第 47 页

went fixed in him. And under all her laughing, poignant

recklessness was the quiver of tears. That almost sent him mad,

mad with desire, with pain, whose only issue was through

possession of her body.

So, shaken, afraid, they went back to her parents in the

kitchen, and dissimulated. But something was roused in both of

them that they could not now allay. It intensified and

heightened their senses, they were more vivid, and powerful in

their being. But under it all was a poignant sense of

transience. It was a magnificent self-assertion on the part of

both of them, he asserted himself before her, he felt himself

infinitely male and infinitely irresistible, she asserted

herself before him, she knew herself infinitely desirable, and

hence infinitely strong. And after all, what could either of

them get from such a passion but a sense of his or of her own

maximum self, in contradistinction to all the rest of life?

Wherein was something finite and sad, for the human soul at its

maximum wants a sense of the infinite.

Nevertheless, it was begun now, this passion, and must go on,

the passion of Ursula to know her own maximum self, limited and

so defined against him. She could limit and define herself

against him, the male, she could be her maximum self, female, oh

female, triumphant for one moment in exquisite assertion against

the male, in supreme contradistinction to the male.

The next afternoon, when he came, prowling, she went with him

across to the church. Her father was gradually gathering in

anger against him, her mother was hardening in anger against

her. But the parents were naturally tolerant in action.

They went together across the churchyard, Ursula and

Skrebensky, and ran to hiding in the church. It was dimmer in

there than the sunny afternoon outside, but the mellow glow

among the bowed stone was very sweet. The windows burned in ruby

and in blue, they made magnificent arras to their bower of

secret stone.

"What a perfect place for a rendezvous," he said, in a

hushed voice, glancing round.

She too glanced round the familiar interior. The dimness and

stillness chilled her. But her eyes lit up with daring. Here,

here she would assert her indomitable gorgeous female self,

here. Here she would open her female flower like a flame, in

this dimness that was more passionate than light.

They hung apart a moment, then wilfully turned to each other

for the desired contact. She put her arms round him, she cleaved

her body to his, and with her hands pressed upon his shoulders,

on his back, she seemed to feel right through him, to know his

young, tense body right through. And it was so fine, so hard,

yet so exquisitely subject and under her control. She reached

him her mouth and drank his full kiss, drank it fuller and

fuller.

And it was so good, it was very, very good. She seemed to be

filled with his kiss, filled as if she had drunk strong, glowing

sunshine. She glowed all inside, the sunshine seemed to beat

upon her heart underneath, she had drunk so beautifully.

She drew away, and looked at him radiant, exquisitely,

glowingly beautiful, and satisfied, but radiant as an illumined

cloud.

To him this was bitter, that she was so radiant and

satisfied. She laughed upon him, blind to him, so full of her

own bliss, never doubting but that he was the same as she was.

And radiant as an angel she went with him out of the church, as

if her feet were beams of light that walked on flowers for

footsteps.

He went beside her, his soul clenched, his body unsatisfied.

Was she going to make this easy triumph over him? For him, there

was now no self-bliss, only pain and confused anger.

It was high summer, and the hay-harvest was almost over. It

would be finished on Saturday. On Saturday, however, Skrebensky

was going away. He could not stay any longer.

Having decided to go he became very tender and loving to her,

kissing her gently, with such soft, sweet, insidious closeness

that they were both of them intoxicated.

The very last Friday of his stay he met her coming out of

school, and took her to tea in the town. Then he had a motor-car

to drive her home.

Her excitement at riding in a motor-car was greatest of all.

He too was very proud of this last coup. He saw Ursula kindle

and flare up to the romance of the situation. She raised her

head like a young horse snuffing with wild delight.

The car swerved round a corner, and Ursula was swung against

Skrebensky. The contact made her aware of him. With a swift,

foraging impulse she sought for his hand and clasped it in her

own, so close, so combined, as if they were two children.

The wind blew in on Ursula's face, the mud flew in a soft,

wild rush from the wheels, the country was blackish green, with

the silver of new hay here and there, and masses of trees under

a silver-gleaming sky.

Her hand tightened on his with a new consciousness, troubled.

They did not speak for some time, but sat, hand-fast, with

averted, shining faces.

And every now and then the car swung her against him. And

they waited for the motion to bring them together. Yet they

stared out of the windows, mute.

She saw the familiar country racing by. But now, it was no

familiar country, it was wonderland. There was the Hemlock Stone

standing on its grassy hill. Strange it looked on this wet,

early summer evening, remote, in a magic land. Some rooks were

flying out of the trees.

Ah, if only she and Skrebensky could get out, dismount into

this enchanted land where nobody had ever been before! Then they

would be enchanted people, they would put off the dull,

customary self. If she were wandering there, on that hill-slope

under a silvery, changing sky, in which many rooks melted like

hurrying showers of blots! If they could walk past the wetted

hay-swaths, smelling the early evening, and pass in to the wood

where the honeysuckle scent was sweet on the cold tang in the

air, and showers of drops fell when one brushed a bough, cold

and lovely on the face!

But she was here with him in the car, close to him, and the

wind was rushing on her lifted, eager face, blowing back the

hair. He turned and looked at her, at her face clean as a

chiselled thing, her hair chiselled back by the wind, her fine

nose keen and lifted.

It was agony to him, seeing her swift and clean-cut and

virgin. He wanted to kill himself, and throw his detested

carcase at her feet. His desire to turn round on himself and

rend himself was an agony to him.

Suddenly she glanced at him. He seemed to be crouching

towards her, reaching, he seemed to wince between the brows. But

instantly, seeing her lighted eyes and radiant face, his

expression changed, his old reckless laugh shone to her. She

pressed his hand in utter delight, and he abided. And suddenly

she stooped and kissed his hand, bent her head and caught it to

her mouth, in generous homage. And the blood burned in him. Yet

he remained still, he made no move.

She started. They were swinging into Cossethay. Skrebensky

was going to leave her. But it was all so magic, her cup was so

full of bright wine, her eyes could only shine.

He tapped and spoke to the man. The car swung up by the yew

trees. She gave him her hand and said good-bye, naive and brief

as a schoolgirl. And she stood watching him go, her face

shining. The fact of his driving on meant nothing to her, she

was so filled by her own bright ecstacy. She did not see him go,

for she was filled with light, which was of him. Bright with an

amazing light as she was, how could she miss him.

In her bedroom she threw her arms in the air in clear pain of

magnificence. Oh, it was her transfiguration, she was beyond

herself. She wanted to fling herself into all the hidden

brightness of the air. It was there, it was there, if she could

but meet it.

But the next day she knew he had gone. Her glory had partly

died down--but never from her memory. It was too real. Yet

it was gone by, leaving a wistfulness. A deeper yearning came

into her soul, a new reserve.

She shrank from touch and question. She was very proud, but

very new, and very sensitive. Oh, that no one should lay hands

on her!

She was happier running on by herself. Oh, it was a joy to

run along the lanes without seeing things, yet being with them.

It was such a joy to be alone with all one's riches.

The holidays came, when she was free. She spent most of her

time running on by herself, curled up in a squirrel-place in the

garden, lying in a hammock in the coppice, while the birds came

near--near--so near. Oh, in rainy weather, she flitted

to the Marsh, and lay hidden with her book in a hay-loft.

All the time, she dreamed of him, sometimes definitely, but

when she was happiest, only vaguely. He was the warm colouring

of her dreams, he was the hot blood beating within them.

When she was less happy, out of sorts, she pondered over his

appearance, his clothes, the buttons with his regimental badge,

which he had given her. Or she tried to imagine his life in

barracks. Or she conjured up a vision of herself as she appeared

in his eyes.

His birthday was in August, and she spent some pains on

making him a cake. She felt that it would not be in good taste

for her to give him a present.

Their correspondence was brief, mostly an exchange of

post-cards, not at all frequent. But with her cake she must send

him a letter.

"Dear Anton. The sunshine has come back specially for your

birthday, I think. I made the cake myself, and wish you many

happy returns of the day. Don't eat it if it is not good. Mother

hopes you will come and see us when you are near enough.

"I am

"Your Sincere Friend,

"Ursula Brangwen."

It bored her to write a letter even to him. After all,

writing words on paper had nothing to do with him and her.

The fine weather had set in, the cutting machine went on from

dawn till sunset, chattering round the fields. She heard from

Skrebensky; he too was on duty in the country, on Salisbury

Plain. He was now a second lieutenant in a Field Troop. He would

have a few days off shortly, and would come to the Marsh for the

wedding.

Fred Brangwen was going to marry a schoolmistress out of

Ilkeston as soon as corn-harvest was at an end.

The dim blue-and-gold of a hot, sweet autumn saw the close of

the corn-harvest. To Ursula, it was as if the world had opened

its softest purest flower, its chicory flower, its meadow

saffron. The sky was blue and sweet, the yellow leaves down the

lane seemed like free, wandering flowers as they chittered round

the feet, making a keen, poignant, almost unbearable music to

her heart. And the scents of autumn were like a summer madness

to her. She fled away from the little, purple-red

button-chrysanthemums like a frightened dryad, the bright yellow

little chrysanthemums smelled so strong, her feet seemed to

dither in a drunken dance.

Then her Uncle Tom appeared, always like the cynical Bacchus

in the picture. He would have a jolly wedding, a harvest supper

and a wedding feast in one: a tent in the home close, and a band

for dancing, and a great feast out of doors.

Fred demurred, but Tom must be satisfied. Also Laura, a

handsome, clever girl, the bride, she also must have a great and

jolly feast. It appealed to her educated sense. She had been to

Salisbury Training College, knew folk-songs and

morris-dancing.

So the preparations were begun, directed by Tom Brangwen. A

marquee was set up on the home close, two large bonfires were

prepared. Musicians were hired, feast made ready.

Skrebensky was to come, arriving in the morning. Ursula had a

new white dress of soft crepe, and a white hat. She liked to

wear white. With her black hair and clear golden skin, she

looked southern, or rather tropical, like a Creole. She wore no

colour whatsoever.

She trembled that day as she appeared to go down to the

wedding. She was to be a bridesmaid. Skrebensky would not arrive

till afternoon. The wedding was at two o'clock.

As the wedding-party returned home, Skrebensky stood in the

parlour at the Marsh. Through the window he saw Tom Brangwen,

who was best man, coming up the garden path most elegant in

cut-away coat and white slip and spats, with Ursula laughing on

his arm. Tom Brangwen was handsome, with his womanish colouring

and dark eyes and black close-cut moustache. But there was

something subtly coarse and suggestive about him for all his

beauty; his strange, bestial nostrils opened so hard and wide,

and his well-shaped head almost disquieting in its nakedness,

rather bald from the front, and all its soft fulness

betrayed.

Skrebensky saw the man rather than the woman. She saw only

the slender, unchangeable youth waiting there inscrutable, like

her fate. He was beyond her, with his loose, slightly horsey

appearance, that made him seem very manly and foreign. Yet his

face was smooth and soft and impressionable. She shook hands

with him, and her voice was like the rousing of a bird startled

by the dawn.

"Isn't it nice," she cried, "to have a wedding?"

There were bits of coloured confetti lodged on her dark

hair.

Again the confusion came over him, as if he were losing

himself and becoming all vague, undefined, inchoate. Yet he

wanted to be hard, manly, horsey. And he followed her.

There was a light tea, and the guests scattered. The real

feast was for the evening. Ursula walked out with Skrebensky

through the stackyard to the fields, and up the embankment to

the canal-side.

The new corn-stacks were big and golden as they went by, an

army of white geese marched aside in braggart protest. Ursula

was light as a white ball of down. Skrebensky drifted beside

her, indefinite, his old from loosened, and another self, grey,

vague, drifting out as from a bud. They talked lightly, of

nothing.

The blue way of the canal wound softly between the autumn

hedges, on towards the greenness of a small hill. On the left

was the whole black agitation of colliery and railway and the