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.But through the crepuscular walls of their intimacy, forthey were drawing together, involuntarily, coming side by side, quite close, she could feelhis mind like a raised hand shadowing her mind; and he was beginning, now that herthoughts took a turn he disliked towards this pessimism as he called it to fidget,though he said nothing, raising his hand to his forehead, twisting a lock of hair, letting it fallagain. You won t finish that stocking tonight, he said, pointing to her stocking.That was whatshe wanted the asperity in his voice reproving her.If he says it s wrong to be pessimisticprobably it is wrong, she thought; the marriage will turn out all right. No, she said, flattening the stocking out upon her knee, I shan t finish it. And what then? For she felt that he was still looking at her, but that his look hadchanged.He wanted something wanted the thing she always found it so difficult to givehim; wanted her to tell him that she loved him.And that, no, she could not do.He foundtalking so much easier than she did.He could say things she never could.So naturally itwas always he that said the things, and then for some reason he would mind this suddenly,and would reproach her.A heartless woman he called her; she never told him that she lovedhim.But it was not so it was not so.It was only that she never could say what she felt.Was there no crumb on his coat? Nothing she could do for him? Getting up, she stood at51 the window with the reddish-brown stocking in her hands, partly to turn away from him,partly because she remembered how beautiful it often is the sea at night.But she knewthat he had turned his head as she turned; he was watching her.She knew that he wasthinking, You are more beautiful than ever.And she felt herself very beautiful.Will you nottell me just for once that you love me? He was thinking that, for he was roused, what withMinta and his book, and its being the end of the day and their having quarrelled about goingto the Lighthouse.But she could not do it; she could not say it.Then, knowing that he waswatching her, instead of saying anything she turned, holding her stocking, and looked athim.And as she looked at him she began to smile, for though she had not said a word, heknew, of course he knew, that she loved him.He could not deny it.And smiling she lookedout of the window and said (thinking to herself, Nothing on earth can equal thishappiness) Yes, you were right.It s going to be wet tomorrow.You won t be able to go. And shelooked at him smiling.For she had triumphed again.She had not said it: yet he knew.TIME PASSES1 Well, we must wait for the future to show, said Mr Bankes, coming in from the terrace. It s almost too dark to see, said Andrew, coming up from the beach. One can hardly tell which is the sea and which is the land, said Prue. Do we leave that light burning? said Lily as they took their coats off indoors. No, said Prue, not if every one s in. Andrew, she called back, just put out the light in the hall. One by one the lamps were all extinguished, except that Mr Carmichael, who liked tolie awake a little reading Virgil, kept his candle burning rather longer than the rest.2So with the lamps all put out, the moon sunk, and a thin rain drumming on the roof adownpouring of immense darkness began.Nothing, it seemed, could survive the flood, theprofusion of darkness which, creeping in at keyholes and crevices, stole round windowblinds, came into bedrooms, swallowed up here a jug and basin, there a bowl of red andyellow dahlias, there the sharp edges and firm bulk of a chest of drawers.Not only wasfurniture confounded; there was scarcely anything left of body or mind by which one couldsay, This is he or This is she. Sometimes a hand was raised as if to clutch something orward off something, or somebody groaned, or somebody laughed aloud as if sharing a jokewith nothingness.Nothing stirred in the drawing-room or in the dining-room or on the staircase.Onlythrough the rusty hinges and swollen sea-moistened woodwork certain airs, detached fromthe body of the wind (the house was ramshackle after all) crept round corners andventured indoors.Almost one might imagine them, as they entered the drawing-roomquestioning and wondering, toying with the flap of hanging wall-paper, asking, would ithang much longer, when would it fall? Then smoothly brushing the walls, they passed onmusingly as if asking the red and yellow roses on the wall-paper whether they time at theirdisposal) the torn letters in the wastepaper basket, the flowers, the books, all of whichwere now open to them and asking, Were they allies? Were they enemies? How long wouldthey endure?So some random light directing them with its pale footfall upon stair and mat, fromsome uncovered star, or wandering ship, or the Lighthouse even, with its pale footfall uponstair and mat, the little airs mounted the staircase and nosed round bedroom doors.Buthere surely, they must cease.Whatever else may perish and disappear, what lies here issteadfast.Here one might say to those sliding lights, those fumbling airs that breathe andbend over the bed itself, here you can neither touch nor destroy.Upon which, wearily,52 ghostlily, as if they had feather-light fingers and the light persistency of feathers, they wouldlook, once, on the shut eyes, and the loosely clasping fingers, and fold their garmentswearily and disappear.And so, nosing, rubbing, they went to the window on the staircase,to the servants bedrooms, to the boxes in the attics; descending, blanched the apples on thedining-room table, fumbled the petals of roses, tried the picture on the easel, brushed themat and blew a little sand along the floor.At length, desisting, all ceased together, gatheredtogether, all sighed together; all together gave off an aimless gust of lamentation to whichsome door in the kitchen replied; swung wide; admitted nothing; and slammed to.[Here Mr Carmichael, who was reading Virgil, blew out his candle.It was pastmidnight.]3But what after all is one night? A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon,and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in thehollow of the wave.Night, however, succeeds to night.The winter holds a pack of them instore and deals them equally, they darken.Some of them hold aloft clear planets, plates ofbrightness
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