Winifred was her father’s constant visitor. Every morning, after breakfast, she went into his room when he was washed and propped up in bed, to spend half an hour with him.
“Are you better, Daddie?” she asked him invariably.
And invariably he answered:
“Yes, I think I’m a little better, pet.”
She held his hand in both her own, lovingly and protectively. And this was very dear to him.
She ran in again as a rule at lunch time, to tell him the course of events, and every evening, when the curtains were drawn, and his room was cosy, she spent a long time with him. Gudrun was gone home, Winifred was alone in the house: she liked best to be with her father. They talked and prattled at random, he always as if he were well, just the same as when he was going about. So that Winifred, with a child’s subtle instinct for avoiding the painful things, behaved as if nothing serious was the matter. Instinctively, she withheld her attention, and was happy. Yet in her remoter soul, she knew as well as the adults knew: perhaps better.
Her father was quite well in his make-belief with her. But when she went away, he relapsed under the misery of his dissolution. But still there were these bright moments, though as his strength waned, his faculty for attention grew weaker, and the nurse had to send Winifred away, to save him from exhaustion.
He never admitted that he was going to die. He knew it was so, he knew it was the end. Yet even to himself he did not admit it. He hated the fact, mortally. His will was rigid. He could not bear being overcome by death. For him, there was no death. And yet, at times, he felt a great need to cry out and to wail and complain. He would have liked to cry aloud to Gerald, so that his son should be horrified out of his composure. 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 Laocoön. 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 reliving 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
