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 announced to
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 found himself 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, except _one_.”
“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—”