Watersprings, Arthur Christopher Benson [free novels .txt] 📗

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!"


XXXIV


THE DREAM-CHILD

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