A Peculiar Confidant—More Difficulties, And Various Plans To Overcome Them.
When Alice Mason was a little child, there was a certain tree near her father’s house to which, in her hours of sorrow, she was wont to run and tell it all the grief of her overflowing heart. She firmly believed that this tree heard and understood and sympathised with all that she said. There was a hole in the stem into which she was wont to pour her complaints, and when she had thus unburthened her heart to her silent confidant she felt comforted, as one feels when a human friend has shared one’s sorrows.
When the child became older, and her sorrows were heavier and, perhaps, more real, her well-nurtured mind began to rise to a higher source for comfort. Habit and inclination led her indeed to the same tree, but when she kneeled upon its roots and leaned against its stem, she poured out her heart into the bosom of Him who is ever present, and who can be touched with a feeling of our infirmities.
Almost immediately after landing on the island Alice sought the umbrageous shelter of her old friend and favourite, and on her knees thanked God for restoring her to her father and her home.
To the same place the missionary directed his steps, for he knew it well, and doubtless expected to find his daughter there.
“Alice, dear, I have good news to tell you,” said the missionary, sitting down beside her.
“I know what it is!” cried Alice, eagerly.
“What do you think it is, my pet?”
“Gascoyne is to be forgiven! am I right?”
Mr Mason shook his head sadly—“No, that is not what I have to tell you. Poor fellow, I would that I had some good news to give you about him; but I fear there is no hope for him—I mean as regards his being pardoned by man.”
Alice sighed, and her face expressed the deepest tenderness and sympathy.
“Why do you take so great an interest in this man, dear?” said her father.
“Because Mary Stuart loves him, and I love Mary Stuart. And Corrie seemed to like him, too, since he has come to know him better. Besides, has he not saved my life, and Captain Montague’s, and Corrie’s? Corrie tells me that he is very sorry for the wicked things he has done, and he thinks that if his life is spared he will become a good man. Has he been very wicked, papa?”
“Yes, very wicked. He has robbed many people of their goods, and has burnt and sunk their vessels.”
Alice looked horrified.
“But,” continued her father, “I am convinced of the truth of his statement—that he has never shed human blood. Nevertheless, he has been very wicked, and the fact that he has such a powerful will, such commanding and agreeable manners, only makes his guilt the greater, for there is less excuse for his having devoted such powers and qualities to the service of Satan. I fear that his judges will not take into account his recent good deeds and his penitence. They will not pardon him.”
“Father,” said Alice, earnestly, “God pardons the chief of sinners—why will not man do so?”
The missionary was somewhat perplexed as to how he should reply to such a difficult question.
“My child,” said he, “the law of God and the law of man must be obeyed, or the punishment must be inflicted on the disobedient—both laws are alike in this respect. In the case of God’s law, Jesus Christ our Lord obeyed it, bore the punishment for us, and set our souls free. But in the case of man’s law, who is to bear Gascoyne’s punishment and set him free?”
As poor Alice could not answer this, she cast down her tearful eyes, sighed again, and looked more miserable than ever.
“But come, my pet,” resumed Mr Mason, “you must guess again. It is really good news—try.”
“I can’t,” said Alice, looking up in her father’s face with animation and shaking her head; “I never could guess anything rightly.”
“What would you think the best thing that could happen?” said her father.
The child looked intently at the ground for a few seconds and pursed her rosy little mouth, while the smallest possible frown—the result of intellectual exertion—knitted her fair brow.
“The best thing that could happen,” said she, slowly, “would be that all the whole world should become good.”
“Well done, Alice!” exclaimed her father, laughing; “you have certainly taken the widest possible view of the subject. But you have soared a little too high; yet you have not altogether missed the mark. What would you say if the chiefs of the heathen village were to cast their idols into the fire, and ask me to come over and teach them how to become Christians?”
“Oh! have they really done this?” cried Alice in eager surprise.
“Indeed they have. I have just seen and had a talk with some of their chief men, and have promised to go over to their village to-morrow. I came up here just to tell you this, and to say that your friend the widow will take care of you while I am away.”
“And shall we have no more wars—no more of these terrible deeds of blood?” inquired the child, while a shudder passed through her frame at the recollection of what she had heard and seen during her short life on that island.
“I trust not, my lamb. I believe that God has heard our prayers, and that the Prince of Peace will henceforth rule in this place. But I must go and prepare for this work. Come, will you go with me?”
“Leave me here for a little, papa; I wish to think it over all alone.”
Kissing her forehead, the missionary left her. When he was out of sight the little girl sat down, and, nestling between two great roots of her favourite tree, laid her head against the stem and shut her eyes.
But poor Alice was not left long to her solitary meditations. There was a peculiarly attractive power about her which drew other creatures around her wherever she might chance to be.
The first individual who broke in upon her was that animated piece of ragged door-mat, Toozle. This imbecile little dog was not possessed of much delicacy of feeling, having been absent on a private excursion of his own into the mountain when the schooner arrived, he only became aware of the return of his lost, loved, and deeply-regretted mistress, when he came back from his trip. The first thing that told him of her presence was his own nose, the black point of which protruded with difficulty a quarter of an inch beyond the mass of matting which totally extinguished his eyes, and, indeed, every other portion of his head.
Coming down the hill immediately behind Sandy Cove at a breakneck scramble, Toozle happened to cross the path by which his mistress had ascended to her tree. The instant he did so, he came to a halt so sudden that one might have fancied he had been shot. In another moment he was rushing up the hill in wild excitement, giving an occasional yelp of mingled surprise and joy as he went along. The footsteps led him a little beyond the tree and then turned down towards it, so that he had the benefit of the descent in making the final onset.
The moment he came in sight of Alice he began to bark and yelp in such an eager way that the sounds produced might be described as an intermittent scream. He charged at once with characteristic want of consideration, and, plunging headlong into Alice’s bosom, sought to cover her face with kisses—i.e., with licks, that being the well-known canine method of doing the thing.
“O Toozle, how glad, glad, glad, I am to see you, my own darling Toozle!” cried Alice, actually shedding tears.
Toozle screamed with delight. It was almost too much for him. Again and again he attempted to lick her face, a familiarity which Alice gently declined to permit, so he was obliged to content himself with her hand.
It has often struck us as surprising, that little dogs—usually so intelligent and apt to learn in other matters—should be so dull of apprehension in this. Toozle had the experience of a lifetime to convince him that Alice objected to have her face licked, and would on no account permit it, although she was extremely liberal in regard to her hands; but Toozle ignored the authority of experience. He was at this time a dog of mature years, but his determination to kiss Alice was as strong as it had been when, in the tender years of infancy, he had entertained the mistaken belief that she was his own mother.
He watched every unguarded moment to thrust forward his black, not to say impertinent, little snout; and, although often reproved, he still remained unconvinced, resolutely returned to the charge, and was not a bit ashamed of himself.
On the present occasion Toozle behaved like a canine lunatic, and Alice was beginning to think of exercising a little tender violence in order to restrain his superabundant glee, when another individual appeared on the scene, and for a time, at least, relieved her.
The second comer was our dark friend, Kekupoopi. She by some mischance had got separated from her young mistress, and immediately went in search of her. She found her at once of course, for, as water finds its level, so love finds its object without much loss of time.
“O Toozle; hee! hee! am dat you?” exclaimed Poopy, who was as much delighted in her way to see the dog as Alice had been.
Toozle was, in his way, as much delighted to see Poopy as he had been to see Alice—no, we are wrong, not quite so much as that, but still extremely glad to see her, and evinced his joy by extravagant sounds and actions. He also evinced his scorn for the opinion that some foolish persons hold, namely, that black people are not as good as white, by rushing into Poopy’s arms and attempting to lick her black face as he had tried to do to Alice. As the dark-skinned girl had no objection, (for tastes differ, you see,) and received the caresses with a quiet “Hee! hee!” Toozle was extremely gratified.
Now it happened that Jo Bumpus, oppressed with a feeling of concern for his former captain, and with a feeling of doubt as to the stirring events in which he was an actor being waking realities, had wandered up the mountain-side in order to indulge in profound philosophical reflections.
Happening to hear the noise caused by the joyful meeting which we have just described, he turned aside to see what all the “row” could be about, and thus came unexpectedly on Alice and her friends.
About the same time it chanced, (for things sometimes do happen by chance in a very remarkable way,) it chanced that Will Corrie, being also much depressed about Gascoyne, resolved to take into his confidence Dick Price the boatswain, with whom during their short voyage together he had become intimate.
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