Any presence but that of the nurses was a strain and an effort to him now. Every morning Gerald went into the room, hoping to find his father passed away at last. Yet always he saw the same transparent4 face, the same dread5 dark hair on the waxen forehead, and the awful, inchoate6 dark eyes, which seemed to be decomposing7 into formless darkness, having only a tiny grain of vision within them.
And always, as the dark, inchoate eyes turned to him, there passed through Gerald's bowels8 a burning stroke of revolt, that seemed to resound9 through his whole being, threatening to break his mind with its clangour, and making him mad.
Every morning, the son stood there, erect10 and taut11 with life, gleaming in his blondness. The gleaming blondness of his strange, imminent12 being put the father into a fever of fretful irritation13. He could not bear to meet the uncanny, downward look of Gerald's blue eyes. But it was only for a moment. Each on the brink14 of departure, the father and son looked at each other, then parted.
For a long time Gerald preserved a perfect sang froid, he remained quite collected. But at last, fear undermined him. He was afraid of some horrible collapse15 in himself. He had to stay and see this thing through. Some perverse16 will made him watch his father drawn over the borders of life. And yet, now, every day, the great red-hot stroke of horrified17 fear through the bowels of the son struck a further inflammation. Gerald went about all day with a tendency to cringe, as if there were the point of a sword of Damocles pricking18 the nape of his neck.
There was no escape -- he was bound up with his father, he had to see him through. And the father's will never relaxed or yielded to death. It would have to snap when death at last snapped it, -- if it did not persist after a physical death. In the same way, the will of the son never yielded. He stood firm and immune, he was outside this death and this dying.
It was a trial by ordeal19. Could he stand and see his father slowly dissolve and disappear in death, without once yielding his will, without once relenting before the omnipotence20 of death. Like a Red Indian undergoing torture, Gerald would experience the whole process of slow death without wincing21 or flinching22. He even triumphed in it. He somehow wanted this death, even forced it. It was as if he himself were dealing23 the death, even when he most recoiled24 in horror. Still, he would deal it, he would triumph through death.
But in the stress of this ordeal, Gerald too lost his hold on the outer, daily life. That which was much to him, came to mean nothing. Work, pleasure -- it was all left behind. He went on more or less mechanically with his business, but this activity was all extraneous25. 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 down or 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 to be destroyed, so that life was a hollow shell all round him, roaring and clattering26 like the sound of the sea, a noise in which he participated externally, and inside this hollow shell was all the darkness and fearful space of death, he knew he would have to find reinforcements, otherwise he would collapse inwards upon the great dark void which circled at the centre of his soul. His will held his outer life, his outer mind, his outer being unbroken and unchanged. But the pressure was too great. He would have to find something to make good the equilibrium27. Something must come with him into the hollow void of death in his soul, fill it up, and so equalise the pressure within to the pressure without. For day by day he felt more and more like a bubble filled with darkness, round which whirled the iridescence28 of his consciousness, and upon which the pressure of the outer world, the outer life, roared vastly.
In this extremity29 his instinct led him to Gudrun. He threw away everything now -- he only wanted the relation established with her. He would follow her to the studio, to be near her, to talk to her. He would stand about the room, aimlessly picking up the implements31, the lumps of clay, the little figures she had cast -- they were whimsical and grotesque32 -- looking at them without perceiving them. And she felt him following her, dogging her heels like a doom33. 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, uncertain way, `won't you stay to dinner tonight? I wish you would.'
She started slightly. He spoke34 to her like a man making a request of another man.
`They'll be expecting me at home,' she said.
`Oh, they won't mind, will they?' he said. `I should be awfully35 glad if you'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 Winifred talked little. But when Gerald did rouse himself, he smiled and was pleasant and ordinary with her. Then there came over him again the long blanks, of which he was not aware.
She was very much attracted by him. He looked so preoccupied37, and his strange, blank silences, which she could not read, moved her and made her wonder over him, made her feel reverential towards him.
But he was very kind. He gave her the best things at the table, he had a bottle of slightly sweet, delicious golden wine brought out for dinner, knowing she would prefer it to the burgundy. She felt herself esteemed38, needed almost.
As they took coffee in the library, there was a soft, very soft knocking at the door. He started, and called `Come in.' The timbre39 of his voice, like something vibrating at high pitch, unnerved Gudrun. A nurse in white entered, half hovering40 in the doorway41 like a shadow. She was very goodlooking, but strangely enough, shy and self-mistrusting.
`The doctor would like to speak to you, Mr Crich,' she said, in her low, discreet42 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 like a 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 a slightly drunken man. He did not say what the doctor had wanted him for, but stood before the fire, with his hands behind his back, and his face open and as if rapt. Not that he was really thinking -- he was only arrested in pure suspense43 inside himself, and thoughts wafted44 through his mind without order.
`I must go now and see Mama,' said Winifred, `and see Dadda before he goes 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 the clock.' 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 her go. She watched him in humble45 submissiveness.
`Had the doctor anything new to tell you?' she asked, softly, at length, with that gentle, timid sympathy which touched a keen fibre in his heart. He lifted his eyebrows46 with a negligent47, indifferent expression.
`No -- nothing new,' he replied, as if the question were quite casual, trivial. `He says the pulse is very weak indeed, very intermittent48 -- but that doesn't necessarily mean much, you know.'
He looked down at her. Her eyes were dark and soft and unfolded, with a stricken look that roused him.
`No,' she murmured at length. `I don't understand anything about these things.'
`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 before her on the hearth49 again.
`No,' he said, `we've never had much illness in the house, either -- not till father.' He seemed to meditate50 a while. Then looking down at her, with strangely communicative blue eyes, that filled her with dread, he continued: `It's something you don't reckon with, you know, till it is there. And then you realise that it was there all the time -- it was always there -- you understand what I mean? -- the possibility of this incurable51 illness, this slow death.'
He moved his feet uneasily on the marble hearth, and put his cigarette to 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 teeth spat52 off a grain of tobacco, turning slightly aside, like a man who is alone, or who is lost in thought.
`I don't know what the effect actually is, on one,' he said, and again he 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 you understand what I mean. You seem to be clutching at the void -- and at the 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, almost pleasure, almost pain. `What can be done?' she added.
He turned, and flipped53 the ash from his cigarette on to the great marble 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 to find some way of resolving the situation -- not because you want to, but because 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 are just holding it up with your hands. Well, it's a situation that obviously can't continue. You can't stand holding the roof up with your hands, 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, or there's a universal collapse -- as far as you yourself are concerned.'
He shifted slightly on the hearth, crunching54 a cinder55 under his heel. He looked down at it. Gudrun was aware of the beautiful old marble panels of the fireplace, swelling56 softly carved, round him and above him. She felt as if she were caught at last by fate, imprisoned57 in some horrible and fatal trap.
`But what can be done?' she murmured humbly58. `You must use me if I can be 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, `because there's nothing to be done. I only want sympathy, do you see: I want somebody I can talk to sympathetically. That eases the strain. And there 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 dictate59. And that is no use whatsoever60.'
She was caught in a strange snare61. She looked down at her hands.
Then there was the sound of the door softly opening. Gerald started. He was chagrined62. It was his starting that really startled Gudrun. Then he went forward, with quick, graceful63, intentional64 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, came forward 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 eyes up 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, scarcelyaudible voice. `I didn't know you had company.'
`No? Didn't Winifred tell you? Miss Brangwen stayed to dinner, to make us a little more lively --'
Mrs Crich turned slowly round to Gudrun, and looked at her, but with unseeing eyes.
`I'm afraid it would be no treat to her.' Then she turned again to her son. `Winifred tells me the doctor had something to say about your father. What is it?'
`Only that the pulse is very weak -- misses altogether a good many times - so that he might not last the night out,' Gerald replied.
Mrs Crich sat perfectly65 impassive, as if she had not heard. Her bulk seemed hunched66 in the chair, her fair hair hung slack over her ears. But her skin was clear and fine, her hands, as she sat with them forgotten and folded, were quite beautiful, full of potential energy. A great 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. She seemed to have a certain confidence in Gerald, and to feel a certain motherly mistrust of him.
`How are you?' she muttered, in her strangely quiet voice, as if nobody should hear but him. `You're not getting into a state, are you?
You're not letting it make you hysterical68?'
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 you take it on yourself? What have you got to do, seeing it through. It will see itself through. You are not needed.'
`No, I don't suppose I can do any good,' he answered. `It's just how it affects us, you see.'
`You like to be affected69 -- don't you? It's quite nuts for you? You would have to be important. You have no need to stop at home. Why don't you go away!'
These sentences, evidently the ripened70 grain of many dark hours, took Gerald by surprise.
`I don't think it's any good going away now, mother, at the last minute,' he said, coldly.
`You take care,' replied his mother. `You mind yourself -- that's your business. You take too much on yourself. You mind yourself, or you'll find yourself in Queer Street, that's what will happen to you. You're hysterical, always were.'
`I'm all right, mother,' he said. `There's no need to worry about me, I assure you.'
`Let the dead bury their dead -- don't go and bury yourself along with them -- that's what I tell you. I know you well enough.'
He did not answer this, not knowing what to say. The mother sat bunched up 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 woman staying 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 take knowledge of her presence.
`You are inclined to take too much on yourself, Gerald,' said the mother, 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 were unaccustomed to walking. At the door she lifted her face to him, implicitly71. He kissed her.
`Don't come any further with me,' she said, in her barely audible voice. `I don't want you any further.'
He bade her good-night, watched her across to the stairs and mount slowly. Then he closed the door and came back to Gudrun. Gudrun rose also, to go.
`A queer being, my mother,' he said.
`Yes,' replied Gudrun.
`She has her own thoughts.'
`Yes,' said Gudrun.
Then they were silent.
`You want to go?' he asked. `Half a minute, I'll just have a horse put in -'
`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 things are? I'll put boots on.'
He put on a cap, and an overcoat over his evening dress. They went out into the night.
`Let us light a cigarette,' he said, stopping in a sheltered angle of the porch. `You have one too.'
So, with the scent72 of tobacco on the night air, they set off down the dark 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 and down into an indefinite void. He must recover some sort of balance. And here was the hope and the perfect recovery.
Blind to her, thinking only of himself, he slipped his arm softly round her waist, and drew her to him. Her heart fainted, feeling herself taken. But then, his arm was so strong, she quailed73 under its powerful close grasp. She died a little death, and was drawn against him as they walked down the stormy darkness. He seemed to balance her perfectly in opposition74 to himself, in their dual75 motion of walking. So, suddenly, he was liberated76 and perfect, strong, heroic.
He put his hand to his mouth and threw his cigarette away, a gleaming point, into the unseen hedge. Then he was quite free to balance her.
`That's better,' he said, with exultancy77.
The exultation78 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 exultant79 voice, `and I was rather far gone.'
She nestled against him. He felt her all soft and warm, she was the rich, lovely substance of his being. The warmth and motion of her walk suffused80 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, fatal elation30.
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. She drifted along in a wonderful interfusion of physical motion, down the dark, blowy hillside. Far across shone the little yellow lights of Beldover, many of them, spread in a thick patch on another dark hill. But he and she were walking in perfect, isolated81 darkness, outside the world.
`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 know either - but everything.' He was startled by his own declaration. It was true. So he stripped himself of every safeguard, in making this admission to her. He cared everything for her -- she was everything.
`But I can't believe it,' said her low voice, amazed, trembling. She was trembling with doubt and exultance. This was the thing she wanted to hear, only this. Yet now she heard it, heard the strange clapping vibration83 of truth in his voice as he said it, she could not believe. She could not believe -- she did not believe. Yet she believed, triumphantly84, 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; `I care for nothing on earth, or in heaven, outside this spot where we are. And it isn't my own presence I care about, it is all yours. I'd sell 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 drew her closer to him, with definite movement.
`No,' she murmured, afraid. Yet this was what she wanted. Why did she so lose courage?
They resumed their strange walk. They were such strangers -- and yet they were so frightfully, unthinkably near. It was like a madness. Yet it was what she wanted, it was what she wanted. They had descended85 the hill, and now they were coming to the square arch where the road passed under the colliery railway. The arch, Gudrun knew, had walls of squared stone, mossy on one side with water that trickled86 down, dry on the other side. She had stood under it to hear the train rumble87 thundering over the logs overhead. And she knew that under this dark and lonely bridge the young colliers stood in the darkness with their sweethearts, in rainy weather. And so she wanted to stand under the bridge with her sweetheart, 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 upon his breast. His body vibrated taut and powerful as he closed upon her and crushed her, breathless and dazed and destroyed, crushed her upon his breast. Ah, it was terrible, and perfect. Under this bridge, the colliers pressed their lovers to their breast. And now, under the bridge, the master of them all pressed her to himself? And how much more powerful and terrible was his embrace than theirs, how much more concentrated and supreme88 his love was, than theirs in the same sort! She felt she would swoon, die, under the vibrating, inhuman89 tension of his arms and his body -- she would pass away. Then the unthinkable high vibration slackened and became more undulating. He slackened and drew her with him to stand with his back to the wall.
She was almost unconscious. So the colliers' lovers would stand with their backs to the walls, holding their sweethearts and kissing them as she was being kissed. Ah, but would their kisses be fine and powerful as the kisses of the firm-mouthed master? Even the keen, short-cut moustache -- the colliers would not have that.
And the colliers' sweethearts would, like herself, hang their heads back limp over their shoulder, and look out from the dark archway, at the close patch of yellow lights on the unseen hill in the distance, or at the vague form of trees, and at the buildings of the colliery wood-yard, in the other direction.
His arms were fast around her, he seemed to be gathering90 her into himself, her warmth, her softness, her adorable weight, drinking in the suffusion91 of her physical being, avidly92. He lifted her, and seemed to pour her into himself, like wine into a cup.
`This is worth everything,' he said, in a strange, penetrating93 voice.
So she relaxed, and seemed to melt, to flow into him, as if she were some infinitely94 warm and precious suffusion filling into his veins95, like an intoxicant. Her arms were round his neck, he kissed her and held 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. So she lay cast upon him, stranded96, lifted up against him, melting and melting under his kisses, melting into his limbs and bones, as if he were 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, become contained by him, sleeping in him as lightning sleeps in a pure, soft stone. 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 the distance, it seemed to her strange that the world still existed, that she was standing97 under the bridge resting her head on Gerald's breast. Gerald -who was he? He was the exquisite98 adventure, the desirable unknown 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 white aura, as if he were visitor from the unseen. She reached up, like Eve reaching to the apples on the tree of knowledge, and she kissed him, though her passion was a transcendent fear of the thing he was, touching99 his face with her infinitely delicate, encroaching wondering fingers. Her fingers went over the mould of his face, over his features. How perfect and foreign he was -- ah how dangerous! Her soul thrilled with complete knowledge. This was the glistening100, forbidden apple, this face of a man. She kissed him, putting her fingers over his face, his eyes, his nostrils101, 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, yet unutterably clear. He was such an unutterable enemy, yet glistening with uncanny white fire. She wanted to touch him and touch him and touch him, till she had him all in her hands, till she had strained him into her knowledge. Ah, if she could have the precious knowledge of him, she would be filled, and nothing could deprive her of this. For he was so unsure, so risky102 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 came down involuntarily nearer upon him. He could not help himself. Her fingers had him under their power. The fathomless103, fathomless desire they could evoke104 in him was deeper than death, where he had no choice.
But she knew now, and it was enough. For the time, her soul was destroyed 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 days harvesting for her large, yet perfectly subtle and intelligent hands upon the field of his living, radio-active body. Ah, her hands were eager, greedy for knowledge. But for the present it was enough, enough, as much as her soul could bear. Too much, and she would shatter herself, she would fill the fine vial of her soul too quickly, and it would break. Enough now -enough for the time being. There were all the after days when her hands, like birds, could feed upon the fields of him mystical plastic form -- till then enough.
And even he was glad to be checked, rebuked105, held back. For to desire is better than to possess, the finality of the end was dreaded106 as deeply as it was desired.
They walked on towards the town, towards where the lamps threaded singly, at long intervals107 down the dark high-road of the valley. They came 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 up the 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, then touched the perilous108, potent67 fingers with his lips.
`Good-night,' he said. `Tomorrow.'
And they parted. He went home full of the strength and the power of living desire.
But the next day, she did not come, she sent a note that she was kept indoors by a cold. Here was a torment109! But he possessed110 his soul in some sort of patience, writing a brief answer, telling her how sorry he was not to see her.
The day after this, he stayed at home -- it seemed so futile111 to go down to the office. His father could not live the week out. And he wanted to be at home, suspended.
Gerald sat on a chair by the window in his father's room. The landscape outside was black and winter-sodden112. His father lay grey and ashen113 on the 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. The nurse went out of the room, Gerald was alone with death, facing the winterblack landscape.
`Is there much more water in Denley?' came the faint voice, determined114 and querulous, from the bed. The dying man was asking about a leakage115 from 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 extinction116. There was dead stillness. The grey-faced, sick man lay with eyes closed, more dead than death. Gerald looked away. He felt his heart was seared, it would perish if this went on much longer.
Suddenly he heard a strange noise. Turning round, he saw his father's eyes wide open, strained and rolling in a frenzy117 of inhuman struggling. Gerald started to his feet, and stood transfixed in horror.
`Wha-a-ah-h-h-' came a horrible choking rattle119 from his father's throat, the fearful, frenzied120 eye, rolling awfully in its wild fruitless search for help, passed blindly over Gerald, then up came the dark blood and mess pumping over the face of the agonised being. The tense body relaxed, the head fell aside, down the pillow.
Gerald stood transfixed, his soul echoing in horror. He would move, but he 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 the bed.
`Ah!' came her soft whimpering cry, and she hurried forward to the dead man. `Ah-h!' came the slight sound of her agitated121 distress122, as she stood bending over the bedside. Then she recovered, turned, and came for towel and sponge. She was wiping the dead face carefully, and murmuring, almost whimpering, very softly: `Poor Mr Crich! -- Poor Mr Crich! Poor Mr Crich!'
`Is he dead?' clanged Gerald's sharp voice.
`Oh yes, he's gone,' replied the soft, moaning voice of the nurse, as she looked up at Gerald's face. She was young and beautiful and quivering. A strange sort of grin went over Gerald's face, over the horror. And he walked out of the room.
He was going to tell his mother. On the landing he met his brother Basil.
`He's gone, Basil,' he said, scarcely able to subdue123 his voice, not to let 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, putting in a stitch then another stitch. She looked up at Gerald with her blue undaunted 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 repose124, as if gently asleep, 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 unseen witnesses of the air. `You're dead.' She stood for some minutes in silence, looking down. `Beautiful,' she asserted, `beautiful as if life had never touched you -- never touched you. God send I look different. I hope I shall look my years, when I am dead. Beautiful, beautiful,' she crooned over him. `You can see him in his teens, with his first beard on his face. A beautiful soul, beautiful --' Then there was a tearing in her 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 of the unknown. Her children moved unconsciously together, in a nearer group, at the dreadful command in her voice. The colour was flushed bright in her cheek, she looked awful and wonderful. `Blame me, blame me if you like, that he lies there like a lad in his teens, with his first beard on his face. Blame me if you like. But you none of you know.' She was silent in intense silence.
Then there came, in a low, tense voice: `If I thought that the children I bore would lie looking like that in death, I'd strangle them when they were infants, yes --'
`No, mother,' came the strange, clarion125 voice of Gerald from the background, `we are different, we don't blame you.'
She turned and looked full in his eyes. Then she lifted her hands in a strange half-gesture of mad despair.
`Pray!' she said strongly. `Pray for yourselves to God, for there's no help for you from your parents.'
`Oh mother!' cried her daughters wildly.
But she had turned and gone, and they all went quickly away from each other.
When Gudrun heard that Mr Crich was dead, she felt rebuked. She had stayed 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 see her, glad to get away into the studio. The girl had wept, and then, too frightened, had turned aside to avoid any more tragic126 eventuality. She and Gudrun resumed work as usual, in the isolation127 of the studio, and this seemed an immeasurable happiness, a pure world of freedom, after the aimlessness and misery128 of the house. Gudrun stayed on till evening. She and Winifred had dinner brought up to the studio, where they ate in freedom, away from all the people in the house.
After dinner Gerald came up. The great high studio was full of shadow and a fragrance129 of coffee. Gudrun and Winifred had a little table near the fire at the far end, with a white lamp whose light did not travel far. They were a tiny world to themselves, the two girls surrounded by lovely shadows, the beams and rafters shadowy over-head, the benches and implements shadowy down the studio.
`You are cosy130 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 the dessert, and Gudrun making coffee in an odd brass131 coffee-maker, and Winifred 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,' said Winifred.
`It is the same to me,' he said, taking a chair and coming into the charmed circle of the girls. How happy they were, how cosy and glamorous132 it was with them, in a world of lofty shadows! The outside world, in which he had been transacting133 funeral business all the day was completely wiped out. In an instant he snuffed glamour134 and magic.
They had all their things very dainty, two odd and lovely little cups, scarlet135 and solid gilt136, and a little black jug137 with scarlet discs, and the curious coffee-machine, whose spirit-flame flowed steadily138, almost invisibly. There was the effect of rather sinister139 richness, in which Gerald at once escaped himself.
They all sat down, and Gudrun carefully poured out the coffee.
`Will you have milk?' she asked calmly, yet nervously140 poising141 the little black jug with its big red dots. She was always so completely controlled, yet so bitterly nervous.
`No, I won't,' he replied.
So, with a curious humility142, 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. He would much rather have had it, and seen her daintily served. But she was 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 an outsider.
Gudrun was very quiet. She did not feel drawn to talk to him. At this stage, silence was best -- or mere143 light words. It was best to leave serious things aside. So they talked gaily144 and lightly, till they heard the man below lead out the horse, and call it to `back-back!' into the dog-cart that was to take Gudrun home. So she put on her things, and shook hands with Gerald, without once meeting his eyes. And she was gone.
The funeral was detestable. Afterwards, at the tea-table, the daughters kept saying -- `He was a good father to us -- the best father in the world' - or else -- `We shan't easily find another man as good as father was.'
Gerald acquiesced145 in all this. It was the right conventional attitude, and, as far as the world went, he believed in the conventions. He took it as a matter of course. But Winifred hated everything, and hid in the studio, and cried her heart out, and wished Gudrun would come.
Luckily everybody was going away. The Criches never stayed long at home. By dinner-time, Gerald was left quite alone. Even Winifred was carried off to London, for a few days with her sister Laura.
But when Gerald was really left alone, he could not bear it. One day passed by, and another. And all the time he was like a man hung in chains over the edge of an abyss. Struggle as he might, he could not turn himself to the solid earth, he could not get footing. He was suspended on the edge of a void, writhing146. Whatever he thought of, was the abyss -- whether it were friends or strangers, or work or play, it all showed him only the same bottomless void, in which his heart swung perishing. There was no escape, there was nothing to grasp hold of. He must writhe147 on the edge of the chasm148, suspended in chains of invisible physical life.
At first he was quiet, he kept still, expecting the extremity to pass away, expecting to find himself released into the world of the living, after this extremity of penance149. But it did not pass, and a crisis gained upon him.
As the evening of the third day came on, his heart rang with fear. He could not bear another night. Another night was coming on, for another night he was to be suspended in chain of physical life, over the bottomless pit of nothingness. And he could not bear it. He could not bear 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 into this infinite void, and rise again. If he fell, he would be gone for ever. He must withdraw, he must seek reinforcements. He did not believe in his own single self, any further than this.
After dinner, faced with the ultimate experience of his own nothingness, he turned aside. He pulled on his boots, put on his coat, and set out to walk in the night.
It was dark and misty150. He went through the wood, stumbling and feeling his way to the Mill. Birkin was away. Good -- he was half glad. He turned up the hill, and stumbled blindly over the wild slopes, having lost the path in the complete darkness. It was boring. Where was he going? No matter. He stumbled on till he came to a path again. Then he went on through another wood. His mind became dark, he went on automatically. Without thought or sensation, he stumbled unevenly151 on, out into the open again, fumbling153 for stiles, losing the path, and going along the hedges of the fields till he came to the outlet154.
And at last he came to the high road. It had distracted him to struggle blindly through the maze82 of darkness. But now, he must take a direction. And he did not even know where he was. But he must take a direction now. Nothing would be resolved by merely walking, walking away. He had to take a direction.
He stood still on the road, that was high in the utterly155 dark night, and he did not know where he was. It was a strange sensation, his heart beating, and ringed round with the utterly unknown darkness. So he stood for some time.
Then he heard footsteps, and saw a small, swinging light. He immediately 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. Goodnight.'
`Good-night,' replied the broad voice of the miner.
Gerald guessed where he was. At least, when he came to Whatmore, he would know. He was glad to be on a high road. He walked forward as in a sleep of decision.
That was Whatmore Village --? Yes, the King's Head -- and there the hall gates. He descended the steep hill almost running. Winding156 through the hollow, 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 among the graves. Even in this darkness he could see the heaped pallor of old white flowers at his feet. This then was the grave. He stooped down. The flowers were cold and clammy. There was a raw scent of chrysanthemums157 and tube-roses, deadened. He felt the clay beneath, and shrank, it was so horribly cold and sticky. He stood away in revulsion.
Here was one centre then, here in the complete darkness beside the unseen, raw grave. But there was nothing for him here. No, he had nothing to stay here for. He felt as if some of the clay were sticking cold and unclean, on his heart. No, enough of this.
Where then? -- home? Never! It was no use going there. That was less than no use. It could not be done. There was somewhere else to go. Where?
A dangerous resolve formed in his heart, like a fixed118 idea. There was Gudrun -- she would be safe in her home. But he could get at her -- he would get at her. He would not go back tonight till he had come 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 was so dark, nobody could ever see him. His feet were wet and cold, heavy with clay. But he went on persistently158, like a wind, straight forward, as if to his fate. There were great gaps in his consciousness. He was conscious that he was at Winthorpe hamlet, but quite unconscious how he had got there. And then, as in a dream, he was in the long street of Beldover, with its street-lamps.
There was a noise of voices, and of a door shutting loudly, and being barred, and of men talking in the night. The `Lord Nelson' had just closed, and the drinkers were going home. He had better ask one of these 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 the uneven152 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 my life 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 daughter teaches 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's him -that's him! Why certainly I know where he lives, back your life I do! Yi -what place do they ca' it?'
`Somerset Drive,' repeated Gerald patiently. He knew his own colliers fairly well.
`Somerset Drive, for certain!' said the collier, swinging his arm as if catching159 something up. `Somerset Drive -- yi! I couldn't for my life lay hold o' the lercality o' the place. Yis, I know the place, to be sure I do -'
He turned unsteadily on his feet, and pointed160 up the dark, nighdeserted road.
`You go up theer -- an' you ta'e th' first -- yi, th' first turnin' on your left -- o' that side -- past Withamses tuffy shop --'
`I know,' said Gerald.
`Ay! You go down a bit, past wheer th' water-man lives -- and then Somerset 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, I believe, -- 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 of darkness. He slowed down, as he neared his goal, not knowing how he should proceed. What if the house were closed in darkness?
But it was not. He saw a big lighted window, and heard voices, then a gate banged. His quick ears caught the sound of Birkin's voice, his keen eyes made out Birkin, with Ursula standing in a pale dress on the step of the garden path. Then Ursula stepped down, and came along the road, holding Birkin's arm.
Gerald went across into the darkness and they dawdled161 past him, talking happily, Birkin's voice low, Ursula's high and distinct. Gerald went quickly 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 and silently up the path, and looked up into the hall. There were pictures on the walls, and the antlers of a stag -- and the stairs going up on one side -- and just near the foot of the stairs the half opened door of the dining-room.
With heart drawn fine, Gerald stepped into the hall, whose floor was of coloured tiles, went quickly and looked into the large, pleasant room. In a chair by the fire, the father sat asleep, his head tilted162 back against the side of the big oak chimney piece, his ruddy face seen foreshortened, the nostrils open, the mouth fallen a little. It would take the merest sound to wake him.
Gerald stood a second suspended. He glanced down the passage behind him. It was all dark. Again he was suspended. Then he went swiftly upstairs. His senses were so finely, almost supernaturally keen, that he 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. That would be the mother's room. He could hear her moving about in the candlelight. She would be expecting her husband to come up. He looked along 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 a door. He stood and listened. He could hear two people's breathing. It was not that. He went stealthily forward. There was another door, slightly open. The room was in darkness. Empty. Then there was the bathroom, he could smell the soap and the heat. Then at the end another bedroom -- one soft breathing. This was she.
With an almost occult carefulness he turned the door handle, and opened the door an inch. It creaked slightly. Then he opened it another inch -- then another. His heart did not beat, he seemed to create a silence about himself, an obliviousness163.
He was in the room. Still the sleeper164 breathed softly. It was very dark. He felt his way forward inch by inch, with his feet and hands. He touched the bed, he could hear the sleeper. He drew nearer, bending close as if his eyes would disclose whatever there was. And then, very near 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, and passed rapidly down the passage. At the head of the stairs he hesitated. There was still time to flee.
But it was unthinkable. He would maintain his will. He turned past the door of the parental165 bedroom like a shadow, and was climbing the second flight of stairs. They creaked under his weight -- it was exasperating166. Ah what disaster, if the mother's door opened just beneath him, and she saw 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 feet below, the outer door was closed and locked, he heard Ursula's voice, then the father's sleepy exclamation167. He pressed on swiftly to the upper landing.
Again a door was ajar, a room was empty. Feeling his way forward, with the tips of his fingers, travelling rapidly, like a blind man, anxious lest Ursula should come upstairs, he found another door. There, with his preternaturally fine sense alert, he listened. He heard someone moving in bed. This would be she.
Softly now, like one who has only one sense, the tactile168 sense, he turned the latch169. It clicked. He held still. The bed-clothes rustled170. His heart did not beat. Then again he drew the latch back, and very gently pushed the door. It made a sticking noise as it gave.
`Ursula?' said Gudrun's voice, frightened. He quickly opened the door and pushed it behind him.
`Is it you, Ursula?' came Gudrun's frightened voice. He heard her sitting 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 astonishment171. She was too astonished, too much taken by surprise, even to be afraid.
`Gerald!' she echoed, in blank amazement172. He had found his way to the bed, and his outstretched hand touched her warm breast blindly. She shrank away.
`Let me make a light,' she said, springing out.
He stood perfectly motionless. He heard her touch the match-box, he heard her fingers in their movement. Then he saw her in the light of a match, which she held to the candle. The light rose in the room, then sank to a small dimness, as the flame sank down on the candle, before it mounted again.
She looked at him, as he stood near the other side of the bed. His cap was pulled low over his brow, his black overcoat was buttoned close up to his chin. His face was strange and luminous173. He was inevitable174 as a supernatural being. When she had seen him, she knew. She knew there was something fatal in the situation, and she must accept it. Yet she must challenge 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 swiftly across the room, and closed her door, softly, and locked it. Then she came back.
She was wonderful, with startled eyes and flushed cheeks, and her plait of hair rather short and thick down her back, and her long, fine white nightdress falling to her feet.
She saw that his boots were all clayey, even his trousers were plastered with clay. And she wondered if he had made footprints all the way up. He was a very strange figure, standing in her bedroom, near the tossed 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 vividly175 elated. There was a pause. He stood on one side of the tumbled bed, she on the other. 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 and mystic attractiveness of this distinct, strange face, she would have sent him away. But his face was too wonderful and undiscovered to her. It fascinated her with the fascination176 of pure beauty, cast a spell on her, like nostalgia177, an ache.
`What do you want of me?' she repeated in an estranged178 voice.
He pulled off his cap, in a movement of dream-liberation, and went across to her. But he could not touch her, because she stood barefoot in her night-dress, and he was muddy and damp. Her eyes, wide and large and 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 vacancy179.
There was about him a curious, and almost godlike air of simplicity180 and native directness. He reminded her of an apparition181, 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 I shouldn'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 seemed fixed in an odd supernatural steadfastness182. She sighed. She was lost now. 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 his chin to unfasten the throat buttons. His short, keen hair was ruffled183. He was so beautifully blond, like wheat. He pulled off his overcoat.
Quickly he pulled off his jacket, pulled loose his black tie, and was unfastening his studs, which were headed each with a pearl. She listened, watching, hoping no one would hear the starched184 linen185 crackle. It seemed to snap like pistol shots.
He had come for vindication186. She let him hold her in his arms, clasp her close against him. He found in her an infinite relief. Into her he poured all his pent-up darkness and corrosive187 death, and he was whole again. It was wonderful, marvellous, it was a miracle. This was the everrecurrent miracle of his life, at the knowledge of which he was lost in an ecstasy188 of relief and wonder. And she, subject, received him as a vessel189 filled with his bitter potion of death. She had no power at this crisis to resist. The terrible frictional violence of death filled her, and she received it in an ecstasy of subjection, in throes of acute, violent sensation.
As he drew nearer to her, he plunged190 deeper into her enveloping191 soft warmth, a wonderful creative heat that penetrated192 his veins and gave him life again. He felt himself dissolving and sinking to rest in the bath of her living strength. It seemed as if her heart in her breast were a second unconquerable sun, into the glow and creative strength of which he plunged further and further. All his veins, that were murdered and lacerated, healed softly as life came pulsing in, stealing invisibly in to him as if it were the all-powerful effluence of the sun. His blood, which seemed to have been drawn back into death, came ebbing193 on the return, surely, beautifully, powerfully.
He felt his limbs growing fuller and flexible with life, his body gained an unknown strength. He was a man again, strong and rounded. And he was a child, so soothed194 and restored and full of gratitude195.
And she, she was the great bath of life, he worshipped her. Mother and substance of all life she was. And he, child and man, received of her and was made whole. His pure body was almost killed. But the miraculous196, soft effluence of her breast suffused over him, over his seared, damaged brain, like a healing lymph, like a soft, soothing197 flow of 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 not known how hurt he was, how his tissue, the very tissue of his brain was damaged by the corrosive flood of death. Now, as the healing lymph of her effluence flowed through him, he knew how destroyed he was, like a plant whose tissue is burst from inwards by a frost.
He buried his small, hard head between her breasts, and pressed her breasts against him with his hands. And she with quivering hands pressed his head against her, as he lay suffused out, and she lay fully36 conscious. The lovely creative warmth flooded through him like a sleep of fecundity198 within the womb. Ah, if only she would grant him the flow of this living effluence, he would be restored, he would be complete again. He was afraid she would deny him before it was finished. Like a child at the breast, he cleaved199 intensely to her, and she could not put him away. And his seared, ruined membrane200 relaxed, softened201, that which was seared and stiff and blasted yielded again, became soft and flexible, palpitating with new life. He was infinitely grateful, as to God, or as an infant is at its mother's breast. He was glad and grateful like a delirium202, as he felt his own wholeness come over him again, as he felt the full, unutterable sleep coming over him, the sleep of complete exhaustion203 and restoration.
But Gudrun lay wide awake, destroyed into perfect consciousness. She lay 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 monotonously204 that it seemed eternal. This endless breaking of slow, sullen205 waves of fate held her life a possession, whilst she lay with dark, wide eyes looking into the darkness. She could see so far, as far as eternity206 -- yet she saw nothing. She was suspended in perfect consciousness -- and of what was she conscious?
This mood of extremity, when she lay staring into eternity, utterly suspended, and conscious of everything, to the last limits, passed and left her uneasy. She had lain so long motionless. She moved, she became self-conscious. She wanted to look at him, to see him.
But she dared not make a light, because she knew he would wake, and she did not want to break his perfect sleep, that she knew he had got of her.
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 just distinguish his features, as he slept the perfect sleep. In this darkness, she seemed to see him so distinctly. But he was far off, in another world. Ah, she could shriek207 with torment, he was so far off, and perfected, in another world. She seemed to look at him as at a pebble208 far away under clear dark water. And here was she, left with all the anguish209 of consciousness, whilst he was sunk deep into the other element 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 the other being!
There was nothing to do but to lie still and endure. She felt an overwhelming tenderness for him, and a dark, under-stirring of jealous hatred210, that he should lie so perfect and immune, in an other-world, whilst she was tormented211 with violent wakefulness, cast out in the outer darkness.
She lay in intense and vivid consciousness, an exhausting superconsciousness. The church clock struck the hours, it seemed to her, in quick succession. She heard them distinctly in the tension of her vivid consciousness. And he slept as if time were one moment, unchanging and unmoving.
She was exhausted212, wearied. Yet she must continue in this state of violent active superconsciousness. She was conscious of everything -- her childhood, her girlhood, all the forgotten incidents, all the unrealised influences and all the happenings she had not understood, pertaining213 to herself, to her family, to her friends, her lovers, her acquaintances, everybody. It was as if she drew a glittering rope of knowledge out of the sea of darkness, drew and drew and drew it out of the 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 of glittering consciousness, pull it out phosphorescent from the endless depths 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 she rouse him and send him away? When could she disturb him? And she relapsed into her activity of automatic consciousness, that would never end.
But the time was drawing near when she could wake him. It was like a release. The clock had struck four, outside in the night. Thank God the night had passed almost away. At five he must go, and she would be released. Then she could relax and fill her own place. Now she was driven up against his perfect sleeping motion like a knife white-hot on a grindstone. There was something monstrous214 about him, about his juxtaposition215 against her.
The last hour was the longest. And yet, at last it passed. Her heart leapt with relief -- yes, there was the slow, strong stroke of the church clock -at last, after this night of eternity. She waited to catch each slow, fatal reverberation216. `Three -- four -- five!' There, it was finished. A weight rolled off her.
She raised herself, leaned over him tenderly, and kissed him. She was sad to wake him. After a few moments, she kissed him again. But he did not stir. The darling, he was so deep in sleep! What a shame to take him out of it. She let him lie a little longer. But he must go -- he must really go.
With full over-tenderness she took his face between her hands, and kissed his eyes. The eyes opened, he remained motionless, looking at her. Her heart stood still. To hide her face from his dreadful opened eyes, in the darkness, she bent217 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 intolerable oppression to her.
`Past five o'clock,' she said.
But he only closed his arms round her again. Her heart cried within her in 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 a little bit ashamed, humiliated218, putting on his clothes before her, in the candle-light. For he felt revealed, exposed to her, at a time when she was in some way against him. It was all very difficult to understand. He dressed himself quickly, without collar or tie. Still he felt full and complete, perfected. She thought it humiliating to see a man dressing219: the ridiculous shirt, the ridiculous trousers and braces220. But again an idea saved her.
`It is like a workman getting up to go to work,' thought Gudrun. `And I am like a workman's wife.' But an ache like nausea221 was upon her: a nausea of him.
He pushed his collar and tie into his overcoat pocket. Then he sat down and pulled on his boots. They were sodden, as were his socks and trouser-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 holding them in his hand. She had thrust her feet into slippers222, and flung a loose robe round her. She was ready. She looked at him as he stood waiting, his black coat buttoned to the chin, his cap pulled down, his boots in his hand. And the passionate223 almost hateful fascination revived in her for a moment. It was not exhausted. His face was so warm-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. She wished his warm, expressionless beauty did not so fatally put a spell on her, compel her and subjugate224 her. It was a burden upon her, that she resented, but could not escape. Yet when she looked at his straight man's brows, and at his rather small, well-shaped nose, and at his blue, indifferent eyes, she knew her passion for him was not yet satisfied, 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 prodigious225 noise. He followed her as, wrapped in her vivid green wrap, she preceded him with the light. She suffered badly with fear, lest her people should be roused. He hardly cared. He did not care now who knew. And she hated this 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 had left it. He looked up at the clock -- twenty minutes past five Then he sat down on a chair to put on his boots. She waited, watching his every movement. She wanted it to be over, it was a great nervous strain on her.
He stood up -- she unbolted the back door, and looked out. A cold, raw night, not yet dawn, with a piece of a moon in the vague sky. She was glad 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 the gate, 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 torments226 hearing his firm tread going so distinctly down the 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, she breathed freely, and a great weight fell off her. She nestled down in bed, in the groove227 his body had made, in the warmth he had left. And excited, worn-out, yet still satisfied, she fell soon into a deep, heavy sleep.
Gerald walked quickly through the raw darkness of the coming dawn. He met nobody. His mind was beautifully still and thoughtless, like a still pool, and his body full and warm and rich. He went quickly along towards Shortlands, in a grateful self-sufficiency.
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1
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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2
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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5
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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inchoate
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| adj.才开始的，初期的 | |
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decomposing
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| 腐烂( decompose的现在分词 )； （使）分解； 分解（某物质、光线等） | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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9
resound
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| v.回响 | |
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10
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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12
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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13
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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14
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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15
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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16
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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20
omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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22
flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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23
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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24
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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25
extraneous
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| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
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26
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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27
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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28
iridescence
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| n.彩虹色；放光彩；晕色；晕彩 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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30
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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31
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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32
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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33
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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34
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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35
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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36
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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37
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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38
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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39
timbre
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| n.音色，音质 | |
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40
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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41
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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42
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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43
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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44
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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46
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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47
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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48
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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49
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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50
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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51
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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52
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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53
flipped
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| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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54
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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55
cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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56
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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57
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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59
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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60
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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61
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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62
chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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64
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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66
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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67
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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68
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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70
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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72
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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73
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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75
dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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76
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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77
exultancy
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| n.大喜，狂喜 | |
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78
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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80
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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82
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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83
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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84
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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85
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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86
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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87
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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88
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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89
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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90
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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91
suffusion
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| n.充满 | |
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92
avidly
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| adv.渴望地，热心地 | |
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93
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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94
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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95
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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96
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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97
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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98
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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99
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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100
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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101
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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102
risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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103
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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104
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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105
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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107
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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108
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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109
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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110
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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111
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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112
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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113
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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114
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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115
leakage
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| n.漏，泄漏；泄漏物；漏出量 | |
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116
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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117
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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118
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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119
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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120
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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121
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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122
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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123
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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124
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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125
clarion
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| n.尖音小号声；尖音小号 | |
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126
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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127
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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128
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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129
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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130
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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131
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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132
glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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133
transacting
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的现在分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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134
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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135
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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136
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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137
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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138
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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139
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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140
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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141
poising
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| 使平衡( poise的现在分词 )； 保持（某种姿势）； 抓紧； 使稳定 | |
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142
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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143
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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144
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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145
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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147
writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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148
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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149
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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150
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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151
unevenly
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| adv.不均匀的 | |
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152
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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153
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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154
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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155
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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156
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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157
chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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158
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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159
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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160
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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161
dawdled
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| v.混（时间）( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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163
obliviousness
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164
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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165
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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166
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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167
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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168
tactile
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| adj.触觉的，有触觉的，能触知的 | |
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169
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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170
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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172
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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173
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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174
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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175
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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176
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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177
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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178
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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179
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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180
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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181
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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182
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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183
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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184
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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186
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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187
corrosive
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| adj.腐蚀性的；有害的；恶毒的 | |
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188
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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189
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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190
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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191
enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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192
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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193
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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194
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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195
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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196
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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197
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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198
fecundity
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| n.生产力；丰富 | |
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199
cleaved
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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200
membrane
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| n.薄膜，膜皮，羊皮纸 | |
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201
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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202
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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203
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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204
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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205
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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206
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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207
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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208
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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209
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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210
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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211
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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212
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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213
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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214
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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215
juxtaposition
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| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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216
reverberation
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| 反响； 回响； 反射； 反射物 | |
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217
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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218
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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219
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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220
braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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221
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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222
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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223
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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224
subjugate
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| v.征服；抑制 | |
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225
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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226
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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227
groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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