And now the whole thing was over for good. Curious and indifferent
people came, tramped about the house, pronounced it old-fashioned
and inconvenient. I could not do that myself; the place was brimful
of the pathetic evidences of what had been. Soon, no doubt, the old
house would wear a different guise--it would be renovated and
restored, the furniture would drift away to second-hand shops, the
litter would be thrown out upon the rubbish-heap. New lives, new
relationships would spring up; children would be born, boys would
play, lovers would embrace, sufferers would lie musing, men and
women would die in those refurbished rooms. Everything would drift
onwards, and the lives to whom each corner, each stair, each piece
of furniture had meant so much, would become a memory first, and
then fade into nothingness. Where and what were the two old ladies
now? Were they gone out utterly, like an extinguished flame? were
they in some new home of tranquil peace? Were they adjusting
themselves with a sense of timid impotence--those slender, tired
spirits--to new and bewildering conditions?
The old, dull house called to me that day with a hundred faint
voices and tremulous echoes.
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