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 circ.u.mstances 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's _Malcolm_ from which I named my dog 'Lossy,' and a book called _Ardath_. 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 t.i.tle-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 of _Ardath_, 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! You _think_ you see me,--I _think_ I see you,--but after all it is only an _impression_ mutually 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 a.n.a.lysis 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 ma.s.s 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 reading _Ardath_, 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 pa.s.sion."

"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 s.e.x, 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 a.n.a.lysis 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."