Poppy and Cinthie were sitting in the garden together under an
orange-tree, which was set in the midst of the thick fence of
Barbadoes-thorn. Poppy's muslin gown was of a colour that made her look
like a freshly-plucked spray of lilac, and she wore a wide white hat,
trimmed with convolvulus.
Every ornament she possessed had been burnt except a jewelled pendant
she always wore round her neck, and her big malachite brooch; but now on
the third finger of her left hand she wore a ring--a great, gleaming
emerald, which had arrived in a little box that morning from
Johannesburg.
She had seen Clem looking at it with wondering eyes, but as yet she had
not been able to explain, for Clem that day was rather more especially
busy than usual. During breakfast she had been flitting in and out
constantly to her husband's bedroom. Portal had been suffering from a
bad attack of slump fever, and instead of doing the "camel-trick," and
feeding on his hump, he required a special _menu_ which kept the cook
and his wife busy. He had been more or less confined to his room for
three days. It is true that he made wonderful recoveries in the
evenings, and rising up donned glad raiment and went to the Club to
dine. But when the morning papers arrived he was worse than ever.
The moment breakfast was over Clem had flown to prepare the drawing-room
for a committee-meeting of ladies interested in the fate of fifty
able-bodied domestics arriving by the following week's mail-boat.
So Cinthie and Poppy had taken to the bush for shelter. For since
Poppy's identity had become known, everyone was anxious to examine her
closely, to see what colour her eyes were, whether her hair was real,
and how she behaved generally in the strong light of notoriety which
enveloped her. The feeling about her had entirely changed. People said
they understood _now_ why she should be so strange-looking, and alone.
She was a genius--the newspapers said so! And as such they opened their
arms to her, and their doors, and bade her enter. But instead, she
invariably fled with Cinthie into the bush.
Cinthie was six now, and growing tall. Her brown holland overall was a
mere frill about her neck, and looked anaemic beside the deeper colouring
of her legs. Her sailor-hat hung at the back of her by its elastic, and
in the corner of her mouth she thoughtfully sucked the end of one of the
long streaks of hair. In her fingers she held a large and discoloured
lump of dough, which she was kneading and pinching with the busy
concentration of a beetle rolling a _mis bolitje_. Her nine dolls were
seated, some against a flat rock, some against the tree, but all gazing
stonily at their mother, except the banshee, who lay prone on her back,
her arms extended as if to embrace the universe, her beady eyes fixed
revengefully on Heaven.
Poppy, sharing the trunk of the tree with the dolls, leaned lazily
peeling an orange, which had kindly dropped from the branches above.
Other oranges were lying about on the short grey-green grass.
"What are you going to do with that dough, Cinthie?" she asked.
"Make pudding."
"Who for?"
"For my chil'ren." She dipped her fingers into a doll's tea-cup full of
water, which stood at the elbow of the banshee, and continued to knead;
the dough now clung to her fingers in long, elastic threads, and her
face showed a deep and vivid interest in her occupation.
"Are these all the children you've got?"
"No; _Minnie-Haha_ and _Danny Deever's_ inside. They been naughty.
They's in bed."
"What on earth did they do?"
"Wouldn't say they prairses last night."
"Oh, how naughty!"
"Yes; I don't love them when they don't say prairses for their daddy."
"Their daddy?"
"Yes; he lives in England. He has been living in England for twenty
years. They have never seen him."
"Goodness!"
"Yes; it's very sad." She wagged her head dolefully.
Presently she unplucked the dough from her fingers and began to spread
it out on the large, flat stone, patting it smooth with the palm of her
hand. Thereafter, she made a pattern round its edges with a doll's fork,
as she had seen cook do.
"I wish I could make puddings like you," said Poppy, lying on her elbow
and eating her orange.
"I can make nicer ones'n this," said Cinthie boastfully. "I can make
Best-pudding-of-all."
"Oh, do tell me, Cinthie, so when I have nine children I can make it for
them too."
Cinthie looked at her dreamfully.
"Perhaps you won't have any children," she said. "Perhaps you'll be a
widow."
"Oh, Cinthie, don't be unkind--of course, I shall have some! Go on now,
tell me about the pudding."
Cinthie rubbed her nose and reflected for a long time. At last,
solemnly, with a long think between each sentence, she delivered the
recipe.
"Get some dough ... dip it in water for a minute or two ... get some
pastry ... dip it into water twice ... roll it hard ... put it into the
dish on top of everything--" Long pause.
"Yes?"
"Straighten the edges ..." (she carefully cut all round the dough on the
stone with the handle of the fork); "bang it with your hand and it will
come straight" (she banged the dough with the palm of her hand); "then
spread a little water over it ... and there!" She sighed and took a
fresh mouthful of hair.
"Well, I shall just make a pudding like that," said Poppy determinedly.
The gentle slurring of a silk petticoat was heard on the dry grass, and
Mrs. Capron joined them, smiling mischievously.
"The committee meeting is over," she said, "and Clem has gone to see
Lady Mostyn off on _The Scot_ and taken Miss Allendner with her. She
hopes she will be back for lunch, but is not sure; if not, we are to go
on without her. She gave me leave to come and look for you two in the
garden, so you can't very well kick me out, even if you don't want me.
Hyacinthie, your nurse is walking about with two baked bananas smothered
in cream, asking everyone if they've seen you."
"Ooh!" Cinthie slashed the hair out of her mouth in anticipation of her
favourite eleven-o'clock lunch. "Mind my babies!" she commanded Poppy
with a menacing eye, and sped up the lawn, disappearing into the trees
surrounding the house. The two women looked after her with entirely
different emotions in their eyes. Mrs. Capron sighed.
"Fleet of foot, but, alas! that one should have to say it of Clem's
child--flat of foot also." She seated herself daintily upon the rock
which had served for Cinthie's kitchen-table; her eyes fastened
themselves upon the emerald ring. She had never seen a ring on Poppy's
hand before.
"Her feet are scarcely formed yet," said the latter; "and Clem has
perhaps let her wear sandals too long."
Mrs. Capron withdrew her fascinated eyes from the ring and shook her
head sadly.
"She will grow up ugly in every way; and it is just as well. If she had
Clem's temperament and charm and Bill's beauty she might wreck the
world."
"Oh, no--only herself," said Poppy, with a tinge of bitterness. "The
world goes gaily on, whatever befalls. But I don't agree with you at all
about Cinthie's looks!"
"Most people do. Someone was saying to me the other day--I forget
who--Mr. Abinger, perhaps--that Cinthie looks like the incarnation of
all the deviltries Clem and Bill have left undone, all the wickedness
they have kept under."
"Mr. Abinger is a better judge of deviltries than of good women," said
Poppy drily.
"He is a rip, of course. But, then, rips always unerringly recognise
other rips," smiled Mary Capron, and Poppy smiled too, though she was
not extremely amused.
"Are you accusing Clem of being a rip?"
"Of course not, though Bill is so charming he must have been one some
time, don't you think?"
"I think he is nearly nice enough to be Clem's husband," said Poppy
curtly, "and too entirely nice for any other woman." It was an old
suspicion of hers that Mary Capron was not as real as she pretended to
be in her friendship for Clem.
"You are a very loyal friend, Miss Chard; and I hope you don't think
that I am _not_, just because I find it intensely interesting to talk
about the people I care for?" Mrs. Capron spoke with a quiet sincerity
that made Poppy feel ashamed of her thought, for, of course, most women
do find it interesting to talk of people they care for. The best of
friends do it. After all, Mrs. Capron had said nothing that a friend
might not lightly say.
"I would never talk about her to anyone but you," continued Mrs. Capron,
"and I know that you love her as much as I do. But I see that you think
I am wrong."
"I think, Mrs. Capron, that one would be a stock or a stone to know
Clem, and yet not be intensely interested in her husband, her child, and
everything that concerns her," Poppy answered warmly. "I could sit all
day and watch her face, wondering how she came to know so much about
life without being old, or bitter, or uncharitable about anything in the
world."
"She will tell you that the deep lines she has on her face are only
little mementos of Africa--that Africa always puts her marks on the
faces of those who love her. But"--Mary Capron's voice was very gentle
and sad--"I happen to know that she has been _pounded in the mortar_."
Poppy sat silent, thinking how great must be a nature that could be
pounded in the mortar of life, and come out with nothing but a few
beautiful marks on the face. Further, her thought was that if Mary
Capron knew Clem's sorrows, Clem must love her very much indeed, and she
must be worthy of that love.
She determined that she would never again allow herself to feel jealous
of the bond of friendship existing between the two women. Mary Capron
spoke again in a very low voice.
"What I am terribly afraid is that her suffering is not over, but only
beginning."
Poppy stared at her startled, and saw that the beautiful brown eyes were
filled with tears.
"Sorrow has her elect!" said the girl gently. "Dear Mrs. Capron, do not
let your sympathy for Clem beguile you into telling me anything that she
would not wish me to know; I believe you have her confidence. I wish I
had too. But I would rather not hear anything ... of her inward life ...
from anyone but herself." Poppy began falteringly, but she ended firmly,
for she was convinced that she was right. She had laid her whole life
bare to Clem, and if Clem had wished to give her confidence in return,
she had had endless opportunities to do so in their intimate talks. She
felt that she was right in stopping Mrs. Capron from saying anything
further. But already Mrs. Capron had gone further.
"_Once_ I have seen her in the ashes of misery and despair. I would
rather die than witness it again."
Poppy sat up and rested her hand on those of the trembling, troubled
woman before her.
"Don't," she said soothingly; "don't fret--Clem is brave and strong
enough to fight every imaginable trouble in the world; and _don't_ say
anything more; I'm sure she would not wish it."
"But I _must_ ... I must tell you.... She is going to suffer
again--_terribly_ ... and I want to save her if I can, and I want you to
save her."
"Me!" faltered Poppy, listening in spite of herself. "What can I do?"
Mary Capron's tears were falling thick and fast now.
"Clem's sorrow is a terrible one," she said brokenly. "She loves a man
with all the depth and passion her nature is capable of--and the man is
not her husband."
"Oh!" Poppy went white to the lips. She sat rigidly against the
orange-tree and stared at the other woman. "Clem!... I'll never believe
it ... _Clem!_" Afterwards she said burningly: "If it _could_ be true,
how could you sit there and betray her?"
Mary Capron's eyes flamed at her through the tears.
"How dare you think I could do it idly?... You think no one feels love
for her but yourself ... I hope you are prepared to show your love and
prove it ... by saving her. If _I_ could do it, I would. Let me tell
you, Rosalind Chard, that there is _nothing_ in this world that I would
not give up for Clem, or do for her. And you? Can you say that too? Or
is your love of the school-girl type--all marks of exclamation and
admiration and--was it _condemnation_ that I heard in your voice?" She
spoke scornfully, yet there was a wondrous, thrilling appeal in her
words. "Would you condemn her, Rosalind? Do you know nothing of love,
then? That it is always the best whom it attacks most violently--that no
one can keep one's heart from straying ... that there are men in the
world who when they call must always be answered ... whom no woman can
fight successfully against...."
But Poppy could only whisper to herself: "Clem! Is there _any man in the
world_ who could beguile Clem from the straight, clear way on which her
feet are set ... away ... to the deep pits whence comes the wailing
of ... transgressors! Is there _any man_ ... in the world?..." Suddenly
she sat up straight and rigid, and her head struck the trunk of the
orange-tree. A look of terror was in her face. She knew the answer.
_She knew what she was going to hear._
What came dully to her ears was something she had long known--long,
long.
"--And when he went away to Borapota she was like a woman mad with
grief ... I thought she would have died.... She besought me, _besought_
me to go as far as I could with him ... Nick and I ... in case he should
sicken and die of fever.... He did get fever again ... was terribly ill
at Borwezi ... and always his one cry was for her.... Nick would tell
you ... he too knows ... it was always _Loraine_...."
"Ah!" The girl under the tree gave a cry and covered her smitten eyes
with her hands.
"Always it was _Loraine_. That was his secret name for her.... I never
knew till after I came back that it really is her name ... I asked her
one day ... she only said it was her name, but that she never let anyone
use it ... _he_ used it though ... he ... _he loved her_... Miss Chard,
I believe that he loves her still ... it is not possible that a man
could cease to love a woman like Clem ... a girl's face might attract
him ... and draw him for a while ... but _Clem_ ... a man would always
come back to her ... she is the kind that men come back to ... are
faithful to for ever.... Oh, child! I believe I have hurt you
bitterly ... deeply to-day ... forgive me ... it is for _her_ sake ... I
love her ... do _you_ love her ... enough to spare her?"
* * * * *
When Poppy's hands fell away from her eyes, which were dull now, like
the eyes of a dead woman, she was alone in the garden. She sat on--all
through the morning, far into the afternoon hours, and no one disturbed
her.
Indoors an odd thing had happened. The servants had laid lunch for five
people, according to the after-breakfast instructions of their mistress.
But of the five people who were to sit down in the dining-room not one
appeared. Mrs. Portal had telephoned up from the Point that she and Miss
Allendner could not be back in time, and so would lunch on the ship with
Lady Mostyn. Nurse had received the message on the telephone, but there
was no one in the house to deliver it to. Mrs. Capron had come to the
nursery window and informed nurse (just free from beguiling Cinthie off
to her mid-day _siesta_), that she felt faint and ill, and had decided
to take a rickshaw home instead of remaining for lunch. Then, Mr.
Portal, after sleeping badly all night and breakfasting in his room, had
gone afterwards to lie in the garden, to see if he could sleep there.
But when Sarah went to seek him he was nowhere to be found. His book was
open on the grass, and the cushion he had taken for his head had a dent
in it, showing that it had been used. Both were lying by the
Barbadoes-hedge, under an orange-tree that grew in the middle of it, but
Mr. Portal had gone. Nurse, however, believed that from the nursery
window she had seen him walking out of the garden with his hat pulled
right down over his eyes.
"But then, again," she said to cook, "I really couldn't be sure, for he
looked so strange, and walked so funny. If I didn't know that master
doesn't drink, I should have said he'd had a drop too much. But there,
he's not well--maybe, that's why he looked so queer!"
As for Miss Chard, no one thought about her; the servants supposed that
she had gone with Mrs. Portal to the Point. If Sarah had thought of
looking over the Barbadoes-hedge just at the place where Mr. Portal had
been lying, she would have seen Miss Chard sitting there, sometimes
staring vacantly before her, sometimes holding her face against the
orange-tree as though for comfort.