“You have been a tower of strength to me, Jack, in the grief and trouble of the last three months. I don’t know what would have become of us all without your aid and comfort.”
So spoke Mr. John Dunlap. He appeared many years older than he did when three months before he arrived in Boston on board the “Adams.” He was bent, and care worn. Deep sorrow had taken the fire and mirth from his honest, kindly eyes.
“I am rejoiced and repaid if I have been able to be of service to those whom I love, and who have always been so kind to me,” replied Jack Dunlap simply.
The two men were seated in the library of the Dunlap mansion in the closing hour of that late November day, watching the heavy snow flakes falling without.
“Jack, I have meditated for several days upon what I am about to say and can find no way but to beg you to make more sacrifices for us,” said the old gentleman, after a lapse of several minutes.
“The condition in which our family is demands the presence of some younger, stronger head and hand than mine is now. I know the ‘Adams’ is refitted, after her two years of service, and ready for sea. I know you, my lad, and your reluctance to remain idle when you think that you should be at work.”
“To be frank, sir, you have hit upon a subject about which I desired to talk with you but have hesitated for several days,” said the young man, with something of relief in his tone.
“Well then, Jack, to begin with, I wish to charter your ship for a voyage and to show that it is no subterfuge to hold you here, I say at once I wish you to sail in her.” Mr. Dunlap paused for a moment to note the effect of his proposal and then continued,
“Let me go over the situation, Jack, and tell me if you do not agree in my conclusions. Lucy, while apparently restored in a degree to her former health, is still weak and looks fragile. The physicians advise me to take her to a warmer climate before our New England Winter sets in. Her dementia still continues, and while she is perfectly gentle and harmless, she will neither tolerate the presence of her husband, nor poor Mrs. Church, and is even not pleased or quiet in my company. I think my likeness to my beloved brother affects her. She clings to your good mother and to you, my lad, with the confident affection of a child. When she is not softly singing, as she rocks and smiles in a heartrending, far-off-way, some baby lullaby, she is flitting about the house like some sweet and sorrowful shadow. Can we, Jack, expose our girl in this condition to the unsympathetic gaze of strangers?”
“No, no, a thousand times no!” was the quick and emphatic answer of the younger man.