When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 18

Then she walks back up the hill, a strange thrill of exhilaration rus.h.i.+ng over her.

"Good-looking men at her parties," she says to herself. "Carol has promised to come early, has he? We shall see."

The house seems dull and depressing without the old people or Rover.

Philip is sure to stay late in the City, having spent most of the morning at home, and since she has no engagement. Thus Eleanor eases her conscience and waits expectantly for Carol.

Her drawing-room with its bright log fire looks cosy in the extreme as Mr. Quinton enters it that afternoon.

Eleanor is curled up on the sofa, a little bundle of sad silk drapery.

Her eyes are wistful, her tea-gown is black. The dim light reveals not the slight _soupcon_ of powder paling her features. She barely rises to greet him, only moving to a sitting posture, her feet still tucked under her, holding out a trembling hand. As the door closes he grasps the pink fingers and presses them to his lips.

"Don't," a reproachful glance from under her long fringed lashes, "that is not kind."

"But they are such tempting fingers," he whispers apologetically.

"Come, draw up that chair and sit beside me like a doctor, only I want you to heal my sorrows. I have got such a horrid wound _here_,"

pressing her heart. "But first of all, was I wrong to telegraph? Are you angry, Mr. Quinton?"

"It was delightful of you," he murmurs, looking down on her with all his eyes. "Dear Mrs. Roche, I thank you from my soul. Only let me be your confidant--your friend!"

"Have you been to Giddy's?" she asks eagerly.

"No, what do you take me for? Was I not commanded to come here instead?"

"Giddy is no longer my friend; she has treated me abominably--snubbed and insulted me in my own house, simply because I wanted to bring my parents to her stupid party. They are the dearest old people from the country, not gifted with her false Society airs. I was only a farmer's daughter, you know. She taunted me with meeting you at her house and being ashamed of my parents. Bah! it sickens me."

She flung her head back with an air of offended dignity, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng at the remembrance of Giddy's stinging phrases.

"The impudent little fiend!" mutters Quinton through his teeth. "How dare she?"

"Oh, she dares very well. I am in mortal terror of her tongue. We are utterly at the mercy of our friends; these people call themselves friends, though they deal us the bitterest cuts, the cruellest contumely."

"How _dare_ she?" he repeats again, a fierce expression clouding his brow. "To attack a poor little thing like you, and for such a reason----"

"It is very hard--it made me cry," nodding her head and gazing earnestly upon him.

"How bewitching she looks in the slim black robe," he thinks. It clings round her elegant figure, and contrasts with her fair hair and delicate colouring.

"What can I do to comfort you?" he says, drawing nearer.

"Stay away from Giddy--take my part. Stand up for me when you hear her or Lady MacDonald laughing over Mrs. Roche's relatives."

"They would never dream of taking your name in vain while I was there to defend it!" he cries. "Don't you know I would do anything in the world for you? Can't you see how I would willingly be your slave?

Will you accept me as such? Use me as you will! When in trouble, call me; I shall be always ready. No woman has ever exercised the influence over me that you have done. I would give my whole life to serve you for a moment--to tie the lace of your shoe--to sit at your feet--and adore----"

His lavish devotion pleases Eleanor. A flush of pleasure peeps through the white skin, her eyes droop, her breathing quickens.

"I think my life will be better, brighter, n.o.bler, for the knowledge of such unselfish friends.h.i.+p. I can be but a poor friend to you, I am neither influential nor particularly attractive. Only a very simple little woman living very much in herself."

"Mr. Roche is a good deal away, isn't he?"

"Yes, especially in the day time. I am very lonely sometimes. But how dark it is growing. Shall I ring for a light?"

"No," with an imploring gesture, "this is the hour to dream, and to see more clearly into other natures, to reveal secrets that cannot be left unknown for ever."

He grasps her hands, and kneeling beside her buries his head in the folds of her long black sleeves.

"Oh! love--my love!" he gasps.

CHAPTER X.

FALSER THAN ALL FANCY FATHOMS.

"What are you going to do to-day?" asks Philip, kissing Eleanor before he leaves.

"I must run up to town to have my dress fitted," she replies.

"What, more new frocks?"

"Only a very simple evening rag, dear," speaking nervously. "I am rather anxious about it, because it is the first I have had since my trousseau without Giddy's supervision. She always designs them, and does the talking."

"And pockets the commission," said Philip drily. "Do not regret that lost acquaintance, little one. If Mrs. Mounteagle opened your eyes, don't you allow her to shut them again."

"You will lose your train if you stand talking."

Philip drives away down the hill, and Eleanor thinks regretfully of the pleasant times she used to spend chatting with Giddy.

Now she must go to town alone. Eleanor is quite weary of her own society by the time she arrives at Madame Faustine's in Bond Street.

She wonders if Carol received the little note she penned in such trepidation yesterday, imploring him to spare her the pa.s.sionate scenes in which he indulged the previous evening. She asked him in the most pathetic terms never to cross her path in life again, because she was only a weak little woman, and ended by saying she would be at 19, Bond Street, the next morning, and hoped not to run across that horrid Mrs.

Mounteagle.

As she is bowed out by an elegant maiden in black satin, a hand is laid on her arm, a sense of exhilaration possesses her, while Mr. Quinton's melodious voice whispers "Eleanor" in her ear.

"I asked you not to," she says feebly, ill concealing her pleasurable surprise.

"But you laid temptation in my way, and it was strong." he answers.

She recalls his pa.s.sionate words breathed in the firelight, the words that held her paralysed, and seemed in a single syllable to divorce her from her husband.

"What are we going to do?" asks Carol.

"_We_! I must return to Lyndhurst and boredom. An old lady at Twickenham Park has asked me to tea this afternoon, and I have to interview a kitchen-maid at half-past two."