CHAPTER VIII
SANCTUARY
When Hugh Oldys left Poppea by the graveyard gate, her first blindimpulse was to hide somewhere, anywhere from familiar faces, this beingan instinct common to all healthy young animals when either physicallyhurt or in trouble. Knowing as she did all the by-ways, lanes, and pentroads of the entire township, the very last thing she thought of was tofollow the highway or any of its cross-roads. So when Hugh was peeringamong the shadows of the walls and bushes that hedged them on eitherside, Poppea was crossing the graveyard toward the Northeast gate bywhich they had entered, flitting swiftly behind the larger stones forconcealment.
She had no voice to answer Hugh's call even if she had wished to; herthroat was contracted and dry, and to her ears, still ringing with therush of blood brought by the first shock, his voice sounded miles away.When finally she heard the rattle of the milk wagon going unmistakablydownhill, she stopped her efforts at concealment, and walking directlyto the round hill above the graveyard took such a view of thesurroundings as the dusk would allow. The bitter north wind sweepingdown from the hill-country turned her about when she faced in thatdirection, putting an end to a wild idea she had of spending the nightin a rough camp the young people had made the previous summer in thehemlock woods. The Moosatuck was already being outlined by many bonfiresand all the lanterns that the young folks could collect, for they meantto make the most of what might prove the only snowless skating of thewinter.
The village lights began to twinkle below, and an up train, stopping atHarley's Mills Station, drew out again, taking long breaths, and,creeping through the fields like a great glow-worm, made its way towardBridgeton. There would be a down train in a quarter of an hour; couldshe reach the station in time, she might gain the last car from thebrook side of the track without being seen.
Then she realized that she had no money, and the Felton ladies, her onlyfriends in what was to her the fathomless mystery of New York, were atQuality Hill. Could she have gone to Mrs. Oldys, sure of finding heralone, and begged to be hidden for a few days, that would have suitedher mood and necessities the best. As she closed her eyes for a moment,she saw the peaceful picture of Mr. Oldys sitting with his evening paperby the fire in the library of endless books in their white, varnishedcases, discussing the doings of the day with Hugh. Through the doorwayinto the dining room was a glimpse of white-clothed table, a jar offlowers, and the delicate outlines of Mrs. Oldys' sensitive face, as shebent over the great silver tray, tea-caddy in hand, watching for thefirst puff of steam from the kettle in order to complete the brewing ofher perfect tea, and summon the father and son to table.
To go there would be once more to give herself up to all the dearestthings of home that she had experienced through the kindness of friends,but thought that she must forever more lack; but above all, she was heldback by a bitter feeling of resentment toward those who had been kind toher, for had they not all banded to deceive her? she, who was nobody,saved from charity possibly,--so quickly did her mind travel ahead ofwhat she knew,--from being a town charge! At this bitter moment, theconventional expression came back to her as applied to a child who wasbeing brought up by the widow Baker, much being expected of her andlittle done for the girl.
Poppea did not analyze her feelings, she was too young and too miserablefor any logical reasoning; it was only that impressions crowded herbrain with the rapid confusion of a nightmare, and at this moment thegerms of two distinct natures began to develop rapidly: one sensitiveand emotional; the other stern, proud, and unflinching to the verge ofstubbornness.
For a few moments she stood thus, overlooking the village, the upland,and marsh meadows that stretched to salt water, until it seemed that thewinking eyes of the lights, one red and one yellow, that guarded theentrance of the shallow bay, were beckoning her to come to them. As shewaited, a curtain dropped about her from the clouds, and fine, crispsnowflakes melted upon her upturned face.
Then she began to walk rapidly through the pasture, but whichever wayshe turned thickets of bay or huckleberry bushes caused her to go back,until, tired with groping, her feet found a worn track, one of the manycow-paths that wound about the lot. Keeping to it, no longer trying tothink but walking blindly, she slipped and lost the narrow hollow wornsmooth in the thick old turf; then picking it up again, stumbled on.
After she had gone many miles, as she thought, the path came to somebars; two of these were down, left so probably since the cows had madetheir last homeward trip in November. On the other side of the bars, thepath that had previously zigzagged down a steep hillside continued on alevel, and the whistle of a locomotive sounded very near.
In a few minutes more a great hayrick stopped her short, and feeling away around it, she could see two cows, who were pulling their supperfrom one side of the stack that had been hollowed into a sort of shelterby many such meals. Then a lantern shone a few steps ahead, and a voice,that she recognized as belonging to an old neighbor of their own, calledthe cows into the shelter of the barnyard.
Poppea, finding that she had travelled only a mile and was within a fewfeet of the village street, and thinking that the farmer had awakenedand come to protect his cattle from the storm, was tempted to crawl intothe hay for warmth and rest; her feet were almost without feeling, herhood and muffler were frayed in many places; she shivered so that shehad bitten her tongue until it bled, and faintness was creeping overher.
As she groped to find a place where the hay was loose enough to make aplace for her body, the clock in the tower of St. Luke's struckmelodiously, not counting out ten or eleven strokes as Poppea expected,but stopping short at six.
It was the joy of Stephen Latimer that both clock and bells sent forth acheerful message of love and hope for what good time might bring forthrather than a warning of passing hours. 'Lisha Potts had once voicedthis interpretation with his characteristic direct emphasis, saying oneday to Miss Emmy, who had given the bells and was asking his opinion ofthem:--
"Yes, marm, they're real coaxin', persuasive, and comfortable; the FirstChurch bell allers calls jerky like, 'Re-pent, re-pent, re-pent,' andthe Hill Meeting House's says, 'H E L L! HELL! _Hell!_' plain as words,so's I don't feel called to go, though they do say bein' set against arock has a powerful lot to do with the expression."
Be this as it may, the chimes had hardly ceased when Poppea left thehaystack and found her way to the main road through another pair ofbars, familiar to all the village children as the daily short cut to theAcademy. Perhaps the church door might be unlocked, it often was; surelyno one would look for her there.
The snow flurry was one of a series of squalls, that stopped long enoughfor her to see her way across the road, also that a dim light camethrough the chancel window. Then the snow began to fall again in large,loose flakes that quickly filled her footprints.
Her scarf caught upon one of the shrubs that lined the bit of flaggedpath from road to door, and when she had pulled herself free, shenoticed that the outer porch door stood open; then the notes of theorgan reached her.
What day was it? It took her a full minute to remember that it wasWednesday, the afternoon upon which Stephen Latimer played the organ,only it was much later than he usually stayed. Expecting that the peoplemight come out at any moment, Poppea tried to turn away, but she wasnearly spent. Pulling herself into the vestibule with great effort, shelooked through the diamond panes of the inner door into the church; itwas quite empty save for the figure of Latimer himself at the organ, asingle lamp above his head breaking the darkness. The truth being thatthe skating carnival had drawn all the people toward the Moosatuck, andfinding himself alone, Latimer had this day let loose his very soul,dreaming and playing on, oblivious of time or falling night.
Cautiously Poppea pushed open the felt-edged door and crept into thechurch, watching intently for any move on the part of the player. Oncewithin she slipped into the first of the pair of pews, that were in thedeep shadow of the loft that once held the organ before the newinstrument had been placed
beside the chancel. The backs and door endswere high to keep out draughts; likewise these pews were seldom usedexcept for the infant class. Sinking upon the tufted seat, after tryingin vain to sit up, she gradually took a half-crouching position, herhead and shoulders supported by one of the little carpet footstools.
Oh! the unspeakable relief of it, after the hour out in the storm, thisbeing surrounded once more by friendly walls, the sudden cessation ofcold, the light, the subtle fragrance of the fir trees and pine of theChristmas greens, and the sight of a human being who was, at the sametime, unconscious alike of her presence as of her misery.
Stephen Latimer, sitting upon the organ bench with the soft light of theoil lamp outlining his face, looked little, if any, older than on theday when he had baptized Poppea. It was his double vocation that kepthim young, for in reality he led two separate lives: in one he was thetireless and sympathetic priest; in the other, romanticist, musician,and dreamer. To-night he was leading this second life to the full. Oncehe set the stops in order as though he had finished, then releasing afew of the more delicate, he began to improvise, weaving together thethemes of the Christmas carols in which he had been drilling his littlechoir throughout the Advent season. The very joy of the strains seemedto mock the young girl listening back among the shadows, and she satupright with a gesture almost of impatience, so far away seemed thesinging and lighted tree of Christmas Eve.
Presently his mood dropped from exalted joy down into the depths ofstern reality, and the little church began to tremble with the openingchords of the _Stabat Mater_ of Rossini.
Poppea knew nothing of the meaning of the music or the idea that itinterpreted, yet the emotion of it seized upon her, and she felt thatsomething inexplicable had found her in the dark hiding-place, and wasstruggling with her body and soul. Her breath came quick and fast whenLatimer began the massive splendor of _Cujus Animam_, and when he letthe stop _Vox Humana_ sing the unpronounced words of _Sancta Mater_, itseemed as though she must cry out, while the _Amen_ exalted her, butpainfully, and without final relief.
Evidently, it had somewhat the same effect upon the organist, for hestopped abruptly, wiped his forehead, that was beaded by the masterlyexertion, and, passing his hand wearily across his eyes, shut off thestops still quivering with passion, leaving only _Vox Humana_, and then,after a moment's pause, played the hymn of childhood, as thoughconvinced that in its simplicity alone lay peace.
"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look upon a little child."
Poppea rose to her feet, grasping the back of the seat in front of her:the hymn was the first that Gilbert had taught her while she still sleptin the hooded cradle. At last God was merciful: the tension broke; tearsrained from her strained eyes and began to quench the fire in her brain.
Burying her face in her hood to stifle the blessed sobs, she againcrouched in the pew corner.
At the same time, the door opened and Mrs. Latimer came into the church;feeling her way, she steadied herself by the door of the pew wherePoppea lay until her eyes focussed to the surroundings. As Latimerreluctantly closed the keyboard with the lingering of one parting from afriend, she called, walking toward him as she spoke: "Stevie dear, whathave you been about? It is half-past seven and the popovers that I madefor tea have grown quite discouraged. I was expecting you hours ago, butHugh Oldys came rushing in looking so ghastly that he put everythingelse out of my head. He was coming home with Poppy Gilbert from skating,they took the short cut across the graveyard--" then, as Mrs. Latimerreached her husband, she leaned over his shoulder and finished thesentence, but the crouching girl knew its import perfectly.
In a moment, husband and wife were hurrying from the church. As StephenLatimer stooped to bolt the swinging inner door, Poppea heard Mrs.Latimer say, "Elisha Potts and Hugh are hunting everywhere, but if theydo not find her by nine o'clock, don't you think we would better ringthe church bells to collect the skaters and have a general search?"
"Yes, if it must be; but I wish we could find some less public way ofreaching her, she is such a sensitive child, yet very proud beneath thesurface. Do you know, Jeanne, she very often reminds me of you yourself.If you had fled before a cruel hurt, would you like to be brought homeby the ringing of bells?"
"No, Stevie, all I should need _now_ would be time to remember and knowthat you were waiting for me with your arms outstretched."
Then the doors closed, and Poppea was a prisoner. Yet in those fewmoments she had been given a glimpse of the perfection of one of thegreat mysteries of life, and it made a lasting impression on the soul ofthe girl who was pushed into womanhood in a single night. For the timebeing she had what she most needed, rest and silence, with the singlelamp that had been forgotten, to prevent the oppression of darkness. Shewas too physically numb to care what happened during the next hour orrealize the possible necessity of the ringing of the bells. Fixingherself as comfortably as might be on the narrow seat, she fell into aheavy sleep pillowed by the little carpet stool worn bare by therestless feet of the infant class children.
* * * * *
Meanwhile 'Lisha Potts and Hugh Oldys had gone to all the places wherePoppea would have been likely to take refuge, and finally, a littlebefore nine o'clock, meeting with Stephen Latimer at the Feltons', wherethey snatched a hasty supper, held an impromptu consultation.
"Do you think," sobbed Miss Emmy, "that she could have drowned herself?It's all open water below the dam at Harley's Mills."
"No," almost shouted Latimer, "and do not let us give the ugly thoughtshape even by suggestion. To a healthy-minded, responsible girl such asPoppea, the idea would not even occur, for suicide is the final proof ofirresponsibility. That she may be wandering, dazed, in the bay marshesis my greatest fear; still, before we make a general hue and cry, let usgo back to Gilbert's and ask him his exact wishes. Whoever may be herfather after the flesh, Gilbert is now according to the law."
"Yes," seconded 'Lisha, "we'd best go back and ask Daddy, and keep agood lookout by the way. She may head for home after a while, but nothave push enough to get there."
For the third time during the twelve hours the mood of the weather hadchanged. The wind had parted and banished the heavier snow clouds, andthe moon, edging its way persistently through those that remained, madethe lanterns that the three men carried almost unnecessary.
* * * * *
Oliver Gilbert had sorted and distributed the seven o'clock mail, closedthe post-office at the earliest legal moment, and was sitting by thekitchen fire; that is, he sat there in the brief intervals when he wasnot peering from the window toward the road or listening at thedifferent doors where the wind kept up a disconcerting tapping andrattling.
For the third time Satira Pegrim spread supper before her brother, butshe had ceased urging him to eat. Mixing his coffee exactly to histaste, she set it close to his elbow and then silently left the room. Asshe closed the door at the bottom of the attic stairs and began acreaking ascent, Gilbert called after her: "Satiry, will you fetch thepair of little iron fire dogs from under the eaves when you come down?They lie to the north side under where the seed corn is hung."
Noticing the food apparently for the first time, he ate a few morsels,drank the coffee slowly, and then going to the side porch collected alarge armful of logwood topped with kindlings which he proceeded tocarry upstairs with no little difficulty, and coming in collision withhis sister on the landing at the top.
"Sakes alive, man, what are you doing!" she cried, almost dropping theheavy andirons.
"I'm going to take out the chimney board in Poppy's room and start afire so's it will look real cheerful when she comes home--for--she'll betired and cold--most like. Mayhap the hearth'll need brushing," headded; "the swallows' nests always fall down of a winter."
The spare bedroom that was now Poppea's had an empty look, in spite ofthe bright-flowered wall paper and braided rugs. The straight whitedrapery at the windows, and on the old high-posted bed in which sev
eralgenerations had been ushered into the world, suggested ice and snow toGilbert rather than a soft fabric.
"Haven't you got a warm-looking comfortable to throw over that?" he saidto Mrs. Pegrim, who was standing in the doorway, jerking his thumb overhis shoulder toward the bed without looking at it. When, after a fewminutes of kneeling on the hearth and coaxing with the bellows, theruddy glow of the fire had penetrated all the ghostly nooks, Gilbert gotup and looked about with a sigh of satisfaction, letting his eyes restupon the white bed for the first time.
Asking Satira to watch the fire until the sparks from the kindlings hadsubsided, he lit a lantern and made his way slowly to the littleworkshop back of the post-office, and seating himself before his desk,drew out the shabby ledger in which was written the record of the yearssince Poppea's coming. Below the record of the previous day he drew aheavy line. Then writing _December twenty-eighth_, across the entirepage, he traced under it, writing painfully and making three strokes toevery letter,--"This day has the Lord taken the pen from my hand to putit into hers. In three days comes a New Year. Amen." From a panelbeneath the drawer, that flew open when he touched the spring, he drewthe miniature and its slender chain, wrapped in a piece of chamoisleather.
It was several years since he had looked at it; yes, he was almost surethat the young woman must be of Poppea's blood, if not her mother, forthe likeness between the two was now more than mere fancy. Dropping itinto his pocket, he returned to Poppea's bedroom, where he fastened theminiature against the frilled pincushion on top of the high chest ofdrawers, and lighting the candles in the two straight glass holders thathad been Miss Emmy's Christmas gift, set one on either side of it, thenlaid the precious book upon her work-table by the window, and crept backto the kitchen, where Mack was whining uneasily as though he missed someone, and scratching at the door to be let out.
* * * * *
Elisha Potts took the lead as the three men started on their slipperywalk from Quality Hill down through the main street of the village. Asthey reached the Rectory, Mrs. Latimer flitted out to ask for news. Whenthey came abreast of the church, her husband, who had a veiled idea thathe had left the lamp burning, glanced up at the chancel window only tobe reassured that all was dark within.
Brief as the stop was, Hugh Oldys, who had half turned toward theflagged pathway, saw something fluttering from one of the shrubs;raising his lantern he recognized it as a fraying of Poppea's scarf.
"She has passed this way," he cried, "and since the snow has stopped,for the worsted is quite dry, while the bush is crusted!" but loweringthe lantern to the pavement, the footprints there shown were confusedand told nothing, as Mrs. Latimer had gone in alone and come out withher husband.
"Have you the keys, Mr. Latimer? We must look here, though of course shemay have merely stumbled into the bushes and gone on."
"I have them in my pocket, but I was in the church alone until half-pastseven and heard no one."
"Most likely not, if you was a-playin' the organ," said 'Lisha, "for youkin make her beller powerful disconcertin', Parson. Lemme have themkeys."
* * * * *
How long Poppea slept, she did not know. When she awoke, the church wasin total darkness, the lamp having burned out, and the cold of thefloor was creeping up to where she lay. Sitting up, she touchedeverything in reach, yet could not place herself. Was it one of themazes of a bad dream?
Then the pungence of the fir trees came to her, and the moon withoutoutlined the long window over the chancel.
Something shook the outer door, and then some one fumbled at the keyholeof the inner. The door was cautiously pushed open, and Poppea heard HughOldys's voice saying, "Go quietly and don't stamp so, Potts; she may beasleep," and then Stephen Latimer's lantern was turned so full upon herface that she raised her arm to shield her dazzled eyes.
Hugh and Elisha drew back into the doorway, and it was Latimer who,sitting beside her, said: "We have come to take you home, Poppea. Howlong have you been here?" The answer came in a whisper.
"Ever since six o'clock."
"Then you were here while I was playing; it was you who were strugglingwith yourself. It seemed to me suddenly as I played that some one was inhard conflict, and that I must play to help them in some unseen way. Idid not dream that it was you, my child. Now I know from the soul thatstruggled with me that you are ready to go home."
"Let me give her some supper and go up with her," begged Jeanne Latimerin her husband's ear, as she, alarmed by their long stay in the church,joined them when they were leaving. "Send Hugh home, and ask Potts tolet Oliver Gilbert know that she will soon be there. She needs a womanof her own sort to be with her at this moment, not Satira Pegrim."
A pressure of the hand from Latimer told her that she was right, andputting an arm about Poppea, she drew her into the Rectory andministered to her by the dim firelight, and presently the two weredriven to the post-office house by Potts, going together to Poppea'sroom without meeting any one except old Mack.
For a moment Poppea paused, her hand on the doorknob. The cracklingsound of the fire within made her turn it quickly. Mrs. Latimer hastenedto undress her, for she was nervously exhausted, and a red spot glowedin the middle of each white cheek.
As Poppea stood before the chest of drawers to braid her stragglinghair, her eyes fell on the miniature. Seizing it, she gazed at the faceintently, and then, with dilating eyes, turned to Mrs. Latimer.
"Who is it?" she whispered; "how did it come here?"
"You brought it with you about your neck the night you came. We do notknow, Daddy and I; we can't be sure, but we think it must have been yourmother."
Without speaking, Poppea looked at it once more, put her hand to herface as though struggling intently with memory, pressed the picture toher lips, and then slipped the chain about her neck.
Lying back between the white curtains with the flowery counterpaneacross her breast, her loosely braided hair wreathing her head, theresemblance to the miniature became almost startling, but Jeanne Latimerput a restraint upon her tongue and all she wished to say. Stooping,she quickly kissed Poppea good-night.
"Shall I never know anything more?" Poppea asked pleadingly; "isn'tthere anything to tell except that I am not me--that I don't belong tothem?"
"Yes, a little more, but the telling of that belongs to Daddy." Theneven as Mrs. Latimer spoke, Poppea's expression changed, the mouthhardened, and a rigid expression mantled the delicate features, thatremained after the long fringed lashes shut out the changeful fire ofher eyes.
Waiting a moment to see if they would open again, Mrs. Latimer tiptoedout.
From forcing her eyes shut, Poppea really dozed, and only awakened asthe candles gave their final splutter before going out. Mack lay uponthe mat before the fire twitching and whining in his sleep. Starting up,she felt, rather than saw, that there was some one in the room. Peeringaround the curtain, she came face to face with Oliver Gilbert, who,wrapped in his double gown, was sitting in the deep chintz chair by herbedside.
Instantly a long, thin hand was laid upon hers that struggled under itfor a moment but could not pull itself away.
"Some things are real if others are hid from us for a little while,Poppy. You see your home is here, yours to have and hold under love andlaw, and you see you've still got a Daddy; perhaps if you'd _say_ theword just once, we'd both feel better."
The prisoned hand stopped struggling; raising herself on one arm sherepeated slowly, "Yes, I've a Daddy." Then she hid her face upon hisshoulder, the miniature of the other Poppea dangling from her neck.
When she fell asleep, he did not go away, but sat there, replenishingthe fire lest she should wake in some new terror.
Thus Gilbert kept his second vigil until dawn. In putting a last stickupon the embers he stumbled over Mack, who did not move; his faithfulold life had gone out peacefully in the night, and with it hismistress's careless girlhood.
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