No social event of the season equalled the Burton-Dunlap wedding.
For weeks prior to the date of the ceremony it had been the one
all-engrossing theme of conversation with everybody; that is, everybody
who was anybody, in the metropolis of the Old Bay State.
The immense settlement, the magnificent gifts, the exquisite trousseau
from Paris, the surpassing beauty of the bride, the culture and
accomplishments of the handsome groom, the exalted position of the
Dunlap family, these formed the almost exclusive topics of Boston’s most
exclusive set for many weeks before the wedding.
What a grand church wedding it was! The church was a perfect mass of
flowers and plants of the rarest and most expensive kind. The music
grandissimo beyond expression. A bishop assisted by two clergymen
performed the ceremony. The bride, a dream of loveliness in lace, satin
and orange blossoms; the groom a model of grace and chivalry; the tiny
maids, earth-born angels; the ushers Boston’s bluest blooded scions of
the Pilgrim Fathers, and finally everybody who was anybody was there.
And the reception! The Dunlap mansion and grounds were resplendent in a
blaze of light; the beauty, talent, wealth and great names of New England
were gathered there to congratulate the happy bride, Dunlap’s heiress,
and the fortunate groom.
“A most appropriate match! How fortunate for all concerned! How
delightful for the two old gentlemen!” declared everybody who was anybody.
Four special policemen guarded the glittering array of almost priceless
wedding presents; in the splendid refreshment room, brilliant in
glittering glass and silver, Boston’s best and gentlest pledged the happy
bride and groom in many a glass of rarest wine and wished long life and
happiness to that charming, well-mated pair.
The bride, radiant in her glorious beauty, rejecting as adornment for
this occasion, diamond necklace and tiara, gifts of the groom, selected a
simple coil of snowy pearls.
“The gift of my Cousin Jack,” she proudly said. “My earliest lover and
most steadfast friend.”
The savings of years of sailor life had been expended ungrudgingly to lay
this tribute of love on that fair bosom.
How well assured was the future of this fortunate couple! The prospect
stretched before them like one long, joyous journey of uninterrupted
bliss. Life’s pathway all lined with thornless roses beneath summer’s
smiling sky.
Naught seemed lacking to make assurance of the future doubly sure. Youth,
health, wealth, social position, culture, refinement, intelligence,
amiability.
Soft strains of music floated on the perfumed air, bright eyes “spake
love to eyes that spake again,” midst palms and in flower-garlanded
recesses gentle voices whispered words of love to willing ears; in the
center of this unalloyed blissfulness were Burton and his bride.
“Old bachelors are as excitable concerning marriage as old spinsters
can possibly be. See Mr. John Dunlap, how flushed and nervous he seems!
He hovers about the bride like an anxious mother!” So said two elderly
grand-dames behind their fans while watching the group about Burton’s
fair young wife.
Among that gay and gallant company moved one restless figure and peering
face. David Chapman, leaving his sister, Miss Arabella, under the
protecting care of Mrs. Church, lest during the confusion of so large a
gathering, some daring cavalier, enamored of her maiden-charms, should
elope with the guileless creature, mingled with the throng of guests,
unobtrusive, but ever vigilant and watchful.
Chapman’s countenance bore an odd expression, a mixture of satisfied
curiosity, vindictiveness and regret.
That very day a superannuated sailor who for years had served the house
of Dunlap, and now acted as ship-keeper for vessels in its employ, called
to report to the superintendent some trifling loss. Before leaving he
asked respectfully, knuckling his forehead.
“Is the manager goin’ to marry ter’day?”
“Yes; why?” said Chapman sharply.
“Nothin’ ’cept I’ve often seen his mother and took notice of him here,”
replied the man.
“Where did you see Mr. Burton’s mother? Who was she?” Chapman asked
eagerly in his keen way.
“In Port au Prince, mor’n twenty-five year er’go. She was Ducros’, the
sugar planter’s darter, and the puttiest quadroon I ever seen. Yea, the
puttiest woman of any kind I ever seen,” answered the old ship-keeper in
a reminiscent tone.
Chapman’s eyes fairly sparkled with pleasure as he thus secured a clew
for future investigation, but without asking other questions he dismissed
the retired seaman. It was this information that gave to his face that
singular expression during the reception.
A private palace car stood on the track in the station waiting for the
coming of the bridal party. Naught less than a special train could be
considered when it was decided that Florida should be the favored spot
where the wealthy Haitien and his bride, the Dunlap heiress, would spend
their honeymoon.
Soft and balmy are the breezes, that pouring through the open windows of
the car, flood the interior with odors of pine cones and orange blooms,
as Burton’s special train speeds through the Flower State of the Union.
The car is decked with the fresh and gorgeous blossoms of this snowless
land; yet of all the fairest is that sweet bud that rests on Burton’s
breast.
“Walter, how sweet is life when one loves and is beloved,” said Burton’s
young wife dreamily, raising her head from his breast and gazing fondly
into her husband’s eyes.
“Yes, love, life then is heaven on earth, sweet wife,” whispered the
husband clasping closely the yielding figure in his arms.
“I am so happy, dearest Walter, I love you so dearly,” murmured Lucy
clinging still closer to her lover.
“You will always love me thus, I hope, my darling,” said Walter, as he
kissed the white forehead of his bride.
“Of course I shall, my own dear husband,” answered unhesitatingly the
happy, trusting woman.
“Could nothing, no matter what, however unexpected and unforeseen, shake
your faith in me, or take from me that love I hold so sacred and so
dear?” asked Burton earnestly, pressing his wife to his heart.
“Nothing could alter my love for you, my husband,” answered Lucy quickly,
as she raised her head and kissed him.
The special train slows up at a small station. Put on breaks! The whistle
calls, and the train stops until the dispatcher can get a “clear track”
message from the next station.
The crowd of negroes, male and female, large and small, stare with
wondering admiration at the beautiful being who appears on the rear
platform of the car accompanied by such a perfect Adonis of a man.
Lucy Burton was an object not likely to escape attention. Her full
round form, slender, yet molded into most delicious curves, was shown
to perfection by the tight-fitting traveling gown of some kind of
soft stuff that she wore; her happy, beautiful face, bright with the
love-light in her hazel eyes, presented a picture calculated to cause
even the most fastidious to stare. To the ignorant black people she was a
revelation of loveliness.
As the negroes, in opened-mouthed wonder, came closer and clustered
about the steps of the car, their great eyes wide and white, Lucy drew
back a little and somewhat timidly slipped her hand into her husband’s,
whispering:
“I am afraid of them, they are so black and shocking with their rolling
eyes and thick lips.”
“Nonsense! sweetheart,” said Walter with a laugh not all together
spontaneous.
“They are a merry, gentle folk, gay and good-natured; the Southern people
would have no other nurses for their babies. I thought New England people
had long since ceased to notice the color of mankind’s skin.”
“But, Walter, how horrid they are! We see so few of them in New England
that they don’t seem like these. How dreadfully black and brutal they
are. Let us go inside, I really am afraid!” cried Lucy in a low voice
and started to retreat.
At that moment a tall and very black woman who held a baby at her breast,
negro-like, carried away by thoughtless good nature and admiration for
the lovely stranger, raised her ink-colored picaninny, and in motherly
pride thrust it forward until its little wooly black head almost touched
Lucy’s bosom.
With one glance of loathing, terror and unconcealed horror at the object
resting nearly on her breast, Lucy gave a scream of fear and fled.
Throwing herself on one of the settees in the car she buried her face
among the cushions and wept solely from fright and nervousness.
“Why! sweetheart, what is the matter? There is nothing to fear. Those
poor people were only admiring you, my darling,” cried Burton hurrying to
his young wife’s side and seeking to quiet her fears.
“I can’t help it, Walter, all those black faces crowded together near to
me was awful, and that dreadful little black thing almost touched me,”
sobbed Lucy nervously.
“Darling, the dreadful little black thing was only a harmless baby,”
replied the husband soothingly.
“Baby!” cried the astonished young woman, lifting her head from the
cushions and regarding her companion through her undried tears with
doubt, as if suspecting him of joking. “I thought it was an ape or some
hideous little imp! Baby!” and seeing that there was no joke about what
her husband said, she added:
“I didn’t know negroes looked like that when babies. I would not touch
that loathsome, horrid thing for worlds. It made my flesh fairly quiver
to see it even near me.”
Walter Burton succeeded in allaying the alarm of his wife only after the
train had resumed its rapid journey southward. When Lucy, lulled to sleep
by the low music of the guitar which he played to distract her attention
from the unpleasant recollection, no longer demanded his presence, Burton
sought the smoking-room of the car and passed an hour in solemn, profound
meditation, as he puffed continuously fragrant Havanas.
“I was wrong! She did not know. Now she never shall if I can prevent
it.” Such were the words of Lucy’s husband when throwing away his cigar
he arose to rejoin his young wife.
* * * * *
Many hundred miles from flowery Florida across a watery way, a ship was
wildly tossing upon an angry, sullen sea. For three days and nights with
ceaseless toil, in constant danger, the weary crew had battled with
howling winds and tempestuous waves.
A storm of awe-inspiring fury had burst upon the good ship “Adams,” of
Boston, bound for Melbourne, on the night of December the nineteenth in
that good year of our Lord.
The superb seamanship of the skipper, combined with the prompt alacrity
of the willing crew, alone saved the ship from adding her broken frame to
that countless multitude which rest beneath the waves.
The wind was still blowing a gale, but there was perceptibly less force
in it, as shrieking it tore through the rigging and against the almost
bare masts, than there had been in three days.
Two men stood in the cabin, enveloped in oil-skins, with rubber boots
reaching above their knees. Their eyes were red from wind and watching,
while they answered the heave of the ship wearily as if worn out with the
excessive labor of the last seventy-two hours. The men were the two mates
of the “Adams.” The captain had sent them below for a glass of grog and a
biscuit. There had been no fire in the galley for the three days that the
storm had beaten upon the ship.
“The skipper must be made of iron,” said the shorter man, Morgan, the
second officer.
“He has hardly left the deck a minute since the squall struck us, and he
is as quick and strong as a shark,” he continued, munching on the biscuit
and balancing himself carefully as he raised his glass of grog.
“Every inch a sailor is the skipper,” growled the larger man hoarsely.
“Sailed with Captain Dunlap in the ‘Lucy,’ and no better master ever trod
a quarter-deck,” added Mr. Brice, the first officer of the “Adams.”
“He surely knows his business and handles the ship with the ease a
Chinaman does his chopsticks, but he’s the surliest, most silent skipper
I ever sailed with. You told us, Mr. Brice, when you came aboard that he
was the jolliest; was he like this when you were with him on the ‘Lucy’?”
said the second mate inquiringly.
“No, he wasn’t!” mumbled old Brice in answer.
“Somethin’ went wrong with him ashore,” adding angrily as he turned and
glared at his young companion:
“But ’tis none of your blamed business or mine neither what’s up with the
skipper; you didn’t ship for society, did you?”
“That’s right enough, Mr. Brice, but I tell you what ’tis, the men think
the captain a little out of trim in the sky-sail. They say he walks about
ship at night like a ghost and does queer things. Second day of the
storm, the twentieth, in the evening, while it was blowing great guns and
ship pitching like she’d stick her nose under forever, I was standin’ by
to help Collins at the wheel; we see the skipper come staggering along
aft balancing himself careful as a rope walker an a holdin’ a glass of
wine in his hand. When he gets to the rail at the stern he holds up high
the glass and talks to wind, Davy Jones or somethin’, drinks the wine and
hurls the glass to hell and gone into the sea. How’s that, mate? Collins
looks at me and shakes his head, and I feels creepy myself.”
For a minute Brice, with red and angry eyes, stared at the second mate,
then he burst out in a roar:
“I’ll knock the head off ’er Collins, and marlin spike the rest ’er the
bloomin’ sea lawyers in the for’castle if I catch them talkin’ erbout the
skipper, and I tell you, Mr. Second Mate, you keep your mouth well shut
or you’ll get such ’er keel haulin’ you won’t fergit. Captain Dunlap is
no man to projec’k with and he’s mighty rough in er shindy.”
With that closing admonition the first officer turned and climbed the
reeling stairs that led to the deck. As he emerged from the companion-way
a great wave struck the side of ship heeling her over and hurling the
mate against the man who had formed the topic of discussion in the cabin
below.
The skipper was wet to the skin; he had thrown aside his oil-skins to
enable him to move more nimbly, his face was worn, drawn and almost of
leaden hue. Deep lines and the dark circles around his eyes told a story
of loss of sleep, fatigue and anxiety. How much of this was due to an
aching pain in the heart only Him to whom all things are revealed could
know.
Morgan’s story was true. He had described when, how and under what
conditions Jack had pledged Lucy in a glass of wine on her wedding day,
praying God to send blessings and happiness to his lost love.
Sing sweet mocking birds! Shine genial sun! Bloom fairest flowers of
Sunny Florida! Bliss be thine, loved Lucy! Dream not of the ocean’s angry
roar! The tempest’s cruel blast!