The Rainbow

"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

something. 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.

"What 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 distasteful 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 made bold love to him, and he 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 remained 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 without 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.