Women in Love

'Don't cry,' he repeated, 'don't cry any more.' He held her head close against him, very close and quiet.

At last she was still. Then she looked up, her eyes wide and frightened.

'Don't you want me?' she asked.

'Want you?' His darkened, steady eyes puzzled her and did not give her

play.

'Do you wish I hadn't come?' she asked, anxious now again for fear she

might be out of place.

'No,' he said. 'I wish there hadn't been the violence--so much

ugliness--but perhaps it was inevitable.' She watched him in silence. He seemed deadened.

'But where shall I stay?' she asked, feeling humiliated.

He thought for a moment.

'Here, with me,' he said. 'We're married as much today as we shall be

tomorrow.' 'But--' 'I'll tell Mrs Varley,' he said. 'Never mind now.' He sat looking at her. She could feel his darkened steady eyes looking

at her all the time. It made her a little bit frightened. She pushed

her hair off her forehead nervously.

'Do I look ugly?' she said.

And she blew her nose again.

A small smile came round his eyes.

'No,' he said, 'fortunately.' And he went across to her, and gathered her like a belonging in his

arms. She was so tenderly beautiful, he could not bear to see her, he

could only bear to hide her against himself. Now; washed all clean by

her tears, she was new and frail like a flower just unfolded, a flower

so new, so tender, so made perfect by inner light, that he could not

bear to look at her, he must hide her against himself, cover his eyes

against her. She had the perfect candour of creation, something

translucent and simple, like a radiant, shining flower that moment

unfolded in primal blessedness. She was so new, so wonder-clear, so

undimmed. And he was so old, so steeped in heavy memories. Her soul was

new, undefined and glimmering with the unseen. And his soul was dark

and gloomy, it had only one grain of living hope, like a grain of

mustard seed. But this one living grain in him matched the perfect

youth in her.

'I love you,' he whispered as he kissed her, and trembled with pure

hope, like a man who is born again to a wonderful, lively hope far

exceeding the bounds of death.

She could not know how much it meant to him, how much he meant by the

few words. Almost childish, she wanted proof, and statement, even

over-statement, for everything seemed still uncertain, unfixed to her.