In making a selection of people who would be useful to him by reason of their looks, or talent, or both, he included Poppy on his list, and forthwith she received a little notice during the last London week to the effect that if she cared to go on tour (with the hope of advancement if she studied) the offer was open to her. But the salary offered was smaller than she had been receiving, and she knew that it was useless to think of travelling with her small Pat and supporting herself and him on it. (Ravenhill was unaware, of course, that there was any question of supporting a child.) She was obliged to refuse the offer.
With the closing of the theatre the face of the future took on a blank and appalling expression. Exercising the greatest economy, she had yet not been able to save more than three pounds out of her long engagement; and she knew not where the next money was to come from. The stories she wrote still faithfully returned. The Book of Poems, the one brave string in her viol of hope, had been lost. The publisher said that it was only mislaid and might be found at any moment; but Poppy felt a sick certainty that she would never hear of or see her darling book again. Most foolishly, she had kept no copy of it, and though she believed that by turning up the pages of her memory she might re-write it, she could not spare the time it would cost to do this. Even if she had the necessary leisure, she despaired of ever writing her poems again in all their first perfection—a thought would surely be lost here, a line missing there!
Heart-broken, rage seized her when she first received the news. She saw a red haze before her eyes as in the days when she hated Aunt Lena, and she longed for a hammer and the publisher's head on a block. Afterwards she achieved calmness that was not resignation, and went to interview the publisher and find out what he meant to do. Apparently he had not meant to do anything except take up the bland and Micawberesque attitude of waiting for the book to "turn up." But Poppy's heart was full of the rage and fear of a mother-wolf who sees famine ahead, and though she successfully hid these primitive emotions under a composed manner, there was a feverish urgency about her which, strangely convincing, subtly communicated itself to the publisher, so that presently, quite unintentionally, he found himself promising (in the event of the book not being found within three months) to pay her a sum to be agreed upon, but not less than twenty pounds. In the meantime he engaged, if the book should "turn up," to read it and make her a conscientious offer for it. He did not forget to add that poems were unmarketable ware at the best of times, and that he could not hold out hope of any specially high price for hers.
With these conditions Poppy was fain to be content, though there was poor comfort in them for her. Three months is not long if fame and name wait at the end. But it is a long time to wait for twenty pounds. And it is too long to starve. In a panic she started out once more on the dreary round of agents' offices and theatres. At the end of a week's wasted walking, and talking, chill despair began to eat its way into her brave heart; in the second week the chill was freezing bitter cold that enwrapped, and seemed to paralyse her senses, so that she could feel nothing but dull fear, not for herself, but for little crowing, merry Pat. At that time her thoughts turned to Bramham, her friend. But he was gone, and she knew not where to find him. He had bidden her good-bye and sailed for South America on a prolonged visit. It would be many months before he returned to Durban.
In the third week, while she was eking out her last ten shillings, still desperately seeking work at the theatres, she met in the Strand a girl who had been with her at the Lyceum—one of Ravenhill's moneyed girls, pretty and charming, with a host of friends and acquaintances, of whom she bitterly complained that they would not allow her to fulfill her destiny and become a Sarah Bernhardt. She and Poppy had shared the same mirror in a Lyceum dressing-room, and become friendly over their "make-up" boxes.
By many little marks and signs that women judge on, Marion Ashley had concluded that Miss Chard needed every penny of the small salary she earned. Her idea was that Poppy probably had an invalid mother or sister to support; and she had often wished for an opportunity to lend a helping-hand to a girl whom she sincerely liked and admired. When, in the Strand, she met Poppy, pale and harassed, in worn shoes and an unseasonable gown, a thought shot through her quick mind and she advanced gaily, holding out her hands.
"You are the very girl I wanted to see," she cried. "Come into 'Slater's' for tea, and do see if you can help me in a great difficulty."
While Poppy took off her gloves Marion Ashley poured out the tea and her tale. It transpired that she had a cousin who was young and pretty and rich, but with a broken back. She had injured herself in the hunting-field and would never be able to walk again.
"Ever since, she has become the most awful peevish creature in the world, poor thing, and one can't be surprised at that! But no one can put up with her temper, and no one will stay with her, though she has had companion after companion. She insists on their being young and pretty, and afterwards she is jealous of them and fires them out. Then her mother and her husband come and fetch me round, no matter where I am, and really, you know, dear, it's a little hard on me to have my career interfered with ... it isn't as though I can be of any real use, for Frances is jealous of me too, if I am in the house much. Well, I'm looking out for someone for her now, and—I thought perhaps you could help me. Do say you can?"
She looked appealingly at the pale face opposite her, but Poppy gave no sign. She had considered the matter rapidly, but—companionships were badly paid, as a rule, and she would have to be separated from her little Pat. Marion Ashley's face fell.