He lies on the sofa nearly all day long; and I play and sing to him for hours together. I write his letters for him, and get him everything he wants; and sometimes I read to him, and sometimes I talk, and sometimes only sit by him and soothe him with silent caresses. I know he does not deserve it; and I fear I am spoiling him; but this once, I will forgive him, freely and entirely--I will shame him into virtue if I can, and I will never let him leave me again.
He is pleased with my attentions--it may be, grateful for them.
He likes to have me near him; and though he is peevish and testy with his servants and his dogs, he is gentle and kind to me, What he would be, if I did not so watchfully anticipate his wants, and so carefully avoid, or immediately desist from, doing anything that has a tendency to irritate or disturb him, with however little reason, I cannot tell. How intensely I wish he were worthy of all this care! Last night as I sat beside him, with his head in my lap, passing my fingers through his beautiful curls, this thought made my eyes overflow with sorrowful tears--as it often does,--but this time, a tear fell on his face and made him look up. He smiled, but not insultingly.
`Dear Helen!' he said--`why do you cry? you know that I love you (and he pressed my hand to his feverish lips), `and what more could you desire?'
`Only, Arthur, that you would love yourself, as truly and as faithfully as you are loved by me.'
`That would be hard indeed!' he replied, tenderly squeezing my hand, I don't know whether he fully understood my meaning, but he smiled--thoughtfully and even sadly--a most unusual thing with him;--and then he closed his eyes and fell asleep, looking as careless and sinless as a child. As I watched that placid slumber, my heart swelled fuller than ever, and my tears flowed unrestrained.
August 24. Arthur is himself again, as lusty and reckless, as light of heart and head as ever, and as restless and hard to amuse as a spoilt child,--and almost as full of mischief too, especially when wet weather keeps him within doors. I wish he had some thing to do, some useful trade, or profession, or employment--anything to occupy his head or his hands for a few hours a day, and give him something besides his own pleasure to think about, If he would play the country gentleman, and attend to the farm--but that he knows nothing about, and won't give his mind to consider,--or if he would take up with some literary study, or learn to draw or to play--as he is so fond of music, I often try to persuade him to learn the piano, but he is far too idle for such an undertaking: he has no more idea of exerting himself to overcome obstacles than he has of restraining his natural appetites; and these two things are the ruin of him. I lay them both to the charge of his harsh yet careless father and his madly indulgent mother.
If ever I am a mother I will zealously strive against this crime of over-indulgence--I can hardly give it a milder name when I think of the evils it brings.