During the next three months Madame Medjora waited and watched. She watched for another letter to Leon. She judged the writer by herself, and she decided that Matilda Grath would not abandon her project, having once decided that she possessed knowledge, by the judicious use of which she could extort money. She knew that Leon had no means of sending her such a sum, and she was sure that Doctor Medjora would never part with one penny under compulsion. He was a man who ruled others. He was never to be intimidated. Yet the woman had said that it would be better for the Doctor too, if the demand were satisfied. How to construe this she could not tell. Did Matilda Grath know a secret which the Doctor would wish to have suppressed? Or did the threat merely mean that the Doctor could be made to suffer through his affection for Leon? The mention of the Doctor's name in the letter had a twofold effect. It incited her all the more to carry out her project and ferret out the secret, if one existed; while on the other hand it made her hesitate to do that which might bring down the wrath of her husband upon her head. She did not openly admit it, but she feared him. Thus it was that she waited. Waited hoping that her watching might enable her to intercept the second letter from Matilda Grath, which she thought must inevitably follow, and which might give her a more definite due upon which to base her action.
But as the weeks went by and no letter came, she grew restive. In this mood one day she read of the remarkable capture of the true criminal, made by Mr. Barnes, in the Petingill case. She did not know that this detective was the office boy who, while in the employ of Dudley and Bliss, had had the temerity to shadow her husband, hoping to convict him of murder. Had she known, it is doubtful whether she would have visited him. As it was, she impulsively determined to engage him to unravel the mystery connected with Leon, and she decided to give him the copy of the letter which she had made, as a clue with which to begin.
Thus it was that Mr. Barnes, at the height of his ambition, the chief of a private detective agency, was astonished one morning to read the name "Madame Emanuel Medjora," upon a card handed to him in his private office. He pondered awhile, and searched his memory to account for the fact that the name sounded familiar, as he muttered it aloud. In an instant he recalled his first attempt at unravelling a great crime, and, with a feeling that chance was about to give him an opportunity to retrieve the bungling failure of that day, long ago, he invited the lady into his sanctum.
Once in the presence of the detective, Madame was half frightened at what she had undertaken, but it was too late to retreat. So in hurried words she explained her case, gave Mr. Barnes the letter, and engaged him to investigate the matter.
"Find out for me," said she, "who this Leon Grath really is. I will pay you well for the information. But understand this. I exact the utmost secrecy. You must not come to my house, nor write to me. When you wish to communicate with me, put a personal in theHeraldsaying "Come," and I will understand. Above all things, promise me that whatever you discover shall be known only to myself; that you will make no use of the knowledge except as I may direct."
"Madame may depend upon my discretion," answered the detective, and with a restless doubt in her breast, which was to gnaw at her peace of mind for weeks to come, Madame Medjora returned to the home of the husband whom she had promised to love, honor, and obey, and against whom she was now secretly plotting.
After the first time when Dr. Medjora had taken Leon into the temple of Æsculapius while asleep, and there hypnotized him, the two spent an hour together in the crypt nightly. The Doctor deciphered for his pupil the meaning of the hieroglyphics in the order in which he had studied them out for himself. His method was peculiar. On the second night, he revealed to Leon the secret approach, and took him into the buried dome whilst yet awake. Then before his astonishment and admiration for the place had subsided, and, therefore, while his mind was yet off guard, as it were, he suddenly commanded him to sleep, just as he had done on the Fall River steamboat, only this time he succeeded. With scarcely any resistance, Leon passed into a hypnotic trance, and while in that condition the Doctor began expounding to him the sculptured records of a forgotten knowledge. At first the tasks were brief, but they were increased, and more and more was accomplished each night as he acquired greater hypnotic control over his subject. At the end of each lesson, he would say to his pupil:
"Leon, to-morrow you will remember that we have been here together, that I have taught you a part of the knowledge inscribed upon these walls; you will forever retain a recollection of that knowledge which you have gained to-night; but you will imagine that you have been with me in your normal waking condition, and you will forever and forever forget that I have commanded you to sleep. Do you promise?"
"I promise!" would be the reply, and then, to assure success, he would awaken the lad and continue awhile his teaching, so that Leon would depart awake, as he had entered. Thus it was, that the Doctor's scheme for educating hisprotégéwas meeting with marvellous success, and Leon was rapidly assimilating the wisdom which was offered to him. Already he knew more of diseases and their treatment, of the science of chemistry and bacteriology, than many graduates of medical schools. In addition to what may be termed his hypnotic education, he was acquiring practical experience through his daily work in the laboratory, so that at length Dr. Medjora thought that he could see a promise of fruition for his cherished scheme.
In one thing he was disappointed. It was his hope to effect a love match between Leon and Agnes, but his keen study of both of the young people convinced him that they were as indifferent to one another, after nearly a year's acquaintance, as they had been at first.
Dr. Emanuel Medjora, however, was not a man to be thwarted, and he had long decided upon a course of action, whereby he might further his design, if the current of ordinary events did not turn the tide in his favor. Finally he decided to act, and in furtherance of his purpose he invited Judge Dudley to spend an evening with him.
"Come promptly at eight o'clock," his note had said, "and be prepared to remain as long as I may require. The business is of great moment to us both, and to those whom we love."
In response to such a summons, the Judge reached Villa Medjora just as the clock chimed the appointed hour. He was conducted into the Doctor's study, which opened into the laboratory. When his guest was announced, Dr. Medjora rose at once to greet him. When the two men were seated comfortably, the Doctor opened the conversation at once.
"Judge Dudley," said he, "I have, as you know, a young man with me, in whom I have taken the deepest interest,—Leon Grath, my assistant and pupil. Let me tell you something of him."
"With pleasure," replied the Judge.
"You already know, that I look upon the knowledge which I possess as a sacred trust, which I must utilize for the benefit of my fellows. I have held that it is incumbent upon me to transmit this knowledge to some one younger than myself, that he may be my successor. I searched for years for such a lad. The exactions were great. He would need extraordinary endowments. He should be superior to his fellows, intellectually and physically. I decided that I had found such a man, when I selected Leon."
"I hope you have not been disappointed?"
"On the contrary. He has exceeded my expectations, though my estimate of his powers could not be far wrong, because I rarely make a mistake." The egotism of these words did not appear to effect the Judge. He was too well acquainted with Dr. Medjora, who continued:
"Leon has evinced such worthiness of the trust which I have reposed in him, that I know he will not only be a capable successor to me, but he will achieve that which I cannot hope to accomplish within the few years which are left to me."
"Come, my friend," said the Judge, "you must not talk as though you were nearing the end of life. You will be with us twenty years longer at least."
"They will not be twenty years of usefulness, if I should." The Doctor spoke as though in augury of his own fate. He continued: "But it is not of myself that I desire to speak. Leon, I say, will be a wiser and a greater man than I. He will be beloved by his associates, and will be a blessing in the world."
"I do not doubt it!" said the Judge, impulsively, not knowing to what the words would lead him.
"I am glad you appreciate his worth," replied the Doctor, quickly. "I have already taught him much, and I will teach him more, if I am spared, but, even without my assistance, the fountain of knowledge from which he now draws will supply him amply. One thing he needs. A cloud hangs over his past, because he knows not who were his parents. He has no name, and that thought hangs as a millstone about his neck, and often weighs him down with discouragment, as he feels that he is alone in the world. I intend to remedy that. I shall bestow upon him my own name."
"Your own name?" ejaculated the Judge.
"My own name! I will formally adopt him, and he shall take my name. I wish you to aid me in the legal steps requisite."
"I will do so with pleasure. Medjora, you are a noble man. I honor you with all my heart." The Judge occasionally lost his usual dignified reserve, when his emotions were deeply touched.
"I thank you," said the Doctor. "But, Judge, if I am noble in doing what I purpose, you have the chance to be even more so."
"What do you mean?"
"Leon needs more than a name. As I have said, the past hangs over his heart like a pall. Even with my name, he will be a lonely man. He will continue his habits of studiousness, but he will become a recluse. He will shun his fellows, because of his sensitiveness upon one point. He will fear to intrude himself, where he might not be welcome. In such a life, he would be of little value to his fellows. The world will lose a great benefactor. There is but one salvation for him, from such a fate."
"And that is?"
"Marriage! Marriage with a woman of kindred spirit. Marriage with a woman, possessing equal intellect, and capable of spurring him to ambitious deeds, at the same time soothing his hours of fatigue. Marriage, in short, with your daughter."
"With Agnes!" exclaimed the Judge, almost horrified, so great was his surprise.
"With Agnes!" repeated the Doctor, calmly.
"Impossible! You are mad!" ejaculated the Judge.
"And yet, despite your protest, the marriage will occur," said Dr. Medjora, in tones so portentous, that the Judge paused and looked at him almost in fear. For one instant, the cry of the public that this man was a wizard flashed across his mind, but in the next he cast it aside with scorn, and again he said peremptorily.
"I tell you no! It is impossible!"
"Nothing is impossible," said the Doctor, impressively, "if I have decided in my own mind that it must be. I have never failed in any purpose of my life, and I will not fail in this. Judge Dudley, listen to me. I have a claim upon your daughter Agnes, equal to, yea greater, than your own."
"What!" exclaimed the Judge, more amazed. He sank back in his chair bewildered. How could this man have a claim upon his child greater than his own? It was an unsolvable riddle to him.
"You do not comprehend me," said the Doctor, "and to explain myself it will be necessary for me to speak at some length. Shall I do so?"
"You must do so! After what you have said, I must hear more. Go on!"
"Very well. If at first I seem to speak of matters unconnected with the subject, bear with me and listen attentively. I shall be as brief as possible, and yet give you a thorough insight into my meaning. As you are well aware, men call me a wizard. Now, what is a wizard? The dictionary says he is a sorcerer, and that a sorcerer is a magician. In olden times the magicians were of two kinds, evil and good, accordingly as they practised Black Art, or the reverse; which only means that they were men endowed with knowledge not shared by their fellows, and that, armed with the powers thus acquired, they used their abilities either for evil or for good purposes. Thus, if in this day of civilization I possess any knowledge in advance of other scientists, I suppose that I am as truly a wizard, as were the magicians of the ancients."
"Nonsense!"
"Not at all. I claim to have knowledge which is fully twenty years in advance of to-day, just as I know that the present generation is but slowly awakening to truths which were known to me twenty years ago. But before I speak of what I myself know, let me give you a summary of the advance which modern science has made in a specified direction. You have heard of what is commonly called the 'Germ Theory' of disease?"
"Yes! Certainly!"
"You say yes, and you add certainly, by which latter you mean that it was folly for me to ask you such a question. Yet how much do you really know of the great progress which has been made in mastering the secret causes of human disease? You are a learned Judge, and yet you know comparatively little of the subject which is of most vital interest to mankind. I mean no offence, of course. I am as ignorant of the Law, as you are of Medicine. Let me open a window that you may peep in upon the scientific students busy with their investigations. The 'Germ Theory,' briefly stated, is this. There are all around us millions of micro-organisms, parasites which thrive and grow by feeding upon the animal world. In proportion as these parasities infest, and thrive upon a given individual, so will that individual become diseased, and it has been shown that in many cases a special germ will cause a special disease. I could deliver you a lecture, hours long, upon the classification, morphology, and pathogenic action of bacteria, but I wish at present to lead your mind into a different channel. Undoubtedly the most important question in biology is the immunity from disease-generating germs, which is possessed by various animals."
"Do you mean that some animals can resist the attacks of bacteria?" asked the Judge. Anxious as he was to arrive at the point where his daughter's name would be again introduced, his natural love of knowledge caused his interest to be aroused as the Doctor proceeded.
"I do," continued Dr. Medjora. "It has long been known that certain infectious diseases, such as typhoid fever, are peculiar to man, while the lower animals do not suffer from them; and that, on the other hand, man has a natural immunity from other diseases which are common among the lower animals. Again, some species will resist diseases which become epidemic among others. In addition to an immunity peculiar to a whole race, or species, we have individual differences in susceptibility or resistance. This may be natural, or it may be acquired. For example, the very young are usually more susceptible than adults. But a difference will also be found among adults of a race. The negro is less susceptible to yellow fever than the white man, while, contrarily, small-pox seems to be peculiarly fatal among the dark-skinned races."
"Have the scientists been able to account for these phenomena?"
"They theorize, and many of them are making admirable guesses. They account for race tolerance by the Darwinian theory, of the survival of the fittest. Imagine a susceptible population decimated by a scourge, and the survivors are plainly those who have evidenced a higher power of resistance. Their progeny should show a greater immunity than the original colony, and, after repeated attacks of the same malady, a race tolerance would become a characteristic."
"That is certainly a plausible theory."
"It is probably correct. But acquired immunity, possessed by an individual residing among a people who are susceptible, is the problem of greatest interest. The difference between a susceptible and an immune animal depends upon one fact. In the former, when the disease-breeding germ is introduced, it finds conditions favoring its multiplication, so that it makes increasing invasions into the tissues. The immune animal resists such multiplication, and possesses inherent powers of resistance which finally exterminates the invader. But how can this immunity be acquired by a given individual?"
"Upon the solution of that question, I would say depends the future extermination of disease," said the Judge.
"You are right," assented the Doctor. "Ogata and Jashuhara have recorded some interesting experiments. They cultivated the bacillus of anthrax in the blood of an animal immune to that disease, and when they injected these cultures into a susceptible animal, they found that only a mild attack of the disease ensued, and that subsequently the animal was immune to further inoculation."
"Why, if that is so, it would seem that we have only to use the blood of immune animals, as an injection, to insure a person against a disease!"
"Behring and Kitasato experimenting in that direction, found that the blood of immune animals, injected into susceptible individuals, after twenty-four hours rendered them immune, but this would not follow with all diseases. In many maladies common to man, a single attack, from which the person recovers, renders him safe from future epidemics. The most commonly known example of this is the discovery by Jenner, who gave the world that safeguard against small-pox, known as vaccination. But the most important discovery in this direction yet made is one which is not fully appreciated even by the discoverer himself. Chauveau, in 1880, ascertained that, if he protected ewes by inoculating them with an attenuated virus, their lambs, when born, would show an acquired immunity."
"This is incredible!"
"I have now related all that the modern scientists have recorded up to the present date, and when I tell you that all of this, and very much more than is at present recognized, was known to me twenty years ago, you will see that my claim that I am twenty years in advance of my generation is well founded. I shall not enter into the many theories advanced to explain the phenomenon of acquired immunity from disease, because it would be unprofitable to take up such a discussion, while you are waiting to hear what concerns you more closely. Suffice it to say, that various scientists have learned that immunity may be produced in a previously susceptible animal by the injection of various preparations. But in each instance, the injection is expected to produce immunity from only one disease. My own studies were at first in this direction, and I have succeeded not only in learning how to prevent each malady separately, but what is far better, I have discovered a method by which I can render an individual immune to all zymotic diseases."
"Then, indeed, are you a wizard!"
"Yes, because I do that which transcends the powers and knowledge of my fellows! But mark my prophecy! Just so surely as the scientific investigators of to-day have learned what I knew twenty years ago, so will the investigators of the future master the secrets which now are known only to myself. I am a wizard, perhaps, but I am a modern wizard. There is nothing of the supernatural about my methods. But now let me be more explicit. What Chauvau did with sheep, I have done with the human being."
"What! You have dared to make such an experiment?"
"Dared? Emanuel Medjora dares all things, in the pursuit of knowledge!"
The man had arisen as he warmed to his subject, and now, as he drew himself up erect, he towered over the Judge as a giant might.
"Listen, and be convinced. I discovered a precious preparation, which, if injected at the proper time would, in my opinion, bring me the consummation of my dreams. A single fluid, which would produce immunity from all diseases. Just after you had procured my acquittal, and thus saved me and my learning for the benefit of the world, you were kind enough to intrust me with the care of your wife's health."
"I had no hesitation in doing so. I had faith in you."
"The result has shown that your faith was well founded. At the proper time, I injected the preparation which I had formulated, into the arm of your wife."
"You did that?"
"I did. You will recall the fact that from being feeble she began to gain strength. Periodically I repeated my injections, and renewed vigor coursed through her system."
"You certainly worked wonders. I distinctly remember that I marvelled at the improvement which followed your treatment."
"In due season you were presented with a daughter. A beautiful, baby girl!"
"My little angel Agnes!"
The Judge spoke softly, and with tenderness. In fancy he looked back to the day when the nurse brought him the little cherub, newly arrived, and he felt again the tightening of his heart-strings which told him that he was a father.
"You held the babe in your arms," said the Doctor, "and you, as well as all the others, recognized that it was an exceptional infant. But none of you guessed that a child had been born, who, like Chauvau's lambs, would be immune to all disease!"
"Do you really mean that you accomplished that almost incredible miracle?" exclaimed the Judge, as at last he perceived the nature of the claim upon Agnes, which the Doctor was endeavoring to establish.
"Do you doubt it? Glance back over her career. Remember the various climates that she has visited; the many epidemics which she has passed through in safety. Yellow fever in Memphis, small-pox in the Indies, and several seasons of diphtheria at home, here in New York. She has been near typhoid and scarlet fever; la grippe has visited us twice in epidemic form, and is carrying off hundreds at this very time. Can you recall a day in all her life, when Agnes has been ill? No! You cannot!" The Doctor's tone was triumphant. The Judge's reply was low.
"Providence has certainly blessed her with remarkable health," he murmured.
"Providence?" exclaimed the Doctor, passionately. "No! Not Providence, but I! I, Emanuel Medjora, the Wizard! I have blessed her with her wonderful health! To me she owes it all! I claim her! She is as much mine as yours!"
He was grandly dramatic as he uttered these words, but, marvelling as he did at what he had heard, the Judge was not yet ready to yield. This iteration of the fact that he claimed Agnes, aroused the father's antagonism, and, in an almost equally imperious tone, he sprang to his feet and cried:
"No! She is mine! I am her father, and she is mine! All mine! I deny your claim, and Wizard though you be, I defy you!"
The two men glared at each other for a moment, and then the Doctor spoke suddenly.
"You defy me! Ha! Ha! Ha!" His laugh rang through the chamber with a weird sound. "Agnes is yours! Ha! Ha! Ha!" Again the laugh, prolonged and piercing. In an instant his manner changed. Grasping the Judge by the arm, he said: "Come with me!" then half dragged him towards, and through the door that led into the laboratory.
The Judge offered very slight resistance as Doctor Medjora urged him forward, and even in the pitchy darkness of the laboratory he made no effort to free himself. He was no coward, and in defying this man whom so many feared, he showed that he feared no man.
The Doctor went straight to the trap-door, and began to descend the stairway. His reason for having no light in the laboratory was, that he did not wish the Judge to know by what way they went down. As the trap-door was open, he would not suspect its existence; all that he would be able to recall would be that they had descended a flight of stairs. Should he enter the laboratory, at some future time, he would be unable to discover the way to the crypt below.
But it was not to the temple of Æsculapius that the Doctor now led his companion. He had decided not to divulge that secret to any other person, besides Leon. Mr. Barnes, it is true, had been taken into the crypt, but by hypnotic suggestion the Doctor had eradicated all recollection of that visit. You will remember that on the night when the Doctor had controlled Mr. Barnes by making him sleep, he had subsequently taken him through an old wine cellar. This vault still existed, though it had been remodelled at the time when the new house was built.
It was into this secret chamber that the Doctor now took the Judge. Closing the door behind him, he touched a button, and an electric lamp illumined the apartment.
The chamber was comfortably carpeted and furnished, and in all ways presented the appearance of a luxurious living room, except that there were no windows. On this night, a silk curtain, stretched across from wall to wall, seemed to indicate that there was something beyond. What that was, at once arrested the attention of the Judge, but he exhibited no curiosity by asking questions, preferring to await the unfolding of events as they might occur.
"Now, Judge," said the Doctor, "I must ask you to pardon my having brought you here. I may also have seemed rude or brusque in manner, which you must set down to excitement, rather than to malicious intent. You understand that I would not harm my friend?"
"I have no fear!" replied the Judge, coldly.
"Be seated, please," said the Doctor, and then both took chairs. "Judge Dudley," continued the Doctor, "I have expressed to you my opinion that I have a claim upon your daughter. You have denied it. Or, rather, you have probably conceded in your mind that what I have done for Agnes creates an obligation, but you are not willing to admit that on that account I should have the privilege, of selecting her husband? Do I state the facts clearly?"
"Sufficiently so! Proceed!"
"Very well! I have brought you to this apartment to demonstrate to you, first, that the obligation is greater than you suspect, and secondly, that your daughter's fate is entirely in my hands. In fact that you are powerless to oppose my will."
"I have, perhaps, more determination than you credit me with. It will be difficult for you to swerve me from my purpose."
"Those men, who have the strongest wills, are the ones most easily moved. You are as just, as man ever is. When you learn that your daughter's happiness, after this night, will depend entirely upon her marriage with Leon, you will yield."
"I certainly would make any sacrifice for the happiness of my daughter. But I must be convinced."
"You see! Already you are amenable to reason. I will proceed. Judge Dudley, a while ago I told you something of the present theories concerning the existence of germs which affect physical life. I also explained to you, how, by using greater knowledge than has as yet been generally disseminated, I have succeeded in producing in the person of your daughter a physically perfect being; one who cannot be attacked by bodily ailments. I will now unfold to you some theories which are even more in advance of the thought of to-day. It has long been conceded that man is a dual creature; that is, there is a material and, I will say, another side, to every human being. What is that other side? It is immaterial; it is intangible but nevertheless we know that it exists. At death there remains everything of the physical body that existed a moment before. What then has departed? An instant before death, a muscle will lift a given weight, and a second after, long before mortification of the flesh could operate to disintegrate the fibres, we find that one tenth of that weight will suffice to tear the same muscle. What then is this potential power which has left the body? For the purposes of the present argument, I shall call it the psychical side of man. The physical and the psychical, dwelling in harmonious unison, produces a living creature. This much is plain, and of course presents no new thought to you."
"True, but I suppose you are leading to something else?"
"Yes! The introduction is necessary. Given then these two divisions of human life, and, I submit it to you, is it not curious that the physical has received a hundred times as much study as has the psychical? With myself it has been different. I have studied both together, because I have ever found them together. I argued that I could never fully comprehend the one, without an equal knowledge of the other. So I know as much about the psychical side of life as I do of the physical."
"Then you must know a great deal!"
"I do! In the beginning of my career I grasped one truth, which seems to have escaped the majority. The secrets of Nature are simple. We do not discover the mysteries, because we think them more mysterious than they are. The key to the knowledge of Nature's methods is in her analogies. All natural laws operate on parallel lines, because the aim of all is the same; evolution towards perfection. Thus, in studying the psychical, I had but to master the physical and then discover the analogy which exists between the two."
"And you claim to have done this?"
"In a great measure. Leon, before he dies, will achieve more than I, because he will begin where I shall be compelled to abandon my work. But I have accomplished more than any other mortal man, and that is a gratifying thought, to an egotist. There is but one phase of this subject which I wish to submit to you. I have explained the germ theory of disease. I will now announce to you the germ theory of crime."
"The germ theory of crime?" asked the Judge, utterly amazed. "Do you mean that crime is produced by bacteria? As a jurist, I certainly will be interested in your new doctrine."
"You do not yet grasp my meaning. It is manifestly impossible that bacteria, which are living parasites, could affect the moral side of a man. I have said that the secret is in analogy; the two germs, the physical and the psychical, are not identical. But I will start your thought in the right direction, when I say that all forms of vice and crime are diseases, as much as scarlet fever or small-pox. It is a curious fact that many great secrets which have escaped the individual have been recognized by the multitude. Many expressions in the language, which are counted as metaphorical, are truly exponents of unrecorded facts. One says that a girl has died of a 'broken heart,' without suspecting that disappointed love has been known to cause an actual heart rupture, demonstrable bypost-mortemexamination. So, to return to my subject, people say that an immoral man has 'a diseased imagination,' without realizing that they state the exact condition from which he suffers."
"Why, if such were the case, it would be improper to punish criminals!" Such an idea seemed rank heresy to the Judge.
"It is entirely wrong to punish criminals. We should however imprison them, because they are dangerous to the community. But their incarceration should be precisely similar to the forcible confinement of individuals suffering with diseases which threaten to become epidemic, and for very similar reasons. First, to endeavor to effect their cure, and second, and most important, to prevent the spread of the malady."
"You mean that jails should be reformatories?"
"Exclusively. Moreover, the length of the confinement should not be regulated by statute, but should depend upon the intensity of the attack of crime or vice, which has occasioned the arrest of the prisoner. He should be jailed until cured, just as a leper is, even though it be for life. However, I cannot now discuss that aspect of the question. I wish to more fully explain the germ theory of crime."
"I am impatient to hear you." In his interest in the subject the Judge had almost forgotten his recent feeling of animosity.
"The idea then is this. Suppose that a babe could be born, with a perfect psychical endowment. We would have a being in whom all the higher virtues would predominate, while the vices would be non-existent. But take such an individual and place him in an environment where he would daily be associated with vice in its worst form and it would be inevitable that he would become vicious, for crime is as contagious as small-pox. The germ of a physical disease is a parasite so small in some instances, that when placed under a microscope and magnified one thousand times, it then becomes visible as a tiny dot, which might be made by a very sharp pencil. The germ of crime is even more minute and intangible. It exists as a suggestion."
"A suggestion?"
"Yes! Suggestion is the most potent factor in the affairs of the world. There is never a suggestion without an effect. Wherever it occurs an impression is created. No living man is free from its influence. A common example which I might cite is the congregation of a crowd. Without knowing what he goes to see, a man crosses the street and swells a growing crowd merely because others do so. The idea is suggested, and the impulse becomes almost irresistible. Even if resisted, the temptation will be appreciated. The suggestion has produced an effect. To explain the specific growth of a crime by this means, I will remind you of the woman who, when leaving home, told her children not to go into the barn and steal any apples, but that if they did go, above all things not to lie about it when she should return. Of course they went, and of course they lied to her upon her return. She had suggested both actions to them. The child who sees theft for the first time, may look upon it with abhorrence, because home influence has suggested to it that stealing is wrong. But permit a daily association with theives, and the abhorrence will pass into tolerance, and thence into imitation."
"I begin to perceive your meaning, and after all it is only the old idea, that conscience is merely the result of education."
"Precisely so! But that very expression is but another example of the indefinite recognition of an important fact. You say my theory is old. Perhaps! But my utilization of it is new. Just as there are pathogenic bacteria which produce disease, so there are also non-pathogenic bacteria which not only do not cause bodily affliction, but which actually are essential and conducive to perfect health. The one takes its sustenance by destroying that which is needed by man, at the same time generating poisons which are deleterious, while the latter thrives upon that which is harmful to the human body. Analogously, just as there are germs, or suggestions which debase the morality, so also there are suggestions which produce the highest moral health."
"That seems probable enough!"
"By the means which I have explained to you, your daughter was born, immune to all diseases. You have heard that certain maladies, as consumption, can be transmitted, and are therefore inherited. This is not true. But a parent who has suffered with phthisis, may transmit to his progeny what is termed a diminished vital resistance. The child is not born consumptive, but he is poorly equipped to contend against the germ of that disease. If thrown into contact with it, consumption will probably follow. But it is possible that as he matures his environment may be such, that his vital resistance may increase, so that the time might come when he would not acquire the disease, even though brought into contact with it. The reverse follows as a logical deduction. Agnes was born with an enormous stock of vital resistance, which would operate to protect her from all diseases. But it would have been possible for her to degenerate as she matured. This I guarded against. By cultivating her companionship, and yours, I have had access to her at all times, and I have periodically supplied her with potions containing those germs which are conducive to health. In a similiar way, I have cared for her psychical life, by advancing her moral nature!"
"What is that? I do not comprehend your meaning!"
"I have said that no person is exempt from the influences of suggestion. But it has been demonstrated that, when hypnotized, an individual is singularly susceptible to suggestion, and many phenomena have been recorded. But as yet little practical use has been made of this knowledge. With me it has been an endless source of power. Especially have I used hypnotic suggestion for the moral advancement of your daughter!"
"You mean that you have hypnotized Agnes?" The Judge was stunned by the announcement.
"I began the practice when she was five years of age, and have continued it up to the present moment. By this means I have made her psychically as perfect as she is physically. I have inculcated in her the highest virtues, and I have taught her to love intellectuality above all things. Thus again I show you a claim that I have upon her. But the highest obligation is that which is based upon the good of the world, and the advancement of science. She is now so fond of knowledge that she would never marry any ordinary man. There is but one man living, to whom she can be united, and be happy, and as yet she does not suspect it. That one is Leon. Do you not see that you must consent to this union?"
"Not yet! I must be convinced of the truth of all the extraordinary things which you have told me."
"You ask for proof? You shall have it! For that I brought you here! Watch what you shall see, but stir not, however great may be the temptation. If you make an effort to interfere, it would be doubly useless, first, because I would restrain you by physical strength, and second, because though you will see your daughter, you will be unable to make her see or hear you. Beware how you trifle with what you do not understand! A false move on your part might mean a lifelong injury to Agnes. Behold!"
The Doctor touched a spring and the silk curtains parted. The Judge started forward with a cry, but the Doctor grasped him by the arm and cried "Beware!" upon which he subsided, but gazed with intense anxiety upon what followed.
Behind the curtains, there appeared a sort of stage, which was divided in half by yet another curtain. To one side, Leon lay reclining on a couch, as though asleep, his eyes closed. On the other side, Agnes lay in similar posture. The Doctor spoke:
"Agnes! When I command you to do so, you will open your eyes, and awaken enough so that you may speak to me! You will see me! You will hear my voice! But you will neither see nor hear any other person! Awaken!"
Agnes slowly opened her eyes, and gazed steadily towards the Doctor.Otherwise, she did not move.
"You see and hear me?" asked the Doctor.
"Yes!"
"Do you see any other person?"
"No!"
"Agnes, I wish to question you upon a very important subject. Will you reply truthfully?"
"I will reply. Of course it will be truthfully, because I do not know falsehood."
"Do you love any one, so that you would marry him?"
"I do not know what love is. I do not know what marriage means for me."
The Judge breathed a sigh of relief as he heard these words. He thought that his daughter was safe, but even yet he did not comprehend the power of the man beside him.
"I will now tell you what it is to love. Listen!"
"I will listen!"
"In heaven's name, Medjora," cried the Judge, "go no further!" He grasped the Doctor's arm as he made the appeal, but he might as well have addressed a thing of stone. He was unheeded. The Doctor proceeded:
"Somewhere in a secret corner of thy soul, as yet unreached, there is a spot more sensitive than all the rest. A single vibration penetrating there, if harmonious and according with thine own desires, would awaken a joyousness to which all other joys compare as the odor of the rankest weeds to the fragrance of the sweetest rose. A thousand, thousand dreams of happiness are insignificant to the thrill which courses through the veins when that centre of thy soul is touched by love. Forever and forever after, wilt thou be a different being; thine old self cast behind and buried in the oblivion of the past, whilst thy new existence will remain incomplete, until coupled with that other dear one, whose glancing eye hath pierced and found the deepest corner of thy heart. But this is not all. If the first recognition of the existence of thy love be delirious ecstacy, by what name shall I nominate that joy which issues from the consummation of thy heart's desire, when thy love is perfected by a union with one that loves thee better than he loves himself? This is love! Wouldst thou not taste it?"
The girl's lips quivered, and she spoke as one enraptured.
"I would! I would! O give me love! Love! Sweet, sweet love!"
"Thy wish shall be gratified. Look towards that curtain!"
She raised herself into a sitting position, and did as directed.
"Now sleep until I bid thee awaken into love! Sleep!"
The eyelids closed, and the bosom heaved gently as the girl slumbered.The Doctor addressed Leon.
"Leon! Awaken! I have promised you that you shall meet your future love. She will be life and love to you forever! Awaken!"
Leon stirred, opened his eyes, and looked at the Doctor.
"You cannot see anyone unless I tell you! Look towards that curtain!"
Leon obeyed, and he and Agnes were gazing towards each other, but the silk curtain divided them.
"Now sleep, and when you again awaken, your happiness will be complete!"
Leon's eyes closed. The Doctor touched another spring, and the curtain was drawn aside. At the same instant a fragrant aroma filled the apartment, as though the sweetest incense were burning. He stood a moment in silence, gazing upon the two figures who looked at each other, but did not see. The Judge was overcome so that he found it difficult to speak. He essayed to address the Doctor, but his tongue was heavy, and words were impossible. The Doctor looked towards him an instant, as a slight gurgling sound issued from his lips, and he saw the appeal in the father's eyes; but swiftly he turned away and spoke:
"Awaken! Awaken both! Leon and Agnes, awaken! Awaken and love!" Having reached the climax of his experiment, even the Doctor himself felt a twinge of anxiety lest he might fail. But, as the possibility flashed across his brain, he cast it out again and gazed the more intently at the scene before him. The Judge also watched in dread anxiety, and with waning strength. He hoped almost against hope that the trick would fail.
Leon opened his eyes, and instantly rested them upon Agnes. No sign of recognition appeared upon his face, but only admiration was pictured there. The girl awakened, too, and her eyes gazed upon Leon's face. Instantly there was a convulsive trembling, and she breathed heavily. Her lips parted and closed, again and again. It seemed as though a word sought utterance, but was restrained by some secret emotion. Leon began to move towards her, his eyes fixed upon hers, and an expression of ecstatic pleasure spreading over his features. Slowly but surely he advanced, and, as he approached, Agnes trembled more and more.
A swift alteration in the attitude of the girl then took place. In one instant she became thoroughly controlled; all quivering ceased. She stood erect, exhibiting to its fullest her marvellously attractive form. Then, with a bound, she sprang forward, and cast herself upon the breast of her dream-land lover, with a cry that went straight to the heart of her father.
"Leon! Leon! I love you! I love you!" she exclaimed, and as the youth folded her in an enraptured embrace, Judge Dudley fell to the floor senseless.
I must explain more fully how the scene just related was pre-arranged. As Dr. Medjora told the Judge, it had been a common occurrence for him to hypnotize Agnes whenever favorable occasions presented. These had not been infrequent, because the girl had exhibited a great fondness for the study of chemistry, and therefore often visited the Doctor in his laboratory. Since the advent of Leon, this habit had been discontinued, or only rarely indulged, and the Doctor, appreciating the maidenly reserve which prompted her, had made no comment.
When, however, he decided that the time had arrived when it would be best for him to put his scheme into operation, he had one day invited Agnes to be present at some interesting experiments which he wished to show. Thus she had readily been enticed to the laboratory, and then the Doctor had hypnotized her, and subsequently led her to the chamber where he had arranged the paraphernalia for his little scene. Before this, he had commanded Leon to sleep, and in a similar condition the lad had been conveyed to the couch whereon he was afterward shown to the Judge.
The Doctor had calculated to meet opposition in the Judge, and his hypnoticséancehad been conceived with the double purpose of convincing him of the uselessness of antagonism, while at the same time he would utilize the opportunity to suggest the idea of love to both of the young people.
Ordinarily, by which I mean with subjects having less individuality than these, he would have been content to operate upon one at a time; but with Agnes and Leon, he knew that he could succeed only by acting upon both simultaneously, and at the moment of suggesting love, to present them each one to the other,in propria persona, rather than through the imagination. He counted upon personal contact so to intensify the suggestion, that it would not be overcome by will power exerted in the waking state, which would ensue.
All had passed to his entire satisfaction, and he had little doubt that his experiment would succeed, but there was still much to do. First, he again commanded Leon and Agnes to sleep deeply, and then leaving them slumbering on their respective couches, he bore the body of the Judge to the floor above. Examining him closely he soon satisfied himself that his friend had only succumbed to emotional excitement, and that he would soon recover from his swoon. He then took him to the study and placed him in the chair which he had occupied earlier in the evening. Hastily returning to the secret chamber, he brought Agnes upstairs, taking her through the hall and down to the parlor. Here he suggested to her that, when she awakened, she should think she had merely been visiting the house, but that it was then time to return to her home. In a moment more she opened her eyes, and in natural tones, which showed that she was devoid of any suspicion of what had transpired, she asked if her father was ready to take her home. The Doctor replied that the Judge would join her in a few moments, and returned to the study just in time to find Judge Dudley rubbing his eyes and staring about him bewildered. At sight of the Doctor much of what had happened recurred to him, though he doubted whether he had not been dreaming.
"Doctor Medjora," he exclaimed, "what has happened? Tell me! Tell me the truth!"
"All that is in your mind has occurred," replied the Doctor, calmly. "You have not been dreaming as you suppose, though you have been unconscious for a brief period."
"And my daughter?" asked the Judge, anxiously.
"Agnes is waiting for you to escort her home. As it is late, I have ordered my carriage to be at your disposal. It should be at the door now. Will you accept it?"
The quiet tone, and the commonplace words disconcerted the Judge. He would have preferred discussing what was pressing heavily upon his thoughts, but after gazing steadily at his host for a moment he decided to let the matter rest for a time. Thus he demonstrated the truth of the Doctor's suggestion theory, for the language used, and the manner adopted, had been chosen with the intention of producing this effect. The Judge, however, did not entirely avoid the topic. His reply was:
"Medjora, you have given me food for deep thought. I cannot at once decide whether you are the greatest charlatan, or the most advanced thinker in the world. I am inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt. The other affair shall have my consideration. Good-night!"
"I thank you, Judge," said the Doctor, suavely, "and believe me that I speak with sincerest truth, when I assure you that your daughter's happiness is now, as it has always been, the chief aim of my life. I will accompany you to the carriage."
Having seen his friends depart, the Doctor immediately sought the secret chamber again, and brought Leon up to the laboratory, thence taking him to his room, where he awakened him, and chatted with him for a few minutes, after which he left him to go to rest.
During the long ride home the Judge and his daughter were both silent, each being lost in thought. The Judge was endeavoring to disentangle from the maze of his recollection a history of the night's events which would appeal to his mind as reasonable. Had Agnes been asked to proclaim her thoughts she would have replied that she was "thinking of nothing special." Yet in a dim indefinable way she was wondering how a woman could become so attached to a man, that she would be willing to yield her whole life and independence to him. She was, therefore, a little startled, when just before reaching home her father suddenly addressed her, saying:
"Agnes, my daughter, I wish you to answer a question. Are you particularly interested in any young man? Are you in love with any one?"
"Why, what a question, father! Of course not!" She replied, with some asperity, the more so because she felt the blood mount to her face, and was annoyed at the idea that she was blushing. Her father did not pursue the subject, but leaned back in his seat, mentally relieved. He thought that he had received satisfactory proof that, whatever the Doctor might make Agnes say under hypnotic influence, his spells could not enthrall her during her waking hours. The Judge was not yet convinced of the Doctor's suggestion theory.
When Agnes retired to rest, as she lay in her luxurious bed, her head pillowed on soft down, with silken cover, she began to seek for an explanation of that blush in the carriage, which she was so glad that the darkness had screened from the eyes of her father. She argued to herself that, as she did not love any one, and never would or could do so, she had answered quite truthfully the question which had been put to her. Then why the blush? She had always understood a blush to be a sign of guilt or shame, and she was not conscious of either. She did not readily read the riddle, and while yet seeking to unravel it, she gently drifted away into dream-land. How long she wandered in this mystic realm without adventure worthy of recollection I know not, but at some hour during that night she experienced a sense of heavenly happiness.
It seemed to her that she was walking along a trackless desert. The sun beat down heavily, withering up the shrubbery, and drying up all the moisture in the land. Everything about seemed parched and dying except herself. She had a plentiful supply of water, and walked along without fatigue or suffering from the heat. Presently she came to a stone, upon which sat an old woman, who looked at her and begged for water. Agnes immediately took her water-bottle, and was about to place it to the lips of the old woman, when lo! she observed that the water had nearly all evaporated, so that only enough was left to slake the thirst of one person. At this she was surprised, having thought that there was a plenty, but not even for an instant did she consider the propriety of keeping the water for her own uses. Without hesitation she allowed the old woman to drink all, to the last drop. In a second, the woman had disappeared, and in her place there was a most beautiful being, a fairy, as Agnes readily recognized, from the many descriptions which she had heard and read. The fairy thus addressed her:
"My dear, you have a kind heart, and shall be rewarded. Presently you will leave this desert, and come into a garden filled with delicious flowers. Choose one, and the wish that enters your heart as you pluck it shall be gratified. But of two things I must warn you. The flowers are all symbolic, and your wish can only be appropriate to the blossom of your choice. Second, you can go through the garden but once; you cannot retrace your steps. So be careful how you decide."
As the last words were uttered, the fairy vanished, and Agnes walked on, hoping soon to enter the garden of promise. A mile farther, and the fragrance of many flowers was wafted towards her on a light zephyr which now tempered the heat of the sun. She hastened her steps, and very soon stood before a curiously carved gate made of bronze. As she approached, the gate opened, and admitted her, but immediately closed again behind her, thus proving the correctness of what the fairy had said. In all directions before her were rose-bushes in bloom, but she observed that the whole appeared like a huge floral patch-work quilt, because all of one kind had been planted together, so that great masses of each color was to be seen on every side. Just before her the roses were all of snowy whiteness. She moved along a glittering path, and admired the flowers, ever and anon stooping over one more exquisite than its neighbors, and pressing her face close against its petals, inhaling its sweet fragrance. When she thus stooped over the largest and choicest which she had yet seen, a tiny sprite appeared amidst the petals, and, stretching out his arms invitingly, addressed her in a voice which reminded her of a telephone.
"Maiden fair, choose this blossom. Pluck this bloom, and wear it in thy bosom forever. In return thou shalt be the purest virgin in all the world, for these roses are the emblems of Chastity!"
But, for reply, Agnes shook her head gaily, and merely said: "All that you promise is mine already," and then passed on.
The next were gorgeous yellow roses. They were rich in color and regal in form and stateliness, as on long stems each full-blown rose stood boldly forth above the bush of leaves below. Again a sprite popped out his head, and oped his lips:
"Stop here, fair girl. Pluck one of these, and thereby gain Wealth and all that wealth implies. These are the symbols of gold!"
"I want no more of wealth," said Agnes, and again she refused the tempting offer. The next were roses of a size as great as those just left behind. There was just as much of fragrant beauty, too, or even more, perhaps, in these most glorious roses, just blushing pink.
"Choose one of us, dear girl, and Beauty will adorn thy cheek forever more!" the little sprite invited, but once more Agnes would not acquiesce, and so went on.
What next appeared was somewhat puzzling. The bushes were filled with buds, but at first she could not find a single flower in full bloom. At last, however, she did espy just one, a rose of crimson color and luscious fragrance. With a strange yearning in her breast, she stooped, and almost would have plucked it, when, as she grasped the stem, a sharp pain made her desist. She looked at her hand and saw a drop of blood, of color which just matched the rose. A silvery laugh, like the ripple of a mountain brook, attracted her, and she looked up to see a little fellow, with bow and quiver, smiling at her from the centre of the flower.
"Fair maiden," said the sprite, "if thou wouldst taste the joy of paradise, the happiness which transcends all other earthly pleasure, choose one of these unopened buds. Take it with thee to thy home, and nurse it as thou wouldst care for thine own heart. Tend it, nourish it, and cherish it. Then, in time, it will expand and unfold, and from its petals you will see emerge, not a tiny sprite like me, but the spirit face of one such as thou, though of other sex, who will arouse within thy breast that endless ecstacy which men call Love. For these deep red roses are the emblems of Love!"
Without hesitation Agnes plucked the largest bud within her reach, unmindful of the pricking thorns which pierced her flesh, and then hurried on, passing the roses of Wisdom, and many other flowers of great attractiveness. And as she ran the wish that surged up in her soul was that the words of the sprite might prove true, and that she might see that face: the face of him who was born to be her master; the one for whom she would slave, and be happy in her slavery.
Then it seemed that she was at home again, in her own room, and that the cherished bud was in her most beautiful vase. She thought that she supplied fresh water, placed the vase where the sun would kiss the bud for one full hour every day and in every way did all that she could devise to hasten its maturing. At last one morning, a tiny bit of color gladdened her eyes as the first tips of the petals burst from their sheath and pushed themselves out into the great world. From that hour, as the bud slowly unfolded, she felt within her heart a sympathetic feeling which was a pleasure and yet was painful too. It seemed as though the fate of the flower was interlaced with her own so tightly, that if it should die, why then no longer would she wish to live. And so she waited and watched and tended the blooming rose with anxious patience, awaiting that hoped-for day when the promise of the fairy, and the sprite, would be fulfilled. But the days went by, and at last the rose began to fade, and as the petals dropped away one by one, she felt an answering throb as she thought that her hope would die. At length, when half of the rose lay a shower of dead petals on the table around the vase, it seemed as though she could no longer endure the suspense. She became desperate, and determined to end it all by destroying the rose which had caused her such sweet hope, and such bitter disappointment. She grasped the flower and took it from the vase, but, as she essayed to crush it, her soul was filled with remorse and she hesitated. She gazed at it for a time, as tears filled her eyes, and finally with a sob of pain she began to dismember the bloom, plucking the petals one by one and throwing them idly in her lap. At last, only a half dozen remained about the heart of the flower, when in an instant she was amazed and overjoyed to see a face slowly emerge from amidst the stamens. At the same moment an overpowering fragrance welled up and enthralled her senses, so that she almost sunk into unconsciousness. Then, as she knew that her hope was realized, that the fairy's promise was fulfilled, and that Love was within her grasp, she leaned forward eagerly, to scan the feature of the face before her. It was but a miniature, but after a very brief scrutiny she readily recognized it, and knew that it was Leon's. With a cry of surprise she awakened, while all the details of the dream were yet fresh within her mind.
As the morning sun shed a ray across the features of Agnes Dudley, now freed from the bondage of sleep, it illumined a puzzled countenance. Agnes could not quite understand the feelings which swayed her heart. The sense of gladness was new, as was also a dread anxiety which rose up, and almost suffocated her as she thought, "It is only a dream!"
She had dreamed of love, and she had coupled Leon with that idea in some way, but why should it disturb her to find that it was but a dream? Surely she could not be in love with Leon? Of course not! The very thought was preposterous, even coming to her as it had, while she was asleep. Springing out of bed she was astonished to find that it was already nine o'clock, for usually she was an early riser. She began dressing hurriedly, and rang for her maid. When the girl came she brought with her a beautiful bunch of red rosebuds, half blown. Instantly Agnes was reminded of her dream, but when she noted that a card was attached, and read upon it the words, "With the compliments of Leon," she felt a blush creep over her face, neck, and shoulders, which made her for the first time in her life feel ashamed. She was ashamed because she thought that the maid might observe and understand her confusion, and she was very angry with herself to find that so simple a gift should so disturb her. She sent the maid away that she might once more be alone. Then she read the card again, and noted the signature more closely. Why should he sign only his first name? That was a privilege accorded only to very close friendship. It seemed presumptuous, that the first note received by her from this young man should be so signed. She certainly would show him that she resented what he had done. Indeed she would! Then, with an impulse which she did not analyze, she crushed the buds to her lips and kissed them rapturously. In another moment she realized what she was doing, and again a blush colored her fair skin, and as she observed it in her mirror, she exclaimed, half aloud:
"A red blush, the symbolic color of love!" She paused, retreating before her own thought. But there was no repressing it. "Do I love him?" She did not reply to this aloud, but the blush deepened so that she turned away from the glass, that she might hide the evidence of her own secret from herself.
If the Judge could have guessed what was passing through the mind of his daughter, he might have more fully respected the suggestion theory which Doctor Medjora had propounded to him. As it was, a night's sleep, and an hour's consideration of the matter on the following day, enabled him to conclude that there was nothing about which he need disturb himself. He had come to admit, however, that assuredly Agnes was a wonderfully healthy and intellectual girl, and he was willing to accord some credit therefor to her association with his friend, the Doctor. Feeling consequently indebted to Dr. Medjora, he hastened to write to him that he would immediately take the steps necessary for his legal adoption of Leon, and for giving the lad the name Medjora. The receipt of this letter gratified the Doctor very much, and for the rest of the day he was in high spirits.