When the Birds Begin to Sing Part 28

This is the last, the supreme act of surrender--that, more than all else, renounces for ever and ever Philip, honour, wifehood, and lays her low in the dust.

They walk through the green fields hand in hand; they talk of things to be. The children coming home from school stare at Eleanor, and think how beautiful she is, wondering at the handsome stranger who gazes in her eyes, and whispers so low they cannot catch the words.

Yes, she looks just the same, as the evening tints fall with a rosy glow on her rich hair and simple sun-bonnet. How innocent she appears in the plain, homely attire, and that strange but glorious smile parting her lips. There are daisies under her feet, and blue sky over her head; love is in her heart, but h.e.l.l is in her eyes.

Her eyes droop. The children cannot see--h.e.l.l!

CHAPTER XIV.

IN CLOUDS OF SILENCE FOLDED OUT OF SIGHT.

While Eleanor is at Copthorne, Philip is staying in Trebovir Road with Mr. and Mrs. Lane.

"I cannot think why I have not heard from Eleanor," he says one morning to Erminie. "For three days not a word--no answer to my letters or the telegram."

"Really; it was a pity you were prevented from running down that afternoon. I expect she was disappointed."

"I am not so sure about that," thinks Philip.

"It is just possible she may have written to Lyndhurst. Did she know you were staying on with us?"

"I told her so, but perhaps she forgot, or did not take it in. I shall go there to-morrow and see."

Philip is uneasy about Eleanor. Her silence hurts him, for he still loves her pa.s.sionately, in spite of their quarrels and her deceptions.

All that day he thinks constantly of his wife, picturing her image at every turn, wondering how she pa.s.ses her quiet days in the old farmhouse, and whether she is happy at Copthorne. He has sent her some books and papers she asked for, but they have not been acknowledged.

He is not angry, but pained at her inconsideration, and the galling thought that he no longer holds even a corner in her heart is bitterest grief to him.

His friends notice his depression in the City, and remark about it.

The hours are long, and the spring suns.h.i.+ne seems laughing at him. He pines for the country, the fresh green, the old love--Eleanor!

That evening the Lanes take him to the theatre. The play bores him to distraction, though they say that it is good. He remembers reading some excellent notices on it in the leading papers, and planning to take Eleanor the night after she returns. He is one of a gay, light-hearted party, and goes on with them to sup at the Savoy, feeling like a spectre at the feast. They sit at the same table where he once found his wife with that smiling hypocrite, Mrs. Mounteagle, and the man he hates, loathes, fears.

These recollections render Philip but a poor companion.

Erminie, noticing his low spirits, planned the evening's entertainment to cheer him up.

She has a pretty little sister-in-law with her, who prattles merrily, and reminds Mr. Roche somewhat of Eleanor, in a tantalising manner, when she laughs and he catches her profile.

"I have never been to the celebrated Savoy before," she says. "Reggie declares it is a place where ladies go without their husbands when they want to be rakish and lively. It looks as if he were right, for I am certainly without my better half this evening. When I look at you and Nelson, and then think of Reggie and myself, I cannot imagine how it is all wives and husbands don't get on. I believe I have done a lot of harm since my wedding by advising everybody to marry, and throwing susceptible young people together in the most reckless manner."

"We have not given it a very long test," says Erminie, "but look at that startling beauty in yellow," changing the subject out of consideration for Philip.

"Oh! she is the leader of one of the fastest sets in town," Nelson vouchsafes, as Lady MacDonald, a ma.s.s of flas.h.i.+ng diamonds and old gold brocade, enters into the restaurant.

The place sends Philip's flagging spirits down to zero, he is thankful to get home, and paces his room half that night thinking of Eleanor, and longing for the love of dear departed days.

"Perhaps when she comes back from Copthorne it will be different," he thinks. "I have been away too much in that miserable City, she has been dull, and thus fallen a prey to Mrs. Mounteagle's bad influence."

He will give her more companions, keep his house full of guests, pleasant accommodating people who will not object to early breakfast, and dinner that invariably waits half-an-hour later than it should on account of his business.

He writes to Eleanor as the clock strikes two. His letter is full of promises for the future.

He paints a picture of delightful plans. They will have the house full until Easter, when he will take her abroad. She shall go wherever she pleases, and he will be her trusting, adoring slave. He will make it impossible for her not to love him.

For nearly an hour he pores over the sheet, telling Eleanor these good resolves.

"Dearest," he says in conclusion, "can't we begin our lives over again--love as we did in quiet Copthorne--before we drifted apart? I will try and be a better husband. Do come back to me soon, for I find I cannot get on without my little Eleanor. She is all the world to me."

Then he seals the envelope, and falls into a restless sleep, which is broken by haunting dreams of dimly suspected terrors.

Early in the morning Philip wakes, unrefreshed and heartsick. Still the question burns on his brain--Why has Eleanor not written?

He rises before the household is astir, and lets himself out into the mild air.

Hailing a hansom, he tells the man to drive him as quickly as possible to Richmond Terrace. Perhaps Erminie is right, and Eleanor has written to Lyndhurst after all.

Sarah starts as she sees Mr. Roche on the doorstep.

"Good-morning," he says, "are there any letters for me?"

He does not wait for the answer, but walks straight in, and takes up a pile of envelopes on the hall table.

A few circulars, a bill, and three letters addressed to Eleanor at Copthorne in his own handwriting, and forwarded back by Mrs. Grebby to Mrs. Roche at Lyndhurst.

He stares at them in mute amazement, as if in those white envelopes a horrible mystery lies unrolled.

He tears them slowly open one by one, reading what he knows so well already, the casual news, the fond farewells, penned only for Eleanor's eyes.

How is it she has never received them? How is it they have been sent back by Mrs. Grebby when Eleanor is there?

For the moment he is unnerved. Then he pulls himself together, places the letters in his pocket, picks up his stick, and turns to go.

"Are you coming home to-day, sir?" asks Sarah.

"Coming home!" The words grate on him.

"No," he replies, "I am going to Mrs. Roche, at Copthorne."

Then he dashes out of the house, and reaches Trebovir Road just as Erminie and Nelson are at breakfast.

"We could not think what had become of you," cries Mrs. Lane, running out to meet him. "Why did you go out, and where have you been?"

Then she sees how pale he is, and the questions die on her lips.

"Come in," she says gently. "I have got some hot coffee for you, and your favourite dish. What! you won't eat anything?"