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, of course.”
The child pondered a few moments, then she asked:
“But do you think he will die?”
It was put almost like a question in geography or science, insistent, as if she would force an admission from the adult. The watchful, slightly triumphant child was almost diabolical.
“Do I think he will die?” repeated Gudrun. “Yes, I do.”
But Winifred’s large eyes were fixed on her, and the girl did not move.
“He is very ill,” said Gudrun.
A small smile came over Winifred’s face, subtle and sceptical.
“I don’t believe he will,” the child asserted, mockingly, and she moved away into the drive. Gudrun watched the isolated figure, and her heart stood still. Winifred was playing with a little rivulet of water, absorbedly as if nothing had been said.
“I’ve made a proper dam,” she said, out of the moist distance.
Gerald came to the door from out of the hall behind.
“It is just as well she doesn’t choose to believe it,” he said.
Gudrun looked at him. Their eyes met; and they exchanged a sardonic understanding.
“Just as well,” said Gudrun.
He looked at her again, and a fire flickered up in his eyes.
“Best to dance while Rome burns, since it must burn, don’t you think?” he said.
She was rather taken aback. But, gathering herself together, she replied:
“Oh—better dance than wail, certainly.”
“So I think.”
And they both felt the subterranean desire to let go, to fling away everything, and lapse into a sheer unrestraint, brutal and licentious. A strange black passion surged up pure in Gudrun. She felt strong. She felt her hands so strong, as if she could tear the world asunder with them. She remembered the abandonments of Roman licence, and her heart grew hot. She knew she wanted this herself also—or something, something equivalent. Ah, if that which was unknown and suppressed in her were once let loose, what an orgiastic and satisfying event it would be. And she wanted it, she trembled slightly from the proximity of the man, who stood just behind her, suggestive of the same black licentiousness that rose in herself. She wanted it with him, this unacknowledged frenzy. For a moment the clear perception of this preoccupied her, distinct and perfect in its final reality. Then she shut it off completely, saying:
“We might as well go down to the lodge after Winifred—we can get in the car there.”
“So we can,” he answered, going with her.
They found Winifred at the lodge admiring the litter of purebred white puppies. The girl looked up, and there was a rather ugly, unseeing cast in her eyes as she turned to Gerald and Gudrun. She did not want to see them.
“Look!” she cried. “Three new puppies! Marshall says this one seems perfect. Isn’t it a sweetling? But it isn’t so nice as its mother.” She turned to caress the fine white bull-terrier bitch that stood uneasily near her.
“My dearest Lady Crich,” she said, “you are beautiful as an angel on earth. Angel—angel—don’t you think she’s good enough and beautiful enough to go to heaven, Gudrun? They will be in heaven, won’t they—and especially my darling Lady Crich! Mrs. Marshall, I say!”
“Yes, Miss Winifred?” said the woman, appearing at the door.
“Oh do call this one Lady Winifred, if she turns out perfect, will you? Do tell Marshall to call it Lady Winifred.”
“I’ll tell him—but I’m afraid that’s a gentleman puppy, Miss Winifred.”
“Oh no!” There was the sound of a car. “There’s Rupert!” cried the child, and she ran to the gate.
Birkin, driving his car, pulled up outside the lodge gate.
“We’re ready!” cried Winifred. “I want to sit in front with you, Rupert. May I?”
“I’m afraid you’ll fidget about and fall out,” he said.
“No I won’t. I do want to sit in front next to you. It makes my feet so lovely and warm, from the engines.”
Birkin helped her up, amused at sending Gerald to sit by Gudrun in the body of the car.
“Have you any news, Rupert?” Gerald called, as they rushed along the lanes.
“News?” exclaimed Birkin.
“Yes,” Gerald looked at Gudrun, who sat by his side, and he said, his eyes narrowly laughing, “I want to know whether I ought to congratulate him, but I can’t get anything definite out of him.”
Gudrun flushed deeply.
“Congratulate him on what?” she asked.
“There was some mention of an engagement—at least, he said something to me about it.”
Gudrun flushed darkly.
“You mean with Ursula?” she said, in challenge.
“Yes. That is so, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think there’s any engagement,” said Gudrun, coldly.
“That so? Still no developments, Rupert?” he called.
“Where? Matrimonial? No.”
“How’s that?” called Gudrun.
Birkin glanced quickly round. There was irritation in his eyes also.
“Why?” he replied. “What do you think of it, Gudrun?”
“Oh,” she cried, determined to fling her stone also into the pool, since they had begun, “I don’t think she wants an engagement. Naturally, she’s a bird that prefers the bush.” Gudrun’s voice was clear and gong-like. It reminded Rupert of her father’s, so strong and vibrant.
“And I,” said Birkin, his face playful but yet determined, “I want a binding contract, and am not keen on love, particularly free love.”
They were both amused. Why this public avowal? Gerald seemed suspended a moment, in amusement.
“Love isn’t good enough for you?” he called.
“No!” shouted Birkin.
“Ha, well that’s being overrefined,” said Gerald, and the car ran through the mud.
“What’s the matter, really?” said Gerald, turning to Gudrun.
This was an assumption of a sort of intimacy that irritated Gudrun almost like an affront. It seemed to her that Gerald was deliberately insulting her,
