"Gen-tuljeesus, meek n' mil',Lookup pon a little chil';Pitimysimplisitee,Suffer me t' come to Thee."Our Fath 'CHART in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy King and come, Thy will be done 'Nearth as 'tis 'Neaven. Give us 's day ourDAILY BREADN' forgive us our trespasses 'gainst us. But 'liver us from evil. For Thine's kingdom, Power and GLORY, frever and ever, Amen."Our Father, please bless my darling Mummie, and take care of her at the theatre, and my lovely Daddie,andGrannie,andGrandad,andPoppy,andall the servants inthishouse,andall the little children in the world,andfill our hearts with love 'n kindness, Amen—now I must say myLatins."Clem was Catholic and Bill Protestant, and the result was a strange medley of prayers for Cinthie. She kneeled up, crossed herself solemnly in Latin, and began to chant the lovely words of the Angelical Salutation:"Ave Maria! gratia plena, Dominus tecum: benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus.""Sancta Maria! Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostræ. Amen."Afterwards she fell into a peal of laughing."Why do you laugh, darling?" Poppy gravely asked, and the answer was:"Oh, Poppy! Wouldn'tNuncbe a funny name for a dog!"Then once more the sheets were tucked in, the mosquito-net arranged, and a kiss blown through it."Good-night, Pansy-face!""G'night, Red-rose!" responded Cinthie ardently."Good-night, Gold-heart!"Cinthie thought laboriously for a few seconds, strugglingfor a fitting response. At last, just as Poppy reached the door, she shouted breathlessly:"G'night; White-soul!"At that Poppy gave a cry and ran back once more and hugged her.When at length she tore herself away from the warm, loving little arms and went alone to the drawing-room, heavy tears were splashing down her cheeks and her lips were like a wistful, sorrowing child's. She stood in the open window and stared out at the beauty of the night. Above in the solemn purple sky was the Cross, picked out in scarlet stars. Far below twinkled the town lights, and at quick intervals the Bluff Lighthouse sent long, sweeping, golden lines across the bay, revealing for an instant the shadowy fabrics of ships and sailing craft lying safe in dock.Out at sea a great liner steamed slowly to anchorage, hundreds of lights flashing from her three tiers, and presently the rattle of her cable through the hawse-pipes floated distinctly up to the heights, the throbbing in her breast died away, and she lay rocking softly like some great tired bird nested at last.In the dim valley a Zulu boy, heart-hungry for his home-kraal, was making music of an infinite sweetness and melancholy on that oldest instrument in the world, a reed-flute. The sound brought further tears to Poppy, and a burning in her throat. It seemed the voice of her heart wailing, because she had never been a child, because "earth was so beautiful and Heaven so far"; because she loved a man and was beloved of him and darkness lay between them! At that, she longed passionately with every sense and nerve in her for Evelyn Carson. She ached in the very bones and blood of her for a sight or sound of him. If he would only come——!"Oh, God! be good to me for once!" she cried with soundless lips. "Let him come—I will do the rest. Thereis no barrier I cannot break down between him and me. He is mine—dear God, youknowthat he is mine! I bound him with my hair, my lips, my soul. I gave him of my best, I gave him my girlhood—I bore his son." The green leaves of the passion-plant trailing over the window lapped gently against her cheek, and she put up her hands to them. "Oh, trees, leaves, all green things, help me—let him come——"And he came, through the open gate, up the broad pathway, straight to her.Her eyes were closed tight to stop her tears, but she heard him coming as she stood there with the shaded lamps behind her in the empty room, and the silver night on her face. He came so close to the verandah that he could look in upon her, and plainly see her pale emotion-wrung face and the tears urging through her tightly-closed lids and dripping from her lashes. Her lips opened and her breath came heavily, and the sight of her took strange hold of him. His own lips unclosed; the marks self-mockery had made about them had been wiped out; his handsome, haggard eyes had changed, boyhood had come back to them."Won't you come into the garden?" His voice had all the sweetness of Ireland in it. She unclosed her eyes and came out to him, the tears still shining on her cheeks: a pale, ardent woman—strangely like a narcissus.He put an arm through hers and they walked together in the gracious dimness.Down the centre of the garden dividing two lawns ran a high hedge of Barbadoes-thorn. It is a shrub garlanded with white tiny flowers of a perfume probably the most pungent in the world—much like the gardenia, or tuberose, but heavier, sweeter. To-night this perfume hung upon the air, and stayed with these lovers all their lives after. They sat on the grass under a giant flamboyanttree and a tiny green tree-frog sang a love-song to its mate in the branches over their heads. But they did not hear. They were deaf to everything now save the drumming in their hearts and the urging of their pulses. Carson had his arm about her, half for her support, wholly because he could not help it. Her tears were still on her face, and he leaned so close that his cheek was wetted by them. One heavy drop fell on his lips and he tasted the salt of it, and it was as if he had tasted blood. Suddenly he turned her lips to his and began to kiss her with a mouth of flame."Eve! Eve!" she cried, afraid of her gladness. He did not speak; nor could he, if he would. Only he dragged kisses from the mouth he had desired so long; the eyes he had looked away from; the curving, cloven chin; the throat that shone in the darkness like a moony pearl. And when he came to her lips again, they kissed him back with wild, sweet kisses. Her arms were round him too. One held his throat and her eyes were shut and sealed.After some short, blind moments, in which she was lost, and he torn in two between desire and iron-determination, he lifted her suddenly to her feet."Darling, my heart, good-bye—for a little while," he said; "and then—nevergood-bye again. The next time we kiss, you must be my wife."CHAPTER XXIXCARSON left the next day for Johannesburg as he had intended, speaking to no woman after he had parted from that pale, ardent one under the flamboyant tree. Other women, indeed, had ceased to exist for him. Withonehe knew there must yet be a scene, most painful and bitter, which could not be shirked; the thought of it,whenhe thought of it, turned his heart cold—but it must be confessed that he did not think of it often. He was too busy in his first weeks of absence to think of any woman much—even the best-beloved. Up to his eyes in affairs, and among a hundred old friends and haunts in the busy, virile life of the Rand, he had scarcely time to turn up the book of his mind for a page he knew was there, illumined with letters of fire and gold. But always he wore a red rose in his heart. Always a star glimmered at the back of his life, colouring the days golden.Sometimes in the night-hours, or with the dawn, a vision of her face would come to him, so sharp and clear, that it seemed her body must be in the room, as well as her spirit, and almost she would fill the arms he put out for her. In those hours it was made clear to him how Love can wrench the spirit from the body and send it speeding across the miles to the Beloved.He had not asked her to write, nor did he write himself. Their love was not one which needed to be kept afire by words; already it burned too fiercely for peace. Letters would have been a delight, it is true; but he was artistenough to realise the value of restraint from small joys that a great joy may be more complete, and he knew that their meeting would be the dearer and sweeter for this intervening silence "too full for sound or foam."Moreover, his affairs were critical. He required all his coolness and judgment for the share market, and the letters he must write if he wrote at all to her, though they would not have disabled him for the fight, must at least have left him less calm and unshaken than he desired to be at this juncture. Fortune is a woman, and a jealous one at that. She must be wooed and worshipped, and all others forgotten for her sake before she will bestow her smiles. Carson approached her in a spirit of ravishment. His desire was for her favours, and he was prepared to drag them from her, if she would not give. He was prepared to buy and sell as never before in all his gay, careless life—feverish for gain.The glance with which he searched the face of Fortune was neither imperialistic nor altruistic now, but purely personal; he was thinking, plotting, planning for the future; but the details of that same future were too wild and sweet to be thought upon. They sang a song in his veins that would not be silenced.His first business was to find Charlie Rosser, his broker, the shrewdest, straightest man on 'Change,' and a personal friend at that. But the slump was affecting people's health. All Johannesburg was laid up, nursing its lungs, its hump, or its pet stocks, and Rosser was amongst the invalids. So Carson's first week was spent at a loose end, for he was too wise a citizen of the world to venture upon the seas of finance, of which he had no great knowledge, without a good man at the helm. Most days, however, found him making his way through the crowded streets to "the Chains" for news of the market. Things were as bad as they could be, and every man had a tale of dolourto pitch, but no one looked dolorous. The high, fine air of Johannesburg is a wonderful thing for making people think they are all muscle and no nerves—and they don't find out their mistake until after they have made their pile, or lost it, when the "finding out" doesn't matter, anyway.The place was always home to Carson, and "full of friendly faces," and he trod its streets as familiarly as the decks of his own soul.One morning, just before High Change, he found an extra jostle going on amongst the crowds of brokers and dealers "between the Chains." Everyone was agog. The market had come better from London. In anticipation of a demand at High Change, shares were changing hands merrily. Carson was hailed blithely by friend and foe alike, offered everything he didn't want, and alternately elated and depressed by the news that came to him concerning the stocks in which he was interested. But on the whole, the outlook was bright."Boom!" was the hilarious word that cleared the horizon of clouds. "There's going to be a boom!" men shouted, and their eyes were full of the bland joy of piracy. Rumours had come that the "Corner House" was supporting the market fortheirspecial stocks, and other houses followed the lead. Johannesburg is the most sensitive market in the world—it responds to outside influence as the violin to Sarasate.In the midst of the dust and din Carson caught sight among the crowd of a puffy red face, with grim eyes and the sweeping moustache of an Algerian pirate. He was waving frantically at Carson and yelling:"My office! Come and pow-wow!"In five minutes Carson had trailed Rosser to his lair, and they were deep in a discussion of prospects. Rosser's tips were no better than any other, but his opinion on thetrend of the market was always worth hearing, and usually as nearly right as possible."Shall I sell or hold?" demanded Carson, when his affairs had been laid upon the board and swiftly scanned."Hold?" screamed Rosser. "Everything is going to the devil. Do you think I take any stock in this good news? Why—the country is rotten. The British public is steadily selling. This improvement can't last—it's only a flash in the pan. Sell! This is your chance. Sell all you've got. Sell calls—sell your shirt—sellanything—up to ninety days. Destruction comes after."This was Carson's mood also. But he had an anchor now that deterred him from advancing too gaily towards the breakers. He first examined Rosser from top to toe with steely eyes, then advanced the objection that if he had to pay brokerage on the whole amount out of his call-money, he wouldn't make a heap of profit. Rosser began to prophesy, but without sanctity."No calls will be taken up this year. Hell! I've a good mind to run the biggest bear account you've ever dreamt of, Carson. Take my advice and sell, man. Sell on 'fixed delivery' and 'buyer's option' and 'to arrive'—play bear till all is blue." He suddenly became calm and business-like. "Think it over for a few moments while I read my letters, and then decide."In old days Carson would have embraced the proposition with the devil-may-care philosophy of the usual Rand man, that if "bearing" smashed him up he'd be no worse off than a hundred better men who'd done the same thing before him. But now—he was feverish for gain—the thought of loss was unendurable. Rosser suddenly looked up at him with a waiting smile."Well?""Damned if I don't do it, Charlie. You can sell calls on everything I've got, this morning—here's the list,and in the afternoon you can sell everything I haven't got on 'fixed delivery,' or 'to arrive.'""Good, man!" cried Rosser."And what about my block of South Rands?"This was Carson's hold-by. The biggest stone in his box. He had bought these fifty shares at a sheriff's sale for twenty pounds each, years before, and though he had often wanted the money, some indefinable superstition had kept him cheerfully paying up licences and hanging on.Nowrumour went, the Big House wanted them."What will you take for them?" asked Rosser, grinning. "Cost?""No!" said Carson violently, "nor double, nor quadruple. I'll do or die by those damned things."Rosser regarded him cynically, but with affection. It had not escaped the grim eyes that Carson here present was not the notoriously careless, indifferent Carson of the past."You sound to me like a man who wants to buy a trousseau for himself," he remarked, but his gibe brought no blush to the brazen cheek before him, and he did not dream that he had made a bull's-eye."But you're quite right, Karri.... You're going to make a big bag out of that little preserve ... only keep cool ... and if Wallerstein asks you about them, say they're not for sale ... I haven't time to tell you any more now." He was looking at his watch. "By Cli! I must get away to 'Change. Where shall we meet afterwards?""At the Club," said Carson briefly. "One sharp. My table is third on the left as you go in ... don't be late."They parted. Rosser for 'Change, and Carson to walk swiftly away down Commissioner Street towards Jeppestown, past the City-and-Suburban-Township-blocks, with the fine buildings that look so substantial and impressedevery new-comer with the stability and security of life and fortune in the great mining centre. The place was teeming with life and apparent prosperity. But a grim smile hovered on Carson's lips. He knew, as well as Rosser, that things, so far from being secure and stable, were, under the corrupt Boer Government, rotten to the core, and could never be on a sound basis until England intervened. But this was '98, and the time was not yet.Punctually at one Rosser arrived at the Rand Club. Carson was deep in anindabawith two men he knew well, and the talk was all of shares and money—big business had been done on 'Change. Rosser was cold-eyed and inaccessible until the other men went, then he brightened and told Carson what he had done."I've sold everything on time!" he said. "Committed you—roughly—to ten thousand pounds of sales ... sixty days ... buyer's options."If Carson's spirit groaned, his face gave no sign; but the little broker was as sensitive as the market. He looked at the other keenly."Don't do the business if you're afraid; I'm perfectly satisfied to go into it alone. Why! I'm so certain of the coming fall that I advise you to run a bear account up to fifty thousand pounds. Hell! Carson, what's come to you? I've never known you like this before.""I've got a touch of fever," said Carson irritably, but he did not specify the peculiar brand he was suffering from. He was ashamed of his funk—but the best of men get attacks of it in certain circumstances."Well, if you'll make up your mind to stick to it for three months you'll make ten thousand pounds at least.""Three months!" It was Carson's turn to cry "Hell!" But presently he said firmly: "Go ahead, Rosser, and sell another ten thousand—buyer's options, this afternoon.""Right!" cried Rosser gaily, and with a heart at peaceproceeded to acknowledge his friends at various tables, while Carson turned up the wine-list. They had been eating and drinking steadily through lunch."Coffee, 1830 Brandy, and '94 Coronas," was Carson's order, and when the waiter had come and gone, Rosser sadly said, looking at his glass:"I wonder how long it will last!""What, the market?" Once more the teeth of Carson's soul chattered."No—Karri, you're all to bits—the brandy. There can't be much of it left. Now let's get to this South-Rand proposition. Look here—you know I'm a few pounds to the good ... and I'm really smitten with my bear scheme. If you're anxious about it, I'll stand in with you ... share and share. But only on the condition that you give me a share in your South Rand claims.""Let's hear the proposition," said Carson, beginning to take a more cheerful view of life through his smoke rings."You have fifty claims? Wallerstein will give you one hundred pounds each for them; but they are worth five times that if the business is properly engineered. They're a long way from the out-crops, but the reefmustbe found dipping through them, and the Big Housemusthave them to make up their area. Now what I propose is this: You leave the business to me. Value the claims say at two hundred pounds each, and give me half of what I can get over that."It did not take Carson very long to come to a conclusion. He knew he was dealing with one of the straightest men and best fellows in Johannesburg, and there was no faintest chance of his confidence being abused. He closed."I'll have an agreement drawn up, relating to the claims, at once," said Rosser. "What about the bear scheme? Shall I stand in with you, or will you stand alone?""I'll stand alone, thanks, old man." All Carson's careless nerve had come back to him, with the memory of a face fair to see. He knew, in spite of his words, that whatsoever fortune befell—poverty or riches—he would never again stand alone in the world."Good, man!" cried Rosser. "I must scoot. I've two appointments before 'Change this afternoon—so long!"Carson was left to his own many and various devices.The market rose steadily for a week. The air was full of good and gentle rumours. An Industrial Commission was to be appointed! The iniquitous Dynamite Monopoly was to be smashed! Native labour was to be guaranteed at lower wages! Everything in the garden was to be lovely! And everyone wore a brow unsullied by care! And bears were tumbling over each other in every direction to cover.Carson had some bad times with himself, but his under-lip never slackened. Rosser's grip on the market was firm and unhesitating. He sold heavily "to arrive.""I have never known anyone who made money—worth talking about—by buying and holding," was the creed he offered to Carson. And in this case he was right. Suddenly the reaction began. Shares fell with a bump, and kept steadily on the down-grade for months.At the end of the first month Carson's bear account closed with a handsome profit to himself of twelve thousand pounds.In the meantime, negotiations had been proceeding over the South Rands. The lifelessness of the market did not affect the fact that the "Big House" wanted Carson's claims, and was steadily working to get them by hook or by crook. But Carson and Rosser were both up to every hook and crook of the game. They held the cards and they knew it, and when four hundred pounds each was offered for the shares, they only sat and smiled like littlebenign gods. Further, Rosser airily informed Wallerstein, the representative of the "Big House," that he would not consider anything under one thousand pounds. However, in secret conclave, the two conspirators agreed to take eight hundred pounds apiece—not bad for claims that had cost Carson twenty pounds each at the sheriff's sale. Rosser was for holding out for a thousand, but Carson's time was running out, and his patience."No: get a definite offer for eight hundred pounds, and close on it," were his orders, and on that decision he rested, as much as a mancanrest in Johannesburg, taking the days quietly and dining sanely at nights with old friends. But he got little joy of their society, for the reason that though he knew their lives and interests, they knew nothing of the most vital and important part of his. They had never seen those lilac-coloured eyes with the big, black velvet centres; they could know nothing of the sweet, wild strain on his heart. He felt like a man who stood on the walls of a citadel filled with treasure, parleying with friends and enemies alike, but allowing no one to enter.Suddenly he grew horribly lonely; the days dragged and the nights brought memories that set him in bodily torment.Fortunately at this juncture Forsyth, an old crony, carried him off to the Potchefstroom district for some veldt shooting. The air, the long tramps, and the joy of sport, filled in the days, and found him too tired at nights to do anything but fall log-like into the blankets.CHAPTER XXXPOPPY and Cinthie were sitting in the garden together under an orange-tree, which was set in the midst of the thick fence of Barbadoes-thorn. Poppy's muslin gown was of a colour that made her look like a freshly-plucked spray of lilac, and she wore a wide white hat, trimmed with convolvulus.Every ornament she possessed had been burnt except a jewelled pendant she always wore round her neck, and her big malachite brooch; but now on the third finger of her left hand she wore a ring—a great, gleaming emerald, which had arrived in a little box that morning from Johannesburg.She had seen Clem looking at it with wondering eyes, but as yet she had not been able to explain, for Clem that day was rather more especially busy than usual. During breakfast she had been flitting in and out constantly to her husband's bedroom. Portal had been suffering from a bad attack of slump fever, and instead of doing the "camel-trick," and feeding on his hump, he required a specialmenuwhich kept the cook and his wife busy. He had been more or less confined to his room for three days. It is true that he made wonderful recoveries in the evenings, and rising up donned glad raiment and went to the Club to dine. But when the morning papers arrived he was worse than ever.The moment breakfast was over Clem had flown to prepare the drawing-room for a committee-meeting ofladies interested in the fate of fifty able-bodied domestics arriving by the following week's mail-boat.So Cinthie and Poppy had taken to the bush for shelter. For since Poppy's identity had become known, everyone was anxious to examine her closely, to see what colour her eyes were, whether her hair was real, and how she behaved generally in the strong light of notoriety which enveloped her. The feeling about her had entirely changed. People said they understoodnowwhy she should be so strange-looking, and alone. She was a genius—the newspapers said so! And as such they opened their arms to her, and their doors, and bade her enter. But instead, she invariably fled with Cinthie into the bush.Cinthie was six now, and growing tall. Her brown holland overall was a mere frill about her neck, and looked anæmic beside the deeper colouring of her legs. Her sailor-hat hung at the back of her by its elastic, and in the corner of her mouth she thoughtfully sucked the end of one of the long streaks of hair. In her fingers she held a large and discoloured lump of dough, which she was kneading and pinching with the busy concentration of a beetle rolling amis bolitje. Her nine dolls were seated, some against a flat rock, some against the tree, but all gazing stonily at their mother, except the banshee, who lay prone on her back, her arms extended as if to embrace the universe, her beady eyes fixed revengefully on Heaven.Poppy, sharing the trunk of the tree with the dolls, leaned lazily peeling an orange, which had kindly dropped from the branches above. Other oranges were lying about on the short grey-green grass."What are you going to do with that dough, Cinthie?" she asked."Make pudding.""Who for?""For my chil'ren." She dipped her fingers into a doll'stea-cup full of water, which stood at the elbow of the banshee, and continued to knead; the dough now clung to her fingers in long, elastic threads, and her face showed a deep and vivid interest in her occupation."Are these all the children you've got?""No;Minnie-HahaandDanny Deever'sinside. They been naughty. They's in bed.""What on earth did they do?""Wouldn't say they prairses last night.""Oh, how naughty!""Yes; I don't love them when they don't say prairses for their daddy.""Their daddy?""Yes; he lives in England. He has been living in England for twenty years. They have never seen him.""Goodness!""Yes; it's very sad." She wagged her head dolefully.Presently she unplucked the dough from her fingers and began to spread it out on the large, flat stone, patting it smooth with the palm of her hand. Thereafter, she made a pattern round its edges with a doll's fork, as she had seen cook do."I wish I could make puddings like you," said Poppy, lying on her elbow and eating her orange."I can make nicer ones'n this," said Cinthie boastfully. "I can make Best-pudding-of-all.""Oh, do tell me, Cinthie, so when I have nine children I can make it for them too."Cinthie looked at her dreamfully."Perhaps you won't have any children," she said. "Perhaps you'll be a widow.""Oh, Cinthie, don't be unkind—of course, I shall have some! Go on now, tell me about the pudding."Cinthie rubbed her nose and reflected for a long time.At last, solemnly, with a long think between each sentence, she delivered the recipe."Get some dough ... dip it in water for a minute or two ... get some pastry ... dip it into water twice ... roll it hard ... put it into the dish on top of everything—" Long pause."Yes?""Straighten the edges ..." (she carefully cut all round the dough on the stone with the handle of the fork); "bang it with your hand and it will come straight" (she banged the dough with the palm of her hand); "then spread a little water over it ... and there!" She sighed and took a fresh mouthful of hair."Well, I shall just make a pudding like that," said Poppy determinedly.The gentle slurring of a silk petticoat was heard on the dry grass, and Mrs. Capron joined them, smiling mischievously."The committee meeting is over," she said, "and Clem has gone to see Lady Mostyn off onThe Scotand taken Miss Allendner with her. She hopes she will be back for lunch, but is not sure; if not, we are to go on without her. She gave me leave to come and look for you two in the garden, so you can't very well kick me out, even if you don't want me. Hyacinthie, your nurse is walking about with two baked bananas smothered in cream, asking everyone if they've seen you.""Ooh!" Cinthie slashed the hair out of her mouth in anticipation of her favourite eleven-o'clock lunch. "Mind my babies!" she commanded Poppy with a menacing eye, and sped up the lawn, disappearing into the trees surrounding the house. The two women looked after her with entirely different emotions in their eyes. Mrs. Capron sighed."Fleet of foot, but, alas! that one should have to sayit of Clem's child—flat of foot also." She seated herself daintily upon the rock which had served for Cinthie's kitchen-table; her eyes fastened themselves upon the emerald ring. She had never seen a ring on Poppy's hand before."Her feet are scarcely formed yet," said the latter; "and Clem has perhaps let her wear sandals too long."Mrs. Capron withdrew her fascinated eyes from the ring and shook her head sadly."She will grow up ugly in every way; and it is just as well. If she had Clem's temperament and charm and Bill's beauty she might wreck the world.""Oh, no—only herself," said Poppy, with a tinge of bitterness. "The world goes gaily on, whatever befalls. But I don't agree with you at all about Cinthie's looks!""Most people do. Someone was saying to me the other day—I forget who—Mr. Abinger, perhaps—that Cinthie looks like the incarnation of all the deviltries Clem and Bill have left undone, all the wickedness they have kept under.""Mr. Abinger is a better judge of deviltries than of good women," said Poppy drily."He is a rip, of course. But, then, rips always unerringly recognise other rips," smiled Mary Capron, and Poppy smiled too, though she was not extremely amused."Are you accusing Clem of being a rip?""Of course not, though Bill is so charming he must have been one some time, don't you think?""I think he is nearly nice enough to be Clem's husband," said Poppy curtly, "and too entirely nice for any other woman." It was an old suspicion of hers that Mary Capron was not as real as she pretended to be in her friendship for Clem."You are a very loyal friend, Miss Chard; and I hope you don't think that I amnot, just because I find it intenselyinteresting to talk about the people I care for?" Mrs. Capron spoke with a quiet sincerity that made Poppy feel ashamed of her thought, for, of course, most women do find it interesting to talk of people they care for. The best of friends do it. After all, Mrs. Capron had said nothing that a friend might not lightly say."I would never talk about her to anyone but you," continued Mrs. Capron, "and I know that you love her as much as I do. But I see that you think I am wrong.""I think, Mrs. Capron, that one would be a stock or a stone to know Clem, and yet not be intensely interested in her husband, her child, and everything that concerns her," Poppy answered warmly. "I could sit all day and watch her face, wondering how she came to know so much about life without being old, or bitter, or uncharitable about anything in the world.""She will tell you that the deep lines she has on her face are only little mementos of Africa—that Africa always puts her marks on the faces of those who love her. But"—Mary Capron's voice was very gentle and sad—"I happen to know that she has beenpounded in the mortar."Poppy sat silent, thinking how great must be a nature that could be pounded in the mortar of life, and come out with nothing but a few beautiful marks on the face. Further, her thought was that if Mary Capron knew Clem's sorrows, Clem must love her very much indeed, and she must be worthy of that love.She determined that she would never again allow herself to feel jealous of the bond of friendship existing between the two women. Mary Capron spoke again in a very low voice."What I am terribly afraid is that her suffering is not over, but only beginning."Poppy stared at her startled, and saw that the beautiful brown eyes were filled with tears."Sorrow has her elect!" said the girl gently. "Dear Mrs. Capron, do not let your sympathy for Clem beguile you into telling me anything that she would not wish me to know; I believe you have her confidence. I wish I had too. But I would rather not hear anything ... of her inward life ... from anyone but herself." Poppy began falteringly, but she ended firmly, for she was convinced that she was right. She had laid her whole life bare to Clem, and if Clem had wished to give her confidence in return, she had had endless opportunities to do so in their intimate talks. She felt that she was right in stopping Mrs. Capron from saying anything further. But already Mrs. Capron had gone further."OnceI have seen her in the ashes of misery and despair. I would rather die than witness it again."Poppy sat up and rested her hand on those of the trembling, troubled woman before her."Don't," she said soothingly; "don't fret—Clem is brave and strong enough to fight every imaginable trouble in the world; anddon'tsay anything more; I'm sure she would not wish it.""But Imust... I must tell you.... She is going to suffer again—terribly... and I want to save her if I can, and I want you to save her.""Me!" faltered Poppy, listening in spite of herself. "What can I do?"Mary Capron's tears were falling thick and fast now."Clem's sorrow is a terrible one," she said brokenly. "She loves a man with all the depth and passion her nature is capable of—and the man is not her husband.""Oh!" Poppy went white to the lips. She sat rigidly against the orange-tree and stared at the other woman. "Clem!... I'll never believe it ...Clem!" Afterwards she said burningly: "If itcouldbe true, how could you sit there and betray her?"Mary Capron's eyes flamed at her through the tears."How dare you think I could do it idly?... You think no one feels love for her but yourself ... I hope you are prepared to show your love and prove it ... by saving her. IfIcould do it, I would. Let me tell you, Rosalind Chard, that there isnothingin this world that I would not give up for Clem, or do for her. And you? Can you say that too? Or is your love of the school-girl type—all marks of exclamation and admiration and—was itcondemnationthat I heard in your voice?" She spoke scornfully, yet there was a wondrous, thrilling appeal in her words. "Would you condemn her, Rosalind? Do you know nothing of love, then? That it is always the best whom it attacks most violently—that no one can keep one's heart from straying ... that there are men in the world who when they call must always be answered ... whom no woman can fight successfully against...."But Poppy could only whisper to herself: "Clem! Is thereany man in the worldwho could beguile Clem from the straight, clear way on which her feet are set ... away ... to the deep pits whence comes the wailing of ... transgressors! Is thereany man... in the world?..." Suddenly she sat up straight and rigid, and her head struck the trunk of the orange-tree. A look of terror was in her face. She knew the answer.She knew what she was going to hear.What came dully to her ears was something she had long known—long, long."—And when he went away to Borapota she was like a woman mad with grief ... I thought she would have died.... She besought me,besoughtme to go as far as I could with him ... Nick and I ... in case he should sicken and die of fever.... He did get fever again ... was terribly ill at Borwezi ... and always his one crywas for her.... Nick would tell you ... he too knows ... it was alwaysLoraine....""Ah!" The girl under the tree gave a cry and covered her smitten eyes with her hands."Always it wasLoraine. That was his secret name for her.... I never knew till after I came back that it really is her name ... I asked her one day ... she only said it was her name, but that she never let anyone use it ...heused it though ... he ...he loved her... Miss Chard, I believe that he loves her still ... it is not possible that a man could cease to love a woman like Clem ... a girl's face might attract him ... and draw him for a while ... butClem... a man would always come back to her ... she is the kind that men come back to ... are faithful to for ever.... Oh, child! I believe I have hurt you bitterly ... deeply to-day ... forgive me ... it is forhersake ... I love her ... doyoulove her ... enough to spare her?"When Poppy's hands fell away from her eyes, which were dull now, like the eyes of a dead woman, she was alone in the garden. She sat on—all through the morning, far into the afternoon hours, and no one disturbed her.Indoors an odd thing had happened. The servants had laid lunch for five people, according to the after-breakfast instructions of their mistress. But of the five people who were to sit down in the dining-room not one appeared. Mrs. Portal had telephoned up from the Point that she and Miss Allendner could not be back in time, and so would lunch on the ship with Lady Mostyn. Nurse had received the message on the telephone, but there was no one in the house to deliver it to. Mrs. Capron had come to the nursery window and informed nurse (just free from beguiling Cinthie off to her mid-daysiesta),that she felt faint and ill, and had decided to take a rickshaw home instead of remaining for lunch. Then, Mr. Portal, after sleeping badly all night and breakfasting in his room, had gone afterwards to lie in the garden, to see if he could sleep there. But when Sarah went to seek him he was nowhere to be found. His book was open on the grass, and the cushion he had taken for his head had a dent in it, showing that it had been used. Both were lying by the Barbadoes-hedge, under an orange-tree that grew in the middle of it, but Mr. Portal had gone. Nurse, however, believed that from the nursery window she had seen him walking out of the garden with his hat pulled right down over his eyes."But then, again," she said to cook, "I really couldn't be sure, for he looked so strange, and walked so funny. If I didn't know that master doesn't drink, I should have said he'd had a drop too much. But there, he's not well—maybe, that's why he looked so queer!"As for Miss Chard, no one thought about her; the servants supposed that she had gone with Mrs. Portal to the Point. If Sarah had thought of looking over the Barbadoes-hedge just at the place where Mr. Portal had been lying, she would have seen Miss Chard sitting there, sometimes staring vacantly before her, sometimes holding her face against the orange-tree as though for comfort.CHAPTER XXXION their way home from the Point, Mrs. Portal and Miss Allendner looked in for a while at a friend's house on the Musgrave Road, where an "At Home" was in full swing.Everyone clustered about Clem with solicitous inquiries for the health of Miss Chard, and she found herself detained a good while longer than she had intended. When at last she reached home she was flushed with haste, for not only were there people coming to dine, but two women friends were arriving that night to stay for some days; and the margin of time she had allowed herself to dress, give a final survey to the bedrooms, inspect themenu, and attend to the table-flowers, was far from wide. Also, she had a longing for a few moments' gossip and rest in Poppy's room, for through the rush of small affairs she had been barely able to exchange a word with her friend all day.As soon as she entered the hall Sarah handed her a telegram, which she tore open and read immediately, supposing it to be from one of her expected guests. But as her eyes fell on the flimsy paper, both Sarah and the elderly spinster saw by the change that swept over her face that this must be something more serious than a guest's telegraphed regrets. A look of blank astonishment was followed by one of horror. Her lips went white and the deadly shade crept over her face, seeming to age it suddenly. Then, her dazed eyes perceived the two womenlooking anxiously at her. Instantly she controlled herself; gave an order to Sarah, asked Miss Allendner if she could possibly arrange the table-flowers for her as she didn't think she would have time to do it herself, and with apparent indifference took up and read the cards of some visitors who had called during the afternoon. She even called Sarah back and made some inquiries as to whether any of the visitors had asked to see Miss Chard."They did so, ma'am. But I could not find Miss Chard anywhere, and I thought she was with you—afterwards she came in from the garden.""Very well, Sarah—give cook as much help as you can this evening.""Oh,yes, m'm."The maid went her ways, and Mrs. Portal to her room.When she had closed her door she stood still and re-read the telegram upon which her hand had retained a convulsive clutch. Afterwards, with a little groan, she dropped it and fell upon her knees by her bed. Kneeling there, her face buried in her hands, she after a while lost count of time, and did not hear a knock on her door.When the senses are dulled by suffering they play strange tricks on the poor human beings who depend on them. Poppy, who knocked, imagined that she distinctly heard a voice say:"Come in," and opening the door she softly entered.Clem sprang to her feet and turned her haggard face to the intruder, anger in her eyes; and Poppy, aghast and trembling, suddenly shrank back."Oh, Clem!... I beg your pardon," she stammered. "I was so certain I heard you say 'Come in' ... I ... Oh, youknowI would not dream of intruding on you...." She was whiter even than when she entered; her lips were quivering so much she could hardily speak coherently. Unwittingly she had seen Clem kneeling there—abandonedto misery! And now she saw the tragic eyes that looked at her—and she knew what it all meant!Thiswas the first moment in the whole long day Clem had had to herself ... and she ...shemust needs intrude on the secret grief of the woman she lovedand had robbed! She put out her hand with a gesture that implored forgiveness and told of love. Almost for the moment she forgot her misery in Clem's. But Clem had turned away and was standing at her dressing-table. Over her shoulder she said in a strained voice:"It doesn't matter ... I don't mindyou... I have had some bad news. But don't ask me about it, dear. I can't speak of it—even with you!"Was this said in bitterest irony? Poppy wondered dully, and she did not know what she answered before she left the room, and that did not matter, for Clem Portal did not hear. They were two people walking in heavy darkness that cut them off from the voices of their fellows.Half an hour later the house rang with the laughter and merriment of the two new arrivals—old friends of the Portals—who had come down from Maritzburg to spend a few days and attend the Durban Club Ball, which was to take place the next night. In the drawing-room, before dinner was announced, Clem's laughter was the gayest of all; but to Poppy's ear there was a note in it like the clank of a broken bell. The Maritzburgers were two light-hearted, pretty women of the military set, whose husbands' regiments had so recently come from India that they were still keenly and sorely feeling the difference between Simla and the benighted capital of Natal. But their repinings were for the time forgotten in vivacious crowing over the fact that their husbands had been unable to accompany them at the last moment, so that there would now be nothing to prevent them from havinga delightful fling and dancing their heels off at the coming ball."Robbie is all very well up to supper-time," cried Mrs. Dorand to the world at large, "but after supper he gets sleepy, and I meet his sulky face at every corner imploring me to come home.""Everybodyknows how foolish Theodore is about my adoration for your Billy, Clem." The wife of Major Monk was a violet-eyed, jolly girl from the Curragh. "ButnowI shall be able to dance with him uninterruptedly all night.""Indeed then you won't," said Clem, "for he's been called away on business quite suddenly, and I doubt if he'll be back in time for the ball—so we shall be a hen party."Amidst moans and expostulations she added: "But I daresay I can beat up a few wild-geese from somewhere. There are several coming to-night." She proceeded to recount the names and accomplishments of the men expected, and during the tale the rest of the party arrived and dinner was announced.Poppy found herself upon the arm of Luce Abinger.There were moments during the course of that dinner when she believed herself to be on the point of going mad; when the lights and the jewels and the wine and the faces were all hideously mixed, and she could have shrieked like a banshee at the two merry Maritzburg women, and fled from the table and the house. But always she was recalled to herself by just glancing to the head of the table where Clem Portal sat, the wittiest and most charming of hostesses, with two badly-painted streaks of red in her cheeks, and flaming lips which gradually lost their colouring and looked oddly at variance with the rest of the "make up" by the end of the dinner. Even bad dreams come to an end some time.If there were two things in Poppy's world impossible to associate with peace and gratitude, they were assuredly the darkness of a garden and the exclusive society of Luce Abinger. Yet she found herself during a part of that nightmare-evening looking upon these things as blessings for which to be distinctly thankful to Heaven.Two other people were sauntering afar, and in the drawing-room a quartette had settled down to Bridge, with Miss Allendner at the piano playing the stiltedpolonaisesand polkas of her vanished youth.Abinger and Poppy talked together in a friendly, natural fashion that they had never known before. He congratulated her about her work, said how much he had enjoyed reading her last book, and asked her if she had sold the African rights of her plays, as they were sure to bring in a large sum. She told him she had long ago sold all rights and spent the money; that, indeed, she had spent most of her money, and must begin to think about earning more at once. He knew, of course, about her loss of all the work she had recently done. Suddenly the recollection swept over her that it was to fight him that she wanted the money. She stood still in their idle sauntering, and faced him. All the terror and misery of the past, that he indirectly had been the cause of, came back. Yet she could not hate him when she saw his haggard, distorted face. And how ill he looked! For a moment she forgot her wrongs, in womanly pity."You look ill, Luce," she said kindly."I am ill; I am a starving man." He came near her and looked at her. "You and I are both starving—for something we can't have. I have never been able to discover what it is you want—or, to be more precise,who—but you know very well who it is, and what, that I want."She drew back from the look in his eyes. His tone changed instantly; he looked and spoke idly."Well—my offer holds good at any time.""Your offer?""Yes ... don't forget it ... I know that the mere fact of money is nothing to you ... but you're not happy. If you like work and fame, well—you don't look like a girl who does, that's all!"They were walking now over the dew-spangled lawn, and she was wondering what he meant. Suddenly he stood still and began to stammer at her incoherently."When I told you the truth in that letter, I did not do it in the spirit that a man throws up the sponge—don't think that! I did it," he continued hoarsely, "to be fair and square with you for once. To begin again with the way clear before us—if you will. It was a rather fine thing to do, I thought," his tone changed to the old, sneering one; "but like all the fine things I've ever done it ended in repentance. I know now that I was a fool to tell you.""What are you talking about, Luce?" she wonderingly asked. Then for the first time since she had locked her studio door on it she remembered his unread letter. "Is it something you told me in the letter you sent to the cottage?—I never read it. It was burned unopened the night of the fire."A change came over his face. His scar seemed to twitch and gleam spasmodically in the moonlight. There was a silence. Then very softly he began to laugh, looking at her intently and feeling in all his pockets."What was in the letter, Luce?" she said beguilingly. She knew now that it was something she ought to know. But he only went on laughing softly. She tried to recall and understand the words he had been saying, but she could not.He thought of all the furious rage and contempt he had expended on himself within the last few weeks while hewaited and waited for some word of thanks from her for the fine generous thing he had done in telling her the truth at last—that she was not his wife at all; that Carmen Braganza, the beautiful Spanish dancer, whom he had secretly married in Johannesburg, was still living at the time of the ceremony between himself and Poppy——And she had never read the letter! All was as before!She did not know, and there was still a fighting chance that, wearied out with the strife and siege, she would turn and surrender.Then he would say:"Yes—but we will not take the world into our confidence about the little ceremony in the White Farm. We'll go and be married publicly."Thinking of these things, what could he do but look at her and softly laugh?As for her, sick at heart, hopeless, remembering her misery, she turned away and set her desolate face towards the house, where a woman whom she loved well wore two little painted flames in her cheeks."What need to strive, with a life awry?"Life was awry with everyone it seemed! What did it matter what Luce Abinger had to say?She had no fight left in her. Her feet, as she walked up the sloping lawn, seemed too heavy to lift—they caught in the grass as she stumbled wearily towards the house, Abinger following."Good-night, Luce," she said lifelessly as they reached the verandah. She felt no anger towards him now. She let him take her hand and she listened without resentment to his whispered words."When are you coming back to your home and your husband, Poppy?"Indoors, the card-party had broken up. The travellerswere tired, and Clem was for hunting them to bed. The men made farewells and went, Abinger with them, and Clem and Miss Allendner hustled away to the rooms of the guests. Poppy took the opportunity of slipping into the narrow little writing-room, which opened off the hall and was meant for common-use. She wished to write out a telegram, and she knew there were forms to be found there. Sitting down to the desk she found the stack of forms and began to write on the top one. But someone had been using it before her, and with a violent hand and stubby pencil had left an entire message deeply indented on the form beneath the one that had been used and torn off. With the first word Poppy wrote the ink flowed from her full pen into the rutted words, outlining a part of the message, and she read all then as dully and unthinkingly as she had done everything else that evening."Come back to me. You have never been out of my heart for a moment since first I loved you.—Loraine."The address was a code word, care of the Rand Club, and the words were in Clem's writing. It was the last link in the chain. If Poppy had had any lingering, hoping doubt in her mind, it fled now. She forgot the words she had meant to write, and then she told herself they didn't matter in any case. Vaguely she remembered to tear the form off and destroy it; then rose from the desk and walked rather blindly to the door and out into the lighted hall. Clem was waiting there to bid her good-night.The red had faded from her cheeks now, or else the light was kinder, and her eyes looked big and dim. She put out her hands, took Poppy's, and gave them a little, gentle squeeze, and she smiled her own brave turned-up-at-the-corners smile."Life is a curious thing, Poppy," she said gently. "It is hard to tell which is dream and which is real. Sometimes I don't think any of it is real at all. Good-night dear."CHAPTER XXXIIAFTER a week or so at Potchefstroom, Carson returned to Johannesburg, to find Rosser beating the town for him, crazy with impatience. Wallerstein had offered seven hundred pounds apiece for the South Rands, but Rosser had not closed; he considered it madness not to stand out for eight hundred."It'll only be a matter of a week or two," said he. But Carson gloomed and cursed. It maddened him to find the thing still unsettled, for he had made up his mind not to return to Durban until he knew definitely whether he had poverty or wealth—both comparative, of course—to offer to the woman of his heart. However, as he had stayed so long already, a few days more could not make much difference, he argued lifelessly with himself, so he gave a grudging half-assent to Rosser and went his ways. He still had several minor affairs to attend to, and various people to see, but he did all half-heartedly. Choosing and despatching a ring to Poppy was the only thing that gave him any joy, and that was too poignant for pleasure. Then, suddenly, in one day he grew restless and haggard. Hunger was on him for the sight of a face, and at last he knew he could wait no longer, but must go. The decision came upon him suddenly in the Club with the sight and scent of a gardenia Forsyth was wearing in his coat at lunch-time. Now, between the scent of a gardenia and the scent of Barbadoes-thorn there is scarcely any difference at all, except that the gardenia's fragrance is perhapsmore subtly insistent. Carson spun out of the Club into a cab and in fifteen minutes was in his broker's office."Close for seven hundred pounds each, Rosser," he said briskly. "And get the whole thing fixed up as soon as possible. I'm leaving to-night.""Oh, but I've already closed for eight hundred pounds each," chirruped the elated Rosser. "The transfer is completed and the money paid in." He pranced into an inner office and produced voluminous documents. "Loot, my son! Loot from the house of Rimmon! I take my little fifteen thousand pounds and you take twenty-five thousand. Isn'tthatall right?Nowwill you be good!"An hour later Carson regained his cab and was driven to his rooms. A portmanteau atVetta'shead was a sufficient indication of his intentions, and the rest of the afternoon was spent in settling up his remaining business matters and appointments by telegram and telephone. Then he dined, and caught the eight o'clock express by one minute and a half.Vetta, who was on the look-out for him, indicated an empty first-class, and Carson fell into it and slept like the dead until morning.Those were the days when the run between Johannesburg and Durban occupied the better part of twenty-seven hours. The first stop of any importance was at Volksrust, the boundary town, and Carson roused himself to take a look at country he knew well, and was not likely to see again for many years. It was as early as fiveA.M., and a wet salt mist lay over everything, chilling him to the bone as he opened his window and looked out at the bleak Drakensberg looming through the haze, and tragic Majuba, which throws a shadow athwart every brave man's path as he passes. Later, the train dashed through the Laing's Nek tunnel, and as it descended the sloping spur of the range, Natal lay before Carson's eyes—all beautiful green valleys and running water: the land of his desire. Themist had cleared from the air, but it still seemed to obscure Carson's vision as he looked, and he passed Ingogo, and Mount Prospect, with ill-fated Colley's monument, unknowingly. Only the far blue haze that meant the coast lured his eyes, for there for him lay heart's content.Presently, at Newcastle, came the faithfulVettawith tidings of breakfast; and Carson scrambled amongst a weary, sleepy crowd, in which he recognised no face, for sandwiches and vile coffee flung at him, half in cup and half in saucer. When he had breakfasted in this fashion, taken a leisurely stroll, glanced in all the carriages to see if there could possibly be any passengers he knew, inspected the accommodation ofVetta, and inquired into the matter of the latter's breakfast, he returned to his carriage. There was still a residue of sixteen hours to get through before the journey ended. Having no reading-matter with him, he thought at first to kill time with pleasant thoughts of a woman in a garden, but it was presently borne in upon him that his consciousness, or conscience, or memory, or whatever he may have cared to call it, had another and less agreeable affair to consider with him. Something within, that he would fain have cursed into silence, earnestly solicited his attention to the fact that the train which was crawling with him to the woman he loved, was at the same time tearing with most indecent haste towards one whom he had never loved, and the hour in which he must tell her so. Presently the thought of that hour lashed him, cut him with knives, turned him sick.In time, he stared at the wild and rugged outline of the Biggarsberg, until it seemed blurred with a red haze; and as the flat and dreary land of stunted bush that lies between Elandslaagte and Howick unrolled itself monotonously before his window, rocks appeared to grin and gibe at him, and isolated trees menaced him with gnarled arms,even as in Wiertzs's picture Napoleon is menaced by the arms of women.As the hours passed his eyes grew bloodshot and his throat dry. His mouth sneered with self-contempt; unconsciously his lips opened and closed, and he swallowed with the expression of a man who is tasting the bitterness of death. But through all, his heart held steadfast to one plan—the man's plan, the old plan that was in the beginning and shall be till the end.Later, he lay on the seat of the carriage, his face to the wall, his eyes closed, his hands clenched—thinking, thinking. He would remember Poppy's shut eyes as he kissed her under the flamboyant tree; how her throat shone in the darkness. Then a voice,not hers, would break in upon him, crying:"Evelyn, I love you. For your sake men may brand me—swear you will never forsake me for another woman!"Did he ever swear? Was that his voice he seemed to hear?—tender, fervent—swearing by her face, by his life, by——"Oh, Lord God! what a blackguard!" he groaned aloud.But his heart held steadfast to his plan.When at last evening fell, the train reached Maritzburg, and the passengers poured out into the station dining-room. Carson, haggard-eyed, found the bar, and drank three brandies atop of each other. He was on the point of ordering a fourth when a Maritzburg acquaintance stepped in and saved him the trouble—slapping him on the shoulder, and claiming his attention with a little scheme, which he said Bramham was standing in with. It was something about coal, but Carson never afterwards remembered details, though he listened very politely and intently to every word, for it was good to be spoken to by a decent man as if he were another decent man, after those years of degradation in the train.The four brandies might have been poured over a rock for all the effect he felt of them; but when the starting bell rang, he made his way back to the train through the hustling crowd with a calmer mien, and leaning from the window, wrung his acquaintance's hand with unassumed warmth. Ever afterwards he felt real friendship for that Maritzburg man.To his surprise, he found that he now had a fellow-passenger, a lady. Her figure seemed vaguely familiar as she stood packing her things into the rack, and when she turned round he wondered where in the world before he had met the unabashed gaze of those large brown eyes beneath a massed fringe of dusty, crispy hair. She, on her part, was regarding him with the pleased smile of an old acquaintance."Sir Evelyn Carson! How funny!" she said, and smiled winningly. Carson bowed, and his smile was ready and courteous, for, in truth, he was glad not to be alone; but he continued to greatly wonder."I believe you don't remember me!" said she archly. "How unkind! And I've so often bowed to Mr. Bramham when you've been with him in the old days. And you've been to Brookie's office, too, when I was his seckertary."At last Carson was enlightened. He was, in fact, in the pleasant company of Miss Sophie Cornell."Ah! yes, of course—I remember quite well," said he. Indeed, if she could but have known it, he remembered a good deal more than was flattering, for Bram's tale of highway-robbery was still clear in his mind. She had changed a good deal since then: grown coarser and more florid—and there were other things—! When a woman has flung her kisses to the world as generously as summer flings daisies in a green meadow, the tale of them is marked upon her face for all who run to read. However, her dress was black, and so extremely neat that it was a pityshe should have spoiled its effectiveness by wearing a pair of yellowsuèdeevening shoes.Carson was not surprised when she informed him that she had left the uninteresting field of typewriting, to adorn a profession where beauty and wit are more readily recognised and liberally remunerated."I am in anawfullynice bar in Maritzburg," she told him languorously. "Come in and have a drink next time you are there—'The Falcon.' All my friends wereawfullyannoyed with me for leavingliterarywork, but really it wassodull—and, of course, it's a great mistake to think one can't staya lady, whatever one does; don't you think so, Sir Evelyn, eh?""Certainly!" he gravely agreed."I am treated asquitethe lady by all the smartest men in the town, and there's a great difference between that and being bullied from morning to night by a little bounder like Brookie, you know. Not that he didn't have his good points. But still, the way he treated me in the end was perfectlyfrot[6], and there's no other word for it. In fact, everybody did. Charlie Bramham, now, always said he'd be my friend, but as soon as it suited him, he just scooted off and never came near me again ... after persuading me in the first place to come to Durban to work for him."
"Gen-tuljeesus, meek n' mil',Lookup pon a little chil';Pitimysimplisitee,Suffer me t' come to Thee.
"Gen-tuljeesus, meek n' mil',Lookup pon a little chil';Pitimysimplisitee,Suffer me t' come to Thee.
"Our Fath 'CHART in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy King and come, Thy will be done 'Nearth as 'tis 'Neaven. Give us 's day ourDAILY BREADN' forgive us our trespasses 'gainst us. But 'liver us from evil. For Thine's kingdom, Power and GLORY, frever and ever, Amen.
"Our Father, please bless my darling Mummie, and take care of her at the theatre, and my lovely Daddie,andGrannie,andGrandad,andPoppy,andall the servants inthishouse,andall the little children in the world,andfill our hearts with love 'n kindness, Amen—now I must say myLatins."
Clem was Catholic and Bill Protestant, and the result was a strange medley of prayers for Cinthie. She kneeled up, crossed herself solemnly in Latin, and began to chant the lovely words of the Angelical Salutation:
"Ave Maria! gratia plena, Dominus tecum: benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus."
"Sancta Maria! Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostræ. Amen."
Afterwards she fell into a peal of laughing.
"Why do you laugh, darling?" Poppy gravely asked, and the answer was:
"Oh, Poppy! Wouldn'tNuncbe a funny name for a dog!"
Then once more the sheets were tucked in, the mosquito-net arranged, and a kiss blown through it.
"Good-night, Pansy-face!"
"G'night, Red-rose!" responded Cinthie ardently.
"Good-night, Gold-heart!"
Cinthie thought laboriously for a few seconds, strugglingfor a fitting response. At last, just as Poppy reached the door, she shouted breathlessly:
"G'night; White-soul!"
At that Poppy gave a cry and ran back once more and hugged her.
When at length she tore herself away from the warm, loving little arms and went alone to the drawing-room, heavy tears were splashing down her cheeks and her lips were like a wistful, sorrowing child's. She stood in the open window and stared out at the beauty of the night. Above in the solemn purple sky was the Cross, picked out in scarlet stars. Far below twinkled the town lights, and at quick intervals the Bluff Lighthouse sent long, sweeping, golden lines across the bay, revealing for an instant the shadowy fabrics of ships and sailing craft lying safe in dock.
Out at sea a great liner steamed slowly to anchorage, hundreds of lights flashing from her three tiers, and presently the rattle of her cable through the hawse-pipes floated distinctly up to the heights, the throbbing in her breast died away, and she lay rocking softly like some great tired bird nested at last.
In the dim valley a Zulu boy, heart-hungry for his home-kraal, was making music of an infinite sweetness and melancholy on that oldest instrument in the world, a reed-flute. The sound brought further tears to Poppy, and a burning in her throat. It seemed the voice of her heart wailing, because she had never been a child, because "earth was so beautiful and Heaven so far"; because she loved a man and was beloved of him and darkness lay between them! At that, she longed passionately with every sense and nerve in her for Evelyn Carson. She ached in the very bones and blood of her for a sight or sound of him. If he would only come——!
"Oh, God! be good to me for once!" she cried with soundless lips. "Let him come—I will do the rest. Thereis no barrier I cannot break down between him and me. He is mine—dear God, youknowthat he is mine! I bound him with my hair, my lips, my soul. I gave him of my best, I gave him my girlhood—I bore his son." The green leaves of the passion-plant trailing over the window lapped gently against her cheek, and she put up her hands to them. "Oh, trees, leaves, all green things, help me—let him come——"
And he came, through the open gate, up the broad pathway, straight to her.
Her eyes were closed tight to stop her tears, but she heard him coming as she stood there with the shaded lamps behind her in the empty room, and the silver night on her face. He came so close to the verandah that he could look in upon her, and plainly see her pale emotion-wrung face and the tears urging through her tightly-closed lids and dripping from her lashes. Her lips opened and her breath came heavily, and the sight of her took strange hold of him. His own lips unclosed; the marks self-mockery had made about them had been wiped out; his handsome, haggard eyes had changed, boyhood had come back to them.
"Won't you come into the garden?" His voice had all the sweetness of Ireland in it. She unclosed her eyes and came out to him, the tears still shining on her cheeks: a pale, ardent woman—strangely like a narcissus.
He put an arm through hers and they walked together in the gracious dimness.
Down the centre of the garden dividing two lawns ran a high hedge of Barbadoes-thorn. It is a shrub garlanded with white tiny flowers of a perfume probably the most pungent in the world—much like the gardenia, or tuberose, but heavier, sweeter. To-night this perfume hung upon the air, and stayed with these lovers all their lives after. They sat on the grass under a giant flamboyanttree and a tiny green tree-frog sang a love-song to its mate in the branches over their heads. But they did not hear. They were deaf to everything now save the drumming in their hearts and the urging of their pulses. Carson had his arm about her, half for her support, wholly because he could not help it. Her tears were still on her face, and he leaned so close that his cheek was wetted by them. One heavy drop fell on his lips and he tasted the salt of it, and it was as if he had tasted blood. Suddenly he turned her lips to his and began to kiss her with a mouth of flame.
"Eve! Eve!" she cried, afraid of her gladness. He did not speak; nor could he, if he would. Only he dragged kisses from the mouth he had desired so long; the eyes he had looked away from; the curving, cloven chin; the throat that shone in the darkness like a moony pearl. And when he came to her lips again, they kissed him back with wild, sweet kisses. Her arms were round him too. One held his throat and her eyes were shut and sealed.
After some short, blind moments, in which she was lost, and he torn in two between desire and iron-determination, he lifted her suddenly to her feet.
"Darling, my heart, good-bye—for a little while," he said; "and then—nevergood-bye again. The next time we kiss, you must be my wife."
CARSON left the next day for Johannesburg as he had intended, speaking to no woman after he had parted from that pale, ardent one under the flamboyant tree. Other women, indeed, had ceased to exist for him. Withonehe knew there must yet be a scene, most painful and bitter, which could not be shirked; the thought of it,whenhe thought of it, turned his heart cold—but it must be confessed that he did not think of it often. He was too busy in his first weeks of absence to think of any woman much—even the best-beloved. Up to his eyes in affairs, and among a hundred old friends and haunts in the busy, virile life of the Rand, he had scarcely time to turn up the book of his mind for a page he knew was there, illumined with letters of fire and gold. But always he wore a red rose in his heart. Always a star glimmered at the back of his life, colouring the days golden.
Sometimes in the night-hours, or with the dawn, a vision of her face would come to him, so sharp and clear, that it seemed her body must be in the room, as well as her spirit, and almost she would fill the arms he put out for her. In those hours it was made clear to him how Love can wrench the spirit from the body and send it speeding across the miles to the Beloved.
He had not asked her to write, nor did he write himself. Their love was not one which needed to be kept afire by words; already it burned too fiercely for peace. Letters would have been a delight, it is true; but he was artistenough to realise the value of restraint from small joys that a great joy may be more complete, and he knew that their meeting would be the dearer and sweeter for this intervening silence "too full for sound or foam."
Moreover, his affairs were critical. He required all his coolness and judgment for the share market, and the letters he must write if he wrote at all to her, though they would not have disabled him for the fight, must at least have left him less calm and unshaken than he desired to be at this juncture. Fortune is a woman, and a jealous one at that. She must be wooed and worshipped, and all others forgotten for her sake before she will bestow her smiles. Carson approached her in a spirit of ravishment. His desire was for her favours, and he was prepared to drag them from her, if she would not give. He was prepared to buy and sell as never before in all his gay, careless life—feverish for gain.
The glance with which he searched the face of Fortune was neither imperialistic nor altruistic now, but purely personal; he was thinking, plotting, planning for the future; but the details of that same future were too wild and sweet to be thought upon. They sang a song in his veins that would not be silenced.
His first business was to find Charlie Rosser, his broker, the shrewdest, straightest man on 'Change,' and a personal friend at that. But the slump was affecting people's health. All Johannesburg was laid up, nursing its lungs, its hump, or its pet stocks, and Rosser was amongst the invalids. So Carson's first week was spent at a loose end, for he was too wise a citizen of the world to venture upon the seas of finance, of which he had no great knowledge, without a good man at the helm. Most days, however, found him making his way through the crowded streets to "the Chains" for news of the market. Things were as bad as they could be, and every man had a tale of dolourto pitch, but no one looked dolorous. The high, fine air of Johannesburg is a wonderful thing for making people think they are all muscle and no nerves—and they don't find out their mistake until after they have made their pile, or lost it, when the "finding out" doesn't matter, anyway.
The place was always home to Carson, and "full of friendly faces," and he trod its streets as familiarly as the decks of his own soul.
One morning, just before High Change, he found an extra jostle going on amongst the crowds of brokers and dealers "between the Chains." Everyone was agog. The market had come better from London. In anticipation of a demand at High Change, shares were changing hands merrily. Carson was hailed blithely by friend and foe alike, offered everything he didn't want, and alternately elated and depressed by the news that came to him concerning the stocks in which he was interested. But on the whole, the outlook was bright.
"Boom!" was the hilarious word that cleared the horizon of clouds. "There's going to be a boom!" men shouted, and their eyes were full of the bland joy of piracy. Rumours had come that the "Corner House" was supporting the market fortheirspecial stocks, and other houses followed the lead. Johannesburg is the most sensitive market in the world—it responds to outside influence as the violin to Sarasate.
In the midst of the dust and din Carson caught sight among the crowd of a puffy red face, with grim eyes and the sweeping moustache of an Algerian pirate. He was waving frantically at Carson and yelling:
"My office! Come and pow-wow!"
In five minutes Carson had trailed Rosser to his lair, and they were deep in a discussion of prospects. Rosser's tips were no better than any other, but his opinion on thetrend of the market was always worth hearing, and usually as nearly right as possible.
"Shall I sell or hold?" demanded Carson, when his affairs had been laid upon the board and swiftly scanned.
"Hold?" screamed Rosser. "Everything is going to the devil. Do you think I take any stock in this good news? Why—the country is rotten. The British public is steadily selling. This improvement can't last—it's only a flash in the pan. Sell! This is your chance. Sell all you've got. Sell calls—sell your shirt—sellanything—up to ninety days. Destruction comes after."
This was Carson's mood also. But he had an anchor now that deterred him from advancing too gaily towards the breakers. He first examined Rosser from top to toe with steely eyes, then advanced the objection that if he had to pay brokerage on the whole amount out of his call-money, he wouldn't make a heap of profit. Rosser began to prophesy, but without sanctity.
"No calls will be taken up this year. Hell! I've a good mind to run the biggest bear account you've ever dreamt of, Carson. Take my advice and sell, man. Sell on 'fixed delivery' and 'buyer's option' and 'to arrive'—play bear till all is blue." He suddenly became calm and business-like. "Think it over for a few moments while I read my letters, and then decide."
In old days Carson would have embraced the proposition with the devil-may-care philosophy of the usual Rand man, that if "bearing" smashed him up he'd be no worse off than a hundred better men who'd done the same thing before him. But now—he was feverish for gain—the thought of loss was unendurable. Rosser suddenly looked up at him with a waiting smile.
"Well?"
"Damned if I don't do it, Charlie. You can sell calls on everything I've got, this morning—here's the list,and in the afternoon you can sell everything I haven't got on 'fixed delivery,' or 'to arrive.'"
"Good, man!" cried Rosser.
"And what about my block of South Rands?"
This was Carson's hold-by. The biggest stone in his box. He had bought these fifty shares at a sheriff's sale for twenty pounds each, years before, and though he had often wanted the money, some indefinable superstition had kept him cheerfully paying up licences and hanging on.Nowrumour went, the Big House wanted them.
"What will you take for them?" asked Rosser, grinning. "Cost?"
"No!" said Carson violently, "nor double, nor quadruple. I'll do or die by those damned things."
Rosser regarded him cynically, but with affection. It had not escaped the grim eyes that Carson here present was not the notoriously careless, indifferent Carson of the past.
"You sound to me like a man who wants to buy a trousseau for himself," he remarked, but his gibe brought no blush to the brazen cheek before him, and he did not dream that he had made a bull's-eye.
"But you're quite right, Karri.... You're going to make a big bag out of that little preserve ... only keep cool ... and if Wallerstein asks you about them, say they're not for sale ... I haven't time to tell you any more now." He was looking at his watch. "By Cli! I must get away to 'Change. Where shall we meet afterwards?"
"At the Club," said Carson briefly. "One sharp. My table is third on the left as you go in ... don't be late."
They parted. Rosser for 'Change, and Carson to walk swiftly away down Commissioner Street towards Jeppestown, past the City-and-Suburban-Township-blocks, with the fine buildings that look so substantial and impressedevery new-comer with the stability and security of life and fortune in the great mining centre. The place was teeming with life and apparent prosperity. But a grim smile hovered on Carson's lips. He knew, as well as Rosser, that things, so far from being secure and stable, were, under the corrupt Boer Government, rotten to the core, and could never be on a sound basis until England intervened. But this was '98, and the time was not yet.
Punctually at one Rosser arrived at the Rand Club. Carson was deep in anindabawith two men he knew well, and the talk was all of shares and money—big business had been done on 'Change. Rosser was cold-eyed and inaccessible until the other men went, then he brightened and told Carson what he had done.
"I've sold everything on time!" he said. "Committed you—roughly—to ten thousand pounds of sales ... sixty days ... buyer's options."
If Carson's spirit groaned, his face gave no sign; but the little broker was as sensitive as the market. He looked at the other keenly.
"Don't do the business if you're afraid; I'm perfectly satisfied to go into it alone. Why! I'm so certain of the coming fall that I advise you to run a bear account up to fifty thousand pounds. Hell! Carson, what's come to you? I've never known you like this before."
"I've got a touch of fever," said Carson irritably, but he did not specify the peculiar brand he was suffering from. He was ashamed of his funk—but the best of men get attacks of it in certain circumstances.
"Well, if you'll make up your mind to stick to it for three months you'll make ten thousand pounds at least."
"Three months!" It was Carson's turn to cry "Hell!" But presently he said firmly: "Go ahead, Rosser, and sell another ten thousand—buyer's options, this afternoon."
"Right!" cried Rosser gaily, and with a heart at peaceproceeded to acknowledge his friends at various tables, while Carson turned up the wine-list. They had been eating and drinking steadily through lunch.
"Coffee, 1830 Brandy, and '94 Coronas," was Carson's order, and when the waiter had come and gone, Rosser sadly said, looking at his glass:
"I wonder how long it will last!"
"What, the market?" Once more the teeth of Carson's soul chattered.
"No—Karri, you're all to bits—the brandy. There can't be much of it left. Now let's get to this South-Rand proposition. Look here—you know I'm a few pounds to the good ... and I'm really smitten with my bear scheme. If you're anxious about it, I'll stand in with you ... share and share. But only on the condition that you give me a share in your South Rand claims."
"Let's hear the proposition," said Carson, beginning to take a more cheerful view of life through his smoke rings.
"You have fifty claims? Wallerstein will give you one hundred pounds each for them; but they are worth five times that if the business is properly engineered. They're a long way from the out-crops, but the reefmustbe found dipping through them, and the Big Housemusthave them to make up their area. Now what I propose is this: You leave the business to me. Value the claims say at two hundred pounds each, and give me half of what I can get over that."
It did not take Carson very long to come to a conclusion. He knew he was dealing with one of the straightest men and best fellows in Johannesburg, and there was no faintest chance of his confidence being abused. He closed.
"I'll have an agreement drawn up, relating to the claims, at once," said Rosser. "What about the bear scheme? Shall I stand in with you, or will you stand alone?"
"I'll stand alone, thanks, old man." All Carson's careless nerve had come back to him, with the memory of a face fair to see. He knew, in spite of his words, that whatsoever fortune befell—poverty or riches—he would never again stand alone in the world.
"Good, man!" cried Rosser. "I must scoot. I've two appointments before 'Change this afternoon—so long!"
Carson was left to his own many and various devices.
The market rose steadily for a week. The air was full of good and gentle rumours. An Industrial Commission was to be appointed! The iniquitous Dynamite Monopoly was to be smashed! Native labour was to be guaranteed at lower wages! Everything in the garden was to be lovely! And everyone wore a brow unsullied by care! And bears were tumbling over each other in every direction to cover.
Carson had some bad times with himself, but his under-lip never slackened. Rosser's grip on the market was firm and unhesitating. He sold heavily "to arrive."
"I have never known anyone who made money—worth talking about—by buying and holding," was the creed he offered to Carson. And in this case he was right. Suddenly the reaction began. Shares fell with a bump, and kept steadily on the down-grade for months.
At the end of the first month Carson's bear account closed with a handsome profit to himself of twelve thousand pounds.
In the meantime, negotiations had been proceeding over the South Rands. The lifelessness of the market did not affect the fact that the "Big House" wanted Carson's claims, and was steadily working to get them by hook or by crook. But Carson and Rosser were both up to every hook and crook of the game. They held the cards and they knew it, and when four hundred pounds each was offered for the shares, they only sat and smiled like littlebenign gods. Further, Rosser airily informed Wallerstein, the representative of the "Big House," that he would not consider anything under one thousand pounds. However, in secret conclave, the two conspirators agreed to take eight hundred pounds apiece—not bad for claims that had cost Carson twenty pounds each at the sheriff's sale. Rosser was for holding out for a thousand, but Carson's time was running out, and his patience.
"No: get a definite offer for eight hundred pounds, and close on it," were his orders, and on that decision he rested, as much as a mancanrest in Johannesburg, taking the days quietly and dining sanely at nights with old friends. But he got little joy of their society, for the reason that though he knew their lives and interests, they knew nothing of the most vital and important part of his. They had never seen those lilac-coloured eyes with the big, black velvet centres; they could know nothing of the sweet, wild strain on his heart. He felt like a man who stood on the walls of a citadel filled with treasure, parleying with friends and enemies alike, but allowing no one to enter.
Suddenly he grew horribly lonely; the days dragged and the nights brought memories that set him in bodily torment.
Fortunately at this juncture Forsyth, an old crony, carried him off to the Potchefstroom district for some veldt shooting. The air, the long tramps, and the joy of sport, filled in the days, and found him too tired at nights to do anything but fall log-like into the blankets.
POPPY and Cinthie were sitting in the garden together under an orange-tree, which was set in the midst of the thick fence of Barbadoes-thorn. Poppy's muslin gown was of a colour that made her look like a freshly-plucked spray of lilac, and she wore a wide white hat, trimmed with convolvulus.
Every ornament she possessed had been burnt except a jewelled pendant she always wore round her neck, and her big malachite brooch; but now on the third finger of her left hand she wore a ring—a great, gleaming emerald, which had arrived in a little box that morning from Johannesburg.
She had seen Clem looking at it with wondering eyes, but as yet she had not been able to explain, for Clem that day was rather more especially busy than usual. During breakfast she had been flitting in and out constantly to her husband's bedroom. Portal had been suffering from a bad attack of slump fever, and instead of doing the "camel-trick," and feeding on his hump, he required a specialmenuwhich kept the cook and his wife busy. He had been more or less confined to his room for three days. It is true that he made wonderful recoveries in the evenings, and rising up donned glad raiment and went to the Club to dine. But when the morning papers arrived he was worse than ever.
The moment breakfast was over Clem had flown to prepare the drawing-room for a committee-meeting ofladies interested in the fate of fifty able-bodied domestics arriving by the following week's mail-boat.
So Cinthie and Poppy had taken to the bush for shelter. For since Poppy's identity had become known, everyone was anxious to examine her closely, to see what colour her eyes were, whether her hair was real, and how she behaved generally in the strong light of notoriety which enveloped her. The feeling about her had entirely changed. People said they understoodnowwhy she should be so strange-looking, and alone. She was a genius—the newspapers said so! And as such they opened their arms to her, and their doors, and bade her enter. But instead, she invariably fled with Cinthie into the bush.
Cinthie was six now, and growing tall. Her brown holland overall was a mere frill about her neck, and looked anæmic beside the deeper colouring of her legs. Her sailor-hat hung at the back of her by its elastic, and in the corner of her mouth she thoughtfully sucked the end of one of the long streaks of hair. In her fingers she held a large and discoloured lump of dough, which she was kneading and pinching with the busy concentration of a beetle rolling amis bolitje. Her nine dolls were seated, some against a flat rock, some against the tree, but all gazing stonily at their mother, except the banshee, who lay prone on her back, her arms extended as if to embrace the universe, her beady eyes fixed revengefully on Heaven.
Poppy, sharing the trunk of the tree with the dolls, leaned lazily peeling an orange, which had kindly dropped from the branches above. Other oranges were lying about on the short grey-green grass.
"What are you going to do with that dough, Cinthie?" she asked.
"Make pudding."
"Who for?"
"For my chil'ren." She dipped her fingers into a doll'stea-cup full of water, which stood at the elbow of the banshee, and continued to knead; the dough now clung to her fingers in long, elastic threads, and her face showed a deep and vivid interest in her occupation.
"Are these all the children you've got?"
"No;Minnie-HahaandDanny Deever'sinside. They been naughty. They's in bed."
"What on earth did they do?"
"Wouldn't say they prairses last night."
"Oh, how naughty!"
"Yes; I don't love them when they don't say prairses for their daddy."
"Their daddy?"
"Yes; he lives in England. He has been living in England for twenty years. They have never seen him."
"Goodness!"
"Yes; it's very sad." She wagged her head dolefully.
Presently she unplucked the dough from her fingers and began to spread it out on the large, flat stone, patting it smooth with the palm of her hand. Thereafter, she made a pattern round its edges with a doll's fork, as she had seen cook do.
"I wish I could make puddings like you," said Poppy, lying on her elbow and eating her orange.
"I can make nicer ones'n this," said Cinthie boastfully. "I can make Best-pudding-of-all."
"Oh, do tell me, Cinthie, so when I have nine children I can make it for them too."
Cinthie looked at her dreamfully.
"Perhaps you won't have any children," she said. "Perhaps you'll be a widow."
"Oh, Cinthie, don't be unkind—of course, I shall have some! Go on now, tell me about the pudding."
Cinthie rubbed her nose and reflected for a long time.At last, solemnly, with a long think between each sentence, she delivered the recipe.
"Get some dough ... dip it in water for a minute or two ... get some pastry ... dip it into water twice ... roll it hard ... put it into the dish on top of everything—" Long pause.
"Yes?"
"Straighten the edges ..." (she carefully cut all round the dough on the stone with the handle of the fork); "bang it with your hand and it will come straight" (she banged the dough with the palm of her hand); "then spread a little water over it ... and there!" She sighed and took a fresh mouthful of hair.
"Well, I shall just make a pudding like that," said Poppy determinedly.
The gentle slurring of a silk petticoat was heard on the dry grass, and Mrs. Capron joined them, smiling mischievously.
"The committee meeting is over," she said, "and Clem has gone to see Lady Mostyn off onThe Scotand taken Miss Allendner with her. She hopes she will be back for lunch, but is not sure; if not, we are to go on without her. She gave me leave to come and look for you two in the garden, so you can't very well kick me out, even if you don't want me. Hyacinthie, your nurse is walking about with two baked bananas smothered in cream, asking everyone if they've seen you."
"Ooh!" Cinthie slashed the hair out of her mouth in anticipation of her favourite eleven-o'clock lunch. "Mind my babies!" she commanded Poppy with a menacing eye, and sped up the lawn, disappearing into the trees surrounding the house. The two women looked after her with entirely different emotions in their eyes. Mrs. Capron sighed.
"Fleet of foot, but, alas! that one should have to sayit of Clem's child—flat of foot also." She seated herself daintily upon the rock which had served for Cinthie's kitchen-table; her eyes fastened themselves upon the emerald ring. She had never seen a ring on Poppy's hand before.
"Her feet are scarcely formed yet," said the latter; "and Clem has perhaps let her wear sandals too long."
Mrs. Capron withdrew her fascinated eyes from the ring and shook her head sadly.
"She will grow up ugly in every way; and it is just as well. If she had Clem's temperament and charm and Bill's beauty she might wreck the world."
"Oh, no—only herself," said Poppy, with a tinge of bitterness. "The world goes gaily on, whatever befalls. But I don't agree with you at all about Cinthie's looks!"
"Most people do. Someone was saying to me the other day—I forget who—Mr. Abinger, perhaps—that Cinthie looks like the incarnation of all the deviltries Clem and Bill have left undone, all the wickedness they have kept under."
"Mr. Abinger is a better judge of deviltries than of good women," said Poppy drily.
"He is a rip, of course. But, then, rips always unerringly recognise other rips," smiled Mary Capron, and Poppy smiled too, though she was not extremely amused.
"Are you accusing Clem of being a rip?"
"Of course not, though Bill is so charming he must have been one some time, don't you think?"
"I think he is nearly nice enough to be Clem's husband," said Poppy curtly, "and too entirely nice for any other woman." It was an old suspicion of hers that Mary Capron was not as real as she pretended to be in her friendship for Clem.
"You are a very loyal friend, Miss Chard; and I hope you don't think that I amnot, just because I find it intenselyinteresting to talk about the people I care for?" Mrs. Capron spoke with a quiet sincerity that made Poppy feel ashamed of her thought, for, of course, most women do find it interesting to talk of people they care for. The best of friends do it. After all, Mrs. Capron had said nothing that a friend might not lightly say.
"I would never talk about her to anyone but you," continued Mrs. Capron, "and I know that you love her as much as I do. But I see that you think I am wrong."
"I think, Mrs. Capron, that one would be a stock or a stone to know Clem, and yet not be intensely interested in her husband, her child, and everything that concerns her," Poppy answered warmly. "I could sit all day and watch her face, wondering how she came to know so much about life without being old, or bitter, or uncharitable about anything in the world."
"She will tell you that the deep lines she has on her face are only little mementos of Africa—that Africa always puts her marks on the faces of those who love her. But"—Mary Capron's voice was very gentle and sad—"I happen to know that she has beenpounded in the mortar."
Poppy sat silent, thinking how great must be a nature that could be pounded in the mortar of life, and come out with nothing but a few beautiful marks on the face. Further, her thought was that if Mary Capron knew Clem's sorrows, Clem must love her very much indeed, and she must be worthy of that love.
She determined that she would never again allow herself to feel jealous of the bond of friendship existing between the two women. Mary Capron spoke again in a very low voice.
"What I am terribly afraid is that her suffering is not over, but only beginning."
Poppy stared at her startled, and saw that the beautiful brown eyes were filled with tears.
"Sorrow has her elect!" said the girl gently. "Dear Mrs. Capron, do not let your sympathy for Clem beguile you into telling me anything that she would not wish me to know; I believe you have her confidence. I wish I had too. But I would rather not hear anything ... of her inward life ... from anyone but herself." Poppy began falteringly, but she ended firmly, for she was convinced that she was right. She had laid her whole life bare to Clem, and if Clem had wished to give her confidence in return, she had had endless opportunities to do so in their intimate talks. She felt that she was right in stopping Mrs. Capron from saying anything further. But already Mrs. Capron had gone further.
"OnceI have seen her in the ashes of misery and despair. I would rather die than witness it again."
Poppy sat up and rested her hand on those of the trembling, troubled woman before her.
"Don't," she said soothingly; "don't fret—Clem is brave and strong enough to fight every imaginable trouble in the world; anddon'tsay anything more; I'm sure she would not wish it."
"But Imust... I must tell you.... She is going to suffer again—terribly... and I want to save her if I can, and I want you to save her."
"Me!" faltered Poppy, listening in spite of herself. "What can I do?"
Mary Capron's tears were falling thick and fast now.
"Clem's sorrow is a terrible one," she said brokenly. "She loves a man with all the depth and passion her nature is capable of—and the man is not her husband."
"Oh!" Poppy went white to the lips. She sat rigidly against the orange-tree and stared at the other woman. "Clem!... I'll never believe it ...Clem!" Afterwards she said burningly: "If itcouldbe true, how could you sit there and betray her?"
Mary Capron's eyes flamed at her through the tears.
"How dare you think I could do it idly?... You think no one feels love for her but yourself ... I hope you are prepared to show your love and prove it ... by saving her. IfIcould do it, I would. Let me tell you, Rosalind Chard, that there isnothingin this world that I would not give up for Clem, or do for her. And you? Can you say that too? Or is your love of the school-girl type—all marks of exclamation and admiration and—was itcondemnationthat I heard in your voice?" She spoke scornfully, yet there was a wondrous, thrilling appeal in her words. "Would you condemn her, Rosalind? Do you know nothing of love, then? That it is always the best whom it attacks most violently—that no one can keep one's heart from straying ... that there are men in the world who when they call must always be answered ... whom no woman can fight successfully against...."
But Poppy could only whisper to herself: "Clem! Is thereany man in the worldwho could beguile Clem from the straight, clear way on which her feet are set ... away ... to the deep pits whence comes the wailing of ... transgressors! Is thereany man... in the world?..." Suddenly she sat up straight and rigid, and her head struck the trunk of the orange-tree. A look of terror was in her face. She knew the answer.She knew what she was going to hear.
What came dully to her ears was something she had long known—long, long.
"—And when he went away to Borapota she was like a woman mad with grief ... I thought she would have died.... She besought me,besoughtme to go as far as I could with him ... Nick and I ... in case he should sicken and die of fever.... He did get fever again ... was terribly ill at Borwezi ... and always his one crywas for her.... Nick would tell you ... he too knows ... it was alwaysLoraine...."
"Ah!" The girl under the tree gave a cry and covered her smitten eyes with her hands.
"Always it wasLoraine. That was his secret name for her.... I never knew till after I came back that it really is her name ... I asked her one day ... she only said it was her name, but that she never let anyone use it ...heused it though ... he ...he loved her... Miss Chard, I believe that he loves her still ... it is not possible that a man could cease to love a woman like Clem ... a girl's face might attract him ... and draw him for a while ... butClem... a man would always come back to her ... she is the kind that men come back to ... are faithful to for ever.... Oh, child! I believe I have hurt you bitterly ... deeply to-day ... forgive me ... it is forhersake ... I love her ... doyoulove her ... enough to spare her?"
When Poppy's hands fell away from her eyes, which were dull now, like the eyes of a dead woman, she was alone in the garden. She sat on—all through the morning, far into the afternoon hours, and no one disturbed her.
Indoors an odd thing had happened. The servants had laid lunch for five people, according to the after-breakfast instructions of their mistress. But of the five people who were to sit down in the dining-room not one appeared. Mrs. Portal had telephoned up from the Point that she and Miss Allendner could not be back in time, and so would lunch on the ship with Lady Mostyn. Nurse had received the message on the telephone, but there was no one in the house to deliver it to. Mrs. Capron had come to the nursery window and informed nurse (just free from beguiling Cinthie off to her mid-daysiesta),that she felt faint and ill, and had decided to take a rickshaw home instead of remaining for lunch. Then, Mr. Portal, after sleeping badly all night and breakfasting in his room, had gone afterwards to lie in the garden, to see if he could sleep there. But when Sarah went to seek him he was nowhere to be found. His book was open on the grass, and the cushion he had taken for his head had a dent in it, showing that it had been used. Both were lying by the Barbadoes-hedge, under an orange-tree that grew in the middle of it, but Mr. Portal had gone. Nurse, however, believed that from the nursery window she had seen him walking out of the garden with his hat pulled right down over his eyes.
"But then, again," she said to cook, "I really couldn't be sure, for he looked so strange, and walked so funny. If I didn't know that master doesn't drink, I should have said he'd had a drop too much. But there, he's not well—maybe, that's why he looked so queer!"
As for Miss Chard, no one thought about her; the servants supposed that she had gone with Mrs. Portal to the Point. If Sarah had thought of looking over the Barbadoes-hedge just at the place where Mr. Portal had been lying, she would have seen Miss Chard sitting there, sometimes staring vacantly before her, sometimes holding her face against the orange-tree as though for comfort.
ON their way home from the Point, Mrs. Portal and Miss Allendner looked in for a while at a friend's house on the Musgrave Road, where an "At Home" was in full swing.
Everyone clustered about Clem with solicitous inquiries for the health of Miss Chard, and she found herself detained a good while longer than she had intended. When at last she reached home she was flushed with haste, for not only were there people coming to dine, but two women friends were arriving that night to stay for some days; and the margin of time she had allowed herself to dress, give a final survey to the bedrooms, inspect themenu, and attend to the table-flowers, was far from wide. Also, she had a longing for a few moments' gossip and rest in Poppy's room, for through the rush of small affairs she had been barely able to exchange a word with her friend all day.
As soon as she entered the hall Sarah handed her a telegram, which she tore open and read immediately, supposing it to be from one of her expected guests. But as her eyes fell on the flimsy paper, both Sarah and the elderly spinster saw by the change that swept over her face that this must be something more serious than a guest's telegraphed regrets. A look of blank astonishment was followed by one of horror. Her lips went white and the deadly shade crept over her face, seeming to age it suddenly. Then, her dazed eyes perceived the two womenlooking anxiously at her. Instantly she controlled herself; gave an order to Sarah, asked Miss Allendner if she could possibly arrange the table-flowers for her as she didn't think she would have time to do it herself, and with apparent indifference took up and read the cards of some visitors who had called during the afternoon. She even called Sarah back and made some inquiries as to whether any of the visitors had asked to see Miss Chard.
"They did so, ma'am. But I could not find Miss Chard anywhere, and I thought she was with you—afterwards she came in from the garden."
"Very well, Sarah—give cook as much help as you can this evening."
"Oh,yes, m'm."
The maid went her ways, and Mrs. Portal to her room.
When she had closed her door she stood still and re-read the telegram upon which her hand had retained a convulsive clutch. Afterwards, with a little groan, she dropped it and fell upon her knees by her bed. Kneeling there, her face buried in her hands, she after a while lost count of time, and did not hear a knock on her door.
When the senses are dulled by suffering they play strange tricks on the poor human beings who depend on them. Poppy, who knocked, imagined that she distinctly heard a voice say:
"Come in," and opening the door she softly entered.
Clem sprang to her feet and turned her haggard face to the intruder, anger in her eyes; and Poppy, aghast and trembling, suddenly shrank back.
"Oh, Clem!... I beg your pardon," she stammered. "I was so certain I heard you say 'Come in' ... I ... Oh, youknowI would not dream of intruding on you...." She was whiter even than when she entered; her lips were quivering so much she could hardily speak coherently. Unwittingly she had seen Clem kneeling there—abandonedto misery! And now she saw the tragic eyes that looked at her—and she knew what it all meant!Thiswas the first moment in the whole long day Clem had had to herself ... and she ...shemust needs intrude on the secret grief of the woman she lovedand had robbed! She put out her hand with a gesture that implored forgiveness and told of love. Almost for the moment she forgot her misery in Clem's. But Clem had turned away and was standing at her dressing-table. Over her shoulder she said in a strained voice:
"It doesn't matter ... I don't mindyou... I have had some bad news. But don't ask me about it, dear. I can't speak of it—even with you!"
Was this said in bitterest irony? Poppy wondered dully, and she did not know what she answered before she left the room, and that did not matter, for Clem Portal did not hear. They were two people walking in heavy darkness that cut them off from the voices of their fellows.
Half an hour later the house rang with the laughter and merriment of the two new arrivals—old friends of the Portals—who had come down from Maritzburg to spend a few days and attend the Durban Club Ball, which was to take place the next night. In the drawing-room, before dinner was announced, Clem's laughter was the gayest of all; but to Poppy's ear there was a note in it like the clank of a broken bell. The Maritzburgers were two light-hearted, pretty women of the military set, whose husbands' regiments had so recently come from India that they were still keenly and sorely feeling the difference between Simla and the benighted capital of Natal. But their repinings were for the time forgotten in vivacious crowing over the fact that their husbands had been unable to accompany them at the last moment, so that there would now be nothing to prevent them from havinga delightful fling and dancing their heels off at the coming ball.
"Robbie is all very well up to supper-time," cried Mrs. Dorand to the world at large, "but after supper he gets sleepy, and I meet his sulky face at every corner imploring me to come home."
"Everybodyknows how foolish Theodore is about my adoration for your Billy, Clem." The wife of Major Monk was a violet-eyed, jolly girl from the Curragh. "ButnowI shall be able to dance with him uninterruptedly all night."
"Indeed then you won't," said Clem, "for he's been called away on business quite suddenly, and I doubt if he'll be back in time for the ball—so we shall be a hen party."
Amidst moans and expostulations she added: "But I daresay I can beat up a few wild-geese from somewhere. There are several coming to-night." She proceeded to recount the names and accomplishments of the men expected, and during the tale the rest of the party arrived and dinner was announced.
Poppy found herself upon the arm of Luce Abinger.
There were moments during the course of that dinner when she believed herself to be on the point of going mad; when the lights and the jewels and the wine and the faces were all hideously mixed, and she could have shrieked like a banshee at the two merry Maritzburg women, and fled from the table and the house. But always she was recalled to herself by just glancing to the head of the table where Clem Portal sat, the wittiest and most charming of hostesses, with two badly-painted streaks of red in her cheeks, and flaming lips which gradually lost their colouring and looked oddly at variance with the rest of the "make up" by the end of the dinner. Even bad dreams come to an end some time.
If there were two things in Poppy's world impossible to associate with peace and gratitude, they were assuredly the darkness of a garden and the exclusive society of Luce Abinger. Yet she found herself during a part of that nightmare-evening looking upon these things as blessings for which to be distinctly thankful to Heaven.
Two other people were sauntering afar, and in the drawing-room a quartette had settled down to Bridge, with Miss Allendner at the piano playing the stiltedpolonaisesand polkas of her vanished youth.
Abinger and Poppy talked together in a friendly, natural fashion that they had never known before. He congratulated her about her work, said how much he had enjoyed reading her last book, and asked her if she had sold the African rights of her plays, as they were sure to bring in a large sum. She told him she had long ago sold all rights and spent the money; that, indeed, she had spent most of her money, and must begin to think about earning more at once. He knew, of course, about her loss of all the work she had recently done. Suddenly the recollection swept over her that it was to fight him that she wanted the money. She stood still in their idle sauntering, and faced him. All the terror and misery of the past, that he indirectly had been the cause of, came back. Yet she could not hate him when she saw his haggard, distorted face. And how ill he looked! For a moment she forgot her wrongs, in womanly pity.
"You look ill, Luce," she said kindly.
"I am ill; I am a starving man." He came near her and looked at her. "You and I are both starving—for something we can't have. I have never been able to discover what it is you want—or, to be more precise,who—but you know very well who it is, and what, that I want."
She drew back from the look in his eyes. His tone changed instantly; he looked and spoke idly.
"Well—my offer holds good at any time."
"Your offer?"
"Yes ... don't forget it ... I know that the mere fact of money is nothing to you ... but you're not happy. If you like work and fame, well—you don't look like a girl who does, that's all!"
They were walking now over the dew-spangled lawn, and she was wondering what he meant. Suddenly he stood still and began to stammer at her incoherently.
"When I told you the truth in that letter, I did not do it in the spirit that a man throws up the sponge—don't think that! I did it," he continued hoarsely, "to be fair and square with you for once. To begin again with the way clear before us—if you will. It was a rather fine thing to do, I thought," his tone changed to the old, sneering one; "but like all the fine things I've ever done it ended in repentance. I know now that I was a fool to tell you."
"What are you talking about, Luce?" she wonderingly asked. Then for the first time since she had locked her studio door on it she remembered his unread letter. "Is it something you told me in the letter you sent to the cottage?—I never read it. It was burned unopened the night of the fire."
A change came over his face. His scar seemed to twitch and gleam spasmodically in the moonlight. There was a silence. Then very softly he began to laugh, looking at her intently and feeling in all his pockets.
"What was in the letter, Luce?" she said beguilingly. She knew now that it was something she ought to know. But he only went on laughing softly. She tried to recall and understand the words he had been saying, but she could not.
He thought of all the furious rage and contempt he had expended on himself within the last few weeks while hewaited and waited for some word of thanks from her for the fine generous thing he had done in telling her the truth at last—that she was not his wife at all; that Carmen Braganza, the beautiful Spanish dancer, whom he had secretly married in Johannesburg, was still living at the time of the ceremony between himself and Poppy——
And she had never read the letter! All was as before!
She did not know, and there was still a fighting chance that, wearied out with the strife and siege, she would turn and surrender.
Then he would say:
"Yes—but we will not take the world into our confidence about the little ceremony in the White Farm. We'll go and be married publicly."
Thinking of these things, what could he do but look at her and softly laugh?
As for her, sick at heart, hopeless, remembering her misery, she turned away and set her desolate face towards the house, where a woman whom she loved well wore two little painted flames in her cheeks.
"What need to strive, with a life awry?"
"What need to strive, with a life awry?"
Life was awry with everyone it seemed! What did it matter what Luce Abinger had to say?
She had no fight left in her. Her feet, as she walked up the sloping lawn, seemed too heavy to lift—they caught in the grass as she stumbled wearily towards the house, Abinger following.
"Good-night, Luce," she said lifelessly as they reached the verandah. She felt no anger towards him now. She let him take her hand and she listened without resentment to his whispered words.
"When are you coming back to your home and your husband, Poppy?"
Indoors, the card-party had broken up. The travellerswere tired, and Clem was for hunting them to bed. The men made farewells and went, Abinger with them, and Clem and Miss Allendner hustled away to the rooms of the guests. Poppy took the opportunity of slipping into the narrow little writing-room, which opened off the hall and was meant for common-use. She wished to write out a telegram, and she knew there were forms to be found there. Sitting down to the desk she found the stack of forms and began to write on the top one. But someone had been using it before her, and with a violent hand and stubby pencil had left an entire message deeply indented on the form beneath the one that had been used and torn off. With the first word Poppy wrote the ink flowed from her full pen into the rutted words, outlining a part of the message, and she read all then as dully and unthinkingly as she had done everything else that evening.
"Come back to me. You have never been out of my heart for a moment since first I loved you.—Loraine."
"Come back to me. You have never been out of my heart for a moment since first I loved you.—Loraine."
The address was a code word, care of the Rand Club, and the words were in Clem's writing. It was the last link in the chain. If Poppy had had any lingering, hoping doubt in her mind, it fled now. She forgot the words she had meant to write, and then she told herself they didn't matter in any case. Vaguely she remembered to tear the form off and destroy it; then rose from the desk and walked rather blindly to the door and out into the lighted hall. Clem was waiting there to bid her good-night.
The red had faded from her cheeks now, or else the light was kinder, and her eyes looked big and dim. She put out her hands, took Poppy's, and gave them a little, gentle squeeze, and she smiled her own brave turned-up-at-the-corners smile.
"Life is a curious thing, Poppy," she said gently. "It is hard to tell which is dream and which is real. Sometimes I don't think any of it is real at all. Good-night dear."
AFTER a week or so at Potchefstroom, Carson returned to Johannesburg, to find Rosser beating the town for him, crazy with impatience. Wallerstein had offered seven hundred pounds apiece for the South Rands, but Rosser had not closed; he considered it madness not to stand out for eight hundred.
"It'll only be a matter of a week or two," said he. But Carson gloomed and cursed. It maddened him to find the thing still unsettled, for he had made up his mind not to return to Durban until he knew definitely whether he had poverty or wealth—both comparative, of course—to offer to the woman of his heart. However, as he had stayed so long already, a few days more could not make much difference, he argued lifelessly with himself, so he gave a grudging half-assent to Rosser and went his ways. He still had several minor affairs to attend to, and various people to see, but he did all half-heartedly. Choosing and despatching a ring to Poppy was the only thing that gave him any joy, and that was too poignant for pleasure. Then, suddenly, in one day he grew restless and haggard. Hunger was on him for the sight of a face, and at last he knew he could wait no longer, but must go. The decision came upon him suddenly in the Club with the sight and scent of a gardenia Forsyth was wearing in his coat at lunch-time. Now, between the scent of a gardenia and the scent of Barbadoes-thorn there is scarcely any difference at all, except that the gardenia's fragrance is perhapsmore subtly insistent. Carson spun out of the Club into a cab and in fifteen minutes was in his broker's office.
"Close for seven hundred pounds each, Rosser," he said briskly. "And get the whole thing fixed up as soon as possible. I'm leaving to-night."
"Oh, but I've already closed for eight hundred pounds each," chirruped the elated Rosser. "The transfer is completed and the money paid in." He pranced into an inner office and produced voluminous documents. "Loot, my son! Loot from the house of Rimmon! I take my little fifteen thousand pounds and you take twenty-five thousand. Isn'tthatall right?Nowwill you be good!"
An hour later Carson regained his cab and was driven to his rooms. A portmanteau atVetta'shead was a sufficient indication of his intentions, and the rest of the afternoon was spent in settling up his remaining business matters and appointments by telegram and telephone. Then he dined, and caught the eight o'clock express by one minute and a half.Vetta, who was on the look-out for him, indicated an empty first-class, and Carson fell into it and slept like the dead until morning.
Those were the days when the run between Johannesburg and Durban occupied the better part of twenty-seven hours. The first stop of any importance was at Volksrust, the boundary town, and Carson roused himself to take a look at country he knew well, and was not likely to see again for many years. It was as early as fiveA.M., and a wet salt mist lay over everything, chilling him to the bone as he opened his window and looked out at the bleak Drakensberg looming through the haze, and tragic Majuba, which throws a shadow athwart every brave man's path as he passes. Later, the train dashed through the Laing's Nek tunnel, and as it descended the sloping spur of the range, Natal lay before Carson's eyes—all beautiful green valleys and running water: the land of his desire. Themist had cleared from the air, but it still seemed to obscure Carson's vision as he looked, and he passed Ingogo, and Mount Prospect, with ill-fated Colley's monument, unknowingly. Only the far blue haze that meant the coast lured his eyes, for there for him lay heart's content.
Presently, at Newcastle, came the faithfulVettawith tidings of breakfast; and Carson scrambled amongst a weary, sleepy crowd, in which he recognised no face, for sandwiches and vile coffee flung at him, half in cup and half in saucer. When he had breakfasted in this fashion, taken a leisurely stroll, glanced in all the carriages to see if there could possibly be any passengers he knew, inspected the accommodation ofVetta, and inquired into the matter of the latter's breakfast, he returned to his carriage. There was still a residue of sixteen hours to get through before the journey ended. Having no reading-matter with him, he thought at first to kill time with pleasant thoughts of a woman in a garden, but it was presently borne in upon him that his consciousness, or conscience, or memory, or whatever he may have cared to call it, had another and less agreeable affair to consider with him. Something within, that he would fain have cursed into silence, earnestly solicited his attention to the fact that the train which was crawling with him to the woman he loved, was at the same time tearing with most indecent haste towards one whom he had never loved, and the hour in which he must tell her so. Presently the thought of that hour lashed him, cut him with knives, turned him sick.
In time, he stared at the wild and rugged outline of the Biggarsberg, until it seemed blurred with a red haze; and as the flat and dreary land of stunted bush that lies between Elandslaagte and Howick unrolled itself monotonously before his window, rocks appeared to grin and gibe at him, and isolated trees menaced him with gnarled arms,even as in Wiertzs's picture Napoleon is menaced by the arms of women.
As the hours passed his eyes grew bloodshot and his throat dry. His mouth sneered with self-contempt; unconsciously his lips opened and closed, and he swallowed with the expression of a man who is tasting the bitterness of death. But through all, his heart held steadfast to one plan—the man's plan, the old plan that was in the beginning and shall be till the end.
Later, he lay on the seat of the carriage, his face to the wall, his eyes closed, his hands clenched—thinking, thinking. He would remember Poppy's shut eyes as he kissed her under the flamboyant tree; how her throat shone in the darkness. Then a voice,not hers, would break in upon him, crying:
"Evelyn, I love you. For your sake men may brand me—swear you will never forsake me for another woman!"
Did he ever swear? Was that his voice he seemed to hear?—tender, fervent—swearing by her face, by his life, by——
"Oh, Lord God! what a blackguard!" he groaned aloud.
But his heart held steadfast to his plan.
When at last evening fell, the train reached Maritzburg, and the passengers poured out into the station dining-room. Carson, haggard-eyed, found the bar, and drank three brandies atop of each other. He was on the point of ordering a fourth when a Maritzburg acquaintance stepped in and saved him the trouble—slapping him on the shoulder, and claiming his attention with a little scheme, which he said Bramham was standing in with. It was something about coal, but Carson never afterwards remembered details, though he listened very politely and intently to every word, for it was good to be spoken to by a decent man as if he were another decent man, after those years of degradation in the train.
The four brandies might have been poured over a rock for all the effect he felt of them; but when the starting bell rang, he made his way back to the train through the hustling crowd with a calmer mien, and leaning from the window, wrung his acquaintance's hand with unassumed warmth. Ever afterwards he felt real friendship for that Maritzburg man.
To his surprise, he found that he now had a fellow-passenger, a lady. Her figure seemed vaguely familiar as she stood packing her things into the rack, and when she turned round he wondered where in the world before he had met the unabashed gaze of those large brown eyes beneath a massed fringe of dusty, crispy hair. She, on her part, was regarding him with the pleased smile of an old acquaintance.
"Sir Evelyn Carson! How funny!" she said, and smiled winningly. Carson bowed, and his smile was ready and courteous, for, in truth, he was glad not to be alone; but he continued to greatly wonder.
"I believe you don't remember me!" said she archly. "How unkind! And I've so often bowed to Mr. Bramham when you've been with him in the old days. And you've been to Brookie's office, too, when I was his seckertary."
At last Carson was enlightened. He was, in fact, in the pleasant company of Miss Sophie Cornell.
"Ah! yes, of course—I remember quite well," said he. Indeed, if she could but have known it, he remembered a good deal more than was flattering, for Bram's tale of highway-robbery was still clear in his mind. She had changed a good deal since then: grown coarser and more florid—and there were other things—! When a woman has flung her kisses to the world as generously as summer flings daisies in a green meadow, the tale of them is marked upon her face for all who run to read. However, her dress was black, and so extremely neat that it was a pityshe should have spoiled its effectiveness by wearing a pair of yellowsuèdeevening shoes.
Carson was not surprised when she informed him that she had left the uninteresting field of typewriting, to adorn a profession where beauty and wit are more readily recognised and liberally remunerated.
"I am in anawfullynice bar in Maritzburg," she told him languorously. "Come in and have a drink next time you are there—'The Falcon.' All my friends wereawfullyannoyed with me for leavingliterarywork, but really it wassodull—and, of course, it's a great mistake to think one can't staya lady, whatever one does; don't you think so, Sir Evelyn, eh?"
"Certainly!" he gravely agreed.
"I am treated asquitethe lady by all the smartest men in the town, and there's a great difference between that and being bullied from morning to night by a little bounder like Brookie, you know. Not that he didn't have his good points. But still, the way he treated me in the end was perfectlyfrot[6], and there's no other word for it. In fact, everybody did. Charlie Bramham, now, always said he'd be my friend, but as soon as it suited him, he just scooted off and never came near me again ... after persuading me in the first place to come to Durban to work for him."