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 mothers face was dark and
still; and he saw; with a pang; that she was away back in the
life that had been。 The childs 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 shook the
house; and Brangwen saw the small lips move。 The mother began to
rock; he heard the slight crunch of the rockers of the chair。
Then he heard the low; monotonous murmur of a song in a foreign
language。 Then a great burst of wind; the mother seemed to have
drifted away; the childs eyes were black and dilated。 Brangwen
looked up at the clouds which packed in great; alarming haste
across the dark sky。