`Is it you, Ursula?' came Gudrun's frightened voice.He heard her sitting up in bed.In another moment she would scream.
`No, it's me,' he said, feeling his way towards her.`It is I, Gerald.'
She sat motionless in her bed in sheer astonishment.She was too astonished, too much taken by surprise, even to be afraid.
`Gerald!' she echoed, in blank amazement.He had found his way to the bed, and his outstretched hand touched her warm breast blindly.She shrank away.
`Let me make a light,' she said, springing out.
He stood perfectly motionless.He heard her touch the match-box, he heard her fingers in their movement.Then he saw her in the light of a match, which she held to the candle.The light rose in the room, then sank to a small dimness, as the flame sank down on the candle, before it mounted again.
She looked at him, as he stood near the other side of the bed.His cap was pulled low over his brow, his black overcoat was buttoned close up to his chin.His face was strange and luminous.He was inevitable as a supernatural being.When she had seen him, she knew.She knew there was something fatal in the situation, and she must accept it.Yet she must challenge him.
`How did you come up?' she asked.
`I walked up the stairs -- the door was open.'
She looked at him.
`I haven't closed this door, either,' he said.She walked swiftly across the room, and closed her door, softly, and locked it.Then she came back.
She was wonderful, with startled eyes and flushed cheeks, and her plait of hair rather short and thick down her back, and her long, fine white night-dress falling to her feet.
She saw that his boots were all clayey, even his trousers were plastered with clay.And she wondered if he had made footprints all the way up.He was a very strange figure, standing in her bedroom, near the tossed bed.
`Why have you come?' she asked, almost querulous.
`I wanted to,' he replied.
And this she could see from his face.It was fate.
`You are so muddy,' she said, in distaste, but gently.
He looked down at his feet.
`I was walking in the dark,' he replied.But he felt vividly elated.
There was a pause.He stood on one side of the tumbled bed, she on the other.He did not even take his cap from his brows.
`And what do you want of me,' she challenged.
He looked aside, and did not answer.Save for the extreme beauty and mystic attractiveness of this distinct, strange face, she would have sent him away.But his face was too wonderful and undiscovered to her.It fascinated her with the fascination of pure beauty, cast a spell on her, like nostalgia, an ache.
`What do you want of me?' she repeated in an estranged voice.
He pulled off his cap, in a movement of dream-liberation, and went across to her.But he could not touch her, because she stood barefoot in her night-dress, and he was muddy and damp.Her eyes, wide and large and wondering, watched him, and asked him the ultimate question.
`I came -- because I must,' he said.`Why do you ask?'
She looked at him in doubt and wonder.
`I must ask,' she said.
He shook his head slightly.
`There is no answer,' he replied, with strange vacancy.
There was about him a curious, and almost godlike air of simplicity and native directness.He reminded her of an apparition, the young Hermes.
`But why did you come to me?' she persisted.
`Because -- it has to be so.If there weren't you in the world, then I shouldn't be in the world, either.'
She stood looking at him, with large, wide, wondering, stricken eyes.
His eyes were looking steadily into hers all the time, and he seemed fixed in an odd supernatural steadfastness.She sighed.She was lost now.She had no choice.
`Won't you take off your boots,' she said.`They must be wet.'
He dropped his cap on a chair, unbuttoned his overcoat, lifting up his chin to unfasten the throat buttons.His short, keen hair was ruffled.
He was so beautifully blond, like wheat.He pulled off his overcoat.
Quickly he pulled off his jacket, pulled loose his black tie, and was unfastening his studs, which were headed each with a pearl.She listened, watching, hoping no one would hear the starched linen crackle.It seemed to snap like pistol shots.
He had come for vindication.She let him hold her in his arms, clasp her close against him.He found in her an infinite relief.Into her he poured all his pent-up darkness and corrosive death, and he was whole again.
It was wonderful, marvellous, it was a miracle.This was the everrecurrent miracle of his life, at the knowledge of which he was lost in an ecstasy of relief and wonder.And she, subject, received him as a vessel filled with his bitter potion of death.She had no power at this crisis to resist.
The terrible frictional violence of death filled her, and she received it in an ecstasy of subjection, in throes of acute, violent sensation.
As he drew nearer to her, he plunged deeper into her enveloping soft warmth, a wonderful creative heat that penetrated his veins and gave him life again.He felt himself dissolving and sinking to rest in the bath of her living strength.It seemed as if her heart in her breast were a second unconquerable sun, into the glow and creative strength of which he plunged further and further.All his veins, that were murdered and lacerated, healed softly as life came pulsing in, stealing invisibly in to him as if it were the all-powerful effluence of the sun.His blood, which seemed to have been drawn back into death, came ebbing on the return, surely, beautifully, powerfully.
He felt his limbs growing fuller and flexible with life, his body gained an unknown strength.He was a man again, strong and rounded.And he was a child, so soothed and restored and full of gratitude.
And she, she was the great bath of life, he worshipped her.Mother and substance of all life she was.And he, child and man, received of her and was made whole.His pure body was almost killed.But the miraculous, soft effluence of her breast suffused over him, over his seared, damaged brain, like a healing lymph, like a soft, soothing flow of life itself, perfect as if he were bathed in the womb again.
