IT was in bitter February weather that Poppy's engagement began, and there had been a week of heavy rehearsing before the opening night. She soon felt the strain of the unaccustomed work. Ravenhill's was a Repertoire-Company, and the bill was changed every week, so that while they played one play at night they were busy most of the day rehearsing another for the coming week. This meant that from ten o'clock in the morning until three or four in the afternoon, and again from seven until eleven at night, Poppy was parted from her baby. She was obliged to permanently employ a little nursemaid, and also, to her bitter sorrow, to wean her baby.

She comforted herself disconsolately with the thought that the change was better for him, because she was not so vigorous now as at first. But many a time the silky black head was scalded with its mother's tears, for that she might no more feel the cling of little lips.

The theatre began to interest her from a literary point of view. The writing of plays suggested itself as a fascinating medium for the expression of herself; she saw that knowledge of stage-craft would be of enormous use to her in this direction, and she became absorbed in observing and making notes on everything concerning stage technique and production.

Her appearance, when "made up," was quite charming, and Ravenhill was always glad to put her into a scene, and would give her a one-line part whenever it was possible. Often she would find herself "on" alone with the "star" in a scene—a court lady, perhaps, lingering by a window while the Queen gave forth an impassioned soliloquy; or a picturesque figure in the background of a garden-scene; but terrible shyness and emotion affected her when she had to open her lips on the stage, if only to say "Good-morrow" or "Come hither"; and her voice was altogether too delicate and canorous for stage use. She preferred to be on with the crowd—a peasant woman in a tattered skirt and kerchief, leading a hooting riot in Richard II, or a stately lady dancing in the house of the Capulets, or an Egyptian girl in the streets of Alexandria carrying a torch to light Antony and Cleopatra to bed. Ravenhill was disappointed in her that she did not work at her voice, nor seem anxious for parts. He did not know that she was trying to serve two gods; and that all her incense was burnt at the altar of literature, for still she returned and returned again to the mistress she loved, but whose face was turned from her.

She could not afford to ride to and fro from the theatre, for there were four journeys to be made on ordinary days, and on matinÉe days six, and tenpence a day made too large a hole in a salary needed for many things. So at night she took a 'bus to Westminster Bridge at the cost of a halfpenny and from thence, in all weathers, she faithfully padded-the-hoof for home. The shelter of the long stretch of St. Stephen's and the Houses of Parliament was always grateful; sometimes, just as she turned the corner of the Victoria Tower, the wind from the river would sweep and curl around her, nearly rushing her off her feet. Then came the long, cutting tramp along the Embankment. Often in those midnight walks she thought of Charles Bramham. He, too, had known walking in the biting cold on tired feet and with a painfully empty stomach! The fatigue that got hold of her sometimes was terrible. But always for the sake of the silky black head of a king's son, she laughed and worked on.

The people at the theatre were kind and pleasant, and she made many friends. But they were friends of the theatre only, she kept them all rigidly out of her private life; and that not without effort, for her personality was magnetic and people always wanted to know her. She was interesting and mysterious, they thought, and presently she became the enigma of the theatre because she never lied about her salary, nor bragged of her genius, nor repeated fascinating things that "someone in front" had said about her voice and her face, nor bored anyone with tales of the great future predicted for her.

Indeed, she was at this time striving with a valorous heart to live according to Stevenson's creed:

One day when she had got home early from rehearsal, and was spending some rapturous moments over the adored silken head asleep on its pillow, Mrs. Print came to her very much en dÉshabille, her head wrapped in a towel, full of excitement.

"There's a gentleman at the front door, knocking," she said; "and, oh, ma'am, Mrs. Chard would you be so kind as to open it? As sure as I wash my 'ead, it always 'appens so!"

Poppy, good-naturedly, complied, giving a switch of her eye at a mirror first, for vanity was far from being dead in her yet. She opened the door to—Charles Bramham!

Pale with amazement, she stood glimmering at him through her hair.

"You!" she cried; then held out her hands in welcome, for welcome he truly was, with the smell and burn of Africa on him.

"Yes; me! I bet you didn't think I'd have the cheek to come and find you out. I had a great time digging your address out of Miss Drake. But why should you hide? Mayn't I come in?"

"Of course," she said, and led the way; but her manner was a little constrained. It had not been on her programme at all to let Charles Bramham, or any other man, into the secret of her life.

"What do you want?" she asked half crossly, when they were in the sitting-room.

"To see you. And you looked mightily glad to see me, at first. Don't tell me now, that you are not! But what have you been doing to yourself? London is killing you. You'd better come back to Africa, or you'll pass out. You're so thin I can see through you, and your eyes are too big for your face."

He sat down and they talked eagerly. She told him something of her disappointments, more of her hopes, and at last, of being obliged to take to the theatre as a stop-gap "until such time as she began to succeed in literature."

"But why work like this?" he said discontentedly. "You'll kill yourself burning two candles at once."

"Not I?" said she gaily. She had no intention of letting him know that but for her stage salary she would be penniless.

"I don't see any sense in it," he muttered. "It can't be because you like work. No woman ever yet liked work—they weren't meant to. Anyhow, you can knock off for to-day. Put your hat on and come out for a drive and to dinner. I'll drive you to your theatre afterwards."

"I'm afraid I can't," Poppy faltered. "I never go out ... I can't leave my work ... I am tired." She stopped lamely. He knew that she was not speaking the truth. The fact was, that she had given the little nursemaid an hour or two off.

"Ah! there's something you don't care to tell me," he said with a half-smile; but a shadow crossed his face. At that moment they were both transfixed by a sound. The king's son began to lament in the next room. Bramham would never have guessed, but he happened to see the look that leapt into her eyes at the sound; then he stood staring at her with a question in his, while the scarlet slowly mounted to her cheeks.

In truth, she was filled with confusion, and did not know what to say. She remembered the time she had accepted his offer of money and help; how she had talked to him then of her work and aspirations, but had breathed no word of this. How could he know that the truth had been hidden even from her? What could he think but that she had deceived him, made use of him?

The king's son cried again, indignantly, beseechingly. Again Bramham saw the mother-look leap to her eyes. With no word she flew from the room. When she returned she was carrying a little fragrant bundle, and she came to Bramham, who was apparently rooted to the spot where she had left him. He had heard her crooning to the child in the next room, but, like an unbelieving Thomas, he wanted still more proof. Her face gave it to him. Confusion was gone. Only tender, brooding peace and love was there. She held the baby under his eyes.

"My son, Charlie!"

He stared down blankly at the little lovely thing, and it stared back at him.

"Good God!" said he; "am I dreaming? I could swear that was Eve Carson's child!"

"Yes," said Poppy softly, and her voice was ci risuoniamo in cristallo. "It is. But how did you know?" she wonderingly asked.

Charles Bramham was dumb. He could only stare. Later, he sat down heavily in a chair and used his handkerchief.

"Life has held a good many surprises for me, but never one like this. Carson! ... and you!... He my dearest friend! You, well, you know what I feel about you. Yet you two have deceived me! Sprung this amazing thing on me. Why! I can't understand it.... Good God! I love that fellow! ... he could—?"

"Oh! Charlie, dear friend, you go too fast. Don't judge or misjudge. Nothing is as you think. He did not deceive you ... nor did I. That night you offered to help me and I accepted, I ... I didn't know that this wonderful thing was going to happen to me ... and he knows nothing. It is my secret."

Bramham digested these things as best he might. Later, he said:

"Well he's got to know—and I shall tell him. Why, he's not that sort of fellow at all, Rosalind ... he would throw everything to Hades for the sake of a woman he loved ... and, of course, he loves you, and would be here with you if he knew.... The whole thing is the craziest mystery I ever heard of ... of course, he can't know ... but I shall tell him, if I have to go up to Borapota after him."

"Never, never!" said she. "No one shall ever tell him. It is my secret. You dare not interfere. I would never forgive you."

He turned away from her, angry, sore, bitterly puzzled.

"Oh, Charlie," she said wistfully. "Don't be angry. This is my life—my secret.... Leave me to do as seems best to me.... Tell me," she said softly, "how did you know that my child ... is ... his son?"

"Know? Why, anyone would know. He is the dead image—and there are Eve Carson's eyes staring at me. No two men in the world have eyes like that."

"Are they not beautiful? And yet so strange!—one blue and one brown! I never—" she stopped suddenly. She had almost told Bramham that she did not know that Carson's eyes looked thus, since she had never seen them, except in the darkness. But much as she liked Bramham, she could not share with him that strange, sweet secret.

Only one more question Bramham asked her.

"Was it Karri you told me of that night, Rosalind?—the man you loved?"

"Yes," she said. "The only man I have ever loved, or will love."

She dined with Bramham, after all, and before they parted she had bound him by every oath he honoured never to reveal her secret to Carson.

"If you do," she passionately told him, "you may precipitate both him and me into terrible misery, and neither of us would forgive you. We should probably hate you for ever. Leave alone things that you do not understand.... How should you understand! You have accidentally touched on the fringe of a strange story ... something you would never have known except by accident. For I don't intend the world to know this when it knows me some day, Charlie."

"Why?" said he, looking keenly at her. "Are you ashamed of your child?"

"Ashamed!" she laughed happily. "Ashamed of the greatest joy that ever came to a woman; the son of the man she loves!"

A happy look came into his face, too, for the first time since he had known the truth.

"That's the spirit! If a woman has the courage to take the big jump, she should have the grit to face the fences all round the course ... but I don't believe many do; and you can't blame them for that either. Rosalind, I want to tell you something. I'm a rich man, and I ... I have no children." He swallowed an odd sound in his throat and averted his eyes for a moment, but went on calmly: "I long ago made up my mind to leave every rap, when I die, to women who have done what you have done—and had to suffer for it."

She looked at him thoughtfully for a while.

"I think you would be wrong, Charlie. People would call it putting a premium on sin, and—you couldn't really help the woman who suffered. Nothing could help her. The right kind of woman would value her suffering more than your money, believe me." Then, as she saw his saddened face, she said, "Help the little love-babies, if you like, and bring them up to be as kind and sweet a friend as you are to women—" Impulsively he put his hand on hers lying on the dinner-table.

"Let me—" he began.

"But never offer to help my love-baby," she said warningly, "as long as he has a mother to work for him, and a king for his father somewhere in the world."