“Ursula Brangwen, Yew Tree Cottage, Cossethay, Derbyshire.
“Dear Madam, You are requested to call at the above offices on Thursday next, the 10th, at 11.30 a.m., for an interview with the committee, referring to your application for the post of assistant mistress at the Wellingborough Green Schools.”
It was very difficult for Brangwen to take in this remote and official information, glowing as he was within the quiet of his church and his anthem music.
“Well, you needn’t bother me with it now, need you?’ he said impatiently, giving her back the letter.
“I’ve got to go on Thursday,” she said.
He sat motionless. Then he reached more music, and there was a rushing sound of air, then a long, emphatic trumpet-note of the organ, as he laid his hands on the keys. Ursula turned and went away.
He tried to give himself again to the organ. But he could not. He could not get back. All the time a sort of string was tugging, tugging him elsewhere, miserably.
So that when he came into the house after choir-practice his face was dark and his heart black. He said nothing however, until all the younger children were in bed. Ursula, however, knew what was brewing.
At length he asked:
“Where’s that letter?”
She gave it to him. He sat looking at it. “You are requested to call at the above offices on Thursday next——” It was a cold, official notice to Ursula herself and had nothing to do with him. So! She existed now as a separate social individual. It was for her to answer this note, without regard to him. He had even no right to interfere. His heart was hard and angry.
“You had to do it behind our backs, had you?” he said, with a sneer. And her heart leapt with hot pain. She knew she was free—she had broken away from him. He was beaten.
“You said, ‘let her try,’ ” she retorted, almost apologising to him.
He did not hear. He sat looking at the letter.
“Education Office, Kingston-on-Thames”—and then the typewritten “Miss Ursula Brangwen, Yew Tree Cottage, Cossethay.” It was all so complete and so final. He could not but feel the new position Ursula held, as recipient of that letter. It was an iron in his soul.
“Well,” he said at length, “you’re not going.”
Ursula started and could find no words to clamour her revolt.
“If you think you’re going dancin’ off to th’ other side of London, you’re mistaken.”
“Why not?” she cried, at once hard fixed in her will to go.
“That’s why not,” he said.
And there was silence till Mrs. Brangwen came downstairs.
“Look here, Anna,” he said, handing her the letter.