The Rainbow - D. H. Lawrence [142]
She had come to plunge in the utter gloom and peace for a moment, bringing all her yearning, that had returned on her uncontrolled after the reckless riding over the face of the crowd, in the fair. After pride, she wanted comfort, solace, for pride and scorn seemed to hurt her most of all.
And she found the immemorial gloom full of bits of falling plaster, and dust of floating plaster, smelling of old lime, having scaffolding and rubbish heaped about, dust cloths over the altar.
"Let us sit down a minute," she said.
They sat unnoticed in the back pew, in the gloom, and she watched the dirty, disorderly work of bricklayers and plasterers. Workmen in heavy boots walking grinding down the aisles, calling out in a vulgar accent:
"Hi, mate, has them corner mouldin's come?"
There were shouts of coarse answer from the roof of the church. The place echoed desolate.
Skrebensky sat close to her. Everything seemed wonderful, if dreadful to her, the world tumbling into ruins, and she and he clambering unhurt, lawless over 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 hand-clasp.
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 love-making."
"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.