Whether as a result of the talk with Macfarlane, or the expiration of
Aplin's leave and his departure for Algoa Bay, Matheson's visits to the
Rondebosch household fell off in regularity. He went out for tennis
when the mood inclined him, and on occasions still met the two girls at
the cafe in the luncheon recess and ate ices with them. It was a
somewhat remarkable coincidence that they were so often in the vicinity
of the cafe he frequented at the same hour as himself; it was always an
accident, and so unexpected.
He came in time to look for them, and evolved a formula in response to
their surprised exclamations. There were even times when he experienced
a faint disappointment if they failed to appear. There were other times
when, disinclined for their chatter, he dropped into a less fashionable
cafe nearer his work and took his iced coffee in solitary enjoyment.
They detected him immediately upon his new discovery diving into the
small cafe, and followed him, and were "so surprised" when they met
within to see that he too patronised this nice quiet little place.
"It's so restful," said Rosie audibly, as they seated themselves at his
suggestion at the same table. "And really the things they give you are
quite good. How did you come to find it out?"
"It's handy for me, you see," he explained. "I can't always get off at
this hour, and often I have only ten minutes. When time is limited I
bolt in here."
He did not consider it necessary to admit that it was only the second
time he had visited the cafe.
"I like to try the different places," he added, with a view to future
evasion.
"The girls' dresses are pretty," observed May, looking after the neat
Puritan figure of the waitress who had served them. "They suggest the
chorus in a revue."
"I dare say Mr Matheson considers that one of the attractions of the
place," Rosie threw in with a touch of malice.
Matheson, who had not as a matter of fact taken particular note of the
waitresses, glanced after a tall blonde girl who passed their table
carrying a trayful of American drinks, and laughed.
"I think they look jolly fine," he said.
May looked about her, nibbling an ice wafer.
"I wouldn't mind being a waitress in a cafe. They don't have half a bad
time," she averred.
"May!" Her sister appeared horrified. "The things men say to them...
And imagine taking tips!"
"I'd like the tips all right," May declared, and caught Matheson's eye
and smiled. "And it's just fascinating squirting drinks out of those
syphons. It makes one cool to watch. Besides, I'd like going about in
fancy dress all day, and wearing a dinky little cap. How do you think
I'd lode in one of those Puritan caps, Mr Matheson?"
"I think you would look sufficiently attractive to be sure of your
tips," he answered.
"Flatterer!" she exclaimed, and laughed. "I shouldn't look puritanical
anyhow."
"No," he rejoined. "I don't believe you could."
"That sort of thing is all very well at a charity bazaar," Rosie
affirmed. "Even then, I prefer selling flowers."
"And charging extra for pinning them in the lucky purchaser's
buttonhole?" he suggested.
"Come and find out whether I do that at the next bazaar," she said.
"She always does well at the flower stall," May commented. "That's why
they ask her to serve. I don't see much difference between charging
extra for pinning in a buttonhole and taking tips."
"It's both a form of blackmail," Matheson asserted.
"You don't believe in tipping then?"
"Oh! I believe in it--it's too evident to be questioned; and custom,
like the right of way through a person's property, legalises most
things."
"People are so much more civil when one tips them," Rosie observed.
"If they return civility, that's value for one's money all right. But
the civility depends largely on the amount of the tip," he said.
The inference they drew from his remarks was that he inclined to
meanness, and they both, under cover of searching for gloves and vanity
bags, took a surreptitious interest in the proceedings that followed
upon the presentation of the account which the neat Puritan waitress
unobtrusively placed beside his plate, and then, even more
unobtrusively, withdrew to a distance as though a tip were the last
thing in the world she expected to receive or desired. He took up the
check, glanced at the amount, placed sixpence on the table as
unobtrusively as the Puritan girl had delivered his account, and was
approaching the desk behind his gay companions when he felt a touch on
his sleeve.
"Your change, if you please."
In the hand which had touched his arm, lying upon the open palm, was the
sixpence he had left on the table. He felt awkward as his glance fell
to it; it was difficult he found to explain.
"That's all right," he was beginning over his shoulder, and broke off
embarrassed before the persistence of that outstretched determined
little hand so obviously refusing his munificence.
"Thanks," he added hurriedly, and faced round. "I must have dropped
it."
He looked at her as he took the coin, a little curious about her. He
hadn't noticed her when she served his party; he had been preoccupied,
and she had kept in the background somehow. It flashed across his mind
to wonder whether she had overheard any part of their talk, and resented
his remarks about tipping. Then his eyes met hers, and the coin which
he was in the act of taking slipped from his fingers and rolled away out
of sight.
"You!" he cried. His eager hand shot out and grasped the small one
which had returned his money. "I have been trying to discover you for
months. I thought I had lost you... And you've been here, close at
hand, all the while!"
A faint colour warmed the face that had lost much of its brownness, the
dawn of a smile broke in the earnest eyes he had last seen raised to his
in the moonlight in the shadowy road beneath the oleanders--a hint of a
smile which failed to reach her lips.
"I thought you had forgotten," Brenda said.
He remembered that for a time he had forgotten. It seemed incredible
now, with the small warm hand in his, and the sense of comradeship which
the nearness of her, the friendly light in her eyes, conveyed, that ever
it had been a matter of indifference to him whether he saw her again.
There was not a shadow of doubt as to his pleasure at the moment.
She drew her hand away.
"The management may be watching me," she said.
"Oh bother! There is always some one watching you," he returned. "No
matter! We will have our talk out where no one can watch us save the
stars. It's jolly that you're here... I'm not going to lose sight of
you again."
He arranged to meet her that evening and parted from her feeling
extraordinarily dated. He looked back when he had paid his score and
was passing out to smile across the room at her. Then he pushed the
swing door and emerged upon the pavement to discover his late
companions, rather silent and faintly displeased, waiting by the kerb
for him.
"Well, we can never go in there again!" Rosie said, in tones charged
with inner meaning.
It was so obvious that she wanted him to inquire the reason for this
taboo that he did not ask it; instead he remarked cheerfully:
"That's the biggest surprise I've had--and about the pleasantest. I
never expected to run across Miss Upton like that."
"We didn't imagine you knew her," May said. "When she served us I saw
who it was, but of course one couldn't speak to her. She ought not to
stay in Cape Town."
"Why not?" he asked.
"Oh! there's nothing exactly against her--except of course, the
connexion. Her father embezzled money and went to prison. He was in
dad's firm. We knew her quite well at one time. But it was an awful
disgrace; one couldn't go on knowing them. You must acknowledge it is
impossible for us. Mother wouldn't like us to talk to her."
"No," he said; "I don't suppose she would."
"You didn't know about her father, of course," Rosie said.
"Oh! yes, I did. She told me herself--not the details, but the bald
facts."
"Really! I'm surprised at that. A man doesn't need to be so
particular, perhaps; but it wouldn't do for us to be seen talking to
her."
"My friendship dates since her misfortunes," he explained. "I can't
believe that I could have respected her more had I known her in her
prosperous days. The fact that her father was imprisoned, apart from my
sympathy with her on that account, doesn't affect me. I can't stay now,
or I could talk to you for an hour on the immorality of injustice. I'll
come out to your place some day, and we'll take it for a subject for
debate."
"The things you say!" Rosie exclaimed, divided between resentment and
an earnest desire to prevent a breach.
They parted on less cordial terms than usual, feeling it necessary to
maintain their displeasure. As May observed, Mr Matheson should be
made aware that he must not obtrude his common acquaintances upon them.
"As long as he keeps his shop-girls in the background I suppose it's all
right," she said.
"Men are funny animals," was Rosie's comment.
Matheson, with his thoughts revolving round his discovery and the Aplin
girls' revelations, went to Macfarlane for information. Macfarlane,
having spent ten years in Cape Town, was fairly well qualified to give
it. The most interesting events in the histories of many of the
inhabitants were known to him, and the Upton affair was barely five
years old.
He had forgotten the details of the case, he said. So far as he could
remember it was just a sordid tale of common embezzlement. The man was
weak--one of those people with a moral kink. There was no apparent
reason why he should appropriate the firm's money; he had a decent
salary, and a decent wife who certainly never led him into extravagance.
When he came out of prison he went under altogether, and the home was
broken up. He had no idea what had become of the family. There was
only one girl, and the boys were old enough now to be doing for
themselves.
"I can tell you where Miss Upton is," Matheson said, "because I happened
to know her."
He explained how and where he had met her that morning. Macfarlane was
interested.
"It's a come down," he said, "and a beastly shame. That's the worst of
it when these sort of things happen, the family goes under with the
man."
"I don't fancy there is much fear of Miss Upton going under," Matheson
returned, and became so earnest and eager in his championship as to
provoke Macfarlane's curiosity.
"She is so plucky and clever... one of the bravest and honestest little
souls!"
"Well," observed Macfarlane drily, "I haven't seen her since she was an
ugly little flapper with a predilection for snubbing people, and a
partiality for animals. You'll lose the chance of a marriage of
convenience, my boy, if you let Rosie see you trotting her about."
Matheson laughed.
"She and May were with me this morning, and both were rather scandalised
at my friendship with a girl in a cafe," he said.
"That's finished anyhow," Macfarlane asserted grimly. "You'll never be
asked to stretch your legs under the old man's mahogany again, and you
won't swagger back from tennis any more with Rosie's favours in your
coat Considering your ambitions, which you confided to me recently, I
think you are playing the fool with your prospects."
"I've got to get there on my own," Matheson answered. "I've no
prejudice against my wife lending me a helping hand, but I don't want to
depend on her entirely for a leg up."
"Just so!" Macfarlane observed. "At the same time it is as well not to
give her a chance of holding you back."
Which piece of advice served only as an irritant. The disparagement of
one's friends, or of one's opinions, forces the sincere believer in
either into a sturdy opposition.
It was a matter of extreme gratification to Matheson that he had found
Brenda Upton again. Her family history concerned him very little. She
was such a good comrade. He had not realised until he rediscovered her
how much he stood in need of the friendship she could give him.
Friendship with a woman who is sympathetic, and young enough to be
attractive as well as companionable, fills the blanks in a man's life.
He was not in love with Brenda; he realised that perfectly; but he was
fond of her. If he retained from his intercourse with her none of the
glowing memories he recalled in connexion with Honor, her society
afforded him a quiet pleasure that was restful and satisfying. She
suggested home to a man who knew no home, and peace to a restless
spirit, like the calm of inland waters following a voyage in tempestuous
seas. Honor had been a dream, a beautiful inspiration. This other girl
possessed a charm of an altogether different quality. Already she was
becoming for him a symbol of familiar and essential things.