"Woof! Woof! Woof!" answered Lossy, in tones as near a whisper as can be compassed by a dog.
"Very well, sir!" said Leon. "That's better. Much better. We don't want to attract a crowd, so the less noise we make the better for us."
But, alas! The boy's warning came too late. Miss Matilda Grath had seen Leon go towards the barn, and when she heard the dog's loud barking, a sudden idea had come to her, which thrilled her cruel heart with anticipation of pleasure. So much so indeed, that she at once left the vicinity of the auctioneer, where her interests were, and hurried out to the barn, surprising Leon by her unwelcome presence.
"What are you doin' out here all by yourself?" she asked.
"I am not doing anything, Miss Grath!" replied Leon mildly, hoping to mollify her. A vain hope!
"Miss Grath!" she repeated sneeringly. "Don't you Miss Grath me. I an't to be molly-coddled by the likes o' you. I wanter know what you're doin' out here, when everybody's to the auction. You an't up to no good, I'll warrant. Now up an' tell me! An' no lies, or it will be the worst for you."
"I don't know what you're aiming at. I came out here to be alone, that is all!"
"Oh! You wanted to be alone, did you? Well, that's the right way for you to feel, anyway. The company of decent folks an't for the likes o' you." She paused, expecting an angry retort, but failing to obtain the desired excuse for proceeding in the diabolical design which she was bent upon executing, she continued in a worse temper. "You needn't think you kin fool me with your smooth talkin'. I know you, and I know what you're up to!"
"Well, if you know, why did you ask me?" said Leon, stung into something like anger.
"I don't want none o' your impudence. I'll tell you mighty quick what you're up to. You're plannin' to steal that dog, that's what you're after!"
"Steal Lossy! Why how could I do that? He is mine!" Leon did not yet fully grasp what was coming, but the vague suspicion conveyed by the woman's words aroused a fear in his breast.
"Oh! He's your'n, is he. We'll see 'bout that. How did he come to be your'n? Did you buy him?"
"Why, of course not. He was born right here on the farm, and, when he was a puppy, mother gave him to me."
"Don't you dare to call my sister mother, you impudent young beggar. You never had no mother, and your scoundrel of a father foisted you onto my innocent, confidin' sister, who took you out o' charity, like a fool. I wouldn't 'ave done it."
"I have not the least idea that you would, Miss Grath. You never did any one a kindness in your life, if what people say is true."
"People say a deal sight more 'n their prayers. But that an't to the p'int now. We're talkin' 'bout this dog. You say he's your'n; that my sister gin him to you. Now kin you prove that?"
"Prove it?" repeated Leon, at last fully comprehending that his dog might be taken from him. "Prove it! Why, how can I?"
"Jes' so. You can't. My sister's dead, and an't here to contradict you, so in course you kin claim the dog. But that's all talk, an' talk 's cheap. The dog's mine."
"He is not yours."
"An't he? We'll see 'bout that mighty quick." And before either Leon or the dog understood her purpose, she had grabbed Lossy in her arms, and was striding away towards the crowd around the auctioneer. Leon jumped down and followed her, his pulses beating high.
Reaching the cart where Mr. Potter was standing, she threw the dog towards him, saying:
"Here, sell this dog next. He's named Lossy. He's a right smart beast. Goes after the cows, kin tend sheep, and run a churn. He's wuth a good price. Sell him for what he'll fetch."
Mr. Potter stooped and patted the dog, who was trembling with fear, for ordinarily a collie is easily alarmed, and not very brave except when guarding his sheep, when he has the courage of a lion.
"Well," began Mr. Potter, "what'll you give for the dog. Come! speak, and let the worst be known, for speaking may relieve you. If it don't, I'll relieve you of the price of the dog, and you can take him with you."
"Dollar!" cried a voice in the crowd succinctly.
"'n' quarter," said another.
"Stop," cried Leon, fully aroused, now that his pet was actually offered for sale. "Mr. Potter, you shall not sell that dog. He is mine."
"It's a lie!" cried Miss Grath. Then pointing her bony finger at Leon, she continued: "Look at that ungrateful wretch. Look at him. You all know who he is, and where he came from. My sister nussed him, and fed him, and gin him his clothes all these years, and now arter she's dead, he's tryin to defraud me by claimin' my property, 's if he an't had enough outer my family a'ready."
"I've never had anything from you, and would not accept it if it was offered and I was starving," cried Leon, white with anger. But as just as the words were, they rather injured his cause, for most of those present held ideas not very dissimilar from Miss Grath's, and they accepted her version and believed him ungrateful. The prejudice against him was not lessened by the intuitive knowledge that, poor though he was, he was better than they. So those who heard him did not hesitate to speak against him, and such phrases as "Nuss a serpent and 'twill sting you," and "A beggar on horseback," reached his ears, and despite their inaptness, they wounded him.
Mr. Potter, seeing the rising storm, essayed to stem the torrent, and exclaimed:
"Don't show temper, friends; anger and pride are both unwise; vinegar never catches flies."
"Ther' hain't no flies on Potter," cried a voice, and a general laugh followed. Then, in spite of his protest, Leon saw Lossy offered again for sale.
Mr. Potter lifted the dog in his arms and said:
"Now here's a dog, by name of Lossy.Just feel his fur, so fine and glossy.I'm told that twixt his loud bow-wowsHe often fetches home the cows.Besides that, he can tend the sheep,And bring the butter in the churn.So buy him dear, or buy him cheap,He'll eat no more than he can earn.
"How much for the dog?"
The competition excited by the occurrences, and the verses, was now so great, that the bidding was spirited until fifteen dollars was reached, to which sum it had mounted by jumps of fifty cents. Then a man said quietly but distinctly:
"Twenty dollars," and a glad cry escaped from Leon, as he recognized Dr. Medjora's voice, and knew that his purpose was to restore his dog to him. But at the same instant Miss Grath also comprehended the situation, and determined that Leon should not have Lossy. She cried out to Mr. Potter:
"The dog's wuth twice as much. You kin stop sellin' him. I'll keep him myself."
At this Leon's hopes fell, only to be revived again by the auctioneer's words. Mr. Potter knew Miss Grath thoroughly, and he readily appreciated the fact that she was selling the dog to spite the lad, and that, in withdrawing him, she was actuated by some sinister motive. Sympathizing with Leon, against whom he had none of the prejudices of the neighborhood, he turned now to Miss Grath and said:
"You told me to sell him for what he would fetch. It's too late now to draw back."
"It an't too late," screamed the infuriated woman; "it's my dog, and I sha'n't sell him."
"Oh, you won't," said Mr. Potter. "'The best-laid plans of mice and men aft gang aglee.' Dr. Medjora gets the dog at twenty dollars."
"It's no sale! It's no sale!" cried out Miss Grath. "'T ain't legal to sell my property agin my word."
"Now, look here, Miss Grath," said Mr. Potter; "I'm here to sell, and whatever I sell is sold. That dog's sold, and that settles it. If you dispute it, you jes' say so, right now, and you kin sell the rest of this farm yourself. Now decide quick! Is the sale of that dog all straight?"
Miss Grath, despite her anger, was shrewd enough to see that her interests would be ruined if she suspended the sale. She could never hope to get the crowd together again, and no other auctioneer would obtain such good prices. So she was obliged to yield, though she did so with little grace.
"Oh! I 'spose ef you choose to be ugly 'bout it, I hain't got nothin' more to say. Dr. Medjora kin have the dog, an' much good may it do him. I hope he'll regret buyin' it, some day."
And so, through the cleverness of Mr. Potter, the poet-auctioneer, when Dr. Medjora and Leon started for New York on the following morning the collie went with them.
Leon at this time was about twenty years old, but, as we have seen, he had already passed the crisis in his life which made a man of him. He was a curious product, considered as a New England country boy. Despite the fact that all of his life had been passed on the farm, except a brief period when he had been sent to another section, equally rural, he had adopted none of the idioms peculiar to the people about him. Without any noteworthy schooling, he could boast of being something of a scholar. I have already mentioned his predilection for the higher order of books, and by reading these he had undoubtedly obtained a glimpse of a vast field of learning; but one may place his eye to a crack in a door and see a large part of the horizon, yet the door hides much more than the crack reveals, and the observer sees nothing except through the crack. So Leon, knowing much, knew less than he thought he did; and many ideas which he believed to be mature, and original products of his own brain, were but reflections of the authors whose works he had read, and whose deductions he had adopted, because he had read nothing by other writers contradicting them. Therefore he was exactly in that mental condition which would make him a good pupil, because he would be a disputative one. The student who accepts the teaching of his master without question, will acquire but a meagre grasp of knowledge, while he who adopts nothing antagonistic to his own reason, until his reason has been satisfied, may be more troublesome, because less docile, but his progress will be more real.
That Leon had very decided convictions upon many topics, and that he would argue tenaciously in defence of his views, would not at all militate against his learning. Those ideas which were most firmly fixed in his mind, could readily be dislodged, if erroneous, for the very reason that they were not truly original with himself. Having adopted the teaching of one book, he could certainly be made to accept opposite theories, if another book, with more convincing arguments, should be brought to his notice.
For these reasons, it might be said that his mind was in a plastic condition, ready to be moulded into permanent thoughts. With such a teacher as Dr. Medjora, he would learn whatever the Doctor taught; he would adopt whatever theories the Doctor wished. Under the control of another master he might become the antithesis of what the Doctor would make of him. Therefore it may be truly said that when he accepted Dr. Medjora's offer, he sealed his fate, as surely as when Faust contracted with Mephisto.
Just as he had gleaned the ideas of authors, so also his conception of cities, and city life, had been taken from books. He had read works of travel, and thought that he was quite familiar with travelling. He was consequently astonished to find how much at variance with the real, were his notions. When he found himself aboard ofThe Puritan, that palatial steamboat of the Fall River line, he was dazed by the magnificence and luxury, thus seen for the first time in his life. But later in the night, when he and the Doctor sat upon the upper deck, as they swiftly glided through the moonlit waters of Long Island Sound, he was so enraptured at this broader view of the Universe, that he felt a distinct pain as his thoughts recurred to Lake Massabesic, which now seemed so diminutive, and which only a few days before had been an ocean to him. Yet there was still the real ocean which he had not yet seen, and which would render the Sound as diminutive in comparison, as the lake. And so, also, we arrogant inhabitants of this planet may presently come to some other world so much greater, so much larger, so much more grand, that we will not even deign to turn a telescope towards the little world which we have left behind. In some such manner, Leon was leaving his little world behind him, and even already he was abandoning all thought of it, as his heart welled up and his soul expanded towards the greater world looming up before him. In that little town behind him he had lost his name, which indeed had never been his. But in the great city which he approached, was he not destined to make a new name for himself? He was young, and in answer to this mental question his answer was—"Certainly!" All young men see Fame just there—just ahead of them! They need but to stretch out a hand, and it is within their grasp. Yet, alas! How few ever clutch it!
Dr. Medjora sat beside Leon for a long time in silence. He noticed the lad's absorption, and readily comprehended the mental effects produced. It suited his purpose to remain silent. He wished his companion to become intoxicated by this new experience, for, in such a mood of abstraction, he hoped for an opportunity to accomplish a design which was of great importance to himself. He wished to hypnotize Leon. Why, I will explain later, but the chief reason at the present moment was this:
Dr. Medjora had, as you know, observed Leon feeding the chipmunks, and had said to himself, "He has inherited the power." By this he meant Leon possessed that temperament which is supposed to render the individual most capable of controlling others. And let me say at once that I do not allude to any occult power. There is nothing whatever in connection with this history, which transcends known and recognized scientific laws. But, to express myself clearly, I may say that all persons are susceptible to impressions from suggestion. Those who fall asleep, because sleep has been suggested, are said to be hypnotic subjects; while he who can produce sleep by suggestion in the greatest number of persons, may be said to have "the power" in its most developed form. But it is a power thoroughly well comprehended by scientists of to-day, and may be acquired by almost any one to some extent, just as any one is susceptible to hypnotic influence, to a greater or less degree according to the conditions. I believe that there is no person living who cannot be hypnotized, by some living person, however well he may resist all others. Or in other words, there be some individuals so little susceptible to outside suggestions, so self-reliant, and so strong in their own ego, that it would be extremely difficult to produce true hypnosis in them. Yet the phenomenon is possible with even these, provided the hypnotizer be one who is a past-master in methods, and possesses the most effective power of conveying suggestion.
Such a man was Dr. Medjora. Never yet had he met a human being who could resist him, if he exerted himself. He was a master of methods, possessing a knowledge of the minutest details of the psychological aspect of the subject, and therefore the most powerful hypnotizer of the age, perhaps. One fact he had long recognized. That just as one individual is more susceptible than another, so an individual who might resist at one time, would be perfectly docile at another. So much depends upon the mental attitude of the subject. One of the favorable states is abstraction, for in such a condition the mind is off its guard, so to speak, and it may be possible that, by a sudden shock, the suggestion to sleep, might be conveyed and be obeyed.
Thus he was glad to note that Leon was losing himself in thought, because it would give him an opportunity to hypnotize the lad, and if he could once be thrown into that state, hypnosis could be re-produced thereafter very readily. It would only be necessary for the Doctor to suggest to Leon, while asleep, that he permit himself to be hypnotized in the future, and the possibility of resistance would be destroyed.
Therefore the Doctor watched Leon, as a cat does a bird when seeking a chance to seize and destroy it. Several times he was about to make the attempt, but he hesitated. That he did so annoyed him, for it was a new experience to him to doubt his ability to accomplish a purpose. But, truly, he questioned the wisdom of what he meditated, in spite of the fact that he knew this to be a rare opportunity, which would never occur again. The boy would never, after this night, be so intoxicated by Nature as he was at this time. Even though Leon were, as the Doctor believed, one of those exceptional individuals who could successfully resist him, his will-power was for the time in abeyance, and a well-directed effort to throw him into hypnotic slumber promised success. Yet he could not overlook the other fact, that, were the attempt to prove a failure, it would render all future experiments doubly difficult.
Thus an hour passed. There was no one on the upper deck besides these two. Leon had remained so still, so motionless for many minutes, that he might have been a corpse sitting there and gazing into the line of foam which trailed in the wake of the boat. He was fascinated, why might he not be hypnotized? Still, the Doctor was loath to take a risk. He called the lad's name, at first very softly. But he repeated it again, and again, in louder tones. Leon did not reply. His abstraction was so great that he did not hear. It was certainly a favorable moment. The Doctor rose slowly from his chair; so slowly that he scarcely seemed to move, but in a few moments he stood erect. Then he paused, and for some time remained motionless. With a movement that was more a gliding than a step, one leg crept forward towards Leon, and then the other was drawn after it, thus bringing the Doctor nearer. Again he stood motionless. Again the manoeuvre was repeated, and now, still unnoticed, he stood beside the lad. The approach more than ever reminded one of a cat, only now one would think of a tiger rather than of the little domestic animal. For the Doctor looked tall and gaunt in the moonlight. Now he stooped slowly forward, bending his back, as the tiger prepares to spring upon its prey, and now his mouth was near Leon's ear.
The final moment had come; the experiment was to be tried. But even now the Doctor had devised a scheme by which he hoped to lose nothing, even though he should fail. His first intention had been to cry out, "Go to sleep!" a command which he had often seen obeyed instantly. This time the formula was changed. In a loud tone, which, however, was mellifluous and persuasive, he uttered these words:
"You are asleep!"
He paused and anxiously awaited the result. For a brief instant success poised upon the verge of his desire. Leon's eyes closed, and his head drooped forward. Then, like lightning, there came a change. The lad jumped up, and started back, assuming an attitude of defiance, and a wrathful demeanor. He was entirely awake and in full control of his senses as he cried out:
"You tried to mesmerize me!"
As swiftly the Doctor was again master of himself, and, recognizing defeat, he was fully prepared to assume control of the situation and twist circumstances so that they should culminate in advantage to himself. In the very moment of his first failure, his quick mind grasped at the hope that was offered by Leon's words. He had said "mesmerize," and this convinced Dr. Medjora that the word "hypnotize" was as yet unknown to him, and that all the later discoveries in psychical science must be as a sealed book to him. So with perfect calmness he replied:
"I fail to see upon what you base such a senseless deduction. You have sat motionless for half an hour. I called you three or four times, and you did not reply. Then I came here and stood beside you, but you took no notice of me. Finally I said what I thought was true, 'You are asleep!' Instantly you jump up like a madman and accuse me of trying to mesmerize you. Now, why? Explain!"
How could this youth cope with the skill of such a man? He could not. As he listened to the Doctor's words and heard his frank and friendly speech, his fears were banished, his suspicions lulled, and he felt ashamed. Being honest, he expressed his thoughts:
"I beg your pardon, Doctor. I think now that I must have been sleeping. Your words startled me, and, as I awoke, I spoke stupidly. Will you forgive me?"
There was a shade of anxiety in his tones, which demonstrated to the Doctor that he valued his friendship, and feared to alienate his good will. Thus he knew that he had deftly dispelled doubt, and that nothing had been lost. Indeed, something had been gained, for he knew now what he had only before suspected; that Leon could not be hypnotized. Or, rather, not by any one else in the world besides himself, for he by no means abandoned his design. Only, when next he should make an attempt, he would take better precautions, and he would succeed. So he thought. Now, it would be as well to continue the conversation, by discussing the suggested topic, for it would strengthen the lad's confidence, if he did not appear to shun it.
"Forgive you, my boy," said the Doctor, "there is nothing to forgive. It was I who was stupid, for I should not have disturbed you so unexpectedly. But I am fond of studying human beings, and you have been very entertaining to me to-night. I have been observing the effect that Nature can produce upon a virgin mind, such as yours. You have been drinking in the grandeur of the world about us, until you were so enthralled that you had forgotten all except the emotions by which you were moved. You were not asleep, but you were in an abstraction so deep that it was akin to sleep. I yielded to the temptation of saying what I did, merely to see what effect it would produce. I was certainly surprised at the result. That you should have been startled is natural enough, but how the idea of mesmerism occurred to you, bewilders me. What do you know about that mysterious subject?"
"Not very much," said Leon, with some diffidence. "As you may imagine, Doctor, I have not had a large library from which to choose. But I have read a translation of a work by Deleuze, which appears to discuss the subject thoroughly."
"Ah! I see. You have read Deleuze. I am familiar with the work. Well, then, tell me. After weighing the matter thoroughly in your own mind, do you believe it is possible for one person to mesmerize another?"
"I do not. Most emphatically I do not," said Leon.
"Most emphatically you do not. A strong way to express your views, for which you must of course have convincing reasons. But if so, why were you afraid that I would do what you emphatically believe to be an impossibility?" The Doctor smiled indulgently as he asked this embarrassing question.
"Because, as you have said, I was only half-awake," replied Leon, apologetically.
The Doctor was now assured that Leon, even when he should come to think over the occurrences of the night when alone, would harbor no suspicion against him. So all would be safe.
"Well, then," continued the Doctor, "tell me why you are so sure that mesmerism is not possible. You say you have read Deleuze. He claims that wonderful things may be accomplished."
"So wonderful that a thinking man cannot believe them to be true."
"But surely Deleuze was honest, and he relates many remarkable cases which he assures his readers occurred within his own cognizance."
"That is very true. No one who reads the author's book could doubt the sincerity of his purpose and the truth of what he relates. Or rather I should say, one must believe that he does not wilfully deceive. But it must be equally evident that the man was deluded."
"Why so?"
"It is difficult to tell exactly. But I know this, that after reading his work, which is intended to convince the skeptic, not only did his words leave me unconvinced, but a positive disbelief was aroused. There are places where he makes assertions, which he admits he cannot explain. He tells of wonderful occurrences which he cannot account for, while, in spite of that, he does not hesitate to attribute them to mesmerism. Such teaching is unsatisfactory and unscientific."
"Very true, but because Deleuze did not understand a phenomenon, does it logically follow that there is no explanation of it to be had?"
"Why, not at all, Doctor. But the explanation must eliminate it from the realm of the mysterious, and make it acceptable to the reason. In its present form it is utterly unacceptable. I cannot believe that one individual may possess a power by which he may control his fellow-creatures. The idea is repugnant in the extreme. It lessens one's self-dependence. Do you believe in mesmerism?"
This was a direct question, and the Doctor thought that the subject had been pursued far enough. He had no desire to approach a point where he might be compelled to give this inquiring youth an insight into the scientific side of hypnotism. He preferred to leave him wallowing in the mire of mesmerism. Consequently, he did not hesitate to reply:
"No, Leon. I do not believe in mesmerism. Mesmer himself was a very erratic, unscientific man, who either did not or would not arrange his observations into scientific order, from which logical deductions might have been made. Therefore, his whole teaching may be counted rather among the curiosities of literature, than as having any value to the mind of one who seeks the truth. Life is too short to waste much time upon such fruitless speculations."
"I am glad that you agree with me," said Leon. "I was afraid from what you said that you might believe in that sort of thing."
To this the Doctor made no reply, the words "that sort of thing" threatening to lead him upon dangerous ground again. He essayed, by a gentle digression, to divert the conversation into another direction.
"Speaking of mesmerism, Leon, I suppose that you know that its advocates likened it to the power which reptiles are said to have over birds and small animals, whom they fascinate first, and then devour. Now I was much interested to note the familiarity with which the little chipmunks approached you this morning."
"Did you see them?" Leon was surprised, for he had not known how long the Doctor had been present.
"Yes," replied the Doctor; "I watched you for some time. How is it that these little wild animals would come to you? Disbelieving in mesmerism, have you yourself the power to charm or fascinate the lower animals?"
"Why, not at all, Doctor. Let me explain. First, as to the chipmunks. There was nothing wonderful about that, for though they are wild, they know me as well as though they had lived in the house with me. One day I found a dead chipmunk, and later I found the nest of young ones in a tree. I took food to them from day to day, and they grew to know me. Were it not that I have not been in the woods since the funeral until this morning, so that it is several days since the little fellows last saw me, they would have shown even greater friendliness than they did. I have often had them run up to my shoulders, and perch there eating what I would give them."
"But what you tell me only makes me believe the more that you exert some power of fascination," said the Doctor, laughing jestingly. "You must teach me the secret of charming animals, Leon. Really you must."
"I will do so gladly. It is very simple. The animals, the little ones I mean, are afraid of us. Banish their fear, and at the same time excite their instinct to take food where they can find it, and your desire is accomplished. For example, take the fish. If I go to the edge of Lake Massabesic at a certain spot, the fish will jump out of the water in their anxiety to receive food from my hands. I can even take the little fellows out of the water, and when I drop them in again, they pause but a few moments before venturing within my reach again. How did I train them to this? I noticed that from my habit of throwing the old bait out of my boat when landing, the fish had made the spot a feeding place. I threw them some crumbs of bread, and they hurried to the surface to snatch it, diving swiftly down again to eat. I tried an experiment. Holding the bread in my hand, I dipped my arm deep into the water, and allowed it to remain motionless. For a long time the fish were very shy. They stood off at a distance, and gazed longingly, but they did not approach this strange object. I crushed the bread into small bits and withdrew my arm. In a moment they were all feeding. After doing this a number of times on successive days, at last one fellow, more venturesome than the others, made a swift dash forward, and grabbing a bit of the bread from my hand as quickly swam off with it. Others, observing his success, followed his example. Within a few more days, they did not hesitate, but approached as soon as my hand appeared below the water, and presently they were not alarmed if I moved my hand about among them. The first time that I attempted to take hold of one, I created a disturbance which made them shy for a few days; but after a time they learned that I would not harm them, whereas I always brought them food. Why should they not trust me? So you see, Doctor, there is no witchcraft about it."
"No! Your explanation of how you charm fish removes it from the region of the mysterious, and I have no doubt that what Mesmer observed, could be as satisfactorily explained if we only knew how."
So the subject was dropped, and both retired to their staterooms, as the hour was late. Dr. Medjora, when alone, occupied himself with the serious problem before him. He had undertaken a charge,—the education of a youth endowed with unusual intelligence. To teach him all that he wished him to know, it became an essential part of his plan that Leon should be hypnotized. How should he accomplish it?
Leon slept soundly, or if he dreamed at all, it was of the name which he would make for himself.
Early on the following morning the steamboat landed her passengers, and Leon set foot upon the shores of New York City. He had sat upon the deck for more than an hour, marvelling at the extent of the two cities between which they passed down the East river; he had gazed with wondering eyes upon the great bridge, astonished that the name of the engineer was not known to him; and the thought hurt, for if one might build such a structure and not be more widely known to fame, how was he, a poor country boy, to earn distinction? He had admired the beautiful Battery, the Statue of Liberty, the lovely bay, the tall buildings, and had felt that he was almost approaching Paradise. But at last he was ashore, and in New York, the Mecca of all good citizens of the New World, and he felt correspondingly elated.
Cabs and carriages were offered by shouting hackmen, with stentorian voices, and insinuating manners, but the Doctor pushed through the throng, and crossed the street to where two magnificent black horses, attached to a luxurious carriage, tossed their heads and shook their silver chains. A man in livery opened the door, and Dr. Medjora made a sign to Leon to get in, which he did, for the first time beginning to realize that his newfound friend was a man of wealth.
The drive seemed endless, and if Leon was surprised at the length of the city as he viewed it from the river, he was more amazed now, as the carriage rolled rapidly through continuous rows of houses built up solidly on each side. In reality they drove almost the entire length of the Island, for their destination was that same place where the Doctor had once set fire to his house.
Everything, however, was changed. Where once was an old dwelling on a rugged lot of land, there was now a royal mansion within a spacious park. This was the home of Dr. Emanuel Medjora and his wife. They had no children. But a retinue of servants, and frequent arrivals of company, kept the two from feeling lonely.
The Doctor ushered Leon into a cosy reception-room, made pleasant by sunshine, and the light morning's breeze, and there bade him wait a moment, while he summoned his wife. But Leon was not left to himself long, for within a few moments a door opened and Madame Medjora entered. She insisted that she should always be called Madame, and therefore in deference to her nationality, as well as to her wishes, I give her that title.
Hearing the carriage, she had hurried to meet her husband, but by accident they had not met, and she was surprised to see the stranger of whom she had heard nothing, and whose arrival was therefore entirely unexpected. Leon arose and bowed to her, in courteous and graceful greeting, but, angered because she had not been advised of his coming, she asked with brusqueness.
"Who are you?"
"I came with Dr. Medjora," replied Leon, somewhat startled by the unfriendliness of her manner.
"But who are you? What is your name?"
Alas! The inconvenience of having no name. In a moment Leon was all embarrassment.
"My name?" He paused and stammered. "My name is—Leon——" Here he stopped, blushed, and looked away.
"Leon! Leon what?" asked Madame Medjora, in tones far from conciliatory. Leon did not reply. She continued, now thoroughly aroused. "You are ashamed of your name, are you? What is your name? I will know it! What is your last name, your full name?"
"Leon Grath is his name!" said a voice behind, and, turning, they both saw Dr. Medjora.
Madame Medjora turned at the sound of her husband's voice with mingled emotion,—pleasure at seeing him at home again, for she still loved him with the passionate ardor of those earlier days, and anxiety, because her keen ear detected a tone of reproval in his words. Had she been a thoroughly wise woman that note of warning would have served to make her desist, but she was not to be baffled, when once she had determined to learn the meaning of anything that had aroused her curiosity or excited her suspicion. So instead of abandoning the subject, and welcoming her husband with an effusiveness which would have smoothed the wrinkles from his forehead, she turned upon him almost angrily, and said:
"Why do you prompt him? Is he an idiot that he cannot tell his name?"
"Not at all," said the Doctor, hopeful of dispersing the threatened storm, and therefore becoming slightly explanatory and conciliatory. "You have evidently confused Mr. Grath by your manner of questioning him, that is all. He is a country boy, unused to city ways, and you must excuse him if he is not as ready with an answer, as he will be after we make a citizen of him."
"He must be from the country indeed," was the sneering reply. "He must have been raised in a forest, to be so confused because I ask him his name." Then altering her tone, and speaking more rapidly, she continued: "Do not think that your wife is a fool, Dr. Medjora. Even a dog knows his name. There is something about this that you wish to hide from me. But I will not submit to it. You shall not bring any nameless beggars into my house!"
Leon uttered a cry as though wounded, and started to leave the apartment, but the Doctor, livid with anger, detained him by clutching his arm, as he would have passed, and turning upon his wife uttered but one word:
"Cora!"
That was all, but his voice implied such a threat, that the woman shrunk back, awed, and frightened, and utterly subdued, she merely murmured:
"Emanuel, forgive me!"
"Go to your room!" ejaculated the Doctor, sternly, and after one appealing glance at him, which he ignored, she swiftly glided through the door, and closed it softly after her. Thus the two men were left to themselves. Leon was the first to speak:
"Dr. Medjora," he began, "I thank you most heartily for what you have intended to do for me, but we have made a mistake. I cannot enter your home now. I can never hope that your wife will forget what has occurred to-day. Therefore were I to remain, my presence must become intolerably obnoxious to her; and her unhappiness would be but a blight upon your own peace."
"Perhaps you are right," said the Doctor quietly, and as though meditating upon the affair. "It is possible that you would not be as happy here as I would wish you to be. But if you go away from me, what will you do?"
"Work!" answered the youth, succinctly.
"Well answered," said the Doctor. "But, my boy, that is more easily decided upon than accomplished. You are a stranger, not only in the city, but to city manners and city methods. You would start out with determination to succeed, and in the first day you would apply at many places. But at them all you would be met with such questions as 'Where did you work last?' 'What experience have you?' 'What references can you offer?' You would answer them all unsatisfactorily, and you would be dismissed with a shrug of the shoulders."
"I have no doubt, Doctor, that it will be hard to obtain a place; but, as ignorant as I am, I have formed an idea upon this subject. I believe that in this country, where surely nine tenths of all men earn a livelihood, the small proportion of idlers have themselves to blame for their condition. Of course there must be a meritorious few who are unfortunate, but I speak of the greater number. Therefore I think that if I seek work, without any scruples as to what work it may be, I shall not starve."
"But are you ready to go right out into the world, single handed? Do you mean that you would begin the battle at once, to-day?"
"I do!"
"You do? Then I have faith in you. I, too, believe that you will succeed. I wish you God speed!"
Leon said "Thank you," and then there was a pause. In a moment, however, Leon started towards the front door, and the Doctor followed him in silence. The youth took down his hat from the jutting spur of a gnarled cedar stump, which, polished and varnished, served as a hat-rack, and a moment later stood upon the stoop extending his hand in farewell.
"Dr. Medjora," said Leon, "you must not think that I am ungrateful, nor that I am too proud to accept your aid. I am only doing what I deem to be my duty after—after what has passed. Good-by."
"Good-by, Leon," said the Doctor, shaking his hand warmly.
Leon started away, and, passing along the path, was nearing the gate that led to the street, when suddenly he paused, turned, and quickly retraced his steps. He found the Doctor standing where he had parted from him. Rushing up the steps, he essayed to speak, but a sob choked his utterance, and it was with difficulty that he said:
"Lossy!" Then he stopped, looking anxiously at the Doctor. It was surely a pretty picture. The lad had not hesitated to cast himself against the rude pricks of Fate, but the recollection of his dog made him tremble.
"Lossy will be brought here this afternoon," said the Doctor. "I have already sent my man down to get him out of his box, and bring him. What do you wish me to do about him?"
"Oh, Doctor," exclaimed the boy, appealingly, "if you would only keep my dog! You were kind enough to buy him for me. But now—now—unless you will keep him awhile—why—why—" Here he broke down utterly and ceased to speak, while a tear-drop in each eye glistened in the sunlight which crossed his handsome features, illuminated by the love that welled up from his heart; love for this dumb beast that had been his friend for so long a time.
"I will keep Lossy for you, Leon," began the Doctor, but he was interrupted by Leon, who grasped his hand impulsively, crying:
"Heaven bless you, Doctor!"
"But, I will keep you, also, my boy," continued the Doctor, tightening his grasp of Leon's hand, so that he could not get away.
"No! No!" cried the lad.
"Yes! Yes!" said the Doctor. "Now come back into the house and let me explain myself." Half forcibly he drew the youth after him, and they returned to the room where they had first been. Then the Doctor resumed:
"Leon, did you suppose that I meant to let you go away? That I would bring you so far and then abandon you to your own resources? Never for one instant did I harbor such a thought. But when you spoke as you did, I determined to try you; to see whether you were speaking in earnest, or for effect. Therefore I seemed to acquiesce. Therefore I let you go without even offering you some money, or telling you to come back to me if in distress. My boy, you stood the trial nobly. I was proud of you as you walked down the path, and I was about to follow you when I saw you pause and turn back. For an instant I feared that you had wavered, but I was more than gratified that it was to plead for the dog, and not for yourself that you returned."
"But Doctor, how can I remain?" asked the lad, helplessly, for already he began to feel the necessity of submitting to the domination of this man, as so many others had experienced.
"How can you remain? Why, simply by doing so. You mean, what will my wife think? She will think just what I wish her to think. It is a habit of hers to do so." Here he laughed significantly. "But you need not fear Madame. You believe that she will resent what she would term an intrusion. But you are mistaken. You will meet her next at dinner, and you will see that she will be quite friendly. In fact, she did not understand matters this morning. She was angry with me because I had not notified her that I would bring home a guest, but when I shall have talked with her that will be all changed."
So the matter was determined, and, as usual, Dr. Medjora's will decided the issue. Meanwhile, Madame had ascended to her room in high dudgeon. Since the day when we last saw her she had altered very little. Her most prominent characteristics had not changed, except as they had become more fully developed. But in many ways this development had been deceptive, for, whereas many who knew her believed that certain unpleasing features had been eliminated from her character, the truth was that she had merely suppressed them, as a matter of policy.
The union of such a woman with a man like Dr. Medjora, was an interesting study in matrimonial psychology. In all marriages one of two results is usually to be anticipated. The stronger individuality will dominate the other and mould it into submission, or the two characters will become amalgamated, each altering the other, until a plane is reached on which there is possible a harmony of desires. In this case neither of these conditions had been fulfilled, although nearly all who were acquainted with the Doctor and his wife supposed that the husband was the ruling spirit. The truth, however, was that while Dr. Medjora controlled his wife in important matters, he had by no means succeeded in merging her character into his own. Where contention arose, she obeyed his commands, but she never submitted her will. She surrendered, like a wise general, to superior force, but she secretly resented her defeat, and sought a way of retreat by which in the end she might compass her own designs.
By these means, she had deceived all of her acquaintances, and she enjoyed the idea that she had also deceived her husband. In this she was mistaken. Dr. Medjora understood thoroughly that his wife only yielded to him under protest, and in many instances he had refrained from making a move, when by doing so he could have thwarted her subsequent efforts to have her own way. Thus he adroitly avoided open warfare, satisfied that in secret strategy he was his wife's equal, if not her superior. In this manner they had lived together for so many years, enjoying their relationship as much as is usual with married folks, and keeping up an outward show that caused all to believe that, with them, matrimony was a great success. And so it was, if one could only overlook the fact that beneath this semblance of happiness there smouldered a fire, which might at any time be aroused by a chance spark, and grow into a blaze which would consume the whole fabric of their existence. The embers of this fire were, jealousy and suspicion on the side of the woman, and secretiveness in the man. Madame Medjora had never forgotten that her inquiry as to whether her husband had had a child by his previous wife had been unanswed; nor had she quite abandoned the hope of satisfying herself upon the subject.
During the later years, she had much regretted to see what she considered one source of power slowly slipping away from her. In the beginning, her husband had not hesitated to call upon her for funds with which to advance his interests, but as the years passed his own resources had increased so rapidly, that he was now entirely independent of her, and, indeed, owing to shrinkages in the values of her property, he was really richer than she. The house in which they lived had been rebuilt by him, and by degrees he had paid off the mortgages out of his earnings, until he owned it freed from debt.
So, as she sat in her room and meditated upon the fact that she had said that Leon should not be admitted to the house, she remembered with a feeling of bitterness that she was the mistress in the house only by right of wifehood, and not because she held any privileges arising from proprietorship.
She had been anticipating pleasure from the reunion with her husband, and now, because of "that country boy," she had received only unkind words from the Doctor. Naturally, she exonerated herself from all fault, and, because of her love, she would not blame her husband. There was no other course but to attribute the whole trouble to Leon. But for him, she argued, all would have been pleasant, therefore he must bear the brunt of her resentment. Already she began to hate him. To hate him as only a tropical temperament can hate. She was in this mood when the Doctor entered. At once she arose to greet him. In an instant she hid within the depths of her bosom all emotions save those of love, and any one, other than the Doctor, would have believed that she harbored no unpleasant recollections or ill feeling because of the recent scene. He was not deceived. He had lived with her for more than fifteen years, and in that time he had appraised her correctly. Now, however, it suited him best to accept her caresses, and to return them with a show of warmth, which made the blood course faster through her veins, the more so because she had expected him to be angry, and because he rarely exhibited much feeling. This wily man well knew the weak spot in this woman's armor, and when he most desired to sway her actions, he first touched her heart.
"Well,cara mia, are you glad to have me with you again?" He folded her close to his breast, and kissed her lips. She nestled within his arms, and returned the salute rapturously. Presently he spoke again. "You were naughty, down stairs, little one?"
There was scarcely a reproach in his voice; he spoke rather as an indulgent parent chides an erring, but beloved child. She looked up into his eyes and merely murmured,
"You will forgive me?"
Some may doubt that the warmer demonstrations of love could survive the destroying influences of a companionship covering so many years, and be still expressed with the fervor of youth. To such I say, what has not come within your own experience is not necessarily false. Love, especially in woman, is a hardy plant and will blossom and flower, long after its earlier excitations have ceased to exist. The beauty of form, and attractiveness of manner, which first arouses the tender passion within our breast, may pass away from the object of our admiration, and yet our love may be deeper, fuller, and wider than at its inception. Yea, it may even retain its fullest demonstrativeness. In many cases it thrives most by harsh treatment, where it might expire by over-tending. Madame Medjora's affection was of this sort. Had her husband yielded to her all that she demanded, she would long ago have been surfeited, and not improbably she would have left him. This, however, he had never done. She had always feared that he did not love her as she yearned to be loved, and therefore she was ever ready with cajolery, flattery, and other means familiar to women, to win from him a fuller responsiveness.
At this moment, intoxicated by his caresses, she spoke from her heart when she asked him to forgive her. The slight reproof of his words, however gently spoken, was the tiny bit of cloud upon her present clear sky of joy. She wished to dissipate it utterly, and then bask in the full sunshine of his love, as dear to her to-day as before her nuptials. But by no means did she regret the act which had called forth his speech, except as it affected her momentary happiness. She was ready to yield outwardly to anything that he might demand of her in such a mood, but, later, she would return to her purpose with zeal. That purpose, in this instance, would be to make Leon as miserable as she could if he remained, but to have him out of the house if possible. The game was now worth watching, for both players were very skilful, and each was intent upon carrying the day eventually. Each was as patient as persistent.
"You ask me to forgive you, Cora," was the Doctor's reply. "Do you admit that you behaved very badly?"
"Now you are going to scold," said his wife, in a demure tone that sounded odd from one of her years. But Madame often assumed the airs of youthfulness, without realizing how poorly they suited her.
"I would never scold you, Cora, if you would only think always before you act. You have been both unwise and unreasonable."
"I would not have been if you had informed me in advance that the boy was coming. But you never tell me anything, Emanuel."
"Perhaps I should have done so in this case. But I only decided yesterday, just before I left the country. A letter would not have reached you, and I would not telegraph, because you are always frightened by a despatch."
"The horrid things! I hate telegrams!"
"Exactly! It was from consideration for you that I did not notify you. As soon as I reached home I came here to find you and explain, but you had run down the other stairway, and so unfortunately you met Leon before I intended you should."
"Leon Grath?" There was an accent upon the last name, and an inflection of the voice very delicately expressed, which intimated that there was a doubt. Madame could not resist speaking thus quickly, hoping that a glance, an expression, however fleeting, might cross the Doctor's face, which would be a clue upon which she might base her future investigation. But she gained nothing by the manoeuvre, and the Doctor continued, as though unsuspicious of her intent.
"Yes, Leon Grath. Sit down and I will tell you about him. Some years ago I first met Leon, while hunting in the vicinity of his home, he had broken his leg, and I set it for him. Subsequently in succeeding years we have hunted together. This summer I was intending to look him up, as a companion on a fishing excursion. Arriving in his neighborhood, I learned that his mother had just died, leaving no will, and that the farm would be sold and the boy left penniless, through a technicality which made the small estates revert to the surviving sisters. These old hags hated Leon, and, consequently, from a comfortable home, he was about to become an outcast. I therefore decided to bring him home with me. He will now live with us."
"Forever?" gasped Madame, surprised to learn that, instead of a guest, the lad was destined to be a permanent addition to their household.
"Forever!" replied the Doctor, with just a little severity; enough to check the expression of resentment which he saw rising. Then in order to give her time to regain control of herself he went on. "Yes! I have long needed an assistant, and I am sure that Leon will prove an apt pupil and rapidly learn enough to become useful to me. However, I may be mistaken. He may prove a failure, and then I should find him a position elsewhere." This was offered as a sort of compromise for her acceptance. He held out the possibility that Leon would leave them. Madame was in nowise deceived. She had appreciated the tone of her husband's voice as he uttered the word, "Forever," and she knew that Leon would never leave them on account of proving a failure as a student. However, she accepted the situation, and assumed a satisfaction which was mere dissembling.
"Now that I understand the facts, Emanuel, I shall do all in my power to make the boy happy while he is here, even though it be only for a short time." The last words were in response to her husband's suggestion, but he understood her motive as well as she had comprehended his. Thus they fenced with one another.
"I knew that you would do so, Cora," replied the Doctor. "Will you come down now and speak to Leon before I take him out with me? I must have some clothing ordered for him."
Together they descended to where Leon sat awaiting them, and the youth's fears were set at rest, for the time being at least. Madame approached him with her most alluring manner, and welcomed him, in words, to his new home. She even asked him to forget her brusqueness at their first meeting, and then, suggesting that he must be hungry, rang a bell and ordered light refreshments.
The Doctor sat apart from them, apparently looking over his letters, but in reality observing closely all that transpired, and while Leon was thoroughly charmed by the altered manner of his hostess, Dr. Medjora decided, within his own mind, that in relation to this boy his wife's actions would require the closest scrutiny.
Presently a gong sounded, and a few moments later a servant announced:
"Judge Dudley. Miss Dudley."
The Judge came in with extended hand, and was warmly greeted by the Doctor, while the young lady went up to Madame, who kissed her on her cheek, and received her with an outward show of cordiality, which a close observer might have seen was but a polite veneer. The Doctor hastened to bring Leon forward, and presented him first to the Judge, and then to Miss Agnes Dudley.
The young people bowed their acknowledgments, and as they raised their heads, so that their eyes met, both started slightly. Leon was astonished to recognize the face of the girl whom he had met when studying Venus, and whose image had recurred to him that night on Lake Massabesic.
After the trial of Dr. Medjora, the young men who had so successfully defended him became rapidly prominent. Within six months they were retained in another celebrated case, and won new laurels. Within five years they were counted among the first lawyers of the Metropolis, and had already a practice which assured them ease and comfort for their declining years.
Mr. Dudley continued to be the ardent student that he had always been, and those who knew how well versed he was in law, were not at all surprised when he was eventually made a judge, a position which at this time he had held with honor for five years. He had achieved well-deserved fame. Aside from his undoubted probity, he really graced his position, for it was very seldom that any of his rulings were reversed by the higher courts.
I may mention here, parenthetically, that Mr. Bliss had also risen in his profession, and had just been elected District Attorney, having previously acquitted himself well as an assistant to his predecessor.
Agnes Dudley, the Judge's daughter, was eighteen years of age, having been born about a year after the Medjora trial. Indeed, Dr. Medjora always called her his godchild, because he had been present at her birth, and had enjoyed an intimate acquaintance with her and her parents throughout the years that followed. Judge Dudley had not merely defended Dr. Medjora as a matter of business. Having no positive opinion at the beginning of the trial, he had become convinced during its progress, and especially while his client was on the witness-stand, that Dr. Medjora was entirely innocent of the crime with which he was charged. This feeling was intensified when the jury showed an agreement with him, by acquitting the Doctor, and, as a result, an intense sympathy was aroused in his breast for one who seemed to have wrongfully undergone such an ordeal. For a man must suffer in reputation when once the finger of suspicion is pointed in his direction, and it is out of the power of the State to repair the harm which has been done. Thus, from the position of client, Mr. Dudley elevated the Doctor into that place in his regard occupied by his warmest friends.
Dr. Medjora had been quick to appreciate the affiliation of a man of brains, such as he recognized Judge Dudley to be, and, therefore, the friendship had thriven. None exalted the legal ability of Mr. Dudley higher than did the Doctor, and no one valued Dr. Medjora's professional skill more than did Mr. Dudley. Under these circumstances, of course the Doctor was intrusted with the medical care of the lawyer's family, and thus it was natural that he should feel a paternal regard for his friend's daughter.
If he loved Agnes, she returned his affection in full measure. She used to say, even when a little tot, that she had two papas, and if asked which she loved best, she would reply: "Bofe of 'em."
As she grew older, of course she discriminated between her father and the Doctor, but if Judge Dudley received the greater share of her demonstrations of affection, the Doctor was more than satisfied with what was allotted to him.
In proportion as the Doctor loved the child, so his wife disliked her, though she never exhibited her feelings openly. Indeed, in this one matter she had succeeded in deceiving her husband, who, astute as he was in all other things, had never suspected that Madame harbored any ill-feeling against the girl. But Agnes herself was not very old when she began to understand, and as her wisdom increased with her years, she became less and less demonstrative towards the Doctor when the wife was present. Women detect these hidden heart-throbs with an instinct which is peculiar to their sex, and which transcends reason, in that it is unfailing, however illogical it may seem to a man.
Agnes was a rare child, a rarer girl, and one of the rarest of women as she matured. Without having a beautiful face, measured by the rules of high art, she was endowed with a countenance which might escape notice, but which, having once attracted observation, was never to be forgotten. Hers was a face that the least imaginative could readily recall in a dark room, and by an operation of the mind which produces images subjectively, summon up a hallucination of the girl, as distinct in lineament as though she were present in the flesh. An artist had proven this by sitting in his studio, lighted only by a candle, that he might see his drawing-board, and he had succeeded in producing a portrait of Agnes, as true to life as was possible. He claimed afterward that, without difficulty, he had projected his mental image of her against the dark background of his room, and that he had seen her as clearly as though she had sat for him.
From one point of view, then, it might be said that she had a strong face, by which I would mean that it would make an indelible impression upon the mind that observed her closely. There is a psychological reason for this, which I must ask you to look at with me if you wish to know Agnes. One dead face differs from another merely in the outlines of form. A living face differs from all others, and is different itself in varying moods, because there is something within the form which animates it. This is intellect. Some are poor in this, while others are richly endowed. The greater the intellect, the more distinctively individual will be the face, and it is this individuality which marks the features, differentiating the countenance from all others about it, so that it leaves a deeper impression upon the brain, just as a loud noise is heard, or a bright flash seen, the more intensely.
Agnes's pre-eminent characteristic was her intellectuality. She absorbed books, as a sponge does water, without apparent effort, and as a sponge may be squeezed and made to yield up nearly as much as it had drawn in, so Agnes, if catechised, would show that she had a permanent grasp on what she had studied. She developed a fondness for the classics, and for law, which delighted her father, and as her mother died when she was nearing her fifteenth year, they grew to be very close companions. The father, deprived of the support and encouragement always afforded by a true and well-beloved wife, gradually leaned more and more upon his daughter, who showed herself so worthy of affiliating with him mentally. It was therefore not very long before her services became indispensable to him in finding references in his law library, and in many ways connected with his profession.
Of two other things in connection with Agnes I must speak. Physically she was the perfection of ideal womanhood. She was strong in limb and body, yet possessed all the grace of contour essential to the feminine scheme of beauty. She had never been corseted in her life, and yet her figure was superb, being well rounded and full, yet so supple that every muscle was obedient to her will. She could ride a horse, leap a fence, swim, fish, and row a boat as well and untiringly as a man, yet in nothing was she masculine. She had cultivated all of those physical possibilities of her body, which it should be the privilege of all women to do, without transgressing some rule of society which has been fashioned to protect the weaker specimens of the sex, rather than to develop the dormant energies of womankind. It was her constant boast that neither rain nor sun, nor any untoward freak of the elements, could deter her from pursuing a pre-arranged purpose. She never "caught cold." In truth she had never been ill one whole day since her birth.
The other matter may seem a slight one, as I describe it, but were you to meet the girl, you would notice it very quickly. I allude to her manner of speech. We all of us, when writing, are careful in forming our sentences. We spell all words in full, avoiding abbreviations. But note well the speech of even the most liberally educated and carefully nurtured, and what do we discover? That our English is sadly defective, not merely in grammatical construction, but, more particularly, in pronunciation, and in enunciation. We slur many letters, and merge many words, the one into the other. We are so pressed for time that we cannot pause to breathe between words; our sentences have no commas, and sometimes not even periods, that can be recognized as such. In our hurry we use abbreviations whenever possible. We say "don't," "won't," "can't," and many others that we "shouldn't."
Agnes never did this. Her language was always as correct, her pronunciation as perfect, and her enunciation as distinct, as though she were constantly studying to be a purist. You say that she must have been affected! But you are wrong. Not for an instant did she make such an impression upon any one. In this, as in all things, she was merely her natural self. It was a charm to the ear to hear her in conversation. Her voice was so musical, and her intonation so pleasant. I remember how attractive to me it was to listen to her as she would say "I shall let you, etc." pronouncing the "t" and the "y" without effort and yet each distinctly. How much prettier than the "let chou" which so commonly assails the ear! Ah! You are saying that you do not so merge words; but be honest, and observe when next you essay such a phrase.
It was by the merest chance that the Judge and Agnes called on the very day of Leon's arrival. They wereen routefor the race-track, and passing near the Doctor's home, the Judge turned his horses in the direction of his friend's house to inquire when he was expected to return. He was delighted to meet him.
Greetings having been exchanged they began a general conversation.
"What have you been doing up in the country, Doctor?" asked the Judge."Fishing, I suppose?"
"You might say," answered Dr. Medjora, "that I have been a fisher of men. I brought one back with me, you see." He indicated Leon by a wave of his hand. The Judge glanced at the youth, and awaited a further explanation.
"Leon and I are old friends," continued the Doctor. "I met him first when he needed my services to help him with a broken leg. But I have accepted his assistance many times since, when, without him, I might never have found my way back to civilization from the jungles into which I had strayed. For the future I need him so much that I have brought him home with me, to remain permanently."
"Indeed!" said the Judge, much interested, for if Leon were to be always with his friend, it was of more than passing moment to himself. "In what way do you need him?"
"Judge, as you know, my good wife here has not given me the son that I have longed for." Madame scowled, enraged by the speech which however had not been meant to wound her. The Doctor had not thought of her at all, but merely mentioned what was a fact. "Therefore I have no heir. I do not mean in connection with my worldly goods. I speak of my profession. I wish a student to whom I may impart my methods, so that after my day has passed my people may still have some one to depend upon. You see, I look upon my practice, much as a shepherd would consider his sheep. I am responsible for them. They depend upon me to keep them out of danger. I consider it a duty to supply a successor to myself."
"And this young gentleman is to be he?" asked the Judge.
"Leon is my choice before all whom I have known. Above all others I have decided that he is the most worthy of the trust that I shall impose in him." The Doctor spoke feelingly.
"Young man," said the Judge, addressing Leon, "I hope you appreciate the rare opportunity offered to you by my friend. If you are really capable of becoming his successor, then you are destined to be a power in the community, as he is to-day."
"Judge Dudley," said Leon, "I know that I am most fortunate. Dr. Medjora has taken me from beggary, and placed before me a future which would tempt any young man. But, to me, it means more than a salvation from drudgery; it means more than a high-road to fortune. I feel that I am destined to realize the hopes of my life, the yearnings of all my past days. I shall have a chance to acquire learning, to cultivate my intellect, to gain knowledge, which in my mind is the supremest power."
The Judge was somewhat surprised to hear such words from a country lad, still habited in clothing more suited to a farmer than to one with such aspirations. He said: "Young man, you interest me. Evidently you have learned to think for yourself. Come, tell me! Why do you lay such store by knowledge, when the rest of mankind are crying for money?"
"Money! Money! Money!" repeated Leon with a contemptuous curl of the lip. "Judge Dudley, I am nearing my majority, and I can say, that in all my life I do not think that I have owned more than fifty dollars. My food, clothing, and a home, have been provided for me, but aside from that I have not spent more than the sum named, and most of that went for books. So, you see, one may live without wealth, if enough to cover actual necessities be his. Without knowledge, a man would be an idiot. I think that is a logical proposition. If you grant that, then the less knowledge one has, the nearer he must be to the imbecile, and the more he acquires, the closer he approaches the highest stage of existence. Money we leave behind us at death. Knowledge, on the contrary, not only goes with us, but is really the only guarantee the individual has of a continuance of existence beyond the grave."
The Judge became more and more interested, and Dr. Medjora, observing the good impression which hisprotégéwas making, was content to remain silent and listen.
"Your last statement indicates that you have formulated some mode of reasoning, upon which to base your convictions," said the Judge. "Will you take us a little further into your doctrine?"
"I am afraid that my ideas are rather crude, sir. I have had access to few standard works, and have been compelled to think out things for myself. But if I do not bore you, I shall be only too willing to continue. Indeed, it is a great treat to me, to speak with some one who may contradict me where I fall into error."
"You are a modest young man, Mr. Grath. Please continue. You were saying that one's knowledge might assure him a life hereafter."
"So I believe. Of course it is almost impossible, if not quite so, to prove anything in connection with the great future. But it is the prerogative of man to reason upon all subjects, and it is eminently fitting that he should study that one which most nearly affects himself. In the absence of absolute proof, I claim that one may adopt any theory that appeals to him as reasonable and probable. Now in relation to knowledge. I say it is more important to amass knowledge than to hoard up wealth. Money belongs to the material plane, and, having no relation to any other, it is as perishable, as far as it affects one individual, as is the human body. Money buys luxuries and comforts for the body only. It can add nothing to intellectual attainment. You may say that with it one may purchase books with which to improve the mind. That is true, but does not invalidate my argument, for it is not the book which is pabulum to our intellect, but only the thoughts which have been recorded upon its pages. Money procures us the possession of the book, whereas if we borrow it, and return it again, in the interval we may receive all the mental benefit which it can bestow upon the owner. Knowledge, on the other hand, is immaterial. It is an attribute of what has been called the soul. It is potent while being invisible, and though invisible it has a market value as well as things material. All the wealth of the world may not suffice to make one man wise, while all the wisdom in the world would surely make its possessor wealthy, but for the fact that he would probably be too wise to wish for riches. If, then, knowledge is such a potent factor in the world's affairs, can it be that it ceases to exist when a man dies? It is reasonable to suppose that it does not: then what becomes of it? The man cannot leave it to his heirs, as he does his chattels. Therefore it must continue where it has always been, and that is within the mind, which must have a continuance of existence to retain its knowledge."