The Rainbow

So she wrestled through her dark days of confusion, soulless,

uncreated, unformed.

One evening, as she was studying in the parlour, her head

buried in her hands, she heard new voices in the kitchen

speaking. At once, from its apathy, her excitable spirit started

and strained to listen. It seemed to crouch, to lurk under

cover, tense, glaring forth unwilling to be seen.

There were two strange men's voices, one soft and candid,

veiled with soft candour, the other veiled with easy mobility,

running quickly. Ursula sat quite tense, shocked out of her

studies, lost. She listened all the time to the sound of the

voices, scarcely heeding the words.

The first speaker was her Uncle Tom. She knew the naive

candour covering the girding and savage misery of his soul. Who

was the other speaker? Whose voice ran on so easy, yet with an

inflamed pulse? It seemed to hasten and urge her forward, that

other voice.

"I remember you," the young man's voice was saying. "I

remember you from the first time I saw you, because of your dark

eyes and fair face."

Mrs. Brangwen laughed, shy and pleased.

"You were a curly-headed little lad," she said.

"Was I? Yes, I know. They were very proud of my curls."

And a laugh ran to silence.

"You were a very well-mannered lad, I remember," said her

father.

"Oh! did I ask you to stay the night? I always used to ask

people to stay the night. I believe it was rather trying for my

mother."

There was a general laugh. Ursula rose. She had to go.

At the click of the latch everybody looked round. The girl

hung in the doorway, seized with a moment's fierce confusion.

She was going to be good-looking. Now she had an attractive

gawkiness, as she hung a moment, not knowing how to carry her

shoulders. Her dark hair was tied behind, her yellow-brown eyes

shone without direction. Behind her, in the parlour, was the

soft light of a lamp upon open books.

A superficial readiness took her to her Uncle Tom, who kissed

her, greeting her with warmth, making a show of intimate

possession of her, and at the same time leaving evident his own

complete detachment.

But she wanted to turn to the stranger. He was standing back

a little, waiting. He was a young man with very clear greyish

eyes that waited until they were called upon, before they took

expression.

Something in his self-possessed waiting moved her, and she

broke into a confused, rather beautiful laugh as she gave him

her hand, catching her breath like an excited child. His hand

closed over hers very close, very near, he bowed, and his eyes

were watching her with some attention. She felt proud--her

spirit leapt to life.

"You don't know Mr. Skrebensky, Ursula," came her Uncle Tom's

intimate voice. She lifted her face with an impulsive flash to

the stranger, as if to declare a knowledge, laughing her

palpitating, excited laugh.