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.

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.

CHAPTER XXXIX

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 Dickory; 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 Dickory, they brightened without any trouble at all, the disappearance of the wicked having such a direct and forcible effect upon them.

Dickory 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 passed out of his life, to pass 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 passenger in the stern.

This impatient young man was Dickory Charter, that morning arrived at Bridgetown and not yet having been on shore. 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, Dickory 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 passenger in the stern, who, having heard what he had to say, nodded briefly.

"Well, well, Dick 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 passenger does not object."

"Pull up here," cried Dickory, 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 Dickory thanked him for allowing him to share his boat the passenger 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 passenger in the stern and began to swear with an ease and facility which betokened long practice. Dickory 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 Dickory 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 shore. In some of the deeper places he wetted the bottom of his breeches, but he did not mind that. The passenger in the stern sat down, but he continued to swear.

Presently Dickory 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 Dickory approached, for his bare feet had made no noise, then she stood up quickly, blushing.

"You!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," cried Dickory; "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.

Dickory 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 Dickory.

"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 Dickory, "but I am going to marry her."

For a moment the rim of her hat got between the sun and her face, and one could not decide very well whether her countenance was red or white.

"I am very glad to find you here," said Dickory, "and may I see your father and mother?"

"Yes," said she, "but they are both in the field with my young sister. But who is this man walking up the shore? And is that the boat you came in?"

"It is," said Dickory. "We stuck fast, but I was in such a hurry that I waded ashore. I don't know the man; he had hired the boat, and kindly took me in, I was in such haste to get here."

For a moment Lucilla bent her eyes on the ground. "In such haste to get here!" she said to herself; then she raised her head and exclaimed: "Oh, I know that man; he is the pirate captain who captured the Belinda, which afterward brought us here." And with both hands outstretched, she ran to meet him.

The face of Captain Ichabod glowed with irrepressible delight; one might have thought he was about to embrace the young woman, notwithstanding the presence of Dickory and the two boatmen, but he did everything he could do before witnesses to express his joy.

Dickory now stepped up to Captain Ichabod. "Oh, now I know you," cried he, and he held out his hand. "You were very kind indeed to my friends, and they have spoken much about you. This is my old home; this is the house where I was born."

"Yes, yes, indeed," said Captain Ichabod, "a very good house, bedad, a very good house." But hesitating a little and addressing Lucilla: "You don't live here alone, do you?"

The girl laughed.

"Oh, no," she cried. "My father and mother will be here presently; in fact, I see them coming."

"That's very well," said Ichabod, "very well indeed. It's quite right that they should live with you. I remember them now; they were on the ship with you."

"Oh, yes," said Lucilla, still laughing.

"Quite right, quite right," said Ichabod; "that was very right."

"I will go meet your father and mother and the dear little Lena; I remember them so well," said Dickory. He started to run off in spite of his bare feet, but he had gone but a little way when Lucilla stopped him. She looked up at him, and this time her face was white.

"Are you sure," said she, "that everything is settled between you and that other girl?"

"Very sure," said Dickory, looking kindly upon her and remembering how pretty she had looked when he first saw her face over the bushes.

She did not say anything, but turned and walked back to Captain Ichabod. She found that tall gentleman somewhat agitated; he seemed to have a great deal on his mind which he wished to say, feeling, at the same time, that he ought to say everything first.

"That's your father and mother," said he, "stopping to talk to the young man who was born here?"

"Yes," she answered, "and they will be with us presently."

"Very good, very good, that's quite right," said Captain Ichabod hurriedly; "but before they come, I want to say—that is, I would like you to know—that I have sold my ship. I am not a pirate any longer, I am a sugar-planter, bedad. Beg your pardon! That is, I intend to be one. You remember that you once talked to me about sugar-planting in Barbadoes, and so I am here. I want to find a good sugar plantation, to buy it, and live on it; I heard that you were stopping on this side of the river, and so I came here."

"But there is no sugar plantation here," said Lucilla, very demurely.

"Oh, no," said Ichabod, "oh, no, of course not; but you are here, and I wanted to find you; a sugar plantation would be of no use without you."

She looked at him, still very demurely. "I don't quite understand you," she said. She turned her head a little and saw that her family and Dickory were slowly moving towards the house. She knew that with diffident persons no time should be lost, for, if interrupted, it often happened that they did not begin again.

"Then I suppose," she said, her face turned up towards him, but her eyes cast down, "that you are going to say that you would like to marry me?"

"Of course, of course," exclaimed Ichabod; "I thought you knew that that is what I came here for, bedad."

"Very well, then," said Lucilla, turning her eyes to the face of the man she had dreamed of in many happy nights. "No, no," she added quickly, "you must not kiss me; they are all coming, and there are the two boatmen."

He did not kiss her, but later he made up for the omission.

The moment Mrs. Mander saw Captain Ichabod and her daughter standing together she knew exactly what had happened; she had noticed things on board the Belinda. She hurried up to Lucilla and drew her aside.

"My dear," she whispered, with a frightened face, "you cannot marry a pirate; you never, never can!"

"Dear mother," said Lucilla, "he is not a pirate; he has sold his ship and is going to be a sugar-planter."

Now they all came up and heard these words of Lucilla.

"Yes, indeed," said Captain Ichabod, "you may not suppose it, but your daughter and I are about to marry, and will plant sugar together. Now, I want to buy a plantation. Where is that young man who was born here, bedad?"

Dickory advanced, laughing. Here was a fine opportunity, a miraculous opportunity, of disposing of the Bonnet estate, which was part of the business which had brought him here. So he told the beaming captain that he knew of a fine plantation up the river, which he thought would suit him.

"Very good," said Captain Ichabod. "I have a boat here; let us go and look at the place, and if it suits us I will buy it, bedad."

So with Mrs. Mander and her husband beside her, and with Lucilla and the captain by her, the boat was rowed up the river, with Dickory and young Lena in the bow.

When the boat reached the Bonnet estate it was run up on the shore near the shady spot where Kate Bonnet had once caught a fish. Then they all stepped out upon the little beach, even the oarsmen made the boat fast and joined the party, who started to walk up to the house. Suddenly Captain Ichabod stopped and said to Mr. Mander: "I don't think I care to walk up that hill, you know; and if you and your good wife will look over that house and cast your eyes about the place, I will buy it, if you say so: you know a good deal more about such things than I do, bedad. I suppose, of course, that will suit you?" he said to Lucilla.

It suited Lucilla exactly. They sat in the shade in the very place where Kate had sat when she saw Master Newcombe crossing the bridge.

A small boat came down the river, rowed by a young man. As he passed the old Bonnet property he carelessly cast his eyes shoreward, but his heart took no interest in what he saw there. What did it matter to him if two lovers sat there in the shade, close to the river's brink? His sad soul now took no interest in lovers. He had just been up the river to arrange for the sale of his plantation to one of his neighbours. He had decided to leave the island of Barbadoes and to return to England.

The house suited Captain Ichabod exactly, when Mrs. Mander told him about it, and Lucilla agreed with him because she was always accustomed to trust her mother in such things.

So they all got into the boat and rowed back to Dickory's old home, and on the way Captain Ichabod told Dickory that when they returned together to the town he would pay him for the plantation, having brought specie sufficient for the purpose.

It was a gay party in the boat as they rowed down the river; it was a gay party at the house when they reached it, and they would have all taken supper together had the Manders been prepared for such hospitality; but they were poor, having taken the place upon a short lease and having had but few returns so far. But they were all going to live at the old Bonnet place, and happiness shone over everything. It was twilight, and the two young men were about to walk down to the boat, one of them promising to come again early in the morning, when Lucilla approached Dickory.

"Where are you going to live with that girl?" she asked in a low voice.

"In Jamaica," said he.

"I am glad of it," she replied, quite frankly.

They were well content, those Jamaica people, when Ben Greenway came to live with them. It had been proposed at one time that he should go to his old Bridgetown home and take charge of the place as he used to, but the good Scotchman demurred to this.

"I hae served ane master before he became a pirate," he said, "an' I don't want to try anither after he has finished bein' ane. If I serve ony mon, let him be one wha has been righteous, wha is righteous now, an' wha will continue in righteousness."

"Then serve Mr. Delaplaine," said Dickory.

The Manders soon removed to the little house where Dickory was born. The mansion of their daughter and her husband was a hospitable place and a lively, but the life there was so wayward, erratic, and eccentric that it did not suit their sober lives and the education of their young daughter. So they dwelt contentedly in the cottage at the head of the cove, and there was much rowing up and down the river.

It was upon a fine morning that the ex-pirate Ichabod thus addressed a citizen of the town:

"Yes, sir, I know well who once lived in the house I own. I knew the man myself; I knew him at Belize. He was a dastardly knave, and would have played false to the sun, the moon, and the stars had they shown him an opportunity, bedad. But I also knew his daughter; she sailed on my ship for many days, and her presence blessed the very boards she trod on. She is a most noble lady; and if you will not admit, sir, that her sweet spirit and pure soul have not banished from this earth every taint of wickedness left here by her father, then, sir, bedad, stand where you are and draw!"

THE END

RECENT FICTION.