Part 15

Poor old John Dunlap fell upon Jack’s shoulder and wept from very weakness and misery, and so the sailor supported and held him until the paroxysm of wretchedness had passed; then he gently led the broken old gentleman to the easiest chair in the parlor of the Dunlap house and begged him to sit down and compose his overwrought feelings.

“You say, Jack, that the porter found him seated at his desk this morning; that he thought he was sleeping, as my faithful employee’s head rested on his arms, and that it was only when he touched him and noticed how cold he was that he realized that Chapman was dead. My God! How awful!” groaned the distressed speaker.

“Yes, sir, and when the head clerks of the different departments arrived and raised him they saw lying on his desk before him ready for publication the notice of the closing of the business career of the house of J. Dunlap, and they took from the dead man’s stiffened fingers the long record of the firm to which he clung even in death.”

“I saw the poor fellow’s face grow pale and his features twitch as if in pain when I told him that the career of our house was ended. I urged him to rest here until he was better, but he only shook his head and hurried from my presence.”

Mr. Dunlap spoke sadly and after a pause of several minutes, during which an expression of deepest melancholy settled over his countenance, he continued sorrowfully,

“Poor David Chapman, good and faithful servant! He loved the old house of ‘J. Dunlap’ with all of his soul, and when he knew that the end had come, it broke that intense heart of his.”

“Why did you determine, sir, to take the old sign down, and close those doors that for two hundred years have stood open every day except holidays?” asked Jack, full of sympathy for the grief-stricken kinsman beside him.

“I cannot bear the sight of my loved boyhood’s home, dear old Boston, at present. It has been the scene of so much agony and horror for me within the past year that I must, for my own sake, get away from the agonizing associations all about me here. Lucy absolutely must be taken away now that her mind is restored to its normal condition, or she will surely go mad from weeping and grieving. As soon as she is able to travel we shall go to Europe to be absent months,—years. I am an old man, maybe I shall never see Boston again.” The old man stopped to choke back a sob and then said,

“It is hard, very hard, on me that I should be obliged to close the house my brother James loved so well, and that has been a glory to the Dunlap name for two centuries. It may break my heart, too, lad.”

The white head sunk on the heaving chest and an audible sob now shook the bended frame. Jack watched his good godfather with manly tears filling his honest eyes. Then, laying his hand softly on the old man’s arm, he said,

“Cousin John, would you feel less wretched if I promised to leave the sea, and do my best to keep the old sign, ‘J. Dunlap,’ in its place in the crooked street where it has hung for two hundred years?”

John Dunlap raised his head almost as soon as his namesake began to speak, and when Jack had finished he had him around the neck and was hugging the sturdy sailor, crying all the time,

“God bless you, boy! Will you do that for your old kinsman? Will you, lad?” And then wringing Jack’s hand he cried,

“A young J. Dunlap succeeds the old; all the ships, trade and the capital remain as before! You and Lucy are sole heirs to everything! The chief clerks will shout for joy to know that the house still goes on; they will help you faithfully for love of my brother James and me. And oh! Jack, when I am far away it will make my heart beat easier to know that the Dunlap red ball barred with black still floats upon the ocean, and that the old sign is still here; that I was not the one of my long line to take it from its place.”

EPILOGUE.

Five times has Boston Common, old, honored in history’s story, slept beneath its snowy counterpane, all damaskeened by winter sunbeam’s glory.

Five times have brooks in Yankee vales burst icy chains to flee, with gladsome shouts of merriment, on joyous journey to the sea.

Five times have Massachusetts hills and dales been garbed in cloak of emerald, embroidered wide in gay designs of daffodils and daisies since the grand old Commonwealth was shocked by the commission of a horrid crime by one called Burton.

An old sign still swings before an even older building, in one of Boston’s most crooked streets. “J. Dunlap, Shipping and Banking,” is what the passersby may read on the old sign.

Sometimes an old man is seen to enter the building above the door of which is suspended this sign; he is much bent and white of hair, but sturdy still, despite some four-score years. All men of Boston accord great respect to this handsome old gentleman.

The man who is head and manager of all the business done within the old building where that sign is seen, has the tanned and rugged look of one who had long gazed upon the bright surface of the sea. While he is only seen in landsmen’s dress, it seems that clothing of a nautical cut would best befit his stalwart figure.

This head man at J. Dunlap’s office is cavalier-in-chief to three old ladies, with whom he often is seen driving in Boston’s beautiful suburbs; one of these white-haired old dames he addresses as “Mother,” another as “Mrs. Church,” and the most withered one of the three he calls “Miss Arabella.”

He has been seen, too, with a sweet, sad, yet very lovely young woman in whose glorious crown of gold-brown hair silver silken threads run in and out.

A big, jovial naval man periodically drives up before the old sign and shouting out, “Jack, come here and see the latest!” exhibits a baby to the sailor-looking manager. The last time he roared in greatest glee, “It’s a girl, named Bessie, for her mother.”

Kind harvest moon, send forth your tenderest glances, that fall betwixt the tall elm’s branches on that sad, sweet face that lies so restfully against a sailor’s loyal bosom.

“Lucy, I have always loved you!” Jack Dunlap kissed his “Little Princess” and put his strong arms around her.

Everlasting time, catch up those words, and bear them on forever, as motto of most faithful lover.

An old man, standing at a window in the Dunlap mansion, watched the man and woman in the moonlight between the elm trees, and what he witnessed seemed to bring a great joy to his good, kind heart, for he reverently raised his eyes to heaven and said,

“My God, I thank Thee!”