THE FINAL DANGER.

The scene which the fugitives were now approaching was one of the grandest in that part of the world. There was a huge amphitheatre of level land, inclosed by mountains. Conspicuous amongst these mountains was the Bidolo-Vamah, which was like no other mountain far or near. Bidolo-Vamah means “a ruined mountain;” and it was indeed like a ruin. It was as if a mountain of the ordinary kind had been upheaved by some volcanic eruption, and had then, in mid-air, burst asunder in all directions. Even in mountains there are some prevailing forms, but Bidolo-Vamah was shapeless, hideous, confused; and yet there was a strange attraction in it which drew the eyes of all men upon it.

There were, as might be expected, strange legends about this mountain. Some said that all the mountains were bad, defying spirits; and that Bidolo-Vamah had been their chief, and upon his devoted head had fallen with most fury the thunder-blasts of heaven. Others--but these were the poets of the people--said that these mountains had been great and wicked kings, who, for their wickedness, had been transformed into stone, and that Bidolo-Vamah had been the most wicked of them all.

The level country was most rich and fertile. Those things which were but small ordinary plants in other parts of the earth, rose here into fullest magnitude and richest beauty. The bushes and trees were of corresponding size, and the luxuriance of all vegetation was such that the plain seemed as if it were meant for a garden of primæval giants, and not for the small race of men who had to subdue it, and to live upon it.

The fugitives had now approached the outskirts of the wood which lay between Abinamanche and Abibah; and the trees were becoming scattered. Still the undergrowth of splendid weeds, gorgeous flowers, and rich grasses, embarrassed their movements. These latter began to take the form of water-grasses, for the fugitives were rapidly approaching the great river Ramassa, which takes a curve from the hill country and crosses the pathway usually traversed between the two towns of Abinamanche and Abibah, at about a mile from the latter.

Realmah had intended to swim across this river, carrying the Ainah with him. He was the most expert swimmer of his nation. His deformity, like that of Lord Byron, was not a hindrance in the water. Then, as from his early years he had been left much at home, he had amused himself by swimming about in the lake, while the other young men of his nation were hunting in the woods or cultivating the lowlands. Besides--and this is a very curious fact--neither the Sheviri nor the Phelatahs, though their habitations were on the water, were at all attached to that element. They looked upon it as a means of defence, but they were neither good swimmers nor good boatmen. And, as we see to the present day in some nations, their genius did not lead them to love the water, and they were afraid of it.

The shades of evening were coming on when the two fugitives were nearing the extreme outskirt of the wood. They had been silent for some time, being much overcome by fatigue and exhaustion. Suddenly the Ainah began to sing softly that beautiful song which was such a favourite among the Sheviri, and which begins thus--

“Melaiah, Paraiah, amadala paree, Invannah doveeno, corosa Ramee.”

It was in truth a beautiful song. The main idea of it was this: all created things grow, but love: that, from the first, is infinite. The burden of the song may be translated thus--

“All creatures grow but the Great God, And my fond love for thee.”

Then the song went on to say how the oak was once an acorn; and the branch was once a bud: how the blazing day was once grey morning; and the full moon was once a little curve of light. And then the burden of the song came in again--

“All creatures grow but the Great God, And my fond love for thee.”

The Ainah never committed a graver error than in attempting to sing that song. A great scholar of ancient languages might have written nearly a treatise upon the blunders which the poor Ainah contrived to make, both in grammar and euphony, in the first two lines of that celebrated song. For instance, the first word, Melaiah, she turned most unaccountably into Melakkah.

Realmah shuddered, and could not avoid uttering a loud sound of intense disapproval. The sensitive Ainah turned and saw the shrug of the shoulders and the look of disgust upon her lover’s countenance. She hastily approached him, rested her head upon his breast, and exclaimed, in a sorrowful tone, “I am so ignorant, I shock you. How can you love me?”

In that moment a change came over Realmah, and he saw certain things in a light which he had never seen them before. In book-life men retire into their chambers to reflect deeply, and to resolve upon a different course of thought or action; but in real life, these changes are often absolutely sudden, and occur at the most unexpected times and places. And so it was now. Realmah saw at a glance how pedantic and how cruel it was of him to love the Ainah less, and to be disgusted with her, because he, who had been brought up with the learned and the noble, knew how to pronounce words rightly which the poor fisher-girl knew not. And with the tenderest words he re-assured her, telling her what a fool a man was if he looked to the expression and not to the thought; and he laughingly told her that she might even call “louvara” “luffee,” alluding to one of her worst blunders, if she liked, and he would love her just the same. After a moment or two they walked on together in the same order, and in a few minutes the Ainah commenced another song--one of the songs of her own tribe, which was in their humble language, and the burden of which was--

“For my love he loves many, Though I love but one.”

Being a common song, and the words consisting chiefly of monosyllables, she thought it would not vex his delicate sense of language.

And here we may notice what a good girl the Ainah was. Many girls, under similar circumstances, would have been angry; some would have been depressed; others would have been sullen; but her obedient and docile thought was only how she should show Realmah that she was not vexed, and that she could trust him when he told her that he would love her sweet words, however incorrectly they might be expressed.

They were now in sight of the great river Ramassa; indeed, they were not more than three hundred yards distant from it. They had emerged from the dense wood, but there were still great trees between them and the river. They walked on in this way for about a hundred yards. Realmah had joined in the burden of the Ainah’s song; but a nice discriminator of musical sounds might have discerned that some strange and sudden emotion had come over him while he was joining in the burden of that song.

In truth, he had seen a face from behind one of the trees, and in a moment had conjectured what had been the plan of the Phelatahs in pursuit, and that they had sent on a party to intercept him at this river.

He revolved his chances of escape, and decided upon his course of action. Suddenly stepping up to the Ainah, he playfully said, “Shall we see, Lufra, who will be first at the river’s edge?” and, with a strange inconsistency with his words, he seized her hand and rushed with her down to the river’s edge. In a minute or two shouts were heard; the scout who had seen Realmah had warned his fellows, five or six of whom had emerged from the wood in pursuit of Realmah and the Ainah, and were overtaking them rapidly. The fugitives, however, gained the river; Realmah dashed in, dragging her after him. She clung to him in a way that embarrassed him most dangerously. Quick as thought he gave her a violent blow, which made her relinquish her hold, and indeed rendered her senseless, and then he commenced swimming, dragging her after him.

Before the Phelatahs were on the bank, Realmah, availing himself of the current, and swimming rapidly, was at a considerable distance from the shore; but not at such a distance, however, that the javelins of the Phelatahs were without effect. One of these pierced the arm of the senseless Ainah, while another struck the shoulder of Realmah, and remained in it. His courage, however, did not fail him; and, though in great pain, he succeeded in reaching the opposite shore, dragging the Ainah with him, where he threw himself on the ground quite exhausted, the Ainah being still insensible. Happily they were now beyond the reach of the enemy’s missiles. The Phelatahs dared not follow; and after a short interval the Ainah recovered her senses.

Realmah felt ashamed at the blow which he had given her, though he knew it had afforded the only chance for her safety; and, lover-like, tenderly apologized to her for his great cruelty. This readiness in a crisis of danger to take the necessary step, however painful, was eminently characteristic of Realmah, who had in him the nature of a great commander: swift to appreciate, and ready to act upon, the dictates of dire necessity. The Ainah playfully said that the danger now was not his being too cruel, but too kind.

The fugitives having bound up each other’s wounds, pursued their way northwards. In a few hours they met with a party of labourers from Abibah, and in their company gained safely their native town.

Great was the joy in Abibah when the return of Realmah was made known through the town. Talora appeared more beautiful than ever; and the Varnah forgot, for the first day, to scold those persons who came to congratulate, but had the audacity to enter her apartments without having first carefully wiped their sandals.

Nobody cared to inquire much into what the Ainah had done to aid in Realmah’s escape; and he himself did not dwell upon that part of the proceedings lest it should lead persons to notice and examine more closely the tender relations which now subsisted between them. But the love that there was in his heart for her partook of the largeness of his nature, and was, from that moment, deep, intense, and enduring.

* * * * *

Conversation is certainly a very capricious thing. I did expect that after this reading we should have had a most interesting conversation. My master and I had taken great pains with those chapters of “Realmah.” I do sometimes think that Mr. Milverton must, in some previous state of existence, have lived in one of these Lake cities, as whatever explanation I ask for upon any point, he always gives me at once; and I took great care in these chapters not to allow him to go on narrating without I thoroughly understood every point of the narrative. In short, I was very proud of our work; and that is the truth.

After the reading there was some praise in general terms: “it was very interesting,” “a new phase of life was opened,” “it was an excellent choice of subject,” &c. &c.; but that was not what I wanted. I did think we should have had some good discussion.

Sir John Ellesmere is, no doubt, a very distinguished man; very amusing, agreeable, and even lovable; but he is sometimes very trying, too. It is one thing to read about a man, and another to live with him. It was all his fault that this conversation went off so badly. The only thing that he could find to talk about, and that he discoursed about at great length, was about the three cranes which Realmah saw from his prison window, and the proverb of the Sheviri about cranes. (I wish we had never put in that passage.) He made out that it was an insult to fishermen, and dilated at large upon the especial merits and virtues of anglers. It was true they looked a great deal down into the waters, but it was not merely to catch fish, but to see the reflection of the heavens. They had written better books than any other men; and then somehow he fell foul of authors, and publishers, and literary puffing, which I did not think very good taste, seeing there were two or three authors present. And, altogether, I was very much disappointed in the conversation.

Mr. Milverton saw I was vexed, and said to me as he went away, “I see, Alick, you are quite annoyed at their not discussing our story. But, my dear boy, you must take it as a compliment. They do not see much to find fault with, and praise is always a dull thing. People seldom spend much time in praising. When a man looks back upon his misspent hours, he will not find that he has to reproach himself for many of them having been spent in commendation.”

I do not think he was quite pleased either. As for me, I could not help thinking of a passage in Pepys’s Diary which I had lately been reading out to Mr. Milverton. I do not recollect the exact words, but they were something like these--Pepys had been going up the river in a barge, attending upon King Charles the Second and his brother the Duke of York. Pepys is delighted at being in such good company; nevertheless, in his honest way, he says: “But, Lord! what poor stuff it was that they did talk--as poor as ever I heard; though, Heaven bless them, they are two princes of a noble nature, and of excellent discernment.”

I remember that when I read out that passage, Sir John remarked that he was sure that Charles and James were making fun of Pepys (to speak vulgarly, chaffing him), and that he did not understand it; but I believe that they were talking downright nonsense, just such “poor stuff” as Sir John himself and the other clever men were talking to-day.

It is impossible to continue to be angry with Sir John Ellesmere: he is such a kind-hearted man. An hour or two after our last meeting I observed Sir John, Mr. Milverton, and Mr. Mauleverer walking in the garden, and in earnest conversation. I longed to join them, but did not like to do so, fearing that I might be intrusive. Sir John, seeing me in the distance, and guessing, I have no doubt, what I felt, called to me.

_Ellesmere._ Come here, Sandy, and be flat-ironed--I mean morally and metaphysically. Mr. Mauleverer is telling a story which is to show convincingly that all young men are nincompoops; all middle-aged men mere beasts of burden; and all old men fools.

_Mauleverer._--some nine miles out of town. I always came up to town with him, in the four-horse omnibus. It was before the days of many railways. He was a stout, comely, serious-looking man, who invariably wore gold-rimmed spectacles, to which he paid great attention, often polishing the glasses with a bit of leather, and looking at the sky through them.

“Good morning, sir!” I said to him, after he had settled himself in the omnibus, “I think I had the pleasure of seeing you at the play last night. And those two pretty little girls are your daughters, I suppose? How they did enjoy it!”

“Yes, sir, they did, the dears! I am afraid, though, they disturbed some of our neighbours by their merry laughing.”

“How inimitable Keeley was,” I said, “after he had got hold of the talisman! What fun it was when he wished for all his little brothers and sisters; and they came pouring in through the walls in their nightgowns, and throwing their little arms about him; and then when he said, ‘Oh, how I wish they were gone!’

“I could not help thinking, though, all the time, what each of us then present would wish for, if we had such a talisman, that would only grant us one of our wishes. Now, I wonder, sir, what you would wish for?” It was rather an impertinent question on my part, for I only knew the man as an omnibus acquaintance. I did not even know his name.

“I have not the slightest objection to telling you, sir,” he said. “May one wish for anything for one’s children? because, of course----” “No,” I said, “it must be a purely personal wish.”

“My wish, then, sir, would decidedly be that my spectacle-glasses should always be clear. You have not come to spectacles, sir. You have no idea of the trouble of keeping the glasses clear. If it is frosty, a mist comes upon them; if it is too hot, a mist comes upon them; if you only wink your eyelids, the glasses suddenly seem to become dim. Spectacles are the greatest blessing, and the greatest plague of one’s life. Yes: that is what my wish would be.”

“Rather different, I suspect, from what it was when you were younger, sir?”

“Yes, sir, my wish then was to be an Arab sheik, galloping about Arabia Petræa on an Arab steed, with a lance in my hand. I had always a mania for the East; but it has gone off considerably since I have married, and lived at Upper Tooting.”

“By the way, have you looked, sir, at the debate of last night? I agree with the _Times_--not that I always do agree with the _Times_, sir--that both the Ministry and the Opposition played their respective games very badly.”

_Ellesmere._ Now Mauleverer tells us this anecdote with his usual spirit of malice against the human race. He means, no doubt, to show how we come down, in the course of years, from grand ideas to small and household ones--from Arab sheikdom to an anxious care for the clearness of our spectacles.

I read the anecdote quite differently. I say that the man’s ideas had expanded. You see he took an interest in politics. He declared (I don’t believe him) that he did not swear by his _Times_. He delighted in taking his little daughters to the play. He had the good sense to prefer Upper Tooting to Arabia Petræa. In order to maintain his clearness of vision in these matters, he naturally wished to have his spectacle-glasses clear. This anecdote seems to me to put human nature and human life in a very favourable point of view.

_Milverton._ You have not heard my story, Ellesmere, which I told Mauleverer before you joined us.

I was with an eminent man of letters the other day, and he received a proof-sheet. “Here is this beast of a thing,” he said; “full of printer’s errors, I have no doubt!”

“Oh, dear, dear, how well I remember my first proof-sheet, which I received when I was quite a youth. It was a divine moment! I had written something which somebody was foolish enough to think worth printing, and I was expecting the first proof-sheet.”

“My good father, as I had just gained a prize at college, had given me a horse a few days before; and, to employ the slowly-moving hours of expectation, I had taken a fierce ride, resolving not to return until after the time when the post came in, and when the proof-sheet _must_ have arrived.”

“The benevolent printers (how I blessed them for it!) had not disappointed me; and there was the delightful packet on the table when I did return. What a beautiful invention printing seemed to me! How my poor thoughts seemed to gain in force and clearness, when they were clothed in this charming dress! I should be sorry to say how many times I read over that proof-sheet, each time admiring it more. And yet there was a feeling of humility mixed with my exaltation. Were my thoughts really worthy to be put in this fine garb? I said to myself. But this did not damp my joy much. Worthy or not, there they were in print, and would be ‘in a book, with kivers to ’un.’”

“And now, when I have one of those things,” he said, pointing to the rather dirty proof-sheet, “‘I have neither a sense of exaltation nor of humility, but there is simply before me a bit of disagreeable work to be carefully done.’”

_Ellesmere._ I see nothing in all this. You men of fine sentiments are always duped by your sentimentality. The man has now an assured reputation, which is a permanent source of pleasure to him. Of course, the novelty of proof-sheets has gone off; and, moreover, he knows by this time that he cannot do so much by criticism and correction as he thought he could when he was younger. Would he be younger? Ask him that. That is the question.

_Mauleverer._ No: he would not, because he has found out what a miserable thing life is.

_Ellesmere._ Come and find out your nursery-tea: a great and wise institution this, of nursery-tea! Do I not see Mrs. Milverton at the window, making imperious gestures to us, signifying that the tea is getting cold? When shall I ever make these men, wise men?--more like myself, and more willing to take life comfortably, instead of interchanging their respective drearinesses, and making melancholy out of anecdotes which are really pleasant and encouraging. Come along!