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 preoccupied. 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, preoccupied.
“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 taxicab 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
