Margaret Ogilvy by J. M. (James Matthew) Barrie

Author:J. M. (James Matthew) Barrie [Barrie, J. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Classics
ISBN: 9783849672799
Google: 8x9QDwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Jazzybee Verlag
Published: 1930-01-15T02:54:23+00:00

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

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