When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 11

Eleanor's blood runs cold at the sight of her husband. She knows well what he will think of this impromptu, supper-party. Giddy's feet for the moment are mercifully concealed by the table-cloth. She half rises, however, and stretches out her hand to Mr. Roche.

"Eleanor was just wis.h.i.+ng you would come back," she murmurs sweetly.

"I returned quite by chance," he answers coldly, knowing her words to be untrue. "Brown could not put me up after all," turning to his wife, "so I drove down."

"Philip, this is Mr. Quinton; he kindly saw me home, and--and----"

"We persuaded him to come in," adds Giddy, as Carol, grasping the situation, says pleasantly:

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Roche."

But, though Philip is far too gentlemanly to show his disapproval, all the hilarity has gone from the evening. Perhaps it is due to Eleanor's sudden tranquillity, the pallor of her face, and nervous hesitating speech. She is no adept at concealing her emotions or "pa.s.sing things off" like Giddy and Carol. She leaves the rest of the conversation to them, and while Philip is seeing Mr. Quinton out slips upstairs for Giddy's shoes and beseeches her to put them on.

"My husband will think it so odd," she whispers. "I saw him looking at your hair."

"Yes," replies Mrs. Mounteagle, "men always admire it. But don't be alarmed, dear; I am far too fond of you to care about making a friend of your husband." Then she saunters up to bed, with a glance at Eleanor's pretty, troubled face.

"I wonder if she'll have sense enough to hold her own," thinks Giddy.

"Poor little fool, to be sat upon already!" She hears them come up, and creeping from her room steals on tip-toe to their door, with her ear to the keyhole.

There are high words within, and some unpleasant allusions to herself in distinctly masculine tones. Eleanor is heard crying, but her tears do not hasten a reconciliation. Giddy goes quietly back.

"Bah!" she exclaims, stretching out her hands to the fire. "What rot!

As if there was any harm!"

She stirs up the blaze and laughs. "I shall breakfast in bed," she says to herself.

"He doesn't understand me. He wants me to be so good, so uninteresting, so _domesticated_! I believe he married me for that. Oh! oh! oh!"

Mrs. Roche is wringing her hands and sobbing on the sofa.

"Another quarrel?" sighs Giddy, stroking Eleanor's soft hair. "Come, come, this won't do. Pluck up your courage, go your own way, act as you like, and laugh at your husband. He _can't_ scold you if you laugh!

Tears will only gratify his vanity, besides they are disastrous to beauty. Once your eyes become swollen, and your nose red, you can no longer hold your own. Your sense of superiority is gone, you are undone!"

"How awful I look!" sighs Eleanor, rising and facing the gla.s.s. "I hope Sarah will say 'not at home' if anybody calls."

"I am not going to let you stay in and mope, just because Mr. Roche happened to leave in a lecturing mood this morning. I have arranged a little tea in town at my club."

"Your club? I did not know you had one."

"Oh! yes, and I am on the committee. Nearly all the artists and literary women have their clubs nowadays, so I and some friends started one for people who do absolutely nothing. It is very useful to members with jealous husbands. We call it the 'b.u.t.terflies' Club,' a land of cosy corners and rendezvous. You really will have to join it, Eleanor, if Philip goes on like this. I will put you up at our next meeting. It is rather an expensive luxury, ten guineas a year, and a Turkish bath attached."

Giddy places her arm affectionately through Eleanor's and leads her to the door.

"Come up and dress, dear; my carriage will be here in half an hour, and I don't intend going without you."

Eleanor cheers up at the prospect. She is like an April day.

Giddy fans her friend's flushed face, rubs some powder gently with her fingers round the swollen eyes, and showers eau-de-Cologne on the burning forehead.

"Do not throw yourself into any more fevers," she says; "life is too short, and sorrow too long."

Eleanor is soon attired in green velvet and fur, for Mrs. Mounteagle declares it is necessary to be smart at the b.u.t.terflies' Club.

They drive away together in the widow's snug little brougham.

Herbert Dallison is waiting outside the club door to receive them; he starts, colours, and stares at Eleanor as Giddy introduces him.

"Say 'how do you do?' prettily," she cries in a bantering tone, "and don't gape like an overgrown school-boy, if you love me, Bertie!"

Mr. Dallison holds out a limp hand in a grey glove, smiles feebly, and thinks of the "relics" and the cat!

"Why are you not at the Junior Conservative?" murmurs Eleanor, laughing softly, "instead of dangling round the 'b.u.t.terflies'?"

"Ah! you remember my card."

"Yes, I have it still. I hope you will make Giddy a good husband,"

speaking demurely.

"I ought to, after all I've gone through for her sake. It is a mercy I have come back alive after my illnesses, and the dangerous young people I met on the Continent."

"Let me introduce you to our coming member, the b.u.t.terfly that is to be,"

says Giddy, and Eleanor turns to face Carol Quinton.

Mrs. Mounteagle laughs merrily at her astonished look.

"I did not tell you he was coming, but now we are just a cosy quartette."

"I am afraid," murmurs Mr. Quinton, "that my visit to your charming home the other evening was ill-timed. Mr. Roche seemed somewhat taken aback by my presence."

"Yes," stammers Eleanor, growing red.

"I was so vexed _you_ should be annoyed," he replies, "that I could not go home, but paced the pavement for an hour, watching the light in your window."

Eleanor's eyes expand. She has a way of looking "surprise" without saying it, and the look lasts quite a long while, during which an ordinary person would have expressed their feelings several times over.

Then the wonderment fades like a magic-lantern slide, and she talks of something else.

"Have you ever seen the sun burst suddenly through a fog? It is like your smile," says Carol, gazing into Eleanor's face. "Why don't you always smile?"

"Because I am not always happy," she responds quietly.

A pained expression steals into the man's eyes, and Eleanor flushes rosy under his look. It is deep, searching, admiring; it confuses her. She wants to push it away like something oppressive, a funeral veil dark and heavy, or a chloroformed handkerchief, stifling breath!

"Not happy!"

The words break from him with bitter irony.