Chapter XI: Awaiting the Master's Will

"IT'S going to be a tremendous gale to-night, or I'm no weather-prophet," said the doctor.

He had just stepped inside the house one dark wintry afternoon, and the wind, rushing in after him, flung Mona's dress fantastically to and fro, as she stood there,—besides threatening to put a speedy end to all light from the gas-burner. Mr. Chetwynd succeeded in shutting the door, after a short but severe struggle, and began divesting himself of his wraps.

"I have been listening to the wind for the last hour," said Mona, helping him to disentangle one arm from a rather tight coat-sleeve. "Isn't it dreadfully boisterous, uncle?"

"It carried away all my breath, my dear, and I have pretty powerful lungs too. It would sweep you off bodily, I suspect. Whew!—It's cold. My hands have nearly disappeared, so far as sensation is concerned. I hope nobody is going to be taken ill to-night. It's the sort of weather to make a man prefer his own fireside."

"I have built up a fine large fire," said Mona, retreating before him into the drawing-room. "Don't you call that a splendid glow? What a gust! It seems as if it would shake the house down."

"The house was built to withstand a considerable amount of shaking, fortunately for us at the present moment," said the doctor, expanding himself before the blaze with an air of enjoyment. "Thank you, my dear,—you know how to make a man's home comfortable, I see. Better in here than out on the sea to-night."

"Ah, I was thinking about the poor sailors."

"I went to see Mrs. Blayney, an hour ago," said Mr. Chetwynd. "Found her in a great state of anxiety, poor thing, and no wonder. It seems a fast steamer has just come in, which sighted the 'Flying Albatross' a few hours back, and it is expected to arrive to-morrow morning."

"The 'Flying Albatross!' What—the ship which is bringing Neill Hardwicke home?"

The doctor nodded. "Couldn't be a worse night for a ship to be near this coast. I only hope they will have the sense to put out to sea again before it is too late."

"O poor Madge! What will she do?" exclaimed Mona pityingly. "O uncle, I wish I were with her."

"My dear, you might as well try to fly as to walk up the hill in this wind. In fact you would be much more likely to fly than to walk,—after a certain fashion!"

"I can't think what she will do all night."

"Stay quietly in her cottage, and go to bed, like a sensible woman. She won't be half so excited as Mrs. Blayney."

"You have not seen Madge, have you?"

"Not I. I had had enough of fighting with the elements by the time I reached my own door. Just hear that howl round the house now! It sounds as if all the furies were set loose together."

"And Madge has nobody to speak to—nobody to cheer her," said Mona, half to herself, as she knelt before the fire.

"I declare, I always thought Madge was a pretty good friend of mine," said the doctor with a half-injured air, settling himself comfortably in his arm-chair, "but you seem to have run ahead of me. What makes you take to her?"

"What made you, uncle?"

"Very discreet on your part. Why, simply and solely because I could not help it."

"I suppose it is the same with me. But do you know, I have often wondered where she got that pleasant manner of hers, so quiet and self-possessed. And I have found out now. She used to be head-nurse in Sir Arthur Bolton's family—in that great house, you know, standing in a park, which you showed me one day when you took me such a long drive."

"Ay, I know," said Mr. Chetwynd.

"Madge told me she was nursery-maid there from the time she was fifteen, and had risen to be under-nurse, and lastly head-nurse for two years, when she married Ned Hardwicke. And she says she had only been married three months when she first saw you. She was twenty-five then, so she had been ten years in the house, and that explains how she gained her soft nice sort of manner—just the manner of a very superior upper servant in a good family. Did you know that Sir Arthur Bolton settled a pension on her, when her husband was killed?"

"I have heard the fact, though I believe I had forgotten it. I knew she had a little income of some sort, and that her cottage was her own."

"I had a talk with her only yesterday," said Mona. "And she was so happy about Neill's coming home—looking forward so brightly. Poor Madge! I wonder what she is doing to-night?"

Not sitting down to cry, or fluttering about in restless anxiety, as many might have done under like circumstances. If Mona could have taken a glance up the stormy hill-side, and into the little cottage at that moment, she would have seen Madge Hardwicke steadily engaged in washing up the blue cups and saucers, used for her early tea. Scarcely two hours had elapsed since the news first reached her of the expected arrival of the "Flying Albatross" next morning. But beyond a red spot on either cheek, and the least possible shaking of her hands, causing an occasional and unwonted rattling of the plates, as she rinsed and dried them, Madge looked very calm. Much more calm than little Nannie, who was lying wrapped up on two chairs and on numerous pillows before the fire, watching her friend's face, and listening to the gale with a very anxious and excited countenance. Many weeks had gone by since Nannie first fell beneath the weight of her father's hand, but it was not many days since she had quitted her bed, and she had not yet set foot to the ground.

If the wind sounded boisterous down at the doctor's house, it claimed fuller attention here. The little cottage fairly shook like a ship from "stem to stern," and the fierce rattling of every pane of glass made Nannie ask fearfully,—

"Madge, don't you think the windows 'll come to smash?"

"Maybe not," said Madge quietly, putting away the last blue saucer. And then she dried her hands, and hung up the cloth, and went to take a look through that same little frail transparent shield,—all that was interposed between her and the wild blast outside.

"It's an awful night, ain't it?" said Nannie, shivering beside even those bright flames. "Madge, I don't seem as if I'd like to go to bed. I think I'll be afraid."

"You're just as safe in bed as by the fireside, Nannie," said Madge, coming away again. For beyond the low clouds, scurrying wildly past, there was nothing to be seen. Even they were but dimly visible in the blackness of darkness outside.

And where was the "Flying Albatross?" And where was Neill? How joyfully would Madge at that moment have yielded her own life, if she might thereby have secured the life of her boy! But she could do nothing—nothing except wait. She might not even go out in the fierce wind, and watch the waters with her own eyes, as she longed to do. Little Nannie could not be left alone in her helplessness.

"Madge, are you dreadful frightened about Neill?" asked the child, with bated breath. "Are you thinking a deal about him this evening?"

Was she thinking of anything else? It seemed to Madge that her whole being was bound up in that of her boy, and that if her body were sheltered in the little cottage, her spirit was away with him, wherever he might be, over the mad wild waters. But she only said, "Yes, I'm looking to see him safe in the morning, if 'tis God's will, Nannie."

"Do you think God will take care of him, and bring him home all right?" asked Nannie.

"I'm hoping it," said Madge.

And then she took out her work-basket, and sat down to sew. But to keep that up long was beyond the strength of even her resolute will. She put the unfinished seam aside, at the close of half-an-hour, and going to the window, stood gazing out again into the darkness.

Nannie lay looking, not at the window, but at Madge. She had a sort of notion that it was best to keep silence, and for a while, though her lips sometimes moved with a barely-checked exclamation, she did not break her childish determination to be still. But the sight of that absolutely motionless figure became at length more than she could endure, and the little voice said softly,—

"Madge!"

No answer came. Perhaps the word was lost in the angry gust which swept at that moment over the hill.

"Madge, I'm ever so frightened. I wish you'd speak."

Madge turned from the window, and came to the table, with a pale face, and an unwonted look of dreaminess in her eyes.

"I'm ready, Nannie," was all she said.

"I'm only frightened," pleaded Nannie. "'Cause the wind does make such a noise; and if it was to blow away the cottage, we'd maybe get hurt, wouldn't we, Madge?"

"I think we'll be taken care of," said Madge, who had no heart to spare for any danger to self, though she spoke soothingly for the child's sake.

"And don't you think Neill will be took care of too, and brought back safe?"

"Maybe," said Madge, resting one hand on the table. "I've been trying, and I can't ask it, though."

"Ain't you a-going to pray he may be safe?" asked Nannie wonderingly.

Madge shook her head slightly.

"Not ask?" repeated Nannie. "Why, Madge, if you don't make haste, it'll maybe get too late, and the ship 'll be gone down under the waves. I wouldn't wait a minute, if I was you," pleaded the child.

"It's never too late for the Lord," said Madge calmly. "He answers oftentimes afore we pray. I've put into His hands to do just as seemeth best to Him, and I've prayed for my Neill to be safe for ever and ever. I can't do more."

"Not do more? Why, Madge, what are ye thinking of?" demanded Nannie passionately. "So often as you've asked for little things, and got 'em too, and now you won't ask to have Neill brought home!"

"Ay, for my Master's oft spoken to my heart afore now, Nannie, and said, 'Ask what ye will, Madge,'" was the answer, in monotonous half-absent tones, as if addressed rather to herself than to the child. "But He don't say it to-night; leastways, I don't hear His voice. I can't pray till He give me strength; and He don't give me strength to do more than just lie in His arms, and wait to see His will."

"Madge, do you think it's 'cause the ship won't get safe to shore?" asked Nannie, with heaving breath.

"I don't think nothing about that," said Madge, speaking softly and slowly still. "I only know He holds 'the waters in the hollow of His Hand,' and Neill's there too—Neill's in His Hand—safe in His keeping—for I've put him there, and I wouldn't dare to take him out into my own again. I've tried and wanted to pray to have Neill back, but I can't—seems like as if 'He' was holding me back from it. Maybe I'm mistaking; only one thing I'm sure of, and that is, I durstn't fight for my own way. 'They' did, and they had it, and the Lord 'sent leanness into their souls.' Maybe He'd take the shining of His countenance from me."

"Wouldn't you bear that awhile, if only Neill might come to ye?" asked Nannie.

"I'd sooner have my Lord's smile than aught on earth beside."

But Madge's own sweet smile was tremulous. And when she had spoken, she knelt down suddenly, with her hands against the oaken table and her face bowed upon them. Was she praying for Neill's return at last?—Or only resting on the Mighty Arm which sustained her, and calmly "waiting to see her Master's will?"