第 48 页

town which rose on its hill, the church tower topping all. The

round white dot of the clock on the tower was distinct in the

evening light.

That way, Ursula felt, was the way to London, through the

grim, alluring seethe of the town. On the other hand was the

evening, mellow over the green water-meadows and the winding

alder trees beside the river, and the pale stretches of stubble

beyond. There the evening glowed softly, and even a pee-wit was

flapping in solitude and peace.

Ursula and Anton Skrebensky walked along the ridge of the

canal between. The berries on the hedges were crimson and bright

red, above the leaves. The glow of evening and the wheeling of

the solitary pee-wit and the faint cry of the birds came to meet

the shuffling noise of the pits, the dark, fuming stress of the

town opposite, and they two walked the blue strip of water-way,

the ribbon of sky between.

He was looking, Ursula thought, very beautiful, because of a

flush of sunburn on his hands and face. He was telling her how

he had learned to shoe horses and select cattle fit for

killing.

"Do you like to be a soldier?" she asked.

"I am not exactly a soldier," he replied.

"But you only do things for wars," she said.

"Yes."

"Would you like to go to war?"

"I? Well, it would be exciting. If there were a war I would

want to go."

A strange, distracted feeling came over her, a sense of

potent unrealities.

"Why would you want to go?"

"I should be doing something, it would be genuine. It's a

sort of toy-life as it is."

"But what would you be doing if you went to war?"

"I would be making railways or bridges, working like a

nigger."

"But you'd only make them to be pulled down again when the

armies had done with them. It seems just as much a game."

"If you call war a game."

"What is it?"

"It's about the most serious business there is,

fighting."

A sense of hard separateness came over her.

"Why is fighting more serious than anything else?" she

asked.

"You either kill or get killed--and I suppose it is

serious enough, killing."

"But when you're dead you don't matter any more," she

said.

He was silenced for a moment.

"But the result matters," he said. "It matters whether we

settle the Mahdi or not."

"Not to you--nor me--we don't care about

Khartoum."

"You want to have room to live in: and somebody has to make

room."

"But I don't want to live in the desert of Sahara--do

you?" she replied, laughing with antagonism.

"I don't--but we've got to back up those who do.

"Why have we?"

"Where is the nation if we don't?"

"But we aren't the nation. There are heaps of other people

who are the nation."

"They might say they weren't either."

"Well, if everybody said it, there wouldn't be a nation. But

I should still be myself," she asserted brilliantly.

"You wouldn't be yourself if there were no nation."

"Why not?"

"Because you'd just be a prey to everybody and anybody."

"How a prey?"

"They'd come and take everything you'd got."

"Well, they couldn't take much even then. I don't care what

they take. I'd rather have a robber who carried me off than a

millionaire who gave me everything you can buy."

"That's because you are a romanticist."

"Yes, I am. I want to be romantic. I hate houses that never

go away, and people just living in the houses. It's all so stiff

and stupid. I hate soldiers, they are stiff and wooden. What do

you fight for, really?"

"I would fight for the nation."

"For all that, you aren't the nation. What would you do for

yourself?"

"I belong to the nation and must do my duty by the

nation."

"But when it didn't need your services in

particular--when there is no fighting? What would you do

then?"

He was irritated.

"I would do what everybody else does."

"What?"

"Nothing. I would be in readiness for when I was needed."

The answer came in exasperation.

"It seems to me," she answered, "as if you weren't

anybody--as if there weren't anybody there, where you are.

Are you anybody, really? You seem like nothing to me."

They had walked till they had reached a wharf, just above a

lock. There an empty barge, painted with a red and yellow cabin

hood, but with a long, coal-black hold, was lying moored. A man,

lean and grimy, was sitting on a box against the cabin-side by

the door, smoking, and nursing a baby that was wrapped in a drab

shawl, and looking into the glow of evening. A woman bustled

out, sent a pail dashing into the canal, drew her water, and

bustled in again. Children's voices were heard. A thin blue

smoke ascended from the cabin chimney, there was a smell of

cooking.

Ursula, white as a moth, lingered to look. Skrebensky

lingered by her. The man glanced up.

"Good evening," he called, half impudent, half attracted. He

had blue eyes which glanced impudently from his grimy face.

"Good evening," said Ursula, delighted. "Isn't it

nice now?"

"Ay," said the man, "very nice."

His mouth was red under his ragged, sandy moustache. His

teeth were white as he laughed.

"Oh, but--" stammered Ursula, laughing, "it is. Why do

you say it as if it weren't?"

"'Appen for them as is childt-nursin' it's none so rosy."

"May I look inside your barge?" asked Ursula.

"There's nobody'll stop you; you come if you like."

The barge lay at the opposite bank, at the wharf. It was the

Annabel, belonging to J. Ruth of Loughborough. The man

watched Ursula closely from his keen, twinkling eyes. His fair

hair was wispy on his grimed forehead. Two dirty children

appeared to see who was talking.

Ursula glanced at the great lock gates. They were shut, and

the water was sounding, spurting and trickling down in the gloom

beyond. On this side the bright water was almost to the top of

the gate. She went boldly across, and round to the wharf.

Stooping from the bank, she peeped into the cabin, where was

a red glow of fire and the shadowy figure of a woman. She did

want to go down.

"You'll mess your frock," said the man, warningly.

"I'll be careful," she answered. "May I come?"

"Ay, come if you like."

She gathered her skirts, lowered her foot to the side of the

boat, and leapt down, laughing. Coal-dust flew up.

The woman came to the door. She was plump and sandy-haired,

young, with an odd, stubby nose.

"Oh, you will make a mess of yourself," she cried,

surprised and laughing with a little wonder.

"I did want to see. Isn't it lovely living on a barge?" asked

Ursula.

"I don't live on one altogether," said the woman

cheerfully.

"She's got her parlour an' her plush suite in Loughborough,"

said her husband with just pride.

Ursula peeped into the cabin, where saucepans were boiling

and some dishes were on the table. It was very hot. Then she

came out again. The man was talking to the baby. It was a

blue-eyed, fresh-faced thing with floss of red-gold hair.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" she asked.

"It's a girl--aren't you a girl, eh?" he shouted at the

infant, shaking his head. Its little face wrinkled up into the

oddest, funniest smile.

"Oh!" cried Ursula. "Oh, the dear! Oh, how nice when she

laughs!"

"She'll laugh hard enough," said the father.

"What is her name?" asked Ursula.

"She hasn't got a name, she's not worth one," said the man.

"Are you, you fag-end o' nothing?" he shouted to the baby. The

baby laughed.

"No we've been that busy, we've never took her to th'

registry office," came the woman's voice. "She was born on th'

boat here."

"But you know what you're going to call her?" asked

Ursula.

"We did think of Gladys Em'ly," said the mother.

"We thought of nowt o' th' sort," said the father.

"Hark at him! What do you want?' cried the mother in

exasperation.

"She'll be called Annabel after th' boat she was born

on."

"She's not, so there," said the mother, viciously defiant

The father sat in humorous malice, grinning.

"Well, you'll see," he said.

And Ursula could tell, by the woman's vibrating exasperation,

that he would never give way.

"They're all nice names," she said. "Call her Gladys Annabel

Emily."

"Nay, that's heavy-laden, if you like," he answered.

"You see!" cried the woman. "He's that pig-headed!"

"And she's so nice, and she laughs, and she hasn't even got a

name," crooned Ursula to the child.

"Let me hold her," she added.

He yielded her the child, that smelt of babies. But it had

such blue, wide, china blue eyes, and it laughed so oddly, with

such a taking grimace, Ursula loved it. She cooed and talked to

it. It was such an odd, exciting child.

"What's your name?" the man suddenly asked of her.

"My name is Ursula--Ursula Brangwen," she replied.

"Ursula!" he exclaimed, dumbfounded.

"There was a Saint Ursula. It's a very old name," she added

hastily, in justification.

"Hey, mother!" he called.

There was no answer.

"Pem!" he called, "can't y'hear?"

"What?" came the short answer.

"What about 'Ursula'?" he grinned.

"What about what?" came the answer, and the woman

appeared in the doorway, ready for combat.

"Ursula--it's the lass's name there," he said,

gently.

The woman looked the young girl up and down. Evidently she

was attracted by her slim, graceful, new beauty, her effect of

white elegance, and her tender way of holding the child.

"Why, how do you write it?" the mother asked, awkward now she

was touched. Ursula spelled out her name. The man looked at the

woman. A bright, confused flush came over the mother's face, a

sort of luminous shyness.

"It's not a common name, is it!" she exclaimed,

excited as by an adventure.

"Are you goin' to have it then?" he asked.

"I'd rather have it than Annabel," she said, decisively.

"An' I'd rather have it than Gladys Em'ler," he replied.

There was a silence, Ursula looked up.

"Will you really call her Ursula?" she asked.

"Ursula Ruth," replied the man, laughing vainly, as pleased

as if he had found something.

It was now Ursula's turn to be confused.

"It does sound awfully nice," she said. "I must give

her something. And I haven't got anything at all."

She stood in her white dress, wondering, down there in the

barge. The lean man sitting near to her watched her as if she

were a strange being, as if she lit up his face. His eyes smiled

on her, boldly, and yet with exceeding admiration

underneath.

"Could I give her my necklace?" she said.

It was the little necklace made of pieces of amethyst and

topaz and pearl and crystal, strung at intervals on a little

golden chain, which her Uncle Tom had given her. She was very

fond of it. She looked at it lovingly, when she had taken it

from her neck.

"Is it valuable?" the man asked her, curiously.

"I think so," she replied.

"The stones and pearl are real; it is worth three or four

pounds," said Skrebensky from the wharf above. Ursula could tell

he disapproved of her.

"I must give it to your baby--may I?" she said to

the bargee.

He flushed, and looked away into the evening.

"Nay," he said, "it's not for me to say."

"What would your father and mother say?" cried the woman

curiously, from the door.

"It is my own," said Ursula, and she dangled the little

glittering string before the baby. The infant spread its little

fingers. But it could not grasp. Ursula closed the tiny hand

over the jewel. The baby waved the bright ends of the string.

Ursula had given her necklace away. She felt sad. But she did

not want it back.

The jewel swung from the baby's hand and fell in a little

heap on the coal-dusty bottom of the barge. The man groped for

it, with a kind of careful reverence. Ursula noticed the

coarsened, blunted fingers groping at the little jewelled heap.

The skin was red on the back of the hand, the fair hairs

glistened stiffly. It was a thin, sinewy, capable hand

nevertheless, and Ursula liked it. He took up the necklace

carefully, and blew the coal-dust from it, as it lay in the

hollow of his hand. He seemed still and attentive. He held out

his hand with the necklace shining small in its hard, black

hollow.

"Take it back," he said.

Ursula hardened with a kind of radiance.

"No," she said. "It belongs to little Ursula."

And she went to the infant and fastened the necklace round

its warm, soft, weak little neck.

There was a moment of confusion, then the father bent over

his child:

"What do you say?" he said. "Do you say thank you? Do you say

thank you, Ursula?"

"Her name's Ursula now," said the mother, smiling a