Nearly a week passed before Bramham again saw Poppy, for private affairs
unexpectedly engrossed him. He made time, however, to write her a letter
full of excellent business advice. Later, he called at the Royal with
her papers, and found her writing letters in the library. She had just
come in, and a big, plumed, grey hat, which matched her pale grey voile
gown, lay on the table beside her. Moreover, the flush of animation was
on her cheek and a shine in her eye.
"Oh! come now; you look as if you had taken fresh hold," said Bramham
approvingly. "I've brought back your papers, and thanks awfully for
letting me look through them. It is pretty clear that if you would only
work, you could be coining money as fast as you like. You've caught on
at home and everywhere else. Your books have been the wonder of this
country for months, and descriptions of your plays have been cabled out
to every big centre--but, of course, you know all this."
She nodded.
"And, of course, you know how your little book of poems rang up the
country from end to end! By Jove! if the Durban people only knew who
they had in the midst of them----"
She looked at him quickly, apprehensively.
"It is more important than ever to have no one know. Since I saw you and
talked to you I have reconstructed my plans entirely. Life seems to mean
something to me again for the first time since--" She closed her eyes.
He did not speak, only looked at her with compassionate eyes and waited.
"I have made up my mind not to let everything go to wreck," she began
again presently. "I'm going to work again--I _am_ working." She threw
back her head and smiled.
"Hurrah!" cried Bramham. "I can't tell you how pleased I am to hear it.
As a business man, I hated to see such a chance of making money chucked
to the winds--and as a--well, as a plain man, I can't help applauding
when I see what it does to your looks."
"You are certainly plain spoken," said she, smiling. "But I want to tell
you--I've taken a little house. I've just been there with the painter,
and it's all going to be ready by the end of the week."
"Where is it?"
"Facing the bay--a funny little bungalow-cottage, with an old-fashioned
garden and a straggly path through sea-pinks right down to nearly the
edge of the waves."
"It sounds altogether too romantic for Durban. I expect these features
exist only in your imagination. But can you possibly mean Briony
Cottage?"
"But, of course."
"Good--it _is_ a dear little place--and with the bay right before you,
you'll hardly know you're down in the town."
"I'm having a companion." She made a mouth, and Bramham himself could
not disguise a faint twist of his smile.
"Mrs. Portal said it was necessary, if I didn't want to be black-balled
by the Durban ladies, so she found me a Miss Allendner, a nice little
old thing, who is lonely and unattached, but eminently respectable and
_genteel_."
"Ah! I know her--a weary sort of plucked turkey," said the graceless
Bramham, "with a nose that was once too much exposed to the winter
winds and has never recovered. Never mind, you'll need someone to keep
off the crowd as soon as they find out who you are----"
"But they are not going to find out! Charlie, I see that I must speak to
you seriously about this. I believe you think my not wanting to be known
is affectation; it is nothing of the kind. It is _most imperative_ that
my identity should be kept secret. I must tell you the reason at last--I
am working now for money to fight out a case in the Law Courts before
anyone in Africa knows who I am. Under my own name no one will recognise
me or be particularly interested; but, of course, pleading as _Eve
Destiny_ would be another matter. I couldn't keep that quiet."
"A law case! Great-- Well, Rosalind," he said ironically, "you certainly
do spring some surprises on me. Is it about your plays? Why can't you
let me manage it for you? But what kind of case can it be?"
"A divorce case--or, rather, I think a nullity case is what it would be
called."
"A _what_?" Bramham could say no more.
"Don't look at me like that, best of friends ... I know, I know, you are
beginning to think I am not worth your friendship ... that I don't seem
to understand even the first principles of friendship--honesty and
candour!... Try and have patience with me, Charlie.... Perhaps I _ought_
to have told you before ... but I've never told a single soul ... in
fact, I have always refused to consider that I am married. It is a long
story, and includes part of my childhood. The man who adopted me and
brought me up in an old farmhouse in the Transvaal allowed me to go
through a marriage ceremony with him without my knowing what I was
doing ... an old French priest married us ... he couldn't speak a word
of English ... only Kaffir ... and he married us in French, which I
could not understand at that time. Afterwards, my life went on as usual,
and for years I continued to look upon the man simply as my guardian.
At last, here in Durban, when I was just eighteen, he suddenly sprang
the story upon me, and claimed me for his wife. I was horrified,
revolted ... my liking for him, which arose entirely from gratitude,
turned to detestation on hearing it.... I believed myself to have been
merely trapped. In any case, whatever I might have felt for him didn't
matter then. It was too late. I belonged to ... the man you know I
belong to ... I didn't know what to do at first. There were terrible
circumstances in connection with ... the man I love ... which made me
think sometimes that I could never meet him again ... I would just keep
the soul he had waked in me, and live for work and Fame. But the man I
was married to wanted to keep me to my bond ... and then suddenly he
found out ... something ... I don't quite know how it came to pass, but
he _knew_ ... I was obliged to fly from his house half clad.... It was
_then_ I found refuge with Sophie Cornell."
"And these things all happened here? Do you mean to tell me that
blackguard was some Durban fellow?"
"He did live here at that time."
"And now?"
"He appears to be here still ... I saw him the other day. He behaved to
me as though I were really Miss Chard ... but I know him. He will fight
tooth and nail ... I don't suppose he cares about me in the least, but
he will lie his soul away, I believe, and spend his last penny for
revenge."
"Well, upon my soul! I can't think who the fellow can be!" said Bramham
artlessly, and Poppy could not refrain from smiling.
"I don't think there would be any good in telling you, Charlie. You may
know him ... in fact, you are sure to, in a small place like this ...
and it would only make things difficult for you."
Bramham was plainly vexed that she did not confide in him, but she was
perfectly well aware that he knew Abinger intimately, and fearing that
something might leak out and spoil her plans, she decided not to tell
him.
"You should have tackled the thing at home," said Bramham thoughtfully.
"They'd have fixed you up in no time there, I believe."
"No, I had advice about it, and was told that as the ceremony had taken
place in the Transvaal, and the man is out here, I must go to the Rand
Courts ... and, by the way, I must tell you--I wrote to the mission
monastery which the old priest belonged to and made inquiries. They
wrote back that old Father Eugene was dead, but that they had already
gone into the matter on behalf of _my husband_, who had made
representations to them. That they could only inform me that the
ceremony performed by the Father was absolutely valid, and they were
prepared to uphold it in every way. They added that they were well aware
that it was my intention to try and disprove the marriage and for my own
purposes escape from my sacred bond, but that I must not expect any
assistance from them in my immoral purpose.... So, you see, I have them
to fight as well. Another thing is, that the only other witness to the
ceremony was a woman who would swear her soul away at the bidding of the
man who calls himself my husband."
"By Jove! It looks as if you're up against a tough proposition, as they
say in America!" was Bramham's verdict at last. "But you'll pull
through, I'm certain, and you've pluck enough. As for money--well, you
know that I am not poor----"
He stopped, staring at her pale face.
"Don't ever offer to lend me money," she said fiercely rudely.
"Why, you let me lend you some before! And were unusual enough to pay it
back." Smiling broadly, he added: "I never had such a thing happen to me
before!" But she would not smile. The subject seemed an unfortunate one,
for she did not regain her joyous serenity during the rest of the
interview.
He went home wrapped in cogitation, turning over in his mind the name of
every man in the place on the chance of its being the name of the
culprit. Abinger's name, amongst others, certainly came up for
consideration, but was instantly dismissed as an impossibility, for he
had plainly given everyone to understand that--after the time of his
disappearance from the Rand, until his readvent in Durban on the day
Bramham had met him coming off the Mail-boat--he had been travelling
abroad, and there was no reason to disbelieve this statement. Moreover,
Bramham was aware of other facts in Abinger's private life which made it
seem absolutely impossible that he could be the villain of Rosalind
Chard's tale.
* * * * *
The day Poppy moved to her new home, Clem Portal was the first person to
visit her and wish her luck and happiness there.
They took tea in the largest room in the house, which was to be Poppy's
working-room and study. It was long and low, with two bay-windows, and
the walls had been distempered in pale soft grey. The floor was dark and
polished, and the only strong note of colour in the room a rose-red
Persian rug before the quaint fireplace. The chintzes Poppy had come
upon with great joy in one of the local shops: ivory-white with green
ivy leaves scattered over them--a great relief from the everlasting
pink roses of the usual chintz. The grey walls were guileless of
pictures, except for the faithful blue _Hope_ which overhung the
fireplace above vases full of tall fronds of maidenhair-fern, and some
full-length posters of the Beardsley school in black-and-white wash.
Poppy's writing-table was in one window, and on the wall where she could
always see it while at work was a water-colour of a little boy standing
in a field of corn and poppies. The tea-table was in the other window.
She and Clem sat looking at the blue bay flapping and rippling under the
afternoon sunlight, with the long bluff ridge sleeping sullenly beyond.
"You've found the sweetest place in Durban," said Clem. "Whenever I feel
like a mealie--a _green_ mealie--which, alas! is very often, I shall
sneak down here to 'simplify, simplify.' While you work I'll sit in the
sun in the Yogi attitude and triumphantly contemplate eternity and
jelly-fish."
Later, she said:
"Mary Capron wanted to come too, but I told her I must have you all to
myself to-day. I'm afraid she was rather hurt, but ... I was not sure
whether you liked her, Poppy. I do hope you are going to, dear, for I
love her, and we shall be a triangle with sore corners, if you _don't_."
Poppy was dreaming with her tea-cup in her lap, and the glitter of the
bay in her eyes.
"Do you think three women ever get on well together?" she asked
evasively. "There is always one out."
Clem was quick to see the meaning of this. A look of disappointment came
over her gay, gentle face.
"Mary and I have been friends for years," she said. "She is the only
woman I have never had any inspiration about; but though I am blinded by
her beauty, I know her to be good and true. It would be a terribly
disloyal thing if I deserted her for you ... what am I to do if you two
don't like each other?"
"If _you_ love Mrs. Capron, Clem, she won't need to bother about the
liking of a woman like me."
"She likes _you_, however. And I'm sure when you get to know her better,
you'll like her.... I daresay when two beautiful women first meet, a
feeling of antagonism is natural. But _you_ should be above that, Poppy.
And poor Mary is a subject for pity rather than dislike--any woman is
who has drawn blank in the big lottery. I daresay you know _that_ about
her--most people do."
"I have gathered that she is not very happily married," said Poppy.
"Have you ever seen him?"
"I believe the first time I ever saw you, Clem, he was with you."
"Ah, yes, I remember now--and we talked of you, the girl with the
Burne-Jones eyes." Most women would have made this an easy
stepping-stone into the flowing brook of confidences, and found out
where Poppy was going to on that sunny day, and where she had been all
the long years since; but Clem Portal had an instinct about questions
that hurt. Her husband often said of her:
"She is that lovely thing--a close woman!" Now, the peculiarity of a
close woman is that she neither probes into the dark deeps of others,
nor allows herself to be probed.
"Nick Capron was not _quite_ impossible in those days," she continued;
"but now a good place for him would be under the debris heaps outside de
Beers'. When she first met him he was a romantic character on the
down-grade. Had been all over the world and gone through every kind of
adventure; lost a fortune at Monte-Carlo on a system of his own for
breaking the bank; written a book (or more probably got it written for
him) about his adventures as a cowboy in Texas; and made quite a name
for himself as a scout in the war between Chili and Peru. Amongst other
things he has an intimate knowledge of torpedoes and is supposed to have
been the author of the plan that sent the Chilian transport, the _Loa_,
to the bottom by a torpedo launched from an apparently harmless
fruit-boat. At any rate, he was seen on the fruit-boat, and when he came
to Africa shortly afterwards, they said it was to escape the vengeance
of the Chilians. Mary, who was on a visit to this country, met him at
the Cape when everyone was talking about him. Unfortunately, when women
hear sparkling things about a man, they do not always think to inquire
about the sparkling things he drinks--and how much _that_ has to do with
the matter. She fell in love with him, or his reputation, and they were
married in a great whirl of romantic emotion. Well, you know what
happens to people who engage in whirling?"
Poppy looked up, anxious to learn, and Clem continued with the air of an
oracle of Thebes:
"After a time they find themselves sitting still on the ground, very
sick. That is Mary's position. She sits flat on the ground and surveys a
world that makes her feel sick. Nick Capron, however, continues to
whirl."
"She must have great courage to face the situation," said Poppy
sincerely.
"She has more than courage," said Clem, alight with loyal enthusiasm.
"She is one in a thousand. You know enough of Africa, I daresay, Poppy,
to know that life out here is just one huge temptation to a beautiful
unhappily-married woman. The place teems with men--good, bad, and
indifferent, but all interesting (unless drink is sweeping them down
hill too fast), and they all want to be kind to her. Many of them are
splendid fellows. But the best of men are half-devil, half-child, and
nothing more, where a beautiful woman is concerned. You know that, don't
you?"
What Poppy _did_ know was that Clem had far greater knowledge of the
world of men and women than she had, and she was only too interested to
sit and imbibe wisdom. She frankly said so.
"I thoroughly understand these things," Clem replied without pride.
"Sinners can never take me by surprise, whatever they do. Perhaps it is
because I might easily have been a devil of the deepest dye myself, but
for luck--Billy is my luck."
This from the most orthodox woman in Africa! Poppy could not refrain
from a trill of laughter.
"I think you are one of those who paint themselves black to be _en
suite_ with the people you like, Clemmie," she said; "but you're not
extraordinarily clever as an artist."
"Not so clever as _you'll_ have to be when Mrs. Gruyere comes round to
have her miniature done," said Clem maliciously. "I must think about
going, darling. Mary is coming to fetch me in her carriage and she will
be here in a minute or two now. Before I go, I want you to promise me to
steal away whenever you can. If you sit too much over work you will fall
asleep, and have to be put in the poppy-garden instead of flaunting and
flaming in the sunshine and being a joy to behold. What a fascinating
flower it is! Both your names are fascinating ... _Eve Destiny!_ ...
what could have prompted it, I wonder?"
"Simply an idea. I am a child of destiny, I always think--at least, the
old blind hag seems to have been at some pains to fling me about from
pillar to post. Eve--" She turned away, knowing that she could not
mention that name without giving some sign of the tumult it roused
within her. "Eve--was the most primitive person I could think of" (the
lie did not come very glibly), "and _I_ am primitive. If I were my real
self I should be running loose in the woods somewhere with a wild-cat's
skin round me."
"Well, you wouldn't run alone for long, that's very certain," laughed
Clem.
"No, I should want my mate wherever and whatever I was"--Clem laughed
again at her frankness, but she went on dreamfully--"a Bedouin, or a
shaggy Thibetan on the roof of the world, or a 'cassowary on the plains
of Timbuctoo.' Oh, Clem! the sound of the wind in forest trees--the
sea--the desert with an unknown horizon, are better to me than all the
cities and civilisation in the world--yet here I sit!" She threw out her
hands and laughed joylessly.
"You ought to marry an explorer--or a hunter of big game," said Clem
thoughtfully, and got up and looked out of the window. "Here comes one
in the carriage with Mary. But he is an Irishman, so I wouldn't advise
you to look _his_ way.... An Irishman should never be given more than a
Charles Wyndhamesque part on the stage of any woman's life ... a person
to love, but not to be in love with...."
"Oh, Clem! You are Irish yourself----"
Clem did not turn round. She went on talking out of the window and
watching the approaching carriage.
"Yes, and I love everyone and everything from that sad green land ...
the very name of Ireland sends a ray of joy right through me ... and its
dear blue-eyed, grey-eyed people! Trust an Irish-woman, Poppy, when she
is true-bred ... but never fall in love with an Irishman ... there is no
fixity of tenure ... he will give you his hand with his heart in it ...
but when you come to look there for comfort, you will find a bare knife
for your breast ... unstable as water ... too loving of love ... too
understanding of another's heart's desire ... too quick to grant, too
quick to take away ... the tale of their lips changing with the moon's
changes--even with the weather.... Hullo, Mary! Here I am.... How do you
do, Karri?"
Mrs. Capron's carriage had pulled up before Poppy's little side-gate,
which gave on to the embankment. She was gowned in black, a daring
rose-red hat upon her lovely hair, and by her side was Evelyn Carson.
She waved at the two women in the window, but did not leave the
carriage. Carson came instead, making a few strides of the little
straggly, sea-shelled path.
"We've come to drag Mrs. Portal away," he said to Poppy, after shaking
hands through the window, "having just met her husband taking home two
of the hungriest-looking ruffians you ever saw."
Clem gave a cry of woe and began to pin on her hat.
"The wretch! I thought he was going to dine at the Club."
"He gave us strict orders to send you home at once," laughed Carson, "so
Mrs. Capron won't come in."
"Who are the men?" demanded Clem.
"Two brutes just arrived by to-day's boat, with a sea-edge to their
appetites. I should say that nothing short of a ten-course banquet would
appease them."
Clem's groans were terrible.
"Cook will have prepared half a chicken's wing for me. She always
starves me when I'm alone. You come back with me," she commanded Carson.
"If you talk beautifully to them they won't notice the lightness of the
_menu_."
"Oh, but I'd rather come when you are prepared," said the graceless
Carson. "I'm hungry, too. When you've gone I'm going to ask Miss Chard
for a cup of tea." Smiling, he plucked a sea-pink and stuck it in his
coat. They were in the garden now on the way to the carriage.
"Deserter! Well, Mary, _you'll_ have to come and let them feed upon your
damask cheek--something has got to be done."
Poppy exchanged greetings with Mrs. Capron, and presently the two women
drove away, leaving her and Carson standing there with the gleam of the
sunlit bay in their eyes. Turning, she found him staring in an odd way
at her hair, which she was wearing piled into a crown, with the usual
fronds falling softly down. Her lids drooped for a moment under his
strange eyes, but her voice was perfectly even and conventional as she
asked if he would really care for tea.
"I should, indeed--and to come into the restful grey room I got a
glimpse of through the window. It reminded me of a cool, cloudy day in
the middle of summer."
Pleasure at his approval brought a faint wave of colour into the face
she was determined to mask of all expression. She led the way indoors,
he following, his eyes travelling swiftly from the crowned head she
carried with so brave an air on her long throat, down the little
straight back that was short like the classical women's, giving fine
sweeping length from waist to heel.
She rang for fresh tea and went to the tea-table. Carson stood about the
room, seeming to fill it.
"If you are fond of grey, we have a taste in common," he said, and she
gave him a quick, upward glance. The face which Africa's sun had branded
her own looked extraordinarily dark above the light-grey of his clothes
and the little pink flower stuck in his coat. It seemed to her that no
woman had ever loved so debonair a man as this Irishman with his
careless eyes and rustling voice.
"I love _green_ best of all colours," she answered steadily; "but one
gets tired of green walls now that they are fashionable and everyone
has them--" her voice broke off suddenly. In his looming about the room
he had stopped dead before _Hope_ over the mantelpiece. The cup Poppy
held rattled in its saucer. He presently asked who the picture was by,
and where he, too, could get a copy of it.
"I like it," he said. "It seems to me in a vague way that I know that
picture well, yet I don't believe I have ever seen it before ...
strange...!" He stared at it again, and she made no response. For the
moment she was back in a little upper chamber in Westminster.
He came presently over to the tea-table, and was about to sit down when
another picture caught his eye--the water-colour of the little child
among the poppies and corn. He stepped before it and stayed looking for
a long time. At last he said, laughing constrainedly:
"You will think I am mad ... but I imagine I know _that_ picture too ...
that little chap is extraordinarily like someone I know ... I can't
think who ... but I'm certain ... is it some of your work, Miss Chard?"
He looked at her with keen inquiry, but his glance changed to one of
astonishment. Her eyes were closed and she was pale as a primrose; her
hands had fallen to her sides.
A moment afterwards she recovered herself and was handing him a cup of
tea with some inconsequent remark. She had made absolutely no response
to his questions about either picture, and he thought the fact rather
remarkable.
Afterwards they talked and he forgot surprise (for the time being) in
listening to the shy graces of thought to which she gave utterance and
watching her inexpressibly charming delicacies of manner. When he left
her the magic of her was on him; she had bound him with the spell of
his own country; but he did not know it. If he _had_ known it he would
have repudiated it with all his strength, for already he was a bound
man.
"His honour rooted in dishonour stood."