CHAPTER XIII
THE TURNING
When one has spent the early morning hours of a journey, in which nosteps may be retraced, in following a fairly straight and level paththrough a familiar wood, hindered only by a few briers, with shelteringtrees above, pleasant vistas on every side, and in friendly company,hope rises high and straightway trusts the path ahead. But when anabrupt turn shows there is a steep to climb, the pathway itself becomesconfused, indefinite, treacherous, and the guiding voices havescattered, some going one way and some another, what must one do?Hesitate? sit down to think it out? or still walk on foot-length byfoot-length, trusting to circumstance for keeping the course that onemay not divine?
It was at the turn of such a road as this that Poppea found herself; shecould not go back if she would, and friendly voices called in oppositedirections from her own instinct. Of one thing only she was quite sure,she must go on without a pause lest in it she lose courage; she mustclimb on her hands and knees even, if necessary. The only mistake shemade was in thinking, as we all have done at times since the days of theself-gratulatory St. Paul enumerating his trials, that she had reachedthe turning alone.
If she had but realized it, Oliver Gilbert, near the end of his journeyand travelling in the opposite direction, was confronted by the samesharp turn and the same barrier, that to each this bore the samename--The Future!
If Poppea had been pondering how she could help her Daddy and lead himnaturally toward the resigning of his office, Gilbert was conscious of alike necessity, but this was nothing compared to the appallingrealization of Poppea's womanhood that had suddenly confronted him.
In Gilbert's simple mind, when a girl crossed the boundary of thetwentieth year, the mating time was at hand, and each year after thatshe remained unbespoken if not married, reflected in some way eitherupon her good looks, disposition, or opportunities. As in all ruraldistricts, there were many long courtships in Newfield County lastingfrom half a dozen to even a dozen years, but after the seriousintentions of the man were recognized, and the woman was spoken of as"his intended," then the couple passed from the interest of thematch-makers into a sort of intermediate state, wherein they were bothsupposed to be working for a common end and the duration of which wasconsidered purely their own business.
As Oliver Gilbert looked about at the eligible male population of thecountry-side, his perplexity increased; many were prosperous after theirown standards, and some were even ambitious, but which one of them wasfit to mate with Poppea? Moreover, such an idea had never seemed tooccur to any of them. The only youths, who, dressed in their best, hadcome of a Saturday evening to lean on the little shelf before the windowof the beehive and cast boldly admiring glances and random andirrelevant remarks at the postmistress, were of the verdant andirrepressible sort that Gilbert would not have tolerated for a moment,and that Poppea had effectually withered by giving absolutely no moreheed to their pleasantries than to the wind muttering about the windows.
The matter that had brought Gilbert face to face with the rock behindwhich lay the pathway to futurity, was a call from a prosperousmanufacturer of Bridgeton, a clean, well-built man of five and thirty,self-made and commercially intelligent, if lacking the culture thatmarks the man of real education. He had met Poppea at the church, whereshe had sung for several months the previous winter, and was sincere andoutspoken in his admiration of her.
In a straightforward way he had come to the point and, withold-fashioned courtesy, asked Gilbert for permission to court hisdaughter, stipulating that he wished no influence brought to bear uponher, only leave to make his own way if he might.
The whole thing was so sudden, and came from a sky so wholly cloudless,that Gilbert had difficulty at first in keeping down a chokingresentment at the man's presumption, while, at the same time, thesefeelings were checked by the realization that as the world measures,the man who owned a well-equipped factory, and had half a hundred men onhis pay-roll, was the one who was condescending. These mixed feelingscaused Gilbert to hesitate, begin a sentence only to break it off, andfinally, flushed and perspiring, say, "I'm afraid that you don'tunderstand; it isn't all just what I've got to say about it nor Poppy,either, sir."
Then very quietly and with a good deal of dignity, this man had drawnnear to Gilbert, and, lowering his voice, said: "That's what I dounderstand; I know that she isn't your own born, for I was a lad drivingfor the Westboro stables the time that she came here. Fifteen yearsbefore that, I was left the same way at Deacon Tilley's in NorthBridgeton, so there's no need of explanations between Miss Gilbert andmyself; neither will have aught to hold against the other in familymatters."
A groan had escaped Gilbert, before he could control himselfsufficiently to say briefly that Poppea, being of age, was her ownmistress. But after the man had gone, he paced up and down the shop, hishands working nervously, until at last big tears rolled down his cheeks,and, sitting at his desk, head on his arms, he said aloud: "The ladybaby as good as asked in marriage by a boy left on old Tilley's steps,and then driving teams for Beers, and nothing for either to throw at theother! Well, why not old Gilbert's steps as well as old Tilley's? Whatcan I say? I _feel_ the difference, but that isn't proving it!
"I wonder what you'd have done, if you'd been cornered this way," hecontinued, looking up at the portrait of Lincoln, that hung in the sameplace as on the night of Poppea's coming. But now, a well-grown ivyplant was wreathed about it, growing from a pot that stood on the windowledge in a spot that the sun visited daily throughout the year, showingthat a woman's affection had been added to that of the old man'shero-worship.
"Would you have stopped still just long enough to tell a story to makefolks laugh, and then gone straight on and walked over or out of thetrouble? Could you have done that if you'd had a more than daughter thatwas too good for any man and yet a nameless man asked for her on equalterms just because she _wasn't_ your daughter?"
As the incoherence of his speech dawned upon him, he threw back his headand laughed aloud, then stopped short, calmed and steady of hand, as ifthere had been something almost prophetic in the sound.
This had happened on the day of Poppea's visit to the Mill House andHugh Oldys's return. A week afterward, Poppea, very quietly and withsome hesitation, broached the subject of singing in New York and of itspossibilities, together with her intention of taking lessons of a famousteacher, who had been an opera singer, was a friend of the Feltons, andfeeling the need of rest, was to spend the month of August with them onthe hill.
Instead of the opposition that she had expected, both on the ground ofGilbert's seeing neither the necessity of self-support nor of herpartial separation from him, he not only gave a cheerful assent, but alook as of a weight having been lifted from him crossed his face, and hebroke into what was for him voluble conversation about the virtue ofhaving something to do and doing it "up brown"; for this move ofPoppea's told the old man what he most wished to know, that either theBridgeton admirer had altered his intentions or been repulsed.
Then drawing from his pocket a letter that had come by the milkman andnot the post, Gilbert said: "Come to speaking of winter, Poppy, there'ssomething that I've had it on my mind to tell you, but I couldn't see myway clear of it until to-day, and I didn't want to hamper you ahead.Mrs. Shandy has set her mind on going back to the old country next fall,as there's less and less likelihood of her seeing Philip, and she saysthe living so near is only an aggravation. Now to-day comes a letterfrom sister Satira Potts. She writes that 'Lisha has a chance to get thecontract for cutting all the grown chestnut timber from the StrykerHollow tract that lies along Moosatuck, to the west side, about twentymiles to the north of Bridgeton. If he takes it, and it will advantagethem greatly if he does, he will have to stay in the camp all week andonly come home for Sundays, Satiry thereby being left lonesome. So thepith of her letter is, that she's sort of feeling 'round to see if thereis any chance of her being wanted down here for the winter, as it ishandier for 'Lisha to come here from Bridgeton than to take
the driveround about home. I reckon it'll seem good to me to have sister SatiryPotts back here. Mrs. Shandy's strong in British ways of toast and tea,boiling green peas and mint together, and having a forceful way of_looking_ me into a clean collar at meal times when I've chanced to laymine by for comfort. But for coffee and pancakes, brown bread and beansthat's cooked until they're swelled to burst, but daresn't, beingchecked at just the moment, give me Satiry, who also speaks right outabout my collar and such, without ado.
"So you see, child, that old Daddy'll be well cared for, and you'll havea ready listener to tell all about the city doings to when you comeback; for if they fancy you down there, there'll be a great to do; mostlikely you'll have flowers thrown at you; I've read about its being donefor opery singers in the paper, and if they, why not you? Though likely,if you're singing in folks' houses, they'll hand the posies to you,instead of throwin', as being more polite and safer for the mantelornaments and mottoes on the wall.
"Oh, child, child," he continued, as, leaning over his chair in herold-time way, Poppea had laid her soft cheek against his grizzled beard,and at the contact the mental vision of each grew clearer, "a couple ofweeks ago, all at once, things fell into a sort of heaviness, and aslate as yesterday I couldn't seem to see the way ahead. But now I thinkthe corner's sort of swinging to the turning, and pretty soon we maycome to another good stretch of road, and if the Lord hasn't otherplans, mebbe he'll let me walk beside you on it for a little piece yet,until younger company comes up that's spryer, Poppy. And when they do,remember one thing, honey-clover, don't let old Daddy hold youbackward; step right off brisk. Daddy'll be content to stop behind, solong as he sees you on before."
"Don't, Daddy, don't," she whispered, putting her hand over his mouth tostop him. "Nobody else is going to walk beside me; it's either you orloneliness, so never speak of falling back." She did not repeat thereason that she had given Hugh Oldys, but Gilbert quickly divined itfrom the tension of her arm, and the momentary joy that he had felt wasstifled in a sigh as though self merged in super-self.
* * * * *
In early autumn, Hugh Oldys went to his work, and though he usuallyreturned for Sunday, it was not always possible. To his mother the breakseemed more complete and of a different quality than the separationeither of his college life or his travels; these had been tentative, thelast final. It was the first independent stepping out of the only one,upon the way that leads from home, not toward it, even by an indirectcircuit.
Almost at the same time, Philip had returned, and had taken up his workanew at Howell's studio at Westboro. Physically, he looked muchimproved; his skin was sun-browned with sometimes a dash of color, heweighed more, and his face had gained in strength and resolution. Butwhen he had been at work a month with the master, Howell saw that whathe was gaining in accuracy and flexibility was more than discounted by atotal lack of inspiration.
"Where is she? What has become of the young woman who is not a model orto be had for the asking? Why not try the head once more from memory?"Howell asked abruptly one day, after his pupil had worked for an entiremorning with the listless accuracy that is almost infuriating to thereal artist.
Taken off his guard, Philip cried out:--
"She is dead! My father murdered her and threw the pieces out of thewindow."
For a moment Howell was startled. Then, as he looked at the face turnedtoward him, proud yet quivering at a wound, he read therein a tragedywhose underlying principles were greater than mere murder.
"Come and tell me about it, or you will let it kill your work and youalso," he said, fastening his eyes upon Philip in compelling sympathy,at the same time stretching out his hand with a gesture whollycompassionate, and motioning him to follow to an inner room beyond thestudio, where strangers never entered.
It was quite an hour before the pair returned, the master's arm restingon Philip's shoulder.
"Now," he said, "we will make alive again, for that is the sculptor'strade. This is my studio, and what I tell my pupils to do, they obey ifthey are able, and it is the concern of no one outside. But this timemake her joyous and not pensive, in love with life; make her look up;part her lips as though she were about to sing; twine poppies in herhair to carry out her name; a butterfly on her shoulder, the Greekemblem of immortality. Then she shall live here with us, and you canlook at her when you see nothing but bone and muscles in the lump ofclay you are working."
So Philip went to work once more, buoyed up in that some one understoodand did not scoff, and that some one was the master, who knew. But hesaw the real Poppea only once to speak to her, at Stephen Latimer's,before the time when the Felton ladies bore her with them to New Yorkfor her musical debut, in that season of social introduction that iscrowded between Thanksgiving and Christmastide. She was cordial and thevery same when looked at from a distance, but when Philip stood beforeher, he was conscious of a subtle change, a certain veiling and holdingback of self, where all had been spontaneous and freely given before,yet, as a woman, this added distinctly to her charm.
"Can she know about my father; is it turning her away from me?" was hisconstant thought, finally to be banished by the impossibility of such athing being the case, for the studio walls had no ears, and violent asJohn Angus was in private, Philip well knew from his summer's experiencethat it was no part of his father's policy to hold up his dislikes orgrievances for the public to peck at.
The next time that he saw Poppea it was through the doorway of aflower-trimmed room, where she had been singing. During the intermissiona stringed quartet was playing Mendelssohn's _Songs without Words_ frombehind a screen of palms. In the circle that surrounded her, to whichshe was in course of being presented by Miss Emmy, the evening gowns ofwomen were equally mingled with the black coats of the men, while thefigure nearest to her, holding her bouquet of Marechal Neil roses andferns, was that of Bradish Winslow.
As Philip gazed hesitant about entering alone and yet wishing to, hestepped backward, and in so doing jostled some one who was looking overhis shoulder. Turning, he saw that it was Hugh Oldys.
"Are you going to speak to her?" Philip asked eagerly after the firstwords of greeting.
"Yes, surely, I am only waiting for the crowd to thin a little; I think,Philip, that she will be glad to see some home faces among all thesestrangers."
As they waited, Caleb came through the wide hall with an envelope in hishand, peering anxiously into every masculine face. When he caught sightof Hugh, he drew close to him, standing on tiptoe the better to reachhis ear.
"This here's a telegraph despatch fo' you, Marsa Hugh, and de boy whatbrings it says it's a 'mergency and wants to be opened spry. Doan yo'want to step in the little 'ception room and circumnavigate it privatelike? Dem 'mergency despatches is terrible unsettlin', sah!"
Hugh seized the envelope, opening it with a nervous twist as he crossedthe hall to the room indicated by Caleb where there was a drop-light,Philip following close.
"Your father has had a serious accident. Your mother unstrung. Bring up MacLane or Grahammond, to-night, if possible. STEPHEN LATIMER."
Hugh dropped into a chair, and spreading the paper on the table, readit a second time, motioning Philip to do likewise.
"MacLane and Grahammond are both brain specialists, I think; it must bethat the accident is to his head. I wonder where they live," he said,half to himself and half aloud. Then turning to Caleb, who stood at arespectful distance, the embodiment of discreet curiosity, he asked himif there was a city directory in the house.
"Not jest that big ornery volume what dey keeps in drug stores, MarsaHugh, but Miss Emmy, she's got de little Blue Book on her desk, whatrecords all de quality, sah, and guarantees 'em true, and I'll fotch itright away."
Hugh jotted the two addresses on a card, then rising, shook himself asthough to be sure he was awake. At this moment the tones of a clearmezzo-soprano voice floated across the hall.
"What's this dull town to me? Robin's not here!"
Poppea was singing _Robin Adair_. Hugh listened until the verse wasended, his face white and drawn with contending emotions. Then turningabruptly to Philip and reading both comprehension and sympathy in hisglance, he said abruptly:--
"Tell her that I've been here, but was called away by bad news fromhome. No--not that, it might spoil her evening. Only say that I couldnot wait," and taking his hat and coat that Caleb was holding, he wentout.
By the time Poppea had answered the last encore that her strength wouldallow, a Creole folk-song ending in the minor key, Philip had made hisway through the throng that surrounded the girl, who was radiant with asuccess that must appeal to her artistic sense, if her natural woman'slove of approbation was in the background. When she saw Philip, herwhole expression changed and softened, while the lips that had beenparted in laughing repartee drooped to wistfulness.
Bradish Winslow, who still kept his post, noticed the change at once,and, following her eyes for the cause, was surprised at his own feelingof relief upon discovering Philip.
Poppea came forward and, refraining from putting her hand upon hisshoulder in the old way that marked his boyishness, greeted him as shewould any other young fellow of nineteen, drawing him into a littlegroup back of the long piano where he saw Miss Emmy and half a dozen ofthe Quality Hill colony. At the same time, he was conscious that hereyes were looking over his head in a rapid search for something or someone that she did not see, which reminded him of the message.
"Hugh Oldys has been here," he said, "and was very sorry that he couldnot wait to see you."
"Then he has gone? Why could he not wait?"
Philip, who read Poppea's moods with mercurial swiftness, was tempted toadd some words of explanation, but Winslow, hearing Poppea's question,intervened, saying, to her ear alone:--
"Now you have earned a rest in cooler air where you can enjoy thereflection of the pleasure you have given. Miss Emmy has a surprise foryou; Capoul, the most expressive emotional tenor of a decade, is comingin from the opera where he is singing Wilhelm Meister in _Mignon_. Youhave never heard it? Ah, there is so much music that I wish to hearagain for the first time through watching you hear it."
The next morning Poppea slept late, owing to the fact that Nora hadslipped in and closed the shutters fast. She had intended taking theearly train for home, as three days would elapse before she was to singat an afternoon concert given for the benefit of a fashionable charity.
When Nora finally judged that it was proper for the household protegee,in whom she took no small pride, to awake, and brought her coffee androlls to her room, after the Feltons' winter custom, Poppea foundherself undergoing a sort of nervous reaction caused by the excitementof the night before and the lack of air in the shuttered room. Twelveo'clock was the next train possible, and entering the library to makepositive her going, she found Stephen Latimer standing before the fire,while the ladies and Mr. Esterbrook sat opposite him in benumbedsilence, Miss Emmy having her handkerchief pressed to her eyes.
Miss Felton motioned Poppea to the lounge beside her: "Mr. Latimer hasbrought us dreadful news! Please tell her, Stephen."
For a moment Poppea thought that she would suffocate; suppose that Daddywas dead and she away! Then she found herself listening as throughrushing water to the story of how Mr. Oldys, when superintending theplacing of a heavy piece of the new machinery, had been instantly killedby its fall.
The mill hands, becoming demoralized in their wild rush to get aphysician, had broken the news abruptly to Madam Oldys, which at firstshe did not believe. But later, when they brought her husband home andDr. Morewood was sitting by watching for a heart collapse, her mind, nother body, had suddenly given way--not weakly or plaintively, butviolently, in a manner that no one who had witnessed her frailty wouldhave deemed possible, so that restraint was imperative.
Hugh had been sent for the previous evening, and two specialists wereeven then on their way to Harley's Mills for consultation. Latimerhimself had come down to inform Hugh's new employers, as well as to dosome friendly acts of necessity.
"I am going home at noon," was Poppea's spoken answer to Latimer, butbetween the brief words he read much besides.
"I expected that you would, and told Oliver Gilbert so in passing," washis reply.
"How is Hugh?" was her first question, when after the bustle of transitthey were seated in the train with no other passengers in theirimmediate vicinity.
"Perfectly quiet, but as one stunned; his sorrow for his father is deepenough, but his anguish at his mother's condition is heartrending."
"Is there--do you think that there is anything I could do if I should gothere?" she faltered.
"Not now, my child; it is a time when no friend and not even a man'swife must come between him and his sorrow, his thoughts are only for theeye of God. Such help as Charlotte needs below stairs is being given byJeanne and Satira Potts."
"And the funeral?"
"Will be from St. Luke's to-morrow."
The next day Poppea and Oliver Gilbert followed with the rest, theFeltons, Mr. Esterbrook, and half the summer colony. She only caught aglimpse of Hugh, who, tearless, looking neither to the right or left,seemed hewn from marble.
How could she go back to town, Poppea thought, and wreathe her hair andsing? If only she knew, if she could comfort Hugh in anyway; but he sawno one but Stephen Latimer. She had set her feet on the path ofself-support and could not leave it now; there was nothing to do butwait.
Two weeks passed and public interest in Hugh Oldys's affairs had reacheda high pitch. Were the Mills to be abandoned? What would become of theexpectant men? Then it was whispered, though not maliciously, that Mr.Oldys's affairs were seriously involved, and that a strong, alert manwith a keen business head would be required to save the property.
Poppea being at home one morning within the month of Mr. Oldys's death,Stephen Latimer came to the post-office house, and being as usualquestioned as to whether there was any improvement in Mrs. Oldys'scondition, said, almost as though he were giving a requested message.--
"No, there is none, nor ever likely to be; the specialists gave this astheir decision yesterday and advised that she be sent at once to atrustworthy asylum, because the strain of her care, even if competentnurses came between, would be too much for any one person."
"Will Hugh let her be taken away?" asked Poppea, with dilating eyes andhands tightly clasped.
"No, never! He says that from now on he will, if necessary, withdrawfrom everything else to care for her and keep the home intact, in casethat she comes to herself, and missing something, wonders.
"This is not all," Latimer continued. "In order to have the money tocare for her, his father's funds being all placed in this new venture,he must leave his profession, assume immediate control of the Mills, andfight it out to a finish. But in this forced work lies his salvation.When I saw him to-day, I marvelled at the new nobility of his face.Resolution has always been its chief characteristic, now resignation isblended with it. God grant that hope, born of the two, may presentlysoften its set lines."
That Hugh had wholly put away his need of her was the meaning thatPoppea took from Latimer's words. Then she, too, would lose herself inwork, and the next day that she went to the city to sing, she let MissEmmy persuade her that she owed it to her art to tarry between times andtake the lessons that Tostelli was so eager to give her. When once hardat work, with the best music to be heard by way of relaxation, smallwonder if the days were winged to Poppea, and at times disappointmentand responsibility alike seemed the unreal things of life; she wouldhave been less than a woman had it been otherwise.
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