Chapter 25 The Afternoon was very hot, so hot, that the breaking of the waves on the shore sounded like the repeated sigh of some exhausted creature, and even on the terrace under an awning the bricks were hot, and the air danced perpetually over the short, dry grass. The red flowers in the stone basins were drooping with the heat, and the white blossoms which had been so smooth and thick only a few weeks ago, were now dry and their edges were curled and yellow. Only the stiff and hostile plants of the south, whose fleshy leaves seemed to be grown upon spines, still remained standing upright, and defied the sun to beat them down. It was too hot to talk, and it was not easy to find any book that would withstand the power of the sun. Many books had been tried, and then let fall, and now Terrence was reading Milton aloud, because he said the words of Milton had substance and shape, so that it was not necessary to understand what he was saying, one could merely listen to his words, one could almost handle them. There is a gentle nymph not far from hence, he read, that with moist curbs sways the smooth seven stream, Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure, woollen she was the daughter of Lockery, that had the scepter from his father brute. The words, in spite of what Terrence had said, seemed to be laden with meaning, and perhaps it was for this reason that it was painful to listen to them. They sounded strange, they meant different things from what they usually meant. Rachel at any rate could not keep her attention fixed upon them, but went off upon curious trains of thought, suggested by words such as curb, and lacrine, and brute, which brought unpleasant sights before her eyes, independently of their meaning. Owing to the heat, and the dancing air, the garden too looked strange, the trees were either too near, or too far, and her head almost certainly ached. She was not quite certain, and therefore she did not know, whether to tell Terrence now, or to let him go on reading. She decided that she would wait until he came to the end of a stanza, and if by that time she had turned her head this way and that, and it ached in every position undoubtedly, she would say very calmly that her head ached. Sabrina fair, listen where thou art sitting, under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, in twisted braids of lilies, knitting the loose train of thy amber-dropping hair. Listen for dear honour's sake, goddess of the Silver Lake, listen and save. But her head ached, it ached whichever way she turned. She sat up and said, as she had determined, My headaches, so that I shall go indoors. He was half-way through the next verse, but he dropped the book instantly. Your headaches? He repeated. For a few moments they sat looking at one another in silence, holding each other's hands. During this time his sense of dismay and catastrophe were almost physically painful. All round him he seemed to hear the shiver of broken glass, which, as it fell to earth, left him sitting in the open air. But at the end of two minutes, noticing that she was not sharing his dismay, but was only rather more languid and heavy-eyed than usual, he recovered, fetched Helen, and asked her to tell him what they had better do, for Rachel had a headache. Mrs. Ambrose was not discomposed, but advised that she should go to bed, and added that she must expect her head to ache if she sat up to all hours, and went out in the heat, but a few hours in bed would cure it completely. Terence was unreasonably reassured by her words, as he had been unreasonably depressed the moment before. Helen's sense seemed to have much in common with the ruthless good sense of nature, which avenged rashness by a headache, and, like nature's good sense, might be depended upon. Rachel went to bed. She lay in the dark, it seemed to her, for a very long time, but at length, waking from a transparent kind of sleep, she saw the windows white in front of her, and recollected that some time before she had gone to bed with a headache, and that Helen had said it would be gone when she woke. She supposed, therefore, that she was now quite well again. At the same time the wall of her room was painfully white, and curved slightly instead of being straight and flat. Turning her eyes to the window, she was not reassured by what she saw there. The movement of the blind as it filled with air, and blew slowly out. During the cord, with a little trailing sound along the floor, seemed to her terrifying, as if it were the movement of an animal in the room.  It might not be the same headache, but she certainly had a headache. She turned from side to side in the hope that the coolness of the sheets would cure her, and that when she next opened her eyes to look, the room would be as usual. After a considerable number of vain experiments, she resolved to put the matter beyond a doubt. She got out of bed and stood upright, holding onto the brass ball at the end of the bedstead. Ice-cold at first, it soon became as hot as the palm of her hand, and as the pains in her head and body, and the instability of the floor, proved that it would be far more intolerable to stand and walk, than to lie in bed, she got into bed again. And though the change was refreshing at first, the discomfort of bed was soon as great as the discomfort of standing up. She accepted the idea that she would have to stay in bed all day long, and as she laid her head on the pillow relinquished the happiness of the day. When Helen came in an hour or two later suddenly stopped her cheerful words, looked startled for a second, and then unnaturally calm, the fact that she was ill was put beyond a doubt. It was confirmed when the whole household knew of it, when the song that someone was singing in the garden stopped suddenly, and when Maria, as she brought water, slipped past the bed with the verted eyes. There was all the morning to get through, and then all the afternoon, and at interval she made an effort to cross over into the ordinary world, but she found that her heat and discomfort had put a gulf between her world and the ordinary world which she could not bridge. At one point the door opened and Helen came in with a little dark man who had, it was the chief thing she noticed about him, very hairy hands. She was drowsy and intolerably hot, and as he seemed shy and obsequious she scarcely troubled to answer him, although she understood that he was a doctor. At another point the door opened and Terrence came in very gently, smiling too steadily, as she realised, for it to be natural. He sat down and talked to her, stroking her hand until it became irksome to her to lie any more in the same position, and she turned round, and when she looked up again, Helen was beside her and Terrence had gone. It did not matter, she would see him tomorrow when things would be ordinary again. Her chief occupation during the day was to try to remember how the lines went. One of the glassy cool translucent wave, in twisted braids of lilies, knitting the loose train of thy amber dropping hair, and the effort worried her because the adjectives persisted in getting into the wrong places. The second day did not differ very much from the first day except that her bed had become very important, and the world outside, when she tried to think of it, appeared distinctly further off. The glassy cool translucent wave was almost visible before her, curling up at the end of the bed, and as it was refreshingly cool she tried to keep her mind fixed upon it. Helen was there, and Helen was there all day long, sometimes she said that it was lunchtime, and sometimes that it was tea time. But by the next day all landmarks were obliterated, and the outer world was so far away that the different sounds, such as the sounds of people moving overhead, could only be ascribed to their cause by a great effort of memory. The recollection of what she had felt, or of what she had been doing and thinking three days before, had faded entirely. On the other hand, every object in the room, and the bed itself, and her own body with its various limbs, and their different sensations were more and more important each day. She was completely cut off, and unable to communicate with the rest of the world, isolated alone with her body. Hours and hours would pass thus, without getting any further through the morning, or again a few minutes would lead from broad daylight to the depths of the night. One evening when the room appeared very dim, either because it was evening, or because the blinds were drawn, Helen said to her, Someone is going to sit here tonight, you won't mind. Seeing her eyes, Rachel saw not only Helen, but a nurse in spectacles, whose face vaguely recalled something that she had once seen. She had seen her in the chapel. Nurse McInnes, said Helen, and the nurse smiled steadily, as they all did, and said that she did not find many people who were frightened of her. After waiting for a moment they both disappeared, and having turned on her pillow, Rachel awoke to find herself in the midst of one of those interminable nights which do not end at 12, but go on into the double figures, 13, 14, and so on, until they reached the 20s, and then the 30s, and then the 40s. She realised that there is nothing to prevent nights from doing this if they choose. At a great distance an elderly woman sat with her head bent down. Rachel raised herself slightly and saw with dismay that she was playing cards by the light of a candle, which stood in the hollow of a newspaper. The sight had something inexplicably sinister about it, and she was terrified and cried out upon which the woman laid down her cards and came across the room, shading the candle with her hands. Coming nearer and nearer across the great space of the room, she stood at last above Rachel's head and said, Not asleep, let me make you comfortable. She put down the candle and began to arrange the bed clothes. It struck Rachel that a woman who sat playing cards in a cavern all night long would have very cold hands, and she shrunk from the touch of them. Why, there's a toe all the way down there, the woman said, proceeding to tuck in the bed clothes. Rachel did not realise that the toe was hers.  She stood looking down upon Rachel for an enormous length of time, and the quieter you lie the sooner you will be well, she repeated. Rachel kept her eyes fixed upon the peaked shadow of the ceiling, and all her energy was concentrated upon the desire that this shadow should move. But the shadow and the woman seemed to be eternally fixed above her.  When she opened them again several more hours had passed, but the night still lasted interminably. The woman was still playing cards, only she sat now in a tunnel under a river, and the light stood in a little archway in the wall above her. She cried, Terrence! And the peaked shadow again moved across the ceiling, as the woman with an enormous slow movement rose, and they both stood still above her. It's just as difficult to keep you in bed as it was to keep Mr. Forest in bed, the woman said, and he was such a tall gentleman. In order to get rid of this terrible stationry sight, Rachel again shut her eyes and found herself walking through a tunnel under the Thames, where there were little, deformed women sitting in archways playing cards, while the bricks of which the war was made oozed with damp, which collected into drops and slid down the wall. But the little old women became Helen and Nurse McKinnis, after a time, standing in the window, together whispering, whispering incessantly. Meanwhile outside her room the sounds, the movements, and the lives of the people in the house went on in the ordinary light of the sun, throughout the usual succession of hours. When, on the first day of her illness, it became clear that she would not be absolutely well, but her temperature was very high, until Friday, that day being Tuesday, Terence was filled with resentment, not against her, but against the force outside them, which was separating them. He counted up the number of days that would almost certainly be spoilt for them. He realised, with an odd mixture of pleasure and annoyance, that, for the first time in his life, he was so dependent upon another person, that his happiness was in her keeping. The days were completely wasted upon trifling immaterial things, for after three weeks of such intimacy and intensity, all the usual occupations were unbearably flat and beside the point. The least intolerable occupation was to talk to singin' about Rachel's illness, and to discuss every symptom and its meaning, and, when this subject was exhausted, to discuss illness of all kinds, and what caused them, and what cured them. Twice every day he went in to sit with Rachel, and twice every day the same thing happened. On going into her room, which was not very dark, where the music was lying about as usual, and her books and letters, his spirits rose instantly. When he saw her, he felt completely reassured. She did not look very ill. Sitting by her side, he would tell her what he had been doing, using his natural voice to speak to her, only a few tones lower down than usual. But by the time he had sat there for five minutes, he was plunged into the deepest gloom. She was not the same. He could not bring them back to their old relationship. But although he knew that it was foolish, he could not prevent himself from endeavouring to bring her back, to make her remember, and when this failed, he was in despair. He always concluded, as he left her room, that it was worse to see her than not to see her. But by degrees as the day wore on, the desire to see her returned and became almost too great to be born. On Thursday morning, when Terence went into her room, he felt the usual increase of confidence. She turned round and made an effort to remember certain facts from the world that was so many millions of miles away. You have come up from the hotel, she asked. No, I'm staying here for the present, he said. We've just had luncheon, he continued, and the mail has come in. There's a bundle of letters for you, letters from England. Instead of saying, as he meant her to say, that she wished to see them, she said nothing for some time. You see, there they go, rolling off the edge of the hill, she said suddenly. Rolling, Rachel? What do you see rolling? There's nothing rolling. The old woman with the knife, she replied, not speaking to Terence in particular, and looking past him. As she appeared to be looking at a vase on the shelf opposite, he rose and took it down. Now they can't roll any more, he said cheerfully. Nevertheless she lay gazing at the same spot and paid him no further attention, although he spoke to her. He became so profoundly wretched that he could not endure to sit with her, but wondered about until he found Singin, who was reading the Times in the veranda. He laid it aside patiently and heard all that Terence had to say about Delirium. He was very patient with Terence, he treated him like a child. By Friday it could not be denied that the illness was no longer an attack that would pass off in a day or two. It was a real illness that required a good deal of organisation and engrossed the attention of at least five people. But there was no reason to be anxious. Instead of lasting five days, it was going to last ten days. Rodriguez was understood to say that there were well-known varieties of this illness. Rodriguez appeared to think that they were treating the illness with undue anxiety. His visits were always marked by the same show of confidence, and in his interviews with Terence he always waved aside his anxious and minute questions with a kind of flourish which seemed to indicate that they were all taking it much too seriously. He seemed curiously unwilling to sit down. A high temperature, he said, looking furtively about the room and appearing to be more interested in the furniture and in Helen's embroidery than in anything else. In this climate you must expect a high temperature, you need not be alarmed by that. It is the pulse we go by. He tapped his own hairy wrist, and the pulse continues excellent. Thereupon he bowed and slipped out. The interview was conducted laboriously upon both sides in French, and this together with the fact that he was optimistic and that Terence respected the medical profession from hearsay, made him less critical than he would have been had he encountered the doctor in any other capacity. Unconsciously he took Rodriguez's side against Helen, who seemed to have taken an unreasonable prejudice against him. When Saturday came it was evident that the hours of the day must be more strictly organised than they had been. St. John offered his services. He said that he had nothing to do and that he might as well spend the day at the villa if he could be abused. As if they were starting on a difficult expedition together, they parceled out the duties between them, writing out an elaborate scheme of hours upon a large sheet of paper which was pinned to the drawing-room door. Their distance from the town and the difficulty of procuring rare things with unknown names from the most unexpected places made it necessary to think very carefully, and they found it unexpectedly difficult to do the simple but practical things that were required of them, as if they, being very tall, were asked to stoop down and arrange minute grains of sand in a pattern on the ground. It was St. John's duty to fetch what was needed from the town so that Terence would sit all through the long, hot hours alone in the drawing-room near the open door, listening for any movement upstairs, or call from Helen. He always forgot to pull down the blinds so that he sat in bright sunshine, which worried him without his knowing what was the cause of it. The room was terribly stiff and uncomfortable. There were hats in the chairs and medicine bottles among the books. He tried to read, but good books were too good and bad books were too bad, and the only thing he could tolerate was the newspaper, which, with its news of London and the movements of real people who were giving dinner parties and making speeches, seemed to give a little background of reality to what was otherwise mere nightmare. Then, just as his attention was fixed on the print, a soft call would come from Helen, or Mrs. Chaley would bring in something which was wanted upstairs, and he would run out very quietly in his socks and put the jug on the little table, which stood crowded with jugs and cups outside the bedroom door, or if he could catch Helen for a moment, he would ask, How is she? Rather restless, on the whole quieter, I think. The answer would be one or the other. As usual, she seemed to reserve something which she did not say, and Terrence was conscious that they disagreed and, without saying it aloud, were arguing against each other, but she was too hurried and preoccupied to talk. The strain of listening, and the effort of making practical arrangements and seeing that things worked smoothly, absorbed all Terrence's power. Involved in this long, dreary nightmare, he did not attempt to think what it amounted to. Rachel was ill, that was all. He must see that there was medicine and milk, and that things were ready when they were wanted. Thought had ceased, life itself had come to a standstill. Sunday was rather worse than Saturday had been, simply because the strain was a little greater every day, although nothing else had changed. The separate feelings of pleasure, interest and pain, which combined to make up the ordinary day, were merged in one long-drawn sensation of sordid misery and profound boredom. He had never been so bored since he was shut up in the nursery alone as a child. The vision of Rachel, as she was now confused and heedless, had almost obliterated the vision of her as she had been once long ago. He could hardly believe that they had ever been happy or engaged to be married. For what were feelings, what was there to be felt? Confusion covered every sight and person, and he seemed to see Shingen, Ridley, and the stray people who came up now and then from the hotel to inquire, through a mist. The only people who were not hidden in this mist were Helen and Rodriguez, because they could tell him something definite about Rachel. Nevertheless the day followed the usual forms. At certain hours they went into the dining room, and when they sat around the table they talked about different things. Shingen usually made it his business to start the talk and to keep it from dying out. I've discovered the way to get Sancho past the White House, said Shingen on Sunday at luncheon. You quackle a piece of paper in his ear, then he bolts for about a hundred yards, but he goes on quite well after that. Yes, but he wants corn, you should see that he has corn. I don't think much of the stuff they give him, and Angelo seems a dirty little askle. There was a long silence. Ridley murmured a few lines of poetry under his breath and remarked, as if to conceal the fact that he had done so. Very hot today. Two degrees higher than it was yesterday, said Shingen. I wonder where these nuts come from? He observed taking a nut out of the plate, turning it over in his fingers and looking at it curiously. London, I should think, said Terence, looking at the nut too. A competent man of business could make a fortune here in no time, Shingen continued. I suppose the heat does something funny to people's brains. Even the English go a little queer. Anyhow, they're hopeless people to deal with. They kept me three quarters of an hour waiting at the chemists this morning, for no reason whatever. There was another long pause, then Ridley inquired. Rodriguez seemed satisfied. Quite, said Terence, with decision. It's just got to run his course. Whereupon Ridley heaved a deep sigh. He was genuinely sorry for everyone, but at the same time he missed Helen considerably, and was a little aggrieved by the constant presence of the two young men. They moved back into the drawing room. Look here, Hurst, said Terence, there's nothing to be done for two hours. He consulted the sheet pinned to the door. You go and lie down. I'll wait here. Chaley sits with Rachel while Helen has her luncheon. It was asking a good deal of Hurst to tell him to go without waiting for a sight of Helen. These little glimpses of Helen were the only respite from strain and boredom, and very often they seemed to make up for the discomfort of the day, although she might not have anything to tell them. However, as they were on an expedition together, he had made up his mind to obey. Helen was very late in coming down. She looked like a person who had been sitting for a long time in the dark. She was pale and thinner, and the expression of her eyes was harassed but determined. She ate her luncheon quickly and seemed indifferent to what she was doing. She brushed aside Terence's inquiries, and at last, as if he had not spoken, she looked at him with a slight frown and said, We can't go on like this, Terence. Either you've got to find another doctor, or you must tell Rodriguez to stop coming and I'll manage for myself. It's no use for him to say that Rachel's better. She's not better. She's worse. Terence suffered a terrific shock, like that which he had suffered when Rachel said, My headaches. He stilled it by reflecting that Helen was overwrought, and he was upheld in this opinion by his obstinate sense that she was opposed to him in the argument. Do you think she's in danger? He asked. No one can go on being as ill as that day after day. She replied. She looked at him and spoke as if she felt some indignation with somebody. Very well. I'll talk to Rodriguez this afternoon, he replied. Helen went upstairs at once. Nothing now could assuage Terence's anxiety. He could not read, nor could he sit still, and his sense of security was shaken, in spite of the fact that he was determined that Helen was exaggerating, and that Rachel was not very ill. But he wanted a third person to confirm him in his belief. Directly Rodriguez came down. He demanded, Well, how is she? Do you think her worse? There's no reason for anxiety, I tell you. None. Rodriguez replied, in his execrable French, smiling uneasily and making little movements all the time as if to get away. He stood firmly between him and the door. He was determined to see for himself what kind of man he was.  It was strange that he had never seen this before. You won't object, of course, if we ask you to consult another doctor, he continued. At this little man became openly incensed. Ah! he cried. You have not confidence in me? You object to my treatment? You wish me to give up the case? Not at all, Terrence replied, but in serious illness of this kind. Rodriguez shrugged his shoulders. It is not serious, I assure you. You are over-anxious. The young lady is not seriously ill, and I am a doctor. The lady, of course, is frightened. He snared. I understand that perfectly. The name and address of the doctor is, Terrence continued. There is no other doctor, Rodriguez replied sullenly. Everyone has confidence in me. Look, I will show you. He took out a packet of old letters and began turning them over, as if in search of one that would confute Terrence's suspicions. As he searched, he began to tell a story about an English Lord who had trusted him. A great English Lord, whose name he had, unfortunately, forgotten. There is no other doctor in the place, he concluded, still turning over the letters. Never mind, said Terrence shortly, I will make inquiries for myself. Rodriguez put the letters back in his pocket. Very well, he remarked, I have no objection. He lifted his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, as if to repeat that they took the illness much too seriously, and that there was no other doctor, and slipped out, leaving behind him an impression that he was conscious that he was distrusted, and that his malice was aroused. After this Terrence could no longer stay downstairs. He went up, knocked at Rachel's door, and asked Helen whether he might see her for a few minutes. He had not seen her yesterday. She made no objection, and went and sat at a table in the window. Terrence sat down by the bedside. Rachel's face was changed. She looked as though she were entirely concentrated upon the effort of keeping alive. Her lips were drawn, and her cheeks were sunken and flushed, though without colour. Her eyes were not entirely shut, the lower half of the white part showing, not as if she saw, but as if they remained open because she was much too exhausted to close them. She opened them completely when he kissed her, but she only saw an old woman slicing a man's head off with a knife. There it falls, she murmured. Then she turned to Terrence and asked him anxiously some question about a man with mules, which he could not understand. Why doesn't he come? Why doesn't he come? She repeated. He was appalled to think of the dirty little man downstairs in connection with illness like this, and turning instinctively to Helen, but she was doing something at the table in the window and did not seem to realise how great the shock to him must be. He rose to go, for he could not endure to listen any longer. His heart beat quickly and painfully with anger and misery. As he passed Helen she asked him in the same weary, unnatural but determined voice to fetch her more ice and to have the jug outside filled with fresh milk. When he had done these errands he went to find Hearst. Exhausted and very hot, St. John had fallen asleep on a bed, but Terrence woke him without scruple. Helen thinks she's worse, he said. There's no doubt she's frightfully ill. Rodriguez is useless. We must get another doctor.   Of course there's another doctor. And if there isn't, you've got to find one. It ought to have been done days ago. I'm going down to saddle the horse. He could not stay still in one place. In less than ten minutes St. John was riding to the town in the scorching heat in search of a doctor. His order's been to find one and bring him back if he had to be fetched in a special train. We ought to have done it days ago, Hewitt repeated angrily. When he went back into the drawing-room he found that Mrs. Flushing was there, standing very erect in the middle of the room having arrived, as people did in these days, by the kitchen or through the garden unannounced. She's better? Mrs. Flushing inquired abruptly. They did not attempt to shake hands. No, said Terrence. If anything, they think she's worse. Mrs. Flushing seemed to consider for a moment or two looking straight at Terrence all the time. Let me tell you, she said, speaking in nervous jerks. It's always about the seventh day one begins to get anxious.  You think she's bad, but anyone coming with a fresh eye would see she was better. Mr. Elliott's had fever. He's all right now, she threw out. It wasn't anything she caught on the expedition. What's it matter, a few days fever? My brother had fever for twenty-six days once, and in a week or two he was up and about. We gave him nothing but milk and arrow-root. Here, Mrs. Chaley came in with a message. I'm wanted upstairs, said Terrence. You see, she'll be better. Mrs. Flushing jerked out as he left the room. Her anxiety to persuade Terrence was very great, and when he left her without saying anything, she felt dissatisfied and restless. She did not like to stay, but she could not bear to go. She wandered from room to room looking for someone to talk to, but all the rooms were empty. Terrence went upstairs, stood inside the door to take Helen's directions, looked over at Rachel, but did not attempt to speak to her. She appeared vaguely conscious of his presence, but it seemed to disturb her, and she turned so that she lay with her back to him. For six days, indeed, she had been oblivious to the world outside, because it needed all her attention to follow the hot, red, quick sights which passed incessantly before her eyes. She knew that it was of enormous importance that she should attend to these sights and grasp their meaning, but she was always being just too late to hear or see something, which would explain it all. For this reason the faces, Helen's face, the nurses, Terrence's, the doctors, which occasionally forced themselves very close to her, were worrying because they distracted her attention, and she might miss the clue. However, on the fourth afternoon, she was suddenly unable to keep Helen's face distinct from the sights themselves. Her lips widened as she bent down over the bed, and she began to gavel unintelligibly like the rest. The sights were all concerned in some plot, some adventure, some escape. The nature of what they were doing changed incessantly, although there was always a reason behind it which she must endeavour to grasp. Now they were among trees and savages, now they were on the sea, now they were on the tops of high towers, now they jumped, now they flew. But just as the crisis was about to happen, something invariably slipped in her brain, so that her whole effort had to begin over again. The heat was suffocating. At last the faces went further away. She fell into a deep pool of sticky water, which eventually closed over her head. She saw nothing and heard nothing, but a faint booming sound, which was the sound of the sea rolling over her head. While all her tormentors thought that she was dead, she was not dead, but curled up at the bottom of the sea. There she lay, sometimes seen darkness, sometimes light, while every now and then someone turned her over at the bottom of the sea. After St. John had spent some hours in the heat of the sun, wrangling with evasive and very garrulous natives, he extracted the information that there was a doctor, a French doctor, who was at present away on a holiday in the hills. It was quite impossible, so they said, to find him. With his experience of the country, St. John thought it unlikely that a telegram would either be sent or received, but having reduced the distance of the hill-town in which he was staying, from a hundred miles to thirty miles, and having hired a carriage and horses, he started at once to fetch the doctor himself. He succeeded in finding him, and eventually forced the unwilling man to leave his young wife and return forthwith. They reached the villa at midday on Tuesday. Terence came out to receive them, and St. John was struck by the fact that he had grown perceptively thinner in the interval. He was white too, his eyes looked strange, but the curt speech and sulky masterful manner of Dr. Lusage impressed them both favourably, although at the same time it was obvious that he was very much annoyed at the whole affair. Coming downstairs he gave his directions emphatically, but it never occurred to him to give an opinion, either because of the presence of Rodriguez, who was now obsequious as well as malicious, or because he took it for granted that they knew already what was to be known. Of course, he said with a shrug of his shoulders when Terence asked him, is she very ill? They were both conscious of a certain sense of relief when Dr. Lusage was gone, leaving explicit directions and promising another visit in a few hours' time, but unfortunately the rise of their spirits led them to talk more than usual, and in talking they quarreled. They quarreled about a road, the Portsmouth Road. St. John said that it is macadamised where it passes hind head, and Terence knew as well as he knew his own name, that it is not macadamised at that point. In the course of the argument they said some very sharp things to each other, and the rest of the dinner was eaten in silence, save for an occasional half-stifled reflection from Ridley. When it grew dark and the lamps were brought in, Terence felt unable to control his irritation any longer. St. John went to bed in a state of complete exhaustion, bidding Terence good night with rather more affection than usual because of their quarrel, and Ridley retired to his books. Left alone, Terence walked up and down the room. He stood at the open window. The lights were coming out one after another in the town beneath, and it was very peaceful and cool in the garden, so that he stepped out onto the terrace. As he stood there in the darkness, able only to see the shapes of trees through the fine gray light, he was overcome by a desire to escape, to have done with this suffering, to forget the traitor was ill. He allowed himself to lapse into forgetfulness of everything, as if a wind had been raging incessantly, suddenly fell asleep. The fret and strain and anxiety which had been pressing on him passed away. He seemed to stand in an unvexed space of air, on a little island by himself. He was free and immune from pain. It did not matter whether Rachel was well or ill, it did not matter whether they were apart or together. Nothing mattered, nothing mattered. The waves beat on the shore far away, and the soft wind passed through the branches of the tree, seeming to encircle him with peace and security, with dark and nothingness. Surely the world of strife and fret and anxiety was not the real world, but this was the real world, the world that lay beneath the superficial world, so that whatever happened one was secure. The quiet and peace seemed to lap his body in a fine, cool sheet, soothing every nerve. His mind seemed once more to expand and become natural. But when he had stood thus for a time, a noise in the house roused him. He turned instinctively and went into the drawing-room. The sight of the lamp-lit room brought back so abruptly, all that he had forgotten, that he stood for a moment unable to move. He remembered everything, the hour, the minute even, what point they had reached and what was to come. He cursed himself for making believe for a minute, that things were different from what they are. The night was now harder to face than ever. Unable to stay in the empty drawing-room, he wandered out and sat on the stairs halfway up to Rachel's room. He longed for someone to talk to, but Hearst was asleep, and Ridley was asleep. There was no sound in Rachel's room. The only sound in the house was the sound of chaeli moving in the kitchen. At last there was a rustling on the stairs overhead, and Nurse McKinnis came down, fastening the links in her cuffs, in preparation for the night's watch. Terence rose and stopped her. He had scarcely spoken to her, but it was possible that she might confirm him in the belief which still persisted in his own mind, that Rachel was not seriously ill. He told her in a whisper that Dr. LaSage had been, and what he had said. Now, Nurse, he whispered, please tell me your opinion. Do you consider that she is very seriously ill? Is she in any danger? The doctor has said, she began, yes, but I want your opinion. You have had experience of many cases like this. I could not tell you more than Dr. LaSage, Mr. Hewitt, she replied cautiously, as though her words might be used against her. The case is serious, but you may feel quite certain that we are doing all we can for Miss Vingray's. She spoke with some professional self-approbation, but she realised perhaps that she did not satisfy the young man who still blocked her way, for she shifted her feet slightly upon the stair, and looked out of the window where they could see the moon over the sea. If you ask me, she began in a curiously stealthy tone. I never like May for my patience. May, Terence repeated, it may be a fancy, but I don't like to see anybody fall ill in May, she continued. Things seem to go wrong in May. Perhaps it's the moon. They say the moon affects the brain, don't they, sir? He looked at her, but he could not answer her. Like all the others, when one looked at her, she seemed to shrivel beneath one's eyes, and become worthless, malicious and untrustworthy. She slipped past him and disappeared. Though he went to his room, he was unable even to take his clothes off. For a long time he paced up and down, and then, leaning out of the window, gazed at the earth which lay so dark against the pale blue of the sky. With a mixture of fear and loathing, he looked at the slim black cypress trees which were still visible in the garden, and heard the unfamiliar creaking and grating sounds which show that the earth is still hot. All these sights and sounds appeared sinister and full of hostility and foreboding. Together with the natives and the nurse and the doctor and the terrible force of the illness itself, they seemed to be in a conspiracy against him. They seemed to join together in their effort to extract the greatest possible amount of suffering from him. He could not get used to his pain. It was a revelation to him. He had never realised before that underneath every action, underneath the life of every day, pain lies, quiescent, but ready to devour. He seemed to be able to see suffering as if it were a fire, curling up over the edges of all action, eating away the lives of men and women. He thought for the first time with understanding of words which had before seemed to him empty. The struggle of life, the hardness of life.  He looked at the scattered lights in the town beneath and thought of Arthur and Susan, or Evelyn and Perot venturing out unwittingly, and by their happiness laying themselves open to suffering, such as this. How did they dare to love each other? He wondered. How had he himself dared to live as he had lived rapidly and carelessly, passing from one thing to another, loving Rachel as he had loved her? Never again would he feel secure. He would never believe in the stability of life or forget what depths of pain lie beneath small happiness and feelings of content and safety. It seemed to him as he looked back that their happiness had never been so great as his pain was now. There had always been something imperfect in their happiness, something they had wanted and had not been able to get. It had been fragmentary and incomplete because they were so young and had not known what they were doing. The light of his candle flickered over the boughs of a tree outside the window, and as the branch swayed in the darkness they came before his mind a picture of all the world that lay outside his window. He thought of the immense river and the immense forest, the vast stretches of dry earth and the plains of the sea that encircled the earth. From the sea the sky rose steep and enormous and the air washed profoundly between the sky and the sea. How vast and dark it must be tonight, lying exposed to the wind. And in all this great space it was curious to think how few the towns were and how small little rings of light or single glowworms he figured them, scattered here and there, among the swelling uncultivated folds of the world. And in those towns were little men and women, tiny men and women. Oh it was absurd when one thought of it to sit here in a little room suffering and caring. What did anything matter?  The nearness of their bodies in this vast universe and the minuteness of their bodies seemed to him absurd and laughable. Nothing mattered, he repeated. They had no power, no hope. He lent on the windowsill, thinking, until he almost forgot the time and the place. Nevertheless, although he was convinced that it was absurd and laughable, and that they were small and hopeless, he never lost the sense that these thoughts somehow formed part of a life which he and Rachel would live together. Owing perhaps to the change of doctor, Rachel appeared to be rather better next day. Terribly pale and worn though Helen looked, there was a slight lifting of the cloud which had hung all these days in her eyes. She talked to me, she said voluntarily. She asked me what day of the week it was, like herself. Then suddenly, without any warning or any apparent reason, the tears formed in her eyes and rolled steadily down her cheeks. She cried with scarcely any attempt at movement of her features, and without any attempt to stop herself as if she did not know that she was crying. In spite of the relief which her words gave him, Terrence was dismayed by the sight. Had everything given way? Were there no limits to the power of this illness? Would everything go down before it? Helen had always seemed to him strong and determined, and now she was like a child. He took her in his arms and she clung to him like a child, crying softly and quietly upon his shoulder. Then she roused herself and wiped her tears away. It was silly to behave like that, she said, very silly, she repeated, when there could be no doubt that Rachel was better. She asked Terrence to forgive her for her folly. She stopped at the door and came back and kissed him without saying anything. On this day indeed Rachel was conscious of what went on round her. She had come to the surface of the dark sticky pool and a wave seemed to bear her up and down with it. She had ceased to have any will of her own. She lay on the top of the wave conscious of some pain but chiefly of weakness. The wave was replaced by the side of a mountain. Her body became a drift of melting snow above which her knees rose in huge peaked mountains of bare bone. It was true that she saw Helen and saw her room, but everything had become very pale and semi-transparent. Sometimes she could see through the wall in front of her. Sometimes when Helen went away she seemed to go so far that Rachel's eyes could hardly follow her. The room also had an odd power of expanding, and though she pushed her voice out as far as possible, until sometimes it became a bird and flew away, she thought it doubtful whether it ever reached the person she was talking to. There were immense intervals or chasms for things still had the power to appear visibly before her, between one moment and the next. It sometimes took an hour for Helen to raise her arm, pausing long between each jerky movement, and pour out medicine. Helen's form stooping to raise her in bed appeared of gigantic size and came down upon her like the ceiling falling. But for long spaces of time she would merely lie conscious of her body floating on the top of the bed, and her mind driven to some remote corner of her body, or escaped and gone flitting round the room. All sights were something of an effort, but the sight of Terrence was the greatest effort, because he forced her to join mind to body in the desire to remember something. She did not wish to remember. It troubled her when people tried to disturb her loneliness. She wished to be alone. She wished for nothing else in the world. Although she had cried, Terrence observed Helen's greater hopefulness with something like triumph. In the argument between them, she had made the first sign of admitting herself in the wrong. He waited for Dr. LaSage to come down that afternoon with considerable anxiety, but with the same certainty at the back of his mind that he would in time force them all to admit that they were in the wrong. As usual, Dr. LaSage was sulky in his manner and very short in his answers. To Terrence's demand, she seemed to be better. He replied, looking at him in an odd way. She has a chance of life. The door shut, and Terrence walked across to the window. He lent his forehead against the pain. Rachel, he repeated to himself, She has a chance of life, Rachel. How could they say these things of Rachel? Had anyone yesterday seriously believed that Rachel was dying? They had been engaged for four weeks. A fortnight ago she had been perfectly well. What could fourteen days have done to bring her from that state to this? To realise what they meant by saying that she had a chance of life was beyond him, knowing as he did that they were engaged. He turned, still enveloped in the same dreary mist, and walked towards the door. Suddenly he saw it all. He saw the room and the garden, and the trees moving in the air. They could go on without her. She could die. For the first time since she fell ill, he remembered exactly what she looked like, and the way in which they cared for each other. The immense happiness of feeling her close to him mingled with a more intense anxiety than he had felt yet. He could not let her die. He could not live without her. But after a momentary struggle the curtain fell again, and he saw nothing, and felt nothing clearly. It was all going on, going on still, in the same way as before. Saved for a physical pain when his heart beat, and the fact that his fingers were icy cold. He did not realise that he was anxious about anything. Within his mind he seemed to feel nothing about Rachel, or about anyone, or anything in the world. He went on giving orders, arranging with Mrs. Chaley, writing out lists, and every now and then he went upstairs and put something quietly on the table outside Rachel's door. That night Dr. LaSage seemed to be less sulky than usual. He stayed voluntarily for a few moments, and addressing St. John and Terence equally, as if he did not remember which of them was engaged to the young lady, said, I consider that her condition to-night is very grave. Neither of them went to bed or suggested that the other should go to bed. They sat in the drawing-room playing pique with the door open. St. John made up a bed upon the sofa, and when it was ready insisted that Terence should lie upon it. They began to quarrel as to who should lie on the sofa, and who should lie upon a couple of chairs covered with rugs. St. John forced Terence at last, so lie down upon the sofa. Don't be a fool, Terence, he said. You'll only get ill if you don't sleep. Oh, fellow, he began, as Terence still refused, and stopped abruptly, fearing sentimentality. He feared that he was on the verge of tears. He began to say, what he had long been wanting to say, that he was sorry for Terence, that he cared for him, that he cared for Rachel. Did she know how much he cared for her? Had she said anything? Asked, perhaps. He was very anxious to say this, but he refrained, thinking that it was a selfish question after all, and what was the use of bothering Terence to talk about such things. He was already half asleep, but St. John could not sleep at once. If only he thought to himself, as he lay in the darkness, something would happen. If only this strain would come to an end. He did not mind what happened, so long as the succession of these hard and dreary days was broken. He did not mind if she died. He felt himself disloyal in not minding it, but it seemed to him that he had no feelings left. All night long there was no call or movement, except the opening and shutting of the bedroom door once. By degrees the light returned into the untidy room. At six the servants began to move. At seven they crept downstairs into the kitchen, and half an hour later the day began again. Nevertheless it was not the same as the days that had gone before, although it would have been hard to say in what the difference consisted. Perhaps it was that they seemed to be waiting for something. There were certainly fewer things to be done than usual. People drifted through the drawing-room, Mr. Flushing, Mr. and Mrs. Thornbury. They spoke very apologetically in low tones, refusing to sit down, but remaining for a considerable time standing up, although the only thing they had to say was, is there anything we can do? And there was nothing they could do. Feeling oddly detached from it all, Terrence remembered how Helen had said that whenever anything happened to you, this was how people behaved. Was she right, or was she wrong? He was too little interested to frame an opinion of his own. He put things away in his mind as if one of these days he would think about them, but not now. The mist of unreality had deepened and deepened until it had produced a feeling of numbness all over his body. Was it his body? Were those really his own hands? This morning also for the first time Ridley found it impossible to sit alone in his room. He was very uncomfortable downstairs, and as he did not know what was going on, constantly in the way. But he would not leave the drawing-room, too restless to read and having nothing to do, he began to pace up and down reciting poetry in an undertow. Occupied in various ways, now in undoing parcels, now in uncorking bottles, now in writing directions, the sound of Ridley's song and the beat of his pacing worked into the minds of Terrence and Syngen all the morning as a half-comprehended refrain. They wrestled up, they wrestled down, they wrestled sore and still, the fiend who blinds the eyes of men that night he had his will, like stag's full-spent among the bent they dropped a while to rest. Oh, it's intolerable, Hurst exclaimed, and then checked himself, as if it were a breach of their agreement. Again and again Terrence would creep half-way up the stairs in case he might be able to glean news of Rachel. But the only news now was of a very fragmentary kind. She had drunk something, she had slept a little, she seemed quieter. In the same way Dr. LaSage confined himself to talking about details, safe once when he volunteered the information that he had just been called in to ascertain by severing a vein in the wrist that an old lady of eighty-five was really dead. She had a horror of being buried alive. It is a horror, he remarked, that we generally find in the very old and seldom in the young. They both expressed their interest in what he told them. It seemed to them very strange. Another strange thing about the day was that the luncheon was forgotten by all of them until it was late in the afternoon, and then Mrs. Chaley waited on them and looked strange too, because she wore a stiff-print dress and her sleeves were rolled up above the elbows. She seemed as oblivious of her appearance, however, as if she had been called out of bed by a midnight alarm of fire, and she had forgotten too her reserve and her composure.  She assured them over and over again that it was their duty to eat. The afternoon, thus being shortened, passed more quickly than they expected. Once Mrs. Flushing opened the door, but on seeing them shut it again quickly. Once Helen came down to fetch something, but she stopped as she left the room to look at a letter addressed to her. She stood for a moment, turning it over, and the extra-ordinary and mournful beauty of her attitude struck Terence in the way things struck him now, as something to be put away in his mind and to be thought about afterwards. They scarcely spoke, the argument between them seeming to be suspended or forgotten. Now that the afternoon sun had left the front of the house, Ridley paced up and down the terrace, repeating stanzas of a long poem. In a subdued but suddenly sonorous voice fragments of the poem were wafted in at the open window as he passed and repast. P.R. and Barlin forsake their temples dim, with that twice battered God of Palestine and mooned Asteroth. The sound of these words was strangely discomforting to both the young men, but they had to be born. As the evening draw on, and the red light of the sunset glitted far away on the sea, the same sense of desperation attacked both Terence and St. John at the thought that the day was nearly over and that another night was at hand. The appearance of one light after another in the town beneath them produced in Hearst a repetition of his terrible and disgusting desire to break down and sob. Then the lamps were brought in by Chaley.  It was unfortunate when there was so much work to be done. Chaley herself limped because of the rheumatism in her feet, but it appeared to her a mere waste of time to take any notice of the unruly flesh of servants. The evening went on. Dr. LaSage arrived unexpectedly and stayed upstairs a very long time. He came down once and drank a cup of coffee. She is very ill, he said in answer to Ridley's question. All the annoyance had by this time left his manner. He was grave and formal, but at the same time it was full of consideration which had not marked it before. He went upstairs again. The three men sat together in the drawing room. Ridley was quite quiet now and his attention seemed to be thoroughly awakened. Safe for little half voluntary movements and exclamations that were stifled at once, they waited in complete silence. It seemed as if they were at last brought together face to face with something definite. It was nearly eleven o'clock when Dr. LaSage again appeared in the room. He approached them very slowly and did not speak at once. He looked first at Shingen and then at Terence and said to Terence, Mr. Hewitt, I think you should go upstairs now. Terence rose immediately, leaving the others seated with Dr. LaSage standing motionless between them. Chaley was in the passage outside, repeating over and over again. It's wicked, it's wicked. Terence paid her no attention. He heard what she was saying, but it conveyed no meaning to his mind. All the way upstairs he kept saying to himself, This has not happened to me. It is not possible that this has happened to me. He looked curiously at his own hand on the banisters. The stairs were very steep and it seemed to take him a long time to surmount them. Instead of feeling keenly as he knew that he ought to feel, he felt nothing at all. When he opened the door he saw Helen sitting by the bedside. There were shaded lights on the table and the room, though it seemed to be full of a great many things, was very tidy. There was a faint and not unpleasant smell of disinfectants. Helen rose and gave up her chair to him in silence. As they passed each other their eyes met in a peculiar level glance. He wondered at the extraordinary clearness of his eyes and at the deep calm and sadness that dwelt in him. He sat down by the bedside and a moment afterwards heard the door shut gently behind her. He was alone with Rachel and a faint reflection of the sense of relief that they used to feel when they were left alone possessed him. He looked at her. He expected to find some terrible change in her, but there was none. She looked indeed very thin and as far as he could see very tired, but she was the same as she had always been. Moreover, she saw him and knew him. She smiled at him and said, Hello, Terrence. The curtain which had been drawn between them for so long vanished immediately. Well, Rachel, he replied in his usual voice upon which she opened her eyes quite widely and smiled with her familiar smile. He kissed her and took her hand. It's been wretched without you, he said. She still looked at him and smiled, but soon a slight look of fatigue or perplexity came into her eyes and she shut them again. But when we're together, we're perfectly happy, he said. He continued to hold her hand. The light being dim it was impossible to see any change in her face. An immense feeling of peace came over Terrence so that he had no wish to move or to speak. The terrible torture and unreality of the last days were over and he had come out now into perfect certainty and peace. His mind began to work naturally again and with great ease. The longer he sat there, the more profoundly was he conscious of the peace invading every corner of his soul. Once he held his breath and listened acutely. She was still breathing. He went on thinking for some time. They seemed to be thinking together. He seemed to be Rachel as well as himself. And then he listened again. No, she had ceased to breathe. So much the better. This was death. It was nothing. It was to cease to breathe. It was happiness. It was perfect happiness. They had now what they had always wanted to have, the union which had been impossible while they lived. Unconscious whether he thought the words or spoke them aloud, he said. No two people have ever been so happy as we have been. No one has ever loved as we have loved. It seemed to him that their complete union and happiness filled the room with rings eddying more and more widely. He had no wish in the world left unfulfilled. They possessed what could never be taken from them. He was not conscious that anyone had come into the room, but later, moments later, or hours later perhaps, he felt an arm behind him. The arms were round him. He did not want to have arms round him, and the mysterious whispering voices annoyed him. He laid Rachel's hand, which was now cold, upon the counter pain, and rose from his chair and walked across to the window. The windows were uncurtained, and showed the moon and a long silver pathway upon the surface of the waves. Why, he said in his ordinary tone of voice, look at the moon. There's a halo round the moon. We shall have rain tomorrow. The arms, whether they were the arms of man or of woman, were round him again. They were pushing him gently towards the door. He turned of his own accord and walked steadily in advance of the arms, conscious of a little amusement at the strange way in which people behaved merely because someone was dead. He would go if they wished it, but nothing they could do would disturb his happiness. As he saw the passage outside the room and the table with the cups and the plates, it suddenly came over him that here was a world in which he would never see Rachel again. Rachel, Rachel, he shrieked, trying to rush back to her, but they prevented him, and pushed him down the passage and into a bedroom far from her room. Downstairs they could hear the thud of his feet on the floor, as he struggled to break free, and twice they heard him shout, Rachel, Rachel, end of Chapter 25. For two or three hours longer the moon poured its light through the empty air. Unbroken by clouds it fell straightly, and lay almost like a chill white frost over the sea and the earth. During these hours the silence was not broken, and the only movement was caused by the movement of trees and branches, which stirred slightly, and then the shadows that lay across the white spaces of the land moved too. In this profound silence one sound only was audible, the sound of a slight but continuous breathing which never ceased, although it never rose and never fell. It continued after the birds had begun to flutter from branch to branch, and could be heard behind the first thin notes of their voices. It continued all through the hours when the east whitened and grew red, and a faint blue tinged the sky, but when the sun rose it ceased and gave place to other sounds. The first sounds that were heard were little inarticulate cries, the cries it seemed of children, all of the very poor, of people who were very weak or in pain, but when the sun was above the horizon the air which had been thin and pale grew every moment richer and warmer, and the sounds of life became bolder and more full of courage and authority. By degrees the smoke began to ascend in wavering breaths over the houses, and these slowly thickened until they were as round and straight as columns, and instead of striking upon pale white blinds the sun shone upon dark windows, beyond which there was depth and space. The sun had been up for many hours, and the great dome of air was warmed through and glittering with thin gold threads of sunlight before anyone moved in the hotel. White and massive it stood in the early light, half asleep with its blinds down. At about half-past nine Miss Allen came very slowly into the hall and walked very slowly to the table where the morning papers were laid, but she did not put out her hand to take one.  She looked curiously old, and from the way in which she stood a little hunched together and very massive you could see what she would be like when she was really old, how she would sit day after day in her chair looking placidly in front of her. Other people began to come into the room and to pass her, but she did not speak to any of them or even look at them, and at last, as if it were necessary to do something, she sat down in a chair and looked quietly and fixedly in front of her. She felt very old this morning, and useless too, as if her life had been a failure, as if it had been hard and laborious to no purpose. She did not want to go on living, and yet she knew that she would. She was so strong that she would live to be a very old woman. She would probably live to be eighty, and as she was now fifty, that left thirty years more for her to live. She turned her hands over and over in her lap and looked at them curiously, her old hands that had done so much work for her. They did not seem to be much point in it all. One went on, and of course one went on. She looked up to see Mrs. Thornbury standing beside her with lines drawn upon her forehead, and her lips parted as if she were about to ask a question. Miss Allen anticipated her. Yes, she said, she died this morning, very early, about three o'clock. Mrs. Thornbury made a little exclamation, drew her lips together, and the tears rose in her eyes. Through them she looked at the hall which was now laid with great breaths of sunlight, and at the careless, casual groups of people who were standing beside the solid armchairs and tables. They looked to her unreal, or as people look, who remain unconscious at some great explosion is about to take place beside them. But there was no explosion, and they went on standing by the chairs and the tables. Mrs. Thornbury no longer saw them, but penetrating through them, as though they were without substance. She saw the house, the people in the house, the room, the bed in the room, and the figure of the dead lying still in the dark beneath the sheets. She could almost see the dead, she could almost hear the voices of the mourners. They expected it, she asked at length. Miss Allen could only shake her head. I know nothing, she replied, except what Mrs. Flushing's maid told me. She died early this morning. The two women looked at each other with a quiet, significant gaze, and then, feeling oddly dazed and seeking, she did not know exactly what. Mrs. Thornbury went slowly upstairs and walked quietly along the passages, touching the wall with her fingers as if to guide herself. Housemaids were passing briskly from room to room, but Mrs. Thornbury avoided them. She hardly saw them. They seemed to her to be in another world. She did not even look up directly when Evelyn stopped her. It was evident that Evelyn had been lately in tears, and when she looked at Mrs. Thornbury, she began to cry again. Together they drew into the hollow of a window and stood there in silence. Broken words formed themselves at last among Evelyn's sobs. It was wicked, she sobbed. It was cruel. They were so happy. Mrs. Thornbury patted her on the shoulder. It seems hard, very hard, she said. She paused and looked out over the slope of the hill at the Ambrose's villa. The windows were blazing in the sun, and she thought how the soul of the debt had passed from those windows. Something had passed from the world. It seemed to her strangely empty. And yet the older one grows, she continued, her eyes regaining more than their usual brightness. The more certain one becomes that there is a reason. How could one go on if there were no reason? she asked. She asked the question of someone, but she did not ask it of Evelyn. Evelyn's sobs were becoming quieter. There must be a reason, she said. It can't only be an accident. For it was an accident. It need never have happened. Mrs. Thornbury sighed deeply. But we must not let ourselves think of that, she added, and let us hope that they don't either. Whatever they had done, it might have been the same. These terrible illnesses. There's no reason. I don't believe there's any reason at all. Evelyn broke out, pulling the blind down, and letting it fly back with a little snap. Why should these things happen? Why should people suffer? I honestly believe, she went on lowering her voice slightly, that Rachel's in heaven, but Terrence, what's the good of it all? she demanded. Mrs. Thornbury shook her head slightly, but made no reply. And pressing Evelyn's hand, she went on down the passage. Impelled by a strong desire to hear something, although she did not know exactly what there was to hear, she was making her way to the flushing's room. As she opened their door, she felt that she had interrupted some argument between husband and wife. Mrs. Flushing was sitting with her back to the light, and Mr. Flushing was standing near her, arguing and trying to persuade her of something. Ah, here is Mrs. Thornbury. He began with some relief in his voice. You have heard, of course, my wife feels that she was in some way responsible.  I'm sure you will agree with me, but it is most unreasonable to feel that. We don't even know. In fact, I think it most unlikely that she caught her illness there. These diseases. Besides, she was set on going. She would have gone whether you asked her or not, Alice. Don't, Wilfred, said Mrs. Flushing, neither moving nor taking her eyes off the spot on the floor upon which they rested. What's the use of talking? What's the use? she ceased. I was coming to ask you, said Mrs. Thornbury, addressing Wilfred, for it was useless to speak to his wife. Is there anything you think that one could do? Has the father arrived? Could one go and see? The strongest wish in her being at this moment was to be able to do something for the unhappy people, to see them, to assure them, to help them. It was dreadful to be so far away from them, but Mr. Flushing shook his head. He did not think that now, later perhaps, one might be able to help. Here Mrs. Flushing was stiffly, turned her back to them, and walked to the dressing-room opposite. As she walked, they could see her breast slowly rise and slowly fall. But her grief was silent.  When she was alone by herself, she clenched her fists together and began beating the back of a chair with them. She was like a wounded animal. She hated death. She was furious, outraged, indignant with death, as if it were a living creature. She refused to relinquish her friends to death. She would not submit to the darkened nothingness. She began to pace up and down, clenching her hands and making no attempt to stop the quick tears which raced down her cheeks. She sat still at last, but she did not submit. She looked stubborn and strong when she had ceased to cry. In the next room, meanwhile, Wilfred was talking to Mrs. Thornbury with great of freedom, now that his wife was not sitting there. That's the worst of these places, he said. People would behave as though they were in England, and they're not. I've no doubt myself that Miss Vinray's caught the infection up at the villa itself. She probably ran risks a dozen times a day that might have given her the illness. It's absurd to say she caught it with us. If he had not been sincerely sorry for them, he would have been annoyed. Pepper tells me, he continued, that he left the house because he thought them so careless. He says they never washed their vegetables properly. People is a fearful price to pay, but it's only what I've seen over and over again. People seem to forget that these things happen, and then they do happen, and they're surprised. Mrs. Thornbury agreed with him that they had been very careless, and that there was no reason whatever to think that she had caught the fever on the expedition. And after talking about other things for a short time, she left him and went sadly along the passage to her own room. There must be some reason why such things happen, she thought to herself as she shut the door. Only at first it was not easy to understand what it was. It seemed so strange, so unbelievable. Why, only three weeks ago, only a fortnight ago, she had seen Rachel. When she shut her eye she could almost see her now. The quiet, shy girl who was going to be married. She thought of all that she would have missed had she died at Rachel's age. The children, the married life, the unimaginable depths and miracles that seemed to her, as she looked back, to have lain about her day after day and year after year. The stunned feeling which had been making it difficult for her to think, gradually gave way to a feeling of the opposite nature. She thought very quickly and very clearly, and looking back over all her experiences tried to fit them into a kind of order. There was undoubtedly much suffering, much struggling, but on the whole surely there was a balance of happiness. Surely order did prevail. Nor were the deaths of young people really the saddest things in life. They were saved so much. They kept so much. The dead, she called to mind those who had died early, accidentally, were beautiful. She often dreamt of the dead, and in time Terrence himself will come to feel. She got up and began to wonder restlessly about the room. For an old woman of her age she was very restless, and for one of her clear, quick minds she was unusually perplexed. She could not settle to anything, so that she was relieved when the door opened. She went up to her husband, took him in her arms and kissed him with unusual intensity, and then as they sat down together she began to pat him and question him as if he were a baby, an old, tired, quarrelless baby. She did not tell him about Miss Vinres's death, for that could only disturb him, and he was put out already. She tried to discover why he was uneasy. Politics again? What were those hurried people doing? She spent the whole morning in discussing politics with her husband, and by degree she became deeply interested in what they were saying. But every now and then what she was saying seemed to her oddly empty of meaning. At luncheon it was remarked by several people that the visitors at the hotel were beginning to leave. There were fewer every day. There were only forty people at luncheon, instead of the sixty that there had been. So old Mrs Paley computed gazing about her with her faded eyes as she took her seat at her own table in the window. Her party generally consisted of Mr Perot, as well as Arthur and Susan, and today Evelyn was lunching with them also. She was unusually subdued. Having noticed that her eyes were red and guessing the reason, the others took pains to keep up an elaborate conversation between themselves. She suffered it to go on for a few minutes, leaning both elbows on the table and leaving her soup untouched. When she exclaimed suddenly, I don't know how you feel, but I can simply think of nothing else. The gentleman murmured sympathetically and looked grave. Susan replied, Yes, isn't it perfectly awful, when you think what a nice girl she was, only just engaged, and this need never have happened. It seems too tragic. She looked at Arthur as though he might be able to help her with something more suitable. Hard lines, said Arthur briefly, but it was a foolish thing to do to go up that river. He shook his head. They should have known better. You can't expect English women to stand roughing it as the natives do, who've been acclimatised. I'd half a mind to warn them at tea that day when it was being discussed. But it's no good saying these sort of things. It only puts people's backs up. It never makes any difference. Old Mrs. Paley, hitherto contented with her soup, here intimated by raising one hand to her ear, that she wished to know what was being said. You heard Aunt Emma, the poor Miss Vinh-Race has died of the fever. Susan informed her gently. She could not speak of death loudly, or even in her usual voice, so that Mrs. Paley did not catch a word. Arthur came to the rescue. Miss Vinh-Race is dead, he said, very distinctly. Mrs. Paley merely bent a little towards him and asked, Eh? Miss Vinh-Race is dead. He repeated. It was only by stiffening all the muscles round his mouth that he could prevent himself from bursting into laughter, and forced himself to repeat for the third time, Miss Vinh-Race, she's dead. Let alone the difficulty of hearing the exact words, facts that were outside her daily experience took some time to reach Mrs. Paley's consciousness. A weight seemed to rest upon her brain, impeding, though not damaging, its action. She sat very guide for at least a minute before she realised what Arthur meant. Dead, she said vaguely. Miss Vinh-Race, dead. Dear me, that's very sad, but I don't at the moment remember which she was. We seem to have made so many new acquaintances here. She looked at Susan for help. A tall dark girl who just missed being handsome with a high colour. No, Susan interposed, she was. Then she gave it up in despair. There was no use in explaining that Mrs. Paley was thinking of the wrong person. She ought not to have died, Mrs. Paley continued. She looked so strong, but people will drink the water. I can never make out why. It seems such a simple thing to tell them to put a bottle of seltzer water in your bedroom. That's all the precaution I've ever taken, and I've been in every part of the world, I may say, Italy a dozen times over, but young people always think they know better, and then they pay the penalty. Poor thing, I am very sorry for her. But the difficulty of peering into a dish of potatoes and helping herself engrossed her attention. Arthur and Susan both secretly hoped that the subject was now disposed of, for they seemed to them something unpleasant in the discussion, but Evelyn was not ready to let it drop. Why would people never talk about the things that mattered? I don't believe you care a bit, she said, turning savagely upon Mr. Perot, who had sat all this time in silence. I, oh yes, I do, he answered awkwardly, but with obvious sincerity. Evelyn's questions made him too feel uncomfortable. It seems so inexplicable, Evelyn continued, death, I mean. Why should she be dead, and not you or I? It was only a fortnight ago that she was here with the rest of us. What do you believe? she demanded of Mr. Perot. Do you believe that things go on, that she's still somewhere, or do you think it's simply a game?  I'm positive Rachel's not dead. Mr. Perot would have said almost anything that Evelyn wanted him to say, but to assert that he believed in the immortality of the soul was not in his power. He sat silent, more deeply wrinkled than usual, crumbling his bread. Lest Evelyn should next ask him what he believed, Arthur, after making a pause equivalent to a full stop, started a completely different topic. Supposing, he said, a man would write and tell you that he wanted five pounds because he had known your grandfather. What would you do? It was this way. My grandfather invented a stove, said Evelyn. I know all about that. We had one in the conservatory to keep the plants warm. Didn't know I was so famous, said Arthur. Well, he continued, determined at all cost to spin his story out at length. The old chap, being about the second best inventor of his day, and a capable lawyer too, died, as they always do, without making a will. Now, fielding his clerk with how much justice I don't know, always claimed that he meant to do something for him. The poor old boys come down in the world, through trying inventions on his own account, lives in penge over a tobacconist shop. I've been to see him there. The question is, must I stump up or not? What does the abstract spirit of justice require, Perot? Remember, I didn't benefit under my grandfather's will, and I've no way of testing the truth of the story. I don't know much about the abstract spirit of justice, said Susan, smiling complacently at the others. But I'm certain of one thing. He'll get his five pounds. As Mr. Perot proceeded to deliver an opinion, and Evelyn insisted that he was much too stingy, like all lawyers, thinking of the letter and not of the spirit, while Mrs. Paley required to be kept informed between the courses, as to what they were all saying, the luncheon passed with no interval of silence, and Arthur congratulated himself upon the tact with which the discussion had been smoothed over. As they left the room, it happened that Mrs. Paley's wheeled chair ran into the elliards, who were coming through the door as she was going out. Brought thus to a standstill for a moment, Arthur and Susan congratulated Huling Elliot upon his convalescence. He was down, cadaverous enough, for the first time, and Mr. Perot took occasion to say a few words in private to Evelyn. Would there be any chance of seeing you this afternoon about three-thirty, say, I shall be in the garden by the fountain? The block dissolved before Evelyn answered, but as she left them in the hall, she looked at him brightly and said, Have passed three, did you say? That'll suit me. She ran upstairs with the feeling of spiritual exultation, and quickened life, which the prospect of an emotional scene always aroused in her. That Mr. Perot was again about to propose to her she had no doubt, and she was aware that on this occasion she ought to be prepared with a definite answer, for she was going away in three days' time. But she could not bring her mind to bear upon the question. To come to a decision was very difficult to her, because she had a natural dislike of anything final and done with. She liked to go on and on, always on and on. She was leaving, and therefore she occupied herself in laying her clothes out side by side upon the bed. She observed that some were very shabby. She took the photograph of her father and mother, and before she laid it away in her box, she held it for a minute in her hand. Rachel had looked at it. Suddenly the keen feeling of someone's personality, which things that they have owned or handled sometimes preserves, overcame her. She felt Rachel in the room with her. It was as if she were on a ship at sea, and the life of the day was unreal as the land in the distance. But by degrees the feeling of Rachel's presence passed away, and she could no longer realise her, for she had scarcely known her. But this momentary sensation left her depressed and fatigued. What had she done with her life? What future was there before her? What was make-believe, and what was real? Were these proposals and intimacies and adventures real, or was the contentment which she had seen on the faces of Susan and Rachel? More real than anything she had ever felt. She made herself ready to go downstairs, absent-mindedly, but her fingers were so well-trained that they did the work of preparing her almost of their own accord. When she was actually on the way downstairs, the blood began to circle through her body of its own accord, too, for her mind felt very dull. Mr. Parrot was waiting for her. Indeed he had gone straight into the garden after luncheon, and had been walking up and down the path for more than half an hour in a state of acute suspense. I'm late as usual, she exclaimed as she caught sight of him, where you must forgive me. I had to pack up. My word, it looked stormy, and that's a new steamer in the bay, isn't it? She looked at the bay in which a steamer was just dropping anchor, the smoke still hanging about it, while a swift black shudder ran through the waves. Once quite forgotten what rain looks like, she added. But Mr. Parrot paid no attention to the steamer or to the weather. Miss Murgatroyd, he began with his usual formality. I asked you to come here from a very selfish motive, I fear. I do not think you need to be assured once more of my feelings, but as you were leaving so soon I felt that I could not let you go without asking you to tell me. Have I any reason to hope that you will ever come to care for me? He was very pale and seemed unable to say more. The little gush of vitality which had come ring to Evelyn as she ran downstairs had left her, and she felt herself impotent. There was nothing for her to say. She felt nothing. Now that he was actually asking her, in his elderly, gentle words, to marry him, she felt less for him than she had ever felt before. Let's sit down and talk it over, she said rather unsteadily. Mr. Parrot followed her to a curved green seat under a tree. They looked at the fountain in front of them, which had long ceased to play. Evelyn kept looking at the fountain instead of thinking of what she was saying. The fountain without any water seemed to be the type of her own being. Of course I care for you, she began, rushing her words out in a hurry. I should be a brute if I didn't. I think you're quite one of the nicest people I've ever known, and one of the finest too. But I wish—I wish you didn't care for me in that way. Are you sure you do? For the moment she honestly desired that he should say no. Quite sure, said Mr. Parrot.  I think I want more. I don't know exactly what I feel. He sat by her, watching her, and refraining from speech. I sometimes think I haven't got it in me to care very much for one person only. Someone else would make you a better wife. I can imagine you very happy with someone else. If you think that there is any chance that she will come to care for me, I am quite content to wait, said Mr. Parrot. Well, there's no hurry, is there, said Evelyn. Suppose I thought it over and wrote and told you when I get back. I'm going to Moscow. I'll write for Moscow. But Mr. Parrot persisted. You cannot give me any kind of idea. I do not ask for a date. That would be most unreasonable. He paused, looking down at the gravel path. As she did not immediately answer, he went on. I know very well that I'm not—that I have not much to offer you, either in myself or in my circumstances. And I forget. It cannot seem the miracle to you that it does to me. Until I met you, I had gone on in my own quiet way. We are both very quiet people, my sister and I, quite content with my lot. My friendship with Arthur was the most important thing in my life. Now that I know you, all that has changed. You seem to put such a spirit into everything. Life seems to hold so many possibilities that I had never dreamt of. That splendid, Evelyn exclaimed, grasping his hand. Now you'll go back and start all kinds of things, and make a great name in the world, and we'll go on being friends. Whatever happens will be great friends, won't we? Evelyn! he moaned suddenly, and took her in his arms and kissed her. She did not resent it, although it made little impression on her. As she sat upright again, she said, I never see why one shouldn't go on being friends, although some people do, and friendships do make a difference, don't they? They are the kind of things that matter in one's life. He looked at her with a bewildered expression, as if he did not really understand what she was saying. With a considerable effort he collected himself, stood up and said, Now I think I have told you what I feel, and I will only add that I can wait as long as ever you wish. Left alone, Evelyn walked up and down the path. What did matter then? What was the meaning of it all? End of Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Of The Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 27 All that evening the clouds gathered, until they closed entirely over the blue of the sky. They seemed to narrow the space between earth and heaven, so that there was no room for the air to move in freely, and the waves, too, lay flat and yet rigid, as if they were restrained. The leaves on the bushes and trees in the garden hung closely together, and the feeling of pressure and restraint was increased by the short, chirping sounds which came from the birds and insects. So strange were the lights and the silence that the busy humming voices which usually filled the dining room at mealtimes had distinct gaps in it, and during these silences the clatter of the knives upon plates became audible. The first roll of thunder and the first heavy drop striking the pain caused a little stir. Its coming was said simultaneously in many different languages. There was then a profound silence as if the thunder had withdrawn into itself. People had just begun to eat again when a gust of cold air came through the open windows, lifting tablecloths and skirts, a light flashed, and was instantly followed by a clap of thunder right over the hotel. The rain swished with it, and immediately there were all those sounds of windows being shut and doors slamming violently, which accompanied a storm. The room grew suddenly several degrees darker, for the wind seemed to be driving waves of darkness across the earth. No one attempted to eat for a time, but sat looking out at the garden, with their forks in the air. The flashes now came frequently, lighting up faces as if they were going to be photographed, surprising them intense and unnatural expressions. The clap followed close and violently upon them. Several women half rose from their chairs and then sat down again. But dinner was continued uneasily, with eyes upon the garden. The bushes outside were ruffled and whitened, and the wind pressed upon them, so that they seemed to stoop to the ground. The waiters had to press dishes upon the diner's notice, and the diners had to draw the attention of waiters, for they were all absorbed in looking at the storm. As the thunder showed no signs of withdrawing, but seemed massed right overhead, while the lightning aimed straight at the garden every time, an uneasy gloom replaced the first excitement. Finishing the meal very quickly, people congregated in the hall, where they felt more secure than in any other place, because they could retreat far from the windows, and although they heard the thunder, they could not see anything. A little boy was carried away sobbing in the arms of his mother. While the storm continued, no one seemed inclined to sit down, but they collected in little groups under the central skylight, where they stood in a yellow atmosphere looking upwards. Now and again their faces became white as the lightning flashed, and finally a terrific crash came, making the pains of the skylight lift at the joints. Ah! several voices exclaimed at the same moment. Something struck, said a man's voice. The rain rushed down. The rain seemed now to extinguish the lightning and the thunder, and the hall became almost dark. After a minute or two, when nothing was heard but the rattle of water upon the glass, there was a perceptible slackening of the sound, and then the atmosphere became lighter. It's over, said another voice. At a touch all the electric lights were turned on, and revealed a crowd of people all standing, all looking with rather strained faces up at the skylight. But when they saw each other in the artificial light, they turned at once and began to move away. For some minutes the rain continued to rattle upon the skylight, and the thunder gave another shake or two. But it was evident from the clearing of the darkness, and the light drumming of the rain upon the roof, that the great confused ocean of air was traveling away from them, and passing high overhead with its clouds and its rods of fire out to sea. The building which had seemed so small in the tumult of the storm now became as square and spacious as usual. As the storm drew away the people in the hall of the hotel sat down, and with a comfortable sense of relief began to tell each other stories about great storms, and produced in many cases their occupations for the evening. The chess board was brought out, and Mr Elliot, who wore a stock instead of a collar as a sign of convalescence, but was otherwise, much as usual, challenged Mr Pepper to a final contest. Round them gathered a group of ladies with pieces of needlework, or in default of needlework, with novels to superintend the game, much as if they were in charge of two small boys playing marbles. Every now and then they looked at the board and made some encouraging remark to the gentleman. Mrs Paley just round the corner had her cards arranged in long ladders before her, with Susan sitting near to sympathise but not to correct, and the merchants and the miscellaneous people who had never been discovered to possess names, were stretched in their armchairs with their newspapers on their knees. The conversation in these circumstances was very gentle, fragmentary, and intermittent, but the room was full of the indescribable stir of life. Every now and then the moth, which was now grey of wing and shiny of thorax, whizzed over their heads, and hit the lamps with a thud.  They watched it dash from lamp to lamp because they were comfortable and had nothing to do. On the sofa beside the chess players Mrs Elliott was imparting a new stitch in knitting to Mrs Thornbury so that their heads came very near together, and were only to be distinguished by the old lace cap which Mrs Thornbury wore in the evening. Mrs Elliott was an expert at knitting and disclaimed a compliment to that effect with evident pride. I suppose we're all proud of something, she said, and I'm proud of my knitting. I think things like that run in families. We all knit well. I had an uncle who knitted his own socks to the day of his death, and he did it better than any of his daughters, dear old gentleman. Now I wonder that you, Miss Allen, who use your eyes so much, don't take up knitting in the evenings. You'll find it such a relief, I should say, such a rest to the eyes, and the bazaars are so glad of things. Her voice dropped into the smooth half-conscious tone of the expert knitter. The words came gently one after another. As much as I do I can always dispose of, which is a comfort, for then I feel that I'm not wasting my time. Miss Allen, being thus addressed, shut her novel and observed the others placidly for a time. At last she said, It is surely not natural to leave your wife, because she happens to be in love with you, but that, as far as I can make out, is what the gentleman in my story does. That doesn't sound good. No, that doesn't sound at all natural, murmured the knitters in their absorbed voices. Still, it's the kind of book people call very clever, Mrs. Allen added. Maternity, by Michael Jessup I presume, Mr. Elliott put in, for he could never resist the temptation of talking while he played chess. Do you know, said Mrs. Elliott, after a moment, I don't think people do write good novels now, not as good as they used to, anyhow. No one took the trouble to agree with her or to disagree with her. Arthur Venning, who was strolling about, sometimes looking at the game, sometimes reading a page of a magazine, looked at Miss Allen, who was half asleep and said humorously, A penny for your thoughts, Miss Allen? The others looked up, they were glad that he had not spoken to them. But Miss Allen replied without any hesitation. I was thinking of my imaginary uncle. Hasn't everyone got an imaginary uncle? She continued. I have one, my most delightful old gentleman. He's always giving me things. Sometimes it's a gold watch, sometimes it's a carriage and pair, sometimes it's a beautiful little cottage in the new forest. Sometimes it's a ticket to the place I most want to see. She set them all thinking vaguely of the things they wanted. Mrs. Elliott knew exactly what she wanted.  We're such lucky people, she said looking at her husband. We really have no wants. She was apt to say this partly in order to convince herself, and partly in order to convince other people. But she was prevented from wondering how far she carried conviction by the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Flushing, who came through the hall and stopped by the chessboard. Mrs. Flushing looked wilder than ever. A great strand of black hair looped down across her brow. Her cheeks were whipped a dark, blood-red, and drops of rain made wet marks upon them. Mr. Flushing explained that they had been on the roof watching the storm. It was a wonderful sight, he said. The lightning went right out over the sea and lit up the waves and the ships far away. You can't think how wonderful the mountains looked, too, with the lights on them, and the great masses of shadow. It's all over now. He slid down into a chair, becoming interested in the final struggle of the game. And you go back tomorrow? said Mrs. Thornbury, looking at Mrs. Flushing. Yes, she replied. And indeed one is not sorry to go back, said Mrs. Elliott, assuming an air of mournful anxiety. After all this illness are you afraid of dying? Mrs. Flushing demanded scornfully. I think we are all afraid of that, said Mrs. Elliott, with dignity. I suppose we're all cowards when it comes to the point, said Mrs. Flushing, rubbing her cheek against the back of the chair. I'm sure I am. Not a bit of it, said Mr. Flushing, turning round, for Mr. Pepper took a very long time to consider his move. It's not cowardly to wish to live, Alice. It's the very reverse of cowardly. Personally, I'd like to go on for a hundred years. Granted, of course, that I had the full use of my faculties. Think of the things that are bound to happen. That is what I feel, Mrs. Thornbury rejoined, the changes, the improvements, the inventions, and beauty. Do you know I feel sometimes that I couldn't bear to die and cease to see beautiful things about me? It would certainly be very dull to die before they have discovered whether there is life in Mars, Miss Allen added. Do you really believe there's life in Mars? asked Mrs. Flushing, turning to her for the first time, with keen interest. Who tells you that? Someone who knows. Do you know a man called? Here Mrs. Thornbury laid down her knitting, and a look of extreme solicitude came into her eyes. There is Mr. Hearst, she said quietly. St. John had just come through the swing door. He was rather blown about by the wind, and his cheeks looked terribly pale, unshawn, and cavernous. After taking off his coat, he was going to pass straight through the hall and up to his room, but he could not ignore the presence of so many people he knew, especially as Mrs. Thornbury rose and went up to him, holding out her hand. But the shock of the warm, lamp-lit room, together with the sight of so many cheerful human beings sitting together at their ease, after the dark walk in the rain and the long days of strain and horror, overcame him completely. He looked at Mrs. Thornbury and could not speak. Everyone was silent. Mr. Pepper's hand stayed upon his night. Mrs. Thornbury somehow moved him to a chair, sat herself beside him, and with tears in her own eyes said gently, You have done everything for your friend. Her actions set them all talking again as if they had never stopped, and Mr. Pepper finished the move with his night. There was nothing to be done, said St. John. He spoke very slowly. It seems impossible. He drew his hand across his eyes as if some dream came between him and the others and prevented him from seeing where he was. And that poor fellow, said Mrs. Thornbury, the tears falling again down her cheeks. Impossible, St. John repeated. Did he have the consolation of knowing? Mrs. Thornbury began very tentatively. But St. John made no reply. He lay back in his chair, half seeing the others, half hearing what they said. He was terribly tired, and the light and warmth the movements of the hands and the soft communicative voices soothed him. There gave him a strange sense of quiet and relief. As he sat there motionless, this feeling of relief became a feeling of profound happiness. Without any sense of disloyalty to Terence and Rachel, he ceased to think about either of them. The movements and the voices seemed to draw together from different parts of the room and to combine themselves into a pattern before his eyes. He was content to sit silently watching the pattern build itself up, looking at what he hardly saw. The game was really a good one, and Mr. Pepper and Mr. Elliott were becoming more and more set upon the struggle. Mrs. Thornbury, seeing that St. John did not wish to talk, resumed her knitting. Lightning again, Mrs. Flushing suddenly exclaimed. A yellow flash across the blue window, and for a second they saw the green trees outside. She strode to the door, pushed it open, and stood half out in the open air. But the light was only the reflection of the storm which was over. The rain had ceased, the heavy clouds were blown away, and the air was thin and clear, although vaporish mists were being driven swiftly across the moon. The sky was once more deep and solemn blue, and the shape of the earth was visible at the bottom of the air, enormous, dark and solid, rising into the tapering mass of the mountain, and pricked here and there on the slopes by the tiny lights of villas. The driving air, the drone of the trees, and the flashing light which now and again spread a broad illumination over the earth filled Mrs. Flushing with exultation. Her breasts rose and fell. Splendid, splendid! she muttered to herself. Then she turned back into the hall and exclaimed in a peremptory voice, Come outside and see, Wilfred, it's wonderful!  To bed, to bed, said Miss Allen. It was the move with your queen that gave it away, Pepper, exclaimed Mr. Elliott triumphantly, sweeping the pieces together and standing up. He had won the game. What! Pepper beaten at last! I congratulate you, said Arthur Benning, who was wheeling old Mrs. Paley to bed. All these voices sounded gratefully insincenziers as he lay half asleep, and yet vividly conscious of everything around him.  On their way to bed. End of Chapter 27 End of The Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf