CHAPTER LXXVII.
To those of my readers who may seek with Julius Faber to explore, through
intelligible causes, solutions of the marvels I narrate, Margrave's
confession may serve to explain away much that my own superstitious
beliefs had obscured. To them Margrave is evidently the son of Louis
Grayle. The elixir of life is reduced to some simple restorative, owing
much of its effect to the faith of a credulous patient: youth is so soon
restored to its joy in the sun, with or without an elixir. To them
Margrave's arts of enchantment are reduced to those idiosyncrasies of
temperament on which the disciples of Mesmer build up their
theories,--exaggerated, in much, by my own superstitions; aided, in part,
by such natural, purely physical magic as, explored by the ancient
priest-crafts, is despised by the modern philosophies, and only remains
occult because Science delights no more in the slides of the lantern which
fascinated her childhood with simulated phantoms. To them Margrave is,
perhaps, an enthusiast, but, because an enthusiast, not less an impostor.
"L'Homme se pique," says Charron. Man cogs the dice for himself ere he
rattles the box for his dupes. Was there ever successful impostor who did
not commence by a fraud on his own understanding? Cradled in Orient
Fableland, what though Margrave believes in its legends; in a wand, an
elixir; in sorcerers or Afrites? That belief in itself makes him keen to
detect, and skilful to profit by, the latent but kindred credulities of
others. In all illustrations of Duper and Duped through the records of
superstition--from the guile of a Cromwell, a Mahomet, down to the cheats
of a gypsy--professional visionaries are amongst the astutest observers.
The knowledge that Margrave had gained of my abode, of my affliction, or
of the innermost thoughts in my mind, it surely demanded no preternatural
aids to acquire. An Old Bailey attorney could have got at the one, and
any quick student of human hearts have readily mastered the other. In
fine, Margrave, thus rationally criticised, is no other prodigy (save in
degree and concurrence of attributes simple, though not very common) than
may be found in each alley that harbours a fortune-teller who has just
faith enough in the stars or the cards to bubble himself while he swindles
his victims; earnest, indeed, in the self-conviction that he is really a
seer, but reading the looks of his listeners, divining the thoughts that
induce them to listen, and acquiring by practice a startling ability to
judge what the listeners will deem it most seer-like to read in the cards
or divine from the stars.
I leave this interpretation unassailed. It is that which is the most
probable; it is clearly that which, in a case not my own, I should have
accepted; and yet I revolved and dismissed it. The moment we deal with
things beyond our comprehension, and in which our own senses are appealed
to and baffled, we revolt from the Probable, as it seems to the senses of
those who have not experienced what we have. And the same principle of
Wonder that led our philosophy up from inert ignorance into restless
knowledge, now winding back into shadow land, reverses its rule by the
way, and, at last, leaves us lost in the maze, our knowledge inert, and
our ignorance restless.
And putting aside all other reasons for hesitating to believe that
Margrave was the son of Louis Grayle,--reasons which his own narrative
might suggest,--was it not strange that Sir Philip Derval, who had
instituted inquiries so minute, and reported them in his memoir with so
faithful a care, should not have discovered that a youth, attended by the
same woman who had attended Grayle, had disappeared from the town on the
same night as Grayle himself disappeared? But Derval had related
truthfully, according to Margrave's account, the flight of Ayesha and her
Indian servant, yet not alluded to the flight, not even to the existence
of the boy, who must have been of no mean importance in the suite of Louis
Grayle, if he were, indeed, the son whom Grayle had made his constant
companion, and constituted his principal heir. Not many minutes did I
give myself up to the cloud of reflections through which no sunbeam of
light forced its way. One thought overmastered all; Margrave had
threatened death to my Lilian, and warned me of what I should learn from
the lips of Faber, "the sage of the college." I stood, shuddering, at the
door of my home; I did not dare to enter.
"Allen," said a voice, in which my ear detected the unwonted tremulous
faltering, "be firm,--be calm. I keep my promise. The hour is come in
which you may again see the Lilian of old, mind to mind, soul to soul."
Faber's hand took mine, and led me into the house.
"You do, then, fear that this interview will be too much for her
strength?" said I, whisperingly.
"I cannot say; but she demands the interview, and I dare not refuse it."
