Ursula stood near him with a mute, pale face which he would
rather not see. There seemed some shame at the very root of
life, cold, dead shame for her.
The three made a noticeable group on the station; the girl in
her fur cap and tippet and her olive green costume, pale, tense
with youth, isolated, unyielding; the soldierly young man in a
crush hat and a heavy overcoat, his face rather pale and
reserved above his purple scarf, his whole figure neutral; then
the elder man, a fashionable bowler hat pressed low over his
dark brows, his face warm-coloured and calm, his whole figure
curiously suggestive of full-blooded indifference; he was the
eternal audience, the chorus, the spectator at the drama; in his
own life he would have no drama.
The train was rushing up. Ursula's heart heaved, but the ice
was frozen too strong upon it.
"Good-bye," she said, lifting her hand, her face laughing
with her peculiar, blind, almost dazzling laugh. She wondered
what he was doing, when he stooped and kissed her. He should be
shaking hands and going.
"Good-bye," she said again.
He picked up his little bag and turned his back on her. There
was a hurry along the train. Ah, here was his carriage. He took
his seat. Tom Brangwen shut the door, and the two men shook
hands as the whistle went.
"Good-bye--and good luck," said Brangwen.
"Thank you--good-bye."
The train moved off. Skrebensky stood at the carriage window,
waving, but not really looking to the two figures, the girl and
the warm-coloured, almost effeminately-dressed man Ursula waved
her handkerchief. The train gathered speed, it grew smaller and
smaller. Still it ran in a straight line. The speck of white
vanished. The rear of the train was small in the distance. Still
she stood on the platform, feeling a great emptiness about her.
In spite of herself her mouth was quivering: she did not want to
cry: her heart was dead cold.
Her Uncle Tom had gone to an automatic machine, and was
getting matches.
"Would you like some sweets?" he said, turning round.
Her face was covered with tears, she made curious, downward
grimaces with her mouth, to get control. Yet her heart was not
crying--it was cold and earthy.
"What kind would you like--any?" persisted her
uncle.
"I should love some peppermint drops," she said, in a
strange, normal voice, from her distorted face. But in a few
moments she had gained control of herself, and was still,
detached.
"Let us go into the town," he said, and he rushed her into a
train, moving to the town station. They went to a cafe to drink
coffee, she sat looking at people in the street, and a great
wound was in her breast, a cold imperturbability in her
soul.
This cold imperturbability of spirit continued in her now. It
was as if some disillusion had frozen upon her, a hard
disbelief. Part of her had gone cold, apathetic. She was too
young, too baffled to understand, or even to know that she
suffered much. And she was too deeply hurt to submit.