ugly
little parlours. An old, quiet, respectable maid showed me round; she
had been in service there for twenty years, and she was tearfully
lamenting over the break-up of the home. The old ladies had lived there
for sixty years. One of them had died ten years before, the other had
lingered on to extreme old age. The house was like a museum, a specimen
of a house of the thirties, in which nothing had ever been touched or
changed. The strange wall-papers and chintzes, the crewel-work chairs,
the mirrors, the light maple furniture, the case of moth-eaten
humming-birds, the dull engravings of historical pictures, the old
books--the drawing-room table was covered with annuals and keepsakes,
Moore's poems, Mrs. Barbauld's works--all had a pathetic ugliness,
redeemed by a certain consistency of quality. And then the poky,
comfortable arrangements, the bath-chair in the coach-house, the
four-post bedsteads, the hand-rail on the stairs, the sandbags for the
doors, all spoke of a timid, invalid life, a dim backwater in the tide
of things. There had been children there at some time, for there were
broken toys, collections of dried plants, curious stones, in an attic.
The little drama of the house shaped itself for me, as I walked through
the frowsy, faded rooms, with a touching insistence. This bedroom had
never been used since Miss Eleanor died--and I could fancy the poor,
little, timid, precise life flitting away among the well-known
surroundings. This had been Miss Jackson's favourite room--it was so
quiet--she had died there, sitting in her chair, a few weeks before.
The leisurely, harmless routine of the quiet household rose before me.
I could imagine Miss Jackson writing her letters, reading her book,
eating her small meals, making the same humble and grateful remarks,
entertaining her old friends. Year after year it had gone on, just the
same, the clock ticking loud in the hall, the sun creeping round the
old rooms, the birds singing in the garden, the faint footsteps in the
road. It had begun, that gentle routine, long before I had been born
into the world; and it was strange to me to think that, as I passed
through the most stirring experiences of my life, nothing ever stirred
or moved or altered here. Miss Jackson had felt Miss Eleanor's death
very much; she had hardly ever left the house since, and they had had
no company. Yes, what a woefully bewildering thing death swooping down
into that quiet household, with all it