Part 50 (2/2)

Eleanor takes it mechanically--as yet she cannot believe--while the sight of the familiar handwriting sends the hot blood coursing freely once more through her brain.

She draws the closely-worded sheet from its resting-place and crosses to the light to scan the text.

Philip watches her face as it bends over the letter. He has struck a match and holds it up to illuminate that fatal message.

Every vestige of life seems to fly from her features. The page swims before her tailing sight, the words become crossed and blurred. She has read enough!

Then she remembers Paulina's fingers have touched this paper, perhaps her lips, and it flutters from Eleanor's hands at the thought, falling silently between her and Philip.

”Now,” he cries, ”can you grasp my mission? Do you guess why I am here? There was no longer any cause for him to live.” Philip throws back his coat, and she sees the s.h.i.+rt beneath it is splashed with blood.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Philip throws back his coat, and she sees the s.h.i.+rt beneath it is splashed with blood.]

He takes her icy hand and draws her towards the verandah.

”I killed him at sunset,” he whispers, pointing outwards, ”over there, on that far hill. When night came I bore him back to you. Now in the moonlight, down near the well, or to-morrow at dawn, you will find your lover. His set face is looking up from the long gra.s.s, his last word was 'Paulina!'”

Eleanor staggers to the rails, and points towards the well.

She seems struggling to speak, but there is only a low gurgle in her throat.

Philip stands on the steps. ”'Help,'” he says abruptly, calling the dog. ”Come.”

Together the man and beast pa.s.s like visions into the night.

Eleanor crouches away to the far corner of the verandah, her limbs relax, and she huddles herself in a heap on the hard ground, without a cry; without a moan.

Another day breaks gloriously over the East; in the first rays of sunlight Eleanor stirs. With difficulty she rises from her cramped position, a shudder runs over her frame as she walks unsteadily down the steps, in the direction of the well.

The jungle fowl on tree and ground give forth their sharp shrill cries.

The bulbul whistles sweet notes like those of a thrush.

The golden oriole with its bright yellow plumage whirrs as a flash of sunlight through the trees, and the birds at home are singing.

THE END.

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