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.