Poppea of the Post-Office, Page 4

  CHAPTER IV

  THE FELTONS

  A month crept by with warm rains at the end of it, and the spring calledthe blood back to the pale tree-tops with a bound.

  Though the people of Harley's Mills did not by any means hibernate inwoodchuck fashion during winter, they did conserve their forces afterthe habits of their thrifty forebears and did not light or heat any moreof their usually ample houses than was absolutely necessary. A strongtie of kinship threaded the whole community. The stately residents ofQuality Hill and Westboro Road were often second and third cousins ofthe owners of the lonely hill farms, of the blacksmith at thecross-roads, or the joiner and carpenter, whose correct eye and aself-taught course of mechanical drawing enabled him to supply planswhen required. Nor did this carpenter think it necessary to call himselfan architect and builder, as he would to-day, in order to back hisclaims to consideration.

  No one was jealous because the Misses Felton, year after year, went toNew York after Thanksgiving, and returned via the South late in May.Rather were their doings a sort of general stimulant and tonic,administered in regular doses through the letters that Miss Emmy Feltonwrote weekly to pretty little Mrs. Latimer, the Episcopal minister'swife, who had a love of life beyond the radius of eight hundred a year,while Miss Felton herself was in constant communication with hersteward, Wheeler, as to every detail of the management of the place, sothat all Harley's Mills knew exactly what to expect before it happened.

  With the other wealthy landowner of the town the conditions were whollydifferent. When John Angus left his house for travel or the city, thegates were closed as far as knowledge of him was concerned. Ever sincehe had come home to take the property at his father's death, twelveyears before, he had been a builder of barriers, not only betweenhimself and those he thought beneath him, but he hedged himself withceremony in his own household, his own inflexible will being hisuniversal measure, and every act being in accord with a fixed plan. If,in his dislikes, he was deliberate and inexorable, those who knew himsaid that it was the same with his passions; in nothing had he thesaving grace of spontaneity. Small wonder that his roseleaf wifewithered by his side until some final shock, too strong for herendurance, swept her away to die in oblivion.

  Thus the news came to Harley's Mills not only that the Feltons wouldreturn the middle of April because the disturbed state of the South hadmade their usual journey impossible, but that John Angus, who had beenrunning up at odd times all the month, was going to remodel his placefor the reception of his bride in June; while following on the heels ofthis report, house-painters, paperers, masons, and a landscape-gardenercame to confirm it. So it fell out that, for a time, the lady baby, whoremained unclaimed at Oliver Gilbert's, became a thing of secondaryinterest to every one but the postmaster and Satira Pegrim, until thefull month having gone, the village was again excited, this time by thenews that Gilbert had taken the final steps toward adopting the child.

  Immediately several impromptu debating societies of villagers took upthe merits of the case for and against the adoption. The women of theHospital Aid Society vowing, as they rolled bandages and scraped lint,that a man of Gilbert's age was no fit guardian for a female child,especially as Satira Pegrim might be relied on to take her second at anytime he should come to hand, which might easily happen in a post-office,and leave her brother in the lurch.

  The men did their talking in the blacksmith's shop, a place whereGilbert was not likely to appear suddenly, their objections beingimpersonal and based chiefly on the fact that it wasn't a good plan toencourage the leaving of stray children on people's stoops, also thatthe presence of the mysterious child might be prejudicial to hisofficial position; next the three ministers of the town, Episcopal,Congregational, and Methodist, had all made friendly calls at thepost-office house and asked, according to their different methods,whether Gilbert recognized the responsibility he was contemplating.Meanwhile, in the thick of the discussion, the Misses Felton and Mr.Esterbrook arrived. Not all together, it is true, for Miss Emmy, being atrifle delicate and disliking the mixed air, crowds, and jolting of thecars, always drove from New York in the family carriage, a spaciouslandau, lined with rose satin and swung high upon C springs, the journeyof fifty odd miles being broken for luncheon and a change of horses, thesedate family grays having been sent on to this point the day previous.Mr. Esterbrook accompanied Miss Emmy on this excursion; Nora, maid andgeneral factotum, making the third.

  As for Miss Felton, this means of progress was too slow. She took thetrain with the other maids and Caleb, the colored man-servant; but eventhis method of progression was far from rapid, as the cars were pulledsingly by horses from the station in East Twenty-sixth Street, a littleabove the Feltons' house on Madison Square, through Fourth Avenue until,the press of traffic left behind, the cars were united and an engineattached. Still, journey as they might, the family group that partedafter breakfast in the great high-ceiled house facing the square wouldmeet at a flower-decked supper table in a new and healthier atmosphere,without hurry or disarrangement, so harmonious was Miss Felton'shousekeeping in the subduing of annoying details.

  Not to understand the component parts of the household that lived, or,one might almost say, reigned, at Felton Manor would be to have littleunderstanding of the conditions of the life and surroundings into whichthe lady baby bid fair to be adopted. The Felton ladies were Bostoniansby birth and education, their father having been a prominent judge.Failing of sons, he had, after being some years a widower, virtuallyadopted and educated a cousin's son to be his confidential secretary,and afterward appointed him in his will as a sort of guardian andadviser to his daughters, who were left at the respective ages ofeighteen and twenty with a large property for those days. This man wasWilliam Esterbrook, ten years the senior of Elizabeth Felton.

  When Squire Felton died, the combination household continued as before,except that the Boston house was given up for one in New York, as theeast winds were bad for Miss Emmy's throat. Miss Felton, however, tookher Aunt Lucretia's place at the helm. Strangers sometimes remarked uponthe peculiarity of the household arrangements, where William Esterbrook,in a house not his own, filled the old-world position of guardian overattractive and marriageable wards. The family friends, however, sawnothing more than a brotherly and sisterly arrangement, and this was theview that the trio thought they held themselves. The real fact was thatthe kinship, so remote as to be merely a shadow, had kept them all threefrom leading the normal life that was their due.

  Twenty years had passed, years full of event and social intercourse withthe best that either came to or lived in the land, and still it was theMisses Felton that bought a picture from a rising but struggling artist;gave the young poet or musician a chance to be heard; entertained thesedate at dinner or the opera, and, though they no longer joined in it,gave the young a chance to dance in their great rooms, or sit out thedances on stairs or in the trim conservatory. For, motherless and youngas they had been at the time of their father's death, they realized thetrue social and moral responsibility of their wealth. Miss Felton wasindependent, I had almost said masculine, of action; without beingbrusque, she was direct and to the point, comprehended financialquestions, and had an accurate judgment in real estate. Tall and ofelegant proportions, she wore dark rich silks of simple lines, a plainlinen collar and brooch, while her splendid hair, without a thread ofgray, was drawn loosely over the ears and braided close to her head. Shedid not seem to make any exertion to follow the fashions, and yet wasalways distinguished.

  Miss Emmy, having been the younger, and the pet of her father inaddition, was of the spontaneous, romantic, and feminine type that,while it seems very yielding, has quite fixed ideas. She was but atrifle above medium height, with large gray eyes and light brown hair,that at forty was either heaped high in puffs, gathered in a netted"waterfall" at the back of her head, or let loose in a shower ofringlets as the whim of the moment required. She loved everythingdainty, in people as well as in clothes; her skirts rippled with ribbonsand l
ace as she trailed slowly along, her sunshades were of thedaintiest, and her flowery hats bits of art that almost defied nature.Lyric music was her passion, and in spite of her years she still had apretty voice, quite the size for ballads. Small wonder that betweenthese two opposites William Esterbrook, who, though of somewhatsuperfine tastes combined with an undeveloped sense of responsibility,was still a man, stood undecided.

  Twenty years before, his interests had centred upon Miss Felton, andtogether they had regarded pretty, kittenish Emmy as a child, aplaything. This aspect soon ceased, when Emmy, coming into the socialworld, had taken the sedate man of thirty-two for her cavalier quite asa matter of course, and alternately bullied him and turned to him inevery strait. Once only he had come face to face with his manhood andresolved to make the plunge and propose to Emmy, but an over-estimate ofthe effect it might have upon Elizabeth held him back, and so the threehad drifted through the best years of life, loyal to each other, yet toosupremely and evenly comfortable to ever know the highest happiness.

  If the trio had been separated even by a season of travel, they mighthave discovered their real selves, for absence is often quite necessaryto give the perspective for rightly judging the feelings and relationswith one another.

  Six months before, the fire of war had entered Esterbrook's veins, andhe, the veteran of a militia regiment, had almost broken away to join acompany of his old comrades as a minor officer; but even here he wasrebuffed and turned back by something wrong with his heart action thathis physician discovered at the last moment. Consequently, at fifty odd,William Esterbrook, whom Miss Emmy called Willy, and Miss Felton,cousin Esterbrook, though a very well-preserved man, who had no need asyet to use either hair tonic or other toilet accessories, was possessedby a sort of self-consciousness and a certain agitated courtesy ofmanner.

  A married man of this age usually has relaxed his tension throughnatural processes; a confirmed bachelor, living in his own apartments,takes his ease because there is nothing to goad him to do otherwise; butfor Esterbrook, he was still living in the play that had absorbed hisyouth without realizing that it was a play, and sometimes he washorribly bored.

  In personal appearance he had a style quite his own. At a time of beardsand many whiskers, low collar, and loose tie, he kept a clean-shavenface and still affected a modified stock. His coat--except in theevening, a Prince Albert--had a decided waist line; he wore spats thatbroke the plainness of the customary high boots of the time, and histaste in waistcoats was as refined as it was fanciful. After all, it wasthe hat that was the most distinguishing characteristic of his apparel.This was of the softest beaver, brushed until it shone like silk; thecrown of moderate height was belled out at the top and the brim curledwell at the sides. In the crown of this he invariably carried hisright-hand glove, the left being always in place and neatly buttoned.This habit came of the old-time courtesy of either removing the glovewhen shaking hands with ladies or apologizing for its presence. OnceEsterbrook had removed the glove with graceful ceremony before extendinghis well-shaped hand. Now?--well, he was a bit weary of manners andcustoms, so that the offending glove lived in his hat.

  About ten o'clock on the morning after the Feltons' arrival Miss Emmyand Mr. Esterbrook were seen walking on the road that ran from QualityHill down to Westboro. Many heads looked out of windows and nodded, andnot a few hands were extended over gates by way of greeting, togetherwith bits of local news, either offered at random or for exchange.

  "Had the ladies heard of the lady baby left at old Oliver Gilbert's, andhis preposterous idea of keeping her?" asked the farrier's wife, who hadbeen one of the many helpers who had married from Felton Manor.

  "Had they seen Miss Marcia Duane, John Angus's intended, and was she ashandsome and rich as folks said? Able to wind him, who had never beforebent head or knees, around her little finger? And if so, why did shetake a man old enough to be her father?"

  "Why?" said Mr. Esterbrook, with his jauntiest air. "John Angus andmyself are nearly of an age, and I'm not yet out of the running."

  "Oh! Mr. Esterbrook, present company is always suspected, and then I'msure no one ever thinks how old _you_ are; you've always been just thesame," said the farrier's wife.

  Yes, always the same, a house cat by the fire; the bitter thoughtflashed through his brain, yet the next moment he was stoopingcourteously to disentangle Miss Emmy's parasol from the fringe of hersilk mantilla. Then they proceeded along the street, Miss Emmy's fullskirt of gray chine silk, with its bordered flounces of pink roses,rustling as it swung about her, buoyed out by many petticoats, for thisdainty lady followed the fashion without the use of what she consideredthe unnecessary vulgarity of a harsh and unmanageable hoop-skirt.

  Little Mrs. Latimer ran out to remind her friend that the Hospital AidSociety would meet at the Rectory that afternoon, and did she supposethat dear Miss Felton would come and say something to the ladies aboutthe necessity of rolling the bandages straight, as Dr. Morewood had saidthat to expect an army surgeon in a hurry to use a long bandage rolledloosely on the bias, was simply to invite a lesson in profanity.

  Finally the post-office was reached. Oliver Gilbert, who was at his workbench in the back shop, put down a cuckoo clock that he was tinkeringwith and came forward quite spryly to meet his visitors, the limp,caused in boyhood by the ill setting of a broken hip, being lessnoticeable than usual.

  "We've come to see you first, and then to take a peep at this wonderfullady baby about whom the village is agog. That is, _I_ have; Mr.Esterbrook would probably rather stay here and talk with you about thenew soldier, Grant, who has come out of nowhere and is doing such greatthings.

  "By the way, my watch has been losing time, though sister Elizabethdeclares that I wind it in the dark and turn the hands backward; at anyrate, it will be the better for a visit with you." Then turning to Mr.Esterbrook, who was trying to decide which of the three morning papershe should read first, "Willy, my watch, please; you have it in yourpocket."

  As Miss Emmy passed through the arbor to the house, she was surprised tohear the halting tap of Gilbert's footsteps behind her. "I do not needto take you from the office," she said, "for you must not forget thatMrs. Pegrim is an old friend of mine."

  "'Tisn't that, but I want to know what you think of _her_."

  "Hasn't she any name? I mean, haven't you decided what to call her?"

  "I've pretty much made up my mind; I had to, for she's to be baptizedthis afternoon."

  At this moment, Mrs. Pegrim, who had been chafing with impatience eversince she saw Miss Emmy go into the post-office, opened the door. By herside, standing straight and true, even though one hand clung to thewoman's apron, was the lady baby.

  Very scant was the greeting that Miss Emmy gave Satira Pegrim, forsuddenly she picked up the child and, carrying her across the room,stood her upon the table so that their faces were upon a level, alloblivious of the fact that her mantilla had slipped from her shouldersand that the lace sunshade she had dropped had been seized by the pup,who bore it to his usual cache under the stove.

  "The darling! how could any one have the heart to desert such anexquisite little creature? Positively, Mr. Gilbert, you must let ushave her; I've always thought that I should adopt a young girl some day,twenty years hence, to buy pretty clothes for, after I grow too wrinkledand gray to wear pink and corn color, but I never before realized what adear a lady baby could be. After all, it will be much nicer to watch hergrow up; how surprised sister Elizabeth will be, and as for Mr.Esterbrook, I wonder what he would do if I asked him to carry her homefor me."

  As she leaned toward the child, who was clutching at her long pearlearrings, shaped like bunches of grapes, seeming to regard her as a newand improved species of doll, Gilbert's hand closed on Miss Emmy's armwith a grip that was by no means gentle.

  "Hush!" he said almost roughly in her ear, "we don't speak about herbeing deserted and talk of that sort any more. None can tell when shewill begin to understand. As for her being adopted by you or any oneelse,
that's not to be. She was not left on Quality Hill; no lights werethere that stormy night; there were no folks awake! She was as good asborn to me. There's just three of us in this, God and her and me, andwe've got to work it out between us, stand or fall."

  "I could do so much more for her," Miss Emmy murmured apologetically;then stopped, checked by the expression of his face, though she did notunderstand it.

  "Yes, ma'am, you could and would as far as boughten things would carry,but I've held Marygold in my arms, her little fingers clasped around myneck, so I _know_, and time out of mind it's come to me that with womenfolks and children the _knowing_ and _feeling sure_ is more than the_having_."

  "Miss Emmy, what is a parrotpet?" Satira Pegrim had been on pins andneedles during this interview, and in seeking to cut it short, jerkedout a sentence quite as irrelevant as those two that have becomefamous,--"There's milestones on the Dover road," and "Barneses goose wasstole by tinkers."

  "A paroquet is a bird, a small parrot. Don't you remember that I kept apair until one died and the other one grew moody and bit Willy--I meanMr. Esterbrook?" said Miss Emmy, also glad of the break in a strainedsituation.

  "No, it isn't a bird, it's something to do with bricks. They've beencarting them from sloops in Westboro Harbor up to John Angus's placethis week past, and this morning, when I was raking up the leaves in thegarden down beyond the apple trees, making ready to sow early radishesand lettuce, I climbed up the bank to Angus's boundary to take a look,and if the old fence wasn't gone! Half a dozen men were filling out thebank even with dirt from what was the old flower garden; the old shrubswas uptore and lying roots in air, and right at the end of what was thelong path was a mountain of bricks.

  "Peter Nichols, the overseer, was there, so I called out and asked himwhat became of the fence and said I wished I could have had some of thepiney roots and garden stuff that was just tossed out for filling. Hesays, 'There's going to be a fine brick parrotpet instead of the fence,'cause this here's to be a rose garden, and as for the posy roots andthings, I daresn't give 'em, but later on I reckon that some of 'em'llroot and sprout on the filled bank your side of the parrotpet."

  "Oh, it's a parapet you mean!" exclaimed Miss Emmy; "a wall somethinglike a fort. That proves the reports that John Angus is anxious toplease his bride and let her carry out her tastes, for she has acharming rose garden at their estate on the Hudson that ends in a stoneparapet overlooking the river."

  "Only this one overlooks the post-office and me, though I believe they_can_ see over the trees to salt water," said Gilbert, dryly; and thenhis frown changed to a smile, as the lady baby, tiring of her fingeringinspection of Miss Emmy's ribbons, crawled to his knee with thesidewheel motion she used when she wished to hurry, and holding her headon one side like an inquisitive bird, stretched out her arms and called"Daddy!" with unmistakable clearness.

  "Mr. Gilbert, did I understand you to say that the child is to bebaptized this afternoon?" asked Miss Emmy, presently, not a trace ofannoyance at his rebuff remaining in her manner or voice. "Who is goingto do it, and will it be here or at one of the churches? I should liketo send the lady baby some of our roses; I know she will love flowers bythe way her eyes follow my hat."

  "Mr. Latimer is going to do it; he's coming here, Miss Emmy, and we'd begrateful for a few posies to trick out the foreroom. I reckoned to get anew paper on it before this, but it doesn't seem any season to spendfor ornaments."

  "Mr. Latimer, an Episcopalian? Why, I thought that you were aCongregationalist, and your wife was certainly the daughter of Mr.Moore, who used to be Methodist preacher in Bridgeton."

  "That's all so, Miss Emmy; but what I'm striving at in regards to thebringing up of lady baby is to be fair and unbiassed in all things whereI can. Now, Mary belonging to one of the sects in town and me toanother, it seems fair to divide 'round and give this child whateverbenefit there is in the third. Then, too, they've got an organ down tothe 'Piscopal Church and we've only got a tuning-fork, 'cause wheneveran organ is brought up, John Angus votes it down as sinful."

  "Aye, aye! he still holds to Kirk o' Scotland; he's vairy serious andcanty," interposed Miss Emmy, with a well-feigned accent, "for hishousekeeper told that last winter, when the cook asked higher wages, hecouldn't give an answer until he'd pondered it on communion sabbath,which put off the evil day four weeks."

  "The child likes music," continued Gilbert, "for only yesterday, when afiddler with a dancing bear came past and I had him in to play, she'd acrept off after him in a twinkling while Satira's back was turned, ifthe pup there hadn't barked and tugged her by the skirt.

  "Well, I asked Mr. Latimer and explained to him, and he said, 'Why notbring her to the church after service Sunday morning,' but when I toldhim Marygold was named in the foreroom, then he said he'd come up. I'mnot asking a company,--Satira couldn't see her way to manage,--sothere'll only be jest two or three, but I'd be pleased to see you, MissEmmy, if you're interested that far to take the trouble."

  "What is the news?" asked Miss Emmy, as she joined Mr. Esterbrook, whowas walking to and fro under the maples that lined the walk opposite thepost-office, a goodly quantity of their scarlet catkins decorating thewide brim of his hat.

  "News? There isn't any, except that McClellan is still on his way toRichmond and there are some war bonds, 5-20's and 6-20's, going on themarket that I think we should all subscribe to as far as we are able. Imust speak to Elizabeth about them to-night."

  Then as he raised the parasol in which there were several holes not inthe original pattern and held it between her and the now really hot sun,he glanced at her face and saw, not only that it was flushed, but thatit wore a wholly new expression, while the strings of her bonnet, thathad been tied with a graceful precision, hung loose and bore theunmistakable print of moist fingers. Her face held Esterbrook's eyesuntil, unconsciously drawn, she looked up and in her turn was amazed atthe sudden intensity of his usually placid countenance and the flash ofhis eyes as he shifted them.

  "What is it? What has happened?" he said. "Has the child been temperishand vexed you, or did she pull your ribbons awry in play?"

  "No, she was lovely, far too lovable;" then she paused to look over theneat picket-fence into one of the many gardens that filled the spacesbetween street and white-pillared porches, where tufts of goldendaffodils shone like prisoned sunbeams on the lawn and single whiteviolets, short stemmed and fragrant, huddled timidly about the roots ofleafless rose-bushes in the long borders. "What has happened is that inthis last hour I've been away, Willy," she said, as she made awide-sweeping gesture, "so far away from you and Elizabeth that I almostforgot how you looked. So far that I saw quite back to things that mighthave been."

  Emeline Felton had always been, within fixed boundaries, of a romanticand emotional disposition, but with that gesture, suggestive of thebreaking of bonds, Esterbrook felt that she swept these boundariesaside.

  "Was I other than I am now in those far-away days? Have I not alwaysbeen the same to you? Do I not always study your interests?" Esterbrooksaid, again meeting her eyes that did not turn away.

  "Yes, but you were different once, though not for long; since then, asyou say, you've been always the same, and that's part of the matter."

  "I wish that in those other days I'd had the courage to go away farenough to see if you would miss me and then haunt you until I'd made youmarry me, Emeline."

  "And I--I wish you had!"

  Esterbrook caught his breath: "Is it too late? Am I too old to changethe might have been?"

  "Ah, yes; if I married, after to-day, it must be a younger man than you.Besides you could not stand the shock of telling Elizabeth, and if Itold her, she might send me to bed without my supper!

  "Then at our age we must consider our obligations to society; asElizabeth puts it, how disappointed it would be if the institution knownas the _Misses Felton and Mr. Esterbrook_ should disintegrate! How weshould be missed, we nice _safe_ people! Ah, no, Willy, don't look soserious; it's only some left-over mad Mar
ch Hare that has bewitched me,"and Miss Emmy laughed with the same ripple in her voice as that of thebluebird on the roof of its box in the garden.

  "We must not forget to be patriotic; we must hurry home to consultElizabeth about those 6-20's you spoke of, and please, Willy, askWheeler to make me a nice little bouquet of roses with lace paper aroundit by three o'clock to-day, and tie up a box of loose flowers also. I'mgoing to the christening of Oliver Gilbert's lady baby."

  The bonnet strings were tied as usual and the flush on her cheek hadfaded to its normal tint when Esterbrook next glanced at his companion,but in those few minutes he too had looked back and travelled afar, andhis face changed as though he had been a ghost of himself.