Slide to View Image: Opacity 0%
TO THE LIGHTHOUSEcook to keep a plate of milk soup for her — quitethought she wanted it, carrying that heavy basketall the way up from town. She could see her now,stooping over her flowers; (and faint and flickering,like a yellow beam or the circle at the end of a teles-cope, a lady in a grey cloak, stooping over her flowers,went wandering over the bedroom wall, up the dress-ing—table, across the washstand, as Mrs. McNab hob-bled and ambled, dusting, straightening).
And cook’s name now? Mildred? Marian? — somename like that. Ah, she had forgotten — she did forgetthings. Fiery, like all red-haired women. Many a laughthey had had. She was always welcome in the kitchen.She made them laugh, she did. Things were betterthen than now.
She sighed; there was too much work for onewoman. She wagged her head this side and that.This had been the nursery. Why, it was all damp inhere; the plaster was falling. Whatever did they wantto hang a beast’s skull there? gone mouldy too. Andrats in all the attics. The rain came in. But they neversent; never came. Some of the locks had gone, so thedoors banged. She didn’t like to be up here at duskalone neither. It was too much for one woman, toomuch, too much. She creaked, she moaned. She bangedthe door. She turned the key in the lock, and left thehouse shut up, locked, alone.9The house was left; the house was deserted. It wasleft like a shell on a sandhill to fill with dry salt grainsnow that life had left it. The long night seemed to160