The Martyrdom of Madeline. Robert Williams Buchanan
persuasion. Be that as it may, you will doubtless agree with me that her conduct to-day has been extremely sacrilegious.’
The little man, still holding his hat in his hand, looked at the Rector, then looked at Madeline, then smiled imbecilely, then, feeling the smile out of place, tried to frown, but only succeeded in distorting his good-humoured countenance into a confirmed grin. Then suddenly darting his mouth down to the little girl’s ear, he hoarsely whispered—
‘What is it, Madlin? What’s the matter?’
‘Polly Lowther was teaching me to cut and shuffle,’ said the girl out loud, fixing her eyes in a fearless way on the Rector; ‘and Parson came out and found us, and all the others ran away. I know dancing’s wicked, because Uncle Mark says so, but I couldn’t help it, and Parson says Uncle Mark ought to be ashamed of himself, and I told Parson it isn’t true!’
This explanation seemed to confuse the little man still more. He scratched his head and peeped at the Rector with a grin.
‘Dancing’s downright wicked,’ he said, ‘no doubt o’ that.’
‘It is no laughing matter,’ cried the Rector, indignantly, irritated at the unaccountable expression on the little man’s face. ‘Be good enough to leave the precincts of the church. The child is a bad child, and has been badly trained. There, there, hold your tongue—I desire no further explanations; only remember this, if that child desecrates the churchyard again, I shall resort to severer measures.’
So saying he waved the pair from the churchyard, shut the gate sharply upon them, and stalked away to the Rectory, with a bosom full of holy emotion and Christian wrath.
The little man stood for some minutes in the open road, dazed, gaping, and looking at the tall retreating figure. Then he quietly put on his hat, and, conscious of the little hand within his own, looked down at his companion, at a loss what to say or do. At last he cut the Gordian knot of his perplexity by grinning from ear to ear.
‘Parson be in a powerful rage,’ he said; ‘but dancing be downright wicked, that’s a fact;’ and he added, with a perplexed look, as if communing with his own thoughts, ‘What shall I say to your Uncle Mark?’
Madeline seemed to muse for some moments, then, as if struck by a sudden inspiration, she exclaimed—
‘Come along, Uncle Luke—let’s go home.’
The little man laughed contentedly, as if finding in the proposition a solution of all his difficulty; and the little legs began to move. Hand in hand, the two hurried down the descent leading from the church to the outskirts of the village. As they went along, Madeline peeped up quietly from time to time at her companion, as if trying to read his thoughts; then, squeezing his hand tight, she said in a coaxing voice—
‘Uncle Luke!’
‘Yes, Madlin.’
‘You won’t tell Uncle Mark about my dancing.’
‘I don’t know—dancing be downright wicked.’
‘I couldn’t help it. Polly Lowther offered to teach me, and all the other girls can dance a bit. And if you won’t say a word to Uncle Mark, I’ll let you cut up my new money-box that Uncle Mark gave me, and find out what’s inside.’
Unaccountable as it may seem, this extraordinary proposition seemed to find peculiar favour in Uncle Luke’s eyes. His large eyes twinkled, and his mouth broadened from ear to ear, but he pretended to shake his head from side to side in solemn deprecation of the bribe. Madeline watched him keenly, and just as he seemed wavering, she lifted his great brown hand to her mouth, and gave it a passionate kiss. This seemed to unsettle Uncle Luke altogether, and he murmured eagerly—
‘All right, Madlin, I shan’t tell.’
And Madeline knew well that a promise of this sort from Uncle Luke was as good as an oath from any other man. They quickened their pace, but she continued to play with and fondle his hand, and now and then to hold it to her lips. Confidence of this sort was what the little man loved best of all things in the world, and the smile upon his face grew broad and bright with intelligent content.
CHAPTER II.—‘UNCLE’ LUKE AND ‘UNCLE’ MARK.
While the setting sun gleamed on Grayfleet, its grim church, and its cluster of red-tiled dwellings, Uncle Luke took a footpath leading across the marshes. All around them the landscape was flat and level, with little or no vegetation; for over the dark low levels the sea had crawled, and would crawl again. Here and there hovered a seagull, tempted in from the distant salt water, and searching the marsh for plunder; and once, as they passed a shallow pool, blood-red in the light, a heron rose with a harsh cry and flapped slowly away.
A walk of half a mile across the marsh brought them to the river side, and within view of a sort of pendant to the upper village, in the shape of a row of tiny red-tiled cottages on the very bank. Here there was a ferry-house, with a licence ‘to sell ale and tobacco.’
As they turned into the river path, the ferry-boat was crossing leisurely, with a freight of country girls on their way home from Grayfleet.
Uncle Luke trotted cheerfully along, still holding Madeline by the hand. Her eyes were now on the shining river and the drifting ferry-boat, and she had almost forgotten her scene with the Rector.
They were a curious pair. The girl was a slender slight thing, wild as some wayside weed. Her form was curiously light and graceful; her face, with its large passionate eyes, very wistful and sad. The common cotton frock and coarse country shoes and stockings became her well, though her limbs were somewhat long and shapeless as yet. And if the girl was not a little fairylike, Uncle Luke would certainly have passed well for a Gnome, or say rather, one of those quaint Trolls whose task it was, according to Scandinavian legend, to work busily in the bowels of the earth.
All the week long Uncle Luke did work, on the black river barge of which he was mate and his brother captain. From Monday to Saturday his figure was clad in blue jersey, red cap, and rough tarpaulin trousers, and he helped to work the barge on its short journeys up and down the crowded river. But on the present occasion, it being a holiday, his attire was radiant—a high chimney-pot hat, very broad at the brim, and large enough to descend to his ears, a blue pilot coat, a white waistcoat, and a coloured cotton shirt, blue navy trousers, and lace-up boots. For Uncle Luke loved splendour, and nothing suited him better than to shine glorious in the eyes of his neighbours; though Uncle Mark, who was his elder brother, and strictly pious, disapproved of all these vanities of apparel.
It may be admitted, without further preamble, that Uncle Luke, though able-bodied, was mentally deficient; indeed, in the estimation of many sober and wiser people, a simple fool, or, in the local parlance, little better than a natural. Yet his shortcomings were by no means upon the surface, and it would have taken a very wise man to understand them at a glance. He was harmless, industrious, and in some respects particularly shrewd. He knew how many pence make a shilling, and how many shillings a pound, as well as most men, and he had a sharp intuitive perception of human character. With all this he was simple beyond measure, and his reasoning faculties were absolutely infinitesimal.
Great as was his good nature, he strongly resented any imputation on his sagacity. His brother Mark had secured him work at a very low wage, on the understanding that he was weak and easily tired; and there on the barge, under his brother’s eye, he laboured cheerfully, save when some one was cruel enough to take advantage of his weakness or to deride his infirmity. At such times, he was subject to wild fits of passion. When these were over, he would creep into the cabin, cry like a child, and perhaps take to his hammock for days.
But to-day he looked happy enough, partly on account of his lucky escape from the Rector, and partly because Madeline had promised him the unparalleled