Page 503 - women-in-love

‘Can you tell me,’ he said, ‘where this road goes?’
‘Road? Ay, it goes ter Whatmore.’
‘Whatmore! Oh thank you, that’s right. I thought I was
wrong. Good-night.’
‘Good-night,’ replied the broad voice of the miner.
Gerald guessed where he was. At least, when he came
to Whatmore, he would know. He was glad to be on a high
road. He walked forward as in a sleep of decision.
That was Whatmore Village—? Yes, the King’s Head—
and there the hall gates. He descended the steep hill almost
running. Winding through the hollow, he passed the
Grammar School, and came to Willey Green Church. The
churchyard! He halted.
Then in another moment he had clambered up the wall
and was going among the graves. Even in this darkness he
could see the heaped pallor of old white flowers at his feet.
This then was the grave. He stooped down. The flowers were
cold and clammy. There was a raw scent of chrysanthe-
mums and tube-roses, deadened. He felt the clay beneath,
and shrank, it was so horribly cold and sticky. He stood
away in revulsion.
Here was one centre then, here in the complete darkness
beside the unseen, raw grave. But there was nothing for him
here. No, he had nothing to stay here for. 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?

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