Part 33 (2/2)

She lowered her voice to a whisper: ”She used to take them drugs. She was a hactress, and she and her 'usbin had that room. She was very clever, they said, but she hadn't had no work for a long time, and she used to eat away at them drugs night and day, and 'er 'usbin never knew.

And at last, one day he found 'er out, and there was an awful s.h.i.+ndy and he said as 'e'd leave her if she didn't knock it off. And she tried and tried. For a whole three days she did without ... walked the room all day and would go out and no sooner out than in again ... she told the girl it was _'ell_. Every time anyone came to the door she would stand up and just say, ''ell! 'ell! ell!' very quiet to herself all the time they was speaking. Then on the third night she went out and got _it_.

And the 'usbin found out as soon as he came in. She was so gentle and sweet-like, and began to 'elp 'im off with his coat. He gave her a look ... like _hanythink_, then 'e put his hat and coat on again and walked out. And that very night she done for 'erself with one of the razors 'e left behind. _She done it in the very bed you bin sleeping in._ I says to cook I says it's a s.h.i.+me of the missis to do it!--but there! she's one of them would sell 'er mother's shroud for sixpence.

I shan't stay here no more after this, don't you believe it, miss--not for a thousand pound; and nor won't you, I reckon.”

Poppy's reckoning came to much the same sum. When she stole down in the morning light, it was to dress herself and pack her belongings swiftly for departure. Kate stayed by the door until all was done, casting fearsome glances about her, ready to fly at a sound. They left the flower-decked room then, to the poor, disquieted spirit that haunted it, and sought the mistress of the house. But she discreetly excused herself from an interview, and only sent the cook to demand a week's extra money in lieu of the notice that should have been given. Poppy expostulated, but it was of no use: she was told that it was the rule under which rooms were let and that her luggage could be detained. When she had paid, she realised that this extra expense would force her to seek still cheaper lodgings. That evening found her installed in a dingy room in Hunter Street--another top-floor-but-one.

How she wished at this time, that she had betaken herself from the first to Paris, where, she had been told all top-floors are white-and-gold rooms, with faded true-lovers' knots festooning the ceiling, and wide oak fireplaces in which burnt little bright _briquette_ fires. Once, wis.h.i.+ng to have a picture in the Louvre copied for Luce, she had visited a clever but penniless girl-artist in such a room, in quite a poor part of the _Quartier_; and the girl had carelessly told her that there were plenty of the same kind to be had.

In her new quarters Poppy had barely room to turn round: but she was more content. No tragic ghosts kept vigil there, it was certain. A healthy scent of Irish stew pervaded the atmosphere, and the walls were decorated with smiling faces and charming figures. The landlady, a stout, breezy woman on the right side of forty-five, had once been a chorus girl at the Gaiety, and her circle of acquaintances had evidently been large. Little now remained to her of beauty, but she had an attractive _bonhomie_ and a wide charity for the world of women.

CHAPTER XV

In Hunter Street, Poppy put the finis.h.i.+ng touches to her book of poems--as far as anything is ever finished until it appears in print.

For it is certain that a writer will always find something new to do to a book as long as it is in MS. and within reach. But with Poppy, time pressed. She knew that shortly she would be wanting money. Moreover, she was horrified to reflect that after nearly four months in England she had nothing ready for publication but the poems, which had been the work of years. The thought came to her that if she could get this book accepted and published it would bring courage and inspiration back, and so spur her on that she would presently come to her own on a full tide.

With this hope high in her, she sent the poems to a publisher whom she had read of in a literary journal as having a reputation for encouraging new authors on new subjects. The journal in question had omitted to mention that the new authors got very little out of the process _beyond_ the encouragement, so poor Poppy went home gay of heart from posting her precious ma.n.u.script and essayed to start work on a batch of short stories. She had six of them in a skeleton condition; some of them consisting of no more than half a dozen startling phrases which were almost stories in themselves. These she intended to finish and get into the magazines.

Afterwards, she would complete her book and fire it off at the world.

She knew she could write. All she needed was time--and peace of mind.

Alas! Time began to press terribly; and peace of mind was anywhere but in a little fourth-floor room in Hunter Street. Inspiration appeared to have fled from so commonplace an atmosphere; and again the lurking shadows came out of their corners, and cast themselves across the pages she could not fill.

Her physical condition began to oppress her sorely, too, and she no longer _wanted_ to work, for sitting at her desk caused headaches and dizziness. She longed for fresh air and bracing walks across gra.s.s and in the wind: for peaceful and beautiful scenes. But London was stifling in the grip of summer, and Bloomsbury was the hottest, most stifling place in it. The little room was suffocating, and out-of-doors the conditions were not much better. The streets gave up a white, afflicting dust; the pavements burned the feet. The best Poppy could do was to take a 'bus to some park where she could seek the quiet little unfrequented walks. Most of all, she loved the river when it swelled serene and full-bosomed from Chelsea onwards to Putney and the upper reaches. Along the Embankment how often she lingered before the beaten-copper lilies on Whistler's door, wis.h.i.+ng dreamfully that she might see that master of paint and satire come forth, eye-gla.s.s perched in eye and cane in hand: but he never did--for her. From thence she would go to the statue of grey old Carlyle, who sits always in his little green garden watching Mother Thames flow by. On, past the Rossetti Fountain, and the house where the poet lived; and George Eliot's dull and drearsome residence.

The Clock House charmed her, and she thought that if she _could_ live in London she would choose to live there. Always she trembled a little when she pa.s.sed t.i.te Street, thinking of the tragic genius who had made it famous and who was eating out his heart in Reading Gaol. She would never pa.s.s through the street, or look at No. 16, for fear her action might seem to savour of the cruel curiosity that lifts the cere-cloth from a dead face to seek upon it the marks that life has made and death been unable to erase.

At last she would be home again, braced and fresh from her long walk and her thoughts--until she sat to her table. Then slowly, but unfailingly, physical weariness would steal upon her, and mental depression that could not be shaken off.

The facts were to be faced at last that the six stories had sped no further ahead than the first few startling phrases; and that living with the utmost frugality she was down to the bare cold sum of ten pounds.

She had long ago decided that she could make no further demand on Bramham, although he had urged her to do so if she found herself in need ”before her s.h.i.+p came home” laden with the rewards of labour. She had received several kind and cheery letters from him, and answered them in the same spirit. Afterwards, she had let the correspondence lapse, for he wrote of a trip ”home” before long, and she was afraid that he might seek her out.

She possessed no valuables to realise on, except the piece of Spanish lace which had been valued by a p.a.w.nbroker at thirty s.h.i.+llings. She had nothing, in fact, but her literary genius, which had gone back upon her in her hour of need. Terrible doubts of her powers a.s.sailed her now.

Could she really write? Or was she merely a scribbling woman who _might_ be successful as the editress of a woman's dress paper?

No! no! She denied it vehemently. She _knew_ that she had the ”restless heart and plotting brain” of the born writer; the cunning hand for the swift, smiting word; the fine eye for the terse or sonorous sentence; the tuned ear for the phrase that, like a chord of music, caused her exquisite pleasure. And she had knowledge of a magic land full of strange people and cruel ghosts and dear delights: and an imagination: and a vocabulary.

Of these things she was certain, when she was sane and calm; but she was not often sane and calm. No woman in her state ever is, even under the kindliest circ.u.mstances. Terrors, pleasures, fears, hopes--all are seen through the blurred, exaggerating gla.s.s of emotion.

The fear began to haunt her that she would not have enough money in hand to pay the expenses of her approaching illness. Sometimes she threw fear down and trampled on it; but other times it overcame her, swept her off her feet, engulfed her. Lest she should succ.u.mb entirely and ign.o.bly she would wrench herself free, and, hastening out of doors, spend the remainder of the day wandering, resting sometimes in the Abbey, sometimes in the Brompton Oratory, seeking always a scene of peace and beauty.

One day her breezy landlady approached her, using all the tact and kindness she had command of, yet taking the girl cruelly unawares.

”My dear,” she said pleasantly, ”I hope you have found a place to go to when your time comes?”

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