The Rainbow

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.

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, endless, 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 unsifted store. She wanted

time.

Her chief friend at this period was Ursula. The little girl

and the musing, fragile woman of sixty seemed to understand 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

exquisite 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.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" she said. "I thought we should be

seein' you. My word, that's a bobby-dazzlin' posy you've

brought!"