Transcriber’s Note: The reader may wish to be warned that this book contains racial stereotyping more than usually unpleasant even by the standards of its time. Read as far as the [Dedication] and use that to decide whether or not you want to continue.

“The brutalized features of Walter Burton were revealed.”

[Frontispiece]

BLOOD WILL TELL

THE STRANGE STORY OF
A SON OF HAM

BY
BENJ. RUSH DAVENPORT
AUTHOR OF
Blue and Gray, Uncle Sam’s Cabins,
Anglo-Saxons, Onward, Etc.

Illustrations
by
J.H. Donahey

CLEVELAND
Caxton Book Co.
1902

Copyright
by
Benj. Rush Davenport
1902

All rights reserved

DEDICATION

To all Americans who deem purity of race an all-important element in the progress of our beloved country.

THE AUTHOR

For obvious reasons the date of this story is not given ...

List of Illustrations

BLOOD WILL TELL

I.

Boston was shrouded in a mantle of mist that November day, the north-east wind bringing at each blast re-enforcement to the all-enveloping and obscuring mass of gloom that embraced the city in its arms of darkness.

Glimmering like toy candles in the distance, electric lights, making halos of the fog, marked a pathway for the hurrying crowds that poured along the narrow, crooked streets of New England’s grand old city. In one of the oldest, narrowest and most crooked thoroughfares down near the wharfs a light burning within the window of an old-fashioned building brought to sight the name “J. Dunlap” and the words “Shipping and Banking.”

No living man in Boston nor the father of any man in Boston had ever known a day when passing that old house the sign had not been there for him to gaze upon and lead him to wonder if the Dunlap line would last unbroken forever.

In early days of the Republic some Dunlap had in a small way traded with the West Indian islands, especially Haiti, and later some descendant of this old trade pathfinder had established a regular line of sailing ships between Boston and those islands. Then it was that the sign “J. Dunlap, Shipping and Banking” made its appearance on the front of the old house. A maxim of the Dunlap family had been that there must always be a J. Dunlap, hence sons were ever christened John, James, Josiah and such names only as furnished the everlasting J as the initial.

“J. Dunlap” had grown financially and commercially in proportion to the growth of the Republic. There was not room on a single line in the Commercial Agency books to put A’s enough to express the credit and financial resources of “J. Dunlap” on this dark November day. Absolutely beyond the shoals and shallows of the dangerous shore of trade where small crafts financially are forced to ply, “J. Dunlap” sailed ever tranquil and serene, neither jars nor shocks disturbing the calm serenity of the voyage.

This dismal November day marked an unparalleled experience in the career of the present “J. Dunlap.” The customary calm was disturbed. J. Dunlap disagreed and disagreed positively with J. Dunlap concerning an important event, and that event was a family affair.

The exterior of “J. Dunlap” may be dark, grimy, dingy and old, but within all is bright with electric light. Behind glass and wire screens long lines of clerks and accountants bend over desks and busy pens move across the pages of huge ledgers and account books—messengers hurry in and out of two glass partitioned offices. On the door of one is painted “Mr. Burton, Manager;” on the other “Mr. Chapman, Superintendent.”

Separated by a narrow passageway from the main office is a large room, high ceiling, old-fashioned, furnished with leather and mahogany fittings of ancient make, on the door of which are the words, “J. Dunlap, Private Office.” This is the sanctum sanctorum in this temple of trade. Within “J. Dunlap’s” private office before a large grate heaped high with blazing cannel coal two old men are seated in earnest conversation. They are “J. Dunlap.”

Seventy-two years before this November day that enfolded Boston with London-like fog there were born to one J. Dunlap and his wife twin boys to whom were given in due season the names of James and John. These boys had grown to manhood preserving the same likeness to each other that they had possessed as infants in the cradle. James married early and when his son was born and was promptly made a J. Dunlap, his twin brother vowed that there being a J. Dunlap to secure the perpetuation of the name, he should never marry.

When the J. Dunlap, father of the twin brothers, died, the twins succeeded to the business as well as the other property of their father, share and share alike. To change the name on the office window to Dunlap Bros. was never even dreamed of; such sacrilege would surely have caused the rising in wrath of the long line of ghostly “J. Dunlaps” that had preceded the twins. Hence on this dark day “J. Dunlap” was two instead of one.

Handsome men were all the Dunlaps time out of mind, but no ancestor was ever more handsome than the two clean cut, stalwart, white haired old men who with eager gestures and earnest voices discussed the point of difference between them today.

“My dear brother,” said the one whose face bore traces of a more burning sun than warms the Berkshire hills, “You know that we have never differed even in trivial matters, and James, it is awful to think of anything that could even be called a disagreement, but I loved your poor boy John as much as I have ever loved you and when he died his motherless little girl became more to me than even you, James, and it hurts my heart to think of my darling Lucy being within possible reach of sorrow and shame.” The fairer one of the brothers bent over and grasping with both hands the raised hand of him who had spoken said with an emotion that filled his eyes with moisture:

“God bless you, John! You dear old fellow! I know that that loving heart of yours held my poor boy as near to it as did my own, and that Lucy has ever been the dearest jewel of your great soul, but your love and tenderness are now conjuring up imaginary dangers that are simply beyond a possibility of existence. While I will not go so far as to admit that had I known that there was a trace of negro blood in Burton I should have forbidden his paying court to my granddaughter, still I will confess that I should have considered that fact and consulted with you before consenting to his seeking Lucy’s hand. However, it is too late now, John. He has won our girl’s heart and knowing her as you do you must appreciate the consequences of the disclosure of this discovery and the abrupt termination of her blissful anticipations. It is not only a question of the health and happiness of our dear girl, but her very life would be placed in jeopardy.”

This seemed an unexpected or unrealized phase of the situation to the first speaker, for he made no reply at once but sat with troubled brow gazing into the fire for several minutes, then with a sigh so deep that it was almost a groan, exclaimed:

“Oh! that I had known sooner! I am an old fool! I might have suspected this and investigated Burton’s family. John Dunlap, d——n you for the old idiot that you are,” and rising he began pacing the floor; his brother watched him with eyes of tender, almost womanly affection until a suspicious moisture dimmed the sight of his worried second self. Going to him and taking him by the arm he joined him in his walk back and forth through the room, saying:

“John, don’t worry yourself so much old chap, there is nothing to fear; what if there be a slight strain of negro blood in Burton? It will disappear in his descendants and even did Lucy know all that you have learned, she loves him and would marry him anyhow. You know her heart and her high sense of justice. She would not blame him and really it is no fault of his.”

“You say,” broke in his brother, “that the negro blood will disappear in Burton’s descendants? That is just what may not happen! Both in the United States and Haiti I have seen cases of breeding back to the type of a remote ancestor where negro blood, no matter how little, ran in the veins of the immediate ancestor. In the animal kingdom see the remoteness of the five toed horse, yet even now sometimes a horse is born with five toes. Man is but an animal of the highest grade.”

“Well, even granting what you say about the remote possibility of breeding back, you know that our ancestors years ago stood shoulder to shoulder with Garrison, Beecher and those grand heroes who maintained that the enslavement of the negro was a crime, and that the color of the skin made no difference—that all men were brothers and equal.”

“Yes, I know and agree with our forefathers in all of that,” exclaimed the sun burned J. Dunlap with some show of impatience. “But while slavery was all wrong and equality before the law is absolutely right, still I have seen both in this country and in the West Indies such strange evidence of the inherent barbarism in the negro race that I am almost ready to paraphrase a saying of Napoleon and declare, ‘Scratch one with negro blood in him and you find a barbarian.’”

“Your long residence in disorderly Haiti, where your health and our interest kept you has evidently prejudiced you,” replied the fair J. Dunlap. “Remember that for generations our family has extended the hospitality of our homes to those of negro blood provided they were educated, cultured people.”

“Yes, James, Yes! Provided they had the culture and education created by the white man, and to be frank between ourselves, James, there has been much affectation about the obliteration of race distinction even in the case of our own family, and you know it! We Dunlaps have made much of our apparent liberality and consistency, but in our hearts we are as much race-proud Aryans as those ancestors who drove the race-inferior Turanians out of Europe.”

James Dunlap was as honest as his more impetuous brother. Suddenly stopping and confronting him with agitated countenance, he said: “You are right, John, in what you say about our affecting social equality with those of negro blood. God knows had I been aware of the facts that you have hastened from Port au Prince to lay before me all might have been different; our accursed affectation may have misled Burton, who is an honorable gentleman, no matter if his mother was a quadroon. Social equality may be all right, but where it leads to the intermarriage of the races all the Aryan in me protests against it, but it is too late and we must trust to Divine Providence to correct the consequences of the Dunlap’s accursed affectation.”

“I expected Lucy to marry Jack Dunlap, the son of our cousin; then the old sign might have answered for another hundred years. Lucy and Jack were fond of each other always, and I thought when two years ago I left Boston for Haiti that the match was quite a settled affair. Why did you not foster a marriage that would have been so satisfactory from every standpoint?”

“I did hope that Lucy would marry your namesake, dear brother; don’t blame me; while I believe that the boy was really fond of my granddaughter, still, being poor, and having the Dunlap pride he positively declined the position in our office that I offered him. I wished to keep him near Lucy and to prepare him to succeed us as ‘J. Dunlap.’ When I made the offer he said in that frank, manly, sailor man fashion of his that he was worthless in an office and he wished no sinecure by reason of being our kinsman; that he was a sailor by nature and loved the sea; that he wished to make his own way in the world; that if we could fairly advance him in his profession he would thank us, but that was all that he could accept at our hands.”

“See that now!” exclaimed the listener. “Blood will tell. The blood of some old Yankee sailor man named Dunlap spoke when our young kinsman made that reply. Breed back! Yes indeed we do.”

“No persuasion could move the boy from the position he had taken and as he held a master’s certificate and had proven a careful mate I gave him command of our ship ‘Lucy’ in the China trade. I imagine there was some exhibition of feeling at the parting of Lucy and John, as my girl seemed much depressed in spirits after he left.

“You recall how Walter Burton came to us fifteen years ago with a letter from his father, our correspondent in Port au Prince, saying that he wished his son to enter Harvard and asking us to befriend him. The lad was handsome and clever and we never dreamed of his being other than of pure blood. He was graduated at the head of his class, brilliant, amiable, fascinating. Our house was made bright by his frequent visits.

“When his father died, leaving his great wealth to Walter, he begged to invest it with us, and liking the lad we were glad to have him with us. Beginning at the bottom, by sheer force of ability and industry, within ten years he has become our manager. I am sure John Dunlap, your namesake, never told Lucy that he loved her before he sailed for China. The pride of the man would hold back such a declaration to our heiress. So with Jack away, his love, if it exist, for Lucy untold, it is not strange that Burton, and he is a most charming man, in constant attendance upon my granddaughter should have won her heart. He is handsome, educated, cultured and wealthy. I could imagine no cause for an objection, so when he asked for Lucy’s hand I assented. The arrangements are completed and they will be married next month. Lucy wished you to witness the ceremony and wrote you and you hasten from Haiti home with this unpleasant discovery. Now, John, think of Lucy and tell me, brother, what your heart says is our duty.”

James Dunlap, exhausted by the vehement earnestness that he had put into this long speech, recounting the events and circumstances that had led up to the approaching marriage of his granddaughter, dropped into one of the large armchairs near the fire, waiting for a reply, while his brother continued his nervous tramp across the room.

Silence was finally disturbed by a light knock on the door and a messenger entered, saying that Captain Dunlap begged permission to speak with the firm a few moments. When the name was announced the two brothers exchanged glances that seemed to say, “The man I was thinking of.”

“Show him in, of course,” cried John Dunlap, eagerly stopping in his monotonous pacing up and down the room.

The door opened again and there entered the room a man of about twenty-seven years of age, rather below the medium height of Americans, but of such breadth of shoulders and depth of chest as to give evidence of unusual physical strength. A sailor, every inch a sailor, anyone could tell, from the top of his curly blonde hair to the sole of his square toed boots. His sunburnt face, while not handsome, according to the ideals of artists, was frank, manly, bold—a brave, square jawed Anglo-Saxon face, with eyes of that steely gray that can become as tender as a mother’s and as fierce as a tiger’s.

“Come in, Jack,” cried both of the old gentlemen together.

“Glad to see you my boy,” added John Dunlap. “How did you find your good mother and the rest of our friends in Bedford? I only landed today; came from Port au Prince to see the Commons once more; heard that the ‘Lucy’ and her brave master, my namesake, had arrived a week ahead of me, safe and sound, from East Indian waters.”

So saying he grasped both of the sailor’s hands and shook them with the genuine cordiality of a lad of sixteen.

“Have you seen my granddaughter since your return, Captain Jack?” inquired James Dunlap, as he shook the young man’s hand.

“I was so unfortunate as to call when she was out shopping, and as Mrs. Church, the housekeeper, told me that she was so busy preparing for the approaching wedding that she was engaged all the time, I have hesitated to call again,” replied the sailor, as with a somewhat deeper shade of red in his sun burned face he seated himself between the twins.

“Lucy will not thank Mrs. Church for that speech if it is to deprive her of the pleasure of welcoming her old playmate and cousin back to Boston and home. You must come and dine with us tomorrow,” said Lucy’s grandfather.

“I am much obliged for your kind invitation, sir, but if you will only grant the request I am about to make of the firm, my next visit to my cousin will be to say goodby, as well as to receive a welcome home from a voyage.”

“Why, what do you mean, lad!” exclaimed both of the brothers simultaneously.

Concealment or deception was probably the most difficult of all things for this frank man with the free spirit of the sea fresh in his soul, so that while he answered the color surged up stronger and stronger in his face until the white brow, saved from the sun by his hat, was as red as his close shaven cheeks.

“Well, sir, this is what I mean. I learned yesterday that the storm we encountered crossing the Atlantic coming home had strained my ship so badly that it will be two months before she is out of the shipwright’s hands.”

“What of that, Jack,” broke in the darker J. Dunlap. “Take a rest at home. I know your mother will be delighted, and speaking from a financial standpoint, as you know, it makes not the least difference.”

“I was going to add, sir, that this morning I learned that Captain Chadwick of your ship ‘Adams,’ now loaded and ready to sail for Australia, was down with pneumonia and could not take the ship out, and that there was some difficulty in securing a master that filled the requirements of your house. I therefore applied to Mr. Burton for the command of the ‘Adams,’ but he absolutely refused to consider the application saying that as I had been away for almost two years, that it would be positively brutal to even permit me to go to sea again so soon, and that the ‘Adams’ might stay loaded and tied to the dock ten years rather than I should leave home so speedily.”

“Burton is exactly right, I endorse every word he has said. You can’t have the ‘Adams’!” said James Dunlap with emphasis. “What would Martha Dunlap, your mother, and our dear cousin’s widow, think if we robbed her of her only son so soon after his return from a long absence from home?”

“My mother knows, sir, that my stay at home will be very brief. She expects me to ask to go to sea again almost immediately. I told her all about it when I first met her upon my return,” and as he spoke the shipmaster’s gaze was never raised from the nautical cap that he held in his hand.

“Well! You are not going to sea again immediately, that is all about it. You have handled the ‘Lucy’ for two years, away from home, using your own judgment, in a manner that, even were you not our kinsman, would entitle you to a long rest at the expense of our house as grateful shipowners,” said Lucy’s grandfather.

The young man giving no heed to the compliment contained in the remarks made by James Dunlap, but looking up and straight into the eyes of the brother just arrived from Haiti, said so earnestly that there could be no question of his purpose:

“I wish to get to sea as soon as possible. If I cannot sail in the ‘Adams,’ much as I dislike to leave you, sirs, I must seek other employ.”

“The devil you will!” exclaimed his godfather angrily.

“Why, if you sail now you will miss your cousin’s wedding and disappoint her,” added James Dunlap.

“Again, gentlemen, I say that I shall get to sea within a few days. I either go in the ‘Adams’ or seek other employ,” and all the time he was speaking not once did the sailor remove his steady gaze from the eyes of him for whom he was named.

To say that the Dunlap brothers were astonished is putting it too mildly; they were amazed. The master of a Dunlap ship was an object of envy to every shipmaster out of Boston—the pay and employ was the best in America—that a kinsman and master should even propose to leave their employ was monstrous. In amazement both of the old gentlemen looked at the young man in silence.

Suddenly as old John Dunlap looked into young John Dunlap’s honest eyes he read something there, for first leaning forward in his chair and gazing more intently into the gray eyes of the sailor, he sprang to his feet and grasping the arm of his young kinsman he fairly hauled him to the window at the other end of the room, then facing him around so that he could get a good look at his face, he almost whispered:

“Jack, when did you learn first that Lucy was to be married?”

“When I came ashore at Boston one week ago.”

The answer came so quickly that the question must have been read in the eyes of the older man before uttered.

“I thought so,” said the old man softly and sadly, as he walked, still holding the sailor by the arm, back to the fire, and added as he neared his brother:

“James, Jack wants the ‘Adams’ and is in earnest. I can’t have him leave our employ; therefore he must go as master of that ship.”

“But, brother, think of it,” exclaimed James Dunlap.

“There is no but about it, James, I wish him to sail in our ship, the ‘Adams,’ as master. I understand his desire and endorse his wish to get to sea.”

“Oh! Of course if you really are in earnest just instruct Burton in the premises, but Jack must dine with us tomorrow and see Lucy or she will never forgive him or me.”

“Don’t you see that the lad has always loved Lucy, is heartbroken over her marriage and wants to get away before the wedding?” cried John Dunlap, as he turned after closing the door upon Captain Jack’s departing figure.

“What a blind old fool I am not to have seen or thought of that!” exclaimed his brother.

“How I wish in my soul it was our cousin that my girl was going to marry instead of Burton, but it is too late, too late.”

Sadly the darker Dunlap brother echoed the words of Lucy’s grandfather, as he sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands:

Too late! Too late! Too late!

II.

“You don’t mean that Mr. Dunlap has consented to your going out to Australia in charge of the ‘Adams,’ do you, Captain Jack?”

The man who asked the question, as he rose from the desk at which he was sitting, was quite half a head taller than the sea captain whom he addressed. His figure was elegant and graceful, though slim; his face possessed that rare beauty seen only on the canvas of old Italian masters, clearly cut features, warm olive complexion in which the color of the cheeks shows in subdued mellow shadings, soft, velvet-like brown eyes, a mouth of almost feminine character and proportion filled with teeth as regular and white as grains of rice.

Save only that the white surrounding the brown of his beautiful eyes might have been clearer, that his shapely hands might have been more perfect, had a bluish tinge not marred the color of his finger nails, and his small feet might have been improved by more height of instep, Walter Burton was an ideal picture of a graceful, handsome, cultivated gentleman.

“Yes, Mr. Burton, I am to sail as master of the ‘Adams.’ How soon can I get a clearance and put to sea?”

“It is an absolute outrage to permit you to go to sea again so soon. Why, Captain, you have had hardly time to get your shore legs. You have not seen many of your old friends; Miss Dunlap told me last evening that she had not even seen you.”

Burton’s voice was as soft, sweet and melodious as the tones of a silver flute, and the thought of the young sailor’s brief stay at home seemed to strike a chord of sadness that gave added charm to the words he uttered.

“I expect to dine with my cousin tomorrow evening and will then give her greeting upon my home coming and at the same time bid her goodby upon my departure.”

“I declare, Jack, this is awfully sad to me, old chap, and I know Lucy will be sorely disappointed. You know that we are to be married next month and Lucy has said a dozen times that she wished you to be present; that you had always been a tower of strength to her and that nothing could alarm or make her nervous if, as she put it, ‘brave and trustworthy Jack be near.’”

The sailor’s face lost some of its color in spite of the tan that sun and sea had given it, as he listened to words that he had heard Lucy say when, as a boy and girl, they had climbed New Hampshire’s hills, or sailed along Massachusetts’ coast together.

“I shall be sorry if Lucy be disappointed, but I am so much of a sea-swab now that I am restless and unhappy while ashore.”

What a poor liar young John Dunlap was. His manner, or something, not his words, in that instant revealed his secret to Burton, as a flash of lightning in the darkness discloses a scene, so was Jack’s story and reason for hurried departure from Boston made plain.

By some yet unexplained process of mental telegraphy the two young men understood each other. Spontaneously they extended their hands and in their warm clasp a bond of silent sympathy was established. Thus they stood for a moment, then Burton said in that sad, sweet voice of his:

“Jack, dear old chap, I will get your clearance papers tomorrow and you may put to sea when you please, but see Lucy before you sail.”

Ere Dunlap could reply the door of the manager’s office opened and there entered the room a man of such peculiar appearance as to attract the attention of the most casual observer. He was thin, even to emaciation. The skin over his almost hairless head seemed drawn as tightly as the covering of a drum. The ghastliness of his dead-white face was made more apparent by the small gleaming black eyes set deep and close to a huge aquiline nose, and the scarlet, almost bloody stripe that marked the narrow line of his lips.

“Beg pardon,” said the man, seeing someone with Burton, and then, recognizing who the visitor was, added:

“Oh, how are you, Jack? I did not know that you were with the manager,” and he seemed to put the faintest bit of emphasis upon the word “manager.”

“Well, what is it, Chapman?” said Burton somewhat impatiently.

“I only wished to inform you that I have secured a master for the ‘Adams.’ Captain Mason, who was formerly in our employ, has applied for the position and as he was satisfactory when with us before I considered it very fortunate for us to secure his services just now.”

“The ‘Adams’ has a master already assigned to her,” interrupted the manager.

“Why! When? Who?” inquired the superintendent eagerly.

“The ‘Adams’ sails in command of Captain Dunlap here.”

The gleaming black eyes of Chapman seemed to bury their glances into the very heart of the manager as he stretched his thin neck forward and asked:

“Did you give him the ship?”

“J. Dunlap made the assignment of Captain Jack to the ship today at his own request and contrary to my wishes,” said Burton abruptly, somewhat annoyed at Chapman’s manner.

It was now the turn of Jack to stand the battery of those hawk eyes of the superintendent, who sought to read the honest sailor’s soul as he shot his glances into Jack’s clear gray eyes.

“Ah! Cousin Jack going away so soon and our Miss Lucy’s wedding next month. How strange!” Chapman seemed speaking to himself.

“If that is all, Chapman, just say to Mason that the firm appointed a master to the ‘Adams’ without your knowledge; therefore he can’t have the ship,” said Burton with annoyance in his tone and manner, dismissing the superintendent with a wave of his hand toward the door.

When Chapman glided out of the room, the man moved always in such a stealthy manner that he appeared to glide instead of walk, Burton exclaimed:

“Do you know, Jack, that that man Chapman can irritate me more by his detective demeanor than any man I ever saw could do by open insult. I am ashamed of myself for allowing such to be the case, but I can’t help it. To have a chap about who seems to be always playing the Sherlock Holmes act is wearing on one’s patience. Why, confound it! If he came in this minute to say that we needed a new supply of postage stamps he would make such a detective job of it that I should feel the uncomfortable sensation that the mailing clerk had stolen the last lot purchased.”

Jack, who disliked the sneaky and secretive as much as any man alive and had just been irritated himself by Chapman’s untimely scrutiny, said:

“I am not astonished and don’t blame you. While I have known Chapman all my life, I somehow, as a boy and man, have always felt when talking to him that I was undergoing an examination before a police magistrate.”

“Of course I ought to consider that he has been with the house for more than forty years and is fidelity and faithfulness personified to ‘J. Dunlap,’ but he is so absurdly jealous and suspicious that he would wear out the patience of a saint, and I don’t pretend to be one,” supplemented Burton.

“Half the time,” said Jack, glad apparently to discuss Chapman and thus avoid the subject which beneath the surface of their conversation was uppermost in the minds of both Burton and himself.

“I have not the slightest idea what ‘Old Chap,’ as I call him, is driving at. He goes hunting a hundred miles away for the end of a coil of rope that is lying at his very feet, and he is the very devil, too, for finding out anything he wishes to know. Why, when I was a boy and used to get into scrapes, if ‘Old Chap’ cornered me I knew it was no use trying to get out of the mess and soon learned to plead guilty at once,” and Jack smiled in a dreary kind of way at the recollection of some of his boyish pranks.

“Well, let old Chapman, the modern Sherlock Holmes, and his searching disposition go for the present. Promise to be sure to dine with Lucy tomorrow evening. She expects me to be there also, as she is going to have one or two young women and needs some of the male sex to talk to them. I know that she will want you all to herself,” said Burton.

“Yes, I’ll be on hand all right tomorrow night and you get my papers in shape during the day, as I will sail as early day after tomorrow as the tide serves,” replied the captain.

“By the way, Jack! Send your steward to me when you go aboard to take charge of the ‘Adams’ in the morning. Tell him to see me personally. You sailors are such queer chaps and care so little about your larder that I am going to see to it myself that you don’t eat salt pork and hard tack on your voyage out, nor drink bilge water, either.”

“You are awfully kind, Burton, but you need not trouble yourself. I am sure common sea grub is good enough for any sailor-man.”

As they walked together toward the front door, when Captain Jack was leaving the building, in the narrow aisle between the long rows of desks they came face to face with the superintendent. He stepped aside and gazing after them, whispered:

“Strange, very strange, for Jack Dunlap to sail so soon.”

“Be sure to send that steward of yours to me tomorrow, Jack,” called the manager of “J. Dunlap” as the sturdy figure of the sailor disappeared in the fog that filled the crooked street in which Boston’s oldest shipping and banking house had its office.

“And no ship ever sailed from Boston provided as yours shall be, poor old chap,” muttered the manager as he hurried back to his own room in the office. “There shall be champagne enough on board the ‘Adams,’ Jack, to drink our health, if you so will, on our wedding day, even though you be off Cape Good Hope.”

In the gloaming that dark November day the Dunlap brothers were seated close together, side by side, in silence gazing into the heap of coals that burned in the large grate before them. John Dunlap’s hand rested upon the arm of his brother, as if in the mere touching of him who had first seen the light in his company there was comfort.

Burton thought, as he entered the private office that no finer picture was ever painted than that made by these two fine old American gentlemen as the flame from the crackling cannel coal shot up, revealing their kind, gentle, generous faces in the surrounding gloom of the room.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” said the manager, pausing on the threshold, hesitating to break in upon a scene that seemed almost sacred, “but I was told that you had sent for me while I was out of the office.”

“Come in, Burton, you were correctly informed,” said James Dunlap, still neither changing his position nor removing his gaze from the fire.

“My brother John and I have determined as a mark of love for our young kinsman, Captain John Dunlap, and as an evidence of our appreciation for faithful services rendered to us as mate and master, to make him a present of our ship ‘Adams,’ now loaded for Australia,” continued James Dunlap, speaking very low and very softly.

“You will please have the necessary papers for the transfer made out tonight. We will execute them in the morning and you will see that the proper entry is made upon the register at the custom house. Have the full value of the ship charged to the private accounts of my brother John and myself, as the gift is a personal affair of ours and others interested in our house must be fully indemnified,” continued the old man as he turned his eyes and met his brother’s assenting look.

The flame blazing up in the grate at that moment cast its light on Burton’s flushed face as he listened to the closing sentence of Mr. James Dunlap’s instructions.

“Forgive me, sir, but I do not comprehend what you mean by ‘others interested in our house.’ I believe other than yourselves I alone have the honor to hold an interest in your house,” and moving forward in the firelight where he would stand before the brothers he continued, almost indignantly, his voice vibrating with emotion:

“You do me bitter, cruel injustice if you think that I do not wish, nay more, earnestly beg, to join in this gift. I have learned that today that would urge me to plead for permission to share in this deed were it of ten times the value of the ‘Adams.’”

Quickly old John Dunlap, rising from his chair, placing his hand on Burton’s shoulder and regarding him kindly, said:

“I am glad to hear you say that, Burton, very glad. It proves your heart to be right, but it cannot be as you wish. Jack is so sensitive even about receiving aid from us, his kinsmen, that you must conceal the matter from him, put the transfer and new registration with his clearance papers and tell him it is our wish that they be not opened until he is one week at sea.”

“Could the transfer not be made just in the name of the house without explanation? He might never think of my being interested,” urged the manager eagerly.

“You are mistaken, Walter,” said James Dunlap. “Within a month you might see the ‘Adams’ sailing back into Boston harbor. I am sorry to deny you the exercise of your generous impulse; we appreciate the intent, but think it best not to hamper a gift to this proud fellow with anything that might cause its rejection.”

Burton, realizing the truth of the position taken by the brothers and the hopelessness of gaining Jack Dunlap’s consent to be placed under obligations to one not of his own blood, could offer no further argument upon the subject. Dejected and disappointed he turned to leave the room to accomplish the wishes expressed by the twins. As he reached the door John Dunlap called to him.

“Hold on a minute, Burton. Have we any interest in the cargo of the ‘Adams?’”

“About one-quarter of her cargo is agricultural implements consigned to our Australian agent for the account of the house,” quickly answered the manager.

“Charge that invoice to me and assign it to Jack.”

“Charge it jointly to us both,” added James Dunlap.

“No you don’t, James! We only agreed on the ship. John is my godson and namesake. I have a right to do more than anyone else,” exultantly cried the kind hearted old fellow, and for the first time that day he laughed as he slapped his brother on the shoulder and thought of how he had gotten ahead of him.

Burton was obliged to smile at the sudden anxiety of Mr. John to get rid of him when Mr. James began to protest against his brother’s selfishness in wishing to have no partner in the gift of the cargo.

“Now, you just hurry up those papers, Burton. Yes, hurry! Run along! Yes, Yes,” and so saying old Mr. John fairly rushed him out of the room.

“How I wish I were Captain Jack’s uncle, too,” thought Burton sadly, with a heart full of generous sympathy for the man who he knew loved the woman that ere a month would be Mrs. Burton.

III.

Some men have one hobby, some have many and some poor wretches have none. David Chapman had three hobbies and they occupied his whole mind and heart.

First in place and honor was the house of J. Dunlap. “The pillared firmament” might fall but his fidelity to the firm which he had served for forty years could never fail. His was the fierce and jealous love of the tigress for her cub where the house of Dunlap was concerned. He actually suffered, as from mortal hurt, when any one or any thing seemed to separate him from this great object of his adoration.

He had ever regarded the ownership of even a small interest by Walter Burton as an indignity, an outrage and a sacrilege. He hated him for defiling the chiefest idol of his religion and life. He was jealous of him because he separated in a manner the worshiper from the worshiped.

Because solely of jealous love for this High Joss of his, Chapman would have gladly, cheerfully suffered unheard of agonies to rid the house of J. Dunlap of this irreverent interloper who did not bear the sacred name of Dunlap.

The discovery of anything concealed, unravelling a mystery, ferreting out a secret was the next highest hobby in Chapman’s trinity of hobbies. He was passionately fond of practicing the theory of deduction, and was marvelously successful at arriving at correct conclusions. No crime, no mystery furnished a sensation for the Boston newspapers that did not call into play the exercise of this the second and most peculiar hobby of Chapman.

By some strange freak of nature in compounding the elements to form the character of David Chapman, an inordinate love for music was added to the incongruous mixture, and became the man’s third and most harmless hobby. Chapman had devoted years to the study of music, from pure love of sweet and melodious sounds. In the great and musical city of Boston no one excelled him as master of his favorite instrument, the violoncello. Like Balzac’s Herr Smucker, in his hours of relaxation, he bathed himself in the flood of his own melody.

Chapman owned, he was not poor, and occupied with his spinster sister, who was almost as withered as himself, a house well down in the business section of the city. He could not be induced to live in the more desirable suburbs. They were too far from the temple of his chiefest idol, the house of J. Dunlap.

“Jack Dunlap sails as master of our ship ‘Adams’ day after tomorrow,” suggested Chapman meditatively, as he sipped his tea and glanced across the table at the dry, almost fossilized, prim, starchy, old lady seated opposite him in his comfortable dining room that evening.

“Impossible, David, the boy has only just arrived.”

And the little old lady seemed to pick at the words as she uttered them much as a sparrow does at crumbs of bread.

“It is not impossible for it is a fact,” replied her brother dryly.

“What is the reason for his sudden departure? Did the house order him to sea again?” pecked out the sister.

“No, that is the strange part of the affair. Jack himself especially urged his appointment to the ship sailing day after tomorrow.”

“Then it is to get away from Boston before Lucy is married. I believe he is in love with her and can’t bear to see her marry Burton.”

Oh! boastful man, with all your assumed superiority in the realm of reason and your deductive theories and synthetical systems for forming correct conclusions. You are but a tyro, a mere infant in that great field of feeling where love is crowned king. The most withered, stale, neglected being in whose breast beats a woman’s heart, by that mysterious and sympathetic something called intuition can lead you like the child that you are in this, woman’s own province.

“You are entirely wrong, Arabella, as usual. Jack never thought of Miss Lucy in that way; besides he and Burton are exceedingly friendly; can’t you make it convenient to visit your friends in Bedford and see Martha Dunlap? If anything be wrong with Jack, and I can help him, I shall be glad to do so. The mother may be more communicative than the son.”

“I will surely make the attempt to learn if anything be wrong, and gladly, too; I have always loved that boy Jack, and if he be in trouble I want you to help him all in your power, David.” The little old maid’s face flushed in the earnestness of the expression.

“Burton is still an unsolved problem to me,” and in saying the words Chapman’s jaws moved with a kind of snap, like a steel trap, while his eyes had the glitter of a serpent’s in them as he continued, “for years I have observed him closely and I cannot make him out at all. I am baffled by sudden changes of mood in the man; at times he is reckless, gay, thoughtless, frivolous, and I sometimes think lacking in moral stamina; again he is dignified, kind, courteous, reserved and seems to possess the highest standard of morals.”

“I don’t suppose that he is unlike other men; they all have moods. You do yourself, David, and very unpleasant moods, too,” said Arabella with the proverbial sourness of the typical New England spinster.

“Well, I may have moods, as you say, Arabella, but I don’t break out suddenly in a kind of frenzy of gaiety, sing and shout like a street Arab and then as quickly relapse into a superlatively dead calm of dignity and the irreproachable demeanor of a cultured gentleman.

“Now, David, you are allowing your dislike for Burton and your prejudice to overdraw the picture,” said prim Miss Arabella, as she daintily raised the teacup to her lips.

“I am not overdrawing the picture! I have seen and heard Burton when he thought that he was alone in the office, and I say that there is something queer about him; Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde of that old story are common characters in comparison. I knew his father well; he was an every-day sort of successful business man; whom his father married and what she was like I do not know, but I shall find out some day, as therein may lie the reading of the riddle,” retorted the brother vehemently.

“As Lucy Dunlap will be married to the man shortly and it will then be too late to do anything, no matter what is the result of your inquiry, it seems to me that you should cease to interest yourself in the matter,” chirped the bird-like voice of Miss Arabella.

“I can’t! I am absolutely fascinated by the study of this man’s strange, incongruous character; you remember what I told you when I returned from the only visit I ever made at Burton’s house. It was business that forced me to go there, and I have never forgotten what I saw and heard. I am haunted by something that I cannot define,” said Chapman, intensity of feeling causing his pale face and hairless head to assume the appearance of the bald-eagle or some other bird of prey.

“Think of it, Arabella! That summer day as I reached the door of his lonely dwelling, surrounded by that great garden, through the open windows there came crashing upon my ears such a wild, weird burst of song that it held me motionless where I stood. The sound of those musical screams of melodious frenzy, dying away in rythmic cadence until it seemed the soft summer breeze echoed the sweet harmony in its sighing. Words, music and expression now wild and unbridled as the shriek of a panther, and then low, gentle and soothing as the murmuring of a peaceful brook,” cried Chapman, becoming more intense as his musical memory reproduced the sounds he sought to describe.

“David, you know that music is a passion with you, and doubtless your sensitive ear gave added accent and meaning to the improvised music of a careless, idle young man,” interrupted Miss Arabella.

“Not so! Not so! I swear that no careless, idle man ever improvised such wild melody; it is something unusual in the man; when at last the outburst ceased, and I summoned strength to ring the bell, there was something almost supernatural that enabled that frenzied musician to meet me with the suavity of an ordinary cultured gentleman of Boston as Burton did when I entered his sitting room.”

“Brother, I fear that imagination and hatred in this instance are sadly warping your usually sound judgment,” quietly replied the sedate sister, seeing the increasing excitement of her brother.

“Imagination created also, I suppose, the uncanny, barbaric splendor with which his apartments were decorated which I described to you,” sneered the man.

“All young men affect something of that kind, I am told, in the adornment of their rooms,” rejoined the spinster, mincing her words, and, old as she was, assuming embarrassment in mentioning young men’s rooms.

“Nonsense! Arabella, I have seen many of the Harvard men’s rooms. A few swords, daggers, and other weapons; a skin or two of wild animals; something of that kind, but Burton’s apartments were differently decorated; masses of striking colors, gaudy, glaring, yet so blended by an artistic eye that they were not offensive to the sight. Articles of furniture of such strange, savage and grotesque shape as to suggest a barbarian as the designer. The carving on the woodwork, the paneling, the tone and impression created by sight of it all were such as must have filled the souls of the Spanish conquerors when they first gazed upon the barbaric grandeur of the Moors, as exposed to their wondering eyes by the conquest of Granada.”

“Don’t get excited, David!” said staid Miss Arabella. “Suppose that you should discover something to the discredit of Burton, what use could and would you make of it?”

The veins in Chapman’s thin neck and bony brow became swollen and distended as if straining to burst the skin that covered them; his eyes flashed baleful fire, as extending his arm and grasping the empty air as if it were his enemy, he fairly hissed:

“I! I! I would tear him out of the house of J. Dunlap, intruder that he is, and cast him into the gutter! Yea! though I tore the heartstrings of a million women such as Lucy Dunlap! What is she or her heart in comparison with the glory of Boston’s oldest business name?”

Panting, as a weary hound, who exhausted but exultant, fastens his fangs in the hunted stag, overcome by the violence of his hatred, David Chapman dropped down into his chair.

Nestling among grand old oaks and profusion of shrubbery, now leafless in the November air of New England, on the top of the highest hill in that portion of the suburbs, sat the “Eyrie,” the bachelor home of Walter Burton.

Though the house was small, the conservatory adjoining it was one of the largest in the city. Burton was an ardent lover of flowers, and an active collector of rare plants. The house stood in the center of an extensive and well kept garden through which winding paths ran in every direction.

The place would have seemed lonely to one not possessing within himself resources sufficient to furnish him entertainment independent of the society of others.

Burton never knew loneliness. He was an accomplished musician, an artist of more than ordinary ability, a zealous horticulturist, and an omnivorous devourer of books.

A housekeeper who was cook at the same time, one man and a boy for the garden and conservatory and a valet constituted the household servants of the “Eyrie.”

At the moment that Chapman’s wrathful mind was expressing its concentrated hate for him, the owner of the white house on the hill sat before the open grand piano in his music-room, his shapely hands wandering listlessly over the keys, touching them once in a while in an aimless manner. The young man’s mind was filled with other thoughts than music.

Chapman had drawn an accurate picture of Burton’s apartments in many respects, yet he had forgotten to mention the many musical instruments scattered about the rooms. Harp, guitar, mandolin, violin, banjo and numberless sheets of music, some printed and some written, marked this as the abode of a natural musician. Burton was equally proficient in the use of each of the instruments lying about the room, as well as being the author of original compositions of great beauty and merit.

The odor of violets perfumed the whole house. Great bunches of these, Burton’s favorite flower, filled antique and queerly shaped vases in each room.

Burton ceased to even sound the keys on which his hands rested, and as some scene was disclosed to his sympathetic soul, his soft brown eyes were dimmed by a suspicious moisture. Sighing sadly he murmured:

“Poor Jack! While I am in a heaven of bliss with the woman I love, surrounded by all that makes life enjoyable, he, poor old chap, alone, heartsick and hopeless, will be battling with the stormy waves of the ocean. Alas! Fate how inscrutable!”

As his mind drifted onward in this channel of thought, he added more audibly, “What a heart Jack has! There is a man! He will carry his secret uncomplaining and in silence to his grave, that, too, without permitting envy or jealousy to fill his soul with hatred; I would that I could do something to assuage the pain of that brave heart.” And at the word “brave” the stream of his wandering fancy seemed to take a new direction.

“Brave! Men who have sailed with him say he knows no fear; the last voyage they tell how he sprang into the icy sea, all booted as he was, waves mountain high, the night of inky blackness, to save a worthless, brutal Lascar sailor. Tender as a woman, when a mere child as careful of baby Cousin Lucy as a granddame could be, and ever her sturdy little knight and champion from babyhood. Poor Jack!”

Again the current of his thought changed its course. He paused and whispered to himself, “Lucy, am I worthy of her? Shall I prove as kind, as true and brave a husband as Jack would be to her? Oh! God, I hope so, I will try so hard. Sometimes there seems to come a strange inexplicable spell over my spirit—a something that is beyond my control. A madness seems to possess my very soul. Involuntarily I say and do that, during the time that this mysterious influence holds me powerless in its grasp, that is so foreign to my natural self that I shudder and grow sick at heart at the thought of the end to which it may lead me.”

At the recollection of some horror of the past the young man’s face paled and he shivered as if struck by a cold blast of winter wind.

“Ought I to tell Lucy of these singular manifestations? Ought I to alarm my darling concerning something that may partly be imaginary? I am uncertain what, loving her as I do, is right; I can always absent myself from her presence when I feel that hateful influence upon me, and perhaps after I am married I may be freed from the horrible thraldom of that irresistible power that clutches me in its terrible grasp. I cannot bear the idea of giving my dear love useless pain or trouble. Had I not better wait?”

At that moment some unpleasant fact must have suggested itself or rather forced itself upon Burton’s mind for he pushed back the piano-stool and rising walked with impatient steps about the room, saying:

“It would be ridiculous! Absurd! Really unworthy of both Lucy and myself even to mention the subject! Long ago that old, nonsensical prejudice had disappeared, at least among cultivated people in America. There is not a shade of doubt but that both the Messrs. Dunlap and Lucy are aware of the fact that my mother was a quadroon. Doubtless that circumstance is deemed so trivial that it never has occurred to them to mention it to me. People of education and refinement, regardless of the color of skin, are welcome in the home of the Dunlaps as everywhere else where enlightenment has dispelled prejudice.”

He paused and bursting into a musical and merry laugh at something that his memory recalled, exclaimed,

“Why, I have seen men and women as black as the proverbial ‘ace of spades,’ the guests of honor in Mr. James Dunlap’s house, as elsewhere in Boston. I shall neither bore nor insult the intelligence of my sweetheart or her family by introducing the absurd subject of blood in connection with our marriage. The idea of blood making any difference! Men are neither hounds nor horses!”

Laughing at the odd conceit that men, hounds and horses should be considered akin by any one not absolutely benighted, he resumed his seat at the piano and began playing a gay waltz tune then popular with the dancing set of Boston’s exclusive circle.

As Burton ended the piece of music with a fantastic flourish of his own composition, he turned and saw his valet standing silently waiting for his master to cease playing.

“Ah! Victor, are the hampers packed carefully?” exclaimed Burton.

“Yes, sir,” replied the valet, pronouncing his words with marked French accent. “The steward at your club furnished all the articles on the list that the housekeeper lacked, sir.”

“You are sure that you put in the hampers the ‘44’ vintage of champagne, the Burgundy imported by myself, and you examined the cigars to be certain to get only those of the last lot from Havana?”

“Quite sure, sir; I packed everything myself, as you told me you were especially anxious to have only the very best selected,” said the little Frenchman.

“Now, listen, Victor; tomorrow I dine away from home, but before I leave the house I shall arrange a box of flowers, which, with the hampers, you are to carry in my dog-cart to Dunlap’s wharf and there you are to have them placed in the cabin of the ship ‘Adams.’ You will open the box of flowers and arrange them tastefully, as I know you can, about the master’s stateroom—take a half-dozen vases to put them in.”

“Very good, sir; it shall be done as you say, sir,” answered the valet bowing and moving toward the door.

“Hold on, Victor!” called Burton, “I wish to add just this: if by any accident, no matter what, you fail to get these things on board the ‘Adams’ before she sails, my gentle youth, I will break your neck.”

So admonished the servant bowed low and left the room, as his master turned again to the piano and began to make the room ring with a furious and warlike march.

IV.

The United States is famous for its beautiful women, but even in that country where beauty is the common heritage of her daughters, Lucy Dunlap’s loveliness of face and figure shone as some transcendent planet in the bright heavens of femininity where all are stars.

“How can you be so cruel, Jack, as to run away to sea again so soon and when I need you so much?”

The great hazel eyes looked so pleadingly into poor Jack’s that he could not even stammer out an excuse for his departure.

Sailors possibly appreciate women more than all other classes of men. They are so much without their society that they never seem to regard them as landsmen do, and Lucy Dunlap was an exceptional example of womankind to even the most blase landsman. Small wonder then that sailor Jack, confused, could only gaze at the lovely being before him.

Lucy Dunlap, though of the average height of women, seemed taller, so round, supple and elastic were the proportions of her perfect figure. The charm of intellectual power gave added beauty to a face whose features would have caused an artist to realize that the ideal model did not exist alone in the land of dreams.

In the spacious drawing-room of Dunlap’s mansion were gathered those who had enjoyed the sumptuous dinner served that evening in honor of their seafaring kinsman. Mr. John Dunlap was relating his experiences in Port au Prince to his old friend, Mrs. Church, while his brother, with that old-fashioned courtliness that became him so well, was playing the cavalier to Miss Winthrop, one of his granddaughter’s pretty friends. Walter Burton was bending over Miss Stanhope, a talented young musician, who, seated before the piano, was scanning a new piece of music.

There seemed a mutual understanding between all of those present that Lucy should monopolize her cousin’s attention on this the first occasion that she had seen him for two years, and probably the last for a like period of time. In a far corner of the great room Jack and Lucy were seated when she asked the question mentioned, to which Jack finally made awkward answer by saying:

“Oh! well, Lucy, I am not of much account at social functions. I should only be in some one’s way. I fancy my proper place is the quarter-deck of a ship at sea.”

“Don’t be absurd, Jack! You know much better than that,” said his cousin, glancing at the manly, frank face beside her, the handsome, curly blonde head carried high and firm, and the grand chest and shoulders of the man, made more noticeable by the close fitting dress coat that he wore.

“Why, half the women of our set in Boston will be in love with you if you remain for my wedding. Please do, Jack. I will find you the prettiest sweetheart that your sailor-heart ever pictured.”

“I am awfully sorry, little cousin, to disappoint you, as you seem to have expected me to be present at your wedding,” said Jack manfully, attempting to appear cheerful.

“And as for the sweetheart part of your suggestion, it may be ungallant to say so, but I don’t believe there is any place in my log for that kind of an entry.”

“How odd it is, Jack, that you have never been in love; why, any woman could love you, you big-hearted handsome sailor.”

Lucy’s admiring glances rested upon the face of her cousin as innocently as when a little maid she had kissed him and said that she loved him.

“Yes, it is rather odd for a man never to love some woman, but I can’t say that I agree that any woman could or would love me,” answered Jack dryly, as he smiled at the earnest face turned toward him.

Miss Stanhope played a magnificent symphony as only that clever artist could; Walter Burton’s clear tenor voice rang out in an incomparable solo from the latest opera, but Lucy and Jack, oblivious to all else, in low and confidential tones conversed in the far corner of the room.

As of old when she was a child, Lucy had nestled down close to her cousin and resting one small hand upon his arm was artlessly pouring out the whole story of her love for Walter Burton, her bright hopes and expectations, the joy that filled her soul, the happiness that she saw along the vista of the future; all with that freedom from reserve that marks the exchange of confidences between loving sisters.

The day of the rack and stake has passed, but as long as human hearts shall beat, the day of torture can never come to a close; Jack listened to the heart story of the innocent, confiding woman beside him, who, all unaware of the torture she was inflicting, painted the future in words that wrung more agony from his soul than rack or stake could have caused his body.

How bravely he battled against the pain that every word brought to his breast! Pierced by a hundred darts he still could meet the artless gaze of those bright, trusting, hazel eyes and smile in assurance of his interest and sympathy.

“But of course my being married must make no difference with you, Cousin Jack. You must love me as you always have,” she said, as if the thought of losing something she was accustomed to have just occurred to her mind.

“I shall always love you, Lucy, as I ever have.” The sailor’s voice came hoarse and deep from the broad breast that rose and fell like heaving billows.

“You know, Jack, that you were always my refuge and strength in time of trouble or danger when I was a child, and even with dear Walter for my husband I still should feel lost had I not you to call upon.” Lucy’s voice trembled a little and she grasped Jack’s strong arm with the hand that rested there while they had been talking.

“You may call me from the end of the earth, my dear, and feel sure that I shall come to you,” said Jack simply, but the earnest manner was more convincing to the woman at his side than fine phrases would have been.

“Oh! Jack! what a comfort you are, and how much I rely upon you. It makes me quite strong and brave to know that my marriage will make no change in your love for me.”

“As long as life shall last, my cousin, I shall love you,” replied the man almost sadly, as he placed his hand over hers that held his arm.

“Or until some day you marry and your wife becomes jealous,” added Lucy laughing.

“Or until I marry and my wife is jealous,” repeated Dunlap with the faintest kind of emphasis upon “until.”

Miss Stanhope began to play a waltz of the inspiring nature that almost makes old and gouty feet to tingle, and is perfectly irresistible to the young and joyous. Burton and Miss Winthrop in a minute were whirling around the drawing-room. How perfectly Burton could dance; his easy rythmic steps were the very poetry of motion. Lucy and Jack paused to watch the handsome couple as they glided gracefully through the room.

“Does not Walter dance beautifully?” exclaimed Lucy as she followed the dancers with admiring glances.

“Bertie Winthrop, who was at Harvard with Walter, says that when they were students and had their stag parties if they could catch Walter in what Bertie calls ‘a gay mood,’ he would astonish them with his wonderful dancing. Bertie vows that Walter can dance any kind of thing from a vulgar gig to an exquisite ballet, but he is so awfully modest about it that he denies Bertie’s story and will not dance anything but the conventional,” continued Lucy.

“Take a turn, Jack!” called Burton as he and his partner swept by the corner where the sailor and his cousin were seated, and added as he passed, “It is your last chance for some time.”

“Come on, Jack,” cried Lucy springing up and extending her hands. A moment more and Jack was holding near his bosom the woman for whom his heart would beat until death should still it forever.

Oft midst the howling winds and angry waves, when storm tossed on the sea, will Jack dream o’er again the heavenly bliss of those few moments when close to his heart rested she who was the beacon light of his sailor’s soul.

When the music of the waltz ended, Jack and his fair partner found themselves just in front of the settee where John Dunlap and Mrs. Church were seated.

“Uncle John, I have been trying to induce Jack to stay ashore until after my wedding,” said Lucy addressing Mr. John Dunlap who had been following her and her partner with his eyes, in which was a pained expression, as they had circled about the room.

“Won’t you help me, Uncle John?” added the young woman in that pleading seductive tone that always brought immediate surrender on the part of both her grandfather and granduncle.

“I am afraid, Lucy, that I can’t aid you this time,” replied the old gentleman and there was so much seriousness in his sunburnt face that Lucy exclaimed anxiously:

“Why? What is the matter that the house must send Cousin Jack away almost as soon as he gets home?”

“Nothing is the matter, dear, but it is an opportunity for your cousin to make an advancement in his profession, and you must not be selfish in thinking only of your own happiness, my child. You know men must work and women must wait,” replied her uncle.

“Oh! Is that it? Then I must resign myself with good grace to the disappointment. I would not for the world have any whim of mine mar dear old Jack’s prospects,” and Lucy clasped both of her dimpled white hands affectionately on her cousin’s arm, which she still retained after the waltz ended, as she uttered these sentiments.

“I know Jack would make any sacrifice for me if I really insisted.”

“I am sure that he would, Lucy, so don’t insist,” said John Dunlap very seriously and positively.

Just then Burton began singing a mournfully sweet song, full of sadness and pathos, accompanying himself on a guitar that had been lying on the music stand. All conversation ceased. Every one turned to look at the singer. What a mellow, rich voice had Walter Burton. What expression he put into the music and words!

What a handsome man he was! As he leaned forward holding the instrument, and lightly touching the strings as he sang, Lucy thought him a perfect Apollo. Her eyes beamed with pride and love as she regarded her future husband.

None noticed the flush and troubled frown on old John Dunlap’s face. Burton’s crossed legs had drawn his trousers tightly around the limb below the knee, revealing an almost total absence of calf and that the little existing was placed higher up than usually is the case. That peculiarity or something never to be explained had brought some Haitian scene back to the memory of the flushed and frowning old man and sent a pang of regret and fear through his kind heart.

“God bless and keep you, lad! Jack, you are the last of the Dunlaps,” said Mr. John Dunlap solemnly as they all stood in the hall when the sailor was leaving.

“Amen! most earnestly, Amen!” added Mr. James Dunlap, placing his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

“Good-by! dear Jack,” said Lucy sorrowfully while tears filled her eyes, when she stood at the outer door of the hall holding her cousin’s hand.

“Think of me on the twentieth of next month, my wedding day,” she added, and then drawing the hand that she held close to her breast as if still clinging to some old remembrance and anxious to keep fast hold of the past, fearful that it would escape her, she exclaimed:

“Remember, you are still my trusty knight and champion, Jack!”

“Until death, Lucy,” replied the man, as he raised the little white hand to his lips and reverently kissed it.

She stood watching the retreating figure until it was hidden by the gloom of the ghostly elms that lined the avenue. As she turned Burton was at her side.

“How horribly lonely Jack must be, Walter,” she said in pitying tones.