Chapter XV: A Tale at a Supper Party

Two days after they had given their assent to the terms laid upon them they were removed from the place of durance and conducted by Cleito and Arniphon, the two officers of the King’s guard, to a house in the lower part of the city standing in a shaded plantation of trees a few hundred yards off the Avenue of Ascent, as it was called, which led from the lake shore to the palace. The house was of simple construction, with a verandah and balconies adorned with climbing plants to screen from the heat of the sun; it was two-storied, as were most of the houses in Atalanta, the guest-rooms below, the sleeping-rooms above. They had, of course, Tom to wait upon them, but as he knew no more of Atalantan ways of life than they did themselves, his services were not of much use. Every one in the land--every man at least--had to provide for himself and make his house self-supporting, unless he belonged to the aristocracy, among whom the relation of master and servant still survived in a modified sort of way. Consequently the Professor, though a temporary and unwilling citizen of a great city, could not get a single person to help him, unless it were some one who had fallen into disgrace.

The Atalantans, it is true, helped one another in all cases of illness or difficulty or as an expression of private friendship; but the terrestrials, though objects of unbounded curiosity, were treated as quite beyond the pale, especially by the women, who would no more have thought of coming to their house than to a cave of wild beasts.

Consequently, they were for a time almost in danger of being starved. They were allowed, it is true, to have their earthly supplies from the machine, but this could only be temporary at best, and they were far from wishful to strip the Asteroid bare, for they did not know what future use they might have for them. The King now and again sent them gifts from the palace, but these were not so often edible as their needs required. Tom once tried to sell some of the King’s gifts for food, but fortunately for his life he could not make himself understood, the Atalantan to whom he offered them declining with profuse politeness.

“I pointed to my mouth half a dozen times,” protested Tom. “Even a bloomin’ Frenchman, if I had been in Paris, would have known I wanted a mutton chop, but that donkey only made me a bow.”

“We shall have to eat grass yet, old fellow,” said Carysfort, “as though we were donkeys ourselves.”

It may well be imagined that the position of their comrade Abercromby gave them the most acute uneasiness. Twice a day they were permitted to hear from him, and he used to write a sentence in English. As he was not allowed to make any allusion to his own position, he tried to keep up his spirits and theirs by sending them burlesque mottoes and maxims, which at least proved that he was very much alive. They were such as these:--

“Henry the Eighth and King Malchon should have changed planets for the good of their wives.”

“Is an eclipse of the sun ever produced in these skies by an airship with a happy man sitting alone in the middle of it?”

“Gladstone would have altered the Home Rule Bill had he been here,” etc. etc.

Radcliffe, however, felt certain that poor Abercromby was far less jocose than he represented himself. He would have been very much more alarmed if he had known that every word he had written was sent in copy to the palace, even the English writing being imitated. Cleito gave him a warning intimation coupled with the strange remark that the Princess Melanitis nearly shook with laughing when she saw the paper. Naturally puzzled, he told Carmichael about it.

“I should think,” said the Professor, who had very obvious reasons for what he said, “that this is only another proof that she is quite as unfeeling as her sister. Perhaps she guesses the import of his remarks, and chuckles over his useless complaints and sarcasms. You remember that she did not give you the least help when you made your brave but vain appeal.”

“I suppose it is so,” replied he in a wearied tone. “I shall not trouble to find out why she laughed.”

A day or two after this it chanced that Radcliffe was walking by himself along the promenade by the lake, which reminded him strangely of some of his holiday haunts in old England. Groups of people were seated under the trees talking in languid tones, or else listening to some female singers, who, with quaint-looking instruments and rich, mellow voices, were singing the praises of the motherland. This was a very trite subject and pretty well worn, but the people seemed always to awake to interest at it. As he drew near he heard--

“Sing me the praise of the Land of Light,
Where the Lord of the sky looks down
On the hill and the meadow resplendently bright
Reflecting his glory and crown.
Creation holds not a world so fair
With its sky-piercing hills and its far-spreading air.

“Its people are happy, their faces serene,
Untroubled their lives pass along.
The work of their hands gives them all things I ween,
The fruit of their toil is a song.
Yet fain would we know, when its beauties we miss,
Shall the spirit-clear eyes look on fairer than this?

“Enough, for such questions unanswered must be,
Let not each generation complain;
If life must end in uncertainty,
Let us sing in the absence of pain.
Since the half of our world is so wondrously fair
Why should we grieve if the other be drear?”

Radcliffe felt strongly impelled to stand up and address them, but his courage failed him just at the critical moment. There was something in those faces so absolutely self-satisfied, so serenely proud, that it seemed harder to appeal to them than to the fiercest and most hostile mob.

“I see you are much interested, stranger, in one of our popular melodies,” said an Atalantan, who had been watching him closely.

“I wish I could be one of you, even the lowliest, that I might fully know your ways of thought. How can I possibly be of any use to you until I do?”

The stranger smiled. “Well, as a means to that end, instead of listening to poetry that I at least have heard many hundreds of times, you shall come home to our mansion, which is close by, and sup with us. We may be able to regale you with better music and song, and you may tell us something of your own planet. My wife is Mayana, the cousin of the princesses, and we owe you no small debt of gratitude.”

In a half-dazed condition Radcliffe went in through the noble portico and into the mansion; there he was led up to Mayana and her younger sister Minya, who unbent themselves, and gave him a warm greeting. Supper of fruits and iced drinks was laid upon a side table, and the Atalantan gentleman served it to the others, not permitting Radcliffe to serve, as he was a guest.

Conversation flowed freely.

He told them of the journey across space and of their feelings when they drew near to the city. Again he was profusely thanked for having averted death and misery, but his efforts to exculpate the others were not as successful as he had hoped.

The conversation turned upon the court, and Radcliffe sang the praises of the King in no sparing terms. Cleophon, Mayana’s husband, smiled and asked why he did not say a word in honour of the two princesses.

“Because I am afraid,” he answered. He thought they would laugh at him, but they did not.

“There is no serious reason for feeling this,” said Mayana; “you are high in favour, and may rise higher yet. But naturally we Atalantans prefer to be ruled by one of our own sex, though we all love and sympathise with the poor dear old King.”

“Why does he look somewhat sad?” Radcliffe ventured to ask.

“Cleophon, tell the story; our attendants have been requisitioned at the palace, so we are quite by ourselves,” said Mayana.

“It is a strange tale,” he began. “Years ago the Princess Melanitis was the joy and brightness of her father’s heart; she was very high-spirited, an Atalantan of the Atalantans, and looked upon as the most able ruler who would ever sit upon our throne. She was stricken down by solar fever, and reduced to the very point of death. The King, distracted with grief, went to the Temple of the Sun on the lake-island yonder; he prayed all night to the God of Heaven, and, in his despair, he used words quite contrary to all justice and moderation. ‘Let her recover,’ he said, ‘though she be a shame to me and to my house; let her recover, though she live to break my heart and the hearts of all my people.’ The high priest told him that his prayer would be answered, but he would live to rue the day that it was. When he returned to the palace the princess _had_ recovered. She awoke from the very stupor of death. She stretched out her arms to him, but when she saw him she uttered a cry of horror that will not be forgotten by those that heard it. Her senses returned, and yet they did not return. She could not speak her own tongue; she did not know the meaning of anything that she saw; she did not know her way about the city or even the palace. She was infinitely more helpless than you were when you were made prisoner by the crowd.”

“How dreadful!” said Radcliffe.

“Malchon recognised his rashness and bowed bravely to it. He summoned the wisest men of the land, for wisdom seems one of the few things that we men can claim as our own.”

“_Some_ wisdom,” corrected Mayana.

“Well, I have a king’s word for it. But this is no jesting matter. She had to be taught everything from the very beginning. Gradually her mind came back, but her memory of the past never came back; she knew nothing of her former life except as she was told. But there is a stranger thing still. When she was again made fit to assume the duties of her princely station, she seemed to have lost all interest in them; she was just as clever as before, but her cleverness seemed so very different. She took up with science, especially astronomy. She was always paying visits to Aptaura, and would spend hours in the study of the heavens, of your planet, and of the outer planets. Even her opinions on religion were different; nothing would induce her to pay her devotions in the Temple of the Sun. She took a great interest in the old bygone faith of Atalanta, when men prayed to the God of Heaven directly, and she gathered all the knowledge attainable as to the visit of the mysterious Divine Prince who, as you had the courage to tell us, was cruelly put to death by the inhuman savages in your own world, when He had come to die for them. Never within living memory was any audience so stirred as when you gave your straight answer to those awful questions put to you by her sister. My advice to you is to cultivate the friendship of Melanitis, and to answer all her enquiries about Karamandra and its people. You might even do something to chase the clouds from her brow.”

“There have been cases in my own world of people who have been sun-stricken turning totally different afterwards,” said Radcliffe, who sat wrapped in thought; “an honest man has been known to steal and to commit the worst of crimes.”

“I do not wonder,” put in Minya, “that she never worships in the Temple; her father has never once entered it again.”

“What are her relations with her sister? I would not ask so grave a question, but for fear lest I may do the princess an injury by increasing her interest in things foreign to this planet.”

“Pray have no fear on that ground,” replied Mayana. “So utterly has Melanitis ceased even to care to rule that Mexitli has it all her own way. Nothing but the will of the King induces Melanitis to be even considered Queen-Elect, and I have a secret opinion, based on some words Mexitli dropped to me, that, directly the King dies, there will be no conflict between them, for Melanitis will resign her claims. They were bitter enemies once, but they are friendly enough now, though only those are aware of it who are behind the scenes. But in my inmost heart I a little despise my elder cousin.”

“A former King of Atalanta gave up the crown,” murmured Cleophon.

“Yes, but he was a _man_,” said Mayana; “you will not find a _queen_ doing so.”

“I take my corrections as I take my exercise--philosophically,” answered Cleophon.

“You are the best of your sex,” replied Mayana; “I have no fault to find with you.”

Radcliffe rose, and bidding his host and hostess farewell, took his departure after Minya had sung in her beautiful voice two or three patriotic songs, “How Keraunion died for his friend,” “Make the best of half a world,” “One only nation.”

“The Prince died in Karamandra for His enemies,” remarked Mayana thoughtfully; “I suppose that was better. But we never treated Him like that.”

“Lady,” said Radcliffe, “are there not slights that are injuries more painful than death?”

“Perhaps there are. You doubtless accuse us in the days of old for letting Him depart without a welcome, because our pride could not understand His humility. Well, if we were wrong, we have been punished, for we have had no one to teach us ever since.”

“I labour under the triple disadvantage of being a Karamandran, a man, and, at every step I take, under the shadow of death, but I will tell you all I know, and all He taught in my own world.”

Mayana coloured slightly, but the intense earnestness of the speaker disarmed her. “You can if you like,” she said; “I will see you again and you shall talk to us. But Melanitis is the one most certain to take up with these new ideas.”

“You must be very careful what you do,” observed Cleophon. “You will have bitter prejudices to overcome. We are not a teachable people, we think we know all things, and where we admit our ignorance, we withhold our interest.”

“At least this is a house full of friends and you are welcome,” said Mayana, and with these words in his ears Clarence Radcliffe turned away to enter the palace avenue, and then to the little dwelling in the light blue plantation which was supposed to be their home. For a moment his sense of utter loneliness was almost overwhelming. He wished himself anywhere, even facing again the perils of space.

Home! Where was it? All places and even all planets seemed alike. The shadow of an airship passed overhead and uttered its peculiar wailing cry. This gave him the explanation of their startling surprise, and also something to think about.