bemused。 She did not understand。 She only thought the marriage
was impeded for want of money and position。
There was a horrible silence in the house。 Anna kept out of
sight as much as possible。 She could be for hours alone。
Will Brangwen came back； after stupid scenes at Nottingham。
He too was pale and blank； but unchanging。 His uncle hated him。
He hated this youth； who was so inhuman and obstinate。
Nevertheless； it was to Will Brangwen that the uncle； one
evening； handed over the shares which he had transferred to Anna
Lensky。 They were for two thousand five hundred pounds。 Will
Brangwen looked at his uncle。 It was a great deal of the Marsh
capital here given away。 The youth； however； was only colder and
more fixed。 He was abstract； purely a fixed will。 He gave the
shares to Anna。
After which she cried for a whole day； sobbing her eyes out。
And at night； when she had heard her mother go to bed； she
slipped down and hung in the doorway。 Her father sat in his
heavy silence； like a monument。 He turned his head slowly。
〃Daddy；〃 she cried from the doorway； and she ran to him
sobbing as if her heart would break。
〃Daddy……daddy……daddy。〃
She crouched on the hearthrug with her arms round him and her
face against him。 His body was so big and fortable。 But
something hurt her head intolerably。 She sobbed almost with
hysteria。
He was silent； with his hand on her shoulder。 His heart was
bleak。 He was not her father。 That beloved image she had broken。
Who was he then？ A man put apart with those whose life has no
more developments。 He was isolated from her。 There was a
generation between them； he was old； he had died out from hot
life。 A great deal of ash was in his fire； cold ash。 He felt the
inevitable coldness； and in bitterness forgot the fire。 He sat
in his coldness of age and isolation。 He had his own wife。 And
he blamed himself； he sneered at himself； for this clinging to
the young； wanting the young to belong to him。
The child who clung to him wanted her child…husband。 As was
natural。 And from him； Brangwen； she wanted help； so that her
life might be properly fitted out。 But love she did not want。
Why should there be love between them； between the stout；
middle…aged man and this child？ How could there be anything
between them； but mere human willingness to help each other？ He
was her guardian； no more。 His heart was like ice； his face cold
and expressionless。 She could not move him any more than a
statue。
She crept to bed； and cried。 But she was going to be married
to Will Brangwen； and then she need not bother any more。
Brangwen went to bed with a hard； cold heart； and cursed
himself。 He looked at his wife。 She was still his wife。 Her dark
hair was threaded with grey； her face was beautiful in its
gathering age。 She was just fifty。 How poignantly he saw her！
And he wanted to cut out some of his own heart； which was
incontinent； and demanded still to share the rapid life of
youth。 How he hated himself。
His wife was so poignant and timely。 She was still young and
naive； with some girl's freshness。 But she did not want any more
the fight； the battle； the control； as he； in his incontinence；
still did。 She was so natural； and he was ugly； unnatural； in
his inability to yield place。 How hideous； this greedy
middle…age； which must stand in the way of life； like a large
demon。
What was missing in his life； that； in his ravening soul； he
was not satisfied？ He had had that friend at school； his mother；
his wife； and Anna？ What had he done？ He had failed with his
friend； he had been a poor son； but he had known satisfaction
with his wife； let it be enough； he loathed himself for the
state he was in over Anna。 Yet he was not satisfied。 It was
agony to know it。
Was his life nothing？ Had he nothing to show； no work？ He did
not count his work； anybody could have done it。 What had he
known； but the long； marital embrace with his wife！ Curious；
that this was what his life amounted to！ At any rate； it was
something； it was eternal。 He would say so to anybody； and be
proud of it。 He lay with his wife in his arms； and she was still
his fulfilment； just the same as ever。 And that was the be…all
and the end…all。 Yes； and he was proud of it。
But the bitterness； underneath； that there still remained an
unsatisfied Tom Brangwen； who suffered agony because a girl
cared nothing for him。 He loved his sons……he had them also。
But it was the further； the creative life with the girl； he
wanted as well。 Oh； and he was ashamed。 He trampled himself to
extinguish himself。
What weariness！ There was no peace； however old one grew！ One
was never right； never decent； never master of oneself。 It was
as if his hope had been in the girl。
Anna quickly lapsed again into her love for the youth。 Will
Brangwen had fixed his marriage for the Saturday before
Christmas。 And he waited for her； in his bright； unquestioning
fashion； until then。 He wanted her； she was his； he suspended
his being till the day should e。 The wedding day； December
the twenty…third； had e into being for him as an absolute
thing。 He lived in it。
He did not count the days。 But like a man who journeys in a
ship； he was suspended till the ing to port。
He worked at his carving； he worked in his office； he came to
see her； all was but a form of waiting； without thought or
question。
She was much more alive。 She wanted to enjoy courtship。 He
seemed to e and go like the wind； without asking why or
whither。 But she wanted to enjoy his presence。 For her； he was
the kernel of life； to touch him alone was bliss。 But for him；
she was the essence of life。 She existed as much when he was at
his carving in his lodging in Ilkeston； as when she sat looking
at him in the Marsh kitchen。 In himself； he knew her。 But his
outward faculties seemed suspended。 He did not see her with his
eyes； nor hear her with his voice。
And yet he trembled； sometimes into a kind of swoon； holding
her in his arms。 They would stand sometimes folded together in
the barn； in silence。 Then to her； as she felt his young； tense
figure with her hands； the bliss was intolerable； intolerable
the sense that she possessed him。 For his body was so keen and
wonderful； it was the only reality in her world。 In her world；
there was this one tense； vivid body of a man； and then many
other shadowy men； all unreal。 In him； she touched the centre of
reality。 And they were together； he and she； at the heart of the
secret。 How she clutched him to her； his body the central body
of all life。 Out of the rock of his form the very fountain of
life flowed。
But to him； she was a flame that consumed him。 The flame
flowed up his limbs； flowed through him； till he was consumed；
till he existed only as an unconscious； dark transit of flame；
deriving from her。
Sometimes； in the darkness； a cow coughed。 There was； in the
darkness； a slow sound of cud chewing。 And it all seemed to flow
round them and upon them as the hot blood flows through the
womb； laving the unborn young。
Sometimes； when it was cold； they stood to be lovers in the
stables； where the air was warm and sharp with ammonia。 And
during these dark vigils； he learned to know her； her body
against his； they drew nearer and nearer together； the kisses
came more subtly close and fitting。 So when in the thick
darkness a horse suddenly scrambled to its feet； with a dull；
thunderous sound； they listened as one person listening； they
knew as one person； they were conscious of the horse。
Tom Brangwen had taken them a cottage at Cossethay； on a
twenty…one years' lease。 Will Brangwen's eyes lit up as he saw
it。 It was the cottage next the church； with dark yew…trees；
very black old trees； along the side of the house and the grassy
front garden； a red； squarish cottage with a low slate roof； and
low windows。 It had a long dairy…scullery； a big flagged
kitchen； and a low parlour； that went up one step from the
kitchen。 There were whitewashed beams across the ceilings； and
odd corners with cupboards。 Looking out through the windows；
there was the grassy garden； the procession of black yew trees
down one side； and along the other sides； a red wall with ivy
separating the place from the high…road and the churchyard。 The
old； little church； with its small spire on a square tower；
seemed to be looking back at the cottage windows。
〃There'll be no need to have a clock；〃 said Will Brangwen；
peeping out at the white clock…face on the tower； his
neighbour。
At the back of the house was a garden adjoining the paddock；
a cowshed with standing for two cows； pig…cotes and fowl…houses。
Will Brangwen was very happy。 Anna was glad to think of being
mistress of her own place。
Tom Brangwen was now the fairy godfather。 He was never happy
unless he was buying something。 Will Brangwen； with his interest
in all wood…work； was getting the furniture。 He was left to buy
tables and round…staved chairs and the dressers； quite ordinary
stuff； but such as was identified with his cottage。
Tom Brangwen； with more particular thought； spied out what he
called handy little things for her。 He appeared with a set of
new…fangled cooking…pans； with a special sort of hanging lamp；
though the rooms were so low； with canny little machines for
grinding meat or mashing potatoes or whisking eggs。
Anna took a sharp interest in what he bought； though she was
not always pleased。 Some of the little contrivances； which he
thought so canny； left her doubtful。 Nevertheless she was always
expectant； on market days there was always a long thrill of
anticipation。 He arrived with the first darkness； the copper
lamps of his cart glowing。 And she ran to the gate； as he； a
dark； burly figure up in the cart； was bending over his
parcels。
〃It's cupboard love as brings you out so sharp；〃 he said； his
voice resounding in the cold darkness。 Nevertheless he was
excited。 And she； taking one of the cart lamps； poked and peered
among the jumble of things he had brought； pushing aside the oil
or implements he had got for himself。
She dragged out a pair of small； strong bellows； registered
them in her mind； and then pulled uncertainly at something else。
It had a long handle； and a piece of brown paper round the
middle of it； like a waistcoat。
〃What's this？〃 she said； poking。
He stopped to look at her。 She went to the lamp…light by the
horse； and stood there bent over the new thing； while her hair
was like bronze； her apron white and cheerful。 Her fingers
plucked busily at the paper。 She dragged forth a little wringer；
with clean indiarubber rollers。 She examined it critically； not
knowing quite how it worked。
She looked up at him。 He stood a shadowy presence beyond the
light。
〃How does it go？〃 she asked。
〃Why； it's for pulpin' turnips；〃 he replied。
She looked at him。 His voice disturbed her。
〃Don't be silly。 It's a little mangle；〃 she said。 〃How do you
stand it； though？〃
〃You screw it on th' side o' your wash…tub。〃 He came and held
it out to her。
〃Oh； yes！〃 she cried； with one of her little skipping
movements； which still came when she was suddenly glad。
And without another thought she ran off into the house；
leaving him to untackle the horse。 And when