A PAIR OF SHOES AND STOCKINGS
The tide was running down, and Dickory made a swift passage to the town.
Seeing on the pier the man from whom he had borrowed the rope, he
stopped to return him his property, and thinking that the good people of
the town should know that, no matter what had befallen Major Bonnet, his
daughter had not gone with him and was safe among friends, he mentioned
these facts to the man, but with very few details, being in a hurry to
return with his message.
Before he turned into the inlet, Dickory was called from the shore, and
to his surprise he saw his mother standing on the bank in front of a
mass of bushes, which concealed her from her house.
"Come here, Dickory," she said, "and tell me what you have heard?"
Her son told his doleful tale.
"I fear me, mother," he said, "that Major Bonnet's ship has gone on
some secret and bad business, and that he is mixed up in it. Else why
did he desert his daughter? And if he intended to take her with him,
that was worse."
"I don't know, Dickory," said good Dame Charter reflectively; "we must
not be too quick to believe harm of our fellow-beings. It does look bad,
as the townspeople thought, that Major Bonnet should own such a ship
with such a strange crew, but he is a man who knows his own business,
and may have had good reason for what he has done. He might have been
sailing out to some foreign part to bring back a rich cargo, and needed
stout men to defend it from the pirates that he might meet with on the
seas."
"But his daughter, mother," said Dickory; "how could he have left her as
he did? That was shameful, and even you must admit it."
"Not so fast, Dickory," said she; "there are other ways of looking at
things than the way in which we look at them. He had intended to take
Mistress Kate on a little trip; she told me that herself. And most
likely, having changed his mind on account of the suspicions in the
town, he sent word to her to return to her home, which message she did
not get."
Dickory considered.
"Yes, mother," he said, "it might have been that way, but I don't
believe that he went of his own accord, and I don't believe that he
would take Ben Greenway with him. I think, mother, that they were both
stolen with the ship."
"That might be," said his mother, "but we have no right to take such a
view of it, and to impart it to his daughter. If he went away of his own
accord, everything will doubtless be made right, and we shall know his
reasons for what he has done. It is not for us to make up our minds that
Major Bonnet and good Ben Greenway have been carried off by wicked men,
for this would be sad indeed for that fair girl to believe. So remember,
Dickory, that it is our duty always to think the best of everything. And
now I will go through the underbrush to the house, and when you get
there yourself you must tell your story as if you had not told it to
me."
Before Dickory had reached his mother's cottage Mistress Kate Bonnet
came running to meet him, and she did not seem to be the same girl he
had left that morning. Her clothes had been dried and smoothed; even her
hat, which had been found in the boat, had been made shapely and
wearable, and its ribbons floated in the breeze. Dickory glanced at her
feet, and as he did so, a thrill of strange delight ran through him. He
saw his own Sunday shoes, with silver buckles, and he caught a glimpse
of a pair of brown stockings, which he knew went always with those
shoes.
"I am quite myself again," she said, noticing his wide eyes, "and your
mother has been good enough to lend me a pair of your shoes and
stockings. Mine are so utterly ruined, and I could not walk barefooted."
Dickory was so filled with pride that this fair being could wear his
shoes, and that she was wearing them, that he could only mumble some
stupid words about being so glad to serve her. And she, wise girl, said
nothing about the quantities of soft cotton-wool which Dame Charter had
been obliged to stuff into the toes before they would stay upon the
small feet they covered.
"But my father," cried Kate, "what of him? Where is he?"
Now Dame Charter was with them, her eyes hard fixed upon her son.
Dickory, mindful of those eyes, told her what he had to tell, saying as
little as possible about Major Bonnet--because, of course, all that he
knew about him was mere hearsay--but dilating with much vigour upon the
shameful conduct of Madam Bonnet; for the young lady ought surely to
know what sort of a woman her father's wife really was, and what she
might expect if she should return to her house. He could have said even
more about the interview with the angry woman, but his mother's eyes
were upon him.
Kate heard everything without a word, and then she burst into tears.
"My father," she sobbed, "carried away, or gone away, and one is as bad
as the other!"
"Dickory," said Dame Charter, "go cut some wood; there is none ready
for the kitchen."
Dickory went away, not sorry, for he did not know how to deport himself
with a young lady whose heart was so sorely tried. He might have
discovered a way, if he had been allowed to do so; but that would not
have been possible with his mother present. But, in spite of her sorrow,
his heart sang to him that she was wearing his shoes and stockings! Then
he cheerfully brought down his axe upon the wood for the dinner's
cooking.
Dame Charter led the weeping girl to the bench, and they talked long
together. There was no optimist in all the British colonies, nor for
that matter in those belonging to France or Spain, or even to the Dutch,
who was a more conscientious follower of her creed than Dame Charter.
She sat by Kate and she talked to her until the girl stopped sobbing and
began to see for herself that her father knew his own business, and that
he had most certainly sent her a message to go on shore, which had not
been delivered.
As to poor Ben Greenway, the good woman was greatly relieved that her
son had not mentioned him, and she took care not to do it herself. She
did not wish to strain her optimism. Kate, having so much else upon her
mind, never thought of this good man.
When Dickory came back, he first looked to see if Kate still wore his
shoes and stockings, and then he began to ask what there was that he
might now do. He would go again to the town if he might be of use. But
Kate had no errand for him there. Dickory had told her how he had been
with Mr. Newcombe at her home, and therefore there was no need of her
sending him another message.
"I don't know where to go or where to send," she said simply; "I am
lost, and that is all of it."
"Oh, no," cried Dame Charter, "not that! You are with good friends, and
here you can stay just as long as you like."
"Indeed she can!" said Dickory, as if he were making a response in
church.
His mother looked at him and said nothing. And then she took Kate out
into a little grove behind the house to see if she could find some ripe
oranges.
It was a fair property, although not large, which belonged to the Widow
Charter. Her husband had been a thriving man, although a little inclined
to speculations in trade which were entirely out of his line, and when
he met his death in the sea he left her nothing but her home and some
inconsiderable land about it. Dickory had been going to a grammar-school
in the town, and was considered a fair scholar, but with his father's
death all that stopped, and the boy was obliged to go to work to do what
he could for his mother. And ever since he had been doing what he
could, without regard to appearances, thinking only of the money.
But on Sunday, when he rowed his mother to church, he wore good clothes,
being especially proud of his buckled shoes and his long brown hose,
which were always of good quality.
They were eating dinner when oars were heard on the river, and in a
moment a boat swung around into the inlet. In the stern sat Master
Martin Newcombe, and two men were rowing.
Now Dickory Charter swore in his heart, although he was not accustomed
to any sort of blasphemy; and as Miss Kate gazed eagerly through the
open window, our young friend narrowly scrutinized her face to see if
she were glad or not. She was glad, that was plain enough, and he went
out sullenly to receive the arriving interloper.
When they were all standing on the shore, Kate did not think it worth
while to ask Master Newcombe how he happened to know where she was. But
the young man waited for no questions; he went on to tell his story.
When he related that it was a man fishing on a pier who had told him
that young Mistress Kate Bonnet was stopping with Dame Charter, Kate
wondered greatly, for as Dickory had met Master Newcombe, what need had
there been for the latter to ask questions about her of a stranger? But
she said nothing. And Dickory growled in his soul that he had ever
spoken to the man on the pier, except to thank him for the rope he had
borrowed.
Martin Newcombe's story went on, and he told that, having been extremely
angered by the conduct and words of Madam Bonnet, he had gone into the
town and made inquiries, hoping to hear something of the whereabouts of
Mistress Kate. And, having done so, by means of the very obliging person
on the pier, he had determined that the daughter of Major Bonnet should
have her rights; and he had gone to his own lawyer, who assured him that
being a person of recognised respectability, possessing property, he was
fully authorized, knowing the wishes of Mistress Kate Bonnet, to go to
her step-mother and demand that those wishes be complied with; and if
this very reasonable request should be denied, then the lawyer would
take up the matter himself, and would see to it that reasonable raiment
and the necessities of a young lady should not be withheld from her.
With these instructions, Newcombe had gone to Madam Bonnet and had found
that much disturbed lady in a state of partial collapse, which had
followed her passion of the morning, and who had declared that nothing
in the world would please her better than to get rid of her husband's
daughter and never see her again. And if the creature needed clothes or
anything else which belonged to her, a maid should pack them up, and
anybody who pleased might take them to any place, provided she heard no
more about them or their owner.
In all this she spoke most truthfully, for she hated her step-daughter,
both because she was a fine young woman and much regarded by her father,
and because she had certain rights to the estate of said father, which
his present wife did not wish to recognise, or even to think about. So
Martin Newcombe was perfectly welcome to take away such things as would
render it unnecessary for the girl to now return to the home in which
she had been born. Martin had brought the box, and here he was.
It was not long before Newcombe and the lady of his love were walking
away through the little plantation, in order that they might speak by
themselves. Dickory looked after them and frowned, but he bravely
comforted himself by thinking that he had been the one into whose arms
she had dropped, through the blackness of the night and the blackness of
the water, knowing in her heart that he would be there ready for her,
and also by the thought that it was his shoes and stockings that she
wore. Dame Charter saw this frown on her son's face, but she did not
guess the thoughts which were in his mind.