THE SHADOW OF EVIL.
Showing the room was a simple affair, but when it came to showing up
the children the matter assumed rather a complicated aspect. Agnes was
the first whom Mrs. Dainty ventured to introduce to the new governess.
“My oldest daughter, Mrs. Jeckyl,” she said, as Agnes, who had been
summoned to the study-room, entered with a grave, half-wondering,
perceptibly-clouded face. “Agnes, Mrs. Jeckyl, our new governess, who
takes the place of Miss Harper.”
Agnes, who had advanced to within a few steps of her mother and Mrs.
Jeckyl, stopped suddenly. The quicker-flowing blood dyed her face to a
deep crimson. The tall, repulsive-looking Englishwoman—repulsive to the
sight of Agnes—advanced a step and offered her hand; but, instead of
taking the extended hand, Agnes merely returned her sharp penetrating
look, with one half fearful and half repugnant.
“Why don’t you speak to the lady?” said Mrs. Dainty, with some
sharpness of tone.
Agnes partially extended her hand, and Mrs. Jeckyl, changing her
dignified look to one of smiling insinuation, accepted the reluctant
courtesy.
“Sit down, my dear.” Mrs. Dainty’s manner changed, and her voice
assumed its pleasantest tones.
The three then sat down, facing each other, but neither of them at ease.
“Mrs. Jeckyl,” said the mother, “has come to take the place of Miss
Harper as your governess. She is an accomplished English lady, and will
be very kind to you. I shall expect you to submit yourselves to her
dutifully, and to be guided by her instructions. You are the oldest, my
daughter, and your example to Madeline and George will be all-potent.
As you lead, they will follow. Lead them kindly, then, into obedience
and acquiescence. It is in your power to make this change an easy one
for all parties. Confide in Mrs. Jeckyl. You will find her worthy of
all confidence.”
“Believe me, my dear child,” (Mrs. Jeckyl took up the theme in a
peculiarly insinuating voice, and with a smile that obliterated nearly
every disagreeable feature in her countenance,) “that I am indeed your
friend. I do not come here as a harsh, exacting tyrant, but as a
sympathizing instructor. I shall not be over-exacting, though earnest
in seeking your improvement. Do not fear that I will require you to run
where only the skill to walk is possessed. Let us be friends in the
beginning.”
And she seized the hand of Agnes and gave it a warm pressure.
Mrs. Dainty was delighted at this; it was so different from the cold,
unbending manner of Florence Harper. She saw in it the polished
complaisance of a superior, educated woman, in contrast with the
weak, upstart pretensions of a presuming American girl elevated by
circumstances into a position of authority.
But Agnes was not to be won over so easily. Young eyes often see deeper
at the first glance than old ones. The hand taken by Mrs. Jeckyl gave
no returning pressure. Mrs. Dainty was chafed at this, and said, with
some impatience of manner, yet in a low tone, meant only for the ears
of her daughter,—
“This is unladylike! Try and show a little breeding.”
“Oh, never fear, madam,” spoke out, in a free way, the new governess,
who had heard the admonition: “we will be good friends enough. Your
daughter must have time to make my acquaintance. First impressions are
rarely continued. She will find me considerate, just, and sympathizing.
I have been young, and can well remember the days of girlhood. Indeed,
the child in me is not all extinguished yet. I like your daughter’s
face, and see in it the index of a mind to which judicious culture will
give strength and beauty.”
“Thank you for the prophecy,” said Mrs. Dainty, highly pleased with
this well-timed remark. “I have seen that Agnes possessed more
than ordinary endowments, and that all she wanted was a judicious
instructor, who could be at the same time a wise and loving friend. Be
that to her, Mrs. Jeckyl, and you will have our everlasting gratitude.”
“Trust me, madam, that I will seek the highest good of your children in
all things,” was replied in a manner that was meant to be impressive,
but which so thinly veiled the hypocrite that Agnes, whose eyes were
upon the woman’s face, curled her lip in almost involuntary contempt.
“Call George and Madeline,” said Mrs. Dainty, but little encouraged by
Agnes’s reception of the governess, and anxious to get matters settled
between this latter personage and the children as quickly as possible.
Agnes left the room, and soon returned with her brother and sister.
Madeline entered with a demure face, and shy, timid air; while George
bounded in, boy-like, shouting at the top of his voice.
“George!” Mrs. Dainty held up her finger in a warning way.
George checked his rude manner, and stood with his large eyes fixed
curiously upon the face of Mrs. Jeckyl, who tried to put on a most
winning countenance. But, so far as the boy was concerned, her effort
was entirely fruitless. To him her aspect was wholly repulsive.
“What old woman is this, mamma?” he asked, looking from Mrs. Jeckyl to
his mother.
“Why, George! George! Hush! What do you mean? Where are your manners?”
And the face of Mrs. Dainty crimsoned.
“You see, Mrs. Jeckyl,” she said, trying to apologize for the child’s
rudeness, “how our children ape the coarse manners of these vulgar
American domestics. Miss Harper, the governess whom I have just
dismissed, has left her mark behind her, as you see; and a very ugly
mark it is.”
“She isn’t ugly at all!” exclaimed George, by no means comprehending
the drift of his mother’s remark, but understanding clearly enough that
Miss Harper was the subject of disparaging words. “She’s beautiful, and
I love her. I do!”
“Madeline dear,”—Mrs. Dainty turned from George, over whom she had but
little influence, and spoke very pleasantly,—“let me present you to
Mrs. Jeckyl, who is to be your governess in the place of Miss Harper.”
But the child, instead of advancing toward Mrs. Jeckyl, stepped back
slowly,—as if the woman’s eyes were two broad, strong hands, pushing
her away,—receding until she stood against the wall.
“Madeline! Come here this moment! What do you mean?” Mrs. Dainty spoke
sharply.
The child now moved, sideling, along the wall, keeping her gaze fixed,
as by a kind of fascination, upon Mrs. Jeckyl, until she came opposite
lo where her mother was sitting. Then, not withdrawing her eyes for an
instant from the strange woman’s face, she came forward and stood by
her mother’s side.
“This is my second daughter, Madeline,” said Mrs. Dainty, pushing the
child toward Mrs. Jeckyl.
“How are you, my dear?” Mrs. Jeckyl, seeming not to observe the intense
repugnance of the child, reached out a hand, and, taking hold of
Madeline, drew her almost forcibly to her side.
“What a nice little girl!” she said, holding her tightly in one hand,
and smoothing her hair with the other. “What sweet curls! Where did you
get them, dear?”
But Madeline, with a flushed, half-frightened face, tried to release
herself from the woman’s firm grip.
“What dear children you have!” said Mrs. Jeckyl, now insinuating an
arm around Madeline, and continuing to smooth her hair with gentle but
regularly-repeated passes. “We shall be the best of friends in a little
while. I shall love them very much.”
Once or twice Madeline, over whose face rapid changes were passing,
(at one moment it was deeply flushed, and at the next overspread by
a strange pallor,) made a spring in the effort to release herself.
But the hand of Mrs. Jeckyl, that was upon her arm, tightened to a
vice-like grasp, while the other intermitted not for an instant its
regular motions, just above, or slightly touching, her hair.
“We shall be very good friends, madam,—the best of friends. I always
attach children strongly.” Mrs. Jeckyl spoke confidently, and like one
wholly at her ease.
At this moment Mrs. Dainty became oppressed with a feeling of vague
terror, united with an almost intolerable repugnance toward Mrs.
Jeckyl; and it was with an effort that she overcame the impulse to
spring forward and snatch Madeline from her investing arm. A little
while she struggled weakly against this strange feeling; then it
passed slowly away, and, like one awakening from a dream, she found
the current of her life moving on once more in its regular channels.
But she had a different impression of Mrs. Jeckyl, and a new feeling
toward her. It seemed as if they had been suddenly removed from each
other, and to so great a distance that immediate contact was forever
impossible. She was about suggesting that it might be as well for Mrs.
Jeckyl to defer until the next day her formal entrance into the family,
when she observed a change in Madeline, who, instead of endeavoring
to get away from the new governess, now leaned against her, although
the hand that held her a little while before was no longer closed upon
her arm. Almost at the moment of noticing this, Mrs. Jeckyl raised the
unresisting child to her lap, who leaned her head back against her, and
gazed up into her face with a pleased, confiding, almost affectionate,
look.
“I said we would be good friends.” Mrs. Jeckyl glanced with an exultant
smile toward Mrs. Dainty. “I understand the art of attaching children.
What a dear, sweet child this is! I promise myself a world of pleasure
in entering into her pure young mind and storing it with lessons of
wisdom. And your oldest daughter——”
Mrs. Jeckyl turned her glittering eyes—that seemed to have in them a
charmed power—upon Agnes.
For a moment or two the young girl was retained by them, as if a spell
were on her: then she turned away and fled from the room, her whole
being pervaded by a strange sense of fear.
Not in the smallest degree did Mrs. Jeckyl seem to be disconcerted at
this.
“Young people have curious fancies,” she said, in an even voice. “I
am used to them, and know how to adapt myself to all these variant
peculiarities. Give yourself no further trouble about my position with
your children. I will manage all that. Leave me now with Madeline and
George. I want to make their better acquaintance. Come, Georgie dear; I
have in my pocket the funniest little box, with the funniest little man
in it, you ever saw in your life.”
The funny little box, and the funny little man, won over the romping
boy, and he went to the side of Mrs. Jeckyl without a moment’s
hesitation.
It was as much as Mrs. Dainty could do to tear herself from the
apartment and leave her two little children alone with this woman.
She felt a vague sense of evil. A shadow, as from the wing of danger,
seemed to have fallen upon her spirit. But Mrs. Jeckyl asked to be
alone with them, and she felt that she must retire.