A Modern Wizard

One pleasant afternoon in early summer, they were walking down Fifth Avenue, deeply engrossed in a discussion of another of Correlli's novels. Leon read novels in these days. He said he did so because it was so pleasant to discuss them with Agnes. Besides, he found that even in novels there might be something to learn. They were speaking of that excellent work, Thelma.

"I think that it is Correlli's most finished work," Agnes was saying; "but I am surprised at the similarity between it and Black's novel,The Princess of Thule."

"I have not yet read that. Wherein lies the resemblance?"

"In both books we find the story divided into three parts. First, the young Englishman seeking surcease from the ennui of fashionable society by a trip into the wild north country. Black sends his hero to Ireland, and Correlli allows hers to visit Norway. Each discovers the daughter of a descendant of old time kings; the Princess of Thule in one, and Thelma, the daughter of the Viking, in the other. The marriage ends the first part in each instance. In the second, we find the wedded couples in fashionable London society, and in each the girl finds that she is incongruous with her surroundings, and after bearing with it awhile, abandons the husband and returns to her old home, alone. The finale is the same in each, the husband seeking his runaway wife, and once more bringing her to his arms."

"Still, Miss Agnes," – the formal "Miss Dudley" of the earlier days had been unconsciously abandoned – "what you have told is only a theme. Two artists may select the same landscape, and yet make totally different pictures."

"So they have in this instance, and I think that Correlli's management of the subject is far in advance of Black's, as beautiful and as touching as that master's story is. The death of the old Viking transcends anything in The Princess of Thule. I do not at all disparage Correlli's work, only – well – it is hard to explain myself – but I would be better pleased had there been no likeness between the two."

"Yet I have no doubt that it is accidental, or, if there was any imitation, that it was made unconsciously. I believe that a writer may recall what he has read long before, and clothing the idea in his own words, may easily believe that it is entirely original with himself. There is one speech which Thelma makes, which I think most beautiful. You remember where the busy-body tries to make mischief by telling Thelma that her husband has transferred his love to another? Thelma replies, in substance, that if her husband has ceased to love her, it must be her own fault, and to illustrate her meaning she says that one plucks a rose, attracted by its fragrance, but when at last it is unconsciously thrown away, it is not because of fickleness, but rather because the rose having faded, has lost its power to charm, and so is cast aside. I think it was very touching for Thelma to make such a comparison, charging herself with the fault of losing the love of her husband."

"Yes! It is very pretty and poetical, but like poetry in general, it is not very sensible. I think that if a man has enjoyed the attractions of his wife in her youthful days he should cherish her the more when her charms have begun to fade. There is quite a difference between a rose, which in losing its outward beauty loses all, and a woman who, however homely in feature, may still possess a soul as beautiful as ever."

"Indeed, Miss Agnes, I indorse your sentiments. Such a man would be a brute. But Thelma's husband was not of that mould. He was true to her."

"Yes," said Agnes, smiling; "but Thelma's charms had not faded, nor even begun to decline. Her simile was inapt as applied to herself."

"Exactly! It was her heart, and not her head that gave birth to the beautiful sentiment. But I am sure that her husband would have loved her, however ugly she might have grown. I am sure that, in his place, I would have done so."

"You? Why, Mr. Grath, I thought that you told me you would never love any one?" She spoke the words with mischievous intent, and glanced at him archly, as she watched the effect of the speech.

Leon blushed and became confused. He was at a loss for words, but was relieved from the necessity of formulating an answer, by an occurrence which threatened to end in a tragedy. They were crossing a street at the moment, and so intent had they become upon their discourse, that they scarcely heard the warning cries of the excited people. A maddened horse was running away, and as at length Leon was aroused to the imminence of some danger, intuitively, rather than by any well-defined recognition of what threatened, he gave one hasty glance in the direction from which the animal was approaching, and with a rapid movement he encircled Agnes's waist with his arm, and drew her back, barely in time to escape from the horse and cab which rattled by.

It was in this instant that Leon's awakening came to him. In presence of a danger which threatened to deprive him forever of the girl beside him, he became suddenly aware of the fact that she was essential to his future happiness. At last he knew that he loved Agnes, and from his silence as he took her home, and the tenderness of his tones at parting, Agnes instantly knew that he had been aroused. She already began to look forward to their next meeting, and to wonder whether he would at once unbosom himself. She meant to help him as much as possible. Poor fellow! He would be very much abashed, she had no doubt. She would not be coy and tantalizing as so many girls are. She thought that such affectation would be beneath her. Her sense of justice forbade it. No! She would be very nice to him. She would show no signs of uneasiness as he floundered about seeking words. She would wait patiently for what he would say, and then, when he had said the words, why, then – well, then it would be time enough at that sweet moment to decide what to do. She would make him happy, at any rate. Of that she was determined. There should be no ambiguity about her reply. And in this mood the girl awaited the wooing.

Leon did not sleep at all that night, or if he slumbered, it was only to dream of Agnes. A hundred times he saw her mangled beneath the hoofs of that runaway horse, and suffered agonies in consequence; each time awakening with a start, to find beads of perspiration upon his brow. Again his vision was more pleasing, and in dream-land he imagined himself united to Agnes, and living happily ever afterward, as all proper books tell us that married lovers do. At last the day dawned, and with impatience he awaited that hour when with propriety he could call upon his sweetheart. He had a very good excuse, for by accident, (sic?) he had left his umbrella at the house the day before, and already it was growing cloudy. He might need it, and therefore of course he should go for it before it should actually begin to rain.

It was scarcely noon when Leon was announced to Agnes, who was in her morning room, sipping a cup of chocolate, and wondering when he would come. And now he was here. She expected to find him distrait, and lacking in manner and speech, as she had seen him in the dawning of his passion. She was therefore wholly unprepared for what followed. If Leon had been bashful in her presence when he did not comprehend the cause of his disconcertion, having discovered that he loved Agnes, hesitation vanished. There was no circumlocution about his method at all. He was impulsive by nature, and, when a purpose was once well defined in his breast, he was impatient until he had put it into operation. Thus, without even alluding to the umbrella which he had ostensibly made the object of his visit, in accounting for it to himself, he addressed Agnes as follows:

"Miss Agnes, I have scarcely slept all night because of what might have happened through my carelessness yesterday."

"I do not understand you," said Agnes, and indeed she did not. She saw, however, that he intended to speak very directly, and was herself disconcerted.

"I mean the narrow escape which you had from being run over. I should have had my wits about me, and have prevented you from being in such danger."

"You saved my life!" she spoke softly, and drooped her head.

"I do not know. But for me it would not have been in need of saving. But if I did save your life, I know that I preserved what is dearest in all the world to myself. No! Let me speak, please! I have awakened from a dream. I have lived in dream-land for many weeks, and I have not understood. I have been near you, and I have been happy, but in my stupidity I did not see that it was because of your companionship that I was happy. In the moment when I was in danger of losing you, I realized how great the loss would be. Had you died, I must have died too. Because – because, Agnes, I, I, to whom the idea of love has always been repellent, I tell you that I love you. I love you with a species of worship which is enthralling. My whole being, my life, my soul is all yours. If you do not accept my love, then I have no further wish to live. Speak! Speak to me! I cannot wait longer. Tell me that you love me, or – or merely nod your head, and I will go!"

To such wooing as this how could woman answer? She had promised herself that she would not be ambiguous in speech, but now she learned that directness was demanded, and though her whole heart yearned for him, and she pitied the anguish which was born of his anxiety, she found it hard to say the words, which could not in honor be retracted. So, for a moment, she was silent, and he misunderstood. He thought that her hesitation was born of sympathy for him, and that she did not speak because she feared to cause him pain by refusing him. He felt a piercing throb of agony cross his heart, and his cheek paled. He reeled and would have fallen, for he had not seated himself, but he clutched the mantel for support. In a moment he mastered himself sufficiently to say hoarsely:

"I do not blame you! I am a nameless vagabond, and have been presumptuous! Good-bye!"

He turned away and was leaving the apartment swiftly, when his steps were arrested by a cry that thrilled him through with joy that was as painful as his sorrow had been.

"Leon! Leon! I love you!" Agnes cried, arresting his departure, and, as he turned and came again towards her, she was standing upright, and herself made the movement which gave him the privilege of embracing her.

By a singular chance, while they were thus enfolded in love's first rapturous clasp, and therefore oblivious of all the world except themselves, Judge Dudley, who had not yet left the house, entered the room. He saw them, but they did not observe him. Instantly he realized that the Doctor's scheme had borne fruition. He hesitated but for a moment, and then, stepping lightly, he went out of the room, and departed from the house.

How often do our joys and sorrows approach us hand in hand? There comes a moment fraught with bliss; the draught is at our lips, and we take one lingering sip of ecstasy, when on a sudden the brimming glass is dashed aside, and a cloud of misery enshrouds us round about! Thus it happened to Leon.

After an hour of joyous converse with Agnes, now "his Agnes," he started for home. Arriving there, he ran lightly up the steps, as if treading on air. He was whistling a merry tune, as he opened the door of his room, and closed it again having entered. His mind was filled with ecstatic anticipation of what the future had in store for him. It did not seem possible that anything could happen to disturb the sweet current of his thoughts. Yet a moment later he was arrested by the sound of a moan, an agonizing groan that filled his heart with dread. Again it was repeated, and immediately he knew that it was Lossy, who was suffering. He stooped and looked under the bed. There, indeed, was his fond animal friend, but around his mouth there was an ominous mass of foam. Had the poor beast gone mad? With a pang of anxiety, Leon drew the bedstead away from the wall, and went behind it to where Lossy had dragged himself. One glance into the dog's eyes turned up to meet his with all the loving intelligence of his customary greeting, and Leon dismissed the idea of rabies. Tenderly he lifted the dog and carried him to a table near the window, upon which he made a bed with pillows. He wiped the foam from his lips, and as he did so Lossy gently protruded his tongue and licked his master's hand. He also feebly wagged his tail, and endeavored to rise, but his exhausted condition prevented, and with a groan he dropped back and lay there crying piteously as a child might do. Leon could not comprehend the trouble. "What is the matter with him?" he asked himself. "He certainly was well this morning." As he looked, the foam began to gather again, as Lossy worked his lips in such a way as to eject the saliva from his mouth. Suddenly the explanation came to Leon. "Aconite!" he cried aloud. "Lossy has been poisoned! By whom? Perhaps he got into the laboratory. But how? How did he get at the poison? Oh! If I had only remained at home this morning!"

But regrets for the past are ever impotent, and Leon did not waste much time deploring what had gone before. He quickly procured some charcoal, and mixing it with milk administered it to his dog. The foaming ceased, and the beast seemed more comfortable, but it was questionable whether any permanent benefit would result from the use of the antidote.

While Leon sat watching his pet, with a growing pain gnawing at his heart as the conviction thrust itself upon him that the dog would die, his door opened and Madame Medjora appeared. Coming forward she looked at Lossy a moment, and then said:

"Do you think that the brute will die?"

"I am afraid that he will," mournfully answered Leon.

"Then why doesn't he die right off," she said. "It is several hours since I gave him the poison."

"You gave him the poison?" exclaimed Leon, springing up in wrath. "You poisoned Lossy, and you dare to tell me of it?"

"I dare to tell you? Yes! I dare do anything that woman can do. I am a descendant of soldiers. The brute ate one of my lace handkerchiefs, and I was glad of the excuse to be rid of him. There! You know the truth now, what will you do about it?"

As she uttered the words, Madame drew herself up to the full height of her commanding figure, and it would have been a daring man who would have attacked her. But when even feeble men are urged on by rage, they do deeds which braver men would hesitate to attempt. Utterly bereft of the restraining faculty of reason, by the information that his pet had been intentionally destroyed, Leon sprang forward, and would have seized the proud neck of Madame between his powerful hands, in an endeavor to carry out the desire to throttle her, which had forced itself upon his brain, but at that very instant Dr. Medjora came in, and, with a single glance, appreciating that the lad was beside himself, he rushed forward and held him firmly.

"What does this mean, Leon?" the Doctor demanded.

"She has poisoned Lossy! Let me go! I will kill her!"

Leon struggled fiercely to be free, but he found himself restrained by muscles which were like steel. The Doctor, however, was himself tremendously moved by what he heard. Addressing his wife he asked:

"Did you do that? Does he speak the truth?"

"I gave the beast poison. Yes! What of it?"

"Then you are a wicked fiend, Madame. Leave the room!"

"I will not!" replied Madame, with energy.

"Leave the room, or else I will release the boy. Go! go quickly whilst you may!" The Doctor's tones were imperative, and as the woman looked into the faces of the two men, her courage left her, and with a muttered imprecation she hurried from the room. As the door closed after her, the Doctor released Leon, but by a swift movement intercepted him as he endeavored to escape from the apartment, and turning the key in the lock he took it out, and thus prevented Leon from following his wife.

"Leon, my dear boy," said the Doctor, in tones expressive of the deepest sympathy, "let us see what we can do for Lossy. Perhaps it is not too late to save him, and it is better to do that, than to vent your anger upon a woman."

"A woman! Do not call her by that name. She is a contamination to her sex. Pardon my speaking so of your wife, Doctor, but – but – she has murdered Lossy. Murdered my dog, just as I called such a deed murder, in the little story which I showed to you that day in the woods. Do you remember?"

"Perfectly, but there can be no murder unless he dies. Let me see!"

"Yes! Yes! Save him! Use your wonderful knowledge to save this dumb brute, as I have seen you pluck infants from the brink of the grave.

Save my pet, my kind friend! Save him and I will do anything for you!

Only save my Lossy!"

Poor Leon! This was the one love which had been his for so many years. How long he had taken comfort and pleasure in lavishing his affection upon his dog, who had learned to understand and obey his slightest nod.

Dr. Medjora examined Lossy carefully, and looked very grave. Presently he looked up, and placing one hand tenderly on Leon's head, he spoke softly:

"Be brave, my lad. Many such bitter moments as this must be borne through life. You must meet them like a courageous man."

"There is no hope?" sobbed Leon.

"None! He is dying now! See how faint his respirations are?"

With a cry of anguish Leon fell to his knees and gazed into his dog's eyes. He patted the head lying so limp and listless, and in response poor Lossy made one feeble effort. He gazed back into his master's face, and Leon ever afterward claimed that, in that last lingering look, he detected the living soul which was about to depart from his dying dog. Lossy painfully opened his mouth and protruded his tongue so that it barely touched Leon's hand in the old-time affectionate salutation, and the soul of the dog departed for that realm beyond the veil.

Leon leaned forward a moment, with his ear to the dog's heart, listening for an answering vibration, which would indicate that life yet lingered, but, receiving none, with a cry he fell forward to the floor and burst into uncontrollable sobs.

Doctor Medjora, wise physician that he was, made no futile effort to restrain these tears, knowing them to be the best outlet for natural grief. With a glance filled with tender love for his protégé, he unlocked the door and passed out unobserved, leaving Leon with all that remained of the Marquis of Lossy.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE DISCOVERY

Early in the morning of the same day upon which Leon had offered himself to Agnes, Madame Medjora, reading her Herald, had at last found the long-awaited personal, "Come," the signal which she had arranged with the detective. Immediately after breakfast, therefore, she had started forth to learn what had been discovered.

Arrived at the agency, she was at once ushered into the presence of

Mr. Barnes.

"Well," said she, scarcely waiting to be seated, "what have you found out?"

"I have learned everything," said Mr. Barnes, without any show of feeling.

"You have? Well, go on. Why don't you tell me?" Madame was very impatient, but the detective was in no hurry.

"I have known what I have learned for over a week, Madame Medjora," said he slowly, "and during that time I have hesitated to send for you. Even now, when you are here, I am not sure that I shall be doing the right thing to give you any information upon this subject, without first communicating with your husband."

"Ah! I see," said Madame, with a sneer, "you think he would pay you better than I. You are mistaken. I have plenty of money. My own money. What is your price?"

Mr. Barnes arose from his seat, in anger, but perfectly calm outwardly. As deferentially as though he were addressing a queen, he bowed and said:

"Madame, pardon me, but be kind enough to consider our interview at an end."

"What do you mean? You wish me to go?"

"Precisely, Madame. That is my wish."

"But you have not yet told me – ah! I see! I have made a mistake. But you will pardon me, Mr. Barnes. I did not know. How could I? I judged you by what I have heard of detectives. But you are different. I see that now, and I ask your forgiveness. You will forget my stupid words, will you?" She extended her hand cordially, and appeared truly regretful. Mr. Barnes yielded to her persuasive influence, and sat down again.

"Madame Medjora, I do not fully comprehend your motives in this matter. That is why I hesitate to speak." Mr. Barnes paused a moment. "Suppose you answer one or two questions. Will you?"

"Certainly! Ask me what you please."

"Very well, Madame! You married Dr. Medjora after his trial for murder. At that time he had little money. Am I right, then, in concluding that you married him because you loved him?"

"I loved him with my whole soul!"

"And now, do you love him as well now?" Mr. Barnes scrutinized her closely, lest her words should belie her real feeling. But her answer was sincere.

"I love him more now than I ever did. He is all the world to me!"

"Ah! I see!" Mr. Barnes communed with himself for a brief moment, then suddenly asked: "You have had no children, I believe?" Madame grew slightly paler, and answered in a low tone:

"None!"

"Just so! Now then, Madame, you of course recall the trial. It was more than hinted at that time that the Doctor had a child by his first wife. Did he ever tell you the truth about that?"

"Never!"

"Suppose that he had done so, and had confided to you the fact that rumor was right, and that there was a child. Understand I am only supposing a case! But if so, what would you have done?"

"I would have taken the little one, my husband's child, and I would have cherished it for its father's sake!"

This was a deliberate lie, but Madame uttered the words in tones of great sincerity. She was a very shrewd woman, and half-suspecting the object of the detective's questioning, did not hesitate to tell this falsehood in order to gain her own end. She succeeded, too, for after a few moments more, Mr. Barnes said:

"After all, Madame Medjora, I am merely a detective, and it is my business to take commissions such as you have intrusted to me, and work them out. I will make my report to you. With the letter which you gave me it was easy enough to make a start. I found the writer, Matilda Grath, and a particularly unprepossessing old hag she is. As is readily seen by her letter, she is ignorant of even common-school knowledge. She is simply a rough product of her surroundings, and is as untutored as when she was born. But she had a younger sister, Margaret, who was very different. This Margaret was a very attractive girl, and having some ambition, attended school until she was fairly well educated. This her elder sisters called "putting on airs" and "flyin' in the face of the Lord, tryin' to know more 'n her elders." Margaret also had numerous beaux, and this was another source of irritation to her sisters. Finally there came a young man to the neighborhood, and in the language of the people thereabout, Margaret "set her cap" for him. However, he did not marry her, but after he had left the vicinity, Margaret went to Boston, where she remained several months. When she returned she brought a baby back with her. That baby was Leon."

"Then he was her child?"

"The gossips said so, but there is no doubt in my mind that he was not. He was the child of the man to whom she had given her heart, but the mother was his lawful wife."

"Then why was the baby given to Margaret Grath?"

"Because the mother died, and the father was tried for murdering her!"

"My God! You mean that – "

"I mean that Leon's father is your husband, Dr. Medjora!"

"Impossible!" Madame wished to disbelieve exactly what she had always suspected to be the truth.

"What I tell you is fact. I never do anything by halves. In the first place I had a hint of the truth from your own suspicions. You of course had little to go on, but you loved your husband, and when a jealous eye watches the relation between the beloved one and another, it will see much. I had no doubt that you had taken your idea from your observation of the love which the Doctor bestowed upon hisprotégé. Next I noted the coincidence of the dates. Margaret Grath appeared with the child a very few months prior to the death of Mabel Sloane. But I obtained substantial proofs."