THE NAMING
The Feltons, in common with their neighbors of Quality Hill, dined at
one o'clock and had tea or supper, according to the heartiness of the
meal, at six or half past, the village and farm folk having their
mid-day meal at noon. While a number of these families kept the same
hours in their winter city life, during the past four or five seasons
there had been a move toward afternoon dinner at five. Dinner parties
were given at even a later hour, oftentime not beginning until six, the
Feltons being among those who adopted the extreme custom. So far,
however, no one had brought the innovation to upset the almost historic
domestic regulations of Harley's Mills.
Promptly at half-past two on this April afternoon, the carriage came
around to take Miss Felton to the meeting of the Hospital Aid Society,
where she was preparing to inaugurate a better system of work, the
material for which was tied in a great bundle in the porch,--cotton
cloth, soft unbleached muslin for bandages, and rolls of the gray blue
flannel of the hue that for years after was known as army blue.
"Are you coming, Emeline? Or are you too tired after your long drive
yesterday?" asked Miss Felton, as she stood before her bureau fastening
a wide lace collar with the brooch to which Gilbert had referred, and
then catching the folds of her India shawl with an inconspicuous pin of
Scotch pebbles that blended with the fabric. Her bonnet was of finely
braided straw of soft brown, the chaise-top front being filled in with
geraniums of crimson velvet; the broad strings of brown watered ribbon
were of the exact shade of her gown. Though the Misses Felton were but
two years apart, Elizabeth, by far the handsomer of the two, dressed as
a doting mother, who considers that all the daintily pretty things of
life belong by right to her daughter.
Miss Emmy, who was searching for something in the many small drawers of
her dressing-table, did not answer immediately, and her sister repeated
the question.
"I'm not in the least tired, but I'm not going with you because I've
promised dear quaint Oliver Gilbert that I will go to the christening of
the mysterious lady baby this afternoon."
"Do you think under the circumstances it is necessary? Is it not a
rather public expression of our approval of what the conservative
townspeople consider a very unwise action of Gilbert's?"
"It certainly is approval,--_my_ approval, that is,--for really,
Elizabeth, the only objection that I have to Gilbert's taking the lady
baby is that it prevents me from adopting her myself. No, this isn't one
of my little pleasantries, as you call them. I asked Gilbert for her
and he refused. From your standpoint it may seem strange, and I have no
wish to compromise you. I've come to think now that as we are both past
forty and likely to remain the Misses Felton and live in one house to
the end of our days, it is time that, at least, we allow ourselves to
hold different opinions. It will make variety and keep us fresher, you
know. See, I'm going to take the lady baby these coral beads that I wore
at her age. She has precisely the colored hair and eyes to wear coral;
when she looks up from under her long lashes, she might be a mer-baby,
or whatever a mermaid's child should be called."
Miss Emmy chatted gayly along, nonchalantly and without the slightest
air of being put out, yet Miss Felton knew that some great change had
come over her volatile sister, but instead of accepting the warning in
silence, she still felt called upon to chide.
"Do you think under the circumstances it is a wise thing to give
ornaments to a foundling of whose antecedents we know nothing? Isn't it
putting possible temptation in her way?"
"The knowing nothing is precisely what makes it right, my dear
emotionless sister. As we know nothing about her, we can take it for
granted that she is everything we could wish for. There, don't be vexed;
you are so compounded of judgment and righteousness that you can't
possibly understand people that want to do things simply because they
feel that they must. Don't wait for me, but send the carriage back,
please; I'm taking down some flowers."
Miss Emmy went on with her toilet, Nora lending a helping hand now and
then to adjust the net of silk and beads that to-day held her curls, but
so rapid and nervous were the fragile lady's movements that she had the
air of a paradise bird pluming itself, and while the color her exertions
spread upon her cheeks lasted, no one would have guessed her due in
years by ten or fifteen.
The front yard at the post-office house was decked as for summer when
Miss Emmy arrived. She had refused Nora's aid, preferring to carry her
own bundles, and had a little single-handed tussle with the gate that
allowed her to see in detail the row of pink conch shells, alternating
with round stones freshly whitewashed, that outlined the path. While two
settees, also spotless white, of the form once used in schools, set off
the bit of lawn, one resting under a tall lilac bush, the other standing
aimlessly in the open, as though it lacked the decision of character
necessary for a choice of background, between a crab tree, the grape
arbor, or the bank that rolled up to John Angus's garden. The
little-used front door was open, and a pair of gigantic overshoes beside
the mat told that one guest had arrived from a region where the roads
were still "unsettled."
Satira Pegrim was at the door before Miss Emmy had reached the top step,
and rushing out, laid hold of the boxes of flowers with one hand, while
she half led, half shoved her visitor in with the other.
"Do mind your step, Miss Emmy; Oliver hasn't got the storm door off'n
yet, he's been so eat up with worry this last month. Neither have I had
the pluck to attack that hall tread and turn it. It's now dark figgers
on light, but bein' three ply, if turned it would be light on dark and a
sight fresher; so if you kin just play to see it that way, you'll ease
my feelin's. Won't you step up into the best room and lay off your
bunnit?
"Going to leave it on? Well, it's real handsome, and I've heard say that
folks in New York keep their hats on to most all kinds of day parties,
which I lay to folks not bein' as well acquainted as they are this way.
Besides, there being such a heap o' ornery thievin' ones, the bunnits
might get mixed or done away with if laid off'n. Still, bein' as it's
right here in town, I do wish you'd loosen yours; it would seem more
friendly like, and as if you was one of the family, of which the good
Lord knows there's a lack, 'specially on an occasion like this."
Miss Emmy laughingly expressed her willingness to take off her
head-gear, and after arranging the roses in two yellow and brown lustre
pitchers on the mantel-shelf, and laying the little bouquet beside the
deep bowl of Russian cut glass that was to do duty for the christening,
she followed Mrs. Pegrim upstairs.
"Why, where is the lady baby?" she asked in surprise.
"I'm letting her sleep until the last moment, and Oliver, who's dressing
and fussing between his room and the kitchen's, got an eye to her.
'Lisha Potts's in there talking to him. Oliver would have 'Lisha to the
naming 'cause of his being the one to open the door _that_ night, you
know." (This was as near as Satira ever allowed herself to approach the
forbidden subject.) "He balked considerable, not being used to society
down here at the centre, and settin' in there now he does look uncommon
like a coon they had in a cage last county fair, 'n' we-all didn't tell
him one of the Miss Feltons was coming, for fear he'd streak it, so
you'd best stand just behind the door 'ntil he gets in.
"I'm turrible glad to see your bunnit off'n, and how you do your hair.
Only a few of the daring hereabout has fixed theirs in what's called a
waterfall, and those as has looks like they'd put spice bags on the back
of their necks for a crick' n' they'd stuck fast. Yourn is just elegant,
trickles down and hangs as easy as if there wasn't no net to gather it.
"Who all is coming to the naming? Only First Selectman Morse, little
Hughey Oldys, me and you and 'Lisha and Gilbert, besides Mr. Latimer
that does it. Gilbert he wanted more, but, says I, not having cleaned
house I'm not ready for a charge o' the whole town 'at would come if we
loosed the line, so we'd best draw it close as we can without choking
ourselves, and that's how.
"No, brother hasn't told me the name yet, but I suspicion it's something
choice and bookish, for though Gilbert never made out to get further'n
three terms at the old Academy (that little building 'nexed behind the
new one), he's always thought a sight of books. In fact, he got
something of the taste from pa, who was a carpenter and the
forehandedest man about naming his family in all Newfield County; he'd
names for us all before he'd picked out his wife, pa had.
"You ain't never heard? Well, it come about this way: Thomas, Henry, and
Gideon had been the male names among the Gilberts ever since they set
foot in this land o' promise near two hundred years ago, and as they
slumped down in one spot and didn't journey to speak of, with first,
second, and third cousins all clinging to those names, things got mixed
pretty well.
"Father, he that was to be, was jobbing around down at the Harley house,
which is now Mis' Oldys's, fixin' more shelves in grandsir' Harley's
liberary. My, but isn't there a sight of books there! They do claim that
grandsir' Harley had every one that was made from Adam up to the time of
his death, and the Oldys folks has been buyin' ever since.
"Well, they knowin' and trustin' father, he put in his dinner hour there
in the liberary instead o' coming clear home, and he got real interested
in the printing outside the books, and he came to find there was quite a
few double names he'd never heard of. So he says to himself, says he,
'I'll put a few down; they'll come handy some day mebbe, and freshen up
the family,' and so he did, and after ma died we found his pocket-book
all full of figgerin' on work and the names writ in the end. There was
more than he ever used, there bein' only ten of us, six boys and four
girls. Some o' the names he'd passed over, I reckon, 'cause he wasn't
quite sure of their sect.
"The first of us was a girl and she was named Jane Grey, but didn't live
out her second year; then come Edmund Spenser, Christopher Marlow, and
Clarissy Harlow, Robinson Crusoe, Charlotte Temple, Daniel Defoe,
Oliver Goldsmith, Cotton Mather, and lastly me, with Oliver, all that's
living. I was called for grandma on ma's side on account of her silver
spoons, two candlesticks, and snufflers, which I didn't get, marryin'
against her wishes before she died.
"Some of the names were a mouthful, but they did look real choice on
headstones, and liven up the West Hill graveyard a lot. The marble man
that came from Boston to set up John Angus's father's moniment allowed
he'd never seen such a litery crop o' stones outside east
Massachusetts."
A knock at the door sent Mrs. Pegrim scurrying away, Miss Emmy following
more slowly, as the front stairs were so steep and high that a misstep
was all that lay between the top and bottom. In the foreroom Mr. Latimer
was alone, standing hands behind him looking out the south window, the
waking voice of the lady baby having called away Mrs. Pegrim.
Miss Emmy had entered softly and waited a moment before she spoke. There
was something about Stephen Latimer that always seemed as though it
belonged to another world and appealed physically to her spiritual
sense. Though of American birth and ancestry, he was a type of the
old-world vicar, well born and cultured, yet who, through his intense
introspection, spends his life in a small church of a remote parish,
seeing each morning's sun through the dimly colored glass of the chancel
windows, as a light sent especially from heaven to him, and basking in
mystic joy as, between times, his fingers draw from the organ the
simple linked notes that hold the village children to their hymns.
In figure Latimer was rather above the medium height, spare without
thinness; a smoothly shaven face was saved by distinct mouth lines and a
firm chin from the perfect symmetry that seems to lack sympathy.
Iron-gray hair belied his age, which was barely forty years. In New
England towns at this time people looked askance at men of this type.
Patriotism rushed to any form of dissent in which to cloak itself rather
than lean toward anything that might be preëstablished and, therefore,
un-American,--the middle classes knowing no distinction between
catholicity and Romanism.
Such feelings had Stephen Latimer met with in coming to Harley's Mills
six years before, yet he stayed on and soon came to be reckoned with as
an influence, holding his own and more, by seeing over what he might not
see through. The Misses Felton, though not of his fold, had given St.
Luke's an organ, such as was not known in Newfield County, and through
it, Latimer's influence went out even more than by the pulpit. For
though his young wife played at service, on Wednesday afternoons, rain
or shine, he sat before the keys and let his fingers speak the words
that all might hear who would.
Sometimes the little church was filled by the Quality Hill folk and
their guests, sometimes a tired woman with a fretful, half-sick child,
or a pauper laborer creeping in to rest from his work on the roads,
would be the only audience--it made no difference in the music.
Presently Latimer turned,--"Ah, so you are here! I thought I recognized
your roses. Is it not a brave deed of Gilbert's, this going again into
the fray after time had healed his wounds and let him at least build a
shelter around his sorrow? Talk of the bravery of those who go to
battle, I believe his courage in this matter in facing the unknown is
the real heroism."
"I think you are right, though I had not looked at it in this way
before; I only thought of the amusement of the child's companionship,
not the responsibility. Ah, here is little Hugh Oldys."
Presently, Satira Pegrim came in, carrying the lady baby, who would have
much preferred to walk, for having acquired this accomplishment all of a
sudden, she was loath to relinquish it. Gilbert and 'Lisha Potts
followed. It was not until Potts had come quite into the room, crossing
to between the centre-table and Mary's melodeon that stood between the
windows, that he saw Miss Emmy. All retreat being cut off, he gave a
sort of gasp and tried in vain to sink into the depths of his
stiff-collared, deep-cuffed Sunday shirt as a turtle disappears into its
shell.
The sight of Miss Emmy produced a different effect upon the child, who
crowed and stretched her hands toward her new friend, quietly allowed
her to fasten the corals upon the plump, bare neck, and afterward tried
to look at them with real satisfaction, moving them up and down with her
dimpled chin.
For a moment general conversation reigned, then--
"What is she to be named? I cannot wait another moment," cried Miss
Emmy.
"It's writ in this book," said Gilbert, taking a small morocco Bible
from the table and showing the fly leaf, upon which, in characters
painfully round and precise, was "Julia Poppea Gilbert, from her loving
Daddy on her first birthday, April 20, 1862."
For a moment no one stirred, for all realized the final way in which the
quiet man had settled the matter of birth and name, giving her an
anchorage so far as might be.
Then Stephen Latimer spoke.
"Julia Poppea! Where did you find that name, Gilbert?"
"Julia was my mother's name; seems as if there should be family in it
somehow. And the other--I've read it somewhere, and it's got my fancy."
(Not a word of the locket.)
"If I remember," said Mr. Latimer, hesitatingly, "it was the name of one
of Nero's wives; would not something nearer home be more suitable,
neighbor Gilbert? Mary, or a flower name, if you like fanciful things,
such as Violet or Rose?"
"No, I've settled to Poppea. I've known of some one called by it that
wasn't kin of any Neroes or spoken of in Mr. Plutarch's books. Poppea
comes near to being a posy too,--poppies, nice cheerful flowers that,
come to recollect, have long lashes to their eyes, just like the lady
baby."
When Stephen Latimer explained the need of sponsors according to his
ritual, and their duties, Gilbert knit his brows at the unforeseen
complication.
"It is customary to have some others than the parents of the child to
stand, as it were, in their place of responsibility in case of need;
under these circumstances, surely no one can be more suitable than Mrs.
Pegrim and yourself, neighbor Gilbert."
"I couldn't stand for any such strange customs or their results," said
Satira, closing her jaws quickly; she had been reading the sentences of
promise in the prayer-book that Mr. Latimer had marked. "I couldn't go
further than to agree to keep her in clothes, her body clean and well
fed, and to say, 'Now I lay me.'"
"As I am in the eye of the law her father, the choice must be outside of
me, parson," Gilbert said slowly. "Who is usually asked?"
"Near kin, or friends upon whom one can rely to take a true interest in
the child."
"Then I ask you, Miss Emmy, and you, 'Lisha Potts."
"I'm Baptist born, but no church-member," said Potts, his words forced
out as by some explosive.
"And I am a Channing Unitarian and therefore an arch dissenter," said
Miss Emmy; yet at the same time, through the yearning of her eyes, she
already had the lady baby in her arms.
Stephen Latimer looked from one to the other, an expression of
satisfaction stealing over his features as if he saw some special
significance in this strange combination, then whispered to Miss Emmy
that upon her devolved the duty of holding the child, who began to fret
strangely and pucker her face for tears.
Latimer said something to little Hugh, his music pupil, and going to
the melodeon, covered and silent these many years, threw back the lid,
coaxed the fitful breath and reluctant keys to speak again, so gently
that there was no discord, only a far-away voice as of memory. Then the
two, the childish treble and the baritone, sang,
"Saviour, Who Thy flock art feeding
With the shepherd's tenderest care,
All the feeble gently leading,
While the lambs Thy bosom share."
* * * * *
"That was her tune, Mary's, the last she sang to Marygold. How did you
know?" asked Gilbert when the hymn ended, his voice sinking
unconsciously to an awed whisper.
"_I_ did not, but God does not forget."
Slowly and clearly Latimer read the brief service of private baptism,
ending with the sentence, "If thou art not already baptized, Julia
Poppea, I baptize thee in the Name of the Father, Son, and Holy
Ghost--Amen."
"Is that in the book?" asked Gilbert; "then if it is, there are enough
other children named that 'tisn't known about where or when, so that she
isn't the only one."
"No, we are none of us the _only ones_ either for sorrow or joy; in that
lies the love of God, which is brotherhood;" and seeing the light of the
smile upon Stephen Latimer's face, the child laughed and crowed, and
succeeded in wriggling from Miss Emmy's arms down to the floor, where
the pup was wagging furiously, as though trying to shake hands with
everybody at once, having slipped in as Mrs. Pegrim hurried out for the
christening cake.
"It is not as light as it should be," she said, bustling back, "but I
made it sponge, so's the children could have it (I've fruit cake coming
for we-all). It was the last of the limed eggs I used, and though fresh
to taste, they do act sort of discouraged when it gets spring o' the
year and the responsibility o' hefting sponge cake is laid on them.
"Would you mind, Miss Emmy, seeing as you stepped so far into the
family, as to cut it, I mean break it, as a knife spiles sponge cake,
while I pour the coffee?"
"Hasn't the pup got any name yet?" asked Hughey, joining the pair on the
floor. "Mr. Gilbert, you promised he should have a name and that I might
help choose."
"The boys in the office of nights call him Mack, after that little
General McClellan, 'cause he's always busy barking and running about,
planning great things he never does, so I reckon that'll stick to him."
"Oh, I forgot! I've brought _her_ a present," and Hughey tugged at a
small parcel that was bulging from the pocket of his overcoat. "It's tin
soldiers and a little cannon; father brought me them from Bridgeton.
Aren't they fine? I'll show her how to stand them up."
"I've a whimsey name for you," said Miss Emmy, as she set down her
coffee cup, a relic of grandma Gilbert's old Lowestoft with the little
half Chinese flower on front and in bottom, and stooping over the child,
kissed the rim of her ear that had an odd break in its curve like the
blemish on the petal of a flower that has folded too tight in the bud,
"a name that won't mix you up with any Mrs. Nero. You aren't to be
called lady baby any more, but Poppea of the post-office!"
Poppea, however, gave no heed; she was absorbed in the ecstatic task of
tasting tin soldier.