CHAPTER IX
DICKORY SETS FORTH
Mr. Felix Delaplaine, merchant and planter of Spanish Town, the capitalof Jamaica, occupied a commodious house in the suburbs of the town,twelve miles up the river from Kingston, the seaport, whichestablishment was somewhat remarkable from the fact that there were nowomen in the family. Madam Delaplaine had been dead for several years,and as her husband's fortune had steadily thriven, he now found himselfpossessor of a home in which he could be as independent and ascomfortable as if he had been the president and sole member of a club.
Being of a genial disposition and disposed to look most favourably uponhis possessions and surrounding conditions, Mr. Delaplaine had come tobe of the opinion that his lot in life was one in which improvement wasnot to be expected and scarcely to be desired. He had been perfectlyhappy with his wife, and had no desire to marry another, who could notpossibly equal her; and, having no children, he continually thanked hishappy stars that he was free from the troubles and anxieties which wereso often brought upon fathers by their sons and their daughters.
Into this quiet and self-satisfied life came, one morning, a greatsurprise in the shape of a beautiful young woman, who entered his officein Spanish Town, and who stated to him that she was the daughter of hisonly sister, and that she had come to live with him. There was anelderly dame and a young man in company with the beautiful visitor, butMr. Delaplaine took no note of them. With his niece's hands in his own,gazing into the face so like that young face in whose company he hadgrown from childhood to manhood, Mr. Delaplaine saw in a flash, thatsince the death of his wife until that moment he had never had the leastreason to be content with the world or to be satisfied with his lot.This was his sister's child come to live with him!
When Mr. Delaplaine sufficiently recovered his ordinary good sense tounderstand that there were other things in this world besides the lovelyniece who had so suddenly appeared before him, he remembered that shehad a father, and many questions were asked and answered; and he wastold who Dame Charter was, and why her son came with her. Then the uncleand the niece walked into the garden, and there talked of Major Bonnet.Little did Kate know upon this subject, and nothing could her uncle tellher; but in many and tender words she was assured that this was her homeas long as she chose to live in it, and that it was the most fortunatething in the world that Dame Charter had come with her and could staywith her. Had this not been so, where could he have found such aguardian angel, such a chaperon, for this tender niece? As for the youngman, it was such rare good luck that he had been able to accompany thetwo ladies and give them his protection. He was just the person, Mr.Delaplaine believed, who would be invaluable to him either on theplantation or in his counting-house. In any case, here was their home;and here, too, was the home of his brother-in-law, Bonnet, whenever hechose to give up his strange fancy for the sea. It was not now to bethought of that Kate or her father, or either one of them, should goback to Barbadoes to live with the impossible Madam Bonnet.
If her father's vessel were in the harbour and he were here with them,or even if she had had good tidings from him, Kate Bonnet would havebeen a very happy girl, for her present abode was vastly different fromany home she had ever known. Her uncle's house on the highlands beyondthe town lay in a region of cooler breezes and more bracing air thanthat of Barbadoes. Books and music and the general air of refinementrecalled her early life with her mother, and with the exception of theanxiety about her father, there were no clouds in the bright blue skiesof Kate Bonnet. But this anxiety was a cloud, and it was spreading.
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When the Amanda moved away from the side of the pirate vessel Revengeshe hoisted all sail, and got away over the sea as fast as theprevailing wind could take her. When she passed the bar below Bridgetownand came to anchor, Captain Marchand immediately lowered a boat and wasrowed up the river to the recent residence of Major Stede Bonnet, andthere he delivered two letters--one to the wife of that gentleman, andthe other for his daughter. Then the captain rowed back and went intothe town, where he annoyed and nearly distracted the citizens by givingthem the most cautious and expurgated account of the considerate andfriendly manner in which the Amanda had been relieved of her cargo byhis old friend and fellow-vestryman, Major Bonnet.
Captain Marchand had been greatly impressed by the many things which BenGreenway had said about his master's present most astounding freak, andhoping in his heart that repentance and a suitable reparation might soongive this hitherto estimable man an opportunity to return to his formerplace in society, he said as little as he could against the name andfame of this once respected fellow-citizen. When he communicated withthe English owners of his now departed cargo, he would know what to sayto them, but here, safe in harbour with his vessel and his passengers,he preferred to wait for a time before entirely blackening the characterof the man who had allowed him to come here. Like the faithful BenGreenway, he did not yet believe in Stede Bonnet's piracy.
Madam Bonnet read her letter and did not like it. In fact, she thoughtit shameful. Then she opened and read the letter to her step-daughter.This she did not like either, and she put it away in a drawer; she wouldhave nothing to do with the transmission of such an epistle as this.Most abominable when contrasted with the scurrilous screed he hadwritten to her.
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Day after day passed on, and Kate Bonnet arose each morning feeling lesshappy than on the day before. But at last a letter came, brought by aFrench vessel which had touched at Barbadoes. This letter was to Katefrom Martin Newcombe. It was a love-letter, a very earnest, ardentlove-letter, but it did not make the young girl happy, for it told hervery little about her father. The heart of the lover was so tender thathe would say nothing to his lady which might give her needless pain. Hehad heard what Captain Marchand had told and he had not understood it,and could only half believe it. Kate must know far more about all thispainful business than he did, for her father's letter would tell her allhe wished her to know. Therefore, why should he discuss that mostdistressing and perplexing subject, which he knew so little about andwhich she knew all about. So he merely touched upon Major Bonnet and hisvessel, and hoped that she might soon write to him and tell him what shecared for him to know, what she cared for him to tell to the people ofBridgetown, and what she wished to repose confidentially to his honour.But whatever she chose to say to him or not to say to him, he would haveher remember that his heart belonged to her, and ever would belong, nomatter what might happen or what might be said for good or for bad, onthe sea or the land, by friends or enemies.
This was a rarely good love-letter, but it plunged Kate into the deepestwoe, and Dickory saw this first of all. He had brought the letter, andfor the second time he saw tears in her eyes. The absence of news ofMajor Bonnet was soon known to the rest of the family, and then therewere other tears. It was perfectly plain, even to Dame Charter, thatthings had been said in Bridgetown which Mr. Newcombe had not cared towrite.
"No, Dame Charter," said Kate, "I cannot talk to you about it. My unclehas already spoken words of comfort, but neither you nor he know morethan I do, and I must now think a little for myself, if I can."
So saying, she walked out into the grounds to a spot at a littledistance where Dickory stood, reflectively gazing out over thelandscape.
"Dickory," said the girl, "my mind is filled with horrible doubts. Ihave heard of the talk in Bridgetown before we left, and now here isthis letter from Mr. Newcombe from which I cannot fail to see that theremust have been other talk that he considerately refrains from tellingme."
"He should not have written such a letter," exclaimed Dickory hotly; "hemight have known it would have set you to suspecting things."
"You don't know what you are talking about, you foolish boy," said she;"it is a very proper letter about things you don't understand."
She stepped a little closer to him as if she feared some one might hearher. "Dickory," said she, "he did not
put that thing into my mind; itwas there already. That was a dreadful ship, Dickory, and it was filledwith dreadful men. If he had not intended to go with them he would nothave put himself into their power, and if he had not intended to be longaway he would not have planned to leave me here with my uncle."
"You ought not to think such a thing as that for one minute," criedDickory. "I would not think so about my mother, no matter whathappened!"
She smiled slightly as she answered. "I would my father were a mother,and then I need not think such things. But, Dickory, if he had butwritten to me! And in all this time he might have written, knowing how Imust feel."
Dickory stood silent, his bosom heaving. Suddenly he turned sharplytowards her. "Of course he has written," said he, "but how could hisletter come to you? We know not where he has sailed, and besides, whocould have told him you had already gone to your uncle? But the peopleat Bridgetown must know things. I believe that he has written there."
"Why do you believe that?" she asked eagerly, with one hand on his arm.
"I think it," said Dickory, his cheeks a little ruddier in theirbrownness, "because there is more known there than Master Newcombe choseto put into his letter. If he has not written, how should they knowmore?"
She now looked straight into his eyes, and as he returned the gaze hecould see in her pupils his head and his straw hat, with the clear skybeyond.
"Dickory," she said, "if he wrote to anybody he also wrote to me, andthat letter is still there."
"That is what I believe," said he, "and I have been believing it."
"Then why didn't you say so to me, you wretched boy?" cried Kate. "Youought to have known how that would have comforted me. If I could onlythink he has surely written, my heart would bound, no matter what hisletter told; but to be utterly dropped, that I cannot bear."
"You have not been dropped," he exclaimed, "and you shall know it. Kate,I am going--"
"Nay, nay," she exclaimed, "you must not call me that!"
"But you call me Dickory," he said.
"True, but you are so much younger."
"Younger!" he exclaimed in a tone of contempt, not for the speaker butfor the word she had spoken. "Eleven months!"
She laughed a little laugh; her nature was so full of it that even nowshe could not keep it back.
"You must have been making careful computation," she said, "but it doesnot matter; you must not call me Kate, and I shall keep on calling youDickory; I could not help it. Now, where is it you were about to say youwere going?"
"If you think me old enough," said he, "I am going to Barbadoes in theKing and Queen. She sails to-morrow. I shall find out about everything,and I shall get your letter, then I shall come back and bring it toyou."
"Dickory!" she exclaimed, and her eyes glowed.
There was silence for some moments, and then he spoke, for it wasnecessary for him to say something, although he would have beenperfectly content to stand there speechless, so long as her eyes stillglowed.
"If I don't go," said he, "it may be long before you hear from him;having written, he will wait for an answer."
She thought of no difficulties, no delays, no dangers. "How happy youhave made me, Dickory!" she said. "It is this dreadful ignorance, thesefearful doubts of which I ought to be ashamed. But if I get his letter,if I know he has not deserted me!"
"You shall get it," he cried, "and you shall know."
"Dickory," said she, "you said that exactly as you spoke when you toldme that if I let myself drop into the darkness, you would be there."
"And you shall find me there now," said he; "always, if you need me, youshall find me there!"
Dame Charter had been standing and watching this interview, her foolishmotherly heart filled with the brightest, most unreasonable dreams. Andwhy should she not dream, even if she knew her dreams would never cometrue? In a few short weeks that Dickory boy had grown to be a man, andwhat should not be dreamed about a man!
As Kate ran by the open door towards her uncle's apartments, DameCharter rose up, surprised.
"What have you been saying to her, Dickory?" she exclaimed. "Do you knowsomething we have not heard? Have you been giving her news of herfather?"
"No," said the son, who had so lately been a boy, "I have no news togive her, but I am going to get news for her."
She looked at him in amazement; then she exclaimed: "You!"
"Yes," he said, "there is no one else. And besides I would not want anyone else to do it. I am going to Bridgetown in the brig which brought ushere; it is a little sail, and when I get there I will find outeverything. No matter what has happened, it will break her heart tothink that her father deserted her without a word. I don't believe hedid it, and I shall go and find out."
"But, Dickory," she said, with anxious, upraised face, "how can you getback? Do you know of any vessel that will be sailing this way?"
He laughed.
"Get back? If I go alone, dear mother, you may be sure I shall soon getback. Craft of all kinds sail one way or another, and there are manyways in which I can get back not thought of in ordinary passage. Whenany kind of a vessel sails from Jamaica, I can get on board of her,whether she takes passengers or not. I can sleep on a bale of goods oron the bare deck; I can work with the crew, if need be. Oh! you need notdoubt that I shall speedily come back."
They talked long together, this mother and this son, and it was hergolden dreams for him that made her invoke Heaven's blessings upon himand tell him to go. She knew, too, that it was wise for her to tell himto go and to bless him, for it would have been impossible to withstandhim, so set was he in his purpose.
"I tell you, Dame Charter," said Mr. Delaplaine an hour later, "this sonof yours should be a great credit and pride to you, and he will be, Istake my word upon it."
"He is now," said the good woman quietly.
"I have been pondering in my brain," said he, "what I should do torelieve my niece of this burden of anxiety which is weighing upon her. Icould see no way, for letters would be of no use, not knowing where tosend them, and it would be dreary, indeed, to sit and wait and sigh anddream bad dreams until chance throws some light upon this grievousbusiness, and here steps up this young fellow and settles the wholematter. When he comes back, Dame Charter, I shall do well for him; Ishall put him in my counting-house, for, although doubtless he wouldfain live his young life in the fields and under the open sky, he willfind the counting-house lies on the road to fortune, and good fortune hedeserves."
If that loving mother could have composed this speech for MasterDelaplaine to make she could not have suited it better to her desires.
When the King and Queen was nearly ready to sail, Dickory Charter,having been detained by Mr. Delaplaine, who wished the young man totravel as one of importance and plentiful resources, hurried to thehouse to take his final instructions from Mistress Kate Bonnet, in whoseservice he was now setting forth. It might have been supposed by somethat no further instructions were necessary, but how could Dickory knowthat? He was right. Kate met him before he reached the house.
"I am so glad to see you again before you sail," she said. "One thingwas forgotten: You may see my father; his cruise may be over and he maybe, even now, preparing for me to come back to Bridgetown. If this beso, urge him rather to come here. I had not thought of your seeing him,Dickory, and I did not write to him, but you will know what to say. Youhave heard that woman talk of me, and you well know I cannot go back tomy old home."
"Oh, I will say all that!" he exclaimed. "It will be the same thing asif you had written him a long letter. And now I must run back, for theboat is ready to take me down the river to the port."
"Dickory," said she, and she put out her hand--he had never held thathand before--"you are so true, Dickory, you are so noble; you aregoing--" it was in her mind to say "you are going as my knight-errant,"but she deemed that unsuitable, and she changed it to--"you are going todo so much for me."
She stopped for a moment, and then she said: "You know I told you y
oushould not call me Kate, being so much younger; but, as you are so muchyounger, you may kiss me if you like."
"Like!"