The immortal flame

By Marie Bjelke Petersen

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Title: The immortal flame

Author: Marie Bjelke Petersen

Illustrator: Ronald Anderson
        A. Willgoss


        
Release date: March 14, 2026 [eBook #78209]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Harper & Brothers Publishers, 1919

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78209

Credits: David E. Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IMMORTAL FLAME ***




THE IMMORTAL FLAME

[Illustration]




[Illustration: [See p. 3

FOR SOME TIME ISMA STOOD MOTIONLESS LOOKING OUT TO SEA]




  THE
  IMMORTAL FLAME

  _By_
  MARIE BJELKE PETERSEN

  _Illustrated_

  [Illustration]

  Harper & Brothers Publishers
  New York and London




  THE IMMORTAL FLAME

  Copyright 1919, by Harper & Brothers
  Printed in the United States of America
  Published September, 1919

  I-T




TO MY FATHER




CONTENTS


                   PART I

  CHAP.                          PAGE

     I. THE HIDING-PLACE            3

    II. THE PALM-GROVE             11

   III. USELESS CARGO              19

    IV. THE SEA PEARL              27

     V. THE BLACK CROSS            37

    VI. THE DEVIL’S ACRE           49

   VII. ON FRIENDSHIP’S ALTAR      55

  VIII. RING-BARKED                60

    IX. THE THUNDER-STORM          75

     X. THE BELL-BIRD              79

    XI. THE FIREWEED               97

   XII. BURSTING BUBBLES          107

  XIII. THE BALL                  117

   XIV. A SINISTER SUNSET         134

    XV. THE MOONLIT ROAD          147

   XVI. THE BOMB                  155


                 PART II

     I. THE HURRICANE             169

    II. PAYING TOLL               177

   III. BARRED GATES              187

    IV. TRAMPLED FRIENDSHIP       200

     V. THE FATAL KEY             213

    VI. THE FLAME GOD             228

   VII. THE STARING CLIFF         249

  VIII. THE DAWN                  259

    IX. CRUCIFIED                 277

     X. MIGRATING BIRDS           290

    XI. THISTLE-DOWN              297

   XII. SUMMER                    305

  XIII. THE NETTLE                320

   XIV. BLOODWOOD                 332


                  PART III

  REMEMBERED                      341




PART I


THE IMMORTAL FLAME


I

THE HIDING-PLACE


“My hiding-place--my beautiful retreat!” she exclaimed, under her
breath, and looked with passionate intensity at the wild, rocky
coast-line which stretched as far as eye could see on either side of
the cliff where she was standing.

“I am safe at last,” she whispered, a calmer expression taking the
place of the haunted look in her eyes. “No one will find me here--I
shall live and die in this secluded spot.” She walked a few steps
backward and forward on the narrow conelike rock. “Who would follow
me,” she cried, defiantly, as if challenging some sudden fear. “No,
no, here I am secure--_quite safe_,” she repeated, emphatically, in
her low musical voice, making a further attempt to quell her stirring
misgivings.

For some time she stood absolutely motionless, looking out to sea. The
late afternoon sunshine fell on her tall, white-clad form making it
look like a statue carved out of some strange ethereal substance.

All at once she glanced again at the long line of massive cliffs, and
stretched out her arms as she whispered in soft, yearning tones, “Oh,
you big immovable crags, give me some of your calm, let me learn to be
still as you are still!”

Her arms dropped to her side, but she continued to gaze at the great
imperturbable headlands--nothing affected them! Giant waves, ferocious
tempests, had flung their fury against the bulky battlements, yet
nothing had conquered their colossal strength.

Isma Folkestone turned toward the land. Behind the cliffs lay a long,
low plain, covered with stunted trees, spider-bushes, grass-trees, and
other flowering shrubs, and between these a little silvery road crept
gingerly toward the distant, heavily timbered hills.

The girl looked down with unseeing eyes on the shrubby flats. The blue
shadows on the plain were lengthening. The slanting sunbeams caught
the spider-bushes, rich in scarlet blossoms, and made them flame like
blood-red jewels. A lofty silence began to descend on everything around
her, a hush peculiarly accentuated by the soft murmurs of the sea as it
settled to rest at the feet of the purple headlands.

The woman on the cliff felt the mellow calm stealing into her heart
also. She closed her eyes and breathed very slowly. Then suddenly
she looked up in terror; the vision her mind had conjured up behind
her closed lids drained the color from her face. Oh, those pleading,
fiery eyes, would they never cease to torment her--would they follow
her wherever she went? Was there no respite from the burning shame
they evoked? Why could she not forget? She would never look into them
again--that at least was certain; but why did the memory still scorch
her with its humiliating degradation!

A blush as vivid as the gleaming spider-flowers on the plain spread
under her flawless skin. The last lingering rays of the setting sun
turned the thick waves of her flaxen hair to flaming gold.

Isma raised a white, perfectly shaped hand and put a shimmering strand
into place. She sighed as she felt its silken texture. What use had
great beauty been to her? It had brought nothing but heartache and
humiliation. Her red lips parted into a bitter smile. But the smile
soon faded and a fixed, determined expression came into her eyes, the
alluring eyes with their wide, bewildering lids and their thick fringe
of black lashes; they had done harm enough, brought shame and anguish
enough; now no one except her old governess should look into them again.

If only her beauty had brought her a gleam of real happiness, she could
perhaps have endured the rest, but it had not done so. It had brought
admiration, favor, homage in the teeming world from which she had
fled, but it had not given her one single draught of unalloyed joy.

There had been moments when she hated her extraordinary loveliness; she
hated it now. What was the use of adulation if with it had come envy,
slander, shame, and mortification!

What was the use of the world’s clamorous adoration, its fierce desire
to possess her, when the only man-- She trembled and a stinging mist
blinded her eyes at the thought of his ironic glances and scarcely
veiled contempt. She straightened proudly; she had come to this retreat
to forget that also. Those protecting headlands would not only shut out
the mad, excited world with its fiery, insistent pleading, the world
which had petted and worshiped her and at the same time envied and
slandered her, but those huge, immovable stones must also blot out the
memory of the handsome Australian soldier with his mocking smiles and
cruel sneers.

She glanced across the low plain to the far-away hills, behind which
the sun was setting amid a shimmering haze of lilac and saffron yellow.
Beyond this high range of hills lay her cousin’s estate; she was only
a few miles from his boundary! But she was quite safe; he had not
visited his old home for many years, and it was not likely he should
come back now. The gay, sparkling world held too many attractions for
the fascinating guardsman; it had opened all doors to him, showered
distinctions and invitation-cards upon him, bestowed admiration and
honor. He had been sought out and idolized as much as Isma herself,
and when they had danced together at brilliant balls and elaborate
functions they had always been considered the handsomest couple in the
room. But as they swayed over the highly polished floors in rhythm to
enchanting music the girl had been conscious of the cold contempt in
his touch and the sarcasm in his polite speeches. How he hated her for
bearing his name and having allowed scandal to tarnish it! If only
she had not been related to him, not been his second cousin, he might
have treated her differently, but he could not forgive her for having
smirched the name in which he took such a pride. However, she must
forget that, too; the massive cliffs must shut out the whole of the
past, and she would hide in her little home by the sea.

She turned to the right, where a wide beach curved far below her
between the two giant capes. At the back of the sand was a short
stretch of coarse, stiff grass and beyond that the bay was lined with
palms which almost hid a red two-story house.

The girl looked out to sea again. The great expanse of water was
unrippled and lay like a polished surface of lavender-tinted calm. The
ocean would teach her that even the wildest turmoil can cease and the
immense spaces above would lift her thoughts from herself to loftier
things. All at once she became conscious that there existed bigger
things than those she had encountered in the world she had left behind
her. There was a wild, daring place in this boundless solitude which
suggested something colossal she had not been aware of before. She
wanted to reach out after it. If only she could forget the past! If
only the burning shame might be lifted from her! She bent her head
and her lips quivered. She, too, had been proud of the fine line of
ancestors from which she had sprung. But now the splendid old name
stood soiled before the world, and she--_she_ had stained it!

Her head sank lower. The horrible irony of it all--the pity of it!

But she refused to think of it any more. Had she not thought and
writhed till the mortification had nearly maddened her? Had not
the endless months she had spent in India and Ceylon on her way to
Australia--months of torture and consuming pain--been punishment
enough, purgatory enough, to atone for what had never been her fault?
Might she not have respite now? She had come to this vast loneliness in
order to forget--she would not remember any more! Her brilliant life
had been a mockery, a failure. Why had it been so? Why? Why?

She glanced into the primrose-tinted spaces hovering over the wide
plain below. Could not the greatness, brooding out there in the yellow
sunset, answer her burning question? She must find the answer, and
here in the seclusion by the sea, in this immense aloneness, far from
the cruel, merciless world which had laid such homage at her feet and
at the same time thrust a dagger into her heart, she would come to
understand.

But suppose the world should penetrate even to this seclusion--if it
should pursue her here--?

She laughed suddenly at her own fears. Such a thing was impossible! The
world was too far away to reach her, and her cousin--? His estate was
certainly only a few miles away, still he never came to look after it;
he had left it all these years in the hands of his trusted overseer and
would probably go on doing so. The great metropolis held Falcon too
closely; he could never tear himself away from all it contained and the
brilliant career it offered him.

Yet if he should come?

She made a violent gesture with her shapely hands. No! No! Fate could
not be so unkind! It had been cruel enough; surely it could not be so
maliciously brutal as to allow this man to come and mock her in her
loneliness!

No, she was at least safe from that. What could be more improbable than
that the delightful officer of the guards should come out and look
after his sheep!

Again she glanced down the darkening plain. The saffron hues had faded,
and a soft, impenetrable dusk crept over the extensive flats below,
giving them an air of subtle mystery.

The huge wings of night were spreading over the earth, and under those
dark pinions brooded a strange silence.

“There is rest here,” murmured Isma as she made her way between the
shrubs down the steep slope to the little house nestling among the
palms. “My sweet haven, my little hiding-place, here I shall find
solace.” She added, confidently, “He will not come.”

From one of the larger trees a night-bird all at once uttered a fierce,
piercing shriek.

The girl shivered a little and hurried toward the palm-lined bay below.




II

THE PALM-GROVE


Isma Folkestone sat on a rustic seat in her palm-grove, her white-robed
figure a moving network of shade and palpitating light. The sunbeams
and the swaying shadows from the great fan-shaped leaves vied with each
other in adding elusive enchantment to her rich, colorous beauty. Her
hair under the picturesque garden hat was the color of summer-kissed
plains; in her cheeks glowed the vivid flush of dawn and her lips
were red like spider-flowers. Her large golden-gray eyes--the shade
so frequently seen in Australia--were wide-spaced and luminous and so
full of expression that they seemed almost weighted with loftiness and
undaunted courage.

Just now the girl was gazing dreamily into space and there was an
air of aloofness and unearthly calm about her whole personality. For
some time she remained in reflective abstraction, then gradually she
became more conscious of her surroundings and began to listen to the
leaves switching noisily about her. They seemed eager to attract her
attention and rustled in unhappy agitation as they bent toward her.

Miss Folkestone looked up at them and smiled.

“You dear whispering things, what are you so excited about to-day?
What are you trying to tell me? Is the breeze teasing you, or are
you--lonely? Be thankful to be alone; it is life’s greatest gift--it
holds nothing better.” She sighed a little as she continued, “Once I
thought differently; I longed to be out in the gay thronging world and
drink deep of its joys--” Her splendid eyes lowered and a tremor passed
through her. “I have tasted all I wanted and--more. Now my only wish
is for loneliness and my only prayer for peace.” She sighed again and
added, “But rest is coming to me now--I am in harbor at last.”

The palm leaves crackled uneasily and shook in excited protest. Then
they whispered more loudly, more hoarsely, as if desperately anxious
to make their meaning clear; but Isma had stopped listening to the
palms, her ears had caught the sound of a horse cantering on the road.
People rarely passed that way, as there were no houses in the near
neighborhood, only stretches of sheep-runs, marshes, thickly timbered
hills, beaches, and great dominant headlands.

The horse had stopped, or had she only lost the sound of its hoofs as
it passed the damp corner where a little stream bubbled across the road?

There was the click of the gate.

Isma glanced down the long palm avenue. A visitor to her retreat--who
could it be? Perhaps it was only a stranger who had lost his way, or
possibly the manager of her cousin’s estate had heard of her arrival
and come to see her. She remembered him quite distinctly, though she
had not seen him since she was sent to England ten years before to
finish her education.

The horse was on the gravel drive now; she heard his crunching steps
on the pebbles, and a few moments afterward he and his rider came into
view.

The girl’s heart gave a sudden bound and she gripped the wooden seat
hard as she caught sight of the tall, soldierly figure on the gray,
foam-flecked thoroughbred. But she recovered her composure instantly,
rose quickly, and went forward to meet her distinguished-looking
visitor.

He dismounted lightly, slipped the bridle over his arm, then, raising
his smart riding-cap, bowed ceremoniously over her outstretched hand
and said, smiling satirically, “So it is really true that my beautiful
cousin has entombed herself in this vast solitude--”

The woman he addressed stood before him, tall, dignified, and there was
a reflection of his irony in her voice as she replied, “You don’t mean
to say you have come all this way to find out?”

“Why not? We were all astonished when we heard that our gorgeous
bird of paradise had left the gilded cage and flown back to its
native haunts in Australia. We were naturally a little skeptical at
first--can you wonder?--but I, having more curiosity than the rest,
came to see.”

For a moment the rich rose tint in Isma’s smooth, perfectly molded
cheeks deepened. Falcon had actually torn himself away from the life
he loved, his brilliant position--everything, and had traveled those
thousands of miles for her sake! A strange tumult surged up within her,
then subsided as suddenly as it had come. Of course he had only taken
all this trouble because she bore the same name as he, the name he had
always guarded with the jealousy of a lover. He had merely come to
discover if she was really in earnest and meant to settle down in safe
seclusion, severed from the dangers and temptations of the past. And
when he had satisfied himself on this point he would probably return to
all that was dear to him.

“And now that you have seen that I am really here,” she said, her eyes
measuring him with a touch of mockery, “I hope you are satisfied.”

The gray thoroughbred was pushing its soft muzzle against Captain
Folkestone’s sleeve, but he had no thought for the animal.

“Satisfied--what about? That your new rôle is as--becoming as--the
old?” he suggested, with courteous insolence, his handsome blue eyes
taking in every detail of her attire and noting that the extreme
simplicity of her white gown only accentuated the rich curves of
her lovely form and that her simple garden hat with its swathe of
turquoise _crêpe de Chine_ was remarkably becoming.

Isma flushed under his gaze. So, he thought, she was only posing, after
all, striving after effect, merely changing a rôle! “I suppose you
would have liked me to take the veil,” she flung at him, indignantly.

“It is hardly fashionable to join sisterhoods nowadays; besides, it
is so inconveniently binding, the garb is so hideous and the setting
of such a life most monotonous. This,” he glanced round at the
idyllic beauty of the palm-grove with its glimpses of blue sea and
rocky headlands between the great fanlike leaves--“this is a far more
artistic way of doing it; the background is enchanting and everything
is so delightfully unfettered--the way back is always open.”

“No,” she replied, emphatically, “the way back is _not_ open--it is
barred.”

“Most effectively barricaded with cobwebs,” he assented, smilingly.

The girl straightened as she looked coldly into his deriding eyes.

“By Jove! the rôle _is_ becoming!” he exclaimed, with fresh mockery in
his tones.

“I suppose you would prefer to see me behind real cloister walls,” she
observed, a dull flush of anger staining her face.

“My pretty cousin, how can you suggest I should prefer anything so
outrageous!” he exclaimed, with mock horror. “If you were cloistered,
I should not even have the pleasure of seeing you, and it would have
other appalling disadvantages--the sacrifice of your glorious hair, for
instance,” and he glanced at the silken yellow waves before adding, “it
would be a thousand pities to go to such fatal lengths; I am sure your
modification is far wiser.”

She turned a little impatiently from him toward the house half hidden
among the trees.

“Won’t you come in and have some tea? I am afraid I have been rather
inhospitable, keeping you standing out here all this time,” she said,
with frosty politeness.

“No, not to-day, thank you. I arrived only this morning; now I must go
back and get my car in order after its long journey. I just came over
to see that you were all right; though I am only a cousin, I have the
privilege of looking after you occasionally. But you are not living
here alone, are you?”

The horse had grown tired of caressing Falcon’s unresponsive sleeve and
was now fidgeting to get enough rein to reach Isma.

His master pulled him back with a jerk as the girl replied: “No. Miss
Livingston, my old governess, is with me.”

“I am glad of that. But do you really intend to settle down here?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“It will be very lonely and you might find it--dull.”

“I shall not find it dull and I like solitude.”

“Indeed!” There was polite doubt in the exclamation.

The girl made no reply, so her cousin went on. “Perhaps you will fill
in the time with some serious thinking,” he suggested, smilingly,
taking off his cap and allowing the breeze to play with his brown hair,
which had a charming tendency to wave at the ends.

“What would you recommend me to--think about?” she asked, her eyes
looking probingly into his.

“Well, as you ask my opinion, I should strongly advise you to give some
thoughts to the subject of--prudence.”

She winced and the warm blood leaped for a moment into her face. When
it had died away she stiffened, and her cold, angry eyes met his as she
said, “Why should I think about--that?”

Her companion smiled amiably. “Because--well, don’t you think it quite
possible that while you have been so much occupied with--other subjects
you have neglected this important one?”

Miss Folkestone laughed scornfully. “Perhaps, as you consider me so
ignorant in this direction, you might even think it advisable for me to
get a coach.”

“It would certainly not do you any harm to have one.”

“Possibly you would like to offer your services,” she scoffed.

“I am afraid you would not accept them,” he replied, quietly.

“Why not? Do you think I should be afraid that your vast amount of
knowledge on the subject would discourage me?”

Captain Folkestone looked at his cousin in feigned surprise.
“Discourage you! Could anything do that? I was under the impression
that was an impossibility!”

The gray horse had given up fidgeting; now it gave a loud, impatient
snort.

“Oh, well, I must be off,” said the soldier, lightly, “but I am
delighted to have found you looking so radiant--more bewitching than
ever!”

With courtly grace he bent over her rather reluctant hand as he said
good-by, and a few moments afterward he and his Arab mount disappeared
in a bend of the avenue.

When the sounds of the cantering hoofs had died away the girl clasped
her hands tightly together. “Merciful God!” she murmured, brokenly,
closing her eyes, her face white to the lips, “he has come--he has
come--”

Above her the palm leaves drooped in silent consternation and
occasionally a convulsive shudder passed through them.




III

USELESS CARGO


On a small creeper-veiled balcony facing the sea Isma and her old
governess were having tea half an hour after Captain Folkestone’s
departure. A slight breeze from the ocean had sprung up and moved the
bignonia trails heavy with golden blossoms rhythmically to and fro.
From the garden below rose the strong scent of jonquils, freesias, and
stocks, and from the bench a short distance away came the thud of waves
with regular precision.

Miss Livingston, reclining in a deck-chair among a pile of green
cushions, regarded her companion with a pucker between her scanty
eyebrows.

The old governess was a small, thin woman with drooping shoulders,
iron-gray hair, and a kind, humorous face. She was very plain, but
there was an air of genial guilelessness and youthful optimism about
her which gave the impression that she had not met disillusions in her
journey through life, or if she had encountered any she had had the
rare uncommon sense to look the other way while they passed. Also
Miss Livingston had preserved her love of romance, or rather the love
of romance had preserved her, from the hideous disease which destroys
youth in the soul more quickly than any other malady, that fatty
degeneration of the emotions called complacency. So though the little
ex-governess was over sixty, she was still young in the things which
matter; her mind was sunny and her heart still warm.

Just now she was puzzling about the change in her beloved charge. The
girl had looked so radiant after luncheon, when she saw her stroll out
under the palm-trees, and now, only a couple of hours afterward, she
was pale and there was a strange, perturbed light in her eyes. What
could have brought about the change? She kept wondering as they talked
about indifferent things, but as she could not come to any satisfactory
conclusion she asked at last:

“Baby, what is the matter with you? You looked so bright and splendid
this morning, and now you are so white-- Are you not well, dearest?”

Her companion put her cup down on a small wicker table standing near
her as she replied: “Thank you, I am quite well--I am always well, you
know. But,” she went on, turning the conversation into another channel,
“why do you still persist in calling me ‘Baby’? Don’t you think it is
rather absurd, now that I am over twenty-five and so big? If I had been
a small, fluffy kind of woman, it might not have sounded so absurd;
but for my type--”

“That is all nonsense,” interrupted the old lady, vigorously; “because
you are so tall and magnificent do you think it makes any difference
to my feelings for you? I came to you when you were a wee, motherless
mite, a little bundle of white, pink, and gold lovableness, who adored
being kissed and cuddled. You became my Baby then, and my Baby you
shall stay till the end of the chapter!”

The flaxen-haired girl rose, came over and sat down on a footstool
beside her friend. “You darling!” she murmured, slipping an arm round
the drooping figure; “how good you were to me in those dear old days!”
She sighed regretfully. “If only they could have lasted always! But
your Baby is grown up now, terribly grown up. She has _lived_--she is a
woman of the world to-day,” she finished, a slight tremor in her voice.

“Now you are talking nonsense again,” the small lady protested, fondly.
“You are just as much a baby as ever, only you have been out in the
world and found it is not peopled with innocent children--that is what
makes you feel so grown up.”

The girl shook her head sorrowfully. “No, deary, that is not it. If
only you knew all, why I am here to-day, you would not talk like that.”
There was deep pain in the large gray eyes as she turned them to an
opening among the creepers, where she could see the northern headland
beyond the garden jutting out sharply against the clear blue sky.

Miss Livingston took the soft white hand lying close to her own
brown one and pressed it tenderly. “Girlie, I am not going to ask
any questions about the past. What you wish to keep from me I do
not want to know. Only, if the past hurts, try and forget it.
Don’t you know that the same Kind Spirit who invented memory also
invented forgetfulness, and that it is just as important to cultivate
forgetfulness as to train memory?”

“Do you think so?”

“Of course. Forgetfulness is simply throwing useless cargo overboard.
If you overladen a ship, it will go down. If you overburden a soul, it
will do likewise. In life much cargo, good and bad, is put into our
ships; we must simply fling the useless away into forgetfulness or we
shall be swamped.”

The girl sighed. “A good many ships go down, I am afraid.”

“Yes, and all because they have not the sense or perhaps the courage to
fling away the useless cargo.”

“Still, it is difficult, for some things cannot be flung away.”

Isma rose and went to the edge of the veranda; there her hand began to
pluck restlessly at the orange-tinted flowers. “I have had a surprise
this afternoon--a great surprise,” she said. Then after a pause she
added, with difficulty, “Falcon is here.”

Her companion started. “Falcon here!” she exclaimed, excitedly. “You
don’t mean to say so! Are you quite sure? How do you know? No letters
or wires have come to-day.”

“Yes, I am quite sure, for he was here just after lunch for a little
while.”

“Why, girlie, that is the best news I have heard for a long time! To
think that the dear fellow should actually be here--how delightful! Now
we shall have an interesting time, for of course he must be desperately
in love with you--”

The girl moved suddenly. “In love with me! Why, he hates me--positively
detests me!”

Miss Livingston laughed heartily. “How perfectly ridiculous! As if any
man could! Anyhow, do you think he would travel half across the world
after you if he hated you? Nonsense! By the way, is he as handsome as
ever? I have not seen him since he left Australia all those years ago.”

“Yes, I think you would consider him even better-looking now. He is
terribly run after and admired. Women make him enough pretty things to
fill a palace.”

“But--you don’t mean to say he has turned out _that_ kind of man?”
There was real distress in the old lady’s tones.

“Oh no, he doesn’t court that sort of thing--he likes being popular,
of course, but I think the tokens of conquest rather bore him; he
is too much the open-air independent Australian to care for overmuch
petting and pampering. However, you will be able to judge for yourself,
for he is sure to come over and see us soon, and when you see the way
he--treats me you will never again accuse him of being in love with
me!” she finished, in a tone which greatly puzzled her companion.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was night. A land breeze stirred fitfully among the palm leaves and
made them rattle noisily together. The sky was clear, yet the stars
seemed strangely distant and dim. The ocean lay wide and calm. Near the
shore breakers rose as dark, finlike ridges, that became darker and
sharper as they advanced and finally broke with a loud crash into a
white blur on the shadowy sand. The headlands terminating the small bay
in front of the palm-grove bulged black and monstrous against the dull
sky. The night was quiet, but it held a brooding awe, a savage majesty.

The red house near the beach was in darkness, and it seemed as if its
inmates were restfully asleep. But after some time the front door
opened noiselessly and a tall figure made its way softly down the stone
steps, through the perfumed garden with its whispering shrubs and
stirring leaves, then crossed a stretch of rustling grass and a few
minutes afterward reached the firm, gently sloping sand.

The girl stood for some moments looking out on the big expanse of dimly
lit water, her breast heaving as if she had been running fast. Then she
began to walk up and down the beach in frenzied agitation. At last she
stopped abruptly and, flinging her hands out before her, cried under
her breath: “Falcon--why did you come--oh, why! Why couldn’t you leave
me to my loneliness in peace! Why have you come to torment me, fling
your taunts at me, your contempt! Are you trying to hunt me into a real
nunnery, where you can be sure your name will be guarded and protected
behind the pitiless walls?”

A bat swooped down and brushed against her hair, but she hardly noticed
the insolent touch of its furry wings.

“If only you would believe in my sincerity, that I will never return to
the dangers of the past, that I am not posing--not acting a part--” she
murmured, brokenly.

Her hands dropped to her side and she raised her head in sudden
pleading. “If only you would treat me differently--be serious, angry
with me, anything but lashing me with your caustic irony!”

Why should she not go to him, explain all and--

But what would be the use? He would not believe her when appearances
were so strongly against her. No, she would not explain. She lifted
her head proudly. Let him think what he liked! She would continue to
meet him with his own weapons. She would treat his insolence, his
insinuations, with icy contempt. The Folkestone blood ran in her veins,
too; their people had not been cowards, never cringed nor flinched at
pain. She would show him he was dealing with one of his own race, who
was strong enough, courageous enough, to walk in lofty indifference to
his scathing derision and stinging mockery! Her eyes flashed and she
straightened haughtily as she began to pace up and down the beach again.

It was long past midnight when at last Isma made her way back through
the scented garden to the sleeping house.




IV

THE SEA PEARL


Captain Folkestone stood by the sea, near the palm-grove, and looked
searchingly about him. He had been told at the house that his cousin
was on the beach. Now he glanced up the sunlit curve of sand to find
her, and it was not long before he saw a splash of glittering gold near
the southern cape and made his way toward it.

As he approached the spot he saw the girl lying closely wrapped in a
tawny gold-tinted garment. She was evidently not expecting visitors,
for her hair was done in a long thick plait which fell over her strong,
firm shoulder and lay glittering on the warm, dry sand.

The soldier stood suddenly quite still and breathed unevenly.

Isma was motionless and her eyes were closed. Was she asleep? He took a
step nearer in the soft sand, but she did not hear him and her face was
calm with the serenity of slumber.

He watched with a curious expression in his Irish-blue eyes, which held
no irony or contempt now. How perfectly her features were chiseled,
from the fine straight brow, half veiled by the yellow waving hair, to
the well-rounded, forceful chin! And her skin--could marble have been
whiter or rose petals more delicately smooth?

As he gazed the sleeper made a slight movement--there was a sudden
flash of dazzling white limbs and a bewildering form half concealed by
a cream Canadian bathing-suit.

The man watching changed color.

Merciful Heavens, what alluring loveliness was given to some women!
Isma had inherited the renowned beauty of the Folkestones, and what a
curse it had been to her! He made some inarticulate sound between his
teeth, his eyes riveted on the maddening display of snowy splendor and
bewitching contours.

Could she really be asleep in the bright sunlight? He came a little
closer and looked full into her upturned face. As he gazed, the inner
corners of her well-marked brows lifted slightly as if she were in
pain, and a tremor passed through her like the half-convulsive shudder
of a sob, her long lashes quivered and all at once he noticed that
they were moist. Had the girl been weeping in her sleep? He caught his
breath. Isma’s lashes wet--!

“Isma,” he said, in a strained voice. “Isma.”

The wide, clear lids opened slowly and eyes, still heavy with sleep,
looked up, dazed and bewildered. Then she discovered the man beside
her and an agonized flush spread over her face. She sat up quickly and
gathered the wrapper closely about her.

“I must have been asleep,” she faltered, in deepest confusion.
“I--I--was just going to have a bathe.”

The strange expression had vanished from Captain Folkestone’s face and
there was no trace of it as he apologized profusely for disturbing
her and added, in cool, bantering tones, “But don’t you think it
is unpardonable waste to lavish those enchanting blushes on a mere
relative?”

The girl had risen and drew herself up to her full height as she said,
coldly, “I think it would have been better if you had stayed at the
house while they sent for me.”

“I am deeply sorry for intruding--as I said before, but how could I
know you were on the point of bathing and that you would object to a
most appreciative audience? You forget that mixed bathing is in vogue
here; however, I suppose your excessive modesty would not permit such
laxity!”

The irony in his words stung her. Would he never forget, never be
merciful! She turned her face away for a moment, then, lifting her head
a little higher, without replying, she began to walk back to the house.

Her cousin followed her, his eyes on the heavy trail of flaxen hair
reaching almost to her knees and gleaming in glossy radiance against
the duskier gold of her gown.

“Isma,” he said, coming to her side, “why do you hurry so? I want to
talk to you.”

“When I am presentable I shall be at your disposal.”

“But you don’t need to bother--I have already seen you--and I assure
you you have never looked more charming than in this artistic wrap.
When that artist admirer of yours wants to paint your portrait again I
should advise you to wear that shade of gold.”

The girl met his remark with disdainful silence and quickened her steps.

She felt his watchful scrutiny. Did he think she was merely posing,
acting a part? Was that why his face had hardened?

When they reached the house Isma took her cousin into the drawing-room
and asked him to wait for her there.

After she had gone Captain Folkestone sank down on a sofa and began
to look round. It was a delightful room, not too large or too small,
spacious without being aloof and stately, and furnished with a taste
that gave evidence of unusual refinement as well as a great love for
harmonious color schemes. The predominating shades in the room were
_vieux rose_ and dull umber; these hues mingled in the covering of
chairs, divans, cushions, carpet, curtains, blinds, and ornaments. The
woodwork and doors were a deep umber and the paper on the walls a dull
rose. On the mantelpiece, and everywhere else where flowers could be
placed, were big bowls filled with stocks of various shades--mauve,
white, rose, and dull purple--scenting the air with their sumptuous
fragrance.

It was not long before the girl returned. She was dressed in
ivory-white, and as she sat down on a low chesterfield the room made a
soft colorous background for her vivid yet mellow loveliness.

She did not speak, but with hands lying idly in her lap waited for her
cousin to tell her what he had come to say.

“Isma,” he began, glancing down at his wristlet-watch, “Benson tells me
he has heard that you want to sell some of your coast land.”

“Yes, I thought of doing so.”

“Is it--necessary?” he asked, without raising his eyes.

She ignored the point of his inquiry. “I should like to sell some of
it.”

“Isma,” he said, with slight hesitation, “if you are in difficulties,
won’t you tell me--won’t you let me--?”

She interrupted him quickly. “No, thank you, I am not in any
difficulties.”

“Still--you want to sell?”

“Yes.”

“Then I should like to buy the land.”

“Why do you want it? It is no good for sheep--”

“No, but I should like to put up a cottage. I have always wanted some
sort of a place close to the sea.”

“But what is the use when you are not there--not living here, I mean?”

“But I am going to live here, going to use it,” he answered, regarding
her steadily. “I am sending in my resignation to the Guards, and for
the future I shall stay in Australia.”

His cousin looked at him incredulously. Falcon coming back to live at
his old home, leaving his regiment! What could it mean?

A flood of warmth rushed through her as she listened breathlessly to
his next words.

“You are a little surprised, no doubt; but I really ought to give some
attention to my places--I have neglected them shockingly for years and
Benson is getting old--they are too much for him.”

The girl leaned a little forward and clasped her hands round her knees.
“What will London do?” she asked, with a touch of friendly banter.

“My departure will have scarcely been noticed in the face of more
important exits.” He watched her intently. However she was quite
unconscious of the significance of his words.

“Who else is leaving?” she asked, the friendly smile still hovering
round her lips.

“Surely you know?”

“How could I? I have been traveling for months, till quite lately--”

“But letters--they can always reach you.” His tones were hard and
unapproachable.

“I have had very few since I came home--I didn’t want any.”

A few moments ago their attitudes to each other had relaxed, but now
Isma was conscious that the old hostility had returned, and she vaguely
wondered why.

“Do you mean to say you don’t know who has taken The Bluff and is
arriving almost immediately?” asked the man, a sharp edge in his voice.

The Bluff was a magnificent house situated on a big craggy headland
a few miles down the southern road. Who could have taken it? As the
girl looked at the hard glitter in the soldier’s eyes a terrible
apprehension made her feel suddenly cold.

“Who?” she asked, scarcely able to formulate the word. Who else could
be coming to spoil her solitude and pry into her seclusion?

Her cousin’s eyes were like points of steel probing into hers as he
said:

“Lord Berriedale.”

Isma caught her breath and every vestige of color ebbed from her face.

For some moments there was a deathlike stillness in the room, a
stillness harsh, uncompromisingly cruel. Then the girl made a desperate
attempt to veil her agitation from the stern gaze fixed upon her.

“Why--why--” she began, but the sentence ended in a gasp.

The sternness in Falcon’s face vanished instantly and gave place to the
ironical expression she knew so well.

“Why should Lord Berriedale come out here, and to this particular
neighborhood? Could anything be more obvious? For his wife’s health,
of course--what else could it be? You know her delicate state; the
doctors have ordered her to a warm climate--there are evidently no
warm climates nearer than Australia, and apparently The Bluff is the
only suitable house available on our large continent; so naturally
Berriedale is only too glad to secure it, especially as it has the
great advantage of being near The Palms so that his wife can resume her
delightful friendship with you.”

Isma did not speak. She had leaned a little farther forward and her
hands were clasped round her knees so tightly that her fingers were
quite bloodless.

Lord Berriedale at The Bluff! All her difficulties, her pain, her
humiliation back again! Her flight had been useless. Her hiding-place
would afford no security now. She might as well have stayed in the old
life, for she would have been far safer there. In this lonely spot
everything would play into the fowler’s hands, all would be against her
and help him to track down his prey.

She scarcely noticed Falcon’s stinging sarcasm. After all, he was only
voicing what their world thought and said. Did not every one believe
that her friendship for Lady Berriedale was only a blind, a cloak
hiding her relation with her husband? But her cousin’s next words
stabbed her.

“I always admire friendships between women, it is so beautiful to see
the way they treat one another--they are so loyal, so _true_.” He
smiled deridingly at her.

She straightened and flushed hotly as he goaded her to retort. “Women
_are_ true to one another and they sometimes think more of a friend’s
happiness than their own reputation!”

“Of course, and that is why the world, looking on, applauds such
sacrifice so vigorously!”

Isma rose and went over to an open window. What was the use of
trying to convince her cousin or any one else that she was innocent?
Explanations only met with scorn and distrust. There was no help for
her. Still, what was she to do? Should she attempt another flight? No,
she could not do that; it would only rouse Lady Berriedale’s suspicion,
and, whatever happened, the invalid must not be made unhappy, but be
allowed to live the few paltry years yet allotted to her, in her fool’s
paradise. So she must stay--stay and be compromised again. If only
Falcon had not been there, a cruel, merciless spectator, mocking and
judging her in her pitiful plight!

Captain Folkestone had also risen and stood near the mantelpiece,
regarding the silent girl at the window, the soft, rose-tinted curtains
making a splendid background for her graceful form.

Why had this woman been given a beauty which drew men with such
maddening longing to possess her, and made them ready to go to the end
of the world, even face ruin, on her account? Why should the fate of
men be placed so irrevocably in one woman’s hands?

“Isma,” said Falcon, after a long pause, in quiet tones, “what about
that land?”

She turned to him slowly. Why did he want to buy it? To be nearer and
able to spy more readily upon her?

“I don’t think I will sell it, after all,” she said, evenly.

“Very well, then,” the soldier replied, picking up his cap. “I suppose
for the future you will be so much taken up with _Lady Berriedale_ that
you will not have much time for me,” and after a formal good-by he left
the room.

When he had gone Isma stood by the window for a long time so motionless
that she scarcely seemed to breathe. Then at last she lifted her
head. After all, she was a Folkestone; she would show Falcon that no
circumstances could terrorize her, and she would at least face the
perilous future with fearless dignity!




V

THE BLACK CROSS


The spring morning sunshine poured its buoyant radiance on the big,
forbidding-looking bluff which made an imperial basis for the imposing
house situated on its summit.

The Bluff, named after the rocky battlement on which it stood, was not
only stately, but picturesque. Its lower story was of rough-cast and
the rest of the building covered with bronze-green shingles, also it
was ornamented with heavy beams, numerous wooden gables, balconies, and
verandas stained dark green.

The house on the headland faced the sea, but on its landward side,
sloping gently down to the main road a quarter of a mile away, was a
beautiful garden and a long avenue of great Moreton Bay fig-trees.

The Bluff had not only a magnificent view of the ocean and the broken,
imperious coast-line, but it also commanded an extensive vista of
undulating tableland which rolled in monotonous grandeur toward the
far-away horizon.

Just then the sunlight fell full on the tree-sprinkled plateaus,
flooding them with an amber-hued, unearthly brilliance, accentuating
their vastness and making them look as if they were moving, striding
wearily onward farther than eye could see. It seemed as if these
sunburnt plains had always stumbled forward, through years, through
lifetimes, through centuries, always exhausted, yet dragging tired feet
to a still farther horizon.

On one of the broad balconies at The Bluff stood Lady Berriedale, her
large, restless eyes looking beyond the garden and the long drive
shadowed by the fig-trees to the great stretch of tree-dotted tableland.

“Australia--Australia,” she murmured, half aloud. “How strange that we
are actually here!”

There were slow, gentle footsteps behind her. The hectic flush on her
thin cheeks deepened as she turned to the man coming toward her.

Lord Berriedale was distinctly good-looking. He was tall and carried
his rather slight figure well, though not with the bracing straightness
of a soldier, and there was a refined grace about him which gave charm
to his personality. His skin was as fair as a girl’s, his hair, brows,
and small mustache the color of honey, making a strange contrast to his
large coal-black eyes, which in spite of their dark hue had not usually
an intense, but generally a calm, enigmatic expression. All the same,
those jet-black orbs, almost feminine in their liquid softness, gazing
lazily beneath golden drooping lashes, could at times light up with
volcanic fires and produce a very disquieting effect.

“Neville,” said his wife, in a high-pitched, slightly rasping voice,
“I believe I shall get quite strong here in this wonderful climate.
How splendid of you to think of it and bring me here--you are always
so kind and thoughtful!” She raised her eyes, brimming with gratitude
and devotion, to her husband, but he was not looking at her; his gaze
was fixed on the vast country before them, where stanch old gum-trees
glittered in the warm sunshine. Torrential rains had swept over them,
hot summer suns bleached them, but nothing had been able to vanquish
their gaunt, persistent strength.

“I am glad you feel like that, dear,” replied Lord Berriedale, without
turning to her. “Australia is, I believe, the healthiest country in the
world--and you think you will like being here?”

“Like it--I shall love every minute of it! It is so different from
any place we have seen before. It is so huge and the gum-trees so
wise-looking and clever. Look at them now out there in the brilliant
sunlight--don’t they look human! and there is a sinuous strength about
them which appeals to me. They remind me of strong men who have done a
hard day’s work and gone out in the plains to reflect. They have such
a wondering air, as if they were solving big questions; gum-trees are
philosophers--not like the exotic variety who dabble in mere theories,
but the deep thinker who has toiled and deals with realities.”

“Yes,” agreed her husband, half absently, stroking his small, fair
mustache.

“Neville,” continued his wife, “this seems to be a place one can think
in--it compels thought. At home one had no time; each day was crowded
to overflowing with things which appeared important at the time, but
how trivial they seem when one is confronted with--this!”

“Didn’t India have the same effect on you?” inquired her companion,
with apparent interest.

“No, not at all. India is so teeming with humanity, every available
space occupied, one could not get away from people. Here it is
different. Australia is so roomy it is possible to take a step backward
without treading on any one or having somebody step in front and
obscure the view. When too close to the seething masses of men one
cannot understand life, and it is apt to become a moving blur, drawing
one into its chaotic confusion.”

“I wonder if you take a step backward and look at life that way, what
you will see?” remarked her husband, with well-disguised indifference.

“I don’t know yet. It takes time, for the panorama is so great, but I
somehow feel it is going to alter my attitude toward everything.”

“You don’t think you have viewed life correctly before?”

“No, I have a strange feeling that I have missed something vitally
important.”

“I wonder what that can be?”

“I cannot tell at present, but it seems as if the gum-trees are nearer
the truth than I. Do you know these lines of an Australian poem? They
keep coming into my mind,” and in her thin, rasping voice she quoted:

  “See the swelling breast of the gums,
  Hearts panting for the Invisible above, tugging at their chains;
  Immortal longing in those wistful shapes;
  Waves and waves of leaves pressing up to the Infinite.
  There one spray of gray-white blossom. The hope of one brings
  Its heart’s blood red to the young tops.
  Yet it prays, and will ever pray--as man prays.

“Aren’t they beautiful!” she exclaimed, after repeating the verse. “But
I am afraid we are not as devoted as the gum-trees--we do not pray as
much as they do.”

“Perhaps not.”

“But Neville, in this vast continent there is prayer,” she went on,
impulsively, her brown eyes burning; “not the conventional elegant
prayers uttered in churches, but wild, daring prayers, wrung from
souls battered by tempests, cauterized by tropical suns; souls who
have fought untamed elements, wandered alone in trackless plains;
souls grown sinewy, virile, strong, whose prayers are like fire-balls
shooting straight to the feet of the Infinite.”

“My dear, how imaginative you are to-day!” Lord Berriedale replied,
without enthusiasm.

Instinctively his wife changed the subject.

“Neville, wasn’t it wonderful that you should have heard of this house
so near Isma--doesn’t it seem as if some kind Providence had arranged
it all for us?”

Her companion moved his position and again his long slim fingers went
up to his fair mustache.

“Yes, it does seem rather remarkable that The Bluff should be available
just now and that we should have happened to hear of it,” he replied,
evenly.

“I wonder Mr. Lambert could bear to leave it for so long! It is such a
lovely house and the gardens and grounds so fine.”

“His wife and daughters got tired of the loveliness--they preferred
Europe for a few years. I believe Lambert would rather be here, though.
However, he was delighted to let us have the place--so much better to
have it tenanted than shut up with a caretaker.”

“Neville,” there was childish joy in the emaciated face, “won’t Isma be
surprised to see us this afternoon! It must be so lovely for her out
here. I wonder whatever made her come?”

“It is her old home, you know, and I suppose the place appeals to her,
as it does to you.”

“But it can’t have the same effect on her as it has on me, for she has
not you to enjoy it with her, and that makes all the difference!” She
took a step toward her husband and looked up at him with glistening
eyes; however, he had evidently not noticed her advance, for his
attention was fixed on the crimson roses winding up the pillars of the
balcony and sending their vigorous trailers along the railing.

Lady Berriedale began to regard the flowers also, and her thoughts
returned to her friend. “Poor Isma has no Neville to make life
beautiful for her! I wonder why she has not married yet, with her
scores of admirers? But you don’t know how I have missed her all these
months. Somehow, once she has entered into one’s life, she becomes a
necessity ever afterward--she has such a way of coming in and taking
possession! Neville, if I were a man, I know I should fall desperately
in love with her--I couldn’t help it--”

“Dear, you are really talking too much, and you know the doctor has
forbidden you to talk much in the morning. Come in and lie down for a
while, or I am afraid you will not be able to go out this afternoon.”

His wife placed a thin, transparent hand on his arm and leaned on him
heavily; but her leaning was not merely weakness seeking support, it
was more the weight of a great love abandoning itself to the object of
its affection.

“Darling,” she murmured, “it is so lovely to have you all to myself!
At home you were always so busy, but now--we can have a second
honeymoon.”

He pressed her hand gently. “Yes, I do hope you will be happy here;
we will go for long drives, have picnics by the sea, and when you are
strong enough you shall bathe--”

“Oh, Neville, how lovely that will be--I feel ever so much better
already! Only,” she added, a little wistfulness coming into her voice,
“it seems far too wonderful, as if it could not really come true!”

“My dear, it will come true right enough,” he assured her, as they
walked down the wide, spacious hall and entered the morning-room facing
the ocean.

Lord Berriedale led his wife to a couch near an open window and made
her lie down among a profusion of lilac-tinted cushions; then he placed
a rug over her and turned to look out on the huge sheet of water spread
out before them.

The invalid lay back and closed her eyes in deep content. “Neville,
this is new life to me,” she whispered, restfully, breathing in the
soft, warm air from the sea.

The sun was withdrawing from the morning-room; still, through a large
end window a narrow streak of light fell on the wall, across a picture
of an interior of a church, illumining a large black cross over the
altar and making it stand out with startling prominence.

After a short pause Lady Berriedale looked up and her eyes lighted on
the black cross so luminously clear in the sunlight.

“Neville!” she cried, half frightened, “look at that cross. See how it
stands out from the picture--it seems to be moving toward me! Can it be
a cross waiting for a--grave-- Oh, Neville--”

He came to her quickly. “Deary, you have overtired yourself this
morning, and that makes your nerves bad and you imagine all these
ghastly things. I am afraid I cannot let you go this afternoon; we
shall have to wait till to-morrow.”

“No, no,” protested the invalid, “I am not really tired, only my nerves
are silly--but just sit down beside me-- No, here; then you can hide
that awful cross--”

Lord Berriedale sat down so that he obscured the ominous part of the
picture and skilfully diverted his wife’s attention to other subjects.

“Did you see Rita driving that car this morning? Isn’t she getting on
well! She will soon be able to go out alone.”

“Will that be safe? Are the roads good in this district?”

“I think so. When I was talking to Folkestone this morning on the
’phone he said they were excellent, on the whole. By the way, he wanted
to call this afternoon, but I asked him to wait till to-morrow, as we
were going out.”

His wife turned to him reproachfully. “Neville, how could you? Have
you forgotten about Rita? Think how disappointed she will be! Why
didn’t you ask him to lunch or dinner? You might have done that.”

“I am sorry, dear, I didn’t think of it. However, she will have plenty
of opportunities of seeing him, now we are so close to his station. But
do you really think he--cares?”

“Yes, I think so. They were a great deal together the last few months
in London.”

“But--but”--the tapering fingers played with the fair mustache
again--“was that--_his_ doing--”

“Oh, Neville, how blunt you are! Of course Rita is violently in love
with him, and who can blame the poor child, he is so awfully handsome
and fascinating? All the same, I trust no sister of mine should so far
lower herself as to--”

Lord Berriedale retreated hastily before the cold dignity of the last
words. “Of course I didn’t mean anything like that. No doubt he is
quite infatuated, too, and of course Rita is an uncommonly pretty girl
with her Spanish eyes and black hair. She is wonderfully like what you
used to be.”

The woman at his side was appeased at once and a glad flush mounted
under her sallow skin. “Neville, surely I was never as--pretty as Rita,
was I?”

“Of course you were, only far prettier!” he assured her, with his most
charming smile. Then he went on in a different tone: “It really would
be a good thing if Rita married Folkestone. He is a decent fellow,
comes of good stock, and has money enough to make any wife comfortable.”

“Yes, I am sure Rita would be ideally happy with him. So now, dearest,
you won’t forget and spoil the young people’s fun, will you?”

“You talk as if we were quite old.” He laughed, but there was a forced
note in his merriment.

“So we are, dear. I have turned twenty-nine and you will be
thirty-eight next birthday.”

“Folkestone must be over thirty, too.”

“I believe he is just thirty.” Lady Berriedale turned her
engagement-ring, blazing with diamonds, thoughtfully as she said, “I
wonder if Isma will ever marry--”

Her companion rose and went over to a window. At the same time there
was a knock at the door and Fred Cockhill Rex, Lord Berriedale’s
secretary, entered. He was a round, dapper little man with scanty,
nondescript hair; his face was pale with the peculiar pallor of great
smokers, and it was overrun with a network of fine wrinkles. He had a
prominent, sharp nose, long, thin lips, and pale-blue eyes which always
seemed to be smiling, and the smile was a curious mixture of malice and
amiability. However, most people only noticed the affability, perhaps
because the secretary’s manners were so polished and good-natured they
entirely disarmed suspicion. Rex was a great favorite with his employer
and had been in his service for some years; but Lady Berriedale
neither liked nor trusted him.

“What is it?” asked the tall, fair man at the window.

“One of the squatters in the neighborhood has rung up to see when it
will be convenient for him to call; he is at the ’phone now.”

“Any afternoon next week will do,” replied Lord Berriedale, with not
wholly concealed irritation.

“And the gardener wants to know about the conservatory--”

“All right, Rex, I’ll go and see him myself,” interrupted his lordship,
cutting him short.

The two men left the room together, and when they had gone Lady
Berriedale closed her eyes drowsily and was soon fast asleep.




VI

THE DEVIL’S ACRE


Soon after lunch Lord and Lady Berriedale went off in their big
Rolls-Royce to call on Miss Folkestone.

After Rex had sent them off he went into the library and stood by the
window smoking a Turkish cigarette as he watched the long cloud of dust
whirling after the receding car.

“Going to see her already--h’m! a little indecent haste surely! And
her ladyship there, too! Holy saints! what fools some women are! How
they have managed to hoodwink her so long I can’t imagine! But she will
shake off the winkers one of these days and see her adorable Neville
in his true light.” The secretary slapped his fat thighs. “By George!
we’ll have a fine show then!”

The door opened suddenly and a girl with a small, dainty figure bounced
into the room. She moved rather gracefully, but in a quick, impetuous
way.

Miss Brentford did not appear to be in a very happy frame of mind and
was ready to be irritated by trifles.

She glanced at the man by the window and exclaimed, petulantly, “Rex,
don’t you _ever_ stop smoking!”

“Of course I do. I give you my word of honor that I never smoke when I
am asleep.”

“You dream about it then,” came the short retort.

“Indeed I don’t. Dreams are only for the lovesick and the dyspeptic.
But,” he added, in a different voice, “why don’t you sit down and make
yourself comfortable in the devil’s acre?”

The girl looked puzzled. “The devil’s acre! What on earth is that?”

“The library, of course.”

“I don’t see the connection.”

“Why, it is quite simple. God puts the dead into coffins and buries
them in His acre; but the devil has other methods. He entombs living
thoughts into books and buries them in libraries.”

“You are not very complimentary to books.”

“Indeed I am. The books will feel flattered, I assure you. They like to
keep up with the times. Years ago it was an insult to call any one bad;
now it is an insult to call them good.”

“I wonder why it is fashionable to be wicked?” mused Miss Brentford.

“Because most people haven’t brains enough to excel at anything else.”

“Still, respectability is very dull, don’t you think?”

The secretary smiled blatantly. “That depends on what you call
dull. Of course it is only passion-flowers that bear passion-fruit:
passion_less_ flowers alone bear--respectability.”

The girl blushed. “Now you are talking like a French novel.”

“And you are annoyed. That is always the way. The people who sneer most
at respectability are generally the most prudish of all, just as the
most harmless beings like to pose as incorrigibly bad!”

“You are quite wrong about that,” Rita said, half absently, her
thoughts straying back to her grievance as she added, fretfully, “Fancy
a whole afternoon and nothing to do.”

“You don’t mean to say you are getting bored already! Why didn’t you go
with the others? That would have been more entertaining than moping at
home.”

“Ugh! Do you think I want to spend the whole afternoon with Miss
Folkestone? I hate that cold creature!”

“I don’t think she is cold, but she is undeniably beautiful,” observed
Rex, apparently unconscious that he was pouring petrol on the fire.
“Even women go quite mad over her.”

“I don’t think she is beautiful at all; she is too over-colored. Her
hair is so yellow and her cheeks so red.”

“I should have termed the color in her cheeks a vivid pink.”

“Then she is too big,” went on Miss Brentford, glancing down at her own
small, rather insignificant figure. “I don’t admire large women; they
are heavy and clumsy.”

“I don’t think any one could accuse Miss Folkestone of being ‘heavy and
clumsy’; I have heard her described as stately, handsome, magnificent,
even called slender, but heavy, never!” replied the secretary, looking
into the girl’s frowning face with smiling satisfaction. He always
enjoyed making people angry--with some one else, and he was specially
pleased to promote ill feeling toward Miss Folkestone, as he owed her
a grudge for snubbing him severely on one occasion when he had made
rather daring advances.

“Slender!” flashed his companion. “She is awkward and ungainly, and I
don’t really think she is so much admired, after all, except by a few
overstrung, nervy people like my sister--”

“And Captain Folkestone,” interjected the man, in his most silky tones.

The brunette flushed hotly. “He doesn’t like her at all--he can’t bear
the sight of her!”

“Oh, is that so! Of course when he left London so soon after her
departure and followed her here it made one naturally think that--”

“Oh, that was only because he is her only relative and he must look
after her a little.”

“Yes, of course, and a woman like that would need a little
supervision. These very fair women, though they look so cold
and--virtuous, are really warmer and more dangerous than the ordinary
kind.”

“Dangerous?”

However, the secretary was not to be drawn out any farther. He really
felt he had said as much as was wise just then; he could drop other
hints on future occasions. He would have greatly enjoyed giving the
girl a full explanation at once, but dared not draw her attention to
her brother-in-law’s indiscretions too clearly. Still, he might set his
companion’s mind working in the right direction by throwing out vague
hints and stimulating her already jealous hatred of Miss Folkestone,
but this was as far as he thought it safe to go at present. However,
with her suspicious nature and his suggestions to guide her, she might
yet arrive at the truth, tell her sister, and then-- The malicious
gleam in the small blue eyes deepened.

Shortly afterward Rita left the library. The secretary picked up
a novel, seated himself in a deep armchair, and lighted another
cigarette. As the pale-bluish ringlets floated into the atmosphere, he
reflected. “She is in galloping consumption, and when she is out of
the way”--he nodded meaningly, “they will marry, of course, but in the
mean while we can make a fine scene. She has it in her to make a good
one; by Jupiter! she has!” he chuckled. For some time he sat musing,
turning the cigarette greedily between his fat fingers, then he laughed
under his breath. “The beautiful Isma clumsy! Great Christopher! So
that is what she thinks, the jealous little cat! As if she would
have half a chance with Folkestone or any other man while that fair
daredevil is about. The conceit of these insignificant little women!”




VII

ON FRIENDSHIP’S ALTAR


Isma Folkestone had gone up to the big cone-shaped headland on the
northern side of her small bay. But she did not stand expectantly with
dim hope in her heart, gazing out to sea, as she had done some weeks
before. She sat with her back to the ocean, leaning wearily against a
big boulder, her elbow on her knee and her softly curving chin resting
in the pink palm of her hand, while her eyes looked with intense
sadness on the vast plain below, where the little silver road stretched
contentedly toward the slumbering hills.

The sun had set and left behind it a flood of molten gold that throbbed
with an intensity almost human. But the world seemed strangely
unresponsive to the pulsating beauty above. It lay back calm and dreamy
as a tired child, blissfully unconscious of everything except its own
delicious need of rest.

The still figure by the rock watched all while she tried to fight
back the bitter despair in her heart. So it was in vain she had
made the big flight and hidden in this immense loneliness by the
giant headlands! It had all been useless! Her hiding-place had been
discovered. The enemy had followed and was now confronting her with new
vigor, fresh determination to track her down. She had considered her
life broken before, but now she found how much valuable substance had
remained among the ruins. There had been the hope of peace left her and
the certainty that she had done with sordid things, that even memories
could in time be flung away, but now-- She was not merely disquieted by
recollections, but the hideous thing itself which had made the stinging
memories had returned to her life and leeringly announced it had come
to--conquer.

She looked long at the narrow track winding across the low flats. Then
she suddenly whispered, “You little peaceful road creeping so leisurely
over the tranquil plain, if only I could be like you and lie at rest
among the friendly spider-flowers and sheltering she-oaks!”

She made a little movement with her hands, as if stretching them out to
something which had turned its back on her.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord and Lady Berriedale had been with her that afternoon. Beatrice had
been delighted with the little red house among the palms and greatly
excited at seeing her again. Isma could still feel the convulsive
embraces of the thin arms, she could still see the deepening of the
hectic flush in the wan cheeks. Lady Berriedale had been ecstatically
happy as they sat on the balcony behind the glowing veil of bignonia
flowers. While the little dark woman talked incessantly, she had
frequently sent frankly adoring glances at her grave, unresponsive
husband. But his lack of enthusiasm did not seem to quench her fervor,
for at times when disquieting thoughts troubled her she told herself
that Neville was not impulsive, he had no Spanish blood in his veins
like herself; he was English, reserved, and hated to show his emotions.
But she would have awakened to the truth that afternoon if she had
seen the passive expression in her husband’s dark eyes give place to a
sudden flash of fire whenever he gazed unobserved at their beautiful
hostess. However, the tall, fair man was guarded, and it was only from
behind his wife’s chair he permitted the burning appeals to reach the
girl, who responded only with the coldest disdain.

As Isma’s guests were leaving, Lady Berriedale had taken the girl’s
slim hand in her own feverish ones and begged her to come to The Bluff
every day. She would send a car for her, and insisted on her friend
promising to come. The girl could not refuse the hollow, pleading eyes,
encircled by those fatal shadows, and she had yielded. Yes, whatever
happened, the sufferer should have all it was in her power to give
during the inevitably short time granted her by destiny.

Now Isma sat fully considering what this promise would mean to
herself. She shivered. Could any one be compelled to pay a costlier
price for the gift she was laying on the altar of friendship? She had
already been branded before the world because of her sacrifice to
this friend. However, now a much greater demand was made upon her.
When she had fled from danger might not people learn to believe in
her sincerity in wishing to evade disaster? But when they heard about
present developments--that she was constantly at The Bluff with the
Berriedales, would not the world turn from her in disgust and conclude
that her flight had merely been a step toward a deeper intrigue?

And what would Falcon think? That Lord Berriedale should pursue her
might not wholly condemn her in his eyes; but if she resumed the old
intimacy with his wife, and he found her constantly in the way of
danger again, would he not irrevocably lose every vestige of respect
for her?

“Good God!” she moaned, “why am I called on to make such a sacrifice to
a dying woman? Can friendship demand such a stupendous offering?” Her
head dropped. All at once she knew that friendship cannot only ask for
all that one holds dear, but it can exact that life itself be laid in
full surrender at its feet.

Isma rose slowly. The sunset had faded and a delicate gloom was
creeping into the great spaces above her. She remembered when she
stood looking into them some weeks ago and felt they held vast, lofty
things, that she had expected somehow to come into touch with them;
but now, though she was still conscious of their presence, they seemed
utterly unapproachable and out of reach, for had she not been thrust
back into the whirlpool? Lofty things were not for her!

She glanced up the coast-line. In the distance a big scarred bluff, its
head a little tilted, stared with half-blind eyes out to sea.

The girl watched it for some moments. “Yes, that is life,” she muttered
under her breath; “a half-blind staring into the greatness that broods
above the whirlpool of earth, but never descends to the men and women
who are in such desperate need of its infinite peace!” she exclaimed,
bitterly, as she walked down the rough slope of the headland to her
home among the palms.

The soft violet tints on the coast-line faded and a thick,
uncompromising darkness strode in from the ocean and wrapped rocks,
beaches, and cliffs in its austere mantle of night.




VIII

RING-BARKED


During the following weeks Isma did not visit her favorite cliff. She
was back in the old life, almost daily seated in the purple-crested car
with its mauve lining and silver fittings belonging to the Berriedales.
It called for her constantly, and she was whirled to numerous beauty
spots on the coast and inland with her friends.

The weather had been fine, and for weeks the sun had swept the
turquoise heavens in golden majesty. Lady Berriedale had enjoyed the
long days in the brilliant spring sunshine; she certainly looked
better and was able to stand the outings without distressing symptoms
of fatigue. Captain Folkestone joined all the excursions, but he was
generally beside Miss Brentford, so Isma saw very little of him. She
rigorously avoided being alone with Lord Berriedale and devoted herself
entirely to the friend for whom she was making the colossal sacrifice.

So for a little while danger had been kept at bay and the girl had been
able to avoid unpleasant encounters. But the fiery glances which found
their way from the black eyes to her own told her that the scene she
dreaded could not long be postponed. One day a picnic had been arranged
to a beautiful lagoon some miles away, but on the morning of the trip
Lady Berriedale did not feel well enough to go. It was impossible to
put off the outing at such short notice, as some of the neighboring
squatters and their families had been invited. But Isma refused to
leave her friend, and after seeing the party off she joined her in the
morning-room facing the ocean.

The invalid was lying on a couch, looking worn and ill. Her skin was
sallow and parched, but near her cheek-bones were dark-red patches.

Miss Folkestone sat down beside her and took up some embroidery.
“Perhaps you would rather I read to you?” she asked, as she threaded a
needle with some jade-green silk.

Her companion did not reply for a moment; her big eyes were fastened
on the picture with the large black cross over the altar. The sun had
left the room some time ago, so no illumining rays picked out the fatal
symbol and made it prominent and important. All the same, the patient
watched it with peculiar interest. At last she said:

“No, I don’t want you to read to me just now, thank you. I want to
talk-- There is something on my mind I want to ask you about.”

“Yes, dear--what is it?”

“Do you believe in omens, in forebodings?”

“I don’t know; I have never thought about them.”

“But don’t you think it feasible that big, dreadful events should be
felt before they actually happen? Look how birds feel a storm coming
and cry out in terror long before the gale is actually there. And if
you have been in the vicinity of icebergs, you know how you feel the
terrible cold long before they are visible, and on the same principle
don’t you think big, horrible events are felt beforehand?”

“Yes, perhaps they are.”

“Well, lately I have had an awful feeling that”--she removed her large,
solemn eyes from the painting and fixed them on Isma, and there was a
peculiar glassy expression in them as she said--“that--death is near.”

The girl shuddered at the unearthly gravity in the gaze fastened on her
and the hollow sound in the weak voice. She dropped her work and bent
over her friend quickly.

“Deary,” she pleaded, anxiously, “don’t talk like that--please don’t!”
She would have liked to make light of the premonition and brush it
emphatically aside, but she was always strictly truthful, and falsehood
on such an occasion seemed specially abhorrent to her.

However, the frail woman among the silk cushions could not have been
turned aside by any protest. “Isma, I must tell you about it, for I
cannot talk to Neville. Don’t you see it would grieve and upset him if
I spoke of--leaving him?”

The girl looked suddenly away; the unconscious pathos of the last words
went strangely to her heart, and at that moment she felt unutterably
thankful that she had put her own happiness aside in order to keep her
friend blind--keep her from knowing the truth which would break her
heart.

“What is the matter, dear?” asked Lady Berriedale, a little fretfully,
glancing toward the averted face.

Miss Folkestone turned to her quickly. “Oh, Beatrice, can’t you
understand that I--?”

“Yes, of course I can!” interrupted the invalid, penitently, taking one
of the girl’s hands. “Of course it is hard for you, too, and I know how
deeply you will feel it. Still, do let me talk about it. It will help
me-- It is so hard to brood over things--alone.”

“Then tell me all about it--just how you feel,” responded her
companion, kissing the lined, damp brow.

“Well, several times lately I have had a most extraordinary
sensation, as if some dreadful chilly presence was near me, something
indescribably awful, and I know--it has been _death_ itself--”

The girl’s grip tightened on the wasted fingers. What was there to say
in the face of the tragedy confronting her? She felt utterly powerless.
For some moments she sat silent, casting about in her mind for words
which might bring comfort. At length she said: “Do you think there is
a real death? So many poets and writers say there is not, that what we
call death is only--”

“No death!” interrupted the woman beside her. “Those people cannot know
what they are talking about! Such sentiments are written by strong
men in robust health, who have never been in the vicinity of the
terrible Icy Presence,” she concluded, her eyes glistening with fevered
brilliance.

“But, dear,” remonstrated Isma once more, “you are only having these
feelings because this is one of your bad days. To-morrow you will be
better and all will seem different.”

“Yes, I know; still, bad days are the times when Death reveals his
presence and--takes a step nearer.”

“But to-morrow he will depart again.”

“No, Death never retreats. He may stand inert for a while, yet his
cold, hollow gaze never leaves his prey for a moment.”

Miss Folkestone bent over her friend in deep distress. “Beatrice, do
you think it wise to dwell on that subject? Isn’t it a pity to endow
Death with too great importance?”

“Dear, Death has awful powers. You cannot know because you have never
felt them. But think of it, he takes life--_life itself_. Isma,” she
went on, impressively, “can’t you imagine what that means?”

“But does he take it? That is the question. If he did, he would be the
Monarch of life and there would be no life beyond, as we are told there
is.”

Lady Berriedale shook her head. “That does not follow. It seems to me
Death takes life very much as an executioner does. However, he cannot
interfere with what is beyond any more than an executioner can.”

Isma looked reflectively out of the window on the sunlit coast-line.
“Perhaps Death is an executioner?” She turned an inquiring gaze on her
friend. “Still, that makes us criminals, and criminals of the worst
type, for only they are dealt with in such a terrible way.”

As her companion was silent, she went on. “Perhaps that is why this
world is so sad and full of anguish. It may be a great prison-house,
keeping the spirit-criminals of the universe till their sentence is
carried out--”

She was suddenly interrupted, for Lady Berriedale had half raised
herself and her shrill voice pierced through the room.

“Isma--Isma--I feel so ill! Quickly ring for Abbott and let her get me
to bed!”

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when Lady Berriedale awoke from
her long, heavy sleep. Her dark eyes opened slowly and strayed round
the room as if she did not recognize her surroundings immediately. Then
they lighted on the fair girl sitting beside her.

“Isma,” she said, moving her hand across her brow, “what a horrid day
this has been for you!”

“No, no!” protested her companion, brightly. “I am only too glad to be
with you.”

“You are a darling and no one in the world is as kind and good as you,
except, of course, Neville.”

Miss Folkestone lowered her eyes and began to smooth the lacy pillow.

“Isma, I feel so much better now I could almost get up; still, perhaps
it will be wiser to stay here. But, deary, would you mind going into
the drawing-room and singing me some songs? If you leave the doors
open I shall be able to hear--only sing me something full of life and
beauty, something throbbing with romance, which makes one realize all
we are meant to enjoy!”

The girl’s face brightened and she bent and kissed her friend happily.
“Of course I shall love to sing to you!” She left the room, and as she
crossed the hall the invalid called to her:

“Don’t forget to finish with my favorite from ‘Samson et Dalila.’”

“Very well,” Isma replied, entering the large drawing-room, which faced
north and west so that from its many windows the extensive coast-line
as well as the rolling plains could be seen.

Black, mauve, and purple predominated in the lavishly furnished room.
On the black, highly polished floor lay a large velvety black carpet
bordered with bunches of violets and mauve-ribbon true-lovers’ knots.
The easy-chairs, divans, and high-backed settees were covered with
shadow tissue and provided with a profusion of shirred purple, black,
and mauve silk cushions, and the many deep-cream curtains had rows
of wide mauve, black, and purple ribbons at their lower edges. The
tables and mantelpiece were of polished ebony holding numerous vases
filled with spring flowers. In front of the hearth lay two big shirred
_bouffées_ and in the northern recess of the bay-windows stood the
ebony grand piano. By it and close to a writing-desk were tall standard
lamps with purple-beaded shades.

On the walls hung a fine collection of Australian pictures, big
canvases by Streeton aglow with riotous sunlight; a few animated
portraits by Longstaff--children’s heads, alive, warm, kissable;
delicious water-colors from Lindsay’s brush, one or two very
imaginative studies by Norman Carter, and some beautiful pastels by
Florence Rodway.

Isma walked over to the piano.

As she sat down at the instrument the sunlight fell fall upon her
luxuriant yellow hair and made her lime-colored frock strangely
luminous. Her white fingers ran lightly over the keys, creating a
delicate, smooth atmosphere into which she might pour the songs she
loved. No true artist can bear to send forth a strain of favorite music
into an unprepared world. The air must first be warmed, subdued, made
a soft cradle for the tender song-notes to rest in.

Then Miss Folkestone began to sing. She had a rich contralto voice
which harmonized strangely with her loveliness--it was curiously part
of it. Some voices seem a thing apart, as if they had no connection
either with the singer’s appearance or individuality; but Isma’s voice
was herself, it throbbed with her vital personality and in it quivered
her extravagant beauty.

The invalid had asked for romantic music, and love-song after love-song
pulsated through the room. Isma sang with great feeling; it seemed
as if every tender word, every passionate avowal, was a spontaneous
utterance from her own heart.

At last the singer struck the fluttering, breathless chords of her
friend’s favorite song, and into the afternoon radiance floated the
thrilling words:

  “Softly awakes my heart
   As the flowers awaken
   To Aurora’s tender zephyr!
   But say, Oh, well beloved,
   No more I’ll be forsaken.
   Speak again, Oh, speak forever!
   Oh, say that from Delilah
   You never will part!
   Your burning vows repeat;
   Vows so dear to my heart.”

Then followed the refrain with its haunting music heavy with passionate
sweetness.

  “Oh, once again do I implore thee!
   Oh, once again then say you adore me!
   Oh, I here implore thee!
   See, I implore thee!
   Oh, once again then say you adore me!”

As the last notes of the second verse trembled into space a figure
moved from the other end of the room; it was Lord Berriedale.

The dreaded encounter had come. There was no escape, for the fair
man approaching her, his footsteps entirely muffled by the thick
black carpet, was between herself and the only door leading from the
apartment, and she was now aware that it had been noiselessly closed
while she was singing.

Isma rose instinctively.

“You seem a little surprised to see me,” began the man, in soft tones.
“I left the picnic early--had to come back and see how Beatrice was
getting on, of course, but she is not needing either you or me at
present, for she is fast asleep, so we can have our long-delayed
tête-à-tête, as the others will not be back till dinner-time,” he said,
coming up to her.

The girl made no outward sign that her heart was throbbing wildly. She
was not afraid, but she loathed the inevitable scene before her.

“Isma,” said Lord Berriedale, as she made no reply, “do you think you
have treated me very kindly, giving me this long chase across the world
after you?”

“I did not wish you to follow me. In fact, I think it a great
impertinence that you have done so!”

“But you knew I would come.”

“I had hoped that after a little time to reflect you would have--”

“Time to reflect indeed!” He interrupted her scoffingly. “As if I
should stop for that! From the moment you left I began to make plans
for pursuit, of course. Isma,” he took a step nearer, his eyes alight
with something which made a cold shiver pass through the girl, “you
know my love is not the kind which can be balked.”

“Lord Berriedale, I have forbidden you to mention love to me,” said
Isma, with a sudden proud tilt of her head.

“That is most unfortunate, for it happens to be the very subject I have
come to talk about.”

“Please let me pass. I want to go back to Beatrice.”

“I tell you she is asleep, so I am afraid you will have to put up with
my society for the present.”

“You surely will not keep me here against my will?”

“I shall be sorry to do that, but you so rarely favor me with a talk I
can’t afford to waste this splendid opportunity.”

“Lord Berriedale, I am your wife’s friend and guest. Please let me
pass.”

He blocked the way more obviously. “Isma, to-day you must listen to me.”

“I will not listen!”

His eyes bored themselves into hers. “Do you think it wise to--play
with me like this? Don’t you know it is dangerous to play with fire?”

“I am not playing, and you know it.”

“Believe me, it would be wiser of you not to try me too much. If you
strain my powers of endurance too far, there is no telling to what
lengths you may drive me. At present my only intention is to talk to
you; but if you refuse to listen, can’t you see you only force me to
use more desperate means of securing your attention?”

Miss Folkestone did not reply, yet her silence was not an acquiescence;
rather it seemed a louder protest than any words could have been.

Still, the man would not be silenced.

“Isma, I heard you singing that last song. Do you realize what such
words coming from your lips mean to me--?”

“I only sang them because Beatrice wished it. I had no idea you were
listening,” she explained, coldly.

“You might have known I should come back early. I loathe picnics.
Heavens! how they bore me! Fancy being dragged out with a lot of stupid
people I have no more interest in than the pebbles on the shore! I only
put up with those affairs because you are generally there and they are
part of the scheme which keeps me near you.”

“Perhaps now that you have said all this, you will let me go back to
Beatrice?” said Miss Folkestone, quietly.

“Let you go now? Why, I haven’t even begun to say what I want to.
Isma,” his tones changed and he came still closer, “I can’t stand this
any longer. Your coldness is intolerable! To see you daily, be near
your maddening loveliness, witness your tenderness and devotion to
another, while you give me only frosty indifference--how do you expect
me to stand it? You put a greater strain on me than I can bear!” He
spoke jerkily, his eyes burning upon her face.

“How often shall I have to tell you that I will not listen to such
talk!”

“But you must listen. I can’t go on like this any longer. You must
treat me differently. Be kind, Isma.” A note of pleading crept into his
voice. “I only ask for kindness. Give me a little friendliness!”

“How can I give you friendliness when you talk to me as you do?” she
said, fixing her steady gaze upon him.

“Most women like devotion--”

“I do not appreciate it from my friend’s husband.”

“But you could learn to value it--I could teach you.”

“Never!” cried the girl, indignantly. “Whatever you said, you could not
teach me such treachery!”

“No, perhaps words could not teach you to--love, but--my arms--”

“How dare you suggest such a thing--how dare you insult me!” she flung
at him, her face aflame, her superb eyes flashing.

The man before her turned white. “Great God! you are magnificent! It is
worth while making you angry to see you like this!”

“You are cruel and heartless!”

“Cruel and heartless?” His black eyes narrowed till they were mere
points of burning flame. “You should be the last being in the world
to accuse me of that! Now you force me to prove to you that I am not
heartless, that I--”

He came nearer and made a movement as if he would have caught her to
him.

The girl drew back quickly and stood leaning against the light-tinted
wall with its panels of purple flags, every vestige of color drained
from her face, but entrancingly lovely in its proud, marble-like
whiteness.

“Isma”--he spoke with difficulty--“you are enough to turn the sanest
man love-mad!”

The girl stiffened and pressed herself against the wall as if she
expected it to recede with her weight.

He was bending toward her now, his breast almost touching her own. His
arms moved--

Her eyes dilated with horror and she drew a shuddering breath--

The door at the other end of the room had opened and Captain
Folkestone’s pleasant voice said, in light, inquiring tones: “Is my
cousin here. Lord Berriedale? Oh, Isma, I see you are there,” and
after crossing the floor he continued: “There is a big thunder-storm
coming, so our picnic broke up sooner than we expected. I am going
home now,” he went on, addressing the girl, “and if you would like to
come, there is room in my car. But we must hurry or we shall not escape
the rain,” he urged, apparently unconscious of the tenseness of the
situation he had interrupted.

“It is a splendid thing this thunder-storm should come along just now,”
remarked Falcon, when his cousin had left the room. “These spells
of--heat are very disastrous sometimes.”

“I should have thought you would consider the storm a confounded
nuisance, breaking up the picnic,” replied the other man, with scarcely
veiled irritation.

“That was a pity, of course! Still, such things are only trifling
annoyances compared with the great misfortunes such storms may avert.
That is the best of this country--if heat presumes too much, the
revenger is always close at hand. I am speaking of thunder-storms, of
course,” said the soldier, in a tone which was careless yet at the same
time held an ominous meaning.

Isma appeared at the door just then and put an end to further
conversation between the men, and after a rather formal good-by the
cousins left The Bluff.




IX

THE THUNDER-STORM


On the way home Captain Folkestone was very silent. He sat at the wheel
looking straight in front of him, tense, absorbed, white. Isma had
expected him to hurl sarcasm at her or speak with fierce bitterness,
but he did neither. He hardly looked at her, and yet she felt that
he was acutely conscious of her presence. She caught glimpses of his
face sometimes, when she glanced beyond him at the large, glittering
beaches, obtruding headlands, and the darkened horizon, above which
the sky was banked with huge inky clouds reflecting their threatening
mien in the heaving waters below. Once as she looked a shaft of yellow
fire flashed out from the dark, ominous masses, there was a slight
hesitation, then followed a long, low growl which rumbled angrily over
the cowering sea.

Isma started a little.

Her companion turned to her at once as if curiously aware of her
slightest movement.

“Are you afraid?” he asked, in a voice she hardly recognized as his.

“No, thank you,” she replied, in tones which were not too even. “I am
not afraid, only--”

“Yes?” he asked, not looking at her.

“Oh, I can hardly explain.” She shuddered slightly.

“Thunder-storms make you think of--corresponding upheavals in life?” he
suggested, his grip on the wheel tightening.

She made no reply, but turned her face away and looked inland. A
greenish, unearthly light lighted up the hills and the intervening
stretch of bush--everywhere there were traces of the overhanging storm.

But it was not long before they approached The Palms.

As the machine slowed down Isma said, “Won’t you come in and wait till
the storm is over?”

“No, thanks. I think I had better get home.”

“Well, if you won’t come in I will get out here. The rain may come down
any moment and--”

From the lowering clouds burst a long, forked streak of light and a
deafening clap followed almost immediately, shaking the earth beneath
them.

“Go quickly,” she urged, springing out of the car. “The rain coming
will be terrible.”

“_That_ kind of storm will not hurt me,” he said, grimly, walking over
to the gate and opening it for her to pass through.

She held out her hand to him. “Thank you, Falcon,” she said, in a soft,
low voice.

He raised his cap with an odd gravity and held her hand for a moment as
he said good-by.

She walked away into the breathless stillness: under the palms. Then
some impulse made her all at once stop and look back. It happened so
quickly that the man leaning over the gate watching her had not time to
move away, and she surprised a look in his eyes which made her heart
give a sudden suffocating bound, while her gaze was riveted to his. But
it was only a second before the mask dropped over her cousin’s face,
and, raising his cap once more, he tore himself away, sprang into the
car, and drove away.

As the girl reached the house great drops splashed heavily on the
garden path; their vehemence increased till they pelted leaves and
flowers with savage ferocity. Lightning flashed, thunder-clap upon
thunder-clap rolled through the huge inky spaces. Between the wet,
drooping palm leaves Isma saw her cousin’s motor climb up the steep
ascent toward her favorite cliff.

The front door opened and Miss Livingston rushed out. “Come in quickly.
Don’t stand out there in the awful rain. You are getting absolutely
soaked!” she called, anxiously.

The girl came up the steps mechanically, and after replying to the
usual questions about Lady Berriedale’s health, and how she had spent
the day, went up to her own room.

       *       *       *       *       *

That night Isma went to bed early, for she was tired, but she did
not sleep till late. She lay listening to the torrential rain beating
peremptorily on the stiff, resisting palm leaves. At times the downpour
ceased and a rough wind rushed across the bay and charged madly at the
loudly protesting trees.

The girl listened absently, her senses numbed by delicious stupor. She
heard the sounds from without through the wide-open windows, but they
seemed strangely distant; everything seemed far away; even the scene
with Lord Berriedale in the drawing-room was remote now. Her mind
was absorbed by a confused sweetness, caused by the look she had so
unexpectedly caught in her cousin’s eyes. What did his expression mean?
Why had he gazed after her like that? His eyes haunted her, causing
a joyous languor to creep over her; she was unable to stir. At last,
after hours of dreamy wakefulness, she fell asleep.




X

THE BELL-BIRD


Miss Livingston and Isma had just finished breakfast the following
morning when Captain Folkestone’s car drew up at the front door and
a moment later the owner entered the dining-room, his handsome face
lighted up with his irresistible smile.

“I have come to carry off my cousin for the day,” he said, taking
the old lady’s hand with the courtly charm which had brought him so
much favor in the outer world. “She looked pale last night after her
long day in the house, and now I am going to take her out in the
sunshine--it is such a lovely morning after the storm.”

“But--” began the girl, astonished and hesitating.

“There are to be no ‘buts’ at all. Lady Berriedale is much better. I
rang up before leaving home and let her know you would not be able to
see her to-day--that I claimed you.”

Isma glanced at him gratefully. How tactfully he was managing the
embarrassing situation so as not to rouse Lady Berriedale’s suspicions
regarding her absence from The Bluff! Yet why this change of front
toward herself? He had never treated her like this before. He was
generally delightfully pleasant to others, but for her he had so far
only reserved cold cynicism and pitiless scorn. Perhaps the change in
his attitude was due to that long, mute look which had passed between
them the night before.

When Isma came down ready for the outing she wore a full-length, pale,
putty-tinted motor-coat, a Dutch-looking bonnet of sand-colored straw,
with its narrow brim turned slightly back from her face and lined with
deep bignonia-pink silk, and a long veil of the same hue draped her in
its warm, colorous sheen.

Captain Folkestone breathed a little unevenly as he caught sight
of her, then quickly smiling he exclaimed, lightly, addressing the
governess to whom he had been talking: “Miss Livingston, do you wonder
that we succumb at once at the sight of such bewildering loveliness?
How on earth is a man to remain level-headed with this vision beside
him?”

“Of course you can’t help being in love with my big, adorable Baby. No
one can--”

“Falcon, don’t listen to her,” the girl interrupted, coloring and
laughing as she went out to the car.

It was a glorious morning; every trace of the storm had disappeared.
The sun shone, the earth glistened, birds sang, and the ocean broke
into dazzling smiles, showing its white, gleaming teeth as it
approached the shore. The air was fragrant with the smell of freshly
washed things, the scent of flowers, and the pungent odors from the
sea. The world was intensely young, with the exuberant youth of spring!
The sunlight throbbed with a tense vitality; it was peculiarly alive
with chirping notes, the flutter of happy wings, and the hilarious boom
of waves.

“And may I ask where you are carrying me off to?” the girl queried,
with a happy smile, as they sped toward the northern headland.

His blue eyes answered her smile as he said:

“We are going thirty miles up the coast and will lunch at a small
hotel. I took the precaution to order our meal by ’phone, and then--”

The girl’s laugh interrupted him suddenly.

“You made very sure that I would come!” she said, the gleam still in
her eyes.

“Of course I knew you would not be going to The Bluff to-day,” he
began, in graver tones; then, seeing a cloud pass over her face at
the mention of The Bluff, he added, more lightly, “But in any case,
whatever engagements you had, I meant to carry you off.”

The brightness came back to her eyes again.

“Isn’t this a real Australian day!” she remarked, after a short
silence. “It reminds me of one of Streeton’s pictures. Isn’t it
marvelous the way he gets the Australian atmosphere and its vivid
sunlight!”

“Yes, indeed! But then Streeton is one of our finest artists. He has
reached the highest in art, when it ceases to be art and becomes
nature.”

“You put it well! But doesn’t that rather sound as if you thought
that things could not be at their best unless they had ceased to be
themselves and become something else?”

“Everything at its highest is always something else.”

“I don’t quite see that.”

“Paint is not at its greatest as paint, but when it has ceased to be
paint and becomes a flower, a sunset, or a beautiful girl’s head. And
isn’t water at its highest when it ceases to be water and becomes
cloud? Or coal when it becomes fire?”

“Yes, and a painter when he ceases to be a painter and becomes an
artist.”

“What would you say was the difference between a painter and an artist?”

“I should say a painter is a skilled workman who sees the shell of his
subject and can represent that, while an artist sees through a shell to
the kernel and can reproduce it for others to see.”

“Yes, certainly, it is always far cleverer to see what isn’t there
than what is! But talking about art,” he went on, “there is a picture
in the Sydney Art Gallery which impressed me greatly as a boy--I have
never forgotten it and I can see it still. It is one of Lister Lister’s
called ‘The Ever-restless Sea.’ It is a fine piece of work. The sand is
real sand, and there is splendid movement in the waves, they look so
somberly restless! By the way,” he added, “why is the sea so restless?”

“Do you think it is restless? It does not strike me as that. It seems
rather that the sea is so big, so strong, that it has to move because
of its overwhelming exuberance. The crash and roar of the waves are
only ways of letting off superfluous energy. The sea cannot help
booming and thundering any more than a bird can help singing. The boom
and crash are only songs of the sea.”

“And what are its songs about? Love?” He was looking at the girl again.

“I should hardly think so. They seem too boisterous, too loud and wild
for that.”

“Sometimes love is very boisterous and--wild.”

“Real love?”

“Yes, certainly, and it can clamor louder in the heart than any wave on
the shore.”

“Yes, that may be so,” replied Isma, a half-sigh escaping her unawares,
though it did not escape the notice of her companion. “Still, it seems
to me that love is too sacramental a thing for noisy vehemence.”

“That is one side of it, but it has others. When you stand on a cliff
in a storm and watch the heaving waters below flinging themselves
against the rocks--what swirling! What seething! The crushed waves
positively boiling with the violence of their own passion. That, too,
is like love.”

The girl looked away and made no reply, but her cousin felt the slight
sigh which passed through her. A few moments afterward she began to
talk brightly about other things.

The road did not run along by the coast all the way. Once they had to
turn inland for miles, to cross a large river and travel another long
distance before they could skim along by the sea again. Often they
had to drive very slowly, as the track was rough, but the scenery was
so beautiful that it was a delight to take a longer time passing it.
The car pushed up steeply graded hills, went through colossal forests
where giant gums, blackbutts, and turpentine-trees met overhead, where
bronze-winged pigeons flashed among the leaves and the roadside was
lined with cotton-bushes and lantana smothered in pink and cream blooms.

At the top of a small rise Captain Folkestone stopped the machine as he
said, “I remember years ago you could hear the bell-bird just here--”

“Do you think they would keep to the same spot all that time?”

“Most likely. They hardly ever move away from their favorite locality.”

When the throbbing of the engine had subsided Isma and her cousin sat
quietly listening, gazing expectantly into the green blur of foliage.

There was a great stillness in the forest; not a dull, dead silence,
but a stillness keenly and eagerly alive, which held stirring forces
and throbbed with unknown wonderful possibilities. Occasionally a leaf
fluttered to the ground or a dry twig cracked, and sometimes a falling
piece of bark rustled noisily among startled leaves.

But after a pause there came into the breathing quiet two liquid notes
like the tinkle of a silver bell.

The man and woman started and looked at each other.

The idyllic tinkle sounded again--then again.

“Isn’t it wonderful to hear the fairy-bells again, as we used to call
them when we were children!” cried the girl, under her breath.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Falcon, with a happy, reminiscent smile. “And I
shall never forget how, as a boy, I rushed all over the bush in search
of the bird--you know what a splendid ventriloquist it is--and it led
me an awful dance, and often after I had been all over the place and
come back to the starting-point I found the mischievous little imp must
have been sitting in the same tree all the time, enjoying watching
my chase! I used to call it the Australian will-o’-the-wisp! Other
countries have a light for that purpose, but we, being different from
the rest of the world, have another variety--our will-o’-the-wisp is a
musical call, a silver bell tinkling in many directions, and leading
those who will follow it widely astray.”

“What a splendid name for the bell-bird, the Australian will-o’-the-wisp!”

For a while the cousins were silent again, listening to the liquid
notes dropping into the velvet-green stillness.

At last Falcon set the engine throbbing once more as he said:

“I wonder if, after all, the thing we pursue most ardently, most
persistently, does not in the end turn out to be a--will-o’-the-wisp--?”

“If it happens to be as unreliable as the notes of a bell-bird!”
replied the girl, laughing his sudden gravity away.

“I wonder if it is?” he said, turning to her.

But the girl made no reply. She was watching a box-tree they were
passing just then, covered with clematis, the long, frail trailers
foaming with soft creamy blossoms and hanging inert and motionless in
the brilliant sunlight.

After they had left the forest the road took them through a huge
mangrove swamp alive with nesting birds, and when that was left behind
the sea came into view again. Close to the heavy track lay large mounds
of drift sand, some covered with bunches of stiff grass and others
nakedly glimmering in the noon sunlight. On solitary beaches foaming
breakers curled up on the wet forget-me-not-tinted sand.

The car went on. At times it crashed through thickets of great
bottle-brushes aflame with orange-colored cones, and stretches of
lillypilly which reached out branches laden with mauve, pink, and
white berries to detain the travelers. But the motor plodded onward.
It passed through jungles of ti-tree, the tall stems with their
paper-like bark appearing like skeletons seen in moonlight, and their
fine network of branches looking like herring-bones and seeming oddly
incapable of supporting the thick pads of dark-green foliage growing at
their extreme ends.

All too quickly the morning passed away and lunch-time found Isma and
Falcon at the small hotel where he had ordered their meal.

It was a wooden place built in bungalow style, with large overhanging
verandas.

The landlady took the visitors into the dining-room and asked them to
sit at a small table decorated with purple bush-lilies.

Another motor party had arrived before them and were already having
their dinner at a large table at the other side of the room.

Isma looked radiant as she sat opposite her cousin, talking brightly.
The reserve between them had vanished, and there was a new gladness in
Captain Folkestone’s eyes the girl had not seen there before. He was
generally vivacious, but the brightness just then was something quite
apart from his usual brilliance and had a strange, stimulating effect
on her. He watched her intently as she chatted and laughed, showing her
white, dazzling teeth and changing color in her vivid animation.

After all, was Lord Berriedale to blame for losing his head so
completely before such confusing loveliness! Falcon glanced at her
again. He did not seem able to keep his eyes from her--and Isma always
wore such becoming hats. The one she had on just then made her look
perfectly bewildering, and there seemed to be an occult league between
its rich silk lining nestling so softly against her yellow hair and the
rose tints in her cheeks.

“How very discontented that lady looks over there at the other table!”
remarked Isma, when they had finished their first course. “I wonder
why?”

“Most likely because she has everything she wants.”

“That is a strange reason for being discontented, surely.”

“It is the usual one.”

“Perhaps so. I see you are a keen observer, Falcon.”

The man looked long at the girl opposite him before saying, “On the
same principle, I suppose you cannot have all you want, as you look so
far from unhappy?”

The golden-gray eyes met his. “Perhaps I haven’t--”

“I wonder what it is you--want,” he queried, after a slight hesitation,
“and if I--could give it to you?”

“How generous of you to think of such a thing!” she replied, a little
embarrassed, looking out of one of the windows at a lake shimmering in
the distance; then after some moments she changed the subject.

After lunch they went farther up the coast. By a long, quiet beach
Captain Folkestone stopped the car and they walked along the shore for
a short distance.

“Now we must have a rest,” said Falcon, surveying the scene
appreciatively. “Isn’t this a delightful spot! You are fond of sleeping
on the beach, I know,” he added, with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

She blushed under his smiling gaze.

He spread a rug for her on the sloping sand and she lay down, her
hands behind her head, looking into the quivering atmosphere. Over the
horizon was a long belt of soft white clouds which were mirrored in
the scarcely stirring sea. A ship glided slowly past, drawing a long
trail of smoke after it, which hung like a narrow dark mist over the
far-away water. The waves broke languidly on the restful shore, casting
numerous pearls of white sparkling foam toward the figures basking in
the sunlight.

“Isma, have you noticed how few people we have seen to-day, and there
is not a soul in sight? We seem to have the world to ourselves.”

“Yes, it looks like that,” she replied, reflectively.

“If we had the whole world to ourselves, could you be happy?”

Some note in his voice roused her from her reverie.

“Yes, I think so, if we had the earth to ourselves, we need not be much
in each other’s way. You could have one hemisphere and I the other.”

The man broke off a long stalk of grass and put it between his teeth.
“I am afraid that arrangement would not suit me.”

“You are too sociable,” she teased. “You should be more fond of your
own company.”

“I have better taste--I prefer yours.”

“Now you flatter me!”

“Is truth ever flattery? But,” he harked back, “tell me, would you
be happy if we were alone in this beautiful world, not on different
hemispheres, but much closer?”

“That depends,” she replied, guardedly.

“On what?”

“On several things, one of them on the way you treated me.”

He rolled over on his side so that he faced her.

“Isma, how should I have to treat you so that--well--you wouldn’t be
bored to death--under those circumstances?” He had been trying to speak
lightly, but had not quite succeeded.

The girl sat up and looked out to sea.

“Well, to begin with, you would have to stop hurling sarcasm and
contempt at me,” she replied, quietly, her gaze still fixed on the
ocean.

“If we were alone in the world I should not need to do that. I should
treat you _very_ differently.”

She turned a pair of laughing eyes upon him. “I wonder in what way?”

Falcon sat up, too, and edged a little closer.

“I shall not tell you that unless--”

“No--I don’t suppose you know, yourself.” Her eyes still laughed at him
beneath their long, drooping lashes.

“Don’t I! That is all you know!”

“I wonder should I like it,” she mused, in her provoking banter.

“Ah, that is just the point--if I could only be sure--” he replied,
with a slight sigh as he lay back on the sand once more and looked into
the azure dome above, a strange gravity in his eyes.

The girl turned to the sea again. She could not make any reply. Surely
Falcon was not in earnest; he had only been talking as men so often
talk when they are alone with a pretty woman? She had taken for granted
that this was the case and had accordingly given him flimsy, bantering
replies. Yet could there be a deeper meaning in his light words? Why
this sigh and his silence now? Why that intense look last night?

Her heart throbbed tumultuously. But no, he could not really be in
earnest or he would have said more. All the same, she was conscious
that her want of response had in some inexplicable way separated them;
and though later, when it was time to go, Falcon held her hand a little
longer than necessary as he helped her to rise, and though he was as
kind and concerned for her comfort as before, yet somehow she was aware
that their gay intimacy of the morning had vanished.

They had afternoon tea at the small hotel where they had lunched, and
then they turned homeward toward the rocky headlands lying misty and
dreamy in the distance.

When the road was good Falcon let the car out, and it dashed along
exuberantly through the sun-kissed spaces. He talked fitfully, but
often for long stretches of time he was curiously silent.

Half-way home they passed a series of small lakes. The lagoons were a
deep nattier-blue and on their gently sloping banks grew a profusion of
reeds and bulrushes from which came the peremptory squabble of ducks
and the prattle of other water-birds. A number of black cormorants
sat on a protruding snag, and as the car rushed by the birds flew up,
noisily flapping their long, narrow wings and protesting loudly at
being disturbed.

On the last lake near the shining line that divided the deep-blue water
from the brown stone-strewn shore a pair of large white pelicans waded
knee-deep in the liquid splash of color. One of them had its colossal
beak open in the act of swallowing a good-sized fish, while the other
went on calmly searching for prey. The birds were rare and not often
found on the coast, so Isma was glad to have seen them.

As they crossed the wide plain near The Palms Captain Folkestone slowed
down the speed and looked round with strange interest.

Some of the spider-bushes were still in blossom, and mauve orchids,
bush-lilies, and flowering shrubs bloomed in rich profusion among the
stiff sedges and grass-trees.

Presently the motor began to ascend the cliff.

When they reached the highest point on the road Falcon stopped the
engine and suggested they should get out of the car, as they could get
a better view of the beauty lying behind them.

For some moments they stood without speaking, looking over the great
plain, where the last rays of the setting sun had scarcely faded from
the flowers and bushes.

“This view always reminds me of a favorite song of mine, ‘The Little
Winding Road.’ Do you know it?” said Isma, after a pause.

“No,” he replied, still gazing at the vast scene before them. “I don’t
think I have ever heard it. Won’t you sing it?”

“I will hum it if you like.” And in her low, rich voice she began to
lilt the romantic song.

When she had finished Falcon said: “Yes, both music and words must
surely have been written for this place! But would you mind letting me
hear the second verse again?”

Her soft voice repeated the words:

  “I sought for love on that road,
   I saw it afar on the plain;
   I followed the road
   And crossed the plain
   Then came to the hill again.”

A half-sigh escaped her companion. “The will-o’-the-wisp again,” he
murmured, gravely. “We see the vision on the plain, rush after it, and
find we are only confronted with--a steep hill.”

What could Falcon mean? Why did he talk like that? Was he in earnest,
after all? Ah, if only that were so, how well she would know how to
deal with him! But perhaps his thoughts had no connection with herself.

The colors in the landscape suddenly faded. Still, whatever was in his
mind, she must try and comfort him. She could not endure that sad note
in his voice.

“Oh, you must not take those words too literally. They may only be
written for effect--”

“Anyhow, it is an effect one often finds in real life,” he remarked,
turning to start the car.

As they descended the cliff the lights from the house, like yellow
stars, gleamed among the palms.

“You will come in and have some dinner, won’t you?” asked the girl,
watching the twinkling lights in the valley.

He accepted readily.

When they reached the house the first thing which caught Isma’s and
her cousin’s attention as they entered the brightly lighted hall were
two letters lying on a silver salver on the table. The girl picked
them up hastily, but the man beside her had already recognized Lord
Berriedale’s full-blooded writing on the uppermost envelop.

An instant change came over Captain Folkestone’s features; he looked
suddenly hard.

Isma stood hesitating for a moment, the brightness fading from her
cheeks and eyes; then she led the way into the sitting-room, went
over to the softly shaded lamp, and tore open the letter addressed in
Beatrice’s thin, upright hand, apologizing to her cousin for reading it
then.

It was evidently only a short note, and soon the girl put it down as
she said, “Beatrice is better; still, she is not at all well and simply
begs me to go to her to-morrow.”

With the lamplight on her face, Falcon noticed how pale she had become
and that the fingers holding the unopened letter were trembling.

“But of course you will not think of going to The Bluff after--”

Isma looked out of an open window into the dark-purple dusk for some
moments before saying, “I’m afraid I--must.”

“Isma, you can’t mean that!” His tones were stern.

“Falcon, I shall have to go to her.” There was pleading as well as
decision in her voice.

A steely look came into her cousin’s blue eyes.

“Of course if you are bent on playing about on precipices, I have
nothing more to say.” Then, picking up his cap and gloves, he added:
“If you don’t object, I think I will change my mind and not stay to
dinner, after all. Good night,” and he strode toward the open door.

“Falcon!” There was searching pain in the word.

But he did not appear to have heard the cry.

She followed him to the car. “Falcon, please try to understand. I am
not playing-- Can’t you see--?” she began, tremulously.

“Yes, I do see and I do understand,” he replied, coldly. “Your decision
makes it quite impossible to mistake your intention.” Then his manner
changed and he held out his hand with the old mocking courtesy as he
continued, “My beautiful cousin has been a most intelligent pupil in
the world’s school and has learned the advantage of money, titles, and
high position, and no doubt all she desires will come to her--soon.”

Isma did not take the proffered hand, but stood pale, erect,
motionless, her form flooded by the light from the hall.

“Good-by,” said her cousin again as he took his seat at the wheel, and
soon the throb of the receding car pulsated through the obscuring gloom.

       *       *       *       *       *

As Isma mounted the stairs to her room she was strangely conscious that
for one brief day she had rambled among the sweet flowers on the plain,
and that now she had come to the uncompromising hill on the other side
of her Eden.




XI

THE FIREWEED


On the morning that Isma and her cousin were driving up the coast
Rex was sitting in the avenue in the shade of the big Moreton Bay
fig-trees, when he saw Miss Brentford coming toward him. He smiled
complacently, lighted a fresh cigarette, and settled down to enjoy
himself. Of course he knew why she was seeking him out. The news that
Isma could not come to The Bluff because Captain Folkestone claimed her
for the day would naturally have a galling effect on the jealous girl,
and she was coming to extract from him every detail of the telephone
message--he always attended to the ’phone and was therefore able to
supply her with full particulars. Also Miss Brentford wanted his
sympathy. It was a strange thing that, though the secretary never gave
sympathy, a good many people brought their troubles to him and expected
comfort, in spite of the fact that they always left him with a fresh
sting in their wounds. He was like a soft cushion with a needle in it;
just as some one laid a tired head back for a rest there came a nasty
scratch.

Miss Brentford had reached the seat, and she closed her red-silk
parasol and sat down beside him.

“Rexie,” she began, a slight pucker between her black brows, “I don’t
think Australia is nearly as nice as I thought it was going to be.”

“My dear girl, how can you find fault with this charming place! The sky
is always blue and the sun is always shining! Of course things are a
little reversed here--at home it was the sun which shirked and did not
know its business, but the servants were excellent. Here the servants
are incapable and the sun works like blazes! However, it is a most
delightful country!”

Rex had only that morning, in a letter to a chum at home, said,
“Australia is like a book without a climax, it just goes on and on
without ever coming to anything, and if it were not that dear, virtuous
Neville has such an obvious reason for being here, I should think he
had gone clean out of his mind, bringing us all to this monotonous
hole!” At the end of the letter he had added a postscript: “It may
interest you to know that we have been fortunate enough to strike the
very spot on this long coast where the beautiful Miss Folkestone has
cloistered herself. Her retreat is a most idyllic place among clumps
of palms, and it has no iron gates barring the way, so she is very
approachable and administers her presence freely to her dull neighbors,
and I must say she is most generous to us at The Bluff.”

The secretary thought of this letter just then and smiled enigmatically.

The girl jerked her parasol impatiently. “Australia delightful! I think
it is hopelessly stupid. It is as boring as people with a sense of
humor!”

Her companion sat up straight with a shocked expression on his face.
“Now you are talking rank heresy, you are indeed going pell-mell
against all our modern notions of excellence! Why, don’t you know
that a sense of humor is the most popular virtue of to-day? In the
old times it used to be, ‘The greatest of these is love,’ but we
twentieth-century people read it, ‘The greatest of these is a sense
of humor!’ So how on earth can you object to people who possess this
supreme modern grace?”

The girl shrugged. “People with a sense of humor are always wanting to
display it, in and out of season. They are obsessed with it, like a
person with a grievance or an old lady with her ailments. Anyhow,” she
went on, in a different tone, “isn’t it frightfully dull here!”

The man beside her looked concerned. “Miss Rita, if you are really
tired of the place and would like to go back, it could easily be
arranged. I would cable--”

“Rex, don’t be so silly! How could I leave just now!” she exclaimed,
kicking a small stone viciously with the point of her low-cut shoe.

“It certainly would be very--unwise.”

“Unwise--it would be heartless when my sister is so ill!” she said,
drawing herself up.

“Ah yes, Lady Berriedale, of course--for the moment my thoughts went in
another direction.”

Miss Brentford blushed at his bluntness; however, she was too much
disturbed in mind to resent it. She picked a twig from an overhanging
branch and studied the thick, dark leaves absently. Then she began very
deliberately to tear them off one by one.

“Are you saying to yourself, ‘he loves me, he loves me not’?” suggested
Rex, with a provoking smile.

The girl flung away the bare stalk. “Rex, you are perfectly hateful
to-day. I am not a school-girl any longer; you are apt to forget that.
Besides, I am not in love.”

“I thought all girls were in love!”

“That is because you don’t know anything about them.”

“No, perhaps not. Well, will you come and have a game of tennis?”

But Miss Brentford had not come out to play tennis.

“No, thank you, it is too hot for that sort of thing. Rex,” she
continued, in a different voice, “do you think things come right in
real life the way they always do in books?”

“Great Christopher! no! That is why books are so much more popular than
reality. They give people what they want and reality never does.”

“Do you really believe that?”

The secretary took out his gold cigarette-case, very deliberately
selected another cigarette, and lighted it before replying. “Of course.
Look round for yourself and see. Do people like to sit down and watch
what goes on round them? No, because if they did it would give them the
blues! Everybody, all the world over, tries to run away from reality.
We all try to forget it exists. That is why we play cards, gamble, go
to races, dance, flirt, attend picture-shows, pay our last pound for
a seat at the opera--all to forget the horrid, brutal thing we call
reality.”

The girl frowned. She did not want philosophical discussion just then.
“Rex,” she said, plunging straight into the subject she had wished to
reach all the time, “did Captain Folkestone really say he was going
to--take his cousin out for the day?”

“Not in so many words. Still, I am sure that is what he means to do.
What a lovely day they will have for their outing! It is just made for
romance and love-making, especially out here in these lonely places
where--”

“He has not taken her out to make love to her,” interrupted Rita,
digging the point of her parasol savagely into the ground.

“What else is he doing it for?” asked the man, with his most suave air.

“Why, he has to take his cousin out sometimes. It is merely his duty.”

“Duty!” smiled Rex, meaningly. “He might pay her duty visits lasting
exactly half an hour while he swallows a cup of tea; but when a man
wants to spend a whole day with a woman there is generally no duty
about it. He does it for pleasure or, more correctly, because he means
business and--”

“But I tell you he doesn’t like her.” The girl cut him sharp. “Haven’t
you noticed that he never talks to her when they are here together--?”

“No, he doesn’t talk to her, but he looks.”

“How absurd you are! I have never seen him glance at her except in the
coldest way.”

“He is too much a man of the world to carry his heart on his sleeve.
However, watch him when he thinks himself unobserved. Why, he looks at
her then as if he would like to elope with her the next moment.”

“Rex, you are dreaming!” cried Rita, in exasperation, and, forgetting
herself for an instant, she went on, hotly: “I will not allow it. She
shall not have him--she shall not!”

“My dear Miss Rita, for goodness’ sake keep calm. Don’t excite yourself
on this warm day. It is truly most injurious. Besides, what difference
can it make to you if he wants to marry his lovely cousin? You are
not in love with him, not in love with any one, so it can’t hurt you.
I always find it such a good plan never to get excited about other
people’s affairs. It saves an awful lot of nerve fag. Leave them to it,
I say.”

“Leave them to it, indeed!” The girl was growing frantic. “Do you think
I am going to allow a splendid man like that to be taken in by an
unscrupulous woman--?”

“I wouldn’t bother myself about that if I were you. It is too hot out
here for such exertion. Anyhow, Miss Folkestone is only playing with
him. He will never be able to marry her for--she would never have him.”

“Not have him! Oh, Rex, you must be going dotty. Why, it is the very
thing she has been aiming at all the time! And haven’t you noticed how
strained and different she seems when he comes into a room?”

“That is only part of the game.”

“Part of the game! Why--”

“Why, indeed! You would surely think he was good enough for her. Most
other girls would accept him readily enough, but the wise and prudent
Miss Folkestone has higher ambitions. She knows where to aim.”

“Rex, what _do_ you mean?” Rita leaned forward and looked into her
companion’s face with half-relieved anxiety.

“My dear girl, it is not for me to give a beautiful woman away. You are
pretty observant, why don’t you see for yourself?”

Just then their conversation was interrupted as Lord and Lady
Berriedale came down the avenue toward them.

The secretary rose and Lady Berriedale sat down on the seat he had
just vacated, a little breathless from her walk.

“Rita,” commenced the elder woman, watching her husband and Rex walk
farther down the avenue, “Neville and I have just been talking of
having a house-party. We ought to return the hospitality shown us in
Sydney. The governor and Lady Carson were awfully good to us the week
we stayed with them. We certainly ought to entertain them here. The
Bluff is big enough to hold a good many people and we could give them
an enjoyable time.”

“My dear Beatrice, they would be bored to death. What on earth could we
do with them?”

“We would give a big dance one night; so many of the squatters about
have called; they all have cars and could come to the ball and we could
have a good number. It would be no trouble to us; the caterers can do
all the work. Another day we can have a picnic; the men can fish, and
the women, too, if they like. We can take them to that lovely river
where you went a little while ago. I am sure they would enjoy it.
Neville and I were thinking it would be a good idea to arrange it for
the next full moon, and he is going to write to the governor to see if
that time would suit him and Lady Carson.”

“But Beatrice,” remonstrated her sister, “it would be far too much for
you, entertaining all those people. Talking a lot always exhausts you,
and even with caterers to do the work you will have to supervise, and
that is very tiring, and you know I am no good at that sort of thing.”

“I am going to ask Isma to come and stay with us for those days and do
that part of it for me.”

“Always that Miss Folkestone! Whatever can you see in such an icicle?”
said the girl, glancing sullenly down at the black-silk sash on her
parasol.

“Now, Rita,” began Lady Berriedale, gently but firmly, “don’t let us
open that subject again. We have discussed it quite enough already. You
know how I feel about Isma, and you ought not to grudge me the pleasure
her friendship gives me. I believe you only dislike her because you are
jealous.”

“Jealous--” shrugged, the girl, disdainfully. “What is there to be
jealous about?”

“Never mind, only, Rita, don’t ever say anything against her to me,
and, while talking on the subject, I wish you to be pleasant to her.
Remember you are in my house and you must be civil to my guests.”

Miss Brentford flushed angrily. “Very well, I will try to remember that
in your house I am called upon to be nice to women, even of that kind,”
and as she rose she added, “Perhaps you would like me to take you back
now.”

“No, thank you. I will wait here till Neville comes.”

“Poor little Rita is jealous of my beautiful Isma,” mused Lady
Berriedale to herself as she watched the girl’s red parasol
disappearing among the trees. “Such a pity she cannot conquer that
feeling of dislike; it makes her look so small and childish.”




XII

BURSTING BUBBLES


As Isma stepped into the purple car the following afternoon one little
word _lost--lost--lost!_ hammered in upon her consciousness as the
breakers thudded in upon the sand.

Falcon had gone out of her life and would never come back. For a
brief moment he had begun to believe in her and had shown signs of
being strongly attracted to her; however, by deciding on the present
course of action she had destroyed his faith in her. Honor stood above
everything with him. He would have nothing but contempt for crooked
dealings and sordid conduct. In his eyes she stood branded once more.
He did not understand the sacrifice. To him she appeared merely an
ambitious woman unscrupulous enough-- She straightened suddenly in the
motor and a burning wave of humiliation surged through her.

She looked out on the sea imploringly as if pleading with it to rescue
her, while the syllable _lost--lost_ dinned itself with bursting force
into her sore heart. Falcon had been insulting, she was angry with
him, and yet--anger and love fought desperately in her soul.

She glanced down over the rocks and saw glimmering emerald waves
swelling high round the stones and heard the heaving splash of the
gulping water. Above it circled sea-gulls uttering loud, fierce cries;
one swooped across the road and spread its silver wings for a moment
over the girl leaning wearily against the mauve cushions in the car,
then it gave a horrible shriek and flew away.

Isma shivered in the warm sunshine.

For her all sunlight had faded; she was in cold darkness, and the
future held nothing but a gaping emptiness.

The machine had passed the rocks and was now skirting a great beach
where snow-crested breakers thundered in upon the sand.

Was that not the way generation after generation had been hurled in
upon life, peopling its shores with sparkling foam-souls, iridescent
bubbles that twinkled in the sunlight for a moment and then vanished
as quickly as they had come, while new waves cast new foam upon the
sands? Yes, that was life! A frail little bubble thrust in upon the
strand, gleaming and glittering for a few seconds and then suddenly
bursting--was it into nothing?

Isma looked on the waves again. She saw how discolored the pure foam
became as it lurched against the dark-tinted beach. Life was sordid.
The souls hurled on its shores became terribly discolored, but--what
about the little bursting bubbles, did they completely vanish? Was
their tiny sparkle only a flash which disappeared into a hollow void to
be no more?

Along the shore a white mist had gathered over the waves and rose
slowly higher and higher in the glowing afternoon sunshine.

The girl watched it half absently. So the bubbles had not vanished into
nothing! They had risen, and were now set free from the cruel battering
and crushing on the hard beach. They had been purified from the ugly,
earthly discoloration and were mounting white, spiritlike, into the
wide, clear vault of blue.

Isma sighed. “If I might but be free from the sordid battering on the
sand!” she murmured. “If only--”

The car had swung up the last hill near The Bluff; in a few minutes it
would be turning into the drive leading to the house.

By the roadside grew a number of gum-trees; some of them looked very
worn and ragged and their leaves drooped like bundles of faded green
threads. A flock of parrots flew up from some of the lower branches and
darted with shrill screams past the motor, their breasts flaming red
against the brilliant azure sky.

Isma started.

More alarming shrieks! Had the birds come to warn her? Was she really
on dangerous ground--so dangerous that not even the most virtuous
strength could protect her there? And yet could there be real peril to
herself? To her reputation and interest it certainly meant ruin, she
knew that; however, that was the cruel renunciation she was called on
to make for her dying friend. She was willing to lay all upon the altar
which might be laid there, without staining her womanhood. Still, was
the path she was treading really perilous to her honor? Lord Berriedale
had gone to greater lengths two days ago than ever before; he had never
previously lost control of his feelings to that extent, and if Falcon
had not come when he did--

She paled at the thought.

But had she not received a humble letter of apology from Lord
Berriedale that morning, assuring her that what had taken place the
last afternoon she was at The Bluff should not be repeated, as he had
himself in hand again? He begged her to forgive him, and if she could
not do so at once, at least not to vent her anger on his frail wife by
depriving the invalid of her cheering presence. Lord Berriedale had
made no excuses for himself, simply pleading that her cold aloofness
had driven him to desperation and momentarily he had given way to
his emotions. However, he promised that in the future all should be
different. There was an air of sincerity about the letter which made
her feel that she could venture to go to The Bluff again if she were
specially careful not to be alone with him.

When she arrived at the house Beatrice was sitting on the veranda,
eagerly waiting to tell her of the plans they had made for the
house-party.

“But,” expostulated Isma when she had heard about the new scheme, “that
would be far too much for you. Even with all the help you can get from
caterers and others you would still have to look after everything
yourself.”

Lady Berriedale took one of the girl’s hands and looked at her
pleadingly. “Isma, that is just what I am going to ask you to do. Come
and stay here and--” She stopped abruptly, for Isma had suddenly turned
white and a look of anguish had come into the golden-gray eyes.

“Isma, whatever is the matter with you? Are you not well? Would you
like some wine?”

“No, no, I am all right, thank you--” she stammered, struggling for
calmness, the color gradually coming back to her cheeks again.

“Dearest, you did frighten me so. I really thought you were going to
faint.”

The girl assured her she was better and Lady Berriedale repeated her
request. “Isma, you will come and stay here and help me, won’t you?”

Her companion looked agitated again. “Beatrice, I will help you as much
as I can, but I cannot come and stay here--that is _quite_ impossible.
I have left Miss Livingston so much, when she came to live with me in
that lonely place she understood I should be there. In the daytime it
doesn’t matter being away, but I really could not ask her to spare me
at night.”

“But of course, dear, she must come and stay here, too. She will enjoy
a little change and seeing all these people.”

“No, really, Beatrice, she doesn’t like being with a lot of strangers.
She would so much rather be quiet.” The girl was making a frantic
effort to escape from the new danger confronting her.

“Still, she could be quiet here, too. I can give her a room in the
south wing, and she need not see any of the other people unless she
likes. Now, Isma, surely you can arrange just for those few days!”

“Truly, Beatrice, I cannot,” replied the girl, with a troubled yet
strangely determined expression in her eyes.

Lady Berriedale drew herself up and a dark flush spread over her sallow
face. “Of course if you _won’t_ come that settles the matter. I shall
not ask you again,” she answered, icily.

“Beatrice!” The name came as a cry of pain.

But the invalid did not relax. “I don’t think friendship is much good
if it is not practical. You are always so unwilling to do me favors.
When I asked you to come to me every day I had to plead and implore.
You showed the same disinclination to be with me then. If you really
cared, you would want to come to me and prove your love in _practical_
ways.”

Prove her love in practical ways! Good Heavens! hadn’t she made
sacrifices enough? Hadn’t she given all her happiness to the woman who
regarded her so coldly now?

She sank down on her knees and buried her face on her friend’s narrow
lap. “Beatrice, you cannot realize what you are saying--you don’t know
what you are asking,” she murmured, between half-stifled sobs.

Lady Berriedale was suddenly seized with a fit of coughing. The girl
was on her feet instantly, her arms round the emaciated form which was
shaken ruthlessly by the fierce paroxysm.

When the attack had passed the patient lay back in her chair, exhausted
and worn. She put a lace handkerchief to her lips, and when she removed
it there were bright red stains upon the linen fabric.

The girl looked at her companion in sudden fear, then she whispered,
remorsefully: “Beatrice, I am so sorry to have excited and vexed you.
Do forgive me? Of course I will come and stay here and do anything you
want.”

Lady Berriedale was mollified. She pressed the fair head to her bosom
and kissed the soft round cheeks with her feverish lips.

When Isma drove home that evening she sat motionless and cold in the
car. The net had tightened about her; struggling was useless. She was
like a bird which had beaten impetuous wings against imprisoning meshes
till at last, bleeding and exhausted, it lay crushed in the relentless
snare.

A few days later Lord Berriedale received a letter from the governor
saying he and Lady Carson would be delighted to spend a day or two at
The Bluff.

Other invitations were then quickly sent out for the house-party and
ball, and preparations were commenced immediately.

“I do hope all this will not be too much for you,” said Isma one day
when she and her friend had spent a busy morning making arrangements
for the coming functions. The girl did all in her power to save the
invalid trouble, but of course she had to talk everything over with her
before making any final decisions.

Lady Berriedale smiled. “With your splendid help I am sure it will not
hurt me, and I am so much better, you know.”

“I wish you had not tired of the quiet so soon,” sighed her companion.

“I tired of the quiet! I should never do that. I could live here
always with just you and Neville! But of course we have to return the
hospitality given us in Sydney, and another thing, I think Neville is a
little dull. He tries to hide it from me and pretends he does not miss
the gay life at home; still, he cannot deceive me. He has become so
grave lately and so absent-minded. This is certainly very comfortable
and nice; still, it is not home, and he is used to clubs and having
crowds of people about him. I am afraid this is boring him. Of course
he is so delightfully good and patient and never complains. Still, I
know he only came out here on my account, though he tries to make out
he came to please himself--so dear and sweet of him!”

Isma had risen and stood looking out of the window over the plains,
with her back to the room.

The last three weeks had been easier than she expected. Lord Berriedale
had kept his word. He had not tried to be alone with her nor by look
or word embarrassed her; in fact, he had treated her with courteous
indifference and had almost gone out of his way to avoid her.

Falcon, too, had left her severely alone. Though he was constantly at
The Bluff, he rigidly avoided all conversation with her, and when it
was necessary to speak to her he did it as briefly as possible. There
was no doubt about his attitude. He had lost all respect for her and
was now in a cool, passionless way giving himself up to humor Miss
Brentford and becoming the gallant attendant she so ardently desired.

Isma was not staying at The Bluff yet, but spent all her time there.
However, the day after to-morrow the visitors from Sydney would arrive,
and then it would be necessary for her to be in the house, arranging
everything for Beatrice and helping to entertain the guests.

As she went about her daily duties she was utterly unconscious that a
pair of dark, hostile eyes watched her constantly. The secretary’s
words had gone home and the jealous girl wondered perplexedly who
the man could be her enemy wished to capture. It could not be
Captain Folkestone, for Rex had said she aimed higher, and Rex was
a shrewd man and rarely missed the mark in his observations. The
only man of higher rank than the soldier in the neighborhood was her
brother-in-law, and of course it could not be he; yet, who could it be?
She watched carefully, for it would be most interesting to find out
Miss Folkestone’s secret. It was a good thing her attention was fixed
in another direction, for then she, Rita, could have the delightful
Captain Folkestone to herself.

But who could the mysterious man be, she wondered continually as
she observed her sister’s friend, who seemed wholly absorbed by her
devotion to the invalid.




XIII

THE BALL


The night of the dance had come. The long avenue leading to The Bluff
was lined with motors, and uniformed chauffeurs strolled up and down
smoking and talking under the great Moreton Bay fig-trees.

The house was ablaze with lights and the many windows flung out a
yellow, agitated radiance which lost itself in the soft moonlit spaces.
The strains of haunting music floated out into the garden and blended
in exotic sweetness with the heavy perfume of the flowers.

A broad red carpet lay over the stone steps before the front door, and
in the wide hall dainty, gossamer-clad figures flittered to and fro
with their partners.

The large ball-room was thronged with dancers, and its walls lined with
numerous spectators who were watching the brilliant scene and the gay
movement of the fox-trot.

On the dais, beautifully decorated with ferns and flowering plants,
at the upper end of the room, sat Lady Carson, the governor’s wife, a
handsome woman, faultlessly gowned and flashing with diamonds, talking
to her hostess. Lady Berriedale was dressed in claret-tinted silk
and the rare old lace on her corsage was richly studded with rubies;
her thin face was glowing and her dark eyes shining with abnormal
brilliance.

As she and her companion watched the colorous stream of dancers she
remarked: “I am much struck with the grace of the Australian girl. It
is quite unique! There is no stiffness in her movements. I suppose her
healthy out-of-door life has not only made her strong, but also lithe
and graceful. When you see a room full of them like this they remind me
of a flock of their own beautiful birds.”

“Yes,” agreed the governor’s wife, “they really resemble them, and
just as some of the Australian birds are the most intelligent in the
world, so the girls here have a bright, sunny wit of their own, and
Australians, both men and women, are so resourceful in emergencies.
They can think like lightning and act almost as quickly; yet there is
not the slightest ostentatious cleverness about them. They are simple
and natural and such irresponsible, lovable dears in their every-day
life!”

“Look!” cried Lady Berriedale, suddenly interrupting the conversation
as her husband and Miss Folkestone glided past in a graceful
tango-waltz. “Don’t they look splendid and how perfectly they dance
together!”

“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed Lady Carson, with unmistakable admiration.
“They are quite the handsomest pair on the floor.”

“Doesn’t Isma look simply heavenly to-night?” went on Lady Berriedale,
enthusiastically. “She is always lovely, but to-night she is gorgeous!
Doesn’t that rainbow gown suit her with its dominant note of yellow! It
seems to blend with her hair, and it shows up the whiteness of her skin
and the exquisite color in her cheeks.”

Miss Folkestone created a sensation wherever she moved. Eyes followed
her constantly, eyes which held wonder and startled admiration. There
was a dewy freshness about her which suggested newly opened flowers,
and she seemed so strangely untouched, as if life had not been able
to mar the bloom resting on her. She wore a rainbow gown consisting
of layers of mauve turquoise and yellow-silk tulle, which shimmered
iridescent in the brilliant light, as cobwebs glitter rainbow-hued at
dawn. The dress was sleeveless, but a pair of turquoise bands on her
upper arms held wings of yellow tulle which gave the effect of sleeves
and made her look ethereal and nymph-like. The girdle was a twist of
the various tints in her gown and a similar twist ornamented her thick
yellow hair. Her slippers were golden, so were her silk stockings, and
round her soft throat lay a topaz necklet of antique design.

In the garden under an arbor of roses Fred Rex sat talking to one of
the Sydney visitors, a slim, flat-backed girl of twenty.

“Isn’t this a glorious evening--far too good to spend indoors,”
remarked the girl, glancing round the garden aquiver with white
unearthly beauty.

“Yes, it is just the kind of night made for lovers,” replied the
secretary, blandly. “Lovers are so keen on half-lights and shadows.
I suppose that is because semi-darkness harmonizes so perfectly with
their own half-lighted intelligence.”

“‘Half-lighted intelligence’!” exclaimed his companion, slightly
nettled. “Do you consider lovers semi-idiots, then?”

“I shouldn’t put it just like that. Still, it can’t be denied that
lovers never use their brains, they might as well hire them out till
after they are safely married.”

“You don’t think it takes brains to make love, then?”

“My dear Miss Alcot,” began her companion, spreading out his hands
deprecatingly, “does it take brains to do what every one else is doing?
It is only when you strike out and become original that you need
intellect.”

“But surely one could make love in an original way?”

A full-blown rose from the branches above suddenly collapsed and fell
noiselessly over the girl’s shoulder into her lap.

After Rex had helped her to pick off the dark-red petals he replied:
“Now how can a man be original in kissing a girl? There is only one way
of doing it, and the greatest fool can accomplish it as well as the
most learned professor, probably a little more effectively.”

The girl moved her small bronze-slippered feet impatiently. “You have
not very high ideals of love, Mr. Rex!”

“How could I? Falling in love is not very elevating--it is very much
the reverse.”

“What a horrid idea! I don’t like it a bit!” combated Miss Alcot.

“You speak as if it were merely my idea, but the very expression itself
shows it has a downward tendency; ‘falling’ means not only a step
downward, but even suggests groveling in the dust.”

“That is entirely your way of looking at it, Mr. Rex. The expression
conveys something quite different! The word ‘falling’ was only meant to
suggest that people may love as suddenly and unexpectedly as they may
fall, and also that in the process they frequently get--hurt. And now
after this interesting little talk I am afraid we must go back, as my
next partner will be waiting for me.”

Near the door of the conservatory stood Rita Brentford and Captain
Folkestone. The brunette was dressed in petunia-red _crêpe de Chine_;
her dull-black hair was done high and in its lusterless meshes gleamed
a number of jewels. Her vivacious face was unusually animated and her
eyes shone with starry brightness. She had never looked prettier nor
more fascinating; but as Isma and her partner glided by, Rita seemed
shriveled and insignificant by comparison.

As the dark girl caught sight of her brother-in-law and Miss Folkestone
her features stiffened.

“Don’t they look well together!” she remarked, with a little movement
of her black fan and a side-glance at her companion, who looked pale
and grave.

As she saw his face a quick pain shot through her heart and, scarcely
knowing what she said, only conscious of a desire to wound, she
continued: “Neville and your cousin are such friends! It is a good
thing my sister is not jealous--”

“Lady Berriedale is a good judge of character. She knows who she can
trust,” replied the man beside her, coldly.

“I beg your pardon, Captain Folkestone,” Miss Brentford apologized,
quickly, closing her fan with a snap. “I forgot you were cousins.”

“Pray don’t distress yourself on that account. I should have said just
the same, I assure you, had we not been related. But,” he added, in a
different voice, “perhaps you would like to have an ice now?”

The girl assented, and they walked off together to the supper-room.

Lord Berriedale had just finished his dance with Isma, and was now
talking to the governor, whom he had known at college years ago.

“And do you intend to stay on this coast all the time you are in
Australia?” asked Sir George Carson, a fine-looking clean-shaven man
with genial brown eyes and an impressive personality.

“Yes. Traveling about does not agree with Beatrice.”

“No, too much of it might not be good for her. Still, you will find the
climate on this coast very trying. The heat is so humid here. I should
imagine the Blue Mountains would suit a case of her kind far better.”

“No, I think not. I hear they have very strong westerlies up there, and
my wife hates wind.”

“Ah well, you know best. By the way, Berriedale, how does this country
strike you?”

The host’s left hand went to his mustache. “I have not been about much
yet, but,” he went on, with a lazy smile, “it seems to me Australia is
a cross-breed between a desert and an oasis. Some parts of it chiefly
resemble the father, the desert; others take wholly after the mother,
the oasis, and some places are a most extraordinary mixture of both.”

“’Pon my word, that is not a bad description!” laughed the governor,
pleasantly.

“What do you think of the country, Carson?”

The elder man considered for a moment before replying. “I have always
thought Australia like one of those fascinating women who hold--for
good or bad, we do not know at first, but she holds. We cannot be sure
we shall be happy with her, yet one thing is certain, we shall never
be happy without her! But here is Folkestone coming up. I shall have
a few words with him. I hear he is resigning from the Guards. I wonder
what is making him do such a thing,” and he turned and began to talk to
the soldier.

“Have you come to take Isma away?” asked Lady Berriedale a short time
afterward, when Falcon joined the little group on the dais.

“Yes, I believe this is my dance,” he replied, smilingly.

As he led his cousin away he talked pleasantly, not appearing to notice
her apparent reluctance to be with him. When they had walked some
distance down the room he stood still for a moment as he placed his arm
round her before joining the dancers.

At his touch the girl suddenly paled, her nostrils quivered, and her
heart fluttered.

Her partner watched her closely. Were these outward signs of agitation
only symptoms of embarrassment and dislike?

As they glided into the colorous sea of moving figures Isma closed her
eyes for an instant. The room and the swirling forms receded; she was
conscious only of the man who held her and the confusing sense of his
nearness. She bent her head. How was she to remain calm when he was so
close to her and his breath came warm and uneven against her cheek? She
stiffened in a great effort at self-possession, then relaxed almost as
quickly, and Falcon felt her yield to his arm.

He changed color and drew a sharp breath. Her sumptuous white shoulder
was so near his own. “Isma,” he muttered, in a strained voice, “it is
very warm in here. You are feeling the heat. Let me take you into the
garden?”

His words startled her into composure. So she was betraying her
feelings to Falcon! Merciful Heavens! how could she have sunk to that!
Had he understood and pitied her?

She straightened instantly. “No, thank you,” she answered, stiffly. “I
am not feeling the heat at all. I am only a little tired. The last few
days have been so very busy, you know; but I should like to go back to
Beatrice soon. I am afraid she is exerting herself too much.”

By some palms in a corner of the ball-room one of the governor’s
aides-de-camp sat out a dance with Rita, and the girl’s restless eyes
were following Captain Folkestone and Isma, as she talked spasmodically
to the man beside her, who was watching the same pair.

“By Jove!” he remarked, feelingly, “Miss Folkestone is ripping! I have
always heard she was--”

“She is dancing with her cousin,” interrupted Miss Brentford, hastily.
“He is leaving the Guards and going to live here.”

“So I hear. Fine-looking fellow. What a handsome pair they are!”

His companion turned a darkened face away.

“Captain Folkestone doesn’t like her,” she could not refrain from
saying.

“Not like her! Why, he looks like a man pretty badly smitten! Did you
see the way he bent over her then--?”

“I think you are quite mistaken,” observed the girl, with scarcely
veiled ill humor. “As a matter of fact, they detest each other.”

“They can act jolly well, then,” replied the man, with a smile, as Miss
Brentford’s next partner came up to claim her.

As the night wore on the gaiety increased, talk became more animated
and laughter more spontaneous, restraints relaxed and the dancers had
an air of greater abandonment. Men talked more freely to their favorite
girls and young couples strayed oftener into the moonlit garden and
remained there for longer periods.

Lord Berriedale had danced with Isma again, and now he stood talking to
her in the middle of the room during an interval.

In spite of the girl’s apparent calmness and polite interest in her
host’s conversation, at times there was a flicker of restlessness in
her luminous eyes which suggested she would rather not be in such a
conspicuous position.

Many eyes were upon the distinguished-looking pair. Miss Folkestone
had been the center of attraction all the evening, heads had been
turned in her direction, and people had whispered and exclaimed at her
extraordinary beauty. Now she was evoking a deeper interest, a more
piquant curiosity.

Lord Berriedale was fully conscious of the observation his marked
attention to her was exciting; but he was not displeased. He was
playing a game and fully realizing the effect of each move. Isma should
be his some day, and if he could not gain her along the straight-open
main road, there were always byways leading to the same destination. He
was quite aware that Captain Folkestone was aiming at the same goal and
that the fascinating officer might be a greater obstacle in his path
even than his wife. But, then, there were means of disarming his rival
if he should really become dangerous; at present there was no sign of
this. The soldier was too cool, and coolness never won a woman’s heart.
However, if he should intrude, there was a weapon in the making to
be used against him. The captain made a god of honor and would never
marry a woman whose character was tarnished, no matter how infatuated
he might be; so if he could be convinced that Isma was really his,
Berriedale’s, property, her cousin would fall out of the ranks at once
and his rivalry be at an end. Lord Berriedale’s present plan was to
show Folkestone that his cousin was an unsuitable mate for him. This
could be done in different ways; the first step was to get the girl’s
name coupled with his. This had already been accomplished at home and
some very nasty gossip had been started. However, now while they were
in Australia things must be given a more direct and convincing aspect.

Of course it was distasteful to Lord Berriedale to bring such a slur
on the character of the woman he meant to make his wife later on. But
he knew that once they were married things would soon be forgotten,
and, even now, though society slandered her, it still received her
with open arms, for she was a great ornament to its drawing-rooms and
there had never been any actual proofs against her. As for the pain
he was causing her in the mean while, he would make up for that by
and by. He would pour his love upon her when she was his, lavish upon
her everything his position and wealth could bestow! She should be
clothed like a princess, her beauty enhanced by priceless jewels. He
glanced down at her now with something in his dark eyes which made Isma
involuntarily shrink from him.

“I should like to go back to Beatrice,” she said, in a level voice.

“No,” his half-closed eyes still caressed her under their golden
lashes, “you cannot run away from me at present. Every one is looking
and you would only make yourself more conspicuous by flight. Flights
are useless things. Haven’t you found that out by this time?” Then his
manner changed. “Isma,” he went on, in low, seductive tones, “come
with me into the garden. I want you to see the moonlight on the roses.
Night’s kisses, the dew-pearls, are on their soft petals. Let me show
them to you?”

“Lord Berriedale, how can you suggest such a thing?”

“Why not? Flowers cannot hurt you, and there we should be away from
spying eyes.”

The girl paled. “Please do not talk like that--people will hear you.”

“People will not hear me, but they can see you turning white. Isma,” he
went on, with a touch of pleading, “you surely cannot grudge me a few
moments’ joy? Haven’t I kept my promise to you all these weeks, barely
glanced in your direction, kept out of your way, and now this evening
when you look so entrancing and I want a little kindness don’t you
think you might give it to me?”

“You are breaking your promise now.”

“No, for I am not making love. I am only asking for friendliness. What
could be more innocent? Every one is admiring you. Why may I not have
the same privilege as a crowd of strangers? Isma,” he broke out, his
love flaming up, “how can I help adoring you? You look as radiant and
shimmering as your own Australian sunshine! Isma, my beautiful--”

“Isma,” said another voice close beside them, “Miss Nelson, a friend
of your mother’s, is most anxious to meet you; but she is going home
almost immediately, so will you come and speak to her now? You will
excuse my cousin, Berriedale, won’t you?” added Falcon, turning to the
other man.

As the girl and Captain Folkestone walked toward the other end of the
room the band struck up an alluring melody and dancing commenced again.

The officer talked easily as they made their way over the polished
floor, and in his light, pleasant conversation there was not the
faintest suggestion that he knew he had been acting as a rescuer.

When they were about to enter the sitting-room he said, in the same
easy tone, “Miss Nelson is in here, and I thought it a good plan to
take you to her at once.”

His companion faced him questioningly. “She did not _ask_ you to bring
me?”

“Well--no,” his eyes met her gaze steadily. “Still, I knew she would be
charmed to meet you. Who would not?”

The pink in the girl’s cheeks deepened. Was he only thinking of his
name again, always and only guarding that? A hot wave of annoyance
leaped up within her.

“Your thoughtfulness is praiseworthy, no doubt, but has it never
occurred to you that some thoughtfulness borders on--interference?” she
said, lowering her eyelids, but not before he had seen the smoldering
anger between her lashes.

Falcon did not reply, but led her through the open door to a small
room where a lady with gray hair and smiling eyes sat on a high-backed
settee talking to a rather forbidding-looking woman in black.

Captain Folkestone introduced his cousin to the lady with the amiable
face, and after chatting with them for some minutes he went away, and
did not speak to Isma again that night except to say a brief good-by
when he was leaving.

       *       *       *       *       *

As Miss Folkestone went to her room after the guests had gone she
met her host on the landing. He had not been there when she began to
ascend the stairs and must have come from a small room opening on to
the landing. Had he been waiting there to speak to her? A sudden fear
clutched at her heart.

He stood before her now, holding out his hand, and she could not very
well avoid taking it.

“Good night, my love with the glorious eyes and the maddening hair,” he
murmured, in a low voice, lifting her hand suddenly and pressing it to
his heart.

“Lord Berriedale, how dare you!” she cried, in an undertone, wrenching
her hand away from him. “Please let me pass.”

He stood aside and allowed her to walk on.

At the same instant a door on the first floor shut noiselessly and Miss
Brentford stepped back into her room.

Rita stood for some moments ashen, her dilated eyes staring vacantly
before her; then her sharp white teeth closed over her lower lip and
she drew a long, gasping breath.

So that was what Rex had meant! She understood his hints now! How
blind she had been not to have discovered it before! But how could any
one suspect such treachery!

Of course her sister must be told as soon as the visitors had gone
back to town. There must be no upheavals while they were in the house.
However, the day after to-morrow when they had all departed Beatrice
should hear the news then. The girl’s dark eyes gleamed with a catlike
brilliance. Never again need she fear the beautiful Miss Folkestone as
a rival. She was powerless to hurt her any more!

Rita stood for a long time looking absently into space, her white face
working, horror and triumph mingling in the unearthly glitter in her
eyes.

Only one more day and then--

       *       *       *       *       *

At the same time Captain Folkestone dashed along the moonlit road by
the sea at a frenzied pace. He gripped the steering-wheel as if his
fingers were steel; his face looked ghastly and his lips were tightly
compressed.

When he was near the avenue leading to Isma’s house he stopped the car,
got out, and stood leaning over the gate, gazing down the drive under
the stirring palms. The girl was not there. The little red house was
empty of her presence; so was the flower-scented garden. She had stood
under the swaying palm leaves and looked back at him once and in her
eyes there had been a strange emotion which seemed to match his own,
and as their gaze met something in them had leaped together; but now--

Into the face above the gate came an anguish which was terrible.

Suddenly the man turned away, sprang into the motor, and sped up the
steep road leading over the moonlit cliff.




XIV

A SINISTER SUNSET


The following morning the viceregal party returned to Sydney. The
remaining visitors spent the morning playing tennis, croquet, and
strolling about the garden.

A fishing picnic had been arranged for the evening and the cars were
to start at five o’clock. It was impossible for Lady Berriedale to
venture on such a long outing after the late hours and excitement of
the previous night, so she had decided to stay at home. Of course Isma
was anxious to remain with her, but her friend would not hear of it.

“You must go and take my place and look after everything,” she said,
finally; and as her husband came into the room she added, “Fancy,
Neville, Isma wants to stay at home with me, but I have just told
her that she is to go and _take my place_.” She finished with a
mischievous smile, looking at her companions as if she expected some
light response. However, they were both singularly silent. The girl
had suddenly turned to look out of the window and Lord Berriedale was
regarding one of his long, shapely hands with detached interest.

“I am sure Miss Folkestone will look after our guests perfectly, so
you need not worry about it in the least,” he said, at length, and,
murmuring something about having promised to take some one round the
cliff, he strolled out of the room again.

Late in the afternoon four large cars stood panting in front of the
house and the picnickers came out and took their seats.

Captain Folkestone and other guests from the neighborhood were to join
the party at the river where the fishing had been arranged.

The sky was gray with soft glimpses of remote blue. The distant hills
were wrapped in a larkspur-tinted haze through which the shape of trees
was faintly indicated. Out of the calm ocean rose green breakers moving
imperiously toward the shore, flinging themselves headlong on the
quivering sand. Silver gulls glided lazily by on silent wings and made
occasional swoops into the foaming water.

A mile down the road the motors turned inland toward the tense blue
hills. Vast plains opened out before them, where mallee-fowls darted in
and out among the bushes and the sunburnt grass stood stiff and yellow
at the feet of the ring-barked trees.

The road led through immense forests, dusky with jungle gloom, brooding
with heavy mystery, and where the occasional twitter of birds sounded
timorous and grave. At times the cars mounted steep hills, and at
others descended into gaping, timber-lined valleys.

After about two hours’ traveling there was a gleam of water in the
distance, and soon afterward a calm, wide river which ran beside the
road for a mile or two was reached; then, after passing a sharp bend,
the picnickers arrived at their destination and found the rest of the
party already awaiting them.

Greetings followed, and presently small groups began to stroll about
the river-bank, while the chauffeurs lighted a fire and boiled the
billy.

Toward the west ran a plain fenced in by rough-looking hills smothered
in trees. The main part of the stream still flowed beside the track,
but it had subdivided into three long arms, which spread in erratic
contortions over the wild, marshy flats, forming deep pools in lower
places and growing narrow and sleek near the more sloping banks. The
place was a terrible conglomeration of tangled thickets, wriggling
streams, deep lagoons, and treacherous, rush-covered bogs.

Wild shrieks of birds rang spasmodically through the air, fishes
jumped, and there was the continual whir of large-winged insects.

The plain was two miles long, and near its upper end, at the feet of
the challenging hills, stood the only house in sight, belonging to the
man Lord Berriedale had engaged to take the party across the river in
his boat, so that they could walk over to the second arm of the stream,
where the best fishing was obtained.

It had been decided to have tea before crossing the river. The long
table-cloth had been spread out on the grass and Isma was decorating it
with fluffy yellow wattle. Once as she looked up from the blooms she
saw a beautiful kingfisher skimming over the surface of the stream, his
gorgeous plumage of azure and deep orange reflected in the pearly gray
water.

The girl sighed a little. If only she might be free like that bird! she
thought, as she went on with her work. Presently the billy boiled and
the visitors seated themselves round the impromptu table on the grass.

The men were in a hurry to commence the sport, so there was not much
time given to superfluous conversation.

Miss Folkestone was pouring out tea and the drivers were handing
the cups to the guests. She had not spoken to Falcon that day, but
only bowed to him in the distance. He was now sitting next to Miss
Brentford, talking rather gravely to the animated girl.

When the meal was over the boatman began to row the picnickers across
the stream.

Lord Berriedale, the secretary, and some local men went in the front
load, as they were to arrange where the rods were to be placed. Then
gradually the others followed, till there were only Isma and the
chauffeurs left; the girl stayed till the last to see that everything
was carefully packed up, and when the baskets were stowed away in the
cars she strolled on to a small rise surrounded by tall shrubs and sat
down on a log, feeling glad to have a little time alone.

In the east the clouds had cleared, but toward the west they had
thickened and hung like an impenetrable curtain, hiding the sinking
sun. All at once there was a rift in the sooty masses--the slit
widened, and presently a large sun swelling into hugeness thrust a
gross yellow face into the aperture and fixed its ferocious stare on
the scene below till, helpless and abject, the earth sank into hypnotic
stupor. The long, shrubby plain turned a seasick green, even the pools
and streams swooned with ghastly horror.

For some moments the sun hung quivering with fiery intensity; then with
a sinister reluctance the great blazing ball sank below the opening in
the black, smokelike clouds.

Isma sat as if petrified, watching the awful sunset, and when the
yellow glow had disappeared, through an opening among the stunted trees
she saw the marshland with its many glimpses of water, the bluish,
unhealthy hue of one in a seizure.

The girl shuddered.

There seemed forces lurking about her which had power to subdue even
the most desperate resistance.

As she looked a smudgy, colorless twilight crawled from nowhere and
spread over the bush-tangled flats; it climbed up the sides of the
bold, imperious hills and reached toward the dim, sullen sky. The dusk
advanced on stealthy feet, but with unhesitating determination. It
folded trees and rushes in a swarthy embrace and stooped to kiss the
breathless waters. It seemed as if the evil power blazing from the
setting sun had returned and was now claiming the victims it had cowed,
as it advanced ruthlessly through thickets and bogs.

Suddenly the weird call of the boo-boo owl rang through the twilight.

Isma started, a sense of horror came over her, a feeling of awful
foreboding.

Why had she been kept waiting so long? Why had the boat not returned
for her sooner?

She listened for the splash of oars.

She heard it now, but it seemed curiously distant. She waited,
listening, growing more uneasy--the faint splash had ceased altogether.

But now there was another sound--some one was coming up behind her.
She turned, expecting to see one of the drivers, but the tall form
approaching was--Lord Berriedale.

“Is the boat ready?” she asked, mechanically, her senses numbed by the
shock of finding herself alone with her host.

“No,” replied the man, coming closer. “It has gone with the chauffeurs.
I came over myself to send them off.”

“But--but--it will come back for--me,” she faltered, rising.

“No, it will not come back for either _you_ or _me_. I have sent the
boatman down the river to fish. He is in my pay to-night, you know,”
said her companion, peering into her face in the dusk.

“Lord Berriedale, what does this mean?” asked Miss Folkestone, now
thoroughly roused.

“It simply means this, that you and I are to spend a long time together
to-night. Isma, I have waited so long I can wait no longer. I have been
tormented enough; now it is my turn to have a little respite! Why, even
my own wife suggested you should take her place this evening, and by
the gods you shall!” he said, in a tone which made the girl stiffen
with horror.

“So you have trapped me,” she murmured, in a voice which did not seem
her own.

“There was nothing else to do. You would not listen to pleadings. I
warned you not to strain my endurance too far--”

“And you had no consideration for me--or my reputation?” Life was
coming back to her voice.

“I considered your reputation, I assure you. No one over there knows
we are here alone. I have seen to that. They axe not all fishing in
the same place, as we arranged at first, but are divided up into small
parties, only two or three together and each group a long distance
apart. I had a purpose in placing them like that. I am supposed to be
fishing with Rex in a dark bend, and if any one should find our corner
and ask for me, they will be told that I have gone to visit some other
rods. The whole place is one wild tangle of bends, sudden turns, matted
shrubberies, and though it looks so flat there are steep banks as well
as the sinking marshland. It would be most dangerous to start straying
about. Besides, it would take half the night to track any one in that
great wilderness. Now, you see, I have thought it all out, so that we
can be quite sure we shall not be disturbed and that no one will know
we are here. You are, of course, also supposed to be fishing somewhere
over there, and each group thinks you are with one of the others. I
have arranged everything with the utmost care.”

“Now I know you are absolutely unscrupulous!”

“Isma, it is quite impossible for me to live without you. I must have
you--I must! To-night my arms shall teach you what love means--”

The girl had closed her eyes for a moment and even in the twilight she
looked pale.

Good God, what was she to do out here in this savage loneliness, the
rest of the party too far away to hear her call, separated from her
by that impassable stream, the terrible thickets, the lagoons and
bogs! The man was in earnest; his voice, his demeanor held remorseless
determination. His arms should teach her! She shuddered with a
revulsion of loathing--to be touched by him! She shivered again. But
perhaps, after all, if she appealed to his better nature, he might
relent; she would make the attempt.

“Lord Berriedale,” she began, in a softer tone, “think of Beatrice,
her high opinion of you, her love for you. If she ever found out
about--this, it would kill her! Won’t you be merciful? You could make
her ideally happy. Won’t you--?”

“Of course I will,” he responded, quickly. “I will lie, pretend--do
anything, if only you will promise to be mine--afterward?”

“How can you suggest such a thing--when your wife is still--?”

“Yes, she is still--here, but she will not be here--long.”

“You are cruel, utterly pitiless, and you--married her,” she reminded
him, sternly.

“Good Lor’! and haven’t I suffered for that mistake! However,” he went
on, in a different voice, “I warn you I am not going to do penance for
it all my life. Sooner or later I mean to take my happiness and you
shall be mine.”

“Your fidelity is worthy of a woman’s trust, isn’t it!” she flung at
him, scornfully. She stood before him erect; all fear had vanished.

“I swear I would be true to _you_.”

“Yes, you have given me a fine display of your faithfulness!”

“Isma”--he had paled--“don’t you know you could hold any man forever--?”

A sudden glimmer on the trees made him turn for a moment and look
at the big moon which had risen above the black eastern hills.
Long rays of silver stole over the plain and lay caressingly upon
the silent lagoons. Leaves began to shine, grass stems and stalks
to glitter; shadows crept sullenly away to the shelter of trees and
matted undergrowth. A metallic radiance flooded the whole scene. Lord
Berriedale’s dark figure stood out against the silver-lit background
and the gleaming light fell full upon the girl who stood motionless
before him.

“Isma,” he said, suddenly, and in his eyes was something akin to the
power she had seen in the stoking sun and felt in the glowering dusk.
“I can see your wonderful eyes, your hair--the hair I am always longing
to touch and the lips I--dream about. Isma, to-night I shall touch that
hair and your lips shall be mine--”

The girl looked round for some way of escape, but there was none. They
were standing on a small rise inclosed by thick shrubs; there was only
one opening and her captor was standing in front of that. She might be
able to press through the thicket, but it would be too slow a process;
the branches would only imprison her and make her more helpless.

Her companion had guessed her thoughts.

“My dear Isma, it is no use looking for ways of escape, for there are
none--you are utterly in my power to-night. But,” he went on, changing
his tone, “I quite understand your scruples--why you are reluctant to
surrender at present, and to show you that I respect your principles
I am willing to make a compromise with you. I will let you go and not
touch you at all if you give me your word of honor that you will be
mine the moment I am--free. Now, Isma, I warn you I am terribly in
earnest, and if you will not make the promise I shall take what I want
to-night.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then came the steadfast, courageous
reply, “No, I cannot make such a promise, for I could never be yours.”

“Isma, I will give you five minutes to make up your mind. When they are
over you must either give me your word of honor that you will marry me
or I--take--”

There was no answer.

By the light of the moon the man looked at his watch. “Five minutes
from now,” he said, quietly.

Again there was no reply.

A ghastly silence followed. The two figures stood motionless in the
moonlight; the man’s eyes were fixed upon his watch, the woman stood
resolute, determined, but pale as death itself.

“The five minutes are up,” said Lord Berriedale at last. “Which shall
it be, your promise or--?”

“I cannot make the promise, for I should only break it afterward.” Her
voice was low, but firm.

“By Jove! you have pluck! Still, even that fine courage of yours will
not save you now.” He moved toward her.

“Lord Berriedale, I warn you--I am strong.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “My love is strong enough to conquer your
resistance. But, Isma, you might as well _give_ me what I want. Believe
me, it would be much better for you if you did.”

“I can give you--nothing.”

“Not even those--kisses?”

“Nothing.”

“Very well.”

Then, before she had time to draw back, his arms were round her,
crushing her to his wildly beating heart while his stormy kisses beat
upon her hair.

She made a desperate attempt to free herself; but her efforts were
useless, and the more she struggled the more steely became the arms of
the man who held her. He was far stronger than she had imagined and she
realized her utter helplessness, yet she strove to resist him, turning
her face away that he might not touch her lips. He should not--

But after a time her strength began to wane; it was oozing from her.
God in heaven, would no one come to her rescue! If only Falcon knew of
her plight, he would find a way to reach her!

Then quite unexpectedly Lord Berriedale relaxed his hold, and Isma,
too, heard the sound which had startled him.

There were running footsteps on the road.

As the girl sprang away she gave a sharp, piercing cry.

A few seconds afterward there was a crashing and tearing aside of
bushes; then another figure emerged from the tangle and stood in the
full white light of the moon.




XV

THE MOONLIT ROAD


After an awkward pause Lord Berriedale said: “Good Lor’, Folkestone,
whatever has happened to bring you over here at this breakneck speed?
Was there an accident? Has any one fallen in the river?”

“No, nothing has gone wrong over there, but--I was not quite sure that
my cousin was happy here, so I came to see, and, judging from the
appearance of things, it was just as well I did,” Falcon replied, with
quiet significance. “That cry sounded anything but a happy one.”

“Miss Folkestone was no doubt nervous at hearing the hasty footsteps,
and naturally thought something terrible had taken place. However,” he
continued, turning to go, “now that you are here and can look after
your cousin, I must get back to my other guests.”

The officer glanced anxiously at the girl, and in the moonlight saw
that she looked utterly exhausted and that she was trembling violently.

“I shall take my cousin back to her own home to-night. She looks quite
ill. Will you be good enough to explain to Lady Berriedale? You and I
will have a talk another time,” he called after the retreating figure.

Isma never quite remembered how she reached Falcon’s car that
evening. After the awful terror and strain, she was only conscious of
a boundless relief, and retained merely blurred impressions of the
weird scene, with its glinting trees, matted tangle of bushes, and the
snakelike, curving river, silvered in places by the moon, and ominously
black where the tree-covered banks flung their inky shadows into the
deep, still waters. She was only aware that Falcon was with her, that
she was safe; that he was helping her, touching her, leading her gently
to the motor, and, when she was seated, tucking a rug carefully about
her before he took the wheel.

They drove some moonlit miles in silence, while she leaned back in
almost drowsy content. It was good to be there, near her cousin, and
feel the strong shelter of his presence! But after a time something
disturbing crept into the sweet relief. The events of the evening
began to intrude themselves upon her consciousness. She saw again the
dreadful sunset, the terrorized plain; once more the menacing dusk
gathered about her, the ghastly scene by the river came back to her;
she felt the steely arms crushing her--those suffocating embraces! She
closed her eyes and shivered in horror.

“What is it, Isma--are you cold?” came the anxious question from her
companion, and one hand reached over and tucked the rug more closely
about her.

“No, thank you, I am not cold.”

Falcon looked at her again and clenched his teeth.

Presently he moved a little nearer so that their shoulders touched.
His supporting touch had a strange effect on her; it made all which
had taken place fade into dimness again and brought back the delicious
sense of rest. It was lovely to sit beside him and feel the comforting
strength emanating from him, while the steadily rising moon poured its
cool, soothing radiance on a fevered world.

All at once she felt a great sigh pass through her companion. Why did
he sigh? Was she the cause of it? What an anxiety she had been to him
and how splendidly he had come to her rescue! He had been so tactful
and gentle, not uttered a word of reproach! And she had not even
expressed her appreciation, her gratitude. Suddenly she felt acutely
alive; her tiredness and inertness had all gone. How had Falcon crossed
that dark, foreboding-looking river? How had he reached her? She must
find out, but first she must thank him.

“Falcon,” she began, her voice soft and warm, “you have been too
wonderfully good to me--you have simply been--”

He interrupted her quickly. “Please don’t say anything about
that--only, but tell me, are you feeling better yet?”

“Yes, ever so much better, thank you, but,” she went on, a little
timidly, “how did you--I mean, what made you leave the others
and--come?”

“Well, I was not at all happy about the whole arrangement. It looked a
bit queer, especially when you stayed behind. However, I thought the
chauffeurs were there, till I saw them come over without you and they
told me that--Lord Berriedale was with you.”

“But--I thought you had gone to the other arm of the river where you
could not see the boat arrive?”

“So we had. Miss Brentford and I were stationed a good way down the
stream. But I left her with some of the other people while I went over
to see what had happened to you. Before I reached the main portion of
the river I met the drivers and they told me you were on this side
with Berriedale. I hurried down to the landing-place to get the boat.
However, it had gone a long way down the river and the old boatman
either could not or would not hear my call. That, of course, made me
still more anxious to get across.”

“Yes, and how did you manage?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Well--it was a little difficult. I did not dare to risk swimming
so far in such icy water; but I remembered there was a ridge at the
rapids a mile higher up, which I had often crossed as a boy, when the
water was low as it is now. So I hurried as fast as bogs and thickets
would allow, reached the falls, and then fate was kind to me, for the
moon had risen and showed me the right crossing. That made all the
difference, for there are deep pools on either side; however, I got
over all right, reached the road and when near the camping-ground your
voice guided me to you.”

“Oh, Falcon, I shall never be able to thank you enough!” she said, a
deep tremor in the words.

“I don’t want any thanks--don’t trouble about that.”

They had joined the coast road now; only another mile and they would be
at Isma’s home.

The car hummed along by the sea which lay like a sheet of shimmering
silver between the great towering headlands.

When they came to the entrance to The Palms Captain Folkestone slowed
down, stopped the car, and helped his cousin to alight; then he walked
over to the gate with her, but stood still without opening it.

“Isma, I must ask you one question before you go in. Tell me,” he
looked away from her, “what had Berriedale done to make you cry out
like that?”

The girl started. “Falcon, please don’t ask me.”

“But I must know.”

“Well, of course, I did not like being there--”

“There was more than dislike in your voice; there was--terror.” He had
turned to her now and in the bright moonlight he saw her agitation.
“Tell me why?” he insisted.

“I can’t--I can’t--”

“Then I shall have to ask him.”

“No, no,” she cried, “you mustn’t do that.”

“Then tell me yourself.”

There was no answer.

“Was it really--as bad as that?”

“Falcon, please don’t!” There was deep pain in her tones.

“You mean me to infer--?”

“No, don’t infer anything.”

“Is there nothing to--infer?”

Again there was no reply.

“There is something, then?”

Her head suddenly drooped.

“Isma, tell me.” He came a little closer and went on, in a strange,
moved voice, “Isma, couldn’t you confide in me just this once?”

“Oh, Falcon, it isn’t that--” Her tones were imploring and her fingers
caught at the gate convulsively.

“What is it, then?” he asked, his face almost touching her own. “Did he
take any--liberties with you?”

She started violently.

“So he touched you?”

She placed her elbows on the top railing of the gate and buried her
face in her hands while a half-stifled moan escaped her lips.

Captain Folkestone blanched. “Great God! what has the man done to her!”
he muttered through his teeth, and after a pause he said, hoarsely,
“For Heaven’s sake, Isma, don’t keep me in this awful suspense!”

His voice wrung her heart. Must she really tell this clean, honorable
man the degrading thing, that she had been embraced and kissed by her
friend’s husband! She pressed her hands to her face in an agony of
shame. Her mortification was greater than she could bear!

“He--he--” She began her confession with a desperate effort.

“Yes, what did he do?” The words came from panting lips. “Did he--kiss
you?”

Her head sank lower. “My--hair,” she scarcely breathed.

“And did he--embrace you?”

“Y--e--s--”

“Anything else?” The question held a startling intensity.

“No,” she whispered.

He drew a long breath, then took her hands from her face and crushed
them in his own.

For some minutes neither of them spoke.

“I must not keep you standing out here any longer; you are tired and
must rest,” he said, at length, releasing her reluctantly and opening
the gate for her to pass through.

Silently they walked toward the house, where the lights in the lower
rooms mingled feebly with the brilliant moonlight.

When they had reached the front door the girl held out her hand to her
companion and said, tremulously, “Falcon--I can’t thank you--I can’t--”

“Don’t try. I want no thanks, only some day perhaps you will--” He did
not finish the sentence, but raised her hand and laid his burning lips
against her fingers.

A moment afterward he was gone.

       *       *       *       *       *

Isma went to sleep at once from sheer exhaustion that night, but even
in her slumbers she could still feel the burning kiss pressed against
her fingers.




XVI

THE BOMB


“The mail has just arrived and there is quite a budget of letters
for you, Miss Rita,” said Rex, the next morning, as he came into the
drawing-room where the girl sat limp and tired in a deep armchair well
piled with cushions.

The secretary was in a motor-coat and carried a cap in his hand; he was
evidently on the point of going out.

Miss Brentford turned a white face and large, vague-looking eyes toward
him. “Are you going out--before breakfast?” she asked, absently.

“Yes, going on most important business for his lordship,” and he handed
a bundle of letters to the girl huddled in a weary heap among the
violet-tinted cushions.

The letter lying on top was addressed to Miss Folkestone in Lord
Berriedale’s large, characteristic writing.

A sudden animation came into Miss Brentford’s listless face. “What is
this?” she asked, holding up the envelop, with a curious gleam in her
eyes.

Rex made a quick movement to secure the letter.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Miss Rita! What a stupid mistake! I suppose in my
hurry I put it among yours. Well, I must be off. Can’t wait a moment.
This is most urgent,” he said, striding out of the room, and a few
moments afterward the girl heard a car buzzing down the drive.

So Neville had written to Isma and Rex was taking the letter to her.
He had received instructions to hurry, the business was urgent--so
that was it! Of course last night when her brother-in-law had told
them that Miss Folkestone had been taken home by her cousin, as she
suddenly felt ill, she, Rita, had guessed that this was only an excuse,
for the girl had looked splendid during tea, and she was too strong
and healthy for such unexpected turns of indisposition, and that the
real cause of her departure must be looked for in another direction.
However, the excuse given was good enough to pass muster with the other
guests. But the question was, why had she gone home? Rita would not
have attached so much importance to the incident had it not been for
Captain Folkestone’s strange behavior. During tea he had been restless
and moody, and when they had crossed the river and arrived at the spot
where they were to fish he had removed their rods and joined another
group of friends; then he had suddenly left and not returned again.
Rita had spent a miserable evening wondering what had made him go off
like that; but her misery reached its climax when they returned to the
camping-ground and found he had taken his cousin home. The thought that
the man she loved had been with the woman she hated on the moonlit road
together for hours nearly maddened her, and she had lain sleepless till
dawn, tortured by the vision of them alone in the vast white solitude
of night!

There could be no doubt about it, his cousin had cast her spell over
Captain Folkestone, too. Rex had suggested it long ago, but she had
not believed it then; now she could not close her eyes to the horrible
certainty. Had he not quite voluntarily chosen to leave her, Rita, to
take the other woman home!

Miss Brentford shut her tired, pain-racked eyes. Oh, what suffering
Isma had brought her, what pain! What magic could this girl possess to
make all the men mad about her!

She had noticed that one of the aides-de-camp, even on that short
acquaintance, had also succumbed to her mysterious power, and as for
Neville--a withering smile of contempt played for a moment round her
bloodless lips. He was making a complete fool of himself. How she
loathed that flaxen-haired creature! But what could have passed between
her and Neville last night to make her leave so suddenly? She had
noticed that her brother-in-law was not himself when he joined them
the previous evening; he had been grave, very absent-minded, and had
given quite impossible answers to casual questions. A deep pucker
crept in between Miss Brentford’s heavily marked brows. Whatever could
have happened? Neville had been in the first boatload to cross the
river and Isma was going to wait till the last, so how could they have
quarreled? Could he have returned to the camping-ground after he had
arranged all the fishing groups? Yes, that must have been it! She had
not seen him for two hours; during that time he must have gone over to
Miss Folkestone. Her cousin must also have crossed and had evidently
disturbed them, then the scheming, unscrupulous girl had pleaded that
she was not well and asked him to take her home--apparently she meant
to keep her hold on him as well.

Miss Brentford suddenly sat up and clenched her small hands, while an
awful look came into her dark eyes. She was able now to put an end to
his infatuation and must do so at once. Isma should not be allowed
to rob her of this splendid soldier! If he knew that his cousin was
flirting desperately with Neville, a married man, he would turn from
her in disgust. Yes, his eyes must be opened immediately. But of course
her sister must be told first--only, how would such knowledge affect
her in her delicate state of health?

The girl moved uneasily and an expression of fear passed momentarily
over her haggard face. The doctors had said that Beatrice must on no
account have worry or shocks. Still, how could she keep this dreadful
news from the one it concerned so vitally? Wasn’t it better for her
sister to know, so that she could stop the thing before it went any
farther? Yet, suppose the shock should kill her? After all, wasn’t it
kinder to let her brother-in-law go his own way and allow her sister to
be deceived both in husband and friend? She was quite happy at present,
so why disturb and disillusion her?

Then her thoughts went back to the man she loved gloriously alone with
his cousin on the silvered road. Her pale face looked all at once
distorted; that sort of thing must end, at all costs. She could not
endure another night of torture like the last!

The hollow boom of the breakfast gong rumbled through the house.

Miss Brentford started slightly, rose slowly, and stumbled wearily
across the room.

In the hall were bustle and life. Ladies dressed for traveling
descended the stairs, servants carried down monogramed suit-cases;
groups of men stood talking by the open front door, looking into the
blazing sunshine and making remarks about the heat of the morning, and
discussing the sport of the night before.

However, soon all the guests were assembled in the large dining-room
and Rita took her sister’s place at the table, as the invalid never
came down to breakfast.

The girl had not seen her that morning; she had purposely avoided
going to her room, as she wanted Neville to tell her that Isma had gone
home. He always went in to see his wife before going down to breakfast,
and he would naturally tell her then.

It seemed to Miss Brentford as if the meal would never end. Every one
was talking gaily--the visitors had evidently enjoyed their stay at The
Bluff and were going home in high spirits.

When at last the guests left the dining-room their hostess had just
come down-stairs. She looked decidedly better that morning, her skin
was not so sallow as usual, the color in her cheeks less hectic, and
the hollows round her eyes not so prominent. She smiled happily and
made gracious remarks to everybody; but after a while she looked round
as if searching for some one, and, turning to her sister, asked: “Where
is Isma? Hasn’t she come down yet?”

So she had not been told, after all--why not?

“Didn’t Neville tell you this morning?” asked Rita, evading the
questioning glance. “Miss Folkestone was not well last night and her
cousin took her home soon after tea.”

“Not well, Rita--and no one has told me till now! How strange! I must
drive over and see her presently.”

The visitors were crowding round to say good-by; they had all decided
to leave early so as to avoid traveling in the hottest part of the day,
and Lady Berriedale had to give them her full attention. But when
the last car had vanished down the long gravel drive she followed her
sister into the drawing-room and said: “Tell me about Isma. Whatever
was the matter with her?” Then Rita’s white face caught her attention.
“My dear child, are you ill, too? You look as if you hadn’t slept all
night.”

“No, I am not ill,” began the girl, turning to the window, a slight
tremor in her voice, “but--” She stopped irresolutely. Now, when there
was such a good opportunity for striking the fatal blow, she wavered.
Should she not be merciful to the invalid who had so little of life
left to her? But again the picture of the handsome Guardsman driving
alone with the fair-haired temptress came up before her. No, she could
not afford to be generous--she could not! It was impossible to endure
another night like the last!

“Well,” demanded her sister, watching her with some perplexity.

The girl swallowed hard. “I was awake all last night, and that
naturally makes me tired to-day,” she replied, making the plunge.

“Child, how was it that you did not sleep? That is not like you.”

The girl stiffened. She had committed herself. Now she must go on.

“I was thinking of something--something which had upset me horribly.”
Her voice was uneven and her breathing labored.

“Something upset you horribly? Whatever is it?” asked Lady Berriedale,
coming closer and looking at her sister with a puzzled air.

Rita’s heart hammered in her breast, her throat tightened. Should she
draw back? Could she draw back? No, she had said too much for that: she
must go on.

“Yes, something which will upset you, too, when you hear it. That is
why I hate telling you.”

“What can it be?” There was sudden fear in the thin, weak voice.

“It is about--”

“Yes, tell me quickly--”

“Neville.” The word almost choked her.

“About Neville?”

“Yes, and--”

“And some one else?”

“Yes--” She turned quickly and threw her arms round her sister’s
trembling form. “Don’t let it make you ill, Beatrice dear, will you?”
she pleaded. “I shall never forgive myself if it does, and yet I think
you ought to know about it.”

“Tell me,” replied the elder woman, without returning the embrace, a
terrible foreboding making her voice cold and strange.

“He and Miss--”

Lady Berriedale tore herself from the girl’s trembling arms and looked
at her with angry eyes. “If you mean Isma, I will not have you say
another word. You have always disliked her and been jealous of her and
I refuse to listen to your nasty insinuations.”

“All the same they are true,” remarked her companion, in chilly tones.
The last words had killed her pity and roused her opposition. “I first
noticed it the night of the dance. Neville was paying her a lot of
attention, you remember, but I had heard hints of it before.”

Lady Berriedale laughed harshly. “Ah, is that all your mean little soul
has to go on? I tell you they are both innocent! Neville has always
been true to me and a splendid husband, and Isma is the most noble, the
most honorable woman in the world!”

“If you had seen them on the stairs together after the ball, you would
not have thought them so innocent,” retorted the girl, coldly.

“What were they doing there?”

“You should have seen that before you defend them so blindly. I was in
my room, every one else had gone to bed, when I heard low, murmuring
voices. I opened my door gently and there was your noble Isma standing
close to your husband while he pressed her hands against his heart.”

“You are mistaken. Your jealous mind puts such a horrible
interpretation on what was probably an absolutely harmless act.”

“I suppose it is also invention on my part that your precious friend
went home unwell last night--by the way, she looked perfectly splendid
at tea; but she and Neville must have quarreled, for he was in a bad
humor after she had gone and would hardly speak to any one, and this
morning Rex had to rush off before breakfast with a fat letter for
her--trying to appease the offended goddess, I suppose.”

“I refuse to believe it. I shall ask Isma herself.”

“Yes, go and face her with it. Ask her if what I have said is not true
and make her show you Neville’s letter. Ask her why she went home early
and make her swear that she is speaking the truth, and then see who is
right! It has made me perfectly furious that you, poor, trusting dear,
should be so completely deceived by this unscrupulous person, who does
not even consider friendship too sacred to use to gain her own ends!
All the time she has pretended to be your friend it’s only Neville she
has been after!”

“Don’t--don’t, Rita! I will not believe it! I will not listen to you!”
cried her companion. Still, the pain in her voice showed that the cruel
words had gone home. “I will go and ask Neville at once.”

“No, don’t ask him yet. Get the truth out of Miss Folkestone first,
then you can face Neville with it afterward.”

“I shall go to her this afternoon, and Rita,” she added, a terrible
expression in her dark eyes, “if what you have told me to-day is
untrue, I will never have you inside my house again.”

“Very well; but insist on seeing Neville’s letter; for after all these
other things your devoted friend might not stop at falsehood, either,
when she is in a tight corner. See the letter, then you will be able
to judge for yourself.”

“Yes, I will do that,” said Lady Berriedale, moving toward the door,
and there was great dignity in her bearing as she left the room and
went up-stairs to her own apartment.

“After all, it did not upset her so very much,” thought Rita, sinking
down on a lounge in the cool drawing-room. “Neville is not worth
worrying about. However, it is all done now, anyhow, and when Beatrice
sees that letter--”

       *       *       *       *       *

When Lady Berriedale came down to lunch there was a great change in
her. The hollows round her eyes had deepened, her sallow skin looked
parched, the feverish expression in her eyes had intensified, and she
breathed in a jerky, irregular way. She carried herself with an almost
stiff dignity, but she seemed perfectly composed.

“My dear, whatever is the matter? You looked so well this morning,”
began her husband, with real concern.

“I am very well, thank you. I am going over to see Isma directly after
lunch.”

“Indeed, you mustn’t dream of doing such a thing. You would faint on
the way in this heat. Miss Folkestone can come to you.”

“You forget she is not well.”

“She will be more fit for the drive than you. I shall go over presently
and bring her back with me.”

Rita shot a meaning glance at her sister, but the elder woman did not
appear to notice it.

“Thank you. I wish to go myself.”

Then suddenly a great rush of blood mounted to Lady Berriedale’s face;
she drew a long, gasping breath and fell back in her chair.

“Rita,” she whispered, faintly, “please tell Thomas to get Abbott to
help me up-stairs.”

Her husband was beside her in a moment, ready to assist her, but she
brushed him aside and preferred to wait for her maid.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Lord Berriedale was alone he stood with drawn brows, gazing out
into the brilliant sunshine. Whatever could have gone wrong to make his
wife refuse his assistance? She had never done such a thing before. He
would go at once and persuade Isma to come. She would be able to soothe
the invalid and make her happy again.

But would she come? He had not much hope that the letter he had written
that morning would effect a reconciliation and bring the girl back to
The Bluff; but if he went himself and explained that Beatrice was ill
and upset it would bring her. He knew her kind heart could not refuse
to minister comfort to her friend and she would have courage enough to
return with him in spite of what had happened the night before.

His eyes flashed with a strange fire.

Yes, Isma would come when she knew about Beatrice--his difficulty was
all at once solved.




PART II


I

THE HURRICANE


Isma sat by the window in her cool drawing-room, looking out into
the glaring, dust-laden atmosphere. A hot wind was blowing, bending
the flowers in the garden and bruising them against one another. The
scorching breeze rushed noisily through leaves, shook slender branches,
made palm-trees rattle in angry defiance, and lifted grit and small
pebbles high into the air and hurled them rudely at window-panes and
doors.

But the girl scarcely noticed the fierce tempest. Her eyes were fixed
on the road leading over the northern cape, where dense columns of
sandy dust whirled along the track and finally hurled themselves over
the steep bank sloping down toward the beach.

The girl watched the road expectantly.

Would Falcon come to see her to-day? She wanted him to come, and yet
she shrank from meeting him. What did he think of her now, after
the confession she had made him as they stood by the gate in the
moonlight? He had been most kind, not uttered one word of reproach, yet
she knew what such a disclosure would mean to a nature like his. He
had shown signs of terrible agitation, her words had moved him deeply;
but--had his emotion been merely due to wounded pride? It must have
been a painful ordeal to listen to her degrading experience; yet had
his agonized concern only been caused by anxiety for the family honor?
What about the burning kiss still scorching her fingers?

The hot blood mounted to her face and her heart beat in a queer, uneven
way.

Could he care, after all? But if so, why had he not told her before?
They were both free and could have been happy years ago. The rich color
in her cheeks paled a little. No, he could not love her. Still, why
that desperate agitation?

Another thought darted into her mind. There had been a difference in
his attitude toward her since the night of the ball. Could it be that
she had betrayed her feelings to him then and that he was moved with
deep pity for her?

She started visibly.

Could that be the reason for the change in him? She was painfully aware
that for a short time she had lost control of her emotions during their
one dance together. After those weeks of cold aloofness, the blinding
sweetness of being so close to him, feeling his strong arm round her,
had unnerved her and made her momentarily forget everything but the
tortuous joy of his nearness! And during that brief yielding had he
seen and understood?

She leaned suddenly back in her chair, her whole body aflame with shame.

If he had cared, he would have told her then--must have told her; it
would have been inhuman to leave her in the throes of her emotion
without relieving her by laying bare his own. No, it was clear he did
not love her; he only pitied her and was distressed on her account.

She sat up straight again. She had been appallingly wanting in dignity
and reserve; however, she must make amends immediately; she must drive
her love into the background and show Falcon she cared for him only as
a cousin who had been wonderfully kind to her and to whom she owed a
debt of gratitude. Yes, she owed him much--what had he not saved her
from the night before!

The awful scene by the river and everything connected with Lord
Berriedale came back to her. He had written that morning and actually
been thoughtless enough to send the letter by his impudent secretary
and allowed such a man to know that he had private important
communication with her. Had he not the least mercy, not the slightest
consideration for her name!

The letter had been apologetic enough; still, of course, she could not
trust him any more, and she had made up her mind never to enter The
Bluff again. It would not be safe, for he would only trap her at the
first opportunity.

Suddenly the toot of a motor-horn made her start. Could it be Falcon
coming now? He had not come down the cliff road, but perhaps he had
gone to The Bluff first and was calling at The Palms on his way back.

She rose tremblingly.

A machine crunched heavily on the gravel as it swung up to the front
door. Falcon would be in the room in a moment. She sat down again,
feeling choked with the violent throbbing of her heart.

The door opened, somebody entered. The turmoil within suddenly ceased
and she felt herself turning to stone. The man coming into the room was
not Falcon, but Lord Berriedale.

Miss Folkestone rose mechanically. She did not move toward her visitor,
but stood motionless, measuring him with proud, angry eyes.

“How dare you come here!” she said, in tones quivering with suppressed
fury.

“Isma,” began the man, his face white with tense emotion, “Beatrice is
very ill. Something has happened this morning. I don’t know what it
is, only it has upset her horribly and made her look awful. She was
coming to see you this afternoon, but she nearly fainted at luncheon
and had to be taken to bed at once. She wouldn’t let me touch her or do
anything for her.”

“I am very sorry for Beatrice. Why didn’t you send for the doctor?”

“Send for the doctor, as if that would do any good! It is not medical
treatment she needs. She looked much better this morning; but since
then something has happened which is worrying her. It would be useless
to try and make her confide in me at present. However, I am sure she
would tell you all about it, and you could talk to her and put things
right the way you always do and she would soon be better again.”

“There are some things I could never talk her out of--” said the girl,
regarding him with cold, accusing eyes.

“You mean that she has found out--that she suspects--?”

“Very likely.”

“But it can’t be--that.” The man was gently caressing his short
mustache.

“And why not--?”

“Because, Isma, I have taken special care that she should not be
worried with--this. However, even if she imagines something is wrong,
you could easily set her mind at rest.”

“Put her mind at rest--that she has a faithful husband?” Her eyes
blazed out her contempt for him.

“Isma--don’t. I may deserve your scorn; still, this is hardly the time
to express it--every moment is of importance.”

“But you don’t seriously think that I would ever enter your house
again?”

“Isma, don’t waste time. Can’t you realize how every second might--?”

“And how am I to know this is not merely another trap you are setting
for me?”

“Your own heart will tell you that I am sincere,” he replied, with
profound earnestness. “I am not now pleading for myself, but for
another who is in terrible need of you. Isma, you who are so strong
and well, have pity on your suffering friend! Come at once. If you
wait--you may be too late,” he urged, a tremor in his tones.

The girl wavered. “Is it really as serious as--that?”

“It may be. When any one in Beatrice’s state of health becomes as upset
as she is at present one cannot be sure what will happen.”

Miss Folkestone did not answer at once. She stood looking up toward the
big headland veiled in a glaring haze. What was she to do? Merciful
Heavens! why was she always placed in these impossible situations! Was
she never to be freed from the sordidness she loathed? Why must she,
who had fought so desperately for security, be constantly plunged into
new danger?

And if Falcon should come, what would he think if he were told she had
gone to The Bluff again and with the man who had insulted her the night
before? He could draw only one conclusion from such a course of action.

But Beatrice was ill and in trouble. Her frail body was already
ravished with a dreadful disease and a worse calamity hung over her.
What if she were already on the point of discovering her husband’s
unfaithfulness? No, no, such a catastrophe must be prevented at all
costs! She must go and avert this disaster. Surely, there was yet time
to stay the hand of Fate? She must go to The Bluff--there was no help
for it.

Lord Berriedale watched the silent girl as she gazed intently at the
haze-covered cliff, and in his eyes smoldered a suppressed eagerness
which was not unlike the glitter in the eyes of some jungle animal as
it stalks its prey and watches its every movement from under cover.

“Isma,” he said, at length, “come! Don’t be afraid of me. The chauffeur
is there. In any case, if you prefer it, I will walk back. Only come
quickly, before it is too late!” he pleaded, with fevered anxiety.

“Very well, I will come this once,” replied the girl, very gravely,
“but remember, it is only because Beatrice is so ill, and my coming
does not mean that I will ever forgive last night.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Half an hour after Isma and Lord Berriedale had gone another car sped
up the avenue and stopped at the front door of The Palms.

Captain Folkestone sprang up the steps and pressed the bell
emphatically.

As the maid opened the door the hot wind rushed into the hall and set
the pictures rattling against the walls.

“Isn’t Miss Folkestone at home?” asked the visitor, as the servant did
not invite him to enter the house.

“No, she went away with Lord Berriedale half an hour ago,” replied the
maid, holding the door open with one hand and vainly trying to keep
strands of hair from blowing across her eyes with the other.

A great change came over the soldier’s face. However, the girl was
too much blinded by hair and wind to notice any difference in his
appearance.

“Perhaps you would like to see Miss Livingston?” she asked, anxious to
put an end to the interview and be able to close the door.

“No, thanks, I will not trouble her,” said Captain Folkestone, moving
away.

After the door had closed the man stood by the car irresolute for a
moment.

Good God! Had Isma taken leave of her senses or was she, after all--?
He murmured something inarticulate under his breath and leaped into
the motor. Then he plunged into the furnace-like breath of the gale. A
cloud of dust enveloped him, showers of grit pelted him; but, heedless
of the onslaught, he dashed down the avenue at a reckless speed, and
when he reached the road he turned the car toward The Bluff.




II

PAYING TOLL


Miss Folkestone did not speak to Lord Berriedale during their drive
to The Bluff. She sat away from him in a corner of the car, closely
veiled, aloof and dignified. The hood of the motor was up and the
side-curtains fastened, yet the hot, stifling air was laden with dust.

When they reached the house Isma went up to the invalid at once.

The green blinds were half drawn in Lady Berriedale’s room and below
them a fiery glare came into the apartment, mixing oddly with its
prevailing gloom.

The patient lay very still in the large blackwood bedstead; her face
was pale and her lips compressed; one transparent hand clutched
nervously at the embroidered counterpane and the dark eyes turned
restlessly toward Isma as she entered.

“Are you better?” asked the elder woman, holding out her hand in a
formal way.

Isma took the proffered hand and at the same time bent over the invalid
and kissed the wasted cheek. “Yes, much better, thank you; but you are
not well, dear. Tell me, what has gone wrong? Why are you so strange?
You are not a bit glad to see me!” There was gentle hurt in the low,
musical voice.

Instantly the face among the lacy pillows changed. “Oh, Isma, kiss me
again! I know I am perfectly hateful and you are a saint to come to me.
Darling, I am not worthy of your love!” she broke out, clasping the
girl to her convulsively.

Miss Folkestone stroked the burning forehead soothingly. “Deary, what
has upset you so?”

“I am really ashamed to tell you, for now when I hear your dear voice
and look into your true, beautiful eyes I cannot forgive myself for
having doubted you.”

“You have doubted me, Beatrice?” asked the girl, the pink bloom fading
from her cheeks.

“Yes, I have been perfectly wicked all the morning. I have doubted both
you and--”

Her companion drew back slightly.

The patient noticed the movement. “Sit down, please. You must not stand
any longer; the heat is very trying to-day. Sit down; then we can talk.”

Miss Folkestone dropped into a chair, feeling suddenly limp with
apprehension. So the blow she had paid such a price to avert was about
to fall, after all! What evil powers had been at work? Who had sown
these seeds of distrust and suspicion? But she would know all too
soon. The thin voice trailed on.

“Isma, I feel so horrid, so absolutely brutal, telling you this. Still,
it is best you should know; then you will see how nasty I really am and
not a bit like what you and dear Neville think me--”

She stopped. How strange her companion looked! She was leaning back,
with her eyes closed and lips set, as if preparing for some terrible
ordeal.

When Lady Berriedale ceased speaking the girl looked up and in her eyes
burned a pain which smote her friend with new penitence.

“Dearest, don’t look like that!” she exclaimed, beseechingly. “I know
it has been most cruel to doubt you and no one hates hurting you more
than I; but when I have told you all and you have denied it I will
be so contrite and do all in my power to make up to you both for my
horrible suspicions.”

Miss Folkestone leaned over the bed quickly. Perhaps the calamity could
yet be prevented; perhaps even now, on the brink of disaster, there
might be a way of escape. “Beatrice,” she said, grasping at the straw,
“wouldn’t it be much better for you not to talk about it? It will only
upset and exhaust you, and, now that you are feeling all right about
it--”

“No, dear, I would much rather tell you,” replied her friend, firmly,
“for then it gives you the opportunity of denying everything. It
is not for my sake I want to give you this chance, but for your own
and--his.”

The room all at once swam before Isma. So there was no escape, after
all! The trusting little woman looking up at her with large, beseeching
eyes must have her heart lacerated by the cruel truth she would have
given life itself to keep from her! But, merciful God, why should she
be called on to strike the death-blow to such confiding trust! Why must
women always bear the brunt of men’s misdoings? Why had Beatrice not
faced her husband with the slander? Why did she spare him and tax her,
the innocent victim, with his cruel wrong?

“Isma,” went on the high-pitched voice, “I have been told
that--that--Neville is not true to me and that--he cares for you.” She
finished with an effort. “Of course it cannot be true, but Isma--tell
me it is not?” and her eager black eyes looked pleadingly into the gray
ones.

“Beatrice, why did you listen to such horrible gossip? Whoever could
have told you such a thing?” replied the girl, desperately avoiding the
direct denial.

Her friend noticed the evasion and her lips stiffened. “I have been
told,” she continued, in more even tones, “that on the night of the
ball you and Neville were seen on the landing after the rest of us had
gone to bed, and he was pressing your hand to his heart.”

Miss Folkestone sat rigid in her chair. Whoever could have seen them?
The world seemed to be tumbling about her. She glanced down at the rich
peacock-green carpet, aghast.

“So you can’t deny it,” said the cold voice from the bed.

The girl pulled herself together quickly. She must say something to
soothe the woman hiding her wounds under this icy exterior.

“Beatrice, I was coming up late after seeing to things down-stairs and
we accidentally met on the landing. Lord Berriedale admired my gown.
Oh, Beatrice, you know that men are often impulsive if one looks nice,
just the way we are about flowers--”

“Yes, you looked bewildering that night. I don’t wonder you turn the
head of every man who comes near you, and of course my husband admired
you, too; he danced with you and talked to you a good deal. Still,
there is a great difference between admiring a girl and--making love to
her on the stairs late at night. You cannot deny that he pressed your
hand to his heart?” her friend concluded, in a hard voice.

“Beatrice, such things may mean absolutely nothing,” said Isma,
suddenly thinking of the way Falcon, who did not love her, had kissed
her hand the night before.

“Very well, then, we will let that pass. But what about last evening?
You certainly look tired to-day, but not ill. Were you ill? Was that
the reason you went home? Isma, tell me honestly?”

The girl’s eyes wavered before the searching dark ones. “No,” she
stammered, at last, “that was not the reason.”

“Why, then, did you go home? Tell me that?”

Miss Folkestone turned a full, large gaze upon her friend. “Beatrice,”
she said, in gentle tones, “please don’t ask me all these questions. I
would gladly tell you everything, only, believe me, it is far better
not.”

“Better not tear the veil from my eyes and let me see I have lived on
illusions all this time? But,” her voice became strangely weary, “I am
tired of this hoodwinking. I would rather know the truth--rather hurt
me, _my friend_, than _deceive_ me.”

Isma winced. Lady Berriedale had emphasized the words “my friend” and
“deceive.” The situation was horrible--gruesome.

“Beatrice,” began the girl, her golden-gray eyes looking with desperate
sincerity at her companion, “I am not deceiving you--truly I am not.”

“Then tell me what happened last night. Tell me why Neville wrote to
you this morning, a letter so important that Rex had to be despatched
with it before breakfast. What was in that letter?”

“Lord Berriedale had hurt me last night and he apologized this
morning,” replied Isma, gazing steadily into the flushed face on the
pillow.

“Have you destroyed that letter?”

“Not yet.”

“Will you let me see it?”

“No, I cannot do that; it wouldn’t be-- You wouldn’t understand.”

“Don’t you think it would be more correct to say that I would
understand too well?” said the invalid, a grim smile twisting her thin
lips.

“Beatrice, if only you would trust me!” Miss Folkestone had risen and
stood, tall and beautiful, her face glowing with pitying love and
yearning anxiety.

“Trust you, indeed! Haven’t I trusted you, and what is the result, that
I have been most grossly, most appallingly deceived!”

“No, Beatrice, no!” cried the girl, in agony. Then, sinking on her
knees beside the bed, she put out her arms to clasp her friend to her,
but she drew coldly away. “Beatrice, I have not deceived you--I have
not!” she protested, appealingly.

“Very well, if you are truly innocent, then look at me and swear by
your mother’s memory that there never has been any talk of love between
you and Neville.”

The kneeling figure drew a shuddering breath, but made no reply.

“Oh, I thought so,” muttered the harsh voice from the pillows. “You are
guilty, terribly guilty, and--I trusted you so!”

For a moment Isma raised her head and opened her lips to speak--how
easily she could clear herself! She need only tell Beatrice the whole
truth, that Neville loved her and had pursued her with his devotion,
but that she did not care for him and had never for a moment been
disloyal to her friend. How easy to lay the blame on the one to whom
it belonged! However, such a disclosure would only mean deeper anguish
to his wife, so it was better she should think the guilt lay with her,
Isma, and that her husband was not much to blame. The girl closed her
lips again and her head sank dejectedly down on the bed. She would not
speak, would not clear herself.

There was a pause so chilly that it seemed as if a wall of ice had
risen up between them; then the invalid said: “Isma, I could have
forgiven you more easily if you had come and told me the truth
yourself. However, to deceive me and let others inform me, that is--
But never mind. I know at last. Still, to think that I, poor fool,
who thought myself loved by husband and friend,” she went on, in a
different tone, “should have thrown you together--how ludicrous! To
think that I was actually encouraging you both, drawing you to him and
almost pushing you into his arms--I, his devoted wife, who thought
myself so secure in his love, who adored him with a passion which would
have died a dozen times for him if it had been possible--I, who doted
on every line of his form and the least touch of his hand--that _I_
should actually have been the one to keep you near him and put such a
temptation in his way! Can’t you see the ghastly humor of it?” and Lady
Berriedale laughed an ugly, harsh laugh which sounded hollow and weird,
like the echo of footsteps in a vault.

Miss Folkestone shivered. She put her hand across her eyes as if
something had blinded her. “Don’t!” she whispered, faintly; “don’t!”

“Surely, Isma, you see the comedy it has been, don’t you?” Beatrice
added, with the same mirthless laughter.

Her companion lifted her head with a proud little movement. The red
glare from the window fell on her wonderful hair. She stood tall,
lovely, her face burning with a wordless pain and in her large eyes
glistened a dumb agony.

“Good God! you are beautiful, Isma--your worst enemy could not deny
that! I don’t wonder poor Neville has succumbed! However, I know now
that your lofty beauty is only a shell and below it you are heartless,
cruel, and false! But you are clever--oh, how clever! What a feat to
accomplish, to make the husband your ardent lover and his wife your
trusting friend--”

The girl had suddenly reeled, but she straightened quickly and stood
motionless for a moment, her face ashen and her eyes looking long and
intently at the woman who derided her. Then, without a word, she turned
and walked slowly out of the room.

She saw nothing as she made her way down the thickly carpeted stairs.
On reaching the hall she was not even aware that Falcon was there
talking to Miss Brentford, that Lord Berriedale came out from the
library and spoke to her. She did not notice that he opened the door
for her and followed her to the motor. She was oblivious to everything
but the cruel fact that up-stairs lay her friend, facing the worst
agony any woman is called upon to bear, and that she, Isma, could do
nothing to comfort her.

She sank down among the cushions in the car and was barely aware that
the machine darted forward into the teeth of the fiendish hurricane.

Falcon had gone into the sitting-room and had been watching her from
the nearest window. When Lord Berriedale helped Isma into the motor the
man looking on clenched his hands and ground his teeth. What had they
done between them to make his cousin look like that! He choked back the
angry words rising to his lips.

He would follow her presently, after she had recovered a little from
the ordeal she had been through up-stairs.

Captain Folkestone stood for some time looking out at the great
dust-clouds flying before the pursuing blast. His face was set and
grim, and though his blue eyes were following the dust-columns among
the fig-trees of the avenue, yet Miss Brentford knew he did not see
them, but that his brain was preoccupied, busily working at something
which filled her with instinctive dread.




III

BARRED GATES


“I suppose Isma is in now?” inquired Captain Folkestone when he arrived
at The Palms an hour after his cousin had returned from The Bluff.

“I am afraid you are going to be disappointed again,” replied Miss
Livingston, sympathetically. “Something has upset Isma dreadfully this
afternoon. She looked awfully white when she came home. I thought at
first that the wind and heat had knocked her up, but it must have been
something worse, for she would hardly say a word and went straight to
her room, locked the door, and wouldn’t even have tea sent up to her.
By the way,” she added, “you must need some refreshment after your hot
drive in the gale. Would you like an iced drink or shall I get you some
tea?”

“No, thank you, I had tea at The Bluff,” replied the soldier, and
continued, in a different tone: “I am grieved--very grieved, about
Isma. But would you mind telling her I am here and that I want to see
her most urgently? And while you are away may I go and have a wash? I
feel too horribly grimy and gritty to talk to either of you at present.”

When Falcon returned to the sitting-room some minutes later the
governess told him that Isma was sorry, but she could not possibly see
him that day.

Captain Folkestone stroked his smooth cheek thoughtfully, then he said:
“I feel horribly selfish giving you all this trouble, Miss Livingston,
but might I ask you to take my cousin one other message? Tell her that
I am not in a hurry and if she wants to rest I can wait for hours.
However, I must see her before I return home to-night.”

The old lady went up-stairs once more, and the second message had the
desired effect, for Isma said she would be down presently.

When she entered the room a little later Falcon was alone.

“I am sorry to bring you down against your will,” he began, looking at
the girl’s pale, set face, “but there is something I must say to you at
once--it can’t even wait till to-morrow.”

“Yes,” replied Isma, listlessly, taking the chair by the window she
had occupied earlier in the afternoon and glancing out into the hazy,
dust-laden atmosphere.

Her companion regarded her gravely from the hearth-rug, and his somber
expression deepened as he noticed the red rims round her eyes and that
her curving lips were pressed together as if she were making some
colossal effort to keep them from quivering.

The man standing by the mantelpiece breathed unevenly. For some moments
there was a deep silence in the room, only broken by the rustle of
leaves, the creaking of bending trees, and the muffled sobs of breaking
waves.

Then Falcon went over to a small table, picked up a glass of egg and
milk and passed it to his cousin as he said: “Drink this, Isma; it will
do you good. You used to like that sort of thing when you were a little
girl.”

She waved it aside, but he held it to her. “You must take it. I can’t
talk to you till you do,” he persisted.

With a weary little sigh she took the glass and drank its contents.

When she had finished Falcon sat down on a small divan a short distance
away from her. For some seconds he did not speak, but sat leaning
forward, knees apart, looking thoughtfully at the carpet between his
feet. Then he straightened suddenly and began: “I am not going to worry
you by asking what took place this afternoon. Miss Brentford gave me
some hints, and I can guess the rest.”

The girl by the window moved restlessly.

So Falcon knew already! Still, of course, he was bound to know in the
end. Everybody would soon be told; Miss Brentford and Rex would see
to that. Her character would be in shreds. If anything happened to
Beatrice, it would be given out that the trusting wife had at last
discovered her friend’s deceit and the shock had killed her. In any
case her illness would be laid at her, Isma’s, door as a result of her
heartless behavior. It would be said that-- The girl shivered visibly.
She knew her world, knew what scandal it would make of the things which
had happened, and that the name Falcon loved would be dragged into the
mire! Society had not had any proof before; gossip had been started on
surmises; but now when evidence was available it would not spare her.
Every one knew of Beatrice’s devotion to her, and if she cast her off
it could only be for most serious misconduct. There was no hope for her.

It would be terribly humiliating for Falcon, too, and he would feel the
disgrace keenly. Of course he would try to vindicate the family honor.
She was sure he had come to make some suggestion which he thought might
mitigate the evil which had befallen her. But it would be useless;
nothing could save their name now.

She turned and gazed into the wind-blown garden. How ugly it looked
to-day! The leaves were all showing the wrong side; the flowers were
disheveled and out of shape. Everything looked tattered and faded in
the descending gloom. The sun had not yet set, but the haze hung like
a glowering, hideous twilight. Life seemed all at once to have become
ugly, colorless, and dark. It had been turned inside out and was
showing seams, stains, and frays.

But her cousin’s voice roused her from her dismal thoughts.

“Isma, something must be done at once. Things can’t go on like
this--they can’t.”

“No, I suppose you mean that I ought to go away, somewhere out of
reach--in the jungle of Africa or in the desert, anywhere out of
sight,” she replied, tonelessly, her eyes on the swaying branches
beating against the window-panes.

“No, I did not mean that.”

“Anyhow, I think that is the best thing I can do; hide in a place where
no one shall be able to find me.”

“That is impossible. There is no such place, for I know one man who
will follow you wherever you go.”

Of course Falcon was thinking of Lord Berriedale.

“He will get tired in time, when he sees it is absolutely useless,” she
said, a little coldly.

The man on the divan rose and went over to the mantelpiece again. “Is
it really quite useless, Isma?” he asked, in a voice which sounded hard
by the restraint he put on it.

“Of course it is--quite,” she answered, with decision.

There was rather a lengthy pause. Her cousin had turned away and picked
up a small bronze elephant which he pulled at ferociously.

After some moments he put the ornament down and looked narrowly at his
companion. Could this be the same woman who had driven beside him on
the moonlit road the night before, who had leaned against his shoulder,
spoken to him in rich, warm tones, looked at him with eyes so tender
that they seemed to melt into utter yielding under his gaze, who now
sat aloof and cold with scarcely a glance at him and told him, without
a tremor of compunction, that it was absolutely useless to care for her!

He swallowed hard.

However, though Captain Folkestone was extremely sensitive, he was not
easily thwarted, and to-day he was doubly determined, for his cousin’s
honor as well as his own happiness was at stake.

“Very well,” he said, in a cool, measured way, “it is just as well to
be clear on those points first.”

Isma turned and looked at him. But he did not see her glance. He was
gazing across the room through an eastern window at the wind-swept,
foam-flecked ocean.

His cold, distant manner gave her the impression he had not believed
her. A sudden fire flashed into her eyes, but died away almost
instantly. Could she blame him, after all? Had she not by her own
actions that day made it impossible for him to believe in her? So,
forcing back an angry retort, she said, quietly:

“But, Falcon, don’t you think you should have known before? I wanted
you to understand, so that you would not-- I am so sorry if--”

“Don’t worry about that,” he replied, bruskly. “To be frank with you,
I was not quite clear. Certain little things had made me think that
perhaps--” He broke off, then after a slight pause he added, “Still, of
course, I shall take your word for it.”

As he stood on the hearth-rug, his shoulders squared and hands clasped
behind his back, his face white and lips set, he looked very much like
a man who had just received a stunning blow and was taking it without
flinching. But Isma’s senses were too numbed by all she had been
through to comprehend.

“Well, I am glad you understand at last,” she said, still feeling
uncomfortably certain he did not believe her and only out of pity made
a pretense of thinking her innocent.

Falcon made no reply. He still gazed out of the window with narrowed,
half-closed eyes.

“But if you don’t think it best for me to go away, what else am I to
do?” asked Isma, breaking the lengthy pause.

Her companion suddenly braced himself as if preparing for some ordeal;
then he said, in a low, even voice, “There is one thing you can do
which will at once ease Lady Berriedale’s mind and remove all slander
from you--”

“Yes?” she inquired, as he stopped.

Falcon turned and looked at her narrowly through half-closed lids as
he had looked at the sea a moment ago, and said, with visible effort,
“You can become engaged to--me.

“Isma,” he urged, “if you become engaged to me, I think we can
save--the situation. There will be no scandal then; you will at once
set your friend’s mind at rest and give me the chance to protect you
better than I can do at present.”

The girl was still silent and she had turned her face quite away so
that he could not see the expression in her eyes and the bitter smile
curving her lips.

So her heart’s desire had come to her at last! After years of waiting
the thing she most desired was within her reach. But, great Heavens!
what a mangled, distorted thing it proved to be! It came to her shorn
of beauty, a worn, wizened, lifeless thing! The man she loved was
asking her to become engaged to him, in an unemotional, business-like
way, without one thought of love, not even thinking it necessary to
apologize for its absence, expecting her to understand he was making
the proposal for her sake, to save her from an appalling situation, yet
making it clear she must not expect any sentiment from him! The cruel,
mocking irony of fate!

“Well?” he said, at last, as she still did not speak.

“You must know that such a thing is quite impossible,” she said, in a
hard voice, her face still averted.

“Why impossible?”

“I simply couldn’t do it.”

No, she could not. This was too much to expect from her! Engaged to
Falcon under such circumstances, being daily confronted with the
meaningless, loveless bond, being hourly reminded of all it should
have meant, moment by moment tortured by it, tantalized by it. No, no!
she could not accept release on such terms. Rather a thousand times be
disgraced and banished!

“I cannot, Falcon--I cannot,” she repeated, in broken tones.

Her companion winced. So that was the way she felt about becoming
engaged to him! It was an intolerably painful thing--too horrible to be
endured!

He winced again. Did not this indicate that she must be in love with
some one else and found it abhorrent that another man should take
his place? Did she care for Lord Berriedale, after all, and was she
desperately fighting against this treacherous affection? Captain
Folkestone clenched his hands and the veins in his neck swelled. For
a moment he was tempted to walk out of the room and never again look
on the woman who had brought this terrible thing into his life. But he
fought back the temptation, for was there not an added reason why he
must not forsake her, if this conjecture was right? He must stand by
her and help her fight the awful odds against her.

“Isma,” he began, crushing back the vibration in his voice, “even if
it is hard for you, try and put up with it. Can’t you see that it would
set everything right? Think what poor Lady Berriedale is suffering at
this moment. Do it to relieve her!”

The girl tossed her head in hot rebellion. Must she always suffer
for this friend, always be called on to make greater and yet more
impossible sacrifices for her sake!

“O God!” moaned Isma, half aloud, dropping back in her chair and
closing her eyes.

The soldier changed color and bit his lip. He was at least finding
out the truth now when she was off her guard, thrown off her balance
by the terrible events of the day. The softness in her eyes and voice
the evening before had meant nothing! Her show of emotion when his
arm had held her as they danced together two nights ago had also been
meaningless! All his dreams mere foam and bubble bursting into a
stinging emptiness!

For some seconds the room reeled round him; then he pulled himself
together sharply and said, “Isma, don’t you think you are just
a little--needlessly--ungracious about it?” Though his tone was
restrained, it held the merest suggestion of pain, which made the
girl turn and look at him at once. However, the increased density of
the atmosphere had made the room dusky, so she could not see that the
handsome face was pale and drawn. Still, her voice was very gentle as
she said:

“Falcon, I am sorry I have seemed so--ungrateful. Of course I know how
noble you are in making such an--offer. Only you would have thought
of such a thing! And believe me I value greatly your kind thought in
wanting to help me. Still, of course, you must know I could not allow
you to make such a--sacrifice.”

“How can you call it a--sacrifice?” he asked, almostly roughly.

“Of course it must be--under the circumstances, and I cannot let you
make it--it would be too much for us both.”

“But, Isma, it is absolutely necessary. It is the only way out of the
difficulty. Can’t you see that for yourself? Still, of course, our
engagement can be just as--you like. We need not--treat each other any
differently from--what we do now.”

The bitter smile came back to her lips. Falcon could be satisfied
with--_that_! How little he cared! It was only the family name he was
anxious to save. Well, she owed him her help in that. She was too tired
to think out other plans, so there seemed nothing else to do but submit
to his suggestion. Her cousin had a reputation for such punctilious
honor that every one would know there could be no flaws in the
character of the woman he intended to marry. And poor Beatrice would be
comforted. Yes, it seemed the only solution of the difficulty. She must
submit to the inevitable, even if it tore her heart to shreds.

“What is it to be?” asked Captain Folkestone, as he had not received
any reply. “Of course you know,” he went on, as Isma still did not
speak, “that you are not obliged to--marry me afterward.”

“No, of course not,” came the scornful rejoinder.

“Well, then?”

“I suppose I might as well consent. The farce need not last--long.”

“No, not very long,” he agreed, with a strange flatness in his voice.

Another silence fell between them.

Then Falcon said, “I may announce our--engagement?”

“If you like.” She was still peering into the red dusk in the garden.

“Very well. I must go now. I want to ring up Miss Brentford and tell
her at once.”

Isma started. She knew how such news would affect Rita. “No, no, not
to-night!” she pleaded, turning to him.

“For Lady Berriedale’s sake it ought to be done as soon as possible. If
I tell Miss Brentford, she can pass the news on to--the others.”

Isma sighed in resignation.

Her cousin held out his hand. “Good-by, Isma,” he said, in a strained,
low voice, his eyes upon her face in the gloom.

“Good-by,” she replied, tonelessly, placing a cold, lifeless hand in
his.

She watched him walk across the room, listened to his footsteps in the
hall, the opening and shutting of the front door. She heard his car
leap into panting life and its crunching on the gravel as it sped down
the drive, and then there was only the mournful soughing of the wind
as, exhausted by its savage onslaughts, it sank moaningly to rest among
the trees.

Isma left the window.

Falcon had come to the rescue again. Her reputation would be saved,
Beatrice comforted, Lord Berriedale forced to retreat; but--but-- She
groped her way blindly to the door and crept up-stairs to the sultry
loneliness of her room.




IV

TRAMPLED FRIENDSHIP


When Miss Folkestone had left The Bluff Lord Berriedale went into his
study and stood for some time looking up the dusty road as if his eyes
were still following the car which had vanished from view some minutes
before. After a while he turned from the window and began to pace the
floor with even, regular steps. Between his brow was a deep furrow and
now and again he stopped for a moment and listened, but no one came to
summon him to his wife, and he continued to walk up and down the room
with well-controlled restlessness.

What had happened between Beatrice and Isma? Evidently his wife had
suspected something was wrong. Had she charged the girl with treachery?
It was apparent when she came down-stairs a few minutes ago that she
had been through a terrible ordeal. Why had Beatrice not sent for him?
Had Isma told her the truth, that she was innocent and he alone guilty?
No, she would not clear herself at his expense; she was too noble for
that!

But how was it all going to end?

The furrow on his brow deepened and he stroked his fair mustache as he
slackened his pace and listened again.

Up-stairs, Lady Berriedale lay in her elaborate bed, her narrow face
pinched and ashen, her thin lips tightly drawn together, and a terrible
light burning in her deep brown eyes. She was absolutely still. Only
her eyes flitted from one object in the room to another, yet seeing
none of them.

At times her furtive gaze strayed to the windows, and under the
half-drawn blinds she could see the crumpled ocean which in the gale
looked like a huge sheet of creased brown paper. She glanced absently
at the stunted trees on the nearest cliff, their stems now bent and
their leaves looking like tattered rags in the ferocious storm. She
heard the weird moans of sea-gulls half stifled by the tempest and saw
fragments of clouds flying toward the horizon as if they were being
swept ruthlessly into the sea.

But Lady Berriedale had no thoughts for clouds, waves, wailing birds,
or whining trees. Her whole consciousness was drawn within, centered
on some awful theme which made her oblivious to everything else, and
sometimes her lips moved as if she were talking inaudibly to herself.

At last she sat up very slowly and glanced furtively toward the door,
then she very deliberately put on a pair of rose-red slippers, and
with wavering footsteps crossed the floor and stood still before
a full-length mirror, looking long and intently at herself in the
glass. A bitter smile played about her rigid lips as she surveyed the
reflection of her shriveled form in its rose-tinted _crêpe-de-Chine_
night attire. How pitiful that the luxurious elegance should only cover
such an unsightly object! She picked at the ribbons at her breast as if
she would have torn them to pieces. What business had such a creature
with embroidered silks and dainty ribbons! She looked mercilessly at
her scraggy neck, the wizened pallor of her skin, and her dark, sunken
eyes encircled by those ghastly shadows.

Then suddenly she turned away from the mirror with a hasty, nervous
movement, and her fevered glance sought a large photograph of Isma in
a solid-gold frame standing in the center of the broad mantelpiece. It
was a lifelike portrait, picturing the girl in all her subtle, vital
loveliness. The camera had caught the full, rich gaze of her wonderful
eyes, their lofty calm, undaunted courage, and tender sweetness.

Lady Berriedale stood transfixed, staring at the picture with sharp,
severe scrutiny.

All at once she dashed across the room, tore down the picture, and
threw it violently to the floor, the heavy frame and glass crashing
loudly as they struck the tiled hearth.

Beatrice looked with defiant scorn at the splintered glass and Isma’s
eyes with their magnificent tranquillity gazing at her now from the
peacock-green tiles.

“False!” cried the angry woman, her cheeks ablaze and her white hands
clenched; “utterly false! Your beauty is a mask--a mask,” she shrieked,
“and you still dare to look me in the face with those deceptive eyes
of yours. You are bold and heartless, you cruel, horrible creature!”
and one of the small rose-slippered feet stamped all at once across the
face of the lovely girl who still looked with untroubled serenity at
the excited woman insulting her.

“How dare you look at me like that!” cried the shrill voice in
suffocating fury, stamping on the photo again and again. “How--dare--”

Her words were suddenly choked by a violent fit of coughing, and a gush
of warm fluid forced itself between her lips, poured down her gown,
staining it with a streak of deeper red and running into a dark-crimson
pool on the carpet.

A look of horror came into the wide, dark eyes. Was she bleeding to
death?

She gasped noisily and turned a ghastly white. She was strangling.

Again she gasped, then swayed and fell heavily against the mantelpiece.

The blow against the hard wood roused her for a moment and she stood
half dazed, leaning against the shelf, her eyes stiff and glassy. Good
God! Was she--dying here alone!

Suddenly the black cross she had seen illumined in the picture the
first morning they had spent at The Bluff flashed into her mind. She
could see it standing out from the canvas, moving toward her. Yes, it
was coming; it had been waiting for--her grave!

She gave a piercing shriek of terror.

Then something numbed her senses and everything began to fade from
her consciousness. She scarcely noticed the door opening, her husband
springing to her side and snatching her to him just as she was slowly
sinking to the floor.

When she became conscious again it was evidently night, for the gas was
alight. There were strangers in the room, a nurse in uniform, and a man
came quickly toward her as she moved, bent over her, and she felt a
prick in her arm. Then she caught sight of her husband standing at the
foot of the bed, his face looking anxious and haggard, and farther away
still Rita was huddled wearily in a low chair.

She glanced up at the man who had removed the needle from her forearm
and recognized him. He was the doctor she had consulted in Sydney and
who had arranged to come to The Bluff if she needed medical attention.
It must be very late if he had come all the way from town.

She tried to think what made her ill, but a strange stupor began to
steal over her. Why were all these people in her room? Why didn’t they
go to bed and sleep? Sleep was so delicious--sleep--

The next time she woke there was faint daylight in the room. The people
had all gone--no, the nurse was still there, sitting beside the bed
with her eyes closed and her cap a little to one side. She must be
asleep; it would be a pity to disturb her.

Lady Berriedale glanced about her wonderingly and gradually memory
returned. She remembered Isma’s visit--everything. Her life was at a
complete standstill--nothing would ever set it moving again.

She shuddered.

The nurse opened her eyes and spoke in a kind, gentle voice; then
she went over to a small table and came back to the bed. There was
another prick in her arm and soon afterward the ghastly thing which
had happened did not matter, after all. Nothing mattered; the only
important thing was this long, delicious sinking into oblivion.

       *       *       *       *       *

In another wing of the house stood a slender, white-robed form by
an open window, looking out into the stirring dawn. There was no
wind; only a cool breath came from the pansy-colored hills. Beyond
the grounds of The Bluff the long, wide plain lay wrapped in mystic
shadows, but trees and bushes were beginning to disentangle themselves
from the dusky meshes of night.

Rita Brentford laid her cool cheek against the window-frame and closed
her tired eyes. The pale-gray light creeping into the room fell on her
white, drawn face. What a night she had spent! A shudder ran through
her. How had she lived through this ghastly nightmare! However, dawn
had come at last and the black hours were ended, but what about the
nightmare? She shivered again--that had not left her; it would never
leave her. She knew it would follow her, dodge every footstep for the
rest of her days. It seemed as if she had entered into a league with
it, made a compact with it, by which she had given this phantom monster
the right to shadow her life forever.

One of her cold, limp hands moved across her brow, yet it could not
brush away the thing which tortured her. Though her body was weak
and spent, her brain worked with pitiless activity. It was like the
electric advertisements she had seen from the Sydney harbor flashing
out one announcement after another with unvarying precision. Her mind
worked with the same ruthless automacity; it brought one scene before
her after another. She heard again the piercing shriek, felt herself
rushing to her sister’s room, just in time to see Neville gathering the
fainting, blood-stained figure in his arms. She could still see the big
blotch of dark red on the green carpet, she lived again the endless,
merciless hours before the doctor arrived, felt again the nerve-racking
waiting for his verdict--hemorrhage of the lungs combined with a severe
heart attack. Beatrice’s heart had been weak for some years, but it had
never before given any active trouble; the syncope had been brought on
by shock.

Rita leaned her head more heavily against the woodwork and a tremor
passed through her closed eyelids; her face in the weird light of early
dawn looked old and gray.

Her sister was still in a precarious condition; the doctor was not at
all hopeful about saving her.

The girl at the window suddenly opened her eyes and there was a
terrible glitter in the shadowy orbs. She had nearly killed Beatrice.
The news she had imparted to her the day before might yet do the deadly
work of taking her life.

A luminous rim appeared over the far-off horizon and gilded the trees
and shrubs on the plain. The gold on the flats deepened, leaves shone,
grass blades shimmered, and the flowers in the garden received color.
But daylight brought no joy to the heart of the girl standing mute and
limp, looking into its new-born radiance.

She pressed her hands against her throbbing eyes.

She was a murderess, a black, guilty murderess! She knew her sister
could not stand shocks, yet she had deliberately imparted news which
she knew might have a fatal effect, and all because-- Yes, she saw her
action in its hideous selfishness, now the dark hours had revealed her
deed in its naked ugliness and shown her that she had sacrificed her
sister’s life for the sake of separating Captain Folkestone from his
cousin and securing him for herself!

Beatrice still lingered, but she might yet die. In any case she,
Rita, had committed the crime which could take her life. Murderess!
Murderess! The dreadful word tolled in her brain with maddening
persistence.

She lifted her arms as if to ward off a blow. Then she sank into a
chair and closed her eyes. But instantly she opened them again and a
malicious gleam shot into them. Her cold, proud rival was disarmed at
last--her words had at least accomplished that! Captain Folkestone
would never have any more to do with her when he knew all that had
happened.

Yesterday he had not allowed her to say all she had meant to tell him.
He had courteously, yet decidedly, changed the subject. Still, she had
been able to throw out enough hints to show him how treacherous Isma
had been to her friend!

However, even the thought that Miss Folkestone could no more stand in
her way had no power to comfort her now. Her conscience cried loudly,
vehemently, and would not be silenced. Again Rita could see the livid
face with its gruesome, deathlike calm resting on the pillow. Would no
smile again soften the tightly compressed lips? And would the shrunken
form in a few days be laid under--

No! no! She could bear no more. Her thoughts in the lonely room would
drive away her reason! She must get away from the stillness which held
these awful specters. She would go to the sea, the ever-stirring,
restless ocean. It was never silent, always roaring or muttering under
its breath. Was it always noisy because, like herself, it could not
endure the austere, accusing silence?

She snatched up a long coat, made her way hurriedly out of the house,
down the garden path, till she reached a small track which led past the
cliff to the beach.

As she approached a belt of weather-worn she-oaks she came upon Rex
sitting on a bench, one knee across the other, and a cigarette between
his lips.

His presence brought her a sudden sense of relief.

“Rex,” she exclaimed, stopping in front of him, “whatever brings you
out so early?”

“My dear Miss Rita, I should be absolutely heartless if I could sleep
when her ladyship is dy--so ill.” He corrected himself.

The girl winced, but sat down beside him.

“Rex, isn’t it appalling! I haven’t slept, of course, not closed my
eyes once, and I didn’t sleep the night before, either. It is all too
dreadful!” Her horror was beginning to find vent in words.

“Yes, indeed! But have you heard how the patient is this morning?”

“No, not yet. Nurse promised to let me know if there was any change, so
apparently there is not.”

“That is a good sign. She is holding her own at present, then. All we
can expect, isn’t it? I wonder,” he continued, with puckered brow,
“what _could_ have given her such a nasty turn! Something must have
done the mischief. I wonder could some meddling gossip have--”

He stopped and glanced at his companion, who had gripped the seat for
support. “Miss Rita, I do believe you are ill, too!”

“Nonsense, Rex! I’m all right.”

He looked at her with indolent scrutiny as he added: “I suppose his
lordship hasn’t told you the news yet. He wouldn’t have the heart. I
mean he would not be able to think of such things just now--”

“What news?” asked the girl, sitting up quickly.

“Captain Folkestone rang up last night and asked for you, but as you
were with her ladyship I couldn’t disturb you. However, Lord Berriedale
was down-stairs just then, so I asked him to come to the ’phone, and
Captain Folkestone evidently told him about his engagement, for I heard
his lordship congratulate him--”

“Engagement!” stammered Miss Brentford, her pale face becoming grayer.
“Who--?”

“Is there any need to ask? His beautiful cousin, of course. Who else
could it be?”

Rita sank back against the seat, her bloodless lips uttering an
inarticulate cry.

“Great Cæsar!” exclaimed the man beside her. “I believe you are going
to faint. Let me take you indoors.”

“Don’t be an ass, Rex,” Rita almost screamed at the secretary. “Of
course I am not going to faint. Still, are you really in earnest?
Aren’t you just--?”

“As if I should joke on such a solemn subject--at such a serious time,
I mean. How could you suggest I should be so brutal? But as soon as you
can you must ring up the happy man and tell him how delighted you are.
He will be in the tenth heaven to-day. Think what times they will have
together now. Shouldn’t like to come upon them unexpectedly under the
palms on a moonlit--”

He stopped suddenly, for the girl had risen and stood livid
and trembling before him. “Rex, if you say another word,
I’ll--I’ll--strangle you,” she shrieked.

Then the white, shaking form with the desperate black eyes turned
suddenly and fled back to the house. She made her way hastily to her
own room, locked the door, and, moaning loudly, threw herself on the
bed.

So she had committed that hideous crime--for nothing! Her sister lay at
death’s door--for nothing! Her life was endangered to no purpose! Her
own nightmare, her future sufferings, would be for nothing! All her
plans had been thwarted while the unscrupulous Miss Folkestone with her
siren-like charm robbed her of the man she had become a--murderess to
obtain!




V

THE FATAL KEY


A week after Lady Berriedale’s collapse Isma entered The Bluff once
more. She mounted the wide staircase quickly. Her friend was much
better and had sent for her. The rose-pink in her cheeks deepened.

The past week had been a ghastly one. Falcon had brought her the news
of Lady Berriedale’s seizure the day after it had taken place, and the
same afternoon a note had come from Lord Berriedale telling her of
his wife’s critical condition and adding more details than her cousin
could supply. The letter also told her that the patient had to be
kept absolutely quiet; that she was under the influence of narcotics
and asleep most of the time. Two days afterward Lord Berriedale had
written again to say that his wife seemed to be rallying, her pulse was
much stronger, and that as soon as she could bear his confession he
was going to make a clean breast of everything, of course as briefly
and mercifully as possible. He was very anxious Isma’s name should be
cleared with his wife for the patient’s sake as well as her own, for
he felt sure, once she knew her friend had been true and he only was
to blame, the invalid would wish to have the girl beside her again and
Isma’s presence would help her greatly to regain her hold on life. Lord
Berriedale implored her to forgive and be merciful.

He did not know what had occurred that fatal afternoon, but he pleaded
with her not to judge Beatrice’s words and actions too hardly.

That morning another note from him had arrived, saying he had told his
wife everything, that she had most generously forgiven him, and that
she sent a message asking the girl to come to her at once, as she was
longing to see her and ask for her forgiveness. Lord Berriedale had not
congratulated her on her engagement or made the slightest allusion to
it in any of his letters.

Falcon had come over immediately after breakfast to take her to The
Bluff. He always rang up early to inquire after Lady Berriedale, and
when he was told she was much better that morning and had sent for Miss
Folkestone he had gone to The Palms at once to drive his cousin to the
invalid.

Now the girl entered her friend’s room, her face flushed and her eyes
shining.

The nurse glanced with tense curiosity at the beautiful visitor and
then quietly withdrew.

“Isma, you are a saint!” cried Lady Berriedale, stretching out her arms
and pressing the girl to her heart. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Don’t, Beatrice, don’t,” whispered Isma, trying to keep the patient
from becoming excited. “There is nothing to forgive, deary. You simply
made a mistake, and even the wisest and best make mistakes sometimes.”

“Darling, you are too good to me!” There were tears in the high-pitched
voice.

“Beatrice dear, please don’t get upset, or nurse will never allow me to
sit with you again.”

The elder woman made an instant effort to calm herself and said, in a
different tone: “Neville has told me everything, and I know now how
true and good you have been. But Isma”--the large black eyes looked up
at her wistfully--“he loves you deeply--”

Miss Folkestone put out her hands protestingly.

“Beatrice, it can’t really be love--only a slight infatuation--”

“No, you are wrong about that,” replied the solemn voice from the
pillows. “It is real love. He doesn’t only admire your outward beauty,
but your nobility, courage, your intense sincerity and marvelous
generosity. He--” She stopped suddenly and looked up at the girl with
deep pain in her glance. “But how terrible of me to talk to you like
this, when I ought to be congratulating you! Isma”--she stretched out
her arms again--“kiss me and let me wish you all the happiness you so
richly deserve--”

Her companion stooped over her quickly, interrupting the words with a
caress.

“Darling, what is the matter? Why are you trembling so?” asked the
elder woman, pushing the girl a little away from her so that she might
look into her face. “Why, there are tears in your eyes, tears when you
ought to be all smiles and joy. Why--?” she persisted, regarding the
long, moist lashes with deep concern. Then all at once she exclaimed:
“Oh, Isma, I know what has made you sad in the midst of your happiness.
It is I--”

Her companion silenced the words with another kiss. “Beatrice, don’t
let us speak of it again.”

“But now that everything is right between us and I am much better you
won’t grieve any more, will you?”

“No, no; I shall feel much happier now.”

Still her friend missed the note of conviction in the voice and looked
at Isma with troubled scrutiny.

The girl colored painfully and her head dropped.

“Isma,” began Lady Berriedale, with strange solemnity, “are you quite
sure that you love Captain Folkestone?”

Instantly the flaxen head lifted and two steady gray eyes looked at her
with intense sincerity from under the wet black lashes. “I love him
with all my heart. I have never loved another man.”

The patient breathed a sigh of relief. “You have always loved him?”

“Yes, ever since I met him in London, when I came out and hadn’t seen
him for some years.”

“So that is why no other man has been able to make an impression on
you, why you have been immune to all love and wooing! But,” she went
on, a little perplexedly, “why didn’t you marry him before? This long
delay seems an awful waste!”

“He didn’t--care.”

“Not care! How absurd! But is it really only lately that he--?”

The fair head sank down on her friend’s breast. “I don’t know. I have
not--asked him.”

“You strange girl! Fancy not asking your lover such an important
question. I should have wanted to know the exact moment when he fell
in love with me. I should like to know when your cousin first began to
care; and if you won’t ask him I will.”

Her companion started. “Beatrice, for Heaven’s sake don’t do such a
thing. Promise me you will not!” she cried, in panic.

“My dear child, you are quite incomprehensible. I believe you are
afraid of him. But of course I won’t do it if you would rather I
didn’t. By the way, I suppose he drove you over this morning?”

“Yes, and he is coming back for me presently.”

“What a dear he is to spare you! Darling,” she continued, looking up at
her friend with a tremulous tenderness in her gaze, “I do hope you will
be happy--as happy as I thought--I was.”

Miss Folkestone’s arms enfolded the shrunken form. “Beatrice, don’t
say _was_--for you are going to be just as happy as you thought.”

Lady Berriedale looked away into space. “How do you think there could
be any joy for me, when my husband cares for--another woman?”

“Deary, that is only a passing fancy. It is nothing, and, now that I am
engaged, he will not think of--me at all. If only you knew how deeply
distressed he has been during your illness you would know how much he
really cares!”

The nurse came in just then. It was time for medicine and the patient
was not allowed to talk any more.

The next morning Isma found her friend much better and awaiting her
eagerly.

“Darling, I feel so much stronger to-day, and I am so glad, for I am
longing to have a good talk.”

“Yes,” said the girl, settling down by the bedside when the nurse had
left the room, “now we can enjoy ourselves.”

“Isma,” began the rasping voice, “I have been thinking such a lot
lately--that is, of course, when I have not been under the influence of
drugs.”

“Yes? What have you been thinking about?”

“Do you remember I told you that Neville and I were standing on the
balcony on the first morning after our arrival, looking out on the
great plains? It seemed to me then that this vast country was a place
which compelled one to pray--no, not the stale, lifeless prayers
so often uttered in churches, or the sentimental ones prompted by
beautiful music, but the impetuous, volcanic prayers bursting from
exploding souls. It seemed to me that souls living in this vastness
would be strong, lofty, great, capable of majestic passion, and I felt
my own life had been so small and mean by comparison. I longed for
gigantic strength, to be able to pray like that, and I had a feeling
that in this country I should learn. Isma,” she turned her face
slightly away and her tones lowered as she said, “I am learning. The
explosion has taken place--”

Her companion looked at her with troubled sympathy.

“Oh, Beatrice, if only I could have spared you--that!”

The black eyes looked up at her steadily.

“No, dear, it is a good thing you could not. You have been an angel
standing between me and sorrow all this time, yet believe me it is
best--this should have come. My soul was so weak and flabby before, it
had no strength to rise, no power to look beyond the dust-heap on which
it lay. It was a heap of gold-dust, still a dust-heap all the same.
However, now, though the explosion has shattered my heart, it has shot
my soul out of the dust, given it wings, and though it may still be in
a feeble way, yet it is beginning to rise, beginning to mount with its
own prayers, and no prayer can go very far unless the soul who prays
ascends with it.”

“I am afraid I have never prayed like that,” murmured Isma, with
downcast lashes.

“Then the explosion in your life has not taken place.”

“The explosion not taken place!” Miss Folkestone closed her eyes and
her cheeks paled. Could her heart be more cruelly shattered than it was
at present? She had prayed, too, at times, but prayer had seemed so
useless, so ineffective; perhaps that was because, as Beatrice said,
her own soul had not risen with the petitions. But her friend was
speaking again.

“Isma,” she was saying, “I thought I was--dying--that afternoon. It
really seemed as if I were; and even though I may get over this attack,
still,” she added, in almost a whisper, “I shall not be--here for long.”

The girl pressed her hand silently; she could not speak.

“And, deary, I have been wondering where I am--going. It is so strange
to think of leaving all which is familiar and known and not have the
faintest idea where one is going and what the next life will be like. I
have thought so much about it and wondered--”

“Perhaps the next world will not be very different from this.”

“In some respects perhaps not. It must at least have as many varieties
of existence as this, only each one magnified in the same proportion as
eternity is larger than time.”

“Do you mean to say you believe there would be as many grades of joy
and happiness, sorrow and misery, as here, and each state magnified by
the huge scale of eternity?”

“Yes, surely. Life there will be of colossal dimensions, whether it be
a state of joy or--anguish.”

“That is very terrible to contemplate.”

“Everything can be terrible. Eternity is vaster than anything we have
ever known, anything we could imagine, and its sorrows and joys must be
on the same enormous scale.”

“In that case, it would be an appalling thing to strike a state of
misery.”

“You say ‘strike’; do you really think it would be a case of chance, a
mere coincidence, what state we reach? That would be too haphazard to
fit in with the laws of a universe where everything is worked out with
mathematical precision.”

“No, I don’t for a moment suppose our ultimate fate will be determined
by chance; still, I wonder what will decide it?”

“It seems to me that in this life we must find the key which will
unlock our destiny for us. And Isma,” the invalid turned to her
quickly, “do you remember our talk some time ago about Death being an
executioner and that only criminals are executed? If that is so, we
shall have a very poor chance. Fancy entering eternity as criminals--”

The door opened quietly and the nurse entered.

“I suppose you have come to send me away?” queried Miss Folkestone.

“I am afraid so,” the woman in uniform replied, smilingly.

The girl stooped over her friend and kissed her.

“Don’t worry,” and lowering her voice, so that the nurse, who had gone
to the other end of the room, could not hear her words, she added,
“remember you can pray, and that will help you to find the right key.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Every morning Falcon called for his cousin and drove her to The Bluff.
He either returned to his own home and came for Isma late in the
afternoon or he spent the day at The Bluff and waited till she was
ready to go back to The Palms.

Lady Berriedale made rapid progress, and having Isma with her
constantly helped her greatly toward recovery. She deeply regretted
depriving Captain Folkestone of so much of his fiancée’s society;
still, she comforted herself with the thought that the engaged couple
would spend their evenings together, and she would have been greatly
surprised had she known that Isma and her cousin separated as soon as
they reached her gates, and that even during the brief drives they
spoke very little to each other.

As strength returned the patient was able to walk into the
drawing-room, where she and Isma spent long days together. Frequently
Captain Folkestone joined them. He did not always take part in the
conversation, but often sat at the other end of the room, occupied with
a book or papers.

It was after Lady Berriedale had seen Isma and her cousin together
in this way for nearly a week that she began to feel that all was
not right between them. They treated each other with every courtesy,
of course, still they seemed to avoid talking to each other, and
the girl especially fought shy of being alone with her lover. Lady
Berriedale had several times suggested they should go for a walk
together. However, Isma always declined and insisted on remaining with
her friend. Of course that might have been merely an act of unselfish
devotion on her part; still, there were other disturbing symptoms
which made the elder woman uneasy. The thing which troubled her most
was that neither of them looked happy, and she could not understand
why. She did not doubt that a deep love existed between them. Had not
the girl herself told her how much she cared for the man whose ring
she was wearing, and had she not sometimes surprised an expression in
the soldier’s eyes when he looked at his fiancée and thought himself
unobserved, which told her plainly enough that there was no lack of
love on his side? Still, if they both really cared, why did they not
seem happy?

One day Lady Berriedale thought she had discovered the reason. Isma was
so reserved and she had such strict notions of propriety that perhaps
she did not allow the man to whom she was engaged a lover’s privilege,
and that this restraint was causing their unnatural attitude toward
each other. The more she thought of this explanation of the difficulty
the more she felt sure it was the correct one, and, being certain she
had come to the right conclusion, she made up her mind to speak to the
girl about it at once. So the same day, when the afternoon-tea things
had been cleared away, and Captain Folkestone sat reading at the other
end of the room, Lady Berriedale began:

“Isma, I am going to give you a good lecture. Do you know your lover
does not look a bit happy, and as an engaged man he ought to be
brimming over with happiness! I believe it is because you are too
prudish and you won’t allow him to show you any--”

She stopped abruptly, for her companion made a violent gesture to
silence her as she looked with a terrified expression toward Falcon,
who, to her relief, was still reading and had apparently not heard the
embarrassing words.

Lady Berriedale continued: “He can’t possibly hear over there, and I
must say this, it is not right you should put such a strain on him. If
a man loves a woman he naturally wants to--”

“Don’t--don’t--” cried the girl, in a frantic whisper, interrupting her
again.

Still her hostess would not be silenced. “It is even hard on
yourself--far too great a strain on you both; but on the man it is
specially--”

“Beatrice, do be quiet. You don’t know what you are talking about.
It is quite all right, I assure you. Falcon doesn’t like that sort
of thing,” Isma murmured, in a frenzied undertone, looking fearfully
toward her cousin, who was still so absorbed in his book that he did
not appear to notice what was going on at the other end of the room.

“Nonsense!” replied Lady Berriedale, emphatically, lowering her voice
a little, but its high-pitched quality still striking terror into the
embarrassed girl beside her. “Now you are talking rank nonsense. All
men like that ‘sort of thing,’ as you call it, when they are in love.
Do you mean to tell me that you don’t let your fiancé kiss you when you
are alone and--”

“Beatrice,” implored the distracted girl, “for Heaven’s sake don’t talk
like that! He will hear you--”

“It doesn’t matter if he does. Isma, don’t be so absurd. I never heard
anything like it. You are really most unnatural! When you are engaged
to a man you certainly ought to allow him a lover’s privileges. It is
cruel not to. Now don’t try to interrupt me all the time. Do you know
the best thing to cure you of this silly shyness,” she added, with a
flash of mischief in her dark eyes, “would be for me to ask your lover
to kiss you here before me--”

There was a movement at the other end of the room. Falcon had risen and
looked out of the window, contemplating the weather thoughtfully.

“Isma, if you are ready, I think we had better make a start. I have
one or two things I must attend to before dinner. I believe this dry
weather is going to last for ages,” he added, joining the ladies.

The girl rose quickly and left the room.

When she had gone Lady Berriedale said: “Isma will be glad to get
away from me this afternoon. I have been lecturing her and she did
not like it. On the way home you might ask her what I was scolding
her about, I believe you will agree with me on the subject. But,” she
continued, in a different tone, “I am afraid I have been horribly
selfish keeping Isma so much with me. However, now that I am better you
must assert your rights and see more of her; you have been far too kind
and generous! Now I am going to suggest that you have her to yourself
to-morrow; then you can take her out and have a good time together.”

On the way home Falcon did not ask Isma any questions about the
lecture; he was rather more silent than usual. He had evidently not
heard the embarrassing conversation, for he did not make the slightest
reference to it, and his companion was greatly relieved. Not till
they approached The Palms did he tell Isma that Lady Berriedale had
suggested he should take her for a trip the following day, and added:
“You have been in the house far too much lately; it will do you good
to have a day in the open air. So may I call for you to-morrow morning?”

It seemed impossible to refuse, for Beatrice would be sure to ask when
next they met if they had been out together, and if she had not it
would only rouse her friend’s suspicion afresh. So she accepted the
invitation and arranged that Falcon should call for her soon after
breakfast the following day.




VI

THE FLAME GOD


“Are you quite sure you would like the same run we did before?” asked
Captain Folkestone, when he and his cousin left The Palms the next
morning.

“Yes. It was so beautiful. I should like a whole day exactly like the
last one.”

“Exactly like it?” he inquired. “Don’t you think we might improve on it
to-day?”

“I am afraid that is impossible.”

“Why it was only spring then; now it is summer.”

“Would that make any difference?”

“Certainly, for spring is only the promise; summer is the fulfilment.”

Isma did not answer, but looked doubtfully into the white haze
quivering over the road.

Last time she and Falcon had driven this way together they had both
been exuberantly happy; they had talked freely and looked at each other
with shiny eyes. It was spring then. Nature had throbbed with vital
life; it had been so gay, so irresponsible, so youthfully joyous, and
she and her companion had been joyous, too. Hope had pulsated through
her being. She had loved sitting next to her cousin while they were
whirled into the radiant sunlight. Of course she still loved being
beside him, yet there was a terrible difference in her feelings to-day,
for there was no hope in her heart; youth and spring seemed to have
died out of her life. Since that other delicious day together ghastly
things had happened, and among them there was the farcical engagement
to the man beside her. Now she knew for certainty that he did not care.
He had made that quite clear on the afternoon when they had entered the
meaningless bond; there could be no hope of happiness for her now.

Still, as she gazed into the illumined atmosphere the sorrow in her
soul lightened.

It was a typical Australian summer day, both ethereal, mystically
unreal, and at the same time throbbing with a sensuous, vital life.
The golden sunlight of spring had ripened into the white radiance of
summer, a radiance which had condensed into haze and hung shimmering
over the road, between trees and bushes, as if it were a living,
palpable thing.

“It is going to be very hot to-day,” observed Falcon, after a short
pause. “I hope you will not mind.”

“No, not at all. I love the heat,” replied the girl, looking dreamily
at the cliffs half hidden by the wistaria-tinted gossamer veil of
summer.

Through the glimmering haze the sun peered down on the earth, its face
strained and white with vehement intensity.

Isma looked up toward the pallid ball of fire and caught her breath a
little. Yes, summer was the mysterious fulfilment of spring. The gay,
hilarious season of youth had matured into this tense, pale thing.
There was no light-hearted laughter in summer, no mischievous banter,
no childish glee, but there were blinding heat, unswerving purpose,
blazing passion.

Isma breathed more quickly. Summer held deeper joys than spring. She
had never understood summer before. However, she was beginning to
understand it now.

A strange elation began to stir within her. Sorrow and trouble fell
away; there was no room for sadness in this vast whiteness. But there
was room for joy. She was all at once aware that a fiery joy burned
everywhere about her. It was not an exuberant, buoyant gladness, but a
still, concentrated ecstasy, so fierce that it had blanched the earth
and made it gasp by its violent intensity.

The day was passionately virile, it was pale with emotion, yet
audaciously triumphant!

Isma felt its hot, tenacious life, and as she became aware of it, it
seemed as if its trembling fingers touched chords in her being which
had not been touched before.

She was suddenly conscious that she had been waiting as winter waits,
as spring waits, and now all at once summer had come to her, bringing
with it this luminous heat, breathless excitement, and luxuriant
maturity. She felt something within her expand and enlarge, as life
expands and enlarges under the powerful rays of the sun. What an
extraordinary effect summer had on her to-day! It thrilled her and
filled her with a peculiar anticipation.

She and the man she loved were going out together into this white
beauty of the sun. They were going into the fiery radiance. They would
be alone in the world which was heated and set throbbing by the great
Flame God riding in majestic insolence through the burnished heavens!
It was wonderful! The thought that Falcon did not care for her did not
trouble her now. It was cast into the background, pushed out of sight,
and with her was only the consciousness that she was near him, that
they were speeding together into the burning splendor of summer!

They had driven in silence for some miles, but the silence between
them held no embarrassment now; rather it appeared to hold a mute
understanding. It seemed as if barriers, reserves, and the terrible
constraint their empty engagement had caused had vanished and that they
were now free to enjoy the long day which lay before them.

And what would this summer day bring?

Surely it could not pass without laying some gift at their feet. It was
too vital, too richly laden with mystic treasures, for that!

Isma glanced again at the pulsating splendor enveloping the distant
hills, half veiling the sea, descending on breakers and headlands,
penetrating jungles, caressing leaves and flowers, folding trees in
smothering embraces, and lying, panting and mute, on crescent beaches.

“Isma, what are you thinking about?” asked her companion, at last.

“I don’t know that I was thinking at all,” she replied. “I have
just--_lived_.”

“Lived? What have you lived?”

“I am not sure, but just--summer.”

Her cousin glanced at her quickly. “Summer is the time when nature
lives its hottest, its intensest, life. Were you living like that just
now?” There was a peculiar quiet in his tone like the breathless quiet
around them.

“One could not help it--to-day.”

“Isma”--he bent toward her--“I want us both to live like that to-day.”

“Yes,” she answered, with averted face and a curious softness in her
voice.

For a while they sped on without speaking. It was exquisite to fly
together through the illumined spaces by the glimmering, half-hidden
sea!

After a time they left the coast-line and turned inland, dashing
through great stretches of sun-bleached country, which gleamed in the
fierce light like wastes of shimmering stars.

“Our sun-bleached Australia!” murmured the girl, her eyes on the creamy
white plains. “Green fields are very good to look at, only they always
seem to me very earthy and substantial. These,” she pointed to the
grass-covered flats, “look so ethereal and spiritual--as if they were
all soul.”

“Their greenness had been consumed by the sun. They are bleached with
the pallor of death. Summer has done that.”

“Yes, I know the sun’s power can be terrible as well as beautiful.
Still, it seems to me there is something grand about this bleaching
into ethereal whiteness.” She spoke with exaltation. To her it appeared
just then wonderful to be consumed by the hot passion of the sun. It
seemed to her that the devouring heat was cleansing, that it had power
to purify and make spiritual.

Her companion turned and looked at her. “You really think so?”

She did not meet his glance. “I do.”

He sighed a little. “You evidently don’t know how it can--hurt.”

She looked away into the luminous haze.

Not know how it could hurt--how little he understood! Was not her heart
like these great sun-bleached plains, parched, laid waste by scorching
powers! But she was not sorry; to-day she felt strangely glad because
of it. It seemed a superb thing to be dominated by, wholly yielding to,
these fiery emotions!

The elation within her increased. It was wonderful to feel her whole
being aflame with the fire which burned in the dazzling splendor about
her! And the warmth in her was all for the man beside her. She felt
herself opening out to him in a new, extraordinary way, as if she had
all at once received a wonderful gift for loving. She was nothing but
love, every part of her a burning cinder, body and soul one leaping
flame of love! Everything else had fallen away from her; the past was
forgotten, the future did not exist; all beings save the man at her
side had been wiped off the face of the earth; only Falcon and her
great love lived; she herself did not exist any more except as one big,
blazing fire.

The mortification she had felt before because of her emotion had died
out of her heart. There was no need of shame for this exalted thing;
she wondered now that she could ever have felt shame because of this
heat that purified, that burned away not only selfishness, but the
whole of the self-life with its detailed sordid smallness. It was
something to revel in, feel proud of, even if the man she cared for
should have discovered its existence.

But the more she was subjected to this immense power the more she was
conscious that it would bring greater suffering into her life. It must
bring deepest sorrow. Falcon did not love her, would never really care.
She would have to love alone, suffer alone, feel parched with her need
of him.

Still, even with this anguish staring her in the face, she was
unspeakably glad she loved him. No thought of future pain could daunt
her elation now.

They had turned toward the coast again, and all at once Falcon stopped
the car.

“Look!” he cried; “there is a rifle-bird on that low branch over
there,” and he leaned over Isma and directed her gaze to a bird the
size of a magpie sitting on a low bough close to the road.

“Oh, isn’t it lovely!” exclaimed the girl, in an excited undertone so
as not to frighten the gorgeous, timid thing. “I have never seen one
before.”

“It is one of our birds of paradise.”

“What a wonderful black! It is like the richest plush and satin rolled
into one, and look how it gleams fiery purple and emerald green--”

The bird suddenly moved from under some shading leaves into the
opening, and the half-veiled sunlight fell on its plumes. It preened
its feathers, opened and shut its wings, its luster varying with each
new movement from a red metallic purple to the richest shades of green,
and each riotous hue a mere ethereal sheen on its plushy black plumage.

Then, uttering a strange note, the winged thing of color and velvet
flew away.

When Falcon had started the engine again he said, “Isma, do you know it
is a good omen to see a bird of paradise?”

“Is it? Why?”

“Because it indicates you are close to--Eden.”

“Summer is generally close to Paradise, isn’t it?”

“Yes, except when it takes the wrong turning and leads to--drought.”

“It very often seems to do that. Still, if one has had the beauty
of summer even for a little while, one oughtn’t to mind about the
drought--afterward.” There was strong conviction in her voice.

“I quite agree with you--only, when Eden is so close, why not go
straight on and reach it?”

“If it were possible, yes.”

“Isma, it is possible, and I hope to prove it to you before the day is
over.” He spoke with sudden earnestness.

She looked away into the bush. What did he mean? Could he know what
Paradise meant to her? Perhaps he only thought it meant giving her an
enjoyable day!

However, it did not matter. Nothing mattered but being with him, being
together, speeding into summer, losing themselves in the filmy haze
which enveloped the hills, the bush, the sea, the breakers, and made
all seem peculiarly soft and unreal.

Then through the veil of heat the hotel where they were to lunch
appeared, the morning had already passed.

Captain Folkestone stopped the motor and once more they made their way
into the quaint, long dining-room to the small table where they had sat
before, which was now decorated with greeny-white flannel-flowers.

Isma took her seat as in a dream. Still, her dreamy state did not last
long, for now when she sat opposite her cousin, when he looked full
into her face and she met the strong light in his eyes, the elated
loftiness she had felt out in the dense sunlight vanished. She became
human again. Little things returned to her life. She was conscious of
embarrassment once more. One look from Falcon could set her face aflame
and make her strangely, sweetly confused. It had been glorious to feel
the exaltation dominating her during the morning, but it was even more
exquisite to realize how Falcon’s every glance, his movements, the
least inflection of his voice, affected her. During the drive she had
been wholly absorbed by her love for him; now she was wholly dominated
by himself, and her joy was intensified.

       *       *       *       *       *

After dinner they drove farther north till they reached the beach they
had visited before.

They walked along the sand, looking for the spot where they had rested
on their previous outing. It was not long before they found it.
However, this time they went higher up among the sand-dunes in the
shade of a thicket of bottle-brushes.

Isma did not want to lie down, but sat leaning against a sand-bank,
while her companion threw himself down close beside her. He lay on his
side, gazing at her with intent blue eyes.

She had thrown back her long, golden veil, and her hair, under the wide
brim of her black hat, looked weighted with gold; her skin, fair as
the petals of white magnolia-flowers, was strangely radiant, and her
eyes, very golden in the suffused brightness, burned with a dazzling
intensity. She seemed curiously, vitally alive as the day was fiercely,
hotly alive.

She sat with her hands clasped round her knees, looking at the incoming
waves breaking languidly on the shore.

The haze had thickened. It shut out the horizon, the hills and bush,
everything, except the immediate foreground, and it gave the man and
woman on the sands a sense of being peculiarly isolated and alone.
Through the dense layers of gossamer the sun burned down with violent
persistence, all the more powerful, perhaps, because the Fire God was
entirely obscured from view and attacked from its safe fort in the
heavens.

“Isma, tell me,” said Falcon, after a lengthy pause, “are you not
happier to-day than you were--last time we were here?”

The girl began to sift the sand through her fingers. “Yes, I think so.”

“I wonder why?”

“I suppose because it is--summer.”

“Not because of--anything else?”

“Isn’t that enough? Summer means so much.”

“I wonder what it really means to you?”

She smiled as she picked up another handful of sand and allowed it to
trail slowly back to the beach.

“Could one explain?”

“I think you could if you tried.”

She made no reply, and her companion, still regarding her intently,
began to play with one end of her long veil.

After a while he released the silken texture, moved restlessly, and,
turning over on his back, lay for some time with closed eyes.

Isma could feast her eyes on him now. She loved looking at his well-cut
features, his firm but tender mouth, the resolute chin, his delightful
hair. He was so close to her she could have stretched out her hand and
touched him--if only she had the right! A great stillness crept into
her soul, a wonderful awe. If only their engagement had been real, then
at this very moment she might have-- But her thoughts were interrupted
by a sudden smile curving the well-formed lips she was watching.

“Falcon, why are you smiling?” she asked, the sense of the intimacy
which might have been still strong upon her.

He looked up at her quickly.

“Would you really like to know?”

“Yes. You looked as if your thoughts were interesting.”

“They were, I assure you,” he replied, the twinkle still in his eyes.

“Then tell me.”

He turned on his side again, facing her. “I was just wondering what
would have happened if Lady Berriedale had carried out her threat
yesterday afternoon--”

For a moment the girl did not stir. Yesterday was so far away it almost
seemed as if it had not been. Whatever did Falcon refer to? She glanced
at him wonderingly. “What--threat?” she asked, a sudden instinctive
fear sending the blood to her cheeks.

“Why, the threat Lady Berriedale made, when I stood up and rescued you
by asking if you were ready to go home-- Have you forgotten so soon?”

So Falcon had heard those awful remarks, after all! A wave of heat
surged through her. She did not speak, but her eyes fell before his
disconcerting gaze.

“I was wondering just now what you would have done if Lady Berriedale
had asked me to--” He stopped a moment before adding, “For of course I
should have had to do it--just to save the situation, you know.”

Isma turned her face away hastily. Still, he saw the deep flush
creeping over her white throat and dyeing her perfectly shaped ear a
vivid pink.

“I can’t make out what made you say I did not like that sort of thing.
I never remember telling you that I did not.”

“No--but of course you wouldn’t,” she stammered, confusedly.

“I wouldn’t be quite so sure about that if I were you. By the way, I
hope you have taken your friend’s advice to heart and that you will act
on it.”

The girl made no reply; her face was still averted, but the color in
her adorable ear had grown pinker.

Captain Folkestone sat up now. “Isma,” he said, in low tones, “you
are wearing my ring. Don’t you think you might give me a few of the
privileges such a ring generally bestows?”

She started, and the soft, rich curves of her breast rose and sank in
fluttering confusion.

The light in his eyes deepened. He looked very alert, every muscle
tense, ready to move at the least sign from her.

“Isma, tell me, would it really be so hateful to you if I--kissed you?”

In spite of her overwhelming shyness, she glanced up at him. It seemed
as if he compelled her. But her eyes dropped instantly before his and
she felt herself tremble as if he were already touching her lips. A
dreadful weakness came over her. Falcon’s lips against her own, his arm
round her folding her to him--

She turned giddy. It seemed impossible not to yield. She was almost
swaying toward him, making the one movement, however slight, he was
waiting for, watching for.

Then an awful thought arrested her. He had not spoken of love: he was
merely asking for her kisses. Did he only ask because it was summer
and the world was astir with passionate abandonment, because she was
beautiful and her beauty appealed to him? Even in the days when he
hated her her beauty had strangely affected him. Now when he no longer
disliked her did he feel it would give him pleasure to caress her
and enjoy her physical charm? After all he had done for her, did he
consider she might grant him this intimacy? Were these his only reasons
for wanting her kisses? Surely, for if he had cared would he not have
told her that first?

She straightened involuntarily.

The man watching her with alert scrutiny paled as he saw the movement.

Or perhaps Falcon was testing her, the girl continued to reason.
Perhaps he only wanted to see if she held her caresses cheap and was
ready to give them to any fascinating man audacious enough to ask for
them. Was he trying to see if she were temptable?

If this were so, good Heavens, what cruelty! How could any man be so
merciless! But of course he could not know how desperately she cared;
could not know that her whole being was quivering to give him what he
desired.

She pulled frantically at some grass blades and broke them into small
pieces. Then she made a colossal effort to speak calmly:

“You have no right to ask--under the circumstances--”

“Under the circumstances I have. We are engaged.”

“You know quite well that does not mean anything. It is only--”

There was a short, sharp pause.

The face of the man had undergone a great change. All at once he jumped
up, took a few steps, bent down and examined a shell, straightened
again, and walked still farther away.

Isma watched him with strange, wide eyes; her face, too, had become
colorless.

Was he angry with her? No, he did not seem annoyed. He walked about as
if leisurely contemplating the bunches of coral seaweed and the various
flotsam on the beach.

The girl gazed after his tall, splendid form hungrily. Why had he left
her--oh, why? Was he displeased in spite of his apparent nonchalance?
Had he expected her to yield, to understand that he was a man and that
he wanted what other men coveted? Somehow she had never thought of
this before. Falcon had always seemed to her a being apart--made of
different material from the other men she had known, a man who lived up
to a punctilious standard of conduct; but did he, after all, yearn for
the warm, soft things women could give? Of course if only he had cared,
how gladly she would have given what he asked!

After a while he came back and suggested it was time to start for home.

As they got into the motor he said, “On the whole the advice Lady
Berriedale gave you was excellent, and if you were wise you would take
it.” With that he closed the subject and did not refer to it again.

On the way home Falcon talked in his brightest, most entertaining way.
But he sat well away from her, and their shoulders did not touch as
they had frequently done during the morning.

That was the worst of her cousin, he was such an adept at covering his
tracks. If he retreated, no one knew if it were a retreat or if the
move had not been part of his original plan.

As Isma listened to his easy conversation she felt confused and
puzzled. Was this really the man who had asked for her kisses, whose
eyes had looked so irresistibly into her own, who now talked in this
nonchalant way as if nothing unusual had happened? But his eloquence
saddened her, his amusing stories hurt her.

She looked at the many sand-dunes bordering the seaward side of the
road with pensive eyes. She remembered that in the morning as they
passed them they had seemed glimmering mountain-tops aglow with an
exultant peace; now they appeared to her mere grotesque shapes,
gloating monsters watching by the shore for prey.

The whole world had changed. The great white radiance round them held
no breathless ecstasy now; it was only a huge, opaque void holding
nothing but smarting disappointment.

Falcon had said earlier in the day that spring was the promise and
summer the fulfilment--where was the fulfilment? The bird of paradise
had not brought them to Eden. There was no Paradise; summer only led
to--drought.

All at once the haze warmed and reddened as if some huge fire burned
behind its gauzy entanglements. In the bush the white sheen had
deepened to lavender and purple and hung with caressing softness
between majestic trees and matted undergrowth. Opaline sun glints
dipped into the reed-edged pools and motionless lagoons.

Then a faint breath of air came in from the sea. It blew very gently
against the filmy, iridescent haze, which shivered perceptibly, then
slowly drifted toward the heavily timbered hills.

Isma watched its hesitating, retreating footsteps. She saw the trees
and shrubs creep out from the violet sheen in the forest and stand out
with definite clearness. The red disk of the sun became visible in the
smoky heavens and hung as a huge round furnace dropping slowly toward
the western hills.

The breeze from the ocean gained strength; it grew cooler and stilled
the throbbing fever in the sweltering atmosphere.

The cliffs near Isma’s home were in sight now and stood out, bulky,
plum-colored shapes against the pale lavender-tinted distance.

As the car approached the last plain the girl could see the breeze
moving among the trees and bushes. It appeared to her as if it were
some distraught, demented thing let loose on the flats, seeking
frantically for a lost treasure in the wild chaos of shrubbery.

The waves on the beach had grown noisy and hoarse and sounded as if
moaning in sudden pain.

Isma became silent.

Did her companion notice her short replies or their entire absence? If
so, he did not betray his observation by look or word.

They had crossed the plain and were ascending the last cliff. Would
Falcon stop the motor where he had stopped it the other day? Surely he
would give her another chance before they parted! If only he would, how
gladly she would yield to him now!

But no, he rushed on without even glancing at the spot where they had
stood together and watched the scenery and she had hummed to him “The
Little Winding Road.”

Isma’s heart contracted in a suffocating anguish and her eyes filled
with blinding tears. She turned her face away quickly, still not till
her companion had seen something moist drop from her lashes to her
cheeks. He paled and bit his lip, but a moment afterward he continued
the conversation.

As they came in sight of her gates a terrible desperation seized her.
It made her almost cry out for mercy, implore him to take what she so
frantically yearned to give--for, after all, even if he had not spoken
of love, were not her lips his? Had they not been kept for him all
these years! Of course he had a right to them. How foolish she had been
not to have realized this before!

However, he evidently did not want her kisses now. But was he so
capricious that he ceased to wish for a thing if he could not have
it the moment he asked for it? No, that was impossible; he must have
merely been testing her. Still, why had his smiling eyes gazed so
irresistibly into her own? Why had he said earlier in the day he wished
them both to live summer, that they were on the road to Paradise?

The car stopped.

Her cousin helped her to alight. She thanked him for the beautiful
drive, and then, as in some ghastly trance, she found herself walking
away from him. But even as she went some awful power tugged at her and
almost compelled her to return to him. She walked with difficulty; the
violent force dragging at her made it almost impossible to proceed.

Then she heard the hum of the motor--he had gone! She stood still,
feeling suddenly faint with longing and disappointment.

She had refused his request; but, merciful God, how he had punished
her--how he had revenged himself!

As the man drove up the steep ascent he caught a glimpse of Isma among
the palms, standing perfectly still, her head thrown back and her hands
tightly clasped.

He gripped the steering-wheel ferociously and looked for a place to
turn the car. However, what would be the use of going back? Hadn’t she
already refused his love that day? Of course she knew that he cared,
yet she chose to put this terrible strain on him. He gave up the idea
of returning and proceeded up the headland, his face ashen and grim.

But on the other side of the cliff he stopped the machine and, suddenly
covering his face with his hands, groaned aloud.

“Great God! Isma,” he muttered under his breath, “why are you torturing
me like this--making us both suffer! You do care, I know it now--but
why in Heaven’s name do you pretend you don’t! Is it your pride
standing in the way, your shyness, or--what--? Isma, if you go on like
this you will drive me to distraction--”

He sat for a long time bowed and unmovable; then at last, with another
ejaculation, he set the motor throbbing down the headland.




VII

THE STARING CLIFF


Isma passed a wakeful, restless night.

When she came down to breakfast, rather late the next morning, she
found a note from Falcon saying there had been serious trouble on one
of his northern stations; that he would have to go and settle the
difficulty himself, and would therefore be unable to see her that day.
He also said that he had rung up and inquired after Lady Berriedale
and explained that he and his cousin would be unable to see her till
the following morning. In conclusion he begged her on no account to go
to The Bluff in his absence. The note was very brief; he had evidently
written it in a hurry before starting on his long journey, and sent it
over by a special messenger.

The girl strolled out under the palms and read the letter again.

So she would not see Falcon for a whole day! The news brought a
sickening dullness to her heart. How colorless the day stretched
out before her! It seemed as if all light and warmth had gone out
of it--it would only be to her now a succession of weary hours of
clamoring emptiness. She looked into the sunlit atmosphere, which
seemed to have paled. The world around her had all at once faded,
its brightness departed; the big, fan-shaped palm leaves had grown
uninteresting and dull; even the profusion of roses in the garden
looked colorless and without beauty.

And Falcon’s absence had caused this terrible change in everything!

She rose suddenly, as if she would have fled from something which
filled her with panic. But she sat down again. What was the use of
running away? She could not escape. Months ago it had been possible to
take flight. It had been awful to cut herself away from Falcon, but it
had been possible--now it could no longer be done. The color ebbed away
from her cheeks as she realized this. If her life depended on it she
could not go away, could not leave him now. If even one day without the
sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, a look into his dear eyes,
was a hideous blank, what would a lifetime away from him be like!

She shivered.

She could not live without him; he had become an absolute necessity.
He was to her what the sun was to the world, the giver of light,
warmth, and life itself. Falcon had become her _life_; she was utterly
dependent upon him for everything which made existence tolerable.

She looked down on the diamonds glittering on the third finger of her
left hand. She was wearing his ring. At present she and her cousin met
constantly; they drove together to and from The Bluff, saw each other
daily--the engagement which had caused her so much pain had at least
brought her that; but this state of things could not go on forever.
Some day soon she would have to return his ring. After that, of course,
they would not meet. People who had been engaged and broken it off
could not go on seeing each other; that was impossible. And even if in
the distant future they might resume the intercourse afforded by their
relationship, what comfort could such a cold, lifeless thing bring her?

She sat, pale and wide-eyed, looking unseeingly at the radiant world
about her.

She thought again of the previous day--how beautiful it had been
and how terrible! Every detail came back to her--her fancies, the
deep exaltation she had felt as she and the man she loved sped into
the quivering white heart of summer! Her own heart had been aflame
with a heat as intense and white as the blazing force throbbing in
the illumined spaces, and even when the thought came to her that it
might bring anguish which blistered and blighted, her elation had not
diminished. She had felt strong and able to bear, if need be, a sorrow
which could crush a world. But Falcon had been with her then, and that
had made all the difference!

She remembered, too, when they passed the sun-scorched plains she
had remarked that it seemed a grand thing to be bleached into that
spiritual whiteness, and her cousin had said, with a little sigh, that
she could not know how such a scorching hurt. All at once it struck
her, though it had not occurred to her at the time, that Falcon had
spoken as if he knew, knew only too well what an experience of that
kind meant. So Falcon had cared--cared like that!

She sat up quickly.

Of course she was quite aware he could not have reached his mature
manhood without love having come into his life. She was used to seeing
him extremely nice to women, and she had guessed that some one must
at some time or other have touched his heart; but that he should have
felt any emotion strong enough to make him connect it with powers that
bleached and scorched had not suggested itself to her, and the thought
made her suddenly feel cold.

Who could the woman be he had loved like that? Her mind ran quickly
over his women friends in London; but she could not recall any one
he had specially singled out. However, Falcon was so reserved and
sensitive he would not show his feelings to others. In any case, the
affair must have ended in disappointment, as he had not married. She
had often wondered why he had remained single; this must be the reason.
Poor Falcon, so he, too, had undergone this awful scorching, and was
evidently suffering still, or why had he sighed? Yet, why had he spoken
to her yesterday about Paradise and summer in the way he did? Why had
he asked for her kisses? Why the burning kiss on her fingers weeks ago?
Why so many other things?

She was deeply perplexed.

Perhaps he was trying to fill the aching void, trying to see if she
could not bring him comfort and teach him to forget! There could be no
other explanation of his conduct.

Isma drew a gasping breath. The pain within almost strangled her.

She got up and began to walk about among the palms; it was impossible
to keep still.

And he was her summer, her light, warmth, her life--everything! She
could not do without him, she could not! She clasped her hands together
in anguish. What was she to do?

Her wonderful eyes looked suddenly blank with agony. Falcon loving
another woman--like that! She felt giddy and faint.

She sank down on the seat in a heap, her face deathly white, her
nostrils quivering. A half-stifled moan escaped her trembling lips. She
could not bear this blinding pain--

She looked up as one dazed and stunned.

She was like the plains they had passed yesterday, helpless and
powerless, lying passive and defenseless while the Flame God scorched
her by his cauterizing power.

She groaned aloud and closed her eyes.

“Love bleached--love bleached,” she murmured under her breath in
suffocating tones.

She had admired the spiritual whiteness of the flats yesterday. Green
fields had seemed earthly and material in comparison with them. Falcon
was right: the bleaching hurt, it was death-agony to have the green
changed to white!

Then she suddenly thought of Beatrice. That frail little woman had
suffered--this; had even said she was glad the grief had come, for it
had been the explosion to propel her spirit upward; that before it came
her soul had lain on a dust-heap, but the dynamite of sorrow had shot
her out of the dust.

All at once Isma realized that her soul had also lain in the dust. It
had reared its head once or twice and looked up wonderingly, but had
soon lain down again and forgotten. However, was this splintering agony
the explosion which would send her soul on its upward flight?

       *       *       *       *       *

That night Isma went up to her favorite cliff.

She stood for some time gazing out to sea over the great expanse of
soft, lilac-colored water, toward the misty, opal-tinted horizon.
Ocean and sky seemed peculiarly blended into one. It looked as if the
sky had descended and that the ocean was slowly rising out of itself,
spiritualized into the unexplored dome of heaven.

The girl watched absently. Then she turned a little and glanced up
the coast-line and caught sight of the distant bluff with its tinted
face and its half-blind eyes gazing out to sea. She remembered watching
it some months ago. Had it been lying staring into space ever since?
Why was it so preoccupied? Other headlands stood complacently absorbed
in themselves. But this far-away block of stone had turned its back
entirely on earth and gazed beyond the coast-line and the heaving waves
into the unfathomable spaces above.

Isma looked toward it with deeper interest. Had that silent, rocky
monster found what it was seeking, what it had stared itself half blind
to find, or was it still pursuing its quest with undaunted persistence?
How bare, how uncompromising it looked! It seemed as if it had worn
off every blade of grass, every vestige of foliage, in its relentless
search.

Its crude barrenness suddenly fascinated her. She saw in it a
resemblance to her own life. Had she not been stripped of everything
that was dear to her, everything that could make her life glad and
beautiful? She had possessed so much, but gradually everything had been
torn from her till, naked and bare, her soul stood alone in a vast
desolation.

Would her spirit, too, learn to turn its back on earth and stand ever
gazing into the spaces beyond the boundary-line of time? What would she
find in these mighty spaces?

What was the distant headland seeking? Or had it already obtained
satisfaction? And was that the reason it could be so silent and
unstirring, so oblivious to its own cruel nakedness, its austere
isolation?

Would such a satisfaction come to her if she gazed long enough in the
same direction? Was life only one incessant fumbling for something
beyond the border-land of earth and sky? What was this elusive
something which needed this terrible, concentrated seeking, this cruel
stripping of earth glamours, before it could be found? It must be
something colossal, something overwhelmingly satisfying, if it were
worth the cruel rigors by which alone it could be obtained.

Then suddenly she knew that the great, majestic something hiding in
the lofty spaces, who required this all-concentrating seeking, was the
Infinite Himself.

She had not thought much about Him before; she had taken Him for
granted, as she had taken great abstract things for granted. But now He
became a person, a living reality. Her spirit had all at once pressed
upward, seen Him, found Him!

She knew now that, all unconsciously to herself, she had been groping
for Him all her life, that all souls fumble for Him even though they
may not be aware of it; but that very few press up to Him until they
had been bleached white by sorrow.

Now she knew He permeated all. His majesty hung like a trailing
robe illumining the throbbing atmosphere. He was everywhere. He was
everything. How dense she had been not to comprehend Him before!

As she looked into the shimmering spaces it seemed all at once as if
her soul had become a filmy fragment of the luminous beauty above her
and that it rose timidly, but eagerly, and touched the royal, majestic
garments of the Infinite. And somehow she was aware that He felt
her pressure and that for the rest of her life there would be some
wonderful bond between them! He would never forget the touch, and she
could not; it had been like touching the mainspring of life, coming
in contact with the Power Station of the universe, the gigantic Power
House that set all the machinery of stars, moons, suns, and comets in
motion and kept them ever supplied with the forces they needed for
their brain-reeling circuits. She had touched _That_, and it was not a
that; it was a Person, a living, vital, magnetic Being, approachable,
sensitive to touch, waiting for appeal, and eager to be sought!

She stood transfixed with wonder and amazement; so this was--God!

Why did not everybody talk about Him, rave about Him? Why had no one
ever told her about Him!

And it was possible to lay a detaining hand on this great, wonderful
Being and speak to Him. Yes, prayer was laying a detaining hand on God
and speaking to Him--she--knew it now!

She lingered for some time on the cliff, then at last very reluctantly
she turned to go.




VIII

THE DAWN


Isma began to descend the headland; in her heart burned a great
exaltation and in her eyes shone an infinite peace. A solemn, majestic
twilight crept up from the plain below, wrapping its dusky mantle about
the far-away hills and the imposing cliffs.

It was getting late; she began to hurry down to the road which climbed
from the flats over the lower shoulder of the headland.

As she was half-way down the steep slope she saw a tall figure coming
up toward her.

Could Falcon have returned earlier than he expected? He did not
think he could reach home till midnight or the next morning. Her
heart gave a joyous bound. But no, this was not her cousin’s strong,
broad-shouldered figure.

All at once she stood still, for she had recognized the man--it was
Lord Berriedale.

For a moment a horrible fear seized her. The thought of the utter
loneliness of the place, Falcon miles and miles away, not a house in
sight, her home too far away for protection, no one able to hear her
call, made her waver in alarm. But she shook her fears from her. Why
should she be afraid? Were not the spaces above her filled with the
Infinite to Himself, the God she had just discovered? Nothing could
harm her in His presence. Her lofty peace returned.

The man had climbed rapidly and reached her now.

“Good evening, Isma,” he said, a little out of breath, and the girl
noticed he looked strangely excited. “Isma,” he continued, with curious
agitation, “I have come to--take you--away.”

She glanced at him quickly. “Is Beatrice worse?” she inquired,
anxiously.

“No, she is not worse. But we are not going to The--Bluff--”

“Whatever do you mean?” the girl asked, perplexedly.

“Why, just this, that I can’t stand things as they are any longer and
that I am going to--take you away.”

“Take me away?” she repeated, in uncomprehending astonishment.

“Yes, away from everything and everybody and have you all to myself,”
he said, with feverish doggedness.

“But you surely can’t be in earnest--”

“Of course I am. I have never been so much in earnest about anything.”

“But--but--” she still spoke with vague bewilderment.

“There are to be no more ‘buts’; the car is here, our suit-cases in it.
I have ordered rooms--”

“Our suit-cases--mine?” Her eyes had widened.

“Yes. Everything is arranged. I went to your house first, you know, saw
Miss Livingston, who directed me here. I told her Beatrice was much
worse and that I am going to take you back with me and asked her to put
you up a few things, and she packed your suit-case, and your coat and
hat and everything are in the car.”

“Lord Berriedale, have you gone quite mad?” she exclaimed, regarding
him in utter amazement.

“Yes, I think I am mad, but it is all with love for you. I only know
that I want you and that I am going to have you.”

Isma had turned very pale. She began to realize that the man before her
was desperate. Whatever could she do with him?

However, before she could reply, he continued, rapidly: “Isma, if you
will only come with me I promise to make you happy! I know you are
afraid of a conventional law which binds me at present to--another. But
I tell you conventions are nothing; they are only like obstacles in a
race made to be leaped over by those who have courage and dash enough
to take them! And you need not fear the censure of the world. Society
always applauds those who audaciously clear the barriers placed to
scare away the feeble from their desired goal.”

“You are quite mistaken, Lord Berriedale. Conventions are not like
hurdles in a race; they are protecting fences, keeping people from
slipping into horrible ditches.” She spoke evenly and calmly.

“Even pitfalls may be safely crossed. I will see that you do not get
hurt. I swear it! We will soon be able to marry and in a few years go
home, and then everything will be all right.”

“I absolutely refuse to believe you can be serious, that you really
mean to insult me by making such an outrageous proposition!” Isma
suddenly seemed to have grown taller.

“Of course I am serious--”

“But even if you have forgotten about Beatrice, your wife and my
friend, there is--my cousin.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “Now don’t refer to that sham engagement of
yours. Good Lor’! Isma, what do you take me for? Do you think I am
taken in by that hoax! Why, any fool can see it is only a fake, one of
your cousin’s ingenious devices to shield you from--scandal.”

“You have no right to say that.”

He took a step nearer and looked her full in the face. “You know it is
the truth. Now, Isma, can you give me your word of honor that you are
really going to _marry_ your cousin? Is your engagement a real one,
with kisses and hot embraces?”

There was no sound in the dimness but the flutter of dusky wings and
the deep thud of waves crashing against the rocks far below them on
the seaward side of the cliff.

“So he has not even kissed you! I knew it!”

“I refuse to answer your impertinent questions.”

“They are not impertinent. I have a right to find out; for if you are
not another man’s property, it is all the more reason why you should be
mine.”

“Still, I do belong to my cousin, for I--love him.”

The man confronting her laughed again. “Do you really expect me to
believe that, when you don’t even allow him to kiss you? No, Isma,
women do not treat men they love the way you treat him.”

“All the same, I am speaking the truth. I love him with all my heart.”
She made the confession with superb dignity.

“But, Isma, I can teach you to forget him. If you are taken from him,
you will in time love me. I can always make women love me, if I try.”

“You could never make me forget him, and I could never love you in any
case.”

“Isma, I can make you care. Only give me a chance. Come away with me
where I can have you to myself--”

“Please don’t repeat that horrible insult.”

“And do you mean to say you blankly refuse to link your future with
mine?”

“It is unnecessary to answer such a question. And now I really must go
home.” She made a movement toward the road, but he stepped in front of
her and blocked the way.

“You don’t suppose I shall let you go, do you? After all this waiting
and these weeks of torment I mean to have what I want now, and if I
cannot have it with your consent I must take it without. But, Isma”--he
had spoken bruskly; now he added, in a softer tone--“I do not want to
hurt you, do not want to use force.”

“Force?” she questioned, incredulously. “Nowadays a man cannot take a
woman and run away with her against her will. It can’t be done.”

“I did not mean that. There are other ways of gaining my end.”

What could he mean? Would he embrace and caress her as he had commenced
to do on the night of the picnic? Her heart beat with sudden alarm; the
thought of his touch was revolting. Still almost instantly she grew
calm again. God was there, brooding over the earth. He would protect
her.

As there was no reply, her companion said, “Isma, don’t drive me to
anything that might be--distasteful to you.”

“I don’t understand you,” she said, confident he was powerless to hurt
her.

“Then I will explain. It comes to this. I mean to have you at any cost.
If you will not do as I ask, I will keep you here all night, and when
to-morrow comes--you will be glad enough to--comply with my terms.”

She drew a hard breath. “Lord Berriedale, is it possible you can be
such a fiend as to deliberately set about ruining my reputation?
Haven’t you hurt me enough already?”

“I don’t _want_ to do it; that is just what I am trying to make clear
to you. But if you refuse my request--can’t you understand there is
nothing else for me to do? You see,” he continued, “though that fool
engagement of yours does not mean anything, it has annoyed me a good
deal. I can’t stand seeing you regarded as another man’s property. You
have dangled that confounded cousin of yours before me too long, and
now the engagement must come to an end.”

“But--I should not break off my engagement because of--that.”

“No, but he will.”

“No, he will not. He would believe me when I told him the truth,” she
cried, in panting anger.

“What truth?” inquired her companion, with a leering smile.

“That--that--”

“My dear Isma, when to-morrow comes you will not want to meet your
cousin’s searching eyes.”

She gasped in the darkness. “Have you become a demon as well as a
maniac?” she asked, her eyes wide and dark with horror.

“I may be both to-night; still I--love you! And Isma,” he went on,
“if you want to know who loves you most you can find out now. After
to-night your cousin will never come near you again; he will not touch
you or have anything more to do with you--that is the extent of his
affection! Now mine is different! I would take you stained, smirched,
any way, anyhow, as long as I had you. Your cousin will only take you
if he can have flower, bloom, and all. I would receive you even if all
the bloom had been rubbed away. Still, of course--I would rather have
you as you are--”

While he was speaking she had crushed back her dread. She refused to
believe that God could forsake her; her soul had pressed up toward Him,
she had touched Him, He would not forget that touch!

“But you cannot have--me at all.” There was no fear in her voice; it
was serene and unwavering.

Lord Berriedale looked at her wonderingly. Was her courage
unconquerable or did she fail to realize her imminent danger?

“What is to stop me? I am stronger than you.”

“God,” she said, raising her face suddenly. “Don’t you believe in Him?”

“God,” he repeated, taken aback. “I dare say there is such a Being. I
wouldn’t refute the theory; but what has He got to do with it?”

“He will take care of me.”

“Do you think He has time to patrol these lonely shores looking after
one woman? He is too much occupied with stars, suns, and millions of
worlds.”

“He is everywhere,” she said, with quiet solemnity. “He is here filling
these great spaces, bending over the world. I have found that out
to-night. He is great enough to look after everybody. He has fought
even for one woman who needs Him on these lonely shores.”

“Time will tell. However, I did not come here to talk theology; I have
arranged a far more interesting program.”

The dusk had deepened; but even in the semi-darkness Isma looked
beautiful. The suggestion of white skin, flashes of luminous eyes, the
slender lines of her form, the grace of shoulders and hips, were made
mystically alluring by the veiling shadows.

“Great Cæsar! you are lovely!” the man cried, a wild gleam in his eyes.

Then he made a movement as if he would have caught her to him, but she
recoiled in horror, her face blanched to a deathlike pallor.

Was Lord Berriedale right? Had God no thought for one individual? Was
He too much occupied with worlds and stars to notice her pitiless
plight!

She heard the gulping of the waves on the other side of the headland.
It seemed as if they were trying to attract her attention, hoarsely
calling her to them.

If God would not protect her, the sea might; in its cold arms she would
be safe. Of course that would mean she could never see Falcon again,
yet if the Infinite did not send her help she would not be able to
look into her cousin’s clean, questioning gaze in any case. There was
no alternative but--the waves.

She turned quickly and rushed up the steep slope that led to the
cone-shaped summit.

But her companion guessed her intention. In a moment he was beside her
and laid hold of her arm.

“Isma,” he said, in a voice shaking a little, “you shall not do that,
you shall not! Isma,” he went on, facing her, “would you really rather
be embraced by the cold waves of death than by--me?”

For a moment her confidence had wavered, and in her desperation she
would have thrown herself into the sea. Now her trust returned. God
could not, would not leave her in the lurch. He must protect her!

The man before her repeated his question.

“A thousand times yes,” she answered, with a courage and dignity he
could not comprehend.

“But you have no choice.” He laughed, in an ugly, blood-curdling way.
“To-night we shall see who is the stronger, your--God or the demon in
me.”

In the dimness his eyes suddenly glittered upon her with ungoverned
rage and something even more hideous.

She shuddered and drew back, but he sprang forward and clutched her to
him.

She closed her eyes in terror and everything reeled into an agonized
blackness. But instantly she pulled herself together. No, she must not
faint, must not lose courage; even on the brink of ruin help would be
sent her; the man holding her in the strangling embrace would not be
allowed to conquer.

She opened her eyes and as she looked over his shoulder her attention
was arrested by two points of light rushing madly across the plain. It
was a motor, driven at a frenzied speed toward the cliff.

Some human being was near, help was at hand! If only she could reach
the road before the car passed the top of the track and turned down the
other side of the headland! But how was she to get away from the iron
grip which held her?

Another desperate prayer-rocket flashed from her soul.

In the struggle they had moved and Lord Berriedale suddenly stumbled
over a large stone. His hold on Isma relaxed for a second. She wrenched
herself away. He fell heavily to the ground and she ran frantically
toward the road.

The car was mounting the steep ascent now. In a few minutes it would
reach the summit of the hill; she rushed on faster. To call would be
useless; no voice could be heard from a distance above the loud panting
of the machine. She hastened her flying steps. She must not stumble; if
she fell-- But no, she would not fall on the rough, uneven slope-- He
who was helping her would see to that!

A few more steps and she had reached the road and stood, a white,
ghostlike figure, a few yards in front of the rapidly approaching motor.

There was a quick clapping on of brakes, the car stopped almost
instantly, and a well-known form leaped from the driver’s seat.

It was Falcon! She was safe!

She took a step forward, made a little appealing movement; then his
arms caught her and gathered her to him.

“Oh, Falcon!” she moaned, piteously, the swift relief and the sense of
the awful horror she had been through mingling in the cry.

“Good Heavens! Isma, whatever has happened?” her cousin asked, in
terrible agitation.

But she did not reply. She stood leaning against him, her body shaking
with long, sobbing breaths.

“Isma, what has happened? For God’s sake, tell me!” he implored, with
frantic concern. “Is it--Berriedale again?”

She shuddered and suddenly clung to him.

He breathed in a tense, jerky way as he drew her closer and asked no
more questions.

They stood for some time in deep, agitated silence, heart throbbing
against heart, frenzied anxiety mingling with remembered terrors
and quivering relief; a silence which held clinging arms, enfolding
protection, a strength steadying weakness.

Then gradually into the stillness crept an exquisite peace. The girl’s
shuddering sobs abated. The ghastly horrors, the hideous scene on the
cliff receded, and Isma was conscious only of the man who held her.
She was resting against his breast and in his embrace was something
stronger than protection. A great joy stole into her heart; her
breathing became deep, even, calm.

“Are you feeling better now?” asked Falcon, at length, bending over her.

He felt the long sigh of utter contentment that passed through her.

“You are--too good to me, Falcon,” she whispered, in a voice heavy with
happiness.

“This has--comforted you?”

Something in his tone roused her.

“Oh, Falcon, you know it,” she breathed, tremulously, dropping her head
to his shoulder.

His breast heaved as he strained her to him.

Her languorous serenity had gone. A wild joy rushed into her soul!
He loved her! She knew it now! There was famine in his arms, an
insatiable hunger. His touch reminded her of the drought-stricken
plains, his words about the pain of being scorched came back to her. He
had been terribly scorched; she could feel how cruelly he had burned
and suffered. The knowledge strangely excited her and set her aflame
with a desperate yearning to satisfy his parched emotions. And with
her longing to comfort him she became more acutely conscious of his
nearness; the delight of lying pressed against his breast grew into an
agonized sweetness almost too intense to be borne! The strength went
out of her limbs, her whole body trembled with an ecstasy of weakness.

“Good God! Isma, how shall I ever let you go!” he ejaculated, as he
crushed her to him afresh.

He had drawn her away from the glare of the motor-lamps and the soft
darkness enveloped and isolated them. They stood panting, moved with an
agitated rapture, conquered by their emotions, cemented together by an
anguish of love.

There were footsteps approaching, but in their delirious oblivion they
had not heard them. Now Lord Berriedale spoke close beside them.

Dazed, they drew slowly apart.

“Sorry--very sorry to--disturb you,” he was saying, “but I am afraid I
must trouble you to drive me home, Folkestone.”

Instantly Isma and her lover became conscious of their surroundings.
They were standing on the cliff road beside the car. Their minds began
to pick up the threads of the past. The horrible experience the girl
had passed through came back to her, only softened and robbed of its
power to hurt her.

Falcon remembered the long, harassing day he had spent, the terrible
speed at which he had traveled all those hot sun-scorched hours, beset
by fear and awful foreboding that urged him ever at a more frantic
pace toward the girl who might need him! He had not stopped at his own
home on the way, but was rushing straight on to The Palms when Isma’s
terror-stricken form arrested him on the road.

But he must reply to the man who had just spoken.

“I wonder you dare to come near me, Berriedale,” he said, trying to
control his anger. “Don’t you know that I am the last man you should
encounter just now?”

“You are not a brute, Folkestone, and I am badly hurt--arm smashed,
knee injured as well; can’t possibly drive my car back, and I am alone
to-night.”

Isma came up to him quickly. “Lord Berriedale, did you get hurt--when
you--fell?”

“No,” he answered her, hastily, “not then, only as I was trying to
reach the track I must have got out of my course a bit, for I stepped
into air and landed on some jagged rocks--that did the damage.”

“Come here into the lamplight and let us see what is the matter,” said
Captain Folkestone, moving to the front of the motor.

But the injured man refused. “No, thanks,” he said, decidedly. “I am
not going to have Miss Folkestone harassed with that sight. However, if
you will be kind enough to let me sit down and take me home at once I
shall be grateful.”

Falcon opened the door of his motor and Lord Berriedale limped into the
nearest seat, and they noticed his left hand held the right arm bent
against his chest.

Captain Folkestone started the engine quickly, Isma sat down beside
him, and silently they stole down the steep descent.

The girl looked into the soft darkness where the cliffs stood out like
phantom battlements against the dim summer-night sky. The air was warm
and laden with languorous fragrance from the bush and the pungent
odor from the sea. Far down in the swarthy gloom she could hear the
passionate sighs of the waves as they cast themselves against the rocks.

As they approached The Palms, Isma said, without looking at her cousin:
“Falcon, will you let me come with you to The Bluff? I may be of some
use and--I--” she added, in a lower voice--“I want to come.”

“No, not to-night,” he said, reluctantly. “You see, I may be very late
getting back. I must get Berriedale to bed and wait till the doctor
arrives. It would be too much for you; you are tired--”

“But you are tired, too, after that long, strenuous day. Please let me
come,” she urged, turning to him.

“No, I mustn’t be so selfish. You need a good sleep--”

They had reached the avenue.

Falcon sprang out to help the girl to alight and walked over to the
gate with her. There she stopped him, saying: “Now don’t come any
farther. I shall be all right. Take him home quickly. He is in great
pain.”

“I think I had better come up to the house with you.”

“No, no, please don’t. Get Lord Berriedale home as soon as possible. He
must be suffering dreadfully.”

She held out her hand to him as she said, in moved tones: “Falcon, I
can’t express all I want to say to-night. I--”

“Neither can I--just now.”

He pressed her hand in a deep, intimate way in the darkness and his
touch was an embrace.

“Good night,” she whispered.

“Good night,” he said, stooping over her. “Isma, I am coming to you
to-morrow for my summer and--my Paradise.”

Isma was still by the gate when the throb of the machine had died
into silence. She stood riveted to the spot where her lover’s hand
had touched her and where he had bidden her the brief but significant
good night. She felt dazed and numb, yet curiously alive. So much
had happened since she left the palm avenue some hours before. The
night had been crowded with events. First, there had been the exalted
experience on the cliff--the never-to-be-forgotten finding of God! The
headland had been a lofty temple, a sacred Bethel where the spaces had
revealed to her the presence of the Infinite.

Then had come the horror of her encounter with Lord Berriedale. She
shivered again as she thought of it. But the fearful wrestling with
evil had given her new confidence in God. He had not forsaken her. He
had sent Falcon to rescue her, save her! Her eyes suddenly shone in the
darkness. This beautiful, dreadful evening had also brought her the
revelation of her cousin’s love. Her breathing fluttered and one hand
went up as if to steady her throbbing heart. The thought of their time
together on the road overwhelmed and bewildered her.

Above her the palm leaves murmured drowsily and at intervals she heard
the dull crash of sleepy waves as they tumbled headlong and confused on
the dreaming sand.

The girl also began to feel oddly confused. She tried to think clearly,
but could not. Everything had all at once become blurred and unreal;
nothing was real any more except the burning pressure of Falcon’s arms
and--her great trust in the Infinite.

She made her way slowly toward the house. She was very tired. She
must go to bed, sleep long, and dream of her lover’s embraces and the
watching, caring--God.




IX

CRUCIFIED!


It was nine o’clock. The sun streamed into Isma’s room, but the girl
was still fast asleep, her long hair billowing like a cloud of flaxen
gold around her.

Miss Livingston opened the door gently and entered the room with a
breakfast tray.

“Still asleep, Baby?” she said, softly moving nearer the bed and gazing
with admiring devotion on the fresh, luxuriant beauty of the sleeper.

“I brought your breakfast up, deary,” she said, a little louder,
placing the tray on a small table near the bed, and as the girl stirred
and opened her long-fringed eyelids, heavy with sleep, she continued,
“so you came back, after all, last night. Minnie heard you come in.
Here is a letter for you,” she added, as Isma, now awake, held out
gleaming white arms for her morning embrace.

“You had better read the note, dearest. It came from The Bluff just now
and the man--”

Her companion sat up, tore open the envelop, and read its contents
hurriedly. As she read the rich bloom faded a little from her cheeks.

“Lord Berriedale had an accident on the cliff last night,” Isma
explained to the elder woman when she had put down the note. “He
stepped into one of those deep, rocky hollows and was very much hurt.
Falcon drove him home. Beatrice says his right arm is badly fractured,
a nerve is injured, and the doctor doesn’t think he will ever get the
use of his arm again. Also one knee is sprained. Of course Beatrice is
dreadfully upset. I must get up and go to her immediately. I won’t wait
for breakfast.”

“You needn’t hurry so much as that. The chauffeur has to find Lord
Berriedale’s car. It appears he left it somewhere up on the cliff road
last night. That will take a little while, so you will have plenty of
time for breakfast. By the way, I thought Falcon had gone up north. How
did he happen to be in this neighborhood, too?”

“He must have hurried terribly to get back so early--”

“I suppose he came to look after you. Isma, I wonder do you half
appreciate his wonderful care of you? It is really marvelous the way
he watches over you. I have never seen such devotion! And you are so
horribly cruel to him. Fancy, all the time you have been engaged you
have not given him one single evening. It is a wonder he puts up with
it!”

The girl laughed happily. “Are you going to lecture me on that subject,
too! But there is no need now, I assure you. For the future I am not
going to neglect him, I promise you!”

When Isma was ready to start she said to Miss Livingston: “If Falcon
comes over this morning, please explain that Beatrice sent for me, and
ask him to come back this afternoon. I shall be home by three o’clock;
but tell him I don’t want him to come to The Bluff for me. I want to
see him here.”

Lady Berriedale was lying on a couch in the sunny morning-room when
Miss Folkestone arrived. She stretched her hand out to the girl and
said, in a choked little voice: “You are a dear to come. I want you
specially to-day, for you will be able to--comfort Neville. I--cannot.”

Isma bent and kissed the tremulous lips. “Beatrice dear, don’t say such
things. Of course you can comfort--him.”

The frail, agitated woman took the girl’s cool hands between her own
feverish ones and pressed them solemnly. “Isma, you don’t know what it
means to see the man I worship suffering as Neville is suffering and
being unable to make things easier for him! You can have no idea what
it is like to stand aside helpless and inert--lie in here because I am
not wanted--there.” She made a pathetic little gesture in the direction
of her husband’s room. Then all at once she turned her large, burning
eyes on her companion. “But _you_ can soothe him, _you_ can comfort
him.” She waved the girl’s attempt at protest impatiently aside. “No,
Isma, it is no use bolstering me up with false hope. I have had my
eyes opened. Neville told me--this morning”--she lowered her eyes
and the flush in her cheeks deepened--“what he--meant to--do-- All.
Only, Isma”--she glanced up imploringly--“don’t judge him too harshly.
Remember he was desperate, beside himself, mad with longing and love!
Life had become unbearable without you. Can’t you understand? But he
does love you, he does--in the same hot, impetuous way that I--love
him.” She stopped suddenly, choking, then, making a great effort to
control her voice, she continued, “Isma, do you really--love your
cousin, for--if you don’t--”

The girl started. “You know I do, Beatrice.”

“You have said so, but you have not acted like it, and that made
me think that if, after all--you didn’t--care for him, there might
be--hope for--Neville--later,” she finished with supreme courage.

“Beatrice, how can you--suggest such a thing?” cried the girl, her
eyes wide with pain. “It is too terrible! Besides, I swear to you I
love Falcon. There was a misunderstanding between us, but it has been
cleared away now--”

“Ah, I see. I am glad for your sake. Still--how I wish it might have
been--otherwise for--Neville.”

“Beatrice, you surely can’t wish that!” Isma exclaimed, unutterably
touched by the depths of her friend’s selfless devotion.

“I do wish it, Isma; I mean it. I should feel happier when I--go if
only you might have--cared for him.”

Great tears sprang into the golden-gray eyes and splashed down the
girl’s softly curving cheeks.

“Beatrice,” she whispered, “I can’t bear it--I can’t!”

“You see, I love him--and you,” said her companion, simply.

After a sad, tremulous pause Lady Berriedale continued: “Isma, will you
go to him now? He--needs you.”

Miss Folkestone drew back quickly. “Not that, Beatrice--not that!” she
pleaded, in alarm.

“Yes,” persisted the woman on the couch, eagerly. “I want you to do it,
Isma. Do it for my sake if you will not do it for--his.”

“Oh no, Beatrice, don’t ask that,” she replied, still struggling
against the inevitable.

“Now, Isma, be kind. You will have so much happiness in the future,
can’t you at least spare him a little sympathy?”

Her companion saw it was useless to try to escape the ordeal. “Very
well, if you insist on it, I will go, but only if you come with me.”

The invalid rose from among the cushions and, leaning on the arm of
her tall, strong friend, they walked together to the injured man’s
apartment.

On the threshold Lady Berriedale stood still and said, “Isma has come
to see you, Neville”; then she pushed the girl gently into the room and
closed the door behind her.

Lord Berriedale lay white and large-eyed among a pile of elaborate
pillows, his damaged arm, bandaged and in splints, resting stiffly on
the coverlet. His face was drawn and its pallor accentuated by his
black eyes and his pale-blue silk sleeping-suit.

A light flittered over his features as Isma came toward him. The color
had died out of her cheeks, but her face looked peculiarly calm.

The man on the bed moved his left hand as if he would have held it out
to her, then suddenly checked himself.

“I suppose you would rather not shake hands,” he said, a little
awkwardly.

“It is hardly necessary,” replied his visitor, in a voice that
harmonized with the serenity of her expression.

He gazed at her with questioning scrutiny. “I wonder why you have
come?” he reflected, aloud.

“Because Beatrice wished it and because you are in--pain.”

He laughed in a hollow, mocking way. “And so you are sorry for me
because of--this.” He pointed scornfully to the bandaged arm. “A slight
hurt like that will rouse your pity, but when I am racked body and
soul in the inferno itself you pass me by unmoved!” He tried to raise
himself, dragging at the injured arm in his effort to reach out and
draw a chair nearer the bed.

“Don’t--please don’t move,” said Isma, hastily, moving the chair closer
and sitting down beside him.

“What does it matter about these wretched limbs!” He laughed again.
“The pain in them is a mere pin-prick, a pleasure, a delight, compared
to--the other!”

“Please don’t refer to that,” replied the girl, looking away.

“I thought you had come to give me a little--sympathy!”

“So I have.”

“Then give it to me about the thing I need it most.”

The fierce appeal in his voice made her glance at him. He looked
haggard and his eyes seemed strangely glazed.

Miss Folkestone sighed suddenly.

“Isma,” he began, regarding her intently, “are you--sorry at last?”

“I am,” she replied, steadily.

“You don’t--hate me quite as much as--usual?”

“I should never have hated you at all if--” She ceased speaking and
looked down at her hands moving restlessly in her lap.

“I have been a consummate ass! I might have known _you_ were not won
the way I have always tried to--gain you,” he said, bitterly. “Your
cousin was wiser than I, after all. Last night I thought him a perfect
fool for not making better use of his opportunities; but I see now he
knew what he was about; he could wait, and that is where I have failed!”

“Is that the--_only_ thing you have--found out?” Her clear eyes looked
questioningly into his.

“No,” he replied, a faint color creeping into his pallid face, “I have
been more than a--fool--I have been--”

She stopped him with a gesture. “You need not say it.”

“Isma,” he said, after a silence, “I should like to ask you to--forgive
me; but I suppose that is too much to expect--”

She did not reply at once, so he continued: “I meant to-- Well, you
know what I--intended last night--but please remember that I was
maddened with longing for you. I couldn’t endure the talk of your
marrying your cousin, couldn’t tolerate seeing him near you--though he
had little enough for an engaged man, Heaven knows! But you made it
all up to him last night, didn’t you! Can you imagine what it meant
to me to see you together--like that! The sight has been with me ever
since. I can’t forget it; it has been burned into the very tissues of
my brain! Isma, I am being punished--fearfully punished--”

“I am so--very sorry,” murmured his companion, confused and troubled.

But the man did not seem to hear her.

“I wonder,” he reflected, aloud, “how many men you have driven to
distraction.”

“Lord Berriedale, I have not come to discuss these things with you,”
she said, with gentle firmness.

Again he did not heed her. “Isma, why don’t you understand? Why have
you no sympathy with the poor devils you are sending--to hell!”

The girl shivered. “How can you say that to me! I have never given men
any--encouragement!”

“I know it. It is not your fault, of course. It is your magnetic,
extravagant womanhood, your bewildering loveliness, which does the
damage! You are no coquette; no one knows this better than I. You are
the purest, the most noble woman I have ever come across; still, you
draw us to our destruction all the same. Your personality is like
champagne that goes to the head--”

“Lord Berriedale, please don’t talk like that or I shall have to leave
you. You mentioned beauty of character. Why are you so blind? Why can’t
you see that the most beautiful, most self-sacrificing woman who ever
lived is the one linked to your life? She is the personification of
selflessness and goodness! If you had heard what she said to me this
morning, I think it would have touched even your heart and made you
rejoice that you had been given such a wife!”

The man beside her sighed deeply. “Beatrice is good,” he assented, “and
if I had only been her brother-- But her husband--” A shudder passed
through his frame. “Isma, you can’t know what it means to be--that to a
woman you feel toward as a--sister, while your whole vitalized manhood
clamors for--some one else! Isma, it is--hell--_hell_!” He reiterated
the last word in a voice which made the listening girl turn cold. She
thought all at once what it would mean to surrender her womanhood to
any one but Falcon. It would be ghastly! So the man beside her had
suffered like _that_!

Instantly she stretched out her hand to him and he clasped it eagerly.
“Isma, do you understand--at last?”

“I think so,” she replied, very softly.

Lord Berriedale released her hand and took a pocketbook from under
his pillow, opened it, and took out a few loose papers on which were
written some verses.

“This is a Danish poem,” he said, handing her the sheets. “A friend of
mine translated it and gave me a copy. The translation is a very rough
one, but the meaning is clear. Read it and you may understand a little
more fully what I have been through.”

Isma read:

  CRUCIFIED

  As I looked over the earth
  I saw cross beside cross.
  I saw them raised,
  I heard them fall;
  Bloodstained were they all.
  Crosses for the living
  I saw they were.
  Crucified they hung,
  Pair beside pair.
  Strange moans rang into the air,
  Sobbing their torment by day and night.
  Crucified they hung
  To the same brutal wood,
  Man to woman,
  Soul to soul!

  Not wedded by heart-bonds,
  Not tied by love’s rapture,
  Condemned to suffer lifelong years,
  Bleeding together, hand by hand!
  Blanched they hung on the same ghastly tree
  Hand to hand,
  Foot to foot,
  Knee to knee.
  Who suffered most
  God alone knew!

  If one hand is clenched in rebellious revolt,
  And the pair struggle who are tied together,
  The nails cut deeper into the wound--!
  The flesh must be ripped
  If one will be freed.
  And yet forever the scar will burn!
  Man and woman,
  You _must_ learn
  Those nails will hold
  Till life shall end!

  Never again the gap will heal,
  Never will close the bleeding wounds,
  Even after days and years.
  The torment you shared,
  The blood ye bled
  At the same moment,
  Will bind you together
  Till the slumbers of death!

  Once bound, ye hang
  Hopelessly chained
  Foot to foot,
  Hand to hand,
  Bearing the nail-prints
  Till life’s solemn end--
  Crucified! Crucified!
  To the same fatal wood
  Man to woman,
  Soul to soul!

For a long time she did not raise her eyes from the paper, but when at
last she looked up tears glistened in her lashes and her lips trembled.
“Is it like that?” she breathed, a sob in her voice.

“Yes,” he murmured, an odd glassiness in his gaze.

Impulsively the girl bent over him. “I forgive you--now,” she whispered.

“Because you have seen--the cross?”

“Yes,” she faltered.

Lord Berriedale looked out of one of the windows at the stirring,
sunlit ocean, and the curious fixedness in his glance made Isma think
suddenly of the bare cliff she had watched the night before, gazing
abstractedly out to sea.

“Lord Berriedale,” she said, softly, “perhaps it is only from the cross
that we learn to look beyond the scenes of earth--”

“Yes, perhaps so. But what do we find--there?” he asked, almost wearily.

A very bright color leaped into the girl’s face and she dropped her
eyes for a moment in reverent shyness. Then she lifted them suddenly
and said, in a low, clear voice, “There we find--God.”

The man turned to her. “And--God protected you, after all--last night.
He did not fail you and--He was stronger than the demon in me. Isn’t it
strange,” he continued, looking down on his bandaged limb, “that the
arm which held you so cruelly will never be of--use to me--again.”

She gazed at him with dazzling tenderness.

“I am sorry--so very grieved. Still--perhaps from your cross you, too,
will find--the Infinite.”

He shaded his eyes with his hand, and they were both silent for some
minutes.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, at last.

Then with another gentle pressure on his fingers Isma stole softly out
of the room.




X

MIGRATING BIRDS


When Isma left Lord Berriedale’s room she walked out on the balcony and
stood looking over the vast country that stretched beyond the garden
and avenue.

She wanted to be alone and have time to think. Her whole being was
in a turmoil. She felt as if she had been standing at the foot of a
cross and witnessed a terrible crucifixion. The man she had just left
was hanging on the cruel wood; she had never realized his suffering
before. Now her heart went out to him in burning pity. He had sinned,
sinned hideously; he had made desperate attempts to tear away from the
nails which held him; but each effort had only torn at the wounds and
increased his pain.

And Beatrice? She was on the same cross, enduring fresh lacerations
each time her husband tried to break away.

Isma sat down in one of the low balcony chairs.

The world was full of crosses; she could see them now. It seemed as if
it held nothing but those instruments of torture--a whole vast globe
full of them! Cross beside cross, rearing up their naked, cruel forms,
as desolate sentinels on graves! The earth had been changed into a
great cemetery--not a calm resting-place for the dead, but a graveyard
for the living. This acre of the dead held alive men and women, who
could moan, weep, laugh harsh, bitter laughter, abuse one another, tear
at one another’s wounds, men and women who bled, who made themselves
and one another bleed!

Isma pressed her hands, tightly against her eyes. So _this_ ghastly
thing was--life!

Presently her hands dropped from her face and she looked into the
cloudless blue spaces arching high above the endless sun-bleached
plains.

For some time she sat motionless, gazing into the immense blueness.
Out there was the Infinite and peace. But if He were all-powerful,
living Himself in the region of calm, why did He allow this agonized
suffering on the earth? Could He not bring peace there also? He had
made the earth beautiful, ravishingly lovely! It was a vast, enchanting
paradise ablaze with flowers, alive with chirping birds, humming with
insects, shimmering with white, radiant sunlight. Why had this place of
wonderful beauty been turned into a graveyard? Why--why?

Then suddenly as she glanced dreamily about her the bare, ugly crosses
seemed to change. They were no longer instruments of torture, hewn
together to rack their unfortunate victims. They had all at once
become pillars which raised those who hung on them above the earth, so
that they might have a clear vision of the Infinite who was trying to
draw their attention to Himself.

The girl closed her eyes. Understanding had suddenly come to her.

“So here you are, Isma! I did not know you had left Neville. How is he?
Were you able to comfort him?” asked Lady Berriedale, who had just come
out on to the balcony.

“I don’t know about that, but don’t worry over him, Beatrice. All will
come right. He is fighting through.”

A great tenderness welled up in Isma’s heart for the friend who loved
so desperately, so selflessly, the man chained to her who had failed to
satisfy her burning passion.

“Beatrice,” said the girl, taking the hot, restless hands, “I do feel
all is going to come right between you--”

“How can you say that when you know everything as you do?” There was
deep reproach in the rasping voice.

“I can’t explain, Beatrice, but I feel it. It came to me quite suddenly
just now.”

“That all will come right?”

“Yes.”

Lady Berriedale sighed. “I don’t see how it can.”

“No, you may not see that; still, it will.” There was conviction in the
words.

“Do you really think he will ever--love me?”

“Yes,” Isma replied, with a far-away look in her eyes. Apparently
she was gazing at something so distant that it was beyond the scene
spreading before her.

“Isma,” said her friend, with awe in her voice, “you are not thinking
of--earth.”

“No, I was thinking of a beautiful experience I had early last
evening,” and she told her eager listener about the staring bluff
and the discovery she had made on the headland. “And do you know,
Beatrice,” she continued, a flush in her cheeks and warmth in her
voice, “that it has made everything different. On the way here this
morning, as I looked at the sea, the coast-line, the breakers, the
flowers, the hills, the clouds, it came to me that all the color, the
exquisite outline of form, the grace, the radiance, were merely the
shadow of His wonderful personality; that the tender loveliness here
was only God’s shadow cast on the earth to remind us of Him and His
gorgeous beauty.”

“Isma, how glorious! How I wish I had thoughts about God like that!
Still,” she continued, perplexity coming in her voice once more, “I
don’t see the connection between that and Neville loving me again.”

“Why, don’t you see when He is so close, when He has power to do
everything, He can put things right for you? There was a terrible
misunderstanding between Falcon and myself, but He put it right last
night.”

“I am truly glad to hear that, but--I have only such a little
time--left.” The big black eyes glistened with a dewy brilliance.

“Life for all of us is only brief. We are like birds that come here for
the summer, build nests, and then migrate to another shore.”

Her companion shivered. “Isma--the migrating is so--terrible--the
flight over the fathomless ocean with its engulfing water awful!” She
trembled again. “If only, like the birds, we might migrate in flocks,
have warm companionship, familiar forms taking the journey with us--
But for one solitary little bird to start alone across those heaving
waters--”

There were footsteps in the hall. Now Rex appeared in the doorway.
“Captain Folkestone is at the ’phone and wants to speak to you,” he
said, addressing Isma.

The girl rose. The thought of Falcon suddenly overwhelmed her; she had
been living in the sorrows of others. Now her own happiness returned to
her with the suddenness of a delicious shock.

She hurried down-stairs, picked up the receiver and said a very
breathless “Hullo!” into the instrument.

“Is that you, Isma?” came Falcon’s low, pleasant voice in her ear.

“Yes,” she answered, her heart beating so rapidly she could scarcely
speak.

“How are you--terribly knocked up to-day?” There was keen anxiety in
the words.

“No, splendid, thank you!” she assured him, with a sudden radiance
in her tones. His tender concern had steadied her and brought her an
exuberant joy.

“That sounded fine! I was so afraid you would be tired out.”

“Not at all; but--did you go over to The Palms this morning?”

“Of course. Do you think I could wait till this afternoon?”

Her happy laugh rippled into the ’phone. “How nice of you!”

“I should have come to The Bluff after you if it hadn’t been for your
message telling me to wait. I really came to carry you off for the day.
I wanted to take you a few miles up the coast and make you rest on the
sands all day and--play with me.”

“That would have been--lovely! I am so sorry I have missed it; but
there is still--to-morrow.”

“I have other plans for that.”

“Really? What are they?”

“I can’t explain just now--I will tell you this afternoon.”

“Is it something--nice?”

“Yes, heavenly!”

“Then I am longing to hear it.”

“You sha’n’t wait a moment longer than I can help! But I mustn’t keep
you standing any longer. You won’t be late this afternoon, will you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Alas! I must say good-by till then,” he said, reluctantly.

“Never mind, time will soon pass and this afternoon will come--”

“This morning seems to be the longest I have ever spent--but I suppose
three o’clock is bound to come round some time.”

“Yes--it won’t be long now--so good-by.”

“Good-by till--summer.”




XI

THISTLE-DOWN


Captain Folkestone had just finished speaking to Isma on the ’phone and
had gone into his sitting-room and stood by the mantelpiece looking at
a large bowl of sulphur-colored roses; his cheeks were flushed and in
his eyes was still the strong light his talk with the girl had brought
there.

The room was very charming with its high-paneled wainscoting of
blackwood, its dark-brown felt carpet strewn with golden-brown rugs,
its handsome blackwood furniture and long tusser curtains that hung in
graceful folds by the large open windows through which the warm summer
air, heavily perfumed by flowers, came softly into the room.

An excited bee shot in from the garden and darted noisily about the
room.

Falcon watched it with detached interest. The bee made a sudden exit
just as his attention was arrested by the buzzing of a motor.

He glanced out into the riot of sunshine and flowers, in the direction
where the long drive lined with flame-trees opened into the garden,
and saw a car making its way rapidly toward the house.

He started a little; it was Lord Berriedale’s big motor. It took the
turning to the front door with an elegant swing and stopped abruptly.

The chauffeur opened the door and a small, closely veiled woman got
out--it was Miss Brentford.

If Captain Folkestone was surprised, his face did not betray his
feelings when presently the visitor was shown into the room and he
greeted her in his usual courteous manner, which held graceful ease as
well as a touch of formality.

“How very delightful of you to come and see me, Miss Brentford!” he
said, taking her proffered hand. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

The girl had thrown back her veil. “What a delightful room!” she
exclaimed, looking round the sunlit, luxurious apartment with its
valuable paintings, numerous books, fine bronze statues, and Persian
rugs with their long silk fringes.

Captain Folkestone drew forward a low easy-chair and asked his guest to
be seated.

Rita sank down among a profusion of yellow cushions, allowing herself a
few minutes’ pleasant talk with her handsome host before disclosing the
real object of her visit, which she knew would be distasteful to him.

For some time they chatted in their usual friendly way; then Miss
Brentford caught sight of a clock on the mantelpiece and saw it was
getting dangerously near lunch-time. She sat up with a jerk and her
face looked all at once perturbed as she said:

“I suppose you are rather surprised I should come to you like this?”

“Not at all. It is the most natural thing for my friends to come to see
me and they are always welcome here,” he assured her, graciously.

“It is very nice of you to be so cordial. However, I wouldn’t have
come--unasked--unless there had been--serious issues at stake,” she
ventured, heading in the direction of her goal.

Captain Folkestone smiled in his disarming way.

“Serious issues! Why, that sounds quite formidable, and formidable
things are not for the summer. If I were you I wouldn’t worry about
them on a day like this. Come out in the garden and let me show you my
flowers; that is far more appropriate in this splendid weather.”

“No, thank you, I would rather stay indoors; the sun is very warm.”

“I am sure the drive must have been hot. Let me get you an iced drink.”

“Thank you, I don’t want anything like that. I only want to talk to
you.”

“That is very charming of you; but let us leave serious things alone;
they are only meant for dull climates and--winter.”

“But this one cannot wait. When winter comes it might be too late--”

“It is always wise to wait with formidable things till it is too late,”
her companion observed, pleasantly.

“Now you are talking nonsense and you ought to be serious,” the girl
replied, a little petulantly.

“My dear Miss Rita, I always find it such a good plan never to be what
I ought to be,” he laughed.

“That is most tiresome of you.”

“Not at all. It is the people who are what they should be who are
tiresome, for they have the annoying habit of expecting every one else
to come up to their own immaculate perfection, and that is horribly
aggravating of them! And, by the way, talking nonsense is most
sensible, for then people do not believe you mean what you say.”

“Is that an advantage?”

“Certainly, for no one will stop to contradict you or argue with you,
then.”

Miss Brentford looked toward the clock again. She moved uneasily. Too
much time was being wasted before she disclosed her errand.

“Captain Folkestone,” she said, a little nervously, for it was very
difficult to screw herself up to the point of attack when confronted by
those smiling, dominating eyes, “I have come to speak to you on a very
delicate matter this morning, and I do hope--you will not be offended
with me--”

The man before her laughed genially. “I am never offended at anything
people say to me. Why should I be? Words are only like thistle-down,
and no one in their right mind will take thistle-down seriously. One
only brushes it away and--forgets.”

“Still, if a friend came to warn you about some--awful danger--” said
the girl, making a violent plunge toward her object.

“No friend ever comes to warn one; only enemies do that.”

“I cannot agree with you there. If you were on the point of making some
terrible mistake, undoubtedly it would be your friend’s duty to try and
prevent it--”

“My dear Miss Brentford, you surely wouldn’t be cruel enough to prevent
any one from making a mistake, would you? Why, the only enjoyable thing
in life is making mistakes.”

“And the consequences?” inquired his companion as one who had scored a
point.

The Guardsman shrugged easily. “One is far too busy making other
mistakes to bother about them.”

It was just dawning on the girl that her host was deliberately keeping
her from accomplishing her plan, and a hot anger leaped up in her
toward the woman who was so sacred to him that he courteously yet
decidedly made it clear he refused to discuss her.

She drew herself up and her dark eyes flashed as she said, “Captain
Folkestone, I believe you know what I have come to say this morning
and you are trying to keep me from saying it.”

“In that case I suppose you will see that it is quite superfluous
to--say it.” His quiet, agreeable tones held an underlying significance.

“No, indeed, for what I have to--tell you would open your eyes--”

“Open my eyes! Whoever wants his eyes open! Why, the reason the world
is so interesting and people so fascinating is because one always looks
at them with one’s eyes shut.”

“But if you marry with your eyes closed you will marry the wrong
woman,” she retorted, making a desperate attempt to break through his
wordy entanglements.

He laughed with unruffled serenity.

“And what man wants to marry the right woman? It is far more amusing
and entertaining to marry--the wrong one.”

There was a knock at the door and a servant announced that luncheon was
ready.

“Of course you will take pity on my loneliness and have lunch with me?”
said Captain Folkestone, hospitably.

The girl stood for a moment, pale, irresolute, her face working, her
hands moving nervously. She had been defeated, hopelessly defeated, and
now there was nothing for her to do but to make as dignified a retreat
as possible.

“No, thank you, the car has to be back in time to--take--your cousin
home at two o’clock. It appears she has a very important engagement
early this afternoon. The other motor has gone to town, so I must hurry
back.”

Her host saw her to the car, shook hands elaborately, and then the girl
was whirled hastily away from the flower-laden garden that gleamed in
the midday sunlight as if it had been strewn with gorgeous jewels.

However, Rita did not notice the flowers. She leaned back in the
mauve-colored, well-padded seat, feeling suddenly weak with impotent
rage. She had been beaten, horribly beaten. The soldier had rendered
her utterly powerless! It had cost her a good deal to make this attempt
to save him from a disastrous fate; but her endeavor had been a
failure, her purpose thwarted, and her thrust foiled. In fact, she had
not even been permitted to strike; her smiling host had politely but
uncompromisingly taken her weapon from her before she could use it.

She recognized her complete helplessness as she sped homeward under the
glittering flame-trees. Why had she been so ineffectual? How was it her
words never carried weight? No one took any notice of her opinion; she
could not influence anybody, not even her sister. Why was it--why? But
everybody listened to Miss Folkestone. She could sway all the people
around her. Was this merely because of her beauty? Ah, that fatal
fairness! It seemed to the girl like a dreadful juggernaut crunching
its way relentlessly over all her plans and desires. If only she could
see that vivid, colorous blondness lying cold and inert, deprived of
its riotous vitality in the narrow bed of the dead! Then alone she
would be safe and able to have her way!

A hard glint came into the black eyes burning behind the closely drawn
veil as she looked unseeingly into the effulgent sunlight.




XII

SUMMER

  I did not know, when first I took your hand,
  And felt a thrill I could not understand,
  How you would turn my world to wonderland--
          I did not know!


Isma stood by the mirror in her room fastening some deep-pink roses
into the corsage of her pastel-blue _crêpe-de-Chine_ gown. She had
returned from The Bluff half an hour before; it was now five minutes
to three and Falcon might arrive at any moment. Her fingers moved
with nervous haste. She dropped a dawn-flushed bud, picked it up
quickly and pinned it in more securely. Then she surveyed her superb
reflection in the glass with absent-minded scrutiny. She had made her
toilet carefully; on this day of days everything must harmonize with
the greatness of the occasion. She had chosen this frock with its
rich embroidery and girdle of tawny gold because Falcon had specially
admired it.

“Captain Folkestone is in the drawing-room,” a maid announced and
withdrew.

The color in Isma’s cheeks deepened. A strange, fierce excitement made
her suddenly tremble, feel weak and unable to move. She stood gazing
into the mirror with parted lips and unseeing eyes. The roses on her
bosom shook. How was she to walk down-stairs and into that room? How
was she to face her cousin, meet that intent blue gaze and greet him
calmly? If only she could have rushed to him and buried her blushing
face on his shoulder before he had time to look at her! She wanted to
hide--must hide. Her shyness was overwhelming!

But she must not keep Falcon waiting. With a violent effort she pulled
herself together and hurried down-stairs. However, as she opened the
drawing-room door and entered, everything swam before her. She saw
only a blurred vision of roses, masses of roses everywhere, dark red,
pink, and cream, their perfume scenting the air with heavy sweetness.
Amid this profusion of flowers a stalwart figure was coming toward her.
One look into his eager, smiling eyes and her vision was blurred no
longer; it cleared instantly. She lost consciousness of the flowers,
their drowsy perfume, her own nervous shyness, and her whole attention
became absorbed by the man approaching her. In one glance she took
in every detail of his appearance. It seemed to her he had never
looked so adorable as he did at that moment, his face flushed and
his eyes shining with something which sent a riotous joy pulsating
through her veins! Then very gently his dear hands were laid on her
shoulders and, holding her at arm’s-length, he looked at her with an
expression which made her feel completely in his power.

[Illustration: ISMA]

“Isma,” he said, “I have come for those--kisses you wouldn’t give me
the other day--”

A hot wave of color mounted to her face and her glance fell before his.

As no answer came he went on: “Isma, why wouldn’t you give them to me?
Why have you been pretending you did not--care? Did you want to see
what I look like when I am demented?” He was still smiling, but his
tone held a slight unsteadiness.

She looked up at him reproachfully. “Oh, Falcon, you know it
wasn’t--that.”

“Then why in the name of wonder did you--?”

“I didn’t think--you wanted--”

“Isma, you couldn’t seriously have thought such a thing.”

“But I--did.”

“How could it be possible? And how was it your own feelings didn’t help
you to understand mine? Tell me, Isma”--he bent over her now--“didn’t
you ever want me--close? Want me to--?”

“Of course,” she breathed, in burning confusion.

“Then why on earth have you racked us both like this?”

“I--I--didn’t think you--cared,” she faltered.

He drew back in utter astonishment and his hands fell from her
shoulder. “Not cared!” he exclaimed, incredulously. “After I had thrown
up everything and followed you across the world, been at your beck and
call ever since--simply lived for you! Besides, I told you myself on
the day we became engaged--in this very room, don’t you remember?--that
I would follow you wherever you went, and you said it was absolutely
useless. You didn’t give me one ray of hope--”

“But you did not say _you_ would. You only said ‘one man,’ and I
naturally thought you referred to--”

“Berriedale? And do you think I should be pressing his--unlawful suit?”

“I only thought you meant it as a--warning.”

He looked at her in perplexed amazement. “Good God! Isma, what a
misunderstanding! Still,” he added, after a pause, “what a mercy I
discovered you did care--a little bit, after all!” As he said the last
words he laid his hands caressingly on her shoulders again.

His touch unnerved her and she was silent for some moments before
asking, timidly, “When did you find out--last night?”

“No; I knew before then.”

The girl glanced up at him quickly. “Before--?”

“Two days ago I was certain.”

“What--made you certain--then?”

“Well, you didn’t seem--very happy on the way home--”

“And you guessed why?”

“I--couldn’t very well help it. Besides, there were other things that
day. To be quite frank with you, there had been things all along which
pointed--in that direction; for instance, on the night of the ball when
my arm--touched you, you seemed to find it difficult to--”

“Oh, Falcon, I was so--miserable that night. I couldn’t help
showing--it,” she said, brokenly.

He drew her a little closer. “Isma, what made you so--miserable that
night?”

Her drooping lashes trembled.

“Tell me, Isma,” he pleaded, as she did not speak.

“Falcon, you know,” she breathed.

“Were you--wanting--me as much as I--wanted you?” he murmured, close to
her ear.

“Of course,” she admitted, almost inaudibly.

He made no reply, but his breath came in short, panting gasps. Then
suddenly he caught her to him.

For some minutes they stood without speaking, silenced, made motionless
by the paralyzing sweetness of the contact.

At last Falcon said, “Tell me, how long have you--cared?”

The question roused her from the physical lassitude his embrace had
produced in her. “Ever since we first met--in England,” she replied, in
a low voice.

He started. “All that time! Heavens! If I had only known! Isma, how
could you keep it from me so long?”

“Several times I was afraid you had guessed--”

“I did think now and again that-- But whenever you had given me the
least ray of hope you always took such care to be specially indifferent
and aloof afterward--that put me off the scent.”

“Anyhow, I gave my secret completely away the other day,” she said, her
voice becoming faint again with the narcotic of his embrace.

“Yes, but I had to drag it from you--use horribly brutal methods--”

“You knew all the time you were--hurting me?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t help it. It seemed the only way of making
you--surrender, and I assure you it hurt me more than it hurt you.”

At last she lifted her head slightly and said, “But Falcon, how could
you--love me if you doubted me and thought that I--?”

“Isma, I never really doubted you. In my heart I knew all the time that
you were the dearest, most unselfish little girl in the world!”

“But till quite lately you were always so sarcastic and contemptuous--”

“That was only because I was desperate. I saw how the world misjudged
you, and I was just trying to sting you into prudence. Isma, can’t you
understand how I felt about it? It was terrible to have such a slur
cast on you--”

“Still, you knew all the time that I didn’t--”

“Of course I knew--knew that you were only sacrificing yourself, your
reputation--everything for your friend. All the same, I was distracted
with anxiety in case your courage might be the means of entrapping you.
Isma, I was at my wit’s end to know how to guard you!”

She looked up at him with shiny eyes. “Oh, Falcon, you have been
perfectly wonderful! No one in the world would have been so good to me!”

He stroked her soft cheek tenderly.

“Isma,” he said, after a pause, “when we are married and you have got
used to me I want you to tell me about--last night--”

A tremor passed through her. “And--you don’t want to know--before?” she
breathed into his coat.

“No, for whatever happened, it could not have been your fault.”

“Oh, Falcon,” she whispered, “you _do_ care as much as, or more
than--he.”

He frowned. “Who dared to say I didn’t?”

“He said--”

“What did he say?”

“That--you wouldn’t have anything more--to do with--me if--if--”

He held her to him with bruising force. “He dared to talk to you
about--such things--”

In the silence that followed he felt her burning humiliation and
hastened to say, “Isma, don’t let us think of it just now--”

“But, Falcon, I must tell you this,” she whispered into his shoulder.
“I was wonderfully protected last night. God sent you to me--”

“Heaven be praised I managed to reach you when I did!” he murmured,
huskily.

The underlying depth of feeling in his tone made the girl all at once
realize it would be lovely to confide to him her beautiful experience
on the cliff; but she would wait a little. He was sure to stay for the
rest of the day, and when twilight came they would stroll out under the
palms. That would be the time to share with him her sacred things. The
thought of telling him about God thrilled her suddenly; the intimacy it
implied held a new, delicious sweetness!

“Falcon. I have something beautiful to tell you--”

“Yes, little girl,” he replied, in a low voice. “You don’t know how I
long for your confidence, have you talk to me freely--open out to me,
share everything--”

“But I think I would rather wait till to-night. You will stay all the
evening, won’t you?--so after dinner we will go out under the palms and
talk.”

“That will be perfectly delightful. What a gorgeous evening we shall
have, and evening is the time for confidences, isn’t it?--and we have
so much to say to each other, so much to make up!”

“But Isma,” he went on, after a pause, “do you know you haven’t given
me those kisses yet?”

Her breathing grew perturbed and she pressed her face nervously against
his shoulder.

“Isma, you are surely not shy with me again? Just give them to me at
once and you will feel much better.” As he spoke he raised her head and
she made no resistance.

For some moments he stood looking into the confused, upturned face,
with its flushed cheeks, quivering nostrils, and long, downcast lashes.
Then beneath his gaze the heavily fringed lids opened slowly and the
golden-gray eyes lifted timidly to his. But the cloudy shyness vanished
as their glances met, caressed, melted into one and clung together,
and something which was half a gleam and half a mist came into the two
pairs of eyes which held each other as if they could not tear apart.

“Good God! how I love you, Isma!” cried Falcon, in a voice stifled with
emotion.

The girl paled and something blinded her.

The next moment their lips had met in a long, convulsive kiss.

Staggering and stunned, they drew apart, only to be swept together
again and again.

“Oh, Falcon,” she half sobbed, reeling against him as his lips released
her at last, “I can’t--”

His iron strength steadied her, and, leading her to a couch in a
corner of the room, he sat down beside her and took her into his arms,
pillowing her head on his breast. For some time he sat regarding the
golden head resting against his heart with strange, glistening eyes;
then he said, in a curious, vibrant tone: “Isma, do you know what
happened just now? In those kisses you gave yourself to me body and
soul.”

She stirred slightly. “Didn’t I do it--before?” she asked, faintly.

“Not fully. You gave me your love before. Now you have given me
yourself, made that complete surrender it has been so hard for you to--”

She was fully roused again. “Falcon, it wasn’t hard, truly it was not.
I--I--have just been longing to--” she assured him quickly, raising
her head and looking up at him with eyes which were deep and dark with
passionate yielding.

He bent over her and drank thirstily of the love-wine her soul poured
out to him.

His kisses and the paroxysms of emotion which had swept over them had
in some mysterious way brought them closer, and it seemed to Isma that
every thread of obscuring garment had for the moment been torn aside
and that he looked straight into her heart. Her shyness vanished as if
by magic. It became a delight to lay her inmost feelings bare to him.
She could have no secrets from him any longer; she did not wish to have
any. She was his, every part of her belonged to him; he had a right to
every emotion stirring in her soul. The passion of their lips had made
them one. And the knowledge of this brought with it a deep elation,
an overwhelming happiness. She could not repress it, could not keep
it out of her eyes; they sparkled suddenly into his, brimmed with a
reckless joy which dared to look at him with the triumphant right of a
possessor. She regarded his immaculately shaved cheeks, the brown waves
of his hair, the soft cleft in his firm chin with adoring scrutiny.

He responded at once to her changing mood.

“Well,” he said, at length, “and what do you think of--your property?”

She colored slightly, but met his probing gaze with dauntless
approbation. “I think it is just the dearest, the most lovable thing
God ever made!” Her golden eyes caressed his every feature.

He suddenly paled.

But the emotion he showed spurred her on to gayer abandonment, and she
laughed the happiest, silvery laugh that had ever rippled over her
scarlet lips. “Oh, Falcon, it is a perfect disgrace, the way I show you
how much I love you--but I can’t help it!”

He caught her to him and there was fire in his embrace. “It is the most
delicious thing you ever did, you adorable little summer witch!”

She leaned back in his arms and surveyed him laughingly, teasingly.
“But you don’t really love me as much as I--”

He closed the red, tantalizing lips with his, and his kisses leaped
through her like flames. “Take that back! If you dare to say these
outrageous things and smile at me in that bewildering way, I shall--”

“Falcon,” she half cried and half laughed, “I am so happy I don’t know
what I am doing or saying.”

“Isma, stop being so absolutely bewitching! Can’t you see you are
making my brain reel, that you are confusing me, intoxicating me--with
your alluring ways!”

“But, Falcon, it doesn’t really matter if we go quite mad over each
other, does it?” she said, regarding him with eyes that smoldered with
love and tenderness under their long, drooping lashes.

“No, it doesn’t matter in the least, provided we have enough sense left
to go through the--marriage ceremony to-morrow.”

She sat up quickly. “What _are_ you talking about?”

“Your and my wedding, of course,” he replied, in a level voice.

She looked at him in breathless astonishment. “Falcon, you are not
serious?”

“I was never more serious in my life. It is all being arranged--”

Her mood changed again. “But I can’t--” she whispered, in sudden
consternation.

“My dear little girl, you can. All you have to do is to step into my
car to-morrow morning and say--‘I will’ a little later on--”

A rich color dyed her face and throat. “Oh, not so soon!”

“Isma, don’t you love me well enough to want to be with me--all the
time?”

The hurt in his tone touched her. “Of course, but, Falcon, you don’t
understand--” she said, beginning to tremble.

“Of course I do,” he answered, his eyes eloquent with comprehension.
“Don’t you think I knew you were shy and nervous when you came into
the room this afternoon? But--wasn’t it all right? I didn’t overwhelm
you too suddenly, did I--and don’t you think you can trust me to make
everything all right for you to-morrow and--afterward?”

She clung to him suddenly. “You know I trust you absolutely. You always
make everything easy for me, and you don’t know how much I love you for
it!” she murmured, her lips close to his neck.

“So you want me to make love to you again!” he smiled, cuddling her to
him. “Isma, when we are married I am going to show you what I really
can do in that line.” Then he held her at arm’s-length and gazed at her
with passionate adoration.

She laughed blushingly.

“Now don’t you look like that again or I shall have to-- Oh, Isma,” he
broke off all at once, “why won’t you understand that I can’t possibly
wait! First you dazzle and bewilder me till I go clean off my head with
longing for you, then you wonder why I love you so frantically that I
can hardly wait another day to have you!”

“But--I love you--as much--”

“Yet you don’t want to marry me!”

“Yes, I do--”

“So you do, do you! All I can say is you have a funny way of showing
it.”

She leaned against him suddenly and there was utter abandonment in the
movement.

“Then you will--come with me--to-morrow?”

“Of course--if you wish it,” she breathed, tremulously.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was dark. But a mellow, roseate light found its way into the garden
through one of the drawing-room windows and fell softly on Isma’s
figure as she stood under an archway of creepers saying good night
to her lover. Her black Ninon evening gown was sleeveless and in the
semi-darkness her lovely shoulders and arms gleamed strangely white.

Falcon regarded her silently for some moments. Then all at once he
folded her to him and buried his face against the sumptuous whiteness
of her shoulder.

Her soft arms stole about his neck as she gently pressed him to her.

The soldier drew a long, blissful sigh. “Isma--this is--heaven,” he
murmured, in tones laden with ecstasy.

After a pause he raised his head reluctantly. “But I must tear myself
away. It is getting late and you must have a good sleep. But think
of it--to-morrow about this time we shall be together at the Blue
Mountains, and, Isma--I shall not need to--say good-by.” His voice held
a curious exultation.

“Falcon,” she whispered, laying her cheek against his, “I can’t think--
It will all be too--wonderful--”

“You are glad now I arranged it so--soon?”

The glistening arms about his neck tightened. “After being with you
like--this I couldn’t--bear it--if you--hadn’t--”

He crushed her to him. “Isma, only this one good-by and--then--”

In the warm, perfumed darkness two figures clung tremblingly together,
while their lips met in a caress which held agonized longing as well as
rapturous anticipation.




XIII

THE NETTLE


“Neville, what do you think has happened?” cried Miss Brentford, almost
hysterically, as she swept into her brother-in-law’s room.

“My dear Rita, how can I guess what happens anywhere when I am a
prisoner between these four walls?” replied the pale man on the bed,
with a touch of irritation.

The girl began to pace the floor in frenzied excitement.

“What is it?” inquired the patient, realizing that something unusual
had taken place.

Miss Brentford stood still and there was a wild, desperate look in
her black eyes as she said: “Captain Folkestone has just rung up to
say--good-by. He and Isma were just starting for Sydney. They are to
be--married this afternoon. All is arranged.”

She stopped breathlessly, waiting for some fiery response, but none
came; the man among the pillows did not stir.

“Neville, how can you lie there so quietly, staring into space as if
this meant nothing to you? Stop acting--you don’t need to pretend with
me.” She almost screamed at him in her exasperation.

Lord Berriedale’s dark eyes moved slowly from the windows through which
long rays of sunlight streamed into the room and lay in large golden
pools on the purple carpet, to the trembling form standing before him.

“Rita, I am not pretending. Only,” he sighed deeply, “I knew this had
to--come--”

“How did you know that?” his companion demanded, fiercely. “She did
not love him and--” She stopped, making a little choking sound in her
throat.

“Didn’t love him, Rita! If ever a woman loved a man she loved--him!”

“I don’t believe it. She could not love anybody--doesn’t know the
meaning of the word!” she flung at him, hotly.

An odd, ghostlike smile hovered for a moment about Lord Berriedale’s
pale lips and his gaze seemed all at once fixed upon a scene which was
not visible to the girl beside him. “Rita, you don’t know what you are
talking about. In any case, do you think she could satisfy a man like
Folkestone if she could not answer fire with fire? I used to think him
cold, but, by Jove!--” Again his eyes looked abstractedly into space.

“Neville, I went to him two days ago to try and--make him give her up.
I was going to tell him everything and open his eyes--”

Lord Berriedale’s abstraction had vanished. “Yes, and what did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything. He simply refused to discuss her; wouldn’t
even let me mention her name.”

“How could he prevent that?” One slim hand began to tug at his
honey-colored mustache.

“Oh, you know his way! He just smiled, looked more handsome than ever,
fenced and talked; everything I said he turned off--wouldn’t allow me
to approach the subject.”

“Rita, that was because he knew you don’t understand his cousin.”

“Who can understand such depths of treachery!”

“You are absolutely wrong. There is no treachery about--Isma. She is
the finest, grandest woman--”

“You ought to be the last man to say that, for you know better--” she
interrupted him, vindictively.

“I know better than any one how utterly--untemptable she is.”

“You men always shield a beautiful woman!”

The girl began to pace the room again, her ungoverned despair sweeping
over her once more. “Oh, Neville, I shall go absolutely crazy.
I--I--can’t bear it--I can’t!”

Her companion sighed heavily, but he did not speak.

“I shall go mad--I know I shall--”

All at once she came over to the bed and threw herself into an
easy-chair beside it and buried her face in the counterpane.

One long, slim hand was laid on the black, girlish head. “Poor little
Rita!” whispered a voice so full of sympathy that she hardly recognized
it as her brother-in-law’s. “If only I could make it easier for you!”

The girl lifted her face and looked long into the kind eyes regarding
her. “Neville, do you think my going to him spurred him on to--?”

“No, dear, not at all. Folkestone would have done it, anyway. He has
waited a long time, shown excellent self-control, and behaved with a
restraint I envy him. But a man like that will not wait always, and
when he does act he means business.”

Miss Brentford looked at him in amazement. “How can you bear to talk of
it so--calmly! You speak as if it did not concern you in the least.”

“I am resigned--that is why,” he replied, meeting her glance calmly.

“Don’t you want to--kill the man and take her from him?” Her eyes held
a fierce, merciless glitter, and the man beside her felt thankful that
Isma was safely out of Rita’s way at present.

“What would be the use? I am helpless. I must stay--here, while
another--”

The expression on his face made the girl all at once realize what
he was passing through. “Poor Neville!” she murmured, for a moment
forgetting her own grief in her realization of his.

“You need not pity me. I deserve it all; besides, I could never have
made her happy.”

“Would that count as long as you--had her?”

“It didn’t count before. I would have taken her at all costs. But it
counts now.”

“Why now?”

“I can hardly explain, only I have been thinking about--God.”

His companion, stared at him in astonishment. “Good gracious, Neville,
you don’t mean to say you are turning religious!”

“Why not?” he asked, in level tones.

“Well--you are hardly a--suitable subject for--that kind of thing, are
you?” she replied, with merciless candor.

“It is men like me who need religion most--”

“And what good can it do you?” she challenged him, scornfully.

“I don’t know yet. Perhaps religion may not help me, but God might.”

The girl had risen. She stood looking in cold defiance at her
brother-in-law. Then she suddenly burst out laughing, a hideous,
horrible laugh. “Neville, you are crazy already, absolutely dotty!” and
with another ugly laugh she bolted out of the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Rex, is the world coming to an end or what?” asked Miss Brentford,
bursting into the library where she knew the secretary was comfortably
installed with a novel and his cigarettes.

The man in the deep armchair put down the book he was reading
and looked up in indolent anticipation. He had heard the girl’s
conversation on the ’phone with Captain Folkestone and knew about
the coming wedding, and looked forward to an interesting talk on the
subject.

“Has anything else gone wrong?” He spoke with solemn intonation which
seemed to refer to Lord Berriedale’s accident and that the secretary
hoped no more calamities had taken place.

“Anything gone wrong indeed! What do you think, Neville has
turned--religious!”

Rex showed distinct signs of disappointment.

“Is that all?” he said, indifferently, picking up his book again. “You
really frightened me and made me think it was something serious.”

“Well, isn’t it serious that Neville is going mad?”

“Do you consider religion a madness?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

A light shot suddenly into the pale-blue eyes. The secretary saw a
new excitement ahead of him, a fresh way of tormenting another being.
“No, on the contrary, I think it shows jolly good sense,” he answered,
settling down to enjoy himself.

“Rex!” exclaimed Miss Brentford, angrily, “you are only playing, and I
am in no mood for jokes.”

“Indeed I mean what I say.”

“But you are not religious--far from it.”

“That doesn’t say I don’t approve of it. I don’t take exercise myself,
yet I thoroughly believe in it, all the same.”

“You are too lazy,” commented his companion.

“Exactly. Most people are too lazy to be religious. It is too great a
strain on their intelligence and too great a strain on their bodies.”

“Strain on their bodies?” queried the girl, in surprise.

“Yes, of course. When people become religious the body has to toe the
line as well as the soul, and between ourselves I believe it is the
strain on the body that keeps most people from religion. They don’t
say so, naturally. They have far nicer little ways of explaining
the situation. They are either assailed by doubts or they are too
enlightened and clever or too large-minded to accept such old-fashioned
ideas. But all the time it is the strain on the body it involves that
frightens them off.”

“Still, if you believe in it, why aren’t you religious yourself?”
interrogated the girl, uncertain whether her companion was in earnest
or not.

“For the simple reason that others fight shy of it. I don’t want my
habits interfered with. I like too many things religion condemns, so I
keep away from it and stick to my habits.”

“Isn’t that rather foolish?” suggested Rita, with a veiled display of
interest in spite of her scoffing tones.

“Of course, madly foolish. But then, with all our twentieth-century
culture, cleverness, and knowledge, we are nothing but a set of innate
fools! We know the great monster Death is after us, that sooner or
later it will track us down. If we had one iota of sense, we would--”

“What would be the use--we can’t alter the fact,” interrupted Miss
Brentford, impatiently.

“We certainly cannot alter the fact that Death is at our heels, yet we
might alter--others.”

“What others?”

“Our fate Beyond.”

“Rex, do you really mean _you_ believe in a state Beyond?”

“Of course I do; no one with any reasoning power could help it. There
is no waste in nature; life everywhere rises out of life; death is
just a crisis, a horrible, disgusting crisis; still, merely a critical
juncture--an autumn crisis in which decaying vestures are shed. But the
real life is not cast off in autumn. It is left free to be robed again
in fresh garments, and the new garments will be on the same pattern as
the old.”

The girl regarded the secretary skeptically; however, in her skepticism
smoldered a secret fascination. “That sounds very plausible; yet, after
all, we don’t know--no one has told us.”

“No, but we have been given minds which can think, conjecture,
reason. We were never told about the power of electricity, still, by
conjecturing and reasoning it was found.”

Rita sat in silence for a while. Before her mind had risen a torturing
vision of two people flying along in a car on dry, summerlit
roads, and soon--soon-- No! She could not tolerate the idea; it was
preposterous, unthinkable! She must make Rex talk again, anything to
keep her brain from the picture it insisted on bringing before her. It
was difficult to switch off her mental energy into another direction,
yet these new thoughts and the astounding fact that Rex should expound
them made them seem peculiarly interesting.

“Yes,” she admitted, half absently, “but we have got away from the main
issue. I don’t see that that has anything to do with it. If there is an
after-state, we shall arrive at it whether we are religious or not.”

“Certainly. All the same, religion has a great deal to do with it, for
it makes people sow wheat and not tares; it is very insistent on that
point. Now don’t you see the connection? The coming life must spring
from the seed of this one, and, as a plant cannot one season be a
nettle and the next a rose, it follows that if we are nettles here we
must be nettles There and be _treated_ as obnoxious weeds.”

The girl rose hastily. _Nettle--nettle!_ The horrid little word pressed
itself into the tissues of her brain.

A couple of days ago she had wondered why she had so little power over
other people; why her words carried no weight; why she was ineffectual,
influenced nobody; why no one had come very intimately into her life;
why every one kept her at arm’s-length, and now she suddenly saw
the reason--she was a nettle, a horrible nettle which stung anybody
who touched it. She had nearly stung her sister to death; she wished
to sting Isma into her grave; her words had been full of spite and
venom, her actions obnoxiously selfish! She saw herself as a loathsome
nettle stinging all who touched her life. And if there really was a
state Beyond, what would happen to her? Would she still go on stinging
so poisonously, so venomously, that she would be forever unloved and
abhorred? What a terrible destiny!

“Some people think Death transforms us into angels,” Rita flung at the
secretary, after a pause. “That is a much nicer theory than yours.”

Rex smiled ironically. “Yes, and almost as reasonable as the Santa
Claus illusion.”

“And why shouldn’t it be true?” demanded Rita, defiantly.

“The Santa Claus myth?”

“No, no, you stupid man, not that--”

“Oh, I see; you mean the angel theory?”

“Of course.”

Rex sighed patiently. “Now do use your brains! How could Death
transform one into an angel? Can the canker-worm develop the bud it
attacks into a flower? Death has no power except to decay. It is like a
moth getting into a garment; it doesn’t beautify--it destroys.”

“In that case it kills outright.”

“Yes, the garment, but not the wearer.”

Rita walked toward the window. However, the sight of the hot sunshine
glistening on trees and flowers made her turn away hastily, for in this
blinding radiance two people were driving--

“I hate all this sunlight!” she said, her cheeks all at once paling.
“This is a horrid country; everything is ablaze; it is a land on fire
that glitters and burns. I loathe it!” she cried, turning on the
secretary with sudden vehemence.

“My dear girl, I assure you I had no hand in inventing or making
Australia.”

“But you like it,” she protested, wrathfully.

“This certainly is a flame-land. It is vivid like fire. Its breath is
like the breath of a furnace; even the wide spaces above are scorched
by the heat from its great body; its voice is the roaring voice of
flames! It is a land that sets people on fire, and, Miss Rita, if I
stay here much longer”--Rex looked up at her with eyes that glowed with
a sudden, mysterious light--“I shall be in flames myself.”

Australia was an extraordinary country. It had changed her whole
world, made all familiar things crumble into dust and strange new ones
take their place. Captain Folkestone had gone out of her life--she
writhed again. Neville had become religious! Beatrice was dying! Rex
talked like a bishop and said he was catching fire! And Australia was
responsible for this horrible conglomeration of upheavals! Why had she
come to this place of wild, abnormal things to be whirled like an atom
into fathomless immensities, to be thrown into its flaming purgatory?
Ah, why?

The girl stood still, regarding Rex for some moments in curious
silence, then she turned and walked slowly out of the room.




XIV

BLOODWOOD


When tea was over that afternoon Lady Berriedale went to see her
husband and sit with him for a while.

She had a nasty paroxysm of coughing as she sat down beside the bed.
When the coughing had subsided she made a few preliminary remarks
before saying, a little nervously:

“Neville, I have been so--sorry for you all day--”

Lord Berriedale made a restless movement as if he wished to check her,
but she would not be interrupted. “Dear,” she continued, making a
further effort, “I am going to say what I want, so just listen to me. I
should like you to know that I had planned--everything so differently.
I wanted you to have had what you--desired, after I had--gone. But
now--” She hesitated.

The man’s left hand closed over his wife’s trembling one. “Beatrice,
you have been far too generous,” he said, in a voice which shook
slightly. “I have not deserved such--kindness.” Then he drew his hand
away and moved it shadingly across his eyes as if to hide something he
did not wish her to see.

Lady Berriedale turned her head away and her brimming glances searched
the room for something to distract her attention and help her to
composure. After a time her eyes lighted on some loose papers lying on
a small table in front of her. Mechanically she picked up the sheets
and saw that they held some verses written in a hand she did not
recognize. Half absently she began to read “Crucified.”

Her attention became suddenly fixed, the hectic flush in her cheeks
deepened, and she sat so still that her husband looked up, wondering
what kept her so motionless.

A deep stain crept into his pallid face as he discovered what she was
reading. “Beatrice, don’t; please don’t,” he said, in agitated tones.
“It will only hurt you.”

She dropped the paper and met his disturbed gaze with eyes that held
an unearthly calm, then she said: “Nothing can hurt me more than I
am already hurt. I have lost--all; or, rather, found--I had nothing
to--lose.”

She picked up the paper again and finished the verses, while the color
in her husband’s cheeks faded to an ashen pallor.

For some time she sat with the thin sheets before her, staring fixedly
at the words as if they had cast a hypnotic spell over her.

The stillness in the room was like the silence that follows the verdict
of doom; it held an awful fatality, a sense of irrevocable destiny.

“Neville,” she said, at length, breaking the dreadful pause, “your life
has been--like that?”

He made no answer, and his eyes evaded hers.

“Neville, why didn’t you--let me--know sooner and I would have--set you
free?”

If she had spoken such words before, he would have assured her he did
not want release; but now empty avowals were useless and the moment too
solemn for prevarication. To have uttered an untruth just then would
have been like uttering it before Eternity itself. Their naked souls
stood face to face with each other at last; all veiling garments of
falsehood and insincerity had fallen away.

“You could not,” he replied, after a short silence, forced to
undeviating sincerity.

“Yes, I could. I would have--gone away, and after a time you could have
had a--divorce on grounds of desertion.”

“That would have been--useless.”

“You mean she would not have--married a divorced man?”

“Yes, she wouldn’t have done that even if she had--cared: But,” he
went on, in a different tone, “do not regret anything. It could not
be--helped. Nothing could have altered it. Marriage binds till--death.”

Lady Berriedale sat looking vacantly before her as if her inner eyes
were gazing into some terrible reality she must accustom herself to
face. After a pause she repeated, absently:

  “Hand to hand,
   Foot to foot,
   Man to woman,
   Soul to soul.”

The man on the bed shuddered. “Don’t, Beatrice, don’t,” he pleaded,
closing his eyes.

For some time neither of them spoke and in the silence the wide, black
chasm of despair stretched out before them in paralyzing desolation.

“The cross holds till--death,” she said at last, staring fixedly at the
fatal verses; then after what seemed another interminable pause she
rose and walked slowly out of the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was midnight. Through Lord Berriedale’s wide-open windows gleamed
the summer-night sky with its myriad host of tranquil stars.

The door opened gently, and a white-clad form moved softly toward the
bed.

“Are you asleep, Neville?” whispered his wife, coming close to him.

The figure among the pillows shrank away a little, but the merciful
darkness hid the sudden movement, also the hostile expression in the
sleepless eyes.

“No,” he replied, in schooled tones, “I am not.”

Lady Berriedale hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the silken
bedspread, while her husband lay gazing at the white blur beside him,
not choosing to assist her in overcoming her evident embarrassment.

“Neville, I want to--talk to you,” she said, with apparent effort.

“Couldn’t you talk to me--in the daytime? If you become--excited now,
you know you will not be able to--sleep at all,” he said, with a
distinctly uncompromising note in his voice.

“I shall not be able to--sleep, anyhow, and--it will help me to--talk
to you. I have been thinking of those--verses and--everything,” she
went on, more hurriedly. “How could I help it! It all seemed so
hopeless, such an irremediable tragedy! Life, generally, appeared a
fearful chaos, a cruel muddle, and I was almost distracted as I thought
about it. Then all at once some talks with Isma came back to me. We
were speaking about life and came to the conclusion it was only a
prison-existence; that this planet was merely a prison-house for the
criminals of the universe--the worst criminals, for every one sent
here is executed. It seems to me this thought alone can explain all
the suffering, misery, and heartache abounding on this earth. But,
Neville, fancy entering the next world as criminals! Isn’t it awful!
What chances of happiness could we have under such circumstances! And
perhaps Death is not even the execution; it may merely be a door,
a horrible door, that leads to--a worse doom. Neville, when I am
so--near, when I shall enter it so--soon, can’t you understand that I
should be terribly anxious?” She spoke rapidly, excitedly now.

Her husband clasped her hand in quick sympathy. “Of course, Beatrice,
of course I can.”

After a slight hesitation she went on more calmly, a gentle hush
coming into her tones. “But, Neville, I have been praying lately, not
just offering formal petitions to some far-away, unheeding Being, but
talking to a real Person--what Isma calls laying a detaining hand on
God and speaking to Him. I have asked Him about--everything and to help
me when all alone I shall enter the Great Beyond. I have been horribly
afraid of it, Neville; but”--in the starlit gloom he saw the sudden
light that came into her large, shadowy eyes--“I am not afraid any
more, for all at once I remembered something I have not thought of for
years, and it has taken away all my fears. It is this.” She lowered her
voice before saying: “Neville, God so loved us that He sent His only
Son down to this desolate prison-house to die for us poor criminals.
Think of it--die for us! He was put on the scaffold of the cross
for our sakes, and now--we can enter eternity, not as malefactors,
but--free! Oh, Neville, you can’t imagine what this means to me!

“I unearthed my Bible to read about it, and do you know the first place
my eyes lighted on as I opened the hook was the passage about the
dying thief, and as I read it seemed to me he really represents the
whole of suffering humanity--dying on the cross of sorrow and pain--yet
unable to open the gates of--Paradise. It was only when the thief asked
the Spotless One at his side to remember him when He came into His
kingdom that he received the immediate promise of--Eden. And Neville,
isn’t it wonderful! We can all ask Him--everybody can--to remember us;
and He is not far away; He is beside us, and the moment we really ask
we receive the promise that we shall be with Him in Paradise! Isn’t it
beautiful!”

The soft darkness veiled the trembling form among the pillows and the
moisture glistening in the black eyes.

There were some moments’ silence; then Lord Berriedale raised his
wife’s emaciated hand to his lips and kissed it reverently before
saying, brokenly, “And, Beatrice, it is only when we are on the cross
ourselves that we learn to think of--the Crucified One and ask Him
to--remember us.”

In the dimness he saw her face transfigured as she said, softly, “The
cross is the trysting-place between heaven and earth; the cross is the
ladder to--Paradise.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Outside in the still, warm night a shuddering sigh went through the
dreaming flowers in the garden and the stars gleamed as if they were
smiling down on the earth through tears.




PART III


REMEMBERED!


The nurse came down-stairs as Captain and Mrs. Folkestone entered The
Bluff.

Isma scanned the older woman’s face anxiously as she said, “We are not
too--”

“No, you are not too late,” the woman in the pink uniform hastened
to assure her, “but I am afraid there is not much time left. Lady
Berriedale is sinking fast. I saw your car coming, so hurried down to
let you know how she is.”

“Can I go to her at once?” asked Mrs. Folkestone, her large eyes
glistening with troubled eagerness.

“Well, she is hardly conscious just now; she lies for hours in a
semi-conscious state. His lordship is with her. He has been in her room
all the morning. He hardly ever leaves her, day or night. He is a most
devoted husband. I will tell him you are here. Will you come into the
library for a little while, and when Lady Berriedale is fully awake I
will let you know.” As she spoke she opened the library door, and after
they had entered she closed it gently behind them.

Isma looked round the familiar room and her face showed that it did
not bring back happy memories.

She took off her hat and long dust-coat; then she sighed deeply and
went over to the window.

Her husband followed her. “Isma, I am so awfully sorry you should
have--this--just now,” he said, coming up and standing close behind
her. “I wanted our”--his voice lowered--“honeymoon to have been all
joy.” His hand caught one of hers and held it closely.

“I am more grieved for you,” she replied, without moving.

Her husband bent lower, looking over her shoulder at her beautiful
profile. Then he drew her slightly backward till she rested against him.

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh, Falcon, it is lovely to have you
with me!” she murmured under her breath.

The pressure on her hand increased. His touch was warm, close,
intimate. It not only held intensest sympathy, it held more; it
reminded her of all their happiness, what they had been to each
other during the last few weeks, their riotous joy, the wonderful
satisfaction their new relationship had brought them, the blinding
rapture they had tasted in each other’s arms. She felt that Falcon
meant his touch to recall this to her mind so that it might strengthen
her for the heartrending scene which awaited her.

“Falcon,” she said, turning to him, after a pause, “it must be
terrible for Beatrice to--go.” She shivered slightly.

“Yes, little girl,” he replied, with serious tenderness, “but remember
she is going out to your beautiful God of the wonderful spaces--don’t
forget that.”

She looked up at him with eyes which held a dewy radiance. “Of course!
What a dear you are to remind me!”

He smiled down on her. “You impressed it so strongly on my mind, now I
can’t forget it, you see.”

There were footsteps in the hall.

Isma and Falcon drew gently apart.

The door opened slowly and Lord Berriedale, looking pale and worn, his
arm still in a sling, entered quietly.

When the brief greetings were over he said: “Beatrice is conscious
now and wants to see you. I am deeply grieved to have called you back
so soon; but she was always asking for you. In fact,” he went on,
addressing Isma, “your name has been constantly on her lips since you
have been away, and when the doctor said last night that--the end was
so near I--wired.”

“We are so glad you did,” said Captain Folkestone, and there was a
strong undercurrent of sympathy in his even tones.

“I wish you had let us know sooner that Beatrice wanted me,” murmured
Isma, regretfully.

“She wouldn’t allow me to disturb you until it was absolutely
necessary. But you had better come at once--she wants you both,” and
silently he led them up-stairs.

As they entered the sick-room Isma glanced anxiously toward the
luxurious bed with its fine, embroidered linen and rich silk hangings.

The patient lay waxlike and shrunken, her eyes looking enormous in the
wasted face and staring with glassy fixity into space.

In a moment Mrs. Folkestone was beside the bed, stooping over the
shriveled form and kissing the sunken cheeks.

Slowly recognition dawned into the lusterless eyes and a feeble smile
hovered over the purple lips. But she did not speak for some minutes.

The silence in the room was heavy with an awful pall.

At last the patient’s lips moved.

The girl bent over her quickly and caught the words, “Isma--I
am--going.” After each word there came a slight rattling sound.

Her friend dropped on her knees and took the emaciated form in her
strong young arms. “Beatrice,” she whispered, a little unsteadily, “you
don’t--mind?”

“No--not now.” Her voice had grown stronger, and she added, “Isma--you
remember the letter I wrote you--telling you about--the dying thief--on
the cross?” The dusky eyes were turned full on the fair, girlish face.

“Yes, dearest, of course.”

“And you will not forget--what I asked?”

“No--never.”

The dying woman’s glance strayed to her husband, who was standing
at the other side of the bed, as if to include him in what she
said. “I want you both to promise me that--you will tell everybody
about--Paradise. Tell them to read about it in the--Book. Tell them to
ask Him to--remember them--” She stopped and gasped for breath.

“Yes--yes, we will,” Isma assured her, quickly.

The dark eyes looked up with terrible intensity.

“Tell them it is awful to--to pass into--eternity unless He
will--remember us.”

She looked at them imploringly till they had both made the promise;
then her eyes closed wearily and she lay very still.

By one of the farthest windows stood Rita, looking out on the hot,
glittering sea. There was a sullen despair in her coal-black eyes. She
was left out again; no one took any notice of her; but then she was
the nettle, and no one wanted a stinging nettle; it was left severely
alone. An expression of morose hopelessness settled on her face.

Lady Berriedale turned to Captain Folkestone and her glance summoned
him to her. When he was beside her she looked up at him with mute
appeal; then her eyes dropped to the flaxen head pressed closely
against her breast.

The soldier understood at once. “Yes, I will take care of her,” he
said, as one making a solemn vow.

After a pause Beatrice looked up at her husband with a deep wistfulness
in her glassy eyes and her lips moved as if she were trying to speak.

Isma rose and Lord Berriedale stooped over his wife, his face close
to hers. At last she was able to formulate the words. “Neville--don’t
grieve.” One of her thin hands sought his. “Wherever I go, I shall
always--love you, and”--her lips twisted into a smile--“our--romance
will come right--some day.”

A sob shook the man bending over her. “Beatrice--if only you could stay
with me and it could come right--here!” and he kissed her as he had not
kissed her for years.

For an instant a beautiful smile lighted up her face and her eyes
looked happily into his. Then the smile faded and a peculiar, far-away
expression took its place. It seemed as if her attention was being
gradually withdrawn from her surroundings and gently fixed on something
else. At the same time her face grew more waxy and the pinched look
about her features increased.

Then under her rattling breath they heard her murmur the words:

“Lord, remember--me--now Thou art in--Thy kingdom--”

For a time there was no sound in the room but the tense breathing of
people holding back tears.

Suddenly a marvelous change came over the dying woman. The lines,
the sallowness, the pinchedness vanished from her face and in their
place came a strange look of youth--not the youth of flesh and blood
that fades and withers, but a spiritual youthfulness that suggested an
eternal preservation. And with it came an abnormal strength; it seemed
as if all weakness had dropped from her like a worn garment flung
aside. She sat up in bed, her arms outstretched, her face illumined
with a white, unearthly radiance. She did not appear to see the little
group about her. She gazed beyond them, gazed with passionate intensity
at something no one else could see.

“Paradise--Paradise!” she cried, her voice ringing through the room
with triumphant clearness. “It is there--there!” Her eyes widened,
dilated with rapturous awe, and once more her voice sounded through the
breathless chamber.

“The portals are opening--opening! And--He _has_--remembered--me--”

The next instant the frail form fell back among the pillows--dead.

To the tear-blinded eyes watching it did not seem as if life had
ebbed away; it rather appeared as if a new strength had vitalized the
departed, giving her power to burst the casket which held her to earth
and, leaving death in her wake, she had soared in sublime ecstasy
through the portals that opened into--Paradise.


THE END




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.



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