“He has been a long time coming back from Spithead, and it’s blowing fearfully hard,” I answered.
I saw Nancy clasp her hands and look upwards with an expression of alarm on her countenance which frightened me. Her father and brother had been lost some years before, crossing in a wherry from Ryde, and her widowed mother had found it a hard matter to keep herself and her children out of the workhouse. She said nothing, however, to Mary and me, but I heard her sighing and whispering to herself, “What will poor missus do? What will poor missus do?” She gave Mary and me our suppers, and then persuaded us to go to bed. I was glad to do so to get off my wet clothes, which she hung up to dry, but I could not go to sleep for thinking what had happened to father.
At length mother came in alone. She sat down on a chair without speaking, and her hands dropped by her side. I could watch her as I looked out from the small closet in which my bunk was placed. Even since I had left her her countenance had become fearfully pale and haggard. She shivered all over several times, but did not move from her seat.
“Won’t you get those wet duds of yours off, missus, and have some hot tea and supper?” asked Nancy, who had been preparing it.
Mother made no reply.
“Don’t take on so, missus,” said Nancy, coming up to her and putting her hand affectionately on her shoulder.
“Bless me, you’re as wet as muck. I’ve put Peter and Mary to bed, and you must just go too, or you’ll be having the rheumatics and I don’t know what. Do go, missus, now do go.”
In vain Nancy pleaded, and was still endeavouring to persuade mother to take off her wet garments, when I at last fell asleep. When I awoke in the morning I saw Nancy alone bustling about the room. I soon jumped into my clothes. My first question was for father.
“He’s not yet come back, Peter,” she answered. “But maybe he will before long, for the wind has fallen, and if he put into Ryde he’d have waited till now to come across.”
“Where’s mother?” I next asked, not seeing her.