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 ing 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 bined； 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 e 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 e 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 e 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 ye