Part 29 (1/2)

”No thank you, dear, I haven't time. I only fled back to tell you I am off to Copthorne. I am a little anxious about Eleanor not having written you know. She was rather seedy and done up before she left, and those old people are bad correspondents.”

”You think she is ill?”

”I fear something is wrong.”

”But you must have something before you go, or you will be quite faint.”

Philip is not in the mood to argue; he answers her abruptly, almost rudely, and guessing that something is wrong, she lets him go, watching him drive away with sorrowful compa.s.sionate eyes.

”I am afraid poor Phil is in some trouble again,” she says to Nelson, mechanically cracking the sh.e.l.l of her boiled egg. ”He has gone.”

”What?”

”Yes,” shaking her head solemnly, ”and without any breakfast.”

”But you should not let him.”

”I could not help it. He is going to see Eleanor.”

”Has she been leading the poor fellow another dance? What a curse that woman is!”

”Don't talk like that! I am very fond of Eleanor, with all her faults--almost as fond as of Phil, and you know how I love him. I am not sure what it is about her, but you can't bring yourself not to care for her. It's that pretty little confiding way, I think, and those lovely wistful eyes. She is so easily led and swayed. It is a great pity.”

”She will come to a bad end, depend upon it,” replies Nelson, congratulating himself on the good woman who crowns his home.

Philip takes the morning train to Copthorne. Business goes to the wind. He thinks only of his wife, and the letters that have come back so strangely into his keeping.

The journey seems interminable. He flings a pile of papers unread on the opposite seat, puts a cigar between his teeth, and forgets to light it, closes his tired eyes, which only quickens and excites his overwrought imagination, till finally the train steams into the drowsy little station of Copthorne.

Philip walks at the fastest possible speed across the meadows. There is the gate on which Eleanor perched herself the night before their wedding, declaring she _would_ dangle her feet whether she was to be Mrs. Roche or not.

Then the green lane, where she asked him to wait till the following spring. He remembers her words distinctly. She had said them so lightly in reference to their union: ”When the birds begin to sing, then I will marry you, Philip.”

But he had proved himself the stronger, and carried off his prize that same month.

Now the spring is here. The birds are singing--mocking, jeering. The old farmhouse is in sight--he pauses.

Oh, what a moment of suspense!

No Eleanor comes across the garden to greet him. It all looks dead--still.

He can hear Rover's feeble bark--the sound savours of decay.

Then Philip walks forward, and his shadow falls across the porch. The bell peals.

Mrs. Grebby starts at the ring, and brushes past the little farmhouse servant hurrying to the door.

”Why, it's never Mr. Roche!” she exclaims.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Why, it's never Mr. Roche!” she exclaims.]