LITMIR.BIZ

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be done, and I will not be able to get out of bed until it is!’

      When the doctor came on a special visit the next afternoon he was in no hurry to be away. He went softly about the large bedroom, looking about him easily and picking up various objects from desk and mantelpiece which he said were of rare value – collectors’ pieces, he called them as he turned them about in his hands admiringly. He studied the photographs for a long time and asked about the relations, and as he crossed over to the bed, he tapped the chairs with his fingers and slid his hand down the length of the wardrobe with an envious sigh. It might have been the house which he had come to examine and to praise for its excellent health and appearance, and he seemed almost reluctant to have to turn his attention to Edith.

      It was not an uncommon thing, he told her, when he had settled down at last, to feel, in certain cases of mild nervous disorder, the kind of symptoms which she had described to her sister. On the contrary, it was quite a common experence to have the feeling of heaviness in the limbs – a sensation of pressure in the chest or head – yes, and even a feeling of suffocation – of being unable to breathe freely for the weight on the chest – a sensation, perhaps, of cramp about the heart. He smiled, and stretched his fingers tightly across his chest, then bound them around his head to express the familiar meaning. In most cases, he assured her, after a little rest, these common nervous symptoms disappeared very quickly – once the patient showed herself willing to get up and get on with her normal work. And this – he impressed it upon her as he got to his feet briskly – was the most important part of what he had to say. For there was absolutely nothing organically wrong with her. He repeated this as he went out of the door, and again to the family who were waiting downstairs to hear his verdict. But he was in a hurry now, and no longer took any notice of the precious things which jingled along the shelves of the hall as he strode past with his heavy tread.

      A few days later Clara was having supper upstairs alone with her sister. A heavy responsibility had fallen on her – not only for the whole house and its upkeep, but also for the care of a woman whose thoughts, day and night, were now directed on this house with a ruthlessness never before known to the family. Edith’s eyes could no longer be said to rest on objects; she now raked through them with a glance so reckless and scathing that the more fragile stuff could not be expected to last long under it. This evening, however, after the meal, she lay for some time with her eyes shut, and Clara, praying that the obsession was passing, drew in deep breaths at the open window. It was a beautiful October evening. Below her the weekly gardener was brushing up the leaves, and soon the smoke from his bonfire drifted through the room. To Clara the smell was a narcotic, reminiscent of autumn days stretching back through monotonous years, and of the blue haze which hung in the wintry, upper rooms of the house – scarcely opened except for the spring and autumn cleaning. But Edith opened her eyes and sniffed the air with triumph.

      ‘You must begin with this room, Clara,’ she cried, suddenly sitting up straight and staring about her sharply. ‘That bureau over there has worried me for a long time. You see how it is packed with letters and papers which must be burned at once. No, of course they are not valuable. Why should they be? I don’t intend to look over them. They must simply be taken out, bundle by bundle, and put on that bonfire. It is better than choking the chimney. Yes, Clara, of course I mean what I am saying! I am not ill and I am not joking.’

      Just before darkness fell that evening, Clara came slowly from the bedroom and down the stairs with her arms full of papers. Her brothers followed her out into the garden, keeping some little distance from her, like sober attendants on a bride, and automatically catching at the white strips and ribbons of paper which blew about her in the wind. At first the flames did not seem strong enough to consume the dense wads of superior notepaper, but after a while the sheets blew open, revealing for a glaring second time-honoured secrets of home and business, scraps of ancient family scandal and a smattering of long-forgotten endearments. Exclamation marks and question marks quivered together on the paper, and formidable lists of figures curled up swiftly into scrolls of fire. When the flames died down there was nothing left but some flimsy black scales floating in the air, and a grey ash on the ground.

      The fire had not brought any colour to Clara’s face. She was paler than ever as she walked upstairs again to Edith’s room. It was her sister who was flushed, as though the flames had burned her cheeks.

      ‘The men can help you tomorrow,’ was all she said. ‘It is a beginning, anyway.’ She turned to the wall without another word and Clara left the room.

      ‘The doctor said it was particularly important not to give in to her,’ she said to her brothers as she wished them goodnight. They could not tell from her voice whether this was an apology or a challenge, and she looked preoccupied – uncertainly opening and shutting drawers and continually glancing about the room as she spoke as though sizing the place up after a long absence.

      ‘What is this?’ she asked, picking up an object from the sideboard as she was turning to leave.

      ‘What is that?’ replied James, looking uneasily at it. ‘Why, Clara – what are you talking about? You can see it is a brush with a curved handle. It has been there for years – and with a tray to match. There are two others like it in the drawer.’

      ‘Yes, that is true – and what are they all for?’ said Clara with unaccustomed sharpness.

      ‘What are they for? Why, surely they are crumb-brushes, Clara. You must have known they were for brushing crumbs off a tea-table!’

      ‘Then must there be three of them?’ exclaimed Clara. ‘Do we make more crumbs than anybody else, in this house? Is it likely that this one will get worn out with brushing in our lifetime – that there must always be two in reserve? It is very unlikely that I, at any rate shall use another brush while I live – far less the two of them. Do you even know how old I am?’

      ‘But of course, Clara,’ her brother replied hurriedly, ‘and there are certainly not an excessive quantity of crumbs about the place. Why must we discuss the brushes, if it upsets you? They were not ours, in the first place. You have forgotten that they came to us with the napkin rings and hot water bottles when Aunt Helen gave up her house. If they are not used, they can be handed down. What has your age to do with it, Clara? You are too sensitive about that. We remember you are the youngest. And we do not expect you to use three crumb-brushes.’

      Clara tossed her head and left the room. But her brothers remained standing together long afterwards, apprehensively staring about them, and puzzling over the meaning of various objects which they had caught sight of for the first time.

      Two days later, in the absence of the gardener, Clara made her own bonfire – a magnificent affair, far bigger than the last, and lighting the whole garden up to the tops of the highest trees. When the three brothers came out of the house to see it they exclaimed in admiration. This time they could show little interest in what was being burned, for great flames destroyed the boxes and packets before they could be identified, but they drew nearer, step by step, to warm themselves, and their eyes shone outrageously in the light. Every now and then, as the garden grew darker, the fire threw a shimmer of light upon the front of the house. When this happened the woman and the three men stood motionless to stare at the quivering windows and wagging chimneys and at the grey stone which swelled and trembled as though it were no more solid than parchment. Now Joseph, the oldest man, went striding off quickly towards the house and returned in a few minutes with a heap of papers which the flames tore from his hands and devoured with a roar as soon as he had thrown them down.

      ‘Papers are not enough to keep it going,’ said Clara as the fire subsided again. She went back to the house, running this time, and returned, out of breath, with a couple of heavy wooden trays.

      ‘There was no time to pick and choose,’ she explained. ‘I took the largest of the half-dozen behind the sideboard. At any rate they will keep it going while we find more stuff.’

      They waited for a moment to see the flames lick round the tray-handles which were carved in the shape of crouching monkeys, gripping melons between their fingers.

      ‘What a sin to waste them – and all the people who must be wanting trays!’ cried Clara, shuddering

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