When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 3

The girl closes the cupboard noiselessly, creeping away like a criminal out into the glaring day. Her eyes dance, her cheeks are flushed, and her hair escaping (as if by accident) from its neat braids, waves in dainty tendrils round her ears.

"I _am_ beautiful," she murmurs to herself, "why not? Stranger things have happened--Eleanor Roche, the wife of a rich man--oh!"

The last is a gasp of hitherto unexpressed surprise at the audacity of her day dreams.

Philip is waiting by the barley field, watching for her. As she sees him she slackens her steps, not wis.h.i.+ng to appear over anxious for the rendezvous. He advances eagerly, grasps her hands, and devours her with his eyes.

"So we meet again, Eleanor," he whispers. "I _must_ call you Eleanor; you don't mind?"

A bold answer that inwardly makes her tremble enters the girl's head.

Why not place herself on an equality with him at once? She nerves herself to reply:

"Not if I may call you Philip?"

A look of amused surprise flits over Mr. Roche's features. What a nave, childlike manner Eleanor possesses!

"Of course," he replies, pulling the small hand through his arm, and turning out of the public thoroughfare.

"I wonder what you think of me?" asks Eleanor unhesitatingly.

The great sparkling eyes are raised to his with genuine curiosity in their depths. She is not seeking a compliment; far from it, she really wants to know, and is waiting for the truth.

He looks from the blue eyes of the girl to the little blue bird's-eye growing on a bank of clover. She pauses while he stoops to gather the tiny flower.

"You see this," he says.

"Yes."

"It is only a field blossom blooming unnoticed in this sweet country atmosphere, yet to me a thousand times fairer than the exotics and hot-house plants which naturally demand admiration. I love this little flower," pressing the tender blue to his lips, "because it is wild and untrained. It appeals to me. It is like you, Eleanor!"

A flush of offence arises to her cheeks.

"Wild!" "Untrained!" the words sting Miss Grebby's pride.

"I did not think you would compare me to a _weed_!" she retorts, tossing her head proudly.

But Philip will not see he has offended, and continues in the same strain.

"Don't despise the weeds, Eleanor; they were placed in their uncultivated beds by Nature's hand, and have as much right to be called beautiful as any other creation."

He speaks to her authoritatively, and she looks at his strong, masterful expression with a gradual sense of awe.

"I should not have thought you would care for flowers."

"Why not? Does it seem childish in your eyes to soliloquise over a wayside 'weed,' as you call it?"

His questions perplex her. She is silent.

"You do not appreciate your beautiful country," he continues, "from living in it always. Wait till you have tasted the deadly dust of the town before you curl your lip at a blue bird's-eye, or pa.s.s judgment on the unbroken quiet of sinless Copthorne. Since I came here for rest and holiday leisure I seem to have grasped the whole history and charm of the place. It contains endless interest in its G.o.dlike simplicity to the recluse or the reader. Look what fields for the naturalist or botanist! Think, too, of an artist here for the first time--what sketches to be made at sunrise and sunset! You may call your little world dull, monotonous, uneventful, since, reared in the green landscape with farmlands and woods around, you are bound through custom to neglect the pleasures of imagination, and see it only without observing."

"I am glad you are so enthusiastic over Copthorne," replies Eleanor, catching at the meadow-sweet, and crumbling it between her fingers. "I suppose you have been living a very different life in London?"

"It is a great change," he replies, "from the bustle of fas.h.i.+on to the unbroken quiet. But I must own I didn't enjoy so completely all the beauty of this glad country scene till you came, Eleanor, happy in the rich possession of youth and lightheartedness."

Now his conversation grows interesting, the perfect smile with which she is naturally blessed creeps through her lips to her eyes, illuminating her whole countenance. In the distance the regular click of a reaping machine falls on the breeze.

"You must see more of our life," she says impetuously. "Next week all our labourers will be reaping, and our barns are ready for the first loads of harvest. Do not go till it is gathered in!"

"Shall I promise? Would it give you pleasure?"

"Yes."

A pause, during which an old horse puts his nose over the gate of an adjacent field, regarding Philip and Eleanor complacently.

"Then it's a bargain! If _you_ will be pleased, I will stay; but not unless."

A little gasp escapes her lips.

"Can you doubt it, Philip?" she murmurs.

He is satisfied by the earnest tone, gratified by her humility and undisguised devotion.

"Would you like to see my home?" she asks, for their steps are nearing the quaint farmhouse.

"Indeed, I should."

She takes him from the sloping cornfield, topped by a windmill, to where the path joins a kitchen garden--a perfect holiday ground for bees. The vegetables seem in perfect harmony with yellow marigolds and calceolaria. The house is divided from the road by palings richly covered by Virginia creepers, and as they approach Philip pauses to lean on the wicket gate and view the peaceful homestead silently. The drone of bees and busy presence of insect toil is soothing and melodious. He takes Eleanor's hand and kisses it in the full glare of the mid-day sun under the heavily laden fruit trees. Then they pa.s.s by the brilliant flower-beds to the rustic porch, through which is visible the Grebbys' twelve o'clock repast spread on a clean white linen cloth, a vase of wild flowers for simple decoration. There are bright-coloured texts on the walls, and an old Family Bible under a gla.s.s case.

"My mother will be back from the market directly," says Eleanor; "would you do us the honour of stopping to dinner?"

The tone became a supplication, mingled with smiles.

"You are too kind," declares Philip, touched by the unostentatious hospitality of his newly found friend. "I shall be most delighted."

"Come and let us watch for the return of Black Bess," she cries, leading the way out into the garden again. Philip thinks he has never spent a more delightful morning.

To have missed it would have been to lose one of the sweetest episodes of his life. The intense restfulness of Copthorne Farm, the fragrance of the air, the softness of the carpet beneath his feet, the cattle browsing in verdant pastures, and the murmur of those winged and drowsy honey-laden workers from the meadows, make a picture which will never pa.s.s from his mind. For the moment, while basking in the harvest sun, a scene which must some day be only a faded pleasure left to recollection, is Paradise!

Then the Grebbys' return from their marketing, to welcome the stranger whom Eleanor proudly introduces. Hospitality is a creed with them, and renewing their daughter's invitation, they place the choicest their home affords before the unexpected guest. Thus it is that Philip Roche finds himself in Eleanor's family circle, discussing the crops and weather with her father, a rubicund, hale old man, whose life is centred in bucolic pursuits.

The harvest is over, the wheat and barley are garnered, but still Philip lingers, chained by that mysterious agent the world calls--Love!

He sees the embodiment of all he most admires in Eleanor, the sweet domesticated country maiden, pure as the health-laden breezes sighing through the trees. His love enn.o.bles his being, he is surprised at this inexplicable and unfathomable pa.s.sion.

"Eleanor," he says, "I am going away--I want to take you with me. Will you be my wife?"

It is more a command than a question. He cannot do without her. She _must_ consent.