"And now you have attained your object, what is the use of it?" said
Don Aloysius.
The priest was pacing slowly up and down the old half-ruined cloister
of an old half-ruined monastery, and beside his stately, black-robed
figure moved the small aerial form of Morgana, clad in summer garments
of pure white, her golden head uncovered to the strong Sicilian
sunshine which came piercing in sword-like rays through the arches of
the cloister, and filtered among the clustering leaves which hung in
cool twining bunches from every crumbling grey pillar of stone.
"What is the use of it?" he repeated, his calm eyes resting gravely on
the little creature gliding sylph-like beside him. "Suppose your
invention out-reaped every limit of known possibility--suppose your
air-ship to be invulnerable, and surpassing in speed and safety
everything ever experienced,--suppose it could travel to heights
unimaginable, what then? Suppose even that you could alight on another
star--another world than this--what purpose is served?--what peace is
gained?--what happens?"
Morgana stopped abruptly in her walk beside him.
"I have not worked for peace or happiness,"--she said and there was a
thrill of sadness in her voice--"because to my mind neither peace nor
happiness exist. From all we can see, and from the little we can learn,
I think the Maker of the universe never meant us to be happy or
peaceful. All Nature is at strife with itself, incessantly labouring
for such attainment as can hardly be won,--all things seem to be
haunted by fear and sorrow. And yet it seems to me that there are
remedies for most of our evils in the very composition of the
elements--if we were not ignorant and stupid enough to discourage our
discoverers on the verge of discovery. My application of a certain
substance, known to scientists, but scarcely understood, is an attempt
to solve the problem of swift aerial motion by light and heat--light
and heat being the chiefest supports of life. To use a force giving out
light and heat continuously seemed to me the way to create and command
equally continuous movement. I have--I think and hope--fairly
succeeded, and in order to accomplish my design I have used wealth that
would not have been at the service of most inventors,--wealth which my
father left to me quite unconditionally,--but were I able to fly with
my 'White Eagle' to the remotest parts of the Milky Way itself, I
should not look to find peace or happiness!"
"Why?"
The priest's simple query had a note of tender pity in it. Morgana
looked up at him with a little smile, but her eyes were tearful.
"Dear Don Aloysius, how can I tell 'why'? Nobody is really happy, and I
cannot expect to have what is denied to the whole world!"
Aloysius resumed his slow walk to and fro, and she kept quiet pace with
him.
"Have you ever thought what happiness is?" he asked, then--"Have you
ever felt it for a passing moment?"
"Yes"--she answered quickly--"But only at rare intervals--oh so rare!..."
"Poor little rich child!" he said, kindly--"Tell me some of those
'intervals'! Cannot they be repeated? Let us sit here"--and he moved
towards a stone bench which fronted an ancient disused well in the
middle square of the cloistered court,--a well round which a crimson
passion-flower twined in a perfect arch of blossom--"What was the first
'interval'?"
He sat down, and the sunshine sent a dazzling ray on the silver
crucifix he wore, giving it the gleam of a great jewel. Morgana took
her seat beside him.
"Interval one!" he said, playfully--"What was this little lady's first
experience of happiness? When she played with her dolls?"
"No, oh no!" cried Morgana, with sudden energy--"That was anything but
happiness! I hated dolls!--abominable little effigies!"
Don Aloysius raised his eyebrows in surprise and amusement.
"Horrid little stuffed things of wood and wax and saw-dust!" continued
Morgana, emphatically--"With great beads for eyes--or eyes made to look
like beads--and red cheeks,--and red lips with a silly smile on them!
Of course they are given to girl-children to encourage the 'maternal
instinct' as it is called--to make them think of babies,--but _I_ never
had any 'maternal instinct'!--and real babies have always seemed to me
as uninteresting as sham ones!"
"Dear child, you were a baby yourself once!"--said Aloysius gently.
A shadow swept over her face.
"Do you think I was?" she queried meditatively--"I cannot imagine it! I
suppose I must have been, but I never remember being a child at all. I
had no children to play with me--my father suspected all children of
either disease or wickedness, and imagined I would catch infection of
body or of soul by association with them. I was always
alone--alone!--yet not lonely!" She broke off a moment, and her eyes
grew dark with the intensity of her thought "No--never lonely! And the
very earliest 'interval' of happiness I can recall was when I first saw
the inside of a sun-ray!"
Don Aloysius turned to look at her, but said nothing. She laughed.
"Dear Father Aloysius, what a wise priest you are! Not a word falls
from those beautifully set lips of yours! If you were a fool--(so many
men are!) you would have repeated my phrase, 'the inside of a sun-ray,'
with an accent of scornful incredulity, and you would have stared at me
with all a fool's contempt! But you are not a fool,--you know or you
perceive instinctively exactly what I mean. The inside of a
sun-ray!--it was disclosed to me suddenly--a veritable miracle! I have
seen it many times since, but not with all the wonder and ecstasy of
the first revelation. I was so young, too! I told a renowned professor
at one of the American colleges just what I saw, and he was so amazed
and confounded at my description of rays that had taken the best
scientists years to discover, that he begged to be allowed to examine
my eyes! He thought there must be something unusual about them. In fact
there IS!--and after his examination he seemed more puzzled than ever.
He said something about 'an exceptionally strong power of vision,' but
frankly admitted that power of vision alone would not account for it.
Anyhow I plainly saw all the rays within one ray--there were seven. The
ray itself was--or so I fancied--the octave of colour. I was little
more than a child when this 'interval' of happiness--PERFECT
happiness!--was granted to me--I felt as if a window had been opened
for me to look through it into heaven!"
"Do you believe in heaven?" asked Aloysius, suddenly.
She hesitated.
"I used to,--in those days. As I have just said I was only a child, and
heaven was a real place to me,--even the angels were real presences--"
"And you have lost them now?"
She gave a little gesture of resignation.
"They left me"--she answered--"I did not lose them. They simply went."
He was silent. His fine, calm features expressed a certain grave
patience, but nothing more.
She resumed--
"That was my first experience of real 'happiness.' Till then I had
lived the usual monotonous life of childhood, doing what I was told,
and going whither I was taken, but the disclosure of the sun-ray was a
key to individuality, and seemed to unlock my prison doors. I began to
think for myself, and to find my own character as a creature apart from
others. My second experience was years after,--just when I left school
and when my father took me to see the place where I was born, in the
north of Scotland. Oh, it is such a wild corner of the world! Beautiful
craggy hills and dark, deep lakes--rough moorlands purple with heather
and such wonderful skies at sunset! The cottage where my father had
lived as a boy when he herded sheep is still there--I have bought it
for myself now,--it is a little stone hut of three rooms,--and another
one about a mile off where he took my mother to live, and where I came
into the world!--I have bought that too. Yes--I felt a great thrill of
happiness when I stood there knee-deep among the heather, my father
clasping my hand, and looking, with me, on those early scenes of his
boyhood when he had scarcely a penny to call his own! Yet HE was
sad!--very sad! and told me then that he would give all his riches to
feel as light of heart and free from care as he did in those old days!
And then--then we went to see old Alison--" Here she broke off,--a
strange light came into her eyes and she smiled a little. "I think I
had better not tell you about old Alison!" she said.
"Why not?" and Don Aloysius returned her smile. "If old Alison has
anything to do with your happiness I should like to hear."
"Well, you see, you are a priest," went on Morgana, slowly, "and she is
a witch. Oh yes, truly!--a real witch! There is no one in all that part
of the Highlands that does not know of her, and the power she has! She
is very, very old--some folks say she is more than a hundred. She knew
my father and grandfather--she came to my father's cottage the night I
was born, and said strange things about a 'May child'--I was born in
May. We went--as I tell you--to see her, and found her spinning. She
looked up from her wheel as we entered--but she did not seem surprised
at our coming. Her eyes were very bright--not like the eyes of an old
person. She spoke to my father at once--her voice was very clear and
musical. 'Is it you, John Royal?' she said--'and you have brought your
fey lass along with you!' That was the first time I ever heard the word
'fey.' I did not understand it then."
"And do you understand it now?" asked Aloysius.
"Yes"--she replied,--"I understand it now! It is a wonderful thing to
be born 'fey'! But it is a kind of witchcraft,--and you would be
displeased--"
"At what should I be displeased?" and the priest bent his eyes very
searchingly upon her--"At the fact,--which none can disprove,--that
'there are things in heaven and earth' which are beyond our immediate
knowledge? That there are women strangely endowed with premonitory
instincts land preternatural gifts? Dear child, there is nothing in all
this that can or could displease me! My faith--the faith of my
Church--is founded on the preternatural endowment of a woman!"
She lifted her eyes to his, and a little sigh came from her lips.
"Yes, I know what you mean!"--she said--"But I am sure you cannot
possibly realise the weird nature of old Alison! She made me stand
before her, just where the light of the sun streamed through the open
doorway, and she looked at me for a long time with such a steady
piercing glance that I felt as if her eyes were boring through my
flesh. Then she got up from her spinning and pushed away the wheel, and
stretched out both her hands towards me, crying out in quite a strange,
wild voice--'Morgana! Morgana! Go your ways, child begotten of the sun
and shower!--go your ways! Little had mortal father or mother to do
with your making, for you are of the fey folk! Go your ways with your
own people!--you shall hear them whispering in the night and singing in
the morning,--and they shall command you and you shall obey!--they
shall beckon and you shall follow! Nothing of mortal flesh and blood
shall hold you--no love shall bind you,--no hate shall wound you!--the
clue is given into your hand,--the secret is disclosed--and the spirits
of air and fire and water have opened a door that you may enter in!
Hark!--I can hear their voices calling "Morgana! Morgana!" Go your
ways, child!--go hence and far!--the world is too small for your
wings!' She looked so fierce and grand and terrible that I was
frightened--I was only a girl of sixteen, and I ran to my father and
caught his hand. He spoke quite gently to Alison, but she seemed quite
beyond herself and unable to listen. 'Your way lies down a different
road, John Royal'--she said--'You that herded sheep on these hills and
that now hoard millions of money--of what use to you is your wealth?
You are but the worker,--gathering gold for HER--the "fey" child born
in an hour of May moonlight! You must go, but she must stay,--her own
folk have work for her to do!' Then my father said, 'Dear Alison, don't
frighten the child!' and she suddenly changed in her tone and manner.
'Frighten her?' she muttered. 'I would not frighten her for the world!'
And my father pushed me towards her and whispered--'Ask her to bless
you before you go.' So I just knelt before her, trembling very much,
and said, 'Dear Alison, bless me!'--and she stared at me and lifted her
old brown wrinkled hands and laid them on my head. Then she spoke some
words in a strange language as to herself, and afterwards she said,
'Spirit of all that is and ever shall be, bless this child who belongs
to thee, and not to man! Give her the power to do what is commanded, to
the end.' And at this she stopped suddenly and bending down she lifted
my head in her two hands and looked at me hard--'Poor child, poor
child! Never a love for you--never a love! Alone you are, alone you
must be! Never a love for a "fey" woman!' And she let me go, and sat
down again to her spinning-wheel, nor would she say another
word--neither to me nor to my father."
"And you call THIS your second experience of happiness?" said Don
Aloysius, wonderingly--"What happiness did you gain by your interview
with this old Alison?"
"Ah!" and Morgana smiled--"You would not understand me if I tried to
explain! Everything came to me!--yes, everything! I began to live in a
world of my own--" she paused, and her eyes grew dark and pensive, "and
I have lived in it ever since. That is why I say my visit to old Alison
was my second experience of happiness. I've seen her again many times
since then, but not with quite the same impression."
"She is alive still?"
"Oh, yes! I often fancy she will never die!"
There was a silence of some minutes. Morgana rose, and crossing over to
the old well, studied the crimson passion-flowers which twined about
it, with almost loving scrutiny.
"How beautiful they are!" she said--"And they seem to serve no purpose
save that of simple beauty!"
"That is enough for many of God's creatures"--said Aloysius--"To give
joy and re-create joy is the mission of perfection."
She looked at him wistfully.
"Alas, poor me!" she sighed--"I can neither give joy nor create it!"
"Not even with all your wealth?"
"Not even with all my wealth!" she echoed. "Surely you--a priest--know
what a delusion wealth really is so far as happiness goes?--mere
happiness? course you can buy everything with it--and there's the
trouble! When everything is bought there's nothing left! And if you try
to help the poor they resent it--they think you are doing it because
you are afraid of them! Perhaps the worst of all things to do is to
help artists--artists of every kind!--for THEY say you want to
advertise yourself as a 'generous patron'! Oh, I've tried it all and
it's no use. I was just crazy to help all the scientists,--once!--but
they argued and quarrelled so much as to which 'society' deserved most
money that I dropped the whole offer, and started 'scientising' myself.
There is one man I tried to lift out of his brain-bog,--but he would
have none of me, and he is still in his bog!"
"Oh! There is one man!" said Aloysius, with a smile.
"Yes, good father!" And Morgana left the passion-flowers and moved
slowly back to her seat on the stone-bench--"There is one man! He was
my third and last experience of happiness. When I first met him, my
whole heart gave itself in one big pulsation--but like a wave of the
sea, the pulsation recoiled, and never again beat on the grim rock of
human egoism!" She laughed gaily, and a delicate colour flushed her
face. "But I was happy while the 'wave' lasted,--and when it broke, I
still played on the shore with its pretty foam-bells."
"You loved this man?" and the priest's grave eyes dwelt on her
searchingly.
"I suppose so--for the moment! Yet no,--it was not love--it was just an
'attraction'--he was--he IS--clever, and thinks he can change the face
of the world. But he is fooling with fire! I tell you I tried to help
him--for he is deadly poor. But he would have none of me nor of what he
calls my 'vulgar wealth.' This is a case in point where wealth is
useless! You see?"
Don Aloysius was silent.
"Then"--Morgana went on--"Alison is right. The witchery of the Northern
Highlands is in my blood,--never a love for me--alone I am--alone I
must be!--never a love for a 'fey' woman!"
Over the priest's face there passed a quiver as of sudden pain.
"You wrong yourself, my child"--he said, slowly--"You wrong yourself
very greatly! You have a power of which you appear to be unconscious--a
great, a terrible power!--you compel interest--you attract the love of
others even if you yourself love no one--you draw the very soul out of
a man--"
He paused, abruptly.
Morgana raised her eyes,--the blue lightning gleam flashed in their
depths.
"Ah, yes!" she half whispered--"I know I have THAT power!"
Don Aloysius rose to his feet.
"Then,--if you know it,--in God's name do not exercise it!" he said.
His voice shook--and with his right hand he gripped the crucifix he
wore as though it were a weapon of self-defence. Morgana looked at him
wonderingly for a moment,--then drooped her head with a strange little
air of sudden penitence. Aloysius drew a quick sharp breath as of one
in effort,--then he spoke again, unsteadily--
"I mean"--he said, smiling forcedly--"I mean that you should not--you
should not break the heart of--of--the poor Giulio for instance!... it
would not be kind."
She lifted her eyes again and fixed them on him.
"No, it would not be kind!" she said, softly--"Dear Don Aloysius, I
understand! And I will remember!" She glanced at a tiny diamond-set
watch-bracelet on her wrist--"How late it is!--nearly all the morning
gone! I have kept you so long listening to my talk--forgive me! I will
run away now and leave you to think about my 'intervals' of
happiness,--will you?--they are so few compared to yours!"
"Mine?" he echoed amazedly.
"Yes, indeed!--yours! Your whole life is an interval of happiness
between this world and the next, because you are satisfied in the
service of God!"
"A poor service!" he said, turning his gaze away from her elfin figure
and shining hair--"Unworthy,--shameful!--marred by sin at every moment!
A priest of the Church must learn to do without happiness such as
ordinary life can give--and without love,--such as woman may
give--but--after all--the sacrifice is little."
She smiled at him, sweetly--tenderly,
"Very little!" she said--"So little that it is not worth a regret!
Good-bye! But not for long! Come and see me soon!"
Moving across the cloister with her light step she seemed to float
through the sunshine like a part of it, and as she disappeared a kind
of shadow fell, though no cloud obscured the sun. Don Aloysius watched
her till she had vanished,--then turned aside into a small chapel
opening out on the cloistered square--a chapel which formed part of the
monastic house to which he belonged as Superior,--and there, within
that still, incense-sweetened sanctuary, he knelt before the noble,
pictured Head of the Man of Sorrows in silent confession and prayer.