Part 6

“What an awful position! What did Jack say?” cried Lucy, breaking the thread of her grandfather’s narrative.

“Jack did not say much, but he did that that makes me proud to call him my kinsman, a Dunlap and a Yankee sailor. He whispered to the child not to cry any more, that she should have her mother brought to her. Then he leaped into the boat and was shoving off to make the trip alone to the wreck when old Brice tumbled over the ship’s side and took his place at an oar. Jack brought the woman in his arms from the sick-bay and laid her in the boat, regaining his own ship, he made the smallpox patient comfortable in his own cabin, nursed her himself and saved her life,” said Mr. Dunlap exultantly, relating the report of the rescue as published in the English journal.

“Hurrah! for our noble Jack!” cried Lucy, springing up and waving about her head a napkin that lay upon the table.

“But hear the end, daughter, in recognition of the humanity of the generous deed, the Royal Humane Society of England has presented both Jack and Brice with medals, and as an extraordinary mark of distinction, the King of England has, with his own hand, written a letter to our Jack, congratulating him upon the performance of a noble, unselfish and courageous act,” added the grandfather.

“Three times three! for brave Jack Dunlap! Hurrah, for the blood of a good old Yankee race that tells its story in noble deeds,” and waving the improvised banner above her fair head she bent down and kissed the glowing cheek of the proud old man.

“Run along now, dear, and dress. You may take me for a sleigh-ride behind your fast ponies before I go down to the office.”

As Lucy went upstairs, there came floating back to her grandfather’s ears her fresh, musical voice singing:

It’s a Yankee ship, It’s a Yankee crew, That’s first on waters blue.

VIII.

Early in the morning after Mr. Dunlap’s dinner-party in honor of Professor Charlton, when the newly risen sun had made a dazzling field of glittering diamonds of the snow that lay white and spotless about the ‘Eyrie,’ Walter Burton threw up the sash of one of the long, low windows in his sitting-room and stepped out on the balcony.

With a sigh of relief he drank in deep draughts of the fresh, crisp air, and exclaimed as he shaded his eyes:

“What a blessing is fresh air and sunlight after the closeness of the house and gas-light.”

The man’s face was haggard and drawn like one who has passed a night of vigil and suffering. His eyes were surrounded by bands of black that gave to them a hollow appearance.

“How utterly idiotic and inexplicable seems my mood and conduct of last night out here in the sunshine, now that I am my natural self once more.”

Burton walked down from the balcony on the crackling snow that lay dry and sparkling on the lawn in front of the house. After a few moments spent in the exercise of pacing about and swinging his arms, he returned to his sitting-room refreshed and apparently restored to his usual condition of mind.

All around the room that he entered were scattered promiscuously, musical instruments, books, cushions, flowers and fragments of a late supper, all in that confusion that could not fail to impress the beholder with the idea that the room had been recently the scene of reckless orgies. Pillows heaped upon a sofa still bore the imprint of some one’s head, and was evidently the couch from which the young man had risen when he went forth into God’s bright sunlight.

With supreme disgust depicted on his aesthetic countenance, Walter Burton gazed at the evidence of his nocturnal revel while in that state of mind he had named idiotic.

“These sporadic spells of silliness which come over my spirit are as revolting to me, when relieved from their influences, as is incomprehensible the cause of their coming,” muttered Burton, kicking aside the various articles that littered the floor.

“What earthly reason could there be for the peculiar effect produced upon me by the scrutiny of that old professor from the South? There exists nothing natural to account for the strange sensation caused by the penetrating gaze of that old Southerner.

“The cause must be sought in the sphere of the supernatural, a province wherein reason, education and culture protest against my wandering.” Pausing the young man strove to recall the scenes and sensations of the previous night, but in vain.

“It is useless for me to struggle to bring back the vanished state of feeling that possessed me last evening. It refuses to pass before the spectrum of my mind.

“It is ever thus while the normal condition of my mental faculties exists. I always fail to catch the fleeting shadow of that distorting spectre that haunts my spirit with its degrading, masterful influence.

“Could I but hold that sensation that steals upon me, while my mental powers are yet unimpaired by its presence, I might make a diagnosis of the disease, analyze the cause and produce the remedy, but my attempts are always futile. I fail to reproduce the feeling that was all-pervading a few short hours before the current of my mind returned to its accustomed channel.”

The helplessness and baffled look upon the man’s face as he ended this self-communion was piteous. Throwing himself into a chair and covering his face with his hands, he cried almost with a moan:

“To what depth of degradation, brutality and crime may I not be carried while actuated by a power foreign and antagonistic to all that Christianity, morality and education have imparted to me?”

“My God! How I had hoped that time and marriage would cause a diminution in the power of these strange spells and the frequency of their visits, until, at last, I might be freed from a thralldom repugnant to all my better self.”

“Vain that hoped for release! Rather do the mysterious visitations increase in frequency, and alas! also in power.”

“Like insidious waves that sap and undermine the foundation of some massive granite cliff, the delusive tide recedes but to return, each succeeding visit adding to the inroad already made. Though small may be the gain, they never once relax their firm grip upon the headway won before, until the toppling mass comes crashing from its majestic height, vanquished by and victim of unremitting insidiousness.”

“So I find with each recurrence of the tide of the strange spell that submerges me. That granite cliff of Christianity whereon I builded my castle of morality, that bastion of education, those redoubts of refinement, culture, aesthetics, deemed by me as creating an impregnable fortress wherein by the aid of civilization I should find secure shelter, are trembling and toppling, undermined by the waves of that inexplicable, relentless influence.”

“Each attack finds me weaker to resist, each advance carries me further from my fortress; I feel my defense falling; I am drawing nearer to the brink; shall I fall? Shall I go crashing down, dragged from my high estate by some fiendish tendency as inexorable as it is degrading?”

“As yet I am enabled to resist beyond the point of insensate silliness and folly, but each returning shock is accompanied by ever stronger suggestion of immorality, brutality and crime. Shall I be strong enough always to repulse this tireless current of assault? Shall I finally succumb and fall to the level of the barbarian and the beast? Soul harrowing thought!”

“The insane or drink frenzied man is unconscious of his acts, but such is not my miserable fate, while held in bondage by that unknown power I appreciate the absurdity of my every act. I still am I, but powerless to control myself, I catch the look of wonder that fills the eyes of others. I feel the shame, but am powerless to remove the cause.”

“And, oh! the horror of seeing and recognizing a look of rebuke and repulsion in the eyes of those I love and those who love me. To see the smile of pride vanish and the blush of mortification succeed it on the face of that being of all the world to me the dearest and fairest.”

“Last night in my dear Lucy’s eyes I read reproof, rebuke, and on her cheeks I saw the red flag of shame. Cognizant of the cause, I, like a leaf upon the current of some mighty cataract, helpless, rushed along in humiliation and self-disgust. I beat against the stream with all my remaining strength of mind; I struggled to regain the shore of my accustomed dignity, but all in vain.”

“I was carried on and on, until plunging over the brink of the fall I struck the bottom where lie those self-respect destroying rocks of disgrace. In ignominy I fled and sought refuge here; ceasing my unavailing efforts to break the chain that held me I gave free rein to the influences that governed my mood.”

“Wild and ribald songs burst from my lips, hilarious and lascivious music poured from the instruments that I touched, movements, rythmic but novel, fantastic, barbarous, jerked my limbs about in the measure of some savage dance. I ate and drank more as an untutored tribesman of the jungle than a civilized citizen of our cultured country.”

“All unrestrained and unopposed that mystifying mood bore me on recklessly, abandoned, until it swept me to the very verge of wickedness and sin. On the extremist edge of that precipice, below which lies the gulf of infamy, I found strength to grasp and hold the feeble tendrils of that higher estate that still clung around me; in every fiber of my being there surged Satanic suggestions to relinquish my hold upon the fragile stay to which I desperately clung, and take the plunge into that dark gulf below.”

“Go where base associates await you! Where lewdness, lasciviousness, brutality, beastliness and licensed libidinousness lead to savage satiety that ends in blood. These were the suggestive words whispered to me by that fiendish spirit of these strange spells. They vibrated through every nerve and vein of my racked and straining being.”

“Thank God! I still had power of soul sufficient to resist, but Lord! how long shall I be enabled to avert that which is seemingly my doom?”

Burton arose and for several minutes walked about the apartment with agitated, nervous tread. Passing before a long mirror that stood between the windows, he stopped suddenly before it, gazed intently at his image reflected there, and cried out:

“The reflection there tells me that I appear to be as other men around me. In stature and features I seem not essentially at variance with the average man I meet, perhaps I am even more comely. What then is it that caused me to fall shamefaced, embarrassed and simpering like a silly school boy, before the scrutiny of that old scholar last night?”

“I hold the Christian faith; I possess more than the ordinary degree of education common in this country; I have acquired proficiency in many accomplishments; I bear the impress of the culture and refinement of this most enlightened century, and yet! and yet!”

“The searching, piercing glance of that old scientist seemed to penetrate some concealing veil and tearing it aside revealed me in my very nakedness; I seemed to stand forth an exposed impostor; I felt myself a self-confessed charlatan, caught in the very act of masquerading in the stolen trappings of my superiors; I became the buffoon in borrowed gown and cap of the philosopher, an object of ridicule and wrath.”

“Before those deep seeing eyes I was no longer self-assured; convicted of mimicking manners foreign to myself, I seemed to cast aside the unavailing, purloined mask and mummery and thus reveal myself a fraud. Seeking safety from the scorn and just resentment of the defrauded I took refuge in pitiful imbecility and silliness.”

“Once before the same experience was mine. In Paris, at the American Ambassador’s reception I met the Liberian minister. As soon as the gigantic black man fastened his gaze upon me, I became disconcerted. When we clasped hands all the feeling of superiority that education gives departed from me, all the refined sentiments created by culture vanished, I could only simper and chuckle like a child over senseless jokes as did the negro giant beside me.”

“On that occasion, fearing to shock and disgust my bride, I stole like a thief from her side and feigning sudden illness begged a friend to take my place as escort of my wife, while as one bereft of reason I raced along the boulevards and buried myself beneath the dark shade of the trees in the Bois de Boulogne, where, capering and shouting madly I danced until, exhausted, I fell to the ground.”

As Burton stood regarding his image reflected in the mirror, he became suddenly aware of how wan and worn was the face before him and turning wearily away he exclaimed,

“I must throw aside these wretched recollections and forebodings. I look absolutely ill. I shall be in no condition to appear either at the office or at my home unless I succeed in obliterating some of the evidences of my suffering last night.”

When, by a mighty effort, he had acquired sufficient control of his nerves and voice as not to attract the attention of his valet, he rang the bell.

“Victor, prepare my bath, lay out some linen and a proper suit of clothing. Order my breakfast served as soon as I ring, open the windows and let fresh air into the room when I leave it,” said Burton to his attendant, when the valet appeared in answer to his master’s summons.

A refreshing bath, a liberal indulgence in strong, black coffee, assisted by the will power of the man enabled Burton to enter the office of “J. Dunlap” almost entirely restored to his customary appearance.

The Manager had just finished examining the reports submitted by the heads of the various departments of the great Shipping and Banking house when the door of his office opened and the Superintendent entered.

David Chapman looked even more hawk-like, hungry and eager than when he had stood one year before in the same place.

“Beg pardon, Mr. Burton, but I thought you might wish to be informed of the fact that under instructions from Mr. Dunlap, I am forwarding by the steamer that leaves today for Hong Kong, a package and some letters that Mr. Dunlap gave me to send to Captain Jack Dunlap. The package contains, I believe, a testimonial of Mr. Dunlap’s admiration for the noble conduct of his kinsman in connection with the rescue from the wreck of that emigrant ship. As I am availing myself of the opportunity to communicate my own opinion concerning Captain Jack’s action, I thought it not improbable that you would wish to send some message,” said the Superintendent, peering stealthily at Burton as he spoke.

“I thank you, Chapman, most heartily for letting me know this,” cried Burton warmly.

“How much time may I have to prepare a letter and package to accompany yours and Mr. Dunlap’s?”

“Mr. Dunlap told me to hold the package until he arrived at the office as it was likely that his granddaughter would wish to place some communication for her cousin with his.”

“And I am sure she will! My wife’s admiration for her cousin Jack is unbounded. I will hasten to prepare my contribution to the congratulations sent to Captain Jack. He is a magnificent man and I am proud to be connected in any way with such a noble character.”

“You are right, sir. Jack Dunlap is a brave, true man and comes of a brave, true race. His actions prove that blood will tell,” rejoined Chapman with more enthusiasm than it seemed possible for one of his disposition to exhibit.

“Oh! Pshaw! Nonsense! I give Jack greater credit for his courage and faithfulness than you do when you announce the absurd doctrine that men inherit such qualities. I give him alone credit for what he is, not his race or blood. Blood may be well enough in hounds and horses, but education and culture make the man not the blood in his veins,” exclaimed Burton impatiently.

“The same reason that exists for the superiority of the well-bred horse or dog, causes the man of a good race to be the superior of the man of an inferior race,” said Chapman meaningly, with an almost imperceptible sneer in the tone of his voice.

“That argument might hold good provided that men like horses carried jockeys to furnish the intelligence or like hounds had huntsmen to guide them,” replied the Manager with more heat than seemed justified.

“Give a mule the most astute jockey on earth and he is no match for the thorough-bred horse. Give the mongrel cur the craftiest huntsman, he can neither find nor hold as the hound of pure blood. Give the man of inferior race every advantage that education and culture can furnish, he still remains inferior to the man of the purer, better race and blood. The superiority of the latter lies in the inherent qualities of his race,” replied Chapman, while a sinister smile distorted his thin scarlet lips, and a baleful light flashed from his black eyes. For a moment he waited to see the effect of his last speech, then turned and glided from the Manager’s office.

IX.

Arabella Chapman was the neatest of housekeepers. The sitting room of the home of David Chapman was a pattern of tidiness and cleanliness, the furniture was rubbed and polished until it shone like glass, every picture, rug and curtain was as speckless as newly fallen snow.

Miss Arabella seemed especially created to form the central figure of her surroundings, as seated on a low rocking chair, she plied a neat little needle on some nice little article of lace-work.

No tiny, tidy wren was ever brighter and more chipper in its shining little brass cage than was Miss Arabella, as, bird-like, she peeped at her brother, when he drew the cover from the violoncello which stood in one corner of the room.

“I am glad to see that you intend passing the evening at home, David,” piped up the ancient maiden.

“It has really been so long since we had any music that I am delighted to see you uncover your violoncello,” continued the twin sister of David Chapman.

“Well, Arabella, the fact is that in my many excursions during the last year I have collected such a quantity of food for thought, that, like a well filled camel I feel it necessary to pause and chew the cud awhile,” replied David arranging some sheets of music on a stand and passing his hand lovingly over the chords of the instrument that he held.

“I must admit that I should prefer to remain hungry mentally forever if to procure food for thought it were necessary to don the apparel of a tramp, and prowl around at all hours of the night, seeking, doubtless, in the vilest dens, among the lowest vagabonds for mental sustenance,” chirped Arabella sharply, prodding her needlework spitefully.

“Perhaps, my good sister, you will never quite understand that some men are born investigators. By nature they are led to investigate any phenomenon that presents itself.”

“Then I insist that it is a most unfortunate thing for one so born,” pecked Miss Arabella with the sharpness of a quarrelsome English sparrow.

“It causes one to make a Paul Pry of himself and wander about in a very questionable manner at unseemly hours, to the injury of both health and reputation. When one of your age, David, is so endowed by nature it is a positive misfortune.”

Chapman appeared greatly amused by the irritated manner of his sister, for he smiled in that ghastly way of his as he leaned back in his chair, still with his violoncello resting between his legs, and said,

“You see, Arabella, there may be a great difference in the way we regard the affairs of life. Doubtless scientific researches may not afford much pleasure to a spinster of your age, but such researches are very attractive to me.”

“All I can add to the opinion already expressed is that when your so-called scientific researches not alone lead you to assume the character of an outcast, and cause you to wander about at night like a homeless cat, but also induce you to make our home a receptacle for all the stray, vulgar, dirty negroes that happen to come to Boston, I must certainly protest against indulgence in such researches by you,” retorted the elderly maiden severely, as she cast her glances about her immaculately clean apartment, and remembered some disagreeable event of the last few months.

David was highly amused by this speech, for he gave utterance to a cackling kind of laugh and exclaimed,

“Arabella, you’ll never get to heaven if the road be muddy. You will be fearful of getting your skirts soiled. I shall be right sorry for your soul if the path to the other place be clean. I fear in that event that nothing could hold you back from going straight to Hades.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, David. You know full well that I am no more particular about tidiness than every other decent woman.”

What monomaniac on the subject of cleanliness ever thought otherwise?

“I insist,” continued Miss Arabella indignantly, “that when one indulges a fad to the extent of disarranging an entire household, under the pretense that it is part of a scientific research, it is time to protest against such proceedings.”

“Oh, I don’t imagine that the entire household has seriously suffered by my investigations in the field of ethnology,” replied the brother still enjoying his sister’s perturbation of mind as she recalled some recent experiences.

“It may be highly amusing to you, David. I hope that you enjoy the joke, but it has been anything but amusing to me and to Bridget, having to clean, rub and air every article of furniture in the house two or three times each week, and it is no laughing matter to freeze while the cold wind blows the disgusting odors left by your guest out of the rooms. Bridget has notified me that she will leave if you continue to make a hostelry for dirty darkies out of the house,” said the sister fairly shivering at the remembrance of the condition in which she had found her spotless premises after a visit of some of her brother’s newly found associates.

“I don’t think that I am the only member of this family that has a hobby, Arabella,” replied Chapman grinning at the flushed little lady.

“I am unaware of what you refer to, David. I certainly have no such uncomfortable idiosyncrasy as a hard ridden hobby.”

“Don’t you think even cleanliness may become a most pestiferous hobby?” queried Chapman with assumed guilelessness.

“Cleanliness and tidiness are but other words for common decency, and can never be classed with the vagaries of a ‘born investigator,’” said the spinster sarcastically, sticking her dictum into her needlework, savagely.

“You doubtless have heard, Arabella, of the woman who possessed so much of what you call ‘common decency’ that she forced her family to live in the barn in order that the dwelling might remain clean and tidy,” answered Chapman, to whom the wrath of Arabella was the greatest pleasure imaginable.

“I only wish that we had a barn. I would soon enough force you to entertain your negro visitors there instead of bringing their odoriferous persons and filthy accompaniments into this house,” cried the sister vindictively.

“You must be reasonable, my most precise sister,” said David.

“When I became interested in the science of ethnology, I deemed it expedient to begin by studying the negro race, their habits, characteristics, manners and tendencies. Being a man born and bred in a northern state I have never had the opportunities possessed by southerners, who are surrounded by negroes from infancy, to know the traits of that most interesting race. Hence I have been forced, on behalf of science, to go forth and gather such material as was obtainable for subjects of study and observation.”

“David, don’t be hypocritical with me; you know that neither ethnology nor the negro race possessed the slightest interest for you, until you learned that Walter Burton had a strain of negro blood in his veins.”

“I do not deny that my zeal was not diminished by that fact,” answered Chapman shortly and dryly.