Daybreak: A Romance of an Old World

J >> James Cowan >> Daybreak: A Romance of an Old World

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Produced by Anne Soulard, Suzanne Shell, William Craig, Robert Laporte,
Steen Christensen and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

[Illustration: "HE MADE THE STARS ALSO"]

DAYBREAK
A ROMANCE OF AN OLD WORLD

BY
JAMES COWAN

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.
AN ASTRONOMER ROYAL.

CHAPTER II.
A FALLEN SATELLITE.

CHAPTER III.
TWO MEN IN THE MOON.

CHAPTER IV.
AND ONE WOMAN.

CHAPTER V.
OUR INTRODUCTION TO MARS.

CHAPTER VI.
A REMARKABLE PEOPLE.

CHAPTER VII.
RAPID TRANSIT ON MARS.

CHAPTER VIII.
THORWALD PUZZLED.

CHAPTER IX.
THORWALD AS A PROPHET.

CHAPTER X.
MORE WORLDS THAN TWO.

CHAPTER XI
MARS AS IT IS.

CHAPTER XII.
WE REACH THORWALD'S HOME.

CHAPTER XIII.
A MORNING TALK.

CHAPTER XIV.
PROCTOR SHOWS US THE EARTH.

CHAPTER XV.
A NIGHT ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER XVI.
AN UNLIKELY STORY.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE DOCTOR IS CONVINCED.

CHAPTER XVIII.
STRUCK BY A COMET.

CHAPTER XIX.
I DISCOVER THE SINGER.

CHAPTER XX.
A WONDERFUL REVELATION.

CHAPTER XXI.
A LITTLE ANCIENT HISTORY.

CHAPTER XXII.
AGAIN THE MOON.

CHAPTER XXIII.
WE SEARCH FOR MONA.

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE PICTURE TELEGRAPH.

CHAPTER XXV.
AN UNSATISFACTORY LOVER.

CHAPTER XXVI.
AN ENVIABLE CONDITION.

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE CHILDREN'S DAY.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
BUSINESS ETHICS.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE INDUSTRIAL PROBLEM.

CHAPTER XXX.
ATTEMPTS TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM.

CHAPTER XXXI.
WINE-DRINKING IN MARS.

CHAPTER XXXII.
A GENUINE ACCIDENT.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE EMANCIPATION OF WOMAN.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE EMANCIPATION OF MAN.

CHAPTER XXXV.
AN EXALTED THEME.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
VANQUISHED AGAIN BY A VOICE.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
UNTIL THE DAY BREAK.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
AND THE SHADOWS FLEE AWAY.

CHAPTER XXXIX.
A SUDDEN RETURN TO THE EARTH.

POSTSCRIPT.

DAYBREAK:
A ROMANCE OF AN OLD WORLD

CHAPTER I.

AN ASTRONOMER ROYAL.

It was an evening in early autumn in the last year of the nineteenth
century. We were nearing the close of a voyage as calm and peaceful as our
previous lives.

Margaret had been in Europe a couple of years and I had just been over to
bring her home, and we were now expecting to reach New York in a day or
two.

Margaret and I were the best of friends. Indeed, we had loved each other
from our earliest recollection. No formal words of betrothal had ever
passed between us, but for years we had spoken of our future marriage as
naturally as if we were the most regularly engaged couple in the world.

"Walter," asked Margaret in her impulsive way, "at what temperature does
mercury melt?"

"Well, to hazard a guess," I replied, "I should say about one degree above
its freezing point. Why, do you think of making an experiment?"

"Yes, on you. And I am going to begin by being very frank with you. You
have made me a number of hurried visits during my stay in Europe, but we
have seen more of each other in the course of this voyage than for two
long years. I trust you will not be offended when I say I hoped to find
you changed. I have never spoken to you about this, even in my letters,
and it is only because I am a little older now, and because my love for
you has increased with every day of life, that I have the courage to frame
these words."

"Do tell me what it is," I exclaimed, thoroughly alarmed at her serious
manner. "Let me know how I have disappointed you and I will make what
amends I can. Tell me the nature of the change you have been looking for
and I will begin the transformation at once, before my character becomes
fixed."

"Alas! and if it should be already fixed," she replied, without a smile.
"Perhaps it is unreasonable in me to expect it in you as a man, when you
had so little of it as a boy; but I used to think it was only shyness
then, and always hoped you would outgrow that and gradually become an
ideal lover. You have such a multitude of other perfections, however, that
it may be nature has denied you this so that I may be reminded that you
are human. If the choice had been left with me I think I should have
preferred to leave out some other quality in the make-up of your
character, good as they all are."

"What bitter pill is this," I asked, "that you are sugar-coating to such
an extent? Don't you see that I am aching to begin the improvement in my
manners, as soon as you point out the direction?"

"You must know what I mean from my first abrupt question," she answered.
"To make an extreme comparison, frozen mercury is warm beside you, Walter.
If you are really to be loyal knight of mine I must send you on a quest
for your heart."

"Ah, I supposed it was understood that I had given it to you."

"I have never seen it," she continued, "and you have never before said as
much as is contained in those last words. Here we are, talking of many
things we shall do after we are married, and yet you have nothing to say
of all that wonderful and beautiful world of romance that ought to come
before marriage. Is this voyage to come to an end and mean no more to us
than to these hundreds of passengers around us, who seem only intent to
get back to their work at the earliest possible moment? And is our wedding
day to approach and pass and be looked upon merely as part of the
necessary and becoming business of our lives? In short, am I never to hear
a real love note?"

"Margaret, I have a sister. You know something of the depth of my
affection for her. When I meet her in New York to-morrow or next day, if I
should throw my arms around her neck and exclaim, in impassioned tones,
'My sister, I love you,' what would she think of me?"

"She would think you had left your senses on the other side," replied
Margaret, laughing. "But I decline to accept the parallel. I have not
given up my heart to your keeping these many years to be only a sister to
you at last."

"But my mother! Is it possible for me to love you more than my mother
loved me? And yet I never heard her speak one word on the subject, and,
now that I think of it, I am not sure but words would have cheapened her
affection in my mind. You do not doubt me, Margaret?"

"No more than you doubted your mother, although she never told her love.
No, it is not so serious as that; but I wish you were more demonstrative,
Walter."

"What, in words? Isn't there something that speaks louder than words?"

"Yes, but let us hear the words, too. There is a beautiful proverb in
India which says, 'Words are the daughters of earth and deeds are the sons
of heaven.' That is true, but let us not try to pass through life without
enjoying the company of some of the 'daughters of earth.'"

"I will confess this much, Margaret, that your words are one of your
principal charms."

"Oh, do you really think so? I consider that a great compliment from you,
for I have often tried to repress myself, fearing that my impulsive and
sometimes passionate speech would offend your taste, you who are outwardly
so cold. Do you know, I have a whole vocabulary of endearing terms ready
to be poured into your ears as soon as you begin to give me
encouragement?"

"Then teach me how to encourage you, and I will certainly begin at once.
Shall we seek some retired spot, where we can be free from observation,
and then shall I seize your hand, fall on my knees, and, in vehement and
extravagant words, declare a passion which you already know I have, just
as well as you know I am breathing at this moment?"

"Good!" cried Margaret. "That's almost as fine as the real scene. So you
have a passion for me. I really think you are improving."

Before going on with this conversation, let me tell you a little more
about Margaret and my relations to her.

There was good cause for her complaint. I was at that time a sort of
animated icicle, as far as my emotional nature was concerned. But although
I could not express my feelings to Margaret in set phrase, I do not mind
saying to you that I loved her dearly, or thought I did, which was the
same thing for the time being. I loved her as well as I was capable of
loving anybody. What I lacked Margaret more than made up, for she was the
warmest-hearted creature in all the world. If I should begin to enumerate
her perfections of person and character I should never care to stop.

Her educational advantages had been far above the average, and she had
improved them in a manner to gratify her friends and create for herself
abundant mental resources. She had taken the full classical course at
Harvard, carrying off several of the high prizes, had then enjoyed two
years of post-graduate work at Clark, and finally spent two more years in
foreign travel and study. As has been intimated, I had been over for her,
and we were now on our way home, expecting to land on the morrow or the
day after.

If you imagine that Margaret had lost anything by her education or was
less fitted to make a good home, it is because you never knew her. Instead
of being stunted in her growth, broken in constitution, round-shouldered,
pale-faced and weak-eyed, the development of her body had kept pace with
the expansion of her mind, and she was now in the perfect flower of young
womanhood, with body and soul both of generous mold. Her marvelous beauty
had been refined and heightened by her intellectual culture, and even her
manners, so charming before, were now more than ever the chaste and well-
ordered adornments of a noble character. She was as vivacious and
sparkling as if she had never known the restraints of school, but without
extravagance of any kind to detract from her self-poise. In short, she was
a symphony, a grand and harmonious composition, and still human enough to
love a mortal like me. Such was the woman who was trying to instill into
my wooing a little of the warmth and sympathy of her delightful nature. As
for myself, it will be necessary to mention only a single characteristic.
I had a remarkably good ear, as we say. Not only was my sense of hearing
unusually acute, but I had an almost abnormal appreciation of musical
sounds. Although without the ability to sing or play and without the habit
of application necessary to learn these accomplishments, I was, from my
earliest years, a great lover of music. People who are born without the
power of nicely discriminating between sounds often say they enjoy music,
but these excellent people do not begin to understand the intense pleasure
with which one listens, whose auricular nerves are more highly developed.
But this rare and soul-stirring enjoyment is many times accompanied, as in
my case, with acute suffering whenever the tympanum is made to resound
with the slightest discord. The most painful moments of my life,
physically speaking, have been those in which I have been forced to listen
to diabolical noises. A harsh, rasping sound has often given me a pang
more severe than neuralgia, while even an uncultivated voice or an
instrument out of tune has jarred on my sensitive nerves for hours.

My musical friends all hated me in their hearts, for my peculiarity made
me a merciless critic; and the most serious youthful quarrel between
Margaret and myself arose from the same cause. Nature had given Margaret a
voice of rare sweetness and a fine musical taste, and her friends had
encouraged her in singing from her youth. One day, before she had received
much instruction, she innocently asked me to listen to a song she was
studying, when I was cruel enough to laugh at her and ridicule the idea of
her ever learning to sing correctly. This rudeness made such an impression
on her girlish mind that, although she forgave the offense and continued
to love the offender, she could never be induced again to try her vocal
powers before me. All through her school and college days she devoted some
attention to music, and while I heard from others much about her
advancement and the extraordinary quality of her voice, she always
declared she would never sing for me until she was sure she could put me
to shame for my early indiscretion, so painfully present in her memory.
This became in time quite a feature of our long courtship, for I was
constantly trying to have her break her foolish resolution and let me hear
her. Although unsuccessful, the situation was not without a pleasurable
interest for me, for I knew it must end some time, and in a way, no doubt,
to give me great enjoyment, judging from the accounts which came to my
ears. Margaret, too, was well satisfied to let the affair drift along
indefinitely, while she anticipated with delight the surprise she was
preparing for me.

During the years she had just been spending abroad a good share of her
time had been given to her musical studies, principally vocal culture, and
in her letters she provokingly quoted, for my consideration, the
flattering comments of her instructors and other acquaintances. She did
this as part of my punishment, trying to make me realize how much pleasure
I was losing. Each time I crossed the ocean to visit her I expected she
would relent, but I was as often disappointed; and now this homeward
voyage had almost come to an end, and I had never heard her voice in song
since she was a child. Open and unreserved as she was by nature, in this
particular she had schooled herself to be as reticent and undemonstrative
as she accused me of being.

Our talk on the subject of my shortcomings, that evening on shipboard, had
not continued much longer before I acknowledged in plain language that I
knew my fault and was ready to cooperate in any scheme that could be
suggested to cure it.

"What you need," said Margaret, "is some violent sensation, some
extraordinary experience to stir your soul."

"Yes," I answered, "my humdrum life, my wealth, which came to me without
any effort of my own, and the hitherto almost unruffled character of my
relations with you have all conspired to make me satisfied with an easy
and rather indolent existence. I realize I need a shaking up. I want to
forget myself in some novel experience, which shall engross all my
attention for a time and draw upon my sympathies if I have any."

"But what can one do in 'this weak piping time of peace'? There are no
maidens to be rescued from the enchantments of the wizard, and it is no
longer the fashion to ride forth with sword and halberd to murder in the
name of honor all who oppose themselves. No more dark continents wait to
be explored, neither is there novelty left in searching the ocean's depths
nor in sailing the sky above us. Civilized warfare itself, the only field
remaining where undying fame may be purchased, seems likely to lose its
hold on men, and soon the arbitrator will everywhere replace the
commander-in-chief and the noble art of war will degenerate into the
ignoble lawsuit. So even universal peace may have its drawbacks."

"That is quite sufficient in that line," said Margaret. "Now let us come
down to something practicable."

"Well, I might bribe the pilot to sink the steamer when we are going up
the bay, so that I could have the opportunity of saving your life."

"It would be almost worth the trial if it were not for the other people,"
she returned. "Such a role would become you immensely."

"I regret that I cannot accommodate you," I said. "But I have thought of
something which would be rather safer for you. How would you like to have
me fall desperately in love with some pretty girl?"

"Just the thing," exclaimed Margaret, laughing and clapping her hands, "if
you can only be sure she will not return your passion."

"Small chance of that," I answered. "So you approve the plan, do you?"

"Certainly, if you care to try it. Lady never held knight against his
will. But have you forgotten that, after the resources of this planet are
exhausted, as you seem to think they are soon likely to be, you and I have
other worlds to conquer? Perhaps in that work you may find diversion
powerful enough to draw you out of yourself and, possibly, opportunities
for some heart culture."

I must explain that this was a reference to a plan of life we were marking
out for ourselves. Margaret was an enthusiast on the subject of astronomy.
I would include myself in the same remark, only the word enthusiast did
not fit my temperament at that time. But our tastes agreed perfectly in
that matter, and we had always read with avidity everything we could find
on the subject. Margaret, however, was the student, and as she had
developed great proficiency in mathematics, she had decided to make
astronomy her profession.

It was understood that I was to perform the easier part of furnishing the
money for an observatory and instruments of our own, and I was determined
to keep pace with Margaret in her studies as well as I could in an
amateurish way, so that she might be able to retain me as an assistant. We
were to be married at sunrise sharp, on the first day of the next century,
and to lay the corner-stone of our observatory at the exact moment of the
summer solstice of the same year. These were Margaret's suggestions, but
even I was not averse to letting my friends see I had a little sentiment.

That night I dreamed of almost everything we had been talking about, but
lay awake at intervals, wondering if I could, by force of will, work out
the reform in my character which Margaret desired. The night passed, and
it was just as I was rising that a thought flashed upon me which I
determined to put into execution at the first opportunity. This came early
the next evening. As we expected to reach our wharf soon, we had finished
our packing, and were now sitting alone in a retired spot on deck on the
starboard side. As soon as we were comfortably arranged I said to my
companion:

"Margaret, as this is the last evening of this voyage, it makes an epoch
in our lives. Your school days are now over, and henceforth we hope to be
together. Would not this be a most appropriate time for me to be
introduced to a voice with which I propose to spend the rest of my life?
Last night you were anxious to think of something which would arouse my
dormant heart and draw out in more passionate expression my too obscure
affections. Your words haunted my sleeping and waking thoughts until it
fortunately occurred to me that you yourself had the very means for
accomplishing my reformation. You know how impressionable I am to every
wave of sound. Who knows but your voice, which I am sure will be the
sweetest in the world to me, may be the instrument destined to stir my
drowsy soul, to loose my halting tongue, and even to force my proud knees
to bend before you? In short, why not adopt my suggestion, break your
long-kept resolution, and sing for me this moment? Is the possible result
not worth the trial?" To this long address, which was a great effort for
me, Margaret answered:

"You surprise me already, Walter. If the mere thought of hearing me sing
can prompt such a sentimental speech as that, what would the song itself
do? Perhaps it would drive you to the other extreme, and you would become
gushing. Just think of that. But, seriously, I am afraid you would laugh
at my voice and send me back to Germany. When you were talking I thought I
could detect an undercurrent of fun in your words."

"I assure you I was never more in earnest in my life, and I am sorry you
will not sing. Is your answer final?"

"I think I will wait a little longer. We are liable to be disturbed here.
And now that you have made a start, perhaps you will improve in manners
becoming a lover without any more help."

"No, I shall relapse and be worse than ever. Now is your time to help me
find my heart."

Without answering, Margaret sprang up impulsively, exclaiming:

"There! I have forgotten that book the professor borrowed. Men never
return anything. I must go and get it, and put it into my bag. And I had
better run down and see if auntie wants anything. You stay right here;
don't move, and I'll be back in just three minutes."

CHAPTER II.

A FALLEN SATELLITE.

I promised, and then settled myself more comfortably into my steamer chair
to await Margaret's return. The three minutes passed, and she did not
come. Evidently it was hard to find the professor, or perhaps he was
holding her, against her will, for a discussion of the book. At any rate,
I could do nothing but sit there, in that easy, half-reclining position,
and watch the full moon, which had just risen, and was shining square in
my face, if that could be said of an object that looked so round.

I fell into a deep reverie. My mind was filled with contending emotions,
and such opposing objects as rolling worlds and lovely maidens flitted in
dim images across my mental vision. I loved the best woman on the earth,
and I wondered if any of those other globes contained her equal. If so,
then perhaps some other man was as fortunate as myself. I was drowsy, but
determined to keep awake and pursue this fancy. I remember feeling
confident that I could not sleep if I only kept my eyes open, and so I
said I would keep them fixed on the bright face of the moon. But how large
it looked. Surely something must be wrong with it, or was it my memory
that was at fault? I thought the moon generally appeared smaller as it
rose further above the horizon, but now it was growing bigger every
minute. It was coming nearer, too. Nearer, larger--why, it was monstrous.
I could not turn my eyes away now, and everything else was forgotten,
swallowed up in that one awful sight. How fast it grew. Now it fills half
the sky and makes me tremble with fear. Part of it is still lighted by the
sun, and part is in dark, threatening shadow. I see pale faces around me.
Others are gazing, awe-stricken, at the same object. We are in the open
street, and some have glasses, peering into the deep craters and caverns
of the surface.

I seemed to be a new-comer on the scene, and could not help remarking to
my nearest neighbor:

"This is a strange sight. Do you think it is real, or are we all bereft of
our senses?"

"Strange indeed, but true," he answered.

"But what does it mean?" And then, assuming a gayety I did not feel, I
asked further: "Does the moon, too, want to be annexed to the United
States?"

"You speak lightly, young man," my neighbor said, "and do not appear to
realize the seriousness of our situation. Where have you been, that you
have not heard this matter discussed, and do not understand that the moon
is certain to come into collision with the earth in a very short time?"

He seemed thoroughly alarmed, and I soon found that all the people shared
his feeling. The movement of the earth carried us out of sight of the moon
in a few hours, but after a brief rest everybody was on the watch again at
the next revolution. The excitement over the behavior of our once despised
moon increased rapidly from this time. Nothing else was talked of,
business was well-nigh suspended, and the newspapers neglected everything
else to tell about the unparalleled natural phenomenon. Speculation was
rife as to what would be the end, and what effect would follow a union of
the earth with its satellite.

While this discussion was going on, the unwelcome visitor was approaching
with noticeable rapidity at every revolution of the earth, and the immense
dark shadow which it now made, as it passed beneath the sun, seemed
ominous of an ill fate to our world and its inhabitants. It was a time to
try the stoutest hearts, and, of course, the multitude of the people were
overwhelmed with alarm. As no one could do anything to ward off what
seemed a certain catastrophe, the situation was all the more dreadful. Men
could only watch the monster, speculate as to the result, and wait, with
horrible suspense, for the inevitable. The circle of revolution was now
becoming so small that the crisis was hourly expected. Men everywhere left
their houses and sought the shelterless fields, and it was well they did
so, for there came a day when the earth received a sudden and awful shock.
After it had passed, people looked at each other wonderingly to find
themselves alive, and began congratulating each other, thinking the worst
was over. But the dreadful anxiety returned when, after some hours, the
moon again appeared, a little tardy this time, but nearer and more
threatening than ever. The news was afterwards brought that it had struck
the high mountain peaks of Central Asia, tearing down their sides with the
power of a thousand glaciers and filling the valleys below with ruin.

It was now felt that the end must soon come, and this was true, for at the
earth's very next revolution the tired and feeble satellite, once the
queen of the sky and the poet's glory, scraped across the continent of
South America, received the death blow in collision with the Andes,
careened, and fell at last into the South Pacific Ocean. The shock given
to the earth was tremendous, but no other result was manifest except that
the huge mass displaced water enough to submerge many islands and to
reconstruct the shore lines of every continent. There was untold loss of
life and property, of course, but it is astonishing how easily those who
were left alive accepted the new state of things, when it was found that
the staid earth, in spite of the enormous wart on her side, was making her
daily revolution almost with her accustomed regularity.

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