CHAPTER XXIV.
DEATH AND LOVE
Thomas Crich died slowly, terribly slowly. It seemed impossible toeverybody that the thread of life could be drawn out so thin, and yetnot break. The sick man lay unutterably weak and spent, kept alive bymorphia and by drinks, which he sipped slowly. He was only halfconscious--a thin strand of consciousness linking the darkness of deathwith the light of day. Yet his will was unbroken, he was integral,complete. Only he must have perfect stillness about him.
Any presence but that of the nurses was a strain and an effort to himnow. Every morning Gerald went into the room, hoping to find his fatherpassed away at last. Yet always he saw the same transparent face, thesame dread dark hair on the waxen forehead, and the awful, inchoatedark eyes, which seemed to be decomposing into formless darkness,having only a tiny grain of vision within them.
And always, as the dark, inchoate eyes turned to him, there passedthrough Gerald's bowels a burning stroke of revolt, that seemed toresound through his whole being, threatening to break his mind with itsclangour, and making him mad.
Every morning, the son stood there, erect and taut with life, gleamingin his blondness. The gleaming blondness of his strange, imminent beingput the father into a fever of fretful irritation. He could not bear tomeet the uncanny, downward look of Gerald's blue eyes. But it was onlyfor a moment. Each on the brink of departure, the father and son lookedat each other, then parted.
For a long time Gerald preserved a perfect sang froid, he remainedquite collected. But at last, fear undermined him. He was afraid ofsome horrible collapse in himself. He had to stay and see this thingthrough. Some perverse will made him watch his father drawn over theborders of life. And yet, now, every day, the great red-hot stroke ofhorrified fear through the bowels of the son struck a furtherinflammation. Gerald went about all day with a tendency to cringe, asif there were the point of a sword of Damocles pricking the nape of hisneck.
There was no escape--he was bound up with his father, he had to see himthrough. And the father's will never relaxed or yielded to death. Itwould have to snap when death at last snapped it,--if it did notpersist after a physical death. In the same way, the will of the sonnever yielded. He stood firm and immune, he was outside this death andthis dying.
It was a trial by ordeal. Could he stand and see his father slowlydissolve and disappear in death, without once yielding his will,without once relenting before the omnipotence of death. Like a RedIndian undergoing torture, Gerald would experience the whole process ofslow death without wincing or flinching. He even triumphed in it. Hesomehow WANTED this death, even forced it. It was as if he himself weredealing the death, even when he most recoiled in horror. Still, hewould deal it, he would triumph through death.
But in the stress of this ordeal, Gerald too lost his hold on theouter, daily life. That which was much to him, came to mean nothing.Work, pleasure--it was all left behind. He went on more or lessmechanically with his business, but this activity was all extraneous.The real activity was this ghastly wrestling for death in his own soul.And his own will should triumph. Come what might, he would not bow downor submit or acknowledge a master. He had no master in death.
But as the fight went on, and all that he had been and was continued tobe destroyed, so that life was a hollow shell all round him, roaringand clattering like the sound of the sea, a noise in which heparticipated externally, and inside this hollow shell was all thedarkness and fearful space of death, he knew he would have to findreinforcements, otherwise he would collapse inwards upon the great darkvoid which circled at the centre of his soul. His will held his outerlife, his outer mind, his outer being unbroken and unchanged. But thepressure was too great. He would have to find something to make goodthe equilibrium. Something must come with him into the hollow void ofdeath in his soul, fill it up, and so equalise the pressure within tothe pressure without. For day by day he felt more and more like abubble filled with darkness, round which whirled the iridescence of hisconsciousness, and upon which the pressure of the outer world, theouter life, roared vastly.
In this extremity his instinct led him to Gudrun. He threw awayeverything now--he only wanted the relation established with her. Hewould follow her to the studio, to be near her, to talk to her. Hewould stand about the room, aimlessly picking up the implements, thelumps of clay, the little figures she had cast--they were whimsical andgrotesque--looking at them without perceiving them. And she felt himfollowing her, dogging her heels like a doom. She held away from him,and yet she knew he drew always a little nearer, a little nearer.
'I say,' he said to her one evening, in an odd, unthinking, uncertainway, 'won't you stay to dinner tonight? I wish you would.'
She started slightly. He spoke to her like a man making a request ofanother man.
'They'll be expecting me at home,' she said.
'Oh, they won't mind, will they?' he said. 'I should be awfully glad ifyou'd stay.'
Her long silence gave consent at last.
'I'll tell Thomas, shall I?' he said.
'I must go almost immediately after dinner,' she said.
It was a dark, cold evening. There was no fire in the drawing-room,they sat in the library. He was mostly silent, absent, and Winifredtalked little. But when Gerald did rouse himself, he smiled and waspleasant and ordinary with her. Then there came over him again the longblanks, of which he was not aware.
She was very much attracted by him. He looked so preoccupied, and hisstrange, blank silences, which she could not read, moved her and madeher wonder over him, made her feel reverential towards him.
But he was very kind. He gave her the best things at the table, he hada bottle of slightly sweet, delicious golden wine brought out fordinner, knowing she would prefer it to the burgundy. She felt herselfesteemed, needed almost.
As they took coffee in the library, there was a soft, very softknocking at the door. He started, and called 'Come in.' The timbre ofhis voice, like something vibrating at high pitch, unnerved Gudrun. Anurse in white entered, half hovering in the doorway like a shadow. Shewas very good-looking, but strangely enough, shy and self-mistrusting.
'The doctor would like to speak to you, Mr Crich,' she said, in herlow, discreet voice.
'The doctor!' he said, starting up. 'Where is he?'
'He is in the dining-room.'
'Tell him I'm coming.'
He drank up his coffee, and followed the nurse, who had dissolved likea shadow.
'Which nurse was that?' asked Gudrun.
'Miss Inglis--I like her best,' replied Winifred.
After a while Gerald came back, looking absorbed by his own thoughts,and having some of that tension and abstraction which is seen in aslightly drunken man. He did not say what the doctor had wanted himfor, but stood before the fire, with his hands behind his back, and hisface open and as if rapt. Not that he was really thinking--he was onlyarrested in pure suspense inside himself, and thoughts wafted throughhis mind without order.
'I must go now and see Mama,' said Winifred, 'and see Dadda before hegoes to sleep.'
She bade them both good-night.
Gudrun also rose to take her leave.
'You needn't go yet, need you?' said Gerald, glancing quickly at theclock.' It is early yet. I'll walk down with you when you go. Sit down,don't hurry away.'
Gudrun sat down, as if, absent as he was, his will had power over her.She felt almost mesmerised. He was strange to her, something unknown.What was he thinking, what was he feeling, as he stood there so rapt,saying nothing? He kept her--she could feel that. He would not let hergo. She watched him in humble submissiveness.
'Had the doctor anything new to tell you?' she asked, softly, atlength, with that gentle, timid sympathy which touched a keen fibre inhis heart. He lifted his eyebrows with a negligent, indifferentexpression.
'No--nothing new,' he replied, as if the question were quite casual,trivial. 'He says the pulse is very weak indeed, very intermittent--butthat doesn't necessarily mean much, you know.'
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bsp; He looked down at her. Her eyes were dark and soft and unfolded, with astricken look that roused him.
'No,' she murmured at length. 'I don't understand anything about thesethings.'
'Just as well not,' he said. 'I say, won't you have a cigarette?--do!'He quickly fetched the box, and held her a light. Then he stood beforeher on the hearth again.
'No,' he said, 'we've never had much illness in the house, either--nottill father.' He seemed to meditate a while. Then looking down at her,with strangely communicative blue eyes, that filled her with dread, hecontinued: 'It's something you don't reckon with, you know, till it isthere. And then you realise that it was there all the time--it wasalways there--you understand what I mean?--the possibility of thisincurable illness, this slow death.'
He moved his feet uneasily on the marble hearth, and put his cigaretteto his mouth, looking up at the ceiling.
'I know,' murmured Gudrun: 'it is dreadful.'
He smoked without knowing. Then he took the cigarette from his lips,bared his teeth, and putting the tip of his tongue between his teethspat off a grain of tobacco, turning slightly aside, like a man who isalone, or who is lost in thought.
'I don't know what the effect actually IS, on one,' he said, and againhe looked down at her. Her eyes were dark and stricken with knowledge,looking into his. He saw her submerged, and he turned aside his face.'But I absolutely am not the same. There's nothing left, if youunderstand what I mean. You seem to be clutching at the void--and atthe same time you are void yourself. And so you don't know what to DO.'
'No,' she murmured. A heavy thrill ran down her nerves, heavy, almostpleasure, almost pain. 'What can be done?' she added.
He turned, and flipped the ash from his cigarette on to the greatmarble hearth-stones, that lay bare in the room, without fender or bar.
'I don't know, I'm sure,' he replied. 'But I do think you've got tofind some way of resolving the situation--not because you want to, butbecause you've GOT to, otherwise you're done. The whole of everything,and yourself included, is just on the point of caving in, and you arejust holding it up with your hands. Well, it's a situation thatobviously can't continue. You can't stand holding the roof up with yourhands, for ever. You know that sooner or later you'll HAVE to let go.Do you understand what I mean? And so something's got to be done, orthere's a universal collapse--as far as you yourself are concerned.'
He shifted slightly on the hearth, crunching a cinder under his heel.He looked down at it. Gudrun was aware of the beautiful old marblepanels of the fireplace, swelling softly carved, round him and abovehim. She felt as if she were caught at last by fate, imprisoned in somehorrible and fatal trap.
'But what CAN be done?' she murmured humbly. 'You must use me if I canbe of any help at all--but how can I? I don't see how I CAN help you.'
He looked down at her critically.
'I don't want you to HELP,' he said, slightly irritated, 'becausethere's nothing to be DONE. I only want sympathy, do you see: I wantsomebody I can talk to sympathetically. That eases the strain. Andthere IS nobody to talk to sympathetically. That's the curious thing.There IS nobody. There's Rupert Birkin. But then he ISN'T sympathetic,he wants to DICTATE. And that is no use whatsoever.'
She was caught in a strange snare. She looked down at her hands.
Then there was the sound of the door softly opening. Gerald started. Hewas chagrined. It was his starting that really startled Gudrun. Then hewent forward, with quick, graceful, intentional courtesy.
'Oh, mother!' he said. 'How nice of you to come down. How are you?'
The elderly woman, loosely and bulkily wrapped in a purple gown, cameforward silently, slightly hulked, as usual. Her son was at her side.He pushed her up a chair, saying 'You know Miss Brangwen, don't you?'
The mother glanced at Gudrun indifferently.
'Yes,' she said. Then she turned her wonderful, forget-me-not blue eyesup to her son, as she slowly sat down in the chair he had brought her.
'I came to ask you about your father,' she said, in her rapid,scarcely-audible voice. 'I didn't know you had company.'
'No? Didn't Winifred tell you? Miss Brangwen stayed to dinner, to makeus a little more lively--'
Mrs Crich turned slowly round to Gudrun, and looked at her, but withunseeing eyes.
'I'm afraid it would be no treat to her.' Then she turned again to herson. 'Winifred tells me the doctor had something to say about yourfather. What is it?'
'Only that the pulse is very weak--misses altogether a good manytimes--so that he might not last the night out,' Gerald replied.
Mrs Crich sat perfectly impassive, as if she had not heard. Her bulkseemed hunched in the chair, her fair hair hung slack over her ears.But her skin was clear and fine, her hands, as she sat with themforgotten and folded, were quite beautiful, full of potential energy. Agreat mass of energy seemed decaying up in that silent, hulking form.
She looked up at her son, as he stood, keen and soldierly, near to her.Her eyes were most wonderfully blue, bluer than forget-me-nots. Sheseemed to have a certain confidence in Gerald, and to feel a certainmotherly mistrust of him.
'How are YOU?' she muttered, in her strangely quiet voice, as if nobodyshould hear but him. 'You're not getting into a state, are you?
You're not letting it make you hysterical?'
The curious challenge in the last words startled Gudrun.
'I don't think so, mother,' he answered, rather coldly cheery.
'Somebody's got to see it through, you know.'
'Have they? Have they?' answered his mother rapidly. 'Why should YOUtake it on yourself? What have you got to do, seeing it through. Itwill see itself through. You are not needed.'
'No, I don't suppose I can do any good,' he answered. 'It's just how itaffects us, you see.'
'You like to be affected--don't you? It's quite nuts for you? You wouldhave to be important. You have no need to stop at home. Why don't yougo away!'
These sentences, evidently the ripened grain of many dark hours, tookGerald by surprise.
'I don't think it's any good going away now, mother, at the lastminute,' he said, coldly.
'You take care,' replied his mother. 'You mind YOURSELF--that's yourbusiness. You take too much on yourself. You mind YOURSELF, or you'llfind yourself in Queer Street, that's what will happen to you. You'rehysterical, always were.'
'I'm all right, mother,' he said. 'There's no need to worry about ME, Iassure you.'
'Let the dead bury their dead--don't go and bury yourself along withthem--that's what I tell you. I know you well enough.'
He did not answer this, not knowing what to say. The mother sat bunchedup in silence, her beautiful white hands, that had no rings whatsoever,clasping the pommels of her arm-chair.
'You can't do it,' she said, almost bitterly. 'You haven't the nerve.You're as weak as a cat, really--always were. Is this young womanstaying here?'
'No,' said Gerald. 'She is going home tonight.'
'Then she'd better have the dog-cart. Does she go far?'
'Only to Beldover.'
'Ah!' The elderly woman never looked at Gudrun, yet she seemed to takeknowledge of her presence.
'You are inclined to take too much on yourself, Gerald,' said themother, pulling herself to her feet, with a little difficulty.
'Will you go, mother?' he asked, politely.
'Yes, I'll go up again,' she replied. Turning to Gudrun, she bade her'Good-night.' Then she went slowly to the door, as if she wereunaccustomed to walking. At the door she lifted her face to him,implicitly. He kissed her.
'Don't come any further with me,' she said, in her barely audiblevoice. 'I don't want you any further.'
He bade her good-night, watched her across to the stairs and mountslowly. Then he closed the door and came back to Gudrun. Gudrun rosealso, to go.
'A queer being, my mother,' he said.
'Yes,' replied Gudrun.
'She has her own thoughts.'
'Yes,' said Gudrun.
Then they we
re silent.
'You want to go?' he asked. 'Half a minute, I'll just have a horse putin--'
'No,' said Gudrun. 'I want to walk.'
He had promised to walk with her down the long, lonely mile of drive,and she wanted this.
'You might JUST as well drive,' he said.
'I'd MUCH RATHER walk,' she asserted, with emphasis.
'You would! Then I will come along with you. You know where your thingsare? I'll put boots on.'
He put on a cap, and an overcoat over his evening dress. They went outinto the night.
'Let us light a cigarette,' he said, stopping in a sheltered angle ofthe porch. 'You have one too.'
So, with the scent of tobacco on the night air, they set off down thedark drive that ran between close-cut hedges through sloping meadows.
He wanted to put his arm round her. If he could put his arm round her,and draw her against him as they walked, he would equilibriate himself.For now he felt like a pair of scales, the half of which tips down anddown into an indefinite void. He must recover some sort of balance. Andhere was the hope and the perfect recovery.
Blind to her, thinking only of himself, he slipped his arm softly roundher waist, and drew her to him. Her heart fainted, feeling herselftaken. But then, his arm was so strong, she quailed under its powerfulclose grasp. She died a little death, and was drawn against him as theywalked down the stormy darkness. He seemed to balance her perfectly inopposition to himself, in their dual motion of walking. So, suddenly,he was liberated and perfect, strong, heroic.
He put his hand to his mouth and threw his cigarette away, a gleamingpoint, into the unseen hedge. Then he was quite free to balance her.
'That's better,' he said, with exultancy.
The exultation in his voice was like a sweetish, poisonous drug to her.Did she then mean so much to him! She sipped the poison.
'Are you happier?' she asked, wistfully.
'Much better,' he said, in the same exultant voice, 'and I was ratherfar gone.'
She nestled against him. He felt her all soft and warm, she was therich, lovely substance of his being. The warmth and motion of her walksuffused through him wonderfully.
'I'm SO glad if I help you,' she said.
'Yes,' he answered. 'There's nobody else could do it, if you wouldn't.'
'That is true,' she said to herself, with a thrill of strange, fatalelation.
As they walked, he seemed to lift her nearer and nearer to himself,till she moved upon the firm vehicle of his body.
He was so strong, so sustaining, and he could not be opposed. Shedrifted along in a wonderful interfusion of physical motion, down thedark, blowy hillside. Far across shone the little yellow lights ofBeldover, many of them, spread in a thick patch on another dark hill.But he and she were walking in perfect, isolated darkness, outside theworld.
'But how much do you care for me!' came her voice, almost querulous.'You see, I don't know, I don't understand!'
'How much!' His voice rang with a painful elation. 'I don't knoweither--but everything.' He was startled by his own declaration. It wastrue. So he stripped himself of every safeguard, in making thisadmission to her. He cared everything for her--she was everything.
'But I can't believe it,' said her low voice, amazed, trembling. Shewas trembling with doubt and exultance. This was the thing she wantedto hear, only this. Yet now she heard it, heard the strange clappingvibration of truth in his voice as he said it, she could not believe.She could not believe--she did not believe. Yet she believed,triumphantly, with fatal exultance.
'Why not?' he said. 'Why don't you believe it? It's true. It is true,as we stand at this moment--' he stood still with her in the wind; 'Icare for nothing on earth, or in heaven, outside this spot where weare. And it isn't my own presence I care about, it is all yours. I'dsell my soul a hundred times--but I couldn't bear not to have you here.I couldn't bear to be alone. My brain would burst. It is true.' He drewher closer to him, with definite movement.
'No,' she murmured, afraid. Yet this was what she wanted. Why did sheso lose courage?
They resumed their strange walk. They were such strangers--and yet theywere so frightfully, unthinkably near. It was like a madness. Yet itwas what she wanted, it was what she wanted. They had descended thehill, and now they were coming to the square arch where the road passedunder the colliery railway. The arch, Gudrun knew, had walls of squaredstone, mossy on one side with water that trickled down, dry on theother side. She had stood under it to hear the train rumble thunderingover the logs overhead. And she knew that under this dark and lonelybridge the young colliers stood in the darkness with their sweethearts,in rainy weather. And so she wanted to stand under the bridge with HERsweetheart, and be kissed under the bridge in the invisible darkness.Her steps dragged as she drew near.
So, under the bridge, they came to a standstill, and he lifted her uponhis breast. His body vibrated taut and powerful as he closed upon herand crushed her, breathless and dazed and destroyed, crushed her uponhis breast. Ah, it was terrible, and perfect. Under this bridge, thecolliers pressed their lovers to their breast. And now, under thebridge, the master of them all pressed her to himself? And how muchmore powerful and terrible was his embrace than theirs, how much moreconcentrated and supreme his love was, than theirs in the same sort!She felt she would swoon, die, under the vibrating, inhuman tension ofhis arms and his body--she would pass away. Then the unthinkable highvibration slackened and became more undulating. He slackened and drewher with him to stand with his back to the wall.
She was almost unconscious. So the colliers' lovers would stand withtheir backs to the walls, holding their sweethearts and kissing them asshe was being kissed. Ah, but would their kisses be fine and powerfulas the kisses of the firm-mouthed master? Even the keen, short-cutmoustache--the colliers would not have that.
And the colliers' sweethearts would, like herself, hang their headsback limp over their shoulder, and look out from the dark archway, atthe close patch of yellow lights on the unseen hill in the distance, orat the vague form of trees, and at the buildings of the collierywood-yard, in the other direction.
His arms were fast around her, he seemed to be gathering her intohimself, her warmth, her softness, her adorable weight, drinking in thesuffusion of her physical being, avidly. He lifted her, and seemed topour her into himself, like wine into a cup.
'This is worth everything,' he said, in a strange, penetrating voice.
So she relaxed, and seemed to melt, to flow into him, as if she weresome infinitely warm and precious suffusion filling into his veins,like an intoxicant. Her arms were round his neck, he kissed her andheld her perfectly suspended, she was all slack and flowing into him,and he was the firm, strong cup that receives the wine of her life. Soshe lay cast upon him, stranded, lifted up against him, melting andmelting under his kisses, melting into his limbs and bones, as if hewere soft iron becoming surcharged with her electric life.
Till she seemed to swoon, gradually her mind went, and she passed away,everything in her was melted down and fluid, and she lay still, becomecontained by him, sleeping in him as lightning sleeps in a pure, softstone. So she was passed away and gone in him, and he was perfected.
When she opened her eyes again, and saw the patch of lights in thedistance, it seemed to her strange that the world still existed, thatshe was standing under the bridge resting her head on Gerald's breast.Gerald--who was he? He was the exquisite adventure, the desirableunknown to her.
She looked up, and in the darkness saw his face above her, his shapely,male face. There seemed a faint, white light emitted from him, a whiteaura, as if he were visitor from the unseen. She reached up, like Evereaching to the apples on the tree of knowledge, and she kissed him,though her passion was a transcendent fear of the thing he was,touching his face with her infinitely delicate, encroaching wonderingfingers. Her fingers went over the mould of his face, over hisfeatures. How perfect and foreign he was--ah how dangerous! Her soulthrilled with complete knowledge. This was the gl
istening, forbiddenapple, this face of a man. She kissed him, putting her fingers over hisface, his eyes, his nostrils, over his brows and his ears, to his neck,to know him, to gather him in by touch. He was so firm, and shapely,with such satisfying, inconceivable shapeliness, strange, yetunutterably clear. He was such an unutterable enemy, yet glisteningwith uncanny white fire. She wanted to touch him and touch him andtouch him, till she had him all in her hands, till she had strained himinto her knowledge. Ah, if she could have the precious KNOWLEDGE ofhim, she would be filled, and nothing could deprive her of this. For hewas so unsure, so risky in the common world of day.
'You are so BEAUTIFUL,' she murmured in her throat.
He wondered, and was suspended. But she felt him quiver, and she camedown involuntarily nearer upon him. He could not help himself. Herfingers had him under their power. The fathomless, fathomless desirethey could evoke in him was deeper than death, where he had no choice.
But she knew now, and it was enough. For the time, her soul wasdestroyed with the exquisite shock of his invisible fluid lightning.She knew. And this knowledge was a death from which she must recover.How much more of him was there to know? Ah much, much, many daysharvesting for her large, yet perfectly subtle and intelligent handsupon the field of his living, radio-active body. Ah, her hands wereeager, greedy for knowledge. But for the present it was enough, enough,as much as her soul could bear. Too much, and she would shatterherself, she would fill the fine vial of her soul too quickly, and itwould break. Enough now--enough for the time being. There were all theafter days when her hands, like birds, could feed upon the fields ofhim mystical plastic form--till then enough.
And even he was glad to be checked, rebuked, held back. For to desireis better than to possess, the finality of the end was dreaded asdeeply as it was desired.
They walked on towards the town, towards where the lamps threadedsingly, at long intervals down the dark high-road of the valley. Theycame at length to the gate of the drive.
'Don't come any further,' she said.
'You'd rather I didn't?' he asked, relieved. He did not want to go upthe public streets with her, his soul all naked and alight as it was.
'Much rather--good-night.' She held out her hand. He grasped it, thentouched the perilous, potent fingers with his lips.
'Good-night,' he said. 'Tomorrow.'
And they parted. He went home full of the strength and the power ofliving desire.
But the next day, she did not come, she sent a note that she was keptindoors by a cold. Here was a torment! But he possessed his soul insome sort of patience, writing a brief answer, telling her how sorry hewas not to see her.
The day after this, he stayed at home--it seemed so futile to go downto the office. His father could not live the week out. And he wanted tobe at home, suspended.
Gerald sat on a chair by the window in his father's room. The landscapeoutside was black and winter-sodden. His father lay grey and ashen onthe bed, a nurse moved silently in her white dress, neat and elegant,even beautiful. There was a scent of eau-de-cologne in the room. Thenurse went out of the room, Gerald was alone with death, facing thewinter-black landscape.
'Is there much more water in Denley?' came the faint voice, determinedand querulous, from the bed. The dying man was asking about a leakagefrom Willey Water into one of the pits.
'Some more--we shall have to run off the lake,' said Gerald.
'Will you?' The faint voice filtered to extinction. There was deadstillness. The grey-faced, sick man lay with eyes closed, more deadthan death. Gerald looked away. He felt his heart was seared, it wouldperish if this went on much longer.
Suddenly he heard a strange noise. Turning round, he saw his father'seyes wide open, strained and rolling in a frenzy of inhuman struggling.Gerald started to his feet, and stood transfixed in horror.
'Wha-a-ah-h-h-' came a horrible choking rattle from his father'sthroat, the fearful, frenzied eye, rolling awfully in its wildfruitless search for help, passed blindly over Gerald, then up came thedark blood and mess pumping over the face of the agonised being. Thetense body relaxed, the head fell aside, down the pillow.
Gerald stood transfixed, his soul echoing in horror. He would move, buthe could not. He could not move his limbs. His brain seemed to re-echo,like a pulse.
The nurse in white softly entered. She glanced at Gerald, then at thebed.
'Ah!' came her soft whimpering cry, and she hurried forward to the deadman. 'Ah-h!' came the slight sound of her agitated distress, as shestood bending over the bedside. Then she recovered, turned, and camefor towel and sponge. She was wiping the dead face carefully, andmurmuring, almost whimpering, very softly: 'Poor Mr Crich!--Poor MrCrich! Poor Mr Crich!'
'Is he dead?' clanged Gerald's sharp voice.
'Oh yes, he's gone,' replied the soft, moaning voice of the nurse, asshe looked up at Gerald's face. She was young and beautiful andquivering. A strange sort of grin went over Gerald's face, over thehorror. And he walked out of the room.
He was going to tell his mother. On the landing he met his brotherBasil.
'He's gone, Basil,' he said, scarcely able to subdue his voice, not tolet an unconscious, frightening exultation sound through.
'What?' cried Basil, going pale.
Gerald nodded. Then he went on to his mother's room.
She was sitting in her purple gown, sewing, very slowly sewing, puttingin a stitch then another stitch. She looked up at Gerald with her blueundaunted eyes.
'Father's gone,' he said.
'He's dead? Who says so?'
'Oh, you know, mother, if you see him.'
She put her sewing down, and slowly rose.
'Are you going to see him?' he asked.
'Yes,' she said
By the bedside the children already stood in a weeping group.
'Oh, mother!' cried the daughters, almost in hysterics, weeping loudly.
But the mother went forward. The dead man lay in repose, as if gentlyasleep, so gently, so peacefully, like a young man sleeping in purity.He was still warm. She stood looking at him in gloomy, heavy silence,for some time.
'Ay,' she said bitterly, at length, speaking as if to the unseenwitnesses of the air. 'You're dead.' She stood for some minutes insilence, looking down. 'Beautiful,' she asserted, 'beautiful as if lifehad never touched you--never touched you. God send I look different. Ihope I shall look my years, when I am dead. Beautiful, beautiful,' shecrooned over him. 'You can see him in his teens, with his first beardon his face. A beautiful soul, beautiful--' Then there was a tearing inher voice as she cried: 'None of you look like this, when you are dead!Don't let it happen again.' It was a strange, wild command from out ofthe unknown. Her children moved unconsciously together, in a nearergroup, at the dreadful command in her voice. The colour was flushedbright in her cheek, she looked awful and wonderful. 'Blame me, blameme if you like, that he lies there like a lad in his teens, with hisfirst beard on his face. Blame me if you like. But you none of youknow.' She was silent in intense silence.
Then there came, in a low, tense voice: 'If I thought that the childrenI bore would lie looking like that in death, I'd strangle them whenthey were infants, yes--'
'No, mother,' came the strange, clarion voice of Gerald from thebackground, 'we are different, we don't blame you.'
She turned and looked full in his eyes. Then she lifted her hands in astrange half-gesture of mad despair.
'Pray!' she said strongly. 'Pray for yourselves to God, for there's nohelp for you from your parents.'
'Oh mother!' cried her daughters wildly.
But she had turned and gone, and they all went quickly away from eachother.
When Gudrun heard that Mr Crich was dead, she felt rebuked. She hadstayed away lest Gerald should think her too easy of winning. And now,he was in the midst of trouble, whilst she was cold.
The following day she went up as usual to Winifred, who was glad to seeher, glad to get away into the studio. The girl had wept, and then, toofrightened, had turne
d aside to avoid any more tragic eventuality. Sheand Gudrun resumed work as usual, in the isolation of the studio, andthis seemed an immeasurable happiness, a pure world of freedom, afterthe aimlessness and misery of the house. Gudrun stayed on till evening.She and Winifred had dinner brought up to the studio, where they ate infreedom, away from all the people in the house.
After dinner Gerald came up. The great high studio was full of shadowand a fragrance of coffee. Gudrun and Winifred had a little table nearthe fire at the far end, with a white lamp whose light did not travelfar. They were a tiny world to themselves, the two girls surrounded bylovely shadows, the beams and rafters shadowy over-head, the benchesand implements shadowy down the studio.
'You are cosy enough here,' said Gerald, going up to them.
There was a low brick fireplace, full of fire, an old blue Turkish rug,the little oak table with the lamp and the white-and-blue cloth and thedessert, and Gudrun making coffee in an odd brass coffee-maker, andWinifred scalding a little milk in a tiny saucepan.
'Have you had coffee?' said Gudrun.
'I have, but I'll have some more with you,' he replied.
'Then you must have it in a glass--there are only two cups,' saidWinifred.
'It is the same to me,' he said, taking a chair and coming into thecharmed circle of the girls. How happy they were, how cosy andglamorous it was with them, in a world of lofty shadows! The outsideworld, in which he had been transacting funeral business all the daywas completely wiped out. In an instant he snuffed glamour and magic.
They had all their things very dainty, two odd and lovely little cups,scarlet and solid gilt, and a little black jug with scarlet discs, andthe curious coffee-machine, whose spirit-flame flowed steadily, almostinvisibly. There was the effect of rather sinister richness, in whichGerald at once escaped himself.
They all sat down, and Gudrun carefully poured out the coffee.
'Will you have milk?' she asked calmly, yet nervously poising thelittle black jug with its big red dots. She was always so completelycontrolled, yet so bitterly nervous.
'No, I won't,' he replied.
So, with a curious humility, she placed him the little cup of coffee,and herself took the awkward tumbler. She seemed to want to serve him.
'Why don't you give me the glass--it is so clumsy for you,' he said. Hewould much rather have had it, and seen her daintily served. But shewas silent, pleased with the disparity, with her self-abasement.
'You are quite EN MENAGE,' he said.
'Yes. We aren't really at home to visitors,' said Winifred.
'You're not? Then I'm an intruder?'
For once he felt his conventional dress was out of place, he was anoutsider.
Gudrun was very quiet. She did not feel drawn to talk to him. At thisstage, silence was best--or mere light words. It was best to leaveserious things aside. So they talked gaily and lightly, till they heardthe man below lead out the horse, and call it to 'back-back!' into thedog-cart that was to take Gudrun home. So she put on her things, andshook hands with Gerald, without once meeting his eyes. And she wasgone.
The funeral was detestable. Afterwards, at the tea-table, the daughterskept saying--'He was a good father to us--the best father in theworld'--or else--'We shan't easily find another man as good as fatherwas.'
Gerald acquiesced in all this. It was the right conventional attitude,and, as far as the world went, he believed in the conventions. He tookit as a matter of course. But Winifred hated everything, and hid in thestudio, and cried her heart out, and wished Gudrun would come.
Luckily everybody was going away. The Criches never stayed long athome. By dinner-time, Gerald was left quite alone. Even Winifred wascarried off to London, for a few days with her sister Laura.
But when Gerald was really left alone, he could not bear it. One daypassed by, and another. And all the time he was like a man hung inchains over the edge of an abyss. Struggle as he might, he could notturn himself to the solid earth, he could not get footing. He wassuspended on the edge of a void, writhing. Whatever he thought of, wasthe abyss--whether it were friends or strangers, or work or play, itall showed him only the same bottomless void, in which his heart swungperishing. There was no escape, there was nothing to grasp hold of. Hemust writhe on the edge of the chasm, suspended in chains of invisiblephysical life.
At first he was quiet, he kept still, expecting the extremity to passaway, expecting to find himself released into the world of the living,after this extremity of penance. But it did not pass, and a crisisgained upon him.
As the evening of the third day came on, his heart rang with fear. Hecould not bear another night. Another night was coming on, for anothernight he was to be suspended in chain of physical life, over thebottomless pit of nothingness. And he could not bear it. He could notbear it. He was frightened deeply, and coldly, frightened in his soul.He did not believe in his own strength any more. He could not fall intothis infinite void, and rise again. If he fell, he would be gone forever. He must withdraw, he must seek reinforcements. He did not believein his own single self, any further than this.
After dinner, faced with the ultimate experience of his ownnothingness, he turned aside. He pulled on his boots, put on his coat,and set out to walk in the night.
It was dark and misty. He went through the wood, stumbling and feelinghis way to the Mill. Birkin was away. Good--he was half glad. He turnedup the hill, and stumbled blindly over the wild slopes, having lost thepath in the complete darkness. It was boring. Where was he going? Nomatter. He stumbled on till he came to a path again. Then he went onthrough another wood. His mind became dark, he went on automatically.Without thought or sensation, he stumbled unevenly on, out into theopen again, fumbling for stiles, losing the path, and going along thehedges of the fields till he came to the outlet.
And at last he came to the high road. It had distracted him to struggleblindly through the maze of darkness. But now, he must take adirection. And he did not even know where he was. But he must take adirection now. Nothing would be resolved by merely walking, walkingaway. He had to take a direction.
He stood still on the road, that was high in the utterly dark night,and he did not know where he was. It was a strange sensation, his heartbeating, and ringed round with the utterly unknown darkness. So hestood for some time.
Then he heard footsteps, and saw a small, swinging light. Heimmediately went towards this. It was a miner.
'Can you tell me,' he said, 'where this road goes?'
'Road? Ay, it goes ter Whatmore.'
'Whatmore! Oh thank you, that's right. I thought I was wrong.Good-night.'
'Good-night,' replied the broad voice of the miner.
Gerald guessed where he was. At least, when he came to Whatmore, hewould know. He was glad to be on a high road. He walked forward as in asleep of decision.
That was Whatmore Village--? Yes, the King's Head--and there the hallgates. He descended the steep hill almost running. Winding through thehollow, he passed the Grammar School, and came to Willey Green Church.The churchyard! He halted.
Then in another moment he had clambered up the wall and was going amongthe graves. Even in this darkness he could see the heaped pallor of oldwhite flowers at his feet. This then was the grave. He stooped down.The flowers were cold and clammy. There was a raw scent ofchrysanthemums and tube-roses, deadened. He felt the clay beneath, andshrank, it was so horribly cold and sticky. He stood away in revulsion.
Here was one centre then, here in the complete darkness beside theunseen, raw grave. But there was nothing for him here. No, he hadnothing to stay here for. He felt as if some of the clay were stickingcold and unclean, on his heart. No, enough of this.
Where then?--home? Never! It was no use going there. That was less thanno use. It could not be done. There was somewhere else to go. Where?
A dangerous resolve formed in his heart, like a fixed idea. There wasGudrun--she would be safe in her home. But he could get at her--hewould get at her. He would not go back tonight till he had co
me to her,if it cost him his life. He staked his all on this throw.
He set off walking straight across the fields towards Beldover. It wasso dark, nobody could ever see him. His feet were wet and cold, heavywith clay. But he went on persistently, like a wind, straight forward,as if to his fate. There were great gaps in his consciousness. He wasconscious that he was at Winthorpe hamlet, but quite unconscious how hehad got there. And then, as in a dream, he was in the long street ofBeldover, with its street-lamps.
There was a noise of voices, and of a door shutting loudly, and beingbarred, and of men talking in the night. The 'Lord Nelson' had justclosed, and the drinkers were going home. He had better ask one ofthese where she lived--for he did not know the side streets at all.
'Can you tell me where Somerset Drive is?' he asked of one of theuneven men.
'Where what?' replied the tipsy miner's voice.
'Somerset Drive.'
'Somerset Drive!--I've heard o' such a place, but I couldn't for mylife say where it is. Who might you be wanting?'
'Mr Brangwen--William Brangwen.'
'William Brangwen--?--?'
'Who teaches at the Grammar School, at Willey Green--his daughterteaches there too.'
'O-o-o-oh, Brangwen! NOW I've got you. Of COURSE, William Brangwen!Yes, yes, he's got two lasses as teachers, aside hisself. Ay, that'shim--that's him! Why certainly I know where he lives, back your life Ido! Yi--WHAT place do they ca' it?'
'Somerset Drive,' repeated Gerald patiently. He knew his own colliersfairly well.
'Somerset Drive, for certain!' said the collier, swinging his arm as ifcatching something up. 'Somerset Drive--yi! I couldn't for my life layhold o' the lercality o' the place. Yis, I know the place, to be sure Ido--'
He turned unsteadily on his feet, and pointed up the dark, nighdesertedroad.
'You go up theer--an' you ta'e th' first--yi, th' first turnin' on yourleft--o' that side--past Withamses tuffy shop--'
'I know,' said Gerald.
'Ay! You go down a bit, past wheer th' water-man lives--and thenSomerset Drive, as they ca' it, branches off on 't right hand side--an'there's nowt but three houses in it, no more than three, Ibelieve,--an' I'm a'most certain as theirs is th' last--th' last o' th'three--you see--'
'Thank you very much,' said Gerald. 'Good-night.'
And he started off, leaving the tipsy man there standing rooted.
Gerald went past the dark shops and houses, most of them sleeping now,and twisted round to the little blind road that ended on a field ofdarkness. He slowed down, as he neared his goal, not knowing how heshould proceed. What if the house were closed in darkness?
But it was not. He saw a big lighted window, and heard voices, then agate banged. His quick ears caught the sound of Birkin's voice, hiskeen eyes made out Birkin, with Ursula standing in a pale dress on thestep of the garden path. Then Ursula stepped down, and came along theroad, holding Birkin's arm.
Gerald went across into the darkness and they dawdled past him, talkinghappily, Birkin's voice low, Ursula's high and distinct. Gerald wentquickly to the house.
The blinds were drawn before the big, lighted window of the diningroom.Looking up the path at the side he could see the door left open,shedding a soft, coloured light from the hall lamp. He went quickly andsilently up the path, and looked up into the hall. There were pictureson the walls, and the antlers of a stag--and the stairs going up on oneside--and just near the foot of the stairs the half opened door of thedining-room.
With heart drawn fine, Gerald stepped into the hall, whose floor was ofcoloured tiles, went quickly and looked into the large, pleasant room.In a chair by the fire, the father sat asleep, his head tilted backagainst the side of the big oak chimney piece, his ruddy face seenforeshortened, the nostrils open, the mouth fallen a little. It wouldtake the merest sound to wake him.
Gerald stood a second suspended. He glanced down the passage behindhim. It was all dark. Again he was suspended. Then he went swiftlyupstairs. His senses were so finely, almost supernaturally keen, thathe seemed to cast his own will over the half-unconscious house.
He came to the first landing. There he stood, scarcely breathing.Again, corresponding to the door below, there was a door again. Thatwould be the mother's room. He could hear her moving about in thecandlelight. She would be expecting her husband to come up. He lookedalong the dark landing.
Then, silently, on infinitely careful feet, he went along the passage,feeling the wall with the extreme tips of his fingers. There was adoor. He stood and listened. He could hear two people's breathing. Itwas not that. He went stealthily forward. There was another door,slightly open. The room was in darkness. Empty. Then there was thebathroom, he could smell the soap and the heat. Then at the end anotherbedroom--one soft breathing. This was she.
With an almost occult carefulness he turned the door handle, and openedthe door an inch. It creaked slightly. Then he opened it anotherinch--then another. His heart did not beat, he seemed to create asilence about himself, an obliviousness.
He was in the room. Still the sleeper breathed softly. It was verydark. He felt his way forward inch by inch, with his feet and hands. Hetouched the bed, he could hear the sleeper. He drew nearer, bendingclose as if his eyes would disclose whatever there was. And then, verynear to his face, to his fear, he saw the round, dark head of a boy.
He recovered, turned round, saw the door ajar, a faint light revealed.And he retreated swiftly, drew the door to without fastening it, andpassed rapidly down the passage. At the head of the stairs hehesitated. There was still time to flee.
But it was unthinkable. He would maintain his will. He turned past thedoor of the parental bedroom like a shadow, and was climbing the secondflight of stairs. They creaked under his weight--it was exasperating.Ah what disaster, if the mother's door opened just beneath him, and shesaw him! It would have to be, if it were so. He held the control still.
He was not quite up these stairs when he heard a quick running of feetbelow, the outer door was closed and locked, he heard Ursula's voice,then the father's sleepy exclamation. He pressed on swiftly to theupper landing.
Again a door was ajar, a room was empty. Feeling his way forward, withthe tips of his fingers, travelling rapidly, like a blind man, anxiouslest Ursula should come upstairs, he found another door. There, withhis preternaturally fine sense alert, he listened. He heard someonemoving in bed. This would be she.
Softly now, like one who has only one sense, the tactile sense, heturned the latch. It clicked. He held still. The bed-clothes rustled.His heart did not beat. Then again he drew the latch back, and verygently pushed the door. It made a sticking noise as it gave.
'Ursula?' said Gudrun's voice, frightened. He quickly opened the doorand pushed it behind him.
'Is it you, Ursula?' came Gudrun's frightened voice. He heard hersitting up in bed. In another moment she would scream.
'No, it's me,' he said, feeling his way towards her. 'It is I, Gerald.'
She sat motionless in her bed in sheer astonishment. She was tooastonished, too much taken by surprise, even to be afraid.
'Gerald!' she echoed, in blank amazement. He had found his way to thebed, and his outstretched hand touched her warm breast blindly. Sheshrank away.
'Let me make a light,' she said, springing out.
He stood perfectly motionless. He heard her touch the match-box, heheard her fingers in their movement. Then he saw her in the light of amatch, which she held to the candle. The light rose in the room, thensank to a small dimness, as the flame sank down on the candle, beforeit mounted again.
She looked at him, as he stood near the other side of the bed. His capwas pulled low over his brow, his black overcoat was buttoned close upto his chin. His face was strange and luminous. He was inevitable as asupernatural being. When she had seen him, she knew. She knew there wassomething fatal in the situation, and she must accept it. Yet she mustchallenge him.
'How did you come up?' she asked.
'I walked up the stairs--
the door was open.'
She looked at him.
'I haven't closed this door, either,' he said. She walked swiftlyacross the room, and closed her door, softly, and locked it. Then shecame back.
She was wonderful, with startled eyes and flushed cheeks, and her plaitof hair rather short and thick down her back, and her long, fine whitenight-dress falling to her feet.
She saw that his boots were all clayey, even his trousers wereplastered with clay. And she wondered if he had made footprints all theway up. He was a very strange figure, standing in her bedroom, near thetossed bed.
'Why have you come?' she asked, almost querulous.
'I wanted to,' he replied.
And this she could see from his face. It was fate.
'You are so muddy,' she said, in distaste, but gently.
He looked down at his feet.
'I was walking in the dark,' he replied. But he felt vividly elated.There was a pause. He stood on one side of the tumbled bed, she on theother. He did not even take his cap from his brows.
'And what do you want of me,' she challenged.
He looked aside, and did not answer. Save for the extreme beauty andmystic attractiveness of this distinct, strange face, she would havesent him away. But his face was too wonderful and undiscovered to her.It fascinated her with the fascination of pure beauty, cast a spell onher, like nostalgia, an ache.
'What do you want of me?' she repeated in an estranged voice.
He pulled off his cap, in a movement of dream-liberation, and wentacross to her. But he could not touch her, because she stood barefootin her night-dress, and he was muddy and damp. Her eyes, wide and largeand wondering, watched him, and asked him the ultimate question.
'I came--because I must,' he said. 'Why do you ask?'
She looked at him in doubt and wonder.
'I must ask,' she said.
He shook his head slightly.
'There is no answer,' he replied, with strange vacancy.
There was about him a curious, and almost godlike air of simplicity andnative directness. He reminded her of an apparition, the young Hermes.
'But why did you come to me?' she persisted.
'Because--it has to be so. If there weren't you in the world, then Ishouldn't be in the world, either.'
She stood looking at him, with large, wide, wondering, stricken eyes.His eyes were looking steadily into hers all the time, and he seemedfixed in an odd supernatural steadfastness. She sighed. She was lostnow. She had no choice.
'Won't you take off your boots,' she said. 'They must be wet.'
He dropped his cap on a chair, unbuttoned his overcoat, lifting up hischin to unfasten the throat buttons. His short, keen hair was ruffled.He was so beautifully blond, like wheat. He pulled off his overcoat.
Quickly he pulled off his jacket, pulled loose his black tie, and wasunfastening his studs, which were headed each with a pearl. Shelistened, watching, hoping no one would hear the starched linencrackle. It seemed to snap like pistol shots.
He had come for vindication. She let him hold her in his arms, claspher close against him. He found in her an infinite relief. Into her hepoured all his pent-up darkness and corrosive death, and he was wholeagain. It was wonderful, marvellous, it was a miracle. This was theeverrecurrent miracle of his life, at the knowledge of which he waslost in an ecstasy of relief and wonder. And she, subject, received himas a vessel filled with his bitter potion of death. She had no power atthis crisis to resist. The terrible frictional violence of death filledher, and she received it in an ecstasy of subjection, in throes ofacute, violent sensation.
As he drew nearer to her, he plunged deeper into her enveloping softwarmth, a wonderful creative heat that penetrated his veins and gavehim life again. He felt himself dissolving and sinking to rest in thebath of her living strength. It seemed as if her heart in her breastwere a second unconquerable sun, into the glow and creative strength ofwhich he plunged further and further. All his veins, that were murderedand lacerated, healed softly as life came pulsing in, stealinginvisibly in to him as if it were the all-powerful effluence of thesun. His blood, which seemed to have been drawn back into death, cameebbing on the return, surely, beautifully, powerfully.
He felt his limbs growing fuller and flexible with life, his bodygained an unknown strength. He was a man again, strong and rounded. Andhe was a child, so soothed and restored and full of gratitude.
And she, she was the great bath of life, he worshipped her. Mother andsubstance of all life she was. And he, child and man, received of herand was made whole. His pure body was almost killed. But themiraculous, soft effluence of her breast suffused over him, over hisseared, damaged brain, like a healing lymph, like a soft, soothing flowof life itself, perfect as if he were bathed in the womb again.
His brain was hurt, seared, the tissue was as if destroyed. He had notknown how hurt he was, how his tissue, the very tissue of his brain wasdamaged by the corrosive flood of death. Now, as the healing lymph ofher effluence flowed through him, he knew how destroyed he was, like aplant whose tissue is burst from inwards by a frost.
He buried his small, hard head between her breasts, and pressed herbreasts against him with his hands. And she with quivering handspressed his head against her, as he lay suffused out, and she lay fullyconscious. The lovely creative warmth flooded through him like a sleepof fecundity within the womb. Ah, if only she would grant him the flowof this living effluence, he would be restored, he would be completeagain. He was afraid she would deny him before it was finished. Like achild at the breast, he cleaved intensely to her, and she could not puthim away. And his seared, ruined membrane relaxed, softened, that whichwas seared and stiff and blasted yielded again, became soft andflexible, palpitating with new life. He was infinitely grateful, as toGod, or as an infant is at its mother's breast. He was glad andgrateful like a delirium, as he felt his own wholeness come over himagain, as he felt the full, unutterable sleep coming over him, thesleep of complete exhaustion and restoration.
But Gudrun lay wide awake, destroyed into perfect consciousness. Shelay motionless, with wide eyes staring motionless into the darkness,whilst he was sunk away in sleep, his arms round her.
She seemed to be hearing waves break on a hidden shore, long, slow,gloomy waves, breaking with the rhythm of fate, so monotonously that itseemed eternal. This endless breaking of slow, sullen waves of fateheld her life a possession, whilst she lay with dark, wide eyes lookinginto the darkness. She could see so far, as far as eternity--yet shesaw nothing. She was suspended in perfect consciousness--and of whatwas she conscious?
This mood of extremity, when she lay staring into eternity, utterlysuspended, and conscious of everything, to the last limits, passed andleft her uneasy. She had lain so long motionless. She moved, she becameself-conscious. She wanted to look at him, to see him.
But she dared not make a light, because she knew he would wake, and shedid not want to break his perfect sleep, that she knew he had got ofher.
She disengaged herself, softly, and rose up a little to look at him.There was a faint light, it seemed to her, in the room. She could justdistinguish his features, as he slept the perfect sleep. In thisdarkness, she seemed to see him so distinctly. But he was far off, inanother world. Ah, she could shriek with torment, he was so far off,and perfected, in another world. She seemed to look at him as at apebble far away under clear dark water. And here was she, left with allthe anguish of consciousness, whilst he was sunk deep into the otherelement of mindless, remote, living shadow-gleam. He was beautiful,far-off, and perfected. They would never be together. Ah, this awful,inhuman distance which would always be interposed between her and theother being!
There was nothing to do but to lie still and endure. She felt anoverwhelming tenderness for him, and a dark, under-stirring of jealoushatred, that he should lie so perfect and immune, in an other-world,whilst she was tormented with violent wakefulness, cast out in theouter darkness.
She lay in intense and vivid consciousness, an
exhaustingsuperconsciousness. The church clock struck the hours, it seemed toher, in quick succession. She heard them distinctly in the tension ofher vivid consciousness. And he slept as if time were one moment,unchanging and unmoving.
She was exhausted, wearied. Yet she must continue in this state ofviolent active superconsciousness. She was conscious of everything--herchildhood, her girlhood, all the forgotten incidents, all theunrealised influences and all the happenings she had not understood,pertaining to herself, to her family, to her friends, her lovers, heracquaintances, everybody. It was as if she drew a glittering rope ofknowledge out of the sea of darkness, drew and drew and drew it out ofthe fathomless depths of the past, and still it did not come to an end,there was no end to it, she must haul and haul at the rope ofglittering consciousness, pull it out phosphorescent from the endlessdepths of the unconsciousness, till she was weary, aching, exhausted,and fit to break, and yet she had not done.
Ah, if only she might wake him! She turned uneasily. When could sherouse him and send him away? When could she disturb him? And sherelapsed into her activity of automatic consciousness, that would neverend.
But the time was drawing near when she could wake him. It was like arelease. The clock had struck four, outside in the night. Thank God thenight had passed almost away. At five he must go, and she would bereleased. Then she could relax and fill her own place. Now she wasdriven up against his perfect sleeping motion like a knife white-hot ona grindstone. There was something monstrous about him, about hisjuxtaposition against her.
The last hour was the longest. And yet, at last it passed. Her heartleapt with relief--yes, there was the slow, strong stroke of the churchclock--at last, after this night of eternity. She waited to catch eachslow, fatal reverberation. 'Three--four--five!' There, it was finished.A weight rolled off her.
She raised herself, leaned over him tenderly, and kissed him. She wassad to wake him. After a few moments, she kissed him again. But he didnot stir. The darling, he was so deep in sleep! What a shame to takehim out of it. She let him lie a little longer. But he must go--he mustreally go.
With full over-tenderness she took his face between her hands, andkissed his eyes. The eyes opened, he remained motionless, looking ather. Her heart stood still. To hide her face from his dreadful openedeyes, in the darkness, she bent down and kissed him, whispering:
'You must go, my love.'
But she was sick with terror, sick.
He put his arms round her. Her heart sank.
'But you must go, my love. It's late.'
'What time is it?' he said.
Strange, his man's voice. She quivered. It was an intolerableoppression to her.
'Past five o'clock,' she said.
But he only closed his arms round her again. Her heart cried within herin torture. She disengaged herself firmly.
'You really must go,' she said.
'Not for a minute,' he said.
She lay still, nestling against him, but unyielding.
'Not for a minute,' he repeated, clasping her closer.
'Yes,' she said, unyielding, 'I'm afraid if you stay any longer.'
There was a certain coldness in her voice that made him release her,and she broke away, rose and lit the candle. That then was the end.
He got up. He was warm and full of life and desire. Yet he felt alittle bit ashamed, humiliated, putting on his clothes before her, inthe candle-light. For he felt revealed, exposed to her, at a time whenshe was in some way against him. It was all very difficult tounderstand. He dressed himself quickly, without collar or tie. Still hefelt full and complete, perfected. She thought it humiliating to see aman dressing: the ridiculous shirt, the ridiculous trousers and braces.But again an idea saved her.
'It is like a workman getting up to go to work,' thought Gudrun. 'And Iam like a workman's wife.' But an ache like nausea was upon her: anausea of him.
He pushed his collar and tie into his overcoat pocket. Then he sat downand pulled on his boots. They were sodden, as were his socks andtrouser-bottoms. But he himself was quick and warm.
'Perhaps you ought to have put your boots on downstairs,' she said.
At once, without answering, he pulled them off again, and stood holdingthem in his hand. She had thrust her feet into slippers, and flung aloose robe round her. She was ready. She looked at him as he stoodwaiting, his black coat buttoned to the chin, his cap pulled down, hisboots in his hand. And the passionate almost hateful fascinationrevived in her for a moment. It was not exhausted. His face was sowarm-looking, wide-eyed and full of newness, so perfect. She felt old,old. She went to him heavily, to be kissed. He kissed her quickly. Shewished his warm, expressionless beauty did not so fatally put a spellon her, compel her and subjugate her. It was a burden upon her, thatshe resented, but could not escape. Yet when she looked at his straightman's brows, and at his rather small, well-shaped nose, and at hisblue, indifferent eyes, she knew her passion for him was not yetsatisfied, perhaps never could be satisfied. Only now she was weary,with an ache like nausea. She wanted him gone.
They went downstairs quickly. It seemed they made a prodigious noise.He followed her as, wrapped in her vivid green wrap, she preceded himwith the light. She suffered badly with fear, lest her people should beroused. He hardly cared. He did not care now who knew. And she hatedthis in him. One MUST be cautious. One must preserve oneself.
She led the way to the kitchen. It was neat and tidy, as the woman hadleft it. He looked up at the clock--twenty minutes past five Then hesat down on a chair to put on his boots. She waited, watching his everymovement. She wanted it to be over, it was a great nervous strain onher.
He stood up--she unbolted the back door, and looked out. A cold, rawnight, not yet dawn, with a piece of a moon in the vague sky. She wasglad she need not go out.
'Good-bye then,' he murmured.
'I'll come to the gate,' she said.
And again she hurried on in front, to warn him of the steps. And at thegate, once more she stood on the step whilst he stood below her.
'Good-bye,' she whispered.
He kissed her dutifully, and turned away.
She suffered torments hearing his firm tread going so distinctly downthe road. Ah, the insensitiveness of that firm tread!
She closed the gate, and crept quickly and noiselessly back to bed.When she was in her room, and the door closed, and all safe, shebreathed freely, and a great weight fell off her. She nestled down inbed, in the groove his body had made, in the warmth he had left. Andexcited, worn-out, yet still satisfied, she fell soon into a deep,heavy sleep.
Gerald walked quickly through the raw darkness of the coming dawn. Hemet nobody. His mind was beautifully still and thoughtless, like astill pool, and his body full and warm and rich. He went quickly alongtowards Shortlands, in a grateful self-sufficiency.
Women in Love Page 24