Much as I loved the sea, I now wished heartily that the voyage was over.  But I had to curb my impatience.  ’Twas the third of November when we arrived at Barbados; we made Martinica on the eighth, and next day came to anchor in Prince Rupert’s Bay, on the northwest end of Dominica, where we supplied ourselves with water and other refreshments.  Thence we sailed to Mevis, and proceeding to Jamaica, arrived there on the fifth of December, and anchored in Port Royal harbor.

I immediately got leave from my captain to go ashore, and inquired of the harbor master whether one Sir Richard Cludde had lately come to the island.  My worst fear was relieved when I learned that it was not so, but I could not rest until I had satisfied myself of Mistress Lucy’s well being, so I hired a horse and rode out to Spanish Town, being well nigh choked, I remember, with the dust my steed’s hoofs raised from the sandy road.

And here I had news that gave me the greater shock, for that it was utterly unexpected.  I made my inquiries from a merchant with whom I had struck up a friendship during my former visit (he was indeed the father of the Lucetta I have spoken of) and he told me that Mistress Lucy was certainly living on her estate on the north side of the island, but added that ’twould not be hers much longer, for ’twas coming into the market by order of her guardian.  This was surprising enough, and I asked to whom the instructions to this effect had been committed.  My friend then said that they had been brought from England some months before by a lawyer named Vetch, who was armed with a power of attorney.

“Cyrus Vetch?” I cried, not doubting it, but overcome with sheer amazement.

“His name is Cyrus, I believe,” replied my friend.  “He stayed here a few days, and made himself very pleasant, though I can’t say I took to him myself.”

“He is a thorough-paced villain,” I said.  “Is he still in the town?”

“No, he is at Penolver.” (This was the name of the Cludde estate.) “He is a masterful fellow, too; he dismissed old McTavish, who has stewarded the estate since Mr. Cludde’s death; the poor old fellow feels it very sorely, for though he is a pretty warm man, like most of his countrymen here, he won’t take no other stewardship, though he could have one for the asking, but moons about here in idleness.”

“Does Mistress Lucy write to her friends here?” I asked.

“No, and they are displeased at her silence; but I suppose she thinks it scarce worth while to write when she will soon be here in person.  She will, of course, return to England when the estate is sold, and is to make a match with her guardian’s son, so they say.  My word! he’ll be a lucky fellow.”