As William and Clarissa talked over these scientific problems, the
mother's anxiety and perplexity kept presenting new problems to William.
His love for Clarissa, as well as for his children, made him negative
and receptive to many thoughts and conjectures of theirs he would not
have noticed in a stranger. One of the principal factors and questions
occurring to Clarissa's mind was, having children of her own, a boy and
a girl, would she wish to see them influenced and controlled by another
and outside influence from their own, the same as Merle and Alice were?
She knew her husband's motives were worthy and excellent, that he would
not impel them to do any deed he would not inspire his own child to do,
but he was only one man, and all men are not as honorable and
trustworthy as he. Many men, having the same degree of power, would have
used it for less honorable purposes. She knew just enough of it, to know
that the subject is not responsible and ought never to be blamed (where
justice is rife,) for the motive or intent that inspired the operator.
Before her range of vision was continually rising the picture of
Augustus or her baby girl, controlled and influenced by some powerful
mind concentrator. How did she know what such a person might make them
do?
This one thought haunted her like an unwelcome and unbidden guest, and
as her latest darling, the baby girl, lay close to her breast, she
pondered upon the subject more than she ever had with Augustus. Once
there had been a time when she had courted this influence, thinking it
might possibly, by some agency not known to her, restore strength and
vigor to his limbs. To obtain the power of locomotion for him had been
her supreme thought and desire. To gain this, she would have offered
herself a glad and willing sacrifice upon any altar that might have
presented itself between her and her goal.
When her girl baby was given her, for her keeping, its presence,
enriched by her husband's love and solicitude, her thoughts instead of
passing into the groove or channel of personal disappointment, roamed
into the path of conjecture and speculation of what might happen in the
babe's life.
She was still prejudiced by the popular thought, that will excuse in a
man's life that which they will not endeavor to condone in a woman's. As
she would hold that small, helpless baby close to her, finding
satisfaction in the intimate association of touch, she could not help
but think of the time or season when Augustus and this child would
mature and reach conditions proximate to those of Merle and Alice.
Somehow, there was an innate horror in her mind, when she thought of
their being in as complete subjection to the will and dictation of
others as Merle and Alice were to that of her husband.
This thought did not arise from anything she had seen either suffer, or
pass through at her husband's dictation; on the contrary, so far as
man's sight is privileged to scan material conditions, they had been
benefited and assisted by his presence and power in their lives; still,
that was no guarantee that every mesmerist wrought equally good effects
in his subjects' lives.
For a while, she kept these conjectures to herself, but the more she
reasoned, the less certain she felt, and finally she concluded to
consult William upon the subject. She knew he would laugh at her, and
that was the reason she had not consulted him before; possibly his
ridicule might relieve her anxiety.
One morning, they all (except Clarissa, who was still confined to her
bed,) sat watching Dinah wash and dress the baby. Augustus was now
always up and present at that occasion, causing Dinah no end of trouble
and annoyance by his countless questions and absurd directions. He
seemed to think the babe was his particular charge, and suffered keen
jealousy if he were not allowed to hold her as long as he thought the
rest did. She was the one topic of interest and conversation of which he
never wearied, although he tried the patience of others recounting her
excellence.
This morning, he had been unusually quiet and docile, so much so, that
when the baby was dressed, Dinah put her into his arms, kissed him and
patted his head before she went out. To her faithful heart, he would
never be anything but a baby of a larger growth. She knew something was
troubling him, and thought the baby would do him good.
His father and mother were quietly watching what was to them a lovely
picture, for Augustus was an unusually handsome child, and the baby gave
promise of being equally attractive, even at this early stage of its
development, although it must be confessed, it (of course) looked
similar to other equally young babies.
For quite a time, nothing was said. The parents were filled with pride
and happiness as they looked at that fair picture; those darlings were
theirs; the offsprings of their love for each other. The thought caused
each to seek the other's eyes. William rose to go to Clarissa, meaning
to tell her how happy he was. As he passed his children he stooped to
kiss them, for his heart was very warm just then.
Naturally, he kissed Augustus first and was surprised to see the boy
trembling, and as he turned to look in his face, he found the child's
eyes swimming in tears. He drew his arm more tightly around him and
said:
"My boy, what is it that troubles you? Tell me. Let me share your
grievance, or remove it."
The look that answered his loving inquiry haunted William for a long
time, and he was glad that Clarissa had not seen it. It was a look of
torture as keen as one might expect to see in some animal, wounded to
the death, and who makes no moan while its life blood oozes away. The
cause of such a look was more than he could divine. He drew both
children closely to him, and spoke again:
"Augustus, tell me."
The tears which ran down the boy's face were his only reply, while
William plainly felt the trembling of the child's body increase. The
sight of the boy's suffering was excruciating torture to him. He loosed
his hold upon Augustus, taking the baby from him, and carrying it to
Clarissa, who looked wonderingly at him for an explanation. He had none
to offer.
Augustus had not tried to resist when his father took his charge from
him, which was a new thing for him. Placing the babe beside its mother,
William returned quickly to Augustus, without kissing them both as was
his wont, and lifting the boy out of his chair, bore him in his arms to
his own private room. He let the tempest of tears vent itself without
comment, contenting himself by holding the boy close to him and stroking
his head. When he felt that Augustus was becoming calmed, he said:
"Now, Augustus, will you tell me of your sorrow?"
No answer, but Augustus' arms clung closer about his neck, and his head
nestled restlessly from one place to another, but he would not look his
father in the face. William waited patiently, knowing the boy's nervous
temperament, then spoke again, tenderly and lovingly:
"Can not my boy trust his father's love?--"
He never finished the utterance; the answer was so unexpected, and so
poignant of torture, it deprived him, temporarily, of both speech and
logical thought.
"Father, will she be ashamed of me when she gets older?"
"Ashamed of her brother? What an odd question! She will be proud of
you,--what thought prompted such a question?"
"Father, do you think she will ever walk?"
"Yes, my boy."
"When she sees all the other boys walking, will she be ashamed her
brother has to be wheeled around?"
William answered promptly:
"No; my son."
But that was the keenest pain he had ever felt, to witness the boy's
suffering, who was paying the price or the penalty of his own ignorance
and selfishness. The boy suffered keenly, but the father more as he had
a larger capacity for suffering. There was one thought that brought a
small degree of light; it was that Clarissa was spared this suffering.
How his heart ached for the boy, words cannot express.
They had tried in every possible way since Augustus' birth to reconcile
him to his infirmity. When he had expressed envy for boys who could run
and play, they had told him of the gifts and talents he possessed, and
that they were far more estimable and valuable than those the boys whom
he envied had. So much care had been taken with him, he had not thought
of his inability to walk in the light of shame, until he had thought of
what that tiny babe, whom he idolized and whom he wanted to think he was
as dear to as she was to him, would think of him, who could not guide
her faltering steps, because he could not steady and control his own.
He could not endure the thought that others could do for her what he
could not; no one loved her better (he thought, none so well,) yet they
could do for her what he could not; following this train of thought, it
flashed upon his consciousness she might be ashamed of him because he
was not like other boys.
The thought was too strong and horrible for him to bear without giving
some sign of suffering. She was his idol; all his plans were made from
the point of her supposed pleasure or displeasure; if she pitied him, he
could not endure it. He would rather she hated him. He could endure pity
from some one he did not care for, but never from Baby Clarissa. He had
not realized the enormity of his affliction until now. In the past, he
had been petted and loved, indulged and looked up to, and accustomed to
this homage from his birth, he had grown to believe it to be only his
due; his just deserts. Now there was a new factor and force come into
his life, dearer far than himself. He had felt, since the baby's coming,
he must watch over her and care for her, and his anxiety for her comfort
so far transcended his own, he forgot himself, a thing he had never done
before, and probably never would even now were it not for this helpless
little stranger who had come into his life.
Never having walked nor played, he did not fully realize the many
pleasures from which he was debarred, but it was borne home to his
consciousness suddenly and forcibly by the fact that the might of his
love would not permit him to do what a common stranger with no personal
interest in her might do. It was unbearable. Stinging horror filled his
soul at the thought of the comparison she might draw between himself and
other boys. He longed so ardently to be her ideal and hero among boys,
the same as she was and would always be among girls, that jealousy
became a fiery tormentor.
There was a time when his mother had been the principal object of his
interest and inspirations. It seemed as though all the force of his
nature, disappointed in his mother's loyalty to him as the one point of
interest on the earth, had been transplanted to this babe, gaining
intensity from the change, rather than losing it. Not even his parents
realized the strength of this devotion.
He could not help but partake of all the ardor and enthusiasm of their
souls, and this ardor, in the present state of his development, showed
itself in the admiration he felt for his baby sister, and as a
consequence, his suffering was both keen and loyal.
When his father, whom he considered the grandest and wisest upon the
earth (having heard so many eulogies upon his powers and prowess,)
assured him that Baby Clarissa would esteem him, and honor him, he
brought forth a deep sigh of satisfaction. He believed more fully in
what his father said than what his mother did. This was probably due to
the fact that his father had compelled from him that which his mother
never tried to exact.
Those persons who have made life a deep and profound study, have ever
found masters to be admired while servants are endured. Augustus had
governed and ruled, thus made servants of persons whom he had come in
contact with, until he had met his father. His father conquered his
imperative will, consequently his admiration had increased in proportion
to the degree he was conquered.
When he was a little more himself, William told him how proud Clarissa
would be of his art and music. Those boys who could romp and play could
not do what he could, and his sister would be as proud of his talent as
his parents were. He soon became cheerful and contented again. Then with
a mutual promise of secrecy concerning this interview, they returned to
Clarissa's room.
The baby was sleeping, but Clarissa was anxious to know what had
disturbed Augustus, still, being told that the interview was to be a
secret between father and son, and seeing Augustus cheerful, she
desisted from her inquiries, thinking it was some boyish whim William
had granted.
William had, however, received a pang of remorse he would not soon
forget. Augustus was the innocent sufferer for a lifetime for his own
hasty, unreasonable temper, while he, the cause, was a physically
perfect and happy man, coming forth from his past sufferings a better
one, while his boy paid the heavy price of his baseness.
The thought was nearly unbearable. From that time he became very
sensitive to Augustus' affliction. He resolutely made up his mind the
boy should walk if there was remedial virtue in magnetism. It should
become his one duty and ambition to study those limbs until they should
bear up, unsupported, the boy's body. He would never rest until he had
accomplished it. He was the cause of the boy's suffering, and he would
be his healer. If it was possible, his love increased for Augustus from
this time.