“You have been a tower of strength to me, Jack, in the grief and trouble
of the last three months. I don’t know what would have become of us all
without your aid and comfort.”
So spoke Mr. John Dunlap. He appeared many years older than he did when
three months before he arrived in Boston on board the “Adams.” He was
bent, and care worn. Deep sorrow had taken the fire and mirth from his
honest, kindly eyes.
“I am rejoiced and repaid if I have been able to be of service to those
whom I love, and who have always been so kind to me,” replied Jack Dunlap
simply.
The two men were seated in the library of the Dunlap mansion in the
closing hour of that late November day, watching the heavy snow flakes
falling without.
“Jack, I have meditated for several days upon what I am about to say and
can find no way but to beg you to make more sacrifices for us,” said the
old gentleman, after a lapse of several minutes.
“The condition in which our family is demands the presence of some
younger, stronger head and hand than mine is now. I know the ‘Adams’ is
refitted, after her two years of service, and ready for sea. I know you,
my lad, and your reluctance to remain idle when you think that you should
be at work.”
“To be frank, sir, you have hit upon a subject about which I desired to
talk with you but have hesitated for several days,” said the young man,
with something of relief in his tone.
“Well then, Jack, to begin with, I wish to charter your ship for a voyage
and to show that it is no subterfuge to hold you here, I say at once I
wish you to sail in her.” Mr. Dunlap paused for a moment to note the
effect of his proposal and then continued,
“Let me go over the situation, Jack, and tell me if you do not agree
in my conclusions. Lucy, while apparently restored in a degree to her
former health, is still weak and looks fragile. The physicians advise
me to take her to a warmer climate before our New England Winter sets
in. Her dementia still continues, and while she is perfectly gentle and
harmless, she will neither tolerate the presence of her husband, nor poor
Mrs. Church, and is even not pleased or quiet in my company. I think
my likeness to my beloved brother affects her. She clings to your good
mother and to you, my lad, with the confident affection of a child. When
she is not softly singing, as she rocks and smiles in a heartrending,
far-off-way, some baby lullaby, she is flitting about the house like
some sweet and sorrowful shadow. Can we, Jack, expose our girl in this
condition to the unsympathetic gaze of strangers?”
“No, no, a thousand times no!” was the quick and emphatic answer of the
younger man.
“Now listen, Jack. Since the death of that poor, little misshapen black
creature, which innocently brought so much trouble into our lives, and,
Jack, your thoughtfulness in having it buried quietly in Bedford instead
of here is something I shall never forget. But to return to Lucy: Since
that object is out of the way, and after the consultation of those great
specialists in mental disorder cases, I am led to hope that Lucy may be
restored to us in all the glory of her former mental condition.”
“God speed the day,” exclaimed Jack fervently and reverently.
“The specialists affirm that as this aberration of mind was produced by
a shock and as there is no inherited insanity involved in the case, that
the restoration may occur at any moment in the most unexpected manner. A
surprise, shock or some accident may instantly produce the joyful change.
“It is for that very reason that I have insisted that Burton should
remain near at hand, and ready to respond to a call from the restored
wife for her husband’s presence. We must bear in mind the fact that
Lucy, before this hallucination, was devotedly attached to her husband
and grandfather. With the return of her reason we may justly expect the
return of her former affections and feelings,” interrupted Jack by way
of explanation of something he had done.
“I know that, Jack, and approve of your course, but I am only a weak
human creature, and notwithstanding the injunction of my dying brother
to blame no one, I cannot eradicate from my mind a feeling of animosity
toward Burton. I know that he is not culpable, but still I should be
glad to have him pass out of our lives, if it were not for the probable
effect upon Lucy if she ever be restored to reason. However, I was not
displeased by his decision to return to his own house, the ‘Eyrie,’ until
his presence was required here.”
“Burton’s position, sir, has been a very trying one. I may say a very
dreadful one, and I think that he has acted in a very manly, courageous
manner, sir, and I think it our duty, as Christian men, to put aside even
our natural repugnance to the author of our misfortune and be lenient
toward one who has suffered as well as ourselves.”