第 72 页

have a few days of rest. Dorothy had inherited her patrimony,

and had taken a cottage in Sussex. She invited them to stay with

her.

They went down to Dorothy's neat, low cottage at the foot of

the downs. Here they could do as they liked. Ursula was always

yearning to go to the top of the downs. The white track wound up

to the rounded summit. And she must go.

Up there, she could see the Channel a few miles away, the sea

raised up and faintly glittering in the sky, the Isle of Wight a

shadow lifted in the far distance, the river winding bright

through the patterned plain to seaward, Arundel Castle a shadowy

bulk, and then the rolling of the high, smooth downs, making a

high, smooth land under heaven, acknowledging only the heavens

in their great, sun-glowing strength, and suffering only a few

bushes to trespass on the intercourse between their great,

unabateable body and the changeful body of the sky.

Below she saw the villages and the woods of the weald, and

the train running bravely, a gallant little thing, running with

all the importance of the world over the water meadows and into

the gap of the downs, waving its white steam, yet all the while

so little. So little, yet its courage carried it from end to end

of the earth, till there was no place where it did not go. Yet

the downs, in magnificent indifference, bearing limbs and body

to the sun, drinking sunshine and sea-wind and sea-wet cloud

into its golden skin, with superb stillness and calm of being,

was not the downs still more wonderful? The blind, pathetic,

energetic courage of the train as it steamed tinily away through

the patterned levels to the sea's dimness, so fast and so

energetic, made her weep. Where was it going? It was going

nowhere, it was just going. So blind, so without goal or aim,

yet so hasty! She sat on an old prehistoric earth-work and

cried, and the tears ran down her face. The train had tunnelled

all the earth, blindly, and uglily.

And she lay face downwards on the downs, that were so strong,

that cared only for their intercourse with the everlasting

skies, and she wished she could become a strong mound smooth

under the sky, bosom and limbs bared to all winds and clouds and

bursts of sunshine.

But she must get up again and look down from her foothold of

sunshine, down and away at the patterned, level earth, with its

villages and its smoke and its energy. So shortsighted the train

seemed, running to the distance, so terrifying in their

littleness the villages, with such pettiness in their

activity.

Skrebensky wandered dazed, not knowing where he was or what

he was doing with her. All her passion seemed to be to wander up

there on the downs, and when she must descend to earth, she was

heavy. Up there she was exhilarated and free.

She would not love him in a house any more. She said she

hated houses, and particularly she hated beds. There was

something distasteful in his coming to her bed.

She would stay the night on the downs, up there, he with her.

It was midsummer, the days were glamorously long. At about

half-past ten, when the bluey-black darkness had at last fallen,

they took rugs and climbed the steep track to the summit of the

downs, he and she.

Up there, the stars were big, the earth below was gone into

darkness. She was free up there with the stars. Far out they saw

tiny yellow lights--but it was very far out, at sea, or on

land. She was free up among the stars.

She took off her clothes, and made him take off all his, and

they ran over the smooth, moonless turf, a long way, more than a

mile from where they had left their clothing, running in the

dark, soft wind, utterly naked, as naked as the downs

themselves. Her hair was loose and blew about her shoulders, she

ran swiftly, wearing sandals when she set off on the long run to

the dew-pond.

In the round dew-pond the stars were untroubled. She ventured

softly into the water, grasping at the stars with her hands.

And then suddenly she started back, running swiftly. He was

there, beside her, but only on sufferance. He was a screen for

her fears. He served her. She took him, she clasped him,

clenched him close, but her eyes were open looking at the stars,

it was as if the stars were lying with her and entering the

unfathomable darkness of her womb, fathoming her at last. It was

not him.

The dawn came. They stood together on a high place, an

earthwork of the stone-age men, watching for the light. It came

over the land. But the land was dark. She watched a pale rim on

the sky, away against the darkened land. The darkness became

bluer. A little wind was running in from the sea behind. It

seemed to be running to the pale rift of the dawn. And she and

he darkly, on an outpost of the darkness, stood watching for the

dawn.

The light grew stronger, gushing up against the dark sapphire

of the transparent night. The light grew stronger, whiter, then

over it hovered a flush of rose. A flush of rose, and then

yellow, pale, new-created yellow, the whole quivering and

poising momentarily over the fountain on the sky's rim.

The rose hovered and quivered, burned, fused to flame, to a

transient red, while the yellow urged out in great waves, thrown

from the ever-increasing fountain, great waves of yellow

flinging into the sky, scattering its spray over the darkness,

which became bluer and bluer, paler, till soon it would itself

be a radiance, which had been darkness.

The sun was coming. There was a quivering, a powerful

terrifying swim of molten light. Then the molten source itself

surged forth, revealing itself. The sun was in the sky, too

powerful to look at.

And the ground beneath lay so still, so peaceful. Only now

and again a cock crew. Otherwise, from the distant yellow hills

to the pine trees at the foot of the downs, everything was newly

washed into being, in a flood of new, golden creation.

It was so unutterably still and perfect with promise, the

golden-lighted, distinct land, that Ursula's soul rocked and

wept. Suddenly he glanced at her. The tears were running over

her cheeks, her mouth was working strangely.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

After a moment's struggle with her voice.

"It is so beautiful," she said, looking at the glowing,

beautiful land. It was so beautiful, so perfect, and so

unsullied.

He too realized what England would be in a few hours'

time--a blind, sordid, strenuous activity, all for nothing,

fuming with dirty smoke and running trains and groping in the

bowels of the earth, all for nothing. A ghastliness came over

him.

He looked at Ursula. Her face was wet with tears, very

bright, like a transfiguration in the refulgent light. Nor was

his the hand to wipe away the burning, bright tears. He stood

apart, overcome by a cruel ineffectuality.

Gradually a great, helpless sorrow was rising in him. But as

yet he was fighting it away, he was struggling for his own life.

He became very quiet and unaware of the things about him,

awaiting, as it were, her judgment on him.

They returned to Nottingham, the time of her examination

came. She must go to London. But she would not stay with him in

an hotel. She would go to a quiet little pension near the

British Museum.

Those quiet residential squares of London made a great

impression on her mind. They were very complete. Her mind seemed

imprisoned in their quietness. Who was going to liberate

her?

In the evening, her practical examinations being over, he

went with her to dinner at one of the hotels down the river,

near Richmond. It was golden and beautiful, with yellow water

and white and scarlet-striped boat-awnings, and blue shadows

under the trees.

"When shall we be married?" he asked her, quietly, simply, as

if it were a mere question of comfort.

She watched the changing pleasure-traffic of the river. He

looked at her golden, puzzled museau. The knot gathered

in his throat.

"I don't know," she said.

A hot grief gripped his throat.

"Why don't you know--don't you want to be married?" he

asked her.

Her head turned slowly, her face, puzzled, like a boy's face,

expressionless because she was trying to think, looked towards

his face. She did not see him, because she was pre-occupied. She

did not quite know what she was going to say.

"I don't think I want to be married," she said, and her

naive, troubled, puzzled eyes rested a moment on his, then

travelled away, pre-occupied.

"Do you mean never, or not just yet?" he asked.

The knot in his throat grew harder, his face was drawn as if

he were being strangled.

"I mean never," she said, out of some far self which spoke

for once beyond her.

His drawn, strangled face watched her blankly for a few

moments, then a strange sound took place in his throat. She

started, came to herself, and, horrified, saw him. His head made

a queer motion, the chin jerked back against the throat, the

curious, crowing, hiccupping sound came again, his face twisted

like insanity, and he was crying, crying blind and twisted as if

something were broken which kept him in control.

"Tony--don't," she cried, starting up.

It tore every one of her nerves to see him. He made groping

movements to get out of his chair. But he was crying

uncontrollably, noiselessly, with his face twisted like a mask,

contorted and the tears running down the amazing grooves in his

cheeks. Blindly, his face always this horrible working mask, he

groped for his hat, for his way down from the terrace. It was

eight o'clock, but still brightly light. The other people were

staring. In great agitation, part of which was exasperation, she

stayed behind, paid the waiter with a half-sovereign, took her

yellow silk coat, then followed Skrebensky.

She saw him walking with brittle, blind steps along the path

by the river. She could tell by the strange stiffness and

brittleness of his figure that he was still crying. Hurrying

after him, running, she took his arm.

"Tony," she cried, "don't! Why are you like this? What are

you doing this for? Don't. It's not necessary."

He heard, and his manhood was cruelly, coldly defaced. Yet it

was no good. He could not gain control of his face. His face,

his breast, were weeping violently, as if automatically. His

will, his knowledge had nothing to do with it. He simply could

not stop.

She walked holding his arm, silent with exasperation and

perplexity and pain. He took the uncertain steps of a blind man,

because his mind was blind with weeping.

"Shall we go home? Shall we have a taxi?" she said.

He could pay no attention. Very flustered, very agitated, she

signalled indefinitely to a taxi-cab that was going slowly by.

The driver saluted and drew up. She opened the door and pushed

Skrebensky in, then took her own place. Her face was uplifted,

the mouth closed down, she looked hard and cold and ashamed. She

winced as the driver's dark red face was thrust round upon her,

a full-blooded, animal face with black eyebrows and a thick,

short-cut moustache.

"Where to, lady?" he said, his white teeth showing. Again for

a moment she was flustered.

"Forty, Rutland Square," she said.

He touched his cap and stolidly set the car in motion. He

seemed to have a league with her to ignore Skrebensky.

The latter sat as if trapped within the taxi-cab, his face

still working, whilst occasionally he made quick slight

movements of the head, to shake away his tears. He never moved

his hands. She could not bear to look at him. She sat with face

uplifted and averted to the window.

At length, when she had regained some control over herself,

she turned again to him. He was much quieter. His face was wet,

and twitched occasionally, his hands still lay motionless. But

his eyes were quite still, like a washed sky after rain, full of

a wan light, and quite steady, almost ghost-like.

A pain flamed in her womb, for him.

"I didn't think I should hurt you," she said, laying her hand

very lightly, tentatively, on his arm. "The words came without

my knowing. They didn't mean anything, really."

He remained quite still, hearing, but washed all wan and

without feeling. She waited, looking at him, as if he were some

curious, not-understandable creature.

"You won't cry again, will you, Tony?"

Some shame and bitterness against her burned him in the

question. She noticed how his moustache was soddened wet with

tears. Taking her handkerchief, she wiped his face. The driver's

heavy, stolid back remained always turned to them, as if

conscious but indifferent. Skrebensky sat motionless whilst

Ursula wiped his face, softly, carefully, and yet clumsily, not

as well as he would have wiped it himself.

Her handkerchief was too small. It was soon wet through. She

groped in his pocket for his own. Then, with its more ample

capacity, she carefully dried his face. He remained motionless

all the while. Then she drew his cheek to hers and kissed him.

His face was cold. Her heart was hurt. She saw the tears welling

quickly to his eyes again. As if he were a child, she again

wiped away his tears. By now she herself was on the point of

weeping. Her underlip was caught between her teeth.

So she sat still, for fear of her own tears, sitting close by

him, holding his hand warm and close and loving. Meanwhile the

car ran on, and a soft, midsummer dusk began to gather. For a

long while they sat motionless. Only now and again her hand

closed more closely, lovingly, over his hand, then gradually

relaxed.

The dusk began to fall. One or two lights appeared. The

driver drew up to light his lamps. Skrebensky moved for the

first time, leaning forward to watch the driver. His face had

always the same still, clarified, almost childlike look,

impersonal.

They saw the driver's strange, full, dark face peering into