Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "Uncle Chetwynd, she's only fainting. Don't you see
she's only fainting? She will come to herself again directly.
Mother—mother!"]
MADGE HARDWICKE;
OR,
THE MISTS OF THE VALLEY.
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF
"IDA'S SECRET," "FLOSS SILVERTHORN,"
"WILL FOSTER," ETC.
"O Lord, I cannot see;
Vouchsafe me light:
The mist bewilders me,
Impedes my sight:
Hold Thou my hand, and lead me by Thy side,
I dare not go alone; be Thou my Guide."
_The Dove on the Cross._
New Edition.
_LONDON:_
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
STORIES BY AGNES GIBERNE.
[Illustration]
IDA'S SECRET; or, The Towers of Ickledale.
_Large Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d._
"The characters are made to live, and there is a wholesome and
refreshing tone running through it all."—_Record._
WON AT LAST; or, Mrs. Briscoe's Nephews.
_Large Crown 8vo, cloth, with Illustrations, 3s. 6d._
"The treatment is so admirable we can understand Miss Giberne's
book being a help to many."—_Athenæum._
TOO DEARLY BOUGHT.
_Crown 8vo, price Eighteenpence._
THE OLD HOUSE IN THE CITY.
_Crown 8vo, with Illustrations, 2s. 6d._
HIS ADOPTED DAUGHTER; or, A Quiet Valley.
_Large Crown 8vo, Illustrated, price 5s._
"It is really a good tale, in the author's best style."—
_English Churchman._
WILL FOSTER OF THE FERRY.
_New Edition. Crown 8vo, Illustrated, 2s. 6d._
"A story well written, fully illustrated, and with a golden thread
of Christian teaching."—_Bookseller._
THE EARLS OR THE VILLAGE.
_Crown 8vo, cloth, with Illustrations, 2s. 6d._
"A pathetic tale of country life, in which the fortunes of a family
are followed out with skill that never fails to interest."_Scotsman._
MADGE HARDWICKE; or, The Mists of the Valley.
_Crown 8vo, cloth, Illustrated, 2s. 6d._
"An extremely interesting book, and one that can be read with
profit by all."—_Schoolmaster._
FLOSS SILVERTHORN; or, The Master's Little Handmaid.
_Crown 8vo, cloth, Illustrated, 2s. 6d._
"A really beautiful story, telling how even a child can do and
suffer for Christ's service."—_The Rock._
——————————————————————————
LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
————
CHAP.
I. UP ON THE HILL-TOP
II. THE HOME-COMING
III. DOWN UNDERGROUND
IV. MADGE AND THE DOCTOR
V. GATHERING MISTS
VI. NANNIE
VII. NAT TYRRELL'S NOTIONS
VIII. QUESTIONINGS
IX. MADGE HARDWICKE'S FAITH
X. A LETTER
XI. AWAITING THE MASTER'S WILL
XII. THE "FLYING ALBATROSS"
XIII. THE DOCTOR'S PROHIBITION
XIV. GOD'S MYSTERIES
XV. THE DINGLE
XVI. NAT'S COTTAGE
XVII. A FOG
XVIII. THE DRIVE HOME
XIX. A BLOW
XX. SUNSET CLOUDS
XXI. "O THOU OF LITTLE FAITH"
XXII. WARNING
XXIII. THE WISDOM OF THE WISE
XXIV. HOME!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
MADGE HARDWICKE;
OR,
THE MISTS OF THE VALLEY.
————
CHAPTER I.
UP ON THE HILL-TOP.
"FIVE o'clock!"
The strokes pealed slowly through the calm gray air of dawn, from the
square tower of old Alyn Church. It was a morning of almost oppressive
stillness, with mist-wreaths nestling in every hollow, and a hazy
uncertainty about the horizon-line giving promise of a sultry day
to come. And as the five deep-toned vibrations went rolling up the
hill-side, Madge Hardwicke came out of her cottage on the summit of the
cliff, and stood in the doorway to listen.
Two little cottages were built there side by side; each with its tiny
vegetable-ground behind, bounded by a tangled growth of trees and
brushwood; and each with its tiny flower-garden in front, bounded by
a broad belt of level grass which extended to the narrow path running
along the edge of the cliff.
But whereas Madge Hardwicke's home was a model of trim and dainty
neatness, Amos Ackman's exhibited signs of falling to decay. And
whereas Madge Hardwicke's garden had every square foot occupied by
flower or vegetable, Amos Ackman's showed a large and flourishing
assortment of weeds, amongst which a few cabbages here and there reared
their unsightly heads, or a half-wild rose-tree struggled for a languid
existence amidst the ruthless growth of meaner plants.
Not twenty yards distant from Madge Hardwicke's garden railing, the
cliff went down in a sheer descent of three hundred feet to the beach
below. Rough masses of rock and shingle lay there, with a coating in
some parts of slimy green. The sea was wont to play strange antics
among those rocks at times, in no harmless mood of frolic. But this
morning, it was placid as a lake, unbroken by the faintest ripple,—in
its glassy repose almost like a gigantic mirror reaching to the
horizon. And the blue of the sky overhead was pale in hue, fading
into white lower down, where some long clouds stretched lazily, each
catching a reflection of rose-colour from the coming sun.
Madge Hardwicke herself, standing before her doorway, with her
dark-blue under-skirt, and looped-up black print gown, and little red
handkerchief, and general quaint simplicity of appearance, formed not
the least picturesque item in the scene. She must have been between
forty and fifty years of age, and her smooth brown hair showed a faint
sprinkling of silver threads. A very quiet, self-possessed demeanour
was hers, while she had a face, the deeply-traced lines and shadows
of which told of a far from facile nature, and of certain tempests in
bygone days. Not that there was anything about her just then suggestive
of storm or emotion. The blue depths of the sea below were not more
absolutely calm than the gray depths of Madge Hardwicke's eyes. And
though both alike were capable of being stirred up, it needed a strong
external force in either case to work the change.
Just so quietly reposeful lay also the town below. Standing there in
her doorway, and looking down through the clear morning air, Madge
could distinguish each separate door and window, alike in the broad
streets, where closed shutters hid the plate-glass panes of usually
busy shops, and in the rows of villas stretching away to the west
and north. Here and there a faint blue wreath of smoke went curling
upwards, but generally speaking, Alyn seemed to be asleep. Down on
the shingle beach of the little bay, where a row of bathing-machines
stood looking like the contents of a child's toy-box as seen from
this height, the blue jackets of one or two early-rising sailors were
visible.
This was the East Cliff, on which Madge made her home; and her cottage
stood sideways to the edge, with Amos Ackman's on the other side.
Down in front, the hill sloped steeply with a scattering of houses
beginning about half-way to the bottom. It was a fan-shaped town that
lay below, converging to the shingle bathing-beach, and widening out as
it extended inland. Beyond the beach, the cliffs rose sharply again,
and a wild headland of bare rock, reaching far out into the sea, stood
up in massive grandeur against the sky—West Point, or The Point, as it
was usually called, though more correctly Lion Point by name, from some
real or fancied resemblance in its shape to a lion's head and mane. It
was high tide now, and the narrow rugged ridge of rock which united the
Point to the mainland, was deeply covered with water.
On just such another morning as this, and on the same day of the
same month, exactly ten years earlier, the darkest cloud of Madge
Hardwicke's life had gathered over her. And so like now were the gray
stillness of the dawn and the deep repose of sea and land, the sleepy
twitter of some waking birds and the cheery singing of their livelier
companions already awake, the smoke-wreaths over the town and the
mist-wreaths over the country, to what they then had been, that Madge
stood living over that past scene once more, as if it were actually
present.
Ten years! No more than ten! It seemed such a little while to Madge.
Just at this same hour she had risen, and come out of her cottage-door,
and stood within her garden-gate. She had not been a lonely widow then,
but a light-spirited happy wife. She seemed almost to hear again the
manly step which followed her out, and to feel again the hearty kiss,
and to see again the fine blue-jacketed sailor, her pride and joy,
striding carelessly away towards the path.
Just those few yards—those few steps. The sound of his clear whistle
had come back to her, and she had seen him standing at the edge of the
cliff, with his brown hand upraised to shelter his eyes, as he scanned
the horizon-line. And Madge had turned back into her cottage, thinking
pleasantly of the busy day's work before her, and of the welcome he
should have on his return. Thinking,—but little dreaming that never
again should she speak word of welcome to him.
It was only the giving way of a foot of brown earth, overhanging the
cliff, bound together by entangled roots, all loosened with previous
rains. One minute Ned Hardwicke stood there, a very model of manly
strength. The next, he lay a shattered corpse, three hundred feet below.
And Madge, to this hour, knew nothing of what took place after. She
had no recollection of his one death-cry; no recollection of her own
wild rush to the edge; no recollection of Amos Ackman's struggles
to withhold her, when, in her mad agony, she would fain have flung
herself over likewise; no recollection of the help sought and too late
obtained; no recollection of aught else which had happened on that
day. It was as if a black curtain had been drawn over every bodily and
mental sense, shutting out even the consciousness of pain,—drawn there
in tender mercy, for otherwise Madge Hardwicke's reason would scarcely
have held its balance.
This lasted till after the funeral. And then, while Madge Hardwicke's
friends were talking in subdued tones over her state, and marvelling
what would become of her and the child, Madge put aside the curtain,
and bravely came forth to meet her sorrow. It was a lonely path which
lay before her, but Madge would tread it with unfaltering steps. It was
a heavy cross which her God had laid upon her, but Madge would bear it
firmly. No broken-down and selfishly-hopeless mourner would she be; but
one who had learnt to bear chastening in the spirit of a child, living
her appointed life, and working her appointed work, until the end came.
"Madge!"
A soft little girlish voice spoke, and Madge looked down, with
something of a smile, at the tiny barefooted damsel, about ten years of
age, who had pattered softly out of the neighbouring cottage, and now
stood with one hand grasping Madge's blue petticoat, and a wistful face
upturned, as if in questioning.
"What is it, Nan, you're wanting?"
Nan looked hard without a word, and Madge went back to the quiet
landscape.
"That's it," said the child unexpectedly. "You're thinking something,
ain't you, Madge?"
"Ay," responded Madge. "I'm thinking, just this minute,—what if the
Resurrection-morning was to look like it does to-day?"
Nan caught up another fold of the blue skirt, and enclosed it tightly
in her fingers, with a sudden gesture, as if of fear. "O Madge! Don't
you, please, now."
"Why? 'Twill come," said Madge calmly. "My talking 'll bring it no
sooner, Nannie, though my praying may."
"Madge, do you think it'll be to-day? Do you think it'll be a day like
this, Madge?" demanded the child eagerly, as if the fate of the world
hung upon the answer of her friend.
"It'll be in 'such an hour as we think not,'" said Madge. "That's
pretty nigh all we're told clear about the time. Maybe He'll come in
storm, and not in calm; only there's a look to me to-day like the world
asleep before its last awakening. I'm only fancying, Nan," she added,
with a sudden smile at the child's awestruck look.
"And you won't go and pray it may come sooner 'n need be, Madge," said
Nannie, with a catch in her breath.
"Why, Nannie, what of the prayer we're told to pray, 'Thy kingdom
come'? You're surely not fearsome of seeing the Master Himself as loves
little children so?"
Nan shook back her long dark hair with an expressive gesture. "Father
ain't ready," she said. "He ain't, Madge."
Madge had nothing to say to that at first. After a moment, she spoke:
"We'll pray he may be, and put the two prayers together, Nannie."
Nannie's face showed assent as well as understanding this time.
And the next minute, Madge's attention was drawn by the sight of a
man's head appearing up the hill. It came rapidly, borne on by long
vigorous strides, as of a messenger who felt himself on an errand of
life and death.
Madge knew the tall broad-shouldered figure, even before she could
recognise the face. It was a good face—good in feature, that is to
say, and good also in a certain natural kindliness and benevolence of
expression. You certainly would not have said, to look upon him, "What
a good man Mr. Chetwynd must be!" speaking in the highest sense. But
you would undoubtedly have said, "What a kind-hearted man," as well as,
"What a clever man he seems."
That it was something unusual which had brought the doctor up the
hill at this hour of the morning, Madge knew directly. She would have
known it by his mere speed and manner, apart from the paleness of
his face, and the drops standing thickly on his brow. She put aside
little Nannie, and went out to the garden-gate, asking no questions,
but quietly waiting till he came close, and chose to speak. His first
words were in a sharp breathless tone, with a forced affectation of
cheerfulness.
"Where's your hood, Madge? Quick, and come with me, for I want your
help."
"I'll come, sir."
She turned back into the cottage, and was out again immediately—not too
soon for Mr. Chetwynd.
"Come,—quick," he said. "My chaise will be waiting by the time we get
down. There's not another woman in the town so helpful as you, or I
wouldn't have risked losing two minutes by calling you."
"Sir, has it aught to do with my Neill?"
"Neill! No. There has been an accident in the tunnel; trucks slipped
and left there by some extraordinary blunder, and a passenger-train
allowed to run into them. I don't know how much damage is done. One may
allow a good margin for exaggerated reports."
Madge gave one look up at his strangely pale face, as they sped
together down the hill-side. His home was one of the first in sight—a
many-gabled roof peeping out from a nest of surrounding trees,—and
they could see the chaise waiting at the garden-gate. That he had some
especial and personal cause for distress, Madge did not doubt. He was
not a man of keen sympathies, though of real kindness. But she put no
questions, and it was not till the chaise was starting, with Madge
seated by the doctor's side, that he said briefly—
"My sister and her child were to arrive by this train."
Madge understood then, and her full heart went out in silent compassion
for the fearful weight of anxiety which must, she well knew, be
pressing upon him. He was a man of few ties and strong feelings. But
she only said—
"They are in the Lord's hands, sir. He can have kept them safe."
And Madge looked for no response in her companion's face, being fully
aware that she should there find none. The faintest shadow of a sneer
curled his usually pleasant lips, like the mist-wreath floating over a
distant landscape. And then they drove on quickly, wasting no breath in
words.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]