"I do because I do," she cried, in the shrill, hysterical way

of her childhood. "You are not my father--my father

is dead--you are not my father."

She was still a stranger. She did not recognize him. The cold

blade cut down, deep into Brangwen's soul. It cut him off from

her.

"And what if I'm not?" he said.

But he could not bear it. It had been so passionately dear to

him, her "Father--Daddie."

He went about for some days as if stunned. His wife was

bemused. She did not understand. She only thought the marriage

was impeded for want of money and position.

There was a horrible silence in the house. Anna kept out of

sight as much as possible. She could be for hours alone.

Will Brangwen came back, after stupid scenes at Nottingham.

He too was pale and blank, but unchanging. His uncle hated him.

He hated this youth, who was so inhuman and obstinate.

Nevertheless, it was to Will Brangwen that the uncle, one

evening, handed over the shares which he had transferred to Anna

Lensky. They were for two thousand five hundred pounds. Will

Brangwen looked at his uncle. It was a great deal of the Marsh

capital here given away. The youth, however, was only colder and

more fixed. He was abstract, purely a fixed will. He gave the

shares to Anna.

After which she cried for a whole day, sobbing her eyes out.

And at night, when she had heard her mother go to bed, she

slipped down and hung in the doorway. Her father sat in his

heavy silence, like a monument. He turned his head slowly.

"Daddy," she cried from the doorway, and she ran to him

sobbing as if her heart would break.

"Daddy--daddy--daddy."

She crouched on the hearthrug with her arms round him and her

face against him. His body was so big and comfortable. But

something hurt her head intolerably. She sobbed almost with

hysteria.

He was silent, with his hand on her shoulder. His heart was

bleak. He was not her father. That beloved image she had broken.

Who was he then? A man put apart with those whose life has no

more developments. He was isolated from her. There was a

generation between them, he was old, he had died out from hot

life. A great deal of ash was in his fire, cold ash. He felt the

inevitable coldness, and in bitterness forgot the fire. He sat

in his coldness of age and isolation. He had his own wife. And

he blamed himself, he sneered at himself, for this clinging to

the young, wanting the young to belong to him.

The child who clung to him wanted her child-husband. As was

natural. And from him, Brangwen, she wanted help, so that her

life might be properly fitted out. But love she did not want.

Why should there be love between them, between the stout,

middle-aged man and this child? How could there be anything

between them, but mere human willingness to help each other? He

was her guardian, no more. His heart was like ice, his face cold

and expressionless. She could not move him any more than a

statue.




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