Women in Love

Then, satisfied and shattered, fulfilled and destroyed, he went home

away from her, drifting vaguely through the darkness, lapsed into the

old fire of burning passion. Far away, far away, there seemed to be a

small lament in the darkness. But what did it matter? What did it

matter, what did anything matter save this ultimate and triumphant

experience of physical passion, that had blazed up anew like a new

spell of life. 'I was becoming quite dead-alive, nothing but a

word-bag,' he said in triumph, scorning his other self. Yet somewhere

far off and small, the other hovered.

The men were still dragging the lake when he got back. He stood on the

bank and heard Gerald's voice. The water was still booming in the

night, the moon was fair, the hills beyond were elusive. The lake was

sinking. There came the raw smell of the banks, in the night air.

Up at Shortlands there were lights in the windows, as if nobody had

gone to bed. On the landing-stage was the old doctor, the father of the

young man who was lost. He stood quite silent, waiting. Birkin also

stood and watched, Gerald came up in a boat.

'You still here, Rupert?' he said. 'We can't get them. The bottom

slopes, you know, very steep. The water lies between two very sharp

slopes, with little branch valleys, and God knows where the drift will

take you. It isn't as if it was a level bottom. You never know where

you are, with the dragging.' 'Is there any need for you to be working?' said Birkin. 'Wouldn't it be

much better if you went to bed?' 'To bed! Good God, do you think I should sleep? We'll find 'em, before

I go away from here.' 'But the men would find them just the same without you--why should you

insist?' Gerald looked up at him. Then he put his hand affectionately on

Birkin's shoulder, saying: 'Don't you bother about me, Rupert. If there's anybody's health to

think about, it's yours, not mine. How do you feel yourself?' 'Very well. But you, you spoil your own chance of life--you waste your

best self.' Gerald was silent for a moment. Then he said: 'Waste it? What else is there to do with it?' 'But leave this, won't you? You force yourself into horrors, and put a

mill-stone of beastly memories round your neck. Come away now.' 'A mill-stone of beastly memories!' Gerald repeated. Then he put his

hand again affectionately on Birkin's shoulder. 'God, you've got such a

telling way of putting things, Rupert, you have.' Birkin's heart sank. He was irritated and weary of having a telling way

of putting things.