts are we? Still over the Libyan desert?”

Rivardi consulted the chart which was spread open in his steering- cabin.

“No—I think not. We have passed beyond it. We are over the Sahara. Just now we can take no observations—the sunset is dying rapidly and in a few minutes it will be quite dark.”

As he spoke he brought the ship to a standstill—it remained absolutely motionless except for the slight swaying as though touched by wave-like ripples of air. Morgana went to the window aperture of her silken-lined “drawing-room” and looked out. All round the great air-ship were the illimitable spaces of the sky, now of a dense dark violet hue with here and there a streak of dull red remaining of the glow of the vanished sun,—below there was only blackness. For the first time a nervous thrill ran through her frame at the look of this dark chaos—and she turned quickly back to the table where Rivardi and Gaspard awaited her before sitting down to their meal. Something quite foreign to her courageous spirit chilled her blood, but she fought against it, and seating herself became the charming hostess to her two companions as they ate and drank, though she took scarcely anything herself. For most unquestionably there was something uncanny in a meal served under such strange circumstances, and so far as the two men were concerned it was only eaten to sustain strength.

“Well, now, have I not been very good?” she asked suddenly of Rivardi—“Did I not say you should fly with me to the East, and are you not here? I have not come alone—though that was my wish,—I have even brought Gaspard who had no great taste for the trip!”

Gaspard moved uneasily.

“That is true, Madama,”—he said—“The art of flying is still in its infancy, and though in my profession as an engineer I have studied and worked out many problems, I dare not say I have fathomed all the mysteries of the air or the influences of atmosphere. I am glad that we have made this voyage safely so far—but I shall be still more glad when we return to Sicily!”

Morgana laughed.

“We can do that to-morrow, I dare say!” she said; “If there is nothing to see in the whole expanse of the desert but dark emptiness”—

“But—what do you expect to see, Madama?” enquired Gaspard, with lively curiosity.

She laughed again as she met Rivardi’s keen glance.

“Why, ruins of temples—columns—colossi—a new Sphinx-all sorts of things!” she replied—“But at night, of course, we can see nothing— and we must move onward slowly—I cannot rest swaying like this in mid-air.” She put aside the dinner things, and served them with hot coffee from one of the convenient flasks that hold fluids hot or cold for an interminable time, and when they had finished this, they went back to their separate posts. The great ship began to move—and she was relieved to feel it sailing steadily, though at almost a snail’s pace “on the bosom of the air.” The oppressive nervousness which affected her had not diminished; she could not account for it to herself,—and to rally her forces she went to the window, so- called, of her luxurious cabin. This was a wide aperture filled in with a transparent, crystal-clear material, which looked like glass, but which was wholly unbreakable, and through this she gazed, awe- smitten, at the magnificence of the starry sky. The millions upon millions of worlds which keep the mystery of their being veiled from humanity flashed upon her eyes and moved her mind to a profound sadness.

“What is the use of it all!” she thought—“If one could only find the purpose of this amazing creation! We learn a very little, only to see how much more there is to know! We live our lives, all hoping, searching, praying—and never an answer comes for all our prayers! From the very beginning—not a word from the mysterious Poet who has written the Poem! We are to breed and die—and there an end!—it seems strange and cruel, because so purposeless! Or is it our fault? Do we