The Rainbow

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 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 carefully 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 strange and

blazed. Still he held her close, with trembling arms. His blood

seemed very strong, enveloping her.