PAUL HEARS BAD NEWS.
"Who is it, Tom?" asked Paul, very anxiously.
"I don't know; can't make him out."
"What can he want with us?"
"Perhaps your mother has sent him after her runaway boy; but whoever he
is, I will tell him you are a fellow of the right spunk."
"Who can it be?"
"What matter who it is? Your mother won't whip you--will she?"
"No, of course not. My mother don't whip me."
"I thought she did, you seem so much afraid of her."
"I am not afraid of her."
"If you are, there is nothing else that can frighten you."
"I mind my mother because she is my mother; because I like to do so, and
not because I am afraid of her. You had better not say much more about
being afraid, Tom."
"Do you mean to say I was afraid?" said Thomas, smartly.
"If you wasn't afraid, you was confoundedly scared," replied Paul,
whose paradox was fully appreciated by his companion.
"Look here, Paul; are you going to tell the fellows that I was scared?"
demanded Thomas, rather in a beseeching than an intimidating tone.
"That will depend on circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
"You may as well understand me first as last. You keep talking about my
being afraid of my mother, and all that sort of stuff. I'm not afraid of
her, and I don't like to be told that I am."
"I won't say it again, then."
"Fellows that live in glass houses mustn't throw stones."
"Do you really think I was frightened, Paul?"
"I really think you was. Didn't you back out?"
"Not till the sail broke down."
"I offered to fix that."
"It's no use to risk a fellow's life for nothing."
"That's the point exactly. Don't you say a word about my mother, and you
may talk as big as you please about this scrape."
"I'm not going to talk big about it. I shall give you all the credit you
deserve."
"Of course you will. The fellow that holds the bag can let the cat out
when he chooses. I don't like to have my mother spoken of as you speak
of your mother. She's my mother, and she has always been a good mother
to me, and I would do anything in the world for her. There's only one
thing about this scrape that I'm sorry for; and that is, that I didn't
mind her. It makes me feel bad."
"She won't say much to you; she will be so glad to have you safely home,
that she won't feel like jawing you," answered Thomas, in what he
intended for words of consolation, but which were really heartless and
offensive to the penitent.
"My mother don't jaw; it will make her feel bad that I didn't mind her;
and that is ten times worse than a scolding or a whipping.--That man
keeps shaking his hat to us. Who do you think it is?"
"It looks like Captain Littleton."
"What can he want of me?" said Paul, anxiously.
"If it is Captain Littleton, it is more like he wants me."
In a few moments more the boat darted into the cove, and the boys
recognized Captain Littleton in the gentleman who had been beckoning to
them.
"Come ashore, Paul, as quick as you can!" shouted he, as he jumped into
his chaise, and drove nearer to the point where the boat was to land.
"Do you want me, sir?" asked Paul.
"Yes; you are wanted at home."
Our hero was filled with terror and anxiety by this reply. He was sure
that something had happened, or a gentleman like Captain Littleton
would not have taken the trouble to come after him. As the boat struck
the bank, he brailed up the sail, and jumped ashore with the painter in
his hand.
"Come, Paul, never mind the boat; Thomas will take care of her. Get into
the chaise with me as quick as you can," said Captain Littleton.
"What is the matter, sir? What has happened?" demanded Paul, trembling
with the most painful solicitude.
"Get into the chaise first, and I will tell you as we return."
"Has anything happened to my mother, sir?" cried Paul, the tears rushing
to his eyes.
"Nothing has happened to your mother, Paul. She is quite well," answered
Captain Littleton, as he urged the horse to his utmost speed.
Paul was greatly relieved by this assurance, though it was still evident
from the manner of the gentleman, and the speed at which he drove the
horse, that some dreadful event had occurred. His conscience smote him
for his disobedience to his mother, and he was not in a fit moral
condition to meet the shock of adversity with courage and fortitude. He
would have given the world, in that anxious moment, to have undone the
work of the last three hours, and effaced their record from his
conscience.
"Tell me what has happened, if you please, sir," he continued. "Is any
of the folks dead? You say it is not my mother."
"Your mother is quite well, and none of your family are dead,
though----"
Captain Littleton paused, and looked at the boy's face, which was still
bathed in tears. He saw the misery that he was enduring, and he
hesitated to utter words which he knew must carry grief and woe to his
heart.
"You must be calm and firm, Paul," continued the kind gentleman. "It is
not so bad as you suppose, and we may hope for the best. Your father has
just met with a serious accident."
"Is he dead, sir?" gasped Paul. "You don't tell me the whole story,
sir."
"He is not dead, Paul; but he is very badly hurt."
"He is alive, then?"
"He is."
Paul closely scrutinized the expression of Captain Littleton, fearful
that he had not told him the whole truth.
"Are you sure he was not killed?" he asked, still unsatisfied.
"He was alive when I left him, but that was nearly an hour ago."
"I am thankful if he is alive. How did it happen, sir?"
"He fell from the bow of the ship upon which he was at work, and struck
a pile of timber. I am afraid he is very badly hurt. I happened to be
near the shipyard at the time, and assisted in carrying him home. He is
conscious, and asked for you. Your mother said you were out in the
boat."
Paul burst into tears again at these words, for he realized the nature
and depth of his mother's feelings when she had uttered them, and how
bitterly did he regret his act of disobedience! The dreadful event had
come to intensify the anguish of his penitence, and he felt that, if he
had not done wrong, he could have met the calamity with patience and
resolution. When children do wrong, they know not what event may occur
to increase a thousand fold the bitterness of their remorse.
"Do you think my father is alive now?" sobbed Paul.
"I hope so; but it is impossible to foretell the result. The doctors
spoke very despondingly of his case; but we must hope for the best."
"How does my mother bear it?"
"As well as could be expected, considering the suddenness of the
calamity."
"O, it will kill her," groaned Paul.
"I hope not; you must be calm, my boy. It is dreadful, I know; but we
must not add to the pain of the sufferer by useless lamentation."
"I will be as calm as I can, sir; but it is awful to have such a thing
happen just now."
"We know not what a day or an hour may bring forth, Paul."
"Yes, but to have it happen now. If it had been at any other time, I
could have borne it better," continued the penitent boy, wiping away the
tears that blinded him.
"We cannot choose the time for such an event to happen."
"If it had only come before I left home! O, dear."
"Be calm, Paul; we could not select a time when we should be prepared
for such a calamity. You must not suppose one time is better than
another for trials and sorrows."
"You do not understand me, Captain Littleton," replied Paul, earnestly.
"I disobeyed my mother in going out in the boat. She told me to come
ashore, and stood on the beach beckoning and calling to me not to go,
but I didn't mind her. That's what makes me feel so bad about it."
"I am sorry you disobeyed her, for you must suffer the more for your
disobedience."
"I was sorry I did so before I came ashore, and now I would give all the
world if I had minded mother, and let Tom Nettle laugh at me as much as
he pleased."
"Tom is a wild boy, and you must not heed his jeers."
"I will not, another time. You think my father is not dead?"
"I think not," replied Captain Littleton, as he increased the speed of
the horse.
Paul did not say much more, but wept in silence as the chaise dashed
along the road. Every moment seemed like an hour, till he came in sight
of the cottage of his father. There were the two sulkies of the doctors,
and a crowd of people at the gate, to enable him to realize the dreadful
calamity which had overtaken him. The panting horse stopped before the
door, and Paul's limbs almost failed him as he dragged himself into the
house.
"O Paul," sobbed his mother, who met him at the door, "I thought you
would never come. I'm afraid you won't have a father a great while
longer."
"Forgive me, mother, for what I did," cried Paul.
"I do forgive you, my son; but come, your poor father wants to see you
very much."
His mother took him by the hand, and led him into the chamber where his
father lay. He was shocked by the change which a few short hours had
produced, and he needed not the skill of the physicians to assure him
that Mr. Duncan had but a short time to live.
"Paul," said his father, faintly, "I shall soon be no more, and I leave
your mother and your brothers and sisters to your care. Take good care
of them, Paul, for they will soon have no one else to help them. Be a
good boy, and be an honest man, and everything will go well with you. Be
true to your God and true to yourself, and then all the world cannot
harm you. May God keep you in the path of duty as long as you live."
Mr. Duncan closed his eyes with an audible sigh, and Paul burst into
tears, realizing that he was about to lose the kindest and best of
fathers.
"Don't cry, my boy," said the sufferer; "be a man, and in a little while
the struggle will be over with me."
The whole family were gathered round the bed, and Mr. Duncan gave them
his blessing, for the doctors assured him his hour was at hand. We will
not dwell upon the painful scene. In an hour all was still in that room
save the sobs of the bereaved widow, who stood gazing in agony upon the
silent form which she had seen go out from her that morning in the full
vigor of health and strength. The angel of death was there, and had done
his work.
Paul was stupefied by the suddenness of the shock, and all the currents
of his existence seemed to stop in their flow. He spent the afternoon in
his chamber, trying to understand the nature of his situation. He had
dried his tears, but the deeper grief had gone in upon his heart. He
spent a wakeful night in thinking of the past, and in endeavoring to
make himself believe that his father was dead. All that he had ever done
for him, all that he had ever said to him, came up before him with a
vividness that made them seem like realities.
In this condition he moved about the house till after the funeral,
mechanically executing such duties as he was required to perform; but
everything was so unnatural to him that he could hardly persuade himself
of the reality of his being. The death of his father was an epoch in his
existence, a turning point in his career, and the wheels of time, the
current of events, stopped, soon to resume their course in a different
direction.
When the last rites of love and respect had been paid to the remains of
his father, Paul roused himself from his stupor, and began to examine
the future. At the death bed of his parent he had received a solemn
charge, and he carefully reviewed the words, and recalled the expression
with which it had been committed to him. His mother and his brothers and
sisters had been given into his care, and he felt the responsibility of
the position he had accepted. He determined, to the best of his ability,
to discharge his duty to them; but he was sorely troubled to think of
some way by which he could earn money enough to support them, for he had
put a literal construction upon the dying words of his father.