SOME SELECT SCENES.
Some short glimpses of daily scenes may convey, perhaps, a clearer
idea of how life sped now with Manton, amidst the new charms which it
had gained. The whole man was rapidly changed; his habits of excess in
wine-drinking were, in a great measure, thrown aside, and the hours
he had thus wasted in stupifying madness, were given to the society
and development of these fair children, that had thus come to him in
blessing. He now knew no difference in his thought of them; they had
grown to be twin-flowers to him, transfused with a most tender light of
spring-dawn in his darkened heart. Yes, there it was—that little spot
of light—he felt it warm, and slowly spread and waken in soft beams,
tremulous and faint, along the ice-bound chaos where the life-floods
met within him.
His brow would grow serene and lose its painful tension, as, hour by
hour, he watched beside them, guiding their wayward pencils with his
sure eye, to teach their yet irresolute wills and unaccustomed fingers
to act together with that consciousness that always triumphs; and
then, with the long evenings, came lessons in botany, or the eloquent
discourse, half poetical, half rhapsodical, and all inspired, which
led their young spirits forth, amidst the mysteries and beauties of
the other kingdoms of the natural world. Or, when the stars came out,
and their calm inspiration slid into his soul, he communed with them
of higher themes—of aspirations holy, wise, and pure—of the heroic
souls of art—of their pale, unmoved dedication, through dark, saddened
years of neglect, obloquy, and want—of their glorious triumphs, their
immortal bays, that time can never wither—until, with trembling lips
and glistening eyes, they hung upon his words.
It was wonderful to see how quickly Elna wept, like an April shower, at
any tender word or thought; but the great eyes of Moione only trembled
like dark violets brimming with heavy dew. All the truth, the religion
of Manton’s soul, was poured out at such times.
The door would sharply open—“Elna! Moione! go to bed!” This would be
spoken in a low tone, evidently half-choked with rage, by the woman.
Her bent form looming within the shadow of the entry, looks ghastly
enough in her white gown, loose dark hair, and the greenish glitter
of her oblique eye. The poor children rise, with a deep sigh from
Moione over her broken dream, and a quick exclamation of petulant wrath
from Elna—while Manton mutters an involuntary curse on the unwelcome
intruder; and, as the light forms of the children recede before his
vision and disappear in the dark passage, he shudders, unconsciously,
as if a ghoul had disturbed him at a feast with angels.
Now, again, had he fallen back to hell. With a fierce outbreak of
jealous fury, she would spring into the room, as if literally to devour
him with talons and teeth; and, when but a few paces off, catching
his cold, concentrated eye, she would stagger backwards, as if shot
through the heart, toss her white arms wildly into the air, and, with
head thrown back, utter, in a strange, choking, guttural screech—
“Auh! auh! auh!—yaugh!—you kill!—you kill me!” and pitch forward
convulsively, with the blood bursting in torrents from her mouth. Then
came the long, harrowing, and oft-described scene of terror, remorse,
pity, on the part of Manton, and the plea for forgiveness, the slow
recovery, and—and so on.
Or else, with some modification of tactics, the lioness changed to the
lamb, the Gorgon-head to that of Circe, she would throw herself upon
him, with tender expostulations, call him “cherubim,” and stroke his
“hyacinthian curls;” and, when that failed, cling about his knees,
and weep and pray, and then, as the desperate resort, suddenly swoon,
with a tremendous crash, upon the floor, and lie there for an hour, if
need be, in a condition of syncope, so absolute, that Manton—who had
now witnessed this comparatively harmless phenomenon so many times, as
to be relieved from any apprehensions of immediate results—had lately
felt the curiosity of the philosopher irresistibly aroused in him, and
would frequently leave her for a considerable length of time, in order
to watch the symptoms, before he proceeded to apply the very simple
remedy for recalling her to consciousness, with which, by the way, she
had furnished him long ago, in advance, through certain adroit hints
and indirections. When he had satisfied his more analytical moods,
in this way, he would proceed with the restorative process, as _per
prescription_.
This mysterious operation consisted in placing the pillows of the sofa,
or the rounds of a chair, under her feet, so as to elevate them at a
slight angle higher than the head. As he was led to understand the
result, the blood, by the laws of capillary attraction, was instantly
carried up, from her head to her feet, thereby relieving the oppression
of the brain; when lo! to this new “open sesame,” the rigid lids flew
wide apart, disclosing eyes as vivid with life as ever.
The strangest part of this scene consisted in the fact, that while
the fit lasted, it was impossible to perceive the slightest symptoms
of breathing or pulsation, any more than in the most broadly-defined
case of catalepsy, or of absolute death itself. It was, therefore,
clear enough to his mind, that such conditions could not be entirely
counterfeit; though the suggestion had now become frequent, that they
might, after long training, become, in a great measure, voluntary.
* * * * *
Another scene. The mother reclines upon her bed, and the child Elna by
her side, with arms around her neck and face against her bosom. Moione
stands leaning over the foot-board, with folded arms, her pale face
expressing mingled grief, anger, and pain, while she looks with a cold,
steadfast glance into the oblique eye of the woman, who addresses her
rapidly, in bitter tones—
“You love that bad man, Moione?”
“Yes, I do!” said the young girl, curtly and coldly.
“Ha! you acknowledge it, do you, ungrateful girl? Acknowledge that, at
your age, you love a profligate wretch like this? a man utterly without
principle, where our sex is concerned. A villain, who has already
attempted the ruin of my own daughter, under my very eyes!”
Moione turned paler still at this, and looked inquiringly towards her
friend Elna, who, however, gave no sign, either by word or movement,
of dissent to this vile insinuation. Instantly the blood mounted to
Moione’s brow, and her gentle eye shot fire, her thin lips curled with
scorn—
“It is false! It is false! You know it to be so! He has taught us
nothing but what is pure and high! He never breathed a thought of evil
to either of us, and Elna _dares_ not say so! I love him as our lofty,
noble brother, and shall continue to do so so long as he shows himself
only to me, and to her, as he has done! Pray, madam, why do you permit
him to remain in the house, if he be so wicked? You tell me you have
the power to turn him out at any minute. Why not do it? Why do you
trust your child with him, at all hours, and under all circumstances?
Why do you so constantly seek his society yourself? If he were the
fiend you represented, one would think you would have reason to fear
for yourself, if not for Elna. What he has done once he will do again!
How do you reconcile all this?”
The flashing look and withering tone in which this unexpected outburst
of indignation, on the part of the usually quiet Moione, had been
delivered, cowed the craven nature to which it was addressed. It was
but for an instant, though; her subtle cunning returned to the charge,
in a lower tone, and on another tack. She reached out her hand,
affectionately, towards her—
“Come, Moione, dear! come, kiss me!”
The child did not move, but merely answered in a low, contemptuous “No!”
The woman continued, in a wheedling tone, “Hear! my naughty Moione!
She will not come to kiss me, when I love her so! Moione does not
understand everything she sees, or she would not have spoken thus
sharply to her friend. She does not understand that I am striving to
save this poor youth from his frightful vices! his wine-drinking, his
tobacco, his meat-eating, and all those ugly sins which so deface, what
I hope one day to see a beautiful spirit! She does not know I must
endure this evil that good may come! She does not realise how much pain
it costs me to have the purity of my household thus desecrated by his
poisoned sphere! She does not remember that God has placed us here, on
this earth, to bear and forbear towards his erring children; that they
may, through us, become regenerate and redeemed! I know his eloquence,
I know his subtlety, therefore I have warned you against him; he cannot
be dealt with as other men, for he is but a foolish, headstrong boy,
with a great soul, if he were only free; but while his vices hold him
in bondage, he is not to be trusted. Though I have lifted him out of
the very gutters of debasement—given him a home in my house—I have no
confidence, at this moment, that he would not deliberately ruin either
you or Elna to-morrow, if he could! You should, therefore, rather pity
me than be angry with me, dearest Moione!”
“So I perceive!” said the young girl, with a cold sneer, as she turned
and walked haughtily from the room, slamming the door emphatically
behind her. The woman sprang to her feet, with an expression of
ungovernable fury in her face. “The insolent, ungrateful wretch! This
is what I get for all my trouble to make something out of her—to render
her of some value to me! To sa-a-ve her!” and she hissed out the words
with a horrible writhing of her features, while the pupil of her
oblique eye was wrung aside, until nothing but the white, ghastly blank
of the ball was to be seen.
“Yes, I’ll save you! I’ll use you, you insolent beggar! I have not
brought you here, alone, as the ant carries off the aphide, to give
spiritual milk to my own offspring! I brought you to use, too, and use
you I will! I will _coin_ you into profit! I’ll humble your insolent
airs! I’ve got a market for you already, and a bidder! Dare to cross
my path, ha?—with your supercilious insolence? I’ll bow that white
forehead! I’ll fill those blue eyes with ashes! until, bleared and
rheumy with premature decay, you crawl to kiss my foot for favors!”
During this horrid apostrophe, the woman had stood stiffened where she
had first planted her feet upon the carpet, staring blankly at the door
through which the young girl had passed, and throwing her arms out in
wild gesticulations after her.
The girl Elna lay, in the meantime, with her face half concealed
in the pillow, closely watching, with one sharp eye uncovered, the
whole scene. The woman, who had forgotten herself in her fury, turned
suddenly and saw her. Her manner instantly changed. She threw herself
by her side, took her caressingly into her arms, drew her face close to
hers, breathed upon it long and steadily, and then commenced in low,
confidential tones, a conversation between them, the purport of which
we must leave to conjecture.
* * * * *
Another scene. About this time, Manton had effected the advantageous
sale of a new work, which placed him suddenly in the possession of a
larger sum of money than he had been able to command, at one time, for
a long period. His first thought was for his young _proteges_, and,
although his own wardrobe was sufficiently dilapidated, he expended
a portion of the sum for their comfort and gratification before he
thought at all of his own necessities. Unluckily for him, however, it
was evening when the money was received, and the purchases intended to
surprise them were the only ones made on the way to the house.
In almost boyish eagerness, and all breathless with the delight of
giving joy to these gentle ones he loved so much, he hastened home
and threw his presents down before them, to be greeted with rapturous
expressions and gleeful merriment, the silvery and most musical
clamoring of which, soon brought the woman, Marie, to the scene. Her
eyes danced and glistened as she saw them; her infallible instinct
scented the money in an instant.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands with
childlike artlessness. “How lovely! How sweet! How noble! How generous
of you to think of these dear girls first, when you need so much
yourself!” and she looked up with bewitching candor into the face of
Manton, though it might have been noticed by more careful observers
that one eye turned obliquely towards his pockets. She sprang suddenly
to his side, and leant affectionately against his arm, which she
clasped with both her hands.
“Ah, my gentle Tiger! How shall I ever thank you for your unwearying
kindness to these my tender blossoms? My precious ‘Monies!’ You are too
good! We shall never know how to thank you enough!”
And leaning still closer and in a more confidential manner towards his
ear, while her forehead flushed and her voice sank,
“You sold the book, did you?”
“Yes.”
“For how much?”
“The receipts in my pocket will show!”
“Ah, let us see them then!” said she playfully, as she thrust her hand
into his pocket. “I want to see if those evil and stupid publishers
have understood the value of the precious genius they were purchasing!
Oh, dear, why what a treasure! Here are fifties, twenties, ever so
many!” while she, with eager and trembling hands, fumbled the notes
that she had snatched from the vest-pocket where he had, with his
characteristic carelessness of money, thrust them loosely. “Ah, I must
take time to count all this treasure for you, for I don’t believe you
know how much you’ve got, you careless boy!” And as she said this she
hastily deposited the money in the bottom of her pocket.
Manton looked at her a moment with a very hard, cold glance, while
a flush of indignation gleamed across his brow; for he had a sure
presentiment that he should never see this money again. The great
misfortune of his organisation was his recklessness in regard to money,
and the absolute inability of his nature to comprehend the sterile
meannesses of its abject worshippers. For the first time the impulse to
strike this woman to the earth came across him, but in an instant this
angry feeling was dissipated amidst the gay and laughing caresses of
his petted favorites.
When, on the next day, Manton demanded of the woman an account of
the money, she turned pale and red, looked upwards and downwards,
and finally askance, while she faintly told him that she had spent
the whole; but, for his good, as well as that of the dear girls and
herself, “for,” she said, “you know you are _so_ careless about money,
_so_ generous, _so_ liberal, that you would have thrown it all away
without accomplishing any of the good you so much desire. Pray, forgive
me, for my anxiety to do the best for us all!” and as she saw the
brow of Manton, who had not uttered a word, settling darker and darker
above his cold dilated eyes, she sank upon her knees at his feet, and
clasping his in her arms, she plaintively plead—
“Ah, forgive me! forgive me! I acted for the best! For God’s sake do
not look so, you will kill me!”
He spurned her contemptuously from him with his foot, and retreating,
as she crawled abjectly back again, he said in a measured, deliberate
tone—
“Keep away from me, woman! You may retain your ill-gotten plunder once
more, but, mark you, if ever you dare to put your hands into my pockets
again I will strike you to the earth, woman as you are, and trample
you beneath my feet, as I would another reptile! I have had enough of
this remorseless fleecing!” And spurning yet more contemptuously her
persistent attempts to clutch his knees again, he left her _swooning_
upon the floor. He went forth with the scales falling from his eyes
regarding this woman, in some particulars at least.
* * * * *
The sequel to the last scene is too rich to be passed over. Since
that wholesale and impudent robbery, Manton had maintained his ground
firmly, in regard to money. All her arts were brought to bear, in vain;
he steadily and sternly refused to be plundered any farther; until
finally, his feminine “saviour” being driven to the extreme verge of
desperation, tried a new and dashing game.
She had just been reading Zschokke’s charming tale, “Illumination, or
the Sleep-Walker.” The reader will remember how the Sleep-Walker, the
heroine of the tale, instructs Emanuel, while in the clairvoyant state,
as to how he should proceed in her own case, which he had been elected
to restore to health again, through the nervous, or sympathetic medium,
by re-establishing the balance of the lost physical with the spiritual
life. That, in addition, the Sleep-Walker revealed to him the thoughts
of his own soul, and counselled him as an angel would have done,
against the evil she saw in him—tells him too, that he must not regard
her weakness, or the petulance of her words towards him in her waking
state.
Well, our clairvoyant, after reading this book herself, exhibited an
unusual degree of restlessness to have it read by Manton, too; nothing
would content her until he had fairly commenced it, when she knew there
was no probability of his pausing until he got through. She watched him
during the reading, with great curiosity, frequently interrupting him
to draw out his opinion as he progressed.
Everybody knows the fascination of the tale, and confesses the fine
skill with which its wonderful details are wrought up. Manton could do
no less; he was charmed, of course, as millions of other readers have
been. A few hours after finishing the book, while sitting at his table,
engaged in writing, the door, which was unbolted, flew open wide, and
there stood Madame, dressed in pure white—the eyes nearly closed,
and features pale and rigid, the outstretched hands reaching vaguely
forward, after the manner of the somnambulist.
She paused for a moment thus—while the whole meaning of the scene
flashed through the mind of Manton in an instant; and, although he
felt a very great inclination to laugh, he restrained himself, and
determined to encourage the thing, and see how far it would go. The new
Sleep-Walker now advanced slowly towards him; and as she crossed the
room, a slight movement of her fingers beat the air before her, as if
through the guidance of these magnetic poles her soul sought its centre
of attraction; with a slow, gliding movement she thus approached, until
within a few inches of him, when her hand leaped, as the magnet does
to the stone, to meet his, and then a certain painful rigidity that
had marked her brow at first, was displaced and gave way to a serene
expression of content, as if she had now found rest.
That peculiar action of the muscles of the throat, as if in the effort
to swallow, now followed immediately, and was sufficient intimation to
Manton that she desired to speak. He accordingly asked her, solemnly—
“Why are you here?”
But there was evidently something of mockery in the tone in which
this question was asked, for the Sleep-Walker only frowned and shook
her head impatiently. Manton now changed his voice, and with real
curiosity, proceeded.
“Speak: why have you come to me thus? What would you say to me?”
After some four or five efforts to produce sound, she articulated—
“For your good.”
“Tell me then, what is for my good?”
She again frowned and shook her head and muttered—
“You are naughty.”
“Why?”
“You have no faith.”
“Faith in what?”
“Faith in me—in my mission—in my truth.”
“I have faith in you—tell me what is for my good.”
“You must be more humble; your pride and your suspicion will never let
you be saved. You must have some hard lessons yet to bring you down—to
humiliate you—to purify.”
Here there was a long pause, when Manton, growing impatient, finally
asked—
“Is this all you have to say to me? Is this all you see now?”
“No.”
“Well, what is it?”
After considerable hesitation, she at length said—
“You do not treat me right!—you hold my life in your hands—yet you are
cold—you do not come near me—you are leaving me to die!”
Here then was another long pause.
“What more is there?” at length asked Manton; “this is not all.”
This time the choking and hesitation, before pronouncing the words,
seemed greater than ever. At length, however, out they came.
“They complain of you in Heaven, that you let me suffer—that you do not
care for my necessities—that—that you do not—not—give me money now.”
This was too much—Manton literally roared with scornful laughter, as he
spurned her from him—
“Ha! ha! ha! here is illumination for you with a vengeance! Alas! poor
Zschokke! ‘to what base uses do we come!’ The divine inspiration of
the Sleep-Walker raising the wind! Vive la bagatelle! Hurrah! hurrah!”
He fairly danced about the floor, in an ecstacy of enjoyment—the scene
seemed to him so irresistibly ludicrous.
During this time, the woman, who had staggered towards the bed, and
fallen across it, lay perfectly immovable and white, without the
change of a muscle, or the quiver of a nerve. Manton, however, paid no
attention to her, and half an hour afterwards, taking his hat, left
the room, without again approaching her. But what was his astonishment
on returning, two hours afterwards, to meet the sobbing Elna, and the
pale, troubled face of Moione, in the passage. Elna, at the sight of
him, seemed wild with grief, and sprang, with her arms about his neck,
screaming—
“Oh, mother is dead! mother is dead! My dear mother is dead!”
“Why, Moione,” said Manton quickly, taking her hand, as he shook Elna
off, “what is the matter? what is all this?”
“She seems to be in a fit of some sort. We missed her, and after
looking all over the house, found her lying on the bed in your room,
without motion or breath. We have not been able to wake her since, and
did not know what to do until you came.”
“Oh, come! do come!” screamed the horrified Elna. “Save my poor mother!
save her! save her! You must save her! I shall die!”
Manton, who immediately felt his conscience sting him, assured the
girls that it was merely a mesmeric sleep, from which he would relieve
her in a few minutes. He then rushed up-stairs, accompanied by them,
and found her, indeed, in precisely the same attitude and apparent
condition in which he had left her. After a few of the usual reverse
passes for removing the magnetic influence, she slowly opened her eyes,
while the blood returned to her face. Starting up and staring about
with a bewildered look, she uttered merely an exclamation of surprise,
and then, after rubbing her eyes, quickly asked the poor child, Elna,
who had thrown herself sobbing wildly on her breast—
“Why, you foolish girl, what’s the matter now?”
“Mother, dear mother, we thought you were dead!”
And now came an explanation, so far as the thoroughly repentant Manton
was disposed to make it, of the scene we have just described; the
amount of which was, that she had come into his room in a clairvoyant
state, and, being called out suddenly, he had left it for an hour or
two, forgetting to make any explanation to the family, and without
having relieved her, as he should have done, before going, by using the
necessary reverse passes.
The incredulity of Manton had never before received so severe a shock;
and it was a long time before his conscience would forgive him, for
what now seemed his brutal suspicion. Alas, poor Manton! had he only
possessed, for a little while after he left that room, the invisible
cap of the “Devil on two sticks,” he would have been most essentially
enlightened as to something of the art and mystery of Clairvoyance.
As soon as the front-door had slammed behind him, he would have
seen that woman spring to her feet, and, with lips and whole frame
quivering with rage, glide from the room, muttering to herself; and
when she entered her own room, which could be reached through an empty
bath-room, he would have heard several low, peculiar raps upon the
partition-wall which separated her own from the room of her daughter.
These raps were repeated, at intervals, until a single tap at her door
responded, and in another moment the girl Elna glided in on tiptoe. The
conference between them was carried on in a low, rapid, business-like
tone, while every half-minute the girl thrust her head from the window,
to watch as for some one coming.
After a few moments thus spent, the child left the room, with an
intelligent nod, in answer to the repeated injunction not to leave the
window of her own room until she saw him coming, far up the street—and
then—!
After this, he would have seen the woman quietly seat herself at the
table, after locking her door, and write a long letter; when, on
hearing three low taps in succession, she sprang to her feet, rushed
through the bath-room into the room of Manton, and threw herself across
the bed, in the precise position in which he left her, and, after
three or four violent retchings of the whole muscular system, her face
collapsed—grew ashen-white—her lids drooped—her muscles became rigid,
and she exhibited all the outward resemblances of suspended vitality.
Then the wild Elna rushed in, accompanied by the deluded Moione, and,
the moment she looked at the condition of the mother, burst into the
most extravagant demonstrations of helpless grief; while Moione, with
perfect presence of mind, sprinkled water upon the face and endeavored
to restore animation. Soon the street door-bell rings with a peculiar
energetic pull, and the frantic Elna at once exclaims, “Manton! dear
Manton! he can save my mother; let us run for him.” She seizes the hand
of Moione, and—we know the rest!
Shocking, ludicrous, and monstrous as all this may appear to the
reader, from his point of view, its only effect upon Manton was
necessarily to rebuke the feeling of harsh incredulity which was
beginning to become so strong in him, with regard to this inexplicable
woman. He was now more troubled and confounded than he had ever
been; for it was impossible that a nature like his could ever have
voluntarily suspected the unimaginable trickery and collusion which
we have traced in this scene; while his common sense was too strong
to be in any degree shaken by what was simply unexplained. His
magnanimity would not permit him to suspect the full degree of knavery,
or his conscientiousness to run such risks, again, of doing grievous
injustice, as it now seemed to him he had clearly done in this case.
He felt it utterly impossible to treat these phenomena with entire
disrespect hereafter, however little influence he might permit them to
exert upon his fixed purposes and will.