The Martyrdom of Madeline. Robert Williams Buchanan

CHAPTER IV.—UNCLE MARK PARTS WITH THE OLD BARGE.

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      When Madeline slipped from her bed on the Tuesday after Easter Monday, drew aside the chintz curtains from her little window and looked forth, she was astonished to see that the sunshine of the preceding days had been followed by a drizzling rain. The river looked black and very solemn as it slipped between its sedgy banks; the marshes, turning a white face to the sullen sky, looked dreary enough as they drank in the falling rain, and the red tiles on the houses of Grayfleet were redder than ever with the ceaseless washing of the showers.

      She had slept heavily, but had not yet wholly recovered from the depression caused by the preaching of the past few days, and of so many hours spent in the sanctuary of the best room.

      She dressed hastily, ran down stairs, and peeped into the parlour at the ‘weather cottage.’ Alas! Joan was under shelter, and Darby was outside. So it was to be a wet day indeed!

      The house was very quiet. The front door stood open and a clammy breeze swept into the passage and kissed her cheeks. The parlour had been cleared out an hour before by Aunt Jane’s industrious hands, and was carefully prepared for next Sunday. But a clear fire burned in the kitchen, casting its light on the bright paven floor, and upon the buxom figure of Aunt Jane herself, who stood by the table preparing breakfast.

      ‘Eh, bless the child, how you did make me jump!’ she exclaimed, as Madeline put her* head in at the door.

      ‘Come, lass, and get your breakfast; ’tis near time you were starting for school.’

      After bestowing a hearty kiss on Mrs. Peartree’s sunburnt cheek, Madeline took her seat at the table; then suddenly looking round she asked:—

      ‘Why, Aunt Jane, where be Uncle Luke?’

      ‘Gone away two hours or more wi’ Uncle Mark; they sailed up wi’ the tide an hour afore thou was out o’ thy bed!’

      ‘Gone to London without me!’ cried Madeline, her large eyes filling with tears. ‘Uncle Luke did promise to take me with him this time!’

      ‘There, there, ha’ done wi’ your crying, like a good lass!’ said Aunt Jane, soothingly. Your Uncle Luke he did want to take ye, but I would have none on’t this woyage. A pretty like morning to take you from your bed!—why the rain was falling and the wind blowing enough to give you your death. But if you are a good lass and learn your lessons well you shall go next time. They’ll bring down the barge to-morrow, and likely they’ll be for taking her back o’ Thursday. Then you shall go.’

      With this assurance Madeline was fain to content herself. She had been on the barge once or twice when it had lain in Gray fleet basin, opposite the ferry; she had seen it spread out its great red wings and glide along the track of the river—until it looked like a great black swan—passing silently between the marshes, and fading behind the grey mist which for ever hung about them like a cloud; and her childish imaginations had often conjured up pictures of the strange scenes towards which the great black swan was drifting. London was to her the great world, the mysterious city, so different to the dark slimy river and low-lying marshes of Grayfleet. Ever since she could remember, this magic word ‘London’ had been the one which had ever urged her on to good deeds, the final goal to which all her virtuous deeds were to lead. Whenever she was bad, Aunt Jane never forgot to repeat the awful words—

      ‘There, Madlin, if you can’t be a better lass, you shall never go to London with me and Uncle Mark.’

      And when she had been unusually good she never failed to hear the timeworn promise—

      ‘You’ve been downright good! You shall go to London with me, and see the great waxwork wi’ the kings and queens, and the Sleepin’ Beauty as large as life.’

      When this magical visit was to be paid seemed somewhat indefinite. That Aunt Jane was strongly opposed to what she called ‘gadding about,’ may be gathered from the fact that during the six-and-twenty years of her married life she had spent only two days out of her own home. But Madeline had been content to hope and wait on—and dream over the many things she would do when at length the happy day did come. Just before Easter, however, she went half wild with ecstasy—for Uncle Luke in the exuberance of his gratitude to her for not laughing at him when his curiosity induced him to cut open a cheap concertina, ‘to see where the music came from,’ promised to take her immediately on to the barge and show her himself the wonderful sights of the great City.

      It was a great blow to Madeline to learn that her uncles had departed to the magical place without her, but by the time she had finished her breakfast the sadness caused by the disappointment had worn away. She bestowed another impulsive kiss on Aunt Jane’s brown cheek, and taking her books under her arm, trotted off gleefully through the rain towards the great red-brick public school where most of her days were spent.

      She was wonderfully light-hearted all day, and when evening came she firmly refused Polly Lowther’s invitation to take another dancing lesson, and trotted home to keep Aunt Jane company. She found the kitchen neat and clean as usual, with plates sparkling on the dresser, dishes smiling from the walls, and Mrs. Peartree sitting in their midst with a skein of worsted round her neck, and her busy fingers darning Uncle Mark’s guernsey. When Madeline came she laid her work aside and got the tea. The two sat down together.

      ‘Madlin, what in the world be you a-laughing at?’ asked Aunt Jane presently, astonished at the continual outbursts and half-smothered laughter of the child.

      But for the life of her Madeline would not tell—she only knew that she felt within her a strange hysterical sort of joy which would not be suppressed. Everything made her laugh; the gleaming dishes, the glancing firelight, the cat purring on the hearth, Aunt Jane’s sunburnt face, and even her looks of astonishment and frowns of reproach.

      Mrs. Peartree looked distressed; for she was superstitious.

      ‘As sure as you’re alive, Madlin,’ she cried reprovingly, ‘that laugh o’ yourn means no good. I mind the day my poor brother Jim were drowned dead—I was laughing like a mad thing afore I got the news. Them as laughs i’ the morning will cry before night, I’m thinking.’

      At this solemn warning Madeline’s hilarity received a sudden check, only to burst out again with renewed vehemence.

      ‘’Tis not on account of bad news, Aunt Jane!’ she said, ‘’tis because I’m soon going with Uncle Mark to London!’

      But Aunt Jane was not to be convinced. She gravely shook her head, and a few hours later when she put the child to bed she said:—

      ‘There, Madlin, try to go to sleep, do, and give o’er that giggling—‘tain’t nature for a child to laugh so—and ’twill take all the sleep from my eyes wi’ thinkin’ o’ my poor dear brother that’s gone to heaven.’

      Madeline promised implicit obedience, and nestled her dark little head into the snowy pillow. When she found herself alone, she slipped from her bed, drew aside the window curtain and looked out, half