In a bright room, among flowers, the invalid woman lay on a couch, with an embroidered coverlet of crimson satin drawn up to her chin. Her face was pale and petulant, with great brown eyes that roamed restlessly and were full of peevish misery. She was of the fickle, impetuous nature that indulges in groundless hates and likings, and the moment she saw Poppy standing there, she put out her hands feverishly, as if for something she had long wanted. Poppy, indeed, was sweet and dewy-looking, as always when she came from her little love-baby, and now the added beauty of courageous renouncement lighted her lilac eyes.

"Ah! I _know_ you are the girl Marion was talking about," cried the invalid. "You _will_ come, won't you? How lovely you are--I shall just _love_ having you with me! Come and sit here where I can see you--but don't look at me; I can't bear to be looked at."

Poppy sat down by the couch and submitted to being stared at, even touched by the pale, restless hands. Mrs. Chesney did most of the talking. She only required a monosyllable here and there, and her manner varied oddly, from a cold hauteur which she vainly tried to make indifferent, to entreaty that was almost servile.

"Do you like reading aloud?" she demanded, and before Poppy could speak, continued swiftly: "Oh, never mind, I don't care if you don't--_of course_, everybody _hates_ it. Can you play?"

This time she waited for an answer, and Poppy saying yes, was waved towards a beautiful Erard that stood in a far corner. Taking off her gloves, she went over to it, and immediately her fingers fell into a soft and haunting melody of Ireland. The woman on the couch closed her eyes and lay like one in a trance.

While she played, Poppy resolved to take the opening offered her here.

It was a living and a well-paid one. Little Pat could be sent away to a good home in the country, and though the parting must be bitter--bitter-- Ah! she could not think of it! What she _must_ think of was food to keep life in his little loved body, health for him in fresh sweet air; money to keep herself alive to work for him.

As she rose from the piano there was a prayer of thankfulness on her lips for this fresh chance to live. A door opened and a man came nonchalantly in.

"Oh, Harry!" cried the invalid. "This is Miss Chard--she is going to be my new companion. Miss Chard--my husband."

Poppy bowed to the man, meeting the amused cynicism of his glance gravely. Not by word or look did she betray the fact that she had ever seen him before. But thankfulness died away in her, and once more the face of the future lowered.

Harry Chesney was the hero of the adventure in the underground railway carriage.

While she was putting on her gloves, preparing to go, she told Mrs.

Chesney that she would call in the morning, when the engagement could be finally arranged.

It would have been awkward and painful to have told the sick woman _now_ that she was not able to accept the engagement. Being of so jealous a temperament, the invalid would probably suspect that the decision had something to do with her husband and would be caused misery in this thought.

"It will be simple to write to-night that circ.u.mstances have occurred which prevent me from coming," was Poppy's thought as she said good-bye.

"Touch the bell twice," said Mrs. Chesney.

"Oh! I'll see Miss Chard down," said Chesney, but Poppy had made no delay in touching the bell and a maid magically appeared.

The next day she waited at the York Theatre and saw Marion Ashley after rehearsal.

"I wanted to thank you," she said, "and to tell you that after all I couldn't undertake that companionship. Something has happened that makes it impossible for me to leave home. I wrote to Mrs. Chesney last night."

The brightness of Marion's smile was dashed for an instant, but she speedily recovered.

"Never mind; a lucky thing has happened here. One of the walking-on girls dropped out to-day and they want another. Mr. Lingard is a friend of mine, and he's sure to have you when he sees you--you've just the face for romantic drama. Come along and see him; he went into his office a minute ago--don't forget to say you've been with Ravenhill."

And so through Marion Ashley's kindly offices Poppy found herself once more signing a contract to "walk-on-and-understudy" at a guinea a week!

But the romantic drama was an unromantic failure.

Long before the end of the first week, the princ.i.p.als were looking at each other with blank faces, and holding conclaves in each other's dressing-rooms for the purpose of exchanging opinions and reports on the probable duration of the run. In the "walkers-on" room they gave it three weeks, and _that_ playing to "paper houses" every night.

Marion Ashley met Poppy in the wings during a quarter of an hour's wait that occurred in the second act.

"Isn't this an awful disappointment?" she said. "Have you anything in view, dear, if we come to a full-stop here?"

"Nothing!" said Poppy, with a brave, careless smile. "Divil a thing!"

"Well ... wouldn't you ... what about Mrs. Chesney? She's hankering after you still. In fact, she appears to have developed a craze for your society. She wrote to me this morning, asking me to search you out."

Poppy flushed slightly. "I'm afraid I should be a failure as a companion," was all she could say. Marion looked at her with curiosity, vexation.

The next day a terrible thing happened. For the first time in his short life little Pat was ill. Not very ill, just white and listless and disinclined to eat. Poppy, like a pale and silent ghost, held him in tender arms every moment of the day, except while he slept, when for his own sake she put him into his bed, but hovered near, watching, praying.

Mrs. Print pooh-poohed the sickness as nothing but teething-fever, but the wild-eyed mother begged her to go out and find a doctor. A grave, kind man was found, and his words were not comforting.

"He is not very ill, but he wants care. London is hardly the right place for babies at this time of the year. If it is possible, I should advise you to take him away into the country."

When the hour came for her to go to the theatre, Poppy called in the faithful Mrs. Print once more to watch over the sleeping child. It broke her heart to leave him, but there was nothing else to be done. She might forfeit her engagement if she did not appear at the theatre; or, at any rate, she would forfeit part of her salary, and she needed that more than ever.

She took a halfpenny tram to Victoria Street, meaning to walk from there to the theatre. Someone had left an evening paper on the seat, and she took it up to glance at the advertis.e.m.e.nts, and see if any hope for the future might be gleaned from them. As she turned over the pages her distracted eyes caught the impression of a name she knew, printed large among several other names. She looked again, and flame came into her face, light to her eyes.

It was, indeed, a name she knew: and yet did not. _Sir_ Evelyn Carson!

His name was on the Birthday List of Honours. He had been made a baronet _for services rendered to the Empire_. Swiftly she scanned the column, until she found the short biographical paragraph which told in brief outline of his daring expedition into Borapota; of the extraordinary personal influence he had speedily acquired over the warlike people of that country and of the remarkable concessions he had gained for the Empire. He had, in fact, without bloodshed or political complications, succeeded in establishing a British Protectorate in a rich and profitable country.

At the end of the column there was a further piece of information concerning Carson. It was embodied in a cablegram from Durban, which stated, with the convincing brevity peculiar to cables, that Sir Evelyn Carson, having arrived from Borapota, was to be married immediately to Miss May Mappin, only daughter and heiress of the late Mr. Isaac Mappin, former Mayor of Durban.

On her dressing-table at the theatre Poppy found a little envelope, pale-tan in colour, containing a week's salary and a note from the manager, saying that after the next night (Sat.u.r.day) the play would be taken off the boards; no further salaries would be paid. Every member of the company had received a similar notice.

During the wait in the second act she sought out Marion Ashley.

"Does Mrs. Chesney still want me?" she briefly inquired, and Marion turned to her eagerly.

"Of course she does. Will you go? Oh, you dear girl! I'm _so_ glad. When will you be able to take up your residence with her?"

"On Monday next, I think. I can't go before as I have to ... take some one ... who is ill ... into the country. I shall stay a day there only ... unless, unless ... the ... person is ... _worse_."

"And if the person is better?" asked Marion quickly. "Oh, my dear, you won't fail poor Frances, will you, if you can help it?"

"No." Poppy spoke in a perfectly calm and composed voice now, though her eyes were strange to see. "If I am alive, and have any reason to wish to continue living, you may rely upon me not to fail Mrs. Chesney."

Marion did not quite understand this, but she came to the conclusion that some man Miss Chard was in love with was desperately ill, and that that accounted for her distraught look and strange words.

PART IV

"This bitter love is sorrow in all lands, Draining of eyelids, wringing of drenched hands, Sighing of hearts and filling up of graves."