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.
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