Kate did not scream, nor moan, nor faint, but she sat up straight in her chair and gazed, with a wild intentness, at her uncle. No one spoke. At such a moment condolence or sympathy would have been a cruel mockery.

They were all as pale as chalk. In his heart, Mr. Delaplaine said: "I see it all; the Governor must have known, and he loved her so he could not break her heart."

In the midst of the silence, in the midst of the chalky whiteness of their faces, in the midst of the blackness which was settling down upon them, Kate Bonnet still sat upright, a coldness creeping through every part of her. Suddenly she turned her head, and in a voice of wild entreaty she called out: "Oh, d.i.c.kory, why don't you come to me!"

In an instant d.i.c.kory was there, and, cold and lifeless, Kate Bonnet was in his arms.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX

THE BLESSINGS WHICH COME FROM THE DEATH OF THE WICKED

It was three weeks after Martin Newcombe's letter came before Ben Greenway arrived in Spanish Town. He had had a hard time to get there, having but little money and no friends to help him; but he had a strong heart and an earnest, and so he was bound to get there at last; and, although Kate saw no visitors, she saw him. She was not dressed in mourning; she could not wear black for herself.

She greeted the Scotchman with earnestness; he was a friend out of the old past, but she gave him no chance to speak first.

"Ben," she exclaimed, "have you a message for me?"

"No message," he replied, "but I hae somethin' on my heart I wish to say to ye. I hae toiled an' laboured an' hae striven wi' mony obstacles to get to ye an' to say it."

She looked at him, with her brows knit, wondering if she should allow him to speak; then, with the words scarcely audible between her tightly closed lips, she said: "Ben, what is it?"

"It is this, an' no more nor less," replied the Scotchman; "he was never fit to be your father, an' it is not fit now for ye to remember him as your father. I was faithful to him to the vera last, but there was no truth in him. It is an abomination an' a wickedness for ye to remember him as your father!"

Kate spoke no word, nor did she shed a tear.

"It was my heart's desire ye should know it," said the Scotchman, "an' I came mony a weary league to tell ye so."

"Ben," said she, "I think I have known it for a long time, but I would not suffer myself to believe it; but now, having heard your words, I am sure of it."

"Uncle," said she an hour afterward, "I have no father, and I never had one."

With tears in his eyes he folded her to his breast, and peace began to rise in his soul. No greater blessing can come to really good people than the absolute disappearance of the wicked.

And the wickedness which had so long shadowed and stained the life of Kate Bonnet was now removed from it. It was hard to get away from the shadow and to wipe off the stain, but she was a brave girl and she did it.

In this work of her life--a work which if not accomplished would make that life not worth the living--Kate was much helped by d.i.c.kory; and he helped her by not saying a word about it or ever allowing himself, when in her presence, to remember that there had been a shadow or a stain.

And if he thought of it at all when by himself, his only feeling was one of thankfulness that what had happened had given her to him.

Even the Governor brightened. He had striven hard to keep from Kate the news which had come to him from Charles Town, suppressing it in the hopes that it might reach her more gradually and with less terrible effect than if he told it, but now that he knew that she knew it the blessings which are shed abroad by the disappearance of the wicked affected him also, and he brightened. There were no functions for Kate, but she brightened, striving with all her soul to have this so, for her own sake as well as that of others. As for Mr. Delaplaine, Dame Charter, and d.i.c.kory, they brightened without any trouble at all, the disappearance of the wicked having such a direct and forcible effect upon them.

d.i.c.kory Charter, who matured in a fashion which made everybody forget that Kate Bonnet was eleven months his senior, entered into business with Mr. Delaplaine, and Jamaica became the home of this happy family, whose welfare was founded, as on a rock, upon the disappearance of the wicked.

Here, then, was a brave girl who had loved her father with a love which was more than that of a daughter, which was the love of a mother, of a wife; who had loved him in prosperity and in times of sorrow and of shame; who had rejoiced like an angel whenever he turned his footsteps into the right way, and who had mourned like an angel whenever he went wrong. She had longed to throw her arms around her father's neck, to hold him to her, and thus keep off the hangman's noose. Her courage and affection never waned until those arms were rudely thrust aside and their devoted owner dastardly repulsed.

True to herself and to him, she loved her father so long as there was anything parental in him which she might love; and, true to herself, when he had left her nothing she might love, she bowed her head and suffered him, as he pa.s.sed out of his life, to pa.s.s out of her own.

CHAPTER XL

CAPTAIN ICHABOD PUTS THE CASE

In the river at Bridgetown lay the good brig King and Queen, just arrived from Jamaica. On her deck was an impatient young gentleman, leaning over the rail and watching the approach of a boat, with two men rowing and a pa.s.senger in the stern.

This impatient young man was d.i.c.kory Charter, that morning arrived at Bridgetown and not yet having been on sh.o.r.e. He came for the purpose of settling some business affairs, partly on account of Miss Kate Bonnet and partly for his mother.

As the boat came nearer, d.i.c.kory recognised one of the men who were rowing and hailed him.

"Heigho! Tom Hilyer," he cried, "I am right glad to see you on this river again. I want a boat to go to my mother's house; know you of one at liberty?"

The man ceased rowing for a moment and then addressed the pa.s.senger in the stern, who, having heard what he had to say, nodded briefly.

"Well, well, d.i.c.k Charter!" cried out the man, "and have you come back as governor of the colony? You look fine enough, anyway. But if you want a boat to go to your mother's old home, you can have a seat in this one; we're going there, and our pa.s.senger does not object."

"Pull up here," cried d.i.c.kory, and in a moment he had dropped into the bow of the boat, which then proceeded on its way.

The man in the stern was fairly young, handsome, sunburned, and well dressed in a suit of black. When d.i.c.kory thanked him for allowing him to share his boat the pa.s.senger in the stern nodded his head with a jerk and an air which indicated that he took the incident as a matter of course, not to be further mentioned or considered.

The men who rowed the boat were good oarsmen, but they were not thoroughly acquainted with the cove, especially at low tide, and presently they ran upon a sand-bar. Then uprose the pa.s.senger in the stern and began to swear with an ease and facility which betokened long practice. d.i.c.kory did not swear, but he knit his brows and berated himself for not having taken the direction of the course into his own hands, he who knew the river and the cove so well. The tide was rising but d.i.c.kory was too impatient to sit still and wait until it should be high enough to float the boat. That was his old home, that little house at the head of the cove, and he wanted to get there, he wanted to see it. Part of the business which brought him to Barbadoes concerned that little house. With a sudden movement he made a dive at his shoes and stockings and speedily had them lying at the bottom of the boat. Then he stepped overboard and waded towards the sh.o.r.e. In some of the deeper places he wetted the bottom of his breeches, but he did not mind that.

The pa.s.senger in the stern sat down, but he continued to swear.

Presently d.i.c.kory was on the dry sand, and running up to that cottage door. A little back from the front of the house and in the shade there was a bench, and on this bench there sat a girl, reading. She lifted her head in surprise as d.i.c.kory approached, for his bare feet had made no noise, then she stood up quickly, blushing.

"You!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," cried d.i.c.kory; "and you look just the same as when you first put your head above the bushes and talked to me."

"Except that I am more suitably clothed," she said.

And she was entirely right, for her present dress was feminine, and extremely becoming.

d.i.c.kory did not wish to say anything more on this subject, and so he remarked: "I have just arrived at the town, and I came directly here."

Lucilla blushed again.

"This is my old home," added d.i.c.kory.

"But you knew we were here?" she asked, with a hesitating look of inquiry.

"Oh, yes," said he, "I knew that the house had been let to your father."

Now she changed colour twice--first red, then white. "Are you," she said, "I mean ... the other, is she--"

"I left her in Jamaica," said d.i.c.kory, "but I am going to marry her."