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

the face of it all. He sat close to her, touching her, and she was aware of his influence upon her. But she was glad. It excited her to feel the press of him upon her, as if his being were urging her to something.

As they drove home, he sat near to her. And when he swayed to the cart, he swayed in a voluptuous, lingering way, against her, lingering as he swung away to recover balance. Without speaking, he took her hand across, under the wrap, and with his unseeing face lifted to the road, his soul intent, he began with his one hand to unfasten the buttons of her glove, to push back her glove from her hand, carefully laying bare her hand. And the close-working, instinctive subtlety of his fingers upon her hand sent the young girl mad with voluptuous delight. His hand was so wonderful, intent as a living creature skilfully pushing and manipulating in the dark underworld, removing her glove and laying bare her palm, her fingers. Then his hand closed over hers, so firm, so close, as if the flesh knitted to one thing his hand and hers. Meanwhile his face watched the road and the ears of the horse, he drove with steady attention through the villages, and she sat beside him, rapt, glowing, blinded with a new light. Neither of them spoke. In outward attention they were entirely separate. But between them was the compact of his flesh with hers, in the handclasp.

Then, in a strange voice, affecting nonchalance and superficiality he said to her:

“Sitting in the church there reminded me of Ingram.”

“Who is Ingram?” she asked.

She also affected calm superficiality. But she knew that something forbidden was coming.

“He is one of the other men with me down at Chatham⁠—a subaltern⁠—but a year older than I am.”

“And why did the church remind you of him?”

“Well, he had a girl in Rochester, and they always sat in a particular corner in the cathedral for their lovemaking.”

“How nice!” she cried, impulsively.

They misunderstood each other.

“It had its disadvantages though. The verger made a row about it.”

“What a shame! Why shouldn’t they sit in a cathedral?”

“I suppose they all think it a profanity⁠—except you and Ingram and the girl.”

“I don’t think it a profanity⁠—I think it’s right, to make love in a cathedral.”

She said this almost defiantly, in despite of her own soul.

He was silent.

“And was she nice?”

“Who? Emily? Yes, she was rather nice. She was a milliner, and she wouldn’t be seen in the streets with Ingram. It was rather sad, really, because the verger spied on them, and got to know their names and then made a regular row. It was a common tale afterwards.”

“What did she do?”

“She went to London, into a big shop. Ingram still goes up to see her.”

“Does he love her?”

“It’s a year and a half he’s been with her now.”

“What was she like?”

“Emily? Little, shy-violet sort of girl with nice eyebrows.”

Ursula meditated this. It seemed like real romance of the outer world.

“Do all men have lovers?” she asked, amazed at her own temerity. But her hand was still fastened with his, and his face still had the same unchanging fixity of outward calm.

“They’re always mentioning some amazing fine woman or other, and getting drunk to talk about her. Most of them dash up to London the moment they are free.”

“What for?”

“To some amazing fine woman or other.”

“What sort of woman?”

“Various. Her name changes pretty frequently, as a rule. One of the fellows is a perfect maniac. He keeps a suitcase always ready, and the instant he is at liberty, he bolts with it to the station, and changes in the train. No matter who is in the carriage, off he whips his tunic, and performs at least the top half of his toilet.”

Ursula quivered and wondered.

“Why is he in such a hurry?” she asked.

Her throat was becoming hard and difficult.

“He’s got a woman in his mind, I suppose.”

She was chilled, hardened. And yet this world of passions and lawlessness was fascinating to her. It seemed to her a splendid recklessness. Her adventure in life was beginning. It seemed very splendid.

That evening she stayed at the Marsh till after dark, and Skrebensky escorted her home. For she could not go away from him. And she was waiting, waiting for something more.

In the warm of the early night, with the shadows new about them, she felt in another, harder, more beautiful, less personal world. Now a new state should come to pass.

He walked near to her, and with the same, silent, intent approach put his arm round her waist, and softly, very softly, drew her to him, till his arm was hard and pressed in upon her; she seemed to be carried along, floating, her feet scarce touching the ground, borne upon the firm, moving surface of his body, upon whose side she seemed to lie, in a delicious swoon of motion. And whilst she swooned, his face bent nearer to her, her head was leaned on his shoulder, she felt his warm breath on her face. Then softly, oh softly, so softly that she seemed to faint away, his lips touched her cheek, and she drifted through strands of heat and darkness.

Still she waited, in her swoon and her drifting, waited, like the Sleeping Beauty in the story. She waited, and again his face was bent to hers, his lips came warm to her face, their footsteps lingered and ceased, they stood still under the trees, whilst his lips waited on her face, waited like a butterfly that does not move on a flower. She pressed her breast a little nearer to him, he moved, put both his arms round her, and drew her close.

And then, in the darkness, he bent to her mouth, softly, and touched her mouth with his mouth. She was afraid, she lay still on his arm, feeling his lips on her lips. She kept still, helpless. Then his mouth drew near, pressing open her mouth,