小说园

第10部分（第1页）

the　gorse　bushes　shrinking　from　their　presence；　she　stepped　into

the　heather　as　into　a　quickening　bath　that　almost　hurt。　Her

fingers　moved　over　the　clasped　fingers　of　the　child；　she　heard

the　anxious　voice　of　the　baby；　as　it　tried　to　make　her　talk；

distraught。

And　she　shrank　away　again；　back　into　her　darkness；　and　for　a

long　while　remained　blotted　safely　away　from　living。　But　autumn

came　with　the　faint　red　glimmer　of　robins　singing；　winter

darkened　the　moors；　and　almost　savagely　she　turned　again　to

life；　demanding　her　life　back　again；　demanding　that　it　should　be

as　it　had　been　when　she　was　a　girl；　on　the　land　at　home；　under

the　sky。　Snow　lay　in　great　expanses；　the　telegraph　posts　strode

over　the　white　earth；　away　under　the　gloom　of　the　sky。　And

savagely　her　desire　rose　in　her　again；　demanding　that　this　was

Poland；　her　youth；　that　all　was　her　own　again。

But　there　were　no　sledges　nor　bells；　she　did　not　see　the

peasants　ing　out　like　new　people；　in　their　sheepskins　and

their　fresh；　ruddy；　bright　faces；　that　seemed　to　bee　new　and

vivid　when　the　snow　lit　up　the　ground。　It　did　not　e　to　her；

the　life　of　her　youth；　it　did　not　e　back。　There　was　a　little

agony　of　struggle；　then　a　relapse　into　the　darkness　of　the

convent；　where　Satan　and　the　devils　raged　round　the　walls；　and

Christ　was　white　on　the　cross　of　victory。

She　watched　from　the　sick…room　the　snow　whirl　past；　like

flocks　of　shadows　in　haste；　flying　on　some　final　mission　out　to

a　leaden　inalterable　sea；　beyond　the　final　whiteness　of　the

curving　shore；　and　the　snow…speckled　blackness　of　the　rocks　half

submerged。　But　near　at　hand　on　the　trees　the　snow　was　soft　in

bloom。　Only　the　voice　of　the　dying　vicar　spoke　grey　and

querulous　from　behind。

By　the　time　the　snowdrops　were　out；　however；　he　was　dead。　He

was　dead。　But　ity　the　returning　woman

watched　the　snowdrops　on　the　edge　of　the　grass　below；　blown

white　in　the　wind；　but　not　to　be　blown　away。　She　watched　them

fluttering　and　bobbing；　the　white；　shut　flowers；　anchored　by　a

thread　to　the　grey…green　grass；　yet　never　blown　away；　not

drifting　with　the　wind。

As　she　rose　in　the　morning；　the　dawn　was　beating　up　white；

gusts　of　light　blown　like　a　thin　snowstorm　from　the　east；　blown

stronger　and　fiercer；　till　the　rose　appeared；　and　the　gold；　and