A GENUINE ACCIDENT.
Mona did not feel obliged to be present at our conversations after she
had explained her position to us, but I saw her many times every day. I
tried to respect her feeling and avoid the subject which still occupied
so many of my thoughts. I fought against my passion, which I told myself
was unmanly, since it was not returned in the good, old-fashioned way.
What man of spirit would submit to the enchantment of one who, while
professing she loved him with her whole heart, declared in the same
breath that she also loved equally well half a dozen others? I tried
to make up my mind to shake off the spell and be free. To this end
I endeavored to examine my heart with the purpose of discovering if
possible the secret of Mona’s power over me.
I was sure I could not be weak enough to be held so firmly by her beauty
alone, lovely as she was. Her mental equipment did not seem to furnish
the ground for such a deep attachment, and I could not believe that
I was good enough to be so powerfully drawn to her by the inimitable
character of her spiritual nature. What, then, was the attraction? It
was not far to seek. What was it that first moved me, before I had ever
seen her? What accomplishment was it that always came to my mind first
when I thought of her? In short, what would Mona, silent, be? I could
hardly imagine. But then, she was not silent, and I knew well enough
that, struggle as I night, I never could successfully resist the subtle
charm of that voice.
So, as I saw no escape for me, I next began to study how I could infuse
into Mona’s love for me something more of the personal element. How
could I teach her to love me just a little for myself alone? Evidently
she had been educated in an atmosphere of the most uncompromising
monotony. Where everybody loved everybody what chance could there be for
lovers? I wondered what would move Mona. Some heroic action which should
appeal to her sympathies would probably do it. She had been pleased with
the part I had taken in discovering her retreat in the moon, and perhaps
something else in that line would help me. But what was there one could
possibly do in Mars which could be called heroic? I should have to
ask Thorwald if he could think of anything I could do to arouse the
imagination of Mona and bring her a little closer to me.
Not long after I had been indulging in these conflicting thoughts I had
a more promising opportunity than I had hoped for of showing Mona that I
could do something besides make love to her.
One morning she came to me and said she would like to go out for a long
ride. As I never lost an opportunity of being alone with her I eagerly
accepted this one and hurried off with her, lest any other member of
the household should appear and propose to accompany us. Mona was as
agreeable as ever, and chirruped away in her musical style as we walked
down the hill in search of just the right carriage. We soon found one
which pleased us, and as I was by this time perfectly at home in the
management of these vehicles, we started off at a brisk pace along a
road which took us through a charming section of the country. It made
me happy to reflect that this pleasant ride was at Mona’s suggestion.
Although she had peculiar views about my manner of wooing, she did not
shun my company, and I could not refuse to believe she really loved
me as she said. I turned on more power, and as our speed became
exhilarating I said to my companion:
“Mona, they will think we have eloped.”
“Excuse me,” came out in sweet notes, “you will have to explain.”
“Dear me, were your people so very proper that you don’t even know the
meaning of that word? Didn’t they ever do anything wrong?”
“Oh, is it wrong to elope?”
“That depends entirely on the point of view. But I cannot explain
further without bringing up the subject which you have forbidden me to
speak about.”
“What subject is that? I have forgotten that I have ever put you under
such a prohibition.”
“Why, the subject that is always nearest my heart and nearest my lips,
the subject of my great love for you, dear Mona, so different from my
regard for any other person.”
“Oh, I remember now, but I assure you I had forgotten all about it.”
And here her voice suddenly lost much of its tenderness and assumed a
character which she rarely employed, as she continued, “But let us not
discuss that topic again. I already know all you have to say on it, and
why should we waste our time with such useless talk when there are so
many more valuable things to occupy our attention?”
“Forgive me,” I exclaimed. “If you will promise me not to sing in that
tone again I will talk about anything you wish.”
“I agree,” she responded, and never did her accents sound sweeter.
Somehow I was not so much affected by Mona’s coldness this time as
before, and I was able to recover my cheerfulness at once. I then
determined to give her no occasion for another rebuff if I could help
it, but to do all in my power to entertain her with what she called
sensible conversation. There were many things connected with society on
the earth in which she took a lively interest, and I made a great effort
to talk myself into her favor, so that she would not say again that she
preferred the doctor’s company to mine.
We had been riding a couple of hours or more, generally at a swift pace,
when, from a high point in the road, we saw we were approaching the
shore of the sea or a large lake.
Mona was so delighted with the view that I said:
“If we can find any kind of a boat on the shore we will have a ride on
the water.”
“Can you manage a boat?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, if it is not too large.”
“But it may be some new kind, something you are not acquainted with.”
“Then I shall have to study it out. But you are not afraid to go on the
water with me, are you?”
“If there is anything in this pleasant world to give me fear it is water
in such mass as that,” she replied, stretching out her hand toward the
sea.
“But I thought you were afraid of nothing,” said I.
“You have taught me the word,” she responded, “and I hardly know its
meaning yet, but I must acknowledge that I shrink from the ocean. Its
vastness, so much water, overwhelms me. You know it is many, many years
since the moon had any large bodies of water.”
“So it is,” I exclaimed, “and everything will be new to you. What sport
we shall have, and I shall make it my business to see that the water
does not harm you.”
We hurried down to the shore and found the prettiest little boat I had
ever seen all ready for us, as if we had ordered it for the occasion. It
was evidently intended for children, but was fitted with both sails and
oars, and also, I was glad to find, with a little screw and an electric
apparatus to turn it. I was overjoyed with our good fortune, and
prepared at once to embark. But Mona plainly hesitated. She kept up her
musical chatter and tried to be as cheerful as ever, but I saw she was
not as eager for the trip as I was. I did not let her see that I noticed
her manner, however, and went on with my preparations. When I had
brought the boat around so that she could step into it conveniently, she
looked in my face, and asked in a voice which trembled with excitement:
“Are you sure you understand how to manage it? It is all so strange to
me.”
She wanted to decline to make the venture, I thought, but her courage
was too great. Now was the time when I proved myself still a son of the
earth, with fallible judgment and a will too much engrossed with self. I
had been wishing for an opportunity to do some difficult thing for
Mona, something noble which should win her affection, and here, when the
chance offered, I did not recognize it. The truly heroic action would
have been to respect Mona’s feeling and give up the idea entirely, for I
knew she had a strong aversion to trusting herself on the water. But
it was really my own pleasure and not hers that I was seeking, for in
answer to her question I said hurriedly:
“Why, certainly. It is as easy to control as the carriage we have just
left. We’ll not put up the sails if you say so, and I promise to bring
you back all safe and sound in a short time. I am sure you will enjoy
the new experience, and then I want to hear how your voice sounds on the
water.”
“Well, I will go,” she said, “on your promise to protect me; but I have
the queerest sensation, I don’t know what to call it. Do you think it is
fear?”
“Oh, no, it can’t be that, because there is nothing to fear. Are you
ready now? Let me take your hand.”
As she stepped in and felt the motion she realized how unstable the
water really was, and sank down at my feet, emitting an involuntary
note of not very joyful quality. But she showed great bravery and, as
I helped her to a seat, she said she would no doubt enjoy it after a
while. I now shoved the boat out and used the oars a few minutes,
but soon tiring of that exercise, I looked into the operation of the
electric motor and found it quite simple. Turning on the power, the
screw worked to perfection and sent the boat through the water in good
shape.
Mona was now recovering her spirits, seeing that no harm came to
her, and at my request she sang some of her native songs. This was
delightful, and I resigned myself to the full enjoyment of the occasion.
It seemed to me that the excitement she had just passed through added a
new and pleasing quality to her voice, if that were possible. As I sat
listening and musing, my memory carried me back to the first time I had
heard this marvelous singer, and I could not help contrasting the two
situations. I felicitated myself on my present happiness, for when Mona
was singing I wanted nothing more. I seemed to forget then that she
would not listen to my tale of love, or if I thought of it I attached no
consequence to it. The voice seemed to be a thing by itself, and a thing
which in some way appeared to belong wholly to me, whether Mona was mine
or not.
She stopped singing after a while and asked if we had better not start
for home. To which I replied:
“I turned the boat around some time ago, and we are now headed directly
for the place where we found it.”
When she expressed surprise at this I steered about in various
directions to show her how easily it was done, and then some mischievous
spirit, which. I myself must have imported into Mars, put it into my
head to try and see how fast our little vessel could go. My idea was
partly to satisfy my own curiosity and partly to treat Mona to as
great a variety of sensations as possible. The electric apparatus was
extremely sensitive, and a slight movement of the lever made an instant
increase in our speed. A little more, and we began to go through the
water at quite a handsome rate. I enjoyed it immensely, and if Mona did
not like it she had pluck enough not to make it known. This emboldened
me to put on still more power, which sent the boat ploughing along at
such a velocity that the spray flew all about us and the boat shook so
that we kept our seats with difficulty. Not knowing what I might be led
to do next, and being in reality terribly frightened, if she had only
known what the feeling was, Mona now mildly expostulated with:
“Isn’t this a little too fast? Something might happen.”
“Don’t be afraid,” I replied. “I’ll take care of you. The doctor must
have taught you that last word, as it is not used here. You know nothing
ever happens in Mars. Everything goes along in the even tenor of its
way, moved by laws which are fixed and certain. This boat, you see,
is strong and well able to bear the strain. The water is smooth and
contains no hidden rocks, and it is perfectly easy to steer clear of the
shore, which you see is some distance off yet. But now that I have given
you this little excitement, which you will not regret after it is all
over, I will stop the current which produces this great force and bring
in an artificial law, as it were, to override the natural law now in
operation. Just look at this lever and see how easily it is done.”
I seized the handle, intending to shut off the power suddenly, but by
some unaccountable mistake I turned it the wrong way. Instantly I saw
the bow of the boat jump out of the water and go over our heads, and
then Mona and I realized that something had actually happened on Mars,
for we were both buried under the boat.
I was the first to extricate myself and come to the surface, and, not
seeing my companion, I thought she was surely lost. I might save her
yet, though, and was just about to dive under the boat again, when her
head appeared insight, only a little way from me, her eyes wide open
and, really, a smile on her face.
“Can you swim, Mona?” I cried, excitedly.
She had not the breath to answer or else thought my question
unnecessary. But I soon found my own answer when I saw her head sinking
again just as I had reached her. I clutched her, and, as I held her head
above the water, I began to understand that I had something on my hands
to fulfill my promise to take care of her. At this instant I saw one
of the oars from the boat floating a little way from us and managed to
secure it, holding Mona with one arm and swimming with the other. I now
helped my companion to half support herself by grasping the oar, while
for the rest she was induced to throw an arm over my shoulder. In this
way I was left free to make what progress I could through the water, and
I lost no time in swimming toward the shore, since there was no hope of
our being able to make use of the boat, which now lay, bottom up, on the
surface.
All this was done without a word from Mona, although I had been talking
to her freely, giving her directions and assuring her of my ability
to save her. As this was her first experience in drowning, she had
evidently been trying to sing under the water and had found it so
difficult that she had determined to keep her lips closed till she was
well out of it. With this thought in my mind I said to her as soon as we
were under way:
“Your head is so far above water now that you can open your mouth with
perfect safety. You see I can talk, and my head is much lower than
yours.”
She was so situated that I could not see her face easily, and therefore
I do not know whether she ventured to unstop her lips or not, but no
sound came from them if she did. Perhaps the water still filled her ears
and made her deaf. So I called aloud:
“Can you hear me, Mona?”
No answer in words, but I imagined I felt a slight pressure of her hand
on my shoulder. I toiled on, musing over her strange behavior, till
it occurred to me to try a subject which had never failed to bring a
response from her.
“I hope this will make you more affectionate to me, dear Mona,” I said;
and then, as she made no answer, I continued:
“If we reach the shore alive and get home safe you will love me more
than you do Foedric, will you not?”
I thought this would bring an answer, and I was not disappointed, except
in the manner in which it came. Not the faintest note escaped from her
lips, but a throb of feeling came along her arm, and her hand grasped
my shoulder with unmistakable vigor. I suppose she thought I would
understand what this answer meant, but I was puzzled. It might mean so
many things. Perhaps her heart was softening toward me and she was so
much affected by her love for me, stronger and deeper than she had ever
thought it could be, that she dared not speak. With this possibility
in view I began to feel very tender toward her and to experience the
pleasure of one whose love is returned in full measure.
But then her answer might have quite a different meaning. What if she
were telling me that she had determined never to speak another word on
that subject, and that my question was an offense to her? Surely she
had told me often enough to talk about more sensible things, and perhaps
this was only a new and forcible way of repeating the same injunction. I
reflected, too, that it was hardly fair to take advantage of the present
situation to force upon her a prohibited topic of conversation.
There was another possible meaning to her manner of answering me.
Perhaps she was indignant because I had insisted on her getting into the
boat with me against her wish, and held me strictly responsible for
all that followed. With this view in mind I imagined she was saying to
herself:
“I want nothing to say to you. I accept your assistance because I cannot
get to shore without you, but when once out of this dreadful water I
shall have nothing more to do with you.”
To place against the latter theory I had the fact that Mona’s face had
beamed with pleasure all the time I was getting her fixed so I could
swim freely. Dwelling upon this memory my mind returned to thoughts of
love, and I felt that I must try once more to start that familiar song.
So I said:
“Forgive me, Mona, if I have offended you, and let me hear your voice
again. You are too good to punish me so severely for my fault in getting
you into this trouble. Will you not cheer me with a few notes while I
bear you safely to the shore?”
Again a pressure of the hand but no expression from the lips, and I was
left to further conjecture over the strange mood my companion was in.
I swam leisurely, so as not to exhaust my strength, and as there was a
considerable distance to go I had plenty of time to think after I had
found it impossible to induce Mona to enter into conversation. Although
so near, my companion seemed far away, and I became extremely lonesome.
In trying to determine what had occasioned such a mishap in a world
where I had been taught to believe such things entirely out of date,
I came to the conclusion that the Martians owe their freedom from
many misfortunes to their ripened characters, rather than to anything
peculiar in their physical laws. With my imperfect development I had
made an error in judgment in taking Mona upon the water, and with my
untrained mind I had simply made a mistake when I turned the lever of
the electric apparatus the wrong way. The Martians had reached such high
attainments in every direction that it was practically impossible for
them to make mistakes. Thus had they freed themselves from many of the
vexations which harass the people of a younger world.
I was fortunately able to endure the strain of the great task which I
had undertaken, and finally succeeded in bringing my precious burden
to land and helping her to a place of safety. We were both pretty well
fatigued with our exertions, but felt no danger from our wet clothes,
because of the mild and balmy air.
Mona’s behavior still perplexed me. Her manner was delightfully pleasant
and familiar. Now that we were safe she appeared to appreciate the
humorous part of the situation, and I was loath to believe that she
could or would affect such good nature if she were harboring unpleasant
feelings toward me. But I could not account for her continued silence,
for as yet no word nor sound of any kind had come from her lips. Her
face and hands, however, were continually in motion, and after I had
overcome my usual stupidity I discovered that she was actually making
signs.
“Why, Mona,” I exclaimed, “can’t you speak?”
She shook her head.
“Nor sing, I mean?”
Another shake.
“Do you mean to say you have lost your voice?”
A nod.
For a moment a shadow settled upon her face, occasioned, no doubt, by my
falling countenance, for I must have shown something of the great shock
to my feelings. Mona without the voice of Mona! I could not at once
realize the depth of my loss. And now it was her turn to attempt to
restore my spirits, as we fell back to our original mode of conversing.
I urged her to make an effort to sing, and she told me she had tried
many times, and that it had grieved her to be so unsocial while I was
toiling so hard to save her life.
“Why, my dear,” I answered, “I thought you were angry with me for
speaking to you again about my love.”
Her reply was a look so full of tenderness that I was almost sure
that, if she had had her voice, she would have used it more kindly than
before. Still it may have been only compassion.
By this time we had found our carriage and were on our way home, and I
am sure that if, on our arrival, our friends had judged from our looks,
they would have supposed I, and not Mona, had experienced a great
misfortune.
Avis had returned to her distant home several days before this, but
Antonia and Foedric were at Thorwald’s when we arrived, and I had the
unpleasant task of relating to the whole household our sad experience. I
did not spare myself, although they were all kind enough to offer every
manner of excuse for me. Everybody showed sympathy with Mona in
all possible ways, but she herself still exhibited the same sunny
disposition as ever, although the house seemed quiet without her bright
and happy song.