“Maybe he got a fare at Spithead for Gosport and will be coming across soon, or he’s gone ashore at the Point with some one’s luggage,” observed old Tom, trying to keep up mother’s spirits; but that was a hard matter to do, for the wind blew stronger and stronger. A few vessels could be seen, under close-reefed canvas, running up the harbour for shelter, but we could nowhere perceive a single boat under sail. Still old Tom continued to suggest all sorts of reasons why father had not come back. Perhaps he had been detained on board the ship at Spithead to which he took the gentleman, and seeing the heavy weather coming on would remain till it moderated. Mother clung to this notion when hour after hour went by and she had given up all expectation of seeing father that evening. Still she could not tear herself from the Hard. Suddenly she remembered me.
“You must be getting wet, Peter,” she said. “Run home, my child, and tell Nancy to give you your tea and then to get supper ready. Father and I will be coming soon, I hope.”
I lingered, unwilling to leave her.
“Won’t you come yourself, mother?” I asked.
“I’ll wait a bit longer,” she answered. “Go, Peter, go; do as I bid you.”
“You’d better go home with Peter, missus,” said old Tom. “You’ll be getting the rheumatics, I’m afraid. I’ll stay and look out for your good man.”
I had never seen mother look as she did then, when she turned her face for a moment to reply to the old man. She was as pale as death; her voice sounded hoarse and hollow.
“I can’t go just yet, Tom,” she said.
I did not hear more, as, according to her bidding, I set off to run home. I found Mary and Nancy wondering what had kept mother so long.
“Can anything have happened to father?” exclaimed Mary, when I told her that mother was waiting for him.