CHAPTER XXVI

I.Across the purple heatherThe winds of God blow sweet.But it's O for the smell of LondonAnd the roar of a London street!II.Upon the wine-dark watersThe sun strikes clean and hot.But it's O for a London gardenAnd the woman who loves me not!"You say you are no musician, Clem, but I never knewanyone who could make lovelier sounds come out of a piano," Poppy said.Clem laughed."Dear, I can't play at all: it is this little song that sets chords singing in my head. What were you thinking of when you wrote it?""Of Dr. Ferrand, I think, that first Sunday I came here. You remember how he talked of London?—and you said that he had 'his own box of matches and could make his own hell any day in the week,' like poorDick Heldar. The circumstances seemed to indicate that there was some woman in England who didn't love him—but I daresay that applies to a good many men out here.""The most usual circumstance," said Clem laughing, "is that the woman loves too well. Some men find that hardest of all to bear."Poppy reflected on this for a while."I suppose you mean wives! It is curious how many people seem to marry to live apart, isn't it, Clem?""Yes; I call it the cat-and-reptile game," said Clem, swinging round on the music-stool and beginning to run her hands through her crinkly, curly, fuzzy dark hair with seven red lights in it. "The cat catches the reptile, scratches him, bites him, wounds him, puts her mark on him for good, and as soon as he has no more kick left in him, off she goes and leaves him alone."Poppy was laughing."Well, some of the reptiles make marvellous recoveries," said she, remembering one, at least, whom she had known."You can't blame them forthat—it isn't very interesting to be dead, I suppose.""As for the cats who don't leave their reptiles," continued Poppy, thinking of some of the dull people she had recently met, "nothing could be deader than the pairof them. And then they label themselves 'happily married.'""Now, Poppy, I won't have you walking over my cabbages and onions.""I'm not, Clem—but they don't make marriage look alluring to anyone with an imagination, do they? Of course, it is wonderful to see your happiness——""Yes; Bill and Iarerather wonderful"—Clem jumped up in a hurry—"I mustabsolutelygo and get some socks and stockings to mend. There is a pile as big as a house waiting—" She flashed out of the room."She won't discuss her happiness with me," thought Poppy. "It is too sacred!"By the time Clem came back a settled gloom was over everything; the rain was heavily pelting against the windows; occasionally a bright beam of light shot through the room, leaving it as grey as a witch; afterwards the thunder groaned like some god in agony."You won't be able to see to darn holes," said Poppy."Ah! you don't know Billy's holes," Clem answered sadly. "And Cinthie inherits the gentle trait. It istoobad, for I hate darning."She settled as near the window as she dared, and sat peering her glimmering head over her work, while they talked in desultory fashion: but the storm got worse, the thunder groaned more terribly."God sounds as though He is tearing His heart out to throw it under the feet of dancing women and men," said Poppy, in a voice that rang with some unusual emotion.Clem Portal looked at her in astonishment."Darling, I ought to rebuke you for blasphemy."To her astonishment the girl burst into wild weeping."No ... it isn't blasphemy ... I am in pain, Clem ... these storms ... a storm like this reminds me ofwhen I was a child ... I was once out in a storm like this.""You?""Yes ... once ... on the veldt ... for three days.""On the veldt!" repeated Clem; a streak of lightning tore through the room, showing her for an instant a tortured face. She reached out and took the girl's hands in hers, gripping them tight. Dimly, through the rumble of the thunder, she heard Poppy's voice."Yes ... out on the veldt ... I, whom you think have only been in Africa for a few months at a time ... I, the gently-nurtured English girl! ... educated at Cheltenham College! ... I did not actually tell you these things, Clem, but I let you believe them ... they are all lies ... I was born in Africa ... I have roamed the veldt lean and hungry ... been a little beaten vagabond in the streets.""Dear," said Clem, with the utmost tenderness and gentleness; "what do these things matter—except that they have made you suffer? ... they have made you the woman you are, and that is all I care to know.... I have always known that there was a wound ... don't make it bleed afresh ... I love you too well to want to hear anything that it hurts to tell ... always believe this, Poppy ... I love and trust you above any woman I have ever known.""Clem, you are too kind and good to me.... I am not worthy even to speak to you, to touch you.... It is nothing when I say I love you ... I bless you ... I think there is nothing in the world I would not do for you.... I did not know one woman could be so sweet to another as you have been to me ... you are like the priceless box of sweet-smelling nard that the harlot broke over the feet of Christ ... and I ... Ah! Christ! What am I?"Dense blackness filled the room. In it nothing washeard but the sound of deep weeping. Outside the storm raged on. But when next a gleam of light flashed through the windows, the figure of a kneeling woman was revealed clasped in another woman's arms."I am weary of falseness, Clem ... weary of my lips' false tales ... since I have been near you and seen your true unafraid eyes ... the frank clear turn of your mouth that has never lied to anyone ... I have died many deaths ... you can never know how I have suffered ... pure women don't know what suffering there is in the world, it is no use pretending they do ... they are wonderful, they shine.... O! what wouldn'twegive to shine with that lovely cold, pure glow ... but they can't take from us what our misery has bought.""Poppy, don't tell me anything," the older woman said steadily. "I don't want to know ... whatever Life has made you do, or think, or say ... I don't care! I love you. I am your friend. I know that the root of you is sound. Who am I that I should sit in judgment? It is all a matter of luck ... God was good to me ... I had a good mother and a fleet foot ... when I smelt danger I ran ... I had been trained to run ... you had not, perhaps, and you stayed ... that's the only difference——"Poppy laughed bitterly at the lame ending."The difference lies deeper than that ... you are generous, Clem, but truth is truth, and I should like to speak it to you now and always ... confession has no attractions for me, and I once told a man I should never confess to a woman——""Silence is always best, dear," Clem said. "When a woman learns to be silent about herself, she gains power that nothing else can give her. And words can forge themselves into such terrible weapons to be used against one—sometimes by hands we love.""It would be a relief to clean my heart and lips to you, dear, once and for all. Let me tell you—even the name I use is not my own!""I don't care. What does a name matter?""Well, my name is not Rosalind Chard, nor Lucy Grey, nor Eve Destiny, nor Anne Latimer, nor Helen Chester, though I have called myself by all of these at some time in my life. My real name is Poppy Destin ... 'an Irish vagabond born in Africa.'""What do these things matter?""My life, for the last three years, has been a struggle in deep waters to keep myself from I know not what deeper deeps——""I have always maintained that a woman has a right to use whatever weapons come to hand in the fight with life, Poppy.""So have I," Poppy laughed discordantly, "and my weapons have been—lies. Oh, how I have lied, Clem! All the tears of all the years cannot wash me clean of the lies I've told ... I feel you shivering ... you hate me!""No, Poppy—only I can't understand why! What could have been worth it?""Ah! you think nothing is worth blackening your soul for, Clem! That is where you will not understand.""I will try to understand, dear one ... tell me. One thing I am sure of, it was never wanton. You had some miserable reason.""Miserable!I am misery's own!" she cried passionately. "She marked me with a red cross before I was born.... Well! let me tell you ... have you ever noticed the look of candour and innocence about my face, Clem? More especially my eyes?... all lies! I am not candid; I am not innocent ... I never was ... even when I was twelve I could understand the untold tale of passion in an old black woman's eyes ... she hadonly one breast, and she showed me that as a reason for having no home and children of her own.... I understood without being told, that in the sweet hour of her life the cup was dashed from her lips ... her lover left her when he found her malformed.... Immediately I began to sing a pæan of praise to the gods thatmylover would never go lacking the gift of my breasts. I made a song—all Africa knows it now:"'I thank thee, Love, for two round breasts——'""And what harm in that?" cried Clem, staunchly. "When Cinthie is twelve, will you want her to be thinking of lover's caresses?""You would not have been, either, if you'd had a mother's caresses. Your nature was starving for love, poor child!""You have a tender heart for sinners.""I don't consider you a very bad sinner, darling.""You don't know all the lies yet.... I am going to tell yousomethingof what the last three years have been ... three years of lying to get a living ... lying to get money: the stage, governessing, serving in shops, nursing invalids, reading to old women ... there was a great variety about myrôlesin life, Clem, except for one faithful detail.... Everywhere I went and in everything I undertook, a man cropped up and stood in the path. There was something special about me, it seemed, that brought them unerringly my way—nothing less than mywonderful innocence. That drew them as the magnet draws steel ... lured them like a new gold-diggings.... And they all wanted to open the portals of knowledge for me ... to show me the golden way into the wondrous city of Love. And I?... I had the mouth and eyes of a saint! Sin was not for me.... I was pure as the untrodden snow! I looked into their eyes and asked them to spare me ... Itold them I was good and adjured them by their mothers to leave me so. At first they were always deeply impressed, but later they became slightly bored.... The affair nearly always ended in weariness and a promise on my part never to forget that I had arealfriend if I should ever want one, and I understood very well whatthatmeant, but invariably I pretended that I did not, and went my way innocent-eyed.... But there were variations on this ... sometimes they insisted on showing me devoted friendship in the meantime ... and their purses were to hand. In such cases I always helped myself liberally ... I had an unerring instinct that I should shortly be seeking a new home—a new friend ... and that instinct never played me false ... soon I was on the 'out trail' once more, looking for a way to earn a living and staypureandinnocent. Once I was almost content with an old woman. I washed her and dressed her, and, incidentally, was sworn at by her ... but the salary was high.... Alas! like the widow of Nain she had an only son ... a decent boy, too ... but when he had looked into my eyes and found me good, there was the old tale to tell....Heused to give me lovely presents ... I was never too good to take presents, Clem—under protest.... He wanted to marry me, but marriage was not in my plan ... then the old mother found out, and I had to go. Another man in Birmingham, whose children I taught, gave mehundreds—just for being good! would have given me thousands only that his wife read memoranda of some sum once and flew to the worst conclusions ... she believed I had stolen her husband and was as bad as I could be ... no one could be surprised at what she called me ... but it was quite untrue in its literal meaning. I had to go back to London, and there was nothing at first to go back to but the stage.... I did not staytherelong ... innocence is not very valuable on the stage—except in theplay!... and though I have a special talent for actingoffthe stage, I am too nervousonit to open my lips ... so there was no hope for advancement that way ... I had to begin again on the old round.""But, Poppy, dear, forgive me, I can't understand—why?why?... what was it all for?""For money, Clem. I wanted money.""I can't believe it!—Oh!notfor money!""Yes; for money. Some women are bad for money; there is nothing they will not do to get gold in their hands. I wasgoodfor money ... a saint, an angel, a virgin—most especially a virgin.""Don't hurt me like this," Clem said. "Whatever you say can make no difference to me. Iwilllove you. Iwillbe your friend. But—is there anything in the world that money can get that was worth it all? I ask out of sheer curiosity—isthere?"Poppy answered her "Yes!" And after a long time a few words dropped into the silence of the room."I wanted the money for my child."The storm had died away at last, leaving a terrible peace behind it. The colour of the evening sky was sard-green, than which nothing can be more despairing.Mrs. Portal sat with her head drooped forward a little as if very tired, and Poppy arose from her seat, pushed open a window, and stood looking out. The smell of wet steaming earth came into the room. Presently, speaking very softly, she continued her narrative:"I wanted all the money I could get for my son. He had no name, no heritage ... his father ... had, I believed, married another woman. I was resolved that he should at least have all money could give him.... I thought that when he grew up he would turn from me in any case as a woman who had shamed him and robbed him of his birthright, so that it did not matterwhatI didwhile he was yet young, and yet loved me, to insure him health, a fine education, and a future. First it was to give him the bare necessaries of life, later to provide a home in the country where he could grow up strong and well under good, kind care ... then, my thoughts were for his future ... Oh! I hoped to redeem my soul by his future, Clem!... So I worked and lied ... and lied and took ... and lied and saved ... not often with my lips did I lie, Clem ... butalwayswith my eyes. I had at last amassed nearly eight hundred pounds ... you will think that remarkable, if you will remember that always I amassed it virtuously ... that there is no man of all I met in those years who can call me anything but a good woman—abominably, disgustingly, vilelygood."And then ... I was introduced to a financier, who, because of the charm of my innocent eyes, told me that, in a few weeks, he would transform my eight hundred pounds into eight thousand pounds. Incidentally, he remarked that we must see more of each other ... and I looked intohiseyes and saw that they werenotinnocent,—and that there would be a difficult day of reckoning for me later on ... but for eight thousand pounds, and secure in mailed armour ofpurity, I risked that ... especially as he was just leaving England for a few weeks ... I handed over my eight hundred pounds without a qualm, for he had a great name in the financial world. In less than three weeks his dead body was being hauled over the side of a yacht in the Adriatic, and my eight hundred pounds was deader than Dead-Sea fruit, for I never heard of it again ... nor wanted to ... the need of it was gone ... my boy was dead!""Poppy! Poppy!" Clem got up and drew the girl down to the floor by her side. "Rest your head on me dear ... you are tired ... life has been too hard for you."'Dost thou know, O happy God!——'"Life has been brutal to you. I think of my own sheltered childhood, and compare it with yours—flung out into the fiery sands of the desert to die or survive, as best you might!... The strange thing is that your face bears no sign of all the terrible things that have overtaken you! I see no base, vile marks anywhere on you, Poppy.... It cannot all be acting ... no one is clever enough to mask a soiled soul for ever, and from everyone, if it reallyissoiled.... Youlookgood—not smirking, soft goodness that means nothing, but brave, strong goodness ... and Iknowthat that look is true ... and so I can love you, after all these things you have told me ... I can love you better than ever. Butwhyis it, Poppy?""I don't know. If itisso, the reason must be that all was done for Love, Clem ... because always I had a sweet thing at my heart ... the love I bore to my child, and to the father of my child. Because, like the mother of Asa, 'I built an altar in a grove' and laid my soul upon it for Love. I want to tell you something further. Beinggood, as the world calls it, has no charm for me. Many of the men I have spoken of had a sinister attraction.I understood what they felt.I looked into eyes and saw things there that had answers deep down in me. I am a child of passionate Africa, Clem ... the blood in my veins runs as hot and red as the colour of a poppy.... It is an awful thing to look into the eyes of a man you do not love and see passion staring there—and feel it urging in your own veins, too. It is an awful thing to know what it is that he is silently demanding, and what that basely answers in your own nature.... Yet there are worse things than this knowledge. A worse thing, surely, would have been to have gone hurtling over the precipice with some Gadarene swine!... Clem, if I had beenreallyinnocent those years, nothing could have saved me. Ishould have gone to the devil, as they call it, with some vile man I had no love for, just because I didn't know how to keep out of the traps laid for me by my own nature—and then I should have 'been at the devil' indeed! But I had bought knowledge with the price of my girlhood ... and I had mated with my own right man.... I had looked at life, if only for an hour, with love-anointed eyes ... and so, it came to pass that I had a memory to live for, and a child to fight for ... and courage to fight my greatest enemy—myself. I think no one who knew the workings of my heart would deny me courage, Clem.""No, and it is a noble quality, child—the noblest, I think, when it is used to fight one's own baser nature. That only would keep a woman beautiful ... it is tothatyou owe your beauty, dear.""Then it is to you I owe it to a great extent—for it was you who first put the creed into me of courage—and silence—and endurance. Do you remember the night you wished me good-bye over your gate, Clem?""I remember everything—but, dear, there is one thing that grieves and bewilders me—why,whycould you not have earned a clean, fine living with your pen ... where was your gift of writing?""It left me, Clem, when I tried to earn money with it. I could not write. I tried and tried. I sat to it until my eyes sank into my head and hollows came to my cheeks—until we were hungry, my little Pat and I—and cold. For bread and firing I had to leave it, and turn to other things. After the boy died ... it came back and mocked me. I wrote then to ease my pain ... and everything I have written since has been successful ... found a ready market and in some sort Fame ... but it was all too late!""Poor child! everything has mocked you!" Clem put her arms round the girl and kissed her tenderly; thendrew away and assumed an ordinary pose, for a maid had come into the room bringing lights, and with the intimation that she was about to sound the dressing-bell, as it wanted only half an hour to dinner-time."Heavens!" cried Clem; "and I hear Billy's voice in the garden; Eve Carson's, too, I believe.Flyto your room, Poppy. I expect Sarah has laid out one of your gowns."CHAPTER XXVIIT was, indeed, Carson whom Portal had brought home with him. They had encountered in West Street, and Bill had insisted on bringing him back just as he was in the inevitable grey lounge suit, assuring him that there would be no one to find fault with his appearance but Mrs. Portal, who was notoriously forgiving.So Carson came, and had no faintest inkling that Poppy was there too. Being an oldintiméof the family, he knew his way about the house and after leaving Portal's dressing-room, he sought the nursery, was admitted by Cinthie's nurse, and stayed talking and romping with the child long after the second bell had sounded and dinner been announced, with the result that Portal insisted on taking Poppy into dinner, while Clem sought the recalcitrant in the nursery. Later, they came laughing to the dining-room, and for the first time Carson knew of Poppy's presence. She was sitting facing the door, and a big silver candlestick, with wide branching antlers, framed her in a silver frame. With her mysterious, tendrilly hair, her subtle scarlet mouth and Celtic cheek-bones, she had the alluring appearance of a Beardsley-drawing without any of its bloodlessness, for her gown was as scarlet as the poppies of the field, and she glowed with inward fires at seeing Carson. The deep, sweet glance she gave him as they greeted made him glow too, with gladness of living, and some other radiant reason that for the moment was not clear to him. He only knew that weariness was gone fromhis veins and that the splendour of life had come back at last with the rush and swell of full-tide.After dinner they all went into the verandah and the men smoked there. Clem never smoked, but she liked the smell of cigars. Poppy had long broken herself of the cigarette habit. Later, Portal said he must go and write two important letters to catch the mail—after that they would have a game of Bridge if anyone liked. Clem said she would go and play to the others her setting to "In Exile," of which she was very proud. She sang it softly over and over to them for a while. Afterwards she wandered through Chopin's "Prelude" into Schubert's gentle "Andante." Then unaccountably she began to fling out into the night the great solemn chords of a Funeral March. It was a wonderful thing, full of the dignity of sorrow, underlaid by thin wailings that spoke of little memories of all the past sweetnesses of the dead. There was a place in it that made Poppy think her dead child's arms were round her neck, and another where Carson thought of Alan Wilson and his thirty-one brave companions lying under the stars up in lonely Zimbabwe. At another time, he remembered a man dear to him, killed at Gwelo in the second native rising; he seemed to see the fellow with his hands in his pockets whistling to his dogs in a peculiar way he had.Through all the playing Poppy and he sat in the verandah, side by side, in two low canvas chairs. A fold of her gown lay across his feet. They were absolutely silent and they did not look at each other. Carson was staring straight before him, but without a turn of his head or flicker of his eyelids he was conscious of every tiniest detail of the woman by his side. He saw the gracious line of her cheek and throat and thigh and foot; but, more than that, he believed he saw the spirit of her too, gentle and sad, but brave and desirable to him beyond the soul of any woman—and his.She was his. He was certain of that now. He had taken the knowledge from her eyes when they met that night; and yet it seemed old knowledge to him, something he had known since the beginning of time.Her hand lay within reach of his, but he did not touch it. Only too conscious of the mysterious magnetism of the flesh, he strove with all the fine instincts and high aspirations his spirit had ever given birth to and his body honoured, to free himself from the shackles of the flesh and give to this woman whom he loved and blessed a greater salute than the mere touching of hands.As for her—her eyes were closed. She, too, was reaching out with spirit-hands to him. Inasmuch as human souls which are aloof and lonely things can communicate—theirs met and hailed each other as mate until the end of time.Suddenly Clem freed them of sorrow. She began to play something that was like an old piece of brocade all flowered over quaintly with tiny leaves, true lovers' knots, and little pink-and-blue rose-buds. Presently the brocade became a stately dress, worn with powder and patches and high scarlet-heeled shoes.... Portal, having finished his mail, came back to the verandah, and Clem closed the piano then and came out too. They sat and talked, and no one again suggested cards.The night was fresh and sweet after the rain, and the sky above alive with newly-washed stars. Far away, Durban flashed and sparkled, and just above the bay there was a great splash of vermilion against the darkness of the bluff—sometimes it showed streaks of carmine in it. They discussed the phenomenon, and eventually concluded that a boat out on the water was afire. Whatever the cause, it certainly gave the finishing touch to the picturesque beauty of the night.A little after eleven Carson left. He shook hands with everyone at parting, and for a brief instant he and Poppydrank another deep draught of joy from each other's eyes.No sooner had he gone than Clem said:"Poppy, you are to go to bed instantly, and stay there until I give you leave to get up. You look like a spectre."Poppy took her hand and kissed it. She was trembling with happiness, but she dared not speak of it. Clem put an arm round her."I must come and see if your room is all right.""Yes, but who are these midnight vigilantes in the garden?" exclaimed Portal. "I believe I hear Bramham!"Bramham, indeed, it was who came into the light with a crumpled and weeping woman clinging to his arm."What the——?" softly demanded Portal of Heaven, and Clem stared. Poppy swiftly recognised Miss Allendner."What is it?" she cried, stepping forward.Miss Allendner only wept more violently."This poor lady has been greatly upset," said Bramham, and placed her in a chair. Then he spoke with the brevity of a good man with a bad tale:"Miss Chard's house has been burnt to the ground; fortunately no one is hurt, but everything is destroyed.""Burnt!burnt?...everything?My work ... my freedom—" cried Poppy wildly with clasped hands."Everything! Nothing left but a few bricks and some melted iron. I wonder you didn't see the flare-up—it lighted the whole bay. The thing was discovered too late to do anything but get Miss Allendner out." His firm brevity left him. "Oh, Lord, Iamsorry!" He stared dismally."Oh, Poppy!" cried Clem, with pitiful voice, and they all drew round the pale girl. She did not speak for a time—just stood there in the light streaming from the drawing-room windows, white and still; and presently some tears fell down her face. Then she said:"Poor Miss Allendner. Shall we put her to bed, in my bedroom, Clem? She is worn out!"The women went away. At the gate Bramham said to Portal:"And there is worse to come.... That crazy Allendner turkey was shrieking round the fire like a lunatic ... imploring the crowd to save the writings ofEve Destiny, the South African writer—everybody knows who she is now ... the place is humming like a beehive with the news ... and it will be in all the news-rags in the morning.... She'll be more broken up over that than anything ... for reasons of her own she didn't want it known.... Oh, it's a hell of a country, Portal."This thing was news also to Portal. Mrs Portal being that lovely thing, a close woman, he knew nothing of Poppy's identity withEve Destiny.CHAPTER XXVIIWHEN Carson left the Portals he did not go home. He turned his face towards the higher heights of the Berea, and those surmounted, tramped on—on past darkened blind-drawn, lonely houses, and long stretches of gardens and vacant lands, until he came at last to the cliff-side that overlooks Umgeni. Afterwards he tramped and tramped, without knowing or caring where he went, but always with the light silent feet of the athlete. Irishmen are natural athletes. Also, if they arerealIrishmen, that is, born and brought up through boyhood in their own land, they have learned to play "Handball"; and so their feet are as light as their hands are swift to feel and their eyes to observe. For a man whose lot must be cast in the sinuous paths of Africa—jungle or money-market—there could be no better training than constant play in his youthful days in an Irish ball-court, for it teaches quickness of wit and limb more than any game ever played, as well as developing both sides of the body, thus making for perfect symmetry. Carson had a passion for the game, and he went hot with anger when he thought how neglected and ignored it was amongst the fine sports of the world. "Pilota," the Spanish national game, has some resemblance to "Handball," and is played by men of all classes in Spain. But in Ireland with the exception here and there of a gentleman enthusiast, who has learnt his love of the pastime at his college, only the poor fellows play it now, and those usually the roughest of their class, who are obliged to depend for their "courts" on the proprietors of public-houses.All young Irish boys love "Handball," however, and Carson had often thought it a wistful thing to see little ragged chaps watching a game with eyes alight, holding the coats of players, on the chance of getting a chance to play themselves when the "court" was vacated.In the Protectorate he had established, he meant to build "ball-courts" and teach the fine stalwart Borapotans to play the finest game in the world.But to-night, as he tramped, he did not think of these things. The sports and pastimes of his boyhood were as far from his mind as was the innocence of his boyhood from his heart. He was trying to tramp out the remembrance of a sin. Trying to obliterate from his memory the face of a woman he did not love, never had loved, never would love—but to whom honour held him fast. A woman who had nursed him in sickness with devotion and care—and who, when he was still physically weak, had flung herself into his arms—at his feet, offering her life, her love, her honour. And he had weakly fought, weakly resisted, and at the last most weakly taken—taken just for the love of pity, and the love of love and all the other loves that Irishmen, above all men, know all about, and that have nothing to do with Love at all.The bitter cud to chew now between his gritting teeth was that he had never reaped anything but soul-misery and sacrifice of fine resolves from the thing. Yet here it was holding itself up before him like some pure star that he must never cease from following after: a creed never to be forsaken; an idol before which to sacrifice the rest of his life—to sacrifice the most wonderful love that ever thrilled a man's veins and shook from his life all mean and paltry things.Oh, Lust past and Love present had a great fight in the heart of Evelyn Carson, Bart., D.S.O., C.M.G., in the early hours of that April morning. It must have beenclose on six hours that he tramped and fought, for when at last he came by devious ways to Sea House, the shroudy dawn was breaking over the face of the Indian Ocean.And Bramham was in his dining-room insanely drinking whiskies-and-sodas."What the——?" Carson stood in the doorway staring."Waiting up for you, of course! Where have you been?" said the drunk and dauntless Bramham."I can't remember engaging you to wet-nurse me." Carson was too savage with life to be polite even to the best friend he had ever possessed. He strode into the room, threw his soft hat rolled into a ball into a corner, and would have passed through, but Bramham detained him with a word."Miss Chard's house was burnt to the ground last night!"Carson came back and stood by the table. It seemed to him that a good thing to do would be to mix a strong whiskey-and-soda, and he did so, and drank it thirstily."What was that you said, Bram?" he asked, later."Miss Chard's house is burnt to the ground. The whole town knows now that she isEve Destiny, the South African novelist——""The how much?""The South African novelist. The woman who wrote the book of poems that set all the African mothers flying to lock the nursery doors—and the playsIn a Tin Hotel at WitpoortjeandA Veldt Ghost. Why, Carson, you don't seem to know anything! You ought to employ someone to dig you up every five years."Because of his desire for further information on this interesting subject, Carson kept his temper between his teeth and bore as best he might with Bramham's unusual wit. It was to be remembered, too, that Bramham was a "good man," and as such permitted a lapse. However, ifthe latter had anything more to tell he kept it to himself, and only gave a repetition of his former statements with a graphic description, which Carson was not at all interested in, of the fire.One thing alone, stood out, a salient point in the narrative:"And I happen to know that everything she has is burnt. With the exception of a few royalties, she is penniless. All her finished work is burnt—everything she had in the world. She had a face like a banshee when I told her," was his complimentary conclusion.Carson departed and took a bath and shave on this information. Afterwards he went down and looked at the sea. When he came in to breakfast, a sane and calm Charles Bramham was seated there before him—bathed, groomed, dressed, eating an orange with a tea-spoon.They took breakfast with the appetites and serenity of good men, who having passed an excellent night, were about to attack the problems of the day with clear consciences. There was nothing noticeable about Bramham, except a thirst for tea.Just before they had finished, Carson casually said:"I'm going up to the Rand to sell everything I hold."Bramham regarded him piercingly, and at the moment aboyentered with the morning papers. Each man reached out for one, and turned with striking unanimity of interest to the Market reports."Good Lord!" cried Bramham instantly. "East Randsat 5.5.0, and still sinking."Carson gave a groan, which meant, "Oh, Hades! why didn't I sell at £10?"Bramham continued his dolorous tale, quoting all the prices in which he and Carson were interested."Main Reefs, Randfonteins, Crown Reefs, Knights—all steadily sagging in sympathy; if you sell now, Karri, you'll be in the cart."And Carson knew that Bramham spoke the thing that was. In the state of the market it would mean ruin to sell. The loss would be so great that he doubted if he would be able to pay up the inevitable deficiency at his bank. He reflected that possibly a few of his syndicate shares might pull him through, but what good was that! He wantedmoney—money to marry Rosalind Chard and take her with him to Borapota; to freeherfrom the cares of life and money for evermore.As he stared gloomily at Bramham, the colour of his prospects were of the same hue as the black scowl on his brow. But like all speculators, he was not long without a ray of hope. His face suddenly cleared."What about my claims on the South Rand?" he demanded blithely."Have you still got those?" cried Bramham in surprise. "Good! How many?""Half interest in a hundred?""By George! Well, you'd better go up and see what Charlie Rosser can do. If there's anything to be made he'll do it for you."They rose from the table."When shall you go? To-day?""No; to-day I have every moment occupied until six o'clock.""There's a good train to-night at nine.""I can't go to-night—I have something else to do."A transforming look flashed across Carson's face. Whatever grace of heart was his showed in his eyes for a moment as he thought of the girl who would be waiting for him to-night.CHAPTER XXVIII"CLEM, scuttle up—we'll be late," shouted Portal. "Whatisshe doing, Miss Chard?""Hearing the bratiken's prayers, I think.""I wish you'd hurry her up."Poppy went out into the hall and stood at the nursery door, which was ajar. Clem's voice could be heard inside arguing with a small, sullen one."Say them now, Cinthie—'Gentle Jesus——'""No, mummie.""Yes, darling.""I want you to sing 'Bye-low Lady.'""Not to-night, my dearest" (sound of a kiss); "there isn't time. Daddy's waiting for me to go to the theatre; we'll have longer sings to-morrow night. Say prayers now, Cinthie.""No, mummie.""Go on now, darling. Mother'll be cross with you in a minute. 'Gentle Jesus——'""No, mummie."A silence."'Gentle Jesus'—Go on now, Cinthie—'Gentle Jesus—'""'Gentle Jesus'—sat on a wall," said the small voice, and burst into a peal of laughing. There was a rustling and Clem appeared at the nursery door gowned and gloved, her face bearing traces of smothered laughter. But from the door she called back, in a voice intended to be most hauntingly sad:"Mother's sorry her little girl is so naughty to-night. Good-night, Cinthie.""G'night," was the cheerful response.Clem came out into the hall and shut the door, and putting her arm in Poppy's hurried to the drawing-room, where Portal was offering up loud prayers for patience, and bemoaning the miserable, wasted lives of all married men."Time is simply nothing to them, I tell you!" he chanted. "It is no concern of theirs! They cannot wear it, nor give it to their offspring to play with! As for punctuality, it is a rule invented for men and dogs only—and rickshaw pullers. Ours has been waiting at the gate for twenty minutes—butthat'sall right—what dowecare for the first act of a play?"Clem took not the slightest notice. She turned to Poppy."And, darling, when you've finished your coffee I wish you'd go in and hear her prayers. She feels very much injured to-night—you will, won't you? I am so vexed that we have to go out and leave you—andI dowish you would have come too. It might have made you forget all about that wicked fire.""I shall be quite happy here, Clem. I have much to think of and plan; and, of course, I'll mind Cinthie. Be off now."Poppy hustled her into her cloak and laces and saw them both off into the rickshaw. Afterwards she returned to the drawing-room, poured out her coffee, and took it into the nursery. Cinthie's little straight, white bed stood in the centre of the room, and she was lying with the sheet drawn up to her chin, two long pigtails stretching down on either side of her, and two big, dark eyes glooming out of the little, soft, dark face. Beside her on the pillow two still, inanimate forms glared glazily at the ceiling."Cinthie!""Eum!""Hallo, Cinthie!""Hallo!""You asleep?""No, not yet.""Sure you're not?""No, I'm not, Poppy." She sat up in bed and gave a lively prance to show she was awake."Well, I've come to have a little talk."Cinthie made a joyful noise that sounded likecorn-cookoo, and gave another prance.Poppy sat on the edge of the bed and sipped her coffee, tendering to Cinthie an occasional spoonful, which was supped up rapturously."Who've you got there with you?""Two my chil'ren.""Which ones?""Daisy-Buttercup'nOscar""Oh! have they said their prayers yet?"A pause, then:"I didn't tell them to say prairses to-night.""Not?" cried Poppy, in shocked surprise."No." (A pause.) "They's too tired.""Oh, but Cinthie! Fancy, if they died in their sleep! How sorry they'd be they hadn't said their prayers."An uncomfortable pause. Poppy drank some more coffee."I knowyouwould never go to sleep without sayingyourprayers."A silence."I hope you prayed for me to-night, sweetness?"A silence."—And for that darling mummie of yours?"Silence."—And your lovely daddie?"Silence."—Because I know they couldn't enjoy themselves at the theatre, or go to sleep to-night, or anything, if you didn't. But of course, you did. Good-night, sweetness—give a kiss.""G'night!" The little figure bounced up and put its arms round her and kissed her all over her face. Poppy tucked her in carefully."I'm so glad you prayed for mummie and daddie and me," she said fervently. "Good-night, darling-pet.""G'night.""You don't have the candle left, do you?""No.""Shall I put the mosquito-curtain round?""Yes, please."Poppy flicked it well with her handkerchief and arranged it round the bed like a big, white bird-cage; then taking the candle in her hand, walked slowly to the door."Well, good-night.""G'night."She opened the door and went out slowly.At the last conceivable instant, as the door was on the point of closing, a little voice cried:"Poppy!""Yes, sweetness.""I want a drink of water."Poppy went back, poured a glass of water, and carried it to the delinquent, who took a mouthful; then said, slowly and sorrowfully:"I think I'll say prairses, Poppy.""All right darling!" She sat down on the bed again and put her arms round the slim figure, who, kneeling with her nose snuggled into the soft, white shoulder, said her "prairses" at express-speed down into Poppy's evening-gown:

I.Across the purple heatherThe winds of God blow sweet.But it's O for the smell of LondonAnd the roar of a London street!II.Upon the wine-dark watersThe sun strikes clean and hot.But it's O for a London gardenAnd the woman who loves me not!

I.

Across the purple heatherThe winds of God blow sweet.But it's O for the smell of LondonAnd the roar of a London street!

II.

Upon the wine-dark watersThe sun strikes clean and hot.But it's O for a London gardenAnd the woman who loves me not!

"You say you are no musician, Clem, but I never knewanyone who could make lovelier sounds come out of a piano," Poppy said.

Clem laughed.

"Dear, I can't play at all: it is this little song that sets chords singing in my head. What were you thinking of when you wrote it?"

"Of Dr. Ferrand, I think, that first Sunday I came here. You remember how he talked of London?—and you said that he had 'his own box of matches and could make his own hell any day in the week,' like poorDick Heldar. The circumstances seemed to indicate that there was some woman in England who didn't love him—but I daresay that applies to a good many men out here."

"The most usual circumstance," said Clem laughing, "is that the woman loves too well. Some men find that hardest of all to bear."

Poppy reflected on this for a while.

"I suppose you mean wives! It is curious how many people seem to marry to live apart, isn't it, Clem?"

"Yes; I call it the cat-and-reptile game," said Clem, swinging round on the music-stool and beginning to run her hands through her crinkly, curly, fuzzy dark hair with seven red lights in it. "The cat catches the reptile, scratches him, bites him, wounds him, puts her mark on him for good, and as soon as he has no more kick left in him, off she goes and leaves him alone."

Poppy was laughing.

"Well, some of the reptiles make marvellous recoveries," said she, remembering one, at least, whom she had known.

"You can't blame them forthat—it isn't very interesting to be dead, I suppose."

"As for the cats who don't leave their reptiles," continued Poppy, thinking of some of the dull people she had recently met, "nothing could be deader than the pairof them. And then they label themselves 'happily married.'"

"Now, Poppy, I won't have you walking over my cabbages and onions."

"I'm not, Clem—but they don't make marriage look alluring to anyone with an imagination, do they? Of course, it is wonderful to see your happiness——"

"Yes; Bill and Iarerather wonderful"—Clem jumped up in a hurry—"I mustabsolutelygo and get some socks and stockings to mend. There is a pile as big as a house waiting—" She flashed out of the room.

"She won't discuss her happiness with me," thought Poppy. "It is too sacred!"

By the time Clem came back a settled gloom was over everything; the rain was heavily pelting against the windows; occasionally a bright beam of light shot through the room, leaving it as grey as a witch; afterwards the thunder groaned like some god in agony.

"You won't be able to see to darn holes," said Poppy.

"Ah! you don't know Billy's holes," Clem answered sadly. "And Cinthie inherits the gentle trait. It istoobad, for I hate darning."

She settled as near the window as she dared, and sat peering her glimmering head over her work, while they talked in desultory fashion: but the storm got worse, the thunder groaned more terribly.

"God sounds as though He is tearing His heart out to throw it under the feet of dancing women and men," said Poppy, in a voice that rang with some unusual emotion.

Clem Portal looked at her in astonishment.

"Darling, I ought to rebuke you for blasphemy."

To her astonishment the girl burst into wild weeping.

"No ... it isn't blasphemy ... I am in pain, Clem ... these storms ... a storm like this reminds me ofwhen I was a child ... I was once out in a storm like this."

"You?"

"Yes ... once ... on the veldt ... for three days."

"On the veldt!" repeated Clem; a streak of lightning tore through the room, showing her for an instant a tortured face. She reached out and took the girl's hands in hers, gripping them tight. Dimly, through the rumble of the thunder, she heard Poppy's voice.

"Yes ... out on the veldt ... I, whom you think have only been in Africa for a few months at a time ... I, the gently-nurtured English girl! ... educated at Cheltenham College! ... I did not actually tell you these things, Clem, but I let you believe them ... they are all lies ... I was born in Africa ... I have roamed the veldt lean and hungry ... been a little beaten vagabond in the streets."

"Dear," said Clem, with the utmost tenderness and gentleness; "what do these things matter—except that they have made you suffer? ... they have made you the woman you are, and that is all I care to know.... I have always known that there was a wound ... don't make it bleed afresh ... I love you too well to want to hear anything that it hurts to tell ... always believe this, Poppy ... I love and trust you above any woman I have ever known."

"Clem, you are too kind and good to me.... I am not worthy even to speak to you, to touch you.... It is nothing when I say I love you ... I bless you ... I think there is nothing in the world I would not do for you.... I did not know one woman could be so sweet to another as you have been to me ... you are like the priceless box of sweet-smelling nard that the harlot broke over the feet of Christ ... and I ... Ah! Christ! What am I?"

Dense blackness filled the room. In it nothing washeard but the sound of deep weeping. Outside the storm raged on. But when next a gleam of light flashed through the windows, the figure of a kneeling woman was revealed clasped in another woman's arms.

"I am weary of falseness, Clem ... weary of my lips' false tales ... since I have been near you and seen your true unafraid eyes ... the frank clear turn of your mouth that has never lied to anyone ... I have died many deaths ... you can never know how I have suffered ... pure women don't know what suffering there is in the world, it is no use pretending they do ... they are wonderful, they shine.... O! what wouldn'twegive to shine with that lovely cold, pure glow ... but they can't take from us what our misery has bought."

"Poppy, don't tell me anything," the older woman said steadily. "I don't want to know ... whatever Life has made you do, or think, or say ... I don't care! I love you. I am your friend. I know that the root of you is sound. Who am I that I should sit in judgment? It is all a matter of luck ... God was good to me ... I had a good mother and a fleet foot ... when I smelt danger I ran ... I had been trained to run ... you had not, perhaps, and you stayed ... that's the only difference——"

Poppy laughed bitterly at the lame ending.

"The difference lies deeper than that ... you are generous, Clem, but truth is truth, and I should like to speak it to you now and always ... confession has no attractions for me, and I once told a man I should never confess to a woman——"

"Silence is always best, dear," Clem said. "When a woman learns to be silent about herself, she gains power that nothing else can give her. And words can forge themselves into such terrible weapons to be used against one—sometimes by hands we love."

"It would be a relief to clean my heart and lips to you, dear, once and for all. Let me tell you—even the name I use is not my own!"

"I don't care. What does a name matter?"

"Well, my name is not Rosalind Chard, nor Lucy Grey, nor Eve Destiny, nor Anne Latimer, nor Helen Chester, though I have called myself by all of these at some time in my life. My real name is Poppy Destin ... 'an Irish vagabond born in Africa.'"

"What do these things matter?"

"My life, for the last three years, has been a struggle in deep waters to keep myself from I know not what deeper deeps——"

"I have always maintained that a woman has a right to use whatever weapons come to hand in the fight with life, Poppy."

"So have I," Poppy laughed discordantly, "and my weapons have been—lies. Oh, how I have lied, Clem! All the tears of all the years cannot wash me clean of the lies I've told ... I feel you shivering ... you hate me!"

"No, Poppy—only I can't understand why! What could have been worth it?"

"Ah! you think nothing is worth blackening your soul for, Clem! That is where you will not understand."

"I will try to understand, dear one ... tell me. One thing I am sure of, it was never wanton. You had some miserable reason."

"Miserable!I am misery's own!" she cried passionately. "She marked me with a red cross before I was born.... Well! let me tell you ... have you ever noticed the look of candour and innocence about my face, Clem? More especially my eyes?... all lies! I am not candid; I am not innocent ... I never was ... even when I was twelve I could understand the untold tale of passion in an old black woman's eyes ... she hadonly one breast, and she showed me that as a reason for having no home and children of her own.... I understood without being told, that in the sweet hour of her life the cup was dashed from her lips ... her lover left her when he found her malformed.... Immediately I began to sing a pæan of praise to the gods thatmylover would never go lacking the gift of my breasts. I made a song—all Africa knows it now:

"'I thank thee, Love, for two round breasts——'"

"'I thank thee, Love, for two round breasts——'"

"And what harm in that?" cried Clem, staunchly. "When Cinthie is twelve, will you want her to be thinking of lover's caresses?"

"You would not have been, either, if you'd had a mother's caresses. Your nature was starving for love, poor child!"

"You have a tender heart for sinners."

"I don't consider you a very bad sinner, darling."

"You don't know all the lies yet.... I am going to tell yousomethingof what the last three years have been ... three years of lying to get a living ... lying to get money: the stage, governessing, serving in shops, nursing invalids, reading to old women ... there was a great variety about myrôlesin life, Clem, except for one faithful detail.... Everywhere I went and in everything I undertook, a man cropped up and stood in the path. There was something special about me, it seemed, that brought them unerringly my way—nothing less than mywonderful innocence. That drew them as the magnet draws steel ... lured them like a new gold-diggings.... And they all wanted to open the portals of knowledge for me ... to show me the golden way into the wondrous city of Love. And I?... I had the mouth and eyes of a saint! Sin was not for me.... I was pure as the untrodden snow! I looked into their eyes and asked them to spare me ... Itold them I was good and adjured them by their mothers to leave me so. At first they were always deeply impressed, but later they became slightly bored.... The affair nearly always ended in weariness and a promise on my part never to forget that I had arealfriend if I should ever want one, and I understood very well whatthatmeant, but invariably I pretended that I did not, and went my way innocent-eyed.... But there were variations on this ... sometimes they insisted on showing me devoted friendship in the meantime ... and their purses were to hand. In such cases I always helped myself liberally ... I had an unerring instinct that I should shortly be seeking a new home—a new friend ... and that instinct never played me false ... soon I was on the 'out trail' once more, looking for a way to earn a living and staypureandinnocent. Once I was almost content with an old woman. I washed her and dressed her, and, incidentally, was sworn at by her ... but the salary was high.... Alas! like the widow of Nain she had an only son ... a decent boy, too ... but when he had looked into my eyes and found me good, there was the old tale to tell....Heused to give me lovely presents ... I was never too good to take presents, Clem—under protest.... He wanted to marry me, but marriage was not in my plan ... then the old mother found out, and I had to go. Another man in Birmingham, whose children I taught, gave mehundreds—just for being good! would have given me thousands only that his wife read memoranda of some sum once and flew to the worst conclusions ... she believed I had stolen her husband and was as bad as I could be ... no one could be surprised at what she called me ... but it was quite untrue in its literal meaning. I had to go back to London, and there was nothing at first to go back to but the stage.... I did not staytherelong ... innocence is not very valuable on the stage—except in theplay!... and though I have a special talent for actingoffthe stage, I am too nervousonit to open my lips ... so there was no hope for advancement that way ... I had to begin again on the old round."

"But, Poppy, dear, forgive me, I can't understand—why?why?... what was it all for?"

"For money, Clem. I wanted money."

"I can't believe it!—Oh!notfor money!"

"Yes; for money. Some women are bad for money; there is nothing they will not do to get gold in their hands. I wasgoodfor money ... a saint, an angel, a virgin—most especially a virgin."

"Don't hurt me like this," Clem said. "Whatever you say can make no difference to me. Iwilllove you. Iwillbe your friend. But—is there anything in the world that money can get that was worth it all? I ask out of sheer curiosity—isthere?"

Poppy answered her "Yes!" And after a long time a few words dropped into the silence of the room.

"I wanted the money for my child."

The storm had died away at last, leaving a terrible peace behind it. The colour of the evening sky was sard-green, than which nothing can be more despairing.

Mrs. Portal sat with her head drooped forward a little as if very tired, and Poppy arose from her seat, pushed open a window, and stood looking out. The smell of wet steaming earth came into the room. Presently, speaking very softly, she continued her narrative:

"I wanted all the money I could get for my son. He had no name, no heritage ... his father ... had, I believed, married another woman. I was resolved that he should at least have all money could give him.... I thought that when he grew up he would turn from me in any case as a woman who had shamed him and robbed him of his birthright, so that it did not matterwhatI didwhile he was yet young, and yet loved me, to insure him health, a fine education, and a future. First it was to give him the bare necessaries of life, later to provide a home in the country where he could grow up strong and well under good, kind care ... then, my thoughts were for his future ... Oh! I hoped to redeem my soul by his future, Clem!... So I worked and lied ... and lied and took ... and lied and saved ... not often with my lips did I lie, Clem ... butalwayswith my eyes. I had at last amassed nearly eight hundred pounds ... you will think that remarkable, if you will remember that always I amassed it virtuously ... that there is no man of all I met in those years who can call me anything but a good woman—abominably, disgustingly, vilelygood.

"And then ... I was introduced to a financier, who, because of the charm of my innocent eyes, told me that, in a few weeks, he would transform my eight hundred pounds into eight thousand pounds. Incidentally, he remarked that we must see more of each other ... and I looked intohiseyes and saw that they werenotinnocent,—and that there would be a difficult day of reckoning for me later on ... but for eight thousand pounds, and secure in mailed armour ofpurity, I risked that ... especially as he was just leaving England for a few weeks ... I handed over my eight hundred pounds without a qualm, for he had a great name in the financial world. In less than three weeks his dead body was being hauled over the side of a yacht in the Adriatic, and my eight hundred pounds was deader than Dead-Sea fruit, for I never heard of it again ... nor wanted to ... the need of it was gone ... my boy was dead!"

"Poppy! Poppy!" Clem got up and drew the girl down to the floor by her side. "Rest your head on me dear ... you are tired ... life has been too hard for you.

"'Dost thou know, O happy God!——'

"'Dost thou know, O happy God!——'

"Life has been brutal to you. I think of my own sheltered childhood, and compare it with yours—flung out into the fiery sands of the desert to die or survive, as best you might!... The strange thing is that your face bears no sign of all the terrible things that have overtaken you! I see no base, vile marks anywhere on you, Poppy.... It cannot all be acting ... no one is clever enough to mask a soiled soul for ever, and from everyone, if it reallyissoiled.... Youlookgood—not smirking, soft goodness that means nothing, but brave, strong goodness ... and Iknowthat that look is true ... and so I can love you, after all these things you have told me ... I can love you better than ever. Butwhyis it, Poppy?"

"I don't know. If itisso, the reason must be that all was done for Love, Clem ... because always I had a sweet thing at my heart ... the love I bore to my child, and to the father of my child. Because, like the mother of Asa, 'I built an altar in a grove' and laid my soul upon it for Love. I want to tell you something further. Beinggood, as the world calls it, has no charm for me. Many of the men I have spoken of had a sinister attraction.I understood what they felt.I looked into eyes and saw things there that had answers deep down in me. I am a child of passionate Africa, Clem ... the blood in my veins runs as hot and red as the colour of a poppy.... It is an awful thing to look into the eyes of a man you do not love and see passion staring there—and feel it urging in your own veins, too. It is an awful thing to know what it is that he is silently demanding, and what that basely answers in your own nature.... Yet there are worse things than this knowledge. A worse thing, surely, would have been to have gone hurtling over the precipice with some Gadarene swine!... Clem, if I had beenreallyinnocent those years, nothing could have saved me. Ishould have gone to the devil, as they call it, with some vile man I had no love for, just because I didn't know how to keep out of the traps laid for me by my own nature—and then I should have 'been at the devil' indeed! But I had bought knowledge with the price of my girlhood ... and I had mated with my own right man.... I had looked at life, if only for an hour, with love-anointed eyes ... and so, it came to pass that I had a memory to live for, and a child to fight for ... and courage to fight my greatest enemy—myself. I think no one who knew the workings of my heart would deny me courage, Clem."

"No, and it is a noble quality, child—the noblest, I think, when it is used to fight one's own baser nature. That only would keep a woman beautiful ... it is tothatyou owe your beauty, dear."

"Then it is to you I owe it to a great extent—for it was you who first put the creed into me of courage—and silence—and endurance. Do you remember the night you wished me good-bye over your gate, Clem?"

"I remember everything—but, dear, there is one thing that grieves and bewilders me—why,whycould you not have earned a clean, fine living with your pen ... where was your gift of writing?"

"It left me, Clem, when I tried to earn money with it. I could not write. I tried and tried. I sat to it until my eyes sank into my head and hollows came to my cheeks—until we were hungry, my little Pat and I—and cold. For bread and firing I had to leave it, and turn to other things. After the boy died ... it came back and mocked me. I wrote then to ease my pain ... and everything I have written since has been successful ... found a ready market and in some sort Fame ... but it was all too late!"

"Poor child! everything has mocked you!" Clem put her arms round the girl and kissed her tenderly; thendrew away and assumed an ordinary pose, for a maid had come into the room bringing lights, and with the intimation that she was about to sound the dressing-bell, as it wanted only half an hour to dinner-time.

"Heavens!" cried Clem; "and I hear Billy's voice in the garden; Eve Carson's, too, I believe.Flyto your room, Poppy. I expect Sarah has laid out one of your gowns."

IT was, indeed, Carson whom Portal had brought home with him. They had encountered in West Street, and Bill had insisted on bringing him back just as he was in the inevitable grey lounge suit, assuring him that there would be no one to find fault with his appearance but Mrs. Portal, who was notoriously forgiving.

So Carson came, and had no faintest inkling that Poppy was there too. Being an oldintiméof the family, he knew his way about the house and after leaving Portal's dressing-room, he sought the nursery, was admitted by Cinthie's nurse, and stayed talking and romping with the child long after the second bell had sounded and dinner been announced, with the result that Portal insisted on taking Poppy into dinner, while Clem sought the recalcitrant in the nursery. Later, they came laughing to the dining-room, and for the first time Carson knew of Poppy's presence. She was sitting facing the door, and a big silver candlestick, with wide branching antlers, framed her in a silver frame. With her mysterious, tendrilly hair, her subtle scarlet mouth and Celtic cheek-bones, she had the alluring appearance of a Beardsley-drawing without any of its bloodlessness, for her gown was as scarlet as the poppies of the field, and she glowed with inward fires at seeing Carson. The deep, sweet glance she gave him as they greeted made him glow too, with gladness of living, and some other radiant reason that for the moment was not clear to him. He only knew that weariness was gone fromhis veins and that the splendour of life had come back at last with the rush and swell of full-tide.

After dinner they all went into the verandah and the men smoked there. Clem never smoked, but she liked the smell of cigars. Poppy had long broken herself of the cigarette habit. Later, Portal said he must go and write two important letters to catch the mail—after that they would have a game of Bridge if anyone liked. Clem said she would go and play to the others her setting to "In Exile," of which she was very proud. She sang it softly over and over to them for a while. Afterwards she wandered through Chopin's "Prelude" into Schubert's gentle "Andante." Then unaccountably she began to fling out into the night the great solemn chords of a Funeral March. It was a wonderful thing, full of the dignity of sorrow, underlaid by thin wailings that spoke of little memories of all the past sweetnesses of the dead. There was a place in it that made Poppy think her dead child's arms were round her neck, and another where Carson thought of Alan Wilson and his thirty-one brave companions lying under the stars up in lonely Zimbabwe. At another time, he remembered a man dear to him, killed at Gwelo in the second native rising; he seemed to see the fellow with his hands in his pockets whistling to his dogs in a peculiar way he had.

Through all the playing Poppy and he sat in the verandah, side by side, in two low canvas chairs. A fold of her gown lay across his feet. They were absolutely silent and they did not look at each other. Carson was staring straight before him, but without a turn of his head or flicker of his eyelids he was conscious of every tiniest detail of the woman by his side. He saw the gracious line of her cheek and throat and thigh and foot; but, more than that, he believed he saw the spirit of her too, gentle and sad, but brave and desirable to him beyond the soul of any woman—and his.She was his. He was certain of that now. He had taken the knowledge from her eyes when they met that night; and yet it seemed old knowledge to him, something he had known since the beginning of time.

Her hand lay within reach of his, but he did not touch it. Only too conscious of the mysterious magnetism of the flesh, he strove with all the fine instincts and high aspirations his spirit had ever given birth to and his body honoured, to free himself from the shackles of the flesh and give to this woman whom he loved and blessed a greater salute than the mere touching of hands.

As for her—her eyes were closed. She, too, was reaching out with spirit-hands to him. Inasmuch as human souls which are aloof and lonely things can communicate—theirs met and hailed each other as mate until the end of time.

Suddenly Clem freed them of sorrow. She began to play something that was like an old piece of brocade all flowered over quaintly with tiny leaves, true lovers' knots, and little pink-and-blue rose-buds. Presently the brocade became a stately dress, worn with powder and patches and high scarlet-heeled shoes.... Portal, having finished his mail, came back to the verandah, and Clem closed the piano then and came out too. They sat and talked, and no one again suggested cards.

The night was fresh and sweet after the rain, and the sky above alive with newly-washed stars. Far away, Durban flashed and sparkled, and just above the bay there was a great splash of vermilion against the darkness of the bluff—sometimes it showed streaks of carmine in it. They discussed the phenomenon, and eventually concluded that a boat out on the water was afire. Whatever the cause, it certainly gave the finishing touch to the picturesque beauty of the night.

A little after eleven Carson left. He shook hands with everyone at parting, and for a brief instant he and Poppydrank another deep draught of joy from each other's eyes.

No sooner had he gone than Clem said:

"Poppy, you are to go to bed instantly, and stay there until I give you leave to get up. You look like a spectre."

Poppy took her hand and kissed it. She was trembling with happiness, but she dared not speak of it. Clem put an arm round her.

"I must come and see if your room is all right."

"Yes, but who are these midnight vigilantes in the garden?" exclaimed Portal. "I believe I hear Bramham!"

Bramham, indeed, it was who came into the light with a crumpled and weeping woman clinging to his arm.

"What the——?" softly demanded Portal of Heaven, and Clem stared. Poppy swiftly recognised Miss Allendner.

"What is it?" she cried, stepping forward.

Miss Allendner only wept more violently.

"This poor lady has been greatly upset," said Bramham, and placed her in a chair. Then he spoke with the brevity of a good man with a bad tale:

"Miss Chard's house has been burnt to the ground; fortunately no one is hurt, but everything is destroyed."

"Burnt!burnt?...everything?My work ... my freedom—" cried Poppy wildly with clasped hands.

"Everything! Nothing left but a few bricks and some melted iron. I wonder you didn't see the flare-up—it lighted the whole bay. The thing was discovered too late to do anything but get Miss Allendner out." His firm brevity left him. "Oh, Lord, Iamsorry!" He stared dismally.

"Oh, Poppy!" cried Clem, with pitiful voice, and they all drew round the pale girl. She did not speak for a time—just stood there in the light streaming from the drawing-room windows, white and still; and presently some tears fell down her face. Then she said:

"Poor Miss Allendner. Shall we put her to bed, in my bedroom, Clem? She is worn out!"

The women went away. At the gate Bramham said to Portal:

"And there is worse to come.... That crazy Allendner turkey was shrieking round the fire like a lunatic ... imploring the crowd to save the writings ofEve Destiny, the South African writer—everybody knows who she is now ... the place is humming like a beehive with the news ... and it will be in all the news-rags in the morning.... She'll be more broken up over that than anything ... for reasons of her own she didn't want it known.... Oh, it's a hell of a country, Portal."

This thing was news also to Portal. Mrs Portal being that lovely thing, a close woman, he knew nothing of Poppy's identity withEve Destiny.

WHEN Carson left the Portals he did not go home. He turned his face towards the higher heights of the Berea, and those surmounted, tramped on—on past darkened blind-drawn, lonely houses, and long stretches of gardens and vacant lands, until he came at last to the cliff-side that overlooks Umgeni. Afterwards he tramped and tramped, without knowing or caring where he went, but always with the light silent feet of the athlete. Irishmen are natural athletes. Also, if they arerealIrishmen, that is, born and brought up through boyhood in their own land, they have learned to play "Handball"; and so their feet are as light as their hands are swift to feel and their eyes to observe. For a man whose lot must be cast in the sinuous paths of Africa—jungle or money-market—there could be no better training than constant play in his youthful days in an Irish ball-court, for it teaches quickness of wit and limb more than any game ever played, as well as developing both sides of the body, thus making for perfect symmetry. Carson had a passion for the game, and he went hot with anger when he thought how neglected and ignored it was amongst the fine sports of the world. "Pilota," the Spanish national game, has some resemblance to "Handball," and is played by men of all classes in Spain. But in Ireland with the exception here and there of a gentleman enthusiast, who has learnt his love of the pastime at his college, only the poor fellows play it now, and those usually the roughest of their class, who are obliged to depend for their "courts" on the proprietors of public-houses.

All young Irish boys love "Handball," however, and Carson had often thought it a wistful thing to see little ragged chaps watching a game with eyes alight, holding the coats of players, on the chance of getting a chance to play themselves when the "court" was vacated.

In the Protectorate he had established, he meant to build "ball-courts" and teach the fine stalwart Borapotans to play the finest game in the world.

But to-night, as he tramped, he did not think of these things. The sports and pastimes of his boyhood were as far from his mind as was the innocence of his boyhood from his heart. He was trying to tramp out the remembrance of a sin. Trying to obliterate from his memory the face of a woman he did not love, never had loved, never would love—but to whom honour held him fast. A woman who had nursed him in sickness with devotion and care—and who, when he was still physically weak, had flung herself into his arms—at his feet, offering her life, her love, her honour. And he had weakly fought, weakly resisted, and at the last most weakly taken—taken just for the love of pity, and the love of love and all the other loves that Irishmen, above all men, know all about, and that have nothing to do with Love at all.

The bitter cud to chew now between his gritting teeth was that he had never reaped anything but soul-misery and sacrifice of fine resolves from the thing. Yet here it was holding itself up before him like some pure star that he must never cease from following after: a creed never to be forsaken; an idol before which to sacrifice the rest of his life—to sacrifice the most wonderful love that ever thrilled a man's veins and shook from his life all mean and paltry things.

Oh, Lust past and Love present had a great fight in the heart of Evelyn Carson, Bart., D.S.O., C.M.G., in the early hours of that April morning. It must have beenclose on six hours that he tramped and fought, for when at last he came by devious ways to Sea House, the shroudy dawn was breaking over the face of the Indian Ocean.

And Bramham was in his dining-room insanely drinking whiskies-and-sodas.

"What the——?" Carson stood in the doorway staring.

"Waiting up for you, of course! Where have you been?" said the drunk and dauntless Bramham.

"I can't remember engaging you to wet-nurse me." Carson was too savage with life to be polite even to the best friend he had ever possessed. He strode into the room, threw his soft hat rolled into a ball into a corner, and would have passed through, but Bramham detained him with a word.

"Miss Chard's house was burnt to the ground last night!"

Carson came back and stood by the table. It seemed to him that a good thing to do would be to mix a strong whiskey-and-soda, and he did so, and drank it thirstily.

"What was that you said, Bram?" he asked, later.

"Miss Chard's house is burnt to the ground. The whole town knows now that she isEve Destiny, the South African novelist——"

"The how much?"

"The South African novelist. The woman who wrote the book of poems that set all the African mothers flying to lock the nursery doors—and the playsIn a Tin Hotel at WitpoortjeandA Veldt Ghost. Why, Carson, you don't seem to know anything! You ought to employ someone to dig you up every five years."

Because of his desire for further information on this interesting subject, Carson kept his temper between his teeth and bore as best he might with Bramham's unusual wit. It was to be remembered, too, that Bramham was a "good man," and as such permitted a lapse. However, ifthe latter had anything more to tell he kept it to himself, and only gave a repetition of his former statements with a graphic description, which Carson was not at all interested in, of the fire.

One thing alone, stood out, a salient point in the narrative:

"And I happen to know that everything she has is burnt. With the exception of a few royalties, she is penniless. All her finished work is burnt—everything she had in the world. She had a face like a banshee when I told her," was his complimentary conclusion.

Carson departed and took a bath and shave on this information. Afterwards he went down and looked at the sea. When he came in to breakfast, a sane and calm Charles Bramham was seated there before him—bathed, groomed, dressed, eating an orange with a tea-spoon.

They took breakfast with the appetites and serenity of good men, who having passed an excellent night, were about to attack the problems of the day with clear consciences. There was nothing noticeable about Bramham, except a thirst for tea.

Just before they had finished, Carson casually said:

"I'm going up to the Rand to sell everything I hold."

Bramham regarded him piercingly, and at the moment aboyentered with the morning papers. Each man reached out for one, and turned with striking unanimity of interest to the Market reports.

"Good Lord!" cried Bramham instantly. "East Randsat 5.5.0, and still sinking."

Carson gave a groan, which meant, "Oh, Hades! why didn't I sell at £10?"

Bramham continued his dolorous tale, quoting all the prices in which he and Carson were interested.

"Main Reefs, Randfonteins, Crown Reefs, Knights—all steadily sagging in sympathy; if you sell now, Karri, you'll be in the cart."

And Carson knew that Bramham spoke the thing that was. In the state of the market it would mean ruin to sell. The loss would be so great that he doubted if he would be able to pay up the inevitable deficiency at his bank. He reflected that possibly a few of his syndicate shares might pull him through, but what good was that! He wantedmoney—money to marry Rosalind Chard and take her with him to Borapota; to freeherfrom the cares of life and money for evermore.

As he stared gloomily at Bramham, the colour of his prospects were of the same hue as the black scowl on his brow. But like all speculators, he was not long without a ray of hope. His face suddenly cleared.

"What about my claims on the South Rand?" he demanded blithely.

"Have you still got those?" cried Bramham in surprise. "Good! How many?"

"Half interest in a hundred?"

"By George! Well, you'd better go up and see what Charlie Rosser can do. If there's anything to be made he'll do it for you."

They rose from the table.

"When shall you go? To-day?"

"No; to-day I have every moment occupied until six o'clock."

"There's a good train to-night at nine."

"I can't go to-night—I have something else to do."

A transforming look flashed across Carson's face. Whatever grace of heart was his showed in his eyes for a moment as he thought of the girl who would be waiting for him to-night.

"CLEM, scuttle up—we'll be late," shouted Portal. "Whatisshe doing, Miss Chard?"

"Hearing the bratiken's prayers, I think."

"I wish you'd hurry her up."

Poppy went out into the hall and stood at the nursery door, which was ajar. Clem's voice could be heard inside arguing with a small, sullen one.

"Say them now, Cinthie—'Gentle Jesus——'"

"No, mummie."

"Yes, darling."

"I want you to sing 'Bye-low Lady.'"

"Not to-night, my dearest" (sound of a kiss); "there isn't time. Daddy's waiting for me to go to the theatre; we'll have longer sings to-morrow night. Say prayers now, Cinthie."

"No, mummie."

"Go on now, darling. Mother'll be cross with you in a minute. 'Gentle Jesus——'"

"No, mummie."

A silence.

"'Gentle Jesus'—Go on now, Cinthie—'Gentle Jesus—'"

"'Gentle Jesus'—sat on a wall," said the small voice, and burst into a peal of laughing. There was a rustling and Clem appeared at the nursery door gowned and gloved, her face bearing traces of smothered laughter. But from the door she called back, in a voice intended to be most hauntingly sad:

"Mother's sorry her little girl is so naughty to-night. Good-night, Cinthie."

"G'night," was the cheerful response.

Clem came out into the hall and shut the door, and putting her arm in Poppy's hurried to the drawing-room, where Portal was offering up loud prayers for patience, and bemoaning the miserable, wasted lives of all married men.

"Time is simply nothing to them, I tell you!" he chanted. "It is no concern of theirs! They cannot wear it, nor give it to their offspring to play with! As for punctuality, it is a rule invented for men and dogs only—and rickshaw pullers. Ours has been waiting at the gate for twenty minutes—butthat'sall right—what dowecare for the first act of a play?"

Clem took not the slightest notice. She turned to Poppy.

"And, darling, when you've finished your coffee I wish you'd go in and hear her prayers. She feels very much injured to-night—you will, won't you? I am so vexed that we have to go out and leave you—andI dowish you would have come too. It might have made you forget all about that wicked fire."

"I shall be quite happy here, Clem. I have much to think of and plan; and, of course, I'll mind Cinthie. Be off now."

Poppy hustled her into her cloak and laces and saw them both off into the rickshaw. Afterwards she returned to the drawing-room, poured out her coffee, and took it into the nursery. Cinthie's little straight, white bed stood in the centre of the room, and she was lying with the sheet drawn up to her chin, two long pigtails stretching down on either side of her, and two big, dark eyes glooming out of the little, soft, dark face. Beside her on the pillow two still, inanimate forms glared glazily at the ceiling.

"Cinthie!"

"Eum!"

"Hallo, Cinthie!"

"Hallo!"

"You asleep?"

"No, not yet."

"Sure you're not?"

"No, I'm not, Poppy." She sat up in bed and gave a lively prance to show she was awake.

"Well, I've come to have a little talk."

Cinthie made a joyful noise that sounded likecorn-cookoo, and gave another prance.

Poppy sat on the edge of the bed and sipped her coffee, tendering to Cinthie an occasional spoonful, which was supped up rapturously.

"Who've you got there with you?"

"Two my chil'ren."

"Which ones?"

"Daisy-Buttercup'nOscar"

"Oh! have they said their prayers yet?"

A pause, then:

"I didn't tell them to say prairses to-night."

"Not?" cried Poppy, in shocked surprise.

"No." (A pause.) "They's too tired."

"Oh, but Cinthie! Fancy, if they died in their sleep! How sorry they'd be they hadn't said their prayers."

An uncomfortable pause. Poppy drank some more coffee.

"I knowyouwould never go to sleep without sayingyourprayers."

A silence.

"I hope you prayed for me to-night, sweetness?"

A silence.

"—And for that darling mummie of yours?"

Silence.

"—And your lovely daddie?"

Silence.

"—Because I know they couldn't enjoy themselves at the theatre, or go to sleep to-night, or anything, if you didn't. But of course, you did. Good-night, sweetness—give a kiss."

"G'night!" The little figure bounced up and put its arms round her and kissed her all over her face. Poppy tucked her in carefully.

"I'm so glad you prayed for mummie and daddie and me," she said fervently. "Good-night, darling-pet."

"G'night."

"You don't have the candle left, do you?"

"No."

"Shall I put the mosquito-curtain round?"

"Yes, please."

Poppy flicked it well with her handkerchief and arranged it round the bed like a big, white bird-cage; then taking the candle in her hand, walked slowly to the door.

"Well, good-night."

"G'night."

She opened the door and went out slowly.

At the last conceivable instant, as the door was on the point of closing, a little voice cried:

"Poppy!"

"Yes, sweetness."

"I want a drink of water."

Poppy went back, poured a glass of water, and carried it to the delinquent, who took a mouthful; then said, slowly and sorrowfully:

"I think I'll say prairses, Poppy."

"All right darling!" She sat down on the bed again and put her arms round the slim figure, who, kneeling with her nose snuggled into the soft, white shoulder, said her "prairses" at express-speed down into Poppy's evening-gown:

Back to IndexNext