A Modern Wizard

"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.

CHAPTER IX.

A WIZARD'S KNOWLEDGE

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 the Herald saying "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 his protégé was 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."