Martin Rattler, R. M. Ballantyne [e book reader android txt] 📗

the puzzled old gentleman, seizing the young sailor by the shoulders and gazing intently into his face. "Martin! Martin! Surely not—yes! eh? Martin Rattler?"

"Ay that am I, dear Mr. Jollyboy, safe and sound, and—"

Martin's speech was cut short in consequence of his being violently throttled by Mr. Jollyboy, who flung his arms round his neck and staggered recklessly about the office with him! This was the great point which Barney had expected; it was the climax to which he had been looking forward all the morning: and it did not come short of his anticipations; for Mr. Jollyboy danced round Martin and embraced him for at least ten minutes, asking him at the same time a shower of questions which he gave him no time to answer. In the excess of his delight Barney smote his thigh with his broad hand so forcibly that it burst upon the startled clerk like a pistol-shot, and caused him to spring off his stool!

"Don't be afeared, young un," said Barney, winking and poking the small clerk jocosely in the ribs with his thumb. "Isn't it beautiful to see them. Arrah, now! isn't it purty?"

"Keep your thumbs to yourself, you sea monster," said the small clerk, angrily, and laying his hand on the ruler. But Barney minded him not, and continued to smite his thigh and rub his hands, while he performed a sort of gigantic war-dance round Mr. Jollyboy and Martin.

In a few minutes the old gentleman subsided sufficiently to understand questions.

"But, my aunt," said Martin, anxiously; "you have said nothing about Aunt
Dorothy. How is she? where is she? is she well?"

To these questions Mr. Jollyboy returned no answer, but sitting suddenly down on a chair, he covered his face with his hands.

"She is not ill?" inquired Martin in a husky voice, while his heart beat violently. "Speak, Mr. Jollyboy, is she—is she—"

"No, she's not ill," returned the old gentleman; "but she's—"

"She is dead!" said Martin, in a tone so deep and sorrowful that the old gentleman started up.

"No, no, not dead, my dear boy; I did not mean that. Forgive my stupidity, Martin. Aunt Dorothy is gone,—left the village a year ago; and I have never seen or heard of her since."

Terrible though this news was, Martin felt a slight degree of relief to know that she was not dead;—at least there was reason to hope that she might be still alive.

"But when did she go? and why? and where?"

"She went about twelve months ago," replied Mr. Jollyboy. "You see, Martin, after she lost you she seemed to lose all hope and all spirit; and at last she gave up making socks for me, and did little but moan in her seat in the window and look out towards the sea. So I got a pleasant young girl to take care of her; and she did not want for any of the comforts of life. One day the little girl came to me here, having run all the way from the village, to say that Mrs. Grumbit had packed up a bundle of clothes and gone off to Liverpool by the coach. She took the opportunity of the girl's absence on some errand to escape; and we should never have known it, had not some boys of the village seen her get into the coach and tell the guard that she was going to make inquiries after Martin. I instantly set out for Liverpool; but long before I arrived the coach had discharged its passengers, and the coachman, not suspecting that anything was wrong, had taken no notice of her after arriving. From that day to this I have not ceased to advertise and make all possible inquiries, but without success."

Martin heard the narrative in silence, and when it was finished he sat a few minutes gazing vacantly before him, like one in a dream. Then starting up suddenly, he wrung Mr. Jollyboy's hand, "Good-bye, my dear friend; good-bye. I shall go to Liverpool. We shall meet again."

"Stay, Martin, stay—"

But Martin had rushed from the room, followed by his faithful friend, and in less than half an hour they were in the village of Ashford. The coach was to pass in twenty minutes, so, bidding Barney engage two outside seats, he hastened round by the road towards the cottage. There it stood, quaint, time-worn, and old-fashioned, as when he had last seen it,—the little garden in which he had so often played,—the bower in which, on fine weather, Aunt Dorothy used to sit, and the door-step on which the white kitten used to gambol. But the shutters were closed, and the door was locked, and there was an air of desolation and a deep silence brooding over the place, that sank more poignantly into Martin's heart than if he had come and found every vestige of the home of his childhood swept away. It was like the body without the soul. The flowers, and stones, and well-known forms were there; but she who had given animation to the whole was gone. Sitting down on the door-step, Martin buried his face in his hands and wept.

He was quickly aroused by the bugle of the approaching coach. Springing up, he dashed the tears away and hurried towards the high-road. In a few minutes Barney and he were seated on the top of the coach, and dashing, at the rate of ten miles an hour, along the road to Liverpool.

CHAPTER XXVII THE OLD GARRET

Days, and weeks, and months, passed away, and Martin had searched every nook and corner of the great sea-port without discovering his old aunt, or obtaining the slightest information regarding her. At first he and Barney went about the search together, but after a time he sent his old companion forcibly away to visit his own relatives, who dwelt not far from Bilton, at the same time promising that if he had any good news to tell he would immediately write and let him know.

One morning, as Martin was sitting beside the little fire in his lodging, a tap came to the door, and the servant girl told him that a policeman wished to see him.

"Show him in," said Martin, who was not in the least surprised, for he had had much intercourse with these guardians of the public peace during the course of his unavailing search.

"I think, sir," said the man on entering, "that we've got scent of an old woman w'ich is as like the one that you're arter as hanythink."

Martin rose in haste. "Have you, my man? Are you sure?"

"'Bout as sure as a man can be who never seed her. But it won't take you long to walk. You'd better come and see for yourself."

Without uttering another word, Martin put on his hat and followed the policeman. They passed through several streets and lanes, and at length came to one of the poorest districts of the city, not far distant from the shipping. Turning down a narrow alley, and crossing a low dirty-looking court, Martin's guide stopped before a door, which he pushed open and mounted by a flight of rickety wooden stairs to a garret. He opened the door and entered.

"There she is," said the man in a tone of pity, as he pointed to a corner of the apartment, "an' I'm afeer'd she's goin' fast."

Martin stepped towards a low truckle-bed on which lay the emaciated form of a woman covered with a scanty and ragged quilt. The corner of it was drawn across her face, and so gentle was her breathing that it seemed as if she were already dead. Martin removed the covering, and one glance at that gentle, care-worn countenance sufficed to convince him that his old aunt lay before him! His first impulse was to seize her in his strong arms, but another look at the frail and attenuated form caused him to shrink back in fear.

"Leave me," he said, rising hastily and slipping half a sovereign into the policeman's hand; "this is she. I wish to be alone with her."

The man touched his hat and retired, closing the door behind him; while Martin, sitting down on the bed, took one of his aunt's thin hands in his. The action was tenderly performed, but it awoke her. For the first time it flashed across Martin's mind that the sudden joy at seeing him might be too much for one so feeble as Aunt Dorothy seemed to be. He turned his back hastily to the light, and with a violent effort suppressed his feelings while he asked how she did.

"Well, very well," said Aunt Dorothy, in a faint voice. "Are you the missionary that was here long ago? Oh! I've been longing for you. Why did you not come to read to me oftener about Jesus? But I have had Him here although you did not come. He has been saying 'Come unto me, ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' Yes, I have found rest in Him." She ceased and seemed to fall asleep again; but in a few seconds she opened her eyes and said, "Martin, too, has been to see me; but he does not come so often now. The darling boy used always to come to me in my dreams. But he never brings me food. Why does no one ever bring me food? I am hungry."

"Should you like food now, if I brought it to you?" said Martin in a low voice.

"Yes, yes; bring me food,—I am dying."

Martin released her hand and glided gently out of the room. In a few minutes he returned with a can of warm soup and a roll; of which Aunt Dorothy partook with an avidity that showed she had been in urgent need. Immediately after, she went to sleep; and Martin sat upon the bed holding her hand in both of his till she awoke, which she did in an hour after, and again ate a little food. While she was thus engaged the door opened and a young man entered, who stated that he was a doctor, and had been sent there by a policeman.

"There is no hope," he said in a whisper, after feeling her pulse; "the system is quite exhausted."

"Doctor," whispered Martin, seizing the young man by the arm, "can nothing save her? I have money, and can command anything that may do her good."

The doctor shook his head. "You may give her a little wine. It will strengthen her for a time, but I fear there is no hope. I will send in a bottle if you wish it."

Martin gave him the requisite sum, and in a few minutes the wine was brought up by a boy.

The effect of the wine was wonderful. Aunt Dorothy's eyes sparkled as they used to do in days of old, and she spoke with unwonted energy.

"You are kind to me, young man," she said, looking earnestly into Martin's face, which, however, he kept carefully in shadow. "May our Lord reward you."

"Would you like me to talk to you of your nephew?" said Martin; "I have seen him abroad."

"Seen my boy! Is he not dead?"

"No; he is alive, and in this country, too."

Aunt Dorothy turned pale, but did not reply for a few minutes, during which she grasped his hand convulsively.

"Turn your face to the light," she said faintly.

Martin obeyed, and bending over her whispered, "He is here; I am Martin, my dear, dear aunt—"

No expression of surprise escaped from Aunt Dorothy as she folded her arms round his neck and pressed his head upon her bosom. His hot tears fell upon her neck while she held him, but she spoke not. It was evident that as the strength infused by the wine abated her faculties became confused. At length she whispered,—

"It is good of you to come to see me, darling boy. You have often come to me in my dreams. But do not leave me so soon; stay a very little longer,"

"This is no dream, dearest aunt," whispered Martin, while his tears flowed faster; "I am really here."

"Ay, so you always say, my darling child; but you always go away and leave me. This is a dream, no doubt, like all the rest; but oh, it seems very very real! You never wept before, although you often smiled. Surely this is the best and brightest dream I ever had!"

Continuing to murmur his name while she clasped him tightly to her bosom,
Aunt