The last hour was the longest.And yet, at last it passed.Her heart leapt with relief -- yes, there was the slow, strong stroke of the church clock -- at last, after this night of eternity.She waited to catch each slow, fatal reverberation.`Three -- four -- five!' There, it was finished.
A weight rolled off her.
She raised herself, leaned over him tenderly, and kissed him.She was sad to wake him.After a few moments, she kissed him again.But he did not stir.The darling, he was so deep in sleep! What a shame to take him out of it.She let him lie a little longer.But he must go -- he must really go.
With full over-tenderness she took his face between her hands, and kissed his eyes.The eyes opened, he remained motionless, looking at her.Her heart stood still.To hide her face from his dreadful opened eyes, in the darkness, she bent down and kissed him, whispering:
`You must go, my love.'
But she was sick with terror, sick.
He put his arms round her.Her heart sank.
`But you must go, my love.It's late.'
`What time is it?' he said.
Strange, his man's voice.She quivered.It was an intolerable oppression to her.
`Past five o'clock,' she said.
But he only closed his arms round her again.Her heart cried within her in torture.She disengaged herself firmly.
`You really must go,' she said.
`Not for a minute,' he said.
She lay still, nestling against him, but unyielding.
`Not for a minute,' he repeated, clasping her closer.
`Yes,' she said, unyielding, `I'm afraid if you stay any longer.'
There was a certain coldness in her voice that made him release her, and she broke away, rose and lit the candle.That then was the end.
He got up.He was warm and full of life and desire.Yet he felt a little bit ashamed, humiliated, putting on his clothes before her, in the candle-light.
For he felt revealed, exposed to her, at a time when she was in some way against him.It was all very difficult to understand.He dressed himself quickly, without collar or tie.Still he felt full and complete, perfected.
She thought it humiliating to see a man dressing: the ridiculous shirt, the ridiculous trousers and braces.But again an idea saved her.
`It is like a workman getting up to go to work,' thought Gudrun.`And I am like a workman's wife.' But an ache like nausea was upon her: a nausea of him.
He pushed his collar and tie into his overcoat pocket.Then he sat down and pulled on his boots.They were sodden, as were his socks and trouser-bottoms.
But he himself was quick and warm.
`Perhaps you ought to have put your boots on downstairs,' she said.
At once, without answering, he pulled them off again, and stood holding them in his hand.She had thrust her feet into slippers, and flung a loose robe round her.She was ready.She looked at him as he stood waiting, his black coat buttoned to the chin, his cap pulled down, his boots in his hand.And the passionate almost hateful fascination revived in her for a moment.It was not exhausted.His face was so warm-looking, wide-eyed and full of newness, so perfect.She felt old, old.She went to him heavily, to be kissed.He kissed her quickly.She wished his warm, expressionless beauty did not so fatally put a spell on her, compel her and subjugate her.It was a burden upon her, that she resented, but could not escape.
Yet when she looked at his straight man's brows, and at his rather small, well-shaped nose, and at his blue, indifferent eyes, she knew her passion for him was not yet satisfied, perhaps never could be satisfied.Only now she was weary, with an ache like nausea.She wanted him gone.
They went downstairs quickly.It seemed they made a prodigious noise.
He followed her as, wrapped in her vivid green wrap, she preceded him with the light.She suffered badly with fear, lest her people should be roused.
He hardly cared.He did not care now who knew.And she hated this in him.
One must be cautious.One must preserve oneself.
She led the way to the kitchen.It was neat and tidy, as the woman had left it.He looked up at the clock -- twenty minutes past five Then he sat down on a chair to put on his boots.She waited, watching his every movement.She wanted it to be over, it was a great nervous strain on her.
He stood up -- she unbolted the back door, and looked out.A cold, raw night, not yet dawn, with a piece of a moon in the vague sky.She was glad she need not go out.
`Good-bye then,' he murmured.
`I'll come to the gate,' she said.
And again she hurried on in front, to warn him of the steps.And at the gate, once more she stood on the step whilst he stood below her.
`Good-bye,' she whispered.
He kissed her dutifully, and turned away.
She suffered torments hearing his firm tread going so distinctly down the road.Ah, the insensitiveness of that firm tread!
She closed the gate, and crept quickly and noiselessly back to bed.
When she was in her room, and the door closed, and all safe, she breathed freely, and a great weight fell off her.She nestled down in bed, in the groove his body had made, in the warmth he had left.And excited, worn-out, yet still satisfied, she fell soon into a deep, heavy sleep.
Gerald walked quickly through the raw darkness of the coming dawn.He met nobody.His mind was beautifully still and thoughtless, like a still pool, and his body full and warm and rich.He went quickly along towards Shortlands, in a grateful self-sufficiency.
