'But how beautiful they are!' she said, in a muffled voice. Then, with
a strange, suddenly revealed passion, she stooped and kissed Winifred.
Mr Crich went forward with his hand held out to her.
'I was afraid you were going to run away from us,' he said, playfully.
Gudrun looked up at him with a luminous, roguish, unknown face.
'Really!' she replied. 'No, I didn't want to stay in London.' Her voice
seemed to imply that she was glad to get back to Shortlands, her tone
was warm and subtly caressing.
'That is a good thing,' smiled the father. 'You see you are very
welcome here among us.' Gudrun only looked into his face with dark-blue, warm, shy eyes. She
was unconsciously carried away by her own power.
'And you look as if you came home in every possible triumph,' Mr Crich
continued, holding her hand.
'No,' she said, glowing strangely. 'I haven't had any triumph till I
came here.' 'Ah, come, come! We're not going to hear any of those tales. Haven't we
read notices in the newspaper, Gerald?' 'You came off pretty well,' said Gerald to her, shaking hands. 'Did you
sell anything?' 'No,' she said, 'not much.' 'Just as well,' he said.
She wondered what he meant. But she was all aglow with her reception,
carried away by this little flattering ceremonial on her behalf.
'Winifred,' said the father, 'have you a pair of shoes for Miss
Brangwen? You had better change at once--' Gudrun went out with her bouquet in her hand.
'Quite a remarkable young woman,' said the father to Gerald, when she
had gone.
'Yes,' replied Gerald briefly, as if he did not like the observation.
Mr Crich liked Gudrun to sit with him for half an hour. Usually he was
ashy and wretched, with all the life gnawed out of him. But as soon as
he rallied, he liked to make believe that he was just as before, quite
well and in the midst of life--not of the outer world, but in the midst
of a strong essential life. And to this belief, Gudrun contributed
perfectly. With her, he could get by stimulation those precious
half-hours of strength and exaltation and pure freedom, when he seemed
to live more than he had ever lived.
She came to him as he lay propped up in the library. His face was like
yellow wax, his eyes darkened, as it were sightless. His black beard,
now streaked with grey, seemed to spring out of the waxy flesh of a
corpse. Yet the atmosphere about him was energetic and playful. Gudrun
subscribed to this, perfectly. To her fancy, he was just an ordinary
man. Only his rather terrible appearance was photographed upon her
soul, away beneath her consciousness. She knew that, in spite of his
playfulness, his eyes could not change from their darkened vacancy,
they were the eyes of a man who is dead.