The Rainbow

"Have you got a clean shirt?" he asked Tilly.

"You know you've got clean shirts," she said.

"Ay,--bring me a white one."

Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited

from his father, putting it before him to air at the fire. She

loved him with a dumb, aching love as he sat leaning with his

arms on his knees, still and absorbed, unaware of her. Lately, a

quivering inclination to cry had come over her, when she did

anything for him in his presence. Now her hands trembled as she

spread the shirt. He was never shouting and teasing now. The

deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble.

He went to wash himself. Queer little breaks of consciousness

seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his

stillness.

"It's got to be done," he said as he stooped to take the

shirt out of the fender, "it's got to be done, so why balk it?"

And as he combed his hair before the mirror on the wall, he

retorted to himself, superficially: "The woman's not speechless

dumb. She's not clutterin' at the nipple. She's got the right to

please herself, and displease whosoever she likes."

This streak of common sense carried him a little further.

"Did you want anythink?" asked Tilly, suddenly appearing,

having heard him speak. She stood watching him comb his fair

beard. His eyes were calm and uninterrupted.

"Ay," he said, "where have you put the scissors?"

She brought them to him, and stood watching as, chin forward,

he trimmed his beard.

"Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin'

contest," she said, anxiously. He blew the fine-curled hair

quickly off his lips.

He put on all clean clothes, folded his stock carefully, and

donned his best coat. Then, being ready, as grey twilight was

falling, he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils.

The wind was roaring in the apple trees, the yellow flowers

swayed violently up and down, he heard even the fine whisper of

their spears as he stooped to break the flattened, brittle stems

of the flowers.

"What's to-do?" shouted a friend who met him as he left the

garden gate.

"Bit of courtin', like," said Brangwen.

And Tilly, in a great state of trepidation and excitement,

let the wind whisk her over the field to the big gate, whence

she could watch him go.

He went up the hill and on towards the vicarage, the wind

roaring through the hedges, whilst he tried to shelter his bunch

of daffodils by his side. He did not think of anything, only

knew that the wind was blowing.