And she looked at him fixedly for some moments.Then she leaned forward and kissed him, with a slow, luxurious kiss, lingering on the mouth.And then she took the lanterns from him, while he stood swooning with the perfect fire that burned in all his joints.
They lifted the canoe into the water, Gudrun took her place, and Gerald pushed off.
`Are you sure you don't hurt your hand, doing that?' she asked, solicitous.
`Because I could have done it perfectly.'
`I don't hurt myself,' he said in a low, soft voice, that caressed her with inexpressible beauty.
And she watched him as he sat near her, very near to her, in the stern of the canoe, his legs coming towards hers, his feet touching hers.And she paddled softly, lingeringly, longing for him to say something meaningful to her.But he remained silent.
`You like this, do you?' she said, in a gentle, solicitous voice.
He laughed shortly.
`There is a space between us,' he said, in the same low, unconscious voice, as if something were speaking out of him.And she was as if magically aware of their being balanced in separation, in the boat.She swooned with acute comprehension and pleasure.
`But I'm very near,' she said caressively, gaily.
`Yet distant, distant,' he said.
Again she was silent with pleasure, before she answered, speaking with a reedy, thrilled voice:
`Yet we cannot very well change, whilst we are on the water.' She caressed him subtly and strangely, having him completely at her mercy.
A dozen or more boats on the lake swung their rosy and moon-like lanterns low on the water, that reflected as from a fire.In the distance, the steamer twanged and thrummed and washed with her faintly-splashing paddles, trailing her strings of coloured lights, and occasionally lighting up the whole scene luridly with an effusion of fireworks, Roman candles and sheafs of stars and other simple effects, illuminating the surface of the water, and showing the boats creeping round, low down.Then the lovely darkness fell again, the lanterns and the little threaded lights glimmered softly, there was a muffled knocking of oars and a waving of music.
Gudrun paddled almost imperceptibly.Gerald could see, not far ahead, the rich blue and the rose globes of Ursula's lanterns swaying softly cheek to cheek as Birkin rowed, and iridescent, evanescent gleams chasing in the wake.He was aware, too, of his own delicately coloured lights casting their softness behind him.
Gudrun rested her paddle and looked round.The canoe lifted with the lightest ebbing of the water.Gerald's white knees were very near to her.
`Isn't it beautiful!' she said softly, as if reverently.
She looked at him, as he leaned back against the faint crystal of the lantern-light.She could see his face, although it was a pure shadow.But it was a piece of twilight.And her breast was keen with passion for him, he was so beautiful in his male stillness and mystery.It was a certain pure effluence of maleness, like an aroma from his softly, firmly moulded contours, a certain rich perfection of his presence, that touched her with an ecstasy, a thrill of pure intoxication.She loved to look at him.For the present she did not want to touch him, to know the further, satisfying substance of his living body.He was purely intangible, yet so near.Her hands lay on the paddle like slumber, she only wanted to see him, like a crystal shadow, to feel his essential presence.
`Yes,' he said vaguely.`It is very beautiful.'
He was listening to the faint near sounds, the dropping of water-drops from the oar-blades, the slight drumming of the lanterns behind him, as they rubbed against one another, the occasional rustling of Gudrun's full skirt, an alien land noise.His mind was almost submerged, he was almost transfused, lapsed out for the first time in his life, into the things about him.For he always kept such a keen attentiveness, concentrated and unyielding in himself.Now he had let go, imperceptibly he was melting into oneness with the whole.It was like pure, perfect sleep, his first great sleep of life.He had been so insistent, so guarded, all his life.
But here was sleep, and peace, and perfect lapsing out.
`Shall I row to the landing-stage?' asked Gudrun wistfully.
`Anywhere,' he answered.`Let it drift.'
`Tell me then, if we are running into anything,' she replied, in that very quiet, toneless voice of sheer intimacy.
`The lights will show,' he said.
So they drifted almost motionless, in silence.He wanted silence, pure and whole.But she was uneasy yet for some word, for some assurance.
`Nobody will miss you?' she asked, anxious for some communication.
`Miss me?' he echoed.`No! Why?'
`I wondered if anybody would be looking for you.'
`Why should they look for me?' And then he remembered his manners.`But perhaps you want to get back,' he said, in a changed voice.
`No, I don't want to get back,' she replied.`No, I assure you.'
`You're quite sure it's all right for you?'
`Perfectly all right.'
And again they were still.The launch twanged and hooted, somebody was singing.Then as if the night smashed, suddenly there was a great shout, a confusion of shouting, warring on the water, then the horrid noise of paddles reversed and churned violently.
Gerald sat up, and Gudrun looked at him in fear.
`Somebody in the water,' he said, angrily, and desperately, looking keenly across the dusk.`Can you row up?'
`Where, to the launch?' asked Gudrun, in nervous panic.
`Yes.'
`You'll tell me if I don't steer straight,' she said, in nervous apprehension.
`You keep pretty level,' he said, and the canoe hastened forward.
The shouting and the noise continued, sounding horrid through the dusk, over the surface of the water.