The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Martyrdom of Madeline, by Robert Buchanan This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: The Martyrdom of Madeline Author: Robert Buchanan Illustrator: A. W. Cooper Release Date: August 11, 2017 [EBook #55338] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE *** Produced by David Widger from page images generously provided by the Internet Archive THE MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE By Robert Buchanan With A Frontispiece By A. W. Cooper London: Chatto & Windus, Piccadilly 1889 0001 0008 0009 CONTENTS PREFATORY NOTE. THE MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. PROLOGUE IN THE NIGHT. CHAPTER I.—A DANCING LESSON UNDER DIFFICULTIES. CHAPTER II.—‘UNCLE’ LUKE AND ‘UNCLE’ MARK. CHAPTER III.—EASTER SOLEMNITIES OF THE BRETHREN. CHAPTER IV.—UNCLE MARK PARTS WITH THE OLD BARGE. CHAPTER V.—UNCLE MARK SAILS UP THE SHINING RIVER. CHAPTER VI.—MADELINE IS ABOUT TO REALISE HER DREAM. CHAPTER VII.—INTRODUCES A DISTINGUISHED LITERARY BOHEMIAN. CHAPTER VIII.—UNCLE LUKE IS BROKEN-HEARTED. CHAPTER IX.—MADELINE FINDS NEW FRIENDS. CHAPTER X.—A TELEGRAPHIC THUNDERBOLT. CHAPTER XI.—THE HAWK AND THE DOVE. CHAPTER XII.—CAGED. CHAPTER XIII.—MADELINE AWAKES FROM HER DREAM. CHAPTER XIV.—DARKER DAYS. CHAPTER XV.—BELLEISLE SPREADS HIS NET. CHAPTER XVI.—‘WHICH DO YOU PITY?’ CHAPTER XVII.—THE BARS BROKEN. CHAPTER XVIII.—IMOGEN. CHAPTER XIX.—THE HARUM-SCARUMS. CHAPTER XX.—A PAINTER’S MODEL. CHAPTER XXI.—A WALK ACROSS HYDE PARK. CHAPTER XXII.—BLANCO SERENA. CHAPTER XXIII.—AT THE CLUB. CHAPTER XXIV.—WHITE BIDS A LAST FAREWELL TO BOHEMIA. CHAPTER XXV.—MADELINE CHANGES HER NAME. CHAPTER XXVI.—THE PUPIL OF THE IMPECCABLE. CHAPTER XXVII.—ADELE LAMBERT. CHAPTER XXVIII.—AT THE COUNTESS AURELIA’S. CHAPTER XXIX.—GAVROLLES. CHAPTER XXX.—IN THE TOILS. I CHAPTER XXXI.—IN THE ROW. CHAPTER XXXII.—HUSBAND AND WIFE. CHAPTER XXXIII.—OLD JOURNALISM—AND NEW. CHAPTER XXXIV.—A SELF-CONSTITUTED CHAMPION. CHAPTER XXXV—MADELINE PREPARES FOR FLIGHT. CHAPTER XXXVI.—‘GOOD-BYE!’ CHAPTER XXXVII.—THE SEARCH. CHAPTER XXXVIII.—‘ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE’ CHAPTER XXXIX.—DUST TO DUST. CHAPTER XL.—‘RESURGAM.’ CHAPTER XLI.—THE SISTERS OF MOUNT EDEN. CHAPTER XLII.—EXIT GAVROLLES. CHAPTER XLIII.—ON BOULOGNE SANDS. CHAPTER XLIV.—‘JANE PEARTREE.’ CHAPTER XLV.—AN OLD PICTURE. CHAPTER XLVI.—HOW MADELINE ROSE AGAIN. EPILOGUE. PREFATORY NOTE. n this story I have touched, very feebly and inadequately, on one of the greatest and saddest of human problems—as great and sad, certainly, as the problem which forms the central purpose of my ‘Shadow of the Sword.’ What the creed of Peace is to the state, the creed of Purity is to the social community. So long as carnal indulgence is recognised as a masculine prerogative, so long as personal chastity is a supreme factor in the fate of women, but a mere accident in the lives of men, so long as the diabolic ingenuity of a strong sex is tortured to devise legal means for sacrificing a weaker sex—so long, in a word, as our homes and our streets remain what they are—the creed of Purity must remain as forlorn a dream as that other creed of Peace. One word more with regard to my dramatis persono, none of whom are to be taken for photographs or caricatures of living individuals. In one case I have endeavoured to construct out of the editorial chit-chat of a journal an amusing personality,—not, I think, ungenerously conceived; of the real editor I know absolutely nothing, and I certainly bear him no ill-will, much as I dislike the system of personal journalism which he has created. All the other characters are purely fictitious. Gavrolles and his circle are to be accepted as representatives, not of æstheticism proper, but of the cant of æstheticism—which is quite another thing. R. B. THE MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. A PROLOGUE IN THE NIGHT. s the two women gazed at one another under the lamplight, one standing and looking down, the other sitting and looking up, you would have said they might have been twin sisters—they looked so wonderfully alike. Both were fair, with pale forget- me-not eyes, and skins delicately clear; both were tall and slight. Nor was there any very noticeable difference in the dress they wore. She who stood erect, with the rain beating down upon her head, wore only, besides her bonnet and dress of black stuff, a shawl wrapt tightly around her; the shawl was rich and valuable, but looked common enough in the dim light. She who sat, with her elbow on her knees and her chin resting in her open palms, wore a shawl too, and a plain stuff dress, sodden with the rain; her bonnet had fallen back, soaking and unheeded, on her shoulders, just held by the sodden strings. A close observer, however, would have perceived a world of difference between these two women. The woman standing had the fierce, pained, impatient manner of a wild animal; every look, every gesture was self-contained, determined, yet full of overmastering anxiety, The woman sitting was a crushed, gin-sodden, passionless, powerless waif, with only the courage of a hunted pariah dog, to snap, and crawl uselessly away. Both were very young, neither being more than twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. ‘That way!—over the Bridge!’ said the woman sitting, in a husky voice; then she added, as the other seemed about to pass on, ‘Stop though! what are you going to stand?’ The other turned quickly, and again looked down with her large eager eyes. ‘What do you want?—Money?’ The voice was deep and clear, though it trembled a little. ‘Yes, I’m as thirsty as a fish. Lend me a shilling, and I’ll pay you back some night when I’m in luck. Only a shilling! that won’t break you!’ ‘If I give you the money, what will you do with it?’ ‘Drink it,’ was the curt reply. Something in the answer had a curious effect on the hearer. She stooped softly down and looked earnestly in the other woman’s face. ‘You’ll know me again when you see me?’ ‘Do you mind telling me your name?’ ‘Ellen,—never mind what else. Nell for snort. ‘Where do you live?’ ‘Anywhere.’ ‘How old are you?’ ‘Lord knows. Twenty or thereabouts. Are you going to keep on questioning all the blessed night? I want something to drink.’ The girl who stood bent over the sitting girl and placed something in her hand. She uttered a suppressed cry. ‘Gold! Why, you’ve given me a sovereign! What for?’ ‘I have only another, or I would give you more. I am sorry for you. Good night!’ ‘Stop! don’t go. Let me have another look at you.’ ‘Well?’ ‘What a fool I was! Why you’re a lady!’ It was the other’s turn to laugh now—a low, bitter laugh. ‘And you’ve got on a real Injy shawl—let me feel it! And there’s a pair of gold bracelets on your wrists! Well, I’m——!!’ This with a prolonged half whistle, expressive of utter surprise. Then she continued— ‘I don’t know who you are, or where you’re a-going, but the streets ain’t safe for the likes of you. You’d best go home, my lady!’ ‘I have no home.’ ‘What!’ ‘What home I had I have left, never to go back. I am leaving London.’ T ‘Where are you going?’ ‘Anywhere.’ After a moment’s pause she pointed across the river and over the house-tops, and added, ‘Out there.’ ‘Friends there, I suppose?’ ‘No friends.’ ‘And not much coin. Ah, well, you’ve them swell bracelets; and the shawl, too, is worth money.’ It was very strange—innocent as the remark seemed, it appeared to make the tall figure of the listener tremble with agitation, perhaps with anger. With a quick impetuous movement she drew off her bracelets and threw them into the girl’s lap. ‘Take them—I don’t want them! And the shawl too—take it, and give me yours.’ ‘No, you’re joking!’ ‘Quick!’ In a moment the change was effected; and the women now stood erect and face to face. The commoner and more outcast creature seemed utterly stupefied by what had taken place. Suddenly the other seized both her hands, and said quickly— ‘The river—is it there?’ A light seemed suddenly to flash in upon the outcast’s bewildered brain. ‘You’re not a-going to drown yourself? No!’ ‘I don’t know—perhaps!’ This with a peculiar smile. ‘It’s no use; there’s too many eyes a-watching. I tried it myself once, slap off the Embankment, but I was fished out like a wet rag. Don’t you be such a fool! You’re a lady, and you had best go home.’ Without replying, the lady began to move rapidly away. Seized by a peculiar impulse, the outcast cried after her—‘Come back— take your things—it’s a shame for me to have them. Take them back.’ ‘No; keep them. Good-bye. May I kiss you?’ ‘If you like,’ was the stupefied reply. The lips of the two women met, their breaths mingled for a moment. Then, while the one stood petrified, staring in utter astonishment, the other flitted rapidly and silently away. CHAPTER I.—A DANCING LESSON UNDER DIFFICULTIES. welve years before the occurrence of the incident described in my prologue, a curious group was assembled in a quiet corner of Grayfleet Churchyard. Gray fleet is a damp, aguish, lonely, desolate village, on the verge of the great Essex marshes; and its old church, like a skull with two empty, lifeless eyes, gazes with two dreary windows right down on the marshes, towards that low-lying mist where they mingle with the sea. The group of which I have spoken consisted of some six girls and one little boy. The girls were of divers ages, from six to sixteen, and all were more or less smartly dressed in holiday clothes, for it was a Good Friday. They stood in a ring round a flat tombstone, grey with age, and green with slime of moss. On this tombstone a fair little girl of eight, with dishevelled hair and flushed cheeks, was practising the first steps of a dance. Her instructress was the eldest of the party, a pale, red-haired wench of sixteen, who watched her with keenly critical eyes, and at times stepped forward, took her place on the tombstone, and showed her how to use her feet. First position—heel and toe—cut and shuffle. ‘Lookee here, Mawther!’ cried one of the girls to a passer by. ‘Come and see Polly Lowther teaching Mark Peartree’s girl to dance.’ Another girl came running into the churchyard, and joined the group. ‘That’s the style!’ exclaimed Polly Lowther, as the red-haired girl was called. ‘You’ll soon learn, if you only try. Look at me, Madlin. Watch my feet.’ First position—heel and toe—cut and shuffle. The girls clapped their hands enthusiastically, and the little boy, who was sitting astride on a green grave, grinned approval. Fired by the applause bestowed on her teacher, the little fair girl—‘Madlin,’ as the others called her—began wildly practising the steps. First position—heel and toe—cut and shuffle. Suddenly there was a rush, a cry. The troop of girls scattered on every side and disappeared: the little boy cried and ran. Only ‘Madlin’ remained, so absorbed for the time being in her dancing that for a moment she did not notice that she was left alone, and that a tall figure in black, with white neckcloth, stood frowning at her. The next moment she was conscious of her predicament. Flushed and panting, she stood and gazed, and recognised to her horror the Rector of the parish. She gave one glance around, to see if she was quite abandoned, and then, seeing no trace of her companions, she curtsied timidly, and stood her ground. ‘Little girl,’ said the Rector, in a terrible voice, ‘I don’t know you—what is your name?’ She hung her head awkwardly, and made no reply. ‘Do you hear me? What is your name?’ The little girl raised her head, looked straight at the Rector, and answered in a clear voice— ‘If you please, sir, I’m Madlin—Mark Peartree’s girl.’ The Rector’s brows came down still more. ‘Mark Peartree; I think I know the man—he lives down at the ferry, and sails in a barge. Is he your father?’ The girl, who had a common straw hat swinging by the ribbon in her mouth, gnawed the ribbon, and replied shortly— ‘No, he ain’t.’ ‘What is he, then?’ asked the Rector. ‘Some relation?’ ‘No,’ was the immediate reply. ‘I call him uncle, but he isn’t a real uncle, nor Uncle Luke neither. I’m a foundling—Aunt Jane found me, out there!’ And with a back sweep of her hand, the little girl indicated the great marshes, steaming and reddening in the setting sun. ‘And whoever you are, are you not aware,’ said the Rector, improving the occasion, ‘that you are a very wicked little girl? Upon this holy day of all days in the year I find you practising a vicious pastime here, in God’s own acre! On a tombstone! Little girl, do you know that there is a dead fellow-creature lying under you, and that you are profaning his place of rest?’ The girl gave a start and a scared look downward, as if half expecting the dead man to arise and confront her; then half unconsciously she edged off the tombstone and stood ankle deep in the long churchyard grass. ‘I am afraid,’ said the Rector, shaking his forefinger at her. ‘I am really very much afraid that you have been very badly brought up. Tell me, have you ever heard the word of God? Do you ever go to church?’ The answer was at any rate prompt and explicit. ‘No—never.’ ‘Ah, I thought so. A sad case. And your father—I mean your adopted father—is he not ashamed of himself to bring you up in ignorance and sin?’ This was touching rather a dangerous chord. The little girl flushed, panted, opened her large blue eyes full on the minister and exclaimed— ‘Uncle Mark isn’t ashamed of himself, no more is Uncle Luke! They go to their meeting, and I go too. They’re United Brethren, and when I grow up, I’m to be a Brethren too!9 ‘Brethren!’ This was said in a tone which clearly implied that their cup of moral delinquency, in the Rector’s eyes, was now full and overflowing. The good pastor could have endured a family which repudiated Christianity altogether, but any form of Dissent was worse even than the rankest blasphemy. It is doubtful what turn the interview would have taken, but just at this moment an unexpected diversion took place. A thin shrill voice, doubtless appertaining to one of the little girl’s late companions, suddenly pealed out, from some mysterious corner where its owner lay hidden— ‘Look out, Madlin! Here’s your Uncle Luke a-comin’!’ Madeline looked startled; then, strange to say, her face grew quite bright and eager. The Rector seemed perplexed, and uncertain what to say next. Just then the gate of the churchyard opened, and a little man, with very short legs and a very large head, looked in, and seeing Madeline, quietly entered. ‘Uncle! Uncle Luke!’ The little man nodded his head and smiled. Then, seeing the Rector, he took off his hat and grinned. It was a peculiarity of the little man that he expressed all thoughts and moods by means of a rather mindless smile, sometimes broadening into a grin. For the rest, he had large watery eyes and a large mouth, and his general appearance was homely and awkward in the extreme. By this time Madeline was at his side, holding his hand and looking up into his face. The Rector strode across the churchyard. ‘I have just been warning this child against dancing upon the tombstones. I have told her that she is a very wicked child, and she has informed me that her relations belong to some Methodist 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 W 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. hile 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 treat of cutting open her bright new money-box. This was a kind of temptation he never could resist. Had he possessed a watch, he would have taken it to pieces to examine the works; and he had been languishing with curiosity for days, puzzling his head, as many a child has done, to know what was inside the money-box labelled ‘Savings’ Bank,’ with its front pointed like a town hall, and a slit in its top for the reception of vagrant pence. Having come in sight of the ferry, the two walked on quickly. The sun blazed down on them with golden splendour, and from beneath their feet the dust arose in a cloud. Neither spoke; Madeline continued to impress an occasional kiss on the hand which she still held fondly in hers—and to each of these exhibitions of feeling her companion replied by a broad grin. Suddenly, however, he gave a start and, looking down at his flushed and dusty companion, said quickly— ‘I say, Madlin, you’d best put on your Sunday hat. There be Uncle Mark at the garden gate!’ Without a word, Madeline obeyed. She took the hat, which for coolness and comfort she had swung on her arm, and tied it carefully on her head. Then regaining possession of her uncle’s hand, she walked decorously up to one of the little green cottage gates, I on the other side of which stood, indeed, her Uncle Mark. Though Luke and Mark were brothers, they were as unlike one another as two men could possibly be. Mark Peartree stood six feet in his shoes; he was very thin, and he stooped slightly at the shoulders. His hair was grey, his face red as a Ripston pippin, but his cheeks were sunken, perhaps from the loss of many teeth. The cottage was one of a row of red brick, with creepers crawling over the front, a small plot of garden facing the river, enclosed by green wooden railings and a green wooden gate. Upon one of the gates now leaned Uncle Mark, clad, too, in his Sunday best, but much less gaudily than Luke, and looking down the road with impatience marked on every lineament of his face. ‘Here you be at last,’ he said, when the vagrant pair came up. ‘Why, mate alive, can’t you be home at meal times? Mother’s in a powerful rage. Brother Brown be coming this afternoon, and he’ll be here afore we can get our wittles done!’ At this speech the smile faded from Luke’s face; but, before he could utter a word in reply, another voice, evidently that of a female, chimed in from the cottage— ‘I’m sure, father, it be like you to be asking Brother Brown and the Brethren here of a Good Friday, as if we didn’t get enough of them every day i’ the year. However, coming they be, but we shan’t get the dinner over any the quicker with you standing racketing there!’ The speaker stood in the doorway, the red brick and the green creepers framing her as she stood. A comfortable looking woman, dressed in a clean cotton gown, with a coarse white apron tied round her waist. She was short and stout, with a brown good- humoured face and glossy black hair. She wore a cap the long ends of which were thrown over her shoulders and pinned behind, as if for freedom; her sleeves were rolled up nearly to the elbow, and her hands and arms were mottled brown and red with constant work in soap and water. At sight of this figure, no other indeed than Mrs. Mark Peartree, or, as Madeline called her, ‘Aunt Jane,’ the good-humoured grin again took possession of Uncle Luke’s face. Passing through the little gate he made for the door and at once entered the house, while Madeline transferred her attentions to Uncle Mark. ‘It wasn’t any fault o’ Uncle Luke’s,’ she said, looking up into the weather-beaten face, ‘indeed, Uncle Mark, ’twas all on account o’ me that he was so long—I was up there with Polly Lowther, looking at the graves.’ In her eagerness to excuse her favourite, Madeline might have revealed the dreaded secret of the dance, but Uncle Mark, who had his own reasons for wishing to get the dinner quickly disposed of, patted her hand and said— ‘All right, Madlin, my lass;’ and, taking her small hot hand in his big horny first, led her into the house. It was a very small house. A long narrow passage led from the front door to the back, and midway in the passage was a flight of narrow carpetless stairs. On the right opened out two rooms—a kitchen, and a parlour, as it was called. During the week, while the men were at work on the river, the parlour was carefully closed up. No fire was ever lit in it—it was dark, well polished, and genteel, with a bit of drugget for a carpet, a china shepherd and shepherdess, and several shells on the mantelpiece, and on the walls two highly illuminated pictures, one representing the Prodigal Son, the other Susannah and the Elders. But in the centre of the mantelpiece stood the crowning glory of the apartment—a small ‘weather-cottage’ made of wood, formed in the shape of a roofed shed, and containing two figures, one of ‘Darby’ and another of ‘Joan,’ standing on either side of a piece of wood, suspended in the centre by a quicksilver pole. When the weather was fine, Joan swung out, with her basket on her arm, as if going to market, and left Darby under cover; when it was wet, Joan retreated, and Darby emerged to brave the elements like a man. This weather-cottage was a miracle of art in Madeline’s eyes, and was regarded with no little reverence by all the members of the house. Indeed, the parlour altogether was a sanctuary, full of a pious clamminess and darkness, and even Mrs. Peartree never entered it without a certain awe, tempered with a sense of increased respectability. From week’s end to week’s end they remained in the red-tiled kitchen, while on Sunday evening, and indeed on every festive occasion like the present, the parlour was thrown open for the family use. CHAPTER III.—EASTER SOLEMNITIES OF THE BRETHREN. t was in the paven kitchen, however, that the party now assembled, and taking their seats round the square deal table, which was spread with a clean table-cloth, began at once upon the dinner—a boiled leg of pork and potatoes. With her little feet swinging to and fro, and her large blue wistful eyes roving wistfully about the room, Madeline sat and ate up her portion contentedly. The sun streaming through the back window caressed her bright cheek and dusty hair, and made her think of the glad light which had touched her only a short time ago, while she had been learning to dance upon the tombs. Suddenly a strange thought seemed to strike her. ‘Uncle Mark,’ she said, while Uncle Luke dropped his knife and fork in wonder, ‘can dead folk feel?’ ‘No, my lass,’ returned Uncle Mark, with some little surprise in his mild blue eyes. ‘Dead men is dead as nails is—they can’t feel nothing. What put that into your head?’ But Madeline did not answer; a sense of great satisfaction had stolen over her at this brief assurance, and, with a glance of meaning at Uncle Luke, she said to herself that, for once in his life, the parson had been wrong. Dinner being over, there was a general movement, and a great awe came over the family as the door of communication between the kitchen and parlour was thrown open, and the latter was seen in all its sepulchral splendour. Uncles Mark and Luke passed reverently in, and closed the door; but soon Madeline was made straight and clean, and sent in after them, while Aunt Jane, who seemed seized with unaccountable irritability, remained to tidy up the kitchen. Once in the parlour, Madeline crept up to the window, and gazed with wistful dreamy eyes across the little garden on the great still river, which crept past flashing and darkening in the sun. Uncle Mark, seated on a very shiny and sticky horsehair sofa, was deep in the pages of the family Bible, while Uncle Luke, with a face as grave as a judge, was repeating in an undertone the words of an Easter hymn. All was quiet and still in the sepulchral chamber; but through the closed door they could distinctly hear the rattling of dishes, the clangour of pots and pans, from the kitchen. Presently this rattling and clangour became positively furious, and simultaneously a loud rat-a-tat was heard at the front door. Finally, to the same noisy accompaniment, the room door was opened, and a number of visitors came in one by one. They consisted of a tall thin man, dressed in glossy black, with a long thin face, broad protruding forehead, and a bald head; followed by several very rough-looking figures in high hats and rude Sunday suits. Each as he entered doffed his hat, with a nod of solemn greeting to Uncles Mark and Luke. The tall man paused in the centre of the room and breathed heavily, while Uncle Mark rose to receive him. He was evidently expected. The tall man in black, a retired tradesman, known in the neighbourhood as ‘Brother Brown,’ was the leader of the sect known as the ‘United Brethren,’ of which Uncles Mark and Luke were lowly members. He was a person of some importance and some property, but, having no wider field in which to practise his feats of piety, he was content every Sunday to visit the row of cottages, and, gathering his satellites together in one house or another, discourse to them on the lights and shadows of another world. After the keen glance into the room, Brother Brown gave his whole hand to Uncle Mark, and the tips of his fingers to Uncle Luke, nodded grimly to Madeline, and sinking on the sofa, covered his face with large red hands, and sank into deep silence. This manoeuvre was followed by all the others present except Madeline. Each covered his face with his hand, and took a gentle header, so to speak, into himself. If we may continue the metaphor, all remained under water for many minutes. The effect was awe-inspiring. At last Brother Brown uncovered his face and came up refreshed; the other men emerged one by one. ‘Brother Peartree,’ he said, addressing Uncle Mark, ‘are we all here?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ answered Uncle Mark, while his blue eyes wandered over the group. ‘Here be Brother Strangeways, Brother Smith, Brother Hornblower, Brother Billy Horn-blower, Brother Luke Peartree, and myself. Not to speak of little Madlin—she axed to come in, and a child can’t begin too early.’ Brother Brown coughed heavily and looked at the kitchen door, through which came at intervals a dull clangour as of pots and pans. ‘Then I suppose,’ he said, ‘Sister Peartree is still obdurate. Will she not join our little gathering, and listen for once to the words of healing?’ Uncle Mark looked very red and uncomfortable, and jerked his thumb awkwardly towards the door. ‘Never mind the missus to-day, Brother Brown—she’s had a heap o’ worrit during the week, and the fact is, she ain’t just tidy enough to come into the best parlour.’ Brother Brown’s heavy brow darkened. ‘“Six days shalt thou labour,”’ he said. ‘Well, brother, you are the head of your own house, and I leave our unregenerate sister to you. Let us pray.’ Thereupon all, including Madeline, knelt down, while Brother Brown exercised his spirit in a long prayer, with variations and expressions of sympathy in the form of low groans and ejaculations from his companions—who had all again (to resume a former metaphor) retired under water. Emerging once more, and receiving a signal from Brother Brown, Brother Billy Hornblower, an overgrown young bargee of twenty, began a homely hymn, in which all the others gruffly joined. Pilot the boat to the City of Jesus, Up with the tide, though there’s danger afloat* Far up the stream lies the City of Jesus, Dark is the night, but we’ll pilot the boat. Chorus. Pilot the boat, mates! pilot the boat! Hark, the wind rises—there’s danger afloat— Courage! for up to the City of Jesus, Steadily, safely, we’ll pilot the boat. See, mates, the lights of the City of Jesus, Steer for them lights, thro’ the dangers afloat— Up to the wharves of the City of Jesus, Ere the tide turns, we must pilot the boat. Chorus. Pilot the boat, mates! pilot the boat! Hark, the wind rises—there’s danger afloat— Courage! and up to the City of Jesus, Steadily, safely, we’ll pilot the boat. As the music grew louder, the clatter in the kitchen increased, to the obvious dissatisfaction of Brother Mark. The hymn ceased, and Brother Brown delivered a short sermon, founded on the text, ‘Those that go down to the sea in ships,’ which was felt to be especially suitable to those who went down the river in barges. After this, Brother Mark rose, and in a few brief words, interspersed freely with Scriptural quotations, addressed the Brethren, taking for his theme the sacred character of the day, and greatly troubling the soul of little Madeline by gloomy references to dead sinners in their graves. After a short address to the same effect from Brother Strangeways, a waterside worthy with a very weatherbeaten face and a very weather wise sort of oratory, and another hymn from Brother Billy Hornblower, the service was concluded. Then, as a concluding solemnity, all shook hands, and the conversation suddenly grew secular. ‘Going down with the tide i’ the morning, mate?’ asked Brother Strangeways. ‘It be high water at four, and we be loaded since day afore yesterday.’ ‘Where for, mate?’ asked Uncle Mark. ‘Down right away Southam,’ was the reply. ‘Well, mate, I be anchored at home with the old woman till Monday, and then I goes up with first flood to Crewsham Basin.’ ‘Lime?’ asked Brother Strangeways, sententiously. ‘Lime it is,’ answered Brother Mark, and forthwith the talk became professional. In the meantime, Brother Brown had drawn from his pocket several loose leaves or tracts, a species of torpedo which he was in the habit of dropping surreptitiously wherever he went, for the confusion of recalcitrant and unrepentant sinners. Selecting three of these, each of which had special reference to the forlorn spiritual condition of a person of the other sex, he proceeded to pin them on the parlour walls—one over the Shepherdess on the mantelpiece, a second under the picture of the Prodigal Son, a third under that of Susannah and the Elders. When this was done he shook hands with Uncle Mark, nodded to Uncle Luke, and passed out of the house; the other men, each with a ‘Good night, mate,’ for each of the two Pear-trees, immediately followed, solemnly, in single file. No sooner had the street door closed than Mrs. Pear-tree, with the sleeves of her gown tucked up to the elbow, entered the precincts of the chamber. Scorn was in every lineament of her countenance, but directly her eyes fell on the parlour walls, the scorn deepened to wrath. ‘Brother Brown’s been at them walls again,’ she cried. I wonder at you, Mark Peartree, to sit still and see him do it. Tracts agin your own wedded wife, stuck on the walls of her own best parlour—oh, I’d “tract” him!’ As she spoke, she made a dash at each of the papers in succession, and tore them angrily away. ‘My lass,’ said Uncle Mark, gruffly, ‘read’em—they’re left for your convarsion.’ W ‘Stuff and rubbish!’ ‘Salvation ain’t rubbish, mother, and this here earth’s a wale. A wale it is! And let me tell you, tho’ you are my missus, it don’t become you to put Brother Brown so much about. Why, while we was a-singing, I heard you clattering the dishes like a barge a- heaving anchor, and I see Brother Brown looking at the door out of the corner of his eyes. No, my lass, it don’t become you, and it ain’t settin’ a good example to little Madlin, who may be a wessel herself by and by.’ ‘Never, if I can help it,’ answered the woman. ‘We’ve wessels enough in our family, what with you and Uncle Luke. Look at the mark o’ the dirty muddy feet on the clean carpet. I wish you’d meet outside, or in some other house but mine.’ ‘And I wish you’d join us—it’d do you a power of good.’ Mrs. Peartree’s only answer was to toss her head and walk back into the kitchen. Uncle Luke followed very crestfallen and pitiful at the domestic disagreement; while Uncle Mark remained in the parlour, and showed the pictures in Foxe’s ‘Book of Martyrs’—a precious tome of tremendous antiquity—to Madeline. The child shuddered as she saw on every page flame consuming those who testified to the truth in evil times. ‘Uncle Mark,’ she said, ‘do they ever burn people now?’ ‘Not in this here world, my lass; only in t’other. And even then only the wery bad ones—them as hates their neighbours, and can come to no manner o’ good without burning!’ Madeline did not answer, but she thought of Aunt Jane, who was the very essence of gentleness and good nature, but who was made utterly unregenerate by the intensity of her hate for Brother Brown. CHAPTER IV.—UNCLE MARK PARTS WITH THE OLD BARGE. hen 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 expecting to see the great black barge sail, like a spectre, through the hazy mist of rain. But no such vision appeared—the faint ray of the young moon showed her the silently sleeping river, through the silvery threads of rain which still fell from the ever-darkening sky. ‘Uncle Mark, Uncle Luke!’ exclaimed Madeline, clapping her hands, ‘make haste and come home, and I’ll try not to laugh any more.’ At that moment the barge, with Uncles Mark and Luke on board, was gliding slowly up the river, ten miles away. The wind had been fair all day and the barge had made good speed, but as night came on and the rain fell faster, the breeze completely died. The barge lay heavily on the shining river, with the great red sail flapping listlessly above and black shadows all around. They had hoisted the side-lights, and now and then through the impenetrable blackness a faint light answered them—this was the only indication of human life which came to them at all. Uncle Luke was at the helm, peering with his small keen grey eyes into the blackness; and Uncle Mark was below, eating his supper. Presently the latter passed his red night-capped head out of the hatchway, and gave 8 sharp glance around him; then his whole long body emerged, and he strolled to Luke’s side. ‘Well, mate,’ he said, ‘there don’t seem much wind, and I’m a-feared there ain’t much a-coming; suppose you go and turn in?’ But Uncle Luke shook his head decidedly. ‘No, no, Mark!’ he answered; ‘reckon you’re more knocked up nor what I be. Just you turn in for a bit while ’tis calm—and when the wind comes I’ll sing out.’ After a little more discussion as to which should get the first spell of sleep, Uncle Mark descended to the cabin and Luke was left alone. It was very dreary above, very dark and wet; but Uncle Luke, who was generally in a happy state of mind, seemed quite contented. He grasped the tiller firmly in his hard, horny hand, and fixed his eyes with wonderful keenness upon the moving lights around him. There was scarcely any wind at all now, and the barge lay like a log; but ever and anon she was lifted up as on a bosom in gentle breathing, while the great sail flapped listlessly above, and the side-lights shone out like glimmering stars in the darkness, and flashed their brightness at the sky which loomed so darkly overhead. An hour or so passed thus, and then the rain gradually ceased to fall, the black in the sky began to float gently on before a cold, light wind, which be...