Poppea of the Post-Office, Page 7

  CHAPTER VII

  INTO THE DARK

  During the week of the greenest Christmas that had been known atHarley's Mills for years, sudden and bitter cold turned a heavy rain toan ice-storm that locked village and country-side, laying low greattrees by the clinging weight of icicles, freezing outright more than oneveteran crow in the roost on Cedar Hill, and making prisoners of theruffed grouse and bob-whites in their shelter of hemlock and juniper inthe river woods.

  In two nights Moosatuck became a vast mirror, in which the figures ofthe skaters by daylight and torchlight were reflected, framed bywonderful prismatic colors. Below the falls, however, the water,tempered by the breath of the sea, bedded the wild fowl, repulsed by theice-pointed reed bayonets from their usual shelter.

  From all the bordering towns the people gathered along the banks thisparticular Wednesday afternoon in a spirit of holiday festivity, whetherthey took the part of actors or spectators. Contrary to the custom ofyears, the Feltons and Mr. Esterbrook had returned to Quality Hill forthe week, though quite against the wishes of Miss Elizabeth, whoinsisted that for Miss Emmy, with her sensitive lungs, the tropicatmosphere of a steam-heated New York house, with double windows toprevent even a breath of fresh air from entering unduly, was the onlyplace. Miss Emmy, however, had rebelled, and seemed bent upon followingthe advice of a young practitioner, who had for two years beenpropounding the radical doctrine that fresh, cool air was the naturalcure. The absurdity of his theory was on every tongue, even though hewas backed by a few women of the progressive sort, who are always saidby others to fly in the face of Providence.

  Be this as it may, a quaint old push-sled that had belonged to MadamHarley, and been many years in the loft at the Mills, presently appearedon the ice, propelled by Patrick, somewhat indignant at his descent fromthe thronelike box of the carriage. When above a mass of fur robes MissEmmy's eager face appeared, framed in a chinchilla hood tied with widerose-colored ribbons, she was quickly surrounded, even before she hadtime to shrug her shoulders free and draw one hand from the depths ofher great muff, extending it toward a young girl who had come toward herwith the grace of a swallow skimming the air, bending to kiss her almostbefore she had paused, saying in the same breath: "Oh, Miss Emmy, I'm soglad that you've come out; I was afraid that we had missed you, and Imust be going soon, for I promised Daddy that I would be home by four.No, it's not cold if you keep moving, but it will never do for you tosit stock-still. Please let Hugh push and I will skate beside you, andPatrick can wait in that old shed yonder, back of the bonfire the boyshave made.

  "We've been pushing Philip Angus all the afternoon. His tutor is ill,and the man that brought him out only stood about stamping his feet andbeating his hands. It must be hard enough not to be able to skate, forthere's nothing like flying down with the wind and fighting your wayback in spite of it, without having to be stuck in one spot like a snowman. So we simply made Philip fly along, until he said that he really,truly felt as if the runners were on his feet instead of on the sleigh,and his cheeks grew red and his big gray eyes shone so. He is such adear little fellow, Miss Emmy, and so clever at making pictures andimages of anything he sees. Last summer he made Mack's head out of pondclay and baked it in the sun, and it was ever so much like Mack when heholds one ear up to listen, you know. Then he tried to do a head of AuntSatira, but it wasn't so good; the nose and bob of hair behind lookedtoo much alike. But then he coaxed Mack up through one of the parapetholes into his garden, but he had to look over at aunty where she sitsto sew or shell peas under the first apple tree. You see, Philip and Ican't visit to and fro like other people, because his father is angrywith Daddy about something that isn't Daddy's fault, but we love eachother over the parapet just the same, so now I have two make-believebrothers, little Philip and big Hugh."

  Poppea had chattered on without a break in obedience to a signal fromMiss Emmy, who, putting her muff to her face, indicated that the younggirl must carry on the conversation, as she did not think it wise totalk in the face of the wind. Then looking about for Hugh Oldys, Poppeasaw that he was evidently searching for her in the zigzag line ofskaters near the opposite bank, and as a wave of her scarlet muffler didnot attract his attention, she started in pursuit, still with the graceof birdlike flight that makes of motion an embodied thought rather thana muscular action.

  As she glanced after the girl, Miss Emmy seemed to see as a panorama allthe years between the time that she had first found the lady baby in thepost-office house, with Hughey Oldys giving her his beloved tin soldierand the present, nearly thirteen years. Poppea, now at the crisis of hergirlhood, Hugh in his first college year. Did she realize the lapse oftime? In some ways not at all. Mr. Esterbrook was as courteous andprecise as ever; if his morning walk was a little shorter and hisbefore-dinner nap a little longer, the change was imperceptible to anyoutsider.

  But it was through her interest in Poppea that Miss Emmy knew that timewas passing, and yet the same interest kept middle age from laying holdupon her, either physically or mentally; Poppea, whom Miss Felton hadfrom the beginning called Julia as a matter of principle, the secondname having too theatrical a flavor to suit her. At first it had beenthe little child of five, coming to take her lesson in needlework onsquares of dainty patchwork, one white, the alternate sprigged with blueforget-me-nots. The tiny silver thimble and work-box as a reward whenthe doll's bed-quilt was completed. With this came almost unconsciousteaching of pretty manners, rising when some one enters the room,standing until all are seated.

  Next came the discovery that Poppea was all music and rhythmic motion toher toe tips. At one of the summer afternoon concerts for which FeltonManor was famous, Louis Moreau Gottschalk had been the soloist, playingsome of his Cuban dances, when to the surprise of all, the child ofseven, who had been sitting on the porch steps listening intently, gotup and, creeping inside the window of the music room, began to dance,suiting her steps to the music, now slow, now rapid, perfectlyunconscious that any one was present, until the great emotional pianist,glancing up, finished abruptly, pausing to applaud, and Poppea, broughtsuddenly to herself and covered with confusion, fled out into theshrubbery, where, her face hidden in Mack's soft neck, she cried out herexcitement. Then followed the music lessons, Poppea's legs dangling fromthe high piano-stool as Miss Emmy leaned over her, repeating theceaseless, "one-two-three (thumb under) four-five-six-seven-eight" ofthe scale of C for the right hand.

  Now, born of the last Christmas, a small upright piano stood in theforeroom of the post-office house, the room being further transformed byfrilled draperies, flowery paper, and a few good prints, while inanother year, Poppea would, if Oliver Gilbert could bring his mind toallow it, go away to school to have the necessary companionship of girlsof her own age; not that she had the slightest feeling of aloofness ordid not mingle with the village young people in the simplest way. It wasthe village people themselves, not Poppea, who seemed to hold aloof, asif they did not know how to place the girl, who, though belonging at thepost-office, had the freedom of the Felton home, calling the ladies"aunt." Gilbert could not realize this, and a possible parting put himin a state of panic, not only for himself, but for her. What questionsmight be asked her? What doubts raised?

  The Misses Felton and Mr. Esterbrook, on this topic being united, said,"Farmington, of course!" Yet they had to confess that there were certaindifficulties in the way, and were oftentimes inclined to agree with HughOldys's mother, who said in her gentle way, "You may be right, cousinsFelton, but my feeling would be to keep the dear child here closeamongst us, Stephen Latimer helping, so that when the time comes whenshe must realize her natural loneliness, she need never otherwise feelalone."

  Miss Emmy's momentary fit of retrospection was broken by the return ofPoppea and Hugh, skating "cross-hands," and in a moment Miss Emmy waswhirling over the ice until she began to feel, like Philip Angus, thatthe runners were on her own feet.

  After a mile of this exhilaration, Hugh pushed the sled into a littlecove, to the shelter of th
e high bank and a hemlock tree combined, thathe might ease his numb hands and give Poppea a chance to collect herstraggling hair.

  "How do you like that, cousin Emmy?" he cried. "If it wasn't thatgripping that confounded handle bar paralyzes my hands, I could pushyou clear up to Kirby; the mischief of it would be coming down again.Face the wind, Poppy, then your hair will blow back so you can grab it."

  Hugh, of man's strength and stature, was still a boy in the joy of lifethat was stamped in every line of his frank, well-featured, dark face.His hair, tousled by a fur cap, had a wave above the forehead; hisalmost black eyes looked straight at you without boldness. The cornersof both nostrils and mouth had a firmness of curve that might eitherdevelop to a keen expression of humor or the power of holding hisemotions in check.

  As he looked at Poppea who, having taken off her red woollen hood, wasstruggling to rebraid her long hair that had escaped from its ribbon,his expression was of the affectionate regard of a boy for his sister,who is also his chum, and so much a part of his normal life that itnever occurs to him to analyze their relations.

  "Here's your ribbon," he said, tossing it to her at the moment shereached the end of the strand. "It blew into my hands a quarter of amile back. You tie and I'll hold; I never could manage a bow."

  "Put on your hood quick or you'll lose that too," laughed Miss Emmy,revelling in the youth and freshness of the pair before her. So Poppeatied tight the ample head-gear crocheted by Satira Pegrim's generous, ifnot artistic hands, and in so doing, hid her thick, long mane of goldenbrown, with the tints of copper and ash that painters love. Beautiful asher hair was, the great charm of her face lay in her eyes. These, acasual observer might say, were hazel, but at times they held slantingglints of gold and green, like the poppy's heart, shaded by dark lashes,and all the opal colors: yes, even the fire opal.

  Sometimes as they looked out from under the straight, dark brows, theirexpression would have been wistful, almost sad, had it not been for theupward curve of the lips and tip tilt of the straight nose thatseparated them, the sort of a nose that in a child is termed kissable.

  "Once more up to the turn," said Hugh, "and then home. I'm afraid itwill snow to-night and spoil the skating."

  "No, home now; that is, for me," answered Poppea, looking for a humpwhere she could take off her skates. "Daddy hasn't been feeling quitewell for a few days and he likes me to look over the mail after he hastied up the packages. You see, he mismarked one, day before yesterday.Quarter of four already? Then I shall be late."

  "Not if we take a short cut across the fields and go down the hillthrough the cemetery. There's no snow to speak of, and it will be easierwalking that way than over the icy main roads. Yes, I'm going back withyou; I've got to, anyway, for father told me to go to the express officeand also buy a lot of stamps, and I forgot both this noon.

  "Bah! How cold my hands are! I wonder if, by any chance, Mrs. Pegrimwould give a couple of tramps a cup of tea and a doughnut."

  "Not tea, Hugh, chocolate with whipped cream on top, and I'll make it.I've learned up at the Feltons'; the aunties have it every afternoon,and it's delicious."

  In this mood, the girl and man tramped over the brown-and-white meadowswith their tumbledown stone fences, until in the high pickets of thegraveyard fence they met the first real obstruction, which they avoidedby going around to the north gate that opened above Oliver Gilbert'splot.

  "I hope the ice hasn't broken the young dogwoods," said Poppea; "theywere growing so nicely. No, but they are bending. Stop one minute, Hugh,and help me break off the biggest icicles that are weighing down thesebranches until they will snap.

  "Oh, look! the ice and wind have torn all the vines from Mother's stoneand Daddy will feel dreadfully; he's trained it so as to make a frameand he would never let me touch even a leaf. I wonder if we can put itback? No," and she stooped to lift the vine; "the ice is too heavy."

  As Poppea bent over she suddenly slipped to her knees before the stone,her eyes fixed upon it with an intensity amounting to terror. Hugh,close behind her, followed her glance. For a second, neither moved orspoke, then turning toward him, her hands outstretched and pleading, shecried:--

  "Look, Hugh! look quick, and tell me if the snow has blinded me, or arethose numbers 1851?"

  He stooped and looked intently before he answered what he already knew,had known, these half dozen years; then said, "It is 1851, Poppea."

  "But it must be a mistake then of the stone-cutters, that we've nevernoticed before because of the vines; it should be 18_6_1, the year thatI was born and Mother died, so that I never saw her.

  "Don't you think that is the way of it, Hugh? Why don't you speak? Whatails you?"

  Again she turned from the stone to look him in the face. Something shesaw there struck a chill into her more penetrating than the icy groundon which she continued to kneel.

  Poor Hugh Oldys! What avail was his athletic strength or moral courage?If his playmate had been drowning, burning, or in any other form ofphysical peril, he could have dashed through anything, or even killedmen to rescue her from harm, but now--He stood facing the intangible,with bent head, helplessly groping for some way of escape, not so muchfor himself as for Poppea. The truth lay bare before them, and he knewthat it could no longer be veiled. The protective instinct of manhoodtold him to get her home quickly and under cover, that the blow need notseem so brutal as in the open cold. While he was trying to collecthimself and form a plan, Poppea's intuition, keyed almost to secondsight, was reading his mind through his eyes.

  "You do not think the date is a mistake, but you don't know what tosay!"

  The words came out so slowly that her lips hardly seemed to form them;then Poppea faced the stone once more, her hands pressed to the sides ofher face.

  "If 1851 is right, then '_Mary, beloved wife of Oliver G. Gilbert_'can't be my mother. Do you understand, Hugh? Not my mother. Why don'tyou speak? Oh, do say something, Hugh; that is, if you understand!"

  Stumbling to her feet, Poppea went to the little stone and, pulling awaythe vine, exposed the other date, 1852!

  "Then Marygold isn't my sister either! Who was my mother, Hugh? AndDaddy--isn't Daddy my father? Tell me, you must!"

  Grasping Hugh by the shoulders, half to steady herself, half in frenzy,she shook him as she swayed to and fro.

  "Come home, Poppea, and ask Daddy himself; he is the one to tell you allabout it," the lump in Hugh's throat almost stopping his voice, as hetook her arm and tried, without force, to turn her homeward. But Poppeawas at bay. Still holding fast and looking in his face, she gasped:--

  "What were my mother's and father's names? Tell me that _now_! Where didDaddy get me? Tell me that!"

  Unconsciously Hugh shook his head, at the same time his lips said, "Thisalso you must ask Daddy."

  "That means that no one knows; that I'm not anybody, not anybody," sherepeated with a moan. "Did Miss Emmy and Mr. Esterbrook and 'Lisha andAunt Satira and everybody know but me? Does little Philip know? Takeyour hand off my arm, Hugh. I'm not going home any more; how can I, whenI haven't a home or even a _dead_ mother or a Daddy, and every one hasdeceived me?"

  The poor young fellow, meanwhile, was trying to lead her toward thehighway gate in the hope that a team might pass so that they could beg aride, for heavy snow clouds were hastening the dark, and even he beganto feel the chill of it through his pea-jacket, while Poppea wascolorless and rigid as one of the icicles that hung from the trees.Could this be the same being who, less than an hour before, joyous andradiant, was skating up the river holding Miss Emmy by the hand? If shehad cried, ever so passionately, it would have reassured him.

  "If you don't want to go back, you must go over to my mother or MissEmmy," he said, as she again halted outside the gate in sight of thecross-roads. "Listen, I hear a wagon in the turnpike; wait a momentwhile I stop it and beg a ride down; you are trembling all over, and ifyou stay here any longer, you'll be very ill maybe."

  Hugh ran down the side road to the turnpike in time to
stop the team, awave of relief sweeping over him when he saw that it was 'Lisha Pottstaking his evening milk down to the centre. ('Lisha, who was stillcourting Satira Pegrim.)

  To 'Lisha no explanation was needed save the fact of the discovery ofthe date and the need of getting Poppea home.

  "Great snakes!" he ejaculated, closing his jaw with the snap of a steeltrap. "So it's come at last! At the very first I rather sided withGilbert's keeping the thing dark from her, but Satiry had the commonsense,--'It's got to come,' says she, 'so why not let her grow up withan aunty and uncle and fetch up to it drop by drop instead of gettin'the whole thing some day like a pail of cold water on the head that mayjar the brain.' Now it seems the cold water's come. Go back and fetchher, Hughey man, I'll wait; but I can't turn this long wagon on a hillnoway, nohow."

  Hugh hurried back, calling Poppea's name as he went, but when he reachedthe gate, she was gone.

  Rushing frantically to and fro, he looked back into the graveyard andbehind the long line of stone fence opposite that the night was fastblending with its other shadows, but Poppea was nowhere to be seen.

  "She would ha' passed this way if she'd gone down home," said 'Lisha,now thoroughly startled at Hugh's drawn face and hurried words of whathad happened. "I can see almost all the way down the other road, and sheain't on that. 'Tain't like she'd take to the hill-country this time o'night. Anyway, it isn't no use trying to track her; the ground's frozeso hard it doesn't take a hoof print. Well, come to think of it, if thatisn't darned queer! It was froze jest like this the night she was leftat Gilbert's! Best come down to the centre and I'll drop this milk andborrer a buggy and you and me'll do some tall searchin'. It does looksome as if the Lord had meant I was to be sort of trackin' of the littlegall from the beginnin'. But mebbe it's jest because I'm a good dealround about and keep my eyes open.

  "You'll best tell Gilbert, but make him stay to hum, and we'll do thesearchin'. It's no fit night for his lame leg; jest say 'Lisha Potts'sgoing on the trail and he'll trust me, and mention to Satiry that thecoffee-pot on the back of the stove'll make a nice picture for us whenwe get back."

  Meanwhile, the long-legged horses were making good time toward thevillage, and presently, as Hugh entered the post-office, he could seeOliver Gilbert's face looking anxiously up the road through the windowby the beehive, for the Binks boy had already come for the mail-bag.

  "Where's Poppy? Has anything happened? Don't say she's fell through theice and drowned!" Gilbert said almost in a whisper.

  "No, no, she's safe enough," and Hugh paused, realizing that even thesewords might not be true.

  "Sit down, Daddy" (Hugh had fallen into using Poppea's epithets). "Imust tell you something."

  Hugh told all as it had happened, repeating Poppea's broken sentencesword for word with unconscious emphasis and pathos. Then, after giving'Lisha's message, he stopped short and, still standing, looked at theold man, who was sitting motionless.

  Gilbert arose with difficulty, steadying himself by the table corner."Go, Hugh, and do you and 'Lisha do the best you can. She--she came tome in the night, and in the darkness she has gone from me," and hidinghis face in his arm he left the office and, stumbling across the passageto the house, passed through the kitchen and entered his bedroom, wherehe closed and locked the door.

  Hugh followed to say a few words to Satira, and remind her of thedeserted post-office. She, overcoming her desire to set forth thefulfilment of her prediction in all its details, sat down suddenly inthe rocker, head between her hands, until the honest tears spatteredboth on the floor and on the coat of old Mack, who, gray and rheumatic,still kept the place, half under the stove, that he had first chosenalmost thirteen years before.

  Oliver Gilbert meanwhile paced up and down the inner room, the irregulartapping of his heels telling its own story to Satira Pegrim, though shecould not see the pitiful working of his face or the nervous clenchingof his long, thin hands. Presently he paused by the hooded cradle thatstood as of old between the bed and wall. Lighting a candle, he set itupon the chest of drawers, where its rays fell upon the cradle. Upon thewhite counterpane was a little bouquet of Prince's pine, wintergreenberries, and holly ferns that Poppea had placed there on Christmas eve.

  Stiffly Gilbert dropped to his knees, his arms clasped about the cradleas on that first night.--"God keep her and lead her in somewhere out ofthe cold and harm. Oh, Lord! I've been short-sighted and selfish. Iwanted her for my very own so bad that I've lived out a lie rather thanhave the truth come between ever so little. Now she is suffering for itwhen it should only be me. I was puffed up and said to myself in mypride,--'A wrong has been laid at my door because the Lord knew that Iwould right it,'--but instead I have added to it. Oh, Lord! have pity;keep her away from the river and the railroad and Brook's pea-brushswamp until she gets time to think."