Though seeing but little of each other after their first separation, the same feeling of friendship and comradeship was maintained between Jack and Tom that had existed when as Boston schoolboys they chummed together, and whenever, at rare intervals, they were fortunate enough to meet they mutually threw off all the reserve that had come to them with age and became Boston boys once again.
“Now, heave ahead, my bully-boy!” cried Tom, putting down his empty wine glass.
“In addition to the gift of the ship from the firm, I found that my old cousin John had personally presented me with a large part of the ship’s cargo.”
“Again hold! you lucky sea-dog! Here’s to dear old Cousin John, and God bless him!” called Tom gleefully, his generous sailor-soul as happy over the good fortune of his friend as if he himself had been the beneficiary of Mr. John Dunlap’s munificence, again pledging Jack’s kind kinsman in a glass of iced wine.
“With all my heart I say, amen! Tom, God never made better men and more liberal kinsmenthan the ‘J. Dunlaps,’” said Jack earnestly as he began again his recital.
“When I arrived in Melbourne I disposed of my cargo through our agents, loaded and sailed for Liverpool, returned to Melbourne, took on a cargo for Manila, and here I am drinking to long life and good health to my two old kinsmen with my school fellow Tom Maxon.”
“And the future programme is what?” said the lieutenant.
“You have left out lots about yourself, that I know of, concerning your past movements, so try to be truthful about your future plans,” continued Maxon, assuming an inquisitorial air.
“All right, my knowing father confessor,” answered Dunlap, laughing.
“I have done well as far as making money is concerned, which statement I wish added to my former deposition. Oh! most wise judge; I propose sailing within the week for Hong-kong, thence to San Francisco, from the latter port I desire to clear for Boston, in God’s country, stopping, however, at Port au Prince, Haiti, both as a matter of business and also with the design ofpersonally thanking my kind godfather for his gifts. Finally I hope to reach New England and be with my dear mother while yet the Yankee hills are blooming with summer flowers. One word further and my story is finished. My object in returning to Boston is to induce my mother to return with me to Australia, where I have purchased some property and where I desire to make my home in future—finis—”
“Fairly well told, my bold buccaneer; however, I disapprove of your making Australia your home. Now, sir, what about saving a few smallpox patients, emigrants, and such like, and receiving a letter from H.M. King of England, and such trifles as we read of in the newspaper?” demanded Tom, sententiously.
“Oh! That just happened, and there has been too much said about it to find a place on my logbook,” replied Jack, shortly, coloring just a shade.
“I’m!—well, no matter—I don’t agree with you, but I will shake your hand once again and say that I find my old chum as modest as I always knew him to be brave,” rejoined Tom Maxon, rising, reaching over and grasping Jack’shand, and bowing gravely and respectfully as he held it.
Jack’s face was now all fire-red, as he said in great embarrassment:
“Oh, Pshaw, slack up, Tom, haul off.”
“You know what the Admiral said when he read the account of what you had done?” cried out Tom when he settled back in his chair.
“Of course, you don’t, but it’s a fine ram at the merchant marine. The Admiral thinks that an officer for sea service can’t be made except at Annapolis. When he read of what you had done, he exclaimed: ‘That fellow is almost good enough to be an officer in the United States Navy.’ The Executive officer who heard the Admiral repeated it, and ever since the fellows of our mess, who hate some of the ‘snobs’ that Annapolis sends to us, have been quietly poking fun at the old man about it.”
“Now, will Lieutenant Thomas Maxon, U.S.N., in all the glory of his Annapolis seamanship, give an account of himself?” broke in Jack, anxious to escape further mention of his own affairs.
“The last time I saw you, Tom, you weredancing at the end of Bessie Winthrop’s hawser. Though I had never, at the time, met your charmer, I thought her a pretty craft.”
“That’s it! Now you touch the raw spot!” cried Tom.
“I was stationed at Boston, and went about some little. I met Bert Winthrop’s sister and, like an ass of a sailor that I am, fell in love with her at the first turn of the wheel. Well, I rolled around after the beauty like a porpoise in the wake of a dolphin for the whole season. Finally I mustered up courage to bring the chase to a climax and got a most graceful conge for my temerity, whereupon I retired in bad order, and was rejoiced when assigned to the battleship Delaware and sent to sea.”
As the rollicking sailor ended his story, he threw back his head and began softly singing in a sentimental tone, “Oh! Bessie, you have broken my heart.”
“Well, I’ll go bail that the fracture won’t kill you, you incorrigible joker,” said Jack, interrupting the flow of Maxon’s sentimentality.
“See, now, our best friends never take usseriously, and sympathize with us when we suffer,” said the lieutenant dolefully.
“But to continue my sad story. I was ordered to the U.S.S. Delaware, flag-ship of the Asiatic fleet. Admiral Snave can out-swear Beelzebub, has the sympathy of a pirate, and would work up all the old iron of a fleet if there was as much in it as in the mountains of Pennsylvania. So your poor, delicate friend is tempted to ask to be retired on account of physical disability.” So saying, Tom began roaring with laughter so healthful that it shook his stalwart frame.
“Hold though!” exclaimed the U.S. officer, stopping in the midst of his outburst of merriment, suddenly thinking of something omitted.
“You must understand that we all admire the Admiral hugely. He is a magnificent officer, and a fighter to the end of his plume; carries a chip on his shoulder when he imagines anyone is spoiling for a fight, or even looks crossways at grand Old Glory.”
Thus the two friends talked on, relating their experiences, joking each other, and laughing in that careless happy way, common alike to schoolboys and those who sail the sea.
Captain Dunlap declared that this berth was good enough for him, that he would drop his anchor right there, and calling a waiter proceeded to order everything on the menu for dinner, telling the waiter to serve it where they were and serve slowly so that they might enjoy a rambling conversation while they dined.
Eating, drinking, talking and smoking, the chums of boyhood days sat for hours, until the streets became, as was the veranda, almost deserted. Suddenly in an interval of silence as they puffed their cigars, a piercing scream disturbed the quiet of the street below. Again and again was the cry repeated in an agonized female voice.
Both men sprang to their feet and peered along the dark avenue that ran toward the bay. About a block away they discerned just within the outer circle of light cast by an electric burner a struggling mass of men. At the instant that Jack and Tom discovered whence came the cries, a figure broke from the crowd and ran screaming through the illuminated spot on the avenue pursued by a half dozen men wearing the Russian naval uniform.The pursued figure was that of a half nude female.
With an angry growl, Jack Dunlap placed one hand on the low railing around the veranda and cleared it at a bound, landing on the sidewalk below, he broke into a run, and dashed toward the group of men under the electric light, who were struggling with the person whom they had pursued and recaptured.
“The flag follows trade in this case,” cried Maxon, who would joke even on his death-bed, as he, too, sprang to the pavement and raced after Jack.
The brutal Finnish sailors of the Russian man-of-war in Manila Bay swore to their mess-mates that ten gigantic Yankees had fallen upon them and taken away the Malay girl. They thus accounted for their broken noses and discolored optics.
Truth is, that it was a rush; the working of four well-trained Yankee arms like the piston rods of a high-speed engine. Outraged American manhood and old Aryan courage against the spirit of brutal lustfulness, ignorance and race inferiority.
“I say, Jack,” cried out Maxon as he raised his face from the basin in which he had been bathing a bruise, “Why don’t you go in for the P.R. championship? You must be a sweet skipper for a crew to go rusty with! Why, Matey, you had the whole gang going before I even reached you. Look here, sonny, you are just hell and a hurricane in a shindy of that kind.”
“Well, I tell you, Tom,” called Jack from the next room, where, seated on the edge of the bed, he was binding a handkerchief around the bleeding knuckles of his left hand.
“That kind of thing always sets my blood boiling, but that in a city under our flag an outrage of that kind should be attempted made me wild. I guess from the looks of my hands that maybe I did punch rather hard.” Rising, Jack walked to the open door between the two bedrooms and added:
“I don’t mind just a plain fight, or even sometimes a murder, but when it comes to a brute assaulting a woman or child, I’m damned if I don’t become like one of Victor Hugo’s characters, ‘I see red.’ Temper seems to surge in my very blood.”
Jack’s face, as he spoke, wore an angry scowl, to which the earnest gesticulations with his bandaged fists gave double meaning.
“Of course it surges in your blood, old chap, as it does on such occasions in mine and every other decent descendant of Shem and Japheth on earth,” replied Tom Maxon.
The Scottish Bard has written that to see fair Melrose Abbey a-right, one must visit it in the moon’s pale light. To see New England in its greatest glory one must visit that section of hallowed memories in the summer season.
Then it is that granite hills are wrapped in emerald mantles. Then it is that hill-sides, slopes and meadows are dimpled with countless daisies, peeping enticingly from the face of smiling nature. Then it is brooks, released from winter’s icy bondage, laugh, sing, dance and gambol like merry maidens in some care-free frolic.
August, in the second year of Lucy Burton’s married life, found Dunlap’s mansion still occupied by the entire family. True, the Dunlap estate lay in the most elevated portion of the suburbs of Boston, and the house stood in the center ofextensive grounds almost park-like in extent and arrangement, still it was unusual for the house to be occupied by the family at that season of the year.
Generations of Dunlaps had sought relief from city life and bustle during the month of August, either among the Berkshire Hills, where an ornate villa had been owned by them for decades, or at Old Orchard, where their summer home was rather a palace than a cottage, though so called by the family. Burton, too, had a fine establishment at Newport; yet this eventful August found the family in their city residence.
Many other things unusual attracted attention and caused comment among the associates of members of the Dunlap household. Burton and Lucy had been noticeably absent during the past few months from those public functions to which, by their presence, they had formerly given so much eclat.
The very clerks in the office of J. Dunlap commented upon the jubilant spirit that had taken possession of, the always genial, manager. Chapman regarded his apparent joyousness with suspicion,and of all the office forces alone seemed displeased with its presence.
To intimate friends Burton spoke of selling the “Eyrie,” saying that it was of no further use or pleasure to him; that for months he had only been near it to select some choice flowers from the conservatory for the vases that adorned his wife’s apartments.
Mr. James Dunlap, ever the kindest, most considerate of beings, the gentlest of gentlemen, had become so solicitous concerning his granddaughter’s comfort and care as to appear almost old womanish. The anxiety he displayed about all that tended to Lucy’s welfare was absolutely pathetic.
Walter Burton’s demeanor toward his young wife might, for all men, serve as a model of devoted, thoughtful deportment on the part of husbands. To amuse and entertain her seemed his all-absorbing idea and object. To exercise his brilliant mental gifts in gay and enlivening conversation was his chief pleasure. To use all the great musical talent that he possessed, to drive any momentary shadow of sadness from herspirit. To stroll about the garden in the moonlight, again whispering those words of love by which he had first won her, was blissful occupation to him.
Even good old Uncle John in far-off Haiti imbibed the spirit that seemed all pervading in the realm about the young matron. Great hampers of tropical fruits, plants and flowers came by trebly-paid expressage from the West Indies, speed alone being considered. They must be fresh when offered to Lucy. Then, too, almost daily messages came over the cable from Haiti, “How are all today,” signed “John,” and it was ordered at the office that each day should go a message to Port au Prince, unless especially forbidden, saying, “All is well,” this to be signed “James.”
Mrs. Church, the most sedate, composed and stately of old gentlewomen, too, is in a flutter of suppressed excitement, frequently closeted in deep and mysterious consultations with medical men and motherly looking women; giving strange orders about the preparation of certain dishes for the table, driving the chef almost distracted by forbidding sauces that should alwaysaccompany some favorite entree of that tyrant.
A suite of rooms in the Dunlap mansion has been newly decorated; nothing like these decorations has ever been seen before in Boston. In elegance, taste and beauty they are thene plus ultraof decorative art. One, while in the sacred precincts of the recently remodeled apartments, might readily imagine that spring had been captured and fettered here to make its sweet, bright presence perpetual in this favored place. Colors of the tinted sunbeam mingled with the peach blossom’s tender shade to make the spot a bower of beauty wherein a smiling cupid might pause and fold his wings to slumber, forgetful of his couch of pink pearl shell.
The cultured, artistic, delicate taste of Boston’sarbiter elegantiarumnever produced anything approaching the exquisite blending of colors and unique, airy, harmonious fittings seen in this, the ideal conception of the abode of angels.
The delicacy and tenderness of Lucy’s refined and loving spirit contributed to create an indefinable feeling that this was the chosen spot whereinnocence, purity and love should seek repose. Her womanly instinct had added soft shadings to art’s perfect handiwork.
The great sea shell, half opened, made of shining silver, lined with the pearly product of the Eastern Isles, in which lie, soft and white as snow, downy cushions, filled from the breasts of Orkney’s far-famed fowls, and these be-trimmed with lace in tracery like frost on window pane, in texture so gossamery and light that the brief span of life seems all too short in which to weave one inch, must surely be the nest wherein some heaven-sent cherub shall nestle down in sleep.
Some sprite from fairy-land alone may make a toilet with the miniature articles of Etruscan gold, bejeweled with gems of azure-hued turquois that fill the gilded dressing case.
The chiffoniers, tables, chairs and stands are all inlaid with woods of the rarest kinds and colors, with ivory and polished pearl shells interwoven in queerly conceived mosaic; mirrors of finest plate here and there are arranged that they may catch the beauteous image of the cherubic occupant of this bijou bower, and countlessly reproduceits angelic features; urns and basins of transparent china-ware, in the production of which France and Germany have surpassed all former efforts, beautified by the brushes of world-renowned artists, furnish vessels in which the rosy, laughing face and dimpled limbs may lave.
The Western hills have cooled the eager glance of the August sun. Lucy, softly humming as she assorts and arranges a great basket of choice buds and blossoms just arrived from the “Eyrie,” is seated alone in a fantastic garden pagoda, which, trellised by climbing rose bushes, stands within the grounds of the Dunlap estate.
As she rocks back and forth in the low chair that is placed there for her comfort, little gleams of sunshine sifting through the screen of roses wander amidst her gold-brown tresses and spot the filmy gown of white she wears with silver splashes. As the lights and shadows of the gently swaying leaves and roses dance about her, she seems surrounded by hosts of cherubim in frolicsome attendance on her. Some thought of that nature came to her, for she let her hands lie stillin her lap among the blossoms and watched the ever fleeting, changeful rays of sunlight and shade that like an April shower fell upon her. Then she smiled as at some unseen spirit and smiling grew pensive.
The limpid light in Lucy’s eyes, as gazing into the future she sees the coming glory of her womanhood, is that same light that shone along the road from Galilee to Bethlehem, when she, most blessed of women for all time, rode humbly on an ass to place an eternal monarch on a throne.
That light in Lucy’s pensive hazel eyes, that gentle, hopeful expectant look on her sweet face, has, from the time that men were born on earth subdued the fiery rage of angry braves in mortal strife engaged, has turned brutality into cowering shame, and caused the harshest, roughest and most savage of the human kind to smooth the brow, soften the voice and gently move aside, rendering ready homage to a being raised higher far than the throne of the mightiest king on earth.
As she, who chambered with the cattle on Judah’s hills, opened the passage from the groaning earth to realms of eternal bliss by what shegave to men, so ever those crowned with that pellucid halo of expected maternity stand holding ajar the gates that bar the path from man to that mysterious source of life and soul called God.
It is woman in her grandest glory, who draws man and his Maker near together, with arms outstretched and hands extended she grasps man and reaches up toward the Divine Author of our beings.
In simplest attire and humblest station she sanctifies the spot she stands upon. When most beset by want or danger there lives no man worthy of the name, who could refuse to heed her lightest call.
Oh! that wistful, yearning, hopeful, tender, loving look that transfigured Lucy’s sweet face until resemblance came to it, to that face that has employed the souls, hearts and hands of those most gifted by high heaven with pen and brush.
Out of this trance-like blissfulness the pensive dreamer was aroused by the coming of her ever constant guardian, her grandfather, who told her that Miss Arabella Chapman had called, bringingsome offering that could be placed in no other hand than that of the young matron.
Away hastened Lucy to greet the time-worn maiden, but fresh-hearted friend, and to hurry with her up to a sealed and sacred apartment, over whose threshold no male foot must ever step, wherein was hidden heaping trays and shelves of doll-like garments of marvelous texture and make, articles the names of which no man ever yet has learned to call, all so cunningly devised as to create the need of lace, embroidery or such matter on every edge and corner.
Silky shawls and fleecy wraps, and funny little caps of spider-spun lace, and socks of soft stuff so small that Lucy’s tiny thumb could scarce find room therein, all and much more than man can tell were here stored carefully away and only shown to closest friends by the fair warder of that holy keep.
And, oh! the loving, jealous care of Lucy. No hand but her own could fold these small garments just right. What awful calamity might befall should one crease be awry or disturbed; no eye so well could note some need in that dainty,diminutive collection of fairy underwear as hers; no breast could beat so tenderly as hers as close she pressed, fondled and kissed the little gowns for elfin wear.
Who would for all the gold coined on earth rob her of one jot or tittle of her half-girlish, all-womanly joy and jealous care? Not one who ever whispered the word Mother!
That night the watchman and his faithful dog who guarded the Dunlap house and grounds, saw at the unseemly hour of two o’clock many lights suddenly appear within the mansion. The shadow of the family physician, white-haired and wise, flits by the windows of the room which, for some weeks, he has occupied. Mrs. Church in wrapper, lamp in hand, hastens by the great hall window and ascends the stairs, accompanied by an elderly woman, who a month before came to live in the mansion. Soon a window on the balcony is raised and Mr. James Dunlap in dressing gown and slippers steps out, accompanied by Mr. Burton, who seems too nervous to notice Mr. Dunlap’s soothing hand placed on his shoulder.
Soon the bell, that warns him to open wide theouter gate, is rung, and then the watchman and his dog see no more of the commotion within the house. As he holds back the gate, he asks of the coachman, who, with the dog-cart and the horse, Dark Dick, is racing by:
“What’s the matter?” In reply he only catches the words:
“Another nurse, d—— quick!”
A standing order of the house of J. Dunlap was that should at any time neither J. Dunlap nor the manager appear by the noon hour, the superintendent, Mr. Chapman, should take cab and hasten to the residence of Mr. James Dunlap for instructions concerning transactions that pressed for immediate attention.
Five minutes after noon, on the day when at two o’clock in the morning the private watchman had seen lights appear within the Dunlap mansion. David Chapman was seated in a cab speeding toward his employer’s residence.
As the cab turned the corner on the avenue that ran before the gate of the Dunlap place, the horse’s hoof-beats were silenced. Chapman looked out; the straw-carpeted pavement told the wholestory. He ordered the driver to stop his horse, and springing from the vehicle the superintendent, walking, proceeded the balance of the distance.
The vigil and anxiety of the past night had told fearfully on well-preserved Mrs. Church, thought Chapman as he noted her drawn, white and frightened face, and listened to the awed tone of her voice, as she told him that a boy was born to Lucy; that she was very ill; that Mr. Burton was troubled and wretched over the danger of his wife, and would see no one; that Mr. Dunlap, exhausted by agony of mind and weakened by watching, had fainted, was now lying down and must not be disturbed under any circumstances.
Chapman in mute amazement stared at the trembling lips that gave an account of the striking down, within so short a time, of all three members of the family. Speechless he stood and stared, but could find no words to express either his surprise or sorrow. As he stood thus, a faint and husky, yet familiar, voice called from the far end of the wide hall that ran through the center of the house.
“David, wait; I want you.”
With uncertain step, and bowed head, a figure came forward. As Chapman turned he saw that it was Mr. Dunlap. One moment the old employee gazed at the approaching man. Then springing toward him, he cried as he caught sight of the ashen hue on his old master’s blanched and deep-lined face, and saw the blank look in his kind eyes:
“You are ill, sir; sit down!”
“Yes, David; I am not well; I am somewhat weak, but I wish to give you certain commands that must not, as you value my friendship, be disobeyed.” The old man paused and painfully sought to gain command of his voice, and failing, gasped forth:
“Send a message to my brother saying, ‘It is a boy and all is well,’ and add—David Chapman, do you understand me?—and add these very words, ‘Do not come home; it is unnecessary.’ Sign the message ‘James’—and, listen, Chapman, listen; no word that I am not well or my granddaughter in danger must reach my brother John.”
“Your instructions shall be obeyed, sir,” and Chapman’s voice was almost as indistinct as that of his loved master.
“What of the business, sir, while Mr. Burton is absent?” the ever-faithful superintendent asked.
“Use your own discretion in everything,” and with a dry, convulsive sob that shook his bended frame, he added in a whisper:
“It makes no difference now.”
David Chapman heard the sob, and caught those heartbroken words. In an instant that strangely constituted man was on his knees at the feet of him whom of all on earth he worshiped most.
“Can I help you, sir, in your trouble? Say anything that man can do, and I shall do it, sir,” cried Chapman piteously.
“No, David, no; but, David, I thank you. Go, my faithful old friend, and do what I have requested.”
Chapman arose and pressed the wan hand that James Dunlap extended, then hurried from the house.
Those who saw the superintendent that daywondered why they were unable to tell whether it was grief or rage that marked the man’s face so deeply.
The message as dictated was sent that day to Haiti.
By special concession from the Haitian government, the blacks still maintaining a prejudice against white people owning real estate in Haiti, John Dunlap had purchased several acres of land lying in the outskirts of Port au Prince, and had built a commodious house thereon, constructed in accordance with the requirements of the warm climate of the island.
To-night with impatient manner he is walking up and down the veranda which surrounds the house, accompanied by Captain Jack Dunlap, to whom he says:
“I do not like the monotonous sentence that, without change, has come to me daily for two weeks past. It is not like my brother James, and something, that I cannot explain, tells me that all is not well at home in Boston.”
“Don’t you think that this presentiment is onlythe result of anxiety; that you are permitting imaginary evils to disturb you, sir?” put in Jack respectfully.
“No, Jack, I do not. From boyhood there has existed an indescribable bond of sympathy between my brother and myself that has always conveyed to each of us, no matter how far apart, a feeling of anxiety if trouble or danger threatened either one. For days this feeling has been increasing upon me, until it now has become unbearable. I regret that I did not take passage on the steamer that sailed today for New York. Now I must wait a week.” As Mr. Dunlap came to the end of his sentence, a chanting, croning kind of sound was heard coming from some spot just beyond the wall around his place.
“Confound that old hag!” cried the impatient old gentleman, as he heard the first notes of the weird incantation, “for the last month, night and day, she has been haunting my premises, wailing out some everlasting song about Tu Konk, white cows, black kids, and such stuff, all in that infernal jargon of the mountain blacks. She looks more like the devil than anything else. Itried to bribe her to go away, but the old witch only laughed in my face. I then ordered her driven away, but the servants are all afraid of her and can’t be induced to molest her.”
“She probably is only some half-witted old woman, whom the superstitious negroes suppose possessed of supernatural power. I don’t think the matter worthy of your notice,” said Jack.
“I suppose it is foolish, but her hanging about my place just now, makes me nervous; but never mind the hag at present. I was going to say to you, when that howling stopped me, that so strong has become my feeling of apprehension within the last few hours that could I do so, I should leave Port au Prince tonight and hurry straight to Boston and my brother. This cursed Haitian loan, for which the English and American bankers hold our house morally, if not legally, responsible, has held me in Haiti this late in the hot season, and, tonight, I would gladly assume the entire obligation legally, to be placed instantly on Boston Common.”
The positiveness and seriousness with which his kinsman spoke caused even Jack’s steady nervesto become somewhat shaken. Just then footsteps were heard coming rapidly up the walk that led to the roadway. As the two Dunlaps reached the top step of the veranda a telegraph messenger sprang up the stairs and handed an envelope to Mr. John Dunlap. With trembling fingers he opened the paper and going to a lamp that hung in the hallway read it. Then with a cry of pain he would have fallen to the floor had not Jack’s strong arms been around him.
“I knew it, I knew it,” he moaned.
Jack took the message from the cold, numb hand of the grief-stricken man and read:
“Come immediately; your brother dying, Lucy in great danger. David Chapman.”
Jack almost carried the groaning old man to a couch that stood in the hall, placing him upon it he hurried to the side-board in the dinner-room for a glass of wine or water; when he returned he found Mr. Dunlap sitting up, with his face hidden in his hands, rocking back and forward murmuring.
“A million dollars for a steamer; yea! all I am worth for a ship to carry me to Boston! Oh! Brother, Brother!”
Jack, though stricken to the heart by what the message said, still held firm grip upon his self-command for the sake of the kind old man before him. When he heard the muttered words of his suffering friend, for one instant he stood as if suddenly struck by some helpful idea, then cried,
“You have the fastest sailing ship on the Atlantic, Cousin John. The ‘Adams’ has only half a cargo aboard. She can beat any steamer that sails from Haiti to America, if there be breeze but sufficient to fill her canvas. My crew is aboard. Within one hour my water casks can be filled, the anchor up, the bow-sprit pointing to Boston, and, God send the wind, we’ll see the Boston lights as soon as any steamer could show them to us, or I’ll tear the masts out of the ‘Adams’ trying.”
Like the revivifying effect of an electric shock, the words of the seaman sent new life into John Dunlap. He sprang to his feet, grabbed for a hat and coat lying on the hall-table and, ere Jack realized what was happening, was racing down the pathway, leading to the road, calling back:
“Come on, my lad, come on!”
Soon Jack was by the old man’s side, passing his arm through that of his godfather, and thus helping him forward, their race toward the water was continued.
Not one word was said to the house-servants. The Dunlaps saw no one before they dashed from the premises; no, not even the evil, flashing eyes of the old black hag, who, listening to what they said, peered at them through the low window case.
“Mr. Brice, call all hands aft,” commanded Captain Dunlap as he stepped upon the deck of his ship, half an hour after leaving the house of Mr. Dunlap in Port au Prince.
“Men,” said the skipper, when the astonished crew had gathered at the mast and were waiting.
“Most of you have sailed with me for months, and know I ‘crack on’ every sail my ship can carry at all times. Now, listen well to what I say. This old gentleman at my side, my kinsman and friend, and I have those in Boston whom we love, and we have learned tonight that one of them is dying and one is in danger. Wemust reach Boston at the earliest moment possible. Within the hour I’ll heave my anchor up and sail, such carrying of sail, in weather fair or foul, no sailor yet has seen as I shall do. My masts may go. I’ll take the chance of tearing them out of the ship if I can but gain one hour. No man must sail with me in this wild race unwillingly or unaware of what I intend to do. Therefore, from mate to cabin-boy, let him who is unwilling to share the perils of this trip step forward, take his wages and go over the side into the small boat that lies beside the ship.”
The skipper Stopped speaking and waited; for some seconds there was a scuffling of bare feet and shoving among the knot of seamen, but no man said aught nor did any one step forward. At last the impatient master cried out,
“Well, what’s it to be! Can no man among you find his tongue?”
Then came more shuffling and shoving and half audible exclamations of “Say it yourself!” “Why don’t you answer the skipper?” Finally old Brice moved around from behind the captain and stood between him and the men. Then addressingthe master but looking at the crew, he said,
“I think, sir, the men wish to say, that they are Yankee sailors, and see you and Mr. Dunlap half scuttled by your sorrow and that they will stick by you, and be d——n to the sail you carry! Is that it, men?”
A hoarse hurrah answered the first officer’s question.
“The mate says right enough; we’ll stick to the ship and skipper,” came in chorus from the brazen lungs of the crew.
Such scampering about the deck was never seen before on board the “Adams” as that of the next thirty minutes. When the crew manned the capstan and began hoisting the anchor a strange black bundle, with gleaming eyes, came tumbling over the bow. The startled crew sprang away from what they took to be a huge snake, but seeing, when it gathered itself together and stood upright, that it was an old witch of a black woman, they bawled out for the mate.
The old termagant fought like a wild-cat, scratching and tearing at the eyes of the menas they bundled her over the ship’s side and into the canoe in which she had come from the shore. All the time the hag was raving, spitting and swearing by all kinds of heathenish divinities that she would go to Boston to see “my grandchild,” and muttering all sorts of imprecations and incantations, in the jargon of the West Indies, upon the heads of all who attempted to prevent her.
As the ship gathered headway and swung around, Mr. John Dunlap, who stood in the stern, heard a weird chant, which he recognized as coming from below him. He looked over the railing and saw old Sybella standing upright in the canoe in which she had been thrust by the crew, waving her skinny bare arms, and chanting,
“Tu Konk, the great oneSend her the Black GoatWhite cow, Black kidWhite teat, Black mouthTu Konk, Oh, Tu KonkBlack Blood, Oh, Tu KonkCall back, Oh! Tu Konk.”
“Tu Konk, the great oneSend her the Black GoatWhite cow, Black kidWhite teat, Black mouthTu Konk, Oh, Tu KonkBlack Blood, Oh, Tu KonkCall back, Oh! Tu Konk.”
“Tu Konk, the great one
Send her the Black Goat
White cow, Black kid
White teat, Black mouth
Tu Konk, Oh, Tu Konk
Black Blood, Oh, Tu Konk
Call back, Oh! Tu Konk.”
When Sybella saw Mr. Dunlap she ceased her song, and began hurling savage and barbarous curses upon him and his, which continued until the tortured old gentleman could neither hear nor see the crone longer.
There was just enough cargo aboard the “Adams” to steady her and give her the proper trim. As soon as Jack secured enough offing, in sailors’ parlance he “cut her loose.” Everything in shape of sail that could draw was set, the skipper took the deck nor did he leave it again until he sprang into a yawl in Boston harbor.
On the second day out from Port au Prince, the wind increased to the fury of a gale, but still no stitch of cloth was taken from the straining masts and yards of the “Adams.” Two stalwart sailors struggled with the wheel, the muscles of their bared and sinewy arms standing out taut, as toughened steel. The ship pitched and leaped like a thing of life. The masts sprang before the gale as if in their anguish they would jump clear out of the ship.
With steady, hard set eyes, the skipperwatched each movement of his ship. He knew her every motion as huntsman knows the action of his well-trained hound. His jaws were locked, the square, firm, Anglo-Saxon chin might have been modeled out of granite, so rock-like did it look. Away goes a sail, blown into fragments that wildly flap against the yard. Will the skipper ease her now?
Old Brice looked toward the master, saw something in his eyes, and saw him shake his head—
“Lay along here to clear up the muss, and set another sail!” bawled Brice, and again he looked toward the skipper; this time Jack nodded.
Brave old John Dunlap scarcely ever left the deck. He had a sailor’s heart and he had mingled with those of the sea from babyhood. He saw the danger and going to his namesake, said,
“Carry all she’ll bear Jack. If you lose the ship, I’ll give you ten; get me to Boston quickly, lad, or wreck the ship.”
“I will,” was all the answer that came from Jack’s tightly pressed lips, nor did he change his gaze from straight ahead while answering—yetthe old man knew that Jack would make his promise good.
He, who in the hollow of His hand doth hold the sea, knew of their need and favoring the object of such speed, did send unto that ship safety through the storm and favoring winds thereafter.
No yacht, though for speed alone designed, ever made such time, or ever will, or ever can, as made the good ship “Adams” from Port au Prince to Boston harbor.
During the two weeks that succeeded the birth of Lucy’s baby, her grandfather never left the house, but like some wandering spirit of unrest, moved silently but constantly, in slippered feet, from room to room, up and down the broad flight of stairs, and back and forth through the halls.
Maids and serving men stepped aside when they saw the bent and faltering figure approaching; James Dunlap had aged more within two weeks than during any ten years of his life before. His kind and beaming eyes of but yesterdayhad lost all save the look of troubled age and weariness. The ruddy glow bequeathed by temperate youth had vanished from his countenance in that short time, as mist beneath the rays of the rising sun. The strong elastic step of seasoned strength had given place to the shambling gait of aged pantaloon.
Burton in moody silence kept his room, or venturing out was seen a changed and altered man, with blood-shot eyes, as if from endless tears, and haggard, desperate face deeply traced by lines of trouble’s trenches dug by grief.
Mrs. Church, the physician, nurse and even the buxom black woman, who came to give suck to the babe, all, seemed awe struck, distraught, as if affrighted by some ghostly, awful thing that they had seen.
And then, too, all seemed to hold some strange, mysterious secret in common, that in some ways was connected with the recently arrived heir to the Dunlap proud name and many millions. The frightened conspirators held so sacred the apartments blessed by the presence of the Dunlap heir, that none but themselves mightenter it, or even, in loyal love for all who bear their old master’s name, see the babe. One poor maid in loving, eager curiosity had ventured to peep into the sacred shrine and when discovered, though she had seen naught of the child, was quickly driven from the house and lost her cherished employment.
Lucy Burton from the first hour after the birth of the child was very ill. For two whole days she hovered, hesitatingly, between life and death, most of the time entirely unconscious or when not so in a kind of stupor. But finally, after two days of anxious watching, the physician and Mrs. Church noticed a change. Lucy opened her eyes and feebly felt beside her as if seeking something, and finding not what she sought, weakly motioned Mrs. Church to bend her head down that she might whisper something in her ear. As her old friend bent over her, she whispered softly,
“My baby, bring it.”
Mrs. Church’s face became so piteous as she turned her appealing eyes toward the Doctor that, that good man arose and coming to the bedsidetook Lucy’s soft white hand in his. He had known her as an infant, and guessing from Mrs. Church’s face what Lucy wished, he said,
“Not yet, dear child, you are too ill and weak, and the excitement might be dangerous in your condition.”
But Lucy would listen no longer; she shook her head and cried out quite audibly:
“Bring me my baby! I want to see it. Every mother wishes to see her baby.” Tears came rolling from her sweet eyes.
“But child, the baby boy is not well and to bring him to you might cause serious conditions to arise.”
Well did that Doctor know the mother heart. How ready that heart ever is to suffer and to bleed that the off-spring may be shielded from some danger or a single pang.
“I can wait; don’t bring my darling if it will do him harm. A boy! A boy! My boy! I’ll wait, but where is Walter?”
The Doctor told the nurse to summon Mr. Burton, but cautioned Lucy not to excite or agitate herself as she had been quite ill.
Let him who has seen the look on the condemned felon’s face, when the poor wretch gazes on the knife within the guillotine, recall that look. Let him who has seen the last wild, desperate glance of a drowning man, recall that look, and mingle with these the look of Love at side of Hope’s death-bed, and thus find the look on Burton’s face when he entered his wife’s bedroom.
With arms outstretched she called to the faltering man,
“Walter, it is a boy! My baby! Your baby! My husband!”
The man fell, he did not drop, upon his knees by the bedside and burying his face in the covering wept bitterly. He took her hands, kissed them, and wet them with his tears.
“Oh! Don’t weep so, darling. I will soon be well, and Oh! my husband we have a precious baby boy.” Then she said, as if in the joy of knowing that her baby was a boy, she had forgotten all else,
“Tell grandfather to come here. Tell him the boy shall bear his name.”
The Doctor went himself to bring her grandfather to her. She never noticed that strange fact.
James Dunlap, never had you in your seventy-three years of life more need of strength of mind than now!
Her grandfather came to her leaning heavily upon the Doctor’s arm. He bent and kissed her brow, and in so doing dropped a tear upon her cheek. Quickly she looked up and seeing pain and grief in the white face above her, she started and in the alarmed voice of a little child, she cried,
“Am I going to die? Are you all so pale and weep because I am dying? Tell me Doctor! Why Mamma Church is crying too.”
She so had called Mrs. Church when a wee maid and sometimes did so still.
The Doctor seeing that she was flushed and greatly excited hastened to the bedside and said calmly but most earnestly,
“No, my dear. You will not die, they are not weeping for that reason, but you have been very ill and we all love you so much that we weepfrom sympathy for you, my dear. Now please lie down. You must my child, and all must leave the room but nurse and me,” and speaking thus, he gently pressed the gold-brown head back on the pillows and urged all to leave the room immediately.
That night the nurse and Doctor heard the patient often murmur both while awake and while she slept,
“My baby, my baby, it’s a boy, my baby.”
For two or three days after this night Lucy was quite ill again. Her mind seemed wandering all along the path of her former life, but always the all over-shadowing subject in all the wanderings of her thoughts was, “My baby,” “My baby.” Sometimes she called for Jack saying, “Come Jack, and see my baby,” and then for her uncle, laughing in her sleep and saying “See, Uncle John, I’ve brought into the world a boy, my baby.”
When the fever again abated and once more she became conscious her first words were “My baby, bring it now.”
For several days the mental resources of thenurse, Doctor and Mrs. Church were taxed to their utmost in finding excuses for the absence of the baby. He was not well. He was asleep, she was not well enough and many other things they told her as reasons for not bringing her baby to her.
But, Oh! the piteous pleading in her voice and eyes, as with quivering lips and fluttering hands extended toward them she would beg,
“Please bring my baby to me. Every mother wishes to see her baby, to press it to her breast, to feel its breath upon her cheek, to hold it to her heart; Oh! Please bring my darling to me.”
Poor Mrs. Church, no martyr ever suffered more than did that tender-hearted woman, who loved Lucy with a mother’s heart.
The Doctor, when he had reassured and quieted, for a little while, his patient, would leave the room and standing in the hall would wring his hands and groan, as if in mortal agony.
One night when Lucy seemed more restful than usual, and was slumbering, worn out by emotion and watching, the Doctor, lying on a couch in the hall, fell fast asleep. The nurse,seeing all about her resting, her charge peacefully and regularly, first became drowsy, nodded and then slept.
The gold-brown head was raised cautiously from its pillows, the hazel eyes wide opened looked about, and seeing that the nurse was sleeping and that no one was looking, then two little white feet slipped stealthily from beneath the coverlet, the slim figure rose, left the bed and glided along the well remembered passage that led from her chamber to that bower of beauty made for her baby. As she, weak and trembling, stole along, she smiled and whispered to herself:
“I will see my baby! I will hold him in my arms, I am his own mother.”
In the room, that with loving, hopeful hands she had helped to decorate, the faintest flame gave dim, uncertain light, yet quick she reached the silver shell-like crib and feeling found no baby there. Hearing a steady, loud breathing of some one asleep and seeing the indistinct outline of a bed in one corner of the room, she softly crept to its side and feeling gently withher soft hands found a tiny figure reposing beside the snoring sleeper. To gather the baby to the warm breast wherein her longing, loving heart was beating wildly was the work of only an instant.
With her babe clutched close to her, she opened her gown and laid its little head against her soft and snowy bosom, then she stole back, carrying her treasure to her own chamber.
Like child that she was, women have much of childish feeling ever in them. In girlish happiness she closed her eyes and felt her way to the gas-light, and turned it up full blast, laughing to herself and saying as she uncovered the baby’s face,
“I won’t peep. I’ll see my baby’s beauty all at once.”
She opened her eyes and looked!
Now, Oh! Mother of the Lord look down! Oh! Christ, who hanging on His cross for the thief could pity feel, have pity now!
The thing she held upon her milk white breast was Black—Black with hideous, misshapen head receding to a point; with staring, rollingeyes of white set in its inky skin; and features of an apish cast, increased the horror of the thing.
My God! That shriek! It pealed through chamber, dome and hall. Again, again it rang like scream of tortured soul in hell. It roused the horses in the barn, they neighed in terror, stamped upon the floor and struggled to be free. The doves in fright forsook their cot. The dogs began to bark. Yet high above all other sound, that wild, loud scream rang out.
When the nurse sprang up she dared not move so wild were Lucy’s eyes. The Doctor, Burton, her grandfather found her standing, hair unbound, glaring wildly at what crying, lay on the floor.
“Away, you thieves!” she screamed, and motioned to the door.
“You have robbed me of my babe, and left that in its stead.” She pointed at the object on the floor.
Her grandfather pallid, tottering, moved toward her.
“Back, old man, back! You stole my childaway,” she yelled, her blazing eyes filled with insane rage and hate.
“My God! She is mad,” the Doctor cried, and rushing forward caught her as she fell.
“Thank God! She has fainted; help me place her on the bed.”
Burton, petrified by the awfulness of the scene had until that moment stood like some ghastly, reeling statue, now in an automatic manner he came forward and helped the Doctor place her on the bed.
“Look to Mr. Dunlap,” cried the Doctor but ere anyone could reach him the old man fell forward, crashing on the floor; a stroke of paralysis had deadened and benumbed his whole right side.
Chapman was told next day that James Dunlap was dying. Then, for the first and only time in the life of David Chapman, he disobeyed an order given by a Dunlap and sent the message to Haiti.
“The pilot is mad,” cried one old tar; and said,
“The master is drunk, or there’s mutiny aboard that ship.”
Thus spoke among themselves a knot of seafaring men who stood on the Boston docks watching a ship under almost full sail, that came tearing before a strong north-east gale into Boston’s crowded harbor.
The man who held the wheel and guided the ship through the lanes of sail-less vessels anchored in the harbor, as a skillful driver does his team in crowded streets, was neither mad nor drunk nor was there mutiny among the crew. The man was Jack Dunlap; the ship was the “Adams.”
Jack knew the harbor, as does the dog its kennel. He held a pilot’s certificate and waiving assistance steered his ship himself in this madrace with time, that no moment should be lost by lowering sails until the anchor dropped in Massachusetts sand.
The crew was ready at the sheets and running gear. Each man at his station and all attention. Old Brice in the waist stood watching the skipper ready to pass the word, to “let all go;” Morgan, the second mate, at the boat davits held the tackle to lower away the yawl the instant the ship “came round.”
The skipper at the wheel, stood steady, firm and sure, as though chiseled from hardest rock. He never shifted his blood-shot eyes from straight ahead. His strong, determined face, colorless beneath the tan, never relaxed a line of the intensity that stamped it with sharp angles. The skipper had not closed his eyes in sleep since leaving Port au Prince nor had he left the deck for a single hour.
“Let go all!” the helmsman called and Brice repeated the order. The ship flew around, like a startled stag and then came,
“Let go the anchor! Lower away on that boat tackle! Come, Cousin John, we are oppositeDunlap’s docks. This is Boston harbor, thank God!” So called Jack Dunlap, springing toward the descending small boat that had hung at the davits, and dragging the no-way backward old gentleman, John Dunlap, along with him.
The only moment lost in Port au Prince before the “Adams” sailed was to arouse the operator and send a message to Chapman saying that John Dunlap had left in the “Adams” and was on his way to Boston and his brother’s bedside.
When the red ball barred with black streaming from the masthead announced that a Dunlap ship was entering the port, the information was sent at once to the city, and an anxious, thin and sorrowing man gave an order to the driver of the fastest team in the Dunlap stables, to hasten to Dunlap’s wharf and sprang into the carriage.
The impatient, scrawny figure of David Chapman caught the eyes of the two passengers in the yawl, as with lusty strokes the sailors at the oars urged the small boat toward the steps of the dock. Chapman in his excitement fairly raced up and down the dock waving his hands toward the approaching boat.
“He still lives!” he shouted when they could hear him, instinctively knowing that, that question was first in the minds of those nearing the wharf.
“And Lucy?” said Jack huskily, as he stepped on the dock and grasped Chapman’s extended hand. Old John Dunlap had said never a word nor looked right nor left, but springing up the steps with extraordinary agility in one of his age, had run directly to the waiting carriage.
“Alive but better dead,” was all that the superintendent could find breath to say as he ran beside Jack toward the carriage and leaped in.
“Stop for nothing; put the horses to a gallop,” commanded Mr. Dunlap, leaning out of the carriage window and addressing the coachman as he wheeled his horses around and turned upon the street.
It was at an early hour on Sunday morning when the Dunlaps landed and the streets were freed from the week day traffic and the number of vehicles that usually crowded them.
As the swaying carriage dashed along, Chapman was unable to make the recently arrivedmen understand more than that Lucy had suddenly become deranged as a result of her illness, and that this appalling circumstance, in connection with his idolized granddaughter’s severe sickness had produced a paralytic stroke, that had rendered powerless the entire right side of James Dunlap’s body; that his vitality was so low and his whole constitution seemed so shaken and undermined by the events of the last few weeks, that the physicians despaired of his life.
As the foaming horses were halted before the entrance of the Dunlap mansion, Mr. John Dunlap jumped from the still swaying vehicle and ran up the steps, heedless of Mrs. Church and the servants in the hall, he rushed straight to the well remembered room where, as boys, he and his brother had slept, and which was still the bed-chamber occupied by Mr. James Dunlap.
John Dunlap opened the door and for a moment faltered on the threshold; then that voice he loved so well called out,
“Is that my brother John?” The stricken man had recognized his brother’s footsteps.
An instant more and John Dunlap had thrownhimself across the bed and his arms were around his brother; for several minutes those two hearts, which in unison had beaten since first the life-blood pulsated through them, were pressed together. James Dunlap’s left hand weakly patting his brother.
David Chapman had followed, close upon the heels of John Dunlap and was crouching at the bottom of the bed, with his face hidden by the bed-clothing that covered his old master’s feet, and was silently sobbing. When Jack Dunlap entered the hall good Mrs. Church, who had been a second mother to him while he lived at the Dunlap house in his school boy days, ran to him and throwing her arms about his neck fell upon his broad breast, weeping and crying,
“My boy is home! Thank God for sending you, Jack. We have suffered so, and needed you so much, my boy!”
When the sailor man had succeeded in pacifying the distressed old housekeeper and disengaged himself from her embrace, he hastened after Chapman. As he entered the room and stepped near the bed he heard a feeble voicewhich he scarcely recognized as that of Mr. James Dunlap, say,
“It is all my fault John. You, brother, tried to prevent it. I alone am to blame. I have driven my darling mad and I believe that it will kill her. I did it Oh God! I did it. Blame no one John; be kind, punish no one, my brother. I alone am at fault.”
These words came with the force of a terrible blow to Jack Dunlap, and halted him in mute and motionless wonder where he was.
“James, don’t talk that way. I can’t stand it, brother. Whatever you have done, I know not, and care not, it is noble, just and right and I stand with you, brother, in whatsoever it may be,” said John Dunlap in a broken but energetic voice.
“Has no one told you then, John?” came faintly from the partially paralyzed lips of him who lay upon the bed.
“Told me what? Brother James; but no matter what they have to tell, you are not blamable as you say; I stand by that.”
Though the voice was husky, there was a challengein the tone that said, let no man dare attack my brother. The innate chivalry of the old New Englander was superior even to his sorrow.
“Who is in the room beside you, John?” asked James Dunlap, anxious that something he had to say should not be heard by other than the trustworthy, and unable to move his head to ascertain.
“No one, James, but our kinsman, Jack Dunlap, and faithful David Chapman,” replied his brother.
The palsied man struggled with some powerful emotion, and by the greatest effort was only able to utter in a whisper the words,
“Lucy’s baby is black and impish. The negro blood in Burton caused the breeding back to a remote ancestor, as, John, you warned me might be the case. It has driven my granddaughter insane and will cause her death. God have mercy on me!” The effort and emotion was too much for the weak old gentleman; his head fell to one side; he had fainted.
John Dunlap started when he heard these direfulwords. A look of horror on his face, but brotherly love stronger than all else caused him to put aside every thought and endeavor to resuscitate the unconscious man.
Poor Jack. He had borne manfully much heartache, but the dreadful thing that he had just heard was too much for even his iron will and nerves. He collapsed as if a dagger had pierced his heart, and would have fallen to the floor had he not gripped the bedstead when his legs gave way.
Chapman raised his head and gazed, with eyes red from weeping, at him who told the calamitous story of the events that had stricken him down. There was a dangerous glitter in the red eyes as Chapman sprung to John Dunlap’s assistance in reviving the senseless man.
When Jack recovered self-command sufficient to realize what was happening about him, he found that the physician, who had been summoned, had administered restoratives and stimulants, and that the patient had returned to consciousness; that the kind Doctor was trying to comfort the heartbroken brother of the sufferereven while obliged to admit that the end of life for James Dunlap was not far distant.
“Come and get in my bed, Jack,” came in a low and indistinct voice from the couch of the helpless patient. Captain Dunlap started in surprise, but old John Dunlap made a motion with his hand and said in a voice choking with emotion,
“He always so called me when we were boys,” and lying down by his brother he put his arms lovingly and protectingly around him.
Thus the two old men lay side by side as they had done years before in their cradle. The silence remained for a long time unbroken, save for the muffled sobs that came from those who watched and grieved in the chamber.
“How cold it is, Jack, come closer; I’m cold. I broke through the ice today and got wet but don’t tell mother, she will worry. Jack, don’t tell on me.” The words were whispered to his brother by the dying man.
“No, Jim, I’ll not tell, old fellow,” bravely answered John Dunlap, but a smothered sob shook his shoulders. He knew his brother’s mind wasstraying back into the days of their boyhood.
For what inscrutable cause does the mind of the most aged recur to scenes and associations of childhood when Death, the dread conqueror, draws near? Why does the most patriarchal prattle as though still at the mother knee in that last and saddest hour? Is it because mother, child, in purity approach nearest to that transcendent pellucidity that surrounds the throne of Him before whom all must appear? Does the nearness of the coming hour cast its shadow on the soul, causing it to return to the period of greatest innocence, and that love that is purest on earth?
“Jack, hold me, I am slipping, I am going, going, Jack.”
Alas! James Dunlap had gone on that long, last journey! The noble, kindly soul had gone to its God. John Dunlap held in his arms the pulseless form of him who for seventy-three years had been his second self, and whom he had loved with a devotedness seldom seen in this selfish world of ours.
To see a strong man weep is painful; to hearhim sob is dreadful; but to listen and look upon the sorrow of a strong and aged man is heartbreaking and will cause sympathetic tears to flow from eyes of all who are not flinty-hearted.
Chapman, when he knew the end had come, clasped the cold feet of his old employer and wept bitterly; Jack could bear no more. With bursting heart he fled from the room, but kept the chamber sacred from intrusion, and in the sole possession of the two old men who sorrowed there.
The funeral of James Dunlap was attended by the foremost citizens of that section of the United States, where for so many years he had justly held a position of honor and prominence.
The universal gloom and hush that was observable throughout the city of Boston on the day that the sorrowful cortege followed all that remained earthly of this esteemed citizen, gave greater evidence of universal grief than words or weeping could have done.
While James Dunlap had never held any civic or political position, his broad charity, unostentatious generosity, kindliness of spirit, constantthoughtfulness of his fellow men, and the unassuming gentleness of his lovable disposition and character, gave him an undisputed high place in the hearts of his fellow citizens of both lofty and lowly condition.
The chief executive of his native state, jurists, scholars, and capitalists gathered with rough, weather beaten seafaring men, clerks and laborers to listen to the final prayer offered up, to Him above, at the old family vault of the Dunlaps beneath the sighing willow trees.
Haggard and worn by the emotions that had wrenched his very soul for the past two or three weeks, David Chapman dragged himself to the tea-table where his sister waited on the evening of the day of the funeral ceremonies.
With the fidelity of a faithful, loving dog he had held a position during all of many nights at the feet of him who in life had been his object of paramount devotion; during those days with unswerving faithfulness to the house of “J. Dunlap,” he was found leaden hued and worn, but still attentive, at his desk in the office. Thegreat business must not suffer, thought the man, even if I drop dead from exhaustion. Neither John Dunlap nor Walter Burton was in a condition, nor could they force themselves, to attend to the business of the house no matter how urgent the need might be.
When the business of the day ended, Chapman hastened to the Dunlap mansion, and like a ghostly shadow glided to his position at the feet of his old employer, speaking to no one and no one saying him nay—it seemed the sad watcher’s right.
As David Chapman dropped into a chair at the tea-table, the anxious and sympathetic sister said,
“Brother, you really must take some rest. Indeed you must, David, now that all is over.”
“Yes, Arabella, I feel utterly exhausted and shall rest.”
The man’s condition was pitiable; his words came from his throat with the dry, rasping sound of a file working on hardest steel.