XIII.
“The pilot is mad,” cried one old tar; and said,
“The master is drunk, or there’s mutiny aboard that ship.”
Thus spoke among themselves a knot of seafaring men who stood on the Boston docks watching a ship under almost full sail, that came tearing before a strong north-east gale into Boston’s crowded harbor.
The man who held the wheel and guided the ship through the lanes of sail-less vessels anchored in the harbor, as a skillful driver does his team in crowded streets, was neither mad nor drunk nor was there mutiny among the crew. The man was Jack Dunlap; the ship was the “Adams.”
Jack knew the harbor, as does the dog its kennel. He held a pilot’s certificate and waiving assistance steered his ship himself in this mad race with time, that no moment should be lost by lowering sails until the anchor dropped in Massachusetts sand.
The crew was ready at the sheets and running gear. Each man at his station and all attention. Old Brice in the waist stood watching the skipper ready to pass the word, to “let all go;” Morgan, the second mate, at the boat davits held the tackle to lower away the yawl the instant the ship “came round.”
The skipper at the wheel, stood steady, firm and sure, as though chiseled from hardest rock. He never shifted his blood-shot eyes from straight ahead. His strong, determined face, colorless beneath the tan, never relaxed a line of the intensity that stamped it with sharp angles. The skipper had not closed his eyes in sleep since leaving Port au Prince nor had he left the deck for a single hour.
“Let go all!” the helmsman called and Brice repeated the order. The ship flew around, like a startled stag and then came,
“Let go the anchor! Lower away on that boat tackle! Come, Cousin John, we are opposite Dunlap’s docks. This is Boston harbor, thank God!” So called Jack Dunlap, springing toward the descending small boat that had hung at the davits, and dragging the no-way backward old gentleman, John Dunlap, along with him.
The only moment lost in Port au Prince before the “Adams” sailed was to arouse the operator and send a message to Chapman saying that John Dunlap had left in the “Adams” and was on his way to Boston and his brother’s bedside.
When the red ball barred with black streaming from the masthead announced that a Dunlap ship was entering the port, the information was sent at once to the city, and an anxious, thin and sorrowing man gave an order to the driver of the fastest team in the Dunlap stables, to hasten to Dunlap’s wharf and sprang into the carriage.
The impatient, scrawny figure of David Chapman caught the eyes of the two passengers in the yawl, as with lusty strokes the sailors at the oars urged the small boat toward the steps of the dock. Chapman in his excitement fairly raced up and down the dock waving his hands toward the approaching boat.
“He still lives!” he shouted when they could hear him, instinctively knowing that, that question was first in the minds of those nearing the wharf.
“And Lucy?” said Jack huskily, as he stepped on the dock and grasped Chapman’s extended hand. Old John Dunlap had said never a word nor looked right nor left, but springing up the steps with extraordinary agility in one of his age, had run directly to the waiting carriage.
“Alive but better dead,” was all that the superintendent could find breath to say as he ran beside Jack toward the carriage and leaped in.
“Stop for nothing; put the horses to a gallop,” commanded Mr. Dunlap, leaning out of the carriage window and addressing the coachman as he wheeled his horses around and turned upon the street.
It was at an early hour on Sunday morning when the Dunlaps landed and the streets were freed from the week day traffic and the number of vehicles that usually crowded them.
As the swaying carriage dashed along, Chapman was unable to make the recently arrived men understand more than that Lucy had suddenly become deranged as a result of her illness, and that this appalling circumstance, in connection with his idolized granddaughter’s severe sickness had produced a paralytic stroke, that had rendered powerless the entire right side of James Dunlap’s body; that his vitality was so low and his whole constitution seemed so shaken and undermined by the events of the last few weeks, that the physicians despaired of his life.
As the foaming horses were halted before the entrance of the Dunlap mansion, Mr. John Dunlap jumped from the still swaying vehicle and ran up the steps, heedless of Mrs. Church and the servants in the hall, he rushed straight to the well remembered room where, as boys, he and his brother had slept, and which was still the bed-chamber occupied by Mr. James Dunlap.
John Dunlap opened the door and for a moment faltered on the threshold; then that voice he loved so well called out,
“Is that my brother John?” The stricken man had recognized his brother’s footsteps.
An instant more and John Dunlap had thrown himself across the bed and his arms were around his brother; for several minutes those two hearts, which in unison had beaten since first the life-blood pulsated through them, were pressed together. James Dunlap’s left hand weakly patting his brother.
David Chapman had followed, close upon the heels of John Dunlap and was crouching at the bottom of the bed, with his face hidden by the bed-clothing that covered his old master’s feet, and was silently sobbing. When Jack Dunlap entered the hall good Mrs. Church, who had been a second mother to him while he lived at the Dunlap house in his school boy days, ran to him and throwing her arms about his neck fell upon his broad breast, weeping and crying,
“My boy is home! Thank God for sending you, Jack. We have suffered so, and needed you so much, my boy!”
When the sailor man had succeeded in pacifying the distressed old housekeeper and disengaged himself from her embrace, he hastened after Chapman. As he entered the room and stepped near the bed he heard a feeble voice which he scarcely recognized as that of Mr. James Dunlap, say,
“It is all my fault John. You, brother, tried to prevent it. I alone am to blame. I have driven my darling mad and I believe that it will kill her. I did it Oh God! I did it. Blame no one John; be kind, punish no one, my brother. I alone am at fault.”
These words came with the force of a terrible blow to Jack Dunlap, and halted him in mute and motionless wonder where he was.
“James, don’t talk that way. I can’t stand it, brother. Whatever you have done, I know not, and care not, it is noble, just and right and I stand with you, brother, in whatsoever it may be,” said John Dunlap in a broken but energetic voice.
“Has no one told you then, John?” came faintly from the partially paralyzed lips of him who lay upon the bed.
“Told me what? Brother James; but no matter what they have to tell, you are not blamable as you say; I stand by that.”
Though the voice was husky, there was a challenge in the tone that said, let no man dare attack my brother. The innate chivalry of the old New Englander was superior even to his sorrow.
“Who is in the room beside you, John?” asked James Dunlap, anxious that something he had to say should not be heard by other than the trustworthy, and unable to move his head to ascertain.
“No one, James, but our kinsman, Jack Dunlap, and faithful David Chapman,” replied his brother.
The palsied man struggled with some powerful emotion, and by the greatest effort was only able to utter in a whisper the words,
“Lucy’s baby is black and impish. The negro blood in Burton caused the breeding back to a remote ancestor, as, John, you warned me might be the case. It has driven my granddaughter insane and will cause her death. God have mercy on me!” The effort and emotion was too much for the weak old gentleman; his head fell to one side; he had fainted.
John Dunlap started when he heard these direful words. A look of horror on his face, but brotherly love stronger than all else caused him to put aside every thought and endeavor to resuscitate the unconscious man.
Poor Jack. He had borne manfully much heartache, but the dreadful thing that he had just heard was too much for even his iron will and nerves. He collapsed as if a dagger had pierced his heart, and would have fallen to the floor had he not gripped the bedstead when his legs gave way.
Chapman raised his head and gazed, with eyes red from weeping, at him who told the calamitous story of the events that had stricken him down. There was a dangerous glitter in the red eyes as Chapman sprung to John Dunlap’s assistance in reviving the senseless man.
When Jack recovered self-command sufficient to realize what was happening about him, he found that the physician, who had been summoned, had administered restoratives and stimulants, and that the patient had returned to consciousness; that the kind Doctor was trying to comfort the heartbroken brother of the sufferer even while obliged to admit that the end of life for James Dunlap was not far distant.
“Come and get in my bed, Jack,” came in a low and indistinct voice from the couch of the helpless patient. Captain Dunlap started in surprise, but old John Dunlap made a motion with his hand and said in a voice choking with emotion,
“He always so called me when we were boys,” and lying down by his brother he put his arms lovingly and protectingly around him.
Thus the two old men lay side by side as they had done years before in their cradle. The silence remained for a long time unbroken, save for the muffled sobs that came from those who watched and grieved in the chamber.
“How cold it is, Jack, come closer; I’m cold. I broke through the ice today and got wet but don’t tell mother, she will worry. Jack, don’t tell on me.” The words were whispered to his brother by the dying man.
“No, Jim, I’ll not tell, old fellow,” bravely answered John Dunlap, but a smothered sob shook his shoulders. He knew his brother’s mind was straying back into the days of their boyhood.
For what inscrutable cause does the mind of the most aged recur to scenes and associations of childhood when Death, the dread conqueror, draws near? Why does the most patriarchal prattle as though still at the mother knee in that last and saddest hour? Is it because mother, child, in purity approach nearest to that transcendent pellucidity that surrounds the throne of Him before whom all must appear? Does the nearness of the coming hour cast its shadow on the soul, causing it to return to the period of greatest innocence, and that love that is purest on earth?
“Jack, hold me, I am slipping, I am going, going, Jack.”
Alas! James Dunlap had gone on that long, last journey! The noble, kindly soul had gone to its God. John Dunlap held in his arms the pulseless form of him who for seventy-three years had been his second self, and whom he had loved with a devotedness seldom seen in this selfish world of ours.
To see a strong man weep is painful; to hear him sob is dreadful; but to listen and look upon the sorrow of a strong and aged man is heartbreaking and will cause sympathetic tears to flow from eyes of all who are not flinty-hearted.
Chapman, when he knew the end had come, clasped the cold feet of his old employer and wept bitterly; Jack could bear no more. With bursting heart he fled from the room, but kept the chamber sacred from intrusion, and in the sole possession of the two old men who sorrowed there.
The funeral of James Dunlap was attended by the foremost citizens of that section of the United States, where for so many years he had justly held a position of honor and prominence.
The universal gloom and hush that was observable throughout the city of Boston on the day that the sorrowful cortege followed all that remained earthly of this esteemed citizen, gave greater evidence of universal grief than words or weeping could have done.
While James Dunlap had never held any civic or political position, his broad charity, unostentatious generosity, kindliness of spirit, constant thoughtfulness of his fellow men, and the unassuming gentleness of his lovable disposition and character, gave him an undisputed high place in the hearts of his fellow citizens of both lofty and lowly condition.
The chief executive of his native state, jurists, scholars, and capitalists gathered with rough, weather beaten seafaring men, clerks and laborers to listen to the final prayer offered up, to Him above, at the old family vault of the Dunlaps beneath the sighing willow trees.
Haggard and worn by the emotions that had wrenched his very soul for the past two or three weeks, David Chapman dragged himself to the tea-table where his sister waited on the evening of the day of the funeral ceremonies.
With the fidelity of a faithful, loving dog he had held a position during all of many nights at the feet of him who in life had been his object of paramount devotion; during those days with unswerving faithfulness to the house of “J. Dunlap,” he was found leaden hued and worn, but still attentive, at his desk in the office. The great business must not suffer, thought the man, even if I drop dead from exhaustion. Neither John Dunlap nor Walter Burton was in a condition, nor could they force themselves, to attend to the business of the house no matter how urgent the need might be.
When the business of the day ended, Chapman hastened to the Dunlap mansion, and like a ghostly shadow glided to his position at the feet of his old employer, speaking to no one and no one saying him nay—it seemed the sad watcher’s right.
As David Chapman dropped into a chair at the tea-table, the anxious and sympathetic sister said,
“Brother, you really must take some rest. Indeed you must, David, now that all is over.”
“Yes, Arabella, I feel utterly exhausted and shall rest.”
The man’s condition was pitiable; his words came from his throat with the dry, rasping sound of a file working on hardest steel.
“What a God-send Jack Dunlap is at this time, sister. He has taken charge of everything, and in that steady, confident, masterful way of his has brought order out of the chaos that existed at the mansion. It may be the training and habits acquired at sea, but no matter what it is the transformation in the affairs at the house is wonderful. His decisive manner of directing everything and everybody and the correctness and promptness with which all people and things are disposed of by him is phenomenal. I thank Providence for the relief that Jack’s coming has brought.”
The total exhaustion of Chapman’s intense energy was best exhibited in the satisfaction he felt at having some one to assist him even in the affairs of the Dunlaps.
“Jack is one of the best and strongest minded men in the world. While I know that his heart is bleeding for all, especially for Lucy, he has maintained a self-control that is superb,” said the spinster.
“When he learned that Lucy’s hallucination led her to believe that the old family physician had conspired to deprive her of her baby, he promptly procured the attendance of another doctor, saying positively, ‘Lucy’s mind must not be disturbed by sight of anything or person tending to aggravate her mental disorder.’ He forbade Mrs. Church going into Lucy’s apartments, dismissed the nurse and procured a new one, had that accursed infant put with his nurse into other apartments and did it all so firmly and quietly that no one dreamed of disputing any order given by him,” said David wearily, but evidently much relieved with the changes made by Jack.
“What of Lucy? How is she?” anxiously questioned Arabella.
“Her mental faculties are totally disarranged. She has not spoken coherently since she fell senseless on that dreadful night and was carried to her bed. Besides, her physical condition is precarious in the extreme,” replied the brother.
“Has Jack seen her yet?” inquired the old maid sadly.
“Yes, and it is very strange how rational she became as soon as she saw him enter the room. You know, Arabella, the steady, earnest, matter of fact manner he has. Well, he walked into her room with just that manner, they say he stopped to steady himself before going in, and said ‘How are you, Cousin Lucy? I’ve come home to see you,’ and without a quiver took her extended hands and pressed them to his breast.
“Lucy knew him at once when he stepped inside the door. She looked intently at him, then gave a glad, joyful cry and held out her hands, calling, ‘Jack, Oh Jack! Come to me, my champion! Now all will be well.’ Then she put her weak, white arms about his neck and began to weep as she sobbed out, ‘Jack, I have needed you. You said you would come from the end of the earth to me. I knew you would come; Jack, they have stolen my angel boy, my baby. Jack, find it, bring it to me. I know you can. You said until death you would love me, Jack. Oh! find my baby, my darling.’”
“Poor Lucy! Poor Jack!” broke in the old lady, as tears of pity ran down her withered cheek.
“But think of the strength of the man, Arabella. You and I know what he was suffering. Yet he answered with never a waver in his voice, ‘All right, little cousin, I am here and no harm shall come to you. I’ll help you, but you must be a good little girl and stay quiet and get well. Shall I have my mother come to sit with you?’ She cried out at once, ‘Please do, Jack, Cousin Martha did not steal my baby,’ and then he insisted that she put her head back on the pillow and close her eyes. When she did so Jack had the courage to sit on the bedside and sing softly some old song about the sea that they had sung together when children. The poor girl fell fast asleep as he sung, but still clung to Jack’s brown hand.”
Chapman gave a groan when he finished as if the harrowing scene was before him.
“Blessings on the stout hearted boy,” whimpered the old lady.
“Lucy never calls, as formerly, for her grandfather or husband. In fact, when Burton entered her room after that awful night she flew into a perfect frenzy, accusing him of stealing her child and putting some imp that, at some time, she had seen in Florida, in his place, notwithstanding his protestations and entreaties. Her mad fury increased to such a degree that the doctor insisted that Burton should leave the room, and has forbidden him to again visit his wife until there is a change in her mental condition. Of course, Lucy knows nothing of the death of her grandfather.” The man’s voice became choked as he uttered the last sentence.
“Have Jack and Mr. Burton been together since Jack’s return?” inquired Arabella, after a long silence.
“I think not, except once when they were closeted in the library for two hours the day after Jack arrived. When they came out I was in the hall and heard Jack say, as he left the library with Burton, ‘I shall hold you to your promise. You must wait until my cousin be in a condition of mind to express her wishes in that matter.’ Jack’s voice was firm and emphatic and his face was very stern. Burton replied, ‘I gave you my word of honor.’ He seemed in great distress and mental anguish. My opinion is that he had proposed disappearing forever, and I think so for the reason that he had asked me to dispose of a great amount of his personal securities, and to bring him currency for the proceeds in bills of large denomination, and Jack must have objected,” rejoined Chapman.
“I am sorry for Mr. Burton and am glad Jack would not let him go away,” said the kind spinster.
“Well I am not,” cried Chapman savagely, notwithstanding his fatigue.
“They would better let him go. This misfortune is the physical one that long ago I told you was possible. The next may be spiritual and result in some emotional or fanatic outburst of barbarous religious fervor that may again disgrace us all. Then may develop the bestial propensities of the sensual nature of savages and may result in crime and ruin the house of Dunlap forever.”
“David, go to bed and rest. You are worn out and conjure up imaginary horrors purely by reason of nervousness and weariness,” said the sister soothingly.
“You maintained months ago that the danger of breeding back was imaginary. What do you think now? The other things that I suggest as possible, are inherent in Burton’s blood and may tell their story yet.”
Chapman, though weak, became vehement immediately upon the mention of this unfortunate subject. It required all the persuasion and diplomacy of his good sister to get him to desist and finally to retire to his bed room for the rest that was so needed by the worn out man.