They were lilies grown from a
dung-heap. Looking back in the new cold sidelight, her life came out
clearly with all the color gone from it and the remorseless details
distinct. And in this survey Nature dwindled to a minor Deity, a goddess
with moods as many and whims as wild as a woman's. She was unstable, it
seemed to Joan then; the immemorial solidity and splendor of her had
departed; her eyes were not fixed on Heaven any more, nor did peace any
longer rest within them; they were frightened, terrified, and their wild
and furtive glances followed one Shadow, reflected one Shape. It stood
waiting at the end of all her avenues; It peered from the heart of her
forests; it wandered on her heaths and moors; it lay under the stones in
her rivers; it stalked her sea-shores, floated on her waves, rode upon her
lightning, hid in her four winds; and the Shadow's name was Death. Joan
stood face to face with it at last and gazed round-eyed at a revelation.
She was saddened to find her own story told by Nature in many allegories,
painted upon the garden, set forth in waste places, fashioned by humble
weeds, reflected in the small, brief lives of unconsidered creatures. Now
she imagined herself an ill-shaped apple in the orchard which the mother of
all had neglected. It was crumpled up on one side, twisted out of its fair
full beauty, ruined by some wicked influence--a failure. Now she was a fly
caught by the gold spider who set his web shaking to deceive.
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