celandines at the wood's edge, under the hazel-rods, they spangled out
bright and yellow. And the wood was still, stiller, but yet gusty with
crossing sun. The first windflowers were out, and all the wood seemed pale
with the pallor of endless little anemones, sprinkling the shaken floor.
`The world has grown pale with thy breath.' But it was the breath of
Persephone, this time; she was out of hell on a cold morning. Cold breaths
of wind came, and overhead there was an anger of entangled wind caught among
the twigs. It, too, was caught and trying to tear itself free, the wind,
like Absalom. How cold the anemones looked, bobbing their naked white
shoulders over crinoline skirts of green. But they stood it. A few first
bleached little primroses too, by the path, and yellow buds unfolding
themselves.
The roaring and swaying was overhead, only cold currents came down
below. Connie was strangely excited in the wood, and the colour flew in her
cheeks, and burned blue in her eyes. She walked ploddingly, picking a few
primroses and the first violets, that smelled sweet and cold, sweet and
cold. And she drifted on without knowing where she was.
Till she came to the clearing, at the end of the wood, and saw the
green-stained stone cottage, looking almost rosy, like the flesh underneath
a mushroom, its stone warmed in a burst of sun. And there was a sparkle of
yellow jasmine by the door; the closed door. But no sound; no smoke from the
chimney; no dog barking.
She went quietly round to the back, where the bank rose up; she had an
excuse, to see the daffodils.
And they were there, the short-stemmed flowers, rustling and fluttering
and shivering, so bright and alive, but with nowhere to hide their faces, as
they turned them away from the wind.
They shook their bright, sunny little rags in bouts of distress. But
perhaps they liked it really; perhaps they really liked the tossing.
Constance sat down with her back to a young pine-tree, that wayed
against her with curious life, elastic, and powerful, rising up. The erect,
alive thing, with its top in the sun! And she watched the daffodils turn
golden, in a burst of sun that was warm on her hands and lap. Even she
caught the faint, tarry scent of the flowers. And then, being so still and
alone, she seemed to bet into the current of her own proper destiny. She had
been fastened by a rope, and jagging and snarring like a boat at its
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