XI.

The Scottish Bard has written that to see fair Melrose Abbey a-right,

one must visit it in the moon’s pale light. To see New England in its

greatest glory one must visit that section of hallowed memories in the

summer season.

Then it is that granite hills are wrapped in emerald mantles. Then it is

that hill-sides, slopes and meadows are dimpled with countless daisies,

peeping enticingly from the face of smiling nature. Then it is brooks,

released from winter’s icy bondage, laugh, sing, dance and gambol like

merry maidens in some care-free frolic.

August, in the second year of Lucy Burton’s married life, found Dunlap’s

mansion still occupied by the entire family. True, the Dunlap estate lay

in the most elevated portion of the suburbs of Boston, and the house

stood in the center of extensive grounds almost park-like in extent and

arrangement, still it was unusual for the house to be occupied by the

family at that season of the year.

Generations of Dunlaps had sought relief from city life and bustle during

the month of August, either among the Berkshire Hills, where an ornate

villa had been owned by them for decades, or at Old Orchard, where their

summer home was rather a palace than a cottage, though so called by

the family. Burton, too, had a fine establishment at Newport; yet this

eventful August found the family in their city residence.

Many other things unusual attracted attention and caused comment among

the associates of members of the Dunlap household. Burton and Lucy had

been noticeably absent during the past few months from those public

functions to which, by their presence, they had formerly given so much

eclat.

The very clerks in the office of J. Dunlap commented upon the jubilant

spirit that had taken possession of, the always genial, manager. Chapman

regarded his apparent joyousness with suspicion, and of all the office

forces alone seemed displeased with its presence.

To intimate friends Burton spoke of selling the “Eyrie,” saying that it

was of no further use or pleasure to him; that for months he had only

been near it to select some choice flowers from the conservatory for the

vases that adorned his wife’s apartments.

Mr. James Dunlap, ever the kindest, most considerate of beings,

the gentlest of gentlemen, had become so solicitous concerning his

granddaughter’s comfort and care as to appear almost old womanish.

The anxiety he displayed about all that tended to Lucy’s welfare was

absolutely pathetic.

Walter Burton’s demeanor toward his young wife might, for all men, serve

as a model of devoted, thoughtful deportment on the part of husbands.

To amuse and entertain her seemed his all-absorbing idea and object. To

exercise his brilliant mental gifts in gay and enlivening conversation

was his chief pleasure. To use all the great musical talent that he

possessed, to drive any momentary shadow of sadness from her spirit. To

stroll about the garden in the moonlight, again whispering those words of

love by which he had first won her, was blissful occupation to him.

Even good old Uncle John in far-off Haiti imbibed the spirit that seemed

all pervading in the realm about the young matron. Great hampers of

tropical fruits, plants and flowers came by trebly-paid expressage from

the West Indies, speed alone being considered. They must be fresh when

offered to Lucy. Then, too, almost daily messages came over the cable

from Haiti, “How are all today,” signed “John,” and it was ordered at

the office that each day should go a message to Port au Prince, unless

especially forbidden, saying, “All is well,” this to be signed “James.”

Mrs. Church, the most sedate, composed and stately of old gentlewomen,

too, is in a flutter of suppressed excitement, frequently closeted in

deep and mysterious consultations with medical men and motherly looking

women; giving strange orders about the preparation of certain dishes for

the table, driving the chef almost distracted by forbidding sauces that

should always accompany some favorite entree of that tyrant.

A suite of rooms in the Dunlap mansion has been newly decorated; nothing

like these decorations has ever been seen before in Boston. In elegance,

taste and beauty they are the _ne plus ultra_ of decorative art. One,

while in the sacred precincts of the recently remodeled apartments, might

readily imagine that spring had been captured and fettered here to make

its sweet, bright presence perpetual in this favored place. Colors of the

tinted sunbeam mingled with the peach blossom’s tender shade to make the

spot a bower of beauty wherein a smiling cupid might pause and fold his

wings to slumber, forgetful of his couch of pink pearl shell.

The cultured, artistic, delicate taste of Boston’s _arbiter elegantiarum_

never produced anything approaching the exquisite blending of colors and

unique, airy, harmonious fittings seen in this, the ideal conception of

the abode of angels.

The delicacy and tenderness of Lucy’s refined and loving spirit

contributed to create an indefinable feeling that this was the chosen

spot where innocence, purity and love should seek repose. Her womanly

instinct had added soft shadings to art’s perfect handiwork.

The great sea shell, half opened, made of shining silver, lined with

the pearly product of the Eastern Isles, in which lie, soft and white

as snow, downy cushions, filled from the breasts of Orkney’s far-famed

fowls, and these be-trimmed with lace in tracery like frost on window

pane, in texture so gossamery and light that the brief span of life seems

all too short in which to weave one inch, must surely be the nest wherein

some heaven-sent cherub shall nestle down in sleep.

Some sprite from fairy-land alone may make a toilet with the miniature

articles of Etruscan gold, bejeweled with gems of azure-hued turquois

that fill the gilded dressing case.

The chiffoniers, tables, chairs and stands are all inlaid with woods

of the rarest kinds and colors, with ivory and polished pearl shells

interwoven in queerly conceived mosaic; mirrors of finest plate here

and there are arranged that they may catch the beauteous image of the

cherubic occupant of this bijou bower, and countlessly reproduce its

angelic features; urns and basins of transparent china-ware, in the

production of which France and Germany have surpassed all former efforts,

beautified by the brushes of world-renowned artists, furnish vessels in

which the rosy, laughing face and dimpled limbs may lave.

The Western hills have cooled the eager glance of the August sun. Lucy,

softly humming as she assorts and arranges a great basket of choice

buds and blossoms just arrived from the “Eyrie,” is seated alone in a

fantastic garden pagoda, which, trellised by climbing rose bushes, stands

within the grounds of the Dunlap estate.

As she rocks back and forth in the low chair that is placed there for

her comfort, little gleams of sunshine sifting through the screen of

roses wander amidst her gold-brown tresses and spot the filmy gown of

white she wears with silver splashes. As the lights and shadows of the

gently swaying leaves and roses dance about her, she seems surrounded by

hosts of cherubim in frolicsome attendance on her. Some thought of that

nature came to her, for she let her hands lie still in her lap among the

blossoms and watched the ever fleeting, changeful rays of sunlight and

shade that like an April shower fell upon her. Then she smiled as at some

unseen spirit and smiling grew pensive.

The limpid light in Lucy’s eyes, as gazing into the future she sees the

coming glory of her womanhood, is that same light that shone along the

road from Galilee to Bethlehem, when she, most blessed of women for all

time, rode humbly on an ass to place an eternal monarch on a throne.

That light in Lucy’s pensive hazel eyes, that gentle, hopeful expectant

look on her sweet face, has, from the time that men were born on earth

subdued the fiery rage of angry braves in mortal strife engaged, has

turned brutality into cowering shame, and caused the harshest, roughest

and most savage of the human kind to smooth the brow, soften the voice

and gently move aside, rendering ready homage to a being raised higher

far than the throne of the mightiest king on earth.

As she, who chambered with the cattle on Judah’s hills, opened the

passage from the groaning earth to realms of eternal bliss by what she

gave to men, so ever those crowned with that pellucid halo of expected

maternity stand holding ajar the gates that bar the path from man to that

mysterious source of life and soul called God.

It is woman in her grandest glory, who draws man and his Maker near

together, with arms outstretched and hands extended she grasps man and

reaches up toward the Divine Author of our beings.

In simplest attire and humblest station she sanctifies the spot she

stands upon. When most beset by want or danger there lives no man worthy

of the name, who could refuse to heed her lightest call.

Oh! that wistful, yearning, hopeful, tender, loving look that

transfigured Lucy’s sweet face until resemblance came to it, to that face

that has employed the souls, hearts and hands of those most gifted by

high heaven with pen and brush.

Out of this trance-like blissfulness the pensive dreamer was aroused by

the coming of her ever constant guardian, her grandfather, who told her

that Miss Arabella Chapman had called, bringing some offering that could

be placed in no other hand than that of the young matron.

Away hastened Lucy to greet the time-worn maiden, but fresh-hearted

friend, and to hurry with her up to a sealed and sacred apartment, over

whose threshold no male foot must ever step, wherein was hidden heaping

trays and shelves of doll-like garments of marvelous texture and make,

articles the names of which no man ever yet has learned to call, all

so cunningly devised as to create the need of lace, embroidery or such

matter on every edge and corner.

Silky shawls and fleecy wraps, and funny little caps of spider-spun lace,

and socks of soft stuff so small that Lucy’s tiny thumb could scarce

find room therein, all and much more than man can tell were here stored

carefully away and only shown to closest friends by the fair warder of

that holy keep.

And, oh! the loving, jealous care of Lucy. No hand but her own could fold

these small garments just right. What awful calamity might befall should

one crease be awry or disturbed; no eye so well could note some need in

that dainty, diminutive collection of fairy underwear as hers; no breast

could beat so tenderly as hers as close she pressed, fondled and kissed

the little gowns for elfin wear.

Who would for all the gold coined on earth rob her of one jot or tittle

of her half-girlish, all-womanly joy and jealous care? Not one who ever

whispered the word Mother!

That night the watchman and his faithful dog who guarded the Dunlap

house and grounds, saw at the unseemly hour of two o’clock many lights

suddenly appear within the mansion. The shadow of the family physician,

white-haired and wise, flits by the windows of the room which, for some

weeks, he has occupied. Mrs. Church in wrapper, lamp in hand, hastens by

the great hall window and ascends the stairs, accompanied by an elderly

woman, who a month before came to live in the mansion. Soon a window on

the balcony is raised and Mr. James Dunlap in dressing gown and slippers

steps out, accompanied by Mr. Burton, who seems too nervous to notice Mr.

Dunlap’s soothing hand placed on his shoulder.

Soon the bell, that warns him to open wide the outer gate, is rung, and

then the watchman and his dog see no more of the commotion within the

house. As he holds back the gate, he asks of the coachman, who, with the

dog-cart and the horse, Dark Dick, is racing by:

“What’s the matter?” In reply he only catches the words:

“Another nurse, d—— quick!”

A standing order of the house of J. Dunlap was that should at any

time neither J. Dunlap nor the manager appear by the noon hour, the

superintendent, Mr. Chapman, should take cab and hasten to the residence

of Mr. James Dunlap for instructions concerning transactions that pressed

for immediate attention.

Five minutes after noon, on the day when at two o’clock in the morning

the private watchman had seen lights appear within the Dunlap mansion.

David Chapman was seated in a cab speeding toward his employer’s

residence.

As the cab turned the corner on the avenue that ran before the gate of

the Dunlap place, the horse’s hoof-beats were silenced. Chapman looked

out; the straw-carpeted pavement told the whole story. He ordered

the driver to stop his horse, and springing from the vehicle the

superintendent, walking, proceeded the balance of the distance.

The vigil and anxiety of the past night had told fearfully on

well-preserved Mrs. Church, thought Chapman as he noted her drawn, white

and frightened face, and listened to the awed tone of her voice, as she

told him that a boy was born to Lucy; that she was very ill; that Mr.

Burton was troubled and wretched over the danger of his wife, and would

see no one; that Mr. Dunlap, exhausted by agony of mind and weakened by

watching, had fainted, was now lying down and must not be disturbed under

any circumstances.

Chapman in mute amazement stared at the trembling lips that gave an

account of the striking down, within so short a time, of all three

members of the family. Speechless he stood and stared, but could find no

words to express either his surprise or sorrow. As he stood thus, a faint

and husky, yet familiar, voice called from the far end of the wide hall

that ran through the center of the house.

“David, wait; I want you.”

With uncertain step, and bowed head, a figure came forward. As Chapman

turned he saw that it was Mr. Dunlap. One moment the old employee gazed

at the approaching man. Then springing toward him, he cried as he caught

sight of the ashen hue on his old master’s blanched and deep-lined face,

and saw the blank look in his kind eyes:

“You are ill, sir; sit down!”

“Yes, David; I am not well; I am somewhat weak, but I wish to give

you certain commands that must not, as you value my friendship, be

disobeyed.” The old man paused and painfully sought to gain command of

his voice, and failing, gasped forth:

“Send a message to my brother saying, ‘It is a boy and all is well,’ and

add—David Chapman, do you understand me?—and add these very words, ‘Do

not come home; it is unnecessary.’ Sign the message ‘James’—and, listen,

Chapman, listen; no word that I am not well or my granddaughter in danger

must reach my brother John.”

“Your instructions shall be obeyed, sir,” and Chapman’s voice was almost

as indistinct as that of his loved master.

“What of the business, sir, while Mr. Burton is absent?” the

ever-faithful superintendent asked.

“Use your own discretion in everything,” and with a dry, convulsive sob

that shook his bended frame, he added in a whisper:

“It makes no difference now.”

David Chapman heard the sob, and caught those heartbroken words. In an

instant that strangely constituted man was on his knees at the feet of

him whom of all on earth he worshiped most.

“Can I help you, sir, in your trouble? Say anything that man can do, and

I shall do it, sir,” cried Chapman piteously.

“No, David, no; but, David, I thank you. Go, my faithful old friend, and

do what I have requested.”

Chapman arose and pressed the wan hand that James Dunlap extended, then

hurried from the house.

Those who saw the superintendent that day wondered why they were unable

to tell whether it was grief or rage that marked the man’s face so deeply.

The message as dictated was sent that day to Haiti.