The Grand Finale

Evening Star, Issue 23864, 19 April 1941, Page 3

The Grand Finale

A few days ago I returned to see how Cousin Annabel was weathering the storm raised by that helpful daughter whom she had so kindly described as a sea breeze. There was still a fire burning in the garden; indeed, the eldest daughter told me grimly that it had never been extinguished, and 1 could well believe it. I could, indeed, see her stealing forth at midnight to add some moth-eaten scrap book or decaying sampler worked by some ancestor to the dving flames. Another pile ot indestructible matter awaited the attentions of the dustman in the morning, and from its nature I was able to follow the progress of the grand clearance. Hero were several rusty pairs of curling tongs, some mysterious lengths ot whalebone, seven leaking hot-water bags, five pairs of rusty scissors, and a vast collection of derelict torches. It was clear that the sea breeze had pene- / trated as far as Annabel’s bedroom. Then the end was surely in sight. How had my cousin survived the onslaught? She was out of bed and on her couch. It was a relief to find that at least she had not yet been discarded, together with the other unnecessary appendages of the house. I fancied, however, that she had a nervous air and that her joy in her sea breeze was slightly tempered by wistfulnees. “ There were just a few things,” she murmured deprecatingly, “ that I thought of preserving. But dear J. is so practical. As she said, what possible use were Cousin Sophia’s curling pins, or that collection of shells Aunt Maria made on' her first visit to the beach ? But I felt that perhaps someone would have liked Great-uncle Winter’s portrait—that large oil painting, with only part of the face missing. The eyes were intact, and really so lifelike that I positively quailed when I met their glancef” “So did the dustman,” said my daughter, briskly. Never mind, Cousin .Annabel; you know you never really liked that fierce old man, and the room _ looks a freat deal'brighter without him.” But could see from Annabel’s uneasy air that she was putting up a secret plea for forgiveness to the frowning ghost of great-uncle Winter. Impossible not to admire the work of the last week. Now it would certainly be possible for Annabel to keep servants for more than one month each. There was room to move and to breathe; room, too, to admire the few beautiful things that had always lain hidden in the dust add the muddle. Clean bare walls, where unfaded patches of paper spoke eloquently of discarded ancestors, brightly-enamelled shelves whence paper bags had been permanently banished, bookcases no longer crowded with mouldering anddiseased volumes, cushions whose motheaten and dusty silk frills had vanished to feed the vestal flaine in the garden, plain curtains-that let in light and air. Yes, the house was indeed transformed, and the sea breeze, if brisk, and strong, had certainly accomplished its mission. The dustman would not need to call at that house for some time to come. . Annabel, too, seemed brighter. “ I really feel as if la load had been lifted

Written by MARY SCOTT, for the ‘ Evening Star *

from my shoudlers,” she murmured; “ not that I should have dreamt of doing it myself. It seems so—well, so uukind to burn things that dear, kind people have once given you. But it had become a little difficult to -find a place to sit.” When I visited tho bonfire my daughter was grimly consigning to the flames a whole trunkful of incredibly ancient evening frocks. “ Will you believe it, the poor old dear has kept them for 40 years. She has a story about each one, and asked me wistfully if I didn’t think they could be cut down to make party frocks for some of her great-nieces. Picture a modern girl in-this”—and she stuffed a voluminous gown of pale pink satin into the heart of the fire. I felt for Annabel. Probably she had looked very pretty in that frock, and the memory of it had warmed her old heart. But this is not an age for the hoarding ot anything, even sentiment. The photographs, I gathered, had not gone without a faint tussle. ‘‘ You know perfectly well that you havn’t looked at them for years; the dust on the box proves that.” “ I’m afraid that is true,” confessed poor AnnaboJ, “ but I always meant to do so when I had time.” “ Well, time is 'getting scarcer than ever nowadays.’ The same argument applied to a whole large Saratoga trunk full of old letters. “ But some of them might contain much interesting history.” The plea had no weight at all with a generation conscious of living history and witn little desire to read it. At last the sea breeze had blown through the whole house and left it swept and garnished. Only tho outhouse remained, last stronghold of my cousin’s inveterate hoarding. Here she had long stored such relics as even her kindness could not allow ijpuse room. “ If it wasn’t breaking the law, I’d burn the whole place down,” the eldest daughter said viciously. “ No, I dare not leave it till later. Annabel’s getting stronger every day. She keeps sneaking out now and rescuing things. I caught her yesterday with a mouldy old velvet dress; she said it would make shoe polishers—and this morning it was her grandmother’s steel-rimmed spectacles, with one glass missing. No, I must tackle it now, before she’s really spry again.” I left with an unreasonable feeling of disloyalty to my cousin. Of course she is better and happier without all that junk—and yet—will all the cleanliness in the world compensate for the loss of some of those worthless treasures? The family unraided me; what folly to lament the loss of a houseful of rubbish that had made it impossible for a delicate woman to keep any maid for more than a few weeks. This was an age of progress, of necessary iconoclasm. I agreed with them and went secretly to my room to destroy a selection of old manuscripts that I had meant to rewrite “ some day.” But to-night a crisis occurred, when Annabel rang me at a late hour to ask me timidly if I knew what dear J. had done with her little wool fascinators. “ To .muffle the head at night—so pretty and concealing.” I passed the receiver to my daughter, for the situation was beyond me.