As I ran for the doctor I felt that I was engaged in a matter of life
and death, for I had never seen mother ill before. In my anxiety for
her I almost forgot all about father. On I rushed, dodging in and out
among the workmen going to their daily toil--there were not many other
persons out at that early hour. Two or three times I heard the cry of
"Stop thief!" uttered by some small urchins for mischiefs sake, and once
an old watchman, who had overslept himself in his box, suddenly starting
out attempted to seize hold of me, fancying that he was about to capture
a burglar, but I slipped away, leaving him sprawling in the dust and
attempting to spring his rattle, and I ran on at redoubled speed, soon
getting out of his sight round a corner. At last I reached Dr Rolt's
house and rang the surgery bell as hard as I could pull. It was some
time before the door was opened by a sleepy maid-servant, who had
evidently just hurried on her clothes.
"Mother wants the doctor very badly," I exclaimed. "Ask him, please, to
come at once."
"The doctor can't come. He's away from home, in London," answered the
girl. "You'd better run on to Dr Hunt's. Maybe he'll attend on your
mother."
I asked where Dr Hunt lived. She told me. His house was some way off,
but I found it at last. Again I had to wait for the door to be opened,
when, greatly to my disappointment, the maid told me that Dr Hunt had
been out all night and might not be at home for an hour or more.
"Oh dear! Oh dear! Who then can I get to see poor mother?" I cried
out, bursting into tears.
"There's Mr Jones, the apothecary, at the end of the next street.
He'll go to your mother, no doubt," said the maid. "Don't cry, my boy.
Run on now; the first turning to the left. You'll see the red and green
globes in his window."
Without stopping to hear more, off I set again. Mr Jones was in his
dispensary, giving directions to his assistant. I told him my errand.
"I'll go presently," he answered. "What's the number?"
Our house had no number, and I could not manage to explain its position
clearly enough for his comprehension.
"Then I'll stay, sir, and show you the way," I said.
"Wait a bit, and I'll be ready," he replied.
He kept me waiting, however, a cruel long time, it seemed to me. At
last he appeared with his silver-mounted cane in hand, and bade me go
on.
"Stop! Stop, boy. I can't move at that rate," he cried out, before we
had got far. He was a short stout man, with a bald head and grey hair.
I had to restrain my eagerness, and walked slower till we reached our
house. Nancy was looking out at the door for me, wondering I had not
returned.
"How is mother?" I asked.
"Very bad, Peter; very bad indeed, I'm afeard," she answered, almost
ready to cry. Then seeing Mr Jones stop with me, she continued, "Come
in, doctor, come in. You'll try and cure missus, won't you?"
"I'll certainly do my best when I know what is the matter with her,"
answered Mr Jones, as he followed Nancy into the house.
Mary was with mother. I stole in after the doctor, anxious to hear what
he would say about her. He made no remark in her presence, however, but
when he came out of the room he observed in a low voice to Nancy, "You
must keep her quiet. Let there be nothing done to agitate her, tell her
husband when he comes in. I'll send some medicine, and pay her another
visit in the afternoon."
"But it's about her husband that she's grieving, sir," said Nancy. "He
went away to Spithead yesterday morning and has never come back."
"Ah, that's bad," replied Mr Jones. "However, perhaps he will appear
before long. If he doesn't, it can't be helped. You must give her the
medicines, at all events. I'll write the directions clearly for you."
Poor Nancy had to confess that she could not read. The doctor then
tried to impress upon her how and when she was to give the physic.
"You'll remember, and there can be no mistake," he added, as he hurried
off.
I fancied that everything now depended on the arrival of the
apothecary's stuff, and kept running to the door looking out for the boy
who was to bring it. He seemed very long coming. I had gone
half-a-dozen times when I caught sight, as I turned my eyes the other
way thinking he might have passed by, of Tom Swatridge stumping slowly
up the street. He stopped when he saw me, and beckoned. He looked very
downcast. I observed that he had a straw hat in his hand, and I knew
that it was father's.
"How is mother?" he asked, when I got up to him.
"Very bad," I answered, looking at the hat, but afraid to ask questions.
"The news I bring will make her worse, I'm afeard," he said, in a husky
voice, as he took my hand. "Peter, you had as good a father as ever
lived, but you haven't got one now. A cutter just come in picked up
this hat off Saint Helen's, and afterwards an oar and a sprit which both
belonged to the wherry. I went out the first thing this morning to the
ship your father was to put the gentleman aboard. He had got alongside
all right, for I saw the gentleman himself, and he told me that he had
watched the wherry after she shoved off till he lost sight of her in a
heavy squall of rain. When it cleared off she was nowhere to be seen.
So, Peter, my poor boy, there's no hope, I'm afeard, and we shall never
see my old messmate or Ned Dore again."
"Oh, Tom! Tom! You don't mean to say that father's gone!" I cried
out.
"I'd sooner have lost another leg than have to say it," answered the old
man. "But it must be said notwithstanding, and now how are we to tell
mother?"
I could not answer, but kept repeating to myself, "Gone! Gone! Father
gone!" as Tom led me on to the house. We met the boy with the physic at
the door.
"Let Nancy give her the stuff first," said the old man, thoughtfully;
"maybe it will give her strength, and help her to bear the bad news."
Nancy took in the bottles, while Tom and I remained outside. After some
time she came out and told Tom that mother wanted to see him. He went
in, shaking all over so much that I thought he would have fallen. I
followed, when, seeing Mary, I threw my arms round her neck and burst
into tears. She guessed what had happened even before I told her. We
sat down, holding each other's hands and crying together, while Tom went
in to see mother. What he said I do not know, though I am sure he tried
to break the news to her as gently as he could. When she saw the hat,
which he still held in his hand, she knew that father was lost. She did
not go off into fits, as Tom afterwards told me he thought she would,
but remained terribly calm, and just bade him describe to her all that
he knew.
"I mustn't give in," she said at length, "I have the children to look
after, for if I was to go what would become of them?"
"While I'm able to work they shan't want, missus," answered Tom, firmly.
"I know what you'd wish to do, Tom; but there's one thing won't let you:
that thing is liquor," said mother.
"Then I'll never touch another drop as long as I live, missus!"
exclaimed Tom. "May God help me!"
"He will help you, Tom, if you ask Him," said mother; "and I hope that,
whether I live or die, you'll keep to that resolution."
I believe that conversation with Tom did mother much good; it took her
off from thinking of father. She was still, however, very ill, and had
to keep her bed. The doctor came again and again; generally twice a
day. He of course had to be paid, and a good deal too. There was
nothing coming in, and poor mother became more and more anxious to get
out and attend to her business. The doctor warned her that she would go
at great risk--indeed, that she was not fit to leave her bed. "She had
no money left to pay for food and rent and the doctor's bill," she
answered, and go she must. Though she had no money, she had, however,
ample credit to stock her bumboat.
Very unwillingly Nancy assisted her to, dress. Out she would go, taking
me with her to lay in a stock of the articles she required. People
remarked on her changed looks, and some did not even know her. She
acknowledged that she was very tired when we got home, but declared that
she should be the better for going on the water.
The next morning old Tom had his boat ready. "I do wish, missus, that
you'd stayed at home a few days longer," he remarked, looking at her.
"Howsomedever, as you've come, I hopes you'll just take what I say
kindly, and not be from home longer than you can help. There's dirty
weather coming up from the south-west."
Tom was right. We had two ships to visit. Before we got alongside the
second down came the rain. But mother would go on, and consequently got
wet through. Tom was very unhappy, but she said that she had done a
good trade, and that no harm would come of it. Unhappily she was
mistaken; that night she was taken very ill--worse than before. I
fetched the doctor; he shook his head and said he wouldn't answer for
what might happen. Faithful Nancy was half distracted. Poor mother got
worse and worse. At last one day she beckoned with her pale hand to
Mary and me to come to her bedside.
"I know that I am going to be taken from you, my dears," she said, in a
low voice, for she could not speak loud. "I want you to promise me to
be true to each other, to do your duty in God's sight, and always to ask
Him to help you."
"I do, mother--I do promise," said Mary, the tears dropping from her
eyes.
She could scarcely speak for sobbing.
"I promise, too, mother, that I do!" I exclaimed, in a firmer voice;
and I sincerely intended to fulfil my promise.
Mother was holding our hands in hers. She said much more to us, anxious
to give us all the advice in her power. Nancy came in with her
medicine, after which she rallied, and bade us go to bed.
I was awakened early in the morning by hearing Nancy cry out, "Run for
the doctor, Peter! Run for the doctor! Missus is taken worse."
I slipped into my clothes, and was off like a shot, without asking a
question, or even looking into mother's room.
I rang the night-bell, for no one was up. At last the servant opened
the door, and said she would call her master.
Mr Jones soon appeared. He had been paid regularly, and when he saw me
he was the more ready to come. Eager as I was to get back, I did not
like to run ahead of him; and, to do him justice, he exerted himself to
walk as fast as his breath would allow him.
He asked me several questions; then I told him that mother had been
again out bum-boating.
"Bad--very bad. I told her not to go. A relapse is a serious matter,"
he remarked, panting and puffing between his sentences. "However, we
must try what can be done."
Mary met us at the door.
"Mother has been breathing very hard since you went, Peter," she said,
"but she is quite quiet now."
The doctor's face looked very serious when he heard this. He hurried
into the room.
"I thought so," I heard him remark to Nancy. "I could have done nothing
if you had sent for me hours ago. The woman is dead."
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What shall I do?" cried Nancy, sobbing bitterly.
"The sooner you let any friends the children may have know what has
happened the better, and then send for the undertaker," answered Mr
Jones. "The boy is sharp--he'll run your errands. I can do no more
than certify the cause of death."
He hurried away without bestowing a look at Mary and me, as we stood
holding each other's hands, unable as yet to realise the fact that we
were orphans. He had so many poor patients that he could not afford, I
suppose, to exercise his compassionate feelings. Even when Nancy
afterwards took us in to see mother's body, I would scarcely believe
that she herself had been taken from us.