They talked far into the night. What he told her of scenes already described in this book it is needless to repeat. But he gave her some other details which may interest the reader.
“I felt strongly drawn toward him while I nursed him in this very house, four years ago. There was nothing supernatural about that. I suppose I liked him because I liked him, just as I had done as a boy. No,I had not the least suspicion who he was at first; and when, finally, I had read his secret, I had no intention of letting him know that he was discovered; but I was betrayed into doing so on the occasion of the death of old Ponto. We talked all that night, and he gave me a sketch of his history.”
That sketch, supplemented by additional details that he had afterwards, from time to time, given Charley, would fill a volume. For our purposes, it is only necessary to say that his life, for some time after he left his home, was one of many hardships and vicissitudes. These came to a sudden end.
He had found his way to New York, and was picking up precarious pennies by playing the flute in beer-saloons, when he had the good fortune to touch the heart of an old man by the pathos of his “Home, Sweet Home.” This old man was, as it turned out, of humble birth, and had amassed and retired on a snug little fortune. He was a Bostonian, yet deficient in culture, as was clear; for, though abundantly able to pay for champagne, he was drinking beer. He had lost an only son years before, who, had he lived, would have been of about Theodoric’s age; and when he saw a tear glisten in the boy’s eye as he played (it was his own kind, sympathetic look that had evoked it,—besides, the boy had not tasted food that day), he stealthily slipped two half-dollars into his hand. The boy looked at the money, looked at the man; then plunged through the door of the saloon into the street. The look was the only thanks the old man got, but he felt that that was enough. He followed him and found him standing in the shadow of a booth; and when he laid his hand upon his shoulder, the boy began to sob.
Hunger is king. The pampered pug sniffs, without emotion, boned turkey on a silver dish; a gaunt street-cur whines over a proffered crust.
That very night his new friend rigged him out in a new suit, and telegraphed his wife that he had found a boy for her. They reached Boston next day. That night a family consultation was held between the old couple; and next morning, after breakfast, they announcedto Theodoric that they were to set out, in two days, for Europe, where they expected to travel for several years. They were in comfortable circumstances, they told him, but very lonely since the loss of their son. Would he go with them? If he did not like them, they would send him back to America; if he did, they would adopt him as their son. Theodoric, though his pride revolted, was so eager to put the ocean between himself and his former home, that he accepted their offer.
Gratitude being a strong trait in his character, he soon grew deeply attached to his benefactors, notwithstanding their lack of exterior polish. They idolized him. They were both, especially his adopted mother, particularly proud of his strikingly aristocratic air. Accordingly, they lavished money upon him, and constantly scolded him because he could not be induced to spend it. They were made happy, one day, by his requesting permission to employ a violin master. It was the first favor, involving money, that he had ever asked.
He had declined, from the first, to reveal his name. Nor did they press him, feeling that if that were known, it might lead to their losing him. So he took theirs,—a name with which all English-speaking people are familiar; christening himself John, to the deep chagrin of Mrs. S., who had set her heart on Reginald de Courcy.
And philosophers, who saw the trio, explained that it no longer, in these days of steam and telegraphs and wide travel, took three generations to make a gentleman.
The tour in Europe resulted in permanent residence across the water. At the end of three years, the party had returned to Boston, but the old people found that such acquaintances as they had there were no longer to their taste. At any rate, their society was not good enough, to their thinking, for John, who, they were glad to believe, was sprung from Virginia’s bluest blood. So they shook the dust of America from their feet.
In 1858 his kind adopted mother died in Paris,—his father a year later, in London; and Theodoric foundhimself residuary legatee in the sum of nearly one hundred and fifty thousand dollars (twenty-seven thousand pounds).
In the midst of all this prosperity, Theodoric had not been happy. At times the thought of his own sorrowing mother greatly troubled him. And when he found himself again alone in the world, this feeling came over him with redoubled force. Remorse, at last, growing stronger and stronger, gave him no rest; travel brought him no alleviation; and finally, his longing for home becoming irresistible, he took passage for America, and found himself, two weeks later, strolling through the streets of Richmond, with no very definite plans as to how he should make himself known to his family. It was on the very day of his arrival that he encountered little Laura, and discovered that she was his sister.
“What prevented him from revealing himself while he was in Leicester,” said Charley, “was the approach of the war. He would wait till peace came. His mother had already lost him once, he said. Once he was on the very verge of betraying himself. It was when you so deeply agitated him by unconsciously opening his eyes to the fact that, though he knew that Lucy was his sister, she did not. Don’t you remember?”
“Remember!”
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“And so you are going to escort Mrs. Poythress to Harrisonburg and Taylor’s Springs to-morrow morning. You are not strong enough for such a journey; but now that I know all, I too, say go. Are you going to tell his mother who he is?”
“No; he has expressly forbidden that. I am to choose my time, hereafter.”
“I think it would be cruel ever to tell her. To lose such a son twice! No, let the secret remain with you and me forever.”
“It will be unavoidable.”
Alice looked up.
“You see, he has made a will, of which I have possession; and as, after certain legacies are deducted, the residue of his estate goes to his father and his mother, in equal shares—”
“His father?”
“Yes. I found no difficulty in convincing him that his resentment against his father was unjust, seeing that he had punished him from a sense of duty. The influence that I have over him has always surprised me.”
“Why could you not make him forgive Mary?”
“I didn’t try. A man has but one father; but as for sweethearts, there are as good fish in the sea as—”
“What!”
“Well, exceptone.”
“Ah!”
“Besides, Mary opened an old wound. Bigotry, as he deemed it, had wrecked his life once, already. I suspect that he is very bitter against her.”
“How sad that he should be so implacable in his wrath!”
“He is equally as ‘implacable’ in his gratitude. Would you believe it? He directs that the freedom of the lad who ‘stood by him’ be bought, and a hundred dollars counted into his hand besides. By the way, I forgot to mention that this lad is none other than my man Sam, who passed into the possession of our family, by exchange, years ago. He, you remember, when you and I were sitting in the Argo—a-Maying—”
On the piazza of a house in Harrisonburg sat two young surgeons. One of them was on duty there; the other had driven in from Taylor’s Springs to procure supplies, and his ambulance-wagon stood in front of the door.
“Well,” said the visitor, rising, “I must hurry back.”
“Any serious cases?”
“Yes; one more than serious. Captain Smith—gallant fellow—pity!”
“Ah, indeed. Poor fellow,—I feared so. He stopped here for an hour or so, then persisted, against my remonstrances, in going out to Taylor’s. Well, good-by. Drop in whenever you are in town.”
“Thank you, I will. Good-day.”
“Doctor! doctor!”
The voice was quick and nervous, and the young surgeon hurried to the open window. “What can I do for you, Miss Rolfe?”
“Ask your friend to wait one moment,” said she, as she hastily tied her bonnet-strings; “I want to go to Taylor’s.” And running to a little closet, she drew forth a shawl.
The doctor had hardly had time to deliver the message before Mary was on the piazza. “Can you give me a seat in your wagon?”
“Certainly,” said the surgeon, lifting his cap.
He was proud to have so pretty a woman grace his equipage, and he looked forward to a pleasant chat along the road; but he soon discovered that, though she made an effort to appear interested, she did not hear what he said. And so he gave over his effort to entertain her, and they drove forward in a silence that was hardly broken till the driver turned out of the Port Republic Road.
“Are we almost there?”
“It is less than a mile from here. We shall be there in a few minutes.”
She gave a slight shiver.
“Have you any friends there, among the wounded?”
“Yes—no—that is, he is not exactly a friend of mine. He is a friend of some very dear friends of mine, who would like to know how he is.”
“Oh, I see. I am surgeon in charge; may I ask the name?”
“Captain Smith.”
“Captain Smith?”
“Yes, of the Stonewall skirmishers.”
“Oh, yes. I was speaking of him, to-day, in Harrisonburg.”
“Is his wound dangerous?”
“He was shot through the right lung.”
“Are such wounds very dangerous? I mean, are they necessarily fatal?”
“No, not always.”
Then there was silence for a hundred yards. Suddenly she asked, in a low voice, “Do you think there is any hope?”
The surgeon was silent for a little while. “I cannot give you much encouragement,” he said, at last.
She did not speak again till the wagon stopped in front of the farm-house, which at that time constituted, with the usual out-buildings, Taylor’s Springs. It has since been added to, and the name changed to Massanetta. Then, as now, the waters of the beautiful, bubbling spring below the house, at the foot of the hill, enjoyed a high repute as a potent specific in cases of malarial trouble; and a military sanitarium had been established there, the tents of which dotted the little valley.
“The house, as you see,” said the surgeon, as they descended the slope from the road to the front door, “is too small for a hospital; so the men are under canvas. Your friend, however,—I mean your friends’ friend,—is in the house. It is right to warn you that you will find him much changed. Or did I understand you to say that you had never met him?”
“I knew him once,—years ago.”
“Walk in,” said he, opening the door; but she had already dropped into a chair that stood upon the porch. “Ah, you are tired,” said he. “Let me bring you a glass of water. No? Is there anything that I can do for you?”
She shook her head, lifting her eyes, for a moment, to his. That moment was enough,—he read them; “I will leave you here for a little while,—till you get rested.”
She bowed her head in silent acquiescence.
Three or four convalescent solders who sat on theporch looked at her pale face, and then at each other; and they stole away, one by one, making as little noise as they could with their heavy brogans.
If a man be a man, he is not far from being a gentleman.
And Mary was alone with her anguish.
Two or three times the surgeon stole to the door, glanced at the bowed, motionless figure, and as often retired within the house. At last she beckoned him to her side.
“I am rested now,” she said. “How is he?”
“About the same.”
“Can I see him?”
“Yes; walk in. One moment.” And stepping to the second door on the right-hand side of the hall, he opened it and beckoned. A soldier came out into the hall.
“Shelton,” said he, “you can stroll around for a while; when I want you I will call you. This way.” And he bowed Mary into the room and closed the door softly behind her.
“Poor girl! poor girl!” said he, shaking his head; and he left the hall.
For a moment Mary stood with downcast eyes; then, looking up, gave a start.
“Oh—I beg your pardon! I was told I should find Captain Smith in this room,” said she, making for the door.
Just then the evening sun, which was slowly sinking in the west, burst from behind a cloud, and poured a stream of light in the room. She looked again. A clean-shaven face of chiselled marble, as clear-cut and as pale. Could it be he?
“I am Captain Smith—or was—”
“I did not know you without your beard.”
“The doctor had it taken off to get at the wound in my cheek.”
“I can hardly believe you are the same person. But for your eyes, I—Theytell me you are the same. I had hoped—”
Mary sank into a chair.
“I beg your pardon. In my surprise, I forgot the courtesy due a lady.”
“I am not come as a lady, but as a woman. Turn away your eyes if you will; but hear me. Why do you hate me so? What have I done? You loved me once. At least you told me so; and as for myself—but I shall not trouble you with that. We plighted our faith. I broke my word, I acknowledge that. But do you deny the claims of conscience? Not if you are the man you have always seemed. Did it cost me nothing? It broke my heart, and—you-ou—know-ow-ow—it. You need not sneer! Alice knows it, and my mother, too, if you do not know—or care. Look at me, and remember the fresh-hearted young girl you knew four years ago—and told her—you would—love her—al-al-al-always!”
Mary covered her face with her hands, and the tears streamed down her cheeks, but with a supreme effort she suppressed her sobs.
The captain of the Myrmidons was silent.
At last, Mary, drying her eyes, arose, tottering, from her seat.
“And so I have come in vain! Once before I humbled myself in the dust before you—and you spurned me—”
The captain shook his head wearily.
“Yes, spurned me, and in the presence of others; so that even that poor dying man found it in his heart to pity me. And you, too, are dying, yet have not the mercy of a stranger and an enemy. You bade me read Homer, and taught me to admire Achilles, yet even his flinty heart was melted by the tears of Priam.”
The adamantine lips trembled.
“I have read the passage again and again, and wondered how you, as brave in battle, could be so muchmore pitiless than he. And Priam was a man, I a woman; Priam was his enemy, while I—”
A slight tremor shook his frame.
“At least, I am not that!”
She bowed her head for a moment; then, lifting her clasped hands and impassioned and despairing eyes to heaven:
“Merciful Father, have I not suffered enough! Must it be that from this time forth I shall know no peace,—haunted forever by the cold glitter of those implacable eyes, that were once—”
“Mary!”
She started. Had she heard aright?
“Mary, my beloved!”
She gave two cries; for she had heard—and she saw—one of exultant joy, the other of frenzied despair.
Found—and lost!
Falling upon her knees by the bedside, she buried her face in her hands.
He laid his hand upon her head.
Then the great sobs, long pent up, burst forth,—
“Mary!”
His words were too precious to be lost, and she mastered herself to listen.
“Mary, I have been a monster!”
She seized his hand.
“Can you ever forgive me?”
She covered it with tearful kisses.
“I don’t deserve this; but oh, how I have loved you all these years!”
“Oh, don’t tell me that, don’t tell me that!” And a moan burst forth from her very heart.
“I am too weak to talk. Charley will tell you why I was so bitter. He knows all. Ask him.”
She drew up a chair, and, sitting beside him, tried to smile, as she stroked back the chestnut hair from his forehead.
“Wonderful!” said she.
He looked up.
“I wish Lucy could see you without your beard, youare so much like her. And Edmund, too. Wonderful!” repeated she, drawing back for a better look. “And Mr. Poythress, too! Father and son were never more alike. Look!” And she handed him a little broken mirror that hung upon the wall.
She looked at him to see what he thought. And a thrill of terror shot through her heart. She had nursed men before who had been shot through the lungs. She pressed her handkerchief to his lips.
It was soaked with blood.
The door opened softly. “A lady and a gentleman from Richmond,” said the surgeon. “Will you see them now? Yes?”
Charley entered first. As soon as she saw him Mary threw herself upon his breast, and hung upon his neck with convulsive, half-suppressed sobs, then greeted Mrs. Poythress in the same way. Then she ran back to Charley. “He has forgiven me!”
“No, Charley; she has forgiven me. And you came! I knew you would. And she, too!”
Mrs. Poythress, sitting on the edge of the bed, held one of his hands, Charley the other. Mary sat stroking back the chestnut hair. The room was dark; for a little cloud floated across the face of the sun, whose lower edge was just kissing the rim of the hill that rises between Massanetta and the west.
“How is the baby?” asked he, with a faint smile, and gently pressing Charley’s hand. “What did—Alice—name him?”
“Alice left that to me. He was christened—Theodoric.”
“True as steel! I die happy! Charley—my Mary has—forgiven me my selfish anger. If there is any other person—that I have wronged—tell her—my last breath—”
The cloud passed on, and the last soft rays of that setting October sun flashed upon his pallid face.
Mrs. Poythress sprang to her feet. Bending over him with clasped hands, she poured upon him one long look of passionate interrogation.
He tried to speak. His eyes glanced from face toface, as though beseeching help. Mrs. Poythress turned to Charley. He stood with his eyes fixed upon the floor. She sprang in front of him, and placing a hand upon either shoulder, and drawing him close to her, with wide-staring, eager eyes, that would wring an answer from him, looked into his:
“Charley?”
“Yes,” said he.
She turned to the bed.
He had heard; and an ineffable tenderness had come into his face, softening, sweeping away, with the rush of unspeakable love, the hard lines that years of suffering had wrought. ’Twas a boy’s face once more—’twas Edmund’s—’twas—?
She stood before him with outstretched arms, eager with certainty,—held motionless by a slender thread of doubt.
He tried to speak. And again—
At last, with one supreme effort, and borne upon his last breath, a murmured word broke the stillness of the room. One little word,—but that the sweetest, tenderest, that tongue of man can utter,—
“Mother!”
“My Dory!” and she fell upon his neck. And the snowy hair and the chestnut, intermingled, lay, motionless, on one pillow!
And which of the two shall we pity?
He seemed to hear that name. At any rate, a beaming look—a serenely exultant smile—
I remember hurrying, once, to the roar of a battle which was over before our command reached the field. The combatants were gone. The wounded, even, had been removed. Only the Silent lay there, upon their gory bed. Wandering a little way from the road, while our troops halted, I saw a fair young boy (he was not over sixteen years of age) seated upon the ground, and leaning back against a young white oak, with his rifle across his lap. Struck with his rare beauty, I drew nearer.
The boy sat still.
I spoke to him.
He did not move.
I stooped and touched his damask cheek.
’Twas cold!
Kneeling in front of him, I saw a bullet-hole in his coat, just over his heart!
But, even then I could hardly believe. His head, thrown back, rested naturally against the tree. His parted lips showed two rows of pearly teeth. His uplifted eyes, which seemed to have drawn their azure from that sky upon which they were so intently fixed, wide open, were lit with a seraphic smile—
As though, peering, with his last look, into that blue abyss, he saw beckoning angels there!
Such a smile illumined poor Dory’s face. The heroic spirit had fled. The tumultuous, high-beating heart was still!
And who among us all—who, at least, from whom the sweet bloom—the rosy hopes of youth are gone—who among us, knowing what life really is, would dare awaken its fierce throbbings again?
And the seraphic smile lingered, lit up by the farewell rays of that October sun.
And the sun went down behind Massanetta’s hill!
THE END.