Daybreak; A Romance of an Old World Part 22

"No, Avis," I said, "I am not afraid, but I would like to recall something of the sensation of our first descent into the moon, when we were led, as you know, by the sound of beautiful music. And then, as we near the end, Mona may hear you, and that would be a more gentle introduction than if we should burst upon her unannounced. I know she is not subject to fear or the usual emotions to which I have been accustomed on the earth, but still I think she would like to have us come back to her heralded by your n.o.ble song."

Seeing how serious I was in the matter, Avis promised to do as I wished, only suggesting that all the rest should join her from time to time. So, without any unpleasant incident, we traversed the long pa.s.sage, walking rapidly by the aid of the light and conversing about our interesting situation. It was a rare and pleasing experience for the doctor and me to be showing these wise Martians something new, and we enjoyed the novel sensation of watching their excitement. The fact that we could so satisfactorily entertain our friends after their own fashion with us was something long to be remembered.

But not another one of all the company had the intensity of feeling which filled my breast. Knowing that every downward step was leading me rapidly toward a determination of my fate, I could scarcely control my emotions. Either I was soon to find my heart's life and be raised to the highest pinnacle of happiness, or I was to undergo a disappointment from which I might not recover. For if Mona was not here, where could I look for her? Could I ever regain my hopeful spirits if I should lose her now? I tried to crowd out these dark forebodings by thinking of my love and trying to picture the scene in the midst of which we should discover her.

At length we were drawing near the end. The path was growing wider, which proved to the doctor and me that we should soon emerge into the open village. Indeed, a faint gleam of light was beginning to be seen far in the front. We now pushed on more rapidly, and as we approached the exit Avis was singing at her highest pitch. She stopped suddenly, and then a low and distant strain came to us, sweet even to the ears of our cultured friends from Mars. My heart beat wildly as Thorwald, who was close behind us, exclaimed:

"Hark, hear the echo!"

"Ho!" I cried, "that's not an echo. That's the original, and Avis is the echo. Sing out again, Avis."

A loud, clear note trembled on the air, and brought back to our straining sense, not a repet.i.tion of itself but a s.n.a.t.c.h of varied melody which showed it to be no echo, although evidently an answer.

There have been few moments in my life more crowded with happiness than that one. And it was not a pa.s.sive feeling of enjoyment, but one that spurred me to action. The swift pace which we had all by this time reached was now too slow for me. Seized again by the same fierce pa.s.sion which took possession of me at my first acquaintance with Mona's voice, I started in her direction on a run, flinging aside everything that might impede me, so overmastered was I by my desire to see her.

But my unreasonable haste brought me a grievous reward. I leaped over the ground with great rapidity for a few minutes, and then, stepping on a treacherous stone, turned my ankle and fell heavily to the ground, my head, thrust forward in running, being the first point of contact with the cruel rocks.

I returned to consciousness by degrees. My faithful ears were, as usual, the first friends to renew acquaintance with me, and the sound they brought was so soothing that I wished for nothing more than to remain as I was, ears only, and listen to it forever. But this was impossible, as I was slowly recovering my other senses and becoming a thinking being once more. I now recognized the pleasant sound as the music of a familiar voice; yes, it was Mona's voice in conversation. I was sure of that, but it seemed so natural that I was not startled. I felt that I must remain perfectly quiet, or the spell would be broken and the music cease. Then I began to wonder where I was and who were with me. I recalled the circ.u.mstances of our descent into the moon and my fall as I was running to meet Mona. My mind was active, but I feared that I was physically weak, for I did not seem to have even a desire to move. I wanted to see the face of the dear girl, and it is remarkable that I did not open my eyes at once and call her by name. But I was not in a natural state. The feeling was not sufficiently strong to move me to action. I was just conscious enough to be pa.s.sively happy, content to lie there quietly and enjoy one thing at a time.

Hitherto I had not tried to distinguish the words, so satisfied was I with the exquisite tones, but now my attention was compelled by this yellow expression:

"So I understand you to say he would not give me up as lost?"

It was the pink voice of Zenith that answered:

"No, indeed. He never faltered in his faith that you would be found. You owe it to him that you can soon leave this worn-out world with us, and we are indebted to him for giving us such a dear friend."

"And he admired my singing?" said Mona in a questioning tone.

"Yes, and everything pertaining to you. He never tired of rehearsing your perfections, and the doctor tells us he loved you from the very first. He certainly seems most devoted to you. I hope, my dear, that you love him."

I was now recovered enough to feel some compunctions about listening further to this conversation, but that is not saying that I had any great desire to stop listening. I knew that in Mona's answer to Zenith's implied question lay my fate, and my moral doubts were not strong enough to make me do anything to keep it back. It has been said on the earth that people who surrept.i.tiously hear themselves spoken of are never pleased, but things must be quite different inside the moon, for, without a shadow of hesitation and in the sweetest air that ever floated from her lips, came Mona's answer:

"Love him? Certainly I love him. Why should I not? I loved him when he was here before, and I should be very ungrateful if I did not care a great deal more for him when I know what he has done for me, and that he now lies here suffering for my sake."

"Oh, Mona," I said to myself, "if this be suffering, let me never know happiness."

Zenith began to speak again, when she was interrupted by the opening of a door. I heard someone walk towards me, and then the doctor's voice broke the silence.

"How is he, Mona? Is there any change?"

"No," replied my beloved, "he hasn't stirred nor shown a sign of consciousness. Cannot something more be done for him?"

I was becoming a little hardened in my guilt by this time, and, although my strength seemed now to be returning to me, I decided to keep still yet longer and hear what words of wisdom the doctor would utter on my case.

"I know of nothing that can be done," he said. "He received no injury except the wound on his head, and that, apparently, is not serious.

Time is the great healer in such cases. My chief fear is that when he recovers consciousness we will find his memory is defective, as it was after his plunge into your ocean, Zenith. He will doubtless forget how we ever got into this strange place, and I am almost sure he will not recognize Mona, for that was the direction in which he failed before."

"But you forget," said Zenith, "that Mona herself will be here to sing for him."

"I fear not even that will recall his wandering wits this time. You know he is more badly hurt than before. I dislike to cause you pain, Mona, but I must be frank and tell you that our friend will probably never know you again."

One would naturally expect Mona to have burst into tears at this hopeless prospect, but instead of that she sang out, as joyously as ever:

"Never mind me, Doctor. Only restore him to health and happiness, and it will be of little moment whether he remembers me or not. No one knows better than you do that I am always happy, that's why I am singing all the time."

Such unselfishness as this was more than I could appreciate, and rather more, I thought, than was called for by the circ.u.mstances. How could she love me so, and still not care if I never were to know her again? Was she the same Mona, after all, who had so provokingly eluded my love during my former visit? These reflections caused me to decide to come to life, and claim her as mine before she resigned all her interest in me.

So, opening my eyes and looking in her face, I said, as quietly as possible:

"I do remember you, dear Mona, and shall never forget you. Doctor, you see your science has proved false again."

"And glad indeed I am that it has," he rejoined, "since it is so greatly to our advantage."

Then they all gathered around me, and called the others to a general rejoicing over my sudden recovery. My physical injury was but slight, and it was not long before my stupor was entirely gone and I was moving about again. Aside from the finding of Mona, many other things in this place of her abode interested the different members of our party. All were jubilant over the new opportunities for study and investigation, and they promised themselves the pleasure of many more visits to the place in the future. They had now seen enough for once, and all wanted to join in the agreeable task of escorting Mona to Mars and introducing her there. So, without more delay, we ascended to the surface once more, found our air ships in good order, and soon sailed away, leaving the moon without an inhabitant.

Our friends from the antipodes landed with us, and remained some days before reembarking for home.

During our voyage down there was a general agreement to give me plenty of opportunity to remain in Mona's immediate company, though no one seemed to think we need feel at all embarra.s.sed when our conversation was overheard by others.

"Mona," I said, "were you glad to see our relief party when they arrived?"

"I was indeed," she replied, "and yet I was as happy as a bird, living there all by myself and singing for my own amus.e.m.e.nt the whole day long."

"It is an astonishing thing to me," I continued, "that after the doctor and I had left you so unceremoniously you could go back to your lonely home and be happy there."

"Why, did you think I would mourn for you?"

"Well, yes, I think that would be natural, considering something I know."

"Oh, I should like to hear what you know."

"If I tell you, I shall have to make a confession."

"What is a confession, and how can you make one? Have you anything to make it of?"

"Oh, yes," I replied, laughing. "A confession is an acknowledgment that one has done something wrong, and should be made to the person to whom the wrong has been done."

"Well," said Mona, "if that is it, I am sure I shall never have to make one, for I have never done anything wrong."

This agreed so well with my conception of her that I did not then take in the full meaning of her words, but said in reply:

"But I have, and this is one thing when you were talking to Zenith about me and thought I was unconscious I was recovering, and lay quite still so as to hear what you said."

"And did I say anything to displease you?"

"No, indeed; you said you loved me, and it made me very happy."

"Oh, I remember now. Zenith said she hoped I loved you, and I told her I did. I have always loved you, of course, but I don't see how that can make you happy."