I was sitting at my desk in
London when a telegram came announcing
that my mother was again dangerously
ill, and I seized my hat and
hurried to the station. It is
not a memory of one night only.
A score of times, I am sure,
I was called north thus suddenly,
and reached our little town trembling,
head out at railway-carriage
window for a glance at a known
face which would answer the question
on mine. These illnesses came
as regularly as the backend of
the year, but were less regular
in going, and through them all,
by night and by day, I see my
sister moving so unwearyingly,
so lovingly, though with failing
strength, that I bow my head
in reverence for her. She was
wearing herself done. The doctor
advised us to engage a nurse,
but the mere word frightened
my mother, and we got between
her and the door as if the woman
was already on the stair. To
have a strange woman in my mother's
room - you who are used to them
cannot conceive what it meant
to us.
Then we must have a servant.
This seemed only less horrible.
My father turned up his sleeves
and clutched the besom. I tossed
aside my papers, and was ready
to run the errands. He answered
the door, I kept the fires going,
he gave me a lesson in cooking,
I showed him how to make beds,
one of us wore an apron. It was
not for long. I was led to my
desk, the newspaper was put into
my father's hand. 'But a servant!'
we cried, and would have fallen
to again. 'No servant, comes
into this house,' said my sister
quite fiercely, and, oh, but
my mother was relieved to hear
her! There were many such scenes,
a year of them, I daresay, before
we yielded.
I cannot say which of us felt
it most. In London I was used
to servants, and in moments of
irritation would ring for them
furiously, though doubtless my
manner changed as they opened
the door. I have even held my
own with gentlemen in plush,
giving one my hat, another my
stick, and a third my coat, and
all done with little more trouble
than I should have expended in
putting the three articles on
the chair myself. But this bold
deed, and other big things of
the kind, I did that I might
tell my mother of them afterwards,
while I sat on the end of her
bed, and her face beamed with
astonishment and mirth.
From my earliest days I had
seen servants. The manse had
a servant, the bank had another;
one of their uses was to pounce
upon, and carry away in stately
manner, certain naughty boys
who played with me. The banker
did not seem really great to
me, but his servant - oh yes.
Her boots cheeped all the way
down the church aisle; it was
common report that she had flesh
every day for her dinner; instead
of meeting her lover at the pump
she walked him into the country,
and he returned with wild roses
in his buttonhole, his hand up
to hide them, and on his face
the troubled look of those who
know that if they take this lady
they must give up drinking from
the saucer for evermore. For
the lovers were really common
men, until she gave them that
glance over the shoulder which,
I have noticed, is the fatal
gift of servants.
According to legend we once
had a servant - in my childhood
I could show the mark of it on
my forehead, and even point her
out to other boys, though she
was now merely a wife with a
house of her own. But even while
I boasted I doubted. Reduced
to life-size she may have been
but a woman who came in to help.
I shall say no more about her,
lest some one comes forward to
prove that she went home at night.
Never shall I forget my first
servant. I was eight or nine,
in velveteen, diamond socks ('Cross
your legs when they look at you,'
my mother had said, 'and put
your thumb in your pocket and
leave the top of your handkerchief
showing'), and I had travelled
by rail to visit a relative.
He had a servant, and as I was
to be his guest she must be my
servant also for the time being
- you may be sure I had got my
mother to put this plainly before
me ere I set off. My relative
met me at the station, but I
wasted no time in hoping I found
him well. I did not even cross
my legs for him, so eager was
I to hear whether she was still
there. A sister greeted me at
the door, but I chafed at having
to be kissed; at once I made
for the kitchen, where, I knew,
they reside, and there she was,
and I crossed my legs and put
one thumb in my pocket, and the
handkerchief was showing. Afterwards
I stopped strangers on the highway
with an offer to show her to
them through the kitchen window,
and I doubt not the first letter
I ever wrote told my mother what
they are like when they are so
near that you can put your fingers
into them.
But now when we could have
servants for ourselves I shrank
from the thought. It would not
be the same house; we should
have to dissemble; I saw myself
speaking English the long day
through. You only know the shell
of a Scot until you have entered
his home circle; in his office,
in clubs, at social gatherings
where you and he seem to be getting
on so well he is really a house
with all the shutters closed
and the door locked. He is not
opaque of set purpose, often
it is against his will - it is
certainly against mine, I try
to keep my shutters open and
my foot in the door but they
will bang to. In many ways my
mother was as reticent as myself,
though her manners were as gracious
as mine were rough (in vain,
alas! all the honest oiling of
them), and my sister was the
most reserved of us all; you
might at times see a light through
one of my chinks: she was double-shuttered.
Now, it seems to be a law of
nature that we must show our
true selves at some time, and
as the Scot must do it at home,
and squeeze a day into an hour,
what follows is that there he
is self-revealing in the superlative
degree, the feelings so long
dammed up overflow, and thus
a Scotch family are probably
better acquainted with each other,
and more ignorant of the life
outside their circle, than any
other family in the world. And
as knowledge is sympathy, the
affection existing between them
is almost painful in its intensity;
they have not more to give than
their neighbours, but it is bestowed
upon a few instead of being distributed
among many; they are reputed
niggardly, but for family affection
at least they pay in gold. In
this, I believe, we shall find
the true explanation why Scotch
literature, since long before
the days of Burns, has been so
often inspired by the domestic
hearth, and has treated it with
a passionate understanding.
Must a woman come into our
house and discover that I was
not such a dreary dog as I had
the reputation of being? Was
I to be seen at last with the
veil of dourness lifted? My company
voice is so low and unimpressive
that my first remark is merely
an intimation that I am about
to speak (like the whir of the
clock before it strikes): must
it be revealed that I had another
voice, that there was one door
I never opened without leaving
my reserve on the mat? Ah, that
room, must its secrets be disclosed?
So joyous they were when my mother
was well, no wonder we were merry.
Again and again she had been
given back to us; it was for
the glorious to-day we thanked
God; in our hearts we knew and
in our prayers confessed that
the fill of delight had been
given us, whatever might befall.
We had not to wait till all was
over to know its value; my mother
used to say, 'We never understand
how little we need in this world
until we know the loss of it,'
and there can be few truer sayings,
but during her last years we
exulted daily in the possession
of her as much as we can exult
in her memory. No wonder, I say,
that we were merry, but we liked
to show it to God alone, and
to Him only our agony during
those many night-alarms, when
lights flickered in the house
and white faces were round my
mother's bedside. Not for other
eyes those long vigils when,
night about, we sat watching,
nor the awful nights when we
stood together, teeth clenched
- waiting - it must be now. And
it was not then; her hand became
cooler, her breathing more easy;
she smiled to us. Once more I
could work by snatches, and was
glad, but what was the result
to me compared to the joy of
hearing that voice from the other
room? There lay all the work
I was ever proud of, the rest
is but honest craftsmanship done
to give her coal and food and
softer pillows. My thousand letters
that she so carefully preserved,
always sleeping with the last
beneath the sheet, where one
was found when she died - they
are the only writing of mine
of which I shall ever boast.
I would not there had been one
less though I could have written
an immortal book for it.
How my sister toiled - to prevent
a stranger's getting any footing
in the house! And how, with the
same object, my mother strove
to 'do for herself' once more.
She pretended that she was always
well now, and concealed her ailments
so craftily that we had to probe
for them:-
'I think you are not feeling
well to-day?'
'I am perfectly well.'
'Where is the pain?'
'I have no pain to speak of.'
'Is it at your heart?'
'No.'
'Is your breathing hurting
you?'
'Not it.'
'Do you feel those stounds
in your head again?'
'No, no, I tell you there is
nothing the matter with me.'
'Have you a pain in your side?'
'Really, it's most provoking
I canna put my hand to my side
without your thinking I have
a pain there.'
'You have a pain in your side!'
'I might have a pain in my
side.'
'And you were trying to hide
it! Is it very painful?'
'It's - it's no so bad but
what I can bear it.'
Which of these two gave in
first I cannot tell, though to
me fell the duty of persuading
them, for whichever she was she
rebelled as soon as the other
showed signs of yielding, so
that sometimes I had two converts
in the week but never both on
the same day. I would take them
separately, and press the one
to yield for the sake of the
other, but they saw so easily
through my artifice. My mother
might go bravely to my sister
and say, 'I have been thinking
it over, and I believe I would
like a servant fine - once we
got used to her.'
'Did he tell you to say that?'
asks my sister sharply.
'I say it of my own free will.'
'He put you up to it, I am
sure, and he told you not to
let on that you did it to lighten
my work.'
'Maybe he did, but I think
we should get one.'
'Not for my sake,' says my
sister obstinately, and then
my mother comes ben to me to
say delightedly, 'She winna listen
to reason!'
But at last a servant was engaged;
we might be said to be at the
window, gloomily waiting for
her now, and it was with such
words as these that we sought
to comfort each other and ourselves:-
'She will go early to her bed.'
'She needna often be seen upstairs.'
'We'll set her to the walking
every day.'
'There will be a many errands
for her to run. We'll tell her
to take her time over them.'
'Three times she shall go to
the kirk every Sabbath, and we'll
egg her on to attending the lectures
in the hall.'
'She is sure to have friends
in the town. We'll let her visit
them often.'
'If she dares to come into
your room, mother!'
'Mind this, every one of you,
servant or no servant, I fold
all the linen mysel.'
'She shall not get cleaning
out the east room.'
'Nor putting my chest of drawers
in order.'
'Nor tidying up my manuscripts.'
'I hope she's a reader, though.
You could set her down with a
book, and then close the door
canny on her.'
And so on. Was ever servant
awaited so apprehensively? And
then she came - at an anxious
time, too, when her worth could
be put to the proof at once -
and from first to last she was
a treasure. I know not what we
should have done without her.
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