The Martyrdom of Madeline. Robert Williams Buchanan
his paper to the conductor.
‘All right,’ said that worthy; ‘jump in.’
And soon they were well afloat in the great stream of London, with the waters roaring and mingling and crying around them. Madeline gazed out, and her wonder deepened as she saw the great shining shops, and the innumerable horses and vehicles, and the people ever coming and going, like waves of a sea. She thought it beautiful, a kind of terrible Fairyland, and it would have given her perfect pleasure if her heart had not been so full of a great grief. For the time being, indeed, she almost forgot her childish trouble in the strange new sense of a vast and troubled world, of whose mysterious motions she had never dreamed.
It was a long ride, but it seemed only to occupy a few minutes. Uncle Luke was silent, crushed by his sorrow and by the situation; he held her hand tight, and fixed his poor sad eyes on vacancy, seeing and hearing nothing, only conscious that he had a task to perform, and determined, though his heart should break, that he would perform it to the end.
At last they left the long thoroughfares behind and came out into a region comparatively green and countrified, with villas of all tastes and sizes ranged on either side of the road. Here the omnibus stopped, and the conductor told Uncle Luke to alight, announcing that they were at the corner of Willowtree Road, and that the address written on the paper must be close by. So Uncle Luke alighted with Madeline, paid their fare, and stood hesitating, while the omnibus rolled away.
Willowtree Road consisted, from end to end, of detached and semi-detached villas, only variegated at two of the corners by public-houses. It was very quiet and suburban, and as all the trees in the gardens were already green, and many of them in flower, it looked quite rural and bright.
Paper in hand Uncle Luke trotted up and down for some time, in a vain search for the house he sought. The road was quite deserted, and there was no one whom he could consult. At last he came against a telegraph boy, sauntering along and whistling in the leisurely manner of those swift Mercuries of the period.
‘I’ve just come from there,’ said Mercury, after inspecting the paper. ‘You see that house with the verander? Well, you don’t go up the front steps, but walk round to the side, and you’ll see a bell marked “Stoodio”; ring that, and ask for Mr. White.’
Thus directed, Uncle Luke approached the house, a small, semi-detached villa, and passing round, as directed, to the side, discovered with some little difficulty the bell in question. Without any hesitation, he rang. Scarcely had he done so, when the door opened as it were of its own accord, and he found himself in a dilapidated garden, face to face with a small building which looked like a diminutive Methodist chapel. Approaching the door of this edifice, he was about to knock, when his eyes fell upon a paper pasted upon it. On this paper was printed rather than written these words—
Mr. White out of town. Back this day week.
With Madeline’s aid Uncle Luke spelt out the inscription, and it filled him with complete consternation. There being no date to the announcement, ‘this day week’ was curiously indefinite, particularly as the paper showed signs of having been there for a considerable time already. While he stood gaping and scratching his head the studio door suddenly opened, and a very small boy with a very old face, clad in a very dirty page’s uniform, made his appearance.
‘Well, what is it’ cried this worthy, snappishly.
‘Who do you want?’
Uncle Luke took off his hat respectfully, and handed over the paper. Strange to say, the boy would not deign to inspect it.
‘If it’s the milk bill, you’re to call again next week. If it’s a summons, nobody ain’t at home. Which of the gents is it for?’
‘I’m a-looking for Master White,’ said Uncle Luke, timidly, ‘and if you please——’
‘But he don’t please,’ answered the boy, with a fierce sense of grievance. ‘He ain’t at home. Didn’t you see the paper on that there door?’
At this juncture another head appeared in the background, and a pair of human eyes seemed rapidly to inspect the intruders. Then a voice said—
‘It’s all right, Judas. Let ’em come in.’
Thus instructed, the page threw open the door, and Uncle Luke entered, with Madeline clinging to him. Their astonishment was considerable when they found themselves in a large apartment, lighted by glass windows from above, and full of all the paraphernalia of an artist’s workshop—several easels, two or three lay figures, paintings in various states of completion. In one corner stood a stove, on the top of which was a loaf of brown bread and a tin coffee pot, and close to the stove was a perfect hecatomb of egg-shells. Indeed, what with general dust and debris of all kinds, the entire ‘studio’ seemed sadly in need of cleaning out.
Fronting them as they entered was the only tenant of the apartment—a young man with a very light moustache, a watery blue eye, and a large amount of unkempt flaxen hair. He grasped a palette in one hand, a paint brush in the other, and in his mouth he held a black meerschaum pipe.
‘Is it anything I can do for you?’ he said, with a rather vacant smile. ‘I’m Mr. Cheveley.’
‘I want to see Master White,’ said Uncle Luke in a faltering voice. ‘I’ve come all the way from the country, all along o’ Madlin, here. Haven’t I, Madlin? If so be he’s away, can’t some one fetch him, and tell him Luke Peartree wants him, and that Uncle Mark’s dead, and that poor Aunt Jane’s a widder, and that things has all gone contrary, and all our hearts is broke?’
Tears rose in Uncle Luke’s eyes, and he stood choking, while Madeline clung to him and began crying too. The young man looked at them in astonishment for some minutes; then, struck by an idea, he walked rapidly to an inner door and cried loudly—
‘Here, White.’
A sleepy voice answered from within—
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Some one to see you—come, get up!’
The answer seemed a combination of strong expressions, combined with inarticulate groans. After listening for a moment, Cheveley turned to Uncle Luke—
‘Here, I say!’ he said, with the vacant helpless manner peculiar to him. ‘He’s writing in bed, and he won’t rise. You’d better go in and explain your own business. The little girl can wait here.’
Not without some little fear and trembling, Uncle Luke released Madeline’s hand, and moved with timid steps into the inner room. It was a very small chamber, furnished as a bedroom; that is to say, it contained an iron bedstead, a washstand, a table, and other conveniences. A chest of drawers gaping open was covered with articles of attire in most admired disorder, and other articles were hung on the walls or scattered about the room.
Perched up on the bed, with an embroidered smoking-cap on his head, was a gentleman in gold spectacles. He was writing rapidly with a pencil in a large manuscript book, and he scarcely looked up as Uncle Luke entered. But when Uncle Luke, whose heart was full and overflowed at the sight of one whom he believed to be a friend of the family, trotted over to the bedside and took his hand, crying like a child, he dropped his notebook and seemed aghast. Then, recognising his visitor, he questioned him, and soon knew the whole sad story—of Uncle Mark’s accidental death, of the break-up of the little home, of the despair of the family, and their conviction that they could no longer do their duty by Madeline.
‘And Madlin’s here,’ cried Uncle Luke. ‘I brung her, but, Lord, she don’t guess why I brung her; she thinks she’s a-going back. Oh, Mr. White, be a father to her! She ain’t got ne’er another, now her Uncle Mark’s dead.’ Mr. White wiped his spectacles, and seemed utterly stupefied; at last he nodded, as if he had made up his mind.
‘Give me those trousers,’ he said, ‘I’ll get up.’
In another minute he had slipped into an old pair of tweed trousers, a