Women in Love

'Ay,' she said, in an incomprehensible monosyllable, that sounded

profoundly cynical. Birkin felt afraid, as if he dared not realise. And

Mrs Crich moved away, forgetting him. But she returned on her traces.

'I should like him to have a friend,' she said. 'He has never had a

friend.' Birkin looked down into her eyes, which were blue, and watching

heavily. He could not understand them. 'Am I my brother's keeper?' he

said to himself, almost flippantly.

Then he remembered, with a slight shock, that that was Cain's cry. And

Gerald was Cain, if anybody. Not that he was Cain, either, although he

had slain his brother. There was such a thing as pure accident, and the

consequences did not attach to one, even though one had killed one's

brother in such wise. Gerald as a boy had accidentally killed his

brother. What then? Why seek to draw a brand and a curse across the

life that had caused the accident? A man can live by accident, and die

by accident. Or can he not? Is every man's life subject to pure

accident, is it only the race, the genus, the species, that has a

universal reference? Or is this not true, is there no such thing as

pure accident? Has EVERYTHING that happens a universal significance?

Has it? Birkin, pondering as he stood there, had forgotten Mrs Crich,

as she had forgotten him.

He did not believe that there was any such thing as accident. It all

hung together, in the deepest sense.

Just as he had decided this, one of the Crich daughters came up,

saying: 'Won't you come and take your hat off, mother dear? We shall be sitting

down to eat in a minute, and it's a formal occasion, darling, isn't

it?' She drew her arm through her mother's, and they went away. Birkin

immediately went to talk to the nearest man.

The gong sounded for the luncheon. The men looked up, but no move was

made to the dining-room. The women of the house seemed not to feel that

the sound had meaning for them. Five minutes passed by. The elderly

manservant, Crowther, appeared in the doorway exasperatedly. He looked

with appeal at Gerald. The latter took up a large, curved conch shell,

that lay on a shelf, and without reference to anybody, blew a

shattering blast. It was a strange rousing noise, that made the heart

beat. The summons was almost magical. Everybody came running, as if at

a signal. And then the crowd in one impulse moved to the dining-room.

Gerald waited a moment, for his sister to play hostess. He knew his

mother would pay no attention to her duties. But his sister merely

crowded to her seat. Therefore the young man, slightly too dictatorial,

directed the guests to their places.