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It was late when the conversation closed, and Proctor said we were to spend the night with him of course, and in the morning he would take pleasure in introducing to us the other members of his household.
The residence buildings, beautiful and commodious structures, adjoined the observatory, and to each of us was given a separate apartment. After Proctor had left us, Thorwald came into my room a moment and I said to him:
"Proctor is a friend of yours, is he not?"
"Certainly," answered Thorwald, "what could he be but a friend? But then I never saw him before today."
"Is it possible? Are strangers always treated so hospitably?"
"I see nothing unusual in his treatment of us. We are always at perfect liberty to stay where ever night overtakes us, and it makes no difference with the quality of the hospitality whether the guests are acquaintances or not."
The memory of that night will remain with me many years. Before falling asleep I let my mind dwell on the singular circumstances in which we were placed and the strange manner of our leaving the earth. I had never experienced anything that seemed more real, and yet I could not make it appear quite reasonable that we were in truth living on the planet Mars. All I could say was that it was an instance where the facts were against the theory, and I knew that in such cases it was always safest to believe in the facts. I could distinctly remember each step of our journey, and there could be no mistake about our present understanding. What settled the question more firmly than ever was this thought: If we were not on Mars, where were we? We must be somewhere.
By the time I had disposed of all my doubts I was becoming drowsy, and then I began to think of the doctor and his unfortunate condition of mind. This malady would doubtless increase and I should have to look out for him, and at the same time fill the arduous position of the only sound representative of our race in Mars. I resolved to try once more to make my companion see how ridiculous his strange fancy was and realize the danger of clinging to it.
With this thought my brain lost coherence, and I passed over the invisible boundary into dreamland. It was a beautiful evening in summer. I was at home among my friends and we were sitting in the open air. The doctor was there, taking his turn with me in telling the story of our adventures. This went on till our listeners were tired out, and then one of the company gave a little variety to the occasion by singing a capital song.
Here the scene changed to the country. It was morning in the woods. The trees wore their spring foliage, bright flowers spread their beauty and fragrance around us, and the air was filled with the music of birds. The sweet notes of these songsters were by far the most vivid part of the dream. Now loud, now soft, the unbroken melody absorbed our attention and made it difficult for us to understand how our situation again gradually changed, until the air became piercingly cold, the cruel wind beat upon us furiously, and the violent elements seemed bent upon our destruction.
The doctor and I were alone, and the surroundings bore a strange resemblance to the inhospitable surface of the moon. But what are those sweet sounds still ringing in our ears? Sure no birds could live in such a wild place. No, it is not a bird's song. It is more like a human voice. I thought I had never before heard music so pure and rich. But wait—had I not heard something like it once before? There was a mystery about it that enhanced its sweetness. Now I was really thinking, for before I knew how it happened I found myself wide awake. The dream was over, but, oh! wonderful dream, the best of it remained. My sense of hearing, always acute, had waked long before and left my other faculties to slumber on and dream out the unreal accompaniments of a real voice. For now, with my eyes open and my mind released from sleep, I still heard that marvelous, half- familiar song.
Could I be deceived? I determined to know beyond a doubt that I was awake. I rose and, throwing on a dressing gown, turned up the light and walked about the room. I looked in the mirror to see if my eyes were open, and then ate a little fruit from a tempting dish that stood on the table. In one corner of the room was an elegant writing desk. I opened it, found its appointments complete, drew up a comfortable chair, and, choosing pen and paper, determined to record my impressions for future perusal, if by any means my memory should fail me. This is what I wrote:
"I, the undersigned, am in my private room in the house of Proctor, the astronomer, province of ——, planet Mars. It is about the middle of the night, precise date unknown. I am wide awake, in my usual health, appetite good, heart a little fluttering but temperature and pulse normal. I have been awakened from sleep by strains of distant music, which mingled with my dreams but refused to be silenced when the rest of the dreams melted away. Now, while I am writing, the delicious melody fills my ears. I never before heard so sweet a voice, unless, indeed, I have heard the same voice before. In regard to this I can form no present opinion. I must take another time to consider it. Now I cannot think, I am so engrossed in listening to the singer's entrancing notes. The song is so full of light and cheer and sends such beautiful thoughts trooping through my brain that I wish it may go on forever."
I signed my name to this with a firm hand, and then, as I leaned back in my chair to close my eyes and drink in more deeply still this rare enjoyment, darkness seemed to fall suddenly upon my spirit. The voice ceased, and in a moment the last sweet echoes had died away.
I crept into bed as speedily as possible, to try to forget my sadness in sleep. But oblivion would not be forced, and so I took what comfort I could in thinking of that interrupted song, and in trying to feel over again in memory that pleasure which my fleshly ears no longer gave me. I could still recognize a distinct tinge of familiarity in the notes, but when I came to the question of locating the singer I was utterly without a clew. I knew well enough that there was no earthly voice which could enter into the comparison, and so I need waste no time in going over that part of my life. But I had heard no singing of any kind in Mars before this night. How was it possible that I could have experienced that delightful sensation before and not be able to fix the place or time? It was a puzzling question, but I refused to give it up I knew the song, and the memory of it warmed my heart with each recurring flash, but the singer I did not know.
At length I fell asleep, and woke to find the sun of Mars shining pleasantly upon my bed. I recalled at once the experience of the night and confirmed my memory by finding on the desk the paper I had written, and still there was enough suspicion in my mind of the reality of the whole thing to make me anxious to know if the doctor had heard what had so impressed me. But on going to find him I discovered that he had left his room, and so it happened that we did not meet till the family came together in the morning reception room, in preparation for breakfast. Here Proctor presented us to his wife, Fronda, and his daughters, two stately girls, whom he did not name. Thorwald and Zenith kindly helped the doctor and me to answer the many questions which these new friends were so eager to ask, so that, as breakfast proceeded, all became engaged in the conversation. My own mind, however, was somewhat preoccupied. I thought perhaps Thorwald might be in haste to depart for home, and I was determined not to let the company separate till I had made an attempt to discover who my midnight singer was. So, when there came a convenient lull in the talk, I made bold to say:
"Can anyone present tell me who it was that woke me in the night 'with concord of sweet sounds'?"
A general smile passed around the table at this question, while Fronda looked at me and said pleasantly,
"It must have been Avis. She is very fond of singing and considers all hours her own. I hope it did not disturb your slumbers."
"It was no disturbance, I assure you. But is Avis present? I should like to thank her for the great pleasure she gave me."
"No," replied Fronda, "she took an early breakfast and started out for a long walk."
"Then I may as well tell you all about it," I said.
And I related my dream and then read to them all the paper I had written. Everyone listened with the greatest eagerness and showed more interest, I thought, than the circumstances as I had related them called for, but I afterwards learned that they had excellent reasons for it.
When breakfast was over I was glad to find that Thorwald seemed to be in no haste to go home. I began to feel an intense longing to see Avis, and I had planned, if Thorwald should insist on leaving too soon, to propose to Proctor that I would stay a few days and assist him in the observatory.
The doctor and I soon found an opportunity to speak together privately, and he began:
"So the voice of Avis was a little familiar to you?"
"Yes," I replied, "but I am not able to tell from what niche in memory's hall it comes."
"Does it recall anything you heard or saw on the moon?"
"That dreadful place? No, indeed," I replied. "Are you going to bring up Mona again?" "You asked me never to mention that name again, and now you have spoken it."
"Well," I asked, "will you forgive me for that foolish request if I will let you talk to me about her now?"
"I am not anxious to talk about her," the doctor answered, "especially as
I know the topic is not a pleasant one to you."
Without noticing this last remark, I asked abruptly:
"Was Mona a good singer?"
"Fair."
"As good as Avis?"
"I think so, though I am not a critic."
"Did I understand you to say she was handsome?"
"Beautiful."
"And I fell in love with her?"
"You had all the symptoms. But why do you insist on talking on such a disagreeable subject? Come, let's go and find Proctor."
"Wait. One question more. Have you seen Avis?"
"Yes."
"Who is she?"
"I believe she is a friend of the family merely."
"Does she live here?"
"She is staying here for the present."
"Is she beautiful, too?"
"I shall leave you to be your own judge of that when you see her. Now, not another question."
"Well," I said, as we started to find some of the others, "if the Mona of your imagination gives you as much pleasure as Avis has given me before I have seen her, I do not wonder that you cherish her memory."
This conversation left me still more anxious to see Avis, and I looked for her return every moment, but the morning passed and finally the day wore to its close without bringing us together. I did not like to make my strong desire known by asking after her, and, besides, I began to have a slight suspicion that there was some design in keeping us from meeting.
When it was time to retire that night I took the doctor to my room, and I think it was a surprise to both of us when we fell to talking about Mona again. At my request the doctor related at considerable length our experience on the moon, as he remembered it, and set Mona out in most attractive style. I let him go on, without laughing at him as I had formerly done, and the longer he talked the more serious and thoughtful I became. As he told the details of our daily life, recalling many of Mona's words and actions, a new thought flashed through my mind—the thought that possibly the doctor was right after all. At that instant, when my interest was most intense, once more the distant echoes of that happy song fell upon my ear.
That was the magic influence needed for my restoration. At once, and all at once, down fell the walls that had so unhappily obscured my mental vision, and left my memory clear as day. I jumped from my seat, seized the doctor's hand, and exclaimed:
"I see it all now, old fellow. You were right and I was the crazy one."
"Good, I rejoice with you."
With that voice coming nearer and pouring its melody upon us, we could not say more at the time. I threw myself into a chair, let my head fall back, and closed my eyes to enjoy it. The doctor, feeling it to be better to let me think it out by myself, stole away and left me alone.
Alone, but not lonesome, for was not Mona with me? I could see her every look and motion, and experienced with a great throb of the heart that my love had only strengthened with my period of forgetfulness. I remembered her last words, that very likely we would never see her again. But why should not she be saved as easily as we were? What if she were even now afloat in the ocean? But perhaps some one had rescued her. Could she be in Mars and singing for other ears than mine? Singing! Why, who is singing now, right here in this very house? Can it be possible? How stupid I have been. Perhaps I can see her now.
I jumped up and rushed from the room, but was no sooner outside my door than the voice began to die again, and in a moment the last notes had floated away. I could not determine from which direction the song had come and had no clew to guide me toward the singer. It was very late and all the house was quiet. Unable to pursue my quest, I reentered my room, but it was hours before I could compose my mind sufficiently to sleep. The possible joy that awaited me in the morning, the dreadful fear that I should be disappointed, the violent beating of my heart at every thought of Mona, and my anxiety lest she might even now be exposed to danger somewhere, all combined to keep me excited and restless the whole night long. As I lay tossing and thinking, my most serious doubt was occasioned by the reflection that people of such exalted morals would not deceive me by declaring that this singer's name was Avis if it were not true. But then I thought further that the doctor had given Mona the name by which we knew her, and that Fronda would have just as much right to give her a new name. Perhaps her real name after all was Avis.
When the welcome morning came I found the doctor and gave him a hearty grasp to show him that there had been no lapse in my mental condition, but I asked him to say nothing to Thorwald just at present about my recovery. Then we hurried down to the reception room and, early as it was, found most of the household already there. After looking eagerly around and seeing only those whom I had previously met, I inquired, with as little apparent concern as possible:
"Hasn't Avis appeared? I thought she was an early riser."
To which Fronda quickly replied:
"Oh, Avis was up half an hour ago, and asked me to excuse her to the company, saying she was going to spend the morning with a friend she met yesterday."
This was a hard blow for me, and it was with difficulty that I restrained my impatience, but I was a little consoled with the idea that the morning only was to be consumed by this visit, and that we might look for a return by noon.
After breakfast, when Proctor had gone to the observatory and Fronda and her daughters were showing Zenith about the house, the doctor begged Thorwald to resume the talk begun on board the ship, which had been interrupted by the discovery of land. As Thorwald expressed a willingness to comply, the doctor continued:
"You were trying to convince me of the probability of life in other worlds besides the earth and Mars, and in your attempt to show a likeness between the earth and other parts of the universe, you were speaking on the interesting subject of meteorites."
"I remember," answered Thorwald, "I was just asking you what theory you of the earth hold on that important topic."