Part 28 (1/2)

At last it ended strangely. Weariness seemed suddenly to overcome Abinger, for his grasp grew loose on the girl's hands, his tense features relaxed, a bluish shade stole over his face.

Presently he stumbled to his feet, and, walking unevenly and vaguely, made his way from the room.

In a moment Poppy Destin had leapt from the bed to the door and locked it soundlessly.

Sophie Cornell was saying good-night to a visitor. ”Well,” said he.

”Tell Miss Chard how sorry I am. As soon as she feels well enough, I shall send up my carriage, and I'd like her to use it and get some fresh air.”

”Och, what, she won't be well enough for that some time yet,” was Miss Cornell's answer. ”She is very d.i.c.kie indeed. I shouldn't be surprised if she croaked.”

Bramham gave her a searching look.

”Well, look here; she ought to have a good doctor in. I'll ask Ferrand to call. He's my doctor, and the best I know----”

”Oh, don't do that?” said Sophie hastily; ”we've called a doctor in already, you know.”

”Who have you got?”

”I must go--I can hear her calling,” said Sophie suddenly. ”Good-night.”

Incontinently she disappeared, the door closed, and Bramham was left to pick his way through the dark garden as best he might.

After the sound of his steps had died away a figure stole from among the trees to the verandah, softly opened the front door and walked in upon Miss Cornell, who was in the act of mixing herself a whiskey-and-soda.

The drink spilled upon the table and Sophie's mouth fell apart.

”My G.o.d, Rosalind! What a _shrik_[5] you gave me! _Man!_ What's the matter with you?” At the end of her question her voice fell into a whisper. She stared with genuine horror at the wraith-like face before her: Rosalind Chard, with dilated eyes in an ashen face, drenched hair, a white lace gown wet and torn, hatless and shoeless.

[5] Start (fright).

”_Gott!_ Rosalind!” repeated the Colonial girl. ”Has someone been trying to murder you?”

”Yes,” said the other tonelessly. ”And I've come here for safety. Will you take me in, Sophie?”

”Of course. But who was it? A man, I'll bet--or has your old aunt gone up the tree?”

”Don't ask me anything, Sophie. I shall go mad if I have to talk. Only, hide me and never let anyone know I'm here, or I shall kill myself.” The girl fell exhausted into a chair and Sophie stood staring at her with a long face. It would not suit her book at all, she reflected, if Rosalind Chard wanted to be shut up and never see anyone. However, she saw that this was no time to argue the point, and that her present pressing business was to get the exhausted girl to bed.

This she proceeded to do.

CHAPTER XI

The person largely instrumental in bringing Poppy back to health and a remote interest in life was Charles Bramham.

One day Sophie Cornell met him in West Street and asked him to come and call.

”I have Rosalind up at last,” she told him; ”but she looks like a dying duck, and I believe she _will_ die if someone doesn't buck her up. It would be a _real_ charity if you would come and talk to her.”

Bramham, though an exceedingly busy man, accepted the invitation with vivacity, for he was much _intrigue_ on the subject of Miss Chard, and, further, he had not forgotten the romantic and piquant sensations she had inspired in him upon the occasion of their one meeting. Now, piquant and romantic sensations are very valuable in South Africa, and should always be followed up in case of life becoming too monotonously saltless and savourless. Bramham swiftly found a spare hour and arrived one afternoon in Sophie's absence.