"--And your lovely daddie?"

Silence.

"--Because I know they couldn't enjoy themselves at the theatre, or go to sleep to-night, or anything, if you didn't. But of course, you did.

Good-night, sweetness--give a kiss."

"G'night!" The little figure bounced up and put its arms round her and kissed her all over her face. Poppy tucked her in carefully.

"I'm so glad you prayed for mummie and daddie and me," she said fervently. "Good-night, darling-pet."

"G'night."

"You don't have the candle left, do you?"

"No."

"Shall I put the mosquito-curtain round?"

"Yes, please."

Poppy flicked it well with her handkerchief and arranged it round the bed like a big, white bird-cage; then taking the candle in her hand, walked slowly to the door.

"Well, good-night."

"G'night."

She opened the door and went out slowly.

At the last conceivable instant, as the door was on the point of closing, a little voice cried:

"Poppy!"

"Yes, sweetness."

"I want a drink of water."

Poppy went back, poured a gla.s.s of water, and carried it to the delinquent, who took a mouthful; then said, slowly and sorrowfully:

"I think I'll say prairses, Poppy."

"All right darling!" She sat down on the bed again and put her arms round the slim figure, who, kneeling with her nose snuggled into the soft, white shoulder, said her "prairses" at express-speed down into Poppy's evening-gown:

"Gen-tuljeesus, meek n' mil', Lookup pon a little chil'; Pitimysimplisitee, Suffer me t' come to Thee.

"Our Fath 'CHART in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy King and come, Thy will be done 'Nearth as 'tis 'Neaven. Give us 's day our _DAILY BREAD_ N' forgive us our trespa.s.ses 'gainst us. But 'liver us from evil. For Thine's kingdom, Power and GLORY, frever and ever, Amen.

"Our Father, please bless my darling Mummie, and take care of her at the theatre, and my lovely Daddie, _and_ Grannie, _and_ Grandad, _and_ Poppy, _and_ all the servants in _this_ house, _and_ all the little children in the world, _and_ fill our hearts with love 'n kindness, Amen--now I must say my _Latins_."

Clem was Catholic and Bill Protestant, and the result was a strange medley of prayers for Cinthie. She kneeled up, crossed herself solemnly in Latin, and began to chant the lovely words of the Angelical Salutation:

"_Ave Maria! gratia plena, Dominus tec.u.m: benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus._"

"_Sancta Maria! Mater Dei, ora pro n.o.bis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen._"

Afterwards she fell into a peal of laughing.

"Why do you laugh, darling?" Poppy gravely asked, and the answer was:

"Oh, Poppy! Wouldn't _Nunc_ be a funny name for a dog!"

Then once more the sheets were tucked in, the mosquito-net arranged, and a kiss blown through it.

"Good-night, Pansy-face!"

"G'night, Red-rose!" responded Cinthie ardently.

"Good-night, Gold-heart!"

Cinthie thought laboriously for a few seconds, struggling for a fitting response. At last, just as Poppy reached the door, she shouted breathlessly:

"G'night; White-soul!"

At that Poppy gave a cry and ran back once more and hugged her.

When at length she tore herself away from the warm, loving little arms and went alone to the drawing-room, heavy tears were splashing down her cheeks and her lips were like a wistful, sorrowing child's. She stood in the open window and stared out at the beauty of the night. Above in the solemn purple sky was the Cross, picked out in scarlet stars. Far below twinkled the town lights, and at quick intervals the Bluff Lighthouse sent long, sweeping, golden lines across the bay, revealing for an instant the shadowy fabrics of ships and sailing craft lying safe in dock.

Out at sea a great liner steamed slowly to anchorage, hundreds of lights flashing from her three tiers, and presently the rattle of her cable through the hawse-pipes floated distinctly up to the heights, the throbbing in her breast died away, and she lay rocking softly like some great tired bird nested at last.

In the dim valley a Zulu boy, heart-hungry for his home-kraal, was making music of an infinite sweetness and melancholy on that oldest instrument in the world, a reed-flute. The sound brought further tears to Poppy, and a burning in her throat. It seemed the voice of her heart wailing, because she had never been a child, because "earth was so beautiful and Heaven so far"; because she loved a man and was beloved of him and darkness lay between them! At that, she longed pa.s.sionately with every sense and nerve in her for Evelyn Carson. She ached in the very bones and blood of her for a sight or sound of him. If he would only come----!

"Oh, G.o.d! be good to me for once!" she cried with soundless lips. "Let him come--I will do the rest. There is no barrier I cannot break down between him and me. He is mine--dear G.o.d, you _know_ that he is mine! I bound him with my hair, my lips, my soul. I gave him of my best, I gave him my girlhood--_I bore his son_." The green leaves of the pa.s.sion-plant trailing over the window lapped gently against her cheek, and she put up her hands to them. "Oh, trees, leaves, all green things, help me--let him come----"

And he came, through the open gate, up the broad pathway, straight to her.

Her eyes were closed tight to stop her tears, but she heard him coming as she stood there with the shaded lamps behind her in the empty room, and the silver night on her face. He came so close to the verandah that he could look in upon her, and plainly see her pale emotion-wrung face and the tears urging through her tightly-closed lids and dripping from her lashes. Her lips opened and her breath came heavily, and the sight of her took strange hold of him. His own lips unclosed; the marks self-mockery had made about them had been wiped out; his handsome, haggard eyes had changed, boyhood had come back to them.

"Won't you come into the garden?" His voice had all the sweetness of Ireland in it. She unclosed her eyes and came out to him, the tears still shining on her cheeks: a pale, ardent woman--strangely like a narcissus.

He put an arm through hers and they walked together in the gracious dimness.

Down the centre of the garden dividing two lawns ran a high hedge of Barbadoes-thorn. It is a shrub garlanded with white tiny flowers of a perfume probably the most pungent in the world--much like the gardenia, or tuberose, but heavier, sweeter. To-night this perfume hung upon the air, and stayed with these lovers all their lives after. They sat on the gra.s.s under a giant flamboyant tree and a tiny green tree-frog sang a love-song to its mate in the branches over their heads. But they did not hear. They were deaf to everything now save the drumming in their hearts and the urging of their pulses. Carson had his arm about her, half for her support, wholly because he could not help it. Her tears were still on her face, and he leaned so close that his cheek was wetted by them.

One heavy drop fell on his lips and he tasted the salt of it, and it was as if he had tasted blood. Suddenly he turned her lips to his and began to kiss her with a mouth of flame.

"Eve! Eve!" she cried, afraid of her gladness. He did not speak; nor could he, if he would. Only he dragged kisses from the mouth he had desired so long; the eyes he had looked away from; the curving, cloven chin; the throat that shone in the darkness like a moony pearl. And when he came to her lips again, they kissed him back with wild, sweet kisses.

Her arms were round him too. One held his throat and her eyes were shut and sealed.

After some short, blind moments, in which she was lost, and he torn in two between desire and iron-determination, he lifted her suddenly to her feet.

"Darling, my heart, good-bye--for a little while," he said; "and then--_never_ good-bye again. The next time we kiss, you must be my wife."