The Rainbow

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.

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.