The Secret Power. Marie Corelli
youth nothing could become tiresome—youth knows no ennui."
Some of the other listeners to the conversation laughed.
"I cannot quite agree to that"—said a lady who had not yet spoken—"Nowadays the very children are 'bored' and ever looking for something new—it is just as if the world were 'played out'—and another form of planet expected."
"That is where we retain the vitality of our faith—" said Don Aloysius—"We expect—we hope! We believe in an immortal progress towards an ever Higher Good."
"But I think even a soul may grow tired!" said Morgana, suddenly—"so tired that even the Highest Good may seem hardly worth possessing!"
There was a moment's silence.
"Povera figlia!" murmured Aloysius, hardly above his breath,—but she caught the whisper, and smiled.
"I am too analytical and pessimistic," she said—"Let us all go for a ramble among the flowers and down to the sea! Nature is the best talker, for the very reason that she has no speech!"
The party broke up in twos and threes and left the loggia for the garden. Rivardi remained a moment behind, obeying a slight sign from Aloysius.
"She is not happy!" said the priest—"With all her wealth, and all her gifts of intelligence she is not happy, nor is she satisfied. Do you not find it so?"
"No woman is happy or satisfied till love has kissed her on the mouth and eyes!" answered Rivardi, with a touch of passion in his voice,—"But who will convince her of that? She is satisfied with her beautiful surroundings,—all the work I have designed for her has pleased her,—she has found no fault—"
"And she has paid you loyally!" interpolated Aloysius—"Do not forget that! She has made your fortune. And no doubt she expects you to stop at that and go no further in an attempt to possess herself as well as her millions!"
The Marchese flushed hotly under the quiet gaze of the priest's steady dark eyes.
"It is a great temptation," went on Aloysius, gently—"But you must resist it, my son! I know what it would mean to you—the restoration of your grand old home—that home which received a Roman Emperor in the long ago days of history and which presents now to your eyes so desolate a picture with its crumbling walls and decaying gardens beautiful in their wild desolation!—yes, I know all this!—I know how you would like to rehabilitate the ancient family and make the venerable genealogical tree sprout forth into fresh leaves and branches by marriage with this strange little creature whose vast wealth sets her apart in such loneliness,—but I doubt the wisdom or the honour of such a course—I also doubt whether she would make a fitting wife for you or for any man!"
The Marchese raised his eyebrows expressively with the slightest shrug of his shoulders.
"You may doubt that of every modern woman!" he said—"Few are really 'fitting' for marriage nowadays. They want something different—something new!—God alone knows what they want!"
Don Aloysius sighed.
"Aye! God alone knows! And God alone will decide what to give them!"
"It must be something more 'sensational' than husband and children!" said Rivardi a trifle bitterly—"Only a primitive woman will care for these!"
The priest laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Come, come! Do not be cynical, my son! I think with you that if anything can find an entrance to a woman's soul it is love—but the woman must be capable of loving. That is the difficulty with the little millionairess Royal. She is not capable!"
He uttered the last words slowly and with emphasis.
Rivardi gave him a quick searching glance.
"You seem to know that as a certainty"—he said, "How and why do you know it?"
Aloysius raised his eyes and looked straight ahead of him with a curious, far-off, yet searching intensity.
"I cannot tell you how or why"—he answered—"You would not believe me if I told you that sometimes in this wonderful world of ours, beings are born who are neither man nor woman, and who partake of a nature that is not so much human as elemental and ethereal—or might one not almost say, atmospheric? That is, though generated of flesh and blood, they are not altogether flesh and blood, but possess other untested and unproved essences mingled in their composition, of which as yet we can form no idea. We grope in utter ignorance of the greatest of mysteries—Life!—and with all our modern advancement, we are utterly unable to measure or to account for life's many and various manifestations. In the very early days of imaginative prophecy, the 'elemental' nature of certain beings was accepted by men accounted wise in their own time,—in the long ago discredited assertions of the Count de Gabalis and others of his mystic cult,—and I am not entirely sure that there does not exist some ground for their beliefs. Life is many-sided;—humanity can only be one facet of the diamond."
Giulio Rivardi had listened with surprised attention.
"You seem to imply then"—he said—"that this rich woman, Morgana Royal, is hardly a woman at all?—a kind of sexless creature incapable of love?"
"Incapable of the usual kind of so-called 'love'—yes!" answered Aloysius—"But of love in other forms I can say nothing, for I know nothing!—she may be capable of a passion deep and mysterious as life itself. But come!—we might talk all night and arrive no closer to the solving of this little feminine problem! You are fortunate in your vocation of artist and designer, to have been chosen by her to carry out her conceptions of structural and picturesque beauty—let the romance stay there!—and do not try to become the husband of a Sphinx!"
He smiled, resting his hand on the Marchese's shoulder with easy familiarity.
"See where she stands!" he continued,—and they both looked towards the beautiful flower-bordered terrace at the verge of the gardens overhanging the sea where for the moment Morgana stood alone, a small white figure bathed in the deep rose afterglow of the sunken sun—"Like a pearl dropped in a cup of red wine!—ready to dissolve and disappear!"
His voice had a strange thrill in it, and Giulio looked at him curiously.
"You admire her very much, my father!" he said, with a touch of delicate irony in his tone.
"I do, my son!" responded Aloysius, composedly, "But only as a poor priest may—at a distance!"
The Marchese glanced at him again quickly,—almost suspiciously—and seemed about to say something further, but checked himself,—and the two walked on to join their hostess, side by side together.
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