"It never will. Things hidden—active things say 'No'! Oh, the grey horror of it there!"
She shivered and put her arms round Myles, but Mrs. Brimblecombe had heard her patient's voice lifted in terror, and this was more than any professional nurse could be expected to stand. As the medical man before her, she considered her own great reputation, and, entering now, bade Myles take his leave at once.
"Please to go, sir," she said aside to him. "You really mustn't bide no longer; an' 'tis very ill-convenient this loud talking; an' your voice, axin' your pardon, be lifted a deal tu high for a sick chamber."
"I'll go," he answered; "but don't leave her. The cursed accident of light or shade, or whatever it was that frightened her overnight, is in her mind still. She's wandering about it now. Soothe her all you can—all you can. And if she wants me, let me know."
In the passage red-eyed women of the farm met him, and Mrs. Loveys spoke.
"We'm all broken-hearted for 'e, I'm sure; an'—an' would 'e like just to see the dear, li'l perfect bwoy? Her wouldn't—missis. But p'raps you would, seein' 'tis your awn. An' the mother of un may be glad to knaw what he 'peared like later on, when she can bear to think on it."
Myles hesitated, then nodded without words and followed Mrs. Loveys into an empty room. There he looked down, among primroses and lilac that Sally had picked, upon what might have been his son; and he marvelled in dull pain at the dainty beauty of the work; and he stared with a sort of special blank wonder at the exquisite little hands and tiny nails. Presently he bent and kissed this marred mite, then departed, somehow the happier, to plan that it should lie within the churchyard for Honor's sake.
He broke his fast soon after midday, and, upon learning that his wife slept peacefully, sought for his own comfort the granite counsellors of the high hills. There was an emptiness in life before this stroke; it left him helpless, not knowing what to turn to. His great edifice of many plans and hopes was all a ruin.
Much to their own regret, Cramphorn and Churdles Ash met Stapledon as he climbed alone to the Moor. They were very sorry for him in their way, and they felt that to touch their hats and pass him by without words at such a moment would not be fitting.
"Sure, we'm grievous grieved, all the lot of us," said Jonah grimly—"more for her than you, because, bein' an Endicott, she'm more to me an' Ash than ever you can be. But 'tis a sad evil. Us had thought 'twould be osiers as you li'l wan would rock in—soft an' gentle by his mother's side; but 'tis elm instead—so all's ended, an' nought left but to bend afore the stroke."