AN UNEXPECTED REVELATION.
In the excitement attendant on the restoration of Madeline to conscious
life, Adele had been forgotten. Uncle John was the first to remember
her. It was immediately after the withdrawal of Florence with her
charge to the study-room.
“Where is the girl?” he asked, suddenly glancing around.
No one could answer the question.
“Did you leave her in your chamber?”
Uncle John spoke to his niece.
“I do not think she is there,” replied Mrs. Dainty.
“I hope she has not left the house,” said Uncle John. There was concern
in his voice, and he moved, as he spoke, toward the door. “We are
largely in her debt, and she, I think, needs our protection.”
“She shall have it!” Mr. Dainty spoke with emphasis. “Go, Madeline, and
see if she has remained in your room.”
Mrs. Dainty went to her chamber.
“Not here!” She uttered the words just audibly. A few moments she
stood, her eyes glancing around the apartment, when a low sound, like a
repressed sob, came to her ears. Stepping forward, she drew aside one
of the heavy window-curtains. There sat Adele, crouching upon a low
ottoman, her face buried in her hands.
“We were afraid you had gone,” said Mrs. Dainty, speaking in a kind
voice, and laying her hand gently on the girl’s head.
Adele looked up, but did not answer. Her singularly beautiful face,
in which the softness of childhood still blended with woman’s firmer
outlines, was pale and very sad. Mrs. Dainty, whose nerves were still
all ajar, felt something like awe steal into her heart as she looked
upon the countenance which was upturned to hers.
Just then Uncle John, whose anxiety about the young stranger would not
permit him to await the return of his niece, entered the room. His face
brightened as he saw Adele.
“Ah, my brave girl, you are here. We were afraid you had left the
house,” he said, encouragingly.
Adele arose, and stood, with timid, downcast look, before Mrs. Dainty
and Mr. Fleetwood.
“We owe you more than thanks,” said the latter. “The service you have
rendered us is beyond all price. How shall we repay the obligation?”
Adele raised her dark eyes and looked steadily into the face of Mr.
Fleetwood. There was a strange depth and beauty in those eyes, and
something mournful and pleading. Mr. Fleetwood felt their appeal.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Adele,” replied the girl.
“Adele—what?”
A slight flush came into her face; but she did not answer until after a
silence of several moments. She then said,—
“Adele Weir.”
“Do you wish to return to your mother?”
This question disturbed the girl. There was evidently a strong mental
conflict.
“If mother was as she used to be. But——”
The feelings of Adele overmastered her, and she again covered her face.
Shuddering sobs almost convulsed her frame. They were not loud, but
repressed as if by the whole strength of her will.
“If mother was as she used to be.” Self-possession was restored, after
a brief struggle. “But she is not, and I am afraid never will be.
Since she became a medium, she has not been like my mother of old. The
spirits tell her a great many strange things, and she believes all,
and does just what they say. Oh, dear! it is dreadful! I have not had
a happy moment since the knockings, and writings, and strange doings
began. And I don’t like the people who come to our house. Some of
them, I know, are not good. There’s a Mr. Dyer. His heart is full of
wickedness, I am sure, for none but a wicked man ever had such greedy
eyes. I was not afraid of him, but more of myself, when he came near
me. I felt as if I would like to kill him.”
“Did he ever offer you an insult?” asked Mr. Fleetwood.
“Once.”
“What of it?”
“I rebuked him with such strong words that he seemed frightened for a
moment. I don’t know how I looked: it might have been murder, for I
felt it.”
Adele had grown excited.
“Who else visit at your mothers house?” further inquired Mr. Fleetwood.
“Oh, a great many people. Circles meet there every night, and sometimes
every day. But I never saw any good that came of it all. The spirits
tell strange things, but I can’t see that any one is made better.
Mother hasn’t been made better, I know. I am afraid her right reason
is gone. When I was a very little girl, she belonged to the church,
and used to read the Bible a great deal. She always read it aloud when
I was with her; and so I got my thoughts full of verses and stories,
until I could say almost chapters by heart. But mother believes now
that spirits are making a higher revelation than the Bible, and that
its teachings are of but small account in comparison. I am afraid
that if the spirits were to tell her to do almost any thing that is
forbidden in the Bible, she would do it. Isn’t it dreadful?”
“Dreadful indeed!” said Mr. Fleetwood. “But you believe in the Bible?”
“Oh, yes,—yes! At first they put me to sleep, and tried to make a
medium of me. I believe that I did write and talk some. But when I got
back into my real self again I had such awful feelings that I was sure
it must be wrong. And so I prayed God to teach and help me. And I think
he did. Their power over me grew less and less; and at last I was able
to throw it all off. Oh, sir, I do not think it would be right for me
to go back again.”
“You must not return,” answered Mr. Fleetwood, positively. “God heard
your prayer, verily, and has granted you a deliverance.”
The lashes of the girl’s eyes fell slowly down upon her cheeks, and
there came into her face a meek, sad, yet thankful, expression.
“You will remain here for the present,” said Mr. Fleetwood. “To-morrow
we will talk over your future, and decide what is best to be done.
Think of us as your true friends, and fully depend upon us for
protection. If your heart is right, Adele,—that is, if you wish to be
and to do right,—you have nothing to fear, and every thing to hope.”
“I have no other desire!” was the tearful answer.
Dusky Night was beginning to weave her web of darkness. Shadows were
gathering in the rooms: the stillness of twilight came stealing down
upon sense and feeling. Half an hour later, and the family were
gathered at the tea-table. There were Mr. and Mrs. Dainty, Uncle John
Fleetwood, Agnes, Madeline, and George.
“What will you have, dear?” said Mr. Dainty, looking toward Madeline,
after he had helped Uncle John and his oldest daughter, Agnes.
“I don’t want any thing,” she answered, her face slightly reddening
as she spoke, and her eyes turning toward the door, as if she were
expecting some one.
“This toast looks very nice, Maddy. Let me give you a piece?” Mr.
Dainty spoke with gentle persuasion.
“Can’t I eat with Miss Harper?” And Madeline pushed her chair a little
way back from the table.
Mrs. Dainty’s eyes met those of her husband. Her face grew troubled and
irresolute; his evinced a puzzled state of mind. Uncle John looked at
his niece, and mutely signed for her to say yes.
“If you prefer doing so,” answered Mrs. Dainty, replying to Madeline.
“But I would rather have you take tea with us.”
Consent and objection at the same time only tended to push the child’s
mind further away from an even balance. She had stepped back from the
table with a light motion as consent passed her mother’s lips, but
stood suddenly still, with a clouded face, at the objection.
“Run along, dear,” said Uncle John, in a cheerful voice. “Mother says
yes.”
Madeline moved a pace or two, and then stopped. Her chin was drawn
down, her brow contracted, her lips pouting.
“Go, go, dear! Mother is willing.” Mrs. Dainty saw her error, and now,
hoping to retrieve it, spoke with pleasant animation.
Madeline looked up at her mother, as if in doubt of her sincerity. Mrs.
Dainty smiled tenderly, and said, in a loving voice,—
“Kiss me first, dear.”
Madeline’s face brightened. The kiss was given, and then she went away
with light footsteps.
“I’m going to wait too,” said George, sturdily, as he pushed back his
chair. “I’d rather eat with Miss Harper than with anybody in this
house.”
And, before his father could interfere to stop him, Young America was
out of the dining-room.
“I don’t like that.” Mrs. Dainty looked annoyed.
“Children are all democrats,” said Uncle John.
“I don’t wish mine to be democrats,” answered Mrs. Dainty, curtly.
“They will get no harm from eating with Florence,—my word for that,—but
good, rather.”
“But I don’t wish my children to eat with dependants and inferiors.”
Mrs. Dainty drew up her chest and drew down her chin, and looked all
the aristocratic importance she knew how to assume. In the eyes of
Uncle John she succeeded in attaining simply the ridiculous. Quick
indignation thrilled along every nerve of his body, and cutting rebuke
came instantly to his tongue. But prudence whispered a timely caution
in his ears, and he only said,—
“This is neither the time nor the place for discussing that question,
Madeline. But after tea I will have something to suggest.”
“On what subject?” inquired Mrs. Dainty, showing the existence of a no
very amiable mood.
“On that which is of most interest to us all,—the good of these
children,” replied Uncle John. “What is best for them is best to do. I
think that is a plain proposition.”
Mrs. Dainty was in part disarmed, and so made no answer. But she did
not look as if she were in any better frame of mind. The evening meal
was concluded in silence.