As he looked forward
through the years, it was Maud and himself, in scene after scene;
other relations, other influences, other surroundings might fade
and decay--but children, however beautiful and delightful, making
the house glad with life and laughter, he was not sure that he
wanted them. Yet he had always thought that he possessed a strong
paternal instinct, an interest in young life, in opening problems.
Had that all, he wondered, been a mere interest, a thing to
exercise his energy and amiability upon, and had his enjoyment of
it all depended upon his real detachment, upon the fact that his
responsibility was only a temporary one? It was all very
bewildering to him. Moreover, his quiet and fertile imagination
flashed suddenly through pictures of what his beloved Maud might
have to endure, such a frail child as she was--illness,
wretchedness, suffering. Would he be equal to all that? Could he
play the role of tranquil patience, of comforting sympathy? He
determined not to anticipate that, but it blew like a cold wind on
his spirit; he could not bear that the sunshine of life should be
clouded.
He had a talk with his aunt on the subject; she had divined, in
some marvellous way, the fact that the news had disturbed him; and
she said, "Of course, dear Howard, I quite understand that this is
not the same thing to you as it is to Maud and me. It is one of the
things which divide, and must always divide, men from women.
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