The Secret Power. Marie Corelli

CHAPTER V

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      That evening at sunset Manella made her way towards the hill and the "House of the Dying," moved by she knew not what strange impulse. She had no excuse whatever for going; she knew that the man living up there in whom she was so much interested had as much food for three days as he asked for or desired, and that he was likely to be vexed at the very sight of her. Yet she had an eager wish to tell him something about the wonderful little creature with lightning eyes who had left the Plaza that morning and had told her, Manella, that she was "quite beautiful." Pride, and an innocent feminine vanity thrilled her; "if another woman thinks so, it must be so,"—she argued, being aware that women seldom admire each other. She walked swiftly, with head bent,—and was brought to a startled halt by meeting and almost running against the very individual she sought, who in his noiseless canvas shoes and with his panther-like tread had come upon her unawares. Checked in her progress she stood still, her eyes quickly lifted, her lips apart. In her adoration of the strength and magnificent physique of the stranger whom she knew only as a stranger, she thought he looked splendid as a god descending from the hill. Far from feeling god-like, he frowned as he saw her.

      "Where are you going?" he demanded, brusquely.

      The rich colour warmed her cheeks to a rose-red that matched the sunset.

      "I was going—to see if you—if you wanted anything"—she stammered, almost humbly.

      "You know I do not"—he said—"You can spare yourself the trouble."

      She drew herself up with a slight air of offence.

      "If you want nothing why do you come down into the valley?" she asked. "You say you hate the Plaza!"

      "I do!" and he spoke almost vindictively—"But, at the moment, there's some one there I want to see."

      Her black eyes opened inquisitively.

      "A man?"

      "No. Strange to say, a woman."

      A sudden light flashed on her mind.

      "I know!" she exclaimed—"But you will not see her! She has gone!"

      "What do you mean?" he asked, impatiently—"What do you know?"

      "Oh, I know nothing!" and there was a sobbing note of pathos in her voice—"But I feel HERE!"—and she pressed her hands against her bosom—"something tells me that you have seen HER—the little wonderful white woman, sweetly perfumed like a rose,—with her silks and jewels and her fairy car!—and her golden hair... ah!—you said you hated a woman with golden hair! Is that the woman you hate?"

      He stood looking at her with an amused, half scornful expression.

      "Hate is too strong a word"—he answered—"She isn't worth hating!"

      Her brows contracted in a frown.

      "I do not believe THAT!"—she said—"You are not speaking truly. More likely it is, I think, you love her!"

      He caught her roughly by the arm.

      "Stop that!" he exclaimed, angrily—"You are foolish and insolent! Whether I love or hate anybody or anything is no affair of yours! How dare you speak to me as if it were!"

      She shrank away from him. Her lips quivered, and tears welled through her lashes.

      "Forgive me! ... oh, forgive!" she murmured, pleadingly—"I am sorry!..."

      "So you ought to be!" he retorted—"You—Manella—imagine yourself in love with me ... yes, you do!—and you cannot leave me alone! No amorous man ever cadged round for love as much or as shamelessly as an amorous woman! Then you see another woman on the scene, and though she's nothing but a stray visitor at the Plaza where you help wash up the plates and dishes, you suddenly conceive a lot of romantic foolery in your head and imagine me to be mysteriously connected with her! Oh, for God's sake don't cry! It's the most awful bore! There's nothing to cry for. You've set me up like a sort of doll in a shrine and you want to worship me—well!—I simply won't be worshipped. As for your 'little wonderful white woman sweetly perfumed like a rose,' I don't mind saying that I know her. And I don't mind also telling you that she came up the hill last night to ferret me out."

      Step by step Manella drew nearer, her eyes blazing.

      "She went to see you?—She did THAT!—In the darkness?—like a thief or a serpent!"

      He laughed aloud.

      "No thief and no serpent in it!" he said—"And no darkness, but in the full light of the moon! Such a moon it was, too! A regular stage moon! A perfect setting for such an actress, in her white gown and her rope of gold hair! Yes—it was very well planned!—effective in its way, though it left me cold!"

      "Ah, but it did NOT leave you cold!" cried Manella; "Else you would not have come down to see her to-day! You say she went 'to ferret you out'—"

      "Of course she did"—he interrupted her—"She would ferret out any man she wanted for the moment. Forests could not hide him,—caves could not cover him if she made up her mind to find him. I had hoped she would not find ME—but she has—however,—you say she has gone—"

      The colour had fled from Manella's face,—she was pale and rigid.

      "She will come back," she said stiffly.

      "I hope not!" And he threw himself carelessly down on the turf to rest—"Come and sit beside me here and tell me what she said to you!"

      But Manella was silent. Her dark, passionate eyes rested upon him with a world of scorn and sorrow in their glowing depths.

      "Come!" he repeated—"Don't stare at me as if I were some new sort of reptile!"

      "I think you are!" she said, coldly—"You seem to be a man, but you have not the feelings of a man!"

      "Oh, have I not!" and he gave a light gesture of indifference—"I have the feelings of a modern man,—the 'Kultur' of a perfect super-German! Yes, that is so! Sentiment is the mere fly-trap of sensuality—the feeler thrust out to scent the prey, but once the fly is caught, the trap closes. Do you understand? No, of course you don't! You are a dreadfully primitive woman!"

      "I did not think you were German," she said.

      "Nor did I!" and he laughed—"Nor am I. I said just now that I had the 'Kultur' of a super-German—and a super-German means something above every other male creature except himself. He cannot get away from himself—nor can I! That's the trouble! Come, obey me, Manella! Sit down here beside me!"

      Very slowly and very reluctantly she did as he requested. She sat on the grass some three or four paces off. He stretched out a hand to touch her, but she pushed it back very decidedly. He smiled.

      "I mustn't make love to you this morning, eh?" he queried. "All right! I don't want to make love—it doesn't interest me—I only want to put you in a good temper! You are like a rumpled pussy-cat—your fur must be stroked the right way."

      "YOU will not stroke it so!" said Manella, disdainfully.

      "No?"

      "No. Never again!"

      "Oh, dire tragedy!" And he stretched himself out on the turf with his arms above his head—"But what does it matter! Give me your news, silly child! What did the 'little wonderful white woman' say to you?"

      "You want to know?"

      "I think so! I am conscious of a certain barbaric spirit of curiosity, like that of a savage who sees a photograph of himself for the first time! Yes! I want to know what the modern feminine said to the primitive!"

      Manella gave an impatient gesture.

      "I