“If it were Morgana it would be far worse than if it were Manella!” he said— “The one is too stupid — the other too clever. But the stupid woman would make the best wife — if I wanted one — which I do not; and the best mother, if I desired children, — which I do not. The question is, — what DO I want? I think I know — but supposing I get it, shall I be satisfied? Will it fulfil my life’s desire? What IS my life’s desire?”
He stood inert — his tall figure erect — his eyes full of strange and meditative earnestness, and for a moment he seemed to gather his mental forces together with an effort. Turning towards the table where the bowl of constantly sparkling fluid danced in tiny flashing eddies within its crystal prison, he watched its movement.
“There’s the clue!” he said— “so little — yet so much! Life that cannot cease — force that cannot die! For me — for me alone this secret! — to do with it what I will — to destroy or to re-create! How shall I use it? If I could sweep the planet clean of its greedy, contentious human microbes, and found a new race I might be a power for good, — but should I care to do this? If God does not care, why should I?”
He lost himself anew in musing — then, rousing his mind to work, he put paper, pens and ink on the table, and started writing busily — only interrupting himself once for a light meal of dry bread and milk during a stretch of six or seven hours. At the end of his self-appointed time, he went out of the hut to see, as he often expressed it, “what the sky was doing.” It was not doing much, being a mere hot glare in which the sun was beginning to roll westwards slowly like a sinking fire-ball. He brought out one of the wicker chairs from the hut and set it in the only patch of shade by the door, stretching himself full length upon it, and closing his eyes, composed himself to sleep. His face in repose was a remarkably handsome one, — a little hard in outline, but strong, nobly featured and expressive of power, — an ambitious sculptor would have rejoiced in him as a model for Achilles. He was as unlike the modern hideous type of man as he could well be, — and most particularly unlike any specimen of American that could be found on the whole huge continent. In truth he was purely and essentially English of England, — one of the fine old breed of men nurtured among the winds and waves of the north, for whom no labour was too hard, no service too exacting, no death too difficult, provided “the word was the bond.” His natural gifts of intellect were very great, and profound study had ripened and rounded them to fruition, — certain discoveries in chemistry which he had tested were brought to the attention of his own country’s scientists, who in their usual way of accepting new light on old subjects smiled placidly, shook their heads, pooh-poohed, and finally set aside the matter “for future discussion.” But Roger Seaton was not of a nature to sink under a rebuff. If the Wise Men of Gotham in England refused to take first advantage of the knowledge he had to offer them, then the Wise Men of Gotham in Germany or the United States should have their chance. He tried the United States and was received with open arms and open minds. So he resolved to stay there, for a few years at any rate, and managed to secure a position with the tireless magician Edison, in whose workshops he toiled patiently as an underling, obtaining deeper grasp of his own instinctive knowledge, and further insight into an immense nature secret which he had determined to master alone. He had not mastered it yet — but felt fairly confident that he was near the goal. As he slept peacefully, with the still shade of a heavily foliaged vine which ramped over the roof of the hut, sheltering his face from the sun, his whole form in its relaxed, easy attitude expressed force in repose, — physical energy held in leash.
The sun sank lower, its hue changing from poppy red to burning orange — and presently a woman’s figure appeared on the hill slope, and cautiously approached the sleeper — a beautiful figure of classic mould and line, clothed in a simple white linen garb, with a red rose at its breast. It was Manella. She had taken extraordinary pains with her attire, plain though it was — something dainty and artistic in the manner of its wearing made its simplicity picturesque, — and the red rose at her bosom was effectively supplemented by another in her hair, showing brilliantly against its rich blackness. She stopped when about three paces away from the sleeping man and watched him with a wonderful tenderness. Her lips quivered sweetly — her lovely eyes shone with a soft wistfulness, — she looked indeed, as Morgana had said of her, “quite beautiful.” Instinctively aware in slumber that he was not alone, Seaton stirred — opened his eyes, and sprang up.
“What! Manella!” he exclaimed— “I thought you were too busy to come!”
She hung her head a little shamefacedly.
“I HAD to come” — she answered— “There was no one else ready to bring this — for you.”
She held out a telegram. He opened and read it. It was very brief— “Shall be with you to-morrow. Gwent.”
He folded it and put it in his pocket. Then he turned to Manella, smiling.
“Very good of you to bring this!” he said— “Why didn’t you send Irish Jake?”
“He is taking luggage down from the rooms,” she answered— “Many people are going away to-day.”
“Is that why you are ‘so busy’”? he asked, the smile still dancing in his eyes.
She gave a little toss of her head but said nothing.
“And how fine we are to-day!” he said, glancing over her with an air of undisguised admiration— “White suits you, Manella! You should always wear it! For what fortunate man have you dressed yourself so prettily?”
She shrugged her shoulders expressively —
“For you!”
“For me? Oh, Manella! What a frank confession! And what a contradiction you are to yourself! For did you not send word by that Irish monkey that you were ‘too busy to come’? And yet you dress yourself in white, with red roses, for ME! And you come after all! Capricious child! Oh Senora Soriso, how greatly honoured I am!”
She looked straight at him.
“You laugh, you laugh!” she said— “But I do not care! You can laugh at me all the time if you like. But — you cannot help looking at me! Ah yes! — you cannot help THAT!”
A triumphant glory flashed in her eyes — her red lips parted in a ravishing smile.
“You cannot help it!” she repeated— “That little white lady — that friend of yours whom you hate and love at the same time! — she told me I was ‘quite beautiful!’ I know I am! — and you know it too!”
He bent his eyes upon her gravely.
“I have always known it — yes!” — he said, then paused— “Dear child, beauty is nothing—”
She made a swift step towards him and laid a hand on his arm. Her ardent, glowing face was next to his.
“You speak not truly!” and her voice was tremulous— “To a man it is everything!”
Her physical fascination was magnetic, and for a moment he had some trouble to resist its spell. Very gently he put an arm round her, — and with a tender delicacy of touch unfastened the rose she wore at her bosom.
“There, dear!” he said— “I will keep this with me for company! It is like you — except that it doesn’t talk and doesn’t ask for love—”
“It has it without asking!” she murmured.
He smiled.
“Has it? Well, — perhaps it has!” He paused — then stooping his tall head kissed her once on the lips as a brother might have kissed her. “And perhaps — one day — when the right man comes along, you will have it too!”
CHAPTER XI
Mr. Sam Gwent stood in what was known as the “floral hall” of the Plaza Hotel, so called because it was built in colonnades which opened into various vistas of flowers and clambering vines growing with all the luxuriance common to California. He had just arrived, and while divesting himself of a light dust overcoat interrogated the official at the enquiry office.
“So he doesn’t live here after all,” — he said— “Then where’s he to be found?”
“Mr. Seaton has taken the hill hut” — repl
ied the book-keeper—”’The hut of the dying’ it is sometimes called. He prefers it to the hotel. The air is better for his lungs.”
“Air? Lungs?” — Gwent sniffed contemptuously. “There’s very little the matter with his lungs if he’s the man I know! Where’s this hut of the dying? Can I get there straight?”
The bookkeeper touched a bell, and Manella appeared. Gwent stared openly. Here — if “prize beauties” were anything — was a real winner!
“This gentleman wants Mr. Seaton” — said the bookkeeper— “Just show him the way up the hill.”
“Sorry to trouble you!” said Gwent, raising his hat with a courtesy not common to his manner.
“Oh, it is no trouble!” and Manella smiled at him in the most ravishing way— “The path is quite easy to follow.”
She preceded him out of the “floral hall,” and across the great gardens, now in their most brilliant bloom to a gate which she opened, pointing with one hand towards the hill where the flat outline of the “hut of the dying” could be seen clear against the sky.
“There it is” — she explained— “It’s nothing of a climb, even on the warmest day. And the air is quite different up there to what it is down here.”
“Better, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes! Much better!”
“And is that why Mr. Seaton lives in the hut? On account of the air?”
Manella waved her hands expressively with a charming Spanish gesture of indifference.
“I suppose so! How should I know? He is here for his health.”
Sam Gwent uttered a curious inward sound, something between a grunt and a cough.
“Ah! I should like to know how long he’s been ill!”
Manella again gave her graceful gesture.
“Surely you DO know if you are a friend of his?” she said.
He looked keenly at her.
“Are YOU a friend of his?”
She smiled — almost laughed.
“I? I am only a help in the Plaza — I take him his food—”
“Take him his food!” Sam Gwent growled out something like an oath— “What! Can’t he come and get it for himself? Is he treated like a bear in a cage or a baby in a cradle?”
Manella gazed at him with reproachful soft eyes.
“Oh, you are rough!” she said— “He pays for whatever little trouble he gives. Indeed it is no trouble! He lives very simply — only on new milk and bread. I expect his health will not stand anything else — though truly he does not look ill—”
Gwent cut her description short.
“Well, thank you for showing me the way, Senora or Senorita, whichever you are — I think you must be Spanish—”
“Senorita” — she said, with gentle emphasis— “I am not married. You are right that I am Spanish.”
“Such eyes as yours were never born of any blood but Spanish!” said Gwent— “I knew that at once! That you are not married is a bit of luck for some man — the man you WILL marry! For the moment adios! I shall dine at the Plaza this evening, and shall very likely bring my friend with me.”
She shook her head smiling.
“You will not!”
“How so?”
“Because he will not come!”
She turned away, back towards the Hotel, and Gwent started to ascend the hill alone.
“Here’s a new sort of game!” — he thought— “A game I should never have imagined possible to a man like Roger Seaton! Hiding himself up here in a consumption hut, and getting a beautiful woman to wait on him and ‘take him his food’! It beats most things I’ve heard of! Dollar sensation books aren’t in it! I wonder what Morgana Royal would say to it, if she knew! He’s given her the slip this time!”
Half-way up the hill he paused to rest, and saw Seaton striding down at a rapid pace to meet him.
“Hullo, Gwent!”
“Hullo!”
The two men shook hands.
“I got your wire at the beginning of the week” — said Gwent— “and came as soon as I could get away. It’s been a stiff journey too — but I wouldn’t keep you waiting.”
“Thanks, — it’s as much your affair as mine” — said Seaton— “The thing is ripe for action if you care to act. It’s quite in your hands, I hardly thought you’d come—”
“But I sent you a reply wire?”
“Oh, yes — that’s all right! But reply wires don’t always clinch business. Yours arrived last night.”
“I wonder if it was ever delivered!” grumbled Gwent— “It was addressed to the Plaza Hotel — not to a hut on a hill!”
Seaton laughed.
“You’ve heard all about it I see! But the hut on the hill is a ‘dependence’ of the Plaza — a sort of annex where dying men are put away to die peaceably—”
“YOU are not a dying man!” said Gwent, very meaningly— “And I can’t make out why you pretend to be one!”
Again Seaton laughed.
“I’m not pretending! — my dear Gwent, we’re all dying men! One may die a little faster than another, but it’s all the same sort of ‘rot, and rot, and thereby hangs a tale!’ What’s the news in Washington?”
They walked up the hill slowly, side by side.
“Not startling” — answered Gwent — then paused — and repeated— “Not startling — there’s nothing startling nowadays — though some folks made a very good show of being startled when my nephew Jack shot himself.”
Seaton stopped in his walk.
“Shot himself? That lad? Was he insane?”
“Of course! — according to the coroner. Everybody is called ‘insane’ who gets out of the world when it’s too difficult to live in. Some people would call it sane. I call it just — cowardice! Jack had lost his last chance, you see. Morgana Royal threw him over.”
Seaton paced along with a velvet-footed stride like a tiger on a trail.
“Had she led him on?”
“Rather! She leads all men ‘on’ — or they think she does. She led YOU on at one time!”
Seaton turned upon him with a quick, savage movement.
“Never! I saw through her from the first! She could never make a fool of ME!”
Sam Gwent gave a short cough, expressing incredulity.
“Well! Washington thought you were the favoured ‘catch’ and envied your luck! Certainly she showed a great preference for you—”
“Can’t you talk of something else?” interposed Seaton, impatiently.
Gwent gave him an amused side-glance.
“Why, of course I can!” he responded— “But I thought I’d tell you about Jack—”
“I’m sorry!” said Seaton, hastily, conscious that he had been lacking in sympathy— “He was your heir, I believe?”
“Yes, — he might have been, had he kept a bit straighter” — said Gwent— “But heirs are no good anywhere or anyhow. They only spend what they inherit and waste the honest work of a life-time. Is that your prize palace?”
He pointed to the hut which they had almost reached.
“That’s it!” answered Seaton— “And I prefer it to any palace ever built. No servants, no furniture, no useless lumber — just a place to live in — enough for any man.”
“A tub was enough for Diogenes” — commented Gwent— “If we all lived in his way or your way it would be a poor look-out for trade! However, I presume you’ll escape taxation here!”
Seaton made no reply, but led the way into his dwelling, offering his visitor a chair.
“I hope you’ve had breakfast” — he said— “For I haven’t any to give you. You can have a glass of milk if you like?”
Gwent made a wry face.
“I’m not a good subject for primitive nourishment” — he said— “I’ve been weaned too long for it to agree with me!”
He sat down. His eyes were at once attracted by the bowl of restless fluid on the table.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Roger Seaton smiled enigmatically.
> “Only a trifle” — he answered— “Just health! It’s a sort of talisman; — germ-proof, dust-proof, disease-proof! No microbe of mischief, however infinitesimal, can exist near it, and a few drops, taken into the system, revivify the whole.”
“If that’s so, your fortune’s made” — said Gwent, “Give your discovery, or recipe, or whatever it is, to the world—”
“To keep the world alive? No, thank you!” And the look of dark scorn on Seaton’s face was astonishing in its almost satanic expression— “That is precisely what I wish to avoid! The world is over-ripe and over-rotten, — and it is over-crowded with a festering humanity that is INhuman, and worse than bestial in its furious grappling for self and greed. One remedy for the evil would be that no children should be born in it for the next thirty or forty years — the relief would be incalculable, — a monstrous burden would be lifted, and there would be some chance of betterment, — but as this can never be, other remedies must be sought and found. It’s pure hypocrisy to talk of love for children, when every day we read of mothers selling their offspring for so much cash down, — lately in China during a spell of famine parents killed their daughters like young calves, for food. Ugly facts like these have to be looked in the face — it’s no use putting them behind one’s back, and murmuring beautiful lies about ‘mother-love’ and such nonsense. As for the old Mosaic commandment ‘Honour thy father and mother’ — it’s ordinary newspaper reading to hear of boys and girls attacking and murdering their parents for the sake of a few dollars.”
“You’ve got the ugly facts by heart” — said Gwent slowly— “But there’s another and more cheerful outlook — if you choose to consider it. Newspaper reading always gives the worst and dirtiest side of everything — it wouldn’t be newspaper stuff if it was clean. Newspapers remind me of the rotting heaps in gardens — all the rubbish piled together till the smell becomes a nuisance — then a good burning takes place of the whole collection and it makes a sort of fourth-rate manure.” He paused a moment — then went on —
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 877