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And then as the eyes of the mind
recalled these vivid images her bodily eyes looked out upon the
rain-blotted scene, the mountains rising in a dark and dismal circle
round that sombre pool below, walling her in from the outer world.
'I am at the bottom of a grave,' she said to herself. 'I am in a living
tomb, from which there is no escape. Forty years! Forty years of
patience and hope, for what? For dreams which may never be realised; for
descendants who may never give me the price of my labours. Yes, I should
like to go to my dear one. I should like to revisit the South of France,
to go on to Italy. I should feel young again amidst that eternal,
unchangeable loveliness. I should forget all I have suffered. But it
cannot be. Not yet, not yet!'
Presently with a smile of concentrated bitterness she repeated the words
'Not yet!'
'Surely at my age it must be folly to dream of the future; and yet I
feel as if there were half a century of life in me, as if I had lost
nothing in either mental or bodily vigour since I came here forty years
ago.


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