"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 awfully _gauche_ of 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.

CHAPTER XVIII.

LET US BE OPEN AS THE DAY.

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 st.u.r.dy 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 att.i.tude 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.