The rainbow

THE RAINBOW

THE RAINBOW

BY

D. H. LAWRENCE

AUTHOR OF "SONS AND LOVERS"

NEW YORK

B. W. HUEBSCH, INC.

MCMXXI

Copyright, 1815
By D. H. LAWRENCE

Reprinted, 1921

TO ELSE

CONTENTS

OHAPTEB PAGE

I How TOM BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 1

II THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 43

III CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY 74

IV GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 89

V WEDDING AT THE MARSH 123

VI ANNA VICTRIX 134

VII THE CATHEDRAL 185

VIII THE CHILD 198

IX THE MARSH AND THE FLOOD 225

X THE WIDENING CIRCLE 245

XI FIRST LOVE 266

XII SHAME 315

XIII THE MAN'S WORLD 333

XIV THE WIDENING CIRCLE 390

XV THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 404

XVI THE RAINBOW 456

THE RAINBOW

CHAPTEK I

HOW TOM BRANGWKtf MARRIED A POLISH LADY

THE Brangwens had lived for generations on the
Marsh Farm, in the meadows where the Erewash
twisted sluggishly through alder trees, separating
Derbyshire from Nottinghamshire. Two miles
away, a church-tower stood on a hill, the houses of the little
country town climbing assiduously up to it. Whenever one
of the Brangwens in the fields lifted his head from his work,
he saw the church-tower at Ilkeston in the empty sky. So
that as he turned again to the horizontal land, he was aware
of something standing above him and beyond him in the dis-
tance.

There was a look in the eyes of the Brangwens as if they
were expecting something unknown, about which they were
eager. They had that air of readiness for what would come
to them, a kind of surety, an expectancy, the look of an
inheritor.

They were fresh, blond, slow-speaking people, revealing
themselves plainly, but slowly, so that one could watch the
change in their eyes from laughter to anger, blue, lit-up
laughter, to a hard blue-staring anger ; through all the irreso-
lute stages of the sky when the weather is changing.

Living on rich land, on their own land, near to a growing
town, they had forgotten what it was to be in straitened
circumstances. They had never become rich, because there
were always children, and the patrimony was divided every
time. But always, at the Marsh, there was ample.

So the Brangwens came and went without fear of neces-
sity, working hard because of the life that was in them, not
for want of the money. Neither were they thriftless. They

2 THE RAINBOW

were aware of the last halfpenny, and instinct made them
not waste the peeling of their apple, for it would help to feed
the cattle. But heaven and earth was teeming around them,
and how should this cease? They felt the rush of the sap
in spring, they knew the wave which cannot halt, but every
year throws forward the seed to begetting, and, falling back,
leaves the young-born on the earth. They knew the inter-
course between heaven and earth, sunshine drawn into the
breast and bowels, the rain sucked up in the daytime, naked-
ness that comes under the wind in autumn, showing the birds'
nests no longer worth hiding. Their life and interrelations
were such; feeling the pulse and body of the soil, that
opened to their furrow for the grain, and became smooth and
supple after their ploughing, and clung to their feet with
a weight that pulled like desire, lying hard and unresponsive
when the crops were to be shorn away. The young corn
waved and was silken, and the lustre slid along the limbs of
the men who saw it. They took the udder of the cows, the
cows yielded milk and pulse against the hands of the men,
the pulse of the blood of the teats of the cows beat into the
pulse of the hands of the men. They mounted their horses,
and held life between the grip of their knees, they harnessed
their horses at the wagon, and, with hand on the bridle-rings,
drew the heaving of the horses after their will.

In autumn the partridges whirred up, birds in flocks blew
like spray across the fallow, rooks appeared on the grey,
watery heavens, and flew cawing into the winter. Then the
men sat by the fire in the house where the women moved
about with surety, and the limbs and the body of the men
were impregnated with the day, cattle and earth and vege-
tation and the sky, the men sat by the fire and their brains
were inert, as their blood flowed heavy with the accumulation
from the living day.

The women were different. On them too was the drowse
of blood-intimacy, calves sucking and hens running together
in droves, and young geese palpitating in the hand while the
food was pushed down their throttle. But the women
looked out from the heated, blind intercourse of farm-life,
to the spoken world beyond. They were aware of the lips
and the mind of the world speaking and giving utterance,
they heard the sound in the distance, and they strained to
listen.

It was enough for the men, that the earth heaved and

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 3

opened its furrow to them, that the wind blew to dry the
wet wheat, and set the young ears of corn wheeling freshly
round about; it was enough that they helped the cow in
labour, or ferreted the rats from under the barn, or broke
the back of a rabbit with a sharp knock of the hand. So
much warmth and generating and pain and death did they
know in their blood, earth and sky and beast and green
plants, so much exchange and interchange they had with
these, that they lived full and surcharged, their senses full
fed, their faces always turned to the heat of the blood, star-
ing into the sun, dazed with looking towards the source of
generation, unable to turn round.

But the woman wanted another form of life than this,
something that was not blood-intimacy. Her house faced
out from the farm-buildings and fields, looked out to the
road and the village with church and Hall and the world
beyond. She stood to see the far-off world of cities and
governments and the active scope of man, the magic land
to her, where secrets were made known and desires fulfilled.
She faced outwards to where men moved dominant and
creative, having turned their back on the pulsing heat of
creation, and with this behind them, were set out to discover
what was beyond, to enlarge their own scope and range and
freedom; whereas the Brangwen men faced inwards to the
teeming life of creation, which poured unresolved into their
veins.

Looking out, as she must, from the front of her house
towards the activity of man in the world at large, whilst
her husband looked out to the back at sky and harvest and
beast and land, she strained her eyes to see what man had
done in fighting outwards to knowledge, she strained to hear
how he uttered himself in his conquest, her deepest desire
hung on the battle that she heard, far off, being waged on
the edge of the unknown. She also wanted to know, and
to be of the fighting host.

At home, even so near as Cossethay, was the vicar, who
spoke the other, magic language, and had the other, finer
bearing, both of which she could perceive, but could never
attain to. The vicar moved in worlds beyond where her own
menfolk existed. Did she not know her own menfolk : fresh,
slow, full-built men, masterful enough, but easy, native to
the earth, lacking outwardness and range of motion.
Whereas the vicar, dark and dry and small beside her hus-

4 THE RAINBOW

band, had yet a quickness and a range of being that made
Brangwen, in his large geniality, seem dull and local. She
knew her husband. But in the vicar's nature was that which
passed beyond her knowledge. As Brangwen had power over
the cattle so the vicar had power over her husband. What
was it in the vicar, that raised him above the common men
as man is raised above the beast? She craved to know.
She craved to achieve this higher being, if not in herself,
then in her children. That which makes a man strong even
if he be little and frail in body, just as any man is little and
frail beside a bull, and yet stronger than the bull, what was
it ? It was not money nor power nor position. What power
had the vicar over Tom Brangwen — none. Yet strip them
and set them on a desert island, and the vicar was the master.
His soul was master of the other man's. And why — why ?
She decided it was a question of knowledge.

The curate was poor enough, and not very efficacious as
a man, either, yet he took rank with those others, the su-
perior. She watched his children being born, she saw them
running as tiny things beside their mother. And already
they were separate from her own children, distinct. Why
were her own children marked below those others? Why
should the curate's children inevitably take precedence over
her children, why should dominance be given them from the
start? It was not money, nor even class. It was education
and experience, she decided.

It was this, this education, this higher form of being, that
the mother wished to give to her children, so that they too
could live the supreme life on earth. For her children, at
least the children of her heart, had the complete nature that
should take place in equality with the living, vital people
in the land, not be left behind obscure among the labourers.
Why must they remain obscured and stifled all their lives,
why should they suffer from lack of freedom to move ? How
should they learn the entry into the finer, more vivid circle of
life?

Her imagination was fired by the squire's lady at Shelly
Hall, who came to church at Cossethay with her little chil-
dren, girls in tidy capes of beaver fur, and smart little hats,
herself like a winter rose, so fair and delicate. So fair, so
fine in mould, so luminous, what was it that Mrs. Hardy felt
which she, Mrs. Brangwen, did not feel? How was Mrs.
Hardy's nature different from that of the common women.

HOW BRANGWEN MARfclED A POLISH LADY 5

of Cossethay, in what was it beyond them? All the women
of Cossethay talked eagerly about Mrs. Hardy, of her hus-
band, her children, her guests, her dress, of her servants and
her housekeeping. The lady of the Hall was the living
dream of their lives, her life was the epic that inspired their
lives. In her they lived imaginatively, and in gossiping of
her husband who drank, of her scandalous brother, of Lord
William Bentley her friend, member of Parliament for the
division, they had their own Odyssey enacting itself, Penelope
and Ulysses before them, and Circe and the swine and the
endless web.

So the women of the village were fortunate. They saw
themselves in the lady of the manor, each of them lived her
own fulfilment in the life of Mrs. Hardy. And the Brang-
wen wife of the Marsh aspired beyond herself, towards the
further life of the finer woman, towards the extended being
she revealed, as a traveller in his self-contained manner re-
veals far-off countries present in himself. But why should
a knowledge of far-off countries make a man's life a different
thing, finer, bigger ? And why is a man more than the beast
and the cattle that serve him? It is the same thing.

The male part of the poem was filled in by such men as
the vicar and Lord William, lean, eager men with strange
movements, men who had command of the further fields,
whose lives ranged over a great extent. Ah, it was some-
thing very desirable to know, this touch of the wonderful
men who had the power of thought and comprehension. The
women of the village might be much fonder of Tom Brang-
wen, and more at their ease with him, yet if their lives had
been robbed of the vicar, and of Lord William, the leading
shoot would have been cut away from them, they would have
been heavy and uninspired and inclined to hate. So long as
the wonder of the beyond was before them, they could get
along, whatever their lot. And Mrs. Hardy, and the vicar,
and Lord William, these moved in the wonder of the beyond,
and were visible to the eyes of Cossethay in their motion.

II

About 1840, a canal was constructed across the meadows
of the Marsh Farm, connecting the newly-opened collieries
of the Erewash Valley. A high embankment travelled along
the fields to carry the canal, which passed close to the home-
stead, and, reaching the road, went over in a heavy bridge.

6 THE RAINBOW

So the Marsh was shut off from Ilkeston, and enclosed in
the small valley bed, which ended in a bushy hill and the
village spire of Cossethay.

The Brangwens received a fair sum of money from this
trespass across their land. Then, a short time afterwards, a
colliery was sunk on the other side of the canal, and in a
while the Midland Railway came down the valley at the foot
of the Ilkeston hill, and the invasion was complete. The
town grew rapidly, the Brangwens were kept busy producing
supplies, they became richer, they were almost tradesmen.

Still the Marsh remained remote and original, on the old,
quiet side of the canal embankment, in the sunny valley where
slow water wound along in company of stiff alders, and the
road went under ash-trees past the Brangwens' garden gate.

But, looking from the garden gate down the road to the
right, there, through the dark archway of the canal's square
aqueduct, was a colliery spinning away in the near distance,
and further, red, crude houses plastered on the valley in
masses, and beyond all, the dim smoking hill of the town.

The homestead was just on the safe side of civilization,
outside the gate. The house stood bare from the road, ap-
proached by a straight garden path, along which at spring
the daffodils were thick in green and yellow. At the sides
of the house were bushes of lilac and guelder-rose and privet,
entirely hiding the farm buildings behind.

At the back a confusion of sheds spread into the home-
close from out of two or three indistinct yards. The duck-
pond lay beyond the furthest wall, littering its white feathers
on the padded earthen banks, blowing its stray soiled feathers
into the grass and the gorse bushes below the canal embank-
ment, which rose like a high rampart near at hand, so that
occasionally a man's figure passed in silhouette, or a man and
a towing horse traversed the sky.

At first the Brangwens were astonished by all this com-
motion around them. The building of a canal across their
land made them strangers in their own place, this raw bank
of earth shutting them off disconcerted them. As they
worked in the fields, from beyond the now familiar embank-
ment came the rhythmic run of the winding engines, startling
at first, but afterwards a narcotic to the brain. Then the
shrill whistle of the trains re-echoed through the heart, with
fearsome pleasure, announcing the far-off come near and
imminent.

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 7

As they drove home from town, the farmers of the land
met the blackened colliers trooping from the pit-mouth. As
they gathered the harvest, the west wind brought a faint,
sulphurous smell of pit-refuse burning. As they pulled the
turnips in November, the sharp clink-clink-clink-clink-clink
of empty trucks shunting on the line, vibrated in their hearts
with the fact of other activity going on beyond them.

The Alfred Brangwen of this period had married a woman
from Heanor, daughter of the "Black Horse." She was a
slim, pretty, dark woman, quaint in her speech, whimsical,
so that the sharp things she said did not hurt. She was oddly
a thing to herself, rather querulous in her manner, but in-
trinsically separate and indifferent, so that her long lamen-
table complaints, when she raised her voice against her hus-
band in particular and against everybody else after him,
only made those who heard her wonder and feel affectionately
towards her, even whilst they were irritated and impatient
with her. She railed long and loud about her husband, but
always with a balanced, easy-flying voice and a quaint man-
ner of speech that warmed his belly with pride and male
triumph whilst he scowled with mortification at the things
she said.

Consequently Brangwen himself had a humorous puckering
at the eyes, a sort of fat laugh, very quiet and full, and he
was spoilt like a lord of creation. He calmly did as he liked,
laughed at her railing, excused himself in a teasing tone that
she loved, followed his natural inclinations, and sometimes,
pricked too near the quick, frightened and broke her by a
deep, tense fury which seemed to fix on him and hold him
for days, and which she would give anything to placate in
him. They were two very separate beings, vitally connected,
knowing nothing of each other, yet living in their separate
ways from one root.

There were four sons and two daughters. The eldest boy
ran away early to sea, and did not come back. After this
the mother was more the node and centre of attraction in
the home. The second boy, Alfred, whom the mother ad-
mired most, was the most reserved. He was sent to school in
Ilkeston and made some progress. But in spite of his
dogged, yearning effort, he could not get beyond the rudi-
ments of anything, save of drawing. At this, in which he
had some power, he worked, as if it were his hope. After
much grumbling and savage rebellion against everything,

8 THE EAINBOW

after much trying and shifting about, when his father was
incensed against him and his mother almost despairing, he
became a draughtsman in a lace-factory in Nottingham.

He remained heavy and somewhat uncouth, speaking with
broad Derbyshire accent, adhering with all his tenacity to
his work and to his town position, making good designs, and
becoming fairly well-off. But at drawing, his hand swung
naturally in big, bold lines, rather lax, so that it was cruel
for him to pedgill away at the lace designing, working from
the tiny squares of his paper, counting and plotting and
niggling. He did it stubbornly, with anguish, crushing the
bowels within him, adhering to his chosen lot whatever it
should cost. And he came back into life set and rigid, a rare-
spoken, almost surly man.

He married the daughter of a chemist, who affected some
social superiority, and he became something of a snob, in
his dogged fashion, with a passion for outward refinement
in the household, mad when anything clumsy or gross oc-
curred. Later, when his three children were growing up,
and he seemed a staid, almost middle-aged man, he turned
after strange women, and became a silent, inscrutable fol-
lower of forbidden pleasure, neglecting his indignant bour-
geois wife without a qualm.

Frank, the third son, refused from the first to have any-
thing to do with learning. From the first he hung round the
slaughter-house which stood away in the third yard at the
back of the farm. The Brangwens had always killed their
own meat, and supplied the neighbourhood. Out of this
grew a regular butcher's business in connection with the farm.

As a child Frank had been drawn by the trickle of dark
blood that ran across the pavement from the slaughter-
house to the crew-yard, by the sight of the man carrying
across to the meat-shed a huge side of beef, with the kidneys
showing, embedded in their heavy laps of fat.

He was a handsome lad with soft brown hair and regular
features something like a later Koman youth. He was more
easily excitable, more readily carried away than the rest,
weaker in character. At eighteen he married a little factory
girl, a pale, plump, quiet thing with sly eyes and a wheedling
voice, who insinuated herself into him and bore him a child
every year and made a fool of him. When he had taken
over the butchery business, already a growing callousness
to it, and a sort of contempt made him neglectful of it. He

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY d

drank, and was often to be found in his public house blather-
ing away as if he knew everything, when in reality he was a
noisy fool.

Of the daughters, Alice, the elder, married a collier and
lived for a time stormily in Ilkeston, before moving away
to Yorkshire with her numerous young family. Effie, the
younger, remained at home.

The last child, Tom, was considerably younger than his
brothers, so had belonged rather to the company of his
sisters. He was his mother's favourite. She roused herself
to determination, and sent him forcibly away to a grammar-
school in Derby when he was twelve years old. He did not
want to go, and his father would have given way, but Mrs.
Brangwen had set her heart on it. Her slender, pretty,
tightly-covered body, with full skirts, was now the centre
of resolution in the house, and when she had once set upon
anything, which was not often, the family failed before her.

So Tom went to school, an unwilling failure from the first.
He believed his mother was right in decreeing school for him,
but he knew she was only right because she would not ac-
knowledge his constitution. He knew, with a child's deep,
instinctive foreknowledge of what is going to happen to him,
that he would cut a sorry figure at school. But he took the
infliction as inevitable, as if he were guilty of his own nature,
as if his being were wrong, and his mother's conception right.
If he could have been what he liked, he would have been that
which his mother fondly but deludedly hoped he was. He
would have been clever, and capable of becoming a gentle-
man. It was her aspiration for him, therefore he knew it
as the true aspiration for any boy. But you can't make a
silk purse out of a sow's ear, as he told his mother very early,
with regard to himself; much to her mortification and
chagrin.

When he got to school, he made a violent struggle against
his physical inability to study. He sat gripped, making
himself pale and ghastly in his effort to concentrate on the
book, to take in what he had to learn. But it was no good.
If he beat down his first repulsion, and got like a suicide to
the stuff, he went very little further. He could not learn
deliberately. His mind simply did not work.

In feeling he was developed, sensitive to the atmosphere
around him, brutal perhaps, but at the same time delicate,
very delicate. So he had a low opinion of himself. He knew

10 THE RAINBOW

his own limitation. He knew that his brain was a slow hope-
less good-for-nothing. So he was humble.

But at the same time his feelings were more discriminating
than those of most of the boys, and he was confused. He
was more sensuously developed, more refined in instinct than
they. For their mechanical stupidity he hated them, and
suffered cruel contempt for them. But when it came to
mental things, then he was at a disadvantage. He was at
their mercy. He was a fool. He had not the power to
controvert even the most stupid argument, so that he was
forced to admit things he did not in the least believe. And
having admitted them, he did not know whether he believed
them or not; he rather thought he did.

But he loved any one who could convey enlightenment to
him through feeling. He sat betrayed with emotion when
the teacher of literature read, in a moving fashion, Tennyson's
" Ulysses/' or Shelley's " Ode to the West Wind." His lips
parted, his eyes filled with a strained, almost suffering light.
And the teacher read on, fired by his power over the boy.
Tom Brangwen was moved by this experience beyond all
calculation, he almost dreaded it, it was so deep. But when,
almost secretly and shamefully, he came to take the book him-
self, and began the words " Oh wild west wind, thou breath
of autumn's being," the very fact of the print caused a prickly
sensation of repulsion to go over his skin, the blood came to
his face, his heart filled with a bursting passion of rage and
incompetence. He threw the book down and walked over it
and went out to the cricket field. And he hated books as if
they were his enemies. He hated them worse than ever he
hated any person.

He could not voluntarily control his attention. His mind
had no fixed habits to go by, he had nothing to get hold of,
nowhere to start from. For him there was nothing palpable,
nothing known in himself, that he could apply to learning.
He did not know how to begin. Therefore he was helpless
when it came to deliberate understanding or deliberate learn-
ing.

He had an instinct for mathematics, but if this failed him,
he was helpless as an idiot. So that he felt that the ground
was never sure under his feet, he was nowhere. His final
downfall was his complete inability to attend to a question
put without suggestion. If he had to write a formal com-
position on the Army, he did at last learn to repeat the few

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY, 11

facts he knew : " You can join the army at eighteen. You
have to be over five foot eight." But he had all the time a
living conviction that this was a dodge and that his common-
places were beneath contempt. Then he reddened furiously,
felt his bowels sink with shame, scratched out what he had
written, made an agonized effort to think of something in
the real composition style, failed, became sullen with rage
and humiliation, put the pen down and would have been torn
to pieces rather than attempt to write another word.

He soon got used to the Grammar School, and the Grammar
School got used to him, setting him down as a hopeless duffer
at learning, but respecting him for a generous, honest nature.
Only one narrow, domineering fellow, the Latin master,
bullied him and made the blue eyes mad with shame and
rage. There was a horrid scene, when the boy laid open the
master's head with a slate, and then things went on as be-
fore. The teacher got little sympathy. But Brangwen
winced and could not bear to think of the deed, not even
long after, when he was a grown man.

He was glad to leave school. It had not been unpleasant,
he had enjoyed the companionship of the other youths, or
had thought he enjoyed it, the time had passed very quickly,
in endless activity. But he knew all the time that he was
in an ignominious position, in this place of learning. He was
aware of failure all the while, of incapacity. But he was too
healthy and sanguine to be wretched, he was too much alive.
Yet his soul was wretched almost to hopelessness.

He had loved one warm, clever boy who was frail in body,
a consumptive type. The two had had an almost classic
friendship, David and Jonathan, wherein Brangwen was the
Jonathan, the server. But he had never felt equal with
his friend, because the other's mind outpaced his, and left
him ashamed, far in the rear. So the two boys went at once
apart on leaving school. But Brangwen always remembered
his friend that had been, kept him as a sort of light, a fine
experience to remember.

Tom Brangwen was glad to get back to the farm, where
he was in his own again. " I have got a turnip on my shoul-
ders, let me stick to th' fallow," he said to his exasperated
mother. He had too low an opinion of himself. But he
went about at his work on the farm gladly enough, glad of
the active labour and the smell of the land again, having
youth and vigour and humour, and a comic wit, having the

12 THE RAINBOW

will and the power to forget his own shortcomings, finding
himself violent with occasional rages, but usually on good
terms with everybody and everything.

When he was seventeen, his father fell from a stack and
broke his neck. Then the mother and son and daughter
lived on at the farm, interrupted by occasional loud-mouthed
lamenting, jealous-spirited visitations from the butcher
Frank, who had a grievance against the world, which he felt
was always giving him less than his dues. Frank was par-
ticularly against the young Tom, whom he called a mardy
baby, and Tom returned the hatred violently, his face grow-
ing red and his blue eyes staring. Effie sided with Tom
against Frank. But when Alfred came, from Nottingham,
heavy jowled and lowering, speaking very little, but treating
those at home with some contempt, Effie and the mother
sided with him and put Tom into the shade. It irritated the
youth that his elder brother should be made something of a
hero by the women, just because he didn't live at home and
was a lace-designer and almost a gentleman. But Alfred
was something of a Prometheus Bound, so the women loved
him. Tom came later to understand his brother better.

As youngest son, Tom felt some importance when the care
of the farm devolved on to him. He was only eighteen, but
he was quite capable of doing everything his father had done.
And of course, his mother remained as centre to the house.

The young man grew up very fresh and alert, with zest
for every moment of life. He worked and rode and drove to
market, he went out with companions and got tipsy occa-
sionally and played skittles and went to the little travelling
theatres. Once, when he was drunk at a public house, he
went upstairs with a prostitute who seduced him. He was
then nineteen.

The thing was something of a shock to him. In the close
intimacy of the farm kitchen, the woman occupied the su-
preme position. The men deferred to her in the house, on
all household points, on all points of morality and behaviour.
The woman was the symbol for that further life which com-
prised religion and love and morality. The men placed in
her hands their own conscience, they said to her "Be my
conscience-keeper, be the angel at the doorway guarding my
outgoing and my incoming." And the woman fulfilled her
trust, the men rested implicitly in her, receiving her praise
or her blame with pleasure or with anger, rebelling and

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 13

storming, but never for a moment really escaping in their
own souls from her prerogative. They depended on her for
their stability. Without her, they would have felt like straws
in the wind, to be blown hither and thither at random. She
was the anchor and the security, she was the restraining hand
of God, at times highly to be execrated.

Now when Tom Brangwen, at nineteen, a youth fresh like
a plant, rooted in his mother and his sister, found that he
had lain with a prostitute woman in a common public house,
he was very much startled. For him there was until that
time only one kind of woman — his mother and sister.

But now? He did not know what to feel. There was a
slight wonder, a pang of anger, of disappointment, a first
taste of ash and of cold fear lest this was all that would
happen, lest his relations with woman were going to be no
more than this nothingness; there was a slight sense of
shame before the prostitute, fear that she would despise him
for his inefficiency; there was a cold distaste for her, and a
fear of her; there was a moment of paralyzed horror when
he felt he might have taken a disease from her ; and upon all
this startled tumult of emotion, was laid the steadying hand
of common sense, which said it did not matter very much, so
long as he had no disease. He soon recovered balance, and
really it did not matter so very much.

But it had shocked him, and put a mistrust into his heart,
and emphasized his fear of what was within himself. He
was, however, in a few days going about again in his own
careless, happy-go-lucky fashion, his blue eyes just as clear
and honest as ever, his face just as fresh, his appetite just
as keen.

Or apparently so. He had, in fact, lost some of his buoy-
ant confidence, and doubt hindered his outgoing.

For some time after this, he was quieter, more conscious
when he drank, more backward from companionship. The
disillusion of his first carnal contact with woman, strengthened
by his innate desire to find in a woman the embodiment of
all his inarticulate, powerful religious impulses, put a bit in
his mouth. He had something to lose which he was afraid
of losing, which he was not sure even of possessing. This
first affair did not matter much: but the business of love
was, at the bottom of his soul, the most serious and terrifying
of all to him.

He was tormented now with sex desire, his imagination

14 THE RAINBOW

reverted always to lustful scenes. But what really prevented
his returning to a loose woman, over and above the natural
squeamishness, was the recollection of the paucity of the last
experience. It had heen so nothing, so dribbling and func-
tional, that he was ashamed to expose himself to the risk of a
repetition of it.

He made a strong, instinctive fight to retain his native
cheerfulness unimpaired. He had naturally a plentiful
stream of life and humour, a sense of sufficiency and exuber-
ance, giving ease. But now it tended to cause tension. A
strained light came into his eyes, he had a slight knitting of
the brows. His boisterous humour gave place to lowering
silences, and days passed by in a sort of suspense.

He did not know there was any difference in him, exactly ;
for the most part he was filled with slow anger and resent-
ment. But he knew he was always thinking of women, or
a woman, day in, day out, and that infuriated him. He
could not get free: and he was ashamed. He had one or
two sweethearts, starting with them in the hope of speedy
development. But when he had a nice girl, he found that
he was incapable of pushing the desired development. The
very presence of the girl beside him made it impossible.
He could not think of her like that, he could not think of her
actual nakedness. She was a girl and he liked her, and
dreaded violently even the thought of uncovering her. He
knew that, in these last issues of nakedness, he did not exist
to her nor she to him. Again, if he had a loose girl, and
things began to develop, she offended him so deeply all the
time, that he never knew whether he were going to get away
from her as quickly as possible, or whether he were going to
take her out of inflamed necessity. Again he learnt his les-
son: if he took her it was a paucity which he was forced to
despise. He did not despise himself nor the girl. But he
despised the net result in him of the experience — he de-
spised it deeply and bitterly.

Then, when he was twenty-three, his mother died, and he
was left at home with Effie. His mother's death was another
blow out of the dark. He could not understand it, he knew
it was no good his trying. One had to submit to these un-
foreseen blows that come unawares and leave a bruise that
remains and hurts whenever it is touched. He began to be
afraid of all that which, was up against him. He had loved
his mother,,

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 15

After this, Effie and he quarrelled fiercely. They meant
a very great deal to each other, but they were both under a
strange, unnatural tension. He stayed out of the house as
much as possible. He got a special corner for himself at
the Ked Lion at Cossethay, and became a usual figure by
the fire, a fresh, fair young fellow with heavy limbs and head
held back, mostly silent, though alert and attentive, very
hearty in his greeting of everybody he knew, shy of strangers.
He teased all the women, who liked him extremely, and he
was very attentive to the talk of the men, very respectful.

To drink made him quickly flush very red in the face, and
brought out the look of self-consciousness and unsureness,
almost bewilderment, in his blue eyes. When he came home
in this state of tipsy confusion his sister hated him and
abused him, and he went off his head, like a mad bull with
rage.

He had still another turn with a light-o'-love. One Whit-
suntide he went a jaunt with two other young fellows, on
horseback, to Matlock and thence to Bakewell. Matlock was
at that time just becoming a famous beauty-spot, visited
from Manchester and from the Staffordshire towns. In the
hotel where the young men took lunch, were two girls, and
the parties struck up a friendship.

The Miss who made up to Tom Brangwen, then twenty -
four years old, was a handsome, reckless girl neglected for
an afternoon by the man who had brought her out. She saw
Brangwen, and liked him, as all women did, for his warmth
and his generous nature, and for the innate delicacy in him.
But she saw he was one who would have to be brought to the
scratch. However, she was roused and unsatisfied and made
mischievous, so she dared anything. It would be an easy in-
terlude, restoring her pride.

She was a handsome girl with a bosom, and dark hair and
blue eyes, a girl full of easy laughter, flushed from the sun, in-
clined to wipe her laughing face in a very natural and taking
manner.

Brangwen was in a state of wonder. He treated her with
his chaffing deference, roused, but very unsure of himself,
afraid to death of being too forward, ashamed lest he might
be thought backward, mad with desire yet restrained by in-
stinctive regard for women from making any definite ap-
proach, feeling all the while that his attitude was ridiculous,
and flushing deep with confusion. She, however, became hard

16 THE RAINBOW

and daring as he became confused, it amused her to see him
come on.

" When must you get back ? " she asked.

" I'm not particular," he said.

There the conversation again broke down.

Brangwen's companions were ready to go on.

" Art commin', Tom/' they called, " or art for stoppin' ? "

"Ay, I'm commin'," he replied, rising reluctantly, an
angry sense of futility and disappointment spreading over
him.

He met the full, almost taunting look of the girl, and he
trembled with unusedness.

"Shall you come an' have a look at my mare," he said
to her, with his hearty kindliness that was now shaken with
trepidation.

" Oh, I should like to," she said, rising.

And she followed him, his rather sloping shoulders and
his cloth riding-gaiters, out of the room. The young men
got their own horses out of the stable.

" Can you ride ? " Brangwen asked her.

" I should like to if I could — I have never tried," she said.

" Come then, an' have a try," he said.

And he lifted her, he blushing, she laughing, into the
saddle.

" I s'll slip off — it's not a lady's saddle," she cried.

" Hold yer tight," he said, and he led her out of the hotel
gate.

The girl sat very insecurely, clinging fast. He put a hand
on her waist, to support her. And he held her closely, he
clasped her as an embrace, he was weak with desire as he
strode beside her.

The horse walked by the river.

" You want to sit straddle-leg," he said to her.

" I know I do," she said.

It was the time of very full skirts. She managed to get
astride the horse, quite decently, showing an intent concern
for covering her pretty leg.

"It's a lot's better this road," she said, looking down at
him.

" Ay, it is," he said, feeling the marrow melt in his bones
from the look in her eyes. "I dunno why they have that
side-saddle business, twistin' a woman, in two."

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 17

" Should us leave you then — you seem to be fixed up
there ? " called Brangwen's companions from the road.

He went red with anger.

" Ay — don't worry," he called back.

"How long are yer stoppin'?" they asked.

"Not after Christmas," he said.

And the girl gave a tinkling peal of laughter.

" All right — by-bye ! " called his friends.

And they cantered off, leaving him very flushed, trying
to be quite normal with the girl. But presently he had gone
back to the hotel and given his horse into the charge of an
ostler and had gone off with the girl into the woods, not
quite knowing where he was or what he was doing. His
heart thumped and he thought it the most glorious adventure,
and was mad with desire for the girl.

Afterwards he glowed with pleasure. That was a different
experience. He wanted to see more of the girl. She, how-
ever, told him this was impossible: her own man would be
back by dark, and she must be with him. He, Brangwen,
must not let on that there had been anything between them.

She gave him an intimate smile, which made him feel con-
fused and gratified.

He could not tear himself away, though he had promised
not to interfere with the girl. He stayed on at the hotel
over night. He saw the other fellow at the evening meal : a
small, middle-aged man with iron-grey hair and a curious
face, like a monkey's, but interesting, in its way almost
beautiful. Brangwen guessed that he was a foreigner. He
was in company with another, an Englishman, dry and hard.
The four sat at table, two men and two women. Brang-
wen watched with all his eyes.

He saw how the foreigner treated the women with courteous
contempt, as if they were pleasing animals. Brangwen's
girl had put on a ladylike manner, but her voice betrayed
her. She wanted to win back her man. When dessert came
on, however, the little foreigner turned round from his table
and calmly surveyed the room, like one unoccupied. Brang-
wen marvelled over the cold, animal intelligence of the face.
The brown eyes were round, showing all the brown pupil, like
a monkey's, and just calmly looking, perceiving the other
person without referring to him at all. They rested on
Brangwen. The latter marvelled at the old face turned

18 THE RAINBOW

round on him, looking at him without considering it neces-
sary to know him at all. The eyebrows of the round, perceiv-
ing, but unconcerned eyes were rather high up, with slight
wrinkles above them, just as a monkey's had. It was an old,
ageless face.

The man was most amazingly a gentleman all the time,
an aristocrat. Brangwen stared fascinated. The girl was
pushing her crumbs about on the cloth, uneasily, flushed and
angry.

As Brangwen sat motionless in the hall afterwards, too
much moved and lost to know what to do, the little stranger
came up to him with a beautiful smile and manner, offering
a cigarette and saying:

"Will you smoke?"

Brangwen never smoked cigarettes, yet he took the one
offered, fumbling painfully with thick fingers, blushing to the
roots of his hair. Then he looked with his warm blue eyes
at the almost sardonic, lidded eyes of the foreigner. The
latter sat down beside him, and they began to talk, chiefly
of horses.

Brangwen loved the other man for his exquisite gracious-
ness, for his tact and reserve, and for his ageless, monkey-
like self-surety. They talked of horses, and of Derbyshire,
and of farming. The stranger warmed to the young fellow
with real warmth, and Brangwen was excited. He was trans-
ported at meeting this odd, middle-aged, dry-skinned man,
personally. The talk was pleasant, but that did not matter
so much. It was the gracious manner, the fine contact that
was all.

They talked a long while together, Brangwen flushing like
a girl when the other did not understand his idiom. Then
they said goodnight, and shook hands. Again the foreigner
bowed and repeated his goodnight.

" Goodnight, and bon voyage."

Then he turned to the stairs.

Brangwen went up to his room and lay staring out at the
stars of the summer night, his whole being in a whirl. What
was it all ? There was a life so different from what he knew
it. What was there outside his knowledge, how much?
What was this that he had touched? What was he in this
new influence? What did everything mean? Where was
life, in that which he knew or all outside him ?

He fell asleep, and in the morning had ridden away before

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY id

any other visitors were awake. He shrank from seeing any
of them again, in the morning.

His mind was one big excitement. The girl and the for-
eigner: he knew neither of their names. Yet they had set
fire to the homestead of his nature, and he would be burned
out of cover. Of the two experiences, perhaps the meeting
with the foreigner was the more significant. But the girl
— he had not settled about the girl.

He did not know. He had to leave it there, as it was.
He could not sum up his experiences.

The result of these encounters was, that he dreamed day
and night, absorbedly, of a voluptuous woman and of the
meeting with a small, withered foreigner of ancient breeding.
No sooner was his mind free, no sooner had he left his own
companions, than he began to imagine an intimacy with fine-
textured, subtle-mannered people such as the foreigner at
Matlock, and amidst this subtle intimacy was always the
satisfaction of a voluptuous woman.

He went about absorbed in the interest and the actuality
of this dream. His eyes glowed, he walked with his head
up, full of the exquisite pleasure of aristocratic subtlety and
grace, tormented with the desire for the girl.

Then gradually the glow began to fade, and the cold ma-
terial of his customary life to show through. He resented it.
Was he cheated in his illusion? He balked the mean en-
closure of reality, stood stubbornly like a bull at a gate,
refusing to re-enter the well-known round of his own life.

He drank more than usual to keep up the glow. But it
faded more and more for all that. He set his teeth at the
commonplace, to which he would not submit. It resolved
itself starkly before him, for all that.

He wanted to marry, to get settled somehow, to get out
of the quandary he found himself in. But how? He felt
unable to move his limbs. He had seen a little creature
caught in bird-lime, and the sight was a nightmare to him.
He began to feel mad with the rage of impotency.

He wanted something to get hold of, to pull himself out.
But there was nothing. Steadfastly he looked at the young
women, to find a one he could marry. But not one of them
did he want. And he knew that the idea of a life among
such people as the foreigner was ridiculous.

Yet he dreamed of it, and stuck to his dreams, and would
not have the reality of Cossethay and Ilkeston. There he

20 THE RAINBOW

sat stubbornly in his corner at the Eed Lion, smoking and
musing and occasionally lifting his beer-pot, and sa}dng noth-
ing, for all the world like a gorping farm-labourer, as he
said himself.

Then a fever of restless anger came upon him. He wanted
to go away — right away. He dreamed of foreign parts.
But somehow he had no contact with them. And it was a
very strong root which held him to the Marsh, to his own
house and land.

Then Effie got married, and he was left in the house with
only Tilly, the cross-eyed woman-servant who had been with
them for fifteen years. He felt things coming to a close.
All the time, he had held himself stubbornly resistant to the
action of the commonplace unreality which wanted to absorb
him. But now he had to do something.

He was by nature temperate. Being sensitive and emo-
tional, his nausea prevented him from drinking too much.

But, in futile anger, with the greatest of determination
and apparent good-humour, he began to drink in order to
get drunk. "Damn it/' he said to himself, "you must have
it one road or another — you can't hitch your horse to the
shadow of a gate-post — if you've got legs you've got to rise
off your backside some time or other."

So he rose and went down to Ilkeston, rather awkwardly
took his place amongst a gang of young bloods, stood drinks
to the company, and discovered he could carry it off quite
well. He had an idea that everybody in the room was a
man after his own heart, that everything was glorious, every-
thing was perfect. When somebody in alarm told him his
coat pocket was on fire, he could only beam from a red,
blissful face and say " Iss-all-ri-ight — iss-al'-ri-ight — it's
a' right — let it be, let it be " and he laughed with pleas-
ure, and was rather indignant that the others should think it
unnatural for his coat pocket to burn : — it was the happiest
and most natural thing in the world — what?

He went home talking to himself and to the moon, that
was very high and small, stumbling at the flashes of moon-
light from the puddles at his feet, wondering What the Han-
over ! then laughing confidently to the moon, assuring her this
was first class, this was.

In the morning he woke up and thought about it, and for
the first time in his life, knew what it was to feel really
acutely irritable, in a misery of real bad temper. After

HOW BRANGWEN MAfcfclED A POLISH LADY? £1

bawling and snarling at Tilly, he took himself off for very
shame, to be alone. And looking at the ashen fields and the
putty roads, he wondered what in the name of Hell he could
do to get out of this prickly sense of disgust and physical
repulsion. And he knew that this was the result of his
glorious evening.

And his stomach did not want any more brandy. He
went doggedly across the fields with his terrier, and looked
at everything with a jaundiced eye.

The next evening found him back again in his place at the
Eed Lion, moderate and decent. There he sat and stub-
bornly waited for what would happen next.

Did he, or did he not believe that he belonged to this
world of Cossethay and Ilkeston? There was nothing in
it he wanted. Yet could he ever get out of it? Was there
anything in himself that would carry him out of it? Or
was he a dunderheaded baby, not man enough to be like the
other young fellows who drank a good deal and wenched a
little without any question, and were satisfied.

He went on stubbornly for a time. Then the strain became
too great for him. A hot, accumulated consciousness was
always awake in his chest, his wrists felt swelled and quiver-
ing, his mind became full of lustful images, his eyes seemed
blood-flushed. He fought with himself furiously, to remain
normal. He did not seek any woman. He just went on as
if he were normal. Till he must either take some action or
beat his head against the wall.

Then he went deliberately to Ilkeston, in silence, intent
and beaten. He drank to get drunk. He gulped down the
brandy, and more brandy, till his face became pale, his eyes
burning. And still he could not get free. He went to sleep
in drunken unconsciousness, woke up at four o'clock in the
morning and continued drinking. He would get free.
Gradually the tension in him began to relax. He began to
feel happy. His riveted silence was unfastened, he began to
talk and babble. He was happy and at one with all the
world, he was united with all flesh in a hot blood-relation-
ship. So, after three days of incessant brandy-drinking, he
had burned out the youth from his blood, he had achieved
this kindled state of oneness with all the world, which is the
end of youth's most passionate desire. But he had achieved
his satisfaction by obliterating his own individuality, that
which it depended on his manhood to preserve and develop.

22 THE RAINBOW

So he became a bout-drinker, having at intervals these
bouts of three or four days of brandy-drinking, when he was
drunk for the whole time. He did not think about it. A
deep resentment burned in him. He kept aloof from any
women, antagonistic.

When he was twenty-eight, a thick-limbed, stiff, fair man
with fresh complexion, and blue eyes staring very straight
ahead, he was coming one day down from Cossethay with a
load of seed out of Nottingham. It was a time when he
was getting ready for another bout of drinking, so he stared
fixedly before him, watchful yet absorbed, seeing everything
and aware of nothing, coiled in himself. It was early in the
year.

He walked steadily beside the horse, the load clanked be-
hind as the hill descended steeper. The road curved down-
hill before him, under banks and hedges, seen only for a few
yards ahead.

Slowly turning the curve at the steepest part of the slope,
his horse britching between the shafts, he saw a woman
approaching. But he was thinking for the moment of the
horse.

Then he turned to look at her. She was dressed in black,
was apparently rather small and slight, beneath her long
black cloak, and she wore a black bonnet. She walked hastily,
as if unseeing, her head rather forward. It was her curious,
absorbed, flitting motion, as if she were passing unseen by
everybody, that first arrested him.

She had heard the cart, and looked up. Her face was pale
and clear, she had thick dark eyebrows and a wide mouth,
curiously held. He saw her face clearly, as if by a light in
the air. He saw her face so distinctly, that he ceased to
coil on himself, and was suspended.

"That's her," he said involuntarily. As the cart passed
by, splashing through the thin mud, she stood back against
the bank. Then, as he walked still beside his britching
horse, his eyes met hers. He looked quickly away, pressing
back his head, a pain of joy running through him. He could
not bear to think of anything.

He turned round at the last moment. He saw her bonnet,
her shape in the black cloak, the movement as she walked.
Then she was gone round the bend.

She had passed by. He felt as if he were walking again in
a far world, not Cossethay, a far world, the fragile reality.

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 23

He went on, quiet, suspended, rarified. He could not bear
to think or to speak, nor make any sound or sign, nor change
his fixed motion. He could scarcely bear to think of her
face. He moved within the knowledge of her, in the world
that was beyond reality.

The feeling that they had exchanged recognition possessed
him like a madness, like a torment. How could he be sure,
what confirmation had he? The doubt was like a sense of
infinite space, a nothingness, annihilating. He kept within
his breast the will to surety. They had exchanged recogni-
tion.

He walked about in this state for the next few days. And
then again like a mist it began to break to let through the
common, barren world. He was very gentle with man and
beast, but he dreaded the starkness of disillusion cropping
through again.

As he was standing with his back to the fire after dinner
a few days later, he saw the woman passing. He wanted
to know that she knew him, that she was aware. He wanted
it said that there was something between them. So he stood
anxiously watching, looking at her as she went down the
road. He called to Tilly.

" Who might that be ? " he asked.

Tilly, the cross-eyed woman of forty, who 'adored him, ran
gladly to the window to look. She was glad when he asked
her for anything. She craned her head over the short cur-
tain, the little tight knob of her black hair sticking out
pathetically as she bobbed about.

" Oh why " — she lifted her head and peered with her
twisted, keen brown eyes — " why, you know who it is — it's
her from th' vicarage — you know "

" How do I know, you hen-bird," he shouted.

Tilly blushed and drew her neck in and looked at him with
her squinting, sharp, almost reproachful look.

" Why you do — it's the new housekeeper."

" Ay — an' what by that ? "

"Well, an' what by that?" rejoined the indignant Tilly.

" She's a woman, isn't she, housekeeper or no housekeeper ?
She's got more to her than that ! Who is she — she's got a
name?"

" Well, if she has, 7 don't know," retorted Tilly, not to be
badgered by this lad who had grown up into a man.

" What's her name ? " he asked, more gently.

£4 f HE RAINBOW

" I'm sure I couldn't tell you," replied Tilly, on her dig-
nity.

" An' is that all as you've gathered, as she's housekeeping
at the vicarage ? "

"I've 'eered mention of 'er name, but I couldn't remem-
ber it for my life."

" Why yer riddle-skulled woman o' nonsense, what have you
got a head for?"

"For what other folks 'as got theirs for," retorted Tilly,
who loved nothing more than these tilts when he would call
her names.

There was a lull.

"1 don't believe as anybody could keep it in their head,"
the woman-servant continued, tentatively.

"What? "he asked.

" Why, 'er name."

"How's that?"

" She's f ra some foreign parts or other."

"Who told you that?"

" That's all I do know, as she is."

" An' wheer do you reckon she's from, then ? "

" I don't know. They do say as she hails f ra th' Pole.
7 don't know," Tilly hastened to add, knowing he would at-
tack her.

" Fra th' Pole, why do you hail f ra th' Pole ? Who set
up that menagerie confabulation?"

" That's what they say — I don't know "

"Who says?"

" Mrs. Bentley says as she's f ra th' Pole — else she is a
Pole, or summat."

Tilly was only afraid she was landing herself deeper now.

" Who says she's a Pole? "

" They all say so."

" Then whaf s brought her to these parts ? "

" I couldn't tell you. She's got a little girl with her."

" Got a little girl with her ? "

" Of three or four, with a head like a fuzz-ball."

"Black?"

" White — fair as can be, an' all of a fuzz."

"Is there a father, then?"

" Not to my knowledge. I don't know."

" What brought her here ? "

"I couldn't say, without th' vicar axed her."

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 25

"Is the child her child?"

" I s'd think so — they say so."

"Who told you about her?"

"Why, Lizzie — a-Monday — we seed her goin' past."

" You'd have to be rattling your tongues if anything went
past."

Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to
Cossethay to the Red Lion, half with the intention of hear-
ing more.

She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her
husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit
foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said.
She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman's
name, Mrs. Lensky.

Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at
last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she
were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction
that she was a foreigner.

A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as
if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence.
Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities be-
fore. Now they were actualities that he could handle.

He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid.
Only all the time lie was aware of her presence not far off,
he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint
himself with her by thinking of her.

One day he met her walking along the road with her little
girl. It was a child with a face like a bud of apple-blossom,
and glistening fair hair like thistle-down sticking out in
straight, wild, flamy pieces, and very dark eyes. The child
clung jealously to her mother's side when he looked at her,
staring with resentful black eyes. But the mother glanced
at him again, almost vacantly. And the very vacancy of
her look inflamed him. She had wide grey-brown eyes with
very dark, fathomless pupils. He felt the fine flame running
under his skin, as if all his veins had caught fire on the sur-
face. And he went on walking without knowledge.

It was coming, he knew, his fate. The world was submit-
ting to its transformation. He made no move: it would
come, what would come.

When his sister Efne came to the Marsh for a week, he
went with her for once to church. In the tiny place, with
ita mere dozen pews, he sat not far from the stranger. There

26 THE RAINBOW

was a fineness about her, a poignancy about the way she
sat and held her head lifted. She was strange, from far
off, yet so intimate. She was from far away, a presence, so
close to his soul. She was not really there, sitting in Cosse-
thay church beside her little girl. She was not living the
apparent life of her days. She belonged to somewhere else.
He felt it poignantly, as something real and natural. But a
pang of fear for his own concrete life, that was only Cosse-
thay, hurt him, and gave him misgiving.

Her thick dark brows almost met above her irregular nose,
she had a wide, rather thick mouth. But her face was lifted
to another world of life: not to heaven or death: but to
some place where she still lived, in spite of her body's ab-
sence.

The child beside her watched everything with wide, black
eyes. She had an odd little defiant look, her little red mouth
was pinched shut. She seemed to be jealously guarding some-
thing, to be always on the alert for defence. She met Brang-
wen's near, vacant, intimate gaze, and a palpitating hostility,
almost like a flame of pain, came into the wide, over-conscious
dark eyes.

The old clergyman droned on, Cossethay sat unmoved as
usual. And there was the foreign woman with a foreign air
about her, inviolate, and the strange child, also foreign,
jealously guarding something.

When the service was over,. he walked in the way of an-
other existence out of the church. As he went down the
church-path with his sister, behind the woman and child, the
little girl suddenly broke from her mother's hand, and slipped
back with quick, almost invisible movement, and was pick-
ing at something almost under Brangwen's feet. Her tiny
fingers were fine and quick, but they missed the red button.

"Have you found something ?" said Brangwen to her.

And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it,
and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat,
her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice
her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift
" Mother /' and was gone down the path.

The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at
the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman
looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant
in her foreign existence.

He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 27

the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him be-
yond himself.

"Mother, I may have it, mayn't I?" came the child's
proud, silvery tones. "Mother" — she seemed always to be
calling her mother to remember her — " mother " — and she
had nothing to continue now her mother had replied "Yes,
my child." But, with ready invention, the child stumbled
and ran on, " What are those people's names ? "

Brangwen heard the abstract:

" I don't know, dear."

He went on down the road as if he were not living inside
himself, but somewhere outside.

" Who was that person ? " his sister Erne asked.

" I couldn't tell you," he answered unknowing.

" She's somebody very funny," said Effie, almost in con-
demnation. "That child's like one bewitched."

"Bewitched — how bewitched?" he repeated.

"You can see for yourself. The mother's plain, I must
say — but the child is like a changeling. . She'd be about
thirty-five."

But he took no notice. His sister talked on.

"There's your woman for you," she continued. "You'd
better marry her." But still he took no notice. Things were
as they were.

Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there
came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a por-
tent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and
began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When
he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the
threshold.

" Can you give me a pound of butter ? " she asked, in a
curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language.

He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at
him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was
there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him?

He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if
the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him.
It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till
asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed.

His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a
big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went
to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen.

"Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?'*

28 THE RAINBOW

The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak.

" Eh ? " came the shrill cry from the distance.

He shouted his question again.

" We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill
voice out of the dairy.

Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of
butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and
stamped with acorns and- oak-leaves.

"Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted.

"Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came
peeking inquisitively through the other door.

She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes,
but said nothing.

"Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, im-
patiently, as if he could command some by his question.

" I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impa-
tient that she was unable to create any to his demand.
" We haven't a morsel besides."

There was a moment's silence.

The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached
manner of one who must think her speech first.

" Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have
come to trouble you."

She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was
slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the
situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills
in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still
he did not let her go.

" Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly,
looking at the butter on the table.

And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter
where it was touched.

His speech, the "for her," penetrated slowly into the
foreign woman and angered Tilly.

"Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the
insuppressible servant- woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-
morrow mornin' first thing."

"Yes" — the long-drawn foreign yes — "yes," said the
Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any

more."

Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according
to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort
of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 29

knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap
while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's
you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift
when Brown's has got none.

Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of
Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted
butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morn-
ing, she waited.

" Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence
had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the
inner door.

" I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger,
looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it
was usual to do.

He felt confused.

" How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being
only protective.

"Do you ?" she began deliberately. But she was

not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an
end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she
could not speak the language.

They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from
her to him. He bent down to it.

" And how's your little girl ? " he asked.

" Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase
of polite speech in a foreign language merely.

" Sit you down," he said.

And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through
the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap.

"You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing
on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking
with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession
pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It
eeemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself
and of the situation.

Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she
thought of the meaning of his speech.

" No," she said, understanding. " No — it is strange."

" You find it middlin' rough ? " he said.

Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again.

"Our ways are rough to you," he repeated.

"Yes — yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is.
strange. But I was in Yorkshire "

SO THE RAINBOW

" Oh, well then/' he said, " it's no worse here than what
they are up there.'*

She did not quite understand. His protective manner,
and his sureness, and his intimacy, puzzled her. What did
he mean? If he was her equal, why did he behave so with-
out formality?

"No " she said, vaguely, her eyes resting on him.

She saw him fresh and naive, uncouth, almost entirely
beyond relationship with her. Yet he was good-looking, with
his fair hair and blue eyes full of energy, and with his
healthy body that seemed to take equality with her. She
watched him steadily. He was difficult for her to under-
stand, warm, uncouth, and confident as he was, sure on his
feet as if he did not know what it was to be unsure. What
then was it that gave him this curious stability?

She did not know. She wondered. She looked round the
room he lived in. It had a close intimacy that fascinated
and almost frightened her. The furniture was old and fa-
miliar as old people, the whole place seemed so kin to him,
as if it partook of his being, that she was uneasy.

"It is already a long time that you have lived in this
house — yes?" she asked.

" I've always lived here," he said.

"Yes — but your people — your family?"

"We've been here above two hundred years," he said.
Her eyes were on him all the time, wide-open and trying to
grasp him. He felt that he was there for her.

" It is your own place, the house, the farm • ? "

"Yes," he said. He looked down at her and met her
look. It disturbed her. She did not know him. He was
a foreigner, they had nothing to do with each other. Yet
his look disturbed her to knowledge of him. He was so
strangely confident and direct.

"You live quite alone?"

" Yes — if you call it alone."

She did not understand. It seemed unusual to her.
What was the meaning of it?

And whenever her eyes, after watching him for some time,
inevitably met his, she was aware of a heat beating up over
her consciousness. She sat motionless and in conflict. Who
was this strange man who was at once so near to her ? What
was happening to her? Something in his young, warm.-

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 31

twinkling eyes seemed to assume a right to her, to speak to
her, to extend her his protection. But how? Why did he
speak to her! Why were his eyes so certain, so full of
light and confident, waiting for no permission nor signal?

Tilly returned with a large leaf and found the two silent.
At once he felt it incumbent on him to speak, now the serv-
ing-woman had come back.

"How old is your little girl?" he asked.

"Four years," she replied.

"Her father hasn't been dead long, then?" he asked.

" She was one year when he died."

"Three years?"

"Yes, three years that he is dead — yes."

Curiously quiet she was, almost abstracted, answering these
questions. She looked at him again, with some maiden-
hood opening in her eyes. He felt he could not move, neither
towards her nor away from her. Something about her pres-
ence hurt him, till he was almost rigid before her. He saw
the girl's wondering look rise in her eyes.

Tilly handed her the butter and she rose.

" Thank you very much," she said. " How much is it ? "

"We'll make th' vicar a present of it," he said. "It'll
do for me goin' to church."

" It 'ud look better of you if you went to church and took
th' money for your butter," said Tilly, persistent in her
claim to him.

" You'd have to put in, shouldn't you ? " he said.

"How much, please?" said the Polish woman to Tilly.
Brangwen stood by and let be.

"Then, thank you very much," she said.

"Bring your little girl down sometime to look at th'
fowls and horses," he said, — " if she'd like it."

"Yes, she would like it," said the stranger.

And she went. Brangwen stood dimmed by her departure.
He could not notice Tilly, who was looking at him uneasily,
wanting to be reassured. He could not think of anything.
He felt that he had made some invisible connection with the
strange woman.

A daze had come over his mind, he had another centre of
consciousness. In his breast, or in his bowels, somewhere in
his body, there had started another activity. It was as if a
strong light were burning there, and he was blind within it?

32 THE RAINBOW

unable to know anything, except that this transfiguration
burned between him and her, connecting them, like a secret
power.

Since she had come to the house he went about in a daze,
scarcely seeing even the things he handled, drifting, quiescent,
in a state of metamorphosis. He submitted to that which
was happening to him, letting go his will, suffering the loss
of himself, dormant always on the brink of ecstasy, like a
creature evolving to a new birth.

She came twice with her child to the farm, but there was
this lull between them, an intense calm and passivity like a
torpor upon them, so that there was no active change took
place. He was almost unaware of the child, yet by his
native good humour he gained her confidence, even her af-
fection, setting her on the horse to ride, giving her corn for
the fowls.

Once he drove the mother and child from Ilkeston, picking
them up on the road. The child huddled close to him as if
for love, the mother sat very still. There was a vagueness,
like a soft mist over all of them, and a silence as if their wills
were suspended. Only he saw her hands, ungloved, folded
in her lap, and he noticed the wedding-ring on her finger.
It excluded him: it was a closed circle. It bound her life,
the wedding-ring, it stood for her life in which he could
have no part. Nevertheless, beyond all this, there was her-
self and himself which should meet.

As he helped her down from the trap, almost lifting her,
he felt he had some right to take her thus between his hands.
She belonged as yet to that other, to that which was behind.
But he must care for her also. She was too living to be
neglected.

Sometimes her vagueness, in which he was lost, made him
angry, made him rage. But he held himself still as yet.
She had no response, no being towards him. It puzzled and
enraged him, but he submitted for a long time. Then, from
the accumulated troubling of her ignoring him, gradually a
fury broke out, destructive, and he wanted to go away, to
escape her.

It happened she came down to the Marsh with the child
whilst he was in this state. Then he stood over against her,
strong and heavy in his revolt, and though he said nothing,
still she felt his anger and heavy impatience grip hold of
her, she was shaken again as out of a torpor. Again her

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 33

heart stirred with a quick, out-running impulse, she looked
at him, at the stranger who was not a gentleman yet who in-
sisted on coming into her life, and the pain of a new birth in
herself strung all her veins to a new form. She would have
to begin again, to find a new being, a new form, to respond
to that blind, insistent figure standing over against her.

A shiver, a sickness of new birth passed over her, the flame
leaped up him, under his skin. She wanted it, this new life
from him, with him, yet she must defend herself against
it, for it was a destruction.

As he worked alone on the land, or sat up with his ewes
at lambing time, the facts and material of his daily life fell
away, leaving the kernel of his purpose clean. And then it
came upon him that he would marry her and she would be
his life.

Gradually, even without seeing her, he came to know her.
He would have liked to think of her as of something given
into his protection, like a child without parents. But it was
forbidden him. He had to come down from this pleasant
view of the case. She might refuse him. And besides, he
was afraid of her.

But during the long February nights with the ewes in
labour, looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars,
he knew he did not belong to himself. He must admit that
he was only fragmentary, something incomplete and subject.
There were the stars in the dark heaven travelling, the whole
host passing by on some eternal voyage. So he sat small and
submissive to the greater ordering.

Unless she would come to him, he must remain as a
nothingness. It was a hard experience. But, after her re-
peated obliviousness to him, after he had seen so often that
he did not exist for her, after he had raged and tried to
escape, and said he was good enough by himself, he was a
man, and could stand alone, he must, in the starry multi-
plicity of the night humble himself, and admit and know that
without her he was nothing.

He was nothing. But with her, he would be real. If
she were now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep-
shelter, through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs,
she would bring him completeness and perfection. And if
it should be so, that she should come to him ! It should be
so — it was ordained so.

He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to

34 THE RAINBOW

marry him. And he knew, if he asked her, she must really
acquiesce. She must, it could not be otherwise.

He had learned a little of her. She was poor, quite alone,
and had had a hard time in London, both before and after
her husband died. But in Poland she was a lady well born,
a landowner's daughter.

All these things were only words to him, the fact of her
superior birth, the fact that her husband had been a brilliant
doctor, the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost
every way of distinction. There was an inner reality, a logic
of the soul, which connected her with him.

One evening in March, when the wind was roaring outside,
came the moment to ask her. He had sat with his hands
before him, leaning to the fire. And as he watched the fire,
he knew almost without thinking that he was going this
evening.

" Have you got a clean shirt ? " he asked Tilly.

"You know you've got clean shirts," she said.

" Ay, — bring me a white one."

Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited
from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire.
She loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning
with his arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of
her. Lately, a quivering inclination to cry had come over
her, when she did anything for him in his presence. Now
her hands trembled as she spread the shirt. He was never
shouting and teasing now. The deep stillness there was in
the house made her tremble.

He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of con-
sciousness seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the
depths of his stillness.

"It's got to be done/' he said as he stooped to take the
ehirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk
it?" And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the
wall, he retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's
not speechless dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple.
She's got the right to please herself, and displease whosoever
she likes."

This streak of commonsense carried him a little further.

"Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly ap-
pearing, having heard him speak. She stood watching him
comb his fair beard. His eyes wer§ calm and uninter-
rupted.

(HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 35

" Ay," he said, " where have you put the scissors."

She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin
forward, he trimmed his beard.

" Don't go .an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin'
contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair
quickly off his lips.

He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and
donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight
was falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the
daffodils. The wind was roaring in the lapple-trees, the
yellow flowers swayed violently up and down, he heard even
the fine whisper of their spears as he stooped to break the
flattened, brittle stems of the flowers.

"What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he
left the garden gate.

"Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen.

And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement,
let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence
she could watch him go.

He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind
roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his
bunch of daffodils by his side. He did not think of any-
thing, only knew that the wind was blowing.

Night was falling, the bare trees drummed and whistled.
The vicar, he knew, would be in his study, the Polish woman
in the kitchen, a comfortable room, with her child. In the
darkest of twilight, he went through the gate and down the
path where a few daffodils stooped in the wind, and shattered
crocuses made a pale, colourless ravel.

There was a light streaming on to the bushes at the back
from the kitchen window. He began to hesitate. How
could he do this? Looking through the window, he saw
her seated in the rocking-chair with the child, already in its
nightdress, sitting on her knee. The fair head with its wild,
fierce hair was drooping towards the fire-warmth, which re-
flected on the bright cheeks and clear skin of the child, who
seemed to be musing, almost like a grown-up person. The
mother's face was dark and still, and he saw, with a pang,
that she was away back in the life that had been. The child's
hair gleamed like spun glass, her face was illuminated till
it seemed like wax lit up from the inside. The wind boomed
strongly. Mother and child sat motionless, silent, the child
staring with vacant dark eyes into the fire, the mother look-

86 THE RAINBOW

ing into space. The little girl was almost asleep. It was
her will which kept her eyes so wide.

Suddenly she looked round, troubled, as the wind shook
the house, and Brangwen saw the small lips move. The
mother began to rock, he heard the slight crunch of the
rockers of the chair. Then he heard the low, monotonous
murmur of a song in a foreign language. Then a great burst
of wind, the mother seemed to have drifted away, the child's
eyes were black and dilated. Brangwen looked up at the
clouds which packed in great, alarming haste across the dark
sky.

Then there came the child's high, complaining, yet im-
perative voice:

"Don't sing that stuff, mother; I don't want to hear it."

The singing died away.

" You will go to bed," said the mother.

He saw the clinging protest of the child, the unmoved far-
awayness of the mother, the clinging, grasping effort of the
child. Then suddenly the clear childish challenge:

" I want you to tell me a story."

The wind blew, the story began, the child nestled against
the mother, Brangwen waited outside, suspended, looking at
the wild waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering
darkness. He had his fate to follow, he lingered here at the
threshold.

The child crouched distinct and motionless, curled in
against her mother, the eyes dark and unblinking among the
keen wisps of hair, like a curled-up animal asleep but for the
eyes. The mother sat as if in shadow, the story went on as
if by itself. Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall.
He did not notice the passage of time. The hand that held
the daffodils was fixed and cold.

The story came to an end, the mother rose at last, with the
child clinging round her neck. She must be strong, to carry
so large a child so easily. The little Anna clung round
her mother's neck. The fair, strange face of the child looked
over the shoulder of the mother, all asleep but the eyes, and
these, wide and dark, kept up the resistance and the fight
with something unseen.

When they were gone, Brangwen stirred for the first time
from the place where he stood, and looked round at the night.
He wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it
seemed in these few moments of release. Along with the

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY tf

child, he felt a curious strain on him, a suffering, like a fate.

The mother came down again, and began folding the child's
clothes. He knocked. She opened wondering, a little bit
at bay, like a foreigner, uneasy.

" Good-evening/' he said. " I'll just come in a minute/'

A change went quickly over her face; she was unprepared.
She looked down at him as he stood in the light from the
window, holding the daffodils, the darkness behind. In his
black clothes she again did not know him. She was almost
afraid.

But he was already stepping on to the threshold, and clos-
ing the door behind him. She turned into the kitchen,
startled out of herself by this invasion from the night. He
took off his hat, and came towards her. Then he stood in
the light, in his black clothes and his black stock, hat in one
hand and yellow flowers in the other. She stood away, at
his mercy, snatched out of herself. She did not know him,
only she knew he was a man come for her. She could only
see the dark-clad man's figure standing there upon her, and
the gripped fist of flowers. She could not see the face and
the living eyes.

He was watching her, without knowing her, only aware
underneath of her presence.

" I come to have a word with you," he said, striding for-
ward to the table, laying down his hat and the flowers,
which tumbled apart and lay in a loose heap. She had
flinched from his advance. She had no will, no being. The
wind boomed in the chimney, and he waited. He had dis-
embarrassed his hands. Now he shut his fists.

He was aware of her standing there unknown, dread, yet
related to him.

" I came up," he said, speaking curiously matter-of-fact
and level, "to ask if you'd marry me. You are free, aren't
you?"

There was a long silence, whilst his blue eyes, strangely
impersonal, looked into her eyes to seek an answer to the
truth. He was looking for the truth out of her. And she,
as if hypnotized, must answer at length.

" Yes, I am free to marry."

The expression of his eyes changed, became less impersonal,
as if he were looking almost at her, for the truth of
her. Steady and intent and eternal they were, as if they
would never change. They seemed to fix and to resolve

S8 THE RAINBOW

her. She quivered, feeling herself created, will-less, lapsing
into him, into a common will with him.

"You want me?" she said.

A pallor came over his face.

« Yes/' he said.

Still there was suspense and silence.

"No," she said, not of herself. "No, I don't know."

He felt the tension breaking up in him, his fists slack-
ened, he was unable to move. He stood looking at her,
helpless in his vague collapse. For the moment she had
become unreal to him. Then he saw her come to him, curi-
ously direct and as if without movement, in a sudden flow.
She put her hand to his coat.

"Yes I want to," she said, impersonally, looking at him
with wide, candid, newly-opened eyes, opened now with
supreme truth. He went very white as he stood, and did
not move, only his eyes were held by hers, and he suffered.
She seemed to see him with her newly-opened, wide eyes,
almost of a child, and with a strange movement, that was
agony to him, she reached slowly forward her dark face and
her breast to him, with a slow insinuation of a kiss that
made something break in his brain, and it was darkness over
him for a few moments.

He had her in his arms, and, obliterated, was kissing her.
And it was sheer, blenched agony to him, to break away from
himself. She was there so small and light and accepting in
his arms, like a child, and yet with such an insinuation of
embrace, of infinite embrace, that he could not bear it, he
could not stand.

He turned and looked for a chair, and keeping her still in
his arms, sat down with her close to him, to his breast. Then,
for a few seconds, he went utterly to sleep, asleep and sealed
in the darkest sleep, utter, extreme oblivion.

From which he came to gradually, always holding her warm
and close upon him, and she as utterly silent as he, involved
in the same oblivion, the fecund darkness.

He returned gradually, but newly created, as after a ges-
tation, a new birth, in the womb of darkness. Aerial
and light everything was, new as a morning, fresh and
newly-begun. Like a dawn the newness and the bliss
filled in. And she sat utterly still with him, as if in the
same.

Then she looked up at him, the wide, young eyes blazing
'•*.

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 39

with light. And he bent down and kissed her on the lips.
And the dawn blazed in them, their new life came to pass,
it was beyond all conceiving good, it was so good, that it
was almost like a passing-away, a trespass. He drew her
suddenly closer to him.

For soon the light began to fade in her, gradually, and as
she was in his arms, her head sank, she leaned it against
him, and lay still, with sunk head, a little tired, effaced
because she was tired. And in her tiredness was a certain
negation of him.

" There is the child," she said, out of the long silence.

He did not understand. It was a long time since he had
heard a voice. Now also he heard the wind roaring, as if it
had just begun again.

"Yes," he said, not understanding. There was a slight
contraction of pain at his heart, a slight tension on his brows.
Something he wanted to grasp and could not.

"You will love her?" she said.

The quick contraction, like pain, went over him again.

"I love her now," he said.

She lay still against him, taking his physical warmth with-
out heed. It was great confirmation for him to feel her
there, absorbing the warmth from him, giving him back her
weight and her strange confidence. But where was she, that
she seemed so absent? His mind was open with wonder.
He did not know her.

" But I am much older than you," she said.

" How old ? " he asked.

" I am thirty-four," she said.

" I am twenty-eight," he said.

" Six years."

She was oddly concerned, even as if it pleased her a lit-
tle. He sat and listened and wondered. It was rather
splendid, to be so ignored by her, whilst she lay against him,
and he lifted her with his breathing, and felt her weight upon
his living, so he had a completeness and an inviolable power.
He did not interfere with her. He did not even know her.
It was so strange that she lay there with her weight aban-
doned upon him. He was silent with delight. He felt
strong, physically, carrying her on his breathing. The
strange, inviolable completeness of the two of them made
him feel as sure and as stable as God. Amused, he won-
dered what the vicar would say if he knew.

40 THE RAINBOW

"You needn't stop here much longer, housekeeping/' he
said.

"I like it also, here," she said. "When one has heen in
many places, it is very nice here."

He was silent again at this. So close on him she lay, and
yet she answered him from so far away. But he did not
mind.

"What was your own home like, when you were little?"
he asked.

" My father was a landowner," she replied. " It was near
a river,"

This did not convey much to him. All was as vague as
before. But he did not care, whilst she was so close.

"I am a landowner — a little one," he said.

"Yes," she said.

He had not dared to move. He sat there with his arms
round her, her lying motionless on his breathing, and for a
long time he did not stir. Then softly, timidly, his hand
settled on the roundness of her arm, on the unknown. She
seemed to lie a little closer. A hot flame licked up from his
belly to his chest.

But it was too soon. She rose, and went across the room
to a drawer, taking out a little tray-cloth. There was some-
thing quiet and professional about her. She had been a
nurse beside her husband, both in Warsaw and in the re-
bellion afterwards. She proceeded to set a tray. It was as
if she ignored Brangwen. He sat up, unable to bear a con-
tradiction in her. She moved about inscrutably.

Then, as he sat there, all mused and wondering, she came
near to him, looking at him with wide, grey eyes that almost
smiled with a low light. But her ugly-beautiful mouth was
still unmoved and sad. He was afraid.

His eyes, strained and roused with unusedness, quailed a
little before her, he felt himself quailing and yet he rose, as
if obedient to her, he bent and kissed her heavy, sad, wide
mouth, that was kissed, and did not alter. Fear was too
strong in him. Again he had not got her.

She turned away. The vicarage kitchen was untidy, and
yet to him beautiful with the untidiness of her and her child.
Such a wonderful remoteness there was about her, and then
something in touch with him, that made his heart knock in
his chest. He stood there and waited, suspended.

Again she came to him, as he stood in his black clothes,

HOW BRANGWEN MARRIED A POLISH LADY 41

with blue eyes very bright and puzzled for her, his face
tensely alive, his hair dishevelled. She came close up to
him, to his intent, black-clothed body, and laid her hand on
his arm. He remained unmoved. Her eyes, with a black-
ness of memory struggling with passion, primitive and elec-
tric away at the back of them, rejected him and absorbed
him at once. But he remained himself. He breathed with
difficulty, and sweat came out at the roots of his hair, on his
forehead.

" Do you want to marry me ? " she asked slowly, always
uncertain.

He was afraid lest he could not speak. He drew breath
hard, saying:

" I do."

Then again, what was agony to him, with one hand lightly
resting on his arm, she leaned forward a little, and with
a strange, primeval suggestion of embrace, held him her
mouth. It was ugly-beautiful, and he could not bear it.
He put his mouth on hers, and slowly, slowly the response
came, gathering force and passion, till it seemed to him she
was thundering at him till he could bear no more. He drew
away, white, unbreathing. Only, in his blue eyes, was
something of himself concentrated. And in her eyes was a
little smile upon a black void.

She was drifting away from him again. And he wanted
to go away. It was intolerable. He could bear no more.
He must go. Yet he was irresolute. But she turned away
from him.

With a little pang of anguish, of denial, it was decided.

" I'll come an' speak to the vicar to-morrow," he said,
taking his hat.

She looked at him, her eyes expressionless and full of dark-
ness. He could see no answer.

"That'll do, won't it?" he said.

" Yes," she answered, mere echo without body or meaning.

" Goodnight," he said.

" Goodnight."

He left her standing there, expressionless and void as she
was. Then she went on laying the tray for the vicar. Need-
ing the table, she put the daffodils aside on the dresser with-
out noticing them. Only their coolness, touching her hand,
remained echoing there a long while.

They were such strangers, they must for ever be such

42 THE RAINBOW

strangers, that his passion was a clanging torment to him.
Such intimacy of embrace, and such utter foreignness of
contact! It was unbearable. He could not bear to be near
her, and know the utter foreignness between them, know how
entirely they were strangers to each other. He went out
into the wind. Big holes were blown into the sky, the moon-
light blew about. Sometimes a high moon, liquid-brilliant,
scudded across a hollow space and took cover under electric,
brown-iridescent cloud-edges. Then there was a blot of
cloud, and shadow. Then somewhere in the night a radiance
again, like a vapour. And all the sky was teeming and
tearing along, a vast disorder of flying shapes and darkness
and ragged fumes of light and a great brown circling halo,
then the terror of a moon running liquid-brilliant into the
open for a moment, hurting the eyes before she plunged un-
der cover of cloud again.

CHAPTER II

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH

SHE was the daughter of a Polish landowner who,
deeply in debt to the Jews, had married a German wife
with money, and who had died just before the re-
bellion. Quite young, she had married Paul Lensky,
an intellectual who had studied at Berlin, and had returned to
Warsaw a patriot. Her mother had married a German
merchant and gone away.

Lydia Lensky, married to the young doctor, became with
him a patriot and an emancipee. They were poor, but they
were very conceited. She learned nursing as a mark of her
emancipation. They represented in Poland the new move-
ment just begun in Russia. But they were very patriotic:
and, at the same time, very " European."

They had two children. Then came the great rebellion.
Lensky, very ardent and full of words, went about inciting
his countrymen. Little Poles flamed down the streets of
Warsaw, on the way to shoot every Muscovite. So they
crossed into the south of Russia, and it was common for
six little insurgents to ride into a Jewish village, brandishing
swords and words, emphasizing the fact that they were going
to shoot every living Muscovite.

Lensky was something of a fire-eater also. Lydia, tem-
pered by her German blood, coming of a different family, was
obliterated, carried along in her husband's emphasis of
declaration, and his whirl of patriotism. He was indeed a
brave man, but no bravery could quite have equalled the
vividness of his talk. He worked very hard, till nothing
lived in him but his eyes. And Lydia, as if drugged, followed
him like a shadow, serving, echoing. Sometimes she had
her two children, sometimes they were left behind.

She returned once to find them both dead of diphtheria.
Her husband wept aloud, unaware of everybody. But the
war went on, and soon he was back at his work. A dark-
ness had come over Lydia's mind. She walked always in a
shadow, silenced, with a strange, deep terror having hold of

43

44 THE RAINBOW

her, her desire was to seek satisfaction in dread, to enter a
nunnery, to satisfy the instincts of dread in her, through
service of a dark religion. But she could not.

Then came the flight to London. Lensky, the little, thin
man, had got all his life locked into a resistance and could
not relax again. He lived in a sort of insane irritability,
touchy, haughty to the last degree, fractious, so that as as-
sistant doctor in one of the hospitals he soon became im-
possible. They were almost beggars. But he kept still his
great ideas of himself, he seemed to live in a complete hallu-
cination, where he himself figured vivid and lordly. He
guarded his wife jealously against the ignominy of her posi-
tion, rushed round her like a brandished weapon, an amazing
sight to the English eye, had her in his power, as if he hypno-
tized her. She was passive, dark, always in shadow.

He was wasting away. Already when the child was born
he seemed nothing but skin and bone and fixed idea. She
watched him dying, nursed him, nursed the baby, but really
took no notice of anything. A darkness was on her, like re-
morse, or like a remembering of the dark, savage, mystic ride
of dread, of death, of the snadow of revenge. When her
husband died, she was relieved. He would no longer dart
about her.

England fitted her mood, its aloofness and foreignness.
She had known a little of the language before coming, and
a sort of parrot-mind made her pick it up fairly easily. But
she knew nothing of the English, nor of English life. In-
deed, these did not exist for her. She was like one walking
in the Underworld, where the shades throng intelligibly but
have no connection with one. She felt the English people
as a potent, cold, slightly hostile host amongst whom she
walked isolated.

The English people themselves were almost deferential to
her, the Church saw that she did not want. She walked
without passion, like a shade, tormented into moments of
love by the child. Her dying husband with his tortured
eyes and the skin drawn tight over his face, he was as a
vision to her, not a reality. In a vision he was buried and
put away. Then the vision ceased, she was untroubled,
time went on grey, uncoloured, like a long journey where
she sat unconscious as the landscape unrolled beside her.
When she rocked her baby at evening, maybe she fell into a
Polish slumber song, or she talked sometimes to herself in

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 4£

Polish. Otherwise she did not think of Poland, nor of that
life to which she had belonged. It was a great blot looming
blank in its darkness. In the superficial activity of her life,
she was all English. She even thought in English. But her
long blanks and darknesses of abstraction were Polish.

So she lived for some time. Then, with slight uneasiness,
she used half to awake to the streets of London. She realized
that there was something around her, very foreign, she
realized she was in a strange place. And then, she was
sent away into the country. There came into her mind
now the memory of her home where she had been a child,
the big house among the land, the peasants of the village.

She was sent to Yorkshire, to nurse an old rector in his
rectory by the sea. This was the first shake of the kaleido-
scope that brought in front of her eyes something she must
see. It hurt her brain, the open country and the moors. It
hurt her and hurt her. Yet it forced itself upon her as some-
thing living, it roused some potency of her childhood in her,
it had some relation to her.

There was green and silver and blue in the air about her
now. And there was a strange insistence of light from the
sea, to which she must attend. Primroses glimmered around,
many of them, and she stooped to the disturbing influence
near her feet, she even picked one or two flowers, faintly
remembering in the new colour of life, what had been. All
the day long, as she sat at the upper window, the light came
off the sea, constantly, constantly, without refusal, till it
seemed to bear her away, and the noise of the sea created a
drowsiness in her, a relaxation like sleep. Her automatic
consciousness gave way a little, she stumbled sometimes, she
had a poignant, momentary vision of her living child, that
hurt her unspeakably. Her soul roused to attention.

Very strange was the constant glitter of the sea unsheathed
in heaven, very warm and sweet the graveyard, in a nook
of the hill catching the sunshine and holding it as one holds
a bee between the palms of the hands, when it is benumbed.
Grey grass and lichens and a little church, and snowdrops
among coarse grass, and a cupful of incredibly warm sun-
shine.

She was troubled in spirit. Hearing the rushing of the
beck away down under the trees, she was startled, and won-
dered what it was. Walking down, she found the bluebells
around her glowing like a presence, among the trees.

46 THE RAINBOW

Summer came, the moors were tangled with harebells like
water in the ruts of the roads, the heather came rosy under
the skies, setting the whole world awake. And she was un-
easy. She went past the gorse bushes shrinking from their
presence, she stepped into the heather as into a quickening
bath that almost hurt. Her fingers moved over the clasped
fingers of the child, she heard the anxious voice of the baby,
as it tried to make her talk, distraught.

And she shrank away again, back into her darkness, and
for a long while remained blotted safely away from living.
But autumn came with the faint red glimmer of robins sing-
ing, winter darkened the moors, and almost savagely she
turned again to life, demanding her life back again, demand-
ing that it should be as it had been when she was a girl,
on the land at home, under the sky. Snow lay in great
expanses, the telegraph posts strode over the white earth,
away under the gloom of the sky. And savagely her desire
rose in her again, demanding that this was Poland, her
youth, that all was her own again.

But there were no sledges nor bells, she did not see the
peasants coming out like new people, in their sheepskins and
their fresh, ruddy, bright faces, that seemed to become new
and vivid when the snow lit up the ground. It did not come
to her, the life of her youth, it did not come back. There
was a little agony of struggle, then a relapse into the dark-
ness of the convent, where Satan and the devils raged round
the walls, and Christ was white on the cross of victory.

'She watched from the sick-room the snow whirl past, like
flocks of shadows in haste, flying on some final mission out
to a leaden inalterable sea, beyond the final whiteness of the
curving shore, and the snow-speckled blackness of the rocks
half submerged. But near at hand on the trees the snow
was soft in bloom. Only the voice of the dying vicar spoke
grey and querulous from behind.

By the time the snowdrops were out, however, he was dead.
He was dead. But with curious equanimity the returning
woman watched the snowdrops on the edge of the grass be-
low, blown white in the wind, but not to be blown away.
She watched them fluttering and bobbing, the white, shut
flowers, anchored by a thread to the grey-green grass, yet
never blown away, not drifting with the wind.

As she rose in the morning, the dawn was beating up
white, gusts of light blown like a thin snowstorm from the

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 47

east, blown stronger and fiercer, till the rose appeared, and
the gold, and the sea lit up below. She was impassive and
indifferent. Yet she was outside the enclosure of darkness.

There passed a space of shadow again, the familiarity of
dread-worship, during which she was moved, oblivious, to
Cossethay. There, at first, there was nothing — just grey
nothing. But then one morning there was a light from the
yellow jasmine caught her, and after that, morning and even-
ing, the persistent ringing of thrushes from the shrubbery,
till her heart, beaten upon, was forced to lift up its voice
in rivalry and answer. Little tunes came into her mind.
She was full of trouble almost like anguish. Resistant, she
knew she was beaten, and from fear of darkness turned to
fear of light. She would have hidden herself indoors, if shn
could. Above all, she craved for the peace and heavy ob-
livion of her old state. She could not bear to come to, to
realize. The first pangs of this new parturition were so
acute, she knew she could not bear it. She would rather
remain out of life, than be torn, mutilated into this birth,
which she could not survive. She had not the strength to
come to life now, in England, so foreign, skies so hostile.
She knew she would die like an early, colourless, scentless
flower that the end of the winter puts forth mercilessly. And
she wanted to harbour her modicum of twinkling life.

But a sunshiny day came full of the scent of a mezereon
tree, when bees were tumbling into the yellow crocuses, and
she forgot, she felt like somebody else, not herself, a new
person, quite glad. But she knew it was fragile, and she
dreaded it. The vicar put pea-flower into the crocuses, for
his bees to roll in, and she laughed. Then night came, with
brilliant stars that she knew of old, from her girlhood. And
they flashed so bright, she knew they were victors.

She could neither wake nor sleep. As if crushed between
the past and the future, like a flower that comes above-ground
to 'find a great stone lying above it, she was helpless.

The bewilderment and helplessness continued, she was
surrounded by great moving masses that must crush her.
And there was no escape. Save in the old obliviousness, the
cold darkness she strove to retain. But the vicar showed
her eggs in the thrush's nest near the back door. She saw
herself the mother-thrush upon the nest, and the way her
wings were spread, so eager down upon her secret. The
tense, eager, nesting wings moved her beyond endurance.

48 THE RAINBOW

She thought of them in the morning, when she heard the
thrush whistling as he got up, and she thought, " Why didn't
I die out there, why am I brought here ? "

She was aware of people who passed around her, not as
persons, but as looming presences. It was very difficult for
her to adjust herself. In Poland, the peasantry, the people,
had been cattle to her, they had been her cattle that she
owned and used. What were these people? Now she was
coming awake, she was lost.

But she had felt Brangden go by almost as if he had
brushed her. She had tingled in body as she had gone on
up the road. After she had been with him in the Marsh
kitchen, the voice of her body had risen strong and insistent.
Soon, she wanted him. He was the man who had come near-
est to her for her awakening.

Always, however, between-whiles she lapsed into the old
unconsciousness, indifference and there was a will in her to
save herself from living any more. But she would wake in
the morning one day and feel her blood running, feel herself
lying open like a flower unsheathed in the Bun, insistent and
potent with demand.

She got to know him better, and her instinct fixed on him
— just on him. Her impulse was strong against him, because
he was not of her own sort. But one blind instinct led
her, to take him, to have him, and then to relinquish herself
to him. It would be safety. She felt the rooted safety of
him, and the life in him. Also he was young and very
fresh. The blue, steady livingness of his eyes she enjoyed
like morning. He was very young.

Then she lapsed again to stupor and indifference. This,
however, was bound to pass. The warmth flowed through
her, she felt herself opening, unfolding, asking, as a flower
opens in full request under the sun, as the beaks of tiny birds
open flat, to receive, to receive. And unfolded she turned
to him, straight to him. And he came, slowly, afraid, held
back by uncouth fear, and driven by a desire bigger than
himself.

. When she opened and turned to him, then all that had
been and all that was, was gone from her, she was as new as
a flower that unsheathes itself and stands always ready,
waiting, receptive. He could not understand this. He
forced himself, through lack of understanding, to the adher-
ence to the line of honourable courtshig and sanctioned,

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 49

licensed marriage. Therefore, after he had gone to the
vicarage and asked for her, she remained for some days held
in this one spell, open, receptive to him, before him. He
was roused to chaos. He spoke to the vicar and gave in the
banns. Then he stood to wait.

She remained attentive and instinctively expectant before
him, unfolded, ready to receive him. He could not act, be-
cause of self-fear and because of his conception of honour
towards her. So he remained in a state of chaos.

And after a few days, gradually she closed again, away
from him, was sheathed over, impervious to him, oblivious.
Then a black, bottomless despair became real to him, he knew
what he had lost. He felt he had lost it for good, he knew
what it was to have been in communication with her, and to
be cast off again. In misery, his heart like a heavy stone,
he went about unliving.

Till gradually he became desperate, lost his understanding,
was plunged in a revolt that knew no bounds. Inarticulate,
he moved with her at the Marsh in violent, gloomy, wordless
passion, almost in hatred of her. Till gradually she became
aware of him, aware of herself with regard to him, her blood
stirred to life, she began to open towards him, to flow towards
him again. He waited till the spell was between them again,
till they were together within one rushing, hastening flame.
And then again he was bewildered, he was tied up as with
cords, and could not move to her. So she came to him, and
unfastened the breast of his waistcoat and his shirt, and put
her hand on him, needing to know him. For it was cruel to
her, to be opened and offered to him, yet not to know what
he was, not even that he was there. She gave herself to the
hour, but he could not, and he bungled in taking her.

So that he lived in suspense, as if only half his faculties
worked, until the wedding. She did not understand. But
the vagueness came over her again, and the days lapsed by.
He could not get definitely into touch with her. For the
time being, she let him go again.

He suffered very much from the thought of actual mar-
riage, the intimacy and nakedness of marriage. He knew
her so little. They were so foreign to each other, they were
such strangers. And they could not talk to each other.
When she talked, of Poland or of what had been, it was all
so foreign, she scarcely communicated anything to him. And
when he looked at her, an over-much reverence and fear of

50 THE RAINBOW

the unknown changed the nature of his desire into a sort
of worship, holding her aloof from his physical desire, self-
thwarting.

She did not know this, she did not understand. They
had looked at each other, and had accepted each other. It
was so, then there was nothing to balk at, it was complete
between them.

At the wedding, his face was stiff and expressionless. He
wanted to drink, to get rid of his forethought and after-
thought, to set the moment free. But he could not. The
suspense only tightened at his heart. The jesting and
joviality and jolly, broad insinuation of the guests only coiled
him more. He could not hear. That which was impending
obsessed him, he could not get free.

She sat quiet, with a strange, still smile. She was not
afraid. Having accepted him, she wanted to take him, she
belonged altogether to the hour, now. No future, no past,
only this, her hour. She did not even notice him, as she sat
beside him at the head of the table. He was very near, their
coming together was close at hand. What more!

As the time came for all the guests to go, her dark face
was softly lighted, the bend of her head was proud, her grey
eyes clear and dilated, so that the men could not look at her,
and the women were elated by her, they served her. Very
wonderful she was, as she bade farewell, her ugly wide mouth
smiling with pride and recognition, her voice speaking softly
and richly in the foreign accent, her dilated eyes ignoring
one and all the departing guests. Her manner was gracious
and fascinating, but she ignored the being of him or her to
whom she gave her hand.

And Brangwen stood beside her, giving his hearty hand-
shake to his friends, receiving their regard gratefully, glad
of their attention. His heart was tormented within him,
he did not try to smile. The time of his trial and his ad-
mittance, his Gethsemane and his Triumphal Entry in one,
had come now.

Behind her, there was so much unknown to him. When
he approached her, he came to such a terrible painful un-
known. How could he embrace it and fathom it? How
could he close his arms round all this darkness and hold it
to his breast and give himself to it? What might not hap-
pen to him? If he stretched and strained for ever he would
never be able to grasp it all, and to yield himself naked out

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 51

of his own hands into the unknown power! How could a
man be strong enough to take her, put his arms round her
and have her, and be sure he could conquer this awful un-
known next his heart? What was it then that she was, to
which he must also deliver himself up, and which at the
same time he must embrace, contain?

He was to be her husband. It was established so. And
he wanted it more than he wanted life, or anything. She
stood beside him in her silk dress, looking at him strangely,
so that a certain terror, horror took possession of him, be-
cause she was strange and impending and he had no choice.
He could not bear to meet her look from under her strange,
thick brows.

"Is it late?" she said.

He looked at his watch.

" No — half-past eleven," he said. And he made an ex-
cuse to go into the kitchen, leaving her standing in the room
among the disorder and the drinking-glasses.

Tilly was seated beside the fire in the kitchen, her head
in her hands. She started up when he entered.

" Why haven't you gone to bed ? " he said.

"I thought I'd better stop an? lock up an' do," she said.
Her agitation quietened him. He gave her some little order,
then returned, steadied now, almost ashamed, to his wife.
She stood a moment watching him, as he moved with averted
face. Then she said:

" You will be good to me, won't you ? "

She was small and girlish and terrible, with a queer, wide
look in her eyes. His heart leaped in him, in anguish of love
and desire, he went blindly to her and took her in his arms.

" I want to," he said as he drew her closer and closer
in. She was soothed by the stress of his embrace, and re-
mained quite still, relaxed against him, mingling in to him.
And he let himself go from past and future, was reduced to
the moment with her. In which he took her and was with
her and there was nothing beyond, they were together in an
elemental embrace beyond their superficial foreignness. But
in the morning he was uneasy again. She was still foreign
and unknown to him. Only, within the fear was pride, belief
in himself as mate for her. And she, everything forgotten
in her new hour of coming to life, radiated vigour and joy,
so that he quivered to touch her.

It made a great difference to him, marriage. Things be-

52 THE RAINBOW

came so remote and of so little significance, as he knew the
powerful source of his life, his eyes opened on a new universe,
and he wondered in thinking of his triviality before. A new,
calm relationship showed to him in the things he saw, in the
cattle he used, the young wheat as it eddied in a wind.

And each time he returned home, he went steadily, expect-
antly, like a man who goes to a profound, unknown satis-
faction. At dinner-time, he appeared in the doorway, hang-
ing back a moment from entering, to see if she was there.
He saw her setting the plates on the white-scrubbed table.
Her arms were slim, she had a slim body and full skirts, she
had a dark, shapely head with closed-banded hair. Somehow
it was her head, so shapely and poignant, that revealed her
his woman to him. As she moved about clothed closely,
full-skirted and wearing her little silk apron, her dark hair
smoothly parted, her head revealed itself to him in all its
subtle, intrinsic beauty, and he knew she was his woman,
he knew her essence, that it was his to possess. And he
seemed to live thus in contact with her, in contact with the
unknown, the unaccountable and incalculable.

They did not take much notice of each other, consciously.

"I'm betimes," he said.

"Yes," she answered.

He turned to the dogs, or to the child if she were there.
The little Anna played about the farm, flitting constantly in
to call something to her mother, to fling her arms round her
mother's skirts, to be noticed, perhaps caressed, then, for-
getting, to slip out again.

Then Brangwen, talking to the child, or to the dog between
his knees, would be aware of his wife, as, in her tight, dark
bodice and her lace fichu, she was reaching up to the corner
cupboard. He realized with a sharp pang that she belonged
to him, and he to her. He realized that he lived by her.
Did he own her? Was she here for ever? Or might she go
away? She was not really his, it was not a real marriage,
this marriage between them. She might go away. He
did not feel like a master, husband, father of her children.
She belonged elsewhere. Any moment, she might be gone.
And he was ever drawn to her, drawn after her, with ever-
faging, ever-unsatisfied desire. He must always turn home,
wherever his steps were taking him, always to her, and he
could never quite reach her, he could never quite be satisfied,
never be at peace, because she might go away.

THE? LIVE AT THE MAfcSH M

"At evening, he was glad. Then, when he had finished in
the yard, and come in and washed himself, when the child
was put to bed, he could sit on the other side of the fire with
his beer on the hob and his long white pipe in his fingers,
conscious of her there opposite him, as she worked at her
embroidery, or as she talked to him, and he was safe with
her now, till morning. She was curiously self-sufficient and
did not say very much. Occasionally she lifted her head,
her grey eyes shining with a strange light, that had nothing
to do with him or with this place, and would tell him about
herself. She seemed to be back again in the past, chiefly in
her childhood or her girlhood, with her father. She very
rarely talked of her first husband. But sometimes, all shin-
ing-eyed, she was back at her own home, telling him about
the riotous times, the trip to Paris with her father, tales of
the mad acts of the peasants when a burst of religious, self-
hurting fervour had passed over the country.

She would lift her head and say :

" When they brought the railway across the country, they
made afterwards smaller railways, of shorter width, to come
down to our town — a hundred miles. When I was a girl,
Gisla, my German gouvernante, was very shocked and she
would not tell me. But I heard the servants talking. I re-
member, it was Pierre, the coachman. And my father, and
some of his friends, landowners, they had taken a wagon,
a whole railway wagon — that you travel in "

" A railway-carriage," said Brangwen.

She laughed to herself.

"I know it was a great scandal: yes — a whole wagon,
and they had girls, you know, filles, naked, all the wagon-full,
and so they came down to our village. They came through
villages of the Jews, and it was a great scandal. Can you
imagine? All the countryside! And my mother, she did
not like it. Gisla said to me, ' Madame, she must not know
that you have heard such things/

" My mother, she used to cry, and she wished to beat my
father^ plainly beat him. He would say, when she cried
because he sold the forest, the wood, to jingle money in his
pocket, and go to Warsaw or Paris or Kiev, when she said
he must take back his word, he must not sell the forest, he
would stand and say, 'I know, I know, I have heard it all,
I have heard it all before. Tell me some new thing,
know, I know, I know/ Oh, but can you understand, I

54 THE RAINBOW

loved him when he stood there under the door, saying only,
' I know, I know, I know it all already/ She could
not change him, no, not if she killed herself for it. And she
could change everybody else, but him, she could not change
him "

Brangwen could not understand. He had pictures of a
cattle-truck full of naked girls riding from nowhere to no-
where, of Lydia laughing because her father made great
debts and said, "I know, I know"; of Jews running down
the street shouting in Yiddish, " Don't do it, don't do it," and
being cut down by demented peasants — she called them
" cattle " — whilst she looked on interested and even amused ;
of tutors and governesses and Paris and a convent. It was
too much for him. And there she sat, telling the tales to
the open space, not to him, arrogating a curious superiority
to him, a distance between them, something strange and
foreign and outside his life, talking, rattling, without rhyme
or reason, laughing when he was shocked or astounded, con-
demning nothing, confounding his mind and making the
whole world a chaos, without order or stability of any kind.
Then, when they went to bed, he knew that he had nothing
to do with her. She was back in her childhood, he was a
peasant, a serf, a servant, a lover, a paramour, a shadow, a
nothing. He lay still in amazement, staring at the room
he knew so well, and wondering whether it was really there,
the window, the chest of drawers, or whether it was merely
a figment in the atmosphere. And gradually he grew into
a raging fury against her. But because he was so much
amazed, and there was as yet such a distance between them,
and she was such an amazing thing to him, with all wonder
opening out behind her, he made no retaliation on her.
Only he lay still and wide-eyed with rage, inarticulate, not
understanding, but solid with hostility.

And he remained wrathful and distinct from her, un-
changed outwardly to her, but underneath a solid power of
antagonism to her. Of which she became gradually aware.
And it irritated her to be made aware of him as a separate
power. She lapsed into a sort of sombre exclusion, a curious
communion with mysterious powers, a sort of mystic, dark
state which drove him and the child nearly mad. He walked
about for days stiffened with resistance to her, stiff with a
will to destroy her as she was. Then suddenly, out of no-
where, there was connection between them again. It came

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 55

on him as he was working in the fields. The tension, the
bond, burst, and the passionate flood broke forward into a
tremendous, magnificent rush, so that he felt he could snap
off the trees as he passed, and create the world afresh.

And when he arrived home, there was no sign between
them. He waited and waited till she came. And as he
waited, his limbs seemed strong and splendid to him, his
hands seemed like passionate servants to him, goodly, he felt
a stupendous power in himself, of life, and of urgent, strong
blood.

She was sure to come at last, and touch him. Then he
burst into flame for her, and lost himself. They looked at
each other, a deep laugh at the bottom of their eyes, and he
went to take of her again, wholesale, mad to revel in the
inexhaustible wealth of her, to bury himself in the depths
of her in an inexhaustible exploration, she all the while
revelling in that he revelled in her, tossed all her secrets
aside and plunged to that which was secret to her as well,
whilst she quivered with fear and the last anguish of delight.

What did it matter who they were, whether they knew
each other or not ?

The hour passed away again, there was severance between
them, and rage and misery and bereavement for her, and
deposition and toiling at the mill with slaves for him. But
no matter. They had had their hour, and should it chime
again, they were ready for it, ready to renew the game at the
point where it was left off, on the edge of the outer darkness,
when the secrets within the woman are game for the man,
hunted doggedly, when the secrets of the woman are the
man's adventure, and they both give themselves to the ad-
venture.

She was with child, and there was again the silence and
distance between them. She did not want (him nor his
secrets nor his game, he was deposed, he was cast out. He
seethed with fury at the small, ugly-mouthed woman who
had nothing to do with him. Sometimes his anger broke
on her, but she did not cry. She turned on him like a tiger,
and there was battle.

He had to learn to contain himself again, and he hated it.
He hated her that she was not there for him. And he took
himself off, anywhere.

But an instinct of gratitude and a knowledge that she
would receive him back again, that later on she would be

M THE RAINBOW

there for him again, prevented his straying very far. He
cautiously did not go too far. He knew she might lapse
into ignorance of him, lapse away from him, farther, farther,
farther, till she was lost to him. He had sense enough, pre-
monition enough in himself, to be aware of this and to meas-
ure himself accordingly. For he did not want to lose her:
he did not want her to lapse away.

Cold, he called her, selfish, only caring about herself, a
foreigner with a bad nature, caring really about nothing,
having no proper feelings at the bottom of her, and no proper
niceness. He raged, and piled up accusations that had some
measure of truth in them all. But a certain grace in him
forbade him from going too far. He knew, and he quivered
with rage and hatred, that she was all these vile things,
that she was everything vile and detestable. But he had grace
at the bottom of him, which told him that, above all things,
he did not want to lose her, he was not going to lose her.

So he kept some consideration for her, he preserved some
relationship. He went out more often, to the Red Lion
again, to escape the madness of sitting next to her when she
did not belong to him, when she was as absent as any woman
in indifference could be. He could not stay at home. So
he went to the Red Lion. And sometimes he got drunk.
But he preserved his measure, some things between them
he never forfeited.

A tormented look came into his eyes, as if something were
always dogging him. He glanced sharp and quick, he could
not bear to sit still doing nothing. He had to go out, to find
company, to give himself away there. For he had no other
outlet, he could not work to give himself out, he had not the
knowledge.

As the months of her pregnancy went on, she left him more
and more alone, she was more and more unaware of him, his
existence was annulled. And he felt bound down, bound,
unable to stir, beginning to go mad, ready to rave. For she
was quiet and polite, as if he did not exist, as one is quiet
and polite to a servant.

Nevertheless she was great with his child, it was his turn
to submit. She sat opposite him, sewing, her foreign face
inscrutable and indifferent. He felt he wanted to break her
into acknowledgment of him, into awareness of him. It
was insufferable that she had so obliterated him. He would

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 57

smash her into regarding him. He had a raging agony of
desire to do so.

But something bigger in him withheld him, kept him mo-
tionless. So he went out of the house for relief. Or he
turned to the little girl for her sympathy and her love, he
appealed with all his power to the small Anna. So soon
they were like lovers, father and child.

For he was afraid of his wife. As she sat there with bent
head, silent, working or reading, but so unutterably silent
that his heart seemed under the millstone of it, she became
herself like the upper millstone lying on him, crushing him,
as sometimes a heavy sky lies on the earth.

Yet he knew he could not tear her away from the heavy
obscurity into which she was merged. He must not try to
tear her into recognition of himself, and agreement with him-
self. It were disastrous, impious. So, let him rage as he
might, he must withhold himself. But his wrists trembled
and seemed mad, seemed as if they would burst.

When, in November, the leaves came beating against the
window shutters, with a lashing sound, he started, and his
eyes flickered with flame. The dog looked up at him, he
sunk his head to the fire. But his wife was startled. He
was aware of her listening.

" They blow up with a rattle," he said.

"What?" she asked.

"The leaves."

She sank away again. The strange leaves beating in the
wind on the wood had come nearer than she. The tension
in the room was overpowering, it was difficult for him to
move his head. He sat with every nerve, every vein, every
fibre of muscle in his body stretched on a tension. He felt
like a broken arch thrust sickeningly out from support.
For her response was gone, he thrust at nothing. And he
remained himself, he saved himself from crashing down into
nothingness, from being squandered into fragments, by sheer
tension, sheer backward resistance.

During the last months of her pregnancy, he went about
in a surcharged, imminent state that did not exhaust itself.
She was also depressed, and sometimes she cried. It needed
so much life to begin afresh, after she had lost so lavishly.
Sometimes she cried. Then he stood stiff, feeling his heart
would burst. For she did not want him, she did not want

58 THE RAINBOW

even to be made aware of him. By the very puckering of
her face he knew that he must stand back, leave her intact,
alone. For it was the old grief come back in her, the old
loss, the pain of the old life, the dead husband, the dead
children. This was sacred to her, and he must not violate
her with his comfort. For what she wanted she would come
to him. He stood aloof with turgid heart.

He had to see her tears come, fall over her scarcely moving
face, that only puckered sometimes, down on to her breast,
that was so still, scarcely moving. And there was no noise,
save now and again, when, with a strange, somnambulant
movement, she took her handkerchief and wiped her face
and blew her nose, and went on with the noiseless weeping.
He knew that any offer of comfort from himself would be
worse than useless, hateful to her, jangling her. She must
cry. But it drove him insane. His heart was scalded,
his brain hurt in his head, he went away, out of the
house.

His great and chiefest source of solace was the child.
She had been at first aloof from him, reserved. However
friendly she might seem one day, the next she would have
lapsed to her original disregard of him, cold, detached,
at her distance.

The first morning after his marriage he had discovered it
would not be so easy with the child. At the break of dawn
he had started awake hearing a small voice outside the door
saying plaintively:

" Mother ! "

He rose and opened the door. She stood on the threshold
in her night-dress, as she had climbed out of bed, black eyes
staring round and hostile, her fair hair sticking out in a wild
fleece. The man and child confronted each other.

" I want my mother," she said, jealously accenting the
"my."

" Come on then," he said gently.

"Where's my mother?"

" She's here — come on."

The child's eyes, staring at the man with ruffled hair and
beard, did not change. The mother's voice called softly.
The little bare feet entered the room with trepidation.

" Mother ! "

" Come, my dear."

The small bare feet approached swiftly.

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 59

"I wondered where you were/' came the plaintive voice.
The mother stretched out her arms. The child stood beside
the high bed. Brangwen lightly lifted the tiny girl, with an
" up-a-daisy," then took his own place in the bed again.

" Mother ! " cried the child sharply, as in anguish.

"What, my pet?"

Anna wriggled close into her mother's arms, clinging
tight, hiding from the fact of the man. Brangwen lay
still, and waited. There was a long silence.

Then suddenly, Anna looked round, as if she thought he
would be gone. She saw the face of the man lying upturned
to the ceiling. Her black eyes stared antagonistic from her
exquisite face, her arms clung tightly to her mother, afraid.
He did not move for some time, not knowing what to say.
His face was smooth and soft-skinned with love, his eyes full
of soft light. He looked at her, scarcely moving his head,
his eyes smiling.

"Have you just wakened up?" he said.

" Go away," she retorted, with a little darting forward of
the head, something like a viper.

" Nay," he answered, "" I'm not going. You can go."

"Go away," came the sharp little command.

" There's room for you," he said.

"You can't send your father from his own bed, my little
bird," said her mother, pleasantly.

The child glowered at him, miserable in her impotence.

" There's room for you as well," he said. " It's a big bed
enough."

She glowered without answering, then turned and clung to
her mother. She would not allow it.

During the day she asked her mother several times:

"When are we going home, mother?"

"We are at home, darling, we live here now. This is our
house, we live here with your father."

The child was forced to accept it. But she remained
against the man. As night came on, she asked :

"Where are you going to sleep, mother?"

"I sleep with the father now."

And when Brangwen came in, the child asked fiercely:

"Why do you sleep with my mother? My mother sleeps
with me," her voice quivering.

" You come as well, an' sleep with both of us," he coaxed.

" Mother ! " she cried, turning, appealing against him.

60 THE RAINBOW

"But I must have a husband, darling. All women must
have a husband."

" And you like to have a father with your mother, don't
you?" said Brangwen.

Anna glowered at him. She seemed to cogitate.

"No," she cried fiercely at length, "no, I don't want."
And slowly her face puckered, she sobbed bitterly. He stood
and watched her, sorry. But there could be no altering it.

Which, when she knew, she became quiet. He was easy
with her, talking to her, taking her to see the live creatures,
bringing her the first chickens in his cap, taking her to
gather the eggs, letting her throw crusts to the horse. She
would easily accompany him, and take all he had to give,
but she remained neutral still.

She was curiously, incomprehensibly jealous* of her mother,
always anxiously concerned about her. If Brangwen drove
with his wife to Nottingham, Anna ran about happily
enough, or unconcerned, for a long time. Then, as afternoon
came on, there was only one cry — "I want my mother, I

want my mother " and a bitter, pathetic sobbing that

soon had the soft-hearted Tilly sobbing too. The child's
anguish was that her mother was gone, gone.

Yet as a rule, Anna seemed cold, resenting her mother,
critical of her. It was:

"I don't like you to do that, mother," or, "I don't like
you to say that." She was a sore problem to Brangwen and
to all the people at the Marsh. As a rule, however, she was
active, lightly flitting about the farmyard, only appearing
now and again to assure herself of her mother. Happy
she never seemed, but quick, sharp, absorbed, full of imagina-
tion and changeability. Tilly said she was bewitched. But
it did not matter so long as she did not cry. There was some-
thing heartrending about Anna's crying, her childish anguish
seemed so utter and so timeless, as if it were a thing of all
the ages.

She made playmates of the creatures of the farmyard,
talking to them, telling them the stories she had from her
mother, counselling them and correcting them. Brangwen
found her at the gate leading to the paddock and to the
duckpond. She was peering through the bars and shouting
to the stately white geese, that stood in a curving line:

"You're not to call at people when they want to come.
You must not do it,"

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 61

The heavy, balanced birds looked at the fierce little face
and the fleece of keen hair thrust between the bars, and
they raised their heads and swayed off, producing the long,
can-canking, protesting noise of geese, rocking their ship-
like, beautiful white bodies in a line beyond the gate.

"You're naughty, you're naughty," cried Anna, tears of
dismay and vexation in her eyes. And she stamped her
slipper.

"Why, what are they doing?" said Brangwen.

" They won't let me come in," she said, turning her flushed
little face to him.

"Yi, they will. You can go in if you want to," and he
pushed open the gate for her.

She stood irresolute, looking at the group of bluey-
white geese standing monumental under the grey, cold
day.

" Go on," he said.

She marched valiantly a few steps in. Her little body
started convulsively at the sudden, derisive can-cank-ank of
the geese. A blankness spread over her. The geese trailed
away with uplifted heads under the low grey sky.

" They don't know you," said Brangwen. " You should
tell 'em what your name is."

"They're naughty to shout at me," she flashed.

"They think you don't live here," he said.

Later he found her at the gate calling shrilly and imperi-
ously :

" My name is Anna, Anna Lensky, and I live here, because
Mr. Brangwen's my father now. He isf yes he is. And I
live here."

This pleased Brangwen very much. And gradually, with-
out knowing it herself, she clung to him, in her lost, childish,
desolate moments, when it was good to creep up to something
big and warm, and bury her little self in his big, unlimited
being. Instinctively he was careful of her, careful to recog-
nize her and to give himself to her disposal.

She was difficult of her affections. For Tilly, she had a
childish, essential contempt, almost dislike, because the poor
woman was such a servant. The child would not let the
serving-woman attend to her, do intimate things for her, not
for a long time. She treated her as one of an inferior race.
Brangwen did not like it.

"Why aren't you fond of Tilly?" he asked.

62 THE RAINBOW

"Because — because — because she looks at me with her
eyes bent."

Then gradually she accepted Tilly as belonging to the
household, never as a person.

For the first weeks, the black eyes of the child were forever
on the watch. Brangwen, good-humoured but impatient,
spoiled by Tilly, was an easy blusterer. If for a few minutes
he upset the household with his noisy impatience, he found
at the end the child glowering at him with intense black
eyes, and she was sure to dart forward her little head, like a
serpent, with her biting:

" Go away."

" I'm not going away/' he shouted, irritated at last. " Go
yourself — hustle — stir thysen — hop." And he pointed to
the door. The child backed away from him, pale with fear.
Then she gathered up courage, seeing him become patient.

" We don't live with you" she said, thrusting forward her
little head at him. " You — you're — you're a bomakle."

"A what? "he shouted.

Her voice wavered — but it came.

"A bomakle."

"Ay, an' you're a comakle."

She meditated. Then she hissed forwards her head.

"I'm not."

"Not what?"

" A comakle."

" No more am I a bomakle."

He was really cross.

Other times she would say:

" My mother doesn't live here."

"Oh, ay?"

" I want her to go away."

" Then want's your portion," he replied laconically.

So they drew nearer together. He would take her with
him when he went out in the trap. The horse ready at the
gate, he came noisily into the house, which seemed quiet
and peaceful till he appeared to set everything awake.

" Now then, Topsy, pop into thy bonnet."

The chijd ,drew herself up, resenting the indignity of the
address.

" I can't fasten my bonnet myself," she said haughtily.

"Not man enough yet," he said, tying the ribbons under
Jier chin with clumsy fingers,

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 63

She held up her face to him. Her little bright-red lips
moved as he fumbled under her chin.

"You talk — nonsents," she said, re-echoing one of his
phrases.

" That face shouts for th' pump," he said, and taking out
a big red handkerchief, that smelled of strong tobacco, began
wiping round her mouth.

" Is Kitty waiting for me ? " she asked.

" Ay," he said. " Let's finish wiping your face — it'll pass
wi' a cat-lick."

She submitted prettily. Then, when he let her go, she
began to skip, with a curious flicking up of one leg behind
her.

" Now my young buck-rabbit," he said. " Slippy ! "

She came and was shaken into her coat, and the two set
off. She sat very close beside him in the gig, tucked tightly,
feeling his big body sway against her, very splendid. She
loved the rocking of the gig, when his big, live body swayed
upon her, against her. She laughed, a poignant little shrill
laugh, and her black eyes glowed.

She was curiously hard, and then passionately tender-
hearted. Her mother was ill, the child stole about on tip-toe
in the bedroom for hours, being nurse, and doing the thing
thoughtfully and diligently. Another day, her mother was
unhappy. Anna would stand with legs apart, glowering, bal-
ancing on the sides of her slippers. She laughed when the
goslings wriggled in Tilly's hand, as the pellets of food were
rammed down their throats with a skewer, she laughed nerv-
ously. She was hard and imperious with the animals, squand-
ering no love, running about amongst them like a cruel mis-
tress.

Summer came, and hay-harvest, Anna was a brown elfish
mite dancing about. Tilly always marvelled over her, more
than she loved her.

But always in the child was some anxious connection with
the mother. So long as Mrs. Brangwen was all right, the
little girl played about and took very little notice of her.
But corn-harvest went by, the autumn drew on, and the
mother, the later months of her pregnancy beginning, was
strange and detached, Brangwen began to knit his brows,
the old, unhealthy uneasiness, the unskinned susceptibility
came on the child again. If she went to the fields with her
father, then, instead of playing about carelessly, it was:

64 THE RAINBOW

" I want to go home."

" Home, why tha's nobbut this minute come."

" I want to go home."

"What for? What ails thee?"

" I want my mother."

" Thy mother ! Thy mother none wants thee."

" I want to go home."

There would be tears in a moment.

"Can ter find t'road, then?"

And he watched her scudding, silent and intent, along the
hedge-bottom, at a steady, anxious pace, till she turned and
was gone through the gate-way. Then he saw her two fields
off, still pressing forward, small and urgent. His face was
clouded as he turned to plough up the stubble.

The year drew on, in the hedges the berries shone red and
twinkling above bare twigs, robins were seen, great droves
of birds dashed like spray from the fallow, rooks appeared,
black and flapping down to earth, the ground was cold as he
pulled* the turnips, the roads were churned deep in mud.
Then the turnips were pitted and work was slack.

Inside the house it was dark, and quiet. The child flitted
uneasily round, and now and again came her plaintive,
startled cry:

"Mother!"

Mrs. Brangwen was heavy and unresponsive, tired, lapsed
back. Brangwen went on working out of doors.

At evening, when he came in to milk, the child would run
behind him. Then, in the cosy cow-sheds, with the doors
shut and the air looking warm by the light of the hanging
lantern, above the branching horns of the cows, she would
stand watching his hands squeezing rhythmically the teats
of the placid beast, watch the froth and the leaping squirt of
milk, watch his hand sometimes rubbing slowly, understand-
ingly, upon a hanging udder. So they kept each other com-
pany, but at a distance, rarely speaking.

The darkest days of the year came on, the child was fret-
ful, sighing as if some oppression were on her, running hither
and thither without relief. And Brangwen went about at
his work, heavy, his heart heavy as the sodden earth.

The winter nights fell early, the lamp was lighted before
tea-time, the shutters were closed, they were all shut into
the room with the tension and stress. Mrs. Brangwen went
early to bed, Anna playing on the floor beside her. Brang-

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 65

wen sat in the emptiness of the downstairs room, smoking,
scarcely conscious even of his own misery. And very often he
went out to escape it.

Christmas passed, the wet, drenched, cold days of January
recurred monotonously, with now and then a brilliance of
blue flashing in, when Brangwen went out into a morning
like crystal, when every sound rang again, and the birds
were many and sudden and brusque in the hedges. Then
an elation came over him in spite of everything, whether his
wife were strange or sad, or whether he craved for her to be
with him, it did not matter, the air rang with clear noises,
the sky was like crystal, like a bell, and the earth was hard.
Then he worked and was happy, his eyes shining, his cheeks
flushed. And the zest of life was strong in him.

The birds pecked busily round him, the horses were fresh
and ready, the bare branches of the trees flung themselves
up like a man yawning, taut with energy, the twigs radiated
off into the clear light. He was alive and full of zest for it
all. And if his wife were heavy, separated from him, extin-
guished, then, let her be, let him remain himself. Things
would be as they would be. Meanwhile he heard the ringing
crow of a cockerel in the distance, he saw the pale shell of
the moon effaced on a blue sky.

So he shouted to the horses, and was happy. If, driving
into Ilkeston, a fresh young woman were going in to do her
shopping, he hailed her, and reined in his horse, and picked
her up. Then he was glad to have her near him, his eyes
shone, his voice, laughing, teasing in a warm fashion, made
the poise of her head more beautiful, her blood ran quicker.
They were both stimulated, the morning was fine.

What did it matter that, at the bottom of his heart, was care
and pain? It was at the bottom, let it stop at the bottom.
His wife, her suffering, her coming pain — well, it must be
so. She suffered, but he was out of doors, full in life, and it
would be ridiculous, indecent, to pull a long face and to insist
on being miserable. He was happy, this morning, driving to
town, with the hoofs of the horse spanking the hard earth.
Well he was happy, if half the world were weeping at the
funeral of the other half. And it was a jolly girl sitting be-
side him. And Woman was immortal, whatever happened,
whoever turned towards death. Let the misery come when it
could not be resisted.

The evening arrived later very beautiful, with a rosy flush

66 THE RAINBOW

hovering above the sunset, and passing away into violet and
lavender, with turquoise green north and south in the sky,
and in the east, a great, yellow moon hanging heavy and
radiant. It was magnificent to walk between the sunset and
the moon, on a road where little holly trees thrust black into
the rose and lavender, and starlings flickered in droves across
the light. But what was the end of the journey? The
pain came right enough, later on, when his heart and his
feet were heavy, his brain dead, his life stopped.

One afternoon, the pains began, Mrs. Brangwen was put to
bed, the midwife came. Night fell, the shutters were closed,
Brangwen came in to tea, to the loaf and the pewter teapot,
the child, silent and quivering, playing with glass beads,
the house, empty, it seemed, or exposed to the winter night,
as if it had no walls.

Sometimes there sounded, long and remote in the house,
vibrating through everything, the moaning cry of a woman
in labour. Brangwen, sitting downstairs, was divided. His
lower, deeper self was with her, bound to her, suffering. But
the big shell of his body remembered the sound of owls that
used to fly round the farmstead when he was a boy. He
was back in his youth, a boy, haunted by the sound of the
owls, waking up his brother to speak to him. And his mind
drifted away to the birds, their solemn, dignified faces, their
flight so soft and broad-winged. And then to the birds his
brother had shot, fluffy, dust-coloured, dead heaps of soft-
ness with faces absurdly asleep. It was a queer thing, a
dead owl.

He lifted his cup to his lips, he watched the child with the
beads. But his mind was occupied with owls, and the at-
mosphere of his boyhood, with his brothers and sisters. Else-
where, fundamental, he was with his wife in labour, the child
was being brought forth out of their one flesh. He and
she, one flesh, out of which life must be put forth. The rent
was not in his body, but it was of his body. On her the
blows fell, but the quiver ran through to him, to his last
fibre. She must be torn asunder for life to come forth, yet
still they were one flesh, and still, from further back, the
life came out of him to her, and still he was the unbroken
that has the broken rock in its arms, their flesh was one rock
from which the life gushed, out of her who was smitten and
rent, from him who quivered and yielded.

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 67

He went upstairs to her. As he came to the bedside she
spoke to him in Polish.

"Is it very bad?" he asked.

She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the
effort to understand another language, the weariness of hear-
ing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he
stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew
something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him.
She closed her eyes.

He turned away, white to the gills.

" It's not so very bad/' said the midwife.

He knew he was a strain on his wife. He went down-stairs.

The child glanced up at him, frightened.

"I want my mother," she quavered.

" Ay, but she's badly," he said mildly, unheeding.

She looked at him with lost, frightened eyes.

" Has she got a headache ? "

" No — she's going to have a baby."

The child looked round. He was unaware of her. She
was alone again in terror.

" I want my mother," came the cry of panic.

" Let Tilly undress you," he said. " You're tired."

There was another silence. Again came the cry of labour.

" I want my mother," rang automatically from the wincing,
panic-stricken child, that felt cut off and lost in a horror of
desolation.

Tilly came forward, her heart wrung.

" Come an' let me undress her then, pet-lamb," she croonefl.
"You s'll have your mother in th' mornin', don't you fret,
my duckie; never mind, angel."

But Anna stood upon the sofa, her back to the wall.

"I want my mother," she cried, her little face quivering,
and the great tears of childish, utter anguish falling.

" She's poorly, my lamb, she's poorly to-night, but she'll
be better by mornin'. Oh, don't cry, don't cry, love, she
doesn't want you to cry, precious little heart, no, she doesn't."

Tilly took gently hold of the child's skirts. Anna snatched
back her dress, and cried, in a little hysteria :

"No, you're not to undress me — I want my mother," —
and her child's face was running with grief and tears, her
body shaken.

"Oh, but let Tilly undress you. Let Tilly undress you,

6$ THE RAINBOW

who loves you, don't be wilful to-night. Mother's poorly,
she doesn't want you to cry."

The child sobbed distractedly, she could not hear.

" I want my mother," she wept.

" When you're undressed, you s'll go up to see your mother
— when you're undressed, pet, when you've let Tilly undress
you, when you're a little jewel in your nightie, love. Oh,
don't you cry, don't you "

Brangwen sat stiff in his chair. He felt his brain going
tighter. He crossed over the room, aware only of the madden-
ing sobbing.

" Don't make a noise," he said.

And a new fear shook the child from the sound of his voice.
She cried mechanically, her eyes looking watchful through her
tears, in terror, alert to what might happen.

"I want — my — mother," quavered the sobbing, blind
voice.

A shiver of irritation went over the man's limbs. It was
the utter, persistent unreason, the maddening blindness of
the voice and the crying.

"You must come and be undressed," he said, in a quiet
voice that was thin with anger.

And he reached his hand and grasped her. He felt her
body catch in a convulsive sob. But he too was blind, and
intent, irritated into mechanical action. He began to un-
fasten her little apron. She would have shrunk from him,
but could not. So her small body remained in his grasp,
while he fumbled at the little buttons and tapes, unthinking,
intent, unaware of anything but the irritation of her. Her
body was held taut and resistant, he pushed off the little
dress and the petticoats, revealing the white arms. She
kept stiff, overpowered, violated, he went on with his task.
And all the while she sobbed, choking:

" I want my mother."

He was unheedingly silent, his face stiff. The child was
now incapable of understanding, she had become a little,
mechanical thing of fixed will. She wept, her body con-
vulsed, her voice repeating the same cry.

" Eh, dear o' me ! " cried Tilly, becoming distracted herself.
Brangwen, slow, clumsy, blind, intent, got off all the little
garments, and stood the child naked in its shift upon the
sofa.

"Where's her nightie?" he asked.

THEY LIVE AT THE MAfcSH 69

Tilly brought it, and he put it on her. Anna did not move
her limbs to his desire. He had to push them into place.
She stood, with fixed, blind will, resistant, a small, con-
vulsed, unchangeable thing weeping ever and repeating the
same phrase. He lifted one foot after the other, pulled off
slippers and socks. She was ready.

" Do you want a drink ? " he asked.

She did not change. Unheeding, uncaring, she stood on
the sofa, standing back, alone, her hands shut and half
lifted, her face, all tears, raised and blind. And through the
sobbing and choking came the broken :

"I — want — my — mother ."

" Do you want a drink ? " he said again.

There was no answer. He lifted the stiff, denying body
between his hands. Its stiff blindness made a flash of rage
go through him. He would like to break it.

He set the child on his knee, and sat again in his chair
beside the fire, the wet, sobbing, inarticulate noise going
on near his ear, the child sitting stiff, not yielding to him or
anything, not aware.

A new degree of anger came over him. "What did it all
matter? What did it matter if the mother talked Polish
and cried in labour, if this child were stiff with resistance,
and crying? Why take it to heart? Let the mother cry
in labour, let the child cry in resistance, since they would
do so. Why should he fight against it, why resist? Let
it be, if it were so. Let them be as they were, if they in-
sisted.

And in a daze he sat, offering no fight. The child cried
on, the minutes ticked away, a sort of torpor was on him.

It was some little time before he came to, and turned to
attend to the child. He was shocked by her little wet, blinded
face. A bit dazed, he pushed back the wet hair. Like a liv-
ing statue of grief, her blind face cried on.

" Nay/' he said, " not as bad as that. It's not as bad as
that, Anna, my child. Come, what are you crying for so
much? Come, stop now, it'll make you sick. I wipe you
dry, don't wet your face any more. Don't cry any more
wet tears, don't, it's better not to. Don't cry — it's not so
bad as all that. Hush now, hush — let it be enough."

His voice was queer and distant and calm. He looked at
the child. She was beside herself now. He wanted her to
stop, he wanted it all to stop, to become natural.

70 THE RAINBOW

" Come," he said, rising to turn away, " we'll go an' sup-
per-lip the beast."

He took a big shawl, folded her round, and went out into
the kitchen for the lantern.

" You're never taking the child out, of a night like this,"
said Tilly.

"Ay, it'll quieten her," he answered.

It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked,
finding the rain on its face, the darkness.

"We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore
they go to bed," Brangwen was saying to her, holding her
close and sure.

There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of
rain-drops sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the
lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base
of a wet wall. Otherwise it was black darkness : one breathed
darkness.

He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered
into the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were
not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the
door. They were in another world now. The light shed
softly on the timbered barn, on the white-washed walls, and
the great heap of hay ; instruments cast their shadows largely,
a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was
the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and
calmness of the barn.

Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the
food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's
grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched
what he did. A new being was created in her for the new
conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the
bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes
were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite
still.

In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving
the surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful
of food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in
the other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly,
grains and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-
lit passage behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows
pricked out of the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced
stiffly, rested the pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the
food, half to this cow, half to the next. There was a noise

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 71

of chains running, as the cows lifted or dropped their heads
sharply; then a contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing
as the beasts ate in silence.

The journey had to be performed several times. There
was the rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the
man returned walking stiffly between the two weights, the
face of the child peering out from the shawl. Then the next
time, as he stooped, she freed her arm and put it round his
neck, clinging soft and warm, making all easier.

The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box,
to arrange the child.

"Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her
breath as she spoke.

"Yes."

"Will they eat all their stuff up first?"

"Yes. Hark at them."

And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing
of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small
barn. The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall.
All outside was still in the rain. He looked down at the
silky folds of the paisley shawl. It reminded him of his
mother. She used to go to church in it. He was hack again
in the old irresponsibility and security, a boy at home.

The two sat very quiet. His mind, in a sort of trance,
seemed to become more and more vague. He held the child
close to him. A quivering little shudder, re-echoing from
her sobbing, went down her limbs. He held her closer.
Gradually she relaxed, the eyelids began to sink over her
dark, watchful eyes. As she sank to sleep, his mind became
blank.

When he came to, as if from sleep, he seemed to be sitting
in a timeless stillness. What was he listening for? He
seemed to be listening for some sound a long way off, from
beyond life. He remembered his wife. He must go back to
her. The child was asleep, the eyelids not quite shut, show-
ing a slight film of black pupil between. Why did she not
shut her eyes ? Her mouth was also a little open.

He rose quickly and went back to the house.

"Is she asleep?" whispered Tilly.

He nodded. The servant-woman came to look at the child
who slept in the shawl, with cheeks flushed hot and red, and
a whiteness, a wanness round the eyes.

" God-a-mercy ! " whispered Tilly, shaking her head."

73 THE RAINBOJ?

He pushed off Ms boots and went upstairs with the child.
He became aware of the anxiety grasped tight at his heart,
because of his wife. But he remained still. The house was
silent save for the wind outside, and the noisy trickling and
splattering of water in the water-butts. There was a slit of
light under his wife's door.

He put the child into bed wrapped as she was in the shawl,
for the sheets would be cold. Then he was afraid that she
might not be able to move her arms, so he loosened her. The
black eyes opened, rested on him vacantly, sank shut again.
He covered her up. The last little quiver from the sobbing
shook her breathing.

This was his room, the room he had had before he married.
It was familiar. He remembered what it was to be a young
man, untouched.

He remained suspended. The child slept, pushing her
email fists from the shawl. He could tell the woman her
child was asleep. But he must go to the other landing. He
started. There was the sound of the owls — the moaning
of the woman. What an uncanny sound ! It was not human
— at least to a man.

He went down to her room, entering softly. She was lying
still, with eyes shut, pale, tired. His heart leapt, fearing
she was dead. Yet he knew perfectly well she was not. He
saw the way her hair went loose over her temples, her mouth
was shut with suffering in a sort of grin. She was beautiful
to him — but it was not human. He had a dread of her as
she lay there. What had she to do with him ? She was other
than himself.

Something made him go and touch her ringers that were
still grasped on the sheet. Her brown-grey eyes opened and
looked at him. She did not know him as himself. But she
knew him as the man. She looked at him as a woman
in childbirth looks at the man who begot the child in her:
an impersonal look, in the extreme hour, female to male.
Her eyes closed again. A great, scalding peace went over him,
burning his heart and his entrails, passing off into the
infinite.

When her pains began afresh, tearing her, he turned aside,
and could not look. But his heart in torture was at peace,
his bowels were glad. He went downstairs, and to the door,
outside, lifted his face to the rain, and felt the darkness
striking unseen and steadily upon him.

THEY LIVE AT THE MARSH 73

The swift, unseen threshing of the night upon him silenced
him and he was overcome. He turned away indoors, humbly.
There was the infinite world, eternal, unchanging, as well as
the world of life.

CHAPTER III

CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY

TOM BRANGWEN never loved his own son as he loved
his step-child Anna. When they told him it was a
boy, he had a thrill of pleasure. He liked the con-
firmation of fatherhood. It gave him satisfaction to
know he had a son. But he felt not very much outgoing to
the baby itself. He was its father, that was enough.

He was glad that his wife was mother of his child. She
was serene, a little bit shadowy, as if she were transplanted.
In the birth of the child she seemed to lose connection with
her former self. She became now really English, really Mrs.
Brangwen. Her vitality, however, seemed lowered.

She was still, to Brangwen, immeasurably beautiful. She
was still passionate, with a flame of being. But the flame
was not robust and present. Her eyes shone, her face glowed
for him, but like some flower opened in the shade, that could
not bear the full light. She loved the baby. But even this,
with a sort of dimness, a faint absence about her, a shadowi-
ness even in her mother-love. When Brangwen saw her
nursing his child, happy, absorbed in it, a pain went over
him like a thin flame. For he perceived how he must subdue
himself in his approach to her. And he wanted again the
robust, moral exchange of love and passion such as he had
had at first with her, at one time and another, when they
were matched at their highest intensity. This was the one
experience for him now. And he wanted it, always, with re-
morseless craving.

She came to him again, with the same lifting her mouth as
had driven him almost mad with trammelled passion at first.
She came to him again, and, his heart delirious in delight
and readiness, he took her. And it was almost as before.

Perhaps it was quite as before. At any rate, it made him
know perfection, it established in him a constant, eternal
knowledge.

74

CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY 75

. But it died down before he wanted it to die down. She
was finished, she could take no more. And he was not ex-
hausted, he wanted to go on. But it could not be.
: So he had to begin the bitter leeson, to abate himself, to
take less than he wanted. For she was Woman to him, all
other women were her shadows. For she had satisfied him.
And he wanted it to go on. And it could not. However
he raged, and, filled with suppression that became hot and
bitter, hated her in his soul that she did not want him, how-
ever he had mad outbursts, and drank and made ugly scenes,
still he knew, he was only kicking against the pricks. It was
not, he had to learn, that she would not want him enough,
as much as he demanded that she should want him. It was
that she could not. She could only want him in her own way,
and to her own measure. And she had spent much life before
he found her as she was, the woman who could take him and
give him fulfilment. She had taken him and given him fulfil-
ment. She still would do so, in her own times and ways.
But he must control himself, measure himself to her.

He wanted to give her all his love, all his passion, all his
essential energy. But it could not be. He must find other
things than her, other centres of living. She sat close and
impregnable with the child. And he was jealous of the child.

But he loved her, and time came to give some sort of course
to his troublesome current of life, so that it did not foam and
flood and make misery. He formed another centre of love in
her child, Anna. Gradually a part of his stream of life was
diverted to the child, relieving the main flood to his wife.
Also he sought the company of men, he drank heavily now and
again.

The child ceased to have so much anxiety for her mother
after the baby came. Seeing the mother with the baby boy,
delighted and serene and secure, Anna was at first puzzled,
then gradually she became indignant, and at last her little life
settled on its own swivel, she was no more strained and dis-
torted to support her mother. She became more childish, not
so abnormal, not charged with cares she could not understand.
The charge of the mother, the satisfying of the mother, had
devolved elsewhere than on her. Gradually the child was
freed. She became an independent, forgetful little soul,
loving from her own centre.

Of her own choice, she then loved Brangwen most, or most
obviously. For these two made a little life together, they

76 THE RAINBOW

had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her
to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all
the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten
at the bottom of his brain.

At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and
she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King
Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly,
her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a
huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after
her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had
had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified
her soul.

She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a com-
plete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in
it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and
defiant with laughter. The baby was dark-skinned and dark-
haired, like the mother, and had hazel eyes. Brangwen called
him the blackbird.

"Hallo," Brangwen would cry, starting as he heard the
wail of the child announcing it wanted to be taken out of
the cradle, " there's the blackbird tuning up."

" The blackbird's singing," Anna would shout with delight,
" the blackbird's singing."

" When the pie was opened," Brangwen shouted in his bawl-
ing bass voice, going over to the cradle, "the bird began to
sing."

"Wasn't it a dainty dish to set before a king?" cried
Anna, her eyes flashing with joy as she uttered the cryptic
words, looking at Brangwen for confirmation. He sat down
with the baby, saying loudly :

" Sing up, my lad, sing up."

And the baby cried loudly, and Anna shouted lustily, danc-
ing in wild bliss :

" Sing a song of sixpence
Pocketful of posies,

AnstUn I An /-,!•> n I '»

Ascha ! Ascha !

Then she stopped suddenly in silence and looked at Brang-
wen again, her eyes flashing, as she shouted loudly and de-
lightedly :

" I've got it wrong, I've got it wrong."

" Oh, my sirs," said Tilly, entering, "what a racket! "

Brangwen hushed the child and Anna flipped and danced on.

CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY 77

She loved her wild bursts of rowdiness with her father. Tilly
hated it, Mrs. Brangwen did not mind.

Anna did not care much for other children. She domi-
neered them, she treated them as if they were extremely young
and incapable, to her they were little people, they were not her
equals. So she was mostly alone, flying round the farm, en-
tertaining the farm-hands and Tilly and the servant-girl, whir-
ring on and never ceasing.

She loved driving with Brangwen in the trap. Then, sit-
ting high up and bowling along, her passion for eminence
and dominance was satisfied. She was like a little savage in
her arrogance. She thought her father important, she was
installed beside him on high. And they spanked along, beside
the high, flourishing hedge-tops, surveying the activity of the
countryside. When people shouted a greeting to him from
the road below, and Brangwen shouted jovially back, her little
voice was soon heard shrilling along with his, followed by her
chuckling laugh, when she looked up at her father with bright
eyes, and they laughed at each other. And soon it was the
custom for the passerby to sing out: "How are ter, Tom?
Well, my lady ! " or else, " Mornin', Tom, morning my Lass ! "
or else, " You're off together then ? " or else, " You're lookin'
rarely, you two."

Anna would respond, with her father: "How are you,
John! Good mornin', William! Ay, makin' for Derby,"
shrilling as loudly as she could. Though often, in response
to "You're off out a bit then," she would reply, "Yes, we
are," to the great joy of all. She did not like the people who
saluted him and did not salute her.

She went into the p'ublic-house with him, if he had to call,
and often sat beside him in the bar-parlour as he drank his
beer or brandy. The landladies paid court to her, in the ob-
sequious way landladies have.

" Well, little lady, an' what's your name ? "

"Anna Brangwen," came the immediate, haughty answer.

"Indeed it is! An' do you like driving in a trap with
your father?"

" Yes," said Anna, shy, but bored by these inanities. She
had a touch-me-not way of blighting the inane inquiries of
grown-up people.

" My word, she's a f awce little thing," the landlady would
say to Brangwen.

" Ay," he answered, not encouraging comments on the child.

78 THE RAINBOW

Then there followed the present of a biscuit, or of cake, which
Anna accepted as her dues.

"What does she say, that I'm a fawce little thing?" the
small girl asked afterwards.

" She means you're a sharp-shins."

Anna hesitated. She did not understand. Then she
laughed at some absurdity she found.

Soon he took her every week to market with him. " I can
come, can't I?" she asked every Saturday, or Thursday morn-
ing, when he made himself look fine in his dress of a gentleman
farmer. And his face clouded at having to refuse her.

So at last, he overcame his own shyness, and tucked her
beside him. They drove into Nottingham and put up at the
Black Swan. So far all right. Then he wanted to leave
her at the inn. But he saw her face, and knew it was im-
possible. So he mustered his courage, and set off with her,
holding her hand, to the cattle-market.

She stared in bewilderment, flitting silent at his side. But
in the cattle-market she shrank from the press of men, all
men, all in heavy, filthy boots, and leathern leggins. And
the road underfoot was all nasty with cow-muck. And it
frightened her to see the cattle in the square pens, so many
horns, and so little enclosure, and such a madness of men and
a yelling of drovers. Also she felt her father was embarrassed
by her, and ill-at-ease.

He bought her a cake at the refreshment-booth, and set
her on a seat. A man hailed him.

" Good morning, Tom. That thine, then ? " — and the
bearded farmer jerked his head at Anna.

" Ay," said Brangwen, deprecating.

" I did-na know tha'd one that old."

" No, it's my missis's."

" Oh, that's it ! " And the man looked at Anna as if she
were some odd little cattle. She glowered with black eyes.

Brangwen left her there, in charge of the barman, whilst
he went to see about the selling of some young stirks. Farm-
ers, butchers, drovers, dirty, uncouth men from whom she
shrank instinctively stared down at her as she sat on her seat,
then went to get their drink, talking in unabated tones. All
was big and violent about her.

" Whose child met that be ? " they asked of the barman.

" It belongs to Tom Brangwen."

The child sat on in neglect, watching the door for her

CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY 79

father. He never came; many, many men came, but not
he, and she sat like a shadow. She knew one did not cry
in such a place. And every man looked at her inquisitively,
she shut herself away from them.

A deep, gathering coldness of isolation took hold on her.
He was never coming back. She sat on, frozen, unmoving.

When she had become blank and timeless he came, and
she slipped off her seat to him, like one come back from the
dead. He had sold his beast as quickly as he could. But
all the business was not finished. He took her again through
the hurtling welter of the cattle-market.

Then at last they turned and went out through the gate.
He was always hailing one man or another, always stopping
to gossip about land and cattle and horses and other things
she did not understand, standing in the filth and the smell,
among the legs and great boots of men. And always she
heard the questions :

" What lass is that, then? I didn't know tha'd one o' that
age."

" It belongs to my missis."

Anna was very conscious of her derivation from her mother,
in the end, and of her alienation.

But at last they were away, and Brangwen went with her
into a little dark, ancient eating-house in the Bridlesmith-
Gate. They had cow's-tail soup, and meat and cabbage and
potatoes. Other men, other people, came into the dark,
vaulted place, to eat. Anna was wide-eyed and silent with
wonder.

Then they went into the big market, into the corn ex-
change, then to shops. He bought her a little book off a
stall. He loved buying things, odd things that he thought
would be useful. Then they went to the Black Swan, and
she drank milk and he brandy, and they harnessed the horse
and drove off, up the Derby Road.

She was tired out with wonder and marvelling. But the
next day, when she thought of it, she skipped, flipping her
leg in the odd dance she did, and talked the whole time of
what had happened to her, of what she had seen. It lasted
her all the week. And the next Saturday she was eager to
go again.

She became a familiar figure in the cattle-market, sitting
waiting in the little booth. But she liked best to go to Derby.
There her father had more friends. And she liked the

80 THE RAINBOW

familiarity of the smaller town, the nearness of the river, the
strangeness that did not frighten her, it was so much smaller.
She liked the covered-in market, and the old women. She
liked the George Inn, where her father put up. The landlord
was Brangwen's old friend, and Anna was made much of. She
sat many a day in the cosy parlour talking to Mr. Wigginton,
a fat man with red hair, the landlord. And when the farmers
all gathered at twelve o'clock for dinner, she was a little
heroine.

At first she would only glower or hiss at these strange men
with their uncouth accent. But they were good-humoured.
She was a little oddity, with her fierce, fair hair like spun
glass sticking out in a flamy halo round the apple-blossom
face and the black eyes, and the men liked an oddity. She
kindled their attention.

She was very angry because Marriott, a gentleman-farmer
from Ambergate, called her the little pole-cat.

" Why, you're a pole-cat," he said to her.

" I'm not," she flashed.

" You are. That's just how a pole-cat goes."

She thought about it.

" Well, you're — you're " she began.

"I'm what?"

She looked him up and down.

" You're a bow-leg man."

Which he was. There was a roar of laughter. They loved
her that she was indomitable.

" Ah," said Marriott. " Only a pole-cat says that."

" Well, I am a, pole-cat," she flamed.

There was another roar of laughter from the men.

They loved to tease her.

" Well, me little maid," Braithwaite would say to her, " an'
how's th' lamb's wool?"

He gave a tug at a glistening, pale piece of her hair.

" It's not lamb's wool," said Anna, indignantly putting
back her offended lock.

" Why, what'st ca' it then ? "

"It's hair."

" Hair ! Wheriver dun they rear that sort ? "

" Wheriver dun they ? " she asked, in dialect, her curiosity
overcoming her.

Instead of answering he shouted with joy. It was the
triumph, to make her speak dialect.

CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY SI

She had one enemy, the man they called Nut-Nat, or Nat-
Nut, a cretin, with inturned feet, who came flap-lapping along,
shoulder jerking up at every step. This poor creature sold
nuts in the public-houses where he was known. He had no
roof to his mouth, and the men used to mock his speech.

The first time he came into the George when Anna was
there, she asked, after he had gone, her eyes very round :

" Why does he do that when he walks ? "

">E canna 'elp 'isself, Duckie, it's th' make o' th5 fellow."

She thought about it, then she laughed nervously. And
then she bethought herself, her cheeks flushed, and she cried :

" He's a horrid man."

"Nay, he's non horrid; he canna help it if he wor struck
that road."

But when poor Nat came wambling in again, she slid away.
And she would not eat his nuts, if the men bought them for
her. And when the farmers gambled at dominoes for them,
she was angry.

" They are dirty-man's nuts," she cried.

So a revulsion started against Nat, who had not long after
to go to the workhouse.

There grew in Brangwen's heart now a secret desire to
make her a lady. His brother Alfred, in Nottingham, had
caused a great scandal by becoming the lover of an educated
woman, a lady, widow of a doctor. Very often, Alfred Brang-
wen went down as a friend to her cottage, which was in Derby-
shire, leaving his wife and family for a day or two, then re-
turning to them. And no-one dared gainsay him, for he was a
strong-willed, direct man, and he said he was a friend of this
widow.

One day Brangwen met his brother on the station.

" Where are you going to, then ? " asked the younger brother.

" I'm going down to Wirksworth."

" You've got friends down there, I'm told."

"Yes."

" I s'll have to be lookin' in when I'm down that road."

" You please yourself."

Tom Brangwen was so curious about the woman that the
next time he was in Wirksworth he asked for her house.

He found a beautiful cottage on the steep side of a hill,
looking clean over the town, that lay in the bottom of the
basin, and away at the old quarries on the opposite side of
the space. Mrs. Forbes was in the garden. She was a tall

82 THE RAINBOW

woman with white hair. She came up the path taking off her
thick gloves, laying down her shears. It was autumn. She
wore a wide-brimmed hat.

Brangwen blushed to the roots of his hair, and did not
know what to say.

" I thought I might look in/' he said, " knowing you were
friends of my brother's. I had to come to Wirksworth."

She saw at once that he was a Brangwen.

" Will you come in ? " she said. " My father is lying down."

She took him into a drawing-room, full of books, with a
piano and a violin-stand. And they talked, she simply and
easily. She was full of dignity. The room was of a kind
Brangwen had never known; the atmosphere seemed open
and spacious, like a mountain-top to him.

" Does my brother like reading ? " he asked.

"Some things. He has been reading Herbert Spencer.
And we read Browning sometimes."

Brangwen was full of admiration, deep thrilling, almost
reverential admiration. He looked at her with lit-up eyes
when she said, " we read." At last he burst out, looking round
the room :

" I didn't know our Alfred was this way inclined."

"He is quite an unusual man."

He looked at her in amazement. She evidently had a
new idea of his brother: she evidently appreciated him. He
looked again at the woman. She was about forty, straight,
rather hard, a curious, separate creature. Himself, he was not
in love with her, there was something chilling about her. But
he was filled with boundless admiration.

At tea-time he was introduced to her father, an invalid who
had to be helped about, but who was ruddy and well-favoured,
with snowy hair and watery blue eyes, and a courtly naive man-
ner that again was new and strange to Brangwen, so suave, so
merry, so innocent.

His brother was this woman's lover ! It was too amazing.
Brangwen went home despising himself for his own poor way
of life. He was a clod-hopper and a boor, dull, stuck in the
mud. More than ever he wanted to clamber out, to this
visionary polite world.

He was well off. He was as well off as Alfred, who could
not have above six hundred a year, all told. He himself made
about four hundred, and could make more. His investments

CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY 8$

got better every day. Why did he not do something? His
wife was a lady also.

But when he got to the Marsh, he realized how fixed every-
thing was, how the other form of life was beyond him, and he
regretted for the first time that he had succeeded to the farm.
He felt a prisoner, sitting safe and easy and unadventuroua.
He might, with risk, have done more with himself. He could
neither read Browning nor Herbert Spencer, nor have access
to such a room as Mrs. Forbes's. All that form of life was
outside him.

But then, he said he did not want it. The excitement of
the visit began to pass off. The next day he was himself,
and if he thought of the other woman, there was something
about her and her place that he did not like, something cold,
something alien, as if she were not a woman, but an inhuman
being who used up human life for cold, unliving purposes.

The evening came on, he played with Anna, and then sat
alone with his own wife. She was sewing. He sat very still,
smoking, perturbed. He was aware of his wife's quiet figure,
and quiet dark head bent over her needle. It was too quiet
for him. It was too peaceful. He wanted to smash the walls
down, and let the night in, so that his wife should not be eo
secure and quiet, sitting there. He wished the air were not
so close and narrow. His wife was obliterated from him, she
was in her own world, quiet, secure, unnoticed, unnoticing.
He was shut down by her.

He rose to go out. He could not sit still any longer. He
must get out of this oppressive, shut-down, woman-haunt.

His wife lifted her head and looked at him.

" Are you going out? " she asked.

He looked down and met her eyes. They were darker than
darkness, and gave deeper space. He felt himself retreating
before her, defensive, whilst her eyes followed and tracked him
down.

" I was just going up to Cossethay," he said.

She remained watching him.

" Why do you go ? " she said.

His heart beat fast, and he sat down, slowly.

" No reason particular," he said, beginning to fill his pipe
again, mechanically.

" Why do you go away so often ? " she said.

" But you don't want me," he replied.

84 THE RAINBOW

She was silent for a while.

" You do not want to be with me any more," she said.

It startled him. How did she know this truth? He
thought it was his secret.

" Yi," he said.

" You want to find something else," she said.

He did not answer. " Did he ? " he asked himself.

" You should not want so much attention," she said.
" You are not a baby."

'* I'm not grumbling," he said. Yet he knew he was.

"You think you have not enough," she said.

"How enough?"

" You think you have not enough in me. But how do you
know me ? What do you do to make me love you ? "

He was flabbergasted.

" I never said I hadn't enough in you," he replied. " I
didn't know you wanted making to love me. What do you
want?"

" You don't make it good between us any more, you are not
interested. You do not make me want you."

" And you don't make me want you, do you now ? " There
was a silence. They were such strangers.

" Would you like to have another woman ? " she asked.

His eyes grew round, he did not know where he was. How
could she, his own wife, say such a thing ? But she sat there,
small and foreign and separate. It dawned upon him she did
not consider herself his wife, except in so far as they agreed.
She did not feel she had married him. At any rate, she was
willing to allow he might want another woman. A gap, a
space opened before him.

"No," he said slowly. "What other woman should I
want?"

" Like your brother," she said.

He was silent for some time, ashamed also.

" What of her ? " he said. " I didn't like the woman."

" Yes, you liked her," she answered persistently.

He stared in wonder at his own wife as she told him his
own heart so callously. And he was indignant. What right
had she to sit there telling him these things? She was his
wife, what right had she to speak to him like this, as if she
were a stranger.

" I didn't," he said. " I want no woman."

" Yes, you would like to be like Alfred."

CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY 85

His silence was one of angry frustration. He was aston-
ished. He had told her of his visit to Wirksworth, but briefly,
without interest, he thought.

As she sat with her strange dark face turned towards him,
her eyes watched him, inscrutable, casting him up. He began
to oppose her. She was again the active unknown facing him.
Must he admit her ? He resisted involuntarily.

"Why should you want to find a woman who is more to
you than me ? " she said.
, The turbulence raged in his breast.

" I don't/' he said.

"Why do you?" she repeated. "Why do you want to
deny me ? "

Suddenly, in a flash, he saw she might be lonely, isolated,
unsure. She had seemed to him the utterly certain, satisfied,
absolute, excluding him. Could she need anything ?

"Why aren't you satisfied with me? — I'm not satisfied
with you. Paul used to come to me and take me like a man
does. You only leave me alone or take me like your cattle,
quickly, to forget me again — so that you can forget me
again."

" What am I to remember about you ? " said Brangwen.

" I want you to know there is somebody there besides your-
self."

"Well, don't I know it?"

" You come to me as if it was for nothing, as if I was noth-
ing there. When Paul came to me, I was something to him —
a woman, I was. To you I am nothing — it is like cattle —
or nothing "

" You make me feel as if I was nothing," he said.

They were silent. She sat watching him. He could not
move, his soul was seething and chaotic. She turned to her
sewing again. But the sight of her bent before him held him
and would not let him be. She was a strange, hostile, domi-
nant thing. Yet not quite hostile. As he sat he felt his
limbs were strong and hard, he sat in strength.

She was silent for a long time, stitching. He was aware,
poignantly, of the round shape of her head, very intimate,
compelling. She lifted her head and sighed. The blood
burned in him, her voice ran to him like fire.

" Come here," she said, unsure.

For some moments he did not move. Then he rose slowly
and went across the hearth. It required an almost deathly

86 THE RAINBOW

effort of volition, or of acquiescence. He stood before her
and looked down at her. Her face was shining again, her
eyes were shining again like terrible laughter. It was to him
terrible, how she could be transfigured. He could not look at
her, it burnt his heart.

" My love ! " she said.

And she put her arms round him as he stood before her,
round his thighs, pressing him against her breast. And her
hands on him seemed to reveal to him the mould of his own
nakedness, he was passionately lovely to himself. He could
not bear to look at her.

" My dear ! " she said. He knew she spoke a foreign lan-
guage. The fear was like bliss in his heart. He looked down.
Her face was shining, her eyes were full of light, she was
awful. He suffered from the compulsion to her. She was the
awful unknown. He bent down to her, suffering, unable to let
go, unable to let himself go, yet drawn, driven. She was now
the transfigured, she was wonderful, beyond him. He wanted
to go. But he could not as yet kiss her. He was himself
apart. Easiest he could kiss her feet. But he was too
ashamed for the actual deed, which were like an affront. She
waited for him to meet her, not to bow before her and serve
her. She wanted his active participation, not his submission.
She put her fingers on him. And it was torture to him, that he
must give himself to her actively, participate in her, that he
must meet and embrace and know her, who was other than
himself. There was that in him which shrank from yielding
to her, resisted the relaxing towards her, opposed the mingling
with her, even whilst he most desired it. He was afraid, he
wanted to save himself.

There were a few moments of stillness. Then gradually,
the tension, the withholding relaxed in him, and he began to
flow towards her. She was beyond him, the unattainable.
But he let go his hold on himself, he relinquished himself,
and knew the subterranean force of his desire to come to her,
to be with her, to mingle with her, losing himself to find
her, to find himself in her. He began to approach her, to
draw near.

His blood beat up in waves of desire. He wanted to come
to her, to meet her. She was there, if he could reach her.
The reality of her who was just beyond him absorbed him.
Blind and destroyed, he pressed forward, nearer, nearer, to
receive the consummation of himself, be received within the

CHILDHOOD OF ANNA LENSKY 87

darkness which should swallow him and yield him up to him-
self. If he could come really within the blazing kernel of
darkness, if really he could be destroyed, burnt away till he
lit with her in one consummation, that were supreme, supreme.

Their coming together now, after two years of married life,
was much more wonderful to them than it had been before. It
was the entry into another circle of existence, it was the
baptism to another life, it was the complete confirmation.
Their feet trod strange ground of knowledge, their footsteps
were lit-up with discovery. "Wherever they walked, it was
well, the world re-echoed round them in discovery. They went
gladly and forgetful. Everything was lost, and everything
was found. The new world was discovered, it remained only
to be explored.

They had passed through the doorway into the further
space, where movement was so big, that it contained bonds
and constraints and labours, and still was complete liberty.
She was the doorway to him, he to her. At last they had
thrown open the doors, each to the other, and had stood in
the doorways facing each other, whilst the light flooded out
from behind on to each of their faces, it was the transfigura-
tion, the glorification, the admission.

Aiid always the light of the transfiguration burned on in
their hearts. He went his way, as before, she went her way,
to the rest of the world there seemed no change. But to the
two of them, there was the perpetual wonder of the trans-
figuration.

He did not know her any better, any more precisely, now
that he knew her altogether. Poland, her husband, the war
— he understood no more of this in her. He did not under-
stand her foreign nature, half German, half Polish, nor her
foreign speech. But he knew her, he knew her meaning,
without understanding. What she said, what she spoke, this
was a blind gesture on her part. In herself she walked strong
and clear, he knew her, he saluted her, was with her. What
was memory after all, but the recording of a number of possi-
bilities which had never been fulfilled? What was Paul
Lensky to her, but an unfulfilled possibility to which he,
Brangwen, was the reality and the fulfilment? What did it
matter, that Anna Lensky was born of Lydia and Paul ? God
was her father and her mother. He had passed through the
married pair without fully making Himself known to them.

Now He was declared to Brangwen and to Lydia Brang-

$8 THE RAINBOW

wen, as they stood together. When at last they had joined
hands, the house was finished, and the Lord took up his abode.
And they were glad.

The days went on as before, Brangwen went out to his
work, his wife nursed her child and attended in some measure
to the farm. They did not think of each other — why should
they? Only when she touched him, he knew her instantly,
that she was with him, near him, that she was the gateway
and the way out, that she was beyond, and that he was travel-
ling in her through the beyond. Whither? — What does it
matter? He responded always. When she called, he an-
swered, when he asked, her response came at once, or at length.

Anna's soul was put at peace between them. She looked
from one to the other, and she saw them established to her
safety, and she was free. She played between the pillar of
fire and the pillar of cloud in confidence, having the assurance
on her right hand and the assurance on her left. She was
no longer called upon to uphold with her childish might the
broken end of the arch. Her father and her mother now met
to the span of the heavens, and she, the child, was free to play
in the space beneath, between.

CHAPTER IV

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN

WHEN" Anna was nine years old, Brangwen sent her
to the dames' school in Cossethay. There she
went, flipping and dancing in her inconsequential
fashion, doing very much as she liked, disconcert-
ing old Miss Coates by her indifference to respectability and
by her lack of reverence. Anna only laughed at Miss Coates,
liked her, and patronized her in superb, childish fashion.

The girl was at once shy and wild. She had a curious
contempt for ordinary people, a benevolent superiority. She
was very shy, and tortured with misery when people did not
like her. On the other hand, she cared very little for any-
body save her mother, whom she still rather resentfully wor-
shipped, and her father, whom she loved and patronized, but
upon whom she depended. These two, her mother and father,
held her still in fee. But she was free of other people,
towards whom, on the whole, she took the benevolent atti-
tude. She deeply hated ugliness or intrusion or arrogance,
however. As a child, she was as proud and shadowy as a
tiger, and as aloof. She could confer favours, but, save from
her mother and father, she could receive none. She hated
people who came too near to her. Like a wild thing, she
wanted her distance. She mistrusted intimacy.

In Cossethay and Ilkeston she was always an alien. She
had plenty of acquaintances, but no friends. Very few people
whom she met were significant to her. They seemed part of
a herd, undistinguished. She did not take people very seri-
ously.

She had two brothers, Tom, dark-haired, small, volatile,
whom she was intimately related to but whom she never
mingled with, and Fred, fair and responsive, whom she adored
but did not consider as a real, separate being. She was too
much the centre of her own universe, too little aware of any-
thing outside.

The first person she met, who affected her as a real, living
person, whom she regarded as having definite existence, was

89

90 THE RAINBOW

Baron Skrebensky, her mother's friend. He also was a Polish
exile, who had taken orders, and had received from Mr. Glad-
stone a small country living in Yorkshire.

When Anna was about ten years old, she went with her
mother to spend a few days with the Baron Skrebensky. He
was very unhappy in his red-brick vicarage. He was vicar
of a country church, a living worth a little over two hundred
pounds a year, but he had a large parish containing several
collieries, with a new, raw, heathen population. He went
to the north of England expecting homage from the common
people, for he was an aristocrat. He was roughly, even cruelly
received. But he never understood it. He remained a fiery
aristocrat. Only he had to learn to avoid his parishioners.

Anna was very much impressed by him. He was a smallish
man with a rugged, rather crumpled face and blue eyes set
very deep and glowing. His wife was a tall thin woman, of
noble Polish family, mad with pride. He still spoke broken
English, for he had kept very close to his wife, both of them
forlorn in this strange, inhospitable country, and they always
spoke in Polish together. He was disappointed with Mrs.
Brangwen's soft, natural English, very disappointed that her
child spoke no Polish.

Anna loved to watch him. She liked the big, new, rambling
vicarage, desolate and stark on its hill. It was so exposed,
so bleak and bold after the Marsh. The Baron talked end-
lessly in Polish to Mrs. Brangwen; he made furious gestures
with his hands, his blue eyes were full of fire. And to Anna,
there was a significance about his sharp, flinging movements.
Something in her responded to his extravagance and his ex-
uberant manner. She thought him a very wonderful person.
She was shy of him, she liked him to talk to her. She felt a
sense of freedom near him.

She never could tell how she knew it, but she did know
that he was a knight of Malta. She could never remember
whether she had seen his star, or cross, of his order or not,
but it flashed in her mind, like a symbol. He at any rate
represented to the child the real world, where kings and lords
and princes moved and fulfilled their shining lives, whilst
queens and ladies and princesses upheld the noble order.

She had recognized the Baron Skrebensky as a real person,
he had had some regard for her. But when she did not see
him any more, he faded and became a memory. But as a
memory he was always alive to her.

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 91

Anna became a tall, awkward girl. Her eyes were still very
dark and quick, but they had grown careless, they had lost
their watchful, hostile look. Her fierce, spun hair turned
brown, it grew heavier and was tied back. She was sent to a
young ladies' school in Nottingham.

And at this period she was absorbed in becoming a young
lady. She was intelligent enough, but not interested in learn-
ing. At first, she thought all the girls at school very ladylike
and wonderful, and she wanted to be like them. She came to
a speedy disillusion : they galled and maddened her, they were
petty and mean. After the loose, generous atmosphere of her
home, where little things did not count, she was always uneasy
in the world, that would snap and bite at every trifle.

A quick change came over her. She mistrusted herself, she
mistrusted the outer world. She did not want to go on, she
did not want to go out into it, she wanted to go no further.

" What do I care about that lot of girls ? " she would say to
her father, contemptuously ; " they are nobody/'

The trouble was that the girls would not accept Anna at
her measure. They would have her according to themselves
or not at all. So she was confused, seduced, she became as
they were for a time, and then, in revulsion, she hated them
furiously.

" Why don't you ask some of your girls here ? " her father
would say.

" They're not coming here," she cried.

"And why not?"

" They're bagatelle," she said, using one of her mother's
rare phrases.

"Bagatelles or billiards, it makes no matter, they're nice
young lasses enough."

But Anna was not to be won over. She had a curious
shrinking from commonplace people, and particularly from
the young lady of her day. She would not go into company
because of the ill-at-ease feeling other people brought upon
her. And she never could decide whether it were her fault
or theirs. She half respected these other people, and con-
tinuous disillusion maddened her. She wanted to respect
them. Still she thought the people she did not know were
wonderful. Those she knew seemed always to be limiting her,
tying her up in little falsities that irritated her beyond bearing.
She would rather stay at home and avoid the rest of the world,
leaving it illusory.

92 THE RAINBOW

For at the Marsh life had indeed a certain freedom and
largeness. There was no, fret about money, no mean little
precedence, nor care for what other people thought, because
neither Mrs. Brangwen nor Brangwen could be sensible of any
judgment passed on them from outside. Their lives were
too separate.

So Anna was only easy at home, where the common sense
and the supreme relation between her parents produced a
freer standard of being than she could find outside. Where,
outside the Marsh, could she find the tolerant dignity she
had been brought up in? Her parents stood undiminished
and unaware of criticism. The people she met outside seemed
to begrudge her her very existence. They seemed to want to
belittle her also. She was exceedingly reluctant to go amongst
them. She depended upon her mother and her father. And
yet she wanted to go out.

At school, or in the world, she was usually at fault, she
felt usually that she ought to be slinking in disgrace. She
never felt quite sure, in herself, whether she were wrong, or
whether the others were wrong. She had not done her lessons :
well, she did not see any reason why she should do her lessons,
if she did not want to. Was there some occult reason why she
should? Were these people, schoolmistresses, representatives
of some mystic Eight, some Higher Good? They seemed to
think so themselves. But she could not for her life see why a
woman should bully and insult her because she did not know
thirty lines of " As You Like It/' After all, what did it mat-
ter if she knew them or not ? Nothing could persuade her that
it was of the slightest importance. Because she despised in-
wardly the coarsely working nature of the mistress. Therefore
she was always at outs with authority. From constant telling,
she came almost to believe in her own badness, her own intrinsic
inferiority. She felt that she ought always to be in a state of
slinking disgrace, if she fulfilled what was expected of her.
But she rebelled. She never really believed in her own bad-
ness. At the bottom of her heart she despised the other people,
who carped and were loud over trifles. She despised them,
and wanted revenge on them. She hated them whilst they had
power over her.

Still she kept an ideal: a free, proud lady absolved from
the petty ties, existing beyond petty considerations. She
would see such ladies in pictures: Alexandra, Princess of
Wales, was one of her models. This lady was proud and

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 93

royal, and stepped indifferently over all small, mean desires:
so thought Anna, in her heart. And the girl did up her hair
high under a little slanting hat, her skirts were fashionably
bunched up, she wore an elegant, skin-fitting coat.

Her father was delighted. Anna was very proud in her
bearing, too naturally indifferent to smaller bonds to satisfy
Ilkeston, which would have liked to put her down. But
Brangwen was having no such thing. If she chose to be
royal, royal she should be. He stood like a rock between her
and the world.

After the fashion of his family, he grew stout and hand-
some. His blue eyes were full of light, twinkling and sensi-
tive, his manner was deliberate, but hearty, warm. Hie capac-
ity for living his own life without attention from his neigh-
bours made them respect him. They would run to do anything
for him. He did not consider them, but was open-handed
towards them, so they made profit of their willingness. He
liked people, so long as they remained in the background.

Mrs. Brangwen went on in her own way, following her own
devices. She had her husband, her two sons and Anna.
These staked out and marked her horizon. The other people
were outsiders. Inside her own world, her life passed along
like a dream for her, it lapsed, and she lived within its lapse,
active and always pleased, intent. She scarcely noticed the
outer things at all. What was outside was outside, non-
existent. She did not mind if the boys fought, so long as it
was out of her presence. But if they fought when she was by,
she was angry, and they were afraid of her. She did not care
if they broke a window of a railway carriage or sold their
watches to have a revel at the Goose Fair. Brangwen was per-
haps angry over these things. To the mother they were in-
significant. It was odd little things that offended her. She
was furious if the boys hung round the slaughter-house, she was
displeased when the school reports were bad. It did not mat-
ter how many sins her boys were accused of, so long as they
were not stupid, or inferior. If they seemed to brook insult,
she hated them. And it was only a certain gaucherie, a gawki-
ness on Anna's part that irritated her against the girl. Cer-
tain forms of clumsiness, grossness, made the mother's eyes
glow with curious rage. Otherwise she was pleased, indif-
ferent.

Pursuing her splendid-lady ideal, Anna became a lofty
demoiselle of sixteen, plagued by family shortcomings. She

94 THE RAINBOW

was very sensitive to her father. She knew if he had been
drinking, were he ever so little affected, and she could not
bear it. He flushed when he drank, the veins stood out on
his temples, there was a twinkling, cavalier boisterousness in
his eyes, his manner was jovially overbearing and mocking.
And it angered her. When she heard his loud, roaring, bois-
terous mockery, an anger of resentment filled her. She was
quick to forestall him, the moment he came in.

" You look a sight, you do, red in the face," she cried.

" I might look worse if I was green," he answered.

"Boozing in Ilkeston."

" And what's wrong wi' IPson? "

She flounced away. He watched her with amused, twin-
kling eyes, yet in spite of himself said that she flouted him.

They were a curious family, a law to themselves, separate
from the world, isolated, a small republic set in invisible
bounds. The mother was quite indifferent to Ilkeston and
Cossethay, to any claims made on her from outside, she was
very shy of any outsider, exceedingly courteous, winning even.
But the moment a visitor had gone, she laughed and dis-
missed him, he did not exist. It had been all a game to
her. She was still a foreigner, unsure of her ground. But
alone with her own children and husband at the Marsh, she
was mistress of a little native land that lacked nothing.

She had some beliefs somewhere, never defined. She had
been brought up a Eoman Catholic. She had gone to the
Church of England for protection. The outward form was
a matter of indifference to her. Yet she had some funda-
mental religion. It was as if she worshipped God as a mys-
tery, never seeking in the least to define what He was.

And inside her, the subtle sense of the Great Absolute
wherein she had her being was very strong. The English
dogma never reached her: the language was too foreign.
Through it all she felt the great Separator who held life in
His hands, gleaming, imminent, terrible, the Great Mystery,
immediate beyond all telling.

She shone and gleamed to the Mystery, Whom she knew
through all her senses, she glanced with strange, mystic
superstitions that never found expression in the English lan-
guage, never mounted to thought in English. But so she
lived, within a potent, sensuous belief that included her family
and contained her destiny.

To this she had reduced her husband, He. existed with

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 95

her entirely indifferent to the general values of the world.
Her very ways, the very mark of her eyebrows were symbols
and indication to him. There, on the farm with her, he lived
through a mystery of life and death and creation, strange,
profound ecstasies and incommunicable satisfactions, of which
the rest of the world knew nothing; which made the pair of
them apart and respected in the English village, for they were
also well-to-do.

But Anna was only half safe within her mother's unthinking
knowledge. She had a mother-of-pearl rosary that had been
her own father's. What it meant to her she could never say.
But the string of moonlight and silver, when she had it be-
tween her fingers, filled her with strange passion. She learned
at school a little Latin, she learned an Ave Maria and a Pater
Noster, she learned how to say her rosary. But that was no
good. " Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, Benedicta
tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. Ave
Maria, Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in
hora mortis nostrae, Amen."

It was not right, somehow. What these words meant when
translated was not the same as the pale rosary meant. There
was a discrepancy, a falsehood. It irritated her to say,
"Dominus tecum," or, "benedicta tu in mulieribus." She
loved the mystic words, " Ave Maria, Sancta Maria ; " she was
moved by "benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus," and by
" nunc et in hora mortis nostrae." But none of it was quite
real. It was not satisfactory, somehow.

She avoided her rosary, because, moving her with curious
passion as it did, it meant only these not very significant
things. She put it away. It was her instinct to put all these
things away. It was her instinct to avoid thinking, to avoid
it, to save herself.

She was seventeen, touchy, full of spirits, and very moody :
quick to flush, and always uneasy, uncertain. For some reason
or other, she turned more to her father, she felt almost flashes
of hatred for her mother. Her mother's dark muzzle and
curiously insidious ways, her mother's utter surety and confi-
dence, her strange satisfaction, even triumph, her mother's
way of laughing at things and her mother's silent overriding of
vexatious propositions, most of all her mother's triumphant
power maddened the girl.

She became sudden and incalculable. Often she stood at the
window, looking out, as if she wanted to go. Sometimes she

96 THE RAINBOW

went, she mixed with people. But always she came home in
anger, as if she were diminished, belittled, almost degraded.

There was over the house a kind of dark silence and in-
tensity, in which passion worked its inevitable conclusions.
There was in the house a sort of richness, a deep, inarticulate
interchange which made other places seem thin and unsatisfy-
ing. Brangwen could sit silent, smoking in his chair, the
mother could move about in her quiet, insidious way, and the
sense of the two presences was powerful, sustaining. The
whole intercourse was wordless, intense and close.

But Anna was uneasy. She wanted to get away. Yet
wherever she went, there came upon her that feeling of thin-
ness, as if she were made smaller, belittled. She hastened
home.

There she raged and interrupted the strong, settled inter-
change. Sometimes her mother turned on her with a fierce,
destructive anger, in which was no pity or consideration. And
Anna shrank, afraid. She went to her father.

He would still listen to the spoken word, which fell sterile
on the unheeding mother. Sometimes Anna talked to her
father. She tried to discuss people, she wanted to know
what was meant. But her father became uneasy. He did
not want to have things dragged into consciousness. Only
out of consideration for her he listened. And there was a
kind of bristling rousedness in the room. The cat got up and
stretching itself, went uneasily to the door. Mrs. Brangwen
was silent, she seemed ominous. Anna could not go on with
her fault-finding, her criticism, her expression of dissatisfac-
tions. She felt even her father against her. He had a strong,
dark bond with her mother, a potent intimacy that existed in-
articulate and wild, following its own course, and savage if
interrupted, uncovered.

Nevertheless Brangwen was uneasy about the girl, the whole
house continued to be disturbed. She had a pathetic, baffled
appeal. She was hostile to her parents, even whilst she lived
entirely with them, within their spell.

Many ways she tried, of escape. She became an assiduous
church-goer. But the language meant nothing to her: it
seemed false. She hated to hear things expressed, put into
words. Whilst the religious feelings were inside her they
were passionately moving. In the mouth of the clergyman,
they were false, indecent. She tried to read. But again
the tedium and the sense of the falsity of the spoken word

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 97

put her off. She went to stay with girl friends. At first
she thought it splendid. But then the inner boredom came
on, it seemed to her all nothingness. And she felt always
belittled, as if never, never could she stretch her length and
stride her stride.

Her mind reverted often to the torture cell of a certain
Bishop of France, in which the victim could neither stand
nor lie stretched out, never. Not that she thought of herself
in any connection with this. But often there came into her
mind the wonder, how the cell was built, and she could feel
the horror of the crampedness, as something very real.

She was, however, only eighteen when a letter came from
Mrs. Alfred Brangwen, in Nottingham, saying that her son
William was coming to Ilkeston to take a place as junior
draughtsman, scarcely more than apprentice, in a lace factory.
He was twenty years old, and would the Marsh Brangwens be
friendly with him.

Tom Brangwen at once wrote offering the young man a
home at the Marsh. This was not accepted, but the Notting-
ham Brangwens expressed gratitude.

There had never been much love lost between the Notting-
ham Brangwens and the Marsh. Indeed, Mrs. Alfred, having
inherited three thousand pounds, and having occasion to be
dissatisfied with her husband, held aloof from all the Brang-
wens whatsoever. She affected, however, some esteem of Mrs.
Tom, as she called the Polish woman, saying that at any rate
she was a lady.

Anna Brangwen was faintly excited at the news of her
Cousin Will's coming to Ilkeston. She knew plenty of young
men, but they had never become reaj. to her. She had seen in
this young gallant a nose she liked, in that a pleasant mous-
tache, in the other a nice way of wearing clothes, in one a
ridiculous fringe of hair, in another a comical way of talking.
They were objects of amusement and faint wonder to her,
rather than real beings, the young men.

The only man she knew was her father ; and, as he was some-
thing large, looming, a kind of Godhead, he embraced all man-
hood for her, and other men were just incidental.

She remembered her cousin Will. He had town clothes and
was thin, with a very curious head, black as jet, with hair like
sleek, thin fur. It was a curious head: it reminded her she
knew not of what: of some animal, some mysterious animal
that lived in the darkness under the leaves and never came out,

98 THE RAINBOW

but which lived vividly, swift and intense. She always thought
of him with that black, keen, blind head. And she considered
him odd.

He appeared at the Marsh one Sunday morning: a rather
long, thin youth with a bright face and a curious self-possession
among his shyness, a native unawareness of what other people
might be, since he was himself.

When Anna came downstairs in her Sunday clothes, ready
for church, he rose and greeted her conventionally, shaking
hands. His manners were better than hers. She flushed.
She noticed that he now had a black fledge on his upper lip, a
black, finely-shapen line marking his wide mouth. It rather
repelled her. It reminded her of the thin, fine fur of his hair.
She was aware of something strange in him.

His voice had rather high upper notes, and very resonant
middle notes. It was queer. She wondered why he did it.
But he sat very naturally in the Marsh living-room. He had
some uncouthness, some natural self-possession of the Brang-
wens, that made him at home there.

Anna was rather troubled by the strangely intimate, affec-
tionate way her father had towards this young man. He
seemed gentle towards him, he put himself aside in order to
fill out the young man. This irritated Anna.

" Father/' she said abruptly, " give me some collection."

" What collection ? " asked Brangwen.

" Don't be ridiculous," she cried, flushing.

" Nay," he said, " what collection's this ? "

" You know it's the first Sunday of the month."

Anna stood confused. Why was he doing this, why was he
making her conspicuous before this stranger !

" I want some collection," she reasserted.

" So tha says," he replied indifferently, looking at her, then
turning again to his nephew.

She went forward, and thrust her hand into his breeches
pocket. He smoked stolidly, making no resistance, talking to
his nephew. Her hand groped about in his pocket, and then
drew out his leathern purse. Her colour was bright in her
clear cheeks, her eyes shone. Brangwen's eyes were twin-
kling. The nephew sat sheepishly. Anna, in her finery, sat
down and slid all the money into her lap. There was silver
and gold. The youth could not help watching her. She was
bent over the heap of money, fingering the different coins.

" I've a good mind to take half-a-sovereign," she said, and

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BBANGWEN 99

she looked up with glowing dark eyes. She met the light-
brown eyes of her cousin, close and intent upon her. She
was startled. She laughed quickly, and turned to her father.

" I've a good mind to take half-a-sovereign, our Dad," she
said.

" Yes, nimble fingers," said her father. " You take what's
your own."

"Are you coming, our Anna?" asked her brother from
the door.

She suddenly chilled to normal, forgetting both her father
and her cousin.

" Yes, I'm ready," she said, taking sixpence from the heap
of money and sliding the rest back into the purse, which she
laid on the table.

" Give it here," said her father.

Hastily she thrust the purse into his pocket and was going
out.

" You'd better go wi' 'em, lad, hadn't you ? " said the father
to the nephew.

Will Brangwen rose uncertainly. He had golden-brown,
quick, steady eyes, like a bird's, like a hawk's, which cannot
look afraid.

" Your Cousin "Will '11 come with you," said the father.

Anna glanced at the strange youth again. She felt him
waiting there for her to notice him. He was hovering on
the edge of her consciousness, ready to come in. She did
not want to look at him. She was antagonistic to him.

She waited without speaking. Her cousin took his hat
and joined her. It was summer outside. Her brother Fred
was plucking a sprig of flowering currant to put in his coat,
from the bush at the angle of the house. She took no notice.
Her cousin followed just behind her.

They were on the highroad. She was aware of a strange-
ness in her being. It made her uncertain. She caught sight
of the flowering currant in her brother's buttonhole.

" Oh, our Fred," she cried. " Don't wear that stuff to go
to church."

Fred looked down protectively at the pink adornment on
his breast.

" Why, I like it," he said.

"Then you're the only one who does, I'm sure," she said.

And she turned to her cousin.

" Do you like the smell of it ? " she asked.

100 THE RAINBOW

He was there beside her, tall and uncouth and yet self-
possessed. It excited her.

" I can't say whether I do or not/' he replied.

"Give it here, Fred, don't have it smelling in church/'
she said to the little boy, her page.

Her fair, small brother handed her the flower dutifully.
She sniffed it and gave it without a word to her cousin, for
his judgment. He smelled the dangling flower curiously.

" It's a funny smell," he said.

And suddenly she laughed, and a quick light came on all
their faces, there was a blithe trip in the small boy's walk.

The bells were ringing, they were going up the summery
hill in their Sunday clothes. Anna was very fine in a silk
frock of brown and white stripes, tight along the arms and
the body, bunched up very elegantly behind the skirt. There
was something of the cavalier about Will Brangwen, and he
was well dressed.

He walked along with the sprig of currant-blossom dangling
between his fingers, and none of them spoke. The sun shone
brightly on little showers of buttercup down the bank, in the
fields the fool's-parsley was foamy, held very high and proud
above a number of flowers that flitted in the greenish twilight
of the mowing-grass below.

They reached the church. Fred led the way to the pew,
followed by the cousin, then Anna. She felt very conspicuous
and important. Somehow, this young man gave her away
to other people. He stood aside and let her pass to her place,
then sat next to her. It was a curious sensation, to sit next
to him.

The colour came streaming from the painted window above
her. It lit on the dark wood of the pew, on the stone, worn
aisle, on the pillar behind her cousin, and on her cousin's
hands, as they lay on his knees. She sat amid illumination,
illumination and luminous shadow all around her, her soul
very bright. She sat, without knowing it, conscious of the
hands and motionless knees of her cousin. Something strange
had entered into her world, something entirely strange and
unlike what she knew.

She was curiously elated. She sat in a glowing world of
unreality, very delightful. A brooding light, like laughter,
was in her eyes. She was aware of a strange influence enter-
ing in to her, which she enjoyed. It was a dark enrichening

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 101

influence she had not known before. She did not think of
her cousin. But she was startled when his hands moved.

She wished he would not say the responses so plainly. It
diverted her from her vague enjoyment. Why would he
obtrude, and draw notice to himself? It was bad taste.
But she went on all right till the hymn came. He stood up
beside her to sing, and that pleased her. Then suddenly, at
the very first word, his voice came strong and over-riding,
filling the church. He was singing the tenor. Her soul
opened in amazement. His voice filled the church ! It rang
out like a trumpet, and rang out again. She started to giggle
over her hymn-book. But he went on, perfectly steady. Up
and down rang his voice, going its own way. She was help-
lessly shocked into laughter. Between moments of dead si-
lence in herself she shook with laughter. On came the laugh-
ter, seized her and shook her till the tears were in her eyes.
She was amazed, and rather enjoyed it. And still the hymn
rolled on, and still she laughed. She bent over her hymn-
book crimson with confusion, but still her sides shook with
laughter. She pretended to cough, she pretended to have a
crumb in her throat. Fred was gazing up at her with clear
blue eyes. She was recovering herself. And then a slur in
the strong, blind voice at her side brought it all on again, in a
gust of mad laughter.

She bent down to prayer in cold reproof of herself. And
yet, as she knelt, little eddies of giggling went over her. The
very sight of his knees on the praying cushion sent the little
shock of laughter over her.

She gathered herself together and sat with prim, pure face,
white and pink and cold as a Christmas rose, her hands in
her silk gloves folded on her lap, her dark eyes all vague,
abstracted in a sort of dream, oblivious of everything.

The sermon rolled on vaguely, in a tide of pregnant peace.

Her cousin took out his pocket-handkerchief. He seemed
to be drifted absorbed into the sermon. He put his hand-
kerchief to his face. Then something dropped on to his
knee. There lay the bit of flowering currant ! He was look-
ing down at it in real astonishment. A wild snirt of laughter
came from Anna. Everybody heard : it was torture. He had
shut the crumpled flower in his hand and was looking up again
with the same absorbed attention to the sermon. Another
snirt of laughter from Anna. Fred nudged her remindingly.

102 THE RAINBOW

Her cousin sat motionless. Somehow she was aware that his
face was red. She could feel him. His hand, closed over
the flower, remained quite still, pretending to be normal.
Another wild struggle in Anna's breast, and the snirt of
laughter. She bent forward shaking with laughter. It was
now no joke. Fred was nudge-nudging at her. She nudged
him back fiercely. Then another vicious spasm of laughter
seized her. She tried to ward it off in a little cough. The
cough ended in a suppressed whoop. She wanted to die.
And the closed hand crept away to the pocket. Whilst she sat
in taut suspense, the laughter rushed back at her, knowing he
was fumbling in his pocket to shove the flower away.

In the end, she felt weak, exhausted and thoroughly de-
pressed. A blankness of wincing depression came over her.
She hated the presence of the other people. Her face became
quite haughty. She was unaware of her cousin any more.

When the collection arrived with the last hymn, her cousin
was again singing resoundingly. And still it amused her.
In spite of the shameful exhibition she had made of herself, it
amused her still. She listened to it in a spell of amusement.
And the bag was thrust in front of her, and her sixpence was
mingled in the folds of her glove. In her haste to get it out,
it flipped away and went twinkling in the next pew. She
stood and giggled. She could not help it : she laughed out-
right, a figure of shame.

" What were you laughing about, our Anna ? " asked Fred,
the moment they were out of the church.

" Oh, I couldn't help it," she said, in her careless, half- .
mocking fashion. " I don't know why Cousin Will's singing
set me off."

" What was there in my singing to make you laugh ? " he
asked.

" It was so loud," she said.

They did not look at each other, but they both laughed
again, both reddening.

"What were you snorting and laughing for, our Anna?"
asked Tom, the elder brother, at the dinner table, his hazel
eyes bright with joy. "Everybody stopped to look at you."
Tom was in the choir.

She was aware of Will's eyes shining steadily upon her,
waiting for her to speak.

" It was Cousin Will's singing," she said.

At which her cousin burst into a suppressed, chuckling

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 103

laugh, suddenly showing all his small, regular, rather sharp
teeth, and just as quickly closing his mouth again.

" Has he got such a remarkable voice on him then ? " asked
Brangwen.

" No, it's not that," said Anna. " Only it tickled me — I
couldn't tell you why/'

And again a ripple of laughter went down the table.

Will Brangwen thrust forward his dark face, his eyes
dancing, and said :

" I'm in the choir of St. Nicholas."

" Oh, you go to church then ! " said Brangwen.

" Mother does — father doesn't," replied the youth.

It was the little things, his movement, the funny tones of
his voice, that showed up big to Anna. The matter-of-fact
things he said were absurd in contrast. The things her father
said seemed meaningless and neutral.

During the afternoon they sat in the parlour, that smelled
of geranium, and they ate cherries, and talked. Will Brang-
wen was called on to give himself forth. And soon he was
drawn out.

He was interested in churches, in church architecture. The
influence of Ruskin had stimulated him to a pleasure in the
medieval forms. His talk was fragmentary, he was only half
articulate. But listening to him, as he spoke of church after
church, of nave and chancel and transept, of rood-screen and
font, of hatchet-carving and moulding and tracery, speaking
always with close passion of particular things, particular
places, there gathered in her heart a pregnant hush of churches,
a mystery, a ponderous significance of bowed stone, a dim-
coloured light through which something took place obscurely,
passing into darkness: a high, delighted framework of the
mystic screen, and beyond, in the furthest beyond, the altar.
It was a very real experience. She was carried away. And
the land seemed to be covered with a vast, mystic church, re-
served in gloom, thrilled with an unknown Presence.

Almost it hurt her, to look out of the window and see the
lilacs towering in the vivid sunshine. Or was this the jewelled
glass ?

He talked of Gothic and Renaissance and Perpendicular,
and Early English and Norman. The words thrilled her.

" Have you been to Southwell ? " he said. " I was there
at twelve o'clock at midday, eating my lunch in the church-
yard. And the bells played a hymn.

104 THE RAINBOW

" Ay, it's a fine Minster, Southwell, heavy. It's got heavy,
round arches, rather low, on thick pillars. It's grand, the way
those arches travel forward.

" There's a sedilia as well — pretty. But I like the main
body of the church — and that north porch "

He was very much excited and filled with himself that after-
noon. A flame kindled round him, making his experience
passionate and glowing, burningly real.

His uncle listened with twinkling eyes, half-moved. His
aunt bent forward her dark face, half-moved, but held by
other knowledge. Anna went with him.

He returned to his lodging at night treading quick, his eyes
glittering, and his face shining darkly as if he came from some
passionate, vital tryst.

The glow remained in him, the fire burned, his heart was
fierce like a sun. He enjoyed his unknown life and his own
self. And he was ready to go back to the Marsh.

Without knowing it, Anna was wanting him to come. In
him she had escaped. In him the bounds of her experience
were transgressed : he was the hole in the wall, beyond which
the sunshine blazed on an outside world.

He came. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, talking
again, there recurred the strange, remote reality which carried
everything before it. Sometimes, he talked of his father,
whom he hated with a hatred that was burningly close to love,
of his mother, whom he loved, with a love that was keenly close
to hatred, or to revolt. His sentences were clumsy, he was
only half articulate. But he had the wonderful voice, that
could ring its vibration through the girl's soul, transport her
into his feeling. Sometimes his voice was hot and declama-
tory, sometimes it had a strange, twanging, almost catlike
sound, sometimes it hesitated, puzzled, sometimes there was
the break of a little laugh. Anna was taken by him. She
loved the running flame that coursed through her as she lis-
tened to him. And his mother and his father became to her
two separate people in her life.

For some weeks the youth came frequently, and was re-
ceived gladly by them all. He sat amongst them, his dark
face glowing, an eagerness and a touch of derisiveness on his
wide mouth, something grinning and twisted, his eyes always
shining like a bird's, utterly without depth. There was no
getting hold of the fellow, Brangwen irritably thought. He

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 105

was like a grinning young tom-cat, that came when he thought
he would, and without cognizance of the other person.

At first the youth had looked towards Tom Brangwen when
he talked ; and then he looked towards his aunt, for her appre-
ciation, valuing it more than his uncle's; and then he turned
to Anna, because from her he got what he wanted, which was
not in the elder people.

So that the two young people, from being always attendant
on the elder, began to draw apart and establish a separate
kingdom. Sometimes Tom Brangwen was irritated. His
nephew irritated him. The lad seemed to him too special, self-
contained. His nature was fierce enough, but too much ab-
stracted, like a separate thing, like a cat's nature. A cat could
lie perfectly peacefully on the hearthrug whilst its master or
mistress writhed in agony a yard away. It had nothing to do
with other people's affairs. What did the lad really care
about anything, save his own instinctive affairs?

Brangwen was irritated. Nevertheless he liked and re-
spected his nephew. Mrs. Brangwen was irritated by Anna,
who was suddenly changed, under the influence of the youth.
The mother liked the boy : he was not quite an outsider. But
she did not like her daughter to be so much under the spell.

So that gradually the two young people drew apart, escaped
from the elders, to create a new thing by themselves. He
worked in the garden to propitiate his uncle. He talked
churches to propitiate his aunt. He followed Anna like a
shadow: like a long, persistent, unswerving black shadow he
went after the girl. It irritated Brangwen exceedingly. It
exasperated him beyond bearing, to see the lit-up grin, the cat-
grin as he called it, on his nephew's face.

And Anna had a new reserve, a new independence. Sud-
denly she began to act independently of her parents, to live
beyond them. Her mother had flashes of anger.

But the courtship went on. Anna would find occasion to
go shopping in Ilkeston at evening. She always returned
with her cousin ; he walking with his head over her shoulder,
a little bit behind her, like the Devil looking over Lincoln,
as Brangwen noted angrily and yet with satisfaction.

To his own wonder, Will Brangwen found himself in an
electric state of passion. To his wonder, he had stopped her
at the gate as they came home from Ilkeston one night, and
had kissed her, blocking her way and kissing her whilst he

106 THE RAINBOW

felt as if some blow were struck at him in the dark. And
when they went indoors, he was acutely angry that her parents
looked up scrutinizingly at him and her. What right had
they there: why should they look up! Let them remove
themselves, or look elsewhere.

And the youth went home with the stars in heaven whirling
fiercely about the blackness of his head, and his heart fierce,
insistent, but fierce as if he felt something baulking him.
He wanted to smash through something.

A spell was cast over her. And how uneasy her parents
were, as she went about the house unnoticing, not noticing
them, moving in a spell as if she were invisible to them. She
was invisible to them. It made them angry. Yet they had
to submit. She went about absorbed, obscured for a while.

Over him too the darkness of obscurity settled. He seemed
to be hidden in a tense, electric darkness, in which his soul,
his life was intensely active, but without his aid or attention.
His mind was obscured. He worked swiftly and mechanically,
and he produced some beautiful things.

His favourite work was wood-carving. The first thing he
made for her was a butter-stamper. In it he carved a mytho-
logical bird, a phoenix, something like an eagle, rising on
symmetrical wings, from a circle of very beautiful flickering
flames that rose upwards from the rim of the cup.

Anna thought nothing of the gift on the evening when he
gave it to her. In the morning, however, when the butter
was made, she fetched his seal in place of the old wooden
stamper of oak-leaves and acorns. She was curiously excited
to see how it would turn out. Strange, the uncouth bird
moulded there, in the cup-like hollow, with curious, thick
waverings running inwards from a smooth rim. She pressed
another mould. Strange, to lift the stamp and see that eagle-
beaked bird raising its breast to her. She loved creating it
over and over again. And every time she looked, it seemed a
new thing come to life. Every piece of butter became this
strange, vital emblem.

She showed it to her mother and father.

" That is beautiful/' said her mother, a little light coming
on to her face.

" Beautiful ! " exclaimed the father, puzzled, fretted.
"Why, what sort of a bird does he call it?"

And this was the question put by the customers during the
next weeks.

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 107

" What sort of a bird do you call that, as you've got on th'
butter?"

When he came in the evening, she took him into the dairy
to show him.

"Do you like it?" he asked, in his loud, vibrating voice
that always sounded strange, re-echoing in the dark places of
her being.

They very rarely touched each other. They liked to be
alone together, near to each other, but there was still a dis-
tance between them.

In the cool dairy the candle-light lit on the large, white
surfaces of the cream pans. He turned his head sharply. It
was so cool and remote in there, so remote. His mouth was
open in a little, strained laugh. She stood with her head
bent, turned aside. He wanted to go near to her. He had
kissed her once. Again his eye rested on the round blocks
of butter, where the emblematic bird lifted its breast from
the shadow cast by the candle flame. What was restraining
him? Her breast was near him; his head lifted like an
eagle's. She did not move. Suddenly, with an incredibly
quick, delicate movement, he put his arms round her and
drew her to him. It was quick, cleanly done, like a bird that
swoops and sinks close, closer.

He was kissing her throat. She turned and looked at him.
Her eyes were dark and flowing with fire. His eyes were hard
and bright with a fierce purpose and gladness, like a hawk's.
She felt him flying into the dark space of her flames, like a
brand, like a gleaming hawk.

They had looked at each other, and seen each other strange,
yet near, very near, like a hawk stooping, swooping, dropping
into a flame of darkness. So she took the candle and they
went back to the kitchen.

They went on in this way for some time, always coming
together, but rarely touching, very seldom did they kiss.
And then, often, it was merely a touch of the lips, a sign.
But her eyes began to waken with a constant fire, she paused
often in the midst of her transit, as if to recollect something,
or to discover something.

And his face became sombre, intent, he did not readily hear
what was said to him.

One evening in August he came when it was raining. He
came in with his jacket collar turned up, his jacket buttoned
close, his face wet. And he looked so slim and definite,

108 THE RAINBOW

coming out of the chill rain, she was suddenly blinded with
love for him. Yet he sat and talked with her father and
mother, meaninglessly, whilst her blood seethed to anguish in
her. She wanted to touch him now, only to touch him.

There was the queer, abstract look on her silvery radiant
face that maddened her father, her dark eyes were hidden.
But she raised them to the youth. And they were dark with
a flare that made him quail for a moment.

She went into the second kitchen and took a lantern. Her
father watched her as she returned.

" Come with me, Will," she said to her cousin. " I want
to see if I put the brick over where that rat comes in."

"You've no need to do that," retorted her father. She
took no notice. The youth was between the two wills. The
colour mounted into the father's face, his blue eyes stared.
The girl stood near the door, her head held slightly back,
like an indication that the youth must come. He rose, in
his silent, intent way, and was gone with her. The blood
swelled in Brangwen's forehead veins.

It was raining. The light of the lantern flashed on the
cobbled path and the bottom of the wall. She came to a
small ladder, and climbed up. He reached her the lantern,
and followed. Up there in the fowl-loft, the birds sat in fat
bunches on the perches, the red combs shining like fire.
Bright, sharp eyes opened. There was a sharp crawk of ex-
postulation as one of the hens shifted over. The cock sat
watching, his yellow neck-feathers bright as glass. Anna
went across the dirty floor. Brangwen crouched in the loft
watching. The light was soft under the red, naked tiles.
The girl crouched in a corner. There was another explosive
bustle of a hen springing from her perch.

Anna came back, stooping under the perches. He was
waiting for her near the door. Suddenly she had her arms
round him, was clinging close to him, cleaving her body against
his, and crying, in a whispering, whimpering sound.

" Will, I love you, I love you, Will, I love you." It sounded
as if it were tearing her.

He was not even very much surprised. He held her in his
arms, and his bones melted. He leaned back against the
wall. The door of the loft was open. Outside, the rain
slanted by in fine, steely, mysterious haste, emerging out of
the gulf of darkness. He held her in his arms, and he and
she together seemed to be swinging in big, swooping oscilla-

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 109

tions, the two of them clasped together up in the darkness.
Outside the open door of the loft in which they stood, beyond
them and below them, was darkness, with a travelling veil
of rain.

" I love you, Will, I love you," she moaned, " I love you,
Will/'

He held her as though they were one, and was silent.

In the house, Tom Brangwen waited a while. Then he
got up and went out. He went down the yard. He saw the
curious misty shaft coming from the loft door. He scarcely
knew it was the light in the rain. He went on till the illumi-
nation fell on him dimly. Then looking up, through the
blurr, he saw the youth and the girl together, the youth with
his back against the wall, his head sunk over the head of the
girl. The elder man saw them, blurred through the rain, but
lit up. They thought themselves so buried in the night. He
even saw the lighted dryness of the loft behind, and shadows
and bunches of roosting fowls, up in the night, strange shad-
ows cast from the lantern on the floor.

And a black gloom of anger, and a tenderness of self-efface-
ment, fought in his heart. She did not understand what she
was doing. She betrayed herself. She was a child, a mere
child. She did not know how much of herself she was squan-
dering. And he was blackly and furiously miserable. Was
he then an old man, that he should be giving her away in
marriage ? Was he old ? He was not old. He was younger
than that young thoughtless fellow in whose arms she lay.
Who knew her — he or that blind-headed youth? To whom
did she belong, if not to kimself ?

He thought again of the child he had carried out at night
into the barn, whilst his wife was in labour with the young
Tom. He remembered the soft, warm weight of the little
girl on his arm, round his neck. Now she would say he was
finished. She was going away, to deny him, to leave an un-
endurable emptiness in him, a void that he could not bear.
Almost he hated her. How dared she say he was old. He
walked on in the rain, sweating with pain, with the horror of
being old, with the agony of having to relinquish what was
life to him.

Will Brangwen went home without having seen his uncle.
He held his hot face to the rain, and walked on in a trance.
"I love you, Will, I love you." The words repeated them-
selves endlessly. The veils had ripped and issued him naked

110 THE RAINBOW

into the endless space, and he shuddered. The walls had
thrust him out and given him a vast space to walk in.
Whither, through this darkness of infinite space, was he walk-
ing blindly? Where, at the end of all the darkness, was God
the Almighty still darkly seated, thrusting him on ? "I love
you, Will, I love you." He trembled with fear as the words
beat in his heart again. And he dared not think of her face,
of her eyes which shone, and of her strange, transfigured face.
The hand of the Hidden Almighty, burning bright, had
thrust out of the darkness and gripped him. He went on
subject and in fear, his heart gripped and burning from the
touch.

The days went by, they ran on dark-padded feet in silence.
He went to see Anna, but again there had come a reserve
between them. Tom Brangwen was gloomy, his blue eyes
sombre. Anna was strange and delivered up. Her face in
its delicate colouring was mute, touched dumb and poignant.
The mother bowed her head and moved in her own dark
world, that was pregnant again with fulfilment.

Will Brangwen worked at his wood-carving. It was a
passion, a passion for him to have the chisel under his grip.
Verily the passion of his heart lifted the fine bite of steel.
He was carving, as he had always wanted, the Creation of
Eve. It was a panel in low relief, for a church. Adam lay
asleep as if suffering, and God, a dim, large figure, stooped
towards him, stretching forward His unveiled hand ; and Eve,
a small vivid, naked female shape, was issuing like a flame
towards the hand of God, from the torn side of Adam.

Now, Will Brangwen was working at the Eve. She was
thin, a keen, unripe thing. With trembling passion, fine as
a breath of air, he sent the chisel over her belly, her hard,
unripe, small belly. She was a stiff little figure, with sharp
lines, in the throes and torture and ecstasy of her creation.
But he trembled as he touched her. He had not finished
any of his figures. There was a bird on a bough overhead,
lifting its wings for flight, and a serpent wreathing up to it.
It was not finished yet. He trembled with passion, at last
able to create the new, sharp body of his Eve.

At the sides, at the far sides, at either end, were two Angels
covering their faces with their wings. They were like trees.
As he went to the Marsh, in the twilight, he felt that the
Angels, with covered faces, were standing back as he went
by. The darkness was of their shadows and the covering of

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 111

their faces. When he went through the Canal bridge, the
evening glowed in its last deep colours, the sky was dark blue,
the stars glittered from afar, very remote and approaching
above the darkening cluster of the farm, above the paths of
crystal along the edge of the heavens.

She waited for him like the glow of light, and as if his
face were covered. And he dared not lift his face to look
at her.

Corn harvest came on. One evening they walked out
through the farm buildings at nightfall. A large gold moon
hung heavily to the grey horizon, trees hovered tall, stand-
ing back in the dusk, waiting. Anna and the young man
went on noiselessly by the hedge, along where the farm-carts
had made dark ruts in the grass. They came through a gate
into a wide open field where still much light seemed to spread
against their faces. In the under-shadow the sheaves lay
on the ground where the reapers had left them, many sheaves
like bodies prostrate in shadowy bulk; others were riding
hazily in shocks, like ships in the haze of moonlight and of
dusk, further off.

They did not want to turn back, yet whither were they to
go, towards the moon ? For they were separate, single.

" We will put up some sheaves," said Anna. So they could
remain there in the broad, open place.

They went across the stubble to where the long rows of
upreared shocks ended. Curiously populous that part of the
field looked, where the shocks rode erect; the rest was open
and prostrate.

The air was all hoary silver. She looked around her.
Trees stood vaguely at their distance, as if waiting like
heralds, for the signal to approach. In this space of vague
crystal her heart seemed like a bell ringing. She was afraid
lest the sound should be heard.

"You take this row/' she said to the youth, and passing
on, she stooped in the next row of lying sheaves, grasping
her hands in the tresses of the oats, lifting the heavy corn in
either hand, carrying it, as it hung' heavily against her, to
the cleared space, where she set the two sheaves sharply down,
bringing them together with a faint, keen clash. Her two
bulks stood leaning together. He was coming, walking
shadowily with the gossamer dusk, carrying his two sheaves.
She waited near by. He set his sheaves with a keen, faint
clash, next to her sheaves. They rode unsteadily. He tan-

112 THE RAINBOW

gled the tresses of corn. It hissed like a fountain. He looked
up and laughed.

Then she turned away towards the moon, which seemed
glowingly to uncover her bosom every time she faced it. He
went to the vague emptiness of the field opposite, dutifully.

They stooped, grasped the wet, soft hair of the corn, lifted
the heavy bundles, and returned. She was always first. She
set down her sheaves, making a pent house with those others.
He was coming shadowy across the stubble, carrying his bun-
dles. She turned away, hearing only the sharp hiss of his
mingling corn. She walked between the moon and his shad-
owy figure.

She took her new two sheaves and walked towards him,
as he rose from stooping over the earth. He was coming
out of the near distance. She set down her sheaves to make
a new stock. They were unsure. Her hands fluttered. Yet
she broke away, and turned to the moon, which laid bare her
bosom, so she felt as if her bosom were heaving and panting
with moonlight. And he had to put up her two sheaves,
which had fallen down. He worked in silence. The rhythm
of the work carried him away again, as she was coming near.

They worked together, coming and going, in a rhythm,
which carried their feet and their bodies in tune. She
stooped, she lifted the burden of sheaves, she turned her face
to the dimness where he was, and went with her burden over
the stubble. She hesitated, set down her sheaves, there was a
swish and hiss of mingling oats, he was drawing near, and she
must turn again. And there was the flaring moon laying bare
her bosom again, making her drift and ebb like a wave.

He worked steadily, engrossed, threading backwards and
forwards like a shuttle across the strip of cleared stubble,
weaving the long line of riding shocks, nearer and nearer to
the shadowy trees, threading his sheaves with hers.

And always, she was gone before he came. As he came, she
drew away, as he drew away, she came. Were they never to
meet? Gradually a low, deep-sounding will in him vibrated
to her, tried to set her in accord, tried to bring her gradually
to him, to a meeting, till they should be together, till they
should meet as the sheaves that swished together.

And the work went on. The moon grew brighter, clearer,
the corn glistened. He bent over the prostrate bundles, there
was a hiss as the sheaves left the ground, a trailing of heavy
bodies against him, a dazzle of moonlight on. his eyes. And

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 113

then he was setting the corn together at the stock. And she
was coming near.

He waited for her, he fumbled at the stook. She came.
But she stood back till he drew away. He saw her in shadow,
a dark column, and spoke to her, and she answered. She
saw the moonlight flash question on his face. But there was
a space between them, and he went away, the work carried
them, rhythmic.

Why was there always a space between them, why were
they apart? Why, as she came up from under the moon,
would she halt and stand off from him? Why was he held
away from her? His will drummed persistently, darkly, it
drowned everything else.

Into the rhythm of his work there came a pulse and a
steadied purpose. He stooped, he lifted the weight, he heaved
it towards her, setting it as in her, under the moonlit space.
And he went back for more. Ever with increasing closeness
he lifted the sheaves and swung striding to the centre with
them, ever he drove her more nearly to the meeting, ever he
did his share, and drew towards her, overtaking her. There
was only the moving to and fro in the moonlight, engrossed,
the swinging in the silence, that was marked only by the
splash of sheaves, and silence, and a splash of sheaves. And
ever the splash of his sheaves broke swifter, beating up to
hers, and ever the splash of her sheaves recurred monotonously,
unchanging, and ever the splash of his sheaves beat nearer.

Till at last, they met at the shock, facing each other, sheaves
in hand. And he was silvery with moonlight, with a moonlit,
shadowy face that frightened her. She waited for him.

"Put yours down," she said.

"No, it's your turn." His voice was twanging and in-
sistent.

She set her sheaves against the shock. He saw her hands
glisten among the spray of grain. And he dropped his sheaves
and he trembled as he took her in his arms. He had over-
taken her, and it was his privilege to kiss her. She was
sweet and fresh with the night air, and sweet with the scent
of grain. And the whole rhythm of him beat into his kisses,
and still he pursued her, in his kisses, and still she was not
quite overcome. He wondered over the moonlight on her
nose! All the moonlight upon her, all the darkness within
her! All the night in his arms, darkness and shine, he pos-
sessed of it all! All the night for him now, to unfold, to

114 THE RAINBOW

venture within, all the mystery to be entered, all the discovery
to be made.

Trembling with keen triumph, his heart was white as a star
as he drove his kisses nearer.

" My love ! " she called, in a low voice, from afar. The
low sound seemed to call to him from far off, under the moon,
to him who was unaware. He stopped, quivered, and listened.

" My love," came again the low, plaintive call, like a bird
unseen in the night. .

He was afraid. His heart quivered and broke. He was
stopped.

"Anna," he said, as if he answered her from a distance,
unsure.

" My love."

And he drew near, and she drew near.

" Anna," he said, in wonder and birthpain of love.

" My love," she said, her voice growing rapturous. And
they kissed on the mouth, in rapture and surprise, long, real
kisses. The kiss lasted, there among the moonlight. He
kissed her again, and she kissed him. And again they were
kissing together. Till something happened in him, he was
strange. He wanted her. He wanted her exceedingly. She
was something new. They stood there folded, suspended in
the night. And his whole being quivered with surprise, as
from a blow. He wanted her, and he wanted to tell her so.
But the shock was too great to him. He had never realized
before. He trembled with irritation and unusedness, he did
not know what to do. He held her more gently, gently, much
more gently. The conflict was gone by. And he was glad,
and breathless, and almost in tears. But he knew he wanted
her. Something fixed in him for ever. He was hers. And
he was very glad and afraid. He did not know what to do,
as they stood there in the open, moonlit field. He looked
through her hair at the moon, which seemed to swim liquid-
bright.

She sighed, and seemed to wake up, then she kissed him
again. Then she loosened herself away from him and took
his hand. It hurt him when she drew away from his breast.
It hurt him with a chagrin. Why did she draw away from
him? But she held his hand.

" I want to go home," she said, looking at him in a way he
could not understand.

He held close to her hand. He was dazed and he could not

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 115

move, he did not know how to move. She drew him away.

He walked helplessly beside her, holding her hand. She
went with bent head. Suddenly he said, as the simple solu-
tion stated itself to him:

"We'll get married, Anna."

She was silent.

" We'll get married, Anna, shall we ? "

She stopped in the field again and kissed him, clinging to
him passionately, in a way he could not understand. He
could not understand. But he left it all now, to marriage.
That was the solution now, fixed ahead. He wanted her, he
wanted to be married to her, he wanted to have her altogether,
as his own for ever. And he waited, intent, for the accom-
plishment. But there was all the while a slight tension of
irritation.

He spoke to his uncle and aunt that night.

" Uncle," he said, " Anna and me think of getting mar-
ried."

" Oh ay ! " said Brangwen.

" But how, you have no money ? " said the mother.

The youth went pale. He hated these words. But he was
like a gleaming, bright pebble, something bright and inalter-
able. He did not think. He sat there in his hard brightness,
and did not speak.

"Have you mentioned it to your own mother?" asked
Brangwen.

« NO — I'll tell her on Saturday."

"You'll go and see her?"

"Yes."

There was a long pause.

"And what are you going to marry on — your pound a
week?"

Again the youth went pale, as if the spirit were being in-
jured in him.

"I don't know," he said, looking at his uncle with his
bright inhuman eyes, like a hawk's.

Brangwen stirred in hatred.

" It needs knowing," he said.

" I shall have the money later on," said the nephew. " I
will raise some now, and pay it back then."

" Oh ay ! — And why this desperate hurry? She's a child
of eighteen, and you're a boy of twenty. You're neither of
you of age to do as you like yet."

116 THE RAINBOW

Will Brangwen ducked his head' and looked at his uncle with
swift, bright mistrustful eyes, like a caged hawk.

" What does it matter how old she is, and how old I am ? "
he said. "What's the difference between me now and when
I'm thirty?"

" A big difference, let us hope/'

" But you have no experience — you have no experience,
and no money. Why do you want to marry, without experi-
ence or money ? " asked the aunt.

" What experience do I want, Aunt ? " asked the boy.

And if Brangwen's heart had not been hard and intact with
anger, like a precious stone, he would have agreed.

Will Brangwen went home strange and untouched. He
felt he could not alter from what he was fixed upon, his will
was set. To alter it he must be destroyed. And he would
not be destroyed. He had no money. But he would get some
from somewhere, it did not matter. He lay awake for many
hours, hard and clear and unthinking, his soul crystallizing
more inalterably. Then he went fast asleep.

It was as if his soul had turned into a hard crystal. He
might tremble and quiver and suffer, it did not alter.

The next morning Tom Brangwen, inhuman with anger,
spoke to Anna.

" What's this about wanting to get married ? " he said.

She stood, paling a little, her dark eyes springing to the
hostile, startled look of a savage thing that will defend itself,
but trembles with sensitiveness.

" I do,?? she said, out of her unconsciousness.

^His anger rose, and he would have liked to break her.

•'" You do — you do — and what for ? " he sneered with con-
tempt. The old, childish agony, the blindness that could
recognize nobody, the palpitating antagonism as of a raw,
helpless, undefended thing came back on her.

" I do because I do," she cried, in the shrill, hysterical way
of her childhood. " You are not my father — my father is
dead — you are not my father."

She was still a stranger. She did not recognize him. The
cold blade cut down, deep into Brangwen's soul. It cut him
off from her.

" And what if I'm not ? " he said.

But he could not bear it. It had been so passionately dear
to him, her " Father — Daddie."

He went about for some da^s as if stunned. His wile was

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 11?

bemused. She did not understand. She only thought the
marriage was impeded for want of money and position.

There was a horrible silence in the house. Anna kept out
of sight as much as possible. She could be for hours alone.

Will Brangwen came back, after stupid scenes at Notting-
ham. He too was pale and blank, but unchanging. His
uncle hated him. He hated this youth, who was so inhuman
and obstinate. Nevertheless, it was to Will Brangwen that
the uncle, one evening, handed over the shares which he had
transferred to Anna Lensky. They were for two thousand
five hundred pounds. Will Brangwen looked at his uncle.
It was a great deal of the Marsh capital here given away.
The youth, however, was only colder and more fixed. He was
abstract, purely a fixed will. He gave the shares to Anna.

After which she cried for a whole day, sobbing her eyes
out. And at night, when she had heard her mother go to
bed, she slipped down and hung in the doorway. Her father
sat in his heavy silence, like a monument. He turned his
head slowly.

" Daddy/' she cried from the doorway, and she ran to
him sobbing as if her heart would break. " Daddy — daddy
— daddy."

She crouched on the hearthrug with her arms round him
and her face against him. His body was so big and comfort-
able. But something hurt her head intolerably. She sobbed
almost with hysteria.

He was silent, with his hand on her shoulder. His heart
was bleak. He was not her father. That beloved image she
had broken. Who was he then ? A man put apart with those
whose life has no more developments. He was isolated from
her. There was a generation between them, he was old, he
had died out from hot life. A great deal of ash was in his
fire, cold ash. He felt the inevitable coldness, and in bitter-
ness forgot the fire. He sat in his coldness of age and isola-
tion. He had his own wife. And he blamed himself, he
sneered at himself, for this clinging to the young, wanting the
young to belong to him.

The child who clung to him wanted her child-husband. As
was natural. And from him, Brangwen, she wanted help, so
that her life might be properly fitted out. But love she did
not want. Why should there be love between them, between
the stout, middle-aged man and this child ? How could there
be anything between them, but mere human willingness to

118 THE RAINBOW

help each other? He was her guardian, no more. His heart
was like ice, his face cold and expressionless. She could not
move him any more than a statue.

She crept to bed, and cried. But she was going to be mar-
ried to Will Brangwen, and then she need not bother any
more. Brangwen went to bed with a hard, cold heart, and
cursed himself. He looked at his wife. She was still his
wife. Her dark hair was threaded with grey, her face was
beautiful in its gathering age. She was just fifty. How
poignantly he saw her! And he wanted to cut out some of
his own heart, which was incontinent, and demanded still to
share the rapid life of youth. How he hated himself.

His wife was so poignant and timely. She was still young
and naive, with some girl's freshness. But she did not want
any more the fight, the battle, the control, as he, in his inconti-
nence, still did. She was so natural, and he was ugly, un-
natural, in his inability to yield place. How hideous, this
greedy middle-age, which must stand in the way of life, like a
large demon.

What was missing in his life, that, in his ravening soul,
he was not satisfied? He had had that friend at school, his
mother, his wife, and Anna? What had he done? He had
failed with his friend, he had been a poor son; but he had
known satisfaction with his wife, let it be enough ; he loathed
himself for the state he was in over Anna. Yet he was not
satisfied. It was agony to know it.

Was his life nothing ? Had he nothing to show, no work ?
He did not count his work, anybody could have done it.
What had he known, but the long, marital embrace with his
wife ! Curious, that this was what his life amounted to ! At
any rate, it was something, it was eternal. He would say so
to anybody, and be proud of it. He lay with his wife in his
arms, and she was still his fulfilment, just the same as ever.
And that was the be-all and the end-all. Yes, and he was
proud of it.

But the bitterness, underneath, that there still remained an
unsatisfied Tom Brangwen, who suffered agony because a girl
cared nothing for him. He loved his sons — he had them
also. But it was the further, the creative life with the girl,
he wanted as well. Oh, and he was ashamed. He trampled
himself to extinguish himself.

What weariness! There was no peace, however old one

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN lid

grew! One was never right, never decent, never master of
oneself. It was as if his hope had been in the girl.

Anna quickly lapsed again into her love for the youth.
Will Brangwen had fixed his marriage for the Saturday before
Christmas. And he waited for her, in his bright, unquestion-
ing fashion, until then. He wanted her, she was his, he sus-
pended his being till the day should come. The wedding day,
December the twenty-third, had come into being for him as
an absolute thing. He lived in it.

He did not count the days. But like a man who journeys
in a ship, he was suspended till the coming to port.

He worked at his carving, he worked in his office, he came
to see her ; all was but a form of waiting, without thought or
question.

She was much more alive. She wanted to enjoy courtship.
He seemed to come and go like the wind, without asking why
or whither. But she wanted to enjoy his presence. For her,
he was the kernel of life, to touch him alone was bliss. But
for him, she was the essence of life. She existed as much
when he was at his carving in his lodging in Ilkeston, as
when she sat looking at him in the Marsh kitchen. In him-
self, he knew her. But his outward faculties seemed sus-
pended. He did not see her with his eyes, nor hear her with
his voice.

And yet he trembled, sometimes into a kind of swoon, hold-
ing her in his arms. They would stand sometimes folded
together in the barn, in silence. Then to her, as she felt his
young, tense figure with her hands, the bliss was intolerable,
intolerable the sense that she possessed him. For his body
was so keen and wonderful, it was the only reality in her
world. In her world, there was this one tense, vivid body of
a man, and then many other shadowy men, all unreal. In
him, she touched the centre of reality. And they were to-
gether, he and she, at the heart of the secret. How she
clutched him to her, his body the central body of all life.
Out of the rock of his form the very fountain of life flowed.

But to him, she was a flame that consumed him. The
flame flowed up his limbs, flowed through him, till he was
consumed, till he existed only as an unconscious, dark transit
of flame, deriving from her.

Sometimes, in the darkness, a cow coughed. There was,
in the darkness, a slow sound of cud chewing. And it all

THE RAINBOW

seemed to flow round them and upon them as the hot blood
flows through the womb, laving the unborn young.

Sometimes, when it was cold, they stood to be lovers in
the stables, where the air was warm and sharp with ammonia.
And during these dark vigils, he learned to know her, her
body against his, they drew nearer and nearer together, the
kisses came more subtly close and fitting. So when in the
thick darkness a horse suddenly scrambled to its feet, with
a dull, thunderous sound, they listened as one person listening,
they knew as one person, they were conscious of the horse.

Tom Brangwen had taken them a cottage at Cossethay, on
a twenty-one years' lease. Will Brangwen's eyes lit up as
he saw it. It was the cottage next the church, with dark yew-
trees, very black old trees, along the side of the house and
the grassy front garden; a red, squarish cottage with a low
slate roof, and low windows. It had a long dairy-scullery, a
big flagged kitchen, and a low parlour, that went up one step
from the kitchen. There were whitewashed beams across the
ceilings, and odd corners with cupboards. Looking out
through the windows, there was the grassy garden, the pro-
cession of black yew-trees down one side, and along the other
sides, a red wall with ivy separating the place from the high-
road and the churchyard. The old, little church, with its
small spire on a square tower, seemed to be looking back at
the cottage windows.

" There'll be no need to have a clock," said Will Brangwen,
peeping out at the white clock-face on the tower, his neigh-
bour.

At the back of the house was a garden adjoining the pad-
dock, a cowshed with standing for two cows, pig-cotes and
fowl-houses. Will Brangwen was very happy. Anna was
glad to think of being mistress of her own place.

Tom Brangwen was now the fairy godfather. He was
never happy unless he was buying something. Will Brang-
wen, with his interest in all wood-work, was getting the furni-
ture. He was left to buy tables and round-staved chairs and
the dressers, quite ordinary stuff, but such as was identified
with his cottage.

Tom Brangwen, witfi more particular thought, spied out
what he called handy little things for her. He appeared with
a set of new-fangled cooking-pans, with a special sort of hang-
ing lamp, though the rooms were so low, with canny little

GIRLHOOD OF ANNA BRANGWEN 121

machines for grinding meat or mashing potatoes or whisking
eggs.

Anna took a sharp interest in what he bought, though she
was not always pleased. Some of the little contrivances,
which he thought so canny, left her doubtful. Nevertheless
she was always expectant, on market days there was always
a long thrill of anticipation. He arrived with the first dark-
ness, the copper lamps of his cart glowing. And she ran to
the gate, as he, a dark, burly figure up in the cart, was bending
over his parcels.

" It's cupboard love as brings you out so sharp," he said, his
voice resounding in the cold darkness. Nevertheless he waa
excited. And she, taking one of the cart lamps, poked and
peered among the jumble of things he had brought, pushing
aside the oil or implements he had got for himself.

She dragged out a pair of small, strong bellows, registered
them in her mind, and then pulled uncertainly at something
else. It had a long handle, and a piece of brown paper round
the middle of it, like a waistcoat.

" What's this ? " she said, poking.

He stopped to look at her. She went to the lamp-light by
the horse, and stood there bent over the new thing, while her
hair was like bronze, her apron white and cheerful. Her fin-
gers plucked busily at the paper. She dragged forth a little
wringer, with clean indiarubber rollers. She examined it
critically, not knowing quite how it worked.

She looked up at him. He stood a shadowy presence be-
yond the light.

" How does it go ? " she asked.

" Why, it's for pulpin' turnips," he replied.

She looked at him. His voice disturbed her.

" Don't be silly. It's a little mangle," she said. " How do
you stand it, though ? "

" You screw it on th' side o' your wash-tub." He came and
held it out to her.

" Oh, yes ! " she cried, with one of her little skipping move-
ments, which still came when she was suddenly glad.

And without another thought she ran off into the house,
leaving him to untackle the horse. And when he came into
the scullery, he found her there, with the little wringer fixed
on the dolly-tub, turning blissfully at the handle, and Tilly
beside her, exclaiming:

122 THE RAINBOW

"My word, that's a natty little thing! That'll save you
luggin' your inside out. That's the latest contraption, that
is."

And Anna turned away at the handle, with great gusto of
possession. Then she let Tilly have a turn.

"It fair runs by itself," said Tilly, turning on and on.
" Your clothes'll nip out on to th' line."

CHAPTER V

WEDDING AT THE MARSH

IT was a beautiful sunny day for the wedding, a muddy
earth but a bright sky. They had three cabs and two
big closed-in vehicles. Everybody crowded in the par-
lour in excitement. Anna was still upstairs. Her father
kept taking a nip of brandy. He was handsome in his black
coat and grey trousers. His voice was hearty but troubled.
His wife came down in dark grey silk with lace, and a touch
of peacock-blue in her bonnet. Her little body was very sure
and definite. Brangwen was thankful she was there, to sus-
tain him among all these people.

The carriages! The Nottingham Mrs. Brangwen, in silk
brocade, stands in the doorway saying who must go with
whom. There is a great bustle. The front door is opened,
and the wedding guests are walking down the garden path,
whilst those still waiting peer through the window, and the
little crowd at the gate gorps and stretches. How funny such
dressed-up people look in the winter sunshine !

They are gone — another lot! There begins to be more
room. Anna comes down blushing and very shy, to be viewed
in her white silk and her veil. Her mother-in-law surveys
her objectively, twitches the white train, arranges the folds of
the veil and asserts herself.

Loud exclamations from the window that the bridegroom's
carriage has just passed.

"Where's your hat, father, and your gloves?" cries the
bride, stamping her white slipper, her eyes flashing through
her veil. He hunts round — his hair is ruffled. Everybody
has gone but the bride and her father. He is ready — his
face very red and daunted. Tilly dithers in the little porch,
waiting to open the door. A waiting woman walks round
Anna, who asks:

"Am I all right ?"

She is ready. She bridles herself and looks queenly. She
waves her hand sharply to her father :

123

124 THE RAINBOW

"Come here!"

He goes. She puts her hand very lightly on his arm, and
holding her bouquet like a shower, stepping, oh, very gra-
ciously, just a little impatient with her father for being so red
in the face, she sweeps slowly past the fluttering Tilly, and
down the path. There are hoarse shouts at the gate, and all
her floating foamy whiteness passes slowly into the cab.

Her father notices her slim ankle and foot as she steps up :
a child's foot. His heart is hard with tenderness. But she
is in ecstasies with herself for making such a lovely spectacle.
All the way she sat flamboyant with bliss because it was all
so lovely. She looked down solicitously at her bouquet : white
roses and lilies-of-the-valley and tube-roses and maidenhair
fern — very rich and cascade-like.

Her father sat bewildered with all this strangeness, his
heart was so full it felt hard, and he couldn't think of any-
thing.

The church was decorated for Christmas, dark with ever-
greens, cold and snowy with white flowers. He went vaguely
down to the altar. How long was it since he had gone to be
married himself? He was not sure whether he was going to
be married now, or what he had come for. He had a troubled
notion that he had to do something or other. He saw his
wife's bonnet, and wondered why she wasn't there with him.

They stood before the altar. He was staring up at the
east window, that glowed intensely, a sort of blue purple: it
was deep blue glowing, and some crimson, and little yellow
flowers held fast in veins of shadow, in a heavy web of dark-
ness. How it burned alive in radiance among its black web.

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"
He felt somebody touch him. He started. The words still
re-echoed in his memory, but were drawing off.

" Me," he said hastily.

Anna bent her head and smiled in her veil. How absurd
he was!

Brangwen was staring away at the burning blue window
at the back of the altar, and wondering vaguely, with pain,
if he ever should get old, if he ever should feel arrived and
established. He was here at Anna's wedding. Well, what
right had he to feel responsible, like a father? He was
still as unsure and unfixed as when he had married himself.
His .wife and he ! With a pang of anguish he realized what
uncertainties they both were. He was a man of forty-five.

WEDDING AT THE MARSH 125

Forty-five! In five more years fifty. Then sixty — then
seventy — then it was finished. My God — and one still was
so unestablished !

How did one grow old — how could one become confident ?
He wished he felt older. Why, what difference was there,
as far as he felt matured or completed, between him now and
him at his own wedding? He might be getting married over
again — he and his wife. He felt himself tiny, a little, up-
right figure on a plain circled round with the immense, roar-
ing sky: he and his wife, two little, upright figures walking
across this plain, whilst the heavens shimmered and roared
about them. When did one come to an end? In which di-
rection was it finished? There was no end, no finish, only
this roaring vast space. Did one never get old, never die?
That was the clue. He exulted strangely, with torture. He
would go on with his wife, he and she like two children camp-
ing in the plains. What was sure but the endless sky ? But
that was so sure, so boundless.

Still the royal blue colour burned and blazed and sported
itself in the web of darkness before him, unwearyingly rich
and splendid. How rich and splendid his own life was, red
and burning and blazing and sporting itself in the dark meshes
of his body: and his wife, how she glowed and burned dark
within her meshes! Always it was so unfinished and un-
formed !

There was a loud noise of the organ. The whole party was
trooping to the vestry. There was a blotted, scrawled book —
and that young girl putting back her veil in her vanity, and
laying her hand with the wedding-ring self-consciously con-
spicuous, and signing her name proudly because of the vain
spectacle she made :

" Anna Theresa Lensky."

" Anna Theresa Lensky " — what a vain, independent minx
she was! The bridegroom, slender in his black swallow-tail
and grey trousers, solemn as a young solemn cat, was writing
seriously :

"William Brangwen."

That looked more like it.

" Come and sign, father," cried the imperious young hussy.

"Thomas Brangwen — clumsy-fist," he said to himself as
he signed.

Then his brother, a big, sallow fellow with Wack
whis,kej8 wrote ;

126 THE RAINBOW

"Alfred Brangwen."

"How many more Brangwens?" said Tom Brangwen,
ashamed of the too-frequent recurrence of his family name.

When they were out again in the sunshine, and he saw the
frost hoary and blue among the long grass under the tomb-
stones, the holly-berries overhead twinkling scarlet as the
bells rang, the yew trees hanging their black, motionless,
ragged boughs, everything seemed like a vision.

The marriage party went across the graveyard to the wall,
mounted it by the little steps, and descended. Oh, a vain
white peacock of a bride perching herself on the top of the
wall and giving her hand to the bridegroom on the other side,
to be helped down ! The vanity of her white, slim, daintily-
stepping feet, and her arched neck. And the regal impu-
dence with which she seemed to dismiss them all, the others,
parents and wedding guests, as she went with her young hus-
band.

In the cottage big fires were burning, there were dozens of
glasses on the table, and holly and mistletoe hanging up.
The wedding party crowded in, and Tom Brangwen, becoming
roisterous, poured out drinks. Everybody must drink. The
bells were ringing away against the windows.

" Lift your glasses up," shouted Tom Brangwen from the
parlour, "lift your glasses up, an' drink to the hearth an'
home — hearth an' home, an' may they enjoy it."

"Night an' day, an' may they enjoy it," shouted Frank
Brangwen, in addition.

"Hammer an' tongs, and may they enjoy it," shouted
Alfred Brangwen, the saturnine.

"Fill your glasses up, an' let's have it all over again,"
shouted Tom Brangwen.

" Hearth and home, an' may ye enjoy it."

There was a ragged shout of the company in response.

"Bed an' blessin', an' may ye enjoy it," shouted Frank
Brangwen.

There was a swelling chorus in answer.

" Comin' and goin', an' may ye enjoy it," shouted the
saturnine Alfred Brangwen, and the men roared by now
boldly, and the women said, " Just hark, now ! "

There was a touch of scandal in the air.

Then the party rolled off in the carriages, full speed back
to the Marsh, to a large meal of the high-tea order, which
lasted for an hour and a half. The bride and bridegroom sat

WEDDING AT THE MARSH 127

at the head of the table, very prim and shining both of them,
wordless, whilst the company raged down the table.

The Brangwen men had brandy in their tea, and were be-
coming unmanageable. The saturnine Alfred had glittering,
unseeing eyes, and a strange, fierce way of laughing that
showed his teeth. His wife glowered at him and jerked her
head at him like a snake. He was oblivious. Frank Brang-
wen, the butcher, flushed and florid and handsome, roared
echoes to his two brothers. Tom Brangwen, in his solid fash-
ion, was letting himself go at last.

These three brothers dominated the whole company. Tom
Brangwen wanted to make a speech. For the first time in his
life, he must spread himself wordily.

"Marriage," he began, his eyes twinkling and yet quite
profound, for he was deeply serious and hugely amused at the
same time, " Marriage," he said, speaking in the slow, full-
mouthed way of the Brangwens,. "is what we're made
for "

" Let him talk," said Alfred Brangwen, slowly and inscrut-
ably, "let him talk." Mrs. Alfred darted indignant eyes at
her husband.

" A man," continued Tom Brangwen, " enjoys being a man :
for what purpose was he made a man, if not to enjoy it? "

" That a true word," said Frank, floridly.

" And likewise," continued Tom Brangwen, " a woman en-
joys being a woman : at least we surmise she does "

" Oh, don't you bother " called a farmer's wife.

"You may back your life they'd be summisin'," said
Frank's wife.

" Now," continued Tom Brangwen, " for a man to be a
man, it takes a woman "

" It does that," said a woman grimly.

" And for a woman to be a woman, it takes a man "

continued Tom Brangwen.

" All speak up, men," chimed in a feminine voice.

" Therefore we have marriage," continued Tom Brangwen.

" Hold, hold," said Alfred Brangwen. " Don't run us off
our legs."

And in dead silence the glasses were filled. The bride and
bridegroom, two children, sat with intent, shining faces at
the head of the table, abstracted.

" There's no marriage in heaven," went on Tom Brang-
wen ; " but on earth there is marriage."

128 THE RAINBOW

" That's the difference between 'em/' said Alfred Brangwen,
mocking.

" Alfred/' said Tom Brangwen, " keep your remarks till aft-
erwards, and then we'll thank you for them. — There's very
little else, on earth, but marriage. You can talk about mak-
ing money, or saving souls. You can save your own soul
seven times over, and you may have a mint of money, but
your soul goes gnawin', gnawin', gnawin', and it says there's
something it must have. In heaven there is no marriage.
But on earth there is marriage, else heaven drops out, and
there's no bottom to it."

" Just hark you now," said Frank's wife.

" Go on, Thomas," said Alfred sardonically.

"If we've got to be Angels," went on Tom Brangwen,
haranguing the company at large, " and if there is no such
thing as a man nor a woman amongst them, then it seems
to me as a married couple makes one Angel."

" It's the brandy," said Alfred Brangwen wearily.

" For," said Tom Brangwen, and the company was listening
to the conundrum, "an Angel can't be less than a human
being. And if it was only the soul of a man minus the man,
then it would be less than a human being."

" Decidedly," said Alfred.

And a laugh went round the table. But Tom Brangwen
was inspired.

" An Angel's got to be more than a human being," he con-
tinued. " So I say, an Angel is the soul of man and woman
in one: they rise united at the Judgment Day, as one
Angel "*

"Praising the Lord," said Frank.

"Praising the Lord," repeated Tom.

"And what about the women left over?" asked Alfred,
jeering. The company was getting uneasy.

" That I can't tell. How do I know as there is anybody
left over at the Judgment Day? Let that be. What I say
is, that when a man's soul and a woman's soul unites together
— that makes an Angel "

" I dunno about souls. I know as one plus one makes
three, sometimes," said Frank. But he had the laugh to
himself.

"Bodies and souls, it's the same," said Tom.

" And what about your Missis, who was married afore you
knew her? " asked Alfred, set on edge by this discourse.

WEDDING AT THE MARSH 129

" That I can't tell yon. If I am to become an Angel, it'll
be my married soul, and not my single soul. It'll not be the
soul of me when I was a lad: for I hadn't a soul as would
make an Angel then/'

" I can always remember," said Frank's wife, " when our
Harold was bad, he did nothink but see an angel at th' back
o' th' lookin' glass. ' Look, mother/ 'e said, ' at that angel ! '
' Theer isn't no angel, my duck,' I said, but he wouldn't have
it. I took th' lookin' glass off'n th' dressin' table, but it
made no difference. He kep' on sayin' it was there. My
word, it did give me a turn. I thought for sure as I'd lost
him."

" I can remember," said another man, Tom's sister's hus-
band, " my mother gave me a good hidin' once, for sayin' I'd
got an angel up my nose. She seed me pokin', an' she said:
' What are you pokin' at your nose for — give over.' ' There's
an angel up it,' I said, an' she fetched me such a wipe. But
there was. We used to call them thistle things 'angels' as
wafts about. An' I'd pushed one o' these up my nose, for
some reason or other."

" It's wonderful what children will get up their noses," said
Frank's wife. " I c'n remember our Hemmie, she shoved
one o' them bluebell things out o' th' middle of a bluebell,
what they call 'candles,' up her nose, and oh, we had some
work ! I'd seen her stickin' 'em on the end of her nose, like,
but I never thought she'd be so soft as to shove it right up.
She was a gel of eight or more. Oh, my word, we got a
crochet-hook an' I don't know what . . ."

Tom Brangwen's mood of inspiration began to pass away.
He forgot all about it, and was soon roaring and shouting
with the rest. Outside the wake came, singing the carols.
They were invited into the bursting house. They had two
fiddles and a piccolo. There in the parlour they played
carols, and the whole company sang them at the top of its
voice. Only the bride and bridegroom sat with shining eyes
and strange, bright faces, and scarcely sang, or only with just
moving lips.

The wake departed, and the guysers came. There was loud
applause, and shouting and excitement as the old mystery
play of St. George, in which every man present had acted as
a boy, proceeded, with banging and thumping of club and
dripping pan.

"By Jove, I got a crack once, when I was playin' Beelze-

130 THE RAINBOW

bub," said Tom Brangwen, his eyes full of water with laugh-
ing. " It knocked all th' sense out of me as you'd crack
an egg. But I tell you, when I come to, I played Old Johnny
Koger with St. George, I did that."

He was shaking with laughter. Another knock came at
the door. There was a hush.

" It's th' cab," said somebody from the door.

"Walk in," shouted Tom Brangwen, and a red-faced grin-
ning man entered.

"Now you two, get yourselves ready an' off to blanket
fair," shouted Tom Brangwen. " Strike a daisy, but if you're
not off like a blink o' lightnin', you shanna go, you s'll sleep
separate."

Anna rose silently and went to change her dress. Will
Brangwen would have gone out, but Tilly came with his hat
and coat. The youth was helped on.

" Well, here's luck, my boy," shouted his father.

"When th' fat's in th' fire, let it frizzle," admonished his
uncle Frank.

" Fair and softly does it, fair an' softly does it," cried his
aunt, Frank's wife, contrary.

"You don't want to fall over yourself," said his uncle by
marriage. "You're not a bull at a gate.".

" Let a man have his own road," said Tom Brangwen
testily. " Don't be so free of your advice — it's his wedding
this time, not yours."

"'E won't want many sign-posts," said his father.
"There's some roads a man has to be led, an' there's some
roads a boss-eyed man can only follow wi' one eye shut. But
this road can't be lost by a blind man nor a boss-eyed man nor
a cripple — and he's neither, thank God."

" Don't you be so sure o' your walkin' powers," cried Frank's
wife. " There's many a man gets no further than half-way,
nor can't to save his life, let him live for ever."

" Why, how do you know ? " said Alfred.

"It's plain enough in th' looks o' some," retorted Lizzie,
his sister-in-law.

The youth stood with a faint, half-hearing smile on his
face. He was tense and abstracted. These things, or any-
thing, scarcely touched him.

Anna came down, in her day dress, very elusive. She
kissed everybody, men and women, Will Brangwen shook

WEDDING AT THE MARSH 131

hands with everybody, kissed his mother, who began to cry,
and the whole party went surging out to the cab.

The young couple were shut up, last injunctions shouted
at them.

"Drive on," shouted Tom Brangwen.

The cab rolled off. They saw the light diminish under the
ash-trees. Then the whole party, quietened, went indoors.

" They'll have three good fires burning," said Tom Brang-
wen, looking at his watch. " I told Emma to make 'em up at
nine, an' then leave the door on th' latch. It's only half-past.
They'll have three fires burning, an' lamps lighted, an' Emma
will ha' warmed th' bed wi' th' warmin' pan. So I s'd think
they'll be all right."

The party was much quieter. They talked of the young
couple.

" She said she didn't want a servant in," said Tom Brang-
wen. "The house isn't big enough, she'd always have the
creature under her nose. Emma'll do what is wanted of her,
an' they'll be to themselves."

" It's best," said Lizzie, " you're more free."

The party talked on slowly. Brangwen looked at his watch.

" Let's go an' give 'em a carol," he said. " We s'll find th'
fiddles at the Cock an' Eobin."

" Ay, come on," said Frank.

Alfred rose in silence. The brother-in-law and one of
Will's brothers rose also.

The five men went out. The night was flashing with stars.
Sirius blazed like a signal at the side of the hill, Orion,
stately and magnificent, was sloping along.

Tom walked with his brother, Alfred. The men's heels
rang on the ground.

" It's a fine night," said Tom.

" Ay," said Alfred.

" Nice to get out."

"Ay."

The brothers walked close together, the bond of blood strong
between them. Tom always felt very much the junior to
Alfred.

" It's a long while since you left home," he said.

" Ay," said Alfred. " I thought I was getting a bit oldish
— but I'm not. It's the things you've got as gets worn out,
it's not you yourself."

THE RAINBOW

«

"Why, what's worn out?"

" Most folks as I've anything to do with — as has anything
to do with me. They all break down. You've got to go on
by yourself, if it's only to perdition. There's nobody going
alongside even there."

Tom Brangwen meditated this.

" Maybe you was never broken in/' he said.

" No, I never was," said Alfred proudly.

And Tom felt his elder brother despised him a little. He
winced under it.

" Everybody's got a way of their own," he said, stubbornly.
" It's only a dog as hasn't. An' them as can't take what they
give an' give what they take, they must go by themselves, or
get a dog as'll follow 'em."

" They can do without the dog," said his brother. And
again Tom Brangwen was humble, thinking his brother was
bigger than himself. But if he was, he was. And if it were
finer to go alone, it was : he did not want to go for all that.

They went over the field, where a thin, keen wind blew
round the ball of the hill, in the starlight. They came to
the stile, and to the side of Anna's house. The lights were
out, only on the blinds of the rooms downstairs, and of a
bedroom upstairs, firelight flickered.

" We'd better leave 'em alone," said Alfred Brangwen.

"Nay, nay," said Tom. "We'll carol 'em, for th' last
time." "

And in a quarter of an hour's time, eleven silent, rather
tipsy men scrambled over the wall, and into the garden by
the yew-trees, outside the windows where faint firelight
glowered on the blinds. There came a shrill sound, two vio-
lins and a piccolo shrilling on the frosty air.

" In the fields with their flocks abiding." A commotion of
men's voices broke out singing in ragged unison.

Anna Brangwen had started up, listening, when the music
began. She was afraid.

" It's the wake," he whispered.

She remained tense, her heart beating heavily, possessed
with strange, strong fear. Then there came the burst of
men's singing, rather uneven. She strained still, listening.

"It's Dad," she said, in a low voice. They were silent,
listening.

" And my father," he said.

She listened still. But she was sure. She sank down

WEDDING AT THE MAfcSH

again into bed, into his arms. He held her very close, kissing
her. The hymn rambled on outside, all the men singing their
best, having forgotten everything else under the spell of the
fiddles and the tune. The firelight glowed against the dark-
ness in the room. Anna could hear her father singing with
gusto.

" Aren't they silly," she whispered.

And they crept closer, closer together, hearts beating to
one another. And even as the hymn rolled on, they ceased to
hear it

CHAPTER VI

ANNA VICTRIX

WILL BBANGWEN had some weeks of holiday after
his marriage, so the two took their honeymoon in
full hands, alone in their cottage together.

And to him, as the days went by, it was as if the
heavens had fallen, and he were sitting with her among the
ruins, in a new world, everybody else buried, themselves two
blissful survivors, with everything to squander as they would.
At first, he could not get rid of a culpable sense of licence on
his part. Wasn't there some duty outside, calling him and he
did not come ?

It was all very well at night, when the doors were locked
and the darkness drawn round the two of them. Then they
were the only inhabitants of the visible earth, the rest were
under the flood. And being alone in the world, they were
a law unto themselves, they could enjoy and squander and
waste like conscienceless gods.

But in the morning, as the carts clanked by, and children
shouted down the lane; as the hucksters came calling their
wares, and the church clock struck eleven, and he and she
had not got up yet, even to breakfast, he could not help feeling
guilty, as if he were committing a breach of the law —
ashamed that he was not up and doing.

"Doing what?" she asked. "What is there to do? You
will only lounge about."

Still, even lounging about was respectable. One was at
least in connection with the world, then. Whereas now, lying
so still and peacefully, while the daylight came obscurely
through the drawn blind, one was severed from the world,
one shut oneself off in tacit denial of the world. And he
was troubled.

But it was so sweet and satisfying lying there talking
desultorily with her. It was sweeter than sunshine, and not
so evanescent. It was even irritating the way the church-
clock kept on chiming: there seemed no space between the

134

ANNA VICTRIX 135

hours, just a moment, golden and still, whilst she traced his
features with her finger-tips, utterly careless and happy, and
he loved her to do it.

But he was strange and unused. So suddenly, everything
that had been before was shed away and gone. One day, he
was a bachelor, living with the world. The next day, he was
with her, as remote from the world as if the two of them were
buried like a seed in darkness. Suddenly, like a chestnut
falling out of a burr, he was shed naked and glistening on to
a soft, fecund earth, leaving behind him the hard rind of
worldly knowledge and experience. He heard it in the huck-
sters' cries, the noise of carts, the calling of children. And it
was all like the hard, shed rind, discarded. Inside, in the
softness and stillness of the room, was the naked kernel, that
palpitated in silent activity, absorbed in reality.

Inside the room was a great steadiness, a core of living
eternity. Only far outside, at the rim, went on the noise and
the destruction. Here at the centre the great wheel was mo-
tionless, centred upon itself. Here was a poised, unflawed
stillness that was beyond time, because it remained the same,
inexhaustible, unchanging, unexhausted.

As they lay close together, complete and beyond the touch
of time or change, it was as if they were at the very centre
of all the slow wheeling of space and the rapid agitation of
life, deep, deep inside them all, at the centre where there is
utter radiance, and eternal being, and the silence absorbed in
praise: the steady core of all movements, the unawakened
sleep of all wakefulness. They found themselves there, and
they lay still, in each other's arms; for their moment they
were at the heart of eternity, whilst time roared far off, for-
ever far off, towards the rim.

Then gradually they were passed away from the supreme
centre, down the circles of praise and joy and gladness,
further and further out, towards the noise and the friction.
But their hearts had burned and were tempered by the inner
reality, they were unalterably glad.

Gradually they began to wake up, the noises outside became
more real. They understood and answered the call outside.
They counted the strokes of the bell. And when they counted
midday, they understood that it was midday, in the world, and
for themselves also.

It dawned upon her that she was hungry. She had been
getting hungrier for a lifetime. But even yet it was not suffi-

IB6 TH£ RAINBOW

ciently real to rouse her. A long way off she could hear the
words, " I am dying of hunger." Yet she lay still, separate,
at peace, and the words were unuttered. There was still an-
other lapse.

And then, quite calmly, even a little surprised, she was in
the present, and was saying:

" I am dying with hunger."

" So am I" he said calmly, as if it were of not the slightest
significance. And they relapsed into the warm, golden still-
ness. And the minutes flowed unheeded past the window out-
Bide.

Then suddenly she stirred against him.

" My dear, I am dying of hunger," she said.

It was a slight pain to him to be brought to.

"We'll get up," he said, unmoving.

And she sank her head on to him again, and they lay still,
lapsing. Half consciously, he heard the clock chime the hour.
She did not hear.

" Do get up," she murmured at length, " and give me
something to eat."

" Yes," he said, and he put his arms round her, and she lay
with her face on him. They were faintly astonished that they
did not move. The minutes rustled louder at the window.

" Let me go then," he said.

She lifted her head from him, relinquishingly. With a
little breaking away, he moved out of bed, and was taking his
clothes. She stretched out her hand to him.

" You are so nice," she said, and he went back for a moment
or two.

Then actually he did slip into some clothes, and, looking
round quickly at her, was gone out of the room. She lay
translated again into a pale, clearer peace. As if she were
a spirit, she listened to the noise of him downstairs, as if
she were no longer of the material world.

It was half past one. He looked at the silent kitchen,
untouched from last night, dim with the drawn blind. And
he hastened to draw up the blind, so people should know
they were not in bed any later. Well, it was his own house,
it did not matter. Hastily he put wood in the grate and
made a fire. He exulted in himself, like an adventurer on
an undiscovered island. The fire blazed up, he put on the
kettle. How happy he felt! How still and secluded the
house was ! There were only he and she in the world.

ANNA VICTRIX 1ST

But when he unbolted the door, and, half-dressed, looked
out, he felt furtive and guilty. The world was there, after
all. And he had felt so secure, as though this house were
the Ark in the flood, and all the rest was drowned. The
world was there: and it was afternoon. The morning had
vanished and gone by, the day was growing old. Where
was the bright, fresh morning? He was accused. Was the
morning gone, and he had lain with blinds drawn, let it pass
by unnoticed ?

He looked again round the chill, grey afternoon. And he
himself so soft and warm and glowing! There were two
sprigs of yellow jasmine in the saucer that covered the milk-
jug. He wondered who had been and left the sign. Taking
the jug, he hastily shut the door. Let the day and the day-
light drop out, let it go by unseen. He did not care. What
did one day more or less matter to him. It could fall into
oblivion unspent if it liked, this one course of daylight.

" Somebody has been and found the door locked," he said
when he went upstairs with the tray. He gave her the two
sprigs of jasmine. She laughed as she sat up in bed, child-
ishly threading the flowers in the breast of her nightdress.
Her brown hair stuck out like a nimbus, all fierce, round her
softly glowing face. Her dark eyes watched the tray eagerly.

" How good ! " she cried, sniffing the cold air. " I'm glad
you did a lot." And she stretched out her hands eagerly
for her plate — " Come back to bed, quick — it's cold." She
rubbed her hands together sharply.

He sat beside her in the bed.

"You look like a lion, with your mane sticking out, and
your nose pushed over your food," he said.

She tinkled with laughter, and gladly ate her breakfast.

The morning was sunk away unseen, the afternoon was
steadily going too, and he was letting it go. One bright transit
of daylight gone by unacknowledged ! There was something
unmanly, recusant in it. He could not quite reconcile him-
self to the fact. He felt he ought to get up, go out quickly into
the daylight, and work or spend himself energetically in the
open air of the afternoon, retrieving what was left to him
of the day.

But he did not go. Well, one might as well be hung for a
sheep as for a lamb. If he had lost this day of his life, he
had lost it. He gave it up. He was not going to count
his losses. She didn't care. She didn't care in the least.

138 THE RAINBOW

Then why should he? Should he be behind her in reckless-
ness and independence ? She was superb in her indifference.
He wanted to be like her.

She took her responsibilities lightly. When she spilled
her tea on the pillow, she rubbed it carelessly with a hand-
kerchief, and turned over the pillow. He would have felt
guilty. She did not. And it pleased him. It pleased him
very much to see how these things did not matter to her.

When the meal was over, she wiped her mouth on her
handkerchief quickly, satisfied and happy, and settled down
on the pillow again, with her fingers in his close, strange,
fur-like hair.

The evening began to fall, the light was half alive, livid.
He hid his face against her.

" I don't like the twilight/' he said.

" I love it," she answered.

He hid his face against her, who was warm and like sun-
light. She seemed to have sunlight inside her. Her heart
beating seemed like sunlight upon him. In her was a more
real day than the day could give: so warm and steady and
restoring. He hid his face against her whilst the twilight
fell, whilst she lay staring out with her unseeing dark eyes,
as if she wandered forth untrammelled in the vagueness.
The vagueness gave her scope and set her free.

To him, turned towards her heart-pulse, all was very still
and very warm and very close, like noon-tide. He was glad
to know this warm, full noon. It ripened him and took away
his responsibility, some of his conscience.

They got up when it was quite dark. " She hastily twisted
her hair into a knot, and was dressed in a twinkling. Then
they went downstairs, drew to the fire, and sat in silence,
saying a few words now and then.

Her father was coming. She bundled the dishes away,
flew round and tidied the room, assumed another character,
and again seated herself. He sat thinking of his carving of
Eve. He loved to go over his carving in his mind, dwelling
on every stroke, every line. How he loved it now! When
he went back to his Creation-panel again, he would finish his
Eve, tender and sparkling. It did not satisfy him yet. The
Lord should labour over her in a silent passion of Creation,
and Adam should be tense as if in a dream of immortality,
and Eve should take form glimmeringly, shadowily, as if

ANNA VICTRIX 139

the Lord must wrestle with His own soul for her, yet she was
a radiance.

" What are you thinking about ? " she asked.

He found it difficult to say. His soul became shy when
he tried to communicate it.

" I was thinking my Eve was too hard and lively."

"Why?"

"I don't know. She should be more ," he made a

gesture of infinite tenderness.

There was a stillness with a little joy. He could not tell
her any more. Why could he not tell her any more? She
felt a pang of disconsolate sadness. But it was nothing.
She went to him.

Her father came, and found them both very glowing, like
an open flower. He loved to sit with them. Where there
was a perfume of love, any one who came must breathe it.
They were both very quick and alive, lit up from the other-
world, so that it was quite an experience for them, that
any one else could exist.

But still it troubled Will Brangwen a little, in his orderly,
conventional mind, that the established rule of things had
gone so utterly. One ought to get up in the morning and
wash oneself and be a decent social being. Instead, the
two of them stayed in bed till nightfall, and then got up,
she never washed her face, but sat there talking to her father
as bright and shameless as a daisy opened out of the dew.
Or she got up at ten o'clock, and quite blithely went to bed
again at three, or at half-past four, stripping him naked in
the daylight, and all so gladly and perfectly, oblivious quite
of his qualms. He let her do as she liked with him, and
shone with strange pleasure. She was to dispose of him as
she would. He was translated with gladness to be in her
hands. And down went his qualms, his maxims, his rules, his
smaller beliefs, she scattered them like an expert skittle-
player. He was very much astonished and delighted to see
them scatter.

He stood and gazed and grinned with wonder whilst his
Tablets of Stone went bounding and bumping and splintering
down the hill, dislodged for ever. Indeed, it was true as they
said, that a man wasn't born before he was married. What
a change indeed!

He surveyed the rind of the world : houses, factories, trams,

140 THE RAINBOW

the discarded rind ; people scurrying about, work going on, all
on the discarded'surface. An earthquake had burst it all from
inside. It was as if the surface of the world had been broken
away entire: Ilkeston, streets, church, people, work, rule-of-
the-day, all intact ; and yet peeled away into unreality, leaving
here exposed the inside, the reality: one's own being, strange
feelings and passions and yearnings and beliefs and aspira-
tions, suddenly become present, revealed, the permanent bed-
rock, knitted one rock with the woman one loved. It was
confounding. Things are not what they seem ! When he was
a child, he had thought a woman was a woman merely by
virtue of her skirts and petticoats. And now, lo, the whole
world could be divested of its garment, the garment could lie
there shed away intact, and one could stand in a new world,
a new earth, naked in a new, naked universe. It was too
astounding and miraculous.

This then was marriage! The old things didn't matter
any more. One got up at four o'clock, and had broth at
teatime and made toffee in the middle of the night. One
didn't put on one's clothes or one did put on one's clothes.
He still was not quite sure it was not criminal. But it was
a discovery to find one might be so supremely absolved.
All that mattered was that he should love her and she should
love him and they should live kindled to one another, like
the Lord in two burning bushes that were not consumed.
And so they lived for the time.

She was less hampered than he, so she came more quickly
to her fulness, and was sooner ready to enjoy again a return
to the outside world. She was going to give a tea-party.
His heart sank. He wanted to go on, to go on as they were.
He wanted to have done with the outside world, to declare
it finished for ever. He was anxious with a deep desire and
anxiety that she should stay with him where they were in the
timeless universe of free, perfect limbs and immortal breast,
affirming that the old outward order was finished. The new
order was begun to last for ever, the living life, palpitating
from the gleaming core, to action, without crust or cover or
outward lie. But no, he could not keep her. She wanted the
dead world again — she wanted to walk on the outside once
more. She was going to give a tea-party. It made him
frightened and furious and miserable. He was afraid all
would be lost that he had so newly come into : like the youth
in the fairy tale, who was king for one day in the year, and

ANNA VICTRIX 141

for the rest a beaten herd : like Cinderella also, at the feast.
He was sullen. But she blithely began to make preparations
for her tea-party. His fear was too strong, he was troubled,
he hated her shallow anticipation and joy. Was she not for-
feiting the reality, the one reality, for all that was shallow and
worthless? Wasn't she carelessly taking off her crown to be
an artificial figure having other artificial women to tea : when
she might have been perfect with him, and kept him perfect, in
the land of intimate connection? Now he must be deposed,
his joy must be destroyed, he must put on the vulgar, shallow
death of an outward existence.

He ground his soul in uneasiness and fear. But she rose
to a real outburst of house-work, turning him away as she
shoved the furniture aside to her broom. He stood hanging
miserable near. He wanted her back. Dread, and desire
for her to stay with him, and shame at his own dependence
on her drove him to anger. He began to lose his head. The
wonder was going to pass away again. All the love, the
magnificent new order was going to be lost, she would forfeit
it all for the outside things. She would admit the outside
world again, she would throw away the living fruit for the
ostensible rind. He began to hate this in her. Driven by
fear of her departure into a state of helplessness, almost of
imbecility, he wandered about the house.

And she, with her skirts kilted up, flew round at her work,
absorbed.

" Shake the rug then, if you must hang round," she said.

And fretting with resentment, he went to shake the rug.
She was blithely unconscious of him. He came back, hanging
near to her.

" Can't you do anything ? " she said, as if to a child, im-
patiently. " Can't you do your wood-work ? "

" Where shall I do it ? " he asked, harsh with pain.

" Anywhere."

How furious that made him.

"Or go for a walk," she continued. "Go down to the
Marsh. Don't hang about as if you were only half there."

He winced and hated it. He went away to read. Never
had his soul felt so flayed and uncreated.

And soon he must come down again to her. His hovering
near her, wanting her to be with him, the futility of him, the
way his hands hung, irritated her beyond bearing. She turned
on him blindly and destructively, he became a mad creature,

142 THE RAINBOW

black and electric with fury. The dark storms rose in him, his
eyes glowed black and evil, he was fiendish in his thwarted
soul.

There followed two black and ghastly days, when she was
set in anguish against him, and he felt as if he were in a black,
violent underworld, and his wrists quivered murderously.
And she resisted him. He seemed a dark, almost evil thing,
pursuing her, hanging on to her,, burdening her. She would
give anything to have him removed.

"You need some work to do," she said. "You ought to
be at work. Can't you do something ? "

His soul only grew the blacker. His condition now became
complete, the darkness of his soul was thorough. Every-
thing had gone : he remained complete in his own tense, black
will. He was now unaware of her. She did not exist. His
dark, passionate soul had recoiled upon itself, and now,
clinched and coiled round a centre of hatred, existed in its own
power. There was a curiously ugly pallor, an expressionless-
ness in his face. She shuddered from him. She was afraid
of him. His will seemed grappled upon her.

She retreated before him. She went down to the Marsh,
she entered again the immunity of her parents' love for her.
He remained at Yew Cottage, black and clinched, his mind
dead. He was unable to work at his wood-carving. He went
on working monotonously at the garden, blindly, like a mole.

As she came home, up the hill, looking away at the town
dim and blue on the hill, her heart relaxed and became
yearning. She did not want to fight him any more. She
wanted love — oh, love. Her feet began to hurry. She
wanted to get back to him. Her heart became tight with
yearning for him.

He had been making the garden in order, cutting the edges
of the turf, laying the path with stones. He was a good,
capable workman.

"How nice you've made it," she said, approaching tenta-
tively down the path.

But he did not heed, he did not hear. His brain was solid
and dead.

" Haven't you made it nice ? " she repeated, rather plain-
tively.

He looked up at her, with that fixed, expressionless face
and unseeing eyes which shocked her, made her go dazed and
blind. Then he turned away. She saw his slender, stooping

ANNA VICTRIX 143

figure groping. A revulsion came over her. She went in-
doors.

As she took off her hat in the bedroom, she found herself
weeping bitterly, with some of the old, anguished, childish
desolation. She sat still and cried on. She did not want
him to know. She was afraid of his hard, evil movements, the
head dropped a little, rigidly, in a crouching, cruel way. She
was afraid of him. He seemed to lacerate her sensitive fe-
maleness. He seemed to hurt her womb, to take pleasure in
torturing her.

He came into the house. The sound of his footsteps in his
heavy boots filled her with horror: a hard, cruel, malignant
sound. She was afraid he would come upstairs. But he
did not. She waited apprehensively. He went out.

Where she was most vulnerable, he hurt her. Oh, where
she was delivered over to him, in her very soft femaleness,
he seemed to lacerate her and desecrate her. She pressed
her hands over her womb in anguish, whilst the tears ran
down her face. And why, and why ? Why was he like this ?

Suddenly she dried her tears. She must get the tea ready.
She went downstairs and set the table. When the meal was
ready, she called to him.

" I've mashed the tea, Will, are you coming ? "

She herself could hear the sound of tears in her own voice,
and she began to cry again. He did not answer, but went
on with his work. She waited a few minutes, in anguish.
Fear came over her, she was panic-stricken with terror, like
a child; and she could not go home again to her father; she
was held by the power in this man who had taken her.

She turned indoors so that he should not see her tears.
She sat down to table. Presently he came into the scullery.
His movements jarred on her, as she heard them. How
horrible was the way he pumped, exacerbating, so cruel!
How she hated to hear him ! How he hated her ! How his
hatred was like blows upon her! The tears were coming
again.

He came in, his face wooden and lifeless, fixed, persistent.
He sat down to tea, his head dropped over his cup, uglily.
His hands were red from the cold water, and there were
rims of earth in his nails. He went on with his tea.

It was his negative insensitiveness to her that she could
not bear, something clayey and ugly. His intelligence was
self-absorbed. How unnatural it was to sit with a self-ab-

144' THE RAINBOW

sorbed creature, like something negative ensconced opposite
one. Nothing could touch him — he could only absorb things
into his own self.

The tears were running down her face. Something startled
him, and he was looking up at her with his hateful, hard,
bright eyes, hard and unchanging as a bird of prey.

" What are you crying for ? " came the grating voice.

She winced through her womb. She could not stop crying.

"What are you crying for?" came the question again, in
just the same tone. And still there was silence, with only the
sniff of her tears.

His eyes glittered, and as if with malignant desire. She
shrank and became blind. She was like a bird being beaten
down. A sort of swoon of helplessness came over her. She
was of another order than he, she had no defence against him.
Against such an influence, she was only vulnerable, she was
given up.

He rose and went out of the house, possessed by the evil
spirit. It tortured him and wracked him, and fought in
him. And whilst he worked, in the deepening twilight, it
left him. Suddenly he saw that she was hurt. He had
only seen her triumphant before. Suddenly his heart was
torn with compassion for her. He became alive again, in
an anguish of compassion. He could not bear to think of
her tears — he could not bear it. He wanted to go to her
and pour out his heart's blood to her. He wanted to give
everything to her, all his blood, his life, to the last dregs,
pour everything away to her. He yearned with passionate
desire to offer himself to her, utterly.

The evening star came, and the night. She had not lighted
the lamp. His heart burned with pain and with grief. He
trembled to go to her.

And at last he went, hesitating, burdened with a great
offering. The hardness had gone out of him, his body was
sensitive, slightly trembling. His hand was curiously sensi-
tive, shrinking, as he shut the door. He fixed the latch almost
tenderly.

In the kitchen was only the fireglow, he could not see her.
He quivered with dread lest she had gone — he knew not
where. In shrinking dread, he went through to the parlour,
to the foot of the stairs.

" Anna," he called.

There was no answer. He went up the stairs, in dread of

ANNA VICTRIX 145

the empty house — the horrible emptiness that made his heart
ring with insanity. He opened the bedroom door, and his
heart flashed with certainty that she had gone, that he was
alone.

But he saw her on the bed, lying very still and scarcely
noticeable, with her back to him. He went and put his hand
on her shoulder, very gently, hesitating, in a great fear and
self-offering. She did not move. He waited. The hand
that touched her shoulder hurt him, as if she were sending
it away. He stood dim with pain.

" Anna," he said.

But still she was motionless, like a curled up, oblivious
creature. His heart beat with strange throes of pain. Then,
by a motion under his hand, he knew she was crying, holding
herself hard so that her tears should not be known. He
waited. The tension continued — perhaps she was not crying
— then suddenly relapsed with a sharp catch of a sob. His
heart flamed with love and suffering for her. Kneeling care-
fully on the bed, so that his earthy boots should not touch it, he
took her in his arms to comfort her. The sobs gathered in
her, she was sobbing bitterly. But not to him. She was still
away from him.

He held her against his breast, whilst she sobbed, withheld
from him, and all his body vibrated against her.

"Don't cry — don't cry," he said, with an odd simplicity.
His heart was calm and numb with a sort of innocence of
love, now.

She still sobbed, ignoring him, ignoring that he held her.
His lips were dry.

" Don't cry, my love," he said, in the same abstract way.
In his breast his heart burned like a torch, with suffering.
He could not bear the desolateness of her crying. He would
have soothed her with his blood. He heard the church clock
chime, as if it touched him, and he waited in suspense for it
to have gone by. It was quiet again.

" My love," he said to her, bending to touch her wet face
with his mouth. He was afraid to touch her. How wet her
face was! His body trembled as he held her. He loved
her till he felt his heart and all his veins would burst and
flood her with his hot, healing blood. He knew his blood
would heal and restore her.

She was becoming quieter. He thanked the God of mercy
that at last she was becoming quieter. His head felt so

146 THE RAINBOW

strange and blazed. Still he held her close, with trembling
arms. His blood seemed very strong, enveloping her.

And at last she began to draw near to him, she nestled to
him. His .limbs, his body, took fire and beat up in flames.
She clung to him, she cleaved to his body. The flames swept
him, he held her in sinews of fire. If she would kiss him!
He bent his mouth down. And her mouth, soft and moist,
received him. He felt his veins would burst with anguish of
thankfulness, his heart was mad with gratefulness, he could
pour himself out upon her for ever.

When they came to themselves, the night was very dark.
Two hours had gone by. They lay still and warm and weak,
like the new-born, together. And there was a silence almost
of the unborn. Only his heart was weeping happily, after
the pain. He did not understand, he had yielded, given way.
There was no understanding. There could be only acquies-
cence and submission^ and tremulous wonder of consumma-
tion.

The next morning, when they woke up, it had snowed. He
wondered what was the strange pallor in the air, and the
unusual tang. Snow was on the grass and the window-sill,
it weighed down the black, ragged branches of the yews, and
smoothed the graves in the churchyard.

Soon, it began to snow again, and they were shut in. He
was glad, for then they were immune in a shadowy silence,
there was no world, no time.

The snow lasted for some days. On the Sunday they
went to church. They made a line of footprints across the
garden, he left a flat snowprint of his hand on the wall as
he vaulted over, they traced the snow across the churchyard.
For three days they had been immune in a perfect love.

There were very few people in church, and she was glad.
She did not care much for church. She had never questioned
any beliefs, and she was, from habit and custom, a regular
attendant at morning service. But she had ceased to come
with any anticipation. To-day, however, in the strangeness
of snow, after such consummation of love, she felt expectant
again, and delighted. She was still in the eternal world.

She used, after she went to the High School, and wanted
to be a lady, wanted to fulfil some mysterious ideal, always
to listen to the sermon and to try to gather suggestions.
That was all very well for a while. The vicar told her to be

ANNA VICTRIX 147

good in this way and in that. She went away feeling it was
her highest aim to fulfil these injunctions.

But quickly this palled. After a short time, she was not
very much interested in being good. Her soul was in quest
of something, which was not just being good, and doing
one's best. No, she wanted something else: something that
was not her ready-made duty. Everything seemed to be
merely a matter of social duty, and never of her self. They
talked about her soul, but somehow never managed to rouse
or to implicate her soul. As yet her soul was not brought
in at all.

So that whilst she had an affection for Mr. Loverseed, the
vicar, and a protective sort of feeling for Cossethay church,
wanting always to help it and defend it, it counted very small
in her life.

Not but that she was conscious of some unsatisfaction.
When her husband was roused by the thought of the churches,
then she became hostile to the ostensible church, she hated
it for not fulfilling anything in her. The Church told her
to be good : very well, she had no idea of contradicting what
it said. The Church talked about her soul, about the welfare
of mankind, as if the saving of her soul lay in her performing
certain acts conducive to the welfare of mankind. Well and
good — it was so, then.

Nevertheless, as she sat in church her face had a pathos
and poignancy. Was this what she had come to hear: how,
by doing this thing and by not doing that, she could save her
soul ? She did not contradict it. But the pathos of her face
gave the lie. There was something else she wanted to hear,
it was something else she asked for from the Church.

But who was she to affirm it? And what was she doing
with unsatisfied desires? She was ashamed. She ignored
them and left them out of count as much as possible, her
underneath yearnings. They angered her. She wanted to be
like other people, decently satisfied.

He angered her more than ever. Church had an irresistible
attraction for him. And he paid no more attention to that
part of the service which was Church to her, than if he had
been an angel or a fabulous beast sitting there. He simply
paid no heed to the sermon or to the meaning of the service.
There was something thick, dark, dense, powerful about him
that irritated her too deeply for her to speak of it. The

148 THE RAINBOW

Church teaching in itself meant nothing to him. " And for-
give us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against
us " — it simply did not touch him. It might have been mere
sounds, and it would have acted upon him in the same way.
He did not want things to be intelligible. And he did not care
about his trespasses, neither about the trespasses of his neigh-
bour, when he was in church. Leave that care for weekdays.
When he was in church, he took no more notice of his daily life.
It was weekday stuff. As for the welfare of mankind — he
merely did not realize that there was any such thing: except
on weekdays, when he was good-natured enough. In church,
he wanted a dark, nameless emotion, the emotion of all the
great mysteries of passion.

He was not interested in the thought of himself or of her :
oh, and how that irritated her! He ignored the sermon,
he ignored the greatness of mankind, he did not admit the
immediate importance of mankind. He did not care about
himself as a human being. He did not attach any vital im-
portance to his life in the drafting office, or his life among
men. That was just merely the margin to the text. The
verity was his connection with Anna and his connection with
the Church, his real being lay in his dark emotional experience
of the Infinite, of the Absolute. And the great mysterious,
illuminated capitals to the text, were his feelings with the
Church.

It exasperated her beyond measure. She could not get
out of the Church the satisfaction he got. The thought of
her soul was intimately mixed up with the thought of her
own self. Indeed, her soul and her own self were one and
the same in her. Whereas he seemed simply to ignore the
fact of his own self, almost to refute it. He had a soul — a
dark, inhuman thing caring nothing for humanity. So she
conceived it. And in the gloom and the mystery of the
Church his soul lived and ran free, like some strange, under-
ground thing, abstract.

He was very strange to her, and, in this church spirit, in
conceiving himself as a soul, he seemed to escape and run
free of her. In a way, she envied it him, this dark freedom
and jubilation of the soul, some strange entity in him. It
fascinated her. Again she hated it. And again, she despised
him, wanted to destroy it in him.

This snowy morning, he sat with a dark-bright face beside
her, not aware of her, and somehow, she felt he was con-

ANNA VICTRIX

veying to strange, secret places the love that sprang in him
for her. He sat with a dark-rapt, half-delighted face, looking
at a little stained window. She saw the ruby-coloured glass,
with the shadow heaped along the bottom from the snow out-
side, and the familiar yellow figure of the lamb holding the
banner, a little darkened now, but in the murky interior
strangely luminous, pregnant.

She had always liked the little red and yellow window.
The lamb, looking very silly and self-conscious, was holding
up a forepaw, in the cleft of which was dangerously perched
a little flag with a red cross. Very pale yellow, the lamb,
with greenish shadows. Since she was a child she had liked
this creature, with the same feeling she felt for the little woolly
lambs on green legs that children carried home from the fair
every year. She had always liked those toys, and she had the
same amused, childish liking for this church lamb. Yet she
had always been uneasy about it. She was never sure that this
Lamb with a flag did not want to be more than it appeared.
So she half mistrusted it, there was a mixture of dislike in her
attitude to it.

Now, by a curious gathering, knitting of his eyes, the faintest
tension of ecstasy on his face, he gave her the uncomfortable
feeling that he was in correspondence with the creature, the
lamb in the window. A cold wonder came over her — her
soul was perplexed. There he sat, motionless, timeless, with
the faint, bright tension on his face. What was he doing?
What connection was there between him and the lamb in the
glass?

Suddenly it gleamed to her dominant, this lamb with the
flag. Suddenly she had a powerful mystic experience, the
power of the tradition seized on her, she was transported to
another world. And she hated it, resisted it.

Instantly, it was only a silly lamb in the glass again. And
dark, violent hatred of her husband swept up in her. What
was he doing, sitting there gleaming, carried away, soulful ?

She shifted sharply, she knocked him as she pretended to
pick up her glove, she groped among his feet.

He came to, rather bewildered, exposed. Anybody but her
would have pitied him. She wanted to rend him. He did
not know what was amiss, what he had been doing.

As they sat at dinner, in their cottage, he was dazed by
the chill of antagonism from her. She did not know why
she was so angry. But she was incensed.

150 THE RAINBOW

"Why do you never listen to the sermon?" she asked,
seething with hostility and violation.

" I do," he said.

" You don't — you don't hear a single word."

He retired into himself, to enjoy his own sensation. There
was something subterranean about him, as if he had an under-
world refuge. The young girl hated to be in the house with
him when he was like this.

After dinner, he retired into the parlour, continuing in the
same state of abstraction, which was a burden intolerable
to her. Then he went to the book-shelf and took down books
to look at, that she had scarcely glanced over.

He sat absorbed over a book on the illuminations in old
missals, and then over a book on paintings in churches:
Italian, English, French and German. He had, when he was
sixteen, discovered a Roman Catholic bookshop where he
could find such things.

He turned the leaves in absorption, absorbed in looking,
not thinking. He was like a man whose eyes were in his
chest, she said of him later.

She came to look at the things with him. Half they
fascinated her. She was puzzled, interested, and antagonistic.

It was when she came to pictures of the Pieta that she
burst out.

" I do think they're loathsome," she cried.

" What ? " he said, surprised, abstracted.

" Those bodies with slits in them, posing to be worshipped."

"You see, it means the Sacraments, the Bread," he said,
slowly.

" Does it ! " she cried. " Then it's worse. I don't want
to see your chest slit, nor to eat your dead body, even if you
offer it me. Can't you see it's horrible ? "

" It isn't me, it's Christ."

" What if it is, it's you ! And it's horrible, you wallowing
in your own dead body, and thinking of eating it in the
Sacrament."

" You've to take it for what it means."

"It means your human body put up to be slit and killed
and then worshipped — what else ? "

They lapsed into silence. His soul grew angry and aloof.

"And I think that Lamb in Church," she said, "is the
biggest joke in the parish "

She burst into a " Pouf " of ridiculing laughter.

ANNA VICTRIX 151

"It might be, to those that see nothing in it/' he said.
"You know it's the symbol of Christ, of His innocence and
sacrifice."

"Whatever it means, it's a lamb," she said. "And I like
lambs too much to treat them as if they had to mean some-
thing. As for the Christmas-tree flag — no • •• --"

And again she poufed with mockery.

"It's because you don't know anything," he said violently,
harshly. " Laugh at what you know, not at what you don't
know."

"What don't I know?"

" What things mean."

" And what does it mean ? "

He was reluctant to answer her. He found it difficult,

" W hat does it mean ? " she insisted.

" It means the triumph of the Resurrection."

She hesitated, baffled, a fear came upon her. What were
these things ? Something dark and powerful seemed to extend
before her. Was it wonderful after all ?

But no — she refused it.

"Whatever it may pretend to mean, what it is is a silly
absurd toy-lamb with a Christmas-tree flag ledged on its paw
— and if it wants to mean anything else, it must look different
from that."

He was in a state of violent irritation against her. Partly
he was ashamed of his love for these things; he hid his
passion for them. He was ashamed of the ecstasy into which
he could throw himself with these symbols. And for a few
moments he hated the lamb and the mystic pictures of the
Eucharist, with a violent, ashy hatred. His fire was put out,
she had thrown cold water on it. The whole thing was dis-
tasteful to him, his mouth was full of ashes. He went out
cold with corpse-like anger, leaving her alone. He hated her.
He walked through the white snow, under a sky of lead.

And she wept again, in bitter recurrence of the previous
gloom. But her heart was easy — oh, much more easy.

She was quite willing to make it up with him when he
came home again. He was black and surly, but abated.
She had broken a little of something in him. And at length
he was glad to forfeit from his soul all his symbols, to have
her making love to him. He loved it when she put her
head on his knee, and he had not asked her to or wanted
her to, he loved her when she put her arms round him and

152 THE RAINBOW

made bold love to him, and lie did not make love to her.
He felt a strong blood in his limbs again.

And she loved the intent, far look of his eyes when they
rested on her: intent, yet far, not near, not with her. And
she wanted to bring them near. She wanted his eyes to
come to hers, to know her. And they would not. They re-
mained intent, and far, and proud, like a hawk's, naive and
inhuman as a hawk's. So she loved him and caressed him and
roused him like a hawk, till he was keen and instant, but with-
out tenderness. He came to her fierce and hard, like a hawk
striking and taking her. He was no mystic any more, she was
his aim and object, his prey. And she was carried off, and he
was satisfied, or satiated at last.

Then immediately she began to retaliate on him. She too
was a hawk. If she imitated the pathetic plover running
plaintive to him, that was part of the game. When he, satis-
fied, moved with a proud, insolent slouch of the body and a
half-contemptuous drop of the head, unaware of her, ignoring
her very existence, after taking his fill of her and getting his
satisfaction of her, her soul roused, its pinions became like
steel, and she struck at him. When he sat on his perch glanc-
ing sharply round with solitary pride, pride eminent and fierce,
she dashed at him and threw him from his station savagely, she
goaded him from his keen dignity of a male, she harassed him
from his unperturbed pride, till he was mad with rage, his
light brown eyes burned with fury, they saw her now, like
flames of anger they flared at her and recognized her as the
enemy.

Very good, she was the enemy, very good. As he prowled
round her, she watched him. As he struck at her, she struck
back.

He was angry because she had carelessly pushed away his
tools so that they got rusty.

" Don't leave them littering in my way, then/' she said.

" I shall leave them where I like," he cried.

" Then I shall throw them where I like."

They glowered at each other, he with rage in his hands,
she with her soul fierce with victory. They were very well
matched. They would fight it out.

She turned to her sewing. Immediately the tea-things were
cleared away, she fetched out the stuff, and his soul rose in
rage. He hated beyond measure to hear the shriek of calico

ANNA VICTRIX 153

as she tore the web sharply, as if with pleasure. And the run
of the sewing-machine gathered a frenzy in him at last.

" Aren't you going to stop that row ? " he shouted. " Can't
you do it in the daytime ? "

She looked up sharply, hostile from her work.

"No, I can't do it in the daytime, I have other things to
do. Besides, I like sewing, and you're not going to stop me
doing it."

Whereupon she turned back to her arranging, fixing, stitch-
ing, his nerves jumped with anger as the sewing-machine
started and stuttered and buzzed.

But she was enjoying herself, she was triumphant and happy
as the darting needle danced ecstatically down a hem, draw-
ing the stuff along under its vivid stabbing, irresistibly. She
made the machine hum. She stopped it imperiously, her
fingers were deft and swift and mistress.

If he sat behind her stiff with impotent rage it only made
a trembling vividness come into her energy. On she worked.
At last he went to bed in a rage, and lay stiff, away from
her. And she turned her back on him. And in the morning
they did not speak, except in mere cold civilities.

And when he came home at night, his heart relenting and
growing hot for love of her, when he was just ready to feel
he had been wrong, and when he was expecting her to feel
the same, there she sat at the sewing-machine, the whole
house was covered with clipped calico, the kettle was not even
on the fire.

She started up, affecting concern.

"Is it so late? "she cried.

But his face had gone stiff with rage. He walked through
to the parlour, then he walked back and out of the house
again. Her heart sank. Very swiftly she began to make his
tea.

He went black-hearted down the road to Ilkeston. When
he was in this state he never thought. A bolt shot across
the doors of his mind and shut him in, a prisoner. He went
back to Ilkeston, and drank a glass of beer. What was he
going to do ? He did not want to see anybody.

He would go to Nottingham, to his own town. He went to
the station and took a train. When he got to Nottingham, still
he had nowhere to go. However, it was more agreeable to walk
familiar streets. He paced them with a mad restlessness, as if

154 THE RAINBOW

he were running amok. Then he turned to a book-shop and
found a book on Bamberg Cathedral. Here was a discovery !
here was something for him ! He went into a quiet restaurant
to look at his treasure. He lit up with thrills of bliss as he
turned from picture to picture. He had found something at
last, in these carvings. His soul had great satisfaction. Had
he not come out to seek, and had he not found ! He was in a
passion of fulfilment. These were the finest carvings, statues,
he had ever seen. The book lay in his hands like a doorway.
The world around was only an enclosure, a room. But he was
going away. He lingered over the lovely statues of women.
A marvellous, finely-wrought universe crystallized out around
him as he looked again, at the crowns, the twining hair, the
woman-faces. He liked all the better the unintelligible text of
the German. He preferred things he could not understand
with the mind. He loved the undiscovered and the undiscover-
able. He pored over the pictures intensely. And these were
wooden statues, "Holz" — he believed that meant wood.
Wooden statues so shapen to his soul ! He was a million times
gladdened. How undiscovered the world was, how it revealed
itself to his soul ! What a fine, exciting thing his life was, at
his hand! Did not Bamberg Cathedral make the world his
own? He celebrated his triumphant strength and life and
verity, and embraced the vast riches he was inheriting.

But it was about time to go home. He had better catch a
train. All the time there was a steady bruise at the bottom of
his soul, but so steady as to be forgettable. He caught a train
for Ilkeston.

It was ten o'clock as he was mounting the hill to Cossethay,
carrying his limp book on Bamberg Cathedral. He had not
yet thought of Anna, not definitely. The dark finger pressing
a bruise controlled him thoughtlessly.

Anna had started guiltily when he left the house. She had
hastened preparing the tea, hoping he would come back. She
had made some toast, and got all ready. Then he didn't come.
She cried with vexation and disappointment. Why had he
gone ? Why couldn't he come back now ? Why was it such a
battle between them ? She loved him — she did love him —
why couldn't he be kinder to her, nicer to her ?

She waited in distress — then her mood grew harder. He
passed out of her thoughts. She had considered indignantly,
what right he had to interfere with her sewing? She had
indignantly refuted his right to interfere with her at all. She

ANNA VICTRIX 155

was not to be interfered with. Was she not herself, and he
the outsider ?

Yet a quiver of fear went through her. If he should leave
her ? She sat conjuring fears and sufferings, till she wept with
very self-pity. She did not know what she would do if he left
her, or if he turned against her. The thought of it chilled her,
made her desolate and hard. And against him, the stranger,
the outsider, the being who wanted to arrogate authority, she
remained steadily fortified. Was she not herself ? How could
one who was not of her own kind presume with authority?
She knew she was immutable, unchangeable, she was not afraid
for her own being. She was only afraid of all that was not
herself. It pressed round her, it came to her and took part in
her, in form of her man, this vast, resounding, alien world
which was not herself. And he had so many weapons, he
might strike from so many sides.

When he came in at the door, his heart was blazed with
pity and tenderness, she looked so lost and forlorn and young.
She glanced up, afraid. And she was surprised to see him,
shining-faced, clear and beautiful in his movements, as if he
were clarified. And a startled pang of fear, and shame of her-
self went through her.

They waited for each other to speak.

" Do you want to eat anything ? " she said.

" I'll get it myself," he answered, not wanting her to serve
him. But she brought out food. And it pleased him she did
it for him. He was again a bright lord.

" I went to Nottingham," he said mildly.

" To your mother? " she asked, in a flash of contempt.

« No — I didn't go home."

" Who did you go to see ? "

" I went to see nobody."

" Then why did you go to Nottingham ? "

" I went because I wanted to go."

He was getting angry that she again rebuffed him when
he was so clear and shining.

" And who did you see ? "

" I saw nobody."

"Nobody?"

« NO — who should I see ? "

" You saw nobody you knew ? "

" No, I didn't," he replied irritably.

She believed him, and her mood became cold.

156 THE RAINBOW

" I bought a book/' he said, handing her the propitiatory
volume.

She idly looked at the pictures. Beautiful, the pure women,
with their clear-dropping gowns. Her heart became colder.
What did they mean to him?

He sat and waited for her. She bent over the book.

"Aren't they nice?" he said, his voice roused and glad.
Her blood flushed, but she did not lift her head.

" Yes," she said. In spite of herself, she was compelled by
him. He was strange, attractive, exerting some power over
her.

He came over to her, and touched her delicately. Her
heart beat with wild passion, wild raging passion. But she
resisted as yet. It was always the unknown, always the un-
known, and she clung fiercely to her known self. But the
rising flood carried her away.

They loved each other to transport again, passionately and
fully.

" Isn't it more wonderful than ever ? " she asked him, ra-
diant like a newly opened flower, with tears like dew.

He held her closer. He was strange and abstracted.

" It is always more wonderful," she asseverated, in a glad,
child's voice, remembering her fear, and not quite cleared of
it yet.

So it went on continually, the recurrence of love and con-
flict between them. One day it seemed as if everything was
shattered, all life spoiled, ruined, desolate and laid waste.
The next day it was all marvellous again, just marvellous.
One day she thought she would go mad from his very pres-
ence, the sound of his drinking was detestable to her. The
next day she loved and rejoiced in the way he crossed the
floor, he was sun, moon and stars in one.

She fretted, however, at last, over the lack of stability.
When the perfect hours came back, her heart did not forget
that they would pass away again. She was uneasy. The
surety, the surety, the inner surety, the confidence in the
abidingness of love: that was what she wanted. And that
she did not get. She knew also that he had not got it.

Nevertheless it was a marvellous world, she was for the
most part lost in the marvellousness of it. Even her great
woes were marvellous to her.

She could be very happy. And she wanted to be happy.
She resented it when he made her unhappy. Then she could

ANNA VICTRIX 157

kill him, cast him out. Many days, she waited for the hour
when he would be gone to work. Then the flow of her life,
which he seemed to dam up, was let loose, and she was free.
She was free, she was full of delight. Everything delighted
her. She took up the rug and went to shake it in the garden.
Patches of snow were on the fields, the air was light. She
heard the ducks shouting on the pond, she saw them charge and
sail across the water as if they were setting off on an invasion
of the world. She watched the rough horses, one of which was
clipped smooth on the belly, so that he wore a jacket and long
stockings of brown fur, stand kissing each other in the wintry
morning by the church-yard wall. Everything delighted her,
now he was gone, the insulator, the obstruction removed, the
world all hers, in connection with her.

She was joyfully active. Nothing pleased her more than to
hang out the washing in a high wind that came full-butt over
the round of the hill, tearing the wet garments out of her
hands, making flap-flap-flap of the waving stuff. She laughed
and struggled and grew angry. But she loved her solitary
days.

Then he came home at night, and she knitted her brows be-
cause of some endless contest between them. As he stood in
the doorway her heart changed. It steeled itself. The laugh-
ter and zest of the day disappeared from her. She was
stiffened.

They fought an unknown battle, unconsciously. Still they
were in love with each other, the passion was there. But the
passion was consumed in a battle. And the deep, fierce, un-
named battle went on. Everything glowed intensely about
them, the world had put off its clothes and was awful, with
new, primal nakedness.

Sunday came, when the strange spell was cast over her by
him. Half she loved it. She was becoming more like him.
All the week-days, there was a glint of sky and fields, the
little church seemed to babble away to the cottages the morn-
ing through. But on Sundays, when he stayed at home, a
deeply-coloured, intense gloom seemed to gather on the face of
the earth, the church seemed to fill itself with shadow, to be-
come big, a universe to her, there was a burning of blue and
ruby, a sound of worship about her. And when the doors were
opened, and she came out into the world, it was a world new-
created, she stepped into the resurrection of the world, her
heart beating to the memory of the darkness and the Passion^

158 THE RAINBOW

If, as very often, they went to the Marsh for tea on Sundays,
then she regained another, lighter world, that had never known
the gloom and the stained glass and the ecstasy of chanting.
Her husband was obliterated, she was with her father again,
who was so fresh and free and all daylight. Her husband,
with his intensity and his darkness, was obliterated. She left
him, she forgot him, she accepted her father.

Yet, as she went home again with the young man, she put
her hand on his arm tentatively, a little bit ashamed, her hand
pleaded that he would not hold it against her, her recusancy.
But he was obscured. He seemed to become blind, as if he
were not there with her.

Then she was afraid. She wanted him. When he was
oblivious of her, she almost went mad with fear. For she
had become so vulnerable, so exposed. She was in touch so
intimately. All things about her had become intimate, she had
known them near and lovely, like presences hovering upon her.
What if they should all go hard and separate again, standing
back from her terrible and distinct, and she, having known
them, should be at their mercy ?

This frightened her. Always, her husband was to her the
unknown to which she was delivered up. She was a flower
that has been tempted forth into blossom, and has no retreat.
He had her nakedness in his power. And who was he, what
was he? A blind thing, a dark force, without knowledge.
She wanted to preserve herself.

Then she gathered him to herself again and was satisfied
for a moment. But as time went on, she began to realize
more and more that he did not alter, that he was something
dark, alien to herself. She had thought him just the bright
reflex of herself. As the weeks and months went by she real-
ized that he was a dark opposite to her, that they were op-
posites, not complements.

He did not alter, he remained separately himself, and he
seemed to expect her to be part of himself, the extension of
his will. She felt him trying to gain power over her, with-
out knowing her. What did he want? Was he going to
bully her?

What did she want herself? She answered herself, that
she wanted to be happy, to be natural, like the sunlight and
the busy daytime. And, at the bottom of her soul, she felt
he wanted her to be dark, unnatural. Sometimes, when he
seemed like the darkness covering and snaothering her, sh§

ANNA VICTRIX 159

revolted almost in horror, and struck at him. She struck at
him, and made him bleed, and he became wicked. Because
she dreaded him and held him in horror, he became wicked,
he wanted to destroy. And then the fight between them was
cruel.

She began to tremble. He wanted to impose himself on
her. And he began to shudder. She wanted to desert him,
to leave him a prey to the open, with the unclean dogs of
the darkness setting on to devour him. He must beat her, and
make her stay with him. Whereas she fought to keep her-
self free of him.

They went their ways now shadowed and stained with blood,
feeling the world far off, unable to give help. Till she began
to get tired. After a certain point, she became impassive,
detached utterly from him. He was always ready to burst out
murderously against her. Her soul got up and left him, she
went her way. Nevertheless in her apparent blitheness, that
made his soul black with opposition, she trembled as if she
bled.

And ever and again, the pure love came in sunbeams be-
tween them, when she was like a flower in the sun to him, so
beautiful, so shining, so intensely dear that he could scarcely
bear it. Then as if his soul had six wings of bliss he stood
absorbed in praise, feeling the radiance from the Almighty
beat through him like a pulse, as he stood in the upright flame
of praise, transmitting the pulse of Creation.

And ever and again he appeared to her as the dread flame
of power. Sometimes, when he stood in the doorway, his face
lit up, he seemed like an Annunciation to her, her heart beat
fast. And she watched him, suspended. He had a dark,
burning being that she dreaded and resisted. She was subject
to him as to the Angel of the Presence. She waited upon him
and heard his will, and she trembled in his service.

Then all this passed away. Then he loved her for her child-
ishness and for her strangeness to him, for the wonder of her
soul which was different from his soul, and which made him
genuine when he would be false. And she loved him for the
way he sat loosely in a chair, or for the way he came through
a door with his face open and eager. She loved his ringing,
eager voice, and the touch of the unknown about him, his abso-
lute simplicity.

Yet neither of them was quite satisfied. He felt, some-
where, that she did not respect him. She only respected Mm

160 THE RAINBOW

as far as he was related to herself. For what he was, beyond
her, she had no care. She did not care for what he represented
in himself. It is true, he did not know himself what he repre-
sented. But whatever it was she did not really honour it.
She did no service to his work as a lace-designer, nor to him-
self as bread-winner. Because he went down to the office and
worked every day — that entitled him to no respect or regard
from her, he knew. Eather she despised him for it. And he
almost loved her for this, though at first it maddened him like
an insult.

What was much deeper, she soon came to combat his deepest
feelings. What he thought about life and about society and
mankind did not matter very much to her : he was right enough
to be insignificant. This was again galling to him. She
would judge beyond him on these things. But at length he
came to accept her judgments, discovering them as if they were
his own. It was not here the deep trouble lay. The deep root
of his enmity lay in the fact that she jeered at his soul. He
was inarticulate and stupid in thought. But to some things
he clung passionately. He loved the Church. If she tried to
get out of him, what he believed, then they were both soon in a
white rage.

Did he believe the water turned to wine at Cana? She
would drive him to the thing as a historical fact: so much
rain-water — look at it — can it become grape-juice, wine?
For an instant, he saw with the clear eyes of the mind and
said no, his clear mind, answering her for a moment, rejected
the idea. And immediately his whole soul was crying in a
mad, inchoate hatred against this violation of himself. It
was true for him. His mind was extinguished again at once,
his blood was up. In his blood and bones, he wanted the
scene, the wedding, the water brought forward from the firkins
as red wine: and Christ saying to His mother: "Woman,
what have I to do with thee ? — mine hour is not yet come."

And then :

" His mother saith unto the servants, * Whatsoever he saith
unto you, do it/ *

Brangwen loved it, with his bones and blood he loved it,
he could not let it go. Yet she forced him to let it go. She
hated his blind attachments.

Water, natural water, could it suddenly and unnaturally
turn into wine, depart from its being and at hap-hazard take
on another being ? Ah no, he knew it was wrong.

ANNA VICTRIX 161

She became again the palpitating, hostile child, hateful,
putting things to destruction. He became mute and dead.
His own being gave him the lie. He knew it was so: wine
was wine, water was water, for ever : the water had not become
wine. The miracle was not a real fact. She seemed to be
destroying him. He went out, dark and destroyed, his soul
running its blood. And he tasted of death. Because his life
was formed in these unquestioned concepts.

She, desolate again as she had been when she was a child,
went away and sobbed. She did not care, she did not care
whether the water had turned to wine or not. Let him believe
it if he wanted to. But she knew she had won. And an ashy
desolation came over her.

They were ashenly miserable for some time. Then the life
began to come back. He was nothing if not dogged. He
thought again of the chapter of St. John. There was a great
biting pang. " But thou hast kept the good wine until now."
" The best wine ! " The young man's heart responded in
a craving, in a triumph, although the knowledge that it was
not true in fact bit at him like a weasel in his heart. Which
was stronger, the pain of the denial, or the desire for affirma-
tion? He was stubborn in spirit, and abode by his desire.
But he would not any more affirm the miracles as true.

Very well, it was not true, the water had not turned into
wine. The water had not turned into wine. But for all that
he would live in his soul as if the water had turned into wine.
For truth of fact, it had not. But for his soul, it had.

" Whether it turned into wine or whether it didn't/' he said,
" it doesn't bother me. I take it for what it is."

" And what is it ? " she asked, quickly, hopefully.

" It's the Bible," he said.

That answer enraged her, and she despised him. She did
not actively question the Bible herself. But he drove her to
contempt.

And yet he did not care about the Bible, the written letter.
Although he could not satisfy her, yet she knew of herself
that he had something real. He was not a dogmatist. He
did not believe in fact that the water turned into wine. He
did not want to make a fact out of it. Indeed, his attitude
was without criticism. It was purely individual. He took
that which was of value to him from the Written Word, he
added to his spirit. His mind he let sleep.

And she was bitter against him, that he let his mind sleep.

162 THE RAINBOW

That which was human, belonged to mankind, he would not
exert. He cared only for himself. He was no Christian.
Above all, Christ had asserted the brotherhood of man.

She, almost against herself, clung to the worship of the
human knowledge. Man must die in the body, but in his
knowledge he was immortal. Such, somewhere, was her belief,
quite obscure and unformulated. She believed in the omnip-
otence of the human mind.

He, on the other hand, blind as a subterranean thing, just
ignored the human mind and ran after his own dark-souled
desires, following his own tunnelling nose. She felt often she
must suffocate. And she fought him off.

Then he, knowing he was blind, fought madly back again,
frantic in sensual fear. He did foolish things. He asserted
himself on his rights, he arrogated the old position of master
of the house.

" You've a right to do as I want," he cried.

" Pool ! " she answered. " Fool ! "

" I'll let you know who's master," he cried.

" Fool ! " she answered. " Fool ! I've known my own
father, who could put a dozen of you in his pipe and push
them down with his finger-end. Don't I know what a fool
you are ! "

He knew himself what a fool he was, and was flayed by the
knowledge. Yet he went on trying to steer the ship of their
dual life. He asserted his position as the captain of the ship.
And captain and ship bored her. He wanted to loom im-
portant as master of one of the innumerable domestic craft that
make up the great fleet of society. It seemed to her a ridicu-
lous armada of tubs jostling in futility. She felt no belief in
it. She jeered at him as master of the house, master of their
dual life. And he was black with shame and rage. He knew,
with shame, how her father had been a man without arrogating
any authority.

He had gone on the wrong tack, and he felt it hard to give
up the expedition. There was great surging and shame.
Then he yielded. He had given up the master-of-the-house
idea.

There was something he wanted, nevertheless, some form
of mastery. Ever and anon, after his collapses into the petty
and the shameful, he rose up again, and, stubborn in spirit,
strong in his power to start afresh, set out once more in hi$
male pride of being to fulfil the hidden passion of his spirit,

ANNA VICTRIX 163

It began well, but it ended always in war between them,
till they were both driven almost to madness. He said, she
did not respect him. She laughed in hollow scorn of this.
For her it was enough that she loved him.

" Respect what ? " she asked.

But he always answered the wrong thing. And though she
cudgelled her brains, she could not come at it.

" Why don't you go on with your wood-carving ? " she said.
" Why don't you finish your Adam and Eve ? "

But she did not care for the Adam and Eve, and he never
put another stroke to it. She jeered at the Eve, saying, " She
is like a little marionette. Why is she so small? You've
made Adam as big as God, and Eve like a doll."

" It is impudence to say that Woman was made out of Man'a
body," she continued, "when every man is born of woman.
What impudence men have, what arrogance ! "

In a rage one day, after trying to work on the board, and
failing, so that his belly was a flame of nausea, he chopped up
the whole panel and put it on the fire. She did not know.
He went about for some days very quiet and subdued
after it.

" Where is the Adam and Eve board ? " she asked him.

« Burnt."

She looked at him.

"But your carving?"

" I burned it."

"When?"

She did not believe him.

" On Friday night."

" When I was at the Marsh ? "

" Yes."

She said no more.

Then, when he had gone to work, she wept for a whole day,
and was much chastened in spirit. So that a new, fragile
flame of love came out of the ashes of this last pain.

Directly, it occurred to her that she was with child. There
was a great trembling of wonder and anticipation through
her soul. She wanted a child. Not that she loved babies so
much, though she was touched by all young things. But she
wanted to bear children. And a certain hunger in her heart
wanted to unite her husband with herself, in a child.

She wanted a son. She felt, a son would be everything.
She wanted to tell her husband. But it was such a trembling,

164 THE RAINBOW

intimate thing to tell him, and he was at this time hard and
unresponsive. So that she went away and wept. It was such
a waste of a beautiful opportunity, such a frost that nipped in
.the bud one of the beautiful moments of her life. She went
about heavy and tremulous with her secret, wanting to touch
him, oh, most delicately, and see his face, dark and sensitive,
attend to her news. She waited and waited for him to become
gentle and still towards her. But he was always harsh and he
bullied her.

So that the buds shrivelled from her confidence, she was
chilled. She went down to the Marsh.

"Well/' said her father, looking at her and seeing her at
the first glance, " what's amiss wi' you now ? "

The tears came at the touch of his careful love.

" Nothing," she said.

" Can't you hit it off, you two ? " he said.

" He's so obstinate," she quivered ; but her soul was obdurate
itself.

"Ay, an' I know another who's all that," said her father.

She was silent.

"You don't want to make yourselves miserable," said her
father ; " all about nowt."

ff He isn't miserable," she said.

" I'll back my life, if you can do nowt else, you can make
him as miserable as a dog. You'd be a dab hand at that,
my lass."

" I do nothing to make him miserable," she retorted.

" Oh no — oh no ! A packet o' butterscotch, you are." .

She laughed a little.

" You mustn't think I want to be miserable," she cried. " I
don't."

"We quite readily believe it," retorted Brangwen. "Nei-
ther do you intend him to be hopping for joy like a fish in a
pond."

This made her think. She was rather surprised to find that
she did not intend her husband to be hopping for joy like a
fish in a pond.

Her mother came, and they all sat down to tea, talking
casually.

"Remember, child," said her mother, "that everything is
not waiting for your hand just to take or leave. You mustn't
expect it. Between two people, the love itself is the important
thing, and that is neither you nor him. It is a third thing

ANNA VICTRIX 165

yon must create. You mustn't expect it to be just your way."

" Ha — nor do I. If I did I should soon find my mistake
out. If I put my hand out to take anything, my hand is very
soon bitten, I can tell you."

" Then you must mind where you put your hand," said her
father.

Anna was rather indignant that they took the tragedy of
her young married life with such equanimity.

"You love the man right enough," said her father, wrin-
kling his forehead in distress. " That's all as counts."

" I do love him, more shame to him," she cried. " I want
to tell him — I've been waiting for four days now to tell

him " her face began to quiver, the tears came. Her

parents watched her in silence. She did not go on.

" Tell him what ? " said her father.

" That we're going to have an infant," she sobbed, " and
he's never, never let me, not once, every time I've come to
him, he's been horrid to me, and I wanted to tell him, I did.
And he won't let me — he's cruel to me."

She sobbed as if her heart would break. Her mother went
and comforted her, put her arms round her, and held her
close. Her father sat with a queer, wrinkled brow, and was
rather paler than usual. His heart went tense with hatred of
his son-in-law.

So that, when the tale was sobbed out, and comfort ad-
ministered and tea sipped, and something like calm restored
to the little circle, the thought of Will Brangwen's entry was
not pleasantly entertained.

Tilly was set to watch out for him as he passed by on his
way home. The little party at table heard the woman-serv-
ant's shrill call :

" You've got to come in, Will. Anna's here."

After a few moments, the youth entered.

"Are you stopping?" he asked in his hard, harsh voice.

He seemed like a blade of destruction standing there. She
quivered to tears.

" Sit you down," said Tom Brangwen, " an' take a bit off
your length."

Will Brangwen sat down. He felt something strange in
the atmosphere. He was dark browed, but his eyes had the
keen, intent, sharp look, as if he could only see in the dis-
tance; which was a beauty in him, and which made Anna BO
angry.

166 THE RAINBOW

"Why does he always deny me?" she said to herself.
" Why is it nothing to him, what I am ? "

And Tom Brangwen, blue-eyed and warm, sat in opposition
to the youth.

"How long are you stopping?" the young husband asked
liis wife.

" Not very long/' she said.

" Get your tea, lad," said Tom Brangwen. " Are you
itchin' to be off the moment you enter ? "

They talked of trivial things. Through the open door the
level rays of sunset poured in, shining on the floor. A grey
hen appeared stepping swiftly in the doorway, pecking, and
the light through her comb and her wattles made an ori-
flamme tossed here and there, as she went, her grey body was
like a ghost.

Anna, watching, threw scraps of bread, and she felt the
child flame within her. She seemed to remember again for-
gotten, burning, far-off things.

" Where was I born, mother ? " she asked.

" In London."

"And was my father" — she spoke of him as if he were
merely a strange name : she could never connect herself with
him— "was he dark?"

"He had dark-brown hair and dark eyes and a fresh col-
ouring. He went bald, rather bald, when he was quite
young," replied the mother, also as if telling a tale which was
just old imagination.

" Was he good-looking ? "

" Yes — he was very good-looking — rather small. I have
never seen an Englishman who looked like him."

"Why?"

" He was " — the mother made a quick, running movement
with her hands — " his figure was alive and changing — it was
never fixed. He was not in the least steady — like a running
stream."

It flashed over the youth — Anna too was like a running
stream. Instantly he was in love with her again.

Tom Brangwen was frightened. His heart always filled
with fear, fear of the unknown, when he heard his women
speak of their bygone men as of strangers they had known
in passing and had taken leave of again.

In the room, there came a silence and a singleness over all

ANNA VICTHIX 167

their hearts. They were separate people with separate desti-
nies. Why should they seek each to lay violent hands of
claim on the other?

The young people went home as a sharp little moon was
setting in a dusk of spring. Tufts of trees hovered in the
upper air, the little church pricked up shadowily at the top
of the hill, the earth was a dark blue shadow.

She put her hand lightly on his arm, out of her far dis-
tance. And out of the distance, he felt her touch him. They
walked on, hand in hand, along opposite horizons, touching
across the dusk. There was a sound of thrushes calling in
the dark blue twilight.

" I think we are going to have an infant, Bill," she said,
from far off.

He trembled, and his fingers tightened on hers.

" Why ? " he asked, his heart beating. " You don't know ? "

"I do," she said.

They continued without saying any more, walking along
opposite horizons, hand in hand across the intervening space,
two separate people. And he trembled as if a wind blew
on to him in strong gusts, out of the unseen. He was afraid.
He was afraid to know he was alone. For she seemed ful-
filled and separate and sufficient in her half of the world.
He could not bear to know that he was cut off. Why could
he not be always one with her? It was he who had given
her the child. Why could she not be with him, one with
him? Why must he be set in this separateness, why could
she not be with him, close, close, as one with him? She
must be one with him.

He held her fingers tightly in his own. She did not know
what he was thinking. The blaze of light on her heart was
too beautiful and dazzling, from the conception in her womb.
She walked glorified, and the sound of the thrushes, of the
trains in the valley, of the far-off, faint noises of the town,
were her " Magnificat."

But he was struggling in silence. It seemed as though
there were before him a solid wall of darkness that impeded
him and suffocated him and made him mad. He wanted her
to come to him, to complete him, to stand before him so that
his eyes did not, should not meet the naked darkness. Noth-
ing mattered to him but that she should come and complete
him. For he was ridden by the awful sense of his own limi-

168 THE RAINBOW

tation. It was as if he ended uncompleted, as yet uncreated
on the darkness, and he wanted her to come and liberate him
into the whole.

But she was complete in herself, and he was ashamed of
his need, his helpless need of her. His need, and his shame
of need, weighed on him like a madness. Yet still he was
quiet and gentle, in reverence of her conception, and because
she was with child by him.

And she was happy in showers of sunshine. She loved
her husband, as a presence, as a grateful condition. But for
the moment her need was fulfilled, and now she wanted only
to hold her husband by the hand in sheer happiness, without
taking thought, only being glad.

He had various folios of reproductions, and among them a
cheap print from Fra Angelico's " Entry of the Blessed into
Paradise/' This filled Anna with bliss. The beautiful, in-
nocent way in which the Blessed held each other by the hand
as they moved towards the radiance, the real, real, angelic
melody, made her weep with happiness. The floweriness, the
beams of light, the linking of hands, was almost too much for
her, too innocent.

Day after day came shining through the door of Para-
dise, day after day she entered into the brightness. The child
in her shone till she herself was a beam of sunshine ; and how
lovely was the sunshine that loitered and wandered out of
doors, where the catkins on the big hazel bushes at the end
of the garden hung in their shaken, floating aureole, where
little fumes like fire burst out from the black yew-trees as a
bird settled clinging to the branches. One day bluebells were
along the hedge-bottoms, then cowslips twinkled like manna,
golden and evanescent on the meadows. She was full of a
rich drowsiness and loneliness. How happy she was, how
gorgeous it was to live: to have known herself, her husband,
the passion of love and begetting; and to know that all this
lived and waited and burned on around her, a terrible puri-
fying fire, through which she had passed for once to come to
this peace of golden radiance, when she was with child, and
innocent, and in love with her husband and with all the many
angels hand in hand. She lifted her throat to the breeze that
came across the fields, and she felt it handling her like sisters
fondling her, she drank it in perfume of cowslips and of
appleblossoms.

ANNA VICTRIX 169

And in all the happiness a black shadow, shy, wild, a beast
of prey, roamed and vanished from sight, and like strands
of gossamer blown across her eyes, there was a dread for
her.

She was afraid when he came home at night. As yet, her
fear never spoke, the shadow never rushed upon her. He
was gentle, humble, he kept himself withheld. His hands
were delicate upon her, and she loved them. But there ran
through her the thrill, crisp as pain, for she felt the darkness
and other-world still in his soft, sheathed hands.

But the summer drifted in with the silence of a miracle,
she was almost always alone. All the while, went on the
long, lovely drowsiness, the maidenblush roses in the garden
were all shed, washed away in a pouring rain, summer drifted
into autumn, and the long, vague, golden day began to close.
Crimson clouds fumed about the west, and as night came on,
all the sky was fuming and steaming, and the moon, far above
the swiftness of vapours, was white, bleared, the night was
uneasy. Suddenly the moon would appear at a clear window
in the sky, looking down from far above, like a captive. And
Anna did not sleep. There was a strange, dark tension about
her husband.

She became aware that he was trying to force his will upon
her, something, there was something he wanted, as he lay
there dark and tense. And her soul sighed in weariness.

Everything was so vague and lovely, and he wanted to wake
her up to the hard, hostile reality. She drew back in resist-
ance. Still he said nothing. But she felt his power per-
sisting on her, till she became aware of the strain, she cried
out against the exhaustion. He was forcing her, he was
forcing her. And she wanted so much the joy and the vague-
ness and the innocence of her pregnancy. She did not want
his bitter-corrosive love, she did not want it poured into her,
to burn her. Why must she have it ? Why, oh, why was he
not content, contained?

She sat many hours by the window, in those days when he
drove her most with the black constraint of his will, and she
watched the rain falling on the yew-trees. She was not sad,
only wistful, blanched. The child under her heart was a per-
petual warmth. And she was sure. The pressure was only
upon her from the outside, her soul had no stripes.

Yet in her heart itself was always this same strain, tense,

170 THE RAINBOW

anxious. She was not safe, she was always exposed, she was
always attacked. There was a yearning in her for a fulness
of peace and blessedness. What a heavy yearning it was
— so heavy.

She knew, vaguely, that all the time he was not satisfied,
all the time he was trying to force something from her. Ah,
how she wished she could succeed with him, in her own way !
He was there, so inevitable. She lived in him also. And
how she wanted to be at peace with him, at peace. She
loved him. She would give him love, pure love. With a
strange, rapt look on her face, she awaited his homecoming
that night.

Then, when he came, she rose with her hands full of love,
as of flowers, radiant, innocent. A dark spasm crossed his
face. As she watched, her face shining and flower-like with
innocent love, his face grew dark and tense, the cruelty gath-
ered in his brows, his eyes turned aside, she saw the whites of
his eyes as he looked aside from her. She waited, touching
him with her hands. But from his body through her hands
came the bitter-corrosive shock of his passion upon her, de-
stroying her in blossom. She shrank. She rose from her
knees and went away from him, to preserve herself. And it
was great pain to her.

To him also it was agony. He saw the glistening, flower-
like love in her face, and his heart was black because he did
not want it. Not this — not this. He did not want flowery
innocence. He was unsatisfied. The rage and storm of un-
satisfaction tormented him ceaselessly. Why had she not
satisfied him? He had satisfied her. She was satisfied, at
peace, innocent round the doors of her own paradise.

And he was unsatisfied, unfulfilled, he raged in torment,
wanting, wanting. It was for her to satisfy him: then let
her do it. Let her not come with flowery handfuls of inno-
cent love. He would throw these aside and trample the flow-
ers to nothing. He would destroy her flowery, innocent bliss.
Was he not entitled to satisfaction from her, and was not his
heart all raging desire, his soul a black torment of unfulfil-
ment. Let it be fulfilled in him, then, as it was fulfilled in
her. He had given her her fulfilment. Let her rise up and
do her part.

He was cruel to her. But all the time he was ashamed.
And being ashamed, he was more cruel. For he was ashamed

ANNA VICTRIX 171

that he could not come to fulfilment without her. And he
could not. And she would not heed him. He was shackled
and in darkness of torment.

She beseeched him to work again, to do his wood-carving.
But his soul was too black. He had destroyed his panel of
Adam and Eve. He could not begin again, least of all now,
whilst he was in this condition.

For her there was no final release, since he could not be
liberated from himself. Strange and amorphous, she must
go yearning on through the trouble, like a warm, glowing
cloud blown in the middle of a storm. She felt so rich, in
her warm vagueness, that her soul cried out on him, because
he harried her and wanted to destroy her.

She had her moments of exaltation still, re-births of old
exaltations. As she sat by her bedroom window, watching
the steady rain, her spirit was somewhere far off.

She sat in pride and curious pleasure. When there was
no one to exult with, and the unsatisfied soul must dance and
play, then one danced before the Unknown.

Suddenly she realized that this was what she wanted to
do. Big with child as she was, she danced there in the bed-
room by herself, lifting her hands and her body to the Unseen,
to the unseen Creator who had chosen her, to Whom she be-
longed.

She would not have had any one know. She danced in
secret, and her soul rose in bliss. She danced in secret before
the Creator, she took off her clothes and danced in the pride
of her bigness.

It surprised her, when it was over. She was shrinking and
afraid. To what was she now exposed? She half wanted to
tell her husband. Yet she shrank from him.

All the time she ran on by herself. She liked the story of
David, who danced before the Lord, and uncovered himself
exultingly. Why should he uncover himself to Michal, a
common woman ? He uncovered himself to the Lord.

" Thou comest to me with a sword and a spear and a shield,
but I come to thee in the name of the Lord : — for the battle is
the Lord's, and he will give you into our hands."

Her heart rang to the words. She walked in her pride.
And her battle was her own Lord's, her husband was delivered
over.

In these days she was oblivious of him. Who was he, to

172 THE RAINBOW

come against her? No, he was not even tHe Philistine, the
Giant. He was like Saul proclaiming his own kingship. She
laughed in her heart. Who was he, proclaiming his king-
ship? She laughed in her heart with pride.

And she had to dance in exultation beyond him. Because
he was in the house, she had to dance before her Creator in
exemption from the man. On a Saturday afternoon, when
she had a fire in the bedroom, again she took off her things
and danced, lifting her knees and her hands in a slow,
rhythmic exulting. He was in the house, so her pride was
fiercer. She would dance his nullification, she would dance
to her unseen Lord. She was exalted over him, before the
Lord.

She heard him coming up the stairs, and she flinched. She
stood with the firelight on her ankles and feet, naked in the
shadowy, late afternoon, fastening up her hair. He was
startled. He stood in the doorway, his brows black and lower-
ing.

" What are you doing ? " he said, gratingly. " You'll catch
a cold."

And she lifted her hands and danced again, to annul him,
the light glanced on her knees as she made her slow, fine move-
ments down the far side of the room, across the firelight. He
stood away near the door in blackness of shadow, watching,
transfixed. And with slow, heavy movements she swayed
backwards and forwards, like a full ear of corn, pale in the
dusky afternoon, threading before the firelight, dancing his
non-existence, dancing herself to the Lord, to exultation.

He watched, and his soul burned in him. He turned aside,
he could not look, it hurt his eyes. Her fine limbs lifted and
lifted, her hair was sticking out all fierce, and her belly, big,
strange, terrifying, uplifted to the Lord. Her face was rapt
and beautiful, she danced exulting before her Lord, and knew
no man.

It hurt him as he watched as if he were at the stake. He
felt he was being burned alive. The strangeness, the power
of her in her dancing consumed him, he was burned, he could
not grasp, he could not understand. He waited obliterated.
Then his eyes became blind to her, he saw her no more. And
through the unseeing veil between them he called to her, in
his jarring voice :

"What are you doing that for?"

" Go away," she said. " Let me dance by myself."

ANNA VICTRIX 173

"That isn't dancing/' he said harshly. "What do you
want to do that for?"

" I don't do it for you," she said. " You go away."

Her strange, lifted belly, big with his child! Had he no
right to be there? He felt his presence a violation. Yet he
had his right to be there. He went and sat on the bed.

She stopped dancing, and confronted him, again lifting her
slim arms and twisting at her hair. Her nakedness hurt her,
opposed to him.

" I can do as I like in my bedroom/' she cried. " Why do
you interfere with me ? "

And she slipped on a dressing-gown and crouched before
the fire. He was more at ease now she was covered up. The
vision of her tormented him all the days of his life, as she
had been then, a strange, exalted thing having no relation to
himself.

After this day, the door seemed to shut on his mind. His
brow shut and became impervious. His eyes ceased to see,
his hands were suspended. Within himself his will was
coiled like a beast, hidden under the darkness, but always
potent, working.

At first she went on blithely enough with him shut down
beside her. But then his spell began to take hold of her.
The dark, seething potency of him, the power of a creature
that lies hidden and exerts its will to the destruction of the
free-running creature, as the tiger lying in the darkness of
the leaves steadily enforces the fall and death of the light
creatures that drink by the waterside in the morning, grad-
ually began to take effect on her. Though he lay there in his
darkness and did not move, yet she knew he lay waiting for
her. She felt his will fastening on her and pulling her down,
even whilst he was silent and obscure.

She found that, in all her outgoings and her incomings, he
prevented her. Gradually she realized that she was being
borne down by him, borne down by the clinging, heavy weight
of him, that he was pulling her down as a leopard clings to a
wild cow and exhausts her and pulls her down.

Gradually she realized that her life, her freedom, was sink-
ing under the silent grip of his physical will. He wanted her
in his power. He wanted to devour her at leisure, to have
her. At length she realized that her sleep was a long ache
and a weariness and exhaustion, because of his will fastened
upon her, as he lay there beside her, during the night.

174- THE RAINBOW

She realized it all, and there came a momentous pause, a
pause in her swift running, a moment's suspension in her life,
when she was lost.

Then she turned fiercely on him, and fought him. He was
not to do this to her, it was monstrous. What horrible hold
did he want to have over her body? Why did he want to
drag her down, and kill her spirit ? Why did he want to deny
her spirit ? Why did he deny her spirituality, hold her for a
body only ? And was he to claim her carcase ?

Some vast, hideous darkness he seemed to represent to her.

"What do you do to me?" she cried. "What beastly
thing do you do to me? You put a horrible pressure on my
head, you don't let me sleep, you don't let me live. Every
moment of your life you are doing something to me, some-
thing horrible, that destroys me. There is something horrible
in you, something dark and beastly in your will. What do
you want of me ? What do you want to do to me ? "

All the blood in his body went black and powerful and
corrosive as he heard her. Black and blind with hatred of
her he was. He was in a very black hell, and could not escape.

He hated her for what she said. Did he not give her
everything, was she not everything to him? And the shame
was a bitter fire in him, that she was everything to him, that
he had nothing but her. And then that she should taunt him
with it, that he could not escape ! The fire went black in his
veins. For try as he might, he could not escape. She was
everything to him, she was his life and his derivation. He
depended on her. If she were taken away, he would collapse
as a house from which the central pillar is removed.

And she hated him, because he depended on her so utterly.
He was horrible to her. She wanted to thrust him off, to
set him apart. It was horrible that he should cleave to her,
so close, so close, like a leopard that had leapt on her, and
fastened.

He went on from day to day in a blackness of rage and
shame and frustration. How he tortured himself, to be able
to get away from her. But he could not. She was as the
rock on which he stood, with deep, heaving water all round,
and he was unable to swim. He must take his stand on her,
he must depend on her.

What had he in life, save her? Nothing. The rest was a
great heaving flood. The terror of the night of heaving, over-
whelming flood, which was his vision of life without her, was

ANNA VICTRIX 175

too much for him. He clung to her fiercely and abjectly.

And she beat him off, she beat him off. Where could he
turn, like a swimmer in a dark sea, beaten off from his hold,
whither could he turn? He wanted to leave her, he wanted
to be able to leave her. For his soul's sake, for his manhood's
sake, he must be able to leave her.

But for what? She was the ark, and the rest of the world
was flood. The only tangible, secure thing was the woman.
He could leave her only for another woman. And where was
the other woman, and who was the other woman? Besides,
he would be just in the same state. Another woman would be
woman, the case would be the same.

Why was she the all, the everything, why must he live only
through her, why must he sink if he were detached from her ?
Why must he cleave to her in a frenzy as for his very life?

The only othei1 way to leave her was to die. The only
straight way to leave her was to die. His dark, raging soul
knew that. But he had no desire for death.

Why could he not leave her? Why could he not throw
himself into the hidden water to live or die, as might be?
He could not, he could not. But supposing he went away,
right away, and found work, and had a lodging again. He
could be again as he had been before.

But he knew he could not. A woman, he must have a
woman. And having a woman, he must be free of her. It
would be the same position. For he could not be free of her.

For how can a man stand, unless he have something sure
under his feet. Can a man tread the unstable water all his
life, and call that standing? Better give in and drown at
once.

And upon what could he stand, save upon a woman ? Was
he then like the old man of the seas, impotent to move save
upon the back of another life? Was he impotent, or a crip-
ple, or a defective, or a fragment?

It was black, mad, shameful torture, the frenzy of fear, the
frenzy of desire, and the horrible, grasping back-wash of
shame.

What was he afraid of ? Why did life, without Anna, seem
to him just a horrible welter, everything jostling in a mean-
ingless, dark, fathomless flood ? Why, if Anna left him even
for a week, did he seem to be clinging like a madman to the
edge of reality, and slipping surely, surely into the flood of
unreality that would drown him. This horrible slipping into

176 THE RAINBOW

unreality drove him mad, his soul screamed with fear and
agony.

Yet she was pushing him off from her, pushing him away,
breaking his fingers from their hold on her, persistently, ruth-
lessly. He wanted her to have pity. And sometimes for a
moment she had pity. But she always began again, thrusting
him off, into the deep water, into the frenzy and agony of
uncertainty.

She became like a fury to him, without any sense of him.
Her eyes were bright with a cold, unmoving hatred. Then
his heart seemed to die in its last fear. She might push him
off into the deeps.

She would not sleep with him any more. She said he de-
stroyed her sleep. Up started all his frenzy and madness of
fear and suffering. She drove him away. Like a cowed,
lurking devil he was driven off, his mind working cunningly
against her, devising evil for her. But she drove him off.
In his moments of intense suffering, she seemed to him incon-
ceivable, a monster, the principle of cruelty.

However her pity might give way for moments, she was
hard and cold as a jewel. He must be put off from her, she
must sleep alone. She made him a bed in the small room.

And he lay there whipped, his soul whipped almost to death,
yet unchanged. He lay in agony of suffering, thrown back
into unreality, like a man thrown overboard into a sea, to swim
till he sinks, because there is no hold, only a wide, weltering
sea.

He did not sleep, save for the white sleep when a thin veil
is drawn over the mind. It was not sleep. He was awake,
and he was not awake. He could not be alone. He needed
to be able to put his arms round her. He could not bear the
empty space against his breast, where she used to be. He
could not bear it. He felt as if he were suspended in space,
held there by the grip of his will. If he relaxed his will
would fall, fall through endless space, into the bottomless pit,
always falling, will-less, helpless, non-existent, just dropping
to extinction, falling till the fire of friction had burned out,
like a falling star, then nothing, nothing, complete nothing.

He rose in the morning grey and unreal. And she seemed
fond of him again, she seemed to make up to him a little.

" I slept well," she said, with her slightly false brightness.
"Did you?"

" All right," he answered.

ANNA VICTRIX 177

He would never tell her.

For three or four nights he lay alone through the white
sleep, his will unchanged, unchanged, still tense, fixed in its
grip. Then, as if she were revived and free to be fond of him
again, deluded by his silence and seeming acquiescence, moved
also by pity, she took him back again.

Each night, in spite of all the shame, he had waited with
agony for bedtime, to see if she would shut him out. And
each night, as, in her false brightness, she said Good-night,
he felt he must kill her or himself. But she asked for her
kiss, so pathetically, so prettily. So he kissed her, whilst his
heart was ice.

And sometimes he went out. Once he sat for a long time
in the church porch, before going in to bed. It was dark with
a wind blowing. He sat in the church porch and felt some
shelter, some security. But it grew cold, and he must go in
to bed.

Then came the night when she said, putting, her arms
round him and kissing him fondly :

" Stay with me to-night, will you ? "

And he had stayed without demur. But his will had not
altered. He would have her fixed to him.

So that soon she told him again she must be alone.

" I don't want to send you away. I want to sleep with you.
But I can't sleep, you don't let me sleep."

His blood turned black in his veins.

" What do you mean by such a thing ? It's an arrant lie.
7 don't let you sleep "

" But you don't. I sleep so well when I'm alone. And I
can't sleep when you're there. You do something to me,
you put a pressure on my head. And I must sleep, now the
child is coming/'

" It's something in yourself," he replied, " something wrong
in you."

Horrible in the extreme were these nocturnal combats,
when all the world was asleep, and they two were alone, alone
in the world, and repelling each other. It was hardly to be
borne.

He went and lay down alone. And at length, after a grey
and livid and ghastly period, he relaxed, something gave way
in him. He let go, he did not care what became of him.
Strange and dim he became to himself, to her, to everybody.
A vagueness had come over everything, like a drowning. And

178 THE RAINBOW

it was an infinite relief to drown, a relief, a great, great relief.

He would insist no more, he would force her no more. He
would force himself upon her no more. He would let go,
relax, lapse, and what would be, should be.

Yet he wanted her still, he always, always wanted her. In
his soul, he was desolate as a child, he was so helpless. Like
a child on its mother, he depended on her for his living. He
knew it, and he knew he could hardly help it.

Yet he must be able to be alone. He must be able to lie
down alongside the empty space, and let be. He must be
able to leave himself to the flood, to sink or live as might be.
For he recognized at length his own limitation, and the limi-
tation of his power. He had to give in.

There was a stillness, a wanness between them. Half at
least of the battle was over. Sometimes she wept as she went
about, her heart was very heavy. But the child was always
warm in her womb.

They were friends again, new, subdued friends. But there
was a wanness between them. They slept together once more,
very quietly, and distinct, not one together as before. And
she was intimate with him as at first. But he was very quiet,
and not intimate. He was glad in his soul, but for the time
being he was not alive.

He could sleep with her, and let her be. He could be alone
now. He had just learned what it was to be able to be alone.
It was right and peaceful. She had given him a new, deeper
freedom. The world might be a welter of uncertainty, but he
was himself now. He had come into his own existence. He
was born for a second time, born at last unto himself, out of
the vast body of humanity. Now at last he had a separate
identity, he existed alone, even if he were not quite alone.
Before he had only existed in so far as he had relations with
another being. Now he had an absolute self — as well as a
relative self.

But it was a very dumb, weak, helpless self, a crawling
nursling. He went about very quiet, and in a way, submis-
sive. He had an unalterable self at last, free, separate, inde-
pendent.

She was relieved, she was free of him. She had given him
to himself. She wept sometimes with tiredness and helpless-
ness. But he was a husband. And she seemed, in the child
that was coming, to forget. It seemed to make her warm and

ANNA VICTRIX 176

drowsy. She lasped into a long muse, indistinct, warm,
vague, unwilling to be taken out of her vagueness. And she
rested on him also.

Sometimes she came to him with a strange light in her eyes,
poignant, pathetic, as if she were asking for something. He
looked and he could not understand. She was so beautiful,
so visionary, the rays seemed to go out of his breast to her,
like a shining. He was there for her, all for her. And she
would hold his breast, and kiss it, and kiss it, kneeling beside
him, she who was waiting for the hour of her delivery. And
he would lie looking down at his breast, till it seemed that his
breast was not himself, that he had left it lying there. Yet
it was himself also, and beautiful and bright with her kisses.
He was glad with a strange, radiant pain. Whilst she kneeled
beside him, and kissed his breast with a slow, rapt, half-devo-
tional movement.

He knew she wanted something, his heart yearned to give it
her. His heart yearned over her. And as she lifted her face,
that was radiant and rosy as a little cloud, his heart still
yearned over her, and, now from the distance, adored her.
She had a flower-like presence which he adored as he stood far
off, a stranger.

The weeks passed on, the time drew near, they were very
gentle, and delicately happy. The insistent, passionate, dark
soul, the powerful unsatisfaction in him seemed stilled and
tamed, the lion lay down with the lamb in him.

She loved him very much indeed, and he waited near her.
She was a precious, remote thing to him at this time, as she
waited for her child. Her soul was glad with an ecstasy be-
cause of the coming infant. She wanted a boy : oh, very much
she wanted a boy.

But she seemed so young and so frail. She was indeed only
a girl. As she stood by the fire washing herself — she was
proud to wash herself at this time — and he looked at her, his
heart was full of extreme tenderness for her. Such fine, fine
limbs, her slim, round arms like chasing lights, and her legs so
simple and childish, yet so very proud. Oh, she stood on
proud legs, with a lovely reckless balance of her full belly, and
the adorable little roundnesses, and the breasts becoming im-
portant. Above it all, her face was like a rosy cloud shining.

How proud she was, what a lovely proud thing her young
body ! And she loved him to put his hand on her ripe fulness,

180 THE RAINBOW

so that he should thrill also with the stir and the quickening
there. He was afraid and silent, but she flung her arms
round his neck with proud, impudent joy.

The pains came on, and Oh — how she cried! She would
have him stay with her. And after her long cries she would
look at him, with tears in her eyes and a sobbing laugh on
her face, saying:

"I don't mind it really/'

It was bad enough. But to her it was never deathly.
Even the fierce, tearing pain was exhilarating. She screamed
and suffered, but was all the time curiously alive and vital.
She felt so powerfully alive and in the hands of such a mas-
terly force of life, that her bottom-most feeling was one of
exhilaration. She knew she was winning, winning, she was
always winning, with each onset of pain she was nearer to
victory.

Probably he suffered more than she did. He was not
shocked or horrified. But he was screwed very tight in the
vise of suffering.

It was a girl. The second of silence on her face when they
said so showed him she was disappointed. And a great
blazing passion of resentment and protest sprang up in his
heart. In that moment he claimed the child.

But when the milk came, and the infant sucked her breast,
she seemed to be leaping with extravagant bliss.

" It sucks me, it sucks me, it likes me — oh, it loves it ! "
she cried, holding the child to her breast with her two hands
covering it, passionately.

And in a few moments, as she became used to her bliss, she
looked at the youth with glowing, unseeing eyes, and said :

" Anna Victrix."

He went away, trembling, and slept. To her, her pains
were the wound-smart of a victor, she was the prouder.

When she was well again she was very happy. She called
the baby Ursula. Both Anna and her husband felt they must
have a name that gave them private satisfaction. The baby
was tawny skinned, it had a curious downy skin, and wisps
of bronze hair, and the yellow grey eyes that wavered, and
then became golden-brown like the father's. So they called
her Ursula because of the picture of the saint.

It was a rather delicate baby at first, but soon it became
stronger, and was restless as a young eel. Anna was worn
out with the day-long wrestling with its young vigour.

ANNA VICTRIX 181

As a little animal, she loved and adored it and was happy.
She loved her husband, she kissed his eyes and nose and
mouth, and made much of him, she said his limbs were
beautiful, she was fascinated by the physical form of
him.

And she was indeed Anna Victrix. He could not combat
her any more. He was out in the wilderness, alone with her.
Having occasion to go to London, he marvelled, as he re-
turned, thinking of naked, lurking savages on an island, how
these had built up and created the great mass of Oxford Street
or Piccadilly. How had helpless savages, running with their
spears on the riverside, after fish, how had they come to rear
up this great London, the ponderous, massive, ugly super-
structure of a world of man upon a world of nature! It
frightened and awed him. Man was terrible, awful in his
works. The works of man were more terrible than man him-
self, almost monstrous.

And yet, for his own part, for his private being, Brangwen
felt that the whole of the man's world was exterior and
extraneous to his own real life with Anna. Sweep away the
whole monstrous superstructure of the world of to-day, cities
and industries and civilization, leave only the bare earth with
plants growing and waters running, and he would not mind,
so long as he were whole, had Anna and the child and the new,
strange certainty in his soul. Then, if he were naked, he
would find clothing somewhere, he would make a shelter and
bring food to his wife.

And what more? What more would be necessary? The
great mass of activity in which mankind was engaged meant
nothing to him. By nature, he had no part in it. What did
he live for, then ? For Anna only, and for the sake of living ?
What did he want on this earth? Anna only, and his chil-
dren, and his life with his children and her? Was there no
more?

He was attended by a sense of something more, something
further, which gave him absolute being. It was as if now he
existed in Eternity, let Time be what it might. What was
there outside ? The fabricated world, that he did not believe
in? What should he bring to her, from outside? Nothing?
Was it enough, as it was? He was troubled in his acquies-
cence. She was not with him. Yet he scarcely believed in
himself, apart from her, though the whole Infinite was with
him. Let the whole world slide down and over the edge of

182 THE RAINBOW

oblivion, he would stand alone. But he was unsure of her.
And he existed also in her. So he was unsure.

He hovered near to her, never quite able to forget the vague,
haunting uncertainty, that seemed to challenge him, and which
he would not hear. A pang of dread, almost guilt, as of in-
sufficiency, would go over him as he heard her talking to the
baby. She stood before the window, with the month-old child
in her arms, talking in a musical, young sing-song that he
had not heard before, and which rang on his heart like a
claim from the distance, or the voice of another world sound-
ing its claim on him. He stood near, listening, and his heart
surged, surged to rise and submit. Then it shrank back and
stayed aloof. He could not move, a denial was upon him, as
if he could not deny himself. He must, he must be himself.

"Look at the silly blue-caps, my beauty," she crooned,
holding up the infant to the window, where shone the white
garden, and the blue-tits scuffling in the snow: "look at the
silly blue-caps, my darling, having a fight in the snow ! Look
at them, my bird — beating the snow about with their wings,
and shaking their heads. Oh, aren't they wicked things,
wicked things! Look at their yellow feathers on the snow
there! They'll miss them, won't they, when they're cold
later on.

" Must we tell them to stop, must we say ' stop it ' to them,
my bird ? But they are naughty, naughty ! Look at them ! "
Suddenly her voice broke loud and fierce, she rapped the pane
sharply :

" Stop it," she cried, " stop it, you little nuisances. Stop
it ! " She called louder, and rapped the pane more sharply.
Her voice was fierce and imperative.

"Have more sense," she cried.

" There, now they're gone. Where have they gone, the silly
things? What will they say to each other? What will they
say, my lambkin? They'll forget, won't they, they'll forget
all about it, out of their silly little heads, and their blue caps."

After a moment, she turned her bright face to her husband.

" They were really fighting, they were really fierce with
each other ! " she said, her voice keen with excitement and
wonder, as if she belonged to the birds' world, were identified
with the race of birds.

" Ay, they'll fight, will blue-caps," he said, glad when she
turned to him with her glow from elsewhere. He came and
stood beside her and looked out at the marks on the snow

ANNA VICTRIX

where the birds had scuffled, and at the yew-trees' burdened,
white and black branches. What was the appeal it made to
him, what was the question of her bright face, what was the
challenge he was called to answer? He did not know. But
as he stood there he felt some responsibility which made him
glad, but uneasy, as if he must put out his own light. And
he could not move as yet.

Anna loved the child very much, oh, very much. Yet still
she was not quite fulfilled. She had a slight expectant feel-
ing, as of a door half opened. Here she was, safe and still
in Cossethay. But she felt as if she were not in Cossethay at
all. She was straining her eyes to something beyond. And
from her Pisgah mount, which she had attained, what could
she see? A faint, gleaming horizon, a long way off, and a
rainbow like an archway, a shadow-door with faintly coloured
coping above it. Must she be moving thither?

Something she had not, something she did not grasp, could
not arrive at. There was something beyond her. But why
must she start on the journey? She stood so safely on the
Pisgah mountain.

In the winter, when she rose with the sunrise, and out of
the back windows saw the east flaming yellow and orange
above the green, glowing grass, while the great pear-tree in
between stood dark and magnificent as an idol, and under
the dark pear-tree, the little sheet of water spread smooth in
burnished, yellow light, she said, "It is here." And when,
at evening, the sunset came in a red glare through the big
opening in the clouds, she said again, " It is beyond."

Dawn and sunset were the feet of the rainbow that spanned
the day, and she saw the hope, the promise. Why should she
travel any further?

Yet she always asked the question. As the sun went down
in his fiery winter haste, she faced the blazing close of the
affair, in which she had not played her fullest part, and she
made her demand still : " What are you doing, making this
big shining commotion? What is it that you keep so busy
about, that you will not let us alone ? "

She did not turn to her husband, for him to lead her. He
was apart from her, with her, according to her different con-
ceptions of him. The child she might hold up, she might
toss the child forward into the furnace, the child might walk
there, amid the burning coals and the incandescent roar of
heat, as the three witnesses walked with the angel in the fire.

184 ¥HE RAINBOW

Soon, she felt sure of her husband. She knew his dark
face and the extent of its passion. She knew his slim, vigor-
ous body, she said it was hers. Then there was no denying
her. She was a rich woman enjoying her riches.

And soon again she was with child. Which made her satis-
fied and took away her discontent. She forgot that she had
watched the sun climb up and pass his way, a magnificent
traveller surging forward. She forgot that the moon had
looked through a window of the high, dark night, and nodded
like a magic recognition, signalled to her to follow. Sun
and moon travelled on, and left her, passed her by, a rich
woman enjoying her riches. She should go also. But she
could not go, when they called, because she must stay at home
now. With satisfaction she relinquished the adventure to the
unknown. She was bearing her children.

There was another child coming, and Anna lapsed into
vague content. If she were not the wayfarer to the unknown,
if she were arrived now, settled in her builded house, a rich
woman, still her doors opened under the arch of the rainbow,
her threshold reflected the passing of the sun and moon, the
great travellers, her house was full of the echo of journeying.

She was a door and a threshold, she herself. Through her
another soul was coming, to stand upon her as upon the
threshold, looking out, shading its eyes for the direction to
take.

CHAPTER VII

THE CATHEDRAL

DURING the first year of her marriage, before Ursula
was born, Anna Brangwen and her husband went to
visit her mother's friend, the Baron Skrebensky.
The latter had kept a slight connection with Anna's
mother, and had always preserved some officious interest in
the young girl, because she was a pure Pole.

When Baron Skrebensky was about forty years old, his
wife died, and left him raving, disconsolate. Lydia had
visited him then, taking Anna with her. It was when the

firl was fourteen years old. Since then she had not seen him.
he remembered him as a small sharp clergyman who cried
and talked and terrified her, whilst her mother was most
strangely consoling, in a foreign language.

The little Baron never quite approved of Anna, because she
spoke no Polish. Still, he considered himself in some way her
guardian, on Lensky's behalf, and he presented her with some
old, heavy Russian jewellery, the least valuable of his wife's
relics. Then he lapsed out of the Brangwen life again,
though he lived only about thirty miles away.

Three years later came the startling news that he had mar-
ried a young English girl of good family. Everybody mar-
velled. Then came a copy of " The History of the Parish of
Briswell, by Rudolph, Baron Skrebensky, Vicar of Briswell."
It was a curious book, incoherent, full of interesting exhuma-
tions. It was dedicated: "To my wife, Millicent Maud
Pearse, in whom I embrace the generous spirit of England."

" If he embraces no more than the spirit of England," said
Tom Brangwen, " it's a bad look-out for him."

But paying a formal visit with his wife, he found the new
Baroness a little, creamy-skinned, insidious thing with red-
brown hair and a mouth that one must always watch, because
it curved back continually in an incomprehensible, strange
laugh that exposed her rather prominent teeth. She was not
beautiful, yet Tom Brangwen was immediately under her

185

186 THE RAINBOW

spell. She seemed to snuggle like a kitten within his warmth,
whilst she was at the same time elusive and ironical, suggest-
ing the fine steel of her claws.

The Baron was almost dotingly courteous and attentive to
her. She, almost mockingly, yet quite happy, let him dote.
Curious little thing she was, she had the soft, creamy, elusive
beauty of a ferret. Tom Brangwen was quite at a loss, at
her mercy, and she laughed, a little breathlessly, as if tempted
to cruelty. She did put fine torments on the elderly Baron.

When some months later she bore a son, the Baron Skre-
bensky was loud with delight.

Gradually she gathered a circle of acquaintances in the
county. For she was of good family, half Venetian, educated
in Dresden. The little foreign vicar attained to a social
status which almost satisfied his maddened pride.

Therefore the Brangwens were surprised when the invita-
tion came for Anna and her young husband to pay a visit to
Briswell vicarage. For the Skrebenskys were now moder-
ately well off, Millicent Skrebensky having some fortune of
her own.

Anna took her best clothes, recovered her best high-school
manner, and arrived with her husband. Will Brangwen,
ruddy, bright, with long limbs and a small head, like some
uncouth bird, was not changed in the least. The little
Baroness was smiling, showing her teeth. She had a real
charm, a kind of joyous coldness, laughing, delighted, like
some weasel. Anna at once respected her, and was on her
guard before her, instinctively attracted by the strange, child-
like surety of the Baroness, yet mistrusting it, fascinated.
The little baron was now quite white-haired, very brittle.
He was wizened and wrinkled, yet fiery, unsubdued. Anna
looked at his lean body, at his small, fine, lean legs and lean
hands as he sat talking, and she flushed. She recognized the
quality of the male in him, his lean, concentrated age, his
informed fire, his faculty for sharp, deliberate response. He
was so detached, so purely objective. A woman was thor-
oughly outside him. There was no confusion. So he could
give that fine, deliberate response.

He was something separate and interesting; his hard, in-
trinsic being, whittled down by age to an essentiality and a
directness almost death-like, cruel, was yet so unswervingly
sure in its action, so distinct in its surety, that she was at-
tracted to him. She watched his cool, hard, separate fire,

THE CATHEDRAL 187

fascinated by it. Would she rather have it than her hus-
band's diffuse heat, than his blind, hot youth?

She seemed to be breathing high, sharp air, as if she had
just come out of a hot room. These strange Skrebenskys
made her aware of another, freer element, in which each per-
son was detached and isolated. Was not this her natural ele-
ment ? Was not the close Brangwen life stifling to her ?

Meanwhile the little baroness, with always a subtle light
stirring in her full, lustrous, hazel eyes, was playing with
Will Brangwen. He was not quick enough to see all her
movements. Yet he watched her steadily, with unchanging,
lit-up eyes. She was a strange creature to him. But she
had no power over him. She flushed, and was irritated. Yet
she glanced again and again at his dark, living face, curiously,
as if she despised him. She despised his uncritical, unironi-
cal nature, it had nothing for her. Yet it angered her as if
she were jealous. He watched her with deferential interest
as he would watch a stoat playing. But he himself was not
implicated. He was different in kind. She was all lambent,
biting flames, he was a red fire glowing steadily. She could
get nothing out of him. So she made him flush darkly by
assuming a biting, subtle class-superiority. He flushed, but
still he did not object. He was too different.

Her little boy came in with the nurse. He was a quick,
slight child, with fine perceptiveness, and a cool transitoriness
in his interest. At once he treated Will Brangwen as an out-
sider. He stayed by Anna for a moment, acknowledged her,
then was gone again, quick, observant, restless, with a glance
of interest at everything.

The father adored him, and spoke to him in Polish. It
was queer, the stiff, aristocratic manner of the father with
the child, the distance in the relationship, the classic father-
hood on the one hand, the filial subordination on the other.
They played together, in their different degrees very separate,
two different beings, differing as it were in rank rather than
in relationship. And the baroness smiled, smiled, smiled,
always smiled, showing her rather protruding teeth, having
always a mysterious attraction and charm.

Anna realized how different her own life might have been,
how different her own living. Her soul stirred, she became
as another person. Her intimacy with her husband passed
away, the curious enveloping Brangwen intimacy, so warm,
so close, so stifling, when one seemed always to be in contact

188 THE RAINBOW

with the other person, like a blood-relation, was annulled.
She denied it, this close relationship with her young husband.
He and she were not one. His heat was not always to suffuse
her, suffuse her, through her mind and her individuality, till
she was of one heat with him, till she had not her own self
apart. She wanted her own life. He seemed to lap her and
suffuse her with his being, his hot life, till she did not know
whether she were herself, or whether she were another crea-
ture, united with him in a world of close blood-intimacy that
closed over her and excluded her from all the cool outside.

She wanted her own, old, sharp self, detached, detached,
active but not absorbed, active for her own part, taking and
giving, but never absorbed. Whereas he wanted this strange
absorption with her, which still she resisted. But she was
partly helpless against it. She had lived so long in Tom
Brangwen's love, beforehand.

From the Skrebenskys', they went to Will Brangwen's be-
loved Lincoln Cathedral, because it was not far off. He had
promised her, that one by one, they should visit all the cathe-
drals of England. They began with Lincoln, which he knew
well.

He began to get excited as the time drew near to set off.
What was it that changed him so much? She was almost
angry, coming as she did from the Skrebenskys'. But now
he ran on alone. His very breast seemed to open its doors to
watch for the great church brooding over the town. His soul
ran ahead.

When he saw the cathedral in the distance, dark blue lifted
watchful in the sky, his heart leapt. It was the sign in
heaven, it was the Spirit hovering like a dove, like an eagle
over the earth. He turned his glowing, ecstatic face to her,
his mouth opened with a strange, ecstatic grin.

" There she is," he said.

The "she" irritated her. Why "she"? It was "it."
What was the cathedral, a big building, a thing of the past,
obsolete, to excite him to such a pitch? She began to stir
herself to readiness.

They passed up the steep hill, he eager as a pilgrim arriving
at the shrine. As they came near the precincts, with castle
on one side and cathedral on the other, his veins seemed to
break into fiery blossom, he was transported.

They had passed through the gate, and the great west front
was before them, with all its breadth and ornament.

THE CATHEDRAL 189

"It is a false front," he said, looking at the golden stone
and the twin towers, and loving them just the same. In a
little ecstasy he found himself in the porch, on the brink of
the unrevealed. He looked up to the lovely unfolding of the
stone. He was to pass within to the perfect womb.

Then he pushed open the door, and the great, pillared
gloom was before him, in which his soul shuddered and rose
from her nest. His soul leapt, soared up into the great
church. His body stood still, absorbed by the height. His
soul leapt up into the gloom, into possession, it reeled, il
swooned with a great escape, it quivered in the womb, in the
hush and the gloom of fecundity, like seed of procreation in
ecstasy.

She too was overcome with wonder and awe. She followed
him in his progress. Here, the twilight was the very essence
of life, the coloured darkness was the embryo of all light, and
the day. Here, the very first dawn was breaking, the very
last sunset sinking, and the immemorial darkness, whereof
life's day would blossom and fall away again, re-echoed peace
and profound immemorial silence.

Away from time, always outside of time ! Between east
and west, between dawn and sunset, the church lay like a seed
in silence, dark before germination, silenced after death.
Containing birth and death, potential with all the noise and
translation of life, the cathedral remained hushed, a great,
involved seed, whereof the flower would be radiant life incon-
ceivable, but whose beginning and whose end were the circle of
silence. Spanned round with the rainbow, the jewelled gloom
folded music upon silence, light upon darkness, fecundity
upon death, as a seed folds leaf upon leaf and silence upon
the root and the flower, hushing up the secret of all between
its parts, the death out of which it fell, the life into which it
has dropped, the immortality it involves, and the death it will
embrace again.

Here in the church, " before " and " after " were folded
together, all was contained in oneness. Brangwen came to
his consummation. Out of the doors of the womb he had
come, putting aside the wings of the womb, and proceeding
into the light. Through daylight and day-after-day he had
come, knowledge after knowledge, and experience after experi-
ence, remembering the darkness of the womb, having pre-
science of the darkness after death. Then between-while he
had pushed open the dpors of! the cathedral, and entered the.

190 THE RAINBOW

twilight of both darknesses, the hush of the two-fold silence,
where dawn was sunset, and the beginning and the end were
one.

Here the stone leapt up from the plain of earth, leapt up
in a manifold, clustered desire each time, up, away from the
horizontal earth, through twilight and dusk and the whole
range of desire, through the swerving, the declination, ah, to
the ecstasy, the touch, to the meeting and the consummation,
the meeting, the clasp, the close embrace, the neutrality, the
perfect, swooning consummation, the timeless ecstasy. There
his soul remained, at the apex of the arch, clinched in the
timeless ecstasy, consummated.

And there was no time nor life nor death, but only this,
this timeless consummation, where the thrust from earth met
the thrust from earth and the arch was locked on the keystone
of ecstasy. This was all, this was everything. Till he came
to himself in the world below. Then again he gathered him-
self together, in transit, every jet of him strained and leaped,
leaped clear into the darkness above, to the fecundity and the
unique mystery, to the touch, the clasp, the consummation,
the climax of eternity, the apex of the arch.

She too was overcome, but silenced rather than tuned to
the place. She loved it as a world not quite her own, she
resented his transports and ecstasies. His passion in the
cathedral at first awed her, then made her angry. After all,
there was the sky outside, and in here, in this mysterious
half-night, when his soul leapt with the pillars upwards, it
was not to the stars and the crystalline dark space, but to
meet and clasp with the answering impulse of leaping stone,
there in the dusk and secrecy of the roof. The far-off clinch-
ing and mating of arches, the leap and thrust of the stone,
carrying a great roof overhead, awed and silenced her.

But yet — yet she remembered that the open sky was no
blue vault, no dark dome hung with many twinkling lamps,
but a space where stars were wheeling in freedom, with free-
dom above them always higher.

The cathedral roused her too. But she would never con-
sent to the knitting of all the leaping stone in a great roof
that closed her in, and beyond which was nothing, nothing,
it was the ultimate confine. His soul would have liked it to
be so: here, here is all, complete, eternal: motion, meeting,
ecstasy, and no illusion of time, of night and day passing by,
but only perfectly proportioned space and movement clinching

THE CATHEDRAL 191

and renewing, and passion surging its way in great waves to
the altar, recurrence of ecstasy.

Her soul too was carried forward to the altar, to the
threshold of Eternity, in reverence and fear and joy. But
ever she hung back in the transit, mistrusting the culmina-
tion of the altar. She was not to be flung forward on the
lift and lift of passionate flights, to be cast at last upon the
altar steps as upon the shore of the unknown. There was a
great joy and a verity in it. But even in the dazed swoon of
the cathedral, she claimed another right. The altar was bar-
ren, its lights gone out. God burned no more in that bush.
It was dead matter lying there. She claimed the right to
freedom above her, higher than the roof. She had always a
sense of being roofed in.

So that she caught at little things, which saved her from
being swept forward headlong in the tide of passion that leaps
on into the Infinite in a great mass, triumphant and flinging
its own course. She wanted to get out of this fixed, leaping,
forward-travelling movement, to rise from it as a bird rises
with wet, limp feet from the sea, to lift herself as a bird lifts
its breast and thrusts its body from the pulse and heave of a
sea that bears it forward to an unwilling conclusion, tear her-
self away like a bird on wings, and in the open space where
there is clarity, rise up above the fixed, surcharged motion, a
separate speck that hangs suspended, moves this way and that,
seeing and answering before it sinks again, having chosen or
found the direction in which it shall be carried forward.

And it was as if she must grasp at something, as if her
wings were too weak to lift her straight off the heaving mo-
tion. So she caught sight of the wicked, odd little faces
carved in stone, and she stood before them arrested.

These sly little faces peeped out of the grand tide of the
cathedral like something that knew better. They knew quite
well, these little imps that retorted on man's own illusion,
that the cathedral was not absolute. They winked and leered,
giving suggestion of the many things that had been left out
of the great concept of the church. " However much there is
inside here, there's a good deal they haven't got in," the little
faces mocked.

Apart from the lift and spring of the great impulse towards
the altar, these little faces had separate wills, separate motions,
separate knowledge, which rippled back in defiance of the
tide, and laughed in triumph of their own very littleness.

192 THE RAINBOW

" Oh, look ! " cried Anna. " Oh, look, how adorable, the
faces ! Look at her."

Brangwen looked unwillingly. This was the voice of the
serpent in his Eden. She pointed him to a plump, sly, ma-
licious little face carved in stone.

" He knew her, the man who carved her/' said Anna. " I'm
sure she was his wife."

" It isn't a woman at all, it's a man," said Brangwen curtly.

" Do you think so ? — No ! That isn't a man. That is no
man's face."

Her voice sounded rather jeering. He laughed shortly, and
went on. But she would not go forward with him. She loi-
tered about the carvings. And he could not go forward with-
out her. He waited impatient of this counteraction. She
was spoiling his passionate intercourse with the cathedral.
His brows began to gather.

" Oh, this is good ! " she cried again. " Here is the same
woman — look ! — only he's made her cross ! Isn't it lovely !
Hasn't he made her hideous to a degree ? " She laughed with
pleasure. " Didn't he hate her ? He must have been a nice
man ! Look at her — isn't it awfully good — just like a
shrewish woman. He must have enjoyed putting her in like
that. He got his own back on her, didn't he ? "

" It's a man's face, no woman's at all — a monk's — clean
shaven," he said.

She laughed with a pouf ! of laughter.

" You hate to think he put his wife in your cathedral, don't
you ? " she mocked, with a tinkle of profane laughter. And
she laughed with malicious triumph.

She had got free from the cathedral, she had even destroyed
the passion he had. She was glad. He was bitterly angry.
Strive as he would, he could not keep the cathedral wonderful
to him. He was disillusioned. That which had been his ab-
solute, containing all heaven and earth, was become to him
as to her, a shapely heap of dead matter — but dead, dead.

His mouth was full of ash, his soul was furious. He hated
her for having destroyed another of his vital illusions. Soon
he would be stark, stark, without one place wherein to stand,
without one belief in which to rest.

Yet somewhere in him he responded more deeply to the sly
little face that knew better, than he had done before to the
perfect surge of his cathedral.

Nevertheless, for the time being his soul was wretched and

THE CATHEDRAL 193

homeless, and he could not bear to think of Anna's ousting
him from his beloved realities. He wanted his cathedral; he
wanted to satisfy his blind passion. And he could not any
more. Something intervened.

They went home again, both of them altered. She had
some new reverence for that which he wanted, he felt that his
cathedrals would never again be to him as they had been.
Before, he had thought them absolute. But now he saw them
crouching under the sky, with still the dark, mysterious world
of reality inside, but as a world within a world, a sort of
side show, whereas before they had been as a world to him
within a chaos : a reality, an order, an absolute, within a mean-
ingless confusion.

He had felt, before, that could he but go through the great
door and look down the gloom towards the far-off, concluding
wonder of the altar, that then, with the windows suspended
around like tablets of jewels emanating their own glory, then
he had arrived. Here the satisfaction he had yearned after
came near, towards this, the porch of the great Unknown, all
reality gathered, and there, the altar was the mystic door,
through which all and everything must move on to eternity.

But now, somehow, sadly and disillusioned, he realized that
the doorway was no doorway. It was too narrow, it was false.
Outside the cathedral were many flying spirits that could
never be sifted through the jewelled gloom. He had lost his
absolute.

He listened to the thrushes in the gardens and heard a note
which the cathedrals did not include: something free and
careless and joyous. He crossed a field that was all yellow
with dandelions, on his way to work, and the bath of yellow
glowing was something at once so sumptuous and so fresh, that
he was glad he was away from his shadowy cathedral.

There was life outside the church. There was much that
the church did not include. He thought of God, and of the
whole blue rotunda of the day. That was something great
and free. He thought of the ruins of the Grecian worship,
and it seemed, a temple was never perfectly a temple, till it
was ruined and mixed up with the winds and the sky and the
herbs.

Still he loved the church. As a symbol, he loved it. He
tended it for what it tried to represent, rather than for that
which it did represent. Still he loved it. The little church
across his garden-wall drew him, he gave it loving attention.

194. THE RAINBOW

But he went to take charge of it, to preserve it. It was as an
old, sacred thing to him. He looked after the stone and wood-
work, mending the organ and restoring a piece of broken carv*
ing, repairing the church furniture. Later, he became choir-
master also.

His life was shifting its centre, becoming more superficial.
He had failed to become really articulate, failed to find real
expression. He had to continue in the old form. But in
spirit, he was uncreated.

Anna was absorbed in the child now, she left her husband
to take his own way. She was willing now to postpone all
adventure into unknown realities. She had the child, her
palpable and immediate future was the child. If her soul
had found no utterance, her womb had.

The church that neighboured with his house became very
intimate and dear to him. He cherished it, he had it entirely
in his charge. If he could find no new activity, he would be
happy cherishing the old, dear form of worship. He knew
this little, whitewashed church. In its shadowy atmosphere
he sank back into being. He liked to sink himself in its hush
as a stone sinks into water.

He went across his garden, mounted the wall by the little
steps, and entered the hush and peace of the church. As the
heavy door clanged to behind him, his feet re-echoed in the
aisle, his heart re-echoed with a little passion of tenderness
and mystic peace. He was also slightly ashamed, like a man
who has failed, who lapses back for his fulfilment.

He loved to light the candles at the organ, and sitting there
alone in the little glow, practise the hymns and chants for
the service. The whitewashed arches retreated into darkness,
the sound of the organ and the organ-pedals died away upon
the unalterable stillness of the church, there were faint,
ghostly noises in the tower, and then the music swelled out
again, loudly, triumphantly.

He ceased to fret about his life. He relaxed his will, and
let everything go. What was between him and his wife was
a great thing, if it was not everything. She had conquered,
really. Let him wait, and abide, wait and abide. She and
the baby and himself, they were one. The organ rang out his
protestation. His soul lay in the darkness as he pressed the
keys of the organ.

To Anna, the baby was a complete bliss and fulfilment.
Her desires sank into abeyance, her soul was in bliss over the

THE CATHEDRAL 195

baby. It was rather a delicate child, she had trouble to rear
it. She never for a moment thought it would die. It was a
delicate infant, therefore it behoved her to make it strong.
She threw herself into the labour, the child was everything.
Her imagination was all occupied here. She was a mother.
It was enough to handle the new little limbs, the new little
body, hear the new little voice crying in the stillness. All the
future rang to her out of the sound of the baby's crying and
cooing, she balanced the coming years of life in her hands, as
she nursed the child. The passionate sense of fulfilment, of
the future germinated in her, made her vivid and powerful.
All the future was in her hands, in the hands of the woman.
And before this baby was ten months old, she was again with
child. She seemed to be in the fecund of storm life, every
moment was full and busy with productiveness to her. She
felt like the earth, the mother of everything.

Brangwen occupied himself with the church, he played the
organ, he trained the choir-boys, he taught a Sunday-school
class of youths. He was happy enough. There was an eager,
yearning kind of happiness in him as he taught the boys on
Sundays. He was all the time exciting himself with the
proximity of some secret that he had not yet fathomed.

In the house, he served his wife and the little matriarchy.
She loved him because he was the father of her children. And
she always had a physical passion for him. So he gave up
trying to have the spiritual superiority and control, or even
her respect for his conscious or public life. He lived simply
by her physical love for him. And he served the little matri-
archy, nursing the child and helping with the housework, in-
different any more of his own dignity and importance. But
his abandoning of claims, his living isolated upon his own
interest, made him seem unreal, unimportant.

Anna was not publicly proud of him. But very soon she
learned to be indifferent to public life. He was not what is
called a manly man: he did not drink or smoke or arrogate
importance. But he was her man, and his very indifference to
all claims of manliness set her supreme in her own world with
him. Physically, she loved him and he satisfied her. He
went alone and subsidiary always. At first it had irritated
her, the outer world existed so little to him. Looking at him
with outside eyes, she was inclined to sneer at him. But her
sneer changed to a sort of respect. She respected him, that
he could serve her so simply and completely. Above all, she

THE RAINBOW

loved to bear his children. She loved to be the source of
children.

She could not understand him, his strange, dark rages and
his devotion to the church. It was the church building he
cared for; and yet his soul was passionate for something.
He laboured cleaning the stonework, repairing the woodwork,
restoring the organ, and making the singing as perfect as
possible. To keep the church fabric and the church-ritual
intact was his business; to have the intimate sacred building
utterly in his own hands, and to make the form of service
complete. There was a little bright anguish and tension on
his face, and in his intent movements. He was like a lover
who knows he is betrayed, but who still loves, whose love is
only the more tense. The church was false, but he served it
the more attentively.

During the day, at his work in the office, he kept himself
suspended. He did not exist. He worked automatically till
it was time to go home.

He loved with a hot heart the dark-haired little Ursula,
and he waited for the child to come to consciousness. Now
the mother monopolized the baby. But his heart waited in
its darkness. His hour would come.

In the long run, he learned to submit to Anna. She forced
him to the spirit of her laws, whilst leaving him the letter of
his own. She combated in him his devils. She suffered very
much from his inexplicable and incalculable dark rages, when
a blackness filled him, and a black wind seemed to sweep out
of existence everything that had to do with him. She could
feel herself, everything, being annihilated by him.

At first she fought him. At night, in this state, he would
kneel down to say his prayers. She looked at his crouching
figure.

"Why are you kneeling there, pretending to pray?" she
said, harshly. " Do you think anybody can pray, when they
are in the vile temper you are in ? "

He remained crouching by the bedside, motionless.

" It's horrible," she continued, " and such a pretence !
What do you pretend you are saying? Who do you pretend
you are praying to ? "

He still remained motionless, seething with inchoate rage,
when his whole nature seemed to disintegrate. He seemed
to live with a strain upon himself, and occasionally came these
dark, chaotic rages, the lust for destruction. She then fought

THE CATHEDRAL I«f

with him, and their fights were horrible, murderous. And
then the passion between them came just as black and awful.

But little by little, as she learned to love him better, she
would put herself aside, and when she felt one of his fits upon
him, would ignore him, successfully leave him in his world,
whilst she remained in her own. He had a black struggle with
himself, to come back to her. For at last he learned that he
would be in hell until he came back to her. So he struggled
to submit to her, and she was afraid of the ugly strain in his
eyes. She made love to him, and took him. Then he was
grateful to her love, humble.

He made himself a woodwork shed, in which to restore
things which were destroyed in the church. So he had plenty
to do : his wife, his child, the church, the woodwork, and his
wage-earning, all occupying him. If only there were not some
limit to him, some darkness across his eyes ! He had to give
in to it at last himself. He must submit to his own in-
adequacy, the limitation of his being. He even had to know
of his own black, violent temper, and to reckon with it. But
as she was more gentle with him, it became quieter.

As he sat sometimes very still, with a bright, vacant face,
Anna could see the suffering among the brightness. He was
aware of some limit to himself, of something unformed in his
very being, of some buds which were not ripe in him, some
folded centres of darkness which would never develop and
unfold whilst he was alive in the body. He was unready for
fulfilment. Something undeveloped in him limited him,
there was a darkness in him which he could not unfold, which
would never unfold in him.

CHAPTER VIII

THE CHILD

FROM the first, the baby stirred in the young father
a deep, strong emotion he dared scarcely acknowledge,
it was so strong and came out of the dark of him.
When he heard the child cry, a terror possessed him,
because of the answering echo from the unfathomed distances
in himself. Must he know in himself such distances, perilous
and imminent ?

He had the infant in his arms, he walked backwards and
forwards troubled by the crying of his own flesh and blood.
This was his own flesh and blood crying! His soul rose
against the voice suddenly breaking out from him, from the
distances in him.

Sometimes in the night, the child cried and cried, when
the night was heavy and sleep oppressed him. And half
asleep, he stretched out his hand to put it over the baby's
face to stop the crying. But something arrested his hand:
the very inhumanness of the intolerable, continuous crying
arrested him. It was so impersonal, without cause or object.
Yet he echoed to it directly, his soul answered its madness.
It filled him with terror, almost with frenzy.

He learned to acquiesce to this, to submit to the awful,
obliterated sources which were the origin of his living tissue.
He was not what he conceived himself to be! Then he was
what he was, unknown, potent, dark.

He became accustomed to the child, he knew how to lift
and balance the little body. The baby had a beautiful, rounded
head that moved him passionately. He would have fought to
the last drop to defend that exquisite, perfect round head.

He learned to know the little hands and feet, the strange,
unseeing, golden-brown eyes, the mouth that opened only to
cry, or to suck, or to show a queer, toothless laugh. He
could almost understand even the dangling legs, which at first
had created in him a feeling of aversion. They could kick in
their queer little way, they had their own softness.

198

THE CHILD 199

One evening, suddenly, he saw the tiny, living thing rolling
naked in the mother's lap, and he was sick, it was so utterly
helpless and vulnerable and extraneous; in a world of hard
surfaces and varying altitudes, it lay vulnerable and naked
at every point. Yet it was quite blithe. And yet, in its blind,
awful crying, was there not the blind, far-off terror of its own
vulnerable nakedness, the terror of being so utterly delivered
over, helpless at every point. He could not bear to hear it
crying. His heart strained and stood on guard against the
whole universe.

But he waited for the dread of these days to pass; he saw
the joy coming. He saw the lovely, creamy, cool little ear
of the baby, a bit of dark hair rubbed to a bronze floss, like
bronze-dust. And he waited, for the child to become his, to
look at him and answer him.

It had a separate being, but it was his own child. His
flesh and blood vibrated to it. He caught the baby to his
breast with his passionate, clapping laugh. And the infant
knew him.

As the newly-opened, newly-dawned eyes looked at him,
he wanted them to perceive him, to recognize him. Then he
was verified. The child knew him, a queer contortion of
laughter came on its face for him. He caught it to his breast,
clapping with a triumphant laugh.

The golden-brown eyes of the child gradually lit up and
dilated at the sight of the dark-glowing face of the youth.
It knew its mother better, it wanted its mother more. But
the brightest, sharpest little ecstasy was for the father.

It began to be strong, to move vigorously and freely, to
make sounds like words. It was a baby girl now. Already
it knew his strong hands, it exulted in his strong clasp, it
laughed and crowed when he played with it.

And his heart grew red-hot with passionate feeling for the
child. She was not much more than a year old when the
second baby was born. Then he took Ursula for his own.
She his first little girl. He had set his heart on her.

The second had dark blue eyes and a fair skin : it was more
a Brangwen, people said. The hair was fair. But they
forgot Anna's stiff blond fleece of childhood. They called
the newcomer Gudrun.

This time, Anna was stronger, and not so eager. She did
not mind that the baby was not a boy. It was enough that
she had milk and could suckle her child : Oh, oh, the bliss of

200 THE RAINBOW

the little life sucking the milk of her body! Oh, oh, oh the
bliss, as the infant grew stronger, of the two tiny hands clutch-
ing, catching blindly yet passionately at her breast, of the tiny
mouth seeking her in blind, sure, vital knowledge, of the sud-
den consummate peace as the little body sank, the mouth and
throat sucking, sucking, sucking, drinking life from her to
make a new life, almost sobbing with passionate joy of receiv-
ing its own existence, the tiny hands clutching frantically as
the nipple was drawn back, not to be gainsaid. This was
enough for Anna. She seemed to pass off into a kind of rap-
ture of motherhood, her rapture of motherhood was everything.

So that the father had the elder baby, the weaned child, the
golden-brown, wondering vivid eyes of the little Ursula were
for him, who had waited behind the mother till the need was
for him. The mother felt a sharp stab of jealousy. But she
was still more absorbed in the tiny baby. It was entirely hers,
its need was direct upon her.

So Ursula became the child of her father's heart. She
was the little blossom, he was the sun. He was patient, ener-
getic, inventive for her. He taught her all the funny little
things, he filled her and roused her to her fullest tiny measure.
She answered him with her extravagant infant's laughter and
her call of delight.

Now there were two babies, a v,roman came in to do the
housework. Anna was wholly nurse. Two babies were not
loo much for her. But she hated any form of work, now her
children had come, except the charge of them.

When Ursula toddled about, she was an absorbed, busy
child, always amusing herself, needing not much attention
from other people. At evening, towards six o'clock, Anna
very often went across the lane to the stile, lifted Ursula over
into the field, with a : "Go and meet Daddy." Then Brang-
wen, coming up the steep round of the hill, would see before
him on the brow of the path a tiny, tottering, wind-blown little
mite with a dark head, who, as soon as she saw him, would
come running in tiny, wild, windmill fashion, lifting her arms
up and down to him, down the steep hill. His heart leapt up,
he ran his fastest to her, to catch her, because he knew she
would fall. She came fluttering on, wildly, with her little
limbs flying. And he was glad when he caught her up in his
arms. Once she fell as she came flying to him, he saw her
pitch forward suddenly as she was running with her hands
lifted to him; and when he picked her up, her mouth was

THE CHILD 201

bleeding. He could never bear to think of it, he always wanted
to cry, even when he was an old man and she had become a
stranger to him. How he loved that little Ursula! — his
heart had been sharply seared for her, when he was a youth,
first married.

When she was a little older, he would see her recklessly
climbing over the bars of the stile, in her red pinafore, swing-
ing in peril and tumbling over, picking herself up and flitting
towards him. Sometimes she liked to ride on his shoulder,
sometimes she preferred to walk with his hand, sometimes
she would fling her arms round his legs for a moment, then
race free again, whilst he went shouting and calling to her,
a child along with her. He was still only a tall, thin, un-
settled lad of twenty-two.

It was he who had made her her cradle, her little chair,
her little stool, her high chair. It was he who would swing
her up to table or who would make for her a doll out of an
old table-leg, whilst she watched him, saying :

" Make her eyes, Daddy, make her eyes ! "

And he made her eyes with his knife.

She was very fond of adorning herself, so he would tie a
piece of cotton round her ear, and hang a blue bead on it
underneath for an ear-ring. The ear-rings varied with a red
bead, and a golden bead, and a little pearl bead. And as
he came home at night, seeing her bridling and looking very
self-conscious, he took notice and said:

" So you're wearing your best golden and pearl ear-rings,
to-day?"

" Yes."

" I suppose you've been to see the queen ? "

"Yes, I have."

" Oh, and what had she to say ? "

" She said — she said — < You won't dirty your nice white
frock.' '-

He gave her the nicest bits from his plate, putting them
into her red, moist mouth. And he would make on a piece
of bread-and-butter a bird, out of jam: which she ate with
extraordinary relish.

After the tea-things were washed up, the woman went away,
leaving the family free. Usually Brangwen helped in the
bathing of the children. He held long discussions with his
child as she sat on his knee and he unfastened her clothes.
And he seemed to be talking really of momentous things, deep

202 THE RAINBOW

moralities. Then suddenly she ceased to hear, having Caught
sight of a glassie rolled into a corner. She slipped away, and
was in no hurry to return.

" Come back here/' he said, waiting. She became absorbed,
taking no notice.

" Come on," he repeated, with a touch of command.

An excited little chuckle came from her, but she pretended
to be absorbed.

" Do you hear, Milady ? "

She turned with a fleeting, exulting laugh. He rushed on
her, and swept her up.

" Who was it that didn't come ! " he said, rolling her between
his strong hands, tickling her. And she laughed heartily,
heartily. She loved him that he compelled her with his
strength and decision. He was all-powerful, the tower of
strength which rose out of her sight.

When the children were in bed, sometimes Anna and he
sat and talked, desultorily, both of them idle. He read very
little. Anything he was drawn to read became a burning
reality to him, another scene outside his window. Whereas
Anna skimmed through a book to see what happened, then
she had enough.

Therefore they would often sit together, talking desultorily.
What was really between them they could not utter. Their
words were only accidents in the mutual silence. When they
talked, they gossiped. She did not care for sewing.

She had a beautiful way of sitting musing, gratefully, as
if her heart were lit up. Sometimes she would turn to him,
laughing, to tell him some little thing that had happened
during the day. Then he would laugh, they would talk awhile,
before the vital, physical silence was between them again.

She was thin but full of colour and life. She was per-
fectly happy to do just nothing, only to sit with a curious,
languid dignity, so careless as to be almost regal, so utterly
indifferent, so confident. The bond between them was unde-
finable, but very strong. It kept every one else at a distance.

His face never changed whilst she knew him, it only became
more intense. It was ruddy and dark in its abstraction, not
very human, it had a strong, intent brightness. Sometimes,
when his eyes met hers, a yellow flash from them caused a
darkness to swoon over her consciousness, electric, and a slight
strange laugh came on his face. Her eyes would turn lan-
guidly, then close, as if hypnotized. And they lapsed into the

THE CHILD 203

same potent darkness. He had the quality of a young black
cat, intent, unnoticeable, and yet his presence gradually made
itself felt, stealthily and powerfully took hold of her. He
called, not to her, but to something in her, which responded
subtly, out of her unconscious darkness.

So they were together in a darkness, passionate, electric,
forever haunting the back of the common day, never in the
light. In the light, he seemed to sleep, unknowing. Only
she knew him when the darkness set him free, and he could
see with his gold-glowing eyes his intention and his desires
in the dark. Then she was in a spell, then she answered his
harsh, penetrating call with a soft leap of her soul, the darkness
woke up, electric, bristling with an unknown, overwhelming
insinuation.

By now they knew each other; she was the daytime, the
daylight, he was the shadow, put aside, but in the darkness
potent with an overwhelming voluptuousness.

She learned not to dread and to hate him, but to fill her-
self with him, to give herself to his black, sensual power, that
was hidden ail the daytime. And the curious rolling of the
eyes, as if she were lapsing in a trance away from her ordinary
consciousness became habitual with her, when something
threatened and opposed her in life, the conscious life.

So they remained as separate in the light, and in the thick
darkness, married. He supported her daytime authority, kept
it inviolable at last. And she, in all the darkness, belonged
to him, to his close, insinuating, hypnotic familiarity.

All his daytime activity, all his public life, was a kind of
sleep. She wanted to be free, to belong to the day. And
he ran avoiding the day in work. After tea, he went to the
shed to his carpentry or his wood-carving. He was restoring
the patched, degraded pulpit to its original form.

But he loved to have the child near him, playing by his
feet. She was a piece of light that really belonged to him,
that played within his darkness. He left the shed door on
the latch. And when, with his second sense of another pres-
ence, he knew she was coming, he was satisfied, he was at rest.
When he was alone with her, he did not want to take notice, to
talk. He wanted to live unthinking, with her presence flicker-
ing upon him.

He always went in silence. The child would push open
the shed door, and see him working by lamplight, his sleeves
rolled back. His clothes hung about him, carelessly, like
mere wrapping. Inside, his body was concentrated with a

204 THE RAINBOW

flexible, charged power all of its own, isolated. From when
she was a tiny child Ursula could remember his forearm, with
its fine black hairs and its electric flexibility, working at the
bench through swift, unnoticeable movements, always am-
bushed in a sort of silence.

She hung a moment in the door of the shed, waiting for
him to notice her. He turned, his black, curved eyebrows
arching slightly.

"Hullo, Twittermiss!"

And he closed the door behind her. Then the child was
happy in the shed that smelled of sweet wood and resounded
to the noise of the plane or the hammer or the saw, yet was
charged with the silence of the worker. She played on, intent
and absorbed, among the shavings and the little nogs of wood.
She never touched him : his feet and legs were near, she did not
approach them.

She liked to flit out after him when he was going to church
at night. If he were going to be alone, he swung her over
the wall, and let her come.

Again she was transported when the door was shut behind
them, and they two inherited the big, pale, void place. She
would watch him as he lit the organ candles, wait whilst he
began his practising his tunes, then she ran foraging here and
there, like a kitten playing by herself in the darkness with eyes
dilated. The ropes hung vaguely, twining on the floor, from
the bells in the tower, and Ursula always wanted the fluffy,
red-and-white, or blue-and-white rope-grips. But they were
above her.

Sometimes her mother came to claim her. Then the child
was seized with resentment. She passionately resented her
mother's superficial authority. She wanted to assert her own
detachment.

He, however, also gave her occasional cruel shocks. He
let her play about in the church, she rifled foot-stools and
hymn-books and cushions, like a bee among flowers, whilst
the organ echoed away. This continued for some weeks.
Then the charwoman worked herself up into a frenzy of rage,
to dare to attack Brangwen, and one day descended on him
like a harpy. He wilted away, and wanted to break the old
beast's neck.

Instead he came glowering in fury to the house, and turned
on Ursula.

THE CHILD 205

"Why, you tiresome little monkey, can't you even come
to church without pulling the place to bits ? "

His voice was harsh and cat-like, he was blind to the child.
She shrank away in childish anguish and dread. What was
it, what awful thing was it ?

The mother turned with her calm, almost superb manner.

" What has she done, then? "

"Done? She shallgo in the church no more, pulling and
littering and destroying."

The wife slowly rolled her eyes and lowered her eyelids.

" What has she destroyed, then ? "

He did not know.

" I've just had Mrs. Wilkinson at me," he cried, " with a
list of things she's done."

Ursula withered under the contempt and anger of the " she,"
as he spoke of her.

" Send Mrs. Wilkinson here to me with a list of the things
she's done," said Anna. " I am the one to hear that.

"It's not the things the child has done," continued the
mother, " that have put you out so much, it's because you can't
bear being spoken to by that old woman. But you haven't the
courage to turn on her when she attacks you, you bring your
rage here."

He relapsed into silence. Ursula knew that he was wrong.
In the outside, upper world, he was wrong. Already came
over the child the cold sense of the impersonal world. There
she knew her mother was right. But still her heart clamoured
after her father, for him to be right, in his dark, sensuous
underworld. But he was angry, and went his way in black-
ness and brutal silence again.

The child ran about absorbed in life, quiet, full of amuse-
ment. She did not notice things, nor changes nor alterations.
One day she would find daisies in the grass, another day,
apple-blossoms would be sprinkled white on the ground, and
she would run among it, for pleasure because it was there.
Yet again birds would be pecking at the cherries, her father
would throw cherries down from the tree all round her on the
garden. Then the fields were full of hay.

She did not remember what had been nor what would be,
the outside things were there each day. She was always her-
self, the world outside was accidental. Even her mother was
accidental to her : a condition that happened to endure.

206 THE RAINBOW

Only her father occupied any permanent position in the
childish consciousness. When he came back she remembered
vaguely how he had gone away, when he went away she knew
vaguely that she must wait for his coming back. Whereas
her mother, returning from an outing, merely became present,
there was no reason for connecting her with some previous
departure.

The return or the departure of the father was the one event
which the child remembered. When he came, something woke
up in her, some yearning. She knew when he was out of joint
or irritable or tired : then she was uneasy, she could not rest.

When he was in the house, the child felt full and warm,
rich like a creature in the sunshine. When he was gone, she
was vague, forgetful. When he scolded her even, she was often
more aware of him than of herself. He was her strength and
her greater self.

Ursula was three years old when another baby girl was born.
Then the two small sisters were much together, Gudrun and
Ursula. Gudrun was a quiet child who played for hours alone,
absorbed in her fancies. She was brown-haired, fair-skinned,
strangely placid, almost passive. Yet her will was indomita-
ble, once set. From the first she followed Ursula's lead. Yet
she was a thing to herself, so that to watch the two together
was strange. They were like two young animals playing to-
gether but not taking real notice of each other. Gudrun was
the mother's favourite — except that Anna always lived in her
latest baby.

The burden of so many lives depending on him wore the
youth down. He had his work in the office, which was done
purely by effort of will : he had his barren passion for the
church; he had three young children. Also at this time his
health was not good. So he was haggard and irritable, often
a pest in the house. Then he was told to go to his wood-work,
or to the church.

Between him and the little Ursula there came into being
a strange alliance. They were aware of each other. He knew
the child was always on his side. But in his consciousness he
counted it for nothing. She was always for him. He took it
for granted. Yet his life was based on her, even whilst she
was a tiny child, on her support and her accord.

Anna continued in her violent trance of motherhood, always
busy, often harassed, but always contained in her trance of
motherhood. She seemed to exist in her own violent fruit-

THE CHILD 207

fulness, and it was as if the sun shone tropically on her. Her
colour was bright, her eyes full of a fecund gloom, her brown
hair tumbled loosely over her ears. She had a look of rich-
ness. No responsibility, no sense of duty troubled her. The
outside, public life was less than nothing to her, really.

Whereas when, at twenty-six, he found himself father of
four children, with a wife who lived intrinsically like the
ruddiest lilies of the field, he let the weight of responsibility
press on him and drag him. It was then that his child Ursula
strove to be with him. She was with him, even as a baby of
four, when he was irritable and shouted and made the house-
hold unhappy. She suffered from his shouting, but somehow
it was not really him. She wanted it to be over, she wanted
to resume her normal connection with him. When he was dis-
agreeable, the child echoed to the crying of some need in him,
and she responded blindly. Her heart followed him as if he
had some tie with her, and some love which he could not
deliver. Her heart followed him persistently, in its love.

But there was the dim, childish sense of her own smallness
and inadequacy, a fatal sense of worthlessness. She could not
do anything, she was not enough. She could not be important
to him. This knowledge deadened her from the first.

Still she set towards him like a quivering needle. All her
life was directed by her awareness of him, her wakefulness
to his being. And she was against her mother.

Her father was the dawn wherein her consciousness woke
up. But for him, she might have gone on like the other
children, Gudrun and Theresa and Catherine, one with the
flowers and insects and playthings, having no existence apart
from the concrete object of her attention. But her father
came too near to her. The clasp of his hands and the power
of his breast woke her up almost in pain from the transient
unconsciousness of childhood. Wide-eyed, unseeing, she was
awake before she knew how to see. She was wakened too soon.
Too soon the call had come to her, when she was a small baby,
and her father held her close to his breast, her sleep-living
heart was beaten into wakefulness by the striving of his bigger
heart, by his clasping her to his body for love and for fulfil-
ment, asking as a magnet must always ask. From her the
response had struggled dimly, vaguely into being.

The children were dressed roughly for the country. When
she was little, Ursula pattered about in little wooden clogs, a
blue overall over her thick red dress, a red shawl crossed on

208 THE RAINBOW

her breast and tied behind again. So she ran with her father
to the garden.

The household rose early. He was out digging by six
o'clock in the morning, he went to his work at half -past eight.
And Ursula was usually in the garden with him, though not
near at hand.

At Eastertime one year, she helped him to set potatoes.
It was the first time she had ever helped him. The occasion
remained as a picture, one of her earliest memories. They
had gone out soon after dawn. A cold wind was blowing.
He had his old trousers tucked into his boots, he wore no
coat nor waistcoat, his shirt-sleeves fluttered in the wind, his
face was ruddy and intent, in a kind of sleep. When he was
at work he neither heard nor saw. A long, thin man, looking
still a youth, with a line of black moustache above his thick
mouth, and his fine hair blown on his forehead, he worked
away at the earth in the grey first light, alone. His solitari-
ness drew the child like a spell.

The wind came chill over the dark-green fields. Ursula
ran up and watched him push the setting-peg in at one side
of his ready earth, stride across, and push it in the other
side, pulling the line taut and clear upon the clods interven-
ing. Then with a sharp cutting noise the bright spade came
towards her, cutting a grip into the new, soft earth.

He struck his spade upright and straightened himself.

" Do you want to help me ? " he said.

She looked up at him from out of her little woollen bonnet.

" Ay," he said, " you can put some taters in for me. Look
— like that — these little sprits standing up — so much apart,
you see."

And stooping down he quickly, surely placed the spritted
potatoes in the soft grip, where they rested separate and
pathetic on the heavy cold earth.

He gave her a little basket of potatoes, and strode himself
to the other end of the line. She saw him stooping, working
towards her. She was excited, and unused. She put in one
potato, then rearranged it, to make it sit nicely. Some of
the sprits were broken, and she was afraid. The responsi-
bility excited her like a string tying her up. She could not
help looking with dread at the string buried under the heaped-
back soil. Her father was working nearer, stooping, working
nearer. She was overcome by her responsibility. She put
potatoes quickly into the cold earth.

THE CHILD 209

He came near.

" Not so close," he said, stooping over her potatoes, taking
some out and rearranging the others. She stood by with the
painful terrified helplessness of childhood. He was so unsee-
ing and confident, she wanted to do the thing and yet she could
not. She stood by looking on, her little blue overall fluttering
in the wind, the red woollen ends of her shawl blowing gustily.
Then he went down the row, relentlessly, turning the potatoes
in with his sharp spade-cuts. He took no notice of her, only
worked on. He had another world from hers.

She stood helplessly stranded on his world. He continued
his work. She knew she could not help him. A little bit
forlorn, at last she turned away, and ran down the garden,
away from him, as fast as she could go away from him, to
forget him and his work.

He missed her presence, her face in her red woollen bonnet,
her blue overall fluttering. She ran to where a little water
ran trickling between grass and stones. That she loved.

.When he came by he said to her :

" You didn't help me much."

The child looked at him dumbly. Already her heart was
heavy because of her own disappointment. Her mouth was
dumb and pathetic. But he did not notice, he went his way.

And she played on, because of her disappointment persisting
even the more in her play. She dreaded work, because she
could not do it as he did it. She was conscious of the great
breach between them. She knew she had no power. The
grown-up power to work deliberately was a mystery to her.

He would smash into her sensitive child's world destruc-
tively. Her mother was lenient, careless. The children
played about as they would all day. Ursula was thoughtless
— why should she remember things? If across the garden
she saw the hedge had budded, and if she wanted these greeny-
pink, tiny buds for bread-and-cheese, to play at tea-party with,
over she went for them.

Then suddenly, perhaps the next day, her soul would almost
start out of her body as her father turned on her, shouting:

"Who's been tramplin' an' dancin' across where I've just
sowed seed? I know it's you, nuisance! Can you find no-
where else to walk, but just over my seed beds ? But it's like
you, that is — no heed but to follow your own greedy nose."

It had shocked him in his intent world to see the zig-zagging
lines of deep little foot-prints across his work. The child

210 THE RAINBOW

was infinitely more shocked. Her vulnerable little soul was
flayed and trampled. Why were the foot-prints there? She
had not wanted to make them. She stood dazzled with pain
and shame and unreality.

Her soul, her consciousness seemed to die away. She be-
came shut off and senseless, a little fixed creature whose soul
had gone hard and unresponsive. The sense of her own un-
reality hardened her like a frost. She cared no longer.

And the sight of her face, shut and superior with self -assert-
ing indifference, made a flame of rage go over him. He
wanted to break her.

" I'll break your obstinate little face," he said, through shut
teeth, lifting his hand.

The child did not alter in the least. The look of indiffer-
ence, complete glancing indifference, as if nothing but herself
existed to her, remained fixed.

Yet far away in her, the sobs were tearing her soul. And
when he had gone, she would go and creep under the parlour
sofa, and lie clinched in the silent, hidden misery of child-
hood.

When she crawled out, after an hour or so, she went rather
stiffly to play. She willed to forget. She cut off her childish
soul from memory, so that the pain, and the insult should
not be real. She asserted herself only. There was now noth-
ing in the world but her own self. So very soon, she came
to believe in the outward malevolence that was against her.
And very early, she learned that even her adored father was
part of this malevolence. And very early she learned to harden
her soul in resistance and denial of all that was outside her,
harden herself upon her own being.

She never felt sorry for what she had done, she never for-
gave those who had made her guilty. If he had said to her,
" Why, Ursula, did you trample my carefully-made bed ? "
that would have hurt her to the quick, and she would have
done anything for him. But she was always tormented by
the unreality of outside things. The earth was to walk on.
Why must she avoid a certain patch, just because it was
called a seed-bed? It was the earth to walk on. This was
her instinctive assumption. And when he bullied her, she
became hard, cut herself off from all connection, lived in the
little separate world of her own violent will.

As she grew older, five, six, seven, the connection between
her and her father was even stronger. Yet it was always

THE CHILD 211

straining to break. She was always relapsing on her own
violent will into her own separate world of herself. This
made him grind his teeth with bitterness, for he still wanted
her. But she could harden herself into her own self's universe,
impregnable.

He was very fond of swimming, and in warm weather would
take her down to the canal, to a silent place, or to a big pond
or reservoir, to bathe. He would take her on his back as he
went swimming, and she clung close, feeling his strong move-
ment under her, so strong, as if it would uphold all the world.
Then he taught her to swim.

She was a fearless little thing, when he dared her. And
he had a curious craving to frighten her, to see what she
would do with him. He said, would she ride on his back
whilst he jumped off the canal bridge down into the water
beneath.

She would. He loved to feel the naked child clinging on
to his shoulders. There was a curious fight between their
two wills. He mounted the parapet of the canal bridge.
The water was a long way down. But the child had a de-
liberate will set upon his. She held herself fixed to him.

He leapt, and down they went. The crash of the water
as they went under struck through the child's small body,
with a sort of unconsciousness. But she remained fixed.
And when they came up again, and when they went to the
bank, and when they sat on the grass side by side, he laughed,
and said it was fine. And the dark-dilated eyes of the child
looked at him wonderingly, darkly, wondering from the shock,
yet reserved and unfathomable, so he laughed almost with a sob.

In a moment she was clinging safely on his back again,
and he was swimming in deep water. She was used to his
nakedness, and to her mother's nakedness, ever since she
was born. They were clinging to each other, and making
up to each other for the strange blow that had been struck
at them. Yet still, on other days, he would leap again with
her from the bridge, daringly, almost wickedly. Till at length,
as he leapt, once, she dropped forward on to his head, and
nearly broke his neck, so that they fell into the water in a
heap, and fought for a few moments with death. He saved
her, and sat on the bank, quivering. But his eyes were full
of the blackness of death, it was as if death had cut between
their two lives, and separated them.

Still they were not separate. There was this curious

THE RAINBOW,

taunting intimacy between them. When the fair came, she
wanted to go in the swingboats. He took her, and, standing
up in the boat, holding on to the irons, began to drive higher,
perilously higher. The child clung fast on her seat.

" Do you want to go any higher ? " he said to her, and
she laughed with her mouth, her eyes wide and dilated.
They were rushing through the air.

" Yes," she said, feeling as if she would turn into vapour,
lose hold of everything, and melt away. The boat swung
far up, then down like a stone, only to be caught sickeningly
up again.

" Any higher ? " he called, looking at her over his shoulder,
his face evil and beautiful to her.

She laughed with white lips.

He sent the swingboat sweeping through the air in a great
semicircle, till it jerked and swayed at the high horizontal.
The child clung on, pale, her eyes fixed on him. People
below were calling. The jerk at the top had almost shaken
them both out. He had done what he could — and he was
attracting censure. He sat down, and let the swingboat swing
itself out.

People in the crowd cried shame on him as he came out
of the swingboat. He laughed. The child clung to his
hand, pale and mute. In a while she was violently sick.
He gave her lemonade, and she gulped a little.

" Don't tell your mother you've been sick/' he said. There
was no need to ask that. When she got home, the child crept
away under the parlour sofa, like a sick little animal, and was
a long time before she crawled out.

But Anna got to know of this escapade, and was passionately
angry and contemptuous of him. His golden-brown eyes glit-
tered, he had a strange, cruel little smile. And as the child
watched him, for the first time in her life a disillusion came
over her, something cold and isolating. She went over to her
mother. Her soul was dead towards him. It made her sick.

Still she forgot and continued to love him, but ever more
coldly. He was at this time, when he was about twenty-eight
years old, strange and violent in his being, sensual. He ac-
quired some power over Anna, over everybody he came into
contact with.

After a long bout of hostility, Anna at last closed with
him. She had now four children, all girls. For seven years

THE CHILD

she had been absorbed in wifehood and motherhood. For
years he had gone on beside her, never really encroaching
upon her. Then gradually another self seemed to assert its
being within him. He was still silent and separate. But she
could feel him all the while coming near upon her, as if his
breast and his body were threatening her, and he was always
coming closer. Gradually he became indifferent of responsi-
bility. He would do what pleased him, and no more.

He began to go away from home. He went to Nottingham
on Saturdays, always alone, to the football match and to the
music-hall, and all the time he was watching, in readiness.
He never cared to drink. But with his hard, golden-brown
eyes, so keen seeing with their tiny black pupils, he watched all
the people, everything that happened, and he waited.

In the Empire one evening he sat next to two girls. He
was aware of the one beside him. She was rather small,
common, with a fresh complexion and an upper lip that lifted
from her teeth, so that, when she was not conscious, her mouth
was slightly open and her lips pressed outwards in a kind of
blind appeal. She was strongly aware of the man next to her,
so that all her body was still, very still. Her face watched the
stage. Her arms went down into her lap, very self-conscious
and still.

A gleam lit up in him : should he begin with her ? Should
he begin with her to live the other, the unadmitted life of his
desire? Why not? He had always been so good. Save for
his wife, he was virgin. And why, when all women were
different? Why, when he would only live once? He wanted
the other life. His own life was barren, not enough. He
wanted the other.

Her open mouth, showing the small, irregular, white teeth,
appealed to him. It was open and ready. It was so vulner-
able. Why should he not go in and enjoy what was there?
The slim arm that went down so still and motionless to the
lap, it was pretty. She would be small, he would be able
almost to hold her in his two hands. She would be small, al-
most like a child, and pretty. Her childishness whetted him
keenly. She would be helpless between his hands.

" That was the best turn we've had," he said to her, leaning
over as he clapped his hands. He felt strong and unshakeable
in himself, set over against all the world. His soul was keen
and watchful, glittering with a kind of amusement. He was

THE RAINBOW

perfectly self-contained. He was himself, the absolute, the
rest of the world was the object that should contribute to his
being.

The girl started, turned round, her eyes lit up with an
almost painful flash of a smile, the colour came deeply in her
cheeks.

"Yes, it was/9 she said, quite meaninglessly, and she
covered her rather prominent teeth with her lips. Then she
sat looking straight before her, seeing nothing, only conscious
of the colour burning in her cheeks.

It pricked him with a pleasant sensation. His veins and
his nerves attended to her, she was so young and palpitating.

" It's not such a good programme as last week's/' he said.

Again she half turned her face to him, and her clear, bright
eyes, bright like shallow water, filled with light, frightened,
yet involuntarily lighting and shaking with response.

" Oh, isn't it ! I wasn't able to come last week."

He noted the common accent. It pleased him. He knew
what class she came of. Probably she was a warehouse-lass.
He was glad she was a common girl.

He proceeded to tell her about the last week's programme.
She answered at random, very confusedly. The colour burned
in her cheek. Yet she always answered him. The girl on the
other side sat remotely, obviously silent. He ignored her.
All his address was for his own girl, with her bright, shallow
eyes and her vulnerably opened mouth.

The talk went on, meaningless and random on her part,
quite deliberate and purposive on his. It was a pleasure to
him to make this conversation, an activity pleasant as a fine
game of chance and skill. He was very quiet and pleasant-
humoured, but so full of strength. She fluttered beside his
steady pressure of warmth and his surety.

He saw the performance drawing to a close. His senses
were alert and wilful. He would press his advantages. He
followed her and her plain friend down the stairs to the street.
It was raining.

" It's a nasty night/' he said. " Shall you come and have
a drink of something — a cup of coffee — it's early yet."

" Oh, I don't think so," she said, looking away into the
night.

66 1 wish you would," he said, putting himself as it were at
her mercy. There was a moment's pause.

" Come to Rollins ? " he said.

THE CHILD

"No — not there."

" To Carson's, then? "

There was a silence. The other girl hung on. The man
was the centre of positive force.

" Will your friend come as well ? "

There was another moment of silence, while the other girl
felt her ground.

" No, thanks/' she said. " I've promised to meet a friend."

" Another time, then ? " he said.

" Oh, thanks," she replied, very awkward.

" Good night," he said.

" See you later," said his girl to her friend.

"Where?" said the friend.

" You know, Gertie," replied his girl.

" All right, Jennie."

The friend was gone into the darkness. He turned with
his girl to the tea-shop. They talked all the time. He made
his sentences in sheer, almost muscular pleasure of exercising
himself with her. He was looking at her all the time, per-
ceiving her, appreciating her, finding her out, gratifying him-
self with her. He could see distinct attractions in her; her
eyebrows, with their particular curve, gave him keen aesthetic
pleasure. Later on he would see her bright, pellucid eyes,
like shallow water, and know those. And there remained the
open, exposed mouth, red and vulnerable. That he reserved as
yet. And all the while his eyes were on the girl, estimating
and handling with pleasure her young softness. About the
girl herself, who or what she was, he cared nothing, he was
quite unaware that she was anybody. She was just the sensual
object of his attention.

"Shall we go, then?" he said.

She rose in silence, as if acting without a mind, merely
physically. He seemed to hold her in his will. Outside it was
still raining.

"Let's have a walk," he said. "I don't mind the rain,
do you?"

" No, I don't mind it," she said.

He was alert in every sense and fibre, and yet quite sure
and steady, and lit up, as if transfused. He had a free sensa-
tion of walking in his own darkness, not in anybody else's
world at all. He was purely a world to himself, he had noth-
ing to do with any general consciousness. Just his own senses
were supreme. All the rest was external, insignificant, leav-

21C THE RAINBOW

ing him alone with this girl whom he wanted to absorb, whose
properties he wanted to absorb into his own senses. He did
not care about her, except that he wanted to overcome her
resistance, to have her in his power, fully and exhaustively to
enjoy her.

They turned into the dark streets. He held her umbrella
over her, and put his arm round her. She walked as if she
were unaware. But gradually, as he walked, he drew her a
little closer, into the movement of his side and hip. She fitted
in there very well. It was a real good fit, to walk with her
like this. It made him exquisitely aware of his own muscular
self. And his hand that grasped her side felt one curve of her,
and it seemed like a new creation to him, a reality, an abso-
lute, an existing tangible beauty of the absolute. It was like a
star. Everything in him was absorbed in the sensual delight
of this one small, firm curve in her body, that his hand, and
his whole being, had lighted upon.

He led her into the Park, where it was almost dark. He
noticed a corner between two walls, under a great overhanging
bush of ivy.

" Let us stand here a minute," he said.

He put down the umbrella, and followed her into the corner,
retreating out of the rain. He needed no eyes to see. All he
wanted was to know through touch. She was like a piece of
palpable darkness. He found her in the darkness, put his
arms round her and his hands upon her. She was silent and
inscrutable. But he did not want to know anything about
her, he only wanted to discover her. And through her cloth-
ing, what absolute beauty he touched.

" Take your hat off/' he said.

Silently, obediently, she took off her hat and gave herself
to his arms again. He liked her — he liked the feel of her —
he wanted to know her more closely. He let his fingers subtly
seek out her cheek and neck. What amazing beauty and pleas-
ure, in the dark ! His fingers had often touched Anna on the
face and neck like that. What matter ! It was one man who
touched Anna, another who now touched this girl. He liked
best his new self. He was given over altogether to the sensu-
ous knowledge of this woman, and every moment he seemed to
be touching absolute beauty, something beyond knowledge.

Very close, marvelling and exceedingly joyful in their dis-
coveries, his hands pressed upon her, so subtly, so seekingly, so

THE CHILD 217

finely and desirously searching her out, that she too was almost
swooning in the absolute of sensual knowledge. In utter sen-
sual delight she clenched her knees, her thighs, her loins to-
gether ! It was an added beauty to him.

But he was patiently working for her relaxation, patiently,
his whole being fixed in the smile of latent gratification, his
whole body electric with a subtle, powerful, reducing force
upon her. So he came at length to kiss her, and she was almost
betrayed by his insidious kiss. Her open mouth was too help-
less and unguarded. He knew this, and his first kiss was very
gentle, and soft, and assuring, so assuring. So that her soft,
defenceless mouth became assured, even bold, seeking upon
his mouth. And he answered her gradually, gradually, his
soft kiss sinking in softly, softly, but ever more heavily, more
heavily yet, till it was too heavy for her to meet, and she
began to sink under it. She was sinking, sinking, his smile
of latent gratification was becoming more tense, he was sure of
her. He let the whole force of his will sink upon her to sweep
her away. But it was too great a shock for her. With a sud-
den horrible movement she ruptured the state that contained
them both.

"Don't — don't I"

It was a rather horrible cry that seemed to come out of her,
not to belong to her. It was some strange agony of terror
crying out the words. There was something vibrating and
beside herself in the noise. His nerves ripped like silk.

" What's the matter ? " he said, as if calmly. " What's the
matter?"

She came back to him, but trembling, reservedly this time.

Her cry had given him gratification. But he knew he had
been too sudden for her. He was now careful. For a while
he merely sheltered her. Also there had broken a flaw into
his perfect will. He wanted to persist, to begin again, to lead
up to the point where he had let himself go on her, and then
manage more carefully, successfully. So far she had won.
And the battle was not over yet. But another voice woke in
him and prompted him to let her go — let her go in contempt.

He sheltered her, and soothed her, and caressed her, and
kissed her, and again began to come nearer, nearer. He
gathered himself together. Even if he did not take her, he
would make her relax, he would fuse away her resistance.
So softly, softly, with infinite caressiveness he kissed her,

218 THE RAINBOW

and the whole of his being seemed to fondle her. Till, at the
verge, swooning at the breaking point, there came from her
a beaten, inarticulate, moaning cry :

"Don't — oh, don't!"

His veins fused with extreme voluptuousness. For a mo-
ment he almost lost control of himself, and continued auto-
matically. But there was a moment of inaction, of cold sus-
pension. He was not going to take her. He drew her to him
and soothed her, and caressed her. But the pure zest had gone.
She struggled to herself and realized he was not going to take
her. And then, at the very last moment, when his fondling
had come near again, his hot living desire despising her,
against his cold sensual desire, she broke violently away from
him.

" Don't," she cried, harsh now with hatred, and she flung
her hand across and hit him violently. " Keep off of me."

His blood stood still for a moment. Then the smile came
again within him, steady, cruel.

"Why, what's the matter?" he said, with suave irony.
"Nobody's going to hurt you."

" I know what you want," she said.

" I know what I want," he said. " What's the odds ? "

" Well, you're not going to have it off me."

" Aren't I ? Well, then I'm not. It's no use crying about
it, is it?"

" No, it isn't," said the girl, rather disconcerted by his irony.

" But there's no need to have a row about it. We can kiss
goodnight just the same, can't we ? "

She was silent in the darkness.

" Or do you want your hat and umbrella to go home this
minute?"

Still she was silent. He watched her dark figure as she
etood there on the edge of the faint darkness, and he waited.

" Come and say goodnight nicely, if we're going to say it,"
he said.

Still she did not stir. He put his hand out and drew her
into the darkness again.

" It's warmer in here," he said ; " a lot cosier."

His will yet had not relaxed from her. The moment of
hatred exhilarated him.

"I'm going now," she muttered, as he closed his hand
over her.

" See how well you fit your place/' he said, as he drew her

THE CHILD 219

to her previous position, close upon him. " What do you want
to leave it for?"

And gradually the intoxication invaded him again, the zest
came back. After all, why should he not take her ?

But she did not yield to him entirely.

" Are you a married man ? " she asked at length.

"What if lam? " he said.

She did not answer.

" I don't ask you whether you're married or not/' he said.

"You know jolly well I'm not" she answered hotly. Oh,
if she could only break away from him, if only she need not
yield to him.

At length her will became cold against him. She had
escaped. But she hated him for her escape more than for
her danger. Did he despise her so coldly? And she was in
torture of adherence to him still.

" Shall I see you next week — next Saturday ? " he said, as
they returned to the town. She did not answer.

" Come to the Empire with me — you and Gertie," he said.

" I should look well, going with a married man," she said.

" I'm no less of a man for being married, am I ? " he said.

" Oh, it's a different matter altogether with a married man,"
she said, in a ready-made speech that showed her chagrin.

"How's that? "he asked.

But she would not enlighten him. Yet she promised, with-
out promising, to be at the meeting-place next Saturday even-
ing.

So he left her. He did not know her name. He caught a
train and went home.

It was the last train, he was very late. He was not home
till midnight. But he was quite indifferent. He had no real
relation with his home, not this man which he now was.
Anna was sitting up for him. She saw the queer, absolved
look on his face, a sort of latent, almost sinister smile, as if
he were absolved from his " good " ties.

"Where have you been?" she asked, puzzled, interested.

"To the Empire."

"Who with?"

" By myself. I came home with Tom Cooper."

She looked at him, and wondered what he had been doing.
She was indifferent as to whether he lied or not.

" You have come home very strange," she said. And there
was an appreciative inflexion in the speech.

220 THE RAINBOW

He was not affected. As for his humble, good self, he was
absolved from it. He sat down and ate heartily. He was not
tired. He seemed to take no notice of her.

For Anna the moment was critical. She kept herself aloof,
and watched him. He talked to her, but with a little indiffer-
ence, since he was scarcely aware of her. So, then she did not
affect him ? Here was a new turn of affairs ! He was rather
attractive, nevertheless. She liked him better than the ordi-
nary mute, half-effaced, half-subdued man she usually knew
him to be. So, he was blossoming out into his real self ! It
piqued her. Very good, let him blossom! She liked a new
turn of affairs. He was a strange man come home to her.
Glancing at him, she saw she could not reduce him to what he
had been before. In an instant she gave it up. Yet not with-
out a pang of rage, which would insist on their old, beloved
love, their old, accustomed intimacy and her old, established
supremacy. She almost rose up to fight for them. And look-
ing at him, and remembering his father, she was wary. This
was the new turn of affairs !

Very good, if she could not influence him in the old way,
she would be level with him in the new. Her old defiant
hostility came up. Very good, she too was out on her own
adventure. Her voice, her manner changed, she was ready
for the game. Something was liberated in her. She liked
him. She liked this strange man come home to her. He
was very welcome, indeed! She was very glad to welcome
a stranger. She had been bored by the old husband. To
his latent, cruel smile she replied with brilliant challenge.
He expected her to keep the moral fortress. Not she! It
was much too dull a part. She challenged him back with a
sort of radiance, very bright and free, opposite to him. He
looked at her, and his eyes glinted. She too was out in the
field.

His senses pricked up and keenly attended to her. She
laughed, perfectly indifferent and loose as he was. He came
towards her. She neither rejected him nor responded to him.
In a kind of radiance, superb in her inscrutability, she laughed
before him. She too could throw everything overboard, love,
intimacy, responsibility. What were her four children to her
now ? What did it matter that this man was the father of her
four children?

He was the sensual male seeking his pleasure, she was the
female ready to take hers : but in her own way. A man could

THE CHILD 221

turn into a free lance : so then could a woman. She adhered
as little as he to the moral world. All that had gone before
was nothing to her. She was another woman, under the in-
stance of a strange man. He was a stranger to her, seeking his
own ends. Very good. She wanted to see what this stranger
would do now, what he was.

She laughed, and kept him at arms' length, whilst appar-
ently ignoring him. She watched him undress as if he were
a stranger. Indeed he was a stranger to her.

And she roused him profoundly, violently, even before he
touched her. The little creature in Nottingham had but been
leading up to this. They abandoned in one motion the moral
position, each was seeking gratification pure and simple.

Strange his wife was to him. It was as if he were a perfect
stranger, as if she were infinitely and essentially strange to
him, the other half of the world, the dark half of the moon.
She waited for his touch as if he were a marauder who had
come in, infinitely unknown and desirable to her. And he
began to discover her. He had an inkling of the vastness of
the unknown sensual store of delights she was. With a pas-
sion of voluptuousness that made him dwell on each tiny
beauty, in a kind of frenzy of enjoyment, he lit upon her : her
beauty, the beauties, the separate, several beauties of her body.

He was quite ousted from himself, and sensually trans-
ported by that which he discovered in her. He was another
man revelling over her. There was no tenderness, no love
between them any more, only the maddening, sensuous lust
for discovery and the insatiable, exorbitant gratification in the
sensual beauties of her body. And she was a store, a store of
absolute beauties that it drove him mad to contemplate. There
was such a feast to enjoy, and he with only one man's capacity.

He lived in a passion of sensual discovery with her for some
time — it was a duel : no love, no words, no kisses even, only
the maddening perception of beauty consummate, absolute
through touch. He wanted to touch her, to discover her, mad-
deningly he wanted to know her. Yet he must not hurry, or he
missed everything. He must enjoy one beauty at a time.
And the multitudinous beauties of her body, the many little
rapturous places, sent him mad with delight, and with desire
to be able to know more, to have strength to know more. For
all was there.

He would say during the daytime :

" To-night I shall know the little hollow under her ankle,

222 THE RAINBOW

where the blue vein crosses." And the thought of it, and the
desire for it, made a thick darkness of anticipation.

He would go all the day waiting for the night to come, when
he could give himself to the enjoyment of some luxurious ab-
solute of beauty in her. The thought of the hidden resources
of her, the undiscovered beauties and ecstatic places of delight
in her body, waiting, only waiting for him to discover them,
sent him slightly insane. He was obsessed. If he did not
discover and make known to himself these delights, they might
be lost for ever. He wished he had a hundred men's energies,
with which to enjoy her.

And she, separate, with a strange, dangerous, glistening look
in her eyes received all his activities upon her as if they were
expected by her, and provoked him when he was quiet to more,
till sometimes he was ready to perish for sheer inability to be
satisfied of her, inability to have had enough of her.

Their children became mere offspring to them, they lived
in the darkness and death of their own sensual activities.
Sometimes he felt he was going mad with a sense of Absolute
Beauty, perceived by him in her through his senses. It was
something too much for him. And in everything, was this
same, almost sinister, terrifying beauty. But in the revela-
tions of her body through contact with his body, was the
ultimate beauty, to know which was almost death in itself,
and yet for the knowledge of which he would have under-
gone endless torture. He would have forfeited anything,
anything, rather than forego his right even to the instep of her
foot, and the place from which the toes radiated out, the little,
miraculous white plain from which ran the little hillocks of
the toes, and the folded, dimpling hollows between the toes.
He felt he would have died rather than forfeit this.

This was what their love had become, a sensuality violent
and extreme as death. They had no conscious intimacy, no
tenderness of love. It was all the lust and the infinite, mad-
dening intoxication of the senses, a passion of death.

He had always, all his life, had a secret dread of Absolute
Beauty. It had always been like a fetish to him, something
to fear, really. For it was immoral and against mankind.
So he had turned to the Gothic form, which always asserted
the broken desire of mankind in its pointed arches, escaping
the rolling, absolute beauty of the round arch.

pow he had given way, and wjth infinite sensual violence

THE CHILD 223

gave himself to the realization of this supreme, immoral, Abso-
lute Beauty, in the body of woman. It seemed to him, that it
came to being in the body of woman, under his touch. Under
his touch, even under his sight, it was there. But when he
neither saw nor touched the perfect place, it was not perfect,
it was not there. And he must make it exist.

But still the thing terrified him. Awful and threatening
it was, dangerous to a degree, even whilst he gave himself to
it. It was pure darkness, also. All the shameful things of the
body revealed themselves to him now with a sort of sinister,
tropical beauty. All the shameful, natural and unnatural
acts of sensual voluptuousness which he and the woman par-
took of together, created together, they had their heavy beauty
and their delight. Shame, what was it? It was part of ex-
treme delight. It was that part of delight of which man is
usually afraid. Why afraid? The secret, shameful things
are most terribly beautiful.

They accepted shame, and were one with it in their most
unlicensed pleasures. It was incorporated. It was a bud that
blossomed into beauty and heavy, fundamental gratification.

Their outward life went on much the same, but the inward
life was revolutionized. The children became less important,
the parents were absorbed in their own living.

And gradually, Brangwen began to find himself free to
attend to the outside life as well. His intimate life was so
violently active, that it set another man in him free. And
this new man turned with interest to public life, to see what
part he could take in it. This would give him scope for new
activity, activity of a kind for which he was now created and
released. He wanted to be unanimous with the whole of pur-
posive mankind.

At this time Education was in the forefront as a subject
of interest. There was the talk of new Swedish methods, of
handwork instruction, and so on. Brangwen embraced sin-
cerely the idea of handwork in schools. For the first time, he
began to take real interest in a public affair. He had at length,
from his profound sensual activity, developed a real purposive
self.

There was talk of night-schools, and of handicraft classes.
He wanted to start a woodwork class in Cossethay, to teach
carpentry and joinery and wood-carving to the village boys,
two nights a week. This seemed to him a supremely desirable

224. THE RAINBOW

thing to be doing. His pay would be very little — and when
he had it, he spent it all on extra wood and tools. But he was
very happy and keen in his new public spirit.

He started his night-classes in woodwork when he was thirty
years old. By this time he had five children, the last a boy.
But boy or girl mattered very little to him. He had a natural
blood-affection for his children, and he liked them as they
turned up: boys or girls. Only he was fondest of Ursula.
Somehow, she seemed to be at the back of his new night-school
venture.

The house by the yew trees was in connection with the great
human endeavour at last. It gained a new vigour thereby.

To Ursula, a child of eight, the increase in magic was con-
siderable. She heard all the talk, she saw the parish room
fitted up as a workshop. The parish room was a high, stone,
barn-like, ecclesiastical building standing away by itself in the
Brangwens' second garden, across the lane. She was always
attracted by its age and its stranded obsoleteness. Now she
watched preparations made, she sat on the flight of stone steps
that came down from the porch to the garden, and heard her
father and the vicar talking and planning and working. Then
an inspector came, a very strange man, and stayed talking with
her father all one evening. Everything was settled, and
twelve boys enrolled their names. It was very exciting.

But to Ursula, everything her father did was magic.
Whether he came from Ilkeston with news of the town, whether
he went across to the church with his music or his tools on a
sunny evening, whether he sat in his white surplice at the
organ on Sundays, leading the singing with his strong tenor
voice, or whether he were in the workshop with the boys, he
was always a centre of magic and fascination to her, his voice,
sounding out in command, cheerful, laconic, had always a
twang in it that sent a thrill over her blood, and hypnotized
her. She seemed to run in the shadow of some dark, potent
secret of which she would not, of whose existence even she
dared not become conscious, it cast such a spell over her, and
so darkened her mind.

CHAPTER IX

THE MARSH AND THE FLOOD

THERE was always regular connection between the
Yew Cottage and the Marsh, yet the two house-
holds remained separate, distinct.

After Anna's marriage, the Marsh became the
home of the two boys, Tom and Fred. Tom was a rather short,
good-looking youth, with crisp black hair and long black eye-
lashes and soft, dark, possessed eyes. He had a quick intelli-
gence. From the High School he went to London to study.
He had an instinct for attracting people of character and
energy. He gave place entirely to the other person, and at the
same time .kept himself independent. He scarcely existed ex-
cept through other people. When he was alone he was unre-
solved. When he was with another man, he seemed to add
himself to the other, make the other bigger than life size.
So that a few people loved him and attained a sort of fulfil-
ment in him. He carefully chose these few.

He had a subtle, quick, critical intelligence, a mind that
was like a scale or balance. There was something of a woman-
in all this.

In London he had been the favourite pupil of an engineer,
a clever man, who became well-known at the time when Tom
Brangwen had just finished his studies. Through this master
the youth kept acquaintance with various individual, out-
standing characters. He never asserted himself. He seemed
to be there to estimate and establish the rest. He was like a
presence that makes us aware of our own being. So that he
was while still young connected with some of the most ener-
getic scientific and mathematical people in London. They
took him as an equal. Quiet and perceptive and impersonal
as he was, he kept his place and learned how to value others
in just degree. He was there like a judgment. Besides, he
was very good-looking, of medium stature, but beautifully pro-
portioned, dark, with fine colouring, always perfectly healthy.

His father allowed him a liberal pocket-money, besides

225

226 THE RAINBOW

which he had a sort of post as assistant to his chief. Then
from time to time the young man appeared at the Marsh,
curiously attractive, well-dressed, reserved, having by nature
a subtle, refined manner. And he set the change in the farm.

Fred, the younger brother, was a Brangwen, large-boned,
blue-eyed, English. He was his father's very son, the two
men, father and son, were supremely at ease with one another.
Fred was succeeding to the farm.

Between the elder brother and the younger existed an almost
passionate love. Tom watched over Fred with a woman's
poignant attention and self-less care. Fred looked up to Tom
as to something miraculous, that which he himself would
aspire to be, were he great also.

So that after Anna's departure, the Marsh began to take on
a new tone. The boys were gentlemen; Tom had a rare na-
ture and had risen high. Fred was sensitive and fond of
reading, he pondered Kuskin and then the Agnostic writings.
Like all the Brangwens, he was very much a thing to himself,
though fond of people, and indulgent to them, having an
exaggerated respect for them.

There was a rather uneasy friendship between him and one
of the young Hardys at the Hall. The two households were
different, yet the young men met on shy terms of equality.

It was young Tom Brangwen, with his dark lashes and beau-
tiful colouring, his soft, inscrutable nature, his strange repose
and his informed air, added to his position in London, who
seemed to emphasize the superior foreign element in the
Marsh. When he appeared, perfectly dressed, as if soft and
affable, and yet quite removed from everybody, he created
an uneasiness in people, he was reserved in the minds of the
Cossethay and Ilkeston acquaintances to a different, remote
world.

He and his mother had a kind of affinity. The affection
between them was of a mute, distant character, but radical.
His father was always uneasy and slightly deferential to his
eldest son. Tom also formed the link that kept the Marsh
in real connection with the Skrebenskys, now quite important
people in their own district.

So a change in tone came over the Marsh. Tom Brangwen
the father, as he grew older, seemed to mature into a gentle-
man-farmer. His figure lent itself: burly and handsome.
His face remained fresh and his blue eyes as full of light,
his thick hair and beard had turned gradually to a silky white-*

THE MARSH AND THE FLOOD 227

ness. It was his custom to laugh a great deal, in his acqui-
escent, wilful manner. Things had puzzled him very much,
so he had taken the line of easy, good-humoured acceptance.
He was not responsible for the frame of things. Yet he was
afraid of the unknown in life.

He was fairly well-off. His wife was there with him, a
different being from himself, yet somewhere vitally connected
with him : — who was he to understand where and how ? His
two sons were gentlemen. They were men distinct from him-
self, they had separate beings of their own, yet they were
connected with himself. It was all adventurous and puzzling.
Yet one remained vital within one's own existence, whatever
the off-shoots.

So, handsome and puzzled, he laughed and stuck to him-
self as the only thing he could stick to. His youngness and
the wonder remained almost the same in him. He became
indolent, he developed a luxuriant ease. Fred did most of the
farm-work, the father saw to the more important transactions.
He drove a good mare, and sometimes he rode his cob. He
drank in the hofels and the inns with better-class farmers and
proprietors, he had well-to-do acquaintances among men.
But one class suited him no better than another.

His wife, as ever, had no acquaintances. Her hair was
threaded now with grey, her face grew older in form without
changing in expression. She seemed the same as when she
had come to the Marsh twenty-five years ago, save that her
health was more fragile. She seemed always to haunt the
Marsh rather than to live there. She was never part of the
life. Something she represented was alien there, she re-
mained a stranger within the gates, in some ways fixed and
impervious, in some ways curiously refining. She caused the
separateness and individuality of all the Marsh inmates, the
friability of the household.

When young Tom Brangwen was twenty-three years old
there was some breach between him and his chief which was
never explained, and he went away to Italy, then to America.
He came home for a while, then went to Germany ; always the
same good-looking, carefully-dressed, attractive young man, in
perfect health, yet somehow outside of everything. In his
dark eyes was a deep misery which he wore with the same ease
and pleasantness as he wore his close-sitting clothes.

To Ursula he was a romantic, alluring figure. He had a
grace of bringing beautiful presents: a box of expensive

228 THE RAINBOW

sweets, such as Cossethay had never seen; or he gave her a
hair-brush and a long slim mirror of mother-of-pearl, all pale
and glimmering and exquisite ; or he sent her a little necklace
of rough stones, amethyst and opal and brilliants and garnet.
He spoke other languages easily and fluently, his nature was
curiously gracious and insinuating. With all that, he was
undefinably an outsider. He belonged to nowhere, to no so-
ciety.

Anna Brangwen had left her intimacy with her father un-
developed since the time of her marriage. At her marriage
it had been abandoned. He and she had drawn a reserve
between them. Anna went more to her mother.

Then suddenly the father died.

It happened one springtime when Ursula was about eight
years old, he, Tom Brangwen, drove off on a Saturday morn-
ing to the market in Nottingham, saying he might not be back
till late, as there was a special show and then a meeting he
had to attend. His family understood that he would enjoy
himself.

The season had been rainy and dreary. In the evening it
was pouring with rain. Fred Brangwen, unsettled, uneasy,
did not go out, as was his wont. He smoked and read and
fidgeted, hearing always the trickling of water outside. This
wet, black night seemed to cut him off and make him unset-
tled, aware of himself, aware that he wanted something else,
aware that he was scarcely living. There seemed to him to be
no root to his life, no place for him to get satisfied in. He
dreamed of going abroad. But his instinct knew that change
of place would not solve his problem. He wanted change,
deep, vital change of living. And he did not know how to
get it.

Tilly, an old woman now, came in saying that the labourers
who had been suppering up said the yard and everywhere was
just a slew of water. He heard in indifference. But he hated
a desolate, raw wetness in the world. He would leave the
Marsh.

His mother was in bed. At last he shut his book, his mind
was blank, he walked upstairs intoxicated with depression and
anger, and, intoxicated with depression and anger, locked
himself into sleep.

Tilly set slippers before the kitchen fire, and she also went
to bed, leaving the door unlocked. Then the farm was in
darkness, in the rain.

THE MARSH AND THE FLOOD 229

At eleven o'clock it was still raining. Tom Brangwen
stood in the yard of the Angel, in Nottingham, and buttoned
his coat.

" Oh, well," he said cheerfully, " it's rained on me before.
Put 'er in, Jack, my lad, put her in — Tha'rt a rare old cock,
Jacky-boy, wi' a belly on thee as does credit to thy drink,
if not to thy corn. Co' up, lass, let's get off ter th' old home-
stead. Oh, my heart, what a wetness in the night ! There'll
be no volcanoes after this. Hey, Jack, my beautiful young
slender feller, which of us is Noah ? It seems as though the
water-works is bursted. Ducks and ayquatic fowl '11 be king
o' the castle at this rate — dove an' olive branch an' all.
Stand up then, gel, stand up, we're not stoppin' here all night,
even if you thought we was. I'm dashed if the jumping rain
wouldn't make anybody think they was drunk. Hey, Jack —
does rain-water wash the sense in, or does it wash it out ? "
And he laughed to himself at the joke.

He was always ashamed when he had to drive after he had
been drinking, always apologetic to the horse. His apologetic
frame made him facetious. He was aware of his inability to
walk quite straight. Nevertheless his will kept stiff and at-
tentive, in all his fuddledness.

He mounted and bowled off through the gates of the inn-
yard. The mare went well, he sat fixed, the rain beating on
his face. His heavy body rode motionless in a kind of sleep,
one centre of attention was kept fitfully burning, the rest was
dark. He concentrated his last attention on the fact of driv-
ing along the road he knew so well. He knew it so well, he
watched for it attentively, with an effort of will.

He talked aloud to himself, sententious in his anxiety, as
if he were perfectly sober, whilst the mare bowled along and
the rain beat on him. He watched the rain before the gig-
lamps, the faint gleaming of the shadowy horse's body, the
passing of the dark hedges.

" It's not a fit night to turn a dog out," he said to himself,
aloud. " It's high time as it did a bit of clearing up, I'll be
damned if it isn't. It was a lot of use putting those ten
loads of cinders on th' road. They'll be washed to kingdom-
come if it doesn't alter. Well, it's our Fred's look-out, if
they are. He's top-sawyer as far as those things go. I don't
see why I should concern myself. They can wash to king-
dom-come and back again for what I care. I suppose they
would be washed back again some day. That's how things

230 THE RAINBOW

are. Th* rain tumbles down just to mount up in clouds
again. So they say. There's no more water on the earth
than there was in the year naught. That's the story, my boy,
if you understand it. There's no more to-day than there was
a thousand years ago — nor no less either. You can't wear
water out. No, my boy: it'll give you the go-by. Try to
wear it out, and it takes its hook into vapour, it has its fingers
at its nose to you. It turns into cloud and falleth as rain on
the just and unjust. I wonder if I'm the just or the unjust."

He started awake as the trap lurched deep into a rut. And
he wakened to the point in his journey. He had travelled
some distance since he was last conscious.

But at length he reached the gate, and stumbled heavily
down, reeling, gripping fast to the trap. He descended into
several inches of water.

" Be damned ! " he said angrily. " Be damned to the mis-
erable slop."

And he led the horse washing through the gate. He was
quite drunk now, moving blindly, in habit. Everywhere there
was water underfoot.

The raised causeway of the house and the farm-stead was
dry, however. But there was a curious roar in the night
which seemed to be made in the darkness of his own intoxica-
tion. Eeeling, blinded, almost without consciousness he car-
ried his parcels and the rug and cushions into the house,
dropped them, and went out to put up the horse.

Now he was at home, he was a sleep-walker, waiting only
for the moment of activity to stop. Very deliberately and
carefully, he led the horse down the slope to the cart-shed.
She shied and backed.

" Why, wha's amiss ? " he hiccupped, plodding steadily on.
And he was again in a wash of water, the horse splashed up
water as she went. It was thickly dark, save for the gig-
lamps, and they lit on a rippling surface of water.

" Well, that's a knock-out," he said, as he came to the cart-
shed, and was wading in six inches of water. But everything
seemed to him amusing. He laughed to think of six inches
of water being in the cart-shed.

He backed in the mare. She was restive. He laughed at
the fun of untackling the mare with a lot of water washing
round his feet. He laughed because it upset her. " What's
amiss, what's amiss, a drop o' water won't hurt you ! " As
soon as he had undone the traces, she walked quickly away.

THE MARSH AND THE FLOOD 231

He hung up the shafts and took the gig-lamp. As he
came out of the familiar jumble of shafts and wheels in the
shed, the water, in little waves, came washing strongly against
his legs. He staggered and almost fell.

"Well, what the deuce!" he said, staring round at the
running water in the black, watery night.

He went to meet the running flood, sinking deeper and
deeper. His soul was full of great astonishment. He had
to go and look where it came from, though the ground was
going from under his feet. He went on, down towards the
pond, shakily. He rather enjoyed it. He was knee-deep, and
the water was pulling heavily. He stumbled, reeled sicken-

Fear took hold of him. Gripping tightly to the lamp, he
reeled, and looked round. The water was carrying his feet
away, he was dizzy. He did not know which way to turn.
The water was whirling, whirling, the whole black night was
swooping in rings. He swayed uncertainly at the centre of
all the attack, reeling in dismay. In his soul, he knew he
would fall.

As he staggered something in the water struck his legs, and
he fell. Instantly he was in the turmoil of suffocation. He
fought in a black horror of suffocation, fighting, wrestling,
but always borne down, borne inevitably down. Still he
wrestled and fought to get himself free, in the unutterable
struggle of suffocation, but he always fell again deeper.
Something struck his head, a great wonder of anguish went
over him, then the blackness covered him entirely.

In the utter darkness, the unconscious, drowning body was
rolled along, the waters pouring, washing, filling in the place.
The cattle woke up and rose to their feet, the dog began to
yelp. And the unconscious, drowning body was washed along
in the black, swirling darkness, passively.

Mrs. Brangwen woke up and listened. With preternatu-
rally sharp senses she heard the movement of all the darkness
that swirled outside. For a moment she lay still. Then she
went to the window. She heard the sharp rain, and the deep
running of water. She knew her husband was outside.

« Fred," she called, " Fred I"

Away in the night was a hoarse, brutal roar of a mass of
water rushing downwards.

She went downstairs. She could not understand the multi-
plied running of water. Stepping down the step into the

282 THE RAINBOW

kitchen, she put her foot into water. The kitchen was
flooded. Where did it come from? She could not under-
stand.

Water was running in out of the scullery. She paddled
through barefoot, to see. Water was bubbling fiercely under
the outer door. She was afraid. Then something washed
against her, something twined under her foot. It was the
riding whip. On the table were the rug and the cushion and
the parcel from the gig.

He had come home.

"Tom!" she called, afraid of her own voice.

She opened the door. Water ran in with a horrid sound.
Everywhere was moving water, a sound of waters.

" Tom ! " she cried, standing in her nightdress with the
candle, calling into the darkness and the flood out of the
doorway.

"Tom! Tom!"

And she listened. Fred appeared behind her, in trousers
and shirt.

" Where is he? " he asked.

He looked at the flood, then at his mother. She seemed
small and uncanny, elvish, in her nightdress.

" Go upstairs," he said. " He'll be in th' stable."

" To-om ! To-om ! " cried the elderly woman, with a long,
unnatural, penetrating call that chilled her son to the mar-
row. He quickly pulled on his boots and his coat.

" Go upstairs, mother," he said ; " I'll go an' see where he
is."

" To — om ! To — o— om ! " rang out the shrill, unearthly
cry of the small woman. There was only the noise of water
and the mooing of uneasy cattle, and the long yelping of the
dog, clamouring in the darkness.

Fred Brangwen splashed out into the flood with a lantern.
His mother stood on a chair in the doorway, watching him
go. It was all water, water, running, flashing under the lan-
tern.

" Tom ! Tom ! To — o — om ! " came her long, unnatural
cry, ringing over the night. It made her son feel cold in his
soul.

And the unconscious, drowning body of the father rolled
on below the house, driven by the black water towards the
high-road.

Tilly appeared, a skirt over her nightdress. She saw her

THE MARSH AND THE FLOOD 233

mistress clinging on the top of a chair in the open doorway,
a candle burning on the table.

" God's sake ! " cried the old serving-woman. " The cut's
burst. That embankment's broke down. Whativer are we
goin' to do ! "

Mrs. Brangwen watched her son, and the lantern, go along
the upper causeway to the stable. Then she saw the dark
figure of a horse : then her son hung the lamp in the stable,
and the light shone out faintly on him as he untackled the
mare. The mother saw the soft blazed face of the horse
thrust forward into the stable-door. The stables were still
above the flood. But the water flowed strongly into the
house.

"It's getting higher," said Tilly. "Hasn't master come
in?"

Mrs. Brangwen did not hear.

" Isn't he the — ere ? " she called, in her far-reaching, terri-
fying voice.

f( No," came the short answer out of the night.

" Go and loo-ok for him."

His mother's voice nearly drove the youth mad.

He put the halter on the horse and shut the stable door.
He came splashing back through the water, the lantern swing-
ing.

The unconscious, drowning body was pushed past the house
in the deepest current. Fred Brangwen came to his mother.

" I'll go to th' cart-shed," he said.

" To-om, To-o-om ! " rang out the strong, inhuman cry.
Fred Brangwen's blood froze, his heart was very angry. He
gripped his veins in a frenzy. Why was she yelling like this ?
He could not bear the sight of her, perched on a chair in her
white nightdress in the doorway, elvish and horrible.

"He's taken the mare out of the trap, so he's all right,"
he said, growling, pretending to be normal.

But as he descended to the cart-shed, he sank into a foot
of water. He heard the rushing in the distance, he knew
the canal had broken down. The water was running deeper.

The trap was there all right, but no signs of his father.
The young man waded down to the pond. The water rose
above his knees, it swirled and forced him. He drew back.

" Is he the-e-ere ? " came the maddening cry of the mother.

" No," was the sharp answer.

"To-om — To-o-om!" came the piercing, free, unearthly

234* THE RAINBOW

call. It seemed high and supernatural, almost pure. Fred
Brangwen hated it. It nearly drove him mad. So awfully
it sang out, almost like a song.

The water was flowing fuller into the house.

" You'd better go up to Beeby's and bring him and Arthur
down, and tell Mrs. Beeby to fetch Wilkinson/' said Fred to
Tilly. He forced his mother to go upstairs.

"I know your father is drowned," she said, in a curious
dismay.

The flood rose through the night, till it washed the kettle
off the hob in the kitchen. Mrs. Brangwen sat alone at a
window upstairs. She called no more. The men were busy
with the pigs and the cattle. They were coming with a boat
for her.

Towards morning the rain ceased, the stars came out over
the noise and the terrifying clucking and trickling of the
water. Then there was a pallor in the east, the light began
to come. In the ruddy light of the dawn she saw the waters
spreading out, moving sluggishly, the buildings rising out of
a waste of water. Birds began to sing, drowsily, and as if
slightly hoarse with the dawn. It grew brighter. Up the
second field was the great, raw gap in the canal embankment.

Mrs. Brangwen went from window to window, watching
the flood. Somebody had brought a little boat. The light
grew stronger, the red gleam was gone off the flood-waters,
day took place. Mrs. Brangwen went from the front of the
house to the back, looking out, intent and unrelaxing, on the
pallid morning of spring.

She saw a glimpse of her husband's buff coat in the floods,
as the water rolled the body against the garden hedge. She
called to the men in the boat. She was glad he was found.
They dragged him out of the hedge. They could not lift
him into the boat. Fred Brangwen jumped into the water,
up to his waist, and half carried the body of his father through
the flood to the road. Hay and twigs and dirt were in the
beard and hair. The youth pushed through the water crying
loudly without tears, like a stricken animal. The mother at
the window cried, making no trouble.

The doctor came. But the body was dead. They carried
it up to Cossethay, to Anna's house.

When Anna Brangwen heard the news, she pressed back
her head and rolled her eyes, as if something were reaching
forward to bite at her throat. She pressed back her head,

THE MARSH AND THE FLOOD 235

her mind was driven back to sleep. Since she had married
and become a mother, the girl she had been was forgotten.
Now, the shock threatened to break in upon her and sweep
away all her intervening life, make her as a girl of eighteen
again, loving her father. So she pressed back, away from
the shock, she clung to her present life.

It was when they brought him to her house dead and in
his wet clothes, his wet, sodden clothes, fully dressed as he
came from market, yet all sodden and inert, that the shock
really broke into her, and she was terrified. A big, soaked,
inert heap, he was, who had been to her the image of power
and strong life.

Almost in horror, she began to take the wet things from
him, to pull off him the incongruous market-clothes of a well-
to-do farmer. The children were sent away to the Vicarage,
the dead body lay on the parlour floor, Anna quickly began
to undress him, laid his fob and seals in a wet heap on the
table. Her husband and the woman helped her. They
cleared and washed the body, and laid it on the bed.

There, it looked still and grand. He was perfectly calm
in death, and, now he was laid in line, inviolable, unapproach-
able. To Anna, he was the majesty of the inaccessible male,
the majesty of death. It made her still and awe-stricken,
almost glad.

Lydia Brangwen, the mother, also came and saw the im-
pressive, inviolable body of the dead man. She went pale,
seeing death. He was beyond change or knowledge, absolute,
laid in line with the infinite. What had she to do with him ?
He was a majestic Abstraction, made visible now for a mo-
ment, inviolate, absolute. And who could lay claim to him,
who could speak of him, of the him who was revealed in the
stripped moment of transit from life into death? Neither
the living nor the dead could claim him, he was both the one
and the other, inviolable, inaccessibly himself.

" I shared life with you, I belong in my own way to eter-
nity," said Lydia Brangwen, her heart cold, knowing her own
singleness.

" I did not know you in life. You are beyond me, supreme
now in death/' said Anna Brangwen, awe-stricken, almost
glad.

It was the sons who could not bear it. Fred Brangwen
went about with a set, blanched face and shut hands, his heart
full of hatred and rage for what had been done to his father,

236 THE RAINBOW

bleeding also with desire to have his father again, to see him,
to hear him again. He could not bear it.

Tom Brangwen only arrived on the day of the funeral.
He was quiet and controlled as ever. He kissed his mother,
who was still dark-faced, inscrutable, he shook hands with
his brother without looking at him, he saw the great coffin
with its black handles. He even read the name-plate, " Tom
Brangwen, of the Marsh Farm. Born . Died ."

The good-looking, still face of the young man crinkled up
for a moment in a terrible grimace, then resumed its stillness.
The coffin was carried round to the church, the funeral bell
tanged at intervals, the mourners carried their wreaths of
white flowers. The mother, the Polish woman, went with
dark, abstract face, on her son's arm. He was good-looking
as ever, his face perfectly motionless and somehow pleasant.
Fred walked with Anna, she strange and winsome, he with a
face like wood, stiff, unyielding.

Only afterwards Ursula, flitting between the currant bushes
down the garden, saw her Uncle Tom standing in his black
clothes, erect and fashionable, but his fists lifted, and his
face distorted, his lips curled back from his teeth in a horrible
grin, like an animal which grimaces with torment, whilst his
body panted quick, like a panting dog's. He was facing the
open distance, panting, and holding still, then panting rapidly
again, but his face never changing from its almost bestial look
of torture, the teeth all showing, the nose wrinkled up, the
eyes unseeing, fixed.

Terrified, Ursula slipped away. And when her Uncle Tom
was in the house again, grave and very quiet, so that he
seemed almost to affect gravity, to pretend grief, she watched
his still, handsome face, imagining it again in its distortion.
But she saw the nose was rather thick, rather Eussian, under
its transparent skin, she remembered the teeth under the care-
fully cut moustache were small and sharp and spaced. She
could see him, in all his elegant demeanour, bestial, almost
corrupt. And she was frightened. She never forgot to look
for the bestial, frightening side of him, after this.

He said " Good-bye " to his mother and went away at once.
Ursula almost shrank from his kiss, now. She wanted it,
nevertheless, and the little revulsion as well.

At the funeral, and after the funeral, Will Brangwen was
madly in love with his wife. The death had shaken him.
But death and all seemed to gather in him into a mad, over-

THE MARSH AND THE FLOOD 237

whelming passion for his wife. She seemed so strange and
winsome. He was almost beside himself with desire for her.

And she took him, she seemed ready for him, she wanted
him.

The grandmother stayed a while at the Yew Cottage, till
the Marsh was restored. Then she returned to her own rooms,
quiet, and it seemed, wanting nothing. Fred threw himself
into the work of restoring the farm. That his father was
killed there, seemed to make it only the more intimate and the
more inevitably his own place.

There was a saying that the Brangwens always died a vio-
lent death. To them all, except perhaps Tom, it seemed al-
most natural. Yet Fred went about obstinate, his heart fixed.
He could never forgive the Unknown this murder of his
father.

After the death of the father, the Marsh was very quiet.
Mrs. Brangwen was unsettled. She could not sit all the even-
ing peacefully, as she could before, and during the day she
was always rising to her feet and hesitating, as if she must
go somewhere, and were not quite sure whither.

She was seen loitering about the garden, in her little
woollen jacket. She was often driven out in the gig, sitting
beside her son and watching the countryside or the streets of
the town, with a childish, candid, uncanny face, as if it all
were strange to her.

The children, Ursula and Gudrun and Theresa went by
the garden gate on their way to school. The grandmother
would have them call in each time they passed, she would have
them come to the Marsh for dinner. She wanted children
about her.

Of her sons, she was almost afraid. She could see the
sombre passion and desire and dissatisfaction in them, and
she wanted not to see it any more. Even Fred, with his blue
eyes and his heavy jaw, troubled her. There was no peace.
He wanted something, he wanted love, passion, and he could
not find them. But why must he trouble her? Why must
he come to her with his seething and suffering and dissatis-
factions? She was too old.

Tom was more restrained, reserved. He kept his body very
still. But he troubled her even more. She could not but see
the black depths of disintegration in his eyes, the sudden
glance upon her, as if she could save him, as if he would reveal
himself.

238 THE RAINBOW

And how could age save youth? Youth must go to youth.
Always the storm! Could she not lie in peace, these years,
in the quiet, apart from life? No, always the swell must
heave upon her and break against the barriers. Always she
must be embroiled in the seethe and rage and passion, end-
less, endless, going on for ever. And she wanted to draw
away. She wanted at last her own innocence and peace.
She did not want her sons to force upon her any more the
old brutal story of desire and offerings and deep, deep-hidden
rage of unsatisfied men against women. She wanted to be
beyond it all, to know the peace and innocence of age.

She had never been a woman to work much. So that now
she would stand often at the garden-gate, watching the scant
world go by. And the sight of children pleased her, made
her happy. She had usually an apple or a few sweets in her
pocket. She liked children to smile at her.

She never went to her husband's grave. She spoke of him
simply, as if he were alive. Sometimes the tears would run
down her face, in helpless sadness. Then she recovered, and
was herself again, happy.

On wet days, she stayed in bed. Her bedroom was her
city of refuge, where she could lie down and muse and muse.
Sometimes Fred would read to her. But that did not mean
much. She had so many dreams to dream over, such an un-
sifted store. She wanted time.

Her chief friend at this period was Ursula. The little
girl and the musing, fragile woman of sixty seemed to under-
stand the same language. At Cossethay all was activity and
passion, everything moved upon poles of passion. Then there
were four children younger than Ursula, a throng of babies,
all the time many lives beating against each other.

So that for the eldest child, the peace of the grandmother's
bedroom was exquisite. Here Ursula came as to a hushed,
paradisal land, here her own existence became simple and ex-
quisite to her as if she were a flower.

Always on Saturdays she came down to the Marsh, and
always clutching a little offering, either a little mat made
of strips of coloured, woven paper, or a tiny basket made in
the kindergarten lesson, or a little crayon drawing of a bird.

When she appeared in the doorway, Tilly, ancient but still
in authority, would crane her skinny neck to see who it was.

'•' Qh, it's you, is it ? " ghe, said, " I thought we should be

THE MARSH AND THE FLOOD 239

seein' you. My word, that's a bobby-dazzlin' posy you've
brought ! "

It was curious how Tilly preserved the spirit of Tom Brang-
wen, who was dead, in the Marsh. Ursula always connected
her with her grandfather.

This day the child had brought a tight little nosegay of
pinks, white ones, with a rim of pink ones. She was very
proud of it, and very shy because of her pride.

" Your gran'mother's in her bed. Wipe your shoes well if
you're goin' up, and don't go burstin' in on her like a sky-
rocket. My word, but that's a fine posy ! Did you do it all
by yourself, an' all ? "

Tilly stealthily ushered her into the bedroom. The child
entered with a strange, dragging hesitation characteristic of
her when she was moved. Her grandmother was sitting up
in bed, wearing a little grey woollen jacket.

The child hesitated in silence near the bed, clutching the
nosegay in front of her. Her childish eyes were shining.
The grandmother's grey eyes shone with a similar light.

" How pretty ! " she said. " How pretty you have made
them! What a darling little bunch."

Ursula, glowing, thrust them into her grandmother's hand,
saying, " I made them you."

"That is how the peasants tied them at home," said the
grandmother, pushing the pinks with her fingers, and smell-
ing them. " Just such tight little bunches ! And they make
wreaths for their hair — they weave the stalks. Then they
go round with wreaths in their hair, and wearing their best
aprons."

Ursula immediately imagined herself in this story-land.

"Did you used to have a wreath in your hair, grand-
mother?"

"When I was a little girl, I had golden hair, something
like Katie's. Then I used to have a wreath of little blue
flowers, oh, so blue, that come when the snow is gone. Andrey,
the coachman, used to bring me the very first."

They talked, and then Tilly brought the tea-tray, set for
two. Ursula had a special green and gold cup kept for her-
self at the Marsh. There was thin bread and butter, and cress
for tea. It was all special and wonderful. She ate very
daintily, with little fastidious bites.

<fWh do you have two wedding-rings, grandmother? — .

240 THE RAINBOW

Must you ? " asked the child, noticing her grandmother's ivory
coloured hand with blue veins, above the tray.

" If I had two husbands, child."

Ursula pondered a moment.

" Then you must wear both rings together ? "

"Yes."'

" Which was my grandfather's ring ? "

The woman hesitated.

" This grandfather whom you knew ? This was his ring,
the red one. The yellow one was your other grandfather's
whom you never knew."

Ursula looked interestedly at the two rings on the proffered
finger.

" Where did he buy it you ? " she asked.

" This one ? In Warsaw, I think."

" You didn't know my own grandfather then ? "

" Not this grandfather."

Ursula pondered this fascinating intelligence.

" Did he have white whiskers, as well ? "

" No, his beard was dark. You have his brows, I think."

Ursula ceased and became self-conscious. She at once
identified herself with her Polish grandfather.

" And did he have brown eyes ? "

" Yes, dark eyes. He was a clever man, as quick as a lion.
He was never still."

Lydia still resented Lensky. When she thought of him,
she was always younger than he, she was always twenty, or
twenty-five, and under his domination. He incorporated her
in his ideas as if she were not a person herself, as if she were
just his aide-de-camp, or part of his baggage, or one among
his surgical appliances. She still resented it. And he was
always only thirty : he had died when he was thirty-four. She
did not feel sorry for him. He was older than she. Yet she
still ached in the thought of those days.

"Did you like my first grandfather best?" asked Ursula,

" I liked them both," said the grandmother.

And, thinking, she became again Lensk/s girl-bride. He
was of good family, of better family even than her own, for
she was half German. She was a young girl in a house of
insecure fortune. And he, an intellectual., a clever surgeon
and physician, had loved her. How she had looked up to
him ! She remembered her first transports when he talked
to her, the important young man with the 8e.ve.re black beard.

THE MARSH AND THE FLOOD 241

He had seemed so wonderful, such an authority. 'After her
own lax household, his gravity and confident, hard authority
seemed almost God-like to her. For she had never known it
in her life, all her surroundings had been loose, lax, disor-
dered, a welter.

" Miss Lydia, will you marry me ? " he had said to her in
German, in his grave, yet tremulous voice. She had been
afraid of his dark eyes upon her. They did not see her, they
were fixed upon her. And he was hard, confident. She
thrilled with the excitement of it, and accepted. During the
courtship, his kisses were a wonder to her. She always
thought about them, and wondered over them. She never
wanted to kiss him back. In her idea, the man kissed, and
the woman examined in her soul the kisses she had received.

She had never quite recovered from her prostration of the
first days, or nights, of marriage. He had taken her to
Vienna, and she was utterly alone with him, utterly alone in
another world, everything, everything foreign, even he foreign
to her. Then came the real marriage, passion came to her,
and she became his slave, he was her lord, her lord. She was
the girl-bride, the slave, she kissed his feet, she had thought
it an honour to touch his body, to unfasten his boots. For
two years, she had gone on as his slave, crouching at his feet,
embracing his knees.

Children had come, he had followed his ideas. She was
there for him, just to keep him in condition. She was to him
one of the baser or material conditions necessary for his wel-
fare in prosecuting his ideas, of nationalism, of liberty, of
science.

But gradually, at twenty-three, twenty-four, she began to
realize that she too might consider these ideas. By his ac-
ceptance of her self-subordination, he exhausted the feeling in
her. There were those of his associates who would discuss
the ideas with her, though he did not wish to do so himself.
She adventured into the minds of other men. His, then, was
not the only male mind ! She did not exist, then, just as his
attribute ! She began to perceive the attention of other men.
An excitement came over her. She remembered now the men
who had paid her court, when she was married, in Warsaw.

Then the rebellion broke out, and she was inspired too.
She would go as a nurse at her husband's side. He worked
like a lion, he wore his life out. And she followed him help-
lessly. But she disbelieved in him. He was so separate, he

242 THE RAINBOW

ignored so much. He counted too much on himself. His
work, his ideas, — did nothing else matter ?

Then the children were dead, and for her, everything be-
came remote. He became remote. She saw him, she saw
him go white when he heard the news, then frown, as if he
thought, " Why have they died now, when I have no time to
grieve ? "

"He has no time to grieve," she had said, in her remote,
awful soul. " He has no time. It is so important, what he
does! He is then so self-important, this half-frenzied man!
Nothing matters, but this work of rebellion ! He has not time
to grieve, nor to think of his children ! He had not time even
to beget them, really/'

She had let him go on alone. But, in the chaos, she had
worked by his side again. And out of the chaos, she had fled
with him to London.

He was a broken, cold man. He had no affection for her,
nor for any one. He had failed in his work, so everything
had failed. He stiffened, and died.

She could not subscribe. He had failed, everything had
failed, yet behind the failure was the unyielding passion of
life. The individual effort might fail, but not the human joy.
She belonged to the human joy.

He died and went his way, but not before there was an-
other child. And this little Ursula was his grandchild. She
was glad of it. For she still honoured him, though he had
been mistaken.

She, Lydia Brangwen, was sorry for him now. He was
dead — he had scarcely lived. He had never known her. He
had lain with her, but he had never known her. He had
never received what she could give him. He had gone away
from her empty. So, he had never lived. So, he had died
and passed away. Yet there had been strength and power
in him.

She could scarcely forgive him that he had never lived.
If it were not for Anna, and for this little Ursula, who had
his brows, there would be no more left of him than of a
broken vessel thrown away, and just remembered.

Tom Brangwen had served her. He had come to her, and
taken from her. He had died and gone his way into death.
But he had made himself immortal in his knowledge with
her. So she had her place here, in life, and in immortality,
he had taken his knowledge of her into death, so that she

THE MARSH AND THE FLOOD

had her place in death. " In my father's house are many
mansions."

She loved both her husbands. To one she had been a naked
little girl-bride, running to serve him. The other she loved
out of fulfilment, because he was good and had given her
being, because he had served her honourably, and become her
man, one with her.

She was established in this stretch of life, she had come
to herself. During her first marriage, she had not existed,
except through him, he was the substance and she the shadow
running at his feet. She was very glad she had come to her
own self. She was grateful to Brangwen. She reached out
to him in gratitude, into death.

In her heart she felt a vague tenderness and pity for her
first husband, who had been her lord. He was so wrong
when he died. She could not bear it, that he had never lived,
never really become himself. And he had been her lord!
Strange, it all had been! Why had he been her lord? He
seemed now so far off, so without bearing on her.

"Which did you, grandmother?"

"What?"

" Like best."

" I liked them both. I married the first when I was quite
a girl. Then I loved your grandfather when I was a woman.
There is a difference."

They were silent for a time.

" Did you cry when my first grandfather died ? " the child
asked.

Lydia Brangwen rocked herself on the bed, thinking aloud.

" When we came to England, he hardly ever spoke, he was
too much concerned to take any notice of anybody. He grew
thinner and thinner, till his cheeks were hollow and his mouth
stuck out. He wasn't handsome any more. I knew he
couldn't bear being beaten, I thought everything was lost in
the world. Only I had your mother a baby, it was no use my
dying.

" He looked at me with his black eyes, almost as if he hated
me, when he was ill, and said, ' It only wanted this. It only
wanted that I should leave you and a young child to starve in
this London.' I told him we should not starve. But I was
young, and foolish, and frightened, which he knew.

"He was bitter, and he never gave way. He lay beating
his brains, to see what he could do. ' I don't know what you

244. THE RAINBOW

will do,' he said. ' I am no good, I am a failure from begin-
ning to end. I cannot even provide for my wife and child ! '

"But you see, it was not for him to provide for us. My
life went on, though his stopped, and I married your grand-
father.

" I ought to have known, I ought to have been able to say
to him : ' Don't be so bitter, don't die because this has failed.
You are not the beginning and the end/ But I was too
young, he had never let me become myself, I thought he was
truly the beginning and the end. So I let him take all upon
himself. Yet all did not depend on him. Life must go on,
and I must marry your grandfather, and have your Uncle
Tom, and your Uncle Fred. We cannot take so much upon
ourselves."

The child's heart beat fast as she listened to these things.
She could not understand, but she seemed to feel far-off
things. It gave her a deep, joyous thrill, to know she hailed
from far off, from Poland, and that dark-bearded impressive
man. Strange, her antecedents were, and she felt fate on
either side of her terrible.

Almost every day, Ursula saw her grandmother, and every
time, they talked together. Till the grandmother's sayings
and stories, told in the complete hush of the Marsh bedroom,
accumulated with mystic significance, and became a sort of
Bible to the child.

And Ursula asked her deepest childish questions of her
grandmother.

"Will somebody love me, grandmother?"

" Many people love you, child. We all love you."

" But when I am grown up, will somebody love me ? "

"Yes, some man will love you, child, because it's your
nature. And I hope it will be somebody who will love you
for what you are, and not for what he wants of you. But
we have a right to what we want."

Ursula was frightened, hearing these things. Her heart
sank, she felt she had no ground under her feet. She clung
to her grandmother. Here was peace and security. Here,
from her grandmother's peaceful room, the door opened on to
the greater space, the past, which was so big, that all it con-
tained seemed tiny; loves and births and deaths, tiny units
and features within a vast horizon. That was a great relief,
to know the tiny importance of the individual, within the
great past.

CHAPTER X

THE WIDENING CIRCLE

IT was very burdensome to Ursula, that she was the eldest
of the family. By the time she was eleven, she had to
take to school Gudrun and Theresa and Catherine. The
boy, William, always called Billy, so that he should not
be confused with his father, was a lovable, rather delicate
child of three, so he stayed at home as yet. There was an-
other baby girl, called Cassandra.

The children went for a time to the little church school just
near the Marsh. It was the only place within reach, and
being so small, Mrs. Brangwen felt safe in sending her chil-
dren there, though the village boys did nickname Ursula
" Urtler," and Gudrun " Good-runner," and Theresa " Tea-
pot."

Gudrun and Ursula were co-mates. The second child, with
her long, sleepy body and her endless chain of fancies, would
have nothing to do with realities. She was not for them, she
was for her own fancies. Ursula was the one for realities.
So Gudrun left all such to her elder sister, and trusted in her
implicitly, indifferently. Ursula had a great tenderness for
her co-mate sister.

It was no good trying to make Gudrun responsible. She
floated along like a fish in the sea, perfect within the medium
of her own difference and being. Other existence did not
trouble her. Only she believed in Ursula, and trusted to
Ursula.

The eldest child was very much fretted by her responsibility
for the other young ones. Especially Theresa, a sturdy, bold-
eyed thing, had a faculty for warfare.

" Our Ursula, Billy Pillins has lugged my hair."

" What did you say to him ? "

" I said nothing."

Then the Brangwen girls were in for a feud with the Pil-
linses, or Phillipses.

"You won't pull my hair again, Billy Pillins," said The-

245

£46 THE RAINBOW

resa, walking with her sisters, and looking superbly at the
freckled, red-haired boy.

"Why shan't I?" retorted Billy Pillins.

"You won't because you dursn't," said the tiresome The-
resa.

" You come here then, Tea-pot, an' see if I dursna."

Up marched Tea-pot, and immediately Billy Pillins lugged
her black, snaky locks. In a rage she flew at him. Imme-
diately in rushed Ursula and Gudrun, and little Katie, in
clashed the other Phillipses, Clem and Walter, and Eddie
Anthony. Then there was a fray. The Brangwen girls were
well-grown and stronger than many boys. But for pinafores
and long hair, they would have carried easy victories. They
went home, however, with hair lugged and pinafores torn.
It was a joy to the Phillips boys to rip the pinafores of the
Brangwen girls.

Then there was an outcry. Mrs. Brangwen would not have
it; no, she would not. All her innate dignity and stand-
offishness rose up. Then there was the vicar lecturing the
school. " It was a sad thing that the boys of Cossethay could
not behave more like gentlemen to the girls of Cossethay.
Indeed, what kind of boy was it that should set upon a girl,
and kick her, and beat her, and tear her pinafore? That
boy deserved severe castigation, and the name of coward, for
no boy who was not a coward — etc., etc."

Meanwhile much hang-dog fury in the Pillinses' hearts,
much virtue in the Brangwen girls', particularly in Theresa's.
And the feud continued, with periods of extraordinary amity,
when Ursula was Clem Phillips's sweetheart, and Gudrun was
Walter's, and Theresa was Billy's, and even the tiny Katie
had to be Eddie Ant'ny's sweetheart. There was the closest
union. At every possible moment the little gang of Brang-
wens and Phillipses flew together. Yet neither Ursula nor
Gudrun could have any real intimacy with the Phillips boys.
It was a sort of fiction to them, this alliance and this dubbing
of sweethearts.

Again Mrs. Brangwen rose up.

" Ursula, I will not have you raking the roads with lads, so
I tell you. Now stop it, and the rest will stop it."

How Ursula hated always to represent the little Brangwen
club. She could never be herself, no, she was always Ursula-
Gudrun-Theresa-Catherine — and later even Billy was added

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 247

on to her. Moreover, she did not want the Phillipses either.
She was out of taste with them.

However, the Brangwen-Pillins coalition readily broke
down, owing to the unfair superiority of the Brangwens. The
Brangwens were rich. They had free access to the Marsh
Farm. The school teachers were almost respectful to the
girls, the vicar spoke to them on equal terms. The Brangwen
girls presumed, they tossed their heads.

" You're not ivrybody, Urtler Brangwin, ugly-mug," said
Clem Phillips, his face going very red.

" I'm better than you, for all that," retorted Urtler.

" You think you are — wi' a face like that — Ugly Mug, —
Urtler Brangwin/' he began to jeer, trying to set all the others
in cry against her. Then there was hostility again. How
she hated their jeering. She became cold against the Phil-
lipses. Ursula was very proud in her family. The Brang-
wen girls had all a curious blind dignity, even a kind of nobil-
ity in their bearing. By some result of breed and upbringing,
they seemed to rush along their own lives without caring that
they existed to other people. Never from the start did it
occur to Ursula that other people might hold a low opinion of
her. She thought that whosoever knew her, knew she was
enough and accepted her as such. She thought it was a world
of people like herself. She suffered bitterly if she were forced
to have a low opinion of any person, and she never forgave
that person.

This was maddening to many little people. All their lives,
the Brangwens were meeting folk who tried to pull them down
to make them seem little. Curiously, the mother was aware
of what would happen, and was always ready to give her chil-
dren the advantage of the move.

When Ursula was twelve, and the common school and the
companionship of the village children, niggardly and begrudg-
ing, was beginning to affect her, Anna sent her with Gudrun
to the Grammar School in Nottingham. This was a great re-
lease for Ursula. She had a passionate craving to escape from
the belittling circumstances of life, the little jealousies, the
little differences, the little meannesses. It was a torture to
her that the Phillipses were poorer and meaner than herself,
that they used mean little reservations, took petty little advan-
tages. She wanted to be with her equals : but not by diminish-
ing herself. She did want Clem Phillips to be her equal.

RAINBOW

But by some puzzling, painful fate or other, when he was
really there with her, he produced in her a tight feeling in
the head. She wanted to beat her forehead, to escape.

Then she found that the way to escape was easy. One
departed from the whole circumstance. One went away to
the Grammar School, and left the little school, the meagre
teachers, the Phillipses whom she had tried to love but who
had made her fail, and whom she could not forgive. She had
an instinctive fear of petty people, as a deer is afraid of dogs.
Because she was blind, she could not calculate nor estimate
people. She must think that everybody was just like herself.

She measured by the standard of her own people : her father
and mother, her grandmother, her uncles. Her beloved father,
so utterly simple in his demeanour, yet with his strong, dark
soul fixed like a root in unexpressed depths that fascinated and
terrified her: her mother, so strangely free of all money and
convention and fear, entirely indifferent to the world, standing
by herself, without connection: her grandmother, who had
come from so far and was centred in so wide an horizon : peo-
ple must come up to these standards before they could be
Ursula's people.

So even as a girl of twelve she was glad to burst the narrow
boundary of Cossethay, where only limited people lived. Out-
side, was all vastness, and a throng of real, proud people whom
she would love.

Going to school by train, she must leave home at a quarter
to eight in the morning, and she did not arrive again till half-
past five at evening. Of this she was glad, for the house was
small and overful. It was a storm of movement, whence there
had been no escape. She hated so much being in charge.

The house was a storm of movement. The children were
healthy and turbulent, the mother only wanted their animal
well-being. To Ursula, as she grew a little older, it became
a nightmare. When she saw, later, a Eubens picture with
storms of naked babies, and found this was called " Fecund-
ity," she shuddered, and the world became abhorrent to her.
She knew as a child what it was to live amidst storms of
babies, in the heat and swelter of fecundity. And as a child,
she was against her mother, passionately against her mother,
she craved for some spirituality and stateliness.

In bad weather, home was a bedlam. Children dashed in
and out of the rain, to the puddles under the dismal yew-trees,
across the wet flagstones of the kitchen, whilst the cleaning-

THE WIDENING CIRCLE

woman grumbled and scolded ; children were swarming on the
sofa, children were kicking the piano in the parlour, to make
it sound like a beehive, children were rolling on the hearthrug,
legs in air, pulling a book in two between them, children,
fiendish, ubiquitous, were stealing upstairs to find out where
our Ursula was, whispering at bedroom doors, hanging on the
latch, calling mysteriously, "Ursula! Ursula!" to the girl
who had locked herself in to read. And it was hopeless. The
locked door excited their sense of mystery, she had to open to
dispel the lure. These children hung on to her with round-
eyed, excited questions.

The mother flourished amid all this.

" Better have them noisy than ill," she said.

But the growing girls, in turn, suffered bitterly. Ursula
was just coming to the stage when Andersen and Grimm were
being left behind for the " Idylls of the King " and romantic
love-stories.

" Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable,
Elaine the lily maid of Astolat,
High in her chamber in a tower to the east
Guarded the sacred shield of Launcelot."

How she loved it! How she leaned in her bedroom window
with her black, rough hair on her shoulders, and her warm
face all rapt, and gazed across at the churchyard and the little
church, which was a turretted castle, whence Launcelot would
ride just now, would wave to her as he rode by, his scarlet
cloak passing behind the dark yew-trees and between the open
space : whilst she, ah, she, would remain the lonely maid high
up and isolated in the tower, polishing the terrible shield,
weaving it a covering with a true device, and waiting, waiting,
always remote and high.

At which point there would be a faint scuffle on the stairs,
a light-pitched whispering outside the door, and a creaking
of the latch: then Billy, excited, whispering:

"It's locked — it's locked."

Then the knocking, kicking at the door with childish knees,
and the urgent, childish :

" Ursula — our Ursula ? Ursula ? Eh, our Ursula ? "

No reply.

" Ursula ! Eh — our Ursula ? " the name was shouted now.
Still no answer.

" Mother, she won't answer," came the yell. " She's dead."

250 THE RAINBOW

" Go away — I'm not dead. What do you want ? " came the
angry voice of the girl.

" Open the door, our Ursula," came the complaining cry.
It was all over. She must open the door. She heard the
screech of the bucket downstairs dragged across the flagstones
as the woman washed the kitchen floor. And the children
were prowling in the bedroom, asking :

"What were you doing? What had you locked the door
for ? " Then she discovered the key of the parish room, and
betook herself there, and sat on some sacks with her books.
There began another dream.

She was the only daughter of the old lord, she was gifted
with magic. Day followed day of rapt silence, whilst she wan-
dered ghostlike in the hushed, ancient mansion, or flitted
along the sleeping terraces.

Here a grave grief attacked her: that her hair was dark.
She must have fair hair and a white skin. She was rather
bitter about her black mane.

Never mind, she would dye it when she grew up, or bleach
it in the sun, till it was bleached fair. Meanwhile she wore
a fair white coif of pure Venetian lace.

She flitted silently along the terraces, where jewelled lizards
basked -upon the stone, and did not move when her shadow
fell upon them. In the utter stillness she heard the tinkle of
the fountain, and smelled the roses whose blossoms hung rich
and motionless. So she drifted, drifted on the wistful feet
of beauty, past the water and the swans, to the noble park,
where, underneath a great oak, a doe all dappled lay with her
four fine feet together, her fawn nestling sun-coloured beside
her.

Oh, and this doe was her familiar. It would talk to her,
because she was a magician, it would tell her stories as if the
sunshine spoke.

Then one day, she left the door of the parish room un-
locked, careless and unheeding as she always was ; the children
found their way in, Katie cut her finger and howled, Billy
hacked notches in the fine chisels, and did much damage.
There was a great commotion.

The crossness of the mother was soon finished. Ursula
locked up the room again, and considered all was over. Then
her father came in with the notched tools, his forehead
knotted.

" Who the deuce opened the door ? " he cried in anger.

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 251]

"It was Ursula who opened the door," said the mother.
He had a duster in his hand. He turned and flapped the
cloth hard across the girl's face. The cloth stung, for a mo-
ment the girl was as if stunned. Then she remained motion-
less, her face closed and stubborn. But her heart was blazing.
In spite of herself the tears surged higher, in spite of her they
surged higher.

In spite of her, her face broke, she made a curious gulping
grimace, and the tears were falling. So she went away, deso-
late. But her blazing heart was fierce and unyielding. He
watched her go, and a pleasurable pain filled him, a sense of
triumph and easy power, followed immediately by acute pity.

" I'm sure that was unnecessary — to hit the girl across the
face/' said the mother coldly.

" A flip with the duster won't hurt her," he said.

" NOT will it do her any good."

For days, for weeks, Ursula's heart burned from this rebuff.
She felt so cruelly vulnerable. Did he not know how vulner-
able she was, how exposed and wincing? He, of all people,
knew. And he wanted to do this to her. He wanted to hurt
her right through her closest sensitiveness, he wanted to treat
her with shame, to maim her with insult.

Her heart burnt in isolation, like a watchfire lighted. She
did not forget, she did not forget, she never forgot. When
she returned to her love for her father, the seed of mistrust
and defiance burned unquenched, though covered up far from
sight. She no longer belonged to him unquestioned. Slowly,
slowly, the fire of mistrust and defiance burned in her, burned
away her connection with him.

She ran a good deal alone, having a passion for all moving,
active things. She loved the little brooks. Wherever she
found a little running water, she was happy. It seemed to
make her run and sing in spirit along with it. She could sit
for hours by a brook or stream, on the roots of the alders, and
watch the water hasten dancing over the stones, or among
the twigs of a fallen branch. Sometimes, little fish vanished
before they had become real, like hallucinations, sometimes
wagtails ran by the water's brink, sometimes other little birds
came to drink. She saw a kingfisher darting blue — and then
she was very happy. The kingfisher was the key to the magic
world: he was witness of the order of enchantment.

But she must move out of the intricately woven illusion of
her life: the illusion of a father whose life was an Odyssey

252 THE RAINBOW

in an outer world ; the illusion of her grandmother, of realities
so shadowy and far-off that they became as mystic symbols : —
peasant-girls with wreaths of blue flowers in their hair, the
sledges and the depth of winter; the dark-bearded young
grandfather, marriage and war and death ; then the multitude
of illusions concerning herself, how she was truly a princess
of Poland, how in England she was under a spell, she was not
really this Ursula Brangwen ; then the mirage of her reading :
out of the multicoloured illusion of this her life, she must
move on, to the Grammar School in Nottingham.

She was shy, and she suffered. For one thing, she bit her
nails, and had a cruel consciousness in her finger-tips, a shame,
an exposure. Out of all proportion, this shame haunted her.
She spent hours of torture, conjuring how she might keep her
gloves on: if she might say her hands were scalded, if she
might seem to forget to take off her gloves.

For she was going to inherit her own estate, when she went
to the High School. There, each girl was a lady. There,
she was going to walk among free souls, her co-mates and
her equals, and all petty things would be put away. Ah, if
only she did not bite her nails! If only she had not this
blemish! She wanted so much to be perfect — without spot
or blemish, living the high, noble life.

It was a grief to her that her father made such a poor
introduction. He was brief as ever, like a boy saying his
errand, and his clothes looked ill-fitting and casual. Whereas
Ursula would have liked robes and a ceremonial of introduc-
tion to this, her new estate.

She made a new illusion of school. Miss Grey, the head-
mistress, had a certain silvery, school-mistressy beauty of
character. The school itself had been a gentleman's house.
Dark, sombre lawns separated it from the dark, select avenue.
But its rooms were large and of good appearance, and from
the back, one looked over lawns and shrubbery, over the trees
and the grassy slope of the Arboretum, to the town which
heaped the hollow with its roofs and cupolas and its shadows.

So Ursula seated herself upon the hill of learning, looking
down on the smoke and confusion and the manufacturing, en-
grossed activity of the town. She was happy. Up here, in
the Grammar School, she fancied the air was finer, beyond the
factory smoke. She wanted to learn Latin and Greek and
French and mathematics. She trembled like a postulant
when she wrote the Greek alphabet for the first time.

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 253

She was upon another hill-slope, whose summit she had not
scaled. There was always the marvellous eagerness in her
heart, to climb and to see beyond. A Latin verb was virgin
soil to her : she sniffed a new odour in it ; it meant something,
though she did not know what it meant. But she gathered it
up : it was significant. When she knew that :
x*_y*=(x + y) (x-y)

then she felt that she had grasped something, that she was
liberated into an intoxicating air, rare and unconditioned.
And she was very glad as she wrote her French exercise:

" J'ai donne le pain a mon petit f rere."

In all these things there was the sound of a bugle to her
heart, exhilarating, summoning her to perfect places. She
never forgot her brown " Longman's First French Grammar,"
nor her " Via Latina " with its red edges, nor her little grey
Algebra book. There was always a magic in them.

At learning she was quick, intelligent, instinctive, but she
was not "thorough." If a thing did not come to her in-
stinctively, she could not learn it. And then, her mad rage
of loathing for all lessons, her bitter contempt of all teachers
and schoolmistresses, her recoil to a fierce, animal arrogance
made her detestable.

She was a free, unabateable animal, she declared in her re-
volts: there was no law for her, nor any rule. She existed
for herself alone. Then ensued a long struggle with every-
body, in which she broke down at last, when she had run the
full length of her resistance, and sobbed her heart out, deso-
late; and afterwards, in a chastened, washed-out, bodiless
state, she received the understanding that would not come
before, and went her way sadder and wiser.

Ursula and Gudrun went to school together. Gudrun was
a shy, quiet, wild creature, a thin slip of a thing hanging
back from notice or twisting past to disappear into her own
world again. She seemed to avoid all contact, instinctively,
and pursued her own intent way, pursuing half-formed fancies
that had no relation to any one else.

She was not clever at all. She thought Ursula clever
enough for two. Ursula understood, so why should she,
Gudrun, bother herself? The younger girl lived her reli-
gious, responsible life in her sister, by proxy. For herself,
she was indifferent and intent as a wild animal, and as irre-
sponsible.

When she found herself at the bottom of the class, sh$

254 THE RAINBOW

laughed, lazily, and was content, saying she was safe now.
She did not mind her father's chagrin nor her mother's tinge
of mortification.

"What do I pay for you to go to Nottingham for?" her
father asked, exasperated.

"Well, Dad, you know you needn't pay for me/' she re-
plied, nonchalant. " I'm ready to stop at home."

She was happy at home, Ursula was not. Slii% and un-
willing abroad, Gudrun was easy in her own house as a wild
thing in its lair. Whereas Ursula, attentive and keen abroad,
at home was reluctant, uneasy, unwilling to be herself, or
unable.

Nevertheless, Sunday remained the maximum day of the
week for both. Ursula turned passionately to it, to the sense
of eternal security it gave. She suffered anguish of fears
during the week-days, for she felt strong powers that would
not recognize her. There was upon her always a fear and a
dislike of authority. She felt she could always do as she
wanted if she managed to avoid a battle with Authority and
the authorized Powers. But if she gave herself away, she
would be lost, destroyed. There was always the menace
against her.

This strange sense of cruelty and ugliness always imminent,
ready to seize hold upon her, this feeling of the grudging
power of the mob lying in wait for her, who was the excep-
tion, formed one of the deepest influences of her life. Wher-
ever she was, at school, among friends, in the street, in the
train, she instinctively abated herself, made herself smaller,
feigned to be less than she was, for fear that her undiscovered
self should be seen, pounced upon, attacked by brutish resent-
ment of the commonplace, the average Self.

She was fairly safe at school, now. She knew how to take
her place there, and how much of herself to reserve. But
she was free only on Sundays. When she was but a girl of
fourteen, she began to feel a resentment growing against her
in her own home. She knew she was the disturbing influence
there. But as yet, on Sundays, she was free, really free, free
to be herself, without fear or misgiving.

Even at its stormiest, Sunday was a blessed day. Ursula
woke to it with a feeling of immense relief. She wondered
why her heart was so light. Then she remembered it was
Sunday. A gladness seemed to burst put around her, a feelr

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 255

ing of great freedom. The whole world was for twenty-four
hours revoked, put back. Only the Sunday world existed.

She loved the very confusion of the household. It was
lucky if the children slept till seven o'clock. Usually, soon
after six, a chirp was heard, a voice, an excited chirrup began,
announcing the creation of a new day, there was a thudding
of quick little feet, and the children were up and about,
scampering in their shirts, with pink legs and glistening,
flossy hair all clean from the Saturday's night bathing, their
souls excited by their bodies' cleanliness.

As the house began to teem with rushing, half-naked clean
children, one of the parents rose, either the mother, easy and
slatternly, with her thick, dark hair loosely coiled and slipping
over one ear, or the father, warm and comfortable, with ruf-
fled black hair and shirt unbuttoned at the neck.

Then the girls upstairs heard the continual :

"Now then, Billy, what are you up to?" in the father's
strong, vibrating voice : or the mother's dignified :

" I have said, Cassie, I will not have it."

It was amazing how the father's voice could ring out like
a gong, without his being in the least moved, and how the
mother could speak like a queen holding an audience, though
her blouse was sticking out all round and her hair was not
fastened up and the children were yelling a pandemonium.

Gradually breakfast was produced, and the elder girls came
down into the babel, whilst half-naked children flitted round
like the wrong ends of cherubs, as Gudrun said, watching the
bare little legs and the chubby tails appearing and disap-
pearing.

Gradually the young ones were captured, and nightdresses
finally removed, ready for the clean Sunday shirt. But be-
fore the Sunday shirt was slipped over the fleecy head, away
darted the naked body, to wallow in the sheepskin which
formed the parlour rug, whilst the mother walked after, pro-
testing sharply, holding the shirt like a noose, and the fa-
ther's bronze voice rang out, and the naked child wallowing
on its back in the deep sheepskin announced gleefully:

" I'm hading in the sea, mother."

" Why should I walk after you with your shirt ? " said the
mother. " Get up now."

"I'm bading in the sea, mother/' repeated the wallowing,
naked figure,

256 THE RAINBOW

"We say bathing, not hading," said the mother, with her
strange, indifferent dignity. " I am waiting here with your
shirt."

At length shirts were on, and stockings were paired, and
little trousers buttoned and little petticoats tied behind. The
besetting cowardice of the family was its shirking of the
garter question.

"Where are your garters, Cassie?"

"I don't know."

"Well, look for them."

But not one of the elder Brangwens would really face the
situation. After Cassie had grovelled under all the furniture
and blacked up all her Sunday cleanliness, to the infinite grief
of everybody, the garter was forgotten in the new washing of
the young face and hands.

Later, Ursula would be indignant to see Miss Cassie march-
ing into church from Sunday school with her stocking sluth-
ered down to her ankle, and a grubby knee showing.

" It's disgraceful ! " cried Ursula at dinner. "People will
think we're pigs, and the children are never washed."

"Never mind what people think," said the mother su-
perbly. "I see that the child is bathed properly, and if I
satisfy myself I satisfy everybody. She can't keep her stock-
ing up and no garter, and it isn't the child's fault she was let
to go without one."

The garter trouble continued in varying degrees, but till
each child wore long skirts or long trousers, it was not re-
moved.

On this day of decorum, the Brangwen family went to
church by the high-road, making a detour outside all the gar-
den-hedge, rather than climb the wall into the churchyard.
There was no law of this, from the parents. The children
themselves were the wardens of the Sabbath decency, very
jealous and instant with each other.

It came to be, gradually, that after church on Sundays the
house was really something of a sanctuary, with peace breath-
ing like a strange bird alighted in the rooms. Indoors, only
reading and tale-telling and quiet pursuits, such as drawing,
were allowed. Out of doors, all playing was to be carried on
unobtrusively. If there were noise, yelling and shouting, then
some fierce spirit woke up in the father and the elder children,
so that the younger were subdued, afraid of being excommuni-
cated.

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 257

The children themselves preserved the Sabbath. If Ursula
in her vanity sang:

"II 6tait im' bergfcre
Et ron-ron-ron petit patapon,"

Theresa was sure to cry:

" That's not a Sunday song, our Ursula."

"You don't know," replied Ursula, superior. Neverthe-
less, she wavered. And her song faded down before she came
to the end.

Because, though she did not know it, her Sunday was very
precious to her. She found herself in a strange, undefined
place, where her spirit could wander in dreams, unassailed.

The white-robed spirit of Christ passed between olive trees.
It was a vision, not a reality. And she herself partook of the
visionary being. There was the voice in the night calling,
" Samuel, Samuel ! " And still the voice called in the night.
But not this night, nor last night, but in the unfathomed
night of Sunday, of the Sabbath silence.

There was Sin, the serpent, in whom was also wisdom.
There was Judas with the money and the kiss.

But there was no actual Sin. If Ursula slapped Theresa
across the face, even on a Sunday, that was not Sin, the ever-
lasting. It was misbehaviour. If Billy played truant from
Sunday school, he was bad, he was wicked, but he was not a
Sinner.

Sin was absolute and everlasting: wickedness and badness
were temporary and relative. When Billy, catching up the
local jargon, called Cassie a "sinner," everybody detested
him. Yet when there came to the Marsh a flippetty-floppetty
fox-hound puppy, he was mischievously christened " Sinner."

The Brangwens shrank from applying their religion to their
own immediate actions. They wanted the sense of the eter-
nal and immortal, not a list of rules for everyday conduct.
Therefore they were badly-behaved children, headstrong and
arrogant, though their feelings were generous. They had,
moreover — intolerable to their ordinary neighbours — a
proud gesture, that did not fit with the jealous idea of the
democratic Christian. So that they were always extraordi-
nary, outside of the ordinary.

How bitterly Ursula resented her first acquaintance with
evangelical teachings. She got a peculiar thrill from the
application of salvation to her own personal case. "Jesus

258 THE RAINBOW

died for me, He suffered for me." There was a pride and a
thrill in it, followed almost immediately by a sense of dreari-
ness. Jesus with holes in His hands and feet: it was dis-
tasteful to her. The shadowy Jesus with the Stigmata: that
was her own vision. But Jesus the actual man, talking with
teeth and lips, telling one to put one's finger into His wounds,
like a villager gloating in his sores, repelled her. She was
enemy of those who insisted on the humanity of Christ. If
He were just a man, living in ordinary human life, then she
was indifferent.

But it was the jealousy of vulgar people which must insist
on the humanity of Christ. It was the vulgar mind which
would allow nothing extra-human, nothing beyond itself to
exist. It was the dirty, desecrating hands of the revivalists
which wanted to drag Jesus into this everyday life, to dress
Jesus up in trousers and frock coat, to compel Him to a
vulgar equality of footing. It was the impudent suburban
soul which would ask, " What would Jesus do, if he were in
my shoes?"

Against all this, the Brangwens stood at bay. If any one,
it was the mother who was caught by, or who was most care-
less of the vulgar clamour. She would have nothing extra-
human. She never really subscribed, all her life, to Brang-
weii's mystical passion.

But Ursula was with her father. As she became adolescent,
thirteen, fourteen, she set more and more against her mother's
practical indifference. To Ursula, there was something cal-
lous, almost wicked in her mother's attitude. What did Anna
Brangwen, in these years, care for God or Jesus or Angels?
She was the immediate life of to-day. Children were still
being born to her, she was throng with all the little activi-
ties of her family. And almost instinctively she resented her
husband's slavish service to the Church, his dark, subject
hankering to worship an unseen God. What did the unre-
vealed God matter, when a man had a young family that
needed fettling for? Let him attend to the immediate con-
cerns of his life, not go projecting himself towards the ulti-
mate.

But Ursula was all for the ultimate. She was always in
revolt against babies and muddled domesticity. To her Jesus
was another world, He was not of this world. He did not
thrust His hands under her face and, pointing to His wounds,
say:

THE WIDENING CIRCLE

" Look, Ursula Brangwen, I got these for your sake. Now
do as you're told."

To her, Jesus was beautifully remote, shining in the dis-
tance, like a white moon at sunset, a crescent moon beckoning
as it follows the sun, out of our ken. Sometimes dark clouds
standing very far off, pricking up into a clear yellow band of
sunset, of a winter evening, reminded her of Calvary, some-
times the full moon rising blood-red upon the hill terrified her
with the knowledge that Christ was now dead, hanging heavy
and dead on the Cross.

On Sundays, this visionary world came to pass. She heard
the long hush, she knew the marriage of dark and light was
taking place. In church, the Voice sounded, re-echoing not
from this world, as if the church itself were a shell that still
spoke the language of creation.

" The Sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were
fair : and they took them wives of all which they chose.

" And the Lord said, My spirit shall not always strive with
Man, for that he also is flesh ; yet his days shall be an hundred
and twenty years.

"There were giants in the earth in those days; and also
after that, when the Sons of God came in unto the daughters
of men, and they bare children unto them, the same became
mighty men which were of old, men of renown."

Over this Ursula was stirred as by a call from far off. In
those days, would not the Sons of God have found her fair,
would she not have been taken to wife by one of the Sons of
God ? It was a dream that frightened her, for she could not
understand it.

Who were the sons of God ? Was not Jesus the only begot-
ten Son? Was not Adam the only man created from God?
Yet there were men not begotten by Adam. Who were these,
and whence did they come ? They too must derive from God.
Had God many offspring, besides Adam and besides Jesus,
children whose origin the children of Adam cannot recognize ?
And perhaps these children, these sons of God, had known no
expulsion, no ignominy of the fall.

These came on free feet to the daughters of men, and saw
they were fair, and took them to wife, so that the women
conceived and brought forth men of renown. This was a
genuine fate. She moved about in the essential days, when
the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men.

Nor would any comparison of myths destroy her passion

260 THE RAINBOW

in the knowledge. Jove had become a bull, or a man, in
order to love a mortal woman. He had begotten in her a
giant, a hero.

Very good, so he had, in Greece. For herself, she was no
Grecian woman. Not Jove nor Pan nor any of those gods,
not even Bacchus nor Apollo, could come to her. But the
Sons of God who took to wife the daughters of men, these
were such as should take her to wife.

She clung to the secret hope, the aspiration. She lived a
dual life, one where the facts of daily life encompassed every-
thing, being legion, and the other wherein the facts of daily
life were superseded by the eternal truth. So utterly did
she desire the Sons of God should come to the daughters
of men; and she believed more in her desire and its fulfil-
ment than in the obvious facts of life. The fact that a man
was a man, did not state his descent from Adam, did not
exclude that he was also one of the unhistoried, unaccount-
able Sons of God. As yet, she was confused, but not denied.

Again she heard the Voice :

" It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle,
than for a rich man to enter into heaven."

But it was explained, the needle's eye was a little gateway
for foot passengers, through which the great, humped camel
with his load could not possibly squeeze himself: or per-
haps, at a great risk, if he were a little camel, he might get
through. For one could not absolutely exclude the rich man
from heaven, said the Sunday school teachers.

It pleased her also to know, that in the East one must use
hyperbole, or else remain unheard; because the Eastern man
must see a thing swelling to fill all heaven, or dwindled to a
mere nothing, before he is suitably impressed. She imme-
diately sympathized with this Eastern mind.

Yet the words continued to have a meaning that was un-
touched either by the knowledge of gateways or hyperboles.
The historical, or local, or psychological interest in the words
was another thing. There remained unaltered the inexplic-
able value of the saying. What was this relation between a
needle's eye, a rich man, and heaven ? What sort of a needle's
eye, what sort of a rich man, what sort of heaven? Who
knows ? It means the Absolute World, and can never be more
than half interpreted in terms of the relative world.

But must one apply the speech literally? Was her father
«. rich man? Couldn't he get to heaven? Or was he only

THE WIDENING CIRCLE

a half-rich man? Or was he nearly a poor man? At any
rate, unless he gave everything away to the poor, he would
find it much harder to get to heaven. The needle's eye would
be too tight for him. She almost wished he were penniless
poor. If one were coming to the base of it, any man was
rich who was not as poor as the poorest.

She had her qualms, when in imagination she saw her father
giving away their piano and the two cows, and the capital
at the bank, to the labourers of the district, so that they, the
Brangwens, should be as poor as the Wherrys. And she did
not want it. She was impatient.

" Very well," she thought, " we'll forego that heaven, that's
all — at any rate the needle's eye sort/' And she dismissed
the problem. She was not going to be as poor as the Wherrys,
not for all the sayings on earth — the miserable squalid
Wherrys.

So she reverted to the non-literal application of the scrip-
tures. Her father very rarely read, but he had collected
many books of reproductions, and he would sit and look at,
these, curiously intent, like a child, yet with a passion that
was not childish. He loved the early Italian painters, but
particularly Giotto and Fra Angelico and Filippo Lippi. The
great compositions cast a spell over him. How many times
had he turned to Raphael's "Dispute of the Sacrament" or
Fra Angelico's "Last Judgment" or the beautiful, compli-
cated renderings of the Adoration of the Magi, and always,
each time, he received the same gradual fulfilment of delight.
It had to do with the establishment of a whole mystical,
architectural conception which used the human figure as a
unit. Sometimes he had to hurry home, and go to the Fra
Angelico "Last Judgment." The pathway of open graves,
the huddled earth on either side, the seemly heaven arranged
above, the singing progress to paradise on the one hand, the
stuttering descent to hell on the other, completed and satisfied
him. He did not care whether or not he believed in devils or
angels. The whole conception gave him the deepest satisfac-
tion, and he wanted nothing more.

Ursula, accustomed to these pictures from her childhood,
hunted out their detail. She adored Fra Angelico's flowers
and light and angels, she liked the demons and enjoyed the
hell. But the representation of the encircled God, surrounded
by all the angels on high, suddenly bored her. The figure of
the Most High bored her, and roused her resentment. Was

262 THE RAINBOW

this the culmination and the meaning of it all, this draped, null
figure ? The angels were so lovely, and the light so beautiful.
And only for this, to surround such a banality for God !

She was dissatisfied, but not fit as yet to criticize. There
was yet so much to wonder over. Winter came, pine branches
were torn down in the snow, the green pine needles looked
rich upon the ground. There was the wonderful, starry,
straight track of a pheasant's footsteps across the snow im-
printed so clear ; there was the lobbing mark of the rabbit, two
holes abreast, two holes following behind; the hare shoved
deeper shafts, slanting, and his two hind feet came down to-
gether and made one large pit ; the cat podded little holes, and
birds made a lacy pattern.

Gradually there gathered the feeling of expectation. Christ-
mas was coming. In the shed, at nights, a secret candle was
burning, a sound of veiled voices was heard. The boys were
learning the old mystery play of St. George and Beelzebub.
Twice a week, by lamplight, there was choir practice in the
church, for the learning of old carols Brangwen wanted to hear.
The girls went to these practices. Everywhere was a sense of
mystery and rousedness. Everybody was preparing for some-
thing.

The time came near, the girls were decorating the church,
with cold fingers binding holly and fir and yew about the
pillars, till a new spirit was in the church, the stone broke
out into dark, rich leaf, the arches put forth their buds, and
cold flowers rose to blossom in the dim, mystic atmosphere.
Ursula must weave mistletoe over the door, and over the
screen, and hang a silver dove from a sprig of yew, till dusk
came down, and the church was like a grove.

In the cow-shed the boys were blacking their faces for a
dress-rehearsal; the turkey hung dead, with opened, speckled
wings, in the dairy. The time was come to make pies, in
readiness.

The expectation grew more tense. The star was risen into
the sky, the songs, the carols were ready to hail it. The star
was the sign in the sky. Earth too should give a sign. As
evening drew on, hearts beat fast with anticipation, hands
were full of ready gifts. There were the tremulously ex-
pectant words of the church service, the night was past and
the morning was come, the gifts were given and received,
joy and peace made a flapping of wings in each heart, there
was a great burst of carols, the Peace of the World had

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 263

dawned, strife had passed away, every hand was linked in
hand, every heart was singing.

It was bitter, though, that Christmas day, as it drew on to
evening, and night, became a sort of bank holiday, flat and
stale. The morning was so wonderful, but in the afternoon
and evening the ecstasy perished like a nipped thing, like a
bud in a false spring. Alas, that Christmas was only a do-
mestic feast, a feast of sweetmeats and toys ! Why did not the
grown-ups also change their everyday hearts, and give way to
ecstasy ? Where was the ecstasy ?

How passionately the Brangwens craved for it, the ecstasy.
The father was troubled, dark-faced and disconsolate, on
Christmas night, because the passion was not there, because
the day was become as every day, and hearts were not aflame.
Upon the mother was a kind of absentness, as ever, as if she
were exiled for all her life. Where was the fiery heart of
joy, now the coming was fulfilled; where was the star, the
Magi's transport, the thrill of new being that shook the earth ?

Still it was there, even if it were faint and inadequate.
The cycle of creation still wheeled in the Church year. After
Christmas, the ecstasy slowly sank and changed. Sunday fol-
lowed Sunday, trailing a fine movement, a finely developed
transformation over the heart of the family. The heart that
was big with joy, that had seen the star and had followed
to the inner walls of the Nativity, that there had swooned in
the great light, must now feel the light slowly withdrawing,
a shadow falling, darkening. The chill crept in, silence came
over the earth, and then all was darkness. The veil of the
temple was rent, each heart gave up the ghost, and sank dead.

They moved quietly, a little wanness on the lips of the
children, at Good Friday, feeling the shadow upon their hearts.
Then, pale with a deathly scent, came the lilies of resurrection,
that shone coldly till the Comforter was given.

But why the memory of the wounds and the death ? Surely
Christ rose with healed hands and feet, sound and strong and
glad ? Surely the passage of the cross and the tomb was for-
gotten ? But no — always the memory of the wounds, always
the smell of grave-clothes? A small thing was Eesurrection,
compared with the Cross and the death, in this cycle.

So the children lived the year of Christianity, the epic of
the soul of mankind. Year by year the inner, unknown
drama went on in them, their hearts were born and came to
fulness, suffered on the cross, gave up the ghost, and rose

THE HAINBOW

again to unnumbered days, untired, having at least this
rhythm of eternity in a ragged, inconsequential life.

But it was becoming a mechanical action now, this drama:
birth at Christmas for death at Good Friday. On Easter
Sunday the life-drama was as good as finished. For the
Resurrection was shadowy and overcome by the shadow of
death, the Ascension was scarce noticed, a mere confirmation
of death.

What was the hope and the fulfilment? Nay, was it all
only a useless after-death, a wan, bodiless after-death ? Alas,
and alas for the passion of the human heart, that must die so
long before the body was dead.

For from the grave, after the passion and the trial of
anguish, the body rose torn and chill and colourless. Did
not Christ say, " Mary ! " and when she turned with out-
stretched hands to him, did he not hasten to add, " Touch
me not; for I am not yet ascended to my father/'

Then how could the hands rejoice, or the heart be glad,
seeing themselves repulsed. Alas, for the resurrection of the
dead body! Alas, for the wavering, glimmering appearance
of the risen Christ. Alas, for the Ascension into heaven,
which is a shadow within death, a complete passing away.

Alas, that so soon the drama is over; that life is ended
at thirty-three; that the half of the year of the soul is cold
and historiless ! Alas, that a risen Christ has no place with us !
Alas, that the memory of the passion of Sorrow and Death and
the Grave holds triumph over the pale fact of Resurrection!

But why? Why shall I not rise with my body whole and
perfect, shining with strong life? Why, when Mary says:
Rabboni, shall I not take her in my arms and kiss her and
hold her to my breast? Why is the risen body deadly, and
abhorrent with wounds ?

The Resurrection is to life, not to death. Shall I not see
those who have risen again walk here among men perfect in
body and spirit, whole and glad in the flesh, living in the
flesh, loving in the flesh, begetting children in the flesh,
arrived at last to wholeness, perfect without scar or blemish,
healthy without fear of ill-health? Is this not the period
of manhood and of joy and fulfilment, after the Resurrection ?
Who shall be shadowed by Death and the Cross, being risen,
and who shall fear the mystic, perfect flesh that belongs to
heaven ?

Can I not, then, walk this earth in gladness, being risen

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 265

from sorrow? Can I not eat with my brother happily, and
with joy kiss my beloved, after my resurrection, celebrate
my marriage in the flesh with feastings, go about my business
eagerly, in the joy of my fellows? Is heaven impatient for
me, and bitter against this earth, that I should hurry off,
or that I should linger pale and untouched? Is the flesh
which was crucified become as poison to the crowds in the
street, or is it as a strong gladness and hope to them, as the
first flower blossoming out of the earth's humus ?

CHAPTER XI

FIRST LOVE

AS Ursula passed from girlhood towards womanhood,
gradually the cloud of self-responsibility gathered
upon her. She became aware of herself, that she
was a separate entity in the midst of an unseparated
obscurity, that she must go somewhere, she must become some-
thing. And she was afraid, troubled. Why, oh why must
one grow up, why must one inherit this heavy, numbing re-
sponsibility of living an undiscovered life ? Out of the noth-
ingness and the undifferentiated mass, to make something of
herself ! But what ? In the obscurity and pathlessness to
take a direction ! But whither ? How take even one step ?
And yet, how stand still ? This was torment indeed, to inherit
the responsibility of one's own life.

The religion which had been another world for her, a
glorious sort of play-world, where she lived, climbing the
tree with the short-statured man, walking shakily on the sea
like the disciple, breaking the bread into five thousand por-
tions, like the Lord, giving a great picnic to five thousand
people, now fell away from reality, and became a tale, a myth,
an illusion, which, however much one might assert it to be
true an historical fact, one knew was not true — at least, for
this present-day life of ours. There could, within the limits
of this life we know, be no Feeding of the Five Thousand.
And the girl had come to the point where she held that that
which one cannot experience in daily life is not true for one-
self.

So, the old duality of life, wherein there had been a week-
day world of people and trains and duties and reports, and
besides that a Sunday world of absolute truth and living
mystery, of walking upon the waters and being blinded by the
face of the Lord, of following the pillar of cloud across the
desert and watching the bush that crackled yet did not burn
awav, this old, unquestioned duality suddenly was found to

266

FIRST LOVE 267

be broken apart. The weekday world had triumphed over
the Sunday world. The Sunday world was not real, or at
least, not actual. And one lived by action.

Only the weekday world mattered. She herself, Ursula
Brangwen, must know how to take the weekday life. Her
body must be a weekday body, held in the world's estimate.
Her soul must have a weekday value, known according to
the world's knowledge.

Well, then, there was a weekday life to live, of action and
deeds. And so there was a necessity to choose one's action
and one's deeds. One was responsible to the world for what
one did.

Nay, one was more than responsible to the world. One
was responsible to oneself. There was some puzzling, tor-
menting residue of the Sunday world within her, some per-
sistent Sunday self, which insisted upon a relationship with
the now shed-away vision world. How could one keep up
a relationship with that which one denied? Her task was
now to learn the week-day life.

How to act, that was the question? Whither to go, how
to become oneself? One was not oneself, one was merely a
half -stated question. How to become oneself, how to know
the question and the answer of oneself, when one was merely
an unfixed something-nothing, blowing about like the winds
of heaven, undefined, unstated.

She turned to the visions, which had spoken far-off words
that ran along the blood like ripples of an unseen wind, she
heard the words again, she denied the vision, for she must be
a weekday person, to whom visions were not true, and she de-
manded only the weekday meaning of the words.

There were words spoken by the vision: and words must
have a weekday meaning, since words were weekday stuff.
Let them speak now: let them bespeak themselves in week-
day terms. The vision should translate itself into weekday
terms.

"Sell all thou hast, and give to the poor," she heard on
Sunday morning. That was plain enough, plain enough for
Monday morning too. As she went down the hill to the sta-
tion, going to school, she took the saying with her.

" Sell all thou hast, and give to the poor."

Did she want to do that? Did she want to sell her pearl-
backed brush and mirror, her silver candlestick, her pendant,
her lovely little necklace, and go dressed in drab like the

268 THE RAINBOW

Wherrys: the unlovely uncombed Wherrys, who were the
"poor'" to her? She did not.

She walked this Monday morning on the verge of misery.
For she did want to do what was right. And she didn't want
to do what the gospels said. She didn't want to be poor —
really poor. The thought was a horror to her: to live like
the Wherrys, so ugly, to be at the mercy of everybody.

" Sell that thou hast, and give to the poor."

One could not do it in real life. How dreary and hopeless
it made her!

Nor could one turn the other cheek. Theresa slapped
Ursula on the face. Ursula, in a mood of Christian humility,
silently presented the other side of her face. Which Theresa,
in exasperation at the challenge, also hit. Whereupon Ursula,
with boiling heart, went meekly away.

But anger, and deep, writhing shame tortured her, so she
was not easy till she had again quarrelled with Theresa and
had almost shaken her sister's head off.

" That'll teach you" she said, grimly.

And she went away, unchristian but clean.

There was something unclean and degrading about this
humble side of Christianity. Ursula suddenly revolted to
the other extreme.

"I hate the Wherrys, and I wish they were dead. Why
does my father leave us in the lurch like this, making us be
poor and insignificant? Why is he not more? If we had
a father as he ought to be, he would be Earl William Brang-
wen, and I should be the Lady Ursula? What right have
I to be poor ? crawling along the lane like vermin ? If I had
my rights I should be seated on horseback in a green riding-
habit, and my groom would be behind me. And I should stop
at the gates of the cottages, and enquire of the cottage woman
who came out with a child in her arms, how did her husband,
who had hurt his foot. And I would pat the flaxen head of
the child, stooping from my horse, and I would give her a
shilling from my purse, and order nourishing food to be sent
from the hall to the cottage."

So she rode in her pride. And sometimes, she dashed into
flames to rescue a forgotten child ; or she dived into the canal
locks and supported a boy who was seized with cramp ; or she
swept up a toddling infant from the feet of a runaway horse :
always imaginatively, of course.

But in the end there returned the poignant yearning from

FIRST LOVE 269

the Sunday world. As she went down in the morning from
Cossethay and saw Ilkeston smoking blue and tender upon
its hill, then her heart surged with far-off words :

" Oh, Jerusalem — Jerusalem — how often would I have
gathered thy children together as a hen gathereth her chickens
under her wings, and ye would not "

The passion rose in her for Christ, for the gathering under
the wings of security and warmth. But how did it apply to
the weekday world? What could it mean, but that Christ
should clasp her to his breast, as a mother clasps her child?
And oh, for Christ, for him who could hold her to his breast
and lose her there. Oh, for the breast of man, where she
should have refuge and bliss for ever ! All her senses quivered
with passionate yearning.

Vaguely she knew that Christ meant something else: that
in the vision-world He spoke of Jerusalem, something that
did not exist in the everyday world. It was not houses and
factories He would hold in His bosom: nor householders nor
factory- workers nor poor people: but something that had no
part in the weekday world, nor seen nor touched with week-
day hands and eyes.

Yet she must have it in weekday terms — she must. For
all her life was a weekday life, now, this was the whole. So
he must gather her body to his breast, that was strong with
a broad bone, and which sounded with the beating of the
heart, and which was warm with the life of which she par-
took, the life of the running blood.

So she craved for the breast of the Son of Man, to lie there.
And she was ashamed in her soul, ashamed. For whereas
Christ spoke for the Vision to answer, she answered from
the weekday fact. It was a betrayal, a transference of mean-
ing, from the vision world, to the matter-of-fact world. So
she was ashamed of her religious ecstasy, and dreaded lest any
one should see it.

Early in the year, when the lambs came, and shelters were
built of straw, and on her uncle's farm the men sat at night
with a lantern and a dog, then again there swept over her
this passionate confusion between the vision world and the
weekday world. Again she felt Jesus in the countryside.
Ah, he would lift up the lambs in his arms! Ah, and she
was the lamb. Again, in the morning, going down the lane,
she heard the ewe call, and the lambs came running, shaking
and twinkling with new-born bliss. And she saw them stoop-

270 THE RAINBOW

ing, nuzzling, groping to the udder, to find the teats, whilst
the mother turned her head gravely and sniffed her own.
And they were sucking, vibrating with bliss on their little,
long legs, their throats stretched up, their new bodies quiver-
ing to the stream of blood-warm, loving milk.

Oh, and the bliss, the bliss ! She could scarcely tear her-
self away to go to school. The little noses nuzzling at the
udder, the little bodies so glad and sure, the little black legs,
crooked, the mother standing still, yielding herself to their
quivering attraction — then the mother walked calmly away.

Jesus — the vision world — the everyday world — all mixed
inextricably in a confusion of pain and bliss. It was almost
agony, the confusion, the inextricability. Jesus, the vision,
speaking to her, who was non-visionary! And she would"
take his words of the spirit and make them to pander to her
own carnality.

This was a shame to her. The confusing of the spirit world
with the material world, in her own soul, degraded her. She
answered the call of the spirit in terms of immediate, every-
day desire.

" Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden,
and I will give you rest/'

It was the temporal answer she gave. She leapt with
sensuous yearning to respond to Christ. If she could go to
him really, and lay her head on his breast, to have comfort,
to be made much of, caressed like a child !

All the time she walked in a confused heat of religious
yearning. She wanted Jesus to love her deliciously, to take
her sensuous offering, to give her sensuous response. For
weeks she went in a muse of enjoyment.

And all the time she knew underneath that she was play-
ing false, accepting the passion of Jesus for her own physical
satisfaction. But she was in such a daze, such a tangle.
How could she get free?

She hated herself, she wanted to trample on herself, destroy
herself. How could one become free? She hated religion,
because it lent itself to her confusion. She abused everything.
She wanted to become hard, indifferent, brutally callous to
everything but just the immediate need, the immediate satis-
faction. To have a yearning towards Jesus, only that she
might use him to pander to her own soft sensation, use him as
a means of re-acting upon herself, maddened her in the end.

FIRST LOVE 271

There was then no Jesus, no sentimentality. With all the
bitter hatred of helplessness she hated sentimentality.

At this period came the young Skrebensky. She was nearly
sixteen years old, a slim, smouldering girl, deeply reticent,
yet lapsing into unreserved expansiveness now and then, when
she seemed to give away her whole soul, but when in fact
she only made another counterfeit of her soul for outward
presentation. She was sensitive in the extreme, always tor-
tured, always affecting a callous indifference to screen her-
self.

She was at this time a nuisance on the face of the earth,
with her spasmodic passion and her slumberous torment.
She seemed to go with all her soul in her hands, yearning,
to the other person. Yet all the while, deep at the bottom
of her was a childish antagonism of distrust. She thought
she loved everybody and believed in everybody. But be-
cause she could not love herself, nor believe in herself, she
mistrusted everybody with the mistrust of a serpent or a cap-
tured bird. Her starts of revulsion and hatred were more
inevitable than her impulses to love.

So she wrestled through her dark days of confusion, soul-
less, uncreated, unformed.

One evening, as she was studying in the parlour, her head
buried in her hands, she heard new voices in the kitchen speak-
ing. At once, from its apathy, her excitable spirit started and
strained to listen. It seemed to crouch, to lurk under cover,
tense, glaring forth unwilling to be seen.

There were two strange men's voices, one soft and candid,
veiled with soft candour, the other veiled with easy mobility,
running quickly. Ursula sat quite tense, shocked out of her
studies, lost. She listened all the time to the sound of the
voices, scarcely heeding the words.

The first speaker was her Uncle Tom. She knew the nai've
candour covering the girding and savage misery of his soul.
Who was the other speaker? Whose voice ran on so easy,
yet with an inflamed pulse? It seemed to hasten and urge
her forward, that other voice.

" I remember you," the young man's voice was saying. " I
remember you from the first time I saw you, because of your
dark eyes and fair face."

Mrs. Brangwen laughed, shy and pleased.

" You were a curly-headed little lad," she said.

272 THE RAINBOW

"Was I? Yes, I know. They were very proud of my
curls."

And a laugh ran to silence.

"You were a very well-mannered lad, I remember," said
her father.

"Oh! did I ask you to stay the night? I always used
to ask people to stay the night. I believe it was rather try-
ing for my mother."

There was a general laugh. Ursula rose. She had to go.

At the click of the latch everybody looked round. The
girl hung in the doorway, seized with a moment's fierce con-
fusion. She was going to be good-looking. Now she had an
attractive gawkiness, as she hung a moment, not knowing
how to carry her shoulders. Her dark hair was tied behind,
her yellow-brown eyes shone without direction. Behind her,
in the parlour, was the soft light of a lamp upon open books.

A superficial readiness took her to her Uncle Tom, who
kissed her, greeting her with warmth, making a show of inti-
mate possession of her, and at the same time leaving evident
his own complete detachment.

But she wanted to turn to the stranger. He was standing
back a little, waiting. He was a young man with very clear
greyish eyes that waited until they were called upon, before
they took expression.

Something in his self-possessed waiting moved her, and
she broke into a confused, rather beautiful laugh as she gave
him her hand, catching her breath like an excited child. His
hand closed over hers very close, very near, he bowed, and
his eyes were watching her with some attention. She felt
proud — her spirit leapt to life.

"You don't know Mr. Skrebensky, Ursula/' came her
Uncle Tom's intimate voice. She lifted her face with an
impulsive flash to the stranger, as if to declare a knowledge,
laughing her palpitating, excited laugh.

His eyes became confused with roused lights, his detached
attention changed to a readiness for her. He was a young
man of twenty-one, with a slender figure and soft brown hair
brushed up in the German fashion straight from his brow.

" Are you staying long? " she asked.

" I've got a month's leave," he said, glancing at Tom
Brangwen. " But I've various places I must go to — put in
some time here and there."

He brought her a strong sense of the outer world. It was

FIRST LOVE 273

as if she were set on a hill and could feel vaguely the whole
world lying spread before her.

" What have you a month's leave from ? " she asked.

" I'm in the Engineers — in the Army."

" Oh ! " she exclaimed, glad.

" We're taking you away from your studies," said her
Uncle Tom.

" Oh, no," she replied quickly.

Skrebensky laughed, young and inflammable.

" She won't wait to be taken away," said her father. But
that seemed clumsy. She wished he would leave her to say
her own things.

" Don't you like study ? " asked Skrebensky, turning to her,
putting the question from his own case.

" I like some things," said Ursula. " I like Latin and
French — and grammar."

He watched her, and all his being seemed attentive to her,
then he shook his head.

" I don't," he said. " They say all the brains of the army
are in the Engineers. I think that's why I joined them —
to get the credit of other people's brains."

He said this quizzically and with chagrin. And she be-
came alert to him. It interested her. Whether he had brains
or not, he was interesting. His directness attracted her, his
independent motion. She was aware of the movement of his
life over against her.

" I don't think brains matter," she said.

"What does matter then?" came her Uncle Tom's in-
timate, caressing, half-jeering voice.

She turned to him.

" It matters whether people have courage or not," she said.

" Courage for what? " asked her uncle.

" For everything."

Tom Brangwen gave a sharp little laugh. The mother
and father sat silent, with listening faces. Skrebensky
waited. She was speaking for him.

" Everything's nothing," laughed her uncle.

She disliked him at that moment.

" She doesn't practise what she preaches," said her father,
stirring in his chair and crossing one leg over the other.
" She has courage for mighty little."

But she would not answer. Skrebensky sat still, waiting.
His face was irregular, almost ugly, fiattish, with a rather

274 THE RAINBOW

thick nose. But his eyes were pellucid, strangely clear, his
brown hair was soft arid thick as silk, he had a slight mous-
tache. His skin was fine, his figure slight, beautiful. Be-
side him, her Uncle Tom looked full-blown, her father seemed
uncouth. Yet he reminded her of her father, only he was
finer, and he seemed to be shining. And his face was almost

He seemed simply acquiescent in the fact of his own be-
ing, as if he were beyond any change or question. He was
himself. There was a sense of fatality about him that fasci-
nated her. He made no effort to prove himself to other peo-
ple. Let it be accepted for what it was, his own being. In
its isolation it made no excuse or explanation for itself.

So he seemed perfectly, even fatally established, he did
not ask to be rendered before he could exist, before he could
have relationship with another person.

This attracted Ursula very much. She was so used to
unsure people who took on a new being with every new in-
fluence. Her Uncle Tom was always more or less what the
other person would have him. In consequence, one never
knew the real Uncle Tom, only a fluid, unsatisfactory flux
with a more or less consistent appearance.

But, let Skrebensky do what he would, betray himself en-
tirely, he betrayed himself always upon his own responsi-
bility. He permitted no question about himself. He was
irrevocable in his isolation.

So Ursula thought him wonderful, he was so finely con-
stituted, and so distinct, self-contained, self-supporting.
This, she said to herself, was a gentleman, he had a nature
like fate, the nature of an aristocrat.

She laid hold of him at once for her dreams. Here was
one such as those Sons of God who saw the daughters of
men, that they were fair. He was no son of Adam. Adam
was servile. Had not Adam been driven cringing out of his
native place, had not the human race been a beggar ever
since,- seeking its own being? But Anton Skrebensky could
not beg. He was in possession of himself, of that, and no
more. Other people could not really give him anything nor
take anything from him. His soul stood alone.

She knew that her mother and father acknowledged him.
The house was changed. There had been a visit paid to the
house. Once three angels stood in Abraham's doorway, and

FIRST LOVE 275

greeted him, and stayed and ate with him, leaving his house-
hold enriched for ever when they went.

The next day she went down to the Marsh according to
invitation. The two men were not come home. Then, look-
ing through the window, she saw the dogcart drive up, and
Skrebensky leapt down. She saw him draw himself together,
jump, laugh to her uncle, who was driving, then come to-
wards her to the house. He was so spontaneous and re-
vealed in his movements. He was isolated within his own
clear, fine atmosphere, and as still as if fated.

His resting in his own fate gave him an appearance of indo-
lence, almost of languor: he made no exuberant movement.
When he sat down, he seemed to go loose, languid.

" We are a little late," he said.

" Where have you been ? "

" We went to Derby to see a friend of my father's."

"Who?"

It was an adventure to her to put direct questions and get
plain answers. She knew she might do it with this man.

"Why, he is a clergyman too — he is my guardian — one
of them."

Ursula knew that Skrebensky was an orphan.

" Where is really your home now ? " she asked.

" My home ? — I wonder. I am very fond of my colonel —
Colonel Hepburn : then there are my aunts : but my real home,
I suppose, is the army."

" Do you like being on your own ? "

His clear, greenish-grey eyes rested on her a moment, and,
as he considered, he did not see her.

" I suppose so," he said. " You see my father — well, he
was never acclimatized here. He wanted — I don't know
what he wanted — but it was a strain. And my mother — I
always knew she was too good to me. I could feel her being
too good to me — my mother ! Then I went away to school
so early. And I must say, the outside world was always more
naturally a home to me than the vicarage — I don't know
why."

" Do you feel like a bird blown out of its own latitude ? "
she asked, using a phrase she had met.

" No, no. I find everything very much as I like it."

He seemed more and more to give her a sense of the vast
world, a sense of distances and large masses of humanity.

THE RAINBOW

It drew her as a scent draws a bee from afar. But also it hurt
her.

It was summer, and she wore cotton frocks. The third
time he saw her she had on a dress with fine blue-and-white
stripes, with a white collar, and a large white hat. It suited
her golden, warm complexion.

" I like you best in that dress," he said, standing with his
head slightly on one side, and appreciating her in a perceiv-
ing, critical fashion.

She was thrilled with a new life. For the first time she
was in love with a vision of herself: she saw as it were a
fine little reflection of herself in his eyes. And she must act
up to this: she must be beautiful. Her thoughts turned
swiftly to clothes, her passion was to make a beautiful appear-
ance. Her family looked on in amazement at the sudden
transformation of Ursula. She became elegant, really elegant,
in figured cotton frocks she made for herself, and hats she
bent to her fancy. An inspiration was upon her.

He sat with a sort of languor in her grandmother's rock-
ing-chair, rocking slowly, languidly, backward and forward,
as Ursula talked to him.

" You are not poor, are you ? " she said.

" Poor in money ? I have about a hundred and fifty a
year of my own — so I am poor or rich, as you like. I am
poor enough, in fact.'*

" But you will earn money ? "

"I shall have my pay — I have my pay now. I've got
my commission. That is another hundred and fifty."

" You will have more, though ? "

"I shan't have more than £200 a year for ten years to
come. I shall always be poor, if I have to live on my pay."

"Do you mind it?"

"Being poor? Not now — not very much. I may later.
People — the officers, are good to me. Colonel Hepburn has
a sort of fancy for me — he is a rich man, I suppose."

A chill went over Ursula. Was he going to sell himself in
some way?

"Is Colonel Hepburn married?"

" Yes — with two daughters."

But she was too proud at once to care whether Colonel
Hepburn's daughter wanted to marry him or not.

There came a silence. Gudrun entered, and Skrebensky
still rocked languidly on the chair.

FlfcST LOVE 277

"You look very lazy," said Gudrun.

" I am lazy," he answered.

" You look really floppy," she said.

" I am floppy," he answered.

" Can't you stop ? " asked Gudrun.

" No — it's the perpetuum mobile."

" You look as if you hadn't a bone in your body/'

" That's how I like to feel."

" I don't admire your taste."

" That's my misfortune."

And he rocked on.

Gudrun seated herself behind him, and as he rocked back,
she caught his hair between her finger and thumb, so that
it tugged him as he swung forward again. He took no
notice. There was only the sound of the rockers on the floor.
In silence, like a crab, Gudrun caught a strand of his hair
each time he rocked back. Ursula flushed, and sat in some
pain. She saw the irritation gathering on his brow.

At last he leapt up, suddenly, like a steel spring going off,
and stood on the hearthrug.

" Damn it, why can't I rock ? " he asked petulantly, fiercely.

Ursula loved him for his sudden, steel-like start out of the
languor. He stood on the hearthrug fuming, his eyes gleam-
ing with anger.

Gudrun laughed in her deep, mellow fashion.

" Men don't rock themselves," she said.

" Girls don't pull men's hair," he said.

Gudrun laughed again.

Ursula sat amused, but waiting. And he knew Ursula was
waiting for him. It roused his blood. He had to go to her,
to follow her call.

Once he drove her to Derby in the dog-cart. He belonged
to the horsey set of the sappers. They had lunch in an inn,
and went through the market, pleased with everything. He
bought her a copy of " Wuthering Heights " from a bookstall.
Then they found a little fair in progress and she said,

" My father used to take me in the swingboats."

" Did you like it? " he asked.

" Oh, it was fine," she said.

" Would you like to go now ? "

" Love itj" she said, though she was afraid. But the pros-
pect of doing an unusual, exciting thing was attractive to her.

He went straight to the stand, paid the money, and helped

27$ THE RAINBOW

her to mount. He seemed to ignore everything but just
what he was doing. Other people were mere objects of in-
difference to him. She would have liked to hang back, but
she was more ashamed to retreat from him than to expose
herself to the crowd or to dare the swingboat. His eyes
laughed, and standing before her with his sharp, sudden figure,
he set the boat swinging. She was not afraid, she was
thrilled. His colour flushed, his eyes shone with a roused
light, and she looked up at him, her face like a flower in the
sun, so bright and attractive. So they rushed through the
bright air, up at the sky as if flung from a catapult, then fall-
ing terribly back. She loved it. The motion seemed to fan
their blood to fire, they laughed, feeling like flames.

After the swingboats, they went on the roundabouts to
calm down, he twisting astride on his jerky wooden steed to-
wards her, and always seeming at his ease, enjoying himself.
A zest of antagonism to the convention made him fully him-
self. As they sat on the whirling carousal, with the music
grinding out, she was aware of the people on the earth out-
side, and it seemed that he and she were riding carelessly
over the faces of the crowd, riding forever buoyantly, proudly,
gallantly over the upturned faces of the crowd, moving on a
high level, spurning the common mass.

When they must descend and walk away, she was un-
happy, feeling like a giant suddenly cut down to ordinary
level, at the mercy of the mob.

They left the fair, to return for the dog-cart. Passing the
large church, Ursula must look in. But the whole interior
was filled with scaffolding, fallen stone and rubbish were
heaped on the floor, bits of plaster crunched underfoot, and
the place re-echoed to the calling of secular voices and to
blows of the hammer.

She had come to plunge in the utter gloom and peace for
a moment, bringing all her yearning, that had returned on
her uncontrolled after the reckless riding over the face of
the crowd, in the fair. After pride, she wanted comfort,
solace, for pride and scorn seemed to hurt her most of all.

And she found the immemorial gloom full of bits of falling
plaster, and dust of floating plaster, smelling of old lime,
having scaffolding and rubbish heaped about, dust cloths over
the altar.

" Let us sit down a minute/' she said.

They sat unnoticed in the back pew, in the gloom, and

FIRST LOVE 279

she watched the dirty, disorderly work of bricklayers and
plasterers. Workmen in heavy boots walked grinding down
the aisles, calling out in a vulgar accent :

" Hi, mate, has them corner mouldin's come ? "

There were shouts of coarse answer from the roof of the
church. The place echoed desolate.

Skrebensky sat close to her. Everything seemed wonder-
ful, if dreadful, to her, the world tumbling into ruins, and
she and he clambering unhurt, lawless over the face of it all.
He sat close to her, touching her, and she was aware of his
influence upon her. But she was glad. It excited her to
feel the press of him upon her, as if his being were urging
her to something.

As they drove home, he sat near to her. And when he
swayed to the cart, he swayed in a voluptuous, lingering way,
against her, lingering as he swung away to recover balance.
Without speaking, he took her hand across, under the wrap,
and with his unseeing face lifted to the road, his soul intent,
he began with his one hand to unfasten the buttons of her
glove, to push back her glove from her hand, carefully laying
bare her hand. And the close-working, instinctive subtlety
of his fingers upon her hand sent the young girl mad with
voluptuous delight. His hand was so wonderful, intent as
a living creature skilfully pushing and manipulating in the
dark underworld, removing her glove and laying bare her
palm, her fingers. Then his hand closed over hers, so firm,
so close, as if the flesh knitted to one thing his hand and
hers. Meanwhile his face watched the road and the ears of
the horse, he drove with steady attention through the villages,
and she sat beside him, rapt, glowing, blinded with a new
light. Neither of them spoke. In outward attention they
were entirely separate. But between them was the com-
pact of his flesh with hers, in the hand-clasp.

Then, in a strange voice, affecting nonchalance and super-
ficiality he said to her :

" Sitting in the church there reminded me of Ingram."

"Who is Ingram?" she asked.

She also affected calm superficiality. But she knew that
something forbidden was coming.

" He is one of the other men with me down at Chatham
— a subaltern — but a year older than I am."

" And why did the church remind you of him ? "

" Well, he had a girl in Rochester, and they always sat in

260 THE EAINBOW

a particular corner in the cathedral for their love-making."

" How nice ! " she cried, impulsively.

They misunderstood each other.

"It had its disadvantages though. The verger made a
row about it."

" What a shame ! Why shouldn't they sit in a cathedral ? "

" I suppose they all think it a profanity — except you and
Ingram and the girl."

" I don't think it a profanity — I think it's right, to make
love in a cathedral."

She said this almost defiantly, in despite of her own soul.

He was silent.

" And was she nice ? "

"Who? Emily? Yes, she was rather nice. She was a
milliner, and she wouldn't be seen in the streets with Ingram.
It was rather sad, really, because the verger spied on them,
and got to know their names and then made a regular row.
It was a common tale afterwards."

"What did she do?"

" She went to London, into a big shop. Ingram still goes
up to see her."

"Does he love her?"

" It's a year and a half he's been with her now."

"What was she like?"

"Emily? Little, shy-violet sort of girl with nice eye-
brows." ,

Ursula meditated this. It seemed like real romance of
the outer world.

" Do all men have lovers ? " she asked, amazed at her
own temerity. But her hand was still fastened with his, and
his face still had the same unchanging fixity of outward calm.

" They're always mentioning some amazing fine woman or
other, and getting drunk to talk about her. Most of them
dash up to London the moment they are free."

"What for?"

" To some amazing fine woman or other."

"What sort of woman?"

" Various. Her name changes pretty frequently, as a rule.
One of the fellows is a perfect maniac. He keeps a suit-case
always ready, and the instant he is at liberty, he bolts with it
to the station, and changes in the train. No matter who is
in the carriage, off he whips his tunic, and performs at least
the top half of his toilet."

FIRST LOVE 281

Ursula quivered and wondered.

" Why is he in such a hurry ? " she asked.

Her throat was becoming hard and difficult.

" He's got a woman in his mind, I suppose."

She was chilled, hardened. And yet this world of passions
and lawlessness was fascinating to her. It seemed to her a
splendid recklessness. Her adventure in life was beginning.
It seemed very splendid.

That evening she stayed at the Marsh till after dark, and
Skrebensky escorted her home. For she could not go away
from him. And she was waiting, waiting for something
more.

In the warm of the early night, with the shadows new about
them, she felt in another, harder, more beautiful, less personal
world. Now a new state should come to pass.

He walked near to her, and with the same silent, intent
approach put his arm round her waist, and softly, very softly,
drew her to him, till his arm was hard and pressed in upon
her; she seemed to be carried along, floating, her feet scarce
touching the ground, borne upon the firm, moving surface
of his body, upon whose side she seemed to lie, in a delicious
swoon of motion. And whilst she swooned, his face bent
nearer to her, her head was leaned on his shoulder, she felt his
warm breath on her face. Then softly, oh softly, so softly
that she seemed to faint away, his lips touched her cheek, and
she drifted through strands of heat and darkness.

Still she waited, in her swoon and her drifting, waited,
like the Sleeping Beauty in the story. She waited, and again
his face was bent to hers, his lips came warm to her face, their
footsteps lingered and ceased, they stood still under the trees,
whilst his lips waited on her face, waited like a butterfly
that does not move on a flower. She pressed her breast a
little nearer to him, he moved, put both his arms round her,
and drew her close.

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 further, 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.

282 THE RAINBOW

She heard him breathing heavily, strangely, beside her. &
terrible and magnificent sense of his strangeness possessed
her. But she shrank a little now, within herself. Hesitat-
ing, 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 further. 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, unbetray-
ing head, whilst Ursula told her secret. Oh, it was so lovely,
his gentle, delicate way of making love ! Ursula talked like
a practised 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.

FIRST LOVE 283

"I don't know — about half-past nine."

There was a pause.

"7 think it's wrong," said Ethel, lifting her head with
impatience. "You don't know him."

She spoke with some contempt.

"Yes, I do. He is half a Pole, and a Baron too. In
England he is equivalent to a Lord. My grandmother was
his father's friend."

But the two friends were hostile. It was as if Ursula
wanted to divide herself from her acquaintances, in asserting
her connection with Anton, as she now called him.

He came a good deal to Cossethay, because her mother
was fond of him. Anna Brangwen became something of a
grande dame with Skrebensky, very calm, taking things for
granted.

"Aren't the children in bed?" cried Ursula petulantly,
as she came in with the young man.

" They will be in bed in half an hour/' said the mother.

" There is no peace," cried Ursula.

" The children must live, Ursula," said her mother.

And Skrebensky was against Ursula in this. Why should
she be so insistent?

But then, as Ursula knew, he did not have the perpetual
tyranny of young children about him. He treated her
mother with great courtliness, to which Mrs. Brangwen re-
turned an easy, friendly hospitality. Something pleased the
girl in her mother's calm assumption of state. It seemed
impossible to abate Mrs. Brangwen's position. She could
never be beneath any one in public relation. Between Brang-
wen and Skrebensky there was an unbridgeable silence.
Sometimes the two men made a slight conversation, but there
was no interchange. Ursula rejoiced to see her father re-
treating into himself against the young man.

She was proud of Skrebensky in the house. His lounging,
languorous indifference irritated her and yet cast a spell over
her. She knew it was the outcome of a spirit of laisser-aller
combined with profound young vitality. Yet it irritated
her deeply.

Notwithstanding, she was proud of him as he lounged in
his lambent fashion in her home, he was so attentive and
courteous to her mother and to herself all the time. It was
wonderful to have his awareness in the room. She felt rich
and augmented by it, as if she were the positive attraction

284 THE RAINBOW

and he the flow towards her. And his courtesy and his agree-
ment might be all her mother's, but the lambent flicker of
his body was for herself. She held it.

She must ever prove her power.

"I meant to show you my little wood-carving," she said.

"I'm sure it's not worth showing, that/' said her father.

"Would you like to see it?" she asked, leaning towards
the door.

And his body had risen from the chair, though his face
seemed to want to agree with her parents.

" It is in the shed," she said.

And he followed her out of the door, whatever his feelings
might be.

In the shed they played at kisses, really played at kisses.
It was a delicious, exciting game. She turned to him, her
face all laughing, like a challenge. And he accepted the
challenge at once. He twined his hand full of her hair, and
gently, with his hand wrapped round with hair behind her
head, gradually brought her face nearer to his, whilst she
laughed breathless with challenge, and his eyes gleamed with
answer, with enjoyment of the game. And he kissed her,
asserting his will over her, and she kissed him back, asserting
her deliberate enjoyment of him. Daring and reckless and
dangerous they knew it was, their game, each playing with
fire, not with love. A sort of defiance of all the world pos-
sessed her in it — she would kiss him just because she wanted
to. And a dare-devilry in him, like a cynicism, a cut at
everything he pretended to serve, retaliated in him.

She was very beautiful then, so wide opened, so radiant,
so palpitating, exquisitely vulnerable and poignantly, wrongly,
throwing herself to risk. It roused a sort of madness in him.
Like a flower shaking and wide-opened in the sun, she tempted
him and challenged him, and he accepted the challenge, some-
thing went fixed in him. And under all her laughing, poig-
nant recklessness was the quiver of tears. That almost sent
him mad, mad with desire, with pain, whose only issue was
through possession of her body.

So, shaken, afraid, they went back to her parents in the
kitchen, and dissimulated. But something was roused in
both of them that they could not now allay. It intensified
and heightened their senses, they were more vivid, and
powerful in their being. But under it all was a poignant
sense of transience. It was a magnificent self-assertion on

FIRST LOVE 285

the part of both of them, he asserted himself before her,
he felt himself infinitely male and infinitely irresistible, she
asserted herself before him, she knew herself infinitely desir-
able, and hence infinitely strong. And after all, what could
either of them get from such a passion but a sense of his
or of her own maximum self, in contradistinction to all the
rest of life? Wherein was something finite and sad, for the
human soul at its maximum wants a sense of the infinite.

Nevertheless, it was begun now, this passion, and must go
on, the passion of Ursula to know her own maximum self,
limited and so defined against him. She could limit and de-
fine herself against him, the male, she could be her maxi-
mum self, female, oh female, triumphant for one moment
in exquisite assertion against the male, in supreme contra-
distinction to the male.

The next afternoon, when he came, prowling, she went
with him across to the church. Her father was gradually
gathering in anger against him, her mother was hardening
in anger against her. But the parents were naturally tolerant
in action.

They went together across the churchyard, Ursula and
Skrebensky, and ran to hiding in the church. It was dimmer
in there than the sunny afternoon outside, but the mellow
glow among the bowed stone was very sweet. The windows
burned in ruby and in blue, they made magnificent arras
to their bower of secret stone.

"What a perfect place for a rendezvous," he said, in a
hushed voice, glancing round.

She too glanced round the familiar interior. The dimness
and stillness chilled her. But her eyes lit up with daring.
Here, here she would assert her indomitable gorgeous female
self, here. Here she would open her female flower like a
flame, in this dimness that was more passionate than light.

They hung apart a moment, then wilfully turned to each
other for the desired contact. She put her arms round him,
she cleaved her body to his, and with her hands pressed upon
his shoulders, on his back, she seemed to feel right through
him, to know his young, tense body right through. And it
was so fine, so hard, yet so exquisitely subject and under her
control. She reached him her mouth and drank his full
kiss, drank it fuller and fuller.

And it was good, it was very, very good. She seemed to
be filled with his kiss, filled as if she had drunk strong, glow-

286 THE RAINBOW

ing sunshine. She glowed all inside, the sunshine seemed
to beat upon her heart underneath, she had drunk so beau-
tifully.

She drew away, and looked at him radiant, exquisitely,
glowingly beautiful, and satisfied, but radiant as an illumined
cloud.

To him this was bitter, that she was so radiant and satisfied.
She laughed upon him, blind to him, so full of her own bliss,
never doubting but that he was the same as she was. And
radiant as an angel she went with him out of the church, as
if her feet were beams of light that walked on flowers for
footsteps.

He went beside her, his soul clenched, his body unsatisfied.
Was she going to make this easy triumph over him? For
him, there was now no self-bliss, only pain and confused
anger.

It was high summer, and the hay-harvest was almost over.
It would be finished on Saturday. On Saturday, however,
Skrebensky was going away. He could not stay any longer.

Having decided to go he became very tender and loving to
her, kissing her gently, with such soft, sweet, insidious close-
ness that they were both of them intoxicated.

The very last Friday of his stay he met her coming out of
school, and took her to tea in the town. Then he had a
motor-car to drive her home.

Her excitement at riding in a motor-car was greatest of
all. He too was very proud of this last coup. He saw
Ursula kindle and flare up to the romance of the situation.
She raised her head like a young horse snuffing with wild
delight.

The car swerved round a corner, and Ursula was swung
against Skrebensky. The contact made her aware of him.
With a swift, foraging impulse she sought for his hand and
clasped it in her own, so close, so combined, as if they were
two children.

The wind blew in on Ursula's face, the mud flew in a soft,
wild rush from the wheels, the country was blackish green,
with the silver of new hay here and there, and masses of
trees under a silver-gleaming sky.

Her hand tightened on his with a new consciousness, trou-
bled. They did not speak for some time, but sat, hand-
fast, with averted, shining faces.

And every now and then the car swung her against him.

FIRST LOVE 287

And they waited for the motion to bring them together.
Yet they stared out of the windows, mute.

She saw the familiar country racing by. But now, it was
no familiar country, it was wonderland. There was the
Hemlock Stone standing on its grassy hill. Strange it looked
on this wet, early summer evening, remote, in a magic land.
Some rooks were flying out of the trees.

Ah, if only she and Skrebensky could get out, dismount
into this enchanted land where nobody had ever been before !
Then they would be enchanted people, they would put off the
dull, customary self. If she were wandering there, on that
hill-slope under a silvery, changing sky, in which many rooks
melted like hurrying showers of blots! If they could walk
past the wetted hay-swaths, smelling the early evening, and
pass in to the wood where the honeysuckle scent was sweet
on the cold tang of the air, and showers of drops fell when
one brushed a bough, cold and lovely on the face !

But she was here with him in the car, close to him, and
the wind was rushing on her lifted, eager face, blowing back
the hair. He turned and looked at her, at her face clean
as a chiselled thing, her hair chiselled back by the wind,
her fine nose keen and lifted.

It was agony to him, seeing her swift and clean-cut and
virgin. He wanted to kill himself, and throw his detested
carcase at her feet. His desire to turn round on himself and
rend himself was an agony to him.

Suddenly she glanced at him. He seemed to be crouching
towards her, reaching, he seemed to wince between the brows.
But instantly, seeing her lighted eyes and radiant face, his
expression changed, his old reckless laugh shone to her. She
pressed his hand in utter delight, and he abided. And sud-
denly she stooped and kissed his hand, bent her head and
caught it to her mouth, in generous homage. And the blood
burned in him. Yet he remained still, he made no move.

She started. They were swinging into Cossethay. Skre-
bensky was going to leave her. But it was all so magic, her
cup was so full of bright wine, her eyes could only shine.

He tapped and spoke to the man. The car swung up by
the yew-trees. She gave him her hand and said good-bye,
naive and brief as a schoolgirl. And she stood watching
him go, her face shining. The fact of his driving on meant
nothing to her, she was so filled by her own bright ecstasy.
She did not see him go, for she was filled with light, which

288 THE RAINBOW

was of him. Bright with an amazing light as she was, how
could she miss him?

In her bedroom she threw her arms in the air in clear pain
of magnificence. Oh, it was her transfiguration, she was be-
yond herself. She wanted to fling herself into all the hidden
brightness of the air. It was there, it was there, if she
could but meet it.

But the next day she knew he had gone. Her glory had
partly died down — but never from her memory. It was too
real. Yet it was gone by, leaving a wistfulness. A deeper
yearning came into her soul, a new reserve.

She shrank from touch and question. She was very proud,
but very new, and very sensitive. Oh, that no one should
lay hands on her !

She was happier running on by herself. Oh, it was a joy
to run along the lanes without seeing things, yet being with
them. It was such a joy to be alone with all one's riches.

The holidays came, when she was free. She spent most
of her time running on by herself, curled up in a squirrel-
place in the garden, lying in a hammock in the coppice, while
the birds came near — near — so near. Or, in rainy weather,
she flitted to the Marsh, and lay hidden with her book in a
hay-loft.

All the time, she dreamed of him, sometimes definitely,
but when she was happiest, only vaguely. He was the warm
colouring to her dreams, he was the hot blood beating within
them.

When she was less happy, out of sorts, she pondered over
his appearance, his clothes, the buttons with his regimental
badge, which he had given her. Or she tried to imagine his
life in barracks. Or she conjured up a vision of herself as
she appeared in his eyes.

His birthday was in August, and she spent some pains on
making him a cake. She felt that it would not be in good
taste for her to give him a present.

Their correspondence was brief, mostly an exchange of
post-cards, not at all frequent. But with her cake she must
send him a letter.

"Dear Anton. The sunshine has come back specially for
your birthday, I think.

" I made the calce myself, and wish you many happy returns

FIRST LOVE 289

of the day. Don't eat it if it is not good. Mother hopes you
will come and see us when you are near enough.

"I am

" Your sincere friend,
" Ursula Brangwen."

It bored her to write a letter even to him. After all,
writing words on paper had nothing to do with him and
her.

The fine weather had set in, the cutting machine went on
from dawn till sunset, chattering round the fields. She
heard from Skrebensky; he too was on duty in the country,
on Salisbury Plain. He was now a second lieutenant in a
Field Troop. He would have a few days off shortly, and
would come to the Marsh for the wedding.

Fred Brangwen was going to marry a schoolmistress out
of Ilkeston as soon as corn-harvest was at an end.

The dim blue-and-gold of a hot, sweet autumn saw the
close of the corn-harvest. To Ursula, it was as if the world
had opened its softest purest flower, its chicory flower, its
meadow saffron. The sky was blue and sweet, the yellow
leaves down the lane seemed like free, wandering flowers
as they chittered round the feet, making a keen, poignant,
almost unbearable music to her heart. And the scents of
autumn were like a summer madness to her. She fled away
from the little, purple-red button-chrysanthemums like a
frightened dryad, the bright yellow little chrysanthemums
smelled so strong, her feet seemed to dither in a drunken
dance.

Then her Uncle Tom appeared, always like the cynical
Bacchus in the picture. He would have a jolly wedding, a
harvest supper and a wedding feast in one : a tent in the home
close, and a band for dancing, and a great feast out of doors.

Fred demurred, but Tom must be satisfied. Also Laura,
a handsome, clever girl, the bride, she also must have a great
and jolly feast. It appealed to her educated sense. She
had been to Salisbury Training College, knew folk-songs and
morris-dancing.

So the preparations were begun, directed by Tom Brangwen.
A marquee was set up on the home close, two large bonfires
were prepared. Musicians were hired, a feast made ready.

Skrebensky was to come, arriving in the morning. Ursula

290 THE RAINBOW

had a new white dress of soft crape, and a white hat. She
liked to wear white. With her black hair and clear golden
skin, she looked southern, or rather tropical, like a Creole.
She wore no colour whatsoever.

She trembled that day as she prepared to go down to the
wedding. She was to be a bridesmaid. Skrebensky would
not arrive till afternoon. The wedding was at two o'clock.

As the wedding-party returned home, Skrebensky stood
in the parlour at the Marsh. Through the window he saw
Tom Brangwen, who was best man, coming up the garden
path most elegant in cut-away coat and white slip and spats,
with Ursula laughing on his arm. Tom Brangwen was hand-
some, with his womanish colouring and dark eyes and black
close-cut moustache. But there was something subtly coarse
and suggestive about him for all his beauty; his strange,
bestial nostrils opened so hard and wide, and his well-shaped
head almost disquieting in its nakedness, rather bald from
the front, and all its soft fulness betrayed.

Skrebensky saw the man rather than the woman. She
was brilliant, with a curious, wordless, distracted animation
which she always felt when with her Uncle Tom, always con-
fused in herself.

But when she met Skrebensky everything vanished. She
saw only the slender, unchangeable youth waiting there in-
scrutable, like her fate. He was beyond her, with his loose,
slightly horsey appearance, that made him seem very manly
and foreign. Yet his face was smooth and soft and impres-
sionable. She shook hands with him, and her voice was like
the rousing of a bird startled by the dawn.

"Isn't it nice," she cried, "to have a wedding?"

There were bits of coloured confetti lodged in her dark
hair.

Again the confusion came over him, as if he were losing
himself and becoming all vague, undefined, inchoate. Yet he
wanted to be hard, manly, horsey. And he followed her.

There was a light tea, and the guests scattered. The
real feast was for the evening. Ursula walked out with Skre-
bensky through the stackyard to the fields, and up the em-
bankment to the canal-side.

The new corn-stacks were big and golden as they went by,
an army of white geese marched aside in braggart protest.
Ursula was light as a white ball of down. Skrebensky drifted
beside .her, indefinite, his old form loosened., and another self,

FIRST LOVE 291

grey, vague, drifting out as from a bud. They talked lightly,
of nothing.

The blue way of the canal wound softly between the autumn
hedges, on towards the greenness of a small hill. On the
left was the whole black agitation of colliery and railway and
the town which rose on its hill, the church tower topping all.
The round white dot of the clock on the tower was distinct
in the evening light.

That way, Ursula felt, was the way to London, through
the grim, alluring seethe of the town. On the other hand
was the evening, mellow over the green water-meadows and
the winding alder-trees beside the river, and the pale stretches
of stubble beyond. There the evening glowed softly, and
even a pee-wit was flapping in solitude and peace.

Ursula and Anton Skrebensky walked along the ridge of
the canal between. The berries on the hedges were crimson
and bright red, above the leaves. The glow of evening and
the wheeling of the solitary pee-wit and the faint cry of the
birds came to meet the shuffling noise of the pits, the dark,
fuming stress of the town opposite, and they two walked the
blue strip of water-way, the ribbon of sky between.

He was looking, Ursula thought, very beautiful, because
of a flush of sunburn on his hands and face. He was telling
her hew he had learned to shoe horses and select cattle fit for
killing.

" Do you like to be a soldier ? " she asked.

" I am not exactly a soldier," he replied.

" But you only do things for wars," she said.

" Yes."

" Would you like to go to war ? "

"I? Well, it would be exciting. If there were a war I
would want to go."

A strange, distracted feeling came over her, a sense of
potent unrealities.

"Why would you want to go?"

"I should be doing something, it would be genuine. It's
a sort of toy-life as it is."

" But what would you be doing if you went to war ? "

"I would be making railways or bridges, working like a
nigger."

" But you'd only make them to be pulled down again when
the armies had done with them. It seems just as much a
game."

THE RAINBOW

" If you call war a game."

"What is it?"

" It's about the most serious business there is, fighting."

A sense of hard separateness came over her.

"Why is fighting more serious than anything else?" she
asked.

" You either kill or get killed — and I suppose it is serious
enough, killing."

" But when you're dead you don't matter any more," she
said.

He was silenced for a moment.

" But the result matters," he said. " It matters whether
we settle the Mahdi or not."

" Not to you — nor me — we don't care about Khartoum."

" You want to have room to live in : and somebody has to
make room."

" But I don't want to live in the desert of Sahara — do
you ? " she replied, laughing with antagonism.

"I don't — but we've got to back up those who do."

"Why have we?"

" Where is the nation if we don't ? "

" But we aren't the nation. There are heaps of other
people who are the nation."

" They might say they weren't either."

" Well, if everybody said it, there wouldn't be a nation.
But I should still be myself," she asserted brilliantly.

" You wouldn't be yourself if there were no nation."

"Why not?"

" Because you'd just be a prey to everybody and anybody."

"How a prey?"

"They'd come and take everything you'd got."

"Well, they couldn't take much even then. I don't care
what they take. I'd rather have a robber who carried me
off than a millionaire who gave me everything you can
buy."

"That's because you are a romanticist."

" Yes, I am. I want to be romantic. I hate houses that
never go away, and people just living in the houses. It's
all so stiff and stupid. I hate soldiers, they are stiff and
wooden. What do you fight for, really ? "

"I would fight for the nation."

" For all that, you aren't the nation. What would you do
for yourself ? "

FI&ST LOVE 293

* I belong to the nation and must do my duty by the na-
tion."

"But when it didn't need your services in particular —
when there is no fighting? What would you do then?"

He was irritated.

"I would do what everybody else does."

"What?"

"Nothing. I would be in readiness for when I was
needed."

The answer came in exasperation.

" It seems to me," she answered, " as if you weren't any-
body— as if there weren't anybody there, where you are.
Are you anybody, really? You seem like nothing to me."

They had walked till they had reached a wharf, just above
a lock. There an empty barge, painted with a red and
yellow cabin hood, but with a long, coal-black hold, was lying
moored. A man, lean and grimy, was sitting on a box against
the cabin-side by the door, smoking, and nursing a baby that
was wrapped in a drab shawl, and looking into the glow of
evening. A woman bustled out, sent a pail dashing into
the canal, drew her water, and bustled in again. Children's
voices were heard. A thin blue smoke ascended from the
cabin chimney, there was a smell of cooking.

Ursula, white as a moth, lingered to look. Skrebensky
lingered by her. The man glanced up.

" Good evening," he called, half impudent, half attracted.
He had blue eyes which glanced impudently from his grimy
face.

"Good evening," said Ursula, delighted. "Isn't it nice
now?"

"Ay," said the man, "very nice."

His mouth was red under his ragged, sandy moustache.
His teeth were white as he laughed.

" Oh, but " stammered Ursula, laughing, " it is. Why

do you say it as if it weren't ? "

"'Appen for them as is childt-nursin' it's none so rosy."

" May I look inside your barge ? " asked Ursula.

" There's nobody'll stop you ; you come if you like."

The barge lay at the opposite bank, at the wharf. It was
the Annabel, belonging to J. Ruth of Loughborough. The
man watched Ursula closely from his keen, twinkling eyes.
His fair hair was wispy on his grimed forehead. Two dirty
children appeared to see who was talking.

294 THE RAINBOW

Ursula glanced at the great lock gates. They were shut,
and the water was sounding, spurting and trickling down in
the gloom beyond. On this side the bright water was almost
to the top of the gate. She went boldly across, and round
to the wharf.

Stooping from the bank, she peeped into the cabin, where
was a red glow of fire and the shadowy figure of a woman.
She did want to go down.

" You'll mess your frock," said the man, warningly.

"I'll be careful," she answered. "May I come?"

" Ay, come if you like."

She gathered her skirts, lowered her foot to the side of
the boat, and leapt down, laughing. Coal-dust flew up.

The woman came to the door. She was plump and sandy-
haired, young, with an odd, stubby nose.

" Oh, you will make a mess of yourself," she cried, sur-
prised and laughing with a little wonder.

"I did want to see. Isn't it lovely living on a barge?"
asked Ursula.

" I don't live on one altogether," said the woman cheerfully.

" She's got her parlour an' her plush suite in Lough-
borough," said her husband with just pride.

Ursula peeped into the cabin, where saucepans were boiling
and some dishes were on the table. It was very hot. Then
she came out again. The man was talking to the baby. It
was a blue-eyed, fresh-faced thing with floss of red-gold hair.

" Is it a boy or a girl ? " she asked.

" It's a girl — aren't you a girl, eh ? " he shouted at the
infant, shaking his head. Its little face wrinkled up into
the oddest, funniest smile.

"Oh!" cried Ursula. "Oh, the dear! Oh, how nice
when she laughs ! "

" She'll laugh hard enough," said the father.

" What is her name ? " asked Ursula.

" She hasn't got a name, she's not worth one," said the
man. "Are you, you fag-end o' nothing?" he shouted to
the baby. The baby laughed.

"No, we've been that busy, we've never took her to th'
registry office," came the woman's voice. " She was born
on th' boat here."

"But you know what you're going to call her?" asked
Ursula.

" We did think of Gladys Em'ly," said the mother.

FIRST LOVE 295

" We thought of nowt o' th' sort," said the father.

" Hark at him ! What do you want ? " cried the mother
in exasperation.

" She'll be called Annabel after th' boat she was born on."

" She's not, so there," said the mother, viciously defiant.

The father sat in humorous malice, grinning.

"Well, you'll see," he said.

And Ursula could tell, by the woman's vibrating exaspera-
tion, that he would never give way.

"They're all nice names," she said. "Call her Gladys
Annabel Emily."

"Nay, that's heavy-laden, if you like," he answered.

"You see!" cried the woman. "He's that pig-headed!"

"And she's so nice, and she laughs, and she hasn't even
got a name," crooned Ursula to the child.

"Let me hold her," she added.

He yielded her the child, that smelt of babies. But it
had such blue, wide, china eyes, and it laughed so oddly, with
such a taking grimace, Ursula loved it. She cooed and
talked to it. It was such an odd, exciting child.

" What's your name ? " the man suddenly asked of her.

" My name is Ursula — Ursula Brangwen," she replied.

" Ursula ! " he exclaimed, dumf ounded.

" There was a Saint Ursula. It's a very old name," she
added hastily, in justification.

" Hey, mother ! " he called.

There was no answer.

"Pern!" he called, "can't y'hear?"

"What?" came the short answer.

" What about < Ursula ' ? " he grinned.

"What about what?" came the answer, and the woman
appeared in the doorway, ready for combat.

" 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 ef-
fect of white elegance, and her tender way of holding the
child.

"Why, how do you write it?" the mother asked, awk-
ward 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.

THE RAINBOW

" 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 un-
derneath.

" 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 glis-

FIRST LOVE 297

tened 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 ex-
amine 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 ef-
fusive. The man stood silent by the ladder.

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

" I love d 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 under-
neath."

She went hastening on, gladdened by having met the grimy,
lean man with the ragged moustache. He gave her a pleas-
ant 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

298 THE RAINBOW

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, mak-
ing her glint with more, like phosphorescence. And her
greenish eyes seemed to rock a secret, and her hands like
mother-of-pearl seemed luminous, transparent, as if the secret
were burning visible in them.

At the end of supper, during dessert, the music began to
play, violins, and flutes. Everybody's face was lit up. A
glow of excitement prevailed. When the little speeches were
over, and the port remained unreached for any more, those
who wished were invited out to the open for coffee. The
night was warm.

Bright stars were shining, the moon was not yet up. And
under the stars burned two great, red, flameless fires, and
round these lights and lanterns hung, the marquee stood open
before a fire, with its lights inside.

The young people flocked out into the mysterious night.
There was sound of laughter and voices, and a scent of coffee.
The farm-buildings loomed dark in the background. Figures,
pale and dark, flitted about, intermingling. The red fire
glinted on a white or a silken skirt, the lanterns gleamed on
the transient heads of the wedding guests.

To Ursula it was wonderful. She felt she was a new being.
The darkness seemed to breathe like the sides of some great
beast, the haystacks loomed half-revealed, a crowd of them,
a dark, fecund lair just behind. Waves of delirious darkness
ran through her soul. She wanted to let go. She wanted

FIRST LOVE 299

to reach and be amongst the flashing stars, she wanted to
race with her feet and be beyond the confines of this earth.
She was mad to be gone. It was as if a hound were straining
on the le#sh, ready to hurl itself after a nameless quarry into
the dark. And she was the quarry, and she was also the
hound. The darkness was passionate and breathing with
immense, unperceived heaving. It was waiting to receive
her in her flight. And how could she start — and how could
she let go ? She must leap from the known into the unknown.
Her feet and hands beat like a madness, her breast strained
as if in bonds.

The music began, and the bonds began to slip. Tom Brang-
wen was dancing with the bride, quick and fluid and as if
in another element, inaccessible as the creatures that move in
the water. Fred Brangwen went in with another partner.
The music came in waves. One couple after another was
washed and absorbed into the deep underwater of the dance.

" Come," said Ursula to Skrebensky, laying her hand on his
arm.

At the touch of her hand on his arm, his consciousness
melted away from him. He took her into his arms, as if
into the sure, subtle power of his will, and they became one
movement, one dual movement, dancing on the slippery grass.
It would be endless, this movement, it would continue for ever.
It was his will and her will locked in a trance of motion, two
wills locked in one motion, yet never fusing, never yielding
one to the other. It was a glaucous, intertwining, delicious
flux and contest in flux.

They were both absorbed into a profound silence, into a
deep, fluid underwater energy that gave them unlimited
strength. All the dancers were waving intertwined in the
flux of music. Shadowy couples passed and repassed before
the fire, the dancing feet danced silently by into the dark-
ness. It was a vision of the depths of the underworld, under
the great flood.

There was a wonderful rocking of the darkness, slowly, a
great, slow swinging of the whole night, with the music play-
ing lightly on the surface, making the strange, ecstatic, rip-
pling on the surface of the dance, but underneath only one
great flood heaving slowly backwards to the verge of oblivion,
slowly forward to the other verge, the heart sweeping along
each time, and tightening with anguish as the limit was
reached, and the movement, at crises, turned and swept

SOO THE RAINBOW

As the dance surged heavily on, Ursula was aware of some
influence looking in upon her. Something was looking at
her. Some powerful, glowing sight was looking right into
her, not upon her, but right at her. Out of the great dis-
tance, and yet imminent, the powerful, overwhelming watch
was kept upon her. And she danced on and on with Skre-
bensky, while the great, white watching continued, balanc-
ing all in its revelation.

"The moon has risen," said Anton, as the music ceased,
and they found themselves suddenly stranded, like bits of
jetsam on a shore. She turned, and saw a great white moon
looking at her over the hill. And her breast opened to it,
she was cleaved like a transparent jewel to its light. She
stood filled with the full moon, offering herself. Her two
breasts opened to make way for it, her body opened wide like
a quivering anemone, a soft, dilated invitation touched by the
moon. She wanted the moon to fill in to her, she wanted
more, more communion with the moon, consummation. But
Skrebensky put his arm round her and led her away. He
put a big, dark cloak round her, and sat holding her hand,
whilst the moonlight streamed above the glowing fires.

She was not there. Patiently she sat, under the cloak,
with Skrebensky holding her hand. But her naked self was
away there beating upon the moonlight, dashing the moon-
light with her breasts and her knees, in meeting, in com-
munion. She half started, to go in actuality, to fling away
her clothing and flee away, away from this dark confusion
and chaos of people to the hill and the moon. But the
petfple stood round her like stones, like magnetic stones, and
she could not go, in actuality. Skrebensky, like a load-stone
weighed on her, the weight of his presence detained her. She
felt the burden of him, the blind, persistent, inert burden.
He was inert, and he weighed upon her. She sighed in pain.
Oh, for the coolness and entire liberty and brightness of the
moon. Oh, for the cold liberty to be herself, to do entirely as
she liked. She wanted to get right away. She felt like
bright metal weighted down by dark, impure magnetism. He
was the dross, people were the dross. If she could but get
away to the clean free moonlight.

"Don't you like me to-night?" said his low voice, the
voice of the shadow over her shoulder. She clenched her
hands in the dewy brilliance of the moon, as if she were mad.

" Don't you like me to-night ? " repeated the soft voice.

FIRST LOVE 301

And she knew that if she turned, she would die. A strange
rage filled her, a rage to tear things asunder. Her hands feit
destructive, like metal blades of destruction.

" Let me alone," she said.

A darkness, an obstinacy settled on him too, in a kind of
inertia. He sat inert beside her. She threw off her cloak
and walked towards the moon, silver-white herself. He fol-
lowed her closely.

The music began again and the dance. He appropriated
her. There was a fierce, white, cold passion in her heart.
But he held her close, and danced with her. Always present,
like a soft weight upon her, bearing her down, was his body
against her as they danced. He held her very close, so that
she 2ould feel his body, the weight of him sinking, settling
upon her, overcoming her life and energy, making her inert
alonf with him, she felt his hands pressing behind her, upon
her. But still in her body was the subdued, cold, indomitable
passion. She liked the dance: it eased her, put her into a
fort of trance. But it was only a kind of waiting, of using
ip the time that intervened between her and her pure being.
She left herself against him, she let him exert all his power
»ver her, as if he would gain power over her, to bear her
(own. She received all the force of his power. She even
yished he might overcome her. She was cold and unmoved as
; pillar of salt.

His will was set and straining with all its tension to en-
ompass him and compel her. If he could only compel her.
le seemed to be annihilated. She was cold and hard and
ompact of brilliance as the moon itself, and beyond him as
tie moonlight was beyond him, never to be grasped or known.
I he could only set a bond round her and compel her!

So they danced four or five dances, always together, al-
ways his will becoming more tense, his body more subtle,
paying upon her. And still he had not got her, she was
hrd and bright as ever, intact. But he must weave himself
Dund her, enclose her, enclose her in a net of shadow, of
arkness, so she would be like a bright creature gleaming
i a net of shadows, caught. Then he would have her, he
•wild enjoy her. How he would enjoy her, when she was
aught.

At last, when the dance was over, she would not sit down,
he walked away. He came with his arm round her, keep-
og her upon the movement of his walking. And she seemed

302 THE RAINBOW

to agree. She was bright as a piece of moonlight, as bright
as a steel blade, he seemed to be clasping a blade that hurt
him. Yet he would clasp her, if it killed him.

They went towards the stackyard. There he saw, with
something like terror, the great new stacks of corn glistening
and gleaming transfigured, silvery and present under the
night-blue sky, throwing dark, substantial shadows, but them-
selves majestic and dimly present. She, like glimmering
gossamer, seemed to burn among them, as they rose like coli
fires to the silvery-bluish air. All was intangible, a burnirg
of cold, glimmering, whitish-steely fires. He was afraid of
the great moon-conflagration of the cornstacks rising above
him. His heart grew smaller, it began to fuse like a bead.
He knew he would die.

She stood for some moments out in the overwhelning
luminosity of the moon. She seemed a beam of gleaming
power. She was afraid of what she was. Looking at hin, at
his shadowy, unreal, wavering presence a sudden lust seized
her, to lay hold of him and tear him and make him into noth-
ing. Her hands and wrists felt immeasurably hard and
strong, like blades. He waited there beside her like a shadow
which she wanted to dissipate, destroy as the moonlight de-
stroys a darkness, annihilate, have done with. She looked at
him and her face gleamed bright and inspired. She tempted
him.

And an obstinacy in him made him put his arm round her
and draw her to the shadow. She submitted: let him try
what he could do. Let him try what he could do. He leaned
against the side of the stack, holding her. The stack stung
him keenly with a thousand cold, sharp flames. Still ob
stinately he held her.

And timorously, his hands went over her, over the salt
compact brilliance of her body. If he could but have hei
how he would enjoy her ! If he could but net her brilliant
cold, salt-burning body in the soft iron of his own hands, ne|
her, capture her, hold her down, how madly he would enjoj
her. He strove subtly, but with all his energy, to enclosj
her, to have her. And always she was burning and brillian
and hard as salt, and deadly. Yet obstinately, all his flesl
burning and corroding, as if he were invaded by some con
suming, scathing poison, still he persisted, thinking at las
he might overcome her. Even, in his frenzy, he sought fo

FIRST LOVE 303

her mouth with his mouth, though it was like putting his
face into some awful death. She yielded to him, and he
pressed himself upon her in extremity, his soul groaning over
and over.

She took him in the kiss, hard her kiss seized upon him,
hard and fierce and burning corrosive as the moonlight. She
seemed to be destroying him. He was reeling, summoning
all his strength to keep his kiss upon her, to keep himself
in the kiss.

But hard and fierce she had fastened upon him, cold as
the moon and burning as a fierce salt. Till gradually his
warm, soft iron yielded, yielded, and she was there fierce,
corrosive, seething with his destruction, seething like some
cruel, corrosive salt around the last substance of his being,
destroying him, destroying him in the kiss. And her soul
crystallized with triumph, and his soul was dissolved with
agony and annihilation. So she held him there, the victim,
consumed, annihilated. She had triumphed : he was not any
more.

Gradually she began to come to herself. Gradually a sort
of daytime consciousness came back to her. Suddenly the
night was struck back into its old, accustomed, mild real-
ity. Gradually she realized that the night was common
and ordinary, that the great, blistering, transcendent night
did not really exist. She was overcome with slow horror.
Where was she? What was this nothingness she felt? The
nothingness was Skrebensky. Was he really there? — who
was he? He was silent, he was not there. What had hap-
pened? Had she been mad: what horrible thing had pos-
sessed her? She was filled with overpowering fear of her-
self, overpowering desire that it should not be, that other
burning, corrosive self. She was seized with a frenzied de-
sire that what had been should never be remembered, never be
thought of, never be for one moment allowed possible. She
denied it with all her might. With all her might she turned
away from it. She was good, she was loving. Her heart
was warm, her blood was dark and warm and soft. She laid
her hand caressively on Anton's shoulder.

"Isn't it lovely?" she said, softly, coaxingly, caressingly.
And she began to caress him to life again. For he was dead.
And she intended that he should never know, never become
aware, pf what had been. She would bring him back from the

304 THE RAINBOW

dead without leaving him one trace of fact to remember his
annihilation by.

She exerted all her ordinary, warm self, she touched him,
she did him homage of loving awareness. And gradually he
came back to her, another man. She was soft and winning
and caressing. She was his servant, his adoring slave. And
she restored the whole shell of him. She restored the whole
form and figure of him. But the core was gone. His pride
was bolstered up, his blood ran once more in pride. But
there was no core to him : as a distinct male he had no core.
His triumphant, flaming, overweening heart of the intrinsic
male would never beat again. He would be subject now,
reciprocal, never the indomitable thing with a core of over-
weening, unabateable fire. She had abated that fire, she
had broken him.

But she caressed him. She would not have him remember
what had been. She would not remember herself.

" Kiss me, Anton, kiss me," she pleaded.

He kissed her, but she knew he could not touch her. His
arms were round her, but they had not got her. She could
feel his mouth upon her, but she was not at all compelled by
it.

"Kiss me," she whispered, in acute distress, "kiss me."

And he kissed her as she bade him, but his heart was hol-
low. She took his kisses, outwardly. But her soul was empty
and finished.

Looking away, she saw the delicate glint of oats dangling
from the side of the stack, in the moonlight, something proud
and royal, and quite impersonal. She had been proud with
them, where they were, she had been also. But in this
temporary warm world of the commonplace, she was a kind,
good girl. She reached out yearningly for goodness and af-
fection. She wanted to be kind and good.

They went home through the night that was all pale and
glowing around, with shadows and glimmerings and pres-
ences. Distinctly, she saw the flowers in the hedge-bottoms,
she saw the thin, raked sheaves flung white upon the thorny
hedge.

How beautiful, how beautiful it was! She thought with
anguish how wildly happy she was to-night, since he had kissed
her. But as he walked with his arm round her waist, she
turned with a great offering of herself to the night that glis-
tened tremendous, a magnificent godly moon, white, and can-

FIRST LOVE 305

did as a bridegroom, flowers silvery and transformed filling
up the shadows.

He kissed her again, under the yew-trees at home, and she
left him. She ran from the intrusion of her parents at
home, to her bedroom, where, looking out on the moonlit coun-
try, she stretched up her arms, hard, hard, in bliss, agony
offering herself to the blond, debonair presence of the
night.

But there was a wound of sorrow, she had hurt herself, as
if she had bruised herself, in annihilating him. She covered
up her two young breasts with her hands, covering them to
herself; and covering herself with herself, she crouched in
bed, to sleep.

In the morning the sun shone, she got up strong and danc-
ing. Skrebensky was still at the Marsh. He was coming to
church. How lovely, how amazing life was! On the fresh
Sunday morning she went out to the garden, among the yel-
lows and the deep-vibrating reds of autumn, she smelled the
earth and felt the gossamer, the cornfields across the country
were pale and unreal, everywhere was the intense silence of
the Sunday morning, filled with unacquainted noises. She
smelled the body of the earth, it seemed to stir its powerful
flank beneath her as she stood. In the bluish air came the
powerful exudation, the peace was the peace of strong, ex-
hausted breathing, the reds and yellows and the white gleam
of stubble were the quivers and motion of the last subsiding
transports and clear bliss of fulfilment.

The church-bells were ringing when he came. She looked
up in keen anticipation at his entry. But he was troubled
and his pride was hurt. He seemed very much clothed, she
was conscious of his tailored suit.

" Wasn't it lovely last night ? " she whispered to him.

"Yes," he said. But his face did not open nor become
free.

The service and the singing in church that morning passed
unnoticed by her. She saw the coloured glow of the windows,
the forms of the worshippers. Only she glanced at the book
of Genesis, which was her favourite book in the Bible.

" And God blessed Noah and his sons, and said unto them,
Be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth.

"And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be
upon every beast of the earth, and upon every fowl of the
air, upon all that moveth upon the earth, and upon all

306 THE RAINBOW

the fishes in the sea; into your hand are they delivered.

" Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you ;
even as the green herb have I given you all things."

But Ursula was not moved by the history this morning.
Multiplying and replenishing the earth bored her. Altogether
it seemed merely a vulgar and stock-raising sort of business.
She was left quite cold by man's stock-breeding lordship over
beast and fishes.

"And you, be ye fruitful and multiply; bring forth
abundantly in the earth, and multiply therein."

In her soul she mocked at this multiplication, every cow
becoming two cows, every turnip ten turnips.

" And God said ; This is the token of the covenant which
I make between me and you and every living creature that
is with you, for perpetual generations;

" I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be a token of
a covenant between me and the earth.

" And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the
earth, that a bow shall be seen in the cloud ;

"And I will remember my covenant, which is between
me and you and every living creature of all flesh, and the
waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh."

" Destroy all flesh," why " flesh " in particular? Who was
this lord of flesh ? After all, how big was the Flood ? Per-
haps a few dryads and fauns had just run into the hills and
the further valleys and woods, frightened, but most had gone
on blithely unaware of any flood at all, unless the nymphs
should tell them. It pleased Ursula to think of the naiads
in Asia Minor meeting the nereids at the mouth of the
streams, where the sea washed against the fresh, sweet tide,
and calling to their sisters the news of Noah's Flood. They
would tell amusing accounts of Noah in his ark. Some
nymphs would relate how they had hung on the side of the
ark, peeped in, and heard Noah and Shem and Ham and
Japeth, sitting in their place under the rain, saying, how they
four were the only men on earth now, because the Lord
had drowned all the rest, so that they four would have every-
thing to themselves, and be masters of every thing, sub-ten-
ants under the great Proprietor.

Ursula wished she had been a nymph. She would have
laughed through the window of the ark, and flicked drops of
the flood at Noah, before she drifted away to people who
were less important in their Proprietor and their Flood.

FIRST LOVE 307

What was God, after all? If maggots in a dead dog be
but God kissing carrion, what then is not God? She was
surfeited of this God. She was weary of the Ursula Brang-
wen who felt troubled about God. What ever God was, He
was, and there was no need for her to trouble about Him. She
felt she had now all licence.

Skrebensky sat beside her, listening to the sermon, to the
voice of law and order. "The very hairs of your head are
all numbered." He did not believe it. He believed his own
things were quite at his own disposal. You could do as you
liked with your own things, so long as you left other people's
alone.

Ursula caressed him and made love to him. Nevertheless
he knew she wanted to react upon him and to destroy his
being. She was not with him, she was against him. But
her making love to him, her complete admiration of him, in
open life, gratified him.

She caught him out of himself, and they were lovers, in
a young, romantic, almost fantastic way. He gave her a
little ring. They put it in Ehine wine, in their glass, and she
drank, then he drank. They drank till the ring lay exposed
at the bottom of the glass. Then she took the simple jewel,
and tied it on a thread round her neck, where she wore it.

He asked her for a photograph when he was going away.
She went in great excitement to the photographer, with five
shillings. The result was an ugly little picture of herself
with her mouth on one side. She wondered over it and ad-
mired it.

He saw only the live face of the girl. The picture hurt
him. He kept it, he always remembered it, but he could
scarcely bear to see it. There was a hurt to his soul in the
clear, fearless face that was touched with abstraction. Its
abstraction was certainly away from him.

Then war was declared with the Boers in South Africa, and
everywhere was a fizz of excitement. He wrote that he might
have to go. And he sent her a box of sweets.

She was slightly dazed at the thought of his going to the
war, not knowing how to feel. It was a sort of romantic
situation that she knew so well in fiction she hardly under-
stood it in fact. Underneath a top elation was a sort of
dreariness, deep, ashy disappointment.

However, she secreted the sweets under her bed, and ate
them all herself, when she went to bed, and when she woke

308 THE RAINBOW

in the morning. All the time she felt very guilty and
ashamed, but she simply did not want to share them.

That box of sweets remained stuck in her mind afterwards.
Why had she secreted them and eaten them every one ? Why ?
She did not feel guilty — she only knew she ought to feel
guilty. And she could not make up her mind. Curiously
monumental that box of sweets stood up, now it was empty.
It was a crux for her. What was she to think of it ?

The idea of war altogether made her feel uneasy, uneasy.
When men began organized fighting with each other it seemed
to her as if the poles of the universe were cracking, and the
whole might go tumbling into the bottomless pit. A hor-
rible bottomless feeling she had. Yet of course there was
the minted superscription of romance and honour and even
religion about war. She was very confused.

Skrebensky was busy, he could not come to see her. She
asked for no assurance, no security. What was between
them, was, and could not be altered by avowals. She knew
that by instinct, she trusted to the intrinsic reality.

But she felt an agony of helplessness. She could do noth-
ing. Vaguely she knew the huge powers of the world rolling
and crashing together, darkly, clumsily, stupidly, yet colossal,
so that one was brushed along almost as dust. Helpless,
helpless, swirling like dust ! Yet she wanted so hard to rebel,
to rage, to fight. But with what ?

Could she with her hands fight the face of the earth, beat
the hills in their places? Yet her breast wanted to fight,
to fight the whole world. And these two small hands were
all she had to do it with.

The months went by, and it was Christmas — the snowdrops
came. There was a little hollow in the wood near Cosse-
thay, where snowdrops grew wild. She sent him some in a
box, and he wrote her a quick little note of thanks — very
grateful and wistful he seemed. Her eyes grew childlike and
puzzled. Puzzled from day to day she went on, helpless, car-
ried along by all that must happen.

He went about at his duties, giving himself up to them.
At the bottom of his heart his self, the soul that aspired and
had true hope of self-effectuation lay as dead, still-born, a
dead weight in his womb. Who was he, to hold important his
personal connection ? What did a man matter personally ?
He was just a brick in the whole great social fabric, the na-
tion, the modern humanity. His personal movements were

FIRST LOVE 309

email, and entirely subsidiary. The whole form must be en-
sured, not ruptured, for any personal reason whatsoever, since
no personal reason could justify such a breaking. What did
personal intimacy matter ? One had to fill one's place in the
whole, the great scheme of man's elaborate civilization, that
was all. The Whole mattered — but the unit, the person,
had no importance, except as he represented the Whole.

So Skrebensky left the girl out and went his way, serving
what he had to serve, and enduring what he had to endure,
without remark. To his own intrinsic life, he was dead.
And he could not rise again from the dead. His soul lay in
the tomb. His life lay in the established order of things.
He had his five senses too. They were to be gratified. Apart
from this, he represented the great, established, extant Idea
of life, and as this he was important and beyond question.

The good of the greatest number was all that mattered.
That which was the greatest good for them all, collectively,
was the greatest good for the individual. And so, every
man must give himself to support the state, and so labour
for the greatest good of all. One might make improvements
in the state, perhaps, but always with a view to preserving it
intact.

No highest good of the community, however, would give
him the vital fulfilment of his soul. He knew this. But he
did not consider the soul of the individual sufficiently impor-
tant. He believed a man was important in so far as he repre-
sented all humanity.

He could not see, it was not born in him to see, that the
highest good of the community as it stands is no longer the
highest good of even the average individual. He thought
that, because the community represents millions of people,
therefore it must be millions of times more important than
any individual, forgetting that the community is an abstrac-
tion from the many, and is not the many themselves. Now
when the statement of the abstract good for the community
has become a formula lacking in all inspiration or value
to the average intelligence, then the "common good" be-
comes a general nuisance, representing the vulgar, conserva-
tive materialism at a low level.

And by the highest good of the greatest number is chiefly
meant the material prosperity of all classes. Skrebensky
did not really care about his own material prosperity. If
he had been penniless — well, he would have taken his chances.

310 THE JRAINBOW

Therefore how could he find his highest good in giving up
his life for the material prosperity of everybody else ! What
he considered an unimportant thing for himself he could not
think worthy of every sacrifice on behalf of other people.
And that which he would consider of the deepest importance
to himself as an individual — oh, he said, you mustn't con-
sider the community from that standpoint. No — no — we
know what the community wants; it wants something solid,
it wants good wages, equal opportunities, good conditions of
living, that's what the community wants. It doesn't want
anything subtle or difficult. Duty is very plain — keep in
mind the material, the immediate welfare of every man, that's
all.

So there came over Skrebensky a sort of nullity, which
more and more terrified Ursula. She felt there was something
hopeless which she had to submit to. She felt a great sense
of disaster impending. Day after day was made inert with
a sense of disaster. She became morbidly sensitive, depressed,
apprehensive. It was anguish to her when she saw one rook
slowly flapping in the sky. That was a sign of ill-omen.
And the foreboding became so black and so powerful in her,
that she was almost extinguished.

Yet what was the matter? At the worst he was only
going away. Why did she mind, what was it she feared?
She did not know. Only she had a black dread possessing
her. When she went at night and saw the big, flashing stars
they seemed terrible, by day she was always expecting some
charge to be made against her.

He wrote in March to say that he was going to South
Africa in a short time, but before he went, he would snatch
a day at the Marsh.

As if in a painful dream, she waited suspended, unresolved.
She did not know, she could not understand. Only she felt
that all the threads of her fate were being held taut, in sus-
pense. She only wept sometimes as she went about, saying
blindly :

" I am so fond of him, I am so fond of him."

He came. But why did he come? She looked at him
for a sign. He gave no sign. He did not even kiss her. He
behaved as if he were an affable, usual acquaintance. This
was superficial, but what did it hide? She waited for him,
she wanted him to make some sign.

So the whole of the day they wavered and avoided con-

FIRST LOVE 311

tact, until evening. Then, laughing, saying he would be back
in six months' time and would tell them all about it, he shook
hands with her mother and took his leave.

Ursula accompanied him into the lane. The night was
windy, the yew-trees seethed and hissed and vibrated. The
wind seemed to rush about among the chimneys and the
church-tower. It was dark.

The wind blew Ursula's face, and her clothes cleaved to
her limbs. But it was a surging, turgid wind, instinct with
compressed vigour of life. And she seemed to have lost
Skrebensky. Out there in the strong, urgent night she could
not find him.

" Where are you ? " she asked.

" Here," came his bodiless voice.

And groping, she touched him. A fire like lightning
drenched them.

"Anton?" she said.

"What?" he answered.

She held him with her hands in the darkness, she felt his
body again with hers.

" Don't leave me — come back to me," she said.

" Yes," he said, holding her in his arms.

But the male in him was scotched by the knowledge that
she was not under his spell nor his influence. He wanted to
go away from her. He rested in the knowledge that to-
morrow he was going away, his life was really elsewhere.
His life was elsewhere — his life was elsewhere — the centre of
his life was not what she would have. She was different —
there was a breach between them. They were hostile worlds.

" You will come back to me ? " she reiterated.

"Yes," he said. And he meant it. But as one keeps an
appointment, not as a man returning to his fulfilment.

So she kissed him, and went indoors, lost. He walked
down to the Marsh abstracted. The contact with her hurt
him, and threatened him. He shrank, he had to be free of
her spirit. For she would stand before him, like the angel
before Balaam, and drive him back with a sword from the
way he was going, into a wilderness.

The next day she went to the station to see him go. She
looked at him, she turned to him, but he was always so
strange and null — so null. He was so collected. She
thought it was that which made him null. Strangely nothing
he was.

RAINBOW

Ursula stood near to him with a mute, pale face which lie
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 spec-
tator 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 won-
dered 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, down-
ward 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.

FIRST LOVE 31S

"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 dis-
belief. 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.

She had her blind agonies, when she wanted him, she
wanted him. But from the moment of his departure, he
had become a visionary thing of her own. All her roused
torment and passion and yearning she turned to him.

She kept a diary, in which she wrote impulsive thoughts.
Seeing the moon in the sky, her own heart surcharged, she
went and wrote:

"If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down."
It meant so much to her, that sentence — she put into it
all the anguish of her youth and her young passion and yearn-
ing. She called to him from her heart wherever she went,
her limbs vibrated with anguish towards him wherever she
was, the radiating force of her soul seemed to travel to him,
endlessly, endlessly, and in her soul's own creation, find
him.

But who was he, and where did he exist ? In her own de-
sire only.

She received a post-card from him, and she put it in her
bosom. It did not mean much to her, really. The second
day, she lost it, and never even remembered she had had it,
till some days afterwards.

The long weeks went by. There came the constant bad
news of the war. And she felt as if all, outside there in the
world, were a hurt, a hurt against her. And something in
her soul remained cold, apathetic, unchanging.

Her life was always only partial at this time, never did she
live completely. There was the cold, unliving part of her.
Yet she was madly sensitive. She could not bear herself.
When a dirty, red-eyed old woman came begging of her in

THE RAINBOW

the street, slie started away as from an unclean thing. And
then, when the old woman shouted acrid insults after her,
she winced, her limbs palpitated with insane torment, she
could not bear herself. Whenever she thought of the red-
eyed old women, a/ sort of madness ran in inflammation over
hier flesh and her brain, she almost wanted to kill herself.

And in this state, her sexual life flamed into a kind of
disease within her. She was so overwrought and sensitive,
that the mere touch of coarse wool seemed to tear her nerves.

CHAPTER XII

SHAME

URSULA had only two more terms at school. She
was studying for her matriculation examination. It
was dreary work, for she had very little intelligence
when she was disjointed from happiness. Stub-
bornness and a consciousness of impending fate kept her half-
heartedly pinned to it. She knew that soon she would want to
become a self-responsible person, and her dread was that she
would be prevented. An all-containing will in her for com-
plete independence, complete social independence, complete
independence from any personal authority, kept her dullishly
at her studies. For she knew that she had always her price
of ransom — her f emaleness. She was always a woman, and
what she could not get because she was a human being, fellow
to the rest of mankind, she would get because she was a female,
other than the man. In her femaleness she felt a secret riches,
a reserve, she had always the price of freedom.

However, she was sufficiently reserved about this last re-
source. The other things should be tried first. There was
the mysterious man's world to be adventured upon, the world
of daily work and duty, and existence as a working member
of the community. Against this she had a subtle grudge.
She wanted to make her conquest also of this man's world.

So she ground away at her work, never giving it up. Some
things she liked. Her subjects were English, Latin, French,
mathematics and history. Once she knew how to read French
and Latin, the syntax bored her. Most tedious was the close
study of English literature. Why should one remember the
things one read? Something in mathematics, their cold
absoluteness, fascinated her, but the actual practice was
tedious. Some people in history puzzled her and made her
ponder, but the political parts angered her, and she hated
ministers. Only in odd streaks did she get a poignant sense
of acquisition and enrichment and enlarging from her studies ;
one afternoon, reading " As You Like It " ; once when, with
her blood, she heard a passage of Latin, and she knew how the

315

316 THE RAINBOW

blood beat in a Roman's body; so that ever after she felt she
knew the Romans by contact. She enjoyed the vagaries of
English Grammar, because it gave her pleasure to detect the
live movements of words and sentences ; and mathematics, the
very sight of the letters in Algebra, had a real lure for her.

She felt so much and so confusedly at this time, that her
face got a queer, wondering, half-scared look, as if she were
not sure what might seize upon her at any moment out of the
unknown.

Odd little bits of information stirred unfathomable passion
in her. When she knew that in the tiny brown buds of
autumn were folded, minute and complete, the finished flowers
of the summer nine months hence,, tiny, folded up, and left
there waiting, a flash of triumph and love went over her.

"I could never die while there was a tree," she said pas-
sionately, sententiously, standing before a great ash in wor-
ship.

It was the people who, somehow, walked as an upright
menace to her. Her life at this time was unformed, palpitat-
ing, essentially shrinking from all touch. She gave some-
thing to other people, but she was never herself, since she had
no self. She was not afraid nor ashamed before trees, and
birds, and the sky. But she shrank violently from people,
ashamed she was not as they were, fixed, emphatic, but a
wavering, undefined sensibility only, without form or being.

Gudrun was at this time a great comfort and shield to her.
The younger girl was a lithe, farouche animal, who mis-
trusted all approach, and would have none of the petty se-
crecies and jealousies of schoolgirl intimacy. She would have
no truck with the tame cats, nice or not, because she believed
that they were all only untamed cats with a nasty, untrust-
worthy habit of tameness.

This was a great stand-back to Ursula, who suffered agonies
when she thought a person disliked her, no matter how much
she despised that other person. How could any one dislike
her, Ursula Brangwen? The question terrified her and was
unanswerable. She sought refuge in Gudrun's natural, proud
indifference.

It had been discovered that Gudrun had a talent for draw-
ing. This solved the problem of the girl's indifference to all
study. It was said of her, " She can draw marvellously."

Suddenly Ursula found a queer awareness existed between
herself and her class-mistress,. Miss Inger. The latter wag a,

SHAME 317

rather beautiful woman of twenty-eight, a fearless-seeming,
clean type of modern girl whose very independence betrays
her sorrow. She was clever, and expert in what she did, ac-
curate, quick, commanding.

To Ursula she had always given pleasure, because of her
clear, decided, yet graceful appearance. She carried her
head high, a little thrown back, and Ursula thought there
was a look of nobility in the way she twisted her smooth
brown hair upon her head. She always wore clean, attrac-
tive, well-fitting blouses, and a well-made skirt. Everything
about her was so well-ordered, betraying a fine, clear spirit,
that it was a pleasure to sit in her class.

Her voice was just as ringing and clear, and with unwaver-
ing, finely-touched modulation. Her eyes were blue, clear,
proud, she gave one altogether the sense of a fine-mettled,
scrupulously groomed person, and of an unyielding mind.
Yet there was an infinite poignancy about her, a great pathos
in her lonely, proudly closed mouth.

It was after Skrebensky had gone that there sprang up be-
tween the mistress and the girl that strange awareness, then
the unspoken intimacy that sometimes connects two people
who may never even make each other's acquaintance. Be-
fore, they had always been good friends, in the undistin-
guished way of the class-room, with the professional relation-
ship of mistress and scholar always present. Now, however,
another thing came to pass. When they were in the room to-
gether, they were aware of each other, almost to the exclusion
of everything else. Winifred Inger felt a hot delight in the
lessons when Ursula was present, Ursula felt her whole life
begin when Miss Inger came into the room. Then, with the
beloved, subtly-intimate teacher present, the girl sat as within
the rays of some enrichening sun, whose intoxicating heat
poured straight into her veins.

The state of bliss, when Miss Inger was present, was
supreme in the girl, but always eager, eager. As she went
home, Ursula dreamed of the school-mistress, made infinite
dreams of things she could give her, of how she might make
the elder woman adore her.

Miss Inger was a Bachelor of Arts, who had studied at
Newnham. She was a clergyman's daughter, of good family.
But what Ursula adored so much was her fine, upright, athletic
bearing, and her indomitably proud nature. She was proud
and free as a man, yet exquisite as a woman,

318 THE RAINBOW

The girl's heart burned in her breast as she set off for
school in the morning. So eager was her breast, so glad her
feet, to travel towards the beloved. Ah, Miss Inger, how
straight and fine was her back, how strong her loins, how
calm and free her limbs !

Ursula craved ceaselessly to know if Miss Inger cared for
her. As yet no definite sign had been passed between the
two. Yet surely, surely Miss Inger loved her too, was fond
of her, liked her at least more than the rest of the scholars
in the class. Yet she was never certain. It might be that
Miss Inger cared nothing for her. And yet, and yet, with
blazing heart, Ursula felt that if only she could speak to her,
touch her, she would know.

The summer term came, and with it the swimming class.
Miss Inger was to take the swimming class. Then Ursula
trembled and was dazed with passion. Her hopes were soon
to be realized. She would see Miss Inger in her bathing dress.

The day came. In the great bath the water was glimmer-
ing pale emerald green, a lovely, glimmering mass of colour
within the whitish marble-like confines. Overhead the light
fell softly and the great green body of pure water moved under
it as some one dived from the side.

Ursula, trembling, hardly able to contain herself, pulled
off her clothes, put on her tight bathing suit, and opened the
door of her cabin. Two girls were in the water. The mis-
tress had not appeared. She waited. A door opened. Miss
Inger came out, dressed in a rust-red tunic like a Greek
girl's, tied round the waist, and a red silk handkerchief round
her head. How lovely she looked ! Her knees were so white
and strong and proud, and she was firm-bodied as Diana. She
walked simply to the side of the bath, and with a negligent
movement, flung herself in. For a moment Ursula watched
the white, smooth, strong shoulders, and the easy arms swim-
ming. Then she too dived into the water.

Now, ah now, she was swimming in the same water with
her dear mistress. The girl moved her limbs voluptuously,
and swam by herself, deliciously, yet with a craving of un-
satisfaction. She wanted to touch the other, to touch her, to
feel her.

" I will race you, Ursula/' came the well-modulated voice.

Ursula started violently. She turned to see the warm, un-
folded face of her mistress looking at her, to her. She was
Acknowledged. Laughing her own beautiful, startled laugh.

SHAME 319

she began to swim. The mistress was just ahead, swimming
with easy strokes. Ursula could see the head put back, the
water flickering upon the white shoulders, the strong legs
kicking shadowily. And she swam blinded with passion. Ah,
the beauty of the firm, white, cool flesh ! Ah, the wonderful
firm limbs. Ah, if she did not so despise her own thin, dusky
fragment of a body, if only she too were fearless and capable.

She swam on eagerly, not wanting to win, only wanting
to be near her mistress, to swim in a race with her. They
neared the end of the bath, the deep end. Miss Inger touched
the pipe, swung herself round, and caught Ursula round the
waist in the water, and held her for a moment.

" I won," said Miss Inger, laughing.

There was a moment of suspense. Ursula's heart was beat-
ing so fast, she clung to the rail, and could not move. Her
dilated, warm, unfolded, glowing face turned to the mistress,
as if to her very sun.

" Good-bye," said Miss Inger, and she swam away to the
other pupils, taking professional interest in them.

Ursula was dazed. She could still feel the touch of the
mistress's body against her own — only this, only this. The
rest of the swimming time passed like a trance. When the
call was given to leave the water, Miss Inger walked down
the bath towards Ursula. Her rust-red, thin tunic was cling-
ing to her, the whole body was defined, firm and magnificent,
as it seemed to the girl.

" I enjoyed our race, Ursula, did you ? " said Miss Inger.

The girl could only laugh with revealed, open, glowing
face.

The love was now tacitly confessed. But it was some
time before any further progress was made. Ursula continued
in suspense, in inflamed bliss.

Then one day, when she was alone, the mistress came near
to her, and touching her cheek with her fingers, said with
some difficulty.

"Would you like to come to tea with me on Saturday,
Ursula?"

The girl flushed all gratitude.

" We'll go to a lovely little bungalow on the Soar, shall we ?
I stay the week-ends there sometimes."

Ursula was beside herself. She could not endure till the
Saturday came, her thoughts burned up like a fire. If only
it were Saturday, if only it were Saturday.

320 THE RAINBOW

Then Saturday came, and she set out.1* Miss Inger met her
in Sawley, and they walked about three miles to the bunga-
low. It was a moist, warm cloudy day.

The bungalow was a tiny, two-roomed shanty set on a steep
bank. Everything in it was exquisite. In delicious privacy,
the two girls made tea, and then they talked. Ursula need
not be home till about ten o'clock.

The talk was led, by a kind of spell, to love. Miss Inger
was telling Ursula of a friend, how she had died in child-
birth, and what she had suffered; then she told of a prosti-
tute, and of some of her experiences with men.

As they talked thus, on the little verandah of the bunga-
low, the night fell, there was a little warm rain.

" It is really stifling," said Miss Inger.

They watched a train, whose lights were pale in the linger-
ing twilight, rushing across the distance.

" It will thunder/' said Ursula.

The electric suspense continued, the darkness sank, they
were eclipsed.

" I think I shall go and bathe," said Miss Inger, out of the
cloud-black darkness.

"At night?" said Ursula.

" It is best at night. Will you come ? "

"I should like to."

" It is quite safe — the grounds are private. We had better
undress in the bungalow, for fear of the rain, then run down."

Shyly, stiffly, Ursula went into the bungalow, and began to
remove her clothes. The lamp was turned low, she stood
in the shadow. By another chair Winifred Inger was undress-
ing.

Soon the naked, shadowy figure of the elder girl came to
the younger.

" Are you ready ? " she said.

" One moment."

Ursula could hardly speak. The other naked woman stood
by, stood near, silent. Ursula was ready.

They ventured out into the darkness, feeling the soft air
of night upon their skins.

" I can't see the path," said Ursula.

" It is here," said the voice, and the wavering, pallid figure
was beside her, a hand grasping her arm. And the elder held
the younger close against her, close, as they went down, and
by the side of the water, she put her arms round her, and

SHAME 321

kissed her. And she lifted her in her arms, close, saying,
softly,

" I shall carry you into the water."

After awhile the rain came down on their flushed, hot limbs,
startling, delicious. A sudden, ice-cold shower burst in a
great weight upon them. They stood up to it with pleasure.
Ursula received the stream of it upon her breasts and her
limbs. It made her cold, and a deep, bottomless silence welled
up in her, as if bottomless darkness were returning upon her.

So the heat vanished away, she was chilled, as if from a
waking up. She ran indoors, a chill, non-existent thing, want-
ing to get away. She wanted the light, the presence of other
people, the external connection with the many. Above all she
wanted to lose herself among natural surroundings.

She took her leave of her mistress and returned home.
She was glad to be on the station with a crowd of Saturday-
night people, glad to sit in the lighted, crowded railway car-
riage. Only she did not want to meet anybody she knew.
She did not want to talk. She was alone, immune.

All this stir and seethe of lights and people was but the
rim, the shores of a great inner darkness and void. She
wanted very much to be on the seething, partially illuminated
shore, for within her was the void reality of dark space.

For a time Miss Inger, her mistress, was gone; she was
only a dark void, and Ursula was free as a shade walking in
an underworld of extinction, of oblivion. Ursula was glad,
with a kind of motionless, lifeless gladness, that her mistress
was extinct, gone out of her.

In the morning, however, the love was there again, burning,
burning. She remembered yesterday, and she wanted more,
always more. She wanted to be with her mistress. All sepa-
ration from her mistress was a restriction from living. Why
could she not go to her to-day, to-day? Why must she pace
about revoked at Cossethay whilst her mistress was elsewhere ?
She sat down and wrote a burning, passionate love-letter : she
could not help it.

The two women became intimate. Their lives seemed sud-
denly to fuse into one, inseparable. Ursula went to Wini-
fred's lodging, she spent there her only living hours. Wini-
fred was very fond of water, — of swimming, of rowing. She
belonged to various athletic clubs. Many delicious afternoons
the two girls spent in a light boat on the river, Winifred al-
ways rowing. Indeed, Winifred seemed to delight in having

322 THE RAINBOW

Ursula in her charge, in giving things to the girl, in filling
and enrichening her life.

So that Ursula developed rapidly during the few months
of her intimacy with her mistress. Winifred had had a scien-
tific education. She had known many clever people. She
wanted to bring Ursula to her own position of thought.

They took religion and rid it of its dogmas, its falsehoods.
Winifred humanized it all. Gradually it dawned upon Ursula
that all the religion she knew was but a particular clothing
to a human aspiration. The aspiration was the real thing, —
the clothing was a matter almost of national taste or need.
The Greeks had a naked Apollo, the Christians a white-robed
Christ, the Buddhists a royal prince, the Egyptians their
Osiris. Religions were local and religion was universal.
Christianity was a local branch. There was as yet no assimila-
tion of local religions into universal religion.

In religion there were the two great motives of fear and love.
The motive of fear was as great as the motive of love. Christi-
anity accepted crucifixion to escape from fear; "Do your
worst to me, that I may have no more fear of the worst." But
that which was feared was not necessarily all evil, and that
which was loved not necessarily all good. Fear shall become
reverence, and reverence is submission in identification; love
shall become triumph, and triumph is delight in identifica-
tion.

So much she talked of religion, getting the gist of many
writings. In philosophy she was brought to the conclusion
that the human desire is the criterion of all truth and all
good. Truth does not lie beyond humanity, but is one of
the products of the human mind and feeling. There is really
nothing to fear. The motive of fear in religion is base, and
must be left to the ancient worshippers of power, worship of
Moloch. We do not worship power, in our enlightened souls.
Power is degenerated to money and Napoleonic stupidity.

Ursula could not help dreaming of Moloch. Her God was
not mild and gentle, neither Lamb nor Dove. He was the
lion and the eagle. Not because the lion and the eagle had
power, but because they were proud and strong; they were
themselves, they were not passive subjects of some shepherd,
or pets of some loving woman, or sacrifices of some priest.
She was weary to death of mild, passive lambs and monot-
onous doves. If the lamb might lie down with the lion, it
would be a great honour to the lamb, but the lion's powerful

SHAME 323

heart would suffer no diminishing. She loved the dignity
and self-possession of lions.

She did not see how lambs could love. Lambs could only
be loved. They could only be afraid, and tremblingly sub-
mit to fear, and become sacrificial; or they could submit to
love, and become beloveds. In both they were passive. Rag-
ing, destructive lovers, seeking the moment when fear is great-
est, and triumph is greatest, the fear not greater than the tri-
umph, the triumph not greater than the fear, these were no
lambs nor doves. She stretched her own limbs like a lion or a
wild horse, her heart was relentless in its desires. It would
suffer a thousand deaths, but it would still be a lion's heart
when it rose from death, a fiercer lion she would be, a surer,
knowing herself different from and separate from the great,
conflicting universe that was not herself.

Winifred Inger was also interested in the Women's Move-
ment.

" The men will do no more, — they have lost the capacity
for doing," said the elder girl. "They fuss and talk, but
they are really inane. They make everything fit into an old,
inert idea. Love is a dead idea to them. They don't come
to one and love one, they come to an idea, and they say
' You are my idea/ so they embrace themselves. As if I were
any man's idea ! As if I exist because a man has an idea of
me ! As if I will be betrayed by him, lend him my body as an
instrument for his idea, to be a mere apparatus of his dead
theory. But they are too fussy to be able to act; they are
all impotent, they can't take a woman. They come to their
own idea every time, and take that. They are like serpents
trying to swallow themselves because they are hungry."

Ursula was introduced by her friend to various women and
men, educated, unsatisfied people, who still moved within the
smug provincial society as if they were nearly as tame as
their outward behaviour showed, but who were inwardly raging
and mad.

It was a strange world the girl was swept into, like a chaos,
like the end of the world. She was too young to understand
it all. Yet the inoculation passed into her, through her love
for her mistress.

The examination came, and then school was over. It was
the long vacation. Winifred Inger went away to London.
Ursula was left alone in Cossethay. A terrible, outcast, al-
most poisonous despair possessed her. It was no use doing

THE &AINBOW

anything, or being anything. She had no connection with
other people. Her lot was isolated and deadly. There was
nothing for her anywhere, but this black disintegration. Yet,
within all the great attack of disintegration upon her, she
remained herself. It was the terrible core of all her suffering,
that she was always herself. Never could she escape that:
she could not put off being herself.

She still adhered to Winifred Inger. But a sort of nausea
was coming over her. She loved her mistress. But a heavy,
clogged sense of deadness began to gather upon her, from
the other woman's contact. And sometimes she thought Wini-
fred was ugly, clayey. Her female hips seemed big and
earthy, her ankles and her arms were too thick. She wanted
some fine intensity, instead of this heavy cleaving of moist
clay, that cleaves because it has no life of its own.

Winifred still loved Ursula. She had a passion for the fine
flame of the girl, she served her endlessly, would have done
anything for her.

" Come with me to London," she pleaded to the girl. " I
will make it nice for you, — you shall do lots of things you
will enjoy/'

" No," said Ursula, stubbornly and dully. " No, I don't
want to go to London, I want to be by myself."

Winifred knew what this meant. She knew that Ursula
was beginning to reject her. The fine, unquenchable flame
of the younger girl would consent no more to mingle with the
perverted life of the elder woman. Winifred knew it would
come. But she too was proud. At the bottom of her was a
black pit of despair. She knew perfectly well that Ursula
would cast her off.

And that seemed like the end of her life. But she was too
hopeless to rage. Wisely, economizing what was left of
Ursula's love, she went away to London, leaving the beloved
girl alone.

And after a fortnight, Ursula's letters became tender again,
loving. Her Uncle Tom had invited her to go and stay with
him. He was managing a big, new colliery in Yorkshire.
Would Winifred come too?

For now Ursula was imagining marriage for Winifred.
She wanted her to marry her Uncle Tom. Winifred knew
this. She said she would come to Wiggiston. She would
now let fate do as it liked with her, since there was nothing
remaining to be done. Tom Brangwen also saw Ursula's

SHAME

intention. He too was at the end of his desires. He had
done the things he had wanted to. They had all ended in a
disintegrated lifelessness of soul, which he hid under an utterly
tolerant good-humour. He no longer cared about anything
on earth, neither man nor woman, nor God nor humanity.
He had come to a stability of nullification. He did not care
any more, neither about his body nor about his soul. Only
he would preserve intact his own life. Only the simple, super-
ficial fact of living persisted. He was still healthy. He
lived. Therefore he would fill each moment. That had al-
ways been his creed. It was not instinctive easiness: it was
the inevitable outcome of his nature. When he was in the
absolute privacy of his own life, he did as he pleased, un-
scrupulous, without any ulterior thought. He believed neither
in good nor evil. Each moment was like a separate little is-
land, isolated from time, and blank, unconditioned by time.

He lived in a large new house of red brick, standing out-
side a mass of homogeneous red-brick dwellings, called Wiggis-
ton. Wiggiston was only seven years old. It had been a
hamlet of eleven houses on the edge of healthy, half-agri-
cultural country. Then the great seam of coal had been
opened. In a year Wiggiston appeared, a great mass of pink-
ish rows of thin, unreal dwellings of five rooms each. The
streets were like visions of pure ugliness ; a grey-black macad-
amized road, asphalt causeways, held in between a flat succes-
sion of wall, window, and door, a new-brick channel that be-
gan nowhere, and ended nowhere. Everything was amor-
phous, yet everything repeated itself endlessly. Only now and
then, in one of the house-windows vegetables or small groceries
were displayed for sale.

In the middle of the town was a large, open, shapeless
space, or market-place, of black trodden earth, surrounded by
the same flat material of dwellings, new red-brick becoming
grimy, small oblong windows, and oblong doors, repeated end-
lessly, with just, at one corner, a great and gaudy public-
house, and somewhere lost on one of the sides of the square,
a large window opaque and darkish green, which was the post-
office.

The place had the strange desolation of a ruin. Colliers
hanging about in gangs and groups, or passing along the
asphalt pavements heavily to work, seemed not like living
people, but like spectres. The rigidity of the blank streets,
the homogeneous amorphous sterility of the whole suggested

326 THE RAINBOW

death rather than life. There was no meeting place, no centre,
no artery, no organic formation. There it lay, like the new
foundations of a red-brick confusion rapidly spreading, like a
skin-disease.

Just outside of this, on a little hill, was Tom Brangwen's
big, red-brick house. It looked from the front upon the edge
of the place, a meaningless squalor of ash-pits and closets and
irregular rows of the backs of houses, each with its small
activity made sordid by barren cohesion with the rest of the
small activities. Further off was the great colliery that went
night and day. And all around was the country, green with
two winding streams, ragged with gorse, and heath, the darker
woods in the distance.

The whole place was just unreal, just unreal. Even now,
when he had been there for two years, Tom Brangwen did
not believe in the actuality of the place. It was like some
gruesome dream, some ugly, dead, amorphous mood become
concrete.

Ursula and Winifred were met by the motor car at the
raw little station, and drove through what seemed to them
like the horrible raw beginnings of something. The place
was a moment of chaos perpetuated, persisting, chaos fixed
and rigid. Ursula was fascinated by the many men who were
there — groups of men standing in the streets, four or five
men walking in a gang together, their dogs running behind or
before. They were all decently dressed, and most of them
rather gaunt. The terrible gaunt repose of their bearing fasci-
nated her. Like creatures with no more hope, but which still
live and have passionate being, within some utterly unliving
shell, they passed meaninglessly along, with strange, isolated
dignity. It was as if a hard, horny shell enclosed them all.

Shocked and startled, Ursula was carried to her Uncle
Tom's house. He was not yet at home. His house was
simply, but well furnished. He had taken out a dividing wall,
and made the whole front of the house into a large library,
with one end devoted to his science. It was a handsome room,
appointed as a laboratory and reading room, but giving the
same sense of hard, mechanical activity, activity mechanical
yet inchoate, and looking out on the hideous abstraction of
the town, and at the green meadows and rough country be-
yond, and at the great, mathematical colliery on the other
side.

SHAME 327

They saw Tom Brangwen walking up the curved drive. He
was getting stouter, but with his bowler hat worn well set
down on his brows, he looked manly, handsome, curiously like
any other man of action. His colour was as fresh, his health
as perfect as ever, he walked like a man rather absorbed.

Winifred Inger was startled when he entered the library,
his coat fastened close and correct, his head bald to the crown,
but not shiny, rather like something naked that one is ac-
customed to see covered, and his dark eyes liquid and formless.
He seemed to stand in the shadow, like a thing ashamed.
And the clasp of his hand was so soft and yet so forceful, that
it chilled the heart. She was afraid of him, repelled by him,
and yet attracted.

He looked at the athletic, seemingly fearless girl, and he
detected in her a kinship with his own dark corruption. Im-
mediately, he knew they were akin.

His manner was polite, almost foreign, and rather cold.
He still laughed in his curious, animal fashion, suddenly
wrinkling up his wide nose, and showing his sharp teeth. The
fine beauty of his skin and his complexion, some almost
waxen quality, hid the strange, repellent grossness of him, the
slight sense of putrescence, the commonness which revealed it-
self in his rather fat thighs and loins.

Winifred saw at once the deferential, slightly servile,
slightly cunning regard he had for Ursula, which made the
girl at once so proud and so perplexed.

"But is this place as awful as it looks?" the young girl
asked, a strain in her eyes.

" It is just what it looks/' he said. " It hides nothing/'

" Why are the men so sad ? "

" Are they sad ? " he replied.

" They seem unutterably, unutterably sad," said Ursula, out
of a passionate throat.

"I don't think they are that. They just take it for
granted."

"What do they take for granted?"

" This — the pits and the place altogether."

" Why don't they alter it ? " she passionately protested.

" They believe they must alter themselves to fit the pits and
the place, rather than alter the pits and the place to fit them-
selves. It is easier," he said.

" And you agree with them," burst out his niece, unable to

328 THE RAINBOW

bear it. " You think like they do — that living human beings
must be taken and adapted to all kinds of horrors. We could
easily do without the pits/'

He smiled, uncomfortably, cynically. Ursula felt again the
revolt of hatred from him.

" I suppose their lives are not really so bad/7 said Winifred
Inger, superior to the Zolaesque tragedy.

He turned with his polite, distant attention.

"Yes, they are pretty bad. The pits are very deep, and
hot, and in some places wet. The men die of consumption
fairly often. But they earn good wages."

" How gruesome ! " said Winifred Inger.

"Yes/' he replied gravely. It was his grave, solid, self-
contained manner which made him so much respected as a
colliery manager.

The servant came in to ask where they would have tea.

"Put it in the summer-house, Mrs. Smith," he said.

The fair-haired, good-looking young woman went out.

" Is she married and in service ? " asked Ursula.

" She is a widow. Her husband died of consumption a
little while ago." Brangwen gave a sinister little laugh.
" He lay there in the house-place at her mother's, and five
or six other people in the house, and died very gradually. I
asked her if his death wasn't a great trouble to her. ' Well/
she said, ' he was very fretful towards the last, never satisfied,
never easy, always fret-fretting, an' never knowing what would
satisfy him. So in one way it was a relief when it was over
— for him and for everybody.' They had only been married
two years, and she has one boy. I asked her if she hadn't been
very happy. ' Oh, yes, sir, we was very comfortable at first,
till he took bad, — oh, we was very comfortable, — oh, yes, —
but, you see, you get used to it. I've had my father and two
brothers go off just the same. You get used to it.' ''

" It's a horrible thing to get used to," said Winifred Inger,
with a shudder.

" Yes," he said, still smiling. « But that's how they are.
She'll be getting married again directly. One man or an-
other — it does not matter very much. They're all colliers."

"What do you mean?" asked Ursula. "They're all col-
liers?"

"It is with the women as with us," he replied. "Her
husband was John Smith, loader. We reckoned him as a
loader, he reckoned himself as a loader, and so she knew he

SHAME 329

represented his job. Marriage and home is a little side-show.
The women know it right enough, and take it for what it's
worth. One man or another, it doesn't matter all the world.
The pit matters. Bound the pit there will always be the side-
shows, plenty of 'em."

He looked round at the red chaos, the rigid, amorphous con-
fusion of Wiggiston.

" Every man his own little side-show, his home, but the
pit owns every man. The women have what is left. What's
left of this man, or what is left of that — it doesn't matter
altogether. The pit takes all that really matters."

" It is the same everywhere," burst out Winifred. " It is
the office, or the shop, or the business that gets the man,
the woman gets the bit the shop can't digest. What is he at
home, a man ? He is a meaningless lump — a standing ma-
chine, a machine out of work."

" They know they are sold," said Tom Brangwen. " That's
where it is. They know they are sold to their job. If a
woman talks her throat out, what difference can it make?
The man's sold to his job. So the women don't bother. They
take what they can catch — and vogue la galere."

" Aren't they very strict here ? " asked Miss Inger.

" Oh, no. Mrs. Smith has two sisters who have just
changed husbands. They're not very particular — neither are
they very interested. They go dragging along what is left
from the pits. They're not interested enough to be very
immoral — it all amounts to the same thing, moral or im-
moral — just a question of pit-wages. The most moral duke in
England makes two hundred thousand a year out of these pits.
He keeps the morality end up."

Ursula sat black-souled and very bitter, hearing the two
of them talk. There seemed something ghoulish even in their
very deploring of the state of things. They seemed to take
a ghoulish satisfaction in it. The pit was the great mistress.
Ursula looked out of the window and saw the proud, demon-
like colliery with her wheels twinkling in the heavens, the
formless, squalid mass of the town lying aside. It was the
squalid heap of side-shows. The -pit was the main show, the
raison d'etre of all.

How terrible it was ! There was a horrible fascination in
it, — human bodies and lives subjected in slavery to that
symmetric monster of the colliery. There was a swooning,
perverse satisfaction in it. For a moment she was dizzy.

330 THE RAINBOW

Then she recovered, felt herself in a great loneliness, wherein
she was sad but free. She had departed. No more would
she subscribe to the great colliery, to the great machine which
has taken us all captives. In her soul, she was against it,
she disowned even its power. It had only to be forsaken to
be inane, meaningless. And she knew it was meaningless.
But it needed a great, passionate effort of will on her part,
seeing the colliery, still to maintain her knowledge that it
was meaningless.

But her Uncle Tom and her mistress remained there among
the horde, cynically reviling the monstrous state and yet ad-
hering to it, like a man who reviles his mistress, yet who is in
love with her. She knew her Uncle Tom perceived what was
going on. But she knew moreover that in spite of his criti-
cism and condemnation, he still wanted the great machine.
His only happy moments, his only moments of pure freedom
were when he was serving the machine. Then, and then only,
when the machine caught him up, was he free from the hatred
of himself, could he act wholely, without cynicism and un-
reality.

His real mistress was the machine, and the real mistress of
Winifred was the machine. She too, Winifred, worshipped
the impure abstraction, the mechanisms of matter. There,
there, in the machine, in service of the machine, was she free
from the clog and degradation of human feeling. There, in
the monstrous mechanism that held all matter, living or dead,
in its service, did she achieve her consummation and her per-
fect unison, her immortality.

Hatred sprang up in Ursula's heart. If she could she
would smash the machine. Her soul's action should be the
smashing of the great machine. If she could destroy the col-
liery, and make all the men of Wiggiston out of work, she
would do it. Let them starve and grub in the earth for roots,
rather than serve such a Moloch as this.

She hated her Uncle Tom, she hated Winifred Inger. They
went down to the summer-house for tea. It was a pleasant
place among a few trees, at the end of a tiny garden, on the
edge of a field. Her Uncle Tom and Winifred seemed to jeer
at her, to cheapen her. She was miserable and desolate. But
she would never give way.

Her coldness for Winifred should never cease. She knew
it was over between them. She saw gross, ugly movements
in her mistress, she saw a clayey, inert, unquickened flesh,

SHAME 331

that reminded her of the great prehistoric lizards. One day
her Uncle Tom came in out of the broiling sunshine heated
from walking. Then the perspiration stood out upon his head
and brow, his hand was wet and hot and suffocating in its
clasp. He too had something marshy about him — the suc-
culent moistness and turgidity, and the same brackish, nause-
ating effect of a marsh, where life and decaying are one.

He was repellent to her, who was so dry and fine in her
fire. Her very bones seemed to bid him keep his distance
from her.

It was in these weeks that Ursula grew up. She stayed
two weeks at Wiggiston, and she hated it. All was grey, dry
ash, cold and dead and ugly. But she stayed. She stayed
also to get rid of Winifred. The girl's hatred and her sense
of repulsiveness in her mistress and in her uncle seemed to
throw the other two together. They drew together as if
against her.

In hardness and bitterness of soul, Ursula knew that Wini-
fred was become her uncle's lover. She was glad. She had
loved them both. Now she wanted to be rid of them both.
Their marshy, bitter-sweet corruption came sick and unwhole-
some in her nostrils. Anything, to get out of the foetid air.
She would leave them both for ever, leave for ever their
strange, soft, half-corrupt element. Anything to get away.

One night Winifred came all burning into Ursula's bed,
and put her arms round the girl, holding her to herself in spite
of unwillingness, and said,

"Dear, my dear, — shall I marry Mr. Brangwen — shall
I?"

The clinging, heavy, muddy question weighed on Ursula
intolerably.

" Has he asked you? "she said, using all her might of hard
resistance.

"He's asked me," said Winifred. "Do you want me to
marry him, Ursula ? "

" Yes," said Ursula.

The arms tightened more on her.

"I knew you did, my sweet — and I will marry him.
You're fond of him, aren't you ? "

" I've been awfully fond of him — ever since I was a child."

" I know — I know. I can see what you like in him. He
is a man by himself, he has something apart from the rest."

" Yes," said Ursula.

332 THE RAINBOW

" But he's not like you, my dear — ha, he's not as good as
you. There's something even objectionable in him."

Ursula was silent.

" But I'll marry him, my dear — it will be best. Now say
you love me."

A sort of profession was extorted out of the girl. Never-
theless her mistress went away sighing, to weep in her own
chamber.

In two days' time Ursula left Wiggiston. Miss Inger went
to Nottingham. There was an engagement between her and
Tom Brangwen, which the uncle seemed to vaunt as if it were
an assurance of his validity.

Brangwen and Winifred Inger continued engaged for an-
other term. Then they married. Brangwen had reached the
age when he wanted children. He wanted children. Neither
marriage nor the domestic establishment meant anything to
him. He wanted to propagate himself. He knew what he
was doing. He had the instinct of a growing inertia, of a
thing that chooses its place of rest in which to lapse into
apathy, complete, profound indifference. He would let the
machinery carry him; husband, father, pit-manager, warm
clay lifted through the recurrent action of day after day by
the great machine from which it derived its motion. As for
Winifred, she was an educated woman, and of the same sort as
himself. She would make a good companion. She was his
mate.

CHAPTER XIII
THE MAN'S WORLD

URSULA came back to Cossethay to fight with her
mother. Her schooldays were over. She had passed
the matriculation examination. Now she came home
to face that empty period between school and pos-
sible marriage.

At first she thought it would be just like holidays all the
time, she would feel just free. Her soul was in chaos, blinded
suffering, maimed. She had no will left to think about her-
self. For a time she must just lapse.

But very shortly she found herself up against her mother.
Her mother had, at this time, the power to irritate and madden
the girl continuously. There were already seven children,
yet Mrs. Brangwen was again with child, the ninth she had
borne. One had died of diphtheria in infancy.

Even this fact of her mother's pregnancy enraged the eldest
girl. Mrs. Brangwen was so complacent, so utterly fulfilled
in her breeding. She would not have the existence at all of
anything but the immediate, physical, common things.
Ursula, inflamed in soul, was suffering all the anguish of
youth's reaching for some unknown ideal, that it can't grasp,
can't even distinguish or conceive. Maddened, she was fight-
ing all the darkness she was up against. And part of this
darkness was her mother. To limit, as her mother did, every-
thing to the ring of physical considerations, and complacently
to reject the reality of anything else, was horrible. Not a
thing did Mrs. Brangwen care about, but the children, the
house, and a little local gossip. And she would not be touched,
she would let nothing else live near her. She went about,
big with child, slovenly, easy, having a certain lax dignity,
taking her own time, pleasing herself, always, always doing
things for the children, and feeling that she thereby fulfilled
the whole of womanhood.

This long trance of complacent child-bearing had kept her
young and undeveloped. She was scarcely a day older than

334 THE RAINBOW

when Gudrun was born. All these years nothing had hap-
pened save the coming of the children, nothing had mattered
but the bodies of her babies. As her children came into con-
sciousness, as they began to suffer their own fulfilment, she
cast them off. But she remained dominant in the house.
Brangwen continued in a kind of rich drowse of physical heat,
in connection with his wife. They were neither of them quite
personal, quite defined as individuals, so much were they per-
vaded by the physical heat of breeding and rearing their young.

How Ursula resented it, how she fought against the close,
physical, limited life of herded domesticity! Calm, placid,
unshakeable as ever, Mrs. Brangwen went about in her domi-
nance of physical maternity.

There were battles. Ursula would fight for things that mat-
tered to her. She would have the children less rude and
tyrannical, she would have a place in the house. But her
mother pulled her down, pulled her down. With all the cun-
ning instinct of a breeding animal, Mrs. Brangwen ridiculed
and held cheap Ursula's passions, her ideas, her pronuncia-
tions. Ursula would try to insist, in her own home, on the
right of women to take equal place with men in the field of
action and work.

"Ay," said the mother, "there's a good crop of stockings
lying ripe for mending. Let that be your field of action."

Ursula disliked mending stockings, and this retort mad-
dened her. She hated her mother bitterly. After a few
weeks of enforced domestic life, she had had enough of her
home. The commonness, the triviality, the immediate mean-
inglessness of it all drove her to frenzy. She talked and
stormed ideas, she corrected and nagged at the children, she
turned her back in silent contempt on her breeding mother,
who treated her with supercilious indifference, as if she were a
pretentious child not to be taken seriously.

Brangwen was sometimes dragged into the trouble. He
loved Ursula, therefore he always had a sense of shame, al-
most of betrayal, when he turned on her. So he turned
fiercely and scathingly, and with a wholesale brutality that
made Ursula go white, mute, and numb. Her feelings seemed
to be becoming deadened in her, her temper hard and cold.

Brangwen himself was in one of his states of flux. After
all these years, he began to see a loophole of freedom. For
twenty years he had gone on at this office as a draughtsman,
doing work in which he had no interest, because it seemed his

THE MAN'S WORLD 335

allotted work. The growing up of his daughters, their de-
veloping rejection of old forms set him also free.

He was a man of ceaseless activity. Blindly, like a mole,
he pushed his way out of the earth that covered him, working
always away from the physical element in which his life was
captured. Slowly, blindly, gropingly, with what initiative was
left to him, he made his way towards individual expression
and individual form.

At last, after twenty years, he came back to his wood-
carving, almost to the point where he had left off his Adam
and Eve panel, when he was courting. But now he had knowl-
edge and skill without vision. He saw the puerility of his
young conceptions, he saw the unreal world in which they
had been conceived. He now had a new strength in his sense
of reality. He felt as if he were real, as if he handled real
things. He had worked for many years at Cossethay, build-
ing the organ for the church, restoring the wood- work, gradu-
ally coming to a knowledge of beauty in the plain labours.
Now he wanted again to carve things that were utterances of
himself.

But he could not quite hitch on — always he was too busy,
too uncertain, confused. Wavering, he began to study model-
ling. To his surprise he found he could do it. Modelling in
clay, in plaster, he produced beautiful reproductions, really
beautiful. Then he set-to to make a head of Ursula, in high
relief, in the Donatello manner. In his first passion, he got
a beautiful suggestion of his desire. But the pitch of concen-
tration would not come. With a little ash in his mouth he
gave up. He continued to copy, or to make designs by selec-
ting motives from classic stuff. He loved the Delia Eobbia
and Donatello as he had loved Fra Angelico when he was a
young man. His work had some of the freshness, the naive
alertness of the early Italians. But it was only reproduction.

Having reached his limit in modelling, he turned to paint-
ing. But he tried water-colour painting after the manner of
any other amateur. He got his results but was not much
interested. After one or two drawings of his beloved church,
which had the same alertness as his modelling, but seemed to
be incongruous with the modern atmospheric way of painting,
so that his church tower stood up, really stood and asserted
its standing, but was ashamed of its own lack of meaning,
he turned away again.

He took up jewellery, read Benvenuto Cellini, pored over

336 THE RAINBOW

reproductions of ornament, and began to make pendants in
silver and pearl and matrix. The first things he did, in his
start of discovery, were really beautiful. Those later were
more imitative. But, starting with his wife, he made a pen-
dant each for all his womenfolk. Then he made rings and
bracelets.

Then he took up beaten and chiselled metal work. When
Ursula left school, he was making a silver bowl of lovely
shape. How he delighted in it, almost lusted after it.

All this time his only connection with the real outer world
was through his winter evening classes, which brought him
into contact with state education. About all the rest, he
was oblivious, and entirely indifferent — even about the war.
The nation did not exist to him. He was in a private retreat
of his own, that had neither nationality, nor any great ad-
herent.

Ursula watched the newspapers, vaguely, concerning the
war in South Africa. They made her miserable, and she
tried to have as little to do with them as possible. But Skre-
bensky was out there. He sent her an occasional post-card.
But it was as if she were a blank wall in his direction, with-
out windows or outgoing. She adhered to the Skrebensky
of her memory.

Her love for Winifred Inger wrenched her life as it seemed
from the roots and native soil where Skrebensky had belonged
to it, and she was aridly transplanted. He was really only a
memory. She revived his memory with strange passion, after
the departure of Winifred. He was to her almost the symbol
of her real life. It was as if, through him, in him, she might
return to her own self, which she was before she had loved
Winifred, before this deadness had come upon her, this piti-
less transplanting. But even her memories were the work
of her imagination.

She dreamed of him and her as they had been together.
She could not dream of him progressively, of what he was
doing now, of what relation he would have to her now. Only
sometimes she wept to think how cruelly she had suffered
when he left her, — ah, how she had suffered! She remem-
bered what she had written in her diary ;

"If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down."

Ah, it was a dull agony to her to remember what she had
been then. For it was remembering a dead self. All that
was dead after Winifred. She knewj the corpse of her young,

THE MAN'S WORLD 337

loving self, she knew its grave. And the young loving self
she mourned for had scarcely existed, it was the creature of
her imagination.

Deep within her a cold despair remained unchanging and
unchanged. No one would ever love her now — she would
love no one. The body of love was killed in her after Wini-
fred, there was something of the corpse in her. She would
live, she would go on, but she would have no lovers, no lover
would want her any more. She herself would want no lover.
The vividest little flame of desire was extinct in her for ever.
The tiny, vivid germ that contained the bud of her real self,
her real love, was killed, she would go on growing as a plant,
she would do her best to produce her minor flowers, but her
leading flower was dead before it was born, all her growth
was the conveying of a corpse of hope.

The miserable weeks went on, in the poky house crammed
with children. What was her life — a sordid, formless, dis-
integrated nothing; Ursula Brangwen a person without worth
or importance, living in the mean village of Cossethay, within
the sordid scope of Ilkeston. Ursula Brangwen, at seventeen,
worthless and unvalued, neither wanted nor needed by any-
body, and conscious herself of her own dead value. It would
not bear thinking of.

But still her dogged pride held its own. She might be de-
filed, she might be a corpse that should never be loved, she
might be a core-rotten stalk living upon the food that others
provided ; yet she would give in to nobody.

Gradually she became conscious that she could not go on
living at home as she was doing, without place or meaning
or worth. The very children that went to school held her
uselessness in contempt. She must do something.

Her father said she had plenty to do to help her mother.
From her parents she would never get more than a hit in the
face. She was not a practical person. She thought of wild
things, of running away and becoming a domestic servant,
of asking some man to take her.

She wrote to the mistress of the High School for advice.

"I cannot see very clearly what you should do, Ursula,"
came the reply, "unless you are willing to become an ele-
mentary school teacher. You have matriculated, and that
qualifies you to take a post as uncertificated teacher in any
echool, at a salary of about fifty pounds a year.

"I cannot tell you how deeply I sympathize with you in

338 THE RAINBOW

your desire to do something. You will learn that mankind
is a great body of which you are one useful member, you will
take your own place at the great task which humanity is
trying to fulfil. That will give you a satisfaction and ,a self-
respect which nothing else could give."

Ursula's heart sank. It was a cold, dreary satisfaction to
think of. Yet her cold will acquiesced. This was what she
wanted.

" You have an emotional nature," the letter went on, " a
quick natural response. If only you could learn patience and
self-discipline, I do not see why you should not make a good
teacher. The least you could do is to try. You need only
serve a year, or perhaps two years, as uncertificated teacher.
Then you would go to one of the training colleges, where I
hope you would take your degree. I most strongly urge and
advise you to keep up your studies always with the intention
of taking a degree. That will give you a qualification and a
position in the world, and will give you more scope to choose
your own way.

"I shall be proud to see one of my girls win her own
economical independence, which means so much more than
it seems. I shall be glad indeed to know that one more of
my girls has provided for herself the means of freedom to
choose for herself."

It all sounded grim and desperate. Ursula rather hated it.
But her mother's contempt and her fathers harshness had
made her raw at the quick, she knew the ignominy of being
a hanger-on, she felt the festering thorn of her mother's
animal estimation.

At length she had to speak. Hard and shut down and
silent within herself, she slipped out one evening to the work-
shed. She heard the tap-tap-tap of the hammer upon the
metal. Her father lifted his head as the door opened. His
' face was ruddy and bright with instinct, as when he was a
! youth, his black moustache was cut close over his wide mouth,
: his black hair was fine and close as ever. But there was
about him an abstraction, a sort of instrumental detachment
from human things. He was a worker. He watched his
daughter's hard, expressionless face. A hot anger came over
his breast and belly.

"What now?" he said.

" Can't I," she answered, looking aside, not looking at him,
" Can't I go out to work ? "

THE MAN'S WORLD 339

" Go out to work, what for? "

His voice was so strong, and ready, and vibrant. It irri-
tated her.

" I want some other life than this."

A flash of strong rage arrested all his blood for a moment.

" Some other life ? " he repeated. " Why, what other life
do you want ? "

She hesitated.

" Something else besides housework and hanging about.
And I want to earn something."

Her curious, brutal hardness of speech, and the fierce in-
vincibility of her youth, which ignored him, made him also
harden with anger.

" And how do you think you're going to earn anything ? "
he asked.

"I can become a teacher — Fm qualified by my ma-
tric."

He wished her matric. in hell.

" And how much are you qualified to earn by your matric. ? "
he asked, jeering.

" Fifty pounds a year," she said.

He was silent, his power taken out of his hand.

He had always hugged a secret pride in the fact that his
daughters need not go out to work. With his wife's money
and his own they had four hundred a year. They could draw
on the capital if need be later on. He was not afraid for his
old age. His daughters might be ladies.

Fifty pound a year was a pound a week — which was
enough for her to live on independently.

" And what sort of a teacher do you think you'd make ?
You haven't the patience of a Jack-gnat with your own
brothers and sisters, let alone with a class of children. And
I thought you didn't like dirty, board-school brats."

" They're not all dirty."

" You'd find they're not all clean."

There was silence in the workshop. The lamplight fell on
the burned silver bowl that lay before him, on mallet and
furnace and chisel. Brangwen stood with a queer, cat-like
light on his face, almost like a smile. But it was no smile.

"Can I try? "she said.

"You can do what the deuce you like, and go where you
like."

Her face was fixed and expressionless and indifferent. It

S40 THE RAINBOW

always sent him to a pitch of frenzy to see it like that. He
kept perfectly still.

Cold, without any betrayal of feeling, she turned and left
the shed. He worked on, with all his nerves jangled. Then
he had to put down his tools and go into the house.

In a bitter tone of anger and contempt he told his wife.
Ursula was present. There was a brief altercation, closed by
Mrs. Brangwen's saying, in a tone of biting superiority and
indifference.

"Let her find out what it's like. She'll soon have had
enough."

The matter was left there. But Ursula considered herself
free to act. For some days she made no move. She was
reluctant to take the cruel step of finding work, for she shrank
with extreme sensitiveness and shyness from new contact,
new situations. Then at length a sort of doggedness drove
her. Her soul was full of bitterness.

She went to the Free Library in Ilkeston, copied out ad-
dresses from the Schoolmistress, and wrote for application
forms. After two days she rose early to meet the postman.
As she expected, there were three long envelopes.

Her heart beat painfully as she went up with them to her
bedroom. Her fingers trembled, she could hardly force her-
self to look at the long, official forms she had to fill in. The
whole thing was so cruel, so impersonal. Yet it must be
done.

" Name (surname first) : "

In a trembling hand she wrote, " Brangwen, — Ursula."

" Age and date of birth : "

After a long time considering, she filled in that line.

" Qualifications, with date of Examination : "

With a little pride she wrote:

" London Matriculation Examination."

" Previous experience and where obtained : "

Her heart sank as she wrote:

« None."

Still there was much to answer. It took her two hours to
fill in the three forms. Then she had to copy her testimonials
from her head-mistress and from the clergyman.

At last, however, it was finished. She had sealed the three
long envelopes. In the afternoon she went down to Ilkeston
to post them. She said nothing of it all to her parents. As
she stamped her long letters and put them into the box at

THE MAN'S WORLD &ti

the main post-office she felt as if already she was out of the
reach of her father and mother, as if she had connected
herself with the outer, greater world of activity, the man-
made world.

As she returned home, she dreamed again in her own
fashion her old, gorgeous dreams. One of her applications
was to Gillingham, in Kent, one to Kingston-on-Thames, and
one to Swanwick in Derbyshire.

Gillingham was such a lovely name, and Kent was the
Garden of England. So that, in Gillingham, an old, old vil-
lage by the hopfields, where the sun shone softly, she came
out of school in the afternoon into the shadow of the plane-
trees by the gate, and turned down the sleepy road towards
the cottage where cornflowers poked their blue heads through
the old wooden fence, and phlox stood built up of blossom
beside the path.

A delicate, silver-haired lady rose with delicate, ivory hands
uplifted as Ursula entered the room, and,

" Oh, my dear, what do you think ! "

"What is it, Mrs. Wetherall?"

Frederick had come home. Nay, his manly step was heard
on the stair, she saw his strong boots, his blue trousers, his
uniformed figure, and then his face, clean and keen as an
eagle's, and his eyes lit up with the glamour of strange seas,
ah, strange seas that had woven through his soul, as he de-
scended into the kitchen.

This dream, with its amplifications, lasted her a mile of
walking. Then she went to Kingston-on-Thames.

Kingston-on-Thames was an old historic place just south
of London. There lived the well-born dignified souls who
belonged to the metropolis, but who loved peace. There she
met a wonderful family of girls living in a large old Queen
Anne house, whose lawns sloped to the river, and in an at-
mosphere of stately peace she found herself among her sours
intimates. They loved her as sisters, they shared with her
all noble thoughts.

She was happy again. In her musings she spread her
poor, clipped wings, and flew into the pure empyrean.

Day followed day. She did not speak to her parents.
Then came the return of her testimonials from Gillingham.
She was not wanted, neither at Swanwick. The bitterness
of rejection followed the sweets of hope. Her bright feathers
were in the dust again.

342 THE RAINBOW

Then, suddenly, after a fortnight, came an intimation from
Kingston-on-Thames. She was to appear at the Education
Office of that town on the following Thursday, for an inter-
view with the Committee. Her heart stood still. She knew
she would make the Committee accept her. Now she was
afraid, now that her removal was imminent. Her heart
quivered with fear and reluctance. But underneath her pur-
pose was fixed.

She passed shadowily through the day, unwilling to tell
her news to her mother, waiting for her father. Suspense
and fear were strong upon her. She dreaded going to King-
ston. Her easy dreams disappeared from the grasp of reality.

And yet, as the afternoon wore away, the sweetness of the
dream returned again. Kingston-on-Thames — there was
such sound of dignity to her. The shadow of history and
the glamour of stately progress enveloped her. The palaces
would be old and darkened, the place of kings obscured. Yet
it was a place of kings for her — Eichard and Henry and
Wolsey and Queen Elizabeth. She divined great lawns with
noble trees, and terraces whose steps the water washed softly,
where the swans sometimes came to earth. Still she must
see the stately, gorgeous barge of the Queen float down, the
crimson carpet put upon the landing stairs, the gentlemen in
their purple-velvet cloaks, bare-headed, standing in the sun-
shine grouped on either side waiting.

" Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song."

Evening came, her father returned home, sanguine and
alert and detached as ever. He was less real than her fancies.
She waited whilst he ate his tea. He took big mouthfuls,
big bites, and ate unconsciously with the same abandon an
animal gives to its food.

Immediately after tea he went over to the church. It was
choir-practice, and he wanted to try the tunes on his organ.

The latch of the big door clicked loudly as she came after
him, but the organ rolled more loudly still. He was unaware.
He was practising the anthem. She saw his small, jet-black
head and alert face between the candle-flames, his slim body
sagged on the music-stool. His face was so luminous and
fixed, the movements of his limbs seemed strange, apart from
him. The sound of the organ seemed to belong to the very
stone of the pillars, like sap running in them.

Then there was a close of music and silence.

"Father!" she said.

THE MAN'S WORLD 343

He looked round as if at an apparition. Ursula stood
shadowily within the candle-light.

" What now ? " he said, not coming to earth.

It was difficult to speak to him.

"I've got a situation/' she said, forcing herself to speak.

" You've got what ? " he answered, unwilling to come out of
his mood of organ-playing. He closed the music before him.

" I've got a situation to go to."

Then he turned to her, still abstracted, unwilling.

"Oh, where's that?" he said.

" At Kingston-on-Thames. I must go on Thursday for an
interview with the Committee."

" You must go on Thursday ? "

"Yes."

And she handed him the letter. He read it by the light
of the candles.

"Ursula Brangwen, Yew Tree Cottage, Cossethay, Derby-
shire.

" 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?"

THE RAINBOW

She gave it to him. He sat looking at it. " You are re-
quested 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 re-
gard 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 apologizing
to him.

He did not hear. He sat looking at the letter.

" Education Office, Kingston-on-Thames " — and then the
type-written "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 dancing 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 down-
stairs.

" Look here, Anna," he said, handing her the letter.

She put back her head, seeing a type-written letter, an-
ticipating trouble from the outside world. There was the
curious, sliding motion of her eyes, as if she shut off her
sentient, maternal self, and a kind of hard trance, meaning-
less, took its place. Thus, meaningless, she glanced over the
letter, careful not to take it in. She apprehended the con-
tents with her callous, superficial mind. Her feeling self was
shut down.

"What post is it?" she asked.

" She wants to go and be a teacher in Kingston-on-Thames,
at fifty pounds a year."

"Oh, indeed."

The mother spoke as if it were a hostile fact concerning

THE MAN'S WORLD 346

some stranger. She would have let her go, out of callousness.
Mrs. Brangwen would begin to grow up again only with her
youngest child. Her eldest girl was in the way now.

" She's not going all that distance," said the father.

" I have to go where they want me," cried Ursula. " And
it's a good place to go to."

"What do you know about the place?" said her father
harshly.

" And it doesn't matter whether they want you or not,
if your father says you are not to go," said the mother calmly.

How Ursula hated her !

" You said I was to try," the girl cried. " Now I've got
a place and I'm going to go."

" You're not going all that distance," said her father.

"Why don't you get a place at Ilkeston, where you can
live at home ? " asked Gudrun, who hated conflicts, who could
not understand Ursula's uneasy way, yet who must stand by
her sister.

"There aren't any places in Ilkeston," cried Ursula.
"And I'd rather go right away."

"If you'd asked about it, a place could have been got for
you in Ilkeston. But you had to play Miss High-an'-mighty,
and go your own way," said her father.

"I've no doubt you'd rather go right away," said her
mother, very caustic. " And I've no doubt you'd find other
people didn't put up with you for very long either. You've
too much opinion of yourself for your good."

Between the girl and her mother was a feeling of pure
hatred. There came a stubborn silence. Ursula knew she
must break it.

"Well, they've written to me, and I s'll have to go," she
said.

" Where will you get the money from ? " asked her father.

" Uncle Tom will give it me," she said.

Again there was silence. This time she was triumphant.

Then at length her father lifted his head. His face was
abstracted, he seemed to be abstracting himself, to make a
pure statement.

"Well, you're not going all that distance away," he said.
" I'll ask Mr. Burt about a place here. I'm not going to have
you by yourself at the other side of London."

" But I've got to go to Kingston," said Ursula. " They've
sent for me."

346 THE RAINBOW

" They'll do without you," he said.

There was a trembling silence when she was on the point
of tears.

" Well," she said, low and tense, " you can put me off
this, but Fm going to have a place. Fm not going to stop
at home."

" Nobody wants you to stop at home," he suddenly shouted,
going livid with rage.

She said no more. Her nature had gone hard and smiling
in its own arrogance, in its own antagonistic indifference to
the rest of them. This was the state in which he wanted to
kill her. She went singing into the parlour.

"C'est la mere Michel qui a perdu son chat,
Qui cri par la fenetre qu'est-ce qui le lui rendra "

During the next days Ursula went about bright and hard,
singing to herself, making love to the children, but her soul
hard and cold with regard to her parents. Nothing more
was said. The hardness and brightness lasted for four days.
Then it began to break up. So at evening she said to her
father,

" Have you spoken about a place for me ? "

" I spoke to Mr. Burt."

"What did he say?"

"There's a committee meeting to-morrow. He'll tell me
on Friday."

So she waited till Friday. Kingston-on-Thames had been
an exciting dream. Here she could feel the hard, raw reality.
So she knew that this would come to pass. Because nothing
was ever fulfilled, she found, except in the hard limited
reality. She did not want to be a teacher in Ilkeston, be-
cause she knew Ilkeston, and hated it. But she wanted to
be free, so she must take her freedom where she could.

On Friday her father said there was a place vacant in
Brinsley Street school. This could most probably be secured
for her, at once, without the trouble of application.

Her heart nalted. Brinsley Street was a school in a poor
quarter, and she had had a taste of the common children of
Ilkeston. They had shouted after her and thrown stones.
Still, as a teacher, she would be in authority. And it was all
unknown. She was excited. The very forest of dry, sterile
brick had some fascination for her. It was so hard and ugly,

THE MAN'S WORLD 347

so relentlessly ugly, it would purge her of some of her floating
sentimentality.

She dreamed how she would make the little, ugly children
love her. She would be so personal. Teachers were always
so hard and impersonal. There was no vivid relationship.
She would make everything personal and vivid, she would
give herself, she would give, give, give all her great stores of
wealth to her children, she would make them so happy, and
they would prefer her to any teacher on the face of the earth.

At Christmas she would choose such fascinating Christmas
cards for them, and she would give them such a happy party
in one of the class-rooms.

The head-master, Mr. Harby, was a short, thick-set, rather
common man, she thought. But she would hold before him
the light of grace and refinement, he would have her in such
high esteem before long. She would be the gleaming sun of
the school, the children would blossom like little weeds, the
teachers like tall, hard plants would burst into rare flower.

The Monday morning came. It was the end of September,
and a drizzle of fine rain like veils round her, making her
seem intimate, a world to herself. She walked forward to
the new land. The old was blotted out. The veil would be
rent that hid the new world. She was gripped hard with sus-
pense as she went down the hill in the rain, carrying her din-
ner-bag.

Through the thin rain she saw the town, a black, extensive
mount. She must enter in upon it. She felt at once a feel-
ing of repugnance and of excited fulfilment. But she shrank.

She waited at the terminus for the tram. Here it was
beginning. Before her was the station to Nottingham,
whence Theresa had gone to school half an hour before; be-
hind her was the little church school she had attended when
she was a child, when her grandmother was alive. Her grand •
mother had been dead two years now. There was a strange
woman at the Marsh, with her Uncle Fred, and a small baby.
Behind her was Cossethay, and blackberries were ripe on the
hedges.

As she waited at the tram-terminus she reverted swiftly
to her childhood ; her teasing grandfather, with his fair beard
and blue eyes, and his big, monumental body; he had got
drowned: her grandmother, whom Ursula would sometimes
say she had loved more than any one else in the world: the
little church school, the Phillips boys ; one was a soldier in the

348 THE RAINBOW

Life Guards now, one was a collier. With a passion she clung
to the past.

But as she dreamed of it, she heard the tram-car grinding
round a bend, rumbling dully, she saw it draw into sight,
and hum nearer. It sidled round the loop at the terminus,
and came to a standstill, looming above her. Some shadowy
grey people stepped from the far end, the conductor was
walking in the puddles, swinging round the pole.

She mounted into the wet, comfortless tram, whose floor
was dark with wet, whose windows were all steamed, and she
sat in suspense. It had begun, her new existence.

One other passenger mounted — a sort of charwoman with
a drab, wet coat. Ursula could not bear the waiting of the
tram. The bell clanged, there was a lurch forward. The
car moved cautiously down the wet street. She was being
carried forward, into her new existence. Her heart burned
with pain and suspense, as if something were cutting her
living tissue.

Often, oh often the tram seemed to stop, and wet, cloaked
people mounted and sat mute and grey in stiff rows opposite
her, their umbrellas between their knees. The windows of
the tram grew more steamy, opaque. She was shut in with
these unliving, spectral people. Even yet it did not occur
to her that she was one of them. The conductor came down
issuing tickets. Each little ring of his clipper sent a pang
of dread through her. But her ticket surely was different
from the rest.

They were all going to work; she also was going to work.
Her ticket was the same. She sat trying to fit in with them.
But fear was at her bowels, she felt an unknown, terrible
grip upon her.

At Bath Street she must dismount and change trams. She
looked uphill. It seemed to lead to freedom. She remem-
bered the many Saturday afternoons she had walked up to
the shops. How free and careless she had been!

Ah, her tram was sliding gingerly downhill. She dreaded
every yard of her conveyance. The car halted, she mounted
hastily.

She kept turning her head as the car ran on, because she
was uncertain of the street. At last, her heart a flame of
suspense, trembling, she rose. The conductor rang the bell
brusquely.

She was walking down a small, mean, wet street, empty

THE MAN'S WORLD 349

of people. The school squatted low within its railed, asphalt
yard, that shone black with rain. The building was grimy,
and horrible, dry plants were shadowily looking through the
windows.

She entered the arched doorway of the porch. The whole
place seemed to have a threatening expression, imitating the
church's architecture, for the purpose of domineering, like a
gesture of vulgar authority. She saw that one pair of feet
had paddled across the flagstone floor of the porch. The
place was silent, deserted, like an empty prison waiting the
return of tramping feet.

Ursula went forward to the teachers' room that burrowed
in a gloomy hole. She knocked timidly.

" Come in ! " called a surprised man's voice, as from a prison
cell. She entered the dark little room that never got any
sun. The gas was lighted naked and raw. At the table a
thin man in shirt-sleeves was rubbing a paper on a jelly-
tray. He looked up at Ursula with his narrow, sharp face,
said " Good morning," then turned away again, and stripped
the paper off the tray, glancing at the violet-coloured writing
transferred, before he dropped the curled sheet aside among
a heap.

Ursula watched him fascinated. In the gaslight and gloom
and the narrowness of the room, all seemed unreal.

" Isn't it a nasty morning," she said.

<e Yes," he said, " it's not much of weather."

But in here it seemed that neither morning nor weather
really existed. This place was timeless. He spoke in an
occupied voice, like an echo. Ursula did not know what to
say. She took off her waterproof.

"Am I early?" she asked.

The man looked first at a little clock, then at her. His
eyes seemed to be sharpened to needle-points of vision.

" Twenty-five past," he said. " You're the second to come.
I'm first this morning."

Ursula sat down gingerly on the edge of a chair, and
watched his thin red hands rubbing away on the white sur-
face of the paper, then pausing, pulling up a corner of the
sheet, peering, and rubbing away again. There was a great
heap of curled white-and-scribbled sheets on the table.

" Must you do so many ? " asked Ursula.

Again the man glanced up sharply. He was about thirty
or thirty-three years old, thin, greenish, with a long nose and

350 THE RAINBOW

a sharp face. His eyes were blue, and sharp as points of
steel, rather beautiful, the girl thought.

" Sixty-three," he answered.

" So many ! " she said, gently. Then she remembered.

" But they're not all for your class, are they ? " she added.

"Why aren't they?" he replied, a fierceness in his voice.

Ursuia was rather frightened by his mechanical ignoring
of her, and his directness of statement. It was something
new to her. She had never been treated like this before, as
if she did not count, as if she were addressing a machine.

" It is too many," she said sympathetically.

"You'll get about the same," he said.

That was all she received. She sat rather blank, not
knowing how to feel. Still she liked him. He seemed so
cross. There was a queer, sharp, keen-edge feeling about
him that attracted her and frightened her at the same time.
It was so cold, and against his nature.

The door opened, and a short, neutral-tinted young woman
of about twenty-eight appeared.

" Oh, Ursula ! " the newcomer exclaimed. " You are here
early ! My word, I'll warrant you don't keep it up. That's
Mr. Williamson's peg. This is yours. Standard Five teacher
always has this. Aren't you going to take your hat off?"

Miss Violet Harby removed Ursula's waterproof from the
peg on which it was hung, to one a little further down the
TOW. She had already snatched the pins from her own stuff
hat, and jammed them through her coat. She turned to
Ursula, as she pushed up her frizzed, flat, dun-coloured hair.

"Isn't it a beastly morning," she exclaimed, "beastly!
And if there's one thing I hate above another it's a wet
Monday morning ; — pack of kids trailing in anyhow-nohow,
and no holding 'em "

She had taken a black pinafore from a newspaper package,
and was tying it round her waist.

" You've brought an apron, haven't you ? " she said jerkily,
glancing at Ursula. "Oh — you'll want one. You've no
idea what a sight you'll look before half -past four, what with
chalk and ink and kids' dirty feet. — Well, I can send a
boy down to mamma's for one."

" Oh, it doesn't matter," said Ursula.

" Oh, yes — I can send easily," cried Miss Harby.

Ursula's heart sank. Everybody seemed so cocksure and
so bossy. How was she going to get oil with such jolty,

THE MAN'S WORLD 351

jerky, bossy people? And Miss Harby had not spoken a
word to the man at the table. She simply ignored him.
Ursula felt the callous crude rudeness between the two
teachers.

The two girls went out into the passage. A few children
were already clattering in the porch.

"Jim Kichards," called Miss Harby, hard and authorita-
tive. A boy came sheepishly forward.

" Shall you go down to our house for me, eh ? " said Miss
Harby, in a commanding, condescending, coaxing voice.
She did not wait for an answer. " Go down and ask mamma
to send me one of my school pinas, for Miss Brangwen — shall
you?"

The boy muttered a sheepish " Yes, Miss," and was moving
away.

" Hey," called Miss Harby. " Come here — now what are
you going for ? What shall you say to mamma ? "

" A school pina " muttered the boy.

" ' Please, Mrs. Harby, Miss Harby says will you send her
another school pinafore for Miss Brangwen, because she's
come without one/ ''

"Yes, Miss," muttered the boy, head ducked, and was
moving off. Miss Harby caught him back, holding him by
the shoulder.

" What are you going to say ? "

" Please, Mrs. Harby, Miss Harby wants a pinny for Miss
Brangwin," muttered the boy very sheepishly.

"Miss Brangwen!" laughed Miss Harby, pushing him
away. "Here, you'd better have my umbrella — wait a
minute."

The unwilling boy was rigged up with Miss Harby's um-
brella, and set off.

"Don't take long over it," called Miss Harby, after him.
Then she turned to Ursula, and said brightly :

" Oh, he's a caution, that lad — but not bad, you know."

" No," Ursula agreed, weakly.

The latch of the door clicked, and they entered the big
room. Ursula glanced down the place. Its rigid, long silence
was official and chilling. Half way down was a glass par-
tition, the doors of which were open. A clock ticked re-
echoing, and Miss Harby's voice sounded double as she said:

" This is the big room — Standard Five-Six-and-Seven, —
Here's your place — Five "

352 THE RAINBOW

She stood in the near end of the great room. There was
a small high teacher's desk facing a squadron of long benches,
two high windows in the wall opposite.

It was fascinating and horrible to Ursula. The curious,
unliving light in the room changed her character. She
thought it was the rainy morning. Then she looked up again,
because of the horrid feeling of being shut in a rigid, in-
flexible air, away from all feeling of the ordinary day; and
she noticed that the windows were of ribbed, suffused glass.

The prison was round her now! She looked at the walls,
colour washed, pale green and chocolate, at the large windows
with frowsy geraniums against the pale glass, at the long
rows of desks, arranged in a squadron, and dread filled her.
This was a new world, a new life, with which she was threat-
ened. But still excited, she climbed into her chair at her
teacher's desk. It was high, and her feet could not reach
the ground, but must rest on the step. Lifted up there, off
the ground, she was in office. How queer, how queer it all
was! How different it was from the mist of rain blowing
over Cossethay. As she thought of her own village, a spasm
of yearning crossed her, it seemed so far off, so lost to her.

She was here in this hard, stark reality — reality. It was
queer that she should call this the reality, which she had
never known till to-day, and which now so filled her with
dread and dislike, that she wished she might go away. This
was the reality, and Cossethay, her beloved, beautiful, well-
known Cossethay, which was as herself unto her, that was
minor reality. This prison of a school was reality. Here,
then, she would sit in state, the queen of scholars! Here
she would realize her dream of being the beloved teacher
bringing light and joy to her children ! But the desks before
her had an abstract angularity that bruised her sentiment
and made her shrink. She winced, feeling she had been a
fool in her anticipations. She had brought her feelings and
her generosity to where neither generosity nor emotion were
wanted. And already she felt rebuffed, troubled by the
new atmosphere, out of place.

She slid down, and they returned to the teacher's room.
It was queer to feel that one ought to alter one's personality.
She was nobody, there was no reality in herself, the reality
was all outside of her, and she must apply herself to it.

Mr. Harby was in the teacher's room, standing before a
big, open cupboard, in which Ursula could see piles of pink

THE MAN'S WORLD 353

blotting paper, heaps of shiny new books, boxes of chalk, and
bottles of coloured inks. It looked a treasure store.

The schoolmaster was a short, sturdy man, with a fine
head, and a heavy jowl. Nevertheless he was good-looking,
with his shapely brows and nose, and his great, hanging mous-
tache. He seemed absorbed in his work, and took no notice
of Ursula's entry. There was something insulting in the way
he could be so actively unaware of another person, so occupied.

When he had a moment of absence, he looked up from the
table and said good-morning to Ursula. There was a pleas-
ant light in his brown eyes. He seemed very manly and in-
controvertible, like something she wanted to push over.

" You had a wet walk/' he said to Ursula.

" Oh, I don't mind, I'm used to it," she replied, with a
nervous little laugh.

But already he was not listening. Her words sounded ri-
diculous and babbling. He was taking no notice of her.

" You will sign your name here," he said to her, as if she
were some child — " and the time when you come and go."

Ursula signed her name in the time book and stood back.
No one took any further notice of her. She beat her brains
for something to say, but in vain.

"I'd let them in now," said Mr. Harby to the thin man,
who was very hastily arranging his papers.

The assistant teacher made no sign of acquiescence, and
went on with what he was doing. The atmosphere in the
room grew tense. At the last moment Mr. Brunt slipped
into his coat.

" You will go to the girls' lobby," said the schoolmaster to
Ursula, with a fascinating, insulting geniality, purely official
and domineering.

She went out and found Miss Harby, and another girl
teacher, in the porch. On the asphalt yard the rain was fall-
ing. A toneless bell tang-tang-tanged drearily overhead,
monotonously, insistently. It came to an end. Then Mr.
Brunt was seen, bare-headed, standing at the other gate of
the school yard, blowing shrill blasts on a whistle and looking
down the rainy, dreary street.

Boys in gangs and streams came trotting up, running past
the master and with a loud clatter of feet and voices, over the
yard to the boys' porch. Girls were running and walking
through the other entrance.

In the porch where Ursula stood there was a great noise

354 THE RAINBOW

of girls, who were tearing off their coats and hats, and hang-
ing them on the racks bristling with pegs. There was a smell
of wet clothing, a tossing out of wet, draggled hair, a noise
of voices and feet.

The mass of girls grew greater, the rage around the pegs
grew steadier, the scholars tended to fall into little noisy
gangs in the porch. Then Violet Harby clapped her hands,
clapped them louder, with a shrill " Quiet, girls, quiet ! "

There was a pause. The hubbub died down but did not
cease.

"What did I say?" cried Miss Harby, shrilly.

There was almost complete silence. Sometimes a girl,
rather late, whirled into the porch and flung off her things.

" Leaders — in place," commanded Miss Harby shrilly.

Pairs of girls in pinafores and long hair stood separate in
the porch.

" Standard Four, Five, and Six — fall in," cried Miss
Harby.

There was a hubbub, which gradually resolved itself into
three columns of girls, two and two, standing smirking in the
passage. In among the peg-racks, other teachers were putting
the lower, classes into ranks.

Ursula stood by her own Standard Five. They were jerk-
ing their shoulders, tossing their hair, nudging, writhing, star-
ing, grinning, whispering and twisting.

A sharp whistle was heard, and Standard Six, the biggest
girls, set off, led by Miss Harby. Ursula, with her Standard
Five, followed after. She stood beside a smirking, grinning
row of girls, waiting in a narrow passage. What she was
herself she did not know.

Suddenly the sound of a piano was heard, and Standard
Six set off hollowly down the big room. The boys had en-
tered by another door. The piano played on, a march tune,
Standard Five followed to the door of the big room. Mr.
Harby was seen away beyond at his desk. Mr. Brunt guarded
the other door of the room. Ursula's class pushed up. She
stood near them. They glanced and smirked and shoved.

" Go on," said Ursula.

They tittered.

" Go on," said Ursula, for the piano continued.

The girls broke loosely into the room. Mr. Harby, who
had seemed immersed in some occupation, away at his desk,
lifted his head and thundered,

THE MAN'S WORLD 355

"Halt!"

There was a halt, the piano stopped. The boys who were
just starting through the other door, pushed back. The harsh,
subdued voice of Mr. Brunt was heard, then the booming
shout of Mr. Harby, from far down the room :

" Who told Standard Five girls to come in like that ? "

Ursula crimsoned. Her girls were glancing up at her,
smirking their accusation.

" I sent them in, Mr. Harby," she said, in a clear, strug-
gling voice. There was a moment of silence. Then Mr.
Harby roared from the distance.

" Go back to your places, Standard Five girls."

The girls glanced up at Ursula, accusing, rather jeering,
furtive. They pushed back. Ursula's heart hardened with
ignominious pain.

" Forward — march," came Mr. Brunt's voice, and the girls
set off, keeping time with the ranks of boys.

Ursula faced her class, some fifty-five boys and girls who
stood filling the ranks of the desks. She felt utterly non-
existent. She had no place nor being there. She faced the
block of children.

Down the room she heard the rapid firing of questions.
She stood before her class not knowing what to do. She
waited painfully. Her block of children, fifty unknown faces,
watched her, hostile, ready to jeer. She felt as if she were
in torture over a fire of faces. And on every side she was
naked to them. Of unutterable length and torture the sec-
onds went by.

Then she gathered courage. She heard Mr. Brunt asking
questions in mental arithmetic. She stood near to her class,
so that her voice need not be raised, too much, and faltering,
uncertain, she said:

" Seven hats at two-pence ha'penny each ? "

A grin went over the faces of the class, seeing her com-
mence. She was red and suffering. Then some hands shot
up like blades, and she asked for the answer.

The day passed incredibly slowly. She never knew what
to do, there came horrible gaps, when she was merely exposed
to the children; and when, relying on some pert little girl
for information, she had started a lesson, she did not know
how to go on with it properly. The children were her mas-
ters. She deferred to them. She could always hear Mr.
Brunt. Like a machine, always in the same hard, high, in-

356 THE RAINBOW

human voice "he went on with his teaching, oblivious of every-
thing. And before this inhuman number of children she was
always at bay. She could not get away from it. There it
was, this class of fifty collective children, depending on her
for command, for command it hated and resented. It made
her feel she could not breathe : she must suffocate, it was so
inhuman. They were so many, that they were not children.
They were a squadron. She could not speak as she would to
a child, because they were not individual children, they were
a collective, inhuman thing.

Dinner time came, and stunned, bewildered, solitary, she
went into the teacher's room for dinner. Never had she felt
such a stranger to life before. It seemed to her she had just
disembarked from some strange horrible state where every-
thing was as in hell, a condition of hard, malevolent system.
And she was not really free. The afternoon drew at her like
some bondage.

The first week passed in a blind confusion. She did not
know how to teach, and she felt she never would know. Mr.
Harby came down every now and then to her class, to see
what she was doing. She felt so incompetent as he stood by,
bullying and threatening, so unreal, that she wavered, be-
came neutral and non-existent. But he stood there watch-
ing with the listening-genial smile of the eyes, that was really
threatening ; he said nothing, he made her go on teaching, she
felt she had no soul in her body. Then he went away, and
his going was like a derision. The class was his class. She
was a wavering substitute. He thrashed and bullied, he was
hated. But he was master. Though she was gentle and al-
ways considerate of her class, yet they belonged to Mr. Harby,
and they did not belong to her. Like some invincible source
of the mechanism he kept all power to himself. And the
class owned his power. And in school it was power, and power
alone that mattered.

Soon Ursula came to dread him, and at the bottom of her
dread was a seed of hate, for she despised him, yet he was
master of her. Then she began to get on. All the other
teachers hated him, and fanned their hatred among them-
selves. For he was master of them and the children, he
stood like a wheel to make absolute his authority over the
herd. That seemed to be his one reason in life, to hold
blind authority over the school. His teachers were his sub-

THE MAN'S WORLD 357

jects as much as the scholars. Only, because they had some
authority, his instinct was to detest them.

Ursula could not make herself a favourite with him. From
the first moment she set hard against him. She set against
Violet Harby also. Mr. Harby was, however, too much for
her, he was something she could not come to grips with, some-
thing too strong for her. She tried to approach him as a
young, bright girl usually approaches a man, expecting a lit-
tle chivalrous courtesy. But the fact that she was a girl, a
woman, was ignored or used as a matter for contempt against
her. She did not know what she was, nor what she must be.
She wanted to remain her own responsive, personal self.

So she taught on. She made friends with the Standard
Three teacher, Maggie Schofield. Miss Schofield was about
twenty years old, a subdued girl who held aloof from the
other teachers. She was rather beautiful, meditative, and
seemed to live in another, lovelier world.

Ursula took her dinner to school, and during the second
week ate it in Miss Schofield's room. Standard Three class-
room stood by itself and had windows on two sides, looking
on to the playground. It was a passionate relief to find such
a retreat in the jarring school. For there were pots of chry-
santhemums and coloured leaves, and a big jar of berries : there
were pretty little pictures on the wall, photogravure reproduc-
tions from Greuze, and Reynolds's " Age of Innocence," giv-
ing an air of intimacy; so that the room, with its window
space, its smaller, tidier desks, its touch of pictures and
flowers, made Ursula at once glad. Here at last was a little
personal touch, to which she could respond.

It was Monday. She had been at school a week and was
getting used to the surroundings, though she was still an
entire foreigner in herself. She looked forward to having
dinner with Maggie. That was the bright spot in the day.
Maggie was so strong and remote, walking with slow, sure
steps down a hard road, carrying the dream within her.
Ursula went through the class teaching as through a meaning-
less daze.

Her class tumbled out at mid-day in haphazard fashion.
She did not realize what host she was gathering against
herself by her superior tolerance, her kindness and her laisser-
aller. They were gone, and she was rid of them, and that
was all. She hurried away to the teachers' room.

358 THE RAINBOW

Mr. Brunt was crouching at the small stove, putting a little
rice-pudding into the oven. He rose then, and attentively
poked in a small saucepan on the hob with a fork. Then he
replaced the saucepan lid.

" Aren't they done ? " asked Ursula gaily, breaking in on
his tense absorption.

She always kept a bright, blithe manner, and was pleasant
to all the teachers. For she felt like the swan among the
geese, of superior heritage and belonging. And her pride at
being the swan in this ugly school was not yet abated.

" Not yet," replied Mr. Brunt, laconic.

" I wonder if my dish is hot," she said, bending down at
the oven. She half expected him to look for her, but he took
no notice. She was hungry and she poked her finger eagerly
in the pot to see if her brussels sprouts and potatoes and meat
were ready. They were not.

"Don't you think it's rather jolly bringing dinner?" she
said to Mr. Brunt.

"I don't know as I do," he said, spreading a serviette on
a corner of the table, and not looking at her.

" I suppose it is too far for you to go home ? "

" Yes," he said. Then he rose and looked at her. He had
the bluest, fiercest, most pointed eyes that she had ever met.
He stared at her with growing fierceness.

" If I were you, Miss Brangwen," he said, menacingly, " I
should get a bit tighter hand over my class."

Ursula shrank.

" Would you ? " she asked, sweetly, yet in terror. " Aren't
I strict enough ? "

"Because," he repeated, taking no notice of her, "they'll
get you down if you don't tackle 'em pretty quick. They'll
pull you down, and worry you, till Harby gets you shifted —
that's how it'll be. You won't be here another six weeks " —
and he filled his mouth with food — " if you don't tackle 'em
and tackle 'em quick."

" Oh, but " Ursula said, resentfully, ruefully. The ter-
ror was deep in her.

" Harby'll not help you. This is what he'll do — he'll let
you go on, getting worse and worse, till either you clear out or
he clears you out. It doesn't matter to me, except that you'll
leave a class behind you as I hope I shan't have to cope with."

She heard the accusation in the man's voice, and felt con-
demned. But still, school had not yet become a definite

THE MAN'S WORLD 359

reality to her. She was shirking it. It was reality, but it
was all outside her. And she fought against Mr. Brunt's rep-
resentation. She did not want to realize.

" Will it be so terrible ? " she said, quivering, rather beau-
tiful, but with a slight touch of condescension, because she
would not betray her own trepidation.

"Terrible?" said the man, turning to his potatoes again.
" I dunno about terrible."

" I do feel frightened," said Ursula. " The children seem
so »

"What?" said Miss Harby, entering at that moment.

" Why," said Ursula, " Mr. Brunt says I ought to tackle
my class," and she laughed uneasily.

" Oh, you have to keep order if you want to teach," said
Miss Harby, hard, superior, trite.

Ursula did not answer. She felt non valid before them.

" If you want to> be let to live, you have," said Mr. Brunt.

" Well, if you can't keep order, what good are you ? " said
Miss Harby.

" An' you've got to do it by yourself," — his voice rose like
the bitter cry of the prophets. "You'll get no help from
anybody."

" Oh, indeed ! " said Miss Harby. " Some people can't be
helped." And she departed.

The air of hostility and disintegration, of wills working in
antagonistic subordination, was hideous. Mr. Brunt, subor-
dinate, afraid, acid with shame, frightened her. Ursula
wanted to run. She only wanted to clear out, not to under-
stand.

Then Miss Schofield came in, and with her another, more
restful note. Ursula at once turned for confirmation to the
new-comer. Maggie remained personal within all this un-
clean system of authority.

"Is the big Anderson here?" she asked of Mr. Brunt.
And they spoke of some affair about two scholars, coldly,
officially.

Miss Schofield took her brown dish, and Ursula followed
with her own. The cloth was laid in the pleasant Standard
Three room, there was a jar with two or three monthly roses on
the table.

"It is so nice in here, you have made it different," said
Ursula gaily. But she was afraid. The atmosphere of the
school was upon her.

360 THE RAINBOW

" The big room," said Miss Schofield, " ha, it's misery to be
in it!"

She too spoke with bitterness. She too lived in the igno-
minious position of an upper servant hated by the master
above and the class beneath. She was, she knew, liable to
attack from either side at any minute, or from both at once,
for the authorities would listen to the complaints of parents,
and both would turn round on the mongrel authority, the
teacher.

So there was a hard, bitter withholding in Maggie Schofield
even as she poured out her savoury mess of big golden beans
and brown gravy.

" It is vegetarian hot-pot," said Miss Schofield. " Would
you like to try it?"

"I should love to," said Ursula.

Her own dinner seemed coarse and ugly beside this savoury,
clean dish.

"I've never eaten vegetarian things," she said. "But I
should think they can be good."

" I'm not really a vegetarian," said Maggie, " I don't like
to bring meat to school."

" No," said Ursula, " I don't think I do either."

And again her soul rang an answer to a new refinement,
a new liberty. If all vegetarian things were as nice as this,
she would be glad to escape the slight uncleanness of meat.

" How good ! " she cried.

"Yes," said Miss Schofield, and she proceeded to tell her
the receipt. The two girls passed on to talk about them-
selves. Ursula told all about the High School, and about
her matriculation, bragging a little. She felt so poor here,
in this ugly place. Miss Schofield listened with brooding,
handsome face, rather gloomy.

" Couldn't you have got to some better place than this ? "
she asked at length.

" I didn't know what it was like," said Ursula, doubtfully.

" Ah ! " said Miss Schofield, and she turned aside her head
with a bitter motion.

" Is it as horrid as it seems ? " asked Ursula, frowning
lightly, in fear.

" It is" said Miss Schofield, bitterly. " Ha ! — it is hate-
ful!"

Ursula's heart sank, seeing even Miss Schofield in the
deadly bondage.

THE MAN'S WORLD 361

" It is Mr. Harby," said Maggie Schofield, breaking forth.
" I don't think I could live again in the big room — Mr.
Brunt's voice and Mr. Harby — ah "

She turned aside her head with a deep hurt. Some things
she could not bear.

"Is Mr. Harby really horrid?" asked Ursula, venturing
into her own dread.

" He ! — why, he's just a bully," said Miss Schofield, rais-
ing her shamed dark eyes, that flamed with tortured contempt.
" He's not bad as long as you keep in with him, and refer to
him, and do everything in his way — but — it's all so mean!
It's just a question of fighting on both sides — and those great
louts "

She spoke with difficulty and with increased bitterness. She
had evidently suffered. Her soul was raw with ignominy.
Ursula suffered in response.

"But why is it so horrid?" she asked, helplessly.

"You can't do anything" said Miss Schofield. "He's
against you on one side and he sets the children against you
on the other. The children are simply awful. You've got
to make them do everything. Everything, everything has
got to come out of you. Whatever they learn, you've got to
force it into them — and that's how it is."

Ursula felt her heart fail inside her. Why must she grasp
all this, why must she force learning on fifty-five reluctant
children, having all the time an ugly, rude jealousy behind
her, ready to throw her to the mercy of the herd of children,
who would like to rend her as a weaker representative of
authority. A great dread of her task possessed her. She
saw Mr. Brunt, Miss Harby, Miss Schofield, all the school-
teachers, drudging unwillingly at the graceless task of com-
pelling many children into one disciplined, mechanical set,
reducing the whole set to an automatic state of obedience and
attention, and then of commanding their acceptance of vari-
ous pieces of knowledge. The first great task was to reduce
sixty children to one state of mind, or being. This state must
be produced automatically, through the will of the teacher,
and the will of the whole school authority, imposed upon the
will of the children. The point was that the headmaster and
the teachers should have one will in authority, which should
bring the will of the children into accord. But the headmas-
ter was narrow and exclusive. The will of the teachers could
not agree with his, their separate wills refused to be so sub-

362 THE RAINBOW

ordinated. So there was a state of anarchy, leaving the final
judgment to the children themselves, which authority should
exist.

So there existed a set of separate wills, each straining itself
to the utmost to exert its own authority. Children will never
naturally acquiesce to sitting in a class and submitting to
knowledge. They must be compelled by a stronger, wiser
will. Against which will they must always strive to revolt.
So that the first great effort of every teacher of a large class
must be to bring the will of the children into accordance with
his own will. And this he can only do by an abnegation of
his personal self, and an application of a system of laws, for
the purpose of achieving a certain calculable result, the im-
parting of certain knowledge. Whereas Ursula thought she
was going to become the first wise teacher by making the
whole business personal, and using no compulsion. She be-
lieved entirely in her own personality.

So that she was in a very deep mess. In the first place she
was offering to a class a relationship which only one or two
of the children were sensitive enough to appreciate, so that
the mass were left outsiders, therefore against her. Sec-
ondly, she was placing herself in passive antagonism to the one
fixed authority of Mr. Harby, so that the scholars could more
safely harry her. She did not know, but her instinct grad-
ually warned her. She was tortured by the voice of Mr.
Brunt. On it went, jarring, harsh, full of hate, but so
monotonous, it nearly drove her mad: always the same set,
harsh monotony. The man was become a mechanism work-
ing on and on and on. But the personal man was in sub-
dued friction all the time. It was horrible — all hate ! Must
she be like this? She could feel the ghastly necessity. She
must become the same — put away the personal self, become
an instrument, an abstraction, working upon a certain ma-
terial, the class, to achieve a set purpose of making them
know so much each day. And she could not submit. Yet
gradually she felt the invincible iron closing upon her. The
sun was being blocked out. Often when she went out at
playtime and saw a luminous blue sky with changing clouds,
it seemed just a fantasy, like a piece of painted scenery. Her
heart was so black and tangled in the teaching, her personal
self was shut in prison, abolished, she was subjugate to a bad,
destructive will. How then could the sky be shining ? There
was no sky, there was no luminous atmosphere of out-of-doors.

THE MAN'S WORLD 363

Only the inside of the school was real — hard, concrete, real
and vicious.

She would not yet, however, let school quite overcome her.
She always said, " It is not a permanency, it will come to an
end." She could always see herself beyond the place, see
the time when she had left it. On Sundays and on holidays,
when she was away at Cossethay or in the woods where the
beech-leaves were fallen, she could think of St. Philip's Church
School, and by an effort of will put it in the picture as a dirty
little low-squatting building that made a very tiny mound
under the sky, while the great beech-woods spread immense
about her, and the afternoon was spacious and wonderful.
Moreover the children, the scholars, they were insignificant
little objects far away, oh, far away. And what power had
they over her free soul? A fleeting thought of them, as she
kicked her way through the beech-leaves, and they were gone.
But her will was tense against them all the time.

All the while, they pursued her. She had never had such
a passionate love of the beautiful things about her. Sitting
on top of the tram-car, at evening, sometimes school was
swept away as she saw a magnificent sky settling down. And
her breast, her very hands, clamoured for the lovely flare of
sunset. It was poignant almost to agony, her reaching for it.
She almost cried aloud seeing the sundown so lovely.

For she was held away. It was no matter how she said to
herself that school existed no more once she had left it. It
existed. It was within her like a dark weight, controlling
her movement. It was in vain the high-spirited, proud young
girl flung off the school and its association with her. She was
Miss Brangwen, she was Standard Five teacher, she had her
most important being in her work now.

Constantly haunting her, like a darkness hovering over her
heart and threatening to swoop down over it at every moment,
was the sense that somehow, somehow she was brought down.
Bitterly she denied unto herself that she was really a school-
teacher. Leave that to the Violet Harbys. She herself would
stand clear of the accusation. It was in vain she denied it.

Within herself some recording hand seemed to point me-
chanically to a negation. She was incapable of fulfilling her
task. She could never for a moment escape from the fatal
weight of the knowledge.

And so she felt inferior to Violet Harby. Miss Harby was
a splendid teacher. She could keep order and inflict knowl-

THE RAINBOW

edge on a class with remarkable efficiency. It was no good
Ursula's protesting to herself that she was infinitely, infinitely
the superior of Violet Harby. She knew that Violet Harby
succeeded where she failed, and this in a task which was
almost a test of her. She felt something all the time wearing
upon her, wearing her down. She went about in these first
weeks trying to deny it, to say she was free as ever. She
tried not to feel at a disadvantage before Miss Harby, tried
to keep up the effect of her own superiority. But a great
weight was on her, which Violet Harby could bear, and she
herself could not.

Though she did not give in, she never succeeded. Her
class was getting in worse condition, she knew herself less
and less secure in teaching it. Ought she to withdraw and
go home again ? Ought she to say she had come to the wrong
place, and so retire ? Her very life was at test.

She went on doggedly, blindly, waiting for a crisis. Mr.
Harby had now begun to persecute her. Her dread and hatred
of him grew and loomed larger and larger. She was afraid
he was going to bully her and destroy her. He began to perse-
cute her because she could not keep her class in proper con-
dition, because her class was the weak link in the chain which
made up the school.

One of the offences was that her class was noisy and dis-
turbed Mr. Harby, as he took Standard Seven at the other
end of the room. She was taking composition on a certain
morning, walking in among the scholars. Some of the boys
had dirty ears and necks, their clothing smelled unpleasantly,
but she could ignore it. She corrected the writing as she
went.

"When you say 'their fur is brown,' how do you write
< their ' ? » she asked.

There was a little pause; the boys were always jeeringly
backward in answering. They had begun to jeer at her au-
thority altogether.

" Please, miss, t-h-e-i-r," spelled a lad, loudly, with a note of
mockery.

At that moment Mr. Harby was passing.

" Stand up, Hill ! " he called, in a big voice.

Everybody started. Ursula watched the boy. He was evi-
dently poor, and rather cunning. A stiff bit of hair stood
straight off his forehead, the rest fitted close to his meagre
head. He was pale and colourless.

THE MAN'S WORLD 365

"Who told you to call out?" thundered Mr. Harby.

The boy looked up and down, with a guilty air, and a cun-
ning, cynical reserve.

" Please, sir, I was answering," he replied, with the same
humble insolence.

" Go to my desk."

The boy set off down the room, the big black jacket hang-
ing in dejected folds about him, his thin legs, rather knocked
at the knees, going already with the pauper's crawl, his feet
in their big boots scarcely lifted. Ursula watched him in his
crawling, slinking progress down the room. He was one of her
boys! When he got to the desk, he looked round, half fur-
tively, with a sort of cunning grin and a pathetic leer at the
big boys of Standard VII. Then, pitiable, pale, in his de-
jected garments, he lounged under the menace of the head-
master's desk, with one thin leg crooked at the knee and the
foot stuck out sideways his hands in the low-hanging pockets
of his man's jacket.

Ursula tried to get her attention back to the class. The
boy gave her a little horror, and she was at the same time
hot with pity for him. She felt she wanted to scream. She
was responsible for the boy's punishment. Mr. Harby was
looking at her handwriting on the board. He turned to the
class.

" Pens down."

The children put down their pens and looked up.

" Fold arms."

They pushed back their books and folded arms.

Ursula, stuck among the back forms, could not extricate
herself.

" What is your composition about ? " asked the headmaster.

Every hand shot up. " The " stuttered some voice in its

eagerness to answer.

" I wouldn't advise you to call out," said Mr. Harby. He
would have a pleasant voice, full and musical, but for the de-
testable menace that always tailed in it. He stood unmoved,
his eyes twinkling under his bushy black brows, watching the
class. There was something fascinating in him, as he stood,
and again she wanted to scream. She was all jarred, she
did not know what she felt.

"Well, Alice? "he said.

" The rabbit," piped a girl's voice.

" A very easy subject for Standard Five."

366 THE RAINBOW

Ursula felt a slight shame of incompetence. She was ex-
posed before the class. And she was tormented by the con-
tradictoriness of everything. Mr. Harby stood so strong,
and so male, with his black brows and clear forehead, the
heavy jaw, the big, overhanging moustache : such a man, with
strength and male power, and a certain blind, native beauty.
She might have liked him as a man. And here he stood in
some other capacity, bullying over such a trifle as a boy's
speaking out without permission. Yet he was not a little,
fussy man. He seemed to have some cruel, stubborn, evil
spirit, he was imprisoned in a task too small and petty for him,
which yet, in a servile acquiescence, he would fulfil, because he
had to earn his living. He had no finer control over him-
self, only this blind, dogged, wholesale will. He would keep
the job going, since he must. And his job was to make the
children spell the word " caution " correctly, and put a capital
letter after a full-stop. So at this he hammered with his sup-
pressed hatred, always suppressing himself, till he was beside
himself. Ursula suffered bitterly as he stood, short and hand-
some and powerful, teaching her class. It seemed such a
miserable thing for him to be doing. He had a decent, power-
ful, rude soul. What did he care about the composition on
" The Kabbit " ? Yet his will kept him there before the class,
threshing the trivial subject. It was habit with him now, to
be so little and vulgar, out of place. She saw the shamef ulness
of his position, felt the fettered wickedness in him which would
blaze out into evil rage in the long run, so that he was like a
persistent, strong creature tethered. It was really intolerable.
The jarring was torture to her. She looked over the silent,
attentive class that seemed to have crystallized into order and
rigid, neutral form. This he had it in his power to do, to
crystallize the children into hard, mute fragments, fixed under
his will : his brute will, which fixed them by sheer force. She
too must learn to subdue them to her will : she must. For it
was her duty, since the school was such. He had crystallized
the class into order. But to see him, a strong, powerful man,
using all his power for such a purpose, seemed almost horrible.
There was something hideous about it. The strange, genial
light in his eye was really vicious, and ugly, his smile was one
of torture. He could not be impersonal. He could not have
a clear, pure purpose, he could only exercise his own brute will.
He did not believe in the least in the education he kept in-
flicting year after year upon the children, So he must bully,

THE MAN'S WORLD 367

only bully, even while it tortured his strong, wholesome nature
with shame like a spur always galling. He was so blind and
ugly and out of place. Ursula could not bear it as he stood
there. The whole situation was wrong and ugly.

The lesson was finished, Mr. Harby went away. At the
far end of the room she heard the whistle and the thud of the
cane. Her heart stood still within her. She could not bear
it, no, she could not bear it when the boy was beaten. It made
her sick. She felt that she must go out of this school, this
torture-place. And she hated the schoolmaster, thoroughly
and finally. The brute, had he no shame ? He should never
be allowed to continue the atrocity of this bullying cruelty.
Then Hill came crawling back, blubbering piteously. There
was something desolate about his blubbering that nearly broke
her heart. For after all, if she had kept her class in proper
discipline, this would never have happened, Hill would never
have called out and been caned.

She began the arithmetic lesson. But she was distracted.
The boy Hill sat away on the back desk, huddled up, blub-
bering and sucking his hand. It was a long time. She dared
not go near, nor speak to him. She felt ashamed before him.
And she felt she could not forgive the boy for being the hud-
dled, blubbering object, all wet and snivelled, which he was.

She went on correcting the sums. But there were too manv
children. She could not get round the class. And Hill was
on her conscience. At last he had stopped crying, and sat
bunched over his hands, playing quietly. Then he looked up
at her. His face was dirty with tears, his eyes had a curious
washed look, like the sky after rain, a sort of wanness. He
bore no malice. He had already forgotten, and was waiting
to be restored to the normal position.

" Go on with your work, Hill/' she said.

The children were playing over their arithmetic, and, she
knew, cheating thoroughly. She wrote another sum on the
blackboard. She could not get round the class. She went
again to the front to watch. Some were ready. Some were
not. What was she to do?

At last it was time for recreation. She gave the order to
cease working, and in some way or other got her class out of
the room. Then she faced the disorderly litter or blotted,
uncorrected books, of broken rulers and chewed pens. And
her heart sank in sickness. The misery was getting deeper.

The trouble went on and on, day after day. She had al-

368 THE RAINBOW

ways piles of books to mark, myriads of errors to correct, a
heart-wearying task that she loathed. And the work got worse
and worse. When she tried to flatter herself that the composi-
tion grew more alive, more interesting, she had to see that the
handwriting grew more and more slovenly, the books more
filthy and disgraceful. She tried what she could, but it was
of no use. But she was not going to take it seriously. Why
should she ? Why should she say to herself, that it mattered,
if she failed to teach a class to write perfectly neatly? Why
should she take the blame unto herself ?

Pay day came, and she received four pounds two shillings
and one penny. She was very proud that day. She had never
had so much money before. And she had earned it all herself.
She sat on the top of the tram-car fingering the gold and fear-
ing she might lose it. She felt so established and strong, be-
cause of it. And when she got home she said to her mother :

" It is pay day to-day, mother."

" Ay," said her mother coolly.

Then Ursula put down fifty shillings on the table.

" That is my board," she said.

" Ay," said her mother, letting it lie.

Ursula was hurt. Yet she had paid her scot. She was
free. She paid for what she had. There remained moreover
thirty-two shillings of her own. She would not spend any,
she who was naturally a spendthrift, because she could not
bear to damage her fine gold.

She had a standing ground now apart from her parents.
She was something else besides the mere daughter of William
and Anna Brangwen. She was independent. She earned
her own living. She was an important member of the work-
ing community. She was sure that fifty shillings a month
quite paid for her keep. If her mother received fifty shillings
a month for each of the children, she would have twenty
pounds a month and no clothes to provide. Very well then.

Ursula was independent of her parents. She now adhered
elsewhere. Now, the "Board of Education" was a phrase
that rang significant to her, and she felt Whitehall far beyond
her as her ultimate home. In the government, she knew which
minister had supreme control over Education, and it seemed
to her that, in some way, he was connected with her, as her
father was connected with her.

She had another self, another responsibility. She was no
longer Ursula Brangwen, daughter of William Brangwen.

THE MAN'S WORLD 369

She was also Standard Five teacher in St. Philip's School.
And it was a case now of being Standard Five teacher, and
nothing else. For she could not escape.

Neither could she succeed. That was her horror. As the
weeks passed on, there was no Ursula Brangwen, free and
jolly. There was only a girl of that name obsessed by the
fact that she could not manage her class of children. At
week-ends there came days of passionate reaction, when she
went mad with the taste of liberty, when merely to be free
in the morning, to sit down at her embroidery and stitch the
coloured silks was a passion of delight. For the prison house
was always awaiting her! This was only a respite, as her
chained heart knew well. So that she seized hold of the
swift hours of the week end, and wrung the last drop of sweet-
ness out of them, in a little, cruel frenzy.

She did not tell anybody how this state was a torture to her.
She did not confide, either to Gudrun or to her parents, how
horrible she found it to be a school-teacher. But when Sun-
day night came, and she felt the Monday morning at hand,
she was strung up tight with dreadful anticipation, because
the strain and the torture was near again.

She did not believe that she could ever teach that great,
brutish class, in that brutal school: ever, ever. And yet,
if she failed, she must in some way go under. She must admit
that the man's world was too strong for her, she could not
take her place in it; she must go down before Mr. Harby.
And all her life henceforth, she must go on, never having freed
herself of the man's world, never having achieved the freedom
of the great world of responsible work. Maggie had taken
her place there, she had even stood level with Mr. Harby and
got free of him: and her soul was always wandering in far-
off valleys and glades of poetry. Maggie was free. Yet there
was something like subjection in Maggie's very freedom. Mr.
Harby, the man, disliked the reserved woman, Maggie. Mr.
Harby, the schoolmaster, respected his teacher, Miss Scho-
field.

For the present, however, Ursula only envied and admired
Maggie. She herself had still to get where Maggie had got.
She had still to make her footing. She had taken up a posi-
tion on Mr. Harby's ground, and she must keep it. For he
was now beginning a regular attack on her, to drive her away
out of his school. She could not keep order. Her class was
a turbulent crowd, and the weak spot in the school's work.

370 THE RAINBOW

Therefore she must go, and some one more useful must come
in her place, some one who could keep discipline.

The headmaster had worked himself into an obsession of
fury against her. He only wanted her gone. She had come,
she had got worse as the weeks went on, she was absolutely
no good. His system, which was his very life in school, the
outcome of his bodily movement, was attacked and threatened
at the point where Ursula was included. She was the danger
that threatened his body with a blow, a fall. And blindly,
thoroughly, moving from strong instinct of opposition, he set
to work to expel her.

When he punished one of her children as he had punished
the boy Hill, for an offence against himself, he made the
punishment extra heavy with the significance that the extra
stroke came in because of the weak teacher who allowed all
these things to be. When he punished for an offence against
her, he punished lightly, as if offences against her were not
significant. Which all the children knew, and they behaved
accordingly.

Every now and again Mr. Harby would swoop down to
examine exercise books. For a whole hour, he would be going
round the class, taking book after book, comparing page
after page, whilst Ursula stood aside for all the remarks and
fault-finding to be pointed at her through the scholars. It
was true, since she had come, the composition books had grown
more and more untidy, disorderly, filthy. Mr. Harby pointed
to the pages done before her regime, and to those done after,
and fell into a passion of rage. Many children he sent out
to the front with their books. And after he had thoroughly
gone through the silent and quivering class he caned the worst
offenders well, in front of the others, thundering in real pas-
sion of anger and chagrin.

" Such a condition in a class, I can't believe it ! It is
simply disgraceful ! I can't think how you have been let to
get like it! Every Monday morning I shall come down and
examine these books. So don't think that because there is
nobody paying any attention to you, that you are free to
unlearn everything you ever learned, and go back till you are
not fit for Standard Three. I shall examine all books every
Monday "

Then in a rage, he went away with his cane, leaving Ursula
to confront a pale, quivering class, whose childish faces were
shut in blank resentment, fear, and bitterness, whose souls

THE MAN'S WORLD 371*

were full of anger and contempt of her rather than of the
master, whose eyes looked at her with the cold, inhuman
accusation of children. And she could hardly make mechani-
cal words to speak to them. When she gave an order they
obeyed with an insolent off-handedness, as if to say : " As
for you, do you think we would obey you, but for the master ? "
She sent the blubbering, caned boys to their seats, knowing
that they too jeered at her and her authority, holding her
weakness responsible for what punishment had overtaken them.
And she knew the whole position, so that even her horror of
physical beating and suffering sank to a deeper pain, and be-
came a moral judgment upon her, worse than any hurt.

She must, during the next week, watch over her books,
and punish any fault. Her soul decided it coldly. Her per-
sonal desire was dead for that day at least. She must have
nothing more of herself in school. She was to be Standard
Five teacher only. That was her duty. In school, she was
nothing but Standard Five teacher. Ursula Brangwen must
be excluded.

So that, pale, shut, at last distant and impersonal, she saw
no longer the child, how his eyes danced, or how he had a
queer little soul that could not be bothered with shaping hand-
writing so long as he dashed down what he thought. She
saw no children, only the task that was to be done. And
keeping her eyes there, on the task, and not on the child, she
was impersonal enough to punish where she could otherwise
only have sympathized, understood, and condoned, to approve
where she would have been merely uninterested before. But
her interest had no place any more.

It was agony to the impulsive, bright girl of seventeen to
become distant and official, having no personal relationship
with the children. For a few days, after the agony of the
Monday, she succeeded, and had some success with her class.
But it was a state not natural to her, and she began to relax.

Then came another infliction. There were not enough pens
to go round the class. She sent to Mr. Harby for more. He
came in person.

" Not enough pens, Miss Brangwen ? " he said, with the
smile and calm of exceeding rage against her.

" No, we are six short/' she said, quaking.

" Oh, how is that ? " he said, menacingly. Then, looking
over the class, he asked :

" How many are there here to-day ? "

372 THE RAINBOW

" Fifty-two," said Ursula, but he did not take any notice,
counting for himself.

" Fifty-two/5 he said. " And how many pens are there,
Staples?"

Ursula was now silent. He would not heed her if she an-
swered, since he had addressed the monitor.

"That's a very curious thing," said Mr. Harby, looking
over the silent class with a slight grin of fury. All the child-
ish faces looked up at him blank and exposed.

" A few days ago there were sixty pens for this class — now
there are forty-eight. What is forty-eight from sixty, Wil-
liams?" There was a sinister suspense in the question. A
thin, ferret-faced boy in a sailor suit started up exaggeratedly.

" Please, sir ! " he said. Then a slow, sly grin came over
his face. He did not know. There was a tense silence. The
b.oy dropped his head. Then he looked up again, a little cun-
ning triumph in his eyes. " Twelve," he said.

" I would advise you to attend," said the headmaster dan-
gerously. The boy sat down.

" Forty-eight from sixty is twelve : so there are twelve
pens to account for. Have you looked for them, Staples ? "

"Yes, sir."

" Then look again."

The scene dragged on. Two pens were found: ten were
missing. Then the storm burst.

" Am I to have you thieving, besides your dirt and bad
work and bad behaviour ? " the headmaster began. " Not con-
tent with being the worst-behaved and dirtiest class in the
school, you are thieves into the bargain, are you? It is a
very funny thing! Pens don't melt into the air: pens are
not in the habit of mizzling away into nothing. What has
become of them then? They must be somewhere. What
has become of them? For they must be found, and found
by Standard Five. They were lost by Standard Five, and
they must be found."

Ursula stood and listened, her heart hard and cold. She
was so much upset, that she felt almost mad. Something in
her tempted her to turn on the headmaster and tell him to
stop, about the miserable pens. But she did not. She could
not.

After every session, morning and evening, she had the pens
counted. Still they were missing. And pencils and india-
rubbers disappeared. She kept the class staying behind, till

THE MAN'S WORLD

the things were found. But as soon as Mr. Harby had gone
out of the room, the boys began to jump about and shout, and
at last they bolted in a body from the school.

This was drawing near a crisis. She could not tell Mr.
Harby because, while he would punish the class, he would
make her the cause of the punishment, and her class would
pay her back with disobedience and derision. Already there
was a deadly hostility grown up between her and the children.
After keeping in the class, at evening, to finish some work,
she would find boys dodging behind her, calling after her:
" Brangwen, Brangwen — Proud-acre/'

When she went into Ilkeston of a Saturday morning with
Gudrun, she heard again the voices yelling after her :

" Brangwen, Brangwen."

She pretended to take no notice, but she coloured with
shame at being held up to derision in the public street. She,
Ursula Brangwen of Cossethay, could not escape from the
Standard Five teacher which she was. In vain she went out
to buy ribbon for her hat. They called after her, the boys
she tried to teach.

And one evening, as she went from the edge of the town
into the country, stones came flying at her. Then the passion
of shame and anger surpassed her. She walked on unheeding,
beside herself. Because of the darkness she could not see
who were those that threw. But she did not want to know.

Only in her soul a change took place. Never more, and
never more would she give herself as individual to her class.
Never would she, Ursula Brangwen, the girl she was, the
person she was, come into contact with those boys. She would
be Standard Five teacher, as far away personally from her
class as if she had never set foot in St. Philip's School. She
would just obliterate them all, and keep herself apart, take
them as scholars only.

So her face grew more and more shut, and over her flayed,
exposed soul of a young girl who had gone open and warm
to give herself to the children, there set a hard, insentient
thing, that worked mechanically according to a system im-
posed.

It seemed she scarcely saw her class the next day. She
could only feel her will, and what she would have of this
class which she must grasp into subjection. It was no good,
any more, to appeal, to play upon the better feelings of the
class. Her swift-working soul realized this.

$74 THE RAINBOW

She, as teacher, must bring them all as scholars, into sub-
jection. And this she was going to do. All else she would
forsake. She had become hard and impersonal, almost avenge-
ful on herself as well as on them, since the stone throwing.
She did not want to be a person, to be herself any more, after
such humiliation. She would assert herself for mastery, be
only teacher. She was set now. She was going to fight and
subdue.

She knew by now her enemies in the class. The one she
hated most was Williams. He was a sort of defective, not
bad enough to be so classed. He could read with fluency,
and had plenty of cunning intelligence. But he could not
keep still. And he had a kind of sickness very repulsive to a
sensitive girl, something cunning and etiolated and degener-
ate. Once he had thrown an ink-well at her, in one of his
mad little rages. Twice he had run home out of class. He
was a well-known character.

And he grinned up his sleeve at this girl-teacher, sometimes
hanging round her to fawn on her. But this made her dislike
him more. He had a kind of leech-like power.

From one of the children she took a supple cane, and this
she determined to use when real occasion came. One morning,
at composition, she said to the boy Williams :

" Why have you made this blot ? "

" Please, Miss, it fell off my pen," he whined out, in the
mocking voice that he was so clever in using. The boys near
snorted with laughter. For Williams was an actor, he could
tickle the feelings of his hearers subtly. Particularly he could
tickle the children with him into ridiculing his teacher, or in-
deed, any authority of which he was not afraid. He had that
peculiar gaol instinct.

"Then you must stay in and finish another page of com-
position/' said the teacher.

This was against her usual sense of justice, and the boy
resented it derisively. At twelve o'clock she caught him
slinking out.

" Williams, sit down/' she said.

And there she sat, and there he sat, alone, opposite to her,
on the back desk, looking up at her with his furtive eyes
every minute.

" Please, Miss, I've got to go an errand," he called out in-
solently.

" Bring me your book," said Ursula.

THE MAN'S WORLD 375

The boy came out, flapping his book along the desks. He
had not written a line.

" Go back and do the writing you have to do," said Ursula.
And she sat at her desk, trying to correct books. She was
trembling and upset. And for an hour the miserable boy
writhed and grinned in his seat. At the end of that time he
had done five lines.

"As it is so late now," said Ursula, "you will finish the
rest this evening."

The boy kicked his way insolently down the passage.

The afternoon came again. Williams was there, glancing
at her, and her heart beat thick, for she knew it was a fight
between them. She watched him.

During the geography lesson, as she was pointing to the
map with her cane, the boy continually ducked his whitish
head under the desk, and attracted the attention of other
boys.

"Williams," she said, gathering her courage, for it was
critical now to speak to him, " what are you doing ? "

He lifted his face, the sore-rimmed eyes half smiling.
There was something intrinsically indecent about him.
Ursula shrank away.

" Nothing," he replied, feeling a triumph.

" What are you doing ? " she repeated, her heart-beat suffo-
cating her.

" Nothing," replied the boy, insolently, aggrieved, comic.

" If I speak to you again, you must go down to Mr. Harby,"
she said.

But this boy was a match even for Mr. Harby. He was so
persistent, so cringing, and flexible, he howled so when he
was hurt, that the master hated more the teacher who sent
him than he hated the boy himself. For of the boy he was
sick of the sight. Which Williams knew. He grinned visibly.

Ursula turned to the map again, to go on with the geography
lesson. But there was a little ferment in the class. Williams'
spirit infected them all. She heard a scuffle, and then she
trembled inwardly. If they all turned on her this time, she
was beaten.

" Please, Miss " called a voice in distress.

She turned round. One of the boys she liked was ruefully
holding out a torn celluloid collar. She heard the complaint,
feeling futile.

" Go in front, Wright," she said.

kAlNBOW

She was trembling in every fibre. A big, sullen boy, not
bad but very difficult, slouched out to the front. She went
on with the lesson, aware that Williams was making faces
at Wright, and that Wright was grinning behind her. She
was afraid. She turned to the map again. And she was
afraid.

" Please, Miss, Williams " came a sharp cry, and a boy

on the back row was standing up, with drawn, painted brows,
half a mocking grin on his pain, half real resentment against
Williams — " Please, Miss, he's nipped me," — and he rubbed
his leg ruefully.

" Come in front, Williams," she said.

The rat-like boy sat with his pale smile ar^l did not move.

" Come in front," she repeated, definite now.

"I shan't," he cried, snarling, rat-like, grinning. Some-
thing went click in Ursula's soul. Her face and eyes set, she
went through the class straight. The boy cowered before her
glowering, fixed eyes. But she advanced on him, seized him
by the arm, and dragged him from his seat. He clung to the
form. It was the battle between him and her. Her instinct
had suddenly become calm and quick. She jerked him from
his grip, and dragged him, struggling and kicking, to the front.
He kicked her several times, and clung to the forms as he
passed, but she went on. The class was on its feet in excite-
ment. She saw it, but made no move.

She knew if she let go the boy he would dash to the door.
Already he had run home once out of her class. So she
snatched her cane from the desk, and brought it down on
him. He was writhing and kicking. She saw his face be-
neath her, white, with eyes like the eyes of a fish, stony, yet
•full of hate and horrible fear. And she loathed him, the
hideous writhing thing that was nearly too much for her.
In horror lest he should overcome her, and yet at the heart
quite calm, she brought down the cane again and again,
whilst he struggled making inarticulate noises, and lunging
vicious kicks at her. With one hand she managed to hold
him, and now and then the cane came down on him. He
writhed, like a mad thing. But the pain of the strokes cut
through his writhing, vicious, coward's courage, bit deeper,
till at last, with a long whimper that became a yell, he went
limp. She let him go, and he rushed at her, his teeth and
eyes glinting. There was a second of agonized terror in her
heart : he was a beast thing. Then she caught him, and the

THE MAN'S WORLD 377

cane came down on him. A few times, madly, in a frenzy,
he lunged and writhed, to kick her. But again the cane
broke him, he sank with a howling yell on the floor, and like a
beaten beast lay there yelling.

Mr. Harby had rushed up towards the end of this perform-
ance.

" What's the matter? " he roared.

Ursula felt as if something were going to break in her.

" I've thrashed him," she said, her breast heaving, forcing
out the words on the last breath. The headmaster stood
choked with rage, helpless. She looked at the writhing, howl-
ing figure on tl>e floor.

" Get up," ,ehe said. The thing writhed away from her.
She took a step forward. She had realized the presence of
the headmaster for one second, and then she was oblivious
of it again.

" Get up," she said. And with a little dart the boy was
on his feet. His yelling dropped to a mad blubber. He had
been in a frenzy.

" Go and stand by the radiator," she said.

As if mechanically, blubbering, he went.

The headmaster stood robbed of movement or speech. His
face was yellow, his hands twitched convulsively. But Ursula
stood stiff not far from him. Nothing could touch her now :
she was beyond Mr. Harby. She was as if violated to death.

The headmaster muttered something, turned, and went
down the room, whence, from the far end, he was heard roar-
ing in a mad rage at his own class.

The boy blubbered wildly by the radiator. Ursula looked
at the class. There were fifty pale, still faces watching her,
a hundred round eyes fixed on her in an attentive, expression-
less stare.

" Give out the history readers," she said to the monitors.

There was dead silence. As she stood there, she could
hear again the ticking of the clock, and the chock of piles of
books taken out of the low cupboard. Then came the faint
flap of books on the desks. The children passed in silence,
their hands working in unison. They were no longer a pack,
but each one separated into a silent, closed thing.

" Take page 125, and read that chapter," said Ursula.

There was a click of many books opened. The children
found the page, and bent their heads obediently to read.
And they read, mechanically.

378 THE RAINBOW

Ursula, who was trembling violently, went and sat in her
high chair. The blubbering of the boy continued. The
strident voice of Mr. Brunt, the roar of Mr. Harby, came
muffled through the glass partition. And now and then a pair
of eyes rose from the reading-book, rested on her a moment,
watchful, as if calculating impersonally, then sank again.

She sat still without moving, her eyes watching the class,
unseeing. She was quite still, and weak. She felt that she
could not raise her hand from the desk. If she sat there for
ever, she felt she could not move again, nor utter a com-
mand. It was a quarter past four. She almost dreaded the
closing of the school, when she would be alone.

The class began to recover its ease, the tension relaxed.
Williams was still crying. Mr. Brunt was giving orders for
the closing of the lesson. Ursula got down.

" Take your place, Williams," she said.

He dragged his feet across the room, wiping his face on
his sleeve. As he sat down, he glanced at her furtively, his
eyes still redder. Now he looked like some beaten rat.

At last the children were gone. Mr. Harby trod by heavily,
without looking her way, or speaking. Mr. Brunt hesitated
as she was locking her cupboard.

"If you settle Clarke and Letts in the same way, Miss
Brangwen, you'll be all right," he said, his blue eyes glancing
down in a strange fellowship, his long nose pointing at her.

" Shall I ? " she laughed nervously. She did not want any-
body to talk to her.

As she went along the street, clattering on the granite pave-
ment, she was aware of boys dodging behind her. Something
struck her hand that was carrying her bag, bruising her. As
it rolled away she saw that it was a potato. Her hand was
hurt, but she gave no sign. Soon she would take the tram.

She was afraid, and strange. It was to her quite strange
and ugly, like some dream where she was degraded. She
would have died rather than admit it to anybody. She could
not look at her swollen hand. Something had broken in her ;
she had passed a crisis. Williams was beaten, but at a cost.

Feeling too much upset to go home, she rode a little further
into the town, and got down from the tram at a small tea-
shop. There, in the dark little place behind the shop, she
drank her tea and ate bread-and-butter. She did not taste
anything. The taking tea was just a mechanical action, to
cover over her existence. There she sat in the dark, obscure

THE MAN'S WORLD 379

little place, without knowing. Only unconsciously she nursed
the back of her hand, which was bruised.

When finally she took her way home, it was sunset red
across the west. She did not know why she was going home.
There was nothing for her there. She had, true, only to pre-
tend to be normal. There was nobody she could speak to, no-
where to go for escape. But she must keep on, under this red
sunset, alone, knowing the horror in humanity, that would de-
stroy her, and with which she was at war. Yet it had to be
so.

In the morning again she must go to school. She got up
and went without murmuring even to herself. She was in
the hands of some bigger, stronger, coarser will.

School was fairly quiet. But she could feel the class watch-
ing her, ready to spring on her. Her instinct was aware of
the class instinct to catch her if she were weak. But she
kept cold and was guarded.

Williams was absent from school. In the middle of the
morning there was a knock at the door : some one wanted the
headmaster. Mr. Harby went out, heavily, angrily, nervously.
He was afraid of irate parents. After a moment in the pas-
sage, he came again into school.

" Sturgess," he called to one of his larger boys. " Stand
in front of the class and write down the name of any one who
speaks. Will you come this way, Miss Brangwen."

He seemed vindictively to seize upon her.

Ursula followed him, and found in the lobby a thin woman
with a whitish skin, not ill-dressed in a grey costume and a
purple hat.

" I called about Vernon," said the woman, speaking in a
refined accent. There was about the woman altogether an
appearance of refinement and of cleanliness, curiously con-
tradicted by her half beggar's deportment, and a sense of her
being unpleasant to touch, like something going bad inside.
She was neither a lady nor an ordinary working man's wife,
but a creature separate from society. By her dress she was
not poor.

Ursula knew at once that she was Williams' mother, and
that he was Vernon. She remembered that he was always
clean, and well-dressed, in a sailor suit. And he had this
same peculiar, half transparent unwholesomeness, rather like
a corpse.

" I wasn't able to send him to school to-day," continued

380 THE RAINBOW

the woman, with a false grace of manner. " He came home
last night so ill — he was violently sick — I thought I should
have to send for the doctor. — You know he has a weak
heart"

The woman looked at Ursula with her pale, dead eyes.

" No," replied the girl, " I did not know."

She stood still with repulsion and uncertainty. Mr. Harby,
large and male, with his overhanging moustache, stood by
with a slight, ugly smile at the corner of his eyes. The
woman went on insidiously, not quite human :

"Oh, yes, he has had heart disease ever since he was a
child. That is why he isn't very regular at school. And it
is very bad to beat him. He was awfully ill this morning —
I shall call on the doctor as I go back."

"Who is staying with him now, then?" put in the deep
voice of the schoolmaster, cunningly.

" Oh, I left him with a woman who comes in to help me —
and who understands him. But I shall call in the doctor on
my way home."

Ursula stood still. She felt vague threats in all this. But
the woman was so utterly strange to her, that she did not un-
derstand.

" He told me he had been beaten," continued the woman,
" and when I undressed him to put him to bed, his body was
covered with marks — I could show them to any doctor."

Mr. Harby looked at Ursula to answer. She began to under-
stand. The woman was threatening to take out a charge of
assault on her son against her. Perhaps she wanted money.

" I caned him," she said. " He was so much trouble."

" I'm sorry if he was troublesome," said the woman, " but
he must have been shamefully beaten. I could show the
marks to any doctor. I'm sure it isn't allowed, if it was
known."

" I caned him while he kept kicking me," said Ursula, get-
ting angry because she was half excusing herself, Mr. Harby
standing there with the twinkle at the side of his eyes, enjoy-
ing the dilemma of the two women.

" I'm sure I'm sorry if he behaved badly," said the woman.
"But I can't think he deserved treating as he has been. I
can't send him to school, and really can't afford to pay the
doctor. — Is it allowed for the teachers to beat the children
like that, Mr. Harby?"

The headmaster refused to answer. Ursula loathed her-

THE MAN'S WORLD 381

self, and loathed Mr. Harby with his twinkling cunning and
malice on the occasion. The other miserable woman watched
her chance.

" It is an expense to me, and I have a great struggle to keep
my boy decent."

Ursula still would not answer. She looked out at the
asphalt yard, where a dirty rag of paper was blowing.

" And it isn't allowed to beat a child like that, I am sure,
especially when he is delicate/'

Ursula stared with a set face on the yard, as if she did not
hear. She loathed all this, and had ceased to feel or to exist.

" Though I know he is troublesome sometimes — but I think
it was too much. His body is covered with marks/'

Mr. Harby stood sturdy and unmoved, waiting now to have
done, with the twinkling, tiny wrinkles of an ironical smile at
the corners of his eyes. He felt himself master of the situa-
tion.

" And he was violently sick. I couldn't possibly send him
to school to-day. He couldn't keep his head up."

Yet she had no answer.

"You will understand, Sir, why he is absent," she said,
turning to Mr. Harby.

" Oh, yes," he said, rough and off-hand. Ursula detested
him for his male triumph. And she loathed the woman. She
loathed everything.

"You will try to have it remembered, Sir, that he has a
weak heart. He is so sick after these things."

" Yes," said the headmaster, " I'll see about it."

"I know he is troublesome," the woman only addressed
herself to the male now — "but if you could have him pun-
ished without beating — he is really delicate."

Ursula was beginning to feel upset. Harby stood in rather
superb mastery, the woman cringing to him to tickle him as
one tickles trout.

"I had come to explain why he was away this morning,
Sir. You will understand."

She held out her hand. Harby took it and let it go, sur-
prised and angry.

" Good morning," she said, and she gave her gloved, seedy
hand to Ursula. She was not ill-looking, and had a curious
insinuating way, very distasteful yet effective.

" Good morning, Mr. Harby, and thank you."

The figure, in the grey costume and the purple hat was

382 THE RAINBOW

going across the school yard with a curious lingering walk.
Ursula felt a strange pity for her, and revulsion from her.
She shuddered. She went into the school again.

The next morning Williams turned up, looking paler than
ever, very neat and nicely dressed in his sailor blouse. He
glanced at Ursula with a half-smile : cunning, subdued, ready
to do as she told him. There was something about him that
made her shiver. She loathed the idea of having laid hands
on him. His elder brother was standing outside the gate at
playtime, a youth of about fifteen, tall and thin and pale.
He raised his hat, almost like a gentleman. But there was
something subdued, insidious about him too.

"Who is it?" said Ursula.

" It's the big Williams," said Violet Harby roughly. " She
was here yesterday, wasn't she?"

"Yes."

" It's no good her coming — her character's not good enough
for her to make any trouble."

Ursula shrank from the brutality and the scandal. But
it had some vague, horrid fascination. How sordid everything
seemed ! She felt sorry for the queer woman with the linger-
ing walk, and those queer, insidious boys. The Williams in
her class was wrong somewhere. How nasty it was altogether.

So the battle went on till her heart was sick. She had sev-
eral more boys to subjugate before she could establish herself.
And Mr. Harby hated her almost as if she were a man. She
knew now that nothing but a thrashing would settle some of
the big louts who wanted to play cat and mouse with her.
Mr. Harby would not give them the thrashing if he could help
it. For he hated the teacher, the stuck-up, insolent high-
school miss with her independence.

(t Now, Wright, what have you done this time ? " he would
say genially to the boy who was sent to him from Standard
Five for punishment. And he left the lad standing, lounging,
wasting his time.

So that Ursula would appeal no more to the headmaster,
but, when she was driven wild, she seized her cane, and
slashed the boy who was insolent to her, over head and ears
and hands. And at length they were afraid of her, she had
them in order.

But she had paid a great price out of her own soul, to do
this. It seemed as if a great flame had gone through her
burnt her sensitive tissue. She who shrank from the.

THE MAN'S WORLD 383

thought of physical suffering in any form, had been forced to
fight and beat with a cane and rouse all her instincts to hurt.
And afterwards she had been forced to endure the sound of
their blubbering and desolation, when she had broken them to
order.

Oh, and sometimes she felt as if she would go mad. What
did it matter, what did it matter if their books were dirty
and they did not obey? She would rather, in reality, that
they disobeyed the whole rules of the school, than that they
should be beaten, broken, reduced to this crying, hopeless state.
She would rather bear all their insults and insolences a thou-
sand times than reduce herself and them to this. Bitterly she
repented having got beside herself, and having tackled the boy
she had beaten.

Yet it had to be so. She did not want .to do it. Yet she
had to. Oh, why, why had she leagued herself to this evil
system where she must brutalize herself to live? Why had
she become a school teacher, why, why ?

The children had forced her to the beatings. No, she did
not pity them. She had come to them full of kindness and
love, and they would have torn her to pieces. They chose
Mr. Harby. Well then, they must know her as well as Mr.
Harby, they must first be subjugate to her. For she was not
going to be made nought, no, neither by them, nor by Mr.
Harby, nor by all the system around her. She was not going
to be put down, prevented from standing free. It was not to
be said of her, she could not take her place and carry out her
task. She would fight and hold her place in this state also,
in the world of work and man's convention.

She was isolated now from the life of her childhood, a
foreigner in a new life, of work and mechanical consideration.
She and Maggie, in their dinner hours and their occasional
teas at the little restaurant, discussed life and ideas. Maggie
was a great suffragette, trusting in the vote. To Ursula the
vote was never a reality. She had within her the strange,
passionate knowledge of religion and living far transcending
the limits of the automatic system that contained the vote.
But her fundamental, organic knowledge had as yet to take
form and rise to utterance. For her, as for Maggie, the liberty
of woman meant something real and deep. She felt that
somewhere, in something, she was not free. And she wanted
to be. She was in revolt. For once she were free she could
get somewhere, Ah, the wonderful, real somewhere that was

384, THE RAINBOW

beyond her, the somewhere that she felt deep, deep inside
her.

In coming out and earning her own living she had made a
strong, cruel jmove towards freeing herself. But having more
freedom she only became more profoundly aware of the big
want. She wanted so many things. She wanted to read
great, beautiful books, and be rich with them; she wanted to
see beautiful things, and have the joy of them for ever; she
wanted to know big, free people; and there remained always
the want she could put no name to.

It was so difficult. There were so many things, so much
to meet and surpass. And one never knew where one was
going. It was a blind fight. She had suffered bitterly in
this school of St. Philip's. She was like a young filly that
has been broken in to the shafts, and has lost its freedom.
And now she was suffering bitterly from the agony of the
shafts. The agony, the galling, the ignominy of her breaking
in. This wore into her soul. But she would never submit.
To shafts like these she would never submit for long. But
she would know them. She would serve them that she might
destroy them.

She and Maggie went to all kinds of places together, to big
suffrage meetings in Nottingham, to concerts, to theatres, to
exhibitions of pictures. Ursula saved her money and bought
a bicycle, and the two girls rode to Lincoln, to Southwell,
and into Derbyshire. They had an endless wealth of things
to talk about. And it was a great joy, finding, discovering.

But Ursula never told about Winifred Inger. That was a
sort of secret side-show to her life, never to be opened. She
did not even think of it. It was the closed door she had not
the strength to open.

Once she was broken in to her teaching, Ursula began
gradually to have a new life of her own again. She was going
to college in eighteen months7 time. Then she would take
her degree, and she would — ah, she would perhaps be a big
woman, and lead a movement. Who knows? — At any rate
she would go to college in eighteen months' time. All that
mattered now was work, work.

And till college, she must go on with this teaching in St.
Philip's School, which was always destroying her, but which
she could now manage, without spoiling all her life. She
would submit to it for a time, since the time had a definite
limit.

THE MAN'S WORLD 385

The class-teaching itself at last became almost mechanical.
It was a strain on her, an exhausting wearying strain, always
unnatural. But there was a certain amount of pleasure in
the sheer oblivion of teaching, so much work to do, so many
children to see after, so much to be done, that one's self was
forgotten. When the work had become like habit to her, and
her individual soul was left out, had its growth elsewhere,
then she could be almost happy.

Her real, individual self drew together and became more
coherent during these two years of teaching, during the strug-
gle against the odds of class teaching. It was always a prison
to her, the school. But it was a prison where her wild, chaotic
soul became hard and independent. When she was well
enough and not tired, then she did not hate the teaching.
She enjoyed getting into the swing of work of a morning,
putting forth all her strength, making the thing go. It was
for her a strenuous form of exercise. And her soul was left to
rest, it had the time of torpor in which to gather itself to-
gether in strength again. But the teaching hours were too
long, the tasks too heavy, and the disciplinary condition of the
school too unnatural for her. She was worn very thin and
quivering.

She came to school in the morning seeing the hawthorn
flowers wet, the little, rosy grains swimming in a bowl of dew.
The larks quivered their song up into the new sunshine, and
the country was so glad. It was a violation to plunge into
the dust and greyness of the town.

So that she stood before her class unwilling to give herself
up to the activity of teaching, to turn her energy, that longed
for the country and for joy of early summer, into the domi-
nating of fifty children and the transferring to them some
morsels of arithmetic. There was a little absentness about
her. She could not force herself into forgetfulness. A jar
of buttercups and fooPs-parsley in the window-bottom kept
her away in the meadows, where in the lush grass the moon-
daisies were half-submerged, and a spray of pink ragged
robin. Yet before her were faces of fifty children. They
were almost like big daisies in a dimness of the grass.

A brightness was on her face, a little unreality in her teach-
ing. She could not quite see her children. She was strug-
gling between two worlds, her own world of young summer and
flowers, and this other world of work. And the glimmer of
her own sunlight was between her and her class.

386 THE RAINBOW

Then the morning passed with a strange far-awayness and
quietness. Dinner-time came, when she and Maggie ate joy-
ously, with all the windows open. And then they went out
into St. Philip's churchyard, where was a shadowy corner
under red hawthorn trees. And there they talked and read
Shelley or Browning or some work about "Woman and
Labour."

And when she went back to school, Ursula lived still in the
shadowy corner of the graveyard, where pink-red petals lay
scattered from the hawthorn tree, like myriad tiny shells
on a beach, and a church bell sometimes rang sonorously,
and sometimes a bird called out, whilst Maggie's voice went
on low and sweet.

These days she was happy in her soul: oh, she was so
happy, that she wished she could take her joy and scatter
it in armfuls broadcast. She made her children happy, too,
with a little tingling of delight. But to her, the children
were not a school class this afternoon. They were flowers,
birds, little bright animals, children, anything. They only
were not Standard Five. She felt no responsibility for them.
It was for once a game, this teaching. And if they got their
sums wrong, what matter? And she would take a pleasant
bit of reading. And instead of history with dates, she would
tell a lovely tale. And for grammar, they could have a bit of
written analysis thaf was not difficult, because they had done it
before :

" She shall be sportive as a fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs."

She wrote that from memory, because it pleased her.

So the golden afternoon passed away and she went home
happy. She had finished her day of school, and was free to
plunge into the glowing evening of Cossethay. And she loved
walking home. But it had not been school. It had been
playing at school beneath red hawthorn blossom.

She could not go on like this. The quarterly examination
was coming, and her class was not ready. It irritated her
that she must drag herself away from her happy self, and exert
herself with all her strength to force, to compel this heavy
class of children to work hard at arithmetic. They did not
want, to work, she did not want to compel them. And yet,
some second conscience gnawed $t her, telling her the work

THE MAN'S WORLD 387

was not properly done. It irritated her almost to madness,
and she let loose all the irritation in the class. Then fol-
lowed a day of battle and hate and violence, when she went
home raw, feeling the golden evening taken away from her,
herself incarcerated in some dark, heavy place, and chained
there with a consciousness of having done badly at work.

What good was it that it was summer, that right till evening,
when the corncrakes called, the larks would mount up into
the light, to sing once more before nightfall. What good was
it all, when she was out of tune, when she must only remember
the burden and shame of school that day.

And still, she hated school. Still she cried, she did not
believe in it. Why should the children learn, and why should
she teach them ? It was all so much milling the wind. What
folly was it that made life into this, the fulfilling of some
stupid, factitious duty ? It was all so made up, so unnatural.
The school, the sums, the grammar, the quarterly examina-
tions, the registers — it was all a barren nothing !

Why should she give her allegiance to this world, and let it
so dominate her, that her own world of warm sun and grow-
ing, sap-filled life was turned into nothing? She was not
going to do it. She was not going to be prisoner in the
dry, tyrannical man- world. She was not going to care about
it. What did it matter if her class did ever so badly in the
quarterly examination. Let it — what did it matter ?

Nevertheless, when the time came, and the report on her
class was bad, she was miserable, and the joy of the summer
was taken away from her, she was shut up in gloom. She
could not really escape from this world of system and work,
out into her fields where she was happy. She must have her
place in the working world, be a recognized member with
full rights there. It was more important to her than fields
and sun and poetry, at this time. But she was only the more
its enemy.

It was a very difficult thing, she thought, during the long
hours of intermission in the summer holidays, to be herself,
her happy self that enjoyed so much to lie in the sun, to play
and swim and be content, and also to be a school-teacher
getting results out of a class of children. She dreamed fondly
of the time when she need not be a teacher any more. But
vaguely, she knew that responsibility had taken place in her
for ever> and as yet her prime business was to work.

The autumn passed away, the winter was at hand. Ursula

388 THE RAINBOW

became more and more an inhabitant of the world of work,
and of what is called life. She could not see her future, but
a little way off, was college, and to the thought of this she
clung fixedly. She would go to college, and get her two or
three years' training, free of cost. Already she had applied
and had her place appointed for the coming year.

So she continued to study for her degree. She would take
French, Latin, English, mathematics and botany. She went
to classes in Ilkeston, she studied at evening. For there was
this world to conquer, this knowledge to acquire, this qualifi-
cation to attain. And she worked with intensity, because of
a want inside her that drove her on. Almost everything was
subordinated now to this one desire to take her place in the
world. What kind of place it was to be she did not ask herself.
The blind desire drove her on. She must take her place.

She knew she would never be much of a success as an ele-
mentary school teacher. But neither had she failed. She
hated it, but she had managed it.

Maggie had left St. Philip's School, and had found a more
congenial post. The two girls remained friends. They met
at evening classes, they studied and somehow encouraged a
firm hope each in the other. They did not know whither they
were making, nor what they ultimately wanted. But they
knew they wanted now to learn, to know and to do.

They talked of love and marriage, and the position of woman
in marriage. Maggie said that love was the flower of life,
and blossomed unexpectedly and without law, and must be
plucked where it was found, and enjoyed for the brief hour
of its duration.

To Ursula this was unsatisfactory. She thought she still
loved Anton Skrebensky. But she did not forgive him that
he had not been strong enough to acknowledge her. He
had denied her. How then could she love him? How then
was love so absolute? She did not believe it. She believed
that love was a way, a means, not an end in itself, as Maggie
seemed to think. And always the way of love would be
found. But whither did it lead ?

"I believe there are many men in the world one might
love — there is not only one man/' said Ursula.

She was thinking of Skrebensky. Her heart was hollow
with the knowledge of Winifred Inger.

" But you must distinguish between love and passion/' said

THE MAN'S WORLD 389

Maggie, adding, with a touch of contempt : " Men will easily
have a passion for you, but they won't love you."

" Yes," said Ursula, vehemently, the look of suffering, al-
most of fanaticism, on her face. " Passion is only part of love.
And it seems so much because it can't last. That is why pas-
sion is never happy."

She was staunch for joy, for happiness, and permanency, in
contrast with Maggie, who was for sadness, and the inevitable
passing-away of things. Ursula suffered bitterly at the hands
of life, Maggie was always single, always withheld, so she
went in a heavy brooding sadness that was almost meat to her.
In Ursula's last winter at St. Philip's the friendship of the
two girls came to a climax. It was during this winter that
Ursula suffered and enjoyed most keenly Maggie's funda-
mental sadness of enclosedness. Maggie enjoyed and suffered
Ursula's struggles against the confines of her life. And then
the two girls began to drift apart, as Ursula broke from that
form of life wherein Maggie must remain enclosed.

CHAPTER XIV

THE WIDENING CIRCLE

MAGGIE'S people, the Schofields, lived in the large
gardener's cottage, that was half a farm, behind
Belcote Hall. The hall was too damp to live in,
so the Schofields were caretakers, gamekeepers,
farmers, all in one. The father was gamekeeper and stock-
breeder, the eldest son was market-gardener, using the big hall
gardens, the second son was farmer and gardener. There was
a large family, as at Cossethay.

Ursula loved to stay at Belcote, to be treated as a grand
lady by Maggie's brothers. They were good-looking men.
The eldest was twenty-six years old. He was the gardener,
a man not very tall, but strong and well made, with brown,
sunny, easy eyes and a face handsomely hewn, brown, with
a long fair moustache which he pulled as he talked to Ursula.

The girl was excited because these men attended to her
when she came near. She could make their eyes light up
and quiver, she could make Anthony, the eldest, twist and
twist his moustache. She knew she could move them almost
at will with her light laughter and chatter. They loved her
ideas, watched her as she talked vehemently about politics
or economics. And she, while she talked, saw the golden-
brown eyes of Anthony gleam like the eyes of a satyr as they
watched her. He did not listen to her words, he listened to
her. It excited her.

He was like a faun pleased when she would go with him
over his hothouses, to look at the green and pretty plants,
at the pink primulas nodding among their leaves, and cinar-
arias flaunting purple and crimson and white. She asked
about everything, and he told her very exactly and minutely,
in a queer pedantic way that made her want to laugh. Yet
she was really interested in what he did. And he had the
curious light in his face, like the light in the eyes of the
goat that was tethered by the farmyard gate.

390

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 391

She went down with him into the warmish cellar, where
already in the darkness the little yellow knobs of rhubarb
were coming. He held the lantern down to the dark earth.
She saw the shiny knob-end of the rhubarb thrusting upwards
upon the thick red stem, thrusting itself like a knob of flame
through the soft soil. His face was turned up to her, the
light glittered on his eyes and his teeth as he laughed, with
a faint, musical neigh. He looked handsome. And she heard
a new sound in her ears, the faintly-musical, neighing laugh
of Anthony, whose moustache twisted up, and whose eyes
were luminous with a cold, steady, arrogant-laughing glare.
There seemed a little prance of triumph in his movement,
she could not rid herself of a movement of acquiescence, a
touch of acceptance. Yet he was so humble, his voice was so
caressing. He held his hand for her to step on when she
must climb a wall. And she stepped on the living firmness
of him, that quivered firmly under her weight.

She was aware of him as if in a mesmeric state. In her
ordinary sense, she had nothing to do with him. But the
peculiar ease and unnoticeableness of his entering the house,
the power of his cold, gleaming light on her when he looked
at her, was like a bewitchment. In his eyes, as in the pale
grey eyes of a goat, there seemed some of that steady, hard
fire of moonlight which has nothing to do with the day. It
made her alert, and yet her mind went out like an extinguished
thing. She was all senses, all her senses were alive.

Then she saw him on Sunday, dressed up in Sunday clothes,
trying to impress her. And he looked ridiculous. She clung
to the ridiculous effect of his stiff, Sunday clothes.

She was always conscious of some unfaithfulness to Maggie,
on Anthony's score. Poor Maggie stood apart as if betrayed.
Maggie and Anthony were enemies by instinct. Ursula had
to go back to her friend brimming with affection and a poign-
ancy of pity. Which Maggie received with a little stiffness.
Then poetry and books and learning took the place of An-
thony, with his goats' movements and his cold, gleaming hu-
mour.

While Ursula was at Belcote, the snow fell. In the morn-
ing, a covering of snow weighed on the rhododendron bushes.

" Shall we go out ? " said Maggie.

She had lost some of her leader's sureness, and was now
tentative, a little in reserve from her friend.

They took the key of the gate and wandered into the park.

THE RAINBOW

It was a white world on which dark trees and tree masses
stood under a sky keen with frost. The two girls went past
the hall, that was shuttered and silent, their footprints mark-
ing the snow on the drive. Down the park, a long way off, a
man was carrying armfuls of hay across the snow. He was a
small, dark figure, like an animal moving in its unaware-
ness.

Ursula and Maggie went on exploring, down to a tinkling,
chilly brook, that had worn the snow away in little scoops,
and ran dark between. They saw a robin glance its bright
eyes and burst scarlet and grey into the hedge, then some
pertly-marked blue-tits scuffled. Meanwhile the brook slid
on coldly, chuckling to itself.

The girls wandered across the snowy grass to where the
artificial fish-ponds lay under thin ice. There was a big tree
with a thick trunk twisted with ivy, that hung almost hori-
zontal over the ponds. Ursula climbed joyfully into this,
and sat amid bosses of bright ivy and dull berries. Some ivy
leaves were like green spears held out, and tipped with snow.
The ice was seen beneath them.

Maggie took out a book, and sitting lower down the trunk
began to read Coleridge's " Christabel." Ursula half listened.
She was wildly thrilled. Then she saw Anthony coming across
the snow, with his confident, slightly strutting stride. His
face looked brown and hard against the snow, smiling with a
sort of tense confidence.

" Hello ! " she called to him.

A response went over his face, his head was lifted in an an-
swering, jerking gesture.

" Hello ! " he said. " You're like a bird in there."

And Ursula's laugh rang out. She answered to the pe-
culiar, reedy twang in his penetrating voice.

She did not think of Anthony, yet she lived in a sort of con-
nection with him, in his world. One evening she met him
as she was coming down the lane, and they walked side by
side.

"I think it's so lovely here," she cried.

" Do you? " he said. " I'm glad you like it."

There was a curious confidence in his voice.

" Oh, I love it. What more does one want than to live in
this beautiful place, and make things grow in your garden. It
is like the Garden of Eden."

"Is it?" he said, with a little laugh. "Yes — well, it's

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 393

not so bad " he was hesitating. The pale gleam was

strong in his eyes, he was looking at her steadily, watching
her, as an animal might. Something leaped in her soul. She
knew he was going to suggest to her that she should be as
he was.

" Would you like to stay here with me ? " he asked, tenta-
tively.

She blenched with fear and with the intense sensation of
proffered licence suggested to her.

They had come to the gate.

" How? " she asked. " You aren't alone here."

" We could marry/' he answered, in the strange, coldly-
gleaming insinuating tone that chilled the sunshine into moon-
light. All substantial things seemed transformed. Shadows
and dancing moonlight were real, and all cold, inhuman,
gleaming sensations. She realized with something like terror
that she was going to accept this. She was going inevitably
to accept him. His hand was reaching out to the gate before
them. She stood still. His flesh was hard and brown and
final. She seemed to be in the grip of some insult.

" I couldn't," she answered, involuntarily.

He gave the same brief, neighing little laugh, very sad
and bitter now, and slotted back the bar of the gate. Yet
he did not open. For a moment they both stood looking at
the fire of sunset that quivered among the purple twigs of the
trees. She saw his brown, hard, well-hewn face gleaming
with anger and humiliation and submission. He was an ani-
mal that knows that it is subdued. Her heart flamed with
sensation of him, of the fascinating thing he offered her, and
with sorrow, and with an inconsolable sense of loneliness. Her
soul was an infant crying in the night. He had no soul. Oh,
and why had she ? He was the cleaner.

She turned away, she turned round from him, and saw
the east flushed strangely rose, the moon coming yellow and
lovely upon a rosy sky, above the darkening, bluish snow.
All this so beautiful, all this so lovely! He did not see it.
He was one with it. But she saw it, and was one with it.
Her seeing separated them infinitely.

They went on in silence down the path, following their
different fates. The trees grew darker and darker, the snow
made only a dimness in an unreal world. And like a shadow,
the day had gone into a faintly luminous, snowy evening,
while she was talking aimlessly to him, to keep him at a

394- THE RAINBOW

distance, yet to keep him near her, and he walked heavily.
He opened the garden gate for her quietly, and she was enter-
ing into her own pleasances, leaving him outside the gate.

Then even whilst she was escaping, or trying to escape,
this feeling of pain, came Maggie the next day, saying :

" I wouldn't make Anthony love you, Ursula, if you don't
want him. It is not nice."

"But, Maggie, I never made him love me," cried Ursula,
dismayed and suffering, and feeling as if she had done some-
thing hase.

She liked Anthony, though. All her life, at intervals, she
returned to the thought of him and of that which he offered.
But she was a traveller, she was a traveller on the face of
the earth, and he was an isolated creature living in the ful-
filment of his own senses.

She could not help it, that she was a traveller. She knew
Anthony, that he was not one. But oh, ultimately and
finally, she must go on and on, seeking the goal that she
knew she did draw nearer to.

She was wearing away her second and last cycle at St.
Philip's. As the months went she ticked them off, first
October, then November, December, January. She was care-
ful always to subtract a month from the remainder, for the
summer holidays. She saw herself travelling round a circle,
only an arc of which remained to complete. Then, she was
in the open, like a bird tossed into mid-air, a bird that had
learned in some measure to fly.

There was college ahead; that was her mid-air, unknown,
spacious. Come college, and she would have broken from
the confines of all the life she had known. For her father
was also going to move. They were all going to leave Cosse-
thay.

Brangwen had kept his carelessness about his circumstances.
He knew his work in the lace designing meant little to him
personally, he just earned his wage by it. He did not know
what meant much to him. Living close to Anna Brangwen,
his mind was always suffused through with physical heat,
he moved from instinct to instinct, groping, always groping
on.

When it was suggested to him that he might apply for one
of the posts as hand-work instructor, posts about to be cre-
ated by the Nottingham Education Committee, it was as
if a space had been given to him, into which he could re-

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 395

move from his hot, dusky enclosure. He sent in his appli-
cation, confidently, expectantly. He had a sort of belief in
his supernatural fate. The inevitable weariness of his daily
work had stiffened some of his muscles, and made a slight
deadness in his ruddy, alert face. Now he might escape.

He was full of the new possibilities, and his wife was acqui-
escent. She was willing now to have a change. She too
was tired of Cossethay. The house was too small for the
growing children. And since she was nearly forty years old,
she began to come awake from her sleep of motherhood, her
energy moved more outwards. The din of growing lives
roused her from her apathy. She too must have her hand in
making life. She was quite ready to move, taking all her
brood. It would be better now if she transplanted them.
For she had borne her last child, it would be growing up.

So that in her easy, unused fashion she talked plans and
arrangements with her husband, indifferent really as to the
method of the change, since a change was coming; even if
it did not come in this way it would come in another.

The house was full of ferment. Ursula was wild with ex-
citement. At last her father was going to be something,
socially. So long, he had been a social cypher, without form
or standing. Now he was going to be Art and Handwork In-
structor for the County of Nottingham. That was really a
status. It was a position. He would be a specialist in his
way. And he was an uncommon man. Ursula felt they were
all getting foothold at last. He was coming to his own. Who
else that she knew could turn out from his own fingers the
beautiful things her father could produce? She felt he was
certain of this new job.

They would move. They would leave this cottage at Cosse-
thay which had grown too small for them; they would leave
Cossethay, where the children had all been born, and where
they were always kept to the same measure. For the peo-
ple who had known them as children along with the other
village boys and girls would never, could never understand
that they should grow up different. They had held " Urtler
Brangwen" one of themselves, and had given her her place
in her native village, as in a family. And the bond was
strong. But now, when she was growing to something be-
yond what Cossethay would allow or understand, the bond
between her and her old associates was becoming a bondage.

" 'Ello Urs'ler, 'ow are yer goin' on ? " they said when

396 THE RAINBOW

they met her. And it demanded of her. in the old voice the
old response. And something in her must respond and be-
long to people who knew her. But something else denied
bitterly. What was true of her ten years ago was not true
now. And something else which she was, and must be, they
could neither see nor allow. They felt it there nevertheless,
something beyond them, and they were injured. They said
she was proud and conceited, that she was too big for her
shoes nowadays. They said, she needn't pretend, because
they knew what she was. They had known her since she
was born. They quoted this and that about her. And she
was ashamed because she did feel different from the people
she had lived amongst. It hurt her that she could not be at
her ease with them any more. And yet — and yet — one's
kite will rise on the wind as far as ever one has string to let
it go. It tugs and tugs and will go, and one is glad the
further it goes, even if everybody else is nasty about it. So
Cossethay hampered her, and she wanted to go away, to be
free to fly her kite as high as she liked. She wanted to go
away, to be free to stand straight up to her own height.

So that when she knew that her father had the new post,
and that the family would move, she felt like skipping on the
face of the earth, and making psalms of joy. The old,
bound shell of Cossethay was to be cast off, and she was to
dance away into the blue air. She wanted to dance and sing.

She made dreams of the new place she would live in, where
stately cultured people of high feeling would be friends with
her, and she would live with the noble in the land, moving
to a large freedom of feeling. She dreamed of a rich, proud,
simple girl-friend, who had never known Mr. Harby and his
like, nor ever had a note in her voice of bondaged contempt
and fear, as Maggie had.

And she gave herself to all that she loved in Cossethay,
passionately, because she was going away now. She wan-
dered about to her favourite spots. There was a place where
she went trespassing to find the snowdrops that grew wild.
It was evening and the winter-darkened meadows were full
of mystery. When she came to the woods an oak tree had
been newly chopped down in the dell. Pale drops of flowers
glimmered many under the hazels, and by the sharp, golden
splinters of wood that were splashed about, the grey-green
blades of snowdrop leaves pricked unheeding, the drooping
still little flowers were without heed.

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 397

Ursula picked some lovingly, in an ecstasy. The golden
chips of wood shone yellow like sunlight, the snowdrops in
the twilight were like the first stars of night. And she, alone
amongst them, was wildly happy to have found her way into
such a glimmering dusk, to the intimate little flowers, and
the splash of wood chips like sunshine over the twilight of
the ground. She sat down on the felled tree and remained
awhile remote.

Going home, she left the purplish dark of the trees for the
open lane, where the puddles shone long and jewel-like in
the ruts, the land about her was darkened, and the sky a
jewel overhead. Oh, how amazing it was to her! It was
almost too much. She wanted to run, and sing, and cry
out for very wildness and poignancy, but she could not run
and sing and cry out in such a way as to cry out the deep
things in her heart, so she was still, and almost sad with
loneliness.

At Easter she went again to Maggie's home, for a few days.
She was, however, shy and fugitive. She saw Anthony, how
suggestive he was to look on, and how his eyes had a sort
of supplicating light, that was rather beautiful. She looked
at him, and she looked again, for him to become real to her.
But it was her own self that was occupied elsewhere. She
seemed to have some other being.

And she turned to spring and the opening buds. There
was a large pear-tree by a wall, and it was full, thronged with
tiny, grey-green buds, myriads. She stood before it arrested
with delight, and a realization went deep into her heart.
There was so great a host in array behind the cloud of pale,
dim green, so much to come forth — so much sunshine to pour
down.

So the weeks passed on, trance-like and pregnant. The
pear-tree at Cossethay burst into bloom against the cottage-
end, like a wave burst into foam. Then gradually the blue-
bells came, blue as water standing thin in the level places
under the trees and bushes, flowing in more and more, till
there was a flood of azure, and pale-green leaves burning,
and tiny birds with fiery little song and flight. Then swiftly
the flood sank and was gone, and it was summer.

There was to be no going to the seaside for a holiday. The
holiday was the removal from Cossethay.

They were going to live near Willey Green, which place
was most central for Brangwen. It was an old, quiet village

398 THE RAINBOW

on the edge of the thronged colliery-district. So that it
served, in its quaintness of odd old cottages lingering in
their sunny gardens, as a sort of bower or pleasaunce to the
sprawling colliery-townlet of Beldover, a pleasant walk-round
for the colliers on Sunday morning, before the public-houses
opened.

In Willey Green stood the Grammar School where Brang-
wen was occupied for two days during the week, and where
experiments in education were being carried on.

Ursula wanted to live in Willey Green on the remoter side,
towards Southwell, and Sherwood Forest. There it was so
lovely and romantic. But out into the world meant out into
the world. Will Brangwen must become modern.

He bought, with his wife's money, a fairly large house in
the new, red-brick part of Beldover. It was a villa built by
the widow of the late colliery manager, and stood in a quiet,
new little side-street near the large church.

Ursula was rather sad. Instead of having arrived at dis-
tinction they had come to new red-brick suburbia in a grimy,
small town.

Mrs. Brangwen was happy. The rooms were splendidly
large — a splendid dining-room, drawing-room and kitchen,
besides a very pleasant study downstairs. Everything was
admirably appointed. The widow had settled herself in
lavishly. She was a native of Beldover, and had intended
to reign almost queen. Her bathroom was white and silver,
her stairs were of oak, her chimney-pieces were massive and
oaken, wth bulging, columnar supports.

" Good and substantial " was the keynote. But Ursula re-
sented the stout, inflated prosperity implied everywhere. She
made her father promise to chisel down the bulging oaken
chimney-pieces, chisel them flat. That sort of important
paunch was very distasteful to her. Her father was himself
long and loosely built. What had he to do with so much
"good and substantial" importance?

They bought a fair amount also of the widow's furniture.
It was in common good taste — the great Wilton carpet, the
large round table, the Chesterfield covered with glossy chintz
in roses and birds. It was all really very sunny and nice,
with large windows, and a view right across the shallow
valley.

After all, they would be, as one of their acquaintances said,
among the elite of Beldover. They would represent culture.

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 399

And as there was no one of higher social importance than
the doctors, the colliery-managers, and the chemists, they
would shine, with their Delia Robbia beautiful Madonna, their
lovely reliefs from Donatello, their reproductions from Botti-
celli. Nay, the large photographs of the Primavera and the
Aphrodite and the Nativity in the dining-room, the ordinary
reception-room, would make dumb the mouth of Beldover.

And after all, it is better to be princess in Beldover than a
vulgar nobody in the country.

There was great preparation made for the removal of the
whole Brangwen family, ten in all. The house in Beldover
was prepared, the house in Cossethay was dismantled. Come
the end of the school-term the removal would begin.

Ursula left school at the end of July, when the summer
holiday commenced. The morning outside was bright and
sunny, and the freedom got inside the schoolroom tins last
day. It was as if the walls of the school were going to melt
away. Already they seemed shadowy and unreal. It was
breaking-up morning. Soon scholars and teachers would be
outside, each going his own way. The irons were struck
off, the sentence was expired, the prison was a momentary
shadow halting about them. The children were carrying away
books and inkwells, and rolling up maps. All their faces were
bright with gladness and goodwill. There was a bustle of
cleaning and clearing away all marks of this last term of im-
prisonment. They were all breaking free. Busily, eagerly,
Ursula made up her totals of attendances in the register.
With pride she wrote down the thousands: to so many thou-
sands of children had she given another session's lessons. It
looked tremendous. The excited hours passed slowly in
suspense. Then at last it was over. For the last time, she
stood before her children whilst they said their prayers and
sang a hymn. Then it was over.

" Good-bye, children," she said. " I shall not forget you,
and you must not forget me."

"No, miss/' cried the children in chorus, with shining
faces.

She stood smiling on them, moved, as they filed out. Then
she gave her monitors their term sixpences, and they too
departed. Cupboards were locked, blackboards washed, ink-
wells and dusters removed. The place stood bare and va-
cated. She had triumphed over it. It was a shell now. She
had fought a good fight here, and it had not been altogether

400 THE RAINBOW

unenjoyable. She owed some gratitude even to this hard,
vacant place, that stood like a memorial or a trophy. So
much of her life had been fought for and won and lost here.
Something of this school would always belong to her, some-
thing of her to it. She acknowledged it. And now came
the leave-taking.

In the teachers' room the teachers were chatting and loiter-
ing, talking excitedly of where they were going: to the Isle
of Man, to Llandudno, to Yarmouth. They were eager, and
attached to each other, like comrades leaving a ship.

Then it was Mr. Harby's turn to make a speech to Ursula.
He looked handsome, with his silver-grey temples and black
brows, and his imperturbable male solidity.

"Well," he said, "we must say good-bye to Miss Brang-
wen and wish her all good fortune for the future. I suppose
we shall see her again some time, and hear how she is getting
on."

" Oh, yes/' said Ursula, stammering, blushing, laughing.
" Oh, yes, I shall come and see you."

Then she realized that this sounded too personal, and she
felt foolish.

"Miss Schofield suggested these two books/' he said, put-
ting a couple of volumes on the table : " I hope you will like
them."

Ursula feeling very shy picked up the books. There was
a volume of Swinburne's poetry, and a volume of Meredith's.

"Oh, I shall love them/' .she said. "Thank you very
much — thank you all so much — it is so "

She stuttered to an end, and very red, turned the leaves
of the books eagerly, pretending to be taking the first pleas-
ure, but really seeing nothing.

Mr. Harby's eyes were twinkling. He alone was at his
ease, master of the situation. It was pleasing to him to
make Ursula the gift, and for once extend good feeling to his
teachers. As a rule, it was so difficult, each one was so
strained in resentment under this rule.

" Yes," he said, " we hoped you would like the choice "

He looked with his peculiar, challenging smile for a mo-
ment, then returned to his cupboards.

Ursula felt very confused. She hugged her books, loving
them. And she felt that she loved all the teachers, and
Mr. Harby. It was very confusing.

At last she was out. She cast one hasty glance over the

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 401

school buildings squatting on the asphalt yard in the hot,
glistening sun, one look down the well-known road, and turned
her back on it all. Something strained in her heart. She
was going away.

"Well, good luck," said the last of the teachers, as she
shook hands at the end of the road. " We'll expect you back
some day."

He spoke in irony. She laughed, and broke away. She
was free. As she sat on the top of the tram in the sunlight,
she looked round her with tremendous delight. She had
left something which had meant much to her. She would
not go to. school any more, and do the familiar things.
Queer ! There was a little pang amid her exultation, of fear,
not of regret. Yet how she exulted this morning!

She was tremulous with pride and joy. She loved the two
books. They were tokens to her, representing the fruit and
trophies of her two years which, thank God, were over.

"To Ursula Brangwen, with best wishes for her future,
and in warm memory of the time she spent in St. Philip's
School," was written in the headmaster's neat, scrupulous
handwriting. She could see the careful hand holding the
pen, the thick fingers with tufts of black hair on the back of
each one.

He had signed, all the teachers had signed. She liked
having all their signatures. She felt she loved them all.
They were her fellow-workers. She carried away from the
school a pride she could never lose. She had her place as
comrade and sharer in the work of the school, her fellow
teachers had signed to her, as one of them. And she was one
of all workers, she had put in her tiny brick to the fabric
man was building, she had qualified herself as co-builder.

Then the day for the home removal came. Ursula rose
early, to pack up the remaining goods. The carts arrived,
lent by her uncle at the Marsh, in the lull between hay and
corn harvest. The goods roped in the cart, Ursula mounted
her bicycle and sped away to Beldover.

The house was hers. She entered its clean-scrubbed si-
lence. The dining-room had been covered with a thick rush
matting, hard and of the beautiful, luminous, clean colour
of sun-dried reeds. The walls were pale grey, the doors
were darker grey. Ursula admired it very much, as the sun
came through the large windows, streaming in.

She flung open doors and windows to the sunshine. Flowers

402 THE RAINBOW

were bright and shining round the small lawn, which stood
above the road, looking over the raw field opposite, which
would later be built upon. No one came. So she wandered
down the garden at the back to the wall. The eight bells
of the church rang the hour. She could hear the many sounds
of the town about her.

At last, the cart was seen coming round the corner, familiar
furniture piled undignified on top, Tom, her brother, and
Theresa, marching on foot beside the mass, proud of having
walked ten miles or more, from the tram terminus. Ursula
poured out beer, and the men drank thirstily, by the door.
A second cart was coming. Her father appeared on his mo-
tor bicycle. There was the staggering transport of furniture
up the steps to the little lawn, where it was deposited all pell-
mell in the sunshine, very queer and discomforting.

Brangwen was a pleasant man to work with, cheerful and
easy. Ursula loved deciding him where the heavy things
should stand. She watched anxiously the struggle up the
steps and through the doorways. Then the big things were
in, the carts set off again. Ursula and her father worked
away carrying in all the light things that remained upon
the lawn, and putting them in place. Dinner time came.
They ate bread and cheese in the kitchen.

"Well, we're getting on/' said Brangwen, cheerfully.

Two more loads arrived. The afternoon passed away in
a struggle with the furniture, upstairs. Towards five o'clock,
appeared the last loads, consisting also of Mrs. Brangwen
and the younger children, driven by Uncle Fred in the trap.
Gudrun had walked with Margaret from the station. The
whole family had come.

" There ! " said Brangwen, as his wife got down from the
cart : " Now we're all here."

" Ay," said his wife pleasantly.

And the very brevity, the silence of intimacy between the
two made a home in the hearts of the children, who clustered
round feeling strange in the new place.

Everything was at sixes and sevens. But a fire was made
in the kitchen, the hearth-rug put down, the kettle set on the
hob, and Mrs. Brangwen began towards sunset to prepare
the first meal. Ursula and Gudrun were slaving in the bed-
rooms, candles were rushing about. Then from the kitchen
came the smell of ham and eggs and coffee, and in the gas-
light, the scrambled meal began. The family seemed to hud-

THE WIDENING CIRCLE 403

die together like a little camp in a strange place. Ursula
felt a load of responsibility upon her, caring for the half-
little ones. The smallest kept near the mother.

It was dark, and the children went sleepy but excited to
bed. It was a long time before the sound of voices died out.
There was a tremendous sense of adventure.

In the morning everybody was awake soon after dawn,
the children crying:

" When I wakened up I didn't know where I was."

There were the strange sounds of the town, and the re-
peated chiming of the big church bells, so much harsher and
more insistent than the little bells of Cossethay. They looked
through the windows past the other new red houses to the
wooded hill across the valley. They had all a delightful sense
of space and liberation, space and light and air.

But gradually all set to work. They were a careless, un-
tidy family. Yet when once they set about to get the house
in order, the thing went with felicity and quickness. By
evening the place was roughly established.

They would not have a servant to live in the house, only
a woman who could go home at night. And they would
not even have the woman yet. They wanted to do as they
liked in their own home, with no stranger in the midst.

CHAPTER xv

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY

A STORM of industry raged on in the house. Ursula
did not go to college till October. So, with a dis-
tinct feeling of responsibility, as if she must express
herself in this house, she laboured arranging, re-
arranging, selecting, contriving.

She could use her father's ordinary tools, both for wood-
work and metal-work, so she hammered and tinkered. Her
mother was quite content to have the thing done. Brangwen
was interested. He had a ready belief in his daughter. He
himself was at work putting up his work-shed in the garden.

At last she had finished for the time being. The drawing-
room was big and empty. It had the good Wilton carpet,
of which the family was so proud, and the large couch and
large chairs covered with shiny chintz, and the piano, a little
sculpture in plaster that Brangwen had done, and not very
much more. It was too large and empty-feeling for the family
to occupy very much. Yet they liked to know it was there,
large and empty.

The home was the dining-room. There the hard rush floor-
covering made the ground light, reflecting light upon the
bottom of their hearts ; in the window-bay was a broad, sunny
seat, the table was so solid one could not jostle it, and the
chairs so strong one could knock them over without hurting
them. The familiar organ that Brangwen had made stood
on one side, looking peculiarly small, the sideboard was com-
fortably reduced to normal proportions. This was the family
living-room.

Ursula had a bedroom to herself. It was really a servants'
bedroom, small and plain. Its window looked over the back
garden at other back gardens, some of them old and very
nice, some of them littered with packing-cases, then at the
backs of the houses whose fronts were the shops in High
Street, or the genteel homes of the under-manager or the
chief cashier, facing the chapel.

404

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 405

She had six weeks still before going to college. In this
time she nervously read over some Latin and some botany,
and fitfully worked at some mathematics. She was going
into college as a teacher, for her training. But, having al-
ready taken her matriculation examination, she was entered
for a university course. At the end of a year she would
sit for the Intermediate Arts, then two years after for her
B.A. So her case was not that of the ordinary school-teacher.
She would be working among the private students who came
only for pure education, not for mere professional training.
She would be of the elect.

For the next three years she would be more or less de-
pendent on her parents again. Her training was free. All
college fees were paid by the government, she had moreover a
few pounds grant every year. This would just pay for her
train fares and her clothing. Her parents would only have
to feed her. She did not want to cost them much. They
would not be well off. Her father would earn only two hun-
dred a year, and a good deal of her mother's capital was spent
in buying the house. Still, there was enough to get along
with.

Gudrun was attending the Art School at Nottingham. She
was working particularly at sculpture. She had a gift for
this. She loved making little models in clay, of children
or of animals. Already some of these had appeared in the
Students' Exhibition in the Castle, and Gudrun was a dis-
tinguished person. She was chafing at the Art School and
wanted to go to London. But there was not enough money.
Neither would her parents let her go so far.

Theresa had left the High School. She was a great, strap-
ping, bold hussy, indifferent to all higher claims. She would
stay at home. The others were at school, except the youngest.
When term started, they would all be transferred to the
Grammar School at Willey Green.

Ursula was excited at making acquaintances in Beldover.
The excitement soon passed. She had tea at the clergyman's,
at the chemist's, at the other chemist's, at the doctor's, at
the under-manager's, — then she knew practically everybody.
She could not take people very seriously, though at the time
she wanted to.

She wandered the country, on foot and on her bicycle,
finding it very beautiful in the forest direction, between
Mansfield and Southwell and Worksop. But she was here

466 THE RAINBOW

only skirmishing for amusement. Her real exploration would
begin in college.

Term began. She went into town each day by train. The
cloistered quiet of the college began to close around her.

She was not at first disappointed. The big college built
of stone, standing in the quiet street, with a rim of grass
and lime-trees all so peaceful: she felt it remote, a magic
land. Its architecture was foolish, she knew from her father.
Still, it was different from that of all other buildings. Its
rather pretty, plaything, Gothic form was almost a style, in
the dirty industrial town.

She liked the hall, with its big stone chimney-piece and its
Gothic arches supporting the balcony above. To be sure
the arches were ugly, the chimney-piece of cardboard-like
carved stone, with its armorial decoration, looked silly just
opposite the bicycle stand and the radiator, whilst the great
notice-board with its fluttering papers seemed to slam away
all sense of retreat and mystery from the far wall. Neverthe-
less, amorphous as it might be, there was in it a reminiscence
of the wondrous, cloistral origin of education. Her soul flew
straight back to the mediaeval times, when the monks of God
held the learning of men and imparted it within the shadow
of religion. In this spirit she entered college.

The harshness and vulgarity of the lobbies and cloak-rooms
hurt her at first. Why was it not all beautiful? But she
could not openly admit her criticism. She was on holy
ground.

She wanted all the students to have a high, pure spirit,
she wanted them to say only the real, genuine things, she
wanted their faces to be still and luminous as the nuns' and
the monks' faces.

Alas, the girls chattered and giggled and were nervous,
they were dressed up and frizzed, the men looked mean and
clownish.

Still, it was lovely to pass along the corridor with one's
books in one's hands, to push the swinging, glass-panelled
door, and enter the big room where the first lecture would be
given. The windows were large and lofty, the myriad brown
students' desks stood waiting, the great blackboard was smooth
behind the rostrum.

Ursula sat beside her window, rather far back. Looking
down, she saw the lime-trees turning yellow, the tradesman's

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 407

boy passing silent down the still, autumn-sunny street. There
was the world, remote, remote.

Here, within the great, whispering sea-shell, that whispered
all the while with reminiscence of all the centuries, time faded
away, and the echo of knowledge filled the timeless silence.

She listened, she scribbled her notes with joy, almost with
ecstasy, never for a moment criticising what she heard. The
lecturer was a mouth-piece, a priest. As he stood, black-
gowned, on the rostrum, some strands of the whispering con-
fusion of knowledge that filled the whole place seemed to be
singled out and woven together by him, till they became a
lecture.

At first, she preserved herself from criticism. She would
not consider the professors as men, ordinary men who ate
bacon, and pulled on their boots before coming to college.
They were the black-gowned priests of knowledge, serving
for ever in a remote, hushed temple. They were the initiated,
and the beginning and the end of the mystery was in their
keeping.

Curious joy she had of the lectures. It was a joy to hear
the theory of education, there was such freedom and pleas-
ure in ranging over the very stuff of knowledge, and seeing
how it moved and lived and had its being. How happy
Racine made her! She did not know why. But as the big
lines of the drama unfolded themselves, so steady, so meas-
ured, she felt a thrill as of being in the realm of the reality.
Of Latin, she was doing Livy and Horace. The curious,
intimate, gossiping tone of the Latin class suited Horace.
Yet she never cared for him, nor even for Livy. There was
an entire lack of sternness in the gossipy class-room. She
tried hard to keep her old grasp of the Roman spirit. But
gradually the Latin became mere gossip-stuff and artificiality
to her, a question of manners and verbosities.

Her terror was the mathematics class. The lecturer went
so fast, her heart beat excitedly, she seemed to be straining
every nerve. And she struggled hard, during private study,
to get the stuff into control.

Then came the lovely, peaceful afternoons in the botany
laboratory. There were few students. How she loved to
sit on her high stool before the bench, with her pith and her
razor and her material, carefully mounting her slides, care-
fully bringing her microscope into focus, then turning with

468 THE RAINBOW

joy to record her observation, drawing joyfully in her book,
if the slide were good.

She soon made a college friend, a girl who had lived in
Florence, a girl who wore a wonderful purple or figured scarf
draped over a plain, dark dress. She was Dorothy Kussell,
daughter of a south-country advocate. Dorothy lived with
a maiden aunt in Nottingham, and spent her spare moments
slaving for the Women's Social and Political Union. She was
quiet and intense, with an ivory face and dark hair looped
plain over her ears. Ursula was very fond of her, but afraid
of her. She seemed so old and so relentless towards herself.
Yet she was only twenty-two. Ursula always felt her to
be a creature of fate, like Cassandra.

The two girls had a close, stern friendship. Dorothy
worked at all things with the same passion, never sparing
herself. She came closest to Ursula during the Botany hours.
For she could not draw. Ursula made beautiful and wonder-
ful drawings of the sections under the microscope, and Dorothy
always came to learn the manner of the drawing.

So the first year went by, in magnificent seclusion and ac-
tivity of learning. It was strenuous as a battle, her college
life, yet remote as peace.

She came to Nottingham in the morning with Gudrun.
The two sisters were distinguished wherever they went, slim,
strong girls, eager and extremely sensitive. Gudrun was
the more beautiful of the two, with her sleepy, half-languid
girlishness that looked so soft, and yet was balanced and
inalterable underneath. She wore soft, easy clothing, and
hats which fell by themselves into a careless grace.

Ursula was much more carefully dressed, but she was self-
conscious, always falling into depths of admiration of some-
body else, and modelling herself upon this other, and so
producing a hopeless incongruity. When she dressed for
practical purposes she always looked well. In winter, wearing
a tweed coat-and-skirt and a small hat of black fur pulled
over her eager, palpitant face, she seemed to move down the
street in a drifting motion of suspense and exceeding sensitive
receptivity.

At the end of the first year Ursula got through her Inter-
mediate Arts examination, and there came a lull in her eager
activities. She slackened off, she relaxed altogether. Worn
nervous and inflammable by the excitement of the preparation
for the examination, and by the sort of exaltation which

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 409

carried her through the crisis itself, she now fell into a quiver-
ing passivity, her will all loosened.

The family went to Scarborough for a month. Gudrun
and the father were busy at the handicraft holiday school
there, Ursula was left a good deal with the children. But
when she could, she went off by herself.

She stood and looked out over the shining sea. It was
very beautiful to her. The tears rose hot in her heart.

Out of the far, far space there drifted slowly in to her a
passionate, unborn yearning. " There are so many dawns
that have not yet risen." It seemed as if, from over the edge
of the sea, all the unrisen dawns were appealing to her, all
her unborn soul was crying for the unrisen dawns.

As she sat looking out at the tender sea, with its lovely,
swift glimmer, the sob rose in her breast, till she caught her
lip suddenly under her teeth, and the tears were forcing them-
selves from her. And in her very sob, she laughed. Why
did she cry? She did not want to cry. It was so beautiful
that she laughed. It was so beautiful that she cried.

She glanced apprehensively round, hoping no one would
see her in this state.

Then came a time when the sea was rough. She watched
the water travelling in to the coast, she watched a big wave
running unnoticed, to burst in a shock of foam against a rock,
enveloping all in a great white beauty, to pour away again,
leaving the rock emerged black and teeming. Oh, and if,
when the wave burst into whiteness, it were only set free !

Sometimes she loitered along the harbour, looking at the sea-
browned sailors, who, in their close blue jerseys, lounged
on the harbour-wall, and laughed at her with impudent, com-
municative eyes.

There was established a little relation between her and
them. She never would speak to them or know any more
of them. Yet as she walked by and they leaned on the sea-
wall, there was something between her and them, something
keen and delightful and painful. She liked best the young
one whose fair, salty hair tumbled over his blue eyes. He
was 50 new and fresh and salt and not of this world.

From Scarborough she went to her Uncle Tom's. Winifred
had a small baby, born at the end of the summer. She had
become strange and alien to Ursula. There was an unmen-
tionable reserve between the two women. Tom Brangwen
was an attentive father, a very domestic husband. But there

410 THE RAINBOW

was something spurious about his domesticity, Ursula did not
like him any more. Something ugly, blatant in his nature
had come out now, making him shift everything over to a
sentimental basis. A materialistic unbeliever, he carried it
all off by becoming full of human feeling, a warm, attentive
host, a generous husband, a model citizen. And he was
clever enough to rouse admiration everywhere, and to take in
his wife sufficiently. She did not love him. She was glad
to live in a state of complacent self-deception with him, she
worked according to him.

Ursula was relieved to go home. She had still two peaceful
years before her. Her future was settled for two years. She
returned to college to prepare for her final examination.

But during this year the glamour began to depart from
college. The professors were not priests initiated into the
deep mysteries of life and knowledge. After all, they were
only middle-men handling wares they had become so accus-
tomed to that they were oblivious of them. What was Latin ?
— So much dry goods of knowledge. What was the Latin
class altogether but a sort of second-hand curio shop, where one
bought curios and learned the market-value of curios; dull
curios too, on the whole. She was as bored by the Latin
curiosities as she was by Chinese and Japanese curiosities in
the antique shops. " Antiques " — the very word made her
soul fall flat and dead.

The life went out of her studies, why, she did not know.
But the whole thing seemed sham, spurious ; spurious Gothic
arches, spurious peace, spurious Latinity, spurious dignity of
France, spurious naivete of Chaucer. It was a second-hand
dealer's shop, and one bought an equipment for an examina-
tion. This was only a little side-show to the factories of the
town. Gradually the perception stole into her. This was
no religious retreat, no seclusion of pure learning. It was a
little apprentice-shop where one was further equipped for
making money. The college itself was a little, slovenly labora-
tory for the factory.

A harsh and ugly disillusion came over her again, the same
darkness and bitter gloom from which she was never safe now,
the realization of the permanent substratum of ugliness under
everything. As she came to the college in the afternoon, the
lawns were frothed with daisies, the lime-trees hung tender
and sunlit and green; and oh, the deep, white froth of the
daisies was anguish to see.

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 411;

For inside, inside the college, she knew she must enter
the sham workshop. All the while, it was a sham store, a
sham warehouse, with a single motive of material gain,
and no productivity. It pretended to exist by the reli-
gious virtue of knowledge. But the religious virtue of
knowledge was become a flunkey to the god of material suc-
cess.

A sort of inertia came over her. Mechanically, from habit,
she went on with her studies. But it was almost hopeless.
She could scarcely attend to anything. At the Anglo-Saxon
lecture in the afternoon, she sat looking down, out of the
window, hearing no word, of Beowulf or of anything else.
Down below, in the street, the sunny grey pavement went be-
side the palisade. A woman in a pink frock, with a scarlet
sunshade, crossed the road, a little white dog running like a
fleck of light about her. The woman with the scarlet sunshade
came over the road, a lilt in her walk, a little shadow attend-
ing her. Ursula watched spell-bound. The woman with the
scarlet sunshade and the flickering terrier was gone — and
whither? Whither?

In what world of reality was the woman in the pink dress
walking? To what warehouse of dead unreality was she her-
self confined?

What good was this place, this college? What good was
Anglo-Saxon, when one only learned it in order to answer
examination questions, in order that one should have a higher
commercial value later on? She was sick with this long
service at the inner commercial shrine. Yet what else was
there ? Was life all this, and this only ? Everywhere, every-
thing was debased to the same service. Everything went to
produce vulgar things, to encumber material life.

Suddenly she threw over French. She would take honours
in botany. This was the one study that lived for her. She
had entered into the lives of the plants. She was fascinated
by the strange laws of the vegetable world. She had here a
glimpse of something working entirely apart from the purpose
of the human world.

College was barren, cheap, a temple converted to the most
vulgar, petty commerce. Had she not gone to hear the
echo of learning pulsing back to the source of the mystery ? —
The source of mystery! And barrenly, the professors in
their gowns offered commercial commodity that could be
turned to good account in the examination room; ready-made

412 THE RAINBOW

stuff too, and not really worth the money it was intended to
fetch ; which they all knew.

All the time in the college now, save when she was labour-
ing in her botany laboratory, for there the mystery still glim-
mered, she felt she was degrading herself in a kind of trade
of sham jew jaws.

Angry and stiff, she went through her last term. She
would rather be out again earning her own living. Even
Brinsley Street and Mr. Harby seemed real in comparison.
Her violent hatred of the Ilkeston School was nothing com-
pared with the sterile degradation of college. But she was
not going back to Brinsley Street either. She would take
her B.A., and become a mistress in some Grammar School for
a time.

The last year of her college career was wheeling slowly
round. She could see ahead her examination and her de-
parture. She had the ash of disillusion gritting under her
teeth. Would the next move turn out the same ? Always the
shining doorway ahead; and then, upon approach, always the
shining doorway was a gate into another ugly yard, dirty and
active and dead. Always the crest of the hill gleaming ahead
under heaven : and then, from the top of the hill only another
sordid valley full of amorphous, squalid activity.

No matter! Every hill-top was a little different, every
valley was somehow new. Cossethay and her childhood with
her father; the Marsh and the little Church school near the
Marsh, and her grandmother and her uncles ; the High School
at Nottingham and Anton Skrebensky; Anton Skrebensky
and the dance in the moonlight between the fires; then the
time she could not think of without being blasted, Winifred
Inger, and the months before becoming a school-teacher;
then the horrors of Brinsley Street, lapsing into comparative
peacefulness, Maggie, and Maggie's brother, whose influence
she could still feel in her veins, when she conjured him up;
then college, and Dorothy Russell, who was now in France,
then the next move into the world again!

Already it was a history. In every phase she was so differ-
ent. Yet she was always Ursula Brangwen. But what did
it mean, Ursula Brangwen? She did not know what she
was. Only she was full of rejection, of refusal. Always,
always she was spitting out of her mouth the ash and grit
of disillusion, of falsity. She could only stiffen in rejection,
in rejection. She seemed always negative in her action.

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 413

That which she was, positively, was dark and unrevealed,
it could not come forth. It was like a seed buried in dry ash.
This world in which she lived was like a circle lighted by a
lamp. This lighted area, lit up by man's completest con-
sciousness, she thought was all the world: that here all was
disclosed for ever. Yet all the time, within the darkness she
had been aware of points of light, like the eyes of wild beasts,
gleaming, penetrating, vanishing. And her soul had acknowl-
edged in a great heave of terror only the outer darkness.
This inner circle of light in which she lived and moved,
wherein the trains rushed and the factories ground out their
machine-produce and the plants and the animals worked by
the light of science and knowledge, suddenly it seemed like
the area under an arc-lamp, wherein the moths and children
played in the security of blinding light, not even knowing
there was any darkness, because they stayed in the light.

But she could see the glimmer of dark movement just out
of range, she saw the eyes of the wild beast gleaming from the
darkness, watching the vanity of the camp fire and the sleep-
ers; she felt the strange, foolish vanity of the camp, which
said " Beyond our light and our order there is nothing," turn-
ing their faces always inward towards the sinking fire of
illuminating consciousness, which comprised sun and stars,
and the Creator, and the System of Kighteousness, ignoring
always the vast darkness that wheeled round about, with
half-revealed shapes lurking on the edge.

Yea, and no man dared even throw a firebrand into the
darkness. For if he did he was jeered to death by the others,
who cried " Fool, anti-social knave, why would you disturb
us with bogeys? There is no darkness. We move and live
and have our being within the light, and unto us is given
the eternal light of knowledge, we comprise and comprehend
the innermost core and issue of knowledge. Fool and knave,
how dare you belittle us with the darkness ? "

Nevertheless the darkness wheeled round about, with grey
shadow-shapes of wild beasts, and also with dark shadow-
shapes of the angels, whom the light fenced out, as it fenced
out the more familiar beasts of darkness. And some, having
for a moment seen the darkness, saw it bristling with the tufts
of the hyaena and the wolf; and some, having given up
their vanity of the light, having died in their own conceit,
saw the gleam in the eyes of the wolf and the hysena, that
it was the flash of the sword of angels, flashing at the door

414 THE RAINBOW

to come in, that the angels in the darkness were lordly and
terrible and not to be denied, like the flash of fangs.

It was a little while before Easter, in her last year of col-
lege, when Ursula was twenty-two years old, that she heard
again from Skrebensky. He had written to her once or twice
from South Africa, during the first months of his service
out there in the war, and since had sent her a post-card every
now and then, at ever longer intervals. He had become a
first lieutenant, and had stayed out in Africa. She had not
heard of him now for more than two years.

Often her thoughts returned to him. He seemed like the
gleaming dawn, yellow, radiant, of a long, grey, ashy day.
The memory of him was like the thought of the first radiant
hours of morning. And here was the blank grey ashiness of
later daytime. Ah, if he had only remained true to her,
she might have known the sunshine, without all this toil
and hurt and degradation of a spoiled day. He would have
been her angel. He held the keys of the sunshine. Still he
held them. He could open to her the gates of succeeding
freedom and delight. Nay, if he had remained true to her,
he would have been the doorway to her, into the boundless
sky of happiness and plunging, inexhaustible freedom which
was the paradise of her soul. Ah, the great range he would
have opened to her, the illimitable endless space for self-
realization and delight for ever.

The one thing she believed in was in the love she had held
for him. It remained shining and complete, a thing to hark
back to. And she said to herself, when present things seemed
a failure:

" Ah, I was fond of him/'
as if with him the leading flower of her life had died.

Now she heard from him again. The chief effect was pain.
The pleasure, the spontaneous joy was not there any longer.
But her will rejoiced. Her will had fixed itself to him. And
the old excitement of her dreams stirred and woke up. He
was come, the man with the wondrous lips that could send
the kiss wavering to the very end of all space. Was he come
back to her ? She did not believe.

" MY DEAR URSULA, I am back in England again for a few
months before going out again, this time to India. I wonder
if you still keep the memory of our times together. I have
stiil got the little photograph of you. You must be qhanged

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 415

since then, for it is about six years ago. I am fully six
years older, — I have lived through another life since I knew
you at Cossethay. I wonder if you would care to see me.
I shall come up to Derby next week, and I would call in
Nottingham, and we might have tea together. Will you let
me know ? I shall look for your answer.

"ANTON SKREBENSKY."

Ursula had taken this letter from the rack in the hall at
college, and torn it open as she crossed to the Women's
room. The world seemed to dissolve away from around her,
she stood alone in clear air.

Where could she go to, to be alone? She fled away, up-
stairs, and through the private way to the reference library.
Seizing a book, she sat down and pondered the letter. Her
heart beat, her limbs trembled. As in a dream, she heard one
gong sound in the college, then, strangely, another. The
first lecture had gone by.

Hurriedly she took one of her note books and began to
write.

"DEAR ANTON, Yes, I still have the ring. I should be
very glad to see you again. You can come here to college
for me, or I will meet you somewhere in the town. Will
you let me know? Your sincere friend "

Trembling, she asked the librarian, who was her friend, if
he would give her an envelope. She sealed and addressed
her letter, and went out, bare-headed, to post it. When it
was dropped into the pillar-box, the world became a very still,
pale place, without confines. She wandered back to college,
to her pale dream, like a first wan light of dawn.

Skrebensky came one afternoon the following week. Day
after day, she had hurried swiftly to the letter-rack on her
arrival at college in the morning, and during the intervals
between lectures. Several times, swiftly, with secretive
fingers, she had plucked his letter down from its public
prominence, and fled across the hall holding it fast and hidden.
She read her letters in the botany laboratory, where her corner
was always reserved to her.

Several letters, and then he was coming. It was Friday
afternoon he appointed. She worked over her microscope
with fe.verish activity, able to give only half her attention, yet

416 THE RAINBOW

working closely and rapidly. She had on her slide some spe-
cial stuff come up from London that day, and the professor
was fussy and excited about it. At the same time, as she
focussed the light on her field, and saw the plant-animal
lying shadowy in a boundless light, she was fretting over a
conversation she had had a few days ago with Dr. Frankstone,
who was a woman doctor of physics in the college.

"No, really," Dr. Frankstone had said, "I don't see why
we should attribute some special mystery to life — do you?
We don't understand it as we understand electricity, even,
but that doesn't warrant our saying it is something special,
something different in kind and distinct from everything else
in the universe — do you think it does ? May it not be that
life consists in a complexity of physical and chemical activities,
of the same order as the activities we already know in science ?
I don't see, really, why we should imagine there is a special
order of life, and life alone "

The conversation had ended on a note of uncertainty, in-
definite, wistful. But the purpose, what was the purpose?
Electricity had no soul, light and heat had no soul. Was
she herself an impersonal force, or conjunction of forces,
like one of these ? She looked still at the unicellular shadow
that lay within the field of light, under her microscope. . It
was alive. She saw it move — she saw the bright mist of
its ciliary activity, she saw the gleam of its nucleus, as it
slid across the plane of light. What then was its will? If
it was a conjunction of forces, physical and chemical, what
held these forces unified, and for what purpose were they
unified ?

For what purpose were the incalculable physical and chemi-
cal activities nodalized in this shadowy, moving speck under
her microscope? What was the will which nodalized them
and created the one thing she saw ? What was its intention ?
To be itself? Was its purpose just mechanical and limited
to itself?

It intended to be itself. But what self ? Suddenly in her
mind the world gleamed strangely, with an intense light,
like the nucleus of the creature under the microscope. Sud-
denly she had passed away into an intensely-gleaming light
of knowledge. She could not understand what it all was.
She only knew that it was not limited mechanical energy,
nor mere purpose of self-preservation and self-assertion. It
was a consummation, a being infinite. Self was a oneness

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 417

with the infinite. To be oneself was a supreme, gleaming
triumph of infinity.

Ursula sat abstracted over her microscope, in suspense.
Her soul was busy, infinitely busy, in the new world. In
the new world, Skrebensky was waiting for her — he would be
waiting for her. She could not go yet, because her soul was
engaged. Soon she would go.

A stillness, like passing away, took hold of her. Far off,
down the corridors, she heard the gong booming five o'clock.
She must go. Yet she sat still.

The other students were pushing back their stools and put-
ting their microscopes away. Everything broke into tur-
moil. She saw, through the window, students going down
the steps, with books under their arms, talking, all talking.

A great craving to depart came upon her. She wanted also
to be gone. She was in dread of the material world, and in
dread of her own transfiguration. She wanted to run to meet
Skrebensky — the new life, the reality.

Very rapidly she wiped her slides and put them back,
cleared her place at the bench, active, active, active. She
wanted to run to meet Skrebensky, hasten — hasten. She
did not know what she was to meet. But it would be a new
beginning. She must hurry.

She flitted down the corridor on swift feet, her razor and
note books and pencil in one hand, her pinafore over her
arm. Her face was lifted and tense with eagerness. He
might not be there.

Issuing from the corridor, she saw him at once. She knew
him at once. Yet he was so strange. He stood with the
curious self-effacing diffidence which so frightened her in
well-bred young men whom she knew. He stood as if he
wished to be unseen. He was very well-dressed. She would
not admit to herself the chill like a sunshine of frost that
came over her. This was he, the key, the nucleus to the new
world.

He saw her coming swiftly across the hall, a slim girl in a
white flannel blouse and dark skirt, with some of the abstrac-
tion and gleam of the unknown upon her, and he started,
excited. He was very nervous. Other students were loiter-
ing about the hall.

She laughed, with a blind, dazzled face, as she gave him
her hand. He too could not perceive her.

In a moment she was gone, to get her outdoor things. Then

418 THE RAINBOW

again, as when she had been at school, they walked out into
the town to tea. And they went to the same tea-shop.

She knew a great difference in him. The kin-ship was
there, the old kin-ship, but he had belonged to a different
world from hers. It was as if they had cried a state of truce
between him and her, and in this truce they had met. She
knew, vaguely, in the first minute, that they were enemies
come together in a truce. Every movement and word of his
was alien to her being.

Yet still she loved the fine texture of his face, of his skin.
He was rather browner, physically stronger. He was a. man
now. She thought his manliness made the strangeness in
him. When he was only a youth, fluid, he was nearer to her.
She thought a man must inevitably set into this strange
separateness, cold otherness of being. He talked, but not to
her. She tried to speak to him, but she could not reach him.

He seemed so balanced and sure, he made such a confident
presence. He was a great rider, so there was about him some
of a horseman's sureness and habitual definiteness of decision,
also some of the horseman's animal darkness. Yet his soul
was only the more wavering, vague. He seemed made up of a
set of habitual actions and decisions. The vulnerable, variable
quick of the man was inaccessible. She knew nothing of it.
She could only feel the dark, heavy fixity of his animal desire.

This dumb desire on his part had brought him to her?
She was puzzled, hurt by some hopeless fixity in him, that
terrified her with a cold feeling of despair. What did he want ?
His desires were so underground. Why did he not admit him-
self ? What did he want ? He wanted something that should
be nameless. She shrank in fear.

Yet she flashed with excitement. In his dark, subterranean,
male soul, he was kneeling before her, darkly exposing him-
self. She quivered, the dark flame ran over her. He was
waiting at her feet. He was helpless, at her mercy. She
could take or reject. If she rejected him, something would
die in him. For him it was life or death. And yet, all must
be kept so dark, the consciousness must admit nothing.

" How long," she said, " are you staying in England ? "

" I am not sure — but not later than July, I believe."

Then they were both silent. He was here, in England, for
six months. They had a space of six months between them.
H$ waited. The same iron rigidity, as if the world were

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 419

made of steel, possessed her again. It was no use turning
with flesh and blood to this arrangement of forged metal.

Quickly, her imagination adjusted itself to the situation.

" Have you an appointment in India ?" she asked.

" Yes — I have just the six months' leave."

" Will you like being out there ? "

" I think so — there's a good deal of social life, and plenty
going on — hunting, polo — and always a good horse — and
plenty of work, any amount of work."

He was always side-tracking, always side-tracking his own
soul. She could see him so well out there, in India — one of
the governing class, superimposed upon an old civilization,
lord and master of a clumsier civilization than his own. It
was his choice. He would become again an aristocrat, in-
vested with authority and responsibility, having a great
helpless populace beneath him. One of the ruling class, his
whole being would be given over to the fulfilling and the
executing of the better idea of the state. And in India,
there would be real work to do. The country did need
the civilization which he himself represented : it did need his
roads and bridges, and the enlightenment of which he was part.
He would go to India. But that was not her road.

Yet she loved him, the body of him, whatever his decisions
might be. He seemed to want something of her. He was
waiting for her to decide of him. It had been decided in
her long ago, when he had kissed her first. He was her
lover, though good and evil should cease. Her will never
relaxed, though her heart and soul must be imprisoned and
silenced. He waited upon her, and she accepted him. For
he had come back to her.

A glow came into his face, into his fine, smooth skin, his
eyes, gold-grey, glowed intimately to her. He burned up,
he caught fire and became splendid, royal, something like a
tiger. She caught his brilliant, burnished glamour. Her
heart and her soul were shut away fast down below, hidden.
She was free of them. She was to have her satisfaction.

She became proud and erect, like a flower, putting itself
forth in its proper strength. His warmth invigorated her.
His beauty of form, which seemed to glow out in contrast
with the rest of people, made her proud. It was like defer-
ence to her, and made her feel as if she represented before
him all the grace and flower of humanity. She was no mere

THE RAINBOW

Ursula Brangwen. She was Woman, she was the whole of
Woman in the human order. All-containing, universal, how
should she be limited to individuality ?

She was exhilarated, she did not want to go away from him.
She had her place by him. Who should take her away ?

They came out of the cafe.

" Is there anything you would like to do ? " he said. " Is
there anything we can do ? "

It was a dark, windy night in March.

" There is nothing to do," she said.

Which was the answer he wanted.

" Let us walk then — where shall we walk ? " he asked.

" Shall we go to the river ? " she suggested, timidly.

In a moment they were on the tram, going down to Trent
Bridge. She was so glad. The thought of walking in the
dark, far-reaching water-meadows, beside the full river, trans-
ported her. Dark water flowing in silence through the big,
restless night made her feel wild.

They crossed the bridge, descended, and went away from
the lights. In an instant, in the darkness, he took her hand
and they went in silence, with subtle feet treading the dark-
ness. The town fumed away on their left, there were strange
lights and sounds, the wind rushed against the trees, and under
the bridge. They walked close together, powerful in unison.
He drew her very close, held her with a subtle, stealthy, power-
ful passion, as if they had a secret agreement which held good
in the profound darkness. The profound darkness was their
universe.

" It is like it was before," she said.

Yet it was not in the least as it was before. Nevertheless
his heart was perfectly in accord with her. They thought
one thought.

" I knew I should come back/' he said at length.

She quivered.

" Did you always love me ? " she asked.

The directness of the question overcame him, submerged
him for a moment. The darkness travelled massively along.

" I had to come back to you," he said, as if hypnotized.
" You were always at the back of everything."

She was silent with triumph, like fate.

" I loved you," she said, " always."

The dark flame leaped up in him. . He must give her him-

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 421

self. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He
drew her very close, and they went on in silence.

She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a
stile across the dark meadows.

" It's only lovers," he said to her, softly.

She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, won-
dering that the darkness was inhabited.

" Only lovers will walk here to-night," he said.

Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa,
the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear.

"I am not afraid of the darkness in England," he said.
" It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially
when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid
with terror — not fear of anything — just fear. One breathes
it, like a smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship
it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it — the fear —
something sensual."

She thrilled again to him. He was to her a voice out of
the darkness. He talked to her all the while, in low tones,
about Africa, conveying something strange and sensual to
her : the negro, with his loose, soft passion that could envelop
one like a bath. Gradually he transferred to her the hot,
fecund darkness that possessed his own blood. He was
strangely secret. The whole world must be abolished. He
maddened her with his soft, cajoling, vibrating tones. He
wanted her to answer, to understand. A turgid, teeming
night, heavy with fecundity in which every molecule of mat-
ter grew big with increase, secretly urgent with fecund desire,
seemed to come to pass. She quivered, taut and vibrating,
almost pained. And gradually, he ceased telling her of Africa,
there came a silence, whilst they walked the darkness beside
the massive river. Her limbs were rich and tense, she felt
they must be vibrating with a low, profound vibration. She
could scarcely walk. The deep vibration of the darkness could
only be felt, not heard.

Suddenly, as they walked, she turned to him and held him
fast, as if she were turned to steel.

" Do you love me ? " she cried in anguish.

" Yes," he said, in a curious, lapping voice, unlike himself.
"Yes, I love you."

He seemed like the living darkness upon her, she was in
the embrace of the strong darkness. He held her enclosed,

422 THE RAINBOW

soft, unutterably soft, and with the unrelaxing softness of
fate, the relentless softness of fecundity. She quivered, and
quivered, like a tense thing that is struck. But he held her
all the time, soft, unending, like darkness closed upon her,
omnipresent as the night. He kissed her, and she quivered
as if she were being destroyed, shattered. The lighted vessel
vibrated, and broke in her soul, the light fell, struggled, and
went dark. She was all dark, will-less, having only the re-
ceptive will.

He kissed her, with his soft, enveloping kisses, and she
responded to them completely, her mind, her soul gone out.
Darkness cleaving to darkness, she hung close to him, pressed
herself into soft flow of his kiss, pressed herself down, down
to the source and core of his kiss, herself covered and en-
veloped in the warm, fecund flow of his kiss, that travelled
over her, flowed over her, covered her, flowed over the last
fibre of her, so they were one stream, one dark fecundity, and
she clung at the core of him, with her lips holding open the
very bottommost source of him.

So they stood in the utter, dark kiss, that triumphed over
them both, subjected them, knitted them into one fecund
nucleus of the fluid darkness.

It was bliss, it was the nucleolating of the fecund darkness.
Once the vessel had vibrated till it was shattered, the light
of consciousness gone, then the darkness reigned, and the
unutterable satisfaction.

They stood enjoying the unmitigated kiss, taking it, giving
to it endlessly, and still it was not exhausted. Their veins
fluttered, their blood ran together as one stream.

Till gradually a sleep, a heaviness settled on them, a drowse,
and out of the drowse, a small light of consciousness woke
up. Ursula became aware of the night around her, the water
lapping and running full just near, the trees roaring and
soughing in gusts of wind.

She kept near to him, in contact with him, but she became
ever more and more herself. And she knew she must go to
catch her train. But she did not want to draw away from
contact with him.

At length they roused and set out. No longer they existed
in the unblemished darkness. There was the glitter of a
bridge, the twinkle of lights across the river, the big flare of
the town in front and on their right.

But still, dark and soft and incontestable, their bodies

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 423

walked untouched by the lights, darkness supreme and arro-
gant.

" The stupid lights," Ursula said to herself, in her dark
sensual arrogance. " The stupid, artificial, exaggerated town,
fuming its lights. It does not exist really. It rests upon the
unlimited darkness, like a gleam of coloured oil on dark water,
but what is it ? — nothing, just nothing."

In the tram, in the train, she felt the same. The lights,
the civic uniform was a trick played, the people as they moved
or sat were only dummies exposed. She could see, beneath
their pale, wooden pretence of composure and civic purpose-
fulness, the dark stream that contained them all. They were
like little paper ships in their motion. But in reality each one
was a dark, blind, eager wave urging blindly forward, dark
with the same homogeneous desire. And all their talk and
all their behaviour was sham, they were dressed-up creatures.
She was reminded of the Invisible Man, who was a piece of
darkness made visible only by his clothes.

During the next weeks, all the time she went about in the
same dark richness, her eyes dilated and shining like the eyes
of a wild animal, a curious half-smile which seemed to be
gibing at the civic pretence of all the human life about her.

"What are you, you pale citizens?" her face seemed to
say, gleaming. " You subdued beast in sheep's clothing, you
primeval darkness falsified to a social mechanism."

She went about in the sensual sub-consciousness all the time,
mocking at the ready-made, artificial daylight of the rest.

" They assume selves as they assume suits of clothing," she
said to herself, looking in mocking contempt at the stiffened,
neutralized men. " They think it better to be clerks or pro-
fessors than to be the dark, fertile beings that exist in the
potential darkness. What do you think you are?" her soul
asked of the professor as she sat opposite him in class. " What
do you think you are, as you sit there in your gown and your
spectacles? You are a lurking, blood-sniffing creature with
eyes peering out of the jungle darkness, snuffing for your
desires. That is what you are, though nobody would believe
it, and you would be the very last to allow it."

Her soul mocked at all this pretence. Herself, she kept on
pretending. She dressed herself and made herself fine, she
attended her lectures and scribbled her notes. But all in a
mood of superficial, mocking facility. She understood well
enough their two-and-two-make-f our tricks. She was as clever

424 THE RAINBOW

as they were. But care ! — did she care about their monkey
tricks of knowledge or learning or civic deportment ? She did
not care in the least.

There was Skrebensky, there was her dark, vital self. Out-
side the college, the outer darkness, Skrebensky was waiting.
On the edge of the night, he was attentive. Did he care?

She was free as a leopard that sends up its raucous cry
in the night. She had the potent, dark stream of her own
blood, she had the glimmering core of fecundity, she had
her mate, her complement, her sharer in fruition. So, she had
all, everything.

Skrebensky was staying in Nottingham all the time. He
too was free. He knew no one in this town, he had no civic
self to maintain. He was free. Their trams and markets
and theatres and public meetings were a shaken kaleidoscope
to him, he watched as a lion or a tiger may lie with narrowed
eyes watching the people pass before its cage, the kaleido-
scopic unreality of people, or a leopard lie blinking, watching
the incomprehensible feats of the keepers. He despised it all
— it was all non-existent. Their good professors, their good
clergymen, their good political speakers, their good, earnest
women — all the time he felt his soul was grinning, grinning
at the sight of them. So many performing puppets, all wood
and rag for the performance!

He watched the citizen, a pillar of society, a model, saw
the stiff goafs legs, which have become almost stiffened to
wood in the desire to make them puppet in their action, he
saw the trousers formed to the puppet-action : man's legs, but
man's legs become rigid and deformed, ugly, mechanical.

He was curiously happy, being alone, now. The glimmer-
ing grin was on his face. He had no longer any necessity to
take part in the performing tricks of the rest. He had
discovered the clue to himself, he had escaped from the show,
like a wild beast escaped straight back into its jungle. Hav-
ing a room in a quiet hotel, he hired a horse and rode out into
the country, staying sometimes for the night in some village,
and returning the next day.

He felt rich and abundant in himself. Everything he did
was a voluptuous pleasure to him — either to ride on horse-
back, or to walk, or to lie in the sun, or to drink in a public-
house. He had no use for people, nor for words. He had
an amused pleasure in everything, a great sense of voluptuous
richness in himself, and of the fecundity of the universal

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 425

night he inhabited. The puppet shapes of people, their wood-
mechanical voices, he was remote from them.

For there were always his meetings with Ursula. Very
often, she did not go to college in the afternoon, but walked
with him instead. Or he took a motor-car or a dog-cart and
they drove into the country, leaving the car and going away
by themselves into the woods. He had not taken her yet.
With subtle, instinctive economy, they went to the end of
each kiss, each embrace, each pleasure in intimate contact,
knowing subconsciously that the last was coming. It was
to be their final entry into the source of creation.

She took him home, and he stayed a week-end at Beldover
with her family. She loved having him in the house.
Strange how he seemed to come into the atmosphere of her
family, with his laughing, insidious grace. They all loved
him, he was kin to them. His raillery, his warm, voluptuous
mocking presence was meat and joy to the Brangwen house-
hold. For this house was always quivering with darkness,
they put off their puppet form when they came home, to lie
and drowse in the sun.

There was a sense of freedom amongst them all, of the
undercurrent of darkness among them all. Yet here, at home,
Ursula resented it. It became distasteful to her. And she
knew that if they understood the real relationship between her
and Skrebensky, her parents, her father in particular, would
go mad with rage. So subtly, she seemed to be like any other
girl who is more or less courted by a man. And she was like
any other girl. But in her, the antagonism to the social im-
position was for the time complete and final.

She waited, every moment of the day, for his next kiss.
She admitted it to herself in shame and bliss. Almost con-
sciously, she waited. He waited, but, until the time came,
more unconsciously. When the time came that he should kiss
her again, a prevention was an annihilation to him. He felt
his flesh go grey, he was heavy with a corpse-like inanition,
he did not exist, if the time passed unfulfilled.

He came to her finally in a superb consummation. It was
very dark, and again a windy, heavy night. They had come
down the lane towards Beldover, down to the valley. They
were at the end of their kisses, and there was the silence
between them. They stood as at the edge of a cliff, with
a great darkness beneath.

Coming out of the lane along the darkness, with the dark

426 THE RAINBOW

space spreading down to the wind, and the twinkling lights
of the station below, the far-off windy chuff of a shunting
train, the tiny clink-clink-clink of the wagons blown between
the wind, the light of Beldover-edge twinkling upon the
blackness of the hill opposite, the glow of the furnaces along
the railway to the right, their steps began to falter. They
would soon come out of the darkness into the lights. It was
like turning back. It was unfulfilment. Two quivering, un-
willing creatures, they lingered on the edge of the darkness,
peering out at the lights and the machine-glimmer beyond.
They could not turn back to the world — they could not.

So lingering along, they came to a great oak-tree by the
path. In all its budding mass it roared to the wind, and its
trunk vibrated in every fibre, powerful, indomitable.

" We will sit down," he said.

And in the roaring circle under the tree, that was almost
invisible yet whose powerful presence received them, they
lay a moment looking at the twinkling lights on the darkness
opposite, saw the sweeping brand of a train past the edge of
their darkened field.

Then he turned and kissed her, and she waited for him.
The pain to her was the pain she wanted, the agony was the
agony she wanted. She was caught up, entangled in the
powerful vibration of the night. The man, what was he ? —
a dark, powerful vibration that encompassed her. She passed
away as on a dark wind, far, far away, into the pristine dark-
ness of paradise, ink) the original immortality. She entered
the dark fields of immortality.

When she rose, she felt strangely free, strong. She was
not ashamed, — why should she be? He was walking beside
her, the man who had been with her. She had taken him,
they had been together. Whither they had gone, she did
not know. But it was as if she had received another nature.
She belonged to the eternal, changeless place into which they
had leapt together.

Her soul was sure and indifferent of the opinion of the
world of artificial light. As they went up the steps of the
foot-bridge over the railway, and met the train-passengers,
she felt herself belonging to another world, she walked past
them immune, a whole darkness dividing her from them.
When she went into the lighted dining-room at home, she
was impervious to the lights and the eyes of her parents.

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 427

Her everyday self was just the same. She merely Had an-
other, stronger self that knew the darkness.

This curious separate strength, that existed in darkness and
pride of night, never forsook her. She had never been more
herself. It could not occur to her that anybody, not even the
young man of the world, Skrebensky, should have anything
at all to do with her permanent self. As for her temporal,
social self, she let it look after itself.

Her whole soul was implicated with Skrebensky — not the
young man of the world, but the undifferentiated man he was.
She was perfectly sure of herself, perfectly strong, stronger
than all the world. The world was not strong — she was
strong. The world existed only in a secondary sense : — she
existed supremely.

She continued at college, in her ordinary routine, merely
as a cover to her dark, powerful under-life. The fact of her-
self, and with her Skrebensky, was so powerful, that she took
rest in the other. She went to college in the morning, and
attended her classes, flowering, and remote.

She had lunch with him in his hotel; every evening she
spent with him, either in town, at his rooms, or in the country.
She made the excuse at home of evening study for her degree.
But she paid not the slightest attention to her study.

They were both absolute and happy and calm. The fact of
their own consummate being made everything else so entirely
subordinate that they were free. The only thing they wanted,
as the days went by, was more time to themselves. They
wanted the time to be absolutely their own.

The Easter vacation was approaching. They agreed to go
right away. It would not matter if they did not come back.
They were indifferent to the actual facts.

" I suppose we ought to get married," he said, rather wist-
fully. It was so magnificently free and in a deeper world, as
it was. To make public their connection would be to put it in
range with all the things which nullified him, and from which
he was for the moment entirely dissociated. If he married he
would have to assume his social self. And the thought of
assuming his social self made him at once diffident and ab-
stract. If she were his social wife, if she were part of that
complication of dead reality, then what had his under-life to
do with her ? One's social wife was almost a material symbol.
Whereas now she was something more vivid to him than any-

428 THE RAINBOW

thing in conventional life could be. She gave the complete
lie to all conventional life, he and she stood together, dark,
fluid, infinitely potent, giving the living lie to the dead whole
which contained them.

He watched her pensive, puzzled face.

"I don't think I want to marry you," she said, her brow
clouded.

It piqued him rather.

"Why not? "he asked.

" Let's think about it afterwards, shall we ? " she said.

He was crossed, yet he loved her violently.

" You've got a museau, not a face," he said.

" Have I ? " she cried, her face lighting up like a pure flame.
She thought she had escaped. Yet he returned — he was not
satisfied.

"Why?" he asked, "why don't you want to marry me?"

" I don't want to be with other people," she said. " I want
to be like this. I'll tell you if ever I want to marry you."

" All right," he said.

He would rather the thing was left indefinite, and that she
took the responsibility.

They talked of the Easter vacation. She thought only of
complete enjoyment.

They went to an hotel in Piccadilly. She was supposed to
be his wife. They bought a wedding-ring for a shilling, from
a shop in a poor quarter.

They had revoked altogether the ordinary mortal world.
Their confidence was like a possession upon them. They
were possessed. Perfectly and supremely free they felt, proud
beyond all question, and surpassing mortal conditions.

They were perfect, therefore nothing else existed. The
world was a world of servants whom one civilly ignored.
Wherever they went, they were the sensuous aristocrats, warm,
bright, glancing with pure pride of the senses.

The effect upon other people was extraordinary. The glam-
our was cast from the young couple upon all they came into
contact with, waiters or chance acquaintances.

" Oui, Monsieur le baron/' she would reply with a mocking
courtesy to her husband.

So they came to be treated as titled people. He was an
officer in the engineers. They were just married, going to
India immediately.

Thus a tissue of romance was round them. She believed

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 429

she was a young wife of a titled husband on the eve of de-
parture for India. This, the social fact, was a delicious make-
belief. The living fact was that he and she were man and
woman, absolute and beyond all limitation.

The days went by — they were to have three weeks together
— in perfect success. All the time, they themselves were
reality, all outside was tribute to them. They were quite
careless about money, but they did nothing very extravagant.
He was rather surprised when he found that he had spent
twenty pounds in a little under a week, but it was only the
irritation of having to go to the bank. The machinery of
the old system lasted for him, not the system. The money
simply did not exist.

Neither did any of the old obligations. They came home
from the theatre, had supper, then flitted about in their dress-
ing-gowns. They had a large bedroom and a corner sitting-
room high up, remote and very cosy. They ate all their meals
in their own rooms, attended by a young German called Hans,
who thought them both wonderful, and answered assiduously :

" Geiviss, Herr Baron — bitte sehr, Frau Baronin"

Often, they saw the pink of dawn away across the park.
The tower of Westminster Cathedral was emerging, the lamps
of Piccadilly, stringing away beside the trees of the park,
were becoming pale and moth-like, the morning traffic was
clock-clocking down the shadowy road, which had gleamed all
night like metal, down below, running far ahead into the
night, beneath the lamps, and which was now vague, as in a
mist, because of the dawn.

Then, as the flush of dawn became stronger, they opened
the glass doors and went out on to the giddy balcony, feeling
triumphant as two angels in bliss, looking down at the still
sleeping world, which would wake to a dutiful, rumbling,
sluggish turmoil of unreality.

Soon they were fast asleep, asleep till mid-day, close together,
sleeping one sleep. Then they awoke to the ever-changing
reality of their state. They alone inhabited the world of
reality. All the rest lived on a lower sphere.

Whatever they wanted to do, they did. They saw a few
people — Dorothy, whose guest she was supposed to be, and
a couple of friends of Skrebensky, young Oxford men, who
called her Mrs. Skrebensky with entire simplicity. They
treated her, indeed, with such respect, that she began to
think she was really quite of the whole universe, of the old

430 THE RAINBOW

world as well as of the new. She forgot she was outside
the pale of the old world. She thought she had brought it
under the spell of her own, real world. And so she had.

In such ever-changing reality the weeks went by. All the
time, they were an unknown world to each other. Every
movement made by the one was a reality and an adventure
to the other. They did not want outside excitements. They
went to very few theatres, they were often in their sitting-
room high up over Piccadilly, with windows open on two
sides, and the door open on to the balcony, looking over
the Green Park, or down upon the minute travelling of the
traffic.

Then suddenly, looking at a sunset, she wanted to go. She
must be gone. She must be gone at once. And in two hours'
time they were at Charing Cross taking train for Paris. Paris
was his suggestion. She did not care where it was. The
great joy was in setting out. And for a few days she was
happy in the novelty of Paris.

Then, for some reason, she must call in Rouen on the way
back to London. He had an instinctive mistrust of her desire
for the place. But, perversely, she wanted to go there. It
was as if she wanted to try its effect upon her.

For the first time, in Rouen, he had a cold feeling of death ;
not afraid of any other man, but of her. She seemed to leave
him. She followed after something that was not him. She
did not want him. The old streets, the cathedral, the age and
the monumental peace of the town took her away from him.
She turned to it as if to something she had forgotten, and
wanted. This was now the reality; this great stone cathedral
slumbering there in its mass, which knew no transience nor
heard any denial. It was majestic in its stability, its splendid
absoluteness.

Her soul began to run by itself. He did not realize, nor
did she. Yet in Rouen he had the first deadly anguish, the
first sense of the death towards which they were wandering.
And she felt the first heavy yearning, heavy, heavy hopeless
warning, almost like a deep, uneasy sinking into apathy, hope-
lessness.

They returned to London. But still they had two days.
He began to tremble, he grew feverish with the fear of her
departure. She had in her some fatal prescience, that made
her calm. What would be, would be,

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 431

He remained fairly easy, however, still in his state of height-
ened glamour, till she had gone, and he had turned away from
St. Pancras, and sat on the tram-car going up Pimlico to the
Angel, to Moorgate Street on Sunday evening.

Then the cold horror gradually soaked into him. He saw
the horror of the City Eoad, he realized the ghastly cold
sordidness of the tram-car in which he sat. Cold, stark, ashen
sterility had him surrounded. Where then was the luminous,
wonderful world he belonged to by rights ? How did he come
to be thrown on this refuse-heap where he was?

He was as if mad. The horror of the brick buildings, of
the tram-car, of the ashen-grey people in the street made
him reeling and blind as if drunk. He went mad. He had
lived with her in a close, living, pulsing world, where every-
thing pulsed with rich being. Now he found himself strug-
gling amid an ashen-dry, cold world of rigidity, dead walls
and mechanical traffic, and creeping, spectre-like people. The
life was extinct, only ash moved and stirred or stood rigid,
there was a horrible, clattering activity, a rattle like the falling
of dry slag, cold and sterile. It was as if the sunshine that fell
were unnatural light exposing the ash of the town, as if the
lights at night were the sinister gleam of decomposition.

Quite mad, beside himself, he went to his club and sat with
a glass of whiskey, motionless, as if turned to clay. He felt
like a corpse that is inhabited with just enough life to make it
appear as any other of the spectral, unliving beings which we
call people in our dead language. Her absence was worse than
pain to him. It destroyed his being.

Dead, he went on from lunch to tea. His face was all the
time fixed and stiff and colourless, his life was a dry, mechani-
cal movement. Yet even he wondered slightly at the awful
misery that had overcome him. How could he be so ash-like
and extinct ? He wrote her a letter.

" I have been thinking that we must get married before long.
My pay will be more when I get out to India, we shall be able
to get along. Or if you don't want to go to India, I could
very probably stay here in England. But I think you would
like India. You could ride, and you would know just every-
body out there. Perhaps if you stay on to take your degree,
we might marry immediately after that. I will write to your
father as soon as I hear from you "

He went on, disposing of her. If only he could be with

432 THE RAINBOW

her ! All he wanted now was to marry her, to be sure of her.
Yet all the time he was perfectly, perfectly hopeless, cold,
extinct, without emotion or connection.

He felt as if his life were dead. His soul was extinct. The
whole being of him had become sterile, he was a spectre,
divorced from life. He had no fulness, he was just a flat
shape. Day by day the madness accumulated in him. The
horror of not-being possessed him.

He went here, there, and everywhere. But whatever he
did, he knew that only the cipher of him was there, nothing
was filled in. He went to the theatre ; what he heard and saw
fell upon a cold surface of consciousness, which was now all
that he was, there was nothing behind it, he could have no
experience of any sort. Mechanical registering took place in
him, no more. He had no being, no contents. Neither had
the people he came into contact with. They were mere per-
mutations of known quantities. There was no roundness or
fulness in this world he now inhabited, everything was a dead
shape mental arrangement, without life or being.

Much of the time, he was with friends and comrades. Then
he forgot everything. Their activities made up for his own
negation, they engaged his negative horror.

He only became happy when he drank, and he drank a good
deal. Then he was just the opposite to what he had been.
He became a warm, diffuse, glowing cloud, in a warm, diffuse,
aerial world. He was one with everything, in a diffuse
formless fashion. Everything melted down into a rosy glow,
and he was the glow, and everything was the glow, everybody
else was the glow, and it was very nice, very nice. He would
sing songs, it was so nice.

Ursula went back to Beldover shut and firm. She loved
Skrebensky, of that she was resolved. She would allow noth-
ing else.

She read his long, obsessed letter about getting married
and going to India, without any particular response. She
seemed to ignore what he said about marriage. It did not
come home to her. He seemed, throughout the greater part
of his letter, to be talking without much meaning.

She replied to him pleasantly and easily. She rarely wrote
long letters.

" India sounds lovely. I can just see myself on an elephant
swaying between lanes of obsequious natives. But I don't
know if father would let me go. We must see.

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 433

" I keep living over again the lovely times we have. had.
But I don't think you liked me quite so much towards the
end, did you ? You did not like me when we left Paris. Why
didn't you ?

" I love you very much. I love your body. It is so clear
and fine. I am glad you do not go naked, or all the women
would fall in love with you. I am very jealous of it, I love
it so much."

He was more or less satisfied with this letter. But day
after day he was walking about, dead, non-existent.

He could not come again to Nottingham until the end of
April. Then he persuaded her to go with him for a week-
end to a friend's house near Oxford. By this time they were
engaged. He had written to her father, and the thing was set-
tled. He brought her an emerald ring, of which she was very
proud.

Her people treated her now with a little distance, as if she
had already left them. They left her very much alone.

She went with him for the three days in the country house
near Oxford. It was delicious, and she was very happy. But
the thing she remembered most was when, getting up in the
morning after he had gone back quietly to his own room, hav-
ing spent the night with her, she found herself very rich
in being alone, and enjoying to the full her solitary room, she
drew up her blind and saw the plum-trees in the garden below
all glittering and snowy and delighted with the sunshine,
in full bloom under a blue sky. They threw out their blossom,
they flung it about under the blue heavens, the whitest blossom !
How excited it made her.

She had to hurry through her dressing to go and walk in
the garden under the plum-trees, before any one should come
and talk to her. Out she slipped, and paced like a queen in
fairy pleasaunces. The blossom was silver-shadowy when she
looked up from under the tree at the blue sky. There was a
faint scent, a faint noise of bees, a wonderful quickness of
happy morning.

She heard the breakfast gong and went indoors.

" Where have you been ? " asked the others.

" I had to go out under the plum-trees," she said, her face
glowing like a flower. " It is so lovely."

A shadow of anger crossed Skrebensky's soul. She had not
wanted him to be there. He hardened his will.

At night there was a moon, and the blossom glistened

434 THE RAINBOW

ghostly, they went iogether to look at it. She saw the moon-
light on his face as he waited near her, and his features were
like silver and his eyes in shadow were unfathomable. She
was in love with him. He was very quiet.

They went indoors and she pretended to be tired. So she
went quickly to bed.

" Don't be long coming to me/' she whispered, as she was
supposed to be kissing him good-night.

And he waited, intent, obsessed, for the moment when he
could come to her.

She enjoyed him, she made much of him. She liked to
put her fingers on the soft skin of his sides, or on the softness
of his back, when he made the muscles hard underneath,
the muscles developed very strong through riding; and she
had a great thrill of excitement and passion, because of the
unimpressible hardness of his body, that was so soft and
smooth under her fingers, that came to her with such absolute
service.

She owned his body and enjoyed it with all the delight
and carelessness of a possessor. But he had become gradually
afraid of her body. He wanted her, he wanted her endlessly.
But there had come a tension into his desire, a constraint
which prevented his enjoying the delicious approach and the
lovable close of the endless embrace. He was afraid. His
will was always tense, fixed.

Her final examination was at midsummer. She insisted
on sitting for it, although she had neglected her work during
the past months. He also wanted her to go in for the degree.
Then, he thought, she would be satisfied. Secretly he hoped
she would fail, so that she would be more glad of him.

"Would you rather live in India or in England when we
are married ? " he asked her.

" Oh, in India by far/' she said, with a careless lack of
consideration which annoyed him.

Once she said, with heat :

" I shall be glad to leave England. Everything is so
meagre and paltry, it is so unspiritual — I hate democracy."

He became angry to hear her talk like this, he did not know
why. Somehow, he could not bear it, when she attacked
things. It was as if she were attacking him.

"What do you mean?" he asked her, hostile. "Why do
you hate democracy ? "

" Only the greedy and ugly people come to the top in a

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 455

democracy," she said, "because they're the only people who
will push themselves there. Only degenerate races are demo-
cratic."

" What do you want then — an aristocracy ? " he asked,
secretly moved. He always felt that by rights he belonged
to the ruling aristocracy. Yet to hear her speak for his class
pained him with a curious, painful pleasure. He felt he was
acquiescing in something illegal, taking to himself some wrong,
reprehensible advantage.

" I do want an aristocracy," she cried. " And I'd far
rather have an aristocracy of birth than of money. Who are
the aristocrats now — who are chosen as the best to rule?
Those who have money and the brains for money. It doesn't
matter what else they have : but they must have money-brains,
— because they are ruling in the name of money/'

" The people elect the government," he said.

"I know they do. But what are the people? Each one
of them is a money interest. I hate it, that anybody is my
equal who has the same amount of money as I have. I
know I am better than all of them. I hate them. They are
not my equals. I hate equality on a money basis. It is the
equality of dirt."

Her eyes blazed at him, he felt as if she wanted to destroy
him. She had gripped him and was trying to break him.
His anger sprang up, against her. At least he would fight
for his existence with her. A hard, blind resistance possessed
him.

" I don't care about money," he said, " neither do I want
to put my finger in the pie. I am too sensitive about my
finger."

"What is your finger to me?" she cried, in a passion.
"You with your dainty fingers, and your going to India
because you will be one of the somebodies there ! It's a mere
dodge, your going to India."

" In what way a dodge ? " he cried, white with anger and
fear.

" You think the Indians are simpler than us, and so you'll
enjoy being near them and being a lord over them," she said.
" And you'll feel so righteous, governing them for their own
good. Who are you, to feel righteous? What are you right-
eous about, in your governing? Your governing stinks.
What do you govern for, but to make things there as dead
and mean as they are here ! "

436 THE RAINBOW

" I don't feel righteous in the least," he said.

" Then what do you feel ? It's all such a nothingness, what
you feel and what you don't feel."

" What do you feel yourself ? " he asked. " Aren't you
righteous in your own mind ? "

" Yes, I am, because I'm against you, and all your old, dead
things," she cried.

She seemed, with the last words, uttered in hard knowledge,
to strike down the flag that he kept flying. He felt cut off
at the knees, a figure made worthless. A horrible sickness
gripped him, as if his legs were really cut away, and he could
not move, but remained a crippled trunk, dependent, worth-
less. The ghastly sense of helplessness, as if he were a mere
figure that did not exist vitally, made him mad, beside him-
self.

Now, even whilst he was with her, this death of himself
came over him, when he walked about like a body from which
all individual life is gone. In this state he neither heard nor
saw nor felt, only the mechanism of his life continued.

He hated her, as far as, in this state, he could hate. His
cunning suggested to him all the ways of making her esteem
him. For she did not esteem him. He left her and did not
write to her. He flirted with other women, with Gudrun.

This last made her very fierce. She was still fiercely jealous
of his body. In passionate anger she upbraided him because,
not being man enough to satisfy one woman, he hung round
others. She lifted her shoulders and turned aside her face in a
motion of cold, indifferent worthlessness. He felt he would
kill her.

When she had roused him to a pitch of madness, when she
saw his eyes all dark and mad with suffering, then a great
suffering overcame her soul, a great, inconquerable suffering.
And she loved him. For, oh, she wanted to love him.
Stronger than life or death was her craving to be able to
love him.

And at such moments, when he was mad with her destroying
him, when all his complacency was destroyed, all his every-
day self was broken, and only the stripped, rudimentary,
primal man remained, demented with torture, her passion to
love him became love, she took him again, they came together
in an overwhelming passion, in which he knew he satisfied her.
But it all contained a developing germ of death. After
each contact, her anguished desire for him or for that which

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 437

she never had from him was stronger, her love was more
hopeless. After each contact his mad dependence on her was
deepened, his hope of standing strong and taking her in his
own strength was weakened. He felt himself a mere attribute
of her.

Whitsuntide came, just before her examination. She was
to have a few days of rest. Dorothy had inherited her patri-
mony, and had taken a cottage in Sussex. She invited them
to stay with her.

They went down to Dorothy's neat, low cottage at the foot
of the downs. Here they could do as they liked. Ursula
was always yearning to go to the top of the downs. The
white track wound up to the rounded summit. And she
must go.

Up there, she could see the Channel a few miles away, the
sea raised up and faintly glittering in the sky, the Isle of
Wight a shadow lifted in the far distance, the river winding
bright through the patterned plain to seaward, Arundel Castle
a shadowy bulk, and then the rolling of the high, smooth
downs, making a high, smooth land under heaven, acknowl-
edging only the heavens in their great, sun-glowing strength,
and suffering only a few bushes to trespass on the intercourse
between their great, unabateable body and the changeful body
of the sky.

Below she saw the villages and the woods of the weald,
and the train running bravely, a gallant little thing, running
with all the importance of the world over the water meadows
and into the gap of the downs, waving its white steam, yet
all the while so little. So little, yet its courage carried it
from end to end of the earth, till there was no place where it
did not go. Yet the downs, in magnificant indifference, bear-
ing limbs and body to the sun, drinking sunshine and sea-
wind and sea-wet cloud into its golden skin, with superb still-
ness and calm of being, was not the downs still more wonder-
ful ? The blind, pathetic, energetic courage of the train as it
steamed tinily away through the patterned levels to the sea's
dimness, so fast and so energetic, made her weep. Where was
it going ? It was going nowhere, it was just going. So blind,
so without goal or aim, yet so hasty ! She sat on an old pre-
historic earth-work and cried, and the tears ran down her face.
The train had tunnelled all the earth, blindly, and uglily.

And she lay face downwards on the downs, that were so
strong, that cared only for their intercourse with the ever-

43$ THE RAINBOW

lasting skies, and she wished she could become a strong mound
smooth under the sky, bosom and limbs bared to all winds
and clouds and bursts of sunshine.

But she must get up again and look down from her foot-
hold of sunshine, down and away at the patterned, level earth,
with its villages and its smoke and its energy. So shortsighted
the train seemed, running to the distance, so terrifying in
their littleness the villages, with such pettiness in their ac-
tivity.

Skrebensky wandered dazed, not knowing where he was
or what he was doing with her. All her passion seemed to
be to wander up there on the downs, and when she must
descend to earth, she was heavy. Up there she was exhilar-
ated and free.

She would not love him in a house any more. She said
she hated houses, and particularly she hated beds. There
was something distasteful in his coming to her bed.

She would stay the night on the downs, up there, he with
her. It was midsummer, the days were glamorously long.
At about half-past ten, when the bluey-black darkness had
at last fallen, they took rugs and climbed the steep track to
the summit of the downs, he and she.

Up there, the stars were big, the earth below was gone into
darkness. She was free up there with the stars. Far out
they saw tiny yellow lights — but it was very far out, at sea,
or on land. She was free up among the stars.

She took off her clothes, and made him take off all his, and
they ran over the smooth, moonless turf, a long way, more than
a mile from where they had left their clothing, running in the
dark, soft wind, utterly naked, as naked as the downs them-
selves. Her hair was loose and blew about her shoulders, she
ran swiftly, wearing sandals when she set off on the long run
to the dew-pond.

In the round dew-pond the stars were untroubled. She
ventured softly into the water, grasping at the stars with her
hands.

And then suddenly she started back, running swiftly. He
was there, beside her, but only on sufferance. He was a
screen for her fears. He served her. She took him, she
clasped him, clenched him close, but her eyes were open look-
ing at the stars, it was as if the stars were lying with her and
entering the unfathomable darkness of her womb, fathoming
her at last. It was not him.

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 43d

The dawn came. They stood together on a high place,
an earthwork of the stone-age men, watching for the light.
It came over the land. But the land was dark. She watched
a pale rim on the sky, away against the darkened land. The
darkness became bluer. A little wind was running in from
the sea behind. It seemed to be running to the pale rift of the
dawn. And she and he darkly, on an outpost of the darkness,
stood watching for the dawn.

The light grew stronger, gushing up against the dark sap-
phire of the transparent night. The light grew stronger,
whiter, then over it hovered a flush of rose. A flush of rose,
and then yellow, pale, new-created yellow, the whole quiver-
ing and poising momentarily over the fountain on the sky's
rim.

The rose hovered and quivered, burned, fused to flame, to
a transient red, whilst the yellow urged out in great waves,
thrown from the ever-increasing fountain, great waves of
yellow flinging into the sky, scattering its spray over the
darkness, which became bluer and bluer, paler, till soon it
would itself be a radiance, which had been darkness.

The sun was coming. There was a quivering, a powerful,
terrifying swim of molten light. Then the molten source
itself surged forth, revealing itself. The sun was in the sky,
too powerful to look at.

And the ground beneath lay so still, so peaceful. Only
now and again a cock crew. Otherwise, from the distant
yellow hills to the pine-trees at the foot of the downs, every-
thing was newly washed into being, in a flood of new, golden
creation.

It was so unutterably still and perfect with promise, the
golden-lighted, distinct land, that Ursula's soul rocked and
wept. Suddenly he glanced at her. The tears were running
over her cheeks, her mouth was working strangely.

" What is the matter? " he asked.

After a moment's struggle with her voice,

" It is so beautiful," she said, looking at the glowing, beau-
tiful land. It was so beautiful, so perfect, and so unsullied.

He too realized what England would be in a few hours'
time — a blind, sordid, strenuous activity, all for nothing,
fuming with dirty smoke and running trains and groping in
the bowels of the earth, all for nothing. A ghastliness came
over him.

He looked at Ursula. Her face was wet with tears, very

446 THE RAINBOW

bright, like a transfiguration in the refulgent light. Nor was
his the hand to wipe away the burning, bright tears. He stood
apart, overcome by a cruel ineffeetuality.

Gradually a great, helpless sorrow was rising in him. But
as yet he was fighting it away, he was struggling for his own
life. He became very quiet and unaware of the things about
him, awaiting, as it were, her judgment on him.

They returned to Nottingham, the time of her examina-
tion came. She must go to London. But she would not stay
with him in an hotel. She would go to a quiet little pension
near the British Museum.

Those quiet residential squares of London made a great
impression on her mind. They were very complete. Her
mind seemed imprisoned in their quietness. Who was going
to liberate her?

In the evening, her practical examination being over, he
went with her to dinner at one of the hotels down the river,
near Richmond. It was golden and beautiful, with yellow
•water and white and scarlet-striped boat-awnings, and blue
shadows under the trees.

" When shall we be married ? " he asked her, quietly, simply,
as if it were a mere question of comfort.

She watched the changing pleasure-traffic of the river. He
looked at her golden, puzzled museau. The knot gathered in
his throat.

" I don't know," she said.

A hot grief gripped his throat.

" Why don't you know — don't you want to be married ? "
he asked her.

Her head turned slowly, her face, puzzled, like a boy's face,
expressionless because she was trying to think, looked towards
his face. She did not see him, because she was pre-occupied.
She did not quite know what she was going to say.

" I don't think I want to be married," she said, and her
nai've, troubled, puzzled eyes rested a moment on his, then
travelled away, pre-occupied.

" Do you mean never, or not just yet ? " he asked.

The knot in his throat grew harder, his face was drawn as
if he were being strangled.

" I mean never," she said, out of some far self which spoke
for once beyond her.

His drawn, strangled face watched her blankly for a few

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 441

moments, then a strange sound took place in his throat. She
started, came to herself, and, horrified, saw him. His head
made a queer motion, the chin jerked back against the throat,
the curious, crowing, hiccupping sound came again, his face
twisted like insanity, and he was crying, crying blind and
twisted as if something were broken which kept him in control.

" Tony — don't," she cried, starting up.

It tore every one of her nerves to see him. He made grop-
ing movements to get out of his chair. But he was crying
uncontrollably, noiselessly, with his face twisted like a mask,
contorted and the tears running down the amazing grooves in
his cheeks. Blindly, his face always this horrible working
mask, he groped for his hat, for his way down from the ter-
race. It was eight o'clock, but still brightly light. The other
people were staring. In great agitation, part of which was ex-
asperation, she stayed behind, paid the waiter with a half-
sovereign, took her yellow silk coat, then followed Skrebensky.

She saw him walking with brittle, blind steps along the
path by the river. She could tell by the strange stiffness and
brittleness of his figure that he was still crying. Hurrying
after him, running, she took his arm.

"Tony," she cried, "don't! Why are you like this?
What are you doing this for? Don't. It's not necessary."

He heard, and his manhood was cruelly, coldly defaced.
Yet it was no good. He could not gain control of his face.
His face, his breast, were weeping violently, as if automati-
cally. His will, his knowledge had nothing to do with it. He
simply could not stop.

She walked holding his arm, silent with exasperation and
perplexity and pain. He took the uncertain steps of a blind
man, because his mind was blind with weeping.

" Shall we go home ? Shall we have a taxi ? " she said.

He could pay no attention. Very flustered, very agitated,
she signalled indefinitely to a taxi-cab that was going slowly
by. The driver saluted and drew up. She opened the door
and pushed Skrebensky in, then took her own place. Her
face was uplifted, the mouth closed down, she looked hard
and cold and ashamed. She winced as the driver's dark, red
face was thrust round upon her, a full-blooded, animal face
with black eyebrows and a thick, short-cut moustache.

" Where to, lady ? " he said, his white teeth showing.
Again for a moment she was flustered.

442 THE RAINBOW

" Forty, Rutland Square," she said.

He touched his cap and stolidly set the car in motion. He
seemed to have a league with her to ignore Skrebensky.

The latter sat as if trapped within the taxi-cab, his face
still working, whilst occasionally he made quick slight move-
ments of the head, to shake away his tears. He never moved
his hands. She could not bear to look at him. She sat with
face uplifted and averted to the window.

At length, when she had regained some control over her-
self, she turned again to him. He was much quieter. His
face was wet, and twitched occasionally, his hands still lay
motionless. But his eyes were quite still, like a washed sky
after rain, full of a wan light, and quite steady, almost ghost-
like.

A pain flamed in her womb, for him.

" I didn't think I should hurt you," she said, laying her
hand very lightly, tentatively, on his arm. " The words came
without my knowing. They didn't mean anything, really."

He remained quite still, hearing, but washed all wan and
without feeling. She waited, looking at him, as if he were
some curious, not-understandable creature.

" You won't cry again, will you, Tony ? "

Some shame and bitterness against her burned him in the
question. She noticed how his moustache was soddened wet
with tears. Taking her handkerchief, she wiped his face.
The driver's heavy, stolid back remained always turned to
them, as if conscious but indifferent. Skrebensky sat motion-
less whilst Ursula wiped his face, softly, carefully, and yet
clumsily, not as well as he would have wiped it himself.

Her handkerchief was too small. It was soon wet through.
She groped in his pocket for his own. Then, with its more
ample capacity, she carefully dried his face. He remained
motionless all the while. Then she drew his cheek to hers
and kissed him. His face was cold. Her heart was hurt.
She saw the tears welling quickly to his eyes again. As if he
were a child, she again wiped away his tears. By now she
herself was on the point of weeping. Her underlip was
caught between her teeth.

So she sat still, for fear of her own tears, sitting close by
him, holding his hand warm and close and loving. Mean-
while the car ran on, and a soft, midsummer dusk began to
gather. For a long while they sat motionless. Only now and

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 443

again her hand closed more closely, lovingly, over his hand,
then gradually relaxed.

The dusk began to fall. One or two lights appeared. The
driver drew up to light his lamps. Skrebensky moved for
the first time, leaning forward to watch the driver. His face
had always the same still, clarified, almost childlike look, im-
personal.

They saw the driver's strange, full, dark face peering into
the lamps under drawn brows. Ursula shuddered. It was
the face almost of an animal, yet of a quick, strong, wary
animal that had them within its knowledge, almost within its
power. She clung closer to Skrebensky.

" My love ? " sjie said to him, questioningly, when the car
was again running in full motion.

He made no movement or sound. He let her hold his
hand, he let her reach forward, in the gathering darkness,
and kiss his still cheek. The crying had gone by — he would
not cry any more. He was whole and himself again.

"My love/' she repeated, trying to make him notice her.
But as yet he could not.

He watched the road. They were running by Kensington
Gardens. For the first time his lips opened.

" Shall we get out and go into the park ? " he asked.

" Yes," she said, quietly, not sure what was coming.

After a moment he took the tube from its peg. She saw
the stout, strong, self-contained driver lean his head.

" Stop at Hyde Park Corner."

The dark head nodded, the car ran on just the same.

Presently they pulled up. Skrebensky paid the man.
Ursula stood back. She saw the driver salute as he received
his tip, and then, before he set the car in motion, turn and
look at her, with his quick, powerful, animal's look, his eyes
very concentrated and the whites of his eyes flickering. Then
he drove away into the crowd. He had let her go. She had
been afraid.

Skrebensky turned with her into the park. A band was
still playing and the place was thronged with people. They
listened to the ebbing music, then went aside to a dark seat,
where they sat closely, hand in hand.

Then at length, as out of the silence, she said to him, won-
dering :

"What hurt you so?"

444 THE RAINBOW

She really did not know, at this moment.

" When you said you wanted never to marry me," he re-
plied, with a childish simplicity.

" But why did that hurt you so ? " she said. " You needn't
mind everything I say so particularly."

" I don't know — I didn't want to do it," he said, humbly,
ashamed.

She pressed his hand warmly. They sat close together,
watching the soldiers go by with their sweethearts, the lights
trailing in myriads down the great thoroughfares that beat
on the edge of the park.

" I didn't know you cared so much," she said, also humbly.

" I didn't," he said. " I was knocked over myself. — But
I care — all the world."

His voice was so quiet and colourless, it made her heart go
pale with fear.

" My love ! " she said, drawing near to him. But she spoke
out of fear, not out of love.

"I care all the world — I care for nothing else — neither
in life nor in death," he said, in the same steady, colourless
voice of essential truth.

" Than for what ? " she murmured duskily.

l< Than for you — to be with me."

And again she was afraid. Was she to be conquered by
this? She cowered close to him, very close to him. They
sat perfectly still, listening to the great, heavy, beating sound
of the town, the murmur of lovers going by, the footsteps of
soldiers.

She shivered against him.

"You are cold?" he said.

"A little."

" We will go and have some supper."

He was now always quiet and decided and remote, very
beautiful. He seemed to have some strange, cold power over
her.

They went to a restaurant, and drank chianti. But his
pale, wan look did not go away.

" Don't leave me to-night," he said at length, looking at
her, pleading. He was so strange and impersonal, she was
afraid.

" But the people of my place," she said, quivering.

" I will explain to them — they know we are engaged."

She sat pale and mute. He waited.

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 445

" Shall we go?" he said at length.

"Where?"

" To an hotel."

Her heart was hardened. Without answering, she rose to
acquiesce. But she was now cold and unreal. Yet she could
not refuse him. It seemed like fate, a fate she did not want.

They went to an Italian hotel somewhere, and had a sombre
bedroom with a very large bed, clean, but sombre. The ceiling
was painted with a bunch of flowers in a big medallion over
the bed. She thought it was pretty.

He came to her, and cleaved to her very close, like steel
cleaving and clinching on to her. Her passion was roused,
it was fierce but cold. But it was fierce, and extreme, and
good, their passion this night. He slept with her fast in his
arms. All night long he held her fast against him. She was
passive, acquiescent. But her sleep was not very deep nor
very real.

She woke in the morning to a sound of water dashed on a
courtyard, to sunlight streaming through a lattice. She
thought she was in a foreign country. And Skrebensky was
there an incubus upon her.

She lay still, thinking, whilst his arm was round her, his
head against her shoulders, his body against hers, just behind
her. He was still asleep.

She watched the sunshine coming in bars through the
persiennes, and her immediate surroundings again melted
away.

She was in some other land, some other world, where the
old restraints had dissolved and vanished, where one moved
freely, not afraid of one's fellow men, nor wary, nor on the
defensive, but calm, indifferent, at one's ease. Vaguely, in
a sort of silver light, she wandered at large and at ease. The
bonds of the world were broken. This world of England had
vanished away. She heard a voice in the yard below calling :

" 0 Giovann'— O'-O'-O'-Giovann'— ! "

And she knew she was in a new country, in a new life. It
was very delicious to lie thus still, with one's soul wandering
freely and simply in the silver light of some other, simpler,
more finely natural world.

But always there was a foreboding waiting to command
her. She became more aware of Skrebensky. She knew he
was waking up. She must modify her soul, depart from her
further world, for him.

446 THE RAINBOW

She knew he was awake. He lay still, witH a concrete still-
ness, not as when he slept. Then his arm tightened almost
convulsively upon her, and he said, half timidly :

"Did you sleep well?"

"Very well."

" So did I."

There was a pause.

" And do you love me ? " he asked.

She turned and looked at him searchingly. He seemed out-
side her.

" I do," she said.

But she said it out of complacency and a desire not to be
harried. There was a curious breach of silence between them,
which frightened him.

They lay rather late, then he rang for breakfast. She
wanted to be able to go straight downstairs and away from
the place, when she got up. She was happy in this room, but
the thought of the publicity of the hall downstairs rather trou-
bled her.

A young Italian, a Sicilian, dark and slightly pock-marked,
buttoned up in a sort of grey tunic, appeared with the tray.
His face had an almost African imperturbability, impassive,
incomprehensible.

" One might be in Italy/' Skrebensky said to him, genially.
A vacant look, almost like fear, came on the fellow's face.
He did not understand.

" This is like Italy," Skrebensky explained.

The face of the Italian flashed with a non-comprehending
smile, he finished setting out the tray, and was gone. He
did not understand : he would understand nothing : he disap-
peared from the door like a half-domesticated wild animal.
It made Ursula shudder slightly, the quick, sharp-sighted,
intent animality of the man.

Skrebensky was beautiful to her this morning, his face
softened and transfused with suffering and with love, his
movements very still and gentle. He was beautiful to her,
but she was detached from him by a chill distance. Always
she seemed to be bearing up against the distance that separated
them. But he was unaware. This morning he was trans-
fused and beautiful. She admired his movements, the way
he spread honey on his roll, or poured out the coffee.

When breakfast was over, she lay still again on the pillows,
whilst he went through his toilet. She watched him, as he

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 447

sponged himself, and quickly dried himself with the towel.
His body was beautiful, his movements intent and quick,
she admired him and she appreciated him without reserve.
He seemed completed now. He aroused no fruitful fecundity
in her. He seemed added up, finished. She knew him all
round, not on any side did he lead into the unknown. Poign-
ant, almost passionate appreciation she felt for him, but
none of the dreadful wonder, none of the rich fear, the con-
nection with the unknown, or the reverence of love. He was,
however, unaware this morning. His body was quiet and ful-
filled, his veins complete with satisfaction, he was happy,
finished.

Again she went home. But this time he went with her.
He wanted to stay by her. He wanted her to marry him.
It was already July. In early September he must sail for
India. He could not bear to think of going alone. She
must come with him. Nervously, he kept beside her.

Her examination was finished, her college career was over.
There remained for her now to marry or to work again. She
applied for no post. It was concluded she would marry.
India tempted her — the strange, strange land. But with
the thought of Calcutta, or Bombay, or of Simla, and of the
European population, India was no more attractive to her than
Nottingham.

She had failed in her examination : she had gone down : she
had not taken her degree. It was a blow to her. It hardened
her soul.

" It doesn't matter," he said. " What are the odds, whether
you are a Bachelor of Arts or not, according to the London
University? All you know, you know, and if you are Mrs.
Skrebensky, the B.A. is meaningless."

Instead of consoling her, this made her harder, more ruth-
less. She was now up against her own fate. It was for her
to choose between being Mrs. Skrebensky, even Baroness Skre-
bensky, wife of a lieutenant in the Koyal Engineers, the Sap-
pers, as he called them, living with the European population
in India — -or being Ursula Brangwen, spinster, school-mis-
tress. She was qualified by her Intermediate Arts examina-
tion. She would probably even now get a post quite easily
as assistant in one of the higher grade schools, or even in
Willey Green School. Which was she to do?

She hated most of all entering the bondage of teaching once
more. Very heartily she detested it. Yet at the thought of

448 THE RAINBOW

marriage and living with Skrebensky amid the European popu-
lation in India, her soul was locked and would not budge.
She had very little feeling about it: only there was a dead-
lock.

Skrebensky waited, she waited, everybody waited for the
decision. When Anton talked to her, and seemed insidiously
to suggest himself as a husband to her, she knew how utterly
locked out he was. On the other hand, when she saw Dorothy,
and discussed the matter, she felt she would marry him
promptly, at once, as a sharp disavowal of adherence with
Dorothy's views.

The situation was almost ridiculous.

"But do you love him?" asked Dorothy.

" It isn't a question of loving him," said Ursula. " I love
him well enough — certainly more than I love anybody else in
the world. And I shall never love anybody else the same
again. We have had the flower of each other. But I don't
care about love. I don't value it. I don't care whether I
love or whether I don't, whether I have love or whether I
haven't. What is it to me?"

And she shrugged her shoulders in fierce, angry contempt.

Dorothy pondered, rather angry and afraid.

"Then what do you care about?" she asked, exasperated.

" I don't know," said Ursula. " But something impersonal.
Love — love — love — what does it mean — what does it
amount to ? So much personal gratification. It doesn't lead
anywhere."

" It isn't supposed to lead anywhere, is it ? " said Dorothy,
satirically. " I thought it was the one thing which is an end
in itself."

"Then what does it matter to me?" cried Ursula. "As
an end in itself, I could love a hundred men, one after the
other. Why should I end with a Skrebensky? Why should
I not go on, and love all the types I fancy, one after another,
if love is an end in itself? There are plenty of men who
aren't Anton, whom I could love — whom I would like to
love."

"Then you don't love him" said Dorothy.

" I tell you I do ; — quite as much, and perhaps more than
I should love any of the others. Only there are plenty of
things that aren't in Anton that I would love in the other
men."

"What, for instance?"

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 449

" It doesn't matter. But a sort of strong understanding, in
some men, and then a dignity, a directness, something un-
questioned that there is in working men, and then a jolly,
reckless passionateness that you see — a man who could really
let go "

Dorothy could feel that Ursula was already hankering after
something else, something that this man did not give her.

" The question is, what do you want," propounded Dorothy.
" Is it just other men ? "

Ursula was silenced. This was her own dread. Was she
just promiscuous?

" Because if it is," continued Dorothy, " you'd better marry
Anton. The other can only end badly."

So out of fear of herself Ursula was to marry Skrebensky.

He was very busy now, preparing to go to India. He must
visit relatives and contract business. He was almost sure of
Ursula now. She seemed to have given in. And he seemed
to become again an important, self-assured man.

It was the first week in August, and he was one of a large
party in a bungalow on the Lincolnshire coast. It was a
tennis, golf, motor-car, motor-boat party, given by his great-
aunt, a lady of social pretensions. Ursula was invited to
spend the week with the party.

She went rather reluctantly. Her marriage was more or
less fixed for the twenty-eighth of the month. They were to
sail for India on September the fifth. One thing she knew,
in her subconsciousness, and that was, she would never sail
for India.

She and Anton, being important guests on account of the
coming marriage, had rooms in the large bungalow. It was
a big place, with a great central hall, two smaller writing-
rooms, and then two corridors from which opened eight or
nine bedrooms. Skrebensky was put on one corridor, Ursula
on the other. They felt very lost, in the crowd.

Being lovers, however, they were allowed to be out alone
together as much as they liked. Yet she felt very strange,
in this crowd of strange people, uneasy, as if she had no
privacy. She was not used to these homogeneous crowds.
She was afraid.

She felt different from the rest of them, with their hard,
easy, shallow intimacy, that seemed to cost them so little.
She felt she was not pronounced enough. It was a kind of
hold-your-own unconventional atmosphere. She did not like

450 THE RAINBOW

it. In crowds, in assemblies of people, she liked formality.
She felt she did not produce the right effect. She was not
effective: she was not beautiful: she was nothing. Even be-
fore Skrebensky she felt unimportant, almost inferior. He
could take his part very well with the rest.

He and she went out into the night. There was a moon
behind clouds, shedding a diffused light, gleaming now and
again in bits of smoky mother-of-pearl. So they walked to-
gether on the wet, ribbed sands near the sea, hearing the run
of the long, heavy waves, that made a ghostly whiteness and a
whisper.

He was sure of himself. As she walked, the soft silk of her
dress — she wore a blue shantung, full-skirted — blew away
from the sea and flapped and clung to her legs. She wished
it would not. Everything seemed to give her away, and she
could not rouse herself to deny, she was so confused.

He would lead her away to a pocket in the sand-hills, secret
amid the grey thorn-bushes and the grey, glassy grass. He
held her close against him, felt all her firm, unutterably de-
sirable mould of body through the fine fire of the silk that fell
about her limbs. The silk, slipping fierily on the hidden, yet
revealed roundness and firmness of her body, her loins, seemed
to run in him like fire, make his brain burn like brimstone.
She liked it, the electric fire of the silk under his hands upon
her limbs, the fire flew over her, as he drew nearer and nearer
to discovery. She vibrated like a jet of electric, firm fluid in
response. Yet she did not feel beautiful. All the time, she
felt she was not beautiful to him, only exciting.

She did not know how she suffered in this house. She was
healthy and exorbitantly full of interest. So she played tennis
and learned golf, she rowed out and swam in the deep sea, and
enjoyed it very much indeed, full of zest. Yet all the time,
among those others, she felt shocked and wincing, as if her
violently-sensitive nakedness were exposed to the hard, brutal,
material impact of the rest of the people.

The days went by unmarked, in a full, almost strenuous
enjoyment of one's own physique. Skrebensky was one among
the others, till evening came, and he took her for himself.
She was allowed a great deal of freedom and was treated with
a good deal of respect, as a girl on the eve of marriage, about
to depart for another continent.

The trouble began at evening. Then a yearning for some-

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 451

thing unknown came over her, a passion for something she
knew not what. She would walk the foreshore alone after
dusk, expecting, expecting something, as if she had gone to a
rendezvous. The salt, bitter passion of the sea, its indiffer-
ence to the earth, its swinging, definite motion, its strength,
its attack, and its salt burning, seemed to provoke her to a
pitch of madness, tantalizing her with vast suggestions of ful-
filment. And then, for personification, would come Skreben-
sky, Skrebensky, whom she knew, whom she was fond of, who
was attractive, but whose soul could not contain her in its
waves of strength, nor his breast compel her in burning, salty
passion.

One evening they went out after dinner, across the low golf
links to the dunes and the sea. The sky had small, faint stars,
all was still and faintly dark. They walked together in si-
lence, then ploughed, labouring, through the heavy loose sand
of the gap between the dunes. They went in silence under
the even, faint darkness, in the darker shadow of the sand-
hills.

Suddenly, cresting the heavy, sandy pass, Ursula lifted
her head, and shrank back, momentarily frightened. There
was a great whiteness confronting her, the moon was incan-
descent as a round furnace door, out of which came the high
blast of moonlight, over the seaward half of the world, a
dazzling, terrifying glare of white light. They shrank back
for a moment into shadow, uttering a cry. He felt his chest
laid bare, where the secret was heavily hidden. He felt him-
self fusing down to nothingness, like a bead that rapidly dis-
appears in an incandescent flame.

" How wonderful ! " cried Ursula, in low, calling tones.
" How wonderful ! "

And she went forward, plunging into it. He followed be-
hind. She too seemed to melt into the glare, towards the
moon.

The sands were as ground silver, the sea moved in solid
brightness, coming towards them, and she went to meet the
advance of the flashing, buoyant water. He stood behind,
encompassed, a shadow ever dissolving.

She stood on the edge of the water, at the edge of the solid,
flashing body of the sea, and the wave rushed over her feet.

" I want to go," she cried, in a strong, dominant voice.
" I want to go."

45* THE RAINBOW

He saw the moonlight on her face, so she was like metal,
lie heard her ringing, metallic voice, like the voice of a harpy
to him.

She prowled, ranging on the edge of the water like a pos-
sessed creature, and he followed her. He saw the froth of
the wave followed by the hard, bright water swirl over her
feet and her ankles, she swung out her arms, to balance, he
expected every moment to see her walk into the sea, dressed
as she was, and be carried swimming out.

But she turned, she walked to him.

" I want to go," she cried again, in the high, hard voice, like
the scream of gulls.

"Where?" he asked.

" I don't know."

And she seized hold of his arm, held him fast, as if captive,
and walked him a little way by the edge of the dazzling,
dazing water.

Then there in the great flare of light, she clinched hold of
him, hard, as if suddenly she had the strength of destruction,
she fastened her arms round him and tightened him in her
grip, whilst her mouth sought his in a hard, rending, ever-
increasing kiss, till his body was powerless in her grip, his
heart melted in fear from the fierce, beaked, harpy's kiss.
The water washed again over their feet, but she took no notice.
She seemed unaware, she seemed to be pressing in her beaked
mouth till she had the heart of him. Then, at last, she drew
away and looked at him — looked at him. He knew what she
wanted. He took her by the hand and led her across the
foreshore back to the sandhills. She went silently. He felt
as if the ordeal of proof was upon him, for life or death. He
led her to a dark hollow.

" No, here," she said, going out to the slope full under the
moonshine. She lay motionless, with wide-open eyes looking
at the moon. He came direct to her, without preliminaries.
She held him pinned down at the chest, awful. The fight,
the struggle for consummation was terrible. It lasted till it
was agony to his soul, till he succumbed, till he gave way as
if dead, and lay with his face buried, partly in her hair, partly
in the sand, motionless, as if he would be motionless now
for ever, hidden away in the dark, buried, only buried, he only
wanted to be buried in the goodly darkness, only that, and no
more.

He seemed to swoon. It was a long time before he came

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 45S

to himself. He was aware of an unusual motion of her
breast. He looked up. Her face lay like an image in the
moonlight, the eyes wide open, rigid. But out of the eyes,
slowly, there rolled a tear, that glittered in the moonlight as
it ran down her cheek.

He felt as if the knife were being pushed into his already
dead body. With head strained back, he watched, drawn
tense, for some minutes, watched the unaltering, rigid face
like metal in the moonlight, the fixed, unseeing eyes, in which
slowly the water gathered, shook with glittering moonlight,
then surcharged, brimmed over and ran trickling, a tear with
its burden of moonlight, into the darkness, to fall in the sand.

He drew gradually away as if afraid, drew away — she did
not move. He glanced at her — she lay the same. Could he
break away? He turned, saw the open foreshore, clear in
front of him, and he plunged away, on and on, ever further
from the horrible figure that lay stretched in the moonlight
on the sands with the tears gathering and travelling on the
motionless, eternal face.

He felt, if ever he must see her again, his bones must be
broken, his body crushed, obliterated for ever. And as yet,
he had the love of his own living body. He wandered on a
long, long way, till his brain grew dark and he was uncon-
scious with weariness. Then he curled in the deepest dark-
ness he could find, under the sea-grass, and lay there without
consciousness.

She broke from her tense cramp of agony gradually, though
each movement was a goad of heavy pain. Gradually, she
lifted her dead body from the sands, and rose at last. There
was now no moon for her, no sea. All had passed away. She
trailed her dead body to the house, to her room, where she lay
down inert.

Morning brought her a new access of superficial life. But
all within her was cold, dead, inert. Skrebensky appeared
at breakfast. He was white and obliterated. They did not
look at each other nor speak to each other. Apart from the
ordinary, trivial talk of civil people, they were separate, they
did not speak of what was between them during the remaining
two days of their stay. They were like two dead people who
dare not recognize, dare not see each other.

Then she packed her bag and put on her things. There
were several guests leaving together, for the same train. He
would have no opportunity to speak to her.

454 THE RAINBOW

He tapped at her bedroom door at the last minute. She
'stood with her umbrella in her hand. He closed the door.
He did not know what to say.

" Have you done with me ? " he asked her at length, lifting
his head.

"It isn't me," she said. "You have done with me — we
have done with each other."

He looked at her, at the closed face, which he thought so
cruel. And he knew he could never touch her again. His
will was broken, he was seared, but he clung to the life of his
body.

" Well, what have I done ? " he asked, in a rather querulous
voice.

" I don't know," she said, in the same dull, f eelingless voice.
" It is finished. It had been a failure."

He was silent. The words still burned his bowels.

" Is it my fault ? " he said, looking up at length, challenging
the last stroke.

" You couldn't " she began. But she broke down.

He turned away, afraid to hear more. She began to gather
her bag, her handkerchief, her umbrella. She must be gone
now. He was waiting for her to be gone.

At length the carriage came and she drove away with the
rest. When she was out of sight, a great relief came over
him, a pleasant banality. In an instant, everything was ob-
literated. He was childishly amiable and companionable all
the day long. He was astonished that life could be so nice.
It was better than it had been before. What a simple thing
it was to be rid of her ! How friendly and simple everything
felt to him. What false thing had she been forcing on him ?

But at night he dared not be alone. His room-mate had
gone, and the hours of darkness were an agony to him. He
watched the window in suffering and terror. When would
this horrible darkness be lifted off him? Setting all his
nerves, he endured it. He went to sleep with the dawn.

He never thought of her. Only his terror of the hours of
night grew on him, obsessed him like a mania. He slept fit-
fully, with constant wakings of anguish. The fear wore away
the core of him.

His plan was to sit up very late : to drink in company until
one or half -past one in the morning ; then he would get three
hours of sleep, of oblivion. It was light by five o'clock. But

THE BITTERNESS OF ECSTASY 455

he was shocked almost to madness if he opened his eyes on the
darkness.

In the daytime he was all right, always occupied with the
thing of the moment, adhering to the trivial present, which
seemed to him ample and satisfying. No matter how little
and futile his occupations were, he gave himself to them en-
tirely, and felt normal and fulfilled. He was always active,
cheerful, gay, charming, trivial. Only he dreaded the dark-
ness and silence of his own bedroom, when the darkness should
challenge him upon his own soul. That he could not bear,
as he could not bear to think about Ursula. He had no soul,
no background. He never thought of Ursula, not once, he
gave her no sign. She was the darkness, the challenge, the
horror. He turned to immediate things. He wanted to
marry quickly, to screen himself from the darkness, the chal-
lenge of his own soul. He would marry his Colonel's daugh-
ter. Quickly, without hesitation, pursued by his obsession for
activity, he wrote to this girl, telling her his engagement was
broken — it had been a temporary infatuation which he less
than any one else could understand now it was over — and
could he see his very dear friend soon? He would not be
happy till he had an answer.

He received a rather surprised reply from the girl, but she
would be glad to see him. She was living with her aunt. He
went down to her at once, and proposed to her the first even-
ing. He was accepted. The marriage took place quietly
within fourteen days' time. Ursula was not notified of the
event. In another week, Skrebensky sailed with his new wife
to India.

CHAPTER

THE KAINBOW

URSULA went home to Beldover faint, dim, closed up.
She could scarcely speak or notice. It was as if her
energy were frozen. Her people asked her what was
the matter. She told them she had broken off the
engagement with Skrebensky. They looked blank and angry.
But she could not feel any more.

The weeks crawled by in apathy. He would have sailed for
India now. She was scarcely interested. She was inert,
without strength or interest.

Suddenly a shock ran through her, so violent that she
thought she was struck down. Was she with child? She
had been so stricken under the pain of herself and of him,
this had never occurred to her. Now like a flame it took hold
of her limbs and body. Was she with child?

In the first flaming hours of wonder, she did not know what
she felt. She was as if tied to the stake. The flames were
licking her and devouring her. But the flames were also
good. They seemed to wear her away to rest. What she felt
in her heart and her womb she did not know. It was a kind
of swoon.

Then gradually the heaviness of her heart pressed and
pressed into consciousness. What was she doing? Was she
bearing a child ? Bearing a child? To what?

Her flesh thrilled, but her soul was sick. It seemed, this
child, like the seal set on her own nullity. Yet she was glad
in her flesh that she was with child. She began to think,
that she would write to Skrebensky, that she would go out to
him, and marry him, and live simply as a good wife to him.
What did the self, the form of life, matter ? Only the living
from day to day mattered, the beloved existence in the body,
rich, peaceful, complete, with no beyond, no further trouble,
no further complication. She had been wrong, she had been
arrogant and wicked, wanting that other thing, that fantastic
freedom, that illusory, conceited fulfilment which she had

456

THE RAINBOW 457

imagined she could not have with Skrebensky. Who was she
to be wanting some fantastic fulfilment in her life? Was it
not enough that she had her man, her children, her place of
shelter under the sun? Was it not enough for her, as it had
been enough for her mother? She would marry and love her
husband and fill her place simply. That was the ideal.

Suddenly she saw her mother in a just and true light. Her
mother was simple and radically true. She had taken the life
that was given. She had not, in her arrogant conceit, in-
sisted on creating life to fit herself. Her mother was right,
profoundly right, and she herself had been false, trashy, con-
ceited.

A great mood of humility came over her, and in this humil-
ity a bondaged sort of peace. She gave her limbs to the
bondage, she loved the bondage, she called it peace. In this
state she sat down to write to Skrebensky.

"Since you left me I have suffered a great deal, and so
have come to myself. I cannot tell you the remorse I feel
for my wicked, perverse behaviour. It was given to me to
love you, and to know your love for me. But instead of
thankfully, on my knees, taking what God had given, I must
have the moon in my keeping, I must insist on having the
moon for my own. Because I could not have it, everything
else must go.

"I do not know if you can ever forgive me. I could die
with shame to think of my behaviour with you during our
last times, and I don't know if I could ever bear to look you
in the face again. Truly the best thing would be for me to
die, and cover my fantasies for ever. But I find I am with
child, so that cannot be.

" It is your child, and for that reason I must revere it and
submit my body entirely to its welfare, entertaining no
thought of death, which once more is largely conceit. There-
fore, because you once loved me, and because this child is your
child, I ask you to have me back. If you will cable me one
word, I will come to you as soon as I can. I swear to you to
be a dutiful wife, and to serve you in all things. For now
I only hate myself and my own conceited foolishness. I love
you — I love the thought of you — you were natural and
decent all through, whilst I was so false. Once I am with
you again, I shall ask no more than to rest in your shelter
all my life »

This letter she wrote, sentence by sentence, as if from her

458 THE RAINBOW.

deepest, sincerest heart. She felt that now, now, she was at
the depths of herself. This was her true self, forever. With
this document she would appear before God at the Judgment
Day.

For what had a woman but to submit? What was her flesh
but for childbearing, her strength for her children and her
husband, the giver of life ? At last she was a woman.

She posted her letter to his club, to be forwarded to him in
Calcutta. He would receive it soon after his arrival in India
— within three weeks of his arrival there. In a month's time
she would receive word from him. Then she would go.

She was quite sure of him. She thought only of preparing
her garments and of living quietly, peacefully, till the time
when she should join him again and her history would be con-
cluded for ever. The peace held like an unnatural calm for a
long time. She was aware, however, of a gathering restive-
ness, a tumult impending within her. She tried to run away
from it. She wished she could hear from Skrebensky, in
answer to her letter, so that her course should be resolved,
she should be engaged in fulfilling her fate. It was this inac-
tivity which made her liable to the revulsion she dreaded.

It was curious how little she cared about his not having
written to her before. It was enough that she had sent her
letter. She would get the required answer, that was all.

One afternoon in early October, feeling the seething rising
to madness within her, she slipped out in the rain, to walk
abroad, lest the house should suffocate her. Everywhere was
drenched wet and deserted, the grimed houses glowed dull
red, the butt houses burned scarlet in a gleam of light, under
the glistening, blackish purple slates. Ursula went on towards
Willey Green. She lifted her face and walked swiftly, seeing
the passage of light across the shallow valley, seeing the col-
liery and its clouds of steam for a moment visionary in dim
brilliance, away in the chaos of rain. Then the veils closed
again. She was glad of the rain's privacy and intimacy.

Making on towards the wood, she saw the pale gleam of
Willey Water through the cloud below, she walked the open
space where hawthorn trees streamed like hair on the wind
and round bushes were presences showing through the atmos-
phere. It was very splendid, free and chaotic.

Yet she hurried to the wood for shelter. There, the vast
booming overhead vibrated down and encircled her, tree-trunks
spanned the circle of tremendous sound, myriads of tree-

THE RAINBOW 459

trunks, enormous and streaked black with water, thrust like
stanchions upright between the roaring overhead and the
sweeping of the circle underfoot. She glided between the
tree-trunks, afraid of them. They might turn and shut her
in as she went through their martialled silence.

So she flitted along, keeping an illusion that she was un-
noticed. She felt like a bird that has flown in through the
window of a hall where vast warriors sit at the board. Be-
tween their grave, booming ranks she was hastening, assuming
she was unnoticed, till she emerged, with beating heart,
through the far window and out into the open, upon the vivid
green, marshy meadow.

She turned under the shelter of the common, seeing the
great veils of rain swinging with slow, floating waves across
the landscape. She was very wet and a long way from home,
far enveloped in the rain and the waving landscape. She
must beat her way back through all this fluctuation, back
to stability and security.

A solitary thing, she took the track straight across the wil-
derness, going back. The path was a narrow groove in the
turf between high, sere, tussocky grass; it was scarcely more
than a rabbit run. So she moved swiftly along, watching her
footing, going like a bird on the wind, with no thought, con-
tained in motion. But her heart had a small, living seed of
fear, as she went through the wash of hollow space.

Suddenly she knew there was something else. Some horses
were looming in the rain, not near yet. But they were going
to be near. She continued her path, inevitably. They were
horses in the lee of a clump of trees beyond, above her. She
pursued her way with bent head. She did not want to lift her
face to them. She did not want to know they were there.
She went on in the wild track.

She knew the heaviness on her heart. It was the weight
of the horses. But she would circumvent them. She would
bear the weight steadily, and so escape. She would go straight
on, and on, and be gone by.

Suddenly the weight deepened and her heart grew tense to
bear it. Her breathing was laboured. But this weight also
she could bear. She knew without looking that the horses
were moving nearer. What were they ? She felt the thud of
their heavy hoofs on the ground. What was it that was draw-
ing near her, what weight oppressing her heart ? She did not
know, she did not look.

460 THE RAINBOW

Yet now her way was cut off. They were blocking her
back. She knew they had gathered on a log bridge over the
sedgy dike, a dark, heavy, powerfully heavy knot. Yet her
feet went on and on. They would burst before her. They
would burst before her. Her feet went on and on. And
tense, and more tense became her nerves and her veins, they
ran hot, they ran white hot, they must fuse and she must die.

But the horses had burst before her. In a sort of lightning
of knowledge their movement travelled through her, the quiver
and strain and thrust of their powerful flanks, as they burst
before her and drew on, beyond.

She knew they had not gone, she knew they awaited her
still. But she went on over the log bridge that their hoofs
had churned and drummed, she went on, knowing things
about them. She was aware of their breasts gripped, clenched
narrow in a hold that never relaxed, she was aware of their
red nostrils flaming with long endurance, and of their
haunches, so rounded, so massive, pressing, pressing, pressing
to burst the grip upon their breasts, pressing forever till they
went mad, running against the walls of time, and never burst-
ing free. Their great haunches were smoothed and darkened
with rain. But the darkness and wetness of rain could not
put out the hard, urgent, massive fire that was locked within
these flanks, never, never.

She went on, drawing near. She was aware of the great
flash of hoofs, a bluish, iridescent flash surrounding a hollow
of darkness. Large, large seemed the bluish, incandescent
flash of the hoof -iron, large as a halo of lightning round the
knotted darkness of the flanks. Like circles of lightning came
the flash of hoofs from out of the powerful flanks.

They were awaiting her again. They had gathered under
an oak-tree, knotting their awful, blind, triumphing flanks
together, and waiting, waiting. They were waiting for her ap-
proach. As if from a far distance she was drawing near,
towards the line of twiggy oak-trees where they made their
intense darkness, gathered on a single bank.

She must draw near. But they broke away, they cantered
round, making a wide circle to avoid noticing her, and can-
tered back into the open hillside behind her.

They were behind her. The way was open before her, to
the gate in the high hedge in the near distance, so she could
pass into the smaller, cultivated field, and so out to the high-
road and the ordered world of man. Her way was clear.

THE RAINBOW 461

She lulled her heart. Yet her heart was couched with fear,
couched with fear all along.

Suddenly she hesitated as if seized by lightning. She
seemed to fall, yet found herself faltering forward with small
steps. The thunder of horses galloping down the path behind
her shook her, the weight came down upon her, down, to the
moment of extinction. She could not look round, so the
horses thundered upon her.

Cruelly, they swerved and crashed by her on her left hand.
She saw the fierce flanks crinkled and as yet inadequate, the
great hoofs flashing bright as yet only brandished about her,
and one by one the horses crashed by, intent, working them-
selves up.

They had gone by, brandishing themselves thunderously
about her, enclosing her. They slackened their burst trans-
port, they slowed down, and cantered together into a knot
once more, in the corner by the gate and the trees ahead of
her. They stirred, they moved uneasily, they settled their
uneasy flanks into one group, one purpose. They were up
against her.

Her heart was gone, she had no more heart. She knew she
dare not draw near. That concentrated, knitted flank of the
horse-group had conquered. It stirred uneasily, awaiting her,
knowing its triumph. It stirred uneasily, with the uneasi-
ness of awaited triumph. Her heart was gone, her limbs were
dissolved, she was dissolved like water. All the hardness and
looming power was in the massive body of the horse-group.

Her feet faltered, she came to a standstill. It was the
crisis. The horses stirred their flanks uneasily. She looked
away, failing. On her left, two hundred yards down the
slope, the thick hedge ran parallel. At one point there was
an oak tree. She might climb into the boughs of that oak-
tree, and so round and drop on the other side of the hedge.

Shuddering, with limbs like water, dreading every moment
to fall, she began to work her way as if making a wide detour
round the horse-mass. The horses stirred their flanks in a
knot against her. She trembled forward as if in a trance.

Then suddenly, in a flame of agony, she darted, seized the
rugged knots of the oak-tree and began to climb. Her body
was weak but her hands were as hard as steel. She knew she
was strong. She struggled in a great effort till she hung on
the bough. She knew the horses were aware. She gained
her foot-hold on the bough. The horses were loosening their

462 THE RAINBOW

knot, stirring, trying to realize. She was working her way
round to the other side of the tree. As they started to canter
towards her, she fell in a heap on the other side of the hedge.

For some moments she could not move. Then she saw
through the rabbit-cleared bottom of the hedge the great,
working hoofs of the horses as they cantered near. She could
not bear it. She rose and walked swiftly, diagonally across
the field. The horses galloped along the other side of the
hedge to the corner, where they were held up. She could feel
them there in their huddled group all the while she hastened
across the bare field. They were almost pathetic, now. Her
will alone carried her, till, trembling, she climbed the fence
under a leaning thorn-tree that overhung the grass by the
high-road. The use went from her, she sat on the fence lean-
ing back against the trunk of the thorn-tree, motionless.

As she sat there, spent, time and the flux of change passed
away from her, she lay as if unconscious upon the bed of the
stream, like a stone, unconscious, unchanging, unchangeable,
whilst everything rolled by in transience, leaving her there, a
etone at rest on the bed of the stream, inalterable and passive,
sunk to the bottom of all change.

She lay still a long time, with her back against the thorn-
tree trunk, in her final isolation. Some colliers passed, tramp-
ing heavily up the wet road, their voices sounding out, their
shoulders up to their ears, their figures blotched and spectral
in the rain. Some did not see her. She opened her eyes
languidly as they passed by. Then one man going alone saw
her. The whites of his eyes showed in his black face as he
looked in wonderment at her. He hesitated in his walk, as if
to speak to her, out of frightened concern for her. How she
dreaded his speaking to her, dreaded his questioning her.

She slipped from her seat and went vaguely along the path
— vaguely. It was a long way home. She had an idea that
she must walk for the rest of her life, wearily, wearily. Step
after step, step after step, and always along the wet, rainy
road between the hedges. Step after step, step after step, the
monotony produced a deep, cold sense of nausea in her. How
profound was her cold nausea, how profound! That too
plumbed the bottom. She seemed destined to find the bottom
of all things to-day : the bottom of all things. Well, at any
rate she was walking along the bottom-most bed — she was
quite safe: quite safe, if she had to go on and on for ever,
seeing this was the very bottom, and there was nothing deeper.

THE RAINBOW 463

There was nothing deeper, you see, so one could not but feel
certain, passive.

She arrived home at last. The climb up the hill to Beldover
had been very trying. Why must one climb the hill? Why
must one climb ? Why not stay below ? Why force one's way
up the slope ? Why force one's way up and up, when one is at
the bottom ? Oh, it was very trying, very wearying, very bur-
densome. Always burdens, always, always burdens. Still,
she must get to the top and go home to bed. She must go to
bed.

She got in and went upstairs in the dusk without its being
noticed she was in such a sodden condition. She was too tired
to go downstairs again. She got into bed and lay shuddering
with cold, yet too apathetic to get up or call for relief. Then
gradually she became more ill.

She was very ill for a fortnight, delirious, shaken and
racked. But always, amid the ache of delirium, she had a
dull firmness of being, a sense of permanency. She was in
some way like the stone at the bottom of the river, inviolable
and unalterable, no matter what storm raged in her body.
Her soul lay still and permanent, full of pain, but itself for
ever. Under all her illness, persisted a deep, inalterable
knowledge.

She knew, and she cared no more. Throughout her illness,
distorted into vague forms, persisted the question of herself
and Skrebensky, like a gnawing ache that was still superficial,
and did not touch her isolated, impregnable core of reality.
But the corrosion of him burned in her till it burned itself out.

Must she belong to him, must she adhere to him? Some-
thing compelled her, and yet it was not real. Always the
ache, the ache of unreality, of her belonging to Skrebensky.
What bound her to him when she was not bound to him?
Why did the falsity persist ? Why did the falsity gnaw, gnaw,
gnaw at her, why could she not wake up to clarity, to reality.
If she could but wake up, if she could but wake up, the falsity
of the dream, of her connection with Skrebensky, would be
gone. But the sleep, the delirium pinned her down. Even
when she was calm and sober she was in its spell.

Yet she was never in its spell. What extraneous thing
bound her to him? There was some bond put upon her.
Why could she not break it through? What was it? What
was it?

In her delirium she beat and beat at the question. And at

464. THE RAINBOW

last her weariness gave her the answer — it was the child. The
child bound her to him. The child was like a bond round her
brain, tightened on her brain. It bound her to Skrebensky.

But why, why did it bind her to Skrebensky? Could she
not have a child of herself? Was not the child her own af-
fair ? all her own affair ? What had it to do with him ? Why
must she be bound, aching and cramped with the bondage, to
Skrebensky and Skrebensky's world? Anton's world: it be-
came in her feverish brain a compression which enclosed her.
If she could not get out of the compression she would go mad.
The compression was Anton and Anton's world, not the Anton
she possessed, but the Anton she did not possess, that which
was owned by some other influence, by the world.

She fought and fought and fought all through her illness
to be free of him and his world, to put it aside, to put it aside,
into its place. Yet ever anew it gained ascendency over her,
it laid new hold on her. Oh, the unutterable weariness of her
flesh, which she could not cast off, nor yet extricate. If she
could but extricate herself, if she could but disengage herself
from feeling, from her body, from all the vast encumbrances
of the world that was in contact with her, from her father,
and her mother, and her lover, and all her acquaintance.

Kepeatedly, in an ache of utter weariness she repeated:
" I have no father nor mother nor lover, I have no allocated
place in the world of things, I do not belong to Beldover nor
to Nottingham nor to England nor to this world, they none
of them exist, I am trammelled and entangled in them, but
they are all unreal. I must break out of it, like a nut from its
shell which is an unreality ."

And again, to her feverish brain, came the vivid reality of
acorns in February lying on the floor of a wood with their
shells burst and discarded and the kernel issued naked to put
itself forth. She was the naked, clear kernel thrusting forth
the clear, powerful shoot, and the world was a bygone winter,
discarded, her mother and father and Anton, and college and
all her friends, all cast off like a year that has gone by, whilst
the kernel was free and naked and striving to take new root,
to create a new knowledge of Eternity in the flux of Time.
And the kernel was the only reality ; the rest was cast off into
oblivion.

This grew and grew upon her. When she opened her eyes
in the afternoon and saw the window of her room and the faint,
smoky landscape beyond, this was all husk and shell lying by,

THE RAINBOW 465

all husk and shell, she could see nothing else, she was enclosed
still, but loosely enclosed. There was a space between her and
the shell. It was burst, there was a rift in it. Soon she
would have her root fixed in a new Day, her nakedness would
take itself the bed of a new sky and a new air, this old, de-
caying, fibrous husk would be gone.

Gradually she began really to sleep. She slept in the confi-
dence of her new reality. She slept breathing with her soul
the new air of a new world. The peace was very deep and
enrichening. She had her root in new ground, she was grad-
ually absorbed into growth.

When she woke at last it seemed as if a new day had come
on the earth. How long, how long had she fought through
the dust and obscurity, for this new dawn? How frail and
fine and clear she felt, like the most fragile flower that opens
in the end of winter. But the pole of night was turned and
the dawn was coming in.

Very far off was her old experience — Skrebensky, her part-
ing with him — very far off. Some things were real; those
first glamorous weeks. Before, these had seemed like halluci-
nation. Now they seemed like common reality. The rest was
unreal. She knew that Skrebensky had never become finally
real. In the weeks of passionate ecstasy he had been with
her in her desire, she had created him for the time being.
But in the end he had failed and broken down.

Strange, what a void separated him and her. She liked
him now, as she liked a memory, some bygone self. He was
something of the past, finite. He was that which is known.
She felt a poignant affection for him, as for that which is past.
But, when she looked with her face forward, he was not.
Nay, when she looked ahead, into the undiscovered land before
her, what was there she could recognize but a fresh glow of
light and inscrutable trees going up from the earth like smoke.
It was the unknown, the unexplored, the undiscovered upon
whose shore she had landed, alone, after crossing the void, the
darkness which washed the New World and the Old.

There would be no child : she was glad. If there had been
a child, it would have made little difference, however. She
would have kept the child and herself, she would not have gone
to Skrebensky. Anton belonged to the past.

There came the cablegram from Skrebensky : " I am mar-
ried." An old pain and anger and contempt stirred in her.
Did he belong so utterly to the cast-off past? She repudiated

466 THE RAINBOW

him. He was as he was. It was good that he was as he was.
Who was she to have a man according to her own desire ? It
was not for her to create, but to recognize a man created by
God. The man should come from the Infinite and she should
hail him. She was glad she could not create her man. She
was glad she had nothing to do with his creation. She was
glad that this lay within the scope of that vaster power in
which she rested at last. The man would come out of Eter-
nity to which she herself belonged.

As she grew better, she sat to watch a new creation. As
she sat at her window, she saw the people go by in the street
below, colliers, women, children, walking each in the husk of
an old fruition, but visible through the husk, the swelling and
the heaving contour of the new germination. In the still,
silenced forms of the colliers she saw a sort of suspense, a
waiting in pain for the new liberation; she saw the same in
the false hard confidence of the women. The confidence of
the women was brittle. It would break quickly to reveal the
strength and patient effort of the new germination.

In everything she saw she grasped and groped to find the
creation of the living God, instead of the old, hard barren
form of bygone living. Sometimes great terror possessed her.
Sometimes she lost touch, she lost her feeling, she could only
know the old horror of the husk which bound in her and all
mankind. They were all in prison, they were all going mad.

She saw the stiffened bodies of the colliers, which seemed
already enclosed in a coffin, she saw their unchanging eyes,
the eyes of those who are buried alive : she saw the hard, cut-
ting edges of the new houses, which seemed to spread over the
hillside in their insentient triumph, the triumph of horrible,
amorphous angles and straight lines, the expression of cor-
ruption triumphant and unopposed, corruption so pure that it
is hard and brittle: she saw the dun atmosphere over the
blackened hills opposite, the dark blotches of houses, slate
roofed and amorphous, the old church-tower standing up in
hideous obsoleteness above raw new houses on the crest of the
hill, the amorphous, brittle, hard edged new houses advancing
from Beldover to meet the corrupt new houses from Lethley,
the houses of Lethley advancing to mix with the houses of
Hainor, a dry, brittle, terrible corruption spreading over the
face of the land, and she was sick with a nausea so deep that
she perished as she sat. And then, in the blowing clouds,
she saw a band of faint iridescence colouring in faint colours

THE RAINBOW 467

a portion of the hill. And forgetting, startled, she looked
for the hovering colour and saw a rainbow forming itself. In
one place it gleamed fiercely, and, her heart anguished with
hope, she sought the shadow of iris where the bow should be.
Steadily the colour gathered, mysteriously, from nowhere, it
took presence upon itself, there was a faint, vast rainbow.
The arc bended and strengthened itself till it arched indomi-
table, making great architecture of light and colour and the
space of heaven, its pedestals luminous in the corruption of
new houses on the low hill, its arch the top of heaven.

And the rainbow stood on the earth. She knew that the
sordid people who crept hard-scaled and separate on the face
of the world's corruption were living still, that the rainbow
was arched in their blood and would quiver to life in their
spirit, that they would cast off their horny covering of disinte-
gration, that new, clean, naked bodies would issue to a new
germination, to a new growth, rising to the light and the wind
and the clean rain of heaven. She saw in the rainbow the
earth's new architecture, the old, brittle corruption of houses
and factories swept away, the world built up in a living fabric
of Truth, fitting to the over-arching heaven.

THE END