Part 2

Burton’s voice was as soft, sweet and melodious as the tones of a silver flute, and the thought of the young sailor’s brief stay at home seemed to strike a chord of sadness that gave added charm to the words he uttered.

“I expect to dine with my cousin tomorrow evening and will then give her greeting upon my home coming and at the same time bid her goodby upon my departure.”

“I declare, Jack, this is awfully sad to me, old chap, and I know Lucy will be sorely disappointed. You know that we are to be married next month and Lucy has said a dozen times that she wished you to be present; that you had always been a tower of strength to her and that nothing could alarm or make her nervous if, as she put it, ‘brave and trustworthy Jack be near.’”

The sailor’s face lost some of its color in spite of the tan that sun and sea had given it, as he listened to words that he had heard Lucy say when, as a boy and girl, they had climbed New Hampshire’s hills, or sailed along Massachusetts’ coast together.

“I shall be sorry if Lucy be disappointed, but I am so much of a sea-swab now that I am restless and unhappy while ashore.”

What a poor liar young John Dunlap was. His manner, or something, not his words, in that instant revealed his secret to Burton, as a flash of lightning in the darkness discloses a scene, so was Jack’s story and reason for hurried departure from Boston made plain.

By some yet unexplained process of mental telegraphy the two young men understood each other. Spontaneously they extended their hands and in their warm clasp a bond of silent sympathy was established. Thus they stood for a moment, then Burton said in that sad, sweet voice of his:

“Jack, dear old chap, I will get your clearance papers tomorrow and you may put to sea when you please, but see Lucy before you sail.”

Ere Dunlap could reply the door of the manager’s office opened and there entered the room a man of such peculiar appearance as to attract the attention of the most casual observer. He was thin, even to emaciation. The skin over his almost hairless head seemed drawn as tightly as the covering of a drum. The ghastliness of his dead-white face was made more apparent by the small gleaming black eyes set deep and close to a huge aquiline nose, and the scarlet, almost bloody stripe that marked the narrow line of his lips.

“Beg pardon,” said the man, seeing someone with Burton, and then, recognizing who the visitor was, added:

“Oh, how are you, Jack? I did not know that you were with the manager,” and he seemed to put the faintest bit of emphasis upon the word “manager.”

“Well, what is it, Chapman?” said Burton somewhat impatiently.

“I only wished to inform you that I have secured a master for the ‘Adams.’ Captain Mason, who was formerly in our employ, has applied for the position and as he was satisfactory when with us before I considered it very fortunate for us to secure his services just now.”

“The ‘Adams’ has a master already assigned to her,” interrupted the manager.

“Why! When? Who?” inquired the superintendent eagerly.

“The ‘Adams’ sails in command of Captain Dunlap here.”

The gleaming black eyes of Chapman seemed to bury their glances into the very heart of the manager as he stretched his thin neck forward and asked:

“Did you give him the ship?”

“J. Dunlap made the assignment of Captain Jack to the ship today at his own request and contrary to my wishes,” said Burton abruptly, somewhat annoyed at Chapman’s manner.

It was now the turn of Jack to stand the battery of those hawk eyes of the superintendent, who sought to read the honest sailor’s soul as he shot his glances into Jack’s clear gray eyes.

“Ah! Cousin Jack going away so soon and our Miss Lucy’s wedding next month. How strange!” Chapman seemed speaking to himself.

“If that is all, Chapman, just say to Mason that the firm appointed a master to the ‘Adams’ without your knowledge; therefore he can’t have the ship,” said Burton with annoyance in his tone and manner, dismissing the superintendent with a wave of his hand toward the door.

When Chapman glided out of the room, the man moved always in such a stealthy manner that he appeared to glide instead of walk, Burton exclaimed:

“Do you know, Jack, that that man Chapman can irritate me more by his detective demeanor than any man I ever saw could do by open insult. I am ashamed of myself for allowing such to be the case, but I can’t help it. To have a chap about who seems to be always playing the Sherlock Holmes act is wearing on one’s patience. Why, confound it! If he came in this minute to say that we needed a new supply of postage stamps he would make such a detective job of it that I should feel the uncomfortable sensation that the mailing clerk had stolen the last lot purchased.”

Jack, who disliked the sneaky and secretive as much as any man alive and had just been irritated himself by Chapman’s untimely scrutiny, said:

“I am not astonished and don’t blame you. While I have known Chapman all my life, I somehow, as a boy and man, have always felt when talking to him that I was undergoing an examination before a police magistrate.”

“Of course I ought to consider that he has been with the house for more than forty years and is fidelity and faithfulness personified to ‘J. Dunlap,’ but he is so absurdly jealous and suspicious that he would wear out the patience of a saint, and I don’t pretend to be one,” supplemented Burton.

“Half the time,” said Jack, glad apparently to discuss Chapman and thus avoid the subject which beneath the surface of their conversation was uppermost in the minds of both Burton and himself.

“I have not the slightest idea what ‘Old Chap,’ as I call him, is driving at. He goes hunting a hundred miles away for the end of a coil of rope that is lying at his very feet, and he is the very devil, too, for finding out anything he wishes to know. Why, when I was a boy and used to get into scrapes, if ‘Old Chap’ cornered me I knew it was no use trying to get out of the mess and soon learned to plead guilty at once,” and Jack smiled in a dreary kind of way at the recollection of some of his boyish pranks.

“Well, let old Chapman, the modern Sherlock Holmes, and his searching disposition go for the present. Promise to be sure to dine with Lucy tomorrow evening. She expects me to be there also, as she is going to have one or two young women and needs some of the male sex to talk to them. I know that she will want you all to herself,” said Burton.

“Yes, I’ll be on hand all right tomorrow night and you get my papers in shape during the day, as I will sail as early day after tomorrow as the tide serves,” replied the captain.

“By the way, Jack! Send your steward to me when you go aboard to take charge of the ‘Adams’ in the morning. Tell him to see me personally. You sailors are such queer chaps and care so little about your larder that I am going to see to it myself that you don’t eat salt pork and hard tack on your voyage out, nor drink bilge water, either.”

“You are awfully kind, Burton, but you need not trouble yourself. I am sure common sea grub is good enough for any sailor-man.”

As they walked together toward the front door, when Captain Jack was leaving the building, in the narrow aisle between the long rows of desks they came face to face with the superintendent. He stepped aside and gazing after them, whispered:

“Strange, very strange, for Jack Dunlap to sail so soon.”

“Be sure to send that steward of yours to me tomorrow, Jack,” called the manager of “J. Dunlap” as the sturdy figure of the sailor disappeared in the fog that filled the crooked street in which Boston’s oldest shipping and banking house had its office.

“And no ship ever sailed from Boston provided as yours shall be, poor old chap,” muttered the manager as he hurried back to his own room in the office. “There shall be champagne enough on board the ‘Adams,’ Jack, to drink our health, if you so will, on our wedding day, even though you be off Cape Good Hope.”

* * * * *

In the gloaming that dark November day the Dunlap brothers were seated close together, side by side, in silence gazing into the heap of coals that burned in the large grate before them. John Dunlap’s hand rested upon the arm of his brother, as if in the mere touching of him who had first seen the light in his company there was comfort.

Burton thought, as he entered the private office that no finer picture was ever painted than that made by these two fine old American gentlemen as the flame from the crackling cannel coal shot up, revealing their kind, gentle, generous faces in the surrounding gloom of the room.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” said the manager, pausing on the threshold, hesitating to break in upon a scene that seemed almost sacred, “but I was told that you had sent for me while I was out of the office.”

“Come in, Burton, you were correctly informed,” said James Dunlap, still neither changing his position nor removing his gaze from the fire.

“My brother John and I have determined as a mark of love for our young kinsman, Captain John Dunlap, and as an evidence of our appreciation for faithful services rendered to us as mate and master, to make him a present of our ship ‘Adams,’ now loaded for Australia,” continued James Dunlap, speaking very low and very softly.

“You will please have the necessary papers for the transfer made out tonight. We will execute them in the morning and you will see that the proper entry is made upon the register at the custom house. Have the full value of the ship charged to the private accounts of my brother John and myself, as the gift is a personal affair of ours and others interested in our house must be fully indemnified,” continued the old man as he turned his eyes and met his brother’s assenting look.

The flame blazing up in the grate at that moment cast its light on Burton’s flushed face as he listened to the closing sentence of Mr. James Dunlap’s instructions.

“Forgive me, sir, but I do not comprehend what you mean by ‘others interested in our house.’ I believe other than yourselves I alone have the honor to hold an interest in your house,” and moving forward in the firelight where he would stand before the brothers he continued, almost indignantly, his voice vibrating with emotion:

“You do me bitter, cruel injustice if you think that I do not wish, nay more, earnestly beg, to join in this gift. I have learned that today that would urge me to plead for permission to share in this deed were it of ten times the value of the ‘Adams.’”

Quickly old John Dunlap, rising from his chair, placing his hand on Burton’s shoulder and regarding him kindly, said:

“I am glad to hear you say that, Burton, very glad. It proves your heart to be right, but it cannot be as you wish. Jack is so sensitive even about receiving aid from us, his kinsmen, that you must conceal the matter from him, put the transfer and new registration with his clearance papers and tell him it is our wish that they be not opened until he is one week at sea.”

“Could the transfer not be made just in the name of the house without explanation? He might never think of my being interested,” urged the manager eagerly.

“You are mistaken, Walter,” said James Dunlap. “Within a month you might see the ‘Adams’ sailing back into Boston harbor. I am sorry to deny you the exercise of your generous impulse; we appreciate the intent, but think it best not to hamper a gift to this proud fellow with anything that might cause its rejection.”

Burton, realizing the truth of the position taken by the brothers and the hopelessness of gaining Jack Dunlap’s consent to be placed under obligations to one not of his own blood, could offer no further argument upon the subject. Dejected and disappointed he turned to leave the room to accomplish the wishes expressed by the twins. As he reached the door John Dunlap called to him.

“Hold on a minute, Burton. Have we any interest in the cargo of the ‘Adams?’”

“About one-quarter of her cargo is agricultural implements consigned to our Australian agent for the account of the house,” quickly answered the manager.

“Charge that invoice to me and assign it to Jack.”

“Charge it jointly to us both,” added James Dunlap.

“No you don’t, James! We only agreed on the ship. John is my godson and namesake. I have a right to do more than anyone else,” exultantly cried the kind hearted old fellow, and for the first time that day he laughed as he slapped his brother on the shoulder and thought of how he had gotten ahead of him.

Burton was obliged to smile at the sudden anxiety of Mr. John to get rid of him when Mr. James began to protest against his brother’s selfishness in wishing to have no partner in the gift of the cargo.

“Now, you just hurry up those papers, Burton. Yes, hurry! Run along! Yes, Yes,” and so saying old Mr. John fairly rushed him out of the room.

“How I wish I were Captain Jack’s uncle, too,” thought Burton sadly, with a heart full of generous sympathy for the man who he knew loved the woman that ere a month would be Mrs. Burton.

III.

Some men have one hobby, some have many and some poor wretches have none. David Chapman had three hobbies and they occupied his whole mind and heart.

First in place and honor was the house of J. Dunlap. “The pillared firmament” might fall but his fidelity to the firm which he had served for forty years could never fail. His was the fierce and jealous love of the tigress for her cub where the house of Dunlap was concerned. He actually suffered, as from mortal hurt, when any one or any thing seemed to separate him from this great object of his adoration.

He had ever regarded the ownership of even a small interest by Walter Burton as an indignity, an outrage and a sacrilege. He hated him for defiling the chiefest idol of his religion and life. He was jealous of him because he separated in a manner the worshiper from the worshiped.

Because solely of jealous love for this High Joss of his, Chapman would have gladly, cheerfully suffered unheard of agonies to rid the house of J. Dunlap of this irreverent interloper who did not bear the sacred name of Dunlap.

The discovery of anything concealed, unravelling a mystery, ferreting out a secret was the next highest hobby in Chapman’s trinity of hobbies. He was passionately fond of practicing the theory of deduction, and was marvelously successful at arriving at correct conclusions. No crime, no mystery furnished a sensation for the Boston newspapers that did not call into play the exercise of this the second and most peculiar hobby of Chapman.

By some strange freak of nature in compounding the elements to form the character of David Chapman, an inordinate love for music was added to the incongruous mixture, and became the man’s third and most harmless hobby. Chapman had devoted years to the study of music, from pure love of sweet and melodious sounds. In the great and musical city of Boston no one excelled him as master of his favorite instrument, the violoncello. Like Balzac’s Herr Smucker, in his hours of relaxation, he bathed himself in the flood of his own melody.

Chapman owned, he was not poor, and occupied with his spinster sister, who was almost as withered as himself, a house well down in the business section of the city. He could not be induced to live in the more desirable suburbs. They were too far from the temple of his chiefest idol, the house of J. Dunlap.

“Jack Dunlap sails as master of our ship ‘Adams’ day after tomorrow,” suggested Chapman meditatively, as he sipped his tea and glanced across the table at the dry, almost fossilized, prim, starchy, old lady seated opposite him in his comfortable dining room that evening.

“Impossible, David, the boy has only just arrived.”

And the little old lady seemed to pick at the words as she uttered them much as a sparrow does at crumbs of bread.

“It is not impossible for it is a fact,” replied her brother dryly.

“What is the reason for his sudden departure? Did the house order him to sea again?” pecked out the sister.

“No, that is the strange part of the affair. Jack himself especially urged his appointment to the ship sailing day after tomorrow.”

“Then it is to get away from Boston before Lucy is married. I believe he is in love with her and can’t bear to see her marry Burton.”

Oh! boastful man, with all your assumed superiority in the realm of reason and your deductive theories and synthetical systems for forming correct conclusions. You are but a tyro, a mere infant in that great field of feeling where love is crowned king. The most withered, stale, neglected being in whose breast beats a woman’s heart, by that mysterious and sympathetic something called intuition can lead you like the child that you are in this, woman’s own province.

“You are entirely wrong, Arabella, as usual. Jack never thought of Miss Lucy in that way; besides he and Burton are exceedingly friendly; can’t you make it convenient to visit your friends in Bedford and see Martha Dunlap? If anything be wrong with Jack, and I can help him, I shall be glad to do so. The mother may be more communicative than the son.”

“I will surely make the attempt to learn if anything be wrong, and gladly, too; I have always loved that boy Jack, and if he be in trouble I want you to help him all in your power, David.” The little old maid’s face flushed in the earnestness of the expression.

“Burton is still an unsolved problem to me,” and in saying the words Chapman’s jaws moved with a kind of snap, like a steel trap, while his eyes had the glitter of a serpent’s in them as he continued, “for years I have observed him closely and I cannot make him out at all. I am baffled by sudden changes of mood in the man; at times he is reckless, gay, thoughtless, frivolous, and I sometimes think lacking in moral stamina; again he is dignified, kind, courteous, reserved and seems to possess the highest standard of morals.”

“I don’t suppose that he is unlike other men; they all have moods. You do yourself, David, and very unpleasant moods, too,” said Arabella with the proverbial sourness of the typical New England spinster.

“Well, I may have moods, as you say, Arabella, but I don’t break out suddenly in a kind of frenzy of gaiety, sing and shout like a street Arab and then as quickly relapse into a superlatively dead calm of dignity and the irreproachable demeanor of a cultured gentleman.

“Now, David, you are allowing your dislike for Burton and your prejudice to overdraw the picture,” said prim Miss Arabella, as she daintily raised the teacup to her lips.

“I am not overdrawing the picture! I have seen and heard Burton when he thought that he was alone in the office, and I say that there is something queer about him; Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde of that old story are common characters in comparison. I knew his father well; he was an every-day sort of successful business man; whom his father married and what she was like I do not know, but I shall find out some day, as therein may lie the reading of the riddle,” retorted the brother vehemently.

“As Lucy Dunlap will be married to the man shortly and it will then be too late to do anything, no matter what is the result of your inquiry, it seems to me that you should cease to interest yourself in the matter,” chirped the bird-like voice of Miss Arabella.

“I can’t! I am absolutely fascinated by the study of this man’s strange, incongruous character; you remember what I told you when I returned from the only visit I ever made at Burton’s house. It was business that forced me to go there, and I have never forgotten what I saw and heard. I am haunted by something that I cannot define,” said Chapman, intensity of feeling causing his pale face and hairless head to assume the appearance of the bald-eagle or some other bird of prey.

“Think of it, Arabella! That summer day as I reached the door of his lonely dwelling, surrounded by that great garden, through the open windows there came crashing upon my ears such a wild, weird burst of song that it held me motionless where I stood. The sound of those musical screams of melodious frenzy, dying away in rythmic cadence until it seemed the soft summer breeze echoed the sweet harmony in its sighing. Words, music and expression now wild and unbridled as the shriek of a panther, and then low, gentle and soothing as the murmuring of a peaceful brook,” cried Chapman, becoming more intense as his musical memory reproduced the sounds he sought to describe.

“David, you know that music is a passion with you, and doubtless your sensitive ear gave added accent and meaning to the improvised music of a careless, idle young man,” interrupted Miss Arabella.

“Not so! Not so! I swear that no careless, idle man ever improvised such wild melody; it is something unusual in the man; when at last the outburst ceased, and I summoned strength to ring the bell, there was something almost supernatural that enabled that frenzied musician to meet me with the suavity of an ordinary cultured gentleman of Boston as Burton did when I entered his sitting room.”

“Brother, I fear that imagination and hatred in this instance are sadly warping your usually sound judgment,” quietly replied the sedate sister, seeing the increasing excitement of her brother.

“Imagination created also, I suppose, the uncanny, barbaric splendor with which his apartments were decorated which I described to you,” sneered the man.

“All young men affect something of that kind, I am told, in the adornment of their rooms,” rejoined the spinster, mincing her words, and, old as she was, assuming embarrassment in mentioning young men’s rooms.

“Nonsense! Arabella, I have seen many of the Harvard men’s rooms. A few swords, daggers, and other weapons; a skin or two of wild animals; something of that kind, but Burton’s apartments were differently decorated; masses of striking colors, gaudy, glaring, yet so blended by an artistic eye that they were not offensive to the sight. Articles of furniture of such strange, savage and grotesque shape as to suggest a barbarian as the designer. The carving on the woodwork, the paneling, the tone and impression created by sight of it all were such as must have filled the souls of the Spanish conquerors when they first gazed upon the barbaric grandeur of the Moors, as exposed to their wondering eyes by the conquest of Granada.”

“Don’t get excited, David!” said staid Miss Arabella. “Suppose that you should discover something to the discredit of Burton, what use could and would you make of it?”

The veins in Chapman’s thin neck and bony brow became swollen and distended as if straining to burst the skin that covered them; his eyes flashed baleful fire, as extending his arm and grasping the empty air as if it were his enemy, he fairly hissed:

“I! I! I would tear him out of the house of J. Dunlap, intruder that he is, and cast him into the gutter! Yea! though I tore the heartstrings of a million women such as Lucy Dunlap! What is she or her heart in comparison with the glory of Boston’s oldest business name?”

Panting, as a weary hound, who exhausted but exultant, fastens his fangs in the hunted stag, overcome by the violence of his hatred, David Chapman dropped down into his chair.

* * * * *

Nestling among grand old oaks and profusion of shrubbery, now leafless in the November air of New England, on the top of the highest hill in that portion of the suburbs, sat the “Eyrie,” the bachelor home of Walter Burton.

Though the house was small, the conservatory adjoining it was one of the largest in the city. Burton was an ardent lover of flowers, and an active collector of rare plants. The house stood in the center of an extensive and well kept garden through which winding paths ran in every direction.

The place would have seemed lonely to one not possessing within himself resources sufficient to furnish him entertainment independent of the society of others.