And then, in the darkness, he bent to her mouth, softly, and
touched her mouth with his mouth. She was afraid, she lay still
on his arm, feeling his lips on her lips. She kept still,
helpless. Then his mouth drew near, pressing open her mouth, a
hot, drenching surge rose within her, she opened her lips to
him, in pained, poignant eddies she drew him nearer, she let him
come farther, his lips came and surging, surging, soft, oh soft,
yet oh, like the powerful surge of water, irresistible, till
with a little blind cry, she broke away.
She heard him breathing heavily, strangely, beside her. A
terrible and magnificent sense of his strangeness possessed her.
But she shrank a little now, within herself. Hesitating, they
continued to walk on, quivering like shadows under the ash trees
of the hill, where her grandfather had walked with his daffodils
to make his proposal, and where her mother had gone with her
young husband, walking close upon him as Ursula was now walking
upon Skrebensky.
Ursula was aware of the dark limbs of the trees stretching
overhead, clothed with leaves, and of fine ash leaves tressing
the summer night.
They walked with their bodies moving in complex unity, close
together. He held her hand, and they went the long way round by
the road, to be farther. Always she felt as if she were
supported off her feet, as if her feet were light as little
breezes in motion.
He would kiss her again--but not again that night with
the same deep--reaching kiss. She was aware now, aware of
what a kiss might be. And so, it was more difficult to come to
him.
She went to bed feeling all warm with electric warmth, as if
the gush of dawn were within her, upholding her. And she slept
deeply, sweetly, oh, so sweetly. In the morning she felt sound
as an ear of wheat, fragrant and firm and full.
They continued to be lovers, in the first wondering state of
unrealization. Ursula told nobody; she was entirely lost in her
own world.
Yet some strange affectation made her seek for a spurious
confidence. She had at school a quiet, meditative,
serious-souled friend called Ethel, and to Ethel must Ursula
confide the story. Ethel listened absorbedly, with bowed,
unbetraying head, whilst Ursula told her secret. Oh, it was so
lovely, his gentle, delicate way of making love! Ursula talked
like a practiced lover.
"Do you think," asked Ursula, "it is wicked to let a man kiss
you--real kisses, not flirting?"
"I should think," said Ethel, "it depends."
"He kissed me under the ash trees on Cossethay hill--do
you think it was wrong?"
"When?"
"On Thursday night when he was seeing me home--but real
kisses--real--. He is an officer in the army."
"What time was it?" asked the deliberate Ethel.