When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 40

The cup is bitter, it takes away her breath. She stands in the doorway gasping, blinded by the glaring light of day. A victim at the shrine of truth, self condemned, self accused.

It is thus that Carol finds her, gazing tragically at the departing figure of Elizabeth Kachin.

"What's up?" he asks, seeing her distress.

"I have told Elizabeth," she says slowly, "what I am."

Quinton bites his lips with annoyance.

"I should not have thought even you could have committed such an egregious act of folly!"

"I could not help myself. Elizabeth thought me so good, so different, and her words seared my conscience. Ah! you smile, no wonder. It ought to be dead by rights, long ago."

"You poor little thing," he murmurs tenderly. "But it was very silly, and another time do not let a few miserable scruples overrule your better judgment. After all, Elizabeth is no great loss, but it is always unwise and unnecessary to give yourself away. There! I have done my lecture, come and kiss me."

She flies into his arms.

"It is terrible when you are annoyed with me, Carol. I should like you to think everything I do or say perfection. But then we cannot have all we want in life, and especially such a delightful life as ours. Do you know, however deeply you love, however constant you may prove, you can never realise your ideal. It exists alone in the realms of fancy; it is as unsubstantial as a dream--in fact, it is a dream!"

"Have I disappointed you then?" he asks, with a wounded look.

"Oh, no," raising her eyebrows at the bare idea. "I meant it just the other way--that I have failed to please you in everything. An ideal has no fault, and I appear full of errors. An ideal is something good, holy, perfect. I am bad, unreasonable, foolish."

"You certainly have a way of making a fellow feel a cur without meaning it."

"Have I?" says Eleanor simply.

"Do you ever long to be back in London?" asks Quinton suddenly.

"No--a thousand times no! It is a city of destruction, a h.e.l.l of iniquity, Satan and the Savoy, his satellites Giddy Mounteagle, and----"

"_Me_!"

"Carol," with deep reproach in her tone, "though my life here with you is one which the 'Elizabeths' of Society shun and condemn, I believe, in the peaceful atmosphere, the blessed quiet, and sweet unfretful days, I have been a better woman. When I think of the daily quarrels in Richmond, the frivolous worldly conversations of Giddy and her set, it soothes all suspicion of regret in my heart. Love is my only law, and this is described as chief among virtues."

"Then you are happy. I have brought some solace and light into your days, Eleanor? If I died to-morrow, or was lost from sight, you would look back and say: 'He gave me my dearest hours, my most treasured memories. He brought me from the slough of despond to the suns.h.i.+ne of the east.'"

"Yes," she murmurs, quoting her favourite song:

"If you've heard the East a-callin', You won't never 'eed naught else."

She s.n.a.t.c.hes up her guitar with the light laugh of a girl.

"No, you won't 'eed nothin' else, but them spicy garlic smells, An' the suns.h.i.+ne an' the palm-trees, an' the tinkly temple bells."

"Come out for a ride," says Carol, "now it is cooler."

Eleanor's face brightens, her eyes glow. He goes so frequently alone, never even telling her the direction he has taken, and answering shortly when questioned. His suggestion meets with her highest approval.

"We will go by the jungle," she says. "You know my favourite road; not past Elizabeth's hut, since her doors will be closed to me henceforth.

I shall miss her friends.h.i.+p when I am alone, but you must not leave me so often now, and we will ask that nice Major Short and Captain Stevenson to come and see us again."

"So you _are_ fond of society still," says Quinton smiling, "though you denied it just now."

"Two congenial spirits are not 'society,'" she replies, "That word comprises people in a bulk. But here are the horses. Doesn't Braye du Valle look splendid? I hope if I died you would let him drag me to my grave."

"Don't be gruesome," says Carol.

"Oh! we _must_ take the dog. Where is he? Do go and find him, dear."

"He is such a bothering little beast, we shall be better without him,"

protests Quinton. "Yesterday he nearly frightened my horse over a precipice, flying into the bushes and fighting with some wild animal.

I don't know what it was, but he came out bitten and bleeding. He limped home, leaving a track behind him. Something big rushed away, I shot at it but did not hit it. I don't know how the dog escaped with his life."

"But he is all right to-day, and I want to take him, he is always so busy and amusing," Eleanor persists. "Besides, such a plucky little beggar ought not to be coddled. I think you will find him in my room."

Quinton goes unwillingly. The dog and its vagaries have got on his nerves, though he does not care to own it.

As Eleanor is waiting without she hears the sound of a horse behind, and, turning quickly, is surprised to see a stranger riding up the hill. A tall, handsome woman well developed, with portly shoulders and large hands. She is riding an immense charger, and whistling gaily.

At a second glance Eleanor sees that this masculine young woman is strikingly attractive, her style distinctly original, her figure, though large, splendidly proportioned. She has s.h.i.+ningly white teeth under her curling lips--full, red, and smiling. Her eyes are large, dark, and brilliant, flas.h.i.+ng like twin stars under a level brow, with black, almost bushy eyebrows.

Her complexion is rich and clear, her hair braided in ma.s.ses under a man's hat. A gun slung over her shoulder gives her a sporting appearance.

She looks curiously at Eleanor's fragile beauty--the contrast between them is marked.

The whistle dies on the stranger's lips, she sets her mouth, averts her head, lashes her steed, and gallops by--never halting till out of sight of the slim woman on Braye du Valle.

"I wonder who she can be?" thinks Eleanor, watching the departing figure so intently that she never notices Carol return with the dog till he speaks:

"What are you looking at?"

His eyes follow the direction of her gaze, but discern only a cloud of dust in the distance.

"A stranger," cries Eleanor excitedly, "a white woman riding alone."

"Really! What was she like?"

"Big, and bold, and handsome. The sort of 'knock you down' woman who balances weights at music-halls in tights. Giddy and Bertie took me once to a box at the Empire; she reminded me of the strong lady in spangles. A magnificent creature, like a splendid animal."

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es Quinton.

"Couldn't you find out who she is, Carol; I would love to know? She gave me such an odd look from her great brave eyes, then, to my astonishment, galloped madly away as if I were going to eat her. She was armed, too, so need not have been afraid, though I don't look much like a savage, do I?"

"I can't see that we need trouble about her."

"She raised my curiosity."