The Rainbow - D. H. Lawrence [59]
"No—I'll tell her on Saturday."
"You'll go and see her?"
"Yes."
There was a long pause.
"And what are you going to marry on—your pound a week?"
Again the youth went pale, as if the spirit were being injured in him.
"I don't know," he said, looking at his uncle with his bright inhuman eyes, like a hawk's.
Brangwen stirred in hatred.
"It needs knowing," he said.
"I shall have the money later on," said the nephew. "I will raise some now, and pay it back then."
"Oh ay!—And why this desperate hurry? She's a child of eighteen, and you're a boy of twenty. You're neither of you of age to do as you like yet."
Will Brangwen ducked his head and looked at his uncle with swift, mistrustful eyes, like a caged hawk.
"What does it matter how old she is, and how old I am?" he said. "What's the difference between me now and when I'm thirty?"
"A big difference, let us hope."
"But you have no experience—you have no experience, and no money. Why do you want to marry, without experience or money?" asked the aunt.
"What experience do I want, Aunt?" asked the boy.
And if Brangwen's heart had not been hard and intact with anger, like a precious stone, he would have agreed.
Will Brangwen went home strange and untouched. He felt he could not alter from what he was fixed upon, his will was set. To alter it he must be destroyed. And he would not be destroyed. He had no money. But he would get some from somewhere, it did not matter. He lay awake for many hours, hard and clear and unthinking, his soul crystallizing more inalterably. Then he went fast asleep.
It was as if his soul had turned into a hard crystal. He might tremble and quiver and suffer, it did not alter.
The next morning Tom Brangwen, inhuman with anger spoke to Anna.
"What's this about wanting to get married?" he said.
She stood, paling a little, her dark eyes springing to the hostile, startled look of a savage thing that will defend itself, but trembles with sensitiveness.
"I do," she said, out of her unconsciousness.
His anger rose, and he would have liked to break her.
"You do-you do-and what for?" he sneered with contempt. The old, childish agony, the blindness that could recognize nobody, the palpitating antagonism as of a raw, helpless, undefended thing came back on her.
"I do because I do," she cried, in the shrill, hysterical way of her childhood. "You are not my father—my father is dead—you are not my father."
She was still a stranger. She did not recognize him. The cold blade cut down, deep into Brangwen's soul. It cut him off from her.
"And what if I'm not?" he said.
But he could not bear it. It had been so passionately dear to him, her "Father—Daddie."
He went about for some days as if stunned. His wife was 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 comfortable. 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.