When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 24

She holds out a paper on which her address is written, but keeps her palm over the letter until Giddy shall make the promise.

"I swear," says Mrs. Mounteagle.

CHAPTER XII.

TO-MORROW, AND TO-MORROW, AND TO-MORROW.--_Shakespeare_.

Eleanor is superintending her packing, when Giddy Mounteagle enters her room.

"I called and ran straight up, dear," she says, "knowing you were busy.

What! are you only taking so small a trunk into the country?"

"Yes, no finery, only two stuff dresses and a felt hat. I want to forget there is such a thing as Society or 'toilettes.' I am going to have a good time with all the farm people, and the school children, and be just as I was before I married. There are some of my clothes still hanging up in my old room, I shall put them on, and grub in the garden, rake, weed, and mow. Our poor machine was dreadfully cranky before I left; I should think it has fallen to pieces by now, but I mean to have a try. Mother's bit of front lawn is the pride of her heart. Black Bess will meet me at the station, and Rover--dear affectionate dog. I shall swing on the gate and whistle, and----"

But Eleanor's prattle breaks off shortly, for her throat feels strangled, and the misery that Giddy clearly sees beneath her smiles overmasters her.

"I think I have got a cold," she falters; "my eyes water so, and I have a little husk here when I speak."

But Giddy knows it is the coldness of desolation that brings the raindrops to shine on Eleanor's lashes.

"Do put in a few dainty gowns, dearest," she implores. "It would be such fun to show them off and astonish the natives. Say that hat from 'Louise,' in case you tea with the vicar's spouse, of whom I have often heard."

Eleanor is too weary to object, and lets Giddy order Sarah hither and thither till the room is in a litter and her head in a whirl.

"Go and fetch me Mrs. Roche's Roumanian jacket, the one from Liberty,"

says Giddy to Sarah. "I want to borrow it as a pattern. I am sure that nice little dressmaker at Twickenham could make me one exactly like it," turning to Eleanor, as Sarah quits the room. "You don't mind, dear?"

"Oh, no."

"Did I tell you I met Lady MacDonald yesterday, and she actually asked after you? I was quite surprised. She is in great trouble, poor thing, having lost her favourite maid--a regular right hand in the household. The woman had a very good figure, and has gone to the Empire, and gets 4 a week for standing in the front row of a ballet or chorus or something. Lady MacDonald feels sure she must have been in the trade before she entered her service. She gets that excellent pay because she just matches another girl, like a horse, you know. It must be vastly more entertaining than fastening Lady MacDonald's back hooks.

The worst of it is she _will_ tell all the other servants about it, and make them envious. The scullery maid, who is short and broad, and stout, is fired to go, and dreams of nothing else."

"I wonder the beautiful Lady MacDonald has time to trouble about the dreams of a menial," says Eleanor, with the touch of sarcasm that always accompanies any mention of Giddy's friend.

Sarah returns, and the subject drops.

"Is it not a pity Philip is dreadfully busy this week, or he was to have come with me to-day," continues Eleanor. "I doubt now if he will be able to get to Copthorne at all."

"How like a husband to be busy when you want him. I am sure you are much too young and pretty to travel alone."

"Shall we leave Sarah to finish the packing, and come down? I must have an early lunch."

Giddy follows her to the dining-room.

"I saw Carol Quinton yesterday," she says. "I told him you were going away, but was true to my word, and did not divulge the address."

"I wish you had said nothing about my movements," replies Eleanor uneasily, starting at the sound of Carol's name.

"I could not help it, he asked me all about you directly; he never talks of anything else, which seems rather absurd to another woman."

"Yes, you must grow horribly tired of the subject."

"You remember that dance at the 'Star and Garter' that you didn't go to? Well, I only heard the other day from those 'Bennett-Jones' girls that he asked them if you would be there, and they said 'yes,' just because they wanted him to make their party complete; they took three men and three girls. They knew really that you had a previous engagement, but kept buoying him up all the evening by expecting your momentary appearance. Later on, Addie, the eldest, broke it to him that you had never intended going. He was so offended he went straight home, and has not called on them since. It was rather mean you know to lure him there under false pretences."

"When did they tell you that?"

"Oh! the next day Addie called about ten in the morning, before I was down. She was really quite funny about it."

Eleanor bites her lips.

"It seems that my name is coupled with Mr. Quinton's," she mutters.

"Well, people will talk, whatever you do. Little Mrs. Hope saw you walking with him in the park one day, and she told Addie, and Addie told----"

"Oh! don't," cries Eleanor impatiently, putting her hands to her racking head, and stamping her foot impatiently. "I would rather not hear. It is all so petty, so stupid, so mean. What have I or Carol Quinton to do with them?"

"You have flirted with him, my dear, so openly at the Richmond parties, you can scarcely expect to escape observation."

"I hate the people here--I hate everybody!" declares Eleanor pa.s.sionately. "I shall be thankful to get away. There are no gossiping fools to drive me crazy at Copthorne."

"How delightful! Fancy wandering about with a cow for your chaperon and the birds for critics, a rural pasture for your ball-room, a b.u.t.tercup meadow for your lounge! How long shall you stay in 'Happy Arcadia'?"

"As long as I can," replies Eleanor. "I should like never to come back, and when I do I will take good care I am not seen with Mr.

Quinton. It is all this silly girls' talk that eventually reaches Philip's ears, and makes our home unbearable."

"Yes, Eleanor. The breath of scandal permeates through the stolidest walls, or perhaps it comes in by the keyhole. It is a germ that is spread by chattering tongues, like some deadly disease. It nearly ruined my life when I was young."

"What a pity it cannot be taxed," sighs Eleanor. "By the way, the last thing I heard was that you had broken your engagement with Bertie. Of course, I did not believe it."

"Which was distinctly wrong of you under the circ.u.mstances. I am disappointed in him. We have decided to go our separate paths--apart."

"Oh! Giddy, I am so sorry. But why?"

"When I marry (which I shall do some day again), I want a rising man, clever, pushing, ambitious, like Lord MacDonald, in fact. Someone who will improve my position, lift me, instead of being a burden. Bertie's intellect was very weak, and I do hate a fool!"

"I should have thought that would be rather an advantage in a husband,"

remarks Eleanor.

"Really Bertie was too expensive, he wanted so much pocket money, I could not afford the luxury of a _fiance_ on his terms. Of course, he is broken-hearted, dear boy, and naturally I wept a few poetical tears, and said I should always think of him as a friend."

"The carriage is at the door," she replies, "they are getting the luggage down."

Eleanor and Giddy go into the hall together.

As Sarah carries the dressing bag out, it flies open, and something falls at Mrs. Mounteagle's feet.