He felt as if some of the clay were sticking cold and unclean, on his heart.
No, enough of this.
Where then?—home?
Never!
It was no use going there.
That was less than no use.
It could not be done.
There was somewhere else to go.
Where?
A dangerous resolve formed in his heart, like a fixed idea.
There was Gudrun—she would be safe in her home.
But he could get at her—he would get at her.
He would not go back tonight till he had come to her, if it cost him his life.
He staked his all on this throw.
He set off walking straight across the fields towards Beldover.
It was so dark, nobody could ever see him.
His feet were wet and cold, heavy with clay.
But he went on persistently, like a wind, straight forward, as if to his fate.
There were great gaps in his consciousness.
He was conscious that he was at Winthorpe hamlet, but quite unconscious how he had got there.
And then, as in a dream, he was in the long street of Beldover, with its street-lamps.
There was a noise of voices, and of a door shutting loudly, and being barred, and of men talking in the night.
The 'Lord Nelson' had just closed, and the drinkers were going home.
He had better ask one of these where she lived—for he did not know the side streets at all.
'Can you tell me where Somerset Drive is?' he asked of one of the uneven men.
'Where what?' replied the tipsy miner's voice.
'Somerset Drive.'
'Somerset Drive!—I've heard o' such a place, but I couldn't for my life say where it is.
Who might you be wanting?'
'Mr Brangwen—William Brangwen.'
'William Brangwen—?—?'
'Who teaches at the Grammar School, at Willey Green—his daughter teaches there too.'
'O-o-o-oh, Brangwen! NOW I've got you.
Of COURSE, William Brangwen!
Yes, yes, he's got two lasses as teachers, aside hisself.
Ay, that's him—that's him!
Why certainly I know where he lives, back your life I do!
Yi—WHAT place do they ca' it?'
'Somerset Drive,' repeated Gerald patiently.
He knew his own colliers fairly well.
'Somerset Drive, for certain!' said the collier, swinging his arm as if catching something up. 'Somerset Drive—yi!
I couldn't for my life lay hold o' the lercality o' the place.
Yis, I know the place, to be sure I do—'
He turned unsteadily on his feet, and pointed up the dark, nighdeserted road.
'You go up theer—an' you ta'e th' first—yi, th' first turnin' on your left—o' that side—past Withamses tuffy shop—'
'I know,' said Gerald.
'Ay!
You go down a bit, past wheer th' water-man lives—and then Somerset Drive, as they ca' it, branches off on 't right hand side—an' there's nowt but three houses in it, no more than three, I believe,—an' I'm a'most certain as theirs is th' last—th' last o' th' three—you see—'
'Thank you very much,' said Gerald. 'Good-night.'
And he started off, leaving the tipsy man there standing rooted.