“Lucy Burton is a perfect dream tonight, is she not?” exclaimed
enthusiastically Alice Stanhope, gazing admiringly at the fair companion
of her school days who had just entered the room leaning on the arm of
her husband.
“Almost as pretty as you are,” gallantly replied ‘Bertie’ Winthrop, to
whom the remark of the young woman was addressed.
“Well, don’t expect me to vie with you in flattery and reply by saying
that Mr. Burton is almost as handsome as you are, for I am like the
father of our country, ‘I can’t tell a lie.’”
“Oh! Now, that’s good. I am justified in supposing from that speech that
Burton is not nearly as handsome as I am, much obliged,” replied young
Winthrop, laughing and making a profound obeisance to the pretty creature
beside him.
“You know what I mean you rascal, so don’t try to look innocent. See
with what adoring glances Lucy looks up into her husband’s face,” said
Miss Stanhope again calling her attendant’s attention to the group of
guests near the entrance.
“Are you going to look at me like that a year from now?” asked ‘Bertie’
in a quizzical fashion as he slyly squeezed the dimpled elbow near his
side. On dit, Alice Stanhope and Albert Winthrop will soon be married.
“Bertie, you horrid tease, I don’t believe you will ever deserve to be
looked at except angrily,” retorted the blushing girl and added as she
moved a little further from him,
“And you behave, sir, or I won’t let you remain by me another minute.”
“It’s a deuce of a crush you have gotten up,” said ‘Bertie’ promptly
disregarding the warning that he had received by stepping up close to the
side of his fiancee.
“Where did you get all these people anyway, Alice?”
“There’s no ‘all these people’ about it, they are the musical set among
my friends in Boston and New York; as Signor Capello and Mme. Cantara
are to sing of course everyone invited was eager to be present.”
“Never invite all your musical friends to dine with us when we are—”
“Hush, you embarrassing wretch,” cried Miss Stanhope turning to welcome
some recently arrived guests.
After considerable diplomatic finessing and resort to that most
efficacious auxiliary, “Papa’s cheque book,” Miss Stanhope had secured
the services of the two great operatic luminaries to sing at a grand
musicale given by her.
All the “swell set” of Boston and New York thronged the palacious home
of the Stanhope’s on the occasion. The gray-haired, courtly governor of
Massachusetts was chatting as gaily with petite Bessie Winthrop as he had
done with her grandmother a half century before. Foreign diplomatists
and Federal potentates discussed in corners the comparative merits of
Italian and German composers of music; literary lights from all over New
England joined the musical element of New York and Boston in filling the
Stanhope’s halls.
“I insisted upon coming here tonight, Alice, even though this over-worked
husband of mine did complain of a headache at dinner and I was loathe to
have him accompany me. You remember this is the anniversary of my wedding
and I wished to celebrate the day,” said Lucy Burton to the hostess when
at last Burton had managed to make a way for himself and wife through the
crowded rooms and reached the place where Miss Stanhope was receiving her
guests.
“I am awfully glad you came, dear. We are sure to have a treat. Signor
Capello has promised to sing something from the new opera by Herman that
has just been produced in Berlin,” and addressing Burton Miss Stanhope
added,
“I trust that your headache has disappeared.”
“Thank you, Miss Alice, it has entirely vanished under the influence of
my charming wife’s ministrations, and the brilliant gathering about me
here,” replied Burton.
“A slight pallor and circles around sad eyes, you know, Mr. Burton, give
an exceedingly interesting and romantic appearance to dark men,” rejoined
Alice Stanhope smiling in spite of her effort not to do so when she
noticed the anxious, worshiping look with which Lucy regarded her husband.
“Really, I believe Lucy is more in love than she was a year ago,” said
the laughing hostess as she turned to receive the German Ambassador,
who had traveled all the way from Washington in the hope of hearing
selections from Herman’s new opera.
In all that gathering of fair women and gallant men, there was no couple
so noticeable as the splendid pair who this day one year before were
wedded.
As Burton and his wife passed through the crowded halls all eyes were
turned toward them, paying mute tribute to the exceeding beauty of both
man and woman.
Burton, by one of those sudden rebounds of spirit to which he was
subject, inspired by the gaiety about him was in a perfect glow of
intellectual fire. The brilliancy of his well trained mind never
shone more brightly, his wit scintillated in apt epigrams, and
incomparably clever metaphors. He won the heart of the German
Ambassador by discussing with the taste and discrimination of a savant
that distinguished Teuton’s favorite composer, Herman, using the deep
gutturals of the German language with the ease of a native of Prussia.
He exchanged bon-mots with wicked old Countess DeMille, who declared him
a _preux chevalier_ and the only American whom she had ever met who spoke
her language, so she called French, like a Parisian.
Lucy’s beaming face and sparkling eyes told of the rapture of pride and
love that filled her heart. She looked indeed the “Princess” as with
her well-turned head, with its gold-brown crown, held high, she proudly
looked upon her lover and her lord and caught the approval and applause
that appeared in every eye about her.
Never had her husband seemed so much superior to all other men, in Lucy’s
mind, as he did this night. Wherever they paused in their passage around
the rooms, that spot immediately became the center of a group of people
eager to render homage to the regal beauty of the young matron, and to
enjoy the wit and vivacity of the most _distingue_ man present.
“Ah, Mr. Burton, I see that the splendor of the Rose of Dunlap remains
undiminished, notwithstanding its transference from the garden of its
early growth,” said the gallant Governor of the old Bay State when
greeting the young couple as they stopped near him.
“The splendor of the roses of Massachusetts is so transcendent that it
would remain unimpaired in any keeping how e’er unworthy,” replied Lucy’s
husband, bowing gracefully to the Executive of the State.
“When I saw you enter the room, Mrs. Burton, I hoped to see my old
friend, your grandfather, follow. How is James? You see I take the
liberty of still speaking of him as I did many years before your bright
eyes brought light into the Dunlap mansion.”
“Grandfather is very well, thank you, Governor, but I failed to coax him
away from his easy chair and slippers this evening; beside I think he was
a little ‘grump,’ as I call it, about having lost a wager to a certain
young woman of about my height; he declared it was not the box of gloves
but loss of prestige that he disliked,” answered Lucy merrily as she
looked up at the amused countenance of the Governor.
“I fear that I shall be obliged to exercise my official prerogative and
give that gay youth, James Dunlap, a lecture if I hear anything more of
his reckless wagers,” said the jocose old gentleman, and then added:
“By the way, Mrs. Burton, the newspapers this evening contain long
accounts of the magnificent conduct of a New England sea captain, to whom
the King of England has sent a letter of congratulation and praise. As
the name given is Captain John Dunlap, I have been wondering if it can be
that stubborn fellow whom your Uncle John and I endeavored to convince
that he ought to enter Harvard.”
“It is the same stubborn, dear old cousin Jack who preferred the sea
to being sent to Harvard, and he is the best and bravest sailor on the
waters blue,” answered Lucy quickly, her face flushed by pleasure at
hearing Jack’s praises sung and pride in knowing that he was her kinsman.
“It seems the lad was wiser than we were when he refused to be convinced
by John and me. A grand sailor might have been spoiled in the making of
a poor scholar. As long as the sailor sons of Uncle Sam can number men of
your cousin Jack’s kind among them we need never fear for honor of the
Gem of the Ocean,” said the Governor quite seriously.
“I heartily endorse that sentiment, your Excellency, but fear that on
land or sea it would be difficult to discover many men like Jack Dunlap,”
exclaimed Walter Burton warmly.
“When is he coming home, Lucy? You know that I lost my heart the first
time that I met your bronzed sailor cousin, and am waiting anxiously
for my mariner’s return,” said Bessie Winthrop, her violet-colored eyes
twinkling with the gladness of youth and happiness. _En passant_ she was
a fearful little flirt.
“He does not say in his letters when we may expect him, but when I write
I’ll tell him what you say, and if he does not hurry home after that
nothing can induce him to do so,” said Lucy as she moved away with her
husband to make room for several admirers of Miss Winthrop who were
eagerly awaiting an opportunity to pay court to that popular young lady.
Just as Burton and his wife left the Governor and his pretty companion,
the tuning of instruments announced the prelude to the programme for the
evening. Silence fell upon the assembly, the gentlemen sought seats for
the ladies and secured the most available standing room for themselves.
Surely Signor Capello never sang so grandly before. The superb harmony of
Herman’s great composition filled the souls of that cultivated audience.
The German Ambassador was in a perfect ecstasy of delight, and even the
least appreciative were impressed, while the hypercritic, casting aside
all assumption of _ennui_, became enthusiastic.
Madame Cantara trilled and warbled in tones so clear, flute-like and
sweet that to close one’s eyes was to imagine the apartment some vast
forest, filled with a myriad of feathered songsters, vying with each
other for woodland supremacy in Apollo’s blessed sphere.
Miss Stanhope’s musicale was a pronounced and splendid success. Nothing
approaching it had entertained Boston’s fastidious “four hundred” that
season.
Burton declared that it was the most delightful function he had attended
in years, when Lucy, enwrapped in furs, was closely nestled at his
side in the carriage after the entertainment was over. Burton was _par
excellence_ a judge of such affairs. In fact, he had been accorded the
position of _arbiter elegantiarum_ by a tacit understanding among people
of taste and culture in Boston’s elite society.
It was among such scenes, surroundings, environments and society as above
described that Burton’s life had been passed since coming to America. It
was in this joyous atmosphere that the first year of Lucy’s married life
glided by so rapidly that the length of time seemed difficult for her to
realize. It was like the dream of a summer’s day, so bright, cloudless
and calm, so fragrant with the perfume of love’s early blossoms, that its
passage was as that of a fleeting shadow.
* * * * *
The sinking sun cast lengthening shadows across Manila Bay, where
swinging peacefully at their anchors lay the great war ships of several
nations, and where the tall masts of a fleet of merchantmen caused bars
of shade to stripe the burnished waters of the Bay.
The starry flag of the great Republic had received that salute, ever
loyally given by the sons of Columbia, as the sun sank beneath the
horizon, and the bugle blew its farewell to the departing orb of day.
Four majestic, floating fortresses, on whose decks stood uncovered crews
as the proud flag of the union descended, gave notice to the world of
the might of that young giant of the west that held dominion in the
Philippines.
Striding along in the rapidly darkening twilight, up the main street of
Manila, walked one who would have been known as a sailor by his swinging,
rolling gait, even without the nautical cut and material of the clothing
that he wore.
As he approached the newly erected, palacious American hotel, around
which ran a broad veranda filled with tables and chairs, the chief resort
of the army and naval officers stationed at Manila, a voice cried from
the balcony above him:
“Jack Dunlap, by all that is marvelous!”
The sailor-man looked up and with an exclamation of pleased recognition,
shouted:
“Tom Maxon, by all that is fortunate!”
“Come up here this instant, you sea-dog, wet your whistle and swap yarns
with me,” called the first speaker, rising from the table at which he was
seated and hurrying to the top of the half dozen steps that rose from the
sidewalk to the entrance on the veranda.
The two men shook hands with the warmth and cordiality of old cronies,
when the sailor reached the balcony. The meeting was evidently as
agreeable as it was unexpected.
The man who had been seated on the veranda, when the sailor approached,
was apparently of the same age as the friend whose coming he had hailed
with delight. He, too, was evidently a son of Neptune, for he wore the
cap and undress uniform of a lieutenant in the United States Navy.
He was a big, fine man on whose good-looking, tanned face a smile seemed
more natural, and, in fact, was more often seen than a frown.
“Jack, old man, you can’t imagine how glad I am to run afoul of you.
Had the choice been left to me as to whom I would choose to walk up the
street just now, I’d have bawled out ‘Good old Jack Dunlap!’ Well, how
are you anyway? Where’ve you been? and how are all in Boston? But first
let’s have a drink; what shall it be, bully?”
All of these questions and ejaculations were made while the naval man
still held Jack’s hand and was towing him along like a huge, puffing
tug toward the table from which the officer sprang up to welcome his
companion.
“By Jove, Tom, give me time to breathe; you’ve hurled a regular broadside
of questions into my hull. Haul off and hold a minute; cease firing! as
you fighters say,” expostulated our old acquaintance, Captain Jack, as he
was fairly shoved into a chair at the table and opposite the laughing and
red-faced lieutenant.
“Come here, waiter,” called Maxon to a passing attendant, in high glee
over Jack’s cry for quarter and his own good luck in meeting an old chum
when he was especially lonely and eager to have a talk about home and
friends.
“Bring us a bottle of champagne and let it be as cold as the Admiral’s
heart when a poor devil of a lieutenant asks for a few day’s shore leave.”
“Now, my water-logged consort, we will first and foremost drink in a
brimming bumper of ‘Fizz’ the golden dome in Boston and the bonny-bright
eyes of the beauties that beam on it,” exclaimed jolly Tom Maxon,
bubbling over with happiness at having just the man he wished to talk
about Boston with.
“I say! Tom, have you been studying up on alliteration? You rang in all
the B’s of the hive in that toast,” said the merchant skipper, emptying
his glass in honor of Boston and her fair daughters.
“I don’t require thought or study to become eloquent when the ‘Hub’ and
her beauties be the theme, but you just up anchor and sail ahead giving
an account of yourself, my hearty,” Tom replied with great gusto.
“To begin, then, as the typical story writer does, one November day some
thirteen months ago, I sailed away (I’ve caught the complaint. I came
near making a rhyme) from Boston in the good ship ‘Adams.’ When a week
out of harbor as per instructions from the house of Dunlap, I unsealed my
papers to find that the ship had been presented to me by my kinsmen, the
Dunlap brothers.”
“Stop! Hold, my hearty, until we drink the health of the jolly old twins.
May their shadows never grow less and may the good Lord send along such
kinsmen to poor Tom Maxon,” interrupted the irreverent Tom, filling the
glasses and proceeding to honor the toast by promptly draining his.
Jack and Tom had been pupils in the same school in Boston when they were
boys. Their tastes and dispositions being much alike they became chums
and warm friends. Like young ducks, both of the lads naturally took
to the water. When they had gotten through with the grammar-school an
appointment to the Annapolis Naval Academy was offered to young Maxon
by the representative of his Congressional district, which he joyfully
accepted, and hence was now a United States officer. Jack had entered the
High School and later the merchant marine service.
Though seeing but little of each other after their first separation, the
same feeling of friendship and comradeship was maintained between Jack
and Tom that had existed when as Boston schoolboys they chummed together,
and whenever, at rare intervals, they were fortunate enough to meet they
mutually threw off all the reserve that had come to them with age and
became Boston boys once again.
“Now, heave ahead, my bully-boy!” cried Tom, putting down his empty wine
glass.
“In addition to the gift of the ship from the firm, I found that my old
cousin John had personally presented me with a large part of the ship’s
cargo.”
“Again hold! you lucky sea-dog! Here’s to dear old Cousin John, and God
bless him!” called Tom gleefully, his generous sailor-soul as happy over
the good fortune of his friend as if he himself had been the beneficiary
of Mr. John Dunlap’s munificence, again pledging Jack’s kind kinsman in a
glass of iced wine.
“With all my heart I say, amen! Tom, God never made better men and more
liberal kinsmen than the ‘J. Dunlaps,’” said Jack earnestly as he began
again his recital.
“When I arrived in Melbourne I disposed of my cargo through our agents,
loaded and sailed for Liverpool, returned to Melbourne, took on a cargo
for Manila, and here I am drinking to long life and good health to my two
old kinsmen with my school fellow Tom Maxon.”
“And the future programme is what?” said the lieutenant.
“You have left out lots about yourself, that I know of, concerning your
past movements, so try to be truthful about your future plans,” continued
Maxon, assuming an inquisitorial air.
“All right, my knowing father confessor,” answered Dunlap, laughing.
“I have done well as far as making money is concerned, which statement
I wish added to my former deposition. Oh! most wise judge; I propose
sailing within the week for Hong-kong, thence to San Francisco, from the
latter port I desire to clear for Boston, in God’s country, stopping,
however, at Port au Prince, Haiti, both as a matter of business and also
with the design of personally thanking my kind godfather for his gifts.
Finally I hope to reach New England and be with my dear mother while
yet the Yankee hills are blooming with summer flowers. One word further
and my story is finished. My object in returning to Boston is to induce
my mother to return with me to Australia, where I have purchased some
property and where I desire to make my home in future—finis—”
“Fairly well told, my bold buccaneer; however, I disapprove of your
making Australia your home. Now, sir, what about saving a few smallpox
patients, emigrants, and such like, and receiving a letter from H.M. King
of England, and such trifles as we read of in the newspaper?” demanded
Tom, sententiously.
“Oh! That just happened, and there has been too much said about it to
find a place on my logbook,” replied Jack, shortly, coloring just a shade.
“I’m!—well, no matter—I don’t agree with you, but I will shake your hand
once again and say that I find my old chum as modest as I always knew
him to be brave,” rejoined Tom Maxon, rising, reaching over and grasping
Jack’s hand, and bowing gravely and respectfully as he held it.
Jack’s face was now all fire-red, as he said in great embarrassment:
“Oh, Pshaw, slack up, Tom, haul off.”
“You know what the Admiral said when he read the account of what you had
done?” cried out Tom when he settled back in his chair.
“Of course, you don’t, but it’s a fine ram at the merchant marine. The
Admiral thinks that an officer for sea service can’t be made except at
Annapolis. When he read of what you had done, he exclaimed: ‘That fellow
is almost good enough to be an officer in the United States Navy.’ The
Executive officer who heard the Admiral repeated it, and ever since the
fellows of our mess, who hate some of the ‘snobs’ that Annapolis sends to
us, have been quietly poking fun at the old man about it.”
“Now, will Lieutenant Thomas Maxon, U.S.N., in all the glory of his
Annapolis seamanship, give an account of himself?” broke in Jack, anxious
to escape further mention of his own affairs.
“The last time I saw you, Tom, you were dancing at the end of Bessie
Winthrop’s hawser. Though I had never, at the time, met your charmer, I
thought her a pretty craft.”
“That’s it! Now you touch the raw spot!” cried Tom.
“I was stationed at Boston, and went about some little. I met Bert
Winthrop’s sister and, like an ass of a sailor that I am, fell in love
with her at the first turn of the wheel. Well, I rolled around after the
beauty like a porpoise in the wake of a dolphin for the whole season.
Finally I mustered up courage to bring the chase to a climax and got a
most graceful conge for my temerity, whereupon I retired in bad order,
and was rejoiced when assigned to the battleship Delaware and sent to
sea.”
As the rollicking sailor ended his story, he threw back his head and
began softly singing in a sentimental tone, “Oh! Bessie, you have broken
my heart.”
“Well, I’ll go bail that the fracture won’t kill you, you incorrigible
joker,” said Jack, interrupting the flow of Maxon’s sentimentality.
“See, now, our best friends never take us seriously, and sympathize with
us when we suffer,” said the lieutenant dolefully.
“But to continue my sad story. I was ordered to the U.S.S. Delaware,
flag-ship of the Asiatic fleet. Admiral Snave can out-swear Beelzebub,
has the sympathy of a pirate, and would work up all the old iron of a
fleet if there was as much in it as in the mountains of Pennsylvania. So
your poor, delicate friend is tempted to ask to be retired on account
of physical disability.” So saying, Tom began roaring with laughter so
healthful that it shook his stalwart frame.
“Hold though!” exclaimed the U.S. officer, stopping in the midst of his
outburst of merriment, suddenly thinking of something omitted.
“You must understand that we all admire the Admiral hugely. He is a
magnificent officer, and a fighter to the end of his plume; carries a
chip on his shoulder when he imagines anyone is spoiling for a fight, or
even looks crossways at grand Old Glory.”
Thus the two friends talked on, relating their experiences, joking
each other, and laughing in that careless happy way, common alike to
schoolboys and those who sail the sea.
Captain Dunlap declared that this berth was good enough for him, that
he would drop his anchor right there, and calling a waiter proceeded to
order everything on the menu for dinner, telling the waiter to serve it
where they were and serve slowly so that they might enjoy a rambling
conversation while they dined.
Eating, drinking, talking and smoking, the chums of boyhood days sat for
hours, until the streets became, as was the veranda, almost deserted.
Suddenly in an interval of silence as they puffed their cigars, a
piercing scream disturbed the quiet of the street below. Again and again
was the cry repeated in an agonized female voice.
Both men sprang to their feet and peered along the dark avenue that ran
toward the bay. About a block away they discerned just within the outer
circle of light cast by an electric burner a struggling mass of men.
At the instant that Jack and Tom discovered whence came the cries, a
figure broke from the crowd and ran screaming through the illuminated
spot on the avenue pursued by a half dozen men wearing the Russian naval
uniform. The pursued figure was that of a half nude female.
With an angry growl, Jack Dunlap placed one hand on the low railing
around the veranda and cleared it at a bound, landing on the sidewalk
below, he broke into a run, and dashed toward the group of men under the
electric light, who were struggling with the person whom they had pursued
and recaptured.
“The flag follows trade in this case,” cried Maxon, who would joke even
on his death-bed, as he, too, sprang to the pavement and raced after Jack.
The brutal Finnish sailors of the Russian man-of-war in Manila Bay swore
to their mess-mates that ten gigantic Yankees had fallen upon them and
taken away the Malay girl. They thus accounted for their broken noses and
discolored optics.
Truth is, that it was a rush; the working of four well-trained Yankee
arms like the piston rods of a high-speed engine. Outraged American
manhood and old Aryan courage against the spirit of brutal lustfulness,
ignorance and race inferiority.
“I say, Jack,” cried out Maxon as he raised his face from the basin in
which he had been bathing a bruise, “Why don’t you go in for the P.R.
championship? You must be a sweet skipper for a crew to go rusty with!
Why, Matey, you had the whole gang going before I even reached you. Look
here, sonny, you are just hell and a hurricane in a shindy of that kind.”
“Well, I tell you, Tom,” called Jack from the next room, where, seated on
the edge of the bed, he was binding a handkerchief around the bleeding
knuckles of his left hand.
“That kind of thing always sets my blood boiling, but that in a city
under our flag an outrage of that kind should be attempted made me wild.
I guess from the looks of my hands that maybe I did punch rather hard.”
Rising, Jack walked to the open door between the two bedrooms and added:
“I don’t mind just a plain fight, or even sometimes a murder, but when
it comes to a brute assaulting a woman or child, I’m damned if I don’t
become like one of Victor Hugo’s characters, ‘I see red.’ Temper seems to
surge in my very blood.”
Jack’s face, as he spoke, wore an angry scowl, to which the earnest
gesticulations with his bandaged fists gave double meaning.
“Of course it surges in your blood, old chap, as it does on such
occasions in mine and every other decent descendant of Shem and Japheth
on earth,” replied Tom Maxon.