TO THE LIGHTHOUSEthe wind, and the soft nose of the clammy sea airs,rubbing, snuffling, iterating, and reiterating theirquestions — ‘Will you fade? Will you perish?’ — scarce-ly disturbed the peace, the indifference, the air ofpure integrity, as if the question they asked scarcelyneeded that they should answer: we remain.

Nothing it seemed could break that image, corruptthat innocence, or disturb the swaying mantle of si-lence which, week after week, in the empty room,wove into itself the falling cries of birds, ships hooting,the drone and hum of the fields, a dog’s bark, a man’sshout, and folded them round the house in silence.Once only a board sprang on the landing; once in themiddle of the night with a roar, with a rupture, asafter centuries of quiescence, a rock rends itself fromthe mountain and hurtles crashing into the valley, onefold of the shawl loosened and swung to and fro. Thenagain peace descended; and the shadow wavered;light bent to its own image in adoration on the bed-room wall; when Mrs. McNab, tearing the veil ofsilence with hands that had stood in the wash-tub,grinding it with boots that had crunched the shingle,came as directed to open all windows, and dust thebedrooms.5

As she lurched (for she rolled like a ship at sea) andleered (for her eyes fell on nothing directly, but witha sidelong glance that deprecated the scorn and angerof the world — she was witless, she knew it), as sheclutched the banisters and hauled herself upstairs androlled from room to room, she sang. Rubbing the glassof the long looking-glass and leering sideways at her152
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