it. 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