When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 41

"Simply because of her good looks."

"She was the strangest woman I ever saw. I should like to know more of her."

Quinton jags his horse's mouth angrily, and, calling the dog, rides forward to stop the discussion.

"He has no thought for any woman but me," mentally e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es Eleanor, as she follows on Braye du Valle.

She is perfectly satisfied with her lot as she rides beside him, gazing at his handsome profile.

Some sombre-hued birds on the ground fly into the air as they approach.

The transformation from dark feathers to brilliant yellow plumage as they spread their wings in flight is pleasing to the eye.

"I love the golden oriole," says Eleanor, "they look like a flash of sunlight. The Eastern birds are very beautiful."

As she speaks there is a low growl from behind.

Simultaneously Eleanor and Carol turn in their saddles, looking sharply at the dog, and then to the thick growth towards which he is stealing, his tail between his legs and his head down.

"I believe that dog is cracked," says Eleanor, calling him back sharply. "I always feel as if some evil spirit were near us when he behaves like that."

"I told you how it would be if we brought him."

"Let us see what he will do."

The dog has taken no heed of her call, but crouches nearer the bushes, bristling all over. Then suddenly he makes a dive into their midst, disappearing from view.

This is followed by a series of shrill barks--the sound as of a dog fighting for its life--a skirmish--a hideous yell--and then--silence.

"Something has killed him!" whispers Eleanor under her breath.

"We had better get on," replies Quinton; "it may be some dangerous beast."

"What! ride off, and perhaps leave the wretched dog mangled and maimed to crawl away and starve? Carol! what are you thinking of?"

She springs to the ground, flings him her reins, and before he realises what she is going to do, rushes into the bushes after her pet.

"Eleanor, are you _mad_?" he thunders, already picturing her devoured by some fierce beast.

It is a moment of horrible suspense. Then she emerges, her face scratched by the low boughs, bearing tenderly the limp body of the terrier, torn and bleeding.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Bearing tenderly the limp body of the terrier.]

"He is quite dead," she says sorrowfully, tears standing in her eyes.

"I can see the marks of teeth on his throat."

"Poor little beggar! Do you know you too might be dead at this moment for the sake of recovering the lifeless body of a dog? You must be off your head, Eleanor, to do such an utterly insane thing. Whatever were you thinking of?"

"I was excited--my blood was up. I am like that," she answers apologetically.

They ride silently home.

"We shall miss him," sighs Eleanor at last.

"Who? The dog?"

"Yes. We must let Captain Stevenson know."

"I wonder what animal killed him?"

"I saw nothing; only I fancy I heard a rustle in the trees to my right, and the sound of a horse's hoofs scampering towards the jungle. It may have been only imagination, or perhaps the stalwart lady with the fine eyes was hovering near us."

Quinton's face blanches. He turns to her sharply:

"If you _did_ imagine it, I wish you would not romance."

Eleanor is sorry she has told him, since he appears anxious and uncomfortable. He has never been quite the same since his wrestle with the masked man. He is easily startled and alarmed. She blames herself inwardly for want of discretion, and rea.s.sures him with a smile.

"Oh! it was nothing, dearest; if anyone had been riding I must have seen him--I mean--her."

Eleanor knows this is not the case, but seeing Carol's relief at the words, does not regret them.

"We must expect adventures now and again," she continues cheerfully, trying to throw off her depression.

"I shall never forget that night," says Carol, "when I rode away from you in the dark. I _did_ wish I was on Charing Cross Station."

"It was too bad of me; I might have had the sense not to pursue you, sheer idiotcy on my part."

"Has it ever struck you, Eleanor, to wonder how long we shall go on living in this out-of-the way hole?"

She catches her breath.

"No, Carol. I am quite contented to be here, though I suppose in time you will weary of the place, and we shall move elsewhere. Yours is rather a roving spirit, I fear, never happy for long in one spot. I feel rooted to this restful retreat; but directly you tire of it, only say the word, and I will follow you to the end of the world. We have our home here, and there is plenty of sport for you, so I expect we shall jog along for a while!" with a feeble attempt at a laugh. Any signs of discontent on Carol's part fill her with vague dread and suspense.

"Would it not seem strange," he continues, "to go back to England and be respectable? Imagine yourself in a prim little village, posing as a good young widow, playing Lady Bountiful to the poor, and being called on by the county magnates, while I lived a virtuous bachelor life in the dreary precincts of Clifford's Inn."

"Apart! _Us_ apart!" gasps Eleanor.

"My love, I was only 'supposing.' But isn't the idea ludicrous, quite too funny and absurd? You romanced first, I am only following your lead. I have heard respectability termed 'the curse of pleasure.' It kills enjoyment, breeds hypocrisy, fosters discontent, revolutionises Bohemia!"

Eleanor dislikes his flippancy. The picture he has drawn bewilders her. The thought of life without Carol is hideous, impossible. Her usual spirits flag.

"Why are you so dull and down, darling?"

"You make me so!"

"It seems, Eleanor, you can never take a joke."

All the glamour of her present happiness has faded under the saddening influence of Carol's "joke!" But she will not own it is that which distresses her.