VI

In this completely solitary way we lived for some eight months after

Ted left us. There were times when my father seemed cheery and in much

better health. In such periods he would concern himself a good deal in

the matter of my education.

'It may never be so valuable to you as Ted's "eddication,"' he said;

'but a gentleman should have some acquaintance with the classics,

Nick, both in our tongue (the nobility of which is not near so well

understood as it might be) and in the tongues of the ancients.'

Once he said: 'We have lived our own Odyssey, old fellow, without

writing it; but I'd like you to be able to read Homer's.'

As a fact, I never have got so far as to read it with any comfort in

the original; and I suppose a practical educationalist would say that

such fitful, desultory instruction as I did receive from my father in

our cuddy living-room on board the _Livorno_ was quite valueless. But

I fancy the expert would be wrong in this, as experts sometimes are.

In the schoolman's sense I learned little or nothing. But natheless I

believe these hours spent with my father among his books, and yet

more, it may be, other hours spent with him when he had no thought of

teaching me, had their very real value in the process of my mental

development. If they did not give me much of actual knowledge, they

helped to give me a mind of sorts, an inclination or bent toward those

directions in which intellectual culture is obtainable. Else, surely,

I had remained all my days a hewer of wood and a drawer of water--with

more of health in mind and body and means, perhaps, than are mine to-day!

Well, yes; and that, too, is likely enough. At all events I

choose to thank my father for the fact that at no period of my life

have I cared to waste time over mere vapid trash, whether spoken or

printed.

Outside his own personal feelings and mental processes, the which he

never discussed with me, there was no set of subjects, I think, that

my father excluded from the range of our conversations. Indeed, I

think that in those last months of our life on the _Livorno_, he

talked pretty much as freely with me, and as variously, as he would

have talked with any friend of his own age. In the periods when we

were not together, he would be sitting at the saloon table, with paper

and pens before him, or pacing the seaward side of the poop, or lying

resting in his bunk, or on the deck. Frequent rest became increasingly

necessary for him. His strength seemed to fade out from him with the

mere effluxion of time. He often spoke to me of the curious effects

upon men's minds of the illusions we call nostalgia. But he allowed no

personal bearing to his remarks, and never hinted that he regretted

leaving England, or wished to return there.

Physically speaking, I doubt if any life could be much healthier than

ours was on the _Livorno_. Dress, for each of us alike, consisted of

two garments only, shirt and trousers. Unless when going inland for

some reason, we went always barefoot. Of what use could shoes be on

the _Livorno's_ decks--washed down with salt water every day--or the

white sands of the bay. Our dietary, though somewhat monotonous, was

quite wholesome. We lacked other vegetables, but grew potatoes,

pumpkins, and melons in plenty. Fresh fish we ate most days, and

butcher's meat perhaps twice or thrice a week. Purer air than that we

breathed and lived in no sanatorium could furnish, and the hours we

kept were those of the nursery; though, unfortunately, bed-time by no

means always meant sleeping-time for my father.

Withal, even my inexperience did not prevent my realisation of the

sinking, fading process at work in my father. Its end I did not

foresee. It would have gone hard with me indeed to have been

consciously facing that. But I was sadly enough conscious of the

process; and a competent housewife would have found humorous pathos,

no doubt, in my efforts, by culinary means, to counteract this. My

father's appetite was capricious, and never vigorous. There was a

considerable period in which I am sure quite half my waking hours (not

to mention dream fancies and half waking meditations in bed) were

devoted to thinking out and preparing special little dishes from the

limited range of food-stuffs at my command.

'A s'prise for you this morning, father,' I would say, as I led the

way, proudly, to our dining-table, or, in one of his bad times,

arrived at his bunk-side, carrying the carefully pared sheet of

stringy bark which served us for a tray. There would be elaborate

uncoverings on my side, and sniffs of pretended eagerness from my

father; and, thanks to the unvarying kindliness and courtesy of his

nature, I dare say my poor efforts really were of some value, because

full many a time I am sure they led to his eating when, but for

consideration of my feelings, he had gone unnourished, and so

aggravated his growing weakness.

'God bless my soul, Nick,' he would say, after a taste of my latest

concoction; 'what would they not give to have you at the Langham, or

Simpson's? I believe you are going to be a second Soyer, and control

the destinies of empires from a palace kitchen. Bush cooking,

forsooth! Why this--this latest triumph is nectar--ambrosial stuff,

Nick--more good, hearty body in it than any wines the gods ever

quaffed. You'll see, I shall begin forthwith to lay on fat, like a

Christmas turkey.'

My father could not always rise to such flights, of course; but many

and many a time he took a meal he would otherwise have lacked, solely

to gratify his small cook.

There came a time when my father passed the whole of every morning in

bed, and, later, a time when he left his bunk for no more than an hour

or two each afternoon. The thought of seeking a doctor's help never

occurred to me, and my father never mentioned it. I suppose we had

grown used to relying upon ourselves, to ignoring the resources of

civilisation, which, indeed, for my part, I had almost forgotten. Not

often, I fancy, in modern days has a boy of eleven or twelve years

passed through so strange an experience, or known isolation more

complete.

The climax of it all dates in my memory from an evening upon which I

returned with Jerry from a journey to the road (for stores) to find my

father lying unconscious beside the saloon table, where his paper and

pens were spread upon a blotting-pad. Fear had my very heart in his

cold grip that night. There was, no doubt, a certain grotesqueness,

due to ignorance, about many of my actions. In some book (of

Fielding's belike) I had read of burnt feathers in connection with

emotional young ladies' fainting fits. So now, like a frightened stag,

I flew across the sand to our fowl run, and snatched a bunch of

feathers from the first astonished rooster my hand fell upon. A few

seconds later, these were smoking in a candle flame, and thence to my

father's nostrils. To my ignorant eyes he showed no sign of life

whatever, but none the less--again inspired by books--I fell now to

chafing his thin hands. And then to the feathers again. Then back to

the hands. Lack of thought preserved me from the customary error of

attempting to raise the patient's head; but no doubt my ignorance

prevented my being of much real service, though every nerve in me

strained to the desire.

My father's recovery of robust health, or my own sudden acquisition of

a princely fortune, could hardly have brought a deeper thrill of

gladness and relief than that which came to me with the first flutter

of the veined, dark eye-lids upon which my gaze was fastened. A few

moments later, and he recognised me; another few minutes, and, leaning

shakily on my shoulder, he reached the side of his bunk. When his head

touched the pillow, he gave me a wan smile, and-- 'So you see you

can't trust me to keep house even for one afternoon, Nick,' he said.

This almost unbalanced me, and only an exaggerated sense of

responsibility as nurse and housekeeper kept back the tears that were

pricking like ten thousand needles at my eyes. Savagely I reproached

myself for having been away, and for having no foreknowledge of the

coming blow. In one of his bags my father had a flask of brandy, and,

guided by his directions, I unearthed this and administered a little

to the patient. Promising that I would look in every few minutes, I

hurried off then to relight the galley fire and prepare something for

supper.

Later in the evening my father became brighter than he had been for

weeks, and, child-like, I soon exchanged my fears for hopes. And then

it was, just as I was turning in, that, speaking in quite a cheery

tone, my father said:

'I haven't taken half thought enough for you, Nick boy; and yet you've

set me the best possible kind of example. It's easy to laugh at the

simple folks' way of talking about "if anything happens" to one. But

the idea's all right, and ought not to be lost sight of. Well then,

Nick, if "anything" should "happen" to me, at any time, I want you to

harness up Jerry and drive straight away into Werrina, with the two

letters that I left on the cuddy table. One is for the doctor

there--deliver that first--and the other is for a Roman Catholic priest,

Father O'Malley; deliver that next. It is important, and must not be

lost, for there's money in it. I wish it were more--I wish it were.

Bring them here now, Nick.'

I brought the letters, and they were placed under a weight on the

little shelf over my father's head.

'Don't forget what I said, Nick; and do it--exactly, old fellow. And

now, let us forget all about it. That gruel, or whatever it was you

gave me just now, has made me feel so comfortable that I'm going to

have a beautiful sleep, and wake up as fit as a fiddle to-morrow. Give

me your hand, boy. There--good-night! God bless you!'

He turned on his shoulder, perhaps to avoid seeing my tears, and

again, perhaps, I have thought, to avoid my seeing the coming of tears

in his own eyes. He had kissed my forehead, and I could not remember

ever being kissed by him before. For, as long as my memory carried me,

our habit had been to shake hands, like two men....

I find an unexpected difficulty in setting down the details of an

experience which, upon the whole, produced a deeper impression on me,

I think, than any other event in my life. When all is said, can any

useful purpose be served by observing at this stage of my task a

particularity which would be exceedingly depressing to me? I think

not. There is assuredly no need for me, of all people, to court

melancholy. I think that, without great fullness at this point in my

record, I can gauge pretty accurately the value as a factor in my

growth of this particular experience, and so I will be very brief.

On the fifth evening after that of the attack which left him

unconscious on the saloon deck, my father died, very peacefully, and,

I believe, quite painlessly. He spoke to me, and with a smile, only a

few minutes before he drew his last breath.

'I'm going, Nick--going--to rest, boy. Don't cry, Nick. Best son....

God bless....'

Those were the last words he spoke. For two hours or more before that

time, he had lain with eyes closed, breathing lightly, perhaps asleep,

certainly unconscious. Now he was dead. I was under no sort of

illusion about that. Something which had been hanging cold as ice over

my heart all day had fallen now, like an axe-blade, and split my heart

in twain. So I felt. There was the gentle suggestion of a smile still

about the dead lips, but something terrible had happened to my

father's eyes. I know now that mere muscular contraction was

accountable for this, and not, as it seemed, sudden terror or pain.

But the effect of that contraction upon my lonely mind! ...

Well, I had two things to do, and with teeth set hard in my lower lip

I set to work to do them. With shaking hands I closed my father's

eyelids and drew the sheet over his face. Then I took the two letters

from the shelf and thrust them in the breast of my shirt.

Walking stiffly--it seemed to me very necessary that I should keep all

my muscles quite rigid--I left the ship, harnessed Jerry, and drove

off into the darkling bush towards Werrina. The sun had disappeared

before I left my father's side, and the track to Werrina was fifteen

miles long. A strange drive, and a queer little numbed driver,

creaking along through the ghostly bush, exactly as a somnambulist

might, the most of his faculties in abeyance. Three words kept shaping

themselves in my mind, I know, and then fading out again, like

shadows. They never were spoken. My lips did not move, I think, all

through the long, slow night drive. The three words were:

'Father is dead.'