The cruel fingers press with deadly force.The cruel fingers press with deadly force.
The cruel fingers press with deadly force.The cruel fingers press with deadly force.
The moon swims round in a sea of blood—he gasps, gargles, struggles.
The savage man in whose clutches he suddenly finds himself seems glorying in his power.
Quinton feels himself face to face with death: he is a child in the hands of this dark highwayman.
The thought rises suddenly to his fading senses:
"By night an Atheist half believes in God."
The terror of judgment is upon him—hell threatens. Through the black slits of the mask he faintly discerns the eyes of his tormentor, whose face is in such close proximity to his own that the hot breath of passion brushes his brow. They are the eyes of a devil, burning as coals of fire—glowing, scintillating. The broad white teeth of the man glisten as they press his lower lip; then he loosens his hold on Quinton's throat and gropes for his hand.
The two are fighting now like twin devils under the dark trees, through which the moonlight flits. They roll over in the dust, while Quinton breathes out curses, struggling for mastery. More than once he feels one finger of his left hand caught in the stranger's grasp, then, as with a cry of triumph which rends the air with hideous mirth, super-human strength seems to possess the masked man. He picks up Quinton in his sinewy arms, whirls him once wildly above his head, and drops him over a rock, down a bank—a fall of only a few feet, on to thick undergrowth below. Then leaping back into his saddle, he gallops at full speed towards the jungle, while Quinton lies gasping and shaking, cut and bleeding.
He rises dizzily—strange!—there are no bones broken, only the uncomfortable feeling of those hot fingers at his throat, and the giddy sensation from the violent shaking. He feels for his watch; it is still there. Some money fallen from his pocket lies loose on the wayside. Nothing apparently is stolen.
Then he looks down suddenly at his finger, the one twice captured in their struggle.
His cat's-eye ring has gone!
As Carol goes on through the night, fear is in his heart.
How easily the dark, vindictive, savage creature could have cast him wantonly into eternity, yet he stayed his hand. Evidently he had not desired Quinton's life, since he took nothing but a little band of gold, with a cat's-eye. Such a worthless prize—a woman's ring.
The scene is a puzzle to Carol Quinton, the mystery of it haunts him. In every shadow he sees a black mask, at the slightest sound his blood runs cold, the creaking of the boughs above are to him the echo of pursuing hoofs, and the cry of the parrot, that sinister yell which accompanied his fall. Even the stars are flashing eyes, the moon an enemy, and the stones devils.
Quinton is not a brave man; truth to tell, he is a coward. His whole system is suffering from the shock, while the long tramp he has taken in search of his horse, which strayed from the road, increased his nervous agitation.
His hands tremble as they hold the reins, his knees knock against his frightened horse, who in sympathy with his master, starts at every step, appearing to find his route peopled with spirits.
"What did it all mean—what could it mean?" he asks himself again and again.
The beating of his heart seems to Quinton as thunder on the air, which is heavy and oppressive, a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours!
Surely this can be no fancy—the slow tread of a sure-footed beast on the path before him. Carol quails and whitens to the lips. The moon passes behind the cloud—a second figure is at his side. He spurs his horse, and the frantic swish of his crop lays a deep weal on the animal's withers. It breaks into a gallop, throwing up the dust around and flying down a steep descent. He hears the hoofs following closely in the rear, someone is nearly upon him gaining inch by inch. His courage sinks—dies—he is white, perspiring, terrified, limp! His senses reel, he drops the reins, falling forward on his horse's neck. His fingers clutch the mane, while a woman's voice cries behind:
"Carol! Carol!"
The horse recognises Eleanor's soft tones, and halts, just in time for Quinton to fall unharmed, swooning to the earth.
Eleanor springs off "Braye du Valle," sinking on her knees in terror by the helpless form. She sees the bleeding scratches on his face and hands, but feels his heart beat, knowing that he still lives.
"Oh, Carol," she murmurs, pillowing his head on her breast, "what is the matter?"
He stirs faintly, a convulsive shudder runs through his limbs.
"I am here, Carol," she continues tenderly; "I, Eleanor!"
He starts up, staring at her in the moonlight.
"But the man," he gasps, "the masked man who followed me only a moment since. What has happened? What has become of him?"
"I followed you down the slope. I came out to find you, fearing you had met with some accident on the road. Just as I was approaching and about to speak, you dashed past me, and then——"
"What then?" interpolates Carol impatiently.
"I suppose you fainted, for I saw you roll from your saddle as the horse drew up at the sound of my voice."
"You ought not to have come," says Carol, somewhat harshly, but Eleanor's blinded senses, dulled under the influence of her love, heed not his ill-temper.
He rises surlily, brushing some blood off his forehead.
He mounts Eleanor upon her horse without a word.
"Why are you so late?" she asks.
"I was attacked on the road by a madman, and half killed," he replies between his teeth.
"Oh, Carol!" she exclaims, her face blanching, "how terrible!"
"Yes, it was rather bad."
Then he describes the scene graphically as they ride on side by side, till Eleanor is shivering with horror.
"Strangely enough," he says, "the only thing I lost in the struggle was that cat's-eye ring you gave me. I think the man imagined it was something of value."
"Is that so?" replies Eleanor slowly, staring before her into the moonlight. "I would rather anything had gone but that."
"I am sorry, too; I shall miss it."
There is a pause.
"You are ill, exhausted!" murmurs Eleanor sympathetically.
"Oh, no; don't worry. But I wish I knew who the devil that man was."
"Captain Stevenson wants to give me an Irish terrier," says Carol, a few mornings later. "I think it will be well to have a dog about the place, especially after what happened the other night."
"Yes, indeed; I should accept it by all means."
"I will ride over and see him early, and get back by daylight."
Eleanor picks up a book, leaning back wearily. She is growing accustomed to his absences. The Eleanor who was so difficult to please with Philip Roche will stand anything from Carol Quinton.
Her one idea is to yield to his every whim, regard his every wish. To live only to please.
He bends over her. She is reading Shakespeare for the first time.
"What is honour?—a word," she quotes aloud. "What is that word, honour?—air."
He kisses the curling hair on her forehead.
"Good-bye, my love. You shall not be alarmed this time."
"Come back soon, Carol."
She does not rise to kiss her hand or wave as he rides away.
She is beginning to see with a woman's shrewd instinct that he treats her with more deference when she feigns indifference.
She is dreaming over her book, and her idle fingers turn the pages till they come toMacbeth. By chance her eyes fall on five familiar words, of whose origin she was ignorant.
"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow!"
A low laugh ripples from her lips, she rises and tosses the volume aside. They have no power to frighten her now, for the to-morrows mean Carol, life, love.
Here in this beautiful country she is passing a charmed existence. Nature in all its majesty now appeals to her senses, ravishes her eye, while she, lovely in her picturesque surroundings, feels a goddess of the east.
She hears the sounds of hoofs below, and leans over the balustrade, a bright smile parting her lips, the sunlight streaming on her hair, looking quite childlike in her soft white gown, which clings around her girlish figure.
Two men ride up: one tall, fair, and emaciated in appearance; the other dark, and indescribably handsome.
"Does Mr. Quinton live here?" asks the fair man, raising his hat.
"Yes," replies Eleanor, "but he is out now, won't you come in?"
The men hesitate and exchange glances.
"Are you Captain Stevenson and Major Short?" looking at them through her long lashes, with half-veiled curiosity.
They reply in the affirmative, and Eleanor informs them that Carol is already on his way to their encampment, at K——.
"But I am all alone, and very dull," says Eleanor plaintively. "Do rest and refresh yourselves."
She sends for a man to take their horses, and receives them in the verandah with a gracious air.
"May I ask to whom we have the pleasure of speaking?" murmurs Captain Stevenson.
"Oh! didn't I introduce myself?" says Eleanor with a slight flush. "How stupid of me! I am Mrs. Quinton, you know, or rather youdon'tknow," laughing spontaneously. "The fact is, Carol and I made a runaway match against the wishes of my relations—very shocking, was it not? But I am not going to appal you with domestic details. A whisky and soda is more to the point. Is not this an ideal spot?"
The visitors hardly notice the surrounding scenery. They are looking at the lovely features of their blushing young hostess.
An Irish terrier has followed them hot and panting into the verandah.
"I have brought the dog I promised your husband," says Captain Stevenson. "He is a fine little fellow, and game for anything."
"It is extremely good of you," cries Eleanor, catching the dog up in her arms, and feeding him with biscuits.
She puts both the strangers at their ease at once. It is long since she has had anyone fresh to talk to, and the time flies, for they all three have much to say. Eleanor will not let them go.
"You must stay and lunch with me," she murmurs persuasively. "Carol will be so angry if I don't keep you, and the days are so long without him."
"I can't think how it was we did not meet if he rode our way," declares Major Short, when lunch is over, and Eleanor has begged them to smoke.
"Nor I; but he must be home early."
"Is that your guitar?" asks Major Short.
"Yes, but unfortunately I cannot play it. Carol has taught me a few chords, but I have no music."
"Short is the man to sing," Captain Stevenson vouchsafes.
Eleanor seizes the instrument, and holds it out to him with a winning smile.
"Do give us one little song!" she pleads.
He takes the guitar with a kind look from his exquisite brown eyes, and strokes the strings, it seems so gently, that they whisper like the wind in the trees.
"What will you have?"
Eleanor leans forward with her chin between her hands, gazing at him intently.
"Anything you like."
"This road," says Captain Stevenson, leaning over the verandah, "is the road to Mandalay. It seems impregnated with the spirit of Rudyard Kipling."
"That shall be the song," says Major Short.
Captain Stevenson half sits on the balustrade, with the terrier beside him gazing up wistfully into his eyes. Eleanor retains her intent attitude, as a voice more beautiful and mellow than any she has ever heard swells out on the hot air.
Eleanor is moved almost to tears by the magnetism of that wonderful sound, thrilling her very being, for she is highly emotional.
The tune is soft, and the well-known words to the familiar melody take pathos from their rough uncultured sentiment.
She remembers once hearing a man recite the words at a musical "At home."
People had cried then; they knew not why, save that his elocution was exquisite, and he breathed it in an undertone:
By the old Moulmein Pajoda lookin' eastward to the sea,There's a Burmah girl a-setting, and I know she thinks o' me,For the wind is in the palm trees, and the temple bells they say:"Come you back, you British soldiers, come you back to Mandalay."
Eleanor and Captain Stevenson join in the chorus softly. It is sung slowly, like a low wail, Major Shore's clear notes rising above the rest:
Come you back to Mandalay,Where the old Flotilla lay,Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?On the road to Mandalay,Where the flying fishes play,And the dawn comes up like thunder out er China, 'crost the bay.
As they sing, Carol rides up the hill, and the music falls on his astonished ear. Singing in their verandah—how can that be?
Eleanor is the first to catch sight of him, but does not speak or move, though Quinton's presence always quickens her pulses.
The chords of the guitar take up the refrain, and Captain Stevenson, turning, espies Carol.
"When the mist was on the rice fields, an' the sun was droppin' low,
continues the rich voice.
"Why, there's Quinton!" exclaims Captain Stevenson, breaking into the melody. "My dear fellow, how was it we missed on the road?"
"I can't imagine," he replies; "I suppose I took a different path." His eyes shift uneasily, a flush rises to his brow.
"Your wife has been most kind and hospitable," declares Major Short, laying down the guitar.
"I am delighted she kept you."
"We brought the dog. He has already attached himself to Mrs. Quinton. I assure you at lunch his preference for her was most marked; he wouldn't look at us."
"Cupboard love, eh? I suppose she fed him."
"Well, yes, I should rather think so, he will not require anything more for some time."
"I am afraid," says Quinton, "that I interrupted a concert. You all looked most Bohemian and enjoying thedolce far nientestage of existence."
"It was too bad to break off in the middle of your song, Major Short," Eleanor murmurs, seating herself beside him and taking up the guitar. "I wish you could teach me the accompaniment, for I do know a few notes vaguely, and though I have never learned to sing I can croon a little."
"It really is not difficult," Major Short assures her. "I will send you the song if you like."
"Thanks, but I cannot read music, only I have rather a good ear."
So he strikes the chords one by one very slowly, while Eleanor repeats them.
"I should never have picked it out by myself. Now I shall be able to sing to Carol in the evenings."
"Are they not delightful?" says Eleanor, as the two men ride away. "I have quite enjoyed to-day, Carol."
"I believe," muttered Major Short as they turned out of sight, "I believe that fellow Quinton lied to his wife. Do you think for a moment he went our way? There is only one road that is fit to ride on, that he could have gone by; besides, it was written on his face when he saw us."
"You are too sharp, Short, my boy," laughed the good-natured Captain Stevenson. "But there is something wrong with Quinton undeniably. I wonder who the little woman is, and where she came from?"
Major Short rides on in silence, he is thinking of the little woman's smile.
That night, as Quinton smokes in his low cane chair, Eleanor brings the guitar, running her lithe fingers over the strings.
"I say, Eleanor," he begins, "you need not have let out you could not read music. It was awfullygaucheof you. You don't want to advertise your farm origin."
"I am so sorry, darling," she answers penitently.
Again she strikes the cords, this time hesitatingly, for her hand trembles.
The spicy garlic smells are wafted on the night air.
Eleanor breaks suddenly into song, as if inspired by the oriental atmosphere:
"When the mist was on the rice fields, an' the sun was droppin' low,She gets her little banjo, an' she'd sing "Kullalo-lo.With her arms upon my shoulder, an' 'er cheek agin my cheek,We use ter watch the steamers, and the 'hathis "pilin'" teak.
Her voice travels far in the darkness; she feels as if singing to some unseen audience—perchance spirits peopling that road to Mandalay.
The dog at her feet starts up suddenly, bristling all over, growling, barking!
"Did you hear anything?" asks Carol nervously.
"I fancied a rustle came from the bushes."
"Perhaps danger is stalking abroad to-night," mutters Carol, throwing his cigar aside.
The dog refuses to be silenced, while Eleanor, holding him by the collar, tries to soothe his petulance.
But Carol goes indoors.
Eleanor notices after that night Carol becomes nervous and irritable.
His absences are more frequent, but whereever he goes he takes the dog with him for protection.
Though only a rough-haired terrier, it seems to guard him; yet the constant recurrence of apparently reasonless growls and barks startles and annoys him.
Eleanor often sits with Elizabeth Katchin when Quinton is out, and wonders what she would do without the companionship of this one white woman.
That day she is walking up the hill towards her friend's hut, when she meets young Tombo, who rushes up and seizes her skirts.
"Oh, do come!" he cries, dragging her along; "something awful bad is going on at home. There is a stranger at our door crying just dreadful; and mother's red in the face, sayin' no end of angry words, stampin', fumin', and wringing her hands. The stranger wanted to see me and speak; but mother just hustled me out at the back, and tells me to go and play beans in the jungle. But the boys are not there. Quartey M'Ba is takin' care of his father, who's dead drunk with Zoo, and little Rangusaw Mymoodelayer is workin' with his uncle. It's sure to be all right if you come, Mrs. Quinton. Mother 'll calm down when she sees who I've brought."
He runs eagerly before her, while Eleanor, utterly at a loss to comprehend the nature of the trouble, approaches Elizabeth's homestead in some trepidation.
"I'll have none of you," Mrs. Kachin's hard voice is heard exclaiming. "Did I not write it plain in black and white? Didn't I repeat it three times over on the same page, twice underlined? Am I not old enough to speak for myself, to know my own will? Begone, or I'll tell you some home truths which were best not uttered from my lips."
"Oh, little Beth, little Beth!" moans a pleading voice, "the child I nursed and loved. Can it be you that speaks so hard, that turns me from the door? Let me see the child before I go—the sturdy dark boy who was born to you. Beth, have some pity, some mercy on my misery! It has cost me nearly my little all to come out to you, for I thought your heart would soften when you saw your mother's face."
She breaks off into bitter sobbing and sinks on the step.
Eleanor stands like one paralysed listening to the quarrel, while Tombo hides behind her skirts, clinging to her fearfully.
Her face flushes with shame for Elizabeth, and pity for this stricken woman. Her eyes flash scorn on Mrs. Kachin, as she turns and raises the stranger from her attitude of humility and degradation.
"Your daughter's virtue and pride are things to be despised, accursed," she says, "when bound in such an armour of harshness and cruelty."
The weeping woman lifts her head, and her eyes meet Eleanor's.
The two start involuntarily. The scene of a railway carriage rushes suddenly before their vision, the fragments of a torn photograph, the name on the label of Eleanor's dressing bag.
"Mrs. Roche!" gasps the stranger.
That word here. It stuns, petrifies her! The very sound of it is as a blow.
A flock of four or five hornbills fly above their heads, making their noises like an express train through the air. As they fade from sight Eleanor fancies the train has stopped at the little platform of Copthorne.
The shrill cry of the jungle fowl, crowing like bantams on the old farmland at home, seem to repeat the word "Roche, Roche!"
"What can I do?" asks the woman wildly, grasping Eleanor's arm. "I am here, and Beth has cast me out, I have nowhere to lay my head."
"Come with me," says Eleanor slowly, deliberately, looking from the faded features of the withered woman to Mrs. Kachin's contracted mouth. "I will give you rest and shelter."
"You will regret it if you take her under your roof!" cries Elizabeth, slamming the door.
"May the good Samaritans of this world do the same for you, Mrs. Roche, when you are in trouble," says the weary wanderer, as Eleanor leads her faltering footsteps down the hill.
She is too excited by the strange coincidence of this, their second meeting, to wonder whether she is binding a burden on her back, or offering a refuge thoughtlessly without consulting Carol. She only looks pityingly at the towzled hair and drawn face of her guest, pressing her hand sympathetically as they enter the verandah together. "I am not Mrs. Roche here," falters Eleanor; "you must call me Mrs. Quinton."
The woman looks searchingly, sadly, into Eleanor's eyes.
"I see," she answers slowly.
"And your name?" asks Eleanor.
"Palfrey Blum. I am Mrs. Blum."
What an odd introduction, what a puzzling fate.
Carol is deeply annoyed at his return to discover the guest.
"What on earth you want to bring that hideous creature with a head of hay here for I can't imagine," he exclaims. "You must shunt her as soon as possible, Eleanor; I can't have you picking up waifs and strays, and turning our home into a sort of infirmary."
"I don't know what to do, it is a most pitiable story."
"Oh! dash the story!" interpolates Carol. "I shouldn't mind if she were not so confoundedly ugly."
"I could not help it, darling," says Eleanor tearfully. "I did not think you would object."
"Well, now she is here, what are you going to do with her?"
"I don't know."
Carol stalks up and down the room with his hands in his pockets.
Eleanor's spirits sink.
"I will see what I can do, dearest," she says at last.
Carol turns, seeing her beautiful eyes moist and sorrowful.
He gathers her into his arms and kisses her suddenly.
"Get rid of the old ghost," he whispers. "I can't endure to see a relic of faded beauty standing decayed before my eyes. A woman has no right to grow old, it is an unpardonable offence, and takes away one's appetite having to look at her at meals."
"How unchristian you are, Carol!" she says, smiling under his caress.
The following morning Mrs. Blum seems refreshed, and looks less careworn after her night's sleep.
"There is one thing I desire more than all else on earth," she confides to Eleanor, "and that is to hold my grandson in my arms, and kiss him once."
"I have been again to Elizabeth, but she will not listen to me. Perhaps I might get the boy to you without her knowledge, or big Tombo may possibly bring him. There were tears in his eyes to-day when I was pleading with Elizabeth."
"Ah! Big Tombo is not so bitter against me as his wife. He is a good man, and charitable."
So Eleanor watches for Mr. Kachin to pass down the path to the valley below, where the rice is cultivated.
When she sees him she runs out. He stops and bows. Eleanor gives him her hand.
"Ah, Mrs. Quinton," he says, "we are deeply indebted to you for your kindness to poor Mrs. Blum. Even my wife in her righteous indignation owns that. I should personally be very glad to do anything I could for her, only Elizabeth is so determined. Can you advise me?"
Eleanor thinks a moment.
"She must be sent back again, I suppose. She regrets bitterly having come."
"Has she any money?"
"Oh, yes, but hardly enough to take her home; she relied on living with you and Elizabeth. I shall help her all I can, and perhaps you will also."
Big Tombo works hard, and he has a good store of hoardings laid by. He is an intensely generous man, and but for his wife's watchfulness would give away all that he has to others.
Eleanor inspires him to make an offer.
"I will pay her fare to England," he says. "It will save Elizabeth the pain of coming in contact with her. After all, she is my mother-in-law. It is the least that I can do."
"You are most good and kind," replies Eleanor, "and she would be deeply grateful if you came in now and told her this yourself. She feels her daughter's slight acutely."
Big Tombo bows assent.
Big Tombo bows assent.Big Tombo bows assent.
Big Tombo bows assent.Big Tombo bows assent.
The beautiful Mrs. Quinton's word is law.
Mrs. Blum trembles with emotion as her eyes fall upon him. She listens to what he says with tears in her eyes and a blessing in her heart.
"You are a good son," she says, taking his great brown hands between her withered palms, and pressing them to her lips. "I love you for your care of Elizabeth—for the happy home in which she lives. When she speaks of me harshly tell her to think of me as one dead. We reverence the names of those who are underground, even though we despise them during their lives. I shall never forget what you have done for me."
Her voice is choked with emotion.
"If—if you don't mind," she falters, "I should like to look once on your child before I go."
Tombo bends his head. He has not the heart to refuse her.
That afternoon, he sends the boy, without Elizabeth's knowledge, to carry some bananas to Eleanor.
"Come in, my dear," she says kindly, as the little boy presents the fruit. "There is a lady who wishes to see you."
She takes his small hand and leads him into the room.
Mrs. Blum rushes forward with a cry, and flinging her arms round the child's neck, kisses him again and again.
Then perching him on her knee, she looks at him intently, murmuring: "Beth's boy! Beth's son!"
"You are the lady who got scolded," says Tombo gravely. "Why was my mother so angry with you?"
"It is not polite to ask questions," puts in Eleanor hastily.
"But she ought not to be cross," continues Tombo, "because you must be good, you're white, like Mrs. Quinton, and mother never rows her. Who are you?" placing his tiny fingers against her cheek, and stroking it gently.
"I am your granny, dear, and you will never see me again. But you must think of me sometimes, and remember that I loved you."
She strains him to her heart passionately.
"You're crying!" says Tombo. "That's naughty. Oh! don't cry," shaking her in a sudden frenzy of fear. "Granny, Granny!"
Children always dread to see their elders give way to any emotion, and the little fellow's terror brings back Mrs. Blum's composure.
"There, darling, see, I am smiling," she says, her faded eyes lighting up through a mist of tears.
"I think it is very nice to have a Granny, and I want to keep her always."
"That is impossible, dearest. You must be a good boy, and not ask mother questions."
Eleanor brings him sweets and cakes, which he readily devours, sharing them with the dog, who jumps up, startling Mrs. Blum, on whose knees young Tombo is seated.
"You must trot home soon," says Eleanor, glancing nervously at the time, and fearing every moment lest Elizabeth should sweep in like a tragedy queen, and snatch her offspring from Mrs. Blum's arms.
"Yes, soon," sighs his grandmother, holding him as if she will never let him go. She detaches a small gold locket from her chain, in which is a lock of Elizabeth's hair.
"You may keep this darling," she murmurs, "to remember Granny by."
She looks tenderly at the pale, flaxen lock of hair, which grew on little Beth's baby forehead.
"Don't lose it, Tombo, for it is very precious—one of Granny's dearest treasures. Mother will recognise it and know the hair inside. Tell her you must keep it always, because she played with it as a little girl."
The boy gazes in awe at the locket.
"Didn't it cost a lot of money?" he asks.
Mrs. Blum smiles at the remark.
"You are an odd child," she says, placing him on the ground.
"Have you nothing you can give Granny?" whispers Eleanor in his ear.
Tombo draws a small whistle from his pocket and carries it with an air of triumph to Mrs. Blum.
"This is for you, Granny. It is all my own, so don't be afraid. Quartey M'Ba gave it to me for a dead 'minah' I found in the jungle."
She takes the little whistle tremblingly.
"Granny will wear it on her chain," she says, "in the place of her locket, she will keep it quite as carefully."
Then she kisses the child, and pushes him from her, covering her face with her hands that she may not see him go.
Eleanor leads Tombo away, and watches him run down the hill—he is clasping the gold locket safely in both hands.
Mrs. Blum has departed blessing Eleanor, and pouring such overwhelming gratitude into her ears that solitude is a welcome relief.
"Poor soul," she thinks. "Shall I ever come tothat?"
A step is heard on the verandah, the rustle of a dress, and Elizabeth Kachin stands before her.
She is paler than of yore, her eyes a trifle softer. The hard lips part in greeting, she takes Eleanor by both hands.
"You are a good woman," she says, with an admiring glance. "I cannot tell you how high your great charity has placed you in my esteem and regard. To think you actually laid aside all your natural feelings of repulsion and harboured such a woman out of charity."
"Merely an act of plain humanity," replies Eleanor.
"Nevertheless, I could not do it, even to my own mother. To be in contact with what is sinful is abhorrent to me. Still, I am not blind to your great kindness and self-sacrifice. Tombo and I both wish to thank you."
Eleanor's heart swells at the words—to be thought good, noble, charitable. What a blessed thing it is! She realises how deeply she still values public opinion, which she has cast to the winds in her reckless love for Carol. Elizabeth, by her words of praise, endears herself to Eleanor, in spite of her late behaviour to the poor outcast. It is well to be looked up to and to be believed in. Then the galling thought creeps into her elated brain:
"You have no right to this approbation. Elizabeth is a just woman, clothed in that pitiless virtue which tramples down the weak. You are deceiving her and accepting what is not your due. You may be foolish, wild, mistaken, Eleanor; you may have ruined your husband and yourself; but you arenota hypocrite."
She realises in a moment all it will cost her to lose her friend's respect, to see the look of scorn in Elizabeth's eye, and watch her turn away as from one polluted.
For the moment it seems too hard, but Eleanor pulls herself together and sets her teeth.
She walks across to the door with a steady step, her slim young figure drawn up to its full height, her head tossed back, her cheeks aflame.
Elizabeth watches in mute surprise. Then Eleanor breaks the silence, flings open the door, and cries with outstretched hand pointing to the hill:
"Go! I, too, am a wicked woman!"
From the moment those fatal words were uttered: "Go! I, too, am a wicked woman!" the scales fall from Elizabeth's eyes.
How natural it seems to her now, the so-called Mrs. Quinton's act of sympathy.
But what she does not know, nor can ever guess, is the supreme effort that confession costs Eleanor. It is wrung from her lips through sheer force of will, and as Mrs. Kachin obeys the command, and with head held proudly aloft, passes out into the blinding sunlight, Eleanor receives her first slight since leaving England.
The cup is bitter, it takes away her breath. She stands in the doorway gasping, blinded by the glaring light of day. A victim at the shrine of truth, self condemned, self accused.
It is thus that Carol finds her, gazing tragically at the departing figure of Elizabeth Kachin.
"What's up?" he asks, seeing her distress.
"I have told Elizabeth," she says slowly, "what I am."
Quinton bites his lips with annoyance.
"I should not have thought even you could have committed such an egregious act of folly!"
"I could not help myself. Elizabeth thought me so good, so different, and her words seared my conscience. Ah! you smile, no wonder. It ought to be dead by rights, long ago."
"You poor little thing," he murmurs tenderly. "But it was very silly, and another time do not let a few miserable scruples overrule your better judgment. After all, Elizabeth is no great loss, but it is always unwise and unnecessary to give yourself away. There! I have done my lecture, come and kiss me."
She flies into his arms.
"It is terrible when you are annoyed with me, Carol. I should like you to think everything I do or say perfection. But then we cannot have all we want in life, and especially such a delightful life as ours. Do you know, however deeply you love, however constant you may prove, you can never realise your ideal. It exists alone in the realms of fancy; it is as unsubstantial as a dream—in fact, it is a dream!"
"Have I disappointed you then?" he asks, with a wounded look.
"Oh, no," raising her eyebrows at the bare idea. "I meant it just the other way—that I have failed to please you in everything. An ideal has no fault, and I appear full of errors. An ideal is something good, holy, perfect. I am bad, unreasonable, foolish."
"You certainly have a way of making a fellow feel a cur without meaning it."
"Have I?" says Eleanor simply.
"Do you ever long to be back in London?" asks Quinton suddenly.
"No—a thousand times no! It is a city of destruction, a hell of iniquity, Satan and the Savoy, his satellites Giddy Mounteagle, and——"
"Me!"
"Carol," with deep reproach in her tone, "though my life here with you is one which the 'Elizabeths' of Society shun and condemn, I believe, in the peaceful atmosphere, the blessed quiet, and sweet unfretful days, I have been a better woman. When I think of the daily quarrels in Richmond, the frivolous worldly conversations of Giddy and her set, it soothes all suspicion of regret in my heart. Love is my only law, and this is described as chief among virtues."
"Then you are happy. I have brought some solace and light into your days, Eleanor? If I died to-morrow, or was lost from sight, you would look back and say: 'He gave me my dearest hours, my most treasured memories. He brought me from the slough of despond to the sunshine of the east.'"
"Yes," she murmurs, quoting her favourite song:
"If you've heard the East a-callin',You won't never 'eed naught else."
She snatches up her guitar with the light laugh of a girl.
"No, you won't 'eed nothin' else, but them spicy garlic smells,An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees, an' the tinkly temple bells."
"Come out for a ride," says Carol, "now it is cooler."
Eleanor's face brightens, her eyes glow. He goes so frequently alone, never even telling her the direction he has taken, and answering shortly when questioned. His suggestion meets with her highest approval.
"We will go by the jungle," she says. "You know my favourite road; not past Elizabeth's hut, since her doors will be closed to me henceforth. I shall miss her friendship when I am alone, but you must not leave me so often now, and we will ask that nice Major Short and Captain Stevenson to come and see us again."
"So youarefond of society still," says Quinton smiling, "though you denied it just now."
"Two congenial spirits are not 'society,'" she replies, "That word comprises people in a bulk. But here are the horses. Doesn't Braye du Valle look splendid? I hope if I died you would let him drag me to my grave."
"Don't be gruesome," says Carol.
"Oh! wemusttake the dog. Where is he? Do go and find him, dear."
"He is such a bothering little beast, we shall be better without him," protests Quinton. "Yesterday he nearly frightened my horse over a precipice, flying into the bushes and fighting with some wild animal. I don't know what it was, but he came out bitten and bleeding. He limped home, leaving a track behind him. Something big rushed away, I shot at it but did not hit it. I don't know how the dog escaped with his life."
"But he is all right to-day, and I want to take him, he is always so busy and amusing," Eleanor persists. "Besides, such a plucky little beggar ought not to be coddled. I think you will find him in my room."
Quinton goes unwillingly. The dog and its vagaries have got on his nerves, though he does not care to own it.
As Eleanor is waiting without she hears the sound of a horse behind, and, turning quickly, is surprised to see a stranger riding up the hill. A tall, handsome woman well developed, with portly shoulders and large hands. She is riding an immense charger, and whistling gaily. At a second glance Eleanor sees that this masculine young woman is strikingly attractive, her style distinctly original, her figure, though large, splendidly proportioned. She has shiningly white teeth under her curling lips—full, red, and smiling. Her eyes are large, dark, and brilliant, flashing like twin stars under a level brow, with black, almost bushy eyebrows.
Her complexion is rich and clear, her hair braided in masses under a man's hat. A gun slung over her shoulder gives her a sporting appearance.
She looks curiously at Eleanor's fragile beauty—the contrast between them is marked.
The whistle dies on the stranger's lips, she sets her mouth, averts her head, lashes her steed, and gallops by—never halting till out of sight of the slim woman on Braye du Valle.
"I wonder who she can be?" thinks Eleanor, watching the departing figure so intently that she never notices Carol return with the dog till he speaks:
"What are you looking at?"
His eyes follow the direction of her gaze, but discern only a cloud of dust in the distance.
"A stranger," cries Eleanor excitedly, "a white woman riding alone."
"Really! What was she like?"
"Big, and bold, and handsome. The sort of 'knock you down' woman who balances weights at music-halls in tights. Giddy and Bertie took me once to a box at the Empire; she reminded me of the strong lady in spangles. A magnificent creature, like a splendid animal."
"Oh!" ejaculates Quinton.
"Couldn't you find out who she is, Carol; I would love to know? She gave me such an odd look from her great brave eyes, then, to my astonishment, galloped madly away as if I were going to eat her. She was armed, too, so need not have been afraid, though I don't look much like a savage, do I?"
"I can't see that we need trouble about her."
"She raised my curiosity."
"Simply because of her good looks."
"She was the strangest woman I ever saw. I should like to know more of her."
Quinton jags his horse's mouth angrily, and, calling the dog, rides forward to stop the discussion.
"He has no thought for any woman but me," mentally ejaculates Eleanor, as she follows on Braye du Valle.
She is perfectly satisfied with her lot as she rides beside him, gazing at his handsome profile.
Some sombre-hued birds on the ground fly into the air as they approach. The transformation from dark feathers to brilliant yellow plumage as they spread their wings in flight is pleasing to the eye.
"I love the golden oriole," says Eleanor, "they look like a flash of sunlight. The Eastern birds are very beautiful."
As she speaks there is a low growl from behind.
Simultaneously Eleanor and Carol turn in their saddles, looking sharply at the dog, and then to the thick growth towards which he is stealing, his tail between his legs and his head down.
"I believe that dog is cracked," says Eleanor, calling him back sharply. "I always feel as if some evil spirit were near us when he behaves like that."
"I told you how it would be if we brought him."
"Let us see what he will do."
The dog has taken no heed of her call, but crouches nearer the bushes, bristling all over. Then suddenly he makes a dive into their midst, disappearing from view.
This is followed by a series of shrill barks—the sound as of a dog fighting for its life—a skirmish—a hideous yell—and then—silence.
"Something has killed him!" whispers Eleanor under her breath.
"We had better get on," replies Quinton; "it may be some dangerous beast."
"What! ride off, and perhaps leave the wretched dog mangled and maimed to crawl away and starve? Carol! what are you thinking of?"
She springs to the ground, flings him her reins, and before he realises what she is going to do, rushes into the bushes after her pet.
"Eleanor, are youmad?" he thunders, already picturing her devoured by some fierce beast.
It is a moment of horrible suspense. Then she emerges, her face scratched by the low boughs, bearing tenderly the limp body of the terrier, torn and bleeding.