It was night when he stood there. The silence was profound, for the people of the settlement sympathised so deeply with their beloved pastor’s grief that even the ordinary hum of life appeared to be hushed, except now and then when a low wail would break out and float away on the night wind. These sounds of woe were full of meaning. They told that there were other mourners there that night—that the recent battle had not been fought without producing some of the usual bitter fruits of war. Beloved, but dead and mangled forms, lay in more than one hut in Sandy Cove.
Motionless—hopeless—the missionary stood amid the charred beams and ashes, until the words “Call upon me in the day of trouble and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me,” descended on his soul like sunshine upon ice. A suppressed cry burst from his lips, and, falling on his knees, he poured forth his soul in prayer.
While he was yet on his knees, a cry of anguish arose from one of the huts at the foot of the hill. It died away in a low, heart-broken wail. Mr Mason knew its meaning well. That cry had a special significance to him. It spoke reproachfully. It said, “There is comfort for you, for where life is there is hope; but here there is death.”
Again the word of God came to his memory, “Weep with them that weep.” Starting up hastily, the missionary sprang over the black beams, and hurried down the hill, entered the village, and spent the greater part of the remainder of that night in comforting the bereaved and the wounded.
The cause of the pastor’s grief was not removed thereby, but the sorrow itself was lightened by sympathy, and when he returned at a late hour to his temporary home, hope had begun to arise within his breast.
The widow’s cottage afforded him shelter. When he entered it Harry and his mother were seated near a small table on which supper was spread for their expected guest.
“Tom Armstrong will recover,” said the missionary, seating himself opposite the widow and speaking in a hurried excited tone. “His wound is a bad one given by a war-club, but I think it is not dangerous. I wish I could say as much for poor Simon. If he had been attended to sooner he might have lived, but so much blood has been already lost that there is now no hope. Alas! for his little boy. He will be an orphan soon. Poor Harry’s wife is distracted with grief. Her young husband’s body is so disfigured with cuts and bruises that it is dreadful to look upon, yet she will not leave the room in which it lies, nor cease to embrace and cling to the mangled corpse. Poor, poor Lucy! she will have to be comforted. At present she must be left with God. No human sympathy can avail just now, but she must be comforted when she will permit any one to speak to her. You will go to her to-morrow, Mrs Stuart, won’t you?”
As this was Mr Mason’s first meeting with the widow since the Sunday morning when the village was attacked, his words and manner shewed that he dreaded any allusion to his own loss. The widow saw and understood this, but she had consolation for him as well as for others, and would not allow him to have his way.
“But what of Alice?” she said, earnestly. “You do not mention her. Henry has told me all. Have you nothing to say about yourself—about Alice?”
“Oh! what can I say?” cried the pastor, clasping his hands, while a deep sob almost choked him.