Page 124 - lady-chatterlys-lover

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, rus-
tling 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 dis-
tress. 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 power-
ful, 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 moorings; now she was loose and
adrift.
The sunshine gave way to chill; the daffodils were in
shadow, dipping silently. So they would dip through the day
and the long cold night. So strong in their frailty!
She rose, a little stiff, took a few daffodils, and went down.
She hated breaking the flowers, but she wanted just one or
two to go with her. She would have to go back to Wragby

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