Chapter XII: 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."

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.