Part 126 (1/2)

”Ah, mother,” whispered Margaret, in reply, ”he doth but deceive himself as we do.”

Ere she could finish the sentence, a strange interruption occurred.

A loud voice cried out, ”I SEE HIM. I SEE HIM.”

And the old man with dilating eyes seemed to be looking right through the wall of the house.

”IN A BOAT; on a GREAT RIVER; COMING THIS WAY. Sore disfigured; but I knew him. Gone! gone! all dark.”

And he sank back, and asked feebly where was Margaret.

”Dear father, I am by thy side. Oh, mother! mother, what is this?”

”I cannot see thee, and but a moment agone I saw all round the world.

Ay, ay. Well, I am ready. Is this thy hand? Bless thee, my child, bless thee! Weep not! The tree is ripe.”

The old physician read the signs aright. These calm words were his last.

The next moment he drooped his head, and gently, placidly, drifted away from earth, like an infant sinking to rest. The torch had flashed up, before going out.

CHAPTER Lx.x.xI

SHE who had wept for poor old Martin was not likely to bear this blow so stoically as the death of the old is apt to be borne. In vain Catherine tried to console her with commonplaces; in vain told her it was a happy release for him; and that, as he himself had said, the tree was ripe.

But her worst failure was, when she urged that there were now but two mouths to feed: and one care the less.

”Such cares are all the joys I have,” said Margaret. ”They fill my desolate heart, which now seems void as well as waste. Oh, empty chair, my bosom it aches to see thee. Poor old man, how could I love him by halves, I that did use to sit and look at him and think 'But for me thou wouldst die of hunger.' He, so wise, so learned erst, was got to be helpless as my own sweet babe, and I loved him as if he had been my child instead of my father. Oh, empty chair! Oh, empty heart!

Well-a-day! well-a-day!”

And the pious tears would not be denied.

Then Catherine held her peace: and hung her head. And one day she made this confession, ”I speak to thee out o' my head, and not out o' my bosom; thou dost well to be deaf to me. Were I in thy place I should mourn the old man all one as thou dost.”

Then Margaret embraced her, and this bit of true sympathy did her a little good. The commonplaces did none.

Then Catherine's bowels yearned over her, and she said, ”My poor girl, you were not born to live alone. I have got to look on you as my own daughter. Waste not thine youth upon my son Gerard. Either he is dead or he is a traitor. It cuts my heart to say it; but who can help seeing it?

Thy father is gone: and I cannot always be aside thee. And here is an honest lad that loves thee well this many a day. I'd take him and Comfort together. Heaven hath sent us these creatures to torment us and comfort us and all; we are just nothing in the world without 'em.” Then seeing Margaret look utterly perplexed, she went on to say, ”Why sure you are not so blind as not to see it?”

”What? Who?”

”Who but this Luke Peterson.”

”What, our Luke? The boy that carries my basket?”

”Nay, he is over nineteen, and a fine, healthy lad: and I have made inquiries for you; and they all do say he is a capable workman and never touches a drop; and that is much in a Rotterdam lad, which they are mostly half man, half sponge.”