Margaret Ogilvy
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