Part 46 (1/2)
She stemmed that tide.
”Why talk about 'home'?” she said impatiently. ”It is far more interesting out here.”
”Why?” cried Ferrand the poetical. ”_Why?_ Because the air of 'home'
still hangs about you. By just looking at you I know that you have lately heard the jingle of hansom bells, and 'buses rumbling on asphalt, and voices crying, 'Only a penny a bunch!'; that you have been tasting the fog and getting splashed with the mud and smelling the Thames....”
”Yes,” said Miss Chard; ”and I infinitely prefer the smell of mangoes.”
Ferrand would have turned away from her, if he had been able to turn away from any woman.
Mrs. Portal, who had just joined them, agreed with her.
”How can anyone compare the two lives--flowers in your hands and the Indian Ocean blue at your feet, to London with s.m.u.ts on your nose and nutmeg-graters in your chest?”
But still Ferrand looked at Miss Chard.
”'She is London, she is Torment, she is Town,'” he muttered.
”Don't believe it,” said Mrs. Portal in her other ear. ”He is his own torment: he has his own box of matches.--Good-bye, Mrs. Gruyere ...
Good-bye, Mrs. Lace; so glad--Thursday, then, for polo, and you're going to call for me; good-bye, good-bye. (You're not going, Cora, you and your husband are staying to supper.)... Good-bye, Mrs. Leigh ...
yes--don't forget.... Good-bye.”
Everyone was going except the elect few who had been asked to stay to what was called ”supper” on Sunday night, because no one wore evening-dress--but was really an extra-specially excellent dinner. They gathered at the end of the verandah, where Carson was swinging little Cinthie Portal in a hammock and talking to Mrs. Cap.r.o.n seated on the low stone bal.u.s.trade above the steps.
She was a picture in pale-blue muslin, with deep-red roses on her hat.
The colour of her hair gave the impression that she was gilt-edged and extremely valuable. Certainly she was the best-dressed Roman in Natal, perhaps even in Africa; but at the moment she was wondering how she could possibly get the address of Miss Chard's dressmaker without asking for it.
”_Of course_, you are staying, Mary,” said Mrs. Portal, sitting down by her and putting an arm around her waist. ”And you, too, Karri?”
But Carson had a grievance. He was suffering such bitterness of spirit as only Irishmen with their half-mystical, half-barbaric, half-womanish natures can suffer about nothing at all. The sun had gone out of his sky, bitterness was in his mouth, and a snake ate his heart because a girl, whom he did not know or care about, repudiated Ireland, and touched a stone against the evil of his strange, Irish eyes. And he was conscious of the girl standing at the other end of the hammock now; he could feel the new movement in the hammock since her hand rested on it, and she, too, swayed it gently; and he knew that she was looking at him with dewy and wonderful eyes. Nevertheless, he excused himself to Mrs.
Portal.--Thanks--he was sorry, but he must go and look after Bramham--he had promised--etc.
They all expostulated. And Rosalind Chard's eyes, through the veils of her hair, besought him to look her way. With all her heart she willed him to look her way. But after he had finished excusing himself to Clem Portal, he looked Mrs. Cap.r.o.n's way instead.
Portal said that for two bra.s.s pins he would go himself and fetch Bramham. De Grey said that Bramham would probably be found dining peaceably at the Club, with no thought of Carson. Abinger declared that he had, in fact, heard Bramham arrange to go and dine with a man from the Rand. Mrs. de Grey remarked that it was a shame that poor Mr.
Bramham, even now that his wife was dead, could not go anywhere for fear of meeting Mrs. Gruyere, who always came and stood near him and began telling someone in a loud voice about his poor devoted wife living and dying like a saint at home.
”Just as though it wouldn't have been far more saintlike to have come out here and minded her sinner, if he _is_ one, which I don't believe,”
said Mrs. Cap.r.o.n.
”_De mortuis!_” broke in Clem, gently; and de Grey said, laughing:
”This country is full of sinners who keep their saints at home--and I want to say that some of the saints have a jolly good time. We saw two of them giving a dinner-party at the ”Cafe Royal” last time we were home; and for saints, they did themselves remarkably well--didn't they, Cora? And looked remarkably well too.”
”Yes: it's a becoming role--dressed by _Paquin_,” said Cora de Grey drily. _She_ never looked well, and had never had anything better than an Oxford Street gown on her back: but her tongue was as dry as the Karoo, and that helped her through a troublesome world.