Poor Jack

"I should care, for one, mother; and so would my sister Virginia, and many others besides."

"You might care, Jack, for you're a good boy, and so might your little sister, for she has a kind heart; but nobody else, Jack—no, not one!"

I could not reply to this remark, as I really did not know anybody who would have cared; so I said, "You must see the doctor, mother. I will go for him."

"No, Jack, I can't afford it, it's no use; besides, I'm better now."

"Well, if you can't afford it, you shall not pay him; and, if he will not come for nothing, I'll pay him myself."

"Will you pay him, Jack? that's a good boy. You promised me bargains, you know; that shall be one of them."

"Well, mother, I'll make the bargain that I'll pay him, if you'll see him—so good-by now. Do you want anything before I go?"

"No, Jack, no; I don't want anything, only just lock the door and take the key with you when you go out, and then no one can rob me, Jack, while you're gone."

I complied with her request, and ran for Dr. Tadpole, whom I found smoking his cigar in the widow's shop.

"Doctor," said I, "old Nanny has been ill in bed these three days, and I want you to go and see her."

"Does she send you to me, or do you ask it yourself?" said the doctor, "for I think she would die rather than pay the doctor."

"As for that, Mr. Tadpole," said the widow, "there are many of your patients who send for the doctor without ever intending to pay him. Perhaps old Nanny may go on the same plan."

"Certainly; that alters the case. Well, Jack, what's the matter with her?"

"Rheumatism, and, I believe, fever; for her hand is hot, and her tongue very white. She was lying in bed with no one to help her, and had not strength to reach a drop of water, until I gave it to her."

"Poor old soul!" said the widow. "And yet they say that she has money?"

"I don't think that she has much," replied I; "for when she lent me the twenty-eight shillings, she had not ten shillings more in the bag. But, doctor, I'll pay you; I will, indeed. How much will it be?"

"Now, doctor, just put on your hat, and set off as soon as you please; for if Poor Jack says he'll pay you, you know that your money is as safe as mine was in the bank—before it failed."

"Well, I'll just finish my cigar."

"Of course you will—as you walk along, Mr. Tadpole," replied the widow; "it's very pleasant to smoke in the air, and just as unpleasant to others your smoking in the house. So, doctor, just be off and see the poor old wretch directly, or—I'll be affronted."

Hereupon the doctor took up his hat, and without reply walked off with me. When we arrived, I unlocked the door and we went in.

"Well, old Nanny, what's the matter now?" said Dr. Tadpole.

"Nothing, doctor, nothing; you've come on a useless message; I didn't send for you, recollect that; it was Jack who would go; I did not send, recollect that, doctor; I can't afford it; I've no money."

"Very well, I shan't look to you for money. Put out your tongue," replied the doctor, as he felt her pulse.

"Recollect, doctor, I did not send for you. Jack, you are witness—I've no money," repeated old Nanny.

"Put out your tongue," repeated the doctor.

"No, I won't, till it's all clearly settled."

"It is, you old fool," said the doctor, impatiently; "put out your tongue."

"Jack, you're witness it's all by force," said Nanny, who at last put out her tongue; "and now, doctor, I'll tell you."

Whereupon Nanny commenced with a narrative of her ills; and by her own account there was not a portion of her body from top to toe which had not some ailment.

"You've a very bad complaint," said the doctor; "what d'ye think it is? It's old age. I hardly know whether I can cure it."

"Can your draw the pain out of my old bones?" said Nanny, groaning.

"Why, I'll try, at all events. I must send you something to take inwardly."

"Who's to pay for it?" said old Nanny.

"I will, mother," said I.

"You're witness, doctor—Jack says he'll pay for it. You're a good boy, Jack."

"Well, that's settled—but now, we must have some one to sit up with you."

"Sit up with me? nobody will sit up with an old thing like me."

"Yes, I will, mother," said I, "and I'll look in upon you in the daytime, and see if you want to drink."

"No, no, Jack! then you'll make no money."

"Yes I will—never mind that."

"Well, at all events," replied the doctor, "Jack will sit up with you this night; and we'll see how you are to-morrow. Now, Jack, come back with me, and I'll give you something for her. Good-night, Nanny," said the doctor, leaving the room.

"Good-night," grumbled old Nanny; and as we were going through the shop I heard her continue: "It's very easy saying 'good-night,' but how can a poor wretch like me, with every bone aching as if it would split, expect to have a 'good night'?"

As the doctor walked home, he appeared not to be in his usual talkative mood. He went to the shop, made up the medicines, and gave me the directions.

"Here, Jack, take these; and it will be a kindness to sit up with her to-night. I will see her to-morrow; and as I can't allow you to be the only good Samaritan in the place, understand, Jack, that I attend the poor old woman and find medicine for nothing."

I thanked him and hastened back. Old Nanny took her draught, and then turned round on her side. I suppose there was opium in it, for she soon fell fast asleep; not, however, until she had said, "Jack, have you locked the door?"

"Yes, mother, I have."

"Well, now, don't you think you could watch without burning a candle? You ain't afraid?"

"No, mother, I'm not afraid; but if I do, I shall fall asleep; and, besides, if you wake and want anything, I shall not be able to find it. I should break the jug and other things, and they would cost more than a candle."

"Very true, Jack. I feel sleepy already"—and old Nanny was soon in a loud snore.

I had stopped at my mother's to say that I intended to stay with old Nanny, so that they might not sit up for me; and now all that I had to do was to keep myself awake. I had forgotten to bring a book with me, so I looked about the room for something to read; but I could find nothing. At last I ventured to open a drawer—it creaked, and old Nanny was roused. "Who's that?" cried she, but she did not wake up, the opiate was too powerful. I went to her; she was in a perspiration, which I knew was what the doctor wished. I put the clothes close up to her head, and left her. I then took the candle and looked into the drawer, and found a book lying in a corner with one side of the cover off. It was very dirty and stained. I took it out, and went again to my chair and opened it. It was Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," and full of plates. I had never heard of the book, and did not know what the title meant. I first looked at all the plates, and then I turned to the opening of the book. On the blank leaf at the commencement, in very neat and lawyer-like handwriting, was "Anna James, on her marriage, from her dear friend Mary Farquhar, Tynemouth, June the 19th, 1738." By this I discovered, as I thought, the married but not the maiden name of old Nanny; and very probably, also, that Tynemouth was her native place. She was married, too, in 1738, that was more than sixty years back—and her age was, therefore, in all likelihood, nearly eighty years. I pondered over this for some time, and then I commenced reading; and so interested was I with the contents that I did not raise my head until the candle had burned to the socket: as I was about to light another, I perceived daylight through the chinks of the window shutter. So I laid down the book, and walking softly out of the room, unlocked the shop door to get a little fresh air; for the room that old Nanny was sleeping in was, from dirt and neglect, very close. I could not, however, unlock the door without waking up Nanny who screamed out "Thieves!—murder! thieves!" until she was wide awake.