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form； to respond to that blind； insistent figure standing over
against her。
A shiver； a sickness of new birth passed over her； the flame
leaped up him； under his skin。 She wanted it； this new life from
him； with him； yet she must defend herself against it； for it
was a destruction。
As he worked alone on the land； or sat up with his ewes at
lambing time； the facts and material of his daily life fell
away； leaving the kernel of his purpose clean。 And then it came
upon him that he would marry her and she would be his life。
Gradually； even without seeing her； he came to know her。 He
would have liked to think of her as of something given into his
protection； like a child without parents。 But it was forbidden
him。 He had to e down from this pleasant view of the case。
She might refuse him。 And besides； he was afraid of her。
But during the long February nights with the ewes in labour；
looking out from the shelter into the flashing stars； he knew he
did not belong to himself。 He must admit that he was only
fragmentary； something inplete and subject。 There were the
stars in the dark heaven travelling； the whole host passing by
on some eternal voyage。 So he sat small and submissive to the
greater ordering。
Unless she would e to him； he must remain as a
nothingness。 It was a hard experience。 But； after her repeated
obliviousness to him； after he had seen so often that he did not
exist for her； after he had raged and tried to escape； and said
he was good enough by himself； he was a man； and could stand
alone； he must； in the starry multiplicity of the night humble
himself； and admit and know that without her he was nothing。
He was nothing。 But with her； he would be real。 If she were
now walking across the frosty grass near the sheep…shelter；
through the fretful bleating of the ewes and lambs； she would
bring him pleteness and perfection。 And if it should be so；
that she should e to him！ It should be so……it was
ordained so。
He was a long time resolving definitely to ask her to marry
him。 And he knew； if he asked her； she must really acquiesce。
She must； it could not be otherwise。
He had learned a little of her。 She was poor； quite alone；
and had had a hard time in London； both before and after her
husband died。 But in Poland she was a lady well born； a
landowner's daughter。
All these things were only words to him； the fact of her
superior birth； the fact that her husband had been a brilliant
doctor； the fact that he himself was her inferior in almost
every way of distinction。 There was an inner reality； a logic of
the soul； which connected her with him。
One evening in March； when the wind was roaring outside； came
the moment to ask her。 He had sat with his hands before him；
leaning to the fire。 And as he watched the fire； he knew almost
without thinking that he was going this evening。
〃Have you got a clean shirt？〃 he asked Tilly。
〃You know you've got clean shirts；〃 she said。
〃Ay；……bring me a white one。〃
Tilly brought down one of the linen shirts he had inherited
from his father； putting it before him to air at the fire。 She
loved him with a dumb； aching love as he sat leaning with his
arms on his knees； still and absorbed； unaware of her。 Lately； a
quivering inclination to cry had e over her； when she did
anything for him in his presence。 Now her hands trembled as she
spread the shirt。 He was never shouting and teasing now。 The
deep stillness there was in the house made her tremble。
He went to wash himself。 Queer little breaks of consciousness
seemed to rise and burst like bubbles out of the depths of his
stillness。
〃It's got to be done；〃 he said as he stooped to take the
shirt out of the fender； 〃it's got to be done； so why balk it？〃
And as he bed his hair before the mirror on the wall； he
retorted to himself； superficially： 〃The woman's not speechless
dumb。 She's not clutterin' at the nipple。 She's got the right to
please herself； and displease whosoever she likes。〃
This streak of mon sense carried him a little further。
〃Did you want anythink？〃 asked Tilly； suddenly appearing；
having heard him speak。 She stood watching him b his fair
beard。 His eyes were calm and uninterrupted。
〃Ay；〃 he said； 〃where have you put the scissors？〃
She brought them to him； and stood watching as； chin forward；
he trimmed his beard。
〃Don't go an' crop yourself as if you was at a shearin'
contest；〃 she said； anxiously。 He blew the fine…curled hair
quickly off his lips。
He put on all clean clothes； folded his stock carefully； and
donned his best coat。 Then； being ready； as grey twilight was
falling； he went across to the orchard to gather the daffodils。
The wind was roaring in the apple trees； the yellow flowers
swayed violently up and down； he heard even the fine whisper of
their spears as he stooped to break the flattened； brittle stems
of the flowers。
〃What's to…do？〃 shouted a friend who met him as he left the
garden gate。
〃Bit of courtin'； like；〃 said Brangwen。
And Tilly； in a great state of trepidation and excitement；
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 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 child's eyes were black and dilated。 Brangwen
looked up at the clouds which packed in great； alarming haste
across the dark sky。
Then there came the child's high； plaining； yet imperative
voice：
〃Don't sing that stuff； mother； I don't want to hear it。〃
The singing died away。
〃You will go to bed；〃 said the mother。
He saw the clinging protest of the child； the unmoved
farawayness of the mother； the clinging； grasping effort of the
child。 Then suddenly the clear childish challenge：
〃I want you to tell me a story。〃
The wind blew； the story began； the child nestled against the
mother； Brangwen waited outside； suspended； looking at the wild
waving of the trees in the wind and the gathering darkness。 He
had his fate to follow； he lingered there at the threshold。
The child crouched distinct and motionless； curled in against
her mother； the eyes dark and unblinking among the keen wisps of
hair； like a curled…up animal asleep but for the eyes。 The
mother sat as if in shadow； the story went on as if by itself。
Brangwen stood outside seeing the night fall。 He did not notice
the passage of time。 The hand that held the daffodils was fixed
and cold。
The story came to an end； the mother rose at last； with the
child clinging round her neck。 She must be strong； to carry so
large a child so easily。 The little Anna clung round her
mother's neck。 The fair； strange face of the child looked over
the shoulder of the mother； all asleep but the eyes； and these；
wide and dark； kept up the resistance and the fight with
something unseen。
When they were gone； Brangwen stirred for the first time from
the place where he stood； and looked round at the night。 He
wished it were really as beautiful and familiar as it seemed in
these few moments of release。 Along with the child； he felt a
curious strain on him； a suffering； like a fate。
The mother came down again； and began folding the child's
clothes。 He knocked。 She opened wondering； a little bit at bay；
like a foreigner； uneasy。
〃Good evening；〃 he said。 〃I'll just e in a minute。〃
A change went quickly over her face； she was unprepared。 She
looked down at him as he stood in the light from the window；
holding the daffodils； the darkness behind。 In h