For some days Howard was in an intolerable agony of mind about Maud;
she lay in a sort of stupor of weakness and weariness, recognising no
one, hardly speaking, just alive, indifferent to everything. They could
not let him be with her, they would allow no one to speak to her. The
shock had been too great, and the frail life seemed flickering to its
close: once or twice he was just allowed to see her; she lay like a
tired child, her head on her hand, lost in incommunicable dreams.
Howard dared not leave the house, and the tension of his nerves became
so acute that the least thing--a servant entering the room, or anyone
coming out to speak with him as he paced up and down the garden--caused
him an insupportable horror; had they come to summon him to see the
end? The frightful thing was the silence, the blank silence of the one
he loved best. If she had moaned or wept or complained, he could have
borne it better; but she seemed entirely withdrawn from him. Even when
a little strength returned, they feared for her reason. She seemed
unaware of where she was, of what had happened, of all about her. The
night was the worst time of all. Howard, utterly wearied out, would go
to bed, and sink into sleep, sleep so profound that it seemed like
descending into some deep and oblivious tide; then a current of misery
would mingle with his dreams, a sense of unutterable depression; and
then he would suddenly wake in the grip of fear, formless and bodiless
fear. The smallest sound in the house, the creaking of a door, a
footfall, would set his heart beating with fierce hammer strokes. He
would light his candles, wander restlessly about, gaze out from his
window into the blackness of the garden, where the trees outlined
themselves against the dark sky, pierced with stars; or he would try to
read, but wholly in vain. No thought, no imagination seemed to have any
meaning for him, in the presence of that raging dread. Had he, he
wondered, come in sight of the ultimate truth of life? The pain he
suffered seemed to him the strongest thing in the world, stronger than
love, stronger than death. The thick tides of the night swept past him
thus, till the light began to outline the window crannies; and then
there was a new day to face, with failing brain and shattered strength.
The only comfort he received was in the presence of his aunt. She alone
seemed strong, almost serene, till he wondered if she was not hard. She
did not encourage him to speak of his fears: she talked quietly about
ordinary things, not demanding an answer; she saw the doctors, whom
Howard could not bear to see, and told him their report. The fear
changed its character as the days went on; Maud would live, they
thought; but to what extent she would regain her strength they could
not say, while her mental powers seemed in abeyance.
Mr. Sandys often looked in, but he seemed at first helpless in Howard's
presence. Howard used to bestir himself to talk to him, with a
sickening sense of unreality. Mr. Sandys took a very optimistic view of
Maud's case; he assured Howard that he had seen the same thing a dozen
times; she had great reserves of strength, he believed; it was but
nature insisting upon rest and quiet. His talk became a sort of relief
to Howard, because he refused to admit any possibility of ultimate
disaster. No tragedy could keep Mr. Sandys silent; and Howard began to
be aware that the Vicar must have thought out a series of topics to
talk to him about, and even prepared the line of conversation
beforehand. Jack had been sent for at the crisis, but when the imminent
danger lessened, Howard suggested that he should go back to Cambridge,
in which Jack gratefully acquiesced.
One day Mrs. Graves came suddenly in upon Howard, as he sate drearily
trying to write some letters, and said, "There is a great improvement
this morning. I went in to see her, and she has come back to herself;
she mentioned your name, and the doctor says you can see her for a few
minutes; she must not talk, but she is herself. You may just come and
sit by her for a few minutes; it will be best to come at once."
Howard got up, and was seized by a sudden giddiness. He grasped his
chair, and was aware that Mrs. Graves was looking at him anxiously.
"Can you manage it, dear boy?" she said. "You have had a great strain."
"Manage it?" said Howard, "why, it's new life. I shall be all right in
a moment. Does she know what has happened?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Graves, "she knows all--it is you she is anxious
about--she isn't thinking of herself at all."
Howard followed his aunt out of the room, feeling suddenly alert and
strong. They entered the room; as they did so, Maud turned and looked
at him--the faintest tinge of colour had returned to her face; she held
out her hands to him, and let them fall again. Howard stepped quickly
to the side of the bed, dropped on his knees, and took his wife in his
arms. She nestled close to him for a moment, and then looked at him
with a smile--then speaking in a very low voice, almost a whisper, she
said:
"Yes, I know--you will help me, dearest; yes, I have come back to
you--I have been wandering far away, with the child--you know--he
wanted me, I think; but I have left him somewhere, safe, and I am sent
back--I didn't think I could come back, but I had to choose; I have
chosen . . ." her voice died away, and she looked long and anxiously at
him. "You are not well," she said; "it is my fault."
"Ah, you must not talk, darling," said Howard; "we will talk later on;
just let me be sure that you won't leave me--that is enough, that's all
I want, just we two together again, and the dear child, ours for ever."
"The dear child," said Maud, "that is right--he is ours, beloved. I
will tell you about him."
"Not now," said Howard, "not now."
Maud gave him a nod, in her old way, just the ghost of a nod; and then
just put her face beside his own, and lay in silence, till he was
called away. Then she kissed his hand as he bent over her, and said,
"Don't be afraid, dearest--I am coming back--it is like a great
staircase, with light at the top. I went just to the edge--it's full of
sweet sound there, and now I am coming down again. Those are my
dreams," she added; "I am not out of my dreams yet."
Howard went out, waving his hand; he found Mrs. Graves beside him.
"Yes," she said, "I have no more fear."
Howard was suddenly seized with faintness, uncontrollable dizziness.
Mrs. Graves took him to the library, and made him sit down, but his
weakness continued in spite of himself.
"I really am ashamed of myself," he said, "for this dreadful
exhibition."
"Exhibition!" said Mrs. Graves, "it's the best thing that can happen. I
must tell you that I have been even more anxious about you than Maud,
because you either couldn't or wouldn't break down--those are the
people who are in danger at a time like this! Why the sight of you has
half killed me, dear boy! If you had ever said you were miserable, or
been rude or irritable, or forgotten yourself for a moment, I should
have been happier. It's very chivalrous and considerate, of course;
though you will say that you didn't think of that; but it's hardly
human--and now at last I see you are flesh and blood again."
"Well, I am not sure that it isn't what I thought about you," said
Howard.
"Ah," said Mrs. Graves, "I am an old woman; and I don't think death is
so terrible to me. Life is interesting enough, but I should often be
glad to get away; there is something beyond that is a good deal easier
and more beautiful. But I don't expect you to feel that."
"You think she will get well?" said Howard faintly.
"Yes, she will get well, and soon," said Mrs. Graves. "She has been
resting in her own natural way. The poor dearest baby--you don't know,
you can't know, what that means to Maud and even to me; you will have
to be very good to her for a long time yet; you won't understand her
sorrow--she won't expect you to; but you mustn't fail her; and you must
do as you are bid. This afternoon you must just go out for a walk, and
you must SLEEP, dear; that's what you want; you don't know what a
spectre you are; and you must just get well as quick as you can, for
Maud's sake and mine."
That afternoon there fell on Howard after his walk--though the world
was sweet to him and dear again, he was amazed to find how weak he
was--an unutterable drowsiness against which he could hardly fight. The
delicious weariness came on him like a summer air; he stumbled to bed
that night, and oh, the wonder of waking in a new world, the incredible
happiness that greeted him, happiness that merged again in a strange
and serene torpor of the senses, every sight and sound striking sharp
and beautiful on his eye and ear.
For some days he was only allowed to see Maud for little lengthening
periods; they said little, but just sate in silence with a few
whispered words. Maud recovered fast, and was each day a little
stronger.
One evening, as he sate with her, she said, "I want to tell you now
what has been happening to me, dearest. You must hear it all. You must
not grieve yourself about the little child, because you cannot have
known it as I did--but you must let me grieve a little . . . you will
see when I tell you. I won't go back too far. There was all the pain
first--I hope I did not behave very badly, but I was beside myself with
pain, and then I went off . . . you know . . . I don't remember
anything of that . . . and then I came back again, feeling that
something very strange had happened to me, and I was full of joy; and
then I saw that something was wrong, and it came over me what had
happened. The strange thing is that though I was so weak--I could
hardly think and I could not speak--yet I never felt more clear or
strong in mind--no, not in mind either, but in myself. It seems so
strange that I have never even SEEN our child, not with my eyes, though
that matters little. But then when I understood, I did indeed fail
utterly; you seemed to me so far away; I felt somehow that you were
thinking only about me, and I could simply think of nothing but the
child--my own child, gone from me in a moment. I simply prayed with all
my soul to die and have done with everything, and then there was a
strange whirl in the air like a great wind, and loud confused noises,
and I fell away out of life, and thought it was death. And then I awoke
again, but it was not here--it was in a strange wide place--a sort of
twilight, and there were hills and trees. I stood up, and suddenly felt
a hand in my own, and there was a little child beside me, looking up at
me. I can't tell you what happened next--it is rather dim to me, but I
sate, or walked, or wandered, carrying the child--and it TALKED to me;
yes, it talked in a little clear voice, though I can't remember
anything it said; but I felt somehow as if it was telling me what might
have been, and that I was getting to KNOW it somehow--does that seem
strange? It seems like months and years that I was with it; and I feel
now that I not only love it, but know it, all its thoughts, all its
desires, all its faults--it had FAULTS, dearest; think of that--faults
such as I have, and other faults as well. It was not quite content, but
it was not unhappy; but it wasn't a dream-child at all, not like a
little angel, but a perfectly real child. It laughed sometimes, and I
can hear its little laughter now; it found fault with me, it wanted to
go on--it cried sometimes, and nothing would please it; but it loved me
and wanted to be with me; and I told it about you, and it not only
listened, but asked me many times over to tell it more, about you,
about me, about this place--I think it had other things in its mind,
recollections, I thought, which it tried to tell me; so it went on.
Once or twice I found myself here in bed--but I thought I was dying,
and only wanted to lose myself and get back to the child--and then it
all came to an end. There was a great staircase up which we went
together; there was cloud at the top, but it seemed to me that there
was life and movement behind it; there was no shadow behind the cloud,
but light . . . and there was sound, musical sound. I went up with the
child's hand clasped close in my own, but at the top he disengaged
himself, and went in without a word to me or a sign, not as if he were
leaving me, but as if his real life, and mine too, were within--just as
a child would run into its home, if you came back with it from a walk,
and as if it knew you were following, and there was no need of
good-byes. I did not feel any sorrow at all then, either for the child
or myself--I simply turned round and came down . . . and then I was
back in my room again . . . and then it was you that I wanted."
"That's all very wonderful," said Howard, musing, "wonderful and
beautiful. . . . I wish I had seen that!"
"Yes, but you didn't need it," said Maud; "one sees what one needs, I
think. And I want to add something, dearest, which you must believe. I
don't want to revert to this, or to speak of it again--I don't mean to
dwell upon it; it is just enough for me. One mustn't press these things
too closely, nor want other people to share them or believe them. That
is the mistake one makes, that one thinks that other people ought to
find one's own feelings and fancies and experiences as real as one
finds them oneself. I don't even want to know what you think about
it--I don't want you to say you believe in it, or to think about it at
all. I couldn't help telling you about it, because it seems as real to
me as anything that ever happened in my life; but I don't want you to
have to pretend, or to accept it in order to please me. It is just my
own experience; I was ill, unconscious, delirious, anything you please;
but it is just a blessed fact for me, for all that, a gift from God. Do
you really trust me when I say this, dearest? I don't claim a word from
you about it, but it will make all the difference to me. I can go on
now. I don't want to die, I don't want to follow--I only want you to
feel, or to learn to feel, that the child is a real child, our very
own, as much a part of our family as Jack or Cousin Anne; and I don't
even want you to SAY that. I want all to be as before; the only
difference is that I now don't feel as if I was CHOOSING. It isn't a
case of leaving him or leaving you. I have you both--and I think you
wanted me most; and I haven't a wish or a desire in my heart but to be
with you."
"Yes, dearest," said Howard, "I understand. It is perfect to be trusted
so. I won't say anything now about it. I could not say anything. But
you have put something into my heart which will spring up and blossom.
Just now there isn't room for anything in my mind but the fact that you
are given back to me; that's all I can hold; but it won't be all. I am
glad you told me this, and utterly thankful that it is so. That you
should be here, given back to me, that must be enough now. I can't
count up my gains; but if you had come back, leaving your heart
elsewhere, how could I have borne that?"