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 combined, 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.