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, scarcely-audible 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 perfectly impassive, as if she had not heard. Her bulk seemed hunched in the chair, her fair hair hung slack over her ears. But her skin was clear and fine, her hands, as she sat with 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 hysterical?’
The curious challenge in the last words startled Gudrun.
‘I don’t think so, mother,’ he answered, rather coldly cheery.
‘Somebody’s got to see it through, you know.’
‘Have they? Have they?’ answered his mother rapidly. ‘Why should 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 affected—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 ripened 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, implicitly. 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—’
