When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 33

She is gazing before her and takes no notice of his remark.

"Copthorne!" she says at last. "_What_ a long way off it seems."

"Yes," replies Quinton, "rather fortunate under the circ.u.mstances.

Your good parents were eminently virtuous; I doubt if they would give me such a friendly welcome now. I say, Eleanor, don't you wish you had Giddy out here. She would wake us up. I should like to see her come in now, with that terrible purple hat, and the white c.o.c.k's feathers all awry. How full she would be of gossip, and how funny!"

He laughs at the recollection of her odd sayings.

"But I don't want waking up," replies Eleanor. "It would be like a douche of cold water thrown rudely over you in a dream to see any face that reminded me of the past. I am sure we don't want Giddy in our paradise. It is far pleasanter without her!"

"You prefer Elizabeth Kachin and her black Tombo!" laughs Carol. "Do you know, Eleanor, you are the only white woman who would speak to her."

"I like them both; they do not bother me with questions."

"By the way, dear, I forgot to tell you Captain Stevenson and Major Short, two old pals of mine, are in these parts. They sent a mounted messenger to ask me to go and see them this afternoon. They don't know what I am doing here. Of course, I shall say 'sport,' that is only another word for 'love.'"

"The two make a bad combination, for some love is only sport to the fickle and untrue."

"How different to yours and mine, Eleanor," he murmurs tenderly. "I wish I could take you with me this afternoon, but it is a long, rough road, and--and----"

"You would rather your friends did not see me, Carol. Don't be afraid to say it. It is very natural. Besides," with a forced smile, "I am so wonderfully pretty, they might become madly enamoured, and kidnap me in these wilds."

There is no conceit in Eleanor's voice or manner as she speaks, but a spirit of cynicism which is new to her.

Quinton kisses her pa.s.sionately.

"You are beautiful," he whispers.

"Yet you intend leaving me for several long hours! What are these men like?"

"Captain Stevenson is the dearest fellow on earth, and Major Short handsome enough to fascinate any woman. I a.s.sure you I am far too jealous to wish to introduce him. His eyes are soft and hazel, the sort that the feminine mind wors.h.i.+ps--adores! Hair dark and curling, with threads of grey. A smile that has worked destruction in the four quarters of the globe, and a heart so good and tender that he would not intentionally cause a fly a pang."

"I _should_ like to meet him," sighs Eleanor.

"To quote your own sentiments, darling, it is pleasanter alone; we want no one in our paradise, neither Giddy Mounteagle, nor the handsome Major Short."

"Now you are vindictive and cross," she declares, as he draws her head down on his shoulder.

"There is my horse. Good-bye, little woman. I shall be back before nightfall."

She watches him ride away, waving from the verandah; he turns several times to kiss his hand.

Then she sinks back in a low chair, wondering how to kill time until he returns.

The sun sets when he is out of sight, and rises in all its glory at his presence. He is her idol. Her whole happiness and interest are absorbed in Quinton.

She sends her black servant Quamina to beg Mrs. Kachin to come and sit with her.

It will pa.s.s the afternoon to have someone to talk to.

Elizabeth gladly obeys the summons, for she thinks a great deal of her new white friend.

"How is young Tombo?" asks Eleanor, running out to meet Elizabeth, whom she caresses in her affectionately demonstrative manner.

"Oh; so well again, his arm is as good as ever, and he hardly runs stiff at all now."

"My husband has gone to visit two men from Burmah, and I felt terribly deserted and lonely. It is good of you to come, Mrs. Kachin."

"I am also glad of a companion," replies Elizabeth. "Big Tombo has gone to superintend the 'Jhooming' and the boy is with him."

"What is Jhooming?" asks Eleanor.

"Oh! don't you know, they cut down the trees once a year, and burn them when they are quite dry. Then plough the ground, ploughing in all the ash, and sow when the rain comes, scattering the seeds broadcast."

"What busy lives the natives lead! It makes me feel so idle," says Eleanor, stretching her arms. "Yet I love this beautiful country, and enjoy to sit and dream. My days are one long siesta; I am never really awake."

"Ah! you don't work in your home as I do. All this morning I was making clothing for little Tombo on my loom, yet I, too, am happy, Mrs.

Quinton. Perhaps you wonder how it is that I married big Tombo. We met in England when I was quite a girl. He was the only honest man it had been my fate to know. I was an unfortunate child, nameless from my birth, yet loved honour and virtue more than anything on earth. My mother was always lenient and kind, but when I grew old enough to realise the wrong she had done me I abhorred her! My marriage released me from a hateful and unwholesome home. I was glad to leave the country in which I first learnt to despise the woman I called by the sacred name of 'mother.'"

Eleanor is pale to the lips, she trembles all over as she listens to Elizabeth.

"I sometimes hear from her now, but she knows my feelings towards her."

"Poor woman!" cries Eleanor, speaking suddenly as if compelled against her will. "You, in your quiet life, with big Tombo, cannot guess the temptations she may have faced. You judge her very harshly. She was kind to you, and it is your duty to love her. You prize virtue and honour, yet do not hesitate to hate and abhor your own flesh and blood."

"It is easy to dictate to others. But if you were to meet that woman, and knew her history, you would pull your skirts aside, for fear they might brush her in pa.s.sing."

Eleanor shakes her head.

"Oh, no," she says sorrowfully. "I would take her by the hand, and call her 'Sister.'"

"Then you are the right sort of Christian," replies Elizabeth. "I cannot feel that way, because I suffered for her sin--Heaven only knows how bitterly!"

As Eleanor listens to Mrs. Kachin, she feels involuntarily drawn towards her by force of contrast. Their natures are so widely different, for Eleanor was ever lenient, kind-hearted, and forgiving, while Elizabeth is hard, determined, not easily swerved from a purpose.

"Where does your mother live?"

"I hardly know; she is a roving spirit, with no settled home. But her loveless old age is the penalty she must pay for a misused youth. Once she wrote and told me she had enough money laid by to come here if I would receive her."

"And you refused?"

"Most certainly."

"Oh! how _could_ you!" cries Eleanor, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng with indignation.

"I consider the way I have acted since I came to years of discretion is simply just retribution. There is a saying that justice begins next door. I have practised it on my nearest of kin."

"You must be very cruel."