A featureless landscape of the brand of ugliness peculiar to the
purlicus of a great city, to that intermediate region where the streets
have ended and the country has not yet fairly begun. A waste of
cabbagefields--the dark lumpy earth between the rows of yellowish
stumps strewn with ill-smelling refuse of decaying leaves--seen through
the rents in a broken, unkempt, quickset hedge. Running parallel with
the said hedge, shiny blacktarred palings, shutting off all view of the
river. Between these barriers, a long stretch of drab-coloured high
road, flanked by slightly raised footpaths, a verge of coarse weedy
grass to them in which a litter of rags, torn posters, and much other
unloveliness found harbourage. To the northwest and north, a sky piled
to the zenith with mountainous swiftly moving clouds, inky,
blue-purple, wildly white, from out the torn bosoms of which rushed,
now and again, flurrying showers of hail and sleet driven by a
shrieking wind. March was in the act of asserting its proverbial
privilege of "going out like a lion"; but the lion, as seen in this
particular perspective, was a frankly ignoble and ill-conditioned beast.
And Poppy St. John, heading up against wind and weather along the
left-hand footpath, felt frankly ignoble and ill-conditioned, too. Her
poor soul, which had made such valiant efforts to spread its wings and
fly heavenward--a form of exercise sadly foreign to its habit--crawled,
once more, soiled and mud-bespattered, along the common thoroughfare of
life. At this degradation, her heart overflowed with bitterness and
disgust, let alone the blind rage which possessed her, as of some
trapped creature frustrated in escape. She had broken gaol, as she
fondly imagined, and secured liberty. Not a bit of it! In the hour of
reconciliation, of sweetest security, she met her gaoler face to face
and heard the key grind in the lock.
Save for the occasional passing of a market waggon, or high-shouldered
scavenger's cart, the road was deserted. Once a low-hung two-wheeled
vehicle rattled by, on which, insufficiently covered by sacking, lay a
dead horse, the great head swinging ghastly over the slanting
tail-board, the legs sticking out stark in front. A man, perched
sideways on the carcass, swore at the rickety crock he was driving, and
lashed it under the belly with a short-handled heavy-thonged whip. He
was collarless, and the scarlet and orange handkerchief, knotted about
his throat, had got shifted, the ends of it streaming out behind him as
he lifted his arm and swayed his whole body madly using his whip. Poppy
shut her eyes, sickened by the sound and sight. Just then a scourging
storm of sleet struck her, causing her to turn her back and pause,
where a curve in the range of paling offered some slight shelter. For
strong though she was, and well furnished against the inclement weather
in a thick coaching coat, buttoned up to her chin and down to her feet,
her cloth cap tied on with a thick veil, the stinging wind and sleet
were almost more than she could face. Her depression was not physical
merely, but moral likewise. For over and above her personal and private
sources of trouble, it was a day and place whereon evil deeds seemed
unpleasantly possible. The swearing driver and dangling head of the
dead horse had served to complete her discomfiture; and presently, the
storm slackening a little, hearing footsteps behind her, she wheeled
round, her chin bravely in the air, but her heart galloping with
nervous fright, while her fingers closed down on the butt of the small
silver-plated revolver which rested in the right-hand waist pocket of
her long coat.
De Courcy Smyth was close beside her. Poppy set her lips together and
braced herself to endure the coming wretchedness. It was some years
since she had had speech of him--some years, indeed, since she had seen
him, save during that brief moment, twenty-four hours previously, as
she descended the steps of Cedar Lodge. Even in his most prosperous
days he had been unattractive in person, at once untidy and theatrical
in dress. Now Poppy registered a distinct deterioration in his
appearance. His puffy face, red-rimmed eyes, and shambling gait were
odious to her. She noted, moreover, that he was poorly clad. His grey
felt hat was stained and greasy; his ginger-coloured frieze overcoat
threadbare at the elbows, thin and stringy in the skirts. The soles of
his brown boots were splayed, the upper leathers seamed and cracked.
This might denote poverty. It might, also, only denote carelessness and
sloth. In any case, it failed to move her to pity, provoking in her
uncontrollable irritation; so that, forgetful of diplomacy, stirred by
memories of innumerable kindred provocations in the past, Poppy spoke
without preamble, asking him sharply as he joined her:
"Have you no better clothes than that?"
Smyth paused before answering, looking her up and down furtively yet
deliberately, wiping the wet of his beard and face, meanwhile, with a
frayed green silk pocket-handkerchief.
"It offends your niceness that your husband should dress like a tramp,
does it?" he said hoarsely. "And pray whose fault is it that he is
reduced to doing so? Judging by your own costume, you can easily remove
that cause of offence if you choose. It does not occur to you, perhaps,
that while you live on the fat of the land I, but for the charity of
strangers--which it is loathsome to me to accept--should not have
enough to pay for the food I eat or for the detestable garret in which
I both work and sleep? Under these circumstances I am scarcely prepared
to call in a fashionable tailor to replenish my wardrobe, lest its
meagreness should, on the very rare occasions on which I have the
honour of meeting you, offer an unpleasing reflection upon your own
super-elegance."
To these observations, delivered with a somewhat hysterical volubility,
Poppy made no direct reply. Surely it was cruel, cruel, that at this
juncture, when she had so honestly striven to refuse the evil and
choose the good, this recrudescence of all that was most hateful to her
should take place? Moreover, now as always, just that modicum of truth
underlay Smyth's exaggerated accusations and perverted statements which
made them as difficult to combat as they were exasperating to listen
to. For a minute or so Poppy could not trust herself to speak, lest she
should give way to foolish invective. His looks, manner, intonation,
the phrases he employed were odiously familiar to her. She fought as in
a malicious dream, to which the squalor of the surrounding landscape
offered an only too appropriate setting. Turning, she walked slowly in
the direction whence she had come--namely, in that of Barnes village
and Mortlake. There the quaint riverside houses would afford some
shelter and sense of comradeship.
"I am sorry to make you come farther out," she said, with an attempt at
civility.
"That is unexpectedly considerate," he commented.
"But it is impossible to talk in the teeth of this wind," she
continued, "and I imagine we're neither of us particularly keen to
prolong our interview."
"Excuse me, speak for yourself," Smyth interrupted. "I find it
decidedly interesting to meet my wife again. She has gone up in the
world, and climbed the tree of fashion in the interval. I have gone
down in the world, as every scholar and gentleman, every man with
brains and high standards of art and culture, is bound to go down
sooner or later, in this hideous age of blatant commercialism and
Mammon rampant. I don't quarrel with it. I would far rather be one of
the downtrodden, persecuted minority. But, just on that account, my
wife is all the more worth contemplating, since she offers a highly
instructive object-lesson in the advantages which accrue from allying
oneself with the victorious majority. See--"
A rush of wind and flurry of cold rain rendered the concluding words of
his tirade inaudible. It was as well, for Poppy was growing wicked,
anger dominating every more humane and decent feeling in her.
"Look here," she said, when the storm had somewhat abated. "I know that
sort of talk as well as my old shoe. Haven't I listened to it for
hours? For goodness' sake, quit it. It doesn't wash. Let us come to the
point at once without all this idiotic brag and gassing. You wrote me a
letter shouting danger and ruin. What did it mean? Anything real, or
merely a melodramatic blowing off of steam? Tell me. Let us have it out
and have finished with it. What do you want?"
The softening medium of a gauze veil failed to hide the fact that
Poppy's expression was distinctly malignant, her great eyes full of
sombre fury, her red lips tense. Smyth backed away from her against the
palings in genuine alarm.
"I--I believe you'd like to murder me," he said.
"So I should," Poppy answered. "I should very much like to kill you.
And I've the wherewithal here, in my pocket, and there's no one on the
road. But you needn't be anxious. I'm not going to murder you. The
consequences to myself would be too inconvenient."
As she spoke she thought of yesterday, of the renewal of her friendship
with Dominic Iglesias, and of all that he stood for to her in things
pure, lovely, and of good report. A sob rose in her throat, for
nothing, after all, is so horrible as to feel wicked; nothing so hard
to forgive as that which causes one to feel so. Poppy walked on again
slowly.
"What do you want?" she repeated miserably. "Be straight with me for
once, if you can, de Courcy, and tell me plainly--if there's anything
to tell. What is it you want?"
"I have my chance at last," he said hurriedly, "of fame, and success,
and recognition--of bringing those who have despised me to their knees.
I thought I was safe. But yesterday I found that you--yes, you--come
into the question, that you may stand between me and the realisation of
my hopes--more than hopes, a certainty, unless you play some scurvy
trick on me. I had to have your promise, and there was no time to
lose--so I wrote."
Poppy looked at him contemptuously.
"What does all that mean?--more money?" she asked. "Haven't you grown
ashamed of begging yet? I raised your allowance last year, and it's
being paid regularly--Ford & Martin have sent me on your receipts. To
give it you at all is an act of grace, for you've no earthly claim on
me, and you know it. From the day I married you I never cost you a
farthing; I've paid for everything myself, down to every morsel of
bread I put into my mouth. You, talked big about your income
beforehand, when you knew you were up to your eyes in debt. Well, in
debt you may stay, as far as I am concerned. I'll give you that
seventy-five a year if you'll keep clear of me; but I won't give you a
penny more, for the simple reason that I shan't have it to give. It'll
be an uncommonly close shave in any case--I have myself to keep."
"Yourself to keep?" Smyth snarled. "Since when have you taken to
wholesale lying, my pretty madam? That is a new development."
"I'm not lying," Poppy blazed out. "I am speaking honest, sober truth."
Smyth laughed. It was not an agreeable sound.
"Is not that a little too brazen?" he asked. "Even with such a
negligible quantity as a deserted husband, it is a mistake to overplay
the part."
Then, frightened by her expression, he slunk aside again. But Poppy did
not linger. Slowly, steadily, she walked on down the rain-lashed
footpath.
"For God's sake tell me what you want--tell me what you want," she
cried, "and let me get away from all this rottenness."
"You do not believe in me," Smyth replied sullenly, "and that is why it
is so difficult to speak to you about this matter. You have always
depreciated my powers and scoffed at my talents. No thanks to you I
have any self-confidence left."
"All right, all right," Poppy said. "We can miss out the remainder of
that speech. I know it by heart. Come to the point--what do you want?"
"I was just filling in the sketch of the third act."
Poppy shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands with a despairing
gesture.
"Oh, heavens," she ejaculated, "a play again! Are you mad? You know,
just as well as I do, every manager Mill refuse it unread."
"It will be unnecessary to approach any manager. I go straight to the
public this time. I have the promise of money to meet the expenses of
two matinees at least. I have no scruple in accepting--it is an
investment, and an immensely profitable one--for I know the worth of my
own work. It is great, nothing less than great--"
"Of course," Poppy said. "But pray where do I come in?" Then she
paused. Suddenly she pieced the bits of the puzzle together, saw and
understood. Misery, deeper than any she had yet experienced, overflowed
in her. "Ah, it is you, then, you who are bleeding Dominic Iglesias,"
she cried. "Robbing him by appeals to his charity and lying assurances
of impossible profits. You shall not do it. I will put a stop to it.
You shall not, you shall not!"
"Why?" Smyth inquired. "Do you want all his money yourself?"
"You dirty hound," Poppy said under her breath.
"I did not know of your connection with him till yesterday," Smyth
continued--in proportion as Poppy lost herself, he became cool and
astute--"though we have lived in the same house for the last eighteen
months. I supposed you to be in pursuit of larger game than
superannuated bank-clerks. However, your modesty of taste, combined
with your charming attitude towards me, might, as I perceived, lead to
complications. I ascertained how long you had been at Cedar Lodge
yesterday. Then I wrote to you."
Poppy stood still in the wind and wet, listening intently.
"For once," he went on exultantly, "it is my turn to give orders, my
fine lady, and yours to obey. If you interfere, in the smallest degree,
between Iglesias and me, I will call his attention to certain facts,
the appearance of which is highly discreditable to him. He will pay to
save his reputation, if he ceases to pay out of charity--not that it is
charity. He is making an investment of which, as a business man, he
fully appreciates the worth. If you interfere I will make his position
a vastly uncomfortable one. The women who keep Cedar Lodge are as
jealous as cats. It would not require much blowing to make that fire
burst into a very lively flame, I promise you."
"You live there, then?" Poppy said absently. "You live there?"
"Yes," he answered. "Does that offend your niceness, too? Do you
consider the place too good for me? You need not distress yourself. I
have only one room, a small one--on the second floor immediately above
your friend's handsome sitting-room, but only half the size of it. The
floors are old. I can gather a very fair sense of any conversation
taking place below."
Poppy moved on again.
"May I inquire what you propose to do?" Smyth asked presently--"warn
your mature commercial admirer and compel me, in self-protection, to
blast his reputation, or hold your tongue like a reasonable woman?"
They had reached the end of the tarred palings. Upon the left the
quaintly irregular bow-windowed rose-and-ivy-covered houses of Barnes
Terrace--no two of them alike in height or in architecture--fronted the
road. Upon the right was the river, dull-coloured and wind-tormented. A
cargo of bricks, supplying a strong note of red in the otherwise
mournful landscape, was being unloaded from a barge; carts backed down
the slip to within easy distance of the broad bulwarkless deck, horses
shivering as they stood knee-deep in the water. The bricks grated
together when the men, handling them, tossed them across. With
long-drawn thunderous roar and shriek, a train, heading from Kew
Station, rushed across the latticed iron-built railway bridge. Poppy
waited, watching the progress of it, watching the unloading of the
barge. The one perfectly pure and beautiful gift which life had given
her was utterly profaned, so it seemed to her; that which she held
dearest and best hopelessly entangled with that which to her was most
degrading and abhorrent. And what to do? To be silent was to be
disloyal. To speak was to expose Dominic Iglesias to dishonour and
disgust far deeper than that which loss of money could inflict. Poppy
weighed and balanced, clear that her thought must be wholly for him,
not letting anger sway her judgment. Of two evils she must choose that
which, for him, was least.
"I will not give you away. I will say nothing," she said at last.
"You swear you will not?"
"Yes, I swear," Poppy said.
"I want it in writing."
"Very well, you shall have it in writing, witnessed if you like," she
answered. "The precious document shall be posted to you to-night. Now
are you satisfied, you contemptible animal? Have you humbled me enough?"
But Smyth came close to her, pushing his face into hers. He was shaking
with excitement, hysterical with mingled fear and relief.
"I am not ungenerous, my dear girl," he whispered. "I am willing to
condone the past--to take you back, to acknowledge you as my wife and
let you share my success. There is a part in the new play which might
have been written for you. You could become world-famous in it. I am
not ungenerous, I am willing to make matters up."
"Do you want me to murder you, after all?" Poppy asked. "If you try me
much further, I tell you plainly, I can't answer for myself. Therefore,
as you value your life, let me alone. Get out of my sight."