“I knew naught of her writing you,” was the reply—“naught at all. But now that you are here, will you not tell her all?”
Dyck smiled grimly. “Where is she?” he asked. “I will tell her.”
The mother pointed down the garden. “Yonder by the clump of palms I saw her a moment ago. If you go that way you will find her.”
In another moment Dyck Calhoun was on his way to the clump of palms, and before he reached it, the girl came out into the path. She was dressed in a black silk skirt with a white bodice and lace, as he had seen her on her arrival in Kingston, and at her throat was a sprig of the wild pear-tree. When she saw him, she gave a slight start, then stood still, and he came to her.
“I have your letter,” he said, “and I came to say what I ought to say about your living here: you will bring blessings to the place.”
She looked at him steadfastly. “Shall we talk here,” she said, “or inside the house? There is a little shelter here in the trees”—pointing to the right—“a shelter built by the late manager. It has the covering of a hut, but it is open at two sides. Will you come?” As she went on ahead, he could not fail to notice how slim and trim she was, how perfectly her figure seemed to fit her gown-as though she had been poured into it; and yet the folds of her skirt waved and floated like silky clouds around her! Under cover of the shelter, she turned and smiled at him.
“You have seen my mother?”
“I have just come from her,” he answered. “She bade me tell you what ought to have been told long ago, and you were not, for there seemed no reason that you should. You were young and ignorant and happy. You had no cares, no sorrows. The sorrows that had come to your mother belonged to days when you were scarce out of the cradle. But you did not know. You were not aware that your mother had divorced your father for crime against marital fidelity and great cruelty. You did not know even who that father was. Well, I must tell you. Your father was a handsome man, a friend of mine until I knew the truth about him, and then he died—I killed him, so the court said.”
Her face became ghastly pale. After a moment of anguished bewilderment, she said: “You mean that Erris Boyne was my father?”
“Yes, I mean that. They say I killed him. They say that he was found with no sword drawn, but that my open sword lay on the table beside me while I was asleep, and that it had let out his life-blood.”