“Dr. Edmonson!”
There was about Mrs. Ashton a peculiar tone and manner that excited the doctor’s curiosity.
“Are you aware that she possesses any power of this kind?”
“Your question throws a flood of light into my mind,” said Mrs. Ashton, “and gives, I think, the key to a singular fact that has always puzzled me. On occasion of one of Mrs. Jeckyl’s visits here, my little Emmeline was suffering with a sick headache. You know how much she has been troubled with these headaches. She was lying on the sofa, with pale face, and red, suffused eyes, when this woman came in. Seeing that Emmeline was sick, she made a number of inquiries about her, and then, sitting down by the sofa, laid her hand, with a light pressure, as I could see, upon her head. ‘Poor child!’ she murmured, and then began stroking her hair. I noticed that she bent down and looked very intently into her face. I thought her manner a little curious, but did not regard it as significant of any thing unusual. This result followed: Emmeline, in less than two minutes, closed her eyes and went off into a deep sleep, which lasted over an hour, or until Mrs. Jeckyl ended her visit. On rising to go, she referred to the child, and, leaning over her, moved her hand, in what struck me as a singular way, over her face. Emmeline roused up instantly. ‘How does your head feel, dear?’ asked this woman. ‘It does not ache any,’ was answered. ‘I thought you would be better,’ said Mrs. Jeckyl, as if speaking to herself. Once or twice since, in thinking of this incident, I have had a vague impression that the sleep of Emmeline on that occasion was not a natural one, and that it depended, in some way, on the act of Mrs. Jeckyl.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Dr. Edmonson.
“You have not?”
“No: evidently the woman transferred, for the time, some will-force of her own to the child, producing temporary unconsciousness. Her spirit overshadowed the helpless little one.”
The words of Dr. Edmonson sent a shudder along the nerves of Mrs. Ashton.
“You frighten me!” she said.
“You have cause to be frightened. When half-insane men and women step beyond the orderly course of natural life and invoke powers of evil—for all things disorderly are evil—to enable them to exercise a mysterious and controlling influence over their weaker fellow men and women, there is subtle danger abroad, more fearful in its effects than the invisible pestilence walking in darkness and wasting at noonday. It is no light thing, Mrs. Ashton, to disturb the divine harmonies of the human soul,—to thrust an impious hand boldly down among its hidden strings! I am amazed at the folly and weakness that prevail on this subject,—at the singular infatuation of well-meaning persons, who permit themselves to become the instruments of invisible powers and influences the quality of which even the feeblest reason might determine. To hear some of these persons talk confidently, and with self-satisfied tone and countenance, about penetrating the arcana of the spiritual world, excites my mirth sometimes, but oftener affects me with sadness.”