Part 23 (1/2)
Poppy had no inclination to disguise her feelings from Miss Cornell.
”Sophie, you make me sick!” she said and turned away.
”Yes, that's all very well; but you made a bargain with me, that you would meet Bramham sometimes, and if he likes you, so much the better.
You don't seem to know when you're lucky!”
”Lucky?” Something broke from her lips, that might have been only an exclamation, but had the sound of a moan.
”Pooh!” said Sophie. ”Some fellow's been kidding you, I suppose, and you don't like it. Oh! I know all about it.”
”You know some wonderful things, Sophie!” said Poppy at last, in her soft, low voice. ”Your mind must be a treasure-house of dainty thoughts and memories.”
But irony was ever wasted on Sophie. She got up and stretched her well-shaped arms above her head until the heliotrope sleeves cracked and gaped at the seams.
”Well, all I can say is that you are a donkey not to want to meet nice fellows when you get the chance. Don't you ever intend to marry?”
Poppy, who had gone over to smell some flowers, probably Bramham's, which were clumsily bunched in rows on the mantel-shelf, faced her with an air of insolent surprise.
”What can that possibly have to do with you or your men visitors?”
”Oho!” said Sophie aggressively. ”You won't get many chances of marrying without _my_ a.s.sistance, my dear. Perhaps you don't know it, but men don't come to Africa with the idea of entering into the holy state of matrimony. When they _do_ marry, it's _quite_ by accident, and the girl has to work the accident. You don't know much about that business, my child,” she added contemptuously. ”Better take a few lessons from me.”
”Why? Have you been very successful?” Poppy's tone was one of polite inquiry. The other girl flushed.
”Jolly sight more than _you'll_ ever be, with your white face and thin figure,” she retorted, adding pleasantly: ”Your eyes remind me of a snake's.”
Poppy sauntered carelessly towards the door.
”And _you_ remind me of the man who, when he was getting the worst of a discussion on original sin, said to the other man: 'If I were you, I would not drink with my mouth full.' I am quite willing to believe anything you like to tell me about your conquests, Sophie; only please don't bother to hunt a husband for me. The good G.o.d kindly supplied me with the same instincts as other women. I can do my own hunting.”
She went out and closed the door behind her with a gentle, sad movement, as though she was shutting in the light of the world and regretted doing it. A little colour had come to her face. She felt better.
Abinger had gone away. This time his destination was really the Rand, for the _boys_ had taken his luggage to the station and seen him leave.
He had told Kykie that he would be away for six weeks at least.
After that stormy scene in the drawing-room, when he had left Poppy wrapped in wild weeping, nothing further had pa.s.sed between them on the subject of their marriage. Indeed, she had not seen him again. But he had left a letter for her, and enclosed was a copy of the marriage certificate, to show her that he had not been inventing. He further informed her that Father Eugene was still alive, and that by writing to the Jesuit Monastery in the Transvaal she could at any time ascertain the simple truth. The rest of the letter was written in a strain of casual indifference, that Poppy found singularly rea.s.suring. His att.i.tude appeared to be that of a man rather bored with the subject because it bored her; but, facts being facts, he plainly felt it his duty to show her that there were less pleasing and many more boring things in life than to be called Mrs. Abinger. He told her first of all, not to be a foolish girl and make herself ill about nothing; that it would be in every way to her advantage to make her _debut_ in South African society as the wife of a well-known man.
”I have not disguised from you,” he wrote, ”that I have what is called a bad reputation, but that will not affect you--rather redound to your credit in fact, since the wives of rakes are always looked upon as possessing something unusual in the way of brains and charm. As my wife, your lines will be laid in not unpleasant places. You may have as many friends as you like, and I will allow you five thousand pounds a year to entertain them and yourself upon. In making the matter public, no painful details need be gone into. All that is necessary is that you give me permission to make the truth public. Tell me when you are ready to a.s.sume the t.i.tle of Mrs. Abinger--I'll do the rest. In this, dear girl, as in all things, pray please yourself. Only, remember that if you don't choose to accept the situation, the situation still remains--_we are married_. And it is only under the conditions stated that I can permit you to live any other life than the one you have lived so long.”
When first she received this letter, Poppy read it and flung it from her. But in the calm that came after a week's intolerable torment of longing, and despair, she read it again. The fierce fires that had consumed her were burning low then, and cast but a faint and dreary flicker down the pathway of the future. That future looked a land all shadows and gloom, whatsoever pathway she chose to take towards it. The simplest thing to do seemed the most desirable; and surely it was simplest just to let things stay as they were! She would tell Luce Abinger that her choice was to let things remain as they had always been, and then she would live on, drifting through the weary days and months and years, working a little every day, until work at last would become everything and fill her whole life. Perhaps, as she had missed love she would find fame. It did not seem to matter very much whether she did or not.
All she asked was to find peace. Knowing very little of life she did not realise that in asking for this she asked for everything. For no woman finds peace until she has tasted of all the poisoned dishes at the banquet of life--and then the peace is either of the dead body or the dead mind.
After those seven days of suffering, Poppy sat with her broken love-dream, like a pale child with a broken toy. She thought because she was numb that all was over then, except the dreary living through the dreary days. But the young have a great capacity for suffering, and she had forgotten how very young and strong she was, and how hot the blood ran in her veins. After a day she was back again in the trough of the sea. When at last she emerged she was a child no longer, but a woman with something to hide from the world--a wound that bled inwardly and would always ache.
Abinger had been gone nearly three weeks then, and wrote to say that he should probably be away for two or three months, as he was selling all the property he owned on the Rand, and the final settlements would take him quite that time. The thought of the long respite from his presence was a great relief to the girl, and by unconsciously lifting a little of the strain from her mind helped her to come back the sooner to her normal self. Kykie's delight was enormous when Poppy was to be seen wandering aimlessly through the house once more and into the garden; though _there_ she never stayed long now, and there were parts of it she did not go near.