clasp, death would not have mattered. Those who die, and dying still can love, still believe, do not die. They live still in the beloved. Gerald might still have been living in the spirit with Birkin, even after death. He might have lived with his friend, a further life.
But now he was dead, like clay, like bluish, corruptible ice. Birkin looked at the blue fingers, the inert mass. He remembered a dead stallion he had seen: a dead mass of maleness, repugnant. He remembered also the beautiful face of one whom he had loved, and who had died still having the faith to yield to the mystery. That dead face was beautiful, no one could call it cold, mute, material. No one could remember it without gaining faith in the mystery, without the soul's warming with new deep life-trust.
And Gerald! The denier! He left the heart cold, frozen, hardly able to beat. Gerald's father had looked wistful, to break the heart: but not this last terrible look of cold, mute Matter. Birkin watched and watched.
Ursula stood aside watching the living man stare at the frozen face of the dead man. Both faces were unmoved and unmoving. The candle-flames flickered in the frozen air, in the intense silence.
"Haven't you seen enough?" she said.
He got up.
"It's a bitter disappointment to me," he said.
"What — that he's dead?" she said.
His eyes just met hers. He did not answer.
"You've got me," she said.
He smiled and kissed her.
"If I die," he said, "you'll know I haven't left you."
"And me?" she cried.
"And you won't have left me," he said. "We shan't have any need to despair, in death."
She took hold of his hand.
"But need you despair over Gerald?" she said.
"Yes," he answered.
They went away. Gerald was taken to England, to be buried. Birkin and Ursula accompanied the body, along with one of Gerald's brothers. It was the Crich brothers and
