AFTER THE RAIN
“IT really was a providential storm,” said John.
The clouds had broken; the rain, though still falling, was descending
in a silver shower, sparkling in sunlight. The wind had sunk to a cool
fresh breeze.
“Providential!” Rosamund raised amazed eyebrows.
“Providential,” echoed John firmly. “You are thinking of Antony, who is
by this time, I trust, safely returned to the bosom of his family, or
at all events in some shelter as friendly as ours. I am thinking of the
courage the storm brought in its wake.”
“Oh?” she queried.
“You mustn’t,” said John pathetically, “pretend that you don’t
understand me. Explanations would be painful. I should stand confessed
as a coward of the deepest dye.”
“Nonsense,” she smiled. And then she looked towards the opening of the
shed. “Come,” she laughed; “the rain has nearly stopped.”
They came out into the open.
“The country,” said John, “has had its face washed, and is thankful.”
Then he pointed to the northeast. “Look,” he said, “our benediction!”
A double-arched rainbow stretched across the sky, brilliant, luminous,
backgrounded by the retreating clouds. They paused, to look. Scientists
may find excellent explanations of this wonder; but to some, at least,
it will ever stand for what it has stood through age-old centuries--the
symbol of hope.
John might have remained gazing indefinitely, or, at all events,
until the brilliant arc had faded had not Rosamund brought him to a
remembrance of things present.
“Come,” she said. “Antony.”
John turned.
“The rogue!” he laughed. “But, all the same, I am enormously in his
debt.”
They made their way back along the river bank. Eyes were still alert,
ears open to any sound. But there was no longer the same anxiety,
the same foreboding. Doubtless the storm had been, in a measure,
responsible for both. Physical conditions have a way of intermingling
themselves so closely with mental conceptions, that you are really at a
loss to separate the two. Indeed, you don’t attempt to separate them;
you don’t perceive the physical conditions as existent, you perceive
only the mental conceptions. Hence arises depression, that slate-grey
state of the soul, in which the mind puts on black spectacles, and
through them views the world in general, and its friends in particular.
Now, with the fresh breeze fanning their faces, with the world around
them emerald green, silver, blue, and gold, with, above all, declared
love singing joyously in their hearts, the two viewed the prospect
through the most rose-coloured spectacles imaginable. Tragedy, even the
remotest hint of tragedy, seemed unthinkable, impossible.
Doubtless you, also, will be of their way of thinking.