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.
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