TIME PASSESor a scrap of china in the hemlock, that here oncesome 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 plungedto the depths to lie upon the sands of oblivion. Butthere was a force working; something not highlyconscious; something that leered, something thatlurched; something not inspired to go about its workwith dignified ritual or solemn chanting. Mrs. Mc-Nab groaned; Mrs. Bast creaked. They were old;they were stiff; their legs ached. They came withtheir brooms and pails at last; they got to work. Allof a sudden, would Mrs. McNab see that the housewas ready, one of the young ladies wrote: would sheget this done; would she get that done; all in ahurry. They might be coming for the summer; hadleft everything to the last; expected to find things asthey had left them. Slowly and painfully, withbroom and pail, mopping, scouring, Mrs. McNab,Mrs. Bast, stayed the corruption and the rot;rescued from the pool of Time that was fast closingover them now a basin, now a cupboard; fetched upfrom oblivion all the Waverley novels and a tea-setone morning; in the afternoon restored to sun andair a brass fender and a set of steel fire-irons.George, Mrs. Bast’s son, caught the rats, and cutthe grass. They had the builders. Attended with the209
downwards, the whole house would have plungedto the depths to lie upon the sands of oblivion. Butthere was a force working; something not highlyconscious; something that leered, something thatlurched; something not inspired to go about its workwith dignified ritual or solemn chanting. Mrs. Mc-Nab groaned; Mrs. Bast creaked. They were old;they were stiff; their legs ached. They came withtheir brooms and pails at last; they got to work. Allof a sudden, would Mrs. McNab see that the housewas ready, one of the young ladies wrote: would sheget this done; would she get that done; all in ahurry. They might be coming for the summer; hadleft everything to the last; expected to find things asthey had left them. Slowly and painfully, withbroom and pail, mopping, scouring, Mrs. McNab,Mrs. Bast, stayed the corruption and the rot;rescued from the pool of Time that was fast closingover them now a basin, now a cupboard; fetched upfrom oblivion all the Waverley novels and a tea-setone morning; in the afternoon restored to sun andair a brass fender and a set of steel fire-irons.George, Mrs. Bast’s son, caught the rats, and cutthe grass. They had the builders. Attended with the209
