Poppea of the Post-Office

by Mabel Osgood Wright

For the moment Poppea was divided. Was this change, by any chance, another scheme of John Angus's to oust her Daddy, or was it a providential happening to render it easy for Gilbert to retire? Being optimistic under all her trials, she decided upon the latter and turned to the other letter.

Hugh wrote in a subdued rather than in a sad key and, without reference to the interim, picked up their friendship as it was before the night of his return when the fabric began to change its weave and pattern. That he felt the need of her old-time letters and direct companionship he did not hesitate to say, at the same time taking it for granted that his would be a comfort to her. He told her freely of his daily routine of life and asked for hers in such a frank way, free alike from either restraint or curiosity, that the comrade emerged once more, and she resolved again to write him the weekly letter of his college days.

Ah, what a boy he seemed, however much his manhood had been tried and developed in the last few months, compared to the men who crowded about her at the musicals, lavish in words of praise, personal compliments, and gifts of flowers. To be sure, they all seemed a part of the play world in which she was living—all but Bradish Winslow, and as he in a sense had stepped accidentally into her life in its own home surroundings, so he seemed in a way to belong to it.

"A polished man of the world" was Miss Felton's favorite expression concerning him; yet knowing this as she did, there was something about Winslow's personality, his deference, at once soothing and stimulating, that when she was with him made it the most natural and desirable place for her to be; but when he was absent, the condition was altered, and she not only wondered at a certain influence that he held over her, but experienced a sharp sense of repulsion at it.

It was the last of March when the rehearsals for the operetta drew to a close. The performance would be given in Easter week. Two large houses were to be thrown together for the occasion,—one for the musical part of the affair, the other for the cotillon and supper following, the two being joined by a covered passage between the gardens in the rear.

Poppea's character in the rather fantastic performance was that of a young girl of the pastoral type, who for a part of the play personated an actress, and for this scene, in which there was a dance, she was to utilize the green muslin Perdita gown of her first appearance at Quality Hill. Of course at this season the poppies must be artificial and more abundant for stage effect, and after many protestations she was told that she simply must have her eyes pencilled and a dash of color added to her cheeks to guard against nervous pallor.

When the night came, Mr. Esterbrook was not well, and Miss Felton, for some accountable reason, in no mood for going out, so that Miss Emmy and Poppea went to the Hoopers' alone in the depths of the last new carriage which, as though to carry out Miss Emmy's announcement that her days for light blue and pink were over, was lined with rich wine-colored cloth.

Poppea hardly knew whether she wished most to go or to run away, but by the time that she stood behind the dark green plush curtain peeping at the audience from between its folds, the desire for achievement had come to her, and she was ready to stay and conquer. Very lovely were the young society girls of the chorus arrayed as shepherdesses; unembarrassed and statuesque was the contralto of the piece, Gloria Hooper, otherwise Daphnis, the lover, a superb brunette and daughter of the house; but for the time the sense of the music dominated her; she was no longer Poppea of the Post-office in whose way stood many fears, but Sylvaine of the Invincible Charm, whom she was personating.

Among the familiar faces in the audience, Philip's and Bradish Winslow's were the only ones that her memory retained as the orchestra finished the tinkling overture, full of the piping of shepherds, the sound of cow-bells, and the tripping of dancing feet, and the curtain was drawn aside. Then in a moment all faces vanished but that of Tostelli, who was conducting from under the shelter of a thick palm in a tub. He had faith in her, nor was it misplaced.

After the first act there was a storm of applause and flowers. In coming forward to bow, hand in hand with Gloria, her eyes fell upon a figure standing behind the last row of chairs. It was John Angus, who had evidently come without knowledge that Poppea was taking part, for the expression of his face was so blended of surprise, incredulity, anger, and something else akin to dread, which she could not formulate, that she was obliged to close her eyes for a second to blot it out, and then fortunately Sylvaine again absorbed her.