“Strange, indeed, my dear one,” said Leonard tenderly.
“From that moment,” went on Ulama, “everything was changed, everything was lovely. It seemed to me that you then came to me, and led me from that scene of horror. Where we went I know not; but, hand in hand, we wandered on, till you led me home. Then once more things became confused—I can scarcely remember—but I’m nearly sure Mellenda seemed to come to me again. And—yes—I remember, he repeated, ‘Rest, my child; I bring thee rest and peace.’ Then he left me, and we wandered on—you and I, my Leonard—through the loveliest, the most entrancing scenes; among places, people, strange to me, yet all delightful; and, oh, it all seemed so sweet, so restful, so grateful, after the horror of that first awful dream! At last I wakened, and they tell me I have slept through two whole nights and nearly two whole days! Did you not wonder that you saw me not the while? Tell me how you have passed your time without me?”
And thus the gentle, loving girl talked on with childlike innocence, Leonard at first evading her inquiries, averse to mar her happiness by telling her the truth.
Indeed, it was not for some days, and then only by degrees and carefully guarded words, that he revealed the truth about her ‘dreams.’
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE LAST OF THE GREAT DEVIL-TREE.
Templemore did not find the occupation of directing the operations for destroying the great devil-tree a very agreeable or engrossing one. His memories of the amphitheatre filled him with disgust and loathing both of the place and of the vegetable monster it contained, and he never went near them without reluctance; for all that, he stuck conscientiously to the task now that he had undertaken it. But there was neither excitement nor interest in it to keep his thoughts engaged, and to prevent their brooding upon his desire to get back to those dear to him. Now that everything was settling down peacefully in the land, and there was nothing specially to keep him, he felt he was not justified in prolonging further unduly his friends’ suspense. He saw comparatively little, too, of Leonard, who was continually engaged with Monella and others in councils and consultations that naturally had little interest for Templemore; though, no doubt, they would have been glad enough of his company and assistance in their deliberations, had he chosen to offer them.
As a consequence, he wandered about a good deal alone; and took to haunting the spot from which he and Leonard had made their signal flares, and whence he could, with his glasses, just distinguish ‘Monella Lodge’ and the adjacent open country. Here he would sit by the hour together, wistfully gazing out over the vast panorama spread beneath him, and moodily watching for the slightest sign of life in the far distance. Sometimes ‘Nea,’ the puma, offered herself as a companion in his walks; at such times, when he went to the amphitheatre, he was always in some concern to keep her out of the reach of the fatal tree, lest she should meet the fate that had befallen her unfortunate mate.
It had been arranged that he would wait till Leonard’s marriage, since it was so near. But he had determined not to delay his going more than two days beyond it; and he now awaited the event with something akin to impatience. At the same time, he knew that the journey back to Georgetown would be anything but easy or agreeable. It had been arduous, difficult, wearisome, and dangerous enough on the way up, when he had the company of Leonard with his exhaustless boyish enthusiasm. What would it be like, he asked himself, going all that weary road again alone, for he would be alone in the sense of being the only white man amongst a number of Indians. Then again, he must return with very little to show for all the time, and trouble, and danger he had incurred. Monella, it was true, promised him ‘wealth’—and no doubt would keep his promise in the form of a selection of precious stones. They were numerous and comparatively cheap in the country; so Templemore had no scruples about accepting such a present. And, when he reached Georgetown, they would mean wealth. That was all satisfactory enough; but there was much, very much more he would have liked to carry away with him; things of much less intrinsic value, but of greater scientific interest. Of these there were more than could be catalogued in a few lines; vessels of gold and silver; wonderful antique jewellery, specimens of their armour, swords, etc., were some; dress-fabrics also; an endless number of curious botanical and zoological specimens, for others—these form only the beginning of a long list of things he had in his mind, and would have liked to carry with him. But well he knew the impossibility; the difficulties of transport were insurmountable. In a country where it was difficult to get carriers even for the bare food required, it was obviously useless to dream of carrying back with him a ‘collection’ such as he would have wished to take.
There was natural disappointment in all this. It is hard for an explorer to face danger, hardship, discomfort; to separate himself from civilisation and from those he loves, and to risk illness, fever, wounds and death, and then, having achieved success, to have to resign himself to returning without those trophies he would have delighted in exhibiting to an astonished and wondering world. But just, perhaps, when he had convinced himself, by dwelling morbidly upon such thoughts, that he had good cause for dissatisfaction, his good nature would assert itself and remind him of the other side to the picture. Was it a little matter to take back with him wealth enough to make his mother’s future secure and comfortable; to marry the girl of his heart, and to be henceforth a man of means and affluence? And if his part in the expedition ended in such result, had he any just cause for complaint? Did he not rather owe a debt of gratitude to those who had urged him on, in spite of his own scepticism, to share in their enterprise? At this thought a rush of gratitude would come into Templemore’s mind; then he would torment himself in turn, with misgivings as to whether he was not guilty of ingratitude in now feeling impatient to get away from—to leave for ever—the friends who had thrown such good fortune in his way.