“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.