Cynthia Stockley

IN the meantime all went well. Secure in the knowledge that Abinger was away for some weeks, that Kykie would never search for her except at meal-times, every day found Poppy spending four or five hours at her new occupation—typewriting. She had determined that she would master this art before she went adventuring further into the world that lay beyond Sophie Cornell's gate.

Sometimes she would arrive before ten in the morning, in time to see Sophie depart, gloriously arrayed, with the air of one due at the same garden-party as royalty.

When she inspected the huge rolls of work which Sophie invariably brought back, she would sometimes wonder if the latter had indeed been to a garden-party and never put in at the office at all, except to fetch the MSS.

The little house in the morning hours was always calm and peaceful. Through the trees of the garden Poppy could hear the world go buzzing by—the grating of the tram-cars on the lines, the clatter of horses, and the hiss of wheels going down hill, and an occasional street cry. No one ever came down the little pathway. Only the click of the machine, the voices of Zambani and Piccanin, busy with the pots and the pans in the kitchen and yard, broke the silence; or Poppy's trilling whistle as she corrected her proofs. By half-past twelve there would be piles of neat manuscript ready for Sophie to take back the next day, and Poppy would be speeding home through her own garden to luncheon. Sometimes in the afternoon she would finish early, and, going out into the kitchen, would toast buns and prepare the tea, and Sophie, coming home at five o'clock, would find it laid cool and dainty among flowers on the long table.

One day, when Poppy had arrived almost directly after lunch, with the idea of getting in a long afternoon at her own work, she was disagreeably surprised to find Sophie stalk in a few moments later, flushed and handsome, and bringing with her a large bale of papers and the faint but unmistakable odour of good cigars.

Poppy's little nose went up and a warmth ran through her; the smell of a good cigar unaccountably roused in her a vivid interest in life. For a moment she slightly envied Sophie, but a glance at the brilliant languid eyes and heavy mouth changed her mind, and singularly inspired her with the thought that good cigars were probably often smoked by hateful men.

"Would you like me to order you a cup of tea, Sophie?" she asked presently.

"No, thanks!" said Sophie, languidly stretching herself in a chair. "I couldn't drink tea. I've had a most tiring morning. Brookie brought Nick Capron in, and they simply wouldn't let me work."

After which calmly contradictory statement, she closed her eyes and fanned herself with a legal-looking document, chosen for its stiffness from among the papers she had brought, and which were now at sixes and sevens upon the floor.

At the name "Nick Capron," Poppy gave a little start. How well she remembered the day she had heard that name from the lips of a beautiful woman in Bloemfontein! Could this Nick Capron possibly be the "most fascinating man in Africa" whom the gold-haired heroine was going to marry? She must try and discover.

"I think a cup of tea would refresh you, Sophie," she presently said.

"Och ni vat! I can't eat or drink when I get worn out like this—I become a perfect wreck."

Poppy surveyed the healthy, not to say opulent proportions stretched before her, and could not forbear to smile.

"Oh, you should keep up your strength," she said, with irony entirely thrown away.

"The only thing that would be the slightest use to me, now," announced Sophie, "is a glass of champagne—and, of course, I can't have that."

Poppy began to pore over her manuscript. She was in the mood for work and hated not to take advantage of it.

"I wish I were rich enough to drink champagne whenever I am tired," was Miss Cornell's next contribution; and Poppy laughed without being amused.

"You'd soon be bored with that."

"Never!" said Miss Cornell fervently; then relapsed into languor.

"I hope those papers are not important, Sophie, they are blowing all over the room."

"Yes, they're very important. They're all about a Malay abduction case which a friend of Brookie's is defending in the Courts next week. It's the greatest fun, Brookie and Capron were shrieking over it this afternoon."

"Is Mr. Capron a lawyer?"

"Oh, no—he isn't anything; just a pal of Brookie's. He's a Johannesburger, but he has a house here as well, and tons of money, and a lovely wife—a perfect stunner, my dear—Brookie says she is the loveliest woman in Africa; but Capron has always got his eye on some other woman. By the way, Rosalind, to-day he was describing a girl he had seen in a rickshaw, and from the description I feel sure it was you. Your particular style of beauty appears to have struck him all in a heap."

Miss Cornell made this statement as though she thought it humorous, which, indeed, she did, for that anyone should admire a girl so unlike her own type, and her own idea of beauty which that type represented, seemed to her really funny and incredible. Yet she looked intently now, and observed, so far as in her lay, "with the seeing eye," and for the first time since they had met—the girl before her. Nick Capron's unmistakable enthusiasm had made a great impression upon her.

"He said that you were alone in a rickshaw," she told Poppy, "and that he and Mrs. Portal were walking together and met you. And Mrs. Portal said you looked like a Burne-Jones dressed like a Beardsley poster. What rot these society women talk! Who can understand a thing like that?"

"What is Mrs. Portal like?" asked Poppy, remembering now the well-bred-looking woman who had been talking about Burne-Jones to the man with the dissipated eyes on the day of her arrival.

But Sophie took no heed of the question. She was closely and furtively regarding Poppy, and thinking: "Has she any attraction for men, I wonder? She's not a bit smart ... and so pale ... and yet, and yet ..." Here Sophie's expression of thought gave out. If she could have expressed it, she would have added: "She is pale, and yet glows as though something within her is alight."

"I hope you did not tell him anything about me?" asked Poppy suddenly.

"No, I did not!" said Miss Cornell emphatically, and her annoyed look as she said it brought a ring of laughter from Poppy and a lovely mischievous glimmer to her eyes.

Suddenly Sophie sprang up.

"Great Scott! I quite forgot to tell you—Brammie is coming to tea. That's why I came home so early. Do buck up, old girl, and make things look nice. Your papers are all over the place. I want the room to look as nice as possible for old Brammie."

"Oh! blow Brammie," thought Poppy crossly. "I was just going to write something extraordinarily fine; now it will be lost for ever!"

Nevertheless, she put her papers away with a good grace, tidied the room, laid the tea-things—as only she could—and went out to pluck fresh flowers for the vases. Sophie stood in her bedroom door buttoning a plaid silk blouse over her richly-endowed bosom.

"That's ripping," she said approvingly. "Och! but you can arrange flowers—I'll say that for you, Rosalind. Wouldn't you like to run home and change your dress, though?"

"No," said Poppy, her head slightly on one side as she surveyed a great flaming hibiscus-blossom she had just put by itself amidst a heap of green on the mantlepiece. "Why should I change my gown?" she asked. "This is quite all right. And the man's coming to see you, Sophie, not me."

"Oh, he really wants to see you, and I think you ought to try and look nice. I'll lend you one of my silk blouses, if you like."

"No, no, thank you," hastily. "It's awfully good of you, Sophie, but I think my gown is quite presentable."

She looked absolutely charming in a pale-blue linen, perfectly laundered by Kykie; but Sophie considered anything less than silk very ordinary wear indeed.

Poppy began to arrange her hair at the mantel-mirror, pulling out her little side-combs, running them through strands of hair, then plunging them in deeper, so that great waves leaned out on either side of her face and delicate fronds fell veil-wise just over her eyes. Then she took a bunch of green leaves and fastened them under her throat with a big, old malachite brooch she had.

"Well, put some colour on your cheeks, or something," said Sophie discontentedly.

Poppy flew into one of the fierce little rages that sometimes seized her. "I will not, Sophie! Why on earth should you suppose that because you have a violent colour no one admires pale women? Do not make the mistake of thinking that everyone adores your type because you do!"

Sophie, utterly taken aback, was about to make a tart rejoinder, when there came a light tap with a crop on the front door.

"Anyone at home?"

Sophie flew to her room to complete her toilette, leaving Poppy to swallow her rage and open the door. A big, grey-eyed man, with a kind smile, was standing in the verandah. He was in riding-clothes and carried a crop in his hand.

"Come in," said Poppy, without enthusiasm; adding: "Miss Cornell will not be long."

"Are you Miss Chard?" said he pleasantly, and came in.

He looked round in a friendly, boyish way that rather charmed her.

"By Jove! How pretty you've made this place look! It's quite different."

"Ah, I suppose you were here before, when it was a chamber of horrors," said Poppy coolly. "I never saw a more impossible place in my life."

He looked at her curiously as though greatly surprised. Then he said carelessly, and rather curtly she thought:

"Oh, yes, I have been here before."

He sat down in one of the easy chairs and Poppy began to put in order some books that had fallen from the book-case on to the floor. When she turned she found him still staring at her in that curious fashion, but without his smile. She missed it because it was a singularly heart-warming smile.

"The last people here were rather addicted to antimacassars and glass-shades and things," she said, appearing not to notice his curious look; "and as it seemed to me a pity to let such things spoil a pretty room, I put them out."

"Oh!" was all he vouchsafed. She felt chilled. But here Sophie burst into the room, very magnificent and highly coloured.

"How sweet of you to come, Mr. Bramham," one hand up to her hair and the other outstretched, while her body performed the Grecian bend.

"Rosalind, do see about tea, there's a dear. I'm sure Mr. Bramham must be parched."

Correctly estimating this as a hint to leave them alone, Poppy retreated to the kitchen, and did not reappear until she followed Piccanin in with the tea-tray. Sophie was saying, "Do bring him around, Mr. Bramham. We should just love to meet him."

Poppy, arranging the cups on the table, had a pardonable curiosity to know whom she should just love to meet; but she made no remark; merely sat down.

"Shall I pour out tea, Sophie?"

The latter nodded, but made no other attempt to include her in the conversation, continuing to monopolise Mr. Bramham entirely.

In a short time Poppy became wearied of this state of affairs. After observing "Brammie's" boots, his fingers, his tie, the shape of his lips, his hair, the size of his ears, and his manner of sitting on a chair (all while she was apparently arranging the cups and looking into the teapot to see if the tea was drawing properly), the "eternal feminine," which is only another name for the dormant cat in every woman, awoke in her. She did not exactly want "Brammie" for herself, but she decided that he was too nice for Sophie.

Immediately afterwards, Bramham began to realise that there was a charming personality in the room.

"Do you take sugar?" blew like a cool little western wind into his right ear; while on his left, Sophie Cornell was bombarding him with instructions to bring someone to call.

Poppy got her answer first, and a sudden glance of recognition fell upon the slim, pale hands amongst the tea-cups; then:

"Certainly, Miss Cornell! I'll ask him to come, but I can't promise that he will. He's not much given to calling."

"Bosh! I know he goes to the Caprons and the Portals—I've seen him with that horrid Mrs. Portal."

"Ah! you don't admire Mrs. Portal?"

"I don't see anything to admire," said Sophie. "She is not a bit smart, and her hats are simply awful!"

"She is considered one of the most delightful women in South Africa," said Bramham.

"Oh, she may be," Sophie's air was unbelieving; "but I don't see where it comes in."

She took her tea sulkily from Poppy's hand. Bramham looked bored. The little western wind blew again in his ear.

"Perhaps her charm is not to be seen. Perhaps it is an essence—a fragrance——"

Sophie scoffed at what she did not understand.

"Oh, you and your old poetry——"

"That's just what it is," said Bramham. "There's an odour of happiness about her that infects everyone who comes near her—no one cares a hang about what she wears or anything like that."

"Well, I don't like her, anyway," said Sophie, now thoroughly ill-tempered, "and I don't see why you do. She's covered with freckles."

That should have ended the matter, but Poppy's taste for torment was whetted.

"Perhaps Mr. Bramham doesn't know her as well as you do, Sophie," she said softly.

Sophie glared. Mr. Bramham looked amused. They all knew that Mrs. Portal could never be anything but a name to Sophie—that it was really an impertinence on her part to be discussing Mrs. Portal at all.

"Do you know her?" she retorted rudely.

"Of course not!" answered Poppy. "I know no one in Durban except you, Sophie—and now Mr. Bramham," she smiled, a sudden smile of great sweetness at Bramham, and at that he gave her his whole attention.

"That's dull for you, surely!"

"Oh, no! I have plenty to do; and books to read; and how can one be dull in such a lovely place as Natal?"

The sun came out in Bramham. He was a Natalian and proud of it.

"I believe she gets up in the morning and goes out to see if the sun rises!" said Sophie, as if denouncing the conclusive symptom of idiotcy.

The cold look with which Bramham had at first surveyed Poppy had now quite disappeared, and his grey-eyed smile was all for her. He also was a sun-rise man.

"Do you like books?" he asked. "I can lend you any amount. We get all the new ones, and as soon as they're read the Lord knows where they go! I'll send you some up, if I may."

"Thank you, that will be good of you," said Poppy with enthusiasm.

"Send her up all the old poetry books you can find," jeered Sophie. "Personally, I like a jolly good yellow-back."

Mr. Bramham looked extremely bored by this priceless piece of information, and more so still when she returned immediately to the subject of the men she was anxious to meet. Poppy got up and, opening the piano, began to play a little gay air to which she whistled softly; she never sang.

"I'm just dying to know him," said Sophie ardently. "He looks as though he has committed every sin you ever heard of. And how did he get that fearful scar right across his face? Vitriol?"

The little air at the piano stopped suddenly.

"I really couldn't tell you. He is not communicative on the subject," said Bramham drily. "But perhaps he will unfold to you—do go on playing, Miss Chard!"

He adored music, and had an excellent view of an extraordinarily pretty pair of ankles under the music-stool.

Poppy complied, but she changed the air to something savage that made Bramham think of a Zulu war-chant.

"Well, I shall certainly ask him when I meet him. I wonder you haven't been able to find out! He lives with you, doesn't he?"

"He is staying with me, at present, yes." Bramham's tone was full of weariness.

"And that dark, strange Irishman everyone is talking about—Carson—he is staying with you, too, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Are they great friends?"

"We all know each other very well."

Miss Cornell laughed genially.

"I should say you do—isn't it true that you are called the three bad men all over Africa—come now?"

"I'm afraid someone has been filling your head with nonsense. Who spreads these stories, I wonder?"

"Ah, yes, that's all very well, but you know it's true, all the same. You are three dangerous, fascinating men, everyone says so, and the Kaffirs have names for you all. What is yours, Mr. Bramham?"

"Kaffirs have names for everybody if one had time to find out what they were."

"Oh, I know—Umkoomata—that's what they call you. Now, what wickedness can that mean?"

"Who tells you these wonderful things, my dear young lady? You really have a lot of inside information about everything. You should start a newspaper." Bramham was slightly exasperated.

"Oh, I know a lot more besides that," said Miss Cornell, shaking her finger at him archly. "About you, and Mr. Carson, too. He is going up on a secret expedition into Borapota for the English Government, isn't he?"

"Very secret, apparently," thought Bramham. "How the devil do these things leak out?"

"Something or other, yes," he said aloud.

"They say the English Government thinks an awful lot of him."

"Yes, he's a clever fellow," said Bramham, casually. No one would have supposed him to be speaking of a man dearer to him than a brother. Bramham did not wear his heart where it could be pecked at by the Sophie Cornells of the world.

Poppy got up from the piano, and Bramham got up, too, and looked at his watch.

"I must be off," said he, with a great air of business-hurry, which left him as soon as he got out of the gate.

"Now, don't forget to bring Mr. Abinger next time," Sophie called after him from the verandah; "and that Mr. Carson, too," she added, as an afterthought.

Poppy positively blushed for her.

"Sophie, how can you! It was perfectly plain that he did not want to bring the man—and that he doesn't intend to, anyway. Are you really as dense as you pretend to be?"

"Bosh!" said Sophie, retiring to the table and beginning to make a fresh onslaught on the bread-and-butter. "They'll turn up here in a day or two, you'll see. Isn't there any jam, I wonder?"

"I shall not see anything of the kind. I wash my hands of you and your men friends. I didn't engage to meet anyone but Mr. Bramham, and I've done all I promised."

She had done a little more than she had promised, as she very well knew, but observation was not Sophie's strong point, as her next remark made plain.

"Now, don't be cross just because he didn't admire you. I told you to put on my silk blouse, didn't I?"

Poppy laughed her entrancing laugh.

"Do you really think men care for clothes, Sophie?"

"Of course they do! They love to see a well-dressed woman—especially when they don't have to pay for the dress. Lots of men won't even be seen with a woman unless she's perfectly turned out. Brookie is like that; and I'll bet that man Abinger is, too!"

"Is he, indeed! Then remove him far from me. I'm afraid you won't suit him, either Sophie," with a touch of malice.

"Why not? Don't I pay enough for my clothes? I dress far better than Mrs. Portal does, anyway. She always has on faded old linens and things, and I've only seen her in two hats since I came here—both of them awful!"

"I thought she looked extremely nice when I saw her."

"Well, your taste and mine differ, my dear. I think she is a frump. Capron's wife now is good looking, and always dressed mag-nif-icently. But it makes a person sick to see the way they freeze on to all the decent men and never let them meet anyone else."

"But do the men want to meet anyone else? If one woman is witty, and the other pretty, what more is there to be desired?"

"You talk like a book with all the pages torn out, and the cover lost," said Sophie irritably.

Poppy laughed provokingly, and lay back in her chair, thinking—the whole thing was rather amazing. Abinger still here, and moving amongst pretty and witty women, whilst he pretended to be up in the Transvaal! His friend Umkoomata the Sturdy One, whom she had told herself she would like to know, here too, visiting Sophie Cornell, whom he plainly didn't like. Nick Capron! How odd the world was! She began to ponder about Intandugaza, too—whether he was the mysterious dark Irishman who went on secret expeditions——

"Man! Rosalind," broke in Sophie suddenly. "That fellow Abinger is just crazy to meet me. We ran into each other as I was coming out of Brookie's office yesterday, and he gave me a look that made me go hot all over. He's got those bad eyes that make you feel curly all down your spine—you know!"

Poppy turned away from her. With the remembrance of certain recent sensations still burning within her, she could not say that she did not know; but her mouth expressed weariness and disgust.

"It seems to me that you are talking about some kind of brute, Sophie," she said.

"Brute! Oh, I don't know," said Sophie, and laughed. The laugh sent Poppy out of the room with her teeth in her lip.

"I can't stand Sophie any longer," she said to herself in her own garden, looking at the rose-red walls of the house and the flaming flowers on the plant before the door. As she went indoors her thought changed; she began to smile subtly to herself.

"So Luce is in Durban all the time! He simply pretended to go away, to avoid discussing that matter of going out with me! And Mrs. Nick Capron! If I were to go out here, should I meet her? And would she recognise in me, I wonder, the little wretched vagabond of six years ago?"

She reached her glass, and looked in.

"I think not."