"Clem, you are infatuated."

"You'll see," said Clem. "Only be patient and kind--I must really go and see what cook has for lunch. If she gives us curried mutton once more and stewed guavas and custard, Billy will calmly proceed to bust."

She escaped.

CHAPTER XXV

Mrs. Portal knew that Poppy was working as for her life, but she did not know why. Only, sometimes, out of the deep love and sympathy she felt for the girl, she longed to know the truth. The truth was far even from her far-seeing eyes.

She believed that there must be a man somewhere in the world whom Poppy loved, for well she knew that such a wound as Poppy hid could only have been dealt by a man's unerring hand--and none but a loved hand could strike so deep! With all the mystical-religious, loving side of her nature, Clem prayed that life might yet do well by her friend and give her her heart's desire; but hope did not rise very high. She was fond of quoting that saying:

"The things that are really for thee gravitate to thee. Everything that belongs to thee for aid or comfort shall surely come home through open or winding pa.s.sages. Every friend whom not thy fantastic will but the great and tender heart in thee craveth, shall lock thee in his embrace."

--and she would have liked to believe it, but Life had taught her differently. In the meantime, in so far as she was able, she watched faithfully and anxiously over Poppy's destiny, dragging her from her desk when the lilac eyes grew heavy and the tinted face too pale for health; making up gay little parties to drive or walk or go to the theatre, arranging merry dinners and excursions--anything that would distract, and presently bring back vivacity and strength, and renew courage.

If it had not been for these things it is very certain that Poppy, with all her resolution and purpose, must have broken down from overwork and the strain of seeing the man she loved turn his eyes from her perpetually. For there were desperate hours when she obliged herself to face the fact that Evelyn Carson gave no sign of any feeling for her but a certain polite curiosity. In the black, despairing days that never fail to come to highly-strung, temperamental people, she bitterly derided herself, her work, her cause, asking what it was all for?

To win freedom from Luce Abinger and cast herself into the arms of Eve Carson? But were his arms open to her? Plainly not. Plainly here was another of the "little songs they sing in h.e.l.l"--of the woman who loves, but is beloved not by the beloved.

Oh! she had her black and desperate days--

"And the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night."

But afterwards _Hope_ played for her on the one brave string--and she took up her pen and worked on.

On a stormy, sullen day towards the end of April she wrote the concluding words of the two things she had been working on at the same time--a play and a novel. They contained the best work she had ever done, for though they were begun for the love of a man, they were gone forward with, for the love of her craft, and, as all good craftsmen know, it is only in such spirit that the best work is achieved. All that remained to do was to go over and through the ma.n.u.scripts once more, when they had been typed, to polish here and re-phrase there; and just to linger over all for a day in sheer delight and surprise. She was not peculiar among writers, in that, apart from the plan and construction of a thing, she never remembered from day to day what she had written, and always felt the greatest surprise and freshness in re-reading pa.s.sages which had sped from her mind to paper in inspired moments, and which, if not written at those moments, would have been lost for ever.

Schopenhauer was not the only person in the world to discover that a beautiful thought is like a beautiful woman. If you want to keep the one always you must tie her to you by marriage, if the other, you must tie it to you with pen and paper or it will leave you and never return.

On that morning when she made her finished work into two tall piles of exercise-books before her on her table, the measure of content was hers that is felt by even the heaviest-hearted when they look upon good work done.

She laid her head on the books and tears fell softly down, and her heart sang a little song that was pure thankfulness and praise for the goodness of G.o.d.

And while she sat, there came a little tap at the door.

Miss Allendner entered with a letter, and Poppy, taking it from her, saw that it was addressed in the small, strong writing she had not seen for years, but which she instantly recognised as Luce Abinger's. She laid it down mechanically on the table.

"Mr. Abinger brought it himself," said Miss Allendner, "and would not leave it until he heard that you were here and would receive it at once.

He said it was _very_ important."

"Thank you," said Poppy quietly, and sat staring at the letter long after her companion had left the room.

Afterwards, she laid her head on the books again, but wearily now, and the tears of her eyes were dried up and so was the little chant of praise in her heart. She was afraid--afraid of the letter; of the look she had seen in Luce Abinger's eyes of late--the old, hateful look--and of the fight before her. Now that she had done the work and would have the money to fight with, she was afraid. But only for a time. Those who have fought with any of the grim forces of life--sorrow, pain, poverty, despair--and defeated even the least of these in battle, have strength to fight again, and secret springs of courage to drink from in the hour of need. Poppy rose from her table at last with such new courage in her, that she could laugh disdainfully at the sealed letter and all it contained of threats, or commands. She left it sealed and lying there for some other hour's perusal. It should not spoil _this_ her glad day of finished tasks.

She locked the door upon it and her work, and went to her room to change her gown and get ready to spend the rest of the day with Clem Portal.

She would probably stay the night, but she took nothing with her, for she had now quite a collection of clothes at Clem's for emergencies.

On the afternoon of the same day she sat dreaming in a Madeira-chair in Clem's drawing-room, while the latter meditated on the piano, trying to compose an air sufficiently mournful to set to the words of a little song of Poppy's called "In Exile." Softly, she sang it over and over to long slurring chords--curiously sweet and strange.

I.

Across the purple heather The winds of G.o.d blow sweet.

But it's O for the smell of London And the roar of a London street!

II.

Upon the wine-dark waters The sun strikes clean and hot.

But it's O for a London garden And the woman who loves me not!

"You say you are no musician, Clem, but I never knew anyone who could make lovelier sounds come out of a piano," Poppy said.

Clem laughed.

"Dear, I can't play at all: it is this little song that sets chords singing in my head. What were you thinking of when you wrote it?"

"Of Dr. Ferrand, I think, that first Sunday I came here. You remember how he talked of London?--and you said that he had 'his own box of matches and could make his own h.e.l.l any day in the week,' like poor _d.i.c.k Heldar_. The circ.u.mstances seemed to indicate that there was some woman in England who didn't love him--but I daresay that applies to a good many men out here."

"The most usual circ.u.mstance," said Clem laughing, "is that the woman loves too well. Some men find that hardest of all to bear."

Poppy reflected on this for a while.

"I suppose you mean wives! It is curious how many people seem to marry to live apart, isn't it, Clem?"

"Yes; I call it the cat-and-reptile game," said Clem, swinging round on the music-stool and beginning to run her hands through her crinkly, curly, fuzzy dark hair with seven red lights in it. "The cat catches the reptile, scratches him, bites him, wounds him, puts her mark on him for good, and as soon as he has no more kick left in him, off she goes and leaves him alone."

Poppy was laughing.

"Well, some of the reptiles make marvellous recoveries," said she, remembering one, at least, whom she had known.

"You can't blame them for _that_--it isn't very interesting to be dead, I suppose."

"As for the cats who don't leave their reptiles," continued Poppy, thinking of some of the dull people she had recently met, "nothing could be deader than the pair of them. And then they label themselves 'happily married.'"

"Now, Poppy, I won't have you walking over my cabbages and onions."

"I'm not, Clem--but they don't make marriage look alluring to anyone with an imagination, do they? Of course, it is wonderful to see your happiness----"

"Yes; Bill and I _are_ rather wonderful"--Clem jumped up in a hurry--"I must _absolutely_ go and get some socks and stockings to mend. There is a pile as big as a house waiting--" She flashed out of the room.

"She won't discuss her happiness with me," thought Poppy. "It is too sacred!"

By the time Clem came back a settled gloom was over everything; the rain was heavily pelting against the windows; occasionally a bright beam of light shot through the room, leaving it as grey as a witch; afterwards the thunder groaned like some G.o.d in agony.