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224241No one had seen her surrender, step off her firm strip of board into thebitter waters which are there, threatening annihilation.And now slowly the pan pain & the anger of wanting, ofto be recalledslack lessened, (just as she was pluming her self upon having escapedsorrow for Mrs. Ramsay she was recalled) lessened; were createdit seems of this anguish left, as anditot antidote, as a vision:a not onlyaa sense of calm, ?of relief from pain, which a sense of the presence of thebutassembleda sense of some one there, in their consoling, whole, escaped; come back,theconsoling, relieved of some weight that the world had put on themher,consoling, & yet notstaying a moment, lightly & consolingly beside her,& then (for this was Mrs. Ramsay herself, in all her beauty) raising to herforehead a wreath of white flowers, & so disappearing with which she went.[For days after she had heard of her death, Lily had seen her, fromsome trick of the painters eye, raising to her forehead]She stepped with her usual quickness across fields among whosefolds, purplish & soft, among whose flowers, they hyacinths, lilies,she had vanished.It was some trick of the painter's eye. For daysgoingafter she had heard of her death, Lily had seen her thus, stepping, withSights phrases they ?theirher wreath, the Bride of death. It had its power to console.Whereever she happened to be, if it were in London, or in the country,her eyes, half closing, sought in the real world something tobase her vision on, she looked down the lane of the railway carriage,at the windows opposite, if it were London; or in the country, at thecurve of the road, at the mass of the hill.But it always endedin one way. There Something forced itself on her which she could notbrin [?] make submit. It burst through. It snubbed her.dont dream,dont see. It required & always got in the end an effort ofattention so that now, having walk gone to the edge of the lawn.looked down& fastened gazed at the sea, thinking of the fields of death, & makingthinking of thewhite figurecrossing thefield,the bars of blue on the waves hill little hills, she was rousedby an obstinate brown spot.It was a boat.It was theirboat. It was half across the bay now.In it sat Mr.Ramsay, to whom she had refused her sympathy: & he hadbeautiful boots, wonderful boots.
