第 46 页

large church, Ursula must look in. But the whole interior was

filled with scaffolding, fallen stone and rubbish were heaped on

the floor, bits of plaster crunched underfoot, and the place

re-echoed to the calling of secular voices and to blows of the

hammer.

She had come to plunge in the utter gloom and peace for a

moment, bringing all her yearning, that had returned on her

uncontrolled after the reckless riding over the face of the

crowd, in the fair. After pride, she wanted comfort, solace, for

pride and scorn seemed to hurt her most of all.

And she found the immemorial gloom full of bits of falling

plaster, and dust of floating plaster, smelling of old lime,

having scaffolding and rubbish heaped about, dust cloths over

the altar.

"Let us sit down a minute," she said.

They sat unnoticed in the back pew, in the gloom, and she

watched the dirty, disorderly work of bricklayers and

plasterers. Workmen in heavy boots walking grinding down the

aisles, calling out in a vulgar accent:

"Hi, mate, has them corner mouldin's come?"

There were shouts of coarse answer from the roof of the

church. The place echoed desolate.

Skrebensky sat close to her. Everything seemed wonderful, if

dreadful to her, the world tumbling into ruins, and she and he

clambering unhurt, lawless over the face of it all. He sat close

to her, touching her, and she was aware of his influence upon

her. But she was glad. It excited her to feel the press of him

upon her, as if his being were urging her to something.

As they drove home, he sat near to her. And when he swayed to

the cart, he swayed in a voluptuous, lingering way, against her,

lingering as he swung away to recover balance. Without speaking,

he took her hand across, under the wrap, and with his unseeing

face lifted to the road, his soul intent, he began with his one

hand to unfasten the buttons of her glove, to push back her

glove from her hand, carefully laying bare her hand. And the

close-working, instinctive subtlety of his fingers upon her hand

sent the young girl mad with voluptuous delight. His hand was so

wonderful, intent as a living creature skilfully pushing and

manipulating in the dark underworld, removing her glove and

laying bare her palm, her fingers. Then his hand closed over

hers, so firm, so close, as if the flesh knitted to one thing

his hand and hers. Meanwhile his face watched the road and the

ears of the horse, he drove with steady attention through the

villages, and she sat beside him, rapt, glowing, blinded with a

new light. Neither of them spoke. In outward attention they were

entirely separate. But between them was the compact of his flesh

with hers, in the hand-clasp.

Then, in a strange voice, affecting nonchalance and

superficiality he said to her:

"Sitting in the church there reminded me of Ingram."

"Who is Ingram?" she asked.

She also affected calm superficiality. But she knew that

something forbidden was coming.

"He is one of the other men with me down at Chatham--a

subaltern--but a year older than I am."

"And why did the church remind you of him?"

"Well, he had a girl in Rochester, and they always sat in a

particular corner in the cathedral for their love-making."

"How nice!" she cried, impulsively.

They misunderstood each other.

"It had its disadvantages though. The verger made a row about

it."

"What a shame! Why shouldn't they sit in a cathedral?"

"I suppose they all think it a profanity--except you and

Ingram and the girl."

"I don't think it a profanity--I think it's right, to

make love in a cathedral."

She said this almost defiantly, in despite of her own

soul.

He was silent.

"And was she nice?"

"Who? Emily? Yes, she was rather nice. She was a milliner,

and she wouldn't be seen in the streets with Ingram. It was

rather sad, really, because the verger spied on them, and got to

know their names and then made a regular row. It was a common

tale afterwards."

"What did she do?"

"She went to London, into a big shop. Ingram still goes up to

see her."

"Does he love her?"

"It's a year and a half he's been with her now."

"What was she like?"

"Emily? Little, shy-violet sort of girl with nice

eyebrows."

Ursula meditated this. It seemed like real romance of the

outer world.

"Do all men have lovers?" she asked, amazed at her own

temerity. But her hand was still fastened with his, and his face

still had the same unchanging fixity of outward calm.

"They're always mentioning some amazing fine woman or other,

and getting drunk to talk about her. Most of them dash up to

London the moment they are free."

"What for?"

"To some amazing fine woman or other."

"What sort of woman?"

"Various. Her name changes pretty frequently, as a rule. One

of the fellows is a perfect maniac. He keeps a suit-case always

ready, and the instant he is at liberty, he bolts with it to the

station, and changes in the train. No matter who is in the

carriage, off he whips his tunic, and performs at least the top

half of his toilet."

Ursula quivered and wondered.

"Why is he in such a hurry?" she asked.

Her throat was becoming hard and difficult.

"He's got a woman in his mind, I suppose."

She was chilled, hardened. And yet this world of passions and

lawlessness was fascinating to her. It seemed to her a splendid

recklessness. Her adventure in life was beginning. It seemed

very splendid.

That evening she stayed at the Marsh till after dark, and

Skrebensky escorted her home. For she could not go away from

him. And she was waiting, waiting for something more.

In the warm of the early night, with the shadows new about

them, she felt in another, harder, more beautiful, less personal

world. Now a new state should come to pass.

He walked near to her, and with the same, silent, intent

approach put his arm round her waist, and softly, very softly,

drew her to him, till his arm was hard and pressed in upon her;

she seemed to be carried along, floating, her feet scarce

touching the ground, borne upon the firm, moving surface of his

body, upon whose side she seemed to lie, in a delicious swoon of

motion. And whilst she swooned, his face bent nearer to her, her

head was leaned on his shoulder, she felt his warm breath on her

face. Then softly, oh softly, so softly that she seemed to faint

away, his lips touched her cheek, and she drifted through

strands of heat and darkness.

Still she waited, in her swoon and her drifting, waited, like

the Sleeping Beauty in the story. She waited, and again his face

was bent to hers, his lips came warm to her face, their

footsteps lingered and ceased, they stood still under the trees,

whilst his lips waited on her face, waited like a butterfly that

does not move on a flower. She pressed her breast a little

nearer to him, he moved, put both his arms round her, and drew

her close.

And then, in the darkness, he bent to her mouth, softly, and

touched her mouth with his mouth. She was afraid, she lay still

on his arm, feeling his lips on her lips. She kept still,

helpless. Then his mouth drew near, pressing open her mouth, a

hot, drenching surge rose within her, she opened her lips to

him, in pained, poignant eddies she drew him nearer, she let him

come farther, his lips came and surging, surging, soft, oh soft,

yet oh, like the powerful surge of water, irresistible, till

with a little blind cry, she broke away.

She heard him breathing heavily, strangely, beside her. A

terrible and magnificent sense of his strangeness possessed her.

But she shrank a little now, within herself. Hesitating, they

continued to walk on, quivering like shadows under the ash trees

of the hill, where her grandfather had walked with his daffodils

to make his proposal, and where her mother had gone with her

young husband, walking close upon him as Ursula was now walking

upon Skrebensky.

Ursula was aware of the dark limbs of the trees stretching

overhead, clothed with leaves, and of fine ash leaves tressing

the summer night.

They walked with their bodies moving in complex unity, close

together. He held her hand, and they went the long way round by

the road, to be farther. Always she felt as if she were

supported off her feet, as if her feet were light as little

breezes in motion.

He would kiss her again--but not again that night with

the same deep--reaching kiss. She was aware now, aware of

what a kiss might be. And so, it was more difficult to come to

him.

She went to bed feeling all warm with electric warmth, as if

the gush of dawn were within her, upholding her. And she slept

deeply, sweetly, oh, so sweetly. In the morning she felt sound

as an ear of wheat, fragrant and firm and full.

They continued to be lovers, in the first wondering state of

unrealization. Ursula told nobody; she was entirely lost in her

own world.

Yet some strange affectation made her seek for a spurious

confidence. She had at school a quiet, meditative,

serious-souled friend called Ethel, and to Ethel must Ursula

confide the story. Ethel listened absorbedly, with bowed,

unbetraying head, whilst Ursula told her secret. Oh, it was so

lovely, his gentle, delicate way of making love! Ursula talked

like a practiced lover.

"Do you think," asked Ursula, "it is wicked to let a man kiss

you--real kisses, not flirting?"

"I should think," said Ethel, "it depends."

"He kissed me under the ash trees on Cossethay hill--do

you think it was wrong?"

"When?"

"On Thursday night when he was seeing me home--but real

kisses--real--. He is an officer in the army."

"What time was it?" asked the deliberate Ethel.

"I don't know--about half-past nine."

There was a pause.

"I think it's wrong," said Ethel, lifting her head with

impatience. "You don't know him."

She spoke with some contempt.

"Yes, I do. He is half a Pole, and a Baron too. In England he

is equivalent to a Lord. My grandmother was his father's

friend."

But the two friends were hostile. It was as if Ursula

wanted to divide herself from her acquaintances, in

asserting her connection with Anton, as she now called him.

He came a good deal to Cossethay, because her mother was fond

of him. Anna Brangwen became something of a grande dame

with Skrebensky, very calm, taking things for granted.

"Aren't the children in bed?" cried Ursula petulantly, as she

came in with the young man.

"They will be in bed in half an hour," said the mother.

"There is no peace," cried Ursula.

"The children must live, Ursula," said her mother.

And Skrebensky was against Ursula in this. Why should she be

so insistent?

But then, as Ursula knew, he did not have the perpetual

tyranny of young children about him. He treated her mother with

great courtliness, to which Mrs. Brangwen returned an easy,

friendly hospitality. Something pleased the girl in her mother's

calm assumption of state. It seemed impossible to abate Mrs.

Brangwen's position. She could never be beneath anyone in public

relation. Between Brangwen and Skrebensky there was an

unbridgeable silence. Sometimes the two men made a slight

conversation, but there was no interchange. Ursula rejoiced to

see her father retreating into himself against the young

man.

She was proud of Skrebensky in the house. His lounging,

languorous indifference irritated her and yet cast a spell over

her. She knew it was the outcome of a spirit of

laissez-aller combined with profound young vitality. Yet

it irritated her deeply.

Notwithstanding, she was proud of him as he lounged in his

lambent fashion in her home, he was so attentive and courteous

to her mother and to herself all the time. It was wonderful to

have his awareness in the room. She felt rich and augmented by

it, as if she were the positive attraction and he the flow

towards her. And his courtesy and his agreement might be all her

mother's, but the lambent flicker of his body was for herself.

She held it.

She must ever prove her power.

"I meant to show you my little wood-carving," she said.

"I'm sure it's not worth showing, that," said her father.

"Would you like to see it?" she asked, leaning towards the

door.

And his body had risen from the chair, though his face seemed

to want to agree with her parents.

"It is in the shed," she said.

And he followed her out of the door, whatever his feelings

might be.

In the shed they played at kisses, really played at kisses.

It was a delicious, exciting game. She turned to him, her face

all laughing, like a challenge. And he accepted the challenge at

once. He twined his hand full of her hair, and gently, with his

hand wrapped round with hair behind her head, gradually brought

her face nearer to his, whilst she laughed breathless with

challenge, and his eyes gleamed with answer, with enjoyment of

the game. And he kissed her, asserting his will over her, and

she kissed him back, asserting her deliberate enjoyment of him.

Daring and reckless and dangerous they knew it was, their game,

each playing with fire, not with love. A sort of defiance of all

the world possessed her in it--she would kiss him just

because she wanted to. And a dare-devilry in him, like a

cynicism, a cut at everything he pretended to serve, retaliated

in him.

She was very beautiful then, so wide opened, so radiant, so

palpitating, exquisitely vulnerable and poignantly, wrongly,

throwing herself to risk. It roused a sort of madness in him.

Like a flower shaking and wide-opened in the sun, she tempted

him and challenged him, and he accepted the challenge, something