When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 46

Should you ever be in any trouble, Mrs. Quinton, or need a helping hand, remember you can rely on me."

Eleanor looks at him with that serious and admiring glance of hers, expressive of greater grat.i.tude and deeper wonder than any words.

"You are _very_ good," she says at length. "If all men were so kind, I think women would be better and place surer trust in them."

Two large trees in front of the verandah, with bending boughs, meet and make an archway of feathery foliage, in which the birds lodge.

Eleanor's eyes turn to the drooping green, and then to the distant hills. She has a vague foreshadowing of coming evil. She sees the oxen yoked together dragging their loads; she wonders if they are happier after all than mortals like Major Short and herself. Two of these patient animals are drawing a Burmese public carriage, with a black boy looking out of the quaint covering, like a little house on two wheels. They pause to drink in the Irrawaddy; she sighs to think how sadly they need refreshment. In the thatched huts and tall palms, Eleanor pictures Copthorne--it rises as a mirage--till Major Short dispels it by some casual remark. He notices her listlessness, for she starts as she speaks.

"Forgive me," she says, smiling wanly, "but I was miles away."

"How interesting. May I not follow you? What did you see?"

"I conjured up a farm-house and green English lanes, gold cornfields, rustic reapers, and honest workers. They were getting in the harvest."

Captain Stevenson's cheery voice, and Quinton's musical laugh interrupts the conversation as they join Eleanor and Major Short.

"It is time we were making tracks. What do you say, Short?"

"I suppose so, but it is always hard to tear oneself away from pleasant companions."

"When shall we meet again?" asks Eleanor gaily. "Can't we arrange a day next week? Ride over in the cool of the morning to breakfast."

"Thanks--delighted. There is a peculiar fascination in your charming home and hearty welcome."

Quinton smiles enigmatically, as he watches them ride away.

Eleanor slips her hand in his.

"You seem very merry to-day," she says. "They quite enlivened us, didn't they, Carol?"

"Yes; it certainly makes a difference having somebody to speak to.

Don't you notice it, dear?"

He looks down at her steadfastly, and for the moment Eleanor's expression turns the unscrupulous man dizzy with a vague sensation nearly approaching regret.

He sees in her eyes the overflowing of a heart; whose pa.s.sionate adoration amounts to idolatry.

He is touched and softened. He presses her lips, though they no longer thrill him, and she in her mute worship cannot define the change.

Her love, he thinks, so freely given, so utterly beyond control, is after all a pitiable spectacle.

He scrutinises her fair face critically; it seems insipid to him now.

Its pale spirituality, which once set his brain on fire, appears characterless. The cla.s.sical features, exquisitely moulded, lack power. The sweet mouth has a wan droop, as if sighing for ungranted kisses.

"Sometimes, Carol," she says at last, "I fancy you are tiring of me."

She only speaks for him to contradict.

"My darling, what an absurd notion to get into that pretty little head of yours! Occasionally it is a little slow here for us both."

"That is only since you grew nervous. Of course, the days are long if you will stay indoors doing nothing."

"Yes, you are quite right," he answers, somewhat to Eleanor's surprise.

"It _is_ foolish, and unnecessary. Now you won't grumble, my pet, if I go for a long day's sport to-morrow. It will do me all the good in the world, some excitement and exercise. I have been getting dreadfully grumpy and cross."

"How early shall you start?"

"Oh, first thing. I a.s.sure you, Eleanor, I am quite looking forward to it. I can't have been very well lately, and that accounts for my apparent prostration and uncalled-for nervousness. There is nothing really to fear, and you can make your mind quite easy about me."

These rea.s.suring words delight Eleanor, for as long as Carol is happy and satisfied, her joy is intense.

As they talk Quamina is crouching under the broad steps that lead down from the verandah; her eyes gaze in the direction of that mysterious rock hidden from sight.

She wonders if the devil has yet come for the Sahib's message. Her soul is torn by curiosity and fear. She longs to know, and if the strange letter still lies in the crevice untouched, herself to break the seal and try to decipher the words.

It is a tremendous temptation; yet, as she rises with a bold resolve and creeps along the moonlit path, she suffers mortal dread, momentarily expecting to encounter some supernatural apparition. She turns out of sight of the bungalow, with its cheerful light, and reaches the rock, on which the moonbeams play. A ray of light lies across the crevice in which the Sahib deposited his epistle.

With set teeth, and frantically beating heart, Quamina forces her skinny arms into the hole, murmuring prayers as she gropes and fumbles, then staggers back with a low moan, and flees from the unholy spot.

The devil has been! The letter is _gone_!

CHAPTER XXII.

NO FOOTSTEP STIRRED--THE HATED WORLD ALL SLEPT, SAVE ONLY THEE AND ME. (OH, HEAVEN! OH, G.o.d!)

The following morning Eleanor, her face bright with smiles, kisses Carol as she bids him adieu.

"Shoot something nice for dinner, dear," she says, "and have a good day."

She waves her hand as he trots down the hill, his slim form erect, his eyes bright and lips parted.

"I hope you won't be dull, Eleanor," he cries with a gay laugh. "Keep house till I return, and take care of yourself."

As he fades from sight she turns singing into the bungalow.

There are several duties to be attended to. Her pink muslin gown needs rearranging, and the huge bunch of crimson flowers Quamina has gathered her must be put in the drawing-room. They are bright, and will please Carol's eye.

As she places them in tall, picturesque vases, Paulina's words return with aggressive force.

The sort of woman who stays at home tending flowers! They take the pleasure from her simple task. She leaves the fallen blossoms half on a couch, half on the ground, turning from them disgusted.

Perhaps Paulina was right! Carol would find her far more of a companion if she shouldered her gun and rode off with him to the jungle; but she hates killing things.

The chase is brutal! Sport is revolting! Thus she consoles herself, and sends Quamina for the muslin gown.

How tenderly Carol had kissed her when he said good-bye. How brilliant he seemed that morning!

She laughs again at the thought of his wit. Her Carol was always clever.