Dot Parris earned a recall at the end of the first act, conquering by
sheer force of personality that gloomy and half-hearted audience. And
Poppy St. John--among whose many faults lack of generosity certainly
could not be counted--standing up, leaned right out over the
velvet-cushioned barrier of the dress circle, crying "Brava!" and
clapping her hands. To achieve the latter demonstration with befitting
resonance she had stripped off her gloves. Then as the lights were
turned up and the curtain swung into the place, she proceeded to
further stripping--namely, that of her black embroidered sacque, which
she threw across the back of the empty stall beside her, thereby
revealing a startling costume. For she was clothed in rose-scarlet from
shoulder to foot; and that without ornament of any description to break
up the daring uniformity of colour, save the stiff unstanding black
aigrette in her hair, tipped with diamond points which flashed and
glittered as she moved. The soft _mousseline-de-soie_ of which her
dress was made swathed her figure, cross-wise, without apparent
fastening, moulding it to the turn of the hips. Thence the skirt flowed
down in a froth of rose-scarlet gaugings and fluted frills, which
trailed behind her far. The bodice was cut in a deep V back and front,
showing her bare neck. Her arms were bare, too, from the elbow. Her
skin, somewhat sallow by day, took on a delicate ivory whiteness under
the electric light. By accident or design she had omitted to tinge her
cheeks to-night; and the even pallor of her face emphasised the
largeness of her eyes--luminous, just now, with sympathy and
enthusiasm. For the artist in Poppy dominated all else, vibrant and
alert. The glamour of the actor's life was upon her; the seamy side of
it forgotten--its unworthy rivalries and bickerings, the slangings and
prolonged weariness of rehearsals, its many disappointments,
heart-burnings, and sordid shifts. These were as though they were not;
so that the stage called her, even as the sea calls one, and
mother-earth another, and religion a third.
"Pou-ah! aren't I just hot, though!" she said, half aloud, as she flung
off her sacque. "And what a changeling imp of a creature Dot is, after
all! An imp of genius.--well, she's every right to that, as one knows
when one looks at James Colthurst's pictures. He'd genius. He didn't
shirk living. My stars! there was a man capable of adding to the number
of one's emotions! And she's inherited his gifts on her own lines. What
a voice, what gestures! She is as clever as she can stick. Oh! she's a
real joy of a demon of a thing, bless her; and she's nothing like come
to her full strength yet."
Then growing aware that she herself and her vivid attire were beginning
to attract more attention than, in the interests of a quiet evening,
she desired, Poppy subsided languidly into her stall, and, picking up
her opera-glasses, slowly surveyed the occupants of the house.
There to begin with was Bobby Saville in the second row of the stalls,
flanked on either hand by a contingent of followers. His round dark
head and the set of his tremendous shoulders were unmistakable. Saville
was very far from being a model young man, yet Poppy had a soft spot in
her heart for this aristocratic bruiser and bravo. His constancy to Dot
Parris was really touching. With a dog-like faithfulness and docility,
this otherwise most turbulent of his sex had followed the object of his
affections from music-hall to comic opera, from comic opera to the high
places of legitimate drama. And Dot meanwhile remained serenely
invulnerable, tricking and mocking her high-born heavy-weight lover,
telling him cheerfully she really had no use for him, though his
intentions were strictly honourable. Twenty-five years hence, she
added, when he was an elderly peer, and she had begun to grow broad in
the beam, and the public had begun to grow tired of her, she might
perhaps contemplate the thraldom of wedlock. But not yet awhile--no,
thank you. Her art held all her love, satisfied all her passions; she
had none to waste upon mankind. Two days hence, as Poppy knew, Bobby
Saville would sail for South Africa, to offer an extensive target to
Boer bullets. He had come to bid farewell, to-night, to the obdurate
object of his affections. And his followers--some of whom were also
bound for the seat of war--had come to support him during those
pathetic proceedings.
In the boxes she recognised more than one woman whose rank of riches
had rendered her appearance common property through the medium of the
illustrated papers. But upon these social favourites she bestowed scant
scrutiny. To her they did not matter, since she had a comfortable
conviction that, given their chances, she might safely have backed
herself to beat them at their own game. One large and gentle-looking
lady did attract her, by the innocence of her mild eyes set noticeably
wide apart, and by the beauty of her small mouth. Her light brown hair,
touched with grey, rippled back from her low forehead under a drapery
of delicate lace. She was calm, yet there was an engaging timidity in
her aspect as she sheltered behind the farther curtain of the box.
Beside her sat a young girl, white-clad, deliciously fresh in
appearance, an expression of happy half-shy expectation upon her
charming face. Behind them, in the shadow, kindly, handsome, debonnair,
stood Lord Fallowfeild. His resemblance to the large and gentle lady
declared them brother and sister. Poppy St. John watched the little
party with a movement of tenderness. She perceived that they were very
fond of one another; moreover they were so delightfully simple in
bearing and manner, so excellently well-bred. But of what was the
pretty maiden so shyly expectant? Of something, or somebody, far more
immediately interesting to her than players or play--so Poppy judged.
Turning from the contemplation of these pleasant people with a sigh she
could hardly have explained--even to herself--Poppy swept the dress
circle with her opera-glasses. Presently she paused, and with a lift of
surprise looked steadily again, then let both hands and glasses drop
upon her rose-scarlet cap. Four rows up and back, on the far side, in a
stall next the stepped gang-way, a man sat. His face was turned away,
his shoulder being towards her, as he leaned sideways talking to the
woman beside him--a slender, faded, yet elegant person of uncertain
age, dressed in fluffy black. In the seat beyond, also leaning forward
and taking part in the conversation, was another man of so whimsical an
appearance as very nearly to make Poppy laugh aloud. She would
unquestionably have done so had she been at leisure; but she was not at
leisure. Her eyes travelled back to the figure beside the gang-way,
which intrigued both her interest and her memory. Tall, spare,
faultlessly dressed, yet with an effect of something exotic, aloof,
unusual about him, he provoked her curiosity with suggestions of times
and places quite other than of the present.
"Who is it?" Poppy said to herself. "Surely I know him. Who the Dickens
is it?"
The conversation ceased. The man drew himself up, turned his head; and
Poppy gave a little choking cry, as she found herself staring Dominic
Iglesias straight in the face.
Whether he recognised her she did not know, did not want to know just
yet. For she needed a minute or two to reckon with the position. It was
so wholly unexpected. It affected her more deeply than she could have
anticipated. Not without amusement she realised that she had never,
heretofore, quite believed in him as an ordinary mortal, who ate and
drank, went to plays, had relations with human beings other than
herself, and conducted himself generally on the commonplace lines of
modern humanity. Therefore to see him under existing circumstances was,
in a sense, a shock to her. She did not like it. Absurd and
unreasonable though it undoubtedly was to feel it so, yet his presence
here struck her as in a way unseemly, derogatory. She had never thought
of him in this connection, and it took a little time to get accustom to
this aspect of him. Then she discovered, with half-humorous annoyance,
that she was called upon to get accustomed to something else as
well--namely, to her memories of the past month since she parted from
him. For it was undeniable that the said memories took on a queer
enough complexion in the light of this sudden encounter with Dominic
Iglesias. If an hour ago they had been unsatisfactory, now they were
very near odious. And that seemed hardly fair. Poppy turned wicked.
"For what's the worry, after all?" she asked herself. "Why on earth am
I either disappointed or penitent? Is he no better than the rest of us,
or am I no worse? And with what am I quarrelling, in any case--his
being less of a saint, or I less of a sinner than I'd been pleased to
imagine? I'm sure I don't know."
Instinctively her eyes sought that kindly worlding, Lord Fallowfeild.
With him at least, as she reflected, one knew exactly where one was,
since his feet were always very much upon the floor. But here again
discomfiture, alas! awaited her. For another person, and evidently a
welcome one, had joined that pleasant little party. Standing beside the
large and gentle lady, speaking quickly, gaily, his face keen and
eager, she beheld Alaric Barking. Lord Fallowfeild, smiling, patted the
young man affectionately on the shoulder. And then, with a shudder of
pain gnawing right through her, Poppy St. John, glancing at the
graceful white-clad maiden, understood of whose coming this one had
been so sweetly and gladly expectant.
To the strong there is something exhilarating in all certainty, even
certainty of disaster. And it was very characteristic of Poppy that at
this juncture no cry came to her lips, no sob to her throat. She
shuddered that once, it is true. But then, setting her teeth, the whole
daring of her nature rose to the situation, as a high-mettled horse
rises to a heavy fence. What lay on the other side of that fence she
did not know as yet, nor did she stop to consider. Desperate though it
looked, she took it gallantly without fuss or funking.
"Well, there's no ambiguity about this affair, anyhow," she said
grimly. "Of course it had to come sooner or later, and I knew it had to
come. Well, here it is, that's all, and there's no use whining. And
that's why he's been so jumpy lately: he had a bad conscience. Poor old
chap, he must have been having a beastly bad time of it."
Poppy mused a little.
"Still, it's a facer," she added, "and a precious nasty one, too."
She stretched herself, shaking back her head, while the diamond points
of her aigrette danced and glittered. Took a deep breath, filling her
lungs; listened to herself, so to speak, noting with satisfaction that
neither heart nor pulse fluttered.
"No serious damage," she commented. "I must have the nerves of a
locomotive. Here I am perfectly sound, perfectly sober, standing at the
parting of the ways, between the dear old devil of love and the deep
sea of friendship. Poppy Smyth, my good soul, you've always been rather
fatally addicted to drama. Are you satisfied at last? For just now,
heaven knows, you've jolly well got your fill of it."
Then, for a space, she sat staring out into the house, thinking hard,
intently, yet without words. The future, as she knew, hung in the
balance, for herself and for others; but, as yet, she could not decide
into which scale to throw the determining weight. Presently she looked
steadily at Dominic Iglesias. He was again engaged in conversation,
trying, with his air of fine old-world courtesy, suitably to entertain
his strangely assorted neighbours. Poppy had an idea he found it rather
hard work. She was not in the least sorry. That faded piece of feminine
elegance, in fluffy black, bored her. She entertained a malicious hope
that the said piece of feminine elegance bored Mr. Iglesias also.
Finally, with rather bitter courage, she turned her eyes once more upon
Lord Fallowfeild and his companions.
"Poor little girl, poor little girl," she said, quite gently, "so
that's your heaven on earth, is it? I'm afraid a mighty big crop of
wild oats is on show in your Garden of Eden. Still to you, apparently,
it is a blissful place enough. Only the question is, do I intend to
relinquish my rights in that particular property and make it over to
you in fee simple, my pretty baby, or do I not? Shall I give it you, or
shall I keep it? For it is mine to give or to keep still--very much
mine, if I choose to make a fight for it, I fancy."
Yet even as she communed thus with herself, the white-clad maiden and
the other occupants of the box became indistinct and shadowy. The buzz
of conversation in the theatre had ceased; so had the strains of the
orchestra. The lights had been turned low and the curtain had risen
upon the second act.
About half-way through that act Poppy St. John got up, threw her velvet
sacque over her arm, and, slipping past the three intervening stalls,
made her way up the steps of the near gang-way to the swing-doors
opening out to the couloir. Her movements, though studiously quiet,
were, owing to the vivid hue of her attire, very perceptible even in
the penumbra of the dress circle, provoking attention and smothered
comment. The lady in fluffy black, for example, followed her with
glances of undisguised and condemnatory interest, finally calling the
attention of both her cavaliers to the progress of this glowing figure.
The New Century Theatre is one of those enterprises of trans-Atlantic
origin, undertaken with the praiseworthy and disinterested object of
teaching the Old World "how to do it," and is built and furnished
regardless of expense. The couloirs are wide, lofty, richly carpeted;
the walls of them encrusted with pale highly polished marbles,
pilasters of which, with heavily gilded capitals, flank vast panels of
looking-glass. The moulded ceilings are studded with electric lights,
the glare of which is agreeably softened by pineapple-shaped globes of
crystal glass. The scheme of colour, ranging from imperial purple
through crimson and rose-pink to softest flesh tints, formed an
harmonious setting to the rose-scarlet of Poppy's dress, with its froth
of trailing frills and flounces, as she stood discoursing to a smart,
black-gowned, white-aproned box-keeper.
"You understand, fourth row on the left, next the gang-way? Tell him a
lady wishes particularly to speak to him between the acts. Then bring
him to me here."
"Yes, madam, I quite understand," the young person replied, with much
intelligence, scenting something in the shape of an adventure.
Poppy moved across and sat down on one of the wide divans, and so doing
began to know, once more, how very tired she was. A new tiredness
seemed, indeed, to have been added to the original one. That first was,
at worst, bored and irritable. This was of a different, a more sad and
intimate character.
"I feel as if I had been beaten all over," she said to herself. "Well,
perhaps that's just what it is. I have been beaten. I wish I could
sleep. Oh! dear, oh! dear, how I wish I could sleep."
Her thought fell away into the vague, the inarticulate, though she did
not sleep. Still there was a temporary suspension of volition, of
conscious mental activity, which, in a degree, rested her. Persons,
passing now and again, looked with curiosity at the brilliant figure,
and inscrutable eyes in the dead-white face. The smart box-keeper,
moved by some instinct of pity, came back more than once, finally
offering one of those unwholesome-looking cups of coffee and boxes of
chocolate of which so few have the requisite audacity to partake. Poppy
roused herself sufficiently to reject these terrible delicacies, while
smiling at the conveyor of them. Then she relapsed into the vague
again, and waited, just waited.
"There's the end of the act, madam," the young woman remarked at last
encouragingly.
"All right," Poppy answered. "Go straight away and bring the gentleman
here to me. I'm in a hurry. I want to get home."
The glass doors of the exits swished back and forth, letting out the
confused stir and murmur of the house, letting out a crowd of men as
well. And the aspect the said crowd presented to Poppy's overstrained
nerves and exalted sensibility was repulsive. For it suggested to her a
flight of gigantic black locusts, strong-jawed, pink-faced, and
white-breasted, driven forth by a common hunger, rather cruelly active
and intent. Her sense of humour was in abeyance, as was her usually
triumphant common sense; so that her thought, going behind appearances
and the sane interpretation of them, declined to that fundamental
region in which the root laws of animal life become hideously bare and
distinct. Out of the deep places of her own womanhood a hatred towards
this crowd of men arose; that secular enmity which exists between the
sexes asserting itself and, for the time being, obscuring both reason
and justice. For upon what, as she asked herself bitterly, when all is
said and done, do these male human locusts pasture, save on the souls
and bodies of women, finding a garden before them, and, too often,
leaving but a desert behind? Sex as sex became abhorrent to her, its
penalties unpardonable, its pleasures as loathsome as its sins.
But from the black-coated throng the trim figure of the box-keeper just
then detached itself; and a moment later Poppy, looking up, beheld
Dominic Iglesias standing before her.