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 intriguÉ 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 assured 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 masses that they looked like miles of snowdrifts lying on the grass.

"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. GruyÈre, 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. That gave her something to bite on with her celluloid teeth."

Bramham amused Poppy in this fashion for something like two hours, and then, having given himself an invitation to call again shortly, he left her with laughter on her lips and the shadows fled from her eyes. She went indoors and, her old trick, looked at herself in a mirror.

"What is the matter with me," she said wonderingly, "that I can laugh and be gay, when I know that the future is dark with fateful things."

Nevertheless, she continued to laugh, and that night, while Sophie was away at the theatre and the house was quiet, she began and finished with the winged pen of inspiration a little merry song that was all sparkling with tears, full of the shadows that lie in dark valleys, but also fresh with the wind that blows across the hills lifting the shadows. Her personal troubles all forgotten in her work, she went to bed wrapped in the ecstasy of one who has achieved and knows the achievement good. But not to sleep. The lines of her poem twinkled and flashed back and forth through her brain; the metre altered itself to one, oddly, daringly original. Phrases like chords of music thrilled through her and everything she had already written seemed tame and meaningless. Lying there she re-wrote the whole thing in her brain, setting it to a swinging, swaying metre that swayed and swung her tired mind to rest at last. But in the calm light of morning she did not change her poem, for she had the artist's gift of selection and recognised inspiration when she saw it.

That day found her descended into the pit of desolation once more, with the "black butterflies" swarming overhead, shutting out the light. What was happening to her was that temperament was claiming her. The poet-artist in her that had struggled so long for the light was being born, with all the attendant pangs and terrors of deliverance, for when the body is sick and the soul torn with suffering is temperament's own time.

Intermittently she began to do fine work, but there were always the black hours afterwards when she forgot that she was an artist, and only knew the terror of being a woman. Then she suffered.

In the meantime, Sophie had her chained to the typewriter. She had begun to hate the clicking horror, but she felt an obligation to work for Sophie as hard as she was able, to pay for the food she ate and the roof over her head. She never dared to think of Abinger and whether he sought her. The secret exit in the garden wall she had skilfully hidden. Abinger would probably think that she had a double key to the front gate and had escaped that way, or else through the boys' compound. Certainly he would never dream of seeking for her in the house of Sophie Cornell. She had rigorously bound the latter to silence as to her presence in the little bungalow, and knowing that for some reason it was exceedingly important to Sophie to have her there, she had no doubt that the Colonial girl would keep her lips sealed. To the many men-friends of the fascinating Miss Cornell, it became known that a companion and assistant mysteriously shared her house, and her work, but the astounding thing was that this mysterious person kept to her own quarters at all times, and did not care for theatres, late suppers at the Royal, or drives to Inanda! It was generally supposed that she was, in the slang of the day, either "moth-eaten," or "cracked."

At the earliest opportunity Poppy tied Charles Bramham's tongue also, by telling him frankly that she had an enemy she was afraid of and whom she feared would find her out.

Bramham had become a constant visitor whom Poppy always welcomed. His visits meant to her a time of ease from the torment of her own thoughts, a respite from evil dreams. His big, bracing individuality evoked in her a strong liking and comradeship, and she hoped he had the same feeling for her; but she was sometimes afraid of the glances of his grey eyes.

She was not long in discovering that though he was essentially a man's man, he had a great fondness for the society of women; that, indeed, he was one of those men who are lost without a woman as the central figure of existence—to work for and wind dreams around. He told her so very often, in words that were meant to be enigmatical and symbolical, no doubt, but which were really as frank and simple as the man's nature.

"Life out here is saltless and savourless—just one day's march nearer voetsack, unless someone takes an interest in you," was the disconsolate remark he made to her one day, with a look in his eyes that was even more direct than his words.

"But you must have heaps of people who do that," Poppy answered evenly, "and you strike me essentially as being one of them yourself. I'm sure you must be, or you would not have made a success of your life."

"How do you know I'm a success?" somewhat gloomily.

"Oh, anyone can see that. You have the calm, assured look of a man whose future is secure."

"You mean I look smug and self-satisfied!"

"Nothing of the kind. When a man has any intellect to speak of, money merely expands his interests and makes him ever so much more interesting than before. Do you think Sam Johnson ever got smug-looking? even when he had three hundred a year, which was quite an income those days?"

"Are you comparing me with Johnson?" asked Bramham, grinning.

"Oh, you needn't be vain. Africa is swarming with men who are the equals of Johnson in brain, without being hampered by his principles. His endurance and fine courage are another matter entirely. I don't suppose there are many men here who have gone through what he did to reach success."

"You're mistaken there," said Bramham. "There are plenty of men out here who have beaten their way through almost insurmountable difficulties, and come out top-dog."

Poppy smiled sceptically.

"Difficulties, yes—but poverty and bitter want?

"'Slow rises worth by poverty depressed!'

"What do South Africans know of terrible poverty? Their minds are often starved, but never their bodies, and there is always the sunshine, to clothe and warm. Even the little Kaffir children have their stomachs filled with rice or mealie-meal pap and can roll in the sun and be happy. I don't suppose any of the residents of this place know the real meaning of the word poverty—you, for instance?"

"Oh, I'm not much of an instance," said Bramham carelessly. "I am a Colonial, but, as a matter of fact, I happen to have spent a great part of my youth in London. I had to leave Africa when I was ten and I thought it pretty rough luck. If you cast your eye around, you will notice that Natal seems to have been just made for boys of ten—there's the sea, and the bluff, and the bay, and the Bush. Ah, well! I don't suppose you will understand what it meant to leave all these things and go and settle in a gloomy little side street in Chelsea!"

Poppy could understand; but she was so much surprised that she said nothing.

"My mother was left a widow with two young sons," continued Bramham in a pleasantly narrative tone. "She had no means, but she had the pluck of ten men and a heart for any fate. She used to give music lessons and teach a few youngsters; but there is no income to speak of to be got out of that. We boys had to hustle out and find something to do as soon as we left school, which was pretty early. There was no hope of a profession for either of us; the only thing to do was to grab with teeth and nails whatever offered and make the best of it. I was the eldest and had to get out when I was twelve, and the first place I got was with an undertaker as a sort of boy-of-all-work. Lord! how I hated that business and that man! But I got a sound knowledge of book-keeping there that was invaluable later on. Afterwards I got a billet with a firm of auctioneers, and the experience I got there has been mighty useful too. But their place of business was a long way from Chelsea, and I couldn't afford fares, so I had to get up at three-thirty in the mornings and go off on foot with fourpence in my pocket to feed myself on during the day. There was a place I used to go to for my mid-day meal—a sort of 'Cabmen's Rest,' where I used to get a fine hunk of what is known as 'spotted dog' for twopence-halfpenny; but I couldn't run to that every day in the week, because it didn't leave me enough to live on for the rest of the day. The winter was the worst time. My mother was always up to see me off in the mornings, with a cup of coffee to put heart into me for my long walk—and she would be waiting for me in the evenings with a smile and a hot supper, probably something she had done without for her own dinner. During supper she usually had some astonishing tale to tell us of great men who, having had to struggle with adversity, had won through and come out top. She was a brilliantly-educated woman, and had been a wide reader—I don't think the life of any famous man had escaped her knowledge. It certainly put heart into me to know that finer men than I had gone through the same mill, and I often went to bed in a glow of virtue. But I'm bound to say that the glow had a way of wearing off during the daytime. We had a wealthy cousin who could have helped us a deal if he'd liked, but his help never went any further than writing letters of advice and forwarding parcels of discarded clothing. His frayed collars used to come my way. I think now, looking back, that the worst physical pain I can remember in those London years was the feel of that fellow's collars sawing at my gorge. He is still alive, and I am often obliged to meet him when I am in London, and I can tell you I never let him off those collars. I harp on them until he gets as frayed and sore as my neck used to be."

Bramham smiled gaily. Poppy wondered what the worst mental suffering had been, but she had too much respect for suffering to ask.

Indirectly, Bramham presently enlightened her.

"It was pretty bad those days to remember the life we had known out here. My brother, being fairly young, didn't feel it so much. My mother and I had our memories all to ourselves."

He made a long pause. Poppy said nothing. She was sitting with her elbows among the papers on the table listening intently.

"We came out here afterwards, and my brother and I put up a big fight for fortune, and we won out at last; but I don't know that we ever should, if my fine old mother hadn't been at the back of us all the time."

"She was a noble woman," said Poppy softly. "How you must have made it up to her afterwards."

"She died just when things were beginning to come our way," said Bramham.