SYMPHONY OF LIFE.

MOVEMENT IV.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

During the night of this 18th of October, while we were making our toilsome advance upon the enemy, a Virginia soldier, wounded in the battle of Winchester, lay in a small room of a house in the edge of Middletown; around which village the battle of Cedar Creek was chiefly fought. Upon some bedding, spread upon the floor, lay a young woman, his cousin; who, having heard that he had been hard hit, had made her way to the enemy’s pickets, and, after some parleying, gained permission to pass within their lines and nurse her wounded relative. This young woman had, since the beginning of the war, passed her life, as one might say, in our hospitals. But her present position, within the enemy’s lines, was a trying one. It so happened that between the Federal officer who occupied a room in the same house and herself a strong antipathy soon grew up. The little nurse was too busy attending to the wants of her wounded cousin to leave his side often; but being under the same roof with the Federal officer, they met, in a casual manner, not infrequently. These meetings he contrived to make very disagreeable, by continually attempting to force political discussions upon her. But she, on her side, managed to render them far more exasperating to him.

He that would get the better of a woman had best finish her with a club at once and be done with it; he is sure to get the worst of it in a tongue-battle. It may be a washerwoman opening on you with Gatling-gun invective, and sweeping you from the face of the earth; or a dainty society belle, with a dropping sharp-shooter fire of soft-voiced sarcasm,—in either case you shall wish that you had held your peace.

And so this big Federal colonel never had an encounter with the little rebel nurse but he gnashed his teeth and raged for hours afterwards. She always contrived, in the subtlest way, and without saying so, to make him feel that she did not look upon him as a gentleman. One day, for example, he had been carefully explaining to her in how many ways the Northern people were superior to the Southern.

“But I don’t believe,” added he, with evident acrimony, “that you F. F. V.’s think there is one gentleman in the whole North. This arrogance on your part is really one main cause of the war.”

“I can readily believe you,—for I understand the feeling. But really you do us an injustice. I know, personally, a number of Northern gentlemen. In New York, for instance” (the colonel was from that city), “I am acquainted with the ——— family and the ———s and the ———s, do you know them?”

The colonel hesitated.

“No?” said she, in soft surprise. “Ah, you should lose no time in making their acquaintance on your return to the city. They are very nice. But I hear my patient calling. Good-day!”

The colonel knew, and he saw plainly that she knew, that he could no more enter one of those houses than he could fly. He could not answer her. All that was left him was to hate her, and this he did with his whole heart; and all aristocrats, living and dead.

When the crash of battle burst forth, on the morning of the nineteenth, the colonel hurried forth to form his regiment. He met his men rushing pell-mell to the rear, and he ran back to his headquarters to gather a few things that lay scattered about his room. Although the bullets were flying thick, frequently striking the house itself, he found the little nurse standing on the porch, exultation in every feature. The whizzing of the rifle-balls seemed sweet to her ears. Confederate bullets would not hurt her.

“Get out of my way,” said he, in a gruff voice. “This is no place for women.”

“Nor for men, either, you seem to think!”

He gave her a black look.

“Why this unseemly haste, colonel?” said she, following him into the hall. “What! through the back door? The Confederates are there!” And she stabbed the air in the direction of the coming bullets with a gesture that would have made the fortune of a tragedy queen.

“Take that, d——n you!” And he brought his open hand down upon her cheek with such force that, reeling through the open door of her room, she fell headlong upon the floor.

“Coward!” roared a voice from the threshold of the hall.

Rising to her knees and turning, she saw the colonel spring forward with a fierce glare in his eyes and a cocked pistol in his extended hand. She shut her eyes and stopped her ears.

Had he killed the Confederate? No, for she heard no fall; but the clear ring, instead, of a sabre drawn quickly from its scabbard. The colonel stepped across the threshold of the room in which she was, cocking his pistol for another shot. He raised the weapon,—but she heard a spring in the hall, and saw a flash of steel; and the colonel fell at full length upon the floor, with a sword-blade buried up to the hilt in his breast. With such terrific force had the thrust been delivered that he was knocked entirely off his feet, and the whole house shook.

“Δούπησεν δὲ πεσών, ἀράβησε δὲ τεύχε᾽ ἐπ᾽αὐτῷ,”^[1] muttered the victor, as the young woman, springing to her feet, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“My brave defender!” cried she, in a fervor of patriotic exaltation, lifting her eyes to his; and then she sprang back with a shiver, and stood breathless before him, her head bowed upon her breast, her face ashy pale.

A scene within a scene.

Without, the roar of cannon, the incessant rattle of musketry, the bursting of shells, the panic-stricken rush of riderless horses, the tramp of hurrying men, the Rebel Yell sweeping by like a tornado, shouts of victory, moans of the dying.

Within, four people for a moment oblivious of all this mad hurly-burly that billowed around them.

The convalescent soldier, rising upon his elbow, looked with silent amazement upon the crouching figure of his fair cousin; while the dying Union soldier forgot, for a moment, his gaping wound as he gazed upon the man who had inflicted it. Tall, broad-shouldered, gaunt of flank, supple, straight as an Indian, he held in his right hand the gory sword, from which the prostrate officer saw his own life-blood trickling, drop by drop, upon the floor. In his left he held his cap uplifted.

Attila and Monsieur Deux-pas in one!

With cap uplifted; but head thrown back and eyes averted. His right shoulder and breast were soaked with blood, which was streaming down his brown beard upon his coat, from a bullet-hole in his bronzed cheek. But it was his eyes which riveted the attention of his fallen enemy. He had been appalled by their fierce glare, when, angered by the pistol-shot, he had sprung upon him in the hall. But that look had been soft compared with the cold, steady, pitiless gleam they poured forth now. That man, thought he, would not give a cup of water to a dying enemy.

Captain Smith made two steps towards the door, and turning, bowed.

Feeling that he was going (for she had not dared to raise her eyes), Mary Rolfe quivered for a moment from head to foot; then springing forward, with passionate entreaty in every gesture and a cry of anguish upon her lips:

“And you will leave me without a word? Listen! How frightfully the battle is raging! And you are so cruel, cruel, as to go forth, and die, perhaps, without ever— I know you will be killed, I know it, I know it! And you won’t say you forgive me! Won’t you say just that one little word? You loved me once,—and dearly, for you pressed me against your heart and told me so; and can that heart, once so tender, be so hard now? Oh, say you forgive me; for the sake of that dear, dead love, say you forgive your little Mary!”

And round about them the battle roared and surged and thundered.

Her cousin has told me that such was the pathos and passion of her tones, her looks, her gestures, as she uttered these words (which hardly seemed unconventional in their fearful setting), that the eyes of the dying soldier grew moist. But Captain Smith, standing like a granite cliff:

“There is nothing to forgive. You did your duty as you saw it. So did I when I ran that officer through.—Ah, pardon me: I had forgotten you. Can I do anything for you?” added he in a tender voice, as he kneeled beside him.

“Unbutton my coat, please; I am choking.”

The captain shuddered as he saw the broad gash in the breast of his enemy. “I am sorry I hit you so hard.”

“It is all right,” replied he, wearily. “I tried to kill you, and you killed me, that’s all. But thank you for your kind words.”

The captain’s eyes filled with tears. “I hope it is not as bad as you think. I’ll send you a surgeon immediately. Meanwhile, keep up your spirits.” And taking the wounded man’s hand in his, he pressed it softly. Then, rising, “Good-by,” said he, with a cheering smile, and moved towards the door.

It was then that Mary, catching, for the first time, a view of the right side of his face, saw the blood trickling down his cheek.

“You are wounded already,” she cried in terror.

“Yes; wounded beyond healing,” said the captain of the Myrmidons; and with a cold bow, he passed out of the door and into the tempest of the battle.

“Oh—oh—oh!” gasped Mary, wringing her interlocked hands high above her head; and she sank slowly down upon the floor.

The measures fashioned by the hands of men can hold but so much; but anguish without limit may be pent up within a human heart that is bursting, yet will not burst.

The officer turned his eyes, and, even in his own great extremity, pitied her.

And, after all, which of the two was most to be pitied?

He was about to speak a few kind words, when he saw upon her pallid cheek the dark bruises made by his own heavy hand; and he held his peace. His lips were parched, his throat tortured with that cruel thirst that loss of blood entails. His wounded neighbor could not, she would not hand him a cup of water. At any rate, it were worthier to die there, where he lay, rather than ask a favor of the woman he had so insulted. Three times he tried to rise, and as often fell heavily back. She raised her head and saw the longing, wistful look in his eyes, fixed upon a bucket which stood in a corner of the room.

It is wonderful how sorrow softens the heart!

She rose in an instant and brought him the cup. He could not lift his head. Bending over him, she placed her arm beneath his neck and raised him. As he drank, the tears poured down his cheeks. Gently withdrawing her arm, she tripped softly across the room and brought her own pillow and placed it beneath his head; and sitting down upon the floor, by his side, stroked his brown forehead with her soft white hand. He raised his streaming eyes to hers, and again and again essayed to speak; but his quivering lips refused to obey.

“I know what you would say; so never mind. Don’t worry now. You may beg my pardon when you get well.”

He shook his head sadly. “I am dying now,—I feel it.”

His voice sank into a whisper. She bent over him to catch his words.

“Promise me to write to my mother and tell her how I died, and that you sat beside me. Leave out one thing. It would break her heart to hear that of me. You will? God bless you. Her address is in my pocket. Write to her. You promise? Oh, how good of you to hold the very hand that—”

“Hush! Don’t talk of that now.”

“You won’t have to hold it long. I feel it coming, coming. Press my hand hard, harder! You have forgiven me! Tell her, that as I lay—dying—far away from home—an angel—of light—”

CHAPTER LXXIV.

If only night would come!

They were pouring down upon us and around us in overwhelming masses. They had turned our left, and were raking Gordon’s flank and rear. It was a question of a few minutes only.

In our front was a narrow field. Beyond that, a wood. Through this the enemy were driving our skirmishers back upon the main line. One by one these brave men emerged from the wood and trotted briskly across the field, targets, every one of them, for a dozen rifles.

There come two more! They are the last. But they do not trot, as the rest did and as skirmishers should.

Upon those two, convergent rifles from all along the line of the wood poured a rain of lead. Still they refused to hurry. And one was tall and bearded, and the other slender, and with a face as smooth as a girl’s. The boy, as fast as he loaded his rifle, wheeled and fired; the man carried a pistol in his hand. Weeds fell about them, mowed down by the bullets; spurts of dust leaped from under their very feet.

The few men left in our line stood, under cover of a thin curtain of trees, fascinated by the sight of these two, leisurely stalking along, under that murderous fire.^[1]

“Run, run!” we shouted.

“Run!” cried Captain Smith, giving the shoulder of his companion a push.

“And leave my commander!” replied Edmund.

“Stoop, then!”

“Show me how, captain!”

“Obey me!” thundered he.

The boy lowered his head, as he rammed a bullet home; then turned, and, cocking his rifle, scanned the opposite wood narrowly. Presently he raised his rifle; but before he could fire we heard that terrible sound which old soldiers know so well.

“Oh!” cried the boy, falling upon his face.

“My God! my God!” ejaculated the captain of the Myrmidons, with a woman’s tenderness in his voice and the despair of Laocoön in his corrugated brow.

Hearing that cry, the boy turned quickly and smiled in his captain’s face. “It is only a flesh-wound, through the thigh,” said he; “I can walk, I think.”

He was attempting to rise, when his captain, placing his strong arms beneath him, lifted him high in the air. He ran, then; and his face was full of terror, as the thick-flying bullets whistled past him and his burden. The two were within a few paces of where I stood, when again that terrific sound was heard; and they both fell heavily at my very feet.

A bullet, coming from our flank and rear, had struck Captain Smith in the right breast.

It was a wound in front, at any rate.

There was but one ambulance-wagon in sight, and that was retreating. A skirmisher ran to overtake it. Others placed the captain and Edmund on stretchers and hurried after it.

“Jack, old boy; good-by. I am done for; but I particularly desire to get within our lines; so hold them in check as long as you can. Say farewell to Charley.”

A few of his own men held their ground till they saw their captain and Edmund disappear, in the wagon, over the hill, when they fell back, loading and firing as they went. When the wagon reached the bridge beyond Strasburg, it was found broken down; but the men with the stretchers managed to get our two wounded friends across the stream, and to find another wagon; so, the pursuit slackening at this juncture, they were not captured.

Late in the night, I found them by the road-side. Edmund was asleep. The captain lay awake, watched by one of his brave skirmishers. He gave messages to my grandfather, to Charley and Alice, to the Poythresses. “And now, good-night,” said he. “You need rest. Throw yourself down by that fire and go to sleep. Don’t bother about me. I shall set out for Harrisonburg at daybreak.”

“The ride will kill you.”

He smiled faintly. “I must get well within our lines. Remember—Harrisonburg—good-night!” And he closed his eyes and wearily turned his lace away. “Shelton!”

The skirmisher bent tenderly over his captain.

“Lie down by the fire and sleep. You cannot help me. God alone can do that, and he will release me from my sufferings before many days. Shelton, give me your hand. Tell your little boy, when he grows up, that I said you were as brave as a lion in battle; and tell your wife that you could be as gentle as a woman to a suffering comrade. And now lie down and rest. Good-night!”

“Presently, captain.”

“What are you crying about, man? Such things will happen. Good-night!”

CHAPTER LXXV.

Let us return to that little parlor on Leigh Street, from the windows of which, four years ago, we caught our first glimpse of the man who has played so large a part in our story. It is full of people, now,—half a dozen elderly men, all the rest women. Of the men, one is a minister, with a face so singularly gentle that his smile is a sort of subdued sunbeam.

The countenances of the women all wear looks of happy expectancy. Mr. and Mrs. Poythress are there, and Lucy. Mr. and Mrs. Rolfe, but not Mary. And others whom the reader, to her cost, does not know. Our plump friend, Mrs. Carter, is bustling about, who but she, her jolly face wreathed in smiles.

At every sound in the hall, every female neck is craned towards the door. Somebody or something is expected.

“Mrs. Carter,” said Mrs. Poythress, “what name has Alice selected for the little man?”

“Oh, yes! what is to be his name?” echoed every lady in the room.

Thereupon, Mrs. Carter, being constitutionally incapable of laughing, began to shake.

At this eccentric behavior on the part of the young grandmother, curiosity rose to fever heat; but the more they plied her with questions, the more she could not answer. Seeing her incapable of speech, her grave and silent husband came to the rescue, and explained that what amused Mrs. Carter was that she did not know what their grandchild was to be called. It appeared that Alice, as a reward for his getting well of his wound, had allowed Charley the privilege of naming their son. He had accepted the responsibility,—but no mortal, not even his wife, had been able to make him say what the name was to be.

This statement sent the curiosity of the audience up to the boiling point. Did you ever!

Mrs. Rolfe interrogated Mr. Rolfe with her impressive eyes.

“Such a fancy would never have occurred to me, I’m sure,” said that man of peace.

“Al-i-ce!” called Mrs. Carter, from the foot of the stairs.

“We are coming, mother,” answered a cheery voice from the ball above; and Alice, giving two or three final little jerks at the ends of certain ribbons and bits of lace that adorned her boy (he was asleep on his nurse’s shoulder), stood aside to let that dignitary pass down-stairs, at the head of the procession.

“And now,” said Alice, going up to her husband, “what is his name to be?”

“One that he will never have cause to be ashamed of,” replied Charley.

Alice drew back in surprise. Up to this point she had looked upon the thing as a joke, and enjoyed it, too, as so characteristic of her husband. This time, however, he had not smiled, as usual. On the contrary, he betrayed, both in voice and look, a certain suppressed excitement. She imagined, even, that he was a trifle pale; and her heart began to flutter a little, she knew not why.

The column halted when it reached the closed parlor door. Here Charley took the sleeping boy in his arms.

When the audience within heard the knob rattle, the excitement was intense. It was dissipated, in an instant, by the sight of Charley bearing the child.

In this wide world there lives not a woman who can look upon a bearded man, with his first infant in his arms, without smiling.

The admiring ohs and ahs made the young mother’s heart beat high with joy. And who shall call her weak, because she forgot that they are to be heard at every christening? In the name of pity, let us sip whatever illusive nectar chance flowers along our stony path may afford!

Every one noticed how awkward Charley was in handing the baby to the minister; while the good man, on the contrary, received an ovation of approving smiles for his skill in holding him.

The little fellow, himself, appeared to feel the difference. He nestled, at any rate, against the comfortable shoulder, and threw his head back; and his little twinkling nose, pointing heavenward, seemed to say that he knew what it all meant.

“Name this child!”

“Ah-ah-ah-ah!”

Every neck was craned, every ear eager to catch the first mysterious syllable!

Alice glanced anxiously at her husband.

Why that determined look? What was he going to do?

A lightning-flash darted through her brain! Charley’s mother’s father was named Peter! He had been a man of mark in his day; and, besides, Charley worshipped his mother’s memory. Peter! Horrors! And then he stammers so over his P’s! That half-defiant look, too!

Charley leaned forward.

She could not hear what he said; but she saw, from the obstinate recusancy of his lips, that there was a P in the name. She felt a choking in her throat.

’Twas her first,—and Peter! And he knew how painfully absurd she thought the name! Poor little innocent babe! Peter! Her eyes filled with tears.

No one had heard the name; not even the minister. He bent an inquiring look upon Charley.

Charley repeated the words.

This time the good man heard, though no one else did. Bringing his left arm around in front of his breast, he dipped his right hand into the water, and raised it above the head of the sleeping boy.

Alice’s heart stood still!

“Theodoric Poythress, I baptize thee—”

A gasp of surprise, followed by a stifled moan, startled minister and people; and all eyes were turned towards the Poythress group.

Mrs. Poythress lay with her head upon her husband’s breast, silent tears streaming from her closed eyes. Lucy, half-risen from her seat, leaned over her mother, holding her hand, deep compassion in her gentle eyes! Her father sat bolt upright, looking stern, in his effort to appear calm. Her mother pressed Lucy gently back into her chair, and the minister went on.

Hurried leave-takings followed the ceremony. The baby was awake and gurgling, but nobody noticed him; not even his mother. Mrs. Poythress did not stir.

The front door was heard to close.

“Lucy, are they all gone?”

“Yes, mother.”

She opened her eyes, and seeing Charley standing, silent, by the side of his wife, rose and staggered towards him, with outstretched arms. He ran to meet her; and she folded him to her breast with a long, convulsive embrace; then dropped into a chair, without a word, and covered her face with one hand, while she held one of his with the other.

First, Lucy thanked Charley, and then Mr. Poythress, coming up, and taking Charley’s hand in both his: “My boy, you are as true as steel,—I thank you.” And he strode stiffly out into the hall.

And instantly, as Alice’s quick eye noticed, the cloud which had lingered on her husband’s brow vanished. He drew a long, deep breath, and turning with a bright smile, chucked young Theodoric under the chin. “How do you like your name, young fellow?”

The corners of the young fellow’s mouth made for his ears, then snapped together beneath his nose.

“Your views vary with kaleidoscopic rap-p-p-pidity,” remarked the philosopher.

The son of the philosopher crowed.

“He says he rather likes his name,” said Charley; “but,” added he, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, “those drops of water, at the corners of his eyes, look too much like—”

“Hush!” cried Alice, quickly; and she laid her hand on her husband’s mouth.

“Absit omen!” said he.

CHAPTER LXXVI.

On the morning following this christening, the papers contained a telegraphic account of our defeat at Cedar Creek. And, late in the afternoon of the same day, Lucy Poythress walked into the Carters’ back parlor. Her eyes were red and swollen.

“Have you any news?” asked Alice, anxiously.

“Here is a letter from Edmund.”

“Then he is safe, thank God!”

“Not exactly. The poor child was shot through the thigh. Mr. Whacker is unhurt.”

“And Captain Smith?”

Lucy’s lips quivered.

“Not killed?” cried Alice, clasping her hands.

“No, but dangerously wounded,—very. Here is Edmund’s letter to mother.”

Alice read it aloud. He gave an account of the battle, making light of his own wound (“The rascals popped me in the second joint”), but represented his captain’s as very serious. The captain had advised him to remain in Harrisonburg, but had himself gone to Taylor’s Springs, four miles distant. As for himself, he was in luck.

“Who do you think is my nurse? Why, Miss Mary Rolfe! The battle caught her in Middletown, nursing a Confederate soldier; and when, in the afternoon, the enemy showed signs of an intention to attack, the captain sent me, with an ambulance-wagon, to Miss Mary. I was to tell her that in my opinion (that is what he told me to say) it would be safest for her to move her patient to the rear. And here she is now; and a gentler nurse no one ever had. He never mentioned her name to me; but she tells me that she knew him slightly, once. It is a pity he went off to Taylor’s, for she would have nursed him, too, I am sure.

“He told me a lot of things to tell you about myself, but I shan’t repeat them, as I don’t think I behaved any better than hundreds of others that I saw around me. I could not help crying when they took him from his cot by my side; for from the way he told me good-by, I saw that he did not expect ever to see me again. No brother was ever kinder than he has been to me. The last thing he said to me was to give his dear, dear love to you (those were his words), and to say that he relied on you to keep your promise. I asked him what promise, but he said never mind, she will remember.”

In conclusion, Edmund besought his mother to come on to see him. Miss Mary was as good as could be, but, after all, one’s mother was different, etc., etc., etc.

“What promise could he have alluded to?” asked Alice.

“That is just what I asked mother,” said Lucy. “Do you believe in presentiments, Alice? I do; and when mother told me what her promise to the Don was” (here Charley, who had not spoken a word, rose and left the room), “I was filled with dreadful forebodings. You know that during the latter part of his stay down in the country, before joining the army, the Don spent a great deal of his time with us. One afternoon we were taking a little stroll, before tea, Mr. Frobisher walking with me, and, some distance behind us, the Don, with mother. She stopped at our family cemetery to set out some plants; and she tells me that it was on this occasion that she made him the promise in question.

“She says that when she pointed out to him the spot that she had selected for her own resting-place, he looked down for some time, and then said that he had a favor to ask her.

“‘I am to join the army, next week,’ said he.

“‘Well?’ said she.

“‘There is no fighting without danger,’ said he. ‘Suppose I should fall?’

“‘Oh, I hope not!’ said mother.

“‘Yes; but in case I do? This, you say, is the spot you have chosen for yourself. If I fall—would you give me two yards of earth just here, at your feet? I would not be in the way there, would I?’ Mother makes a longer story of it, and an affecting one. When she gave him her word (mother took the greatest fancy to the Don from the first day she saw him) she says he was more deeply moved than she should have thought it possible for a big, strong man to be by such a thing. This is the promise he alludes to; and I have a painful presentiment that—”

“Mr. Frobisher recovered from an equally severe wound.”

“Yes, I know; but—”

“Miss Alice,” said a servant, entering the parlor, “there is a soldier at the door, who wants to speak to Marse Charley.”

Alice, going into the hall, found a man standing there. He was in his shirt-sleeves as to his right arm, which was bound in splints.

“Do you wish to see Major Frobisher?”

“Yes, ma’am; I have a letter for him.”

“You may give it to me; I am his wife.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, my orders was to give it to him, and nobody else.”

“Very well. Won’t you come in and have something to eat?”

“Thank you, ma’am; I shouldn’t mind a bite, if it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Walk in and sit down while the servant is getting something for you. You look tired. I hope your arm is not much hurt.”

“Well, sort o’. They broke it for me at Cedar Creek; but I got a furlough by it, and can see my wife and children; so tain’t worth mentionin’.”

“Cedar Creek! Do you know Captain Smith? How is he?”

“He is my captain, ma’am, and he was the one what writ the letter. He is pretty bad, I am afeard.”

“This is Major Frobisher,” said Alice, as Charley entered the room. Charley read the note and put it hurriedly into his pocket. After asking the man a few questions, he was about to leave the room:

“Won’t you let me see it?” asked Alice.

“Not yet,” said Charley; and thanking the soldier, he went up-stairs to his room.

Alice heard the key turn in the lock; and when she went up-stairs, later, to beg him to come down to tea, she did not find him in the room. An hour afterwards he came in, saying that he had been to see Mrs. Poythress, that she was to set out for Harrisonburg in the morning, and that he was going with her.

It was in vain that Alice urged his weak condition. “A friend is a friend,” he kept repeating. And so Alice set about packing his valise. Just as she had finished this little task the baby stirred; Alice went up to his crib and patted him till he thought better of it and nestled down into his pillow again.

“Theodoric! I think it such a pretty name! The idea of my thinking you were going to call him Peter! Won’t you tell me something of his namesake, Lucy’s brother? Mother tells me that she vaguely remembers that there was some dreadful mystery about his loss, which occurred when I was about four years old; but she did not know the Poythresses at that time, and does not remember any of the details, if she ever knew them, in fact. Lucy, in explaining the scene at the christening yesterday, told me it was a long story, and a sad one, so I did not press her. But won’t you tell me? You never tell me anything. Now be good, for once!”

Alice was bringing to bear upon her obdurate husband the battery of all her cajoleries, when, to her surprise, he surrendered at once.

“Yes,” said he, “since our child is named in his honor, I will tell you the story of Theodoric Poythress.”

In the next chapter that story will be found; though not in as colloquial a form as that in which Charley actually told it, and with most of Alice’s interruptions omitted.

CHAPTER LXXVII.

“Theodoric was the eldest son of Mr. and Mrs. Poythress. He was born on the 15th day of April, 1832, I on the 2d of the preceding March; so that I was his senior by six weeks. Our intimacy began when we were not more than six years old. Mr. Poythress had a tutor for Theodoric at that period, by whom half a dozen of the neighbors’ sons were taught, myself among the number. I was put across the River every morning; but there was an understanding between my mother and Mrs. Poythress that whenever the weather grew threatening, I was to be allowed to spend the night with Theodoric. During the winter and early spring there was hardly a week that I did not pass at least one night with him; he, in turn, spending Friday night and Saturday with me. Ah, how happy we were! When two congenial boys are thrown together in that way, they get about as much out of life as is to be gotten at any other age. I can recall but one quarrel that we ever had; and that was when I said, one day, that my mother was, beyond doubt, the best woman in the world. We compromised the matter, in the end, by reciprocal admissions that the mother of each was best to him.

“I think few boys were ever better friends than we; and for the reason, no doubt, that we differed so. Even as a boy I had an indolent, easy-going way of taking things as they came. My anger, too, was hard to arouse, and as easy to appease; while his was sudden and fierce, and, I am sorry to add, implacable. And this is true generally, notwithstanding the proverb. It may be that people who give way to little gusts of temper soon forget their wrath; but my observation has taught me that unappeasable, undying resentment is always found associated with readiness to take offence. This, at any rate, was Theodoric’s disposition.”

“I trust,” said Alice, “that our boy will not resemble him in that respect.”

“I hope not. But that was the only serious defect in his character; in my partial eyes, at least. He was generous, chivalrous, truth itself, absolutely unselfish, and, withal, paradoxical as it may appear, as tender-hearted as a girl. I remember a little incident which shows this. One day, as we school-boys were racing about the lawn during recess, a wretched-looking man walked up to us and asked for food. He was the first beggar we had ever seen, and two or three of us ran into the kitchen and returned with enough for five men. While he ate, the drunken old humbug,—for such he proved to be,—taking advantage of our simplicity, wrought powerfully on our sympathies by recounting the tale of his woes. He had not tasted food for two days.

“‘Why did you not buy something to eat?’ asked Theodoric, with quivering lip.

“‘I hadn’t any money.’

“‘Then why didn’t you go home to your friends?’

“‘I ain’t got no home and no friends.’

“Whereupon Theodoric burst into a loud boohoo. Some of the boys began to titter; and I think I was just beginning to despise him, a little, as a cry-baby, when his mother, who stood near, threw her arms around him, and said, with brimming eyes and choking voice, ‘God will remember these tears one day, my precious boy!’”

Alice rose, and, stealing softly to her baby, bent over and kissed him.

“You said, just now, that you hoped our boy would not resemble his namesake.”

“I take that back.”

“You will say so all the more when I have shown you what kind of a son he was to that mother.

“I believe that the English race surpasses all others in respect for woman; and I think that, of the English race, the Americans are superior to their brethren across the water in this regard. And I believe, too, that it will hardly be denied that, among Americans, Southerners are conspicuous for this virtue. And it seems to me that of respect for woman, the love for one’s mother is the very crown, and blossom, and glory. It means manliness, it means soul, it means a grateful heart. It is unwritten poetry; and if that be so, then the life of the boy after whom we have named our boy was one beautiful lyric.

“His mother had a great fund of fairy-tales and other stories, which she used to tell us after supper. I can see him now, sitting on a low stool at her feet,—he would never sit anywhere else,—with hands clasped over her knees, drinking in the story, while his eyes clung to the gentle face of the story-teller with a kind of rapt adoration. And such eyes! now flashing with fierce indignation at one turn of the story, now melting with tenderness at another!

“And she could never pass him without his throwing his arms around her and tip-toeing for a kiss. ‘Another! another! another!’ he kept pleading. ‘Go away, you silly boy!’ she would say; but more than once I caught her, behind the door, after one of these little scenes, wiping her eyes with her apron. And once, when Theodoric had left the room, and I, in my simplicity, asked her what was the matter, she burst into a sob. ‘Nothing, my child,’ she said; ‘only, I am too happy.’

“It was hard—”

Charley rose and walked up and down the room three or four times.

“It was hard to lose such a boy as that!”

Alice was silent.

“His love for his mother was his religion. And this brings me to the sad part of my story.

“We Virginians are in the habit of denouncing New England puritanism; unaware, seemingly, that Virginia numbers among her people thousands of puritans.”

Alice looked up, but said nothing.

“And how could it have been otherwise? Are not we, equally with the New Englanders, English? But, as the people who came over in the ‘Mayflower’ belonged to a different class of English society from those who sailed with Captain John Smith” (Charley stopped speaking for a moment, then went on), “our puritanism has assumed a shape so different from that of Massachusetts, that we have failed to recognize it. The aristocratic element of our colonists was so strong and numerous, that it gave a tone to our society which it has never lost. And it is because the maxim that an Englishman’s house is his castle has, among people of a certain social standing, a meaning far wider than its merely legal one, that puritanism never became blatant with us. Hence, though it exists among us,—often in the most intense form,—we have ignored it.”

Alice shook her head, slowly: “I can’t make out what you mean.”

“Well, then, to come to concrete examples,—Mr. Poythress.”

“Mr. Poythress!”

“There lives not a more intense puritan. You have failed to remark it, because he is a gentleman. That forbids his ramming his personal convictions down other people’s throats. He is a puritan for himself and his family only. Nothing could induce him to harbor a bottle of wine under his roof; but believing that every Virginian’s house is his castle, he is equally incapable of resenting its presence on the Elmington table. I have a story about him that you have never heard.

“Years ago, he gave up the use of liquors of all kinds. For some time, however, his guests were as liberally supplied as ever. But at last he gave a dinner at which only his rarest and most costly wines were brought on the table; so that some of the gentlemen even remonstrated at his pouring out, like water, Madeira that his father had imported. What was the gastronomic horror of these gentlemen to learn, a few days afterwards, that he had caused every barrel in his cellar to be rolled out on his lawn, where, with an axe in his own hands, he staved in the head of every one. From that day to this there has not been a gill of wine or brandy in his house. Yet, to mention the ‘Maine liquor law’ to him is to shake a red flag in the face of a bull. His aversion to drinking is great; but his love of personal liberty is greater.

“Again, would it surprise you to learn that, not so very many years ago, Mr. Poythress favored freeing our slaves?”

“Mr. Poythress an abolitionist!” cried Alice, in horrified amazement.

“No,” replied Charley, smiling, “he was nothing of the kind. He was an emancipationist.”

“I fail to see the difference.”

“They are about as much alike as chalk and cheese. The Virginia emancipationists, of whom a considerable and growing party existed at the time of which I speak, favored the gradual manumission of their own slaves. An abolitionist is for freeing some one else’s. Mr. Poythress quietly spilt his own valuable wine on his lawn. Had he been an abolitionist, he would have headed a mob to burst the barrels of his neighbors.”

“Mr. Poythress an emancipationist,—well!”

“I don’t wonder at your surprise; for he is now the most ardent advocate of slavery that I know. He positively pities all those benighted countries where it does not exist. The abolitionists have converted an enthusiastic apostle of emancipation into an ardent pro-slavery champion; so infuriated is he that the Northern people are unwilling for us to get rid of slavery as they did, and as the nations of Europe have done,—gradually, and without foreign interference; and a man who once looked upon the institution as a blot upon our civilization, now regards it as its crown of glory.

“I have given you these details that you may thoroughly understand what kind of a man Theodoric’s father was. He was, in fact, a puritan in every fibre of his soul. He looked upon the world as a dark valley, through which we had to pass on our way to a better; and it seemed to him that any hilarity on the part of us poor wayfarers smacked of frivolity, to use the mildest term. Dancing he never allowed under his roof, and secular music he rated as a snare for the feet of the unwary. Therefore he shook his head with unaffected uneasiness when he discovered in Theodoric, at a very early age, a passionate love for this half-wicked form of noise. And so, when, year after year, as Theodoric’s birthday came round, and the boy, when asked what he wanted, always answered, a fiddle, his father put his foot down. At last, on his thirteenth birthday, a compromise was effected. Theodoric got a flute; an instrument which Mr. Poythress allowed to be as nearly harmless as any could be; at least to the performer. I had been piping away on one for a year, but he soon surpassed me. His progress pleased his mother, from whom, in fact, he had inherited his love for music; but his father looked upon the time spent practising as wasted. Conscious, therefore, that his flute annoyed his father, he hit upon a plan to give him as little of it as possible.

“In a little clump of trees, about a quarter of a mile from the house, be constructed a music-desk against an old tree; and thither he repaired, on all fair afternoons, and played to his heart’s content, surrounded by an admiring audience of a dozen or so dusky adherents.

“It was this harmless flute that brought on the catastrophe that I shall presently relate.

“Mr. Poythress’s religion, I need hardly tell you, was of the most sombre character. (I say was; for he is much changed since those days.) It is singular how extremes meet in everything. Puritanism among the Protestants, and asceticism in the Catholic Church, each seek, by making a hell of this world, to win heaven in the next. I have said that Theodoric frequently spent Saturday with me. He was never allowed to be absent from home on Sunday; and month by month, and year by year, as he grew older, those Sundays grew more and more intolerable to him. It was a firm hand that crammed religion down his throat, and, as a child, he was, if wretched, unresisting. But Theodoric was his father’s own son. He too loved personal liberty. To be brief, the time came when he hated the very name of religion; and, when we were about thirteen years old, he often shocked me by his fierce irreverence. And, unfortunately, his parents had no suspicion of what was going on in his mind. His love for his mother, equally with his awe of his father, sealed his lips.

“There are those whose discontent is like damp powder burning. It sputters, flashes, smokes, but does not explode. But with Theodoric, everything was sudden, unexpected, violent. He had immense self-control; but it was that of a boiler, that at one moment is propelling a steamer, an instant later has shattered it. There was an element of the irrevocable and the irreparable in all that he did.

“It was, as I have said, the hard, relentless sabbatarianism of Mr. Poythress that bore hardest upon his son. And, when you think of it, what a curse sabbatarianism has been to the world! How the Protestants of England and America ever managed to ingraft it upon Christianity I could never understand; for not only is it without trace of authority in the New Testament, but the very founder of our religion never lost an opportunity of striking it a blow. And I can’t help thinking, sometimes, that when he said, Suffer little children to come unto me, he said it in pity of their tortures on this one long, dreary day in every week. But I am getting away from my story.

“One Sunday—it was the first after Theodoric’s fourteenth birthday—he complained of headache. He did not ask to be excused from going to church; but the day was warm, and the road long and dusty, and his mother begged him off; and the family coach went off without him. The party had gone but a few miles, when they learned that owing to the illness of the pastor there would be no service that day. So they turned about.

“At last, hoofs and wheels ploughing noiselessly through the heavy sand, they approached the little clump of trees which we have mentioned. Suddenly an anxious, pained look came into Mrs. Poythress’s face. Mr. Poythress put his hand to his ear and listened. An angry flush overspread his countenance.

“‘Stop!’ cried he to the coachman.

“There could be no doubt about it: it was Theodoric’s flute, and—shades of John Knox!—playing a jig.

“Mr. Poythress opened the door with a quick push and stepped out. ‘Go on to the house,’ said he to the driver.

“A moment later, the carriage turned a corner of the little wood, and Mrs. Poythress saw her boy, seated upon a log, playing away, while in front of him a negro lad, of about his age, was dancing for dear life. A gang of happy urchins stood around them with open mouths. Mr. Poythress was striding down upon the party unperceived.

“The off horse, annoyed by the dust, gave a snort.

“One glance was enough for the audience; and panic-stricken, they were off in an instant, like a covey of partridges.

“The musician and the dancer had not heard the horse, and followed, for an instant, with puzzled looks, the backs of the fugitive sinners.

“When Theodoric saw his father bearing rapidly down upon him, he rose from his rustic seat and stood, with downcast look and pale face, awaiting his approach. The dancer turned to run.

“‘Stop, sir!’

“The father stood towering above the son, shaking from head to foot.

“‘Give me that flute, sir!’ And seizing it, he broke it into a dozen pieces against the log.

“The boy stood perfectly still, with his arms hanging by his side and his head bowed.

“‘You are silent! I am glad that you have some sense of shame, at any rate! To think that a son of mine should do such a thing! When I am done with you, you will know better for the future, I promise you.’ And cutting a branch from a neighboring tree, he began to trim it. ‘And not content with desecrating the day yourself, you must needs teach my servants to do so. How often have I not told you that we were responsible for their souls?’

“‘Lor’, mahrster,’ chattered the terrified dancer, ‘Marse The., he didn’t ax me to dance, ’fo’ Gaud he didn’t. I was jess a-passin’ by, an’ I hear de music, and somehownuther de debbil he jump into my heel. ’Twant Marse The., ’twas me; leastwise de old debbil he would’t lemme hold my foot on de groun’, and so I jess sort o’ give one or two backsteps, an’ cut two or three little pigeon-wings, jess as I was a-passin’ by like.’

“‘Very well, I shan’t pass you by.’

“‘Yes, mahrster, but I didn’t fling down de steps keen, like ’twas Sad’day night, ’deed I didn’t, mahrster; and I was jess a-sayin’ as how Marse The. didn’t ax me; de ole debbil, he—’

“‘Shut up, sir!’

“‘Yes, mahrster!’

“Theodoric gave a quick, grateful glance at his brother sinner.

“Although he was without coat or vest,—for the day was warm,—he did not wince when the blows fell heavy and fast upon his shoulders. At last his father desisted, and turned to the negro lad.

“Mr. Poythress had never, in the memory of this boy, punished one of his servants; but seeing that this precedent was in a fair way of being reversed in his case, he began to plead for mercy with all the volubility of untutored eloquence. Meantime, he found extreme difficulty in removing his coat; for his heart was not in the work; and before he got off the second sleeve he had pledged himself nebber to do so no mo’ in a dozen keys.

“Theodoric stepped between his father and the culprit.

“‘I take all the blame on myself. If there is to be any more flogging, give it to me.’

“His father pushed him violently aside, and aimed a stroke at the young negro; but Theodoric sprang in front of him and received the descending rod upon his shoulders.

“Was this magnanimity? or was it not rebellion, rather?

“‘Do you presume to dictate to me?’

“‘I do not. I simply protest against an injustice.’

“These were not the words of a boy, nor was the look a boy’s look; but his father, blinded by the odium theologicum, could not see that a man’s spirit shone in those dark, kindling eyes.

“‘How dare you!’ said the father, seizing him by the arm.

“The boy held his ground.

“This resistance maddened Mr. Poythress, and the rod came down with a sounding whack. It was one blow too many!

“Instantly the boy tossed back his head, and folding his arms, met his father’s angry look with one of calm ferocity.

“The look of an Indian at the stake, defying his enemies!

“The blows came thick and heavy. Not a muscle moved; while the lad who stood behind him writhed with an agony that was half fear, half sympathy. At last he could endure it no longer. Coming forward, he laid his hand, timidly, on his master’s arm.

“‘He nuvver ax me to dance, mahrster, ’deed he nuvver! For de love o’ Gaud let Marse The. ’lone, an’ gimme my shear! My back tougher’n his’n, heap tougher!’

“His master pushed him aside, but the lad came forward again, this time grasping the terrible right arm.

“‘Have mussy, mahrster, have mussy! Stop jess one minute and look at Marse The. back,—he shirt soakin’ wid blood!’

“At these words Mr. Poythress came to himself. ‘Take your coat and vest and follow me to the house, sir,’ said he.

“They found Mrs. Poythress pacing nervously up and down the front porch.

“‘He will not play any more jigs on Sunday, that I promise you. Go to your room, sir, and do not leave it again to-day.’

“The mother, divining what had happened, said nothing; but her eyes filled with tears. The boy turned his face aside, and his lips twitched as he passed her, on his way into the house. Just as he entered the door, she gave a cry of horror and sprang forward; and though the boy struggled hard to free himself, she dragged him back upon the porch.

“‘What is this, Mr. Poythress? What do you mean, sir?’ she almost shrieked.

“Every family must have a head; and Mr. Poythress was the head of his. Few women could have stood up long against his firm will and his clear-cut, vigorous convictions. At any rate, acquiescence in whatever he thought and did had become a second nature with his gentle wife; who had come to look upon him as a model of wisdom, virtue, and piety. She had even reached the point, by degrees, of heartily accepting his various isms; and though she sometimes winced under the austere puritanism that marked the restrictions he imposed upon their boy, she never doubted that it was all for the best. Very well, she would end by saying, I suppose you are right. There were no disputes,—hardly any discussions under the Oakhurst roof.

“Imagine, therefore, the scene, when this soft-eyed woman, dragging her son up to his father, pointed to his bloody back with quivering finger and a face on fire with eloquent indignation!

“‘Were you mad? What fiend possessed you? And such a son! Merciful Father,’ she cried, with clasped hands, ‘what have I done, that I should see such a sight as this! Come,’ said she; and taking her son’s arm, she hurried him to his room, leaving Mr. Poythress speechless and stunned; as well by shame as by the suddenness of her passionate invective.

“There she cut the shirt from his back, and after washing away the blood, helped him to dress. ‘Now lie down,’ said she.

“He did as he was bidden; obeying her, mechanically, in all things. But he spoke not a single word.

“She left the room and came back, an hour afterwards. His position was not changed in the least. Even his eyes were still staring straight in front of him, just as when she left the room. She said, afterwards, that there was no anger in his look, but dead despair only. When she asked if he would come down to dinner, there was a change. He gave her one searching glance of amazement, then fixed his eyes on the wall again. At supper-time he came down-stairs, but passed by the dining-room door without stopping. His mother called to him, but he did not seem to hear. He returned in half an hour, and went to his room. He had gone, as she afterwards learned, to the cabin of the negro lad, and called him out. ‘You stood by me to-day,’ said he. ‘I have come to thank you. I shan’t forget it, that’s all.’ And he wrung his hand and returned to the house.

“At eleven his mother found him lying on his bed, dressed. ‘Get up, my darling, and undress yourself and go to bed.’

“He rose, and she threw her arms around him.

“Presently, releasing himself, gently, from her embrace, he placed his hands upon her shoulders, and holding her at arm’s length, gave her one long look of unapproachable tenderness; then suddenly clasping her in his arms, and covering her face with devouring kisses, he released her.

“‘Good-night, my precious boy!’

“He made no reply; and she had hardly begun to descend the stairs before she heard the key turn in the lock.

“The poor mother could not sleep. At three o’clock she had not closed her eyes. She rose and stole up-stairs. His door stood open. She ran, breathless, into the room.

“A flood of moonlight lay upon his bed. The bed was empty. Her boy was gone!

“To this day she has never been able to learn his fate.”

“How terrible!”

“And now you see why I was so agitated at the christening of our boy, and why I looked so grim, as you said. I was determined, at all hazards, to name him Theodoric. But I did not know how Mr. Poythress would take it. I was delighted when I saw that his heart was touched by my tribute to his son.”

“Yesterday and to-day you have been tried severely. Go to bed and get some sleep.”

“I will.”

“Would you mind letting me read, now, the Don’s letter?”

Charley bent his head in thought for a while. “Yes,” said he, drawing the letter from his pocket, “you may read it.” And handing it to her, he left the room.

With trembling fingers she opened it, and read as follows:

“Taylor’s Springs, Tuesday.

“My beloved Charley:

“It wrings my heart to have to tell you, but I fear it is all over with me. For several days I have been growing consciously weaker, and just now I overheard the surgeon say to my nurse that I could not live a week. Come to me, if you can with prudence. It would not be so lonely, dying, with my hand clasped in yours. And oh! if she could come too; but without knowing to whom; I insist on that. Tell her (I leave the time to you)—tell her, that when she follows after, she will find me sitting without the Golden Gate, waiting—waiting to ask forgiveness, and bid her farewell, there—or—it may be—to enter therein, hand in hand with her—perhaps—for I have loved much.

“Come to me, friend of friends—if you can—but if not—farewell, farewell—and may God bless you and your Alice!

“Dory.”

When Charley returned, his wife sprang to meet him.

“And ‘Dory’ means—?”

“Yes,” said Charley.