Poppy Part 22

"What is that?"

"I happen to be a dog with a bad name."

Poppy made a little weary exclamation. In truth, she did not see any use in prolonging the discussion. The desire to go out into Durban and meet men and women no longer burned within her. In her present state of weariness she believed she would never again have any taste for human society. Abinger, however, pursued the course of his remarks.

"It is very sad, but my reputation is not one that would commend me to the good ladies of South Africa as the guardian-angel of a young and remarkably pretty girl."

Poppy sat silent.

"I regret to say that the very notion of my appearance in such a _role_ would be received with ribald shouts of laughter by all the men who have the pleasure of my acquaintance, and in Durban and Johannesburg it would be considered the best joke ever told in the clubs."

At last the girl was moved out of her apathy. She shrank back in her chair with her hands before her face. She thought of the Durban Club and a man in it listening and laughing.

"O G.o.d!" she softly cried.

"As for the women," continued Abinger calmly, still staring out of the window. "Well, generally speaking, all the women out here are of the genus crow, and their virtue is a matter of whitewash. Of course, there are degrees. Some of them have managed to a.s.sume four or five coats of it, and there's not a speck to be seen anywhere. These are saintly far beyond the understanding of you and me, my child, but as they mostly live in Johannesburg and we don't, we won't worry about them. There are others there too, who are only in the grey, or one-coat stage, and I've no doubt they would extend a claw of welcome to you, if you'd like to go and live up there. Durban is another matter altogether. This, I must tell you, is a city of the highest moral rect.i.tude. The whitewash is within, as well as without. It flows in the women's veins. Some of them are solid blocks of it! I'm afraid, Poppy, that by the time their husbands have handed the highly delectable tale of my guardianship round the morning tramcars on the way to office, and discussed it in the evening while having their high-teas in carpet slippers, you will not stand much chance of being received into the 'white and winged throng'

which makes up Durban society. You will be black-balled."

Poppy sat up in her chair now, her eyes shining, her cheeks aflame.

"Why do you say all this?" she demanded haughtily. "If it is as you say and through your fault, you must put the matter right. I do not wish to know these women, but I do not choose that they shall shake their skirts at me, because you have a vile reputation. You will have to find some way out----"

Abinger looked away from the window at last and at her. There was a tall lamp to his hand, and he turned it up high, and she saw that he was smiling--a smile none the less unlovely because it had in it the same unusual quality of gentleness that had distinguished it all the evening.

"But, of course, my dear girl!" he said with a note of surprise in his voice, "that is what I am coming to. I have told you these things simply to show you the impossibility of your living any kind of social life here, unless you are prepared to let everybody know the real state of affairs. When everything is known it will be a simple affair for you to take your place, and you will have an a.s.sured position that no one will be able to cavil at. It is for you to say now, whether or not you are ready for the truth to be published."

Poppy's look was of amazement.

"The truth? But what do you mean, Luce? You have been at great pains to tell me why they won't accept the truth."

He stood looking down at her vivid face for a moment. There was an expression on his own that she found arresting too, and she said no more; only waited till he should speak. He turned the lamp down again.

"Poppy," he said in a very low, but clear voice, "do you remember the old French Jesuit coming to the White Farm?"

She stared at him. Her expression reverted to irritation and surprise.

"Father Eugene? Of course I do. And I remember how furious you were, too. And how you stormed at each other in French for about twenty minutes, while Kykie and I stood wondering what it was all about."

"Do you remember any other details? I'm not asking out of idle curiosity," he added, as she threw herself back impatiently in her chair. She wrinkled her brows for a moment. Her head really ached very badly, but she wished to be reasonable.

"I didn't understand French at that time, but you explained the meaning of it all to me. You remember you took me into your study and told me how he thought you frightfully immoral to have a young girl living in your house without her parents, and that he wished you to make a solemn set of promises to him to the effect that you would be a good friend and guardian to me all your life. You said it was a fearful nuisance, but that if you didn't do it, he meant to get to work and find my proper guardians and make things generally unpleasant."

"You remember that clearly?"

"Certainly I do, and so do you. What is the use of this tiresome repet.i.tion? It is quite beside the point."

"No, it is not. Just one more question--you remember going back into the dining-room to the priest and making the promises, I suppose?"

"Yes; we stood before him and _you_ made the promises. I didn't--though I certainly said '_Oui_' whenever you told me to, and some words after him once. It was then you gave me this ring that I always wear. By the way, Luce, I'm tired of wearing it. You can have it back."

"Thank you, my dear girl; but I wouldn't think of depriving you of it.

It is your wedding-ring."

"My--? I think you have gone mad, Luce."

"Not at all. That is your wedding-ring, Poppy. When we stood before the priest that day we were being married."

She burst out laughing. "Really, Luce," she said contemptuously, "you are developing a new form of humour. Does it amuse you?"

"Not much," he said drily; "not so much as it does you, apparently. I don't see anything funny in a marriage ceremony. I remember being exceedingly annoyed about it at the time. But I have come round since then." As he went on, Poppy ceased to smile contemptuously; when he had finished speaking, her mouth was still disdainful, but she was appreciably paler.

"Of late," said Abinger in a voice that had a meaning, "I have begun to find the fact that you are my wife wonderfully interesting."

She sprang up from her chair.

"This is the most ridiculous nonsense I ever listened to!" she cried excitedly. "I don't want to hear any more about it. I refuse to listen."

She turned to go, but he caught her by the wrists and stood holding her and looking into her deathly pale face.

"Am I the kind of man who wastes time talking nonsense? Kykie was a witness. She knows we were married that day."

"Kykie! I'm _sure_ it is not true. She has never spoken of it----"

"I forbade her to do so. I told her that she'd go out at a moment's notice if she did. Further, as you are so very hard to convince, Poppy, I will show you the marriage certificate signed by Father Eugene."

He took a paper from his pocket, and held it towards her. But she had suddenly sunk back into the big chair with her hands over her scared and ashen face.

"Oh, Luce! Luce!" she cried pitifully. "Say it is not true! say it is not true!" and burst into wild weeping.

CHAPTER VIII

Sophie Cornell sat at her breakfast-table looking pasty-faced and unwholesome, without any colour on her cheeks, her good looks effectively disguised in hair-wavers and a hideously-figured heliotrope dressing-gown.

Poppy stared at her in dull amazement, wondering how she could have so little vanity as to allow another girl to see her look so unlovely.

"She will probably hate me for it, but that doesn't matter," was the thought that came into her mind as she encountered Sophie's eyes, sleep-bedimmed, but distinctly resentful, taking her in across the table. As a matter of fact, Sophie's vanity was so great, that it never occurred to her that she could appear unlovely to anyone--even in her unpainted morning hours. Her resentfulness was roused entirely by reason of the fact that this was the first time she had laid eyes on her a.s.sistant typewriter for a full three weeks, and that even now the recalcitrant only came to say that she didn't feel quite equal to work.

"Och! nonsense!" said Miss Cornell, eyeing her coolly. "You look all right. A little pale, but, then, you're always as washed out as a _fadook_."[4]

[4] Dishcloth.

Poppy's lips performed a twisted, dreary smile. She was entirely indifferent to Miss Cornell's opinions of her looks. To anyone's. As she stood there in the little black muslin gown she always wore to come to Sophie's house in the morning, she might have posed for a black-and-white drawing of Defeat.

Sophie saw nothing but the prospect of another two or three days' hard work, and she didn't like it.

"You're a fine sort of a.s.sistant," she grumbled, her mouth half full of toast. "And another thing: Bramham's been here several times inquiring for you, and the whole place is littered up with parcels of books and magazines he has sent you. I couldn't think what excuse to make for his not seeing you, for, _of course_, he thinks you live here, so I told him at last that you had a touch of dengue fever and wanted quiet. He's stayed away ever since, but he's been sending flowers and fruit. You've evidently made a mash."