Whilst Julian lay on the couch,
which was drawn up to the fireside, Waymark read aloud anything that
could lead them to forget themselves. At other times, Julian either
read to himself or wrote verse, which, however, he did not show to
his friend. Before springtime came he found it difficult even to
maintain a sitting attitude for long. His cough still racked him
terribly. Waymark often lay awake in the night, listening to that
fearful sound in the next room. At such times he tried to fancy
himself in the dying man's position, and then the sweat of horror
came upon his brow. Deeply he sympathised with the misery he could
do so little to allay. Yet he was doing what he might to make the
end a quiet one, and the consciousness of this brought him many a
calm moment.
However it might be in those fearful vigils, Julian's days did not
seem unhappy. He was resigning himself to the inevitable, in the
strength of that quiet which sometimes ensues upon despair. Now and
then he could even be, to all appearances, light-hearted.
With the early May he had a revival of inspiration. Strangely losing
sight of his desperate condition, he spoke once more of beginning
the great poem planned long ago.
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