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