He was
very sound on the subject of Mary; and so was I. And if, when I was
alone with Mary, I seemed to be sounder than I was on the subject of
William's wonderfulness, who shall blame me?
Had Mary been a mother, William's wonderfulness would have been less
greatly important. But he was her child as well as her lover. And I
think, though I do not know, she believed herself content that this
should always be, if so it were destined. It was not destined so. On
the first night of a visit I paid them in April, 1899, William, when
we were alone, told me news. I had been vaguely conscious, throughout
the evening, of some change; conscious that Mary had grown gayer, and
less gay--somehow different, somehow remote. William said that her
child would be born in September, if all went well. `She's immensely
happy,' he told me. I realised that she was indeed happier than
ever... `And of course it would be a wonderful thing, for both of us,'
he said presently, `to have a son--or a daughter.' I asked him which
he would rather it were, a son or a daughter. `Oh, either,' he
answered wearily. It was evident that he had misgivings and fears. I
tried to reason him out of them. He did not, I am thankful to say,
ever let Mary suspect them. She had no misgivings. But it was destined
that her child should live only for an hour, and that she should die
in bearing it.
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