Presently Babiyaan brought in the little silver urn and placed it before Poppy, and she lighted the spirit-lamp under it and made the coffee as she was always used to do in the old white farm. Cigars and cigarettes were put before Abinger.

Abinger drank his coffee as he had eaten, in absolute silence. Then, getting up suddenly, he bit off a word of apology with the end of his cigar, and left the room, Babiyaan following him.

Poppy immediately helped herself to a cigarette, put her elbows on the table and began to smoke. Later, she took her coffee and sat in the verandah. It was shady and full of deep comfortable chairs. From thence she presently saw Abinger emerge from the front door and depart into the garden; the closing clang of the gate told her that he had gone out. The heat of the day was oppressive. She lay back, staring at the lacy green of the trees against the blue, and considering the horrible affair of Luce Abinger's devils.

"It is bad enough for me to have to live with them--what must it be for him!" was her thought. She had seen his torment coming upon him as they neared Africa. Day by day he had grown more saturnine and unsociable. At last he spoke to no one; only Poppy, as a privileged person had an occasional snarl thrown in her direction. It was plain to her that returning to Africa meant to him returning to purgatory; especially since he did not intend to go back to seclusion, but to take up his residence in this house in Durban, where he had often lived in past years. Poppy had gathered from Kykie that before he "got his mark," as she curiously expressed it, and went to live at the old white farm, Abinger had kept house in Johannesburg and Durban; had lived for a part of the year in each house, and was well known in both places. So that coming back would cause him all the torture of meeting old friends who had known him before his disfigurement. He would have to run the gauntlet of familiar eyes grown curious and questioning.

"Why should he have chosen to come back at all to the place of his torment?" Poppy wondered. "It would surely have been simpler and easier to have settled in Italy or somewhere where he knew no one, and would not be noticed so much. It can only be that Africa has her talons in _his_ heart, too; she has clawed him back to her brown old bosom--he _had_ to come."

As Poppy sat in the verandah thinking of these things, she heard the _boys_ in the room behind her clearing the luncheon-table, and talking to each other in their own language. Either they had forgotten her or they thought she could not hear.

"Where has _Shlalaimbona_ gone?" asked Umzibu; and Babiyaan answered without hesitation:

"He has gone to the _Ker-lub_ to make a meeting with _Intandugaza_ and _Umkoomata_."

Few things are more amazing than your Kaffir servants' intimate knowledge of your affairs, except it be their absolute loyalty and secrecy in these matters outside your own walls. Abroad from home their eyes and ears and tongue know nothing. They are as stocks and stones.

They might be fishes for all the information they can give concerning you and yours.

Also, whether they love or hate or are indifferent to him they serve, they will infallibly supply him with a native name that will fit him like his own skin. Sometimes the name is a mere mentioning of a physical characteristic but usually it is a thing more subtle--some peculiarity of manner or expression, some idiosyncrasy of speech--a man's secret sin has been known to be blazoned forth in one terse Zulu word.

It must not be supposed, however, that South African natives are as deep in mysterious lore as the Chinese, or as subtle as Egyptians. The fact is merely, that like all uncivilised peoples they have a fine set of instincts; an intuition leads them to nearly the same conclusions about people as would a trained reasoning power. Only that the native conclusion has a corner of the alluring misty veil of romance thrown over it, while the trained reason might only supply a cold, hard, and perhaps uninteresting fact.

Instances are, where the meaning of a native nickname is too subtle for the nominee himself--though any Zulu who runs may read and understand.

If Luce Abinger had asked his servants why they called him _Shlalaimbona_, they would have shrugged shoulders and hung their heads, with a gentle, deprecating gesture. Being questioned, they would look blank; being told to get out and go to the devil, they would look modest. Afterwards they would exchange swift dark glances, and smiling, repeat among themselves with a gesture of stabbing: "_Shlalaimbona!_"

Literally this word means--_stab when you see him_. What they meant by applying this name to Abinger, G.o.d and themselves knew best. Poppy had often pondered the reason, but she had never made any inquiries for fear it might have something to do with Abinger's scar. For another thing, Abinger desired her never to talk to the _boys_.

"Keep them at a distance: they will be all the better servants," was his command; and in this, as in most things, Poppy found it wiser to obey him.

Babiyaan continued to give interesting information to Umzibu.

"Just as _Shlalaimbona_ was going to get into the carriage, _Umkoomata_ came to the docks and fell upon him with great friendliness. Afterwards they went to an hotel to drink. Then _Umkoomata_ made a plan for meeting at the _Ker-luk_ when _Intandugaza_ would be there and others--_Baas Brookifield_, he with the curled hair and the white teeth; and that other one, _Caperone_, whose wife is like a star with light around it; and _Port-tal_, who is always gay with an angry face."

At this juncture Umzibu missed Poppy's coffee-cup, and coming into the verandah to seek it, the presence of Poppy was revealed to him. He immediately communicated the fact by sign to Babiyaan, and a silence fell. Thereafter no more confidences; Poppy was left to speculate upon the ident.i.ty of the person who wore so fascinating a t.i.tle as _Intandugaza_, which name she translated to herself as _Beloved of women_. The word _Umkoomata_, too, had a charm of its own.

"That means someone who is very reliable, literally _St.u.r.dy One_. I should like to know that man," she thought.

At about this time it occurred to her that she was tired and would go to rest in her room a while. She had risen at five that morning to watch the African coast and revel in the thought that she would soon have her foot on her own land again. The excitement of the day had tired her more than she knew. When she looked in her gla.s.s to rake the little gold combs through her hair, she saw that she was pale. The only colour about her was her scarlet ardent mouth and the flower at her breast.

She flung off her gown and plunged her arms and face into cold water, then let down her hair with a rush and pulling her chair opposite her mirror, she sat down in company she had never so far found uninteresting--the company of her own reflection.

She did not put on a wrapper. For one thing the day was warm, for another she found great pleasure in seeing her bare pale arms and shoulders, and the tall pale throat above them, so slim and young.

Indeed, there are few more beautiful things in the world than a young throat--be it girl's or boy's, bird's or beast's.

The scarlet flower she had plucked at the door she wore now between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She looked at the girl in the gla.s.s a long, long time, and the girl looked back at her. But it was not the look of the woman who counts and examines her weapons, for Poppy Destin was heart-whole; she had never yet looked into her gla.s.s to see how she was reflected in some man's eyes. Always she looked to wonder. The transformation of herself from what she had been only six years ago to what she was now at eighteen, never ceased to fascinate and amaze her. When she thought of the tormented, tragic features she had feared to catch a glimpse of, and looked now into that narrow scarlet-lipped, lilac-eyed subtle face, crowned with fronds of black, black hair, she believed she must be witnessing a miracle. When she remembered her aching, thin, childish body, beaten, emaciated, lank, and beheld herself now, long-limbed, apple-breasted, with the slim strong grace and beauty of a Greek boy, she could have shouted for joy and amazement at the wonder of it all.

Yet in the old white farmhouse where she had found refuge and a remarkable education, she had been able to watch with her own eyes the change of the famished, wretched little two-leaved seedling into a beautiful flowering plant.

She had often thought of herself as one set alone in an arid waste to travel where and how she could, with no help from anyone, and who, in her terrible travelling had found hidden gifts by the wayside, and little pools of consolation to lave her wounds and her weary heart, little patches of flowers to refresh her senses--all left there for her by the loving forethought of those who had travelled that way before her; her beauty, her voice, the grace of her body, her clear understanding, grace of tongue, had come upon her as she travelled to womanhood--all so unexpectedly; all wonderful gifts hidden deeply away until she came suddenly upon them, one by one.

At last, through long thinking and piecing together of many broken ends of memory and disjointed sc.r.a.ps of information concerning her family history, she had come very close to realising the truth--that she owed much of what she was to the sweet simple Irish-women who had been her maternal ancestors. If your grandmother has worn a shawl over her head and walked barefoot on the bitter coast of Clare with a smile on her lips and a melody in her heart, she had something better to bequeath to you than money or possessions: her song and her smile will come down through the years and make magic in your eyes; her spirit will trample your troubles underfoot. If your mother has laid her heart in a man's hands, and her neck under a man's feet, and died for want of his kisses on her mouth, she, too, will have had something to bequeath: a cheek curved for caresses, lips amorously shaped, and sweet warm blood in the veins.

And there was more that Poppy Destin did not know. She was only eighteen and could not know all her gifts yet--some women never know them at all until they are too old to use them! She had unwittingly left uncounted her biggest a.s.set, though it was signed and sealed upon her face--the sign and seal of Ireland. Ireland was in the frank, sweet eyes of her; in the cheek-bones pitched high in her face; in her branching black hair; in her soft sad voice, and her subtly curved lips. Though she had never seen that sad, lovely land, she was one of its fair daughters: there lay her beauty; that was her magic.

Presently she left her gla.s.s and going to the load of trunks which had been piled up inside the door, she took her dressing-case from the summit of the pile, and unlocking it, extracted a little white vellum-covered note-book. Sitting down before her writing-table she opened the book at random and kissed its pages with a rush of tears and a pa.s.sion that always surged in her when she touched it. For it contained the story of her childhood, sung in little broken, wretched songs. Her blurred eyes looked from one heading to another:

"My heart is as cold as a stone in the sea!"

"My soul is like a shrivelled leaf!"

"The woman with the crooked breast."

This was the t.i.tle of old Sara's story made into a little song.

Poppy Destin dreamed of being a great writer some day; but she knew, with the sure instinct of the artist, that even if her dream came true she could never surpa.s.s these little studies in misery; these cries of wretchedness wrung from a child's heart by the cruel hands of Life.

Nothing had ever yet been able to wipe from her mind the remembrance of those days. For six years she had lived a life in which fresh events and interests were of daily occurrence; and like a blighted seedling transplanted to a warm, kind climate, she had blossomed and bloomed in mind and body. But the memory of those days that had known no gleam of hope or gladness hung like a dark veil over her youth, and still had power to drive her into torments of hatred and misery. Her soul was still a shrivelled leaf, and her heart as cold as a stone in the sea.

She was very sure that this should not be so; she knew that she was incomplete. The instincts of her artist nature told her that somewhere in the world there must be someone or something that would wipe this curse of hatred from her; but she had never been able to find it, and she knew not where to seek it. Art failed her when she applied it to this wound of hers that bled inwardly. Despairingly she sometimes wondered whether it was religion she needed; but religion in the house of Luce Abinger was a door to which she found no key.

Often, abroad, she had stolen away and knelt in quiet churches, and burnt candles in simple wayside chapels, trying, praying, to throw off the heavy, weary armour that cased her in, to get light into her, to feel her heart opening, like a flower, and the dew of G.o.d falling upon it. She had searched the face of the Madonna in many lands for some symbol that would point the way to a far-off reflection in herself of

"The peace and grace of Mary's face."

She had knelt in dim cathedrals, racking her ears to catch some note in gorgeous organ strains or some word from the lips of a priest that would let loose a flood of light in her and transform her life. But always, when the ecstasy and exaltation had pa.s.sed off, and the scent of incense no longer wrapped her round, she could feel again the cold of the stone and the rustle of the leaf in her breast. She could hear without annoyance the bitter fleers of Abinger at religion and priests and churches, and though they offended her taste, could listen serene-eyed.

She understood very well what ailed Luce Abinger, for she was touched with the blight that lay thick upon him. His nature was warped, his vision darkened by hatred and evil memories. His soul was maimed and twisted in the same cruel fashion that his face had been scarred and seamed, and he terribly hated G.o.d. Poppy often thought of it as an ironical trick of fate, that she and Luce Abinger--just the two people in all South Africa, perhaps, who could do least for each other's peace and healing--should be thrown together to live under the same roof for many years. In some ways they had served each other well. He had made his house a refuge for her from persecution, and had been the means of educating and bringing her to fine womanhood. She, on the other hand, had come into his life at a time when he was on the verge of madness and when it meant everything to him to have some interest that would tear his thoughts from himself and his disgust of life.

The solitude of the quiet old farm, chosen for its isolated position, was lightened by the presence of the young girl. Abinger had been diverted to watch the change and development in the small, shipwrecked vagabond. Afterwards it had first amused, then interested him, to feed her eager appet.i.te for learning. For three years he had taught her himself, in strange desultory fashion it is true, but it happened to be the fashion best suited to her needs and temperament. He imported from England huge weekly packages of books of both modern and cla.s.sical literature, together with every variety of journal and magazine. He allowed Poppy the free run of all; only, always she must recount to him afterwards what she had read. A sort of discussion ensued, so dominated by his mordant cynicism and biting wit that she certainly ran no danger of developing any _mawkish_ views of life. This for two or three hours daily. The rest of time was hers to read in or wander for hours in the lovely silent country, knowing a peace and tranquillity she had never dreamed of in her early wretched years. The part of the Transvaal they were in was but thinly populated--a few scattered Boer farms, and a native mission-house with a chapel and school inst.i.tuted by a brotherhood of French priests of the Jesuit order. These were their only neighbours, and they not close ones.

Abinger had chosen his retreat well.

After three years it had occurred to him to leave the farm and go back to the world. He had tired of seclusion, and longed, even while he feared, to be amongst his fellows again. He was not yet prepared, however, to go back to the African haunts that had known him in the past, but made for the big open world beyond the seas; and Poppy went with him as his sister. Wherever they went he never allowed her to make any friends; only when they reached any city or place where he cared to stay for any length of time, he at once engaged masters and mistresses for her, to continue the education that he had by now tired of superintending, but which, for reasons of his own, he wished to perfect.

CHAPTER II

At five o'clock Kykie appeared with a tea-tray. She had a.s.sumed an air of calm, and her afternoon dress, which afforded a fine display of roses trellised on a bright blue background, and gave her the appearance of a large and comfortable ottoman. She cast an outraged look about the room.

"Haven't you unpacked yet, for gracious' sake, Poppy?"

"No, I haven't. Bring the tea over here, Kykie."

She was lying on her bed, which was long and narrow as the path to heaven, and yet seemed to have grown too short for her, since she was obliged to perch her feet upon the bra.s.s bar across the end.

"Then what have you been doing, in the name of goodness me?"

"Nothing ... just thinking ... pour it out and come and sit by me here.... I haven't had a word with you yet."

Kykie poured out the tea, and put some little toasted cakes on a plate, using her fat, yellow hands with extraordinary delicacy. Afterwards she sat in a chair with the things in her lap, waiting until Poppy should be ready.