The Rainbow by D. H. Lawrence (novels for beginners .txt) 📕

“My love.”

And he drew near, and she drew near.

“Anna,” he said, in wonder and the birthpain of love.

“My love,” she said, her voice growing rapturous. And they kissed on the mouth, in rapture and surprise, long, real kisses. The kiss lasted, there among the moonlight. He kissed her again, and she kissed him. And again they were kissing together. Till something happened in him, he was strange. He wanted her. He wanted her exceedingly. She was something new. They stood there folded, suspended in the night. And his whole being quivered with surprise, as from a blow. He wanted her, and he wanted to tell her so. But the shock was too great to him. He had never realized before. He trembled with irritation and unusedness, he did not know what to do. He held her more gently, gently, much more gently. The conflict was gone by. And he was glad, and breathless, and almost in tears. But he knew he wanted her. Something fixed in him forever. He was hers. And he was very glad and afraid. He did not know what to do, as they stood there in the open, moonlit field. He looked through her hair at the moon, which seemed to swim liquid-bright.

She sighed, and seemed to wake up, then she kissed him again. Then she loosened herself away from him and took his hand. It hurt him when she drew away from his breast. It hurt him with a chagrin. Why did she draw away from him? But she held his hand.

“I want to go home,” she said, looking at him in a way he could not understand.

He held close to her hand. He was dazed and he could not move, he did not know how to move. She drew him away.

He walked helplessly beside her, holding her hand. She went with bent head. Suddenly he said, as the simple solution stated itself to him:

“We’ll get married, Anna.”

She was silent.

“We’ll get married, Anna, shall we?”

She stopped in the field again and kissed him, clinging to him passionately, in a way he could not understand. He could not understand. But he left it all now, to marriage. That was the solution now, fixed ahead. He wanted her, he wanted to be married to her, he wanted to have her altogether, as his own forever. And he waited, intent, for the accomplishment. But there was all the while a slight tension of irritation.

He spoke to his uncle and aunt that night.

“Uncle,” he said, “Anna and me think of getting married.”

“Oh ay!” said Brangwen.

“But how, you have no money?” said the mother.

The youth went pale. He hated these words. But he was like a gleaming, bright pebble, something bright and inalterable. He did not think. He sat there in his hard brightness, and did not speak.

“Have you mentioned it to your own mother?” asked Brangwen.

“No⁠—I’ll tell her on Saturday.”

“You’ll go and see her?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause.

“And what are you going to marry on⁠—your pound a week?”

Again the youth went pale, as if the spirit were being injured in him.

“I don’t know,” he said, looking at his uncle with his bright inhuman eyes, like a hawk’s.

Brangwen stirred in hatred.

“It needs knowing,” he said.

“I shall have the money later on,” said the nephew. “I will raise some now, and pay it back then.”

“Oh ay!⁠—And why this desperate hurry? She’s a child of eighteen, and you’re a boy of twenty. You’re neither of you of age to do as you like yet.”

Will Brangwen ducked his head and looked at his uncle with swift, mistrustful eyes, like a caged hawk.

“What does it matter how old she is, and how old I am?” he said. “What’s the difference between me now and when I’m thirty?”

“A big difference, let us hope.”

“But you have no experience⁠—you have no experience, and no money. Why do you want to marry, without experience or money?” asked the aunt.

“What experience do I want, Aunt?” asked the boy.

And if Brangwen’s heart had not been hard and intact with anger, like a precious stone, he would have agreed.

Will Brangwen went home strange and untouched. He felt he could not alter from what he was fixed upon, his will was set. To alter it he must be destroyed. And he would not be destroyed. He had no money. But he would get some from somewhere, it did not matter. He lay awake for many hours, hard and clear and unthinking, his soul crystallizing more inalterably. Then he went fast asleep.

It was as if his soul had turned into a hard crystal. He might tremble and quiver and suffer, it did not alter.

The next morning Tom Brangwen, inhuman with anger, spoke to Anna.

“What’s this about wanting to get married?” he said.

She stood, paling a little, her dark eyes springing to the hostile, startled look of a savage thing that will defend itself, but trembles with sensitiveness.

“I do,” she said, out of her unconsciousness.

His anger rose, and he would have liked to break her.

“You do⁠—you do⁠—and what for?” he sneered with contempt. The old, childish agony, the blindness that could recognize nobody, the palpitating antagonism as of a raw, helpless, undefended thing came back on her.

“I do because I do,” she cried, in the shrill, hysterical way of her childhood. “You are not my father⁠—my father is dead⁠—you are not my father.”

She was still a stranger. She did not recognize him. The cold blade cut down, deep into Brangwen’s soul. It cut him off from her.

“And what if I’m not?” he said.

But he could not bear it. It had been so passionately dear to him, her “Father⁠—Daddie.”

He went about for some days as if stunned. His wife was bemused. She did not understand. She only thought the marriage was impeded for want of money and position.

There was a horrible silence in the house. Anna kept out of sight as much as possible. She could be for hours alone.

Will Brangwen came back, after stupid scenes at Nottingham. He too was pale