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.
He found that worthy seated on a cask at the end of the rude pile of
coral rocks that formed the quay of Sandy Cove, surrounded by some of
his shipmates, all of whom, as well as himself, were smoking their pipes
and discussing things in general.
Corrie went forward and pulled Dick by the sleeve.
"Hallo! boy, what d'ye want with me?" said the boatswain.
"I want to speak to you."
"Well, lad, fire away."
"Yes, but I want you to come with me," said the boy, with an anxious and
rather mysterious look.
"Very good!--heave ahead," said the boatswain, getting up, and following
Corrie with a peculiarly nautical roll.
After he had been led through the settlement and a considerable way up
the mountain in silence, the boatswain suddenly stopped, and
said--"Hallo! hold on; my timbers won't stand much more o' this sort o'
thing. I was built for navigatin' the seas,--I was not for cruisin' on
the land. We're far enough out of ear-shot, I s'pose, in this here bit
of a plantation. Come, what have ye got to say to me? You ain't
a-goin' to tell me the Freemasons' word, are ye? For, if so, don't
trouble yourself, I wouldn't listen to it on no account w'atever. It's
too mysterious that is for me."
"Dick Price," said Corrie, looking up in the face of the seaman, with a
serious expression that was not often seen on his round countenance,
"you're a man."
The boatswain looked down at the youthful visage in some surprise.
"Well, I s'pose I am," said he, stroking his beard complacently.
"And you know what it is to be misunderstood, misjudged, don't you?"
"Well, now I come to think on it, I believe I _have_ had that
misfortune--specially w'en I've ordered the powder-monkies to make less
noise, for them younkers never do seem to understand me. As for
misjudgin', I've often an' over again heard 'em say I was the crossest
feller they ever did meet with, but they _never_ was more out in their
reckoning."
Corrie did not smile; he did not betray the smallest symptom of power
either to appreciate or to indulge in jocularity at that moment. But
feeling that it was useless to appeal to the former experience of the
boatswain, he changed his plan of attack.
"Dick Price," said he, "it's a hard case for an innocent man to be
hanged."
"So it is, boy,--oncommon hard. I once know'd a poor feller as was
hanged for murderin' his old grandmother. It was afterwards found out
that he'd never done the deed; but he was the most incorrigible thief
and poacher in the whole place, so it warn't such a mistake after all."
"Dick Price," said Corrie, gravely, at the same time laying his hand
impressively on his companion's arm, "I'm a _tremendous_ joker--_awful_
fond o' fun and skylarkin'."
"'Pon my word, lad, if you hadn't said so yourself, I'd scarce have
believed it. You don't look like it just now, by no manner o' means."
"But I am though," continued Corrie; "and I tell you that in order to
shew you that I am very, _very_ much in earnest at this moment; and that
you _must_ give your mind to what I've got to say."
The boatswain was impressed by the fervour of the boy. He looked at him
in surprise for a few seconds, then nodded his head, and said, "Fire
away!"
"You know that Gascoyne is in prison!" said Corrie.
"In course I does. That's one rascally pirate less on the seas,
anyhow."
"He's not so bad as you think, Dick."
"Whew!" whistled the boatswain. "You're a friend of his, are ye?"
"No; not a friend, but neither am I an enemy. You know he saved my
life, and the lives of two of my friends, and of your own captain, too."
"Well, there's no denying that; but he must have been the means of
takin' away more lives than what he has saved."
"No, he hasn't," cried Corrie, eagerly. "That's it, that's just the
point; he has saved more than he ever took away, and he's sorry for what
he has done; yet they're going to hang him. Now, I say, that's sinful--
it's not just. It shan't be done if I can prevent it; and you must help
me to get him out of this scrape--you must indeed, Dick Price."
The boatswain was quite taken aback. He opened his eyes wide with
surprise, and putting his head to one side, gazed earnestly and long at
the boy as if he had been a rare old painting.
Before he could reply, the furious barking of a dog attracted Corrie's
attention. He knew it to be the voice of Toozle. Being well acquainted
with the locality of Alice's tree, he at once concluded that she was
there, and knowing that she would certainly side with him, and that the
side she took _must_ necessarily be the winning side, he resolved to
bring Dick Price within the fascination of her influence.
"Come, follow me," said he; "we'll talk it over with a friend of mine."
The seaman followed the boy obediently, and in a few minutes stood
beside Alice.
Corrie had expected to find her there, but he had not counted on meeting
with Poopy and Jo Bumpus.
"Hallo! Grampus, is that you?"
"Wot! Corrie, my boy, is it yourself? Give us your flipper, small
though it be. I didn't think I'd niver see ye agin, lad."
"No more did I, Grampus; it was very nearly all up with us."
"Ah! my boy," said Bumpus, becoming suddenly very grave, "you've no
notion how near it was all up with _me_. Why, you won't believe it--I
was all but scragged."
"Dear me! what is scragged?" inquired Alice.
"You don't mean for to say you don't know?" exclaimed Bumpus.
"No, indeed, I don't."
"Why, it means bein' hanged. I was so near hanged, just a day or two
back, that I've had an 'orrible pain in my neck ever since at the bare
thought of it! But who's your friend?" said Bumpus, turning to the
boatswain.
"Oh! I forgot him--he's the boatswain of the _Talisman_. Dick Price,
this is my friend, John Bumpus."
"Glad to know you, Dick Price."
"Same to you, and luck, John Bumpus."
The two sea-dogs joined their enormous palms, and shook hands cordially.
After these two had indulged in a little desultory conversation, Will
Corrie, who, meanwhile, consulted with Alice in an undertone, brought
them back to the point that was uppermost in his mind.
"Now," said he, "it comes to this,--we must not let Gascoyne be hanged."
"Why, Corrie," cried Bumpus, in surprise, "that's the very thing I was
a-thinkin' of w'en I comed up here and found Miss Alice under the tree."
"I am glad to hear that, Jo; it's what has been on my own mind all the
morning. But Dick Price here is not convinced that he deserves to
escape. Now; you tell him all _you_ know about Gascoyne, and I'll tell
him all _I_ know, and if he don't believe _us_, Alice and Poopy will
tell him all _they_ know, and if that won't do, you and I will take him
up by the legs and pitch him into the sea!"
"That bein' how the case stands--fire away," said Dick Price with a
grin, sitting down on the grass and busily filling his pipe.
Dick was not so hard to be convinced as Corrie had feared. The glowing
eulogiums of Bumpus, and the earnest pleadings of Alice, won him over
very soon. He finally agreed to become one of the conspirators.
"But how is the thing to be done?" asked Corrie in some perplexity.
"Ah! that's the pint," observed Dick, looking profoundly wise.
"Nothin' easier," said Bumpus, whose pipe was by this time keeping pace
with that of his new friend. "The case is as clear as mud. Here's how
it is. Gascoyne is in limbo; well, we are out of limbo. Good. Then,
all we've got for to do is to break into limbo and shove Gascoyne out of
limbo, and help him to escape. It's all square, you see, lads."
"Not so square as you seem to think," said Henry Stuart, who at that
moment stepped from behind the stem of the tree, which had prevented the
party from observing his approach.
"Why not?" said Bumpus, making room for the young man to sit beside
Alice, on the grass.
"Because," said Henry, "Gascoyne won't agree to escape."
"Not agree for to escape!"
"No. If the prison door were opened at this moment, he would not walk
out."
Bumpus became very grave, and shook his head. "Are ye sartin sure o'
this?" said he.
"Quite sure," replied Henry, who now detailed part of his recent
conversation with the pirate captain.
"Then it's all up with him!" said Bumpus; "and the pirate will meet his
doom, as I once hear'd a feller say in a play--though I little thought
to see it acted in reality."
"So he will," added Dick Price.
Corrie's countenance fell, and Alice grew pale. Even Poopy and Toozle
looked a little depressed.
"No, it is _not_ all up with him," cried Henry Stuart, energetically.
"I have a plan in my head which I think will succeed, but I must have
assistance. It won't do, however, to discuss this before our young
friends. I must beg of Alice and Poopy to leave us. I do not mean to
say I could not trust you, Alice, but the plan must be made known only
to those who have to act in this matter. Rest assured, dear child, that
I shall do my best to make it successful."
Alice sprang up at once. "My father told me to follow him some time
ago," said she. "I have been too long of doing so already. I _do_ hope
that you will succeed."
So saying, and with a cheerful "Good-bye!" the little girl ran down the
mountain-side, closely followed by Toozle and Poopy.
As soon as she was gone, Henry turned to his companions and unfolded to
them his plan--the details and carrying out of which, however, we must
reserve for another chapter.