Part 47 (1/2)

He has marked a pa.s.sage of Spencer's in a novel Eleanor is reading; she picks it up and comes across it.

It is like a rude shock. Why has he pencilled such disagreeable lines?

Full little knowest thou that hast not tried.

What h.e.l.l it is in suing long to bide; To loose good dayes that might be better spent, To waste long nights in pensive discontent.

Perhaps it struck him as so strangely different to their ideal existence.

The hours do not seem long, for a ”light heart goes all the day,” but as afternoon wanes she is filled with expectant delight, awaiting Carol's advent. He will be naturally tired, and she draws the couch near the window, piles luxurious pillows upon it, and perches herself at the end of it, placing in readiness a loose lounging coat of yellow Tussore silk. Carol, it is a pretty name, she thinks, taking up his portrait and pressing it to her lips. It is in the same att.i.tude as the one she destroyed in the railway train, upon her first meeting with Elizabeth Kachin's mother.

The faint light slants across the verandah, and falls on the yellow cus.h.i.+ons placed for Quinton.

It creeps into the room, and sheds a halo round the striking likeness she still holds in her hand.

Eleanor gazes at the Oriental splendour, the beauties of which no utterance is capable of expressing, and indulges in visions that are pleasant and soothing, marvelling at a scene she has admired a thousand times before, and recalling memories of sweet caresses and whispered words.

Filmy shadows fall from the trees without, gradually outlining themselves upon the walls of the room, and the steps from the verandah.

The hot air rises from the valley.

Eleanor breathes the tropical atmosphere and sighs. She loosens her gown at the throat, and waves an enormous palm-leaf fan leisurely backwards and forwards. The air stirs the soft hair on her forehead, cooling her brow.

She raises her eyes to the clock and smiles.

”He will soon return,” she thinks. ”It is growing late, and he promised to be home before nightfall.”

She goes out on to the verandah, gazing down the road which leads to Mandalay.

Two or three black children are resting by a wall at the foot of the hill, one squatting on the ground hugging his knees, the others standing in easy graceful att.i.tudes, with round pitchers on their heads.

The well is beneath a huge palm. Eleanor has sometimes ”wished” by it with Carol, pretending there is some mystic spell in the water.

He will pa.s.s that charmed spot as he returns, and she will stand on the steps to greet him.

Surely in all the world Carol could not have chosen a more romantic retreat in which to live and love!

The shadows deepen, they take forms, and glide from place to place as daylight dies.

She peers into the gloom, the children go home to bed. Carol is not in sight!

The red flowers of the morning lie withered up and brown on the floor where she has left them. Carol must not be greeted by the sight of her negligence. She stoops down, and gathers them together in both hands, sweeping the dust and fallen petals into her white palm. Crossing slowly to the door, Eleanor calls Quamina.

”Take these away,” she says.

Quamina looks anxiously into her face, as she relieves her young mistress of the dead blossoms.

”The Sahib is long in returning,” she volunteers, with a nervous leer.

”Yes. We shall soon need a light.”

”The devil will not catch him this evening; the devil is well employed,” Quamina a.s.sures her. ”Have no fear, lady.”