Arabella Chapman was the neatest of housekeepers. The sitting room of
the home of David Chapman was a pattern of tidiness and cleanliness,
the furniture was rubbed and polished until it shone like glass, every
picture, rug and curtain was as speckless as newly fallen snow.
Miss Arabella seemed especially created to form the central figure of her
surroundings, as seated on a low rocking chair, she plied a neat little
needle on some nice little article of lace-work.
No tiny, tidy wren was ever brighter and more chipper in its shining
little brass cage than was Miss Arabella, as, bird-like, she peeped at
her brother, when he drew the cover from the violoncello which stood in
one corner of the room.
“I am glad to see that you intend passing the evening at home, David,”
piped up the ancient maiden.
“It has really been so long since we had any music that I am delighted
to see you uncover your violoncello,” continued the twin sister of David
Chapman.
“Well, Arabella, the fact is that in my many excursions during the last
year I have collected such a quantity of food for thought, that, like a
well filled camel I feel it necessary to pause and chew the cud awhile,”
replied David arranging some sheets of music on a stand and passing his
hand lovingly over the chords of the instrument that he held.
“I must admit that I should prefer to remain hungry mentally forever if
to procure food for thought it were necessary to don the apparel of a
tramp, and prowl around at all hours of the night, seeking, doubtless,
in the vilest dens, among the lowest vagabonds for mental sustenance,”
chirped Arabella sharply, prodding her needlework spitefully.
“Perhaps, my good sister, you will never quite understand that some
men are born investigators. By nature they are led to investigate any
phenomenon that presents itself.”
“Then I insist that it is a most unfortunate thing for one so born,”
pecked Miss Arabella with the sharpness of a quarrelsome English sparrow.
“It causes one to make a Paul Pry of himself and wander about in a very
questionable manner at unseemly hours, to the injury of both health and
reputation. When one of your age, David, is so endowed by nature it is a
positive misfortune.”
Chapman appeared greatly amused by the irritated manner of his sister,
for he smiled in that ghastly way of his as he leaned back in his chair,
still with his violoncello resting between his legs, and said,
“You see, Arabella, there may be a great difference in the way we regard
the affairs of life. Doubtless scientific researches may not afford
much pleasure to a spinster of your age, but such researches are very
attractive to me.”
“All I can add to the opinion already expressed is that when your
so-called scientific researches not alone lead you to assume the
character of an outcast, and cause you to wander about at night like
a homeless cat, but also induce you to make our home a receptacle for
all the stray, vulgar, dirty negroes that happen to come to Boston, I
must certainly protest against indulgence in such researches by you,”
retorted the elderly maiden severely, as she cast her glances about her
immaculately clean apartment, and remembered some disagreeable event of
the last few months.
David was highly amused by this speech, for he gave utterance to a
cackling kind of laugh and exclaimed,
“Arabella, you’ll never get to heaven if the road be muddy. You will be
fearful of getting your skirts soiled. I shall be right sorry for your
soul if the path to the other place be clean. I fear in that event that
nothing could hold you back from going straight to Hades.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, David. You know full well that I am no more
particular about tidiness than every other decent woman.”
What monomaniac on the subject of cleanliness ever thought otherwise?
“I insist,” continued Miss Arabella indignantly, “that when one indulges
a fad to the extent of disarranging an entire household, under the
pretense that it is part of a scientific research, it is time to protest
against such proceedings.”
“Oh, I don’t imagine that the entire household has seriously suffered by
my investigations in the field of ethnology,” replied the brother still
enjoying his sister’s perturbation of mind as she recalled some recent
experiences.
“It may be highly amusing to you, David. I hope that you enjoy the joke,
but it has been anything but amusing to me and to Bridget, having to
clean, rub and air every article of furniture in the house two or three
times each week, and it is no laughing matter to freeze while the cold
wind blows the disgusting odors left by your guest out of the rooms.
Bridget has notified me that she will leave if you continue to make a
hostelry for dirty darkies out of the house,” said the sister fairly
shivering at the remembrance of the condition in which she had found her
spotless premises after a visit of some of her brother’s newly found
associates.
“I don’t think that I am the only member of this family that has a hobby,
Arabella,” replied Chapman grinning at the flushed little lady.
“I am unaware of what you refer to, David. I certainly have no such
uncomfortable idiosyncrasy as a hard ridden hobby.”
“Don’t you think even cleanliness may become a most pestiferous hobby?”
queried Chapman with assumed guilelessness.
“Cleanliness and tidiness are but other words for common decency, and can
never be classed with the vagaries of a ‘born investigator,’” said the
spinster sarcastically, sticking her dictum into her needlework, savagely.
“You doubtless have heard, Arabella, of the woman who possessed so much
of what you call ‘common decency’ that she forced her family to live
in the barn in order that the dwelling might remain clean and tidy,”
answered Chapman, to whom the wrath of Arabella was the greatest pleasure
imaginable.
“I only wish that we had a barn. I would soon enough force you to
entertain your negro visitors there instead of bringing their odoriferous
persons and filthy accompaniments into this house,” cried the sister
vindictively.
“You must be reasonable, my most precise sister,” said David.
“When I became interested in the science of ethnology, I deemed
it expedient to begin by studying the negro race, their habits,
characteristics, manners and tendencies. Being a man born and bred
in a northern state I have never had the opportunities possessed by
southerners, who are surrounded by negroes from infancy, to know the
traits of that most interesting race. Hence I have been forced, on behalf
of science, to go forth and gather such material as was obtainable for
subjects of study and observation.”
“David, don’t be hypocritical with me; you know that neither ethnology
nor the negro race possessed the slightest interest for you, until you
learned that Walter Burton had a strain of negro blood in his veins.”
“I do not deny that my zeal was not diminished by that fact,” answered
Chapman shortly and dryly.
“And I maintain that your zeal is caused entirely by that fact, and I
wish to say further, David Chapman,” exclaimed the withered wisp of
a woman, drawing herself up very straight in her chair and looking
angrily at her brother, “if all this investigation and research lead to
anything that may cause trouble, annoyance or pain to Lucy Dunlap, whom
I have held in these arms as a baby, then I say that you are a wicked,
ungrateful man, and I wish to know nothing of your diabolic designs, nor
of the disgusting science that you call ethnology.”
God bless the dried-up spinster! God bless thy bony, skinny arms that
held that baby! Thrice blessed be the good and kindly heart that beats
warmly in thy weak and withered little body.
Seriously and steadily did Chapman gaze for a minute at the vehement,
fragile figure before him, then said meditatively,
“I believe she loves the Dunlap name as much as I do myself.”
“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.
Weep no more sad heart. The music in pealing tones of triumph is shouting
the Glad Tidings of that eternity of endless spring, where all is Love
and all is Joy; where the flowers of everlasting summer never fade and
die; where no blighting frost can come to wither the blossoms of Youth
and Hope; where the cold blasts of winter’s gloom and disappointment
never blow to chill and sadden the soul.
Grandly resound those notes triumphant; open seem the gates of that
promised future, together brother and sister their souls seem ascending;
above all is bright, refulgent with the great light of gladness, now,
coming sweetly, faintly, they catch the sound of welcome, sung above by
that heavenly chorus.
The music died away in silence. Brother and sister sat for a long
time, each busy with their own thoughts. Who but the All-wise can ever
tell what thoughts come on such occasions to those who in silence hold
self-communion in the sanctuary of their own souls.
“David, it seems strange to me that one having the tenderness of heart
that you have, should never have found some good woman to love,” said the
sister softly when the silence was finally broken.
“Indeed, sister, I sometimes think I might have done so and been happier
far than I am, had I not early in life given, in the intense way that
is part of my nature, all the love of my heart and consecrated all my
devotion to the business in which I then engaged and submerged my every
emotion in the glory and honor of the house of ‘J. Dunlap.’”
“Ah, brother, I often think of that and wonder what would happen if aught
should go wrong with the object of your life-long devotion.”
“It would kill me, Arabella,” said Chapman quietly.
The certainty of the result to the man, should misfortune shatter the
idol of his adoration, was more convincingly conveyed to the listener by
that simple sentence and quiet tone than excited exclamation could have
carried; Arabella uttered a sigh as she thought of the unshared place
that ‘J. Dunlap’ held in the strenuous soul of her brother.
“Brother, you should not allow your mind and heart to become so wrapped
up in the house of Dunlap; remember the two old gentlemen, in the course
of nature, must soon pass away and that then there is no Dunlap to
continue the business, and the career of the firm must come to an end.”
“No, Arabella, that may not happen,” replied Chapman. His voice, however,
gave no evidence of the pleasure that such a statement from him seemed to
warrant.
“There was an ante-nuptial contract entered into by Burton, in which
it is agreed that any child born to James Dunlap’s granddaughter shall
bear the name of Dunlap; hence the career of our great house will not
necessarily terminate upon the death of the twin brothers.”
“I am so glad to know that, David. I have been much concerned for your
sake, brother, fearing the dire consequences of the death of both of the
old gentlemen whom you have served so devotedly for forty odd years.”
The reassured little creature paused and then a thought, all womanly,
occurred to her mind reddening her peaked visage as she exclaimed,
“What beautiful children the Burton-Dunlaps should be!”
A worried, anxious, doubtful look came over Chapman’s countenance. He
gazed at the floor thoughtfully for several minutes and then apparently
speaking to himself said,
“That is the point; there is where I am at sea; it is that question that
gives me most anxiety.”
“Why, what can you mean, most inscrutable man, Mr. Burton is one of the
handsomest men that I ever saw and surely no prettier woman ever lived
than sweet Lucy Dunlap,” cried the loyal-hearted old maid.
“It is not a question of beauty, it is a question of blood. If it be only
a matter of appearances Lucy Burton’s children would probably be marvels
of infantine loveliness, but it is a scientific problem,” replied David
seriously and earnestly.
“What in the name of all that is nonsensical has science to do with
Lucy’s babies if any be sent to her?” cried out Miss Arabella, forgetting
in her excitement that maidenly reserve that was usually hers.
“I regret to say that science has a great deal to do with the subject,”
answered the brother quietly. “It is a matter of grave doubt in the
minds of many scientific men whether, under any circumstances, an
octoroon married to one of the white race ever can produce descendants;
it is claimed by many respectable authorities that negro blood is not
susceptible of reduction beyond the point attained in the octoroon; that
it must terminate there or breed back through its original channel,”
continued Chapman.
“It is not true! I don’t believe a word of such stuff,” ejaculated Miss
Arabella, dogmatically.
“Authorities admit, it is true, that there may be exceptions to the
invariability of this law, but claim that such instances are faults
in nature and likely, as all faults in nature, to produce the most
astounding results. These authorities assert that the progeny of an
octoroon and one of the white race being the outcome of a fault in
nature, are certain to be deficient in strength and vigor, are apt to
be deformed, and even may possibly breed back to a remote coal-black
ancestor,” said Chapman, speaking slowly, punctuating each sentence with
a gasping sound, almost a groan.
“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed his sister rising in indignation from her
chair and moving toward the door, saying,
“I positively will hear no more of your absurd science. It’s all
foolishness. If that be the idiocy that you learn from ethnology I
think that you had better occupy your time otherwise. Thanks to your
‘authorities’ and their crazy notions, I suppose that I shall dream all
night of monkeys and monsters, but even that is better than sitting her
and listening to my brother, whom I supposed had some brains, talk like
a fit subject for the lunatic asylum.” With the closing sentence, as a
parting shot at her brother the incensed spinster sailed out of the door
and with a whisk went up stairs to her virgin chamber.