Part 13 (1/2)
Neither will Brammie, if it comes to that. He is an _awfully_ nice man--everybody likes him, and he's fearfully rich too. He's married, and his wife lives in England for her health, they say, but of coa.r.s.e that must be all rot. Anyway, he never goes into society at all--only has men friends.”
”Well, what does he want here?” asked Miss Chard calmly, watching the flushed face before her.
”Nothing--nothing at all. It's only a matter of business, and a friendly interest in me, and all that--and, you see, as he employs me as well as Brookie, I have to be civil and ask him to tea sometimes.”
It seemed to Miss Rosalind Chard that there was more in this than met the eye, but she was not able to fathom it at present. However, after listening to another long description of Mr. Bramham's inoffensiveness, she consented at last to be at the house one afternoon when he called.
”As for Brookie----” began Sophie, ready to open up another chronicle of guilelessness.
”No, no! I won't meet Brookie, I absolutely jib at Brookie!”
Sophie became lugubrious. ”But he knows that you were to have arrived to-day----”
”Well,” said Miss Chard decidedly. ”Tell him that I came, but that I am as ugly as a monkey and as old as the sea. And now I must go, or my--aunt will be looking for me. I shall try and come in to-morrow and take a lesson on the typewriter. What time will be best?”
”You'll have to teach yourself, my dear. I go to the office every morning at ten, and I lunch in West Street, and don't get back until above five in the afternoon. But I'll bring you all the MSS. there is no immediate hurry for--and you can do it one day and I'll take it back the next. We shall get along like one o'clock.”
”That's all settled then; good-bye!” Miss Chard had stepped out of the room into the verandah and was gone before Sophie could remove her high heels from the bars of the chair in front of her, where she had hooked them for extra ease and comfort. Inadvertently she listened for the click of the gate. But the gate did not click. Miss Chard, having got out of view of both house and gate, made a dash for the tall green hedge on the right side of the garden. Stooping down, she instantly disappeared.
A few moments later Poppy Destin sat in the pa.s.sion-leaved summer-house, delicately smoking a cigarette and brus.h.i.+ng all traces of dust from her thin black muslin gown. Between little puffs of smoke she presently spoke to herself.
”Certainly she is a terror ... a common mind, terrible clothes, Colonial slang ... I don't know that I can put up with her at all ... and those awful Brookies and Brammies! ... but it will be useful to be able to go through her garden whenever I want to make a little excursion into the world ... and, of course, I couldn't be there without some right or reason ... besides, it will be splendid to learn typewriting, and do all my own writing ready to send to the publishers ... but what a room! ...
and those roses in her hat! Can such things be?... I must go and see whether Kykie has my tea ready.”
A few days later it would have been hard to recognise the sitting-room of Sophie Cornell's little green bungalow. Books had spread themselves about the room, the tawdrinesses had been removed, flowers were everywhere, and a fine vine in a long gla.s.s crept delicately up the side of the mirror above the mantel. When Poppy had hinted that she would like to change the room a little, Sophie had good-naturedly given her _carte-blanche_ to do anything she wished, saying:
”It was not _my_ taste either, you know; but the place was furnished when I came into it and I haven't bothered to do anything since.”
The only things Miss Cornell would not allow to be banished were the photographs of her numerous admirers, which she insisted on ranging along the narrow wooden ledge running round the room above the dado.
They were in all degrees of preservation--some of them yellow with age or exposure, some quite new; all were autographed and inscribed. Some of the inscriptions ran thus: ”From your loving Jack”; ”To the best girl I know”; ”To one of the best from one of the worst,” etc. It was to be observed that the most ardent _mots_ were merely initialled. But Sophie was equally proud of them all, and would exhibit them on the smallest provocation, giving a short narrative-sketch of each person which included the most striking features of his character, together with a thrilling account of his pa.s.sion for her and the reason why she did not marry him.
”Now, isn't _he_ good looking? Such a dear boy too ... and _generous_!
My dear, that man would have given me the boots off his feet ... but there--he had no money; what was the good?... He's in Klond.y.k.e now ... I do hope he'll have luck, poor boy....”
”This is Captain Halkett. No, I don't know his regiment, and he never would give away his photos in uniform, though he had some perfectly lovely ones.... Someone told me he was a 'cas.h.i.+er' in the Army ... but that was silly, of course ... there are no such things as cas.h.i.+ers in the Army, _are_ there? ... he simply adored me ... he gave me this bangle ... such a darling ... but he was married--or, _of course_----”
”Oh, _that_ is Jack Truman, of Kimberley. Everyone knows _him_ ... a fearful devil, but most fascinating.... Isn't he handsome? ... such eyes ... you simply couldn't look into them, they made you blush all over. The women were all crazy after him, but he told me he didn't give a pin for any of them except me.... He wanted me to run away with him ... but he had a wife in a lunatic asylum ... obliged to allow her forty pounds a month, and he was _dreadfully_ in debt ... they tried to arrest him at Cape Town, but he got away dressed like a woman ... and now he is in the Australian Mounted Police, they say.
”And, _of course_, you know who this is? One of the biggest men on the Rand ... with _thousands_, my dear.... Och! you should see him in riding kit ... you never saw any one look so perfectly _n.o.ble_ ... he was _madly_ in love with me ... everybody said so ... he told me I was the only girl who could ever keep him straight ... but he behaved rather badly.... I always believe some snake of a woman made mischief ... and when he went to England, one of those English girls snapped him up ...
they live out at Jeppestown now ... and they say she's the _living image_ of me ... funny, isn't it?... but I think it just proves how he adored me, don't you?”
Listeners of defective vision and an over-developed sense of credulity might have believed that Helen of Troy II had come to town--unless they had been long enough in South Africa to realise that the best way to enjoy a little quiet humour is to take a Cape-Colonial girl at her own valuation.
Poppy listened to all with tranquil eyes. She was willing to believe that it might be true that Sophie was admired and adored and desired.
But in the type of men who formed the army of admirers and adorers and desirers she could not pluck up the faintest kind of interest. It seemed to her that it was impossible that any man worth knowing could forgive the size of Sophie's hands and the shape of her feet, the look about her mouth, the paint on her face, and the dust in her hair.