The house was left; the house was deserted. —
It was left like a shell on asandhill to fill with dry salt grains now that life had left it. —
The long nightseemed to have set in; the trifling airs, nibbling, the clammy breaths,fumbling, seemed to have triumphed. —
The saucepan had rusted and themat decayed. Toads had nosed their way in. —
Idly, aimlessly, the swayingshawl swung to and fro. —
A thistle thrust itself between the tiles in the larder.
The swallows nested in the drawing-roon; the floor was strewnwith straw; —
the plaster fell in shovelfuls; rafters were laid bare; —
rats carriedoff this and that to gnaw behind the wainscots. —
Tortoise-shell butterfliesburst from the chrysalis and pattered their life out on the windowpane.
Poppies sowed themselves among the dahlias; the lawn wavedwith long grass; —
giant artichokes towered among roses; a fringed carnationflowered among the cabbages; —
while the gentle tapping of a weed atthe window had become, on winters’ nights, a drumming from sturdytrees and thorned briars which made the whole room green in summer.
What power could now prevent the fertility, the insensibility ofnature? —
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. Shehad locked the door; —
she had gone. It was beyond the strength of onewoman, she said. —
They never sent. They never wrote. —
There were thingsup there rotting in the drawers—it was a shame to leave them so, shesaid. —
The place was gone to rack and ruin. Only the Lighthouse beamentered the rooms for a moment, sent its sudden stare over bed and wallin the darkness of winter, looked with equanimity at the thistle and theswallow, the rat and the straw. —
Nothing now withstood them; nothingsaid no to them. Let the wind blow; —
let the poppy seed itself and thecarnation mate with the cabbage. —
Let the swallow build in the drawing-room, and the thistle thrust aside the tiles, and the butterfly sun itself onthe faded chintz of the arm-chairs. —
Let the broken glass and the china lieout on the lawn and be tangled over with grass and wild berries.
For now had come that moment, that hesitation when dawn tremblesand night pauses, when if a feather alight in the scale it will be weigheddown. —
One feather, and the house, sinking, falling, would have turnedand pitched downwards to the depths of darkness. —
In the ruined room,picnickers would have lit their kettles; —
lovers sought shelter there, lyingon the bare boards; —
and the shepherd stored his dinner on the bricks, andthe tramp slept with his coat round him to ward off the cold. —
Then theroof would have fallen; briars and hemlocks would have blotted outpath, step and window; —
would have grown, unequally but lustily overthe mound, until some trespasser, losing his way, could have told onlyby 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, thewhole house would have plunged to the depths to lie upon the sands ofoblivion. —
But there was a force working; something not highly conscious; —
something that leered, something that lurched; —
something not inspired togo about its work with dignified ritual or solemn chanting. —
Mrs McNabgroaned; Mrs Bast creaked. They were old; they were stiff; their legsached. —
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 ofthe young ladies wrote: —
would she get this done; would she get thatdone; all in a hurry. —
They might be coming for the summer; had lefteverything to the last; —
expected to find things as they had left them.
Slowly and painfully, with broom and pail, mopping, scouring, MrsMcNab, Mrs Bast, stayed the corruption and the rot; —
rescued from thepool 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-setone morning; —
in the afternoon restored to sun and air a brass fender anda set of steel fire-irons. —
George, Mrs Bast’s son, caught the rats, and cutthe grass. They had the builders. —
Attended with the creaking of hingesand the screeching of bolts, the slamming and banging of damp-swollenwoodwork, some rusty laborious birth seemed to be taking place, as thewomen, stooping, rising, groaning, singing, slapped and slammed, upstairsnow, now down in the cellars. —
Oh, they said, the work!
They drank their tea in the bedroom sometimes, or in the study; —
breakingoff work at mid-day with the smudge on their faces, and their oldhands 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, thetelescope fitted itself to Mrs McNab’s eyes, and in a ring of light she sawthe old gentleman, lean as a rake, wagging his head, as she came up withthe washing, talking to himself, she supposed, on the lawn. —
He never noticedher. Some said he was dead; some said she was dead. Which wasit? —
Mrs Bast didn’t know for certain either. The young gentleman wasdead. —
That she was sure. She had read his name in the papers.
There was the cook now, Mildred, Marian, some such name as that—ared-headed woman, quick-tempered like all her sort, but kind, too, ifyou knew the way with her. —
Many a laugh they had had together. Shesaved a plate of soup for Maggie; —
a bite of ham, sometimes; —
whateverwas over. They lived well in those days. —
They had everything theywanted (glibly, jovially, with the tea hot in her, she unwound her ball ofmemories, sitting in the wicker arm-chair by the nursery fender). —
Therewas always plenty doing, people in the house, twenty staying sometimes,and washing up till long past midnight.
Mrs Bast (she had never known them; —
had lived in Glasgow at thattime) wondered, putting her cup down, whatever they hung that beast’sskull there for? —
Shot in foreign parts no doubt.
It might well be, said Mrs McNab, wantoning on with her memories; —
they had friends in eastern countries; gentlemen staying there, ladies inevening dress; —
she had seen them once through the dining-room door allsitting at dinner. —
Twenty she dared say all in their jewellery, and sheasked to stay help wash up, might be till after midnight.
Ah, said Mrs Bast, they’d find it changed. She leant out of the window.
She watched her son George scything the grass. They might well ask,what had been done to it? —
seeing how old Kennedy was supposed tohave charge of it, and then his leg got so bad after he fell from the cart; —
and perhaps then no one for a year, or the better part of one; —
and thenDavie Macdonald, and seeds might be sent, but who should say if theywere ever planted? —
They’d find it changed.
She watched her son scything. He was a great one for work—one ofthose quiet ones. —
Well they must be getting along with the cupboards,she supposed. —
They hauled themselves up.
At last, after days of labour within, of cutting and digging without,dusters were flicked from the windows, the windows were shut to, keyswere turned all over the house; —
the front door was banged; it wasfinished.
And now as if the cleaning and the scrubbing and the scything and themowing had drowned it there rose that half-heard melody, that intermittentmusic which the ear half catches but lets fall; —
a bark, a bleat; irregular,intermittent, yet somehow related; —
the hum of an insect, the tremorof cut grass, disevered yet somehow belonging; —
the jar of a dorbeetle, thesqueak of a wheel, loud, low, but mysteriously related; —
which the earstrains to bring together and is always on the verge of harmonising, butthey are never quite heard, never fully harmonised, and at last, in theevening, one after another the sounds die out, and the harmony falters,and silence falls. —
With the sunset sharpness was lost, and like mist rising,quiet rose, quiet spread, the wind settled; —
loosely the world shook itselfdown to sleep, darkly here without a light to it, save what came greensuffused through leaves, or pale on the white flowers in the bed by thewindow.
[Lily Briscoe had her bag carried up to the house late one evening inSeptember. —
Mr Carmichael came by the same train.]