XI.
The Scottish Bard has written that to see fair Melrose Abbey a-right, one must visit it in the moon’s pale light. To see New England in its greatest glory one must visit that section of hallowed memories in the summer season.
Then it is that granite hills are wrapped in emerald mantles. Then it is that hill-sides, slopes and meadows are dimpled with countless daisies, peeping enticingly from the face of smiling nature. Then it is brooks, released from winter’s icy bondage, laugh, sing, dance and gambol like merry maidens in some care-free frolic.
August, in the second year of Lucy Burton’s married life, found Dunlap’s mansion still occupied by the entire family. True, the Dunlap estate lay in the most elevated portion of the suburbs of Boston, and the house stood in the center of extensive grounds almost park-like in extent and arrangement, still it was unusual for the house to be occupied by the family at that season of the year.
Generations of Dunlaps had sought relief from city life and bustle during the month of August, either among the Berkshire Hills, where an ornate villa had been owned by them for decades, or at Old Orchard, where their summer home was rather a palace than a cottage, though so called by the family. Burton, too, had a fine establishment at Newport; yet this eventful August found the family in their city residence.
Many other things unusual attracted attention and caused comment among the associates of members of the Dunlap household. Burton and Lucy had been noticeably absent during the past few months from those public functions to which, by their presence, they had formerly given so much eclat.
The very clerks in the office of J. Dunlap commented upon the jubilant spirit that had taken possession of, the always genial, manager. Chapman regarded his apparent joyousness with suspicion, and of all the office forces alone seemed displeased with its presence.
To intimate friends Burton spoke of selling the “Eyrie,” saying that it was of no further use or pleasure to him; that for months he had only been near it to select some choice flowers from the conservatory for the vases that adorned his wife’s apartments.
Mr. James Dunlap, ever the kindest, most considerate of beings, the gentlest of gentlemen, had become so solicitous concerning his granddaughter’s comfort and care as to appear almost old womanish. The anxiety he displayed about all that tended to Lucy’s welfare was absolutely pathetic.
Walter Burton’s demeanor toward his young wife might, for all men, serve as a model of devoted, thoughtful deportment on the part of husbands. To amuse and entertain her seemed his all-absorbing idea and object. To exercise his brilliant mental gifts in gay and enlivening conversation was his chief pleasure. To use all the great musical talent that he possessed, to drive any momentary shadow of sadness from her spirit. To stroll about the garden in the moonlight, again whispering those words of love by which he had first won her, was blissful occupation to him.
Even good old Uncle John in far-off Haiti imbibed the spirit that seemed all pervading in the realm about the young matron. Great hampers of tropical fruits, plants and flowers came by trebly-paid expressage from the West Indies, speed alone being considered. They must be fresh when offered to Lucy. Then, too, almost daily messages came over the cable from Haiti, “How are all today,” signed “John,” and it was ordered at the office that each day should go a message to Port au Prince, unless especially forbidden, saying, “All is well,” this to be signed “James.”
Mrs. Church, the most sedate, composed and stately of old gentlewomen, too, is in a flutter of suppressed excitement, frequently closeted in deep and mysterious consultations with medical men and motherly looking women; giving strange orders about the preparation of certain dishes for the table, driving the chef almost distracted by forbidding sauces that should always accompany some favorite entree of that tyrant.
A suite of rooms in the Dunlap mansion has been newly decorated; nothing like these decorations has ever been seen before in Boston. In elegance, taste and beauty they are the ne plus ultra of decorative art. One, while in the sacred precincts of the recently remodeled apartments, might readily imagine that spring had been captured and fettered here to make its sweet, bright presence perpetual in this favored place. Colors of the tinted sunbeam mingled with the peach blossom’s tender shade to make the spot a bower of beauty wherein a smiling cupid might pause and fold his wings to slumber, forgetful of his couch of pink pearl shell.
The cultured, artistic, delicate taste of Boston’s arbiter elegantiarum never produced anything approaching the exquisite blending of colors and unique, airy, harmonious fittings seen in this, the ideal conception of the abode of angels.
The delicacy and tenderness of Lucy’s refined and loving spirit contributed to create an indefinable feeling that this was the chosen spot where innocence, purity and love should seek repose. Her womanly instinct had added soft shadings to art’s perfect handiwork.
The great sea shell, half opened, made of shining silver, lined with the pearly product of the Eastern Isles, in which lie, soft and white as snow, downy cushions, filled from the breasts of Orkney’s far-famed fowls, and these be-trimmed with lace in tracery like frost on window pane, in texture so gossamery and light that the brief span of life seems all too short in which to weave one inch, must surely be the nest wherein some heaven-sent cherub shall nestle down in sleep.
Some sprite from fairy-land alone may make a toilet with the miniature articles of Etruscan gold, bejeweled with gems of azure-hued turquois that fill the gilded dressing case.
The chiffoniers, tables, chairs and stands are all inlaid with woods of the rarest kinds and colors, with ivory and polished pearl shells interwoven in queerly conceived mosaic; mirrors of finest plate here and there are arranged that they may catch the beauteous image of the cherubic occupant of this bijou bower, and countlessly reproduce its angelic features; urns and basins of transparent china-ware, in the production of which France and Germany have surpassed all former efforts, beautified by the brushes of world-renowned artists, furnish vessels in which the rosy, laughing face and dimpled limbs may lave.
The Western hills have cooled the eager glance of the August sun. Lucy, softly humming as she assorts and arranges a great basket of choice buds and blossoms just arrived from the “Eyrie,” is seated alone in a fantastic garden pagoda, which, trellised by climbing rose bushes, stands within the grounds of the Dunlap estate.
As she rocks back and forth in the low chair that is placed there for her comfort, little gleams of sunshine sifting through the screen of roses wander amidst her gold-brown tresses and spot the filmy gown of white she wears with silver splashes. As the lights and shadows of the gently swaying leaves and roses dance about her, she seems surrounded by hosts of cherubim in frolicsome attendance on her. Some thought of that nature came to her, for she let her hands lie still in her lap among the blossoms and watched the ever fleeting, changeful rays of sunlight and shade that like an April shower fell upon her. Then she smiled as at some unseen spirit and smiling grew pensive.
The limpid light in Lucy’s eyes, as gazing into the future she sees the coming glory of her womanhood, is that same light that shone along the road from Galilee to Bethlehem, when she, most blessed of women for all time, rode humbly on an ass to place an eternal monarch on a throne.
That light in Lucy’s pensive hazel eyes, that gentle, hopeful expectant look on her sweet face, has, from the time that men were born on earth subdued the fiery rage of angry braves in mortal strife engaged, has turned brutality into cowering shame, and caused the harshest, roughest and most savage of the human kind to smooth the brow, soften the voice and gently move aside, rendering ready homage to a being raised higher far than the throne of the mightiest king on earth.
As she, who chambered with the cattle on Judah’s hills, opened the passage from the groaning earth to realms of eternal bliss by what she gave to men, so ever those crowned with that pellucid halo of expected maternity stand holding ajar the gates that bar the path from man to that mysterious source of life and soul called God.
It is woman in her grandest glory, who draws man and his Maker near together, with arms outstretched and hands extended she grasps man and reaches up toward the Divine Author of our beings.
In simplest attire and humblest station she sanctifies the spot she stands upon. When most beset by want or danger there lives no man worthy of the name, who could refuse to heed her lightest call.
Oh! that wistful, yearning, hopeful, tender, loving look that transfigured Lucy’s sweet face until resemblance came to it, to that face that has employed the souls, hearts and hands of those most gifted by high heaven with pen and brush.
Out of this trance-like blissfulness the pensive dreamer was aroused by the coming of her ever constant guardian, her grandfather, who told her that Miss Arabella Chapman had called, bringing some offering that could be placed in no other hand than that of the young matron.
Away hastened Lucy to greet the time-worn maiden, but fresh-hearted friend, and to hurry with her up to a sealed and sacred apartment, over whose threshold no male foot must ever step, wherein was hidden heaping trays and shelves of doll-like garments of marvelous texture and make, articles the names of which no man ever yet has learned to call, all so cunningly devised as to create the need of lace, embroidery or such matter on every edge and corner.
Silky shawls and fleecy wraps, and funny little caps of spider-spun lace, and socks of soft stuff so small that Lucy’s tiny thumb could scarce find room therein, all and much more than man can tell were here stored carefully away and only shown to closest friends by the fair warder of that holy keep.
And, oh! the loving, jealous care of Lucy. No hand but her own could fold these small garments just right. What awful calamity might befall should one crease be awry or disturbed; no eye so well could note some need in that dainty, diminutive collection of fairy underwear as hers; no breast could beat so tenderly as hers as close she pressed, fondled and kissed the little gowns for elfin wear.
Who would for all the gold coined on earth rob her of one jot or tittle of her half-girlish, all-womanly joy and jealous care? Not one who ever whispered the word Mother!
That night the watchman and his faithful dog who guarded the Dunlap house and grounds, saw at the unseemly hour of two o’clock many lights suddenly appear within the mansion. The shadow of the family physician, white-haired and wise, flits by the windows of the room which, for some weeks, he has occupied. Mrs. Church in wrapper, lamp in hand, hastens by the great hall window and ascends the stairs, accompanied by an elderly woman, who a month before came to live in the mansion. Soon a window on the balcony is raised and Mr. James Dunlap in dressing gown and slippers steps out, accompanied by Mr. Burton, who seems too nervous to notice Mr. Dunlap’s soothing hand placed on his shoulder.
Soon the bell, that warns him to open wide the outer gate, is rung, and then the watchman and his dog see no more of the commotion within the house. As he holds back the gate, he asks of the coachman, who, with the dog-cart and the horse, Dark Dick, is racing by:
“What’s the matter?” In reply he only catches the words:
“Another nurse, d—— quick!”
A standing order of the house of J. Dunlap was that should at any time neither J. Dunlap nor the manager appear by the noon hour, the superintendent, Mr. Chapman, should take cab and hasten to the residence of Mr. James Dunlap for instructions concerning transactions that pressed for immediate attention.
Five minutes after noon, on the day when at two o’clock in the morning the private watchman had seen lights appear within the Dunlap mansion. David Chapman was seated in a cab speeding toward his employer’s residence.
As the cab turned the corner on the avenue that ran before the gate of the Dunlap place, the horse’s hoof-beats were silenced. Chapman looked out; the straw-carpeted pavement told the whole story. He ordered the driver to stop his horse, and springing from the vehicle the superintendent, walking, proceeded the balance of the distance.
The vigil and anxiety of the past night had told fearfully on well-preserved Mrs. Church, thought Chapman as he noted her drawn, white and frightened face, and listened to the awed tone of her voice, as she told him that a boy was born to Lucy; that she was very ill; that Mr. Burton was troubled and wretched over the danger of his wife, and would see no one; that Mr. Dunlap, exhausted by agony of mind and weakened by watching, had fainted, was now lying down and must not be disturbed under any circumstances.
Chapman in mute amazement stared at the trembling lips that gave an account of the striking down, within so short a time, of all three members of the family. Speechless he stood and stared, but could find no words to express either his surprise or sorrow. As he stood thus, a faint and husky, yet familiar, voice called from the far end of the wide hall that ran through the center of the house.
“David, wait; I want you.”
With uncertain step, and bowed head, a figure came forward. As Chapman turned he saw that it was Mr. Dunlap. One moment the old employee gazed at the approaching man. Then springing toward him, he cried as he caught sight of the ashen hue on his old master’s blanched and deep-lined face, and saw the blank look in his kind eyes:
“You are ill, sir; sit down!”
“Yes, David; I am not well; I am somewhat weak, but I wish to give you certain commands that must not, as you value my friendship, be disobeyed.” The old man paused and painfully sought to gain command of his voice, and failing, gasped forth:
“Send a message to my brother saying, ‘It is a boy and all is well,’ and add—David Chapman, do you understand me?—and add these very words, ‘Do not come home; it is unnecessary.’ Sign the message ‘James’—and, listen, Chapman, listen; no word that I am not well or my granddaughter in danger must reach my brother John.”
“Your instructions shall be obeyed, sir,” and Chapman’s voice was almost as indistinct as that of his loved master.
“What of the business, sir, while Mr. Burton is absent?” the ever-faithful superintendent asked.
“Use your own discretion in everything,” and with a dry, convulsive sob that shook his bended frame, he added in a whisper:
“It makes no difference now.”
David Chapman heard the sob, and caught those heartbroken words. In an instant that strangely constituted man was on his knees at the feet of him whom of all on earth he worshiped most.
“Can I help you, sir, in your trouble? Say anything that man can do, and I shall do it, sir,” cried Chapman piteously.
“No, David, no; but, David, I thank you. Go, my faithful old friend, and do what I have requested.”
Chapman arose and pressed the wan hand that James Dunlap extended, then hurried from the house.
Those who saw the superintendent that day wondered why they were unable to tell whether it was grief or rage that marked the man’s face so deeply.
The message as dictated was sent that day to Haiti.