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Secret Power

<h3> CHAPTER XIV </h3> Convention is still occasionally studied even in these unconventional days, and Morgana Royal, independent and wealthy young woman as she was, had subscribed to its rule and ordinance by engaging a chaperone,—a "dear old English lady of title," as she had described her to the Marchese Rivardi. Lady Kingswood merited the description thus given of her, for she was distinctly a dear old English lady, and her title was the least thing about her, especially in her own opinion. There was no taint of snobbery in her simple, kindly disposition, and when her late husband, a distinguished military officer, had been knighted for special and splendid service in the war, she had only deplored that the ruin of his health and disablement by wounds, prevented him from taking any personal pleasure in the "honour." His death followed soon after the King's recognition of his merit, and she was left with his pension to live upon, and a daughter who having married in haste repented at leisure, being deserted by a drunken husband and left with two small children to nourish and educate. Naturally, Lady Kingswood took much of their care upon herself—but the pension of a war widow will not stretch further than a given point, and she found it both necessary and urgent to think of some means by which she could augment her slender income. She was not a clever woman,—she had no special talents,—her eyes would not stand her in good stead for plain sewing, and she could not even manage a typing machine. But she had exquisitely gentle manners,—she was well-bred and tactful, and, rightly judging that good-breeding and tact are valuable assets in some quarters of the "new" society, she sought, through various private channels, for a post as companion or "chaperone" to "one lady." Just when she was rather losing hope as to the success of her effort, the "one lady" came along in the elfin personality of Morgana Royal, who, after a brief interview in London, selected her with a decision as rapid as it was inexplicable, offering her a salary of five hundred a year, which to Lady Kingswood was a small fortune. "You will have nothing to do but just be pleasant!" Morgana had told her, smilingly, "And enjoy your self as you like. Of course I do not expect to be controlled or questioned,—I am an independent woman, and go my own way, but I'm not at all 'modern.' I don't drink or smoke or 'dope,' or crave for male society. I think you'll find yourself all right!" And Lady Kingswood had indeed "found herself all right." Her own daughter had never been so thoughtful for her comfort as Morgana was, and she became day by day more interested and fascinated by the original turn of mind and the bewitching personality of the strange little creature for whom the ordinary amusements of society seemed to have no attraction. And now, installed in her own sumptuously fitted rooms in the Palazzo d'Oro, Morgana's Sicilian paradise, she almost forgot there was such a thing as poverty, or the sordid business of "making both ends meet." Walking up and down the rose-marble loggia and looking out to the exquisite blue of the sea, she inwardly thanked God for all His mercies, and wondered at the exceptional good luck that had brought her so much peace, combined with comfort and luxury in the evening of her days. She was a handsome old lady; her refined features, soft blue eyes and white hair were a "composition" for an eighteenth-century French miniature, and her dress combined quiet elegance with careful taste. She was inflexibly loyal to her stated position; she neither "questioned" nor "controlled" Morgana, or attempted to intrude an opinion as to her actions or movements,—and if, as was only natural, she felt a certain curiosity concerning the aims and doings of so brilliant and witch-like a personality she showed no sign of it. She was interested in the Marchese Rivardi, but still more so in the priest, Don Aloysius, to whom she felt singularly attracted, partly by his own dignified appearance and manner, and partly by the leaning she herself had towards the Catholic Faith where "Woman" is made sacred in the person of the Holy Virgin, and deemed worthy of making intercession with the Divine. She knew, as we all in our innermost souls know, that it is a symbol of the greatest truth that can ever be taught to humanity. The special morning on which she walked, leaning slightly on a silver-knobbed stick, up and down the loggia and looked at the sea, was one of rare beauty even in Sicily, the sky being of that pure ethereal blue for which one can hardly find a comparison in colour, and the ocean below reflecting it, tone for tone, as in a mirror. In the terraced garden, half lost among the intertwining blossoms, Morgana moved to and fro, gathering roses,—her little figure like a white rose itself set in among the green leaves. Lady Kingswood watched her, with kindly, half compassionate eyes. "It must be a terrible responsibility for her to have so much money!" she thought. "She can hardly know what to do with it! And somehow—I do not think she will marry." At that moment Morgana came slowly up the steps cut in the grass bordered on either side by flowers, and approached her. "Here are some roses for you, dear 'Duchess!'" she said, "Duchess" being the familiar or "pet" name she elected to call her by. "Specially selected, I assure you! Are you tired?—or may I have a talk?" Lady Kingswood took the roses with a smile, touching Morgana's cheek playfully with one of the paler pink buds. "A talk by all means!" she replied—"How can I be tired, dear child? I'm a lazy old woman, doing nothing all day but enjoy myself!" Morgana nodded her golden head approvingly. "That's right!—I'm glad!" she said. "That's what I want you to do! It's a pretty place, this Palazzo d'Oro, don't you think?" "More than pretty—it's a perfect paradise!" declared Lady Kingswood, emphatically. "Well, I'm glad you like it"—went on Morgana—"Because then you won't mind staying here and looking after it when I'm away. I'll have to go away quite soon." Lady Kingswood controlled her first instinctive movement of surprise. "Really?" she said—"That seems a pity as you only arrived so recently—" Morgana gave a wistful glance round her at the beautiful gardens and blue sea beyond. "Yes—perhaps it is a pity!" she said, with a light shrug of her shoulders—"But I have a great deal to do, and ever so much to learn. I told you, didn't I?—that I have had an air-ship built for me quite on my own lines?—an air-ship that moves like a bird and is quite different from any other air-ship ever made or known?" "Yes, you told me something about it"—answered Lady Kingswood—"But you know, my dear, I am very stupid about all these wonderful new inventions. 'Progress of science' they call it. Well, I'm rather afraid of the 'progress of science.' I'm an old-fashioned woman and I cannot bear to hear of aeroplanes and air-ships and poor wretched people falling from the sky and being dashed to pieces. The solid earth is quite good enough for my old feet as long as they will support me!" Morgana laughed. "You dear Duchess!" she said, affectionately—"Don't worry! I'm not going to ask you to travel in my air-ship—I wouldn't so try your nerves for the world! Though it is an absolutely safe ship,—nothing"—and she emphasised the word—"NOTHING can upset it or drive it out of its course unless natural law is itself upset! Now let us sit here"—and she drew two wicker chairs into the cool shadow of the loggia and set them facing the sea—"and have our talk! I've begun it—I'll go on! Tell me"—and she nestled down among the cushions, watching Lady Kingswood seat herself in slower, less supple fashion—"tell me—what does it feel like to be married?" Lady Kingswood opened her eyes, surprised and amused. "What does it feel like? My dear—?" "Oh, surely you know what I mean!" pursued Morgana—"YOU have been married. Well, when you were first married were you very, very happy? Did your husband love you entirely without a thought for anybody or anything else?—and were you all in all to each other?" Lady Kingswood was quite taken aback by the personal directness of these questions, but deciding within herself that Morgana must be contemplating marriage on her own behalf, answered simply and truthfully— "My husband and I were very fond of each other. We were the best of friends and good companions. Of course he had his military duties to attend to and was often absent—" "And you stayed at home and kept house,"—interpolated Morgana, musingly—"I see! That is what all wives have to do! But I suppose he just adored you?" Lady Kingswood smiled. "'Adore' is a very strong word to use, my dear!" she said—"I doubt if any married people 'adore' each other! If they can be good friends and rub along pleasantly through all the sorrows and joys of life together, they should be satisfied." "And you call that LOVE!" said Morgana, with a passionate thrill in her voice—"Love! 'Love that is blood within the veins of time!' Just 'rubbing along pleasantly together!' Dear 'Duchess,' that wouldn't suit ME!" Lady Kingswood looked at her with interested, kind eyes. "But then, what WOULD suit you?" she queried—"You know you mustn't expect the impossible!" "What the world calls the impossible is always the possible"—said Morgana—"And only the impossible appeals to me!" This was going beyond the boundary-line of Lady Kingswood's brain capacity, so she merely remained agreeably quiescent. "And when your child was born"—pursued Morgana—"did you feel a wonderful ecstasy?—a beautiful peace and joy?—a love so great that it was as if God had given you something of His Own to hold and keep?" Lady Kingswood laughed outright. "My dear girl, you are too idealistic! Having a baby is not at all a romantic business!—quite the reverse! And babies are not interesting till they 'begin to take notice' as the nurses say. Then when they get older and have to go to school you soon find out that you have loved THEM far more than they have loved or ever WILL love YOU!" As she said this her voice trembled a little and she sighed. "I see! I think I quite understand!" said Morgana—"And it is just what I have always imagined—there is no great happiness in marriage. If it is only a matter of 'rubbing along pleasantly together' two friends can always do that without any 'sex' attraction, or tying themselves up together for life. And it's not much joy to bring children into the world and waste treasures of love on them, if after you have done all you can, they leave you without a regret,—like the birds that fly from a nest when once they know how to use their wings." Lady Kingswood's eyes were sorrowful. "My daughter was a very pretty girl,"—she said—"Her father and I were proud of her looks and her charm of manner. We spared every shilling we could to give her the best and most careful education—and we surrounded her with as much pleasure and comfort at home as possible,—but at the first experience of 'society,' and the flattery of strangers, she left us. Her choice of a husband was most unfortunate—but she would not listen to our advice, though we had loved her so much—she thought 'he' loved her more." Morgana lifted her eyes. The "fey" light was glittering in them. "Yes! She thought he loved her! That's what many a woman thinks—that 'he'—the particular 'he' loves her! But how seldom he does! How much more often he loves himself!" "You must not be cynical, my dear!" said Lady Kingswood, gently—"Life is certainly full of disappointments, especially in love and marriage—but we must endure our sorrows patiently and believe that God does everything for the best." This was the usual panacea which the excellent lady offered for all troubles, and Morgana smiled. "Yes!—it must be hard work for God!" she said—"Cruel work! To do everything for the best and to find it being turned into the worst by the very creatures one seeks to benefit, must be positive torture! Well, dear 'Duchess,' I asked you all these questions about love and marriage just to know if you could say anything that might alter my views—but you have confirmed them. I feel that there is no such thing in the world as the love I want—and marriage without it would be worse than any imagined hell. So I shall not marry." Lady Kingswood's face expressed a mild tolerance. "You say that just now"—she said—"But I think you will alter your mind some day! You would not like to be quite alone always—not even in the Palazzo d'Oro." "YOU are quite alone?" "Ah, but I am an old woman, my dear! I have lived my day!" "That's not true," said Morgana, decisively—"You have not 'lived your day' since you are living NOW! And if you are old, that is just a reason why you should NOT be alone. But you ARE. Your husband is dead, and your daughter has other ties. So even marriage left you high and dry on the rocks as it were till my little boat came along and took you off them!" "A very welcome little boat!" said Lady Kingswood, with feeling—"A rescue in the nick of time!" "Never mind that!" and Morgan waved her pretty hand expressively—"My point is that marriage—just marriage—has not done much for you. It is what women clamour for, and scheme for,—and nine out of ten regret the whole business when they have had their way. There are so many more things in life worth winning!" Lady Kingswood looked at her interestedly. She made a pretty picture just then in her white morning gown, seated in a low basket chair with pale blue silk cushions behind her on which her golden head rested with the brightness of a daffodil. "So many more things!" she repeated—"My air-ship for instance!—it's worth all the men and all the marriages I've ever heard of! My beloved 'White Eagle!'—my own creation—my baby—SUCH a baby!" She laughed. "But I must learn to fly with it alone!" "I hope you will do nothing rash!"—said Lady Kingswood, mildly; she was very ignorant of modern discovery and invention, and all attempt to explain anything of the kind to her would have been a hope less business—"I understand that it is always necessary to take a pilot and an observer in these terrible sky-machines—" She was interrupted by a gay little peal of laughter from Morgana. "Terrible?—Oh, dear 'Duchess,' you are too funny! There's nothing 'terrible' about MY 'sky-machine!' Do you ever read poetry? No?—Well then you don't know that lovely and prophetic line of Keats—" 'Beautiful things made new For the surprise of the sky-children.' "Poets are always prophetic,—that is, REAL poets, not modern verse mongers; and I fancy Keats must have imagined something in the far distant future like my 'White Eagle!' For it really IS 'a beautiful thing made new'—a beautiful natural force put to new uses—and who knows?—I may yet surprise those 'sky-children!'" Lady Kingswood's mind floundered helplessly in this flood of what, to her, was incomprehensibility. Morgana went on in the sweet fluting voice which was one of her special charms. "If you haven't read Keats, you must have read at some time or other the 'Arabian Nights' and the story of 'Sindbad the Sailor'? Yes? You think you have? Well, you know how poor Sindbad got into the Valley of Diamonds and waited for an eagle to fly down and carry him off! That's just like me! I've been dropped into a Valley of Diamonds and often wondered how I should escape—but the Eagle has arrived!" "I'm afraid I don't quite follow you"—said Lady Kingswood—"I'm rather dense, you know! Surely your Valley of Diamonds—if you mean wealth—has made your 'Eagle' possible?" Morgana nodded. "Exactly! If there had been no Valley of Diamonds there would have been no Eagle! But, all the same, this little female Sindbad is glad to get out of the valley!" Lady Kingswood laughed. "My dear child, if you are making a sort of allegory on your wealth, you are not 'out of the valley' nor are you likely to be!" Morgana sighed. "My vulgar wealth!" she murmured. "What? Vulgar?" "Yes. A man told me it was." "A vulgar man himself, I should imagine!" said Lady Kingswood, warmly. Morgana shrugged her shoulders carelessly. "Oh, no, he isn't. He's eccentric, but not vulgar. He's aristocratic to the tips of his toes—and English. That accounts for his rudeness. Sometimes, you know—only sometimes—Englishmen can be VERY rude! But I'd rather have them so—it's a sort of well-bred clumsiness, like the manners of a Newfoundland dog. It's not the 'make-a-dollar' air of American men." "You are quite English yourself, aren't you?" queried her companion. "No—not English in any sense. I'm pure Celtic of Celt, from the farthest Highlands of Scotland. But I hate to say I'm 'Scotch,' as slangy people use that word for whisky! I'm just Highland-born. My father and mother were the same, and I came to life a wild moor, among mists and mountains and stormy seas—I'm always glad of that! I'm glad my eyes did not look their first on a city! There's a tradition in the part of Scotland where I was born which tells of a history far far back in time when sailors from Phoenicia came to our shores,—men greatly civilised when we all were but savages, and they made love to the Highland women and had children by them,—then when they went away back to Egypt they left many traces of Eastern customs and habits which remain to this day. My father used always to say that he could count his ancestry back to Egypt!—it pleased him to think so and it did nobody any harm!" "Have you ever been to the East?" asked Lady Kingswood. "No—but I'm going! My 'White Eagle' will take me there in a very short time! But, as I've already told you, I must learn to fly alone." "What does the Marchese Rivardi say to that?" "I don't ask him!" replied Morgana, indifferently—"What I may decide to do is not his business." She broke off abruptly—then continued—"He is coming to luncheon,—and afterwards you shall see my air-ship. I won't persuade you to go up in it!" "I COULDN'T!" said Lady Kingswood, emphatically—"I've no nerve for such an adventure." Morgana rose from her chair, smiling kindly. "Dear 'Duchess' be quite easy in your mind!" she said—"I want you very much on land, but I shall not want you in the air! You will be quite safe and happy here in the Palazzo d'Oro"—she turned as she saw the shadow of a man's tall figure fall on the smooth marble pavement of the loggia—"Ah! Here is the Marchese! We were just speaking of you!" "Tropp' onore!" he murmured, as he kissed the little hand she held out to him in the Sicilian fashion of gallantry—"I fear I am perhaps too early?" "Oh no! We were about to go in to luncheon—I know the hour by the bell of the monastery down there—you hear it?" A soft "ting-ting tong"—rang from the olive and ilex woods below the Palazzo,—and Morgana, listening, smiled. "Poor Don Aloysius!" she said—"He will now go to his soup maigre—and we to our poulet, sauce bechamel,—and he will be quite as contented as we are!" "More so, probably!" said Rivardi, as he courteously assisted Lady Kingswood, who was slightly lame, to rise from her chair—"He is one of the few men who in life have found peace." Morgana gave him a keen glance. "You think he has really found it?" "I think so,—yes! He has faith in God—a great support that has given way for most of the peoples of this world." Lady Kingswood looked pained. "I am sorry to hear you say that!" "I am sorry myself to say it, miladi, but I fear it is true!" he rejoined—"It is one sign of a general break-up." "Oh, you are right! You are very right!" exclaimed Morgana suddenly, and with emphasis—"We know that when even one human being is unable to recognise his best friend we say—'Poor man! His brain is gone!' It's the same thing with a nation. Or a world! When it is so ailing that it cannot recognise the Friend who brought it into being, who feeds it, keeps it, and gives it all it has, we must say the same thing—'Its brain is gone!'" Rivardi was surprised at the passionate energy she threw into these words. "You feel that deeply?" he said—"And yet—pardon me!—you do not assume to be religious?" "Marchese, I 'assume' nothing!" she answered—"I cannot 'pretend'! To 'assume' or to 'pretend' would hardly serve the Creator adequately. Creative or Natural Force is so far away from sham that one must do more than 'assume'—one must BE!" Her voice thrilled on the air, and Lady Kingswood, who was crossing the loggia, leaning on her stick, paused to look at the eloquent speaker. She was worth looking at just then, for she seemed inspired. Her eyes were extraordinarily brilliant, and her whole personality expressed a singular vitality coupled with an ethereal grace that suggested some thing almost superhuman. "Yes—one must be!" she repeated—"I have not BEEN A STUDENT OF SCIENCE SO LONG WITHOUT LEARNING that there is no 'assuming' anything in the universe. One must SEE straight, and THINK straight too! I could not 'assume' religion, because I FEEL it—in the very depths of my soul! As Don Aloysius said the other day, it is marvellous how close we are to the Source of all life, and yet we imagine we are far away! If we could only realise the truth of the Divine Nearness, and work WITH it and IN it, we should make discoveries worth knowing! We work too much WITH ourselves and OF ourselves." She paused,—then added slowly and seriously—"I have never done any work that way. I have always considered myself Nothing,—the Force I have obeyed was and is Everything." "And so—being Nothing—you still made your air-ship possible!" said Rivardi, smiling indulgently at her fantastic speech. She answered him with unmoved and patient gravity. "It is as you say,—being Nothing myself, and owning myself to be Nothing; the Force that is Everything made my air-ship possible!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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