The Rainbow

And then, in the darkness, he bent to her mouth, softly, and

touched her mouth with his mouth. She was afraid, she lay still

on his arm, feeling his lips on her lips. She kept still,

helpless. Then his mouth drew near, pressing open her mouth, a

hot, drenching surge rose within her, she opened her lips to

him, in pained, poignant eddies she drew him nearer, she let him

come farther, his lips came and surging, surging, soft, oh soft,

yet oh, like the powerful surge of water, irresistible, till

with a little blind cry, she broke away.

She heard him breathing heavily, strangely, beside her. A

terrible and magnificent sense of his strangeness possessed her.

But she shrank a little now, within herself. Hesitating, they

continued to walk on, quivering like shadows under the ash trees

of the hill, where her grandfather had walked with his daffodils

to make his proposal, and where her mother had gone with her

young husband, walking close upon him as Ursula was now walking

upon Skrebensky.

Ursula was aware of the dark limbs of the trees stretching

overhead, clothed with leaves, and of fine ash leaves tressing

the summer night.

They walked with their bodies moving in complex unity, close

together. He held her hand, and they went the long way round by

the road, to be farther. Always she felt as if she were

supported off her feet, as if her feet were light as little

breezes in motion.

He would kiss her again--but not again that night with

the same deep--reaching kiss. She was aware now, aware of

what a kiss might be. And so, it was more difficult to come to

him.

She went to bed feeling all warm with electric warmth, as if

the gush of dawn were within her, upholding her. And she slept

deeply, sweetly, oh, so sweetly. In the morning she felt sound

as an ear of wheat, fragrant and firm and full.

They continued to be lovers, in the first wondering state of

unrealization. Ursula told nobody; she was entirely lost in her

own world.

Yet some strange affectation made her seek for a spurious

confidence. She had at school a quiet, meditative,

serious-souled friend called Ethel, and to Ethel must Ursula

confide the story. Ethel listened absorbedly, with bowed,

unbetraying head, whilst Ursula told her secret. Oh, it was so

lovely, his gentle, delicate way of making love! Ursula talked

like a practiced lover.

"Do you think," asked Ursula, "it is wicked to let a man kiss

you--real kisses, not flirting?"

"I should think," said Ethel, "it depends."

"He kissed me under the ash trees on Cossethay hill--do

you think it was wrong?"

"When?"

"On Thursday night when he was seeing me home--but real

kisses--real--. He is an officer in the army."

"What time was it?" asked the deliberate Ethel.