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(3)

from terror, weave this garment for nothingness?

II

      Meanwhile, nothing stirred in the drawing room, or in the
dining room, or on the staircase. Only, through the rusty
hinges and swollen sea-moistened wood-work certain airs,
detached from the body of the wind, crept round corners and
ventured indoors. Almost one might imagine them questioning,
wondering, as they gently attempted the flap of hanging wall
paper -- would it, they seemed to ask, hang much longer; when
would it fall? Then, smoothly brushing the walls, they passed
on, musingly, as if asking the red and yellow flowers on the
wall paper whether they would fade, and questioning, (gently -
there was time at their disposal) the torn letters in the waste
paper basket, the flowers, the books, all of which were now
open to them, in communion with them, and softly illumined, now
and then, by a beam from the light house. So wandering through
the rooms and reaching the kitchen they paused to ask of the
table and the silver-tailed saucepans ranged orderly on the
shelf, the same question; how long would they endure, of what
nature were they? Were they made of wind and rain, allies, with
whom in the darkness, wind and rain might commune? Were they
obdurate? Time would show.
      So, the light directing them with its pale footfall, on
step, on mat, on wall, the little airs passed, paused, mounted
the staircase, nosed at the bedroom doors. Here, one might

 


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