The Rainbow

Ursula stood near him with a mute, pale face which he would

rather not see. There seemed some shame at the very root of

life, cold, dead shame for her.

The three made a noticeable group on the station; the girl in

her fur cap and tippet and her olive green costume, pale, tense

with youth, isolated, unyielding; the soldierly young man in a

crush hat and a heavy overcoat, his face rather pale and

reserved above his purple scarf, his whole figure neutral; then

the elder man, a fashionable bowler hat pressed low over his

dark brows, his face warm-coloured and calm, his whole figure

curiously suggestive of full-blooded indifference; he was the

eternal audience, the chorus, the spectator at the drama; in his

own life he would have no drama.

The train was rushing up. Ursula's heart heaved, but the ice

was frozen too strong upon it.

"Good-bye," she said, lifting her hand, her face laughing

with her peculiar, blind, almost dazzling laugh. She wondered

what he was doing, when he stooped and kissed her. He should be

shaking hands and going.

"Good-bye," she said again.

He picked up his little bag and turned his back on her. There

was a hurry along the train. Ah, here was his carriage. He took

his seat. Tom Brangwen shut the door, and the two men shook

hands as the whistle went.

"Good-bye--and good luck," said Brangwen.

"Thank you--good-bye."

The train moved off. Skrebensky stood at the carriage window,

waving, but not really looking to the two figures, the girl and

the warm-coloured, almost effeminately-dressed man Ursula waved

her handkerchief. The train gathered speed, it grew smaller and

smaller. Still it ran in a straight line. The speck of white

vanished. The rear of the train was small in the distance. Still

she stood on the platform, feeling a great emptiness about her.

In spite of herself her mouth was quivering: she did not want to

cry: her heart was dead cold.

Her Uncle Tom had gone to an automatic machine, and was

getting matches.

"Would you like some sweets?" he said, turning round.

Her face was covered with tears, she made curious, downward

grimaces with her mouth, to get control. Yet her heart was not

crying--it was cold and earthy.

"What kind would you like--any?" persisted her

uncle.

"I should love some peppermint drops," she said, in a

strange, normal voice, from her distorted face. But in a few

moments she had gained control of herself, and was still,

detached.

"Let us go into the town," he said, and he rushed her into a

train, moving to the town station. They went to a cafe to drink

coffee, she sat looking at people in the street, and a great

wound was in her breast, a cold imperturbability in her

soul.

This cold imperturbability of spirit continued in her now. It

was as if some disillusion had frozen upon her, a hard

disbelief. Part of her had gone cold, apathetic. She was too

young, too baffled to understand, or even to know that she

suffered much. And she was too deeply hurt to submit.