The Rainbow D. H. Lawrence (fun to read txt) 📖

she might use him to pander to her own soft sensation, use him as a means of reacting upon herself, maddened her in the end. There was then no Jesus, no sentimentality. With all the bitter hatred of helplessness she hated sentimentality.

At this period came the young Skrebensky. She was nearly sixteen years old, a slim, smouldering girl, deeply reticent, yet lapsing into unreserved expansiveness now and then, when she seemed to give away her whole soul, but when in fact she only made another counterfeit of her soul for outward presentation. She was sensitive in the extreme, always tortured, always affecting a callous indifference to screen herself.

She was at this time a nuisance on the face of the earth, with her spasmodic passion and her slumberous torment. She seemed to go with all her soul in her hands, yearning, to the other person. Yet all the while, deep at the bottom of her was a childish antagonism of distrust. She thought she loved everybody and believed in everybody. But because she could not love herself nor believe in herself, she mistrusted everybody with the mistrust of a serpent or a captured bird. Her starts of revulsion and hatred were more inevitable than her impulses of love.

So she wrestled through her dark days of confusion, soulless, uncreated, unformed.

One evening, as she was studying in the parlour, her head buried in her hands, she heard new voices in the kitchen speaking. At once, from its apathy, her excitable spirit started and strained to listen. It seemed to crouch, to lurk under cover, tense, glaring forth unwilling to be seen.

There were two strange men’s voices, one soft and candid, veiled with soft candour, the other veiled with easy mobility, running quickly. Ursula sat quite tense, shocked out of her studies, lost. She listened all the time to the sound of the voices, scarcely heeding the words.

The first speaker was her Uncle Tom. She knew the naive candour covering the girding and savage misery of his soul. Who was the other speaker? Whose voice ran on so easy, yet with an inflamed pulse? It seemed to hasten and urge her forward, that other voice.

“I remember you,” the young man’s voice was saying. “I remember you from the first time I saw you, because of your dark eyes and fair face.”

Mrs. Brangwen laughed, shy and pleased.

“You were a curly-headed little lad,” she said.

“Was I? Yes, I know. They were very proud of my curls.”

And a laugh ran to silence.

“You were a very well-mannered lad, I remember,” said her father.

“Oh! did I ask you to stay the night? I always used to ask people to stay the night. I believe it was rather trying for my mother.”

There was a general laugh. Ursula rose. She had to go.

At the click of the latch everybody looked round. The girl hung in the doorway, seized with a moment’s fierce confusion. She was going to be good-looking. Now she had an attractive gawkiness, as she hung a moment, not knowing how to carry her shoulders. Her dark hair was tied behind, her yellow-brown eyes shone without direction. Behind her, in the parlour, was the soft light of a lamp upon open books.

A superficial readiness took her to her Uncle Tom, who kissed her, greeting her with warmth, making a show of intimate possession of her, and at the same time leaving evident his own complete detachment.

But she wanted to turn to the stranger. He was standing back a little, waiting. He was a young man with very clear greyish eyes that waited until they were called upon, before they took expression.

Something in his self-possessed waiting moved her, and she broke into a confused, rather beautiful laugh as she gave him her hand, catching her breath like an excited child. His hand closed over hers very close, very near, he bowed, and his eyes were watching her with some attention. She felt proud⁠—her spirit leapt to life.

“You don’t know Mr. Skrebensky, Ursula,” came her Uncle Tom’s intimate voice. She lifted her face with an impulsive flash to the stranger, as if to declare a knowledge, laughing her palpitating, excited laugh.

His eyes became confused with roused lights, his detached attention changed to a readiness for her. He was a young man of twenty-one, with a slender figure and soft brown hair brushed up on the German fashion straight from his brow.

“Are you staying long?” she asked.

“I’ve got a month’s leave,” he said, glancing at Tom Brangwen. “But I’ve various places I must go to⁠—put in some time here and there.”

He brought her a strong sense of the outer world. It was as if she were set on a hill and could feel vaguely the whole world lying spread before her.

“What have you a month’s leave from?” she asked.

“I’m in the Engineers⁠—in the Army.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, glad.

“We’re taking you away from your studies,” said her Uncle Tom.

“Oh, no,” she replied quickly.

Skrebensky laughed, young and inflammable.

“She won’t wait to be taken away,” said her father. But that seemed clumsy. She wished he would leave her to say her own things.

“Don’t you like study?” asked Skrebensky, turning to her, putting the question from his own case.

“I like some things,” said Ursula. “I like Latin and French⁠—and grammar.”

He watched her, and all his being seemed attentive to her, then he shook his head.

“I don’t,” he said. “They say all the brains of the army are in the Engineers. I think that’s why I joined them⁠—to get the credit of other people’s brains.”

He said this quizzically and with chagrin. And she became alert to him. It interested her. Whether he had brains or not, he was interesting. His directness attracted her, his independent motion. She was aware of the movement of his life over against hers.

“I don’t think brains matter,” she said.

“What does matter then?” came her Uncle Tom’s intimate, caressing, half-jeering voice.

She turned to him.

“It matters whether people have courage or not,” she said.

“Courage for what?” asked her uncle.

“For everything.”

Tom Brangwen gave a sharp little laugh. The