Читать книгу Poppy - Stockley Cynthia - Страница 6

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AT two o'clock one afternoon Sophie Cornell walked into her sitting-room and flung upon the table by the side of her typewriter a great roll of MSS. She was gorgeously attired in a hat massed with roses of a shade that "never was on land or sea," and a furiously befrilled gown of sky-blue silk-muslin. But her face was flushed and heated, and her eyebrows met in a scowl of decided ill-temper. Opening a door that led through a long passage to the kitchen, she shouted:

"Zambani! Zambani! Checcha now with my lunch. Send Piccanin to lay table. Checcha wena!"

She flung her hat into one chair and herself into another, and stared at a telegram which she spread out before her.

"'Sorry can't come,'" she read, muttering; "'something better turned up; you understand!' Yes, I understand well enough! Just like the rotter to study her own convenience and throw me over at the last moment. What am I to do now, I'd like to know?"

She lolled in her chair and glared angrily at a small black boy in a blue twill tunic and short blue knickers above his knees, who was laying a cloth on one end of the table.

"Is there any soda in the house, Piccanin?" she demanded; and when he signified yes, ordered him to fetch it then and be checcha. In the meantime, she rose and unlocked from the sideboard a bottle of whiskey.

Lunch was a slovenly meal, consisting of burnt mutton-chops, fried potatoes, and a beet-root salad liberally decorated with rings of raw onion. Miss Cornell, however, ate heartily, and enjoyed a whiskey-and-soda. She then proceeded to attack a wobbly blanc-mange beringed with strawberry jam. Occasionally she demanded of some invisible personage:

"And what am I going to do now, I'd like to know?" and the scowl returned to her brows.

Suddenly, upon the front door which stood slightly ajar fell a soft knock. Miss Cornell's hands slipped to her hair, the scowl disappeared from her face, and in a high affected voice she called:

"Come in!"

Entered, with a shy and demure air, a girl dressed in the simplest kind of dress made of thin black muslin, with a white fichu over her shoulders falling in long ends below her waist. Her large white-straw hat had round it a wreath of lilac, which was of exactly the same colour as her eyes. Her lips were amazingly scarlet.

"I beg your pardon," she said in a soft, entrancing voice. "I am sorry to disturb you at your lunch——"

"That's all right," said Sophie affably; "I'm just done. Do sit down!"

The girl seated herself daintily. Sophie, observing that she wore no jewelry of any kind except a ring, in which the diamond was so large that it must surely be paste, decided that her visitor must be "hard up." She (Sophie) had not much of an opinion of that "black rag of a gown" either, but she thought she detected the faint murmur of a silk lining as her visitor moved. The lilac eyes looked at her winningly.

"I heard that you had a typewriting machine," she said, "and I wondered if you would be so good as to do a little typing for me—" She indicated a tiny roll of writing which she held in her hand. Miss Cornell sat up with an air.

"Oh, I don't take in work!" she said perkily. "I couldn't be bothered with that sort of thing. I'm sekertary to a gentleman who has an office down town."

"Lilac Eyes" regarded her calmly and did not seem overwhelmed by the importance of this communication.

"What a bother!" said she serenely.

Miss Cornell became languid.

"I get an enormous salary, and I have more work than I know how to get through already. Indeed, I am trying to get an assistant."

"Really?" said the other girl. "I wonder if I would suit you?"

"You!" Miss Cornell's face lit up with sudden interest and eagerness. She surveyed the other again. Of course, she was only a "hard-up" girl looking for work, and that air of gentle insolence that Sophie had been conscious of, was, after all, only "side" stuck on like the rose in the front of the simple black gown to hide poverty. Upon these reflections Miss Cornell's air became exceedingly patronising.

"You? Well, I don't know, I'm sure. Can you type?"

"Not at all. But I daresay I could soon learn."

"Oh well! I couldn't give you much salary if you are only a beginner."

"I shouldn't want any salary," said "Lilac Eyes"; but added quickly, as she saw the other's look of amazement: "At least, not for some months. If you would allow me to use your machine for my own work sometimes I should be repaid."

At this Sophie had neither the wit nor the patience to conceal her satisfaction. Her haughty air departed and she beamed with delight. She had suddenly seen a clear way through a very difficult impasse.

"You'll suit me down to the ground," she declared joyfully. "When can you move in?"

"Move in?" the other gave her a wondering smile. "Oh, I couldn't come to live—only for a few hours every day."

Sophie's face clouded again, but in a moment her eyes took on the absorbed look of a person who is rapidly reviewing a difficult situation. Presently she said:

"Well, perhaps that wouldn't matter so much if you wouldn't mind pretending sometimes that you live here."

The other girl looked puzzled.

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

"Well, if there's any chance of you're doing as I ask you, I'll explain," said Sophie; "but, of course, I don't want to talk about my private affairs if it's no good. There's nothing in the reason for pretending that you need object to," she added boldly. "What is the reason you can't come and live? Got a sick mother, or an old aunt, or something?"

The other hesitated for a moment, then her lovely lilac eyes took on a curious expression.

"Yes, I have an aunt," was her odd answer, but Sophie was no acute reader of eyes or odd answers.

"More fool you," said she cheerfully. "I'd like to see the old aunt who'd get me to support her. Well, all right now, if you think you'll come I'll tell you the whole thing."

"Yes, I think I'll come. But as I have said, it will only be for a few hours daily; sometimes in the mornings, more often in the afternoons."

"That'll do all right. Have a whiskey-and-soda and we'll talk it over."

"I don't care for whiskey, thank you," said "Lilac Eyes"; "but I am very thirsty, and will have some soda, if I may."

Sophie shouted to Piccanin to bring another glass, and pushed the soda and lemons across the table.

"Make yourself at home," said she affably; "but I hope you're not one of those asses who don't drink!"

"No, I drink if I want to—but not spirits."

"Oh, I know—those old Cape pontacs. Save me from them!" Miss Cornell looked piously at the ceiling. The other girl, who had never tasted Cape pontac in her life, only smiled her subtle smile.

Sophie seated herself in a lounge-chair, opposite her visitor, and crossed her legs, incidentally revealing her smart French-heeled shoes and a good deal of open-work stocking through which to lilac-coloured eyes her legs looked as though they were painted red. Piccanin meanwhile removed from the room the luncheon débris, his bare feet cheeping on the pale native matting and his long black eyes taking interested glances at the visitor whenever she was not looking his way.

"And now let's get to business," said Miss Cornell. "First of all, you haven't told me your name yet."

The lilac eyes were hidden for a moment under white lids, and a faint colour swept over the pale skin.

"Rosalind Chard."

"Well, I shall call you Rosalind, of course, and you can call me Sophie if you like. Sophie Cornell's my name. Rather pretty, isn't it?"

"Very," said Miss Chard in her gentle, entrancing voice.

"Well, now I'll tell you: I come from Cradock, in the Cape Colony, but I've been living all over the place since I left home. First, I went to stay with my sister in Kimberley. Have you ever been to Kimberley? Man! I tell you it's the most glorious place—at least, it used to be before everybody went to Jo … you know Jo-burg, of course?"

Miss Chard shook her head.

"Never been to Johannesburg?" Sophie's tone expressed the utmost pity and contempt. "Well, but you're an English girl, I can see. Not been long out here, have you?"

"Only a week or so."

"Great Scott! you've got a lot to learn!"

Miss Cornell took a packet of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one. She then offered the packet to Miss Chard, who did not, however, take one.

"Don't smoke either? Och, what! You're not half a good fellow! Well, take off your hat, then. Do be sociable."

Miss Chard unpinned her floppy white hat and wore it on her knee for the rest of the interview. Sophie noticed the piled-up crown of black, black hair; also, the peculiar branching way in which it grew above the girl's brows. ("I wonder if she uses bay-rum to make it all dry and electriccy like that?" was her inward comment. "And I'll bet she wears a switch.")

"Well, to continue my tale—I had a lovely time in darling old Kimberley: dances, theatres, suppers, everything you can think of; then my sister's husband must needs go off and buy a rotten old farm at the back of nowhere—Barkly East, if you love me! They wanted me to come, too, but I said, Dead off! No, thanks! I want something more out of life than mountain scenery."

Rosalind Chard looked at her and could well believe it. At the moment Sophie reminded her of nothing so much as a full-blown cabbage-rose, dying to be plucked.

"And so you came here instead?"

"Well, no; first I went to Jo-burg, and I must say I had a heavenly time there; but—well—it didn't suit my health, so I became sekertary to an old snook called Johnson. He had been in Rhodesia, poking about in some ancient ruins there, and—oh, my garden flower!—the stuff he used to give me to write and type! And the way he used to bully me when I didn't get through it! And then complained of my spelling, if you please. I didn't stay with him any longer than I could help, you bet, though the screw was good. But I must tell you, such fun—just as I was going to leave him I discovered from his correspondence that he was going up to Zanzibar to make some researches for some rotten old society or other, so I stuck to him for another month. I thought I might as well get a passage to Durban for nix. So I started with him from the Cape, but when the boat touched here, I said, Good-bye, Johnnie! Oh crumbs! The row he made when he found me trekking!"

The listener's sympathy happened to be with the old snook, but Sophie was not asking for an opinion.

"And do you mean to say," demanded the latter unexpectedly, "that you would rather live with your old aunt than in a sweet little house like this, with me?"

Miss Chard did not mean to say anything at all as far as her own affairs were concerned.

"Never mind about me, Sophie," was her reply. "Tell me some more of your interesting adventures, and how you came to live in this sweet little house."

Miss Cornell's glance shifted from her new friend. She looked out of the window, round the room, at the pictures on the wall, at the typewriter—anywhere but into the two clear wells of lilac light opposite her, as she answered:

"I rent it, of course. I told you, didn't I, that I am sekertary to a man down town, named Brookfield. He thinks the world of me, and gives me a big salary; and then I get other work from a man called Bramham. Oh, I have more to do than I want, and I really had to get help, so I wrote last week to a pal of mine up in Jo-burg, and told her to come and join me. She promised, and I expected her right up till to-day, when I got a telegram, if you please, to say that she'd got something better. Wasn't that a low-down trick? And after I had told Brookfield and Bramham and all! Brookie gave me the morning off to go and meet her, and I waited for the train and found she wasn't in it, and when I got back to the office there was the telegram! Fortunately Brookie was gone from the office when I got back, so he doesn't know that she hasn't come."

"But why should it matter to him and to the other man whether she comes or not?"

Again Miss Cornell's glance took flight.

"Because of the work, of course—there's such tons to do … and I can't get through it all by myself."

Miss Chard watched her narrowly.

"Well, but why do you wish me to pretend that I live here, and am your friend from Johannesburg?"

"You see, it's this way … Brookie and Mr. Bramham take an interest in me. … They don't think that I ought to live alone here, and all that sort of rot—and if I could show you to them they'd think it was all right."

Miss Chard looked startled.

"Oh, I couldn't promise to meet strange men! I didn't suppose you would want me to do that or——"

An exasperated look came over Miss Cornell's face.

"You're not going to back out now, after me telling you everything?" she demanded angrily, but Miss Chard's scarlet lips took a firm line.

"I don't wish to meet strange people," she said. To her surprise, the other girl at once became propitiatory and beseeching.

"Well, but I won't ask you to meet anyone else. I'll keep you a deadly secret. And I can assure you that Brookie and Bramham don't matter in the least. Brookie is—well, to tell you the truth, he is entirely my property; he's crazily in love with me, and he won't bother you at all. 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 coarse 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 passion-leaved summer-house, delicately smoking a cigarette and brushing 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 glass 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 passion 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 Klondyke 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 'cashier' in the Army … but that was silly, of course … there are no such things as cashiers 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 noble … 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.

She was aware, however, that life in South Africa is too busy and too eventful to allow men much time for digging into personality—and that it has to suffice, as a rule, if the surface-metal shines pleasantly and looks like the real thing. Sophie's surface, no doubt, had an attractive glitter, but Poppy felt sure that if anyone with the time and inclination for such occupation had ventured to go a-quarrying into the nature of Sophie Cornell, the output would be found to be surprising, even in a land where surprises are every-day fare and the unexpected is the only thing that ever happens.