PART I (continued 3)

“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.