LONDON was not new to Poppy. She had lived there for months at a time, but always at the best hotels and under luxurious conditions. Now, she hardly knew where to seek a home in accord with her limited means, but she had heard of Bloomsbury as being the resort of writers and artists and people whose riches are rather to be found in their heads and hearts than in their purses; so she took her way thither.

She walked the old-fashioned squares the day after her arrival and found them all green-tracery, and darts of spring sunshine that touched the gloomy houses with the gilt of past romance. After much roaming, and knocking, and climbing of stairs, and making of awkward adieus to angry, disappointed landladies, she eventually discovered a tall, white house, whose front windows overlooked the pigeons pecking in the straggly grass that grows in the courtyard of the British Museum. A room on the top floor but one seemed likely to suit her purse and her tastes, and she seized upon it eagerly. It was big and bare, with no noise overhead, except the footsteps of two tired maids, who crept to bed at eleven o'clock with very little to say to each other. It seemed to Poppy that she could not have found any better place to start hard work in, and yet, from the first day there, a dreariness crept over her spirit—a kind of mental numbness she had never known before, oppressed her. She supposed it must have something to do with her physical condition and the shock she had lately received, and that after a few days it would pass. Instead, it increased. Her nights became indescribably weird and unhappy. Always it seemed to her that she heard someone calling somewhere, and she used to wake up, thinking that she had been urgently roused to fetch something. Sometimes, still half asleep, she would get up and begin to dress to go out; then, gradually becoming conscious of what she was doing, she would light the gas and stare round the room, looking for the person who had been speaking to her. In the daytime it became impossible to work, though she perpetually goaded herself to her writing-table. The only time she could get any ease from the intolerable restlessness and depression that filled her, was when she was half out of her window, leaning above the street, watching the intermittent stream of uninteresting-looking people who passed up and down the broad, dingy steps of the Museum, and listening to the roar of London afar. Trying to interpret the street calls was an idle amusement, too, wondering why the coal-carters should shout Ko-bel, and the cry of the oyster-man be exceeding dolorous like the cry of a soul in the depths.

Clam ... Clam ... clamavi.

In the afternoons, when still haunting sadness obsessed her, she would put on her hat and visit a picture-gallery, or walk in the park, or roam the streets looking at the shop-windows and into the strained, anxious faces of the hurrying passers-by. She speculated as to whether she would ever get that look, and always she wondered what was worth it; then one day, as she walked, she felt what seemed tiny fluttering fingers clutching at her heart-strings, and she knew! Flying home on swift feet, she nailed herself once more to her work-table. She must work, she told herself feverishly; and when she could not, frenzy seized her, then terror, then despair. Yes, those were the things she had seen in the strained, hurrying faces that passed along—frenzy, terror, despair; not for themselves, but for others. She must work!

But Inspiration hid Her face; and shadows came out of the four corners of the room and closed in upon her.

Breakfast was always brought on a tray by a maid called Kate. For the rest of her meals she frequented A.B.C. shops, and the like, existing on cups of tea and boiled eggs and glasses of milk, after the manner of women who live alone and have to economise. But sometimes in a wild burst of extravagance she would wend her way to Soho and order a little Italian meal all hors-d'oeuvres and thin Chianti. She loved to hear the French and Italian chatter about her, and felt more at home there than anywhere, not minding the men's bold, dark glances, for in her travels with Abinger she had learnt to know that there was really little of harm in them. Of course, she attracted much attention and often had uncomfortable adventures in her lonely goings and comings; but she did not let these ruffle her greatly, telling herself that all such things were part and parcel of the fight. She minded nothing, in fact, except the tragic atmosphere of her room, which engulfed her spirit as soon as she entered. The nights began to be even more eerie. She lay awake often until dawn, and presently longings and urgings came upon her to procure something that would produce sleep. She had never known anyone who took drugs or sleeping-draughts, and could not imagine what put such an idea into her head—indeed, having read De Quincey's Confessions, she had a horror of such things, and so, fought the suggestion with all her might. But still it returned. Once when she was sitting at her table, with a throbbing head, biting her pencil before a blank sheet of paper, she distinctly heard someone softly say:

"Go and buy some inspiration."

She stared about the empty room.

"What can be the matter with me?" she demanded of herself, after a time, and strove with all her strength to work and drive such insane thoughts from her. But the writer within her was mute, the poet dumb, and her woman's body was very weary.

One day, she had been striving with herself for many hours, writing down dry, banal words that she almost dug out of the paper a moment afterwards. At intervals she sat with her head on her arms, wondering what had ever caused her to dream that she was born to the pen; brooding over the possibilities of her chances as a shop-girl, a waitress in a tea-shop, a chorus-girl, a housemaid—as anything but a writer of poems and romantic fiction, at which she was obviously a dismal failure.

At last she flung papers and pencils to the four corners of the room, and left the house. Out of doors it was raining fearsomely. After tramping for an hour or so, soaked through, she found herself back near home, in Theobald's Row—a hateful street that smells of fish and rank cheese, where men bawl out the price of pork-chops, and women come furtively stealing from side-doors, wiping their lips. She made haste to get into Southampton Row, which has a sweeter savour to the nostrils and a staid, respectable air. At a corner she passed a paper shop, which had many news-boards exposed, with the "sheets" hanging dripping and torn from them. One yellow sheet stood out boldly with the words "South Africa" in black letters across it. A pang of joy shot through her. She could have fallen down before that tattered paper and kissed the magic words. The name of her own land! The land that had beaten her and bruised her and flung her out to seek a living and safety in another country—but her own land! Some words came to her lips:

So far she had forbidden herself entirely the luxury of journals and magazines, saying that she could not afford them; but now she went into the shop and recklessly bought up everything that had any connection with South-African affairs.

Afterwards, going home, she saw a flower-girl crouching in a doorway with a bale of wet daffodils and narcissi in her arms. Flowers, too, were luxuries, concerning which she had laid down a law unto herself; but the girl made a piteous appeal, and without a thought of dwindling funds, Poppy bought up the whole wet fragrant bale. Before she reached home she was reproaching herself bitterly.

"How can I be buying magazines and flowers with money I have not earned?... I am becoming degraded! ... a parasite!"

Only the smell of the narcissi reassured her, and changed the trend of her thoughts, for they reminded her of Charles Bramham and his acres of flowers seen from the hilltops.

"He would be glad to think that his money brings this rift of blue into my grey sky," she thought; and she turned her dreary room into an enchanted spring garden, extravagantly ordered a fire and sat before it, tearing the news out of the papers with her eyes, searching for the name of Evelyn Carson. She had not far to look. In every paper she found news of him. His party had arrived at Borwezi, a spot in Central Africa, the last civilised touching-place before they plunged into the savage unknown. He had made a long stay there—for it was on the banks of a "fever river," second only to the Pungwe. Carson was reported to have been laid up with malarial fever for a week, and a doctor who had joined the expedition at Mombassa had been so ill from the same cause as to be obliged to abandon his intention and to be taken back to civilisation under the care of people who had accompanied the expedition as far as Borwezi. One paper mentioned the names of Mr. and Mrs. Nick Capron as being of the returning party. This was as far as the actual news went. Rumours there were in plenty. One arresting story, brought into Borwezi by native runners, was that the natives of Borapota were departing from every part of their country to assemble in the capital, where the King would receive Carson and his men—whether in a friendly or hostile spirit was unknown. Several papers devoted articles to Carson himself, dealing with his achievements in different parts of Africa, his personality, his influence with the Zulus and Basutos, and other less-known tribes. One journal headed an article with the word—Intandugaza: fortunately the writer did not attempt to translate the Zulu word, nor explain how Carson came to bear it. (Perhaps that was "one of the untoward things about him not compatible with reverence," thought Poppy sadly.) After she had drunk in every word of him, the papers lay scattered at her feet, and she, lapsing from the decree she had made not to think of him, lost herself at last in dreams of him. She had lived according to the rules of Alice Meynell's Renouncement:

Now she forgot the fine, firm words, and long, long sat dreaming by the fire, with her hands before her face. Anyone looking into the room would merely have seen a girl lying back in her chair resting, asleep perhaps. But only the lesser part of Poppy Destin was there. The spirit of her wandered in a moonlit Natal garden, listening to a voice with a rustle in it, and from thence ... far, far!

Afterwards, she reconstructed all the chapters of her life since the magic night that began so wonderfully and ended in despair with the uttering of another woman's name. Of that woman—Loraine, she thought little now, having fought down and killed the bitter hatred of her, as once she had wished to kill the woman. There was no room in her awakened heart for hatred—only Love could be there. Love of the man who had awakened it, and to whom, whether he loved her or not, she believed herself to be secretly linked for ever; and to whom, whether she saw him again or not, her hopes, her future, her life were dedicated. But she would see him again!—of that she was blindly, fatalistically certain: and he would know her for his mate, as she knew him—or of what use her beauty, her wit, her charm, her life at all? All things would entangle themselves, she told her heart. As soon as she had money enough she meant to free herself from the marriage with Luce Abinger that was no marriage at all; and from which he knew a Court of Justice would free her as an innocent, unwitting victim. As she sat thinking, many things that had been dark became clear. The meaning of Abinger's fearsome conduct was plain to her now—he knew! Kykie had told him. That was what she had stayed up for, supposing herself to be the herald of glad tidings.

It made the girl recoil and quiver to think that those two had known and spoken of what had been hidden from her; of what, even now, she dared hardly consider with herself because of its wonder and terror—something that no one in the world should know except just two people: so it seemed to her.

"But, oh, Mother of God!" she cried aloud and bitterly. "Why is this thing so sweet, and yet so terrible to bear?"

Even while she asked she knew, and gave herself the answer.

"I am a Transgressor——"

At last, far into the night, she undressed and went to bed; so tired from emotion that she fell at once into dead slumber. But no sooner was she asleep than she was dreaming that a woman lay by her side on the bed whispering into her ear, pleading, asking for something, begging, urgently demanding. With a wrench Poppy threw off sleep and sat up staring into the darkness of the room. She was only half-awake, but she was certain—she could have sworn that a shadowy figure rose, too, from the bed, and slipped into the far shadows.

Beads of fright sat on her forehead.

"I am going mad!" she thought. "There was a woman on my bed ... she is still in the room. I am going mad!"

She was afraid to lie down again, and afraid to get out of bed. She sat there in cold terror until she thought herself turned to stone. Then, slowly, reason reasserted itself, and courage. She clenched her teeth and nerved herself to move, to get from the bed and from the room. The whole house was wrapped in darkness. Instinctively she made for the room above her, where she knew the servants were. Reaching the door she knocked and then entered. One of them was awake at once.

"Who's there? What do you want?" said an excited voice, ready to scream.

"Don't be afraid, Kate ... I am the girl who sleeps in the room below ... Miss Chard.... I don't want to disturb you—only—let me stay here until morning, will you?... I'm afraid to be in my own room."

Kate was "a good sort." She struck a match and stared at the intruder before answering; then she said: "Lock the door," and was obeyed with alacrity.

The maid hopped out and soon had a blanket round Poppy's trembling form. She made room on the bed, and they sat whispering together. The other maid slept on like the dead.

"What did you see?" asked Kate.

"See? I don't know ... there was something strange——"

"It was 'er, sure enough!"

"What do you mean, Kate?" Poppy felt her spine curling.

"I'm new here," whispered Kate mysteriously; "but I got five minutes' talk with the last girl, though the missis tried hard to keep us from meeting. Miss—no one ever sleeps in that room long. A lydy cut her throat there!"

"What!"

"Yes—sure as I'm sitting here. I've been afraid to creep up the stairs at night for fear of her. How you could a slep there, Heavin knows!" She lowered her voice to a whisper: "She used to take them drugs. She was a hactress, and she and her 'usbin had that room. She was very clever, they said, but she hadn't had no work for a long time, and she used to eat away at them drugs night and day, and 'er 'usbin never knew. And at last, one day he found 'er out, and there was an awful shindy and he said as 'e'd leave her if she didn't knock it off. And she tried and tried. For a whole three days she did without ... walked the room all day and would go out and no sooner out than in again ... she told the girl it was 'ell. Every time anyone came to the door she would stand up and just say, ''ell! 'ell! ell!' very quiet to herself all the time they was speaking. Then on the third night she went out and got it. And the 'usbin found out as soon as he came in. She was so gentle and sweet-like, and began to 'elp 'im off with his coat. He gave her a look ... like hanythink, then 'e put his hat and coat on again and walked out. And that very night she done for 'erself with one of the razors 'e left behind. She done it in the very bed you bin sleeping in. I says to cook I says it's a shime of the missis to do it!—but there! she's one of them would sell 'er mother's shroud for sixpence. I shan't stay here no more after this, don't you believe it, miss—not for a thousand pound; and nor won't you, I reckon."

Poppy's reckoning came to much the same sum. When she stole down in the morning light, it was to dress herself and pack her belongings swiftly for departure. Kate stayed by the door until all was done, casting fearsome glances about her, ready to fly at a sound. They left the flower-decked room then, to the poor, disquieted spirit that haunted it, and sought the mistress of the house. But she discreetly excused herself from an interview, and only sent the cook to demand a week's extra money in lieu of the notice that should have been given. Poppy expostulated, but it was of no use: she was told that it was the rule under which rooms were let and that her luggage could be detained. When she had paid, she realised that this extra expense would force her to seek still cheaper lodgings. That evening found her installed in a dingy room in Hunter Street—another top-floor-but-one.

How she wished at this time, that she had betaken herself from the first to Paris, where, she had been told all top-floors are white-and-gold rooms, with faded true-lovers' knots festooning the ceiling, and wide oak fireplaces in which burnt little bright briquette fires. Once, wishing to have a picture in the Louvre copied for Luce, she had visited a clever but penniless girl-artist in such a room, in quite a poor part of the Quartier; and the girl had carelessly told her that there were plenty of the same kind to be had.

In her new quarters Poppy had barely room to turn round: but she was more content. No tragic ghosts kept vigil there, it was certain. A healthy scent of Irish stew pervaded the atmosphere, and the walls were decorated with smiling faces and charming figures. The landlady, a stout, breezy woman on the right side of forty-five, had once been a chorus girl at the Gaiety, and her circle of acquaintances had evidently been large. Little now remained to her of beauty, but she had an attractive bonhomie and a wide charity for the world of women.