The Rainbow

Anna thought nothing of the gift on the evening when he gave

it to her. In the morning, however, when the butter was made,

she fetched his seal in place of the old wooden stamper of

oak-leaves and acorns. She was curiously excited to see how it

would turn out. Strange, the uncouth bird moulded there, in the

cup-like hollow, with curious, thick waverings running inwards

from a smooth rim. She pressed another mould. Strange, to lift

the stamp and see that eagle-beaked bird raising its breast to

her. She loved creating it over and over again. And every time

she looked, it seemed a new thing come to life. Every piece of

butter became this strange, vital emblem.

She showed it to her mother and father.

"That is beautiful," said her mother, a little light coming

on to her face.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed the father, puzzled, fretted. "Why,

what sort of a bird does he call it?"

And this was the question put by the customers during the

next weeks.

"What sort of a bird do you call that, as you've got

on th' butter?"

When he came in the evening, she took him into the dairy to

show him.

"Do you like it?" he asked, in his loud, vibrating voice that

always sounded strange, re-echoing in the dark places of her

being.

They very rarely touched each other. They liked to be alone

together, near to each other, but there was still a distance

between them.

In the cool dairy the candle-light lit on the large, white

surfaces of the cream pans. He turned his head sharply. It was

so cool and remote in there, so remote. His mouth was open in a

little, strained laugh. She stood with her head bent, turned

aside. He wanted to go near to her. He had kissed her once.

Again his eye rested on the round blocks of butter, where the

emblematic bird lifted its breast from the shadow cast by the

candle flame. What was restraining him? Her breast was near him;

his head lifted like an eagle's. She did not move. Suddenly,

with an incredibly quick, delicate movement, he put his arms

round her and drew her to him. It was quick, cleanly done, like

a bird that swoops and sinks close, closer.

He was kissing her throat. She turned and looked at him. Her

eyes were dark and flowing with fire. His eyes were hard and

bright with a fierce purpose and gladness, like a hawk's. She

felt him flying into the dark space of her flames, like a brand,

like a gleaming hawk.

They had looked at each other, and seen each other strange,

yet near, very near, like a hawk stooping, swooping, dropping

into a flame of darkness. So she took the candle and they went

back to the kitchen.