keen to learn and to work. But I can’t. I’m in honour bound to appear to-night. You see, it’s our second century–the first one we could not observe, because it came at the end of January just in the general mourning–so there’s an awful to-do and tomasha to-night, souvenir programmes and I don’t know what all, also a rather extra special audience. It would be little too bad if I played them false. But,” she added, rising, “when it’s over I shall come back–yes, I will, I will, I tell you. Don’t flatter yourself you can prevent me, beloved lunatic, for you jolly well can’t.–I shall come back directly the performance is over, and watch with you, through the bad hours till the dawn.”
Dominic Iglesias had risen, too. He crossed the room, going to the door and holding it open for her; then, standing on the little landing, he watched her as she went down the narrow crooked stairs. And so doing, it came to him, with a movement of thankfulness and of satisfied pride, how very fully in the past six months the Lady of the Windswept Dust had realised and fulfilled all the finer promise of her complex nature. Just as her figure had matured, retaining its admirable proportions and suppleness while gaining in distinction and dignity, her mind had matured likewise. Her splendid fearlessness was no longer that of naughty dare-devil audacity, but of secure position and recognised success. Indeed, she had grown into a somewhat imperial creature, for whom the world, and rightly, is very willing to make place.
At the bottom of the flight Poppy paused, looking up and kissing her hand.
“Till to-night,” she cried. “Now I go to herd those two small miseries, W. O. and Cappadocia.–Take most precious care of yourself until I come back, dear man. Good-bye and God keep you, till to-night.”
Mr. Iglesias crossed the drawing-room, glad at heart, erect and stately as in the fulness of health. For a minute or so he stood looking out into the garden, at the stone basin full to the lip–in which the sparrows, relieved of the presence of the toy spaniels, washed with much fluttering of sooty wings–and at the spring flowers, beginning to close their delicate blossoms as the sun declined towards its setting in the gold and grey of the west. In the recovered stillness, those same spiritual presences, rare apprehensions, exquisite memories, mysterious invitations, once again obtained possession, coming forth, passing lightly to and fro, filling all the place. In aspect and sentiment they were benign, all fearfulness having gone from out them–they telling of fair things only, of human relations unbroken by treachery or self-seeking, unsullied by lust; telling, too, of godly endeavour faithfully to travel the road which leads to the far horizon touched by the illimitable glory of the Uncreated Light.
But presently Dominic Iglesias became aware that he was very, very tired. He sat down in the chair again.
“Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy,” he murmured, crossing himself. “I think the day’s work is over. I will sleep.”
That night Poppy St. John played as she had never played before; and her audience, taking her astonishing manifestation of talent as a compliment to themselves, cried with her and laughed with her in most wholehearted fashion.
Antony Hammond, in the stage box on the right, turned to Adolphus Carr, his companion, saying:
“Did I really write such admirable drama as this? I have girded at that term, ‘creating a part,’ as an example of the colossal vanity of the actor, and his very inadequate reverence for his maker, the playwright. But, I give you my word, after to-night I hide my diminished head. The player and playing are greater than any fondest conception of mine, when I put those words on paper.”
And Lionel Gordon, his habitual imperturbability altogether broken up by excitement, stamped up and down stammering:
“Ge-ge-hanna, gehanna, what possesses the woman? I’d tour creation with her. She must be made to sign a three years’ contract. If she can act like this there’s nothing less than a cool half-million sterling in her.”
And Alaric Barking, lean and haggard, invalided home from South Africa, escaping for one evening from the ministrations of gentle Lady Constance Decies and his pretty _fiancee_, sat huddled together at the end of a row at the back of the pit, hoping, “The deuce! nobody would see him,” with a choke in his throat. He would love, honour, and cherish his pretty, high-bred, innocent maiden; but Poppy’s voice tore at his very vitals. And he asked himself how had he ever borne to give her up, forgetting, as is the habit of civilised man in such slightly humiliating circumstances, that it was Poppy herself, not he, who loved and rode away.
Twice the curtain was raised at the end of the performance, and the Lady of the Windswept Dust made her bow with the rest of the company.–Now she could depart; thank heaven! she could go back to the strangely still house in Holland Street and fulfil her promise to Dominic Iglesias to watch with him till dawn. All through the play, the passion and excitement and pathos and mirth of it, her anxiety had deepened, her yearning increased, so that the joy of her public triumph was barred and seared by intimate pain. Now she could go. Already the carpenters were beginning their nightly work of destruction, metamorphosing the so-lately brilliant stage into a vast unsightly cavern of gaunt timbers, creaking pulleys, noisy mechanical contrivances, gaudy painted surfaces of canvas and paper, piled-up properties, of uncertain lights and draughts many and chill. Careless of all save that determination of going, Poppy moved away. But still the unseen audience clamoured. A fury had taken it, a madness such as will sometimes attack even the soberest and most aristocratic crowd, excitement reacting upon itself and stimulating excitement, till the demand which had begun in kindly enthusiasm became oddly violent, even brutal, men and women standing up, applauding, drumming, shouting a single name.
“There, it’s over, thank the powers! Now let me get out of all this infernal din,” she said, putting her hands over her ears as she pushed into the wings.
But Lionel Gordon met her, barring her passage, his face working with nervous agitation, and caught hold of her unceremoniously by both arms.
“What’s the matter?” she cried angrily. “I can’t stay. I have a case of illness on hand.”
“Hang illness!” he answered. “My good girl, pull yourself together. Go back. Don’t be a blooming fool. Listen–it’s you they’re splitting their throats for–yes, you–about the most fastidious audience in Europe yelling like a pack of drunken bookies! Gehenna! you’re the luckiest woman living. You’re made, great heavens, you’re made!”
He dragged her aside, pushing her into the mouth of the narrow passage between the curtain and the footlights, where the roar of the house and the welter of faces met her like a breaking wave.
* * * * *
Standing against the edge of the pavement in front of Mr. Iglesias’ house, in Holland Street, was a covered van. As Poppy drove up a couple of men came down the steps, in the black and white of the moonlight. Their dark clothing and somewhat sleek appearance were repulsive to her. She swept past them, swept past Frederick holding open the door, and on up the stairs. Her hands were encumbered by her trailing draperies of velvet and silver tissue, and by an extravagant bouquet of orchids, lilies, and roses, with long yellow satin streamers to it. She had not stayed even to wash the grease paint off her face. Just as she was, the stamp of her calling upon her, eager, fictitious, courageous, triumphant, pushed by a great fear, she came. But in the doorway she faltered, set her teeth, bowed her head, and paused.
For in the centre of the room a bier was dressed, and on either side of it stood lighted tapers of brownish wax, in tall black and gold candlesticks. At the foot, some distance apart, two low-seated rush-bottomed high-backed _prie-dieu_ had been placed. Upon the one on the left a little nun knelt, her loose black habit concealing all the outline of her figure. The white linen pall was turned back, across the chest of the corpse, to where the shapely long-fingered hands were folded upon an ebony and silver crucifix. By some harsh irony of imagination Lionel Gordon’s voice rang in Poppy’s ears: “My good girl, pull yourself together. Gehenna! you’re the luckiest woman living. You’re made, great heavens, you’re made!”–while, blank despair in her heart, she went forward, the little nun looking up momentarily from her prayers, and stood beside the bier. Beautiful in death as in life, serene, proud, austere, but young now with the eternal youth of those who have believed, and attained, and reached the Land of the Far Horizon, Dominic Iglesias lay before her.
Presently a sound of sobbing broke up the stillness, and turning, Poppy descried good George Lovegrove, sitting in the dusky far corner of the room, his knees wide apart, his shiny forehead showing high above the handkerchief he pressed against his eyes. She backed away from the corpse, as in all reverence from the presence of a personage august and sacred. Coming close to him, she laid her hand gently upon George Lovegrove’s shoulder. “Go home, my best beetle,” she said, very tenderly. “You’re worn out with sorrow. Come back in the morning if you will. I promised Dominic I would watch with him till the dawn. I keep my promise.”
Then the Lady of the Windswept Dust laid her extravagant bouquet with its yellow streamers, on the floor, at the foot of the bier; and kneeling upon the vacant _prie-dieu_, beside the little nun, buried her painted face in her hands and wept.