NICK CAPRON lay on a bed in one of the bedrooms of the Club—a sobbing, raving, blaspheming figure, fearful in bandages sodden with blood, his arms strapped to the sides of the bed to keep him from tearing at his throat. The doctor and Portal stood by, regarding him, one with a calm, professional eye, the other with a wet forehead. Carson sat on a chair at the foot of the bed with a face like a stone wall, staring straight before him, his hands in his pockets.

The injured man spoke continuously in a gurgling, guttural way, half of his words intelligible, the other half maniacal. His main plaint was for the sight of Carson, whom he had not recognised.

"I wish you'd fetch Carson ... there's no one like old Karri ... he's worth the whole damned boiling of you ... besides, I have something to say to him ... if I am booked for the last stretch I'd like Karri to see me off.... Oh, blazes! what the——is this at my throat? Carson! Karri—where is my devoted wife, too? She ought to be here to speed the parting guest ... Mary—a damned iceberg ... but I'd like some ice.... Give me some ice, Karri——"

After a time the narcotic administered began to take effect, and the watchers were relieved from the strain of listening to these ravings. Ferrand and Portal took drinks and sat down to wait for the coming of Mrs. Capron.

"—And an infernal long time she is about it," said Ferrand. "What do you think, Karri?"

If Carson had an opinion on the subject he did not state it, but he roused himself and looked at the time. It was nearly half-past one.

"I must get home," he muttered. "If you want me Ferrand, you can telephone to Bramham's house. I want to see Bramham," he added absently.

Ferrand cocked a professional eye at him.

"You're used up, Carson. Go home and sleep, but first see if you can find Mrs. Capron, there's a good chap. We can't have this over again when he comes to. She must be here and that's all there is to it. You can use my cart if you like, to get home in. Get a rest, old man ... you look just about peleela ... take my cart."

Carson accepted the offer and went out, followed by Portal through the silent rooms of the Club to the front verandah.

Ferrand's red-wheeled dog-cart, with its coolie-driver, usually formed part of the street furniture, for the doctor had a happy habit of leaving it outside the Club door, going in and settling down to poker and forgetting all about it. But at the moment it was nowhere to be seen, the fact being that the man, tired of sitting still, had begun to walk the horse, and was now out of sight at the far end of the street.

There was not a rickshaw to be seen; they were all waiting for revellers outside the Town Hall. Fatigue was beginning to tell on Carson: he rapped out a bad and bitter word.

"Cheer up!" said Portal blithely. "You'll soon be dead!"

It was a well-worn expression, and Carson was accustomed to it, but upon this occasion it jarred. Something in Portal's voice was jarring, too. Now that Carson came to remark it, for the first time that evening there was something wrong with Portal's appearance as well as his voice. Instead of being in evening-dress, he had on a brown tweed morning-suit, in which, to judge by its appearance, he might have been knocking about the veldt for several weeks. On the other hand, his face was as bloodless and sallow as if he had been shut in a cellar for a month, and his eyes were sunk deep in his head. Withal, he was cheerful, full of suppressed excitement—almost it might be said that he was gay. After many years in Africa, Carson was accustomed to all kinds of moods and tenses in his friends; also, being an intimate of Portal's, he was aware that the latter possessed a troublesome liver. But somehow, none of these things could quite account for the extraordinary aspect and manner of Portal to-night. Under the powerful rays of a street light which fizzled and hummed close by, Carson observed him intently.

"What's the matter with you, Bill? You look queer. Anything wrong? ... besides Capron, I mean...?"

The other responded with apparent composure.

"No, nothing. I'm only glad to see you, Carson, that's all. I'd no idea you were back from the Rand. I had arranged to go up there after you, but——"

"When? What for?" asked Carson in surprise. He was unable to make head or tail of Portal's speech.

"Oh, nothing; just wanted to see you. You're a fascinating chap."

Carson gazed at him.

One of Portal's hands spasmodically gripped and ungripped the verandah rail. With the other he appeared to be holding something stiff in the right pocket of his coat. He continued to talk in parables.

"I went as far as Maritzburg, but I came back to-night to put my affairs into shape and write a few letters—then those fellows came in and asked me to take charge of Capron ... I left him asleep, I thought ... I was writing a letter to—well, never mind who to—when I heard a row ... and there was Capron ... he'd got ahead of me."

"But, good Lord! what do you mean?" Carson burst out. "What's wrong with you? Have your finances gone smash?" he brought an iron hand down on the restless one gripping the verandah railing. The stiff article in Portal's pocket twitched. Carson's career had been adventurous and dangerous, but he had never been nearer death than at that moment. Entirely unconscious of the fact, he went on speaking.

"If you've had a smash-up, Bill, everything I've got is at your disposal.... I've just made a good turn-over in the market.... I thought I should need it, for ... but my castle is in ruins.... You can have it if it's any good to you."

"Thanks, Carson—my finances are all right."

"Then what in thunder's the matter with you?—haven't you got the only good woman in this filthy country I'd like to know! I could swear to two until to-night. Now, if it were not for your wife, I should say they were all rotten to the core ... false as—Oh, well, what's the use?" he turned wearily away.

"Have you spoken to my wife since you got back?" asked Portal. He had come closer and was staring intently into Carson's odd eyes as if searching for something there. His gay air was gone; he breathed heavily.

"I haven't spoken to any woman—except a devil in the train to-day—for nearly three weeks. And after to-night I think I'll be able to exist without 'em forever. But I saw Mrs. Portal from the door of the Town Hall; and she looked to me remarkably ill. Is that your trouble?"

Portal did not answer at once, and Carson turned on him austerely and keenly. "If it's any other woman, don't expect me to sympathise with you—I could forgive any man that but you—bah! but it couldn't be ... impossible!... Look here, Bill, I may as well tell you something now ... you can take it how you like ... I'm not ashamed of it ... I was in love with your wife for years ... she has never known it for one moment ... but I loved her crazily—everything and everyone else went by the board ... until I met her I was—well, I needn't tell you what I was—no follower of Plato, anyway—and you can take this how you please, too—I am not going to pretend that there was anything platonic about my feeling for her ... there was not.... But, because she never turned her eyes my way ... or stepped down once in all the years I've known her and you from her shrine ... it got finer and finer until it got to be the highest, finest thing in my life, and anything decent that I've ever done was because of it."

Portal had turned his head away before Carson had finished and appeared to be looking at something down the street. The thought came to Carson that he was either indifferent or not listening.

"Ah, well!" said he, angry to have wasted his confidence and yet too weary to be angry long. "I daresay this doesn't interest you much ... you know, of course, that dozens of men have been in love with your wife ... she's one of the women men can't help loving with all that's decent in them—any more than one can help loving one's mother. A love like that is like a star in the sky of a man's life ... a star that shows the way to the east.... And if you are one of those fellows that don't know when a star has come down to you, why——"

Portal turned a shaken, strange face to the other man.

"Carson, you must excuse me; I'm queer to-night ... I've been listening to Capron's ravings until I'm nearly raving myself ... but I think I understand ... I begin to see through it all.... Women do and say strange things in the name of Love!... But I know that what you say is true—I believe in you, Karri."

Carson could not pretend to understand the meaning of this, and moreover, Ferrand's cart was at the door, and the sickening remembrance of his own broken hopes was upon him.

"Well, good-night, old man.... I must go home. If anything I've got can be of any use to you, let me know." He held out his hand and Portal gripped it.

"Good-night, Karri—I'm going home, too." His face was transformed.

Carson never solved the problem of that conversation with Portal; never knew how near death he had been, never knew how his accidental confidence had saved his life and given back her husband to Clem Portal. Indeed, he never remembered much about his interview with Portal at all. The memory of it was lost amongst the crowded events of that phantasmagorial night.

Ferrand's coolie spun the cart along at a great rate behind the doctor's best polo pony. Just as they turned into West Street a flying rickshaw passed them, but though Carson heard a man's voice hailing he did not respond. Mrs. Portal and de Grey were in the rickshaw returning from long and vain seeking for Mrs. Capron, and it was de Grey who shouted, thinking he recognised the doctor's cart in the darkness.

But even if Carson had known, he would not have stopped. He had been too long delayed from his own affairs, and he was driving now to get ease from the torture burning in his brain and searing his heart. His thoughts were fixed on one thing now—an interview with Bramham.

"He's the only honest man amongst us, by Heaven!" he said loudly, so that the coolie driver gave him a nervous glance, and drew away. "The only one I'd take the trouble to believe."

He stopped the cart at the gate of Sea House, and told the man to go back to the Club, then strode away up the sea-sanded path. Lights gleamed brilliantly from the dining-room, but silence reigned, and every other part of the house was dark as death. Walking through the verandah with light, swift feet and into the dining-room, he came upon Poppy and Abinger sitting there, facing each other across a corner of the table. There were tears on her face, and one arm was flung out before her with the gesture of one who has thrown the dice on a last and desperate venture. Abinger's hand lay on hers.

They stood up as Carson sped into the room, his eyes blazing light in his dark face, and before anyone could speak he reached Abinger and without word or warning struck him a tremendous blow between the eyes, felling him to the floor, where he lay quite still. Then he took the girl by the throat—the long, white throat that shone in the darkness.

"By God! I must kill you!" he said, and his voice was whispering like the sea's. She heard him; but she made no movement upward of her hands, though the pressure on her throat was terrible to bear. She closed her eyes and prepared to die. The thought slipped into her mind then that it would be good to have rest at last from the ache and storm of life. That was the message the sea was whispering.

"Rest, rest ... peace ... rest!"

After a long while she opened her eyes and found that she was sitting in the same chair she had previously risen from. Bramham's broad back was before her, but she could see Evelyn Carson leaning heavily against the wall like a drunken man, and Abinger seated in another chair delicately wiping his lips. His scar had opened, and blood was trickling down it. The silence was broken by Bramham's voice—quite calm and pleasant.

"If you want to kill each other, take a brace of revolvers and go out and do it decently somewhere in the open, where it won't make a mess—killing Miss Chard, however, is quite another matter."

Again silence prevailed. Later, Carson said collectedly:

"She can live—if she wants to"—he gave her a look that lashed across her face like a whip, leaving it distorted. "Let them both live, and be damned to them!"

The tone and expression of bitter pleasantry Bramham had adopted, died away.

"Well! you fellows from home—!" he began, and looked from face to face. Abinger continued to wipe blood delicately away, but he did not wipe the sneer from his lips. The girl had the face of a little tired, weeping child: the sight of it turned Bramham's heart to water. He put out a hand to Carson, appealingly:

"God! Karri, what is it?"

The paleness of Carson under his tan had once more given place to an inartistic-grey tint, and his eyes were dull; but he appeared strangely composed.

"Nothing, Bram," he said. "Only to find the girl you love—less than nothing."

A cry broke upon their ears, and all started and stared about them, especially at the open door of Carson's room, from whence that muffled, involuntary sound had come. A stiffness came over them; their masks slipped on. What unknown person had listened to the wild words that had been spoken?

Suddenly Bram remembered the sensations and scents that had assailed him earlier in the night; catching up the same pink-shaded lamp, he once more entered Carson's room. He gave one searching glance about him, and then instinct took him to the only possible cover—a narrow curtained recess in which to hang clothes. He thrust his hand between the curtains. Mary Capron spared him further trouble—she swept out from the recess, and from the room, giving him one burning glance of hatred as she passed.

In the dining-room she stood still, the centre of attraction for the second time that night. Her cloak had fallen from her shoulders, and her beautifully-coiffÉ hair was ruffled and limp, her eyes were long gleams of topaz light in a carved-stone face. And for some reason she poured the full measure of her rage and scorn upon poor Bramham, who had dazedly followed her, stepping carefully to avoid her train, and standing there now with the little pink lamp in his hand.

"Have you peered and pried enough?" she asked, piercing him with her eyes. "Is your curiosity satisfied—now that you have dragged me out? I came here to speak to Evelyn Carson—hearing voices, I foolishly hid.... Is your taste for scandal appeased?"

Poor, gallant, woman-loving Bramham! He paled and started, like a man who has unexpectedly been struck in the face; then, turning, still dazed, he walked away with the lamp in his hand from the room, and from the house—his house! In the pathway he discovered the lamp in his hand and put all his strength and disgust into flinging the hapless thing with a crash into a bush.

In the room the girl, still sitting in her chair, but with an awakening look of amazement and hope upon her face, said some words very softly to Mary Capron:

"So you lied! ... false woman! ... and base friend!"

But Mary Capron turned from her. Shaking with rage and defeat, she flung a torrent of low, rushing words at Carson.

"You love this girl ... girl! ... her confessions to Luce Abinger here to-night were not very girlish ... I could not hear all that she said to him, but I heard enough.... She told him that she gave herself to some man in a garden three years ago ... that she belonged only to that man and could never love any other——"

"No more," broke fiercely from Carson's white lips.

"But you shall hear!" she cried, flinging out a hand and catching his arm. "She has had a child ... she boasted of it ... the child of the man in the garden.... Do you deny it? Do you deny it?" she cried, turning to Poppy. But Poppy did not deny, did not speak: only lifted her head proudly and smiled.

"There ... there ... you see?... let her deny it if she can!"

Stiffly Carson turned his head now and looked at Poppy; his lips twisted like a man's who is tasting poison; his eyes demanded.

"Yes, I have borne a son," she said simply.

For a moment there was such a silence as is found in rooms where the dead are lying. Then Mary Capron broke it again:

"She is proud of it!... You see ... you see what you love? Is it possible that for a woman like that ... that for her you can turn from my love, I who would let men brand me in the face for you—who——"

"Oh, for God's sake!—are you mad?... be silent." Carson caught her hands roughly and made to draw her away. But she was beyond herself. "And now Nick is dying ... I have heard them saying it ... and they are looking for me to go to him, but I will not ... I will not!... I will stay here with you, Eve—I am terrified of blood—I—" she finished on a high note that was almost a shriek, for Abinger had risen quietly from his chair in the corner and was before her with his scarred, bleeding face. Then at last she was silent. What there was to be said, Abinger said—blandly, softly.

"Oh! I think you had b-better come, Mary. It will not be the first t-time you've seen a man cut about. You remember the night this was done?" He touched his face and she shrank away blenching. "The night Carmen punished me for our sins. You were quite brave then. You saw the whole performance without uttering a scream or a cry that might have brought people to the scene and discovered you. No one should blame you for that, but—I think you could be brave enough to see Nick." He held out his hand to her. She shrank from him, wilting with shame, her eyes frozen in her face; but he was inexorable.

"I think you had better come. It seems to me that you have said enough for one night to Carson and Miss Chard. She is free of me for ever—I have told her so. And Carson is free of you. Is not that plain to you? They love each other ... let us leave them to settle their affairs. You and I—have many old memories to discuss—unless you would rather discuss them here?"

She went at that, with hurrying feet; and the man with the bleeding, smiling face followed her.

Carson and Poppy were left alone. They stared into each other's eyes with an agony of love and longing and fear. Anger was all gone from Carson's face; only fear was there—fear that was terror. It was the girl who stood now; he had fallen into a chair, wearily, desperately.

"Is it true?" he muttered; "is it true, after all?—a child!" His own sins were forgotten in this overwhelming, bitter revelation.

She went over to him, and kneeled between his knees.

"Yes; it is true, Eve ... your child! ... child of the night you dreamed that poppies grew upon the eternal hills.... I am Poppy! Do you not know me?" He sat up straight then and looked down at her, looked down deep into the glimmering eyes. "I am Poppy," she said, and her voice was wine in a crystal beaker. She dragged the malachite comb from her hair, and it came tumbling down upon her shoulders in long black ropes. "I am Poppy who gave you all her gifts."

The sea helped her; it sent into the room a strong, fresh wind that blew the veils of her hair across his face and lips. He breathed sharply. God! What strange scent of a lost dream was here? What sweet, elusive fragrance of a most dear memory!

He took hold of her hair as though he would have torn it from her head. A light was in his face—he drew her to him, staring into her eyes.

"Poppy? ... Poppy! ... not a dream?... Not the ravings of fever?... Poppy!" He held her hair across his face as though smelling some wonderful flower.

"Eve ... did you not say to me, 'If I were stricken blind in this hour—'" she stopped.

"'—from ten thousand women I could search you out by the scent of your hair,'" he finished.

Again they stayed long, staring into each other's eyes. Staring—glance falling to glance and rising again; staring with the brave, shame-stricken looks that women give to men they adore and endow, and men to women they rob, and bless—and rob again. Strange that two people who love each other cannot for long bear the ardent flame of each other's eyes.

"Part of it is lost—for ever," he said at last.... "Gone! ... only fragments remain. But there never was a dream like the dream we dreamt on that lost night." And after a long time:

"Poppy—where is my son?"

She lifted her eyes to him. The tears which she could never shed for herself would always come rushing forth for that sweet memory.

"All my love could not keep him, Eve."

She pulled a child's framed face from her bosom and held it up to his eyes. He saw the little familiar face he had looked at once before, pictured in a field of corn and poppies, and trembled. He gave it one swift, sorrowful look and then he wrapped his arms about her, and she lay on his breast.

"Do you regret?" he asked. "Have you ever regretted? Oh, God! how can I ask?"

"No, no," she cried, but her voice was faint. Even while she spoke she knew—none better than she—how vain were denials against the truth of the past. How all their memories and all their gladness to come must ever be salted with pain and tainted with the bitter gall of regret. How, when she laid a child in his arms, their thoughts would terribly fly to that lost son of a lost dream lying far from them in an alien land. They were transgressors—and the reward of transgressors must ever be theirs!

Not much more was said. Only enough to chase the shadows of others from the road of life they meant to take together and make it clear before them. For the rest—they had all the years to come in which to understand and suffer and forgive.

He thought of the turmoil and transgression and "tremendous disarray" of his life—and of dark, still nights far away in Borapota, with this woman of his dreams by his side—and his heart sent up a cry that was not unworthy of it.

"O, Lord God—forgive me my sins!"

When Bramham came into the room long after, she was still kneeling there in her white gown and her loosened hair, and she thought it no shame for him to find her so. She rose to her feet and gave him her hand, and he held it closely, preciously—for he, too, loved this woman.

"Thank God that out of this jumble and carnage comes one good thing!" he said. "Your ship is home in port. Take her out to the gate, Carson. Mrs. Portal is waiting, and they're going to pick up Portal at the Club. Capron will recover, Ferrand says."

When Poppy had hastily fastened her hair, and Carson had wrapped her in her cloak, they went down to the gate where Clem waited half in and half out of a carriage window. Her face was radiant, too. She drew Poppy in beside her.

"Are you two happy?" she whispered. "So am I." But she told nothing of the golden moment that had been hers within the past hour, when, in the darkness of the Club verandah, a big, sullenly handsome man had taken her in his arms and just whispered:

"Forgive!—Loraine!"

She was that lovely thing, a close woman.