Nick Capron lay on a bed in one of the bedrooms of the Club--a sobbing,
raving, blaspheming figure, fearful in bandages sodden with blood, his
arms strapped to the sides of the bed to keep him from tearing at his
throat. The doctor and Portal stood by, regarding him, one with a calm,
professional eye, the other with a wet forehead. Carson sat on a chair
at the foot of the bed with a face like a stone wall, staring straight
before him, his hands in his pockets.
The injured man spoke continuously in a gurgling, guttural way, half of
his words intelligible, the other half maniacal. His main plaint was for
the sight of Carson, whom he had not recognised.
"I wish you'd fetch Carson ... there's no one like old Karri ... he's
worth the whole damned boiling of you ... besides, I have something to
say to him ... if I am booked for the last stretch I'd like Karri to see
me off.... Oh, blazes! what the----is this at my throat? Carson!
Karri--where is my devoted wife, too? _She_ ought to be here to speed
the parting guest ... Mary--a damned iceberg ... but I'd like some
ice.... Give me some ice, Karri----"
After a time the narcotic administered began to take effect, and the
watchers were relieved from the strain of listening to these ravings.
Ferrand and Portal took drinks and sat down to wait for the coming of
Mrs. Capron.
"--And an infernal long time she is about it," said Ferrand. "What do
_you_ think, Karri?"
If Carson had an opinion on the subject he did not state it, but he
roused himself and looked at the time. It was nearly half-past one.
"I must get home," he muttered. "If you want me Ferrand, you can
telephone to Bramham's house. I want to see Bramham," he added absently.
Ferrand cocked a professional eye at him.
"You're used up, Carson. Go home and sleep, but first see if you can
find Mrs. Capron, there's a good chap. We can't have this over again
when he comes to. She _must_ be here and that's all there is to it. You
can use my cart if you like, to get home in. Get a rest, old man ... you
look just about _peleela_ ... take my cart."
Carson accepted the offer and went out, followed by Portal through the
silent rooms of the Club to the front verandah.
Ferrand's red-wheeled dog-cart, with its coolie-driver, usually formed
part of the street furniture, for the doctor had a happy habit of
leaving it outside the Club door, going in and settling down to poker
and forgetting all about it. But at the moment it was nowhere to be
seen, the fact being that the man, tired of sitting still, had begun to
walk the horse, and was now out of sight at the far end of the street.
There was not a rickshaw to be seen; they were all waiting for revellers
outside the Town Hall. Fatigue was beginning to tell on Carson: he
rapped out a bad and bitter word.
"Cheer up!" said Portal blithely. "You'll soon be dead!"
It was a well-worn expression, and Carson was accustomed to it, but upon
this occasion it jarred. Something in Portal's voice was jarring, too.
Now that Carson came to remark it, for the first time that evening there
was something wrong with Portal's appearance as well as his voice.
Instead of being in evening-dress, he had on a brown tweed morning-suit,
in which, to judge by its appearance, he might have been knocking about
the veldt for several weeks. On the other hand, his face was as
bloodless and sallow as if he had been shut in a cellar for a month, and
his eyes were sunk deep in his head. Withal, he was cheerful, full of
suppressed excitement--almost it might be said that he was gay. After
many years in Africa, Carson was accustomed to all kinds of moods and
tenses in his friends; also, being an intimate of Portal's, he was aware
that the latter possessed a troublesome liver. But somehow, none of
these things could quite account for the extraordinary aspect and manner
of Portal to-night. Under the powerful rays of a street light which
fizzled and hummed close by, Carson observed him intently.
"What's the matter with you, Bill? You look queer. Anything wrong? ...
besides Capron, I mean...?"
The other responded with apparent composure.
"No, nothing. I'm only glad to see you, Carson, that's all. I'd no idea
you were back from the Rand. I had arranged to go up there after you,
but----"
"When? What for?" asked Carson in surprise. He was unable to make head
or tail of Portal's speech.
"Oh, nothing; just wanted to see you. You're a fascinating chap."
Carson gazed at him.
One of Portal's hands spasmodically gripped and ungripped the verandah
rail. With the other he appeared to be holding something stiff in the
right pocket of his coat. He continued to talk in parables.
"I went as far as Maritzburg, but I came back to-night to put my affairs
into shape and write a few letters--then those fellows came in and asked
me to take charge of Capron ... I left him asleep, I thought ... I was
writing a letter to--well, never mind who to--when I heard a row ...
and there was Capron ... _he'd got ahead of me_."
"But, good Lord! what do you mean?" Carson burst out. "What's wrong with
you? Have your finances gone smash?" he brought an iron hand down on the
restless one gripping the verandah railing. The stiff article in
Portal's pocket twitched. Carson's career had been adventurous and
dangerous, but he had never been nearer death than at that moment.
Entirely unconscious of the fact, he went on speaking.
"If you've had a smash-up, Bill, everything I've got is at your
disposal.... I've just made a good turn-over in the market.... I thought
I should need it, for ... but _my_ castle is in ruins.... You can have
it if it's any good to you."
"Thanks, Carson--my finances are all right."
"Then what in thunder's the matter with you?--haven't you got the only
good woman in this filthy country I'd like to know! I could swear to
_two_ until to-night. _Now_, if it were not for your wife, I should say
they were all rotten to the core ... false as--Oh, well, what's the
use?" he turned wearily away.
"Have you spoken to my wife since you got back?" asked Portal. He had
come closer and was staring intently into Carson's odd eyes as if
searching for something there. His gay air was gone; he breathed
heavily.
"I haven't spoken to any woman--except a devil in the train to-day--for
nearly three weeks. And after to-night I think I'll be able to exist
without 'em forever. But I saw Mrs. Portal from the door of the Town
Hall; and she looked to me remarkably ill. Is _that_ your trouble?"
Portal did not answer at once, and Carson turned on him austerely and
keenly. "If it's any other woman, don't expect _me_ to sympathise with
you--I could forgive any man that but you--bah! but it couldn't be ...
impossible!... Look here, Bill, I may as well tell you something now ...
you can take it how you like ... I'm not ashamed of it ... I was in love
with your wife for years ... she has never known it for one moment ...
but I loved her crazily--everything and everyone else went by the
board ... until I met her I was--well, I needn't tell _you_ what I
was--no follower of Plato, anyway--and you can take this how you please,
too--I am not going to pretend that there was anything platonic about my
feeling for her ... there was _not_.... But, because she never turned
her eyes my way ... or stepped down once in all the years I've known her
and you from her shrine ... it got finer and finer until it got to be
the highest, finest thing in my life, and anything decent that I've ever
done was because of it."
Portal had turned his head away before Carson had finished and appeared
to be looking at something down the street. The thought came to Carson
that he was either indifferent or not listening.
"Ah, well!" said he, angry to have wasted his confidence and yet too
weary to be angry long. "I daresay this doesn't interest you much ...
you know, of course, that dozens of men have been in love with your
wife ... she's one of the women men can't help loving with all that's
decent in them--any more than one can help loving one's mother. A love
like that is like a star in the sky of a man's life ... a star that
shows the way to the east.... And if _you_ are one of those fellows that
don't know when a star has come down to you, why----"
Portal turned a shaken, strange face to the other man.
"Carson, you must excuse me; I'm queer to-night ... I've been listening
to Capron's ravings until I'm nearly raving myself ... but I think I
understand ... I begin to see through it all.... Women do and say
strange things in the name of Love!... But I _know_ that what you say is
true--I believe in you, Karri."
Carson could not pretend to understand the meaning of this, and
moreover, Ferrand's cart was at the door, and the sickening remembrance
of his own broken hopes was upon him.
"Well, good-night, old man.... I must go home. If anything I've got can
be of any use to you, let me know." He held out his hand and Portal
gripped it.
"Good-night, Karri--I'm going home, too." His face was transformed.
Carson never solved the problem of that conversation with Portal; never
knew how near death he had been, never knew how his accidental
confidence had saved his life and given back her husband to Clem Portal.
Indeed, he never remembered much about his interview with Portal at all.
The memory of it was lost amongst the crowded events of that
phantasmagorial night.
Ferrand's coolie spun the cart along at a great rate behind the doctor's
best polo pony. Just as they turned into West Street a flying rickshaw
passed them, but though Carson heard a man's voice hailing he did not
respond. Mrs. Portal and de Grey were in the rickshaw returning from
long and vain seeking for Mrs. Capron, and it was de Grey who shouted,
thinking he recognised the doctor's cart in the darkness.
But even if Carson had known, he would not have stopped. He had been too
long delayed from his own affairs, and he was driving now to get ease
from the torture burning in his brain and searing his heart. His
thoughts were fixed on one thing now--an interview with Bramham.
"He's the only honest man amongst us, by Heaven!" he said loudly, so
that the coolie driver gave him a nervous glance, and drew away. "The
only one I'd take the trouble to believe."
He stopped the cart at the gate of Sea House, and told the man to go
back to the Club, then strode away up the sea-sanded path. Lights
gleamed brilliantly from the dining-room, but silence reigned, and every
other part of the house was dark as death. Walking through the verandah
with light, swift feet and into the dining-room, he came upon Poppy and
Abinger sitting there, facing each other across a corner of the table.
There were tears on her face, and one arm was flung out before her with
the gesture of one who has thrown the dice on a last and desperate
venture. Abinger's hand lay on hers.
They stood up as Carson sped into the room, his eyes blazing light in
his dark face, and before anyone could speak he reached Abinger and
without word or warning struck him a tremendous blow between the eyes,
felling him to the floor, where he lay quite still. Then he took the
girl by the throat--the long, white throat that shone in the darkness.
"By God! I must kill you!" he said, and his voice was whispering like
the sea's. She heard him; but she made no movement upward of her hands,
though the pressure on her throat was terrible to bear. She closed her
eyes and prepared to die. The thought slipped into her mind then that it
would be good to have rest at last from the ache and storm of life. That
was the message the sea was whispering.
"_Rest, rest ... peace ... rest!_"
* * * * *
After a long while she opened her eyes and found that she was sitting in
the same chair she had previously risen from. Bramham's broad back was
before her, but she could see Evelyn Carson leaning heavily against the
wall like a drunken man, and Abinger seated in another chair delicately
wiping his lips. His scar had opened, and blood was trickling down it.
The silence was broken by Bramham's voice--quite calm and pleasant.
"If you want to kill each other, take a brace of revolvers and go out
and do it decently somewhere in the open, where it won't make a
mess--killing Miss Chard, however, is quite another matter."
Again silence prevailed. Later, Carson said collectedly:
"She can live--_if she wants to_"--he gave her a look that lashed across
her face like a whip, leaving it distorted. "Let them both live, and be
damned to them!"
The tone and expression of bitter pleasantry Bramham had adopted, died
away.
"Well! _you_ fellows from home--!" he began, and looked from face to
face. Abinger continued to wipe blood delicately away, but he did not
wipe the sneer from his lips. The girl had the face of a little tired,
weeping child: the sight of it turned Bramham's heart to water. He put
out a hand to Carson, appealingly:
"God! Karri, what is it?"
The paleness of Carson under his tan had once more given place to an
inartistic-grey tint, and his eyes were dull; but he appeared strangely
composed.
"Nothing, Bram," he said. "Only to find the girl you love--less than
nothing."
A cry broke upon their ears, and all started and stared about them,
especially at the open door of Carson's room, from whence that muffled,
involuntary sound had come. A stiffness came over them; their masks
slipped on. What unknown person had listened to the wild words that had
been spoken?
Suddenly Bram remembered the sensations and scents that had assailed him
earlier in the night; catching up the same pink-shaded lamp, he once
more entered Carson's room. He gave one searching glance about him, and
then instinct took him to the only possible cover--a narrow curtained
recess in which to hang clothes. He thrust his hand between the
curtains. Mary Capron spared him further trouble--she swept out from the
recess, and from the room, giving him one burning glance of hatred as
she passed.
In the dining-room she stood still, the centre of attraction for the
second time that night. Her cloak had fallen from her shoulders, and her
beautifully-_coiffe_ hair was ruffled and limp, her eyes were long
gleams of topaz light in a carved-stone face. And for some reason she
poured the full measure of her rage and scorn upon poor Bramham, who had
dazedly followed her, stepping carefully to avoid her train, and
standing there now with the little pink lamp in his hand.
"Have you peered and pried enough?" she asked, piercing him with her
eyes. "Is your curiosity satisfied--now that you have dragged me out? I
came here to speak to Evelyn Carson--hearing voices, I foolishly hid....
Is your taste for scandal appeased?"
Poor, gallant, woman-loving Bramham! He paled and started, like a man
who has unexpectedly been struck in the face; then, turning, still
dazed, he walked away with the lamp in his hand from the room, and from
the house--_his_ house! In the pathway he discovered the lamp in his
hand and put all his strength and disgust into flinging the hapless
thing with a crash into a bush.
In the room the girl, still sitting in her chair, but with an awakening
look of amazement and hope upon her face, said some words very softly to
Mary Capron:
"So you lied! ... false woman! ... and _base friend_!"
But Mary Capron turned from her. Shaking with rage and defeat, she flung
a torrent of low, rushing words at Carson.
"_You_ love this girl ... girl! ... her confessions to Luce Abinger here
to-night were not very girlish ... I could not hear all that she said
to him, but I heard enough.... She told him that she gave herself to
some man in a garden three years ago ... that she belonged _only_ to
that man and could never love any other----"
"No more," broke fiercely from Carson's white lips.
"But you _shall_ hear!" she cried, flinging out a hand and catching his
arm. "_She has had a child_ ... she boasted of it ... _the child of the
man in the garden_.... Do you deny it? Do you deny it?" she cried,
turning to Poppy. But Poppy did not deny, did not speak: only lifted her
head proudly and smiled.
"There ... there ... you see?... let her deny it if she can!"
Stiffly Carson turned his head now and looked at Poppy; his lips twisted
like a man's who is tasting poison; his eyes demanded.
"Yes, I have borne a son," she said simply.
For a moment there was such a silence as is found in rooms where the
dead are lying. Then Mary Capron broke it again:
"She is proud of it!... You _see_ ... you see what you love? Is it
possible that for a woman like _that_ ... that for _her_ you can turn
from my love, I who would let men brand me in the face for you--who----"
"Oh, for God's sake!--are you mad?... be silent." Carson caught her
hands roughly and made to draw her away. But she was beyond herself.
"And now Nick is dying ... I have heard them saying it ... and they are
looking for me to go to him, but I will not ... I will not!... I will
stay here with you, Eve--I am terrified of blood--I--" she finished on a
high note that was almost a shriek, for Abinger had risen quietly from
his chair in the corner and was before her with his scarred, bleeding
face. Then at last she was silent. What there was to be said, Abinger
said--blandly, softly.
"Oh! I think you had b-better come, Mary. It will not be the first
t-time you've seen a man cut about. You remember the night this was
done?" He touched his face and she shrank away blenching. "The night
Carmen punished me for _our_ sins. You were quite brave then. You saw
the whole performance without uttering a scream or a cry that might have
brought people to the scene and discovered you. No one should blame you
for that, but--I think you could be brave enough to see Nick." He held
out his hand to her. She shrank from him, wilting with shame, her eyes
frozen in her face; but he was inexorable.
"I think you had better come. It seems to me that you have said enough
for one night to Carson and Miss Chard. She is free of me for ever--I
have told her so. And Carson is free of you. Is not that plain to you?
They love each other ... let us leave them to settle their affairs. You
and I--have many old memories to discuss--unless you would rather
discuss them here?"
She went at that, with hurrying feet; and the man with the bleeding,
smiling face followed her.
* * * * *
Carson and Poppy were left alone. They stared into each other's eyes
with an agony of love and longing and fear. Anger was all gone from
Carson's face; only fear was there--fear that was terror. It was the
girl who stood now; he had fallen into a chair, wearily, desperately.
"Is it true?" he muttered; "is it true, after all?--_a child!_" His own
sins were forgotten in this overwhelming, bitter revelation.
She went over to him, and kneeled between his knees.
"Yes; it is true, Eve ... _your_ child! ... child of the night you
dreamed that poppies grew upon the eternal hills.... _I am Poppy!_ Do
you not know me?" He sat up straight then and looked down at her, looked
down deep into the glimmering eyes. "I am Poppy," she said, and her
voice was wine in a crystal beaker. She dragged the malachite comb from
her hair, and it came tumbling down upon her shoulders in long black
ropes. "I am Poppy who gave you all her gifts."
The sea helped her; it sent into the room a strong, fresh wind that blew
the veils of her hair across his face and lips. He breathed sharply.
God! What strange scent of a lost dream was here? What sweet, elusive
fragrance of a most dear memory!
He took hold of her hair as though he would have torn it from her head.
A light was in his face--he drew her to him, staring into her eyes.
"Poppy? ... _Poppy!_ ... _not_ a dream?... _Not_ the ravings of
fever?... Poppy!" He held her hair across his face as though smelling
some wonderful flower.
"Eve ... did you not say to me, '_If I were stricken blind in this
hour_--'" she stopped.
"'--_from ten thousand women I could search you out by the scent of your
hair_,'" he finished.
Again they stayed long, staring into each other's eyes. Staring--glance
falling to glance and rising again; staring with the brave,
shame-stricken looks that women give to men they adore and endow, and
men to women they rob, and bless--and rob again. Strange that two people
who love each other cannot for long bear the ardent flame of each
other's eyes.
"Part of it is lost--for ever," he said at last.... "Gone! ... only
fragments remain. But there never was a dream like the dream we dreamt
on that lost night." And after a long time:
"Poppy--where is my son?"
She lifted her eyes to him. The tears which she could never shed for
herself would always come rushing forth for that sweet memory.
"All my love could not keep him, Eve."
She pulled a child's framed face from her bosom and held it up to his
eyes. He saw the little familiar face he had looked at once before,
pictured in a field of corn and poppies, and trembled. He gave it one
swift, sorrowful look and then he wrapped his arms about her, and she
lay on his breast.
"Do you regret?" he asked. "Have you ever regretted? Oh, God! how can I
ask?"
"No, no," she cried, but her voice was faint. Even while she spoke she
knew--none better than she--how vain were denials against the truth of
the past. How all their memories and all their gladness to come must
ever be salted with pain and tainted with the bitter gall of regret.
How, when she laid a child in his arms, their thoughts would terribly
fly to that lost son of a lost dream lying far from them in an alien
land. They were transgressors--and the reward of transgressors must ever
be theirs!
Not much more was said. Only enough to chase the shadows of others from
the road of life they meant to take together and make it clear before
them. For the rest--they had all the years to come in which to
understand and suffer and forgive.
He thought of the turmoil and transgression and "tremendous disarray" of
his life--and of dark, still nights far away in Borapota, with this
woman of his dreams by his side--and his heart sent up a cry that was
not unworthy of it.
"O, Lord God--forgive me my sins!"
* * * * *
When Bramham came into the room long after, she was still kneeling there
in her white gown and her loosened hair, and she thought it no shame for
him to find her so. She rose to her feet and gave him her hand, and he
held it closely, preciously--for he, too, loved this woman.
"Thank God that out of this jumble and carnage comes one good thing!" he
said. "_Your_ ship is home in port. Take her out to the gate, Carson.
Mrs. Portal is waiting, and they're going to pick up Portal at the Club.
Capron will recover, Ferrand says."
When Poppy had hastily fastened her hair, and Carson had wrapped her in
her cloak, they went down to the gate where Clem waited half in and half
out of a carriage window. Her face was radiant, too. She drew Poppy in
beside her.
"Are you two happy?" she whispered. "So am I." But she told nothing of
the golden moment that had been hers within the past hour, when, in the
darkness of the Club verandah, a big, sullenly handsome man had taken
her in his arms and just whispered:
"Forgive!--_Loraine!_"
She was that lovely thing, a close woman.