He was commissioned to open the sluice that let out the water from the
lake, which was pierced at one end, near the high-road, thus serving as
a reservoir to supply with water the distant mines, in case of
necessity. 'Come with me,' he said to Ursula, 'and then I will walk
home with you, when I've done this.' He called at the water-keeper's cottage and took the key of the sluice.
They went through a little gate from the high-road, to the head of the
water, where was a great stone basin which received the overflow, and a
flight of stone steps descended into the depths of the water itself. At
the head of the steps was the lock of the sluice-gate.
The night was silver-grey and perfect, save for the scattered restless
sound of voices. The grey sheen of the moonlight caught the stretch of
water, dark boats plashed and moved. But Ursula's mind ceased to be
receptive, everything was unimportant and unreal.
Birkin fixed the iron handle of the sluice, and turned it with a
wrench. The cogs began slowly to rise. He turned and turned, like a
slave, his white figure became distinct. Ursula looked away. She could
not bear to see him winding heavily and laboriously, bending and rising
mechanically like a slave, turning the handle.
Then, a real shock to her, there came a loud splashing of water from
out of the dark, tree-filled hollow beyond the road, a splashing that
deepened rapidly to a harsh roar, and then became a heavy, booming
noise of a great body of water falling solidly all the time. It
occupied the whole of the night, this great steady booming of water,
everything was drowned within it, drowned and lost. Ursula seemed to
have to struggle for her life. She put her hands over her ears, and
looked at the high bland moon.
'Can't we go now?' she cried to Birkin, who was watching the water on
the steps, to see if it would get any lower. It seemed to fascinate
him. He looked at her and nodded.
The little dark boats had moved nearer, people were crowding curiously
along the hedge by the high-road, to see what was to be seen. Birkin
and Ursula went to the cottage with the key, then turned their backs on
the lake. She was in great haste. She could not bear the terrible
crushing boom of the escaping water.
'Do you think they are dead?' she cried in a high voice, to make
herself heard.
'Yes,' he replied.
'Isn't it horrible!' He paid no heed. They walked up the hill, further and further away from
the noise.