Part 5 (1/2)

The whole business was a constant pride and joy to old Mr. Jacob Dolph.

When there was a dinner to be given, he would follow Aline as she went about the house superintending the preparations of her servants, in her flowered ap.r.o.n of black silk, with her bunch of keys--honest keys, those, a good four inches long, with tongues as big as a domino--jingling at her side. He would himself overlook the making ready of the wines, and give oft-repeated instructions as to the proper temperature for the port, and see that the champagne was put on ice in the huge octagonal cellaret in the dining-room corner. And when all was ready, as like as not he would kiss Aline on the forehead, and say:

”I have a headache to-night, my dear, and I think I shall take my dinner in my room.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Mons'us gran' dinneh, Seh!”]

And he would go feebly up stairs, and when old Julius, who always waited upon him, brought up his tray, he would ask:

”Is it a fine dinner, Julius? Did everybody come?”

And Julius would invariably reply, with profound African dignity:

”Mons'us gran' dinneh, seh! 'E fines' dinneh I eveh witness', seh! I have stood behin' you' chai', seh, this thutty y'ah, an' I neveh see no such a gran' dinneh, Misteh Do'ph, seh!”

”Except the dinner we gave Mr. Hamilton; in State Street, Julius,” the old man would put in.

”_Ex_cep' that, seh,” Julius would gravely reply: ”_that_ was a pol-litical dinneh, seh; an', _of_ co'se, a pol'litical dinneh--” an expressive pause--”but this he' is sho'ly a mons'us fine dinneh, seh.”

His bodily vigor was unimpaired, however, and except that his times of entire mental clearness grew fewer and briefer as the months went on, there was little change in the old gentleman when the spring of 1829 came. He was not insane, he was not idiotic, even at the worst. It seemed to be simply a premature old age that clouded his faculties. He forgot many things, he was weakly absent-minded, often he did not recognize a familiar face, and he seemed ever more and more disinclined to think and to talk. He liked best to sit in silence, seemingly unconscious of the world about him; and if he was aroused from his dreamy trance, his wandering speech would show that his last thought--and it might have entered his mind hours before, at the suggestion of some special event--was so far back in the past that it dealt with matters beyond his son's knowledge.

He was allowed to do as he pleased, for in the common affairs of daily life he seemed to be able to care for himself, and he plaintively resented anything that looked like guardians.h.i.+p. So he kept up his custom of walking down into the city, at least as far as St. Paul's. It was thought to be safe enough, for he was a familiar figure in the town, and had friends at every turn.

But one afternoon he did not return in time for dinner. Young Jacob was out for his afternoon ride, which that day had taken him in the direction of the good doctor's house. And when he had reached the house, he found the doctor likewise mounted for a ride. The doctor was going up to Bond Street--the Dolphs' quarter was growing fas.h.i.+onable already--to look at a house near Broadway that he had some thoughts of buying, for he was to be married the coming winter. So they had ridden back together, and after a long examination of the house, young Jacob had ridden off for a gallop through the country lanes; and it was five o'clock, and dinner was on the table, when he came to his father's house and learned from tearful Aline that his father was missing.

The horse was at the stable door when young Jacob mounted him once more and galloped off to Bond Street, where he found the doctor just ready to turn down the Bowery; and they joined forces and hurried back, and down Broadway, inquiring of the people who sat on their front stoops--it was a late spring evening, warm and fair--if they had seen old Mr. Dolph that day.

Many had seen him as he went down; but no one could remember that the old gentleman had come back over his accustomed path. At St. Paul's, the s.e.xton thought that Mr. Dolph had prolonged his walk down the street.

Further on, some boys had seen him, still going southward. The searchers stopped at one or two of the houses where he might have called; but there was no trace of him. It was long since old Jacob Dolph had made a formal call.

But at Bowling Green they were hailed by Mr. Philip Waters, who came toward them with more excitement in his mien than a young man of good society often exhibited.

”I was going for a carriage, Dolph,” he said: ”your father is down there in the Battery Park, and I'm afraid--I'm afraid he's had a stroke of paralysis.”

They hurried down, and found him lying on the gra.s.s, his head on the lap of a dark-skinned, ear-ringed Spanish sailor. He had been seen to fall from the bench near by, another maritime man in the crowd about him explained.

”It was only a minit or two ago,” said the honest seafarer, swelled with the importance that belongs to the narrator of a tale of accident and disaster. ”He was a-settin' there, had been for two hours 'most, just a-starin' at them houses over there, and all of a sudden chuck forward he went, right on his face. And then a man come along that knowed him, and said he'd go for a kerridge, or I'd 'a' took him on my sloop--she's a-layin' here now, with onions from Weathersfield--and treated him well; I see he wa'n't no disrespectable character. Here, Pedro, them's the old man's folks--let 'em take him. A-settin' there nigh on two hours, he was, just a-studyin' them houses. B'long near here?”

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Young Jacob had no words for the Connecticut captain. Waters had arrived, with somebody's carriage, confiscated on the highway, and they gently lifted up the old gentleman and set off homeward. They were just in time, for Waters had been the earliest of the evening promenaders to reach the Battery. It was dinner hour--or supper hour for many--and the park was given up to the lounging sailors from the river-side streets.

The doctor's face was dark.

”No, it is not paralysis,” he said. ”Let us proceed at once to your own home, Mr. Dolph. In view of what I am now inclined to consider his condition, I think it would be the most advisable course.”

He was as precise and exact in his speech, even then, as he was later on, when years had given an innocent, genial pomposity to his delivery of his rounded sentences.