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She
sighed
;
there
was
too
much
work
for
one
woman
.
She
wagged
her
head
this
side
and
that
.
This
had
been
the
nursery
.
Why
,
it
was
all
damp
in
here
;
the
plaster
was
falling
.
Whatever
did
they
want
to
hang
a
beast
's
skull
there
?
gone
mouldy
too
.
And
rats
in
all
the
attics
.
The
rain
came
in
.
But
they
never
sent
;
never
came
.
Some
of
the
locks
had
gone
,
so
the
doors
banged
.
She
did
n't
like
to
be
up
here
at
dusk
alone
neither
.
It
was
too
much
for
one
woman
,
too
much
,
too
much
.
She
creaked
,
she
moaned
.
She
banged
the
door
.
She
turned
the
key
in
the
lock
,
and
left
the
house
alone
,
shut
up
,
locked
.
The
house
was
left
;
the
house
was
deserted
.
It
was
left
like
a
shell
on
a
sandhill
to
fill
with
dry
salt
grains
now
that
life
had
left
it
.
The
long
night
seemed
to
have
set
in
;
the
trifling
airs
,
nibbling
,
the
clammy
breaths
,
fumbling
,
seemed
to
have
triumphed
.
The
saucepan
had
rusted
and
the
mat
decayed
.
Toads
had
nosed
their
way
in
.
Idly
,
aimlessly
,
the
swaying
shawl
swung
to
and
fro
.
A
thistle
thrust
itself
between
the
tiles
in
the
larder
.
The
swallows
nested
in
the
drawing-room
;
the
floor
was
strewn
with
straw
;
the
plaster
fell
in
shovelfuls
;
rafters
were
laid
bare
;
rats
carried
off
this
and
that
to
gnaw
behind
the
wainscots
.
Tortoise-shell
butterflies
burst
from
the
chrysalis
and
pattered
their
life
out
on
the
window-pane
.
Poppies
sowed
themselves
among
the
dahlias
;
the
lawn
waved
with
long
grass
;
giant
artichokes
towered
among
roses
;
a
fringed
carnation
flowered
among
the
cabbages
;
while
the
gentle
tapping
of
a
weed
at
the
window
had
become
,
on
winters
'
nights
,
a
drumming
from
sturdy
trees
and
thorned
briars
which
made
the
whole
room
green
in
summer
.
What
power
could
now
prevent
the
fertility
,
the
insensibility
of
nature
?
Mrs.
McNab
's
dream
of
a
lady
,
of
a
child
,
of
a
plate
of
milk
soup
?
It
had
wavered
over
the
walls
like
a
spot
of
sunlight
and
vanished
.
She
had
locked
the
door
;
she
had
gone
.
It
was
beyond
the
strength
of
one
woman
,
she
said
.
They
never
sent
.
They
never
wrote
.
There
were
things
up
there
rotting
in
the
drawers
--
it
was
a
shame
to
leave
them
so
,
she
said
.
The
place
was
gone
to
rack
and
ruin
.
Only
the
Lighthouse
beam
entered
the
rooms
for
a
moment
,
sent
its
sudden
stare
over
bed
and
wall
in
the
darkness
of
winter
,
looked
with
equanimity
at
the
thistle
and
the
swallow
,
the
rat
and
the
straw
.
Nothing
now
withstood
them
;
nothing
said
no
to
them
.
Let
the
wind
blow
;
let
the
poppy
seed
itself
and
the
carnation
mate
with
the
cabbage
.
Let
the
swallow
build
in
the
drawing-room
,
and
the
thistle
thrust
aside
the
tiles
,
and
the
butterfly
sun
itself
on
the
faded
chintz
of
the
arm-chairs
.
Let
the
broken
glass
and
the
china
lie
out
on
the
lawn
and
be
tangled
over
with
grass
and
wild
berries
.
For
now
had
come
that
moment
,
that
hesitation
when
dawn
trembles
and
night
pauses
,
when
if
a
feather
alight
in
the
scale
it
will
be
weighed
down
.
One
feather
,
and
the
house
,
sinking
,
falling
,
would
have
turned
and
pitched
downwards
to
the
depths
of
darkness
.
In
the
ruined
room
,
picnickers
would
have
lit
their
kettles
;
lovers
sought
shelter
there
,
lying
on
the
bare
boards
;
and
the
shepherd
stored
his
dinner
on
the
bricks
,
and
the
tramp
slept
with
his
coat
round
him
to
ward
off
the
cold
.
Then
the
roof
would
have
fallen
;
briars
and
hemlocks
would
have
blotted
out
path
,
step
and
window
;
would
have
grown
,
unequally
but
lustily
over
the
mound
,
until
some
trespasser
,
losing
his
way
,
could
have
told
only
by
a
red-hot
poker
among
the
nettles
,
or
a
scrap
of
china
in
the
hemlock
,
that
here
once
some
one
had
lived
;
there
had
been
a
house
.
If
the
feather
had
fallen
,
if
it
had
tipped
the
scale
downwards
,
the
whole
house
would
have
plunged
to
the
depths
to
lie
upon
the
sands
of
oblivion
.
But
there
was
a
force
working
;
something
not
highly
conscious
;
something
that
leered
,
something
that
lurched
;
something
not
inspired
to
go
about
its
work
with
dignified
ritual
or
solemn
chanting
.
Mrs.
McNab
groaned
;
Mrs.
Bast
creaked
.
They
were
old
;
they
were
stiff
;
their
legs
ached
.
They
came
with
their
brooms
and
pails
at
last
;
they
got
to
work
.
All
of
a
sudden
,
would
Mrs.
McNab
see
that
the
house
was
ready
,
one
of
the
young
ladies
wrote
:
would
she
get
this
done
;
would
she
get
that
done
;
all
in
a
hurry
.
They
might
be
coming
for
the
summer
;
had
left
everything
to
the
last
;
expected
to
find
things
as
they
had
left
them
.
Slowly
and
painfully
,
with
broom
and
pail
,
mopping
,
scouring
,
Mrs.
McNab
,
Mrs.
Bast
,
stayed
the
corruption
and
the
rot
;
rescued
from
the
pool
of
Time
that
was
fast
closing
over
them
now
a
basin
,
now
a
cupboard
;
fetched
up
from
oblivion
all
the
Waverley
novels
and
a
tea-set
one
morning
;
in
the
afternoon
restored
to
sun
and
air
a
brass
fender
and
a
set
of
steel
fire-irons
.
George
,
Mrs.
Bast
's
son
,
caught
the
rats
,
and
cut
the
grass
.
They
had
the
builders
.
Attended
with
the
creaking
of
hinges
and
the
screeching
of
bolts
,
the
slamming
and
banging
of
damp-swollen
woodwork
,
some
rusty
laborious
birth
seemed
to
be
taking
place
,
as
the
women
,
stooping
,
rising
,
groaning
,
singing
,
slapped
and
slammed
,
upstairs
now
,
now
down
in
the
cellars
.
Oh
,
they
said
,
the
work
!
They
drank
their
tea
in
the
bedroom
sometimes
,
or
in
the
study
;
breaking
off
work
at
mid-day
with
the
smudge
on
their
faces
,
and
their
old
hands
clasped
and
cramped
with
the
broom
handles
.
Flopped
on
chairs
,
they
contemplated
now
the
magnificent
conquest
over
taps
and
bath
;
now
the
more
arduous
,
more
partial
triumph
over
long
rows
of
books
,
black
as
ravens
once
,
now
white-stained
,
breeding
pale
mushrooms
and
secreting
furtive
spiders
.
Once
more
,
as
she
felt
the
tea
warm
in
her
,
the
telescope
fitted
itself
to
Mrs.
McNab
's
eyes
,
and
in
a
ring
of
light
she
saw
the
old
gentleman
,
lean
as
a
rake
,
wagging
his
head
,
as
she
came
up
with
the
washing
,
talking
to
himself
,
she
supposed
,
on
the
lawn
.
He
never
noticed
her
.
Some
said
he
was
dead
;
some
said
she
was
dead
.
Which
was
it
?
Mrs.
Bast
did
n't
know
for
certain
either
.
The
young
gentleman
was
dead
.
That
she
was
sure
.
She
had
read
his
name
in
the
papers
.
There
was
the
cook
now
,
Mildred
,
Marian
,
some
such
name
as
that
--
a
red-headed
woman
,
quick-tempered
like
all
her
sort
,
but
kind
,
too
,
if
you
knew
the
way
with
her
.
Many
a
laugh
they
had
had
together
.
She
saved
a
plate
of
soup
for
Maggie
;
a
bite
of
ham
,
sometimes
;
whatever
was
over
.
They
lived
well
in
those
days
.
They
had
everything
they
wanted
(
glibly
,
jovially
,
with
the
tea
hot
in
her
,
she
unwound
her
ball
of
memories
,
sitting
in
the
wicker
arm-chair
by
the
nursery
fender
)
.
There
was
always
plenty
doing
,
people
in
the
house
,
twenty
staying
sometimes
,
and
washing
up
till
long
past
midnight
.
