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.