to say this in your article?” she asked.
“Say it? Why, the facts will say it,” he exulted. “The baldest kind of a statement would make it clear. When a man is as big as that he doesn’t need a pedestal!”
Miss Anson sighed. “People used to say that when I was young,” she murmured. “But now—”
Her visitor stared. “When you were young? But how did they know—when the thing hung fire as it did? When the whole edition was thrown back on his hands?”
“The whole edition—what edition?” It was Miss Anson’s turn to stare.
“Why, of his pamphlet—the pamphlet—the one thing that counts, that survives, that makes him what he is! For heaven’s sake,” he tragically adjured her, “don’t tell me there isn’t a copy of it left!”
Miss Anson was trembling slightly. “I don’t think I understand what you mean,” she faltered, less bewildered by his vehemence than by the strange sense of coming on an unexplored region in the very heart of her dominion.
“Why, his account of the amphioxus, of course! You can’t mean that his family didn’t know about it—that you don’t know about it? I came across it by the merest accident myself, in a letter of vindication that he wrote in 1830 to an old scientific paper; but I understood there were journals—early journals; there must be references to it somewhere in the ‘twenties. He must have been at least ten or twelve years ahead of Yarrell; and he saw the whole significance of it, too—he saw where it led to. As I understand it, he actually anticipated in his pamphlet Saint Hilaire’s theory of the universal type, and supported the hypothesis by describing the notochord of the amphioxus as a cartilaginous vertebral column. The specialists of the day jeered at him, of course, as the specialists in Goethe’s time jeered at the plant-metamorphosis. As far as I can make out, the anatomists and zoologists were down on Dr. Anson to a man; that was why his cowardly publishers went back on their bargain. But the pamphlet must be here somewhere—he writes as though, in his first disappointment, he had destroyed the whole edition; but surely there must be at least one copy left?”
His scientific jargon was as bewildering as his slang; and there were even moments in his discourse when Miss Anson ceased to distinguish between them; but the suspense with which he continued to gaze on her acted as a challenge to her scattered thoughts.
“The amphioxus,” she murmured, half-rising. “It’s an animal, isn’t it—a fish? Yes, I think I remember.” She sank back with the inward look of one who retraces some lost line of association.
Gradually the distance cleared, the details started into life. In her researches for the biography she had patiently followed every ramification of her subject, and one of these overgrown paths now led her back to the episode in question. The great Orestes’s title of “Doctor” had in fact not been merely the spontaneous tribute of a national admiration; he had actually studied medicine in his youth, and his diaries, as his granddaughter now recalled, showed that he had passed through a brief phase of anatomical ardor before his attention was diverted to super-sensual problems. It had indeed seemed to Paulina, as she scanned those early pages, that they revealed a spontaneity, a freshness of feeling somehow absent from his later lucubrations—as though this one emotion had reached him directly, the others through some intervening medium. In the excess of her commemorative zeal she had even struggled through the unintelligible pamphlet to which a few lines in the journal had bitterly directed her. But the subject and the phraseology were alien to her and unconnected with her conception of the great man’s genius; and after a hurried perusal she had averted her thoughts from the episode as from a revelation of failure. At length she rose a little unsteadily, supporting herself against the writing-table. She looked hesitatingly about the room; then she drew a key from her old-fashioned reticule and unlocked a drawer beneath one of the bookcases. Young Corby watched her breathlessly. With a tremulous hand she turned over the dusty documents that seemed to fill the drawer. “Is this it?” she said, holding out a thin discolored volume.
He seized it with a gasp. “Oh, by George,” he said, dropping into the nearest chair.
She stood observing him strangely as his eye devoured the mouldy pages.
“Is this the only copy left?” he asked at length, looking up for a moment as a thirsty man lifts his head from his glass.
“I think it must be. I found it long ago, among some old papers that my aunts were burning up after my grandmother’s death. They said it was of no use—that he’d always meant to destroy the whole edition and that I ought to respect his wishes. But it was something he had written; to burn it was like shutting the door against his voice—against something he had once wished to say, and that nobody had listened to. I wanted him to feel that I was always here, ready to listen, even when others hadn’t thought it worth while; and so I kept the pamphlet, meaning to carry out his wish and destroy it before my death.”
Her visitor gave a groan of retrospective anguish. “And but for me—but for to-day—you would have?”
“I should have thought it my duty.”
“Oh, by George—by George,” he repeated, subdued afresh by the inadequacy of speech.
She continued to watch him in silence. At length he jumped up and impulsively caught her by both hands.
“He’s bigger and bigger!” he almost shouted. “He simply leads the field! You’ll help me go to the bottom of this, won’t you? We must turn out all the papers—letters, journals, memoranda. He must have made notes. He must have left some record of what led up to this. We must leave nothing unexplored. By Jove,” he cried, looking up at her with his bright convincing smile, “do you know you’re the granddaughter of a Great Man?”
Her color flickered like a girl’s. “Are you—sure of him?” she whispered, as though putting him on his guard against a possible betrayal of trust.
“Sure! Sure! My dear lady—” he measured her again with his quick confident glance. “Don’t you believe in him?”
She drew back with a confused murmur. “I—used to.” She had left her hands in his: their pressure seemed to send a warm current to her heart. “It ruined my life!” she cried with sudden passion. He looked at her perplexedly.
“I gave up everything,” she went on wildly, “to keep him alive. I sacrificed myself—others—I nursed his glory in my bosom and it died—and left me—left me here alone.” She paused and gathered her courage with a gasp. “Don’t make the same mistake!” she warned him.
He shook his head, still smiling. “No danger of that! You’re not alone, my dear lady. He’s here with you—he’s come back to you to-day. Don’t you see what’s happened? Don’t you see that it’s your love that has kept him alive? If you’d abandoned your post for an instant—let things pass into other hands—if your wonderful tenderness hadn’t perpetually kept guard—this might have been—must have been—irretrievably lost.” He laid his hand on the pamphlet. “And then—then he would have been dead!”
“Oh,” she said, “don’t tell me too suddenly!” And she turned away and sank into a chair.
The young man stood watching her in an awed silence. For a long time she sat motionless, with her face hidden, and he thought she must be weeping.
At length he said, almost shyly: “You’ll let me come back, then? You’ll help me work this thing out?”
She rose calmly
