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Mrs.
Bast
(
she
had
never
known
them
;
had
lived
in
Glasgow
at
that
time
)
wondered
,
putting
her
cup
down
,
whatever
they
hung
that
beast
's
skull
there
for
?
Shot
in
foreign
parts
no
doubt
.
It
might
well
be
,
said
Mrs.
McNab
,
wantoning
on
with
her
memories
;
they
had
friends
in
eastern
countries
;
gentlemen
staying
there
,
ladies
in
evening
dress
;
she
had
seen
them
once
through
the
dining-room
door
all
sitting
at
dinner
.
Twenty
she
dared
say
all
in
their
jewellery
,
and
she
asked
to
stay
help
wash
up
,
might
be
till
after
midnight
.
Ah
,
said
Mrs.
Bast
,
they
'd
find
it
changed
.
She
leant
out
of
the
window
.
She
watched
her
son
George
scything
the
grass
.
They
might
well
ask
,
what
had
been
done
to
it
?
seeing
how
old
Kennedy
was
supposed
to
have
charge
of
it
,
and
then
his
leg
got
so
bad
after
he
fell
from
the
cart
;
and
perhaps
then
no
one
for
a
year
,
or
the
better
part
of
one
;
and
then
Davie
Macdonald
,
and
seeds
might
be
sent
,
but
who
should
say
if
they
were
ever
planted
?
They
'd
find
it
changed
.
She
watched
her
son
scything
.
He
was
a
great
one
for
work
--
one
of
those
quiet
ones
.
Well
they
must
be
getting
along
with
the
cupboards
,
she
supposed
.
They
hauled
themselves
up
.
At
last
,
after
days
of
labour
within
,
of
cutting
and
digging
without
,
dusters
were
flicked
from
the
windows
,
the
windows
were
shut
to
,
keys
were
turned
all
over
the
house
;
the
front
door
was
banged
;
it
was
finished
And
now
as
if
the
cleaning
and
the
scrubbing
and
the
scything
and
the
mowing
had
drowned
it
there
rose
that
half-heard
melody
,
that
intermittent
music
which
the
ear
half
catches
but
lets
fall
;
a
bark
,
a
bleat
;
irregular
,
intermittent
,
yet
somehow
related
;
the
hum
of
an
insect
,
the
tremor
of
cut
grass
,
dissevered
yet
somehow
belonging
;
the
jar
of
a
dorbeetle
,
the
squeak
of
a
wheel
,
loud
,
low
,
but
mysteriously
related
;
which
the
ear
strains
to
bring
together
and
is
always
on
the
verge
of
harmonising
,
but
they
are
never
quite
heard
,
never
fully
harmonised
,
and
at
last
,
in
the
evening
,
one
after
another
the
sounds
die
out
,
and
the
harmony
falters
,
and
silence
falls
.
With
the
sunset
sharpness
was
lost
,
and
like
mist
rising
,
quiet
rose
,
quiet
spread
,
the
wind
settled
;
loosely
the
world
shook
itself
down
to
sleep
,
darkly
here
without
a
light
to
it
,
save
what
came
green
suffused
through
leaves
,
or
pale
on
the
white
flowers
in
the
bed
by
the
window
.
[
Lily
Briscoe
had
her
bag
carried
up
to
the
house
late
one
evening
in
September
.
Mr.
Carmichael
came
by
the
same
train
.
]
Then
indeed
peace
had
come
.
Messages
of
peace
breathed
from
the
sea
to
the
shore
.
Never
to
break
its
sleep
any
more
,
to
lull
it
rather
more
deeply
to
rest
,
and
whatever
the
dreamers
dreamt
holily
,
dreamt
wisely
,
to
confirm
--
what
else
was
it
murmuring
--
as
Lily
Briscoe
laid
her
head
on
the
pillow
in
the
clean
still
room
and
heard
the
sea
.
Through
the
open
window
the
voice
of
the
beauty
of
the
world
came
murmuring
,
too
softly
to
hear
exactly
what
it
said
--
but
what
mattered
if
the
meaning
were
plain
?
entreating
the
sleepers
(
the
house
was
full
again
;
Mrs.
Beckwith
was
staying
there
,
also
Mr.
Carmichael
)
,
if
they
would
not
actually
come
down
to
the
beach
itself
at
least
to
lift
the
blind
and
look
out
.
They
would
see
then
night
flowing
down
in
purple
;
his
head
crowned
;
his
sceptre
jewelled
;
and
how
in
his
eyes
a
child
might
look
.
And
if
they
still
faltered
(
Lily
was
tired
out
with
travelling
and
slept
almost
at
once
;
but
Mr.
Carmichael
read
a
book
by
candlelight
)
,
if
they
still
said
no
,
that
it
was
vapour
,
this
splendour
of
his
,
and
the
dew
had
more
power
than
he
,
and
they
preferred
sleeping
;
gently
then
without
complaint
,
or
argument
,
the
voice
would
sing
its
song
.
Gently
the
waves
would
break
(
Lily
heard
them
in
her
sleep
)
;
tenderly
the
light
fell
(
it
seemed
to
come
through
her
eyelids
)
.
And
it
all
looked
,
Mr.
Carmichael
thought
,
shutting
his
book
,
falling
asleep
,
much
as
it
used
to
look
.
Indeed
the
voice
might
resume
,
as
the
curtains
of
dark
wrapped
themselves
over
the
house
,
over
Mrs.
Beckwith
,
Mr.
Carmichael
,
and
Lily
Briscoe
so
that
they
lay
with
several
folds
of
blackness
on
their
eyes
,
why
not
accept
this
,
be
content
with
this
,
acquiesce
and
resign
?
The
sigh
of
all
the
seas
breaking
in
measure
round
the
isles
soothed
them
;
the
night
wrapped
them
;
nothing
broke
their
sleep
,
until
,
the
birds
beginning
and
the
dawn
weaving
their
thin
voices
in
to
its
whiteness
,
a
cart
grinding
,
a
dog
somewhere
barking
,
the
sun
lifted
the
curtains
,
broke
the
veil
on
their
eyes
,
and
Lily
Briscoe
stirring
in
her
sleep
.
She
clutched
at
her
blankets
as
a
faller
clutches
at
the
turf
on
the
edge
of
a
cliff
.
Her
eyes
opened
wide
.
Here
she
was
again
,
she
thought
,
sitting
bold
upright
in
bed
.
Awake
.
What
does
it
mean
then
,
what
can
it
all
mean
?
Lily
Briscoe
asked
herself
,
wondering
whether
,
since
she
had
been
left
alone
,
it
behoved
her
to
go
to
the
kitchen
to
fetch
another
cup
of
coffee
or
wait
here
.
What
does
it
mean
?
--
a
catchword
that
was
,
caught
up
from
some
book
,
fitting
her
thought
loosely
,
for
she
could
not
,
this
first
morning
with
the
Ramsays
,
contract
her
feelings
,
could
only
make
a
phrase
resound
to
cover
the
blankness
of
her
mind
until
these
vapours
had
shrunk
.
For
really
,
what
did
she
feel
,
come
back
after
all
these
years
and
Mrs.
Ramsay
dead
?
Nothing
,
nothing
--
nothing
that
she
could
express
at
all
.
