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.

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.

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!

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.

CHAPTER II.

THE HOME-COMING.

SUCH a long tedious journey it had been, as the train sped ever wearily onwards, hour after hour, from the further north to the further south of England. But the gray dawn was brightening now, and sleepy passengers were rousing themselves to sit upright, and to mark how nearly they had approached the end. And Mona Clyde, waking suddenly from a quiet night's rest amid noisy surroundings, lifted her bright child-like face—singularly child-like, for her nineteen summers—from the blue-cushioned arm, and cried—

"O mother! Are we almost there?"

"Almost there, Mona," her mother said.

"And you are tired, while I have had such a long lazy sleep," said Mona, kissing her mother's hand, for they had a compartment to themselves. "Are you not mother, dear?"

"A little tired, but I shall soon rest now, Mona."

Was she thinking of the last time she had come this road, with her infant Mona in her arms, and her husband by her side, so many long years before? Mona fancied so, and waited quietly, holding down her own gay delight at the prospect of all that lay before her. Dear kind uncle Chetwynd, whom she knew so well, and uncle Chetwynd's pretty house which lay so far in the background of her memory that she had no recollection of it, and beautiful Alyn which had been her mother's home in childhood, and the glorious blue sea which she had never yet seen, and all the attendant pleasures of a six weeks' happy change.

"O mother, isn't it nice to be almost there?" she said at length. "How soon shall we see Alyn?"

"When we are through the tunnel, Mona. It is pretty here, but this is nothing to the view which bursts upon us there. A sunny mid-day is the time to have it in perfection. I remember so well how, as a child going home from school, I used to love the feeling of getting nearer and nearer, seeing one land-mark after another, passing into the dark tunnel, and then coming out into a blaze of sunshine and beauty, to find myself in one moment 'at home.' For Alyn itself was home, and once out of the tunnel, you are in Alyn."

"Mother, you often told me about that, when I was a little girl."

"As a picture," Mrs. Clyde said, smiling, while Mona's bright face had grown serious. "My favourite thought, darling; it is so like the last Home-going. So often there seems to be darkness at the close of life, with those who love the Master, but I think it is only that the glory coming after may shine the brighter. But for the dark tunnel first, Alyn could never burst upon us with half such a wonderful glow of beauty."

"O mother, I do so long to see it," cried Mona eagerly. "Is that the tunnel coming now?"

How little knew Mona that the shrill whistle which she welcomed so joyfully, was the death-knell of many around her!

One moment's rush of increased noise, and then darkness. And in that moment, it was strange how her mother's face was photographed for ever upon Mona's memory. She did not consciously mark it at the time. Afterwards, it came back to her, in all its calm sweetness. She was thinking of nothing but counting the seconds, and awaiting the view which lay beyond.

One moment more! And then—

Ah, "then!"

It was only a little mistake or accident. Something had been forgotten, or somebody was careless. Only just such a slight mistake as one may make a hundred times a day, letting it pass unmarked, and never dreaming the terrible consequences with which a little matter may be fraught. There had been a break-down of some heavy luggage-vans, and there was just a little too long delay in removing them, or word had been telegraphed just a little too late, or the express had arrived just a little too early. Nothing worse. But then—

Down there in the darkness underground, they could not see the loaded trucks in the way. On and on with undiminished speed rushed the train, so near at last to its journey's end. Only a moment more—and then a crash so fearful that the very earth above and below trembled with the fierce concussion, and the mighty engine was twisted and crushed like a bit of tin in a man's hand, and carriages were heaped up one upon another, or flung to right and left in masses of shattered fragments, as a child might scatter a pile of bricks. And the fierce hiss of the boiling water that rushed from the engine, and the crashing turmoil of the collision, mingling with the wild tumult of groans and shrieks which followed, echoed back and forth from the low vaulted roof, till it seemed as if the din of sound must go on for ever and ever ceaselessly.

But in that moment of direst anguish and fear, there were some who went quietly Home. Quietly, all in an instant, breaking out from the darkness underground to the glory far above. The anguish and fear were not for them, but for those who remained behind. The Master calls sometimes in sunshine and sometimes in storm, to those whom He will have to be with Him where He is; but so long as it "is" the voice of the Master and not of the Judge which calls, what matter how they go? Whether lingeringly in sunshine, or suddenly in storm, it signifies little, so that once they are safely landed.