The Martyrdom of Madeline. Robert Williams Buchanan
with him.
Suddenly she remembered that he had a cousin across the river in Kent who might be willing to give him work on a riverside farm.
She wrote, and got for answer that Joss Peartree wanted an odd hand, and would be glad, for kinship’s sake, to take on ‘Cousin Luke.’
Luke cried like a child when the news was told him, and Mrs. Peartree cried a bit too. It was like another death, this thought of parting with simple Luke, but what was she to do? She could not keep him; it was as much as she could do to keep herself—and the only prospect she saw of doing this was to go out as a monthly nurse, a post for which she was specially suited. Meantime her little store of money was rapidly diminishing, and each coin that was taken out warned her that her household must break up soon.
After she had cried silently for a time, she resolutely dried her eyes, and set about comforting Uncle Luke. She promised that if he would only try to be happy she would try to visit him once or twice a year—and after she had earned a little, she would try to rent a small room in Gray-fleet, and make it a home where Luke could come and stop again with her. This assurance comforted Luke a good deal; at the same time it made him more keenly alive to what was taking place, and he asked, suddenly—
‘Be you a-going to give up the house then, mother?’
‘Ay, Luke—where be my means to keep it on?’
‘And to sell the bit o’ furniture?’
‘Yes, mate.’
‘Then what’ll become o’ little Madlin?’
Mrs. Peartree glanced uneasily at the child, who was seated on a footstool by her side; then motioning Luke to be silent, she said hurriedly—
‘Oh, I’ll look after Madlin, never fear.’
But a day or so later, when Madeline was gone to school, Mrs. Peartree went on with the subject as if it had never been stopped.
‘I’ve been thinking about Madlin, Luke, and I’ve decided to send her away too.’
‘What! part wi’ Madlin?’ cried Luke, aghast, and for a moment it seemed to him that Mrs. Peartree was growing very hard-hearted, but when he looked up he saw that her eyes were dim with tears.
‘Ay, mate, part wi’ our Madlin,’ she said, sorrowfully. ‘It a’most broke my heart when I thought on’t first, but I’m past that now. ’Twill be for the child’s good too. If she stopped wi’ us, she’d get but a poor bringing-up at best, bless her; but if she goes to him he’ll make a lady on her.’
‘Him, mother?’
‘Mr. White, that first brought her to us, and pays to this day for her keep. He’s not her father, nor yet much kin of hers at all; but for all that he’s a good gentleman, and will do his duty by her. We’ll try him, anyways. If he takes her it will be a sore day for me, but a lucky chance for little Madlin.’
Uncle Luke listened quietly, and soon endorsed Aunt Jane’s opinion, that the very best they could do for Madeline was to take her up to London and hand her over to the care of her natural guardian—the benevolent-looking gentleman who left her at the cottage when an infant, and had contributed to her maintenance ever since.
‘Don’t let her know nothing about it, Luke,’ added Mrs. Peartree, ‘or Lord only knows what she would do. After she’s growed up, bless her, she’d thank us for doin’ it, even if we could help it, which we can’t.’
This piece of logic pleased Uncle Luke unmeasurably, and he went to bed tolerably contented with Aunt Jane’s mode of working, and quite convinced that she was doing everything for the best.
The succeeding days were very sad ones in the cottage, and though Madeline was almost overwhelmed with her grief for Uncle Mark, she could not help wandering at the strange conduct of those whom he had left behind. If she happened to come within arm’s length of Aunt Jane she was certain to be caught up and kissed; if Uncle Luke’s eye fell upon her, he burst into tears; at meal times she had three times too much food crammed upon her plate; if she approached the fire, her chair was drawn so close as to almost scorch her. But the crowning point came when she was told one morning that she was to go to London, for a day’s ‘outing’ with Uncle Luke.
It was decided that Luke should take her. ‘He had seen a good deal of the city,’ Mrs. Peartree said, ‘and would do the errand better than she.’ Luke was quite contented, so it was settled forthwith.
Despite her bereavement, Madeline could not help feeling glad at the thought of realising her dream at last. Childish griefs are not very enduring, and at another time a visit to London would have sent her mad with joy. But her pleasure was considerably damped when she saw Aunt Jane cry so, and Uncle Luke look so very sad.
‘Madlin, darlin’,’ cried Mrs. Peartree, embracing her for the twentieth time, ‘you’re a-going to see kind friends up in London; and maybe, if you’re a good girl, they’ll ask you to stay a bit, and see the wax-work, and all the fine sights. And if you stay, don’t forget your Aunt Jane that brung you up, and loves you so dear—God bless’ee, Madlin! God bless’ee, and make a lady of ye—my own little darling gel!’
Quite bewildered, the child suffered herself to be led away by Uncle Luke.
After ferrying across the river and walking a mile, they reached the railway station.
When she got into the train her contentment in a measure returned. She nestled up to Uncle Luke’s side, stealing her little hand into his, and looked with rapture at the fields gliding past her so rapidly—at the river with its shining bends. As she went on her wonder deepened, and her excitement grew—for she passed little towns, then big stations covered with shining pictures, like palaces—until at length when she felt deep in Dreamland, they glided under a great arch of glass, and Uncle Luke, exclaiming ‘Here we be,’ rose up and prepared to alight from the train.
CHAPTER VII.—INTRODUCES A DISTINGUISHED LITERARY BOHEMIAN.
Still lost in wonder, Madeline alighted from the train, and, clutching Uncle Luke’s hand, moved along with the crowd that was surging out of the station.
Once outside, amidst the din of rattling cabs and excited passengers, Uncle Luke seemed perplexed what to do next. He took off his high hat, and scratched his head; and this appeared to remind him that he had a paper carefully tucked into the hat’s lining. So he searched for and found the paper, on which was written, in a round, clear hand—
Marmaduke White, Esq.,
The Den,
Willowtree Road,
St. John’s Wood.
In his perplexity he turned to a policeman, and, with his usual grin, showed him the paper. The policeman, who happened to be good-natured, informed him that he must walk across London Bridge, and make the best of his way to the Bank, where he would get an omnibus which would take him straight to his destination.
‘When you get to the Bank, look for a “City Hatlas”—you’ll see “City Hatlas” written on the outside. You can’t go wrong.5
Thus instructed, Uncle Luke toddled off as fast as his legs could carry him, and was swept along with the traffic that sets all day from London Bridge Station over the great Bridge. Madeline clung to him in amazement and terror, with her great wistful eyes wide in wonder.
As they passed over the bridge and saw the river gleaming, she uttered a cry, and would have stopped to gaze, but her Uncle pulled her along, being far too excited for explanation or conversation.
In due time they reached the Bank; and now a fresh perplexity occurred, for the little