CHAPTER XVII
DADDY!
Early in the afternoon of the day after the fire, as Stephen Latimer satwriting in his study, a shadow that did not shift fell across his paper.Glancing up, he saw Poppea, who, coming in the door behind, stoodlooking at him as intently as though she would force him to yield up histhoughts without the medium of words. Latimer, who knew that it would bea trying interview, sought vainly to gauge her mood by the expression ofher face. When he thought, by the wistful lines of the mouth, thattenderness was uppermost, the calm and searching look from her eyesrevealed indomitable pride, the trait of her later development.
"Will you stay here?" he said, trying to gain time and turning Jeanne'sspecial low chair with its back to the bright light, "or would yourather go down into the sitting room?"
"Here, if you please," she replied, yet making no move toward the chair.Then, as he sat fumbling with the papers, she took two or three stepsforward so that she could steady herself by resting her hands on thetable.
"Please do not try to be ceremoniously polite, nor look away from me. Iknow that you have something to tell me that you think I shall not liketo hear, perhaps cannot bear. Be it so, but remember you are making itless hard by telling me yourself. Now you must speak at once, for Ithink if this uncertainty lasts another hour, my heart will stop throughdread."
Latimer stood up and faced her, moistening his lips the while, as iftrying to grip his words.
"It is mainly good news, not bad, dear child," he said at last. "It isthe uncertainty of how best to begin coupled with fatigue of nerves thatmakes me hesitate. Perhaps you would better read the papersfirst"--pointing to the packages on the table.
"Where did you get them?"
Latimer told her as briefly as might be.
"No, I cannot read them until I _know_; the printed words would prolongthat,--my brain is already on fire, I think. If I question, will youanswer, Mr. Latimer?"
"Yes," and he pointed once more to the chair, feeling that he himselfhad not strength to stand.
Poppea, always alert to the needs of others, realized this and seatedherself, grasping the arms of the chair with a tension that made theblood settle about her finger nails.
"You know who my parents are?"
"Yes."
"Were they married?"
"Yes."
"Are they living?"
"Your mother is not."
"I think that I knew that; _she_ would not have left me on a doorstep.Is the miniature in the locket my mother's portrait?"
"Your mother at nineteen."
"Ah, then, at least, I need not give up that idea! I have been tellingher so many things these last years that I could not let her cast meoff, and I could not leave her," Poppea murmured, looking over Latimer'shead out through the open door.
"Would you not better read these papers now?" Latimer almost pleaded. Hehad been at many death-beds, and had once walked beside a murderer tothe gallows without flinching, exalted by his calling, and able toimpart his confidence to others; now not only were his sympathies workedto their highest pitch, but there was a complicated moral aspect aboutthe case that might at any moment be turned at him in a way to renderhim speechless.
"Only one more question before I touch the papers," and Poppea crossedthe room and again stood by the table facing the clergyman.
"_Who_ was my mother?"
Now that the moment had come, Latimer's perturbation vanished, andrising and resting his hands also upon the table, he faced her, holdingher eyes by the firmness of his own.
"Your mother was Helen Dudleigh, the first wife of John Angus."
For a moment Poppea did not speak; she was communing with memory; whenshe did, the voice was but an echo of her own.
"Helen Angus, the roseleaf wife that Daddy has often told me about, whowent away alone and died far off; who stopped to speak to him at theshop and have her watch fixed when she was leaving. I wonder if Daddyhas not dreamed of this, for he has told me of her over and over again."
Then Poppea's wistful expression changed to one of new uncertainty. "Buthow can that be, Mr. Latimer? The roseleaf wife never was divorced fromJohn Angus, Daddy says, and so she could not have been married to myfather. Was he mistaken, or are you?"
"Neither of us, my child; do you not understand?"
Putting one hand to her forehead, she thought with knitted brows, thengave a sharp cry and started back.
"You don't mean--you can't mean me to think that John Angus is myfather! No, God couldn't be so cruel to Daddy and to me. Anything, anyone but that man! I would rather have never known at all or have had mymother alone and closed my eyes to all the rest."
"Think what you say, Poppea!"
"It is because I am thinking that I say it; I would rather for myselfalone have been born outside of what is called wedlock; it would havebeen more natural and less horrible!"
"But it is not for yourself alone, remember that. If the end lay withourselves and we could bear all the penalty, there would be many a lawthat every one of us in our time would push aside or shatter. But we areof the race on whom the charge is laid, _Thou shalt not!_ and when wethrow it off, the next in line, who has not felt the pressure of ourmotive, bears the penalty."
"I am the next and the end, and if I had to suffer, it would be alone."
"Read, little one; read the papers and think awhile in quiet. Then sleepon it; to-morrow you may feel differently."
"To-morrow? There is no to-morrow to hate. You yourself told me yearsago that love is the only thing that owns to-morrow."
For a moment Latimer winced, but only for a moment.
"Yes, and love will make the to-morrow yours, the love of your brotherPhilip!"
"Philip--he? Philip, my brother! Oh, God, have mercy and forgive me. Ihad not thought of him," and Poppea crouched by the table, burying herface in her hands.
Quietly and firmly Stephen Latimer raised her. Leading her to his chair,he pointed again to the papers; then, saying, "Jeanne and I will be inthe room below; if you wish either of us, knock on the floor," he leftthe room, closing the door behind him.
At intervals during the afternoon there was a sound of rapid footstepsoverhead, as though Poppea was pacing the floor, but all else wassilent. It was almost supper-time when they heard steps upon the stairs,and Poppea came slowly into the sitting room, the papers gathered into abundle in her arms.
Jeanne went to her, clasped her arms about her neck and kissed her; shethen slipped out, saying she would hurry tea and that Poppea must stayto take the meal with them.
When Poppea, having wrapped her bundle in the light shawl she hadbrought, came toward him, Latimer was again surprised at the change inher whole bearing. Passion and tension had alike disappeared from herface, and though she was pale and her eyelids showed traces of tears,the eyes were clear and calm. When she spoke, there was no uncertaintyor vacillation in her tone, but a quiet resolve that seemed as though itshould have come through the experience and self-control of yearsinstead of a single afternoon.
"Jeanne is very good, but I think I would best go home now; there areseveral things that I must do to-night."
"What are they, Poppea? I should think that you would need to rest firstof all. Stay with us now, and after supper we will walk home with you."
"If you will do that, I will wait, for then you will stop and tell itall to Daddy while I do--the other thing. Oh nothing, nothing you coulddo would help more than telling Daddy, Mr. Latimer, for I think it willbe easier for him as it was for me to hear it from you. I only wish thishad not happened while he is here, now he _must_ know; yet after all,what he _thinks_ will be the only difference it can make."
"What is the other thing, my child, that you must do to-night?" Latimerpersisted.
"Go up to see John Angus and show him these," and from her loose blouseshe pulled three papers, the certificate of her birth, baptism, and thesealed letter.
"But, Poppea, you must not do this yourself; suppose he will not listen,does n
ot believe, or, possibly, in his bewilderment, should saysomething hard for you to bear and impossible for you to forget."
"He has already done that more than once."
"Be reasonable, my child; this is a matter for a lawyer, who will takethe case from its legal aspect only and see to it that your claims arepublicly maintained."
"My mother did not have a lawyer when she went away; she made no publicclaims, neither shall I."
"Then let me go to Angus as your friend, or else Hugh Oldys, who wouldbe both friend and lawyer; you cannot possibly realize the position inwhich you may place yourself or, for that matter, place us all, throughyour suffering."
"I do not mean to be wilful, but this that I must do to-night and what Ihave to ask concerns only we three,--my mother, Philip, and myself,--soI must go alone; a half hour will be more than enough, and there will beno trouble. Will you not also tell Miss Emmy and Hugh? He has tried sohard in every way to find out what this fire has made known, purely formy sake, because he knew how much it meant to me, not that he cared. Iwant him to know before any one else but Daddy, and I hope--I pray thathe will be _very_ glad," and a look crossed Poppea's face that she didnot know was there, but Latimer saw it, and his heart sank as hereplied:--
"In these dark days Hugh Oldys keeps both joy (of which he has little)and sorrow to himself, as if the sharing of either might divert him fromhis fixed purpose concerning his mother."
Then Stephen Latimer ceased urging and they went to the supper table,all three creating talk merely to avoid the strain of silence.
It was a little past eight o'clock, the hour for closing, when Poppeaand Stephen Latimer reached the post-office; the only light other thanfrom the street lantern came from Oliver Gilbert's workshop. Goingsoftly to the farther window, Poppea looked in, beckoning Latimer tofollow her.
Gilbert sat at his desk, with all his little relics spread before him,the daguerreotype of Mary, a little black paper profile of Marygold, theshoes Poppea had first worn, and various photographs of her, from onetaken at the county fair in company with Hugh Oldys, to the ratherdramatic picture by Sarony in her first concert gown. Then putting theseback into their drawer, he drew out the old ledger, read his Lincolnletters through, touching them lovingly. After putting these also away,he crossed the room to the work bench, lighted both lamps, and, in spiteof the sultriness of the evening, began to work, now and then glancingfirst at the clock and then at the door, with a sigh.
"I wonder of what he is thinking," said Poppea. "Please go in, Mr.Latimer, and tell him that I am coming very soon. If I should go to himnow, even for a minute, I should stay and these papers would be burned,"and Poppea pressed her hand to her bosom as if to brace herself by theknowledge of what she carried.
"No, do not come with me, it is only a step up the hill and the moon isrising." So saying, Poppea turned the corner of the post-office and wentup the hill road.
When she reached the massive gate, she paused before she laid her handupon the latch, which, in all these years of proximity, she had neverbefore touched. It yielded easily, and she found herself walking towardthe house, guided on her way by the long beds of heavily scentedhyacinth and narcissus that outlined the path.
A bronze lamp hung in the porch, the front door stood partly open, andPoppea could see lights in the long hall beyond. She was surprised ather own calmness. When she pulled the bell that jangled sharply throughthe great rooms, she felt no less at ease than if she had rung at theFeltons' door.
The butler, who answered the summons, was the one to evince surprise, orperhaps dismay is the apter term, for the feud as it was regardedbetween the great house and the post-office was well known below stairs,and of course mightily exaggerated in its details.
Poppea said very quietly, "Please ask if Mr. John Angus can see MissGilbert on business."
The butler, however, wishing to take no risks, motioned Poppea to followhim, and throwing open the door of one of the rooms on the left of thelong hall, announced in ringing tones, "Miss Gilbert to see Mr. Angus onbusiness!" then promptly disappeared down the corridor only to slip backinto the adjoining room where he could be a party to what was, to hismind, an occasion where anything including murder might happen.
As Poppea advanced into the room which was John Angus's library, hearose slowly from one of the deep chairs in which he had been halfdozing, half reading. For a minute she thought that he had not heard hername.
John Angus, whatever his feelings might be, always kept up at least theexternal traditions of courtesy in the ceremonious rooms of his ownhouse. Coming forward, but without asking her to be seated, in coldlycivil tones he asked her what he could do for her, at the same timetrying to gain an advantage by guessing her errand. Had she, possibly,laid to him the scheme of consolidating the two post-offices under a newname? Was she come to either beg or offer quarter in the shape of theoriginal bit of land he coveted? Or, the feeling of apprehension thathad come over him the night that he had seen her personate Sylvainereturned with redoubled force, but he pushed it aside as being tooimprobable.
Seeing that she was looking at him fixedly and did not reply, herepeated the question, motioning carelessly to a chair as he did so.
Poppea remained standing, and drawing two of the papers from her dress,she held them towards him, saying, "Read those."
There was no insolence in her words or manner, but there was thatquality in her that precluded any idea of refusal. Without even feelingsurprised, he took the papers and carrying them to his reading lamp,unfolded them deliberately.
The minutes passed slowly; when perhaps five had elapsed, he turned anashy face toward Poppea, and asked curtly:--
"Where did you obtain these papers, and how long have you had them?"
Poppea answered with equal brevity, then there was another pause.
"Have you any other proof of this claim that you are making?" Angusasked, his hand shaking so that he laid the papers on the table withdifficulty.
"I am making no claim for myself; I am merely acting for my mother," shereplied, never taking her eyes from his face. "As to further proof, Ihave this letter that my mother left for you, should you raise thequestion."
Angus took the letter in his hand, saw the address in the characteristicwriting of his first wife, and the words below in the corner. Crushingthe envelope in an effort not to drop it, he said quickly:--
"I did not say that I disputed your claim to be the daughter of HelenDudleigh, for you resemble her very closely, now that I see you for thefirst time face to face."
"Ah! you see it then; was that why you left the room so suddenly thenight that I sang in the dress of the miniature?"
"Yes, it was," replied Angus, amazed at his direct answer, yet unable tohold it back.
"If it is not that but the other part that is in dispute, then you_must_ read the letter!"
John Angus looked at her, then at the envelope, an angry flash in hiseyes, the color surging back to his face until it was suffused with adeep, veiny red.
"And if I do not choose to read it? if I prefer to set a match to it,instead of troubling myself with what might be the clever scheme ofan--" here Angus paused as though he were conscious of being sweptfarther than he cared or dared to go.
"Adventuress," said Poppea, "the same name that you gave me a year agoin your complaint to the government about the post-office." Angus's eyesdropped before the unexpected accusation, and Poppea continued:--
"You are perfectly at liberty to burn the letter, but you will not untilyou have read it, because you are more anxious to know its contents thanto justify my mother or me."
It is always the unexpected that subdues a man of John Angus's fibre,who lives by carefully made and guarded plans and prides himself on thefact of never changing his mind, and Poppea's quiet persistence, void ofeither impertinence, threat, or beseeching, was the last thing he hadever dreamed of encountering. Slowly he broke open the seal andenvelope, having some difficulty in unfolding the single sheet that itcontained, as the
moistened ink had become sticky and in drying had leftan offset that made the letter difficult to decipher. As he read heturned toward the light and Poppea could not see his face, but after hehad refolded the paper and put it in his pocket, he continued sitting inthe same position until, the silence becoming more than she could bear,she closed her eyes and tried to call up the picture of Daddy poringover his little relics at his desk in the shop, to give her relief.
When a slight noise caused her to open them, Angus was standing beforeher, his breath coming spasmodically, the drawn look having again driventhe color from his face.
"What do you wish?" he asked abruptly. Poppea knew then that a morecomplete verbal explanation was unnecessary. In that brief sentence andits intonation lay the acknowledgment that she sought, while, at thesame time, her comprehension of his moods, in spite of her dislike ofthe man, proved the bond of fundamental relationship.
"What do you wish?" he repeated.
"That you shall tell Philip what I _am_ as decidedly as you once toldhim--what I was _not_."
If it had been possible for Angus to be abashed, one might have saidthat he was so now. In the suddenness of it all this phase had notoccurred to him, but his dominant will soon overcame what he put down tothe momentary physical weakness that had overcome him many times duringthe past year, and he said, with his old air of conferring a favor:--
"I will explain to my son to-morrow. I mean when do you wish to come--"(he was about to say home, and then the hollowness of the term even tohis comprehension changed the words) "up here to live?"
Ignoring the second part of the sentence wholly, Poppea repeated:--
"Philip must know now, to-night. Suppose for one of the three to-morrowshould not come? I hear him on the stairs. Will you not call him in?"
There was something in Poppea's suppressed passion that froze John Angusand caused his faculties to work more slowly than their wont. As hehesitated, trying to frame some moderate and dignified phrase, Poppea,unable to stand the strain of being alone with him any longer, findingher self-control vanishing and rash words pressing at her very lips,called:--
"Philip, Philip, come here to the library--It is I--Poppea!"
The slow steps quickened at the unexpected cry, and pushing thedoor open so vigorously that it crashed back against a piece offurniture, Philip came in--glanced at Poppea and his father bothstanding--remembered the latter's fury on the day that he had broken theplaster bust. Straightway going to Poppea, he threw one arm about her,and then turning, said:--
"What are you saying to her, Father? Why did she call me as if she wereafraid?"
With the air of one to whom Philip's coming was at precisely the desiredmoment, Angus replied, "She called you that I might tell you that she isyour half-sister, Philip; the daughter of my first wife."
All at once Poppea was kneeling beside Philip, her arms tight about him,whispering, "I called you because I need you, shall always need you tohelp me to bear this."
Looking down into her upturned face, an almost holy light came intoPhilip's eyes as he repeated softly, "Sister? You are my sister? Thenthat is what it means that I have been feeling for you all these years.Oh, sister! _I_ need _you_; I have always needed you to help me bear to_live_." In that young face with all its artistic capacity for intensejoy as well as suffering there was stamped already the knowledge that insuch affection alone could he find place, that the barrier of hisinfirmity stood forever between him and the other love of woman.
As they spoke thus together John Angus waited for a moment, consideringthem critically. Noticing the little blemish on Poppea's ear, heinvoluntarily raised his hand to his own ear bearing the same mark.
Poppea had all the first fresh beauty of his wife Helen, that after thedays of courtship he had thought to possess forever by mere force ofwill and legal right; but in Poppea he saw much of the strength of hisown resolution with this, to him, incomprehensible cross,--Poppea knewwhat love meant, but Angus understood only the power of ambition andauthority. There she was, his daughter, yet only the unwilling kin offlesh, always to be a stranger in spirit. Then as he saw that the twohad forgotten his presence, he left the room to seek his own chamber andpace up and down in a half-physical attempt to readjust himself to thecircumstances that had overtaken him.
After all, he argued, thanks to the Feltons, his daughter was anaccomplished woman with many friends. At last he would have some one tomake his house a social centre, and probably she would after a timemake a brilliant marriage. He had heard that Bradish Winslow hadadmired her--there would now be no reason on his part why he might notfollow the game to a suitable finish. Toward Oliver Gilbert, however,his old-time resentment, instead of diminishing, was increased. How wasit that this humble man always managed to come between? How utterlyabominable to be obliged to assume an attitude of obligation!
Had his wife Helen directed in the case of her death that the child beleft with Gilbert as a sort of spite to himself? Or was it a mistake andthe intention been to leave her at his house on Windy Hill?
In either case he held Gilbert to blame, for he, in his comparativepoverty, had supported the child and naturally (from Angus's standpoint)would expect recompense, while the very act had deprived Angus ofrearing his own child. In this way he worked himself into a commendablefit of righteous indignation, entirely forgetting that had Poppea beenleft at his door, without the subsequent evidence, he would have beenthe first, on principle, to have sent her to the town farm.
* * * * *
As Poppea made her way up the hill, Stephen Latimer opened the door ofOliver Gilbert's workshop. Gilbert put down the bit of work at which hehad been tinkering, and leaning back, hands behind head, prepared toenjoy a comfortable dish of talk with the dominie, who could always movesatisfactorily from books and the political outlook to farming andlocal news, without either exertion to himself or condescension towardthe listener, and then, first and last, he was always ready to speak ofPoppea.
After delivering the girl's message that she would soon return, theconsolidation of the two towns under the name of West Harbor, nowpractically an accomplished fact, was discussed, then the burning of therailway station naturally followed.
"Has 'Lisha Potts been in to-day?" Latimer inquired.
"No, but he'll be down to-morrow; Satiry insists that she's coming tobake us up once a week or so. Poppy don't want it, but I must look to itshe don't overdo her strength; you see she isn't in body one of ourhard-working race, Mr. Latimer. I sort of think her mother was a ratherdelicate woman."
With this for the entering wedge, Mr. Latimer saw his way to goingfarther.
"Then you have some idea about her mother? I have thought this for sometime. I have an idea also, more than an idea; suppose we compare them,"and he told briefly of the trunk of papers and 'Lisha finding them.
Instantly Gilbert's bent shoulders straightened, new life came to hiseyes; leaning forward he sat in an attitude of such expectant certaintyof what he was to hear that Latimer could not help smiling as he said,"Poppea's mother was--"
"Helen Angus, little Roseleaf, wife of that man who drove her to do whatshe did!" broke in Gilbert, unable to hold his conviction any longer."No one who knew her could blame her,--I, who know what Angus is andwas, least of all. Young Esterbrook was a dashing, taking blade, likemany an army man, not steady like his uncle. I kept track of him foryears one way or another; he never married, and was killed in Indianwarfare near Cheyenne, so he would never have turned up; and yet, ofcourse before the world this will be a blight upon Poppea. I wish 'LishaPotts had dropped the papers in the bog; I wish to God he had, Mr.Latimer! Could you find it right in your conscience to burn the papersand let the past be buried? Need _she_ know?"
"She knows already, Gilbert."
The old man groaned and struck his clenched hand on the table. "Ah,well," he said, "that takes it from my hands and the temptation with it,but it's hard, right hard, to feel, link by link, that my power toprotect her from trouble i
s going. But," as an idea made him brightenagain, "she can keep my name, can't she, dominie? It's hers, isn't it,by law?"
"Yes, Gilbert, it is hers for good unless she chooses to renounce it,"Latimer replied fervently. "But stop a minute, old friend,think--suppose that young Esterbrook was _not_ Poppea's father, and thatthe only wrong (though it was a virtue, not a fault) that Helen Angusdid was in preferring to have her child born away from the atmosphere oftyranny that was crushing out her own life. Could you be glad? Not foryourself, not for ourselves, but for the law's full measure?"
For a while Gilbert sat so absolutely motionless that Latimer began tofear that he was suffering some sort of shock, while it was merely theslowness of his comprehension of what had never before occurred to himever so remotely. A moment later, he started up with blazing eyes andall the fury of a madman.
"That! that! Oh, my God! Then he can take her from me in my old age,from me who have reared her. He can take her, but he cannot love her asI have nor make her love him! I withheld the bit of land, my birthright,that he coveted, and this is my punishment!
"Pray and pray quickly, dominie; it isn't the dying of the body thatmust soon come that I fear; no, nor even the craziness that is reachingout after me. I'm losing my hold on believing! It's all slipping andslipping until I'm going down out of sight of Mary and little Marygold.Help me! Stephen Latimer, help me keep my faith! Not in the everydayprayers from books or Bible; I want something nearer, something said bysome one that has lived and suffered in the times that I have!
"There on that card that hangs under his picture--He knew,--he suffered.I've pieced his words together for my need, and said them every day andnight these many years. Now all is a blank, I can't remember them," andGilbert fell upon his knees, his head covered by his arms, strangledwith sobs.
Following where Gilbert pointed, Latimer saw an old calendar cardhanging below Lincoln's portrait. Seizing it, he found on the reverseside Gilbert's crooked writing, and straightway kneeling beside him, onearm about his shoulders, he read this prayer:--
"'Keep us free from giving offence, O Lord; neither let us be slanderedfrom our duty by false accusations against us, nor frightened from it bymenaces of destruction. Let us have faith that right makes might, and inthat faith let us do our duty as we understand it to the end.'
"'Both of us read the same Bible and pray to the same God. Each invokesHis aid against the other. The prayers of both cannot be answered--Thineit is to choose between us.
"'Thou hast Thine own purposes. Woe unto the world because of offences,for it must needs be that offences come, but woe unto that man by whomthe offence cometh." Through Thine aid keep us with malice toward none,with charity for all, with firmness in the right as it is given us tosee the right; let us strive on to finish the work and to do justly,love mercy, and walk humbly with Thee, O God, for the sake of Him whosuffered to teach us how to bear suffering.'"
After Latimer's voice ceased, there was again a long silence, as if eachman prayed alone. Then Gilbert pulled himself slowly to his chair, andwith hands clasped upon his knees to hide their trembling, he saidclearly, as if reading his own death sentence over in order to becomeused to the sound of it:--
"I must not forget! She will go to her own home and father upon thehill--"
"Daddy!" came the cry from the open door. A rush across the room andPoppea was clinging to the old man, laughing and sobbing at the sametime.
"Daddy! dear Daddy! Don't you know that this is my home, and that youare my father, just as God is, because we love each other?"
Then it was Stephen Latimer's turn to steal away and turn his footstepsto where Jeanne was waiting with anxious eyes, straining to see throughthe dark.