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By Root 7779 0

Gerald was instinctively aware of this, and he recoiled, to avoid any such thing. This uncleanness of death repelled him too much. One should die quickly, like the Romans, one should be master of one’s fate in dying as in living. He was convulsed in the clasp of this death of his father’s, as in the coils of the great serpent of Laocobn.ca The great serpent had got the father, and the son was dragged into the embrace of horrifying death along with him. He resisted always. And in some strange way, he was a tower of strength to his father.

The last time the dying man asked to see Gudrun he was grey with near death. Yet he must see someone, he must, in the intervals of consciousness, catch into connection with the living world, lest he should have to accept his own situation. Fortunately he was most of his time dazed and half gone. And he spent many hours dimly thinking of the past, as it were, dimly re-living his old experiences. But there were times even to the end when he was capable of realising what was happening to him in the present, the death that was on him. And these were the times when he called in outside help, no matter whose. For to realise this death that he was dying was a death beyond death, never to be borne. It was an admission never to be made.

Gudrun was shocked by his appearance, and by the darkened, almost disintegrated eyes, that still were unconquered and firm.

“Well,” he said in his weakened voice, “and how are you and Winifred getting on?”

“Oh, very well indeed,” replied Gudrun.

There were slight dead gaps in the conversation, as if the ideas called up were only elusive straws floating on the dark chaos of the sick man’s dying.

“The studio answers all right?” he said.

“Splendid. It couldn’t be more beautiful and perfect,” said Gudrun.

She waited for what he would say next.

“And you think Winifred has the makings of a sculptor?”

It was strange how hollow the words were, meaningless.

“I’m sure she has. She will do good things one day.”

“Ah! Then her life won’t be altogether wasted, you think?”

Gudrun was rather surprised.

“Sure it won’t!” she exclaimed softly.

“That’s right.”

Again Gudrun waited for what he would say.

“You find life pleasant, it is good to live, isn’t it?” he asked, with a pitiful faint smile that was almost too much for Gudrun.

“Yes,” she smiled—she would lie at random—“I get a pretty good time I believe.”

“That’s right. A happy nature is a great asset.”

Again Gudrun smiled, though her soul was dry with repulsion. Did one have to die like this-having the life extracted forcibly from one, whilst one smiled and made conversation to the end? Was there no other way? Must one go through all the horror of this victory over death, the triumph of the integral will, that would not be broken till it disappeared utterly? One must, it was the only way. She admired the self-possession and the control of the dying man exceedingly. But she loathed the death itself. She was glad the everyday world held good, and she need not recognise anything beyond.

“You are quite all right here?—nothing we can do for you?—nothing you find wrong in your position?”

“Except that you are too good to me,” said Gudrun.

“Ah, well, the fault of that lies with yourself,” he said, and he felt a little exultation, that he had made this speech. He was still so strong and living! But the nausea of death began to creep back on him, in reaction.

Gudrun went away, back to Winifred. Mademoiselle had left, Gudrun stayed a good deal at Shortlands, and a tutor came in to carry on Winifred’s education. But he did not live in the house, he was connected with the Grammar School.

One day, Gudrun was to drive with Winifred and Gerald and Birkin to town, in the car. It was a dark, showery day. Winifred and Gudrun were ready and waiting at the door. Winifred was very quiet, but Gudrun had not noticed. Suddenly the child asked, in a voice of unconcern:

“Do you think my father’s going to die, Miss Brangwen?”

Gudrun started.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“Don’t you truly?”

“Nobody knows for certain. He may die,