NEARLY a week passed before Bramham again saw Poppy, for private affairs unexpectedly engrossed him. He made time, however, to write her a letter full of excellent business advice. Later, he called at the Royal with her papers, and found her writing letters in the library. She had just come in, and a big, plumed, grey hat, which matched her pale grey voile gown, lay on the table beside her. Moreover, the flush of animation was on her cheek and a shine in her eye.

"Oh! come now; you look as if you had taken fresh hold," said Bramham approvingly. "I've brought back your papers, and thanks awfully for letting me look through them. It is pretty clear that if you would only work, you could be coining money as fast as you like. You've caught on at home and everywhere else. Your books have been the wonder of this country for months, and descriptions of your plays have been cabled out to every big centre—but, of course, you know all this."

She nodded.

"And, of course, you know how your little book of poems rang up the country from end to end! By Jove! if the Durban people only knew who they had in the midst of them——"

She looked at him quickly, apprehensively.

"It is more important than ever to have no one know. Since I saw you and talked to you I have reconstructed my plans entirely. Life seems to mean something to me again for the first time since—" She closed her eyes. He did not speak, only looked at her with compassionate eyes and waited.

"I have made up my mind not to let everything go to wreck," she began again presently. "I'm going to work again—I am working." She threw back her head and smiled.

"Hurrah!" cried Bramham. "I can't tell you how pleased I am to hear it. As a business man, I hated to see such a chance of making money chucked to the winds—and as a—well, as a plain man, I can't help applauding when I see what it does to your looks."

"You are certainly plain spoken," said she, smiling. "But I want to tell you—I've taken a little house. I've just been there with the painter, and it's all going to be ready by the end of the week."

"Where is it?"

"Facing the bay—a funny little bungalow-cottage, with an old-fashioned garden and a straggly path through sea-pinks right down to nearly the edge of the waves."

"It sounds altogether too romantic for Durban. I expect these features exist only in your imagination. But can you possibly mean Briony Cottage?"

"But, of course."

"Good—it is a dear little place—and with the bay right before you, you'll hardly know you're down in the town."

"I'm having a companion." She made a mouth, and Bramham himself could not disguise a faint twist of his smile.

"Mrs. Portal said it was necessary, if I didn't want to be black-balled by the Durban ladies, so she found me a Miss Allendner, a nice little old thing, who is lonely and unattached, but eminently respectable and genteel."

"Ah! I know her—a weary sort of plucked turkey," said the graceless Bramham, "with a nose that was once too much exposed to the winter winds and has never recovered. Never mind, you'll need someone to keep off the crowd as soon as they find out who you are——"

"But they are not going to find out! Charlie, I see that I must speak to you seriously about this. I believe you think my not wanting to be known is affectation; it is nothing of the kind. It is most imperative that my identity should be kept secret. I must tell you the reason at last—I am working now for money to fight out a case in the Law Courts before anyone in Africa knows who I am. Under my own name no one will recognise me or be particularly interested; but, of course, pleading as Eve Destiny would be another matter. I couldn't keep that quiet."

"A law case! Great— Well, Rosalind," he said ironically, "you certainly do spring some surprises on me. Is it about your plays? Why can't you let me manage it for you? But what kind of case can it be?"

"A divorce case—or, rather, I think a nullity case is what it would be called."

"A what?" Bramham could say no more.

"Don't look at me like that, best of friends ... I know, I know, you are beginning to think I am not worth your friendship ... that I don't seem to understand even the first principles of friendship—honesty and candour!... Try and have patience with me, Charlie.... Perhaps I ought to have told you before ... but I've never told a single soul ... in fact, I have always refused to consider that I am married. It is a long story, and includes part of my childhood. The man who adopted me and brought me up in an old farmhouse in the Transvaal allowed me to go through a marriage ceremony with him without my knowing what I was doing ... an old French priest married us ... he couldn't speak a word of English ... only Kaffir ... and he married us in French, which I could not understand at that time. Afterwards, my life went on as usual, and for years I continued to look upon the man simply as my guardian. At last, here in Durban, when I was just eighteen, he suddenly sprang the story upon me, and claimed me for his wife. I was horrified, revolted ... my liking for him, which arose entirely from gratitude, turned to detestation on hearing it.... I believed myself to have been merely trapped. In any case, whatever I might have felt for him didn't matter then. It was too late. I belonged to ... the man you know I belong to ... I didn't know what to do at first. There were terrible circumstances in connection with ... the man I love ... which made me think sometimes that I could never meet him again ... I would just keep the soul he had waked in me, and live for work and Fame. But the man I was married to wanted to keep me to my bond ... and then suddenly he found out ... something ... I don't quite know how it came to pass, but he knew ... I was obliged to fly from his house half clad.... It was then I found refuge with Sophie Cornell."

"And these things all happened here? Do you mean to tell me that blackguard was some Durban fellow?"

"He did live here at that time."

"And now?"

"He appears to be here still ... I saw him the other day. He behaved to me as though I were really Miss Chard ... but I know him. He will fight tooth and nail ... I don't suppose he cares about me in the least, but he will lie his soul away, I believe, and spend his last penny for revenge."

"Well, upon my soul! I can't think who the fellow can be!" said Bramham artlessly, and Poppy could not refrain from smiling.

"I don't think there would be any good in telling you, Charlie. You may know him ... in fact, you are sure to, in a small place like this ... and it would only make things difficult for you."

Bramham was plainly vexed that she did not confide in him, but she was perfectly well aware that he knew Abinger intimately, and fearing that something might leak out and spoil her plans, she decided not to tell him.

"You should have tackled the thing at home," said Bramham thoughtfully. "They'd have fixed you up in no time there, I believe."

"No, I had advice about it, and was told that as the ceremony had taken place in the Transvaal, and the man is out here, I must go to the Rand Courts ... and, by the way, I must tell you—I wrote to the mission monastery which the old priest belonged to and made inquiries. They wrote back that old Father EugÈne was dead, but that they had already gone into the matter on behalf of my husband, who had made representations to them. That they could only inform me that the ceremony performed by the Father was absolutely valid, and they were prepared to uphold it in every way. They added that they were well aware that it was my intention to try and disprove the marriage and for my own purposes escape from my sacred bond, but that I must not expect any assistance from them in my immoral purpose.... So, you see, I have them to fight as well. Another thing is, that the only other witness to the ceremony was a woman who would swear her soul away at the bidding of the man who calls himself my husband."

"By Jove! It looks as if you're up against a tough proposition, as they say in America!" was Bramham's verdict at last. "But you'll pull through, I'm certain, and you've pluck enough. As for money—well, you know that I am not poor——"

He stopped, staring at her pale face.

"Don't ever offer to lend me money," she said fiercely rudely.

"Why, you let me lend you some before! And were unusual enough to pay it back." Smiling broadly, he added: "I never had such a thing happen to me before!" But she would not smile. The subject seemed an unfortunate one, for she did not regain her joyous serenity during the rest of the interview.

He went home wrapped in cogitation, turning over in his mind the name of every man in the place on the chance of its being the name of the culprit. Abinger's name, amongst others, certainly came up for consideration, but was instantly dismissed as an impossibility, for he had plainly given everyone to understand that—after the time of his disappearance from the Rand, until his readvent in Durban on the day Bramham had met him coming off the Mail-boat—he had been travelling abroad, and there was no reason to disbelieve this statement. Moreover, Bramham was aware of other facts in Abinger's private life which made it seem absolutely impossible that he could be the villain of Rosalind Chard's tale.

The day Poppy moved to her new home, Clem Portal was the first person to visit her and wish her luck and happiness there.

They took tea in the largest room in the house, which was to be Poppy's working-room and study. It was long and low, with two bay-windows, and the walls had been distempered in pale soft grey. The floor was dark and polished, and the only strong note of colour in the room a rose-red Persian rug before the quaint fireplace. The chintzes Poppy had come upon with great joy in one of the local shops: ivory-white with green ivy leaves scattered over them—a great relief from the everlasting pink roses of the usual chintz. The grey walls were guileless of pictures, except for the faithful blue Hope which overhung the fireplace above vases full of tall fronds of maidenhair-fern, and some full-length posters of the Beardsley school in black-and-white wash. Poppy's writing-table was in one window, and on the wall where she could always see it while at work was a water-colour of a little boy standing in a field of corn and poppies. The tea-table was in the other window. She and Clem sat looking at the blue bay flapping and rippling under the afternoon sunlight, with the long bluff ridge sleeping sullenly beyond.

"You've found the sweetest place in Durban," said Clem. "Whenever I feel like a mealie—a green mealie—which, alas! is very often, I shall sneak down here to 'simplify, simplify.' While you work I'll sit in the sun in the Yogi attitude and triumphantly contemplate eternity and jelly-fish."

Later, she said:

"Mary Capron wanted to come too, but I told her I must have you all to myself to-day. I'm afraid she was rather hurt, but ... I was not sure whether you liked her, Poppy. I do hope you are going to, dear, for I love her, and we shall be a triangle with sore corners, if you don't."

Poppy was dreaming with her tea-cup in her lap, and the glitter of the bay in her eyes.

"Do you think three women ever get on well together?" she asked evasively. "There is always one out."

Clem was quick to see the meaning of this. A look of disappointment came over her gay, gentle face.

"Mary and I have been friends for years," she said. "She is the only woman I have never had any inspiration about; but though I am blinded by her beauty, I know her to be good and true. It would be a terribly disloyal thing if I deserted her for you ... what am I to do if you two don't like each other?"

"If you love Mrs. Capron, Clem, she won't need to bother about the liking of a woman like me."

"She likes you, however. And I'm sure when you get to know her better, you'll like her.... I daresay when two beautiful women first meet, a feeling of antagonism is natural. But you should be above that, Poppy. And poor Mary is a subject for pity rather than dislike—any woman is who has drawn blank in the big lottery. I daresay you know that about her—most people do."

"I have gathered that she is not very happily married," said Poppy.

"Have you ever seen him?"

"I believe the first time I ever saw you, Clem, he was with you."

"Ah, yes, I remember now—and we talked of you, the girl with the Burne-Jones eyes." Most women would have made this an easy stepping-stone into the flowing brook of confidences, and found out where Poppy was going to on that sunny day, and where she had been all the long years since; but Clem Portal had an instinct about questions that hurt. Her husband often said of her:

"She is that lovely thing—a close woman!" Now, the peculiarity of a close woman is that she neither probes into the dark deeps of others, nor allows herself to be probed.

"Nick Capron was not quite impossible in those days," she continued; "but now a good place for him would be under the dÉbris heaps outside de Beers'. When she first met him he was a romantic character on the down-grade. Had been all over the world and gone through every kind of adventure; lost a fortune at Monte-Carlo on a system of his own for breaking the bank; written a book (or more probably got it written for him) about his adventures as a cowboy in Texas; and made quite a name for himself as a scout in the war between Chili and Peru. Amongst other things he has an intimate knowledge of torpedoes and is supposed to have been the author of the plan that sent the Chilian transport, the Loa, to the bottom by a torpedo launched from an apparently harmless fruit-boat. At any rate, he was seen on the fruit-boat, and when he came to Africa shortly afterwards, they said it was to escape the vengeance of the Chilians. Mary, who was on a visit to this country, met him at the Cape when everyone was talking about him. Unfortunately, when women hear sparkling things about a man, they do not always think to inquire about the sparkling things he drinks—and how much that has to do with the matter. She fell in love with him, or his reputation, and they were married in a great whirl of romantic emotion. Well, you know what happens to people who engage in whirling?"

Poppy looked up, anxious to learn, and Clem continued with the air of an oracle of Thebes:

"After a time they find themselves sitting still on the ground, very sick. That is Mary's position. She sits flat on the ground and surveys a world that makes her feel sick. Nick Capron, however, continues to whirl."

"She must have great courage to face the situation," said Poppy sincerely.

"She has more than courage," said Clem, alight with loyal enthusiasm. "She is one in a thousand. You know enough of Africa, I daresay, Poppy, to know that life out here is just one huge temptation to a beautiful unhappily-married woman. The place teems with men—good, bad, and indifferent, but all interesting (unless drink is sweeping them down hill too fast), and they all want to be kind to her. Many of them are splendid fellows. But the best of men are half-devil, half-child, and nothing more, where a beautiful woman is concerned. You know that, don't you?"

What Poppy did know was that Clem had far greater knowledge of the world of men and women than she had, and she was only too interested to sit and imbibe wisdom. She frankly said so.

"I thoroughly understand these things," Clem replied without pride. "Sinners can never take me by surprise, whatever they do. Perhaps it is because I might easily have been a devil of the deepest dye myself, but for luck—Billy is my luck."

This from the most orthodox woman in Africa! Poppy could not refrain from a trill of laughter.

"I think you are one of those who paint themselves black to be en suite with the people you like, Clemmie," she said; "but you're not extraordinarily clever as an artist."

"Not so clever as you'll have to be when Mrs. GruyÈre comes round to have her miniature done," said Clem maliciously. "I must think about going, darling. Mary is coming to fetch me in her carriage and she will be here in a minute or two now. Before I go, I want you to promise me to steal away whenever you can. If you sit too much over work you will fall asleep, and have to be put in the poppy-garden instead of flaunting and flaming in the sunshine and being a joy to behold. What a fascinating flower it is! Both your names are fascinating ... Eve Destiny! ... what could have prompted it, I wonder?"

"Simply an idea. I am a child of destiny, I always think—at least, the old blind hag seems to have been at some pains to fling me about from pillar to post. Eve—" She turned away, knowing that she could not mention that name without giving some sign of the tumult it roused within her. "Eve—was the most primitive person I could think of" (the lie did not come very glibly), "and I am primitive. If I were my real self I should be running loose in the woods somewhere with a wild-cat's skin round me."

"Well, you wouldn't run alone for long, that's very certain," laughed Clem.

"No, I should want my mate wherever and whatever I was"—Clem laughed again at her frankness, but she went on dreamfully—"a Bedouin, or a shaggy Thibetan on the roof of the world, or a 'cassowary on the plains of Timbuctoo.' Oh, Clem! the sound of the wind in forest trees—the sea—the desert with an unknown horizon, are better to me than all the cities and civilisation in the world—yet here I sit!" She threw out her hands and laughed joylessly.

"You ought to marry an explorer—or a hunter of big game," said Clem thoughtfully, and got up and looked out of the window. "Here comes one in the carriage with Mary. But he is an Irishman, so I wouldn't advise you to look his way.... An Irishman should never be given more than a Charles Wyndhamesque part on the stage of any woman's life ... a person to love, but not to be in love with...."

"Oh, Clem! You are Irish yourself——"

Clem did not turn round. She went on talking out of the window and watching the approaching carriage.

"Yes, and I love everyone and everything from that sad green land ... the very name of Ireland sends a ray of joy right through me ... and its dear blue-eyed, grey-eyed people! Trust an Irish-woman, Poppy, when she is true-bred ... but never fall in love with an Irishman ... there is no fixity of tenure ... he will give you his hand with his heart in it ... but when you come to look there for comfort, you will find a bare knife for your breast ... unstable as water ... too loving of love ... too understanding of another's heart's desire ... too quick to grant, too quick to take away ... the tale of their lips changing with the moon's changes—even with the weather.... Hullo, Mary! Here I am.... How do you do, Karri?"

Mrs. Capron's carriage had pulled up before Poppy's little side-gate, which gave on to the embankment. She was gowned in black, a daring rose-red hat upon her lovely hair, and by her side was Evelyn Carson. She waved at the two women in the window, but did not leave the carriage. Carson came instead, making a few strides of the little straggly, sea-shelled path.

"We've come to drag Mrs. Portal away," he said to Poppy, after shaking hands through the window, "having just met her husband taking home two of the hungriest-looking ruffians you ever saw."

Clem gave a cry of woe and began to pin on her hat.

"The wretch! I thought he was going to dine at the Club."

"He gave us strict orders to send you home at once," laughed Carson, "so Mrs. Capron won't come in."

"Who are the men?" demanded Clem.

"Two brutes just arrived by to-day's boat, with a sea-edge to their appetites. I should say that nothing short of a ten-course banquet would appease them."

Clem's groans were terrible.

"Cook will have prepared half a chicken's wing for me. She always starves me when I'm alone. You come back with me," she commanded Carson. "If you talk beautifully to them they won't notice the lightness of the menu."

"Oh, but I'd rather come when you are prepared," said the graceless Carson. "I'm hungry, too. When you've gone I'm going to ask Miss Chard for a cup of tea." Smiling, he plucked a sea-pink and stuck it in his coat. They were in the garden now on the way to the carriage.

"Deserter! Well, Mary, you'll have to come and let them feed upon your damask cheek—something has got to be done."

Poppy exchanged greetings with Mrs. Capron, and presently the two women drove away, leaving her and Carson standing there with the gleam of the sunlit bay in their eyes. Turning, she found him staring in an odd way at her hair, which she was wearing piled into a crown, with the usual fronds falling softly down. Her lids drooped for a moment under his strange eyes, but her voice was perfectly even and conventional as she asked if he would really care for tea.

"I should, indeed—and to come into the restful grey room I got a glimpse of through the window. It reminded me of a cool, cloudy day in the middle of summer."

Pleasure at his approval brought a faint wave of colour into the face she was determined to mask of all expression. She led the way indoors, he following, his eyes travelling swiftly from the crowned head she carried with so brave an air on her long throat, down the little straight back that was short like the classical women's, giving fine sweeping length from waist to heel.

She rang for fresh tea and went to the tea-table. Carson stood about the room, seeming to fill it.

"If you are fond of grey, we have a taste in common," he said, and she gave him a quick, upward glance. The face which Africa's sun had branded her own looked extraordinarily dark above the light-grey of his clothes and the little pink flower stuck in his coat. It seemed to her that no woman had ever loved so debonair a man as this Irishman with his careless eyes and rustling voice.

"I love green best of all colours," she answered steadily; "but one gets tired of green walls now that they are fashionable and everyone has them—" her voice broke off suddenly. In his looming about the room he had stopped dead before Hope over the mantelpiece. The cup Poppy held rattled in its saucer. He presently asked who the picture was by, and where he, too, could get a copy of it.

"I like it," he said. "It seems to me in a vague way that I know that picture well, yet I don't believe I have ever seen it before ... strange...!" He stared at it again, and she made no response. For the moment she was back in a little upper chamber in Westminster.

He came presently over to the tea-table, and was about to sit down when another picture caught his eye—the water-colour of the little child among the poppies and corn. He stepped before it and stayed looking for a long time. At last he said, laughing constrainedly:

"You will think I am mad ... but I imagine I know that picture too ... that little chap is extraordinarily like someone I know ... I can't think who ... but I'm certain ... is it some of your work, Miss Chard?"

He looked at her with keen inquiry, but his glance changed to one of astonishment. Her eyes were closed and she was pale as a primrose; her hands had fallen to her sides.

A moment afterwards she recovered herself and was handing him a cup of tea with some inconsequent remark. She had made absolutely no response to his questions about either picture, and he thought the fact rather remarkable.

Afterwards they talked and he forgot surprise (for the time being) in listening to the shy graces of thought to which she gave utterance and watching her inexpressibly charming delicacies of manner. When he left her the magic of her was on him; she had bound him with the spell of his own country; but he did not know it. If he had known it he would have repudiated it with all his strength, for already he was a bound man.

"His honour rooted in dishonour stood."