TO THE LIGHTHOUSErecollection — how she had stood there, how the girlhad said ‘At home the mountains are so beautiful’,and there was no hope, no hope whatever, she had aspasm of irritation, and speaking sharply, said toJames:‘Stand still. Don’t be tiresome,’ so that he knewinstantly that her severity was real, and straightenedhis leg and she measured it.The stocking was too short by half an inch at least,making allowance for the fact that Sorley’s little boywould be less well grown than James.‘It’s too short,’ she said, ‘ever so much too short.'Never did anybody look so sad. Bitter and black,half-way down, in the darkness, in the shaft which ranfrom the sunlight to the depths, perhaps a tear formed;a tear fell; the waters swayed this way and that, re-ceived it, and were at rest. Never did anybody lookso sad.But was it nothing but looks? people said. What wasthere behind it — her beauty, her splendour? Had heblown his brains out, they asked, had he died theweek before they were married — some other, earlierlover, of whom rumours reached one? Or was therenothing? nothing but an incomparable beauty whichshe lived behind, and could do nothing to disturb?For easily though she might have said at some momentof intimacy when stories of great passion, of love foiled,of ambition thwarted came her way how she too hadknown or felt or been through it herself, she neverspoke. She was silent always. She knew then — sheknew without having learnt. Her simplicity fathomedwhat clever people falsified. Her singleness of mindmade her drop plumb like a stone, alight exact as a36
