Chapter 3. A Sad Chapter In My Life

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_ CHAPTER THREE. A SAD CHAPTER IN MY LIFE

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.

I will not stop to speak of Mary's and my grief.

At last Nancy, her eyes red with crying, sat down, with her hands pressed against her head, to consider what was to be done.

"Why, I ought to have sent for him at once!" she suddenly exclaimed. "Peter, run and find Tom Swatridge, and tell him that poor missus has gone."

I needed no second bidding, and, thankful to have something to do, I started away.

On reaching the Hard, where I expected to find old Tom, I heard from some of the watermen that he had gone off with a fare to Gosport, so I had to wait for his return. Many of the men standing about asked me after mother, and seemed very sorry to hear of her death. I saw them talking earnestly together while I waited for Tom. Others joined them, and then went away, so that the news soon spread about our part of the town. I had to wait a long time, till old Tom came back with several persons in his boat. He pocketed their fares, touching his hat to each before he took any notice of me.

"What cheer, Peter? How's the missus?" he asked, stepping on shore and dropping the kedge to make fast his boat. "I feared she wouldn't be up to bum-boating to-day."

"Mother's dead," I answered.

"Dead! The missus dead!" he exclaimed, clapping his hand to his brow, and looking fixedly at me. "The Lord have mercy on us!"

"Nancy wants you, Tom," I said.

"I'm coming, Peter, I'm coming. I said I'd be a father to you and Mary, and I will, please God," he replied, recovering himself.

He took my hand, and stumped away towards our house.

"Dick Porter, look after my boat, will ye, till I comes back?" he said to one of the men on the Hard as we hurried by.

"Ay, ay," was the cheerful answer--for Dick knew where old Tom was going.

Not a word did the old man speak all the way. When we got to the house, what was my astonishment to find a number of people in the sitting-room, one of whom, with note-book in hand, was making an inventory of the furniture! Mary was sitting in a corner crying, and Nancy was looking as if she had a mind to try and turn them all out. As soon as Mary saw me she jumped up and took my hand.

"What's all this about?" exclaimed old Tom, in an indignant tone. "You might have stopped, whatever right you may have here, till the dead woman was carried to her grave, I'm thinking."

"And others had carried off the goods," answered the man with the note-book. "We are only acting according to law. Mrs Trawl has run into debt on all sides, and when the goods are sold there won't be five shillings in the pound to pay them, that I can see, so her children must take the consequences. There's the workhouse for them."

"The work'us, do ye say? Mrs Trawl's children sent to the work'us!" exclaimed old Tom, and he rapped out an expression which I need not repeat. "Not while this here hand can pull an oar and I've a shiner in my pocket. If you've got the law on your side, do as the law lets you. But all I can say is, that it's got no bowels of compassion in it, to allow the orphans to be turned out of house and home, and the breath scarce out of their mother's body. Nancy, do you pack up the children's clothes, and any school-books or play-things you can find, and then come along to my house. The law can't touch them, I suppose."

"What is that drunken old Swatridge talking about?" said one of the broker's men.

Tom heard him.

"Such I may have been, but I'll be no longer 'drunken old Swatridge' while I have these children to look after," he exclaimed; and giving one hand to Mary and the other to me, he led us out of the house. _

Read next: Chapter 4. A Fearful Catastrophe

Read previous: Chapter 2. How A True Friend Was Gained

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