How precious this sympathy was just at this time, nobody knew but Clarissa herself. Clarissa naturally felt that she was the sole protector and guardian of her children, whom she loved better than herself. She had no reason to doubt William's affection for his family. Her present attitude toward him was the result of her fear of mesmeric influence, not her husband himself. He, being the strongest exponent of the science of whom she knew, and telling her of his intention to mesmerize Augustus had caused her (fearing that he would do so) to picture in William, all the possible evil to be wrought by such a power, exercised by an unscrupulous man.
Fear was the artist and conjurer that distorted to her eyes even William's visage, as well as his intentions. Without her being conscious of the fact, her fears had produced a state of self-psychology, consequently, she could not see clearly nor truly, but beheld only those points in William of which she was afraid.
A little knowledge of anything is often productive of harm. Clarissa had but a limited knowledge of her husband's power, thus gave him credit for possessing more than he really had. While defying him, she exaggerated his possible power, but was sincere in her assertions she would protect herself and her children. She was not afraid of him; it was her children she worried about. Unconsciously, William had been responsible for this condition. When he said he could make her shrink from her children's embraces as though they were serpents, he gave her such a shock of horror, to think there was any power that could so change the channel of natural affection, she went directly to the opposite extreme, and saw William as the serpent because he had suggested the possibility of so horrible a thing.
It is impossible to talk and reason with a psychologized person when they have an opposite opinion in mind, and Clarissa, being self-psychologized, by fear, was no more amenable to reason than if she had been put into the condition by another person.
She loved William, but in this highly wrought nervous state, she could not see her kind and loving husband, who was an indulgent and thoughtful father. She could not believe he was actuated by a worthy motive when he spoke of mesmerizing Augustus. She pictured him selfish, commanding and cruel, and no amount of reasoning could change her.
If the children were not with her all the time, she felt he had taken them away to punish her. Keeping Augustus confined so much made him restless and nervous when the baby was sleeping. He was contented enough while he could hold her. When he began to manifest unrest, Clarissa imagined his father's mind was upon him, trying to draw him away from her, and she struggled with all the might of her soul to amuse and please him.
To Augustus, his father was a wonderful man. He loved to talk of him and what persons said of him. He often said "Let us call father." He did not understand his father's banishment from his mother's room, for he had been almost a constant presence there. Every time he mentioned his father, Clarissa thought "that is William's mind affecting him."
Finally, she would not permit the boy to leave the room, telling him that, being sick, she enjoyed having him always with her. This pleased him, so he would draw while the baby slept, or Dinah and his mother would tell him stories of their past life.
The sound of William's step or voice affected Clarissa's nerves so visibly as to be plainly observable to anyone. Sometimes she saw him right before her, then she would draw the baby close, set her teeth firmly together, looking at the image defiantly until it would disappear, when she would sink back, weak and despondent. Life was a perpetual nightmare and horror to her, and she often thought "How long can I live this way?" Then "I must gain strength for the children's sake. We will go away soon now."
She wondered if her voice had been affected by the birth of her babe. She almost dreaded testing it, still, if it had entirely gone, her children were more to her than her voice. Her joy was complete when, upon testing it, allowing for physical weakness, she was aware that her tones were, if anything, richer than of old. That fact gave her courage. She was not afraid to face life alone again, nor did she regret having returned to William, for she now had another treasure added to her life. The thoughts of how William would suffer, being left alone again, did not occur to her. Her whole thought was bounded by her children's presence.