For years I had been trying to prepare myself for my mother’s death,
trying to foresee how she would die, seeing myself when she was dead.
Even then I knew it was a vain thing I did, but I am sure there was no
morbidness in it. I hoped I should be with her at the end, not as the
one she looked at last but as him from whom she would turn only to look
upon her best-beloved, not my arm but my sister’s should be round her
when she died, not my hand but my sister’s should close her eyes. I knew
that I might reach her too late; I saw myself open a door where there was
none to greet me, and go up the old stair into the old room. But what I
did not foresee was that which happened. I little thought it could come
about that I should climb the old stair, and pass the door beyond which
my mother lay dead, and enter another room first, and go on my knees
there.
My mother’s favourite paraphrase is one known in our house as David’s
because it was the last he learned to repeat. It was also the last thing
she read—
Art thou afraid his power shall fail
When comes thy evil day?
And can an all-creating arm
Grow weary or decay?
I heard her voice gain strength as she read it, I saw her timid face take
courage, but when came my evil day, then at the dawning, alas for me, I
was afraid.
In those last weeks, though we did not know it, my sister was dying on
her feet. For many years she had been giving her life, a little bit at a
time, for another year, another month, latterly for another day, of her
mother, and now she was worn out. ‘I’ll never leave you, mother.’—‘Fine
I know you’ll never leave me.’ I thought that cry so pathetic at the
time, but I was not to know its full significance until it was only the
echo of a cry. Looking at these two then it was to me as if my mother
had set out for the new country, and my sister held her back. But I see
with a clearer vision now. It is no longer the mother but the daughter
who is in front, and she cries, ‘Mother, you are lingering so long at the
end, I have ill waiting for you.’
But she knew no more than we how it was to be; if she seemed weary when
we met her on the stair, she was still the brightest, the most active
figure in my mother’s room; she never complained, save when she had to
depart on that walk which separated them for half an hour. How
reluctantly she put on her bonnet, how we had to press her to it, and how
often, having gone as far as the door, she came back to stand by my
mother’s side. Sometimes as we watched from the window, I could not but
laugh, and yet with a pain at my heart, to see her hasting doggedly
onward, not an eye for right or left, nothing in her head but the return.
There was always my father in the house, than whom never was a more
devoted husband, and often there were others, one daughter in particular,
but they scarce dared tend my mother—this one snatched the cup jealously
from their hands. My mother liked it best from her. We all knew this.
‘I like them fine, but I canna do without you.’ My sister, so unselfish
in all other things, had an unwearying passion for parading it before us.
It was the rich reward of her life.
The others spoke among themselves of what must come soon, and they had
tears to help them, but this daughter would not speak of it, and her
tears were ever slow to come. I knew that night and day she was trying
to get ready for a world without her mother in it, but she must remain
dumb; none of us was so Scotch as she, she must bear her agony alone, a
tragic solitary Scotchwoman. Even my mother, who spoke so calmly to us
of the coming time, could not mention it to her. These two, the one in
bed, and the other bending over her, could only look long at each other,
until slowly the tears came to my sister’s eyes, and then my mother would
turn away her wet face. And still neither said a word, each knew so well
what was in the other’s thoughts, so eloquently they spoke in silence,
‘Mother, I am loath to let you go,’ and ‘Oh my daughter, now that my time
is near, I wish you werena quite so fond of me.’ But when the daughter
had slipped away my mother would grip my hand and cry, ‘I leave her to
you; you see how she has sown, it will depend on you how she is to reap.’
And I made promises, but I suppose neither of us saw that she had already
reaped.
In the night my mother might waken and sit up in bed, confused by what
she saw. While she slept, six decades or more had rolled back and she
was again in her girlhood; suddenly recalled from it she was dizzy, as
with the rush of the years. How had she come into this room? When she
went to bed last night, after preparing her father’s supper, there had
been a dresser at the window: what had become of the salt-bucket, the
meal-tub, the hams that should be hanging from the rafters? There were
no rafters; it was a papered ceiling. She had often heard of open beds,
but how came she to be lying in one? To fathom these things she would
try to spring out of bed and be startled to find it a labour, as if she
had been taken ill in the night. Hearing her move I might knock on the
wall that separated us, this being a sign, prearranged between us, that I
was near by, and so all was well, but sometimes the knocking seemed to
belong to the past, and she would cry, ‘That is my father chapping at the
door, I maun rise and let him in.’ She seemed to see him—and it was one
much younger than herself that she saw—covered with snow, kicking clods
of it from his boots, his hands swollen and chapped with sand and wet.
Then I would hear—it was a common experience of the night—my sister
soothing her lovingly, and turning up the light to show her where she
was, helping her to the window to let her see that it was no night of
snow, even humouring her by going downstairs, and opening the outer door,
and calling into the darkness, ‘Is anybody there?’ and if that was not
sufficient, she would swaddle my mother in wraps and take her through the
rooms of the house, lighting them one by one, pointing out familiar
objects, and so guiding her slowly through the sixty odd years she had
jumped too quickly. And perhaps the end of it was that my mother came to
my bedside and said wistfully, ‘Am I an auld woman?’
But with daylight, even during the last week in which I saw her, she
would be up and doing, for though pitifully frail she no longer suffered
from any ailment. She seemed so well comparatively that I, having still
the remnants of an illness to shake off, was to take a holiday in
Switzerland, and then return for her, when we were all to go to the
much-loved manse of her much-loved brother in the west country. So she
had many preparations on her mind, and the morning was the time when she
had any strength to carry them out. To leave her house had always been a
month’s work for her, it must be left in such perfect order, every corner
visited and cleaned out, every chest probed to the bottom, the linen
lifted out, examined and put back lovingly as if to make it lie more
easily in her absence, shelves had to be re-papered, a strenuous week
devoted to the garret. Less exhaustively, but with much of the old
exultation in her house, this was done for the last time, and then there
was the bringing out of her own clothes, and the spreading of them upon
the bed and the pleased fingering of them, and the consultations about
which should be left behind. Ah, beautiful dream! I clung to it every
morning; I would not look when my sister shook her head at it, but long
before each day was done I too knew that it could never be. It had come
true many times, but never again. We two knew it, but when my mother,
who must always be prepared so long beforehand, called for her trunk and
band-boxes we brought them to her, and we stood silent, watching, while
she packed.
The morning came when I was to go away. It had come a hundred times,
when I was a boy, when I was an undergraduate, when I was a man, when she
had seemed big and strong to me, when she was grown so little and it was
I who put my arms round her. But always it was the same scene. I am not
to write about it, of the parting and the turning back on the stair, and
two people trying to smile, and the setting off again, and the cry that
brought me back. Nor shall I say more of the silent figure in the
background, always in the background, always near my mother. The last I
saw of these two was from the gate. They were at the window which never
passes from my eyes. I could not see my dear sister’s face, for she was
bending over my mother, pointing me out to her, and telling her to wave
her hand and smile, because I liked it so. That action was an epitome of
my sister’s life.
I had been gone a fortnight when the telegram was put into my hands. I
had got a letter from my sister, a few hours before, saying that all was
well at home. The telegram said in five words that she had died suddenly
the previous night. There was no mention of my mother, and I was three
days’ journey from home.
The news I got on reaching London was this: my mother did not understand
that her daughter was dead, and they were waiting for me to tell her.
I need not have been such a coward. This is how these two died—for,
after all, I was too late by twelve hours to see my mother alive.
Their last night was almost gleeful. In the old days that hour before my
mother’s gas was lowered had so often been the happiest that my pen
steals back to it again and again as I write: it was the time when my
mother lay smiling in bed and we were gathered round her like children at
play, our reticence scattered on the floor or tossed in sport from hand
to hand, the author become so boisterous that in the pauses they were
holding him in check by force. Rather woful had been some attempts
latterly to renew those evenings, when my mother might be brought to the
verge of them, as if some familiar echo called her, but where she was she
did not clearly know, because the past was roaring in her ears like a
great sea. But this night was a last gift to my sister. The joyousness
of their voices drew the others in the house upstairs, where for more
than an hour my mother was the centre of a merry party and so clear of
mental eye that they, who were at first cautious, abandoned themselves to
the sport, and whatever they said, by way of humorous rally, she
instantly capped as of old, turning their darts against themselves until
in self-defence they were three to one, and the three hard pressed. How
my sister must have been rejoicing. Once again she could cry, ‘Was there
ever such a woman!’ They tell me that such a happiness was on the
daughter’s face that my mother commented on it, that having risen to go
they sat down again, fascinated by the radiance of these two. And when
eventually they went, the last words they heard were, ‘They are gone, you
see, mother, but I am here, I will never leave you,’ and ‘Na, you winna
leave me; fine I know that.’ For some time afterwards their voices could
be heard from downstairs, but what they talked of is not known. And then
came silence. Had I been at home I should have been in the room again
several times, turning the handle of the door softly, releasing it so
that it did not creak, and standing looking at them. It had been so a
thousand times. But that night, would I have slipped out again, mind at
rest, or should I have seen the change coming while they slept?
Let it be told in the fewest words. My sister awoke next morning with a
headache. She had always been a martyr to headaches, but this one, like
many another, seemed to be unusually severe. Nevertheless she rose and
lit my mother’s fire and brought up her breakfast, and then had to return
to bed. She was not able to write her daily letter to me, saying how my
mother was, and almost the last thing she did was to ask my father to
write it, and not to let on that she was ill, as it would distress me.
The doctor was called, but she rapidly became unconscious. In this state
she was removed from my mother’s bed to another. It was discovered that
she was suffering from an internal disease. No one had guessed it. She
herself never knew. Nothing could be done. In this unconsciousness she
passed away, without knowing that she was leaving her mother. Had I
known, when I heard of her death, that she had been saved that pain,
surely I could have gone home more bravely with the words,
Art thou afraid His power fail
When comes thy evil day?
Ah, you would think so, I should have thought so, but I know myself now.
When I reached London I did hear how my sister died, but still I was
afraid. I saw myself in my mother’s room telling her why the door of the
next room was locked, and I was afraid. God had done so much, and yet I
could not look confidently to Him for the little that was left to do. ‘O
ye of little faith!’ These are the words I seem to hear my mother saying
to me now, and she looks at me so sorrowfully.
He did it very easily, and it has ceased to seem marvellous to me because
it was so plainly His doing. My timid mother saw the one who was never
to leave her carried unconscious from the room, and she did not break
down. She who used to wring her hands if her daughter was gone for a
moment never asked for her again, they were afraid to mention her name;
an awe fell upon them. But I am sure they need not have been so anxious.
There are mysteries in life and death, but this was not one of them. A
child can understand what happened. God said that my sister must come
first, but He put His hand on my mother’s eyes at that moment and she was
altered.
They told her that I was on my way home, and she said with a confident
smile, ‘He will come as quick as trains can bring him.’ That is my
reward, that is what I have got for my books. Everything I could do for
her in this life I have done since I was a boy; I look back through the
years and I cannot see the smallest thing left undone.
They were buried together on my mother’s seventy-sixth birthday, though
there had been three days between their deaths. On the last day, my
mother insisted on rising from bed and going through the house. The arms
that had so often helped her on that journey were now cold in death, but
there were others only less loving, and she went slowly from room to room
like one bidding good-bye, and in mine she said, ‘The beautiful rows upon
rows of books, ant he said every one of them was mine, all mine!’ and in
the east room, which was her greatest triumph, she said caressingly, ‘My
nain bonny room!’ All this time there seemed to be something that she
wanted, but the one was dead who always knew what she wanted, and they
produced many things at which she shook her head. They did not know then
that she was dying, but they followed her through the house in some
apprehension, and after she returned to bed they saw that she was
becoming very weak. Once she said eagerly, ‘Is that you, David?’ and
again she thought she heard her father knocking the snow off his boots.
Her desire for that which she could not name came back to her, and at
last they saw that what she wanted was the old christening robe. It was
brought to her, and she unfolded it with trembling, exultant hands, and
when she had made sure that it was still of virgin fairness her old arms
went round it adoringly, and upon her face there was the ineffable
mysterious glow of motherhood. Suddenly she said, ‘Wha’s bairn’s dead?
is a bairn of mine dead?’ but those watching dared not speak, and then
slowly as if with an effort of memory she repeated our names aloud in the
order in which we were born. Only one, who should have come third among
the ten, did she omit, the one in the next room, but at the end, after a
pause, she said her name and repeated it again and again and again,
lingering over it as if it were the most exquisite music and this her
dying song. And yet it was a very commonplace name.
They knew now that she was dying. She told them to fold up the
christening robe and almost sharply she watched them put it away, and
then for some time she talked of the long lovely life that had been hers,
and of Him to whom she owed it. She said good-bye to them all, and at
last turned her face to the side where her best-beloved had lain, and for
over an hour she prayed. They only caught the words now and again, and
the last they heard were ‘God’ and ‘love.’ I think God was smiling when
He took her to Him, as He had so often smiled at her during those
seventy-six years.
I saw her lying dead, and her face was beautiful and serene. But it was
the other room I entered first, and it was by my sister’s side that I
fell upon my knees. The rounded completeness of a woman’s life that was
my mother’s had not been for her. She would not have it at the price.
‘I’ll never leave you, mother.’—‘Fine I know you’ll never leave me.’ The
fierce joy of loving too much, it is a terrible thing. My sister’s mouth
was firmly closed, as if she had got her way.
And now I am left without them, but I trust my memory will ever go back
to those happy days, not to rush through them, but dallying here and
there, even as my mother wanders through my books. And if I also live to
a time when age must dim my mind and the past comes sweeping back like
the shades of night over the bare road of the present it will not, I
believe, be my youth I shall see but hers, not a boy clinging to his
mother’s skirt and crying, ‘Wait till I’m a man, and you’ll lie on
feathers,’ but a little girl in a magenta frock and a white pinafore, who
comes toward me through the long parks, singing to herself, and carrying
her father’s dinner in a flagon.
* * * * *
THE END
* * * * *
* * * * *
Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE
Printers to Her Majesty