CHAPTER XV.
ALARMING OCCURRENCE.
Time made very little change in Madeline’s state; no change, at least, for the better. Twice during the succeeding fortnight her mother’s anger was excited against her, and the strong, passionate will of the one set itself vigorously to work to subdue the so-called “wilfulness” of the other. But each time the storm, like all storms, made itself felt only in wreck and ruin. Madeline, after the exhaustion of the wild strife of passion was over, showed a moody, absent exterior, and an increased tendency to be alone.
“What can ail the child?” Mrs. Dainty would say, in her uneasiness and perplexity, now appealing to her husband, and now to Uncle John. But from neither could any solution of the mystery of her strange state be derived. The family physician was called in and consulted, though with little satisfaction. “There must be a change for Madeline,” he said. “Her mind must be diverted. She is in a morbid state;” with much more to the same purpose. Yet nothing was gained. The mental disease abated not, but commenced assuming new forms. Morbid desire began taking the place of morbid indifference; and, if this inordinate craving were not indulged, fits of nervous prostration followed the excitement of contention, resembling the stupor of opium.
It now became a matter of serious consideration in the family as to how Madeline was to be treated by the other members. Suddenly her will had grown exacting. The mild-tempered, gentle, loving little girl had become imperious, selfish, and demanding. If she desired a thing, or wished for an indulgence, no amount of opposition subdued her. Denial, argument, punishment, increased instead of weakening her purpose, and the certain result was a nervous spasm, or deep stupor, lasting at times for hours. So long as she had her own way, the current of her life glided along smoothly; but any obstruction swelled it into a turbulent flood, the dark depths of which were hidden from all eyes.
The doctor strongly recommended change of place, new associations. “Send her out in the carriage every day, or take her to the public squares for a ramble among the children,” he would urge, when he saw her moving in her quiet way about the house, and marked the singular expression of her countenance, that had in it something almost weird.
One day Agnes, the elder sister, accompanied by George, had taken Madeline to the City Square through which they wandered for some time. Growing tired, the girls sat down to observe a party of little children who were jumping the rope, while George, boy-like, took a wide range over the grounds. Suddenly the attention of Agnes was called to Madeline by an exclamation, and, looking around and into her face, she saw that her eyes were fixed on some object with a look of fear. Following their direction, she saw at a short distance the repulsive form of Mrs. Jeckyl, who was standing perfectly still, gazing at them. Her first instinctive movement was to shade the eyes of Madeline with her hand and thus hide from her the form which had disturbed her with its presence. As she did so, Madeline shut her eyes and leaned her head back against her sister.
As soon as Mrs. Jeckyl saw that she was observed, she came forward, offering her hand to Agnes in a familiar way, and inquiring with an affectation of interest about the family.
“Ah,” she continued, “and here is my little pet, Maddy!” placing her hand, as she spoke, on the head of Madeline, whose slight form quivered and shrunk at the touch.
“How are you, dear?” she asked, in tones meant to be winning.
But Madeline kept her face buried in her sister’s garments.
“That little rebel brother tried to frighten my pet,” she added, her hand still playing with the child’s curls,—“the naughty boy! But Maddy was my jewel! Little darling! Come! Look up, and let me see, if only for a moment, that pair of bright eyes.”
Agnes felt the head of Madeline slowly turning, as if she wished to get a stealthy glance at the woman’s face.
“Ah! Peep-bo! Peep!” said Mrs. Jeckyl, playfully. “I thought the light would come.”
Madeline had taken a single look, and then hidden her face again.
“How have you been, darling?” Mrs. Jeckyl bent her head close down to the face of Madeline.
The child made no answer.
Still the woman’s hand was on her head, and restlessly moving among the sunny curls. Twice had Agnes pushed it away with a firm effort; but it returned again persistently. She had a strange, bewildered feeling, and an impulse to catch Madeline in her arms and flee away, as from impending danger.
“Ah! Peep-bo!” Madeline had stolen another look, and the woman, watchful as a serpent, had caught the glance; and now her eye held that of the child, who did not again turn her face away, but continued to gaze upon that of Mrs. Jeckyl.
“You are a little darling!” said Mrs. Jeckyl, now bending close to Madeline, and smiling upon her in her most winning manner. “The sweetest pet in all the world! Here, sit on my lap.” And she made an attempt to lift Madeline from the arm of her sister; but Agnes resisted, saying, coldly,—
“If you please, madam, let her remain where she is.”
But the woman was bent on having her own way. Not seeming even to hear the words of Agnes, she applied her strength, and drew the child upon her lap. A deep fluttering sigh came up from the heart of Madeline, and light spasms quivered over her face. There was a brief, feeble resistance; then strength and will were subdued, and, passive as a babe, she shrunk against the woman, laying her head down upon her bosom.
Roused by fear and indignation, Agnes started to her feet, and, grasping her sister by the arms, said, as she exerted her strength in the effort to remove her,—
“Let her go, Mrs. Jeckyl!”
“Don’t fret yourself, my dear,” said the woman, fixing her glittering eyes into those of Agnes, with a look meant to subdue her also. But the effort to hold her passive by the strength of a powerful will failed wholly.
“Release my sister!” she added, sternly.
But Mrs. Jeckyl drew her arm the more tightly around Madeline, and with her steady eye sought to throw a spell over Agnes.
Grown desperate with fear, Agnes now exerted all her strength, and with a single violent jerk succeeded in wresting the half-insensible form of her sister from the arms of Mrs. Jeckyl.
“You’re a polite young lady!” said Mrs. Jeckyl, in a sneering manner. “This is American good-breeding, I suppose!”
“And you’re a wicked woman,” replied Agnes, indignantly confronting the enemy.
“Snakes! Snakes!” It was the ringing, exultant voice of little “don’t-care” George, who had circled the square in a trot, and just returned to the place where he had left his sisters.
Mrs. Jeckyl turned with a start upon this unwelcome intruder.
“Old Snakes!” said the boy, stooping before the woman, with his hands upon his knees, and a grin of exultation on his face. “Old Snakes!”
Fierce as a tiger did she advance upon George; but she had an antagonist to deal with who was an over-match for her.
“Take care!” exclaimed the boy, as he darted around a lady who was passing, thus putting her between him and Mrs. Jeckyl; “take care, ma’am: that’s Old Snakes!”
The lady started, and looked half frightened.
“Take care!” repeated Young America. “She’s got a snake in her bosom! There! don’t you see its head peeping out?”
“Mercy!” exclaimed the lady, springing away from Mrs. Jeckyl, who, in trying to catch George, ran against her.
“Snakes! Snakes! Old Snakes!” screamed the little rebel, dancing with delight, and soon attracting a crowd of men, women, and children to the spot.
“Where are the snakes?” asked one and another.
“There she goes! Don’t you see her? That is Old Snakes!” answered the laughing boy, pointing to Mrs. Jeckyl, who, a second time discomfited by weapons for which she had neither shield nor armor, was acting on the principle that discretion was the better part of valor, and making a hasty retreat from the battle-field.
“You’re a very rude little boy,” said a grave old gentleman.
“And she’s a very wicked woman,” answered little Don’t Care, looking boldly up into the speaker’s face.
“Why did you call her Snakes?” inquired the man: “there’s no sense in that.”
“If you’d looked into her eyes, you’d have seen them,” replied George, half carelessly; and then, grasping the outstretched hand of his sister Agnes, he withdrew from the little crowd, and passed with quick steps homeward.