Poppy Part 57

It did not take Carson very long to come to a conclusion. He knew he was dealing with one of the straightest men and best fellows in Johannesburg, and there was no faintest chance of his confidence being abused. He closed.

"I'll have an agreement drawn up, relating to the claims, at once," said Rosser. "What about the bear scheme? Shall I stand in with you, or will you stand alone?"

"I'll stand alone, thanks, old man." All Carson's careless nerve had come back to him, with the memory of a face fair to see. He knew, in spite of his words, that whatsoever fortune befell--poverty or riches--he would never again stand alone in the world.

"Good, man!" cried Rosser. "I must scoot. I've two appointments before 'Change this afternoon--so long!"

Carson was left to his own many and various devices.

The market rose steadily for a week. The air was full of good and gentle rumours. An Industrial Commission was to be appointed! The iniquitous Dynamite Monopoly was to be smashed! Native labour was to be guaranteed at lower wages! Everything in the garden was to be lovely! And everyone wore a brow unsullied by care! And bears were tumbling over each other in every direction to cover.

Carson had some bad times with himself, but his under-lip never slackened. Rosser's grip on the market was firm and unhesitating. He sold heavily "to arrive."

"I have never known anyone who made money--worth talking about--by buying and holding," was the creed he offered to Carson. And in this case he was right. Suddenly the reaction began. Shares fell with a b.u.mp, and kept steadily on the down-grade for months.

At the end of the first month Carson's bear account closed with a handsome profit to himself of twelve thousand pounds.

In the meantime, negotiations had been proceeding over the South Rands.

The lifelessness of the market did not affect the fact that the "Big House" wanted Carson's claims, and was steadily working to get them by hook or by crook. But Carson and Rosser were both up to every hook and crook of the game. They held the cards and they knew it, and when four hundred pounds each was offered for the shares, they only sat and smiled like little benign G.o.ds. Further, Rosser airily informed Wallerstein, the representative of the "Big House," that he would not consider anything under one thousand pounds. However, in secret conclave, the two conspirators agreed to take eight hundred pounds apiece--not bad for claims that had cost Carson twenty pounds each at the sheriff's sale.

Rosser was for holding out for a thousand, but Carson's time was running out, and his patience.

"No: get a definite offer for eight hundred pounds, and close on it,"

were his orders, and on that decision he rested, as much as a man _can_ rest in Johannesburg, taking the days quietly and dining sanely at nights with old friends. But he got little joy of their society, for the reason that though he knew their lives and interests, they knew nothing of the most vital and important part of his. They had never seen those lilac-coloured eyes with the big, black velvet centres; they could know nothing of the sweet, wild strain on his heart. He felt like a man who stood on the walls of a citadel filled with treasure, parleying with friends and enemies alike, but allowing no one to enter.

Suddenly he grew horribly lonely; the days dragged and the nights brought memories that set him in bodily torment.

Fortunately at this juncture Forsyth, an old crony, carried him off to the Potchefstroom district for some veldt shooting. The air, the long tramps, and the joy of sport, filled in the days, and found him too tired at nights to do anything but fall log-like into the blankets.

CHAPTER x.x.x

Poppy and Cinthie were sitting in the garden together under an orange-tree, which was set in the midst of the thick fence of Barbadoes-thorn. Poppy's muslin gown was of a colour that made her look like a freshly-plucked spray of lilac, and she wore a wide white hat, trimmed with convolvulus.

Every ornament she possessed had been burnt except a jewelled pendant she always wore round her neck, and her big malachite brooch; but now on the third finger of her left hand she wore a ring--a great, gleaming emerald, which had arrived in a little box that morning from Johannesburg.

She had seen Clem looking at it with wondering eyes, but as yet she had not been able to explain, for Clem that day was rather more especially busy than usual. During breakfast she had been flitting in and out constantly to her husband's bedroom. Portal had been suffering from a bad attack of slump fever, and instead of doing the "camel-trick," and feeding on his hump, he required a special _menu_ which kept the cook and his wife busy. He had been more or less confined to his room for three days. It is true that he made wonderful recoveries in the evenings, and rising up donned glad raiment and went to the Club to dine. But when the morning papers arrived he was worse than ever.

The moment breakfast was over Clem had flown to prepare the drawing-room for a committee-meeting of ladies interested in the fate of fifty able-bodied domestics arriving by the following week's mail-boat.

So Cinthie and Poppy had taken to the bush for shelter. For since Poppy's ident.i.ty had become known, everyone was anxious to examine her closely, to see what colour her eyes were, whether her hair was real, and how she behaved generally in the strong light of notoriety which enveloped her. The feeling about her had entirely changed. People said they understood _now_ why she should be so strange-looking, and alone.

She was a genius--the newspapers said so! And as such they opened their arms to her, and their doors, and bade her enter. But instead, she invariably fled with Cinthie into the bush.

Cinthie was six now, and growing tall. Her brown holland overall was a mere frill about her neck, and looked anaemic beside the deeper colouring of her legs. Her sailor-hat hung at the back of her by its elastic, and in the corner of her mouth she thoughtfully sucked the end of one of the long streaks of hair. In her fingers she held a large and discoloured lump of dough, which she was kneading and pinching with the busy concentration of a beetle rolling a _mis bolitje_. Her nine dolls were seated, some against a flat rock, some against the tree, but all gazing stonily at their mother, except the banshee, who lay p.r.o.ne on her back, her arms extended as if to embrace the universe, her beady eyes fixed revengefully on Heaven.

Poppy, sharing the trunk of the tree with the dolls, leaned lazily peeling an orange, which had kindly dropped from the branches above.

Other oranges were lying about on the short grey-green gra.s.s.

"What are you going to do with that dough, Cinthie?" she asked.

"Make pudding."

"Who for?"

"For my chil'ren." She dipped her fingers into a doll's tea-cup full of water, which stood at the elbow of the banshee, and continued to knead; the dough now clung to her fingers in long, elastic threads, and her face showed a deep and vivid interest in her occupation.

"Are these all the children you've got?"

"No; _Minnie-Haha_ and _Danny Deever's_ inside. They been naughty.

They's in bed."

"What on earth did they do?"

"Wouldn't say they prairses last night."

"Oh, how naughty!"

"Yes; I don't love them when they don't say prairses for their daddy."

"Their daddy?"

"Yes; he lives in England. He has been living in England for twenty years. They have never seen him."

"Goodness!"

"Yes; it's very sad." She wagged her head dolefully.

Presently she unplucked the dough from her fingers and began to spread it out on the large, flat stone, patting it smooth with the palm of her hand. Thereafter, she made a pattern round its edges with a doll's fork, as she had seen cook do.

"I wish I could make puddings like you," said Poppy, lying on her elbow and eating her orange.

"I can make nicer ones'n this," said Cinthie boastfully. "I can make Best-pudding-of-all."

"Oh, do tell me, Cinthie, so when I have nine children I can make it for them too."

Cinthie looked at her dreamfully.

"Perhaps you won't have any children," she said. "Perhaps you'll be a widow."

"Oh, Cinthie, don't be unkind--of course, I shall have some! Go on now, tell me about the pudding."

Cinthie rubbed her nose and reflected for a long time. At last, solemnly, with a long think between each sentence, she delivered the recipe.

"Get some dough ... dip it in water for a minute or two ... get some pastry ... dip it into water twice ... roll it hard ... put it into the dish on top of everything--" Long pause.

"Yes?"