“They cannot hang me or banish me, for my end has come,” whispered Noreen before Sheila left.
In the street of Spanish Town almost the first person Sheila saw was Dyck Calhoun. With pale, radiant look she went to him. He gazed at her strangely, for there was that in her face he could not understand. There was in it all the faith of years, all the truth of womanhood, all the splendour of discovery, all that which a man can see but once in a human face and be himself.
“Come with me,” she said, and she moved towards King’s House. He obeyed. For some moments they walked in silence, then all at once under a magnolia tree she stopped.
“I want you to read what a woman wrote who has just arrived in the island from England. She is ill at the house of the general commanding.”
Taking from her breast the slip of paper, she handed it to him. He read it with eyes and senses that at first could hardly understand.
“God in heaven—oh, merciful God!” he said in great emotion, yet with a strange physical quiet.
“This woman was his wife,” Sheila said.
He handed the paper back. He conquered his agitation. The years of suffering rolled away. “They’ll put her in jail,” he said with a strange regret. He had a great heart.
“No, I think not,” was the reply. Yet she was touched by his compassion and thoughtfulness.
“Why?”