The Rainbow

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 recognition.

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 curtain, 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, I 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.

"I'm sure I couldn't tell you," replied Tilly, on her

dignity.

"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 remember 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.