Threshold G UDRUN WAS AWAY in London, having a little show of her work, with a friend, and looking round, preparing for flight from Beldover.Come what might she would be on the wing in a very short time.
She received a letter from Winifred Crich, ornamented with drawings.
`Father also has been to London, to be examined by the doctors.It made him very tired.They say he must rest a very great deal, so he is mostly in bed.He brought me a lovely tropical parrot in faience, of Dresden ware, also a man ploughing, and two mice climbing up a stalk, also in faience.
The mice were Copenhagen ware.They are the best, but mice don't shine so much, otherwise they are very good, their tails are slim and long.They all shine nearly like glass.Of course it is the glaze, but I don't like it.Gerald likes the man ploughing the best, his trousers are torn, he is ploughing with an ox, being I suppose a German peasant.It is all grey and white, white shirt and grey trousers, but very shiny and clean.Mr Birkin likes the girl best, under the hawthorn blossom, with a lamb, and with daffodils painted on her skirts, in the drawing room.But that is silly, because the lamb is not a real lamb, and she is silly too.
`Dear Miss Brangwen, are you coming back soon, you are very much missed here.I enclose a drawing of father sitting up in bed.He says he hopes you are not going to forsake us.Oh dear Miss Brangwen, I am sure you won't.
Do come back and draw the ferrets, they are the most lovely noble darlings in the world.We might carve them in holly-wood, playing against a background of green leaves.Oh do let us, for they are most beautiful.
`Father says we might have a studio.Gerald says we could easily have a beautiful one over the stables, it would only need windows to be put in the slant of the roof, which is a simple matter.Then you could stay here all day and work, and we could live in the studio, like two real artists, like the man in the picture in the hall, with the frying-pan and the walls all covered with drawings.I long to be free, to live the free life of an artist.Even Gerald told father that only an artist is free, because he lives in a creative world of his own --'
Gudrun caught the drift of the family intentions, in this letter.Gerald wanted her to be attached to the household at Shortlands, he was using Winifred as his stalking-horse.The father thought only of his child, he saw a rock of salvation in Gudrun.And Gudrun admired him for his perspicacity.
The child, moreover, was really exceptional.Gudrun was quite content.
She was quite willing, given a studio, to spend her days at Shortlands.
She disliked the Grammar School already thoroughly, she wanted to be free.
If a studio were provided, she would be free to go on with her work, she would await the turn of events with complete serenity.And she was really interested in Winifred, she would be quite glad to understand the girl.
So there was quite a little festivity on Winifred's account, the day Gudrun returned to Shortlands.
`You should make a bunch of flowers to give to Miss Brangwen when she arrives,' Gerald said smiling to his sister.
`Oh no,' cried Winifred, `it's silly.'
`Not at all.It is a very charming and ordinary attention.'
`Oh, it is silly,' protested Winifred, with all the extreme mauvaise honte of her years.Nevertheless, the idea appealed to her.She wanted very much to carry it out.She flitted round the green-houses and the conservatory looking wistfully at the flowers on their stems.And the more she looked, the more she longed to have a bunch of the blossoms she saw, the more fascinated she became with her little vision of ceremony, and the more consumedly shy and self-conscious she grew, till she was almost beside herself.She could not get the idea out of her mind.It was as if some haunting challenge prompted her, and she had not enough courage to take it up.So again she drifted into the green-houses, looking at the lovely roses in their pots, and at the virginal cyclamens, and at the mystic white clusters of a creeper.The beauty, oh the beauty of them, and oh the paradisal bliss, if she should have a perfect bouquet and could give it to Gudrun the next day.Her passion and her complete indecision almost made her ill.
At last she slid to her father's side.
`Daddie --' she said.
`What, my precious?'
But she hung back, the tears almost coming to her eyes, in her sensitive confusion.Her father looked at her, and his heart ran hot with tenderness, an anguish of poignant love.
`What do you want to say to me, my love?'
`Daddie -- !' her eyes smiled laconically -- `isn't it silly if I give Miss Brangwen some flowers when she comes?'
The sick man looked at the bright, knowing eyes of his child, and his heart burned with love.
`No, darling, that's not silly.It's what they do to queens.'
This was not very reassuring to Winifred.She half suspected that queens in themselves were a silliness.Yet she so wanted her little romantic occasion.
`Shall I then?' she asked.
`Give Miss Brangwen some flowers? Do, Birdie.Tell Wilson I say you are to have what you want.'
The child smiled a small, subtle, unconscious smile to herself, in anticipation of her way.
`But I won't get them till tomorrow,' she said.
`Not till tomorrow, Birdie.Give me a kiss then --'
Winifred silently kissed the sick man, and drifted out of the room.
She again went the round of the green-houses and the conservatory, informing the gardener, in her high, peremptory, simple fashion, of what she wanted, telling him all the blooms she had selected.
`What do you want these for?' Wilson asked.
`I want them,' she said.She wished servants did not ask questions.
`Ay, you've said as much.But what do you want them for, for decoration, or to send away, or what?'
`I want them for a presentation bouquet.'
`A presentation bouquet! Who's coming then? -- the Duchess of Portland?'
`No.'
`Oh, not her? Well you'll have a rare poppy-show if you put all the things you've mentioned into your bouquet.'
`Yes, I want a rare poppy-show.'
`You do! Then there's no more to be said.'
