“And why not go to sea, mother?” replied Philip; “what’s the use of my staying here to starve?—for, by Heaven! it’s little better, I must do something for myself and for you. And what else can I do? My uncle Van Brennen has offered to take me with him, and will give me good wages. Then I shall live happily on board, and my earnings will be sufficient for your support at home.”
“Philip—Philip, hear me. I shall die if you leave me. Whom have I in the world but you? O my child, as you love me, and I know you do love me, Philip, don’t leave me; but if you will, at all events do not go to sea.”
Philip gave no immediate reply; he whistled for a few seconds, while his mother wept.
“Is it,” said he at last, “because my father was drowned at sea that you beg so hard, mother?”
“Oh, no—no!” exclaimed the sobbing woman. “Would to God—”
“Would to God what, mother?”
“Nothing—nothing. Be merciful—be merciful, O God!” replied the mother, sliding from her seat on the couch, and kneeling by the side of it, in which attitude she remained for some time in fervent prayer. At last she resumed her seat, and her face wore an aspect of more composure.
Philip, who during this, had remained silent and thoughtful, again addressed his mother.
“Look ye, mother. You ask me to stay on shore with you, and starve,—rather hard conditions:— now hear what I have to say. That room opposite has been shut up ever since I can remember—why, you will never tell me; but once I heard you say, when we were without bread and with no prospect of my uncle’s return—you were then half frantic, mother, as you know you sometimes are—”
“Well, Philip, what did you hear me say?” inquired his mother, with tremulous anxiety.