Oliver Gilbert meanwhile paced up and down the inner room, the irregular tapping of his heels telling its own story to Satira Pegrim, though she could not see the pitiful working of his face or the nervous clenching of his long, thin hands. Presently he paused by the hooded cradle that stood as of old between the bed and wall. Lighting a candle, he set it upon the chest of drawers, where its rays fell upon the cradle. Upon the white counterpane was a little bouquet of Prince's pine, wintergreen berries, and holly ferns that Poppea had placed there on Christmas eve.
Stiffly Gilbert dropped to his knees, his arms clasped about the cradle as on that first night.—"God keep her and lead her in somewhere out of the cold and harm. Oh, Lord! I've been short-sighted and selfish. I wanted her for my very own so bad that I've lived out a lie rather than have the truth come between ever so little. Now she is suffering for it when it should only be me. I was puffed up and said to myself in my pride,—'A wrong has been laid at my door because the Lord knew that I would 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-brush swamp until she gets time to think."
CHAPTER VIII
SANCTUARY
When Hugh Oldys left Poppea by the graveyard gate, her first blind impulse was to hide somewhere, anywhere from familiar faces, this being an instinct common to all healthy young animals when either physically hurt or in trouble. Knowing as she did all the by-ways, lanes, and pent roads of the entire township, the very last thing she thought of was to follow the highway or any of its cross-roads. So when Hugh was peering among the shadows of the walls and bushes that hedged them on either side, Poppea was crossing the graveyard toward the Northeast gate by which they had entered, flitting swiftly behind the larger stones for concealment.
She had no voice to answer Hugh's call even if she had wished to; her throat was contracted and dry, and to her ears, still ringing with the rush of blood brought by the first shock, his voice sounded miles away. When finally she heard the rattle of the milk wagon going unmistakably downhill, she stopped her efforts at concealment, and walking directly to the round hill above the graveyard took such a view of the surroundings as the dusk would allow. The bitter north wind sweeping down from the hill-country turned her about when she faced in that direction, putting an end to a wild idea she had of spending the night in a rough camp the young people had made the previous summer in the hemlock woods. The Moosatuck was already being outlined by many bonfires and all the lanterns that the young folks could collect, for they meant to make the most of what might prove the only snowless skating of the winter.
The village lights began to twinkle below, and an up train, stopping at Harley's Mills Station, drew out again, taking long breaths, and, creeping through the fields like a great glow-worm, made its way toward Bridgeton. There would be a down train in a quarter of an hour; could she reach the station in time, she might gain the last car from the brook side of the track without being seen.
Then she realized that she had no money, and the Felton ladies, her only friends in what was to her the fathomless mystery of New York, were at Quality Hill. Could she have gone to Mrs. Oldys, sure of finding her alone, and begged to be hidden for a few days, that would have suited her 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 paper by the fire in the library of endless books in their white, varnished cases, discussing the doings of the day with Hugh. Through the doorway into the dining room was a glimpse of white-clothed table, a jar of flowers, and the delicate outlines of Mrs. Oldys' sensitive face, as she bent over the great silver tray, tea-caddy in hand, watching for the first puff of steam from the kettle in order to complete the brewing of her perfect tea, and summon the father and son to table.
To go there would be once more to give herself up to all the dearest things of home that she had experienced through the kindness of friends, but thought that she must forever more lack; but above all, she was held back by a bitter feeling of resentment toward those who had been kind to her, for had they not all banded to deceive her? she, who was nobody, saved from charity possibly,—so quickly did her mind travel ahead of what she knew,—from being a town charge! At this bitter moment, the conventional expression came back to her as applied to a child who was being brought up by the widow Baker, much being expected of her and little done for the girl.