All that night Madeline, sleeping peacefully, had been dreaming happy
dreams. Her little feet had been pattering through the busy streets of
the Golden City; her wondering eyes had been feasted with all the
gay sights, her ears with all the gay sounds, which the wondrous ways
afford. When she awoke in the morning, she was a little disappointed,
and a good deal astonished, to find herself in her little room at home.
It was broad daylight, and Madeline thought it must be late; Mrs.
Peartree stood at the window, gazing dreamily forth. Madeline lay for a
time and watched her; then she said suddenly:--
‘What are you looking at, Aunt Jane?’
At the sound of the voice the woman turned, and bent to impress her
usual kiss on the flushed little cheek on the pillow.
‘Get up, Madlin,’ she said, ‘’tis close on eight o’clock, and you’ll
be late for school again.’
‘What were you looking at?’ reiterated Madeline, after returning the
caress.
‘Nought, lass, nought--’twas only one of them little steam tugs that
stopped off the ferry and sent a boat ashore--but now the boat has gone
back again, and the tug has steamed away.’
‘What did it stop for?’ asked Madeline, rising on her pillow.
‘Bless the lass, how can I tell? for nought that consarns _us_, be sure.
There, get up quick, and I’ll cut the bread and butter.’
So saying, she departed, and Madeline, slipping from the bed, began to
dress herself. She had pretty nearly completed her task, and had her
arms raised, and her frock suspended above her head, when the sound of
voices reached her from below.
She listened, and recognised the tones of Uncle Luke. Her heart bounded,
her cheek flushed, a minute afterwards she flew down the stairs,
thrusting her arms into the wrong sleeves, and alighted, radiant,
panting, and half-dressed, on the kitchen floor.
It was Uncle Luke sure enough, but how strange he looked! His
weather-beaten cheeks were ghastly--his nervous fingers worked at a big
hole in his guernsey, he stared about him in perplexed silence, but when
Madeline entered he quietly sat down and burst into tears.
‘It warn’t no fault o’ mine, mother,’ he sobbed; ‘don’t think it! He
went on hisself, he jibbed the old barge hisself, and that’s how it all
came about.’
Mrs. Peartree looked aghast, and her cheeks gradually grew pale too.
‘Mercy onus, Luke, can you not speak?’ said she, irritably. ‘What’s
happened to Mark? Is he hurted?--is he--killed?’
As she spoke she grew sick at heart with apprehension, and turning at a
heavy sound of footsteps came face to face with her husband. He lay upon
a stretcher covered with rugs and blankets, and carried by one or two
of the Brethren who used to meet in the parlour on Good Friday. His face
was deathly pale, but his eyes wandered restlessly about, and when they
lighted on his wife’s face they gleamed with recognition. He smiled
faintly, and stretched towards her a trembling hand.
‘Don’t ’ee cry, mother,’ he said, seeing that her lips trembled and
her eyes grew dim; then, seeing Madeline in the background ready
to spring upon him, he added feebly, ‘Don’t come a-nigh me, little
Madlin--I’m a’most worn out.’
Mrs. Peartree was a woman of strong emotions, but she had a wonderful
power of self-control. She resolutely choked back the rising desire
to scream and fall into hysterics--and laying her brown hand on her
husband’s cold wet brow, said quietly but firmly:--
‘Why, Mark, Mark--what’s to do? I never thought to see my man brought
back to me like this.’
Then motioning Madeline to keep back, she had Uncle Mark carried into
the bright warm kitchen, where the breakfast was set, and, bringing in
the horsehair sofa from the parlour, drew it up beside the fire, and had
him placed thereon.
She had need of her resolution, for all poor Uncle Luke could do in this
time of trouble was to sit in a corner and cry like a child, asserting,
with strange vehemence, that he had no hand in the disaster, while
Madeline, as if for sympathy, sat by his side and cried too.
The movement and excitement seemed to have completely overpowered Uncle
Mark; no sooner did he get upon the couch than he sank back with his
eyes closed, and seemed to breathe his last.
Meantime one of the Brethren had run off for the doctor, while another
held a glass containing a little whisky, and Mrs. Peartree, taking the
drooping head under her arm, poured between the livid lips a few drops
of the spirit. At this he seemed to revive a little--he opened his eyes,
again recognised his wife, and fixed his gaze on hers.
In a few minutes the messenger returned, flushed and panting from his
run. The doctor wasn’t at home, he said; he had gone to visit a patient
several miles away; when he returned they would send him on.
Uncle Mark listened, smiling faintly, then he said:--
‘Ah, I don’t want ne’er a doctor, mate. I’ve got my physic at last, Lord
knows.’
‘Mark, Mark, don’t ‘ee talk so,’ said Mrs. Peartree, almost breaking
down.
But Uncle Mark smiled faintly again, and reached forth his trembling
hand towards her.
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘’tain’t no use denying of it, I’m agoing away.
That there spar did the job for me--but nobody’s to blame for it, only
me;’ then, as his wandering gaze fell upon his brother, who sat sobbing
in a corner, he asked suddenly:--
‘Luke, mate, what’s come o’ th’ old barge?’
‘She be clean sunk, mate,’ returned Luke, dashing away the tears with
the back of his rough, weatherbeaten hand. ‘She be sunk out there in the
river, up to Southam Beacon.’
‘She was a good wessel,’ said Mark, faintly; ‘many’s the year we sailed
her, you and me. And she be sunk at last!’
‘O, mate,’ cried Uncle Luke, piteously, ‘don’t take on about that.
We’ll get her up again, but if you go and die we shall all be adrift
together--little Madlin, and mother, and me, and all our hearts’ll be
broke.’
Uncle Mark did not reply; he lay back with closed eyes, his breathing
was laboured, and the hand which lay in his wife’s turned cold as stone.
For a moment Mrs. Peartree’s heart sank in dread, for she thought that
he was dying, but she neither spoke nor moved; she only clasped the hand
a little tighter in her own, and let the scalding tears run down her
cheeks.
It was a sorrowful group, and the warmth and comfort of the surroundings
seemed to make the sorrow of parting more keen. There was a death-like
silence in the room, the ticking of the old Dutch clock in the corner
rang out bell-like and clear, and between the ticks came the stifled
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.