"Ah! Very good! But Dr. Medjora has just announced that he is preparing to bequeath his knowledge to you, who are to be his heir in that respect. How do you make that conform to your curious theory?
"You misapprehend the true condition. Dr. Medjora does not purpose giving me his knowledge, as one gives money, thereby lessening his own store. He merely intends to cultivate my own intellect, training it in grooves parallel with those which he himself has followed. He might live until I know as much as he does now, yet he would be no less wise than he is. Rather, he would have grown wiser himself in having acquired the experience of teaching another."
"You should study law instead of medicine. If you grow tired of theDoctor, you must come to me. Only, let me ask you one more question.If, according to your tenets, the wisest man is most certain of afuture life, what of the most idiotic?"
"He is most apt to meet with annihilation. But he would cease to exist, only as to his individuality. I have not thought very deeply in that direction, but as my mind cannot conceive of the actual annihilation of anything that is existent, I have surmised that perhaps the minds of many idiots may become coalescent, so that a new individual might he created, who would possess sufficient intellectuality at birth in the world, to realize the importance to himself of mental cultivation."
"Ha! Ha! Doctor," said the Judge, laughing. "If two idiots may eventually be rolled into one, there is some hope for you and me. We may be joined together in the next world, and what a fellow we would be on our next trip to this old-fashioned planet! But seriously, Mr. Grath, your theories interest me. We will talk together again. You must come to our house some day. But I have not time for theology now. My daughter has a little bet on the first race, and if I delay longer she will miss seeing it. She has been making impatient signs to me for some time."
"Father!" exclaimed Agnes, deprecatingly; then turning to Leon, she continued: "Mr. Grath, you must not lay too much stress upon what my father says, when he is not upon the bench. When acting in his official capacity, his word is law, but at other times——"
"My daughter's is," interrupted the Judge, with a good-humored laugh.
"At other times," Agnes resumed, "he often prevaricates. He is constantly endeavoring to impress people with the idea that I am only a child, and not capable of comprehending serious conversation. Let me assure you that I have been highly entertained and edified by what you have been saying."
Leon bowed gravely without a suspicion of a blush, or embarrassment of manner, at thus receiving a compliment for the first time in his life from the lips of beauty. He was very self-reliant, though never obtrusively so. What he said was very simple.
"That you have been pleased to listen to me with attention, was sufficient proof to me, Miss Dudley, that at least I was not trying your patience too far by my speech."
"Come, Agnes, or we will miss that race, and whether you care or not,I confess that I do."
Then adieux were made and Dr. Medjora accompanied his guests to the door, where he paused a moment to say a word to the Judge, Leon having remained behind.
"What do you think of the lad?" he asked.
"A promising pupil, Medjora," replied the Judge. "He has brains, an uncommon endowment in these days. He is worth training. Do your best with him."
"I will!" answered the Doctor.
As the carriage bore the Judge and Agnes towards the race-track, the former asked his daughter this question.
"Agnes, what do you think of Mr. Grath?"
"He is bright," she replied, "but what he was saying impressed me from the fact that he seems to have convinced himself of the correctness of his theories, rather than from any argument which he offered, which would satisfy another's mind. Nearly all of it I have read."
When the Doctor returned to the room, he found Leon looking at a book on the table, whereas he had expected to see him at the window watching the departing girl. Therefore he asked:
"What do you think of Miss Dudley?"
"Miss Dudley?" repeated Leon. "Oh! She has a face which one would not easily forget. I met her once, some years ago, but only for a few minutes. Long enough only to answer some question which she asked, yet also long enough to impress her face upon my recollection indelibly. But I suppose you mean the girl herself, and all I can say is, that I should never form an opinion after an interview so brief. I would add, however, that she seems to be intellectually superior to her sex."
He spoke entirely dispassionately, and Dr. Medjora said no more.
Madame Medjora had quietly left the room while Leon was expounding his views to the Judge.
During the afternoon, the Doctor took Leon down into the city, to show him about, and more especially to have proper clothing prepared for him. They returned to the Villa Medjora, as Madame called their home, just in time to hear the voice of the Doctor's wife raised in anger. She was enraged because the butler had opened a box and released Lossy.
"It is bad enough to have the beggar boy thrust upon me," she had exclaimed. "I will not tolerate the nuisance of having a pest like this about the premises. Put him back in his box, and take him away from here instantly. Do you hear?"
The butler heard, but did not heed. He had learned that the Doctor was the master, and having received explicit orders in relation to the dog, he proceeded to put them into effect, despite the protests of Madame. Thus Lossy was bathed, combed, dried, and fed, Madame watching the performance from a window, and continuing her violent tirade, becoming more and more angered as she realized the impotency of her wrath.
As the Doctor and hisprotégéentered the grounds, Lossy bounded along the walk, barking delightedly at the sight of his master. For one moment the lad's cup of happiness was full, but in the next a dread entered his heart. He distinctly heard Madame say:
"I'll poison that beast!" With which she closed the window and disappeared. Leon looked appealingly at the Doctor, whose brows were knit together in an ominous frown.
"Do not be alarmed, Leon," said he, "I will guarantee that Madame will not carry her threat into execution. She is a woman of hasty temper, and often speaks without reflection. She is annoyed because the dog has come, but when she learns that he will not disturb her in any way, her resentment will pass. Lossy is safe. Let your mind rest easy on that point." He placed his hand upon Leon's shoulder and looked at him with reassuring kindliness. Leon felt slightly relieved, but when he retired to rest that night, in the room allotted to him, he secretly carried Lossy with him, and the dog slept at the foot of his master's bed.
During the six months which followed, Leon advanced rapidly in his studies. His regular routine was to spend a specified number of hours each day in the magnificently appointed chemical laboratory; to accompany the Doctor upon many of his professional rounds, especially to hospital cases, and to the tenements of the poor; and in the evening it became usually their custom to spend an hour together, during which the Doctor gave his pupil oral instruction, rehearsed him in what he had already learned, and set new tasks for him to master. This hour was generally the last before bedtime. After dinner the Doctor's habit was to yield himself to the demands of his wife, who delighted to carry him off to social functions, or to the theatres. Leon very rarely accompanied them. He remained at home to study, and was ready to meet his teacher at the appointed hour, which was seldom later than eleven o'clock. Dr. Medjora was a great disciplinarian, and had Leon been differently constituted, he might have rebelled at the amount of work which he was expected to accomplish each day. But he never uttered complaint of any sort. Indeed, he seemed to have an unlimited capacity for study, so that his assiduity, coupled with a marvellous memory, rendered his progress very rapid. Nevertheless the Doctor was not satisfied. He was impatient to see the day arrive when Leon should reach the same pinnacle of knowledge which he himself had attained, in order that thereafter they might traverse the road to fame hand in hand, leaning upon and assisting one another.
At last the day, the hour, arrived, beyond which the Doctor had decided to pursue their sluggish method no further. He knew how to teach Leon in one year, all that he had learned by weary plodding throughout the greater part of his life. But it was essential to his scheme, that he should be able to hypnotize Leon, and in this he had made one trial which had failed. During the months which had passed since then, he had matured a plan which he was sure would prove successful, and now he entered his pupil's presence prepared to carry it into execution.
Leon was reading, but instantly closed his book and laid it aside, greeting the Doctor, not as the foolish schoolboy afraid of his master, but as the ardent student eager for learning. The Doctor seated himself in a comfortable Turkish chair, and began as follows:
"Leon, are you tired? Could you prolong the hour a little to-night ifI should not otherwise find time for what I wish to say?"
"I will gladly listen to you till morning, Doctor," replied Leon.
"You have been taking every night the draught which I prescribed?"
"Yes, sir. There on the table is the potion for to-night."
"You do not know what it is, Leon, and the time has not yet arrived when I can explain its decoction to you. Suffice it for me to tell you, that this colorless liquid is practically the Elixir of Life, for which the ancients sought in vain."
"The Elixir of Life? Why, that is a myth!" Leon almost smiled. But he did not quite, because the expression on the Doctor's face was too serious.
"I said that it is practically the magic fluid. It has the property of supplying the body in twenty-four hours, with the vital energy which it would otherwise need several days of rest and recreation to recover. That is why I prescribe it to you, while you are engaged so arduously upon your studies. Do you not find that you are less easily fatigued?"
"I do, indeed. It is certainly a wonderful invigorator!"
"Leon," said the Doctor, after a slight pause, "I believe that I have your confidence and trust?"
"Absolutely, Doctor!"
"Would you take any drug that I might administer, without knowing its effects, and without questioning my motive, so long as I assure you that you would be benefited?"
"I would!"
"I will put you to the test, but, in exchange for your trust, I will tell you in part what I mean to do." He took a small phial from his pocket, a tiny tube containing less than five minims of a clear colorless liquid. "In this little bottle, Leon, there is a medicine of frightful potency. One drop would suffice to destroy a human life. But mixed with your nightly draught, a new chemical compound is produced, which, though harmless, will so energize the brain-cells that the powers of recollection will be more than trebled. By this means, your progress can be very much enhanced, for instead of receiving what I offer to you each night, and assimilating a part of it, you will find in the future that all my words will be indelibly imprinted upon your mind."
"I would have taken the drug without your explanation, Doctor, but nowI am eager for the experiment."
"This is no experiment, Leon. Beware of operating upon a human being when your knowledge is so meagre that you must resort to experimental tests." There was a touch of deep feeling in the Doctor's tones, as though he might at some time have made the error against which he admonished the lad. Leon, however, did not observe anything out of the common. He was intent upon what the Doctor was about to do. Dr. Medjora carefully removed the tiny glass stopper from the phial, and, holding it in his left hand, took up the glass from the table with his right. Pausing a moment he exclaimed:
"Watch!"
Then with a quick movement he poured the contents of the phial into the liquid in the glass. Instantly there was a commotion. There was a sound of water boiling, and a sort of steam arose.
"The poisonous properties are thrown off, you see, in the form of gas," said the Doctor.
The liquid in the glass, from having been colorless, was now converted into a bright green, but as Leon watched he was astonished to see this emerald hue gradually fade, until within a minute it had disappeared, and the fluid was as colorless as before.
"Observe, Leon," said the Doctor, "how easily I could have administered the added drug without your knowledge, for just as you see no difference that the eye can detect, so also will your potion be as tasteless as before. Will you drink it?"
Leon took the glass and drank, without hesitation.
"I thank you for this evidence of your faith in me," said the Doctor, and pausing awhile, presently spoke again: "Leon, you were probably surprised when, as a part of your task for to-night, I told you to read a portion of the book of Genesis, in the Bible. I had a special purpose in view, which I will now explain. I have a sort of story to tell, which at first may seem entirely unconnected with our work, but bear with me, be closely attentive, and you will soon discover that all I shall say has an important bearing. The beginning of the Bible of the Jews should make all who study it pause to consider a singular circumstance. The creation of the world, and all that occurred up to the time of the Flood, is narrated in seven short chapters, the end of the seventh recording the Flood itself, and the almost total annihilation of all the creatures of the earth. But from the Flood up to the nativity of the Christ, we find the historian well stocked with facts, and hundreds of pages are filled with his narration."
"Was it not because Moses, or the author of the earlier books, had more data concerning the events following the Flood, than those which preceded it? Indeed, it is probable that the Flood itself obliterated the records of previous times."
"A good argument, my boy, if we consider the Bible as a mere history. But does not the religious world claim that it is an inspired work? If the Creator actually revealed the past to Moses, then there was no reason why he could not have been as explicit about the occurrences before the Flood, as after? But your explanation is the true one. The author of Genesis did not have access to actual records, but could merely generalize from the legends then in existence. There are two events in the history of the world which stand out pre-eminently important. First, the Flood, which destroyed mankind, and second, the discovery of America, which restored a lost continent. That these two events have a very close relationship is suspected only by a few scientists."
"How are they connected? A great period of time separates them."
"True. But let me tell you the real story of the Flood, and you will comprehend my meaning. I shall not stop to give you arguments to substantiate what I say, because that would take too long, and would lead us away from what I am aiming at. However, while my own knowledge of the facts was received from other sources, when you have the time you will find the whole subject ably expounded in a work in my library, entitledThe Lost Histories of America, by Blacket.
"At the time of the Flood, or just prior thereto, the highest civilization in the world existed in Mexico. There, a vast empire flourished. The arts and sciences had received much attention, and beautiful cities, populated by cultured people, abounded everywhere in the land. Navigation was well understood, and colonies from Mexico had made new homes for themselves on the western coast of Africa, in Ireland and England, along the Mediterranean, and, in the opposite direction, they had even penetrated Asia, crossing the vast Pacific. Then came that great convulsion which all peoples, in all climes, remember to-day through legends of waters rising and submerging the whole surface of the earth. It is probable that a great tidal wave narrowed the continents of North and South America along both shores, eating away the central portion more extensively, the complete division of the two being prevented only by the mountainous character of the region. In South America, we find the southermost part narrowed to a point."
"Do you mean that South America was once wider?"
"The proof of my assertion lies in the ruins and monuments still to be found buried beneath the waves, hundreds of miles from the shore, though some were undoubtedly on islands which also sunk at this time. What would be the first effects of a cataclysm of such magnitude? The ships at sea, if they escaped at all, would sail for home. Arriving where the original shores had been, and finding nothing for even fifty miles beyond, the survivors would imagine that the whole country had been lost, and so would turn towards those other shores which their race had colonized. They would carry with them the story of the Flood which had submerged the whole of the western continent, and from this account we would finally inherit our version of the awful event. Having accepted the theory of the destruction of their home-land, and being thus compelled to adopt permanently their new abiding-places, would not these colonists immediately set about making their new home to resemble as much as possible the old? Undoubtedly! Hence we find them building the tower of Babel, in which project they were foiled by the confusion of tongues. Would it surprise you, however, to know that a similar legend is found in Central America?"
"I am ignorant, Doctor, of all that pertains to the subject. Therefore, of course, I should be surprised, but I am deeply interested."
"The legend is still current among the natives dwelling near the pyramid of Cholula, to which it alludes, but I will give you a version of it which is recorded in a manuscript of Pedro de Los Rios. It is as follows:
"Before the great inundation, which took place four thousand eight hundred years after the creation of the World, the country of Anahuac was inhabited by giants. All those who did not perish were transformed into fishes, save seven, who fled into caverns. When the waters subsided, one of these giants, Xelhua, surnamed the Architect, went to Chollolan, where, as a memorial of the mountain Tlaloc, which had served for an asylum to himself and his six brethren, he built an artificial hill in form of a pyramid…. The gods beheld with wrath this edifice, the top of which was to reach the clouds. Irritated at the daring attempt of Xelhua, they hurled fire [lightning?] on the pyramid. Numbers of the workmen perished; the work was discontinued."
"Indeed, Doctor, the two traditions are similar. How is that to be understood, since certainly from the time of the Flood, until the discovery by Columbus, there was no communication between the Old and the so-called New World?"
"Wherever, in two places devoid of communication, similar occurences are recorded, they have a common inspiration. So it was in this instance. The colonists built the temple to their God whom they had worshipped in Mexico. The Mexicans did likewise, moved to the action by the destruction of all their places of worship, because of the great inroad made by the sea, and the consequent narrowing of the land. In both instances, we can understand the desire to attain a great height, in order to have a place of safety if a second flood were to supervene. Now let me call your attention to a little coincidence. You observe in the Mexican story that seven giants were saved. This number seven has always been considered a numeral of great significance, by all the religionists of olden times. Thus the author of the book of Genesis so divided the beginning of his narration, that the creation of the world and all that occurred up to the Flood, is told in seven chapters. Depending upon legends for his facts about that period, which the Mexican story says covered forty-eight hundred years, he condenses it all into the mystic number of seven chapters."
"From all this, then, I am to believe that the story of the Flood is true in the main? I had always supposed that it was either a myth, or an exaggeration of some local inundation?"
"Undoubtedly the great Flood occurred. But now I come to the object which I had in telling you all this. The great pyramids in Mexico, orteocalias they were called, were temples, places of worship consecrated to the god Tesculipoca. Would it surprise you to hear that this Mexican deity is no other than Æsculapius, commonly called the father of medicine?"
"It would, indeed!"
"Yet it is true. Like many other of the mythological gods of Europe, he really existed in Mexico. The quickest manner of recognizing him, is by his name. Let us place the Mexican and the European, one under the other:
"Now, if we remember that the presence of a diphthong in the transformation of names implies a lost consonant, we see that the names are virtually the same, the O C A being the Mexican suffix, and the I U S the Greek. To go a little further in our identification, mythology informs us that Æsculapius is the son of Apollo. We are also told that the Tower of Babel was consecrated to Bel, but that the upper story was devoted to Æsculapius. This is significant, from the fact that Apollo and Bel are forms of the same deity. Thus we find that immediately after the Flood, those who escape on one side of the great Ocean proceed to build a temple to Æsculapius, while on the other, in the home country, they build a new pyramid, ateocali, in which to worship Tesculipoca. Are you satisfied that Æsculapius was originally an inhabitant of this continent?"
"It certainly seems so."
"Seems so? It is so! And in that fact, Leon, abides a secret which has been of vast importance to me, and shall be to you. Few men know what I am, or whence I came. Let me tell you that the high priests of theseteocaliwere all lineally descended from the great physician, and to this day there are many who still blow upon the embers of the old faith, down in the forest fastnesses of Mexico and Central America, secure from the prying eyes of white men. I inherited the right of priesthood at my birth."
"You? You a Mexican priest?" Leon started up amazed.
"By inheritance, yes! But early in life I made a discovery of vast importance. By deciphering some old hieroglyphical writings, I learned that, somewhere in the North Country, the firstteocalihad been built. That in the topmost chamber of it, as in the tower of Babel, the god himself had dwelt. In the dome which surmounted that temple, he had sculptured hieroglyphics, which recorded all the vast knowledge which he possessed. I even found some fragmentary copies of these sculptures, and I learned enough to make me determined to seek, and to find that lost temple."
"You succeeded!" ejaculated Leon, much excited.
"I always succeed," said the Doctor, with significant emphasis. "It has been the rule of my life, from which I have never deviated. Yes! I succeeded! I discovered the dome of the temple, buried beneath the earth. For years I have spent many hours of otherwise unoccupied time, deciphering the sculptured records of the lost past. Lost to the world, but found by me, Emanuel Medjora, whom men call Wizard!" There was a flash of triumph in the Doctor's eye, as he uttered these words. Leon looked at him, but did not speak.
"Yes! The knowledge garnered by Æsculapius has been inherited by me. This it is, that I mean to bequeath to you. Is it not better than money?"
"You mean that you will take me into that chamber, which you have found?" Leon was incredulous, yet hopeful of receiving an affirmative reply.
"That is what I will do, but not to-night. The hour is now late. You must retire to rest. To-morrow night, I will give you proof of what I have told you. Now, good-night, and remember that I have intrusted you with a secret more valuable than all the world. Beware of betraying me."
"Doctor!" expostulated Leon, much hurt.
"You need not speak so, Leon. If I doubted you, I would never have confided in you. Once more, good-night."
"Good-night!" And Leon turned to leave the room.
"Pleasant dreams," said the Doctor, and Leon had no suspicion that there was a studied purpose in the utterance.
After the lad's departure, the Doctor sat alone, musing upon the situation. He did not go to rest, because his work was not yet complete. He recalled the night on the Fall River boat, when he had endeavored to hypnotize Leon, and had failed. To-night he would try again. For months he had been arranging all the preliminaries, and now he was confident of success. The object which he had in view was this: He desired to teach Leon more rapidly than the lad could learn in his normal condition. This he hoped to accomplish with the aid of hypnosis. By gaining control of Leon, in this manner he expected to utilize the marvels of suggestion. He would instruct him, and then charge him to remember all that he had been taught, and the result would be that the mind would obey the injunction, and thus acquire knowledge more rapidly than by ordinary study.
But, for the present, he believed it to be of vital importance that Leon should not suspect what he was doing. To this end he had arranged his mode of procedure with the caution of a master of psychology. In the first place, he had prepared Leon's mind for the rapid progress of the future, by telling him that the drug administered would increase his mental powers. This was false. What he had added to the usual tonic draught, was not a poison, as he had claimed, but a powerful narcotic. In order, however, to make an impression upon his mind, he had relied upon the chemical reaction, and the changing color, which has been described.
Then he had related to him enough of the history of Æsculapius and of the secret chamber, so that if on the morrow Leon should remember the visit to the dome, where he meant to carry him presently, he would easily account for it to himself, as a dream. To make sure of this, he had suggested dreaming to him as they parted.
So, as he reviewed his arrangement, the Doctor was satisfied that he had taken all necessary precautions, and with patience he awaited the time which he had set for further action.
The minutes crept by, until at last a little door in the front of the great clock opened, and a silver image of Vulcan raised a tiny hammer and brought it down upon the anvil before him with force enough to draw forth a sharp ring from the metal. Then the door closed again. It was one o'clock.
The Doctor arose and went to a closet, whence he brought forth a pair of soft slippers which he put on instead of his shoes. Leaving the room, he climbed the stairway as noiselessly as a cat, not a board creaking as he slowly lifted himself from one step to the next. He had no fear of arousing Leon, but he did not wish to attract the attention of any other one in the house. Soon he was in Leon's room, standing beside the bed. Leon lay sleeping as calmly as a babe. Dr. Medjora knelt beside him, and listened to his heart beating. He felt his pulse, and seemed satisfied. From a couch he took a heavy slumber robe, and without hesitation lifted Leon from the bed and wrapped him in the robe. Next he raised him in his arms and carried him from the room. At the end of the hall he paused long enough to open the door which led to his laboratory, which occupied a wing of the building, and passing through he closed the door behind him, and laid his burden on the floor.
Next he lighted a small lamp which shed but a dim light, and stooping, felt along the floor until he found a secret spring which he released, and then slid aside a trap-door, exposing to view a flight of stairs. Down these he descended, the ruby-colored shade of his lamp throwing red rays upward as he disappeared. In a few moments he returned without the lamp, which, placed somewhere below, still lighted the opening with a dull glow. The Doctor took Leon in his arms, and carried him down the steps, until he reached the same door through which he had taken young Barnes on the memorable night of the fire. In rebuilding upon the property, the Doctor had purposely placed his laboratory over his secret underground chamber.
Having entered the remains of the temple of Æsculapius, he laid Leon upon a comfortable mass of rugs which covered the central stone. Taking from his pocket a small phial, he opened Leon's mouth and poured the contents into it, holding his nose until, in an effort to breathe, the drug was swallowed. This accomplished the Doctor retired behind a screen, which had been formed by him in such accurate reproduction of the walls of the chamber, that one would not readily suspect that it was not a part of the original structure.
"Within ten minutes he should awaken," mused the Doctor. "But when he does, and his eyes rest upon the scene about him, he will surely think that he is dreaming of the temple of Æsculapius. Then, while his brain is heavy with drugs, and his mind mystified, he will yield readily to hypnotic influences."
The ten minutes had barely elapsed, when the sleeper moved. A moment later, Leon opened his eyes, and as the dim light from the little lamp enabled him to see the dome above him, he lay still, regarding it with some surprise. A few moments more, and he rubbed his eyes with the knuckle of his forefinger, and the Doctor knew that he was wondering whether he were awake or dreaming. Not fully satisfied, Leon sat up, and gazed about him. He was becoming more thoroughly awake, and very soon he would know that he was not in dream-land. But the Doctor no longer delayed his plan of action. Ere Leon could recover from the surprise of his first awakening, and as he gazed directly in front of him, Dr. Medjora touched an electric button with his foot, and instantly a blaze of light appeared upon the wall. A hundred tiny incandescent lamps, arranged in the form of radiating spokes from a wheel, placed before a brightly burnished silver reflector, with thousands of facets upon its concaved surface, shed a light as dazzling as a sun. Leon closed his eyes to protect them from the glare, but when he opened them again another surprise awaited him. By touching another button, the Doctor had started a motor, which, with a dull humming sound, set the wheel of lights in motion, the reflector revolving rapidly in one direction while the fixture which contained the lamps turned swiftly the opposite way. The scintillating rays were so dazzling, that it was impossible for Leon to gaze upon it more than an instant. He turned his back upon it, bewildered, but immediately before his eyes there appeared on the wall confronting him another similar wheel of light, which began to revolve also. Again he turned his eyes away, and again, and again, and again; but wherever he looked, the rapidly moving electric suns burst forth, until a dozen of them surrounded him.
He stood a moment with his gaze upon the floor, trying to recover control of himself, for his astonishment was such that he felt as though he were losing his mind. But all in vain. As much as he dreaded those fiery suns, as well as he knew instinctively that to look upon them was to be lost, he could not resist the temptation. Slowly, as with an effort, he raised his eyes and stared at the scintillating suns before him. For a brief time his eyes turned from one to another, but finally they became fixed and he gazed only at one. In a moment all the others were turned out, and that one revolved faster and faster. Two or three times it seemed as though he tried to withdraw his gaze, but eventually all resistance to the influence of the dazzling light ceased. Leon sank back into a partly sitting posture upon the rugs, and in a few moments the eyelids closed heavily, the head sank upon the breast, the body quivered, and the limbs hung limp. Leon was passing into a hypnotic, sleep, caused by the ingenious mechanical device coupled with the skilfully prepared surprise which the mind had received.
The Doctor pressed a button, and the last wheel was extinguished and stood motionless. Once more the only light was from the little lamp, which now, by contrast with the recent glare, seemed like a glowworm. Dr. Medjora came forth and placed himself in front of Leon. With the palms of his hands on the lad's temples, he rubbed the eyeballs through the closed lids, with his thumbs. After a short time he spoke.
"Leon! Leon! Are you asleep?"
There was no reply.
"Leon! You are asleep, but you can speak!"
An indistinct murmur escaped from the sleeper.
"Leon! You are asleep! But you are also awake! Open your eyes, but do not awaken entirely! Open your eyes!"
In response to the command, authoritatively given, Leon's eyes opened slowly, and he stared before him, as though seeing nothing.
"Look! You can see me if you try! You can recognize me! You can speak!Speak to me!"
The sleeper gazed at the Doctor a while, but said nothing.
"Do you not hear me? I tell you that you can speak! You must speak!Speak! I command you! Speak!"
"Doc-tor Med-jo-ra!" was the reply uttered in separate syllables, with a pause between each, and in hollow tones.
"Good! You see you can speak if you will. You will find it easy enough directly. Look about you now, and tell me where you are."
"I think I am in the temple!"
"You are correct. You are in the temple of Æsculapius. Do you understand?"
"The temple of Æsculapius! I understand!"
"Do you know how you came here?"
"No!"
"Do you wish to know?"
"No!"
"I brought you here. Do you understand that?"
"Yes!"
"Are you glad or sorry?"
"Glad!"
"You are asleep! You know that, do you not?"
"I am asleep!"
"Do you wish to awaken?"
"I did at first! Now I do not!"
"Then you are happy in your present state?"
"I am with you! I am happy! I am with you!"
"Then you trust me?"
"I do, now!"
"You do now! Did you ever mistrust me?"
"Yes! Once!"
"When was that?"
"On the boat! You tried to make me sleep!"
"But I have made you sleep now. Do you still trust me?"
"Yes!"
"Why did you mistrust me before then?"
"I did not know how pleasant it is to sleep!"
"Then you are happy, when you are asleep like this?"
"I am with you! I am happy! I am with you!"
"Very well! In the future if I try to make you sleep, you will not resist me?"
"No!"
"Say, I will not resist you!"
"I will not resist you!"
"You will sleep, whenever I wish you to do so?"
"I will sleep, when you wish me to do so!"
"Now, if I ask you a few questions, will you answer me truthfully?"
"Yes!"
"I wish you then to tell me whether you are in love with AgnesDudley?"
"What is love?"
"Do you not know?"
"Only what I have read!"
"You have not felt what it is to love a woman?"
"I have not!"
"Then you do not love Agnes Dudley?"
"I suppose not!"
"Have you thought of it at all, as possible?"
"I have not!"
"Not even for an instant?"
"Not even for an instant!"
"That is very strange. She is a magnificent girl. Beautiful, intellectual, and cultured. You have observed that?"
"Yes! I have observed all that!"
"Nevertheless, you have not thought of loving her?"
"Nevertheless, I have not thought of loving her!"
"Are you tired now of sleeping?"
"I would like to sleep the other sleep! I cannot explain! Yes, I am tired!"
"You need not explain. I understand. This is your first experience, and must not be continued longer. But you must promise me something."
"I will promise!"
"You remember all that I told you to-night before you went to sleep?"
"I do!"
"You must never forget any of it. You must remember it all. Not the words, but the substance. You will remember?"
"I will remember!"
"Now I will take you back to your bed. When you have been there ten minutes, you will awaken!"
"I will awaken!"
"You will remember this place, but only as though you had seen it in a dream!"
"I will remember the dream!"
"Then you will immediately fall into a natural sleep!"
"I will fall into a natural sleep!"
"In the morning you will either remember nothing, or if anything only that you have had a dream!"
"Only a dream!"
"Now sleep! Sleep deeply!"
The Doctor pressed Leon's eyes with his thumbs, and when he released them the lids remained closed.
"You cannot open your eyes!"
"No! I cannot open my eyes!"
"Now you cannot speak!"
There was no reply. Dr. Medjora wrapped the sleeper in the robe and carried him upstairs, and back to his own room again. He placed him in his bed, and covered him carefully, as a mother would her babe. Stooping over him he placed his lips close to Leon's ear and said:
"Can you hear me? If so, raise your arm," a feeble elevation of the arm was made in response. "Good, you hear! Remember! Awaken in ten minutes! Awaken from a dream! Then sleep again!"
The sleeper stirred slightly, and breathed a long sigh. Dr. Medjora leaned over him, and imprinted a kiss upon his forehead. Then he left the apartment, closing the door cautiously behind him, and sought his own room.
On the following morning, when Leon entered the laboratory, he found Dr. Medjora busily engaged upon a chemical analysis. He, therefore, without interrupting him, went to his own table, and took up his morning's task. Half an hour passed in silence, and then the Doctor spoke:
"Good-morning, Leon," said he. "I hope that the late hour at which you retired last night did not interfere with your rest?"
"On the contrary, Doctor," said Leon, "I slept very soundly; so soundly that I did not awaken as early as usual this morning. Yet I am puzzled by one thing."
"And that is——?"
"A dream. I have a distinct recollection of a dream, and yet I am sure that I slept soundly until the very moment of my awakening. I have always thought that dreams come only when one dozes, or is half awake. Do you think that one might sleep soundly, and nevertheless dream?"
"It is a question much disputed. If you have done so, however, you have proven the possibility. Tell me your dream."
Thus adroitly did the Doctor avoid committing himself by a statement which would have lead to an argument, Leon's controversial instinct being a prominent characteristic.
"The dream was singular," replied Leon, "not so much because of what I dreamed, but rather because of the impression made upon my mind. As a rule, what one dreams is recalled as a dimly defined vision, but in this instance, I can see the temple of Æsculapius as clearly as though I had really visited the place."
"Then in your dream you imagined that you saw that wonderful place?"
"Yes. There is nothing odd about that, because you told me that you would take me into the chamber to-night. I went to sleep with the desire to see the temple prominently present in my thoughts, and consequently, in my dream, that wish was gratified. But now I am anxious to verify my vision, to note how much resemblance there will be between the real and the imaginary. It would be very curious if I should be able to recognize the place!"
Leon looked away off into space, as one gazes at nothing when deeply absorbed in the contemplation of some perplexing problem. The Doctor at once recognized the danger that presented. Leon's memory was more vivid than he had intended it to be. If taken into the crypt, in his present state of active inquiry into the phenomenon which his mind was considering, and if he really should become convinced that what he thought a dream was the exact counterpart of the real, it would not be improbable that his suspicion of the truth might be aroused. It was therefore essential that his mind should be led into a safer channel. The Doctor undertook to do this.
"Leon," said he, "you are always interested in psychological phenomena, and therefore I will discuss this with you. The action of the mind is always an attractive study; attractive mainly because man cannot thoroughly unravel the mysteries surrounding the working of a human mind. Ordinarily, what one cannot comprehend and explain, is written down as a miracle. There are no miracles, except as the words may be used to describe that which mystifies. But the mystification passes, as soon as the explanation is arrived at. Now it is manifestly impossible that you should dream of a place which you have never seen, and obtain an accurate mental image of it."
"I do not say that I have done so. I only wonder how much resemblance will exist between the dream and the chamber itself."
"True! But I should not be at all surprised, when I take you there, if you claim that it is the counterpart of your dream."
"Why do you think that, Doctor, when you have just said truly, that such a fact would be impossible?"
"It would be impossible that such a thing should be a fact, but it is not at all impossible that you should think it to be a fact. Let me explain myself more clearly. As I said before, one cannot produce in the mind an absolutely accurate image of a thing which he has never seen. But mental images may be created, not alone through the sense of sight, but also through the sense of hearing. Last night I told you the story of Æsculapius. I described to you theteocaliwhich had been reared in his memory. I told you that at the very top a dome-like chamber was specially dedicated to Æsculapius. I also explained to you that in the dome which I have discovered the walls are covered with hieroglyphical sculpturing. With such a description of the place, meagre as it is, you could readily construct a mental image, which would be sufficiently like the original for you to believe it identical. A dome is a dome, and, in regard to hieroglyphical figures, in the books in my library you have seen many pictures of those found on this continent."
"Still, Doctor, that would only enable me to create an image which would be similar. It could not be identical."
"No! It could not be identical. But suppose that you enter the crypt! Instantly you look about you, and an image of the place is imprinted upon your brain. This is objectively produced. You compare it with the subjective image left by your dream, and you are astonished at the similarity. Note the word! You look around you again, and again an objective image is formed. Again you essay a comparison: but what happens now? As clearly fixed upon your brain as you believe your dream to be, it is but a shadowy impression compared to those which come to you when awake. So your subjective image of the place is readily displaced by that first objective impression, and when you compare the second, it is with this, and not with your dream at all. As both are identical, you form the conclusion that your dream and the actuality are identical. So your first idea that they are similar passes, and you adopt the erroneous belief that they are identical. You have compared two objective impressions, where you believe that one was the subjective image of your dream. Thus you are deceived into believing that a miracle has occurred. And thus have all miracles been accepted as such; thus have all superstitions been created, through the incorrect appreciation of events and their causes."
"I see what you mean, Doctor, and I recognize, now, how easy it is to fall into error. Few in this world have the analytical instinct possessed by yourself. Yet, I must confess, I am anxious for the test to-night. Now that you have warned me, I wish to see whether my first comparison will give me the idea that the two images are identical, or merely similar."
From this speech Dr. Medjora saw that the lad was not entirely convinced. He concluded therefore to risk a test, that would definitely settle the question.
"Leon," said he, "you are a good draughtsman. Draw for me a picture of any part of the hieroglyphical sculpture which is most distinct in your recollection!"
In this the Doctor depended upon the fact that Leon could have but an indistinct remembrance of the place itself, because, from the moment of his awakening in the crypt, his mind had been confused by the rapid series of surprises presented to his eyes. The revolving lamps, and the glare emitted by them, would have been sufficient to create such shadows, that the sculptured figures would have been distorted, the mind itself being too much occupied for more than a very cursory glance at the walls of the place. Leon, however, at once began to draw, and within a few minutes he handed the paper to the Doctor, who was pleased to find upon it a poor copy of some figures inKingsborough's Antiquities. Thus the Doctor's speculation was vindicated, because as soon as Leon had endeavored to draw, he copied an image in his mind, made by a picture which he had had time to study closely, yet which in his thought replaced the indistinct impression obtained in the crypt.
"You are quite sure, Leon," asked the Doctor, "that this is a figure which you saw in your dream."
"Quite sure," answered Leon, promptly, "although, of course, there may be some slight inaccuracy in my draught of it."
The Doctor then went to the library, and returned with the volume of Kingsborough, in which was the picture which Leon had really copied. When he showed this to the lad, he convinced him of his original proposition, that the hieroglyphical sculptures of his dream were but recollections of what he had seen in books. Thus he averted the threatening danger, and once more proved that, through his knowledge of psychical laws, he was an adept in controlling the minds of men.
Later in the day, Leon called at the home of Mr. Dudley, having been sent thither by the Doctor.
Doctor Medjora had given Leon a letter, with instructions to take it to the house, and if Mr. Dudley should be out, to await his return to deliver it and obtain a reply. In this he was actuated by a motive. He chose an hour when he knew certainly that the Judge would not be at home, though Agnes would. He wished Leon to be thrown into her society more often than circumstances had permitted heretofore. In the future, he intended so to arrange that the young people should meet more frequently. Dr. Medjora was willing to abide by the acts of Providence, as long as they aided his own designs; when they failed to do so, then he considered it time to control Providence, and guide it to his will.
When Leon was admitted into the reception-room at Judge Dudley's, he found Agnes reading. She laid aside her book and arose to greet him cordially. He explained the object of his visit, and that he would like to await the return of the Judge. Agnes therefore invited him to be seated. His great fondness for books led him to utilize her reading as a starting-point for conversation.
"I am sorry, Miss Dudley," he began, "that I have interrupted your reading. May I be permitted to ask what book you have?"
"Certainly!" she replied. "I have been reading a novel!"
"Oh!" was all that Leon said, but the tone excited Agnes at once, for in it she thought she detected a covert sneer.
"Do you never read novels?" she asked.
"I have little time for anything but science. I think that I have read but two novels in my life."
"May I ask what they were?"
"George MacDonald'sMalcolmfrom which I named my dog 'Lossy,' and a book calledArdath. I do not remember the name of the author."
"Ardath, and you do not remember the name of the author? She would feel quite complimented at the impression made upon you, I am sure. Perhaps you would like to refresh your memory?" Agnes spoke with a tone of triumphant satisfaction, as she handed to him the book which she held. He took it and read on the title-page, "Ardath; The Story of a Dead Self; by Marie Corelli."
"This is a coincidence, is it not, Miss Dudley," said Leon, returning the volume. "I suppose it was very stupid of me to forget the author's name, but really I am so much more interested in the world of science, that romance has little attraction for me. In the one we deal in facts, while the other is all fiction."
"Is that your estimate of the relation existing between the two," said Agnes, with a twinkle in her eye. She always delighted in an argument, when she felt that she held the mastery of the situation, as she did now. Therefore she entered the combat, about to begin, with a zest equal to the love of debate which Leon possessed.
"You say that science deals only in facts. If you remember anything ofArdath, which is not probable, since you forget the writer, you may recall that in his wanderings through the city, Al-Kyris, Theos meets Mira-Khabur, the Professor of Positivism. The description of this meeting, and the conversation between the men is admirable, as a satire upon the claims of the scientists. Let me read to you one of the Professor's speeches. Theos has said:
"Then the upshot of all your learning sir, is that one can never be quite certain of anything?"
"Exactly so!" replied the pensive sage, with a grave shake of the head. "Judged by the very finest lines of metaphysical argument you cannot really be sure whether you behold in me a Person, or a Phantasm! Youthinkyou see me,—IthinkI see you,—but after all it is only animpressionmutually shared—an impression which, like many another less distinct, may be entirely erroneous! Ah, my dear young sir! education is advancing at a very rapid rate, and the art of close analysis is reaching such a pitch of perfection, that I believe we shall soon be able logically to prove, not only that we do not actually exist, but, moreover, that we never have existed."
"What have you to say to that?" asked Agnes closing the book, but keeping one finger between the leaves, to mark the place.
"Why," said Leon, smiling, "that it is a very clever paragraph, and recalls to my mind the whole scene. I think that, later, this same Professor of Positivism declares that the only thing he is positive of, is the 'un-positiveness of Positivism!'"
"Ah! Then you do remember some of the novel. That is a hopeful sign for novelists, I am sure. But, jesting aside, you have not defended your pet hobby, science, from the charge brought against her!"
"If you wish me to take you seriously, then of course I must do so. What you have read, is clever, but not necessarily true. It is good in its place, and as used by the author. It typifies the character of the man, from whose mouth the words escape. But, in doing this, it shows us that he is merely the disciple of a school which depends for its existence upon bombast rather than true knowledge; upon sophistical cloudiness of expression rather than upon logical arguments, based upon reason and fact."
"Ah! Now I have you back to your first statement, that science deals with facts. But is it not true, that by your logical arguments various and varying deductions are obtained by different students, all seeking these finalities, which you term facts? Then which of them all is the true fact, and which is mere speculation?"
"I am afraid, Miss Dudley, that you have asked me a question which I am scarcely qualified to answer. All I can say is, that so long as matters are in dispute, we can have no knowledge of what is the truth. In speaking of facts, I only alluded to those proven hypotheses, which have been finally accepted by all scientists. Those are the facts of which science boasts."
"Yes, many of them are accepted for a decade, and then cast aside as exploded errors. But come, I do not wish to argue too strongly against science. I love it too well. What I prefer to do, is to defend my other hobby, romance; that which you called fiction. I will give you a paradox. I claim that there is more fact in good fiction, and more real fiction in accepted fact, than is generally credited."
"I am afraid I do not comprehend what you mean," said Leon, very much puzzled. He was growing interested in this girl who talked so well.
"Good," said Agnes. "I will gladly expound my doctrine. The best exponent of so called fact which I can cite, is the daily press. The newspapers pretend to relate actual events; to tell us what really occurs. But let us look into the matter but a moment, and we discover that only on rare occasions is the reporter present when the thing happens, of which he is expected to write. Thus, he is obliged to depend upon others for his facts. Each person interrogated, gives him a version of the affair according with his own received impressions. But occurrences impress different persons in very different ways. Thus Mr. Reporter, when he comes to his desk, finds that he must sift out his facts from a mass of error. He does so, and obtains an approximation of the truth. It would be erroneous enough if he were now to write what he has deduced; but if he is at all capable, as a caterer to the public taste, he is compelled to serve his goose with a fancy sauce. He must weave an amount of fiction into and around his facts, so that the article may have some flavor. And the flavor is sweet or sour, nice or nasty, in accordance with the known predilections of the subscribers. What wonder that one who truly seeks for the facts in the case, endeavoring to obtain them by reading several accounts, finally throws all the newspapers away in disgust!"
"Bravo, Miss Dudley! You have offered an excellent arraignment against the integrity of the press. But I am more curious than ever to hear you prove that fiction contains fact."
"It must, or it is essentially inartistic. The writer who seeks to paint the world, the people, and the events of the world, as they really are, sets up in his mind, as a subject for copy, the sum of his observation of the world and the people in it. First, we will imagine that he weaves a plot. This is the fiction of his romance. If he writes out this story, adhering closely to his tale, calling the hero A, the heroine B, and the villain C, he deals in fiction only. But even here it would have no material attraction, unless it is conceded to be possible; it need not be probable. But if it is a possible sequence of events, at once we see that the basis is in fact. But when he goes further, and calls A, Arthur, B, Beatrice, and C, Clarence, at once they begin to acquire the characteristics of real people, or else puppets. If the latter, there is no value to the conception, while if the former, then in dealing with these creations of his mind, the writer must allot to each a personality, emotions, demeanor, and morality, which must be recognizable as human. He must in other words clothe his dummies with the semblance of reality, and for that he must turn to the facts of life, as he has observed them. Thus good fiction is really all fact. Q. E. D."
"Your argument is certainly ingenious, and worthy of consideration. It is a new way to look upon fiction, and I am glad that you have reconciled me to the idea of reading novels, for I must confess that though, when readingArdath, I felt guilty of neglecting more important studies, nevertheless I was very much entertained by the book, which contains many ideas well thought, and well presented. But to resume the argument, as to the facts of fiction, let me say this. Is it not true that the predominant theme with novelists is love? And would you contend that love is the most important fact in the world?"
"Unquestionably it is the predominant fact, to use your own word. All the joy and misery, good and evil, is directly traceable to that one absorbing passion."
"You speak with feeling. Pardon my asking if it is a predominant emotion with yourself?"
"It is not," answered the girl, quickly and frankly. "Of course I understand you to mean by love, the feeling which exists between two persons of opposite sex, who are unrelated by ties of consanguinity; or, where a relationship does exist, that sort of affection which is more than cousinly, and which leads to marriage. Such an emotion is entirely foreign to my nature, and therefore of course does not form a predominant characteristic of my being. But on this you cannot base an argument against what I claim, because I am an exception to the rule. With the vast majority, love is undoubtedly the leading motive of existence."
"Miss Dudley, if you find the study of mankind interesting in the form of novels, which you say record the impressions of the authors, then you must pardon my studying your character as you kindly reveal it to me. This must explain my further questioning. May I proceed?"
"Oh! I see! You wish to use me as the surgeon does the cadaver. You would dissect me, merely for the purposes of general study. It is hardly fair, but proceed." She laughed gayly.
"You said," continued Leon, "that love, such as you have described, is foreign to your nature. Am I to understand that you could not form an attachment of that kind which leads to matrimony?"
"Well, all girls say that. But I believe I may say so, and be truthful. I doubt whether any man will ever inspire me with that love, without which I would consider marriage a sin. I do not say this idly, or upon the impulse of the moment. While I have never felt those heart-aches of which the novelists write, yet I have considered the subject deeply, in so far as it affects myself. So I say again, love is foreign to my nature."
"It is very singular!" said Leon, and he spoke almost as though soliloquizing. "I have the same feelings. I have always thought that no one would ever love me; but, latterly, I have come to consider the subject from the other stand-point, and now I believe as you do that I shall never love any woman. If I may go further, I would like to ask you why you have adopted this theory about yourself? I will agree to explain myself, if you will reply."
"With pleasure! From childhood I have been thrown almost exclusively into the companionship of two exceptional men, my father, and Dr. Medjora. I have the sincerest affection for them both. I say this, for without loving them I would probably never have been so influenced by them as I have been. While they are very unlike in their personalities, yet they have one characteristic in common: a deep longing for intellectual advancement. Growing up in such an environment, I have acquired the same predilection, so that now my one aim in life is knowledge. I do not see how love could aid me in this, while I do see how it might prove a great obstacle in my pathway. Household cares, and with them the care of a man, are not conducive to the acquirement of learning. Now I will listen to you."
"In a measure our cases are similar. I too have always deemed the search for knowledge the highest aim in life, but I did not extract that desire from my surroundings, for there was no inspiration about me. What I have learned, prior to my companionship with Dr. Medjora, was rather stolen sweets, that I obtained only in secret. The ideas about love, however, probably did emanate from my environment, for while I believe that my adopted mother loved me, I did not discover it until the day on which she died. Because no one loved me, I believed that no one ever would. But in my later analysis I have come to believe, that after starving from the lack of affection for so many years, I have finally lost the responsive feeling that gives birth to the emotion. I think that no one can attract me to that extent necessary to enkindle in my heart the emotion called love."
He looked away in a wistful manner, and Agnes felt a slight pity for the lad who had never known the love of his parents.
"Does it sadden you to think that way?" she asked softly.
"You have detected that? Yes! It is very curious. Ordinarily I accept the idea calmly. But occasionally I seem to be two persons, and one, who recognizes the happiness possible from love, looks at the other with pitying sympathy, because he will never love. Then in a moment I am my single self again, but the momentary hallucination puzzles me. It is as though I had been in the presence of a wraith, and the name of the spectre, dead to me, were Love itself. It is not a pleasant thought, and you must pardon my telling you. Ah! There comes the Judge!"
He bowed his adieux and went out into the hall to meet Judge Dudley. Agnes took up her book and essayed to read again, but the spectre of love which he had described, danced like a little red demon with forked tail, up and down the pages, until she put the book aside and went up to her room, where she threw herself on her lounge and lost herself in thought.
When Leon reached his room, upon returning home, he was surprised to find his dog, Lossy, lying under his bed, growling ominously at Madame Medjora, who was poking at him with a broom handle. She was evidently disturbed at Leon's entrance, and turned upon him angrily.
"This dog of yours must not come in the house. I will not have it. I am mistress here, and dogs must be kept in the stable."
Without waiting for a reply she hurried out of the room. Leon, not comprehending what was the matter, but realizing that his pet was unhappy, stooped to his knees and coaxed him from his hiding-place. He was much astonished to find that Lossy held a letter between his teeth, which, however, he yielded readily to his master. When Leon had taken it from him, Lossy stood in the middle of the floor and shook himself, as a dog does after swimming, until his rumpled fur stood smooth and bushy. In the same moment his good temper returned. Leon recognized the letter, as one which he had read that morning, but though he perused it again mechanically, it did not explain to his mind the scene, of which he had witnessed only the end. Had he been able to comprehend the situation, much of what occurred later might have been avoided.
What had happened was this. In the morning's mail a letter had come for Leon, and he had read it at the breakfast-table. This excited the curiosity of Madame Medjora, because it was the first that had come to the boy since he had lived with them. She therefore had noted that he placed it in his pocket, and she studied how she might become possessed of it. No chance offered until Leon went out, to call at Judge Dudley's. Then he changed his coat, and he had scarcely left the house, before the woman entered his room and eagerly searched for, and found the letter. So engrossed was she in the perusal of it, that she did not notice that Lossy had followed her from his master's apartment into her own boudoir, whither she had gone, before reading it.
The letter was as follows. As a specimen of chirography, and an example of high grade orthography, it was worthy of a place in a museum.
"mister leon Grath, my Dare nevue have you forgot yore Ant Matildy I hav not hearn frum you in menny menny wekes an I mus say I have fretted myself most to deth abowt my Dare Sisters little boy leon all alone in this wide wide wurld A weke ago mister potter the man that ocshioned off the Farm Wuz up to owr plase and he tole us how you wuz makin lots of money in York along of Doctor mejory. Now ef its tru that you be makin so much money I think it only fare to let you know how much yore Ant Matildy who wus always gud an kined to you is now in knead of help the farm is goin to rack an ruin sence you lef and I want you to sen me a hundred dollars as sune as this reaches you as I knead it dredful It would be better for you and for Doctor Mejory too ef the money is sent rite off as if not I mite tell things I know wich wont be plessant Matildy Grath"
Unfortunately for Leon's future happiness later in the day Madame copied this letter carefully, and also noted the postmark on the envelope. Otherwise the action of Lossy would have left her dependent upon her memory, to do what she had immediately decided upon. It was while she was reading over her copy, that Lossy came stealthily forward, stood upon his hind legs and took the letter, which he had seen her steal from his master's coat. Before she fully realized her loss, the dog was scampering along the hall. She followed him into Leon's room, and used every means to get him from under the bed. Coaxing failed, and she tried the broomstick, which she was still using when Leon entered.
But of all this the lad knew nothing. He read the letter again; then tore it up and threw it into the fire, supposing that the matter ended there.