Outside, the slanting spring sunshine visited the sheltered strip of
garden in clear lights and transparent shadows. The small grass-plat
surrounding the rockery was brightly green. In the stone basin the
surface of the water trembled, glistening in broken curves of silver
white. Along the narrow border, beneath the soot-stained eastern wall,
yellow and mauve crocuses and yellow aconites opened wide, greeting the
gentle warmth. Trees in the neighbouring gardens were thick with bud.
Busily the sparrows and starlings came and went.
Within, the house--though not uncheerful, thanks to a scrupulous
cleanliness, warm colourings, and the peculiar mellowness which comes
to rooms and furnishings that, through prolonged association, have
grown in a great mutual friendliness of aspect--was very still, with
the strange, almost eerie, stillness which seems to listen and to
wait.--A singular stillness, from which the rough utilitarian
activities of ordinary life are banished, the rude noise of them
suspended, while spiritual presences, rare apprehensions, exquisite
memories and hopes, mysterious invitations of mingled alarm and
ecstasy, come forth, taking on form and voice, passing lightly to and
fro--an enchantment, yet in a manner fearful from the subtlety of their
being and piercing intimacy of their speech. Personality, that supreme
moral and emotional factor in human life, must of necessity create an
atmosphere about it, permeated with its individual tastes and mental
attributes, distinct and powerful in proportion to its individual
distinction and its strength. And, without being overfanciful, it may
be confidently asserted that, for some weeks now, ever since indeed the
specialists--summoned in consultation at the good Lovegroves' and the
Lady of the Windswept Dust's urgent request--had pronounced the cardiac
affection, from which Dominic Iglesias suffered, likely to terminate
fatally in the near future, this living stillness, this alert
tranquillity, had been more or less sensible to all those who entered
the house, offering an arresting contrast to the multitudinous rush and
clamour of London without. But to-day the impression was no longer an
intermittent and fugitive one, as heretofore. It was constant and
complete, those spiritual visitants being, as it would seem, in full
possession; so that the hours appeared to move reluctantly, and as
though enjoining watchfulness, a carefulness and economy even in
prevailing repose, lest any remaining moment and the message of it
should be overlooked and lost.
It was characteristic of Iglesias that learning, in as far as the
consultant doctors could diagnose it, the exact conditions of his
physical state, he should refuse all experiment, however humane in
intention or plausible in theory. For he had no sympathy with the
modern greediness and worship of physical life, which is willing to
sacrifice the decencies and dignities of it to its possible
prolongation. Courteously but plainly he bade his advisers depart. The
body, though an excellent servant, is a contemptible master; and
Iglesias proposed that, while his soul continued to inhabit it, it
should, as always before, be kept very much in its place. It must
remain unobtrusive, obedient, not daring to usurp, in its present hour
of failure and impediment, an interest and consideration to which, in
its full usefulness and vigour, it had not presumed to aspire.
Therefore Dominic Iglesias held calmly on his way, seeing the circle of
his occupations, pleasures, and activities dwindle and decrease, yet
maintaining not only his serenity of mind, but his accustomed
self-respecting outward refinement of bearing and habit. To meet death
with a gracious stoicism, well-dressed and standing upright, is,
rightly considered, a very fine art, reflecting much credit upon the
successful professor of it.
And it was thus that, on the day in question, Mr. Iglesias sat waiting,
in the quaint irregularly shaped drawing-room of the old house in
Holland Street, himself the centre of that peopled stillness, that
alert tranquillity, which so strangely and sensibly filled it. Looking
out of the low window, he could see the shadow of the houses shrink and
the light broaden in the little garden below, as the sun travelled
westward. Looking into the room itself, the many familiar objects and
rich sober colours of it, quickened by a flickering of fire-light, were
pleasant to his sense. The images which passed before him, whether
actually visible or not he hardly knew, appeared beautiful. Words and
phrases which occurred to him were beautiful likewise. But all were
seen and heard remotely, as through some softly dazzling medium which,
while heightening the charm of them, produced a delicate confusion
leaving him uncertain whether he really slept or woke. More than once,
not without effort, he roused himself; but only to slip back again into
the same state of fair yet gently distracted vision.
At last the sound of opening casements in the dining-room underneath
and of a voice, touched with laughter, reached him.
"There, you absurdities--skip, scuttle, take exercise, catch birds,
improve your figures!" Poppy cried, clapping her hands encouragingly as
she stood at the head of the flight of iron steps down which, with her
foot, she shot the toy spaniels unceremoniously into the sunny garden
below.
The little creatures, welcoming their freedom, forgetful for once of
their languid overbred airs, scampered away yapping and skirmishing in
the merriest fashion about the grass-plat and flower-beds. The window
closed again and there followed a sound of voices, interjectional on
Poppy's part, low and continuous on that of Mrs. Peters, the
house-keeper. Then a pause, so prolonged that Iglesias, who had rallied
all his energy and prepared to rise and to go forward to meet his
guest, sank away once more into half-consciousness which neither
actually sleeps or wakes. When he came fully to himself Poppy was
sitting on the low window-seat close beside him. Her back was to the
light and his sight was somewhat clouded, so that at first he failed to
see her clearly; but he knew that her mood had changed and her laughter
departed, through the sympathy of her touch, she holding his hand as it
lay along the arm of the chair. He would have spoken, but she stopped
him.
"No, dear man, don't hurry," she said. "I know already. Peters has just
told me, now, downstairs, that you received the Last Sacraments this
morning. That's why I didn't come up sooner. I couldn't see you
directly, somehow. I had--well, I had to get my second wind, dearly
beloved, so to speak. You see it's such a heavenly day that I couldn't
help feeling happier about you. I had persuaded myself those doctors
were a pack of croaking old grannies whose collective wisdom had
eventuated in a wild mistake, and that, given time and summer weather,
you would be better again--you know you have had ups and downs lots of
times before--and that then, when the theatre closes and I have my
holiday, I'd carry you off, somewhere, anywhere, back to your own
fierce, passionate Spain, perhaps, and nurse and coax and care for you
till living grew so pretty a business you really wouldn't have the
conscience to quit."
Poppy's voice was sweet with caressing tones, sympathetic in quality as
her lingering touch.
"Haven't you, perhaps, been a little premature after all?" she said.
"Has it really and truly come to that? Mightn't you have put off those
last grim ceremonies a trifle longer, and let them wait?"
"They are not grim, dearest friend, but full of strong consolation,"
Iglesias answered, smiling. He began to see her face more clearly. Her
expression was tragic, a world of anguish in it, for all the restraint
of her manner and playful glibness of her speech. "Nor, in any case,"
he added, "can they hasten the event."
"I'm not altogether sure of that," Poppy declared rebelliously.
"I could not quite trust myself as to what the day might bring forth,"
Iglesias continued. "In point of fact, I have gained strength as it has
gone on.--And so it seemed wisest and most fitting to ask for the
performance of those sacred rites while I was still of sound mind, and
ready in my perception of that in which I was taking part."
"You have suffered?" Poppy said.
"Nothing unendurable. The nights are somewhat wearisome, since I cannot
lie down, in ordinary fashion, to rest. But I sit here, or wander
through the quiet, kindly house, contentedly enough. And I am well
cared for--have no fear as to that. Peters is a faithful creature. She
nursed my mother at the last, and her presence is grateful to me, for
association's sake."
Iglesias straightened himself up.
"There, there," he said, "do not be too sad. The road is not such a
very hard one to tread. The last few months have been the happiest I
remember since my childhood. Any anxieties I felt concerning you are
set at rest. You are famous, and will be more famous yet, and I know I
shall live in your remembrance while you live. It is no slight thing,
after all, for a man to have been loved so well by the two women whom
he loved. And for the rest, dearest friend, as one draws near to the
edge of the great shadow, which we call death, one begins to trust more
and fuss less; looking to the next step only, so that one may take it
neither with faltering nor with presumptuous haste."
"Ah!" Poppy cried, "that's all very well for you. But where do I come
in? I lose you."
Iglesias smiled, lifting his shoulders slightly and raising his hands.
"Yes," he said, "it seems that sorrow, here on earth, is always, sooner
or later, the guerdon of love. Why, I know not; but so it is, as the
most sacred and august of all examples testifies. Only let us be
thankful, you and I, that to us this parting, and the inevitable pain
of it, comes while love is still in its full strength, having endured
nothing unworthy, no shame, or diminution, or disillusionment. The more
bitter the wrench, the finer the memory, and the more desirable the
meeting which lies ahead, however far distant in time it may be and in
difference of condition."
"Yes, dear man, yes, I dare say--no doubt," Poppy answered brokenly.
"Only I can't rise to these philosophic heights. I'm right here, don't
you see, my feet well on the floor, planted in brutal commonplace. I
shall want you--just simply I shall want you, and you won't be there,
and I shall be most cut-throat horribly lonely and sad. But, looking at
you, still I don't believe it. I won't believe it. I shall keep you a
long while yet."
She leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek.
"Now I must go," she said, "if I'm to get any dinner before the
theatre. I would have liked to stay, and put my poor little understudy
on, so as to give her a chance. She's a nice little girl--not half
stupid, and really keen to learn and to work. But I can't. I'm in
honour bound to appear to-night. You see, it's our second century--the
first one we could not observe, because it came at the end of January
just in the general mourning--so there's an awful to-do and tomasha
to-night, souvenir programmes and I don't know what all, also a rather
extra special audience. It would be little too bad if I played them
false. But," she added, rising, "when it's over I shall come back--yes,
I will, I will, I tell you. Don't flatter yourself you can prevent me,
beloved lunatic, for you jolly well can't.--I shall come back directly
the performance is over, and watch with you, through the bad hours till
the dawn."
Dominic Iglesias had risen, too. He crossed the room, going to the door
and holding it open for her; then, standing on the little landing, he
watched her as she went down the narrow crooked stairs. And so doing,
it came to him, with a movement of thankfulness and of satisfied pride,
how very fully in the past six months the Lady of the Windswept Dust
had realised and fulfilled all the finer promise of her complex nature.
Just as her figure had matured, retaining its admirable proportions and
suppleness while gaining in distinction and dignity, her mind had
matured likewise. Her splendid fearlessness was no longer that of
naughty dare-devil audacity, but of secure position and recognised
success. Indeed, she had grown into a somewhat imperial creature, for
whom the world, and rightly, is very willing to make place.
At the bottom of the flight Poppy paused, looking up and kissing her
hand.
"Till to-night," she cried. "Now I go to herd those two small miseries,
W. O. and Cappadocia.--Take most precious care of yourself until I come
back, dear man. Good-bye and God keep you, till to-night."
Mr. Iglesias crossed the drawing-room, glad at heart, erect and stately
as in the fulness of health. For a minute or so he stood looking out
into the garden, at the stone basin full to the lip--in which the
sparrows, relieved of the presence of the toy spaniels, washed with
much fluttering of sooty wings--and at the spring flowers, beginning to
close their delicate blossoms as the sun declined towards its setting
in the gold and grey of the west. In the recovered stillness, those
same spiritual presences, rare apprehensions, exquisite memories,
mysterious invitations, once again obtained possession, coming forth,
passing lightly to and fro, filling all the place. In aspect and
sentiment they were benign, all fearfulness having gone from out
them--they telling of fair things only, of human relations unbroken by
treachery or self-seeking, unsullied by lust; telling, too, of godly
endeavour faithfully to travel the road which leads to the far horizon
touched by the illimitable glory of the Uncreated Light.
But presently Dominic Iglesias became aware that he was very, very
tired. He sat down in the chair again.
"Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy," he murmured, crossing himself. "I
think the day's work is over. I will sleep."
That night Poppy St. John played as she had never played before; and
her audience, taking her astonishing manifestation of talent as a
compliment to themselves, cried with her and laughed with her in most
wholehearted fashion.
Antony Hammond, in the stage box on the right, turned to Adolphus Carr,
his companion, saying:
"Did I really write such admirable drama as this? I have girded at that
term, 'creating a part,' as an example of the colossal vanity of the
actor, and his very inadequate reverence for his maker, the playwright.
But, I give you my word, after to-night I hide my diminished head. The
player and playing are greater than any fondest conception of mine,
when I put those words on paper."
And Lionel Gordon, his habitual imperturbability altogether broken up
by excitement, stamped up and down stammering:
"Ge-ge-hanna, gehanna, what possesses the woman? I'd tour creation with
her. She must be made to sign a three years' contract. If she can act
like this there's nothing less than a cool half-million sterling in
her."
And Alaric Barking, lean and haggard, invalided home from South Africa,
escaping for one evening from the ministrations of gentle Lady
Constance Decies and his pretty _fiancee_, sat huddled together at the
end of a row at the back of the pit, hoping, "The deuce! nobody would
see him," with a choke in his throat. He would love, honour, and
cherish his pretty, high-bred, innocent maiden; but Poppy's voice tore
at his very vitals. And he asked himself how had he ever borne to give
her up, forgetting, as is the habit of civilised man in such slightly
humiliating circumstances, that it was Poppy herself, not he, who loved
and rode away.
Twice the curtain was raised at the end of the performance, and the
Lady of the Windswept Dust made her bow with the rest of the
company.--Now she could depart; thank heaven! she could go back to the
strangely still house in Holland Street and fulfil her promise to
Dominic Iglesias to watch with him till dawn. All through the play, the
passion and excitement and pathos and mirth of it, her anxiety had
deepened, her yearning increased, so that the joy of her public triumph
was barred and seared by intimate pain. Now she could go. Already the
carpenters were beginning their nightly work of destruction,
metamorphosing the so-lately brilliant stage into a vast unsightly
cavern of gaunt timbers, creaking pulleys, noisy mechanical
contrivances, gaudy painted surfaces of canvas and paper, piled-up
properties, of uncertain lights and draughts many and chill. Careless
of all save that determination of going, Poppy moved away. But still
the unseen audience clamoured. A fury had taken it, a madness such as
will sometimes attack even the soberest and most aristocratic crowd,
excitement reacting upon itself and stimulating excitement, till the
demand which had begun in kindly enthusiasm became oddly violent, even
brutal, men and women standing up, applauding, drumming, shouting a
single name.
"There, it's over, thank the powers! Now let me get out of all this
infernal din," she said, putting her hands over her ears as she pushed
into the wings.
But Lionel Gordon met her, barring her passage, his face working with
nervous agitation, and caught hold of her unceremoniously by both arms.
"What's the matter?" she cried angrily. "I can't stay. I have a case of
illness on hand."
"Hang illness!" he answered. "My good girl, pull yourself together. Go
back. Don't be a blooming fool. Listen--it's you they're splitting
their throats for--yes, you--about the most fastidious audience in
Europe yelling like a pack of drunken bookies! Gehenna! you're the
luckiest woman living. You're made, great heavens, you're made!"
He dragged her aside, pushing her into the mouth of the narrow passage
between the curtain and the footlights, where the roar of the house and
the welter of faces met her like a breaking wave.
* * * * *
Standing against the edge of the pavement in front of Mr. Iglesias'
house, in Holland Street, was a covered van. As Poppy drove up a couple
of men came down the steps, in the black and white of the moonlight.
Their dark clothing and somewhat sleek appearance were repulsive to
her. She swept past them, swept past Frederick holding open the door,
and on up the stairs. Her hands were encumbered by her trailing
draperies of velvet and silver tissue, and by an extravagant bouquet of
orchids, lilies, and roses, with long yellow satin streamers to it. She
had not stayed even to wash the grease paint off her face. Just as she
was, the stamp of her calling upon her, eager, fictitious, courageous,
triumphant, pushed by a great fear, she came. But in the doorway she
faltered, set her teeth, bowed her head, and paused.
For in the centre of the room a bier was dressed, and on either side of
it stood lighted tapers of brownish wax, in tall black and gold
candlesticks. At the foot, some distance apart, two low-seated
rush-bottomed high-backed _prie-dieu_ had been placed. Upon the one on
the left a little nun knelt, her loose black habit concealing all the
outline of her figure. The white linen pall was turned back, across the
chest of the corpse, to where the shapely long-fingered hands were
folded upon an ebony and silver crucifix. By some harsh irony of
imagination Lionel Gordon's voice rang in Poppy's ears: "My good girl,
pull yourself together. Gehenna! you're the luckiest woman living.
You're made, great heavens, you're made!"--while, blank despair in her
heart, she went forward, the little nun looking up momentarily from her
prayers, and stood beside the bier. Beautiful in death as in life,
serene, proud, austere, but young now with the eternal youth of those
who have believed, and attained, and reached the Land of the Far
Horizon, Dominic Iglesias lay before her.
Presently a sound of sobbing broke up the stillness, and turning, Poppy
descried good George Lovegrove, sitting in the dusky far corner of the
room, his knees wide apart, his shiny forehead showing high above the
handkerchief he pressed against his eyes. She backed away from the
corpse, as in all reverence from the presence of a personage august and
sacred. Coming close to him, she laid her hand gently upon George
Lovegrove's shoulder. "Go home, my best beetle," she said, very
tenderly. "You're worn out with sorrow. Come back in the morning if you
will. I promised Dominic I would watch with him till the dawn. I keep
my promise."
Then the Lady of the Windswept Dust laid her extravagant bouquet with
its yellow streamers, on the floor, at the foot of the bier; and
kneeling upon the vacant _prie-dieu_, beside the little nun, buried her
painted face in her hands and wept.