Master of His Fate | Page 7

sounds as only
those use who are on the best terms with animals. The great brute rose
to his touch, closing its eyes, and bearing up its head like a cat.
Then came an incident that deeply impressed the Lefevres. Julius went
to a cage in which, he said, there was a recent arrival--a leopard from
the "Land of the Setting Sun," the romantic land of the Moors. The
creature crouched sulking in the back of the cage. Julius tapped on the
bars, and entreated her in the language of her native land, "Ya, dudu! ya,
lellatsi!" She bounded to him with a "wir-r-r" of delight, leaned and
rubbed herself against the bars, and gave herself up to be stroked and
fondled. When he left her, she cried after him piteously, and wistfully
watched him out of sight.
"Do you know the beautiful creature?" asked Lady Lefevre.
"Yes," answered Julius quietly; "I brought her over some months ago."
Lefevre had explained to his mother that Julius had always been on
friendly or fond terms with animals, but never till now had he seen the
remarkable understanding he clearly maintained with them.

"Look!" said Lady Lefevre to her son as they turned to leave the
Gardens. "He seems to have fascinated Nora as much as the beasts."
Nora stood a little aloof, regarding Julius in an ecstasy of admiration.
When she found her mother was looking at her, her eyes sank, and as it
were a veil of blushes fell over her. Mother and son walked on first,
and Julius followed with Nora.
"He is a most charming and extraordinary man," said the mother.
"He is," said the son, "and amazingly intelligent."
"He seems to know everything, and to have been everywhere,--to have
been a kind of rolling stone. If anything should come of this, I suppose
he can afford to marry. You ought to know about him."
"I believe I know as much as any one."
"He has no profession?" queried the lady.
"He has no profession; but I suppose he could afford it," said Lefevre
musingly.
"You don't like the idea," said his mother.
"Not much. I scarce know why. But I somehow think of him as not
having enough sense of the responsibility of life."
"I suppose his people are of the right sort?"
"I suppose they are; though I don't know if he has any people," said he,
with a laugh. "He is the kind of man who does not need parents or
relations."
"Still, hadn't you better try to find out what he may have in that line?"
"Yes," said Lefevre; "perhaps I had."
Chapter II.

A Mysterious Case.
The two friends returned, as they had arranged, to the Hyacinth Club
for dinner. Courtney's coruscating brilliancy sank into almost total
darkness when they parted from Lady and Miss Lefevre, and when they
sat down to table he was preoccupied and silent, yet in no proper sense
downcast or dull. Lefevre noted, while they ate, that there was clear
speculation in his eye, that he was not vaguely dreaming, but with alert
intelligence examining some question, or facing some contingency; and
it was natural he should think that the question or contingency must
concern Nora as much as Julius. Yet he made no overture of
understanding, for he knew that Courtney seldom offered confidence or
desired sympathy; not that he was churlish or reserved, but simply that
he was usually sufficient unto himself, both for counsel and for
consolation. Lefevre was therefore surprised when he was suddenly
asked a question, which was without context in his own thought.
"Have you ever found something happen or appear," said Julius, "that
completely upsets your point of view, and tumbles down your scheme
of life, like a stick thrust between your legs when you are running?"
"I have known," said Lefevre, "a new fact arise and upset a whole
scientific theory. That's often a good thing," he added, with a pointed
glance; "for it compels a reconstruction of the theory on a wider and
sounder basis."
"Yes," murmured Julius; "that may be. But I should think it does not
often happen that the new fact swallows up all the details that
supported your theory,--as Aaron's rod, turned into a serpent,
swallowed up the serpent-rods of the magicians of Egypt,--so that there
is no longer any theory, but only one great, glorious fact. I do admire,"
he exclaimed, swerving suddenly, "the imagination of those old Greeks,
with their beautiful, half-divine personifications of the Spirits of Air
and Earth and Sea! But their imagination never conceived a goddess
that embodied them all!"
"I have often thought, Julius," said Lefevre, "that you must be some
such embodiment yourself; for you are not quite human, you know."

The doctor said that with a clear recollection of his