Part 32 (1/2)

Newnham, restless and miserable, quoted with some trace of emotion:

”O to be in England Now that Spring is there.”

But his emotion was neither for Spring nor England. He led the talk to London with the hope of getting her to speak of her destination; but she went off at a tangent and began to tell him about the wonderful shades of blue to be found in the interior of a glacier. He ignored that, and made occasion to give her his card with a Kensington address written on it, saying in rather strained fas.h.i.+on:

”If ever you want a friend--doctors are sometimes useful people, you know.”

She thanked him and took his card, holding it carefully in her hand. But she offered no information on the subject which so engrossed his thoughts. An uncomfortable pause followed. Suddenly in the darkness she felt a hand hot on hers.

”Miss Chard ... Rosalind ...” he had discovered her name--”I will do anything for you.”

It was far from being a surprise to her that he should make some kind of avowal. But his words seemed to her rather odd--and somehow in keeping with his odd looks at her. She very gently drew away her hand from under his and put it behind her head. The other was quite out of his reach.

”Thank you, Dr. Newnham,” she said kindly, but with no particular fervour.

”Do you understand what I mean?” he said huskily, after another pause.

”I can help you.”

He could not see the expression on her face, but he saw that she turned her head to look at him as she answered:

”What can you mean?”

”Oh, you needn't beat about the bush with me,” he spoke with coa.r.s.e irritation. ”I know what you have to face.”

”You must be wonderfully clever,” she said, with a touch of sarcasm; ”but I should like to know just what you mean.”

Irritation now became anger.

”You know well enough,” he said brutally. ”What is the good of playing pure with me! It is my business to see what isn't plain to other people.”

In the darkness she grew pale with anger at his tone, but she had fear too, of she knew not what. Her wish was to rise and leave him at once; but curiosity chained her--curiosity and creeping, creeping fear. Dimly she became conscious of the predestined feeling that once or twice before in her life had presaged strange happenings. What was she going to hear? She sat very still, waiting.

The man leaned close to her and spoke into her ear. His breathing was quick and excited, but he had some difficulty with his words; he muttered and his sentences were halting and disjointed.

But Poppy heard everything he said. It seemed to her that his lowest whisper pierced to the inmost places of her being, and reverberated through her like the echoing and resounding of bells. Afterwards there was a terrible quiet. He could not see her face. She appeared almost to be crouching in her chair, all bundled up, but he did not venture to touch her--some instinct kept him from that. Pity, mingled with his base pa.s.sion and scorn. He regretted that he had spoken so violently. He feared he had been brutal. At last she spoke, in a faint voice, that seemed to come from far away.

”I don't know what you mean ... I think you must be mad.”

Newnham laughed--derisively, devilishly.

”I'll bet that's what you are going home for, all the same.”

While he was furiously laughing, with his hand flung above his head, she flamed up out of her chair, and spoke for a moment down at him in a low, vibrating voice:

”You vile man! Never dare speak to me again. You are not fit to live!”

Then she was gone.