The months moved slowly on, a time full of deepening strain and anxiety
to Howard. Maud herself seemed serene enough at first, full of hope;
she began to be more dependent on him; and Howard perceived two things
which gave him some solace; in the first place he found that, sharp as
the tension of anxiety in his mind often was, he did not realise it as
a burden of which he would be merely glad to be rid. He had an
instinctive dislike of all painful straining things--of
responsibilities, disagreeable duties, things that disturbed his
tranquillity; but this anxiety did not come to him in that light at
all; he longed that it should be over, but it was not a thing which he
desired to banish from his mind; it was all bound up with love and
happy anticipation; and next he learned the joy of doing things that
would otherwise be troublesome for the sake of love, and found them all
transmuted, not into seemly courtesies, but into sharp and urgent
pleasures. To be of use to Maud, to entertain her, to disguise his
anxieties, to compel himself to talk easily and lightly--all this
filled his soul with delight, especially when he found as the months
went on that Maud began to look to him as a matter of course; and
though Howard had been used to say that being read aloud to was the
only occupation in the world that was worse than reading aloud, he
found that there was no greater pleasure than in reading to Maud day by
day, in finding books that she cared for.
"If only I could spare you some of this," he said to her one day,
"that's the awful thing, not to be able to share the pain of anyone
whom one loves. I feel I could hold my hand in the fire with a smile,
if only I knew that it was saving you something!"
"Ah, dearest, I know," said Maud, "but you mustn't think of it like
that; it INTERESTS me in a curious way--I can't explain--I don't feel
helpless; I feel as if I were doing something worth the trouble!"
At last the time drew near; it was hot, silent, airless weather; the
sun lay fiercely in the little valley, day by day; one morning they
were sitting together and Maud suddenly said to him, "Dearest, one
thing I want to say; if I seem to be afraid, I am NOT afraid: will you
remember that? I want to walk every step of the way; I mean to do it, I
wish to do it; I am not afraid in my heart of hearts of anything--pain,
or even worse; and you must remember that, even if I do not seem to
remember!"
"Yes," said Howard, "I will remember that; and indeed I know it; you
even take away my own fears when you speak so; love takes hands beneath
it all."
But on the following morning--Maud had a restless and suffering
night--Mrs. Graves came in upon Howard as he tried to read, to tell him
that there was great anxiety, Maud had had a sudden attack of pain; it
had passed off, but they were not reassured. "The doctor will be here
presently," she said. Howard rose dry-lipped and haggard. "She sends
you her dearest love," she said, "but she would rather be alone; she
doesn't wish you to see her thus; she is absolutely brave, and that is
the best thing; and I am not afraid myself," she added: "we must just
wait--everything is in her favour; but I know how you feel and how you
must feel; just clasp the anxiety close, look in its face; it's a
blessed thing, though you can't see it as I do--blessed, I mean, that
one CAN feel so."
But the fear thickened after this. A carriage drew up, and Howard saw
two doctors descend, carrying bags in their hands. His heart sickened
within him, yet he was helped by seeing their unembarrassed and
cheerful air, the nod that one of them, a big, fresh-faced man, gave to
the coachman, the look he cast round the beautiful old house. People
could think of such things, Howard saw, in a moment like that. He went
down and met them in the hall, and had that strange sense of unreality
in moments of crisis, when one hears one's own voice saying courteous
things, without any volition of one's own. The big doctor looked at him
kindly. "It is all quite simple and straightforward!" he said. "You
must not let yourself be anxious; these times pass by and one wonders
afterwards how one could have been so much afraid."
But the hours brought no relief; the doctors stayed long in the house;
something had occurred, Howard knew not what, did not dare to
conjecture. The silence, the beauty of the whole scene, was
insupportably horrible to him. He walked up and down in the afternoon,
gazing at Maud's windows--once a nurse came to the window and opened it
a little. He went back at last into the house; the doctors were there,
talking in low tones to Mrs. Graves. "I will be back first thing in the
morning," said one; the worst, then, had not happened. But as he
appeared a look of inquiry passed between them and Mrs. Graves. She
beckoned to him.
"She is very ill," she said; "it is over, and she has survived; but the
child is dead."
Howard stood blankly staring at the group. "I don't understand," he
said; "the child is dead--yes, but what about Maud?"
The doctor came up to him. "It was sudden," he said; "she had an
attack--we had anticipated it--the child was born dead; but there is
every reason to believe that she will recover; it has been a great
shock, but she is young and strong, and she is full of pluck--you need
not be anxious at present; there is no imminent danger." Then he added,
"Mr. Kennedy, get some rest yourself; she may need you, and you must
not be useless: I tell you, the first danger is over and will not
recur; you must just force yourself to eat--try to sleep."
"Sleep?" said Howard with a wan smile, "yes, if you could tell me how
to do that!"
The doctors departed; Howard went off with Mrs. Graves. She made him
sit down, she told him a few details; then she said, "Dearest boy, it's
no use wasting words or pity just now--you know what I feel; I would
tell you plainly if I feared the worst. I do NOT fear it, and now let
me exercise my art on you, for I am sure I can help you a little. One
must not play with these things, but this is in earnest."
She came and sate down beside him, and stroked his hair, his brow; she
said, "Just try, if you can, to cast everything out of your mind; relax
your limbs, be entirely passive; and don't listen to what I say--just
let your mind float free." Presently she began to speak in a low voice
to him; he hardly heeded what she said, for a strange drowsiness
settled down upon him like the in-flowing of some oblivious tide, and
he knew no more.
A couple of hours later he awoke from a deep sleep, with a sense of
sweet visions and experiences--he looked round. Mrs. Graves sate beside
him smiling, but the horror suddenly darted back into his mind with a
spasm of fear, as if he had been bitten by a poisonous serpent.
"What has been happening?" he said.
"Ah," said Mrs. Graves quietly, "you have been asleep. I have some
power in these things, which I don't use except in times of need--some
day I will tell you more; I found it out by accident, but I have used
it both for myself and others. It's just a natural force, of which many
people are suspicious, because it doesn't seem normal; but don't be
afraid, dear boy--all goes well; she is sleeping quietly, and she knows
what has happened."
"Thank you," said Howard; "yes, I am better; but I could almost wish I
had not slept--I feel the pain of it more. I don't feel just now as if
anything in the world could make up for this--as if anything could make
it seem just to endure such misery. What has one done to deserve it?"
"What indeed?" said Mrs. Graves, "because the time will come when you
will ask that in a different sense. Don't you see, dear boy, that even
this is life's fulness? One mustn't be afraid of suffering--what one
must be afraid of is NOT suffering; it's the measure of love--you would
not part with your love if that would free you from suffering?"
"No," said Howard slowly, "I would not--you are right. I can see that.
One brings the other; but I cannot see the need of it."
"That is only because one does not realise how much lies ahead," said
Mrs. Graves. "Be content that you know at least how much you
love--there's no knowledge like that!"