When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 45

She marks the spot in her mind's eye, and fearing detection hurries back un.o.bserved.

For the rest of the day she thinks of nothing but the Sahib's letter, and its strange hiding place. She pictures the "Nats" surrounding the spot, and bearing it in triumph to their chief.

She watches her master curiously, but by no sign does he reveal that anything unusual has occurred, save that he laughs more frequently, and seems as light-hearted and high spirited as a boy.

"Maybe he has paid the devil off," Quamina surmises.

Captain Stevenson and Major Short ride over, much to Eleanor's delight, who enjoys a chat with the outer world as keenly as Carol.

She longs once again to hear Major Short's melodious voice, and bringing her guitar, begs for "Mandalay."

But he shakes his head.

"I shall tire you of the one song," he declares.

"Not when it is the favourite," she protests. "Only four lines, if you will, or a single bar of the tune. I love the sad refrain."

He follows her on to the verandah. Quinton and Capt. Stevenson are talking and smoking within.

They catch the words between the pauses in their conversation:

"Ship me somewhere east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there ain't no ten Commandments, and a man can raise a thirst.

For the temple bells are callin' and it's there that I would be, By the old Moulmein PaG.o.da, lookin' lazy at the sea."

"Dreadful morals!" laughs Captain Stevenson.

"Do _you_ love the East?" asks Eleanor, as Major Short lays aside the guitar.

"Yes, well enough, but I get terribly homesick at times. I long to draw round a huge log fire in the old hall at home on a still winter's evening, with the shutters shut and the curtains drawn, and my feet on the fender. No one has any conception of the bliss of those long, luxurious hours over the flame and the coal. Those who have it don't appreciate it. Imagine yourself nipped by a biting frost coming suddenly in to such a scene of warmth and ease, to lose yourself in the depths of an enormous spring chair, and gaze in that wilderness of red, while the wood crackles, and blue flickers up like a phantom light in the blazing scarlet. It is many years since I pa.s.sed a good old English Christmas, with plum pudding and bells chiming over the snow.

Bah! I cannot endure to think of it--I get so green with envy."

"I am afraid I never cared for the winter. The sun is better than artificial warmth--the East is rosier than the fireside."

"But you must yearn sometimes to get home to your family and friends.

Have you no mother you long to kiss--no father who is pining for a sight of his daughter's smile, and old chums waiting to greet you with a hearty handshake and a cheery welcome?"

Eleanor shakes her head mournfully--her large soft eyes look sad and wistful--she is no hypocrite--she never could pretend.

"No; England is all a blank. My whole interest in life is centred in my husband."

Involuntarily a pang of pity shoots through the man's heart. He hardly knows why, since she is so happy in Quinton's love.

He mistrusts him, for men are quicker in reading each other than a woman blinded by skin-deep fascination.

Many a trusting heart has been won by the pink light from a lamp falling on a handsome profile, by the faultless cut of a frock coat, or by a good seat on horseback.

Poor little Eleanor! Poor humanity!

"It is a mistake to rely too much on love," says Major Short. "It sometimes fails us, and then----"

He pauses, seeing the look of pain upon Eleanor's face.

"I was speaking of myself," he adds half apologetically. "Look for instance, at my parents, at home in the old country. What good is their affection now? What use am I to them, stuck here in India?

True, we correspond, but letters give us no sight of the familiar face, no kiss from the lips that may be dead and cold before we meet again.

But love, Mrs. Quinton, is over for ever in my life, it is a memory alone, a dream of the silent past."

Eleanor's eyes are deeply sympathetic; she is a woman to inspire confidence.

Major Short continues, though he is surprised at himself for so doing:

"Yes, I was in love once, it was the one sincere and overruling pa.s.sion of my life." He lowers his voice as he speaks. "You brought it back to me when you said that all your interests were centred in your husband."

He holds out a little case to Eleanor.

"I always carry this about with me; it is her portrait. Look at it."

Eleanor opens the case reverently, and gazes with a certain awe at the beautiful face within. She fancies there is a mystery in the far-away expression of the woman's eyes. But, after all, it is only the mystery of death.

"That picture was taken after she knew she must die," he says. "They would not let me marry her then."

His eyes are lowered, Eleanor fancies they are moist.

"Fate is very cruel," she murmurs.

"Yes, when the poetry of existence turns to prose, all the light dies out. I can never love again. Sentiment to me now is as a shallow stream."

Quamina appears with the tray of drinks again. Her eyes look wild; she shambles along; her knees knock together.

"What is the matter with that woman?" asks Major Short, as she staggers away.

"She is frightfully superst.i.tious, and some nights ago she thought the devil had come for Carol, and she has never been the same since. She crouches about like a creature demented. Sometimes I fancy she must be insane."

Major Short quotes from Pope with a dry smile:

'Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutored mind, Sees G.o.d in clouds, or hears Him in the wind."

"But there is sense in that," Eleanor declares. "G.o.d is in all Nature; every blade of gra.s.s manifests Him."

Then she remembers that she is still clasping that small case, and looks down once more on the impressive features of the beautiful woman.

"Talking of death--and love," she says slowly, harping back to the old subject, "I often wonder what I should do if anything happened to Carol. Imagine me here, in a strange country, alone, friendless! What if he sickened with fever, or was wounded by an enemy, or if he died?"

A shudder of apprehension runs over her.

"I hope you will never call yourself friendless while we--while I am within your reach. I have suffered myself; I know what sorrow is.