The Rainbow by D. H. Lawrence (novels for beginners .txt) 📕

“Ursula⁠—it’s the lass’s name there,” he said, gently.

The woman looked the young girl up and down. Evidently she was attracted by her slim, graceful, new beauty, her effect of white elegance, and her tender way of holding the child.

“Why, how do you write it?” the mother asked, awkward now she was touched. Ursula spelled out her name. The man looked at the woman. A bright, confused flush came over the mother’s face, a sort of luminous shyness.

“It’s not a common name, is it!” she exclaimed, excited as by an adventure.

“Are you goin’ to have it then?” he asked.

“I’d rather have it than Annabel,” she said, decisively.

“An’ I’d rather have it than Gladys Em’ler,” he replied.

There was a silence, Ursula looked up.

“Will you really call her Ursula?” she asked.

“Ursula Ruth,” replied the man, laughing vainly, as pleased as if he had found something.

It was now Ursula’s turn to be confused.

“It does sound awfully nice,” she said. “I must give her something. And I haven’t got anything at all.”

She stood in her white dress, wondering, down there in the barge. The lean man sitting near to her watched her as if she were a strange being, as if she lit up his face. His eyes smiled on her, boldly, and yet with exceeding admiration underneath.

“Could I give her my necklace?” she said.

It was the little necklace made of pieces of amethyst and topaz and pearl and crystal, strung at intervals on a little golden chain, which her Uncle Tom had given her. She was very fond of it. She looked at it lovingly, when she had taken it from her neck.

“Is it valuable?” the man asked her, curiously.

“I think so,” she replied.

“The stones and pearl are real; it is worth three or four pounds,” said Skrebensky from the wharf above. Ursula could tell he disapproved of her.

“I must give it to your baby⁠—may I?” she said to the bargee.

He flushed, and looked away into the evening.

“Nay,” he said, “it’s not for me to say.”

“What would your father and mother say?” cried the woman curiously, from the door.

“It is my own,” said Ursula, and she dangled the little glittering string before the baby. The infant spread its little fingers. But it could not grasp. Ursula closed the tiny hand over the jewel. The baby waved the bright ends of the string. Ursula had given her necklace away. She felt sad. But she did not want it back.

The jewel swung from the baby’s hand and fell in a little heap on the coal-dusty bottom of the barge. The man groped for it, with a kind of careful reverence. Ursula noticed the coarsened, blunted fingers groping at the little jewelled heap. The skin was red on the back of the hand, the fair hairs glistened stiffly. It was a thin, sinewy, capable hand nevertheless, and Ursula liked it. He took up the necklace carefully, and blew the coal-dust from it, as it lay in the hollow of his hand. He seemed still and attentive. He held out his hand with the necklace shining small in its hard, black hollow.

“Take it back,” he said.

Ursula hardened with a kind of radiance.

“No,” she said. “It belongs to little Ursula.”

And she went to the infant and fastened the necklace round its warm, soft, weak little neck.

There was a moment of confusion, then the father bent over his child:

“What do you say?” he said. “Do you say thank you? Do you say thank you, Ursula?”

“Her name’s Ursula now,” said the mother, smiling a little bit ingratiatingly from the door. And she came out to examine the jewel on the child’s neck.

“It is Ursula, isn’t it?” said Ursula Brangwen.

The father looked up at her, with an intimate, half-gallant, half-impudent, but wistful look. His captive soul loved her: but his soul was captive, he knew, always.

She wanted to go. He set a little ladder for her to climb up to the wharf. She kissed the child, which was in its mother’s arms, then she turned away. The mother was effusive. The man stood silent by the ladder.

Ursula joined Skrebensky. The two young figures crossed the lock, above the shining yellow water. The bargeman watched them go.

“I loved them,” she was saying. “He was so gentle⁠—oh, so gentle! And the baby was such a dear!”

“Was he gentle?” said Skrebensky. “The woman had been a servant, I’m sure of that.”

Ursula winced.

“But I loved his impudence⁠—it was so gentle underneath.”

She went hastening on, gladdened by having met the grimy, lean man with the ragged moustache. He gave her a pleasant warm feeling. He made her feel the richness of her own life. Skrebensky, somehow, had created a deadness round her, a sterility, as if the world were ashes.

They said very little as they hastened home to the big supper. He was envying the lean father of three children, for his impudent directness and his worship of the woman in Ursula, a worship of body and soul together, the man’s body and soul wistful and worshipping the body and spirit of the girl, with a desire that knew the inaccessibility of its object, but was only glad to know that the perfect thing existed, glad to have had a moment of communion.

Why could not he himself desire a woman so? Why did he never really want a woman, not with the whole of him: never loved, never worshipped, only just physically wanted her.

But he would want her with his body, let his soul do as it would. A kind of flame of physical desire was gradually beating up in the Marsh, kindled by Tom Brangwen, and by the fact of the wedding of Fred, the shy, fair, stiff-set farmer with the handsome, half-educated girl. Tom Brangwen, with all his secret power, seemed to fan the flame that was rising. The bride was strongly attracted by him, and he was exerting his influence on another beautiful, fair girl, chill and burning as the sea, who said witty things which he appreciated,