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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, Margaret Ogilvy, by J. M. Barrie
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: Margaret Ogilvy
+       by her son
+
+
+Author: J. M. Barrie
+
+
+
+Release Date: October 21, 2010  [eBook #342]
+First Posted: October 23, 1995
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGARET OGILVY***
+
+
+Transcribed from the 1897 Chatto & Windus edition by David Price, email
+ccx074@pglaf.org
+
+                  [Picture: Picture of Margaret Ogilvy]
+
+
+
+
+
+                             MARGARET OGILVY
+
+
+                                BY HER SON
+
+                               J. M. BARRIE
+
+                            [Picture: Graphic]
+
+                             _Second Edition_
+                     _Completing Twentieth Thousand_
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                                  LONDON
+                           HODDER AND STOUGHTON
+                            27 paternoster row
+                                   1897
+
+                                    TO
+                              THE MEMORY OF
+                                MY SISTER
+                                 JANE ANN
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I—HOW MY MOTHER GOT HER SOFT FACE
+
+
+On the day I was born we bought six hair-bottomed chairs, and in our
+little house it was an event, the first great victory in a woman’s long
+campaign; how they had been laboured for, the pound-note and the thirty
+threepenny-bits they cost, what anxiety there was about the purchase, the
+show they made in possession of the west room, my father’s unnatural
+coolness when he brought them in (but his face was white)—I so often
+heard the tale afterwards, and shared as boy and man in so many similar
+triumphs, that the coming of the chairs seems to be something I remember,
+as if I had jumped out of bed on that first day, and run ben to see how
+they looked.  I am sure my mother’s feet were ettling to be ben long
+before they could be trusted, and that the moment after she was left
+alone with me she was discovered barefooted in the west room, doctoring a
+scar (which she had been the first to detect) on one of the chairs, or
+sitting on them regally, or withdrawing and re-opening the door suddenly
+to take the six by surprise.  And then, I think, a shawl was flung over
+her (it is strange to me to think it was not I who ran after her with the
+shawl), and she was escorted sternly back to bed and reminded that she
+had promised not to budge, to which her reply was probably that she had
+been gone but an instant, and the implication that therefore she had not
+been gone at all.  Thus was one little bit of her revealed to me at once:
+I wonder if I took note of it.  Neighbours came in to see the boy and the
+chairs.  I wonder if she deceived me when she affected to think that
+there were others like us, or whether I saw through her from the first,
+she was so easily seen through.  When she seemed to agree with them that
+it would be impossible to give me a college education, was I so easily
+taken in, or did I know already what ambitions burned behind that dear
+face? when they spoke of the chairs as the goal quickly reached, was I
+such a newcomer that her timid lips must say ‘They are but a beginning’
+before I heard the words?  And when we were left together, did I laugh at
+the great things that were in her mind, or had she to whisper them to me
+first, and then did I put my arm round her and tell her that I would
+help?  Thus it was for such a long time: it is strange to me to feel that
+it was not so from the beginning.
+
+It is all guess-work for six years, and she whom I see in them is the
+woman who came suddenly into view when they were at an end.  Her timid
+lips I have said, but they were not timid then, and when I knew her the
+timid lips had come.  The soft face—they say the face was not so soft
+then.  The shawl that was flung over her—we had not begun to hunt her
+with a shawl, nor to make our bodies a screen between her and the
+draughts, nor to creep into her room a score of times in the night to
+stand looking at her as she slept.  We did not see her becoming little
+then, nor sharply turn our heads when she said wonderingly how small her
+arms had grown.  In her happiest moments—and never was a happier
+woman—her mouth did not of a sudden begin to twitch, and tears to lie on
+the mute blue eyes in which I have read all I know and would ever care to
+write.  For when you looked into my mother’s eyes you knew, as if He had
+told you, why God sent her into the world—it was to open the minds of all
+who looked to beautiful thoughts.  And that is the beginning and end of
+literature.  Those eyes that I cannot see until I was six years old have
+guided me through life, and I pray God they may remain my only earthly
+judge to the last.  They were never more my guide than when I helped to
+put her to earth, not whimpering because my mother had been taken away
+after seventy-six glorious years of life, but exulting in her even at the
+grave.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+She had a son who was far away at school.  I remember very little about
+him, only that he was a merry-faced boy who ran like a squirrel up a tree
+and shook the cherries into my lap.  When he was thirteen and I was half
+his age the terrible news came, and I have been told the face of my
+mother was awful in its calmness as she set off to get between Death and
+her boy.  We trooped with her down the brae to the wooden station, and I
+think I was envying her the journey in the mysterious wagons; I know we
+played around her, proud of our right to be there, but I do not recall
+it, I only speak from hearsay.  Her ticket was taken, she had bidden us
+good-bye with that fighting face which I cannot see, and then my father
+came out of the telegraph-office and said huskily, ‘He’s gone!’  Then we
+turned very quietly and went home again up the little brae.  But I speak
+from hearsay no longer; I knew my mother for ever now.
+
+That is how she got her soft face and her pathetic ways and her large
+charity, and why other mothers ran to her when they had lost a child.
+‘Dinna greet, poor Janet,’ she would say to them; and they would answer,
+‘Ah, Margaret, but you’re greeting yoursel.’  Margaret Ogilvy had been
+her maiden name, and after the Scotch custom she was still Margaret
+Ogilvy to her old friends.  Margaret Ogilvy I loved to name her.  Often
+when I was a boy, ‘Margaret Ogilvy, are you there?’  I would call up the
+stair.
+
+She was always delicate from that hour, and for many months she was very
+ill.  I have heard that the first thing she expressed a wish to see was
+the christening robe, and she looked long at it and then turned her face
+to the wall.  That was what made me as a boy think of it always as the
+robe in which he was christened, but I knew later that we had all been
+christened in it, from the oldest of the family to the youngest, between
+whom stood twenty years.  Hundreds of other children were christened in
+it also, such robes being then a rare possession, and the lending of ours
+among my mother’s glories.  It was carried carefully from house to house,
+as if it were itself a child; my mother made much of it, smoothed it out,
+petted it, smiled to it before putting it into the arms of those to whom
+it was being lent; she was in our pew to see it borne magnificently
+(something inside it now) down the aisle to the pulpit-side, when a stir
+of expectancy went through the church and we kicked each other’s feet
+beneath the book-board but were reverent in the face; and however the
+child might behave, laughing brazenly or skirling to its mother’s shame,
+and whatever the father as he held it up might do, look doited probably
+and bow at the wrong time, the christening robe of long experience helped
+them through.  And when it was brought back to her she took it in her
+arms as softly as if it might be asleep, and unconsciously pressed it to
+her breast: there was never anything in the house that spoke to her quite
+so eloquently as that little white robe; it was the one of her children
+that always remained a baby.  And she had not made it herself, which was
+the most wonderful thing about it to me, for she seemed to have made all
+other things.  All the clothes in the house were of her making, and you
+don’t know her in the least if you think they were out of the fashion;
+she turned them and made them new again, she beat them and made them new
+again, and then she coaxed them into being new again just for the last
+time, she let them out and took them in and put on new braid, and added a
+piece up the back, and thus they passed from one member of the family to
+another until they reached the youngest, and even when we were done with
+them they reappeared as something else.  In the fashion!  I must come
+back to this.  Never was a woman with such an eye for it.  She had no
+fashion-plates; she did not need them.  The minister’s wife (a cloak),
+the banker’s daughters (the new sleeve)—they had but to pass our window
+once, and the scalp, so to speak, was in my mother’s hands.  Observe her
+rushing, scissors in hand, thread in mouth, to the drawers where her
+daughters’ Sabbath clothes were kept.  Or go to church next Sunday, and
+watch a certain family filing in, the boy lifting his legs high to show
+off his new boots, but all the others demure, especially the timid,
+unobservant-looking little woman in the rear of them.  If you were the
+minister’s wife that day or the banker’s daughters you would have got a
+shock.  But she bought the christening robe, and when I used to ask why,
+she would beam and look conscious, and say she wanted to be extravagant
+once.  And she told me, still smiling, that the more a woman was given to
+stitching and making things for herself, the greater was her passionate
+desire now and again to rush to the shops and ‘be foolish.’  The
+christening robe with its pathetic frills is over half a century old now,
+and has begun to droop a little, like a daisy whose time is past; but it
+is as fondly kept together as ever: I saw it in use again only the other
+day.
+
+My mother lay in bed with the christening robe beside her, and I peeped
+in many times at the door and then went to the stair and sat on it and
+sobbed.  I know not if it was that first day, or many days afterwards,
+that there came to me, my sister, the daughter my mother loved the best;
+yes, more I am sure even than she loved me, whose great glory she has
+been since I was six years old.  This sister, who was then passing out of
+her ‘teens, came to me with a very anxious face and wringing her hands,
+and she told me to go ben to my mother and say to her that she still had
+another boy.  I went ben excitedly, but the room was dark, and when I
+heard the door shut and no sound come from the bed I was afraid, and I
+stood still.  I suppose I was breathing hard, or perhaps I was crying,
+for after a time I heard a listless voice that had never been listless
+before say, ‘Is that you?’  I think the tone hurt me, for I made no
+answer, and then the voice said more anxiously ‘Is that you?’ again.  I
+thought it was the dead boy she was speaking to, and I said in a little
+lonely voice, ‘No, it’s no him, it’s just me.’  Then I heard a cry, and
+my mother turned in bed, and though it was dark I knew that she was
+holding out her arms.
+
+After that I sat a great deal in her bed trying to make her forget him,
+which was my crafty way of playing physician, and if I saw any one out of
+doors do something that made the others laugh I immediately hastened to
+that dark room and did it before her.  I suppose I was an odd little
+figure; I have been told that my anxiety to brighten her gave my face a
+strained look and put a tremor into the joke (I would stand on my head in
+the bed, my feet against the wall, and then cry excitedly, ‘Are you
+laughing, mother?’)—and perhaps what made her laugh was something I was
+unconscious of, but she did laugh suddenly now and then, whereupon I
+screamed exultantly to that dear sister, who was ever in waiting, to come
+and see the sight, but by the time she came the soft face was wet again.
+Thus I was deprived of some of my glory, and I remember once only making
+her laugh before witnesses.  I kept a record of her laughs on a piece of
+paper, a stroke for each, and it was my custom to show this proudly to
+the doctor every morning.  There were five strokes the first time I
+slipped it into his hand, and when their meaning was explained to him he
+laughed so boisterously, that I cried, ‘I wish that was one of hers!’
+Then he was sympathetic, and asked me if my mother had seen the paper
+yet, and when I shook my head he said that if I showed it to her now and
+told her that these were her five laughs he thought I might win another.
+I had less confidence, but he was the mysterious man whom you ran for in
+the dead of night (you flung sand at his window to waken him, and if it
+was only toothache he extracted the tooth through the open window, but
+when it was something sterner he was with you in the dark square at once,
+like a man who slept in his topcoat), so I did as he bade me, and not
+only did she laugh then but again when I put the laugh down, so that
+though it was really one laugh with a tear in the middle I counted it as
+two.
+
+It was doubtless that same sister who told me not to sulk when my mother
+lay thinking of him, but to try instead to get her to talk about him.  I
+did not see how this could make her the merry mother she used to be, but
+I was told that if I could not do it nobody could, and this made me eager
+to begin.  At first, they say, I was often jealous, stopping her fond
+memories with the cry, ‘Do you mind nothing about me?’ but that did not
+last; its place was taken by an intense desire (again, I think, my sister
+must have breathed it into life) to become so like him that even my
+mother should not see the difference, and many and artful were the
+questions I put to that end.  Then I practised in secret, but after a
+whole week had passed I was still rather like myself.  He had such a
+cheery way of whistling, she had told me, it had always brightened her at
+her work to hear him whistling, and when he whistled he stood with his
+legs apart, and his hands in the pockets of his knickerbockers.  I
+decided to trust to this, so one day after I had learned his whistle
+(every boy of enterprise invents a whistle of his own) from boys who had
+been his comrades, I secretly put on a suit of his clothes, dark grey
+they were, with little spots, and they fitted me many years afterwards,
+and thus disguised I slipped, unknown to the others, into my mother’s
+room.  Quaking, I doubt not, yet so pleased, I stood still until she saw
+me, and then—how it must have hurt her!  ‘Listen!’ I cried in a glow of
+triumph, and I stretched my legs wide apart and plunged my hands into the
+pockets of my knickerbockers, and began to whistle.
+
+She lived twenty-nine years after his death, such active years until
+toward the end, that you never knew where she was unless you took hold of
+her, and though she was frail henceforth and ever growing frailer, her
+housekeeping again became famous, so that brides called as a matter of
+course to watch her ca’ming and sanding and stitching: there are old
+people still, one or two, to tell with wonder in their eyes how she could
+bake twenty-four bannocks in the hour, and not a chip in one of them.
+And how many she gave away, how much she gave away of all she had, and
+what pretty ways she had of giving it!  Her face beamed and rippled with
+mirth as before, and her laugh that I had tried so hard to force came
+running home again.  I have heard no such laugh as hers save from merry
+children; the laughter of most of us ages, and wears out with the body,
+but hers remained gleeful to the last, as if it were born afresh every
+morning.  There was always something of the child in her, and her laugh
+was its voice, as eloquent of the past to me as was the christening robe
+to her.  But I had not made her forget the bit of her that was dead; in
+those nine-and-twenty years he was not removed one day farther from her.
+Many a time she fell asleep speaking to him, and even while she slept her
+lips moved and she smiled as if he had come back to her, and when she
+woke he might vanish so suddenly that she started up bewildered and
+looked about her, and then said slowly, ‘My David’s dead!’ or perhaps he
+remained long enough to whisper why he must leave her now, and then she
+lay silent with filmy eyes.  When I became a man and he was still a boy
+of thirteen, I wrote a little paper called ‘Dead this Twenty Years,’
+which was about a similar tragedy in another woman’s life, and it is the
+only thing I have written that she never spoke about, not even to that
+daughter she loved the best.  No one ever spoke of it to her, or asked
+her if she had read it: one does not ask a mother if she knows that there
+is a little coffin in the house.  She read many times the book in which
+it is printed, but when she came to that chapter she would put her hands
+to her heart or even over her ears.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II—WHAT SHE HAD BEEN
+
+
+What she had been, what I should be, these were the two great subjects
+between us in my boyhood, and while we discussed the one we were deciding
+the other, though neither of us knew it.
+
+Before I reached my tenth year a giant entered my native place in the
+night, and we woke to find him in possession.  He transformed it into a
+new town at a rate with which we boys only could keep up, for as fast as
+he built dams we made rafts to sail in them; he knocked down houses, and
+there we were crying ‘Pilly!’ among the ruins; he dug trenches, and we
+jumped them; we had to be dragged by the legs from beneath his engines,
+he sunk wells, and in we went.  But though there were never circumstances
+to which boys could not adapt themselves in half an hour, older folk are
+slower in the uptake, and I am sure they stood and gaped at the changes
+so suddenly being worked in our midst, and scarce knew their way home now
+in the dark.  Where had been formerly but the click of the shuttle was
+soon the roar of ‘power,’ handlooms were pushed into a corner as a room
+is cleared for a dance; every morning at half-past five the town was
+wakened with a yell, and from a chimney-stack that rose high into our
+caller air the conqueror waved for evermore his flag of smoke.  Another
+era had dawned, new customs, new fashions sprang into life, all as lusty
+as if they had been born at twenty-one; as quickly as two people may
+exchange seats, the daughter, till now but a knitter of stockings, became
+the breadwinner, he who had been the breadwinner sat down to the knitting
+of stockings: what had been yesterday a nest of weavers was to-day a town
+of girls.
+
+I am not of those who would fling stones at the change; it is something,
+surely, that backs are no longer prematurely bent; you may no more look
+through dim panes of glass at the aged poor weaving tremulously for their
+little bit of ground in the cemetery.  Rather are their working years too
+few now, not because they will it so but because it is with youth that
+the power-looms must be fed.  Well, this teaches them to make provision,
+and they have the means as they never had before.  Not in batches are
+boys now sent to college; the half-dozen a year have dwindled to one,
+doubtless because in these days they can begin to draw wages as they step
+out of their fourteenth year.  Here assuredly there is loss, but all the
+losses would be but a pebble in a sea of gain were it not for this, that
+with so many of the family, young mothers among them, working in the
+factories, home life is not so beautiful as it was.  So much of what is
+great in Scotland has sprung from the closeness of the family ties; it is
+there I sometimes fear that my country is being struck.  That we are all
+being reduced to one dead level, that character abounds no more and life
+itself is less interesting, such things I have read, but I do not believe
+them.  I have even seen them given as my reason for writing of a past
+time, and in that at least there is no truth.  In our little town, which
+is a sample of many, life is as interesting, as pathetic, as joyous as
+ever it was; no group of weavers was better to look at or think about
+than the rivulet of winsome girls that overruns our streets every time
+the sluice is raised, the comedy of summer evenings and winter firesides
+is played with the old zest and every window-blind is the curtain of a
+romance.  Once the lights of a little town are lit, who could ever hope
+to tell all its story, or the story of a single wynd in it?  And who
+looking at lighted windows needs to turn to books?  The reason my books
+deal with the past instead of with the life I myself have known is simply
+this, that I soon grow tired of writing tales unless I can see a little
+girl, of whom my mother has told me, wandering confidently through the
+pages.  Such a grip has her memory of her girlhood had upon me since I
+was a boy of six.
+
+Those innumerable talks with her made her youth as vivid to me as my own,
+and so much more quaint, for, to a child, the oddest of things, and the
+most richly coloured picture-book, is that his mother was once a child
+also, and the contrast between what she is and what she was is perhaps
+the source of all humour.  My mother’s father, the one hero of her life,
+died nine years before I was born, and I remember this with bewilderment,
+so familiarly does the weather-beaten mason’s figure rise before me from
+the old chair on which I was nursed and now write my books.  On the
+surface he is as hard as the stone on which he chiselled, and his face is
+dyed red by its dust, he is rounded in the shoulders and a ‘hoast’ hunts
+him ever; sooner or later that cough must carry him off, but until then
+it shall not keep him from the quarry, nor shall his chapped hands, as
+long as they can grasp the mell.  It is a night of rain or snow, and my
+mother, the little girl in a pinafore who is already his housekeeper, has
+been many times to the door to look for him.  At last he draws nigh,
+hoasting.  Or I see him setting off to church, for he was a great ‘stoop’
+of the Auld Licht kirk, and his mouth is very firm now as if there were a
+case of discipline to face, but on his way home he is bowed with pity.
+Perhaps his little daughter who saw him so stern an hour ago does not
+understand why he wrestles so long in prayer to-night, or why when he
+rises from his knees he presses her to him with unwonted tenderness.  Or
+he is in this chair repeating to her his favourite poem, ‘The
+Cameronian’s Dream,’ and at the first lines so solemnly uttered,
+
+    ‘In a dream of the night I was wafted away,’
+
+she screams with excitement, just as I screamed long afterwards when she
+repeated them in his voice to me.  Or I watch, as from a window, while
+she sets off through the long parks to the distant place where he is at
+work, in her hand a flagon which contains his dinner.  She is singing to
+herself and gleefully swinging the flagon, she jumps the burn and proudly
+measures the jump with her eye, but she never dallies unless she meets a
+baby, for she was so fond of babies that she must hug each one she met,
+but while she hugged them she also noted how their robes were cut, and
+afterwards made paper patterns, which she concealed jealously, and in the
+fulness of time her first robe for her eldest born was fashioned from one
+of these patterns, made when she was in her twelfth year.
+
+She was eight when her mother’s death made her mistress of the house and
+mother to her little brother, and from that time she scrubbed and mended
+and baked and sewed, and argued with the flesher about the quarter pound
+of beef and penny bone which provided dinner for two days (but if you
+think that this was poverty you don’t know the meaning of the word), and
+she carried the water from the pump, and had her washing-days and her
+ironings and a stocking always on the wire for odd moments, and gossiped
+like a matron with the other women, and humoured the men with a tolerant
+smile—all these things she did as a matter of course, leaping joyful from
+bed in the morning because there was so much to do, doing it as
+thoroughly and sedately as if the brides were already due for a lesson,
+and then rushing out in a fit of childishness to play dumps or palaulays
+with others of her age.  I see her frocks lengthening, though they were
+never very short, and the games given reluctantly up. The horror of my
+boyhood was that I knew a time would come when I also must give up the
+games, and how it was to be done I saw not (this agony still returns to
+me in dreams, when I catch myself playing marbles, and look on with cold
+displeasure); I felt that I must continue playing in secret, and I took
+this shadow to her, when she told me her own experience, which convinced
+us both that we were very like each other inside.  She had discovered
+that work is the best fun after all, and I learned it in time, but have
+my lapses, and so had she.
+
+I know what was her favourite costume when she was at the age that they
+make heroines of: it was a pale blue with a pale blue bonnet, the white
+ribbons of which tied aggravatingly beneath the chin, and when questioned
+about this garb she never admitted that she looked pretty in it, but she
+did say, with blushes too, that blue was her colour, and then she might
+smile, as at some memory, and begin to tell us about a man who—but it
+ended there with another smile which was longer in departing.  She never
+said, indeed she denied strenuously, that she had led the men a dance,
+but again the smile returned, and came between us and full belief.  Yes,
+she had her little vanities; when she got the Mizpah ring she did carry
+that finger in such a way that the most reluctant must see.  She was very
+particular about her gloves, and hid her boots so that no other should
+put them on, and then she forgot their hiding-place, and had suspicions
+of the one who found them.  A good way of enraging her was to say that
+her last year’s bonnet would do for this year without alteration, or that
+it would defy the face of clay to count the number of her shawls.  In one
+of my books there is a mother who is setting off with her son for the
+town to which he had been called as minister, and she pauses on the
+threshold to ask him anxiously if he thinks her bonnet ‘sets’ her.  A
+reviewer said she acted thus, not because she cared how she looked, but
+for the sake of her son.  This, I remember, amused my mother very much.
+
+I have seen many weary on-dings of snow, but the one I seem to recollect
+best occurred nearly twenty years before I was born.  It was at the time
+of my mother’s marriage to one who proved a most loving as he was always
+a well-loved husband, a man I am very proud to be able to call my father.
+I know not for how many days the snow had been falling, but a day came
+when the people lost heart and would make no more gullies through it, and
+by next morning to do so was impossible, they could not fling the snow
+high enough.  Its back was against every door when Sunday came, and none
+ventured out save a valiant few, who buffeted their way into my mother’s
+home to discuss her predicament, for unless she was ‘cried’ in the church
+that day she might not be married for another week, and how could she be
+cried with the minister a field away and the church buried to the waist?
+For hours they talked, and at last some men started for the church, which
+was several hundred yards distant.  Three of them found a window, and
+forcing a passage through it, cried the pair, and that is how it came
+about that my father and mother were married on the first of March.
+
+That would be the end, I suppose, if it were a story, but to my mother it
+was only another beginning, and not the last.  I see her bending over the
+cradle of her first-born, college for him already in her eye (and my
+father not less ambitious), and anon it is a girl who is in the cradle,
+and then another girl—already a tragic figure to those who know the end.
+I wonder if any instinct told my mother that the great day of her life
+was when she bore this child; what I am sure of is that from the first
+the child followed her with the most wistful eyes and saw how she needed
+help and longed to rise and give it.  For of physical strength my mother
+had never very much; it was her spirit that got through the work, and in
+those days she was often so ill that the sand rained on the doctor’s
+window, and men ran to and fro with leeches, and ‘she is in life, we can
+say no more’ was the information for those who came knocking at the door.
+‘I am sorrow to say,’ her father writes in an old letter now before me,
+‘that Margaret is in a state that she was never so bad before in this
+world.  Till Wednesday night she was in as poor a condition as you could
+think of to be alive.  However, after bleeding, leeching, etc., the Dr.
+says this morning that he is better hoped now, but at present we can say
+no more but only she is alive and in the hands of Him in whose hands all
+our lives are.  I can give you no adequate view of what my feelings are,
+indeed they are a burden too heavy for me and I cannot describe them.  I
+look on my right and left hand and find no comfort, and if it were not
+for the rock that is higher than I my spirit would utterly fall, but
+blessed be His name who can comfort those that are cast down.  O for more
+faith in His supporting grace in this hour of trial.’
+
+Then she is ‘on the mend,’ she may ‘thole thro’’ if they take great care
+of her, ‘which we will be forward to do.’  The fourth child dies when but
+a few weeks old, and the next at two years.  She was her grandfather’s
+companion, and thus he wrote of her death, this stern, self-educated Auld
+Licht with the chapped hands:—
+
+    ‘I hope you received my last in which I spoke of Dear little Lydia
+    being unwell.  Now with deep sorrow I must tell you that yesterday I
+    assisted in laying her dear remains in the lonely grave.  She died at
+    7 o’clock on Wednesday evening, I suppose by the time you had got the
+    letter.  The Dr. did not think it was croup till late on Tuesday
+    night, and all that Medical aid could prescribe was done, but the Dr.
+    had no hope after he saw that the croup was confirmed, and hard
+    indeed would the heart have been that would not have melted at seeing
+    what the dear little creature suffered all Wednesday until the feeble
+    frame was quite worn out.  She was quite sensible till within 2 hours
+    of her death, and then she sunk quite low till the vital spark fled,
+    and all medicine that she got she took with the greatest readiness,
+    as if apprehensive they would make her well.  I cannot well describe
+    my feelings on the occasion.  I thought that the fountain-head of my
+    tears had now been dried up, but I have been mistaken, for I must
+    confess that the briny rivulets descended fast on my furrowed cheeks,
+    she was such a winning Child, and had such a regard for me and always
+    came and told me all her little things, and as she was now speaking,
+    some of her little prattle was very taking, and the lively images of
+    these things intrude themselves more into my mind than they should
+    do, but there is allowance for moderate grief on such occasions.  But
+    when I am telling you of my own grief and sorrow, I know not what to
+    say of the bereaved Mother, she hath not met with anything in this
+    world before that hath gone so near the quick with her.  She had no
+    handling of the last one as she was not able at the time, for she
+    only had her once in her arms, and her affections had not time to be
+    so fairly entwined around her.  I am much afraid that she will not
+    soon if ever get over this trial.  Although she was weakly before,
+    yet she was pretty well recovered, but this hath not only affected
+    her mind, but her body is so much affected that she is not well able
+    to sit so long as her bed is making and hath scarcely tasted meat
+    [i.e. food] since Monday night, and till some time is elapsed we
+    cannot say how she may be.  There is none that is not a Parent
+    themselves that can fully sympathise with one in such a state.  David
+    is much affected also, but it is not so well known on him, and the
+    younger branches of the family are affected but it will be only
+    momentary.  But alas in all this vast ado, there is only the sorrow
+    of the world which worketh death.  O how gladdening would it be if we
+    were in as great bitterness for sin as for the loss of a first-born.
+    O how unfitted persons or families is for trials who knows not the
+    divine art of casting all their cares upon the Lord, and what
+    multitudes are there that when earthly comforts is taken away, may
+    well say What have I more? all their delight is placed in some one
+    thing or another in the world, and who can blame them for unwillingly
+    parting with what they esteem their chief good?  O that we were wise
+    to lay up treasure for the time of need, for it is truly a solemn
+    affair to enter the lists with the king of terrors.  It is strange
+    that the living lay the things so little to heart until they have to
+    engage in that war where there is no discharge.  O that my head were
+    waters and mine eyes a fountain of tears that I might weep day and
+    night for my own and others’ stupidity in this great matter.  O for
+    grace to do every day work in its proper time and to live above the
+    tempting cheating train of earthly things.  The rest of the family
+    are moderately well.  I have been for some days worse than I have
+    been for 8 months past, but I may soon get better.  I am in the same
+    way I have often been in before, but there is no security for it
+    always being so, for I know that it cannot be far from the time when
+    I will be one of those that once were.  I have no other news to send
+    you, and as little heart for them.  I hope you will take the earliest
+    opportunity of writing that you can, and be particular as regards
+    Margaret, for she requires consolation.’
+
+He died exactly a week after writing this letter, but my mother was to
+live for another forty-four years.  And joys of a kind never shared in by
+him were to come to her so abundantly, so long drawn out that, strange as
+it would have seemed to him to know it, her fuller life had scarce yet
+begun.  And with the joys were to come their sweet, frightened comrades
+pain and grief; again she was to be touched to the quick, again and again
+to be so ill that ‘she is in life, we can say no more,’ but still she had
+attendants very ‘forward’ to help her, some of them unborn in her
+father’s time.
+
+She told me everything, and so my memories of our little red town are
+coloured by her memories.  I knew it as it had been for generations, and
+suddenly I saw it change, and the transformation could not fail to strike
+a boy, for these first years are the most impressionable (nothing that
+happens after we are twelve matters very much); they are also the most
+vivid years when we look back, and more vivid the farther we have to
+look, until, at the end, what lies between bends like a hoop, and the
+extremes meet.  But though the new town is to me a glass through which I
+look at the old, the people I see passing up and down these wynds,
+sitting, nightcapped, on their barrow-shafts, hobbling in their blacks to
+church on Sunday, are less those I saw in my childhood than their fathers
+and mothers who did these things in the same way when my mother was
+young.  I cannot picture the place without seeing her, as a little girl,
+come to the door of a certain house and beat her bass against the
+gav’le-end, or there is a wedding to-night, and the carriage with the
+white-eared horse is sent for a maiden in pale blue, whose bonnet-strings
+tie beneath the chin.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III—WHAT I SHOULD BE
+
+
+My mother was a great reader, and with ten minutes to spare before the
+starch was ready would begin the ‘Decline and Fall’—and finish it, too,
+that winter.  Foreign words in the text annoyed her and made her bemoan
+her want of a classical education—she had only attended a Dame’s school
+during some easy months—but she never passed the foreign words by until
+their meaning was explained to her, and when next she and they met it was
+as acquaintances, which I think was clever of her.  One of her delights
+was to learn from me scraps of Horace, and then bring them into her
+conversation with ‘colleged men.’  I have come upon her in lonely places,
+such as the stair-head or the east room, muttering these quotations aloud
+to herself, and I well remember how she would say to the visitors, ‘Ay,
+ay, it’s very true, Doctor, but as you know, “Eheu fugaces, Postume,
+Postume, labuntur anni,”’ or ‘Sal, Mr. So-and-so, my lassie is thriving
+well, but would it no’ be more to the point to say, “O matra pulchra
+filia pulchrior”?’ which astounded them very much if she managed to reach
+the end without being flung, but usually she had a fit of laughing in the
+middle, and so they found her out.
+
+Biography and exploration were her favourite reading, for choice the
+biography of men who had been good to their mothers, and she liked the
+explorers to be alive so that she could shudder at the thought of their
+venturing forth again; but though she expressed a hope that they would
+have the sense to stay at home henceforth, she gleamed with admiration
+when they disappointed her.  In later days I had a friend who was an
+African explorer, and she was in two minds about him; he was one of the
+most engrossing of mortals to her, she admired him prodigiously, pictured
+him at the head of his caravan, now attacked by savages, now by wild
+beasts, and adored him for the uneasy hours he gave her, but she was also
+afraid that he wanted to take me with him, and then she thought he should
+be put down by law.  Explorers’ mothers also interested her very much;
+the books might tell her nothing about them, but she could create them
+for herself and wring her hands in sympathy with them when they had got
+no news of him for six months.  Yet there were times when she grudged him
+to them—as the day when he returned victorious.  Then what was before her
+eyes was not the son coming marching home again but an old woman peering
+for him round the window curtain and trying not to look uplifted.  The
+newspaper reports would be about the son, but my mother’s comment was
+‘She’s a proud woman this night.’
+
+We read many books together when I was a boy, ‘Robinson Crusoe’ being the
+first (and the second), and the ‘Arabian Nights’ should have been the
+next, for we got it out of the library (a penny for three days), but on
+discovering that they were nights when we had paid for knights we sent
+that volume packing, and I have curled my lips at it ever since.  ‘The
+Pilgrim’s Progress’ we had in the house (it was as common a possession as
+a dresser-head), and so enamoured of it was I that I turned our garden
+into sloughs of Despond, with pea-sticks to represent Christian on his
+travels and a buffet-stool for his burden, but when I dragged my mother
+out to see my handiwork she was scared, and I felt for days, with a
+certain elation, that I had been a dark character.  Besides reading every
+book we could hire or borrow I also bought one now and again, and while
+buying (it was the occupation of weeks) I read, standing at the counter,
+most of the other books in the shop, which is perhaps the most exquisite
+way of reading.  And I took in a magazine called ‘Sunshine,’ the most
+delicious periodical, I am sure, of any day.  It cost a halfpenny or a
+penny a month, and always, as I fondly remember, had a continued tale
+about the dearest girl, who sold water-cress, which is a dainty not grown
+and I suppose never seen in my native town.  This romantic little
+creature took such hold of my imagination that I cannot eat water-cress
+even now without emotion.  I lay in bed wondering what she would be up to
+in the next number; I have lost trout because when they nibbled my mind
+was wandering with her; my early life was embittered by her not arriving
+regularly on the first of the month.  I know not whether it was owing to
+her loitering on the way one month to an extent flesh and blood could not
+bear, or because we had exhausted the penny library, but on a day I
+conceived a glorious idea, or it was put into my head by my mother, then
+desirous of making progress with her new clouty hearthrug.  The notion
+was nothing short of this, why should I not write the tales myself?  I
+did write them—in the garret—but they by no means helped her to get on
+with her work, for when I finished a chapter I bounded downstairs to read
+it to her, and so short were the chapters, so ready was the pen, that I
+was back with new manuscript before another clout had been added to the
+rug.  Authorship seemed, like her bannock-baking, to consist of running
+between two points.  They were all tales of adventure (happiest is he who
+writes of adventure), no characters were allowed within if I knew their
+like in the flesh, the scene lay in unknown parts, desert islands,
+enchanted gardens, with knights (none of your nights) on black chargers,
+and round the first corner a lady selling water-cress.
+
+At twelve or thereabout I put the literary calling to bed for a time,
+having gone to a school where cricket and football were more esteemed,
+but during the year before I went to the university, it woke up and I
+wrote great part of a three-volume novel.  The publisher replied that the
+sum for which he would print it was a hundred and—however, that was not
+the important point (I had sixpence): where he stabbed us both was in
+writing that he considered me a ‘clever lady.’  I replied stiffly that I
+was a gentleman, and since then I have kept that manuscript concealed.  I
+looked through it lately, and, oh, but it is dull!  I defy any one to
+read it.
+
+The malignancy of publishers, however, could not turn me back.  From the
+day on which I first tasted blood in the garret my mind was made up;
+there could be no hum-dreadful-drum profession for me; literature was my
+game.  It was not highly thought of by those who wished me well.  I
+remember being asked by two maiden ladies, about the time I left the
+university, what I was to be, and when I replied brazenly, ‘An author,’
+they flung up their hands, and one exclaimed reproachfully, ‘And you an
+M.A.!’  My mother’s views at first were not dissimilar; for long she took
+mine jestingly as something I would grow out of, and afterwards they hurt
+her so that I tried to give them up.  To be a minister—that she thought
+was among the fairest prospects, but she was a very ambitious woman, and
+sometimes she would add, half scared at her appetite, that there were
+ministers who had become professors, ‘but it was not canny to think of
+such things.’
+
+I had one person only on my side, an old tailor, one of the fullest men I
+have known, and quite the best talker.  He was a bachelor (he told me all
+that is to be known about woman), a lean man, pallid of face, his legs
+drawn up when he walked as if he was ever carrying something in his lap;
+his walks were of the shortest, from the tea-pot on the hob to the board
+on which he stitched, from the board to the hob, and so to bed.  He might
+have gone out had the idea struck him, but in the years I knew him, the
+last of his brave life, I think he was only in the open twice, when he
+‘flitted’—changed his room for another hard by.  I did not see him make
+these journeys, but I seem to see him now, and he is somewhat dizzy in
+the odd atmosphere; in one hand he carries a box-iron, he raises the
+other, wondering what this is on his head, it is a hat; a faint smell of
+singed cloth goes by with him.  This man had heard of my set of
+photographs of the poets and asked for a sight of them, which led to our
+first meeting.  I remember how he spread them out on his board, and after
+looking long at them, turned his gaze on me and said solemnly,
+
+    What can I do to be for ever known,
+    And make the age to come my own?
+
+These lines of Cowley were new to me, but the sentiment was not new, and
+I marvelled how the old tailor could see through me so well.  So it was
+strange to me to discover presently that he had not been thinking of me
+at all, but of his own young days, when that couplet sang in his head,
+and he, too, had thirsted to set off for Grub Street, but was afraid, and
+while he hesitated old age came, and then Death, and found him grasping a
+box-iron.
+
+I hurried home with the mouthful, but neighbours had dropped in, and this
+was for her ears only, so I drew her to the stair, and said imperiously,
+
+    What can I do to be for ever known,
+    And make the age to come my own?
+
+It was an odd request for which to draw her from a tea-table, and she
+must have been surprised, but I think she did not laugh, and in after
+years she would repeat the lines fondly, with a flush on her soft face.
+‘That is the kind you would like to be yourself!’ we would say in jest to
+her, and she would reply almost passionately, ‘No, but I would be windy
+of being his mother.’  It is possible that she could have been his mother
+had that other son lived, he might have managed it from sheer love of
+her, but for my part I can smile at one of those two figures on the stair
+now, having long given up the dream of being for ever known, and seeing
+myself more akin to my friend, the tailor, for as he was found at the end
+on his board, so I hope shall I be found at my handloom, doing honestly
+the work that suits me best.  Who should know so well as I that it is but
+a handloom compared to the great guns that reverberate through the age to
+come?  But she who stood with me on the stair that day was a very simple
+woman, accustomed all her life to making the most of small things, and I
+weaved sufficiently well to please her, which has been my only steadfast
+ambition since I was a little boy.
+
+Not less than mine became her desire that I should have my way—but, ah,
+the iron seats in that park of horrible repute, and that bare room at the
+top of many flights of stairs!  While I was away at college she drained
+all available libraries for books about those who go to London to live by
+the pen, and they all told the same shuddering tale.  London, which she
+never saw, was to her a monster that licked up country youths as they
+stepped from the train; there were the garrets in which they sat abject,
+and the park seats where they passed the night.  Those park seats were
+the monster’s glaring eyes to her, and as I go by them now she is nearer
+to me than when I am in any other part of London.  I daresay that when
+night comes, this Hyde Park which is so gay by day, is haunted by the
+ghosts of many mothers, who run, wild-eyed, from seat to seat, looking
+for their sons.
+
+But if we could dodge those dreary seats she longed to see me try my
+luck, and I sought to exclude them from the picture by drawing maps of
+London with Hyde Park left out.  London was as strange to me as to her,
+but long before I was shot upon it I knew it by maps, and drew them more
+accurately than I could draw them now.  Many a time she and I took our
+jaunt together through the map, and were most gleeful, popping into
+telegraph offices to wire my father and sister that we should not be home
+till late, winking to my books in lordly shop-windows, lunching at
+restaurants (and remembering not to call it dinner), saying, ‘How do?’ to
+Mr. Alfred Tennyson when we passed him in Regent Street, calling at
+publishers’ offices for cheque, when ‘Will you take care of it, or shall
+I?’ I asked gaily, and she would be certain to reply, ‘I’m thinking we’d
+better take it to the bank and get the money,’ for she always felt surer
+of money than of cheques; so to the bank we went (‘Two tens, and the rest
+in gold’), and thence straightway (by cab) to the place where you buy
+sealskin coats for middling old ladies.  But ere the laugh was done the
+park would come through the map like a blot.
+
+‘If you could only be sure of as much as would keep body and soul
+together,’ my mother would say with a sigh.
+
+‘With something over, mother, to send to you.’
+
+‘You couldna expect that at the start.’
+
+The wench I should have been courting now was journalism, that grisette
+of literature who has a smile and a hand for all beginners, welcoming
+them at the threshold, teaching them so much that is worth knowing,
+introducing them to the other lady whom they have worshipped from afar,
+showing them even how to woo her, and then bidding them a bright
+God-speed—he were an ingrate who, having had her joyous companionship, no
+longer flings her a kiss as they pass.  But though she bears no ill-will
+when she is jilted, you must serve faithfully while you are hers, and you
+must seek her out and make much of her, and, until you can rely on her
+good-nature (note this), not a word about the other lady.  When at last
+she took me in I grew so fond of her that I called her by the other’s
+name, and even now I think at times that there was more fun in the little
+sister, but I began by wooing her with contributions that were all
+misfits.  In an old book I find columns of notes about works projected at
+this time, nearly all to consist of essays on deeply uninteresting
+subjects; the lightest was to be a volume on the older satirists,
+beginning with Skelton and Tom Nash—the half of that manuscript still
+lies in a dusty chest—the only story was about Mary Queen of Scots, who
+was also the subject of many unwritten papers.  Queen Mary seems to have
+been luring me to my undoing ever since I saw Holyrood, and I have a
+horrid fear that I may write that novel yet.  That anything could be
+written about my native place never struck me.  We had read somewhere
+that a novelist is better equipped than most of his trade if he knows
+himself and one woman, and my mother said, ‘You know yourself, for
+everybody must know himself’ (there never was a woman who knew less about
+herself than she), and she would add dolefully, ‘But I doubt I’m the only
+woman you know well.’
+
+‘Then I must make you my heroine,’ I said lightly.
+
+‘A gey auld-farrant-like heroine!’ she said, and we both laughed at the
+notion—so little did we read the future.
+
+Thus it is obvious what were my qualifications when I was rashly engaged
+as a leader-writer (it was my sister who saw the advertisement) on an
+English provincial paper.  At the moment I was as uplifted as the others,
+for the chance had come at last, with what we all regarded as a
+prodigious salary, but I was wanted in the beginning of the week, and it
+suddenly struck me that the leaders were the one thing I had always
+skipped.  Leaders!  How were they written? what were they about?  My
+mother was already sitting triumphant among my socks, and I durst not let
+her see me quaking.  I retired to ponder, and presently she came to me
+with the daily paper.  Which were the leaders? she wanted to know, so
+evidently I could get no help from her.  Had she any more newspapers?  I
+asked, and after rummaging, she produced a few with which her boxes had
+been lined.  Others, very dusty, came from beneath carpets, and lastly a
+sooty bundle was dragged down the chimney.  Surrounded by these I sat
+down, and studied how to become a journalist.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV—AN EDITOR
+
+
+A devout lady, to whom some friend had presented one of my books, used to
+say when asked how she was getting on with it, ‘Sal, it’s dreary, weary,
+uphill work, but I’ve wrastled through with tougher jobs in my time, and,
+please God, I’ll wrastle through with this one.’  It was in this spirit,
+I fear, though she never told me so, that my mother wrestled for the next
+year or more with my leaders, and indeed I was always genuinely sorry for
+the people I saw reading them.  In my spare hours I was trying journalism
+of another kind and sending it to London, but nearly eighteen months
+elapsed before there came to me, as unlooked for as a telegram, the
+thought that there was something quaint about my native place.  A boy who
+found that a knife had been put into his pocket in the night could not
+have been more surprised.  A few days afterwards I sent my mother a
+London evening paper with an article entitled ‘An Auld Licht Community,’
+and they told me that when she saw the heading she laughed, because there
+was something droll to her in the sight of the words Auld Licht in print.
+For her, as for me, that newspaper was soon to have the face of a friend.
+To this day I never pass its placards in the street without shaking it by
+the hand, and she used to sew its pages together as lovingly as though
+they were a child’s frock; but let the truth be told, when she read that
+first article she became alarmed, and fearing the talk of the town, hid
+the paper from all eyes.  For some time afterwards, while I proudly
+pictured her showing this and similar articles to all who felt an
+interest in me, she was really concealing them fearfully in a bandbox on
+the garret stair.  And she wanted to know by return of post whether I was
+paid for these articles as much as I was paid for real articles; when she
+heard that I was paid better, she laughed again and had them out of the
+bandbox for re-reading, and it cannot be denied that she thought the
+London editor a fine fellow but slightly soft.
+
+When I sent off that first sketch I thought I had exhausted the subject,
+but our editor wrote that he would like something more of the same, so I
+sent him a marriage, and he took it, and then I tried him with a funeral,
+and he took it, and really it began to look as if we had him.  Now my
+mother might have been discovered, in answer to certain excited letters,
+flinging the bundle of undarned socks from her lap, and ‘going in for
+literature’; she was racking her brains, by request, for memories I might
+convert into articles, and they came to me in letters which she dictated
+to my sisters.  How well I could hear her sayings between the lines: ‘But
+the editor-man will never stand that, it’s perfect blethers’—‘By this
+post it must go, I tell you; we must take the editor when he’s hungry—we
+canna be blamed for it, can we? he prints them of his free will, so the
+wite is his’—‘But I’m near terrified.—If London folk reads them we’re
+done for.’  And I was sounded as to the advisability of sending him a
+present of a lippie of shortbread, which was to be her crafty way of
+getting round him.  By this time, though my mother and I were hundreds of
+miles apart, you may picture us waving our hands to each other across
+country, and shouting ‘Hurrah!’  You may also picture the editor in his
+office thinking he was behaving like a shrewd man of business, and
+unconscious that up in the north there was an elderly lady chuckling so
+much at him that she could scarcely scrape the potatoes.
+
+I was now able to see my mother again, and the park seats no longer
+loomed so prominent in our map of London.  Still, there they were, and it
+was with an effort that she summoned up courage to let me go.  She feared
+changes, and who could tell that the editor would continue to be kind?
+Perhaps when he saw me—
+
+She seemed to be very much afraid of his seeing me, and this, I would
+point out, was a reflection on my appearance or my manner.
+
+No, what she meant was that I looked so young, and—and that would take
+him aback, for had I not written as an aged man?
+
+‘But he knows my age, mother.’
+
+‘I’m glad of that, but maybe he wouldna like you when he saw you.’
+
+‘Oh, it is my manner, then!’
+
+‘I dinna say that, but—’
+
+Here my sister would break in: ‘The short and the long of it is just
+this, she thinks nobody has such manners as herself.  Can you deny it,
+you vain woman?’  My mother would deny it vigorously.
+
+‘You stand there,’ my sister would say with affected scorn, ‘and tell me
+you don’t think you could get the better of that man quicker than any of
+us?’
+
+‘Sal, I’m thinking I could manage him,’ says my mother, with a chuckle.
+
+‘How would you set about it?’
+
+Then my mother would begin to laugh.  ‘I would find out first if he had a
+family, and then I would say they were the finest family in London.’
+
+‘Yes, that is just what you would do, you cunning woman!  But if he has
+no family?’
+
+‘I would say what great men editors are!’
+
+‘He would see through you.’
+
+‘Not he!’
+
+‘You don’t understand that what imposes on common folk would never
+hoodwink an editor.’
+
+‘That’s where you are wrong.  Gentle or simple, stupid or clever, the men
+are all alike in the hands of a woman that flatters them.’
+
+‘Ah, I’m sure there are better ways of getting round an editor than
+that.’
+
+‘I daresay there are,’ my mother would say with conviction, ‘but if you
+try that plan you will never need to try another.’
+
+‘How artful you are, mother—you with your soft face!  Do you not think
+shame?’
+
+‘Pooh!’ says my mother brazenly.
+
+‘I can see the reason why you are so popular with men.’
+
+‘Ay, you can see it, but they never will.’
+
+‘Well, how would you dress yourself if you were going to that editor’s
+office?’
+
+‘Of course I would wear my silk and my Sabbath bonnet.’
+
+‘It is you who are shortsighted now, mother.  I tell you, you would
+manage him better if you just put on your old grey shawl and one of your
+bonny white mutches, and went in half smiling and half timid and said, “I
+am the mother of him that writes about the Auld Lichts, and I want you to
+promise that he will never have to sleep in the open air.”’
+
+But my mother would shake her head at this, and reply almost hotly, ‘I
+tell you if I ever go into that man’s office, I go in silk.’
+
+I wrote and asked the editor if I should come to London, and he said No,
+so I went, laden with charges from my mother to walk in the middle of the
+street (they jump out on you as you are turning a corner), never to
+venture forth after sunset, and always to lock up everything (I who could
+never lock up anything, except my heart in company).  Thanks to this
+editor, for the others would have nothing to say to me though I battered
+on all their doors, she was soon able to sleep at nights without the
+dread that I should be waking presently with the iron-work of certain
+seats figured on my person, and what relieved her very much was that I
+had begun to write as if Auld Lichts were not the only people I knew of.
+So long as I confined myself to them she had a haunting fear that, even
+though the editor remained blind to his best interests, something would
+one day go crack within me (as the mainspring of a watch breaks) and my
+pen refuse to write for evermore.  ‘Ay, I like the article brawly,’ she
+would say timidly, ‘but I’m doubting it’s the last—I always have a sort
+of terror the new one may be the last,’ and if many days elapsed before
+the arrival of another article her face would say mournfully, ‘The blow
+has fallen—he can think of nothing more to write about.’  If I ever
+shared her fears I never told her so, and the articles that were not
+Scotch grew in number until there were hundreds of them, all carefully
+preserved by her: they were the only thing in the house that, having
+served one purpose, she did not convert into something else, yet they
+could give her uneasy moments.  This was because I nearly always assumed
+a character when I wrote; I must be a country squire, or an
+undergraduate, or a butler, or a member of the House of Lords, or a
+dowager, or a lady called Sweet Seventeen, or an engineer in India, else
+was my pen clogged, and though this gave my mother certain fearful joys,
+causing her to laugh unexpectedly (so far as my articles were concerned
+she nearly always laughed in the wrong place), it also scared her.  Much
+to her amusement the editor continued to prefer the Auld Licht papers,
+however, as was proved (to those who knew him) by his way of thinking
+that the others would pass as they were, while he sent these back and
+asked me to make them better.  Here again she came to my aid.  I had said
+that the row of stockings were hung on a string by the fire, which was a
+recollection of my own, but she could tell me whether they were hung
+upside down.  She became quite skilful at sending or giving me (for now I
+could be with her half the year) the right details, but still she smiled
+at the editor, and in her gay moods she would say, ‘I was fifteen when I
+got my first pair of elastic-sided boots.  Tell him my charge for this
+important news is two pounds ten.’
+
+‘Ay, but though we’re doing well, it’s no’ the same as if they were a
+book with your name on it.’  So the ambitious woman would say with a
+sigh, and I did my best to turn the Auld Licht sketches into a book with
+my name on it.  Then perhaps we understood most fully how good a friend
+our editor had been, for just as I had been able to find no well-known
+magazine—and I think I tried all—which would print any article or story
+about the poor of my native land, so now the publishers, Scotch and
+English, refused to accept the book as a gift.  I was willing to present
+it to them, but they would have it in no guise; there seemed to be a
+blight on everything that was Scotch.  I daresay we sighed, but never
+were collaborators more prepared for rejection, and though my mother
+might look wistfully at the scorned manuscript at times and murmur, ‘You
+poor cold little crittur shut away in a drawer, are you dead or just
+sleeping?’ she had still her editor to say grace over.  And at last
+publishers, sufficiently daring and far more than sufficiently generous,
+were found for us by a dear friend, who made one woman very ‘uplifted.’
+He also was an editor, and had as large a part in making me a writer of
+books as the other in determining what the books should be about.
+
+Now that I was an author I must get into a club.  But you should have
+heard my mother on clubs!  She knew of none save those to which you
+subscribe a pittance weekly in anticipation of rainy days, and the London
+clubs were her scorn.  Often I heard her on them—she raised her voice to
+make me hear, whichever room I might be in, and it was when she was
+sarcastic that I skulked the most: ‘Thirty pounds is what he will have to
+pay the first year, and ten pounds a year after that.  You think it’s a
+lot o’ siller?  Oh no, you’re mista’en—it’s nothing ava.  For the third
+part of thirty pounds you could rent a four-roomed house, but what is a
+four-roomed house, what is thirty pounds, compared to the glory of being
+a member of a club?  Where does the glory come in?  Sal, you needna ask
+me, I’m just a doited auld stock that never set foot in a club, so it’s
+little I ken about glory.  But I may tell you if you bide in London and
+canna become member of a club, the best you can do is to tie a rope round
+your neck and slip out of the world.  What use are they?  Oh, they’re
+terrible useful.  You see it doesna do for a man in London to eat his
+dinner in his lodgings.  Other men shake their heads at him.  He maun
+away to his club if he is to be respected.  Does he get good dinners at
+the club?  Oh, they cow!  You get no common beef at clubs; there is a
+manzy of different things all sauced up to be unlike themsels.  Even the
+potatoes daurna look like potatoes.  If the food in a club looks like
+what it is, the members run about, flinging up their hands and crying,
+“Woe is me!”  Then this is another thing, you get your letters sent to
+the club instead of to your lodgings.  You see you would get them sooner
+at your lodgings, and you may have to trudge weary miles to the club for
+them, but that’s a great advantage, and cheap at thirty pounds, is it
+no’?  I wonder they can do it at the price.’
+
+My wisest policy was to remain downstairs when these withering blasts
+were blowing, but probably I went up in self-defence.
+
+‘I never saw you so pugnacious before, mother.’
+
+‘Oh,’ she would reply promptly, ‘you canna expect me to be sharp in the
+uptake when I am no’ a member of a club.’
+
+‘But the difficulty is in becoming a member.  They are very particular
+about whom they elect, and I daresay I shall not get in.’
+
+‘Well, I’m but a poor crittur (not being member of a club), but I think I
+can tell you to make your mind easy on that head.  You’ll get in, I’se
+uphaud—and your thirty pounds will get in, too.’
+
+‘If I get in it will be because the editor is supporting me.’
+
+‘It’s the first ill thing I ever heard of him.’
+
+‘You don’t think he is to get any of the thirty pounds, do you?’
+
+‘’Deed if I did I should be better pleased, for he has been a good friend
+to us, but what maddens me is that every penny of it should go to those
+bare-faced scoundrels.’
+
+‘What bare-faced scoundrels?’
+
+‘Them that have the club.’
+
+‘But all the members have the club between them.’
+
+‘Havers!  I’m no’ to be catched with chaff.’
+
+‘But don’t you believe me?’
+
+‘I believe they’ve filled your head with their stories till you swallow
+whatever they tell you.  If the place belongs to the members, why do they
+have to pay thirty pounds?’
+
+‘To keep it going.’
+
+‘They dinna have to pay for their dinners, then?’
+
+‘Oh yes, they have to pay extra for dinner.’
+
+‘And a gey black price, I’m thinking.’
+
+‘Well, five or six shillings.’
+
+‘Is that all?  Losh, it’s nothing, I wonder they dinna raise the price.’
+
+Nevertheless my mother was of a sex that scorned prejudice, and, dropping
+sarcasm, she would at times cross-examine me as if her mind was not yet
+made up.  ‘Tell me this, if you were to fall ill, would you be paid a
+weekly allowance out of the club?’
+
+No, it was not that kind of club.
+
+‘I see.  Well, I am just trying to find out what kind of club it is.  Do
+you get anything out of it for accidents?’
+
+Not a penny.
+
+‘Anything at New Year’s time?’
+
+Not so much as a goose.
+
+‘Is there any one mortal thing you get free out of that club?’
+
+There was not one mortal thing.
+
+‘And thirty pounds is what you pay for this?’
+
+If the committee elected me.
+
+‘How many are in the committee?’
+
+About a dozen, I thought.
+
+‘A dozen!  Ay, ay, that makes two pound ten apiece.’
+
+When I was elected I thought it wisdom to send my sister upstairs with
+the news.  My mother was ironing, and made no comment, unless with the
+iron, which I could hear rattling more violently in its box.  Presently I
+heard her laughing—at me undoubtedly, but she had recovered control over
+her face before she came downstairs to congratulate me sarcastically.
+This was grand news, she said without a twinkle, and I must write and
+thank the committee, the noble critturs.  I saw behind her mask, and
+maintained a dignified silence, but she would have another shot at me.
+‘And tell them,’ she said from the door, ‘you were doubtful of being
+elected, but your auld mother had aye a mighty confidence they would
+snick you in.’  I heard her laughing softly as she went up the stair, but
+though I had provided her with a joke I knew she was burning to tell the
+committee what she thought of them.
+
+Money, you see, meant so much to her, though even at her poorest she was
+the most cheerful giver.  In the old days, when the article arrived, she
+did not read it at once, she first counted the lines to discover what we
+should get for it—she and the daughter who was so dear to her had
+calculated the payment per line, and I remember once overhearing a
+discussion between them about whether that sub-title meant another
+sixpence.  Yes, she knew the value of money; she had always in the end
+got the things she wanted, but now she could get them more easily, and it
+turned her simple life into a fairy tale.  So often in those days she
+went down suddenly upon her knees; we would come upon her thus, and go
+away noiselessly.  After her death I found that she had preserved in a
+little box, with a photograph of me as a child, the envelopes which had
+contained my first cheques.  There was a little ribbon round them.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V—A DAY OF HER LIFE
+
+
+I should like to call back a day of her life as it was at this time, when
+her spirit was as bright as ever and her hand as eager, but she was no
+longer able to do much work.  It should not be difficult, for she
+repeated herself from day to day and yet did it with a quaint
+unreasonableness that was ever yielding fresh delight.  Our love for her
+was such that we could easily tell what she would do in given
+circumstances, but she had always a new way of doing it.
+
+Well, with break of day she wakes and sits up in bed and is standing in
+the middle of the room.  So nimble was she in the mornings (one of our
+troubles with her) that these three actions must be considered as one;
+she is on the floor before you have time to count them.  She has strict
+orders not to rise until her fire is lit, and having broken them there is
+a demure elation on her face.  The question is what to do before she is
+caught and hurried to bed again.  Her fingers are tingling to prepare the
+breakfast; she would dearly love to black-lead the grate, but that might
+rouse her daughter from whose side she has slipped so cunningly.  She
+catches sight of the screen at the foot of the bed, and immediately her
+soft face becomes very determined.  To guard her from draughts the screen
+had been brought here from the lordly east room, where it was of no use
+whatever.  But in her opinion it was too beautiful for use; it belonged
+to the east room, where she could take pleasant peeps at it; she had
+objected to its removal, even become low-spirited.  Now is her
+opportunity.  The screen is an unwieldy thing, but still as a mouse she
+carries it, and they are well under weigh when it strikes against the
+gas-bracket in the passage.  Next moment a reproachful hand arrests her.
+She is challenged with being out of bed, she denies it—standing in the
+passage.  Meekly or stubbornly she returns to bed, and it is no
+satisfaction to you that you can say, ‘Well, well, of all the women!’ and
+so on, or ‘Surely you knew that the screen was brought here to protect
+you,’ for she will reply scornfully, ‘Who was touching the screen?’
+
+By this time I have wakened (I am through the wall) and join them
+anxiously: so often has my mother been taken ill in the night that the
+slightest sound from her room rouses the house.  She is in bed again,
+looking as if she had never been out of it, but I know her and listen
+sternly to the tale of her misdoings.  She is not contrite.  Yes, maybe
+she did promise not to venture forth on the cold floors of daybreak, but
+she had risen for a moment only, and we just t’neaded her with our talk
+about draughts—there were no such things as draughts in her young
+days—and it is more than she can do (here she again attempts to rise but
+we hold her down) to lie there and watch that beautiful screen being
+spoilt.  I reply that the beauty of the screen has ever been its
+miserable defect: ho, there! for a knife with which to spoil its beauty
+and make the bedroom its fitting home.  As there is no knife handy, my
+foot will do; I raise my foot, and then—she sees that it is bare, she
+cries to me excitedly to go back to bed lest I catch cold.  For though,
+ever careless of herself, she will wander the house unshod, and tell us
+not to talk havers when we chide her, the sight of one of us similarly
+negligent rouses her anxiety at once.  She is willing now to sign any vow
+if only I will take my bare feet back to bed, but probably she is soon
+after me in hers to make sure that I am nicely covered up.
+
+It is scarcely six o’clock, and we have all promised to sleep for another
+hour, but in ten minutes she is sure that eight has struck (house
+disgraced), or that if it has not, something is wrong with the clock.
+Next moment she is captured on her way downstairs to wind up the clock.
+So evidently we must be up and doing, and as we have no servant, my
+sister disappears into the kitchen, having first asked me to see that
+‘that woman’ lies still, and ‘that woman’ calls out that she always does
+lie still, so what are we blethering about?
+
+She is up now, and dressed in her thick maroon wrapper; over her
+shoulders (lest she should stray despite our watchfulness) is a shawl,
+not placed there by her own hands, and on her head a delicious mutch.  O
+that I could sing the pæan of the white mutch (and the dirge of the
+elaborate black cap) from the day when she called witchcraft to her aid
+and made it out of snow-flakes, and the dear worn hands that washed it
+tenderly in a basin, and the starching of it, and the finger-iron for its
+exquisite frills that looked like curls of sugar, and the sweet bands
+with which it tied beneath the chin!  The honoured snowy mutch, how I
+love to see it smiling to me from the doors and windows of the poor; it
+is always smiling—sometimes maybe a wavering wistful smile, as if a
+tear-drop lay hidden among, the frills.  A hundred times I have taken the
+characterless cap from my mother’s head and put the mutch in its place
+and tied the bands beneath her chin, while she protested but was well
+pleased.  For in her heart she knew what suited her best and would admit
+it, beaming, when I put a mirror into her hands and told her to look; but
+nevertheless the cap cost no less than so-and-so, whereas—Was that a
+knock at the door?  She is gone, to put on her cap!
+
+She begins the day by the fireside with the New Testament in her hands,
+an old volume with its loose pages beautifully refixed, and its covers
+sewn and resewn by her, so that you would say it can never fall to
+pieces.  It is mine now, and to me the black threads with which she
+stitched it are as part of the contents.  Other books she read in the
+ordinary manner, but this one differently, her lips moving with each word
+as if she were reading aloud, and her face very solemn.  The Testament
+lies open on her lap long after she has ceased to read, and the
+expression of her face has not changed.
+
+I have seen her reading other books early in the day but never without a
+guilty look on her face, for she thought reading was scarce respectable
+until night had come.  She spends the forenoon in what she calls doing
+nothing, which may consist in stitching so hard that you would swear she
+was an over-worked seamstress at it for her life, or you will find her on
+a table with nails in her mouth, and anon she has to be chased from the
+garret (she has suddenly decided to change her curtains), or she is under
+the bed searching for band-boxes and asking sternly where we have put
+that bonnet.  On the whole she is behaving in a most exemplary way to-day
+(not once have we caught her trying to go out into the washing-house),
+and we compliment her at dinner-time, partly because she deserves it, and
+partly to make her think herself so good that she will eat something,
+just to maintain her new character.  I question whether one hour of all
+her life was given to thoughts of food; in her great days to eat seemed
+to her to be waste of time, and afterwards she only ate to boast of it,
+as something she had done to please us.  She seldom remembered whether
+she had dined, but always presumed she had, and while she was telling me
+in all good faith what the meal consisted of, it might be brought in.
+When in London I had to hear daily what she was eating, and perhaps she
+had refused all dishes until they produced the pen and ink.  These were
+flourished before her, and then she would say with a sigh, ‘Tell him I am
+to eat an egg.’  But they were not so easily deceived; they waited, pen
+in hand, until the egg was eaten.
+
+She never ‘went for a walk’ in her life.  Many long trudges she had as a
+girl when she carried her father’s dinner in a flagon to the country
+place where he was at work, but to walk with no end save the good of your
+health seemed a very droll proceeding to her.  In her young days, she was
+positive, no one had ever gone for a walk, and she never lost the belief
+that it was an absurdity introduced by a new generation with too much
+time on their hands.  That they enjoyed it she could not believe; it was
+merely a form of showing off, and as they passed her window she would
+remark to herself with blasting satire, ‘Ay, Jeames, are you off for your
+walk?’ and add fervently, ‘Rather you than me!’  I was one of those who
+walked, and though she smiled, and might drop a sarcastic word when she
+saw me putting on my boots, it was she who had heated them in preparation
+for my going.  The arrangement between us was that she should lie down
+until my return, and to ensure its being carried out I saw her in bed
+before I started, but with the bang of the door she would be at the
+window to watch me go: there is one spot on the road where a thousand
+times I have turned to wave my stick to her, while she nodded and smiled
+and kissed her hand to me.  That kissing of the hand was the one English
+custom she had learned.
+
+In an hour or so I return, and perhaps find her in bed, according to
+promise, but still I am suspicious.  The way to her detection is
+circuitous.
+
+‘I’ll need to be rising now,’ she says, with a yawn that may be genuine.
+
+‘How long have you been in bed?’
+
+‘You saw me go.’
+
+‘And then I saw you at the window.  Did you go straight back to bed?’
+
+‘Surely I had that much sense.’
+
+‘The truth!’
+
+‘I might have taken a look at the clock first.’
+
+‘It is a terrible thing to have a mother who prevaricates.  Have you been
+lying down ever since I left?’
+
+‘Thereabout.’
+
+‘What does that mean exactly?’
+
+‘Off and on.’
+
+‘Have you been to the garret?’
+
+‘What should I do in the garret?’
+
+‘But have you?’
+
+‘I might just have looked up the garret stair.’
+
+‘You have been redding up the garret again!’
+
+‘Not what you could call a redd up.’
+
+‘O, woman, woman, I believe you have not been in bed at all!’
+
+‘You see me in it.’
+
+‘My opinion is that you jumped into bed when you heard me open the door.’
+
+‘Havers.’
+
+‘Did you?’
+
+‘No.’
+
+‘Well, then, when you heard me at the gate?’
+
+‘It might have been when I heard you at the gate.’
+
+As daylight goes she follows it with her sewing to the window, and gets
+another needleful out of it, as one may run after a departed visitor for
+a last word, but now the gas is lit, and no longer is it shameful to sit
+down to literature.  If the book be a story by George Eliot or Mrs.
+Oliphant, her favourites (and mine) among women novelists, or if it be a
+Carlyle, and we move softly, she will read, entranced, for hours.  Her
+delight in Carlyle was so well known that various good people would send
+her books that contained a page about him; she could place her finger on
+any passage wanted in the biography as promptly as though she were
+looking for some article in her own drawer, and given a date she was
+often able to tell you what they were doing in Cheyne Row that day.
+Carlyle, she decided, was not so much an ill man to live with as one who
+needed a deal of managing, but when I asked if she thought she could have
+managed him she only replied with a modest smile that meant ‘Oh no!’ but
+had the face of ‘Sal, I would have liked to try.’
+
+One lady lent her some scores of Carlyle letters that have never been
+published, and crabbed was the writing, but though my mother liked to
+have our letters read aloud to her, she read every one of these herself,
+and would quote from them in her talk.  Side by side with the Carlyle
+letters, which show him in his most gracious light, were many from his
+wife to a friend, and in one of these a romantic adventure is described—I
+quote from memory, and it is a poor memory compared to my mother’s, which
+registered everything by a method of her own: ‘What might be the age of
+Bell Tibbits?  Well, she was born the week I bought the boiler, so she’ll
+be one-and-fifty (no less!) come Martinmas.’  Mrs. Carlyle had got into
+the train at a London station and was feeling very lonely, for the
+journey to Scotland lay before her and no one had come to see her off.
+Then, just as the train was starting, a man jumped into the carriage, to
+her regret until she saw his face, when, behold, they were old friends,
+and the last time they met (I forget how many years before) he had asked
+her to be his wife.  He was very nice, and if I remember aright, saw her
+to her journey’s end, though he had intended to alight at some half-way
+place.  I call this an adventure, and I am sure it seemed to my mother to
+be the most touching and memorable adventure that can come into a woman’s
+life.  ‘You see he hadna forgot,’ she would say proudly, as if this was a
+compliment in which all her sex could share, and on her old tender face
+shone some of the elation with which Mrs. Carlyle wrote that letter.
+
+But there were times, she held, when Carlyle must have made his wife a
+glorious woman.  ‘As when?’ I might inquire.
+
+‘When she keeked in at his study door and said to herself, “The whole
+world is ringing with his fame, and he is my man!”’
+
+‘And then,’ I might point out, ‘he would roar to her to shut the door.’
+
+‘Pooh!’ said my mother, ‘a man’s roar is neither here nor there.’  But
+her verdict as a whole was, ‘I would rather have been his mother than his
+wife.’
+
+So we have got her into her chair with the Carlyles, and all is well.
+Furthermore, ‘to mak siccar,’ my father has taken the opposite side of
+the fireplace and is deep in the latest five columns of Gladstone, who is
+his Carlyle.  He is to see that she does not slip away fired by a
+conviction, which suddenly overrides her pages, that the kitchen is going
+to rack and ruin for want of her, and she is to recall him to himself
+should he put his foot in the fire and keep it there, forgetful of all
+save his hero’s eloquence.  (We were a family who needed a deal of
+watching.)  She is not interested in what Mr. Gladstone has to say;
+indeed she could never be brought to look upon politics as of serious
+concern for grown folk (a class in which she scarcely included man), and
+she gratefully gave up reading ‘leaders’ the day I ceased to write them.
+But like want of reasonableness, a love for having the last word, want of
+humour and the like, politics were in her opinion a mannish attribute to
+be tolerated, and Gladstone was the name of the something which makes all
+our sex such queer characters.  She had a profound faith in him as an aid
+to conversation, and if there were silent men in the company would give
+him to them to talk about, precisely as she divided a cake among
+children.  And then, with a motherly smile, she would leave them to gorge
+on him.  But in the idolising of Gladstone she recognised, nevertheless,
+a certain inevitability, and would no more have tried to contend with it
+than to sweep a shadow off the floor.  Gladstone was, and there was an
+end of it in her practical philosophy.  Nor did she accept him coldly;
+like a true woman she sympathised with those who suffered severely, and
+they knew it and took counsel of her in the hour of need.  I remember one
+ardent Gladstonian who, as a general election drew near, was in sore
+straits indeed, for he disbelieved in Home Rule, and yet how could he
+vote against ‘Gladstone’s man’?  His distress was so real that it gave
+him a hang-dog appearance.  He put his case gloomily before her, and
+until the day of the election she riddled him with sarcasm; I think he
+only went to her because he found a mournful enjoyment in seeing a false
+Gladstonian tortured.
+
+It was all such plain-sailing for him, she pointed out; he did not like
+this Home Rule, and therefore he must vote against it.
+
+She put it pitiful clear, he replied with a groan.
+
+But she was like another woman to him when he appeared before her on his
+way to the polling-booth.
+
+‘This is a watery Sabbath to you, I’m thinking,’ she said
+sympathetically, but without dropping her wires—for Home Rule or no Home
+Rule that stocking-foot must be turned before twelve o’clock.
+
+A watery Sabbath means a doleful day, and ‘A watery Sabbath it is,’ he
+replied with feeling.  A silence followed, broken only by the click of
+the wires.  Now and again he would mutter, ‘Ay, well, I’ll be going to
+vote—little did I think the day would come,’ and so on, but if he rose it
+was only to sit down again, and at last she crossed over to him and said
+softly, (no sarcasm in her voice now), ‘Away with you, and vote for
+Gladstone’s man!’  He jumped up and made off without a word, but from the
+east window we watched him strutting down the brae.  I laughed, but she
+said, ‘I’m no sure that it’s a laughing matter,’ and afterwards, ‘I would
+have liked fine to be that Gladstone’s mother.’
+
+It is nine o’clock now, a quarter-past nine, half-past nine—all the same
+moment to me, for I am at a sentence that will not write.  I know, though
+I can’t hear, what my sister has gone upstairs to say to my mother:—
+
+‘I was in at him at nine, and he said, “In five minutes,” so I put the
+steak on the brander, but I’ve been in thrice since then, and every time
+he says, “In five minutes,” and when I try to take the table-cover off,
+he presses his elbows hard on it, and growls.  His supper will be
+completely spoilt.’
+
+‘Oh, that weary writing!’
+
+‘I can do no more, mother, so you must come down and stop him.’
+
+‘I have no power over him,’ my mother says, but she rises smiling, and
+presently she is opening my door.
+
+‘In five minutes!’ I cry, but when I see that it is she I rise and put my
+arm round her.  ‘What a full basket!’ she says, looking at the
+waste-paper basket, which contains most of my work of the night and with
+a dear gesture she lifts up a torn page and kisses it.  ‘Poor thing,’ she
+says to it, ‘and you would have liked so fine to be printed!’ and she
+puts her hand over my desk to prevent my writing more.
+
+‘In the last five minutes,’ I begin, ‘one can often do more than in the
+first hour.’
+
+‘Many a time I’ve said it in my young days,’ she says slowly.
+
+‘And proved it, too!’ cries a voice from the door, the voice of one who
+was prouder of her even than I; it is true, and yet almost unbelievable,
+that any one could have been prouder of her than I.
+
+‘But those days are gone,’ my mother says solemnly, ‘gone to come back no
+more.  You’ll put by your work now, man, and have your supper, and then
+you’ll come up and sit beside your mother for a whiley, for soon you’ll
+be putting her away in the kirk-yard.’
+
+I hear such a little cry from near the door.
+
+So my mother and I go up the stair together.  ‘We have changed places,’
+she says; ‘that was just how I used to help you up, but I’m the bairn
+now.’
+
+She brings out the Testament again; it was always lying within reach; it
+is the lock of hair she left me when she died.  And when she has read for
+a long time she ‘gives me a look,’ as we say in the north, and I go out,
+to leave her alone with God.  She had been but a child when her mother
+died, and so she fell early into the way of saying her prayers with no
+earthly listener.  Often and often I have found her on her knees, but I
+always went softly away, closing the door.  I never heard her pray, but I
+know very well how she prayed, and that, when that door was shut, there
+was not a day in God’s sight between the worn woman and the little child.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI—HER MAID OF ALL WORK
+
+
+And sometimes I was her maid of all work.
+
+It is early morn, and my mother has come noiselessly into my room.  I
+know it is she, though my eyes are shut, and I am only half awake.
+Perhaps I was dreaming of her, for I accept her presence without
+surprise, as if in the awakening I had but seen her go out at one door to
+come in at another.  But she is speaking to herself.
+
+‘I’m sweer to waken him—I doubt he was working late—oh, that weary
+writing—no, I maunna waken him.’
+
+I start up.  She is wringing her hands.  ‘What is wrong?’ I cry, but I
+know before she answers.  My sister is down with one of the headaches
+against which even she cannot fight, and my mother, who bears physical
+pain as if it were a comrade, is most woebegone when her daughter is the
+sufferer.  ‘And she winna let me go down the stair to make a cup of tea
+for her,’ she groans.
+
+‘I will soon make the tea, mother.’
+
+‘Will you?’ she says eagerly.  It is what she has come to me for, but ‘It
+is a pity to rouse you,’ she says.
+
+‘And I will take charge of the house to-day, and light the fires and wash
+the dishes—’
+
+‘Na, oh no; no, I couldna ask that of you, and you an author.’
+
+‘It won’t be the first time, mother, since I was an author.’
+
+‘More like the fiftieth!’ she says almost gleefully, so I have begun
+well, for to keep up her spirits is the great thing to-day.
+
+Knock at the door.  It is the baker.  I take in the bread, looking so
+sternly at him that he dare not smile.
+
+Knock at the door.  It is the postman. (I hope he did not see that I had
+the lid of the kettle in my other hand.)
+
+Furious knocking in a remote part.  This means that the author is in the
+coal cellar.
+
+Anon I carry two breakfasts upstairs in triumph.  I enter the bedroom
+like no mere humdrum son, but after the manner of the Glasgow waiter.  I
+must say more about him.  He had been my mother’s one waiter, the only
+manservant she ever came in contact with, and they had met in a Glasgow
+hotel which she was eager to see, having heard of the monstrous things,
+and conceived them to resemble country inns with another twelve bedrooms.
+I remember how she beamed—yet tried to look as if it was quite an
+ordinary experience—when we alighted at the hotel door, but though she
+said nothing I soon read disappointment in her face.  She knew how I was
+exulting in having her there, so would not say a word to damp me, but I
+craftily drew it out of her.  No, she was very comfortable, and the house
+was grand beyond speech, but—but—where was he? he had not been very
+hearty.  ‘He’ was the landlord; she had expected him to receive us at the
+door and ask if we were in good health and how we had left the others,
+and then she would have asked him if his wife was well and how many
+children they had, after which we should all have sat down together to
+dinner.  Two chambermaids came into her room and prepared it without a
+single word to her about her journey or on any other subject, and when
+they had gone, ‘They are two haughty misses,’ said my mother with spirit.
+But what she most resented was the waiter with his swagger black suit and
+short quick steps and the ‘towel’ over his arm.  Without so much as a
+‘Welcome to Glasgow!’ he showed us to our seats, not the smallest
+acknowledgment of our kindness in giving such munificent orders did we
+draw from him, he hovered around the table as if it would be unsafe to
+leave us with his knives and forks (he should have seen her knives and
+forks), when we spoke to each other he affected not to hear, we might
+laugh but this uppish fellow would not join in.  We retired, crushed, and
+he had the final impudence to open the door for us.  But though this hurt
+my mother at the time, the humour of our experiences filled her on
+reflection, and in her own house she would describe them with unction,
+sometimes to those who had been in many hotels, often to others who had
+been in none, and whoever were her listeners she made them laugh, though
+not always at the same thing.
+
+So now when I enter the bedroom with the tray, on my arm is that badge of
+pride, the towel; and I approach with prim steps to inform Madam that
+breakfast is ready, and she puts on the society manner and addresses me
+as ‘Sir,’ and asks with cruel sarcasm for what purpose (except to boast)
+I carry the towel, and I say ‘Is there anything more I can do for Madam?’
+and Madam replies that there is one more thing I can do, and that is, eat
+her breakfast for her.  But of this I take no notice, for my object is to
+fire her with the spirit of the game, so that she eats unwittingly.
+
+Now that I have washed up the breakfast things I should be at my writing,
+and I am anxious to be at it, as I have an idea in my head, which, if it
+is of any value, has almost certainly been put there by her.  But dare I
+venture?  I know that the house has not been properly set going yet,
+there are beds to make, the exterior of the teapot is fair, but suppose
+some one were to look inside?  What a pity I knocked over the
+flour-barrel!  Can I hope that for once my mother will forget to inquire
+into these matters?  Is my sister willing to let disorder reign until
+to-morrow?  I determine to risk it.  Perhaps I have been at work for half
+an hour when I hear movements overhead.  One or other of them is
+wondering why the house is so quiet.  I rattle the tongs, but even this
+does not satisfy them, so back into the desk go my papers, and now what
+you hear is not the scrape of a pen but the rinsing of pots and pans, or
+I am making beds, and making them thoroughly, because after I am gone my
+mother will come (I know her) and look suspiciously beneath the coverlet.
+
+The kitchen is now speckless, not an unwashed platter in sight, unless
+you look beneath the table.  I feel that I have earned time for an hour’s
+writing at last, and at it I go with vigour.  One page, two pages, really
+I am making progress, when—was that a door opening?  But I have my
+mother’s light step on the brain, so I ‘yoke’ again, and next moment she
+is beside me.  She has not exactly left her room, she gives me to
+understand; but suddenly a conviction had come to her that I was writing
+without a warm mat at my feet.  She carries one in her hands.  Now that
+she is here she remains for a time, and though she is in the arm-chair by
+the fire, where she sits bolt upright (she loved to have cushions on the
+unused chairs, but detested putting her back against them), and I am bent
+low over my desk, I know that contentment and pity are struggling for
+possession of her face: contentment wins when she surveys her room, pity
+when she looks at me.  Every article of furniture, from the chairs that
+came into the world with me and have worn so much better, though I was
+new and they were second-hand, to the mantle-border of fashionable design
+which she sewed in her seventieth year, having picked up the stitch in
+half a lesson, has its story of fight and attainment for her, hence her
+satisfaction; but she sighs at sight of her son, dipping and tearing, and
+chewing the loathly pen.
+
+‘Oh, that weary writing!’
+
+In vain do I tell her that writing is as pleasant to me as ever was the
+prospect of a tremendous day’s ironing to her; that (to some, though not
+to me) new chapters are as easy to turn out as new bannocks.  No, she
+maintains, for one bannock is the marrows of another, while chapters—and
+then, perhaps, her eyes twinkle, and says she saucily, ‘But, sal, you may
+be right, for sometimes your bannocks are as alike as mine!’
+
+Or I may be roused from my writing by her cry that I am making strange
+faces again.  It is my contemptible weakness that if I say a character
+smiled vacuously, I must smile vacuously; if he frowns or leers, I frown
+or leer; if he is a coward or given to contortions, I cringe, or twist my
+legs until I have to stop writing to undo the knot.  I bow with him, eat
+with him, and gnaw my moustache with him.  If the character be a lady
+with an exquisite laugh, I suddenly terrify you by laughing exquisitely.
+One reads of the astounding versatility of an actor who is stout and lean
+on the same evening, but what is he to the novelist who is a dozen
+persons within the hour?  Morally, I fear, we must deteriorate—but this
+is a subject I may wisely edge away from.
+
+We always spoke to each other in broad Scotch (I think in it still), but
+now and again she would use a word that was new to me, or I might hear
+one of her contemporaries use it.  Now is my opportunity to angle for its
+meaning.  If I ask, boldly, what was chat word she used just now,
+something like ‘bilbie’ or ‘silvendy’? she blushes, and says she never
+said anything so common, or hoots! it is some auld-farrant word about
+which she can tell me nothing.  But if in the course of conversation I
+remark casually, ‘Did he find bilbie?’ or ‘Was that quite silvendy?’
+(though the sense of the question is vague to me) she falls into the
+trap, and the words explain themselves in her replies.  Or maybe to-day
+she sees whither I am leading her, and such is her sensitiveness that she
+is quite hurt.  The humour goes out of her face (to find bilbie in some
+more silvendy spot), and her reproachful eyes—but now I am on the arm of
+her chair, and we have made it up.  Nevertheless, I shall get no more
+old-world Scotch out of her this forenoon, she weeds her talk
+determinedly, and it is as great a falling away as when the mutch gives
+place to the cap.
+
+I am off for my afternoon walk, and she has promised to bar the door
+behind me and open it to none.  When I return,—well, the door is still
+barred, but she is looking both furtive and elated.  I should say that
+she is burning to tell me something, but cannot tell it without exposing
+herself.  Has she opened the door, and if so, why?  I don’t ask, but I
+watch.  It is she who is sly now.
+
+‘Have you been in the east room since you came in?’ she asks, with
+apparent indifference.
+
+‘No; why do you ask?’
+
+‘Oh, I just thought you might have looked in.’
+
+‘Is there anything new there?’
+
+‘I dinna say there is, but—but just go and see.’
+
+‘There can’t be anything new if you kept the door barred,’ I say
+cleverly.
+
+This crushes her for a moment; but her eagerness that I should see is
+greater than her fear.  I set off for the east room, and she follows,
+affecting humility, but with triumph in her eye.  How often those little
+scenes took place!  I was never told of the new purchase, I was lured
+into its presence, and then she waited timidly for my start of surprise.
+
+‘Do you see it?’ she says anxiously, and I see it, and hear it, for this
+time it is a bran-new wicker chair, of the kind that whisper to
+themselves for the first six months.
+
+‘A going-about body was selling them in a cart,’ my mother begins, and
+what followed presents itself to my eyes before she can utter another
+word.  Ten minutes at the least did she stand at the door argy-bargying
+with that man.  But it would be cruelty to scold a woman so uplifted.
+
+‘Fifteen shillings he wanted,’ she cries, ‘but what do you think I beat
+him down to?’
+
+‘Seven and sixpence?’
+
+She claps her hands with delight.  ‘Four shillings, as I’m a living
+woman!’ she crows: never was a woman fonder of a bargain.
+
+I gaze at the purchase with the amazement expected of me, and the chair
+itself crinkles and shudders to hear what it went for (or is it merely
+chuckling at her?).  ‘And the man said it cost himself five shillings,’
+my mother continues exultantly.  You would have thought her the hardest
+person had not a knock on the wall summoned us about this time to my
+sister’s side.  Though in bed she has been listening, and this is what
+she has to say, in a voice that makes my mother very indignant, ‘You
+drive a bargain!   I’m thinking ten shillings was nearer what you paid.’
+
+‘Four shillings to a penny!’ says my mother.
+
+‘I daresay,’ says my sister; ‘but after you paid him the money I heard
+you in the little bedroom press.  What were you doing there?’
+
+My mother winces.  ‘I may have given him a present of an old topcoat,’
+she falters.  ‘He looked ill-happit.  But that was after I made the
+bargain.’
+
+‘Were there bairns in the cart?’
+
+‘There might have been a bit lassie in the cart.’
+
+‘I thought as much.  What did you give her?  I heard you in the pantry.’
+
+‘Four shillings was what I got that chair for,’ replies my mother firmly.
+If I don’t interfere there will be a coldness between them for at least a
+minute.  ‘There is blood on your finger,’ I say to my mother.
+
+‘So there is,’ she says, concealing her hand.
+
+‘Blood!’ exclaims my sister anxiously, and then with a cry of triumph, ‘I
+warrant it’s jelly.  You gave that lassie one of the jelly cans!’
+
+The Glasgow waiter brings up tea, and presently my sister is able to
+rise, and after a sharp fight I am expelled from the kitchen.  The last
+thing I do as maid of all work is to lug upstairs the clothes-basket
+which has just arrived with the mangling.  Now there is delicious linen
+for my mother to finger; there was always rapture on her face when the
+clothes-basket came in; it never failed to make her once more the active
+genius of the house.  I may leave her now with her sheets and collars and
+napkins and fronts.  Indeed, she probably orders me to go.  A son is all
+very well, but suppose he were to tread on that counterpane!
+
+My sister is but and I am ben—I mean she is in the east end and I am in
+the west—tuts, tuts! let us get at the English of this by striving: she
+is in the kitchen and I am at my desk in the parlour.  I hope I may not
+be disturbed, for to-night I must make my hero say ‘Darling,’ and it
+needs both privacy and concentration.  In a word, let me admit (though I
+should like to beat about the bush) that I have sat down to a
+love-chapter.  Too long has it been avoided, Albert has called Marion
+‘dear’ only as yet (between you and me these are not their real names),
+but though the public will probably read the word without blinking, it
+went off in my hands with a bang.  They tell me—the Sassenach tell
+me—that in time I shall be able without a blush to make Albert say
+‘darling,’ and even gather her up in his arms, but I begin to doubt it;
+the moment sees me as shy as ever; I still find it advisable to lock the
+door, and then—no witness save the dog—I ‘do’ it dourly with my teeth
+clenched, while the dog retreats into the far corner and moans.  The
+bolder Englishman (I am told) will write a love-chapter and then go out,
+quite coolly, to dinner, but such goings on are contrary to the Scotch
+nature; even the great novelists dared not.  Conceive Mr. Stevenson left
+alone with a hero, a heroine, and a proposal impending (he does not know
+where to look).  Sir Walter in the same circumstances gets out of the
+room by making his love-scenes take place between the end of one chapter
+and the beginning of the next, but he could afford to do anything, and
+the small fry must e’en to their task, moan the dog as he may.  So I have
+yoked to mine when, enter my mother, looking wistful.
+
+‘I suppose you are terrible thrang,’ she says.
+
+‘Well, I am rather busy, but—what is it you want me to do?’
+
+‘It would be a shame to ask you.’
+
+‘Still, ask me.’
+
+‘I am so terrified they may be filed.’
+
+‘You want me to—?’
+
+‘If you would just come up, and help me to fold the sheets!’
+
+The sheets are folded and I return to Albert.  I lock the door, and at
+last I am bringing my hero forward nicely (my knee in the small of his
+back), when this startling question is shot by my sister through the
+key-hole—
+
+‘Where did you put the carrot-grater?’
+
+It will all have to be done over again if I let Albert go for a moment,
+so, gripping him hard, I shout indignantly that I have not seen the
+carrot-grater.
+
+‘Then what did you grate the carrots on?’ asks the voice, and the
+door-handle is shaken just as I shake Albert.
+
+‘On a broken cup,’ I reply with surprising readiness, and I get to work
+again but am less engrossed, for a conviction grows on me that I put the
+carrot-grater in the drawer of the sewing-machine.
+
+I am wondering whether I should confess or brazen it out, when I hear my
+sister going hurriedly upstairs.  I have a presentiment that she has gone
+to talk about me, and I basely open my door and listen.
+
+‘Just look at that, mother!’
+
+‘Is it a dish-cloth?’
+
+‘That’s what it is now.’
+
+‘Losh behears! it’s one of the new table-napkins.’
+
+‘That’s what it was.  He has been polishing the kitchen grate with it!’
+
+(I remember!)
+
+‘Woe’s me!  That is what comes of his not letting me budge from this
+room.  O, it is a watery Sabbath when men take to doing women’s work!’
+
+‘It defies the face of clay, mother, to fathom what makes him so
+senseless.’
+
+‘Oh, it’s that weary writing.’
+
+‘And the worst of it is he will talk to-morrow as if he had done
+wonders.’
+
+‘That’s the way with the whole clanjam-fray of them.’
+
+‘Yes, but as usual you will humour him, mother.’
+
+‘Oh, well, it pleases him, you see,’ says my mother, ‘and we can have our
+laugh when his door’s shut.’
+
+‘He is most terribly handless.’
+
+‘He is all that, but, poor soul, he does his best.’
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII—R. L. S.
+
+
+These familiar initials are, I suppose, the best beloved in recent
+literature, certainly they are the sweetest to me, but there was a time
+when my mother could not abide them.  She said ‘That Stevenson man’ with
+a sneer, and, it was never easy to her to sneer.  At thought of him her
+face would become almost hard, which seems incredible, and she would knit
+her lips and fold her arms, and reply with a stiff ‘oh’ if you mentioned
+his aggravating name.  In the novels we have a way of writing of our
+heroine, ‘she drew herself up haughtily,’ and when mine draw themselves
+up haughtily I see my mother thinking of Robert Louis Stevenson.  He knew
+her opinion of him, and would write, ‘My ears tingled yesterday; I sair
+doubt she has been miscalling me again.’  But the more she miscalled him
+the more he delighted in her, and she was informed of this, and at once
+said, ‘The scoundrel!’  If you would know what was his unpardonable
+crime, it was this: he wrote better books than mine.
+
+I remember the day she found it out, which was not, however, the day she
+admitted it.  That day, when I should have been at my work, she came upon
+me in the kitchen, ‘The Master of Ballantrae’ beside me, but I was not
+reading: my head lay heavy on the table, and to her anxious eyes, I doubt
+not, I was the picture of woe.  ‘Not writing!’ I echoed, no, I was not
+writing, I saw no use in ever trying to write again.  And down, I
+suppose, went my head once more.  She misunderstood, and thought the blow
+had fallen; I had awakened to the discovery, always dreaded by her, that
+I had written myself dry; I was no better than an empty ink-bottle.  She
+wrung her hands, but indignation came to her with my explanation, which
+was that while R. L. S. was at it we others were only ‘prentices cutting
+our fingers on his tools.  ‘I could never thole his books,’ said my
+mother immediately, and indeed vindictively.
+
+‘You have not read any of them,’ I reminded her.
+
+‘And never will,’ said she with spirit.
+
+And I have no doubt that she called him a dark character that very day.
+For weeks too, if not for months, she adhered to her determination not to
+read him, though I, having come to my senses and seen that there is a
+place for the ‘prentice, was taking a pleasure, almost malicious, in
+putting ‘The Master of Ballantrae’ in her way.  I would place it on her
+table so that it said good-morning to her when she rose.  She would
+frown, and carrying it downstairs, as if she had it in the tongs, replace
+it on its book-shelf.  I would wrap it up in the cover she had made for
+the latest Carlyle: she would skin it contemptuously and again bring it
+down.  I would hide her spectacles in it, and lay it on top of the
+clothes-basket and prop it up invitingly open against her tea-pot.  And
+at last I got her, though I forget by which of many contrivances.  What I
+recall vividly is a key-hole view, to which another member of the family
+invited me.  Then I saw my mother wrapped up in ‘The Master of
+Ballantrae’ and muttering the music to herself, nodding her head in
+approval, and taking a stealthy glance at the foot of each page before
+she began at the top.  Nevertheless she had an ear for the door, for when
+I bounced in she had been too clever for me; there was no book to be
+seen, only an apron on her lap and she was gazing out at the window.
+Some such conversation as this followed:—
+
+‘You have been sitting very quietly, mother.’
+
+‘I always sit quietly, I never do anything, I’m just a finished
+stocking.’
+
+‘Have you been reading?’
+
+‘Do I ever read at this time of day?’
+
+‘What is that in your lap?’
+
+‘Just my apron.’
+
+‘Is that a book beneath the apron?’
+
+‘It might be a book.’
+
+‘Let me see.’
+
+‘Go away with you to your work.’
+
+But I lifted the apron.  ‘Why, it’s “The Master of Ballantrae!”’  I
+exclaimed, shocked.
+
+‘So it is!’ said my mother, equally surprised.  But I looked sternly at
+her, and perhaps she blushed.
+
+‘Well what do you think: not nearly equal to mine?’ said I with humour.
+
+‘Nothing like them,’ she said determinedly.
+
+‘Not a bit,’ said I, though whether with a smile or a groan is
+immaterial; they would have meant the same thing.  Should I put the book
+back on its shelf?  I asked, and she replied that I could put it wherever
+I liked for all she cared, so long as I took it out of her sight (the
+implication was that it had stolen on to her lap while she was looking
+out at the window).  My behaviour may seem small, but I gave her a last
+chance, for I said that some people found it a book there was no putting
+down until they reached the last page.
+
+‘I’m no that kind,’ replied my mother.
+
+Nevertheless our old game with the haver of a thing, as she called it,
+was continued, with this difference, that it was now she who carried the
+book covertly upstairs, and I who replaced it on the shelf, and several
+times we caught each other in the act, but not a word said either of us;
+we were grown self-conscious.  Much of the play no doubt I forget, but
+one incident I remember clearly.  She had come down to sit beside me
+while I wrote, and sometimes, when I looked up, her eye was not on me,
+but on the shelf where ‘The Master of Ballantrae’ stood inviting her.
+Mr. Stevenson’s books are not for the shelf, they are for the hand; even
+when you lay them down, let it be on the table for the next comer.  Being
+the most sociable that man has penned in our time, they feel very lonely
+up there in a stately row.  I think their eye is on you the moment you
+enter the room, and so you are drawn to look at them, and you take a
+volume down with the impulse that induces one to unchain the dog.  And
+the result is not dissimilar, for in another moment you two are at play.
+Is there any other modern writer who gets round you in this way?  Well,
+he had given my mother the look which in the ball-room means, ‘Ask me for
+this waltz,’ and she ettled to do it, but felt that her more dutiful
+course was to sit out the dance with this other less entertaining
+partner.  I wrote on doggedly, but could hear the whispering.
+
+‘Am I to be a wall-flower?’ asked James Durie reproachfully.  (It must
+have been leap-year.)
+
+‘Speak lower,’ replied my mother, with an uneasy look at me.
+
+‘Pooh!’ said James contemptuously, ‘that kail-runtle!’
+
+‘I winna have him miscalled,’ said my mother, frowning.
+
+‘I am done with him,’ said James (wiping his cane with his cambric
+handkerchief), and his sword clattered deliciously (I cannot think this
+was accidental), which made my mother sigh.  Like the man he was, he
+followed up his advantage with a comparison that made me dip viciously.
+
+‘A prettier sound that,’ said he, clanking his sword again, ‘than the
+clack-clack of your young friend’s shuttle.’
+
+‘Whist!’ cried my mother, who had seen me dip.
+
+‘Then give me your arm,’ said James, lowering his voice.
+
+‘I dare not,’ answered my mother.  ‘He’s so touchy about you.’
+
+‘Come, come,’ he pressed her, ‘you are certain to do it sooner or later,
+so why not now?’
+
+‘Wait till he has gone for his walk,’ said my mother; ‘and, forbye that,
+I’m ower old to dance with you.’
+
+‘How old are you?’ he inquired.
+
+‘You’re gey an’ pert!’ cried my mother.
+
+‘Are you seventy?’
+
+‘Off and on,’ she admitted.
+
+‘Pooh,’ he said, ‘a mere girl!’
+
+She replied instantly, ‘I’m no’ to be catched with chaff’; but she smiled
+and rose as if he had stretched out his hand and got her by the
+finger-tip.
+
+After that they whispered so low (which they could do as they were now
+much nearer each other) that I could catch only one remark.  It came from
+James, and seems to show the tenor of their whisperings, for his words
+were, ‘Easily enough, if you slip me beneath your shawl.’
+
+That is what she did, and furthermore she left the room guiltily,
+muttering something about redding up the drawers.  I suppose I smiled
+wanly to myself, or conscience must have been nibbling at my mother, for
+in less than five minutes she was back, carrying her accomplice openly,
+and she thrust him with positive viciousness into the place where my
+Stevenson had lost a tooth (as the writer whom he most resembled would
+have said).  And then like a good mother she took up one of her son’s
+books and read it most determinedly.  It had become a touching incident
+to me, and I remember how we there and then agreed upon a compromise she
+was to read the enticing thing just to convince herself of its
+inferiority.
+
+‘The Master of Ballantrae’ is not the best.  Conceive the glory, which
+was my mother’s, of knowing from a trustworthy source that there are at
+least three better awaiting you on the same shelf.  She did not know Alan
+Breck yet, and he was as anxious to step down as Mr. Bally himself.  John
+Silver was there, getting into his leg, so that she should not have to
+wait a moment, and roaring, ‘I’ll lay to that!’ when she told me
+consolingly that she could not thole pirate stories.  Not to know these
+gentlemen, what is it like?  It is like never having been in love.  But
+they are in the house!  That is like knowing that you will fall in love
+to-morrow morning.  With one word, by drawing one mournful face, I could
+have got my mother to abjure the jam-shelf—nay, I might have managed it
+by merely saying that she had enjoyed ‘The Master of Ballantrae.’  For
+you must remember that she only read it to persuade herself (and me) of
+its unworthiness, and that the reason she wanted to read the others was
+to get further proof.  All this she made plain to me, eyeing me a little
+anxiously the while, and of course I accepted the explanation.  Alan is
+the biggest child of them all, and I doubt not that she thought so, but
+curiously enough her views of him are among the things I have forgotten.
+But how enamoured she was of ‘Treasure Island,’ and how faithful she
+tried to be to me all the time she was reading it!  I had to put my hands
+over her eyes to let her know that I had entered the room, and even then
+she might try to read between my fingers, coming to herself presently,
+however, to say ‘It’s a haver of a book.’
+
+‘Those pirate stories are so uninteresting,’ I would reply without fear,
+for she was too engrossed to see through me.  ‘Do you think you will
+finish this one?’
+
+‘I may as well go on with it since I have begun it,’ my mother says, so
+slyly that my sister and I shake our heads at each other to imply, ‘Was
+there ever such a woman!’
+
+‘There are none of those one-legged scoundrels in my books,’ I say.
+
+‘Better without them,’ she replies promptly.
+
+‘I wonder, mother, what it is about the man that so infatuates the
+public?’
+
+‘He takes no hold of me,’ she insists.  ‘I would a hantle rather read
+your books.’
+
+I offer obligingly to bring one of them to her, and now she looks at me
+suspiciously.  ‘You surely believe I like yours best,’ she says with
+instant anxiety, and I soothe her by assurances, and retire advising her
+to read on, just to see if she can find out how he misleads the public.
+‘Oh, I may take a look at it again by-and-by,’ she says indifferently,
+but nevertheless the probability is that as the door shuts the book
+opens, as if by some mechanical contrivance.  I remember how she read
+‘Treasure Island,’ holding it close to the ribs of the fire (because she
+could not spare a moment to rise and light the gas), and how, when
+bed-time came, and we coaxed, remonstrated, scolded, she said quite
+fiercely, clinging to the book, ‘I dinna lay my head on a pillow this
+night till I see how that laddie got out of the barrel.’
+
+After this, I think, he was as bewitching as the laddie in the barrel to
+her—Was he not always a laddie in the barrel himself, climbing in for
+apples while we all stood around, like gamins, waiting for a bite?  He
+was the spirit of boyhood tugging at the skirts of this old world of ours
+and compelling it to come back and play.  And I suppose my mother felt
+this, as so many have felt it: like others she was a little scared at
+first to find herself skipping again, with this masterful child at the
+rope, but soon she gave him her hand and set off with him for the meadow,
+not an apology between the two of them for the author left behind.  But
+near to the end did she admit (in words) that he had a way with him which
+was beyond her son.  ‘Silk and sacking, that is what we are,’ she was
+informed, to which she would reply obstinately, ‘Well, then, I prefer
+sacking.’
+
+‘But if he had been your son?’
+
+‘But he is not.’
+
+‘You wish he were?’
+
+‘I dinna deny but what I could have found room for him.’
+
+And still at times she would smear him with the name of black (to his
+delight when he learned the reason).  That was when some podgy red-sealed
+blue-crossed letter arrived from Vailima, inviting me to journey thither.
+(His directions were, ‘You take the boat at San Francisco, and then my
+place is the second to the left.’)  Even London seemed to her to carry me
+so far away that I often took a week to the journey (the first six days
+in getting her used to the idea), and these letters terrified her.  It
+was not the finger of Jim Hawkins she now saw beckoning me across the
+seas, it was John Silver, waving a crutch.  Seldom, I believe, did I read
+straight through one of these Vailima letters; when in the middle I
+suddenly remembered who was upstairs and what she was probably doing, and
+I ran to her, three steps at a jump, to find her, lips pursed, hands
+folded, a picture of gloom.
+
+‘I have a letter from—’
+
+‘So I have heard.’
+
+‘Would you like to hear it?’
+
+‘No.’
+
+‘Can you not abide him?’
+
+‘I cauna thole him.’
+
+‘Is he a black?’
+
+‘He is all that.’
+
+Well, Vailima was the one spot on earth I had any great craving to visit,
+but I think she always knew I would never leave her.  Sometime, she said,
+she should like me to go, but not until she was laid away.  ‘And how
+small I have grown this last winter.  Look at my wrists.  It canna be
+long now.’  No, I never thought of going, was never absent for a day from
+her without reluctance, and never walked so quickly as when I was going
+back.  In the meantime that happened which put an end for ever to my
+scheme of travel.  I shall never go up the Road of Loving Hearts now, on
+‘a wonderful clear night of stars,’ to meet the man coming toward me on a
+horse.  It is still a wonderful clear night of stars, but the road is
+empty.  So I never saw the dear king of us all.  But before he had
+written books he was in my part of the country with a fishing-wand in his
+hand, and I like to think that I was the boy who met him that day by
+Queen Margaret’s burn, where the rowans are, and busked a fly for him,
+and stood watching, while his lithe figure rose and fell as he cast and
+hinted back from the crystal waters of Noran-side.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII—A PANIC IN THE HOUSE
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX—MY HEROINE.
+
+
+When it was known that I had begun another story my mother might ask what
+it was to be about this time.
+
+‘Fine we can guess who it is about,’ my sister would say pointedly.
+
+‘Maybe you can guess, but it is beyond me,’ says my mother, with the
+meekness of one who knows that she is a dull person.
+
+My sister scorned her at such times.  ‘What woman is in all his books?’
+she would demand.
+
+‘I’m sure I canna say,’ replies my mother determinedly.  ‘I thought the
+women were different every time.’
+
+‘Mother, I wonder you can be so audacious!  Fine you know what woman I
+mean.’
+
+‘How can I know?  What woman is it?  You should bear in mind that I hinna
+your cleverness’ (they were constantly giving each other little knocks).
+
+‘I won’t give you the satisfaction of saying her name.  But this I will
+say, it is high time he was keeping her out of his books.’
+
+And then as usual my mother would give herself away unconsciously.  ‘That
+is what I tell him,’ she says chuckling, ‘and he tries to keep me out,
+but he canna; it’s more than he can do!’
+
+On an evening after my mother had gone to bed, the first chapter would be
+brought upstairs, and I read, sitting at the foot of the bed, while my
+sister watched to make my mother behave herself, and my father cried
+H’sh! when there were interruptions.  All would go well at the start, the
+reflections were accepted with a little nod of the head, the descriptions
+of scenery as ruts on the road that must be got over at a walking pace
+(my mother did not care for scenery, and that is why there is so little
+of it in my books).  But now I am reading too quickly, a little
+apprehensively, because I know that the next paragraph begins with—let us
+say with, ‘Along this path came a woman’: I had intended to rush on here
+in a loud bullying voice, but ‘Along this path came a woman’ I read, and
+stop.  Did I hear a faint sound from the other end of the bed?  Perhaps I
+did not; I may only have been listening for it, but I falter and look up.
+My sister and I look sternly at my mother.  She bites her under-lip and
+clutches the bed with both hands, really she is doing her best for me,
+but first comes a smothered gurgling sound, then her hold on herself
+relaxes and she shakes with mirth.
+
+‘That’s a way to behave!’ cries my sister.
+
+‘I cannot help it,’ my mother gasps.
+
+‘And there’s nothing to laugh at.’
+
+‘It’s that woman,’ my mother explains unnecessarily.
+
+‘Maybe she’s not the woman you think her,’ I say, crushed.
+
+‘Maybe not,’ says my mother doubtfully.  ‘What was her name?’
+
+‘Her name,’ I answer with triumph, ‘was not Margaret’; but this makes her
+ripple again.  ‘I have so many names nowadays,’ she mutters.
+
+‘H’sh!’ says my father, and the reading is resumed.
+
+Perhaps the woman who came along the path was of tall and majestic
+figure, which should have shown my mother that I had contrived to start
+my train without her this time.  But it did not.
+
+‘What are you laughing at now?’ says my sister severely.  ‘Do you not
+hear that she was a tall, majestic woman?’
+
+‘It’s the first time I ever heard it said of her,’ replies my mother.
+
+‘But she is.’
+
+‘Ke fy, havers!’
+
+‘The book says it.’
+
+‘There will be a many queer things in the book.  What was she wearing?’
+
+I have not described her clothes.  ‘That’s a mistake,’ says my mother.
+‘When I come upon a woman in a book, the first thing I want to know about
+her is whether she was good-looking, and the second, how she was put on.’
+
+The woman on the path was eighteen years of age, and of remarkable
+beauty.
+
+‘That settles you,’ says my sister.
+
+‘I was no beauty at eighteen,’ my mother admits, but here my father
+interferes unexpectedly.  ‘There wasna your like in this countryside at
+eighteen,’ says he stoutly.
+
+‘Pooh!’ says she, well pleased.
+
+‘Were you plain, then?’ we ask.
+
+‘Sal,’ she replies briskly, ‘I was far from plain.’
+
+‘H’sh!’
+
+Perhaps in the next chapter this lady (or another) appears in a carriage.
+
+‘I assure you we’re mounting in the world,’ I hear my mother murmur, but
+I hurry on without looking up.  The lady lives in a house where there are
+footmen—but the footmen have come on the scene too hurriedly.  ‘This is
+more than I can stand,’ gasps my mother, and just as she is getting the
+better of a fit of laughter, ‘Footman, give me a drink of water,’ she
+cries, and this sets her off again.  Often the readings had to end
+abruptly because her mirth brought on violent fits of coughing.
+
+Sometimes I read to my sister alone, and she assured me that she could
+not see my mother among the women this time.  This she said to humour me.
+Presently she would slip upstairs to announce triumphantly, ‘You are in
+again!’
+
+Or in the small hours I might make a confidant of my father, and when I
+had finished reading he would say thoughtfully, ‘That lassie is very
+natural.  Some of the ways you say she had—your mother had them just the
+same.  Did you ever notice what an extraordinary woman your mother is?’
+
+Then would I seek my mother for comfort.  She was the more ready to give
+it because of her profound conviction that if I was found out—that is, if
+readers discovered how frequently and in how many guises she appeared in
+my books—the affair would become a public scandal.
+
+‘You see Jess is not really you,’ I begin inquiringly.
+
+‘Oh no, she is another kind of woman altogether,’ my mother says, and
+then spoils the compliment by adding naîvely, ‘She had but two rooms and
+I have six.’
+
+I sigh.  ‘Without counting the pantry, and it’s a great big pantry,’ she
+mutters.
+
+This was not the sort of difference I could greatly plume myself upon,
+and honesty would force me to say, ‘As far as that goes, there was a time
+when you had but two rooms yourself—’
+
+‘That’s long since,’ she breaks in.  ‘I began with an up-the-stair, but I
+always had it in my mind—I never mentioned it, but there it was—to have
+the down-the-stair as well.  Ay, and I’ve had it this many a year.’
+
+‘Still, there is no denying that Jess had the same ambition.’
+
+‘She had, but to her two-roomed house she had to stick all her born days.
+Was that like me?’
+
+‘No, but she wanted—’
+
+‘She wanted, and I wanted, but I got and she didna.  That’s the
+difference betwixt her and me.’
+
+‘If that is all the difference, it is little credit I can claim for
+having created her.’
+
+My mother sees that I need soothing.  ‘That is far from being all the
+difference,’ she would say eagerly.  ‘There’s my silk, for instance.
+Though I say it mysel, there’s not a better silk in the valley of
+Strathmore.  Had Jess a silk of any kind—not to speak of a silk like
+that?’
+
+‘Well, she had no silk, but you remember how she got that cloak with
+beads.’
+
+‘An eleven and a bit!  Hoots, what was that to boast of!  I tell you,
+every single yard of my silk cost—’
+
+‘Mother, that is the very way Jess spoke about her cloak!’
+
+She lets this pass, perhaps without hearing it, for solicitude about her
+silk has hurried her to the wardrobe where it hangs.
+
+‘Ah, mother, I am afraid that was very like Jess!’
+
+‘How could it be like her when she didna even have a wardrobe?  I tell
+you what, if there had been a real Jess and she had boasted to me about
+her cloak with beads, I would have said to her in a careless sort of
+voice, “Step across with me, Jess and I’ll let you see something that is
+hanging in my wardrobe.”  That would have lowered her pride!’
+
+‘I don’t believe that is what you would have done, mother.’
+
+Then a sweeter expression would come into her face.  ‘No,’ she would say
+reflectively, ‘it’s not.’
+
+‘What would you have done?  I think I know.’
+
+‘You canna know.  But I’m thinking I would have called to mind that she
+was a poor woman, and ailing, and terrible windy about her cloak, and I
+would just have said it was a beauty and that I wished I had one like
+it.’
+
+‘Yes, I am certain that is what you would have done.  But oh, mother,
+that is just how Jess would have acted if some poorer woman than she had
+shown her a new shawl.’
+
+‘Maybe, but though I hadna boasted about my silk I would have wanted to
+do it.’
+
+‘Just as Jess would have been fidgeting to show off her eleven and a
+bit!’
+
+It seems advisable to jump to another book; not to my first,
+because—well, as it was my first there would naturally be something of my
+mother in it, and not to the second, as it was my first novel and not
+much esteemed even in our family.  (But the little touches of my mother
+in it are not so bad.)  Let us try the story about the minister.
+
+My mother’s first remark is decidedly damping.  ‘Many a time in my young
+days,’ she says, ‘I played about the Auld Licht manse, but I little
+thought I should live to be the mistress of it!’
+
+‘But Margaret is not you.’
+
+‘N-no, oh no.  She had a very different life from mine.  I never let on
+to a soul that she is me!’
+
+‘She was not meant to be you when I began.  Mother, what a way you have
+of coming creeping in!’
+
+‘You should keep better watch on yourself.’
+
+‘Perhaps if I had called Margaret by some other name—’
+
+‘I should have seen through her just the same.  As soon as I heard she
+was the mother I began to laugh.  In some ways, though, she’s no’ so very
+like me.  She was long in finding out about Babbie.  I’se uphaud I should
+have been quicker.’
+
+‘Babbie, you see, kept close to the garden-wall.’
+
+‘It’s not the wall up at the manse that would have hidden her from me.’
+
+‘She came out in the dark.’
+
+‘I’m thinking she would have found me looking for her with a candle.’
+
+‘And Gavin was secretive.’
+
+‘That would have put me on my mettle.’
+
+‘She never suspected anything.’
+
+‘I wonder at her.’
+
+But my new heroine is to be a child.  What has madam to say to that?
+
+A child!  Yes, she has something to say even to that.  ‘This beats all!’
+are the words.
+
+‘Come, come, mother, I see what you are thinking, but I assure you that
+this time—’
+
+‘Of course not,’ she says soothingly, ‘oh no, she canna be me’; but anon
+her real thoughts are revealed by the artless remark, ‘I doubt, though,
+this is a tough job you have on hand—it is so long since I was a bairn.’
+
+We came very close to each other in those talks.  ‘It is a queer thing,’
+she would say softly, ‘that near everything you write is about this bit
+place.  You little expected that when you began.  I mind well the time
+when it never entered your head, any more than mine, that you could write
+a page about our squares and wynds.  I wonder how it has come about?’
+
+There was a time when I could not have answered that question, but that
+time had long passed.  ‘I suppose, mother, it was because you were most
+at home in your own town, and there was never much pleasure to me in
+writing of people who could not have known you, nor of squares and wynds
+you never passed through, nor of a country-side where you never carried
+your father’s dinner in a flagon.  There is scarce a house in all my
+books where I have not seemed to see you a thousand times, bending over
+the fireplace or winding up the clock.’
+
+‘And yet you used to be in such a quandary because you knew nobody you
+could make your women-folk out of!  Do you mind that, and how we both
+laughed at the notion of your having to make them out of me?’
+
+‘I remember.’
+
+‘And now you’ve gone back to my father’s time.  It’s more than sixty
+years since I carried his dinner in a flagon through the long parks of
+Kinnordy.’
+
+‘I often go into the long parks, mother, and sit on the stile at the edge
+of the wood till I fancy I see a little girl coming toward me with a
+flagon in her hand.’
+
+‘Jumping the burn (I was once so proud of my jumps!) and swinging the
+flagon round so quick that what was inside hadna time to fall out.  I
+used to wear a magenta frock and a white pinafore.  Did I ever tell you
+that?’
+
+‘Mother, the little girl in my story wears a magenta frock and a white
+pinafore.’
+
+‘You minded that!  But I’m thinking it wasna a lassie in a pinafore you
+saw in the long parks of Kinnordy, it was just a gey done auld woman.’
+
+‘It was a lassie in a pinafore, mother, when she was far away, but when
+she came near it was a gey done auld woman.’
+
+‘And a fell ugly one!’
+
+‘The most beautiful one I shall ever see.’
+
+‘I wonder to hear you say it.  Look at my wrinkled auld face.’
+
+‘It is the sweetest face in all the world.’
+
+‘See how the rings drop off my poor wasted finger.’
+
+‘There will always be someone nigh, mother, to put them on again.’
+
+‘Ay, will there!  Well I know it.  Do you mind how when you were but a
+bairn you used to say, “Wait till I’m a man, and you’ll never have a
+reason for greeting again?”’
+
+I remembered.
+
+‘You used to come running into the house to say, “There’s a proud dame
+going down the Marywellbrae in a cloak that is black on one side and
+white on the other; wait till I’m a man, and you’ll have one the very
+same.”  And when I lay on gey hard beds you said, “When I’m a man you’ll
+lie on feathers.”  You saw nothing bonny, you never heard of my setting
+my heart on anything, but what you flung up your head and cried, “Wait
+till I’m a man.”  You fair shamed me before the neighbours, and yet I was
+windy, too.  And now it has all come true like a dream.  I can call to
+mind not one little thing I ettled for in my lusty days that hasna been
+put into my hands in my auld age; I sit here useless, surrounded by the
+gratification of all my wishes and all my ambitions, and at times I’m
+near terrified, for it’s as if God had mista’en me for some other woman.’
+
+‘Your hopes and ambitions were so simple,’ I would say, but she did not
+like that.  ‘They werena that simple,’ she would answer, flushing.
+
+I am reluctant to leave those happy days, but the end must be faced, and
+as I write I seem to see my mother growing smaller and her face more
+wistful, and still she lingers with us, as if God had said, ‘Child of
+mine, your time has come, be not afraid.’  And she was not afraid, but
+still she lingered, and He waited, smiling.  I never read any of that
+last book to her; when it was finished she was too heavy with years to
+follow a story.  To me this was as if my book must go out cold into the
+world (like all that may come after it from me), and my sister, who took
+more thought for others and less for herself than any other human being I
+have known, saw this, and by some means unfathomable to a man coaxed my
+mother into being once again the woman she had been.  On a day but three
+weeks before she died my father and I were called softly upstairs.  My
+mother was sitting bolt upright, as she loved to sit, in her old chair by
+the window, with a manuscript in her hands.  But she was looking about
+her without much understanding.  ‘Just to please him,’ my sister
+whispered, and then in a low, trembling voice my mother began to read.  I
+looked at my sister.  Tears of woe were stealing down her face.  Soon the
+reading became very slow and stopped.  After a pause, ‘There was
+something you were to say to him,’ my sister reminded her.  ‘Luck,’
+muttered a voice as from the dead, ‘luck.’  And then the old smile came
+running to her face like a lamp-lighter, and she said to me, ‘I am ower
+far gone to read, but I’m thinking I am in it again!’  My father put her
+Testament in her hands, and it fell open—as it always does—at the
+Fourteenth of John.  She made an effort to read but could not.  Suddenly
+she stooped and kissed the broad page.  ‘Will that do instead?’ she
+asked.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X—ART THOU AFRAID HIS POWER SHALL FAIL?
+
+
+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
+
+
+
+
+***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGARET OGILVY***
+
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+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
+<head>
+<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" />
+<title>Margaret Ogilvy, by J. M. Barrie</title>
+    <style type="text/css">
+/*<![CDATA[  XML blockout */
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg eBook, Margaret Ogilvy, by J. M. Barrie
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: Margaret Ogilvy
+       by her son
+
+
+Author: J. M. Barrie
+
+
+
+Release Date: October 21, 2010  [eBook #342]
+First Posted: October 23, 1995
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGARET OGILVY***
+</pre>
+<p>Transcribed from the 1897 Chatto &amp; Windus edition by David
+Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p0ab.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Picture of Margaret Ogilvy"
+title=
+"Picture of Margaret Ogilvy"
+src="images/p0as.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<h1>MARGARET OGILVY</h1>
+<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">by her
+son</span></p>
+<p style="text-align: center">J. M. BARRIE</p>
+<p style="text-align: center">
+<a href="images/p0bb.jpg">
+<img alt=
+"Graphic"
+title=
+"Graphic"
+src="images/p0bs.jpg" />
+</a></p>
+<p style="text-align: center"><i>Second Edition</i><br />
+<i>Completing Twentieth Thousand</i></p>
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p style="text-align: center"><span
+class="smcap">london</span><br />
+HODDER AND STOUGHTON<br />
+27 paternoster row<br />
+1897</p>
+<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">to</span><br />
+<span class="smcap">the memory of</span><br />
+<span class="smcap">my sister</span><br />
+<span class="smcap">Jane Ann</span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER I&mdash;HOW MY MOTHER GOT HER SOFT FACE</h2>
+<p>On the day I was born we bought six hair-bottomed chairs, and
+in our little house it was an event, the first great victory in a
+woman&rsquo;s long campaign; how they had been laboured for, the
+pound-note and the thirty threepenny-bits they cost, what anxiety
+there was about the purchase, the show they made in possession of
+the west room, my father&rsquo;s unnatural coolness when he
+brought them in (but his face was white)&mdash;I so often heard
+the tale afterwards, and shared as boy and man in so many similar
+triumphs, that the coming of the chairs seems to be something I
+remember, as if I had jumped out of bed on that first day, and
+run ben to see how they looked.&nbsp; I am sure my mother&rsquo;s
+feet were ettling to be ben long before they could be trusted,
+and that the moment after she was left alone with me she was
+discovered barefooted in the west room, doctoring a scar (which
+she had been the first to detect) on one of the chairs, or
+sitting on them regally, or withdrawing and re-opening the door
+suddenly to take the six by surprise.&nbsp; And then, I think, a
+shawl was flung over her (it is strange to me to think it was not
+I who ran after her with the shawl), and she was escorted sternly
+back to bed and reminded that she had promised not to budge, to
+which her reply was probably that she had been gone but an
+instant, and the implication that therefore she had not been gone
+at all.&nbsp; Thus was one little bit of her revealed to me at
+once: I wonder if I took note of it.&nbsp; Neighbours came in to
+see the boy and the chairs.&nbsp; I wonder if she deceived me
+when she affected to think that there were others like us, or
+whether I saw through her from the first, she was so easily seen
+through.&nbsp; When she seemed to agree with them that it would
+be impossible to give me a college education, was I so easily
+taken in, or did I know already what ambitions burned behind that
+dear face? when they spoke of the chairs as the goal quickly
+reached, was I such a newcomer that her timid lips must say
+&lsquo;They are but a beginning&rsquo; before I heard the
+words?&nbsp; And when we were left together, did I laugh at the
+great things that were in her mind, or had she to whisper them to
+me first, and then did I put my arm round her and tell her that I
+would help?&nbsp; Thus it was for such a long time: it is strange
+to me to feel that it was not so from the beginning.</p>
+<p>It is all guess-work for six years, and she whom I see in them
+is the woman who came suddenly into view when they were at an
+end.&nbsp; Her timid lips I have said, but they were not timid
+then, and when I knew her the timid lips had come.&nbsp; The soft
+face&mdash;they say the face was not so soft then.&nbsp; The
+shawl that was flung over her&mdash;we had not begun to hunt her
+with a shawl, nor to make our bodies a screen between her and the
+draughts, nor to creep into her room a score of times in the
+night to stand looking at her as she slept.&nbsp; We did not see
+her becoming little then, nor sharply turn our heads when she
+said wonderingly how small her arms had grown.&nbsp; In her
+happiest moments&mdash;and never was a happier woman&mdash;her
+mouth did not of a sudden begin to twitch, and tears to lie on
+the mute blue eyes in which I have read all I know and would ever
+care to write.&nbsp; For when you looked into my mother&rsquo;s
+eyes you knew, as if He had told you, why God sent her into the
+world&mdash;it was to open the minds of all who looked to
+beautiful thoughts.&nbsp; And that is the beginning and end of
+literature.&nbsp; Those eyes that I cannot see until I was six
+years old have guided me through life, and I pray God they may
+remain my only earthly judge to the last.&nbsp; They were never
+more my guide than when I helped to put her to earth, not
+whimpering because my mother had been taken away after
+seventy-six glorious years of life, but exulting in her even at
+the grave.</p>
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p>She had a son who was far away at school.&nbsp; I remember
+very little about him, only that he was a merry-faced boy who ran
+like a squirrel up a tree and shook the cherries into my
+lap.&nbsp; When he was thirteen and I was half his age the
+terrible news came, and I have been told the face of my mother
+was awful in its calmness as she set off to get between Death and
+her boy.&nbsp; We trooped with her down the brae to the wooden
+station, and I think I was envying her the journey in the
+mysterious wagons; I know we played around her, proud of our
+right to be there, but I do not recall it, I only speak from
+hearsay.&nbsp; Her ticket was taken, she had bidden us good-bye
+with that fighting face which I cannot see, and then my father
+came out of the telegraph-office and said huskily,
+&lsquo;He&rsquo;s gone!&rsquo;&nbsp; Then we turned very quietly
+and went home again up the little brae.&nbsp; But I speak from
+hearsay no longer; I knew my mother for ever now.</p>
+<p>That is how she got her soft face and her pathetic ways and
+her large charity, and why other mothers ran to her when they had
+lost a child.&nbsp; &lsquo;Dinna greet, poor Janet,&rsquo; she
+would say to them; and they would answer, &lsquo;Ah, Margaret,
+but you&rsquo;re greeting yoursel.&rsquo;&nbsp; Margaret Ogilvy
+had been her maiden name, and after the Scotch custom she was
+still Margaret Ogilvy to her old friends.&nbsp; Margaret Ogilvy I
+loved to name her.&nbsp; Often when I was a boy, &lsquo;Margaret
+Ogilvy, are you there?&rsquo;&nbsp; I would call up the
+stair.</p>
+<p>She was always delicate from that hour, and for many months
+she was very ill.&nbsp; I have heard that the first thing she
+expressed a wish to see was the christening robe, and she looked
+long at it and then turned her face to the wall.&nbsp; That was
+what made me as a boy think of it always as the robe in which he
+was christened, but I knew later that we had all been christened
+in it, from the oldest of the family to the youngest, between
+whom stood twenty years.&nbsp; Hundreds of other children were
+christened in it also, such robes being then a rare possession,
+and the lending of ours among my mother&rsquo;s glories.&nbsp; It
+was carried carefully from house to house, as if it were itself a
+child; my mother made much of it, smoothed it out, petted it,
+smiled to it before putting it into the arms of those to whom it
+was being lent; she was in our pew to see it borne magnificently
+(something inside it now) down the aisle to the pulpit-side, when
+a stir of expectancy went through the church and we kicked each
+other&rsquo;s feet beneath the book-board but were reverent in
+the face; and however the child might behave, laughing brazenly
+or skirling to its mother&rsquo;s shame, and whatever the father
+as he held it up might do, look doited probably and bow at the
+wrong time, the christening robe of long experience helped them
+through.&nbsp; And when it was brought back to her she took it in
+her arms as softly as if it might be asleep, and unconsciously
+pressed it to her breast: there was never anything in the house
+that spoke to her quite so eloquently as that little white robe;
+it was the one of her children that always remained a baby.&nbsp;
+And she had not made it herself, which was the most wonderful
+thing about it to me, for she seemed to have made all other
+things.&nbsp; All the clothes in the house were of her making,
+and you don&rsquo;t know her in the least if you think they were
+out of the fashion; she turned them and made them new again, she
+beat them and made them new again, and then she coaxed them into
+being new again just for the last time, she let them out and took
+them in and put on new braid, and added a piece up the back, and
+thus they passed from one member of the family to another until
+they reached the youngest, and even when we were done with them
+they reappeared as something else.&nbsp; In the fashion!&nbsp; I
+must come back to this.&nbsp; Never was a woman with such an eye
+for it.&nbsp; She had no fashion-plates; she did not need
+them.&nbsp; The minister&rsquo;s wife (a cloak), the
+banker&rsquo;s daughters (the new sleeve)&mdash;they had but to
+pass our window once, and the scalp, so to speak, was in my
+mother&rsquo;s hands.&nbsp; Observe her rushing, scissors in
+hand, thread in mouth, to the drawers where her daughters&rsquo;
+Sabbath clothes were kept.&nbsp; Or go to church next Sunday, and
+watch a certain family filing in, the boy lifting his legs high
+to show off his new boots, but all the others demure, especially
+the timid, unobservant-looking little woman in the rear of
+them.&nbsp; If you were the minister&rsquo;s wife that day or the
+banker&rsquo;s daughters you would have got a shock.&nbsp; But
+she bought the christening robe, and when I used to ask why, she
+would beam and look conscious, and say she wanted to be
+extravagant once.&nbsp; And she told me, still smiling, that the
+more a woman was given to stitching and making things for
+herself, the greater was her passionate desire now and again to
+rush to the shops and &lsquo;be foolish.&rsquo;&nbsp; The
+christening robe with its pathetic frills is over half a century
+old now, and has begun to droop a little, like a daisy whose time
+is past; but it is as fondly kept together as ever: I saw it in
+use again only the other day.</p>
+<p>My mother lay in bed with the christening robe beside her, and
+I peeped in many times at the door and then went to the stair and
+sat on it and sobbed.&nbsp; I know not if it was that first day,
+or many days afterwards, that there came to me, my sister, the
+daughter my mother loved the best; yes, more I am sure even than
+she loved me, whose great glory she has been since I was six
+years old.&nbsp; This sister, who was then passing out of her
+&lsquo;teens, came to me with a very anxious face and wringing
+her hands, and she told me to go ben to my mother and say to her
+that she still had another boy.&nbsp; I went ben excitedly, but
+the room was dark, and when I heard the door shut and no sound
+come from the bed I was afraid, and I stood still.&nbsp; I
+suppose I was breathing hard, or perhaps I was crying, for after
+a time I heard a listless voice that had never been listless
+before say, &lsquo;Is that you?&rsquo;&nbsp; I think the tone
+hurt me, for I made no answer, and then the voice said more
+anxiously &lsquo;Is that you?&rsquo; again.&nbsp; I thought it
+was the dead boy she was speaking to, and I said in a little
+lonely voice, &lsquo;No, it&rsquo;s no him, it&rsquo;s just
+me.&rsquo;&nbsp; Then I heard a cry, and my mother turned in bed,
+and though it was dark I knew that she was holding out her
+arms.</p>
+<p>After that I sat a great deal in her bed trying to make her
+forget him, which was my crafty way of playing physician, and if
+I saw any one out of doors do something that made the others
+laugh I immediately hastened to that dark room and did it before
+her.&nbsp; I suppose I was an odd little figure; I have been told
+that my anxiety to brighten her gave my face a strained look and
+put a tremor into the joke (I would stand on my head in the bed,
+my feet against the wall, and then cry excitedly, &lsquo;Are you
+laughing, mother?&rsquo;)&mdash;and perhaps what made her laugh
+was something I was unconscious of, but she did laugh suddenly
+now and then, whereupon I screamed exultantly to that dear
+sister, who was ever in waiting, to come and see the sight, but
+by the time she came the soft face was wet again.&nbsp; Thus I
+was deprived of some of my glory, and I remember once only making
+her laugh before witnesses.&nbsp; I kept a record of her laughs
+on a piece of paper, a stroke for each, and it was my custom to
+show this proudly to the doctor every morning.&nbsp; There were
+five strokes the first time I slipped it into his hand, and when
+their meaning was explained to him he laughed so boisterously,
+that I cried, &lsquo;I wish that was one of hers!&rsquo;&nbsp;
+Then he was sympathetic, and asked me if my mother had seen the
+paper yet, and when I shook my head he said that if I showed it
+to her now and told her that these were her five laughs he
+thought I might win another.&nbsp; I had less confidence, but he
+was the mysterious man whom you ran for in the dead of night (you
+flung sand at his window to waken him, and if it was only
+toothache he extracted the tooth through the open window, but
+when it was something sterner he was with you in the dark square
+at once, like a man who slept in his topcoat), so I did as he
+bade me, and not only did she laugh then but again when I put the
+laugh down, so that though it was really one laugh with a tear in
+the middle I counted it as two.</p>
+<p>It was doubtless that same sister who told me not to sulk when
+my mother lay thinking of him, but to try instead to get her to
+talk about him.&nbsp; I did not see how this could make her the
+merry mother she used to be, but I was told that if I could not
+do it nobody could, and this made me eager to begin.&nbsp; At
+first, they say, I was often jealous, stopping her fond memories
+with the cry, &lsquo;Do you mind nothing about me?&rsquo; but
+that did not last; its place was taken by an intense desire
+(again, I think, my sister must have breathed it into life) to
+become so like him that even my mother should not see the
+difference, and many and artful were the questions I put to that
+end.&nbsp; Then I practised in secret, but after a whole week had
+passed I was still rather like myself.&nbsp; He had such a cheery
+way of whistling, she had told me, it had always brightened her
+at her work to hear him whistling, and when he whistled he stood
+with his legs apart, and his hands in the pockets of his
+knickerbockers.&nbsp; I decided to trust to this, so one day
+after I had learned his whistle (every boy of enterprise invents
+a whistle of his own) from boys who had been his comrades, I
+secretly put on a suit of his clothes, dark grey they were, with
+little spots, and they fitted me many years afterwards, and thus
+disguised I slipped, unknown to the others, into my
+mother&rsquo;s room.&nbsp; Quaking, I doubt not, yet so pleased,
+I stood still until she saw me, and then&mdash;how it must have
+hurt her!&nbsp; &lsquo;Listen!&rsquo; I cried in a glow of
+triumph, and I stretched my legs wide apart and plunged my hands
+into the pockets of my knickerbockers, and began to whistle.</p>
+<p>She lived twenty-nine years after his death, such active years
+until toward the end, that you never knew where she was unless
+you took hold of her, and though she was frail henceforth and
+ever growing frailer, her housekeeping again became famous, so
+that brides called as a matter of course to watch her
+ca&rsquo;ming and sanding and stitching: there are old people
+still, one or two, to tell with wonder in their eyes how she
+could bake twenty-four bannocks in the hour, and not a chip in
+one of them.&nbsp; And how many she gave away, how much she gave
+away of all she had, and what pretty ways she had of giving
+it!&nbsp; Her face beamed and rippled with mirth as before, and
+her laugh that I had tried so hard to force came running home
+again.&nbsp; I have heard no such laugh as hers save from merry
+children; the laughter of most of us ages, and wears out with the
+body, but hers remained gleeful to the last, as if it were born
+afresh every morning.&nbsp; There was always something of the
+child in her, and her laugh was its voice, as eloquent of the
+past to me as was the christening robe to her.&nbsp; But I had
+not made her forget the bit of her that was dead; in those
+nine-and-twenty years he was not removed one day farther from
+her.&nbsp; Many a time she fell asleep speaking to him, and even
+while she slept her lips moved and she smiled as if he had come
+back to her, and when she woke he might vanish so suddenly that
+she started up bewildered and looked about her, and then said
+slowly, &lsquo;My David&rsquo;s dead!&rsquo; or perhaps he
+remained long enough to whisper why he must leave her now, and
+then she lay silent with filmy eyes.&nbsp; When I became a man
+and he was still a boy of thirteen, I wrote a little paper called
+&lsquo;Dead this Twenty Years,&rsquo; which was about a similar
+tragedy in another woman&rsquo;s life, and it is the only thing I
+have written that she never spoke about, not even to that
+daughter she loved the best.&nbsp; No one ever spoke of it to
+her, or asked her if she had read it: one does not ask a mother
+if she knows that there is a little coffin in the house.&nbsp;
+She read many times the book in which it is printed, but when she
+came to that chapter she would put her hands to her heart or even
+over her ears.</p>
+<h2>CHAPTER II&mdash;WHAT SHE HAD BEEN</h2>
+<p>What she had been, what I should be, these were the two great
+subjects between us in my boyhood, and while we discussed the one
+we were deciding the other, though neither of us knew it.</p>
+<p>Before I reached my tenth year a giant entered my native place
+in the night, and we woke to find him in possession.&nbsp; He
+transformed it into a new town at a rate with which we boys only
+could keep up, for as fast as he built dams we made rafts to sail
+in them; he knocked down houses, and there we were crying
+&lsquo;Pilly!&rsquo; among the ruins; he dug trenches, and we
+jumped them; we had to be dragged by the legs from beneath his
+engines, he sunk wells, and in we went.&nbsp; But though there
+were never circumstances to which boys could not adapt themselves
+in half an hour, older folk are slower in the uptake, and I am
+sure they stood and gaped at the changes so suddenly being worked
+in our midst, and scarce knew their way home now in the
+dark.&nbsp; Where had been formerly but the click of the shuttle
+was soon the roar of &lsquo;power,&rsquo; handlooms were pushed
+into a corner as a room is cleared for a dance; every morning at
+half-past five the town was wakened with a yell, and from a
+chimney-stack that rose high into our caller air the conqueror
+waved for evermore his flag of smoke.&nbsp; Another era had
+dawned, new customs, new fashions sprang into life, all as lusty
+as if they had been born at twenty-one; as quickly as two people
+may exchange seats, the daughter, till now but a knitter of
+stockings, became the breadwinner, he who had been the
+breadwinner sat down to the knitting of stockings: what had been
+yesterday a nest of weavers was to-day a town of girls.</p>
+<p>I am not of those who would fling stones at the change; it is
+something, surely, that backs are no longer prematurely bent; you
+may no more look through dim panes of glass at the aged poor
+weaving tremulously for their little bit of ground in the
+cemetery.&nbsp; Rather are their working years too few now, not
+because they will it so but because it is with youth that the
+power-looms must be fed.&nbsp; Well, this teaches them to make
+provision, and they have the means as they never had
+before.&nbsp; Not in batches are boys now sent to college; the
+half-dozen a year have dwindled to one, doubtless because in
+these days they can begin to draw wages as they step out of their
+fourteenth year.&nbsp; Here assuredly there is loss, but all the
+losses would be but a pebble in a sea of gain were it not for
+this, that with so many of the family, young mothers among them,
+working in the factories, home life is not so beautiful as it
+was.&nbsp; So much of what is great in Scotland has sprung from
+the closeness of the family ties; it is there I sometimes fear
+that my country is being struck.&nbsp; That we are all being
+reduced to one dead level, that character abounds no more and
+life itself is less interesting, such things I have read, but I
+do not believe them.&nbsp; I have even seen them given as my
+reason for writing of a past time, and in that at least there is
+no truth.&nbsp; In our little town, which is a sample of many,
+life is as interesting, as pathetic, as joyous as ever it was; no
+group of weavers was better to look at or think about than the
+rivulet of winsome girls that overruns our streets every time the
+sluice is raised, the comedy of summer evenings and winter
+firesides is played with the old zest and every window-blind is
+the curtain of a romance.&nbsp; Once the lights of a little town
+are lit, who could ever hope to tell all its story, or the story
+of a single wynd in it?&nbsp; And who looking at lighted windows
+needs to turn to books?&nbsp; The reason my books deal with the
+past instead of with the life I myself have known is simply this,
+that I soon grow tired of writing tales unless I can see a little
+girl, of whom my mother has told me, wandering confidently
+through the pages.&nbsp; Such a grip has her memory of her
+girlhood had upon me since I was a boy of six.</p>
+<p>Those innumerable talks with her made her youth as vivid to me
+as my own, and so much more quaint, for, to a child, the oddest
+of things, and the most richly coloured picture-book, is that his
+mother was once a child also, and the contrast between what she
+is and what she was is perhaps the source of all humour.&nbsp; My
+mother&rsquo;s father, the one hero of her life, died nine years
+before I was born, and I remember this with bewilderment, so
+familiarly does the weather-beaten mason&rsquo;s figure rise
+before me from the old chair on which I was nursed and now write
+my books.&nbsp; On the surface he is as hard as the stone on
+which he chiselled, and his face is dyed red by its dust, he is
+rounded in the shoulders and a &lsquo;hoast&rsquo; hunts him
+ever; sooner or later that cough must carry him off, but until
+then it shall not keep him from the quarry, nor shall his chapped
+hands, as long as they can grasp the mell.&nbsp; It is a night of
+rain or snow, and my mother, the little girl in a pinafore who is
+already his housekeeper, has been many times to the door to look
+for him.&nbsp; At last he draws nigh, hoasting.&nbsp; Or I see
+him setting off to church, for he was a great &lsquo;stoop&rsquo;
+of the Auld Licht kirk, and his mouth is very firm now as if
+there were a case of discipline to face, but on his way home he
+is bowed with pity.&nbsp; Perhaps his little daughter who saw him
+so stern an hour ago does not understand why he wrestles so long
+in prayer to-night, or why when he rises from his knees he
+presses her to him with unwonted tenderness.&nbsp; Or he is in
+this chair repeating to her his favourite poem, &lsquo;The
+Cameronian&rsquo;s Dream,&rsquo; and at the first lines so
+solemnly uttered,</p>
+<blockquote><p>&lsquo;In a dream of the night I was wafted
+away,&rsquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>she screams with excitement, just as I screamed long
+afterwards when she repeated them in his voice to me.&nbsp; Or I
+watch, as from a window, while she sets off through the long
+parks to the distant place where he is at work, in her hand a
+flagon which contains his dinner.&nbsp; She is singing to herself
+and gleefully swinging the flagon, she jumps the burn and proudly
+measures the jump with her eye, but she never dallies unless she
+meets a baby, for she was so fond of babies that she must hug
+each one she met, but while she hugged them she also noted how
+their robes were cut, and afterwards made paper patterns, which
+she concealed jealously, and in the fulness of time her first
+robe for her eldest born was fashioned from one of these
+patterns, made when she was in her twelfth year.</p>
+<p>She was eight when her mother&rsquo;s death made her mistress
+of the house and mother to her little brother, and from that time
+she scrubbed and mended and baked and sewed, and argued with the
+flesher about the quarter pound of beef and penny bone which
+provided dinner for two days (but if you think that this was
+poverty you don&rsquo;t know the meaning of the word), and she
+carried the water from the pump, and had her washing-days and her
+ironings and a stocking always on the wire for odd moments, and
+gossiped like a matron with the other women, and humoured the men
+with a tolerant smile&mdash;all these things she did as a matter
+of course, leaping joyful from bed in the morning because there
+was so much to do, doing it as thoroughly and sedately as if the
+brides were already due for a lesson, and then rushing out in a
+fit of childishness to play dumps or palaulays with others of her
+age.&nbsp; I see her frocks lengthening, though they were never
+very short, and the games given reluctantly up. The horror of my
+boyhood was that I knew a time would come when I also must give
+up the games, and how it was to be done I saw not (this agony
+still returns to me in dreams, when I catch myself playing
+marbles, and look on with cold displeasure); I felt that I must
+continue playing in secret, and I took this shadow to her, when
+she told me her own experience, which convinced us both that we
+were very like each other inside.&nbsp; She had discovered that
+work is the best fun after all, and I learned it in time, but
+have my lapses, and so had she.</p>
+<p>I know what was her favourite costume when she was at the age
+that they make heroines of: it was a pale blue with a pale blue
+bonnet, the white ribbons of which tied aggravatingly beneath the
+chin, and when questioned about this garb she never admitted that
+she looked pretty in it, but she did say, with blushes too, that
+blue was her colour, and then she might smile, as at some memory,
+and begin to tell us about a man who&mdash;but it ended there
+with another smile which was longer in departing.&nbsp; She never
+said, indeed she denied strenuously, that she had led the men a
+dance, but again the smile returned, and came between us and full
+belief.&nbsp; Yes, she had her little vanities; when she got the
+Mizpah ring she did carry that finger in such a way that the most
+reluctant must see.&nbsp; She was very particular about her
+gloves, and hid her boots so that no other should put them on,
+and then she forgot their hiding-place, and had suspicions of the
+one who found them.&nbsp; A good way of enraging her was to say
+that her last year&rsquo;s bonnet would do for this year without
+alteration, or that it would defy the face of clay to count the
+number of her shawls.&nbsp; In one of my books there is a mother
+who is setting off with her son for the town to which he had been
+called as minister, and she pauses on the threshold to ask him
+anxiously if he thinks her bonnet &lsquo;sets&rsquo; her.&nbsp; A
+reviewer said she acted thus, not because she cared how she
+looked, but for the sake of her son.&nbsp; This, I remember,
+amused my mother very much.</p>
+<p>I have seen many weary on-dings of snow, but the one I seem to
+recollect best occurred nearly twenty years before I was
+born.&nbsp; It was at the time of my mother&rsquo;s marriage to
+one who proved a most loving as he was always a well-loved
+husband, a man I am very proud to be able to call my
+father.&nbsp; I know not for how many days the snow had been
+falling, but a day came when the people lost heart and would make
+no more gullies through it, and by next morning to do so was
+impossible, they could not fling the snow high enough.&nbsp; Its
+back was against every door when Sunday came, and none ventured
+out save a valiant few, who buffeted their way into my
+mother&rsquo;s home to discuss her predicament, for unless she
+was &lsquo;cried&rsquo; in the church that day she might not be
+married for another week, and how could she be cried with the
+minister a field away and the church buried to the waist?&nbsp;
+For hours they talked, and at last some men started for the
+church, which was several hundred yards distant.&nbsp; Three of
+them found a window, and forcing a passage through it, cried the
+pair, and that is how it came about that my father and mother
+were married on the first of March.</p>
+<p>That would be the end, I suppose, if it were a story, but to
+my mother it was only another beginning, and not the last.&nbsp;
+I see her bending over the cradle of her first-born, college for
+him already in her eye (and my father not less ambitious), and
+anon it is a girl who is in the cradle, and then another
+girl&mdash;already a tragic figure to those who know the
+end.&nbsp; I wonder if any instinct told my mother that the great
+day of her life was when she bore this child; what I am sure of
+is that from the first the child followed her with the most
+wistful eyes and saw how she needed help and longed to rise and
+give it.&nbsp; For of physical strength my mother had never very
+much; it was her spirit that got through the work, and in those
+days she was often so ill that the sand rained on the
+doctor&rsquo;s window, and men ran to and fro with leeches, and
+&lsquo;she is in life, we can say no more&rsquo; was the
+information for those who came knocking at the door.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;I am sorrow to say,&rsquo; her father writes in an old
+letter now before me, &lsquo;that Margaret is in a state that she
+was never so bad before in this world.&nbsp; Till Wednesday night
+she was in as poor a condition as you could think of to be
+alive.&nbsp; However, after bleeding, leeching, etc., the Dr.
+says this morning that he is better hoped now, but at present we
+can say no more but only she is alive and in the hands of Him in
+whose hands all our lives are.&nbsp; I can give you no adequate
+view of what my feelings are, indeed they are a burden too heavy
+for me and I cannot describe them.&nbsp; I look on my right and
+left hand and find no comfort, and if it were not for the rock
+that is higher than I my spirit would utterly fall, but blessed
+be His name who can comfort those that are cast down.&nbsp; O for
+more faith in His supporting grace in this hour of
+trial.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>Then she is &lsquo;on the mend,&rsquo; she may &lsquo;thole
+thro&rsquo;&rsquo; if they take great care of her, &lsquo;which
+we will be forward to do.&rsquo;&nbsp; The fourth child dies when
+but a few weeks old, and the next at two years.&nbsp; She was her
+grandfather&rsquo;s companion, and thus he wrote of her death,
+this stern, self-educated Auld Licht with the chapped
+hands:&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>&lsquo;I hope you received my last in which I
+spoke of Dear little Lydia being unwell.&nbsp; Now with deep
+sorrow I must tell you that yesterday I assisted in laying her
+dear remains in the lonely grave.&nbsp; She died at 7
+o&rsquo;clock on Wednesday evening, I suppose by the time you had
+got the letter.&nbsp; The Dr. did not think it was croup till
+late on Tuesday night, and all that Medical aid could prescribe
+was done, but the Dr. had no hope after he saw that the croup was
+confirmed, and hard indeed would the heart have been that would
+not have melted at seeing what the dear little creature suffered
+all Wednesday until the feeble frame was quite worn out.&nbsp;
+She was quite sensible till within 2 hours of her death, and then
+she sunk quite low till the vital spark fled, and all medicine
+that she got she took with the greatest readiness, as if
+apprehensive they would make her well.&nbsp; I cannot well
+describe my feelings on the occasion.&nbsp; I thought that the
+fountain-head of my tears had now been dried up, but I have been
+mistaken, for I must confess that the briny rivulets descended
+fast on my furrowed cheeks, she was such a winning Child, and had
+such a regard for me and always came and told me all her little
+things, and as she was now speaking, some of her little prattle
+was very taking, and the lively images of these things intrude
+themselves more into my mind than they should do, but there is
+allowance for moderate grief on such occasions.&nbsp; But when I
+am telling you of my own grief and sorrow, I know not what to say
+of the bereaved Mother, she hath not met with anything in this
+world before that hath gone so near the quick with her.&nbsp; She
+had no handling of the last one as she was not able at the time,
+for she only had her once in her arms, and her affections had not
+time to be so fairly entwined around her.&nbsp; I am much afraid
+that she will not soon if ever get over this trial.&nbsp;
+Although she was weakly before, yet she was pretty well
+recovered, but this hath not only affected her mind, but her body
+is so much affected that she is not well able to sit so long as
+her bed is making and hath scarcely tasted meat [i.e. food] since
+Monday night, and till some time is elapsed we cannot say how she
+may be.&nbsp; There is none that is not a Parent themselves that
+can fully sympathise with one in such a state.&nbsp; David is
+much affected also, but it is not so well known on him, and the
+younger branches of the family are affected but it will be only
+momentary.&nbsp; But alas in all this vast ado, there is only the
+sorrow of the world which worketh death.&nbsp; O how gladdening
+would it be if we were in as great bitterness for sin as for the
+loss of a first-born.&nbsp; O how unfitted persons or families is
+for trials who knows not the divine art of casting all their
+cares upon the Lord, and what multitudes are there that when
+earthly comforts is taken away, may well say What have I more?
+all their delight is placed in some one thing or another in the
+world, and who can blame them for unwillingly parting with what
+they esteem their chief good?&nbsp; O that we were wise to lay up
+treasure for the time of need, for it is truly a solemn affair to
+enter the lists with the king of terrors.&nbsp; It is strange
+that the living lay the things so little to heart until they have
+to engage in that war where there is no discharge.&nbsp; O that
+my head were waters and mine eyes a fountain of tears that I
+might weep day and night for my own and others&rsquo; stupidity
+in this great matter.&nbsp; O for grace to do every day work in
+its proper time and to live above the tempting cheating train of
+earthly things.&nbsp; The rest of the family are moderately
+well.&nbsp; I have been for some days worse than I have been for
+8 months past, but I may soon get better.&nbsp; I am in the same
+way I have often been in before, but there is no security for it
+always being so, for I know that it cannot be far from the time
+when I will be one of those that once were.&nbsp; I have no other
+news to send you, and as little heart for them.&nbsp; I hope you
+will take the earliest opportunity of writing that you can, and
+be particular as regards Margaret, for she requires
+consolation.&rsquo;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>He died exactly a week after writing this letter, but my
+mother was to live for another forty-four years.&nbsp; And joys
+of a kind never shared in by him were to come to her so
+abundantly, so long drawn out that, strange as it would have
+seemed to him to know it, her fuller life had scarce yet
+begun.&nbsp; And with the joys were to come their sweet,
+frightened comrades pain and grief; again she was to be touched
+to the quick, again and again to be so ill that &lsquo;she is in
+life, we can say no more,&rsquo; but still she had attendants
+very &lsquo;forward&rsquo; to help her, some of them unborn in
+her father&rsquo;s time.</p>
+<p>She told me everything, and so my memories of our little red
+town are coloured by her memories.&nbsp; I knew it as it had been
+for generations, and suddenly I saw it change, and the
+transformation could not fail to strike a boy, for these first
+years are the most impressionable (nothing that happens after we
+are twelve matters very much); they are also the most vivid years
+when we look back, and more vivid the farther we have to look,
+until, at the end, what lies between bends like a hoop, and the
+extremes meet.&nbsp; But though the new town is to me a glass
+through which I look at the old, the people I see passing up and
+down these wynds, sitting, nightcapped, on their barrow-shafts,
+hobbling in their blacks to church on Sunday, are less those I
+saw in my childhood than their fathers and mothers who did these
+things in the same way when my mother was young.&nbsp; I cannot
+picture the place without seeing her, as a little girl, come to
+the door of a certain house and beat her bass against the
+gav&rsquo;le-end, or there is a wedding to-night, and the
+carriage with the white-eared horse is sent for a maiden in pale
+blue, whose bonnet-strings tie beneath the chin.</p>
+<h2>CHAPTER III&mdash;WHAT I SHOULD BE</h2>
+<p>My mother was a great reader, and with ten minutes to spare
+before the starch was ready would begin the &lsquo;Decline and
+Fall&rsquo;&mdash;and finish it, too, that winter.&nbsp; Foreign
+words in the text annoyed her and made her bemoan her want of a
+classical education&mdash;she had only attended a Dame&rsquo;s
+school during some easy months&mdash;but she never passed the
+foreign words by until their meaning was explained to her, and
+when next she and they met it was as acquaintances, which I think
+was clever of her.&nbsp; One of her delights was to learn from me
+scraps of Horace, and then bring them into her conversation with
+&lsquo;colleged men.&rsquo;&nbsp; I have come upon her in lonely
+places, such as the stair-head or the east room, muttering these
+quotations aloud to herself, and I well remember how she would
+say to the visitors, &lsquo;Ay, ay, it&rsquo;s very true, Doctor,
+but as you know, &ldquo;Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume, labuntur
+anni,&rdquo;&rsquo; or &lsquo;Sal, Mr. So-and-so, my lassie is
+thriving well, but would it no&rsquo; be more to the point to
+say, &ldquo;O matra pulchra filia pulchrior&rdquo;?&rsquo; which
+astounded them very much if she managed to reach the end without
+being flung, but usually she had a fit of laughing in the middle,
+and so they found her out.</p>
+<p>Biography and exploration were her favourite reading, for
+choice the biography of men who had been good to their mothers,
+and she liked the explorers to be alive so that she could shudder
+at the thought of their venturing forth again; but though she
+expressed a hope that they would have the sense to stay at home
+henceforth, she gleamed with admiration when they disappointed
+her.&nbsp; In later days I had a friend who was an African
+explorer, and she was in two minds about him; he was one of the
+most engrossing of mortals to her, she admired him prodigiously,
+pictured him at the head of his caravan, now attacked by savages,
+now by wild beasts, and adored him for the uneasy hours he gave
+her, but she was also afraid that he wanted to take me with him,
+and then she thought he should be put down by law.&nbsp;
+Explorers&rsquo; mothers also interested her very much; the books
+might tell her nothing about them, but she could create them for
+herself and wring her hands in sympathy with them when they had
+got no news of him for six months.&nbsp; Yet there were times
+when she grudged him to them&mdash;as the day when he returned
+victorious.&nbsp; Then what was before her eyes was not the son
+coming marching home again but an old woman peering for him round
+the window curtain and trying not to look uplifted.&nbsp; The
+newspaper reports would be about the son, but my mother&rsquo;s
+comment was &lsquo;She&rsquo;s a proud woman this
+night.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>We read many books together when I was a boy, &lsquo;Robinson
+Crusoe&rsquo; being the first (and the second), and the
+&lsquo;Arabian Nights&rsquo; should have been the next, for we
+got it out of the library (a penny for three days), but on
+discovering that they were nights when we had paid for knights we
+sent that volume packing, and I have curled my lips at it ever
+since.&nbsp; &lsquo;The Pilgrim&rsquo;s Progress&rsquo; we had in
+the house (it was as common a possession as a dresser-head), and
+so enamoured of it was I that I turned our garden into sloughs of
+Despond, with pea-sticks to represent Christian on his travels
+and a buffet-stool for his burden, but when I dragged my mother
+out to see my handiwork she was scared, and I felt for days, with
+a certain elation, that I had been a dark character.&nbsp;
+Besides reading every book we could hire or borrow I also bought
+one now and again, and while buying (it was the occupation of
+weeks) I read, standing at the counter, most of the other books
+in the shop, which is perhaps the most exquisite way of
+reading.&nbsp; And I took in a magazine called
+&lsquo;Sunshine,&rsquo; the most delicious periodical, I am sure,
+of any day.&nbsp; It cost a halfpenny or a penny a month, and
+always, as I fondly remember, had a continued tale about the
+dearest girl, who sold water-cress, which is a dainty not grown
+and I suppose never seen in my native town.&nbsp; This romantic
+little creature took such hold of my imagination that I cannot
+eat water-cress even now without emotion.&nbsp; I lay in bed
+wondering what she would be up to in the next number; I have lost
+trout because when they nibbled my mind was wandering with her;
+my early life was embittered by her not arriving regularly on the
+first of the month.&nbsp; I know not whether it was owing to her
+loitering on the way one month to an extent flesh and blood could
+not bear, or because we had exhausted the penny library, but on a
+day I conceived a glorious idea, or it was put into my head by my
+mother, then desirous of making progress with her new clouty
+hearthrug.&nbsp; The notion was nothing short of this, why should
+I not write the tales myself?&nbsp; I did write them&mdash;in the
+garret&mdash;but they by no means helped her to get on with her
+work, for when I finished a chapter I bounded downstairs to read
+it to her, and so short were the chapters, so ready was the pen,
+that I was back with new manuscript before another clout had been
+added to the rug.&nbsp; Authorship seemed, like her
+bannock-baking, to consist of running between two points.&nbsp;
+They were all tales of adventure (happiest is he who writes of
+adventure), no characters were allowed within if I knew their
+like in the flesh, the scene lay in unknown parts, desert
+islands, enchanted gardens, with knights (none of your nights) on
+black chargers, and round the first corner a lady selling
+water-cress.</p>
+<p>At twelve or thereabout I put the literary calling to bed for
+a time, having gone to a school where cricket and football were
+more esteemed, but during the year before I went to the
+university, it woke up and I wrote great part of a three-volume
+novel.&nbsp; The publisher replied that the sum for which he
+would print it was a hundred and&mdash;however, that was not the
+important point (I had sixpence): where he stabbed us both was in
+writing that he considered me a &lsquo;clever lady.&rsquo;&nbsp;
+I replied stiffly that I was a gentleman, and since then I have
+kept that manuscript concealed.&nbsp; I looked through it lately,
+and, oh, but it is dull!&nbsp; I defy any one to read it.</p>
+<p>The malignancy of publishers, however, could not turn me
+back.&nbsp; From the day on which I first tasted blood in the
+garret my mind was made up; there could be no hum-dreadful-drum
+profession for me; literature was my game.&nbsp; It was not
+highly thought of by those who wished me well.&nbsp; I remember
+being asked by two maiden ladies, about the time I left the
+university, what I was to be, and when I replied brazenly,
+&lsquo;An author,&rsquo; they flung up their hands, and one
+exclaimed reproachfully, &lsquo;And you an M.A.!&rsquo;&nbsp; My
+mother&rsquo;s views at first were not dissimilar; for long she
+took mine jestingly as something I would grow out of, and
+afterwards they hurt her so that I tried to give them up.&nbsp;
+To be a minister&mdash;that she thought was among the fairest
+prospects, but she was a very ambitious woman, and sometimes she
+would add, half scared at her appetite, that there were ministers
+who had become professors, &lsquo;but it was not canny to think
+of such things.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>I had one person only on my side, an old tailor, one of the
+fullest men I have known, and quite the best talker.&nbsp; He was
+a bachelor (he told me all that is to be known about woman), a
+lean man, pallid of face, his legs drawn up when he walked as if
+he was ever carrying something in his lap; his walks were of the
+shortest, from the tea-pot on the hob to the board on which he
+stitched, from the board to the hob, and so to bed.&nbsp; He
+might have gone out had the idea struck him, but in the years I
+knew him, the last of his brave life, I think he was only in the
+open twice, when he &lsquo;flitted&rsquo;&mdash;changed his room
+for another hard by.&nbsp; I did not see him make these journeys,
+but I seem to see him now, and he is somewhat dizzy in the odd
+atmosphere; in one hand he carries a box-iron, he raises the
+other, wondering what this is on his head, it is a hat; a faint
+smell of singed cloth goes by with him.&nbsp; This man had heard
+of my set of photographs of the poets and asked for a sight of
+them, which led to our first meeting.&nbsp; I remember how he
+spread them out on his board, and after looking long at them,
+turned his gaze on me and said solemnly,</p>
+<blockquote><p>What can I do to be for ever known,<br />
+And make the age to come my own?</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>These lines of Cowley were new to me, but the sentiment was
+not new, and I marvelled how the old tailor could see through me
+so well.&nbsp; So it was strange to me to discover presently that
+he had not been thinking of me at all, but of his own young days,
+when that couplet sang in his head, and he, too, had thirsted to
+set off for Grub Street, but was afraid, and while he hesitated
+old age came, and then Death, and found him grasping a
+box-iron.</p>
+<p>I hurried home with the mouthful, but neighbours had dropped
+in, and this was for her ears only, so I drew her to the stair,
+and said imperiously,</p>
+<blockquote><p>What can I do to be for ever known,<br />
+And make the age to come my own?</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>It was an odd request for which to draw her from a tea-table,
+and she must have been surprised, but I think she did not laugh,
+and in after years she would repeat the lines fondly, with a
+flush on her soft face.&nbsp; &lsquo;That is the kind you would
+like to be yourself!&rsquo; we would say in jest to her, and she
+would reply almost passionately, &lsquo;No, but I would be windy
+of being his mother.&rsquo;&nbsp; It is possible that she could
+have been his mother had that other son lived, he might have
+managed it from sheer love of her, but for my part I can smile at
+one of those two figures on the stair now, having long given up
+the dream of being for ever known, and seeing myself more akin to
+my friend, the tailor, for as he was found at the end on his
+board, so I hope shall I be found at my handloom, doing honestly
+the work that suits me best.&nbsp; Who should know so well as I
+that it is but a handloom compared to the great guns that
+reverberate through the age to come?&nbsp; But she who stood with
+me on the stair that day was a very simple woman, accustomed all
+her life to making the most of small things, and I weaved
+sufficiently well to please her, which has been my only steadfast
+ambition since I was a little boy.</p>
+<p>Not less than mine became her desire that I should have my
+way&mdash;but, ah, the iron seats in that park of horrible
+repute, and that bare room at the top of many flights of
+stairs!&nbsp; While I was away at college she drained all
+available libraries for books about those who go to London to
+live by the pen, and they all told the same shuddering
+tale.&nbsp; London, which she never saw, was to her a monster
+that licked up country youths as they stepped from the train;
+there were the garrets in which they sat abject, and the park
+seats where they passed the night.&nbsp; Those park seats were
+the monster&rsquo;s glaring eyes to her, and as I go by them now
+she is nearer to me than when I am in any other part of
+London.&nbsp; I daresay that when night comes, this Hyde Park
+which is so gay by day, is haunted by the ghosts of many mothers,
+who run, wild-eyed, from seat to seat, looking for their
+sons.</p>
+<p>But if we could dodge those dreary seats she longed to see me
+try my luck, and I sought to exclude them from the picture by
+drawing maps of London with Hyde Park left out.&nbsp; London was
+as strange to me as to her, but long before I was shot upon it I
+knew it by maps, and drew them more accurately than I could draw
+them now.&nbsp; Many a time she and I took our jaunt together
+through the map, and were most gleeful, popping into telegraph
+offices to wire my father and sister that we should not be home
+till late, winking to my books in lordly shop-windows, lunching
+at restaurants (and remembering not to call it dinner), saying,
+&lsquo;How do?&rsquo; to Mr. Alfred Tennyson when we passed him
+in Regent Street, calling at publishers&rsquo; offices for
+cheque, when &lsquo;Will you take care of it, or shall I?&rsquo;
+I asked gaily, and she would be certain to reply,
+&lsquo;I&rsquo;m thinking we&rsquo;d better take it to the bank
+and get the money,&rsquo; for she always felt surer of money than
+of cheques; so to the bank we went (&lsquo;Two tens, and the rest
+in gold&rsquo;), and thence straightway (by cab) to the place
+where you buy sealskin coats for middling old ladies.&nbsp; But
+ere the laugh was done the park would come through the map like a
+blot.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;If you could only be sure of as much as would keep body
+and soul together,&rsquo; my mother would say with a sigh.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;With something over, mother, to send to you.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You couldna expect that at the start.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>The wench I should have been courting now was journalism, that
+grisette of literature who has a smile and a hand for all
+beginners, welcoming them at the threshold, teaching them so much
+that is worth knowing, introducing them to the other lady whom
+they have worshipped from afar, showing them even how to woo her,
+and then bidding them a bright God-speed&mdash;he were an ingrate
+who, having had her joyous companionship, no longer flings her a
+kiss as they pass.&nbsp; But though she bears no ill-will when
+she is jilted, you must serve faithfully while you are hers, and
+you must seek her out and make much of her, and, until you can
+rely on her good-nature (note this), not a word about the other
+lady.&nbsp; When at last she took me in I grew so fond of her
+that I called her by the other&rsquo;s name, and even now I think
+at times that there was more fun in the little sister, but I
+began by wooing her with contributions that were all
+misfits.&nbsp; In an old book I find columns of notes about works
+projected at this time, nearly all to consist of essays on deeply
+uninteresting subjects; the lightest was to be a volume on the
+older satirists, beginning with Skelton and Tom Nash&mdash;the
+half of that manuscript still lies in a dusty chest&mdash;the
+only story was about Mary Queen of Scots, who was also the
+subject of many unwritten papers.&nbsp; Queen Mary seems to have
+been luring me to my undoing ever since I saw Holyrood, and I
+have a horrid fear that I may write that novel yet.&nbsp; That
+anything could be written about my native place never struck
+me.&nbsp; We had read somewhere that a novelist is better
+equipped than most of his trade if he knows himself and one
+woman, and my mother said, &lsquo;You know yourself, for
+everybody must know himself&rsquo; (there never was a woman who
+knew less about herself than she), and she would add dolefully,
+&lsquo;But I doubt I&rsquo;m the only woman you know
+well.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Then I must make you my heroine,&rsquo; I said
+lightly.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;A gey auld-farrant-like heroine!&rsquo; she said, and
+we both laughed at the notion&mdash;so little did we read the
+future.</p>
+<p>Thus it is obvious what were my qualifications when I was
+rashly engaged as a leader-writer (it was my sister who saw the
+advertisement) on an English provincial paper.&nbsp; At the
+moment I was as uplifted as the others, for the chance had come
+at last, with what we all regarded as a prodigious salary, but I
+was wanted in the beginning of the week, and it suddenly struck
+me that the leaders were the one thing I had always
+skipped.&nbsp; Leaders!&nbsp; How were they written? what were
+they about?&nbsp; My mother was already sitting triumphant among
+my socks, and I durst not let her see me quaking.&nbsp; I retired
+to ponder, and presently she came to me with the daily
+paper.&nbsp; Which were the leaders? she wanted to know, so
+evidently I could get no help from her.&nbsp; Had she any more
+newspapers?&nbsp; I asked, and after rummaging, she produced a
+few with which her boxes had been lined.&nbsp; Others, very
+dusty, came from beneath carpets, and lastly a sooty bundle was
+dragged down the chimney.&nbsp; Surrounded by these I sat down,
+and studied how to become a journalist.</p>
+<h2>CHAPTER IV&mdash;AN EDITOR</h2>
+<p>A devout lady, to whom some friend had presented one of my
+books, used to say when asked how she was getting on with it,
+&lsquo;Sal, it&rsquo;s dreary, weary, uphill work, but I&rsquo;ve
+wrastled through with tougher jobs in my time, and, please God,
+I&rsquo;ll wrastle through with this one.&rsquo;&nbsp; It was in
+this spirit, I fear, though she never told me so, that my mother
+wrestled for the next year or more with my leaders, and indeed I
+was always genuinely sorry for the people I saw reading
+them.&nbsp; In my spare hours I was trying journalism of another
+kind and sending it to London, but nearly eighteen months elapsed
+before there came to me, as unlooked for as a telegram, the
+thought that there was something quaint about my native
+place.&nbsp; A boy who found that a knife had been put into his
+pocket in the night could not have been more surprised.&nbsp; A
+few days afterwards I sent my mother a London evening paper with
+an article entitled &lsquo;An Auld Licht Community,&rsquo; and
+they told me that when she saw the heading she laughed, because
+there was something droll to her in the sight of the words Auld
+Licht in print.&nbsp; For her, as for me, that newspaper was soon
+to have the face of a friend.&nbsp; To this day I never pass its
+placards in the street without shaking it by the hand, and she
+used to sew its pages together as lovingly as though they were a
+child&rsquo;s frock; but let the truth be told, when she read
+that first article she became alarmed, and fearing the talk of
+the town, hid the paper from all eyes.&nbsp; For some time
+afterwards, while I proudly pictured her showing this and similar
+articles to all who felt an interest in me, she was really
+concealing them fearfully in a bandbox on the garret stair.&nbsp;
+And she wanted to know by return of post whether I was paid for
+these articles as much as I was paid for real articles; when she
+heard that I was paid better, she laughed again and had them out
+of the bandbox for re-reading, and it cannot be denied that she
+thought the London editor a fine fellow but slightly soft.</p>
+<p>When I sent off that first sketch I thought I had exhausted
+the subject, but our editor wrote that he would like something
+more of the same, so I sent him a marriage, and he took it, and
+then I tried him with a funeral, and he took it, and really it
+began to look as if we had him.&nbsp; Now my mother might have
+been discovered, in answer to certain excited letters, flinging
+the bundle of undarned socks from her lap, and &lsquo;going in
+for literature&rsquo;; she was racking her brains, by request,
+for memories I might convert into articles, and they came to me
+in letters which she dictated to my sisters.&nbsp; How well I
+could hear her sayings between the lines: &lsquo;But the
+editor-man will never stand that, it&rsquo;s perfect
+blethers&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;By this post it must go, I tell you;
+we must take the editor when he&rsquo;s hungry&mdash;we canna be
+blamed for it, can we? he prints them of his free will, so the
+wite is his&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;But I&rsquo;m near
+terrified.&mdash;If London folk reads them we&rsquo;re done
+for.&rsquo;&nbsp; And I was sounded as to the advisability of
+sending him a present of a lippie of shortbread, which was to be
+her crafty way of getting round him.&nbsp; By this time, though
+my mother and I were hundreds of miles apart, you may picture us
+waving our hands to each other across country, and shouting
+&lsquo;Hurrah!&rsquo;&nbsp; You may also picture the editor in
+his office thinking he was behaving like a shrewd man of
+business, and unconscious that up in the north there was an
+elderly lady chuckling so much at him that she could scarcely
+scrape the potatoes.</p>
+<p>I was now able to see my mother again, and the park seats no
+longer loomed so prominent in our map of London.&nbsp; Still,
+there they were, and it was with an effort that she summoned up
+courage to let me go.&nbsp; She feared changes, and who could
+tell that the editor would continue to be kind?&nbsp; Perhaps
+when he saw me&mdash;</p>
+<p>She seemed to be very much afraid of his seeing me, and this,
+I would point out, was a reflection on my appearance or my
+manner.</p>
+<p>No, what she meant was that I looked so young, and&mdash;and
+that would take him aback, for had I not written as an aged
+man?</p>
+<p>&lsquo;But he knows my age, mother.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I&rsquo;m glad of that, but maybe he wouldna like you
+when he saw you.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Oh, it is my manner, then!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I dinna say that, but&mdash;&rsquo;</p>
+<p>Here my sister would break in: &lsquo;The short and the long
+of it is just this, she thinks nobody has such manners as
+herself.&nbsp; Can you deny it, you vain woman?&rsquo;&nbsp; My
+mother would deny it vigorously.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You stand there,&rsquo; my sister would say with
+affected scorn, &lsquo;and tell me you don&rsquo;t think you
+could get the better of that man quicker than any of
+us?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Sal, I&rsquo;m thinking I could manage him,&rsquo; says
+my mother, with a chuckle.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;How would you set about it?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>Then my mother would begin to laugh.&nbsp; &lsquo;I would find
+out first if he had a family, and then I would say they were the
+finest family in London.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Yes, that is just what you would do, you cunning
+woman!&nbsp; But if he has no family?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I would say what great men editors are!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;He would see through you.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Not he!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You don&rsquo;t understand that what imposes on common
+folk would never hoodwink an editor.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;That&rsquo;s where you are wrong.&nbsp; Gentle or
+simple, stupid or clever, the men are all alike in the hands of a
+woman that flatters them.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Ah, I&rsquo;m sure there are better ways of getting
+round an editor than that.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I daresay there are,&rsquo; my mother would say with
+conviction, &lsquo;but if you try that plan you will never need
+to try another.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;How artful you are, mother&mdash;you with your soft
+face!&nbsp; Do you not think shame?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Pooh!&rsquo; says my mother brazenly.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I can see the reason why you are so popular with
+men.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Ay, you can see it, but they never will.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Well, how would you dress yourself if you were going to
+that editor&rsquo;s office?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Of course I would wear my silk and my Sabbath
+bonnet.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It is you who are shortsighted now, mother.&nbsp; I
+tell you, you would manage him better if you just put on your old
+grey shawl and one of your bonny white mutches, and went in half
+smiling and half timid and said, &ldquo;I am the mother of him
+that writes about the Auld Lichts, and I want you to promise that
+he will never have to sleep in the open air.&rdquo;&rsquo;</p>
+<p>But my mother would shake her head at this, and reply almost
+hotly, &lsquo;I tell you if I ever go into that man&rsquo;s
+office, I go in silk.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>I wrote and asked the editor if I should come to London, and
+he said No, so I went, laden with charges from my mother to walk
+in the middle of the street (they jump out on you as you are
+turning a corner), never to venture forth after sunset, and
+always to lock up everything (I who could never lock up anything,
+except my heart in company).&nbsp; Thanks to this editor, for the
+others would have nothing to say to me though I battered on all
+their doors, she was soon able to sleep at nights without the
+dread that I should be waking presently with the iron-work of
+certain seats figured on my person, and what relieved her very
+much was that I had begun to write as if Auld Lichts were not the
+only people I knew of.&nbsp; So long as I confined myself to them
+she had a haunting fear that, even though the editor remained
+blind to his best interests, something would one day go crack
+within me (as the mainspring of a watch breaks) and my pen refuse
+to write for evermore.&nbsp; &lsquo;Ay, I like the article
+brawly,&rsquo; she would say timidly, &lsquo;but I&rsquo;m
+doubting it&rsquo;s the last&mdash;I always have a sort of terror
+the new one may be the last,&rsquo; and if many days elapsed
+before the arrival of another article her face would say
+mournfully, &lsquo;The blow has fallen&mdash;he can think of
+nothing more to write about.&rsquo;&nbsp; If I ever shared her
+fears I never told her so, and the articles that were not Scotch
+grew in number until there were hundreds of them, all carefully
+preserved by her: they were the only thing in the house that,
+having served one purpose, she did not convert into something
+else, yet they could give her uneasy moments.&nbsp; This was
+because I nearly always assumed a character when I wrote; I must
+be a country squire, or an undergraduate, or a butler, or a
+member of the House of Lords, or a dowager, or a lady called
+Sweet Seventeen, or an engineer in India, else was my pen
+clogged, and though this gave my mother certain fearful joys,
+causing her to laugh unexpectedly (so far as my articles were
+concerned she nearly always laughed in the wrong place), it also
+scared her.&nbsp; Much to her amusement the editor continued to
+prefer the Auld Licht papers, however, as was proved (to those
+who knew him) by his way of thinking that the others would pass
+as they were, while he sent these back and asked me to make them
+better.&nbsp; Here again she came to my aid.&nbsp; I had said
+that the row of stockings were hung on a string by the fire,
+which was a recollection of my own, but she could tell me whether
+they were hung upside down.&nbsp; She became quite skilful at
+sending or giving me (for now I could be with her half the year)
+the right details, but still she smiled at the editor, and in her
+gay moods she would say, &lsquo;I was fifteen when I got my first
+pair of elastic-sided boots.&nbsp; Tell him my charge for this
+important news is two pounds ten.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Ay, but though we&rsquo;re doing well, it&rsquo;s
+no&rsquo; the same as if they were a book with your name on
+it.&rsquo;&nbsp; So the ambitious woman would say with a sigh,
+and I did my best to turn the Auld Licht sketches into a book
+with my name on it.&nbsp; Then perhaps we understood most fully
+how good a friend our editor had been, for just as I had been
+able to find no well-known magazine&mdash;and I think I tried
+all&mdash;which would print any article or story about the poor
+of my native land, so now the publishers, Scotch and English,
+refused to accept the book as a gift.&nbsp; I was willing to
+present it to them, but they would have it in no guise; there
+seemed to be a blight on everything that was Scotch.&nbsp; I
+daresay we sighed, but never were collaborators more prepared for
+rejection, and though my mother might look wistfully at the
+scorned manuscript at times and murmur, &lsquo;You poor cold
+little crittur shut away in a drawer, are you dead or just
+sleeping?&rsquo; she had still her editor to say grace
+over.&nbsp; And at last publishers, sufficiently daring and far
+more than sufficiently generous, were found for us by a dear
+friend, who made one woman very &lsquo;uplifted.&rsquo;&nbsp; He
+also was an editor, and had as large a part in making me a writer
+of books as the other in determining what the books should be
+about.</p>
+<p>Now that I was an author I must get into a club.&nbsp; But you
+should have heard my mother on clubs!&nbsp; She knew of none save
+those to which you subscribe a pittance weekly in anticipation of
+rainy days, and the London clubs were her scorn.&nbsp; Often I
+heard her on them&mdash;she raised her voice to make me hear,
+whichever room I might be in, and it was when she was sarcastic
+that I skulked the most: &lsquo;Thirty pounds is what he will
+have to pay the first year, and ten pounds a year after
+that.&nbsp; You think it&rsquo;s a lot o&rsquo; siller?&nbsp; Oh
+no, you&rsquo;re mista&rsquo;en&mdash;it&rsquo;s nothing
+ava.&nbsp; For the third part of thirty pounds you could rent a
+four-roomed house, but what is a four-roomed house, what is
+thirty pounds, compared to the glory of being a member of a
+club?&nbsp; Where does the glory come in?&nbsp; Sal, you needna
+ask me, I&rsquo;m just a doited auld stock that never set foot in
+a club, so it&rsquo;s little I ken about glory.&nbsp; But I may
+tell you if you bide in London and canna become member of a club,
+the best you can do is to tie a rope round your neck and slip out
+of the world.&nbsp; What use are they?&nbsp; Oh, they&rsquo;re
+terrible useful.&nbsp; You see it doesna do for a man in London
+to eat his dinner in his lodgings.&nbsp; Other men shake their
+heads at him.&nbsp; He maun away to his club if he is to be
+respected.&nbsp; Does he get good dinners at the club?&nbsp; Oh,
+they cow!&nbsp; You get no common beef at clubs; there is a manzy
+of different things all sauced up to be unlike themsels.&nbsp;
+Even the potatoes daurna look like potatoes.&nbsp; If the food in
+a club looks like what it is, the members run about, flinging up
+their hands and crying, &ldquo;Woe is me!&rdquo;&nbsp; Then this
+is another thing, you get your letters sent to the club instead
+of to your lodgings.&nbsp; You see you would get them sooner at
+your lodgings, and you may have to trudge weary miles to the club
+for them, but that&rsquo;s a great advantage, and cheap at thirty
+pounds, is it no&rsquo;?&nbsp; I wonder they can do it at the
+price.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>My wisest policy was to remain downstairs when these withering
+blasts were blowing, but probably I went up in self-defence.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I never saw you so pugnacious before,
+mother.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Oh,&rsquo; she would reply promptly, &lsquo;you canna
+expect me to be sharp in the uptake when I am no&rsquo; a member
+of a club.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;But the difficulty is in becoming a member.&nbsp; They
+are very particular about whom they elect, and I daresay I shall
+not get in.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Well, I&rsquo;m but a poor crittur (not being member of
+a club), but I think I can tell you to make your mind easy on
+that head.&nbsp; You&rsquo;ll get in, I&rsquo;se uphaud&mdash;and
+your thirty pounds will get in, too.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;If I get in it will be because the editor is supporting
+me.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It&rsquo;s the first ill thing I ever heard of
+him.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You don&rsquo;t think he is to get any of the thirty
+pounds, do you?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;&rsquo;Deed if I did I should be better pleased, for he
+has been a good friend to us, but what maddens me is that every
+penny of it should go to those bare-faced scoundrels.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;What bare-faced scoundrels?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Them that have the club.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;But all the members have the club between
+them.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Havers!&nbsp; I&rsquo;m no&rsquo; to be catched with
+chaff.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;But don&rsquo;t you believe me?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I believe they&rsquo;ve filled your head with their
+stories till you swallow whatever they tell you.&nbsp; If the
+place belongs to the members, why do they have to pay thirty
+pounds?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;To keep it going.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;They dinna have to pay for their dinners,
+then?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Oh yes, they have to pay extra for dinner.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And a gey black price, I&rsquo;m thinking.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Well, five or six shillings.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Is that all?&nbsp; Losh, it&rsquo;s nothing, I wonder
+they dinna raise the price.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>Nevertheless my mother was of a sex that scorned prejudice,
+and, dropping sarcasm, she would at times cross-examine me as if
+her mind was not yet made up.&nbsp; &lsquo;Tell me this, if you
+were to fall ill, would you be paid a weekly allowance out of the
+club?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>No, it was not that kind of club.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I see.&nbsp; Well, I am just trying to find out what
+kind of club it is.&nbsp; Do you get anything out of it for
+accidents?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>Not a penny.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Anything at New Year&rsquo;s time?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>Not so much as a goose.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Is there any one mortal thing you get free out of that
+club?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>There was not one mortal thing.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And thirty pounds is what you pay for this?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>If the committee elected me.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;How many are in the committee?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>About a dozen, I thought.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;A dozen!&nbsp; Ay, ay, that makes two pound ten
+apiece.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>When I was elected I thought it wisdom to send my sister
+upstairs with the news.&nbsp; My mother was ironing, and made no
+comment, unless with the iron, which I could hear rattling more
+violently in its box.&nbsp; Presently I heard her
+laughing&mdash;at me undoubtedly, but she had recovered control
+over her face before she came downstairs to congratulate me
+sarcastically.&nbsp; This was grand news, she said without a
+twinkle, and I must write and thank the committee, the noble
+critturs.&nbsp; I saw behind her mask, and maintained a dignified
+silence, but she would have another shot at me.&nbsp; &lsquo;And
+tell them,&rsquo; she said from the door, &lsquo;you were
+doubtful of being elected, but your auld mother had aye a mighty
+confidence they would snick you in.&rsquo;&nbsp; I heard her
+laughing softly as she went up the stair, but though I had
+provided her with a joke I knew she was burning to tell the
+committee what she thought of them.</p>
+<p>Money, you see, meant so much to her, though even at her
+poorest she was the most cheerful giver.&nbsp; In the old days,
+when the article arrived, she did not read it at once, she first
+counted the lines to discover what we should get for it&mdash;she
+and the daughter who was so dear to her had calculated the
+payment per line, and I remember once overhearing a discussion
+between them about whether that sub-title meant another
+sixpence.&nbsp; Yes, she knew the value of money; she had always
+in the end got the things she wanted, but now she could get them
+more easily, and it turned her simple life into a fairy
+tale.&nbsp; So often in those days she went down suddenly upon
+her knees; we would come upon her thus, and go away
+noiselessly.&nbsp; After her death I found that she had preserved
+in a little box, with a photograph of me as a child, the
+envelopes which had contained my first cheques.&nbsp; There was a
+little ribbon round them.</p>
+<h2>CHAPTER V&mdash;A DAY OF HER LIFE</h2>
+<p>I should like to call back a day of her life as it was at this
+time, when her spirit was as bright as ever and her hand as
+eager, but she was no longer able to do much work.&nbsp; It
+should not be difficult, for she repeated herself from day to day
+and yet did it with a quaint unreasonableness that was ever
+yielding fresh delight.&nbsp; Our love for her was such that we
+could easily tell what she would do in given circumstances, but
+she had always a new way of doing it.</p>
+<p>Well, with break of day she wakes and sits up in bed and is
+standing in the middle of the room.&nbsp; So nimble was she in
+the mornings (one of our troubles with her) that these three
+actions must be considered as one; she is on the floor before you
+have time to count them.&nbsp; She has strict orders not to rise
+until her fire is lit, and having broken them there is a demure
+elation on her face.&nbsp; The question is what to do before she
+is caught and hurried to bed again.&nbsp; Her fingers are
+tingling to prepare the breakfast; she would dearly love to
+black-lead the grate, but that might rouse her daughter from
+whose side she has slipped so cunningly.&nbsp; She catches sight
+of the screen at the foot of the bed, and immediately her soft
+face becomes very determined.&nbsp; To guard her from draughts
+the screen had been brought here from the lordly east room, where
+it was of no use whatever.&nbsp; But in her opinion it was too
+beautiful for use; it belonged to the east room, where she could
+take pleasant peeps at it; she had objected to its removal, even
+become low-spirited.&nbsp; Now is her opportunity.&nbsp; The
+screen is an unwieldy thing, but still as a mouse she carries it,
+and they are well under weigh when it strikes against the
+gas-bracket in the passage.&nbsp; Next moment a reproachful hand
+arrests her.&nbsp; She is challenged with being out of bed, she
+denies it&mdash;standing in the passage.&nbsp; Meekly or
+stubbornly she returns to bed, and it is no satisfaction to you
+that you can say, &lsquo;Well, well, of all the women!&rsquo; and
+so on, or &lsquo;Surely you knew that the screen was brought here
+to protect you,&rsquo; for she will reply scornfully, &lsquo;Who
+was touching the screen?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>By this time I have wakened (I am through the wall) and join
+them anxiously: so often has my mother been taken ill in the
+night that the slightest sound from her room rouses the
+house.&nbsp; She is in bed again, looking as if she had never
+been out of it, but I know her and listen sternly to the tale of
+her misdoings.&nbsp; She is not contrite.&nbsp; Yes, maybe she
+did promise not to venture forth on the cold floors of daybreak,
+but she had risen for a moment only, and we just t&rsquo;neaded
+her with our talk about draughts&mdash;there were no such things
+as draughts in her young days&mdash;and it is more than she can
+do (here she again attempts to rise but we hold her down) to lie
+there and watch that beautiful screen being spoilt.&nbsp; I reply
+that the beauty of the screen has ever been its miserable defect:
+ho, there! for a knife with which to spoil its beauty and make
+the bedroom its fitting home.&nbsp; As there is no knife handy,
+my foot will do; I raise my foot, and then&mdash;she sees that it
+is bare, she cries to me excitedly to go back to bed lest I catch
+cold.&nbsp; For though, ever careless of herself, she will wander
+the house unshod, and tell us not to talk havers when we chide
+her, the sight of one of us similarly negligent rouses her
+anxiety at once.&nbsp; She is willing now to sign any vow if only
+I will take my bare feet back to bed, but probably she is soon
+after me in hers to make sure that I am nicely covered up.</p>
+<p>It is scarcely six o&rsquo;clock, and we have all promised to
+sleep for another hour, but in ten minutes she is sure that eight
+has struck (house disgraced), or that if it has not, something is
+wrong with the clock.&nbsp; Next moment she is captured on her
+way downstairs to wind up the clock.&nbsp; So evidently we must
+be up and doing, and as we have no servant, my sister disappears
+into the kitchen, having first asked me to see that &lsquo;that
+woman&rsquo; lies still, and &lsquo;that woman&rsquo; calls out
+that she always does lie still, so what are we blethering
+about?</p>
+<p>She is up now, and dressed in her thick maroon wrapper; over
+her shoulders (lest she should stray despite our watchfulness) is
+a shawl, not placed there by her own hands, and on her head a
+delicious mutch.&nbsp; O that I could sing the p&aelig;an of the
+white mutch (and the dirge of the elaborate black cap) from the
+day when she called witchcraft to her aid and made it out of
+snow-flakes, and the dear worn hands that washed it tenderly in a
+basin, and the starching of it, and the finger-iron for its
+exquisite frills that looked like curls of sugar, and the sweet
+bands with which it tied beneath the chin!&nbsp; The honoured
+snowy mutch, how I love to see it smiling to me from the doors
+and windows of the poor; it is always smiling&mdash;sometimes
+maybe a wavering wistful smile, as if a tear-drop lay hidden
+among, the frills.&nbsp; A hundred times I have taken the
+characterless cap from my mother&rsquo;s head and put the mutch
+in its place and tied the bands beneath her chin, while she
+protested but was well pleased.&nbsp; For in her heart she knew
+what suited her best and would admit it, beaming, when I put a
+mirror into her hands and told her to look; but nevertheless the
+cap cost no less than so-and-so, whereas&mdash;Was that a knock
+at the door?&nbsp; She is gone, to put on her cap!</p>
+<p>She begins the day by the fireside with the New Testament in
+her hands, an old volume with its loose pages beautifully
+refixed, and its covers sewn and resewn by her, so that you would
+say it can never fall to pieces.&nbsp; It is mine now, and to me
+the black threads with which she stitched it are as part of the
+contents.&nbsp; Other books she read in the ordinary manner, but
+this one differently, her lips moving with each word as if she
+were reading aloud, and her face very solemn.&nbsp; The Testament
+lies open on her lap long after she has ceased to read, and the
+expression of her face has not changed.</p>
+<p>I have seen her reading other books early in the day but never
+without a guilty look on her face, for she thought reading was
+scarce respectable until night had come.&nbsp; She spends the
+forenoon in what she calls doing nothing, which may consist in
+stitching so hard that you would swear she was an over-worked
+seamstress at it for her life, or you will find her on a table
+with nails in her mouth, and anon she has to be chased from the
+garret (she has suddenly decided to change her curtains), or she
+is under the bed searching for band-boxes and asking sternly
+where we have put that bonnet.&nbsp; On the whole she is behaving
+in a most exemplary way to-day (not once have we caught her
+trying to go out into the washing-house), and we compliment her
+at dinner-time, partly because she deserves it, and partly to
+make her think herself so good that she will eat something, just
+to maintain her new character.&nbsp; I question whether one hour
+of all her life was given to thoughts of food; in her great days
+to eat seemed to her to be waste of time, and afterwards she only
+ate to boast of it, as something she had done to please us.&nbsp;
+She seldom remembered whether she had dined, but always presumed
+she had, and while she was telling me in all good faith what the
+meal consisted of, it might be brought in.&nbsp; When in London I
+had to hear daily what she was eating, and perhaps she had
+refused all dishes until they produced the pen and ink.&nbsp;
+These were flourished before her, and then she would say with a
+sigh, &lsquo;Tell him I am to eat an egg.&rsquo;&nbsp; But they
+were not so easily deceived; they waited, pen in hand, until the
+egg was eaten.</p>
+<p>She never &lsquo;went for a walk&rsquo; in her life.&nbsp;
+Many long trudges she had as a girl when she carried her
+father&rsquo;s dinner in a flagon to the country place where he
+was at work, but to walk with no end save the good of your health
+seemed a very droll proceeding to her.&nbsp; In her young days,
+she was positive, no one had ever gone for a walk, and she never
+lost the belief that it was an absurdity introduced by a new
+generation with too much time on their hands.&nbsp; That they
+enjoyed it she could not believe; it was merely a form of showing
+off, and as they passed her window she would remark to herself
+with blasting satire, &lsquo;Ay, Jeames, are you off for your
+walk?&rsquo; and add fervently, &lsquo;Rather you than
+me!&rsquo;&nbsp; I was one of those who walked, and though she
+smiled, and might drop a sarcastic word when she saw me putting
+on my boots, it was she who had heated them in preparation for my
+going.&nbsp; The arrangement between us was that she should lie
+down until my return, and to ensure its being carried out I saw
+her in bed before I started, but with the bang of the door she
+would be at the window to watch me go: there is one spot on the
+road where a thousand times I have turned to wave my stick to
+her, while she nodded and smiled and kissed her hand to me.&nbsp;
+That kissing of the hand was the one English custom she had
+learned.</p>
+<p>In an hour or so I return, and perhaps find her in bed,
+according to promise, but still I am suspicious.&nbsp; The way to
+her detection is circuitous.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I&rsquo;ll need to be rising now,&rsquo; she says, with
+a yawn that may be genuine.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;How long have you been in bed?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You saw me go.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And then I saw you at the window.&nbsp; Did you go
+straight back to bed?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Surely I had that much sense.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;The truth!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I might have taken a look at the clock
+first.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It is a terrible thing to have a mother who
+prevaricates.&nbsp; Have you been lying down ever since I
+left?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Thereabout.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;What does that mean exactly?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Off and on.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Have you been to the garret?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;What should I do in the garret?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;But have you?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I might just have looked up the garret
+stair.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You have been redding up the garret again!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Not what you could call a redd up.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;O, woman, woman, I believe you have not been in bed at
+all!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You see me in it.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;My opinion is that you jumped into bed when you heard
+me open the door.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Havers.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Did you?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;No.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Well, then, when you heard me at the gate?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It might have been when I heard you at the
+gate.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>As daylight goes she follows it with her sewing to the window,
+and gets another needleful out of it, as one may run after a
+departed visitor for a last word, but now the gas is lit, and no
+longer is it shameful to sit down to literature.&nbsp; If the
+book be a story by George Eliot or Mrs. Oliphant, her favourites
+(and mine) among women novelists, or if it be a Carlyle, and we
+move softly, she will read, entranced, for hours.&nbsp; Her
+delight in Carlyle was so well known that various good people
+would send her books that contained a page about him; she could
+place her finger on any passage wanted in the biography as
+promptly as though she were looking for some article in her own
+drawer, and given a date she was often able to tell you what they
+were doing in Cheyne Row that day.&nbsp; Carlyle, she decided,
+was not so much an ill man to live with as one who needed a deal
+of managing, but when I asked if she thought she could have
+managed him she only replied with a modest smile that meant
+&lsquo;Oh no!&rsquo; but had the face of &lsquo;Sal, I would have
+liked to try.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>One lady lent her some scores of Carlyle letters that have
+never been published, and crabbed was the writing, but though my
+mother liked to have our letters read aloud to her, she read
+every one of these herself, and would quote from them in her
+talk.&nbsp; Side by side with the Carlyle letters, which show him
+in his most gracious light, were many from his wife to a friend,
+and in one of these a romantic adventure is described&mdash;I
+quote from memory, and it is a poor memory compared to my
+mother&rsquo;s, which registered everything by a method of her
+own: &lsquo;What might be the age of Bell Tibbits?&nbsp; Well,
+she was born the week I bought the boiler, so she&rsquo;ll be
+one-and-fifty (no less!) come Martinmas.&rsquo;&nbsp; Mrs.
+Carlyle had got into the train at a London station and was
+feeling very lonely, for the journey to Scotland lay before her
+and no one had come to see her off.&nbsp; Then, just as the train
+was starting, a man jumped into the carriage, to her regret until
+she saw his face, when, behold, they were old friends, and the
+last time they met (I forget how many years before) he had asked
+her to be his wife.&nbsp; He was very nice, and if I remember
+aright, saw her to her journey&rsquo;s end, though he had
+intended to alight at some half-way place.&nbsp; I call this an
+adventure, and I am sure it seemed to my mother to be the most
+touching and memorable adventure that can come into a
+woman&rsquo;s life.&nbsp; &lsquo;You see he hadna forgot,&rsquo;
+she would say proudly, as if this was a compliment in which all
+her sex could share, and on her old tender face shone some of the
+elation with which Mrs. Carlyle wrote that letter.</p>
+<p>But there were times, she held, when Carlyle must have made
+his wife a glorious woman.&nbsp; &lsquo;As when?&rsquo; I might
+inquire.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;When she keeked in at his study door and said to
+herself, &ldquo;The whole world is ringing with his fame, and he
+is my man!&rdquo;&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And then,&rsquo; I might point out, &lsquo;he would
+roar to her to shut the door.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Pooh!&rsquo; said my mother, &lsquo;a man&rsquo;s roar
+is neither here nor there.&rsquo;&nbsp; But her verdict as a
+whole was, &lsquo;I would rather have been his mother than his
+wife.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>So we have got her into her chair with the Carlyles, and all
+is well.&nbsp; Furthermore, &lsquo;to mak siccar,&rsquo; my
+father has taken the opposite side of the fireplace and is deep
+in the latest five columns of Gladstone, who is his
+Carlyle.&nbsp; He is to see that she does not slip away fired by
+a conviction, which suddenly overrides her pages, that the
+kitchen is going to rack and ruin for want of her, and she is to
+recall him to himself should he put his foot in the fire and keep
+it there, forgetful of all save his hero&rsquo;s eloquence.&nbsp;
+(We were a family who needed a deal of watching.)&nbsp; She is
+not interested in what Mr. Gladstone has to say; indeed she could
+never be brought to look upon politics as of serious concern for
+grown folk (a class in which she scarcely included man), and she
+gratefully gave up reading &lsquo;leaders&rsquo; the day I ceased
+to write them.&nbsp; But like want of reasonableness, a love for
+having the last word, want of humour and the like, politics were
+in her opinion a mannish attribute to be tolerated, and Gladstone
+was the name of the something which makes all our sex such queer
+characters.&nbsp; She had a profound faith in him as an aid to
+conversation, and if there were silent men in the company would
+give him to them to talk about, precisely as she divided a cake
+among children.&nbsp; And then, with a motherly smile, she would
+leave them to gorge on him.&nbsp; But in the idolising of
+Gladstone she recognised, nevertheless, a certain inevitability,
+and would no more have tried to contend with it than to sweep a
+shadow off the floor.&nbsp; Gladstone was, and there was an end
+of it in her practical philosophy.&nbsp; Nor did she accept him
+coldly; like a true woman she sympathised with those who suffered
+severely, and they knew it and took counsel of her in the hour of
+need.&nbsp; I remember one ardent Gladstonian who, as a general
+election drew near, was in sore straits indeed, for he
+disbelieved in Home Rule, and yet how could he vote against
+&lsquo;Gladstone&rsquo;s man&rsquo;?&nbsp; His distress was so
+real that it gave him a hang-dog appearance.&nbsp; He put his
+case gloomily before her, and until the day of the election she
+riddled him with sarcasm; I think he only went to her because he
+found a mournful enjoyment in seeing a false Gladstonian
+tortured.</p>
+<p>It was all such plain-sailing for him, she pointed out; he did
+not like this Home Rule, and therefore he must vote against
+it.</p>
+<p>She put it pitiful clear, he replied with a groan.</p>
+<p>But she was like another woman to him when he appeared before
+her on his way to the polling-booth.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;This is a watery Sabbath to you, I&rsquo;m
+thinking,&rsquo; she said sympathetically, but without dropping
+her wires&mdash;for Home Rule or no Home Rule that stocking-foot
+must be turned before twelve o&rsquo;clock.</p>
+<p>A watery Sabbath means a doleful day, and &lsquo;A watery
+Sabbath it is,&rsquo; he replied with feeling.&nbsp; A silence
+followed, broken only by the click of the wires.&nbsp; Now and
+again he would mutter, &lsquo;Ay, well, I&rsquo;ll be going to
+vote&mdash;little did I think the day would come,&rsquo; and so
+on, but if he rose it was only to sit down again, and at last she
+crossed over to him and said softly, (no sarcasm in her voice
+now), &lsquo;Away with you, and vote for Gladstone&rsquo;s
+man!&rsquo;&nbsp; He jumped up and made off without a word, but
+from the east window we watched him strutting down the
+brae.&nbsp; I laughed, but she said, &lsquo;I&rsquo;m no sure
+that it&rsquo;s a laughing matter,&rsquo; and afterwards,
+&lsquo;I would have liked fine to be that Gladstone&rsquo;s
+mother.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>It is nine o&rsquo;clock now, a quarter-past nine, half-past
+nine&mdash;all the same moment to me, for I am at a sentence that
+will not write.&nbsp; I know, though I can&rsquo;t hear, what my
+sister has gone upstairs to say to my mother:&mdash;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I was in at him at nine, and he said, &ldquo;In five
+minutes,&rdquo; so I put the steak on the brander, but I&rsquo;ve
+been in thrice since then, and every time he says, &ldquo;In five
+minutes,&rdquo; and when I try to take the table-cover off, he
+presses his elbows hard on it, and growls.&nbsp; His supper will
+be completely spoilt.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Oh, that weary writing!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I can do no more, mother, so you must come down and
+stop him.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I have no power over him,&rsquo; my mother says, but
+she rises smiling, and presently she is opening my door.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;In five minutes!&rsquo; I cry, but when I see that it
+is she I rise and put my arm round her.&nbsp; &lsquo;What a full
+basket!&rsquo; she says, looking at the waste-paper basket, which
+contains most of my work of the night and with a dear gesture she
+lifts up a torn page and kisses it.&nbsp; &lsquo;Poor
+thing,&rsquo; she says to it, &lsquo;and you would have liked so
+fine to be printed!&rsquo; and she puts her hand over my desk to
+prevent my writing more.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;In the last five minutes,&rsquo; I begin, &lsquo;one
+can often do more than in the first hour.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Many a time I&rsquo;ve said it in my young days,&rsquo;
+she says slowly.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And proved it, too!&rsquo; cries a voice from the door,
+the voice of one who was prouder of her even than I; it is true,
+and yet almost unbelievable, that any one could have been prouder
+of her than I.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;But those days are gone,&rsquo; my mother says
+solemnly, &lsquo;gone to come back no more.&nbsp; You&rsquo;ll
+put by your work now, man, and have your supper, and then
+you&rsquo;ll come up and sit beside your mother for a whiley, for
+soon you&rsquo;ll be putting her away in the
+kirk-yard.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>I hear such a little cry from near the door.</p>
+<p>So my mother and I go up the stair together.&nbsp; &lsquo;We
+have changed places,&rsquo; she says; &lsquo;that was just how I
+used to help you up, but I&rsquo;m the bairn now.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>She brings out the Testament again; it was always lying within
+reach; it is the lock of hair she left me when she died.&nbsp;
+And when she has read for a long time she &lsquo;gives me a
+look,&rsquo; as we say in the north, and I go out, to leave her
+alone with God.&nbsp; She had been but a child when her mother
+died, and so she fell early into the way of saying her prayers
+with no earthly listener.&nbsp; Often and often I have found her
+on her knees, but I always went softly away, closing the
+door.&nbsp; I never heard her pray, but I know very well how she
+prayed, and that, when that door was shut, there was not a day in
+God&rsquo;s sight between the worn woman and the little
+child.</p>
+<h2>CHAPTER VI&mdash;HER MAID OF ALL WORK</h2>
+<p>And sometimes I was her maid of all work.</p>
+<p>It is early morn, and my mother has come noiselessly into my
+room.&nbsp; I know it is she, though my eyes are shut, and I am
+only half awake.&nbsp; Perhaps I was dreaming of her, for I
+accept her presence without surprise, as if in the awakening I
+had but seen her go out at one door to come in at another.&nbsp;
+But she is speaking to herself.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I&rsquo;m sweer to waken him&mdash;I doubt he was
+working late&mdash;oh, that weary writing&mdash;no, I maunna
+waken him.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>I start up.&nbsp; She is wringing her hands.&nbsp; &lsquo;What
+is wrong?&rsquo; I cry, but I know before she answers.&nbsp; My
+sister is down with one of the headaches against which even she
+cannot fight, and my mother, who bears physical pain as if it
+were a comrade, is most woebegone when her daughter is the
+sufferer.&nbsp; &lsquo;And she winna let me go down the stair to
+make a cup of tea for her,&rsquo; she groans.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I will soon make the tea, mother.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Will you?&rsquo; she says eagerly.&nbsp; It is what she
+has come to me for, but &lsquo;It is a pity to rouse you,&rsquo;
+she says.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And I will take charge of the house to-day, and light
+the fires and wash the dishes&mdash;&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Na, oh no; no, I couldna ask that of you, and you an
+author.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It won&rsquo;t be the first time, mother, since I was
+an author.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;More like the fiftieth!&rsquo; she says almost
+gleefully, so I have begun well, for to keep up her spirits is
+the great thing to-day.</p>
+<p>Knock at the door.&nbsp; It is the baker.&nbsp; I take in the
+bread, looking so sternly at him that he dare not smile.</p>
+<p>Knock at the door.&nbsp; It is the postman. (I hope he did not
+see that I had the lid of the kettle in my other hand.)</p>
+<p>Furious knocking in a remote part.&nbsp; This means that the
+author is in the coal cellar.</p>
+<p>Anon I carry two breakfasts upstairs in triumph.&nbsp; I enter
+the bedroom like no mere humdrum son, but after the manner of the
+Glasgow waiter.&nbsp; I must say more about him.&nbsp; He had
+been my mother&rsquo;s one waiter, the only manservant she ever
+came in contact with, and they had met in a Glasgow hotel which
+she was eager to see, having heard of the monstrous things, and
+conceived them to resemble country inns with another twelve
+bedrooms.&nbsp; I remember how she beamed&mdash;yet tried to look
+as if it was quite an ordinary experience&mdash;when we alighted
+at the hotel door, but though she said nothing I soon read
+disappointment in her face.&nbsp; She knew how I was exulting in
+having her there, so would not say a word to damp me, but I
+craftily drew it out of her.&nbsp; No, she was very comfortable,
+and the house was grand beyond speech, but&mdash;but&mdash;where
+was he? he had not been very hearty.&nbsp; &lsquo;He&rsquo; was
+the landlord; she had expected him to receive us at the door and
+ask if we were in good health and how we had left the others, and
+then she would have asked him if his wife was well and how many
+children they had, after which we should all have sat down
+together to dinner.&nbsp; Two chambermaids came into her room and
+prepared it without a single word to her about her journey or on
+any other subject, and when they had gone, &lsquo;They are two
+haughty misses,&rsquo; said my mother with spirit.&nbsp; But what
+she most resented was the waiter with his swagger black suit and
+short quick steps and the &lsquo;towel&rsquo; over his arm.&nbsp;
+Without so much as a &lsquo;Welcome to Glasgow!&rsquo; he showed
+us to our seats, not the smallest acknowledgment of our kindness
+in giving such munificent orders did we draw from him, he hovered
+around the table as if it would be unsafe to leave us with his
+knives and forks (he should have seen her knives and forks), when
+we spoke to each other he affected not to hear, we might laugh
+but this uppish fellow would not join in.&nbsp; We retired,
+crushed, and he had the final impudence to open the door for
+us.&nbsp; But though this hurt my mother at the time, the humour
+of our experiences filled her on reflection, and in her own house
+she would describe them with unction, sometimes to those who had
+been in many hotels, often to others who had been in none, and
+whoever were her listeners she made them laugh, though not always
+at the same thing.</p>
+<p>So now when I enter the bedroom with the tray, on my arm is
+that badge of pride, the towel; and I approach with prim steps to
+inform Madam that breakfast is ready, and she puts on the society
+manner and addresses me as &lsquo;Sir,&rsquo; and asks with cruel
+sarcasm for what purpose (except to boast) I carry the towel, and
+I say &lsquo;Is there anything more I can do for Madam?&rsquo;
+and Madam replies that there is one more thing I can do, and that
+is, eat her breakfast for her.&nbsp; But of this I take no
+notice, for my object is to fire her with the spirit of the game,
+so that she eats unwittingly.</p>
+<p>Now that I have washed up the breakfast things I should be at
+my writing, and I am anxious to be at it, as I have an idea in my
+head, which, if it is of any value, has almost certainly been put
+there by her.&nbsp; But dare I venture?&nbsp; I know that the
+house has not been properly set going yet, there are beds to
+make, the exterior of the teapot is fair, but suppose some one
+were to look inside?&nbsp; What a pity I knocked over the
+flour-barrel!&nbsp; Can I hope that for once my mother will
+forget to inquire into these matters?&nbsp; Is my sister willing
+to let disorder reign until to-morrow?&nbsp; I determine to risk
+it.&nbsp; Perhaps I have been at work for half an hour when I
+hear movements overhead.&nbsp; One or other of them is wondering
+why the house is so quiet.&nbsp; I rattle the tongs, but even
+this does not satisfy them, so back into the desk go my papers,
+and now what you hear is not the scrape of a pen but the rinsing
+of pots and pans, or I am making beds, and making them
+thoroughly, because after I am gone my mother will come (I know
+her) and look suspiciously beneath the coverlet.</p>
+<p>The kitchen is now speckless, not an unwashed platter in
+sight, unless you look beneath the table.&nbsp; I feel that I
+have earned time for an hour&rsquo;s writing at last, and at it I
+go with vigour.&nbsp; One page, two pages, really I am making
+progress, when&mdash;was that a door opening?&nbsp; But I have my
+mother&rsquo;s light step on the brain, so I &lsquo;yoke&rsquo;
+again, and next moment she is beside me.&nbsp; She has not
+exactly left her room, she gives me to understand; but suddenly a
+conviction had come to her that I was writing without a warm mat
+at my feet.&nbsp; She carries one in her hands.&nbsp; Now that
+she is here she remains for a time, and though she is in the
+arm-chair by the fire, where she sits bolt upright (she loved to
+have cushions on the unused chairs, but detested putting her back
+against them), and I am bent low over my desk, I know that
+contentment and pity are struggling for possession of her face:
+contentment wins when she surveys her room, pity when she looks
+at me.&nbsp; Every article of furniture, from the chairs that
+came into the world with me and have worn so much better, though
+I was new and they were second-hand, to the mantle-border of
+fashionable design which she sewed in her seventieth year, having
+picked up the stitch in half a lesson, has its story of fight and
+attainment for her, hence her satisfaction; but she sighs at
+sight of her son, dipping and tearing, and chewing the loathly
+pen.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Oh, that weary writing!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>In vain do I tell her that writing is as pleasant to me as
+ever was the prospect of a tremendous day&rsquo;s ironing to her;
+that (to some, though not to me) new chapters are as easy to turn
+out as new bannocks.&nbsp; No, she maintains, for one bannock is
+the marrows of another, while chapters&mdash;and then, perhaps,
+her eyes twinkle, and says she saucily, &lsquo;But, sal, you may
+be right, for sometimes your bannocks are as alike as
+mine!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>Or I may be roused from my writing by her cry that I am making
+strange faces again.&nbsp; It is my contemptible weakness that if
+I say a character smiled vacuously, I must smile vacuously; if he
+frowns or leers, I frown or leer; if he is a coward or given to
+contortions, I cringe, or twist my legs until I have to stop
+writing to undo the knot.&nbsp; I bow with him, eat with him, and
+gnaw my moustache with him.&nbsp; If the character be a lady with
+an exquisite laugh, I suddenly terrify you by laughing
+exquisitely.&nbsp; One reads of the astounding versatility of an
+actor who is stout and lean on the same evening, but what is he
+to the novelist who is a dozen persons within the hour?&nbsp;
+Morally, I fear, we must deteriorate&mdash;but this is a subject
+I may wisely edge away from.</p>
+<p>We always spoke to each other in broad Scotch (I think in it
+still), but now and again she would use a word that was new to
+me, or I might hear one of her contemporaries use it.&nbsp; Now
+is my opportunity to angle for its meaning.&nbsp; If I ask,
+boldly, what was chat word she used just now, something like
+&lsquo;bilbie&rsquo; or &lsquo;silvendy&rsquo;? she blushes, and
+says she never said anything so common, or hoots! it is some
+auld-farrant word about which she can tell me nothing.&nbsp; But
+if in the course of conversation I remark casually, &lsquo;Did he
+find bilbie?&rsquo; or &lsquo;Was that quite silvendy?&rsquo;
+(though the sense of the question is vague to me) she falls into
+the trap, and the words explain themselves in her replies.&nbsp;
+Or maybe to-day she sees whither I am leading her, and such is
+her sensitiveness that she is quite hurt.&nbsp; The humour goes
+out of her face (to find bilbie in some more silvendy spot), and
+her reproachful eyes&mdash;but now I am on the arm of her chair,
+and we have made it up.&nbsp; Nevertheless, I shall get no more
+old-world Scotch out of her this forenoon, she weeds her talk
+determinedly, and it is as great a falling away as when the mutch
+gives place to the cap.</p>
+<p>I am off for my afternoon walk, and she has promised to bar
+the door behind me and open it to none.&nbsp; When I
+return,&mdash;well, the door is still barred, but she is looking
+both furtive and elated.&nbsp; I should say that she is burning
+to tell me something, but cannot tell it without exposing
+herself.&nbsp; Has she opened the door, and if so, why?&nbsp; I
+don&rsquo;t ask, but I watch.&nbsp; It is she who is sly now.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Have you been in the east room since you came
+in?&rsquo; she asks, with apparent indifference.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;No; why do you ask?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Oh, I just thought you might have looked in.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Is there anything new there?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I dinna say there is, but&mdash;but just go and
+see.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;There can&rsquo;t be anything new if you kept the door
+barred,&rsquo; I say cleverly.</p>
+<p>This crushes her for a moment; but her eagerness that I should
+see is greater than her fear.&nbsp; I set off for the east room,
+and she follows, affecting humility, but with triumph in her
+eye.&nbsp; How often those little scenes took place!&nbsp; I was
+never told of the new purchase, I was lured into its presence,
+and then she waited timidly for my start of surprise.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Do you see it?&rsquo; she says anxiously, and I see it,
+and hear it, for this time it is a bran-new wicker chair, of the
+kind that whisper to themselves for the first six months.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;A going-about body was selling them in a cart,&rsquo;
+my mother begins, and what followed presents itself to my eyes
+before she can utter another word.&nbsp; Ten minutes at the least
+did she stand at the door argy-bargying with that man.&nbsp; But
+it would be cruelty to scold a woman so uplifted.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Fifteen shillings he wanted,&rsquo; she cries,
+&lsquo;but what do you think I beat him down to?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Seven and sixpence?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>She claps her hands with delight.&nbsp; &lsquo;Four shillings,
+as I&rsquo;m a living woman!&rsquo; she crows: never was a woman
+fonder of a bargain.</p>
+<p>I gaze at the purchase with the amazement expected of me, and
+the chair itself crinkles and shudders to hear what it went for
+(or is it merely chuckling at her?).&nbsp; &lsquo;And the man
+said it cost himself five shillings,&rsquo; my mother continues
+exultantly.&nbsp; You would have thought her the hardest person
+had not a knock on the wall summoned us about this time to my
+sister&rsquo;s side.&nbsp; Though in bed she has been listening,
+and this is what she has to say, in a voice that makes my mother
+very indignant, &lsquo;You drive a bargain!&nbsp;&nbsp; I&rsquo;m
+thinking ten shillings was nearer what you paid.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Four shillings to a penny!&rsquo; says my mother.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I daresay,&rsquo; says my sister; &lsquo;but after you
+paid him the money I heard you in the little bedroom press.&nbsp;
+What were you doing there?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>My mother winces.&nbsp; &lsquo;I may have given him a present
+of an old topcoat,&rsquo; she falters.&nbsp; &lsquo;He looked
+ill-happit.&nbsp; But that was after I made the
+bargain.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Were there bairns in the cart?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;There might have been a bit lassie in the
+cart.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I thought as much.&nbsp; What did you give her?&nbsp; I
+heard you in the pantry.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Four shillings was what I got that chair for,&rsquo;
+replies my mother firmly.&nbsp; If I don&rsquo;t interfere there
+will be a coldness between them for at least a minute.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;There is blood on your finger,&rsquo; I say to my
+mother.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;So there is,&rsquo; she says, concealing her hand.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Blood!&rsquo; exclaims my sister anxiously, and then
+with a cry of triumph, &lsquo;I warrant it&rsquo;s jelly.&nbsp;
+You gave that lassie one of the jelly cans!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>The Glasgow waiter brings up tea, and presently my sister is
+able to rise, and after a sharp fight I am expelled from the
+kitchen.&nbsp; The last thing I do as maid of all work is to lug
+upstairs the clothes-basket which has just arrived with the
+mangling.&nbsp; Now there is delicious linen for my mother to
+finger; there was always rapture on her face when the
+clothes-basket came in; it never failed to make her once more the
+active genius of the house.&nbsp; I may leave her now with her
+sheets and collars and napkins and fronts.&nbsp; Indeed, she
+probably orders me to go.&nbsp; A son is all very well, but
+suppose he were to tread on that counterpane!</p>
+<p>My sister is but and I am ben&mdash;I mean she is in the east
+end and I am in the west&mdash;tuts, tuts! let us get at the
+English of this by striving: she is in the kitchen and I am at my
+desk in the parlour.&nbsp; I hope I may not be disturbed, for
+to-night I must make my hero say &lsquo;Darling,&rsquo; and it
+needs both privacy and concentration.&nbsp; In a word, let me
+admit (though I should like to beat about the bush) that I have
+sat down to a love-chapter.&nbsp; Too long has it been avoided,
+Albert has called Marion &lsquo;dear&rsquo; only as yet (between
+you and me these are not their real names), but though the public
+will probably read the word without blinking, it went off in my
+hands with a bang.&nbsp; They tell me&mdash;the Sassenach tell
+me&mdash;that in time I shall be able without a blush to make
+Albert say &lsquo;darling,&rsquo; and even gather her up in his
+arms, but I begin to doubt it; the moment sees me as shy as ever;
+I still find it advisable to lock the door, and then&mdash;no
+witness save the dog&mdash;I &lsquo;do&rsquo; it dourly with my
+teeth clenched, while the dog retreats into the far corner and
+moans.&nbsp; The bolder Englishman (I am told) will write a
+love-chapter and then go out, quite coolly, to dinner, but such
+goings on are contrary to the Scotch nature; even the great
+novelists dared not.&nbsp; Conceive Mr. Stevenson left alone with
+a hero, a heroine, and a proposal impending (he does not know
+where to look).&nbsp; Sir Walter in the same circumstances gets
+out of the room by making his love-scenes take place between the
+end of one chapter and the beginning of the next, but he could
+afford to do anything, and the small fry must e&rsquo;en to their
+task, moan the dog as he may.&nbsp; So I have yoked to mine when,
+enter my mother, looking wistful.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I suppose you are terrible thrang,&rsquo; she says.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Well, I am rather busy, but&mdash;what is it you want
+me to do?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It would be a shame to ask you.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Still, ask me.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I am so terrified they may be filed.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You want me to&mdash;?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;If you would just come up, and help me to fold the
+sheets!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>The sheets are folded and I return to Albert.&nbsp; I lock the
+door, and at last I am bringing my hero forward nicely (my knee
+in the small of his back), when this startling question is shot
+by my sister through the key-hole&mdash;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Where did you put the carrot-grater?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>It will all have to be done over again if I let Albert go for
+a moment, so, gripping him hard, I shout indignantly that I have
+not seen the carrot-grater.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Then what did you grate the carrots on?&rsquo; asks the
+voice, and the door-handle is shaken just as I shake Albert.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;On a broken cup,&rsquo; I reply with surprising
+readiness, and I get to work again but am less engrossed, for a
+conviction grows on me that I put the carrot-grater in the drawer
+of the sewing-machine.</p>
+<p>I am wondering whether I should confess or brazen it out, when
+I hear my sister going hurriedly upstairs.&nbsp; I have a
+presentiment that she has gone to talk about me, and I basely
+open my door and listen.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Just look at that, mother!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Is it a dish-cloth?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;That&rsquo;s what it is now.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Losh behears! it&rsquo;s one of the new
+table-napkins.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;That&rsquo;s what it was.&nbsp; He has been polishing
+the kitchen grate with it!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>(I remember!)</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Woe&rsquo;s me!&nbsp; That is what comes of his not
+letting me budge from this room.&nbsp; O, it is a watery Sabbath
+when men take to doing women&rsquo;s work!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It defies the face of clay, mother, to fathom what
+makes him so senseless.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s that weary writing.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And the worst of it is he will talk to-morrow as if he
+had done wonders.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;That&rsquo;s the way with the whole clanjam-fray of
+them.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Yes, but as usual you will humour him,
+mother.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Oh, well, it pleases him, you see,&rsquo; says my
+mother, &lsquo;and we can have our laugh when his door&rsquo;s
+shut.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;He is most terribly handless.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;He is all that, but, poor soul, he does his
+best.&rsquo;</p>
+<h2>CHAPTER VII&mdash;R. L. S.</h2>
+<p>These familiar initials are, I suppose, the best beloved in
+recent literature, certainly they are the sweetest to me, but
+there was a time when my mother could not abide them.&nbsp; She
+said &lsquo;That Stevenson man&rsquo; with a sneer, and, it was
+never easy to her to sneer.&nbsp; At thought of him her face
+would become almost hard, which seems incredible, and she would
+knit her lips and fold her arms, and reply with a stiff
+&lsquo;oh&rsquo; if you mentioned his aggravating name.&nbsp; In
+the novels we have a way of writing of our heroine, &lsquo;she
+drew herself up haughtily,&rsquo; and when mine draw themselves
+up haughtily I see my mother thinking of Robert Louis
+Stevenson.&nbsp; He knew her opinion of him, and would write,
+&lsquo;My ears tingled yesterday; I sair doubt she has been
+miscalling me again.&rsquo;&nbsp; But the more she miscalled him
+the more he delighted in her, and she was informed of this, and
+at once said, &lsquo;The scoundrel!&rsquo;&nbsp; If you would
+know what was his unpardonable crime, it was this: he wrote
+better books than mine.</p>
+<p>I remember the day she found it out, which was not, however,
+the day she admitted it.&nbsp; That day, when I should have been
+at my work, she came upon me in the kitchen, &lsquo;The Master of
+Ballantrae&rsquo; beside me, but I was not reading: my head lay
+heavy on the table, and to her anxious eyes, I doubt not, I was
+the picture of woe.&nbsp; &lsquo;Not writing!&rsquo; I echoed,
+no, I was not writing, I saw no use in ever trying to write
+again.&nbsp; And down, I suppose, went my head once more.&nbsp;
+She misunderstood, and thought the blow had fallen; I had
+awakened to the discovery, always dreaded by her, that I had
+written myself dry; I was no better than an empty
+ink-bottle.&nbsp; She wrung her hands, but indignation came to
+her with my explanation, which was that while R. L. S. was at it
+we others were only &lsquo;prentices cutting our fingers on his
+tools.&nbsp; &lsquo;I could never thole his books,&rsquo; said my
+mother immediately, and indeed vindictively.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You have not read any of them,&rsquo; I reminded
+her.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And never will,&rsquo; said she with spirit.</p>
+<p>And I have no doubt that she called him a dark character that
+very day.&nbsp; For weeks too, if not for months, she adhered to
+her determination not to read him, though I, having come to my
+senses and seen that there is a place for the &lsquo;prentice,
+was taking a pleasure, almost malicious, in putting &lsquo;The
+Master of Ballantrae&rsquo; in her way.&nbsp; I would place it on
+her table so that it said good-morning to her when she
+rose.&nbsp; She would frown, and carrying it downstairs, as if
+she had it in the tongs, replace it on its book-shelf.&nbsp; I
+would wrap it up in the cover she had made for the latest
+Carlyle: she would skin it contemptuously and again bring it
+down.&nbsp; I would hide her spectacles in it, and lay it on top
+of the clothes-basket and prop it up invitingly open against her
+tea-pot.&nbsp; And at last I got her, though I forget by which of
+many contrivances.&nbsp; What I recall vividly is a key-hole
+view, to which another member of the family invited me.&nbsp;
+Then I saw my mother wrapped up in &lsquo;The Master of
+Ballantrae&rsquo; and muttering the music to herself, nodding her
+head in approval, and taking a stealthy glance at the foot of
+each page before she began at the top.&nbsp; Nevertheless she had
+an ear for the door, for when I bounced in she had been too
+clever for me; there was no book to be seen, only an apron on her
+lap and she was gazing out at the window.&nbsp; Some such
+conversation as this followed:&mdash;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You have been sitting very quietly, mother.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I always sit quietly, I never do anything, I&rsquo;m
+just a finished stocking.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Have you been reading?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Do I ever read at this time of day?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;What is that in your lap?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Just my apron.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Is that a book beneath the apron?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It might be a book.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Let me see.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Go away with you to your work.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>But I lifted the apron.&nbsp; &lsquo;Why, it&rsquo;s
+&ldquo;The Master of Ballantrae!&rdquo;&rsquo;&nbsp; I exclaimed,
+shocked.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;So it is!&rsquo; said my mother, equally
+surprised.&nbsp; But I looked sternly at her, and perhaps she
+blushed.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Well what do you think: not nearly equal to
+mine?&rsquo; said I with humour.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Nothing like them,&rsquo; she said determinedly.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Not a bit,&rsquo; said I, though whether with a smile
+or a groan is immaterial; they would have meant the same
+thing.&nbsp; Should I put the book back on its shelf?&nbsp; I
+asked, and she replied that I could put it wherever I liked for
+all she cared, so long as I took it out of her sight (the
+implication was that it had stolen on to her lap while she was
+looking out at the window).&nbsp; My behaviour may seem small,
+but I gave her a last chance, for I said that some people found
+it a book there was no putting down until they reached the last
+page.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I&rsquo;m no that kind,&rsquo; replied my mother.</p>
+<p>Nevertheless our old game with the haver of a thing, as she
+called it, was continued, with this difference, that it was now
+she who carried the book covertly upstairs, and I who replaced it
+on the shelf, and several times we caught each other in the act,
+but not a word said either of us; we were grown
+self-conscious.&nbsp; Much of the play no doubt I forget, but one
+incident I remember clearly.&nbsp; She had come down to sit
+beside me while I wrote, and sometimes, when I looked up, her eye
+was not on me, but on the shelf where &lsquo;The Master of
+Ballantrae&rsquo; stood inviting her.&nbsp; Mr. Stevenson&rsquo;s
+books are not for the shelf, they are for the hand; even when you
+lay them down, let it be on the table for the next comer.&nbsp;
+Being the most sociable that man has penned in our time, they
+feel very lonely up there in a stately row.&nbsp; I think their
+eye is on you the moment you enter the room, and so you are drawn
+to look at them, and you take a volume down with the impulse that
+induces one to unchain the dog.&nbsp; And the result is not
+dissimilar, for in another moment you two are at play.&nbsp; Is
+there any other modern writer who gets round you in this
+way?&nbsp; Well, he had given my mother the look which in the
+ball-room means, &lsquo;Ask me for this waltz,&rsquo; and she
+ettled to do it, but felt that her more dutiful course was to sit
+out the dance with this other less entertaining partner.&nbsp; I
+wrote on doggedly, but could hear the whispering.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Am I to be a wall-flower?&rsquo; asked James Durie
+reproachfully.&nbsp; (It must have been leap-year.)</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Speak lower,&rsquo; replied my mother, with an uneasy
+look at me.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Pooh!&rsquo; said James contemptuously, &lsquo;that
+kail-runtle!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I winna have him miscalled,&rsquo; said my mother,
+frowning.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I am done with him,&rsquo; said James (wiping his cane
+with his cambric handkerchief), and his sword clattered
+deliciously (I cannot think this was accidental), which made my
+mother sigh.&nbsp; Like the man he was, he followed up his
+advantage with a comparison that made me dip viciously.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;A prettier sound that,&rsquo; said he, clanking his
+sword again, &lsquo;than the clack-clack of your young
+friend&rsquo;s shuttle.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Whist!&rsquo; cried my mother, who had seen me dip.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Then give me your arm,&rsquo; said James, lowering his
+voice.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I dare not,&rsquo; answered my mother.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;He&rsquo;s so touchy about you.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Come, come,&rsquo; he pressed her, &lsquo;you are
+certain to do it sooner or later, so why not now?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Wait till he has gone for his walk,&rsquo; said my
+mother; &lsquo;and, forbye that, I&rsquo;m ower old to dance with
+you.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;How old are you?&rsquo; he inquired.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You&rsquo;re gey an&rsquo; pert!&rsquo; cried my
+mother.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Are you seventy?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Off and on,&rsquo; she admitted.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Pooh,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;a mere girl!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>She replied instantly, &lsquo;I&rsquo;m no&rsquo; to be
+catched with chaff&rsquo;; but she smiled and rose as if he had
+stretched out his hand and got her by the finger-tip.</p>
+<p>After that they whispered so low (which they could do as they
+were now much nearer each other) that I could catch only one
+remark.&nbsp; It came from James, and seems to show the tenor of
+their whisperings, for his words were, &lsquo;Easily enough, if
+you slip me beneath your shawl.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>That is what she did, and furthermore she left the room
+guiltily, muttering something about redding up the drawers.&nbsp;
+I suppose I smiled wanly to myself, or conscience must have been
+nibbling at my mother, for in less than five minutes she was
+back, carrying her accomplice openly, and she thrust him with
+positive viciousness into the place where my Stevenson had lost a
+tooth (as the writer whom he most resembled would have
+said).&nbsp; And then like a good mother she took up one of her
+son&rsquo;s books and read it most determinedly.&nbsp; It had
+become a touching incident to me, and I remember how we there and
+then agreed upon a compromise she was to read the enticing thing
+just to convince herself of its inferiority.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;The Master of Ballantrae&rsquo; is not the best.&nbsp;
+Conceive the glory, which was my mother&rsquo;s, of knowing from
+a trustworthy source that there are at least three better
+awaiting you on the same shelf.&nbsp; She did not know Alan Breck
+yet, and he was as anxious to step down as Mr. Bally
+himself.&nbsp; John Silver was there, getting into his leg, so
+that she should not have to wait a moment, and roaring,
+&lsquo;I&rsquo;ll lay to that!&rsquo; when she told me
+consolingly that she could not thole pirate stories.&nbsp; Not to
+know these gentlemen, what is it like?&nbsp; It is like never
+having been in love.&nbsp; But they are in the house!&nbsp; That
+is like knowing that you will fall in love to-morrow
+morning.&nbsp; With one word, by drawing one mournful face, I
+could have got my mother to abjure the jam-shelf&mdash;nay, I
+might have managed it by merely saying that she had enjoyed
+&lsquo;The Master of Ballantrae.&rsquo;&nbsp; For you must
+remember that she only read it to persuade herself (and me) of
+its unworthiness, and that the reason she wanted to read the
+others was to get further proof.&nbsp; All this she made plain to
+me, eyeing me a little anxiously the while, and of course I
+accepted the explanation.&nbsp; Alan is the biggest child of them
+all, and I doubt not that she thought so, but curiously enough
+her views of him are among the things I have forgotten.&nbsp; But
+how enamoured she was of &lsquo;Treasure Island,&rsquo; and how
+faithful she tried to be to me all the time she was reading
+it!&nbsp; I had to put my hands over her eyes to let her know
+that I had entered the room, and even then she might try to read
+between my fingers, coming to herself presently, however, to say
+&lsquo;It&rsquo;s a haver of a book.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Those pirate stories are so uninteresting,&rsquo; I
+would reply without fear, for she was too engrossed to see
+through me.&nbsp; &lsquo;Do you think you will finish this
+one?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I may as well go on with it since I have begun
+it,&rsquo; my mother says, so slyly that my sister and I shake
+our heads at each other to imply, &lsquo;Was there ever such a
+woman!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;There are none of those one-legged scoundrels in my
+books,&rsquo; I say.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Better without them,&rsquo; she replies promptly.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I wonder, mother, what it is about the man that so
+infatuates the public?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;He takes no hold of me,&rsquo; she insists.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;I would a hantle rather read your books.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>I offer obligingly to bring one of them to her, and now she
+looks at me suspiciously.&nbsp; &lsquo;You surely believe I like
+yours best,&rsquo; she says with instant anxiety, and I soothe
+her by assurances, and retire advising her to read on, just to
+see if she can find out how he misleads the public.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;Oh, I may take a look at it again by-and-by,&rsquo; she
+says indifferently, but nevertheless the probability is that as
+the door shuts the book opens, as if by some mechanical
+contrivance.&nbsp; I remember how she read &lsquo;Treasure
+Island,&rsquo; holding it close to the ribs of the fire (because
+she could not spare a moment to rise and light the gas), and how,
+when bed-time came, and we coaxed, remonstrated, scolded, she
+said quite fiercely, clinging to the book, &lsquo;I dinna lay my
+head on a pillow this night till I see how that laddie got out of
+the barrel.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>After this, I think, he was as bewitching as the laddie in the
+barrel to her&mdash;Was he not always a laddie in the barrel
+himself, climbing in for apples while we all stood around, like
+gamins, waiting for a bite?&nbsp; He was the spirit of boyhood
+tugging at the skirts of this old world of ours and compelling it
+to come back and play.&nbsp; And I suppose my mother felt this,
+as so many have felt it: like others she was a little scared at
+first to find herself skipping again, with this masterful child
+at the rope, but soon she gave him her hand and set off with him
+for the meadow, not an apology between the two of them for the
+author left behind.&nbsp; But near to the end did she admit (in
+words) that he had a way with him which was beyond her son.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;Silk and sacking, that is what we are,&rsquo; she was
+informed, to which she would reply obstinately, &lsquo;Well,
+then, I prefer sacking.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;But if he had been your son?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;But he is not.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You wish he were?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I dinna deny but what I could have found room for
+him.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>And still at times she would smear him with the name of black
+(to his delight when he learned the reason).&nbsp; That was when
+some podgy red-sealed blue-crossed letter arrived from Vailima,
+inviting me to journey thither.&nbsp; (His directions were,
+&lsquo;You take the boat at San Francisco, and then my place is
+the second to the left.&rsquo;)&nbsp; Even London seemed to her
+to carry me so far away that I often took a week to the journey
+(the first six days in getting her used to the idea), and these
+letters terrified her.&nbsp; It was not the finger of Jim Hawkins
+she now saw beckoning me across the seas, it was John Silver,
+waving a crutch.&nbsp; Seldom, I believe, did I read straight
+through one of these Vailima letters; when in the middle I
+suddenly remembered who was upstairs and what she was probably
+doing, and I ran to her, three steps at a jump, to find her, lips
+pursed, hands folded, a picture of gloom.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I have a letter from&mdash;&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;So I have heard.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Would you like to hear it?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;No.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Can you not abide him?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I cauna thole him.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Is he a black?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;He is all that.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>Well, Vailima was the one spot on earth I had any great
+craving to visit, but I think she always knew I would never leave
+her.&nbsp; Sometime, she said, she should like me to go, but not
+until she was laid away.&nbsp; &lsquo;And how small I have grown
+this last winter.&nbsp; Look at my wrists.&nbsp; It canna be long
+now.&rsquo;&nbsp; No, I never thought of going, was never absent
+for a day from her without reluctance, and never walked so
+quickly as when I was going back.&nbsp; In the meantime that
+happened which put an end for ever to my scheme of travel.&nbsp;
+I shall never go up the Road of Loving Hearts now, on &lsquo;a
+wonderful clear night of stars,&rsquo; to meet the man coming
+toward me on a horse.&nbsp; It is still a wonderful clear night
+of stars, but the road is empty.&nbsp; So I never saw the dear
+king of us all.&nbsp; But before he had written books he was in
+my part of the country with a fishing-wand in his hand, and I
+like to think that I was the boy who met him that day by Queen
+Margaret&rsquo;s burn, where the rowans are, and busked a fly for
+him, and stood watching, while his lithe figure rose and fell as
+he cast and hinted back from the crystal waters of
+Noran-side.</p>
+<h2>CHAPTER VIII&mdash;A PANIC IN THE HOUSE</h2>
+<p>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.&nbsp; It is not a memory of
+one night only.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; She was
+wearing herself done.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp;
+To have a strange woman in my mother&rsquo;s room&mdash;you who
+are used to them cannot conceive what it meant to us.</p>
+<p>Then we must have a servant.&nbsp; This seemed only less
+horrible.&nbsp; My father turned up his sleeves and clutched the
+besom.&nbsp; I tossed aside my papers, and was ready to run the
+errands.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; It was not for long.&nbsp; I was led
+to my desk, the newspaper was put into my father&rsquo;s
+hand.&nbsp; &lsquo;But a servant!&rsquo; we cried, and would have
+fallen to again.&nbsp; &lsquo;No servant, comes into this
+house,&rsquo; said my sister quite fiercely, and, oh, but my
+mother was relieved to hear her!&nbsp; There were many such
+scenes, a year of them, I daresay, before we yielded.</p>
+<p>I cannot say which of us felt it most.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.</p>
+<p>From my earliest days I had seen servants.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; The banker did not seem really great to me,
+but his servant&mdash;oh yes.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.</p>
+<p>According to legend we once had a servant&mdash;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.&nbsp; But even while I boasted I
+doubted.&nbsp; Reduced to life-size she may have been but a woman
+who came in to help.&nbsp; I shall say no more about her, lest
+some one comes forward to prove that she went home at night.</p>
+<p>Never shall I forget my first servant.&nbsp; I was eight or
+nine, in velveteen, diamond socks (&lsquo;Cross your legs when
+they look at you,&rsquo; my mother had said, &lsquo;and put your
+thumb in your pocket and leave the top of your handkerchief
+showing&rsquo;), and I had travelled by rail to visit a
+relative.&nbsp; He had a servant, and as I was to be his guest
+she must be my servant also for the time being&mdash;you may be
+sure I had got my mother to put this plainly before me ere I set
+off.&nbsp; My relative met me at the station, but I wasted no
+time in hoping I found him well.&nbsp; I did not even cross my
+legs for him, so eager was I to hear whether she was still
+there.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.</p>
+<p>But now when we could have servants for ourselves I shrank
+from the thought.&nbsp; It would not be the same house; we should
+have to dissemble; I saw myself speaking English the long day
+through.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; He is not opaque of set purpose, often it is
+against his will&mdash;it is certainly against mine, I try to
+keep my shutters open and my foot in the door but they will bang
+to.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.</p>
+<p>Must a woman come into our house and discover that I was not
+such a dreary dog as I had the reputation of being?&nbsp; Was I
+to be seen at last with the veil of dourness lifted?&nbsp; 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?&nbsp; Ah, that room, must its
+secrets be disclosed?&nbsp; So joyous they were when my mother
+was well, no wonder we were merry.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp;
+We had not to wait till all was over to know its value; my mother
+used to say, &lsquo;We never understand how little we need in
+this world until we know the loss of it,&rsquo; 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.&nbsp; 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&rsquo;s bedside.&nbsp; Not for other
+eyes those long vigils when, night about, we sat watching, nor
+the awful nights when we stood together, teeth
+clenched&mdash;waiting&mdash;it must be now.&nbsp; And it was not
+then; her hand became cooler, her breathing more easy; she smiled
+to us.&nbsp; 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?&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; My thousand letters
+that she so carefully preserved, always sleeping with the last
+beneath the sheet, where one was found when she died&mdash;they
+are the only writing of mine of which I shall ever boast.&nbsp; I
+would not there had been one less though I could have written an
+immortal book for it.</p>
+<p>How my sister toiled&mdash;to prevent a stranger&rsquo;s
+getting any footing in the house!&nbsp; And how, with the same
+object, my mother strove to &lsquo;do for herself&rsquo; once
+more.&nbsp; She pretended that she was always well now, and
+concealed her ailments so craftily that we had to probe for
+them:&mdash;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I think you are not feeling well to-day?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I am perfectly well.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Where is the pain?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I have no pain to speak of.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Is it at your heart?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;No.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Is your breathing hurting you?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Not it.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Do you feel those stounds in your head
+again?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;No, no, I tell you there is nothing the matter with
+me.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Have you a pain in your side?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Really, it&rsquo;s most provoking I canna put my hand
+to my side without your thinking I have a pain there.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You have a pain in your side!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I might have a pain in my side.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And you were trying to hide it!&nbsp; Is it very
+painful?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It&rsquo;s&mdash;it&rsquo;s no so bad but what I can
+bear it.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; My mother might go bravely to my
+sister and say, &lsquo;I have been thinking it over, and I
+believe I would like a servant fine&mdash;once we got used to
+her.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Did he tell you to say that?&rsquo; asks my sister
+sharply.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I say it of my own free will.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;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.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Maybe he did, but I think we should get one.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Not for my sake,&rsquo; says my sister obstinately, and
+then my mother comes ben to me to say delightedly, &lsquo;She
+winna listen to reason!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>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:&mdash;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;She will go early to her bed.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;She needna often be seen upstairs.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;We&rsquo;ll set her to the walking every
+day.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;There will be a many errands for her to run.&nbsp;
+We&rsquo;ll tell her to take her time over them.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Three times she shall go to the kirk every Sabbath, and
+we&rsquo;ll egg her on to attending the lectures in the
+hall.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;She is sure to have friends in the town.&nbsp;
+We&rsquo;ll let her visit them often.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;If she dares to come into your room, mother!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Mind this, every one of you, servant or no servant, I
+fold all the linen mysel.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;She shall not get cleaning out the east
+room.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Nor putting my chest of drawers in order.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Nor tidying up my manuscripts.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I hope she&rsquo;s a reader, though.&nbsp; You could
+set her down with a book, and then close the door canny on
+her.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>And so on.&nbsp; Was ever servant awaited so
+apprehensively?&nbsp; And then she came&mdash;at an anxious time,
+too, when her worth could be put to the proof at once&mdash;and
+from first to last she was a treasure.&nbsp; I know not what we
+should have done without her.</p>
+<h2>CHAPTER IX&mdash;MY HEROINE.</h2>
+<p>When it was known that I had begun another story my mother
+might ask what it was to be about this time.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Fine we can guess who it is about,&rsquo; my sister
+would say pointedly.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Maybe you can guess, but it is beyond me,&rsquo; says
+my mother, with the meekness of one who knows that she is a dull
+person.</p>
+<p>My sister scorned her at such times.&nbsp; &lsquo;What woman
+is in all his books?&rsquo; she would demand.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I&rsquo;m sure I canna say,&rsquo; replies my mother
+determinedly.&nbsp; &lsquo;I thought the women were different
+every time.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Mother, I wonder you can be so audacious!&nbsp; Fine
+you know what woman I mean.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;How can I know?&nbsp; What woman is it?&nbsp; You
+should bear in mind that I hinna your cleverness&rsquo; (they
+were constantly giving each other little knocks).</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I won&rsquo;t give you the satisfaction of saying her
+name.&nbsp; But this I will say, it is high time he was keeping
+her out of his books.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>And then as usual my mother would give herself away
+unconsciously.&nbsp; &lsquo;That is what I tell him,&rsquo; she
+says chuckling, &lsquo;and he tries to keep me out, but he canna;
+it&rsquo;s more than he can do!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>On an evening after my mother had gone to bed, the first
+chapter would be brought upstairs, and I read, sitting at the
+foot of the bed, while my sister watched to make my mother behave
+herself, and my father cried H&rsquo;sh! when there were
+interruptions.&nbsp; All would go well at the start, the
+reflections were accepted with a little nod of the head, the
+descriptions of scenery as ruts on the road that must be got over
+at a walking pace (my mother did not care for scenery, and that
+is why there is so little of it in my books).&nbsp; But now I am
+reading too quickly, a little apprehensively, because I know that
+the next paragraph begins with&mdash;let us say with,
+&lsquo;Along this path came a woman&rsquo;: I had intended to
+rush on here in a loud bullying voice, but &lsquo;Along this path
+came a woman&rsquo; I read, and stop.&nbsp; Did I hear a faint
+sound from the other end of the bed?&nbsp; Perhaps I did not; I
+may only have been listening for it, but I falter and look
+up.&nbsp; My sister and I look sternly at my mother.&nbsp; She
+bites her under-lip and clutches the bed with both hands, really
+she is doing her best for me, but first comes a smothered
+gurgling sound, then her hold on herself relaxes and she shakes
+with mirth.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;That&rsquo;s a way to behave!&rsquo; cries my
+sister.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I cannot help it,&rsquo; my mother gasps.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And there&rsquo;s nothing to laugh at.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It&rsquo;s that woman,&rsquo; my mother explains
+unnecessarily.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Maybe she&rsquo;s not the woman you think her,&rsquo; I
+say, crushed.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Maybe not,&rsquo; says my mother doubtfully.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;What was her name?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Her name,&rsquo; I answer with triumph, &lsquo;was not
+Margaret&rsquo;; but this makes her ripple again.&nbsp; &lsquo;I
+have so many names nowadays,&rsquo; she mutters.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;H&rsquo;sh!&rsquo; says my father, and the reading is
+resumed.</p>
+<p>Perhaps the woman who came along the path was of tall and
+majestic figure, which should have shown my mother that I had
+contrived to start my train without her this time.&nbsp; But it
+did not.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;What are you laughing at now?&rsquo; says my sister
+severely.&nbsp; &lsquo;Do you not hear that she was a tall,
+majestic woman?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It&rsquo;s the first time I ever heard it said of
+her,&rsquo; replies my mother.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;But she is.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Ke fy, havers!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;The book says it.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;There will be a many queer things in the book.&nbsp;
+What was she wearing?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>I have not described her clothes.&nbsp; &lsquo;That&rsquo;s a
+mistake,&rsquo; says my mother.&nbsp; &lsquo;When I come upon a
+woman in a book, the first thing I want to know about her is
+whether she was good-looking, and the second, how she was put
+on.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>The woman on the path was eighteen years of age, and of
+remarkable beauty.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;That settles you,&rsquo; says my sister.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I was no beauty at eighteen,&rsquo; my mother admits,
+but here my father interferes unexpectedly.&nbsp; &lsquo;There
+wasna your like in this countryside at eighteen,&rsquo; says he
+stoutly.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Pooh!&rsquo; says she, well pleased.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Were you plain, then?&rsquo; we ask.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Sal,&rsquo; she replies briskly, &lsquo;I was far from
+plain.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;H&rsquo;sh!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>Perhaps in the next chapter this lady (or another) appears in
+a carriage.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I assure you we&rsquo;re mounting in the world,&rsquo;
+I hear my mother murmur, but I hurry on without looking up.&nbsp;
+The lady lives in a house where there are footmen&mdash;but the
+footmen have come on the scene too hurriedly.&nbsp; &lsquo;This
+is more than I can stand,&rsquo; gasps my mother, and just as she
+is getting the better of a fit of laughter, &lsquo;Footman, give
+me a drink of water,&rsquo; she cries, and this sets her off
+again.&nbsp; Often the readings had to end abruptly because her
+mirth brought on violent fits of coughing.</p>
+<p>Sometimes I read to my sister alone, and she assured me that
+she could not see my mother among the women this time.&nbsp; This
+she said to humour me.&nbsp; Presently she would slip upstairs to
+announce triumphantly, &lsquo;You are in again!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>Or in the small hours I might make a confidant of my father,
+and when I had finished reading he would say thoughtfully,
+&lsquo;That lassie is very natural.&nbsp; Some of the ways you
+say she had&mdash;your mother had them just the same.&nbsp; Did
+you ever notice what an extraordinary woman your mother
+is?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>Then would I seek my mother for comfort.&nbsp; She was the
+more ready to give it because of her profound conviction that if
+I was found out&mdash;that is, if readers discovered how
+frequently and in how many guises she appeared in my
+books&mdash;the affair would become a public scandal.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You see Jess is not really you,&rsquo; I begin
+inquiringly.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Oh no, she is another kind of woman altogether,&rsquo;
+my mother says, and then spoils the compliment by adding
+na&icirc;vely, &lsquo;She had but two rooms and I have
+six.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>I sigh.&nbsp; &lsquo;Without counting the pantry, and
+it&rsquo;s a great big pantry,&rsquo; she mutters.</p>
+<p>This was not the sort of difference I could greatly plume
+myself upon, and honesty would force me to say, &lsquo;As far as
+that goes, there was a time when you had but two rooms
+yourself&mdash;&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;That&rsquo;s long since,&rsquo; she breaks in.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;I began with an up-the-stair, but I always had it in my
+mind&mdash;I never mentioned it, but there it was&mdash;to have
+the down-the-stair as well.&nbsp; Ay, and I&rsquo;ve had it this
+many a year.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Still, there is no denying that Jess had the same
+ambition.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;She had, but to her two-roomed house she had to stick
+all her born days.&nbsp; Was that like me?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;No, but she wanted&mdash;&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;She wanted, and I wanted, but I got and she
+didna.&nbsp; That&rsquo;s the difference betwixt her and
+me.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;If that is all the difference, it is little credit I
+can claim for having created her.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>My mother sees that I need soothing.&nbsp; &lsquo;That is far
+from being all the difference,&rsquo; she would say
+eagerly.&nbsp; &lsquo;There&rsquo;s my silk, for instance.&nbsp;
+Though I say it mysel, there&rsquo;s not a better silk in the
+valley of Strathmore.&nbsp; Had Jess a silk of any kind&mdash;not
+to speak of a silk like that?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Well, she had no silk, but you remember how she got
+that cloak with beads.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;An eleven and a bit!&nbsp; Hoots, what was that to
+boast of!&nbsp; I tell you, every single yard of my silk
+cost&mdash;&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Mother, that is the very way Jess spoke about her
+cloak!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>She lets this pass, perhaps without hearing it, for solicitude
+about her silk has hurried her to the wardrobe where it
+hangs.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Ah, mother, I am afraid that was very like
+Jess!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;How could it be like her when she didna even have a
+wardrobe?&nbsp; I tell you what, if there had been a real Jess
+and she had boasted to me about her cloak with beads, I would
+have said to her in a careless sort of voice, &ldquo;Step across
+with me, Jess and I&rsquo;ll let you see something that is
+hanging in my wardrobe.&rdquo;&nbsp; That would have lowered her
+pride!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I don&rsquo;t believe that is what you would have done,
+mother.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>Then a sweeter expression would come into her face.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;No,&rsquo; she would say reflectively, &lsquo;it&rsquo;s
+not.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;What would you have done?&nbsp; I think I
+know.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You canna know.&nbsp; But I&rsquo;m thinking I would
+have called to mind that she was a poor woman, and ailing, and
+terrible windy about her cloak, and I would just have said it was
+a beauty and that I wished I had one like it.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Yes, I am certain that is what you would have
+done.&nbsp; But oh, mother, that is just how Jess would have
+acted if some poorer woman than she had shown her a new
+shawl.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Maybe, but though I hadna boasted about my silk I would
+have wanted to do it.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Just as Jess would have been fidgeting to show off her
+eleven and a bit!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>It seems advisable to jump to another book; not to my first,
+because&mdash;well, as it was my first there would naturally be
+something of my mother in it, and not to the second, as it was my
+first novel and not much esteemed even in our family.&nbsp; (But
+the little touches of my mother in it are not so bad.)&nbsp; Let
+us try the story about the minister.</p>
+<p>My mother&rsquo;s first remark is decidedly damping.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;Many a time in my young days,&rsquo; she says, &lsquo;I
+played about the Auld Licht manse, but I little thought I should
+live to be the mistress of it!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;But Margaret is not you.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;N-no, oh no.&nbsp; She had a very different life from
+mine.&nbsp; I never let on to a soul that she is me!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;She was not meant to be you when I began.&nbsp; Mother,
+what a way you have of coming creeping in!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You should keep better watch on yourself.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Perhaps if I had called Margaret by some other
+name&mdash;&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I should have seen through her just the same.&nbsp; As
+soon as I heard she was the mother I began to laugh.&nbsp; In
+some ways, though, she&rsquo;s no&rsquo; so very like me.&nbsp;
+She was long in finding out about Babbie.&nbsp; I&rsquo;se uphaud
+I should have been quicker.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Babbie, you see, kept close to the
+garden-wall.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It&rsquo;s not the wall up at the manse that would have
+hidden her from me.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;She came out in the dark.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I&rsquo;m thinking she would have found me looking for
+her with a candle.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And Gavin was secretive.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;That would have put me on my mettle.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;She never suspected anything.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I wonder at her.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>But my new heroine is to be a child.&nbsp; What has madam to
+say to that?</p>
+<p>A child!&nbsp; Yes, she has something to say even to
+that.&nbsp; &lsquo;This beats all!&rsquo; are the words.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Come, come, mother, I see what you are thinking, but I
+assure you that this time&mdash;&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Of course not,&rsquo; she says soothingly, &lsquo;oh
+no, she canna be me&rsquo;; but anon her real thoughts are
+revealed by the artless remark, &lsquo;I doubt, though, this is a
+tough job you have on hand&mdash;it is so long since I was a
+bairn.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>We came very close to each other in those talks.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;It is a queer thing,&rsquo; she would say softly,
+&lsquo;that near everything you write is about this bit
+place.&nbsp; You little expected that when you began.&nbsp; I
+mind well the time when it never entered your head, any more than
+mine, that you could write a page about our squares and
+wynds.&nbsp; I wonder how it has come about?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>There was a time when I could not have answered that question,
+but that time had long passed.&nbsp; &lsquo;I suppose, mother, it
+was because you were most at home in your own town, and there was
+never much pleasure to me in writing of people who could not have
+known you, nor of squares and wynds you never passed through, nor
+of a country-side where you never carried your father&rsquo;s
+dinner in a flagon.&nbsp; There is scarce a house in all my books
+where I have not seemed to see you a thousand times, bending over
+the fireplace or winding up the clock.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And yet you used to be in such a quandary because you
+knew nobody you could make your women-folk out of!&nbsp; Do you
+mind that, and how we both laughed at the notion of your having
+to make them out of me?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I remember.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And now you&rsquo;ve gone back to my father&rsquo;s
+time.&nbsp; It&rsquo;s more than sixty years since I carried his
+dinner in a flagon through the long parks of Kinnordy.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I often go into the long parks, mother, and sit on the
+stile at the edge of the wood till I fancy I see a little girl
+coming toward me with a flagon in her hand.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Jumping the burn (I was once so proud of my jumps!) and
+swinging the flagon round so quick that what was inside hadna
+time to fall out.&nbsp; I used to wear a magenta frock and a
+white pinafore.&nbsp; Did I ever tell you that?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Mother, the little girl in my story wears a magenta
+frock and a white pinafore.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You minded that!&nbsp; But I&rsquo;m thinking it wasna
+a lassie in a pinafore you saw in the long parks of Kinnordy, it
+was just a gey done auld woman.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It was a lassie in a pinafore, mother, when she was far
+away, but when she came near it was a gey done auld
+woman.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;And a fell ugly one!&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;The most beautiful one I shall ever see.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;I wonder to hear you say it.&nbsp; Look at my wrinkled
+auld face.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;It is the sweetest face in all the world.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;See how the rings drop off my poor wasted
+finger.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;There will always be someone nigh, mother, to put them
+on again.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Ay, will there!&nbsp; Well I know it.&nbsp; Do you mind
+how when you were but a bairn you used to say, &ldquo;Wait till
+I&rsquo;m a man, and you&rsquo;ll never have a reason for
+greeting again?&rdquo;&rsquo;</p>
+<p>I remembered.</p>
+<p>&lsquo;You used to come running into the house to say,
+&ldquo;There&rsquo;s a proud dame going down the Marywellbrae in
+a cloak that is black on one side and white on the other; wait
+till I&rsquo;m a man, and you&rsquo;ll have one the very
+same.&rdquo;&nbsp; And when I lay on gey hard beds you said,
+&ldquo;When I&rsquo;m a man you&rsquo;ll lie on
+feathers.&rdquo;&nbsp; You saw nothing bonny, you never heard of
+my setting my heart on anything, but what you flung up your head
+and cried, &ldquo;Wait till I&rsquo;m a man.&rdquo;&nbsp; You
+fair shamed me before the neighbours, and yet I was windy,
+too.&nbsp; And now it has all come true like a dream.&nbsp; I can
+call to mind not one little thing I ettled for in my lusty days
+that hasna been put into my hands in my auld age; I sit here
+useless, surrounded by the gratification of all my wishes and all
+my ambitions, and at times I&rsquo;m near terrified, for
+it&rsquo;s as if God had mista&rsquo;en me for some other
+woman.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>&lsquo;Your hopes and ambitions were so simple,&rsquo; I would
+say, but she did not like that.&nbsp; &lsquo;They werena that
+simple,&rsquo; she would answer, flushing.</p>
+<p>I am reluctant to leave those happy days, but the end must be
+faced, and as I write I seem to see my mother growing smaller and
+her face more wistful, and still she lingers with us, as if God
+had said, &lsquo;Child of mine, your time has come, be not
+afraid.&rsquo;&nbsp; And she was not afraid, but still she
+lingered, and He waited, smiling.&nbsp; I never read any of that
+last book to her; when it was finished she was too heavy with
+years to follow a story.&nbsp; To me this was as if my book must
+go out cold into the world (like all that may come after it from
+me), and my sister, who took more thought for others and less for
+herself than any other human being I have known, saw this, and by
+some means unfathomable to a man coaxed my mother into being once
+again the woman she had been.&nbsp; On a day but three weeks
+before she died my father and I were called softly
+upstairs.&nbsp; My mother was sitting bolt upright, as she loved
+to sit, in her old chair by the window, with a manuscript in her
+hands.&nbsp; But she was looking about her without much
+understanding.&nbsp; &lsquo;Just to please him,&rsquo; my sister
+whispered, and then in a low, trembling voice my mother began to
+read.&nbsp; I looked at my sister.&nbsp; Tears of woe were
+stealing down her face.&nbsp; Soon the reading became very slow
+and stopped.&nbsp; After a pause, &lsquo;There was something you
+were to say to him,&rsquo; my sister reminded her.&nbsp;
+&lsquo;Luck,&rsquo; muttered a voice as from the dead,
+&lsquo;luck.&rsquo;&nbsp; And then the old smile came running to
+her face like a lamp-lighter, and she said to me, &lsquo;I am
+ower far gone to read, but I&rsquo;m thinking I am in it
+again!&rsquo;&nbsp; My father put her Testament in her hands, and
+it fell open&mdash;as it always does&mdash;at the Fourteenth of
+John.&nbsp; She made an effort to read but could not.&nbsp;
+Suddenly she stooped and kissed the broad page.&nbsp; &lsquo;Will
+that do instead?&rsquo; she asked.</p>
+<h2>CHAPTER X&mdash;ART THOU AFRAID HIS POWER SHALL FAIL?</h2>
+<p>For years I had been trying to prepare myself for my
+mother&rsquo;s death, trying to foresee how she would die, seeing
+myself when she was dead.&nbsp; Even then I knew it was a vain
+thing I did, but I am sure there was no morbidness in it.&nbsp; 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&rsquo;s should be round
+her when she died, not my hand but my sister&rsquo;s should close
+her eyes.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; But what I did not foresee
+was that which happened.&nbsp; 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.</p>
+<p>My mother&rsquo;s favourite paraphrase is one known in our
+house as David&rsquo;s because it was the last he learned to
+repeat.&nbsp; It was also the last thing she read&mdash;</p>
+<blockquote><p>Art thou afraid his power shall fail<br />
+When comes thy evil day?<br />
+And can an all-creating arm<br />
+Grow weary or decay?</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>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.</p>
+<p>In those last weeks, though we did not know it, my sister was
+dying on her feet.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll never leave you,
+mother.&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;Fine I know you&rsquo;ll never leave
+me.&rsquo;&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; But I see with a clearer vision now.&nbsp; It is no
+longer the mother but the daughter who is in front, and she
+cries, &lsquo;Mother, you are lingering so long at the end, I
+have ill waiting for you.&rsquo;</p>
+<p>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&rsquo;s room; she never
+complained, save when she had to depart on that walk which
+separated them for half an hour.&nbsp; 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&rsquo;s side.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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&mdash;this one snatched the cup
+jealously from their hands.&nbsp; My mother liked it best from
+her.&nbsp; We all knew this.&nbsp; &lsquo;I like them fine, but I
+canna do without you.&rsquo;&nbsp; My sister, so unselfish in all
+other things, had an unwearying passion for parading it before
+us.&nbsp; It was the rich reward of her life.</p>
+<p>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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; Even my mother, who spoke so calmly to us of
+the coming time, could not mention it to her.&nbsp; 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&rsquo;s eyes, and then my mother would turn away her wet
+face.&nbsp; And still neither said a word, each knew so well what
+was in the other&rsquo;s thoughts, so eloquently they spoke in
+silence, &lsquo;Mother, I am loath to let you go,&rsquo; and
+&lsquo;Oh my daughter, now that my time is near, I wish you
+werena quite so fond of me.&rsquo;&nbsp; But when the daughter
+had slipped away my mother would grip my hand and cry, &lsquo;I
+leave her to you; you see how she has sown, it will depend on you
+how she is to reap.&rsquo;&nbsp; And I made promises, but I
+suppose neither of us saw that she had already reaped.</p>
+<p>In the night my mother might waken and sit up in bed, confused
+by what she saw.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; How
+had she come into this room?&nbsp; When she went to bed last
+night, after preparing her father&rsquo;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?&nbsp;
+There were no rafters; it was a papered ceiling.&nbsp; She had
+often heard of open beds, but how came she to be lying in
+one?&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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,
+&lsquo;That is my father chapping at the door, I maun rise and
+let him in.&rsquo;&nbsp; She seemed to see him&mdash;and it was
+one much younger than herself that she saw&mdash;covered with
+snow, kicking clods of it from his boots, his hands swollen and
+chapped with sand and wet.&nbsp; Then I would hear&mdash;it was a
+common experience of the night&mdash;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, &lsquo;Is anybody
+there?&rsquo; 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.&nbsp; And perhaps the end of it was that my mother came
+to my bedside and said wistfully, &lsquo;Am I an auld
+woman?&rsquo;</p>
+<p>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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; So she had many
+preparations on her mind, and the morning was the time when she
+had any strength to carry them out.&nbsp; To leave her house had
+always been a month&rsquo;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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp;
+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.&nbsp; It had come
+true many times, but never again.&nbsp; 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.</p>
+<p>The morning came when I was to go away.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; But always it was the same scene.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; Nor shall I say more of the
+silent figure in the background, always in the background, always
+near my mother.&nbsp; The last I saw of these two was from the
+gate.&nbsp; They were at the window which never passes from my
+eyes.&nbsp; I could not see my dear sister&rsquo;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.&nbsp; That
+action was an epitome of my sister&rsquo;s life.</p>
+<p>I had been gone a fortnight when the telegram was put into my
+hands.&nbsp; I had got a letter from my sister, a few hours
+before, saying that all was well at home.&nbsp; The telegram said
+in five words that she had died suddenly the previous
+night.&nbsp; There was no mention of my mother, and I was three
+days&rsquo; journey from home.</p>
+<p>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.</p>
+<p>I need not have been such a coward.&nbsp; This is how these
+two died&mdash;for, after all, I was too late by twelve hours to
+see my mother alive.</p>
+<p>Their last night was almost gleeful.&nbsp; In the old days
+that hour before my mother&rsquo;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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; But this night was a
+last gift to my sister.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; How my sister must have been
+rejoicing.&nbsp; Once again she could cry, &lsquo;Was there ever
+such a woman!&rsquo;&nbsp; They tell me that such a happiness was
+on the daughter&rsquo;s face that my mother commented on it, that
+having risen to go they sat down again, fascinated by the
+radiance of these two.&nbsp; And when eventually they went, the
+last words they heard were, &lsquo;They are gone, you see,
+mother, but I am here, I will never leave you,&rsquo; and
+&lsquo;Na, you winna leave me; fine I know that.&rsquo;&nbsp; For
+some time afterwards their voices could be heard from downstairs,
+but what they talked of is not known.&nbsp; And then came
+silence.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; It had been so a thousand times.&nbsp; But that
+night, would I have slipped out again, mind at rest, or should I
+have seen the change coming while they slept?</p>
+<p>Let it be told in the fewest words.&nbsp; My sister awoke next
+morning with a headache.&nbsp; She had always been a martyr to
+headaches, but this one, like many another, seemed to be
+unusually severe.&nbsp; Nevertheless she rose and lit my
+mother&rsquo;s fire and brought up her breakfast, and then had to
+return to bed.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; The doctor was called,
+but she rapidly became unconscious.&nbsp; In this state she was
+removed from my mother&rsquo;s bed to another.&nbsp; It was
+discovered that she was suffering from an internal disease.&nbsp;
+No one had guessed it.&nbsp; She herself never knew.&nbsp;
+Nothing could be done.&nbsp; In this unconsciousness she passed
+away, without knowing that she was leaving her mother.&nbsp; 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,</p>
+<blockquote><p>Art thou afraid His power fail<br />
+When comes thy evil day?</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Ah, you would think so, I should have thought so, but I know
+myself now.&nbsp; When I reached London I did hear how my sister
+died, but still I was afraid.&nbsp; I saw myself in my
+mother&rsquo;s room telling her why the door of the next room was
+locked, and I was afraid.&nbsp; God had done so much, and yet I
+could not look confidently to Him for the little that was left to
+do.&nbsp; &lsquo;O ye of little faith!&rsquo;&nbsp; These are the
+words I seem to hear my mother saying to me now, and she looks at
+me so sorrowfully.</p>
+<p>He did it very easily, and it has ceased to seem marvellous to
+me because it was so plainly His doing.&nbsp; My timid mother saw
+the one who was never to leave her carried unconscious from the
+room, and she did not break down.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; But I am sure they need not have been so
+anxious.&nbsp; There are mysteries in life and death, but this
+was not one of them.&nbsp; A child can understand what
+happened.&nbsp; God said that my sister must come first, but He
+put His hand on my mother&rsquo;s eyes at that moment and she was
+altered.</p>
+<p>They told her that I was on my way home, and she said with a
+confident smile, &lsquo;He will come as quick as trains can bring
+him.&rsquo;&nbsp; That is my reward, that is what I have got for
+my books.&nbsp; 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.</p>
+<p>They were buried together on my mother&rsquo;s seventy-sixth
+birthday, though there had been three days between their
+deaths.&nbsp; On the last day, my mother insisted on rising from
+bed and going through the house.&nbsp; 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, &lsquo;The
+beautiful rows upon rows of books, ant he said every one of them
+was mine, all mine!&rsquo; and in the east room, which was her
+greatest triumph, she said caressingly, &lsquo;My nain bonny
+room!&rsquo;&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; Once she said eagerly, &lsquo;Is that you,
+David?&rsquo; and again she thought she heard her father knocking
+the snow off his boots.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; Suddenly she said,
+&lsquo;Wha&rsquo;s bairn&rsquo;s dead? is a bairn of mine
+dead?&rsquo; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; And yet it
+was a very commonplace name.</p>
+<p>They knew now that she was dying.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp;
+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.&nbsp; They only caught the words now and again, and the
+last they heard were &lsquo;God&rsquo; and
+&lsquo;love.&rsquo;&nbsp; I think God was smiling when He took
+her to Him, as He had so often smiled at her during those
+seventy-six years.</p>
+<p>I saw her lying dead, and her face was beautiful and
+serene.&nbsp; But it was the other room I entered first, and it
+was by my sister&rsquo;s side that I fell upon my knees.&nbsp;
+The rounded completeness of a woman&rsquo;s life that was my
+mother&rsquo;s had not been for her.&nbsp; She would not have it
+at the price.&nbsp; &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll never leave you,
+mother.&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;Fine I know you&rsquo;ll never leave
+me.&rsquo;&nbsp; The fierce joy of loving too much, it is a
+terrible thing.&nbsp; My sister&rsquo;s mouth was firmly closed,
+as if she had got her way.</p>
+<p>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.&nbsp; 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&rsquo;s skirt and crying, &lsquo;Wait till I&rsquo;m a
+man, and you&rsquo;ll lie on feathers,&rsquo; 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&rsquo;s dinner in a flagon.</p>
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<p style="text-align: center">THE END</p>
+<div class="gapspace">&nbsp;</div>
+<div class="gapshortline">&nbsp;</div>
+<p style="text-align: center">Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE<br
+/>
+Printers to Her Majesty</p>
+<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGARET OGILVY***</p>
+<pre>
+
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+</html>
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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, Margaret Ogilvy, by J. M. Barrie
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: Margaret Ogilvy
+       by her son
+
+
+Author: J. M. Barrie
+
+
+
+Release Date: October 21, 2010  [eBook #342]
+First Posted: October 23, 1995
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGARET OGILVY***
+
+
+Transcribed from the 1897 Chatto & Windus edition by David Price, email
+ccx074@pglaf.org
+
+                  [Picture: Picture of Margaret Ogilvy]
+
+
+
+
+
+                             MARGARET OGILVY
+
+
+                                BY HER SON
+
+                               J. M. BARRIE
+
+                            [Picture: Graphic]
+
+                             _Second Edition_
+                     _Completing Twentieth Thousand_
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                                  LONDON
+                           HODDER AND STOUGHTON
+                            27 PATERNOSTER ROW
+                                   1897
+
+                                    TO
+                              THE MEMORY OF
+                                MY SISTER
+                                 JANE ANN
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I--HOW MY MOTHER GOT HER SOFT FACE
+
+
+On the day I was born we bought six hair-bottomed chairs, and in our
+little house it was an event, the first great victory in a woman's long
+campaign; how they had been laboured for, the pound-note and the thirty
+threepenny-bits they cost, what anxiety there was about the purchase, the
+show they made in possession of the west room, my father's unnatural
+coolness when he brought them in (but his face was white)--I so often
+heard the tale afterwards, and shared as boy and man in so many similar
+triumphs, that the coming of the chairs seems to be something I remember,
+as if I had jumped out of bed on that first day, and run ben to see how
+they looked.  I am sure my mother's feet were ettling to be ben long
+before they could be trusted, and that the moment after she was left
+alone with me she was discovered barefooted in the west room, doctoring a
+scar (which she had been the first to detect) on one of the chairs, or
+sitting on them regally, or withdrawing and re-opening the door suddenly
+to take the six by surprise.  And then, I think, a shawl was flung over
+her (it is strange to me to think it was not I who ran after her with the
+shawl), and she was escorted sternly back to bed and reminded that she
+had promised not to budge, to which her reply was probably that she had
+been gone but an instant, and the implication that therefore she had not
+been gone at all.  Thus was one little bit of her revealed to me at once:
+I wonder if I took note of it.  Neighbours came in to see the boy and the
+chairs.  I wonder if she deceived me when she affected to think that
+there were others like us, or whether I saw through her from the first,
+she was so easily seen through.  When she seemed to agree with them that
+it would be impossible to give me a college education, was I so easily
+taken in, or did I know already what ambitions burned behind that dear
+face? when they spoke of the chairs as the goal quickly reached, was I
+such a newcomer that her timid lips must say 'They are but a beginning'
+before I heard the words?  And when we were left together, did I laugh at
+the great things that were in her mind, or had she to whisper them to me
+first, and then did I put my arm round her and tell her that I would
+help?  Thus it was for such a long time: it is strange to me to feel that
+it was not so from the beginning.
+
+It is all guess-work for six years, and she whom I see in them is the
+woman who came suddenly into view when they were at an end.  Her timid
+lips I have said, but they were not timid then, and when I knew her the
+timid lips had come.  The soft face--they say the face was not so soft
+then.  The shawl that was flung over her--we had not begun to hunt her
+with a shawl, nor to make our bodies a screen between her and the
+draughts, nor to creep into her room a score of times in the night to
+stand looking at her as she slept.  We did not see her becoming little
+then, nor sharply turn our heads when she said wonderingly how small her
+arms had grown.  In her happiest moments--and never was a happier
+woman--her mouth did not of a sudden begin to twitch, and tears to lie on
+the mute blue eyes in which I have read all I know and would ever care to
+write.  For when you looked into my mother's eyes you knew, as if He had
+told you, why God sent her into the world--it was to open the minds of
+all who looked to beautiful thoughts.  And that is the beginning and end
+of literature.  Those eyes that I cannot see until I was six years old
+have guided me through life, and I pray God they may remain my only
+earthly judge to the last.  They were never more my guide than when I
+helped to put her to earth, not whimpering because my mother had been
+taken away after seventy-six glorious years of life, but exulting in her
+even at the grave.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+She had a son who was far away at school.  I remember very little about
+him, only that he was a merry-faced boy who ran like a squirrel up a tree
+and shook the cherries into my lap.  When he was thirteen and I was half
+his age the terrible news came, and I have been told the face of my
+mother was awful in its calmness as she set off to get between Death and
+her boy.  We trooped with her down the brae to the wooden station, and I
+think I was envying her the journey in the mysterious wagons; I know we
+played around her, proud of our right to be there, but I do not recall
+it, I only speak from hearsay.  Her ticket was taken, she had bidden us
+good-bye with that fighting face which I cannot see, and then my father
+came out of the telegraph-office and said huskily, 'He's gone!'  Then we
+turned very quietly and went home again up the little brae.  But I speak
+from hearsay no longer; I knew my mother for ever now.
+
+That is how she got her soft face and her pathetic ways and her large
+charity, and why other mothers ran to her when they had lost a child.
+'Dinna greet, poor Janet,' she would say to them; and they would answer,
+'Ah, Margaret, but you're greeting yoursel.'  Margaret Ogilvy had been
+her maiden name, and after the Scotch custom she was still Margaret
+Ogilvy to her old friends.  Margaret Ogilvy I loved to name her.  Often
+when I was a boy, 'Margaret Ogilvy, are you there?'  I would call up the
+stair.
+
+She was always delicate from that hour, and for many months she was very
+ill.  I have heard that the first thing she expressed a wish to see was
+the christening robe, and she looked long at it and then turned her face
+to the wall.  That was what made me as a boy think of it always as the
+robe in which he was christened, but I knew later that we had all been
+christened in it, from the oldest of the family to the youngest, between
+whom stood twenty years.  Hundreds of other children were christened in
+it also, such robes being then a rare possession, and the lending of ours
+among my mother's glories.  It was carried carefully from house to house,
+as if it were itself a child; my mother made much of it, smoothed it out,
+petted it, smiled to it before putting it into the arms of those to whom
+it was being lent; she was in our pew to see it borne magnificently
+(something inside it now) down the aisle to the pulpit-side, when a stir
+of expectancy went through the church and we kicked each other's feet
+beneath the book-board but were reverent in the face; and however the
+child might behave, laughing brazenly or skirling to its mother's shame,
+and whatever the father as he held it up might do, look doited probably
+and bow at the wrong time, the christening robe of long experience helped
+them through.  And when it was brought back to her she took it in her
+arms as softly as if it might be asleep, and unconsciously pressed it to
+her breast: there was never anything in the house that spoke to her quite
+so eloquently as that little white robe; it was the one of her children
+that always remained a baby.  And she had not made it herself, which was
+the most wonderful thing about it to me, for she seemed to have made all
+other things.  All the clothes in the house were of her making, and you
+don't know her in the least if you think they were out of the fashion;
+she turned them and made them new again, she beat them and made them new
+again, and then she coaxed them into being new again just for the last
+time, she let them out and took them in and put on new braid, and added a
+piece up the back, and thus they passed from one member of the family to
+another until they reached the youngest, and even when we were done with
+them they reappeared as something else.  In the fashion!  I must come
+back to this.  Never was a woman with such an eye for it.  She had no
+fashion-plates; she did not need them.  The minister's wife (a cloak),
+the banker's daughters (the new sleeve)--they had but to pass our window
+once, and the scalp, so to speak, was in my mother's hands.  Observe her
+rushing, scissors in hand, thread in mouth, to the drawers where her
+daughters' Sabbath clothes were kept.  Or go to church next Sunday, and
+watch a certain family filing in, the boy lifting his legs high to show
+off his new boots, but all the others demure, especially the timid,
+unobservant-looking little woman in the rear of them.  If you were the
+minister's wife that day or the banker's daughters you would have got a
+shock.  But she bought the christening robe, and when I used to ask why,
+she would beam and look conscious, and say she wanted to be extravagant
+once.  And she told me, still smiling, that the more a woman was given to
+stitching and making things for herself, the greater was her passionate
+desire now and again to rush to the shops and 'be foolish.'  The
+christening robe with its pathetic frills is over half a century old now,
+and has begun to droop a little, like a daisy whose time is past; but it
+is as fondly kept together as ever: I saw it in use again only the other
+day.
+
+My mother lay in bed with the christening robe beside her, and I peeped
+in many times at the door and then went to the stair and sat on it and
+sobbed.  I know not if it was that first day, or many days afterwards,
+that there came to me, my sister, the daughter my mother loved the best;
+yes, more I am sure even than she loved me, whose great glory she has
+been since I was six years old.  This sister, who was then passing out of
+her 'teens, came to me with a very anxious face and wringing her hands,
+and she told me to go ben to my mother and say to her that she still had
+another boy.  I went ben excitedly, but the room was dark, and when I
+heard the door shut and no sound come from the bed I was afraid, and I
+stood still.  I suppose I was breathing hard, or perhaps I was crying,
+for after a time I heard a listless voice that had never been listless
+before say, 'Is that you?'  I think the tone hurt me, for I made no
+answer, and then the voice said more anxiously 'Is that you?' again.  I
+thought it was the dead boy she was speaking to, and I said in a little
+lonely voice, 'No, it's no him, it's just me.'  Then I heard a cry, and
+my mother turned in bed, and though it was dark I knew that she was
+holding out her arms.
+
+After that I sat a great deal in her bed trying to make her forget him,
+which was my crafty way of playing physician, and if I saw any one out of
+doors do something that made the others laugh I immediately hastened to
+that dark room and did it before her.  I suppose I was an odd little
+figure; I have been told that my anxiety to brighten her gave my face a
+strained look and put a tremor into the joke (I would stand on my head in
+the bed, my feet against the wall, and then cry excitedly, 'Are you
+laughing, mother?')--and perhaps what made her laugh was something I was
+unconscious of, but she did laugh suddenly now and then, whereupon I
+screamed exultantly to that dear sister, who was ever in waiting, to come
+and see the sight, but by the time she came the soft face was wet again.
+Thus I was deprived of some of my glory, and I remember once only making
+her laugh before witnesses.  I kept a record of her laughs on a piece of
+paper, a stroke for each, and it was my custom to show this proudly to
+the doctor every morning.  There were five strokes the first time I
+slipped it into his hand, and when their meaning was explained to him he
+laughed so boisterously, that I cried, 'I wish that was one of hers!'
+Then he was sympathetic, and asked me if my mother had seen the paper
+yet, and when I shook my head he said that if I showed it to her now and
+told her that these were her five laughs he thought I might win another.
+I had less confidence, but he was the mysterious man whom you ran for in
+the dead of night (you flung sand at his window to waken him, and if it
+was only toothache he extracted the tooth through the open window, but
+when it was something sterner he was with you in the dark square at once,
+like a man who slept in his topcoat), so I did as he bade me, and not
+only did she laugh then but again when I put the laugh down, so that
+though it was really one laugh with a tear in the middle I counted it as
+two.
+
+It was doubtless that same sister who told me not to sulk when my mother
+lay thinking of him, but to try instead to get her to talk about him.  I
+did not see how this could make her the merry mother she used to be, but
+I was told that if I could not do it nobody could, and this made me eager
+to begin.  At first, they say, I was often jealous, stopping her fond
+memories with the cry, 'Do you mind nothing about me?' but that did not
+last; its place was taken by an intense desire (again, I think, my sister
+must have breathed it into life) to become so like him that even my
+mother should not see the difference, and many and artful were the
+questions I put to that end.  Then I practised in secret, but after a
+whole week had passed I was still rather like myself.  He had such a
+cheery way of whistling, she had told me, it had always brightened her at
+her work to hear him whistling, and when he whistled he stood with his
+legs apart, and his hands in the pockets of his knickerbockers.  I
+decided to trust to this, so one day after I had learned his whistle
+(every boy of enterprise invents a whistle of his own) from boys who had
+been his comrades, I secretly put on a suit of his clothes, dark grey
+they were, with little spots, and they fitted me many years afterwards,
+and thus disguised I slipped, unknown to the others, into my mother's
+room.  Quaking, I doubt not, yet so pleased, I stood still until she saw
+me, and then--how it must have hurt her!  'Listen!' I cried in a glow of
+triumph, and I stretched my legs wide apart and plunged my hands into the
+pockets of my knickerbockers, and began to whistle.
+
+She lived twenty-nine years after his death, such active years until
+toward the end, that you never knew where she was unless you took hold of
+her, and though she was frail henceforth and ever growing frailer, her
+housekeeping again became famous, so that brides called as a matter of
+course to watch her ca'ming and sanding and stitching: there are old
+people still, one or two, to tell with wonder in their eyes how she could
+bake twenty-four bannocks in the hour, and not a chip in one of them.
+And how many she gave away, how much she gave away of all she had, and
+what pretty ways she had of giving it!  Her face beamed and rippled with
+mirth as before, and her laugh that I had tried so hard to force came
+running home again.  I have heard no such laugh as hers save from merry
+children; the laughter of most of us ages, and wears out with the body,
+but hers remained gleeful to the last, as if it were born afresh every
+morning.  There was always something of the child in her, and her laugh
+was its voice, as eloquent of the past to me as was the christening robe
+to her.  But I had not made her forget the bit of her that was dead; in
+those nine-and-twenty years he was not removed one day farther from her.
+Many a time she fell asleep speaking to him, and even while she slept her
+lips moved and she smiled as if he had come back to her, and when she
+woke he might vanish so suddenly that she started up bewildered and
+looked about her, and then said slowly, 'My David's dead!' or perhaps he
+remained long enough to whisper why he must leave her now, and then she
+lay silent with filmy eyes.  When I became a man and he was still a boy
+of thirteen, I wrote a little paper called 'Dead this Twenty Years,'
+which was about a similar tragedy in another woman's life, and it is the
+only thing I have written that she never spoke about, not even to that
+daughter she loved the best.  No one ever spoke of it to her, or asked
+her if she had read it: one does not ask a mother if she knows that there
+is a little coffin in the house.  She read many times the book in which
+it is printed, but when she came to that chapter she would put her hands
+to her heart or even over her ears.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II--WHAT SHE HAD BEEN
+
+
+What she had been, what I should be, these were the two great subjects
+between us in my boyhood, and while we discussed the one we were deciding
+the other, though neither of us knew it.
+
+Before I reached my tenth year a giant entered my native place in the
+night, and we woke to find him in possession.  He transformed it into a
+new town at a rate with which we boys only could keep up, for as fast as
+he built dams we made rafts to sail in them; he knocked down houses, and
+there we were crying 'Pilly!' among the ruins; he dug trenches, and we
+jumped them; we had to be dragged by the legs from beneath his engines,
+he sunk wells, and in we went.  But though there were never circumstances
+to which boys could not adapt themselves in half an hour, older folk are
+slower in the uptake, and I am sure they stood and gaped at the changes
+so suddenly being worked in our midst, and scarce knew their way home now
+in the dark.  Where had been formerly but the click of the shuttle was
+soon the roar of 'power,' handlooms were pushed into a corner as a room
+is cleared for a dance; every morning at half-past five the town was
+wakened with a yell, and from a chimney-stack that rose high into our
+caller air the conqueror waved for evermore his flag of smoke.  Another
+era had dawned, new customs, new fashions sprang into life, all as lusty
+as if they had been born at twenty-one; as quickly as two people may
+exchange seats, the daughter, till now but a knitter of stockings, became
+the breadwinner, he who had been the breadwinner sat down to the knitting
+of stockings: what had been yesterday a nest of weavers was to-day a town
+of girls.
+
+I am not of those who would fling stones at the change; it is something,
+surely, that backs are no longer prematurely bent; you may no more look
+through dim panes of glass at the aged poor weaving tremulously for their
+little bit of ground in the cemetery.  Rather are their working years too
+few now, not because they will it so but because it is with youth that
+the power-looms must be fed.  Well, this teaches them to make provision,
+and they have the means as they never had before.  Not in batches are
+boys now sent to college; the half-dozen a year have dwindled to one,
+doubtless because in these days they can begin to draw wages as they step
+out of their fourteenth year.  Here assuredly there is loss, but all the
+losses would be but a pebble in a sea of gain were it not for this, that
+with so many of the family, young mothers among them, working in the
+factories, home life is not so beautiful as it was.  So much of what is
+great in Scotland has sprung from the closeness of the family ties; it is
+there I sometimes fear that my country is being struck.  That we are all
+being reduced to one dead level, that character abounds no more and life
+itself is less interesting, such things I have read, but I do not believe
+them.  I have even seen them given as my reason for writing of a past
+time, and in that at least there is no truth.  In our little town, which
+is a sample of many, life is as interesting, as pathetic, as joyous as
+ever it was; no group of weavers was better to look at or think about
+than the rivulet of winsome girls that overruns our streets every time
+the sluice is raised, the comedy of summer evenings and winter firesides
+is played with the old zest and every window-blind is the curtain of a
+romance.  Once the lights of a little town are lit, who could ever hope
+to tell all its story, or the story of a single wynd in it?  And who
+looking at lighted windows needs to turn to books?  The reason my books
+deal with the past instead of with the life I myself have known is simply
+this, that I soon grow tired of writing tales unless I can see a little
+girl, of whom my mother has told me, wandering confidently through the
+pages.  Such a grip has her memory of her girlhood had upon me since I
+was a boy of six.
+
+Those innumerable talks with her made her youth as vivid to me as my own,
+and so much more quaint, for, to a child, the oddest of things, and the
+most richly coloured picture-book, is that his mother was once a child
+also, and the contrast between what she is and what she was is perhaps
+the source of all humour.  My mother's father, the one hero of her life,
+died nine years before I was born, and I remember this with bewilderment,
+so familiarly does the weather-beaten mason's figure rise before me from
+the old chair on which I was nursed and now write my books.  On the
+surface he is as hard as the stone on which he chiselled, and his face is
+dyed red by its dust, he is rounded in the shoulders and a 'hoast' hunts
+him ever; sooner or later that cough must carry him off, but until then
+it shall not keep him from the quarry, nor shall his chapped hands, as
+long as they can grasp the mell.  It is a night of rain or snow, and my
+mother, the little girl in a pinafore who is already his housekeeper, has
+been many times to the door to look for him.  At last he draws nigh,
+hoasting.  Or I see him setting off to church, for he was a great 'stoop'
+of the Auld Licht kirk, and his mouth is very firm now as if there were a
+case of discipline to face, but on his way home he is bowed with pity.
+Perhaps his little daughter who saw him so stern an hour ago does not
+understand why he wrestles so long in prayer to-night, or why when he
+rises from his knees he presses her to him with unwonted tenderness.  Or
+he is in this chair repeating to her his favourite poem, 'The
+Cameronian's Dream,' and at the first lines so solemnly uttered,
+
+    'In a dream of the night I was wafted away,'
+
+she screams with excitement, just as I screamed long afterwards when she
+repeated them in his voice to me.  Or I watch, as from a window, while
+she sets off through the long parks to the distant place where he is at
+work, in her hand a flagon which contains his dinner.  She is singing to
+herself and gleefully swinging the flagon, she jumps the burn and proudly
+measures the jump with her eye, but she never dallies unless she meets a
+baby, for she was so fond of babies that she must hug each one she met,
+but while she hugged them she also noted how their robes were cut, and
+afterwards made paper patterns, which she concealed jealously, and in the
+fulness of time her first robe for her eldest born was fashioned from one
+of these patterns, made when she was in her twelfth year.
+
+She was eight when her mother's death made her mistress of the house and
+mother to her little brother, and from that time she scrubbed and mended
+and baked and sewed, and argued with the flesher about the quarter pound
+of beef and penny bone which provided dinner for two days (but if you
+think that this was poverty you don't know the meaning of the word), and
+she carried the water from the pump, and had her washing-days and her
+ironings and a stocking always on the wire for odd moments, and gossiped
+like a matron with the other women, and humoured the men with a tolerant
+smile--all these things she did as a matter of course, leaping joyful
+from bed in the morning because there was so much to do, doing it as
+thoroughly and sedately as if the brides were already due for a lesson,
+and then rushing out in a fit of childishness to play dumps or palaulays
+with others of her age.  I see her frocks lengthening, though they were
+never very short, and the games given reluctantly up. The horror of my
+boyhood was that I knew a time would come when I also must give up the
+games, and how it was to be done I saw not (this agony still returns to
+me in dreams, when I catch myself playing marbles, and look on with cold
+displeasure); I felt that I must continue playing in secret, and I took
+this shadow to her, when she told me her own experience, which convinced
+us both that we were very like each other inside.  She had discovered
+that work is the best fun after all, and I learned it in time, but have
+my lapses, and so had she.
+
+I know what was her favourite costume when she was at the age that they
+make heroines of: it was a pale blue with a pale blue bonnet, the white
+ribbons of which tied aggravatingly beneath the chin, and when questioned
+about this garb she never admitted that she looked pretty in it, but she
+did say, with blushes too, that blue was her colour, and then she might
+smile, as at some memory, and begin to tell us about a man who--but it
+ended there with another smile which was longer in departing.  She never
+said, indeed she denied strenuously, that she had led the men a dance,
+but again the smile returned, and came between us and full belief.  Yes,
+she had her little vanities; when she got the Mizpah ring she did carry
+that finger in such a way that the most reluctant must see.  She was very
+particular about her gloves, and hid her boots so that no other should
+put them on, and then she forgot their hiding-place, and had suspicions
+of the one who found them.  A good way of enraging her was to say that
+her last year's bonnet would do for this year without alteration, or that
+it would defy the face of clay to count the number of her shawls.  In one
+of my books there is a mother who is setting off with her son for the
+town to which he had been called as minister, and she pauses on the
+threshold to ask him anxiously if he thinks her bonnet 'sets' her.  A
+reviewer said she acted thus, not because she cared how she looked, but
+for the sake of her son.  This, I remember, amused my mother very much.
+
+I have seen many weary on-dings of snow, but the one I seem to recollect
+best occurred nearly twenty years before I was born.  It was at the time
+of my mother's marriage to one who proved a most loving as he was always
+a well-loved husband, a man I am very proud to be able to call my father.
+I know not for how many days the snow had been falling, but a day came
+when the people lost heart and would make no more gullies through it, and
+by next morning to do so was impossible, they could not fling the snow
+high enough.  Its back was against every door when Sunday came, and none
+ventured out save a valiant few, who buffeted their way into my mother's
+home to discuss her predicament, for unless she was 'cried' in the church
+that day she might not be married for another week, and how could she be
+cried with the minister a field away and the church buried to the waist?
+For hours they talked, and at last some men started for the church, which
+was several hundred yards distant.  Three of them found a window, and
+forcing a passage through it, cried the pair, and that is how it came
+about that my father and mother were married on the first of March.
+
+That would be the end, I suppose, if it were a story, but to my mother it
+was only another beginning, and not the last.  I see her bending over the
+cradle of her first-born, college for him already in her eye (and my
+father not less ambitious), and anon it is a girl who is in the cradle,
+and then another girl--already a tragic figure to those who know the end.
+I wonder if any instinct told my mother that the great day of her life
+was when she bore this child; what I am sure of is that from the first
+the child followed her with the most wistful eyes and saw how she needed
+help and longed to rise and give it.  For of physical strength my mother
+had never very much; it was her spirit that got through the work, and in
+those days she was often so ill that the sand rained on the doctor's
+window, and men ran to and fro with leeches, and 'she is in life, we can
+say no more' was the information for those who came knocking at the door.
+'I am sorrow to say,' her father writes in an old letter now before me,
+'that Margaret is in a state that she was never so bad before in this
+world.  Till Wednesday night she was in as poor a condition as you could
+think of to be alive.  However, after bleeding, leeching, etc., the Dr.
+says this morning that he is better hoped now, but at present we can say
+no more but only she is alive and in the hands of Him in whose hands all
+our lives are.  I can give you no adequate view of what my feelings are,
+indeed they are a burden too heavy for me and I cannot describe them.  I
+look on my right and left hand and find no comfort, and if it were not
+for the rock that is higher than I my spirit would utterly fall, but
+blessed be His name who can comfort those that are cast down.  O for more
+faith in His supporting grace in this hour of trial.'
+
+Then she is 'on the mend,' she may 'thole thro'' if they take great care
+of her, 'which we will be forward to do.'  The fourth child dies when but
+a few weeks old, and the next at two years.  She was her grandfather's
+companion, and thus he wrote of her death, this stern, self-educated Auld
+Licht with the chapped hands:--
+
+    'I hope you received my last in which I spoke of Dear little Lydia
+    being unwell.  Now with deep sorrow I must tell you that yesterday I
+    assisted in laying her dear remains in the lonely grave.  She died at
+    7 o'clock on Wednesday evening, I suppose by the time you had got the
+    letter.  The Dr. did not think it was croup till late on Tuesday
+    night, and all that Medical aid could prescribe was done, but the Dr.
+    had no hope after he saw that the croup was confirmed, and hard
+    indeed would the heart have been that would not have melted at seeing
+    what the dear little creature suffered all Wednesday until the feeble
+    frame was quite worn out.  She was quite sensible till within 2 hours
+    of her death, and then she sunk quite low till the vital spark fled,
+    and all medicine that she got she took with the greatest readiness,
+    as if apprehensive they would make her well.  I cannot well describe
+    my feelings on the occasion.  I thought that the fountain-head of my
+    tears had now been dried up, but I have been mistaken, for I must
+    confess that the briny rivulets descended fast on my furrowed cheeks,
+    she was such a winning Child, and had such a regard for me and always
+    came and told me all her little things, and as she was now speaking,
+    some of her little prattle was very taking, and the lively images of
+    these things intrude themselves more into my mind than they should
+    do, but there is allowance for moderate grief on such occasions.  But
+    when I am telling you of my own grief and sorrow, I know not what to
+    say of the bereaved Mother, she hath not met with anything in this
+    world before that hath gone so near the quick with her.  She had no
+    handling of the last one as she was not able at the time, for she
+    only had her once in her arms, and her affections had not time to be
+    so fairly entwined around her.  I am much afraid that she will not
+    soon if ever get over this trial.  Although she was weakly before,
+    yet she was pretty well recovered, but this hath not only affected
+    her mind, but her body is so much affected that she is not well able
+    to sit so long as her bed is making and hath scarcely tasted meat
+    [i.e. food] since Monday night, and till some time is elapsed we
+    cannot say how she may be.  There is none that is not a Parent
+    themselves that can fully sympathise with one in such a state.  David
+    is much affected also, but it is not so well known on him, and the
+    younger branches of the family are affected but it will be only
+    momentary.  But alas in all this vast ado, there is only the sorrow
+    of the world which worketh death.  O how gladdening would it be if we
+    were in as great bitterness for sin as for the loss of a first-born.
+    O how unfitted persons or families is for trials who knows not the
+    divine art of casting all their cares upon the Lord, and what
+    multitudes are there that when earthly comforts is taken away, may
+    well say What have I more? all their delight is placed in some one
+    thing or another in the world, and who can blame them for unwillingly
+    parting with what they esteem their chief good?  O that we were wise
+    to lay up treasure for the time of need, for it is truly a solemn
+    affair to enter the lists with the king of terrors.  It is strange
+    that the living lay the things so little to heart until they have to
+    engage in that war where there is no discharge.  O that my head were
+    waters and mine eyes a fountain of tears that I might weep day and
+    night for my own and others' stupidity in this great matter.  O for
+    grace to do every day work in its proper time and to live above the
+    tempting cheating train of earthly things.  The rest of the family
+    are moderately well.  I have been for some days worse than I have
+    been for 8 months past, but I may soon get better.  I am in the same
+    way I have often been in before, but there is no security for it
+    always being so, for I know that it cannot be far from the time when
+    I will be one of those that once were.  I have no other news to send
+    you, and as little heart for them.  I hope you will take the earliest
+    opportunity of writing that you can, and be particular as regards
+    Margaret, for she requires consolation.'
+
+He died exactly a week after writing this letter, but my mother was to
+live for another forty-four years.  And joys of a kind never shared in by
+him were to come to her so abundantly, so long drawn out that, strange as
+it would have seemed to him to know it, her fuller life had scarce yet
+begun.  And with the joys were to come their sweet, frightened comrades
+pain and grief; again she was to be touched to the quick, again and again
+to be so ill that 'she is in life, we can say no more,' but still she had
+attendants very 'forward' to help her, some of them unborn in her
+father's time.
+
+She told me everything, and so my memories of our little red town are
+coloured by her memories.  I knew it as it had been for generations, and
+suddenly I saw it change, and the transformation could not fail to strike
+a boy, for these first years are the most impressionable (nothing that
+happens after we are twelve matters very much); they are also the most
+vivid years when we look back, and more vivid the farther we have to
+look, until, at the end, what lies between bends like a hoop, and the
+extremes meet.  But though the new town is to me a glass through which I
+look at the old, the people I see passing up and down these wynds,
+sitting, nightcapped, on their barrow-shafts, hobbling in their blacks to
+church on Sunday, are less those I saw in my childhood than their fathers
+and mothers who did these things in the same way when my mother was
+young.  I cannot picture the place without seeing her, as a little girl,
+come to the door of a certain house and beat her bass against the
+gav'le-end, or there is a wedding to-night, and the carriage with the
+white-eared horse is sent for a maiden in pale blue, whose bonnet-strings
+tie beneath the chin.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III--WHAT I SHOULD BE
+
+
+My mother was a great reader, and with ten minutes to spare before the
+starch was ready would begin the 'Decline and Fall'--and finish it, too,
+that winter.  Foreign words in the text annoyed her and made her bemoan
+her want of a classical education--she had only attended a Dame's school
+during some easy months--but she never passed the foreign words by until
+their meaning was explained to her, and when next she and they met it was
+as acquaintances, which I think was clever of her.  One of her delights
+was to learn from me scraps of Horace, and then bring them into her
+conversation with 'colleged men.'  I have come upon her in lonely places,
+such as the stair-head or the east room, muttering these quotations aloud
+to herself, and I well remember how she would say to the visitors, 'Ay,
+ay, it's very true, Doctor, but as you know, "Eheu fugaces, Postume,
+Postume, labuntur anni,"' or 'Sal, Mr. So-and-so, my lassie is thriving
+well, but would it no' be more to the point to say, "O matra pulchra
+filia pulchrior"?' which astounded them very much if she managed to reach
+the end without being flung, but usually she had a fit of laughing in the
+middle, and so they found her out.
+
+Biography and exploration were her favourite reading, for choice the
+biography of men who had been good to their mothers, and she liked the
+explorers to be alive so that she could shudder at the thought of their
+venturing forth again; but though she expressed a hope that they would
+have the sense to stay at home henceforth, she gleamed with admiration
+when they disappointed her.  In later days I had a friend who was an
+African explorer, and she was in two minds about him; he was one of the
+most engrossing of mortals to her, she admired him prodigiously, pictured
+him at the head of his caravan, now attacked by savages, now by wild
+beasts, and adored him for the uneasy hours he gave her, but she was also
+afraid that he wanted to take me with him, and then she thought he should
+be put down by law.  Explorers' mothers also interested her very much;
+the books might tell her nothing about them, but she could create them
+for herself and wring her hands in sympathy with them when they had got
+no news of him for six months.  Yet there were times when she grudged him
+to them--as the day when he returned victorious.  Then what was before
+her eyes was not the son coming marching home again but an old woman
+peering for him round the window curtain and trying not to look uplifted.
+The newspaper reports would be about the son, but my mother's comment was
+'She's a proud woman this night.'
+
+We read many books together when I was a boy, 'Robinson Crusoe' being the
+first (and the second), and the 'Arabian Nights' should have been the
+next, for we got it out of the library (a penny for three days), but on
+discovering that they were nights when we had paid for knights we sent
+that volume packing, and I have curled my lips at it ever since.  'The
+Pilgrim's Progress' we had in the house (it was as common a possession as
+a dresser-head), and so enamoured of it was I that I turned our garden
+into sloughs of Despond, with pea-sticks to represent Christian on his
+travels and a buffet-stool for his burden, but when I dragged my mother
+out to see my handiwork she was scared, and I felt for days, with a
+certain elation, that I had been a dark character.  Besides reading every
+book we could hire or borrow I also bought one now and again, and while
+buying (it was the occupation of weeks) I read, standing at the counter,
+most of the other books in the shop, which is perhaps the most exquisite
+way of reading.  And I took in a magazine called 'Sunshine,' the most
+delicious periodical, I am sure, of any day.  It cost a halfpenny or a
+penny a month, and always, as I fondly remember, had a continued tale
+about the dearest girl, who sold water-cress, which is a dainty not grown
+and I suppose never seen in my native town.  This romantic little
+creature took such hold of my imagination that I cannot eat water-cress
+even now without emotion.  I lay in bed wondering what she would be up to
+in the next number; I have lost trout because when they nibbled my mind
+was wandering with her; my early life was embittered by her not arriving
+regularly on the first of the month.  I know not whether it was owing to
+her loitering on the way one month to an extent flesh and blood could not
+bear, or because we had exhausted the penny library, but on a day I
+conceived a glorious idea, or it was put into my head by my mother, then
+desirous of making progress with her new clouty hearthrug.  The notion
+was nothing short of this, why should I not write the tales myself?  I
+did write them--in the garret--but they by no means helped her to get on
+with her work, for when I finished a chapter I bounded downstairs to read
+it to her, and so short were the chapters, so ready was the pen, that I
+was back with new manuscript before another clout had been added to the
+rug.  Authorship seemed, like her bannock-baking, to consist of running
+between two points.  They were all tales of adventure (happiest is he who
+writes of adventure), no characters were allowed within if I knew their
+like in the flesh, the scene lay in unknown parts, desert islands,
+enchanted gardens, with knights (none of your nights) on black chargers,
+and round the first corner a lady selling water-cress.
+
+At twelve or thereabout I put the literary calling to bed for a time,
+having gone to a school where cricket and football were more esteemed,
+but during the year before I went to the university, it woke up and I
+wrote great part of a three-volume novel.  The publisher replied that the
+sum for which he would print it was a hundred and--however, that was not
+the important point (I had sixpence): where he stabbed us both was in
+writing that he considered me a 'clever lady.'  I replied stiffly that I
+was a gentleman, and since then I have kept that manuscript concealed.  I
+looked through it lately, and, oh, but it is dull!  I defy any one to
+read it.
+
+The malignancy of publishers, however, could not turn me back.  From the
+day on which I first tasted blood in the garret my mind was made up;
+there could be no hum-dreadful-drum profession for me; literature was my
+game.  It was not highly thought of by those who wished me well.  I
+remember being asked by two maiden ladies, about the time I left the
+university, what I was to be, and when I replied brazenly, 'An author,'
+they flung up their hands, and one exclaimed reproachfully, 'And you an
+M.A.!'  My mother's views at first were not dissimilar; for long she took
+mine jestingly as something I would grow out of, and afterwards they hurt
+her so that I tried to give them up.  To be a minister--that she thought
+was among the fairest prospects, but she was a very ambitious woman, and
+sometimes she would add, half scared at her appetite, that there were
+ministers who had become professors, 'but it was not canny to think of
+such things.'
+
+I had one person only on my side, an old tailor, one of the fullest men I
+have known, and quite the best talker.  He was a bachelor (he told me all
+that is to be known about woman), a lean man, pallid of face, his legs
+drawn up when he walked as if he was ever carrying something in his lap;
+his walks were of the shortest, from the tea-pot on the hob to the board
+on which he stitched, from the board to the hob, and so to bed.  He might
+have gone out had the idea struck him, but in the years I knew him, the
+last of his brave life, I think he was only in the open twice, when he
+'flitted'--changed his room for another hard by.  I did not see him make
+these journeys, but I seem to see him now, and he is somewhat dizzy in
+the odd atmosphere; in one hand he carries a box-iron, he raises the
+other, wondering what this is on his head, it is a hat; a faint smell of
+singed cloth goes by with him.  This man had heard of my set of
+photographs of the poets and asked for a sight of them, which led to our
+first meeting.  I remember how he spread them out on his board, and after
+looking long at them, turned his gaze on me and said solemnly,
+
+    What can I do to be for ever known,
+    And make the age to come my own?
+
+These lines of Cowley were new to me, but the sentiment was not new, and
+I marvelled how the old tailor could see through me so well.  So it was
+strange to me to discover presently that he had not been thinking of me
+at all, but of his own young days, when that couplet sang in his head,
+and he, too, had thirsted to set off for Grub Street, but was afraid, and
+while he hesitated old age came, and then Death, and found him grasping a
+box-iron.
+
+I hurried home with the mouthful, but neighbours had dropped in, and this
+was for her ears only, so I drew her to the stair, and said imperiously,
+
+    What can I do to be for ever known,
+    And make the age to come my own?
+
+It was an odd request for which to draw her from a tea-table, and she
+must have been surprised, but I think she did not laugh, and in after
+years she would repeat the lines fondly, with a flush on her soft face.
+'That is the kind you would like to be yourself!' we would say in jest to
+her, and she would reply almost passionately, 'No, but I would be windy
+of being his mother.'  It is possible that she could have been his mother
+had that other son lived, he might have managed it from sheer love of
+her, but for my part I can smile at one of those two figures on the stair
+now, having long given up the dream of being for ever known, and seeing
+myself more akin to my friend, the tailor, for as he was found at the end
+on his board, so I hope shall I be found at my handloom, doing honestly
+the work that suits me best.  Who should know so well as I that it is but
+a handloom compared to the great guns that reverberate through the age to
+come?  But she who stood with me on the stair that day was a very simple
+woman, accustomed all her life to making the most of small things, and I
+weaved sufficiently well to please her, which has been my only steadfast
+ambition since I was a little boy.
+
+Not less than mine became her desire that I should have my way--but, ah,
+the iron seats in that park of horrible repute, and that bare room at the
+top of many flights of stairs!  While I was away at college she drained
+all available libraries for books about those who go to London to live by
+the pen, and they all told the same shuddering tale.  London, which she
+never saw, was to her a monster that licked up country youths as they
+stepped from the train; there were the garrets in which they sat abject,
+and the park seats where they passed the night.  Those park seats were
+the monster's glaring eyes to her, and as I go by them now she is nearer
+to me than when I am in any other part of London.  I daresay that when
+night comes, this Hyde Park which is so gay by day, is haunted by the
+ghosts of many mothers, who run, wild-eyed, from seat to seat, looking
+for their sons.
+
+But if we could dodge those dreary seats she longed to see me try my
+luck, and I sought to exclude them from the picture by drawing maps of
+London with Hyde Park left out.  London was as strange to me as to her,
+but long before I was shot upon it I knew it by maps, and drew them more
+accurately than I could draw them now.  Many a time she and I took our
+jaunt together through the map, and were most gleeful, popping into
+telegraph offices to wire my father and sister that we should not be home
+till late, winking to my books in lordly shop-windows, lunching at
+restaurants (and remembering not to call it dinner), saying, 'How do?' to
+Mr. Alfred Tennyson when we passed him in Regent Street, calling at
+publishers' offices for cheque, when 'Will you take care of it, or shall
+I?' I asked gaily, and she would be certain to reply, 'I'm thinking we'd
+better take it to the bank and get the money,' for she always felt surer
+of money than of cheques; so to the bank we went ('Two tens, and the rest
+in gold'), and thence straightway (by cab) to the place where you buy
+sealskin coats for middling old ladies.  But ere the laugh was done the
+park would come through the map like a blot.
+
+'If you could only be sure of as much as would keep body and soul
+together,' my mother would say with a sigh.
+
+'With something over, mother, to send to you.'
+
+'You couldna expect that at the start.'
+
+The wench I should have been courting now was journalism, that grisette
+of literature who has a smile and a hand for all beginners, welcoming
+them at the threshold, teaching them so much that is worth knowing,
+introducing them to the other lady whom they have worshipped from afar,
+showing them even how to woo her, and then bidding them a bright
+God-speed--he were an ingrate who, having had her joyous companionship,
+no longer flings her a kiss as they pass.  But though she bears no
+ill-will when she is jilted, you must serve faithfully while you are
+hers, and you must seek her out and make much of her, and, until you can
+rely on her good-nature (note this), not a word about the other lady.
+When at last she took me in I grew so fond of her that I called her by
+the other's name, and even now I think at times that there was more fun
+in the little sister, but I began by wooing her with contributions that
+were all misfits.  In an old book I find columns of notes about works
+projected at this time, nearly all to consist of essays on deeply
+uninteresting subjects; the lightest was to be a volume on the older
+satirists, beginning with Skelton and Tom Nash--the half of that
+manuscript still lies in a dusty chest--the only story was about Mary
+Queen of Scots, who was also the subject of many unwritten papers.  Queen
+Mary seems to have been luring me to my undoing ever since I saw
+Holyrood, and I have a horrid fear that I may write that novel yet.  That
+anything could be written about my native place never struck me.  We had
+read somewhere that a novelist is better equipped than most of his trade
+if he knows himself and one woman, and my mother said, 'You know
+yourself, for everybody must know himself' (there never was a woman who
+knew less about herself than she), and she would add dolefully, 'But I
+doubt I'm the only woman you know well.'
+
+'Then I must make you my heroine,' I said lightly.
+
+'A gey auld-farrant-like heroine!' she said, and we both laughed at the
+notion--so little did we read the future.
+
+Thus it is obvious what were my qualifications when I was rashly engaged
+as a leader-writer (it was my sister who saw the advertisement) on an
+English provincial paper.  At the moment I was as uplifted as the others,
+for the chance had come at last, with what we all regarded as a
+prodigious salary, but I was wanted in the beginning of the week, and it
+suddenly struck me that the leaders were the one thing I had always
+skipped.  Leaders!  How were they written? what were they about?  My
+mother was already sitting triumphant among my socks, and I durst not let
+her see me quaking.  I retired to ponder, and presently she came to me
+with the daily paper.  Which were the leaders? she wanted to know, so
+evidently I could get no help from her.  Had she any more newspapers?  I
+asked, and after rummaging, she produced a few with which her boxes had
+been lined.  Others, very dusty, came from beneath carpets, and lastly a
+sooty bundle was dragged down the chimney.  Surrounded by these I sat
+down, and studied how to become a journalist.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV--AN EDITOR
+
+
+A devout lady, to whom some friend had presented one of my books, used to
+say when asked how she was getting on with it, 'Sal, it's dreary, weary,
+uphill work, but I've wrastled through with tougher jobs in my time, and,
+please God, I'll wrastle through with this one.'  It was in this spirit,
+I fear, though she never told me so, that my mother wrestled for the next
+year or more with my leaders, and indeed I was always genuinely sorry for
+the people I saw reading them.  In my spare hours I was trying journalism
+of another kind and sending it to London, but nearly eighteen months
+elapsed before there came to me, as unlooked for as a telegram, the
+thought that there was something quaint about my native place.  A boy who
+found that a knife had been put into his pocket in the night could not
+have been more surprised.  A few days afterwards I sent my mother a
+London evening paper with an article entitled 'An Auld Licht Community,'
+and they told me that when she saw the heading she laughed, because there
+was something droll to her in the sight of the words Auld Licht in print.
+For her, as for me, that newspaper was soon to have the face of a friend.
+To this day I never pass its placards in the street without shaking it by
+the hand, and she used to sew its pages together as lovingly as though
+they were a child's frock; but let the truth be told, when she read that
+first article she became alarmed, and fearing the talk of the town, hid
+the paper from all eyes.  For some time afterwards, while I proudly
+pictured her showing this and similar articles to all who felt an
+interest in me, she was really concealing them fearfully in a bandbox on
+the garret stair.  And she wanted to know by return of post whether I was
+paid for these articles as much as I was paid for real articles; when she
+heard that I was paid better, she laughed again and had them out of the
+bandbox for re-reading, and it cannot be denied that she thought the
+London editor a fine fellow but slightly soft.
+
+When I sent off that first sketch I thought I had exhausted the subject,
+but our editor wrote that he would like something more of the same, so I
+sent him a marriage, and he took it, and then I tried him with a funeral,
+and he took it, and really it began to look as if we had him.  Now my
+mother might have been discovered, in answer to certain excited letters,
+flinging the bundle of undarned socks from her lap, and 'going in for
+literature'; she was racking her brains, by request, for memories I might
+convert into articles, and they came to me in letters which she dictated
+to my sisters.  How well I could hear her sayings between the lines: 'But
+the editor-man will never stand that, it's perfect blethers'--'By this
+post it must go, I tell you; we must take the editor when he's hungry--we
+canna be blamed for it, can we? he prints them of his free will, so the
+wite is his'--'But I'm near terrified.--If London folk reads them we're
+done for.'  And I was sounded as to the advisability of sending him a
+present of a lippie of shortbread, which was to be her crafty way of
+getting round him.  By this time, though my mother and I were hundreds of
+miles apart, you may picture us waving our hands to each other across
+country, and shouting 'Hurrah!'  You may also picture the editor in his
+office thinking he was behaving like a shrewd man of business, and
+unconscious that up in the north there was an elderly lady chuckling so
+much at him that she could scarcely scrape the potatoes.
+
+I was now able to see my mother again, and the park seats no longer
+loomed so prominent in our map of London.  Still, there they were, and it
+was with an effort that she summoned up courage to let me go.  She feared
+changes, and who could tell that the editor would continue to be kind?
+Perhaps when he saw me--
+
+She seemed to be very much afraid of his seeing me, and this, I would
+point out, was a reflection on my appearance or my manner.
+
+No, what she meant was that I looked so young, and--and that would take
+him aback, for had I not written as an aged man?
+
+'But he knows my age, mother.'
+
+'I'm glad of that, but maybe he wouldna like you when he saw you.'
+
+'Oh, it is my manner, then!'
+
+'I dinna say that, but--'
+
+Here my sister would break in: 'The short and the long of it is just
+this, she thinks nobody has such manners as herself.  Can you deny it,
+you vain woman?'  My mother would deny it vigorously.
+
+'You stand there,' my sister would say with affected scorn, 'and tell me
+you don't think you could get the better of that man quicker than any of
+us?'
+
+'Sal, I'm thinking I could manage him,' says my mother, with a chuckle.
+
+'How would you set about it?'
+
+Then my mother would begin to laugh.  'I would find out first if he had a
+family, and then I would say they were the finest family in London.'
+
+'Yes, that is just what you would do, you cunning woman!  But if he has
+no family?'
+
+'I would say what great men editors are!'
+
+'He would see through you.'
+
+'Not he!'
+
+'You don't understand that what imposes on common folk would never
+hoodwink an editor.'
+
+'That's where you are wrong.  Gentle or simple, stupid or clever, the men
+are all alike in the hands of a woman that flatters them.'
+
+'Ah, I'm sure there are better ways of getting round an editor than
+that.'
+
+'I daresay there are,' my mother would say with conviction, 'but if you
+try that plan you will never need to try another.'
+
+'How artful you are, mother--you with your soft face!  Do you not think
+shame?'
+
+'Pooh!' says my mother brazenly.
+
+'I can see the reason why you are so popular with men.'
+
+'Ay, you can see it, but they never will.'
+
+'Well, how would you dress yourself if you were going to that editor's
+office?'
+
+'Of course I would wear my silk and my Sabbath bonnet.'
+
+'It is you who are shortsighted now, mother.  I tell you, you would
+manage him better if you just put on your old grey shawl and one of your
+bonny white mutches, and went in half smiling and half timid and said, "I
+am the mother of him that writes about the Auld Lichts, and I want you to
+promise that he will never have to sleep in the open air."'
+
+But my mother would shake her head at this, and reply almost hotly, 'I
+tell you if I ever go into that man's office, I go in silk.'
+
+I wrote and asked the editor if I should come to London, and he said No,
+so I went, laden with charges from my mother to walk in the middle of the
+street (they jump out on you as you are turning a corner), never to
+venture forth after sunset, and always to lock up everything (I who could
+never lock up anything, except my heart in company).  Thanks to this
+editor, for the others would have nothing to say to me though I battered
+on all their doors, she was soon able to sleep at nights without the
+dread that I should be waking presently with the iron-work of certain
+seats figured on my person, and what relieved her very much was that I
+had begun to write as if Auld Lichts were not the only people I knew of.
+So long as I confined myself to them she had a haunting fear that, even
+though the editor remained blind to his best interests, something would
+one day go crack within me (as the mainspring of a watch breaks) and my
+pen refuse to write for evermore.  'Ay, I like the article brawly,' she
+would say timidly, 'but I'm doubting it's the last--I always have a sort
+of terror the new one may be the last,' and if many days elapsed before
+the arrival of another article her face would say mournfully, 'The blow
+has fallen--he can think of nothing more to write about.'  If I ever
+shared her fears I never told her so, and the articles that were not
+Scotch grew in number until there were hundreds of them, all carefully
+preserved by her: they were the only thing in the house that, having
+served one purpose, she did not convert into something else, yet they
+could give her uneasy moments.  This was because I nearly always assumed
+a character when I wrote; I must be a country squire, or an
+undergraduate, or a butler, or a member of the House of Lords, or a
+dowager, or a lady called Sweet Seventeen, or an engineer in India, else
+was my pen clogged, and though this gave my mother certain fearful joys,
+causing her to laugh unexpectedly (so far as my articles were concerned
+she nearly always laughed in the wrong place), it also scared her.  Much
+to her amusement the editor continued to prefer the Auld Licht papers,
+however, as was proved (to those who knew him) by his way of thinking
+that the others would pass as they were, while he sent these back and
+asked me to make them better.  Here again she came to my aid.  I had said
+that the row of stockings were hung on a string by the fire, which was a
+recollection of my own, but she could tell me whether they were hung
+upside down.  She became quite skilful at sending or giving me (for now I
+could be with her half the year) the right details, but still she smiled
+at the editor, and in her gay moods she would say, 'I was fifteen when I
+got my first pair of elastic-sided boots.  Tell him my charge for this
+important news is two pounds ten.'
+
+'Ay, but though we're doing well, it's no' the same as if they were a
+book with your name on it.'  So the ambitious woman would say with a
+sigh, and I did my best to turn the Auld Licht sketches into a book with
+my name on it.  Then perhaps we understood most fully how good a friend
+our editor had been, for just as I had been able to find no well-known
+magazine--and I think I tried all--which would print any article or story
+about the poor of my native land, so now the publishers, Scotch and
+English, refused to accept the book as a gift.  I was willing to present
+it to them, but they would have it in no guise; there seemed to be a
+blight on everything that was Scotch.  I daresay we sighed, but never
+were collaborators more prepared for rejection, and though my mother
+might look wistfully at the scorned manuscript at times and murmur, 'You
+poor cold little crittur shut away in a drawer, are you dead or just
+sleeping?' she had still her editor to say grace over.  And at last
+publishers, sufficiently daring and far more than sufficiently generous,
+were found for us by a dear friend, who made one woman very 'uplifted.'
+He also was an editor, and had as large a part in making me a writer of
+books as the other in determining what the books should be about.
+
+Now that I was an author I must get into a club.  But you should have
+heard my mother on clubs!  She knew of none save those to which you
+subscribe a pittance weekly in anticipation of rainy days, and the London
+clubs were her scorn.  Often I heard her on them--she raised her voice to
+make me hear, whichever room I might be in, and it was when she was
+sarcastic that I skulked the most: 'Thirty pounds is what he will have to
+pay the first year, and ten pounds a year after that.  You think it's a
+lot o' siller?  Oh no, you're mista'en--it's nothing ava.  For the third
+part of thirty pounds you could rent a four-roomed house, but what is a
+four-roomed house, what is thirty pounds, compared to the glory of being
+a member of a club?  Where does the glory come in?  Sal, you needna ask
+me, I'm just a doited auld stock that never set foot in a club, so it's
+little I ken about glory.  But I may tell you if you bide in London and
+canna become member of a club, the best you can do is to tie a rope round
+your neck and slip out of the world.  What use are they?  Oh, they're
+terrible useful.  You see it doesna do for a man in London to eat his
+dinner in his lodgings.  Other men shake their heads at him.  He maun
+away to his club if he is to be respected.  Does he get good dinners at
+the club?  Oh, they cow!  You get no common beef at clubs; there is a
+manzy of different things all sauced up to be unlike themsels.  Even the
+potatoes daurna look like potatoes.  If the food in a club looks like
+what it is, the members run about, flinging up their hands and crying,
+"Woe is me!"  Then this is another thing, you get your letters sent to
+the club instead of to your lodgings.  You see you would get them sooner
+at your lodgings, and you may have to trudge weary miles to the club for
+them, but that's a great advantage, and cheap at thirty pounds, is it
+no'?  I wonder they can do it at the price.'
+
+My wisest policy was to remain downstairs when these withering blasts
+were blowing, but probably I went up in self-defence.
+
+'I never saw you so pugnacious before, mother.'
+
+'Oh,' she would reply promptly, 'you canna expect me to be sharp in the
+uptake when I am no' a member of a club.'
+
+'But the difficulty is in becoming a member.  They are very particular
+about whom they elect, and I daresay I shall not get in.'
+
+'Well, I'm but a poor crittur (not being member of a club), but I think I
+can tell you to make your mind easy on that head.  You'll get in, I'se
+uphaud--and your thirty pounds will get in, too.'
+
+'If I get in it will be because the editor is supporting me.'
+
+'It's the first ill thing I ever heard of him.'
+
+'You don't think he is to get any of the thirty pounds, do you?'
+
+''Deed if I did I should be better pleased, for he has been a good friend
+to us, but what maddens me is that every penny of it should go to those
+bare-faced scoundrels.'
+
+'What bare-faced scoundrels?'
+
+'Them that have the club.'
+
+'But all the members have the club between them.'
+
+'Havers!  I'm no' to be catched with chaff.'
+
+'But don't you believe me?'
+
+'I believe they've filled your head with their stories till you swallow
+whatever they tell you.  If the place belongs to the members, why do they
+have to pay thirty pounds?'
+
+'To keep it going.'
+
+'They dinna have to pay for their dinners, then?'
+
+'Oh yes, they have to pay extra for dinner.'
+
+'And a gey black price, I'm thinking.'
+
+'Well, five or six shillings.'
+
+'Is that all?  Losh, it's nothing, I wonder they dinna raise the price.'
+
+Nevertheless my mother was of a sex that scorned prejudice, and, dropping
+sarcasm, she would at times cross-examine me as if her mind was not yet
+made up.  'Tell me this, if you were to fall ill, would you be paid a
+weekly allowance out of the club?'
+
+No, it was not that kind of club.
+
+'I see.  Well, I am just trying to find out what kind of club it is.  Do
+you get anything out of it for accidents?'
+
+Not a penny.
+
+'Anything at New Year's time?'
+
+Not so much as a goose.
+
+'Is there any one mortal thing you get free out of that club?'
+
+There was not one mortal thing.
+
+'And thirty pounds is what you pay for this?'
+
+If the committee elected me.
+
+'How many are in the committee?'
+
+About a dozen, I thought.
+
+'A dozen!  Ay, ay, that makes two pound ten apiece.'
+
+When I was elected I thought it wisdom to send my sister upstairs with
+the news.  My mother was ironing, and made no comment, unless with the
+iron, which I could hear rattling more violently in its box.  Presently I
+heard her laughing--at me undoubtedly, but she had recovered control over
+her face before she came downstairs to congratulate me sarcastically.
+This was grand news, she said without a twinkle, and I must write and
+thank the committee, the noble critturs.  I saw behind her mask, and
+maintained a dignified silence, but she would have another shot at me.
+'And tell them,' she said from the door, 'you were doubtful of being
+elected, but your auld mother had aye a mighty confidence they would
+snick you in.'  I heard her laughing softly as she went up the stair, but
+though I had provided her with a joke I knew she was burning to tell the
+committee what she thought of them.
+
+Money, you see, meant so much to her, though even at her poorest she was
+the most cheerful giver.  In the old days, when the article arrived, she
+did not read it at once, she first counted the lines to discover what we
+should get for it--she and the daughter who was so dear to her had
+calculated the payment per line, and I remember once overhearing a
+discussion between them about whether that sub-title meant another
+sixpence.  Yes, she knew the value of money; she had always in the end
+got the things she wanted, but now she could get them more easily, and it
+turned her simple life into a fairy tale.  So often in those days she
+went down suddenly upon her knees; we would come upon her thus, and go
+away noiselessly.  After her death I found that she had preserved in a
+little box, with a photograph of me as a child, the envelopes which had
+contained my first cheques.  There was a little ribbon round them.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V--A DAY OF HER LIFE
+
+
+I should like to call back a day of her life as it was at this time, when
+her spirit was as bright as ever and her hand as eager, but she was no
+longer able to do much work.  It should not be difficult, for she
+repeated herself from day to day and yet did it with a quaint
+unreasonableness that was ever yielding fresh delight.  Our love for her
+was such that we could easily tell what she would do in given
+circumstances, but she had always a new way of doing it.
+
+Well, with break of day she wakes and sits up in bed and is standing in
+the middle of the room.  So nimble was she in the mornings (one of our
+troubles with her) that these three actions must be considered as one;
+she is on the floor before you have time to count them.  She has strict
+orders not to rise until her fire is lit, and having broken them there is
+a demure elation on her face.  The question is what to do before she is
+caught and hurried to bed again.  Her fingers are tingling to prepare the
+breakfast; she would dearly love to black-lead the grate, but that might
+rouse her daughter from whose side she has slipped so cunningly.  She
+catches sight of the screen at the foot of the bed, and immediately her
+soft face becomes very determined.  To guard her from draughts the screen
+had been brought here from the lordly east room, where it was of no use
+whatever.  But in her opinion it was too beautiful for use; it belonged
+to the east room, where she could take pleasant peeps at it; she had
+objected to its removal, even become low-spirited.  Now is her
+opportunity.  The screen is an unwieldy thing, but still as a mouse she
+carries it, and they are well under weigh when it strikes against the
+gas-bracket in the passage.  Next moment a reproachful hand arrests her.
+She is challenged with being out of bed, she denies it--standing in the
+passage.  Meekly or stubbornly she returns to bed, and it is no
+satisfaction to you that you can say, 'Well, well, of all the women!' and
+so on, or 'Surely you knew that the screen was brought here to protect
+you,' for she will reply scornfully, 'Who was touching the screen?'
+
+By this time I have wakened (I am through the wall) and join them
+anxiously: so often has my mother been taken ill in the night that the
+slightest sound from her room rouses the house.  She is in bed again,
+looking as if she had never been out of it, but I know her and listen
+sternly to the tale of her misdoings.  She is not contrite.  Yes, maybe
+she did promise not to venture forth on the cold floors of daybreak, but
+she had risen for a moment only, and we just t'neaded her with our talk
+about draughts--there were no such things as draughts in her young
+days--and it is more than she can do (here she again attempts to rise but
+we hold her down) to lie there and watch that beautiful screen being
+spoilt.  I reply that the beauty of the screen has ever been its
+miserable defect: ho, there! for a knife with which to spoil its beauty
+and make the bedroom its fitting home.  As there is no knife handy, my
+foot will do; I raise my foot, and then--she sees that it is bare, she
+cries to me excitedly to go back to bed lest I catch cold.  For though,
+ever careless of herself, she will wander the house unshod, and tell us
+not to talk havers when we chide her, the sight of one of us similarly
+negligent rouses her anxiety at once.  She is willing now to sign any vow
+if only I will take my bare feet back to bed, but probably she is soon
+after me in hers to make sure that I am nicely covered up.
+
+It is scarcely six o'clock, and we have all promised to sleep for another
+hour, but in ten minutes she is sure that eight has struck (house
+disgraced), or that if it has not, something is wrong with the clock.
+Next moment she is captured on her way downstairs to wind up the clock.
+So evidently we must be up and doing, and as we have no servant, my
+sister disappears into the kitchen, having first asked me to see that
+'that woman' lies still, and 'that woman' calls out that she always does
+lie still, so what are we blethering about?
+
+She is up now, and dressed in her thick maroon wrapper; over her
+shoulders (lest she should stray despite our watchfulness) is a shawl,
+not placed there by her own hands, and on her head a delicious mutch.  O
+that I could sing the paean of the white mutch (and the dirge of the
+elaborate black cap) from the day when she called witchcraft to her aid
+and made it out of snow-flakes, and the dear worn hands that washed it
+tenderly in a basin, and the starching of it, and the finger-iron for its
+exquisite frills that looked like curls of sugar, and the sweet bands
+with which it tied beneath the chin!  The honoured snowy mutch, how I
+love to see it smiling to me from the doors and windows of the poor; it
+is always smiling--sometimes maybe a wavering wistful smile, as if a
+tear-drop lay hidden among, the frills.  A hundred times I have taken the
+characterless cap from my mother's head and put the mutch in its place
+and tied the bands beneath her chin, while she protested but was well
+pleased.  For in her heart she knew what suited her best and would admit
+it, beaming, when I put a mirror into her hands and told her to look; but
+nevertheless the cap cost no less than so-and-so, whereas--Was that a
+knock at the door?  She is gone, to put on her cap!
+
+She begins the day by the fireside with the New Testament in her hands,
+an old volume with its loose pages beautifully refixed, and its covers
+sewn and resewn by her, so that you would say it can never fall to
+pieces.  It is mine now, and to me the black threads with which she
+stitched it are as part of the contents.  Other books she read in the
+ordinary manner, but this one differently, her lips moving with each word
+as if she were reading aloud, and her face very solemn.  The Testament
+lies open on her lap long after she has ceased to read, and the
+expression of her face has not changed.
+
+I have seen her reading other books early in the day but never without a
+guilty look on her face, for she thought reading was scarce respectable
+until night had come.  She spends the forenoon in what she calls doing
+nothing, which may consist in stitching so hard that you would swear she
+was an over-worked seamstress at it for her life, or you will find her on
+a table with nails in her mouth, and anon she has to be chased from the
+garret (she has suddenly decided to change her curtains), or she is under
+the bed searching for band-boxes and asking sternly where we have put
+that bonnet.  On the whole she is behaving in a most exemplary way to-day
+(not once have we caught her trying to go out into the washing-house),
+and we compliment her at dinner-time, partly because she deserves it, and
+partly to make her think herself so good that she will eat something,
+just to maintain her new character.  I question whether one hour of all
+her life was given to thoughts of food; in her great days to eat seemed
+to her to be waste of time, and afterwards she only ate to boast of it,
+as something she had done to please us.  She seldom remembered whether
+she had dined, but always presumed she had, and while she was telling me
+in all good faith what the meal consisted of, it might be brought in.
+When in London I had to hear daily what she was eating, and perhaps she
+had refused all dishes until they produced the pen and ink.  These were
+flourished before her, and then she would say with a sigh, 'Tell him I am
+to eat an egg.'  But they were not so easily deceived; they waited, pen
+in hand, until the egg was eaten.
+
+She never 'went for a walk' in her life.  Many long trudges she had as a
+girl when she carried her father's dinner in a flagon to the country
+place where he was at work, but to walk with no end save the good of your
+health seemed a very droll proceeding to her.  In her young days, she was
+positive, no one had ever gone for a walk, and she never lost the belief
+that it was an absurdity introduced by a new generation with too much
+time on their hands.  That they enjoyed it she could not believe; it was
+merely a form of showing off, and as they passed her window she would
+remark to herself with blasting satire, 'Ay, Jeames, are you off for your
+walk?' and add fervently, 'Rather you than me!'  I was one of those who
+walked, and though she smiled, and might drop a sarcastic word when she
+saw me putting on my boots, it was she who had heated them in preparation
+for my going.  The arrangement between us was that she should lie down
+until my return, and to ensure its being carried out I saw her in bed
+before I started, but with the bang of the door she would be at the
+window to watch me go: there is one spot on the road where a thousand
+times I have turned to wave my stick to her, while she nodded and smiled
+and kissed her hand to me.  That kissing of the hand was the one English
+custom she had learned.
+
+In an hour or so I return, and perhaps find her in bed, according to
+promise, but still I am suspicious.  The way to her detection is
+circuitous.
+
+'I'll need to be rising now,' she says, with a yawn that may be genuine.
+
+'How long have you been in bed?'
+
+'You saw me go.'
+
+'And then I saw you at the window.  Did you go straight back to bed?'
+
+'Surely I had that much sense.'
+
+'The truth!'
+
+'I might have taken a look at the clock first.'
+
+'It is a terrible thing to have a mother who prevaricates.  Have you been
+lying down ever since I left?'
+
+'Thereabout.'
+
+'What does that mean exactly?'
+
+'Off and on.'
+
+'Have you been to the garret?'
+
+'What should I do in the garret?'
+
+'But have you?'
+
+'I might just have looked up the garret stair.'
+
+'You have been redding up the garret again!'
+
+'Not what you could call a redd up.'
+
+'O, woman, woman, I believe you have not been in bed at all!'
+
+'You see me in it.'
+
+'My opinion is that you jumped into bed when you heard me open the door.'
+
+'Havers.'
+
+'Did you?'
+
+'No.'
+
+'Well, then, when you heard me at the gate?'
+
+'It might have been when I heard you at the gate.'
+
+As daylight goes she follows it with her sewing to the window, and gets
+another needleful out of it, as one may run after a departed visitor for
+a last word, but now the gas is lit, and no longer is it shameful to sit
+down to literature.  If the book be a story by George Eliot or Mrs.
+Oliphant, her favourites (and mine) among women novelists, or if it be a
+Carlyle, and we move softly, she will read, entranced, for hours.  Her
+delight in Carlyle was so well known that various good people would send
+her books that contained a page about him; she could place her finger on
+any passage wanted in the biography as promptly as though she were
+looking for some article in her own drawer, and given a date she was
+often able to tell you what they were doing in Cheyne Row that day.
+Carlyle, she decided, was not so much an ill man to live with as one who
+needed a deal of managing, but when I asked if she thought she could have
+managed him she only replied with a modest smile that meant 'Oh no!' but
+had the face of 'Sal, I would have liked to try.'
+
+One lady lent her some scores of Carlyle letters that have never been
+published, and crabbed was the writing, but though my mother liked to
+have our letters read aloud to her, she read every one of these herself,
+and would quote from them in her talk.  Side by side with the Carlyle
+letters, which show him in his most gracious light, were many from his
+wife to a friend, and in one of these a romantic adventure is
+described--I quote from memory, and it is a poor memory compared to my
+mother's, which registered everything by a method of her own: 'What might
+be the age of Bell Tibbits?  Well, she was born the week I bought the
+boiler, so she'll be one-and-fifty (no less!) come Martinmas.'  Mrs.
+Carlyle had got into the train at a London station and was feeling very
+lonely, for the journey to Scotland lay before her and no one had come to
+see her off.  Then, just as the train was starting, a man jumped into the
+carriage, to her regret until she saw his face, when, behold, they were
+old friends, and the last time they met (I forget how many years before)
+he had asked her to be his wife.  He was very nice, and if I remember
+aright, saw her to her journey's end, though he had intended to alight at
+some half-way place.  I call this an adventure, and I am sure it seemed
+to my mother to be the most touching and memorable adventure that can
+come into a woman's life.  'You see he hadna forgot,' she would say
+proudly, as if this was a compliment in which all her sex could share,
+and on her old tender face shone some of the elation with which Mrs.
+Carlyle wrote that letter.
+
+But there were times, she held, when Carlyle must have made his wife a
+glorious woman.  'As when?' I might inquire.
+
+'When she keeked in at his study door and said to herself, "The whole
+world is ringing with his fame, and he is my man!"'
+
+'And then,' I might point out, 'he would roar to her to shut the door.'
+
+'Pooh!' said my mother, 'a man's roar is neither here nor there.'  But
+her verdict as a whole was, 'I would rather have been his mother than his
+wife.'
+
+So we have got her into her chair with the Carlyles, and all is well.
+Furthermore, 'to mak siccar,' my father has taken the opposite side of
+the fireplace and is deep in the latest five columns of Gladstone, who is
+his Carlyle.  He is to see that she does not slip away fired by a
+conviction, which suddenly overrides her pages, that the kitchen is going
+to rack and ruin for want of her, and she is to recall him to himself
+should he put his foot in the fire and keep it there, forgetful of all
+save his hero's eloquence.  (We were a family who needed a deal of
+watching.)  She is not interested in what Mr. Gladstone has to say;
+indeed she could never be brought to look upon politics as of serious
+concern for grown folk (a class in which she scarcely included man), and
+she gratefully gave up reading 'leaders' the day I ceased to write them.
+But like want of reasonableness, a love for having the last word, want of
+humour and the like, politics were in her opinion a mannish attribute to
+be tolerated, and Gladstone was the name of the something which makes all
+our sex such queer characters.  She had a profound faith in him as an aid
+to conversation, and if there were silent men in the company would give
+him to them to talk about, precisely as she divided a cake among
+children.  And then, with a motherly smile, she would leave them to gorge
+on him.  But in the idolising of Gladstone she recognised, nevertheless,
+a certain inevitability, and would no more have tried to contend with it
+than to sweep a shadow off the floor.  Gladstone was, and there was an
+end of it in her practical philosophy.  Nor did she accept him coldly;
+like a true woman she sympathised with those who suffered severely, and
+they knew it and took counsel of her in the hour of need.  I remember one
+ardent Gladstonian who, as a general election drew near, was in sore
+straits indeed, for he disbelieved in Home Rule, and yet how could he
+vote against 'Gladstone's man'?  His distress was so real that it gave
+him a hang-dog appearance.  He put his case gloomily before her, and
+until the day of the election she riddled him with sarcasm; I think he
+only went to her because he found a mournful enjoyment in seeing a false
+Gladstonian tortured.
+
+It was all such plain-sailing for him, she pointed out; he did not like
+this Home Rule, and therefore he must vote against it.
+
+She put it pitiful clear, he replied with a groan.
+
+But she was like another woman to him when he appeared before her on his
+way to the polling-booth.
+
+'This is a watery Sabbath to you, I'm thinking,' she said
+sympathetically, but without dropping her wires--for Home Rule or no Home
+Rule that stocking-foot must be turned before twelve o'clock.
+
+A watery Sabbath means a doleful day, and 'A watery Sabbath it is,' he
+replied with feeling.  A silence followed, broken only by the click of
+the wires.  Now and again he would mutter, 'Ay, well, I'll be going to
+vote--little did I think the day would come,' and so on, but if he rose
+it was only to sit down again, and at last she crossed over to him and
+said softly, (no sarcasm in her voice now), 'Away with you, and vote for
+Gladstone's man!'  He jumped up and made off without a word, but from the
+east window we watched him strutting down the brae.  I laughed, but she
+said, 'I'm no sure that it's a laughing matter,' and afterwards, 'I would
+have liked fine to be that Gladstone's mother.'
+
+It is nine o'clock now, a quarter-past nine, half-past nine--all the same
+moment to me, for I am at a sentence that will not write.  I know, though
+I can't hear, what my sister has gone upstairs to say to my mother:--
+
+'I was in at him at nine, and he said, "In five minutes," so I put the
+steak on the brander, but I've been in thrice since then, and every time
+he says, "In five minutes," and when I try to take the table-cover off,
+he presses his elbows hard on it, and growls.  His supper will be
+completely spoilt.'
+
+'Oh, that weary writing!'
+
+'I can do no more, mother, so you must come down and stop him.'
+
+'I have no power over him,' my mother says, but she rises smiling, and
+presently she is opening my door.
+
+'In five minutes!' I cry, but when I see that it is she I rise and put my
+arm round her.  'What a full basket!' she says, looking at the
+waste-paper basket, which contains most of my work of the night and with
+a dear gesture she lifts up a torn page and kisses it.  'Poor thing,' she
+says to it, 'and you would have liked so fine to be printed!' and she
+puts her hand over my desk to prevent my writing more.
+
+'In the last five minutes,' I begin, 'one can often do more than in the
+first hour.'
+
+'Many a time I've said it in my young days,' she says slowly.
+
+'And proved it, too!' cries a voice from the door, the voice of one who
+was prouder of her even than I; it is true, and yet almost unbelievable,
+that any one could have been prouder of her than I.
+
+'But those days are gone,' my mother says solemnly, 'gone to come back no
+more.  You'll put by your work now, man, and have your supper, and then
+you'll come up and sit beside your mother for a whiley, for soon you'll
+be putting her away in the kirk-yard.'
+
+I hear such a little cry from near the door.
+
+So my mother and I go up the stair together.  'We have changed places,'
+she says; 'that was just how I used to help you up, but I'm the bairn
+now.'
+
+She brings out the Testament again; it was always lying within reach; it
+is the lock of hair she left me when she died.  And when she has read for
+a long time she 'gives me a look,' as we say in the north, and I go out,
+to leave her alone with God.  She had been but a child when her mother
+died, and so she fell early into the way of saying her prayers with no
+earthly listener.  Often and often I have found her on her knees, but I
+always went softly away, closing the door.  I never heard her pray, but I
+know very well how she prayed, and that, when that door was shut, there
+was not a day in God's sight between the worn woman and the little child.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI--HER MAID OF ALL WORK
+
+
+And sometimes I was her maid of all work.
+
+It is early morn, and my mother has come noiselessly into my room.  I
+know it is she, though my eyes are shut, and I am only half awake.
+Perhaps I was dreaming of her, for I accept her presence without
+surprise, as if in the awakening I had but seen her go out at one door to
+come in at another.  But she is speaking to herself.
+
+'I'm sweer to waken him--I doubt he was working late--oh, that weary
+writing--no, I maunna waken him.'
+
+I start up.  She is wringing her hands.  'What is wrong?' I cry, but I
+know before she answers.  My sister is down with one of the headaches
+against which even she cannot fight, and my mother, who bears physical
+pain as if it were a comrade, is most woebegone when her daughter is the
+sufferer.  'And she winna let me go down the stair to make a cup of tea
+for her,' she groans.
+
+'I will soon make the tea, mother.'
+
+'Will you?' she says eagerly.  It is what she has come to me for, but 'It
+is a pity to rouse you,' she says.
+
+'And I will take charge of the house to-day, and light the fires and wash
+the dishes--'
+
+'Na, oh no; no, I couldna ask that of you, and you an author.'
+
+'It won't be the first time, mother, since I was an author.'
+
+'More like the fiftieth!' she says almost gleefully, so I have begun
+well, for to keep up her spirits is the great thing to-day.
+
+Knock at the door.  It is the baker.  I take in the bread, looking so
+sternly at him that he dare not smile.
+
+Knock at the door.  It is the postman. (I hope he did not see that I had
+the lid of the kettle in my other hand.)
+
+Furious knocking in a remote part.  This means that the author is in the
+coal cellar.
+
+Anon I carry two breakfasts upstairs in triumph.  I enter the bedroom
+like no mere humdrum son, but after the manner of the Glasgow waiter.  I
+must say more about him.  He had been my mother's one waiter, the only
+manservant she ever came in contact with, and they had met in a Glasgow
+hotel which she was eager to see, having heard of the monstrous things,
+and conceived them to resemble country inns with another twelve bedrooms.
+I remember how she beamed--yet tried to look as if it was quite an
+ordinary experience--when we alighted at the hotel door, but though she
+said nothing I soon read disappointment in her face.  She knew how I was
+exulting in having her there, so would not say a word to damp me, but I
+craftily drew it out of her.  No, she was very comfortable, and the house
+was grand beyond speech, but--but--where was he? he had not been very
+hearty.  'He' was the landlord; she had expected him to receive us at the
+door and ask if we were in good health and how we had left the others,
+and then she would have asked him if his wife was well and how many
+children they had, after which we should all have sat down together to
+dinner.  Two chambermaids came into her room and prepared it without a
+single word to her about her journey or on any other subject, and when
+they had gone, 'They are two haughty misses,' said my mother with spirit.
+But what she most resented was the waiter with his swagger black suit and
+short quick steps and the 'towel' over his arm.  Without so much as a
+'Welcome to Glasgow!' he showed us to our seats, not the smallest
+acknowledgment of our kindness in giving such munificent orders did we
+draw from him, he hovered around the table as if it would be unsafe to
+leave us with his knives and forks (he should have seen her knives and
+forks), when we spoke to each other he affected not to hear, we might
+laugh but this uppish fellow would not join in.  We retired, crushed, and
+he had the final impudence to open the door for us.  But though this hurt
+my mother at the time, the humour of our experiences filled her on
+reflection, and in her own house she would describe them with unction,
+sometimes to those who had been in many hotels, often to others who had
+been in none, and whoever were her listeners she made them laugh, though
+not always at the same thing.
+
+So now when I enter the bedroom with the tray, on my arm is that badge of
+pride, the towel; and I approach with prim steps to inform Madam that
+breakfast is ready, and she puts on the society manner and addresses me
+as 'Sir,' and asks with cruel sarcasm for what purpose (except to boast)
+I carry the towel, and I say 'Is there anything more I can do for Madam?'
+and Madam replies that there is one more thing I can do, and that is, eat
+her breakfast for her.  But of this I take no notice, for my object is to
+fire her with the spirit of the game, so that she eats unwittingly.
+
+Now that I have washed up the breakfast things I should be at my writing,
+and I am anxious to be at it, as I have an idea in my head, which, if it
+is of any value, has almost certainly been put there by her.  But dare I
+venture?  I know that the house has not been properly set going yet,
+there are beds to make, the exterior of the teapot is fair, but suppose
+some one were to look inside?  What a pity I knocked over the
+flour-barrel!  Can I hope that for once my mother will forget to inquire
+into these matters?  Is my sister willing to let disorder reign until
+to-morrow?  I determine to risk it.  Perhaps I have been at work for half
+an hour when I hear movements overhead.  One or other of them is
+wondering why the house is so quiet.  I rattle the tongs, but even this
+does not satisfy them, so back into the desk go my papers, and now what
+you hear is not the scrape of a pen but the rinsing of pots and pans, or
+I am making beds, and making them thoroughly, because after I am gone my
+mother will come (I know her) and look suspiciously beneath the coverlet.
+
+The kitchen is now speckless, not an unwashed platter in sight, unless
+you look beneath the table.  I feel that I have earned time for an hour's
+writing at last, and at it I go with vigour.  One page, two pages, really
+I am making progress, when--was that a door opening?  But I have my
+mother's light step on the brain, so I 'yoke' again, and next moment she
+is beside me.  She has not exactly left her room, she gives me to
+understand; but suddenly a conviction had come to her that I was writing
+without a warm mat at my feet.  She carries one in her hands.  Now that
+she is here she remains for a time, and though she is in the arm-chair by
+the fire, where she sits bolt upright (she loved to have cushions on the
+unused chairs, but detested putting her back against them), and I am bent
+low over my desk, I know that contentment and pity are struggling for
+possession of her face: contentment wins when she surveys her room, pity
+when she looks at me.  Every article of furniture, from the chairs that
+came into the world with me and have worn so much better, though I was
+new and they were second-hand, to the mantle-border of fashionable design
+which she sewed in her seventieth year, having picked up the stitch in
+half a lesson, has its story of fight and attainment for her, hence her
+satisfaction; but she sighs at sight of her son, dipping and tearing, and
+chewing the loathly pen.
+
+'Oh, that weary writing!'
+
+In vain do I tell her that writing is as pleasant to me as ever was the
+prospect of a tremendous day's ironing to her; that (to some, though not
+to me) new chapters are as easy to turn out as new bannocks.  No, she
+maintains, for one bannock is the marrows of another, while chapters--and
+then, perhaps, her eyes twinkle, and says she saucily, 'But, sal, you may
+be right, for sometimes your bannocks are as alike as mine!'
+
+Or I may be roused from my writing by her cry that I am making strange
+faces again.  It is my contemptible weakness that if I say a character
+smiled vacuously, I must smile vacuously; if he frowns or leers, I frown
+or leer; if he is a coward or given to contortions, I cringe, or twist my
+legs until I have to stop writing to undo the knot.  I bow with him, eat
+with him, and gnaw my moustache with him.  If the character be a lady
+with an exquisite laugh, I suddenly terrify you by laughing exquisitely.
+One reads of the astounding versatility of an actor who is stout and lean
+on the same evening, but what is he to the novelist who is a dozen
+persons within the hour?  Morally, I fear, we must deteriorate--but this
+is a subject I may wisely edge away from.
+
+We always spoke to each other in broad Scotch (I think in it still), but
+now and again she would use a word that was new to me, or I might hear
+one of her contemporaries use it.  Now is my opportunity to angle for its
+meaning.  If I ask, boldly, what was chat word she used just now,
+something like 'bilbie' or 'silvendy'? she blushes, and says she never
+said anything so common, or hoots! it is some auld-farrant word about
+which she can tell me nothing.  But if in the course of conversation I
+remark casually, 'Did he find bilbie?' or 'Was that quite silvendy?'
+(though the sense of the question is vague to me) she falls into the
+trap, and the words explain themselves in her replies.  Or maybe to-day
+she sees whither I am leading her, and such is her sensitiveness that she
+is quite hurt.  The humour goes out of her face (to find bilbie in some
+more silvendy spot), and her reproachful eyes--but now I am on the arm of
+her chair, and we have made it up.  Nevertheless, I shall get no more
+old-world Scotch out of her this forenoon, she weeds her talk
+determinedly, and it is as great a falling away as when the mutch gives
+place to the cap.
+
+I am off for my afternoon walk, and she has promised to bar the door
+behind me and open it to none.  When I return,--well, the door is still
+barred, but she is looking both furtive and elated.  I should say that
+she is burning to tell me something, but cannot tell it without exposing
+herself.  Has she opened the door, and if so, why?  I don't ask, but I
+watch.  It is she who is sly now.
+
+'Have you been in the east room since you came in?' she asks, with
+apparent indifference.
+
+'No; why do you ask?'
+
+'Oh, I just thought you might have looked in.'
+
+'Is there anything new there?'
+
+'I dinna say there is, but--but just go and see.'
+
+'There can't be anything new if you kept the door barred,' I say
+cleverly.
+
+This crushes her for a moment; but her eagerness that I should see is
+greater than her fear.  I set off for the east room, and she follows,
+affecting humility, but with triumph in her eye.  How often those little
+scenes took place!  I was never told of the new purchase, I was lured
+into its presence, and then she waited timidly for my start of surprise.
+
+'Do you see it?' she says anxiously, and I see it, and hear it, for this
+time it is a bran-new wicker chair, of the kind that whisper to
+themselves for the first six months.
+
+'A going-about body was selling them in a cart,' my mother begins, and
+what followed presents itself to my eyes before she can utter another
+word.  Ten minutes at the least did she stand at the door argy-bargying
+with that man.  But it would be cruelty to scold a woman so uplifted.
+
+'Fifteen shillings he wanted,' she cries, 'but what do you think I beat
+him down to?'
+
+'Seven and sixpence?'
+
+She claps her hands with delight.  'Four shillings, as I'm a living
+woman!' she crows: never was a woman fonder of a bargain.
+
+I gaze at the purchase with the amazement expected of me, and the chair
+itself crinkles and shudders to hear what it went for (or is it merely
+chuckling at her?).  'And the man said it cost himself five shillings,'
+my mother continues exultantly.  You would have thought her the hardest
+person had not a knock on the wall summoned us about this time to my
+sister's side.  Though in bed she has been listening, and this is what
+she has to say, in a voice that makes my mother very indignant, 'You
+drive a bargain!   I'm thinking ten shillings was nearer what you paid.'
+
+'Four shillings to a penny!' says my mother.
+
+'I daresay,' says my sister; 'but after you paid him the money I heard
+you in the little bedroom press.  What were you doing there?'
+
+My mother winces.  'I may have given him a present of an old topcoat,'
+she falters.  'He looked ill-happit.  But that was after I made the
+bargain.'
+
+'Were there bairns in the cart?'
+
+'There might have been a bit lassie in the cart.'
+
+'I thought as much.  What did you give her?  I heard you in the pantry.'
+
+'Four shillings was what I got that chair for,' replies my mother firmly.
+If I don't interfere there will be a coldness between them for at least a
+minute.  'There is blood on your finger,' I say to my mother.
+
+'So there is,' she says, concealing her hand.
+
+'Blood!' exclaims my sister anxiously, and then with a cry of triumph, 'I
+warrant it's jelly.  You gave that lassie one of the jelly cans!'
+
+The Glasgow waiter brings up tea, and presently my sister is able to
+rise, and after a sharp fight I am expelled from the kitchen.  The last
+thing I do as maid of all work is to lug upstairs the clothes-basket
+which has just arrived with the mangling.  Now there is delicious linen
+for my mother to finger; there was always rapture on her face when the
+clothes-basket came in; it never failed to make her once more the active
+genius of the house.  I may leave her now with her sheets and collars and
+napkins and fronts.  Indeed, she probably orders me to go.  A son is all
+very well, but suppose he were to tread on that counterpane!
+
+My sister is but and I am ben--I mean she is in the east end and I am in
+the west--tuts, tuts! let us get at the English of this by striving: she
+is in the kitchen and I am at my desk in the parlour.  I hope I may not
+be disturbed, for to-night I must make my hero say 'Darling,' and it
+needs both privacy and concentration.  In a word, let me admit (though I
+should like to beat about the bush) that I have sat down to a
+love-chapter.  Too long has it been avoided, Albert has called Marion
+'dear' only as yet (between you and me these are not their real names),
+but though the public will probably read the word without blinking, it
+went off in my hands with a bang.  They tell me--the Sassenach tell
+me--that in time I shall be able without a blush to make Albert say
+'darling,' and even gather her up in his arms, but I begin to doubt it;
+the moment sees me as shy as ever; I still find it advisable to lock the
+door, and then--no witness save the dog--I 'do' it dourly with my teeth
+clenched, while the dog retreats into the far corner and moans.  The
+bolder Englishman (I am told) will write a love-chapter and then go out,
+quite coolly, to dinner, but such goings on are contrary to the Scotch
+nature; even the great novelists dared not.  Conceive Mr. Stevenson left
+alone with a hero, a heroine, and a proposal impending (he does not know
+where to look).  Sir Walter in the same circumstances gets out of the
+room by making his love-scenes take place between the end of one chapter
+and the beginning of the next, but he could afford to do anything, and
+the small fry must e'en to their task, moan the dog as he may.  So I have
+yoked to mine when, enter my mother, looking wistful.
+
+'I suppose you are terrible thrang,' she says.
+
+'Well, I am rather busy, but--what is it you want me to do?'
+
+'It would be a shame to ask you.'
+
+'Still, ask me.'
+
+'I am so terrified they may be filed.'
+
+'You want me to--?'
+
+'If you would just come up, and help me to fold the sheets!'
+
+The sheets are folded and I return to Albert.  I lock the door, and at
+last I am bringing my hero forward nicely (my knee in the small of his
+back), when this startling question is shot by my sister through the
+key-hole--
+
+'Where did you put the carrot-grater?'
+
+It will all have to be done over again if I let Albert go for a moment,
+so, gripping him hard, I shout indignantly that I have not seen the
+carrot-grater.
+
+'Then what did you grate the carrots on?' asks the voice, and the
+door-handle is shaken just as I shake Albert.
+
+'On a broken cup,' I reply with surprising readiness, and I get to work
+again but am less engrossed, for a conviction grows on me that I put the
+carrot-grater in the drawer of the sewing-machine.
+
+I am wondering whether I should confess or brazen it out, when I hear my
+sister going hurriedly upstairs.  I have a presentiment that she has gone
+to talk about me, and I basely open my door and listen.
+
+'Just look at that, mother!'
+
+'Is it a dish-cloth?'
+
+'That's what it is now.'
+
+'Losh behears! it's one of the new table-napkins.'
+
+'That's what it was.  He has been polishing the kitchen grate with it!'
+
+(I remember!)
+
+'Woe's me!  That is what comes of his not letting me budge from this
+room.  O, it is a watery Sabbath when men take to doing women's work!'
+
+'It defies the face of clay, mother, to fathom what makes him so
+senseless.'
+
+'Oh, it's that weary writing.'
+
+'And the worst of it is he will talk to-morrow as if he had done
+wonders.'
+
+'That's the way with the whole clanjam-fray of them.'
+
+'Yes, but as usual you will humour him, mother.'
+
+'Oh, well, it pleases him, you see,' says my mother, 'and we can have our
+laugh when his door's shut.'
+
+'He is most terribly handless.'
+
+'He is all that, but, poor soul, he does his best.'
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII--R. L. S.
+
+
+These familiar initials are, I suppose, the best beloved in recent
+literature, certainly they are the sweetest to me, but there was a time
+when my mother could not abide them.  She said 'That Stevenson man' with
+a sneer, and, it was never easy to her to sneer.  At thought of him her
+face would become almost hard, which seems incredible, and she would knit
+her lips and fold her arms, and reply with a stiff 'oh' if you mentioned
+his aggravating name.  In the novels we have a way of writing of our
+heroine, 'she drew herself up haughtily,' and when mine draw themselves
+up haughtily I see my mother thinking of Robert Louis Stevenson.  He knew
+her opinion of him, and would write, 'My ears tingled yesterday; I sair
+doubt she has been miscalling me again.'  But the more she miscalled him
+the more he delighted in her, and she was informed of this, and at once
+said, 'The scoundrel!'  If you would know what was his unpardonable
+crime, it was this: he wrote better books than mine.
+
+I remember the day she found it out, which was not, however, the day she
+admitted it.  That day, when I should have been at my work, she came upon
+me in the kitchen, 'The Master of Ballantrae' beside me, but I was not
+reading: my head lay heavy on the table, and to her anxious eyes, I doubt
+not, I was the picture of woe.  'Not writing!' I echoed, no, I was not
+writing, I saw no use in ever trying to write again.  And down, I
+suppose, went my head once more.  She misunderstood, and thought the blow
+had fallen; I had awakened to the discovery, always dreaded by her, that
+I had written myself dry; I was no better than an empty ink-bottle.  She
+wrung her hands, but indignation came to her with my explanation, which
+was that while R. L. S. was at it we others were only 'prentices cutting
+our fingers on his tools.  'I could never thole his books,' said my
+mother immediately, and indeed vindictively.
+
+'You have not read any of them,' I reminded her.
+
+'And never will,' said she with spirit.
+
+And I have no doubt that she called him a dark character that very day.
+For weeks too, if not for months, she adhered to her determination not to
+read him, though I, having come to my senses and seen that there is a
+place for the 'prentice, was taking a pleasure, almost malicious, in
+putting 'The Master of Ballantrae' in her way.  I would place it on her
+table so that it said good-morning to her when she rose.  She would
+frown, and carrying it downstairs, as if she had it in the tongs, replace
+it on its book-shelf.  I would wrap it up in the cover she had made for
+the latest Carlyle: she would skin it contemptuously and again bring it
+down.  I would hide her spectacles in it, and lay it on top of the
+clothes-basket and prop it up invitingly open against her tea-pot.  And
+at last I got her, though I forget by which of many contrivances.  What I
+recall vividly is a key-hole view, to which another member of the family
+invited me.  Then I saw my mother wrapped up in 'The Master of
+Ballantrae' and muttering the music to herself, nodding her head in
+approval, and taking a stealthy glance at the foot of each page before
+she began at the top.  Nevertheless she had an ear for the door, for when
+I bounced in she had been too clever for me; there was no book to be
+seen, only an apron on her lap and she was gazing out at the window.
+Some such conversation as this followed:--
+
+'You have been sitting very quietly, mother.'
+
+'I always sit quietly, I never do anything, I'm just a finished
+stocking.'
+
+'Have you been reading?'
+
+'Do I ever read at this time of day?'
+
+'What is that in your lap?'
+
+'Just my apron.'
+
+'Is that a book beneath the apron?'
+
+'It might be a book.'
+
+'Let me see.'
+
+'Go away with you to your work.'
+
+But I lifted the apron.  'Why, it's "The Master of Ballantrae!"'  I
+exclaimed, shocked.
+
+'So it is!' said my mother, equally surprised.  But I looked sternly at
+her, and perhaps she blushed.
+
+'Well what do you think: not nearly equal to mine?' said I with humour.
+
+'Nothing like them,' she said determinedly.
+
+'Not a bit,' said I, though whether with a smile or a groan is
+immaterial; they would have meant the same thing.  Should I put the book
+back on its shelf?  I asked, and she replied that I could put it wherever
+I liked for all she cared, so long as I took it out of her sight (the
+implication was that it had stolen on to her lap while she was looking
+out at the window).  My behaviour may seem small, but I gave her a last
+chance, for I said that some people found it a book there was no putting
+down until they reached the last page.
+
+'I'm no that kind,' replied my mother.
+
+Nevertheless our old game with the haver of a thing, as she called it,
+was continued, with this difference, that it was now she who carried the
+book covertly upstairs, and I who replaced it on the shelf, and several
+times we caught each other in the act, but not a word said either of us;
+we were grown self-conscious.  Much of the play no doubt I forget, but
+one incident I remember clearly.  She had come down to sit beside me
+while I wrote, and sometimes, when I looked up, her eye was not on me,
+but on the shelf where 'The Master of Ballantrae' stood inviting her.
+Mr. Stevenson's books are not for the shelf, they are for the hand; even
+when you lay them down, let it be on the table for the next comer.  Being
+the most sociable that man has penned in our time, they feel very lonely
+up there in a stately row.  I think their eye is on you the moment you
+enter the room, and so you are drawn to look at them, and you take a
+volume down with the impulse that induces one to unchain the dog.  And
+the result is not dissimilar, for in another moment you two are at play.
+Is there any other modern writer who gets round you in this way?  Well,
+he had given my mother the look which in the ball-room means, 'Ask me for
+this waltz,' and she ettled to do it, but felt that her more dutiful
+course was to sit out the dance with this other less entertaining
+partner.  I wrote on doggedly, but could hear the whispering.
+
+'Am I to be a wall-flower?' asked James Durie reproachfully.  (It must
+have been leap-year.)
+
+'Speak lower,' replied my mother, with an uneasy look at me.
+
+'Pooh!' said James contemptuously, 'that kail-runtle!'
+
+'I winna have him miscalled,' said my mother, frowning.
+
+'I am done with him,' said James (wiping his cane with his cambric
+handkerchief), and his sword clattered deliciously (I cannot think this
+was accidental), which made my mother sigh.  Like the man he was, he
+followed up his advantage with a comparison that made me dip viciously.
+
+'A prettier sound that,' said he, clanking his sword again, 'than the
+clack-clack of your young friend's shuttle.'
+
+'Whist!' cried my mother, who had seen me dip.
+
+'Then give me your arm,' said James, lowering his voice.
+
+'I dare not,' answered my mother.  'He's so touchy about you.'
+
+'Come, come,' he pressed her, 'you are certain to do it sooner or later,
+so why not now?'
+
+'Wait till he has gone for his walk,' said my mother; 'and, forbye that,
+I'm ower old to dance with you.'
+
+'How old are you?' he inquired.
+
+'You're gey an' pert!' cried my mother.
+
+'Are you seventy?'
+
+'Off and on,' she admitted.
+
+'Pooh,' he said, 'a mere girl!'
+
+She replied instantly, 'I'm no' to be catched with chaff'; but she smiled
+and rose as if he had stretched out his hand and got her by the
+finger-tip.
+
+After that they whispered so low (which they could do as they were now
+much nearer each other) that I could catch only one remark.  It came from
+James, and seems to show the tenor of their whisperings, for his words
+were, 'Easily enough, if you slip me beneath your shawl.'
+
+That is what she did, and furthermore she left the room guiltily,
+muttering something about redding up the drawers.  I suppose I smiled
+wanly to myself, or conscience must have been nibbling at my mother, for
+in less than five minutes she was back, carrying her accomplice openly,
+and she thrust him with positive viciousness into the place where my
+Stevenson had lost a tooth (as the writer whom he most resembled would
+have said).  And then like a good mother she took up one of her son's
+books and read it most determinedly.  It had become a touching incident
+to me, and I remember how we there and then agreed upon a compromise she
+was to read the enticing thing just to convince herself of its
+inferiority.
+
+'The Master of Ballantrae' is not the best.  Conceive the glory, which
+was my mother's, of knowing from a trustworthy source that there are at
+least three better awaiting you on the same shelf.  She did not know Alan
+Breck yet, and he was as anxious to step down as Mr. Bally himself.  John
+Silver was there, getting into his leg, so that she should not have to
+wait a moment, and roaring, 'I'll lay to that!' when she told me
+consolingly that she could not thole pirate stories.  Not to know these
+gentlemen, what is it like?  It is like never having been in love.  But
+they are in the house!  That is like knowing that you will fall in love
+to-morrow morning.  With one word, by drawing one mournful face, I could
+have got my mother to abjure the jam-shelf--nay, I might have managed it
+by merely saying that she had enjoyed 'The Master of Ballantrae.'  For
+you must remember that she only read it to persuade herself (and me) of
+its unworthiness, and that the reason she wanted to read the others was
+to get further proof.  All this she made plain to me, eyeing me a little
+anxiously the while, and of course I accepted the explanation.  Alan is
+the biggest child of them all, and I doubt not that she thought so, but
+curiously enough her views of him are among the things I have forgotten.
+But how enamoured she was of 'Treasure Island,' and how faithful she
+tried to be to me all the time she was reading it!  I had to put my hands
+over her eyes to let her know that I had entered the room, and even then
+she might try to read between my fingers, coming to herself presently,
+however, to say 'It's a haver of a book.'
+
+'Those pirate stories are so uninteresting,' I would reply without fear,
+for she was too engrossed to see through me.  'Do you think you will
+finish this one?'
+
+'I may as well go on with it since I have begun it,' my mother says, so
+slyly that my sister and I shake our heads at each other to imply, 'Was
+there ever such a woman!'
+
+'There are none of those one-legged scoundrels in my books,' I say.
+
+'Better without them,' she replies promptly.
+
+'I wonder, mother, what it is about the man that so infatuates the
+public?'
+
+'He takes no hold of me,' she insists.  'I would a hantle rather read
+your books.'
+
+I offer obligingly to bring one of them to her, and now she looks at me
+suspiciously.  'You surely believe I like yours best,' she says with
+instant anxiety, and I soothe her by assurances, and retire advising her
+to read on, just to see if she can find out how he misleads the public.
+'Oh, I may take a look at it again by-and-by,' she says indifferently,
+but nevertheless the probability is that as the door shuts the book
+opens, as if by some mechanical contrivance.  I remember how she read
+'Treasure Island,' holding it close to the ribs of the fire (because she
+could not spare a moment to rise and light the gas), and how, when
+bed-time came, and we coaxed, remonstrated, scolded, she said quite
+fiercely, clinging to the book, 'I dinna lay my head on a pillow this
+night till I see how that laddie got out of the barrel.'
+
+After this, I think, he was as bewitching as the laddie in the barrel to
+her--Was he not always a laddie in the barrel himself, climbing in for
+apples while we all stood around, like gamins, waiting for a bite?  He
+was the spirit of boyhood tugging at the skirts of this old world of ours
+and compelling it to come back and play.  And I suppose my mother felt
+this, as so many have felt it: like others she was a little scared at
+first to find herself skipping again, with this masterful child at the
+rope, but soon she gave him her hand and set off with him for the meadow,
+not an apology between the two of them for the author left behind.  But
+near to the end did she admit (in words) that he had a way with him which
+was beyond her son.  'Silk and sacking, that is what we are,' she was
+informed, to which she would reply obstinately, 'Well, then, I prefer
+sacking.'
+
+'But if he had been your son?'
+
+'But he is not.'
+
+'You wish he were?'
+
+'I dinna deny but what I could have found room for him.'
+
+And still at times she would smear him with the name of black (to his
+delight when he learned the reason).  That was when some podgy red-sealed
+blue-crossed letter arrived from Vailima, inviting me to journey thither.
+(His directions were, 'You take the boat at San Francisco, and then my
+place is the second to the left.')  Even London seemed to her to carry me
+so far away that I often took a week to the journey (the first six days
+in getting her used to the idea), and these letters terrified her.  It
+was not the finger of Jim Hawkins she now saw beckoning me across the
+seas, it was John Silver, waving a crutch.  Seldom, I believe, did I read
+straight through one of these Vailima letters; when in the middle I
+suddenly remembered who was upstairs and what she was probably doing, and
+I ran to her, three steps at a jump, to find her, lips pursed, hands
+folded, a picture of gloom.
+
+'I have a letter from--'
+
+'So I have heard.'
+
+'Would you like to hear it?'
+
+'No.'
+
+'Can you not abide him?'
+
+'I cauna thole him.'
+
+'Is he a black?'
+
+'He is all that.'
+
+Well, Vailima was the one spot on earth I had any great craving to visit,
+but I think she always knew I would never leave her.  Sometime, she said,
+she should like me to go, but not until she was laid away.  'And how
+small I have grown this last winter.  Look at my wrists.  It canna be
+long now.'  No, I never thought of going, was never absent for a day from
+her without reluctance, and never walked so quickly as when I was going
+back.  In the meantime that happened which put an end for ever to my
+scheme of travel.  I shall never go up the Road of Loving Hearts now, on
+'a wonderful clear night of stars,' to meet the man coming toward me on a
+horse.  It is still a wonderful clear night of stars, but the road is
+empty.  So I never saw the dear king of us all.  But before he had
+written books he was in my part of the country with a fishing-wand in his
+hand, and I like to think that I was the boy who met him that day by
+Queen Margaret's burn, where the rowans are, and busked a fly for him,
+and stood watching, while his lithe figure rose and fell as he cast and
+hinted back from the crystal waters of Noran-side.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII--A PANIC IN THE HOUSE
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX--MY HEROINE.
+
+
+When it was known that I had begun another story my mother might ask what
+it was to be about this time.
+
+'Fine we can guess who it is about,' my sister would say pointedly.
+
+'Maybe you can guess, but it is beyond me,' says my mother, with the
+meekness of one who knows that she is a dull person.
+
+My sister scorned her at such times.  'What woman is in all his books?'
+she would demand.
+
+'I'm sure I canna say,' replies my mother determinedly.  'I thought the
+women were different every time.'
+
+'Mother, I wonder you can be so audacious!  Fine you know what woman I
+mean.'
+
+'How can I know?  What woman is it?  You should bear in mind that I hinna
+your cleverness' (they were constantly giving each other little knocks).
+
+'I won't give you the satisfaction of saying her name.  But this I will
+say, it is high time he was keeping her out of his books.'
+
+And then as usual my mother would give herself away unconsciously.  'That
+is what I tell him,' she says chuckling, 'and he tries to keep me out,
+but he canna; it's more than he can do!'
+
+On an evening after my mother had gone to bed, the first chapter would be
+brought upstairs, and I read, sitting at the foot of the bed, while my
+sister watched to make my mother behave herself, and my father cried
+H'sh! when there were interruptions.  All would go well at the start, the
+reflections were accepted with a little nod of the head, the descriptions
+of scenery as ruts on the road that must be got over at a walking pace
+(my mother did not care for scenery, and that is why there is so little
+of it in my books).  But now I am reading too quickly, a little
+apprehensively, because I know that the next paragraph begins with--let
+us say with, 'Along this path came a woman': I had intended to rush on
+here in a loud bullying voice, but 'Along this path came a woman' I read,
+and stop.  Did I hear a faint sound from the other end of the bed?
+Perhaps I did not; I may only have been listening for it, but I falter
+and look up.  My sister and I look sternly at my mother.  She bites her
+under-lip and clutches the bed with both hands, really she is doing her
+best for me, but first comes a smothered gurgling sound, then her hold on
+herself relaxes and she shakes with mirth.
+
+'That's a way to behave!' cries my sister.
+
+'I cannot help it,' my mother gasps.
+
+'And there's nothing to laugh at.'
+
+'It's that woman,' my mother explains unnecessarily.
+
+'Maybe she's not the woman you think her,' I say, crushed.
+
+'Maybe not,' says my mother doubtfully.  'What was her name?'
+
+'Her name,' I answer with triumph, 'was not Margaret'; but this makes her
+ripple again.  'I have so many names nowadays,' she mutters.
+
+'H'sh!' says my father, and the reading is resumed.
+
+Perhaps the woman who came along the path was of tall and majestic
+figure, which should have shown my mother that I had contrived to start
+my train without her this time.  But it did not.
+
+'What are you laughing at now?' says my sister severely.  'Do you not
+hear that she was a tall, majestic woman?'
+
+'It's the first time I ever heard it said of her,' replies my mother.
+
+'But she is.'
+
+'Ke fy, havers!'
+
+'The book says it.'
+
+'There will be a many queer things in the book.  What was she wearing?'
+
+I have not described her clothes.  'That's a mistake,' says my mother.
+'When I come upon a woman in a book, the first thing I want to know about
+her is whether she was good-looking, and the second, how she was put on.'
+
+The woman on the path was eighteen years of age, and of remarkable
+beauty.
+
+'That settles you,' says my sister.
+
+'I was no beauty at eighteen,' my mother admits, but here my father
+interferes unexpectedly.  'There wasna your like in this countryside at
+eighteen,' says he stoutly.
+
+'Pooh!' says she, well pleased.
+
+'Were you plain, then?' we ask.
+
+'Sal,' she replies briskly, 'I was far from plain.'
+
+'H'sh!'
+
+Perhaps in the next chapter this lady (or another) appears in a carriage.
+
+'I assure you we're mounting in the world,' I hear my mother murmur, but
+I hurry on without looking up.  The lady lives in a house where there are
+footmen--but the footmen have come on the scene too hurriedly.  'This is
+more than I can stand,' gasps my mother, and just as she is getting the
+better of a fit of laughter, 'Footman, give me a drink of water,' she
+cries, and this sets her off again.  Often the readings had to end
+abruptly because her mirth brought on violent fits of coughing.
+
+Sometimes I read to my sister alone, and she assured me that she could
+not see my mother among the women this time.  This she said to humour me.
+Presently she would slip upstairs to announce triumphantly, 'You are in
+again!'
+
+Or in the small hours I might make a confidant of my father, and when I
+had finished reading he would say thoughtfully, 'That lassie is very
+natural.  Some of the ways you say she had--your mother had them just the
+same.  Did you ever notice what an extraordinary woman your mother is?'
+
+Then would I seek my mother for comfort.  She was the more ready to give
+it because of her profound conviction that if I was found out--that is,
+if readers discovered how frequently and in how many guises she appeared
+in my books--the affair would become a public scandal.
+
+'You see Jess is not really you,' I begin inquiringly.
+
+'Oh no, she is another kind of woman altogether,' my mother says, and
+then spoils the compliment by adding naively, 'She had but two rooms and
+I have six.'
+
+I sigh.  'Without counting the pantry, and it's a great big pantry,' she
+mutters.
+
+This was not the sort of difference I could greatly plume myself upon,
+and honesty would force me to say, 'As far as that goes, there was a time
+when you had but two rooms yourself--'
+
+'That's long since,' she breaks in.  'I began with an up-the-stair, but I
+always had it in my mind--I never mentioned it, but there it was--to have
+the down-the-stair as well.  Ay, and I've had it this many a year.'
+
+'Still, there is no denying that Jess had the same ambition.'
+
+'She had, but to her two-roomed house she had to stick all her born days.
+Was that like me?'
+
+'No, but she wanted--'
+
+'She wanted, and I wanted, but I got and she didna.  That's the
+difference betwixt her and me.'
+
+'If that is all the difference, it is little credit I can claim for
+having created her.'
+
+My mother sees that I need soothing.  'That is far from being all the
+difference,' she would say eagerly.  'There's my silk, for instance.
+Though I say it mysel, there's not a better silk in the valley of
+Strathmore.  Had Jess a silk of any kind--not to speak of a silk like
+that?'
+
+'Well, she had no silk, but you remember how she got that cloak with
+beads.'
+
+'An eleven and a bit!  Hoots, what was that to boast of!  I tell you,
+every single yard of my silk cost--'
+
+'Mother, that is the very way Jess spoke about her cloak!'
+
+She lets this pass, perhaps without hearing it, for solicitude about her
+silk has hurried her to the wardrobe where it hangs.
+
+'Ah, mother, I am afraid that was very like Jess!'
+
+'How could it be like her when she didna even have a wardrobe?  I tell
+you what, if there had been a real Jess and she had boasted to me about
+her cloak with beads, I would have said to her in a careless sort of
+voice, "Step across with me, Jess and I'll let you see something that is
+hanging in my wardrobe."  That would have lowered her pride!'
+
+'I don't believe that is what you would have done, mother.'
+
+Then a sweeter expression would come into her face.  'No,' she would say
+reflectively, 'it's not.'
+
+'What would you have done?  I think I know.'
+
+'You canna know.  But I'm thinking I would have called to mind that she
+was a poor woman, and ailing, and terrible windy about her cloak, and I
+would just have said it was a beauty and that I wished I had one like
+it.'
+
+'Yes, I am certain that is what you would have done.  But oh, mother,
+that is just how Jess would have acted if some poorer woman than she had
+shown her a new shawl.'
+
+'Maybe, but though I hadna boasted about my silk I would have wanted to
+do it.'
+
+'Just as Jess would have been fidgeting to show off her eleven and a
+bit!'
+
+It seems advisable to jump to another book; not to my first,
+because--well, as it was my first there would naturally be something of
+my mother in it, and not to the second, as it was my first novel and not
+much esteemed even in our family.  (But the little touches of my mother
+in it are not so bad.)  Let us try the story about the minister.
+
+My mother's first remark is decidedly damping.  'Many a time in my young
+days,' she says, 'I played about the Auld Licht manse, but I little
+thought I should live to be the mistress of it!'
+
+'But Margaret is not you.'
+
+'N-no, oh no.  She had a very different life from mine.  I never let on
+to a soul that she is me!'
+
+'She was not meant to be you when I began.  Mother, what a way you have
+of coming creeping in!'
+
+'You should keep better watch on yourself.'
+
+'Perhaps if I had called Margaret by some other name--'
+
+'I should have seen through her just the same.  As soon as I heard she
+was the mother I began to laugh.  In some ways, though, she's no' so very
+like me.  She was long in finding out about Babbie.  I'se uphaud I should
+have been quicker.'
+
+'Babbie, you see, kept close to the garden-wall.'
+
+'It's not the wall up at the manse that would have hidden her from me.'
+
+'She came out in the dark.'
+
+'I'm thinking she would have found me looking for her with a candle.'
+
+'And Gavin was secretive.'
+
+'That would have put me on my mettle.'
+
+'She never suspected anything.'
+
+'I wonder at her.'
+
+But my new heroine is to be a child.  What has madam to say to that?
+
+A child!  Yes, she has something to say even to that.  'This beats all!'
+are the words.
+
+'Come, come, mother, I see what you are thinking, but I assure you that
+this time--'
+
+'Of course not,' she says soothingly, 'oh no, she canna be me'; but anon
+her real thoughts are revealed by the artless remark, 'I doubt, though,
+this is a tough job you have on hand--it is so long since I was a bairn.'
+
+We came very close to each other in those talks.  'It is a queer thing,'
+she would say softly, 'that near everything you write is about this bit
+place.  You little expected that when you began.  I mind well the time
+when it never entered your head, any more than mine, that you could write
+a page about our squares and wynds.  I wonder how it has come about?'
+
+There was a time when I could not have answered that question, but that
+time had long passed.  'I suppose, mother, it was because you were most
+at home in your own town, and there was never much pleasure to me in
+writing of people who could not have known you, nor of squares and wynds
+you never passed through, nor of a country-side where you never carried
+your father's dinner in a flagon.  There is scarce a house in all my
+books where I have not seemed to see you a thousand times, bending over
+the fireplace or winding up the clock.'
+
+'And yet you used to be in such a quandary because you knew nobody you
+could make your women-folk out of!  Do you mind that, and how we both
+laughed at the notion of your having to make them out of me?'
+
+'I remember.'
+
+'And now you've gone back to my father's time.  It's more than sixty
+years since I carried his dinner in a flagon through the long parks of
+Kinnordy.'
+
+'I often go into the long parks, mother, and sit on the stile at the edge
+of the wood till I fancy I see a little girl coming toward me with a
+flagon in her hand.'
+
+'Jumping the burn (I was once so proud of my jumps!) and swinging the
+flagon round so quick that what was inside hadna time to fall out.  I
+used to wear a magenta frock and a white pinafore.  Did I ever tell you
+that?'
+
+'Mother, the little girl in my story wears a magenta frock and a white
+pinafore.'
+
+'You minded that!  But I'm thinking it wasna a lassie in a pinafore you
+saw in the long parks of Kinnordy, it was just a gey done auld woman.'
+
+'It was a lassie in a pinafore, mother, when she was far away, but when
+she came near it was a gey done auld woman.'
+
+'And a fell ugly one!'
+
+'The most beautiful one I shall ever see.'
+
+'I wonder to hear you say it.  Look at my wrinkled auld face.'
+
+'It is the sweetest face in all the world.'
+
+'See how the rings drop off my poor wasted finger.'
+
+'There will always be someone nigh, mother, to put them on again.'
+
+'Ay, will there!  Well I know it.  Do you mind how when you were but a
+bairn you used to say, "Wait till I'm a man, and you'll never have a
+reason for greeting again?"'
+
+I remembered.
+
+'You used to come running into the house to say, "There's a proud dame
+going down the Marywellbrae in a cloak that is black on one side and
+white on the other; wait till I'm a man, and you'll have one the very
+same."  And when I lay on gey hard beds you said, "When I'm a man you'll
+lie on feathers."  You saw nothing bonny, you never heard of my setting
+my heart on anything, but what you flung up your head and cried, "Wait
+till I'm a man."  You fair shamed me before the neighbours, and yet I was
+windy, too.  And now it has all come true like a dream.  I can call to
+mind not one little thing I ettled for in my lusty days that hasna been
+put into my hands in my auld age; I sit here useless, surrounded by the
+gratification of all my wishes and all my ambitions, and at times I'm
+near terrified, for it's as if God had mista'en me for some other woman.'
+
+'Your hopes and ambitions were so simple,' I would say, but she did not
+like that.  'They werena that simple,' she would answer, flushing.
+
+I am reluctant to leave those happy days, but the end must be faced, and
+as I write I seem to see my mother growing smaller and her face more
+wistful, and still she lingers with us, as if God had said, 'Child of
+mine, your time has come, be not afraid.'  And she was not afraid, but
+still she lingered, and He waited, smiling.  I never read any of that
+last book to her; when it was finished she was too heavy with years to
+follow a story.  To me this was as if my book must go out cold into the
+world (like all that may come after it from me), and my sister, who took
+more thought for others and less for herself than any other human being I
+have known, saw this, and by some means unfathomable to a man coaxed my
+mother into being once again the woman she had been.  On a day but three
+weeks before she died my father and I were called softly upstairs.  My
+mother was sitting bolt upright, as she loved to sit, in her old chair by
+the window, with a manuscript in her hands.  But she was looking about
+her without much understanding.  'Just to please him,' my sister
+whispered, and then in a low, trembling voice my mother began to read.  I
+looked at my sister.  Tears of woe were stealing down her face.  Soon the
+reading became very slow and stopped.  After a pause, 'There was
+something you were to say to him,' my sister reminded her.  'Luck,'
+muttered a voice as from the dead, 'luck.'  And then the old smile came
+running to her face like a lamp-lighter, and she said to me, 'I am ower
+far gone to read, but I'm thinking I am in it again!'  My father put her
+Testament in her hands, and it fell open--as it always does--at the
+Fourteenth of John.  She made an effort to read but could not.  Suddenly
+she stooped and kissed the broad page.  'Will that do instead?' she
+asked.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X--ART THOU AFRAID HIS POWER SHALL FAIL?
+
+
+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
+
+
+
+
+***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGARET OGILVY***
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+The Project Gutenberg Etext of Margaret Ogilvy, by J. M. Barrie
+
+The author of Peter Pan writes about his mother, Margaret Ogilvy
+
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+Margaret Ogilvy
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+Margaret Ogilvy by her Son - J. M. Barrie.  1897 edition.
+Scanned and proofed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
+
+
+
+
+
+MARGARET OGILVY
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I - HOW MY MOTHER GOT HER SOFT FACE
+
+
+On the day I was born we bought six hair-bottomed chairs, and in 
+our little house it was an event, the first great victory in a 
+woman's long campaign; how they had been laboured for, the pound-
+note and the thirty threepenny-bits they cost, what anxiety there 
+was about the purchase, the show they made in possession of the 
+west room, my father's unnatural coolness when he brought them in 
+(but his face was white) - I so often heard the tale afterwards, 
+and shared as boy and man in so many similar triumphs, that the 
+coming of the chairs seems to be something I remember, as if I had 
+jumped out of bed on that first day, and run ben to see how they 
+looked.  I am sure my mother's feet were ettling to be ben long 
+before they could be trusted, and that the moment after she was 
+left alone with me she was discovered barefooted in the west room, 
+doctoring a scar (which she had been the first to detect) on one of 
+the chairs, or sitting on them regally, or withdrawing and re-
+opening the door suddenly to take the six by surprise.  And then, I 
+think, a shawl was flung over her (it is strange to me to think it 
+was not I who ran after her with the shawl), and she was escorted 
+sternly back to bed and reminded that she had promised not to 
+budge, to which her reply was probably that she had been gone but 
+an instant, and the implication that therefore she had not been 
+gone at all.  Thus was one little bit of her revealed to me at 
+once: I wonder if I took note of it.  Neighbours came in to see the 
+boy and the chairs.  I wonder if she deceived me when she affected 
+to think that there were others like us, or whether I saw through 
+her from the first, she was so easily seen through.  When she 
+seemed to agree with them that it would be impossible to give me a 
+college education, was I so easily taken in, or did I know already 
+what ambitions burned behind that dear face? when they spoke of the 
+chairs as the goal quickly reached, was I such a newcomer that her 
+timid lips must say 'They are but a beginning' before I heard the 
+words?  And when we were left together, did I laugh at the great 
+things that were in her mind, or had she to whisper them to me 
+first, and then did I put my arm round her and tell her that I 
+would help?  Thus it was for such a long time: it is strange to me 
+to feel that it was not so from the beginning.
+
+It is all guess-work for six years, and she whom I see in them is 
+the woman who came suddenly into view when they were at an end.  
+Her timid lips I have said, but they were not timid then, and when 
+I knew her the timid lips had come.  The soft face - they say the 
+face was not so soft then.  The shawl that was flung over her - we 
+had not begun to hunt her with a shawl, nor to make our bodies a 
+screen between her and the draughts, nor to creep into her room a 
+score of times in the night to stand looking at her as she slept.  
+We did not see her becoming little then, nor sharply turn our heads 
+when she said wonderingly how small her arms had grown.  In her 
+happiest moments - and never was a happier woman - her mouth did 
+not of a sudden begin to twitch, and tears to lie on the mute blue 
+eyes in which I have read all I know and would ever care to write.  
+For when you looked into my mother's eyes you knew, as if He had 
+told you, why God sent her into the world - it was to open the 
+minds of all who looked to beautiful thoughts.  And that is the 
+beginning and end of literature.  Those eyes that I cannot see 
+until I was six years old have guided me through life, and I pray 
+God they may remain my only earthly judge to the last.  They were 
+never more my guide than when I helped to put her to earth, not 
+whimpering because my mother had been taken away after seventy-six 
+glorious years of life, but exulting in her even at the grave.
+
+
+She had a son who was far away at school.  I remember very little 
+about him, only that he was a merry-faced boy who ran like a 
+squirrel up a tree and shook the cherries into my lap.  When he was 
+thirteen and I was half his age the terrible news came, and I have 
+been told the face of my mother was awful in its calmness as she 
+set off to get between Death and her boy.  We trooped with her down 
+the brae to the wooden station, and I think I was envying her the 
+journey in the mysterious wagons; I know we played around her, 
+proud of our right to be there, but I do not recall it, I only 
+speak from hearsay.  Her ticket was taken, she had bidden us 
+goodbye with that fighting face which I cannot see, and then my 
+father came out of the telegraph-office and said huskily, 'He's 
+gone!'  Then we turned very quietly and went home again up the 
+little brae.  But I speak from hearsay no longer; I knew my mother 
+for ever now.
+
+That is how she got her soft face and her pathetic ways and her 
+large charity, and why other mothers ran to her when they had lost 
+a child.  'Dinna greet, poor Janet,' she would say to them; and 
+they would answer, 'Ah, Margaret, but you're greeting yoursel.'  
+Margaret Ogilvy had been her maiden name, and after the Scotch 
+custom she was still Margaret Ogilvy to her old friends.  Margaret 
+Ogilvy I loved to name her.  Often when I was a boy, 'Margaret 
+Ogilvy, are you there?'  I would call up the stair.
+
+She was always delicate from that hour, and for many months she was 
+very ill.  I have heard that the first thing she expressed a wish 
+to see was the christening robe, and she looked long at it and then 
+turned her face to the wall.  That was what made me as a boy think 
+of it always as the robe in which he was christened, but I knew 
+later that we had all been christened in it, from the oldest of the 
+family to the youngest, between whom stood twenty years.  Hundreds 
+of other children were christened in it also, such robes being then 
+a rare possession, and the lending of ours among my mother's 
+glories.  It was carried carefully from house to house, as if it 
+were itself a child; my mother made much of it, smoothed it out, 
+petted it, smiled to it before putting it into the arms of those to 
+whom it was being lent; she was in our pew to see it borne 
+magnificently (something inside it now) down the aisle to the 
+pulpit-side, when a stir of expectancy went through the church and 
+we kicked each other's feet beneath the book-board but were 
+reverent in the face; and however the child might behave, laughing 
+brazenly or skirling to its mother's shame, and whatever the father 
+as he held it up might do, look doited probably and bow at the 
+wrong time, the christening robe of long experience helped them 
+through.  And when it was brought back to her she took it in her 
+arms as softly as if it might be asleep, and unconsciously pressed 
+it to her breast: there was never anything in the house that spoke 
+to her quite so eloquently as that little white robe; it was the 
+one of her children that always remained a baby.  And she had not 
+made it herself, which was the most wonderful thing about it to me, 
+for she seemed to have made all other things.  All the clothes in 
+the house were of her making, and you don't know her in the least 
+if you think they were out of the fashion; she turned them and made 
+them new again, she beat them and made them new again, and then she 
+coaxed them into being new again just for the last time, she let 
+them out and took them in and put on new braid, and added a piece 
+up the back, and thus they passed from one member of the family to 
+another until they reached the youngest, and even when we were done 
+with them they reappeared as something else.  In the fashion!  I 
+must come back to this.  Never was a woman with such an eye for it.  
+She had no fashion-plates; she did not need them.  The minister's 
+wife (a cloak), the banker's daughters (the new sleeve) - they had 
+but to pass our window once, and the scalp, so to speak, was in my 
+mother's hands.  Observe her rushing, scissors in hand, thread in 
+mouth, to the drawers where her daughters' Sabbath clothes were 
+kept.  Or go to church next Sunday, and watch a certain family 
+filing in, the boy lifting his legs high to show off his new boots, 
+but all the others demure, especially the timid, unobservant-
+looking little woman in the rear of them.  If you were the 
+minister's wife that day or the banker's daughters you would have 
+got a shock.  But she bought the christening robe, and when I used 
+to ask why, she would beam and look conscious, and say she wanted 
+to be extravagant once.  And she told me, still smiling, that the 
+more a woman was given to stitching and making things for herself, 
+the greater was her passionate desire now and again to rush to the 
+shops and 'be foolish.'  The christening robe with its pathetic 
+frills is over half a century old now, and has begun to droop a 
+little, like a daisy whose time is past; but it is as fondly kept 
+together as ever: I saw it in use again only the other day.
+
+My mother lay in bed with the christening robe beside her, and I 
+peeped in many times at the door and then went to the stair and sat 
+on it and sobbed.  I know not if it was that first day, or many 
+days afterwards, that there came to me, my sister, the daughter my 
+mother loved the best; yes, more I am sure even than she loved me, 
+whose great glory she has been since I was six years old.  This 
+sister, who was then passing out of her 'teens, came to me with a 
+very anxious face and wringing her hands, and she told me to go ben 
+to my mother and say to her that she still had another boy.  I went 
+ben excitedly, but the room was dark, and when I heard the door 
+shut and no sound come from the bed I was afraid, and I stood 
+still.  I suppose I was breathing hard, or perhaps I was crying, 
+for after a time I heard a listless voice that had never been 
+listless before say, 'Is that you?'  I think the tone hurt me, for 
+I made no answer, and then the voice said more anxiously 'Is that 
+you?' again.  I thought it was the dead boy she was speaking to, 
+and I said in a little lonely voice, 'No, it's no him, it's just 
+me.'  Then I heard a cry, and my mother turned in bed, and though 
+it was dark I knew that she was holding out her arms.
+
+After that I sat a great deal in her bed trying to make her forget 
+him, which was my crafty way of playing physician, and if I saw any 
+one out of doors do something that made the others laugh I 
+immediately hastened to that dark room and did it before her.  I 
+suppose I was an odd little figure; I have been told that my 
+anxiety to brighten her gave my face a strained look and put a 
+tremor into the joke (I would stand on my head in the bed, my feet 
+against the wall, and then cry excitedly, 'Are you laughing, 
+mother?') - and perhaps what made her laugh was something I was 
+unconscious of, but she did laugh suddenly now and then, whereupon 
+I screamed exultantly to that dear sister, who was ever in waiting, 
+to come and see the sight, but by the time she came the soft face 
+was wet again.  Thus I was deprived of some of my glory, and I 
+remember once only making her laugh before witnesses.  I kept a 
+record of her laughs on a piece of paper, a stroke for each, and it 
+was my custom to show this proudly to the doctor every morning.  
+There were five strokes the first time I slipped it into his hand, 
+and when their meaning was explained to him he laughed so 
+boisterously, that I cried, 'I wish that was one of hers!'  Then he 
+was sympathetic, and asked me if my mother had seen the paper yet, 
+and when I shook my head he said that if I showed it to her now and 
+told her that these were her five laughs he thought I might win 
+another.  I had less confidence, but he was the mysterious man whom 
+you ran for in the dead of night (you flung sand at his window to 
+waken him, and if it was only toothache he extracted the tooth 
+through the open window, but when it was something sterner he was 
+with you in the dark square at once, like a man who slept in his 
+topcoat), so I did as he bade me, and not only did she laugh then 
+but again when I put the laugh down, so that though it was really 
+one laugh with a tear in the middle I counted it as two.
+
+It was doubtless that same sister who told me not to sulk when my 
+mother lay thinking of him, but to try instead to get her to talk 
+about him.  I did not see how this could make her the merry mother 
+she used to be, but I was told that if I could not do it nobody 
+could, and this made me eager to begin.  At first, they say, I was 
+often jealous, stopping her fond memories with the cry, 'Do you 
+mind nothing about me?' but that did not last; its place was taken 
+by an intense desire (again, I think, my sister must have breathed 
+it into life) to become so like him that even my mother should not 
+see the difference, and many and artful were the questions I put to 
+that end.  Then I practised in secret, but after a whole week had 
+passed I was still rather like myself.  He had such a cheery way of 
+whistling, she had told me, it had always brightened her at her 
+work to hear him whistling, and when he whistled he stood with his 
+legs apart, and his hands in the pockets of his knickerbockers.  I 
+decided to trust to this, so one day after I had learned his 
+whistle (every boy of enterprise invents a whistle of his own) from 
+boys who had been his comrades, I secretly put on a suit of his 
+clothes, dark grey they were, with little spots, and they fitted me 
+many years afterwards, and thus disguised I slipped, unknown to the 
+others, into my mother's room.  Quaking, I doubt not, yet so 
+pleased, I stood still until she saw me, and then - how it must 
+have hurt her!  'Listen!' I cried in a glow of triumph, and I 
+stretched my legs wide apart and plunged my hands into the pockets 
+of my knickerbockers, and began to whistle.
+
+She lived twenty-nine years after his death, such active years 
+until toward the end, that you never knew where she was unless you 
+took hold of her, and though she was frail henceforth and ever 
+growing frailer, her housekeeping again became famous, so that 
+brides called as a matter of course to watch her ca'ming and 
+sanding and stitching: there are old people still, one or two, to 
+tell with wonder in their eyes how she could bake twenty-four 
+bannocks in the hour, and not a chip in one of them.  And how many 
+she gave away, how much she gave away of all she had, and what 
+pretty ways she had of giving it!  Her face beamed and rippled with 
+mirth as before, and her laugh that I had tried so hard to force 
+came running home again.  I have heard no such laugh as hers save 
+from merry children; the laughter of most of us ages, and wears out 
+with the body, but hers remained gleeful to the last, as if it were 
+born afresh every morning.  There was always something of the child 
+in her, and her laugh was its voice, as eloquent of the past to me 
+as was the christening robe to her.  But I had not made her forget 
+the bit of her that was dead; in those nine-and-twenty years he was 
+not removed one day farther from her.  Many a time she fell asleep 
+speaking to him, and even while she slept her lips moved and she 
+smiled as if he had come back to her, and when she woke he might 
+vanish so suddenly that she started up bewildered and looked about 
+her, and then said slowly, 'My David's dead!' or perhaps he 
+remained long enough to whisper why he must leave her now, and then 
+she lay silent with filmy eyes.  When I became a man and he was 
+still a boy of thirteen, I wrote a little paper called 'Dead this 
+Twenty Years,' which was about a similar tragedy in another woman's 
+life, and it is the only thing I have written that she never spoke 
+about, not even to that daughter she loved the best.  No one ever 
+spoke of it to her, or asked her if she had read it: one does not 
+ask a mother if she knows that there is a little coffin in the 
+house.  She read many times the book in which it is printed, but 
+when she came to that chapter she would put her hands to her heart 
+or even over her ears.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II - WHAT SHE HAD BEEN
+
+
+What she had been, what I should be, these were the two great 
+subjects between us in my boyhood, and while we discussed the one 
+we were deciding the other, though neither of us knew it.
+
+Before I reached my tenth year a giant entered my native place in 
+the night, and we woke to find him in possession.  He transformed 
+it into a new town at a rate with which we boys only could keep up, 
+for as fast as he built dams we made rafts to sail in them; he 
+knocked down houses, and there we were crying 'Pilly!' among the 
+ruins; he dug trenches, and we jumped them; we had to be dragged by 
+the legs from beneath his engines, he sunk wells, and in we went.  
+But though there were never circumstances to which boys could not 
+adapt themselves in half an hour, older folk are slower in the 
+uptake, and I am sure they stood and gaped at the changes so 
+suddenly being worked in our midst, and scarce knew their way home 
+now in the dark.  Where had been formerly but the click of the 
+shuttle was soon the roar of 'power,' handlooms were pushed into a 
+corner as a room is cleared for a dance; every morning at half-past 
+five the town was wakened with a yell, and from a chimney-stack 
+that rose high into our caller air the conqueror waved for evermore 
+his flag of smoke.  Another era had dawned, new customs, new 
+fashions sprang into life, all as lusty as if they had been born at 
+twenty-one; as quickly as two people may exchange seats, the 
+daughter, till now but a knitter of stockings, became the 
+breadwinner, he who had been the breadwinner sat down to the 
+knitting of stockings: what had been yesterday a nest of weavers 
+was to-day a town of girls.
+
+I am not of those who would fling stones at the change; it is 
+something, surely, that backs are no longer prematurely bent; you 
+may no more look through dim panes of glass at the aged poor 
+weaving tremulously for their little bit of ground in the cemetery.  
+Rather are their working years too few now, not because they will 
+it so but because it is with youth that the power-looms must be 
+fed.  Well, this teaches them to make provision, and they have the 
+means as they never had before.  Not in batches are boys now sent 
+to college; the half-dozen a year have dwindled to one, doubtless 
+because in these days they can begin to draw wages as they step out 
+of their fourteenth year.  Here assuredly there is loss, but all 
+the losses would be but a pebble in a sea of gain were it not for 
+this, that with so many of the family, young mothers among them, 
+working in the factories, home life is not so beautiful as it was.  
+So much of what is great in Scotland has sprung from the closeness 
+of the family ties; it is there I sometimes fear that my country is 
+being struck.  That we are all being reduced to one dead level, 
+that character abounds no more and life itself is less interesting, 
+such things I have read, but I do not believe them.  I have even 
+seen them given as my reason for writing of a past time, and in 
+that at least there is no truth.  In our little town, which is a 
+sample of many, life is as interesting, as pathetic, as joyous as 
+ever it was; no group of weavers was better to look at or think 
+about than the rivulet of winsome girls that overruns our streets 
+every time the sluice is raised, the comedy of summer evenings and 
+winter firesides is played with the old zest and every window-blind 
+is the curtain of a romance.  Once the lights of a little town are 
+lit, who could ever hope to tell all its story, or the story of a 
+single wynd in it?  And who looking at lighted windows needs to 
+turn to books?  The reason my books deal with the past instead of 
+with the life I myself have known is simply this, that I soon grow 
+tired of writing tales unless I can see a little girl, of whom my 
+mother has told me, wandering confidently through the pages.  Such 
+a grip has her memory of her girlhood had upon me since I was a boy 
+of six.
+
+Those innumerable talks with her made her youth as vivid to me as 
+my own, and so much more quaint, for, to a child, the oddest of 
+things, and the most richly coloured picture-book, is that his 
+mother was once a child also, and the contrast between what she is 
+and what she was is perhaps the source of all humour.  My mother's 
+father, the one hero of her life, died nine years before I was 
+born, and I remember this with bewilderment, so familiarly does the 
+weather-beaten mason's figure rise before me from the old chair on 
+which I was nursed and now write my books.  On the surface he is as 
+hard as the stone on which he chiselled, and his face is dyed red 
+by its dust, he is rounded in the shoulders and a 'hoast' hunts him 
+ever; sooner or later that cough must carry him off, but until then 
+it shall not keep him from the quarry, nor shall his chapped hands, 
+as long as they can grasp the mell.  It is a night of rain or snow, 
+and my mother, the little girl in a pinafore who is already his 
+housekeeper, has been many times to the door to look for him.  At 
+last he draws nigh, hoasting.  Or I see him setting off to church, 
+for he was a great 'stoop' of the Auld Licht kirk, and his mouth is 
+very firm now as if there were a case of discipline to face, but on 
+his way home he is bowed with pity.  Perhaps his little daughter 
+who saw him so stern an hour ago does not understand why he 
+wrestles so long in prayer to-night, or why when he rises from his 
+knees he presses her to him with unwonted tenderness.  Or he is in 
+this chair repeating to her his favourite poem, 'The Cameronian's 
+Dream,' and at the first lines so solemnly uttered,
+
+
+'In a dream of the night I was wafted away,'
+
+
+she screams with excitement, just as I screamed long afterwards 
+when she repeated them in his voice to me.  Or I watch, as from a 
+window, while she sets off through the long parks to the distant 
+place where he is at work, in her hand a flagon which contains his 
+dinner.  She is singing to herself and gleefully swinging the 
+flagon, she jumps the burn and proudly measures the jump with her 
+eye, but she never dallies unless she meets a baby, for she was so 
+fond of babies that she must hug each one she met, but while she 
+hugged them she also noted how their robes were cut, and afterwards 
+made paper patterns, which she concealed jealously, and in the 
+fulness of time her first robe for her eldest born was fashioned 
+from one of these patterns, made when she was in her twelfth year.
+
+She was eight when her mother's death made her mistress of the 
+house and mother to her little brother, and from that time she 
+scrubbed and mended and baked and sewed, and argued with the 
+flesher about the quarter pound of beef and penny bone which 
+provided dinner for two days (but if you think that this was 
+poverty you don't know the meaning of the word), and she carried 
+the water from the pump, and had her washing-days and her ironings 
+and a stocking always on the wire for odd moments, and gossiped 
+like a matron with the other women, and humoured the men with a 
+tolerant smile - all these things she did as a matter of course, 
+leaping joyful from bed in the morning because there was so much to 
+do, doing it as thoroughly and sedately as if the brides were 
+already due for a lesson, and then rushing out in a fit of 
+childishness to play dumps or palaulays with others of her age.  I 
+see her frocks lengthening, though they were never very short, and 
+the games given reluctantly up.  The horror of my boyhood was that 
+I knew a time would come when I also must give up the games, and 
+how it was to be done I saw not (this agony still returns to me in 
+dreams, when I catch myself playing marbles, and look on with cold 
+displeasure); I felt that I must continue playing in secret, and I 
+took this shadow to her, when she told me her own experience, which 
+convinced us both that we were very like each other inside.  She 
+had discovered that work is the best fun after all, and I learned 
+it in time, but have my lapses, and so had she.
+
+I know what was her favourite costume when she was at the age that 
+they make heroines of: it was a pale blue with a pale blue bonnet, 
+the white ribbons of which tied aggravatingly beneath the chin, and 
+when questioned about this garb she never admitted that she looked 
+pretty in it, but she did say, with blushes too, that blue was her 
+colour, and then she might smile, as at some memory, and begin to 
+tell us about a man who - but it ended there with another smile 
+which was longer in departing.  She never said, indeed she denied 
+strenuously, that she had led the men a dance, but again the smile 
+returned, and came between us and full belief.  Yes, she had her 
+little vanities; when she got the Mizpah ring she did carry that 
+finger in such a way that the most reluctant must see.  She was 
+very particular about her gloves, and hid her boots so that no 
+other should put them on, and then she forgot their hiding-place, 
+and had suspicions of the one who found them.  A good way of 
+enraging her was to say that her last year's bonnet would do for 
+this year without alteration, or that it would defy the face of 
+clay to count the number of her shawls.  In one of my books there 
+is a mother who is setting off with her son for the town to which 
+he had been called as minister, and she pauses on the threshold to 
+ask him anxiously if he thinks her bonnet 'sets' her.  A reviewer 
+said she acted thus, not because she cared how she looked, but for 
+the sake of her son.  This, I remember, amused my mother very much.
+
+I have seen many weary on-dings of snow, but the one I seem to 
+recollect best occurred nearly twenty years before I was born.  It 
+was at the time of my mother's marriage to one who proved a most 
+loving as he was always a well-loved husband, a man I am very proud 
+to be able to call my father.  I know not for how many days the 
+snow had been falling, but a day came when the people lost heart 
+and would make no more gullies through it, and by next morning to 
+do so was impossible, they could not fling the snow high enough.  
+Its back was against every door when Sunday came, and none ventured 
+out save a valiant few, who buffeted their way into my mother's 
+home to discuss her predicament, for unless she was 'cried' in the 
+church that day she might not be married for another week, and how 
+could she be cried with the minister a field away and the church 
+buried to the waist?  For hours they talked, and at last some men 
+started for the church, which was several hundred yards distant.  
+Three of them found a window, and forcing a passage through it, 
+cried the pair, and that is how it came about that my father and 
+mother were married on the first of March.
+
+That would be the end, I suppose, if it were a story, but to my 
+mother it was only another beginning, and not the last.  I see her 
+bending over the cradle of her first-born, college for him already 
+in her eye (and my father not less ambitious), and anon it is a 
+girl who is in the cradle, and then another girl - already a tragic 
+figure to those who know the end.  I wonder if any instinct told my 
+mother that the great day of her life was when she bore this child; 
+what I am sure of is that from the first the child followed her 
+with the most wistful eyes and saw how she needed help and longed 
+to rise and give it.  For of physical strength my mother had never 
+very much; it was her spirit that got through the work, and in 
+those days she was often so ill that the sand rained on the 
+doctor's window, and men ran to and fro with leeches, and 'she is 
+in life, we can say no more' was the information for those who came 
+knocking at the door.  'I am sorrow to say,' her father writes in 
+an old letter now before me, 'that Margaret is in a state that she 
+was never so bad before in this world.  Till Wednesday night she 
+was in as poor a condition as you could think of to be alive.  
+However, after bleeding, leeching, etc., the Dr. says this morning 
+that he is better hoped now, but at present we can say no more but 
+only she is alive and in the hands of Him in whose hands all our 
+lives are.  I can give you no adequate view of what my feelings 
+are, indeed they are a burden too heavy for me and I cannot 
+describe them.  I look on my right and left hand and find no 
+comfort, and if it were not for the rock that is higher than I my 
+spirit would utterly fall, but blessed be His name who can comfort 
+those that are cast down.  O for more faith in His supporting grace 
+in this hour of trial.'
+
+Then she is 'on the mend,' she may 'thole thro'' if they take great 
+care of her, 'which we will be forward to do.'  The fourth child 
+dies when but a few weeks old, and the next at two years.  She was 
+her grandfather's companion, and thus he wrote of her death, this 
+stern, self-educated Auld Licht with the chapped hands:-
+
+'I hope you received my last in which I spoke of Dear little Lydia 
+being unwell.  Now with deep sorrow I must tell you that yesterday 
+I assisted in laying her dear remains in the lonely grave.  She 
+died at 7 o'clock on Wednesday evening, I suppose by the time you 
+had got the letter.  The Dr. did not think it was croup till late 
+on Tuesday night, and all that Medical aid could prescribe was 
+done, but the Dr. had no hope after he saw that the croup was 
+confirmed, and hard indeed would the heart have been that would not 
+have melted at seeing what the dear little creature suffered all 
+Wednesday until the feeble frame was quite worn out.  She was quite 
+sensible till within 2 hours of her death, and then she sunk quite 
+low till the vital spark fled, and all medicine that she got she 
+took with the greatest readiness, as if apprehensive they would 
+make her well.  I cannot well describe my feelings on the occasion.  
+I thought that the fountain-head of my tears had now been dried up, 
+but I have been mistaken, for I must confess that the briny 
+rivulets descended fast on my furrowed cheeks, she was such a 
+winning Child, and had such a regard for me and always came and 
+told me all her little things, and as she was now speaking, some of 
+her little prattle was very taking, and the lively images of these 
+things intrude themselves more into my mind than they should do, 
+but there is allowance for moderate grief on such occasions.  But 
+when I am telling you of my own grief and sorrow, I know not what 
+to say of the bereaved Mother, she hath not met with anything in 
+this world before that hath gone so near the quick with her.  She 
+had no handling of the last one as she was not able at the time, 
+for she only had her once in her arms, and her affections had not 
+time to be so fairly entwined around her.  I am much afraid that 
+she will not soon if ever get over this trial.  Although she was 
+weakly before, yet she was pretty well recovered, but this hath not 
+only affected her mind, but her body is so much affected that she 
+is not well able to sit so long as her bed is making and hath 
+scarcely tasted meat [i.e. food] since Monday night, and till some 
+time is elapsed we cannot say how she may be.  There is none that 
+is not a Parent themselves that can fully sympathise with one in 
+such a state.  David is much affected also, but it is not so well 
+known on him, and the younger branches of the family are affected 
+but it will be only momentary.  But alas in all this vast ado, 
+there is only the sorrow of the world which worketh death.  O how 
+gladdening would it be if we were in as great bitterness for sin as 
+for the loss of a first-born.  O how unfitted persons or families 
+is for trials who knows not the divine art of casting all their 
+cares upon the Lord, and what multitudes are there that when 
+earthly comforts is taken away, may well say What have I more? all 
+their delight is placed in some one thing or another in the world, 
+and who can blame them for unwillingly parting with what they 
+esteem their chief good?  O that we were wise to lay up treasure 
+for the time of need, for it is truly a solemn affair to enter the 
+lists with the king of terrors.  It is strange that the living lay 
+the things so little to heart until they have to engage in that war 
+where there is no discharge.  O that my head were waters and mine 
+eyes a fountain of tears that I might weep day and night for my own 
+and others' stupidity in this great matter.  O for grace to do 
+every day work in its proper time and to live above the tempting 
+cheating train of earthly things.  The rest of the family are 
+moderately well.  I have been for some days worse than I have been 
+for 8 months past, but I may soon get better.  I am in the same way 
+I have often been in before, but there is no security for it always 
+being so, for I know that it cannot be far from the time when I 
+will be one of those that once were.  I have no other news to send 
+you, and as little heart for them.  I hope you will take the 
+earliest opportunity of writing that you can, and be particular as 
+regards Margaret, for she requires consolation.'
+
+He died exactly a week after writing this letter, but my mother was 
+to live for another forty-four years.  And joys of a kind never 
+shared in by him were to come to her so abundantly, so long drawn 
+out that, strange as it would have seemed to him to know it, her 
+fuller life had scarce yet begun.  And with the joys were to come 
+their sweet, frightened comrades pain and grief; again she was to 
+be touched to the quick, again and again to be so ill that 'she is 
+in life, we can say no more,' but still she had attendants very 
+'forward' to help her, some of them unborn in her father's time.
+
+She told me everything, and so my memories of our little red town 
+are coloured by her memories.  I knew it as it had been for 
+generations, and suddenly I saw it change, and the transformation 
+could not fail to strike a boy, for these first years are the most 
+impressionable (nothing that happens after we are twelve matters 
+very much); they are also the most vivid years when we look back, 
+and more vivid the farther we have to look, until, at the end, what 
+lies between bends like a hoop, and the extremes meet.  But though 
+the new town is to me a glass through which I look at the old, the 
+people I see passing up and down these wynds, sitting, nightcapped, 
+on their barrow-shafts, hobbling in their blacks to church on 
+Sunday, are less those I saw in my childhood than their fathers and 
+mothers who did these things in the same way when my mother was 
+young.  I cannot picture the place without seeing her, as a little 
+girl, come to the door of a certain house and beat her bass against 
+the gav'le-end, or there is a wedding to-night, and the carriage 
+with the white-eared horse is sent for a maiden in pale blue, whose 
+bonnet-strings tie beneath the chin.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III - WHAT I SHOULD BE
+
+
+My mother was a great reader, and with ten minutes to spare before 
+the starch was ready would begin the 'Decline and Fall' - and 
+finish it, too, that winter.  Foreign words in the text annoyed her 
+and made her bemoan her want of a classical education - she had 
+only attended a Dame's school during some easy months - but she 
+never passed the foreign words by until their meaning was explained 
+to her, and when next she and they met it was as acquaintances, 
+which I think was clever of her.  One of her delights was to learn 
+from me scraps of Horace, and then bring them into her conversation 
+with 'colleged men.'  I have come upon her in lonely places, such 
+as the stair-head or the east room, muttering these quotations 
+aloud to herself, and I well remember how she would say to the 
+visitors, 'Ay, ay, it's very true, Doctor, but as you know, "Eheu 
+fugaces, Postume, Postume, labuntur anni,"' or 'Sal, Mr. So-and-so, 
+my lassie is thriving well, but would it no' be more to the point 
+to say, "O matra pulchra filia pulchrior"?' which astounded them 
+very much if she managed to reach the end without being flung, but 
+usually she had a fit of laughing in the middle, and so they found 
+her out.
+
+Biography and exploration were her favourite reading, for choice 
+the biography of men who had been good to their mothers, and she 
+liked the explorers to be alive so that she could shudder at the 
+thought of their venturing forth again; but though she expressed a 
+hope that they would have the sense to stay at home henceforth, she 
+gleamed with admiration when they disappointed her.  In later days 
+I had a friend who was an African explorer, and she was in two 
+minds about him; he was one of the most engrossing of mortals to 
+her, she admired him prodigiously, pictured him at the head of his 
+caravan, now attacked by savages, now by wild beasts, and adored 
+him for the uneasy hours he gave her, but she was also afraid that 
+he wanted to take me with him, and then she thought he should be 
+put down by law.  Explorers' mothers also interested her very much; 
+the books might tell her nothing about them, but she could create 
+them for herself and wring her hands in sympathy with them when 
+they had got no news of him for six months.  Yet there were times 
+when she grudged him to them - as the day when he returned 
+victorious.  Then what was before her eyes was not the son coming 
+marching home again but an old woman peering for him round the 
+window curtain and trying not to look uplifted.  The newspaper 
+reports would be about the son, but my mother's comment was 'She's 
+a proud woman this night.'
+
+We read many books together when I was a boy, 'Robinson Crusoe' 
+being the first (and the second), and the 'Arabian Nights' should 
+have been the next, for we got it out of the library (a penny for 
+three days), but on discovering that they were nights when we had 
+paid for knights we sent that volume packing, and I have curled my 
+lips at it ever since.  'The Pilgrim's Progress' we had in the 
+house (it was as common a possession as a dresser-head), and so 
+enamoured of it was I that I turned our garden into sloughs of 
+Despond, with pea-sticks to represent Christian on his travels and 
+a buffet-stool for his burden, but when I dragged my mother out to 
+see my handiwork she was scared, and I felt for days, with a 
+certain elation, that I had been a dark character.  Besides reading 
+every book we could hire or borrow I also bought one now and again, 
+and while buying (it was the occupation of weeks) I read, standing 
+at the counter, most of the other books in the shop, which is 
+perhaps the most exquisite way of reading.  And I took in a 
+magazine called 'Sunshine,' the most delicious periodical, I am 
+sure, of any day.  It cost a halfpenny or a penny a month, and 
+always, as I fondly remember, had a continued tale about the 
+dearest girl, who sold water-cress, which is a dainty not grown and 
+I suppose never seen in my native town.  This romantic little 
+creature took such hold of my imagination that I cannot eat water-
+cress even now without emotion.  I lay in bed wondering what she 
+would be up to in the next number; I have lost trout because when 
+they nibbled my mind was wandering with her; my early life was 
+embittered by her not arriving regularly on the first of the month.  
+I know not whether it was owing to her loitering on the way one 
+month to an extent flesh and blood could not bear, or because we 
+had exhausted the penny library, but on a day I conceived a 
+glorious idea, or it was put into my head by my mother, then 
+desirous of making progress with her new clouty hearthrug.  The 
+notion was nothing short of this, why should I not write the tales 
+myself?  I did write them - in the garret - but they by no means 
+helped her to get on with her work, for when I finished a chapter I 
+bounded downstairs to read it to her, and so short were the 
+chapters, so ready was the pen, that I was back with new manuscript 
+before another clout had been added to the rug.  Authorship seemed, 
+like her bannock-baking, to consist of running between two points.  
+They were all tales of adventure (happiest is he who writes of 
+adventure), no characters were allowed within if I knew their like 
+in the flesh, the scene lay in unknown parts, desert islands, 
+enchanted gardens, with knights (none of your nights) on black 
+chargers, and round the first corner a lady selling water-cress.
+
+At twelve or thereabout I put the literary calling to bed for a 
+time, having gone to a school where cricket and football were more 
+esteemed, but during the year before I went to the university, it 
+woke up and I wrote great part of a three-volume novel.  The 
+publisher replied that the sum for which he would print it was a 
+hundred and - however, that was not the important point (I had 
+sixpence): where he stabbed us both was in writing that he 
+considered me a 'clever lady.'  I replied stiffly that I was a 
+gentleman, and since then I have kept that manuscript concealed.  I 
+looked through it lately, and, oh, but it is dull!  I defy any one 
+to read it.
+
+The malignancy of publishers, however, could not turn me back.  
+From the day on which I first tasted blood in the garret my mind 
+was made up; there could be no hum-dreadful-drum profession for me; 
+literature was my game.  It was not highly thought of by those who 
+wished me well.  I remember being asked by two maiden ladies, about 
+the time I left the university, what I was to be, and when I 
+replied brazenly, 'An author,' they flung up their hands, and one 
+exclaimed reproachfully, 'And you an M.A.!'  My mother's views at 
+first were not dissimilar; for long she took mine jestingly as 
+something I would grow out of, and afterwards they hurt her so that 
+I tried to give them up.  To be a minister - that she thought was 
+among the fairest prospects, but she was a very ambitious woman, 
+and sometimes she would add, half scared at her appetite, that 
+there were ministers who had become professors, 'but it was not 
+canny to think of such things.'
+
+I had one person only on my side, an old tailor, one of the fullest 
+men I have known, and quite the best talker.  He was a bachelor (he 
+told me all that is to be known about woman), a lean man, pallid of 
+face, his legs drawn up when he walked as if he was ever carrying 
+something in his lap; his walks were of the shortest, from the tea-
+pot on the hob to the board on which he stitched, from the board to 
+the hob, and so to bed.  He might have gone out had the idea struck 
+him, but in the years I knew him, the last of his brave life, I 
+think he was only in the open twice, when he 'flitted' - changed 
+his room for another hard by.  I did not see him make these 
+journeys, but I seem to see him now, and he is somewhat dizzy in 
+the odd atmosphere; in one hand he carries a box-iron, he raises 
+the other, wondering what this is on his head, it is a hat; a faint 
+smell of singed cloth goes by with him.  This man had heard of my 
+set of photographs of the poets and asked for a sight of them, 
+which led to our first meeting.  I remember how he spread them out 
+on his board, and after looking long at them, turned his gaze on me 
+and said solemnly,
+
+
+What can I do to be for ever known,
+And make the age to come my own?
+
+
+These lines of Cowley were new to me, but the sentiment was not 
+new, and I marvelled how the old tailor could see through me so 
+well.  So it was strange to me to discover presently that he had 
+not been thinking of me at all, but of his own young days, when 
+that couplet sang in his head, and he, too, had thirsted to set off 
+for Grub Street, but was afraid, and while he hesitated old age 
+came, and then Death, and found him grasping a box-iron.
+
+I hurried home with the mouthful, but neighbours had dropped in, 
+and this was for her ears only, so I drew her to the stair, and 
+said imperiously,
+
+
+What can I do to be for ever known,
+And make the age to come my own?
+
+
+It was an odd request for which to draw her from a tea-table, and 
+she must have been surprised, but I think she did not laugh, and in 
+after years she would repeat the lines fondly, with a flush on her 
+soft face.  'That is the kind you would like to be yourself!' we 
+would say in jest to her, and she would reply almost passionately, 
+'No, but I would be windy of being his mother.'  It is possible 
+that she could have been his mother had that other son lived, he 
+might have managed it from sheer love of her, but for my part I can 
+smile at one of those two figures on the stair now, having long 
+given up the dream of being for ever known, and seeing myself more 
+akin to my friend, the tailor, for as he was found at the end on 
+his board, so I hope shall I be found at my handloom, doing 
+honestly the work that suits me best.  Who should know so well as I 
+that it is but a handloom compared to the great guns that 
+reverberate through the age to come?  But she who stood with me on 
+the stair that day was a very simple woman, accustomed all her life 
+to making the most of small things, and I weaved sufficiently well 
+to please her, which has been my only steadfast ambition since I 
+was a little boy.
+
+Not less than mine became her desire that I should have my way - 
+but, ah, the iron seats in that park of horrible repute, and that 
+bare room at the top of many flights of stairs!  While I was away 
+at college she drained all available libraries for books about 
+those who go to London to live by the pen, and they all told the 
+same shuddering tale.  London, which she never saw, was to her a 
+monster that licked up country youths as they stepped from the 
+train; there were the garrets in which they sat abject, and the 
+park seats where they passed the night.  Those park seats were the 
+monster's glaring eyes to her, and as I go by them now she is 
+nearer to me than when I am in any other part of London.  I daresay 
+that when night comes, this Hyde Park which is so gay by day, is 
+haunted by the ghosts of many mothers, who run, wild-eyed, from 
+seat to seat, looking for their sons.
+
+But if we could dodge those dreary seats she longed to see me try 
+my luck, and I sought to exclude them from the picture by drawing 
+maps of London with Hyde Park left out.  London was as strange to 
+me as to her, but long before I was shot upon it I knew it by maps, 
+and drew them more accurately than I could draw them now.  Many a 
+time she and I took our jaunt together through the map, and were 
+most gleeful, popping into telegraph offices to wire my father and 
+sister that we should not be home till late, winking to my books in 
+lordly shop-windows, lunching at restaurants (and remembering not 
+to call it dinner), saying, 'How do?' to Mr. Alfred Tennyson when 
+we passed him in Regent Street, calling at publishers' offices for 
+cheque, when 'Will you take care of it, or shall I?' I asked gaily, 
+and she would be certain to reply, 'I'm thinking we'd better take 
+it to the bank and get the money,' for she always felt surer of 
+money than of cheques; so to the bank we went ('Two tens, and the 
+rest in gold'), and thence straightway (by cab) to the place where 
+you buy sealskin coats for middling old ladies.  But ere the laugh 
+was done the park would come through the map like a blot.
+
+'If you could only be sure of as much as would keep body and soul 
+together,' my mother would say with a sigh.
+
+'With something over, mother, to send to you.'
+
+'You couldna expect that at the start.'
+
+The wench I should have been courting now was journalism, that 
+grisette of literature who has a smile and a hand for all 
+beginners, welcoming them at the threshold, teaching them so much 
+that is worth knowing, introducing them to the other lady whom they 
+have worshipped from afar, showing them even how to woo her, and 
+then bidding them a bright God-speed - he were an ingrate who, 
+having had her joyous companionship, no longer flings her a kiss as 
+they pass.  But though she bears no ill-will when she is jilted, 
+you must serve faithfully while you are hers, and you must seek her 
+out and make much of her, and, until you can rely on her good-
+nature (note this), not a word about the other lady.  When at last 
+she took me in I grew so fond of her that I called her by the 
+other's name, and even now I think at times that there was more fun 
+in the little sister, but I began by wooing her with contributions 
+that were all misfits.  In an old book I find columns of notes 
+about works projected at this time, nearly all to consist of essays 
+on deeply uninteresting subjects; the lightest was to be a volume 
+on the older satirists, beginning with Skelton and Tom Nash - the 
+half of that manuscript still lies in a dusty chest - the only 
+story was about Mary Queen of Scots, who was also the subject of 
+many unwritten papers.  Queen Mary seems to have been luring me to 
+my undoing ever since I saw Holyrood, and I have a horrid fear that 
+I may write that novel yet.  That anything could be written about 
+my native place never struck me.  We had read somewhere that a 
+novelist is better equipped than most of his trade if he knows 
+himself and one woman, and my mother said, 'You know yourself, for 
+everybody must know himself' (there never was a woman who knew less 
+about herself than she), and she would add dolefully, 'But I doubt 
+I'm the only woman you know well.'
+
+'Then I must make you my heroine,' I said lightly.
+
+'A gey auld-farrant-like heroine!' she said, and we both laughed at 
+the notion - so little did we read the future.
+
+Thus it is obvious what were my qualifications when I was rashly 
+engaged as a leader-writer (it was my sister who saw the 
+advertisement) on an English provincial paper.  At the moment I was 
+as uplifted as the others, for the chance had come at last, with 
+what we all regarded as a prodigious salary, but I was wanted in 
+the beginning of the week, and it suddenly struck me that the 
+leaders were the one thing I had always skipped.  Leaders!  How 
+were they written? what were they about?  My mother was already 
+sitting triumphant among my socks, and I durst not let her see me 
+quaking.  I retired to ponder, and presently she came to me with 
+the daily paper.  Which were the leaders? she wanted to know, so 
+evidently I could get no help from her.  Had she any more 
+newspapers?  I asked, and after rummaging, she produced a few with 
+which her boxes had been lined.  Others, very dusty, came from 
+beneath carpets, and lastly a sooty bundle was dragged down the 
+chimney.  Surrounded by these I sat down, and studied how to become 
+a journalist.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV - AN EDITOR
+
+
+A devout lady, to whom some friend had presented one of my books, 
+used to say when asked how she was getting on with it, 'Sal, it's 
+dreary, weary, uphill work, but I've wrastled through with tougher 
+jobs in my time, and, please God, I'll wrastle through with this 
+one.'  It was in this spirit, I fear, though she never told me so, 
+that my mother wrestled for the next year or more with my leaders, 
+and indeed I was always genuinely sorry for the people I saw 
+reading them.  In my spare hours I was trying journalism of another 
+kind and sending it to London, but nearly eighteen months elapsed 
+before there came to me, as unlooked for as a telegram, the thought 
+that there was something quaint about my native place.  A boy who 
+found that a knife had been put into his pocket in the night could 
+not have been more surprised.  A few days afterwards I sent my 
+mother a London evening paper with an article entitled 'An Auld 
+Licht Community,' and they told me that when she saw the heading 
+she laughed, because there was something droll to her in the sight 
+of the words Auld Licht in print.  For her, as for me, that 
+newspaper was soon to have the face of a friend.  To this day I 
+never pass its placards in the street without shaking it by the 
+hand, and she used to sew its pages together as lovingly as though 
+they were a child's frock; but let the truth be told, when she read 
+that first article she became alarmed, and fearing the talk of the 
+town, hid the paper from all eyes.  For some time afterwards, while 
+I proudly pictured her showing this and similar articles to all who 
+felt an interest in me, she was really concealing them fearfully in 
+a bandbox on the garret stair.  And she wanted to know by return of 
+post whether I was paid for these articles as much as I was paid 
+for real articles; when she heard that I was paid better, she 
+laughed again and had them out of the bandbox for re-reading, and 
+it cannot be denied that she thought the London editor a fine 
+fellow but slightly soft.
+
+When I sent off that first sketch I thought I had exhausted the 
+subject, but our editor wrote that he would like something more of 
+the same, so I sent him a marriage, and he took it, and then I 
+tried him with a funeral, and he took it, and really it began to 
+look as if we had him.  Now my mother might have been discovered, 
+in answer to certain excited letters, flinging the bundle of 
+undarned socks from her lap, and 'going in for literature'; she was 
+racking her brains, by request, for memories I might convert into 
+articles, and they came to me in letters which she dictated to my 
+sisters.  How well I could hear her sayings between the lines: 'But 
+the editor-man will never stand that, it's perfect blethers' -  'By 
+this post it must go, I tell you; we must take the editor when he's 
+hungry - we canna be blamed for it, can we? he prints them of his 
+free will, so the wite is his' - 'But I'm near terrified. - If 
+London folk reads them we're done for.'  And I was sounded as to 
+the advisability of sending him a present of a lippie of 
+shortbread, which was to be her crafty way of getting round him.  
+By this time, though my mother and I were hundreds of miles apart, 
+you may picture us waving our hands to each other across country, 
+and shouting 'Hurrah!'  You may also picture the editor in his 
+office thinking he was behaving like a shrewd man of business, and 
+unconscious that up in the north there was an elderly lady 
+chuckling so much at him that she could scarcely scrape the 
+potatoes.
+
+I was now able to see my mother again, and the park seats no longer 
+loomed so prominent in our map of London.  Still, there they were, 
+and it was with an effort that she summoned up courage to let me 
+go.  She feared changes, and who could tell that the editor would 
+continue to be kind?  Perhaps when he saw me -
+
+She seemed to be very much afraid of his seeing me, and this, I 
+would point out, was a reflection on my appearance or my manner.
+
+No, what she meant was that I looked so young, and - and that would 
+take him aback, for had I not written as an aged man?
+
+'But he knows my age, mother.'
+
+'I'm glad of that, but maybe he wouldna like you when he saw you.'
+
+'Oh, it is my manner, then!'
+
+'I dinna say that, but - '
+
+Here my sister would break in: 'The short and the long of it is 
+just this, she thinks nobody has such manners as herself.  Can you 
+deny it, you vain woman?'  My mother would deny it vigorously.
+
+'You stand there,' my sister would say with affected scorn, 'and 
+tell me you don't think you could get the better of that man 
+quicker than any of us?'
+
+'Sal, I'm thinking I could manage him,' says my mother, with a 
+chuckle.
+
+'How would you set about it?'
+
+Then my mother would begin to laugh.  'I would find out first if he 
+had a family, and then I would say they were the finest family in 
+London.'
+
+'Yes, that is just what you would do, you cunning woman!  But if he 
+has no family?'
+
+'I would say what great men editors are!'
+
+'He would see through you.'
+
+'Not he!'
+
+'You don't understand that what imposes on common folk would never 
+hoodwink an editor.'
+
+'That's where you are wrong.  Gentle or simple, stupid or clever, 
+the men are all alike in the hands of a woman that flatters them.'
+
+'Ah, I'm sure there are better ways of getting round an editor than 
+that.'
+
+'I daresay there are,' my mother would say with conviction, 'but if 
+you try that plan you will never need to try another.'
+
+'How artful you are, mother - you with your soft face!  Do you not 
+think shame?'
+
+'Pooh!' says my mother brazenly.
+
+'I can see the reason why you are so popular with men.'
+
+'Ay, you can see it, but they never will.'
+
+'Well, how would you dress yourself if you were going to that 
+editor's office?'
+
+'Of course I would wear my silk and my Sabbath bonnet.'
+
+'It is you who are shortsighted now, mother.  I tell you, you would 
+manage him better if you just put on your old grey shawl and one of 
+your bonny white mutches, and went in half smiling and half timid 
+and said, "I am the mother of him that writes about the Auld 
+Lichts, and I want you to promise that he will never have to sleep 
+in the open air."'
+
+But my mother would shake her head at this, and reply almost hotly, 
+'I tell you if I ever go into that man's office, I go in silk.'
+
+I wrote and asked the editor if I should come to London, and he 
+said No, so I went, laden with charges from my mother to walk in 
+the middle of the street (they jump out on you as you are turning a 
+corner), never to venture forth after sunset, and always to lock up 
+everything (I who could never lock up anything, except my heart in 
+company).  Thanks to this editor, for the others would have nothing 
+to say to me though I battered on all their doors, she was soon 
+able to sleep at nights without the dread that I should be waking 
+presently with the iron-work of certain seats figured on my person, 
+and what relieved her very much was that I had begun to write as if 
+Auld Lichts were not the only people I knew of.  So long as I 
+confined myself to them she had a haunting fear that, even though 
+the editor remained blind to his best interests, something would 
+one day go crack within me (as the mainspring of a watch breaks) 
+and my pen refuse to write for evermore.  'Ay, I like the article 
+brawly,' she would say timidly, 'but I'm doubting it's the last - I 
+always have a sort of terror the new one may be the last,' and if 
+many days elapsed before the arrival of another article her face 
+would say mournfully, 'The blow has fallen - he can think of 
+nothing more to write about.'  If I ever shared her fears I never 
+told her so, and the articles that were not Scotch grew in number 
+until there were hundreds of them, all carefully preserved by her: 
+they were the only thing in the house that, having served one 
+purpose, she did not convert into something else, yet they could 
+give her uneasy moments.  This was because I nearly always assumed 
+a character when I wrote; I must be a country squire, or an 
+undergraduate, or a butler, or a member of the House of Lords, or a 
+dowager, or a lady called Sweet Seventeen, or an engineer in India, 
+else was my pen clogged, and though this gave my mother certain 
+fearful joys, causing her to laugh unexpectedly (so far as my 
+articles were concerned she nearly always laughed in the wrong 
+place), it also scared her.  Much to her amusement the editor 
+continued to prefer the Auld Licht papers, however, as was proved 
+(to those who knew him) by his way of thinking that the others 
+would pass as they were, while he sent these back and asked me to 
+make them better.  Here again she came to my aid.  I had said that 
+the row of stockings were hung on a string by the fire, which was a 
+recollection of my own, but she could tell me whether they were 
+hung upside down.  She became quite skilful at sending or giving me 
+(for now I could be with her half the year) the right details, but 
+still she smiled at the editor, and in her gay moods she would say, 
+'I was fifteen when I got my first pair of elastic-sided boots.  
+Tell him my charge for this important news is two pounds ten.'
+
+'Ay, but though we're doing well, it's no' the same as if they were 
+a book with your name on it.'  So the ambitious woman would say 
+with a sigh, and I did my best to turn the Auld Licht sketches into 
+a book with my name on it.  Then perhaps we understood most fully 
+how good a friend our editor had been, for just as I had been able 
+to find no well-known magazine - and I think I tried all - which 
+would print any article or story about the poor of my native land, 
+so now the publishers, Scotch and English, refused to accept the 
+book as a gift.  I was willing to present it to them, but they 
+would have it in no guise; there seemed to be a blight on 
+everything that was Scotch.  I daresay we sighed, but never were 
+collaborators more prepared for rejection, and though my mother 
+might look wistfully at the scorned manuscript at times and murmur, 
+'You poor cold little crittur shut away in a drawer, are you dead 
+or just sleeping?' she had still her editor to say grace over.  And 
+at last publishers, sufficiently daring and far more than 
+sufficiently generous, were found for us by a dear friend, who made 
+one woman very 'uplifted.'  He also was an editor, and had as large 
+a part in making me a writer of books as the other in determining 
+what the books should be about.
+
+Now that I was an author I must get into a club.  But you should 
+have heard my mother on clubs!  She knew of none save those to 
+which you subscribe a pittance weekly in anticipation of rainy 
+days, and the London clubs were her scorn.  Often I heard her on 
+them - she raised her voice to make me hear, whichever room I might 
+be in, and it was when she was sarcastic that I skulked the most: 
+'Thirty pounds is what he will have to pay the first year, and ten 
+pounds a year after that.  You think it's a lot o' siller?  Oh no, 
+you're mista'en - it's nothing ava.  For the third part of thirty 
+pounds you could rent a four-roomed house, but what is a four-
+roomed house, what is thirty pounds, compared to the glory of being 
+a member of a club?  Where does the glory come in?  Sal, you needna 
+ask me, I'm just a doited auld stock that never set foot in a club, 
+so it's little I ken about glory.  But I may tell you if you bide 
+in London and canna become member of a club, the best you can do is 
+to tie a rope round your neck and slip out of the world.  What use 
+are they?  Oh, they're terrible useful.  You see it doesna do for a 
+man in London to eat his dinner in his lodgings.  Other men shake 
+their heads at him.  He maun away to his club if he is to be 
+respected.  Does he get good dinners at the club?  Oh, they cow!  
+You get no common beef at clubs; there is a manzy of different 
+things all sauced up to be unlike themsels.  Even the potatoes 
+daurna look like potatoes.  If the food in a club looks like what 
+it is, the members run about, flinging up their hands and crying, 
+"Woe is me!"  Then this is another thing, you get your letters sent 
+to the club instead of to your lodgings.  You see you would get 
+them sooner at your lodgings, and you may have to trudge weary 
+miles to the club for them, but that's a great advantage, and cheap 
+at thirty pounds, is it no'?  I wonder they can do it at the 
+price.'
+
+My wisest policy was to remain downstairs when these withering 
+blasts were blowing, but probably I went up in self-defence.
+
+'I never saw you so pugnacious before, mother.'
+
+'Oh,' she would reply promptly, 'you canna expect me to be sharp in 
+the uptake when I am no' a member of a club.'
+
+'But the difficulty is in becoming a member.  They are very 
+particular about whom they elect, and I daresay I shall not get 
+in.'
+
+'Well, I'm but a poor crittur (not being member of a club), but I 
+think I can tell you to make your mind easy on that head.  You'll 
+get in, I'se uphaud - and your thirty pounds will get in, too.'
+
+'If I get in it will be because the editor is supporting me.'
+
+'It's the first ill thing I ever heard of him.'
+
+'You don't think he is to get any of the thirty pounds, do you?'
+
+''Deed if I did I should be better pleased, for he has been a good 
+friend to us, but what maddens me is that every penny of it should 
+go to those bare-faced scoundrels.'
+
+'What bare-faced scoundrels?'
+
+'Them that have the club.'
+
+'But all the members have the club between them.'
+
+'Havers!  I'm no' to be catched with chaff.'
+
+'But don't you believe me?'
+
+'I believe they've filled your head with their stories till you 
+swallow whatever they tell you.  If the place belongs to the 
+members, why do they have to pay thirty pounds?'
+
+'To keep it going.'
+
+'They dinna have to pay for their dinners, then?'
+
+'Oh yes, they have to pay extra for dinner.'
+
+'And a gey black price, I'm thinking.'
+
+'Well, five or six shillings.'
+
+'Is that all?  Losh, it's nothing, I wonder they dinna raise the 
+price.'
+
+Nevertheless my mother was of a sex that scorned prejudice, and, 
+dropping sarcasm, she would at times cross-examine me as if her 
+mind was not yet made up.  'Tell me this, if you were to fall ill, 
+would you be paid a weekly allowance out of the club?'
+
+No, it was not that kind of club.
+
+'I see.  Well, I am just trying to find out what kind of club it 
+is.  Do you get anything out of it for accidents?'
+
+Not a penny.
+
+'Anything at New Year's time?'
+
+Not so much as a goose.
+
+'Is there any one mortal thing you get free out of that club?'
+
+There was not one mortal thing.
+
+'And thirty pounds is what you pay for this?'
+
+If the committee elected me.
+
+'How many are in the committee?'
+
+About a dozen, I thought.
+
+'A dozen!  Ay, ay, that makes two pound ten apiece.'
+
+When I was elected I thought it wisdom to send my sister upstairs 
+with the news.  My mother was ironing, and made no comment, unless 
+with the iron, which I could hear rattling more violently in its 
+box.  Presently I heard her laughing - at me undoubtedly, but she 
+had recovered control over her face before she came downstairs to 
+congratulate me sarcastically.  This was grand news, she said 
+without a twinkle, and I must write and thank the committee, the 
+noble critturs.  I saw behind her mask, and maintained a dignified 
+silence, but she would have another shot at me.  'And tell them,' 
+she said from the door, 'you were doubtful of being elected, but 
+your auld mother had aye a mighty confidence they would snick you 
+in.'  I heard her laughing softly as she went up the stair, but 
+though I had provided her with a joke I knew she was burning to 
+tell the committee what she thought of them.
+
+Money, you see, meant so much to her, though even at her poorest 
+she was the most cheerful giver.  In the old days, when the article 
+arrived, she did not read it at once, she first counted the lines 
+to discover what we should get for it - she and the daughter who 
+was so dear to her had calculated the payment per line, and I 
+remember once overhearing a discussion between them about whether 
+that sub-title meant another sixpence.  Yes, she knew the value of 
+money; she had always in the end got the things she wanted, but now 
+she could get them more easily, and it turned her simple life into 
+a fairy tale.  So often in those days she went down suddenly upon 
+her knees; we would come upon her thus, and go away noiselessly.  
+After her death I found that she had preserved in a little box, 
+with a photograph of me as a child, the envelopes which had 
+contained my first cheques.  There was a little ribbon round them.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V - A DAY OF HER LIFE
+
+
+I should like to call back a day of her life as it was at this 
+time, when her spirit was as bright as ever and her hand as eager, 
+but she was no longer able to do much work.  It should not be 
+difficult, for she repeated herself from day to day and yet did it 
+with a quaint unreasonableness that was ever yielding fresh 
+delight.  Our love for her was such that we could easily tell what 
+she would do in given circumstances, but she had always a new way 
+of doing it.
+
+Well, with break of day she wakes and sits up in bed and is 
+standing in the middle of the room.  So nimble was she in the 
+mornings (one of our troubles with her) that these three actions 
+must be considered as one; she is on the floor before you have time 
+to count them.  She has strict orders not to rise until her fire is 
+lit, and having broken them there is a demure elation on her face.  
+The question is what to do before she is caught and hurried to bed 
+again.  Her fingers are tingling to prepare the breakfast; she 
+would dearly love to black-lead the grate, but that might rouse her 
+daughter from whose side she has slipped so cunningly.  She catches 
+sight of the screen at the foot of the bed, and immediately her 
+soft face becomes very determined.  To guard her from draughts the 
+screen had been brought here from the lordly east room, where it 
+was of no use whatever.  But in her opinion it was too beautiful 
+for use; it belonged to the east room, where she could take 
+pleasant peeps at it; she had objected to its removal, even become 
+low-spirited.  Now is her opportunity.  The screen is an unwieldy 
+thing, but still as a mouse she carries it, and they are well under 
+weigh when it strikes against the gas-bracket in the passage.  Next 
+moment a reproachful hand arrests her.  She is challenged with 
+being out of bed, she denies it - standing in the passage.  Meekly 
+or stubbornly she returns to bed, and it is no satisfaction to you 
+that you can say, 'Well, well, of all the women!' and so on, or 
+'Surely you knew that the screen was brought here to protect you,' 
+for she will reply scornfully, 'Who was touching the screen?'
+
+By this time I have wakened (I am through the wall) and join them 
+anxiously: so often has my mother been taken ill in the night that 
+the slightest sound from her room rouses the house.  She is in bed 
+again, looking as if she had never been out of it, but I know her 
+and listen sternly to the tale of her misdoings.  She is not 
+contrite.  Yes, maybe she did promise not to venture forth on the 
+cold floors of daybreak, but she had risen for a moment only, and 
+we just t'neaded her with our talk about draughts - there were no 
+such things as draughts in her young days - and it is more than she 
+can do (here she again attempts to rise but we hold her down) to 
+lie there and watch that beautiful screen being spoilt.  I reply 
+that the beauty of the screen has ever been its miserable defect: 
+ho, there! for a knife with which to spoil its beauty and make the 
+bedroom its fitting home.  As there is no knife handy, my foot will 
+do; I raise my foot, and then - she sees that it is bare, she cries 
+to me excitedly to go back to bed lest I catch cold.  For though, 
+ever careless of herself, she will wander the house unshod, and 
+tell us not to talk havers when we chide her, the sight of one of 
+us similarly negligent rouses her anxiety at once.  She is willing 
+now to sign any vow if only I will take my bare feet back to bed, 
+but probably she is soon after me in hers to make sure that I am 
+nicely covered up.
+
+It is scarcely six o'clock, and we have all promised to sleep for 
+another hour, but in ten minutes she is sure that eight has struck 
+(house disgraced), or that if it has not, something is wrong with 
+the clock.  Next moment she is captured on her way downstairs to 
+wind up the clock.  So evidently we must be up and doing, and as we 
+have no servant, my sister disappears into the kitchen, having 
+first asked me to see that 'that woman' lies still, and 'that 
+woman' calls out that she always does lie still, so what are we 
+blethering about?
+
+She is up now, and dressed in her thick maroon wrapper; over her 
+shoulders (lest she should stray despite our watchfulness) is a 
+shawl, not placed there by her own hands, and on her head a 
+delicious mutch.  O that I could sing the paean of the white mutch 
+(and the dirge of the elaborate black cap) from the day when she 
+called witchcraft to her aid and made it out of snow-flakes, and 
+the dear worn hands that washed it tenderly in a basin, and the 
+starching of it, and the finger-iron for its exquisite frills that 
+looked like curls of sugar, and the sweet bands with which it tied 
+beneath the chin!  The honoured snowy mutch, how I love to see it 
+smiling to me from the doors and windows of the poor; it is always 
+smiling - sometimes maybe a wavering wistful smile, as if a tear-
+drop lay hidden among, the frills.  A hundred times I have taken 
+the characterless cap from my mother's head and put the mutch in 
+its place and tied the bands beneath her chin, while she protested 
+but was well pleased.  For in her heart she knew what suited her 
+best and would admit it, beaming, when I put a mirror into her 
+hands and told her to look; but nevertheless the cap cost no less 
+than so-and-so, whereas - Was that a knock at the door?  She is 
+gone, to put on her cap!
+
+She begins the day by the fireside with the New Testament in her 
+hands, an old volume with its loose pages beautifully refixed, and 
+its covers sewn and resewn by her, so that you would say it can 
+never fall to pieces.  It is mine now, and to me the black threads 
+with which she stitched it are as part of the contents.  Other 
+books she read in the ordinary manner, but this one differently, 
+her lips moving with each word as if she were reading aloud, and 
+her face very solemn.  The Testament lies open on her lap long 
+after she has ceased to read, and the expression of her face has 
+not changed.
+
+I have seen her reading other books early in the day but never 
+without a guilty look on her face, for she thought reading was 
+scarce respectable until night had come.  She spends the forenoon 
+in what she calls doing nothing, which may consist in stitching so 
+hard that you would swear she was an over-worked seamstress at it 
+for her life, or you will find her on a table with nails in her 
+mouth, and anon she has to be chased from the garret (she has 
+suddenly decided to change her curtains), or she is under the bed 
+searching for band-boxes and asking sternly where we have put that 
+bonnet.  On the whole she is behaving in a most exemplary way to-
+day (not once have we caught her trying to go out into the washing-
+house), and we compliment her at dinner-time, partly because she 
+deserves it, and partly to make her think herself so good that she 
+will eat something, just to maintain her new character.  I question 
+whether one hour of all her life was given to thoughts of food; in 
+her great days to eat seemed to her to be waste of time, and 
+afterwards she only ate to boast of it, as something she had done 
+to please us.  She seldom remembered whether she had dined, but 
+always presumed she had, and while she was telling me in all good 
+faith what the meal consisted of, it might be brought in.  When in 
+London I had to hear daily what she was eating, and perhaps she had 
+refused all dishes until they produced the pen and ink.  These were 
+flourished before her, and then she would say with a sigh, 'Tell 
+him I am to eat an egg.'  But they were not so easily deceived; 
+they waited, pen in hand, until the egg was eaten.
+
+She never 'went for a walk' in her life.  Many long trudges she had 
+as a girl when she carried her father's dinner in a flagon to the 
+country place where he was at work, but to walk with no end save 
+the good of your health seemed a very droll proceeding to her.  In 
+her young days, she was positive, no one had ever gone for a walk, 
+and she never lost the belief that it was an absurdity introduced 
+by a new generation with too much time on their hands.  That they 
+enjoyed it she could not believe; it was merely a form of showing 
+off, and as they passed her window she would remark to herself with 
+blasting satire, 'Ay, Jeames, are you off for your walk?' and add 
+fervently, 'Rather you than me!'  I was one of those who walked, 
+and though she smiled, and might drop a sarcastic word when she saw 
+me putting on my boots, it was she who had heated them in 
+preparation for my going.  The arrangement between us was that she 
+should lie down until my return, and to ensure its being carried 
+out I saw her in bed before I started, but with the bang of the 
+door she would be at the window to watch me go: there is one spot 
+on the road where a thousand times I have turned to wave my stick 
+to her, while she nodded and smiled and kissed her hand to me.  
+That kissing of the hand was the one English custom she had 
+learned.
+
+In an hour or so I return, and perhaps find her in bed, according 
+to promise, but still I am suspicious.  The way to her detection is 
+circuitous.
+
+'I'll need to be rising now,' she says, with a yawn that may be 
+genuine.
+
+'How long have you been in bed?'
+
+'You saw me go.'
+
+'And then I saw you at the window.  Did you go straight back to 
+bed?'
+
+'Surely I had that much sense.'
+
+'The truth!'
+
+'I might have taken a look at the clock first.'
+
+'It is a terrible thing to have a mother who prevaricates.  Have 
+you been lying down ever since I left?'
+
+'Thereabout.'
+
+'What does that mean exactly?'
+
+'Off and on.'
+
+'Have you been to the garret?'
+
+'What should I do in the garret?'
+
+'But have you?'
+
+'I might just have looked up the garret stair.'
+
+'You have been redding up the garret again!'
+
+'Not what you could call a redd up.'
+
+'O, woman, woman, I believe you have not been in bed at all!'
+
+'You see me in it.'
+
+'My opinion is that you jumped into bed when you heard me open the 
+door.'
+
+'Havers.'
+
+'Did you?'
+
+'No.'
+
+'Well, then, when you heard me at the gate?'
+
+'It might have been when I heard you at the gate.'
+
+As daylight goes she follows it with her sewing to the window, and 
+gets another needleful out of it, as one may run after a departed 
+visitor for a last word, but now the gas is lit, and no longer is 
+it shameful to sit down to literature.  If the book be a story by 
+George Eliot or Mrs. Oliphant, her favourites (and mine) among 
+women novelists, or if it be a Carlyle, and we move softly, she 
+will read, entranced, for hours.  Her delight in Carlyle was so 
+well known that various good people would send her books that 
+contained a page about him; she could place her finger on any 
+passage wanted in the biography as promptly as though she were 
+looking for some article in her own drawer, and given a date she 
+was often able to tell you what they were doing in Cheyne Row that 
+day.  Carlyle, she decided, was not so much an ill man to live with 
+as one who needed a deal of managing, but when I asked if she 
+thought she could have managed him she only replied with a modest 
+smile that meant 'Oh no!' but had the face of 'Sal, I would have 
+liked to try.'
+
+One lady lent her some scores of Carlyle letters that have never 
+been published, and crabbed was the writing, but though my mother 
+liked to have our letters read aloud to her, she read every one of 
+these herself, and would quote from them in her talk.  Side by side 
+with the Carlyle letters, which show him in his most gracious 
+light, were many from his wife to a friend, and in one of these a 
+romantic adventure is described - I quote from memory, and it is a 
+poor memory compared to my mother's, which registered everything by 
+a method of her own: 'What might be the age of Bell Tibbits?  Well, 
+she was born the week I bought the boiler, so she'll be one-and-
+fifty (no less!) come Martinmas.'  Mrs. Carlyle had got into the 
+train at a London station and was feeling very lonely, for the 
+journey to Scotland lay before her and no one had come to see her 
+off.  Then, just as the train was starting, a man jumped into the 
+carriage, to her regret until she saw his face, when, behold, they 
+were old friends, and the last time they met (I forget how many 
+years before) he had asked her to be his wife.  He was very nice, 
+and if I remember aright, saw her to her journey's end, though he 
+had intended to alight at some half-way place.  I call this an 
+adventure, and I am sure it seemed to my mother to be the most 
+touching and memorable adventure that can come into a woman's life.  
+'You see he hadna forgot,' she would say proudly, as if this was a 
+compliment in which all her sex could share, and on her old tender 
+face shone some of the elation with which Mrs. Carlyle wrote that 
+letter.
+
+But there were times, she held, when Carlyle must have made his 
+wife a glorious woman.  'As when?' I might inquire.
+
+'When she keeked in at his study door and said to herself, "The 
+whole world is ringing with his fame, and he is my man!"'
+
+'And then,' I might point out, 'he would roar to her to shut the 
+door.'
+
+'Pooh!' said my mother, 'a man's roar is neither here nor there.'  
+But her verdict as a whole was, 'I would rather have been his 
+mother than his wife.'
+
+So we have got her into her chair with the Carlyles, and all is 
+well.  Furthermore, 'to mak siccar,' my father has taken the 
+opposite side of the fireplace and is deep in the latest five 
+columns of Gladstone, who is his Carlyle.  He is to see that she 
+does not slip away fired by a conviction, which suddenly overrides 
+her pages, that the kitchen is going to rack and ruin for want of 
+her, and she is to recall him to himself should he put his foot in 
+the fire and keep it there, forgetful of all save his hero's 
+eloquence.  (We were a family who needed a deal of watching.)  She 
+is not interested in what Mr. Gladstone has to say; indeed she 
+could never be brought to look upon politics as of serious concern 
+for grown folk (a class in which she scarcely included man), and 
+she gratefully gave up reading 'leaders' the day I ceased to write 
+them.  But like want of reasonableness, a love for having the last 
+word, want of humour and the like, politics were in her opinion a 
+mannish attribute to be tolerated, and Gladstone was the name of 
+the something which makes all our sex such queer characters.  She 
+had a profound faith in him as an aid to conversation, and if there 
+were silent men in the company would give him to them to talk 
+about, precisely as she divided a cake among children.  And then, 
+with a motherly smile, she would leave them to gorge on him.  But 
+in the idolising of Gladstone she recognised, nevertheless, a 
+certain inevitability, and would no more have tried to contend with 
+it than to sweep a shadow off the floor.  Gladstone was, and there 
+was an end of it in her practical philosophy.  Nor did she accept 
+him coldly; like a true woman she sympathised with those who 
+suffered severely, and they knew it and took counsel of her in the 
+hour of need.  I remember one ardent Gladstonian who, as a general 
+election drew near, was in sore straits indeed, for he disbelieved 
+in Home Rule, and yet how could he vote against 'Gladstone's man'?  
+His distress was so real that it gave him a hang-dog appearance.  
+He put his case gloomily before her, and until the day of the 
+election she riddled him with sarcasm; I think he only went to her 
+because he found a mournful enjoyment in seeing a false Gladstonian 
+tortured.
+
+It was all such plain-sailing for him, she pointed out; he did not 
+like this Home Rule, and therefore he must vote against it.
+
+She put it pitiful clear, he replied with a groan.
+
+But she was like another woman to him when he appeared before her 
+on his way to the polling-booth.
+
+'This is a watery Sabbath to you, I'm thinking,' she said 
+sympathetically, but without dropping her wires - for Home Rule or 
+no Home Rule that stocking-foot must be turned before twelve 
+o'clock.
+
+A watery Sabbath means a doleful day, and 'A watery Sabbath it is,' 
+he replied with feeling.  A silence followed, broken only by the 
+click of the wires.  Now and again he would mutter, 'Ay, well, I'll 
+be going to vote - little did I think the day would come,' and so 
+on, but if he rose it was only to sit down again, and at last she 
+crossed over to him and said softly, (no sarcasm in her voice now), 
+'Away with you, and vote for Gladstone's man!'  He jumped up and 
+made off without a word, but from the east window we watched him 
+strutting down the brae.  I laughed, but she said, 'I'm no sure 
+that it's a laughing matter,' and afterwards, 'I would have liked 
+fine to be that Gladstone's mother.'
+
+It is nine o'clock now, a quarter-past nine, half-past nine - all 
+the same moment to me, for I am at a sentence that will not write.  
+I know, though I can't hear, what my sister has gone upstairs to 
+say to my mother:-
+
+'I was in at him at nine, and he said, "In five minutes," so I put 
+the steak on the brander, but I've been in thrice since then, and 
+every time he says, "In five minutes," and when I try to take the 
+table-cover off, he presses his elbows hard on it, and growls.  His 
+supper will be completely spoilt.'
+
+'Oh, that weary writing!'
+
+'I can do no more, mother, so you must come down and stop him.'
+
+'I have no power over him,' my mother says, but she rises smiling, 
+and presently she is opening my door.
+
+'In five minutes!' I cry, but when I see that it is she I rise and 
+put my arm round her.  'What a full basket!' she says, looking at 
+the waste-paper basket, which contains most of my work of the night 
+and with a dear gesture she lifts up a torn page and kisses it.  
+'Poor thing,' she says to it, 'and you would have liked so fine to 
+be printed!' and she puts her hand over my desk to prevent my 
+writing more.
+
+'In the last five minutes,' I begin, 'one can often do more than in 
+the first hour.'
+
+'Many a time I've said it in my young days,' she says slowly.
+
+'And proved it, too!' cries a voice from the door, the voice of one 
+who was prouder of her even than I; it is true, and yet almost 
+unbelievable, that any one could have been prouder of her than I.
+
+'But those days are gone,' my mother says solemnly, 'gone to come 
+back no more.  You'll put by your work now, man, and have your 
+supper, and then you'll come up and sit beside your mother for a 
+whiley, for soon you'll be putting her away in the kirk-yard.'
+
+I hear such a little cry from near the door.
+
+So my mother and I go up the stair together.  'We have changed 
+places,' she says; 'that was just how I used to help you up, but 
+I'm the bairn now.'
+
+She brings out the Testament again; it was always lying within 
+reach; it is the lock of hair she left me when she died.  And when 
+she has read for a long time she 'gives me a look,' as we say in 
+the north, and I go out, to leave her alone with God.  She had been 
+but a child when her mother died, and so she fell early into the 
+way of saying her prayers with no earthly listener.  Often and 
+often I have found her on her knees, but I always went softly away, 
+closing the door.  I never heard her pray, but I know very well how 
+she prayed, and that, when that door was shut, there was not a day 
+in God's sight between the worn woman and the little child.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI - HER MAID OF ALL WORK
+
+
+And sometimes I was her maid of all work.
+
+It is early morn, and my mother has come noiselessly into my room.  
+I know it is she, though my eyes are shut, and I am only half 
+awake.  Perhaps I was dreaming of her, for I accept her presence 
+without surprise, as if in the awakening I had but seen her go out 
+at one door to come in at another.  But she is speaking to herself.
+
+'I'm sweer to waken him - I doubt he was working late - oh, that 
+weary writing - no, I maunna waken him.'
+
+I start up.  She is wringing her hands.  'What is wrong?' I cry, 
+but I know before she answers.  My sister is down with one of the 
+headaches against which even she cannot fight, and my mother, who 
+bears physical pain as if it were a comrade, is most woebegone when 
+her daughter is the sufferer.  'And she winna let me go down the 
+stair to make a cup of tea for her,' she groans.
+
+'I will soon make the tea, mother.'
+
+'Will you?' she says eagerly.  It is what she has come to me for, 
+but 'It is a pity to rouse you,' she says.
+
+'And I will take charge of the house to-day, and light the fires 
+and wash the dishes - '
+
+'Na, oh no; no, I couldna ask that of you, and you an author.'
+
+'It won't be the first time, mother, since I was an author.'
+
+'More like the fiftieth!' she says almost gleefully, so I have 
+begun well, for to keep up her spirits is the great thing to-day.
+
+Knock at the door.  It is the baker.  I take in the bread, looking 
+so sternly at him that he dare not smile.
+
+Knock at the door.  It is the postman. (I hope he did not see that 
+I had the lid of the kettle in my other hand.)
+
+Furious knocking in a remote part.  This means that the author is 
+in the coal cellar.
+
+Anon I carry two breakfasts upstairs in triumph.  I enter the 
+bedroom like no mere humdrum son, but after the manner of the 
+Glasgow waiter.  I must say more about him.  He had been my 
+mother's one waiter, the only manservant she ever came in contact 
+with, and they had met in a Glasgow hotel which she was eager to 
+see, having heard of the monstrous things, and conceived them to 
+resemble country inns with another twelve bedrooms.  I remember how 
+she beamed - yet tried to look as if it was quite an ordinary 
+experience - when we alighted at the hotel door, but though she 
+said nothing I soon read disappointment in her face.  She knew how 
+I was exulting in having her there, so would not say a word to damp 
+me, but I craftily drew it out of her.  No, she was very 
+comfortable, and the house was grand beyond speech, but - but - 
+where was he? he had not been very hearty.  'He' was the landlord; 
+she had expected him to receive us at the door and ask if we were 
+in good health and how we had left the others, and then she would 
+have asked him if his wife was well and how many children they had, 
+after which we should all have sat down together to dinner.  Two 
+chambermaids came into her room and prepared it without a single 
+word to her about her journey or on any other subject, and when 
+they had gone, 'They are two haughty misses,' said my mother with 
+spirit.  But what she most resented was the waiter with his swagger 
+black suit and short quick steps and the 'towel' over his arm.  
+Without so much as a 'Welcome to Glasgow!' he showed us to our 
+seats, not the smallest acknowledgment of our kindness in giving 
+such munificent orders did we draw from him, he hovered around the 
+table as if it would be unsafe to leave us with his knives and 
+forks (he should have seen her knives and forks), when we spoke to 
+each other he affected not to hear, we might laugh but this uppish 
+fellow would not join in.  We retired, crushed, and he had the 
+final impudence to open the door for us.  But though this hurt my 
+mother at the time, the humour of our experiences filled her on 
+reflection, and in her own house she would describe them with 
+unction, sometimes to those who had been in many hotels, often to 
+others who had been in none, and whoever were her listeners she 
+made them laugh, though not always at the same thing.
+
+So now when I enter the bedroom with the tray, on my arm is that 
+badge of pride, the towel; and I approach with prim steps to inform 
+Madam that breakfast is ready, and she puts on the society manner 
+and addresses me as 'Sir,' and asks with cruel sarcasm for what 
+purpose (except to boast) I carry the towel, and I say 'Is there 
+anything more I can do for Madam?' and Madam replies that there is 
+one more thing I can do, and that is, eat her breakfast for her.  
+But of this I take no notice, for my object is to fire her with the 
+spirit of the game, so that she eats unwittingly.
+
+Now that I have washed up the breakfast things I should be at my 
+writing, and I am anxious to be at it, as I have an idea in my 
+head, which, if it is of any value, has almost certainly been put 
+there by her.  But dare I venture?  I know that the house has not 
+been properly set going yet, there are beds to make, the exterior 
+of the teapot is fair, but suppose some one were to look inside?  
+What a pity I knocked over the flour-barrel!  Can I hope that for 
+once my mother will forget to inquire into these matters?  Is my 
+sister willing to let disorder reign until to-morrow?  I determine 
+to risk it.  Perhaps I have been at work for half an hour when I 
+hear movements overhead.  One or other of them is wondering why the 
+house is so quiet.  I rattle the tongs, but even this does not 
+satisfy them, so back into the desk go my papers, and now what you 
+hear is not the scrape of a pen but the rinsing of pots and pans, 
+or I am making beds, and making them thoroughly, because after I am 
+gone my mother will come (I know her) and look suspiciously beneath 
+the coverlet.
+
+The kitchen is now speckless, not an unwashed platter in sight, 
+unless you look beneath the table.  I feel that I have earned time 
+for an hour's writing at last, and at it I go with vigour.  One 
+page, two pages, really I am making progress, when - was that a 
+door opening?  But I have my mother's light step on the brain, so I 
+'yoke' again, and next moment she is beside me.  She has not 
+exactly left her room, she gives me to understand; but suddenly a 
+conviction had come to her that I was writing without a warm mat at 
+my feet.  She carries one in her hands.  Now that she is here she 
+remains for a time, and though she is in the arm-chair by the fire, 
+where she sits bolt upright (she loved to have cushions on the 
+unused chairs, but detested putting her back against them), and I 
+am bent low over my desk, I know that contentment and pity are 
+struggling for possession of her face: contentment wins when she 
+surveys her room, pity when she looks at me.  Every article of 
+furniture, from the chairs that came into the world with me and 
+have worn so much better, though I was new and they were second-
+hand, to the mantle-border of fashionable design which she sewed in 
+her seventieth year, having picked up the stitch in half a lesson, 
+has its story of fight and attainment for her, hence her 
+satisfaction; but she sighs at sight of her son, dipping and 
+tearing, and chewing the loathly pen.
+
+'Oh, that weary writing!'
+
+In vain do I tell her that writing is as pleasant to me as ever was 
+the prospect of a tremendous day's ironing to her; that (to some, 
+though not to me) new chapters are as easy to turn out as new 
+bannocks.  No, she maintains, for one bannock is the marrows of 
+another, while chapters - and then, perhaps, her eyes twinkle, and 
+says she saucily, 'But, sal, you may be right, for sometimes your 
+bannocks are as alike as mine!'
+
+Or I may be roused from my writing by her cry that I am making 
+strange faces again.  It is my contemptible weakness that if I say 
+a character smiled vacuously, I must smile vacuously; if he frowns 
+or leers, I frown or leer; if he is a coward or given to 
+contortions, I cringe, or twist my legs until I have to stop 
+writing to undo the knot.  I bow with him, eat with him, and gnaw 
+my moustache with him.  If the character be a lady with an 
+exquisite laugh, I suddenly terrify you by laughing exquisitely.  
+One reads of the astounding versatility of an actor who is stout 
+and lean on the same evening, but what is he to the novelist who is 
+a dozen persons within the hour?  Morally, I fear, we must 
+deteriorate - but this is a subject I may wisely edge away from.
+
+We always spoke to each other in broad Scotch (I think in it 
+still), but now and again she would use a word that was new to me, 
+or I might hear one of her contemporaries use it.  Now is my 
+opportunity to angle for its meaning.  If I ask, boldly, what was 
+chat word she used just now, something like 'bilbie' or 'silvendy'? 
+she blushes, and says she never said anything so common, or hoots! 
+it is some auld-farrant word about which she can tell me nothing.  
+But if in the course of conversation I remark casually, 'Did he 
+find bilbie?' or 'Was that quite silvendy?' (though the sense of 
+the question is vague to me) she falls into the trap, and the words 
+explain themselves in her replies.  Or maybe to-day she sees 
+whither I am leading her, and such is her sensitiveness that she is 
+quite hurt.  The humour goes out of her face (to find bilbie in 
+some more silvendy spot), and her reproachful eyes - but now I am 
+on the arm of her chair, and we have made it up.  Nevertheless, I 
+shall get no more old-world Scotch out of her this forenoon, she 
+weeds her talk determinedly, and it is as great a falling away as 
+when the mutch gives place to the cap.
+
+I am off for my afternoon walk, and she has promised to bar the 
+door behind me and open it to none.  When I return, - well, the 
+door is still barred, but she is looking both furtive and elated.  
+I should say that she is burning to tell me something, but cannot 
+tell it without exposing herself.  Has she opened the door, and if 
+so, why?  I don't ask, but I watch.  It is she who is sly now.
+
+'Have you been in the east room since you came in?' she asks, with 
+apparent indifference.
+
+'No; why do you ask?'
+
+'Oh, I just thought you might have looked in.'
+
+'Is there anything new there?'
+
+'I dinna say there is, but - but just go and see.'
+
+'There can't be anything new if you kept the door barred,' I say 
+cleverly.
+
+This crushes her for a moment; but her eagerness that I should see 
+is greater than her fear.  I set off for the east room, and she 
+follows, affecting humility, but with triumph in her eye.  How 
+often those little scenes took place!  I was never told of the new 
+purchase, I was lured into its presence, and then she waited 
+timidly for my start of surprise.
+
+'Do you see it?' she says anxiously, and I see it, and hear it, for 
+this time it is a bran-new wicker chair, of the kind that whisper 
+to themselves for the first six months.
+
+'A going-about body was selling them in a cart,' my mother begins, 
+and what followed presents itself to my eyes before she can utter 
+another word.  Ten minutes at the least did she stand at the door 
+argy-bargying with that man.  But it would be cruelty to scold a 
+woman so uplifted.
+
+'Fifteen shillings he wanted,' she cries, 'but what do you think I 
+beat him down to?'
+
+'Seven and sixpence?'
+
+She claps her hands with delight.  'Four shillings, as I'm a living 
+woman!' she crows: never was a woman fonder of a bargain.
+
+I gaze at the purchase with the amazement expected of me, and the 
+chair itself crinkles and shudders to hear what it went for (or is 
+it merely chuckling at her?).  'And the man said it cost himself 
+five shillings,' my mother continues exultantly.  You would have 
+thought her the hardest person had not a knock on the wall summoned 
+us about this time to my sister's side.  Though in bed she has been 
+listening, and this is what she has to say, in a voice that makes 
+my mother very indignant, 'You drive a bargain!  I'm thinking ten 
+shillings was nearer what you paid.'
+
+'Four shillings to a penny!' says my mother.
+
+'I daresay,' says my sister; 'but after you paid him the money I 
+heard you in the little bedroom press.  What were you doing there?'
+
+My mother winces.  'I may have given him a present of an old 
+topcoat,' she falters.  'He looked ill-happit.  But that was after 
+I made the bargain.'
+
+'Were there bairns in the cart?'
+
+'There might have been a bit lassie in the cart.'
+
+'I thought as much.  What did you give her?  I heard you in the 
+pantry.'
+
+'Four shillings was what I got that chair for,' replies my mother 
+firmly.  If I don't interfere there will be a coldness between them 
+for at least a minute.  'There is blood on your finger,' I say to 
+my mother.
+
+'So there is,' she says, concealing her hand.
+
+'Blood!' exclaims my sister anxiously, and then with a cry of 
+triumph, 'I warrant it's jelly.  You gave that lassie one of the 
+jelly cans!'
+
+The Glasgow waiter brings up tea, and presently my sister is able 
+to rise, and after a sharp fight I am expelled from the kitchen.  
+The last thing I do as maid of all work is to lug upstairs the 
+clothes-basket which has just arrived with the mangling.  Now there 
+is delicious linen for my mother to finger; there was always 
+rapture on her face when the clothes-basket came in; it never 
+failed to make her once more the active genius of the house.  I may 
+leave her now with her sheets and collars and napkins and fronts.  
+Indeed, she probably orders me to go.  A son is all very well, but 
+suppose he were to tread on that counterpane!
+
+My sister is but and I am ben - I mean she is in the east end and I 
+am in the west  - tuts, tuts! let us get at the English of this by 
+striving: she is in the kitchen and I am at my desk in the parlour.  
+I hope I may not be disturbed, for to-night I must make my hero say 
+'Darling,' and it needs both privacy and concentration.  In a word, 
+let me admit (though I should like to beat about the bush) that I 
+have sat down to a love-chapter.  Too long has it been avoided, 
+Albert has called Marion 'dear' only as yet (between you and me 
+these are not their real names), but though the public will 
+probably read the word without blinking, it went off in my hands 
+with a bang.  They tell me - the Sassenach tell me - that in time I 
+shall be able without a blush to make Albert say 'darling,' and 
+even gather her up in his arms, but I begin to doubt it; the moment 
+sees me as shy as ever; I still find it advisable to lock the door, 
+and then - no witness save the dog - I 'do' it dourly with my teeth 
+clenched, while the dog retreats into the far corner and moans.  
+The bolder Englishman (I am told) will write a love-chapter and 
+then go out, quite coolly, to dinner, but such goings on are 
+contrary to the Scotch nature; even the great novelists dared not.  
+Conceive Mr. Stevenson left alone with a hero, a heroine, and a 
+proposal impending (he does not know where to look).  Sir Walter in 
+the same circumstances gets out of the room by making his love-
+scenes take place between the end of one chapter and the beginning 
+of the next, but he could afford to do anything, and the small fry 
+must e'en to their task, moan the dog as he may.  So I have yoked 
+to mine when, enter my mother, looking wistful.
+
+'I suppose you are terrible thrang,' she says.
+
+'Well, I am rather busy, but - what is it you want me to do?'
+
+'It would be a shame to ask you.'
+
+'Still, ask me.'
+
+'I am so terrified they may be filed.'
+
+'You want me to - ?'
+
+'If you would just come up, and help me to fold the sheets!'
+
+The sheets are folded and I return to Albert.  I lock the door, and 
+at last I am bringing my hero forward nicely (my knee in the small 
+of his back), when this startling question is shot by my sister 
+through the key-hole-
+
+'Where did you put the carrot-grater?'
+
+It will all have to be done over again if I let Albert go for a 
+moment, so, gripping him hard, I shout indignantly that I have not 
+seen the carrot-grater.
+
+'Then what did you grate the carrots on?' asks the voice, and the 
+door-handle is shaken just as I shake Albert.
+
+'On a broken cup,' I reply with surprising readiness, and I get to 
+work again but am less engrossed, for a conviction grows on me that 
+I put the carrot-grater in the drawer of the sewing-machine.
+
+I am wondering whether I should confess or brazen it out, when I 
+hear my sister going hurriedly upstairs.  I have a presentiment 
+that she has gone to talk about me, and I basely open my door and 
+listen.
+
+'Just look at that, mother!'
+
+'Is it a dish-cloth?'
+
+'That's what it is now.'
+
+'Losh behears! it's one of the new table-napkins.'
+
+'That's what it was.  He has been polishing the kitchen grate with 
+it!'
+
+(I remember!)
+
+'Woe's me!  That is what comes of his not letting me budge from 
+this room.  O, it is a watery Sabbath when men take to doing 
+women's work!'
+
+'It defies the face of clay, mother, to fathom what makes him so 
+senseless.'
+
+'Oh, it's that weary writing.'
+
+'And the worst of it is he will talk to-morrow as if he had done 
+wonders.'
+
+'That's the way with the whole clanjam-fray of them.'
+
+'Yes, but as usual you will humour him, mother.'
+
+'Oh, well, it pleases him, you see,' says my mother, 'and we can 
+have our laugh when his door's shut.'
+
+'He is most terribly handless.'
+
+'He is all that, but, poor soul, he does his best.'
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII - R. L. S.
+
+
+These familiar initials are, I suppose, the best beloved in recent 
+literature, certainly they are the sweetest to me, but there was a 
+time when my mother could not abide them.  She said 'That Stevenson 
+man' with a sneer, and, it was never easy to her to sneer.  At 
+thought of him her face would become almost hard, which seems 
+incredible, and she would knit her lips and fold her arms, and 
+reply with a stiff 'oh' if you mentioned his aggravating name.  In 
+the novels we have a way of writing of our heroine, 'she drew 
+herself up haughtily,' and when mine draw themselves up haughtily I 
+see my mother thinking of Robert Louis Stevenson.  He knew her 
+opinion of him, and would write, 'My ears tingled yesterday; I sair 
+doubt she has been miscalling me again.'  But the more she 
+miscalled him the more he delighted in her, and she was informed of 
+this, and at once said, 'The scoundrel!'  If you would know what 
+was his unpardonable crime, it was this: he wrote better books than 
+mine.
+
+I remember the day she found it out, which was not, however, the 
+day she admitted it.  That day, when I should have been at my work, 
+she came upon me in the kitchen, 'The Master of Ballantrae' beside 
+me, but I was not reading: my head lay heavy on the table, and to 
+her anxious eyes, I doubt not, I was the picture of woe.  'Not 
+writing!' I echoed, no, I was not writing, I saw no use in ever 
+trying to write again.  And down, I suppose, went my head once 
+more.  She misunderstood, and thought the blow had fallen; I had 
+awakened to the discovery, always dreaded by her, that I had 
+written myself dry; I was no better than an empty ink-bottle.  She 
+wrung her hands, but indignation came to her with my explanation, 
+which was that while R. L. S. was at it we others were only 
+'prentices cutting our fingers on his tools.  'I could never thole 
+his books,' said my mother immediately, and indeed vindictively.
+
+'You have not read any of them,' I reminded her.
+
+'And never will,' said she with spirit.
+
+And I have no doubt that she called him a dark character that very 
+day.  For weeks too, if not for months, she adhered to her 
+determination not to read him, though I, having come to my senses 
+and seen that there is a place for the 'prentice, was taking a 
+pleasure, almost malicious, in putting 'The Master of Ballantrae' 
+in her way.  I would place it on her table so that it said good-
+morning to her when she rose.  She would frown, and carrying it 
+downstairs, as if she had it in the tongs, replace it on its book-
+shelf.  I would wrap it up in the cover she had made for the latest 
+Carlyle: she would skin it contemptuously and again bring it down.  
+I would hide her spectacles in it, and lay it on top of the 
+clothes-basket and prop it up invitingly open against her tea-pot.  
+And at last I got her, though I forget by which of many 
+contrivances.  What I recall vividly is a key-hole view, to which 
+another member of the family invited me.  Then I saw my mother 
+wrapped up in 'The Master of Ballantrae' and muttering the music to 
+herself, nodding her head in approval, and taking a stealthy glance 
+at the foot of each page before she began at the top.  Nevertheless 
+she had an ear for the door, for when I bounced in she had been too 
+clever for me; there was no book to be seen, only an apron on her 
+lap and she was gazing out at the window.  Some such conversation 
+as this followed:-
+
+'You have been sitting very quietly, mother.'
+
+'I always sit quietly, I never do anything, I'm just a finished 
+stocking.'
+
+'Have you been reading?'
+
+'Do I ever read at this time of day?'
+
+'What is that in your lap?'
+
+'Just my apron.'
+
+'Is that a book beneath the apron?'
+
+'It might be a book.'
+
+'Let me see.'
+
+'Go away with you to your work.'
+
+But I lifted the apron.  'Why, it's "The Master of Ballantrae!"'  I 
+exclaimed, shocked.
+
+'So it is!' said my mother, equally surprised.  But I looked 
+sternly at her, and perhaps she blushed.
+
+'Well what do you think: not nearly equal to mine?' said I with 
+humour.
+
+'Nothing like them,' she said determinedly.
+
+'Not a bit,' said I, though whether with a smile or a groan is 
+immaterial; they would have meant the same thing.  Should I put the 
+book back on its shelf?  I asked, and she replied that I could put 
+it wherever I liked for all she cared, so long as I took it out of 
+her sight (the implication was that it had stolen on to her lap 
+while she was looking out at the window).  My behaviour may seem 
+small, but I gave her a last chance, for I said that some people 
+found it a book there was no putting down until they reached the 
+last page.
+
+'I'm no that kind,' replied my mother.
+
+Nevertheless our old game with the haver of a thing, as she called 
+it, was continued, with this difference, that it was now she who 
+carried the book covertly upstairs, and I who replaced it on the 
+shelf, and several times we caught each other in the act, but not a 
+word said either of us; we were grown self-conscious.  Much of the 
+play no doubt I forget, but one incident I remember clearly.  She 
+had come down to sit beside me while I wrote, and sometimes, when I 
+looked up, her eye was not on me, but on the shelf where 'The 
+Master of Ballantrae' stood inviting her.  Mr. Stevenson's books 
+are not for the shelf, they are for the hand; even when you lay 
+them down, let it be on the table for the next comer.  Being the 
+most sociable that man has penned in our time, they feel very 
+lonely up there in a stately row.  I think their eye is on you the 
+moment you enter the room, and so you are drawn to look at them, 
+and you take a volume down with the impulse that induces one to 
+unchain the dog.  And the result is not dissimilar, for in another 
+moment you two are at play.  Is there any other modern writer who 
+gets round you in this way?  Well, he had given my mother the look 
+which in the ball-room means, 'Ask me for this waltz,' and she 
+ettled to do it, but felt that her more dutiful course was to sit 
+out the dance with this other less entertaining partner.  I wrote 
+on doggedly, but could hear the whispering.
+
+'Am I to be a wall-flower?' asked James Durie reproachfully.  (It 
+must have been leap-year.)
+
+'Speak lower,' replied my mother, with an uneasy look at me.
+
+'Pooh!' said James contemptuously, 'that kail-runtle!'
+
+'I winna have him miscalled,' said my mother, frowning.
+
+'I am done with him,' said James (wiping his cane with his cambric 
+handkerchief), and his sword clattered deliciously (I cannot think 
+this was accidental), which made my mother sigh.  Like the man he 
+was, he followed up his advantage with a comparison that made me 
+dip viciously.
+
+'A prettier sound that,' said he, clanking his sword again, 'than 
+the clack-clack of your young friend's shuttle.'
+
+'Whist!' cried my mother, who had seen me dip.
+
+'Then give me your arm,' said James, lowering his voice.
+
+'I dare not,' answered my mother.  'He's so touchy about you.'
+
+'Come, come,' he pressed her, 'you are certain to do it sooner or 
+later, so why not now?'
+
+'Wait till he has gone for his walk,' said my mother; 'and, forbye 
+that, I'm ower old to dance with you.'
+
+'How old are you?' he inquired.
+
+'You're gey an' pert!' cried my mother.
+
+'Are you seventy?'
+
+'Off and on,' she admitted.
+
+'Pooh,' he said, 'a mere girl!'
+
+She replied instantly, 'I'm no' to be catched with chaff'; but she 
+smiled and rose as if he had stretched out his hand and got her by 
+the finger-tip.
+
+After that they whispered so low (which they could do as they were 
+now much nearer each other) that I could catch only one remark.  It 
+came from James, and seems to show the tenor of their whisperings, 
+for his words were, 'Easily enough, if you slip me beneath your 
+shawl.'
+
+That is what she did, and furthermore she left the room guiltily, 
+muttering something about redding up the drawers.  I suppose I 
+smiled wanly to myself, or conscience must have been nibbling at my 
+mother, for in less than five minutes she was back, carrying her 
+accomplice openly, and she thrust him with positive viciousness 
+into the place where my Stevenson had lost a tooth (as the writer 
+whom he most resembled would have said).  And then like a good 
+mother she took up one of her son's books and read it most 
+determinedly.  It had become a touching incident to me, and I 
+remember how we there and then agreed upon a compromise: she was to 
+read the enticing thing just to convince herself of its 
+inferiority.
+
+'The Master of Ballantrae' is not the best.  Conceive the glory, 
+which was my mother's, of knowing from a trustworthy source that 
+there are at least three better awaiting you on the same shelf.  
+She did not know Alan Breck yet, and he was as anxious to step down 
+as Mr. Bally himself.  John Silver was there, getting into his leg, 
+so that she should not have to wait a moment, and roaring, 'I'll 
+lay to that!' when she told me consolingly that she could not thole 
+pirate stories.  Not to know these gentlemen, what is it like?  It 
+is like never having been in love.  But they are in the house!  
+That is like knowing that you will fall in love to-morrow morning.  
+With one word, by drawing one mournful face, I could have got my 
+mother to abjure the jam-shelf - nay, I might have managed it by 
+merely saying that she had enjoyed 'The Master of Ballantrae.'  For 
+you must remember that she only read it to persuade herself (and 
+me) of its unworthiness, and that the reason she wanted to read the 
+others was to get further proof.  All this she made plain to me, 
+eyeing me a little anxiously the while, and of course I accepted 
+the explanation.  Alan is the biggest child of them all, and I 
+doubt not that she thought so, but curiously enough her views of 
+him are among the things I have forgotten.  But how enamoured she 
+was of 'Treasure Island,' and how faithful she tried to be to me 
+all the time she was reading it!  I had to put my hands over her 
+eyes to let her know that I had entered the room, and even then she 
+might try to read between my fingers, coming to herself presently, 
+however, to say 'It's a haver of a book.'
+
+'Those pirate stories are so uninteresting,' I would reply without 
+fear, for she was too engrossed to see through me.  'Do you think 
+you will finish this one?'
+
+'I may as well go on with it since I have begun it,' my mother 
+says, so slyly that my sister and I shake our heads at each other 
+to imply, 'Was there ever such a woman!'
+
+'There are none of those one-legged scoundrels in my books,' I say.
+
+'Better without them,' she replies promptly.
+
+'I wonder, mother, what it is about the man that so infatuates the 
+public?'
+
+'He takes no hold of me,' she insists.  'I would a hantle rather 
+read your books.'
+
+ I offer obligingly to bring one of them to her, and now she looks 
+at me suspiciously.  'You surely believe I like yours best,' she 
+says with instant anxiety, and I soothe her by assurances, and 
+retire advising her to read on, just to see if she can find out how 
+he misleads the public.  'Oh, I may take a look at it again by-and-
+by,' she says indifferently, but nevertheless the probability is 
+that as the door shuts the book opens, as if by some mechanical 
+contrivance.  I remember how she read 'Treasure Island,' holding it 
+close to the ribs of the fire (because she could not spare a moment 
+to rise and light the gas), and how, when bed-time came, and we 
+coaxed, remonstrated, scolded, she said quite fiercely, clinging to 
+the book, 'I dinna lay my head on a pillow this night till I see 
+how that laddie got out of the barrel.'
+
+After this, I think, he was as bewitching as the laddie in the 
+barrel to her - Was he not always a laddie in the barrel himself, 
+climbing in for apples while we all stood around, like gamins, 
+waiting for a bite?  He was the spirit of boyhood tugging at the 
+skirts of this old world of ours and compelling it to come back and 
+play.  And I suppose my mother felt this, as so many have felt it: 
+like others she was a little scared at first to find herself 
+skipping again, with this masterful child at the rope, but soon she 
+gave him her hand and set off with him for the meadow, not an 
+apology between the two of them for the author left behind.  But 
+near to the end did she admit (in words) that he had a way with him 
+which was beyond her son.  'Silk and sacking, that is what we are,' 
+she was informed, to which she would reply obstinately, 'Well, 
+then, I prefer sacking.'
+
+'But if he had been your son?'
+
+'But he is not.'
+
+'You wish he were?'
+
+'I dinna deny but what I could have found room for him.'
+
+And still at times she would smear him with the name of black (to 
+his delight when he learned the reason).  That was when some podgy 
+red-sealed blue-crossed letter arrived from Vailima, inviting me to 
+journey thither.  (His directions were, 'You take the boat at San 
+Francisco, and then my place is the second to the left.')  Even 
+London seemed to her to carry me so far away that I often took a 
+week to the journey (the first six days in getting her used to the 
+idea), and these letters terrified her.  It was not the finger of 
+Jim Hawkins she now saw beckoning me across the seas, it was John 
+Silver, waving a crutch.  Seldom, I believe, did I read straight 
+through one of these Vailima letters; when in the middle I suddenly 
+remembered who was upstairs and what she was probably doing, and I 
+ran to her, three steps at a jump, to find her, lips pursed, hands 
+folded, a picture of gloom.
+
+'I have a letter from - '
+
+'So I have heard.'
+
+'Would you like to hear it?'
+
+'No.'
+
+'Can you not abide him?'
+
+'I cauna thole him.'
+
+'Is he a black?'
+
+'He is all that.'
+
+Well, Vailima was the one spot on earth I had any great craving to 
+visit, but I think she always knew I would never leave her.  
+Sometime, she said, she should like me to go, but not until she was 
+laid away.  'And how small I have grown this last winter.  Look at 
+my wrists.  It canna be long now.'  No, I never thought of going, 
+was never absent for a day from her without reluctance, and never 
+walked so quickly as when I was going back.  In the meantime that 
+happened which put an end for ever to my scheme of travel.  I shall 
+never go up the Road of Loving Hearts now, on 'a wonderful clear 
+night of stars,' to meet the man coming toward me on a horse.  It 
+is still a wonderful clear night of stars, but the road is empty.  
+So I never saw the dear king of us all.  But before he had written 
+books he was in my part of the country with a fishing-wand in his 
+hand, and I like to think that I was the boy who met him that day 
+by Queen Margaret's burn, where the rowans are, and busked a fly 
+for him, and stood watching, while his lithe figure rose and fell 
+as he cast and hinted back from the crystal waters of Noran-side.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII - A PANIC IN THE HOUSE
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX - MY HEROINE.
+
+
+When it was known that I had begun another story my mother might 
+ask what it was to be about this time.
+
+'Fine we can guess who it is about,' my sister would say pointedly.
+
+'Maybe you can guess, but it is beyond me,' says my mother, with 
+the meekness of one who knows that she is a dull person.
+
+My sister scorned her at such times.  'What woman is in all his 
+books?' she would demand.
+
+'I'm sure I canna say,' replies my mother determinedly.  'I thought 
+the women were different every time.'
+
+'Mother, I wonder you can be so audacious!  Fine you know what 
+woman I mean.'
+
+'How can I know?  What woman is it?  You should bear in mind that I 
+hinna your cleverness' (they were constantly giving each other 
+little knocks).
+
+'I won't give you the satisfaction of saying her name.  But this I 
+will say, it is high time he was keeping her out of his books.'
+
+And then as usual my mother would give herself away unconsciously.  
+'That is what I tell him,' she says chuckling, 'and he tries to 
+keep me out, but he canna; it's more than he can do!'
+
+On an evening after my mother had gone to bed, the first chapter 
+would be brought upstairs, and I read, sitting at the foot of the 
+bed, while my sister watched to make my mother behave herself, and 
+my father cried H'sh! when there were interruptions.  All would go 
+well at the start, the reflections were accepted with a little nod 
+of the head, the descriptions of scenery as ruts on the road that 
+must be got over at a walking pace (my mother did not care for 
+scenery, and that is why there is so little of it in my books).  
+But now I am reading too quickly, a little apprehensively, because 
+I know that the next paragraph begins with - let us say with, 
+'Along this path came a woman': I had intended to rush on here in a 
+loud bullying voice, but 'Along this path came a woman' I read, and 
+stop.  Did I hear a faint sound from the other end of the bed?  
+Perhaps I did not; I may only have been listening for it, but I 
+falter and look up.  My sister and I look sternly at my mother.  
+She bites her under-lip and clutches the bed with both hands, 
+really she is doing her best for me, but first comes a smothered 
+gurgling sound, then her hold on herself relaxes and she shakes 
+with mirth.
+
+'That's a way to behave!' cries my sister.
+
+'I cannot help it,' my mother gasps.
+
+'And there's nothing to laugh at.'
+
+'It's that woman,' my mother explains unnecessarily.
+
+'Maybe she's not the woman you think her,' I say, crushed.
+
+'Maybe not,' says my mother doubtfully.  'What was her name?'
+
+'Her name,' I answer with triumph, 'was not Margaret'; but this 
+makes her ripple again.  'I have so many names nowadays,' she 
+mutters.
+
+'H'sh!' says my father, and the reading is resumed.
+
+Perhaps the woman who came along the path was of tall and majestic 
+figure, which should have shown my mother that I had contrived to 
+start my train without her this time.  But it did not.
+
+'What are you laughing at now?' says my sister severely.  'Do you 
+not hear that she was a tall, majestic woman?'
+
+'It's the first time I ever heard it said of her,' replies my 
+mother.
+
+'But she is.'
+
+'Ke fy, havers!'
+
+'The book says it.'
+
+'There will be a many queer things in the book.  What was she 
+wearing?'
+
+I have not described her clothes.  'That's a mistake,' says my 
+mother.  'When I come upon a woman in a book, the first thing I 
+want to know about her is whether she was good-looking, and the 
+second, how she was put on.'
+
+The woman on the path was eighteen years of age, and of remarkable 
+beauty.
+
+'That settles you,' says my sister.
+
+'I was no beauty at eighteen,' my mother admits, but here my father 
+interferes unexpectedly.  'There wasna your like in this 
+countryside at eighteen,' says he stoutly.
+
+'Pooh!' says she, well pleased.
+
+'Were you plain, then?' we ask.
+
+'Sal,' she replies briskly, 'I was far from plain.'
+
+'H'sh!'
+
+Perhaps in the next chapter this lady (or another) appears in a 
+carriage.
+
+'I assure you we're mounting in the world,' I hear my mother 
+murmur, but I hurry on without looking up.  The lady lives in a 
+house where there are footmen - but the footmen have come on the 
+scene too hurriedly.  'This is more than I can stand,' gasps my 
+mother, and just as she is getting the better of a fit of laughter, 
+'Footman, give me a drink of water,' she cries, and this sets her 
+off again.  Often the readings had to end abruptly because her 
+mirth brought on violent fits of coughing.
+
+Sometimes I read to my sister alone, and she assured me that she 
+could not see my mother among the women this time.  This she said 
+to humour me.  Presently she would slip upstairs to announce 
+triumphantly, 'You are in again!'
+
+Or in the small hours I might make a confidant of my father, and 
+when I had finished reading he would say thoughtfully, 'That lassie 
+is very natural.  Some of the ways you say she had - your mother 
+had them just the same.  Did you ever notice what an extraordinary 
+woman your mother is?'
+
+Then would I seek my mother for comfort.  She was the more ready to 
+give it because of her profound conviction that if I was found out 
+- that is, if readers discovered how frequently and in how many 
+guises she appeared in my books - the affair would become a public 
+scandal.
+
+'You see Jess is not really you,' I begin inquiringly.
+
+'Oh no, she is another kind of woman altogether,' my mother says, 
+and then spoils the compliment by adding naively, 'She had but two 
+rooms and I have six.'
+
+I sigh.  'Without counting the pantry, and it's a great big 
+pantry,' she mutters.
+
+This was not the sort of difference I could greatly plume myself 
+upon, and honesty would force me to say, 'As far as that goes, 
+there was a time when you had but two rooms yourself - '
+
+'That's long since,' she breaks in.  'I began with an up-the-stair, 
+but I always had it in my mind - I never mentioned it, but there it 
+was - to have the down-the-stair as well.  Ay, and I've had it this 
+many a year.'
+
+'Still, there is no denying that Jess had the same ambition.'
+
+'She had, but to her two-roomed house she had to stick all her born 
+days.  Was that like me?'
+
+'No, but she wanted - '
+
+'She wanted, and I wanted, but I got and she didna.  That's the 
+difference betwixt her and me.'
+
+'If that is all the difference, it is little credit I can claim for 
+having created her.'
+
+My mother sees that I need soothing.  'That is far from being all 
+the difference,' she would say eagerly.  'There's my silk, for 
+instance.  Though I say it mysel, there's not a better silk in the 
+valley of Strathmore.  Had Jess a silk of any kind - not to speak 
+of a silk like that?'
+
+'Well, she had no silk, but you remember how she got that cloak 
+with beads.'
+
+'An eleven and a bit!  Hoots, what was that to boast of!  I tell 
+you, every single yard of my silk cost - '
+
+'Mother, that is the very way Jess spoke about her cloak!'
+
+She lets this pass, perhaps without hearing it, for solicitude 
+about her silk has hurried her to the wardrobe where it hangs.
+
+'Ah, mother, I am afraid that was very like Jess!'
+
+'How could it be like her when she didna even have a wardrobe?  I 
+tell you what, if there had been a real Jess and she had boasted to 
+me about her cloak with beads, I would have said to her in a 
+careless sort of voice, "Step across with me, Jess and I'll let you 
+see something that is hanging in my wardrobe."  That would have 
+lowered her pride!'
+
+'I don't believe that is what you would have done, mother.'
+
+Then a sweeter expression would come into her face.  'No,' she 
+would say reflectively, 'it's not.'
+
+'What would you have done?  I think I know.'
+
+'You canna know.  But I'm thinking I would have called to mind that 
+she was a poor woman, and ailing, and terrible windy about her 
+cloak, and I would just have said it was a beauty and that I wished 
+I had one like it.'
+
+'Yes, I am certain that is what you would have done.  But oh, 
+mother, that is just how Jess would have acted if some poorer woman 
+than she had shown her a new shawl.'
+
+'Maybe, but though I hadna boasted about my silk I would have 
+wanted to do it.'
+
+'Just as Jess would have been fidgeting to show off her eleven and 
+a bit!'
+
+It seems advisable to jump to another book; not to my first, 
+because - well, as it was my first there would naturally be 
+something of my mother in it, and not to the second, as it was my 
+first novel and not much esteemed even in our family.  (But the 
+little touches of my mother in it are not so bad.)  Let us try the 
+story about the minister.
+
+My mother's first remark is decidedly damping.  'Many a time in my 
+young days,' she says, 'I played about the Auld Licht manse, but I 
+little thought I should live to be the mistress of it!'
+
+'But Margaret is not you.'
+
+'N-no, oh no.  She had a very different life from mine.  I never 
+let on to a soul that she is me!'
+
+'She was not meant to be you when I began.  Mother, what a way you 
+have of coming creeping in!'
+
+'You should keep better watch on yourself.'
+
+'Perhaps if I had called Margaret by some other name  - '
+
+'I should have seen through her just the same.  As soon as I heard 
+she was the mother I began to laugh.  In some ways, though, she's 
+no' so very like me.  She was long in finding out about Babbie.  
+I'se uphaud I should have been quicker.'
+
+'Babbie, you see, kept close to the garden-wall.'
+
+'It's not the wall up at the manse that would have hidden her from 
+me.'
+
+'She came out in the dark.'
+
+'I'm thinking she would have found me looking for her with a 
+candle.'
+
+'And Gavin was secretive.'
+
+'That would have put me on my mettle.'
+
+'She never suspected anything.'
+
+'I wonder at her.'
+
+But my new heroine is to be a child.  What has madam to say to 
+that?
+
+A child!  Yes, she has something to say even to that.  'This beats 
+all!' are the words.
+
+'Come, come, mother, I see what you are thinking, but I assure you 
+that this time - '
+
+'Of course not,' she says soothingly, 'oh no, she canna be me'; but 
+anon her real thoughts are revealed by the artless remark, 'I 
+doubt, though, this is a tough job you have on hand - it is so long 
+since I was a bairn.'
+
+We came very close to each other in those talks.  'It is a queer 
+thing,' she would say softly, 'that near everything you write is 
+about this bit place.  You little expected that when you began.  I 
+mind well the time when it never entered your head, any more than 
+mine, that you could write a page about our squares and wynds.  I 
+wonder how it has come about?'
+
+There was a time when I could not have answered that question, but 
+that time had long passed.  'I suppose, mother, it was because you 
+were most at home in your own town, and there was never much 
+pleasure to me in writing of people who could not have known you, 
+nor of squares and wynds you never passed through, nor of a 
+country-side where you never carried your father's dinner in a 
+flagon.  There is scarce a house in all my books where I have not 
+seemed to see you a thousand times, bending over the fireplace or 
+winding up the clock.'
+
+'And yet you used to be in such a quandary because you knew nobody 
+you could make your women-folk out of!  Do you mind that, and how 
+we both laughed at the notion of your having to make them out of 
+me?'
+
+'I remember.'
+
+'And now you've gone back to my father's time.  It's more than 
+sixty years since I carried his dinner in a flagon through the long 
+parks of Kinnordy.'
+
+'I often go into the long parks, mother, and sit on the stile at 
+the edge of the wood till I fancy I see a little girl coming toward 
+me with a flagon in her hand.'
+
+'Jumping the burn (I was once so proud of my jumps!) and swinging 
+the flagon round so quick that what was inside hadna time to fall 
+out.  I used to wear a magenta frock and a white pinafore.  Did I 
+ever tell you that?'
+
+'Mother, the little girl in my story wears a magenta frock and a 
+white pinafore.'
+
+'You minded that!  But I'm thinking it wasna a lassie in a pinafore 
+you saw in the long parks of Kinnordy, it was just a gey done auld 
+woman.'
+
+'It was a lassie in a pinafore, mother, when she was far away, but 
+when she came near it was a gey done auld woman.'
+
+'And a fell ugly one!'
+
+'The most beautiful one I shall ever see.'
+
+'I wonder to hear you say it.  Look at my wrinkled auld face.'
+
+'It is the sweetest face in all the world.'
+
+'See how the rings drop off my poor wasted finger.'
+
+'There will always be someone nigh, mother, to put them on again.'
+
+'Ay, will there!  Well I know it.  Do you mind how when you were 
+but a bairn you used to say, "Wait till I'm a man, and you'll never 
+have a reason for greeting again?"'
+
+I remembered.
+
+'You used to come running into the house to say, "There's a proud 
+dame going down the Marywellbrae in a cloak that is black on one 
+side and white on the other; wait till I'm a man, and you'll have 
+one the very same."  And when I lay on gey hard beds you said, 
+"When I'm a man you'll lie on feathers."  You saw nothing bonny, 
+you never heard of my setting my heart on anything, but what you 
+flung up your head and cried, "Wait till I'm a man."  You fair 
+shamed me before the neighbours, and yet I was windy, too.  And now 
+it has all come true like a dream.  I can call to mind not one 
+little thing I ettled for in my lusty days that hasna been put into 
+my hands in my auld age; I sit here useless, surrounded by the 
+gratification of all my wishes and all my ambitions, and at times 
+I'm near terrified, for it's as if God had mista'en me for some 
+other woman.'
+
+'Your hopes and ambitions were so simple,' I would say, but she did 
+not like that.  'They werena that simple,' she would answer, 
+flushing.
+
+I am reluctant to leave those happy days, but the end must be 
+faced, and as I write I seem to see my mother growing smaller and 
+her face more wistful, and still she lingers with us, as if God had 
+said, 'Child of mine, your time has come, be not afraid.'  And she 
+was not afraid, but still she lingered, and He waited, smiling.  I 
+never read any of that last book to her; when it was finished she 
+was too heavy with years to follow a story.  To me this was as if 
+my book must go out cold into the world (like all that may come 
+after it from me), and my sister, who took more thought for others 
+and less for herself than any other human being I have known, saw 
+this, and by some means unfathomable to a man coaxed my mother into 
+being once again the woman she had been.  On a day but three weeks 
+before she died my father and I were called softly upstairs.  My 
+mother was sitting bolt upright, as she loved to sit, in her old 
+chair by the window, with a manuscript in her hands.  But she was 
+looking about her without much understanding.  'Just to please 
+him,' my sister whispered, and then in a low, trembling voice my 
+mother began to read.  I looked at my sister.  Tears of woe were 
+stealing down her face.  Soon the reading became very slow and 
+stopped.  After a pause, 'There was something you were to say to 
+him,' my sister reminded her.  'Luck,' muttered a voice as from the 
+dead, 'luck.'  And then the old smile came running to her face like 
+a lamp-lighter, and she said to me, 'I am ower far gone to read, 
+but I'm thinking I am in it again!'  My father put her Testament in 
+her hands, and it fell open - as it always does - at the Fourteenth 
+of John.  She made an effort to read but could not.  Suddenly she 
+stooped and kissed the broad page.  'Will that do instead?' she 
+asked.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X - ART THOU AFRAID HIS POWER SHALL FAIL?
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Margaret Ogilvy, by J. M. Barrie
+
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