CHAPTER XVII

"It's 'ard to give the 'andWhere the 'eart canNev-ver be."But Poppy did not hear. With hidden eyes and hands clasped tight upon the pains that racked her, she was unravelling the mystery of Life and Love.Evelyn Carson's son was born in the dawn of a late October day: heralded in by Big Ben striking the hour of five. Poppy gave one long, ravished glance at the little dimpled morsel, with its sleek, black head and features like crumpled rose-leaves, then lay back content and at peace with all the world."How sweet it is to be a woman!" she thought, forgetting all past pain and despair, all anguish to come. "My heart can never be a stone again, nor my soul a shrivelled leaf."She drowsed happily through the days that followed, letting her mind rest with her body; she thought of nothing but the sweetness of being a mother; she was intoxicated by the cling of the little lips to her breast."I am arealwoman," she said. "This is what I was born for and made beautiful for. Poor,poorold Sara!"When Nurse Selton came one day and asked if she would like to get her child "adopted," she would have struck the woman's face if it had been within reach. As it was not, she said in a voice that was a drawn sword:"Go away! I hate you!" And Nurse Selton actually understood and went away. She considered Poppy—taking one thing with another—the craziest patient she had ever had.Poppy talked to her baby afterwards. "I said I would be at peace with the world for evermore dear one; but here I am, my old self already. And I see that it will always be so. I must be at war foryoursake now. I must fightyourenemies—until you are old enough to fight them foryourself. Todaresuggest such a thing!" A little while after she whispered passionately to the sleek, black head:"She did not know she was speaking of a king's son!"CHAPTER XVIIWHEN the time came for departure from No. 10, Old Street, Poppy did not go from Westminster. The grip of the place was on her and she did not care to leave it. But she sought and found a part of more cheerful aspect—a quiet square with a triangle of green in its centre, and the spire of an old church showing above the branches of trees in one of its corners. The house where she engaged two rooms had an old-fashioned air, though upon the opening of the front door was disclosed the depressing interior common to most houses of its kind—the worn linoleum in the hall and stairway; the inevitable pretentious hall-chair and umbrella-stand; the eternal smell of fish and boiling linen. But the two rooms were an artistic find. They had been inhabited and furnished by an actress, who was married to an artist, and were original without being uncomfortable.The walls were papered with ordinary brown paper to a ledge of painted wood, above which rose a smoke-grey paper with pale zigzags upon it, making a charming background for a number of water-colour sketches and black-and-white etchings of all the chief theatrical celebrities, from Sir Henry Irving downwards.There was also a piano—old and wicked, but still a piano, and various odd and quaint bits of furniture. The owners of these things had gone to America for a two-years' tour, and being anxious to come back to their rooms when they returned, had given the landlady instructionsto "let furnished," and make what she could out of them. Poppy seized them with joy, glad to have so pleasant a setting for the struggle and fight she knew must ensue.From the first it was bound to be a handicapped fight, for the king's son behaved like one, and a tyrannical despot at that. It was plain that work would only be achieved by desperate and persistent effort at all sorts of odds and ends of time in the day and night.Probably things would have been more difficult still, but for the offices of a kindly soul who lived in the lower regions of the house by day, and ascended to somewhere near the stars at night, accompanied by her husband and two children.She had opened the door to Poppy on the first visit, and having been the medium through which the rooms and tenant were brought together, she thereafter looked upon the tenant as her specialprotégée. She was a real Cockney, born and bred in Horseferry Road—quite young still, but with the hopelessly middle-aged, slack-waisted, slip-shod look of the English working man's wife who, having achieved a husband and two children, is content to consider her fate fulfilled and herself no more a player, but merely apasséelooker-on at the great game of life. However, Mrs. Print did her looking on very good-humouredly. Her teeth were decayed, her hair in strings, but she carried an air of perpetual cheer and a wide smile. Her husband, a spruce, fresh-cheeked young cabman, looked, on the contrary, as though all the cares of the universe lay across his shoulders."'E always puts on that look," smiled Mrs. Print to Poppy; "in case I might ask 'im for an hextra sixpence for the 'ousekeeping."She "charred" for Poppy; did various things, such as lighting the sitting-room fire and keeping the hearth and fire-irons clean. During this last business, which shealways managed to prolong to the best part of an hour, she would give Poppy a brief summary of the morning news; an account of what the rest of the people in the house had been doing; what her George had said to her before he went to work; little bits of information about her two children; and advice about the treatment of Poppy's baby—generally sound.She nearly drove poor Poppy frantic, yet it was impossible to be really angry with her: she was so essentially well-meaning and so unconsciously humorous. Besides, she took the king's son into the garden of the Square for a couple of hours every fine afternoon, carrying him most carefully up and down whilst she conversed in loud, agreeable tones with a dozen and one people who passed by, exchanging chaff and banter, roaring with laughter, scolding her own children—Jimmy and Jack—who were left to amuse themselves by staring at the immaculate plots of arsenically-green grass and the bare branches of the trees. If they did anything else, their mother's tongue would wag and her finger threaten."Come off there, Jimmy! Jack, if you do that again, I'll pay you—I'll pay yousomethink merciful!" Jack, a stolid, emotionless boy, looked as though he had been badly carved out of a log of wood; but Jimmy was of a more vivid appearance, being afflicted with what his mother calledSt. Viper's Dance.In her window Poppy would sit at her table, her eyes occasionally glancing at the figures in the Square, her pen flying over the paper before her. She was writing for money. Thoughts of Fame had slipped away from her. She put her child before Fame now: and wrote no better for that.Day by day she grew paler, and the high cheek-bones had shadows beneath them that might easily turn into hollows. She had not regained flesh much, and a littleof her buoyancy was gone. What she needed was to sit in the air and sunshine all day playing with her baby's dimples. Dank Westminster, built on a swamp, low-lying and foggy, when all the rest of London was clear, was no place for her or for her baby; but she did not know it, and had no time to find out, so wrapt was she in the business of making money that would assure home and life for her child and herself.The days were all too short, and soon the midnight-oil began to burn. Thereafter, shadows reallydidchange gradually into hollows—very soft hollows, however. Still, her eyes were always blue and brave. Mrs. Print used to observe her disapprovingly and tell her that she should take a leaf out of the book of thelydyupstairs, who lay on the sofa all day reading novels."Miss Never-Sweat—that's what I calls her!" she said, contemptuously dismissing thus an anæmic blonde damsel on the first floor, who mysteriously did nothing except take a fat poodle for half an hour's walk every day. Mrs. Print's attitude towards this gracefuldilettantewas one of resentful suspicion—resentful because she did nothing: suspicious for the same reason!"With everybody helse in this 'ouse, including you, Mrs. Chard, it is"'Come day, go day,Please, God, send Sunday.'"But all days looks the same to'er," she remarked, as she diligently polished the fire-irons in Poppy's sitting-room. The latter, intensely bored, knew that it was no use trying to divert Mrs. Print from the subject until it was exhausted;then, mayhap, she would depart."When I went up to do 'er fire this morning, she says to me, she says" (here Mrs. Print pitched her voice high and fell into a drawl), "'Oh, Mrs. Print,dear, Idofeel sohill this morning. I've got pains in my 'ead and chest, and I can't henjoy my food at all. And my nerves is quiterore.' I gives one look at her yeller skin, and I says: 'Why, you've got theboil, that's whatyou'vegot, for want of getting about on your two pins. Wot you want to do is to go to the chimist's round the corner, and arst him for a pennorth of ikery-pikery. When you've tookthat, come back 'ome and turn out these two rooms of yours and cook your dinner—' She give me a look like a mad hyhena, and slabbed the door.""Now, Mrs. Print," said her listener wearily, "do make haste and finish that fender. I want to work while baby is asleep.""Yes ma'am, I shan't be another minit. I must just give the 'earth a brush up, 'a dirty 'earth makes dinner late,' and that's what mine'll be to-day, same as breakfast was, and Old George gone off in a dandy because he was late."She always spoke of her husband as Old George, her children asourJack andmyJimmy.As the days went by, writing became more and more impossible to Poppy. It had begun to be a weary grinding out of words, common-place, and uninspired. She came to hate the sight of her writing-table, because of the torment of disgust that seized her as she sat at it and read over such things as she had been able to write. And her longing to be out in the air became almost intolerable. She felt like a starved woman—starved for want of the wind and trees and flowers, anything that smelt of open free spaces such as she had known all her life until now.And nothing happened to encourage her. She had no news of herBook of Poems, and when she called to seethe publisher, he was never visible, and when she wrote she got no answer except that the reader for the firm had not been able to look through the book. Her story had not yet appeared inThe Cornfield, and the one she had followed it up with came back, accompanied by a little printed paper, which read to the effect that the editor was at present "overstocked." Of course, this was a polite way of saying that the story wasn't up to the standard of the magazine. She burned with chagrin when she first read it. Afterwards, she became hardened to the daily sight of intimations of the kind, and to the sickening thud of returned manuscripts in the letter-box.The day when she had no money in the world but the thirty shillings realised by the sale of her piece of Spanish lace, she left the baby with Mrs. Print and walked all the way to Hunter Street, on the forlorn hope that some editor might have addressed a letter to her there, enclosing a cheque. Miss Drake, the good-natured landlady, was alarmed to see her looking so ill."You are sitting to your desk too much, dear, and losing your beauty—and you know no girl can afford to dothatuntil she has forty thousand in the bank," she said with a broad smile. "Why don't you chuck writing over and try the stage? A girl of your appearance could get into the Gaiety or Daly's any day, especially if you have any kind of a voice. The change of life and scene would do you a lot of good—and take it fromme, dear, there's nothing so comforting in this world as a regular salary."On top of the 'bus she was obliged from sheer weariness to take back to Westminster, Poppy turned the idea over in her mind. The stage had never had any attraction for her. Unlike most girls, she did not hold the belief that she had only to be seen and heard upon the boards to become famous. But she could not turn away from the thought of the change from sitting at her desk; and theregular salary had its potent charm, too—Miss Drake spoke like an oracle there!However, she put the thought by for another day or two. She would give literature another chance, she said, with an ironical lip, and she essayed to finish her novel. For three days and the better part of three nights she hung over it in every moment she could spare from her child; at the end of that time she thrust the manuscript into the drawer of her table and locked it up."Lie there and wait for the inspired hour," she said. "I must look for other ways and means to boil the pot."The wrench was to leave the "king's son" at home crooning in hired arms beneath the eye of Mrs. Print.It did not take long to find out the whereabouts of theatrical agents and managers. She presented herself at the office of one of the best-known agents in London.The staircase that led to his waiting-room was crowded with lounging, clean-shaven men, and the waiting-room hummed with the voices of girls and women and more men, all gabbling at once. Phrases made themselves heard above the din."No: I won't go into panto—not if Frankie goes down on his knees to me.""Oh, he's sure to dothat, dear!""She says that her figure is her stock-in-trade—musical comedy, of course.""H'm! more stock than trade, I should say."A score or so of made-up eyes raked Poppy from under heavycomplexion-veiling; she became aware of such strong scents asfrangipaniandchypre; many ropes of large pearls; heavy fur coats flung open to reveal sparklingart-chains slung round bare, well-powdered necks. A wry-lipped quotation of Abinger's flitted through her memory:"Diamonds me.Sealskins me,I'm going on the stage."When, after weary waiting, her turn came to be admitted to the agent's inner sanctum, she found a clean-looking, brown young man, with grey hair and a shrewd eye. He shot an enveloping glance over her while she was closing the door."Well, dear, what doyouwant?" he asked briskly, but pleasantly—all theatrical people "dear" each other automatically, but Poppy, not knowing this, flushed at the term. She explained that she was seeking work on the stage."Any experience?""No.""Can you sing?""No.""Dance?""Yes." (Abinger had allowed her to take lessons in Florence.)"Good legs?"He regarded her puzzled eyes with impatience."Any photographs in tights? I like to know what I'm engaging, you know. A lot of you girls come here with your spindle-shanks hidden under flounced petticoats and flowing skirts; and your bones wrapped up in heavy coats and feather boas, and you cut a great dash, and when we get you on the stage in tights it's another story altogether—not that I'm saying it aboutyou, dear, for I can see——""I don't think I am what you require in any case," she said as she reached the door. "Good-morning."She fled through the waiting-room and down the stairs. Some of the loungers shared a smile."A greenhorn, evidently!" they said. "What has Frankie been saying?"The next day she beat her way through wind and rain to another office. And the next day to yet another. Within a week she did the whole dreary round. All the waiting-rooms were crowded, for the spring provincial tours were coming on, and engagements were being booked briskly; also, there were many vacancies occurring in the pantomimes.Several managers, taken with Poppy's appearance, offered her small parts (with a good understudy) in touring companies. But she knew that it would be impossible to think of travelling with her baby, and she did not for a moment contemplate leaving him.By talking to all the people who talked to her, and "theatricals," generally, are a kindly, sociable people, she learned that it was of no great use to try the agencies for London engagements."Go to the theatres themselves," they said; adding cheerfully: "not thatthat'smuch good either. Every stage manager has a gang of pets waiting for an opening to occur, and they never let an outsider get in."One agent, rather more kindly than the rest, suggested that she should try the Lyceum Theatre."Ravenhill is taking it for a Shakespearian season," he said. "And I should say that class of work would just suit you."Poppy thought so too, and wasted no time about finding the Lyceum."Yes, Mr. Ravenhill is seeing small-part ladies and walkers-on to-day," the door-keeper informed her confidentially, and after a long waiting she was eventually shown into the Green-room, where she found the well-known Shakespearian actor sitting on a trunk, reading his letters, in the midst of piles of scenery and robes.He was a thin, Hamlet-faced man, with a skin of goldenpallor and romance-lit eyes, and he looked at Poppy with kindness and comradeship."Have you had any experience?" he asked."None at all," said Poppy sadly. She was getting tired of the question, and felt inclined to vary the answer, but the truthful, kind eyes abashed the thought."Is there anything you could recite to me?"Poppy thought swiftly. She knew volumes of prose and poetry, but at the word everything fled from her brain except two things—Raleigh's "O Eloquent, Just and Mighty Death!" which she in somewhat morbid mood had been reading the night before, and a poem of Henley's that had been dear to her since she had loved Carson. In desperation, at last she opened her lips and gave forth the sweet, tender words, brokenly, and with tears lying on her pale cheeks, but with the voice of a bird in the garden:"When you are old and I am passed away—Passed: and your face, your golden face is grey,I think—what e'er the end, this dream of mineComforting you a friendly star shall shineDown the dim slope where still you stumble and stray."Dear Heart, it shall be so: under the swayOf death, the Past's enormous disarrayLies hushed and dark. Still tho' there come no sign,Live on well pleased; immortal and divineLove shall still tend you as God's angels may,When you are old."When she had finished she stood, swaying and pale, tears falling down. Ravenhill looked at her sadly. He thought: "This girl has more than her share of the world's hard luck.""I will take you as a walker-on," he said, "with an understudy and with the chance of a small part. You have a fine voice, and a temperament—but I need not tell you that. Of course, if you want to get on, you needto study and work hard. I can't offer you more than thirty shillings a week—with a difference if you play."He did not mention that all other walkers-on with understudies were only getting a guinea; some of them nothing at all. He only looked at her with kindness and comradeship.As for her: she could have fallen at his feet in thankfulness. The contract was signed and she went home happy.Thirty shillings a weekcertain!CHAPTER XVIIIIT was in bitter February weather that Poppy's engagement began, and there had been a week of heavy rehearsing before the opening night. She soon felt the strain of the unaccustomed work. Ravenhill's was a Repertoire-Company, and the bill was changed every week, so that while they played one play at night they were busy most of the day rehearsing another for the coming week. This meant that from ten o'clock in the morning until three or four in the afternoon, and again from seven until eleven at night, Poppy was parted from her baby. She was obliged to permanently employ a little nursemaid, and also, to her bitter sorrow, to wean her baby.She comforted herself disconsolately with the thought that the change was better for him, because she was not so vigorous now as at first. But many a time the silky black head was scalded with its mother's tears, for that she might no more feel the cling of little lips.The theatre began to interest her from a literary point of view. The writing of plays suggested itself as a fascinating medium for the expression of herself; she saw that knowledge of stage-craft would be of enormous use to her in this direction, and she became absorbed in observing and making notes on everything concerning stage technique and production.Her appearance, when "made up," was quite charming, and Ravenhill was always glad to put her into a scene, andwould give her a one-line part whenever it was possible. Often she would find herself "on" alone with the "star" in a scene—a court lady, perhaps, lingering by a window while the Queen gave forth an impassioned soliloquy; or a picturesque figure in the background of a garden-scene; but terrible shyness and emotion affected her when she had to open her lips on the stage, if only to say "Good-morrow" or "Come hither"; and her voice was altogether too delicate and canorous for stage use. She preferred to be on with the crowd—a peasant woman in a tattered skirt and kerchief, leading a hooting riot inRichard II, or a stately lady dancing in the house of theCapulets, or an Egyptian girl in the streets of Alexandria carrying a torch to lightAntonyandCleopatrato bed. Ravenhill was disappointed in her that she did not work at her voice, nor seem anxious for parts. He did not know that she was trying to serve two gods; and that all her incense was burnt at the altar of literature, for still she returned and returned again to the mistress she loved, but whose face was turned from her.She could not afford to ride to and fro from the theatre, for there were four journeys to be made on ordinary days, and onmatinéedays six, and tenpence a day made too large a hole in a salary needed for many things. So at night she took a 'bus to Westminster Bridge at the cost of a halfpenny and from thence, in all weathers, she faithfully padded-the-hoof for home. The shelter of the long stretch of St. Stephen's and the Houses of Parliament was always grateful; sometimes, just as she turned the corner of the Victoria Tower, the wind from the river would sweep and curl around her, nearly rushing her off her feet. Then came the long, cutting tramp along the Embankment. Often in those midnight walks she thought of Charles Bramham. He, too, had known walking in the biting cold on tired feet and with a painfully emptystomach! The fatigue that got hold of her sometimes was terrible. But always for the sake of the silky black head of a king's son, she laughed and worked on.The people at the theatre were kind and pleasant, and she made many friends. But they were friends of the theatre only, she kept them all rigidly out of her private life; and that not without effort, for her personality was magnetic and people always wanted to know her. She was interesting and mysterious, they thought, and presently she became the enigma of the theatre because she never lied about her salary, nor bragged of her genius, nor repeated fascinating things that "someone in front" had said about her voice and her face, nor bored anyone with tales of the great future predicted for her.Indeed, she was at this time striving with a valorous heart to live according to Stevenson's creed:"To be honest: to be kind:To earn a little—and to spend a little less."One day when she had got home early from rehearsal, and was spending some rapturous moments over the adored silken head asleep on its pillow, Mrs. Print came to her very muchen déshabille, her head wrapped in a towel, full of excitement."There's a gentleman at the front door, knocking," she said; "and, oh, ma'am, Mrs. Chard would you be so kind as to open it? As sure as I wash my 'ead, it always 'appens so!"Poppy, good-naturedly, complied, giving a switch of her eye at a mirror first, for vanity was far from being dead in her yet. She opened the door to—Charles Bramham!Pale with amazement, she stood glimmering at him through her hair."You!" she cried; then held out her hands in welcome, for welcome he truly was, with the smell and burn of Africa on him."Yes; me! I bet you didn't think I'd have the cheek to come and find you out. I had a great time digging your address out of Miss Drake. But why should you hide? Mayn't I come in?""Of course," she said, and led the way; but her manner was a little constrained. It had not been on her programme at all to let Charles Bramham, or any other man, into the secret of her life."What do you want?" she asked half crossly, when they were in the sitting-room."To see you. And you looked mightily glad to see me, at first. Don't tell me now, that you are not! But what have you been doing to yourself? London is killing you. You'd better come back to Africa, or you'll pass out. You're so thin I can see through you, and your eyes are too big for your face."He sat down and they talked eagerly. She told him something of her disappointments, more of her hopes, and at last, of being obliged to take to the theatre as a stop-gap "until such time as she began to succeed in literature.""But why work like this?" he said discontentedly. "You'll kill yourself burning two candles at once.""Not I?" said she gaily. She had no intention of letting him know that but for her stage salary she would be penniless."I don't see any sense in it," he muttered. "It can't be because you like work. No woman ever yet liked work—they weren't meant to. Anyhow, you can knock off for to-day. Put your hat on and come out for a drive and to dinner. I'll drive you to your theatre afterwards.""I'm afraid I can't," Poppy faltered. "I never goout ... I can't leave my work ... I am tired." She stopped lamely. He knew that she was not speaking the truth. The fact was, that she had given the little nursemaid an hour or two off."Ah! there's something you don't care to tell me," he said with a half-smile; but a shadow crossed his face. At that moment they were both transfixed by a sound. The king's son began to lament in the next room. Bramham would never have guessed, but he happened to see the look that leapt into her eyes at the sound; then he stood staring at her with a question in his, while the scarlet slowly mounted to her cheeks.In truth, she was filled with confusion, and did not know what to say. She remembered the time she had accepted his offer of money and help; how she had talked to him then of her work and aspirations, but had breathed no word ofthis. How could he know that the truth had been hidden even from her? What could he think but that she had deceived him, made use of him?The king's son cried again, indignantly, beseechingly. Again Bramham saw the mother-look leap to her eyes. With no word she flew from the room. When she returned she was carrying a little fragrant bundle, and she came to Bramham, who was apparently rooted to the spot where she had left him. He had heard her crooning to the child in the next room, but, like an unbelieving Thomas, he wanted still more proof. Her face gave it to him. Confusion was gone. Only tender, brooding peace and love was there. She held the baby under his eyes."My son, Charlie!"He stared down blankly at the little lovely thing, and it stared back at him."Good God!" said he; "am I dreaming? I could swear that was Eve Carson's child!""Yes," said Poppy softly, and her voice wasci risuoniamo in cristallo. "It is. But how did you know?" she wonderingly asked.Charles Bramham was dumb. He could only stare. Later, he sat down heavily in a chair and used his handkerchief."Life has held a good many surprises for me, but never one like this.Carson!... andyou!... He my dearest friend! You, well, you know what I feel about you. Yet you two have deceived me! Sprung this amazing thing on me. Why! Ican'tunderstand it.... Good God! I love that fellow! ...hecould—?""Oh! Charlie, dear friend, you go too fast. Don't judge or misjudge. Nothing is as you think. He did not deceive you ... nor did I. That night you offered to help me and I accepted, I ...I didn't know that this wonderful thing was going to happen to me... andheknows nothing. It ismysecret."Bramham digested these things as best he might. Later, he said:"Well he'sgotto know—and I shall tell him. Why, he's not that sort of fellow at all, Rosalind ... he would throw everything to Hades for the sake of a woman he loved ... and, of course, he loves you, and would be here with you if he knew.... The whole thing is the craziest mystery I ever heard of ...of course, he can't know ... but I shall tell him, if I have to go up to Borapota after him.""Never,never!" said she. "No one shall ever tell him. It ismysecret. You dare not interfere. I would never forgive you."He turned away from her, angry, sore, bitterly puzzled."Oh, Charlie," she said wistfully. "Don't be angry. This ismylife—my secret.... Leave me to do as seems best to me.... Tell me," she said softly, "how did you know that my child ... is ...hisson?""Know? Why, anyone would know. He is the dead image—and there are Eve Carson's eyes staring at me. No two men in the world have eyes like that.""Are they not beautiful? And yet so strange!—one blue and one brown! I never—" she stopped suddenly. She had almost told Bramham that she did not know that Carson's eyes looked thus, since she had never seen them, except in the darkness. But much as she liked Bramham, she could not share with himthatstrange, sweet secret.Only one more question Bramham asked her."Was it Karri you told me of that night, Rosalind?—the man you loved?""Yes," she said. "The only man I have ever loved, or will love."She dined with Bramham, after all, and before they parted she had bound him by every oath he honoured never to reveal her secret to Carson."If you do," she passionately told him, "you may precipitate both him and me into terrible misery, and neither of us would forgive you. We should probably hate you for ever. Leave alone things that you do not understand.... Howshouldyou understand! You have accidentally touched on the fringe of a strange story ... something you would never have known except by accident. For I don't intend the world to know this when it knowsmesome day, Charlie.""Why?" said he, looking keenly at her. "Are you ashamed of your child?""Ashamed!" she laughed happily. "Ashamed of the greatest joy that ever came to a woman; the son of the man she loves!"A happy look came into his face, too, for the first time since he had known the truth."That's the spirit! If a woman has the courage to take the big jump, she should have the grit to face thefences all round the course ... but I don't believe many do; and you can't blame them for that either. Rosalind, I want to tell you something. I'm a rich man, and I ... I have no children." He swallowed an odd sound in his throat and averted his eyes for a moment, but went on calmly: "I long ago made up my mind to leave every rap, when I die, to women who have done what you have done—and had to suffer for it."She looked at him thoughtfully for a while."I think you would be wrong, Charlie. People would call it putting a premium on sin, and—you couldn't really help the woman who suffered. Nothing could help her. The right kind of woman would value her suffering more than your money, believe me." Then, as she saw his saddened face, she said, "Help the little love-babies, if you like, and bring them up to be as kind and sweet a friend asyouare to women—" Impulsively he put his hand on hers lying on the dinner-table."Let me—" he began."But never offer to helpmylove-baby," she said warningly, "as long as he has a mother to work for him, and a king for his father somewhere in the world."CHAPTER XIXAT the end of April the season at the Lyceum drew to a close, and Ravenhill re-formed his company to tour the provinces.Many of those who had worked with him throughout the season were moneyed girls, with such a passion for the stage, that they were only too glad to give their services—"walking-on," dancing, and understudying—without salary, for the sake of the experience in a London theatre; and it would have been an easy matter for the manager to have composed his touring company largely of such people. But he happened to be a man with a big heart for the stragglers of the profession; those who were in it for the love of their art, too, but incidentally obliged to make a living. And so, though he did not disdain to employ occasional rich amateurs, he never allowed them to usurp the work of legitimate actors and actresses.In making a selection of people who would be useful to him by reason of their looks, or talent, or both, he included Poppy on his list, and forthwith she received a little notice during the last London week to the effect that if she cared to go on tour (with the hope of advancement if she studied) the offer was open to her. But the salary offered was smaller than she had been receiving, and she knew that it was useless to think of travelling with her small Pat and supporting herself and him on it. (Ravenhill was unaware, of course, that there was any question of supporting a child.) She was obliged to refuse the offer.With the closing of the theatre the face of the future took on a blank and appalling expression. Exercising the greatest economy, she had yet not been able to save more than three pounds out of her long engagement; and she knew not where the next money was to come from. The stories she wrote still faithfully returned. TheBook of Poems, the one brave string in her viol of hope, had been lost. The publisher said that it was only mislaid and might be found at any moment; but Poppy felt a sick certainty that she would never hear of or see her darling book again. Most foolishly, she had kept no copy of it, and though she believed that by turning up the pages of her memory she might re-write it, she could not spare the time it would cost to do this. Even if she had the necessary leisure, she despaired of ever writing her poems again in all their first perfection—a thought would surely be lost here, a line missing there!Heart-broken, rage seized her when she first received the news. She saw a red haze before her eyes as in the days when she hated Aunt Lena, and she longed for a hammer and the publisher's head on a block. Afterwards she achieved calmness that was not resignation, and went to interview the publisher and find out what he meant to do. Apparently he had not meant to do anything except take up the bland and Micawberesque attitude of waiting for the book to "turn up." But Poppy's heart was full of the rage and fear of a mother-wolf who sees famine ahead, and though she successfully hid these primitive emotions under a composed manner, there was a feverish urgency about her which, strangely convincing, subtly communicated itself to the publisher, so that presently, quite unintentionally, he found himself promising (in the event of the book not being found within three months) to pay her a sum to be agreed upon, but not less than twenty pounds. In the meantime he engaged, if the bookshould "turn up," to read it and make her aconscientious offerfor it. He did not forget to add that poems were unmarketable ware at the best of times, and that he could not hold out hope of any specially high price for hers.With these conditions Poppy was fain to be content, though there was poor comfort in them for her. Three months is not long if fame and name wait at the end. But it is a long time to wait for twenty pounds. And it is too long to starve. In a panic she started out once more on the dreary round of agents' offices and theatres. At the end of a week's wasted walking, and talking, chill despair began to eat its way into her brave heart; in the second week the chill was freezing bitter cold that enwrapped, and seemed to paralyse her senses, so that she could feel nothing but dull fear, not for herself, but for little crowing, merry Pat. At that time her thoughts turned to Bramham, her friend. But he was gone, and she knew not where to find him. He had bidden her good-bye and sailed for South America on a prolonged visit. It would be many months before he returned to Durban.In the third week, while she was eking out her last ten shillings, still desperately seeking work at the theatres, she met in the Strand a girl who had been with her at the Lyceum—one of Ravenhill's moneyed girls, pretty and charming, with a host of friends and acquaintances, of whom she bitterly complained that they would not allow her to fulfill her destiny and become aSarah Bernhardt. She and Poppy had shared the same mirror in a Lyceum dressing-room, and become friendly over their "make-up" boxes.By many little marks and signs that women judge on, Marion Ashley had concluded that Miss Chard needed every penny of the small salary she earned. Her idea was that Poppy probably had an invalid mother or sister to support; and she had often wished for an opportunity tolend a helping-hand to a girl whom she sincerely liked and admired. When, in the Strand, she met Poppy, pale and harassed, in worn shoes and an unseasonable gown, a thought shot through her quick mind and she advanced gaily, holding out her hands."You are theverygirl I wanted to see," she cried. "Come into 'Slater's' for tea, anddosee if you can help me in agreatdifficulty."While Poppy took off her gloves Marion Ashley poured out the tea and her tale. It transpired that she had a cousin who was young and pretty and rich, but with a broken back. She had injured herself in the hunting-field and would never be able to walk again."Ever since, she has become the most awful peevish creature in the world, poor thing, and one can't be surprised at that! But no one can put up with her temper, and no one will stay with her, though she has had companion after companion. She insists on their being young and pretty, and afterwards she is jealous of them and fires them out. Then her mother and her husband come and fetchmeround, no matter where I am, and really, you know, dear, it's alittlehard onmeto have mycareerinterfered with ... it isn't as though I can be of any real use, for Frances is jealous of me too, if I am in the house much. Well, I'm looking out for someone for her now, and—I thought perhaps you could help me.Dosay you can?"She looked appealingly at the pale face opposite her, but Poppy gave no sign. She had considered the matter rapidly, but—companionships were badly paid, as a rule, and she would have to be separated from her little Pat. Marion Ashley's face fell."To tell the truth, dear," she said, "I thought you might undertake it yourself. Of course, I know you're far too good for that sort of thing; but I thought youmight make a stop-gap of it—and the salary would be good—a hundred a year Frances pays, and you'd have no expenses."Poppy's face changed. A hundred a year! If shemustpart with Pat that would at least ensure him a home in the country, and she could save the rest."It is very good of you, Miss Ashley.... Will you let me think it over?""Oh, yes—anything, if you will only take it on. I should besoglad. Her husband is always round bothering the life out of me to find someone. Oh! I must tell you, dear there'sonething besides Frances's temper ...heis difficult.""Bad-tempered, too?" smiled Poppy."Farfrom it—altogether too good-tempered and fascinating—especially where a pretty girl is concerned. In fact, my dear, he's rapid—and Frances is jealous; so there you have the trouble in a nutshell. Tiresome, isn't it? It's just as well to know these things beforehand. But I daresay you'll be able to keep him in his place."This information depressed Poppy more than a little. She was beginning to realise that whether she liked them or not, she attracted men, and she would rather have heard of some place where there was no man on the scene. As it happened, she was still smarting from an experience of the night before. She had, in mistake, opened the door of a first-class carriage in the underground station at Victoria. She speedily closed it, but the one occupant, a man, had had time to observe her, and instantly he whipped the door open again and was out on the platform. A minute afterwards she found an almost empty "third" and stepped into it just as the train started, someone hard on her heels. When she looked up there was the first-class passenger opposite, smiling at her. For the rest of the journey hemade ardent love to her with his eyes, and she sat, flaming and paling there with anger. The man was serenely handsome, a gentleman in appearance at least, but his eyes had a look that angered and terrified her; a look that now she seemed to know the meaning of."It is terrible to have no innocence left! to know the meaning of a man like that!" she thought shudderingly, and she would not meet his eyes. Only she resolved thatalwaysshe would turn her feet away from the paths frequented by men."Where does your cousin live?" she asked at last. "Perhaps, I'd better go and see her, if I make up my mind I can take the engagement.""Yes,do, dear—Lower Sloane Street—I'll write the number down for you. I must fly now for rehearsal. I'm going to be in the new romantic play at The York. Send me a line there after you've seen Frances.Dotake it on, there's a darling—good-bye."Poppy spent the afternoon crooning and weeping over Pat's head. It seemed to her that she died a little death every time she thought of parting with him. But—was it not true that the little face had lost some of its pink tints of late?—that the odd eyes were growing larger? After she had dried her desperate tears and could trust herself to speak equably and reasonably, she called Mrs. Print into consultation.Mrs. Print had a sister-in-law who lived in a rose-clad cottage in Surrey, and adored babies. Poppy had often seen and talked to her, and let her take Pat out; for she came up to London constantly to try to beguile Mrs. Print to part with one of her little boys—even the vivacious Jimmy would have been made welcome.Mrs. Print assured Poppy that noDook'sbaby would be better looked after than a child in Sarah Print's care, and that she (Poppy) could go and stay down in the littlerose-clad cottage whenever she was free, for Sarah had lots of room, a lovely garden, and corn-fields all round her."You can't see nothing but 'ills and corn-fields wheresumever you look! It would drive me off my nut to live there a week, but Sarah likes it. You tike baby down and go and 'ave a look to-morrow, ma'am.""Nothing but hills and corn-fields!"The words brought a mist over Poppy's eyes.Thatwas what she wanted for her son. She kissed him and asked Mrs. Print to mind him for an hour while she went to Sloane Street.In a bright room, among flowers, the invalid woman lay on a couch, with an embroidered coverlet of crimson satin drawn up to her chin. Her face was pale and petulant, with great brown eyes that roamed restlessly and were full of peevish misery. She was of the fickle, impetuous nature that indulges in groundless hates and likings, and the moment she saw Poppy standing there, she put out her hands feverishly, as if for something she had long wanted. Poppy, indeed, was sweet and dewy-looking, as always when she came from her little love-baby, and now the added beauty of courageous renouncement lighted her lilac eyes."Ah! Iknowyou are the girl Marion was talking about," cried the invalid. "Youwillcome, won't you? How lovely you are—I shall justlovehaving you with me! Come and sit here where I can see you—but don't look at me; I can't bear to be looked at."Poppy sat down by the couch and submitted to being stared at, even touched by the pale, restless hands. Mrs. Chesney did most of the talking. She only required a monosyllable here and there, and her manner varied oddly,from a cold hauteur which she vainly tried to make indifferent, to entreaty that was almost servile."Do you like reading aloud?" she demanded, and before Poppy could speak, continued swiftly: "Oh, never mind, I don't care if you don't—of course, everybodyhatesit. Can you play?"This time she waited for an answer, and Poppy saying yes, was waved towards a beautiful Erard that stood in a far corner. Taking off her gloves, she went over to it, and immediately her fingers fell into a soft and haunting melody of Ireland. The woman on the couch closed her eyes and lay like one in a trance.While she played, Poppy resolved to take the opening offered her here. It was a living and a well-paid one. Little Pat could be sent away to a good home in the country, and though the parting must be bitter—bitter— Ah! she could not think of it! What shemustthink of was food to keep life in his little loved body, health for him in fresh sweet air; money to keep herself alive to work for him.As she rose from the piano there was a prayer of thankfulness on her lips for this fresh chance to live. A door opened and a man came nonchalantly in."Oh, Harry!" cried the invalid. "This is Miss Chard—she is going to be my new companion. Miss Chard—my husband."Poppy bowed to the man, meeting the amused cynicism of his glance gravely. Not by word or look did she betray the fact that she had ever seen him before. But thankfulness died away in her, and once more the face of the future lowered.Harry Chesney was the hero of the adventure in the underground railway carriage.While she was putting on her gloves, preparing to go, she told Mrs. Chesney that she would call in the morning, when the engagement could be finally arranged.It would have been awkward and painful to have told the sick womannowthat she was not able to accept the engagement. Being of so jealous a temperament, the invalid would probably suspect that the decision had something to do with her husband and would be caused misery in this thought."It will be simple to write to-night that circumstances have occurred which prevent me from coming," was Poppy's thought as she said good-bye."Touch the bell twice," said Mrs. Chesney."Oh! I'll see Miss Chard down," said Chesney, but Poppy had made no delay in touching the bell and a maid magically appeared.The next day she waited at the York Theatre and saw Marion Ashley after rehearsal."I wanted to thank you," she said, "and to tell you that after all I couldn't undertake that companionship. Something has happened that makes it impossible for me to leave home. I wrote to Mrs. Chesney last night."The brightness of Marion's smile was dashed for an instant, but she speedily recovered."Never mind; a lucky thing has happened here. One of the walking-on girls dropped out to-day and they want another. Mr. Lingard is a friend of mine, and he's sure to have you when he sees you—you've just the face for romantic drama. Come along and see him; he went into his office a minute ago—don't forget to say you've been with Ravenhill."And so through Marion Ashley's kindly offices Poppy found herself once more signing a contract to "walk-on-and-understudy" at a guinea a week!But the romantic drama was an unromantic failure.Long before the end of the first week, the principalswere looking at each other with blank faces, and holding conclaves in each other's dressing-rooms for the purpose of exchanging opinions and reports on the probable duration of the run. In the "walkers-on" room they gave it three weeks, andthatplaying to "paper houses" every night.Marion Ashley met Poppy in the wings during a quarter of an hour's wait that occurred in the second act."Isn't this an awful disappointment?" she said. "Have you anything in view, dear, if we come to a full-stop here?""Nothing!" said Poppy, with a brave, careless smile. "Divil a thing!""Well ... wouldn't you ... what about Mrs. Chesney? She's hankering after you still. In fact, she appears to have developed a craze for your society. She wrote to me this morning, asking me to search you out."Poppy flushed slightly. "I'm afraid I should be a failure as a companion," was all she could say. Marion looked at her with curiosity, vexation.The next day a terrible thing happened. For the first time in his short life little Pat was ill. Not very ill, just white and listless and disinclined to eat. Poppy, like a pale and silent ghost, held him in tender arms every moment of the day, except while he slept, when for his own sake she put him into his bed, but hovered near, watching, praying. Mrs. Print pooh-poohed the sickness as nothing but teething-fever, but the wild-eyed mother begged her to go out and find a doctor. A grave, kind man was found, and his words were not comforting."He is not very ill, but he wants care. London is hardly the right place for babies at this time of the year. If it is possible, I should advise you to take him away into the country."When the hour came for her to go to the theatre, Poppy called in the faithful Mrs. Print once more to watch overthe sleeping child. It broke her heart to leave him, but there was nothing else to be done. She might forfeit her engagement if she did not appear at the theatre; or, at any rate, she would forfeit part of her salary, and she needed that more than ever.She took a halfpenny tram to Victoria Street, meaning to walk from there to the theatre. Someone had left an evening paper on the seat, and she took it up to glance at the advertisements, and see if any hope for the future might be gleaned from them. As she turned over the pages her distracted eyes caught the impression of a name she knew, printed large among several other names. She looked again, and flame came into her face, light to her eyes.It was, indeed, a name she knew: and yet did not.SirEvelyn Carson! His name was on the Birthday List of Honours. He had been made a baronetfor services rendered to the Empire. Swiftly she scanned the column, until she found the short biographical paragraph which told in brief outline of his daring expedition into Borapota; of the extraordinary personal influence he had speedily acquired over the warlike people of that country and of the remarkable concessions he had gained for the Empire. He had, in fact, without bloodshed or political complications, succeeded in establishing a British Protectorate in a rich and profitable country.At the end of the column there was a further piece of information concerning Carson. It was embodied in a cablegram from Durban, which stated, with the convincing brevity peculiar to cables, that Sir Evelyn Carson, having arrived from Borapota, was to be married immediately to Miss May Mappin, only daughter and heiress of the late Mr. Isaac Mappin, former Mayor of Durban.On her dressing-table at the theatre Poppy found alittle envelope, pale-tan in colour, containing a week's salary and a note from the manager, saying that after the next night (Saturday) the play would be taken off the boards; no further salaries would be paid. Every member of the company had received a similar notice.During the wait in the second act she sought out Marion Ashley."Does Mrs. Chesney still want me?" she briefly inquired, and Marion turned to her eagerly."Of course she does. Will you go? Oh, you dear girl! I'msoglad. When will you be able to take up your residence with her?""On Monday next, I think. I can't go before as I have to ... take some one ... who is ill ... into the country. I shall stay a day there only ... unless, unless ... the ... person is ...worse.""And if the person is better?" asked Marion quickly. "Oh, my dear, you won't fail poor Frances, will you, if you can help it?""No." Poppy spoke in a perfectly calm and composed voice now, though her eyes were strange to see. "If I am alive, and have any reason to wish to continue living, you may rely upon me not to fail Mrs. Chesney."Marion did not quite understand this, but she came to the conclusion that some man Miss Chard was in love with was desperately ill, and that that accounted for her distraught look and strange words.PART IV

"It's 'ard to give the 'andWhere the 'eart canNev-ver be."

"It's 'ard to give the 'andWhere the 'eart canNev-ver be."

But Poppy did not hear. With hidden eyes and hands clasped tight upon the pains that racked her, she was unravelling the mystery of Life and Love.

Evelyn Carson's son was born in the dawn of a late October day: heralded in by Big Ben striking the hour of five. Poppy gave one long, ravished glance at the little dimpled morsel, with its sleek, black head and features like crumpled rose-leaves, then lay back content and at peace with all the world.

"How sweet it is to be a woman!" she thought, forgetting all past pain and despair, all anguish to come. "My heart can never be a stone again, nor my soul a shrivelled leaf."

She drowsed happily through the days that followed, letting her mind rest with her body; she thought of nothing but the sweetness of being a mother; she was intoxicated by the cling of the little lips to her breast.

"I am arealwoman," she said. "This is what I was born for and made beautiful for. Poor,poorold Sara!"

When Nurse Selton came one day and asked if she would like to get her child "adopted," she would have struck the woman's face if it had been within reach. As it was not, she said in a voice that was a drawn sword:

"Go away! I hate you!" And Nurse Selton actually understood and went away. She considered Poppy—taking one thing with another—the craziest patient she had ever had.

Poppy talked to her baby afterwards. "I said I would be at peace with the world for evermore dear one; but here I am, my old self already. And I see that it will always be so. I must be at war foryoursake now. I must fightyourenemies—until you are old enough to fight them foryourself. Todaresuggest such a thing!" A little while after she whispered passionately to the sleek, black head:

"She did not know she was speaking of a king's son!"

WHEN the time came for departure from No. 10, Old Street, Poppy did not go from Westminster. The grip of the place was on her and she did not care to leave it. But she sought and found a part of more cheerful aspect—a quiet square with a triangle of green in its centre, and the spire of an old church showing above the branches of trees in one of its corners. The house where she engaged two rooms had an old-fashioned air, though upon the opening of the front door was disclosed the depressing interior common to most houses of its kind—the worn linoleum in the hall and stairway; the inevitable pretentious hall-chair and umbrella-stand; the eternal smell of fish and boiling linen. But the two rooms were an artistic find. They had been inhabited and furnished by an actress, who was married to an artist, and were original without being uncomfortable.

The walls were papered with ordinary brown paper to a ledge of painted wood, above which rose a smoke-grey paper with pale zigzags upon it, making a charming background for a number of water-colour sketches and black-and-white etchings of all the chief theatrical celebrities, from Sir Henry Irving downwards.

There was also a piano—old and wicked, but still a piano, and various odd and quaint bits of furniture. The owners of these things had gone to America for a two-years' tour, and being anxious to come back to their rooms when they returned, had given the landlady instructionsto "let furnished," and make what she could out of them. Poppy seized them with joy, glad to have so pleasant a setting for the struggle and fight she knew must ensue.

From the first it was bound to be a handicapped fight, for the king's son behaved like one, and a tyrannical despot at that. It was plain that work would only be achieved by desperate and persistent effort at all sorts of odds and ends of time in the day and night.

Probably things would have been more difficult still, but for the offices of a kindly soul who lived in the lower regions of the house by day, and ascended to somewhere near the stars at night, accompanied by her husband and two children.

She had opened the door to Poppy on the first visit, and having been the medium through which the rooms and tenant were brought together, she thereafter looked upon the tenant as her specialprotégée. She was a real Cockney, born and bred in Horseferry Road—quite young still, but with the hopelessly middle-aged, slack-waisted, slip-shod look of the English working man's wife who, having achieved a husband and two children, is content to consider her fate fulfilled and herself no more a player, but merely apasséelooker-on at the great game of life. However, Mrs. Print did her looking on very good-humouredly. Her teeth were decayed, her hair in strings, but she carried an air of perpetual cheer and a wide smile. Her husband, a spruce, fresh-cheeked young cabman, looked, on the contrary, as though all the cares of the universe lay across his shoulders.

"'E always puts on that look," smiled Mrs. Print to Poppy; "in case I might ask 'im for an hextra sixpence for the 'ousekeeping."

She "charred" for Poppy; did various things, such as lighting the sitting-room fire and keeping the hearth and fire-irons clean. During this last business, which shealways managed to prolong to the best part of an hour, she would give Poppy a brief summary of the morning news; an account of what the rest of the people in the house had been doing; what her George had said to her before he went to work; little bits of information about her two children; and advice about the treatment of Poppy's baby—generally sound.

She nearly drove poor Poppy frantic, yet it was impossible to be really angry with her: she was so essentially well-meaning and so unconsciously humorous. Besides, she took the king's son into the garden of the Square for a couple of hours every fine afternoon, carrying him most carefully up and down whilst she conversed in loud, agreeable tones with a dozen and one people who passed by, exchanging chaff and banter, roaring with laughter, scolding her own children—Jimmy and Jack—who were left to amuse themselves by staring at the immaculate plots of arsenically-green grass and the bare branches of the trees. If they did anything else, their mother's tongue would wag and her finger threaten.

"Come off there, Jimmy! Jack, if you do that again, I'll pay you—I'll pay yousomethink merciful!" Jack, a stolid, emotionless boy, looked as though he had been badly carved out of a log of wood; but Jimmy was of a more vivid appearance, being afflicted with what his mother calledSt. Viper's Dance.

In her window Poppy would sit at her table, her eyes occasionally glancing at the figures in the Square, her pen flying over the paper before her. She was writing for money. Thoughts of Fame had slipped away from her. She put her child before Fame now: and wrote no better for that.

Day by day she grew paler, and the high cheek-bones had shadows beneath them that might easily turn into hollows. She had not regained flesh much, and a littleof her buoyancy was gone. What she needed was to sit in the air and sunshine all day playing with her baby's dimples. Dank Westminster, built on a swamp, low-lying and foggy, when all the rest of London was clear, was no place for her or for her baby; but she did not know it, and had no time to find out, so wrapt was she in the business of making money that would assure home and life for her child and herself.

The days were all too short, and soon the midnight-oil began to burn. Thereafter, shadows reallydidchange gradually into hollows—very soft hollows, however. Still, her eyes were always blue and brave. Mrs. Print used to observe her disapprovingly and tell her that she should take a leaf out of the book of thelydyupstairs, who lay on the sofa all day reading novels.

"Miss Never-Sweat—that's what I calls her!" she said, contemptuously dismissing thus an anæmic blonde damsel on the first floor, who mysteriously did nothing except take a fat poodle for half an hour's walk every day. Mrs. Print's attitude towards this gracefuldilettantewas one of resentful suspicion—resentful because she did nothing: suspicious for the same reason!

"With everybody helse in this 'ouse, including you, Mrs. Chard, it is

"'Come day, go day,Please, God, send Sunday.'

"'Come day, go day,Please, God, send Sunday.'

"But all days looks the same to'er," she remarked, as she diligently polished the fire-irons in Poppy's sitting-room. The latter, intensely bored, knew that it was no use trying to divert Mrs. Print from the subject until it was exhausted;then, mayhap, she would depart.

"When I went up to do 'er fire this morning, she says to me, she says" (here Mrs. Print pitched her voice high and fell into a drawl), "'Oh, Mrs. Print,dear, Idofeel sohill this morning. I've got pains in my 'ead and chest, and I can't henjoy my food at all. And my nerves is quiterore.' I gives one look at her yeller skin, and I says: 'Why, you've got theboil, that's whatyou'vegot, for want of getting about on your two pins. Wot you want to do is to go to the chimist's round the corner, and arst him for a pennorth of ikery-pikery. When you've tookthat, come back 'ome and turn out these two rooms of yours and cook your dinner—' She give me a look like a mad hyhena, and slabbed the door."

"Now, Mrs. Print," said her listener wearily, "do make haste and finish that fender. I want to work while baby is asleep."

"Yes ma'am, I shan't be another minit. I must just give the 'earth a brush up, 'a dirty 'earth makes dinner late,' and that's what mine'll be to-day, same as breakfast was, and Old George gone off in a dandy because he was late."

She always spoke of her husband as Old George, her children asourJack andmyJimmy.

As the days went by, writing became more and more impossible to Poppy. It had begun to be a weary grinding out of words, common-place, and uninspired. She came to hate the sight of her writing-table, because of the torment of disgust that seized her as she sat at it and read over such things as she had been able to write. And her longing to be out in the air became almost intolerable. She felt like a starved woman—starved for want of the wind and trees and flowers, anything that smelt of open free spaces such as she had known all her life until now.

And nothing happened to encourage her. She had no news of herBook of Poems, and when she called to seethe publisher, he was never visible, and when she wrote she got no answer except that the reader for the firm had not been able to look through the book. Her story had not yet appeared inThe Cornfield, and the one she had followed it up with came back, accompanied by a little printed paper, which read to the effect that the editor was at present "overstocked." Of course, this was a polite way of saying that the story wasn't up to the standard of the magazine. She burned with chagrin when she first read it. Afterwards, she became hardened to the daily sight of intimations of the kind, and to the sickening thud of returned manuscripts in the letter-box.

The day when she had no money in the world but the thirty shillings realised by the sale of her piece of Spanish lace, she left the baby with Mrs. Print and walked all the way to Hunter Street, on the forlorn hope that some editor might have addressed a letter to her there, enclosing a cheque. Miss Drake, the good-natured landlady, was alarmed to see her looking so ill.

"You are sitting to your desk too much, dear, and losing your beauty—and you know no girl can afford to dothatuntil she has forty thousand in the bank," she said with a broad smile. "Why don't you chuck writing over and try the stage? A girl of your appearance could get into the Gaiety or Daly's any day, especially if you have any kind of a voice. The change of life and scene would do you a lot of good—and take it fromme, dear, there's nothing so comforting in this world as a regular salary."

On top of the 'bus she was obliged from sheer weariness to take back to Westminster, Poppy turned the idea over in her mind. The stage had never had any attraction for her. Unlike most girls, she did not hold the belief that she had only to be seen and heard upon the boards to become famous. But she could not turn away from the thought of the change from sitting at her desk; and theregular salary had its potent charm, too—Miss Drake spoke like an oracle there!

However, she put the thought by for another day or two. She would give literature another chance, she said, with an ironical lip, and she essayed to finish her novel. For three days and the better part of three nights she hung over it in every moment she could spare from her child; at the end of that time she thrust the manuscript into the drawer of her table and locked it up.

"Lie there and wait for the inspired hour," she said. "I must look for other ways and means to boil the pot."

The wrench was to leave the "king's son" at home crooning in hired arms beneath the eye of Mrs. Print.

It did not take long to find out the whereabouts of theatrical agents and managers. She presented herself at the office of one of the best-known agents in London.

The staircase that led to his waiting-room was crowded with lounging, clean-shaven men, and the waiting-room hummed with the voices of girls and women and more men, all gabbling at once. Phrases made themselves heard above the din.

"No: I won't go into panto—not if Frankie goes down on his knees to me."

"Oh, he's sure to dothat, dear!"

"She says that her figure is her stock-in-trade—musical comedy, of course."

"H'm! more stock than trade, I should say."

A score or so of made-up eyes raked Poppy from under heavycomplexion-veiling; she became aware of such strong scents asfrangipaniandchypre; many ropes of large pearls; heavy fur coats flung open to reveal sparklingart-chains slung round bare, well-powdered necks. A wry-lipped quotation of Abinger's flitted through her memory:

"Diamonds me.Sealskins me,I'm going on the stage."

"Diamonds me.Sealskins me,I'm going on the stage."

When, after weary waiting, her turn came to be admitted to the agent's inner sanctum, she found a clean-looking, brown young man, with grey hair and a shrewd eye. He shot an enveloping glance over her while she was closing the door.

"Well, dear, what doyouwant?" he asked briskly, but pleasantly—all theatrical people "dear" each other automatically, but Poppy, not knowing this, flushed at the term. She explained that she was seeking work on the stage.

"Any experience?"

"No."

"Can you sing?"

"No."

"Dance?"

"Yes." (Abinger had allowed her to take lessons in Florence.)

"Good legs?"

He regarded her puzzled eyes with impatience.

"Any photographs in tights? I like to know what I'm engaging, you know. A lot of you girls come here with your spindle-shanks hidden under flounced petticoats and flowing skirts; and your bones wrapped up in heavy coats and feather boas, and you cut a great dash, and when we get you on the stage in tights it's another story altogether—not that I'm saying it aboutyou, dear, for I can see——"

"I don't think I am what you require in any case," she said as she reached the door. "Good-morning."

She fled through the waiting-room and down the stairs. Some of the loungers shared a smile.

"A greenhorn, evidently!" they said. "What has Frankie been saying?"

The next day she beat her way through wind and rain to another office. And the next day to yet another. Within a week she did the whole dreary round. All the waiting-rooms were crowded, for the spring provincial tours were coming on, and engagements were being booked briskly; also, there were many vacancies occurring in the pantomimes.

Several managers, taken with Poppy's appearance, offered her small parts (with a good understudy) in touring companies. But she knew that it would be impossible to think of travelling with her baby, and she did not for a moment contemplate leaving him.

By talking to all the people who talked to her, and "theatricals," generally, are a kindly, sociable people, she learned that it was of no great use to try the agencies for London engagements.

"Go to the theatres themselves," they said; adding cheerfully: "not thatthat'smuch good either. Every stage manager has a gang of pets waiting for an opening to occur, and they never let an outsider get in."

One agent, rather more kindly than the rest, suggested that she should try the Lyceum Theatre.

"Ravenhill is taking it for a Shakespearian season," he said. "And I should say that class of work would just suit you."

Poppy thought so too, and wasted no time about finding the Lyceum.

"Yes, Mr. Ravenhill is seeing small-part ladies and walkers-on to-day," the door-keeper informed her confidentially, and after a long waiting she was eventually shown into the Green-room, where she found the well-known Shakespearian actor sitting on a trunk, reading his letters, in the midst of piles of scenery and robes.

He was a thin, Hamlet-faced man, with a skin of goldenpallor and romance-lit eyes, and he looked at Poppy with kindness and comradeship.

"Have you had any experience?" he asked.

"None at all," said Poppy sadly. She was getting tired of the question, and felt inclined to vary the answer, but the truthful, kind eyes abashed the thought.

"Is there anything you could recite to me?"

Poppy thought swiftly. She knew volumes of prose and poetry, but at the word everything fled from her brain except two things—Raleigh's "O Eloquent, Just and Mighty Death!" which she in somewhat morbid mood had been reading the night before, and a poem of Henley's that had been dear to her since she had loved Carson. In desperation, at last she opened her lips and gave forth the sweet, tender words, brokenly, and with tears lying on her pale cheeks, but with the voice of a bird in the garden:

"When you are old and I am passed away—Passed: and your face, your golden face is grey,I think—what e'er the end, this dream of mineComforting you a friendly star shall shineDown the dim slope where still you stumble and stray."Dear Heart, it shall be so: under the swayOf death, the Past's enormous disarrayLies hushed and dark. Still tho' there come no sign,Live on well pleased; immortal and divineLove shall still tend you as God's angels may,When you are old."

"When you are old and I am passed away—Passed: and your face, your golden face is grey,I think—what e'er the end, this dream of mineComforting you a friendly star shall shineDown the dim slope where still you stumble and stray.

"Dear Heart, it shall be so: under the swayOf death, the Past's enormous disarrayLies hushed and dark. Still tho' there come no sign,Live on well pleased; immortal and divineLove shall still tend you as God's angels may,When you are old."

When she had finished she stood, swaying and pale, tears falling down. Ravenhill looked at her sadly. He thought: "This girl has more than her share of the world's hard luck."

"I will take you as a walker-on," he said, "with an understudy and with the chance of a small part. You have a fine voice, and a temperament—but I need not tell you that. Of course, if you want to get on, you needto study and work hard. I can't offer you more than thirty shillings a week—with a difference if you play."

He did not mention that all other walkers-on with understudies were only getting a guinea; some of them nothing at all. He only looked at her with kindness and comradeship.

As for her: she could have fallen at his feet in thankfulness. The contract was signed and she went home happy.

Thirty shillings a weekcertain!

IT was in bitter February weather that Poppy's engagement began, and there had been a week of heavy rehearsing before the opening night. She soon felt the strain of the unaccustomed work. Ravenhill's was a Repertoire-Company, and the bill was changed every week, so that while they played one play at night they were busy most of the day rehearsing another for the coming week. This meant that from ten o'clock in the morning until three or four in the afternoon, and again from seven until eleven at night, Poppy was parted from her baby. She was obliged to permanently employ a little nursemaid, and also, to her bitter sorrow, to wean her baby.

She comforted herself disconsolately with the thought that the change was better for him, because she was not so vigorous now as at first. But many a time the silky black head was scalded with its mother's tears, for that she might no more feel the cling of little lips.

The theatre began to interest her from a literary point of view. The writing of plays suggested itself as a fascinating medium for the expression of herself; she saw that knowledge of stage-craft would be of enormous use to her in this direction, and she became absorbed in observing and making notes on everything concerning stage technique and production.

Her appearance, when "made up," was quite charming, and Ravenhill was always glad to put her into a scene, andwould give her a one-line part whenever it was possible. Often she would find herself "on" alone with the "star" in a scene—a court lady, perhaps, lingering by a window while the Queen gave forth an impassioned soliloquy; or a picturesque figure in the background of a garden-scene; but terrible shyness and emotion affected her when she had to open her lips on the stage, if only to say "Good-morrow" or "Come hither"; and her voice was altogether too delicate and canorous for stage use. She preferred to be on with the crowd—a peasant woman in a tattered skirt and kerchief, leading a hooting riot inRichard II, or a stately lady dancing in the house of theCapulets, or an Egyptian girl in the streets of Alexandria carrying a torch to lightAntonyandCleopatrato bed. Ravenhill was disappointed in her that she did not work at her voice, nor seem anxious for parts. He did not know that she was trying to serve two gods; and that all her incense was burnt at the altar of literature, for still she returned and returned again to the mistress she loved, but whose face was turned from her.

She could not afford to ride to and fro from the theatre, for there were four journeys to be made on ordinary days, and onmatinéedays six, and tenpence a day made too large a hole in a salary needed for many things. So at night she took a 'bus to Westminster Bridge at the cost of a halfpenny and from thence, in all weathers, she faithfully padded-the-hoof for home. The shelter of the long stretch of St. Stephen's and the Houses of Parliament was always grateful; sometimes, just as she turned the corner of the Victoria Tower, the wind from the river would sweep and curl around her, nearly rushing her off her feet. Then came the long, cutting tramp along the Embankment. Often in those midnight walks she thought of Charles Bramham. He, too, had known walking in the biting cold on tired feet and with a painfully emptystomach! The fatigue that got hold of her sometimes was terrible. But always for the sake of the silky black head of a king's son, she laughed and worked on.

The people at the theatre were kind and pleasant, and she made many friends. But they were friends of the theatre only, she kept them all rigidly out of her private life; and that not without effort, for her personality was magnetic and people always wanted to know her. She was interesting and mysterious, they thought, and presently she became the enigma of the theatre because she never lied about her salary, nor bragged of her genius, nor repeated fascinating things that "someone in front" had said about her voice and her face, nor bored anyone with tales of the great future predicted for her.

Indeed, she was at this time striving with a valorous heart to live according to Stevenson's creed:

"To be honest: to be kind:To earn a little—and to spend a little less."

"To be honest: to be kind:To earn a little—and to spend a little less."

One day when she had got home early from rehearsal, and was spending some rapturous moments over the adored silken head asleep on its pillow, Mrs. Print came to her very muchen déshabille, her head wrapped in a towel, full of excitement.

"There's a gentleman at the front door, knocking," she said; "and, oh, ma'am, Mrs. Chard would you be so kind as to open it? As sure as I wash my 'ead, it always 'appens so!"

Poppy, good-naturedly, complied, giving a switch of her eye at a mirror first, for vanity was far from being dead in her yet. She opened the door to—Charles Bramham!

Pale with amazement, she stood glimmering at him through her hair.

"You!" she cried; then held out her hands in welcome, for welcome he truly was, with the smell and burn of Africa on him.

"Yes; me! I bet you didn't think I'd have the cheek to come and find you out. I had a great time digging your address out of Miss Drake. But why should you hide? Mayn't I come in?"

"Of course," she said, and led the way; but her manner was a little constrained. It had not been on her programme at all to let Charles Bramham, or any other man, into the secret of her life.

"What do you want?" she asked half crossly, when they were in the sitting-room.

"To see you. And you looked mightily glad to see me, at first. Don't tell me now, that you are not! But what have you been doing to yourself? London is killing you. You'd better come back to Africa, or you'll pass out. You're so thin I can see through you, and your eyes are too big for your face."

He sat down and they talked eagerly. She told him something of her disappointments, more of her hopes, and at last, of being obliged to take to the theatre as a stop-gap "until such time as she began to succeed in literature."

"But why work like this?" he said discontentedly. "You'll kill yourself burning two candles at once."

"Not I?" said she gaily. She had no intention of letting him know that but for her stage salary she would be penniless.

"I don't see any sense in it," he muttered. "It can't be because you like work. No woman ever yet liked work—they weren't meant to. Anyhow, you can knock off for to-day. Put your hat on and come out for a drive and to dinner. I'll drive you to your theatre afterwards."

"I'm afraid I can't," Poppy faltered. "I never goout ... I can't leave my work ... I am tired." She stopped lamely. He knew that she was not speaking the truth. The fact was, that she had given the little nursemaid an hour or two off.

"Ah! there's something you don't care to tell me," he said with a half-smile; but a shadow crossed his face. At that moment they were both transfixed by a sound. The king's son began to lament in the next room. Bramham would never have guessed, but he happened to see the look that leapt into her eyes at the sound; then he stood staring at her with a question in his, while the scarlet slowly mounted to her cheeks.

In truth, she was filled with confusion, and did not know what to say. She remembered the time she had accepted his offer of money and help; how she had talked to him then of her work and aspirations, but had breathed no word ofthis. How could he know that the truth had been hidden even from her? What could he think but that she had deceived him, made use of him?

The king's son cried again, indignantly, beseechingly. Again Bramham saw the mother-look leap to her eyes. With no word she flew from the room. When she returned she was carrying a little fragrant bundle, and she came to Bramham, who was apparently rooted to the spot where she had left him. He had heard her crooning to the child in the next room, but, like an unbelieving Thomas, he wanted still more proof. Her face gave it to him. Confusion was gone. Only tender, brooding peace and love was there. She held the baby under his eyes.

"My son, Charlie!"

He stared down blankly at the little lovely thing, and it stared back at him.

"Good God!" said he; "am I dreaming? I could swear that was Eve Carson's child!"

"Yes," said Poppy softly, and her voice wasci risuoniamo in cristallo. "It is. But how did you know?" she wonderingly asked.

Charles Bramham was dumb. He could only stare. Later, he sat down heavily in a chair and used his handkerchief.

"Life has held a good many surprises for me, but never one like this.Carson!... andyou!... He my dearest friend! You, well, you know what I feel about you. Yet you two have deceived me! Sprung this amazing thing on me. Why! Ican'tunderstand it.... Good God! I love that fellow! ...hecould—?"

"Oh! Charlie, dear friend, you go too fast. Don't judge or misjudge. Nothing is as you think. He did not deceive you ... nor did I. That night you offered to help me and I accepted, I ...I didn't know that this wonderful thing was going to happen to me... andheknows nothing. It ismysecret."

Bramham digested these things as best he might. Later, he said:

"Well he'sgotto know—and I shall tell him. Why, he's not that sort of fellow at all, Rosalind ... he would throw everything to Hades for the sake of a woman he loved ... and, of course, he loves you, and would be here with you if he knew.... The whole thing is the craziest mystery I ever heard of ...of course, he can't know ... but I shall tell him, if I have to go up to Borapota after him."

"Never,never!" said she. "No one shall ever tell him. It ismysecret. You dare not interfere. I would never forgive you."

He turned away from her, angry, sore, bitterly puzzled.

"Oh, Charlie," she said wistfully. "Don't be angry. This ismylife—my secret.... Leave me to do as seems best to me.... Tell me," she said softly, "how did you know that my child ... is ...hisson?"

"Know? Why, anyone would know. He is the dead image—and there are Eve Carson's eyes staring at me. No two men in the world have eyes like that."

"Are they not beautiful? And yet so strange!—one blue and one brown! I never—" she stopped suddenly. She had almost told Bramham that she did not know that Carson's eyes looked thus, since she had never seen them, except in the darkness. But much as she liked Bramham, she could not share with himthatstrange, sweet secret.

Only one more question Bramham asked her.

"Was it Karri you told me of that night, Rosalind?—the man you loved?"

"Yes," she said. "The only man I have ever loved, or will love."

She dined with Bramham, after all, and before they parted she had bound him by every oath he honoured never to reveal her secret to Carson.

"If you do," she passionately told him, "you may precipitate both him and me into terrible misery, and neither of us would forgive you. We should probably hate you for ever. Leave alone things that you do not understand.... Howshouldyou understand! You have accidentally touched on the fringe of a strange story ... something you would never have known except by accident. For I don't intend the world to know this when it knowsmesome day, Charlie."

"Why?" said he, looking keenly at her. "Are you ashamed of your child?"

"Ashamed!" she laughed happily. "Ashamed of the greatest joy that ever came to a woman; the son of the man she loves!"

A happy look came into his face, too, for the first time since he had known the truth.

"That's the spirit! If a woman has the courage to take the big jump, she should have the grit to face thefences all round the course ... but I don't believe many do; and you can't blame them for that either. Rosalind, I want to tell you something. I'm a rich man, and I ... I have no children." He swallowed an odd sound in his throat and averted his eyes for a moment, but went on calmly: "I long ago made up my mind to leave every rap, when I die, to women who have done what you have done—and had to suffer for it."

She looked at him thoughtfully for a while.

"I think you would be wrong, Charlie. People would call it putting a premium on sin, and—you couldn't really help the woman who suffered. Nothing could help her. The right kind of woman would value her suffering more than your money, believe me." Then, as she saw his saddened face, she said, "Help the little love-babies, if you like, and bring them up to be as kind and sweet a friend asyouare to women—" Impulsively he put his hand on hers lying on the dinner-table.

"Let me—" he began.

"But never offer to helpmylove-baby," she said warningly, "as long as he has a mother to work for him, and a king for his father somewhere in the world."

AT the end of April the season at the Lyceum drew to a close, and Ravenhill re-formed his company to tour the provinces.

Many of those who had worked with him throughout the season were moneyed girls, with such a passion for the stage, that they were only too glad to give their services—"walking-on," dancing, and understudying—without salary, for the sake of the experience in a London theatre; and it would have been an easy matter for the manager to have composed his touring company largely of such people. But he happened to be a man with a big heart for the stragglers of the profession; those who were in it for the love of their art, too, but incidentally obliged to make a living. And so, though he did not disdain to employ occasional rich amateurs, he never allowed them to usurp the work of legitimate actors and actresses.

In making a selection of people who would be useful to him by reason of their looks, or talent, or both, he included Poppy on his list, and forthwith she received a little notice during the last London week to the effect that if she cared to go on tour (with the hope of advancement if she studied) the offer was open to her. But the salary offered was smaller than she had been receiving, and she knew that it was useless to think of travelling with her small Pat and supporting herself and him on it. (Ravenhill was unaware, of course, that there was any question of supporting a child.) She was obliged to refuse the offer.

With the closing of the theatre the face of the future took on a blank and appalling expression. Exercising the greatest economy, she had yet not been able to save more than three pounds out of her long engagement; and she knew not where the next money was to come from. The stories she wrote still faithfully returned. TheBook of Poems, the one brave string in her viol of hope, had been lost. The publisher said that it was only mislaid and might be found at any moment; but Poppy felt a sick certainty that she would never hear of or see her darling book again. Most foolishly, she had kept no copy of it, and though she believed that by turning up the pages of her memory she might re-write it, she could not spare the time it would cost to do this. Even if she had the necessary leisure, she despaired of ever writing her poems again in all their first perfection—a thought would surely be lost here, a line missing there!

Heart-broken, rage seized her when she first received the news. She saw a red haze before her eyes as in the days when she hated Aunt Lena, and she longed for a hammer and the publisher's head on a block. Afterwards she achieved calmness that was not resignation, and went to interview the publisher and find out what he meant to do. Apparently he had not meant to do anything except take up the bland and Micawberesque attitude of waiting for the book to "turn up." But Poppy's heart was full of the rage and fear of a mother-wolf who sees famine ahead, and though she successfully hid these primitive emotions under a composed manner, there was a feverish urgency about her which, strangely convincing, subtly communicated itself to the publisher, so that presently, quite unintentionally, he found himself promising (in the event of the book not being found within three months) to pay her a sum to be agreed upon, but not less than twenty pounds. In the meantime he engaged, if the bookshould "turn up," to read it and make her aconscientious offerfor it. He did not forget to add that poems were unmarketable ware at the best of times, and that he could not hold out hope of any specially high price for hers.

With these conditions Poppy was fain to be content, though there was poor comfort in them for her. Three months is not long if fame and name wait at the end. But it is a long time to wait for twenty pounds. And it is too long to starve. In a panic she started out once more on the dreary round of agents' offices and theatres. At the end of a week's wasted walking, and talking, chill despair began to eat its way into her brave heart; in the second week the chill was freezing bitter cold that enwrapped, and seemed to paralyse her senses, so that she could feel nothing but dull fear, not for herself, but for little crowing, merry Pat. At that time her thoughts turned to Bramham, her friend. But he was gone, and she knew not where to find him. He had bidden her good-bye and sailed for South America on a prolonged visit. It would be many months before he returned to Durban.

In the third week, while she was eking out her last ten shillings, still desperately seeking work at the theatres, she met in the Strand a girl who had been with her at the Lyceum—one of Ravenhill's moneyed girls, pretty and charming, with a host of friends and acquaintances, of whom she bitterly complained that they would not allow her to fulfill her destiny and become aSarah Bernhardt. She and Poppy had shared the same mirror in a Lyceum dressing-room, and become friendly over their "make-up" boxes.

By many little marks and signs that women judge on, Marion Ashley had concluded that Miss Chard needed every penny of the small salary she earned. Her idea was that Poppy probably had an invalid mother or sister to support; and she had often wished for an opportunity tolend a helping-hand to a girl whom she sincerely liked and admired. When, in the Strand, she met Poppy, pale and harassed, in worn shoes and an unseasonable gown, a thought shot through her quick mind and she advanced gaily, holding out her hands.

"You are theverygirl I wanted to see," she cried. "Come into 'Slater's' for tea, anddosee if you can help me in agreatdifficulty."

While Poppy took off her gloves Marion Ashley poured out the tea and her tale. It transpired that she had a cousin who was young and pretty and rich, but with a broken back. She had injured herself in the hunting-field and would never be able to walk again.

"Ever since, she has become the most awful peevish creature in the world, poor thing, and one can't be surprised at that! But no one can put up with her temper, and no one will stay with her, though she has had companion after companion. She insists on their being young and pretty, and afterwards she is jealous of them and fires them out. Then her mother and her husband come and fetchmeround, no matter where I am, and really, you know, dear, it's alittlehard onmeto have mycareerinterfered with ... it isn't as though I can be of any real use, for Frances is jealous of me too, if I am in the house much. Well, I'm looking out for someone for her now, and—I thought perhaps you could help me.Dosay you can?"

She looked appealingly at the pale face opposite her, but Poppy gave no sign. She had considered the matter rapidly, but—companionships were badly paid, as a rule, and she would have to be separated from her little Pat. Marion Ashley's face fell.

"To tell the truth, dear," she said, "I thought you might undertake it yourself. Of course, I know you're far too good for that sort of thing; but I thought youmight make a stop-gap of it—and the salary would be good—a hundred a year Frances pays, and you'd have no expenses."

Poppy's face changed. A hundred a year! If shemustpart with Pat that would at least ensure him a home in the country, and she could save the rest.

"It is very good of you, Miss Ashley.... Will you let me think it over?"

"Oh, yes—anything, if you will only take it on. I should besoglad. Her husband is always round bothering the life out of me to find someone. Oh! I must tell you, dear there'sonething besides Frances's temper ...heis difficult."

"Bad-tempered, too?" smiled Poppy.

"Farfrom it—altogether too good-tempered and fascinating—especially where a pretty girl is concerned. In fact, my dear, he's rapid—and Frances is jealous; so there you have the trouble in a nutshell. Tiresome, isn't it? It's just as well to know these things beforehand. But I daresay you'll be able to keep him in his place."

This information depressed Poppy more than a little. She was beginning to realise that whether she liked them or not, she attracted men, and she would rather have heard of some place where there was no man on the scene. As it happened, she was still smarting from an experience of the night before. She had, in mistake, opened the door of a first-class carriage in the underground station at Victoria. She speedily closed it, but the one occupant, a man, had had time to observe her, and instantly he whipped the door open again and was out on the platform. A minute afterwards she found an almost empty "third" and stepped into it just as the train started, someone hard on her heels. When she looked up there was the first-class passenger opposite, smiling at her. For the rest of the journey hemade ardent love to her with his eyes, and she sat, flaming and paling there with anger. The man was serenely handsome, a gentleman in appearance at least, but his eyes had a look that angered and terrified her; a look that now she seemed to know the meaning of.

"It is terrible to have no innocence left! to know the meaning of a man like that!" she thought shudderingly, and she would not meet his eyes. Only she resolved thatalwaysshe would turn her feet away from the paths frequented by men.

"Where does your cousin live?" she asked at last. "Perhaps, I'd better go and see her, if I make up my mind I can take the engagement."

"Yes,do, dear—Lower Sloane Street—I'll write the number down for you. I must fly now for rehearsal. I'm going to be in the new romantic play at The York. Send me a line there after you've seen Frances.Dotake it on, there's a darling—good-bye."

Poppy spent the afternoon crooning and weeping over Pat's head. It seemed to her that she died a little death every time she thought of parting with him. But—was it not true that the little face had lost some of its pink tints of late?—that the odd eyes were growing larger? After she had dried her desperate tears and could trust herself to speak equably and reasonably, she called Mrs. Print into consultation.

Mrs. Print had a sister-in-law who lived in a rose-clad cottage in Surrey, and adored babies. Poppy had often seen and talked to her, and let her take Pat out; for she came up to London constantly to try to beguile Mrs. Print to part with one of her little boys—even the vivacious Jimmy would have been made welcome.

Mrs. Print assured Poppy that noDook'sbaby would be better looked after than a child in Sarah Print's care, and that she (Poppy) could go and stay down in the littlerose-clad cottage whenever she was free, for Sarah had lots of room, a lovely garden, and corn-fields all round her.

"You can't see nothing but 'ills and corn-fields wheresumever you look! It would drive me off my nut to live there a week, but Sarah likes it. You tike baby down and go and 'ave a look to-morrow, ma'am."

"Nothing but hills and corn-fields!"

The words brought a mist over Poppy's eyes.Thatwas what she wanted for her son. She kissed him and asked Mrs. Print to mind him for an hour while she went to Sloane Street.

In a bright room, among flowers, the invalid woman lay on a couch, with an embroidered coverlet of crimson satin drawn up to her chin. Her face was pale and petulant, with great brown eyes that roamed restlessly and were full of peevish misery. She was of the fickle, impetuous nature that indulges in groundless hates and likings, and the moment she saw Poppy standing there, she put out her hands feverishly, as if for something she had long wanted. Poppy, indeed, was sweet and dewy-looking, as always when she came from her little love-baby, and now the added beauty of courageous renouncement lighted her lilac eyes.

"Ah! Iknowyou are the girl Marion was talking about," cried the invalid. "Youwillcome, won't you? How lovely you are—I shall justlovehaving you with me! Come and sit here where I can see you—but don't look at me; I can't bear to be looked at."

Poppy sat down by the couch and submitted to being stared at, even touched by the pale, restless hands. Mrs. Chesney did most of the talking. She only required a monosyllable here and there, and her manner varied oddly,from a cold hauteur which she vainly tried to make indifferent, to entreaty that was almost servile.

"Do you like reading aloud?" she demanded, and before Poppy could speak, continued swiftly: "Oh, never mind, I don't care if you don't—of course, everybodyhatesit. Can you play?"

This time she waited for an answer, and Poppy saying yes, was waved towards a beautiful Erard that stood in a far corner. Taking off her gloves, she went over to it, and immediately her fingers fell into a soft and haunting melody of Ireland. The woman on the couch closed her eyes and lay like one in a trance.

While she played, Poppy resolved to take the opening offered her here. It was a living and a well-paid one. Little Pat could be sent away to a good home in the country, and though the parting must be bitter—bitter— Ah! she could not think of it! What shemustthink of was food to keep life in his little loved body, health for him in fresh sweet air; money to keep herself alive to work for him.

As she rose from the piano there was a prayer of thankfulness on her lips for this fresh chance to live. A door opened and a man came nonchalantly in.

"Oh, Harry!" cried the invalid. "This is Miss Chard—she is going to be my new companion. Miss Chard—my husband."

Poppy bowed to the man, meeting the amused cynicism of his glance gravely. Not by word or look did she betray the fact that she had ever seen him before. But thankfulness died away in her, and once more the face of the future lowered.

Harry Chesney was the hero of the adventure in the underground railway carriage.

While she was putting on her gloves, preparing to go, she told Mrs. Chesney that she would call in the morning, when the engagement could be finally arranged.

It would have been awkward and painful to have told the sick womannowthat she was not able to accept the engagement. Being of so jealous a temperament, the invalid would probably suspect that the decision had something to do with her husband and would be caused misery in this thought.

"It will be simple to write to-night that circumstances have occurred which prevent me from coming," was Poppy's thought as she said good-bye.

"Touch the bell twice," said Mrs. Chesney.

"Oh! I'll see Miss Chard down," said Chesney, but Poppy had made no delay in touching the bell and a maid magically appeared.

The next day she waited at the York Theatre and saw Marion Ashley after rehearsal.

"I wanted to thank you," she said, "and to tell you that after all I couldn't undertake that companionship. Something has happened that makes it impossible for me to leave home. I wrote to Mrs. Chesney last night."

The brightness of Marion's smile was dashed for an instant, but she speedily recovered.

"Never mind; a lucky thing has happened here. One of the walking-on girls dropped out to-day and they want another. Mr. Lingard is a friend of mine, and he's sure to have you when he sees you—you've just the face for romantic drama. Come along and see him; he went into his office a minute ago—don't forget to say you've been with Ravenhill."

And so through Marion Ashley's kindly offices Poppy found herself once more signing a contract to "walk-on-and-understudy" at a guinea a week!

But the romantic drama was an unromantic failure.

Long before the end of the first week, the principalswere looking at each other with blank faces, and holding conclaves in each other's dressing-rooms for the purpose of exchanging opinions and reports on the probable duration of the run. In the "walkers-on" room they gave it three weeks, andthatplaying to "paper houses" every night.

Marion Ashley met Poppy in the wings during a quarter of an hour's wait that occurred in the second act.

"Isn't this an awful disappointment?" she said. "Have you anything in view, dear, if we come to a full-stop here?"

"Nothing!" said Poppy, with a brave, careless smile. "Divil a thing!"

"Well ... wouldn't you ... what about Mrs. Chesney? She's hankering after you still. In fact, she appears to have developed a craze for your society. She wrote to me this morning, asking me to search you out."

Poppy flushed slightly. "I'm afraid I should be a failure as a companion," was all she could say. Marion looked at her with curiosity, vexation.

The next day a terrible thing happened. For the first time in his short life little Pat was ill. Not very ill, just white and listless and disinclined to eat. Poppy, like a pale and silent ghost, held him in tender arms every moment of the day, except while he slept, when for his own sake she put him into his bed, but hovered near, watching, praying. Mrs. Print pooh-poohed the sickness as nothing but teething-fever, but the wild-eyed mother begged her to go out and find a doctor. A grave, kind man was found, and his words were not comforting.

"He is not very ill, but he wants care. London is hardly the right place for babies at this time of the year. If it is possible, I should advise you to take him away into the country."

When the hour came for her to go to the theatre, Poppy called in the faithful Mrs. Print once more to watch overthe sleeping child. It broke her heart to leave him, but there was nothing else to be done. She might forfeit her engagement if she did not appear at the theatre; or, at any rate, she would forfeit part of her salary, and she needed that more than ever.

She took a halfpenny tram to Victoria Street, meaning to walk from there to the theatre. Someone had left an evening paper on the seat, and she took it up to glance at the advertisements, and see if any hope for the future might be gleaned from them. As she turned over the pages her distracted eyes caught the impression of a name she knew, printed large among several other names. She looked again, and flame came into her face, light to her eyes.

It was, indeed, a name she knew: and yet did not.SirEvelyn Carson! His name was on the Birthday List of Honours. He had been made a baronetfor services rendered to the Empire. Swiftly she scanned the column, until she found the short biographical paragraph which told in brief outline of his daring expedition into Borapota; of the extraordinary personal influence he had speedily acquired over the warlike people of that country and of the remarkable concessions he had gained for the Empire. He had, in fact, without bloodshed or political complications, succeeded in establishing a British Protectorate in a rich and profitable country.

At the end of the column there was a further piece of information concerning Carson. It was embodied in a cablegram from Durban, which stated, with the convincing brevity peculiar to cables, that Sir Evelyn Carson, having arrived from Borapota, was to be married immediately to Miss May Mappin, only daughter and heiress of the late Mr. Isaac Mappin, former Mayor of Durban.

On her dressing-table at the theatre Poppy found alittle envelope, pale-tan in colour, containing a week's salary and a note from the manager, saying that after the next night (Saturday) the play would be taken off the boards; no further salaries would be paid. Every member of the company had received a similar notice.

During the wait in the second act she sought out Marion Ashley.

"Does Mrs. Chesney still want me?" she briefly inquired, and Marion turned to her eagerly.

"Of course she does. Will you go? Oh, you dear girl! I'msoglad. When will you be able to take up your residence with her?"

"On Monday next, I think. I can't go before as I have to ... take some one ... who is ill ... into the country. I shall stay a day there only ... unless, unless ... the ... person is ...worse."

"And if the person is better?" asked Marion quickly. "Oh, my dear, you won't fail poor Frances, will you, if you can help it?"

"No." Poppy spoke in a perfectly calm and composed voice now, though her eyes were strange to see. "If I am alive, and have any reason to wish to continue living, you may rely upon me not to fail Mrs. Chesney."

Marion did not quite understand this, but she came to the conclusion that some man Miss Chard was in love with was desperately ill, and that that accounted for her distraught look and strange words.

PART IV

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