Her tone expressed extraordinary conviction, and everyone gazed at Poppy with curiosity and even a faint hint of suspicion—except Clem, whose eyes were full of warmth and friendliness, and Carson, who pretended to be bored.But Poppy only laughed a little—and by that had her will of Carson at last. He forgot to be bored, and gave her a long, deep look. Unfortunately, she was obliged to turn to Mrs. Capron at this moment to make an answer."Perhaps," she said pensively, "we were rivals for a king's affection in some past age——"Mrs. Capron's proud, valuable look came over her, and she stiffened as if she had received a dig with a hat-pin: the men enjoyed themselves secretly. But no one was prepared for the rest of the context."—Of course,Iwas the successful rival or it would have been I who remembered, and not you."This solution left Mrs. Capron cold-eyed and everyone else laughing in some fashion; but there was a nervousness in the air, and Clem vaguely wished that the gong would sound; for long ere this the dusk had fallen deeply, and little Cinthie was asleep in the hammock. It appeared that Carson still held to his plan to depart, and chose this moment to make his farewells in a small storm of abuse and remonstrance. One person minded his decision less than she might have done ten minutes before. The eyes veiled behind mists of hair knew that their service had not been in vain. The invisible hands, that had dragged and strained at Eve Carson's will, slackened their hold and rested awhile. Only: as he went down the flight of shallow stone steps that led to the gate—a tall, powerful figure in grey—a woman's spirit went with him, entreating, demanding to go with him, not to Bramham's home, but to the ends of life and death.CHAPTER XXIIINEARLY a week passed before Bramham again saw Poppy, for private affairs unexpectedly engrossed him. He made time, however, to write her a letter full of excellent business advice. Later, he called at the Royal with her papers, and found her writing letters in the library. She had just come in, and a big, plumed, grey hat, which matched her pale grey voile gown, lay on the table beside her. Moreover, the flush of animation was on her cheek and a shine in her eye."Oh! come now; you look as if you had taken fresh hold," said Bramham approvingly. "I've brought back your papers, and thanks awfully for letting me look through them. It is pretty clear that if you would only work, you could be coining money as fast as you like. You've caught on at home and everywhere else. Your books have been the wonder of this country for months, and descriptions of your plays have been cabled out to every big centre—but, of course, you know all this."She nodded."And, of course, you know how your little book of poems rang up the country from end to end! By Jove! if the Durban people only knew who they had in the midst of them——"She looked at him quickly, apprehensively."It is more important than ever to have no one know. Since I saw you and talked to you I have reconstructed my plans entirely. Life seems to mean something to meagain for the first time since—" She closed her eyes. He did not speak, only looked at her with compassionate eyes and waited."I have made up my mind not to let everything go to wreck," she began again presently. "I'm going to work again—Iamworking." She threw back her head and smiled."Hurrah!" cried Bramham. "I can't tell you how pleased I am to hear it. As a business man, I hated to see such a chance of making money chucked to the winds—and as a—well, as a plain man, I can't help applauding when I see what it does to your looks.""You are certainly plain spoken," said she, smiling. "But I want to tell you—I've taken a little house. I've just been there with the painter, and it's all going to be ready by the end of the week.""Where is it?""Facing the bay—a funny little bungalow-cottage, with an old-fashioned garden and a straggly path through sea-pinks right down to nearly the edge of the waves.""It sounds altogether too romantic for Durban. I expect these features exist only in your imagination. But can you possibly mean Briony Cottage?""But, of course.""Good—itisa dear little place—and with the bay right before you, you'll hardly know you're down in the town.""I'm having a companion." She made a mouth, and Bramham himself could not disguise a faint twist of his smile."Mrs. Portal said it was necessary, if I didn't want to be black-balled by the Durban ladies, so she found me a Miss Allendner, a nice little old thing, who is lonely and unattached, but eminently respectable andgenteel.""Ah! I know her—a weary sort of plucked turkey," said the graceless Bramham, "with a nose that was oncetoo much exposed to the winter winds and has never recovered. Never mind, you'll need someone to keep off the crowd as soon as they find out who you are——""But they are not going to find out! Charlie, I see that I must speak to you seriously about this. I believe you think my not wanting to be known is affectation; it is nothing of the kind. It ismost imperativethat my identity should be kept secret. I must tell you the reason at last—I am working now for money to fight out a case in the Law Courts before anyone in Africa knows who I am. Under my own name no one will recognise me or be particularly interested; but, of course, pleading asEve Destinywould be another matter. I couldn't keep that quiet.""A law case! Great— Well, Rosalind," he said ironically, "you certainly do spring some surprises on me. Is it about your plays? Why can't you let me manage it for you? But what kind of case can it be?""A divorce case—or, rather, I think a nullity case is what it would be called.""Awhat?" Bramham could say no more."Don't look at me like that, best of friends ... I know, I know, you are beginning to think I am not worth your friendship ... that I don't seem to understand even the first principles of friendship—honesty and candour!... Try and have patience with me, Charlie.... Perhaps Ioughtto have told you before ... but I've never told a single soul ... in fact, I have always refused to consider that I am married. It is a long story, and includes part of my childhood. The man who adopted me and brought me up in an old farmhouse in the Transvaal allowed me to go through a marriage ceremony with him without my knowing what I was doing ... an old French priest married us ... he couldn't speak a word of English ... only Kaffir ... and he married us inFrench, which I could not understand at that time. Afterwards, my life went on as usual, and for years I continued to look upon the man simply as my guardian. At last, here in Durban, when I was just eighteen, he suddenly sprang the story upon me, and claimed me for his wife. I was horrified, revolted ... my liking for him, which arose entirely from gratitude, turned to detestation on hearing it.... I believed myself to have been merely trapped. In any case, whatever I might have felt for him didn't matter then. It was too late. I belonged to ... the man you know I belong to ... I didn't know what to do at first. There were terrible circumstances in connection with ... the man I love ... which made me think sometimes that I could never meet him again ... I would just keep the soul he had waked in me, and live for work and Fame. But the man I was married to wanted to keep me to my bond ... and then suddenly he found out ... something ... I don't quite know how it came to pass, but heknew... I was obliged to fly from his house half clad.... It wasthenI found refuge with Sophie Cornell.""And these things all happened here? Do you mean to tell me that blackguard was some Durban fellow?""He did live here at that time.""And now?""He appears to be here still ... I saw him the other day. He behaved to me as though I were really Miss Chard ... but I know him. He will fight tooth and nail ... I don't suppose he cares about me in the least, but he will lie his soul away, I believe, and spend his last penny for revenge.""Well, upon my soul! I can't think who the fellow can be!" said Bramham artlessly, and Poppy could not refrain from smiling."I don't think there would be any good in telling you,Charlie. You may know him ... in fact, you are sure to, in a small place like this ... and it would only make things difficult for you."Bramham was plainly vexed that she did not confide in him, but she was perfectly well aware that he knew Abinger intimately, and fearing that something might leak out and spoil her plans, she decided not to tell him."You should have tackled the thing at home," said Bramham thoughtfully. "They'd have fixed you up in no time there, I believe.""No, I had advice about it, and was told that as the ceremony had taken place in the Transvaal, and the man is out here, I must go to the Rand Courts ... and, by the way, I must tell you—I wrote to the mission monastery which the old priest belonged to and made inquiries. They wrote back that old Father Eugène was dead, but that they had already gone into the matter on behalf ofmy husband, who had made representations to them. That they could only inform me that the ceremony performed by the Father was absolutely valid, and they were prepared to uphold it in every way. They added that they were well aware that it was my intention to try and disprove the marriage and for my own purposes escape from my sacred bond, but that I must not expect any assistance from them in my immoral purpose.... So, you see, I have them to fight as well. Another thing is, that the only other witness to the ceremony was a woman who would swear her soul away at the bidding of the man who calls himself my husband.""By Jove! It looks as if you're up against a tough proposition, as they say in America!" was Bramham's verdict at last. "But you'll pull through, I'm certain, and you've pluck enough. As for money—well, you know that I am not poor——"He stopped, staring at her pale face."Don't ever offer to lend me money," she said fiercely rudely."Why, you let me lend you some before! And were unusual enough to pay it back." Smiling broadly, he added: "I never had such a thing happen to me before!" But she would not smile. The subject seemed an unfortunate one, for she did not regain her joyous serenity during the rest of the interview.He went home wrapped in cogitation, turning over in his mind the name of every man in the place on the chance of its being the name of the culprit. Abinger's name, amongst others, certainly came up for consideration, but was instantly dismissed as an impossibility, for he had plainly given everyone to understand that—after the time of his disappearance from the Rand, until his readvent in Durban on the day Bramham had met him coming off the Mail-boat—he had been travelling abroad, and there was no reason to disbelieve this statement. Moreover, Bramham was aware of other facts in Abinger's private life which made it seem absolutely impossible that he could be the villain of Rosalind Chard's tale.The day Poppy moved to her new home, Clem Portal was the first person to visit her and wish her luck and happiness there.They took tea in the largest room in the house, which was to be Poppy's working-room and study. It was long and low, with two bay-windows, and the walls had been distempered in pale soft grey. The floor was dark and polished, and the only strong note of colour in the room a rose-red Persian rug before the quaint fireplace. The chintzes Poppy had come upon with great joy in one of the local shops: ivory-white with green ivy leaves scattered over them—a great relief from the everlasting pinkroses of the usual chintz. The grey walls were guileless of pictures, except for the faithful blueHopewhich overhung the fireplace above vases full of tall fronds of maidenhair-fern, and some full-length posters of the Beardsley school in black-and-white wash. Poppy's writing-table was in one window, and on the wall where she could always see it while at work was a water-colour of a little boy standing in a field of corn and poppies. The tea-table was in the other window. She and Clem sat looking at the blue bay flapping and rippling under the afternoon sunlight, with the long bluff ridge sleeping sullenly beyond."You've found the sweetest place in Durban," said Clem. "Whenever I feel like a mealie—agreenmealie—which, alas! is very often, I shall sneak down here to 'simplify, simplify.' While you work I'll sit in the sun in the Yogi attitude and triumphantly contemplate eternity and jelly-fish."Later, she said:"Mary Capron wanted to come too, but I told her I must have you all to myself to-day. I'm afraid she was rather hurt, but ... I was not sure whether you liked her, Poppy. I do hope you are going to, dear, for I love her, and we shall be a triangle with sore corners, if youdon't."Poppy was dreaming with her tea-cup in her lap, and the glitter of the bay in her eyes."Do you think three women ever get on well together?" she asked evasively. "There is always one out."Clem was quick to see the meaning of this. A look of disappointment came over her gay, gentle face."Mary and I have been friends for years," she said. "She is the only woman I have never had any inspiration about; but though I am blinded by her beauty, I know her to be good and true. It would be a terribly disloyal thingif I deserted her for you ... what am I to do if you two don't like each other?""Ifyoulove Mrs. Capron, Clem, she won't need to bother about the liking of a woman like me.""She likesyou, however. And I'm sure when you get to know her better, you'll like her.... I daresay when two beautiful women first meet, a feeling of antagonism is natural. Butyoushould be above that, Poppy. And poor Mary is a subject for pity rather than dislike—any woman is who has drawn blank in the big lottery. I daresay you knowthatabout her—most people do.""I have gathered that she is not very happily married," said Poppy."Have you ever seen him?""I believe the first time I ever saw you, Clem, he was with you.""Ah, yes, I remember now—and we talked of you, the girl with the Burne-Jones eyes." Most women would have made this an easy stepping-stone into the flowing brook of confidences, and found out where Poppy was going to on that sunny day, and where she had been all the long years since; but Clem Portal had an instinct about questions that hurt. Her husband often said of her:"She is that lovely thing—a close woman!" Now, the peculiarity of a close woman is that she neither probes into the dark deeps of others, nor allows herself to be probed."Nick Capron was notquiteimpossible in those days," she continued; "but now a good place for him would be under the débris heaps outside de Beers'. When she first met him he was a romantic character on the down-grade. Had been all over the world and gone through every kind of adventure; lost a fortune at Monte-Carlo on a system of his own for breaking the bank; written a book (ormore probably got it written for him) about his adventures as a cowboy in Texas; and made quite a name for himself as a scout in the war between Chili and Peru. Amongst other things he has an intimate knowledge of torpedoes and is supposed to have been the author of the plan that sent the Chilian transport, theLoa, to the bottom by a torpedo launched from an apparently harmless fruit-boat. At any rate, he was seen on the fruit-boat, and when he came to Africa shortly afterwards, they said it was to escape the vengeance of the Chilians. Mary, who was on a visit to this country, met him at the Cape when everyone was talking about him. Unfortunately, when women hear sparkling things about a man, they do not always think to inquire about the sparkling things he drinks—and how muchthathas to do with the matter. She fell in love with him, or his reputation, and they were married in a great whirl of romantic emotion. Well, you know what happens to people who engage in whirling?"Poppy looked up, anxious to learn, and Clem continued with the air of an oracle of Thebes:"After a time they find themselves sitting still on the ground, very sick. That is Mary's position. She sits flat on the ground and surveys a world that makes her feel sick. Nick Capron, however, continues to whirl.""She must have great courage to face the situation," said Poppy sincerely."She has more than courage," said Clem, alight with loyal enthusiasm. "She is one in a thousand. You know enough of Africa, I daresay, Poppy, to know that life out here is just one huge temptation to a beautiful unhappily-married woman. The place teems with men—good, bad, and indifferent, but all interesting (unless drink is sweeping them down hill too fast), and they all want to be kind to her. Many of them are splendidfellows. But the best of men are half-devil, half-child, and nothing more, where a beautiful woman is concerned. You know that, don't you?"What Poppydidknow was that Clem had far greater knowledge of the world of men and women than she had, and she was only too interested to sit and imbibe wisdom. She frankly said so."I thoroughly understand these things," Clem replied without pride. "Sinners can never take me by surprise, whatever they do. Perhaps it is because I might easily have been a devil of the deepest dye myself, but for luck—Billy is my luck."This from the most orthodox woman in Africa! Poppy could not refrain from a trill of laughter."I think you are one of those who paint themselves black to been suitewith the people you like, Clemmie," she said; "but you're not extraordinarily clever as an artist.""Not so clever asyou'llhave to be when Mrs. Gruyère comes round to have her miniature done," said Clem maliciously. "I must think about going, darling. Mary is coming to fetch me in her carriage and she will be here in a minute or two now. Before I go, I want you to promise me to steal away whenever you can. If you sit too much over work you will fall asleep, and have to be put in the poppy-garden instead of flaunting and flaming in the sunshine and being a joy to behold. What a fascinating flower it is! Both your names are fascinating ...Eve Destiny!... what could have prompted it, I wonder?""Simply an idea. I am a child of destiny, I always think—at least, the old blind hag seems to have been at some pains to fling me about from pillar to post. Eve—" She turned away, knowing that she could not mention that name without giving some sign of the tumult itroused within her. "Eve—was the most primitive person I could think of" (the lie did not come very glibly), "andIam primitive. If I were my real self I should be running loose in the woods somewhere with a wild-cat's skin round me.""Well, you wouldn't run alone for long, that's very certain," laughed Clem."No, I should want my mate wherever and whatever I was"—Clem laughed again at her frankness, but she went on dreamfully—"a Bedouin, or a shaggy Thibetan on the roof of the world, or a 'cassowary on the plains of Timbuctoo.' Oh, Clem! the sound of the wind in forest trees—the sea—the desert with an unknown horizon, are better to me than all the cities and civilisation in the world—yet here I sit!" She threw out her hands and laughed joylessly."You ought to marry an explorer—or a hunter of big game," said Clem thoughtfully, and got up and looked out of the window. "Here comes one in the carriage with Mary. But he is an Irishman, so I wouldn't advise you to lookhisway.... An Irishman should never be given more than a Charles Wyndhamesque part on the stage of any woman's life ... a person to love, but not to be in love with....""Oh, Clem! You are Irish yourself——"Clem did not turn round. She went on talking out of the window and watching the approaching carriage."Yes, and I love everyone and everything from that sad green land ... the very name of Ireland sends a ray of joy right through me ... and its dear blue-eyed, grey-eyed people! Trust an Irish-woman, Poppy, when she is true-bred ... but never fall in love with an Irishman ... there is no fixity of tenure ... he will give you his hand with his heart in it ... but when you come to look there for comfort, you will find a bare knife foryour breast ... unstable as water ... too loving of love ... too understanding of another's heart's desire ... too quick to grant, too quick to take away ... the tale of their lips changing with the moon's changes—even with the weather.... Hullo, Mary! Here I am.... How do you do, Karri?"Mrs. Capron's carriage had pulled up before Poppy's little side-gate, which gave on to the embankment. She was gowned in black, a daring rose-red hat upon her lovely hair, and by her side was Evelyn Carson. She waved at the two women in the window, but did not leave the carriage. Carson came instead, making a few strides of the little straggly, sea-shelled path."We've come to drag Mrs. Portal away," he said to Poppy, after shaking hands through the window, "having just met her husband taking home two of the hungriest-looking ruffians you ever saw."Clem gave a cry of woe and began to pin on her hat."The wretch! I thought he was going to dine at the Club.""He gave us strict orders to send you home at once," laughed Carson, "so Mrs. Capron won't come in.""Who are the men?" demanded Clem."Two brutes just arrived by to-day's boat, with a sea-edge to their appetites. I should say that nothing short of a ten-course banquet would appease them."Clem's groans were terrible."Cook will have prepared half a chicken's wing for me. She always starves me when I'm alone. You come back with me," she commanded Carson. "If you talk beautifully to them they won't notice the lightness of themenu.""Oh, but I'd rather come when you are prepared," said the graceless Carson. "I'm hungry, too. When you've gone I'm going to ask Miss Chard for a cup of tea."Smiling, he plucked a sea-pink and stuck it in his coat. They were in the garden now on the way to the carriage."Deserter! Well, Mary,you'llhave to come and let them feed upon your damask cheek—something has got to be done."Poppy exchanged greetings with Mrs. Capron, and presently the two women drove away, leaving her and Carson standing there with the gleam of the sunlit bay in their eyes. Turning, she found him staring in an odd way at her hair, which she was wearing piled into a crown, with the usual fronds falling softly down. Her lids drooped for a moment under his strange eyes, but her voice was perfectly even and conventional as she asked if he would really care for tea."I should, indeed—and to come into the restful grey room I got a glimpse of through the window. It reminded me of a cool, cloudy day in the middle of summer."Pleasure at his approval brought a faint wave of colour into the face she was determined to mask of all expression. She led the way indoors, he following, his eyes travelling swiftly from the crowned head she carried with so brave an air on her long throat, down the little straight back that was short like the classical women's, giving fine sweeping length from waist to heel.She rang for fresh tea and went to the tea-table. Carson stood about the room, seeming to fill it."If you are fond of grey, we have a taste in common," he said, and she gave him a quick, upward glance. The face which Africa's sun had branded her own looked extraordinarily dark above the light-grey of his clothes and the little pink flower stuck in his coat. It seemed to her that no woman had ever loved so debonair a man as this Irishman with his careless eyes and rustling voice."I lovegreenbest of all colours," she answered steadily; "but one gets tired of green walls now that they arefashionable and everyone has them—" her voice broke off suddenly. In his looming about the room he had stopped dead beforeHopeover the mantelpiece. The cup Poppy held rattled in its saucer. He presently asked who the picture was by, and where he, too, could get a copy of it."I like it," he said. "It seems to me in a vague way that I know that picture well, yet I don't believe I have ever seen it before ... strange...!" He stared at it again, and she made no response. For the moment she was back in a little upper chamber in Westminster.He came presently over to the tea-table, and was about to sit down when another picture caught his eye—the water-colour of the little child among the poppies and corn. He stepped before it and stayed looking for a long time. At last he said, laughing constrainedly:"You will think I am mad ... but I imagine I knowthatpicture too ... that little chap is extraordinarily like someone I know ... I can't think who ... but I'm certain ... is it some of your work, Miss Chard?"He looked at her with keen inquiry, but his glance changed to one of astonishment. Her eyes were closed and she was pale as a primrose; her hands had fallen to her sides.A moment afterwards she recovered herself and was handing him a cup of tea with some inconsequent remark. She had made absolutely no response to his questions about either picture, and he thought the fact rather remarkable.Afterwards they talked and he forgot surprise (for the time being) in listening to the shy graces of thought to which she gave utterance and watching her inexpressibly charming delicacies of manner. When he left her the magic of her was on him; she had bound him with the spellof his own country; but he did not know it. If hehadknown it he would have repudiated it with all his strength, for already he was a bound man."His honour rooted in dishonour stood."CHAPTER XXIVTHE women of Durban received Poppy into their midst with suspicion and disfavour, which they carefully veiled because they could find out absolutely nothing, damning or otherwise, about her, and also because Mrs. Portal's introductions were as good as a certificate of birth, marriage, and death, and to be questioned as little; and Mrs. Portal's position was such that no woman dared assail her for exercising her privileges. What they could do, however, was narrow their eyes, sharpen their claws, and lie in wait, and this they did with a patience and zest worthy of their species.Meanwhile, those who sought Poppy might sometimes find her at the house of Mrs. Portal; but not as often as she wished, for work chained her almost perpetually, and she was working against time. She was straining every nerve to have her work finished and paid for, and her law case quietly settled in Johannesburg, before the time came for Carson to set out for his five years' exile in Borapota. She was working for freedom and bondage and life—for, indeed, all that life had to offer her now was the word of a man bidding her to follow him into bondage. It was hard on her that while she worked she must lose time and opportunities of meeting him and winding more spells to bind him. But—she had grown used to fighting her battles against odds. So she gave up six solid hours of daylight and two of the night to hard labour; and she made a rule never to count the hours, which weremany, that were spent at her deskdreaming. For no writer does work of any consequence without dreaming, even if the dream is not always of work.Miss Allendner might have found life a dull affair in Briony Cottage had she not been of that domesticated type which finds satisfaction and pleasure in managing a household and ordering good meals. Under her rule the little cottage became a well-ordered, comfortable home, where things ran on oiled wheels, and peace and contentment reigned. No one and nothing bothered Poppy, and the long, bright hours of day were hers to work in uninterruptedly. Such visitors as called, and some did call, if only out of curiosity, were received by Miss Allendner, and regaled with dainty teas and mysteriously impressive statements as to Miss Chard'sworkwhich unfortunately kept her so busy that she could see no one—at present. The companion had of necessity been let into the secret of her employer's work and identity, for Poppy was a careless creature with letters and papers, and it irked her to have to exercise caution with an intimate member of her household. Poor Miss Allendner almost exploded with the greatness and importance of the information. But she was a faithful and trustworthy soul, and happy for the first time in all her needy, half-rationed life.If Poppy had been a bread-and-butter woman she might have been happy, too, in some fashion, within the trim, well-ordered confines of comfortable mediocrity. But it was not there that her desire lay. She had tasted of the wine and fruit of life—Love, and wanderings in far lands, and vagabondage. Bread-and-butter could never satisfy her again.Work was wine, too. She felt the fire of it circling in her veins, even when wearied out she flung her books and pencils from her and ran out to the sea. And playwas wine—when on some lovely evening she arrayed herself amazingly, took rickshaw and Miss Allendner and ascended the wide, sloping road that led to Clem Portal's home on the Berea.The Portals' social circle varied, because it was constantly being enlarged or decreased by the comings and goings of travellers and visitors; for, besides knowing everyone worth knowing in South Africa, they could beckon friends and acquaintances from the four poles. Add to this that they were both charming, witty, cultivated people, with the true Irish love for bestowing hospitality and the true Irish grace in bestowing it, and it will be easily understood that all delightful and interesting people who came to South Africa sought them as the bee seeks clover.As a background to new faces could always be found those of fixed and steadfast friends—Mrs. Capron's—the de Greys'—the Laces'. Always Carson, when he came to Natal; and Abinger, because he was both interesting and something of a crony of Bill Portal's.A sprinkling of Durban people came and went.Evening is a pleasant time in Natal, and the Portals' moonlit gardens and lawns and long verandahs lent themselves agreeably to strolling people, tired of the clang and glare of the day. With someone always at the piano to sprinkle the still air with melody, it was pleasant to saunter, the dew in your hair and all the sounds of the night-things about you, while you talked with someone whose interest interested you, or gossiped of life as it could, or would, or might be, or of "Home," meaning England, which through the glamour of an African night seems the moon of all men's Desire. There are more intense sudden joys in Life than these, but few more poignantly sweet.To be Mrs. Portal's friend was to share her friends, to know them, to gossip with them, to criticise and be inturn criticised by them. Sport, books, music, pictures, people—all that goes to the making of life worth the living, came under discussion; and in Africa, where everyone is using every sense of mind and body, living and feeling every moment of life, there are always new things to be said on these subjects—or perhaps only things that are so many centuries old that they sound new. Truth, after all, is older than the everlasting hills.Naturally, there was never much grouping. General conversation has more than a liability to platitude, or, at best, to flippancy, and the finest talking is never done in groups, buttête-à-tête. Indeed, it is on record by a thinker of some importance that the best things men say are said to women who probably don't understand them:"To the women who didn't know why(And now we know they could never know why)And did not understand."That is as may be. Remains the fact that the best talkers (apart, of course, from orators, politicians, and professional diners-out) do not talk for a crowd, and the most potent phrases and epigrams—when epigrams are notvieux jeu—are made for one, or at the most, two listeners.Poppy's ears took in many pretty and many witty things.Bill Portal was a blithe soul, overflowing with gay parables and maxims for the unwise, whom he claimed to be the salt of the earth.Abinger was epigrammatic, sardonic, and satanic, and he never asked for more than one listener—a woman for preference, as she would certainly repeat what he said—and there were other reasons. But the women of the Portals' circle recognised a serpent when they met him, however leafy the garden, and always preferred to listen to his wisdom in twos and threes. With Poppy he neverencompassed any talk at all, unless she felt Clem strong at her back. He smiled at this: the smile of the waiting man to whom everything cometh at last.Nick Capron never graced the assemblies with his handsome dissipated presence. His lust was for poker and his fellow-men—which meant the Club and small hours. He was never even known to fetch his wife. But many a man was pleased and honoured to do his duty for him. Sometimes she stayed all night with her friend Clem. Sometimes Carson took her home in a rickshaw.The women with attentive husbands pitied her amongst themselves; but she gave no sign of discontent, and they never ventured to offer sympathy. Invariably she looked wonderfully beautiful—and, therefore, it was not necessary for her to exert herself to much conversation. Since Poppy's soft thrush-note had first been heard in Clem Portal's verandah, Mrs. Capron's laugh had been silent: though it was a pretty laugh, too. But her smile was as alluring as the sound of a silvery brooklet, and sometimes the sympathetic wives trembled when they saw their husbands lingering near her—not to talk, but to look. She sat so fearlessly under bright light, and looked so flawlessly good. It was, indeed, a comfort to remember that she was as good as she looked, or she would not be Mrs. Portal's closest friend. It was remembered, too, that she had never tried to beguile any woman's man away from her.When one wife after another had ceased to tremble for her man, realising that this Circe did not use her toils, they rewarded her by saying amongst themselves that it must be sad to be socold. This warmed the coldest of them—with a glow of self-satisfaction.Mary Capron did not bother about any of them. The riddle she sought to read was Rosalind Chard. Always she watched Poppy, and pondered where she had seen herbefore. Poppy suspected this, but it did not agitate her. She had prepared another soft-answer-warranted-not-to-turn-away-wrath if Mary Capron should attack her in the open again. But Mary Capron, if she was not witty, was wise. She was no fencer, and had no intention of encountering Miss Chard's foil with the button off. She preferred to choose her own weapon, time, and place, and to pursue the little duel in her own fashion. She was merely "getting her hand in" when she said to Abinger, looking dreamily at Poppy the while:"Did you ever hear of a Sphinx without a secret?""It's what Wilde taxed the modern society woman with being, I believe," he answered idly; he was easily one of the best-read men in Africa. "But it would not apply out here.""No," she said dreamily. "Everyone has a secret in this country, haven't they? even girls."At another time she and Carson were near when Poppy, with her arm in Clem's, presented Luce Abinger with a suave answer, so heavily encrusted with salt, that even his seasoned tongue went dry. However, his impertinence had warranted punishment, so he bore it as best he might. And Clem's tact oiled the troubled waters.But Mary Capron said something to Carson that kept him awake that night."She'squiteclever, isn't she? Only it's a pity she has to begin at the beginning for herself."Carson had scarcely been struck by Miss Chard'scleverness—considering that on both his first and second meeting with her she had had odd lapses of something very likegaucherie. But he thought her interesting, arresting, and beautiful. He knew of no reason why he should think of her at all; but he sometimes found her face andher voice amongst his thoughts and considered the fact a curious and rather annoying thing.And the sight and sound of her had an extraordinary power at times to rouse to active, vivid life, a dream of the past that was old grief and pain.Circumstance sometimes threw them together in the verandahs or out under the Southern-Cross flaming above the garden, and Poppy's low laugh might be heard mingling with his voice; but she did not always laugh because she was amused.Carson's silver tongue could take on an amazingly sharp edge. Being an Irishman, he was a law unto himself, with a fine taste for unconventionality in other people. But if he knew South Africa from one end to the other, he also knew men and cities, and the rules that govern women all the world over. Gradually he had become to be aware that Miss Chard outraged the most important of these by being both unclassifiable and mysterious. Even in what calls itself society in South Africa, women and their belongings and connections must be above-board and open to inspection. An unattached woman has got to prove her right to social status there, as elsewhere. If she cannot, she must prepare to take the consequences—and the least unpleasant of these is to have the worst believed of her.Of course, Rosalind Chard was backed by Mrs. Portal, but that did not prevent tongues from wagging.Carson took it upon himself to let Miss Chard know something of these things whenever Fate ordained that he and she should walk under the stars together.It was wittily done, by the delicate instrumentality of chosen implication, and it never missed the mark: the arrow quivered in Poppy every time. Hot and cold, with sudden rages and terrors, she would turn on him only to find the strange eyes so pleasantly indifferent;his expression so guileless that it was hard to suspect him of malicious intent. Her refuge was a little laugh. Carson told himself sardonically that the game amused him. It may have done so. Doubtless Indians were amused when they threw barbs at their staked victims. But as a fact, something more than an Indian sense of humour would have been appeased in him, if, instead of the brave smile that flickered across his victim's face, or the little dry retort that her lips gave out even while they quivered, she had answered him haughtily with the pride of race or family or position—the pride ofanything with a root to it. That was the important point: what were the roots of Rosalind Chard? That she had pride was plain enough—the fine pride of courage; the pride of a slim, strong young tree that stands firm in winds that tear and beat, flaunting a brave green pennon.But what was the name of the tree? In what strange garden had it first grown? Was it of a garden at all? Or a highway? Whence came the suggestion that it had bloomed in the desert?Carson scarcely realised that he fiercely desired information on these matters. He supposed it to be curiosity about a pretty and interesting girl—pure curiosity. He had heard things said, a word dropped here and there—mostly by women, and he knew that harsh winds had begun to blow round the young slim tree with the brave green pennon.So out ofpure curiosityhe tormented her when opportunity arose; and she—gave him witty, gentle little restrained answers, with her hand against her heart when the shadows allowed. Or if she could touch a tree she had greater strength to bear her torment and to laugh more easily.Of all the rest she was careless. Let them think what they would—Clem was her friend.If her personality and appearance had been less fascinating, probably the gossip about her mysterious appearance in Durban without friends or connections, or a known home, would have died a natural death. But with her first coming to Clem's house, her loveliness seemed to have grown. In the heat of a room there was a dewiness about her that began in her eyes, and was wonderfully refreshing to the jaded spirit. In the chill of the late evening she seemed to glow with a warmth that was cheering to the coldest heart. Unfortunately, she sometimes forgot to be conventional and ordinary in little social matters. Clem never took notice of such trivialities, but Mrs. Capron and the other women would raise delicate eyebrows and even the men exchange inscrutable glances.One day Mrs. Capron said:"Clem, didn't you tell me that Miss Chard was a Cheltenham College girl?" in an incredulous voice. (It is not always convenient to be faced with your statements made at a pinch.)"Mary," was the answer, after a little pause, "that girl has got a wound that bleeds inwardly, and has spent her life trying to hide it from the world. She has had no time to notice the little conventionalities and banalities that count with us.""One wonders sometimes if she ever had the opportunity—that is all. She walked into the dining-room ahead of Lady Mostyn and everybody else last night——"Clem winced; then, remembering Lady Mostyn's outraged face, laughed."Well, one hardly picks up those things at school,chérie—and she may have been on a desert island ever since.""That would be an interesting reason for her bad manners, darling, but——""I won't admit that they are bad—only unusual; and,besides, she has the excuse of genius. If I might only tell you what I know of her work——""Miniatures?" asked Mrs. Capron wickedly."No: lovey-dovey darling—don't tease and don't be uncharitable—you are much too beautiful to be a cat. Some day that girl will burst forth upon us all in the glory of fame.""Clem, you are infatuated.""You'll see," said Clem. "Only be patient and kind—I must really go and see what cook has for lunch. If she gives us curried mutton once more and stewed guavas and custard, Billy will calmly proceed to bust."She escaped.CHAPTER XXVMRS. PORTAL knew that Poppy was working as for her life, but she did not know why. Only, sometimes, out of the deep love and sympathy she felt for the girl, she longed to know the truth. The truth was far even from her far-seeing eyes.She believed that there must be a man somewhere in the world whom Poppy loved, for well she knew that such a wound as Poppy hid could only have been dealt by a man's unerring hand—and none but a loved hand could strike so deep! With all the mystical-religious, loving side of her nature, Clem prayed that life might yet do well by her friend and give her her heart's desire; but hope did not rise very high. She was fond of quoting that saying:"The things that are really for thee gravitate to thee. Everything that belongs to thee for aid or comfort shall surely come home through open or winding passages. Every friend whom not thy fantastic will but the great and tender heart in thee craveth, shall lock thee in his embrace."—and she would have liked to believe it, but Life had taught her differently. In the meantime, in so far as she was able, she watched faithfully and anxiously over Poppy's destiny, dragging her from her desk when the lilac eyes grew heavy and the tinted face too pale for health; making up gay little parties to drive or walk or go to the theatre, arranging merry dinners and excursions—anything thatwould distract, and presently bring back vivacity and strength, and renew courage.If it had not been for these things it is very certain that Poppy, with all her resolution and purpose, must have broken down from overwork and the strain of seeing the man she loved turn his eyes from her perpetually. For there were desperate hours when she obliged herself to face the fact that Evelyn Carson gave no sign of any feeling for her but a certain polite curiosity. In the black, despairing days that never fail to come to highly-strung, temperamental people, she bitterly derided herself, her work, her cause, asking what it was all for?To win freedom from Luce Abinger and cast herself into the arms of Eve Carson? But were his arms open to her? Plainly not. Plainly here was another of the "little songs they sing in hell"—of the woman who loves, but is beloved not by the beloved.Oh! she had her black and desperate days—"And the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night."But afterwardsHopeplayed for her on the one brave string—and she took up her pen and worked on.On a stormy, sullen day towards the end of April she wrote the concluding words of the two things she had been working on at the same time—a play and a novel. They contained the best work she had ever done, for though they were begun for the love of a man, they were gone forward with, for the love of her craft, and, as all good craftsmen know, it is only in such spirit that the best work is achieved. All that remained to do was to go over and through the manuscripts once more, when they had been typed, to polish here and re-phrase there; and just to linger over all for a day in sheer delight and surprise. She was not peculiar among writers, in that, apart from the plan and construction of a thing, she never remembered from dayto day what she had written, and always felt the greatest surprise and freshness in re-reading passages which had sped from her mind to paper in inspired moments, and which, if not written at those moments, would have been lost for ever.Schopenhauer was not the only person in the world to discover that a beautiful thought is like a beautiful woman. If you want to keep the one always you must tie her to you by marriage, if the other, you must tie it to you with pen and paper or it will leave you and never return.On that morning when she made her finished work into two tall piles of exercise-books before her on her table, the measure of content was hers that is felt by even the heaviest-hearted when they look upon good work done.She laid her head on the books and tears fell softly down, and her heart sang a little song that was pure thankfulness and praise for the goodness of God.And while she sat, there came a little tap at the door.Miss Allendner entered with a letter, and Poppy, taking it from her, saw that it was addressed in the small, strong writing she had not seen for years, but which she instantly recognised as Luce Abinger's. She laid it down mechanically on the table."Mr. Abinger brought it himself," said Miss Allendner, "and would not leave it until he heard that you were here and would receive it at once. He said it wasveryimportant.""Thank you," said Poppy quietly, and sat staring at the letter long after her companion had left the room.Afterwards, she laid her head on the books again, but wearily now, and the tears of her eyes were dried up and so was the little chant of praise in her heart. She was afraid—afraid of the letter; of the look she had seen in Luce Abinger's eyes of late—the old, hateful look—and of the fight before her. Now that she had done the work andwould have the money to fight with, she was afraid. But only for a time. Those who have fought with any of the grim forces of life—sorrow, pain, poverty, despair—and defeated even the least of these in battle, have strength to fight again, and secret springs of courage to drink from in the hour of need. Poppy rose from her table at last with such new courage in her, that she could laugh disdainfully at the sealed letter and all it contained of threats, or commands. She left it sealed and lying there for some other hour's perusal. It should not spoilthisher glad day of finished tasks.She locked the door upon it and her work, and went to her room to change her gown and get ready to spend the rest of the day with Clem Portal. She would probably stay the night, but she took nothing with her, for she had now quite a collection of clothes at Clem's for emergencies.On the afternoon of the same day she sat dreaming in a Madeira-chair in Clem's drawing-room, while the latter meditated on the piano, trying to compose an air sufficiently mournful to set to the words of a little song of Poppy's called "In Exile." Softly, she sang it over and over to long slurring chords—curiously sweet and strange.
Her tone expressed extraordinary conviction, and everyone gazed at Poppy with curiosity and even a faint hint of suspicion—except Clem, whose eyes were full of warmth and friendliness, and Carson, who pretended to be bored.
But Poppy only laughed a little—and by that had her will of Carson at last. He forgot to be bored, and gave her a long, deep look. Unfortunately, she was obliged to turn to Mrs. Capron at this moment to make an answer.
"Perhaps," she said pensively, "we were rivals for a king's affection in some past age——"
Mrs. Capron's proud, valuable look came over her, and she stiffened as if she had received a dig with a hat-pin: the men enjoyed themselves secretly. But no one was prepared for the rest of the context.
"—Of course,Iwas the successful rival or it would have been I who remembered, and not you."
This solution left Mrs. Capron cold-eyed and everyone else laughing in some fashion; but there was a nervousness in the air, and Clem vaguely wished that the gong would sound; for long ere this the dusk had fallen deeply, and little Cinthie was asleep in the hammock. It appeared that Carson still held to his plan to depart, and chose this moment to make his farewells in a small storm of abuse and remonstrance. One person minded his decision less than she might have done ten minutes before. The eyes veiled behind mists of hair knew that their service had not been in vain. The invisible hands, that had dragged and strained at Eve Carson's will, slackened their hold and rested awhile. Only: as he went down the flight of shallow stone steps that led to the gate—a tall, powerful figure in grey—a woman's spirit went with him, entreating, demanding to go with him, not to Bramham's home, but to the ends of life and death.
NEARLY a week passed before Bramham again saw Poppy, for private affairs unexpectedly engrossed him. He made time, however, to write her a letter full of excellent business advice. Later, he called at the Royal with her papers, and found her writing letters in the library. She had just come in, and a big, plumed, grey hat, which matched her pale grey voile gown, lay on the table beside her. Moreover, the flush of animation was on her cheek and a shine in her eye.
"Oh! come now; you look as if you had taken fresh hold," said Bramham approvingly. "I've brought back your papers, and thanks awfully for letting me look through them. It is pretty clear that if you would only work, you could be coining money as fast as you like. You've caught on at home and everywhere else. Your books have been the wonder of this country for months, and descriptions of your plays have been cabled out to every big centre—but, of course, you know all this."
She nodded.
"And, of course, you know how your little book of poems rang up the country from end to end! By Jove! if the Durban people only knew who they had in the midst of them——"
She looked at him quickly, apprehensively.
"It is more important than ever to have no one know. Since I saw you and talked to you I have reconstructed my plans entirely. Life seems to mean something to meagain for the first time since—" She closed her eyes. He did not speak, only looked at her with compassionate eyes and waited.
"I have made up my mind not to let everything go to wreck," she began again presently. "I'm going to work again—Iamworking." She threw back her head and smiled.
"Hurrah!" cried Bramham. "I can't tell you how pleased I am to hear it. As a business man, I hated to see such a chance of making money chucked to the winds—and as a—well, as a plain man, I can't help applauding when I see what it does to your looks."
"You are certainly plain spoken," said she, smiling. "But I want to tell you—I've taken a little house. I've just been there with the painter, and it's all going to be ready by the end of the week."
"Where is it?"
"Facing the bay—a funny little bungalow-cottage, with an old-fashioned garden and a straggly path through sea-pinks right down to nearly the edge of the waves."
"It sounds altogether too romantic for Durban. I expect these features exist only in your imagination. But can you possibly mean Briony Cottage?"
"But, of course."
"Good—itisa dear little place—and with the bay right before you, you'll hardly know you're down in the town."
"I'm having a companion." She made a mouth, and Bramham himself could not disguise a faint twist of his smile.
"Mrs. Portal said it was necessary, if I didn't want to be black-balled by the Durban ladies, so she found me a Miss Allendner, a nice little old thing, who is lonely and unattached, but eminently respectable andgenteel."
"Ah! I know her—a weary sort of plucked turkey," said the graceless Bramham, "with a nose that was oncetoo much exposed to the winter winds and has never recovered. Never mind, you'll need someone to keep off the crowd as soon as they find out who you are——"
"But they are not going to find out! Charlie, I see that I must speak to you seriously about this. I believe you think my not wanting to be known is affectation; it is nothing of the kind. It ismost imperativethat my identity should be kept secret. I must tell you the reason at last—I am working now for money to fight out a case in the Law Courts before anyone in Africa knows who I am. Under my own name no one will recognise me or be particularly interested; but, of course, pleading asEve Destinywould be another matter. I couldn't keep that quiet."
"A law case! Great— Well, Rosalind," he said ironically, "you certainly do spring some surprises on me. Is it about your plays? Why can't you let me manage it for you? But what kind of case can it be?"
"A divorce case—or, rather, I think a nullity case is what it would be called."
"Awhat?" Bramham could say no more.
"Don't look at me like that, best of friends ... I know, I know, you are beginning to think I am not worth your friendship ... that I don't seem to understand even the first principles of friendship—honesty and candour!... Try and have patience with me, Charlie.... Perhaps Ioughtto have told you before ... but I've never told a single soul ... in fact, I have always refused to consider that I am married. It is a long story, and includes part of my childhood. The man who adopted me and brought me up in an old farmhouse in the Transvaal allowed me to go through a marriage ceremony with him without my knowing what I was doing ... an old French priest married us ... he couldn't speak a word of English ... only Kaffir ... and he married us inFrench, which I could not understand at that time. Afterwards, my life went on as usual, and for years I continued to look upon the man simply as my guardian. At last, here in Durban, when I was just eighteen, he suddenly sprang the story upon me, and claimed me for his wife. I was horrified, revolted ... my liking for him, which arose entirely from gratitude, turned to detestation on hearing it.... I believed myself to have been merely trapped. In any case, whatever I might have felt for him didn't matter then. It was too late. I belonged to ... the man you know I belong to ... I didn't know what to do at first. There were terrible circumstances in connection with ... the man I love ... which made me think sometimes that I could never meet him again ... I would just keep the soul he had waked in me, and live for work and Fame. But the man I was married to wanted to keep me to my bond ... and then suddenly he found out ... something ... I don't quite know how it came to pass, but heknew... I was obliged to fly from his house half clad.... It wasthenI found refuge with Sophie Cornell."
"And these things all happened here? Do you mean to tell me that blackguard was some Durban fellow?"
"He did live here at that time."
"And now?"
"He appears to be here still ... I saw him the other day. He behaved to me as though I were really Miss Chard ... but I know him. He will fight tooth and nail ... I don't suppose he cares about me in the least, but he will lie his soul away, I believe, and spend his last penny for revenge."
"Well, upon my soul! I can't think who the fellow can be!" said Bramham artlessly, and Poppy could not refrain from smiling.
"I don't think there would be any good in telling you,Charlie. You may know him ... in fact, you are sure to, in a small place like this ... and it would only make things difficult for you."
Bramham was plainly vexed that she did not confide in him, but she was perfectly well aware that he knew Abinger intimately, and fearing that something might leak out and spoil her plans, she decided not to tell him.
"You should have tackled the thing at home," said Bramham thoughtfully. "They'd have fixed you up in no time there, I believe."
"No, I had advice about it, and was told that as the ceremony had taken place in the Transvaal, and the man is out here, I must go to the Rand Courts ... and, by the way, I must tell you—I wrote to the mission monastery which the old priest belonged to and made inquiries. They wrote back that old Father Eugène was dead, but that they had already gone into the matter on behalf ofmy husband, who had made representations to them. That they could only inform me that the ceremony performed by the Father was absolutely valid, and they were prepared to uphold it in every way. They added that they were well aware that it was my intention to try and disprove the marriage and for my own purposes escape from my sacred bond, but that I must not expect any assistance from them in my immoral purpose.... So, you see, I have them to fight as well. Another thing is, that the only other witness to the ceremony was a woman who would swear her soul away at the bidding of the man who calls himself my husband."
"By Jove! It looks as if you're up against a tough proposition, as they say in America!" was Bramham's verdict at last. "But you'll pull through, I'm certain, and you've pluck enough. As for money—well, you know that I am not poor——"
He stopped, staring at her pale face.
"Don't ever offer to lend me money," she said fiercely rudely.
"Why, you let me lend you some before! And were unusual enough to pay it back." Smiling broadly, he added: "I never had such a thing happen to me before!" But she would not smile. The subject seemed an unfortunate one, for she did not regain her joyous serenity during the rest of the interview.
He went home wrapped in cogitation, turning over in his mind the name of every man in the place on the chance of its being the name of the culprit. Abinger's name, amongst others, certainly came up for consideration, but was instantly dismissed as an impossibility, for he had plainly given everyone to understand that—after the time of his disappearance from the Rand, until his readvent in Durban on the day Bramham had met him coming off the Mail-boat—he had been travelling abroad, and there was no reason to disbelieve this statement. Moreover, Bramham was aware of other facts in Abinger's private life which made it seem absolutely impossible that he could be the villain of Rosalind Chard's tale.
The day Poppy moved to her new home, Clem Portal was the first person to visit her and wish her luck and happiness there.
They took tea in the largest room in the house, which was to be Poppy's working-room and study. It was long and low, with two bay-windows, and the walls had been distempered in pale soft grey. The floor was dark and polished, and the only strong note of colour in the room a rose-red Persian rug before the quaint fireplace. The chintzes Poppy had come upon with great joy in one of the local shops: ivory-white with green ivy leaves scattered over them—a great relief from the everlasting pinkroses of the usual chintz. The grey walls were guileless of pictures, except for the faithful blueHopewhich overhung the fireplace above vases full of tall fronds of maidenhair-fern, and some full-length posters of the Beardsley school in black-and-white wash. Poppy's writing-table was in one window, and on the wall where she could always see it while at work was a water-colour of a little boy standing in a field of corn and poppies. The tea-table was in the other window. She and Clem sat looking at the blue bay flapping and rippling under the afternoon sunlight, with the long bluff ridge sleeping sullenly beyond.
"You've found the sweetest place in Durban," said Clem. "Whenever I feel like a mealie—agreenmealie—which, alas! is very often, I shall sneak down here to 'simplify, simplify.' While you work I'll sit in the sun in the Yogi attitude and triumphantly contemplate eternity and jelly-fish."
Later, she said:
"Mary Capron wanted to come too, but I told her I must have you all to myself to-day. I'm afraid she was rather hurt, but ... I was not sure whether you liked her, Poppy. I do hope you are going to, dear, for I love her, and we shall be a triangle with sore corners, if youdon't."
Poppy was dreaming with her tea-cup in her lap, and the glitter of the bay in her eyes.
"Do you think three women ever get on well together?" she asked evasively. "There is always one out."
Clem was quick to see the meaning of this. A look of disappointment came over her gay, gentle face.
"Mary and I have been friends for years," she said. "She is the only woman I have never had any inspiration about; but though I am blinded by her beauty, I know her to be good and true. It would be a terribly disloyal thingif I deserted her for you ... what am I to do if you two don't like each other?"
"Ifyoulove Mrs. Capron, Clem, she won't need to bother about the liking of a woman like me."
"She likesyou, however. And I'm sure when you get to know her better, you'll like her.... I daresay when two beautiful women first meet, a feeling of antagonism is natural. Butyoushould be above that, Poppy. And poor Mary is a subject for pity rather than dislike—any woman is who has drawn blank in the big lottery. I daresay you knowthatabout her—most people do."
"I have gathered that she is not very happily married," said Poppy.
"Have you ever seen him?"
"I believe the first time I ever saw you, Clem, he was with you."
"Ah, yes, I remember now—and we talked of you, the girl with the Burne-Jones eyes." Most women would have made this an easy stepping-stone into the flowing brook of confidences, and found out where Poppy was going to on that sunny day, and where she had been all the long years since; but Clem Portal had an instinct about questions that hurt. Her husband often said of her:
"She is that lovely thing—a close woman!" Now, the peculiarity of a close woman is that she neither probes into the dark deeps of others, nor allows herself to be probed.
"Nick Capron was notquiteimpossible in those days," she continued; "but now a good place for him would be under the débris heaps outside de Beers'. When she first met him he was a romantic character on the down-grade. Had been all over the world and gone through every kind of adventure; lost a fortune at Monte-Carlo on a system of his own for breaking the bank; written a book (ormore probably got it written for him) about his adventures as a cowboy in Texas; and made quite a name for himself as a scout in the war between Chili and Peru. Amongst other things he has an intimate knowledge of torpedoes and is supposed to have been the author of the plan that sent the Chilian transport, theLoa, to the bottom by a torpedo launched from an apparently harmless fruit-boat. At any rate, he was seen on the fruit-boat, and when he came to Africa shortly afterwards, they said it was to escape the vengeance of the Chilians. Mary, who was on a visit to this country, met him at the Cape when everyone was talking about him. Unfortunately, when women hear sparkling things about a man, they do not always think to inquire about the sparkling things he drinks—and how muchthathas to do with the matter. She fell in love with him, or his reputation, and they were married in a great whirl of romantic emotion. Well, you know what happens to people who engage in whirling?"
Poppy looked up, anxious to learn, and Clem continued with the air of an oracle of Thebes:
"After a time they find themselves sitting still on the ground, very sick. That is Mary's position. She sits flat on the ground and surveys a world that makes her feel sick. Nick Capron, however, continues to whirl."
"She must have great courage to face the situation," said Poppy sincerely.
"She has more than courage," said Clem, alight with loyal enthusiasm. "She is one in a thousand. You know enough of Africa, I daresay, Poppy, to know that life out here is just one huge temptation to a beautiful unhappily-married woman. The place teems with men—good, bad, and indifferent, but all interesting (unless drink is sweeping them down hill too fast), and they all want to be kind to her. Many of them are splendidfellows. But the best of men are half-devil, half-child, and nothing more, where a beautiful woman is concerned. You know that, don't you?"
What Poppydidknow was that Clem had far greater knowledge of the world of men and women than she had, and she was only too interested to sit and imbibe wisdom. She frankly said so.
"I thoroughly understand these things," Clem replied without pride. "Sinners can never take me by surprise, whatever they do. Perhaps it is because I might easily have been a devil of the deepest dye myself, but for luck—Billy is my luck."
This from the most orthodox woman in Africa! Poppy could not refrain from a trill of laughter.
"I think you are one of those who paint themselves black to been suitewith the people you like, Clemmie," she said; "but you're not extraordinarily clever as an artist."
"Not so clever asyou'llhave to be when Mrs. Gruyère comes round to have her miniature done," said Clem maliciously. "I must think about going, darling. Mary is coming to fetch me in her carriage and she will be here in a minute or two now. Before I go, I want you to promise me to steal away whenever you can. If you sit too much over work you will fall asleep, and have to be put in the poppy-garden instead of flaunting and flaming in the sunshine and being a joy to behold. What a fascinating flower it is! Both your names are fascinating ...Eve Destiny!... what could have prompted it, I wonder?"
"Simply an idea. I am a child of destiny, I always think—at least, the old blind hag seems to have been at some pains to fling me about from pillar to post. Eve—" She turned away, knowing that she could not mention that name without giving some sign of the tumult itroused within her. "Eve—was the most primitive person I could think of" (the lie did not come very glibly), "andIam primitive. If I were my real self I should be running loose in the woods somewhere with a wild-cat's skin round me."
"Well, you wouldn't run alone for long, that's very certain," laughed Clem.
"No, I should want my mate wherever and whatever I was"—Clem laughed again at her frankness, but she went on dreamfully—"a Bedouin, or a shaggy Thibetan on the roof of the world, or a 'cassowary on the plains of Timbuctoo.' Oh, Clem! the sound of the wind in forest trees—the sea—the desert with an unknown horizon, are better to me than all the cities and civilisation in the world—yet here I sit!" She threw out her hands and laughed joylessly.
"You ought to marry an explorer—or a hunter of big game," said Clem thoughtfully, and got up and looked out of the window. "Here comes one in the carriage with Mary. But he is an Irishman, so I wouldn't advise you to lookhisway.... An Irishman should never be given more than a Charles Wyndhamesque part on the stage of any woman's life ... a person to love, but not to be in love with...."
"Oh, Clem! You are Irish yourself——"
Clem did not turn round. She went on talking out of the window and watching the approaching carriage.
"Yes, and I love everyone and everything from that sad green land ... the very name of Ireland sends a ray of joy right through me ... and its dear blue-eyed, grey-eyed people! Trust an Irish-woman, Poppy, when she is true-bred ... but never fall in love with an Irishman ... there is no fixity of tenure ... he will give you his hand with his heart in it ... but when you come to look there for comfort, you will find a bare knife foryour breast ... unstable as water ... too loving of love ... too understanding of another's heart's desire ... too quick to grant, too quick to take away ... the tale of their lips changing with the moon's changes—even with the weather.... Hullo, Mary! Here I am.... How do you do, Karri?"
Mrs. Capron's carriage had pulled up before Poppy's little side-gate, which gave on to the embankment. She was gowned in black, a daring rose-red hat upon her lovely hair, and by her side was Evelyn Carson. She waved at the two women in the window, but did not leave the carriage. Carson came instead, making a few strides of the little straggly, sea-shelled path.
"We've come to drag Mrs. Portal away," he said to Poppy, after shaking hands through the window, "having just met her husband taking home two of the hungriest-looking ruffians you ever saw."
Clem gave a cry of woe and began to pin on her hat.
"The wretch! I thought he was going to dine at the Club."
"He gave us strict orders to send you home at once," laughed Carson, "so Mrs. Capron won't come in."
"Who are the men?" demanded Clem.
"Two brutes just arrived by to-day's boat, with a sea-edge to their appetites. I should say that nothing short of a ten-course banquet would appease them."
Clem's groans were terrible.
"Cook will have prepared half a chicken's wing for me. She always starves me when I'm alone. You come back with me," she commanded Carson. "If you talk beautifully to them they won't notice the lightness of themenu."
"Oh, but I'd rather come when you are prepared," said the graceless Carson. "I'm hungry, too. When you've gone I'm going to ask Miss Chard for a cup of tea."Smiling, he plucked a sea-pink and stuck it in his coat. They were in the garden now on the way to the carriage.
"Deserter! Well, Mary,you'llhave to come and let them feed upon your damask cheek—something has got to be done."
Poppy exchanged greetings with Mrs. Capron, and presently the two women drove away, leaving her and Carson standing there with the gleam of the sunlit bay in their eyes. Turning, she found him staring in an odd way at her hair, which she was wearing piled into a crown, with the usual fronds falling softly down. Her lids drooped for a moment under his strange eyes, but her voice was perfectly even and conventional as she asked if he would really care for tea.
"I should, indeed—and to come into the restful grey room I got a glimpse of through the window. It reminded me of a cool, cloudy day in the middle of summer."
Pleasure at his approval brought a faint wave of colour into the face she was determined to mask of all expression. She led the way indoors, he following, his eyes travelling swiftly from the crowned head she carried with so brave an air on her long throat, down the little straight back that was short like the classical women's, giving fine sweeping length from waist to heel.
She rang for fresh tea and went to the tea-table. Carson stood about the room, seeming to fill it.
"If you are fond of grey, we have a taste in common," he said, and she gave him a quick, upward glance. The face which Africa's sun had branded her own looked extraordinarily dark above the light-grey of his clothes and the little pink flower stuck in his coat. It seemed to her that no woman had ever loved so debonair a man as this Irishman with his careless eyes and rustling voice.
"I lovegreenbest of all colours," she answered steadily; "but one gets tired of green walls now that they arefashionable and everyone has them—" her voice broke off suddenly. In his looming about the room he had stopped dead beforeHopeover the mantelpiece. The cup Poppy held rattled in its saucer. He presently asked who the picture was by, and where he, too, could get a copy of it.
"I like it," he said. "It seems to me in a vague way that I know that picture well, yet I don't believe I have ever seen it before ... strange...!" He stared at it again, and she made no response. For the moment she was back in a little upper chamber in Westminster.
He came presently over to the tea-table, and was about to sit down when another picture caught his eye—the water-colour of the little child among the poppies and corn. He stepped before it and stayed looking for a long time. At last he said, laughing constrainedly:
"You will think I am mad ... but I imagine I knowthatpicture too ... that little chap is extraordinarily like someone I know ... I can't think who ... but I'm certain ... is it some of your work, Miss Chard?"
He looked at her with keen inquiry, but his glance changed to one of astonishment. Her eyes were closed and she was pale as a primrose; her hands had fallen to her sides.
A moment afterwards she recovered herself and was handing him a cup of tea with some inconsequent remark. She had made absolutely no response to his questions about either picture, and he thought the fact rather remarkable.
Afterwards they talked and he forgot surprise (for the time being) in listening to the shy graces of thought to which she gave utterance and watching her inexpressibly charming delicacies of manner. When he left her the magic of her was on him; she had bound him with the spellof his own country; but he did not know it. If hehadknown it he would have repudiated it with all his strength, for already he was a bound man.
"His honour rooted in dishonour stood."
THE women of Durban received Poppy into their midst with suspicion and disfavour, which they carefully veiled because they could find out absolutely nothing, damning or otherwise, about her, and also because Mrs. Portal's introductions were as good as a certificate of birth, marriage, and death, and to be questioned as little; and Mrs. Portal's position was such that no woman dared assail her for exercising her privileges. What they could do, however, was narrow their eyes, sharpen their claws, and lie in wait, and this they did with a patience and zest worthy of their species.
Meanwhile, those who sought Poppy might sometimes find her at the house of Mrs. Portal; but not as often as she wished, for work chained her almost perpetually, and she was working against time. She was straining every nerve to have her work finished and paid for, and her law case quietly settled in Johannesburg, before the time came for Carson to set out for his five years' exile in Borapota. She was working for freedom and bondage and life—for, indeed, all that life had to offer her now was the word of a man bidding her to follow him into bondage. It was hard on her that while she worked she must lose time and opportunities of meeting him and winding more spells to bind him. But—she had grown used to fighting her battles against odds. So she gave up six solid hours of daylight and two of the night to hard labour; and she made a rule never to count the hours, which weremany, that were spent at her deskdreaming. For no writer does work of any consequence without dreaming, even if the dream is not always of work.
Miss Allendner might have found life a dull affair in Briony Cottage had she not been of that domesticated type which finds satisfaction and pleasure in managing a household and ordering good meals. Under her rule the little cottage became a well-ordered, comfortable home, where things ran on oiled wheels, and peace and contentment reigned. No one and nothing bothered Poppy, and the long, bright hours of day were hers to work in uninterruptedly. Such visitors as called, and some did call, if only out of curiosity, were received by Miss Allendner, and regaled with dainty teas and mysteriously impressive statements as to Miss Chard'sworkwhich unfortunately kept her so busy that she could see no one—at present. The companion had of necessity been let into the secret of her employer's work and identity, for Poppy was a careless creature with letters and papers, and it irked her to have to exercise caution with an intimate member of her household. Poor Miss Allendner almost exploded with the greatness and importance of the information. But she was a faithful and trustworthy soul, and happy for the first time in all her needy, half-rationed life.
If Poppy had been a bread-and-butter woman she might have been happy, too, in some fashion, within the trim, well-ordered confines of comfortable mediocrity. But it was not there that her desire lay. She had tasted of the wine and fruit of life—Love, and wanderings in far lands, and vagabondage. Bread-and-butter could never satisfy her again.
Work was wine, too. She felt the fire of it circling in her veins, even when wearied out she flung her books and pencils from her and ran out to the sea. And playwas wine—when on some lovely evening she arrayed herself amazingly, took rickshaw and Miss Allendner and ascended the wide, sloping road that led to Clem Portal's home on the Berea.
The Portals' social circle varied, because it was constantly being enlarged or decreased by the comings and goings of travellers and visitors; for, besides knowing everyone worth knowing in South Africa, they could beckon friends and acquaintances from the four poles. Add to this that they were both charming, witty, cultivated people, with the true Irish love for bestowing hospitality and the true Irish grace in bestowing it, and it will be easily understood that all delightful and interesting people who came to South Africa sought them as the bee seeks clover.
As a background to new faces could always be found those of fixed and steadfast friends—Mrs. Capron's—the de Greys'—the Laces'. Always Carson, when he came to Natal; and Abinger, because he was both interesting and something of a crony of Bill Portal's.
A sprinkling of Durban people came and went.
Evening is a pleasant time in Natal, and the Portals' moonlit gardens and lawns and long verandahs lent themselves agreeably to strolling people, tired of the clang and glare of the day. With someone always at the piano to sprinkle the still air with melody, it was pleasant to saunter, the dew in your hair and all the sounds of the night-things about you, while you talked with someone whose interest interested you, or gossiped of life as it could, or would, or might be, or of "Home," meaning England, which through the glamour of an African night seems the moon of all men's Desire. There are more intense sudden joys in Life than these, but few more poignantly sweet.
To be Mrs. Portal's friend was to share her friends, to know them, to gossip with them, to criticise and be inturn criticised by them. Sport, books, music, pictures, people—all that goes to the making of life worth the living, came under discussion; and in Africa, where everyone is using every sense of mind and body, living and feeling every moment of life, there are always new things to be said on these subjects—or perhaps only things that are so many centuries old that they sound new. Truth, after all, is older than the everlasting hills.
Naturally, there was never much grouping. General conversation has more than a liability to platitude, or, at best, to flippancy, and the finest talking is never done in groups, buttête-à-tête. Indeed, it is on record by a thinker of some importance that the best things men say are said to women who probably don't understand them:
"To the women who didn't know why(And now we know they could never know why)And did not understand."
"To the women who didn't know why(And now we know they could never know why)And did not understand."
That is as may be. Remains the fact that the best talkers (apart, of course, from orators, politicians, and professional diners-out) do not talk for a crowd, and the most potent phrases and epigrams—when epigrams are notvieux jeu—are made for one, or at the most, two listeners.
Poppy's ears took in many pretty and many witty things.
Bill Portal was a blithe soul, overflowing with gay parables and maxims for the unwise, whom he claimed to be the salt of the earth.
Abinger was epigrammatic, sardonic, and satanic, and he never asked for more than one listener—a woman for preference, as she would certainly repeat what he said—and there were other reasons. But the women of the Portals' circle recognised a serpent when they met him, however leafy the garden, and always preferred to listen to his wisdom in twos and threes. With Poppy he neverencompassed any talk at all, unless she felt Clem strong at her back. He smiled at this: the smile of the waiting man to whom everything cometh at last.
Nick Capron never graced the assemblies with his handsome dissipated presence. His lust was for poker and his fellow-men—which meant the Club and small hours. He was never even known to fetch his wife. But many a man was pleased and honoured to do his duty for him. Sometimes she stayed all night with her friend Clem. Sometimes Carson took her home in a rickshaw.
The women with attentive husbands pitied her amongst themselves; but she gave no sign of discontent, and they never ventured to offer sympathy. Invariably she looked wonderfully beautiful—and, therefore, it was not necessary for her to exert herself to much conversation. Since Poppy's soft thrush-note had first been heard in Clem Portal's verandah, Mrs. Capron's laugh had been silent: though it was a pretty laugh, too. But her smile was as alluring as the sound of a silvery brooklet, and sometimes the sympathetic wives trembled when they saw their husbands lingering near her—not to talk, but to look. She sat so fearlessly under bright light, and looked so flawlessly good. It was, indeed, a comfort to remember that she was as good as she looked, or she would not be Mrs. Portal's closest friend. It was remembered, too, that she had never tried to beguile any woman's man away from her.
When one wife after another had ceased to tremble for her man, realising that this Circe did not use her toils, they rewarded her by saying amongst themselves that it must be sad to be socold. This warmed the coldest of them—with a glow of self-satisfaction.
Mary Capron did not bother about any of them. The riddle she sought to read was Rosalind Chard. Always she watched Poppy, and pondered where she had seen herbefore. Poppy suspected this, but it did not agitate her. She had prepared another soft-answer-warranted-not-to-turn-away-wrath if Mary Capron should attack her in the open again. But Mary Capron, if she was not witty, was wise. She was no fencer, and had no intention of encountering Miss Chard's foil with the button off. She preferred to choose her own weapon, time, and place, and to pursue the little duel in her own fashion. She was merely "getting her hand in" when she said to Abinger, looking dreamily at Poppy the while:
"Did you ever hear of a Sphinx without a secret?"
"It's what Wilde taxed the modern society woman with being, I believe," he answered idly; he was easily one of the best-read men in Africa. "But it would not apply out here."
"No," she said dreamily. "Everyone has a secret in this country, haven't they? even girls."
At another time she and Carson were near when Poppy, with her arm in Clem's, presented Luce Abinger with a suave answer, so heavily encrusted with salt, that even his seasoned tongue went dry. However, his impertinence had warranted punishment, so he bore it as best he might. And Clem's tact oiled the troubled waters.
But Mary Capron said something to Carson that kept him awake that night.
"She'squiteclever, isn't she? Only it's a pity she has to begin at the beginning for herself."
Carson had scarcely been struck by Miss Chard'scleverness—considering that on both his first and second meeting with her she had had odd lapses of something very likegaucherie. But he thought her interesting, arresting, and beautiful. He knew of no reason why he should think of her at all; but he sometimes found her face andher voice amongst his thoughts and considered the fact a curious and rather annoying thing.
And the sight and sound of her had an extraordinary power at times to rouse to active, vivid life, a dream of the past that was old grief and pain.
Circumstance sometimes threw them together in the verandahs or out under the Southern-Cross flaming above the garden, and Poppy's low laugh might be heard mingling with his voice; but she did not always laugh because she was amused.
Carson's silver tongue could take on an amazingly sharp edge. Being an Irishman, he was a law unto himself, with a fine taste for unconventionality in other people. But if he knew South Africa from one end to the other, he also knew men and cities, and the rules that govern women all the world over. Gradually he had become to be aware that Miss Chard outraged the most important of these by being both unclassifiable and mysterious. Even in what calls itself society in South Africa, women and their belongings and connections must be above-board and open to inspection. An unattached woman has got to prove her right to social status there, as elsewhere. If she cannot, she must prepare to take the consequences—and the least unpleasant of these is to have the worst believed of her.
Of course, Rosalind Chard was backed by Mrs. Portal, but that did not prevent tongues from wagging.
Carson took it upon himself to let Miss Chard know something of these things whenever Fate ordained that he and she should walk under the stars together.
It was wittily done, by the delicate instrumentality of chosen implication, and it never missed the mark: the arrow quivered in Poppy every time. Hot and cold, with sudden rages and terrors, she would turn on him only to find the strange eyes so pleasantly indifferent;his expression so guileless that it was hard to suspect him of malicious intent. Her refuge was a little laugh. Carson told himself sardonically that the game amused him. It may have done so. Doubtless Indians were amused when they threw barbs at their staked victims. But as a fact, something more than an Indian sense of humour would have been appeased in him, if, instead of the brave smile that flickered across his victim's face, or the little dry retort that her lips gave out even while they quivered, she had answered him haughtily with the pride of race or family or position—the pride ofanything with a root to it. That was the important point: what were the roots of Rosalind Chard? That she had pride was plain enough—the fine pride of courage; the pride of a slim, strong young tree that stands firm in winds that tear and beat, flaunting a brave green pennon.
But what was the name of the tree? In what strange garden had it first grown? Was it of a garden at all? Or a highway? Whence came the suggestion that it had bloomed in the desert?
Carson scarcely realised that he fiercely desired information on these matters. He supposed it to be curiosity about a pretty and interesting girl—pure curiosity. He had heard things said, a word dropped here and there—mostly by women, and he knew that harsh winds had begun to blow round the young slim tree with the brave green pennon.
So out ofpure curiosityhe tormented her when opportunity arose; and she—gave him witty, gentle little restrained answers, with her hand against her heart when the shadows allowed. Or if she could touch a tree she had greater strength to bear her torment and to laugh more easily.
Of all the rest she was careless. Let them think what they would—Clem was her friend.
If her personality and appearance had been less fascinating, probably the gossip about her mysterious appearance in Durban without friends or connections, or a known home, would have died a natural death. But with her first coming to Clem's house, her loveliness seemed to have grown. In the heat of a room there was a dewiness about her that began in her eyes, and was wonderfully refreshing to the jaded spirit. In the chill of the late evening she seemed to glow with a warmth that was cheering to the coldest heart. Unfortunately, she sometimes forgot to be conventional and ordinary in little social matters. Clem never took notice of such trivialities, but Mrs. Capron and the other women would raise delicate eyebrows and even the men exchange inscrutable glances.
One day Mrs. Capron said:
"Clem, didn't you tell me that Miss Chard was a Cheltenham College girl?" in an incredulous voice. (It is not always convenient to be faced with your statements made at a pinch.)
"Mary," was the answer, after a little pause, "that girl has got a wound that bleeds inwardly, and has spent her life trying to hide it from the world. She has had no time to notice the little conventionalities and banalities that count with us."
"One wonders sometimes if she ever had the opportunity—that is all. She walked into the dining-room ahead of Lady Mostyn and everybody else last night——"
Clem winced; then, remembering Lady Mostyn's outraged face, laughed.
"Well, one hardly picks up those things at school,chérie—and she may have been on a desert island ever since."
"That would be an interesting reason for her bad manners, darling, but——"
"I won't admit that they are bad—only unusual; and,besides, she has the excuse of genius. If I might only tell you what I know of her work——"
"Miniatures?" asked Mrs. Capron wickedly.
"No: lovey-dovey darling—don't tease and don't be uncharitable—you are much too beautiful to be a cat. Some day that girl will burst forth upon us all in the glory of fame."
"Clem, you are infatuated."
"You'll see," said Clem. "Only be patient and kind—I must really go and see what cook has for lunch. If she gives us curried mutton once more and stewed guavas and custard, Billy will calmly proceed to bust."
She escaped.
MRS. PORTAL knew that Poppy was working as for her life, but she did not know why. Only, sometimes, out of the deep love and sympathy she felt for the girl, she longed to know the truth. The truth was far even from her far-seeing eyes.
She believed that there must be a man somewhere in the world whom Poppy loved, for well she knew that such a wound as Poppy hid could only have been dealt by a man's unerring hand—and none but a loved hand could strike so deep! With all the mystical-religious, loving side of her nature, Clem prayed that life might yet do well by her friend and give her her heart's desire; but hope did not rise very high. She was fond of quoting that saying:
"The things that are really for thee gravitate to thee. Everything that belongs to thee for aid or comfort shall surely come home through open or winding passages. Every friend whom not thy fantastic will but the great and tender heart in thee craveth, shall lock thee in his embrace."
—and she would have liked to believe it, but Life had taught her differently. In the meantime, in so far as she was able, she watched faithfully and anxiously over Poppy's destiny, dragging her from her desk when the lilac eyes grew heavy and the tinted face too pale for health; making up gay little parties to drive or walk or go to the theatre, arranging merry dinners and excursions—anything thatwould distract, and presently bring back vivacity and strength, and renew courage.
If it had not been for these things it is very certain that Poppy, with all her resolution and purpose, must have broken down from overwork and the strain of seeing the man she loved turn his eyes from her perpetually. For there were desperate hours when she obliged herself to face the fact that Evelyn Carson gave no sign of any feeling for her but a certain polite curiosity. In the black, despairing days that never fail to come to highly-strung, temperamental people, she bitterly derided herself, her work, her cause, asking what it was all for?
To win freedom from Luce Abinger and cast herself into the arms of Eve Carson? But were his arms open to her? Plainly not. Plainly here was another of the "little songs they sing in hell"—of the woman who loves, but is beloved not by the beloved.
Oh! she had her black and desperate days—
"And the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night."
"And the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night."
But afterwardsHopeplayed for her on the one brave string—and she took up her pen and worked on.
On a stormy, sullen day towards the end of April she wrote the concluding words of the two things she had been working on at the same time—a play and a novel. They contained the best work she had ever done, for though they were begun for the love of a man, they were gone forward with, for the love of her craft, and, as all good craftsmen know, it is only in such spirit that the best work is achieved. All that remained to do was to go over and through the manuscripts once more, when they had been typed, to polish here and re-phrase there; and just to linger over all for a day in sheer delight and surprise. She was not peculiar among writers, in that, apart from the plan and construction of a thing, she never remembered from dayto day what she had written, and always felt the greatest surprise and freshness in re-reading passages which had sped from her mind to paper in inspired moments, and which, if not written at those moments, would have been lost for ever.
Schopenhauer was not the only person in the world to discover that a beautiful thought is like a beautiful woman. If you want to keep the one always you must tie her to you by marriage, if the other, you must tie it to you with pen and paper or it will leave you and never return.
On that morning when she made her finished work into two tall piles of exercise-books before her on her table, the measure of content was hers that is felt by even the heaviest-hearted when they look upon good work done.
She laid her head on the books and tears fell softly down, and her heart sang a little song that was pure thankfulness and praise for the goodness of God.
And while she sat, there came a little tap at the door.
Miss Allendner entered with a letter, and Poppy, taking it from her, saw that it was addressed in the small, strong writing she had not seen for years, but which she instantly recognised as Luce Abinger's. She laid it down mechanically on the table.
"Mr. Abinger brought it himself," said Miss Allendner, "and would not leave it until he heard that you were here and would receive it at once. He said it wasveryimportant."
"Thank you," said Poppy quietly, and sat staring at the letter long after her companion had left the room.
Afterwards, she laid her head on the books again, but wearily now, and the tears of her eyes were dried up and so was the little chant of praise in her heart. She was afraid—afraid of the letter; of the look she had seen in Luce Abinger's eyes of late—the old, hateful look—and of the fight before her. Now that she had done the work andwould have the money to fight with, she was afraid. But only for a time. Those who have fought with any of the grim forces of life—sorrow, pain, poverty, despair—and defeated even the least of these in battle, have strength to fight again, and secret springs of courage to drink from in the hour of need. Poppy rose from her table at last with such new courage in her, that she could laugh disdainfully at the sealed letter and all it contained of threats, or commands. She left it sealed and lying there for some other hour's perusal. It should not spoilthisher glad day of finished tasks.
She locked the door upon it and her work, and went to her room to change her gown and get ready to spend the rest of the day with Clem Portal. She would probably stay the night, but she took nothing with her, for she had now quite a collection of clothes at Clem's for emergencies.
On the afternoon of the same day she sat dreaming in a Madeira-chair in Clem's drawing-room, while the latter meditated on the piano, trying to compose an air sufficiently mournful to set to the words of a little song of Poppy's called "In Exile." Softly, she sang it over and over to long slurring chords—curiously sweet and strange.