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.