It was broad daylight, and Madeline thought it must be late; Mrs. Peartree stood at the window, gazing dreamily forth2. 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 bent3 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?’ reiterated4 Madeline, after returning the caress5.
‘Nought6, lass, nought—’twas only one of them little steam tugs8 that stopped off the ferry and sent a boat ashore—but now the boat has gone back again, and the tug7 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 perplexed9 silence, but when Madeline entered he quietly sat down and burst into tears.
‘It warn’t no fault o’ mine, mother,’ he sobbed10; ‘don’t think it! He went on hisself, he jibbed the old barge11 hisself, and that’s how it all came about.’
Mrs. Peartree looked aghast, and her cheeks gradually grew pale too.
‘Mercy onus12, Luke, can you not speak?’ said she, irritably13. ‘What’s happened to Mark? Is he hurted?—is he—killed?’
As she spoke14 she grew sick at heart with apprehension15, 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 resolutely16 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 vehemence17, 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 drooping18 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 fixed19 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 sobbing20 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 Beacon21.’
‘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 dread22, 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 stifled23 sobs24 of Madeline and Uncle Luke. The kettle was singing on the hob, the cat purring on the hearth25, and the sun-rays creeping in through the window touched the bowed heads of those about the sofa, and laid a soft caressing26 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 vacancy27, 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 standing28 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 hymn29, 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 peculiar30 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.
Steer31 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.
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1
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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2
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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3
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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4
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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6
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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7
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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8
tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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9
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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10
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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11
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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12
onus
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| n.负担；责任 | |
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13
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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14
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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15
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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16
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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17
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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18
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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19
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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20
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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21
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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22
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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23
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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24
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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25
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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26
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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27
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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28
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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29
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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30
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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31
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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