Part 3

Burton never knew loneliness. He was an accomplished musician, an artist of more than ordinary ability, a zealous horticulturist, and an omnivorous devourer of books.

A housekeeper who was cook at the same time, one man and a boy for the garden and conservatory and a valet constituted the household servants of the “Eyrie.”

At the moment that Chapman’s wrathful mind was expressing its concentrated hate for him, the owner of the white house on the hill sat before the open grand piano in his music-room, his shapely hands wandering listlessly over the keys, touching them once in a while in an aimless manner. The young man’s mind was filled with other thoughts than music.

Chapman had drawn an accurate picture of Burton’s apartments in many respects, yet he had forgotten to mention the many musical instruments scattered about the rooms. Harp, guitar, mandolin, violin, banjo and numberless sheets of music, some printed and some written, marked this as the abode of a natural musician. Burton was equally proficient in the use of each of the instruments lying about the room, as well as being the author of original compositions of great beauty and merit.

The odor of violets perfumed the whole house. Great bunches of these, Burton’s favorite flower, filled antique and queerly shaped vases in each room.

Burton ceased to even sound the keys on which his hands rested, and as some scene was disclosed to his sympathetic soul, his soft brown eyes were dimmed by a suspicious moisture. Sighing sadly he murmured:

“Poor Jack! While I am in a heaven of bliss with the woman I love, surrounded by all that makes life enjoyable, he, poor old chap, alone, heartsick and hopeless, will be battling with the stormy waves of the ocean. Alas! Fate how inscrutable!”

As his mind drifted onward in this channel of thought, he added more audibly, “What a heart Jack has! There is a man! He will carry his secret uncomplaining and in silence to his grave, that, too, without permitting envy or jealousy to fill his soul with hatred; I would that I could do something to assuage the pain of that brave heart.” And at the word “brave” the stream of his wandering fancy seemed to take a new direction.

“Brave! Men who have sailed with him say he knows no fear; the last voyage they tell how he sprang into the icy sea, all booted as he was, waves mountain high, the night of inky blackness, to save a worthless, brutal Lascar sailor. Tender as a woman, when a mere child as careful of baby Cousin Lucy as a granddame could be, and ever her sturdy little knight and champion from babyhood. Poor Jack!”

Again the current of his thought changed its course. He paused and whispered to himself, “Lucy, am I worthy of her? Shall I prove as kind, as true and brave a husband as Jack would be to her? Oh! God, I hope so, I will try so hard. Sometimes there seems to come a strange inexplicable spell over my spirit—a something that is beyond my control. A madness seems to possess my very soul. Involuntarily I say and do that, during the time that this mysterious influence holds me powerless in its grasp, that is so foreign to my natural self that I shudder and grow sick at heart at the thought of the end to which it may lead me.”

At the recollection of some horror of the past the young man’s face paled and he shivered as if struck by a cold blast of winter wind.

“Ought I to tell Lucy of these singular manifestations? Ought I to alarm my darling concerning something that may partly be imaginary? I am uncertain what, loving her as I do, is right; I can always absent myself from her presence when I feel that hateful influence upon me, and perhaps after I am married I may be freed from the horrible thraldom of that irresistible power that clutches me in its terrible grasp. I cannot bear the idea of giving my dear love useless pain or trouble. Had I not better wait?”

At that moment some unpleasant fact must have suggested itself or rather forced itself upon Burton’s mind for he pushed back the piano-stool and rising walked with impatient steps about the room, saying:

“It would be ridiculous! Absurd! Really unworthy of both Lucy and myself even to mention the subject! Long ago that old, nonsensical prejudice had disappeared, at least among cultivated people in America. There is not a shade of doubt but that both the Messrs. Dunlap and Lucy are aware of the fact that my mother was a quadroon. Doubtless that circumstance is deemed so trivial that it never has occurred to them to mention it to me. People of education and refinement, regardless of the color of skin, are welcome in the home of the Dunlaps as everywhere else where enlightenment has dispelled prejudice.”

He paused and bursting into a musical and merry laugh at something that his memory recalled, exclaimed,

“Why, I have seen men and women as black as the proverbial ‘ace of spades,’ the guests of honor in Mr. James Dunlap’s house, as elsewhere in Boston. I shall neither bore nor insult the intelligence of my sweetheart or her family by introducing the absurd subject of blood in connection with our marriage. The idea of blood making any difference! Men are neither hounds nor horses!”

Laughing at the odd conceit that men, hounds and horses should be considered akin by any one not absolutely benighted, he resumed his seat at the piano and began playing a gay waltz tune then popular with the dancing set of Boston’s exclusive circle.

As Burton ended the piece of music with a fantastic flourish of his own composition, he turned and saw his valet standing silently waiting for his master to cease playing.

“Ah! Victor, are the hampers packed carefully?” exclaimed Burton.

“Yes, sir,” replied the valet, pronouncing his words with marked French accent. “The steward at your club furnished all the articles on the list that the housekeeper lacked, sir.”

“You are sure that you put in the hampers the ‘44’ vintage of champagne, the Burgundy imported by myself, and you examined the cigars to be certain to get only those of the last lot from Havana?”

“Quite sure, sir; I packed everything myself, as you told me you were especially anxious to have only the very best selected,” said the little Frenchman.

“Now, listen, Victor; tomorrow I dine away from home, but before I leave the house I shall arrange a box of flowers, which, with the hampers, you are to carry in my dog-cart to Dunlap’s wharf and there you are to have them placed in the cabin of the ship ‘Adams.’ You will open the box of flowers and arrange them tastefully, as I know you can, about the master’s stateroom—take a half-dozen vases to put them in.”

“Very good, sir; it shall be done as you say, sir,” answered the valet bowing and moving toward the door.

“Hold on, Victor!” called Burton, “I wish to add just this: if by any accident, no matter what, you fail to get these things on board the ‘Adams’ before she sails, my gentle youth, I will break your neck.”

So admonished the servant bowed low and left the room, as his master turned again to the piano and began to make the room ring with a furious and warlike march.

IV.

The United States is famous for its beautiful women, but even in that country where beauty is the common heritage of her daughters, Lucy Dunlap’s loveliness of face and figure shone as some transcendent planet in the bright heavens of femininity where all are stars.

“How can you be so cruel, Jack, as to run away to sea again so soon and when I need you so much?”

The great hazel eyes looked so pleadingly into poor Jack’s that he could not even stammer out an excuse for his departure.

Sailors possibly appreciate women more than all other classes of men. They are so much without their society that they never seem to regard them as landsmen do, and Lucy Dunlap was an exceptional example of womankind to even the most _blase_ landsman. Small wonder then that sailor Jack, confused, could only gaze at the lovely being before him.

Lucy Dunlap, though of the average height of women, seemed taller, so round, supple and elastic were the proportions of her perfect figure. The charm of intellectual power gave added beauty to a face whose features would have caused an artist to realize that the ideal model did not exist alone in the land of dreams.

In the spacious drawing-room of Dunlap’s mansion were gathered those who had enjoyed the sumptuous dinner served that evening in honor of their seafaring kinsman. Mr. John Dunlap was relating his experiences in Port au Prince to his old friend, Mrs. Church, while his brother, with that old-fashioned courtliness that became him so well, was playing the cavalier to Miss Winthrop, one of his granddaughter’s pretty friends. Walter Burton was bending over Miss Stanhope, a talented young musician, who, seated before the piano, was scanning a new piece of music.

There seemed a mutual understanding between all of those present that Lucy should monopolize her cousin’s attention on this the first occasion that she had seen him for two years, and probably the last for a like period of time. In a far corner of the great room Jack and Lucy were seated when she asked the question mentioned, to which Jack finally made awkward answer by saying:

“Oh! well, Lucy, I am not of much account at social functions. I should only be in some one’s way. I fancy my proper place is the quarter-deck of a ship at sea.”

“Don’t be absurd, Jack! You know much better than that,” said his cousin, glancing at the manly, frank face beside her, the handsome, curly blonde head carried high and firm, and the grand chest and shoulders of the man, made more noticeable by the close fitting dress coat that he wore.

“Why, half the women of our set in Boston will be in love with you if you remain for my wedding. Please do, Jack. I will find you the prettiest sweetheart that your sailor-heart ever pictured.”

“I am awfully sorry, little cousin, to disappoint you, as you seem to have expected me to be present at your wedding,” said Jack manfully, attempting to appear cheerful.

“And as for the sweetheart part of your suggestion, it may be ungallant to say so, but I don’t believe there is any place in my log for that kind of an entry.”

“How odd it is, Jack, that you have never been in love; why, any woman could love you, you big-hearted handsome sailor.”

Lucy’s admiring glances rested upon the face of her cousin as innocently as when a little maid she had kissed him and said that she loved him.

“Yes, it is rather odd for a man never to love some woman, but I can’t say that I agree that any woman could or would love me,” answered Jack dryly, as he smiled at the earnest face turned toward him.

Miss Stanhope played a magnificent symphony as only that clever artist could; Walter Burton’s clear tenor voice rang out in an incomparable solo from the latest opera, but Lucy and Jack, oblivious to all else, in low and confidential tones conversed in the far corner of the room.

As of old when she was a child, Lucy had nestled down close to her cousin and resting one small hand upon his arm was artlessly pouring out the whole story of her love for Walter Burton, her bright hopes and expectations, the joy that filled her soul, the happiness that she saw along the vista of the future; all with that freedom from reserve that marks the exchange of confidences between loving sisters.

The day of the rack and stake has passed, but as long as human hearts shall beat, the day of torture can never come to a close; Jack listened to the heart story of the innocent, confiding woman beside him, who, all unaware of the torture she was inflicting, painted the future in words that wrung more agony from his soul than rack or stake could have caused his body.

How bravely he battled against the pain that every word brought to his breast! Pierced by a hundred darts he still could meet the artless gaze of those bright, trusting, hazel eyes and smile in assurance of his interest and sympathy.

“But of course my being married must make no difference with you, Cousin Jack. You must love me as you always have,” she said, as if the thought of losing something she was accustomed to have just occurred to her mind.

“I shall always love you, Lucy, as I ever have.” The sailor’s voice came hoarse and deep from the broad breast that rose and fell like heaving billows.

“You know, Jack, that you were always my refuge and strength in time of trouble or danger when I was a child, and even with dear Walter for my husband I still should feel lost had I not you to call upon.” Lucy’s voice trembled a little and she grasped Jack’s strong arm with the hand that rested there while they had been talking.

“You may call me from the end of the earth, my dear, and feel sure that I shall come to you,” said Jack simply, but the earnest manner was more convincing to the woman at his side than fine phrases would have been.

“Oh! Jack! what a comfort you are, and how much I rely upon you. It makes me quite strong and brave to know that my marriage will make no change in your love for me.”

“As long as life shall last, my cousin, I shall love you,” replied the man almost sadly, as he placed his hand over hers that held his arm.

“Or until some day you marry and your wife becomes jealous,” added Lucy laughing.

“Or until I marry and my wife is jealous,” repeated Dunlap with the faintest kind of emphasis upon “until.”

Miss Stanhope began to play a waltz of the inspiring nature that almost makes old and gouty feet to tingle, and is perfectly irresistible to the young and joyous. Burton and Miss Winthrop in a minute were whirling around the drawing-room. How perfectly Burton could dance; his easy rythmic steps were the very poetry of motion. Lucy and Jack paused to watch the handsome couple as they glided gracefully through the room.

“Does not Walter dance beautifully?” exclaimed Lucy as she followed the dancers with admiring glances.

“Bertie Winthrop, who was at Harvard with Walter, says that when they were students and had their stag parties if they could catch Walter in what Bertie calls ‘a gay mood,’ he would astonish them with his wonderful dancing. Bertie vows that Walter can dance any kind of thing from a vulgar gig to an exquisite ballet, but he is so awfully modest about it that he denies Bertie’s story and will not dance anything but the conventional,” continued Lucy.

“Take a turn, Jack!” called Burton as he and his partner swept by the corner where the sailor and his cousin were seated, and added as he passed, “It is your last chance for some time.”

“Come on, Jack,” cried Lucy springing up and extending her hands. A moment more and Jack was holding near his bosom the woman for whom his heart would beat until death should still it forever.

Oft midst the howling winds and angry waves, when storm tossed on the sea, will Jack dream o’er again the heavenly bliss of those few moments when close to his heart rested she who was the beacon light of his sailor’s soul.

When the music of the waltz ended, Jack and his fair partner found themselves just in front of the settee where John Dunlap and Mrs. Church were seated.

“Uncle John, I have been trying to induce Jack to stay ashore until after my wedding,” said Lucy addressing Mr. John Dunlap who had been following her and her partner with his eyes, in which was a pained expression, as they had circled about the room.

“Won’t you help me, Uncle John?” added the young woman in that pleading seductive tone that always brought immediate surrender on the part of both her grandfather and granduncle.

“I am afraid, Lucy, that I can’t aid you this time,” replied the old gentleman and there was so much seriousness in his sunburnt face that Lucy exclaimed anxiously:

“Why? What is the matter that the house must send Cousin Jack away almost as soon as he gets home?”

“Nothing is the matter, dear, but it is an opportunity for your cousin to make an advancement in his profession, and you must not be selfish in thinking only of your own happiness, my child. You know men must work and women must wait,” replied her uncle.

“Oh! Is that it? Then I must resign myself with good grace to the disappointment. I would not for the world have any whim of mine mar dear old Jack’s prospects,” and Lucy clasped both of her dimpled white hands affectionately on her cousin’s arm, which she still retained after the waltz ended, as she uttered these sentiments.

“I know Jack would make any sacrifice for me if I really insisted.”

“I am sure that he would, Lucy, so don’t insist,” said John Dunlap very seriously and positively.

Just then Burton began singing a mournfully sweet song, full of sadness and pathos, accompanying himself on a guitar that had been lying on the music stand. All conversation ceased. Every one turned to look at the singer. What a mellow, rich voice had Walter Burton. What expression he put into the music and words!

What a handsome man he was! As he leaned forward holding the instrument, and lightly touching the strings as he sang, Lucy thought him a perfect Apollo. Her eyes beamed with pride and love as she regarded her future husband.

None noticed the flush and troubled frown on old John Dunlap’s face. Burton’s crossed legs had drawn his trousers tightly around the limb below the knee, revealing an almost total absence of calf and that the little existing was placed higher up than usually is the case. That peculiarity or something never to be explained had brought some Haitian scene back to the memory of the flushed and frowning old man and sent a pang of regret and fear through his kind heart.

“God bless and keep you, lad! Jack, you are the last of the Dunlaps,” said Mr. John Dunlap solemnly as they all stood in the hall when the sailor was leaving.

“Amen! most earnestly, Amen!” added Mr. James Dunlap, placing his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

“Good-by! dear Jack,” said Lucy sorrowfully while tears filled her eyes, when she stood at the outer door of the hall holding her cousin’s hand.

“Think of me on the twentieth of next month, my wedding day,” she added, and then drawing the hand that she held close to her breast as if still clinging to some old remembrance and anxious to keep fast hold of the past, fearful that it would escape her, she exclaimed:

“Remember, you are still my trusty knight and champion, Jack!”

“Until death, Lucy,” replied the man, as he raised the little white hand to his lips and reverently kissed it.

She stood watching the retreating figure until it was hidden by the gloom of the ghostly elms that lined the avenue. As she turned Burton was at her side.

“How horribly lonely Jack must be, Walter,” she said in pitying tones.

“More so than even you realize, Lucy,” rejoined Burton sadly.

Alone through the darkness strode a man with a dull, hard, crushing pain in his brave, faithful heart.

* * * * *

“The child will be ruined,” said all the old ladies of the Dunlaps’ acquaintance when they learned that it had been determined by the child’s grandfather to keep the motherless and fatherless little creature at home with him, rather than send her to reside with some remote female members of her mother’s family.

“Those two old gentlemen will surely spoil her to that degree that she will be unendurable when she becomes a young woman,” asserted the women with feminine positiveness.

“They will make her Princess of the house of Dunlap, I suppose,” added the most acrimonious.

To a degree these predictions were verified by the result, but only to a degree. The twin brothers almost worshiped the beautiful little maiden, and did in very fact make her their Princess, and so, too, was she often called; but possibly through no merit in the management of the brothers, probably simply because Lucy was not spoilable was the desirable end arrived at that she grew to be a most amiable and agreeable woman.

The son of Mr. John Dunlap, the father of Lucy, survived but one year the death of his wife, which occurred when Lucy was born. Thus her grandfather and uncle became sole protectors and guardians of the child; that is until the lad, Jack Dunlap, came to live at the house of his godfather.

Young Jack was the only child of a second cousin of the twin brothers; his father had been lost at sea when Jack was yet a baby. His mother, Martha Dunlap, had gladly availed herself of the kind offer of the boy’s kinsman and godfather, when he proposed that the boy should come and live with him in Boston, where he could obtain better opportunities for securing an education than he could in the old town of Bedford.

Jack was twelve years of age when he became an inmate of the Dunlap mansion, and a robust, sturdy little curly haired chap he was; Princess Lucy’s conquest was instantaneous. Jack immediately enrolled himself as the chief henchman, servitor and guard of the pretty fairy-like maid of six years. No slave was ever more obedient and humble.

Great games awoke the echoes through Dunlap’s stately old dwelling; in winter the lawn was converted into a slide, the fish-pond into a skating-rink; in summer New Hampshire’s hills reverberated with the merry shouts of Jack and “Princess” Lucy or flying over the blue waters of the bay in the yacht that his godfather had given him. Jack, aided by Lucy’s fresh young voice, sang rollicking songs of the sea.

The old gentlemen dubbed Jack, “Lucy’s Knight,” and were always perfectly satisfied when the little girl was with her cousin.

“He is more careful of her than we are ourselves,” they would reply when speaking of Jack and his guardianship.

All the fuming of Miss Lucy’s maids and the complaints of Miss Lucy’s governess availed nothing, for even good old Mrs. Church joined in the conspiracy of the grandfather and uncle, saying:

“She is perfectly safe in Jack’s care, and I wish to see rosy cheeks rather than hear Emersonian philosophy from our pet.”

Notwithstanding the “lots of fun,” as Jack used to call their frolics, Lucy and Jack did good hard work with their books, music and “all the rest of it,” as the young people called drawing and dancing.

When Jack became twenty years of age, and was prepared to enter Harvard college, where Mr. John Dunlap proposed to send him, he made his appearance one day in the city and asked to see his kind kinsman.

“I thank you, sir, for your great kindness in offering to place me in Harvard College, as I do for all the countless things you have done for me, but I can’t accept your generous proposition. You will not be angry, I am sure, for you know, I hope, how grateful I am for all you have done. But, sir, I have a widowed mother and I wish to go to work that I may earn money for her and obtain a start in life for myself,” said Jack with boyish enthusiasm when admitted to the presence of Mr. John Dunlap.

Though the old gentleman urged every argument to alter Jack’s determination, the boy stood firmly by what he had said.

“You are my namesake, the only male representative of our family; neither you nor your mother shall ever want. I have more money than I need.” Many other inducements were offered still the young man insisted upon the course that he laid out for himself.

“I am a sailor’s son and have a sailor’s soul; I wish to go to sea,” Jack finally exclaimed.

Both of the twins loved Jack. He had been so long in their house and so closely associated with Lucy that he seemed more to them than a remote young kinsman.

Finding Jack’s decision unalterable, a compromise was effected on the subject. Jack should sail in one of their coasting ships, and when on shore at Boston continue to make their house his home.