I can remember the rows she had with Mr Crich, my word.
When he'd got worked up, properly worked up till he could stand no more, he'd lock the study door and whip them.
But she paced up and down all the while like a tiger outside, like a tiger, with very murder in her face.
She had a face that could LOOK death.
And when the door was opened, she'd go in with her hands lifted—"What have you been doing to MY children, you coward."
She was like one out of her mind.
I believe he was frightened of her; he had to be driven mad before he'd lift a finger.
Didn't the servants have a life of it!
And didn't we used to be thankful when one of them caught it.
They were the torment of your life.'
'Really!' said Gudrun.
'In every possible way.
If you wouldn't let them smash their pots on the table, if you wouldn't let them drag the kitten about with a string round its neck, if you wouldn't give them whatever they asked for, every mortal thing—then there was a shine on, and their mother coming in asking—"What's the matter with him?
What have you done to him?
What is it, Darling?"
And then she'd turn on you as if she'd trample you under her feet.
But she didn't trample on me.
I was the only one that could do anything with her demons—for she wasn't going to be bothered with them herself.
No, SHE took no trouble for them.
But they must just have their way, they mustn't be spoken to.
And Master Gerald was the beauty.
I left when he was a year and a half, I could stand no more.
But I pinched his little bottom for him when he was in arms, I did, when there was no holding him, and I'm not sorry I did—'
Gudrun went away in fury and loathing.
The phrase,
'I pinched his little bottom for him,' sent her into a white, stony fury.
She could not bear it, she wanted to have the woman taken out at once and strangled.
And yet there the phrase was lodged in her mind for ever, beyond escape.
She felt, one day, she would HAVE to tell him, to see how he took it.
And she loathed herself for the thought.
But at Shortlands the life-long struggle was coming to a close.
The father was ill and was going to die.
He had bad internal pains, which took away all his attentive life, and left him with only a vestige of his consciousness.
More and more a silence came over him, he was less and less acutely aware of his surroundings.
The pain seemed to absorb his activity.
He knew it was there, he knew it would come again.
It was like something lurking in the darkness within him.
And he had not the power, or the will, to seek it out and to know it.
There it remained in the darkness, the great pain, tearing him at times, and then being silent.
And when it tore him he crouched in silent subjection under it, and when it left him alone again, he refused to know of it.
It was within the darkness, let it remain unknown.
So he never admitted it, except in a secret corner of himself, where all his never-revealed fears and secrets were accumulated.
For the rest, he had a pain, it went away, it made no difference.
It even stimulated him, excited him.
But it gradually absorbed his life.
Gradually it drew away all his potentiality, it bled him into the dark, it weaned him of life and drew him away into the darkness.
And in this twilight of his life little remained visible to him.
The business, his work, that was gone entirely.
His public interests had disappeared as if they had never been.
Even his family had become extraneous to him, he could only remember, in some slight non-essential part of himself, that such and such were his children.