第8部分(第1/7 页)

let　the　wind　whisk　her　over　the　field　to　the　big　gate；　whence

she　could　watch　him　go。

He　went　up　the　hill　and　on　towards　the　vicarage；　the　wind

roaring　through　the　hedges；　whilst　he　tried　to　shelter　his　bunch

of　daffodils　by　his　side。　He　did　not　think　of　anything；　only

knew　that　the　wind　was　blowing。

Night　was　falling；　the　bare　trees　drummed　and　whistled。　The

vicar；　he　knew；　would　be　in　his　study；　the　Polish　woman　in　the

kitchen；　a　fortable　room；　with　her　child。　In　the　darkest　of

twilight；　he　went　through　the　gate　and　down　the　path　where　a　few

daffodils　stooped　in　the　wind；　and　shattered　crocuses　made　a

pale；　colourless　ravel。

There　was　a　light　streaming　on　to　the　bushes　at　the　back　from

the　kitchen　window。　He　began　to　hesitate。　How　could　he　do　this？

Looking　through　the　window；　he　saw　her　seated　in　the

rocking…chair　with　the　child；　already　in　its　nightdress；　sitting

on　her　knee。　The　fair　head　with　its　wild；　fierce　hair　was

drooping　towards　the　fire…warmth；　which　reflected　on　the　bright

cheeks　and　clear　skin　of　the　child；　who　seemed　to　be　musing；

almost　like　a　grown…up　person。　The　mother's　face　was　dark　and

still；　and　he　saw；　with　a　pang；　that　she　was　away　back　in　the

life　that　had　been。　The　child's　hair　gleamed　like　spun　glass；

her　face　was　illuminated　till　it　seemed　like　wax　lit　up　from　the

inside。　The　wind　boomed　strongly。　Mother　and　child　sat

motionless；　silent；　the　child　staring　with　vacant　dark　eyes　into

the　fire；　the　mother　looking　into　space。　The　little　girl　was

almost　asleep。　It　was　her　will　which　kept　her　eyes　so　wide。

Suddenly　she　looked　round；　troubled；　as　the　wind　shoo