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.