William felt perfectly easy in his mind regarding Clarissa. He had told her where he was going, and she said she was proud he could do what others failed to do. She was comfortable and happy, when he left, laughing gaily at Augustus' concern because baby slept so long. She had an arm around each as he took his last look at them before leaving the room. That picture of home and happiness had been with him all day.
Once he would not have thought that day's work an arduous one, as he sought for years to crush every sentiment and interest but scientific research. The more work he had before him, the more contented he was; now he could not help thinking, even while he worked, of his family.
Both doctors remarked how quickly he placed each subject in a trance state; in the last instance, especially, it was very noticeable, as the sick girl was a peculiarly sensitive person, but being entirely ignorant of mesmeric power was consumed by fear, exhibiting traits bordering upon convulsions. She did the same when William began to work. Her heart exhibited such erratic tendencies of action, the three men united in the verdict it was better not to force her further.
As he witnessed the girl's suffering, he thought of his own baby girl, similarly terrorized, for it was only terror that caused the condition. Immediately the scientist and man of force was submerged, and the father was the predominating man. Without any thought but loving sympathy, he placed his hand upon the girl's head and said:
"Poor child;—do not worry;—you shall not be molested, nor forced by me, any more than I want my baby girl so treated."
He smoothed her head, and she gave him such a look of gratitude as he could not soon forget, then closed her eyes. He saw she was passing into a comatose state, without his forcible dictation. Once placed there, he gave her the customary suggestions, telling her to wake at a certain time, then left the doctors to return home, feeling tired, but cheered by the knowledge of the presence of the three loved ones who were awaiting him.
How he pitied the two men whom he had just left, who were going to their elegant homes, but for whom there was no wife or children waiting. Often the three had communed together in the past, upon their good fortune in having a place of quiet and repose, where they would be unmolested, and free to think. Now William knew that, whatever conditions of perplexity, even of discord and confusion awaited him in his home, it was infinitely sweeter and preferable to the quiet and peace they had pretended to like, for while he joined them in congratulations upon this condition, his soul had hungered for his wife's presence. How did he know there was no similar episode in each of his two friends' lives?
They believed him when he had lied. Yes. There was no escaping the truth; he might as well own up to himself, if he would not to anyone else. He, a truthful man, in all other respects, lied rather than reveal a heartache he felt to be a weakness. No one but himself knew he lied. How did he know that Baxter and Harrington were not lying too, actuated by the same motive—their inability to secure the companionship of the particular woman they loved.
As he thought of his own heartaches, when alone, he felt a profound pity for them, while respecting the motives that kept them silent. It was as natural for man to love woman, as it was to breathe the air into his lungs. Yes, there must be some tragedy in each of his friends' lives. His earnest wish was they might terminate as happily as his had.
He had arrived home by the time he had reached this conclusion, and, for all his fatigue, he ascended the steps with the buoyancy and elasticity of a youth, he was so anxious to look at his treasures.