Cynthia Stockley

"CLEM, scuttle up—we'll be late," shouted Portal. "What is she doing, Miss Chard?"

"Hearing the bratiken's prayers, I think."

"I wish you'd hurry her up."

Poppy went out into the hall and stood at the nursery door, which was ajar. Clem's voice could be heard inside arguing with a small, sullen one.

"Say them now, Cinthie—'Gentle Jesus——'"

"No, mummie."

"Yes, darling."

"I want you to sing 'Bye-low Lady.'"

"Not to-night, my dearest" (sound of a kiss); "there isn't time. Daddy's waiting for me to go to the theatre; we'll have longer sings to-morrow night. Say prayers now, Cinthie."

"No, mummie."

"Go on now, darling. Mother'll be cross with you in a minute. 'Gentle Jesus——'"

"No, mummie."

A silence.

"'Gentle Jesus'—Go on now, Cinthie—'Gentle Jesus—'"

"'Gentle Jesus'—sat on a wall," said the small voice, and burst into a peal of laughing. There was a rustling and Clem appeared at the nursery door gowned and gloved, her face bearing traces of smothered laughter. But from the door she called back, in a voice intended to be most hauntingly sad:

"Mother's sorry her little girl is so naughty to-night. Good-night, Cinthie."

"G'night," was the cheerful response.

Clem came out into the hall and shut the door, and putting her arm in Poppy's hurried to the drawing-room, where Portal was offering up loud prayers for patience, and bemoaning the miserable, wasted lives of all married men.

"Time is simply nothing to them, I tell you!" he chanted. "It is no concern of theirs! They cannot wear it, nor give it to their offspring to play with! As for punctuality, it is a rule invented for men and dogs only—and rickshaw pullers. Ours has been waiting at the gate for twenty minutes—but that's all right—what do we care for the first act of a play?"

Clem took not the slightest notice. She turned to Poppy.

"And, darling, when you've finished your coffee I wish you'd go in and hear her prayers. She feels very much injured to-night—you will, won't you? I am so vexed that we have to go out and leave you—and I do wish you would have come too. It might have made you forget all about that wicked fire."

"I shall be quite happy here, Clem. I have much to think of and plan; and, of course, I'll mind Cinthie. Be off now."

Poppy hustled her into her cloak and laces and saw them both off into the rickshaw. Afterwards she returned to the drawing-room, poured out her coffee, and took it into the nursery. Cinthie's little straight, white bed stood in the centre of the room, and she was lying with the sheet drawn up to her chin, two long pigtails stretching down on either side of her, and two big, dark eyes glooming out of the little, soft, dark face. Beside her on the pillow two still, inanimate forms glared glazily at the ceiling.

"Cinthie!"

"Eum!"

"Hallo, Cinthie!"

"Hallo!"

"You asleep?"

"No, not yet."

"Sure you're not?"

"No, I'm not, Poppy." She sat up in bed and gave a lively prance to show she was awake.

"Well, I've come to have a little talk."

Cinthie made a joyful noise that sounded like corn-cookoo, and gave another prance.

Poppy sat on the edge of the bed and sipped her coffee, tendering to Cinthie an occasional spoonful, which was supped up rapturously.

"Who've you got there with you?"

"Two my chil'ren."

"Which ones?"

"Daisy-Buttercup 'n Oscar"

"Oh! have they said their prayers yet?"

A pause, then:

"I didn't tell them to say prairses to-night."

"Not?" cried Poppy, in shocked surprise.

"No." (A pause.) "They's too tired."

"Oh, but Cinthie! Fancy, if they died in their sleep! How sorry they'd be they hadn't said their prayers."

An uncomfortable pause. Poppy drank some more coffee.

"I know you would never go to sleep without saying your prayers."

A silence.

"I hope you prayed for me to-night, sweetness?"

A silence.

"—And for that darling mummie of yours?"

Silence.

"—And your lovely daddie?"

Silence.

"—Because I know they couldn't enjoy themselves at the theatre, or go to sleep to-night, or anything, if you didn't. But of course, you did. Good-night, sweetness—give a kiss."

"G'night!" The little figure bounced up and put its arms round her and kissed her all over her face. Poppy tucked her in carefully.

"I'm so glad you prayed for mummie and daddie and me," she said fervently. "Good-night, darling-pet."

"G'night."

"You don't have the candle left, do you?"

"No."

"Shall I put the mosquito-curtain round?"

"Yes, please."

Poppy flicked it well with her handkerchief and arranged it round the bed like a big, white bird-cage; then taking the candle in her hand, walked slowly to the door.

"Well, good-night."

"G'night."

She opened the door and went out slowly.

At the last conceivable instant, as the door was on the point of closing, a little voice cried:

"Poppy!"

"Yes, sweetness."

"I want a drink of water."

Poppy went back, poured a glass of water, and carried it to the delinquent, who took a mouthful; then said, slowly and sorrowfully:

"I think I'll say prairses, Poppy."

"All right darling!" She sat down on the bed again and put her arms round the slim figure, who, kneeling with her nose snuggled into the soft, white shoulder, said her "prairses" at express-speed down into Poppy's evening-gown:

"Gen-tuljeesus, meek n' mil',
Lookup pon a little chil';
Pitimysimplisitee,
Suffer me t' come to Thee.

"Our Fath 'CHART in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy King and come, Thy will be done 'Nearth as 'tis 'Neaven. Give us 's day our DAILY BREAD N' forgive us our trespasses 'gainst us. But 'liver us from evil. For Thine's kingdom, Power and GLORY, frever and ever, Amen.

"Our Father, please bless my darling Mummie, and take care of her at the theatre, and my lovely Daddie, and Grannie, and Grandad, and Poppy, and all the servants in this house, and all the little children in the world, and fill our hearts with love 'n kindness, Amen—now I must say my Latins."

Clem was Catholic and Bill Protestant, and the result was a strange medley of prayers for Cinthie. She kneeled up, crossed herself solemnly in Latin, and began to chant the lovely words of the Angelical Salutation:

"Ave Maria! gratia plena, Dominus tecum: benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus."

"Sancta Maria! Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrÆ. Amen."

Afterwards she fell into a peal of laughing.

"Why do you laugh, darling?" Poppy gravely asked, and the answer was:

"Oh, Poppy! Wouldn't Nunc be a funny name for a dog!"

Then once more the sheets were tucked in, the mosquito-net arranged, and a kiss blown through it.

"Good-night, Pansy-face!"

"G'night, Red-rose!" responded Cinthie ardently.

"Good-night, Gold-heart!"

Cinthie thought laboriously for a few seconds, struggling for a fitting response. At last, just as Poppy reached the door, she shouted breathlessly:

"G'night; White-soul!"

At that Poppy gave a cry and ran back once more and hugged her.

When at length she tore herself away from the warm, loving little arms and went alone to the drawing-room, heavy tears were splashing down her cheeks and her lips were like a wistful, sorrowing child's. She stood in the open window and stared out at the beauty of the night. Above in the solemn purple sky was the Cross, picked out in scarlet stars. Far below twinkled the town lights, and at quick intervals the Bluff Lighthouse sent long, sweeping, golden lines across the bay, revealing for an instant the shadowy fabrics of ships and sailing craft lying safe in dock.

Out at sea a great liner steamed slowly to anchorage, hundreds of lights flashing from her three tiers, and presently the rattle of her cable through the hawse-pipes floated distinctly up to the heights, the throbbing in her breast died away, and she lay rocking softly like some great tired bird nested at last.

In the dim valley a Zulu boy, heart-hungry for his home-kraal, was making music of an infinite sweetness and melancholy on that oldest instrument in the world, a reed-flute. The sound brought further tears to Poppy, and a burning in her throat. It seemed the voice of her heart wailing, because she had never been a child, because "earth was so beautiful and Heaven so far"; because she loved a man and was beloved of him and darkness lay between them! At that, she longed passionately with every sense and nerve in her for Evelyn Carson. She ached in the very bones and blood of her for a sight or sound of him. If he would only come——!

"Oh, God! be good to me for once!" she cried with soundless lips. "Let him come—I will do the rest. There is no barrier I cannot break down between him and me. He is mine—dear God, you know that he is mine! I bound him with my hair, my lips, my soul. I gave him of my best, I gave him my girlhood—I bore his son." The green leaves of the passion-plant trailing over the window lapped gently against her cheek, and she put up her hands to them. "Oh, trees, leaves, all green things, help me—let him come——"

And he came, through the open gate, up the broad pathway, straight to her.

Her eyes were closed tight to stop her tears, but she heard him coming as she stood there with the shaded lamps behind her in the empty room, and the silver night on her face. He came so close to the verandah that he could look in upon her, and plainly see her pale emotion-wrung face and the tears urging through her tightly-closed lids and dripping from her lashes. Her lips opened and her breath came heavily, and the sight of her took strange hold of him. His own lips unclosed; the marks self-mockery had made about them had been wiped out; his handsome, haggard eyes had changed, boyhood had come back to them.

"Won't you come into the garden?" His voice had all the sweetness of Ireland in it. She unclosed her eyes and came out to him, the tears still shining on her cheeks: a pale, ardent woman—strangely like a narcissus.

He put an arm through hers and they walked together in the gracious dimness.

Down the centre of the garden dividing two lawns ran a high hedge of Barbadoes-thorn. It is a shrub garlanded with white tiny flowers of a perfume probably the most pungent in the world—much like the gardenia, or tuberose, but heavier, sweeter. To-night this perfume hung upon the air, and stayed with these lovers all their lives after. They sat on the grass under a giant flamboyant tree and a tiny green tree-frog sang a love-song to its mate in the branches over their heads. But they did not hear. They were deaf to everything now save the drumming in their hearts and the urging of their pulses. Carson had his arm about her, half for her support, wholly because he could not help it. Her tears were still on her face, and he leaned so close that his cheek was wetted by them. One heavy drop fell on his lips and he tasted the salt of it, and it was as if he had tasted blood. Suddenly he turned her lips to his and began to kiss her with a mouth of flame.

"Eve! Eve!" she cried, afraid of her gladness. He did not speak; nor could he, if he would. Only he dragged kisses from the mouth he had desired so long; the eyes he had looked away from; the curving, cloven chin; the throat that shone in the darkness like a moony pearl. And when he came to her lips again, they kissed him back with wild, sweet kisses. Her arms were round him too. One held his throat and her eyes were shut and sealed.

After some short, blind moments, in which she was lost, and he torn in two between desire and iron-determination, he lifted her suddenly to her feet.

"Darling, my heart, good-bye—for a little while," he said; "and then—never good-bye again. The next time we kiss, you must be my wife."