Women in Love

Suddenly he was silent. But he sat with his head dropped, to hide his

face. Then furtively he wiped his face with his fingers. Then suddenly

he lifted his head, and looked straight at Ursula, with dark, almost

vengeful eyes.

'He should have loved me,' he said. 'I offered him.' She, afraid, white, with mute lips answered: 'What difference would it have made!' 'It would!' he said. 'It would.' He forgot her, and turned to look at Gerald. With head oddly lifted,

like a man who draws his head back from an insult, half haughtily, he

watched the cold, mute, material face. It had a bluish cast. It sent a

shaft like ice through the heart of the living man. Cold, mute,

material! Birkin remembered how once Gerald had clutched his hand, with

a warm, momentaneous grip of final love. For one second--then let go

again, let go for ever. If he had kept true to that clasp, death would

not have mattered. Those who die, and dying still can love, still

believe, do not die. They live still in the beloved. Gerald might still

have been living in the spirit with Birkin, even after death. He might

have lived with his friend, a further life.

But now he was dead, like clay, like bluish, corruptible ice. Birkin

looked at the pale fingers, the inert mass. He remembered a dead

stallion he had seen: a dead mass of maleness, repugnant. He remembered

also the beautiful face of one whom he had loved, and who had died

still having the faith to yield to the mystery. That dead face was

beautiful, no one could call it cold, mute, material. No one could

remember it without gaining faith in the mystery, without the soul's

warming with new, deep life-trust.

And Gerald! The denier! He left the heart cold, frozen, hardly able to

beat. Gerald's father had looked wistful, to break the heart: but not

this last terrible look of cold, mute Matter. Birkin watched and

watched.

Ursula stood aside watching the living man stare at the frozen face of

the dead man. Both faces were unmoved and unmoving. The candle-flames

flickered in the frozen air, in the intense silence.

'Haven't you seen enough?' she said.

He got up.

'It's a bitter thing to me,' he said.

'What--that he's dead?' she said.

His eyes just met hers. He did not answer.

'You've got me,' she said.

He smiled and kissed her.

'If I die,' he said, 'you'll know I haven't left you.' 'And me?' she cried.

'And you won't have left me,' he said. 'We shan't have any need to

despair, in death.' She took hold of his hand.