THE SHADOWS RISE AND FALL.
"I am so sorry, Giddy, darling," Eleanor writes, "but I can't possibly
go to town with you this afternoon, as Philip's cousin, Miss Henderson,
has just arrived to stay, and her _fiancé_, Nelson, is coming too. She
is quite jolly, and I thought she would be horrid. Many thanks for
sending on that silly little note from Mr. Quinton. Why did he address
it to your house? I suppose he forgot 'Lyndhurst' though I told him
the name.
"Ever your devoted,
"ELEANOR."
"Dense little idiot!" sighs Giddy. "She cannot understand poor Carol's
passion, and yet he kissed her in the hansom. It was like Eleanor to
tell me. She always gives herself away. I pity those refreshingly
young people who can never keep anything to themselves." Giddy waves
up to the windows of Lyndhurst as she drives by.
"Who is that little Jezebel?" asks Erminie.
"My great friend, Mrs. Mounteagle," replies Eleanor.
"Tell her to knock off blanc de perle," responds Miss Henderson, "she
would be twice as good-looking."
"I quite miss Erminie and Nelson," says Eleanor, glancing at her
husband across the tea-table, with a bright smile. "They were most
delightful people certainly."
It is several weeks later, and Erminie and Nelson are honeymooning in
foreign climes.
"Yes, dear, and I really think we have been happier since their visit.
They were so peaceful, so loving together; perhaps it was the force of
good example."
"I don't think there has been one cross word for a fortnight," says
Eleanor, laughing. She piles up the silken pillows on the sofa beside
her.
"Come and sit here close by me, and we will have a little flirtation,
like in the old days. Only you must imagine these brocade flowers are
real red field poppies, and this sofa is a haycock, just at the back of
Copthorne Farm. I can almost hear the lazy hum of the bees, and smell
the fresh mown grass. I am not in a silk tea jacket, but my old blue
cotton frock with the tear in the elbow, you remember I caught it on a
nail by the gate. Isn't it fun to make believe like children? We
don't often play, do we Philip? You must take my hand very gently,
under the hay," pulling the cushion over her wrist. "I draw it away,
you see, rather shyly, looking deliciously coy, and say: 'Oh! you
mustn't, Mr. Roche.'
"Then you are horribly audacious, and kiss me straight off, you know
how you used to. We are silent for a few moments, just holding each
others' hands in unspeakable content, the sort of ecstacy that comes
before marriage.
"We listen to the birds singing--a thrush keeps repeating my name--they
generally seem to say something. I remember one at home that used to
sit outside my window and chirp: 'Think of it! think of it! think of
it!' till I grow quite angry, always recalling an unpleasant incident.
'I _don't want_ to think of it!' I would declare, stamping my foot.
Oh! Philip, what a good actor you are! you look frightfully in love."
"I am," he murmurs tenderly, clasping her in his arms. Eleanor laughs
incredulously, and lays her head on his shoulder.
"Listen," she says, disengaging herself from his embrace. "We must not
shock Sarah!"
The door is flung open.
"Mr. Quinton."
Eleanor rises slowly, her eyes flash with strange brilliancy; she
trembles slightly, flushes, pales!
Her husband sees it in a moment--the rush of colour to her cheeks, and
the pallor as her hand meets Carol's.
Philip mutters something inaudible under his breath. The chilly air of
winter creeps through the hayfield behind Copthorne Farm--the voices of
birds are dead--it is cold, cruel January once more!
A horrible presentiment steals over him, numbing his senses--paralysing
his brain. This man seems their evil genius, the red firelight playing
on his tall slim figure, transforms him in Philip's eyes to a crimson
Mephistopheles. Eleanor pours out a fresh cup of tea, and hands it to
Mr. Quinton smilingly, as she did a moment ago to her husband.
She moves the poppy-patterned pillows for the new comer; he is beside
her now on the sofa.
Philip feels left out. A jealous pang shoots through him like the stab
of a knife, or the burning of iron red-hot on his flesh. Yet Eleanor,
unconscious of the evil feelings she arouses, takes but little notice
of her husband, and hangs upon Carol's words with eager interest,
agrees with all he says, prevents him leaving twice when he rises to
go, and hopes he will "look in again" soon.
"You might have asked him to stay and dine, Philip," she declares, when
they are again alone. "He is so chatty and amusing. Why, what are you
looking so black about?"
"I can't bear the fellow," mutters Philip. "I should like to knock him
down when he looks at you out of those loathsome eyes, and talks rot
enough to make one sick. The worst of it is you _like_ him. I shudder
for your taste."
"You are prejudiced," replies Eleanor hotly, "you can't bear me to have
a friend that is not of your own choosing! My taste wasn't a thing to
be shuddered at when I married _you_, was it? A selfish,
egotistical----"
"Hush, Eleanor," he says, laying his hands firmly but not unkindly on
her shoulders. "Don't let us quarrel, you will be sorry afterwards."
"I don't care _that_" (with a snap of her fingers) "whether we quarrel
or not. It is better, though, to speak out than bottle it up inside.
There! now you have got your reproachful look again, like the day you
said I was vulgar! Let me go," wriggling herself free.
She stifles a sob, bangs through the door, and runs upstairs whistling.
The refrain of the "Miller's" song is wafted down to the hall in
Eleanor's clear, rich voice:
I care for nobody, no, not I
If nobody cares for me.
Philip walks slowly back to the sofa, gazes a moment at the cushions,
then buries his face in their midst, grinding his teeth.