When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 25

She picks it up.

It is a photograph of Carol Quinton.

"You must have that lock secured," she says laughing, "or buy a strap."

Eleanor colours, and hides the photograph in her m.u.f.f.

"Good-bye, Giddy."

"Take care of yourself, my sweet," returning Eleanor's caress. "I have no doubt it will be very merry and jolly in the country," with a little grimace that means it won't.

But Mrs. Roche cares not to what corner of the globe she is travelling as the train bears her to Copthorne. She is too utterly miserable to notice places or seasons. She just sits by the window, and stares at the picture she has drawn from her m.u.f.f, from which the eyes of Carol Quinton look pleadingly in hers.

"I wish I could bury myself," she thinks, her mind turning to Africa--America--Asia--any of the far-off worlds she has read of in geography books and fiction. "I wish I were someone else, or even the old Eleanor that Philip stole from Copthorne Farm. Why did he not leave me there? It would have been far better for us both!"

An elderly woman seated opposite glances at Eleanor over her paper, struck by the strange pallor of the young face, the nervous twitching of the mouth, and tear-dimmed eyes.

The stranger leans forward suddenly with an abrupt question:

"May I see that photograph?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "May I see that photograph?"]

Eleanor starts in trepidation; her thoughts have been so far away that they are brought back to the present with an effort.

She sees before her a face lined more deeply with sorrow than time, a woman who might still have considerable beauty had she not dyed her hair in her youth and ruined her complexion with cosmetics.

The request does not offend Eleanor, for Mrs. Roche is easily won by a kind look or a smile.

She hands the photograph across, watching the stranger's expression.

"What a handsome face!" she exclaims, with a little gasp of admiration.

"Yes," sighs Eleanor.

"I never saw such mesmeric eyes, and yet they are soft, though powerful. I should say that man must have broken many a heart with those eyes."

She looks shrewdly at Mrs. Roche as she speaks.

"If he loves _you_," she continues, "he will be true."

Eleanor's head droops.

"You love him," said the stranger, reading the tell-tale blush. "Are you going to marry him, my dear?"

"No," falters Eleanor, "I wish I could."

"Ah! I thought so. Forgive me for my curiosity, but your face interested me, and I am not conventional. I always speak if I wish, though it offends some people. To me the fas.h.i.+on of introducing seems absurd. Here we are all jumbled up together in the same little world, yet everyone is a ma.s.s of reserve, a mind in armour, they never say what they mean, seldom speak from the heart. One is in the dust, and another on the throne, and they all die in like manner, to be buried most probably by a man they would not have dared address without an introduction, measured by an undertaker they could not have been seen walking with in the street, and to mix with thousands of spirits whose ancestors and pedigree are unknown."

Eleanor listens in surprise.

"Are you uncertain about your future?" the stranger asks.

"A little," falters Eleanor nervously.

"Then let me look at your hand, I may be able to help you. No, the left hand please," as Mrs. Roche tremblingly unb.u.t.tons her right glove.

"Ah!" as the gold wedding-ring is revealed, "I was afraid so. I see it all now; this (pointing to the photograph) is _not_ your husband."

Eleanor tries to speak, but her throat is parched, and dry. She only bends her head and gazes at the lines in her pink palm.

"You are going on a journey very soon," vouchsafes the stranger. "I wish it could be prevented, for it brings more pain than pleasure--misery, desolation."

Eleanor s.n.a.t.c.hes away her hand.

"I don't want to know any more," she says, almost fiercely, pulling on her glove.

"I did not mean to frighten you," replies the woman penitently. "But I want to warn you. Whatever you do wrong in this world, my friend, is always repaid. There may be a heaven and a h.e.l.l in the hereafter, I know not, I am not in a position to say, but of one thing I am certain, there is the h.e.l.l here on earth, which measures out the allotted punishment to its victims."

"I don't understand you," exclaims Eleanor, "You talk to me as if I were a criminal."

"No," shaking her head sadly; "only as to a young and beautiful wife, who dreams and cries over another man's picture. You have the fatal, dangerous gift of fascination, Mrs. Roche."

"How did you know my name?"

"It is by me on the label of your bag."

Eleanor is silent. She waits for the stranger to continue.

"In my youth, Mrs. Roche, I was as fair as you--I was unhappily married. I looked lightly on the bonds that meant so much until they fettered me--held me down, as I then imagined. Between me and my husband the sentiment of _camaraderie_ never existed. When I was not coquetting with him I was quarrelling. I tell you this because I shall never see you again. You do not know me--or care. I may be dead to-morrow--you would never hear. We are only just pa.s.sing in life, and have paused to speak. The man I married was by necessity a preoccupied breadwinner, and during his daily absences in hot pursuit of the staff of life I met--well, we will say this man," taking up the photograph of Carol Quinton.

Eleanor s.n.a.t.c.hes it from her.

"Ah! yes, just what I should have done then. I was hot-headed, and reckless, I had a good life in my hands and I ruined, spoiled, destroyed it! The cruel thongs of public opinion lashed my quivering flesh, the galling retribution broke my spirit, I cried to G.o.d, but He hid his face, I was an outcast, lost, I could only lie and moan for death which never came."

The stranger covers her face with her hands, and shudders visibly.

The wedding-ring to which she has no right is still on her wasted fingers, hot tears, forced from her eyes through recollection, pour down her drawn cheeks, making little rivulets through some coa.r.s.e powder of the cheaper kind.

Eleanor's ever-ready pity rises up to crush the anger previously felt, for she sees now the effort that this brief confession has cost her fellow traveller. She knows, too, the reason for which these words were spoken, and horror stops the beating of her heart, it checks her throbbing pulses.

Mrs. Roche leans forward, and takes the stranger's hands.

"Thank you," she murmurs simply.

The woman clasps the little fingers gratefully.

"You understand?" she asks.