Part 7

“And I maintain that your zeal is caused entirely by that fact, and I wish to say further, David Chapman,” exclaimed the withered wisp of a woman, drawing herself up very straight in her chair and looking angrily at her brother, “if all this investigation and research lead to anything that may cause trouble, annoyance or pain to Lucy Dunlap, whom I have held in these arms as a baby, then I say that you are a wicked, ungrateful man, and I wish to know nothing of your diabolic designs, nor of the disgusting science that you call ethnology.”

God bless the dried-up spinster! God bless thy bony, skinny arms that held that baby! Thrice blessed be the good and kindly heart that beats warmly in thy weak and withered little body.

Seriously and steadily did Chapman gaze for a minute at the vehement, fragile figure before him, then said meditatively,

“I believe she loves the Dunlap name as much as I do myself.”

“More, indeed a great deal more, for I could not cause pain to one of that name even though I benefited all the other Dunlaps who have ever been born by so doing,” quickly cried the old maid.

“Don’t alarm yourself needlessly, sister,” said Chapman earnestly.

“My investigations are neither undertaken to injure Lucy nor could they do so even had I that intention. It is too late. I am perfectly frank and truthful when I state that the subject is exceedingly interesting to me, and the developments fascinating. Since I have familiarized myself somewhat with the leading peculiarities of the negro race I recognize much more of the negro in Burton than I imagined could possibly exist in one possessing so great a preponderance of the blood of the white race.”

“I am glad to learn that no harm can come to Lucy by your persistent pursuit after knowledge of ethnology, but I must say it does not seem to me a very genteel course of conduct for a man of you age and education to be spying about and watching an associate in business,” said the candid Arabella.

“I assure you that I am not obliged either to play the spy or watch particularly, for it seems to me that the negro in Burton positively obtrudes itself daily. In fact I am certain that it is neither because I am watching for such evidences, nor because I can now recognize negro traits better than formerly, but simply because the negro in the man becomes daily more obtrusively apparent,” answered Dunlap’s superintendent as he began tuning and testing his favorite musical instrument.

Even the most prejudiced critic would be forced to admit that whatever David Chapman undertook to do he accomplished well. He never relaxed in persistent effort until an assigned task was performed. He became for the time being absolutely fanatic upon any subject he had before him. His performance on the violoncello was of the same character as his efforts in other directions where his attention was demanded. It was artistic, magnificent, sympathetic and impressive.

To the violoncello Chapman seemed to tell his soul-story; through it he breathed those hidden sentiments that were so deeply buried in the secret recesses of his heart that their existence could never be suspected. Music seemed the angel guarding with flaming sword the gateway of this peculiar man’s soul. When music raised the barrier glimpses of unexpected beauties surprised all those who knew the jealous, prying, cynical nature of the man.

As David Chapman began playing his sister with closed eyes rested her head on the back of the rocking chair and bathed her lonely old heart in the flood of melody that poured from the instrument in her brother’s hands.

How that music spoke to the poor, craving, hungry heart within her flat and weazen bosom. Youth and hope seemed singing joyous songs of life’s springtime; love then burst forth blushing while whispering the sweet serenade of that glorious summer season of womankind. Then in cadence soft and tender, gently as fall the autumn leaves, the music sadly told of blighting frosts. Youth and hope like summer roses withered and vanished. Now the gloom, despair and disappointment of life’s winter wailing forth filled the heart of the forlorn old maiden; tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks unheeded and almost a sob escaped from her quivering lips.

Weep no more sad heart. The music in pealing tones of triumph is shouting the Glad Tidings of that eternity of endless spring, where all is Love and all is Joy; where the flowers of everlasting summer never fade and die; where no blighting frost can come to wither the blossoms of Youth and Hope; where the cold blasts of winter’s gloom and disappointment never blow to chill and sadden the soul.

Grandly resound those notes triumphant; open seem the gates of that promised future, together brother and sister their souls seem ascending; above all is bright, refulgent with the great light of gladness, now, coming sweetly, faintly, they catch the sound of welcome, sung above by that heavenly chorus.

The music died away in silence. Brother and sister sat for a long time, each busy with their own thoughts. Who but the All-wise can ever tell what thoughts come on such occasions to those who in silence hold self-communion in the sanctuary of their own souls.

“David, it seems strange to me that one having the tenderness of heart that you have, should never have found some good woman to love,” said the sister softly when the silence was finally broken.

“Indeed, sister, I sometimes think I might have done so and been happier far than I am, had I not early in life given, in the intense way that is part of my nature, all the love of my heart and consecrated all my devotion to the business in which I then engaged and submerged my every emotion in the glory and honor of the house of ‘J. Dunlap.’”

“Ah, brother, I often think of that and wonder what would happen if aught should go wrong with the object of your life-long devotion.”

“It would kill me, Arabella,” said Chapman quietly.

The certainty of the result to the man, should misfortune shatter the idol of his adoration, was more convincingly conveyed to the listener by that simple sentence and quiet tone than excited exclamation could have carried; Arabella uttered a sigh as she thought of the unshared place that ‘J. Dunlap’ held in the strenuous soul of her brother.

“Brother, you should not allow your mind and heart to become so wrapped up in the house of Dunlap; remember the two old gentlemen, in the course of nature, must soon pass away and that then there is no Dunlap to continue the business, and the career of the firm must come to an end.”

“No, Arabella, that may not happen,” replied Chapman. His voice, however, gave no evidence of the pleasure that such a statement from him seemed to warrant.

“There was an ante-nuptial contract entered into by Burton, in which it is agreed that any child born to James Dunlap’s granddaughter shall bear the name of Dunlap; hence the career of our great house will not necessarily terminate upon the death of the twin brothers.”

“I am so glad to know that, David. I have been much concerned for your sake, brother, fearing the dire consequences of the death of both of the old gentlemen whom you have served so devotedly for forty odd years.” The reassured little creature paused and then a thought, all womanly, occurred to her mind reddening her peaked visage as she exclaimed,

“What beautiful children the Burton-Dunlaps should be!”

A worried, anxious, doubtful look came over Chapman’s countenance. He gazed at the floor thoughtfully for several minutes and then apparently speaking to himself said,

“That is the point; there is where I am at sea; it is that question that gives me most anxiety.”

“Why, what can you mean, most inscrutable man, Mr. Burton is one of the handsomest men that I ever saw and surely no prettier woman ever lived than sweet Lucy Dunlap,” cried the loyal-hearted old maid.

“It is not a question of beauty, it is a question of blood. If it be only a matter of appearances Lucy Burton’s children would probably be marvels of infantine loveliness, but it is a scientific problem,” replied David seriously and earnestly.

“What in the name of all that is nonsensical has science to do with Lucy’s babies if any be sent to her?” cried out Miss Arabella, forgetting in her excitement that maidenly reserve that was usually hers.

“I regret to say that science has a great deal to do with the subject,” answered the brother quietly. “It is a matter of grave doubt in the minds of many scientific men whether, under any circumstances, an octoroon married to one of the white race ever can produce descendants; it is claimed by many respectable authorities that negro blood is not susceptible of reduction beyond the point attained in the octoroon; that it must terminate there or breed back through its original channel,” continued Chapman.

“It is not true! I don’t believe a word of such stuff,” ejaculated Miss Arabella, dogmatically.

“Authorities admit, it is true, that there may be exceptions to the invariability of this law, but claim that such instances are faults in nature and likely, as all faults in nature, to produce the most astounding results. These authorities assert that the progeny of an octoroon and one of the white race being the outcome of a fault in nature, are certain to be deficient in strength and vigor, are apt to be deformed, and even may possibly breed back to a remote coal-black ancestor,” said Chapman, speaking slowly, punctuating each sentence with a gasping sound, almost a groan.

“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed his sister rising in indignation from her chair and moving toward the door, saying,

“I positively will hear no more of your absurd science. It’s all foolishness. If that be the idiocy that you learn from ethnology I think that you had better occupy your time otherwise. Thanks to your ‘authorities’ and their crazy notions, I suppose that I shall dream all night of monkeys and monsters, but even that is better than sitting her and listening to my brother, whom I supposed had some brains, talk like a fit subject for the lunatic asylum.” With the closing sentence, as a parting shot at her brother the incensed spinster sailed out of the door and with a whisk went up stairs to her virgin chamber.

X.

“Lucy Burton is a perfect dream tonight, is she not?” exclaimed enthusiastically Alice Stanhope, gazing admiringly at the fair companion of her school days who had just entered the room leaning on the arm of her husband.

“Almost as pretty as you are,” gallantly replied ‘Bertie’ Winthrop, to whom the remark of the young woman was addressed.

“Well, don’t expect me to vie with you in flattery and reply by saying that Mr. Burton is almost as handsome as you are, for I am like the father of our country, ‘I can’t tell a lie.’”

“Oh! Now, that’s good. I am justified in supposing from that speech that Burton is not nearly as handsome as I am, much obliged,” replied young Winthrop, laughing and making a profound obeisance to the pretty creature beside him.

“You know what I mean you rascal, so don’t try to look innocent. See with what adoring glances Lucy looks up into her husband’s face,” said Miss Stanhope again calling her attendant’s attention to the group of guests near the entrance.

“Are you going to look at me like that a year from now?” asked ‘Bertie’ in a quizzical fashion as he slyly squeezed the dimpled elbow near his side. On dit, Alice Stanhope and Albert Winthrop will soon be married.

“Bertie, you horrid tease, I don’t believe you will ever deserve to be looked at except angrily,” retorted the blushing girl and added as she moved a little further from him,

“And you behave, sir, or I won’t let you remain by me another minute.”

“It’s a deuce of a crush you have gotten up,” said ‘Bertie’ promptly disregarding the warning that he had received by stepping up close to the side of his fiancee.

“Where did you get all these people anyway, Alice?”

“There’s no ‘all these people’ about it, they are the musical set among my friends in Boston and New York; as Signor Capello and Mme. Cantara are to sing of course everyone invited was eager to be present.”

“Never invite all your musical friends to dine with us when we are—”

“Hush, you embarrassing wretch,” cried Miss Stanhope turning to welcome some recently arrived guests.

After considerable diplomatic finessing and resort to that most efficacious auxiliary, “Papa’s cheque book,” Miss Stanhope had secured the services of the two great operatic luminaries to sing at a grand musicale given by her.

All the “swell set” of Boston and New York thronged the palacious home of the Stanhope’s on the occasion. The gray-haired, courtly governor of Massachusetts was chatting as gaily with petite Bessie Winthrop as he had done with her grandmother a half century before. Foreign diplomatists and Federal potentates discussed in corners the comparative merits of Italian and German composers of music; literary lights from all over New England joined the musical element of New York and Boston in filling the Stanhope’s halls.

“I insisted upon coming here tonight, Alice, even though this over-worked husband of mine did complain of a headache at dinner and I was loathe to have him accompany me. You remember this is the anniversary of my wedding and I wished to celebrate the day,” said Lucy Burton to the hostess when at last Burton had managed to make a way for himself and wife through the crowded rooms and reached the place where Miss Stanhope was receiving her guests.

“I am awfully glad you came, dear. We are sure to have a treat. Signor Capello has promised to sing something from the new opera by Herman that has just been produced in Berlin,” and addressing Burton Miss Stanhope added,

“I trust that your headache has disappeared.”

“Thank you, Miss Alice, it has entirely vanished under the influence of my charming wife’s ministrations, and the brilliant gathering about me here,” replied Burton.

“A slight pallor and circles around sad eyes, you know, Mr. Burton, give an exceedingly interesting and romantic appearance to dark men,” rejoined Alice Stanhope smiling in spite of her effort not to do so when she noticed the anxious, worshiping look with which Lucy regarded her husband.

“Really, I believe Lucy is more in love than she was a year ago,” said the laughing hostess as she turned to receive the German Ambassador, who had traveled all the way from Washington in the hope of hearing selections from Herman’s new opera.

In all that gathering of fair women and gallant men, there was no couple so noticeable as the splendid pair who this day one year before were wedded.

As Burton and his wife passed through the crowded halls all eyes were turned toward them, paying mute tribute to the exceeding beauty of both man and woman.

Burton, by one of those sudden rebounds of spirit to which he was subject, inspired by the gaiety about him was in a perfect glow of intellectual fire. The brilliancy of his well trained mind never shone more brightly, his wit scintillated in apt epigrams, and incomparably clever metaphors. He won the heart of the German Ambassador by discussing with the taste and discrimination of a savant that distinguished Teuton’s favorite composer, Herman, using the deep gutturals of the German language with the ease of a native of Prussia.

He exchanged bon-mots with wicked old Countess DeMille, who declared him a _preux chevalier_ and the only American whom she had ever met who spoke her language, so she called French, like a Parisian.

Lucy’s beaming face and sparkling eyes told of the rapture of pride and love that filled her heart. She looked indeed the “Princess” as with her well-turned head, with its gold-brown crown, held high, she proudly looked upon her lover and her lord and caught the approval and applause that appeared in every eye about her.

Never had her husband seemed so much superior to all other men, in Lucy’s mind, as he did this night. Wherever they paused in their passage around the rooms, that spot immediately became the center of a group of people eager to render homage to the regal beauty of the young matron, and to enjoy the wit and vivacity of the most _distingue_ man present.

“Ah, Mr. Burton, I see that the splendor of the Rose of Dunlap remains undiminished, notwithstanding its transference from the garden of its early growth,” said the gallant Governor of the old Bay State when greeting the young couple as they stopped near him.

“The splendor of the roses of Massachusetts is so transcendent that it would remain unimpaired in any keeping how e’er unworthy,” replied Lucy’s husband, bowing gracefully to the Executive of the State.

“When I saw you enter the room, Mrs. Burton, I hoped to see my old friend, your grandfather, follow. How is James? You see I take the liberty of still speaking of him as I did many years before your bright eyes brought light into the Dunlap mansion.”

“Grandfather is very well, thank you, Governor, but I failed to coax him away from his easy chair and slippers this evening; beside I think he was a little ‘grump,’ as I call it, about having lost a wager to a certain young woman of about my height; he declared it was not the box of gloves but loss of prestige that he disliked,” answered Lucy merrily as she looked up at the amused countenance of the Governor.

“I fear that I shall be obliged to exercise my official prerogative and give that gay youth, James Dunlap, a lecture if I hear anything more of his reckless wagers,” said the jocose old gentleman, and then added:

“By the way, Mrs. Burton, the newspapers this evening contain long accounts of the magnificent conduct of a New England sea captain, to whom the King of England has sent a letter of congratulation and praise. As the name given is Captain John Dunlap, I have been wondering if it can be that stubborn fellow whom your Uncle John and I endeavored to convince that he ought to enter Harvard.”

“It is the same stubborn, dear old cousin Jack who preferred the sea to being sent to Harvard, and he is the best and bravest sailor on the waters blue,” answered Lucy quickly, her face flushed by pleasure at hearing Jack’s praises sung and pride in knowing that he was her kinsman.

“It seems the lad was wiser than we were when he refused to be convinced by John and me. A grand sailor might have been spoiled in the making of a poor scholar. As long as the sailor sons of Uncle Sam can number men of your cousin Jack’s kind among them we need never fear for honor of the Gem of the Ocean,” said the Governor quite seriously.

“I heartily endorse that sentiment, your Excellency, but fear that on land or sea it would be difficult to discover many men like Jack Dunlap,” exclaimed Walter Burton warmly.

“When is he coming home, Lucy? You know that I lost my heart the first time that I met your bronzed sailor cousin, and am waiting anxiously for my mariner’s return,” said Bessie Winthrop, her violet-colored eyes twinkling with the gladness of youth and happiness. _En passant_ she was a fearful little flirt.

“He does not say in his letters when we may expect him, but when I write I’ll tell him what you say, and if he does not hurry home after that nothing can induce him to do so,” said Lucy as she moved away with her husband to make room for several admirers of Miss Winthrop who were eagerly awaiting an opportunity to pay court to that popular young lady.

Just as Burton and his wife left the Governor and his pretty companion, the tuning of instruments announced the prelude to the programme for the evening. Silence fell upon the assembly, the gentlemen sought seats for the ladies and secured the most available standing room for themselves.

Surely Signor Capello never sang so grandly before. The superb harmony of Herman’s great composition filled the souls of that cultivated audience. The German Ambassador was in a perfect ecstasy of delight, and even the least appreciative were impressed, while the hypercritic, casting aside all assumption of _ennui_, became enthusiastic.

Madame Cantara trilled and warbled in tones so clear, flute-like and sweet that to close one’s eyes was to imagine the apartment some vast forest, filled with a myriad of feathered songsters, vying with each other for woodland supremacy in Apollo’s blessed sphere.

Miss Stanhope’s musicale was a pronounced and splendid success. Nothing approaching it had entertained Boston’s fastidious “four hundred” that season.

Burton declared that it was the most delightful function he had attended in years, when Lucy, enwrapped in furs, was closely nestled at his side in the carriage after the entertainment was over. Burton was _par excellence_ a judge of such affairs. In fact, he had been accorded the position of _arbiter elegantiarum_ by a tacit understanding among people of taste and culture in Boston’s elite society.

It was among such scenes, surroundings, environments and society as above described that Burton’s life had been passed since coming to America. It was in this joyous atmosphere that the first year of Lucy’s married life glided by so rapidly that the length of time seemed difficult for her to realize. It was like the dream of a summer’s day, so bright, cloudless and calm, so fragrant with the perfume of love’s early blossoms, that its passage was as that of a fleeting shadow.

* * * * *

The sinking sun cast lengthening shadows across Manila Bay, where swinging peacefully at their anchors lay the great war ships of several nations, and where the tall masts of a fleet of merchantmen caused bars of shade to stripe the burnished waters of the Bay.

The starry flag of the great Republic had received that salute, ever loyally given by the sons of Columbia, as the sun sank beneath the horizon, and the bugle blew its farewell to the departing orb of day.

Four majestic, floating fortresses, on whose decks stood uncovered crews as the proud flag of the union descended, gave notice to the world of the might of that young giant of the west that held dominion in the Philippines.

Striding along in the rapidly darkening twilight, up the main street of Manila, walked one who would have been known as a sailor by his swinging, rolling gait, even without the nautical cut and material of the clothing that he wore.

As he approached the newly erected, palacious American hotel, around which ran a broad veranda filled with tables and chairs, the chief resort of the army and naval officers stationed at Manila, a voice cried from the balcony above him:

“Jack Dunlap, by all that is marvelous!”

The sailor-man looked up and with an exclamation of pleased recognition, shouted:

“Tom Maxon, by all that is fortunate!”

“Come up here this instant, you sea-dog, wet your whistle and swap yarns with me,” called the first speaker, rising from the table at which he was seated and hurrying to the top of the half dozen steps that rose from the sidewalk to the entrance on the veranda.

The two men shook hands with the warmth and cordiality of old cronies, when the sailor reached the balcony. The meeting was evidently as agreeable as it was unexpected.

The man who had been seated on the veranda, when the sailor approached, was apparently of the same age as the friend whose coming he had hailed with delight. He, too, was evidently a son of Neptune, for he wore the cap and undress uniform of a lieutenant in the United States Navy.

He was a big, fine man on whose good-looking, tanned face a smile seemed more natural, and, in fact, was more often seen than a frown.

“Jack, old man, you can’t imagine how glad I am to run afoul of you. Had the choice been left to me as to whom I would choose to walk up the street just now, I’d have bawled out ‘Good old Jack Dunlap!’ Well, how are you anyway? Where’ve you been? and how are all in Boston? But first let’s have a drink; what shall it be, bully?”