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!"
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