Chapter 3

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.