When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 17

"Well?"

Giddy's eyes shift uneasily. Then she speaks straight out: "I can't have your people! My dear child, it would be madness--positive madness, both to yourself and to me. There, there, don't look so blank; one would think I had suggested murdering good Mrs. Grebby and her dear fat husband. Can't you see it, Eleanor? You have a good position in Richmond, and you want to take it and fling it into the river, as it were. You want to flaunt your parentage at my party before everyone."

"Yes," says Eleanor firmly; "I am not ashamed of them, it is not in me to be ashamed. What is wrong with them?"

Giddy's mouth curves, her little foot taps impatiently on the floor at Eleanor's defiant att.i.tude.

"You _must_ see, or are you utterly blind--utterly imbecile? Now, child, take my warning--shunt the old people at once--trundle them off the London junction--send them puffing back in a slow train to the country--tell them never to enter Lyndhurst again--keep them out of Richmond. It was terrible yesterday--a scene I shall never forget.

Lady MacDonald was so sweet over it, though I could see she was petrified."

"I don't understand you," mutters Eleanor, pale and trembling. "If you have come here to insult me----"

"Tut, tut! Don't be silly. But I am bitterly disappointed in you. I have taken so much pains over your social education. But you are like a girl in iron stays, the moment you remove the support (which is my guiding hand) you go flop! Now don't turn rusty, or cry," as tears of pa.s.sion well into Eleanor's eyes. "I want you at my party--I want youth and beauty, for I have a reputation for producing lovely women, good-looking men, and distractingly sweet girls. Carol has promised to come early; now, for one, you would not like him to see your relations."

"Yes, I should," she replies. "He would not mind, _he_ is a gentleman!"

"I cannot have them, anyhow," declares Giddy firmly. "You may be offended, for I have spoken plainly----"

"A great deal too plainly," retorts Eleanor fiercely. "You have not spared my feelings. You think yourself very grand, but my parents would not have hurt anyone as you have hurt me to-day! You sneer at them--hold them up to ridicule--while they are worth all the dressed-up Lady MacDonalds you toady to!"

Her voice has risen shrilly; she forgets the folding doors.

"Enough!" says Giddy, tossing her head. "I suffered at your hands yesterday. Pray spare me the effort of argument. Remember I have to entertain, and must reserve my strength. Besides, it is so vulgar to quarrel."

Eleanor walks haughtily to the door and flings it open.

"If I talk any more I shall stifle," she cries.

Giddy gives a low laugh.

"You will agree with me when you get over your temper," she declares, pa.s.sing out.

Eleanor sinks on her knees, and buries her head on Rover's s.h.a.ggy coat.

She is alone, and the faint sound of buried sobs throbs upon the silence of the room.

The dog licks her hand and whines. Slowly the folding doors push open, and the old couple stand upon the threshold.

Mr. Grebby's round face is pale, Mrs. Grebby's cheeks wet with fast falling tears.

"Oh! dearie, dearie," she cries, folding Eleanor in her arms. "We ought not to 'ave come, we didn't know. But she was right, dearie, and we will go away, and you shall have your party and your friends. Oh!

we was wrong, all wrong."

"Don't talk like that," moans Eleanor, realising they have overheard.

"She is a wicked sn.o.b--a--a--"

"There, dearie, be calm, don't fret."

"I will never forgive her," Eleanor stammers. "I love you and I hate Giddy."

She kisses Mrs. Grebby's damp cheeks, talking between her sobs. "It was not true, not one word of it, she just said it all to be disagreeable. She likes me to be miserable; I don't believe she ever had any parents of her own--I mean, not what you call parents. Some say she was born in a workhouse, a caravan, or an East-end doss.

Though how she managed to be what she is they can't explain. I thought she was nice, mammy. I called her my friend. I tried to be like her,"

shuddering at the recollection. "Oh! don't go away," taking them each by the hand.

"Thank you, my girl, thank you," murmurs Mr. Grebby, "but Ma and I are better at Copthorne. We are not fit for Society; some day you will come back to the old 'ome and see us, won't you? and we'll all be happy again together."

Eleanor and Mrs. Grebby dry their tears, while Mr. Grebby pats them both on the back cheerily. Rover fawns round, barking and wagging his tail.

Philip, who is staying late from town this morning in honour of his guests, enters the room. "What is the matter?" he asks, looking at Eleanor's wistful face.

"I am not going to Mrs. Mounteagle's party," she says.

"Well, never mind. You can send your frock round," he cries jokingly, "and ask her to put it on a chair with a label: 'This is what Mrs.

Roche would have worn had she been here.'"

But his chaff was received in silence. Then he notices for the first time the red rims round her eyes.

"Why, little woman, you have been crying!"

"Yes," murmurs Eleanor, "I have quarrelled with Giddy."

Then between them the three explain as best they can what has happened.

Philip is deeply interested.

"It was all our mistake," whimpers Mrs. Grebby. "We are that sorry; we wouldn't 'ave come. We really didn't guess what an upset it would make--parting friends, and bringing trouble on our darling."

"Do not regret it," says Mr. Roche, taking her hand. "Such friends are not worth having, and Eleanor is well rid of them."

Secretly he blesses the Grebbys for their timely appearance, and resolves to write to Erminie and inform her of the fact.

"We are goin' back this morning," continues Mrs. Grebby. "Harriet expects us, and is reserving a front room in her lodging house. There, dearie," as Eleanor protests, "don't take on; we'd best go."

"Yes, Ma's right, my girl; Ma's always right," adds Mr. Grebby, with an admiring glance at his wife.

There are more tears before the final parting, when Eleanor watches them drive away with her husband, who has promised to escort them to town, and put them safely in a cab.

"Mind you see they go comfortably to Cousin Harriet's," she says before he leaves. "No wandering about seeking omnibuses, carrying bags, and leading Rover."

They wave farewell. Giddy sees them from her window driving down the terrace.

"My words have carried good weight," she thinks. "Eleanor has shunted those objectionable b.u.mpkins after all."

When they were gone Eleanor puts on her hat and cloak, and sallies forth in the chill wintry air.

She enters the telegraph office, and addresses a form to Carol Quinton:

"Don't go to G.'s party this afternoon. Come to Lyndhurst instead.--E."