Part 5

“But, Walter, how horrid they are! We see so few of them in New England that they don’t seem like these. How dreadfully black and brutal they are. Let us go inside, I really am afraid!” cried Lucy in a low voice and started to retreat.

At that moment a tall and very black woman who held a baby at her breast, negro-like, carried away by thoughtless good nature and admiration for the lovely stranger, raised her ink-colored picaninny, and in motherly pride thrust it forward until its little wooly black head almost touched Lucy’s bosom.

With one glance of loathing, terror and unconcealed horror at the object resting nearly on her breast, Lucy gave a scream of fear and fled. Throwing herself on one of the settees in the car she buried her face among the cushions and wept solely from fright and nervousness.

“Why! sweetheart, what is the matter? There is nothing to fear. Those poor people were only admiring you, my darling,” cried Burton hurrying to his young wife’s side and seeking to quiet her fears.

“I can’t help it, Walter, all those black faces crowded together near to me was awful, and that dreadful little black thing almost touched me,” sobbed Lucy nervously.

“Darling, the dreadful little black thing was only a harmless baby,” replied the husband soothingly.

“Baby!” cried the astonished young woman, lifting her head from the cushions and regarding her companion through her undried tears with doubt, as if suspecting him of joking. “I thought it was an ape or some hideous little imp! Baby!” and seeing that there was no joke about what her husband said, she added:

“I didn’t know negroes looked like that when babies. I would not touch that loathsome, horrid thing for worlds. It made my flesh fairly quiver to see it even near me.”

Walter Burton succeeded in allaying the alarm of his wife only after the train had resumed its rapid journey southward. When Lucy, lulled to sleep by the low music of the guitar which he played to distract her attention from the unpleasant recollection, no longer demanded his presence, Burton sought the smoking-room of the car and passed an hour in solemn, profound meditation, as he puffed continuously fragrant Havanas.

“I was wrong! She did not know. Now she never shall if I can prevent it.” Such were the words of Lucy’s husband when throwing away his cigar he arose to rejoin his young wife.

* * * * *

Many hundred miles from flowery Florida across a watery way, a ship was wildly tossing upon an angry, sullen sea. For three days and nights with ceaseless toil, in constant danger, the weary crew had battled with howling winds and tempestuous waves.

A storm of awe-inspiring fury had burst upon the good ship “Adams,” of Boston, bound for Melbourne, on the night of December the nineteenth in that good year of our Lord.

The superb seamanship of the skipper, combined with the prompt alacrity of the willing crew, alone saved the ship from adding her broken frame to that countless multitude which rest beneath the waves.

The wind was still blowing a gale, but there was perceptibly less force in it, as shrieking it tore through the rigging and against the almost bare masts, than there had been in three days.

Two men stood in the cabin, enveloped in oil-skins, with rubber boots reaching above their knees. Their eyes were red from wind and watching, while they answered the heave of the ship wearily as if worn out with the excessive labor of the last seventy-two hours. The men were the two mates of the “Adams.” The captain had sent them below for a glass of grog and a biscuit. There had been no fire in the galley for the three days that the storm had beaten upon the ship.

“The skipper must be made of iron,” said the shorter man, Morgan, the second officer.

“He has hardly left the deck a minute since the squall struck us, and he is as quick and strong as a shark,” he continued, munching on the biscuit and balancing himself carefully as he raised his glass of grog.

“Every inch a sailor is the skipper,” growled the larger man hoarsely.

“Sailed with Captain Dunlap in the ‘Lucy,’ and no better master ever trod a quarter-deck,” added Mr. Brice, the first officer of the “Adams.”

“He surely knows his business and handles the ship with the ease a Chinaman does his chopsticks, but he’s the surliest, most silent skipper I ever sailed with. You told us, Mr. Brice, when you came aboard that he was the jolliest; was he like this when you were with him on the ‘Lucy’?” said the second mate inquiringly.

“No, he wasn’t!” mumbled old Brice in answer.

“Somethin’ went wrong with him ashore,” adding angrily as he turned and glared at his young companion:

“But ’tis none of your blamed business or mine neither what’s up with the skipper; you didn’t ship for society, did you?”

“That’s right enough, Mr. Brice, but I tell you what ’tis, the men think the captain a little out of trim in the sky-sail. They say he walks about ship at night like a ghost and does queer things. Second day of the storm, the twentieth, in the evening, while it was blowing great guns and ship pitching like she’d stick her nose under forever, I was standin’ by to help Collins at the wheel; we see the skipper come staggering along aft balancing himself careful as a rope walker an a holdin’ a glass of wine in his hand. When he gets to the rail at the stern he holds up high the glass and talks to wind, Davy Jones or somethin’, drinks the wine and hurls the glass to hell and gone into the sea. How’s that, mate? Collins looks at me and shakes his head, and I feels creepy myself.”

For a minute Brice, with red and angry eyes, stared at the second mate, then he burst out in a roar:

“I’ll knock the head off ’er Collins, and marlin spike the rest ’er the bloomin’ sea lawyers in the for’castle if I catch them talkin’ erbout the skipper, and I tell you, Mr. Second Mate, you keep your mouth well shut or you’ll get such ’er keel haulin’ you won’t fergit. Captain Dunlap is no man to projec’k with and he’s mighty rough in er shindy.”

With that closing admonition the first officer turned and climbed the reeling stairs that led to the deck. As he emerged from the companion-way a great wave struck the side of ship heeling her over and hurling the mate against the man who had formed the topic of discussion in the cabin below.

The skipper was wet to the skin; he had thrown aside his oil-skins to enable him to move more nimbly, his face was worn, drawn and almost of leaden hue. Deep lines and the dark circles around his eyes told a story of loss of sleep, fatigue and anxiety. How much of this was due to an aching pain in the heart only Him to whom all things are revealed could know.

Morgan’s story was true. He had described when, how and under what conditions Jack had pledged Lucy in a glass of wine on her wedding day, praying God to send blessings and happiness to his lost love.

Sing sweet mocking birds! Shine genial sun! Bloom fairest flowers of Sunny Florida! Bliss be thine, loved Lucy! Dream not of the ocean’s angry roar! The tempest’s cruel blast!

VII.

“I really can hardly realize, grandfather, that I have been married one year and that today is the anniversary of my wedding,” exclaimed Mrs. Walter Burton to her grandfather, as lingering over a late breakfast, they chatted in a desultory manner on many subjects.

The breakfast-room of the Dunlap mansion was one of the prettiest apartments in the house; bright and airy, with great windows reaching from ceiling to floor, which flooded the place with sunshine and cheerfulness this brilliant snowy New England morning.

Surely it had been difficult to find anything prettier than the young matron who presided over the sparkling service with the grace of the school-girl still visible notwithstanding the recently assumed dignity of wife.

Lucy Burton’s face and form possessed that rare quality of seeming always displayed to best advantage in the last costume she wore. Nothing could be more becoming than the lace-trimmed breakfast gown of a clinging silky, pink fabric worn by her this morning.

The tete-a-tete between grandfather and granddaughter each morning over the breakfast-table was an established and, to both, a cherished custom that had grown up since Lucy’s marriage.

Mr. James Dunlap carried his seventy-three years as lightly as many men of less rugged constitutions carry fifty. His was a fresh, healthy, kindly old face, the white hair resting like the snow on some Alpine peak served but to heighten the charm of those goodly features below.

“A year to young people means very little, I judge, daughter, but we old folk regard it differently. You have been away from me during the last year so much that old man as I am, the time has dragged,” the grandfather replied laying aside his morning paper and adjusting his glasses that he might see better the pretty face across the table.

“Now, that I look at you, my dear, apparently you have not aged to any alarming extent since you have become a matron,” jocosely added the old gentleman, his eyes beaming lovingly on his granddaughter.

“I may not show it, still I have my troubles.” Lucy’s attempt to wrinkle her smooth brow and draw down the corners of her sweet mouth while she tried to muster up a sigh was so ridiculous that her companion began to laugh.

“Don’t laugh at me, grandfather; it’s unkind,” cried Lucy, with the childish manner that still crept out when alone with him who had been both father and mother to her.

“Very well, deary, I shall not laugh. Tell me of those dire troubles that afflict you,” rejoined her still smiling grandfather.

“Well! now there is Walter, obliged to run away so early to that horrid old office that I never see him at the breakfast-table,” began the young creature with pretty pettishness.

“Sad! indeed sad!” said Mr. Dunlap in affected sorrow. “A gay young couple attend some social function or the theatre nightly and are up late; the unfortunate young husband is obliged to be at his office at ten o’clock in the morning to save an old man of seventy odd from routine labor; the young wife who is fond of a morning nap must breakfast alone, save the companionship of an old fogy of a grandfather; ’tis the saddest situation I ever heard of.”

The laughter in the old gentleman’s throat gurgled like good wine poured for welcome guest as Lucy puckered up her lips at him.

“Then that hateful old ‘Eyrie.’ When we were married and you insisted that we should live here with you, which, of course, I expected to do, I thought Walter would sell or lease that lonely bachelor den of his, but he has done no such thing; says he keeps up the establishment for the sake of the conservatory, which is the finest in the State,” proceeded the wife ruefully recounting her alleged woes.

“Walter speaks truly concerning the conservatory at the ‘Eyrie.’ Mr. Foster Agnew, who is authority on the subject, says that he has never seen a finer collection of rare and beautiful plants and flowers in any private conservatory in this country,” replied Mr. Dunlap in defense of Burton’s action in maintaining his former home.

“Yes, but there is no reason for Walter’s running up there at all hours of the night, and sometimes even staying there all night, telling me that he is anxious about the temperature; that Leopold may fall asleep or neglect something. I hate that miserable conservatory,” rejoined Lucy with flushed face and flashing eyes.

“Oh! Pshaw! you exacting little witch! You are fearfully neglected by reason of the ‘Eyrie’s’ conservatory, are you? Now, let me see. You were in Florida and California two months of the last year, and in Europe four more, leaving just six months that you have spent in Boston since your marriage. I suppose Walter has spent a half dozen nights at the ‘Eyrie.’ Great tribulation and trial,” rejoined the amused grandfather.

“Well, but Walter knows I don’t like his going there at night. Something might happen to him,” persisted Lucy, woman-like seizing any argument to gain her point.

“As Princess Lucy does not like it, she thinks that should be a sufficient reason for the visits to the ‘Eyrie’ at night to cease. Being accustomed to that humble and abject obedience rendered to her slightest wish by the old slaves John and James, and the young slave, Jack Dunlap. Is that it, Princess?” said the old gentleman making a mocking salaam to ‘Her Highness’ as he sometimes called his pretty _vis-a-vis_.

“Stop making fun of me, grandfather; I think you are really unkind. I never made slaves of you and Uncle John and good old Jack. Did I now?”

Lucy Burton surely was a beauty. Small wonder that the Dunlap men, old and young, loved her long before Walter Burton came to win her. She looked so pretty as she asked the last question that her grandfather held out his hands and said:

“Come here, my dear, and kiss me. I forgive you if you have been an exacting ruler.” When Lucy settled herself on the arm of his chair as some graceful bird of gay plumage perches itself on a twig, the fine old face was filled with tenderness and love as he kissed her.

Lucy passed her soft white arm around her grandfather’s neck, and resting her dimpled cheek on his snowy head, she said seriously:

“That is not all of my reason for disliking the ‘Eyrie.’ You know, grandfather, I should not discuss my husband with any one other than yourself, so this is a secret; I have noticed that whenever Walter makes an all-night visit to the ‘Eyrie’ that the trip is preceded by an outburst of unusual hilarity on his part; in fact, on such occasions I am almost annoyed by something nearly undignified in Walter’s demeanor; he seems as thoughtless as a child, says and does things that are ridiculous and silly.”

“Tut, tut, child, you have a very vivid imagination, and are so anxious for everyone to regard your husband with the exaggerated admiration that you have for him, that you are allowing yourself to become hypercritic, my pet,” rejoined Mr. Dunlap reassuringly.

“No, grandfather, you are mistaken. I not alone notice something peculiar about Walter’s periodical outbursts of unseemly mirth; I see others regard with surprise this departure from his customary reposeful dignity,” insisted the young wife earnestly with a note of indignation in her voice when speaking of others observing any thing strange in the conduct of her husband.

“Oh! nonsense, Lucy, all young men occasionally cast aside dignity. In the fullness of youth and vigor they become now and again fairly exuberant with happiness and forget all about the conventionalities of society. I have seen nothing about Walter in that particular different from other young men. Don’t make yourself wretched over nothing, little girl.”

“Possibly I observe my husband with more attention than anyone else, even than you, grandfather, for I certainly perceive a great differentiation between Walter’s spasmodic mirth and similar exhibitions by other men. Walter seems different in many ways that mystify me. On every occasion that he remains all night at the ‘Eyrie,’ after a display of this extraordinary and boyish merriment, he returns home the next day with broad dark circles around his eyes, and is in a most depressed state of spirits,” said the young wife, with real anxiety revealed in the tone of her voice.

“Well, really, daughter, if you are anxious concerning what you say, I shall observe Walter more closely. He may be over exerting himself by the late hours that he keeps in your company, and the detail work that he has taken off my hands. However, just as a venture, I will wager a box of gloves against a kiss, deary, that Walter does not appear in the condition you have described this evening, notwithstanding that he passed last night at the ‘Eyrie’ and was markedly mirthful during last evening,” said Lucy’s grandfather, passing his arm around her slim waist and drawing his anxious girl to his heart.

“I am glad you mentioned last evening, for I wish to speak of something I noticed during the serving of dinner and afterward. Who was that old gentleman whom you introduced as Professor Charlton?” said the young woman interrogatively.

“Oh, that is my old friend and fellow classmate when we were at Harvard. He is a Georgian and is Dean of the Georgia University and one of the most learned ethnologists in the world. He is here to consult with Professor Wright of Harvard concerning a forthcoming book on which Charlton has been engaged for years. Now, that I have answered fully, why were you curious about that old book-worm and chum of mine, my pretty inquisitor?”

“Simply because he seemed perfectly fascinated by my husband. He appeared unable to remove his gaze from him even when addressed by you or any one else. He would peer at him over his glasses, then raise his head and inspect Walter through them just as botanists do when they come upon some rare plant.”

“By Jove! What next will that brown head of yours conjure up to worry over? Are you jealous of old Charlton’s admiring glances? If he were a pretty woman I might understand, but old Cobb Charlton. Well! I am prepared for anything, my pet, so go ahead. What about those glances seen by your watchful eyes?” said her grandfather, chuckling over some farcical suggestion in connection with old Professor Thos. Cobb Charlton.

“Yes, but they were not admiring glances, and I didn’t say so. They were studious, scrutinizing, investigating, and I thought, insulting,” indignantly replied Lucy.

“Ah! Now we are called upon to criticise the quality and kind of glance with which an old student may regard a gay young fellow who is rattling gleefully through a somewhat tedious dinner,” said Mr. Dunlap in an amused manner.

“You may laugh at me, grandfather, as much as you please, but Walter was made so nervous and uncomfortable by that old fellow’s disconcerting scrutiny that he acted almost silly. I have never seen him quite so ridiculously merry. That old Professor squinted even at Walter’s hands, as if he wished for a microscope to examine them, and after dinner while Walter was singing he edged up near the piano and peered down Walter’s throat, listening intently as if to catch some peculiar note for which he was waiting, all the time with his old head on one side like an ugly owl,” said the exasperated young woman.

Lucy’s description of his old college friend and her manner of setting forth his idiosyncracies was too much for James Dunlap’s risibility. He threw back his head and incontinently laughed in his granddaughter’s pretty flushed face.

“Oh! my, Oh! my! How old Cobb would enjoy this! My dearest, old Cobb Charlton is the jolliest, most amiable fellow on earth. He would not wound the sensibilities of a street-dog, and is one of the best bred gentlemen alive. Oh! my, Lucy! You’ll be the death of me yet with your whimsical notions,” cried the fine old fellow leaning back in his chair, shaking with laughter.

“Well, I don’t care; it is just as I said, for finally, he seemed to discover something about Walter for which he had been seeking. I saw a self-satisfied smile steal over his face as he nodded his bushy white head. Then he stared at you as if amazed, and then, if I be not blind and I don’t think that I am, he had the impertinence to look at me with, actually, pity in his big, staring black eyes,” retorted Lucy angrily as she recalled the events of the previous evening.

“Imagination, pure and simple!” exclaimed Mr. Dunlap, continuing to laugh, enjoying hugely Lucy’s anger.

“Charlton was possibly thinking about something connected with his favorite science and probably did not even see us while apparently he was casting about those peculiar glances that you depict so vividly.”

“Even so, I think it ill-bred and unkind in him to make my husband the subject of a study in ethnology.”

“Ah!” gasped her grandfather, as though a sudden pain had struck his heart. Some new idea had flashed upon his brain, the laughter vanished from lips and the color from his face. He straightened up in his chair while a look of anxiety replaced the merriment that had sparkled in his eyes.

“Why, what is the matter, grandfather?” cried Lucy in undisguised alarm at the change in his countenance.

“Nothing, my darling, it will pass away. Please hand me a glass of water,” the old man answered.

Lucy hastened to fill a glass with water and while she was so engaged Mr. Dunlap struggled to master some emotion that had caused the sudden departure of all his jocoseness of the moment before she said that her husband had been made a subject of a study in ethnology.

“I am better now, thank you, dear; it was just a little twinge of pain that caught me unaware of its approach,” said the old gentleman forcing a smile to his pale lips.

“And now let us talk about your Cousin Jack, and leave alone the vagaries of a moth-eaten old scholar whom you will probably never see again,” he continued, as if eager to banish some disagreeable thought from his mind.

“Oh, yes! Do tell me some news of dear old Jack. His very name seems to bring the purity, freshness and freedom of the sea into this hot-house life one leads in society. Where is he and how is he?” cried Lucy enthusiastically at mention of the name of her sailor cousin.

“You recall, do you not, the brief mention that he made in the first letter that we received after he sailed of a fearful storm encountered by his ship when not less than a month out from Boston, and that his ship (so he wrote) had been fortunate enough to rescue some people from a foundered and sinking vessel during the gale?” asked Mr. Dunlap regaining gradually his composure as his mind dwelt upon a subject pleasant to contemplate.

“Yes, surely, I remember, grandfather, because the storm, I recall, was at its height on my wedding day and I wondered at the time if in all that fearful danger Jack even thought of me.”

“Well, then! to begin with I must let you into a state secret. Your good Uncle John the day before Jack sailed insisted that he should carry old Brice, who had been long in our service, as one of his mates. John’s object was this: knowing Jack’s pride and obstinacy, he feared that he might need help and not apply to us for it, so he sent for Brice and bribed him to stick by our young kinsman and keep us informed concerning his welfare. We have had only glowing accounts of Jack’s success as a ship-owner from Brice. Yesterday there came a letter and a copy of a London paper from him that filled my heart with pride and pleasure, and I know will overjoy your uncle.

“Do hurry, grandfather. I can’t wait long to hear fine things about my good, faithful old Jack,” exclaimed Lucy impatiently, as she resumed her place on the arm of the old man’s chair.

“This is what the report in the London newspaper states, and is what neither Jack nor Brice wrote home. The ship that foundered was filled with emigrants from Ireland bound for Australia. The fourth day of the storm she was sighted by the ‘Adams.’ While the wind had subsided somewhat the waves were still rolling mountain high. When Jack called for volunteers to man the boats the crew hung in the wind, until Jack, noticing the women and children on the deck of the sinking ship, called to Brice to come with him, and pushing aside the reluctant crew made ready to spring into a boat which had been lowered. Then the shamed crew rushed over the side and insisted that the captain allow them to make the attempt to rescue the people from the wrecked vessel. With the last boat-load of the emigrants that came safely on board of the ‘Adams’ was a little girl who, weeping bitterly, cried that her sick mother had been left behind. The sailors and Mr. Morgan, the second mate of the ‘Adams,’ said that the child’s mother was nearly dead, lying in a bunk in the sick-bay, and that she had smallpox and no one dared lift and carry her to the boat.”