Women in Love (Barnes & Noble Classics S - D. H. Lawrence [112]
Gerald sat up, and Gudrun looked at him in fear.
“Somebody in the water,” he said, angrily, and desperately, looking keenly across the dusk. “Can you row up?”
“Where, to the launch?” asked Gudrun, in nervous panic.
“Yes.”
“You’ll tell me if I don’t steer straight,” she said, in nervous apprehension.
“You keep pretty level,” he said, and the canoe hastened forward.
The shouting and the noise continued, sounding horrid through the dusk, over the surface of the water.
“Wasn’t this bound to happen?” said Gudrun, with heavy hateful irony. But he hardly heard, and she glanced over her shoulder to see her way. The half-dark waters were sprinkled with lovely bubbles of swaying lights, the launch did not look far off. She was rocking her lights in the early night. Gudrun rowed as hard as she could. But now that it was a serious matter, she seemed uncertain and clumsy in her stroke, it was difficult to paddle swiftly. She glanced at his face. He was looking fixedly into the darkness, very keen and alert and single in himself, instrumental. Her heart sank, she seemed to die a death. “Of course,” she said to herself, “nobody will be drowned. Of course they won’t. It would be too extravagant and sensational.” But her heart was cold, because of his sharp, impersonal face. It was as if he belonged naturally to dread and catastrophe, as if he were himself again.
Then there came a child’s voice, a girl’s high, piercing shriek:
“Di—Di—Di—Di—Oh Di—Oh Di—Oh Di!”
The blood ran cold in Gudrun’s veins.
“It’s Diana, is it,” muttered Gerald. “The young monkey, she’d have to be up to some of her tricks.”
And he glanced again at the paddle, the boat was not going quickly enough for him. It made Gudrun almost helpless at the rowing, this nervous stress. She kept up with all her might. Still the voices were calling and answering.
“Where, where? There you are—that’s it. Which? No—No-o-o. Damn it all here, here—” Boats were hurrying from all directions to the scene, coloured lanterns could be seen waving close to the surface of the lake, reflections swaying after them in uneven haste. The steamer hooted again, for some unknown reason. Gudrun’s boat was travelling quickly, the lanterns were swinging behind Gerald.
And then again came the child’s high, screaming voice, with a note of weeping and impatience in it now:
“Di—Oh Di—Oh Di—Di—!”
It was a terrible sound, coming through the obscure air of the evening.
“You’d be better if you were in bed, Winnie,” Gerald muttered to himself.
He was stooping unlacing his shoes, pushing them off with the foot. Then he threw his soft hat into the bottom of the boat.
“You can’t go into the water with your hurt hand,” said Gudrun, panting, in a low voice of horror.
“What? It won’t hurt.”
He had struggled out of his jacket, and had dropped it between his feet. He sat bare-headed, all in white now. He felt the belt at his waist. They were nearing the launch, which stood still big above them, her myriad lamps making lovely darts, and sinuous running tongues of ugly red and green and yellow light on the lustrous dark water, under the shadow.
“Oh get her out! Oh Di, darling! Oh get her out! Oh Daddy, Oh Daddy!” moaned the child’s voice, in distraction. Somebody was in the water, with a life belt. Two boats paddled near, their lanterns swinging ineffectually, the boats nosing round.
“Hi there—Rockley!—hi there!”
“Mr. Gerald!” came the captain’s terrified voice. “Miss Diana’s in the water.”
“Anybody gone in for her?” came Gerald’s sharp voice.
“Young Doctor Brindell, sir.”
“Where?”
“Can’t see no signs of them, sir. Everybody’s looking, but there’s nothing so far.”
There was a moment’s ominous pause.
“Where did she go in?”
“I think—about where that boat is,” came the uncertain answer, “that one with red and green lights.”
“Row there,” said Gerald quietly to Gudrun.
“Get her out,