第 65 页

The house was full of ferment. Ursula was wild with

excitement. At last her father was going to be something,

socially. So long, he had been a social cypher, without form or

standing. Now he was going to be Art and Handwork Instructor for

the County of Nottingham. That was really a status. It was a

position. He would be a specialist in his way. And he was an

uncommon man. Ursula felt they were all getting a foothold at

last. He was coming to his own. Who else that she knew could

turn out from his own fingers the beautiful things her father

could produce? She felt he was certain of this new job.

They would move. They would leave this cottage at Cossethay

which had grown too small for them; they would leave Cossethay,

where the children had all been born, and where they were always

kept to the same measure. For the people who had known them as

children along with the other village boys and girls would

never, could never understand that they should grow up

different. They had held "Urtler Brangwen" one of themselves,

and had given her her place in her native village, as in a

family. And the bond was strong. But now, when she was growing

to something beyond what Cossethay would allow or understand,

the bond between her and her old associates was becoming a

bondage.

"'Ello, Urs'ler, 'ow are yer goin' on?" they said when they

met her. And it demanded of her in the old voice the old

response. And something in her must respond and belong to people

who knew her. But something else denied bitterly. What was true

of her ten years ago was not true now. And something else which

she was, and must be, they could neither see nor allow. They

felt it there nevertheless, something beyond them, and they were

injured. They said she was proud and conceited, that she was too

big for her shoes nowadays. They said, she needn't pretend,

because they knew what she was. They had known her since she was

born. They quoted this and that about her. And she was ashamed

because she did feel different from the people she had lived

amongst. It hurt her that she could not be at her ease with them

any more. And yet--and yet--one's kite will rise on

the wind as far as ever one has string to let it go. It tugs and

tugs and will go, and one is glad the further it goes, even it

everybody else is nasty about it. So Cossethay hampered her, and

she wanted to go away, to be free to fly her kite as high as she

liked. She wanted to go away, to be free to stand straight up to

her own height.

So that when she knew that her father had the new post, and

that the family would move, she felt like skipping on the face

of the earth, and making psalms of joy. The old, bound shell of

Cossethay was to be cast off, and she was to dance away into the

blue air. She wanted to dance and sing.

She made dreams of the new place she would live in, where

stately cultured people of high feeling would be friends with

her, and she would live with the noble in the land, moving to a

large freedom of feeling. She dreamed of a rich, proud, simple

girl-friend, who had never known Mr. Harby and his like, nor

ever had a note in her voice of bondaged contempt and fear, as

Maggie had.

And she gave herself to all that she loved in Cossethay,

passionately, because she was going away now. She wandered about

to her favourite spots. There was a place where she went

trespassing to find the snowdrops that grew wild. It was evening

and the winter-darkened meadows were full of mystery. When she

came to the woods an oak tree had been newly chopped down in the

dell. Pale drops of flowers glimmered many under the hazels, and

by the sharp, golden splinters of wood that were splashed about,

the grey-green blades of snowdrop leaves pricked unheeding, the

drooping still little flowers were without heed.

Ursula picked some lovingly, in an ecstasy. The golden chips

of wood shone yellow like sunlight, the snowdrops in the

twilight were like the first stars of night. And she, alone

amongst them, was wildly happy to have found her way into such a

glimmering dusk, to the intimate little flowers, and the splash

of wood chips like sunshine over the twilight of the ground. She

sat down on the felled tree and remained awhile remote.

Going home, she left the purplish dark of the trees for the

open lane, where the puddles shone long and jewel-like in the

ruts, the land about her was darkened, and the sky a jewel

overhead. Oh, how amazing it was to her! It was almost too much.

She wanted to run, and sing, and cry out for very wildness and

poignancy, but she could not run and sing and cry out in such a

way as to cry out the deep things in her heart, so she was

still, and almost sad with loneliness.

At Easter she went again to Maggie's home, for a few days.

She was, however shy and fugitive. She saw Anthony, how

suggestive he was to look on, and how his eyes had a sort of

supplicating light, that was rather beautiful. She looked at

him, and she looked again, for him to become real to her. But it

was her own self that was occupied elsewhere. She seemed to have

some other being.

And she turned to spring and the opening buds. There was a

large pear tree by a wall, and it was full, thronged with tiny,

grey-green buds, myriads. She stood before it arrested with

delight, and a realization went deep into her heart. There was

so great a host in array behind the cloud of pale, dim green, so

much to come forth--so much sunshine to pour down.

So the weeks passed on, trance-like and pregnant. The pear

tree at Cossethay burst into bloom against the cottage-end, like

a wave burst into foam. Then gradually the bluebells came, blue

as water standing thin in the level places under the trees and

bushes, flowing in more and more, till there was a flood of

azure, and pale-green leaves burning, and tiny birds with fiery

little song and flight. Then swiftly the flood sank and was

gone, and it was summer.

There was to be no going to the seaside for a holiday. The

holiday was the removal from Cossethay.

They were going to live near Willey Green, which place was

most central for Brangwen. It was an old, quiet village on the

edge of the thronged colliery-district. So that it served, in

its quaintness of odd old cottages lingering in their sunny

gardens, as a sort of bower or pleasaunce to the sprawling

colliery-townlet of Beldover, a pleasant walk-round for the

colliers on Sunday morning, before the public-houses opened.

In Willey Green stood the Grammar School where Brangwen was

occupied for two days during the week, and where experiments in

education were being carried on.

Ursula wanted to live in Willey Green on the remoter side,

towards Southwell, and Sherwood Forest. There it was so lovely

and romantic. But out into the world meant out into the world.

Will Brangwen must become modern.

He bought, with his wife's money, a fairly large house in the

new, red-brick part of Beldover. It was a villa built by the

widow of the late colliery manager, and stood in a quiet, new

little side-street near the large church.

Ursula was rather sad. Instead of having arrived at

distinction they had come to new red-brick suburbia in a grimy,

small town.

Mrs. Brangwen was happy. The rooms were splendidly

large--a splendid dining-room, drawing-room and kitchen,

besides a very pleasant study downstairs. Everything was

admirably appointed. The widow had settled herself in lavishly.

She was a native of Beldover, and had intended to reign almost

queen. Her bathroom was white and silver, her stairs were of

oak, her chimney-pieces were massive and oaken, with bulging,

columnar supports.

"Good and substantial," was the keynote. But Ursula resented

the stout, inflated prosperity implied everywhere. She made her

father promise to chisel down the bulging oaken chimney-pieces,

chisel them flat. That sort of important paunch was very

distasteful to her. Her father was himself long and loosely

built. What had he to do with so much "good and substantial"

importance?

They bought a fair amount also of the widow's furniture. It

was in common good taste--the great Wilton carpet, the

large round table, the Chesterfield covered with glossy chintz

in roses and birds. It was all really very sunny and nice, with

large windows, and a view right across the shallow valley.

After all, they would be, as one of their acquaintances said,

among the elite of Beldover. They would represent culture. And

as there was no one of higher social importance than the

doctors, the colliery-managers, and the chemists, they would

shine, with their Della Robbia beautiful Madonna, their lovely

reliefs from Donatello, their reproductions from Botticelli.

Nay, the large photographs of the Primavera and the Aphrodite

and the Nativity in the dining-room, the ordinary

reception-room, would make dumb the mouth of Beldover.

And after all, it is better to be princess in Beldover than a

vulgar nobody in the country.

There was great preparation made for the removal of the whole

Brangwen family, ten in all. The house in Beldover was prepared,

the house in Cossethay was dismantled. Come the end of the

school-term the removal would begin.

Ursula left school at the end of July, when the summer

holiday commenced. The morning outside was bright and sunny, and

the freedom got inside the schoolroom this last day. It was as

if the walls of the school were going to melt away. Already they

seemed shadowy and unreal. It was breaking-up morning. Soon

scholars and teachers would be outside, each going his own way.

The irons were struck off, the sentence was expired, the prison

was a momentary shadow halting about them. The children were

carrying away books and inkwell, and rolling up maps. All their

faces were bright with gladness and goodwill. There was a bustle

of cleaning and clearing away all marks of this last term of

imprisonment. They were all breaking free. Busily, eagerly,

Ursula made up her totals of attendances in the register. With

pride she wrote down the thousands: to so many thousands of

children had she given another sessions's lessons. It looked

tremendous. The excited hours passed slowly in suspense. Then at

last it was over. For the last time, she stood before her

children whilst they said their prayers and sang a hymn. Then it

was over.

"Good-bye, children," she said. "I shall not forget you, and

you must not forget me."

"No, miss," cried the children in chorus, with shining

faces.

She stood smiling on them, moved, as they filed out. Then she

gave her monitors their term sixpences, and they too departed.

Cupboards were locked, blackboards washed, ink wells and dusters

removed. The place stood bare and vacated. She had triumphed

over it. It was a shell now. She had fought a good fight here,

and it had not been altogether unenjoyable. She owed some

gratitude even to this hard, vacant place, that stood like a

memorial or a trophy. So much of her life had been fought for

and won and lost here. Something of this school would always

belong to her, something of her to it. She acknowledged it. And

now came the leave-taking.

In the teachers' room the teachers were chatting and

loitering, talking excitedly of where they were going: to the

Isle of Man, to Llandudno, to Yarmouth. They were eager, and

attached to each other, like comrades leaving a ship.

Then it was Mr. Harby's turn to make a speech to Ursula. He

looked handsome, with his silver-grey temples and black brows,

and his imperturbable male solidity.

"Well," he said, "we must say good-bye to Miss Brangwen and

wish her all good fortune for the future. I suppose we shall see

her again some time, and hear how she is getting on."

"Oh, yes," said Ursula, stammering, blushing, laughing. "Oh,

yes, I shall come and see you."

Then she realized that this sounded too personal, and she

felt foolish.

"Miss Schofield suggested these two books," he said, putting

a couple of volumes on the table: "I hope you will like

them."

Ursula feeling very shy picked up the books. There was a

volume of Swinburne's poetry, and a volume of Meredith's.

"Oh, I shall love them," she said. "Thank you very

much--thank you all so much--it is

so----"

She stuttered to an end, and very red, turned the leaves of

the books eagerly, pretending to be taking the first pleasure,

but really seeing nothing.

Mr. Harby's eyes were twinkling. He alone was at his ease,

master of the situation. It was pleasing to him to make Ursula

the gift, and for once extend good feeling to his teachers. As a

rule, it was so difficult, each one was so strained in

resentment under his rule.

"Yes," he said, "we hoped you would like the

choice----"

He looked with his peculiar, challenging smile for a moment,

then returned to his cupboards.

Ursula felt very confused. She hugged her books, loving them.

And she felt that she loved all the teachers, and Mr. Harby. It

was very confusing.

At last she was out. She cast one hasty glance over the

school buildings squatting on the asphalt yard in the hot,

glistening sun, one look down the well-known road, and turned

her back on it all. Something strained in her heart. She was

going away.

"Well, good luck," said the last of the teachers, as she

shook hands at the end of the road. "We'll expect you back some

day."

He spoke in irony. She laughed, and broke away. She was free.

As she sat on the top of the tram in the sunlight, she looked

round her with tremendous delight. She had left something which

had meant much to her. She would not go to school any more, and

do the familiar things. Queer! There was a little pang amid her

exultation, of fear, not of regret. Yet how she exulted this

morning!

She was tremulous with pride and joy. She loved the two