"You mustnotgo to-day," declares Eleanor emphatically, addressing her parents. "I want to take you to Mrs. Mounteagle's party this afternoon. I am sure she won't mind, we are suchgreatfriends, and two more will make no difference in a tea and coffee, four-to-seven squash."
"Is it a real grand party?" asks Mrs. Grebby.
"Oh, yes; no end of people have been invited, and Giddy's affairs are always sochic—that meaning stylish, smart—all sorts of grand dresses and bonnets."
Mrs. Grebby gasps in wonderment. "I will lend you two jewelled pins for your head gear, Ma—one of turquoise and another in the shape of an olive—that Philip bought abroad, and declares is only paste."
"Well, weshallbe swells," says Mr. Grebby, grinning, "and my word, what a lot we'll have to talk about when we gets 'ome."
"There," says Eleanor, shutting down an envelope and ringing for Sarah, "I have written the note to Giddy."
She whistles Rover through the window, who is scratching up the lawn, with splendid energy.
He bounds in and leaps on the sofa. Eleanor proceeds to scratch his back comfortingly with a little ivory hand on the end of a long horn stick. Then she calls for a comb, which Sarah produces, and fluffs at his coarse hair, which is stiff, wiry, and grey.
"Mrs. Mounteagle has called to see you," says a voice in the doorway, when Rover's toilet (which has occupied a full half-hour) is eventually completed.
"Oh! show her in."
"But," with a glance at Mr. and Mrs. Grebby, "if you please, ma'am, she asked to speak to you alone."
Eleanor closes the folding doors between her boudoir and the library.
"Youstay here, darlings," she says in a soft, cooing voice, "and I will see Giddy in the next room. Come on, Rover—down, old boy—your wet paws have done damage enough to my gown for one morning."
Still whistling, Eleanor saunters into Giddy's presence, her eyes as radiant as stars, her lips parted in joyous greeting.
"You dear thing," she cries, "to come and see me, when you must be so busy, pinning bits of drapery over your doors, and heaping flowers into enormous vases. Can I come in and help? I am splendid at decorations, you know," remembering Giddy's cynical remarks on her artistic efforts, and laughing merrily.
"No, dear, all is prepared," speaking in funeral tones. "But——"
"Well?"
Giddy's eyes shift uneasily. Then she speaks straight out: "I can't have your people! My dear child, it would be madness—positive madness, both to yourself and to me. There, there, don't look so blank; one would think I had suggested murdering good Mrs. Grebby and her dear fat husband. Can't you see it, Eleanor? You have a good position in Richmond, and you want to take it and fling it into the river, as it were. You want to flaunt your parentage at my party before everyone."
"Yes," says Eleanor firmly; "I am not ashamed of them, it is not in me to be ashamed. What is wrong with them?"
Giddy's mouth curves, her little foot taps impatiently on the floor at Eleanor's defiant attitude.
"Youmustsee, or are you utterly blind—utterly imbecile? Now, child, take my warning—shunt the old people at once—trundle them off the London junction—send them puffing back in a slow train to the country—tell them never to enter Lyndhurst again—keep them out of Richmond. It was terrible yesterday—a scene I shall never forget. Lady MacDonald was so sweet over it, though I could see she was petrified."
"I don't understand you," mutters Eleanor, pale and trembling. "If you have come here to insult me——"
"Tut, tut! Don't be silly. But I am bitterly disappointed in you. I have taken so much pains over your social education. But you are like a girl in iron stays, the moment you remove the support (which is my guiding hand) you go flop! Now don't turn rusty, or cry," as tears of passion well into Eleanor's eyes. "I want you at my party—I want youth and beauty, for I have a reputation for producing lovely women, good-looking men, and distractingly sweet girls. Carol has promised to come early; now, for one, you would not like him to see your relations."
"Yes, I should," she replies. "He would not mind,heis a gentleman!"
"I cannot have them, anyhow," declares Giddy firmly. "You may be offended, for I have spoken plainly——"
"A great deal too plainly," retorts Eleanor fiercely. "You have not spared my feelings. You think yourself very grand, but my parents would not have hurt anyone as you have hurt me to-day! You sneer at them—hold them up to ridicule—while they are worth all the dressed-up Lady MacDonalds you toady to!"
Her voice has risen shrilly; she forgets the folding doors.
"Enough!" says Giddy, tossing her head. "I suffered at your hands yesterday. Pray spare me the effort of argument. Remember I have to entertain, and must reserve my strength. Besides, it is so vulgar to quarrel."
Eleanor walks haughtily to the door and flings it open.
"If I talk any more I shall stifle," she cries.
Giddy gives a low laugh.
"You will agree with me when you get over your temper," she declares, passing out.
Eleanor sinks on her knees, and buries her head on Rover's shaggy coat. She is alone, and the faint sound of buried sobs throbs upon the silence of the room.
The dog licks her hand and whines. Slowly the folding doors push open, and the old couple stand upon the threshold.
Mr. Grebby's round face is pale, Mrs. Grebby's cheeks wet with fast falling tears.
"Oh! dearie, dearie," she cries, folding Eleanor in her arms. "We ought not to 'ave come, we didn't know. But she was right, dearie, and we will go away, and you shall have your party and your friends. Oh! we was wrong, all wrong."
"Don't talk like that," moans Eleanor, realising they have overheard. "She is a wicked snob—a—a—"
"There, dearie, be calm, don't fret."
"I will never forgive her," Eleanor stammers. "I love you and I hate Giddy."
She kisses Mrs. Grebby's damp cheeks, talking between her sobs. "It was not true, not one word of it, she just said it all to be disagreeable. She likes me to be miserable; I don't believe she ever had any parents of her own—I mean, not what you call parents. Some say she was born in a workhouse, a caravan, or an East-end doss. Though how she managed to be what she is they can't explain. I thought she was nice, mammy. I called her my friend. I tried to be like her," shuddering at the recollection. "Oh! don't go away," taking them each by the hand.
"Thank you, my girl, thank you," murmurs Mr. Grebby, "but Ma and I are better at Copthorne. We are not fit for Society; some day you will come back to the old 'ome and see us, won't you? and we'll all be happy again together."
Eleanor and Mrs. Grebby dry their tears, while Mr. Grebby pats them both on the back cheerily. Rover fawns round, barking and wagging his tail.
Philip, who is staying late from town this morning in honour of his guests, enters the room. "What is the matter?" he asks, looking at Eleanor's wistful face.
"I am not going to Mrs. Mounteagle's party," she says.
"Well, never mind. You can send your frock round," he cries jokingly, "and ask her to put it on a chair with a label: 'This is what Mrs. Roche would have worn had she been here.'"
But his chaff was received in silence. Then he notices for the first time the red rims round her eyes.
"Why, little woman, you have been crying!"
"Yes," murmurs Eleanor, "I have quarrelled with Giddy."
Then between them the three explain as best they can what has happened.
Philip is deeply interested.
"It was all our mistake," whimpers Mrs. Grebby. "We are that sorry; we wouldn't 'ave come. We really didn't guess what an upset it would make—parting friends, and bringing trouble on our darling."
"Do not regret it," says Mr. Roche, taking her hand. "Such friends are not worth having, and Eleanor is well rid of them."
Secretly he blesses the Grebbys for their timely appearance, and resolves to write to Erminie and inform her of the fact.
"We are goin' back this morning," continues Mrs. Grebby. "Harriet expects us, and is reserving a front room in her lodging house. There, dearie," as Eleanor protests, "don't take on; we'd best go."
"Yes, Ma's right, my girl; Ma's always right," adds Mr. Grebby, with an admiring glance at his wife.
There are more tears before the final parting, when Eleanor watches them drive away with her husband, who has promised to escort them to town, and put them safely in a cab.
"Mind you see they go comfortably to Cousin Harriet's," she says before he leaves. "No wandering about seeking omnibuses, carrying bags, and leading Rover."
They wave farewell. Giddy sees them from her window driving down the terrace.
"My words have carried good weight," she thinks. "Eleanor has shunted those objectionable bumpkins after all."
When they were gone Eleanor puts on her hat and cloak, and sallies forth in the chill wintry air.
She enters the telegraph office, and addresses a form to Carol Quinton:
"Don't go to G.'s party this afternoon. Come to Lyndhurst instead.—E."
Then she walks back up the hill, a strange thrill of exhilaration rushing 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 slightsoupçonof 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 woundhere," 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 flashing 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."
"Howdareshe?" 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, nobler, for the knowledge of such unselfish friendship. 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.
"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 passionate 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 passionate 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."
Her voice is a little hard, there is a ring of sarcasm and rebellion in it that is strange to Eleanor.
"Have you ever been to the Savoy?"
"No."
"Let us lunch there, it is past one," urges Carol Quinton.
He hails a hansom, though Eleanor is reluctant.
"I really can't," she whispered.
"There is no harm, dear," he replies persuasively.
The cabman is watching her; she feels confused, uncertain.
Then his influence is too strong, and Eleanor succumbs.
Where is the harm? She is a married woman, she can go if she pleases.
He helps her into the hansom, and they spin away.
"Do you remember last time we drove together?" he asks.
"Yes, from the Butterflies' Club."
"It was dark then, Eleanor."
Her eyes droop, an embarrassed flush dyes her cheek.
"I am Mrs. Roche," she stammers.
"But 'Eleanor' is such a beautiful name, so queenly. You have poisoned all my happiness since the fatal night when I first saw you."
"I would willingly give it back, every shred of shattered joy, if I could."
"You could if you would."
"How?"
"By being kind, by taking me back to favour, and forgiving me."
"It looks as if I had done that already."
"But only in a hesitating, half-hearted manner."
"It is far easier for me to forgive," says Eleanor, "than for you to accept my forgiveness and not err again."
There is silence between them for some moments.
"If I could think you cared for me just a little, Eleanor, I would be a better man."
"No," she said, biting her lips, and struggling with intense emotion; "you must reform without my aid—it will be harder, and therefore nobler. I do not 'care' for you."
He sees the efforts these words are costing her.
"I don't believe that, Eleanor."
"Then in disbelieving me you put me on a par with a common liar," she says hotly.
"Oh, no," he replies with his wan smile; "it is one of 'the social lies that warp us from the living truth.'"
They are turning into the Savoy courtyard.
Eleanor alights half pleased, half frightened at her daring.
She feels very strange as she enters the huge restaurant with Carol.
It is a full day, and he points her out several celebrities as they pass to their table.
"This is the one, sir," says the waiter, "for two," removing an engaged card on Eleanor's plate.
"How was the table reserved for us?" she asks Mr. Quinton. "We seemed expected."
"I wired for it this morning," he answered tenderly. "I knew you would be in town, and I meant you to come!"
"It is very wrong of me," she sighs, and her eyes glisten as if washed by still rains under her lashes. "Do you know, I have a calendar in my room, and every morning I pull off a leaf to read the motto. I have just remembered the quotation for to-day."
"What was it?" he asks.
Eleanor bends her head over herhors d'oeuvre.
"The stately flower of female fortitude—of perfect wifehood."
"Ah!" he sighs, "Tennyson."
"Yes," says Mrs. Roche.
Her eyes glance round the room.
How many bright eyes glisten over their champagne, and merry tongues joke and laugh away the hours!
"I like to look at people and make histories of them," says Eleanor.
"That girl with the flaxen hair, next to the dark man on your right, was a ballet girl before she married Sir Frederick Thurston. Everybody prophesied that her high kick would lift her into the aristocracy when she first gained favour. Her name was Poppy Poppleton, and people think she poisoned her husband and let another woman swing for it."
"Why do you tell me these horrible things?" murmurs Eleanor. "They are not conducive to appetite."
"Forgive me, but you started by being morbid, quoting at me in fact, and you look so distractingly lovely when you are shocked."
"To tell a woman she is lovely is to criticise her openly to her face. Please do not make such a careful perusal of my expression."
"Unfortunately I am endowed with the critical faculty."
The very intonation of Quinton's voice is a caress.
His eyes seem to reveal, as they gaze on her, their power of insight and analysis. Their look is appreciation, their sympathy with her every utterance boundless.
To him she is not only a character study, but a woman to love, to worship, for a day, an hour.
To her he is an object of fascination, an accomplished man of the world, one who can make himself utterly irresistible by reason of his tenderness, chivalry, courtesy, and devotion.
A magnetic attraction rises between them. Eleanor forgets her surroundings. She only remembers him.
At last her eyes fall on the door, and remain transfixed in that direction.
Giddy Mounteagle, in a costume of wide black and white stripes and leopard's skin cloak, followed by her youthfulfiancé, enters the restaurant.
"Bad luck!" exclaims Eleanor, turning to Carol; "look!"
He re-echoes her deep sigh as Giddy advances.
"I hate her seeing me here with you," Mrs. Roche declares. "She is a bad enemy, and now that we are hardly on speaking terms I dare not think what horrible stories she may not spread against me."
"Why not make it up, for the sake of our friendship, Eleanor? She could often help us to meet, you know."
"Never, after the way she treated me!" declares Mrs. Roche, drawing herself up as Mrs. Mounteagle approaches.
"Hulloa!youhere?" she cries in a rather bantering, insolent tone, and raising her finely pencilled eyebrows till they are lost to view under her fringe. She pats Carol playfully on the shoulder, pretending not to notice the stiffness of Eleanor's bow.
Bertie shakes hands with Mrs. Roche, and they seat themselves at the next table.
Eleanor turns her back, and becomes deeply interested in what Carol is telling her. They talk loudly on politics for Giddy's benefit.
"How spiteful she looked," whispers Eleanor at last.
"Oh, I don't know. You see you gave her the cold shoulder a bit."
"Do you think she noticed it?"
"Rather. She is as sharp as a needle."
"I think her hat is atrocious. It makes me tremble when I remember how I relied on her taste. Those enormous black and white feathers, pinned in crazy fashion with paste brooches, are horribly vulgar."
"Do you see that red-headed man just coming in?" says Carol.
"Yes. Who is he?"
"Eccott—a tremendously wealthy man, and a great financier. I expect your husband knows him."
"Eccott—why, of course! I have often heard Philip speak of him. The name is quite familiar to me, and now I come to think of it he is living here at the Savoy. Philip often dines with him."
"And lunches?" asks Quinton hastily.
Eccott is speaking to the head waiter, and evidently looking for a friend.
Eleanor can see down the long passage. Suddenly her heart sinks; the palms of her hands grow cold.
"Philip is there!" she says under her breath.
"What will you do?" whispers Quinton.
"I—I don't know."
"Tell Giddy," he urges; "make the quarrel up now, take her into your confidence, pretend you are together."
"Place myself in her hands? Oh, Carol, it would be too humiliating!"
Involuntarily she calls him by his Christian name.
"Self-justification is so embarrassing and unsatisfactory, and some excuse must be made for our appearing here together, unless you take my advice. He has not seen you yet, there is still time."
Thus Quinton urges the unwilling Eleanor to follow his suggestion.
"But I can't," she declares, half-crying. "What will Giddy think of me? What will she say?"
"Shall I speak to her for you?"
"Oh! if you only would."
Philip is still talking outside in the passage to Mr. Eccott. Carol rises, leans over the back of Mrs. Mounteagle's chair whispering hurriedly:
"Philip Roche is here. I don't want him to see his wife with me. Take her under your wing. I will make it worth your while."
Giddy takes the cue instantly. Such compromising situations are not new to her. She is a Machiavelli in petticoats.
"Here, Bertie," she says, "slip into Eleanor's chair, and stop at that table with Mr. Quinton."
She turns, smiles benignly upon Mrs. Roche, and motions her to take the empty seat.
"There, my dear," she murmurs, as Eleanor, confused and ashamed, obeys. "Let bygones be bygones, you are with me to-day. I brought you up to town."
"No, you met me by chance at Madame Faustine's, and we came on here together. Oh! Giddy, how good you are."
"A friend in need, eh? Finish Bertie's fruit salad. Good gracious, you are drinking whiskey and soda. Pass me his glass, it won't matter for me."
Eleanor hands it over with trembling fingers.
Philip is well in the room now, and any moment may see them.
"Would it not look well to attract his attention; sign to him. He is bound to spot you in a minute. Here is the waiter, we will send him. Waiter! go and ask that tall gentleman to come here. Say two ladies wish to speak to him."
Mr. Roche advances in surprise. He is vastly annoyed to find his wife again in company with Mrs. Mounteagle.
"You did not expect to see me, Philip," she says, assuming an air of gaiety to cover her confusion.
"I discovered your wife at our mutual costumier's in Bond Street," cries Giddy. "I know she always starves herself when shopping alone in town, so persuaded her to make a good lunch with me. I have known her to exist a whole day on prawns and ices, or Bath buns with lemonade. So you owe me a debt of gratitude, Mr. Roche. We are lucky in having ran across you, and two other friends," as Philip's eyes fall on Carol Quinton and the insipid Bertie. "We are simply gobbling our food whole, as we are going to the International Fur Store. I want to try and get a muff of leopard's skin to match my cape, for which, alas! I have still to write a cheque. But we are keeping you standing, and Mr. Eccott is waiting for his guest."
"Don't be late home, Eleanor," he says, "it gets very cold and foggy, and you still have a cough."
The two women watch him move away, then their eyes meet.
"You are a brick, Giddy," gasps Mrs. Roche, squeezing her hand under the table. "What makes you so splendidly loyal to me?"
"Life is so short, dear, it is well to be kind when we can. Besides, I am very fond of you though we did quarrel. I think it will draw us closer together."
"I shall never forget what you have done for me to-day."
As the four friends leave the restaurant Carol Quinton bends over Giddy, and says sincerely:
"Bravo! and thanks a thousand times. You acted to perfection."
"Glad you think so," she replies in an undertone; "and, my friend,youcan go to the fur store now, and settle my little account."
She pointed to her cloak as she spoke, and added saucily:
"The muff can stand over until the next time."
"So you have made it up with the Mounteagle woman," says Philip that evening, pulling fiercely at his moustache.
"Well, you see, it wassodifficult not to, meeting at the dressmaker's. I can't describe to you how awkwardly I was placed. I have felt more uncomfortable to-day than I have done for years. She practically took me by storm, and was so kind and nice it quite touched me. I have gone back to my old opinion of her. She may be a little hot-tempered, but means well."
"It is a thousand pities. I hoped you had done with her for good. I don't like you going to the Savoy with her dressed up in that gaudy fashion. She looks quite remarkable and unladylike. Besides that fellow Quinton is always at her heels, and I have heard some strange things about him. But then he is just the style of man people like the widow affect."
"What have you heard about Mr. Quinton?"
"Oh, never mind; nothing for your ears, my dear."
"Here is the post," says Eleanor with a sigh of relief. She is glad for the introduction of letters to turn the subject.
"Only one for me," turning the envelope over. "I really dare not open it."
"Why? Who is it from?"
"That insatiable Madame Faustine. It will be the bill for my black tea-gown and the blue silk blouse that you admired so much, Philip, dear. Now you may have this letter, and pay it yourself if you are awfully good," laughing merrily. "I will give you the number of sovereigns in kisses."
She looked so pretty as she handed it to him that he tore it open leniently, but no bill fell out.
The letter ran thus:
MADAME,—I am writing to ask you a personal favour, with regard to Mrs. Mounteagle, who kindly introduced me to you. I was prevented mentioning it to you to-day by the presence of my assistant. Could you induce Mrs. Mounteagle to remit me a portion, at least, of her long-outstanding account? She has not been lately to our establishment, and I cannot get my letters answered. I thought perhaps you might use your influence, and oblige very greatly.
Yours respectfully,LOUISE FAUSTINE.
"A thousand devils!" cried Philip, crushing the letter in his hand. "She lied to me—youlied to me!"
Eleanor's face is seared with weeping.
For the last three days Philip has hardly spoken to her.
She has stayed indoors and avoided Giddy, but now a message comes from the widow commenting on her non-appearance.
She pulls forward a sheet of paper, bites the end of her quill, and cries great drops of tears on the blotting-book. In a straggling hand she addresses an envelope to Mrs. Mounteagle, placing therein that unlucky letter from Madame Faustine.
In as few words as possible she relates the scene on paper to her friend.
"I am disheartened, dispirited, diseverythinged," she writes in conclusion. "As Dick in 'The Light that Failed' says; 'I am down and done for—broken—let me alone!'"
"Poor little wretch!" thinks Giddy, reading the sorrowful epistle. "I must tell Carol. He shall see this forlorn-looking scrawl." She sighs at the thought of some people's folly. "No sooner met, but they looked," she quotes to herself,aproposof Eleanor and Mr. Quinton. "No sooner looked, but they loved; no sooner loved, but they sighed. Ah! me, it's natural, very plain!"
Eleanor is not going out this afternoon, though the air is mild, the sun shines, and all the world smiles.
She has more than one call to return, which should have been done to-day, yet she sits alone in her pretty boudoir, neither reading, working, nor writing.
Her expression renders her face even more beautiful than usual in the subdued light. For a ray of winter sunshine, heralding the spring, has quite dazzled Eleanor's eyes, till she draws the blind, and settles in a cosy corner at the side of the fender.
In her hand is a letter, brief, yet to its owner teeming with news, so significant the simple wording seems:
"Why this silence? Stay at home to-day. Imustsee you."
It is neither commenced nor signed, but written in Carol Quinton's familiar hand.
Surely there is something imperative about that "Stay at home to-day." No "please," or "will you?" Merely the bare command. True themustis underlined, and the question savours of anxiety as to her reticence in writing or meeting him again.
"Well, he shall come, since this is to be the end."
Better face the matter out; it is dangerous dodging poisoned arrows. She will try how her shield works, that is to glance them aside.
Determination is in her heart, and courage in her eye. Eleanor is worked up into a fever of virtuous indignation at the remembrance of all she has allowed Quinton to do and say in the past. This is to be the turning point in her life. She will be loyal to her husband, and her first pure love, she will show him that she is capable of sacrifice, a woman to be trusted, looked up to, reverenced. Carol Quinton shall never enter her doors again after this call, never see her, hear from her, speak to her. She will fade from his life, as a shadow, a phantom! The sting of sorrow, the bitterness of thus casting a love she treasured to the wind, is subdued in a measure by a sense of exhilaration, at the thought of her good resolve.
Already "virtue's own reward" seems in her grasp, her heart is lighter, her spirit does not quail. She is tasting perhaps a shred of the martyrs' joy, when they suffered in the cause of right, she is battling down that weaker nature and gaining a victory in advance.
She is impatient for the moment to arrive when Carol shall stand before her to learn his fate, his isolation, from her lips. No pity, no glimpse of feeling, no suspicion of sentiment is to creep into this day's farewell. He will leave her for ever with the ordinary hand-shake of a casual acquaintance. Yes, she is nerved, strong, sure!
It has taken Eleanor three nights of sleepless vigil to overcome her love and stamp it out. She has not reached this point without a struggle.
She listens eagerly for him to come, longing for the interview to commence and end, while a spirit of heroism is upon her, laying her lower nature in the dust.
"Down! you shall never rise again," she cries. "Oh! why is he so long? I want himnow. I could do itnow. After to-day I shall have swept the temptation from my path, and made it impossible for Carol Quinton to be my friend."
The bell rings—the outer bell. She staggers to her feet.
The brown chrysanthemum in her belt falls to the ground and lies unheeded.
How she trembles! Her face, too, is deadly pale, revealed in the mirror opposite. She sways like a flower blown in a gale. There is a prayer on her lips, an angel knocking at her heart.
The door opens, and Sarah enters with the tea-tray.
Eleanor sinks on the sofa, the reaction leaving her faint and powerless to speak.
She watches the tea-table brought forward, the hot scones placed by the fire.
At last she regains her composure.
"Who was that at the front door, Sarah?"
"Mr. Quinton, ma'am."
"Mr. Quinton! Why did you not show him in?"
Eleanor leans forward breathlessly, looking Sarah up and down.
The maid crimsons, and replies:
"If you please, it was master's orders. He told me to say 'not at home' when Mr. Quinton called."
A moment's pause, during which Mrs. Roche struggles with her self-control.
Then in a calm voice she says:
"Very well, Sarah; that is all."
She raised the teapot with an effort, pouring out the brown fluid jerkily.
As the door closes, she covers her face with her hands, rocking to and fro.
She covers her face with her hands.She covers her face with her hands.
She covers her face with her hands.She covers her face with her hands.
"He does not trust me," she cries fiercely, all that is evil kindling to life within her. "He slights and insults me, lowers me before my own servants. He dares to shut his doors against my will, to the man who is my friend. He treats me like a captive, a slave. Oh! Philip, you do not know what you have done to-day? You do not guess how much this want of faith may cost you. I was so strong, till you threw me back, so sure, till you treated me like this!"
Eleanor realises how the shock of Philip's order has been the death-blow to her good resolves. A sudden hatred of her husband leaps into her heart and brain, choking her.
"A little confidence, a little love," she murmurs. "They are small things to ask at Philip's hands, yet he holds them from me in his cold reserve and suspicious dread."
Her eyes are dry and bright, her throat is parched, her forehead burns.
What will Carol think? Carol will be sorry, but not angry; Carol is always kind, considerate, forgiving. The dangerous fascination of imagination steals over her. Carol is at her side in a waking dream, but the scene is very different to the one she had contemplated. She fancies he is kneeling as once before by the same sofa, murmuring again those wild, impassioned words. She bends to grasp his hands and raise him from the grovelling adoration to her own level. They are just a man and woman—soul to soul, clay; ah! yes, of the earth earthly.
She breaks into a low laugh which ripples round the room, and seems to die away in something like a sob.
What is this rising tumult in her heart?
She cannot analyse her mood, it seems as if a certain knowledge has broken in like a flood of light upon her dim reason.
"Who can prevent me loving him, who can hold me back if I will it, if I choose?"
The door re-opens. Sarah enters with one of Mrs. Mounteagle's little scented notes upon a salver.
DEAREST ELEANOR,—If you are in, just toddle round to tea like a darling. I have some delicious toasted buns, and I want you to come and eat them. Don't put on gloves.
Your all impatient,GIDDY.