THE "FLYING ALBATROSS."
THE tardy dawn of a winter's morning had begun to break, when there
came a hurried knocking at Madge Hardwicke's door. She had not removed
her dress, or extinguished her candle, through all the long hours of
that stormy night, and now she came and stood outside, with the gusty
breeze blowing about her gown, and her pale face wearing the look of
one who had passed through no common vigil.
Her early visitors were four in number. Madge glanced from one to the
other, then singled out the doctor, as he stood with the slight cloaked
figure of Mona Clyde holding fast to his arm.
"Yes, sir," she said.
"They have sighted the 'Flying Albatross,' Madge."
She knew from his tone that it was not good tidings which he had come
to bring.
"They've seen it," she said. "Yes, sir."
"Ask Tyrrell. He brought me the news."
She turned to Nat mutely. "She's bearin' down right upon the rocks
below the Point, Madge," he said huskily.
"Is she in the current yet?" asked Madge.
"'Tis hard to say of a certain in this light, but she's dismasted, and
seems pretty nigh disabled. If you've a wish to come down in the town,
Madge, my wife 'll stay with little Nan."
"Thank you. It's good of you both to think of me," said Madge. "I'll
get my hood."
Quickly, but not hurriedly, she tied it on, and came outside again.
Mona took hold of her for a moment as they were starting. "Madge, don't
be too anxious; don't give up hope," she said softly.
"Neill's in better hands than mine, Miss Mona," was the response.
Steadily and swiftly she led the way down the steep hill-side,
faltering not for one instant. At another time, she would have gone
modestly behind the doctor, but now all minor considerations were lost
in her overwhelming desire to reach the shore. The force of the wind,
as it swept past in furious gusts, made the doctor stagger, and caused
even Nat Tyrrell to pant for breath, but Madge seemed proof against
the strongest blast, and pressed ever onwards, with scarcely quickened
breathing, and never a hesitating footstep.
They were down on the shore at last, in the little shingle cove, with
sailors standing about in groups, and spectators scattered amongst
them. Away to the left rose the smooth white cliff, on the summit of
which Madge Hardwicke's little cottage might be seen, standing dimly
out against the sky. Away to the right stretched the dark outline of
Lion Point, rearing its massive head in rock-like repose amidst the
tumult of the elements. And to left and right and front lay the wide
reach of stormy sea, lashed into a seething mass of dark heaving water
and snowy foam.
Water, water everywhere. It seemed to Madge that the whole world was
made of water that morning. The gale had spent the worst of its fury,
and the wind, in all its strength, was but a breeze compared with what
had been. But it looked as if nothing ever would or ever could calm
down that great waste of watery hills, perpetually rising and falling,
curling their crested summits in giant-play, chasing each other to
the shore in fierce frolic, and breaking there with a never-ceasing
roar, made up of crash after crash in unbroken succession. There was
a clear sky overhead, above all this tumult, and one bright star,
growing dim in the dawning light, shone placidly through the last bit
of transparent cloud remaining.
"She's there," Madge was the first to exclaim, as her quick eye caught
the faint outline of the dismasted ship, floating, to all appearance
helplessly, amid those gigantic waves. One moment uplifted against the
horizon, the next lost absolutely to view, yet again emerging from the
trough to mount another hill, only to sink deep into another valley. No
wonder all eyes were riveted.
"They've hoisted signals of distress," said Nat Tyrrell. "And they
don't know that nothing can be done."
"Nothing!" repeated Madge, looking up to scan with a flashing glance
the faces around. "What are all of you men going to stand safe here,
and see your follow-creatures perishing right afore your eyes?"
"You're quick to blame us, Mrs. Hardwicke," rejoined a sailor. "But
what if we've tried an' failed? No boat but a life-boat could live in
such a sea."
"And you'll give up with one try?" asked Madge. "You'll leave them to
certain death, when another try might save them?"
"'Tain't certain, Madge," said Nat Tyrrell, coming up. "Old Robin knows
more than most men, and he says now the tide's turnin', they'll have a
chance—though 'tis the barest chance—a chance of just weathering the
Point. They're just so far out as for that, he says."
"And if they don't?" demanded Madge.
"Not a man 'll reach the shore alive," spoke a voice from among the
throng.
"And ye'll give up helping them with 'one' try," reiterated Madge, a
touch of scorn in her tone. "Three, did you say it was? Well, I'm glad
for your sakes 'tis more than one. But will you make a fourth? The
tide's going down and launching 'll be easier now. I'll come in the
boat myself, men, and take an oar. Will you all hold back where a woman
would go?"
"If the ship don't weather the point, Mrs. Hardwicke, we'll try a
fourth, an' a fifth, an' a tenth, an' a twelfth time," the same voice
said. "But 'tis useless danger trying, till we're sure our help's
needed. They're puttin' up a jury-mast and sail now. We'll soon see
what's to come."
Madge saw the sense of the words, for not even in sorrow and suspense
was she unreasonable. She said no more, but sat down to wait, with Mona
leaning on her uncle's arm close by. Other women were on the shore,
fellow-sufferers with Madge, and some were sobbing and wringing their
hands, and some were calling aloud hysterically in their fear and
agony, for many Alyn sailors were aboard. It was terrible to look on in
safety and helplessness,—to see loved ones borne slowly slowly onwards
to almost certain death.
But Madge neither wept nor cried out. She only sat upon a low rock,
with her hands folded together on her knee, and her eyes fixed over
upon that dark hull as it rose and sank by turns. And minutes passed
by, one after another, and no one dared address words of cheering to
Madge. No one dared speak to her at all. Even Mona felt that such
suspense as hers must be borne alone in the depths of her strong
woman-nature. It was too soon yet to offer the comfort which might
by-and-by be needed, and too soon yet to speak of hope.
But the ship drew slowly nearer and nearer, and the dawning light grew
clearer and clearer, and a gleam of fluttering brightness began to
illumine the anxious faces around. Whispers here and there passed from
one to another, as to a growing probability of escape. And all at once
Madge herself stood upright, and held up both hands, clasping them
tightly over her head, and cried in clear tones, which reached the ears
of all present,—
"They're safe! Men, they're safe! They have passed the rocks."
[Illustration: "They're safe! Men, they're safe! They have passed the
rocks," she cried.]
Almost before the words had crossed her lips, a cry was heard: "They're
saved! They're saved!" And such a cheer burst from the assembled
crowd that the roar of wind and waters grew faint for an instant by
comparison.
Safe at last! Or the danger was so far lessened, that, unless the
ship were more disabled than appeared to be the case, there was small
further cause for anxiety. She rolled indeed heavily, and made but
tardy advance, seeming, as one man with a telescope observed, to be
"pretty nigh water-logged." But though she advanced slowly, she did
advance. And gradually hope brightened into confidence, and confidence
into certainty.
Madge Hardwicke's momentary excitement had again disappeared, and
calmly as before, she waited; only the red glow in her cheeks and the
sparkle in her eyes told that less of composure lay beneath. Neill was
coming at last! Her own Neill! After all these years of separation.
No wonder that the mother's heart should beat, and her eyes should
glisten, with a joy so intense as to be almost pain.
The sun had risen, and was shedding his beams over the unquiet sea, and
the scarcely less unquiet assemblage of Alyn folks upon the shore, when
the half-disabled ship at length reached the pier. For Alyn harbour lay
to the west of Lion Point; and having failed through stress of weather
to enter the harbour, nothing remained to the "Flying Albatross" but to
"make" the pier running out from the shingle cove, which had, in fact,
been built for nothing else but such emergencies.
Madge remained near the entrance of the pier, hearing and seeing
nothing that went on around her. She had no eyes or ears for aught
but the coming figure of Neill, which yet did not come! Nat Tyrrell
had gone to find and bring him to her, and Nat Tyrrell's approach was
perhaps the only one, beside that of Neill, which would have made any
impression on her senses. But she heard his step in a moment, though
not looking in that direction, and she turned her eyes quickly to his,
shining with happy expectation.
"Well?" she said. "And have you seen my boy? And is he coming to me
soon?"
"I've seen the captain and Ned Blayney, Madge."
"And Neill?" said Madge. "Will they let me go to him, Nat?"
"I'm very sorry, Madge," faltered Nat.
And there he stopped. But an exclamation of sorrow escaped Mona's lips,
and Madge Hardwicke turned instantly pale and cold and gray. She said
nothing, but looked steadily at him.
"I'm ever so sorry for you," repeated Nat; "but—fact is, Madge, Neill
hasn't come at all."
"Neill not come!"
"No. He didn't ever show himself again afore the ship sailed, and Ned
Blayney don't know nothing of why, nor what has become of him."
One cry of deep heart-agony broke from Madge, and no more.
Mona would have taken her hand in pitying sympathy, but it was drawn
away, as if any outside touch were pain too keen to be endured. She
could hardly bear the doctor's face of compassion. For the moment she
felt wild, and dark thoughts of fierce rebellion crept into Madge
Hardwicke's soul, against the Hand which had directed this heavy blow.
What was it that kept her from uttering her thoughts? What was it that
made her hide her feelings? Why did she not look up at Mr. Chetwynd—as
she "could" have done, if her own strength had been all that remained
to her at that moment—and speak bitter faithless words concerning
prayer and its working? Why not? Why, but because Madge was one of
those who are "kept by the power of God,"—one whose constant desire was
for His glory, and who in this instant of dire temptation was therefore
not permitted to fail.
"I am very sorry for you, Madge," were the first words that reached her
ears, in the doctor's voice.
She stood upright, and looked at him. "Thank you, sir, I know you are.
It's hard to bear, but God can bring him back yet, if 'tis His will.
I'll have to wait awhile longer. Good-bye, Miss Mona. I think I'd
sooner go home alone, please."
They held back, one and all, with respectful pity. Every one knew
Madge, and no one knew without loving her. But she saw nothing of any
of them now. The earth and sky and sea had all changed into one silent
shield of utter blackness. Neil had not come!
It seemed to Madge that all hope and joy in life had died out for
evermore. She did not look to see him now again on earth.
Steadily and rapidly she pressed on, away from the beach, through the
town, and up the steep hill-side. And she never slackened a moment for
weariness or want of breath, until the cottage-door was reached.
Mrs. Tyrrell came out to meet her with a smile of congratulation, but
her cheerful look turned to one of dismay at the sight of Madge's face.
"Why, Mrs. Hardwicke—you don't mean now!" she ejaculated. "They telled
me the ship was safe."
"Neill's not come," said Madge quietly. "Thank you for staying with the
child, Mrs. Tyrrell. I think I'd best be alone now, please."
"Sure, an' it 'is' a disappointment. And ye won't let me stay awhile,
and help to cheer ye up?" added the good woman coaxingly.
As if any puny words of hers could touch the passionate aching of the
poor mother's heart. She saw in a moment that it would not do, and with
a brief good-bye, she went off, not even stepping inside the door again.
Madge entered instead, closed it after her, took off her hood, and sat
down.
"Is Neill come?" asked little Nannie's voice.
Madge looked vacantly across, drawing deep breaths, as if of oppression.
"I didn't dishonour Him," she muttered. "Thank Him I didn't—for I'd a
mind. And the doctor would never have forgot. I didn't say what I felt,
but I did feel it."
"Madge, where's Neill?" asked Nannie.
"God knows," said Madge calmly. "He's not brought Neill home to me,
Nannie."
Nannie stared with wide-open eyes. "Ain't Neill come, Madge?"
"No," said Madge. "The ship's all right, Nannie, but Neill ain't
aboard. Don't talk to me awhile,—please."
She did not move, but sat with her head bent down wearily, and
no particular feeling of any kind in her mind, beyond a sense of
deep desolation. She did not think she should ever care to look up
again,—ever care to pass cheerily through life as hitherto; and it was
with a sensation of restless impatience, that she heard the door-latch
lifted, and raised her head to look round.
"I wish you'd please leave me. I don't want—" Madge stopped, for it was
Mr. Prior.
"May I come in?" he asked.
And she rose and gave him a chair, resuming her own immediately, as if
hardly conscious of what she did.
He sat down, after a kind word to little Nannie, whose face gave him a
hearty welcome, and said simply,—
"Madge, I was with you when your good news came, and rejoiced with you.
Will you let me sorrow with you now?"
She put up her hand, to still the quivering of her lips. "It's hard,
sir,—you don't know how hard."
"Madge is dreadful disappointed, 'cause Neill ain't come home after
all," said Nannie, thinking Mr. Prior needed information on the
subject. "She wants a deal of comfort."
Nannie evidently considered Mr. Prior well able to give the same. He
looked back at the child with a grave smile.
"Little Nannie, Madge has a better Comforter than you or I, only
perhaps she has hardly had time yet to listen to His gentle Voice."
"No," said Nannie. "He'll whisper to her down in her heart, won't He?"
"If Madge will listen," said Mr. Prior.
Madge lifted her gray face to his. "'Tis all true, sir, and my Lord has
sent His Comforter many a time afore to me, but I don't seem to hear
nor feel nothing now."
"'I will pray the Father, and He shall give you another Comforter, that
He may abide with you for ever,'" said Mr. Prior. "He doesn't come and
go, Madge."
"No, sir; only I can't see nor hear," said Madge patiently. And then,
in a mechanical sort of way, she added, "I'll hear reading if you like,
sir, but I don't seem to feel it'll do me good."
"Not reading to-day, I think, Madge. Perhaps to-morrow instead. I will
only give you one little verse now,—'As one whom his mother comforteth,
so will I comfort you.'"
"Thank you, sir. I'd ought to feel right; I know I ought," said poor
Madge despairingly. "But 'tis hard to bear. I've prayed and waited so
long, and it did seem as if Neill was coming at last. And now—"
"And now God has denied you, or perhaps has put off for awhile granting
your request. Madge—" Mr. Prior went on—"I think there is something
here not quite as it should be. Have you been demanding as a right from
God that which you had no right to demand?"
"No, sir. I've never put up a prayer for Neil to come back, without
saying, 'If it be Thy will.'"
"Nor ever cherished, down in some secret corner of your heart, the
feeling that in return for all your loving faith in God, He surely must
and 'ought' to grant your request? Madge, what do you think?" he asked
softly.
He had touched the right chord now,—had struck to the root of the
matter. Madge sat for a moment like one awakened from a dream, and then
bursting into tears, sobbed out, "It's true, and I didn't think it. I
didn't think I'd so much of wilfulness unconquered in me yet. I don't
deserve one bit better than my Lord's sent me—not one bit."
And after that burst of weeping and contrite sorrow, Madge's heart
was no longer closed, in its aching pain, to the sweet voice of the
Heavenly Comforter.
[Illustration]
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