"My dear madam," replied Montague, sorrowfully, "you forget that I am not his judge. I have no right to weigh the circ.u.mstances of his case.
He is a convicted and self-acknowledged pirate. My only duty is to convey him to England and hand him over to the officers of justice. I sympathise with you, indeed I do, for you seem to take his case to heart very much, but I cannot help you. I _must_ do my duty. The _Foam_ will be ready for sea in a few days, in it I shall convey Gascoyne to England."
"O Mr Montague, I do take his case to heart, as you say, and no one on this earth has more cause to do so. Will it interest you more in Gascoyne, and induce you to use your influence in his favour, if I tell you that--that--_he is my husband_?"
"Your husband!" cried Montague, springing up and pacing the apartment with rapid strides.
"Ay," said Mrs Stuart, mournfully, covering her face with her hands; "I had hoped that this secret would die with me and him, but in the hope that it may help, ever so little, to save his life, I have revealed it to you."
"Believe me, the secret shall be safe in my keeping," said Montague, tenderly, as he sat down again and drew his chair near to that of Mrs Stuart. "But, alas! I do not see how it is possible for me to help your husband. I will use my utmost influence to mitigate his sentence, but I cannot, I _dare_ not set him free."
The poor woman sat pale and motionless while the captain said this. She began to perceive that all hope was gone, and felt despair settling down on her heart.
"What will be his doom," said she, in a husky voice, "if his life is spared?"
"I do not know. At least I am not certain. My knowledge of criminal law is very slight, but I should suppose it would be transportation for--"
Montague hesitated, and could not find it in his heart to add the word "life."
Without uttering a word Mrs Stuart rose, and, staggering from the room, hastened with a quick unsteady step towards her own cottage.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.
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 G.o.d 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, "G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d"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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 ma.s.s 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.