"That is nothing to you."
"Nothing to me? Are you mad?"
"No. I was never more sane in my life. I can look you straight in the eye, without the quiver of an eyelash, and say, you, William Huskins, are not the father of my boy. Can a person telling an untruth do that? Would it be natural for a mother to acknowledge her child to be illegitimate, when she might presume upon a man's credulity to claim him as his son and heir, unless she wanted to be honest?"
"I can only account for your words by that fact."
As he spoke the words he moved toward her, and she kept receding, with her eyes fixed upon his. Paler and paler she grew, and larger and larger became the pupils of her eyes, which were gradually so dilated that they seemed to hide the other portions of them; still he gazed at her with an unwavering and stern expression till, finally, she clasped her right hand over her heart, and sank, without a word. She would have fallen prostrate upon the floor had not William sprung quickly to her as she fell.
Immediately he felt her helplessness, all the stern, steady look vanished from his face as though by magic, and in its place there shone all the eager ardor of a lover. Time and the memory of the past both seemed to have been obliterated from his mind, and he was conscious of but one fact. Clarissa, the only woman he had ever loved or who had ever held either his heart or senses captive, was again in his arms;—was his.
The thought made him tender and kind as a mother to her first born babe, whom she believes to be the answer vouchsafed to her prayers for a living example of her love for her husband; for this babe she would offer her life, a willing sacrifice, without one thought of hesitation, even if the sacrifice meant physical torture. Her love could generate the power necessary to endure any kind of personal torment if she knew her suffering would purchase the release or happiness of the child which was dearer to her than her own pleasure or welfare.
So William felt, when his arms encircled the object of his love, and he would gladly have endured any discomfort or suffering Clarissa had been subjected to while the combat of their wills had been waging. He realized as only a man whose experience had been as vast as his could realize, that her nervous condition, combined with the unexpected shock of his sudden appearance, had been a great ally to his cause, for without these, despite her naturally susceptible temperament, he would have had a severe struggle.
He lifted her easily and bore her to the couch from which she had arisen upon his entrance. She looked so white and rigid and still and cold—so much like one prepared for burial—that, despite his vast experience with mesmeric sleep, he felt anxious. He was loth to admit, even to himself, he was nervous—supposing she was dead! Supposing her spirit had actually fled, leaving him alone again:—deserted—while her soul was transported into conditions of which he knew nothing, and he could not reach her?
The thought was agonizing. He immediately drew her to him, thinking to warm her cold, inanimate body by contact with his own which was warm and vigorous. Those lips that had but a short time before responded so tenderly and lovingly to his were now cold and unresponsive. For a time, the scientist was lost, while the husband caressed, loved and suffered.