Still lost in wonder, Madeline alighted from the train, and, clutching
Uncle Luke’s hand, moved along with the crowd that was surging out of
the station.
Once outside, amidst the din of rattling cabs and excited passengers,
Uncle Luke seemed perplexed what to do next. He took off his high hat,
and scratched his head; and this appeared to remind him that he had a
paper carefully tucked into the hat’s lining. So he searched for and
found the paper, on which was written, in a round, clear hand--
Marmaduke White, Esq.,
The Den,
Willowtree Road,
St. John’s Wood.
In his perplexity he turned to a policeman, and, with his usual grin,
showed him the paper. The policeman, who happened to be good-natured,
informed him that he must walk across London Bridge, and make the best
of his way to the Bank, where he would get an omnibus which would take
him straight to his destination.
‘When you get to the Bank, look for a “City Hatlas”--you’ll see “City
Hatlas” written on the outside. You can’t go wrong.5
Thus instructed, Uncle Luke toddled off as fast as his legs could carry
him, and was swept along with the traffic that sets all day from London
Bridge Station over the great Bridge. Madeline clung to him in amazement
and terror, with her great wistful eyes wide in wonder.
As they passed over the bridge and saw the river gleaming, she uttered
a cry, and would have stopped to gaze, but her Uncle pulled her along,
being far too excited for explanation or conversation.
In due time they reached the Bank; and now a fresh perplexity occurred,
for the little man had quite forgotten the policeman’s directions.
Madeline, however, remembered, and spying an omnibus labelled ‘City
Atlas’ hurried him towards it.
He showed 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 pair of very dirty fancy slippers, and an old dressing-gown. Thus
attired he even looked less engaging than when composing in bed.
His hands were greatly in need of soap, his whiskers were ragged and
ornamented with fragments of yolk of egg, and his face, which was
otherwise kindly and good-humoured, looked parboiled. Seizing a brush,
he went through the formality of brushing the very minute bunches
of hair which ornamented his bald head, and then, after a momentary
struggle with his whiskers, led the way into the ‘studio.’ Here they
found Madeline in high delight, for Cheveley, seizing a piece of
charcoal, had dashed off a rough likeness of her on a canvas which stood
vacant. The wild locks, the great wistful eyes, the delicate mouth, were
happily caught, and for the moment the child forgot all her troubles.
‘Look, Uncle Luke,’ she cried, running to him and pointing out the
likeness. ‘It’s me.’
Uncle Luke, still pale and trembling with his great grief, grinned from
ear to ear, and gazed upon the artist in pathetic admiration. Meantime
White stood blinking benignly through his spectacles; at last Madeline
caught his look, and returned it with no little astonishment.
‘This is Madlin,’ said Uncle Luke, gently.
Thus introduced, Madeline dropped her eyes timidly, and gave a country
curtsey, as she had been accustomed to do to the magnates of the
village.