CHAPTER IX

FORDHAM

Foot after foot ye go back and travail and make yourselves mad; Blind feet that feel for the track where highway is none to be had. Therefore the God that ye make you is grievous, and gives not aid, Because it is but for your sake that the God of your making is made.

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Cry out, for his kingdom is shaken; cry out, for the people blaspheme; Cry aloud till his godhead awaken; what doth he to sleep and to dream? Is not this the great God of your sires, that with souls and with bodies was fed, And the world was on flame with his fires? O fools, he was God, and is dead. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE: _Hymn of Man_.

Le silence éternel de ces espaces infinis m'effraie.--PASCAL: _Pensées_.

And that inverted Bowl we call the Sky, Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die, Lift not thy hands to It for help--for It Rolls impotently on as Thou or I. OMAR KHAYYÁM.

(1)

Ursula Manning stared out at the rods of rain. Chanctonbury Ring was all but blotted out; she could just see the crown of beeches when the mists were blown aside for a few moments, and that was all. The woods below stood heavy and motionless, and the fields between them and the cottage lay stretched out, drinking it in. It had been a hot dry summer, and the whole world was rejoicing in the rain. That decided Ursula. She turned back into the bedroom, opened a wardrobe, and took out an old tweed skirt and jumper. Then she took off most of her clothes and assumed these. She let down her hair, twisted it into a long black plait, tied it firmly, and swung the heavy mass over her shoulder with a defiant jerk. Then, bareheaded, she went downstairs humming a little song, and selected a stick in the hall. She looked about eighteen, dressed so.

Her mother came out of the sitting-room. "Ursula," she cried, "you're not going out!"

"Yes, mother, I am. Why not? The rain's heavenly, and the woods have spread out their hands to it. And I want to get soaked."

The elder lady stood irresolute, a ludicrous expression of dismay in her face. The girl looked at her and laughed. "Oh, mother," she cried, "say it if it's any help!"

Mrs. Manning, at that, smiled ruefully. "Ursula," she said, "it's all very well, but you are trying. You'll probably catch your death of cold."

Ursula opened the door and stepped into the porch. She looked up into the leaden sky and down at the runnels of water on either side of the little garden path to the gate. Then she glanced back at her mother, smiled at her, waved her hand, and stepped into the downpour without a word.

Her mother gave a little scream. "Ursula! Where's your mac.?" The muffled click of the latch at the gate answered her.

It opened into a little lane that ran down on the left to a main road and up on the right towards the woods below Chanctonbury. Up this then, she went, swinging her stick, swinging out. The rain fell steadily around and upon her, and ever and again she lifted her face to it and smiled slowly to herself at the kiss and sting of it. In a little the winding track became a mere footpath and debouched into an old chalk-quarry, cut from the side of the hill, fringed with immense beech-trees and an occasional oak. The girl ran a few steps up a sodden low bank and stood for a moment looking down into the great bowl. A continual patter and sough of rain came up to her, though here, under the giant trees, less of the actual downpour reached her. The white chalk shone through the misty air. A miniature torrent poured as a little waterfall over the far brink and splashed below on to bushes and brambles. A warm, rich, wet fragrance rose all about her, and every living green thing seemed stretched out and motionless in an utter ecstasy of enjoyment.

The girl drew a deep breath. Unconsciously, she was registering it all. All the grey monotones, all the myriad little drips and splashings, all the washed leaves and grasses around and underfoot, and all the tall upreaching brown trunks that rose against the teeming sky, were impressing themselves upon her mind. She knew it as an instinct and stood there to miss nothing. And one day Ursula Manning would paint just such a picture, and people would wonder how she did it, and the critics talk of her unique gift.

But at the quarry she turned to the left. The high soaked grasses reached to her knees; last year's litter of leaves clung to her feet; sprays of bramble clutched at her short skirt; but she moved slowly and persistently on. Her eyes, that looked at you always without a tremor, glanced quietly right and left as she went. By field-path and coppice, and now in a sunken lane that skirted an old wall behind which rose Fordham Manor, she made her way. She was drenched through and through, but it was warm rain, and besides the exercise kept her warm. The pores of her skin, like those of the woods and the plants, opened to the joyous quickening benison of it. Rain dripped from her plaited hair and shone on her face. And still she moved steadily through it, with the erect carriage and proud swing of her, and those resolute eager eyes.

Just past the old wall, where it turns to run up to the coach-house and stables and barns against which fruitful ancient fig-trees grow, she crossed a field diagonally to her left. Its boundary hedge was thick and she moved along to the right seeking an opening. Not until she was all but at the corner did she find it, and there, pushing back a tangle of old man's beard and bryony, she leapt through and out on to the carriage-drive running by the park up to the house. And just then a car turned the corner and swept past her.

There were three men in it besides the driver. One sat next him, his hat pulled down, muffled in an overcoat, but she knew him. Of the others, one turned and waved cheerfully over the back as the car went on. She knew him, too, just as she knew that he was arriving that day to stay with Mr. Tressor. The third man she did not know. She smiled suddenly to herself. It was plain they had been caught in the open car by the sudden storm, driving up from Brighton probably. What fun! Her cousin hated rain.

Manning turned back to Paul. "My cousin Ursula," he said. "She lives just here, when she's not in town. Possibly you know the name. She paints, and has rather a growing reputation."

"Oh," said Paul. "What in the world was she doing out in this then? She looked drowned."

"I know. She loves that sort of thing. I wonder what you'll think of her, Paul."

"Why?"

"I don't know. She's rather unusual. Not your sort at all I should imagine. But--well, I don't know. It will be rather amusing to see."

(2)

Ursula went on down the drive, her thoughts idle, her appreciation