Women in Love

Ah, if only she might wake him! She turned uneasily. When could she

rouse him and send him away? When could she disturb him? And she

relapsed into her activity of automatic consciousness, that would never

end.

But the time was drawing near when she could wake him. It was like a

release. The clock had struck four, outside in the night. Thank God the

night had passed almost away. At five he must go, and she would be

released. Then she could relax and fill her own place. Now she was

driven up against his perfect sleeping motion like a knife white-hot on

a grindstone. There was something monstrous about him, about his

juxtaposition against her.

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.