DESIRE FULFILLED.
The great joy grew more credible when all its story was told.
The glad tidings had been brought in by an Atlantic liner. It appeared that when the Slains Castle had got well over half of her Pacific voyage, she had encountered a great storm, and had foundered upon the reefs among a small group of islands, all her boats being lost or destroyed. The captain, disabled, with his crew and the solitary passenger, had however managed to land on one of the larger islands, whose simple natives received them kindly, and put them into the way of subsisting after their own fashion. There they had lived, roughly and hardly indeed, and cut off from all communication with home, or with civilisation, upheld only by the hope that some ship, in some way diverted from its course, might eventually discover them and take them off. Instead of such a ship, however, their party was reinforced by a solitary white man, who made his way to them from his own refuge on one of the smaller islands. How had he got there? they asked eagerly. He told them the truth: he was “a bad character”—a man who had done desperate deeds of many sorts, and he was there because he was “a castaway” from an American ship—he could scarcely tell whether by accident or design. He seemed to think the latter the most likely and the most natural alternative in his case. Hunger and solitude on a bare rock in the wide ocean, had somewhat tamed him, and the consciousness of a common fate soon absorbed him into the little brotherhood of the Slains Castle.
He had been with them some months when some of the party secured a half-broken empty open boat, which seemed to have been washed off from a passing schooner. This they patched up, and then they began to think whether some of them might not make one last dash for the release of themselves and the rest. The “castaway” was quite ready to take to the sea again; he did not seem to know fear, or he believed he held a charmed life. He was an expert seaman, and of really powerful physique. Another must go with him, and another only. The captain’s arm being still disabled, the man selected as fittest for the expedition was the first mate. Despite all dangers their wild voyage was safely accomplished; a civilised port was reached, and a little steamer was at once despatched to the island to bring off the rest of the shipwrecked party. The ship owners had determined not to be premature in giving this good news. They had waited till every report was verified. Now, any hour might bring telegrams from Captain Grant and Charlie that they were safe on American soil, and hastening across the continent to take their Atlantic passage home.[1]
Of course there was wild and glad excitement in the little house with the verandah. But Lucy’s own joy was still and solemn. The others thought her very strong and calm. But she knew that she often asked herself whether she were waking or dreaming? She knew that she realised anew the distance and the dangers between herself and her beloved. After the glad telegram duly arrived and she knew the very name of the Atlantic liner on which Charlie was speeding towards her, a clouded sky or a rising wind would suffice to make her tremble! Ah, she had learned
“to love as the angels may
With the breadth of Heaven between,”
and the next lesson of her life was to be the bringing-down of that mountain-top vision of serenity and security, and the possessing of it still among the mists and twists of the level lands. She had learned that love is eternal, that love is safe when out of sight—now she had to learn that time is only a part of Eternity, and that what is safe out of our reach, cannot be in danger while it is within it.
She thought often in those days of Mary and Martha, the sisters of Lazarus. They, too, like her, had been through the bitterness of death. Was it henceforth abolished for them, so that they could say, “O grave, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting?” Or did the impression wear off their souls, so that they had to live through all their grief again?
She went on, wondering. When we are told that in the mysterious future there “is to be no more sea,” we feel that the language is only used as a powerful image, to show us that there shall be no more danger, no more parting. But after all, what are danger and parting, but for their fear and pain? Is it not really those that “shall be no more”? It seemed to Lucy that haply in the highest ministries of life’s immortal service the paths of those who would be “about their Father’s business” must still sometimes swerve from one another. If “no more sea” was a symbol of no more danger, and no more parting, did not that in turn mean an abiding sense that all is secure, a present consciousness that all parting involves joyful reunion? Then if our souls, still clad in mortal weakness, can but attain to this “perfect love which casts out fear,” should we not be in Heaven’s peace already?