We all hoped Mona’s affliction would prove temporary, but after a number of days had passed, and no improvement appeared, Thorwald had an expert anatomist come to the house and make an examination of the organs of her throat. Although this was a new way in which to apply his skill, as the Martians of that era were all physically perfect, he thought he might be able to discover the cause of the trouble. The result of this experiment was somewhat reassuring, for our scientist told us there was no defect of organ or injury to any part, closing his report with the remark that the case presented the greatest mystery of the kind he had ever encountered. My companion, the doctor, now expressed his opinion, which coincided with my own. This was, that Mona’s trouble was occasioned by the shock to her nervous system when she was plunged into the water, an element which she so much dreaded. Our good friends, including the expert, were utterly unable to understand the meaning of this theory. The remark that Zenith made was:
“Why, but for our friend, and others who pry into these things for us, we would never know we had any nerves.”
“Happy will our race be,” responded the doctor, “when it arrives at the same blissful ignorance.”
“Well,” continued Zenith, “if your opinion is the correct one, what have we to hope for in Mona’s case?”
“Unfortunately,” answered the doctor, “we have no experience to teach us what to expect. We can only hope with you that she may speedily recover her voice, which has seemed to form such a great part of her, and has given us all so much delight.”
Perhaps it was imagination, but it seemed to me that Mona’s behavior toward me was more affectionate than it had formerly been. She had told me before, to be sure, that she had loved me with all her heart, but in these latter days she appeared to seek my society more and to show other indications that her love was assuming more of the personal element for which I had once so assiduously sought. But how was it with myself? This question forced itself on me, one day, and I was a little startled to find that an answer did not spring up spontaneously. Was it possible that my love was becoming cold? I would not admit it. Just as the poor girl had lost her chief attraction, should I turn from her and forget all my former professions? On the first suspicion that such might possibly be my desire, I said it was a wicked thought and I should never let it be true. But even if I could not force my heart to remain faithful, no one should ever know it but myself.
A little more time elapsed and I discovered that, in spite of my brave resolutions, Mona, silent, was filling less and less of my thoughts, and that I was living on the precious memory of her lost voice. But this discovery did not shake my determination ever to be to Mona herself a true and faithful lover.
At this juncture I was sitting alone, one morning, going over in my mind the strange vicissitudes of my love affair, when, in a far-distant part of the house, I heard a sound which thrilled me. I stopped all motion and listened, my heart, however, trembling with the fear of a disappointment. The music, for it was sweet music to me, came nearer, and now I could not be mistaken. What joy filled my heart! How impossible to forget that voice! I sat still and let it come. She evidently knew where I was and was coming to find me, pouring forth her heart in the way she knew I adored. Where now were my fears that my heart was growing cold toward her? Could it be possible that I had ever doubted my affection for her since I first heard her sing? Nearer it comes, filling my ears now with its familiar melody, a song without words but full of meaning for one who hears aright. She is guided true by the lamp of love and is now in the next room. I cannot wait, but interrupt her song with this cry:
“Come to me, my love, come quickly. I know your voice and the meaning of your song, and my heart responds to yours.”
The strain continues, and soon a form appears in the doorway. I spring from my seat and start to meet it, but fall back almost immediately in confusion.
“Oh, Avis,” I exclaimed with vexation, “I thought you were Mona again. I supposed you were on the other side of the world.”
“I was, but I have come back to sing for you. I heard poor Mona had lost her voice and I wanted to do what I could to fill her place. But I fear you are not pleased with me.”
“My dear friend,” I replied, “I beg your pardon for the abrupt manner in which I received you. I thought Mona had suddenly recovered her voice and was coming in the fullness of her joy to tell me about it, and you can imagine my disappointment when I discovered my mistake. But now I assure you I am glad to have your sympathy and delighted to know that you are to be near me. Please go on with the song which I so rudely interrupted, and let me hear your voice as often as possible. It is exceedingly fortunate for me to have you here while Mona is recovering. Will you stay till she can sing again, or do you think it is too selfish in me to make such a request?”
Instead of answering me, Avis began to sing again, and in a twinkling I had forgotten my question and everything else in the enjoyment of the moment.
I now wanted little to make me supremely happy. There was Mona herself, with her exquisite beauty and friendly manner, and there was Mona’s voice in the mouth of one who liked me enough to go half around the world to entertain me. And, if the truth must be told, my heart inclined more and more toward the voice. This was a startling truth indeed when it first fell upon me, and I fully determined that no one else should know it. Mona should never discover that I loved her less because she could not sing, and Avis should never know that her marvelous song was beginning to make the singer dear to me.
Whenever I found myself alone I could think of nothing but this perplexing subject. As I dwelt upon my situation, I told myself I must be careful, and avoid getting into trouble. Mona was becoming more and more tender toward me every day, and now Avis had come, unconsciously storming the seat of my affections with Mona’s own voice. I felt that I was in some danger of embarrassing myself before the rest of my friends, and it behooved me to simplify matters if possible.
First, I must find out to a certainty just how I stood with Mona. Notwithstanding the admission which I had been forced to make to myself, I felt that it must be right for me to continue to devote myself to Mona, even if my heart did not bound toward her as in the days of my exuberant love. I should indeed be unworthy of her to give her up now. When I considered my former depth of feeling, I fairly despised myself for entertaining for a moment the possibility of her becoming less dear to me. But, for all that, I knew deep in my heart that the charm which had held me to her was gone, and I knew of no way to arrest and bring back my wandering affections.
Still, it could not be right for me to let her know I was changing. What would she think of me, and what opinion would Thorwald and Zenith have? I must own that the latter consideration had a good deal of force with me, for I did not want to lower myself and our whole race in their eyes.
So I prepared the form of speech with which to address Mona again on the old subject. It seemed strange that she should begin to grow fond of me just as soon as my love began to cool, and I determined with all my will never to let her know the state of my heart.
Not long after I had made this resolution, I was surprised to have the doctor tell me he was sorry to see I was not so partial to Mona’s society since she had lost her voice. I do not remember what I said to him in reply, but I know his remark set me thinking hard. Perhaps other observers had noticed the same thing and were too considerate of my feelings to speak of it. Surely, I must have matters put upon a better footing at once.
As for Mona, she was never happier in her life, if we could judge from her actions. She had now learned to talk so well in her mute language that we all found conversation with her comparatively easy. Her fascinating manners made her interesting always, and in spite of her great loss she was still an important part of the life of the house. I argued to myself that my heart must be hard indeed if I could not continue to love her. To me her behavior was characterized by such a peculiar sweetness that I knew she was ready, on a word from me, to recall some of the harsh things she had said and to own a love quite different in kind from her regard for others.
The opportunity soon came to speak to her, and I embraced it. “Mona,” I said, “I want to make a little speech to you. First, let me ask you if I can introduce a subject on which you have more than once stopped my mouth. Perhaps you know what I mean.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, “I remember it very well, and you may talk all you please about it now. You must forgive me if I was unkind before and used my voice to vex you. But I am surprised to have you bring up this topic.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought from your manner that you did not love me as you used to.”
By this time the speech that I had prepared was all out of my head, and I was wondering if it were possible that I had lost so much of my affection for Mona that she had discovered it by a change in my manner. In reply to her remark I said:
“But such a thought has not made you unhappy, Mona, if I may judge from your behavior. I have never seen you more cheerful and full of life.”
“No,” she responded, “I think it has had the contrary effect. I was rather relieved to find you were recovering from your foolishness, and I thought we would now be able to live in peace, treating each other in a kind and sensible manner. I am disappointed to find that you are still clinging to the old idea, but I will not object to your saying all you please on the subject, for I have my own reasons now for being gracious to you.”
“That’s the very thing I want to ask you about, Mona. I have noticed your great kindness of late, and have supposed it came from the fact that you were learning to love me in my way; that is, somewhat to the exclusion of others. Isn’t it that?”
“I think you will not be pained when I say you have had a wrong impression.”
“Why do you think such a discovery will not pain me?”
“Because I am sure you do not care for me now in the same way as before. It was my voice that inthralled you. In all this interview you have not once said you love me, and you know at one time you could say nothing else. But let me tell you why I have shown an extra tenderness toward you recently. It was because I feared you would think I blamed you for my misfortune. I wanted to let you know I had not the least unkind feeling and that, in spite of the loss of my voice, I was as happy and contented as ever.”
“Well, after all, you do love me a little, do you not, Mona?”
“Why, of course I do, just as much as ever. And now let us go right along and be nice to each other. We will love each other and love everybody else just the same, and you must promise not to look disturbed any more when I am talking with Foedric; but you have been very good about that of late.”
“I will promise,” I answered; “but what will you do if you find I am loving another person more than you?”
“Oh, I cannot understand what you mean by loving more and loving less. It is a strange idea to me, and I hope I shall never get accustomed to it. My way is to love everybody with all my heart, and that’s an end of it. Don’t you see in that way I escape all the worry and vexation which you seem to have in the matter? As to your loving another, you will pardon me if I say it will be a great relief to me for you to do so. I have not been used to being the sole recipient of any person’s affection, and I shall rejoice to be freed from the responsibility. If you have thought me happy heretofore, you will now be astonished at my sprightliness. I suppose you refer to Antonia. She is a lovely girl, and—”
“Allow me,” I interrupted; but before I could go on with my denial that voice again fell on my ears—so distant and low that I held my breath to listen. At first Mona did not hear it, but it soon increased in volume; and now, as the sweet sounds came pouring upon us, my companion saw how I was affected, and said in her sign language:
“Oh, I was mistaken. Antonia is not the one.”
My heart was now all aflame, and, with Mona by my side and gazing into my glowing face, I almost forgot her presence in the approach of one whose song had such power. Was she old? Music like that is never old. Why should not my heart go out to her? She was still beautiful and not so old as I had supposed. And then, of course, people in that advanced condition, did not wear out in a few years as they did on the earth. As for her size, she was rather small for a Martian, and I, living under new conditions, would certainly take a start before many days, and no doubt become as large as Foedric, almost.
These ingenuous sentiments came to me with the sweet accents of that melodious song, and when Avis appeared I had great difficulty to keep from making some foolish exhibition of my feelings.
At my next sober moment, that is, when I was by myself, and out of hearing of that intoxicating music, it was very easy for me to realize my ridiculous situation, but not so easy to tell how I was to escape from it. As to my relations with Mona herself, I was greatly relieved by our last conversation. I certainly need no longer feel obliged to tie my vagrant heart to her. She would not miss it if it never once showed itself again, but how could I hope to preserve any sort of character in the eyes of my other friends? What sport the doctor would make of me if he knew how I felt toward Avis. He little thought that this was the daughter of Mars most likely to bring me to my knees.
And the doctor would have good reason for whatever enjoyment he might have at my expense, for I felt at first that I did not deserve any sympathy. When away from the powerful influence of that voice I was myself, and could see everything in its true perspective, but it is difficult to describe the change that came over me as soon as those entrancing notes fell upon my ear. The music sent great waves of emotion through my being, the storm center generally appearing to be the seat of my affections. My heart would beat fast, going out toward the singer in sympathy and love. The doubts of propriety belonging to my sane moments—hesitation, argument, uncertainty—all went in a flash, and I was almost ready to throw myself before her and proclaim my love without shame or embarrassment. At such times I felt that I could hold my head up in view of all the inhabitants of Mars and prove to them that I was not fickle, but as steadfast as constancy itself in following always one and the same attraction. Was I not as true to the best that was in me, when my heart was ravished by the voice of Avis, as I was when I had loved Mona so tenderly for the same sweet charm?
As day followed day in this delightful home, it was the society of Avis which I continually sought, and I was never quite happy except in her presence, or, at least, within hearing distance of her voice. And it was not long before the constant association of Avis with the music I loved so well began, even when I was not listening to her, to draw my affections toward one who, at will, could exert such power over me.
Mona was still herself, the same friendly, joyous creature as ever, but the knowledge that I could never gain her undivided affection helped to cure my infatuation. And now, with my heart free, why should I not love Avis? The mere fact that she was an inhabitant of Mars proved that she was far too good for me, but I could see by the example of Foedric and Antonia that Avis would never, in consequence of her high development, have any scruples against loving one person more than others.
When I had fully persuaded myself that I was perfectly consistent in my present course, I became quite anxious to know what others would think of me. But I was too much afraid of the doctor’s criticism to confide my secret to him. I must try one of the Martians, whose high breeding and true courtesy would not permit them to make light of one’s feelings on so serious a subject.
So it was to Zenith that I went for sympathy. She had been more than kind to me, and it is remarkable how easy and perfectly at home she made me feel in her company.
“Zenith,” I began, “I want to consult you on a delicate subject, and I will first ask you a rather abrupt question. Will you give us your permission to take Avis back to the earth with us?”
A Martian never loses self-possession and is never at a loss what to say to the most unexpected proposition.
“Well, that is abrupt,” Zenith quickly responded. “Do you know, Thorwald and I were talking only this morning about your apparent fondness for the society of Avis. Are you forgetting Mona?”
This was getting into the subject faster than I had intended, and I determined to take my time, so I said:
“Zenith, this province must be the New England of Mars, by the way you evade my question and ask another.”
“But you wouldn’t expect me to answer such a question offhand. You see, it contains several new ideas. First, I didn’t know you thought of returning to the earth. Then I am surprised that you should want to take anybody with you. And, finally, I am more surprised that you should choose Avis rather than Mona. Now that I have explained so fully, may I not ask you again if this means that you are forgetting Mona?”
“Mona is not able to sing for me,” I said.
“And do your ideas of what is right allow you to become indifferent to her as soon as she loses one of her attractions? Here her misfortune would tend to make her only more dear to one who really loved her.”
To which I made haste to answer:
“I am proud to tell you, Zenith, that such sentiments prevail on the earth, too, and I have been trying hard to hold them in my own breast. But in living with you I am learning to be honest, and it would not be right for me to deny that Mona’s chief charm for me is gone from her, and is in the possession of another. The voice of Avis has the same power over me that Mona’s formerly had, and shall I fight against my growing fondness for Avis?”
“Is your race so little developed, then,” asked Zenith, “that your ears are the only avenue to your hearts?”
Before I could answer, Mona herself came bounding into the room, and Zenith continued:
“There’s the poor child now. How can you be so unkind to her?”
“Who’s unkind to me?” asked Mona in her sign language.
“Zenith thinks I am,” I answered.
“Why, you are mistaken, Zenith; he is just the opposite. We have always loved each other, and I think more of him than ever since I lost my voice, and he has ceased making serious speeches to me that I can’t understand. I wish you could see how he enjoys hearing Avis sing.”
In this way Mona proved to Zenith that she was not heart-broken. I was going to explain the matter myself, but was glad to have Mona take it out of my hands.
The most difficult task yet remained. I must tell Avis how affairs stood; and yet, was it the proper thing for me to do? I wondered how the delicate subject of making love was handled in Mars, where the two sexes were perfectly equal. Which one was to make the advances? The matter is simple enough on the earth, where women are inferior and dependent. Of course, they must smother their own feelings and wait to be discovered, while the men can make their selection, and if they do not succeed at first can simply try again. That is entirely proper, and everybody knows just what to do; but here things are probably different. I don’t want to make a failure in this case, as I did with Mona, not knowing the customs of the moon-dwellers. Perhaps my best way will be to try a little coquetry and pretend I do not care for her nor her singing. That may draw her on to make some avowal to me.
I had gone so far in my deliberations, when I was interrupted by the doctor, who called to ask if I did not want to go out with him. I consented reluctantly, as I preferred to go on with my thinking till I could come to some decision. But the doctor had a purpose in taking me out, and, as soon as a good opportunity presented itself, he said, inquiringly:
“You find Avis a pretty good singer?”
“Excellent.”
“And good company?”
“Excellent company. Why?”
“Oh, nothing; only I thought you were neglecting another friend.”
“Why, Mona doesn’t care for me, and Avis does, or, at least, I think she does.”
“Do you mean by this,” inquired the doctor, “that you have transferred to Avis the personal interest you had in Mona?”
“Have you anything to say in disparagement of Avis?” I asked.
“Certainly not. I have a high respect for her. But there is one other plain question I would like to ask you, in view of your rather erratic behavior.”
“Well, what is it? I’m dying to know.”
“It is this. What are you going to do with Margaret?”
“Margaret? Oh, yes, I forgot about Margaret. That is something else I have got to think over.”
That night, as I was falling asleep, the same sweet, familiar music came to me from a distant part of the house. Half-thinking and half-dreaming, I let my mind drift where it would. The sensation received through my ears was so delicious and so satisfying that I wondered why I could not rest in it entirely and not think of the singer; but that was impossible. The notes penetrated from my brain down to the region of my heart. I thought of Margaret, but Margaret could not sing like that. Mona could not, now; no one but Avis. Oh, how I loved her for it! I remembered how nice Margaret was, and how much I had once thought of her; but as for loving her now, with this music of Mars in my ears, why, I simply couldn’t try to do it. At last Margaret, Mona, Avis, all became jumbled up in my chaotic mind, and I thought they were one superb woman, and I loved her. The conceit was worthy the colossal selfishness of a dreamer. The essence of their best. And she could sing. The thought was soothing. I was asleep.
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