Poppy Part 42

Carson had a distant visionary expression in his eyes. Bramham's words appeared to have driven his thoughts far afield. He might have been a man trying to remember a sweet air that evaded his memory, or to lay hold of something that had no substance.

"It is odd that you should ask me that, Bram," he spoke slowly ... "and you are the only man in the world I would say it to ... but, that was the kind of girl I was speaking of when I said _the_ wife ... the only kind of girl I should ever care about marrying ... I suppose I am alone among Irishmen in holding such an opinion ... for all their wildness they're a conventional lot at bottom, especially on this subject ...

and, of course, that's as it should be. But I've lived too long in lonely places, and I'm more woodsman than Irishman now!... I didn't think this way always, either.... But once I had a vision, a dream, _something_ ... about such a girl. The odd part of it is that I was crazy about another woman at the time--had been for years--and it cured me of _that_.... But, oh, Lord!" (he gave a sort of groan) "there's been plenty of water under the bridge since then ... and it was only a dream, anyway. There may be such girls in the world somewhere ... but not for me, Bram. Some woman will trap me with an antenuptial-contract, some day." He got up, laughing mirthlessly. "Great Tophet! it's two o'clock!

I shall never get through with my work to-morrow."

They gripped hands and parted for the night.

Afterwards Bramham mused thus to himself:

"He was lying! He must have been--or else she was. What the deuce is one to make of it? _Plenty of water under the bridge since then!_ I daresay!... Cap.r.o.n's stray shaft went home.... I wonder if there's any truth in _that_ tale!... Well! the longer I live the more I am inclined to agree with that fellow who said there never yet was a game in history or anywhere else played square with a woman in it!"

CHAPTER XXI

The next morning, by a strange circ.u.mstance, which did not immediately unfold its inner meaning, three bad men met in the front verandah of the Royal.

The order of their coming was thus: Bramham dropped in at about eleven o'clock to discover Abinger sitting in the verandah with a drink at his elbow--

"And a smile on the face of the tiger."

That, at least, was the line from the poets which flashed into Bramham's head, as Abinger grinned upon him.

"What do _you_ want?" was the latter's affable greeting, and Bramham answered fearlessly:

"Oh, just a gin-and-bitters! It's getting somewhere about lunch-time, isn't it?"

Abinger refrained from inquiring why the Royal should be patronised for gin-and-bitters, when the Club was just across the road from Bramham's office: he merely continued to grin. The next arrival was Carson. But he saw them before they saw him, so it was for him to play tiger. He saluted them blandly.

"Hullo! you fellows! Waiting to see Nickals, too?"

This was the first information the other two had of the presence of Nickals in the hotel; but Abinger gravely stated that his case was a desire to see that gentleman. Bramham repeated his gin-and-bitters tale.

They sat for a quarter of an hour, abusing the weather, the market, and the country, and Carson then said he should go and see if he could find Nickals in his room. The others thought they would accompany him. It appeared that Nickals, hitherto a simple honest fellow, had suddenly grown in importance and magnetic personality.

They did not, like sane men, inquire at the office, which was just inside the hall door, but strolled instead through the vestibules into the palm-garden, and from there to Ulundi Square, having pa.s.sed the drawing-room windows and looked in, in case Nickals might be playing the piano or resting on the sofa, as Abinger facetiously remarked.

Eventually they stopped a strolling waiter and asked if Nickals was in.

The waiter went away to see, and the three sat in the Square until he returned with the information that Mr. Nickals had gone to the Berea and would not be back before four o'clock. This was conclusive. They searched each other's faces for any reasonable excuse for further loitering; finally, Abinger said _he_ would now take a gin-and-bitters.

Carson thought he would like a smoke. The chairs are easy and comfortable in Ulundi Square, and there are newspapers.

They spent another peaceful twenty minutes. Too peaceful. No one came or went, but an ample-breasted concert soprano, who was touring the country and compiling a fortune with a voice that had long ceased to interest English audiences; a crumpled-looking lady journalist, with her nose in a note-book and her hat on one ear, and a middle-aged American tourist, with a matron as alluringly veiled as the wife of a Caliph, but who unfortunately did not remain veiled.

_Ennui_ engulfed the trio. At last they departed in exasperation--no one having once mentioned his real reason for being there. Carson and Abinger went into the Club, Bramham into his office, promising to join them in a short time for lunch. As he pa.s.sed through an outer office lined with desks and busy clerks, his secretary followed, to inform him in a discreet voice that a note had come for him by one of the Royal _boys_. Bramham, forgetting that he was over twenty-five on Isandhlwana day nineteen years before, sprinted into his private room in amazing style. On his desk was a letter addressed in the writing of Rosalind Chard.

"I had a premonition, by Jove!" he exclaimed excitedly, and tore it open. It was brief.

"I am staying at the Royal. Could you call on me some time to-day? I should be delighted if you would lunch with me. It will be charming to see you again."

Bramham stared at the letter for several minutes, then seized his hat and rang the bell.

"Call Mr. Merritt," was his order, and the secretary reappeared.

"Merritt, I am going out again at once. If Mr. Carson or Mr.

Abinger send over for me from the Club, _I'm engaged. Very important business--here._ Shall probably see them later in the afternoon--understand?"

"Certainly, sir," said the discreet Merritt, and withdrew.

Arrived at the Royal once more, Bramham this time addressed himself to the inquiry office like an honest man, and was presently informed that Miss Chard would see him in her private sitting-room. His mental eyebrows went up, but he decorously followed the slim and sad-eyed coolie attendant.

In a room redeemed from "hoteliness" by a few original touches, fragrant with violets and sprays of mimosa, he found a girl waiting for him, whom for a moment he scarcely recognised. It was the first time he had seen Rosalind Chard in any but the simplest clothes, and he at first supposed the difference in her attributable to her dress. She wore a beautiful gown of lilac-coloured crepe, with silken oriental embroiderings scrolled upon it, and a big lilac-wreathed hat--a picture of well-bred, perfectly-dressed dewy womanhood, with the faint and fascinating stamp of personality on every tiniest detail of her. She stood in the middle of the room and held out a slim, bare hand to Bramham, and he took it, staring at her and it. He was relieved to see that it was not jewelled.

"I can't believe my eyes," he said. "It is the most amazing thing that ever happened--to see you!"

"Why?" she asked softly, looking him in the eyes.

"I thought you were in England fighting your way along the road to Fame----"

"I don't care about Fame any more, Charlie."

"Don't care for Fame! Why, you were crazy after it!"

"Crazy--yes, that is the right word. Now I am sane. You have had my hand quite a long time----"

He did not release it, however, only held it tighter.

"I'm knocked right off my mental reservation. I don't know what I'm doing. You shouldn't stand and smile at me like that. What's the matter with you, Rosalind? You don't look happy!"

His last words were a surprise to himself, for until he uttered them he had not clearly realised that in spite of her radiant beauty and her perfect clothes there was a haunting enigmatic sadness about her. And as once before, he fancied it was her smile that made her so tragic-looking. Suddenly it seemed to him that he heard a little bell tolling somewhere. He gave a glance round the room, but his eyes returned to her.

"What has happened to you?" he asked, in a low voice.

"My son is dead," she said, and she still smiled that bright, tragic smile, and looked at him with dry, beautiful eyes, that were too tired to weep. His were the eyes that filled with tears. He knew that he was in the presence of grief too deep for words. The hand that he awkwardly brushed across his face was his salute to sorrow.

"Thank you," her voice was a little dreary wind; "thank you, kindest of all friends." She moved away from him then in a vague, aimless fashion, went to a bowl of violets and smelled them, and looked up at a strange blue picture on the wall, the like of which he had never seen in an hotel and could not believe to be part of the furnishing of the Royal.

It was, indeed, _Hope_ sitting at the top of the world playing on her brave one string; but Bramham had never seen Watts's picture before.

While she still stood there she spoke to him.

"Don't ever speak of it again, will you?... I can't ... I am not able..."

"Of course not.... No, all right ... I won't," he hastily and earnestly a.s.sured her.

He wondered if she knew of Carson's presence in Durban. It was strange that they had had no sight of her that morning. He would have given much to have seen her meet Carson face to face unexpectedly.

"Were you in this morning?" he presently asked. "I was about the hotel for an hour or so with two friends--Carson and Luce Abinger. We might so easily have run across you----"

Her face when she turned told him nothing.

"I spent the greater part of the morning sitting under the palms facing the bay, talking to Mrs. Portal--but I left a message where I was to be found in case you called."