1865: Rosa is driven by Wash Jones to Sutpen's house, where she confronts Clytie in the front doorway
So they will have told you doubtless already how I told that Jones to take that mule which was not his around to the barn and harness it to our buggy while I put on my hat and shawl and locked the house. . . . But they cannot tell you how I went on up the drive, past Ellen's ruined and weed-choked flower beds and reached the house . . . I ran up and into the hallway whose carpet had long since gone with the bed- and table-linen for lint, and saw the Sutpen face . . . that inscrutable coffee-colored face, that cold implacable mindless (no, not mindless: anything but mindless: his own clairvoyant will tempered to amoral evil's undeviating absolute by the black willing blood with which he had crossed it) replica of his own which he had created and decreed to preside upon his absence, as you might watch a wild distracted nightbound bird flutter into the brazen and fatal lamp. "Wait," she said. "Dont you go up there." (pp107-11)
1865: outside closed room containing Bon's body, Rosa sees Judith holding closed picture case she gave him
and this too they cannot tell you: How I ran, fled, up the stairs and found no grieving widowed bride but Judith standing before the closed door to that chamber, in the gingham dress which she had worn each time I had seen her since Ellen died, holding something in one hanging hand; and if there had been grief or anguish she had put them too away, complete or not complete I do not know, along with that unfinished wedding dress. 'Yes, Rosa?' she said, like that again, and I stopped in running's midstride again though my body, blind unsentient barrow of deluded clay and breath, still advanced: And how I saw that what she held in that lax and negligent hand was the photograph, the picture of herself in its metal case which she had given him, held casual and forgotten against her flank as any interrupted pastime book. (p114)
1860: Rosa's aunt leaves; Bon visits Sutpen's for two days; afterwards Rosa visits Sutpen's too
It was the summer after that first Christmas that Henry brought him home, the summer following the two days of that June vacation which he spent at Sutpen's Hundred before he rode on to the River to take the steamboat home, that summer after my aunt left and papa had to go away on business and I was sent out to Ellen (possibly my father chose Ellen as a refuge for me because at that time Thomas Sutpen was also absent) (p117)
1865: after helping to bury Bon, Rosa moves in with Judith and Clytie at Sutpen's Hundred
he was absent, and he was; he returned, and he was not; three women put something into the earth and covered it, and he had never been. Now you will ask me why I stayed there. I could say, I do not know, could give ten thousand paltry reasons, all untrue, and be believed: - that I stayed for food, . . . that I stayed for shelter, . . . or that I stayed for company, who at home could have had the company of neighbors who were at least of my own kind, who had known me all my life and even longer in the sense that they thought not only as I thought but as my forbears thought, while here I had for company one woman whom, for all she was blood kin to me, I did not understand and, if what my observations warranted me to believe was true, I did not wish to understand, and another who was so foreign to me and to all that I was that we might have been not only of different races (which we were), not only of different sexes (which we were not), but of different species, speaking no language which the other understood, the very simple words with which we were forced to adjust our days to one another being even less inferential of thought or intention than the sounds which a beast and a bird might make to each other. But I dont say any of these. I stayed there and waited for Thomas Sutpen to come home. (pp123-24)
1866: Sutpen returns home from the war and tries to reconstruct Sutpen's Hundred
And then one afternoon in January Thomas Sutpen came home; someone looked up from where we were preparing the garden for another year's food and saw him riding up the drive. (p127) he would not even pause for breath before undertaking to restore his house and plantation as near as possible to what it had been. (p129)
1866: Rosa becomes engaged to Sutpen
And then one evening I became engaged to marry him. It took me just three months. (Do you mind how I dont say he, but I?) (p127)
1866: Sutpen speaks the 'outrageous words' that drive Rosa back to Jefferson, to wear black for the rest of her life
I will tell you what he did and let you be the judge. (Or try to tell you, because there are some things for which three words are three too many, and three thousand words that many words too less, and this is one of them. It can be told; I could take that many sentences, repeat the bold blank naked and outrageous words just as he spoke them, and bequeath you only that same aghast and outraged unbelief I knew when I comprehended what he meant; or take three thousand sentences and leave you only that Why? Why? and Why? that I have asked and listened to for almost fifty years.) (pp134-35)
1869: Sutpen dies 'in the stroke of a rusty scythe'
He was the light-blinded bat-like image of his own torment cast by the fierce demoniac lantern up from beneath the earth's crust and hence in retrograde, reverse; from abysmal and chaotic dark to eternal and abysmal dark completing his descending (do you mark the gradation?) ellipsis, clinging, trying to cling with vain unsubstantial hands to what he hoped would hold him, save him, arrest him - Ellen (do you mark them?), myself, then last of all that fatherless daughter of Wash Jones' only child who, so I heard once, died in a Memphis brothel - to find severance (even if not rest and peace) at last in the stroke of a rusty scythe. I was told, informed of that too, though not by Jones this time but by someone else kind enough to turn aside and tell me he was dead. 'Dead?' I cried. 'Dead? You? You lie; you're not dead; heaven cannot, and hell dare not, have you!' (p139)
1865: Henry tells Judith she can't marry Bon because 'I killed him'
the two of them, brother and sister, curiously alike as if the difference in sex had merely sharpened the common blood to a terrific, an almost unbearable, similarity, speaking to one another in short brief staccato sentences like slaps, as if they stood breast to breast striking one another in turn, neither making any attempt to guard against the blows. Now you cant marry him. Why cant I marry him? Because he's dead. Dead? Yes. I killed him. (pp139-40)
1909: Rosa tells Quentin there is 'something living hidden' in Sutpen's old plantation house
"There's something in that house." "In that house? It's Clytie. Dont she - " "No. Something living in it. Hidden in it. It has been our there for four years, living hidden in that house." (p140)