AGAIN DICKORY WAS THERE
There were indeed gay times in Spanish Town, and with the two loads
lifted from her heart, Kate helped very much to promote the gaiety. If
this young lady had wished to make a good colonial match, she had
opportunities enough for so doing, but she was not in that frame of
mind, and encouraged no suitor.
But, bright as she was, she was not so bright as on that great and
glorious day when she received Ben Greenway's letter, telling her that
her father was no longer a pirate. There were several reasons for this
gradually growing twilight of her happiness, and one was that no letter
came from her father. To be sure, there were many reasons why no letter
should come. There were no regular mails in these colonies which could
be depended upon, and, besides, the new career of her father, sailing as
a privateer under the king's flag, would probably make it very
difficult for him to send a letter to Jamaica by any regular or
irregular method. Moreover, her father was a miserable correspondent,
and always had been. Thus she comforted herself and was content, though
not very well content, to wait.
Then there was another thing which troubled her, when she thought of it.
That good man and steady lover, Martin Newcombe, had written that he was
coming to Spanish Town, and she knew very well what he was coming for
and what he would say, but she did not know what she would say to him;
and the thought of this troubled her. In a letter she might put off the
answer for which he had been so long and patiently waiting, but when she
met him face to face there could be no more delay; she must tell him yes
or no, and she was not ready to do this.
There was so much to think of, so many plans to be considered in regard
to going back to Barbadoes or staying in Jamaica, that really she could
not make up her mind, at least not until she had seen her father. She
would be so sorry if Mr. Newcombe came to Spanish Town before her father
should arrive, or at least before she should hear from him.
Then there was another thing which added to the twilight of these
cheerful days, and this Kate could scarcely understand, because she
could see no reason why it should affect her. The Governor, whom they
frequently met in the course of the pleasant social functions of the
town, looked troubled, and was not the genial gentleman he used to be.
Of course he had a right to his own private perplexities and annoyances,
but it grieved Kate to see the change in him. He had always been so
cordial and so cheerful; he was now just as kind as ever, perhaps a
little more so, in his manner, but he was not cheerful.
Kate mentioned to her uncle the changed demeanour of the Governor, but
he could give no explanation; he had heard of no political troubles, but
supposed that family matters might easily have saddened the good man.
He himself was not very cheerful, for day after day brought nearer the
time when that uncertain Stede Bonnet might arrive in Jamaica, and what
would happen after that no man could tell. One thing he greatly feared,
and that was, that his dear niece, Kate, might be taken away from him.
Dame Charter was not so very cheerful either. Only in one way did she
believe in Stede Bonnet, and that was, that after some fashion or
another he would come between her and her bright dreams for her dear
Dickory.
And so there were some people in Spanish Town who were not as happy as
they had been.
Still there were dinners and little parties, and society made itself
very pleasant; and in the midst of them all a ship came in from
Barbadoes, bringing a letter from Martin Newcombe.
A strange thing about this letter was that it was addressed to Mr.
Delaplaine and not to Miss Kate Bonnet. This, of course, proved the
letter must be on business; and, although he was with his little family
when he opened his letter, he thought it well to glance at it before
reading it aloud. The first few lines showed him that it was indeed a
business letter, for it told of the death of Madam Bonnet, and how the
writer, Martin Newcombe, as a neighbour and friend of the family, had
been called in to take temporary charge of her effects, and, having done
so, he hastened to inform Mr. Delaplaine of his proceedings and to ask
advice. This letter he now read aloud, and Kate and the others were
greatly interested therein, although they cautiously forbore the
expression of any opinion which might rise in their minds regarding this
turn of affairs.
Having finished these business details, Mr. Delaplaine went on and read
aloud, and in the succeeding portion of the letter Mr. Newcombe begged
Mr. Delaplaine to believe that it was the hardest duty of his whole life
to write what he was now obliged to write, but that he knew he must do
it, and therefore would not hesitate. At this the reader looked at his
niece and stopped.
"Go on," cried Kate, her face a little flushed, "go on!"
The face of Mr. Delaplaine was pale, and for a moment he hesitated,
then, with a sudden jerk, he nerved himself to the effort and read on;
he had seen enough to make him understand that the duty before him
was to read on.
[Illustration: In an instant Dickory was there.]
Briefly and tersely, but with tears in the very ink, so sad were the
words, the writer assured Mr. Delaplaine that his love for his niece had
been, and was, the overpowering impulse of his life; that to win this
love he had dared everything, he had hoped for everything, he had been
willing to pass by and overlook everything, but that now, and it tore
his heart to write it, his evil fortune had been too much for him; he
could do anything for the sake of his love that a man with respect for
himself could do, but there was one thing at which he must stop, at
which he must bow his head and submit to his fate--he could not marry
the daughter of an executed felon.
Thus came to that little family group the news of the pirate Bonnet's
death. There was more of the letter, but Mr. Delaplaine did not read it.
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, Dickory, why don't you come to me!"
In an instant Dickory was there, and, cold and lifeless, Kate Bonnet was
in his arms.