"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.
The child who clung to him wanted her child-husband. As was
natural. And from him, Brangwen, she wanted help, so that her
life might be properly fitted out. But love she did not want.
Why should there be love between them, between the stout,
middle-aged man and this child? How could there be anything
between them, but mere human willingness to help each other? He
was her guardian, no more. His heart was like ice, his face cold
and expressionless. She could not move him any more than a
statue.