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.