The Sunless City/Chapter 33

The expedition, so far as Flin Flon was concerned, having been successful, returned to make its report. I say so far as Flin was concerned, because in other respects it was not a success. That is, nothing was discovered beyond what was already known. Great dissatisfaction was expressed in the city, and loud outcries were made against the Government for having voted the money. Of course, Yrekcauq and Mrs. went out of their minds as usual, and the poor old King was abused most unmercifully. As for Flin, the enemies of the Government made it rather uncomfortable for him; for a time they condemned him in language very far from polite, and suggested the advisability of turning him out of the kingdom. Otherwise the peace of the realm would be disturbed, and very serious consequences might ensue.

All these things, however, did not in the least disturb the equanimity of Flin. He laughed in his sleeve, and he winked slyly when nobody was looking at him, as much as to say,

"You have your day now; mine will come." Certainly he was very well satisfied with the result of his journey. And he congratulated himself on the fact that he had found the door which opened into his own world, and that all that was required were endurance, patience and resolution. It is well known that he possessed these qualities in an eminent degree. And if he could succeed in obtaining pure air and carrying a supply of provisions, and given that his theory was correct, there seemed little doubt but what the journey might be accomplished. At anyrate, he lost no time in maturing his plans, though to do this he was obliged to make a confidant of Ytidrusba. Although the old man did not offer any opposition, there is no doubt judging from his manner that he thought Flin was not quite in his right senses. However, Flin did not care about that in the least, more especially as Ytidrusba undertook to get the necessary head-dress secretly made. For this purpose he enlisted the services of one of the best male artisans in the country, who undertook to construct the dress from a plan which Flin supplies, and which may here be described.

In appearance it was not unlike the dress worn by divers. The head or crown terminated in a bellshaped trumpet, though which the external air entered and was oxygenated and ozonised by layers of chemicals compounds in cotton wool, and was drawn into the mouth by means of a tube. The impure air was discharged through the nostrils by means of a valve which fitted close, and which acted automatically by the force of the breath, but did not allow any of the external air to enter. There was also an india-rubber suit to be worn on the body, and this was fitted with various receptacles for provisions. This latter was a difficulty which at first seemed almost insurmountable, because it would be impossible for one person to carry anything like bulk or weight, and unless a sufficient store of food and water could be secured death from starvation would be certain.

This obstacle would have daunted many men, but it did not do so with Flin. His fertile brain was seldom at a loss to find a way out of a difficulty. Much as he liked good living, and Sybarite though he was, he could, when the interests of science demanded it, live upon as little as any man. And the problem to be solved was, how to get the greatest possible amount of nutriment into the smallest possible space. The solution was comparatively easy to Flin. He felt quite sure that if there was no actual water to be found in the bowels of the mountain, there would be sufficient moisture to afford fluid for a whole army if properly extracted. This was all the more feasible from the fact that the mountain seemed to be composed principally of pumice. The thing to be done was to extract this moisture, and then render it fit for drinking, and the following ingenious method was hit upon.

A square platinum box was made. About four inches from the bottom was a finely-perforated plate. Over this was a compact layer of sponge. Then another plate. And on the top of that a layer of salt. These layers of salt and sponge were continued within two inches of the top of the box. The moisture that would thus be absorbed by the salt and sponge would percolate to the bottom. Then it could be drawn off by means of a tap, and next distilled in a small apparatus, with heat generated by electricity. It will thus be seen that wherever there was moisture in the air or earth a supply of pure drinking water could be ensured.

For food the principle of the concentration of nutriment was resorted to. Mr Flonatin had observed that the poor people lived chiefly upon an amber gum of a sweetish taste, which exuded from certain trees in the forests. Those who ate it fattened and strengthened on it in a remarkable degree, and on analysis Flin found it contained all the nourishment necessary for the support of life. He, therefore, had a large number of wafer-like biscuits made of the gum and a little flour mixed. This flour was procured from the seeds of a peculiar shrub that grew in great profusion everywhere. The seeds were dried in ovens heated by electricity, and was afterwards ground in stone mills, the motive power of the mills being electricity. He proved, by practical experience, that these biscuits satisfied the cravings of nature, and kept up the vitality to a high standard. As he could carry a large quantity of the biscuits, one or two being sufficient for a meal, he had no fear of starving. For light he had two electric lamps, one fixed in front of the head-dress, and the other at the waist. A small electric battery was also constructed to be carried on the back, and which could be used for generating heat. When all the arrangements were completed, and the apparatus ready, Flin secretly left the city one night and took his way to the mountain. By making the detour mentioned he was enabled to avoid the sea. He reached his destination in safety, and stored his things away, ready for use whenever he should require them.

As he had not mentioned a word to anyone of his intention to go, his disappearance from the palace caused intense excitement. The Princess was affected so much that a serious illness was threatened. Then it suddenly occurred to her that some of her rivals had stolen him. This almost drove her mad with jealousy, and she persuaded her father to issue a proclamation offering a large reward for his recovery, and threatening the penalty of death on anyone who should detain him after the publication of the notice. Still he was not forthcoming, and then the Princess grew desponding again, and it was evident beyond all possibility of doubt that she entertained a feeling for him which in this world would certainly be called love.

But after many days, and when everybody about the palace was beginning to despair, Flin turned up; and learning of the anxiety he had caused, he resorted to the pleasant fiction of saying that he had been lost.

The Princess was overjoyed at his return, and of course she quite believed him. Lovers always do believe each other. And if an upper world lady was told by her inamorato that she was a blush rose, or a sweet angel, or a beautiful star, or a vision of brightness, she would no more think of disbelieving it than she would think of not criticising her neighbour's new bonnet, and notwithstanding that she would know in her heart that it was all bosh and absurd flattery. Because a blush rose is not painted with rouge, and a sweet angel does not wear a toque at least it never has been reported that the angels do and the brightness of a beautiful star is not sullied by retiring to rest when it ought to be rising, nor does a vision of brightness wear false teeth or dress-improvers.

As before stated, the Princess was overjoyed when Flin returned, and she hugged the little man until he grew very red in the face, not by reason that he blushed, but because she squeezed him so hard.

To enter any protest against her behaviour would have been perfectly useless, and so he sighed and endured. And here I have a little secret to impart of the most interesting nature. It is not only interesting, but decidedly curious, and is intended more particularly for the ladies. Ladies of course like secrets. Not that they ever keep them when they get them; but then that fact only serves to prove how unselfish a woman is. For although she is so fond of a thing that she is often "dying to have it," the moment she gets it she passes it on to her "dear friend."

It will be understood, however, that this extreme generosity is only shown in the case of secrets; because a lady would not be so free with her bonnets and dresses. But of course, these are very different things from secrets. When a lady has a secret, she acts the same as she would if she had a fever. She tries to get rid of it as soon as possible; and if she cannot get rid of it, she is very ill. It will be remembered that Chaucer's Wife of Bath was once in possession of a secret, and was so bad that she cried ,

"When I am in danger of bursting, I will go and whisper among the reeds."

And the poor thing went, and no doubt felt considerably better. But women must have been very scarce in those days.

I knew a lady once who was told a very important secret by a gentleman on condition that she would promise very faithfully to keep it to herself. In a moment of weakness, and "dying with curiosity," she made this promise. Alas! that she a woman should have done so. But even women sometimes do foolish things. In her case it proved fatal. The gentleman went abroad, and the lady nursed the secret in her breast. But day by day it became more burdensome. It was an incubus that tortured. The colour faded from her cheeks, the brightness from her eye. Her step grew daily slower, and her friends saw with alarm that she was suffering from some strange malady. They pressed her to tell them the cause of her sufferings, so that they might suggest some remedy. But she only shook her head and sighed sadly. It was terrible and heartrending to see one so young and beautiful fade away without being able to stretch forth a helping hand to save her. Her friends sent her abroad. She went to Italy, France, Spain. She mixed in the gayest circles, she wandered amongst the most beautiful of nature's scenes. All that money and tender solicitation could do was done. But the great shadow was upon her, and from out that shadow nothing could lift her. Weary and broken she returned to her native land, for her life had lost its charms. Things that had hitherto given her pleasure now palled. She shut herself off from her acquaintances, and at last took to her bed. The cleverest physicians that wealth could procure were called in. But after they had felt her pulse, and looked at her tongue, they shook their heads sadly, pocketed their fees, and went off to other patients and more fees, and the disconsolate friends were left as wise as ever, for these doctors were not able to diagnose the malady. Some hinted at heart disease, others at consumption, diseased liver, religious mania, disappointed love, approaching insanity, cancer in the stomach, and in fact nearly every disease that flesh is heir to, for these grave, professional men had reputations to keep up, and therefore it was necessary to say something, and they said it and went their way with a sense of having done their duty.

But the end came at last. It was a wild and stormy night at the end of October. All the trees were bare, for the cold hand of winter was making itself felt. The dead leaves, swept by the gusts of autumnal winds which moaned over the land, rustled weirdly, and spoke of the departed joys of summer. No stars shone in the leaden-hued sky, though occasionally the glary moon peered from a jagged rent in the storm-clouds as they drove fiercely before the blasts.

The unhappy lady lay stretched upon her bed, surrounded with weeping friends. The shaded lights threw a melancholy gloom over the sad scene, and as the human soul struggled to break its bonds, the stillness of the room was broken by the stifled weeping of the watchers.

As the neighbouring church clock solemnly chimed out the hour of midnight, the dying woman took the hand of one of her dearest friends, and drawing her down she whispered into her ear,

"Nellie, darling, I will tell you a secret if you will promise me that you won't repeat it."

"I promise, dear," Nellie answered.

"Well, last year Mr Jones an old friend of mine, you know told me that his wife had presented him with twins. He was so ashamed of this that he made me solemnly promise that I would never mention it to anyone. I made the promise, and it has killed me."

She ceased speaking, gasped for breath, and with a low moan breathed her last.

As the weeping Nellie bent over the form of her dead friend she kissed the drawn lips, and made a mental vow that she would never keep a secret. And in a hour from that time everybody knew that Mrs Jones was the mother of twins.

The case, which is well authenticated, was very sad, and should be warning to all who read it. I at once suggested to her friends that this line should be inscribed upon the tombstone

Sacred to the memory of, who departed this life while yet in the bloom of youth and beauty, a victim to an attempt to keep a secret. It would be a lasting monument of the folly of a woman attempting to do that which nature never intended she should do.