For several days Uncle Mark lay solemnly silent in the front parlour.
An inquest was held over him, and a careful inquiry made into the manner
of his death, the jury bringing in a verdict to the effect that the
people in the tug were in no respect to blame, and that the fatal result
was entirely ‘accidental.’
At last, amid general grief, Uncle Mark was carried to his last home.
The Brethren, with solemn faces, bore him to his grave; and when the
simple service was over, one of them stood forward, and, with tears in
his eyes, chanted forth the words of the simple hymn which he had sung
to Brother Mark as he passed away.
Up to this Mrs. Peartree, who stood with the men at the grave, had borne
her burthen well, but no sooner did she hear the hymn which had ceased,
as it were, with her husband’s dying breath, than she wailed and broke
down. For a time all the bitterness of that sudden parting came back
upon her; she clasped the hand of little Madeline, who stood by her, and
burst into passionate tears.
But she could not indulge her stormy grief for long; troubles and
necessities clamoured like wolves around her, and turned her soul sick
with a new fear. Now that her strong husband was gone, the whole weight
of their little household was upon her; and no sooner was he in his
grave than she had to speculate upon the future. The verdict of the jury
destroyed all chance of receiving any compensation from the owners of
the tug, and indeed Mrs. Peartree never dreamed of putting in any claim.
Her husband’s earnings had been small, but she had managed to save a
little, enough to keep her for a week or so--‘to turn herself round,’ as
she expressed it--while she decided what was best to be done.
That Luke Peartree was thrown upon her hands she knew from the moment
of her husband’s death. As we have said, he was generally regarded as a
kind of natural; and everybody knew that had it not been for his brother
he would never have got work at all. Mark Peartree had been a skilful
bargeman, and in order to secure his services the barge-owners had
been quite willing that he should sail with his brother as mate.
Consequently, Mrs. Pear-tree knew that it was quite useless for him to
seek for work alone. For a time she was at her wits’ end to know what to
do 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.