THE MARQUIS OF LOSSY.
With Leon, the Doctor's suggestion had worked differently, though none
the less potently, despite the fact that the lad himself did not
detect the symptoms, as did the girl. I think a woman's instincts are
more attuned to the influences of the softer passions than are a
man's. Certainly it has been often observed that she will recognize
evidences of love, which man passes by unnoted and unheeded. If a girl
is quicker to discover that she is loved, she also admits sooner that
she is in love, though the admission be made only to herself. Thus, as
we have seen, the Doctor's charm operated upon Agnes.
When Leon awoke that same morning, it was a sudden awakening from
dreamless sleep. He recalled nothing of what had occurred during the
previous night, nor had he even a suspicion that Agnes had been in his
thoughts at all. Nevertheless he dressed himself with feverish haste,
and, contrary to his usual custom, he left the house and went "for a
walk," or so he explained his action to himself. Yet very soon he had
reached the nearest station of the Suburban Elevated railroad, and was
rapidly borne towards the city. During this trip he thought that he
was going to town to obtain some chemicals which he needed in the
laboratory, but, as there was no immediate necessity for them, he
might have delayed their purchase for several days. The truth was he
was answering a scarcely recognized inward restlessness, which
demanded action of some sort. The cause of this change from his normal
habit was that "something was the matter" with him, as he afterwards
expressed it. But at the time he did not seek an explanation of his
mood. He did procure the chemicals, but having done so, instead of
returning home, he walked aimlessly for several blocks, until he
stopped, seemingly without purpose, before a florist's shop. In an
instant he had formulated a design, "on the spur of the moment" he
told himself, though it was but the outcome of the secret agency which
controlled his whole conduct that day. He went in and purchased some
rose-buds, selecting red ones, and he wrote the card which Agnes found
upon them. When he reached the signature he quickly scribbled "Leon,"
and then he paused. The thought within his mind was, "I have no other
name." Therefore he did not continue. Thus it is evident that the
single signature was not a familiarity, either intended or implied,
but a response to that feeling, ever within his consciousness, that he
had no right to call himself "Grath"! Upon this point he was ever
sensitive. He hastened to the Judge's house and left the bouquet at
the door. Then he returned to Villa Medjora with a lighter heart, and,
man-like, he wrongly attributed this to the ozone with which the
morning air was laden. As yet he did not suspect that he had fallen in
love. I wonder why we use the term "fallen" in this connection, as
though the acquirement of this chief passion of the human heart were a
descent, rather than an elevation of the soul, as it surely is. For
one must be on a higher plane, from that moment when he abandons
himself as the first consideration of his thoughts, and begins to
sacrifice his own desires, that he may add to the pleasures of
another.
The first meeting between Agnes and Leon was one to which the former
looked forward with anticipated embarrassment, while Leon scarcely
thought of it at all, until the moment came. But when they did meet,
all was reversed. The girl was self-possession personified, while Leon
never before found words so tardily arriving to meet the demands of
conversation. He went to his own room that night, and wondered what
had come to him, that he should have been so disturbed in the presence
of one for whom hitherto he had had rather a tolerance, because of her
intellectuality, than any feeling of personal inferiority such as now
occupied his thoughts. How could he be less than she? Was he not a
man, while she--she was only a woman? Only a woman! Ah! Therein lies
the mysterious secret of man's undoing; of his lifelong slavery, that
the wants of woman shall be supplied. Yet women prate of women's
rights, deploring the fact that they are less than those, who,
analysis would show, are but their slaves.
From this time on, the bud of love in the hearts of these two young
people advanced steadily towards maturity, and, before very long,
Agnes was living in a secret elysium of her own creation. She no
longer questioned her own feelings. She freely admitted to herself
that all her future happiness depended upon obtaining and enjoying
Leon's love. But she had come to be very sure of the fulfilment of her
heart's desire, since Leon's visits became more and more frequent, and
his books and science apparently lost their power to allure him away
from her side. The situation was very entertaining to her, who was so
fond of analyzing and studying the intricate problems of life; and, to
such as she, what could be happier occupation than probing the heart
of him to whom she had intrusted her own? She thought she saw so
plainly that he loved her, that it puzzled her to tell why it was that
as yet he himself was not aware of this fact. But at last the
awakening came.
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 _protege_, he
unlocked the door and passed out unobserved, leaving Leon with all
that remained of the Marquis of Lossy.