Mrs. Dainty gave an unwilling assent.
“Something has been done to her by that woman. If I were a believer in witchcraft I would say that she had laid a spell upon the child; that Madeline was under the influence of an evil eye.”
“There is something wrong,” murmured Mrs. Dainty, speaking partly to herself,—“something wrong! I wish I had never seen that dreadful woman.” A low shudder pervaded her nerves.
“Yes, something very wrong,” said Mr. Fleetwood; “and it will require the wisest care on our part to restore the harmonious action of her life, so suddenly and so strangely disturbed.”
For nearly two hours Madeline lay in a deep sleep; and during all that time Mrs. Dainty sat by the bedside. When she awoke at last, her mind was in a tranquil state, like one coming out of a refreshing slumber. But she exhibited none of her old lightness of spirit,—was quiet, yet cheerful, rather than of pensive mood. She did not seem inclined to join, as of old, her little brother George, Master “Don’t Care,” in any of his sports, but rather shrunk away into unobserved places, sitting quiet and idle.
CHAPTER XV.
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.