`I mean to stay with you,' said I. And after that, he would call me Alice--or some other name almost equally repugnant to my feelings. I forced myself to endure it for a while, fearing a contradiction might disturb him too much: but when, having asked for a glass of water, while I held it to his lips, he murmured `Thanks, dearest!'--I could not help distinctly observing--`You would not say so if you knew me,' intending to follow that up with another declaration of my identity, but he merely muttered an incoherent reply, so I dropped it again, till some time after, when, as I was bathing his forehead and temples with vinegar and water to relieve the heat and pain in his head, he observed, after looking earnestly upon me for some minutes--`I have such strange fancies--I can't get rid of them, and they won't let me rest; and the most singular and pertinacious of them all, is your face and voice; they seem just like hers. I could swear at this moment, that she was by my side.'
`She is,' said I.
`That seems comfortable,' continued he, without noticing my words;
`and while you do it, the other fancies fade away--but this only strengthens. Go onto on, till it vanishes too. I can't stand such a mania as this; it would kill me!'
`It never will vanish,' said I distinctly, `for it is the truth.'
`The truth!' he cried, starting as if an asp had stung him. `You don't mean to say that you are really she!'
`I do; but you needn't shrink away from me, as if I were your greatest enemy: I am come to take care of you, and do what none of them would do.'
`For God's sake, don't torment me now!' cried he in pitiable agitation; and then he began to mutter bitter curses against me, or the evil fortune that had brought me there; while I put down the sponge and basin, and resumed my seat at the bedside.
`Where are they?' said he `have they all left me--servants and all?'
`There are servants within call, if you want them; but you had better lie down now and be quiet: none of them could or would attend you as carefully as I shall do.'
`I can't understand it at all,' said he, in bewildered perplexity.
`Was it a dream that `and he covered his eyes with his hand, as if trying to unravel the mystery.
`No Arthur, it was not a dream, that your conduct was such as to oblige me to leave you; but I heard that you were ill and alone, and I am come back to nurse you. You need not fear to trust me: tell me all your wants, and I will try to satisfy them. There is no one else to care for you; and I shall not upbraid you now.
`Oh! I see,' said he with a bitter smile, `it's an act of Christian charity, whereby you hope to gain a higher seat in Heaven for yourself, and scoop a deeper pit in hell for me.'
`No; I came to offer you that comfort and assistance your situation required; and if I could benefit your soul as well as your body, and awaken some sense of contrition and--' `Oh, yes; if you could overwhelm me with remorse and confusion of face,' now's the time. What have you done with my son?'
`He is well, and you may see him some time, if you will compose yourself, but not now.
`Where is he?'
`He is safe.'
`Is he here?'
`Wherever he is, you will not see him till you have promised to leave him entirely under my care and protection, and to let me take him away whenever and wherever I please, if I should hereafter judge it necessary to remove him again. But we will talk of that to-morrow: you must be quiet now.'
`No, let me see him now. I promise, if it must be so.
`No--'
`I swear it, as God is in Heaven! Now then, let me see him.'
`But I cannot trust your oaths and promises: I must have a written agreement, and you must sign it in presence of a witness--But not to-day, to-morrow.
`No, to-day--now,' persisted he: and he was in such a state of feverish excitement, and so bent upon the immediate gratification of his wish, that I thought it better to grant it at once, as I saw he would not rest till I did. But I was determined my son's interest should not be forgotten; and having clearly written out the promise I wished Mr. Huntingdon to give upon a slip of paper, I deliberately read it over to him, and made him sign it in the presence of Rachel. He begged I would not insist upon this: it was a useless exposure of my want of faith in his word, to the servant.
I told him I was sorry, but since he had forfeited my confidence, he must take the consequence. He next pleaded inability to hold the pen. `Then we must wait until you can hold it,' said I. Upon which, he said he would try; but then, he could not see to write. I placed my finger where the signature was to be, and told him he might write his name in the dark, if he only knew where to put it. But he had not power to form the letters.
`In that case, you must be too ill to see the child,' said I; and finding me inexorable, he at length managed to ratify the agreement; and I bade Rachel send the boy.
All this may strike you as harsh, but I felt I must not lose my present advantage, and my son's future welfare should not be sacrificed to any mistaken tenderness for this man's feelings. Little Arthur had not forgotten his father, but thirteen months of absence, during which he had seldom been permitted to hear a word about him, or hardly to whisper his name, had rendered him somewhat shy; and when he was ushered into the darkened room where the sick man lay, so altered from his former self, with fiercely flushed face and wildly gleaming eyes--he instinctively clung to me, and stood looking on his father with a countenance expressive of far more awe than pleasure.
`Come here, Arthur,' said the latter, extending his hand towards him. The child went, and timidly touched that burning hand, but almost started in alarm, when his father suddenly clutched his arm and drew him nearer to his side.
`Do you know me?' asked Mr. Huntingdon, intently perusing his features.
`Yes.'
`Who am I?'
`Papa.'
`Are you glad to see me?'
`Yes.'
`You're not !' replied the disappointed parent, relaxing his hold, and darting a vindictive glance at me.
Arthur, thus released, crept back to me and put his hand in mine.