“I have been turning things topsy-turvy,” answered Marguerite, with a twinkle in her eye. “But pray don’t stop to admire the change. Please go on; I am so interested.”
“Well, finally, after trying everything,” continued Abel, “and, as I have observed, failing in everything I tried, I one day bethought myself of turning inventor. And the more I thought about it the more confident I felt that I should succeed; indeed, I passed a whole week in a delightful reverie, wherein I saw myself wealthy and famous, and all from one single invention. Then, when this dreamy, happy week was gone by, I set about inventing a Patent Log—a thing very much needed by mariners; for the present method of determining the speed of a vessel is both clumsy and unreliable. ’Twas here in this chamber, on this bench, I began my brain labor, and for a while I made excellent progress. But after a couple of months I got tired of sitting up and took to my bed, where I used to lie inventing—inventing all day long, and even all night too. I seemed to be able to do without sleep; until one evening—oh! I’ll never forget it”—here he paused and shuddered—“one evening the room became suddenly full of voices. From under the bed, through the keyhole and window, down the chimney, on every side of me these horrible voices were yelling and screeching, ‘He’ll never succeed—never succeed’; ‘Born to ill-luck’; ‘All time wasted’; ‘He’ll go to the dogs and hang himself!’ What happened after this terrible moment I can’t say; I must have gone off into a fever. I remember nothing. All I know is that one day—but how long afterwards I cannot tell—I became, as it were, alive again, and found myself inventing quite a different thing—namely, the Magic Nest, which, as you know, has once more proved that I am born to fail in whatever I undertake. And now, alas! I don’t see how I’ll be able to earn a living; to confess the truth, I have not one dollar left in the world.”
“Bah! Don’t be down-hearted on that account,” said Marguerite. “My Frog Emporium is a little gold-mine, and you shall need for nothing. Why, as I have already remarked more than once, I’d have been ere now in a wretched plight but for you. You stretched out a helping hand; and whatever the world may think of you, and whatever you think of yourself—I—I call you a genius.”
When Marguerite had delivered this speech, so full of balm to poor heart-broken Abel, she rose from the bench and flew to the old, neglected manuscript. A bright idea had flashed upon her—’twas an inspiration. She had already turned over its pages and found them covered with drawings as unintelligible to her as Egyptian hieroglyphics; but she remembered that in one place, written in pencil, were the words, “This is Abel Day’s Patent Log.”
In a moment she was back at Abel’s side, and, holding up the manuscript before him, “I do believe,” she said, “had I been with you when you were laboring on this invention, that you would not have fallen ill, for I should not have let you overtask your brain; and by this time ’twould have been quite finished, and you’d have been in the eyes of the whole world what I know you to be—a great, great, great man.”
But Abel, instead of replying, put his hands to his ears and shivered as if he were stricken with cold.
“O dear friend! what is the matter now?” exclaimed Marguerite.
“The very sight of that manuscript makes me dread the voices—the horrid voices. Hark! one is beginning to yell again. It says I must hang myself in the end. Hark! Don’t you hear it?”
“Listen to me, and not to the voice,” said Marguerite, still holding before his eyes the page whereon was written, “This is Abel Day’s Patent Log.” “Take courage and look bolder at this manuscript, while I sing for you.”
It was a cheery, jovial song she sang. She threw her whole soul into it, and it wrought upon Abel the happy effect she hoped it would. When the song was ended, he bowed his head and murmured: “O my blessing! my good angel! How much sunshine you bring to me! Already the voice is gone. You have indeed power to drive the fiend away.”