“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.