When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 6

Eleanor never worries about anything. Should the train be missed or the luggage stray, it is all the same to her. An hour's wait on a dull little platform is never grumbled at. "We'll just have to sit and whistle," she declares, and amuses herself mimicking the porters, which she succeeds in doing wonderfully well, while Philip, in spite of numerous eccentricities, forgives her everything, and wors.h.i.+ps her devotedly.

"Alas! that we have to return," he sighs, as they glide in a small boat on the Lake of Geneva. "I must be back in the city this week."

"And you will make me _lots_ of money?" expanding her eyes and showing her beautiful teeth.

"Won't you be contented with a little?"

"Oh, no. I want to entertain. You must bring your friends from London, and the house you have so long neglected shall be packed with guests."

"We'll see about that," says Philip, not liking to damp her ardour.

"YOU must remember, though, that I am not a walking gold mine, little wife."

"Can the boatman understand what we say?"

"He only knows a smattering of English. What a strong, steady stroke he pulls!"

Eleanor leans over the side, gazing down the clear depths. "I never saw such wonderful water," she says, "you can see ever so far below.

How amusing it would be to drop pebbles in and watch them sink."

"Here is a stray one on the seat," said Philip, throwing it overboard.

Eleanor watches the descent with sparkling eyes.

"It is still in sight," she cries, "whirling through the water! My word! how clear the lake is. I must see it again."

She glances round, but there are no more stones.

Before Philip has time to stop her she opens her purse and drops a coin over the side of the boat.

"Look! there it goes," laughing lightly. "Isn't it fascinating?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Look! there it goes."]

The rower has stopped, and with eager, covetous eyes watches the wilful waste. Those coins would mean bread to him and his children, while she throws them to feed the deep! Another and yet another fall from her slim hands.

Philip has turned quite pale with auger.

"Stop! Eleanor," he says, sternly, "you do not realise what you are doing. It is wicked."

But she shrugs her shoulders and drops another.

"Do you hear what I say?" he mutters, grasping her wrist. "I'll have no more of this. Look at that poor fellow's eyes; why, he would like to murder you. It is enough to call down the judgment of Heaven upon us."

"Just one more, only five centimes, Philip, and the man shall have all that is left in my purse."

"No," he replies, still retaining her arm in an iron grip.

"Don't; you hurt me."

He removes his hand, and with a defiant look Eleanor flings the coin into the lake, watching it whirl below with redoubled interest.

"Gott!" mutters the boatman under his breath, "what tevilry."

Then, without a sign of shame, Eleanor pa.s.ses a handful of money to the sunburnt fellow, casting a smile of ineffable sweetness upon him.

"For the little ones," she says.

But Philip's brow is still black.

"It was wicked," he repeats.

Eleanor only laughs.

"You deserve to want in the future."

"The future," she replies lightly, "who thinks of the future? It may be dark enough to frighten the very life out of you--a thing to make you scream----"

Philip shudders. Storm clouds are gathering overhead. This is the last day of his honeymoon.

CHAPTER IV.

LIFE IS A JEST.

A great red sun that is warm and kind sinks behind the golden trees, rich with autumnal tints, as Philip and Eleanor drive up to "Lyndhurst," on Richmond Terrace.

"So this is your home--_my_ home?" she cries, her eyes sparkling with delight as they rest on her new abode. "Ring very loud and long, Philip; I am dying to be in!"

The door is almost immediately opened by a buxom maiden with rosy cheeks and a lenient smile, which alights on the youthful mistress.

Eleanor bounds into the hall, and waves a feather boa joyfully over her head.

"Hurrah! _Ancestors_," she cries, saluting the old pictures on the wall with mock courtesy. "Real dead ancestors in wigs, and you _never_ told me, Philip!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: Saluting the old pictures on the wall with mock courtesy.]

She is standing, gazing on them joyfully as the luggage is brought in, pointing with her umbrella at a wrinkled judge.

"They have seldom received such admiration," he says gently. "Poor old things, they disfigure the walls sadly with their grim faces."

"The lady on the left is simpering; and, oh! here is a tiger rug,"

stumbling over a head on the ground. "I caught my heel on his nose,"

as Philip prevents her falling by seizing her elbow.

"Show me which is my room. I am longing to see it," she continues, taking two steps at a time in her eager ascent. "Sarah," calling to her maid, "bring those three hat boxes and my cloak, there's a good soul! Come on, Philip, I'll race you to the top."

He feels as if he is playing with a child, as he rushes over the house after Eleanor. The day of the school treat returns to his mind, he fancies he sees her still, running through the long gra.s.s.