The Rainbow

He tapped and spoke to the man. The car swung up by the yew

trees. She gave him her hand and said good-bye, naive and brief

as a schoolgirl. And she stood watching him go, her face

shining. The fact of his driving on meant nothing to her, she

was so filled by her own bright ecstacy. She did not see him go,

for she was filled with light, which was of him. Bright with an

amazing light as she was, how could she miss him.

In her bedroom she threw her arms in the air in clear pain of

magnificence. Oh, it was her transfiguration, she was beyond

herself. She wanted to fling herself into all the hidden

brightness of the air. It was there, it was there, if she could

but meet it.

But the next day she knew he had gone. Her glory had partly

died down--but never from her memory. It was too real. Yet

it was gone by, leaving a wistfulness. A deeper yearning came

into her soul, a new reserve.

She shrank from touch and question. She was very proud, but

very new, and very sensitive. Oh, that no one should lay hands

on her!

She was happier running on by herself. Oh, it was a joy to

run along the lanes without seeing things, yet being with them.

It was such a joy to be alone with all one's riches.

The holidays came, when she was free. She spent most of her

time running on by herself, curled up in a squirrel-place in the

garden, lying in a hammock in the coppice, while the birds came

near--near--so near. Oh, in rainy weather, she flitted

to the Marsh, and lay hidden with her book in a hay-loft.

All the time, she dreamed of him, sometimes definitely, but

when she was happiest, only vaguely. He was the warm colouring

of her dreams, he was the hot blood beating within them.

When she was less happy, out of sorts, she pondered over his

appearance, his clothes, the buttons with his regimental badge,

which he had given her. Or she tried to imagine his life in

barracks. Or she conjured up a vision of herself as she appeared

in his eyes.

His birthday was in August, and she spent some pains on

making him a cake. She felt that it would not be in good taste

for her to give him a present.

Their correspondence was brief, mostly an exchange of

post-cards, not at all frequent. But with her cake she must send

him a letter.

"Dear Anton. The sunshine has come back specially for your

birthday, I think. I made the cake myself, and wish you many

happy returns of the day. Don't eat it if it is not good. Mother

hopes you will come and see us when you are near enough.