and enquire of the cottage woman who came out with a child in
her arms； how did her husband； who had hurt his foot。 And I
would pat the flaxen head of the child； stooping from my horse；
and I would give her a shilling from my purse； and order
nourishing food to be sent from the hall to the cottage。〃
So she rode in her pride。 And sometimes； she dashed into
flames to rescue a forgotten child； or she dived into the canal
locks and supported a boy who was seized with cramp； or she
swept up a toddling infant from the feet of a runaway horse：
always imaginatively； of course。
But in the end there returned the poignant yearning from the
Sunday world。 As she went down in the morning from Cossethay and
saw Ilkeston smoking blue and tender upon its hill； then her
heart surged with far…off words：
〃Oh； Jerusalem； Jerusalem……how often would I have
gathered thy children together as a hen gathereth her chickens
under her wings； and ye would not……〃
The passion rose in her for Christ； for the gathering under
the wings of security and warmth。 But how did it apply to the
weekday world？ What could it mean； but that Christ should clasp
her to his breast； as a mother clasps her child？ And oh； for
Christ； for him who could hold her to his breast and lose her
there。 Oh； for the breast of man； where she should have refuge
and bliss for ever！ All her senses quivered with passionate
yearning。
Vaguely she knew that Christ meant something else： that in
the vision…world He spoke of Jerusalem； something that did not
exist in the everyday world。 It was not houses and factories He
would hold in His bosom： nor householders nor factory…workers
nor poor people： but something that had no part in the weekday
world； nor seen nor touched with weekday hands and eyes。
Yet she must have it in weekday terms……she must。
For all her life was a weekday life； now； this was the whole。 So
he must gather her body to his breast； that was strong with a
broad bone； and which sounded with the beating of the heart； and
which was warm with the life of which she partook； the life of
the running blood。
So she craved for the breast of the Son of Man； to lie there。
And she was ashamed in her soul； ashamed。 For whereas Christ
spoke for the Vision to answer； she answered from the weekday
fact。 It was a betrayal； a transference of meaning； from the
vision world； to the matter…of…fact world。 So she was ashamed of
her religious ecstasy； and dreaded lest any one should see
it。
Early in the year； when the lambs came； and shelters were
built of straw； and on her uncle's farm the men sat at night
with a lantern and a dog； then again there swept over her this
passionate confusion between the vision world and the weekday
world。 Again she felt Jesus in the countryside。 Ah； he would
lift up the lambs in his arms！ Ah； and she was the lamb。 Again；
in the morning； going down the lane； she heard the ewe call； and
the lambs came running； shaking and twinkling with new…born
bliss。 And she saw them stooping； nuzzling； groping to the
udder； to find the teats； whilst the mother turned her head
gravely and sniffed her own。 And they were sucking； vibrating
with bliss on their little； long legs； their throats stretched
up； their new bodies quivering to the stream of blood…warm；
loving milk。
Oh； and the bliss； the bliss！ She could scarcely tear herself
away to go to school。 The little noses nuzzling at the udder；
the little bodies so glad and sure； the little black legs；
crooked； the mother standing still； yielding herself to their
quivering attraction……then the mother walked calmly
away。
Jesus……the vision world……the everyday
world……all mixed inextricably in a confusion of pain and
bliss。 It was almost agony； the confusion； the inextricability。
Jesus； the vision； speaking to her； who was non…visionary！ And
she would take his words of the spirit and make them to pander
to her own carnality。
This was a shame to her。 The confusing of the spirit world
with the material world； in her own soul； degraded her。 She
answered the call of the spirit in terms of immediate； everyday
desire。
〃e unto me； all ye that labour and are heavy…laden； and I
will give you rest。〃
It was the temporal answer she gave。 She leapt with sensuous
yearning to respond to Christ。 If she could go to him really；
and lay her head on his breast； to have fort； to be made much
of； caressed like a child！
All the time she walked in a confused heat of religious
yearning。 She wanted Jesus to love her deliciously； to take her
sensuous offering； to give her sensuous response。 For weeks she
went in a muse of enjoyment。
And all the time she knew underneath that she was playing
false； accepting the passion of Jesus for her own physical
satisfaction。 But she was in such a daze； such a tangle。 How
could she get free？
She hated herself； she wanted to trample on herself； destroy
herself。 How could one bee free？ She hated religion； because
it lent itself to her confusion。 She abused everything。 She
wanted to bee hard； indifferent； brutally callous to
everything but just the immediate need； the immediate
satisfaction。 To have a yearning towards Jesus； only that 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
plete 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