The Secret Power by Marie Corelli (dark academia books to read .TXT) 📖

“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 knelt 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.