At last it ended strangely. Weariness seemed suddenly to overcome Abinger, for his grasp grew loose on the girl's hands, his tense features relaxed, a bluish shade stole over his face.

Presently he stumbled to his feet, and, walking unevenly and vaguely, made his way from the room.

In a moment Poppy Destin had leapt from the bed to the door and locked it soundlessly.

Sophie Cornell was saying good-night to a visitor. "Well," said he.

"Tell Miss Chard how sorry I am. As soon as she feels well enough, I shall send up my carriage, and I'd like her to use it and get some fresh air."

"Och, what, she won't be well enough for that some time yet," was Miss Cornell's answer. "She is very d.i.c.kie indeed. I shouldn't be surprised if she croaked."

Bramham gave her a searching look.

"Well, look here; she ought to have a good doctor in. I'll ask Ferrand to call. He's my doctor, and the best I know----"

"Oh, don't do that?" said Sophie hastily; "we've called a doctor in already, you know."

"Who have you got?"

"I must go--I can hear her calling," said Sophie suddenly. "Good-night."

Incontinently she disappeared, the door closed, and Bramham was left to pick his way through the dark garden as best he might.

After the sound of his steps had died away a figure stole from among the trees to the verandah, softly opened the front door and walked in upon Miss Cornell, who was in the act of mixing herself a whiskey-and-soda.

The drink spilled upon the table and Sophie's mouth fell apart.

"My G.o.d, Rosalind! What a _shrik_[5] you gave me! _Man!_ What's the matter with you?" At the end of her question her voice fell into a whisper. She stared with genuine horror at the wraith-like face before her: Rosalind Chard, with dilated eyes in an ashen face, drenched hair, a white lace gown wet and torn, hatless and shoeless.

[5] Start (fright).

"_Gott!_ Rosalind!" repeated the Colonial girl. "Has someone been trying to murder you?"

"Yes," said the other tonelessly. "And I've come here for safety. Will you take me in, Sophie?"

"Of course. But who was it? A man, I'll bet--or has your old aunt gone up the tree?"

"Don't ask me anything, Sophie. I shall go mad if I have to talk. Only, hide me and never let anyone know I'm here, or I shall kill myself." The girl fell exhausted into a chair and Sophie stood staring at her with a long face. It would not suit her book at all, she reflected, if Rosalind Chard wanted to be shut up and never see anyone. However, she saw that this was no time to argue the point, and that her present pressing business was to get the exhausted girl to bed.

This she proceeded to do.

CHAPTER XI

The person largely instrumental in bringing Poppy back to health and a remote interest in life was Charles Bramham.

One day Sophie Cornell met him in West Street and asked him to come and call.

"I have Rosalind up at last," she told him; "but she looks like a dying duck, and I believe she _will_ die if someone doesn't buck her up. It would be a _real_ charity if you would come and talk to her."

Bramham, though an exceedingly busy man, accepted the invitation with vivacity, for he was much _intrigue_ on the subject of Miss Chard, and, further, he had not forgotten the romantic and piquant sensations she had inspired in him upon the occasion of their one meeting. Now, piquant and romantic sensations are very valuable in South Africa, and should always be followed up in case of life becoming too monotonously saltless and savourless. Bramham swiftly found a spare hour and arrived one afternoon in Sophie's absence.

He was utterly taken aback by the change in the girl. He came upon her suddenly, sitting in the verandah with her hands laced round her knees and her eyes staring straight in front of her with a look in them that was not good to see.

"Why! _you_ ought to be away up in the country somewhere, out of this sweltering heat," was his first remark after ordinary conventionalities.

She observed him coldly and a.s.sured him that she was perfectly well.

Her invitation to come into the verandah and take a chair was polite, but lacking in enthusiasm. But it was hard to daunt Charles Bramham when he was looking for sensations. Besides which, he felt a genuine and chivalrous interest in this desperate-eyed girl.

"This climate is only meant for flies and Kaffirs," he said pleasantly.

"It's quite unfit for white men in summer--to say nothing of a delicate English girl unaccustomed to it."

A smile flickered across Poppy's lips at this description of herself, and Bramham, encouraged by his success, went on to tell her about just the ideal spot for her to recover her health.

"At the Intombi, near Port Shepstone," he said, "you can stand on hills that undulate to the sea five hundred feet below, with the whole veldt between brilliant with flowers."

Poppy looked with surprise into the keen, strong face. She believed Bramham must be a lawyer, because he had such a scrutinising, business-like look about him. But to her astonishment he went on to tell her of a valley where arum-lilies grew in such ma.s.ses that they looked like miles of snowdrifts lying on the gra.s.s.

"All along the south coast," he continued, warming to his subject, "there are thousands of acres covered with flowers--red and variegated and white. I think the white ones are mostly wild narcissi. The smell of the sea wind blowing over them is warranted to cure the sickest body or soul in South Africa. I wish I were there now," he added wistfully, and the pupils of his eyes expanded in an odd way.

"But you are not sick," said Poppy, smiling less wanly.

"No, but when all the flowers are in full bloom the quail come down,"

was the artless rejoinder. "Not that _that_ will be for a long time yet; September is the time. But I like that place."

And Poppy liked him. It was really impossible to help it. She remembered now that she had experienced the same pleasure in his frank, kind glances and direct remarks the first time she had met him. Certainly there were dangers about him. Undoubtedly he could be a villain too, if one allowed him to be, she thought; but there is something attractive about a man who can forget he is talking to a woman and remember acres of flowers instead--and get that boyish look into his eyes at the same time! She was not the first woman, however, who had felt the charm of Charles Bramham. When he had finished with Upper Natal, he fell to telling her of a woman, a _great_ friend of his, who had once lived in Durban, until the women drove her out saying that she was mad and bad.

"Certainly her face was all marked up," said Bramham gravely. "She said her temperament did it; but _they_ said it was wickedness. So she went away and wrote a book about them. She let some of them down on a soft cushion, but others she hung up by their heels and they're hanging there yet--food for the aasvogels."

"She must be very clever," said Poppy drily.

"She is. She's a _bird_," said Bramham with enthusiasm. "When her book came out everybody here black-guarded her, and said it showed what an immoral wretch she was to know such things about men and women." He gave Poppy a side-glance to see if he should add something else that was hot on his tongue, but he decided that she was too innocent-eyed.

"All the same, we all sneaked off to Piet Davis's and looked at the Bibles whilst we shoved bits of paper across the counter: 'Please send me two copies of _Diana Amongst the Wesleyans_ at once; wrap each in the _Sunday at Home_ and despatch to my office.'"

Poppy gave a little ringing laugh and asked eagerly:

"Is she here now?"

"Lord no! I wish she were. She has settled in France, where, she says, they understand temperament better than out here, and I believe it. Last night I went to a dinner-party--a thing I never do, and it served me right--and a woman opposite started tackling me about her; said she had seen Mrs. Haybittel in Paris, and that she was older-looking than ever."

"'Yes, so am I,' said I, 'but I am also more in love with her than ever.' At which she giggled, and they all turned up their mirthless eyes at me. That woman is an old enemy of mine, and she always trains her guns on me whenever she can get an audience. She's a Mrs. Gruyere, and if ever you meet her, beware!"

"'I thought the ideal woman was always young,' she snippered at me.

"'Not at all,' I said. 'She may be old, but not _too_ old. She may be ugly, but not _too_ ugly. She may be bad, but not _too_ bad. It is a pity you didn't find someone to tell you about this before,' I finished.