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.