HOPES AND FEARS.
Amongst other advantages of the peace or truce that had been arranged
with the mysterious Coryon, one was that Elwood and Templemore were
free to visit the canyon and the caves where their reserve stores lay,
and assure themselves that they were all safe. To do this they had to
arrange to be away one night, since it was a day's journey each way.
That night they passed in the cavern--which they had named 'Monella
Cave' in honour of their friend; the canyon itself they called 'Fairy
Valley'--and their camp equipage being all found intact where they
had hidden it away, they had everything at hand for making themselves
comfortable. They found, on examination, that the stone that closed
the entrance was in the same position as when they had left it. Having
removed the wooden bars, they rolled it to one side, and looked out
into the gloomy depths of Roraima Forest.
From this outlook Templemore turned back with a shudder of disgust.
"How I hate that forest!" he exclaimed. "How miserable it seems out
there! Verily it is wonderful, if you come to think of it, that we ever
had the patience and perseverance to cut our way through to this place."
"We never should have done so, but for Monella's influence," observed
Leonard. "How strange it all seems, doesn't it? Now that we are back
here, we could almost think all we have been through a dream. One thing
is certain; no other party of explorers would ever work their way
through this wood as we did; they would get disheartened before the end
of the first week. Nor could they possibly do any good by persevering,
unless they had that to guide them which Monella had. What is that
piece of white over there?"
And Leonard indicated a white patch upon a tree-trunk at the edge of
the clearing.
Templemore took out his glasses and looked through them.
"It's a piece of paper," he cried excitedly. "Some one's been here! We
must go out and inquire into this!" The ladder was quickly got out, and
they hurried down it and across the clearing to the tree that bore the
unexpected _affiche_. But, though the paper must have been purposely
nailed in its place it was blank; on opening it, however, they found
a few straight lines that formed a somewhat vague resemblance to the
letter M.
"Matava has been here!" Leonard cried out. "All he can do in the
writing line is to make some marks that mean M--his own initial, you
know. Poor fellow! Fancy his venturing here to seek for us!"
The paper had been folded many times, the 'M' being in the inside;
and it had been nailed just under an overhanging piece of bark, as a
protection from the weather.
"He must have executed this elaborate piece of penmanship at 'Monella
Lodge'," said Jack, "and brought it with him in case his journey here
should be in vain. He's a good fellow! Knowing, as we do, how he and
all his tribe abhor this wood and the mountain, we can appreciate
the devotion that led him to screw up his courage so far. And then to
have come for nothing! It's too bad, poor chap! What a pity we could
not have got down here and seen him! Plainly he had some hope we might
return, or he would not have left this simple yet ingeniously contrived
message for us!"
"His hope would be but a faint one at best," Leonard replied gravely.
"Having been here and found the entrance fast closed, and after our
failing to make any signals, as arranged, I fear he will carry back an
alarming tale to Georgetown."
"I fear so too, Leonard," Jack assented very seriously. "They will be
terribly alarmed about us; worse than if he had gone straight back
without coming here."
That evening, after they had cooked their evening meal, they sat by the
smouldering fire, both silent and both thoughtful. Jack smoked away
moodily at his pipe; Leonard was absolutely idle, except that he turned
his eyes, now on the glow of failing daylight overhead, then down at
the scene around him.
Each knew what was in the other's mind; yet neither liked to be the
first to speak of it. But at last Jack spoke.
"It's no use blinking the fact, Leonard," he began, "that this visit
of Matava here and the account he is sure to carry back is a serious
matter. Our friends will be more than alarmed; they will, perhaps, give
us up for dead. This raises the whole question again, What are we going
to do here, how long are we going to stay, and what about getting back?
We can't stay here for ever--at least, _I_ certainly don't mean to. I
don't like the idea of going away and leaving you here. Where are we
drifting to?"
Leonard was gloomy. He had been so more or less ever since that
conversation with Monella about Ulama. For a few minutes he made no
reply; then said, with a tinge of bitterness in his tone,
"You must wait awhile, Jack. I am not prepared to say yet, but--it may
be I shall be ready to clear out soon with you."
Jack raised his eyebrows and gave a brief, but keen, glance at his
friend. Then he smoked on stolidly for a while and ruminated.
"There's one who will never go back with us," presently he went on,
"and that's Monella. He spoke truly when he said he should never
return to 'civilisation.' He seems to have resolved to make his home
here for the future. He is now the king's right hand--his 'guide,
counsellor, and friend,' with him constantly, except when he's away
in the place they call Myrlanda, on some mysterious business. And,
perhaps, the oddest thing of all is that he is the most popular man at
the court--even with those he has, in a sense, displaced. You would
think there would be all kinds of envy, and hatred, and jealousy, and
counter-plotting, and general 'ructions,' when a stranger, suddenly
come from goodness knows where, stepped upon the scene and became
straight away the favourite and confidant and counsellor of the king!
Yet, the more he takes that character upon himself, the more they all
seem to like him!"
"Who can help liking him?" Leonard sighed. "Who can help loving him?
Even where he reproves, he does it so tenderly you only love him the
more for it. How can any one feel jealous, or angry, or envious with a
man who behaves to all as he does? For myself I do not wonder; he was
born to be a leader of men, as I said long ago; he has that magnetic
attraction that makes a great commander--a commander who inspires such
devotion that thousands and hundreds of thousands are ready to give
their lives for but a glance of approval or a word of praise. There
can't be many such men at this moment in the world; there cannot have
been many since the world was made. But, when such a man appears, he
quickly spreads his influence around him."
Jack gave a little laugh; but not an ill-natured one.
"You are as full as ever of enthusiasm for your hero," he remarked,
"though he _has_ been a sort of cold shower-bath to you lately, eh?"
Leonard coloured, and shifted uneasily on his seat.
"How did you know that?" he asked.
"I guessed it, old man. In fact, I saw the 'cold shower-bath' in his
eye that day--you know."
"Yes--perhaps you are not far out, Jack. However, I promised to leave
things in his hands, and there they must remain at present. Of his
regard for me I have no doubt whatever--or for us both. If he cannot do
the almost impossible, I shall accept my fate, and try to bear it as
well as may be. Let us say no more about it now."
Jack, who for all his usual habit of appearing somewhat unobservant,
could see most things, thought he could have told his friend of some
one else who was displaying signs of unhappiness under Monella's 'cold
shower-bath' treatment--Ulama, to wit. She had become very quiet and
grave of late; and, indeed, the fresh, childish gaiety she had shown
during the first few days after their arrival had disappeared. But
Jack discreetly decided to keep these thoughts to himself, and let
events take their course. He knew that they were in the keeping of a
head wiser and more far-seeing than his own--Monella's. Of late they
had seen comparatively little of him; he was most of his time either
closeted with the king, or had gone, it was said, to Myrlanda, to visit
Sanaima, the chief of the 'White Priests.' On these occasions he would
be away for two or three days together. Yet, whenever either of the
young men chanced to run against him--or, if they met at the king's
table--they found no alteration in his manner. Indeed, he showed, if
anything, increased kindliness in both his words and actions, often
going out of his way to do some little thing, in a manner all his own,
to show, before whoever might be present, his cordial feelings towards
them. For the rest, he had the air of one whose mind is charged with
anxious and weighty thoughts, and both Templemore and Elwood _felt_
rather than knew that he was occupied with fears of trouble in the
future.
One morning, a few days after the visit to the canyon, Monella invited
Leonard to walk out with him, and they went together to the place they
had named 'Monella's Height.'
The day was clear and bright, and a slight breeze came sighing through
the tree-tops. The scene around was full of soft repose, soothing and
curiously satisfying to the mind. But Leonard noticed it not to-day;
his heart beat fast, and his colour came and went, for something in
Monella's manner told him that he was about to hear a statement of
moment on the subject that was always uppermost in his thoughts. He
tried to brace himself to bear the worst, if it must come; but his
effort was not too successful.
"My son," Monella presently began, "I promised to speak with you, when
I could, upon the matter we talked about one day. Is your mind still
the same concerning it?"
Was it? Did he need to ask? Leonard impulsively replied. And he
launched into a rhapsody that need not here be given at length. Monella
listened in silence till the young man had finished, and then went on,
"Have you considered whether your wish is a wise--a final one? That,
were it granted, you must remain here for good? Never to return to your
own people?"
"Why, never?" Leonard asked. "In the future--one day, perhaps----"
Monella shook his head.
"You must clearly understand," he said, "that that cannot be. I have
told you all along that I never expected to return from my journey
here; and now I know that I shall never leave this place. And you
and your friend--you will have ere long to decide either to stay
here for good, or leave for good. If you elect to go, the king will
send you away rich--so rich that you will no more need to strive for
wealth; if to stay, he will give you posts of honour where you can
profitably employ yourselves in helping me in the great task I have
set myself--the teaching of the true religion of the one great God to
these my people; for"--he continued, when Leonard looked up at him in
surprise--"it is true that I am one of this nation by descent, and that
I have, therefore, 'after many days,' only wandered back to mine own
people. But I have seen too much of the world outside to love it; my
people desire to keep to themselves, and I can only, from what I have
seen and experienced, confirm them in that wish. I cannot find it in
my conscience to do otherwise. Therefore, we are resolved that there
shall be no intercourse between us and the great world beyond. It is
useless to say more upon the subject; it is settled beyond all reach
of argument or discussion. Hence, it will be necessary for both you
and your friend to decide whether to remain and cast in your lot with
us for your whole future lives, or to say farewell and return--but
not empty-handed--to your own people. It is a serious and weighty
matter for you to decide; therefore should not be settled hastily. Nor
is there any need for haste; take as long as you please to think it
over. Wait awhile, till you have seen more of the place, and have come
to know the people better. Or wait until"--here the speaker's voice
became impressive well-nigh to sternness--"until I shall have stamped
out this serpent brood that hath too long held this fair land in its
loathsome coils. Then shall ye see a new era here--an era of peace, and
cheerfulness, and godliness--and ye shall see that it is good to dwell
in such a country."
"I do not believe that any amount of reflection can alter my wishes in
this matter," Leonard answered earnestly. "Painful as the thought of
never seeing my friends again would be, yet it would be still harder
to leave here and never look again on her my heart has chosen for its
queen--aye, for years before I saw her. No! Now that fate has led me to
her, nothing in this world shall part us--if the decision rests with
me."
Monella regarded the young man fixedly, and there were both affection
and admiration in his glance. Very handsome Leonard looked, with the
light in his open honest eyes, and the flush upon his cheek. Then
Monella's look waxed overcast as from a passing shadow, and he made
answer, with a sigh,
"Youth, with its hopes and aspirations, when they come from honest
promptings, is always fair to look upon; more's the pity that these
aspirations all lead to but one end--sorrow, and disappointment, and
weariness. Verily, all is vanity, vanity! We travel by different roads,
but we all arrive at the same goal." He looked dreamily away across
the landscape to the far distant horizon; then continued, as though
talking to himself: "Yet youth pleases, because it desires to live in
love--and love is God and Heaven in one. It is the principal of the
only two things--it and memory--we carry with us in our passage from
this life to the next. Love and memory are two great indestructible
attributes of the human soul. True, we take with us our 'character,'
as it may be called, but that counts little, unless it be founded upon
love. And memory is the ever-living witness showing forth whether our
life here has been influenced mainly by selfishness, or ambition, or
hate, or cruelty, or--love. For only the love shall live and flourish
again; all the rest shall wither and die. Ye hear of 'undying hate,'
but there is no such thing. All hates, even, die out at last; love only
lives for ever and can never die."
He paused, and remained for a space gazing into the distance. Finally,
he turned again to Leonard.
"Come with me, and find your friend; I have that to show you that I
wish you seriously to consider."
They walked together down the hill. Meanwhile he continued,
"You say your mind is made up, if the decision rests with you. Well,
nominally, it rests with the king, of course; but, in reality, I
suspect, in this case with the maiden herself. The king is too fond of
her--too anxious for her happiness--to desire to thwart her wishes. And
he has remarked of late that she is not as she used to be; that she has
fits of sadness and melancholy. Her state alarms him. I think, perhaps,
he fears it may be the first sign of what is called here the 'falloa.'
But," looking at Leonard with a half-smile, "I suspect there is a
remedy for her disease, whereas there is none known for the 'falloa.'"
When Leonard heard these words his heart and pulses bounded, and he
felt indeed as though walking upon air. Nor did he forget what he owed
in the matter to his friend. His breast swelled with gratitude, and he
poured out his thanks with a rush of words that stopped only when he
caught sight of Templemore coming towards them.
Leonard ran to meet him, and somewhat incoherently explained what
Monella had been saying, while Monella led the way to his own
apartments in the palace.
When they were seated there he went over again most of what he had
impressed on Leonard--for Jack had understood but little of Elwood's
impetuous talk--and added,
"Now I want you to advise your friend and consult with him, lest he
should decide too hastily; and that must not be. I also must speak
further with the king. You see," he continued gravely, "this is a
serious thing. The king's son-in-law will look forward to be king one
day; therefore he must not be lightly chosen. Again, to choose one of
an alien race is no small thing. For myself, I am free from any worldly
prejudices about birth, and 'family,' and 'royal blood,' and all that
vain, foolish cant. And the king is of the same mind, and wants only to
choose for his child the one who pleases her, provided he is worthy.
For that I have passed my word to him. I have lived long upon the earth
and have consorted with many men; thus I have learned to judge of
character and disposition. And I have met none to whom I would sooner
trust a daughter of mine own, than to our friend here. On that point,
therefore, I have been able to satisfy the king; and fate seems to have
settled the rest beforehand. For, incredible as the sceptic may regard
it, these two had met in visions long before they encountered one
another in the flesh. Thus, in the present, as in the past, fate points
the way, and so it will be in the future. For no one can escape his
destiny. For good or ill, each has a destiny prepared for him, and that
destiny he must perforce fulfil."