To hate him as only a tropical temperament can hate. She was in this mood when the Doctor entered. At once she arose to greet him. In an instant she hid within the depths of her bosom all emotions save those of love, and any one, other than the Doctor, would have believed that she harbored no unpleasant recollections or ill feeling because of the recent scene. He was not deceived. He had lived with her for more than fifteen years, and in that time he had appraised her correctly. Now, however, it suited him best to accept her caresses, and to return them with a show of warmth, which made the blood course faster through her veins, the more so because she had expected him to be angry, and because he rarely exhibited much feeling. This wily man well knew the weak spot in this woman's armor, and when he most desired to sway her actions, he first touched her heart.

"Well, _cara mia_, are you glad to have me with you again?" He folded her close to his breast, and kissed her lips. She nestled within his arms, and returned the salute rapturously. Presently he spoke again.

"You were naughty, down stairs, little one?"

There was scarcely a reproach in his voice; he spoke rather as an indulgent parent chides an erring, but beloved child. She looked up into his eyes and merely murmured,

"You will forgive me?"

Some may doubt that the warmer demonstrations of love could survive the destroying influences of a companionship covering so many years, and be still expressed with the fervor of youth. To such I say, what has not come within your own experience is not necessarily false.

Love, especially in woman, is a hardy plant and will blossom and flower, long after its earlier excitations have ceased to exist. The beauty of form, and attractiveness of manner, which first arouses the tender pa.s.sion within our breast, may pa.s.s away from the object of our admiration, and yet our love may be deeper, fuller, and wider than at its inception. Yea, it may even retain its fullest demonstrativeness.

In many cases it thrives most by harsh treatment, where it might expire by over-tending. Madame Medjora's affection was of this sort.

Had her husband yielded to her all that she demanded, she would long ago have been surfeited, and not improbably she would have left him.

This, however, he had never done. She had always feared that he did not love her as she yearned to be loved, and therefore she was ever ready with cajolery, flattery, and other means familiar to women, to win from him a fuller responsiveness.

At this moment, intoxicated by his caresses, she spoke from her heart when she asked him to forgive her. The slight reproof of his words, however gently spoken, was the tiny bit of cloud upon her present clear sky of joy. She wished to dissipate it utterly, and then bask in the full sunshine of his love, as dear to her to-day as before her nuptials. But by no means did she regret the act which had called forth his speech, except as it affected her momentary happiness. She was ready to yield outwardly to anything that he might demand of her in such a mood, but, later, she would return to her purpose with zeal.

That purpose, in this instance, would be to make Leon as miserable as she could if he remained, but to have him out of the house if possible. The game was now worth watching, for both players were very skilful, and each was intent upon carrying the day eventually. Each was as patient as persistent.

"You ask me to forgive you, Cora," was the Doctor's reply. "Do you admit that you behaved very badly?"

"Now you are going to scold," said his wife, in a demure tone that sounded odd from one of her years. But Madame often a.s.sumed the airs of youthfulness, without realizing how poorly they suited her.

"I would never scold you, Cora, if you would only think always before you act. You have been both unwise and unreasonable."

"I would not have been if you had informed me in advance that the boy was coming. But you never tell me anything, Emanuel."

"Perhaps I should have done so in this case. But I only decided yesterday, just before I left the country. A letter would not have reached you, and I would not telegraph, because you are always frightened by a despatch."

"The horrid things! I hate telegrams!"

"Exactly! It was from consideration for you that I did not notify you.

As soon as I reached home I came here to find you and explain, but you had run down the other stairway, and so unfortunately you met Leon before I intended you should."

"Leon Grath?" There was an accent upon the last name, and an inflection of the voice very delicately expressed, which intimated that there was a doubt. Madame could not resist speaking thus quickly, hoping that a glance, an expression, however fleeting, might cross the Doctor's face, which would be a clue upon which she might base her future investigation. But she gained nothing by the manoeuvre, and the Doctor continued, as though unsuspicious of her intent.

"Yes, Leon Grath. Sit down and I will tell you about him. Some years ago I first met Leon, while hunting in the vicinity of his home, he had broken his leg, and I set it for him. Subsequently in succeeding years we have hunted together. This summer I was intending to look him up, as a companion on a fishing excursion. Arriving in his neighborhood, I learned that his mother had just died, leaving no will, and that the farm would be sold and the boy left penniless, through a technicality which made the small estates revert to the surviving sisters. These old hags hated Leon, and, consequently, from a comfortable home, he was about to become an outcast. I therefore decided to bring him home with me. He will now live with us."

"Forever?" gasped Madame, surprised to learn that, instead of a guest, the lad was destined to be a permanent addition to their household.

"Forever!" replied the Doctor, with just a little severity; enough to check the expression of resentment which he saw rising. Then in order to give her time to regain control of herself he went on. "Yes! I have long needed an a.s.sistant, and I am sure that Leon will prove an apt pupil and rapidly learn enough to become useful to me. However, I may be mistaken. He may prove a failure, and then I should find him a position elsewhere." This was offered as a sort of compromise for her acceptance. He held out the possibility that Leon would leave them.

Madame was in nowise deceived. She had appreciated the tone of her husband's voice as he uttered the word, "Forever," and she knew that Leon would never leave them on account of proving a failure as a student. However, she accepted the situation, and a.s.sumed a satisfaction which was mere dissembling.

"Now that I understand the facts, Emanuel, I shall do all in my power to make the boy happy while he is here, even though it be only for a short time." The last words were in response to her husband's suggestion, but he understood her motive as well as she had comprehended his. Thus they fenced with one another.

"I knew that you would do so, Cora," replied the Doctor. "Will you come down now and speak to Leon before I take him out with me? I must have some clothing ordered for him."

Together they descended to where Leon sat awaiting them, and the youth's fears were set at rest, for the time being at least. Madame approached him with her most alluring manner, and welcomed him, in words, to his new home. She even asked him to forget her brusqueness at their first meeting, and then, suggesting that he must be hungry, rang a bell and ordered light refreshments.

The Doctor sat apart from them, apparently looking over his letters, but in reality observing closely all that transpired, and while Leon was thoroughly charmed by the altered manner of his hostess, Dr.

Medjora decided, within his own mind, that in relation to this boy his wife's actions would require the closest scrutiny.

Presently a gong sounded, and a few moments later a servant announced:

"Judge Dudley. Miss Dudley."

The Judge came in with extended hand, and was warmly greeted by the Doctor, while the young lady went up to Madame, who kissed her on her cheek, and received her with an outward show of cordiality, which a close observer might have seen was but a polite veneer. The Doctor hastened to bring Leon forward, and presented him first to the Judge, and then to Miss Agnes Dudley.

The young people bowed their acknowledgments, and as they raised their heads, so that their eyes met, both started slightly. Leon was astonished to recognize the face of the girl whom he had met when studying Venus, and whose image had recurred to him that night on Lake Ma.s.sabesic.

CHAPTER VI.

AGNES DUDLEY.

After the trial of Dr. Medjora, the young men who had so successfully defended him became rapidly prominent. Within six months they were retained in another celebrated case, and won new laurels. Within five years they were counted among the first lawyers of the Metropolis, and had already a practice which a.s.sured them ease and comfort for their declining years.

Mr. Dudley continued to be the ardent student that he had always been, and those who knew how well versed he was in law, were not at all surprised when he was eventually made a judge, a position which at this time he had held with honor for five years. He had achieved well-deserved fame. Aside from his undoubted probity, he really graced his position, for it was very seldom that any of his rulings were reversed by the higher courts.

I may mention here, parenthetically, that Mr. Bliss had also risen in his profession, and had just been elected District Attorney, having previously acquitted himself well as an a.s.sistant to his predecessor.

Agnes Dudley, the Judge's daughter, was eighteen years of age, having been born about a year after the Medjora trial. Indeed, Dr. Medjora always called her his G.o.dchild, because he had been present at her birth, and had enjoyed an intimate acquaintance with her and her parents throughout the years that followed. Judge Dudley had not merely defended Dr. Medjora as a matter of business. Having no positive opinion at the beginning of the trial, he had become convinced during its progress, and especially while his client was on the witness-stand, that Dr. Medjora was entirely innocent of the crime with which he was charged. This feeling was intensified when the jury showed an agreement with him, by acquitting the Doctor, and, as a result, an intense sympathy was aroused in his breast for one who seemed to have wrongfully undergone such an ordeal. For a man must suffer in reputation when once the finger of suspicion is pointed in his direction, and it is out of the power of the State to repair the harm which has been done. Thus, from the position of client, Mr.

Dudley elevated the Doctor into that place in his regard occupied by his warmest friends.

Dr. Medjora had been quick to appreciate the affiliation of a man of brains, such as he recognized Judge Dudley to be, and, therefore, the friendship had thriven. None exalted the legal ability of Mr. Dudley higher than did the Doctor, and no one valued Dr. Medjora's professional skill more than did Mr. Dudley. Under these circ.u.mstances, of course the Doctor was intrusted with the medical care of the lawyer's family, and thus it was natural that he should feel a paternal regard for his friend's daughter.

If he loved Agnes, she returned his affection in full measure. She used to say, even when a little tot, that she had two papas, and if asked which she loved best, she would reply: "Bofe of 'em."

As she grew older, of course she discriminated between her father and the Doctor, but if Judge Dudley received the greater share of her demonstrations of affection, the Doctor was more than satisfied with what was allotted to him.

In proportion as the Doctor loved the child, so his wife disliked her, though she never exhibited her feelings openly. Indeed, in this one matter she had succeeded in deceiving her husband, who, astute as he was in all other things, had never suspected that Madame harbored any ill-feeling against the girl. But Agnes herself was not very old when she began to understand, and as her wisdom increased with her years, she became less and less demonstrative towards the Doctor when the wife was present. Women detect these hidden heart-throbs with an instinct which is peculiar to their s.e.x, and which transcends reason, in that it is unfailing, however illogical it may seem to a man.

Agnes was a rare child, a rarer girl, and one of the rarest of women as she matured. Without having a beautiful face, measured by the rules of high art, she was endowed with a countenance which might escape notice, but which, having once attracted observation, was never to be forgotten. Hers was a face that the least imaginative could readily recall in a dark room, and by an operation of the mind which produces images subjectively, summon up a hallucination of the girl, as distinct in lineament as though she were present in the flesh. An artist had proven this by sitting in his studio, lighted only by a candle, that he might see his drawing-board, and he had succeeded in producing a portrait of Agnes, as true to life as was possible. He claimed afterward that, without difficulty, he had projected his mental image of her against the dark background of his room, and that he had seen her as clearly as though she had sat for him.

From one point of view, then, it might be said that she had a strong face, by which I would mean that it would make an indelible impression upon the mind that observed her closely. There is a psychological reason for this, which I must ask you to look at with me if you wish to know Agnes. One dead face differs from another merely in the outlines of form. A living face differs from all others, and is different itself in varying moods, because there is something within the form which animates it. This is intellect. Some are poor in this, while others are richly endowed. The greater the intellect, the more distinctively individual will be the face, and it is this individuality which marks the features, differentiating the countenance from all others about it, so that it leaves a deeper impression upon the brain, just as a loud noise is heard, or a bright flash seen, the more intensely.

Agnes's pre-eminent characteristic was her intellectuality. She absorbed books, as a sponge does water, without apparent effort, and as a sponge may be squeezed and made to yield up nearly as much as it had drawn in, so Agnes, if catechised, would show that she had a permanent grasp on what she had studied. She developed a fondness for the cla.s.sics, and for law, which delighted her father, and as her mother died when she was nearing her fifteenth year, they grew to be very close companions. The father, deprived of the support and encouragement always afforded by a true and well-beloved wife, gradually leaned more and more upon his daughter, who showed herself so worthy of affiliating with him mentally. It was therefore not very long before her services became indispensable to him in finding references in his law library, and in many ways connected with his profession.

Of two other things in connection with Agnes I must speak. Physically she was the perfection of ideal womanhood. She was strong in limb and body, yet possessed all the grace of contour essential to the feminine scheme of beauty. She had never been corseted in her life, and yet her figure was superb, being well rounded and full, yet so supple that every muscle was obedient to her will. She could ride a horse, leap a fence, swim, fish, and row a boat as well and untiringly as a man, yet in nothing was she masculine. She had cultivated all of those physical possibilities of her body, which it should be the privilege of all women to do, without transgressing some rule of society which has been fashioned to protect the weaker specimens of the s.e.x, rather than to develop the dormant energies of womankind. It was her constant boast that neither rain nor sun, nor any untoward freak of the elements, could deter her from pursuing a pre-arranged purpose. She never "caught cold." In truth she had never been ill one whole day since her birth.

The other matter may seem a slight one, as I describe it, but were you to meet the girl, you would notice it very quickly. I allude to her manner of speech. We all of us, when writing, are careful in forming our sentences. We spell all words in full, avoiding abbreviations. But note well the speech of even the most liberally educated and carefully nurtured, and what do we discover? That our English is sadly defective, not merely in grammatical construction, but, more particularly, in p.r.o.nunciation, and in enunciation. We slur many letters, and merge many words, the one into the other. We are so pressed for time that we cannot pause to breathe between words; our sentences have no commas, and sometimes not even periods, that can be recognized as such. In our hurry we use abbreviations whenever possible. We say "don't," "won't," "can't," and many others that we "shouldn't."

Agnes never did this. Her language was always as correct, her p.r.o.nunciation as perfect, and her enunciation as distinct, as though she were constantly studying to be a purist. You say that she must have been affected! But you are wrong. Not for an instant did she make such an impression upon any one. In this, as in all things, she was merely her natural self. It was a charm to the ear to hear her in conversation. Her voice was so musical, and her intonation so pleasant. I remember how attractive to me it was to listen to her as she would say "I shall let you, etc." p.r.o.nouncing the "t" and the "y"

without effort and yet each distinctly. How much prettier than the "let chou" which so commonly a.s.sails the ear! Ah! You are saying that you do not so merge words; but be honest, and observe when next you essay such a phrase.

It was by the merest chance that the Judge and Agnes called on the very day of Leon's arrival. They were _en route_ for the race-track, and pa.s.sing near the Doctor's home, the Judge turned his horses in the direction of his friend's house to inquire when he was expected to return. He was delighted to meet him.

Greetings having been exchanged they began a general conversation.