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:

“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: passionless 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:

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

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.