The Secret Power

by Marie Corelli

  CHAPTER III

  "She left New York several weeks ago,--didn't you know it? Dear me!--Ithought everybody was convulsed at the news!"

  The speaker, a young woman fashionably attired and seated in a rockingchair in the verandah of a favourite summer hotel on Long Island,raised her eyes and shrugged her shoulders expressively as she utteredthese words to a man standing near her with a newspaper in his hand. Hewas a very stiff-jointed upright personage with iron grey hair andfeatures hard enough to suggest their having been carved out of wood.

  "No--I didn't know it"--he said, enunciating his words in thedeliberate dictatorial manner common to a certain type of American--"IfI had I should have taken steps to prevent it."

  "You can't take steps to prevent anything Morgana Royal decides to do!"declared his companion. "She's a law to herself and to nobody else. Iguess YOU couldn't stop her, Mr. Sam Gwent!"

  Mr. Sam Gwent permitted himself to smile. It was a smile that merelystretched the corners of his mouth a little,--it had no geniality.

  "Possibly not!" he answered--"But I should have had a try! I shouldcertainly have pointed out to her the folly of her present adventure."

  "Do you know what it is?"

  He paused before replying.

  "Well,--hardly! But I have a guess!"

  "Is that so? Then I'll admit you're cleverer than I am!"

  "Thats a great compliment! But even Miss Lydia Herbert, brilliant womanof the world as she is, doesn't know EVERYTHING!"

  "Not quite!" she replied, stifling a tiny yawn--"Nor do you! But mostthings that are worth knowing I know. There's a lot one need neverlearn. The chief business of life nowadays is to have heaps of moneyand know how to spend it. That's Morgana's way."

  Mr. Sam Gwent folded up his newspaper, flattened it into a neat parcel,and put it in his pocket.

  "She has a great deal too much money"--he said, "and-to mythinking--she does NOT know how to spend it,--not in the right womanlyway. She has gone off in the midst of many duties to society at a timewhen she should have stayed--"

  Miss Herbert opened her brown, rather insolent eyes wide at this andlaughed.

  "Does it matter?" she asked. "The old man left his pile to her'absolutely and unconditionally'--without any orders as to societyduties. And I don't believe YOU'VE any authority over her, have you? Orare you suddenly turning up as a trustee?"

  He surveyed her with a kind of admiring sarcasm.

  "No. I'm only an uncle,"--he said--"Uncle of the boy that shot himselfthis morning for her sake!"

  Miss Herbert uttered a sharp cry. She was startled and horrified.

  "What!... Jack?... Shot himself?... Oh, how dreadful!--I'm--I'msorry--!"

  "You're not!"--retorted Gwent--"So don't pretend. No one is sorry foranybody else nowadays. There's no time. And no inclination. Jack wasalways a fool--perhaps he's best out of it. I've just seen him--dead.He's better-looking so than when alive."

  She sprang up from her rocking chair in a blaze of indignation.

  "You are brutal!" she exclaimed, with a half sob--"Positively brutal!"

  "Not at all!" he answered, composedly--"Only commonplace. It is youadvanced women that are brutal,--not we left-behind men. Jack was afool, I say--he staked the whole of his game on Morgana Royal, and helost. That was the last straw. If he could have married her he wouldhave cleared all his debts over and over--and that's what he had hopedfor. The disappointment was too much for him."

  "But--didn't he LOVE her?" Lydia Herbert put the question almostimperatively.

  Mr. Sam Gwent raised his eyebrows quizzically. "I guess you came out ofthe Middle Ages!" he observed--"What's 'love'? Did you ever know awoman with millions of money who got 'loved'? Not a bit of it! HerMONEY is loved--but not herself. She's the encumbrance to the cash."

  "Then--then--you mean to tell me Jack was only after the money--?"

  "What else should he be after? The woman? There are thousands ofwomen,--all to be had for the asking--they pitch themselves at menheadlong--no hesitation or modesty about them nowadays! Jack's askingwould never have been refused by any one of them. But the millions ofMorgana Royal are not to be got every day!"

  Miss Herbert's rather thin lips tightened into a close line,--sheflicked some light tear-drops away from her eyes with a handkerchief asfine as a cobweb delicately perfumed, and stood silently looking out onthe view from the verandah.

  "You see," pursued Gwent, in his cold, deliberate accents, "Jack wasruined financially. And he has all but ruined ME. Now he has takenhimself out of the way with a pistol shot, and left me to face themusic for him. Morgana Royal was his only chance. She led him on,--shecertainly led him on. He thought he had her,--then--just as he wasabout to pin the butterfly to his specimen card, away it flew!"

  "Cute butterfly!" interjected Miss Herbert.

  "Maybe. Maybe not. We shall see. Anyway Jack's game is finished."

  "And I suppose this is why, as you say, Morgana has gone off 'in themidst of many social duties'? Was Jack one of her social duties?"

  Gwent gazed at her with an unrevealing placidity.

  "No. Not exactly," he replied--"I give her credit for not knowinganything of his intention to clear out. Though I don't think she wouldhave tried to alter his intention if she had."

  Miss Herbert still surveyed the scenery.

  "Well,--I don't feel so sorry for him now you tell me it was only themoney he was after"--she said--"I thought he was a finer character--"

  "You're talking 'Middle Ages' again,"--interrupted Gwent--"Who wantsfine characters nowadays? The object of life is to LIVE, isn't it? Andto 'live' means to get all you can for your own pleasure andprofit,--take care of Number One!--and let the rest of the world do asit likes. It's quite YOUR method,--though you pretend it isn't!"

  "You're not very polite!" she said.

  "Now, why should I be?" he pursued, argumentatively--"What's politenessworth unless you want to flatter something for yourself out ofsomebody? I never flatter, and I'm never polite. I know just how youfeel,--you haven't got as much money as you want and you're lookingabout for a fellow who HAS. Then you'll marry him--if you can. You, asa woman, are doing just what Jack did as a man. But,--if you miss yourgame, I don't think you'll commit suicide. You're too well-balanced forthat. And I think you'll succeed in your aims--if you're careful!"

  "If I'm careful?" she echoed, questioningly.

  "Yes--if you want a millionaire. Especially the old rascal you'reafter. Don't dress too 'loud.' Don't show ALL your back--leave some forhim to think about. Don't paint your face,--let it alone. And be, orpretend to be, very considerate of folks' feelings. That'll do!"

  "Here endeth the first lesson!" she said. "Thanks, preacher Gwent! Iguess I'll worry through!"

  "I guess you will!"--he answered, slowly. "I wish I was as certain ofanything in the world as I am of THAT!"

  She was silent. The corners of her mouth twitched slightly as thoughshe sought to conceal a smile. She watched her companion furtively ashe took a cigar from a case in his pocket and lit it.

  "I must go and fix up the funeral business"--he said, "Jack has gone,and his remains must be disposed of. That's my affair. Just now hismother's crying over him,--and I can't stand that sort of thing. Itgets over me."

  "Then you actually HAVE a heart?" she suggested.

  "I suppose so. I used to have. But it isn't the heart,--that's only apumping muscle. I conclude it's the head."

  He puffed two or three rings of smoke into the clear air.

  "You know where she's gone?" he asked, suddenly.

  "Morgana?"

  "Yes."

  Lydia Herbert hesitated.

  "I THINK I know," she replied at last--"But I'm not sure."

  "Well, I'M sure"--said Gwent--"She's after the special quarry that hasgiven her the slip,--Roger Seaton. He went to California a month ago."

  "Then she's in California?"

  "Certain!"

  Mr. Gwent took another puff at his cigar.

  "You m
ust have been in Washington when every one thought that he andshe were going to make a matrimonial tie of it"--he went on--"Why,nothing else was talked of!"

  She nodded.

  "I know! I was there. But a man who has set his soul on science doesn'twant a wife."

  "And what about a woman who has set her soul in the same direction?" heasked.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  "Oh, that's all popcorn! Morgana is not a scientist,--she's hardly astudent. She just 'imagines' she can do things. But she can't."

  "Well! I'm not so sure!" and Gwent looked ruminative--"She's got asmart way of settling problems while the rest of us are talking aboutthem."

  "To her own satisfaction only"--said Miss Herbert,ironically,--"Certainly not to the satisfaction of anybody else! Shetalks the wildest nonsense about controlling the world! Imagine it! Aworld controlled by Morgana!" She gave an impatient little shake of herskirts. "I do hate these sorts of mysterious, philosophising women,don't you? The old days must have been ever so much better! When it wasall poetry and romance and beautiful idealism! When Dante and Beatricewere possible!"

  Gwent smiled sourly.

  "They never WERE possible!" he retorted--"Dante was, like all poets, aregular humbug. Any peg served to hang his stuff on,--from a child ofnine to a girl of eighteen. The stupidest thing ever written is what hecalled his 'New Life' or 'Vita Nuova.' I read it once, and it made mepretty nigh sick. Think of all that twaddle about Beatrice 'denying himher most gracious salutation'! That any creature claiming to be a mancould drivel along in such a style beats me altogether!"

  "It's perfectly lovely!" declared Miss Herbert--"You've no taste inliterature, Mr. Gwent!"

  "I've no taste for humbug"--he answered--"That's so! I guess I know thedifference between tragedy and comedy, even when I see them side byside." He flicked a long burnt ash from his cigar. "I've had a bit ofcomedy with you this morning--now I'm going to take up tragedy! I tellyou there's more written in Jack's dead face than in all Dante!"

  "The tragedy of a lost gamble for money!" she said, with a scornfuluplift of her eyebrows.

  He nodded.

  "That's so! It upsets the mental balance of a man more than a lostgamble for love!"

  And he walked away.

  Lydia Herbert, left to herself, played idly with the leaves of the vinethat clambered about the high wooden columns of the verandah where shestood, admiring the sparkle of her diamond bangle which, like a thincirclet of dewdrops, glittered on her slim wrist. Now and then shelooked far out to the sea gleaming in the burning sun, and allowed herthoughts to wander from herself and her elegant clothes to some of thesocial incidents in which she had taken part during the past couple ofmonths. She recalled the magnificent ball given by Morgana Royal at herregal home, when all the fashion and frivolity of the noted "FourHundred" were assembled, and when the one whispered topic ofconversation among gossips was the possibility of the marriage of oneof the richest women in the world to a shabbily clothed scientistwithout a penny, save what he earned with considerable difficulty.Morgana herself played the part of an enigma. She laughed, shook herhead, and moved her daintily attired person through the crowd of herguests with all the gliding grace of a fairy vision in white draperiesshowered with diamonds, but gave no hint of special favour or attentionto any man, not even to Roger Seaton, the scientist in question, whostood apart from the dancing throng, in a kind of frowning disdain,looking on, much as one might fancy a forest animal looking at the lastgambols of prey It purposed to devour. He had taken the firstconvenient interval to disappear, and as he did not return, MissHerbert had asked her hostess what had become of him? Morgana, hercheeks flushed prettily by a just-finished dance, smiled in surprise atthe question.

  "How should I know?" she replied--"I am not his keeper?"

  "But--but--you are interested in him?" Lydia suggested.

  "Interested? Oh, yes! Who would not be interested in a man who says hecan destroy half the world if he wants to! He assumes to be a sort ofdeity, you know!--Jove and his thunderbolts in the shape of a man in abadly cut suit of modern clothes! Isn't it fun!" She gave a little pealof laughter. "And every one in the room to-night thinks I am going tomarry him!"

  "And are you not?"

  "Can you imagine it! ME, married? Lydia, Lydia, do you take me for afool!" She laughed again--then grew suddenly serious. "To think of sucha thing! Fancy ME!--giving my life into the keeping of a scientificwizard who, if he chose, could reduce me to a little heap of dust intwo minutes, and no one any the wiser! Thank you! The sensational presshas been pretty full lately of men's brutalities to women,--and I've nointention of adding myself to the list of victims! Men ARE brutes! Theywere born brutes, and brutes they will remain!"

  "Then you don't like him?" persisted Lydia, moved, in spite of herself,by curiosity, and also by a vague wonder at the strange brilliancy ofcomplexion and eyes which gave to Morgana a beauty quite unattainableby features only--"You're not set on him?"

  Morgana held up a finger.

  "Listen!" she said--"Isn't that a lovely valse? Doesn't the music seemto sweep round and tie us all up in a garland of melody! How far, farabove all these twirling human microbes it is!--as far as heaven fromearth! If we could really obey the call of that music we should rise onwings and fly to such wonderful worlds!--as it is, we can only hopround and round like motes in a sunbeam and imagine we are enjoyingourselves for an hour or two! But the music means so much more!" Shepaused, enrapt;--then in a lighter tone went on--"And you think I wouldmarry? I would not marry an emperor if there were one worthhaving--which there isn't!--and as for Roger Seaton, I certainly am not'set' on him as you so elegantly put it! And he's not 'set' on me.We're both 'set' on something else!"

  She was standing near an open window as she spoke, and she looked up atthe dark purple sky sprinkled with stars. She continued slowly, andwith emphasis--

  "I might--possibly I might--have helped him to that something else--ifI had not discovered something more!"

  She lifted her hand with a commanding gesture as thoughunconsciously,--then let it drop at her side. Lydia Herbert looked ather perplexedly.

  "You talk so very strangely!" she said.

  Morgana smiled.

  "Yes, I know I do!" she admitted--"I am what old Scotswomen call 'fey'!You know I was born away in the Hebrides,--my father was a poor herderof sheep at one time before he came over to the States. I was only ababy when I was carried away from the islands of mist and rain--but Iwas 'fey' from my birth--"

  "What is fey?" interrupted Miss Herbert.

  "It's just everything that everybody else is NOT"--Morganareplied--"'Fey' people are magic people; they see what no one elsesees,--they hear voices that no one else hears--voices that whispersecrets and tell of wonders as yet undiscovered--" She broke offsuddenly. "We must not stay talking here"--she resumed-"All the folkswill say we are planning the bridesmaids' dresses and that the very dayof the ceremony is fixed! But you can be sure that I am not going tomarry anybody--least of all Roger Seaton!"

  "You like him though! I can see you like him!"

  "Of course I like him! He's a human magnet,--he 'draws'! You flytowards him as if he were a bit of rubbed sealing-wax and you a snippetof paper! But you soon drop off! Oh, that valse! Isn't it entrancing!"

  And, swinging herself round lightly like a bell-flower in a breeze shedanced off alone and vanished in the crowd of her guests.

  Lydia Herbert recalled this conversation now, as she stood looking fromthe vine-clad verandah of her hotel towards the sea, and again saw, asin a vision, the face and eyes of her "fey" friend,--a face by no meansbeautiful in feature, but full of a sparkling attraction which wasalmost irresistible.

  "Nothing in her!" had declared New York society generally--"Except hermoney! And her hair--but not even that unless she lets it down!"

  Lydia had seen it so "let down," once, and only once, and the sight ofsuch a glistening rope of gold had fairly startled her.

  "All your own?" she had g
asped.

  And with a twinkling smile, and comic hesitation of manner Morgana hadanswered.

  "I--I THINK it is! It seems so! I don't believe it will come off unlessyou pull VERY hard!"

  Lydia had not pulled hard, but she had felt the soft rippling massfalling from head to far below the knee, and had silently envied theowner its possession.

  "It's a great bother," Morgana declared--"I never know what to do withit. I can't dress it 'fashionably' one bit, and when I twist it up it'sso fine it goes into nothing and never looks the quantity it is.However, we must all have our troubles!--with some it's teeth--withothers it's ankles--we're never QUITE all right! The thing is to endurewithout complaining!"

  "And this curious creature who talked "so very strangely," possessedmillions of money! Her father, who had arrived in the States from thewildest north of Scotland with practically not a penny, had so gatheredand garnered every opportunity that came in his way that everyinvestment he touched seemed to turn to five times its first valueunder his fingers. When his wife died very soon after his wealth beganto accumulate, he was beset by women of beauty and position eager totake her place, but he was adamant against all their blandishments andremained a widower, devoting his entire care to the one child he hadbrought with him as an infant from the Highland hills, and to whom hegave a brilliant but desultory and uncommon education. Life seemed toswirl round him in a glittering ring of gold of which he made himselfthe centre,--and when he died suddenly "from overstrain" as the doctorssaid, people were almost frightened to name the vast fortune hisdaughter inherited, accustomed as they were to the counting of manymillions. And now---?"

  "California!" mused Lydia--"Sam Gwent thinks she has gone there afterRoger Seaton. But what can be her object if she doesn't care for him?It's far more likely she's started for Sicily--she's having a palacebuilt there for her small self to live in 'all by her lonesome'! Well!She can afford it!"

  And with a short sigh she let go her train of thought and left theverandah,--it was time to change her costume and prepare "effects" todazzle and bewilder the uncertain mind of a crafty old Croesus who,having freely enjoyed himself as a bachelor up to his present age ofseventy-four, was now looking about for a young strong woman to managehis house and be a nurse and attendant for him in his declining years,for which service, should she be suitable, he would concede to her thename of "wife" in order to give stability to her position. And LydiaHerbert herself was privately quite aware of his views. Moreover shewas entirely willing to accommodate herself to them for the sake ofriches and a luxurious life, and the "settlement" she meant to insistupon if her plans ripened to fulfilment. She had no great ambitions;few women of her social class have. To be well housed, well fed andwell clothed, and enabled to do the fashionable round withouthindrance--this was all she sought, and of romance, sentiment, emotionor idealism she had none. Now and again she caught the flash of athought in her brain higher than the level of material needs, butdismissed it more quickly than it came as--"Ridiculous! Absolutenonsense! Like Morgana!"

  And to be like Morgana, meant to be like what cynics designate "animpossible woman,"--independent of opinions and therefore "notunderstood of the people."