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 assured 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 assistant 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 godchild, 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
circumstances, 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 sex, 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 classics, 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 sex, 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 pronunciation, 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
pronunciation 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." pronouncing the "t" and the "y"
without effort and yet each distinctly. How much prettier than the
"let chou" which so commonly assails 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 passing 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.
"What have you been doing up in the country, Doctor?" asked the Judge.
"Fishing, I suppose?"
"You might say," answered Dr. Medjora, "that I have been a fisher of
men. I brought one back with me, you see." He indicated Leon by a wave
of his hand. The Judge glanced at the youth, and awaited a further
explanation.
"Leon and I are old friends," continued the Doctor. "I met him first
when he needed my services to help him with a broken leg. But I have
accepted his assistance many times since, when, without him, I might
never have found my way back to civilization from the jungles into
which I had strayed. For the future I need him so much that I have
brought him home with me, to remain permanently."
"Indeed!" said the Judge, much interested, for if Leon were to be
always with his friend, it was of more than passing moment to himself.
"In what way do you need him?"
"Judge, as you know, my good wife here has not given me the son that I
have longed for." Madame scowled, enraged by the speech which however
had not been meant to wound her. The Doctor had not thought of her at
all, but merely mentioned what was a fact. "Therefore I have no heir.
I do not mean in connection with my worldly goods. I speak of my
profession. I wish a student to whom I may impart my methods, so that
after my day has passed my people may still have some one to depend
upon. You see, I look upon my practice, much as a shepherd would
consider his sheep. I am responsible for them. They depend upon me to
keep them out of danger. I consider it a duty to supply a successor to
myself."
"And this young gentleman is to be he?" asked the Judge.
"Leon is my choice before all whom I have known. Above all others I
have decided that he is the most worthy of the trust that I shall
impose in him." The Doctor spoke feelingly.
"Young man," said the Judge, addressing Leon, "I hope you appreciate
the rare opportunity offered to you by my friend. If you are really
capable of becoming his successor, then you are destined to be a power
in the community, as he is to-day."
"Judge Dudley," said Leon, "I know that I am most fortunate. Dr.
Medjora has taken me from beggary, and placed before me a future which
would tempt any young man. But, to me, it means more than a salvation
from drudgery; it means more than a high-road to fortune. I feel that
I am destined to realize the hopes of my life, the yearnings of all my
past days. I shall have a chance to acquire learning, to cultivate my
intellect, to gain knowledge, which in my mind is the supremest
power."
The Judge was somewhat surprised to hear such words from a country
lad, still habited in clothing more suited to a farmer than to one
with such aspirations. He said: "Young man, you interest me. Evidently
you have learned to think for yourself. Come, tell me! Why do you lay
such store by knowledge, when the rest of mankind are crying for
money?"
"Money! Money! Money!" repeated Leon with a contemptuous curl of the
lip. "Judge Dudley, I am nearing my majority, and I can say, that in
all my life I do not think that I have owned more than fifty dollars.
My food, clothing, and a home, have been provided for me, but aside
from that I have not spent more than the sum named, and most of that
went for books. So, you see, one may live without wealth, if enough to
cover actual necessities be his. Without knowledge, a man would be an
idiot. I think that is a logical proposition. If you grant that, then
the less knowledge one has, the nearer he must be to the imbecile, and
the more he acquires, the closer he approaches the highest stage of
existence. Money we leave behind us at death. Knowledge, on the
contrary, not only goes with us, but is really the only guarantee the
individual has of a continuance of existence beyond the grave."
The Judge became more and more interested, and Dr. Medjora, observing
the good impression which his _protege_ was making, was content to
remain silent and listen.
"Your last statement indicates that you have formulated some mode of
reasoning, upon which to base your convictions," said the Judge. "Will
you take us a little further into your doctrine?"
"I am afraid that my ideas are rather crude, sir. I have had access to
few standard works, and have been compelled to think out things for
myself. But if I do not bore you, I shall be only too willing to
continue. Indeed, it is a great treat to me, to speak with some one
who may contradict me where I fall into error."
"You are a modest young man, Mr. Grath. Please continue. You were
saying that one's knowledge might assure him a life hereafter."
"So I believe. Of course it is almost impossible, if not quite so, to
prove anything in connection with the great future. But it is the
prerogative of man to reason upon all subjects, and it is eminently
fitting that he should study that one which most nearly affects
himself. In the absence of absolute proof, I claim that one may adopt
any theory that appeals to him as reasonable and probable. Now in
relation to knowledge. I say it is more important to amass knowledge
than to hoard up wealth. Money belongs to the material plane, and,
having no relation to any other, it is as perishable, as far as it
affects one individual, as is the human body. Money buys luxuries and
comforts for the body only. It can add nothing to intellectual
attainment. You may say that with it one may purchase books with which
to improve the mind. That is true, but does not invalidate my
argument, for it is not the book which is pabulum to our intellect,
but only the thoughts which have been recorded upon its pages. Money
procures us the possession of the book, whereas if we borrow it, and
return it again, in the interval we may receive all the mental benefit
which it can bestow upon the owner. Knowledge, on the other hand, is
immaterial. It is an attribute of what has been called the soul. It is
potent while being invisible, and though invisible it has a market
value as well as things material. All the wealth of the world may not
suffice to make one man wise, while all the wisdom in the world would
surely make its possessor wealthy, but for the fact that he would
probably be too wise to wish for riches. If, then, knowledge is such a
potent factor in the world's affairs, can it be that it ceases to
exist when a man dies? It is reasonable to suppose that it does not:
then what becomes of it? The man cannot leave it to his heirs, as he
does his chattels. Therefore it must continue where it has always
been, and that is within the mind, which must have a continuance of
existence to retain its knowledge."
"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 the
Doctor, 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 a
future 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 his _protege_ entered 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.