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That night, when the doctor and I were alone, I said to him:
"Well, doctor, what do you think of it all?"
"It would take me a long time," he replied, "to tell what I think. I confess I am beginning to imbibe a little of the spirit of this place. I have spent my life in the pursuit of material facts, which we supposed were the only substantial and valuable things in life Now I find myself thinking lightly of such matters, with my mind held in the grasp of far different thoughts. I realize now something of the substance and reality of unseen things, and believe that man has a spiritual side to his nature, which must be developed if he is to fulfill the high expectations of our friends in this world. Taught by Thorwald's words and by all I have seen here, I have come to that point where I can say I am losing my doubts and acquiring a love for things which formerly did not exist for me. If we ever return to the earth we shall find occupation enough for the rest of our lives in teaching the lessons we have learned here."
"Yes," I said, "if we ever return. But doesn't that seem impossible?"
"It certainly is difficult to imagine how it can be accomplished, but going home ought not to be any more impossible than our coming here. Perhaps we had better bestir ourselves, for Mars is now getting farther away from the earth every day. Thorwald says the two planets were nearer each other at the recent opposition than ever before since their records began, and this is probably what drew our moon here, so fortunately for us. For the return trip we might get these generous people to loan us Demios or Phobos."
"What are they?"
"Why, don't you know? They are the little satellites of Mars, named after the favorite horses of the war god."
"But seriously now," I asked, "how are we to get home?"
"Well, seriously, I don't know," the doctor answered. "Some accident may happen to send us away from here in a hurry."
"You know this is not the right world for accidents," I said.
"I am not able to see," he replied, "how they can be sure that they are entirely free from accidents. They have been so long without them that it seems to me it would not be strange if a big one should come almost any day. One must be due, as we say."
In the morning Thorwald met us with a pleasant greeting, as usual, and then said:
"I have been surprised that you have not shown more curiosity on one subject of vast importance to us. You have not once asked to see our comet."
"We have talked of it by ourselves," said the doctor, "but we have been too much engrossed in studying your history and customs to think much of a topic so far above our comprehension as the comet. Your civilization is much higher than we can appreciate, and I am sure we should make small progress in attempting to investigate a development that is so much beyond yours."
"Your excuse," returned Thorwald, "is as complimentary as it is ingenious. But should you not like to see an object which possesses so much interest for us?"
"Certainly," the doctor made haste to reply; "and just as soon as you choose to take us. You told us it was at the door of a large city. Is it far from here?"
"Yes," Thorwald answered, "a long way in miles, but not far in minutes if we go by the tubular route. But if it is agreeable to you, suppose we take the air line and make a leisurely excursion of it."
We both assured him that we were delighted with the prospect, and I suggested that Zenith and the children should accompany us.
"Yes," said Thorwald, "and in anticipation of your consent to go on the expedition, I invited some other friends of yours last night to share the pleasure with us. And here they are now," he continued, rising and stepping to the door.
The doctor and I hurried forward, and were heartily greeted by Proctor, the astronomer, and Foedric of the red voice. The latter was accompanied by a comely-looking ape, which had been trained to act as his body servant. The animal was intelligent, and quick to understand every word addressed to him, but quiet and respectful in demeanor, and, to all appearance, as well fitted to fill the station he occupied as the servants we had been accustomed to seeing on the earth.
Zenith explained to us that in many households the ape and other creatures were employed for light services, and were exceedingly useful. But as for their own house, she said the work that could not be done by mechanical means she preferred to do herself, assisted by her children. It was much better that every child should have some stated work to do.
It was not long before we were all on our way to the aerial station, where we selected a commodious air ship, managed by one of Foedric's friends.
When we were seated comfortably and were enjoying once more the exquisite sensation of sailing so easily through that balmy air, Thorwald said to the doctor and me:
"We all anticipate a great deal of pleasure in showing you our big natural curiosity and what it contains. We want to see your surprise when you look upon its vast proportions, and your growing curiosity as you try to make out some of its mysteries. Things which baffle our skill may be plain to you, and perhaps you will even be able to do something with that puzzling language."
"Yes," said the doctor, "if it is beyond your skill we shall no doubt be able to read it at sight."
"Well, at any rate," continued Thorwald, "we shall enjoy the novel experience of exhibiting the marvel of our whole world to those who were, until so recently, entirely ignorant of its existence."
"I hope," I said, "that our behavior will not be such as to disappoint you, when we are brought face to face with the object for which you have so deep a sentiment.
"But, Thorwald, the doctor and I have been talking about going home. Not that we are tiring of your society, but we are filled with a desire to tell the people of the earth what we have found on Mars and try to teach them some of the good lessons you have given us. The doctor, who has a monopoly of the scientific culture in our party, can see no prospect of our getting away from your planet. With your more advanced science, can you suggest any way by which we can take a dignified leave of you?"
"We should regret exceedingly," replied Thorwald, "to lose you just as we are becoming well acquainted, but I have no criticism to make on the excuse you offer for wanting to revisit your home. I must say, however, that you present to us too hard a problem to solve. With all our attainments in astronomy and in the navigation of the air, you went one point beyond us when you took passage from the earth to Mars, for we have no means by which to express passengers from one planet to another.
"We consider the circumstances of your leaving the earth and your journey hither the most remarkable thing of the kind ever heard of, and we have nothing in our experience on which we can begin to build any scheme for sending you off on so long a flight through space. If you will only be content to stay here till we have progressed further with our investigations of the high civilization brought to light in our comet, perhaps we can help you. The remarkable people whose exalted condition is there represented may have had powers in this direction of which we cannot conceive. The subject will add even more zest to our researches.
"Why do you desire to leave us so soon? You have seen but few of our notable improvements, and learned comparatively little of the practical workings of our high civilization. And then I have been hoping the doctor would come fully into our belief before he went away."
"If you could hear what he has told me," I said, "you would see that he is already fit to be sent as a foreign missionary from this blessed world to the struggling earth."
"Good!" cried Thorwald. "I am delighted to hear it. If anything could reconcile us to the loss of your society, it is the knowledge that you will both he glad messengers of hope to your promising race. I rejoice that I have had a share in the work of preparing you for your mission.
"And now, suppose we all humor your conceit and give you our parting words, as if the ship were at hand which was to sail the mighty void, and bear you safely to your distant home.
"Come, wife, friends, the day is young and the air delightful. There is nothing to hasten us on our way. Let us ride leisurely along and take a little time to speed these earth-dwellers on their prospective journey with a few words of cheer.
"Foedric, what advice have you to offer them before they take their leave of us?"
Foedric was modest, as we had learned before, but he entered into Thorwald's plan with evident pleasure, and said, addressing the doctor and me:
"My friends from foreign skies, you do not need advice from me after you have been so long with Thorwald and Zenith, but I will send a message to your unfortunate fellow beings who have never had the pleasure of their acquaintance. When you have related your experiences and told them the condition in which you have found us, ask them to call us no longer Mars, but Pax, the world of peace. Our planet is red, but not with war. Its red is rather the blush of the dawn that ushers in the day of universal love. My word to men is to expect the advent of that day, and, expecting, to prepare for it. Useless, cruel, inhuman war must cease, with all strife and hatred and envy and bitter feeling; and then shall you begin to see the full measure of beauty in the song of the angels of which you have told us, and 'Peace on earth' will be a blessed fact and not a prophecy. Thorwald, I have finished."
"You have spoken well, Foedric," said Thorwald. "And now, what wise counsel will you give, Proctor?"
"From what I have learned in regard to the people of the earth," replied Proctor, "it seems to me they will be obliged to have a great deal of war there yet—war against a world of evils, which must be driven out with a strong hand before they can have peace. When each individual has subdued his own spirit, then there will be no more war, and no other enemies to conquer."
"Study the majesty and power of God as exhibited nightly in the starry sky, and learn to revere a being who holds in his hands a million worlds, and not only guides their movements but directs with a heart of love the minutest affairs of all their inhabitants. Look over the broad field of creation, and think of the earth, grand and beautiful as it is, as only one among the vast number of peopled orbs, all swinging in unison, parts of one plan, every one in its day sending forth a song of praise to its maker. So shall your hearts expand and burst the narrow bounds of selfish desire and trivial occupation, and you will begin to grow into the full stature of the sons of God."
Proctor spoke with such feeling that the doctor and I now began to think that these people must be in earnest and were really preparing to send us home in some way, but the latter idea was, as will speedily be seen, an unjust suspicion.
"Zenith," said Thorwald, "will you take your turn, after Proctor's inspiring words?"
"If we were in truth making our farewells to these friends," replied
Zenith, "I should feel more sadness than I am conscious of now.
"My message, O men, shall be a plea for purity. If you would seek to make your world the better for your visit here, teach men everywhere to be pure, a hard lesson to learn, but one that will bring a rich reward. First make the fountain sweet. Be pure in heart, and then your lives, and even your thoughts, will be pure. When you can fully obey the command, 'Think no evil,' you will need no other commandment to keep your lives unspotted. Such a requirement no doubt seems too difficult for you now, but the earth must come to its maturity by following the same high ideal which has ever been set before us. There is one law for all worlds, an infinitely pure and holy God commands us all to be perfect even as he is perfect, although to that perfection nor earth nor Mars, nor, perhaps, any other world, has yet attained."
"But, Thorwald, I fear you will not have time to give your farewell words before our friends depart."
"I shall not require much time," replied Thorwald, "but I should not like to lose the opportunity of adding something to what has already been said. I think we have been wise in having this talk, for those who could take advantage of such a novel way of coming to us may discover some means of going home again before we suspect it."
Then, turning to us, Thorwald continued:
"Go back to the earth, my brothers, and tell men to despair not in their conflict with evil; for God reigns, therefore the good will triumph. Tell them you found a race of happy beings here, not perfect, but aiming toward perfection, having escaped many of the perils that belong to an earlier stage of existence. The earth, too, will one day be old. Will it be happy then? Your generation can help to make it so. With our history to guide us, and with the knowledge you have given us of the earth's present condition, we have high hopes of your race, and I venture the prediction that your world will see, in the near future, such an advance as you have never dreamed of. The era of a united effort to overthrow the evil forces is approaching, when all will press with eager, sincere hearts into the work, when money will be poured out like water, when men will begin to lose their selfishness and take each other by the hand as brothers, and when the dark places of the earth will grow bright with the light of the gospel.
"I do not wonder you want to get back there. I hope I should have the same desire if I were in your place. What a time in which to live, with so much good work to do, and such encouragement and sure reward!"
Thorwald's enthusiasm made him eloquent, and we all regarded him intently as he spoke. How well I remember that group of persons: Proctor, the devout astronomer; the stalwart and earnest Foedric; Zenith, the queen of all womanly graces; and Thorwald himself, our friend and brother, the rich fruit of an advanced development.
My companion and I were deeply impressed with the words we had heard, and could hardly realize that these friends were not aware that our life in Mars was nearly over, their farewells were so genuine.
But, hark! Thorwald is still speaking:
"Go back to the earth, I say, and—" a crash, a sensation of falling, a dull pain in my head, a new voice at my ear, saying,
"Why, Walter, are you hurt?"
During the effort to recover full consciousness I said:
"There, Doctor, the accident you expected has certainly come."
And then I opened my eyes and discovered that I was sitting in an undignified position on the deck of a vessel of some kind.
Again the voice, now more familiar and identified with a lovely face, said:
"You must have had that broken chair; I knew it would let you down some time. Don't you know me, Walter?"
"Why, yes, it's you, Margaret, isn't it? But where's the doctor?"
"Oh, how are you hurt?" cried Margaret in alarm. "Tell me, and I will run for the doctor at once."
This conversation had all passed in a moment, and by the time it was finished I had extricated myself from the broken chair with Margaret's assistance, and was now wide awake. I had never expected to leave Mars without the doctor; but now he was gone with all the rest, and I was well content to find myself back by Margaret's side, and to hear her pleasant words, the words of a plain inhabitant of the earth, not too good to love me a little selfishly. A wave of intense happiness in the possession of such a love passed over me. It was a feeling I had never before experienced in my waking moments and it must have illumined my face, for Margaret continued:
"I don't believe you are hurt at all. You look too happy to be in pain. What have you been dreaming about, that makes your face shine so? How thankful I am for this bright moonlight. I never saw you have so much expression before."
"Margaret," I replied, as soon as she would let me speak, "don't you remember you sent me on a quest for my heart? Well, I have found it and brought it back to you."
"How lovely to find it so soon," she exclaimed; "and I know by your looks it's a large one and full of love. But tell me about it. How did it happen?"
"Why, I fell in love with a voice."
"With a voice? Whose voice?"
"Well, it didn't seem to matter much. First it belonged to Mona and then to Avis, and part of the time to both of them."
"You make me jealous," said Margaret.
We were now standing, hand in hand, leaning on the rail of the vessel, in the full enjoyment of our new-found happiness.
"You will not be jealous," I answered, "when you know all about it. I have enough to tell you, Margaret, to occupy a week, I should think. I have seen and heard a great deal, and seemed to be living amid other scenes for many months, and yet I notice the moon is but two or three hours higher than when you left me there in the chair to go and find your book. I shall take great pleasure in relating to you the entire experience when we have time. Perhaps I will write it out for you. I have been stirred as I never expected to be, but I assure you I have brought back my whole heart to you. Only," I added, as a sudden flash of memory startled me with its vividness, "I should like to hear that voice once more."
"Ah," said my companion, "why do you think of that so much? I fear you are not quite heart whole. What was there peculiar about the voice?"
"Margaret, it was the most exquisite music anyone ever dreamed of. I cannot describe my emotions or the intensity of my enjoyment whenever I heard it. First the voice belonged to a beautiful girl whom I thought we met on the moon, and who talked only in the language of the birds. Then she went to Mars with us, and there I heard the same sweet voice also from one of the noble women of that happy planet.
"Oh, what queer things we do in our sleep, and how supremely selfish a dreamer is. I once had a theory that we are all responsible for the character of our dreams, but I hope, my dear, that you will not call me to too strict an account in this case, I should blush to tell you how I loved each singer, and yet I know now it was only the voice that charmed me. I shall seek my pillow with delight to-night, to try and catch in my sleep some faint echo of that song, for I never expect to hear its like in my waking hours. You are laughing at me, and I don't wonder. Let me see. I dreamed that I dreamed that you and Mona and Avis were all one grand, sweet singer. I wonder what would have happened if I had staid there long enough to tell Avis something that was on my mind. Perhaps I never should have come away.
"But forgive me, dear Margaret, for my enthusiasm for simply a memory, and put the blame on my sensitive ears. And now, tell me what you have been doing during these long hours. Did you find the professor and get your book?"
"Yes, but I had to stay a few minutes and hear him talk. I hurried back, however, to be with you, and for my reward found you fast asleep."
"I was only dozing. But what did you do then?"
"Oh, I sat quiet for a while, and then took up the amusement I usually follow when I find myself alone."
"What is that? Pray tell."
"Singing, of course."
"Singing?"
"Why, yes, didn't you know I could sing?"
"Do you mean to say you were singing all those two or three hours?"
"Not all the time, but at intervals. I sang so loud sometimes that I thought I should wake you." "Then," I exclaimed with feeling, "it was you that I heard. You know my ears are never fully asleep. Margaret, it was your voice that I have been falling in love with."
At this Margaret laughed heartily, as she answered:
"You have been a good while finding it out. I knew it all the time. That's what I sang for, and I had my pay as I went on, for every time I began, whether soft or loud, I could see your face light up with the light of your soul, and then I knew my voice was finding its way to some corner of your brain."
"How stupid of me," I said, "not to wake up the very first time I heard you; but I thought it was Mona. Oh, how it did thrill me! And to think I am to hear it again when I am really awake. Come, why do we waste all this time in talking when I have that great happiness still unfulfilled? May I not hear you sing now?"
"Oh, you might be disappointed, after all. My idea is that you enjoyed my singing because all your critical faculties were dulled in sleep, and you heard only through your heart, as it were. Don't you think it would be better to live awhile on the pleasant memory you have brought back with you?"
"Not at all. I can retain the memory, and have the present happiness besides."
"But you said you never expected to hear such music in your waking hours."
"Do not be so cruel, Margaret, as to recall those words against me, although they were really a tribute to you, for it was your own voice that forced me to utter them. But what can I do to induce you to sing?"
"Go to sleep," she replied. "I will sing for you all you please when you are asleep, and you can hear me and think of Mona at the same time. That will be a double pleasure."
"My dear, I prefer to think of you. Mona was a beautiful girl, but she could never love me as you do."
"Why so? Wasn't her heart large enough?"
"Yes, it was too large—so large that she loved everybody, and one no more than another; while you, darling, have chosen me, out of all the people in the world, as the object of your highest and deepest love, and yet in doing that have only increased your power of loving others. Now what will you do to pay me for that speech?"
"Well, I'll relent. But you must at least pretend to be asleep. Come back and find another chair that you can rest in easily, and I will sit beside you. There, that will do. Now turn your head away from me, close your eyes, and promise me you won't open them till I tell you to do so. I intend to have the calm judgment of your ears uninfluenced by your sight or any other sense. If you can manage to fall asleep while I am singing, so much the better."
"Margaret," I replied, "I shall try hard to keep my eyes closed, but there isn't a drug in the ship's dispensary powerful enough to put me to sleep."
"Then keep quiet and think of Mona. That will be the next best occupation for you. Stop laughing, or I shall disappoint you, after all. I should think the memory of the first time I sang for you would be enough to sober you. Now I am going to turn away my head, so that if you do look around you won't see my face."
I said nothing in reply, being too eager to have her begin. And now I had not long to wait for the fulfillment of my oft-expressed desire.
Sweet and low came the first accents of her song, and, with all my anticipations and with the foretaste I had had in my sleep, I was not prepared for the effect they had on me. It was Mona's voice, but with every fine quality so exaggerated that all my faculties, now in the fullest sense awake, were completely taken captive. I made no movement, except to turn my head slightly so that I might drink in the sweet sounds with both ears. As the notes increased in volume my pleasure grew to rapture. Not only was my critical taste fully satisfied, which of itself was almost bliss, but that other and higher effect followed—my heart was enlisted. I had never known love till that hour. We had been introduced to each other years ago and had kept up a cold and formal acquaintance, and in my recent sleep we had made notable progress, but only now did love and I really clasp hands in a warm and lasting embrace.
If I had loved Margaret before, then the feeling I now had was something else, it was so different. But it was nothing else, and, therefore, I was obliged to conclude that I had lived all these years with a false notion in my head. As the song changed now and then, but did not stop, my heart swelled with its strong emotion, and I had the greatest difficulty to keep my promise and remain quiet. At length the music ceased, and I jumped from my chair with the intention of giving Margaret some palpable sign of my new love, when I was arrested by her warning hand and these words:
"Wait, Walter, someone is coming. I can see all you want to tell me in your face."
I was obliged to stop, and reserve for a more private place any violent manifestation of my exuberant affection, but answered quietly:
"Not all, dear Margaret. You will never know all my love." There was now more or less passing back and forth by the passengers, preparing for the approaching landing, but yet we were able to continue our conversation. At Margaret's request I told her more about Mona and Avis, and the principal incidents of what seemed to me a real experience, reserving the graver parts of the story for other occasions. Her sympathies went out particularly toward Mona, and suggested the question:
"Did not the poor child recover her voice?"
"I think she did soon after we left," I replied. "I neglected to tell you that, the morning we started for our last aerial trip, Antonia told me she was teaching Mona the use of the vocal organs, and the results were already such that she believed she would in a short time be entirely successful."
"How fortunate for me," said Margaret, laughing, "that you came away just then."
"Oh, Margaret," I exclaimed as loud as I dared, "I thought I was happy last night, but what shall I call my condition now? Do you have that intensity of feeling for me which is nearly bursting my heart?"
"Yes, my dear, I have had it for years. But my love is certainly increasing now, when I see yours flowering out so luxuriantly."
In such sweet converse the time passed rapidly. Steadily our noble vessel carried us every moment nearer home. And with the last words of Thorwald, "Go back to the earth," still ringing in my ears, we steamed amid familiar scenes—the lights from Long Island, New Jersey, Staten Island, and soon Liberty's torch, Governor's Island, and the great city in front of us. This voyage was ended, but our life's voyage seemed to be just beginning as I led Margaret forth with wonderful tenderness and whispered in her ear, passionately, the magic words, "I love you."