“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—