Poppy sat up in her chair now, her eyes shining, her cheeks aflame."Why do you say all this?" she demanded haughtily. "If it is as you say and through your fault, you must put the matter right. I do not wish to know these women, but I do not choose that they shall shake their skirts at me, because you have a vile reputation. You will have to find some way out——"Abinger looked away from the window at last and at her. There was a tall lamp to his hand, and he turned it up high, and she saw that he was smiling—a smile none the less unlovely because it had in it the same unusualquality of gentleness that had distinguished it all the evening."But, of course, my dear girl!" he said with a note of surprise in his voice, "that is what I am coming to. I have told you these things simply to show you the impossibility of your living any kind of social life here, unless you are prepared to let everybody know the real state of affairs. When everything is known it will be a simple affair for you to take your place, and you will have an assured position that no one will be able to cavil at. It is for you to say now, whether or not you are ready for the truth to be published."Poppy's look was of amazement."The truth? But what do you mean, Luce? You have been at great pains to tell me why they won't accept the truth."He stood looking down at her vivid face for a moment. There was an expression on his own that she found arresting too, and she said no more; only waited till he should speak. He turned the lamp down again."Poppy," he said in a very low, but clear voice, "do you remember the old French Jesuit coming to the White Farm?"She stared at him. Her expression reverted to irritation and surprise."Father Eugène? Of course I do. And I remember how furious you were, too. And how you stormed at each other in French for about twenty minutes, while Kykie and I stood wondering what it was all about.""Do you remember any other details? I'm not asking out of idle curiosity," he added, as she threw herself back impatiently in her chair. She wrinkled her brows for a moment. Her head really ached very badly, but she wished to be reasonable."I didn't understand French at that time, but youexplained the meaning of it all to me. You remember you took me into your study and told me how he thought you frightfully immoral to have a young girl living in your house without her parents, and that he wished you to make a solemn set of promises to him to the effect that you would be a good friend and guardian to me all your life. You said it was a fearful nuisance, but that if you didn't do it, he meant to get to work and find my proper guardians and make things generally unpleasant.""You remember that clearly?""Certainly I do, and so do you. What is the use of this tiresome repetition? It is quite beside the point.""No, it is not. Just one more question—you remember going back into the dining-room to the priest and making the promises, I suppose?""Yes; we stood before him andyoumade the promises. I didn't—though I certainly said 'Oui' whenever you told me to, and some words after him once. It was then you gave me this ring that I always wear. By the way, Luce, I'm tired of wearing it. You can have it back.""Thank you, my dear girl; but I wouldn't think of depriving you of it. It is your wedding-ring.""My—? I think you have gone mad, Luce.""Not at all. That is your wedding-ring, Poppy. When we stood before the priest that day we were being married."She burst out laughing. "Really, Luce," she said contemptuously, "you are developing a new form of humour. Does it amuse you?""Not much," he said drily; "not so much as it does you, apparently. I don't see anything funny in a marriage ceremony. I remember being exceedingly annoyed about it at the time. But I have come round since then." As he went on, Poppy ceased to smile contemptuously; when he had finished speaking, her mouth was still disdainful, but she was appreciably paler."Of late," said Abinger in a voice that had a meaning, "I have begun to find the fact that you are my wife wonderfully interesting."She sprang up from her chair."This is the most ridiculous nonsense I ever listened to!" she cried excitedly. "I don't want to hear any more about it. I refuse to listen." She turned to go, but he caught her by the wrists and stood holding her and looking into her deathly pale face."Am I the kind of man who wastes time talking nonsense? Kykie was a witness. She knows we were married that day.""Kykie! I'msureit is not true. She has never spoken of it——""I forbade her to do so. I told her that she'd go out at a moment's notice if she did. Further, as you are so very hard to convince, Poppy, I will show you the marriage certificate signed by Father Eugène."He took a paper from his pocket, and held it towards her. But she had suddenly sunk back into the big chair with her hands over her scared and ashen face."Oh, Luce! Luce!" she cried pitifully. "Say it is not true! say it is not true!" and burst into wild weeping.CHAPTER VIIISOPHIE CORNELL sat at her breakfast-table looking pasty-faced and unwholesome, without any colour on her cheeks, her good looks effectively disguised in hair-wavers and a hideously-figured heliotrope dressing-gown.Poppy stared at her in dull amazement, wondering how she could have so little vanity as to allow another girl to see her look so unlovely."She will probably hate me for it, but that doesn't matter," was the thought that came into her mind as she encountered Sophie's eyes, sleep-bedimmed, but distinctly resentful, taking her in across the table. As a matter of fact, Sophie's vanity was so great, that it never occurred to her that she could appear unlovely to anyone—even in her unpainted morning hours. Her resentfulness was roused entirely by reason of the fact that this was the first time she had laid eyes on her assistant typewriter for a full three weeks, and that even now the recalcitrant only came to say that she didn't feel quite equal to work."Och! nonsense!" said Miss Cornell, eyeing her coolly. "You look all right. A little pale, but, then, you're always as washed out as afadook."[4][4]Dishcloth.Poppy's lips performed a twisted, dreary smile. She was entirely indifferent to Miss Cornell's opinions of her looks. To anyone's. As she stood there in the little black muslin gown she always wore to come to Sophie's house in the morning, she might have posed for a black-and-white drawing of Defeat.Sophie saw nothing but the prospect of another two or three days' hard work, and she didn't like it."You're a fine sort of assistant," she grumbled, her mouth half full of toast. "And another thing: Bramham's been here several times inquiring for you, and the whole place is littered up with parcels of books and magazines he has sent you. I couldn't think what excuse to make for his not seeing you, for,of course, he thinks you live here, so I told him at last that you had a touch of dengue fever and wanted quiet. He's stayed away ever since, but he's been sending flowers and fruit. You've evidently made a mash."Poppy had no inclination to disguise her feelings from Miss Cornell."Sophie, you make me sick!" she said and turned away."Yes, that's all very well; but you made a bargain with me, that you would meet Bramham sometimes, and if he likes you, so much the better. You don't seem to know when you're lucky!""Lucky?" Something broke from her lips, that might have been only an exclamation, but had the sound of a moan."Pooh!" said Sophie. "Some fellow's been kidding you, I suppose, and you don't like it. Oh! I know all about it.""You know some wonderful things, Sophie!" said Poppy at last, in her soft, low voice. "Your mind must be a treasure-house of dainty thoughts and memories."But irony was ever wasted on Sophie. She got up and stretched her well-shaped arms above her head until the heliotrope sleeves cracked and gaped at the seams."Well, all I can say is that you are a donkey not to want to meet nice fellows when you get the chance. Don't you ever intend to marry?"Poppy, who had gone over to smell some flowers, probably Bramham's, which were clumsily bunched in rows on the mantel-shelf, faced her with an air of insolent surprise."What can that possibly have to do with you or your men visitors?""Oho!" said Sophie aggressively. "You won't get many chances of marrying withoutmyassistance, my dear. Perhaps you don't know it, but men don't come to Africa with the idea of entering into the holy state of matrimony. When theydomarry, it'squiteby accident, and the girl has to work the accident. You don't know much about that business, my child," she added contemptuously. "Better take a few lessons from me.""Why? Have you been very successful?" Poppy's tone was one of polite inquiry. The other girl flushed."Jolly sight more thanyou'llever be, with your white face and thin figure," she retorted, adding pleasantly: "Your eyes remind me of a snake's."Poppy sauntered carelessly towards the door."Andyouremind me of the man who, when he was getting the worst of a discussion on original sin, said to the other man: 'If I were you, I would not drink with my mouth full.' I am quite willing to believe anything you like to tell me about your conquests, Sophie; only please don't bother to hunt a husband for me. The good God kindly supplied me with the same instincts as other women. I can do my own hunting."She went out and closed the door behind her with a gentle, sad movement, as though she was shutting in the light of the world and regretted doing it. A little colour had come to her face. She felt better.Abinger had gone away. This time his destination was really the Rand, for theboyshad taken his luggage to thestation and seen him leave. He had told Kykie that he would be away for six weeks at least.After that stormy scene in the drawing-room, when he had left Poppy wrapped in wild weeping, nothing further had passed between them on the subject of their marriage. Indeed, she had not seen him again. But he had left a letter for her, and enclosed was a copy of the marriage certificate, to show her that he had not been inventing. He further informed her that Father Eugène was still alive, and that by writing to the Jesuit Monastery in the Transvaal she could at any time ascertain the simple truth. The rest of the letter was written in a strain of casual indifference, that Poppy found singularly reassuring. His attitude appeared to be that of a man rather bored with the subject because it bored her; but, facts being facts, he plainly felt it his duty to show her that there were less pleasing and many more boring things in life than to be called Mrs. Abinger. He told her first of all, not to be a foolish girl and make herself ill about nothing; that it would be in every way to her advantage to make herdébutin South African society as the wife of a well-known man."I have not disguised from you," he wrote, "that I have what is called a bad reputation, but that will not affect you—rather redound to your credit in fact, since the wives of rakes are always looked upon as possessing something unusual in the way of brains and charm. As my wife, your lines will be laid in not unpleasant places. You may have as many friends as you like, and I will allow you five thousand pounds a year to entertain them and yourself upon. In making the matter public, no painful details need be gone into. All that is necessary is that you give me permission to make the truth public. Tell me when you are ready to assume the title of Mrs. Abinger—I'll do the rest. In this, dear girl, as in all things, pray pleaseyourself. Only, remember that if you don't choose to accept the situation, the situation still remains—we are married. And it is only under the conditions stated that I can permit you to live any other life than the one you have lived so long."When first she received this letter, Poppy read it and flung it from her. But in the calm that came after a week's intolerable torment of longing, and despair, she read it again. The fierce fires that had consumed her were burning low then, and cast but a faint and dreary flicker down the pathway of the future. That future looked a land all shadows and gloom, whatsoever pathway she chose to take towards it. The simplest thing to do seemed the most desirable; and surely it was simplest just to let things stay as they were! She would tell Luce Abinger that her choice was to let things remain as they had always been, and then she would live on, drifting through the weary days and months and years, working a little every day, until work at last would become everything and fill her whole life. Perhaps, as she had missed love she would find fame. It did not seem to matter very much whether she did or not.All she asked was to find peace. Knowing very little of life she did not realise that in asking for this she asked for everything. For no woman finds peace until she has tasted of all the poisoned dishes at the banquet of life—and then the peace is either of the dead body or the dead mind.After those seven days of suffering, Poppy sat with her broken love-dream, like a pale child with a broken toy. She thought because she was numb that all was over then, except the dreary living through the dreary days. But the young have a great capacity for suffering, and she had forgotten how very young and strong she was, and how hot the blood ran in her veins. After a day shewas back again in the trough of the sea. When at last she emerged she was a child no longer, but a woman with something to hide from the world—a wound that bled inwardly and would always ache.Abinger had been gone nearly three weeks then, and wrote to say that he should probably be away for two or three months, as he was selling all the property he owned on the Rand, and the final settlements would take him quite that time. The thought of the long respite from his presence was a great relief to the girl, and by unconsciously lifting a little of the strain from her mind helped her to come back the sooner to her normal self. Kykie's delight was enormous when Poppy was to be seen wandering aimlessly through the house once more and into the garden; thoughthereshe never stayed long now, and there were parts of it she did not go near.From Kykie she learned incidentally, and without resentment, that the front gate was locked once more and the key safe with Abinger. That reminded her of her secret exit, and then she remembered Sophie Cornell, whose image had quite faded from her memory. It occurred to her that she ought to visit her self-imposed employer, and make her excuses and farewells as simply as possible, for something in her now strongly repudiated further association with the Colonial girl.The visit and quarrel had braced her in a remarkable way. Afterwards she felt that in spite of all she was really alive still, and she found herself regretting that through Sophie's garden must lie her only way into the world beyond. The restrictions of the house began to irk her, and she was afraid of the garden. She felt shemustgo out. She determined to visit the sea and explore the Berea; choosing such times as would be safest to make entries and exits through the little opening in the passion-flower house. In the early mornings she knew well thatwild horses might pass through Sophie's garden without her knowing or caring—and again, under cover of darkness it would be simple to slip through unseen. She told Kykie that in the future she always desired dinner at six-thirty; and Kykie, who had grown curiously meek and obedient of late, made no demur. This arrangement gave Poppy a long evening to herself, and she had never allowed anyone to intrude upon her evening hours. It would be supposed that she spent them in the garden, for always she had found great pleasure in wandering in the moonlight, and in the early morning hours, and the servants were well acquainted with her habits.So she took to going forth. As soon as darkness fell she would depart, darkly-cloaked and with her head draped mantilla-wise, to see what the forbidden world looked like "'twixt gloam and moon." Her favourite route was by the Musgrave Road, a long thoroughfare that leads to the top of the Berea. Over gates would come to her glimpses of charmingly-lighted rooms, and pretty women sitting down to dinner, or sauntering with their husbands, enjoying the gardens after the heat of the day. Past one house and another she would go, catching little pictures between the trees, at windows, and through open doors—sometimes an exquisite little vision of a mother romping with her children and kissing them good-night; or a husband standing back with a critical cock to his head to get a better view of his wife's new gown, or the way she had done her hair. She never stayed for the kiss that would come after the verdict, but flew swiftly on with her eyes suddenly hot and teeth set in her lip. Other sights were amusing: a face contorted and a head and arm screwed in the agony of fixing a collar-stud; a man grooming his head before an open window with two brushes, and a drop of something golden out of a bottle. Once she saw quite a sensible-looking man practising a charming smile on himself in the glass, and at that could not restrain a little jeer of delight at the "nobler" sex. When she caught children at windows in their nightgowns, peering out, she just gave a weird "Who! Who!" like the lesser-owl common in Natal, and they scuttled like rats.These things affected her variously. Times she mocked the peaceful citizens of Natal for Philistines and flesh-potters. Times her heart came into her throat and tears scalded her eyes, and she felt like a prowling hungry jackal. But most often she flung a bitter laugh to the wind and said:"I have the best of it—better prowl the veldt lean and free, than be caged and full."Once or twice she had occasion to recall a French saying she had come across while her French was in the elementary stage. She had studied the phrase for an hour or two, and applied the dictionary to it, and eventually it read to the effect that if all the roofs in Paris were lifted one night the devil might be observed in every house lighting the fires to make the pots boil. The remark seemed to have lost some of its original point in translation, but it still bore an air of significance, and came singularly to hand once or twice, startling Poppy to the thought that Paris and Durban are both under the same sky, and that fuel of fire is the same all the world over. On these occasions it was she who scuttled, and she did it with good-will, almost cured of her taste for living pictures. But the pastime was fascinating to a lonely and lonesome creature, and she returned to it.Many of the houses she passed stood hidden away in thick gardens, with nothing to indicate their presence but glimmering lights and voices, or sometimes music, or the clank of dinner plates. But if sound attracted her, Poppy was not deterred by gates or gravelled paths. With a fleet foot, a sweet tongue, and an excellent imagination, there is little to fear in forbidden gardens, or anywhere else for thatmatter. The chief thing is to have the bump of adventure sufficiently developed!Sometimes she found that there were others abroad for adventure also—some of these of a sociable temperament most inconvenient. Once a magnificent person in evening-dress followed her so persistently, that she was driven at last to the expedient of walking under the glare of a street lamp with her shoulders humped and her skirts held high enough to display to all who took an interest in the matter a pair of knock-kneed legs and horribly pigeon-toed feet. The device worked like magic; she was followed no further.On another occasion she allowed a youthful Romeo to sit beside her on a bench, only to discover that she was afflicted with a painful sniffing cold—about forty sniffs to the minute. She was soon left sole occupant of the bench.There were othercontretemps. Once her evening out cost her sixpence, and she was very much annoyed, for her stock of sixpences was low. Abinger paid all bills and did not expect her to have any need for money. It was her habit, if she saw a native policeman eye her suspiciously, to step quietly up to him with a most grand air and tell him to send her a rickshaw when he reached the main road, as she was in a hurry and could not wait for the car. The minute he was out of sight she would scud down a side street. But upon this occasion a rickshaw was so close at hand that she was obliged to take it and boldly direct the boy to Sophie's front gate. Arrived there, she ran full into a man coming out. The light from a passing car showed her his face, dark and dissipated, but keen. He was carrying his hat in his hand, as men do on hot nights, and she observed that his hair was parted down the centre with a curl on either side."Ah! What Luce calls a German from Jerusalem!" was her comment. Incidentally she smelled a smell shewas familiar with, from daily contact with Sophie and sheets of MSS. This made her certain that it was the redoubtable "Brookie" himself whom she had encountered.Often as she glided like a wraith through Sophie's garden the sound of laughter and the flavour of smoke came to her through the trees, or Sophie's voice, outraging the gentle night by some sentimental ballad.One late February evening, when all the world was steeped in silver light, Poppy's heart seemed to her to be lying very still in her breast. As she walked over the trembling moonlight shadows a curious feeling of happiness stole across her."Am I at peace already?" she asked herself wonderingly at last. "Has my soul forgotten what I did to it, and how I found it only to give it away to a man who called me by another woman's name?"It must have been late, for carriages and cars passed her, bearing homewards people who had been to the theatre or dining out. She caught scraps of conversation concerning the play, and little intimate remarks about people were flung freely to her upon the night wind. But her ears heeded nothing, for she had a companion who singularly engrossed her attention. She believed it was herself she walked with—a new-found, detached, curiously-contented self. She did not know that it was Destiny who had her by the hand.At the top of the Berea Hill, not far from her own gate, she stopped a moment under the deep shadow of some wayside trees. All in black she seemed part of the shadow, and she stood very still, for she heard rickshaws coming up the hill, and she thought she would let them pass before she essayed the glare of a street lamp a few yards ahead. As it happened, the first rickshaw stopped at a double white gate which was full under the light of the lamp. A mandescended, turned, and held out his hand, and a woman stepped daintily down. She was a thin, slim woman, wrapless, in a black satin gown with silvery sleeves. She looked as interesting, though not as wicked, as the Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith. In the lamp-light her hair, which was dark brown, appeared to have seven red lights in it. Her face was neither beautiful nor pretty, but well-bred and harmonious, with a sort of glimmering gaiety about the eyes. Poppy instantly recognised her as the woman she had seen on the day of her first arrival in Durban and had subsequently ascertained to be Mrs. Portal. She was carrying on a desultory conversation with the man, and they continued it as he stood feeling in his pockets for money for theboy."Why don't you flirt with her yourself, Billy—Bill?" said she. "You would be good for her and she wouldn't do you any harm!"He was a heavily-built, sullenly-handsome man, who looked as though he had never said a good-tempered thing in his life.Poppy was astounded when he blithely answered:"Darling, when there is only one woman in a man's life, he can't convincingly imply to the woman he is with that she is the only one in the world——"Mrs. Portal fell to laughing."Billy, you fraud! You know you always carry along on top-ropes when I'm not there.""Not with Mary," the man asseverated. "Mary would want too much of a deuce of a lot of convincing. She would smell a rat.""Don't be subtle, Billy," cried Mrs. Portal, laughing and going in at the gates.The other rickshaw drew near, and "Billy" waited to receive it. As it passed Poppy, two scraps of conversation floated to her."I've a great mind to persuade Nick to go with you—and to take me too," said the woman, laughing a little."Yes, why don't you? 'Better a bright companion on a weary way, than a horse-litter,' you know. But it would be too rough a journey for you, I'm afraid."The man's voice sent all the blood in Poppy's body rustling to her ears. She burnt and glowed at the thought of his nearness.Nowshe knew that it was Destiny who had walked with her. Now she knew that peace would never be hers so long as this man's feet trod the earth.The rickshaw appeared to be filled with something resembling yellow foam—billows and billows of it fell everywhere, even upon the shafts and the folded hood behind. The moment the bearer stood still, the man called Billy came forward and put out his hand to the woman in the rickshaw, and she regally descended. The watching girl, through eyes dim with jealous pain and anger, seeking nothing but the dark face that came after, still saw that the woman was very beautiful and recognised in her the heroine of her childhood's days. It was, indeed, Mrs. Nick Capron!She also was cloakless, with magnificent bare arms and shoulders gleaming white above the rippling waves of yellow chiffon. Her hair rippled and waved too, and shone in masses on her head, and diamonds twinkled in it. She seemed almost too bright a vision for the naked eye."And what did you think ofthatfor a play?" asked the sullen-faced one as he opened the gate."Enchanting," said she vivaciously. "So full of introspection and retrospection, and all that, and——""Yes, and mighty little circumspection," was the ready answer, and they passed in, laughing.The last man, moving with casual deliberation, came slowly to the side-walk, and stood there speaking to the bearer, a powerful Zulu, as he paid him, asking if he hadfound the pull uphill too hard. Theboylaughed in response and shook his winged arms boastfully, saying:"Icona."Afterwards both rickshaws jingled away. The man should have followed the others in, but he stood still. He stood still, with a yellow chiffon wrap flung over his arm, and distinctly snuffed the air."Poppies!" he muttered. "What makes me think of poppies?... God! I could almost dream that dream again...."For an instant his brilliant moody eyes stared straight into the black shadows where Poppy stood, watching him with both hands on her heart. Then the voices of the others called, and he turned abruptly and went in.Poppy fled home to dark, sad dreams.CHAPTER IXONE blue-eyed morning, about a month after Abinger's departure, Poppy was down on the sea-beach. She sat in the loose sand, and ran her hands restlessly in and out of it, making little banks about her. She was wondering if she would be able to sleep if she came out and lay in these cool white sands some night. She was so tired of never sleeping.The sun had not risen, but there was a pale primrose dado painted across the East.Presently the girl became aware of another woman sauntering along close to the edge of the sea. She was digging a walking-stick in the sand every few yards and watching the hole fill with water afterwards. She carried the tail of her white-linen skirt under her chin, and her feet all wetted by the little incoming waves, had caught the pale light and seemed shod with silver as she walked, singing a little French song:"Le monde est méchant, ma petite,Avec son sourire moqueur:Il dit qu'à ton côté palpiteUne montre en place du cœur."When she came opposite Poppy she left off singing and stood for a minute looking at her. Then came slowly sauntering up the beach to where she sat. Poppy recognised Mrs. Portal. Mrs. Portal recognised the Burne-Jones eyes; but she wondered where the gladness of living was all gone."You look like a pale, sea-eyed mermaid, forsaken by your lover," she said. "Why aren't you combing your hair with a golden comb?""What is the use, if my lover is gone?" said Poppy, with a smile."Oh! if you did it a new way he might come back," laughed Mrs. Portal, and sat down by her side. "I thought I was the only sun-worshipper in Durban," she remarked, as one continuing an ordinary conversation with an old friend. "I have felt rather superior about it, and as lonely as a genius.""I am often down here in the morning," said Poppy, "but it must be lovely at night, too. I was thinking that I should come and sleep here one night when it is moonlight.""Neversleep under the moon," said Mrs. Portal darkly, "or an awful thing will happen to you—your face will be all pulled out of drawing."Poppy unconsciously put up one hand and felt her face. But Mrs. Portal burst out laughing. "You have done it already? Well, she must like you, for she hasn't done you any harm.""I likeher," said Poppy."And well you may. She's the only woman who knows everything about one and yet doesn't give one away." Mrs. Portal plugged her stick deep in the sand and made a support for her back. She then clasped herself about the knees and continued her remarks:"Yes ... she knows too much ... but she keeps on smiling. I suppose it's because the old pagan is so used to sinners."'There's not a day: the longest—not the 21st of June—Sees so much mischief in a wicked wayOn which three single hours of moonshine smile——'""And yet she looks so modest all the while!" Poppy finished.Mrs. Portal reproved her."I consider you too young and good looking to read Byron.""Do you think he wrote for the old and ugly?" laughed Poppy. "And how came you to read him?""What! The retort flattering!You'reno Durbanite.Youdon't grow in the cabbage garden. Ohé! I can say what I will to you. Ding-Dong!"Her little, high-bred face was neither too sunny nor too sad, but had a dash of both sunshine and sorrow about the eyes and lips. She screwed it up in a way she had, and began to sing her little French song again:"Le monde est méchant, ma petite:Il dit que tes yeux vifs sont morts,Et se meuvent dans leur orbiteA temps égaux et par ressorts."The odour of happiness which Bramham had spoken of began to make itself felt. Little fronds and scents of it caught hold of Poppy and enfolded her. Looking at the face beside her she saw in it no signs of any mean content with life. There were fine cobwebby lines around the eyes and mouth, and a deep one between the brows, and Poppy wished that they were upon her face, too, for they were beautiful. Yet they could only have come through suffering, for Mrs. Portal was not old."She has had sorrows, too—but not shameful ones. She wears them like jewels," thought the girl.The woman beside her had indeed greater gifts than mere beauty. She had seven red lights in her hair, which was always extraordinarily tumbled without being untidy; a heart of gold; and a tongue of silver.Many men loved her, as fine men cannot help loving what is lovable and sweet, and gentle, and kind, and brave, and gay, and wise.Even women loved her; and so the worst thing theycould find to say of her was that she must have been quite pretty—once!In return, she loved all men, and was kind to all women, loving one steadfastly.But now, half in pity, half for some reason she could not fathom, she found a place in her heart for Poppy Destin, too. She was touched by the girl's beauty, on which her seeing eyes saw the shadow of tragedy."Quitea child!" was her thought. "Too young to have so much to hide behind those lovely eyes!" A line from Pater's monograph onMonna Lisacame into her mind:"Hers are the eyes that have looked on all the world; and the eyelids are a little weary."She put out her hand to Poppy. If Poppy had eyes likeMonna Lisa, she herself had the hands of that Mother of all saints and sinners—only a little browner."I would like to be your friend," she said quietly.Poppy flushed, and then became pale. The hand Mrs. Portal touched stiffened a little, and the lilac eyes looked away at the sea rather than meet the kindness of the other's glance—but they were dim with tears. Mrs. Portal's warm, Irish heart felt a chill. She was a little sore too, for her friendship was more often sought than proffered, and never before had she known a repulse. She could not know that the girl before her felt honoured as never in her life before, and was filled with gratitude and affection. But Clementine Portal was a creature full of intuition and understanding. Possibly some of the girl's feeling subtly communicated itself to her, for she became aware that the rebuff did not come of rudeness or indifference—or coldness of heart; but of some other strange feeling."Is it possible that she's afraid of me?" she thought at last. "Poor child! doesn't she know an enemy froma friend? It must be that she has found all women her enemies!"They had been saying little ordinary things to one another in the meantime, while they gazed before them to where the risen sun was transforming the curved, purple waves into a sheet of dazzling copper.Presently Clementine got up from the sands, very reluctantly."I must go home to breakfast, or my household will be searching for me," she said, with a mournful smile, shaking her skirt into shape. "Heaven meant me to roam the deserts and run in the woods; but Fate laid upon me the burden of respectability and planted me in the cabbage garden. I must run and catch a tram-car!"Poppy laughed at her; but her laugh ended on a queer note."Being a wild ass of the desert has its drawbacks, too!" said she, with something of bitterness.Clementine put out her hand and touched the girl's. "Well, don't be a wild ass any more. Come and see me. I hold agricultural shows on the first and last Fridays of the month, and you will find the best kinds of turnips and cabbages in my drawing-room. But if you seek me in love and charity as a friendshould, come on Sundays. You never told me your name, yet, mermaid!"Poppy held the brown, thin hand and answered firmly:"Rosalind Chard."But afterwards, when the other had gone a little way, she ran after her and caught her up and said:"But I wish you would call me 'Poppy.'"Nevertheless, it was not until a month later that she visited Mrs. Portal. Strongly attracted by the kind, gay ways and looks of that fascinating woman, she yetfeared to know her better. And she feared, too, that in the house of Mrs. Portal she might meet the man whom she knew not whether most she loved, or feared, or hated; for whose sake she gashed herself with the knives of defeat and despair. She knew that he belonged to Mrs. Portal's circle of friends, and she had heard from Sophie Cornell that the chief of these was Mrs. Capron.Mrs. Capron!That was the name in which he had bidden her good=bye, speaking in his drunkenness or delirium, she knew not which. Mrs. Capron, the splendid, milky creature, who had been with him in the rickshaw, and whom Poppy had so clearly recognised! Wouldshe, too, recognise Poppy? The girl was not so certain now of the improbability of such a thing, for of late it seemed to her that she had begun to present a singular resemblance to herself as she had looked in those unhappy, far-off days. The strain of suffering had told upon her terribly, and her face was tragically drawn, with a sharp, childish look of suffering about her mouth, and soft, though not unlovely hollows, in her cheeks. Her eyes looked larger and more unreal for the shadows beneath them.The day she decided to go to Mrs. Portal's found her examining herself in her glass with apprehensive eyes, keen for every defect. She was a woman now, examining her weapons for battle, and her courage misgave her as she saw her reflection. She had put on a white gown that was all simple lines and soft laces, and she really looked very young and girlish, but she hated her appearance when she thought of those two charming-looking women of the world with their eloquent clothes. What if she should meethimthere and he should compare her with them? What if either the thin, vivacious, sunburnt woman, whom she herself could hardly help loving—or the regal-milky-woman of yellow chiffon should be thatLorainewhom he so loved?"With either of them what chance should I stand?" she asked herself, desperate-eyed. "Why have I got these vile, purple shadows?—and holes in my cheeks? I never had them before!" She burst into tears, and at this juncture Kykie thought fit to make her entrance unannounced with her everlasting tea-tray."Now, Poppy, to goodness! what you ought to do is to take off that tight frock and put on a nice cool gown and rest," said the beldame importantly."You're mad, Kykie—and I wish you wouldn't come into my room without knocking." Poppy made occasion to fling a towel over her hat and gloves which lay on the bed, and which it was not desirable Kykie should see."Ah! you needn't mind old Kykie, darling," was the response; and Poppy, unused to such blandishments, stared at the yellow face which continued to waggle archly at her."What will Luce say when he comes back, if I haven't taken care of you?"The girl suddenly sickened at her tone."How dare she speak to me like that!" was her furious thought. "As if Luce has any right over me or my health!" She could have struck the leering smile from the woman's face; she turned away trembling with anger to her dressing-table."So you knew all the time about Luce and me being married?" she said in a toneless voice, when she had presently mastered herself."Heavenly me! yes, and I knew it would all work out and come right in the end. But I think you ought to wear your wedding-ring now, Poppy.... All right, all right, you needn't look at me like amal-meit!... I'm going now ... I wouldn't stop with you another minute when you look like that ... you and Luce are a nice pair for temper ... surely to goodness one would think allwould be peace and lovenow—" The door was closed and locked on her and she was obliged to continue her soliloquy on the stairs.An hour later found Poppy letting herself in at the double white gates of Mrs. Portal's garden. It was neither the first nor last Friday in the month, nor yet Sunday afternoon; but she had not come for society. She came because she must; because of her bitter need of some word concerning the man she loved.The house was a big, red-brick villa, with many verandahs and no pretentious, except to comfort. An English maid, in a French cap and apron, showed her into a drawing-room that was full of the scent of flowers, with open windows and drawn shades. Almost immediately Mrs. Portal blew into the room like a fresh wind, seized her hands, and shook them warmly."I knew you would come to-day," she said. "I dreamed of you last night. Poppy, I have a feeling that you and I are going to be mixed up in each other's lives somehow."A creature of moods and impulses herself, Poppy thoroughly understood this greeting, and it warmed her sad and lonely spirit gratefully; she let herself be beguiled to the fireside of Clementine Portal's friendship. Before she realised it, they were seated together in a deep lounge just big enough for two people, and a pile of cushions with cool, dull-toned surfaces, talking like friends of long standing. Mrs. Portal was quite in the dark as to who the girl was, but that did not bother her at all, and her remarks contained no shadow of a question. It was enough that she "had a feeling about her," and had dreamed of her and believed in her.To ordinary persons these might not seem very cogent reasons; but Clementine Portal was in no sense ordinary. Her judgment concerning things in general, and women inparticular, was both keen and sound; but she never allowed it to interfere with her inspirations, which she considered far safer. Apparently intensely practical and conventional, she was, in reality, a woman who lived the most important part of her life in a hidden world. She had the seeing-eye and the hearing-ear for things that went unnoted by the every-day man and woman. Being Irish, she was packed full of superstition, but, fortunately, a strong vein of common sense counterbalanced it. As for her humour, that most fatal gift in a woman, it sometimes resembled a fine blue flame, that scorched everything in reach; and sometimes, to the consternation of the conventional, was the rollicking wit of a fat and jolly Irish priest addicted to the punch-bowl. She had a wonderful way of attracting confidences from people about the things they most cared for in life. In a little while Poppy had told her what she had never told to a living soul before—about her little book of songs—and her great ambitions as a writer. For some unknown reason the girl felt these ambitions very much alive in her that afternoon. Clementine Portal sat like a creature entranced, with her lips slightly apart. When Poppy had given her, upon urgent requesting—a halting, eloquent outline of her novel, Clem said:"Iknowit will be good.... I can feel that it will have big bits of open space like the veldt in it, with new sorts of trees growing by the wayside as one passes along.... I hate the modern woman's book, because it always makes me gasp for air. It is too full of the fire that burns up all there is in life.""You would write far better than I, probably," said the girl. "I know so little of life—only what I feel. You know everything——""Dear girl, you are better as you are. When you know everything, you will have discovered that the world is full of sawdust, and the people stuffed with shavings, and noone worth writing about—then, where will your fine books be?""Have you ever thought of writing?""Often," she began to laugh. "And when I discover a real good man in the world I shall burst into glory in a novel. But no such man exists. He died when the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were fair. Here is tea. We'll drown my pessimism in the cream-bowl, shall we?"She went to the tea-table. The maid drew up the window-shades, letting the lovely rose-lights of late afternoon into the room. It was a real woman's room, full of flowers and photographs, and cushions, and piles of magazines and weeklies everywhere. There were no wonderful pictures on the walls, or valuable china in cases. Only a few well-arranged native curios, a good piano, and the kind of things people from home gather about them when they are sojourning in a foreign land. As Poppy followed to the tea-table, her eye caught a full-length photograph on the wall over the writing-desk, and she stayed a moment to look. It was a woman in her presentation gown—two long, lovely eyes smiled contentedly on the world. Underneath, in a woman's writing, were the words: "To Clem, from Mary."It was the regal-milky-woman—Mrs. Capron. Mrs. Portal turned round from her tea-cups."Ah! everyone looks at that photograph! She is very beautiful. The remarkable thing is that she is good, too. Thatisremarkable, isn't it? I'm sure if I had a face like that I should go to my own head and be a perfect divil.""Who is she?" asked Poppy, still before the smiling picture."My friend, Mrs. Capron.""Is that her name written there?""Yes, hers and mine. She is my dearest friend, and so she is allowed to call me Clem; you may, too, if you like."Poppy came, thanking her, and sat by the tea-table. She felt suddenly happier, for now she could follow the dictates of her heart and love this woman—whose name wasClem.As they took tea the door opened gently and a little figure stole into the room straight to her mother's knee."I like you, and love you," said she solemnly."Hyacinth, what have you been doing?" Mrs. Portal asked anxiously.It was easy to see that they were mother and child, for they had the same golden-brown eyes, full of dots and dashes and shadows, and the same grave-gay mouths. There, however, all resemblance ceased. The child's physique consisted of a head covered with long, streaky brown hair, and a pair of copper-coloured legs which apparently began under her chin."I love and like you," she repeated glibly."Then I know you have been doing something very wicked, Cinthie. You always have when you like and love me.""Pas!" said Cinthie, now gazing calmly at Poppy."I shall go and find out," said Mrs. Portal. "I have to go, anyway, to speak to cook about dinner; do forgive me for five minutes, dear; Cinthie will look after you. Cinthie, I hope I can trust you to be good with Miss Chard for five minutes."The moment she was gone Cinthie made a boastful statement."My face is bigger than yours!"Poppy put up her hand and felt her face carefully; then looked at Cinthie's with the air of one measuring with the eye."Well, perhaps it is!" she acceded."It's bigger'n anyone's," continued Cinthie, even more bragfully. "Who are you married to?"This was an awkward and surprising question, but Poppy countered."Why should you think I am married, Cinthie?""Everybody's married," was the swift response. "I'mmarried to Mammie, and Mammie's married to Daddie, and Daddie's married to the moon, and the moon's married to the sun, and the sun's married to the sea, and the sea's married to the stars, and the stars are married to the stripes—Daddie says so. Let me sit on your lap, I'm as tired as a bed."Poppy lifted her up, and Cinthie, lolling against the white, lacy dress, gazed for a space into the lilac eyes. She then carefully selected a long streak of her own hair and put it into her mouth, thoughtfully sucking it as she continued her remarks:"I think you had better marry Karri," she said. "I like Karri better'n anyone, except Daddie. His face is bigger than anybody's.""Is Karri a man, then?""Yes; but he's got two women's names, isn't that funny? One's Karri and the other's Eve. I'll show you his photo."She ran to the other side of the room, grabbed a frame from a table, and brought it back triumphantly."There!" she cried, and dumped it into Poppy's lap.Poppy stared down into the pictured face of the man she loved.Mrs. Portal reappeared."Oh, Cinthie, I've heard all about it from Sarah, and I'm very angry with you. I knew you had been doing something specially wicked. You're apetite méchante.""Pas!" said Cinthie stoutly."You are. Go away, now, to the nursery. I'm very angry with you."Cinthie retreated, bitterly reasseverating:"Pas! pas! Pas petite méchante! Pas!"Clem observed the photograph in Poppy's lap."She has been showing you her hero—the hero of us all. Everyone in this house genuflects before Eve Carson."And so at last Poppy knew the name of the idol before which she, too, worshipped!"By the way, did Cinthie mention that his face is bigger than anyone's? That is the final point of beauty with Cinthie—to have a big face. Well, Evelyn Carson's face is not so big, but his ways are, and his ideas, and those things make for bigness of soul——"Poppy said nothing: only she prayed with all her soul that Clem would continue to talk upon this subject; and Clem, looking dreamily at the girl, but obviously not thinking of her, responded to the prayer."He is a wonderful person, and we all adore him, even though our judgment sometimes asks us why, and our ears sometimes hear the untoward things that are not compatible with reverence," she was smiling. "I daresay you have heard of him.""Yes," said Poppy, in an even voice."Most people have, by now—he's been one of the foremost figures in South African life for years, one of the many Irishmen who have left their native land, burning with the sense of England's tyranny, only to go and strive for England's fame and glory in some other part of the world. We met him first on the Rand, where all the interesting blackguards forgather at some time or another; but he was always in trouble there, for, you know, Oom Paul doesn't approve of Imperialistic Irishmen, and invariably contrives to make anyone of the kind exceedingly uncomfortable. Karri Carson has been a marked man,watched by the Secret Service, and his every action and every word reported, with the result, of course, that he has said and done many daringly foolish things, and nearly been deported over the border once or twice. Fortunately, there are more interesting places than the Rand, and there is always a rumpus going on insomequarter of Africa, and he has been in all the rumpuses of the last fifteen years—Uganda—Matabelel and—anywhere where there was anything in the wind and wherereal menwere wanted. He's earned the V.C. a dozen times, though he's only got the D.S.O. But it is not love of honours that is his moving spirit—just an Irishman's lust for being in the "redmost hell of the fight." Between intervals of active service he has gone off into the wild deeps of Africa, where no one has ever been before—discovered a new quadruped and a new tribe of natives. The Royal Institute isdyingto trim him up with blue ribbons and exhibit him in London, but Africa has kissed him on the mouth, and he will not leave her." Clem drew a long breath. "I can't think what we shall all do now that he is gone," she finished sadly."Gone!" Poppy wondered what kept her voice so calm while her soul cried out within her."Yes, gone away to Borapota: a little red-hot spot in the red-hot heart of Africa. It is very conveniently situated for us—not too far from our lovely Mombassa harbour—and it is very rich and fertile, and in every way desirable, and the Imperial Unionists think we ought to own it, and the Liberal Little Englanders think we ought to get it—without spilling a drop of blood or saying a single bad word to anybody. And Evelyn Carson has gone to get it for ussansMaxims andsansmen andsansanything much besides a high heart and a squad ofboyswho have been everywhere with him. He has gone on apeaceful expeditioninto the midst of one of the fiercest tribes inAfrica to barter or bargain for Concessions that will eventually extend the Empire by sixty thousand square miles, and add a country crammed with coal and iron and ivory and a dozen other lovely things to the pink part of the map. And he has gone without evenofficialpermission, so that if he succeeds—why, hurrah! for the Union Jack and everything under it! And if he fails—only another reputation buried in an African grave! No one will care a rap, and everyone will forget him except the people who love him. The only thing I care to think of in the matter is, that the Borapotans are said to be extremely intelligent and reasonable men, who will make splendid soldiers—and then everyone knows what a way Evelyn Carson has with all natives! The Zulus and the Basutos, and all the war-loving tribes, simply adore him! Still, there's no denying the fact that he's gone with his life in his hand. Even if the natives prove to be sweet and reasonable, there are half a dozen other deaths lurking in every mile of the Interior.""Has no other white man gone with him?" Poppy heard herself asking."No one except hisboyswill go with him once he starts on the unbeaten track—but our friends the Caprons have sailed with him as far as Mombassa, and Mrs. Capron declares they will accompany him inland, too, until he drives them back. Of course, he's sure to do that before they reach the danger zone—but isn't it intrepid of her?"Poppy did not know what she answered. Darkness engulfed her spirit, almost her senses."They started about a month ago, and I am terribly lonely without them all. Mrs. Capron and her husband will be back within three months, I expect, but we feel—everybodywho knows—very anxious about Eve Carson, more especially because he is very susceptible to malarial fever. He had a frightful attack about six weeks beforehe left; he was found raving in a rickshaw one night, and for nearly a fortnight afterwards was practically delirious. However, no sooner was he out of danger than he took up his preparations again, and in spite of the doctors, he sailed on the date he had originally fixed."... Mrs. Portal looked extremely mournful, but presently she added: "We are so thankful to think that Mrs. Capron will be with him for a while, because her husband has often had fever, and she thoroughly understands it.""I must go home," said Poppy suddenly; and Clementine, roused from her reverie by the strangely sounding voice, stared at the girl."You look quite ill, dear," she said gently. "I am so sorry; I have been wandering on, about all the things that interestme!... Will you lie down a little while? or shall I ring for some wine?""No, no, I must go home ... it is nothing ... I feel odd sometimes ..." she spoke vaguely, but she stood up, arranging her veil and pulling on her gloves. Clem came with her through the garden, and they stood for a moment with the low double gate between them, bidding each other good-bye. Mrs. Portal kissed her and told her to come again soon, but the girl answered nothing. Suddenly a visionary look passed like a veil across Clementine Portal's face."Poppy," she said in a dreamy, yet intent way; "there will be deep waters around you soon! ... you will need courage, resolution,andsilence ... those are a woman's greatest friends in this world ... but, in so far as one human being can count on another—count on me, too, for a friend."Already the swirl of the waters was in Poppy's ears, but the kind, brave message came to her like a friendly oar in the dark sea of trouble. For a moment she clung to the older woman's hand like a child afraid; then theyparted. Poppy walked away through the vapoury, delicate light shed by a slender fragment of moon, and Clem Portal stayed staring abstractedly over the gate. It was three years before they met again.CHAPTER XPOPPY lay upon her bed like a drowned woman. She had come in almost fainting, and Kykie, meeting her on the stairs and seeing her face, had flown after her to her bedroom with water and brandy. The old woman had taken the girl in her arms bodily, and placing her on the bed, proceeded to drench her face and hair with ice-cold water and eau-de-Cologne, and to force doses of brandy between the white lips.At last, reviving somewhat under this vigorous treatment, Poppy found breath and sense to remonstrate:"What do you mean, Kykie? Do you want to choke me? Stop that ... I'm nearly drowned.""You were drownded enough before you came in," responded Kykie with asperity; "your dress is soaking. Where have you been?"Poppy had been lying in the dew-drenched grass of the garden for some two hours or more after her return from Mrs. Portal's, but she was not conscious of the fact."... And, Luce coming home without warning, and you not in to dinner, and everything in the world to aggravate a gracious Christian woman!" continued Kykie, panting like a stout sheep."Luce? Dinner?" said Poppy vaguely. "What is the time, Kykie?""I think you're going cracked," said Kykie with fresh ire, "not to know the time! Half-past nine it is, indeed, and me not in bed yet, when youknowwhat I suffer ifI don't get my night's rest. You and Luce simply haven't the consideration of acowfor me.""Oh, go to bed!" said Poppy wearily."I'll do nothing of the sort, thank you, extremingly. I will not go to my bed until you have eaten some dinner. Do you think I want all the trouble of a funeral in the house? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Poppy, not taking any care of yourself, knowing what you do——"The old woman paused with some significant intention, but Poppy only waved a pale hand in her direction."Go away and hold your peace, Kykie, for the love of Heaven!""I'll only go away to get you some food ... and you're to eat it, Poppy dear," she began to coax. "I'll bring you some nice hot soup, lovey, and a little chicken mayonnaise, and youwilltry and eat it, won't you? and a little glass of champagne.""I couldn't Kykie ... only leave me alone...."The old woman promptly seated herself upon the side of the bed with the air of an immovable rock."Well.... Oh, all right, then ...anything... why can't you leave me alone?"Kykie did; but she took the precaution of removing the bedroom door-key and taking it with her, for she knew her mistress's ways well. In a few moments she was back again, with half a pint of champagne and a little pile of caviare sandwiches, which she warranted to put life into a corpse if she could only force them down its throat. She almost proceeded to this extreme measure with Poppy, threatening, cajoling, and complaining all the while.Eventually she took her departure with an empty plate and glass, and as she went she threw back a last menacing remark to the bed."AndI shall stay up to speak to Lucewhen he returns from the Club." What she could mean by this Poppyneither knew nor cared. Revived a little by the wine and food, but with a body and mind demanding rest, she closed her eyes and fell into dead slumber.When the candles which Kykie had lighted in the tall silver sticks on the dressing-table had burnt far down from their scarlet shades, Poppy awakened to the fact that someone was moving about her bedroom. She opened her eyes, but did not stir or make a sound.A man was standing by her writing-table humming softly to himself while he took up each little ornament and article upon it, and gently broke it between his hands. There were several paper-knives of wood and silver and tortoise-shell; quaint pens, and two gold-set rose-glasses. He broke them all gently between his hands, and the snapping of them was like the snapping of little bones. He then tore up some photographs, and a black-and-white etching of the Bay of Naples, and piled the pieces into two little heaps. As he walked away from the writing-table towards the lighted dressing-table, the candles gleamed on his profile, and Poppy saw that it was, as she supposed, the profile of Luce Abinger. He was humming between his teeth, a little tune—an odd noise resembling much the sort of monotonous hum made by black fighting ants when they go out seeking battle with other ant tribes.Something resembling panic stole over the girl as she listened, and once she saw his distorted mouth smiling terribly, and could have cried aloud, but she controlled herself and continued to lie still with half-closed eyes, watching his strange proceedings. From the dressing-table he took up her two beautiful ivory brushes with her name written in silver across their backs, and bending them in his hands, snapped off their handles, laying the broken bits down. Then carefully and methodically he broke everyone of the silver articles on the table. The sound of them snapping seemed to give him acute pleasure. Even two tall vases of silver and cut-glass were not too strong for his skilful hands; nor was a little porcelain trinket-tray, with a scene from theTokaidoinlaid upon it (for which he had paid thirty pounds at Yokohama), spared.A handful of rings and bracelets, which Kykie had removed from her fainting mistress and placed in a little heap upon the table, he dropped upon the floor and ground his heel upon.With no look towards the bed where Poppy lay, he left the table then, and sauntered to the walls, from which he stripped the wonderful chalk drawings and flung them in ribbons to the floor. His eye caught the silver and ivory crucifix."Ah, Christ! I had forgotten you," said he, speaking for the first time, in a soft and pleased tone, and picking up a boot-tree left carelessly by a chair he approached, and struck a ringing blow upon the beautiful ivory face, shattering it. Again and again he struck until it lay in a hundred tiny splinters on the ground. Poppy's eye had sought the door and found it closed; the lock gleamed and there was no key to be seen. She came to the conclusion that she was locked in with a man who had gone mad. The house was absolutely silent."If he chooses to kill me, he can; no one will hear my calls," she thought, and she continued to lie very still.In smashing the crucifix Abinger had for the first time made a noise louder than the gentle cracking and crunching of bones; but he had now awakened to the charm of breaking things with a crash. He beat the boot-tree full into the smiling face ofMonna Lisa."Stop smiling, you leaden-jawed Jewess," he said softly.The glass flew in jingling showers in every direction,but the strong, quiet face remained on the wall in its frame; and though the mouth was full of splintered glass, the eyes smiled gravely on—the eyes of a woman who had seen many such violent scenes come and go.There was a tiny bronze bust of Daniel O'Connell, standing on a little cedar-wood shelf, which Abinger caught up and flung with a calm, sure aim at the long gilt-edged mirror, making a great white radiating asterisk full in the centre of it.All vases and flower-bowls he took from their places and dropped upon the floor. The sound of their breaking was not unmusical.He still continued to hum. At last there was nothing left to destroy except the books arranged in their shelves round the room. A few he pulled from their cases and tore them across, but the sound of their tearing was tame and had no charm for him after so much exciting noise. Leisurely he left them at last and came to the foot of the bed and stood looking down upon the girl lying there. She met his eyes with a calm and quiet glance, though the soul within her was apprehensive enough.The smile on his mouth was like the carved smile on the mouth of some hideous Japanese mask, and his eyes resembled the eyes of a gargoyle. He was in full evening-dress and very immaculate, and his fair hair lay as smooth and sleek upon his head as a sleeping child's."Awake?" he asked, with continual and unfailing pleasantness."You hardly expected me to have remained asleep?" asked Poppy equably. She saw very well now that he had not lost his reason. His eyes were not an insane man's eyes, though they were lit by some frightful emotion, and he was plainly in the grip of one of his extraordinary rages: the worst she had ever witnessed. It did not occur to her that she could in any way be the cause of his anger,and she felt wearily indignant that it should be obtruded upon her at this time. She did not mind much about all her beautiful things with which he had made such holocaust, though her possessions had always had for her that pathetic value and meaning which the lonely attach to inanimate things. But her whole life wasbouleversénow, and she understood that such things mattered little.Abinger was looking at her with a tinge of something that might have been expectancy in his fury. Was he waiting for her to demand what he meant by this unprecedented outrage on her privacy? Ill and careless of life as she felt, she still had strength to rebel against this new form of tyranny, and to meet it with courage and disdain. It seemed to her that it would be more insolent not to ask him what he meant, but to simply take such vile and brutal conduct as a matter of course. So she stared back calmly at him from her pillows, not knowing what a strange picture she presented, lying there. Her arms wide from her, revealing the long, curved line of her boyish young form; her subtle face, pale, with strong ivory tints in it against the whiteness of the pillows, the blue scornful light of her eyes, and her drowned black hair lying like gorgon ropes about her. Passion-racked and pale as Magdalene, she was a sight to kindle the fires of pity and chivalry in any good man; but the lust of Luce Abinger's eyes was for the grace and bloom and beauty of her, that even misery and fatigue could not rub out, and these things kindled his blood to such a fury of savagery and desire that he scarce knew what he did. With one quick movement he had left the foot of the bed and was sitting beside her with an iron hand on each of hers. So she lay there, like a pinioned bird, with his tormented face above her."Harlot!" he whispered, still smiling; and the word leapt from his lips like a shrivelling flame and scorched across her face."Harlot!" he repeated softly. "Tell me the name of your lover!"That bleached her. Disdain departed from her looks and she lay there quivering under his hands; her dry lips parted, but her tongue was stiff in her mouth. The blow was so utterly and profoundly unexpected. What did he mean? What could he mean? How could he know of that secret idol in that secret grove of her heart, before whose altar she had slain her girlhood—and his honour? How could he know of that sweet shameful secret that she shared with a mad or drunken man—but mad or drunk, the man she loved? Had she not buried the secret deep and sworn that no one should ever drag it from the depths of her? Was it possible that she had not buried it deep enough? Was it written across her face for all the world to see? She searched the scorching eyes above her and then at last she was afraid; her own fell and the lids closed over them.
Poppy sat up in her chair now, her eyes shining, her cheeks aflame.
"Why do you say all this?" she demanded haughtily. "If it is as you say and through your fault, you must put the matter right. I do not wish to know these women, but I do not choose that they shall shake their skirts at me, because you have a vile reputation. You will have to find some way out——"
Abinger looked away from the window at last and at her. There was a tall lamp to his hand, and he turned it up high, and she saw that he was smiling—a smile none the less unlovely because it had in it the same unusualquality of gentleness that had distinguished it all the evening.
"But, of course, my dear girl!" he said with a note of surprise in his voice, "that is what I am coming to. I have told you these things simply to show you the impossibility of your living any kind of social life here, unless you are prepared to let everybody know the real state of affairs. When everything is known it will be a simple affair for you to take your place, and you will have an assured position that no one will be able to cavil at. It is for you to say now, whether or not you are ready for the truth to be published."
Poppy's look was of amazement.
"The truth? But what do you mean, Luce? You have been at great pains to tell me why they won't accept the truth."
He stood looking down at her vivid face for a moment. There was an expression on his own that she found arresting too, and she said no more; only waited till he should speak. He turned the lamp down again.
"Poppy," he said in a very low, but clear voice, "do you remember the old French Jesuit coming to the White Farm?"
She stared at him. Her expression reverted to irritation and surprise.
"Father Eugène? Of course I do. And I remember how furious you were, too. And how you stormed at each other in French for about twenty minutes, while Kykie and I stood wondering what it was all about."
"Do you remember any other details? I'm not asking out of idle curiosity," he added, as she threw herself back impatiently in her chair. She wrinkled her brows for a moment. Her head really ached very badly, but she wished to be reasonable.
"I didn't understand French at that time, but youexplained the meaning of it all to me. You remember you took me into your study and told me how he thought you frightfully immoral to have a young girl living in your house without her parents, and that he wished you to make a solemn set of promises to him to the effect that you would be a good friend and guardian to me all your life. You said it was a fearful nuisance, but that if you didn't do it, he meant to get to work and find my proper guardians and make things generally unpleasant."
"You remember that clearly?"
"Certainly I do, and so do you. What is the use of this tiresome repetition? It is quite beside the point."
"No, it is not. Just one more question—you remember going back into the dining-room to the priest and making the promises, I suppose?"
"Yes; we stood before him andyoumade the promises. I didn't—though I certainly said 'Oui' whenever you told me to, and some words after him once. It was then you gave me this ring that I always wear. By the way, Luce, I'm tired of wearing it. You can have it back."
"Thank you, my dear girl; but I wouldn't think of depriving you of it. It is your wedding-ring."
"My—? I think you have gone mad, Luce."
"Not at all. That is your wedding-ring, Poppy. When we stood before the priest that day we were being married."
She burst out laughing. "Really, Luce," she said contemptuously, "you are developing a new form of humour. Does it amuse you?"
"Not much," he said drily; "not so much as it does you, apparently. I don't see anything funny in a marriage ceremony. I remember being exceedingly annoyed about it at the time. But I have come round since then." As he went on, Poppy ceased to smile contemptuously; when he had finished speaking, her mouth was still disdainful, but she was appreciably paler.
"Of late," said Abinger in a voice that had a meaning, "I have begun to find the fact that you are my wife wonderfully interesting."
She sprang up from her chair.
"This is the most ridiculous nonsense I ever listened to!" she cried excitedly. "I don't want to hear any more about it. I refuse to listen." She turned to go, but he caught her by the wrists and stood holding her and looking into her deathly pale face.
"Am I the kind of man who wastes time talking nonsense? Kykie was a witness. She knows we were married that day."
"Kykie! I'msureit is not true. She has never spoken of it——"
"I forbade her to do so. I told her that she'd go out at a moment's notice if she did. Further, as you are so very hard to convince, Poppy, I will show you the marriage certificate signed by Father Eugène."
He took a paper from his pocket, and held it towards her. But she had suddenly sunk back into the big chair with her hands over her scared and ashen face.
"Oh, Luce! Luce!" she cried pitifully. "Say it is not true! say it is not true!" and burst into wild weeping.
SOPHIE CORNELL sat at her breakfast-table looking pasty-faced and unwholesome, without any colour on her cheeks, her good looks effectively disguised in hair-wavers and a hideously-figured heliotrope dressing-gown.
Poppy stared at her in dull amazement, wondering how she could have so little vanity as to allow another girl to see her look so unlovely.
"She will probably hate me for it, but that doesn't matter," was the thought that came into her mind as she encountered Sophie's eyes, sleep-bedimmed, but distinctly resentful, taking her in across the table. As a matter of fact, Sophie's vanity was so great, that it never occurred to her that she could appear unlovely to anyone—even in her unpainted morning hours. Her resentfulness was roused entirely by reason of the fact that this was the first time she had laid eyes on her assistant typewriter for a full three weeks, and that even now the recalcitrant only came to say that she didn't feel quite equal to work.
"Och! nonsense!" said Miss Cornell, eyeing her coolly. "You look all right. A little pale, but, then, you're always as washed out as afadook."[4]
[4]Dishcloth.
[4]Dishcloth.
Poppy's lips performed a twisted, dreary smile. She was entirely indifferent to Miss Cornell's opinions of her looks. To anyone's. As she stood there in the little black muslin gown she always wore to come to Sophie's house in the morning, she might have posed for a black-and-white drawing of Defeat.
Sophie saw nothing but the prospect of another two or three days' hard work, and she didn't like it.
"You're a fine sort of assistant," she grumbled, her mouth half full of toast. "And another thing: Bramham's been here several times inquiring for you, and the whole place is littered up with parcels of books and magazines he has sent you. I couldn't think what excuse to make for his not seeing you, for,of course, he thinks you live here, so I told him at last that you had a touch of dengue fever and wanted quiet. He's stayed away ever since, but he's been sending flowers and fruit. You've evidently made a mash."
Poppy had no inclination to disguise her feelings from Miss Cornell.
"Sophie, you make me sick!" she said and turned away.
"Yes, that's all very well; but you made a bargain with me, that you would meet Bramham sometimes, and if he likes you, so much the better. You don't seem to know when you're lucky!"
"Lucky?" Something broke from her lips, that might have been only an exclamation, but had the sound of a moan.
"Pooh!" said Sophie. "Some fellow's been kidding you, I suppose, and you don't like it. Oh! I know all about it."
"You know some wonderful things, Sophie!" said Poppy at last, in her soft, low voice. "Your mind must be a treasure-house of dainty thoughts and memories."
But irony was ever wasted on Sophie. She got up and stretched her well-shaped arms above her head until the heliotrope sleeves cracked and gaped at the seams.
"Well, all I can say is that you are a donkey not to want to meet nice fellows when you get the chance. Don't you ever intend to marry?"
Poppy, who had gone over to smell some flowers, probably Bramham's, which were clumsily bunched in rows on the mantel-shelf, faced her with an air of insolent surprise.
"What can that possibly have to do with you or your men visitors?"
"Oho!" said Sophie aggressively. "You won't get many chances of marrying withoutmyassistance, my dear. Perhaps you don't know it, but men don't come to Africa with the idea of entering into the holy state of matrimony. When theydomarry, it'squiteby accident, and the girl has to work the accident. You don't know much about that business, my child," she added contemptuously. "Better take a few lessons from me."
"Why? Have you been very successful?" Poppy's tone was one of polite inquiry. The other girl flushed.
"Jolly sight more thanyou'llever be, with your white face and thin figure," she retorted, adding pleasantly: "Your eyes remind me of a snake's."
Poppy sauntered carelessly towards the door.
"Andyouremind me of the man who, when he was getting the worst of a discussion on original sin, said to the other man: 'If I were you, I would not drink with my mouth full.' I am quite willing to believe anything you like to tell me about your conquests, Sophie; only please don't bother to hunt a husband for me. The good God kindly supplied me with the same instincts as other women. I can do my own hunting."
She went out and closed the door behind her with a gentle, sad movement, as though she was shutting in the light of the world and regretted doing it. A little colour had come to her face. She felt better.
Abinger had gone away. This time his destination was really the Rand, for theboyshad taken his luggage to thestation and seen him leave. He had told Kykie that he would be away for six weeks at least.
After that stormy scene in the drawing-room, when he had left Poppy wrapped in wild weeping, nothing further had passed between them on the subject of their marriage. Indeed, she had not seen him again. But he had left a letter for her, and enclosed was a copy of the marriage certificate, to show her that he had not been inventing. He further informed her that Father Eugène was still alive, and that by writing to the Jesuit Monastery in the Transvaal she could at any time ascertain the simple truth. The rest of the letter was written in a strain of casual indifference, that Poppy found singularly reassuring. His attitude appeared to be that of a man rather bored with the subject because it bored her; but, facts being facts, he plainly felt it his duty to show her that there were less pleasing and many more boring things in life than to be called Mrs. Abinger. He told her first of all, not to be a foolish girl and make herself ill about nothing; that it would be in every way to her advantage to make herdébutin South African society as the wife of a well-known man.
"I have not disguised from you," he wrote, "that I have what is called a bad reputation, but that will not affect you—rather redound to your credit in fact, since the wives of rakes are always looked upon as possessing something unusual in the way of brains and charm. As my wife, your lines will be laid in not unpleasant places. You may have as many friends as you like, and I will allow you five thousand pounds a year to entertain them and yourself upon. In making the matter public, no painful details need be gone into. All that is necessary is that you give me permission to make the truth public. Tell me when you are ready to assume the title of Mrs. Abinger—I'll do the rest. In this, dear girl, as in all things, pray pleaseyourself. Only, remember that if you don't choose to accept the situation, the situation still remains—we are married. And it is only under the conditions stated that I can permit you to live any other life than the one you have lived so long."
When first she received this letter, Poppy read it and flung it from her. But in the calm that came after a week's intolerable torment of longing, and despair, she read it again. The fierce fires that had consumed her were burning low then, and cast but a faint and dreary flicker down the pathway of the future. That future looked a land all shadows and gloom, whatsoever pathway she chose to take towards it. The simplest thing to do seemed the most desirable; and surely it was simplest just to let things stay as they were! She would tell Luce Abinger that her choice was to let things remain as they had always been, and then she would live on, drifting through the weary days and months and years, working a little every day, until work at last would become everything and fill her whole life. Perhaps, as she had missed love she would find fame. It did not seem to matter very much whether she did or not.
All she asked was to find peace. Knowing very little of life she did not realise that in asking for this she asked for everything. For no woman finds peace until she has tasted of all the poisoned dishes at the banquet of life—and then the peace is either of the dead body or the dead mind.
After those seven days of suffering, Poppy sat with her broken love-dream, like a pale child with a broken toy. She thought because she was numb that all was over then, except the dreary living through the dreary days. But the young have a great capacity for suffering, and she had forgotten how very young and strong she was, and how hot the blood ran in her veins. After a day shewas back again in the trough of the sea. When at last she emerged she was a child no longer, but a woman with something to hide from the world—a wound that bled inwardly and would always ache.
Abinger had been gone nearly three weeks then, and wrote to say that he should probably be away for two or three months, as he was selling all the property he owned on the Rand, and the final settlements would take him quite that time. The thought of the long respite from his presence was a great relief to the girl, and by unconsciously lifting a little of the strain from her mind helped her to come back the sooner to her normal self. Kykie's delight was enormous when Poppy was to be seen wandering aimlessly through the house once more and into the garden; thoughthereshe never stayed long now, and there were parts of it she did not go near.
From Kykie she learned incidentally, and without resentment, that the front gate was locked once more and the key safe with Abinger. That reminded her of her secret exit, and then she remembered Sophie Cornell, whose image had quite faded from her memory. It occurred to her that she ought to visit her self-imposed employer, and make her excuses and farewells as simply as possible, for something in her now strongly repudiated further association with the Colonial girl.
The visit and quarrel had braced her in a remarkable way. Afterwards she felt that in spite of all she was really alive still, and she found herself regretting that through Sophie's garden must lie her only way into the world beyond. The restrictions of the house began to irk her, and she was afraid of the garden. She felt shemustgo out. She determined to visit the sea and explore the Berea; choosing such times as would be safest to make entries and exits through the little opening in the passion-flower house. In the early mornings she knew well thatwild horses might pass through Sophie's garden without her knowing or caring—and again, under cover of darkness it would be simple to slip through unseen. She told Kykie that in the future she always desired dinner at six-thirty; and Kykie, who had grown curiously meek and obedient of late, made no demur. This arrangement gave Poppy a long evening to herself, and she had never allowed anyone to intrude upon her evening hours. It would be supposed that she spent them in the garden, for always she had found great pleasure in wandering in the moonlight, and in the early morning hours, and the servants were well acquainted with her habits.
So she took to going forth. As soon as darkness fell she would depart, darkly-cloaked and with her head draped mantilla-wise, to see what the forbidden world looked like "'twixt gloam and moon." Her favourite route was by the Musgrave Road, a long thoroughfare that leads to the top of the Berea. Over gates would come to her glimpses of charmingly-lighted rooms, and pretty women sitting down to dinner, or sauntering with their husbands, enjoying the gardens after the heat of the day. Past one house and another she would go, catching little pictures between the trees, at windows, and through open doors—sometimes an exquisite little vision of a mother romping with her children and kissing them good-night; or a husband standing back with a critical cock to his head to get a better view of his wife's new gown, or the way she had done her hair. She never stayed for the kiss that would come after the verdict, but flew swiftly on with her eyes suddenly hot and teeth set in her lip. Other sights were amusing: a face contorted and a head and arm screwed in the agony of fixing a collar-stud; a man grooming his head before an open window with two brushes, and a drop of something golden out of a bottle. Once she saw quite a sensible-looking man practising a charming smile on himself in the glass, and at that could not restrain a little jeer of delight at the "nobler" sex. When she caught children at windows in their nightgowns, peering out, she just gave a weird "Who! Who!" like the lesser-owl common in Natal, and they scuttled like rats.
These things affected her variously. Times she mocked the peaceful citizens of Natal for Philistines and flesh-potters. Times her heart came into her throat and tears scalded her eyes, and she felt like a prowling hungry jackal. But most often she flung a bitter laugh to the wind and said:
"I have the best of it—better prowl the veldt lean and free, than be caged and full."
Once or twice she had occasion to recall a French saying she had come across while her French was in the elementary stage. She had studied the phrase for an hour or two, and applied the dictionary to it, and eventually it read to the effect that if all the roofs in Paris were lifted one night the devil might be observed in every house lighting the fires to make the pots boil. The remark seemed to have lost some of its original point in translation, but it still bore an air of significance, and came singularly to hand once or twice, startling Poppy to the thought that Paris and Durban are both under the same sky, and that fuel of fire is the same all the world over. On these occasions it was she who scuttled, and she did it with good-will, almost cured of her taste for living pictures. But the pastime was fascinating to a lonely and lonesome creature, and she returned to it.
Many of the houses she passed stood hidden away in thick gardens, with nothing to indicate their presence but glimmering lights and voices, or sometimes music, or the clank of dinner plates. But if sound attracted her, Poppy was not deterred by gates or gravelled paths. With a fleet foot, a sweet tongue, and an excellent imagination, there is little to fear in forbidden gardens, or anywhere else for thatmatter. The chief thing is to have the bump of adventure sufficiently developed!
Sometimes she found that there were others abroad for adventure also—some of these of a sociable temperament most inconvenient. Once a magnificent person in evening-dress followed her so persistently, that she was driven at last to the expedient of walking under the glare of a street lamp with her shoulders humped and her skirts held high enough to display to all who took an interest in the matter a pair of knock-kneed legs and horribly pigeon-toed feet. The device worked like magic; she was followed no further.
On another occasion she allowed a youthful Romeo to sit beside her on a bench, only to discover that she was afflicted with a painful sniffing cold—about forty sniffs to the minute. She was soon left sole occupant of the bench.
There were othercontretemps. Once her evening out cost her sixpence, and she was very much annoyed, for her stock of sixpences was low. Abinger paid all bills and did not expect her to have any need for money. It was her habit, if she saw a native policeman eye her suspiciously, to step quietly up to him with a most grand air and tell him to send her a rickshaw when he reached the main road, as she was in a hurry and could not wait for the car. The minute he was out of sight she would scud down a side street. But upon this occasion a rickshaw was so close at hand that she was obliged to take it and boldly direct the boy to Sophie's front gate. Arrived there, she ran full into a man coming out. The light from a passing car showed her his face, dark and dissipated, but keen. He was carrying his hat in his hand, as men do on hot nights, and she observed that his hair was parted down the centre with a curl on either side.
"Ah! What Luce calls a German from Jerusalem!" was her comment. Incidentally she smelled a smell shewas familiar with, from daily contact with Sophie and sheets of MSS. This made her certain that it was the redoubtable "Brookie" himself whom she had encountered.
Often as she glided like a wraith through Sophie's garden the sound of laughter and the flavour of smoke came to her through the trees, or Sophie's voice, outraging the gentle night by some sentimental ballad.
One late February evening, when all the world was steeped in silver light, Poppy's heart seemed to her to be lying very still in her breast. As she walked over the trembling moonlight shadows a curious feeling of happiness stole across her.
"Am I at peace already?" she asked herself wonderingly at last. "Has my soul forgotten what I did to it, and how I found it only to give it away to a man who called me by another woman's name?"
It must have been late, for carriages and cars passed her, bearing homewards people who had been to the theatre or dining out. She caught scraps of conversation concerning the play, and little intimate remarks about people were flung freely to her upon the night wind. But her ears heeded nothing, for she had a companion who singularly engrossed her attention. She believed it was herself she walked with—a new-found, detached, curiously-contented self. She did not know that it was Destiny who had her by the hand.
At the top of the Berea Hill, not far from her own gate, she stopped a moment under the deep shadow of some wayside trees. All in black she seemed part of the shadow, and she stood very still, for she heard rickshaws coming up the hill, and she thought she would let them pass before she essayed the glare of a street lamp a few yards ahead. As it happened, the first rickshaw stopped at a double white gate which was full under the light of the lamp. A mandescended, turned, and held out his hand, and a woman stepped daintily down. She was a thin, slim woman, wrapless, in a black satin gown with silvery sleeves. She looked as interesting, though not as wicked, as the Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith. In the lamp-light her hair, which was dark brown, appeared to have seven red lights in it. Her face was neither beautiful nor pretty, but well-bred and harmonious, with a sort of glimmering gaiety about the eyes. Poppy instantly recognised her as the woman she had seen on the day of her first arrival in Durban and had subsequently ascertained to be Mrs. Portal. She was carrying on a desultory conversation with the man, and they continued it as he stood feeling in his pockets for money for theboy.
"Why don't you flirt with her yourself, Billy—Bill?" said she. "You would be good for her and she wouldn't do you any harm!"
He was a heavily-built, sullenly-handsome man, who looked as though he had never said a good-tempered thing in his life.
Poppy was astounded when he blithely answered:
"Darling, when there is only one woman in a man's life, he can't convincingly imply to the woman he is with that she is the only one in the world——"
Mrs. Portal fell to laughing.
"Billy, you fraud! You know you always carry along on top-ropes when I'm not there."
"Not with Mary," the man asseverated. "Mary would want too much of a deuce of a lot of convincing. She would smell a rat."
"Don't be subtle, Billy," cried Mrs. Portal, laughing and going in at the gates.
The other rickshaw drew near, and "Billy" waited to receive it. As it passed Poppy, two scraps of conversation floated to her.
"I've a great mind to persuade Nick to go with you—and to take me too," said the woman, laughing a little.
"Yes, why don't you? 'Better a bright companion on a weary way, than a horse-litter,' you know. But it would be too rough a journey for you, I'm afraid."
The man's voice sent all the blood in Poppy's body rustling to her ears. She burnt and glowed at the thought of his nearness.Nowshe knew that it was Destiny who had walked with her. Now she knew that peace would never be hers so long as this man's feet trod the earth.
The rickshaw appeared to be filled with something resembling yellow foam—billows and billows of it fell everywhere, even upon the shafts and the folded hood behind. The moment the bearer stood still, the man called Billy came forward and put out his hand to the woman in the rickshaw, and she regally descended. The watching girl, through eyes dim with jealous pain and anger, seeking nothing but the dark face that came after, still saw that the woman was very beautiful and recognised in her the heroine of her childhood's days. It was, indeed, Mrs. Nick Capron!
She also was cloakless, with magnificent bare arms and shoulders gleaming white above the rippling waves of yellow chiffon. Her hair rippled and waved too, and shone in masses on her head, and diamonds twinkled in it. She seemed almost too bright a vision for the naked eye.
"And what did you think ofthatfor a play?" asked the sullen-faced one as he opened the gate.
"Enchanting," said she vivaciously. "So full of introspection and retrospection, and all that, and——"
"Yes, and mighty little circumspection," was the ready answer, and they passed in, laughing.
The last man, moving with casual deliberation, came slowly to the side-walk, and stood there speaking to the bearer, a powerful Zulu, as he paid him, asking if he hadfound the pull uphill too hard. Theboylaughed in response and shook his winged arms boastfully, saying:
"Icona."
Afterwards both rickshaws jingled away. The man should have followed the others in, but he stood still. He stood still, with a yellow chiffon wrap flung over his arm, and distinctly snuffed the air.
"Poppies!" he muttered. "What makes me think of poppies?... God! I could almost dream that dream again...."
For an instant his brilliant moody eyes stared straight into the black shadows where Poppy stood, watching him with both hands on her heart. Then the voices of the others called, and he turned abruptly and went in.
Poppy fled home to dark, sad dreams.
ONE blue-eyed morning, about a month after Abinger's departure, Poppy was down on the sea-beach. She sat in the loose sand, and ran her hands restlessly in and out of it, making little banks about her. She was wondering if she would be able to sleep if she came out and lay in these cool white sands some night. She was so tired of never sleeping.
The sun had not risen, but there was a pale primrose dado painted across the East.
Presently the girl became aware of another woman sauntering along close to the edge of the sea. She was digging a walking-stick in the sand every few yards and watching the hole fill with water afterwards. She carried the tail of her white-linen skirt under her chin, and her feet all wetted by the little incoming waves, had caught the pale light and seemed shod with silver as she walked, singing a little French song:
"Le monde est méchant, ma petite,Avec son sourire moqueur:Il dit qu'à ton côté palpiteUne montre en place du cœur."
"Le monde est méchant, ma petite,Avec son sourire moqueur:Il dit qu'à ton côté palpiteUne montre en place du cœur."
When she came opposite Poppy she left off singing and stood for a minute looking at her. Then came slowly sauntering up the beach to where she sat. Poppy recognised Mrs. Portal. Mrs. Portal recognised the Burne-Jones eyes; but she wondered where the gladness of living was all gone.
"You look like a pale, sea-eyed mermaid, forsaken by your lover," she said. "Why aren't you combing your hair with a golden comb?"
"What is the use, if my lover is gone?" said Poppy, with a smile.
"Oh! if you did it a new way he might come back," laughed Mrs. Portal, and sat down by her side. "I thought I was the only sun-worshipper in Durban," she remarked, as one continuing an ordinary conversation with an old friend. "I have felt rather superior about it, and as lonely as a genius."
"I am often down here in the morning," said Poppy, "but it must be lovely at night, too. I was thinking that I should come and sleep here one night when it is moonlight."
"Neversleep under the moon," said Mrs. Portal darkly, "or an awful thing will happen to you—your face will be all pulled out of drawing."
Poppy unconsciously put up one hand and felt her face. But Mrs. Portal burst out laughing. "You have done it already? Well, she must like you, for she hasn't done you any harm."
"I likeher," said Poppy.
"And well you may. She's the only woman who knows everything about one and yet doesn't give one away." Mrs. Portal plugged her stick deep in the sand and made a support for her back. She then clasped herself about the knees and continued her remarks:
"Yes ... she knows too much ... but she keeps on smiling. I suppose it's because the old pagan is so used to sinners.
"'There's not a day: the longest—not the 21st of June—Sees so much mischief in a wicked wayOn which three single hours of moonshine smile——'"
"'There's not a day: the longest—not the 21st of June—Sees so much mischief in a wicked wayOn which three single hours of moonshine smile——'"
"And yet she looks so modest all the while!" Poppy finished.
Mrs. Portal reproved her.
"I consider you too young and good looking to read Byron."
"Do you think he wrote for the old and ugly?" laughed Poppy. "And how came you to read him?"
"What! The retort flattering!You'reno Durbanite.Youdon't grow in the cabbage garden. Ohé! I can say what I will to you. Ding-Dong!"
Her little, high-bred face was neither too sunny nor too sad, but had a dash of both sunshine and sorrow about the eyes and lips. She screwed it up in a way she had, and began to sing her little French song again:
"Le monde est méchant, ma petite:Il dit que tes yeux vifs sont morts,Et se meuvent dans leur orbiteA temps égaux et par ressorts."
"Le monde est méchant, ma petite:Il dit que tes yeux vifs sont morts,Et se meuvent dans leur orbiteA temps égaux et par ressorts."
The odour of happiness which Bramham had spoken of began to make itself felt. Little fronds and scents of it caught hold of Poppy and enfolded her. Looking at the face beside her she saw in it no signs of any mean content with life. There were fine cobwebby lines around the eyes and mouth, and a deep one between the brows, and Poppy wished that they were upon her face, too, for they were beautiful. Yet they could only have come through suffering, for Mrs. Portal was not old.
"She has had sorrows, too—but not shameful ones. She wears them like jewels," thought the girl.
The woman beside her had indeed greater gifts than mere beauty. She had seven red lights in her hair, which was always extraordinarily tumbled without being untidy; a heart of gold; and a tongue of silver.
Many men loved her, as fine men cannot help loving what is lovable and sweet, and gentle, and kind, and brave, and gay, and wise.
Even women loved her; and so the worst thing theycould find to say of her was that she must have been quite pretty—once!
In return, she loved all men, and was kind to all women, loving one steadfastly.
But now, half in pity, half for some reason she could not fathom, she found a place in her heart for Poppy Destin, too. She was touched by the girl's beauty, on which her seeing eyes saw the shadow of tragedy.
"Quitea child!" was her thought. "Too young to have so much to hide behind those lovely eyes!" A line from Pater's monograph onMonna Lisacame into her mind:
"Hers are the eyes that have looked on all the world; and the eyelids are a little weary."
"Hers are the eyes that have looked on all the world; and the eyelids are a little weary."
She put out her hand to Poppy. If Poppy had eyes likeMonna Lisa, she herself had the hands of that Mother of all saints and sinners—only a little browner.
"I would like to be your friend," she said quietly.
Poppy flushed, and then became pale. The hand Mrs. Portal touched stiffened a little, and the lilac eyes looked away at the sea rather than meet the kindness of the other's glance—but they were dim with tears. Mrs. Portal's warm, Irish heart felt a chill. She was a little sore too, for her friendship was more often sought than proffered, and never before had she known a repulse. She could not know that the girl before her felt honoured as never in her life before, and was filled with gratitude and affection. But Clementine Portal was a creature full of intuition and understanding. Possibly some of the girl's feeling subtly communicated itself to her, for she became aware that the rebuff did not come of rudeness or indifference—or coldness of heart; but of some other strange feeling.
"Is it possible that she's afraid of me?" she thought at last. "Poor child! doesn't she know an enemy froma friend? It must be that she has found all women her enemies!"
They had been saying little ordinary things to one another in the meantime, while they gazed before them to where the risen sun was transforming the curved, purple waves into a sheet of dazzling copper.
Presently Clementine got up from the sands, very reluctantly.
"I must go home to breakfast, or my household will be searching for me," she said, with a mournful smile, shaking her skirt into shape. "Heaven meant me to roam the deserts and run in the woods; but Fate laid upon me the burden of respectability and planted me in the cabbage garden. I must run and catch a tram-car!"
Poppy laughed at her; but her laugh ended on a queer note.
"Being a wild ass of the desert has its drawbacks, too!" said she, with something of bitterness.
Clementine put out her hand and touched the girl's. "Well, don't be a wild ass any more. Come and see me. I hold agricultural shows on the first and last Fridays of the month, and you will find the best kinds of turnips and cabbages in my drawing-room. But if you seek me in love and charity as a friendshould, come on Sundays. You never told me your name, yet, mermaid!"
Poppy held the brown, thin hand and answered firmly:
"Rosalind Chard."
But afterwards, when the other had gone a little way, she ran after her and caught her up and said:
"But I wish you would call me 'Poppy.'"
Nevertheless, it was not until a month later that she visited Mrs. Portal. Strongly attracted by the kind, gay ways and looks of that fascinating woman, she yetfeared to know her better. And she feared, too, that in the house of Mrs. Portal she might meet the man whom she knew not whether most she loved, or feared, or hated; for whose sake she gashed herself with the knives of defeat and despair. She knew that he belonged to Mrs. Portal's circle of friends, and she had heard from Sophie Cornell that the chief of these was Mrs. Capron.Mrs. Capron!That was the name in which he had bidden her good=bye, speaking in his drunkenness or delirium, she knew not which. Mrs. Capron, the splendid, milky creature, who had been with him in the rickshaw, and whom Poppy had so clearly recognised! Wouldshe, too, recognise Poppy? The girl was not so certain now of the improbability of such a thing, for of late it seemed to her that she had begun to present a singular resemblance to herself as she had looked in those unhappy, far-off days. The strain of suffering had told upon her terribly, and her face was tragically drawn, with a sharp, childish look of suffering about her mouth, and soft, though not unlovely hollows, in her cheeks. Her eyes looked larger and more unreal for the shadows beneath them.
The day she decided to go to Mrs. Portal's found her examining herself in her glass with apprehensive eyes, keen for every defect. She was a woman now, examining her weapons for battle, and her courage misgave her as she saw her reflection. She had put on a white gown that was all simple lines and soft laces, and she really looked very young and girlish, but she hated her appearance when she thought of those two charming-looking women of the world with their eloquent clothes. What if she should meethimthere and he should compare her with them? What if either the thin, vivacious, sunburnt woman, whom she herself could hardly help loving—or the regal-milky-woman of yellow chiffon should be thatLorainewhom he so loved?
"With either of them what chance should I stand?" she asked herself, desperate-eyed. "Why have I got these vile, purple shadows?—and holes in my cheeks? I never had them before!" She burst into tears, and at this juncture Kykie thought fit to make her entrance unannounced with her everlasting tea-tray.
"Now, Poppy, to goodness! what you ought to do is to take off that tight frock and put on a nice cool gown and rest," said the beldame importantly.
"You're mad, Kykie—and I wish you wouldn't come into my room without knocking." Poppy made occasion to fling a towel over her hat and gloves which lay on the bed, and which it was not desirable Kykie should see.
"Ah! you needn't mind old Kykie, darling," was the response; and Poppy, unused to such blandishments, stared at the yellow face which continued to waggle archly at her.
"What will Luce say when he comes back, if I haven't taken care of you?"
The girl suddenly sickened at her tone.
"How dare she speak to me like that!" was her furious thought. "As if Luce has any right over me or my health!" She could have struck the leering smile from the woman's face; she turned away trembling with anger to her dressing-table.
"So you knew all the time about Luce and me being married?" she said in a toneless voice, when she had presently mastered herself.
"Heavenly me! yes, and I knew it would all work out and come right in the end. But I think you ought to wear your wedding-ring now, Poppy.... All right, all right, you needn't look at me like amal-meit!... I'm going now ... I wouldn't stop with you another minute when you look like that ... you and Luce are a nice pair for temper ... surely to goodness one would think allwould be peace and lovenow—" The door was closed and locked on her and she was obliged to continue her soliloquy on the stairs.
An hour later found Poppy letting herself in at the double white gates of Mrs. Portal's garden. It was neither the first nor last Friday in the month, nor yet Sunday afternoon; but she had not come for society. She came because she must; because of her bitter need of some word concerning the man she loved.
The house was a big, red-brick villa, with many verandahs and no pretentious, except to comfort. An English maid, in a French cap and apron, showed her into a drawing-room that was full of the scent of flowers, with open windows and drawn shades. Almost immediately Mrs. Portal blew into the room like a fresh wind, seized her hands, and shook them warmly.
"I knew you would come to-day," she said. "I dreamed of you last night. Poppy, I have a feeling that you and I are going to be mixed up in each other's lives somehow."
A creature of moods and impulses herself, Poppy thoroughly understood this greeting, and it warmed her sad and lonely spirit gratefully; she let herself be beguiled to the fireside of Clementine Portal's friendship. Before she realised it, they were seated together in a deep lounge just big enough for two people, and a pile of cushions with cool, dull-toned surfaces, talking like friends of long standing. Mrs. Portal was quite in the dark as to who the girl was, but that did not bother her at all, and her remarks contained no shadow of a question. It was enough that she "had a feeling about her," and had dreamed of her and believed in her.
To ordinary persons these might not seem very cogent reasons; but Clementine Portal was in no sense ordinary. Her judgment concerning things in general, and women inparticular, was both keen and sound; but she never allowed it to interfere with her inspirations, which she considered far safer. Apparently intensely practical and conventional, she was, in reality, a woman who lived the most important part of her life in a hidden world. She had the seeing-eye and the hearing-ear for things that went unnoted by the every-day man and woman. Being Irish, she was packed full of superstition, but, fortunately, a strong vein of common sense counterbalanced it. As for her humour, that most fatal gift in a woman, it sometimes resembled a fine blue flame, that scorched everything in reach; and sometimes, to the consternation of the conventional, was the rollicking wit of a fat and jolly Irish priest addicted to the punch-bowl. She had a wonderful way of attracting confidences from people about the things they most cared for in life. In a little while Poppy had told her what she had never told to a living soul before—about her little book of songs—and her great ambitions as a writer. For some unknown reason the girl felt these ambitions very much alive in her that afternoon. Clementine Portal sat like a creature entranced, with her lips slightly apart. When Poppy had given her, upon urgent requesting—a halting, eloquent outline of her novel, Clem said:
"Iknowit will be good.... I can feel that it will have big bits of open space like the veldt in it, with new sorts of trees growing by the wayside as one passes along.... I hate the modern woman's book, because it always makes me gasp for air. It is too full of the fire that burns up all there is in life."
"You would write far better than I, probably," said the girl. "I know so little of life—only what I feel. You know everything——"
"Dear girl, you are better as you are. When you know everything, you will have discovered that the world is full of sawdust, and the people stuffed with shavings, and noone worth writing about—then, where will your fine books be?"
"Have you ever thought of writing?"
"Often," she began to laugh. "And when I discover a real good man in the world I shall burst into glory in a novel. But no such man exists. He died when the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were fair. Here is tea. We'll drown my pessimism in the cream-bowl, shall we?"
She went to the tea-table. The maid drew up the window-shades, letting the lovely rose-lights of late afternoon into the room. It was a real woman's room, full of flowers and photographs, and cushions, and piles of magazines and weeklies everywhere. There were no wonderful pictures on the walls, or valuable china in cases. Only a few well-arranged native curios, a good piano, and the kind of things people from home gather about them when they are sojourning in a foreign land. As Poppy followed to the tea-table, her eye caught a full-length photograph on the wall over the writing-desk, and she stayed a moment to look. It was a woman in her presentation gown—two long, lovely eyes smiled contentedly on the world. Underneath, in a woman's writing, were the words: "To Clem, from Mary."
It was the regal-milky-woman—Mrs. Capron. Mrs. Portal turned round from her tea-cups.
"Ah! everyone looks at that photograph! She is very beautiful. The remarkable thing is that she is good, too. Thatisremarkable, isn't it? I'm sure if I had a face like that I should go to my own head and be a perfect divil."
"Who is she?" asked Poppy, still before the smiling picture.
"My friend, Mrs. Capron."
"Is that her name written there?"
"Yes, hers and mine. She is my dearest friend, and so she is allowed to call me Clem; you may, too, if you like."
Poppy came, thanking her, and sat by the tea-table. She felt suddenly happier, for now she could follow the dictates of her heart and love this woman—whose name wasClem.
As they took tea the door opened gently and a little figure stole into the room straight to her mother's knee.
"I like you, and love you," said she solemnly.
"Hyacinth, what have you been doing?" Mrs. Portal asked anxiously.
It was easy to see that they were mother and child, for they had the same golden-brown eyes, full of dots and dashes and shadows, and the same grave-gay mouths. There, however, all resemblance ceased. The child's physique consisted of a head covered with long, streaky brown hair, and a pair of copper-coloured legs which apparently began under her chin.
"I love and like you," she repeated glibly.
"Then I know you have been doing something very wicked, Cinthie. You always have when you like and love me."
"Pas!" said Cinthie, now gazing calmly at Poppy.
"I shall go and find out," said Mrs. Portal. "I have to go, anyway, to speak to cook about dinner; do forgive me for five minutes, dear; Cinthie will look after you. Cinthie, I hope I can trust you to be good with Miss Chard for five minutes."
The moment she was gone Cinthie made a boastful statement.
"My face is bigger than yours!"
Poppy put up her hand and felt her face carefully; then looked at Cinthie's with the air of one measuring with the eye.
"Well, perhaps it is!" she acceded.
"It's bigger'n anyone's," continued Cinthie, even more bragfully. "Who are you married to?"
This was an awkward and surprising question, but Poppy countered.
"Why should you think I am married, Cinthie?"
"Everybody's married," was the swift response. "I'mmarried to Mammie, and Mammie's married to Daddie, and Daddie's married to the moon, and the moon's married to the sun, and the sun's married to the sea, and the sea's married to the stars, and the stars are married to the stripes—Daddie says so. Let me sit on your lap, I'm as tired as a bed."
Poppy lifted her up, and Cinthie, lolling against the white, lacy dress, gazed for a space into the lilac eyes. She then carefully selected a long streak of her own hair and put it into her mouth, thoughtfully sucking it as she continued her remarks:
"I think you had better marry Karri," she said. "I like Karri better'n anyone, except Daddie. His face is bigger than anybody's."
"Is Karri a man, then?"
"Yes; but he's got two women's names, isn't that funny? One's Karri and the other's Eve. I'll show you his photo."
She ran to the other side of the room, grabbed a frame from a table, and brought it back triumphantly.
"There!" she cried, and dumped it into Poppy's lap.
Poppy stared down into the pictured face of the man she loved.
Mrs. Portal reappeared.
"Oh, Cinthie, I've heard all about it from Sarah, and I'm very angry with you. I knew you had been doing something specially wicked. You're apetite méchante."
"Pas!" said Cinthie stoutly.
"You are. Go away, now, to the nursery. I'm very angry with you."
Cinthie retreated, bitterly reasseverating:
"Pas! pas! Pas petite méchante! Pas!"
Clem observed the photograph in Poppy's lap.
"She has been showing you her hero—the hero of us all. Everyone in this house genuflects before Eve Carson."
And so at last Poppy knew the name of the idol before which she, too, worshipped!
"By the way, did Cinthie mention that his face is bigger than anyone's? That is the final point of beauty with Cinthie—to have a big face. Well, Evelyn Carson's face is not so big, but his ways are, and his ideas, and those things make for bigness of soul——"
Poppy said nothing: only she prayed with all her soul that Clem would continue to talk upon this subject; and Clem, looking dreamily at the girl, but obviously not thinking of her, responded to the prayer.
"He is a wonderful person, and we all adore him, even though our judgment sometimes asks us why, and our ears sometimes hear the untoward things that are not compatible with reverence," she was smiling. "I daresay you have heard of him."
"Yes," said Poppy, in an even voice.
"Most people have, by now—he's been one of the foremost figures in South African life for years, one of the many Irishmen who have left their native land, burning with the sense of England's tyranny, only to go and strive for England's fame and glory in some other part of the world. We met him first on the Rand, where all the interesting blackguards forgather at some time or another; but he was always in trouble there, for, you know, Oom Paul doesn't approve of Imperialistic Irishmen, and invariably contrives to make anyone of the kind exceedingly uncomfortable. Karri Carson has been a marked man,watched by the Secret Service, and his every action and every word reported, with the result, of course, that he has said and done many daringly foolish things, and nearly been deported over the border once or twice. Fortunately, there are more interesting places than the Rand, and there is always a rumpus going on insomequarter of Africa, and he has been in all the rumpuses of the last fifteen years—Uganda—Matabelel and—anywhere where there was anything in the wind and wherereal menwere wanted. He's earned the V.C. a dozen times, though he's only got the D.S.O. But it is not love of honours that is his moving spirit—just an Irishman's lust for being in the "redmost hell of the fight." Between intervals of active service he has gone off into the wild deeps of Africa, where no one has ever been before—discovered a new quadruped and a new tribe of natives. The Royal Institute isdyingto trim him up with blue ribbons and exhibit him in London, but Africa has kissed him on the mouth, and he will not leave her." Clem drew a long breath. "I can't think what we shall all do now that he is gone," she finished sadly.
"Gone!" Poppy wondered what kept her voice so calm while her soul cried out within her.
"Yes, gone away to Borapota: a little red-hot spot in the red-hot heart of Africa. It is very conveniently situated for us—not too far from our lovely Mombassa harbour—and it is very rich and fertile, and in every way desirable, and the Imperial Unionists think we ought to own it, and the Liberal Little Englanders think we ought to get it—without spilling a drop of blood or saying a single bad word to anybody. And Evelyn Carson has gone to get it for ussansMaxims andsansmen andsansanything much besides a high heart and a squad ofboyswho have been everywhere with him. He has gone on apeaceful expeditioninto the midst of one of the fiercest tribes inAfrica to barter or bargain for Concessions that will eventually extend the Empire by sixty thousand square miles, and add a country crammed with coal and iron and ivory and a dozen other lovely things to the pink part of the map. And he has gone without evenofficialpermission, so that if he succeeds—why, hurrah! for the Union Jack and everything under it! And if he fails—only another reputation buried in an African grave! No one will care a rap, and everyone will forget him except the people who love him. The only thing I care to think of in the matter is, that the Borapotans are said to be extremely intelligent and reasonable men, who will make splendid soldiers—and then everyone knows what a way Evelyn Carson has with all natives! The Zulus and the Basutos, and all the war-loving tribes, simply adore him! Still, there's no denying the fact that he's gone with his life in his hand. Even if the natives prove to be sweet and reasonable, there are half a dozen other deaths lurking in every mile of the Interior."
"Has no other white man gone with him?" Poppy heard herself asking.
"No one except hisboyswill go with him once he starts on the unbeaten track—but our friends the Caprons have sailed with him as far as Mombassa, and Mrs. Capron declares they will accompany him inland, too, until he drives them back. Of course, he's sure to do that before they reach the danger zone—but isn't it intrepid of her?"
Poppy did not know what she answered. Darkness engulfed her spirit, almost her senses.
"They started about a month ago, and I am terribly lonely without them all. Mrs. Capron and her husband will be back within three months, I expect, but we feel—everybodywho knows—very anxious about Eve Carson, more especially because he is very susceptible to malarial fever. He had a frightful attack about six weeks beforehe left; he was found raving in a rickshaw one night, and for nearly a fortnight afterwards was practically delirious. However, no sooner was he out of danger than he took up his preparations again, and in spite of the doctors, he sailed on the date he had originally fixed."... Mrs. Portal looked extremely mournful, but presently she added: "We are so thankful to think that Mrs. Capron will be with him for a while, because her husband has often had fever, and she thoroughly understands it."
"I must go home," said Poppy suddenly; and Clementine, roused from her reverie by the strangely sounding voice, stared at the girl.
"You look quite ill, dear," she said gently. "I am so sorry; I have been wandering on, about all the things that interestme!... Will you lie down a little while? or shall I ring for some wine?"
"No, no, I must go home ... it is nothing ... I feel odd sometimes ..." she spoke vaguely, but she stood up, arranging her veil and pulling on her gloves. Clem came with her through the garden, and they stood for a moment with the low double gate between them, bidding each other good-bye. Mrs. Portal kissed her and told her to come again soon, but the girl answered nothing. Suddenly a visionary look passed like a veil across Clementine Portal's face.
"Poppy," she said in a dreamy, yet intent way; "there will be deep waters around you soon! ... you will need courage, resolution,andsilence ... those are a woman's greatest friends in this world ... but, in so far as one human being can count on another—count on me, too, for a friend."
Already the swirl of the waters was in Poppy's ears, but the kind, brave message came to her like a friendly oar in the dark sea of trouble. For a moment she clung to the older woman's hand like a child afraid; then theyparted. Poppy walked away through the vapoury, delicate light shed by a slender fragment of moon, and Clem Portal stayed staring abstractedly over the gate. It was three years before they met again.
POPPY lay upon her bed like a drowned woman. She had come in almost fainting, and Kykie, meeting her on the stairs and seeing her face, had flown after her to her bedroom with water and brandy. The old woman had taken the girl in her arms bodily, and placing her on the bed, proceeded to drench her face and hair with ice-cold water and eau-de-Cologne, and to force doses of brandy between the white lips.
At last, reviving somewhat under this vigorous treatment, Poppy found breath and sense to remonstrate:
"What do you mean, Kykie? Do you want to choke me? Stop that ... I'm nearly drowned."
"You were drownded enough before you came in," responded Kykie with asperity; "your dress is soaking. Where have you been?"
Poppy had been lying in the dew-drenched grass of the garden for some two hours or more after her return from Mrs. Portal's, but she was not conscious of the fact.
"... And, Luce coming home without warning, and you not in to dinner, and everything in the world to aggravate a gracious Christian woman!" continued Kykie, panting like a stout sheep.
"Luce? Dinner?" said Poppy vaguely. "What is the time, Kykie?"
"I think you're going cracked," said Kykie with fresh ire, "not to know the time! Half-past nine it is, indeed, and me not in bed yet, when youknowwhat I suffer ifI don't get my night's rest. You and Luce simply haven't the consideration of acowfor me."
"Oh, go to bed!" said Poppy wearily.
"I'll do nothing of the sort, thank you, extremingly. I will not go to my bed until you have eaten some dinner. Do you think I want all the trouble of a funeral in the house? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Poppy, not taking any care of yourself, knowing what you do——"
The old woman paused with some significant intention, but Poppy only waved a pale hand in her direction.
"Go away and hold your peace, Kykie, for the love of Heaven!"
"I'll only go away to get you some food ... and you're to eat it, Poppy dear," she began to coax. "I'll bring you some nice hot soup, lovey, and a little chicken mayonnaise, and youwilltry and eat it, won't you? and a little glass of champagne."
"I couldn't Kykie ... only leave me alone...."
The old woman promptly seated herself upon the side of the bed with the air of an immovable rock.
"Well.... Oh, all right, then ...anything... why can't you leave me alone?"
Kykie did; but she took the precaution of removing the bedroom door-key and taking it with her, for she knew her mistress's ways well. In a few moments she was back again, with half a pint of champagne and a little pile of caviare sandwiches, which she warranted to put life into a corpse if she could only force them down its throat. She almost proceeded to this extreme measure with Poppy, threatening, cajoling, and complaining all the while.
Eventually she took her departure with an empty plate and glass, and as she went she threw back a last menacing remark to the bed.
"AndI shall stay up to speak to Lucewhen he returns from the Club." What she could mean by this Poppyneither knew nor cared. Revived a little by the wine and food, but with a body and mind demanding rest, she closed her eyes and fell into dead slumber.
When the candles which Kykie had lighted in the tall silver sticks on the dressing-table had burnt far down from their scarlet shades, Poppy awakened to the fact that someone was moving about her bedroom. She opened her eyes, but did not stir or make a sound.
A man was standing by her writing-table humming softly to himself while he took up each little ornament and article upon it, and gently broke it between his hands. There were several paper-knives of wood and silver and tortoise-shell; quaint pens, and two gold-set rose-glasses. He broke them all gently between his hands, and the snapping of them was like the snapping of little bones. He then tore up some photographs, and a black-and-white etching of the Bay of Naples, and piled the pieces into two little heaps. As he walked away from the writing-table towards the lighted dressing-table, the candles gleamed on his profile, and Poppy saw that it was, as she supposed, the profile of Luce Abinger. He was humming between his teeth, a little tune—an odd noise resembling much the sort of monotonous hum made by black fighting ants when they go out seeking battle with other ant tribes.
Something resembling panic stole over the girl as she listened, and once she saw his distorted mouth smiling terribly, and could have cried aloud, but she controlled herself and continued to lie still with half-closed eyes, watching his strange proceedings. From the dressing-table he took up her two beautiful ivory brushes with her name written in silver across their backs, and bending them in his hands, snapped off their handles, laying the broken bits down. Then carefully and methodically he broke everyone of the silver articles on the table. The sound of them snapping seemed to give him acute pleasure. Even two tall vases of silver and cut-glass were not too strong for his skilful hands; nor was a little porcelain trinket-tray, with a scene from theTokaidoinlaid upon it (for which he had paid thirty pounds at Yokohama), spared.
A handful of rings and bracelets, which Kykie had removed from her fainting mistress and placed in a little heap upon the table, he dropped upon the floor and ground his heel upon.
With no look towards the bed where Poppy lay, he left the table then, and sauntered to the walls, from which he stripped the wonderful chalk drawings and flung them in ribbons to the floor. His eye caught the silver and ivory crucifix.
"Ah, Christ! I had forgotten you," said he, speaking for the first time, in a soft and pleased tone, and picking up a boot-tree left carelessly by a chair he approached, and struck a ringing blow upon the beautiful ivory face, shattering it. Again and again he struck until it lay in a hundred tiny splinters on the ground. Poppy's eye had sought the door and found it closed; the lock gleamed and there was no key to be seen. She came to the conclusion that she was locked in with a man who had gone mad. The house was absolutely silent.
"If he chooses to kill me, he can; no one will hear my calls," she thought, and she continued to lie very still.
In smashing the crucifix Abinger had for the first time made a noise louder than the gentle cracking and crunching of bones; but he had now awakened to the charm of breaking things with a crash. He beat the boot-tree full into the smiling face ofMonna Lisa.
"Stop smiling, you leaden-jawed Jewess," he said softly.
The glass flew in jingling showers in every direction,but the strong, quiet face remained on the wall in its frame; and though the mouth was full of splintered glass, the eyes smiled gravely on—the eyes of a woman who had seen many such violent scenes come and go.
There was a tiny bronze bust of Daniel O'Connell, standing on a little cedar-wood shelf, which Abinger caught up and flung with a calm, sure aim at the long gilt-edged mirror, making a great white radiating asterisk full in the centre of it.
All vases and flower-bowls he took from their places and dropped upon the floor. The sound of their breaking was not unmusical.
He still continued to hum. At last there was nothing left to destroy except the books arranged in their shelves round the room. A few he pulled from their cases and tore them across, but the sound of their tearing was tame and had no charm for him after so much exciting noise. Leisurely he left them at last and came to the foot of the bed and stood looking down upon the girl lying there. She met his eyes with a calm and quiet glance, though the soul within her was apprehensive enough.
The smile on his mouth was like the carved smile on the mouth of some hideous Japanese mask, and his eyes resembled the eyes of a gargoyle. He was in full evening-dress and very immaculate, and his fair hair lay as smooth and sleek upon his head as a sleeping child's.
"Awake?" he asked, with continual and unfailing pleasantness.
"You hardly expected me to have remained asleep?" asked Poppy equably. She saw very well now that he had not lost his reason. His eyes were not an insane man's eyes, though they were lit by some frightful emotion, and he was plainly in the grip of one of his extraordinary rages: the worst she had ever witnessed. It did not occur to her that she could in any way be the cause of his anger,and she felt wearily indignant that it should be obtruded upon her at this time. She did not mind much about all her beautiful things with which he had made such holocaust, though her possessions had always had for her that pathetic value and meaning which the lonely attach to inanimate things. But her whole life wasbouleversénow, and she understood that such things mattered little.
Abinger was looking at her with a tinge of something that might have been expectancy in his fury. Was he waiting for her to demand what he meant by this unprecedented outrage on her privacy? Ill and careless of life as she felt, she still had strength to rebel against this new form of tyranny, and to meet it with courage and disdain. It seemed to her that it would be more insolent not to ask him what he meant, but to simply take such vile and brutal conduct as a matter of course. So she stared back calmly at him from her pillows, not knowing what a strange picture she presented, lying there. Her arms wide from her, revealing the long, curved line of her boyish young form; her subtle face, pale, with strong ivory tints in it against the whiteness of the pillows, the blue scornful light of her eyes, and her drowned black hair lying like gorgon ropes about her. Passion-racked and pale as Magdalene, she was a sight to kindle the fires of pity and chivalry in any good man; but the lust of Luce Abinger's eyes was for the grace and bloom and beauty of her, that even misery and fatigue could not rub out, and these things kindled his blood to such a fury of savagery and desire that he scarce knew what he did. With one quick movement he had left the foot of the bed and was sitting beside her with an iron hand on each of hers. So she lay there, like a pinioned bird, with his tormented face above her.
"Harlot!" he whispered, still smiling; and the word leapt from his lips like a shrivelling flame and scorched across her face.
"Harlot!" he repeated softly. "Tell me the name of your lover!"
That bleached her. Disdain departed from her looks and she lay there quivering under his hands; her dry lips parted, but her tongue was stiff in her mouth. The blow was so utterly and profoundly unexpected. What did he mean? What could he mean? How could he know of that secret idol in that secret grove of her heart, before whose altar she had slain her girlhood—and his honour? How could he know of that sweet shameful secret that she shared with a mad or drunken man—but mad or drunk, the man she loved? Had she not buried the secret deep and sworn that no one should ever drag it from the depths of her? Was it possible that she had not buried it deep enough? Was it written across her face for all the world to see? She searched the scorching eyes above her and then at last she was afraid; her own fell and the lids closed over them.