AT the end of April the season at the Lyceum drew to a close, and Ravenhill re-formed his company to tour the provinces.

Many of those who had worked with him throughout the season were moneyed girls, with such a passion for the stage, that they were only too glad to give their services—"walking-on," dancing, and understudying—without salary, for the sake of the experience in a London theatre; and it would have been an easy matter for the manager to have composed his touring company largely of such people. But he happened to be a man with a big heart for the stragglers of the profession; those who were in it for the love of their art, too, but incidentally obliged to make a living. And so, though he did not disdain to employ occasional rich amateurs, he never allowed them to usurp the work of legitimate actors and actresses.

In making a selection of people who would be useful to him by reason of their looks, or talent, or both, he included Poppy on his list, and forthwith she received a little notice during the last London week to the effect that if she cared to go on tour (with the hope of advancement if she studied) the offer was open to her. But the salary offered was smaller than she had been receiving, and she knew that it was useless to think of travelling with her small Pat and supporting herself and him on it. (Ravenhill was unaware, of course, that there was any question of supporting a child.) She was obliged to refuse the offer.

With the closing of the theatre the face of the future took on a blank and appalling expression. Exercising the greatest economy, she had yet not been able to save more than three pounds out of her long engagement; and she knew not where the next money was to come from. The stories she wrote still faithfully returned. The Book of Poems, the one brave string in her viol of hope, had been lost. The publisher said that it was only mislaid and might be found at any moment; but Poppy felt a sick certainty that she would never hear of or see her darling book again. Most foolishly, she had kept no copy of it, and though she believed that by turning up the pages of her memory she might re-write it, she could not spare the time it would cost to do this. Even if she had the necessary leisure, she despaired of ever writing her poems again in all their first perfection—a thought would surely be lost here, a line missing there!

Heart-broken, rage seized her when she first received the news. She saw a red haze before her eyes as in the days when she hated Aunt Lena, and she longed for a hammer and the publisher's head on a block. Afterwards she achieved calmness that was not resignation, and went to interview the publisher and find out what he meant to do. Apparently he had not meant to do anything except take up the bland and Micawberesque attitude of waiting for the book to "turn up." But Poppy's heart was full of the rage and fear of a mother-wolf who sees famine ahead, and though she successfully hid these primitive emotions under a composed manner, there was a feverish urgency about her which, strangely convincing, subtly communicated itself to the publisher, so that presently, quite unintentionally, he found himself promising (in the event of the book not being found within three months) to pay her a sum to be agreed upon, but not less than twenty pounds. In the meantime he engaged, if the book should "turn up," to read it and make her a conscientious offer for it. He did not forget to add that poems were unmarketable ware at the best of times, and that he could not hold out hope of any specially high price for hers.

With these conditions Poppy was fain to be content, though there was poor comfort in them for her. Three months is not long if fame and name wait at the end. But it is a long time to wait for twenty pounds. And it is too long to starve. In a panic she started out once more on the dreary round of agents' offices and theatres. At the end of a week's wasted walking, and talking, chill despair began to eat its way into her brave heart; in the second week the chill was freezing bitter cold that enwrapped, and seemed to paralyse her senses, so that she could feel nothing but dull fear, not for herself, but for little crowing, merry Pat. At that time her thoughts turned to Bramham, her friend. But he was gone, and she knew not where to find him. He had bidden her good-bye and sailed for South America on a prolonged visit. It would be many months before he returned to Durban.

In the third week, while she was eking out her last ten shillings, still desperately seeking work at the theatres, she met in the Strand a girl who had been with her at the Lyceum—one of Ravenhill's moneyed girls, pretty and charming, with a host of friends and acquaintances, of whom she bitterly complained that they would not allow her to fulfill her destiny and become a Sarah Bernhardt. She and Poppy had shared the same mirror in a Lyceum dressing-room, and become friendly over their "make-up" boxes.

By many little marks and signs that women judge on, Marion Ashley had concluded that Miss Chard needed every penny of the small salary she earned. Her idea was that Poppy probably had an invalid mother or sister to support; and she had often wished for an opportunity to lend a helping-hand to a girl whom she sincerely liked and admired. When, in the Strand, she met Poppy, pale and harassed, in worn shoes and an unseasonable gown, a thought shot through her quick mind and she advanced gaily, holding out her hands.

"You are the very girl I wanted to see," she cried. "Come into 'Slater's' for tea, and do see if you can help me in a great difficulty."

While Poppy took off her gloves Marion Ashley poured out the tea and her tale. It transpired that she had a cousin who was young and pretty and rich, but with a broken back. She had injured herself in the hunting-field and would never be able to walk again.

"Ever since, she has become the most awful peevish creature in the world, poor thing, and one can't be surprised at that! But no one can put up with her temper, and no one will stay with her, though she has had companion after companion. She insists on their being young and pretty, and afterwards she is jealous of them and fires them out. Then her mother and her husband come and fetch me round, no matter where I am, and really, you know, dear, it's a little hard on me to have my career interfered with ... it isn't as though I can be of any real use, for Frances is jealous of me too, if I am in the house much. Well, I'm looking out for someone for her now, and—I thought perhaps you could help me. Do say you can?"

She looked appealingly at the pale face opposite her, but Poppy gave no sign. She had considered the matter rapidly, but—companionships were badly paid, as a rule, and she would have to be separated from her little Pat. Marion Ashley's face fell.

"To tell the truth, dear," she said, "I thought you might undertake it yourself. Of course, I know you're far too good for that sort of thing; but I thought you might make a stop-gap of it—and the salary would be good—a hundred a year Frances pays, and you'd have no expenses."

Poppy's face changed. A hundred a year! If she must part with Pat that would at least ensure him a home in the country, and she could save the rest.

"It is very good of you, Miss Ashley.... Will you let me think it over?"

"Oh, yes—anything, if you will only take it on. I should be so glad. Her husband is always round bothering the life out of me to find someone. Oh! I must tell you, dear there's one thing besides Frances's temper ... he is difficult."

"Bad-tempered, too?" smiled Poppy.

"Far from it—altogether too good-tempered and fascinating—especially where a pretty girl is concerned. In fact, my dear, he's rapid—and Frances is jealous; so there you have the trouble in a nutshell. Tiresome, isn't it? It's just as well to know these things beforehand. But I daresay you'll be able to keep him in his place."

This information depressed Poppy more than a little. She was beginning to realise that whether she liked them or not, she attracted men, and she would rather have heard of some place where there was no man on the scene. As it happened, she was still smarting from an experience of the night before. She had, in mistake, opened the door of a first-class carriage in the underground station at Victoria. She speedily closed it, but the one occupant, a man, had had time to observe her, and instantly he whipped the door open again and was out on the platform. A minute afterwards she found an almost empty "third" and stepped into it just as the train started, someone hard on her heels. When she looked up there was the first-class passenger opposite, smiling at her. For the rest of the journey he made ardent love to her with his eyes, and she sat, flaming and paling there with anger. The man was serenely handsome, a gentleman in appearance at least, but his eyes had a look that angered and terrified her; a look that now she seemed to know the meaning of.

"It is terrible to have no innocence left! to know the meaning of a man like that!" she thought shudderingly, and she would not meet his eyes. Only she resolved that always she would turn her feet away from the paths frequented by men.

"Where does your cousin live?" she asked at last. "Perhaps, I'd better go and see her, if I make up my mind I can take the engagement."

"Yes, do, dear—Lower Sloane Street—I'll write the number down for you. I must fly now for rehearsal. I'm going to be in the new romantic play at The York. Send me a line there after you've seen Frances. Do take it on, there's a darling—good-bye."

Poppy spent the afternoon crooning and weeping over Pat's head. It seemed to her that she died a little death every time she thought of parting with him. But—was it not true that the little face had lost some of its pink tints of late?—that the odd eyes were growing larger? After she had dried her desperate tears and could trust herself to speak equably and reasonably, she called Mrs. Print into consultation.

Mrs. Print had a sister-in-law who lived in a rose-clad cottage in Surrey, and adored babies. Poppy had often seen and talked to her, and let her take Pat out; for she came up to London constantly to try to beguile Mrs. Print to part with one of her little boys—even the vivacious Jimmy would have been made welcome.

Mrs. Print assured Poppy that no Dook's baby would be better looked after than a child in Sarah Print's care, and that she (Poppy) could go and stay down in the little rose-clad cottage whenever she was free, for Sarah had lots of room, a lovely garden, and corn-fields all round her.

"You can't see nothing but 'ills and corn-fields wheresumever you look! It would drive me off my nut to live there a week, but Sarah likes it. You tike baby down and go and 'ave a look to-morrow, ma'am."

"Nothing but hills and corn-fields!"

The words brought a mist over Poppy's eyes. That was what she wanted for her son. She kissed him and asked Mrs. Print to mind him for an hour while she went to Sloane Street.

In a bright room, among flowers, the invalid woman lay on a couch, with an embroidered coverlet of crimson satin drawn up to her chin. Her face was pale and petulant, with great brown eyes that roamed restlessly and were full of peevish misery. She was of the fickle, impetuous nature that indulges in groundless hates and likings, and the moment she saw Poppy standing there, she put out her hands feverishly, as if for something she had long wanted. Poppy, indeed, was sweet and dewy-looking, as always when she came from her little love-baby, and now the added beauty of courageous renouncement lighted her lilac eyes.

"Ah! I know you are the girl Marion was talking about," cried the invalid. "You will come, won't you? How lovely you are—I shall just love having you with me! Come and sit here where I can see you—but don't look at me; I can't bear to be looked at."

Poppy sat down by the couch and submitted to being stared at, even touched by the pale, restless hands. Mrs. Chesney did most of the talking. She only required a monosyllable here and there, and her manner varied oddly, from a cold hauteur which she vainly tried to make indifferent, to entreaty that was almost servile.

"Do you like reading aloud?" she demanded, and before Poppy could speak, continued swiftly: "Oh, never mind, I don't care if you don't—of course, everybody hates it. Can you play?"

This time she waited for an answer, and Poppy saying yes, was waved towards a beautiful Erard that stood in a far corner. Taking off her gloves, she went over to it, and immediately her fingers fell into a soft and haunting melody of Ireland. The woman on the couch closed her eyes and lay like one in a trance.

While she played, Poppy resolved to take the opening offered her here. It was a living and a well-paid one. Little Pat could be sent away to a good home in the country, and though the parting must be bitter—bitter— Ah! she could not think of it! What she must think of was food to keep life in his little loved body, health for him in fresh sweet air; money to keep herself alive to work for him.

As she rose from the piano there was a prayer of thankfulness on her lips for this fresh chance to live. A door opened and a man came nonchalantly in.

"Oh, Harry!" cried the invalid. "This is Miss Chard—she is going to be my new companion. Miss Chard—my husband."

Poppy bowed to the man, meeting the amused cynicism of his glance gravely. Not by word or look did she betray the fact that she had ever seen him before. But thankfulness died away in her, and once more the face of the future lowered.

Harry Chesney was the hero of the adventure in the underground railway carriage.

While she was putting on her gloves, preparing to go, she told Mrs. Chesney that she would call in the morning, when the engagement could be finally arranged.

It would have been awkward and painful to have told the sick woman now that she was not able to accept the engagement. Being of so jealous a temperament, the invalid would probably suspect that the decision had something to do with her husband and would be caused misery in this thought.

"It will be simple to write to-night that circumstances have occurred which prevent me from coming," was Poppy's thought as she said good-bye.

"Touch the bell twice," said Mrs. Chesney.

"Oh! I'll see Miss Chard down," said Chesney, but Poppy had made no delay in touching the bell and a maid magically appeared.

The next day she waited at the York Theatre and saw Marion Ashley after rehearsal.

"I wanted to thank you," she said, "and to tell you that after all I couldn't undertake that companionship. Something has happened that makes it impossible for me to leave home. I wrote to Mrs. Chesney last night."

The brightness of Marion's smile was dashed for an instant, but she speedily recovered.

"Never mind; a lucky thing has happened here. One of the walking-on girls dropped out to-day and they want another. Mr. Lingard is a friend of mine, and he's sure to have you when he sees you—you've just the face for romantic drama. Come along and see him; he went into his office a minute ago—don't forget to say you've been with Ravenhill."

And so through Marion Ashley's kindly offices Poppy found herself once more signing a contract to "walk-on-and-understudy" at a guinea a week!

But the romantic drama was an unromantic failure.

Long before the end of the first week, the principals were looking at each other with blank faces, and holding conclaves in each other's dressing-rooms for the purpose of exchanging opinions and reports on the probable duration of the run. In the "walkers-on" room they gave it three weeks, and that playing to "paper houses" every night.

Marion Ashley met Poppy in the wings during a quarter of an hour's wait that occurred in the second act.

"Isn't this an awful disappointment?" she said. "Have you anything in view, dear, if we come to a full-stop here?"

"Nothing!" said Poppy, with a brave, careless smile. "Divil a thing!"

"Well ... wouldn't you ... what about Mrs. Chesney? She's hankering after you still. In fact, she appears to have developed a craze for your society. She wrote to me this morning, asking me to search you out."

Poppy flushed slightly. "I'm afraid I should be a failure as a companion," was all she could say. Marion looked at her with curiosity, vexation.

The next day a terrible thing happened. For the first time in his short life little Pat was ill. Not very ill, just white and listless and disinclined to eat. Poppy, like a pale and silent ghost, held him in tender arms every moment of the day, except while he slept, when for his own sake she put him into his bed, but hovered near, watching, praying. Mrs. Print pooh-poohed the sickness as nothing but teething-fever, but the wild-eyed mother begged her to go out and find a doctor. A grave, kind man was found, and his words were not comforting.

"He is not very ill, but he wants care. London is hardly the right place for babies at this time of the year. If it is possible, I should advise you to take him away into the country."

When the hour came for her to go to the theatre, Poppy called in the faithful Mrs. Print once more to watch over the sleeping child. It broke her heart to leave him, but there was nothing else to be done. She might forfeit her engagement if she did not appear at the theatre; or, at any rate, she would forfeit part of her salary, and she needed that more than ever.

She took a halfpenny tram to Victoria Street, meaning to walk from there to the theatre. Someone had left an evening paper on the seat, and she took it up to glance at the advertisements, and see if any hope for the future might be gleaned from them. As she turned over the pages her distracted eyes caught the impression of a name she knew, printed large among several other names. She looked again, and flame came into her face, light to her eyes.

It was, indeed, a name she knew: and yet did not. Sir Evelyn Carson! His name was on the Birthday List of Honours. He had been made a baronet for services rendered to the Empire. Swiftly she scanned the column, until she found the short biographical paragraph which told in brief outline of his daring expedition into Borapota; of the extraordinary personal influence he had speedily acquired over the warlike people of that country and of the remarkable concessions he had gained for the Empire. He had, in fact, without bloodshed or political complications, succeeded in establishing a British Protectorate in a rich and profitable country.

At the end of the column there was a further piece of information concerning Carson. It was embodied in a cablegram from Durban, which stated, with the convincing brevity peculiar to cables, that Sir Evelyn Carson, having arrived from Borapota, was to be married immediately to Miss May Mappin, only daughter and heiress of the late Mr. Isaac Mappin, former Mayor of Durban.

On her dressing-table at the theatre Poppy found a little envelope, pale-tan in colour, containing a week's salary and a note from the manager, saying that after the next night (Saturday) the play would be taken off the boards; no further salaries would be paid. Every member of the company had received a similar notice.

During the wait in the second act she sought out Marion Ashley.

"Does Mrs. Chesney still want me?" she briefly inquired, and Marion turned to her eagerly.

"Of course she does. Will you go? Oh, you dear girl! I'm so glad. When will you be able to take up your residence with her?"

"On Monday next, I think. I can't go before as I have to ... take some one ... who is ill ... into the country. I shall stay a day there only ... unless, unless ... the ... person is ... worse."

"And if the person is better?" asked Marion quickly. "Oh, my dear, you won't fail poor Frances, will you, if you can help it?"

"No." Poppy spoke in a perfectly calm and composed voice now, though her eyes were strange to see. "If I am alive, and have any reason to wish to continue living, you may rely upon me not to fail Mrs. Chesney."

Marion did not quite understand this, but she came to the conclusion that some man Miss Chard was in love with was desperately ill, and that that accounted for her distraught look and strange words.

PART IV