The Martyrdom of Madeline. Robert Williams Buchanan
sobs of Madeline and Uncle Luke. The kettle was singing on the hob, the cat purring on the hearth, and the sun-rays creeping in through the window touched the bowed heads of those about the sofa, and laid a soft caressing hand on the child’s trembling form.
Presently Uncle Mark opened his eyes, and rousing himself suddenly, gazed wildly about him.
‘Luke, mate,’ he said, ‘that warn’t right about the old barge. No, no, she bean’t sunk. Why look, there she be a-sailing up to the bridge—only her sails be white—so white—and there be a chap in white at the helm. What’s that noise? It be like a steamboat’s whistle i’ the fog. Oh, if my head warn’t so dazed-like I could hear it—but I be kind o’ stupid to-night. Give me a light; it’s black dark.’
‘Uncle Mark, it’s morning,’ said Madeline, creeping to his side. ‘Dear, dear Uncle Mark, can’t you see the sun?’
But Uncle Mark did not seem to hear the child’s voice. His eyes were fixed on vacancy, or, rather, on some vision unbeheld of eyes.
‘Look out there ahead,’ he said faintly. ‘There be a white barge coming down with the wind on her quarter, and the waters all black beneath her. Look, there be folk in white standing on her deck and singing. Hark! that be Brother Billy Hornblower’s voice, sure—ly?’
Brother Hornblower, who indeed stood near, turned pale at the mention of his name.
‘He think’s it’s me a-singing,’ he observed, brushing his sleeve across his eyes; and he added, bending gently over Uncle Mark, ‘Will I sing a bit of a hymn, Brother Peartree?9
‘Aye, aye,’ murmured Uncle Mark, closing his eyes.
Whereupon Brother Hornblower, clasping his hands before him and looking on vacancy, commenced to sing in his own peculiar style part of a hymn which was very popular with the Brethren of the river:
Up the shining river,
Sailing with the tide,
Jesus is my pilot,
Jesus is my guide.
Steer the wessel, Jesus,
Steer it night and day,
To the Golden City
Far, far away.
See how hard ’tis blowing,
Th’re’ll be win; to-night—
Tremble not, my brothers,
He will steer us right.
Steer the wessel, Jesus,
Steer it night and day.
To the Golden City
Far, far away.
While the hymn lasted, Uncle Mark remained lying in his wife’s arms as if asleep—he remained so for some time after the hymn was done. The kettle went on singing, the cat went on purring, and the clock seemed to tick with more bell-like clearness than before. When he again opened his eyes the old wandering look had passed away.
‘Do you know me, Mark, dear?’ asked his wife.
‘Aye, mother—I know ye all. There be Luke—there be little Madlin—and that be Brother Billy Hornblower—I’ve been a-dreaming that he was a-singing to me.’
‘And so I were, Brother Peartree,’ exclaimed the musician softly.
‘Was ye now?9 said Uncle Mark, smiling gently. ‘Well, mate, I take that as wery kind.’
He closed his eyes again. Brother Hornblower turned his simple face to Mrs. Peartree and whispered:—
‘There be another werse, Sister Peartree—shall I sing it? He seems to feel it kind o’ soothin’, and,’ he added eagerly, ‘them’s blessed words.’
Mrs. Peartree nodded; she could not speak, for her tears choked her; and the thin but musical voice piped again:
Who’s afraid when Jesus
Like an angel stands,
Holding sheet and tiller
In His holy hands?
Steer the wessel, Jesus,
Steer it night and day,
To the Golden City
Far, far away.
When the hymn ended this time, Uncle Mark opened his eyes, turned a radiant face to the singer—then he turned to his wife.
‘Up the shininsr river,’ he said. ‘Aye, there I be agoing straight away. Kiss me, mother, and let little Madlin kiss me too—I be goin’ to Jesus- -up the shining river to Jesus, mates. It be all for the best—if it weren’t for you three I shouldn’t mind goin’.’
‘Oh Mark, Mark,’ sobbed his wife, now fairly breaking down.
‘Mother, don’t ’ee take on—there be one at the helm as’ll look arter you, and Luke, and little Madlin too. He’s taking me away, the old barge be sunk, and I be going up the river, mates—up the shining ri———’
He was silent, and they thought he had passed away. Those were the last words which Uncle Mark spoke on earth, but he did not die at once. He lay on the sofa for several hours, breathing heavily, like one in a troubled sleep; the time dragged wearily on, the day brightened, then faded, and as the last rays of the setting sun fell across the floor, Uncle Mark heaved his last sigh. He passed away like one in sleep, lying in his wife’s arms, and not for several minutes after his last breath was taken did they know that he was dead.
CHAPTER VI.—MADELINE IS ABOUT TO REALISE HER DREAM.
For several days Uncle Mark lay solemnly silent in the front parlour. An inquest was held over him, and a careful inquiry made into the manner of his death, the jury bringing in a verdict to the effect that the people in the tug were in no respect to blame, and that the fatal result was entirely ‘accidental.’
At last, amid general grief, Uncle Mark was carried to his last home.
The Brethren, with solemn faces, bore him to his grave; and when the simple service was over, one of them stood forward, and, with tears in his eyes, chanted forth the words of the simple hymn which he had sung to Brother Mark as he passed away.
Up to this Mrs. Peartree, who stood with the men at the grave, had borne her burthen well, but no sooner did she hear the hymn which had ceased, as it were, with her husband’s dying breath, than she wailed and broke down. For a time all the bitterness of that sudden parting came back upon her; she clasped the hand of little Madeline, who stood by her, and burst into passionate tears.
But she could not indulge her stormy grief for long; troubles and necessities clamoured like wolves around her, and turned her soul sick with a new fear. Now that her strong husband was gone, the whole weight of their little household was upon her; and no sooner was he in his grave than she had to speculate upon the future. The verdict of the jury destroyed all chance of receiving any compensation from the owners of the tug, and indeed Mrs. Peartree never dreamed of putting in any claim. Her husband’s earnings had been small, but she had managed to save a little, enough to keep her for a week or so—‘to turn herself round,’ as she expressed it—while she decided what was best to be done.
That Luke Peartree was thrown upon her hands she knew from the moment of her husband’s death. As we have said, he was generally regarded as a kind of natural; and everybody knew that had it not been for his brother he would never have got work at all. Mark Peartree had been a skilful bargeman, and in order to secure his services the barge-owners had been