PART II (continued 2)

So Falcon had heard those awful remarks, after all! A wave of heat surged through her. She did not speak, but her eyes fell before his disconcerting gaze.

“I was wondering just now what you would have done if Lady Berriedale had asked me to—” He stopped a moment before adding, “For of course I should have had to do it—just to save the situation, you know.”

Isma turned her face away hastily. Still, he saw the deep flush creeping over her white throat and dyeing her perfectly shaped ear a vivid pink.

“I can’t make out what made you say I did not like that sort of thing. I never remember telling you that I did not.”

“No—but of course you wouldn’t,” she stammered, confusedly.

“I wouldn’t be quite so sure about that if I were you. By the way, I hope you have taken your friend’s advice to heart and that you will act on it.”

The girl made no reply; her face was still averted, but the color in her adorable ear had grown pinker.

Captain Folkestone sat up now. “Isma,” he said, in low tones, “you are wearing my ring. Don’t you think you might give me a few of the privileges such a ring generally bestows?”

She started, and the soft, rich curves of her breast rose and sank in fluttering confusion.

The light in his eyes deepened. He looked very alert, every muscle tense, ready to move at the least sign from her.

“Isma, tell me, would it really be so hateful to you if I—kissed you?”

In spite of her overwhelming shyness, she glanced up at him. It seemed as if he compelled her. But her eyes dropped instantly before his and she felt herself tremble as if he were already touching her lips. A dreadful weakness came over her. Falcon’s lips against her own, his arm round her folding her to him—

She turned giddy. It seemed impossible not to yield. She was almost swaying toward him, making the one movement, however slight, he was waiting for, watching for.

Then an awful thought arrested her. He had not spoken of love: he was merely asking for her kisses. Did he only ask because it was summer and the world was astir with passionate abandonment, because she was beautiful and her beauty appealed to him? Even in the days when he hated her her beauty had strangely affected him. Now when he no longer disliked her did he feel it would give him pleasure to caress her and enjoy her physical charm? After all he had done for her, did he consider she might grant him this intimacy? Were these his only reasons for wanting her kisses? Surely, for if he had cared would he not have told her that first?

She straightened involuntarily.

The man watching her with alert scrutiny paled as he saw the movement.

Or perhaps Falcon was testing her, the girl continued to reason. Perhaps he only wanted to see if she held her caresses cheap and was ready to give them to any fascinating man audacious enough to ask for them. Was he trying to see if she were temptable?

If this were so, good Heavens, what cruelty! How could any man be so merciless! But of course he could not know how desperately she cared; could not know that her whole being was quivering to give him what he desired.

She pulled frantically at some grass blades and broke them into small pieces. Then she made a colossal effort to speak calmly:

“You have no right to ask—under the circumstances—”

“Under the circumstances I have. We are engaged.”

“You know quite well that does not mean anything. It is only—”

There was a short, sharp pause.

The face of the man had undergone a great change. All at once he jumped up, took a few steps, bent down and examined a shell, straightened again, and walked still farther away.

Isma watched him with strange, wide eyes; her face, too, had become colorless.

Was he angry with her? No, he did not seem annoyed. He walked about as if leisurely contemplating the bunches of coral seaweed and the various flotsam on the beach.

The girl gazed after his tall, splendid form hungrily. Why had he left her—oh, why? Was he displeased in spite of his apparent nonchalance? Had he expected her to yield, to understand that he was a man and that he wanted what other men coveted? Somehow she had never thought of this before. Falcon had always seemed to her a being apart—made of different material from the other men she had known, a man who lived up to a punctilious standard of conduct; but did he, after all, yearn for the warm, soft things women could give? Of course if only he had cared, how gladly she would have given what he asked!

After a while he came back and suggested it was time to start for home.

As they got into the motor he said, “On the whole the advice Lady Berriedale gave you was excellent, and if you were wise you would take it.” With that he closed the subject and did not refer to it again.

On the way home Falcon talked in his brightest, most entertaining way. But he sat well away from her, and their shoulders did not touch as they had frequently done during the morning.

That was the worst of her cousin, he was such an adept at covering his tracks. If he retreated, no one knew if it were a retreat or if the move had not been part of his original plan.

As Isma listened to his easy conversation she felt confused and puzzled. Was this really the man who had asked for her kisses, whose eyes had looked so irresistibly into her own, who now talked in this nonchalant way as if nothing unusual had happened? But his eloquence saddened her, his amusing stories hurt her.

She looked at the many sand-dunes bordering the seaward side of the road with pensive eyes. She remembered that in the morning as they passed them they had seemed glimmering mountain-tops aglow with an exultant peace; now they appeared to her mere grotesque shapes, gloating monsters watching by the shore for prey.

The whole world had changed. The great white radiance round them held no breathless ecstasy now; it was only a huge, opaque void holding nothing but smarting disappointment.

Falcon had said earlier in the day that spring was the promise and summer the fulfilment—where was the fulfilment? The bird of paradise had not brought them to Eden. There was no Paradise; summer only led to—drought.

All at once the haze warmed and reddened as if some huge fire burned behind its gauzy entanglements. In the bush the white sheen had deepened to lavender and purple and hung with caressing softness between majestic trees and matted undergrowth. Opaline sun glints dipped into the reed-edged pools and motionless lagoons.

Then a faint breath of air came in from the sea. It blew very gently against the filmy, iridescent haze, which shivered perceptibly, then slowly drifted toward the heavily timbered hills.

Isma watched its hesitating, retreating footsteps. She saw the trees and shrubs creep out from the violet sheen in the forest and stand out with definite clearness. The red disk of the sun became visible in the smoky heavens and hung as a huge round furnace dropping slowly toward the western hills.

The breeze from the ocean gained strength; it grew cooler and stilled the throbbing fever in the sweltering atmosphere.

The cliffs near Isma’s home were in sight now and stood out, bulky, plum-colored shapes against the pale lavender-tinted distance.

As the car approached the last plain the girl could see the breeze moving among the trees and bushes. It appeared to her as if it were some distraught, demented thing let loose on the flats, seeking frantically for a lost treasure in the wild chaos of shrubbery.

The waves on the beach had grown noisy and hoarse and sounded as if moaning in sudden pain.

Isma became silent.

Did her companion notice her short replies or their entire absence? If so, he did not betray his observation by look or word.

They had crossed the plain and were ascending the last cliff. Would Falcon stop the motor where he had stopped it the other day? Surely he would give her another chance before they parted! If only he would, how gladly she would yield to him now!

But no, he rushed on without even glancing at the spot where they had stood together and watched the scenery and she had hummed to him “The Little Winding Road.”

Isma’s heart contracted in a suffocating anguish and her eyes filled with blinding tears. She turned her face away quickly, still not till her companion had seen something moist drop from her lashes to her cheeks. He paled and bit his lip, but a moment afterward he continued the conversation.

As they came in sight of her gates a terrible desperation seized her. It made her almost cry out for mercy, implore him to take what she so frantically yearned to give—for, after all, even if he had not spoken of love, were not her lips his? Had they not been kept for him all these years! Of course he had a right to them. How foolish she had been not to have realized this before!

However, he evidently did not want her kisses now. But was he so capricious that he ceased to wish for a thing if he could not have it the moment he asked for it? No, that was impossible; he must have merely been testing her. Still, why had his smiling eyes gazed so irresistibly into her own? Why had he said earlier in the day he wished them both to live summer, that they were on the road to Paradise?

The car stopped.

Her cousin helped her to alight. She thanked him for the beautiful drive, and then, as in some ghastly trance, she found herself walking away from him. But even as she went some awful power tugged at her and almost compelled her to return to him. She walked with difficulty; the violent force dragging at her made it almost impossible to proceed.

Then she heard the hum of the motor—he had gone! She stood still, feeling suddenly faint with longing and disappointment.

She had refused his request; but, merciful God, how he had punished her—how he had revenged himself!

As the man drove up the steep ascent he caught a glimpse of Isma among the palms, standing perfectly still, her head thrown back and her hands tightly clasped.

He gripped the steering-wheel ferociously and looked for a place to turn the car. However, what would be the use of going back? Hadn’t she already refused his love that day? Of course she knew that he cared, yet she chose to put this terrible strain on him. He gave up the idea of returning and proceeded up the headland, his face ashen and grim.

But on the other side of the cliff he stopped the machine and, suddenly covering his face with his hands, groaned aloud.

“Great God! Isma,” he muttered under his breath, “why are you torturing me like this—making us both suffer! You do care, I know it now—but why in Heaven’s name do you pretend you don’t! Is it your pride standing in the way, your shyness, or—what—? Isma, if you go on like this you will drive me to distraction—”

He sat for a long time bowed and unmovable; then at last, with another ejaculation, he set the motor throbbing down the headland.

VII THE STARING CLIFF

ISMA passed a wakeful, restless night.

When she came down to breakfast, rather late the next morning, she found a note from Falcon saying there had been serious trouble on one of his northern stations; that he would have to go and settle the difficulty himself, and would therefore be unable to see her that day. He also said that he had rung up and inquired after Lady Berriedale and explained that he and his cousin would be unable to see her till the following morning. In conclusion he begged her on no account to go to The Bluff in his absence. The note was very brief; he had evidently written it in a hurry before starting on his long journey, and sent it over by a special messenger.

The girl strolled out under the palms and read the letter again.

So she would not see Falcon for a whole day! The news brought a sickening dullness to her heart. How colorless the day stretched out before her! It seemed as if all light and warmth had gone out of it—it would only be to her now a succession of weary hours of clamoring emptiness. She looked into the sunlit atmosphere, which seemed to have paled. The world around her had all at once faded, its brightness departed; the big, fan-shaped palm leaves had grown uninteresting and dull; even the profusion of roses in the garden looked colorless and without beauty.

And Falcon’s absence had caused this terrible change in everything!

She rose suddenly, as if she would have fled from something which filled her with panic. But she sat down again. What was the use of running away? She could not escape. Months ago it had been possible to take flight. It had been awful to cut herself away from Falcon, but it had been possible—now it could no longer be done. The color ebbed away from her cheeks as she realized this. If her life depended on it she could not go away, could not leave him now. If even one day without the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, a look into his dear eyes, was a hideous blank, what would a lifetime away from him be like!

She shivered.

She could not live without him; he had become an absolute necessity. He was to her what the sun was to the world, the giver of light, warmth, and life itself. Falcon had become her life; she was utterly dependent upon him for everything which made existence tolerable.

She looked down on the diamonds glittering on the third finger of her left hand. She was wearing his ring. At present she and her cousin met constantly; they drove together to and from The Bluff, saw each other daily—the engagement which had caused her so much pain had at least brought her that; but this state of things could not go on forever. Some day soon she would have to return his ring. After that, of course, they would not meet. People who had been engaged and broken it off could not go on seeing each other; that was impossible. And even if in the distant future they might resume the intercourse afforded by their relationship, what comfort could such a cold, lifeless thing bring her?

She sat, pale and wide-eyed, looking unseeingly at the radiant world about her.

She thought again of the previous day—how beautiful it had been and how terrible! Every detail came back to her—her fancies, the deep exaltation she had felt as she and the man she loved sped into the quivering white heart of summer! Her own heart had been aflame with a heat as intense and white as the blazing force throbbing in the illumined spaces, and even when the thought came to her that it might bring anguish which blistered and blighted, her elation had not diminished. She had felt strong and able to bear, if need be, a sorrow which could crush a world. But Falcon had been with her then, and that had made all the difference!

She remembered, too, when they passed the sun-scorched plains she had remarked that it seemed a grand thing to be bleached into that spiritual whiteness, and her cousin had said, with a little sigh, that she could not know how such a scorching hurt. All at once it struck her, though it had not occurred to her at the time, that Falcon had spoken as if he knew, knew only too well what an experience of that kind meant. So Falcon had cared—cared like that!

She sat up quickly.

Of course she was quite aware he could not have reached his mature manhood without love having come into his life. She was used to seeing him extremely nice to women, and she had guessed that some one must at some time or other have touched his heart; but that he should have felt any emotion strong enough to make him connect it with powers that bleached and scorched had not suggested itself to her, and the thought made her suddenly feel cold.

Who could the woman be he had loved like that? Her mind ran quickly over his women friends in London; but she could not recall any one he had specially singled out. However, Falcon was so reserved and sensitive he would not show his feelings to others. In any case, the affair must have ended in disappointment, as he had not married. She had often wondered why he had remained single; this must be the reason. Poor Falcon, so he, too, had undergone this awful scorching, and was evidently suffering still, or why had he sighed? Yet, why had he spoken to her yesterday about Paradise and summer in the way he did? Why had he asked for her kisses? Why the burning kiss on her fingers weeks ago? Why so many other things?

She was deeply perplexed.

Perhaps he was trying to fill the aching void, trying to see if she could not bring him comfort and teach him to forget! There could be no other explanation of his conduct.

Isma drew a gasping breath. The pain within almost strangled her.

She got up and began to walk about among the palms; it was impossible to keep still.

And he was her summer, her light, warmth, her life—everything! She could not do without him, she could not! She clasped her hands together in anguish. What was she to do?

Her wonderful eyes looked suddenly blank with agony. Falcon loving another woman—like that! She felt giddy and faint.

She sank down on the seat in a heap, her face deathly white, her nostrils quivering. A half-stifled moan escaped her trembling lips. She could not bear this blinding pain—

She looked up as one dazed and stunned.

She was like the plains they had passed yesterday, helpless and powerless, lying passive and defenseless while the Flame God scorched her by his cauterizing power.

She groaned aloud and closed her eyes.

“Love bleached—love bleached,” she murmured under her breath in suffocating tones.

She had admired the spiritual whiteness of the flats yesterday. Green fields had seemed earthly and material in comparison with them. Falcon was right: the bleaching hurt, it was death-agony to have the green changed to white!

Then she suddenly thought of Beatrice. That frail little woman had suffered—this; had even said she was glad the grief had come, for it had been the explosion to propel her spirit upward; that before it came her soul had lain on a dust-heap, but the dynamite of sorrow had shot her out of the dust.

All at once Isma realized that her soul had also lain in the dust. It had reared its head once or twice and looked up wonderingly, but had soon lain down again and forgotten. However, was this splintering agony the explosion which would send her soul on its upward flight?

That night Isma went up to her favorite cliff.

She stood for some time gazing out to sea over the great expanse of soft, lilac-colored water, toward the misty, opal-tinted horizon. Ocean and sky seemed peculiarly blended into one. It looked as if the sky had descended and that the ocean was slowly rising out of itself, spiritualized into the unexplored dome of heaven.

The girl watched absently. Then she turned a little and glanced up the coast-line and caught sight of the distant bluff with its tinted face and its half-blind eyes gazing out to sea. She remembered watching it some months ago. Had it been lying staring into space ever since? Why was it so preoccupied? Other headlands stood complacently absorbed in themselves. But this far-away block of stone had turned its back entirely on earth and gazed beyond the coast-line and the heaving waves into the unfathomable spaces above.

Isma looked toward it with deeper interest. Had that silent, rocky monster found what it was seeking, what it had stared itself half blind to find, or was it still pursuing its quest with undaunted persistence? How bare, how uncompromising it looked! It seemed as if it had worn off every blade of grass, every vestige of foliage, in its relentless search.

Its crude barrenness suddenly fascinated her. She saw in it a resemblance to her own life. Had she not been stripped of everything that was dear to her, everything that could make her life glad and beautiful? She had possessed so much, but gradually everything had been torn from her till, naked and bare, her soul stood alone in a vast desolation.

Would her spirit, too, learn to turn its back on earth and stand ever gazing into the spaces beyond the boundary-line of time? What would she find in these mighty spaces?

What was the distant headland seeking? Or had it already obtained satisfaction? And was that the reason it could be so silent and unstirring, so oblivious to its own cruel nakedness, its austere isolation?

Would such a satisfaction come to her if she gazed long enough in the same direction? Was life only one incessant fumbling for something beyond the border-land of earth and sky? What was this elusive something which needed this terrible, concentrated seeking, this cruel stripping of earth glamours, before it could be found? It must be something colossal, something overwhelmingly satisfying, if it were worth the cruel rigors by which alone it could be obtained.

Then suddenly she knew that the great, majestic something hiding in the lofty spaces, who required this all-concentrating seeking, was the Infinite Himself.

She had not thought much about Him before; she had taken Him for granted, as she had taken great abstract things for granted. But now He became a person, a living reality. Her spirit had all at once pressed upward, seen Him, found Him!

She knew now that, all unconsciously to herself, she had been groping for Him all her life, that all souls fumble for Him even though they may not be aware of it; but that very few press up to Him until they had been bleached white by sorrow.

Now she knew He permeated all. His majesty hung like a trailing robe illumining the throbbing atmosphere. He was everywhere. He was everything. How dense she had been not to comprehend Him before!

As she looked into the shimmering spaces it seemed all at once as if her soul had become a filmy fragment of the luminous beauty above her and that it rose timidly, but eagerly, and touched the royal, majestic garments of the Infinite. And somehow she was aware that He felt her pressure and that for the rest of her life there would be some wonderful bond between them! He would never forget the touch, and she could not; it had been like touching the mainspring of life, coming in contact with the Power Station of the universe, the gigantic Power House that set all the machinery of stars, moons, suns, and comets in motion and kept them ever supplied with the forces they needed for their brain-reeling circuits. She had touched That, and it was not a that; it was a Person, a living, vital, magnetic Being, approachable, sensitive to touch, waiting for appeal, and eager to be sought!

She stood transfixed with wonder and amazement; so this was—God!

Why did not everybody talk about Him, rave about Him? Why had no one ever told her about Him!

And it was possible to lay a detaining hand on this great, wonderful Being and speak to Him. Yes, prayer was laying a detaining hand on God and speaking to Him—she—knew it now!

She lingered for some time on the cliff, then at last very reluctantly she turned to go.

VIII THE DAWN

ISMA began to descend the headland; in her heart burned a great exaltation and in her eyes shone an infinite peace. A solemn, majestic twilight crept up from the plain below, wrapping its dusky mantle about the far-away hills and the imposing cliffs.

It was getting late; she began to hurry down to the road which climbed from the flats over the lower shoulder of the headland.

As she was half-way down the steep slope she saw a tall figure coming up toward her.

Could Falcon have returned earlier than he expected? He did not think he could reach home till midnight or the next morning. Her heart gave a joyous bound. But no, this was not her cousin’s strong, broad-shouldered figure.

All at once she stood still, for she had recognized the man—it was Lord Berriedale.

For a moment a horrible fear seized her. The thought of the utter loneliness of the place, Falcon miles and miles away, not a house in sight, her home too far away for protection, no one able to hear her call, made her waver in alarm. But she shook her fears from her. Why should she be afraid? Were not the spaces above her filled with the Infinite to Himself, the God she had just discovered? Nothing could harm her in His presence. Her lofty peace returned.

The man had climbed rapidly and reached her now.

“Good evening, Isma,” he said, a little out of breath, and the girl noticed he looked strangely excited. “Isma,” he continued, with curious agitation, “I have come to—take you—away.”

She glanced at him quickly. “Is Beatrice worse?” she inquired, anxiously.

“No, she is not worse. But we are not going to The—Bluff—”

“Whatever do you mean?” the girl asked, perplexedly.

“Why, just this, that I can’t stand things as they are any longer and that I am going to—take you away.”

“Take me away?” she repeated, in uncomprehending astonishment.

“Yes, away from everything and everybody and have you all to myself,” he said, with feverish doggedness.

“But you surely can’t be in earnest—”

“Of course I am. I have never been so much in earnest about anything.”

“But—but—” she still spoke with vague bewilderment.

“There are to be no more ‘buts’; the car is here, our suit-cases in it. I have ordered rooms—”

“Our suit-cases—mine?” Her eyes had widened.

“Yes. Everything is arranged. I went to your house first, you know, saw Miss Livingston, who directed me here. I told her Beatrice was much worse and that I am going to take you back with me and asked her to put you up a few things, and she packed your suit-case, and your coat and hat and everything are in the car.”

“Lord Berriedale, have you gone quite mad?” she exclaimed, regarding him in utter amazement.

“Yes, I think I am mad, but it is all with love for you. I only know that I want you and that I am going to have you.”

Isma had turned very pale. She began to realize that the man before her was desperate. Whatever could she do with him?

However, before she could reply, he continued, rapidly: “Isma, if you will only come with me I promise to make you happy! I know you are afraid of a conventional law which binds me at present to—another. But I tell you conventions are nothing; they are only like obstacles in a race made to be leaped over by those who have courage and dash enough to take them! And you need not fear the censure of the world. Society always applauds those who audaciously clear the barriers placed to scare away the feeble from their desired goal.”

“You are quite mistaken, Lord Berriedale. Conventions are not like hurdles in a race; they are protecting fences, keeping people from slipping into horrible ditches.” She spoke evenly and calmly.

“Even pitfalls may be safely crossed. I will see that you do not get hurt. I swear it! We will soon be able to marry and in a few years go home, and then everything will be all right.”

“I absolutely refuse to believe you can be serious, that you really mean to insult me by making such an outrageous proposition!” Isma suddenly seemed to have grown taller.

“Of course I am serious—”

“But even if you have forgotten about Beatrice, your wife and my friend, there is—my cousin.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “Now don’t refer to that sham engagement of yours. Good Lor’! Isma, what do you take me for? Do you think I am taken in by that hoax! Why, any fool can see it is only a fake, one of your cousin’s ingenious devices to shield you from—scandal.”

“You have no right to say that.”

He took a step nearer and looked her full in the face. “You know it is the truth. Now, Isma, can you give me your word of honor that you are really going to marry your cousin? Is your engagement a real one, with kisses and hot embraces?”

There was no sound in the dimness but the flutter of dusky wings and the deep thud of waves crashing against the rocks far below them on the seaward side of the cliff.

“So he has not even kissed you! I knew it!”

“I refuse to answer your impertinent questions.”

“They are not impertinent. I have a right to find out; for if you are not another man’s property, it is all the more reason why you should be mine.”

“Still, I do belong to my cousin, for I—love him.”

The man confronting her laughed again. “Do you really expect me to believe that, when you don’t even allow him to kiss you? No, Isma, women do not treat men they love the way you treat him.”

“All the same, I am speaking the truth. I love him with all my heart.” She made the confession with superb dignity.

“But, Isma, I can teach you to forget him. If you are taken from him, you will in time love me. I can always make women love me, if I try.”

“You could never make me forget him, and I could never love you in any case.”

“Isma, I can make you care. Only give me a chance. Come away with me where I can have you to myself—”

“Please don’t repeat that horrible insult.”

“And do you mean to say you blankly refuse to link your future with mine?”

“It is unnecessary to answer such a question. And now I really must go home.” She made a movement toward the road, but he stepped in front of her and blocked the way.

“You don’t suppose I shall let you go, do you? After all this waiting and these weeks of torment I mean to have what I want now, and if I cannot have it with your consent I must take it without. But, Isma”—he had spoken bruskly; now he added, in a softer tone—“I do not want to hurt you, do not want to use force.”

“Force?” she questioned, incredulously. “Nowadays a man cannot take a woman and run away with her against her will. It can’t be done.”

“I did not mean that. There are other ways of gaining my end.”

What could he mean? Would he embrace and caress her as he had commenced to do on the night of the picnic? Her heart beat with sudden alarm; the thought of his touch was revolting. Still almost instantly she grew calm again. God was there, brooding over the earth. He would protect her.

As there was no reply, her companion said, “Isma, don’t drive me to anything that might be—distasteful to you.”

“I don’t understand you,” she said, confident he was powerless to hurt her.

“Then I will explain. It comes to this. I mean to have you at any cost. If you will not do as I ask, I will keep you here all night, and when to-morrow comes—you will be glad enough to—comply with my terms.”

She drew a hard breath. “Lord Berriedale, is it possible you can be such a fiend as to deliberately set about ruining my reputation? Haven’t you hurt me enough already?”

“I don’t want to do it; that is just what I am trying to make clear to you. But if you refuse my request—can’t you understand there is nothing else for me to do? You see,” he continued, “though that fool engagement of yours does not mean anything, it has annoyed me a good deal. I can’t stand seeing you regarded as another man’s property. You have dangled that confounded cousin of yours before me too long, and now the engagement must come to an end.”

“But—I should not break off my engagement because of—that.”

“No, but he will.”

“No, he will not. He would believe me when I told him the truth,” she cried, in panting anger.

“What truth?” inquired her companion, with a leering smile.

“That—that—”

“My dear Isma, when to-morrow comes you will not want to meet your cousin’s searching eyes.”

She gasped in the darkness. “Have you become a demon as well as a maniac?” she asked, her eyes wide and dark with horror.

“I may be both to-night; still I—love you! And Isma,” he went on, “if you want to know who loves you most you can find out now. After to-night your cousin will never come near you again; he will not touch you or have anything more to do with you—that is the extent of his affection! Now mine is different! I would take you stained, smirched, any way, anyhow, as long as I had you. Your cousin will only take you if he can have flower, bloom, and all. I would receive you even if all the bloom had been rubbed away. Still, of course—I would rather have you as you are—”

While he was speaking she had crushed back her dread. She refused to believe that God could forsake her; her soul had pressed up toward Him, she had touched Him, He would not forget that touch!

“But you cannot have—me at all.” There was no fear in her voice; it was serene and unwavering.

Lord Berriedale looked at her wonderingly. Was her courage unconquerable or did she fail to realize her imminent danger?

“What is to stop me? I am stronger than you.”

“God,” she said, raising her face suddenly. “Don’t you believe in Him?”

“God,” he repeated, taken aback. “I dare say there is such a Being. I wouldn’t refute the theory; but what has He got to do with it?”

“He will take care of me.”

“Do you think He has time to patrol these lonely shores looking after one woman? He is too much occupied with stars, suns, and millions of worlds.”

“He is everywhere,” she said, with quiet solemnity. “He is here filling these great spaces, bending over the world. I have found that out to-night. He is great enough to look after everybody. He has fought even for one woman who needs Him on these lonely shores.”

“Time will tell. However, I did not come here to talk theology; I have arranged a far more interesting program.”

The dusk had deepened; but even in the semi-darkness Isma looked beautiful. The suggestion of white skin, flashes of luminous eyes, the slender lines of her form, the grace of shoulders and hips, were made mystically alluring by the veiling shadows.

“Great Cæsar! you are lovely!” the man cried, a wild gleam in his eyes.

Then he made a movement as if he would have caught her to him, but she recoiled in horror, her face blanched to a deathlike pallor.

Was Lord Berriedale right? Had God no thought for one individual? Was He too much occupied with worlds and stars to notice her pitiless plight!

She heard the gulping of the waves on the other side of the headland. It seemed as if they were trying to attract her attention, hoarsely calling her to them.

If God would not protect her, the sea might; in its cold arms she would be safe. Of course that would mean she could never see Falcon again, yet if the Infinite did not send her help she would not be able to look into her cousin’s clean, questioning gaze in any case. There was no alternative but—the waves.

She turned quickly and rushed up the steep slope that led to the cone-shaped summit.

But her companion guessed her intention. In a moment he was beside her and laid hold of her arm.

“Isma,” he said, in a voice shaking a little, “you shall not do that, you shall not! Isma,” he went on, facing her, “would you really rather be embraced by the cold waves of death than by—me?”

For a moment her confidence had wavered, and in her desperation she would have thrown herself into the sea. Now her trust returned. God could not, would not leave her in the lurch. He must protect her!

The man before her repeated his question.

“A thousand times yes,” she answered, with a courage and dignity he could not comprehend.

“But you have no choice.” He laughed, in an ugly, blood-curdling way. “To-night we shall see who is the stronger, your—God or the demon in me.”

In the dimness his eyes suddenly glittered upon her with ungoverned rage and something even more hideous.

She shuddered and drew back, but he sprang forward and clutched her to him.

She closed her eyes in terror and everything reeled into an agonized blackness. But instantly she pulled herself together. No, she must not faint, must not lose courage; even on the brink of ruin help would be sent her; the man holding her in the strangling embrace would not be allowed to conquer.

She opened her eyes and as she looked over his shoulder her attention was arrested by two points of light rushing madly across the plain. It was a motor, driven at a frenzied speed toward the cliff.

Some human being was near, help was at hand! If only she could reach the road before the car passed the top of the track and turned down the other side of the headland! But how was she to get away from the iron grip which held her?

Another desperate prayer-rocket flashed from her soul.

In the struggle they had moved and Lord Berriedale suddenly stumbled over a large stone. His hold on Isma relaxed for a second. She wrenched herself away. He fell heavily to the ground and she ran frantically toward the road.

The car was mounting the steep ascent now. In a few minutes it would reach the summit of the hill; she rushed on faster. To call would be useless; no voice could be heard from a distance above the loud panting of the machine. She hastened her flying steps. She must not stumble; if she fell— But no, she would not fall on the rough, uneven slope— He who was helping her would see to that!

A few more steps and she had reached the road and stood, a white, ghostlike figure, a few yards in front of the rapidly approaching motor.

There was a quick clapping on of brakes, the car stopped almost instantly, and a well-known form leaped from the driver’s seat.

It was Falcon! She was safe!

She took a step forward, made a little appealing movement; then his arms caught her and gathered her to him.

“Oh, Falcon!” she moaned, piteously, the swift relief and the sense of the awful horror she had been through mingling in the cry.

“Good Heavens! Isma, whatever has happened?” her cousin asked, in terrible agitation.

But she did not reply. She stood leaning against him, her body shaking with long, sobbing breaths.

“Isma, what has happened? For God’s sake, tell me!” he implored, with frantic concern. “Is it—Berriedale again?”

She shuddered and suddenly clung to him.

He breathed in a tense, jerky way as he drew her closer and asked no more questions.

They stood for some time in deep, agitated silence, heart throbbing against heart, frenzied anxiety mingling with remembered terrors and quivering relief; a silence which held clinging arms, enfolding protection, a strength steadying weakness.

Then gradually into the stillness crept an exquisite peace. The girl’s shuddering sobs abated. The ghastly horrors, the hideous scene on the cliff receded, and Isma was conscious only of the man who held her. She was resting against his breast and in his embrace was something stronger than protection. A great joy stole into her heart; her breathing became deep, even, calm.

“Are you feeling better now?” asked Falcon, at length, bending over her.

He felt the long sigh of utter contentment that passed through her.

“You are—too good to me, Falcon,” she whispered, in a voice heavy with happiness.

“This has—comforted you?”

Something in his tone roused her.

“Oh, Falcon, you know it,” she breathed, tremulously, dropping her head to his shoulder.

His breast heaved as he strained her to him.

Her languorous serenity had gone. A wild joy rushed into her soul! He loved her! She knew it now! There was famine in his arms, an insatiable hunger. His touch reminded her of the drought-stricken plains, his words about the pain of being scorched came back to her. He had been terribly scorched; she could feel how cruelly he had burned and suffered. The knowledge strangely excited her and set her aflame with a desperate yearning to satisfy his parched emotions. And with her longing to comfort him she became more acutely conscious of his nearness; the delight of lying pressed against his breast grew into an agonized sweetness almost too intense to be borne! The strength went out of her limbs, her whole body trembled with an ecstasy of weakness.

“Good God! Isma, how shall I ever let you go!” he ejaculated, as he crushed her to him afresh.

He had drawn her away from the glare of the motor-lamps and the soft darkness enveloped and isolated them. They stood panting, moved with an agitated rapture, conquered by their emotions, cemented together by an anguish of love.

There were footsteps approaching, but in their delirious oblivion they had not heard them. Now Lord Berriedale spoke close beside them.

Dazed, they drew slowly apart.

“Sorry—very sorry to—disturb you,” he was saying, “but I am afraid I must trouble you to drive me home, Folkestone.”

Instantly Isma and her lover became conscious of their surroundings. They were standing on the cliff road beside the car. Their minds began to pick up the threads of the past. The horrible experience the girl had passed through came back to her, only softened and robbed of its power to hurt her.

Falcon remembered the long, harassing day he had spent, the terrible speed at which he had traveled all those hot sun-scorched hours, beset by fear and awful foreboding that urged him ever at a more frantic pace toward the girl who might need him! He had not stopped at his own home on the way, but was rushing straight on to The Palms when Isma’s terror-stricken form arrested him on the road.

But he must reply to the man who had just spoken.

“I wonder you dare to come near me, Berriedale,” he said, trying to control his anger. “Don’t you know that I am the last man you should encounter just now?”

“You are not a brute, Folkestone, and I am badly hurt—arm smashed, knee injured as well; can’t possibly drive my car back, and I am alone to-night.”

Isma came up to him quickly. “Lord Berriedale, did you get hurt—when you—fell?”

“No,” he answered her, hastily, “not then, only as I was trying to reach the track I must have got out of my course a bit, for I stepped into air and landed on some jagged rocks—that did the damage.”

“Come here into the lamplight and let us see what is the matter,” said Captain Folkestone, moving to the front of the motor.

But the injured man refused. “No, thanks,” he said, decidedly. “I am not going to have Miss Folkestone harassed with that sight. However, if you will be kind enough to let me sit down and take me home at once I shall be grateful.”

Falcon opened the door of his motor and Lord Berriedale limped into the nearest seat, and they noticed his left hand held the right arm bent against his chest.

Captain Folkestone started the engine quickly, Isma sat down beside him, and silently they stole down the steep descent.

The girl looked into the soft darkness where the cliffs stood out like phantom battlements against the dim summer-night sky. The air was warm and laden with languorous fragrance from the bush and the pungent odor from the sea. Far down in the swarthy gloom she could hear the passionate sighs of the waves as they cast themselves against the rocks.

As they approached The Palms, Isma said, without looking at her cousin: “Falcon, will you let me come with you to The Bluff? I may be of some use and—I—” she added, in a lower voice—“I want to come.”

“No, not to-night,” he said, reluctantly. “You see, I may be very late getting back. I must get Berriedale to bed and wait till the doctor arrives. It would be too much for you; you are tired—”

“But you are tired, too, after that long, strenuous day. Please let me come,” she urged, turning to him.

“No, I mustn’t be so selfish. You need a good sleep—”

They had reached the avenue.

Falcon sprang out to help the girl to alight and walked over to the gate with her. There she stopped him, saying: “Now don’t come any farther. I shall be all right. Take him home quickly. He is in great pain.”

“I think I had better come up to the house with you.”

“No, no, please don’t. Get Lord Berriedale home as soon as possible. He must be suffering dreadfully.”

She held out her hand to him as she said, in moved tones: “Falcon, I can’t express all I want to say to-night. I—”

“Neither can I—just now.”

He pressed her hand in a deep, intimate way in the darkness and his touch was an embrace.

“Good night,” she whispered.

“Good night,” he said, stooping over her. “Isma, I am coming to you to-morrow for my summer and—my Paradise.”

Isma was still by the gate when the throb of the machine had died into silence. She stood riveted to the spot where her lover’s hand had touched her and where he had bidden her the brief but significant good night. She felt dazed and numb, yet curiously alive. So much had happened since she left the palm avenue some hours before. The night had been crowded with events. First, there had been the exalted experience on the cliff—the never-to-be-forgotten finding of God! The headland had been a lofty temple, a sacred Bethel where the spaces had revealed to her the presence of the Infinite.

Then had come the horror of her encounter with Lord Berriedale. She shivered again as she thought of it. But the fearful wrestling with evil had given her new confidence in God. He had not forsaken her. He had sent Falcon to rescue her, save her! Her eyes suddenly shone in the darkness. This beautiful, dreadful evening had also brought her the revelation of her cousin’s love. Her breathing fluttered and one hand went up as if to steady her throbbing heart. The thought of their time together on the road overwhelmed and bewildered her.

Above her the palm leaves murmured drowsily and at intervals she heard the dull crash of sleepy waves as they tumbled headlong and confused on the dreaming sand.

The girl also began to feel oddly confused. She tried to think clearly, but could not. Everything had all at once become blurred and unreal; nothing was real any more except the burning pressure of Falcon’s arms and—her great trust in the Infinite.

She made her way slowly toward the house. She was very tired. She must go to bed, sleep long, and dream of her lover’s embraces and the watching, caring—God.

IX CRUCIFIED!

IT was nine o’clock. The sun streamed into Isma’s room, but the girl was still fast asleep, her long hair billowing like a cloud of flaxen gold around her.

Miss Livingston opened the door gently and entered the room with a breakfast tray.

“Still asleep, Baby?” she said, softly moving nearer the bed and gazing with admiring devotion on the fresh, luxuriant beauty of the sleeper.

“I brought your breakfast up, deary,” she said, a little louder, placing the tray on a small table near the bed, and as the girl stirred and opened her long-fringed eyelids, heavy with sleep, she continued, “so you came back, after all, last night. Minnie heard you come in. Here is a letter for you,” she added, as Isma, now awake, held out gleaming white arms for her morning embrace.

“You had better read the note, dearest. It came from The Bluff just now and the man—”

Her companion sat up, tore open the envelop, and read its contents hurriedly. As she read the rich bloom faded a little from her cheeks.

“Lord Berriedale had an accident on the cliff last night,” Isma explained to the elder woman when she had put down the note. “He stepped into one of those deep, rocky hollows and was very much hurt. Falcon drove him home. Beatrice says his right arm is badly fractured, a nerve is injured, and the doctor doesn’t think he will ever get the use of his arm again. Also one knee is sprained. Of course Beatrice is dreadfully upset. I must get up and go to her immediately. I won’t wait for breakfast.”

“You needn’t hurry so much as that. The chauffeur has to find Lord Berriedale’s car. It appears he left it somewhere up on the cliff road last night. That will take a little while, so you will have plenty of time for breakfast. By the way, I thought Falcon had gone up north. How did he happen to be in this neighborhood, too?”

“He must have hurried terribly to get back so early—”

“I suppose he came to look after you. Isma, I wonder do you half appreciate his wonderful care of you? It is really marvelous the way he watches over you. I have never seen such devotion! And you are so horribly cruel to him. Fancy, all the time you have been engaged you have not given him one single evening. It is a wonder he puts up with it!”

The girl laughed happily. “Are you going to lecture me on that subject, too! But there is no need now, I assure you. For the future I am not going to neglect him, I promise you!”

When Isma was ready to start she said to Miss Livingston: “If Falcon comes over this morning, please explain that Beatrice sent for me, and ask him to come back this afternoon. I shall be home by three o’clock; but tell him I don’t want him to come to The Bluff for me. I want to see him here.”

Lady Berriedale was lying on a couch in the sunny morning-room when Miss Folkestone arrived. She stretched her hand out to the girl and said, in a choked little voice: “You are a dear to come. I want you specially to-day, for you will be able to—comfort Neville. I—cannot.”

Isma bent and kissed the tremulous lips. “Beatrice dear, don’t say such things. Of course you can comfort—him.”

The frail, agitated woman took the girl’s cool hands between her own feverish ones and pressed them solemnly. “Isma, you don’t know what it means to see the man I worship suffering as Neville is suffering and being unable to make things easier for him! You can have no idea what it is like to stand aside helpless and inert—lie in here because I am not wanted—there.” She made a pathetic little gesture in the direction of her husband’s room. Then all at once she turned her large, burning eyes on her companion. “But you can soothe him, you can comfort him.” She waved the girl’s attempt at protest impatiently aside. “No, Isma, it is no use bolstering me up with false hope. I have had my eyes opened. Neville told me—this morning”—she lowered her eyes and the flush in her cheeks deepened—“what he—meant to—do— All. Only, Isma”—she glanced up imploringly—“don’t judge him too harshly. Remember he was desperate, beside himself, mad with longing and love! Life had become unbearable without you. Can’t you understand? But he does love you, he does—in the same hot, impetuous way that I—love him.” She stopped suddenly, choking, then, making a great effort to control her voice, she continued, “Isma, do you really—love your cousin, for—if you don’t—”

The girl started. “You know I do, Beatrice.”

“You have said so, but you have not acted like it, and that made me think that if, after all—you didn’t—care for him, there might be—hope for—Neville—later,” she finished with supreme courage.

“Beatrice, how can you—suggest such a thing?” cried the girl, her eyes wide with pain. “It is too terrible! Besides, I swear to you I love Falcon. There was a misunderstanding between us, but it has been cleared away now—”

“Ah, I see. I am glad for your sake. Still—how I wish it might have been—otherwise for—Neville.”

“Beatrice, you surely can’t wish that!” Isma exclaimed, unutterably touched by the depths of her friend’s selfless devotion.

“I do wish it, Isma; I mean it. I should feel happier when I—go if only you might have—cared for him.”

Great tears sprang into the golden-gray eyes and splashed down the girl’s softly curving cheeks.

“Beatrice,” she whispered, “I can’t bear it—I can’t!”

“You see, I love him—and you,” said her companion, simply.

After a sad, tremulous pause Lady Berriedale continued: “Isma, will you go to him now? He—needs you.”

Miss Folkestone drew back quickly. “Not that, Beatrice—not that!” she pleaded, in alarm.

“Yes,” persisted the woman on the couch, eagerly. “I want you to do it, Isma. Do it for my sake if you will not do it for—his.”

“Oh no, Beatrice, don’t ask that,” she replied, still struggling against the inevitable.

“Now, Isma, be kind. You will have so much happiness in the future, can’t you at least spare him a little sympathy?”

Her companion saw it was useless to try to escape the ordeal. “Very well, if you insist on it, I will go, but only if you come with me.”

The invalid rose from among the cushions and, leaning on the arm of her tall, strong friend, they walked together to the injured man’s apartment.

On the threshold Lady Berriedale stood still and said, “Isma has come to see you, Neville”; then she pushed the girl gently into the room and closed the door behind her.

Lord Berriedale lay white and large-eyed among a pile of elaborate pillows, his damaged arm, bandaged and in splints, resting stiffly on the coverlet. His face was drawn and its pallor accentuated by his black eyes and his pale-blue silk sleeping-suit.

A light flittered over his features as Isma came toward him. The color had died out of her cheeks, but her face looked peculiarly calm.

The man on the bed moved his left hand as if he would have held it out to her, then suddenly checked himself.

“I suppose you would rather not shake hands,” he said, a little awkwardly.

“It is hardly necessary,” replied his visitor, in a voice that harmonized with the serenity of her expression.

He gazed at her with questioning scrutiny. “I wonder why you have come?” he reflected, aloud.

“Because Beatrice wished it and because you are in—pain.”

He laughed in a hollow, mocking way. “And so you are sorry for me because of—this.” He pointed scornfully to the bandaged arm. “A slight hurt like that will rouse your pity, but when I am racked body and soul in the inferno itself you pass me by unmoved!” He tried to raise himself, dragging at the injured arm in his effort to reach out and draw a chair nearer the bed.

“Don’t—please don’t move,” said Isma, hastily, moving the chair closer and sitting down beside him.

“What does it matter about these wretched limbs!” He laughed again. “The pain in them is a mere pin-prick, a pleasure, a delight, compared to—the other!”

“Please don’t refer to that,” replied the girl, looking away.

“I thought you had come to give me a little—sympathy!”

“So I have.”

“Then give it to me about the thing I need it most.”

The fierce appeal in his voice made her glance at him. He looked haggard and his eyes seemed strangely glazed.

Miss Folkestone sighed suddenly.

“Isma,” he began, regarding her intently, “are you—sorry at last?”

“I am,” she replied, steadily.

“You don’t—hate me quite as much as—usual?”

“I should never have hated you at all if—” She ceased speaking and looked down at her hands moving restlessly in her lap.

“I have been a consummate ass! I might have known you were not won the way I have always tried to—gain you,” he said, bitterly. “Your cousin was wiser than I, after all. Last night I thought him a perfect fool for not making better use of his opportunities; but I see now he knew what he was about; he could wait, and that is where I have failed!”

“Is that the—only thing you have—found out?” Her clear eyes looked questioningly into his.

“No,” he replied, a faint color creeping into his pallid face, “I have been more than a—fool—I have been—”

She stopped him with a gesture. “You need not say it.”

“Isma,” he said, after a silence, “I should like to ask you to—forgive me; but I suppose that is too much to expect—”

She did not reply at once, so he continued: “I meant to— Well, you know what I—intended last night—but please remember that I was maddened with longing for you. I couldn’t endure the talk of your marrying your cousin, couldn’t tolerate seeing him near you—though he had little enough for an engaged man, Heaven knows! But you made it all up to him last night, didn’t you! Can you imagine what it meant to me to see you together—like that! The sight has been with me ever since. I can’t forget it; it has been burned into the very tissues of my brain! Isma, I am being punished—fearfully punished—”

“I am so—very sorry,” murmured his companion, confused and troubled.

But the man did not seem to hear her.

“I wonder,” he reflected, aloud, “how many men you have driven to distraction.”

“Lord Berriedale, I have not come to discuss these things with you,” she said, with gentle firmness.

Again he did not heed her. “Isma, why don’t you understand? Why have you no sympathy with the poor devils you are sending—to hell!”

The girl shivered. “How can you say that to me! I have never given men any—encouragement!”

“I know it. It is not your fault, of course. It is your magnetic, extravagant womanhood, your bewildering loveliness, which does the damage! You are no coquette; no one knows this better than I. You are the purest, the most noble woman I have ever come across; still, you draw us to our destruction all the same. Your personality is like champagne that goes to the head—”

“Lord Berriedale, please don’t talk like that or I shall have to leave you. You mentioned beauty of character. Why are you so blind? Why can’t you see that the most beautiful, most self-sacrificing woman who ever lived is the one linked to your life? She is the personification of selflessness and goodness! If you had heard what she said to me this morning, I think it would have touched even your heart and made you rejoice that you had been given such a wife!”

The man beside her sighed deeply. “Beatrice is good,” he assented, “and if I had only been her brother— But her husband—” A shudder passed through his frame. “Isma, you can’t know what it means to be—that to a woman you feel toward as a—sister, while your whole vitalized manhood clamors for—some one else! Isma, it is—hell—hell!” He reiterated the last word in a voice which made the listening girl turn cold. She thought all at once what it would mean to surrender her womanhood to any one but Falcon. It would be ghastly! So the man beside her had suffered like that!

Instantly she stretched out her hand to him and he clasped it eagerly. “Isma, do you understand—at last?”

“I think so,” she replied, very softly.

Lord Berriedale released her hand and took a pocketbook from under his pillow, opened it, and took out a few loose papers on which were written some verses.

“This is a Danish poem,” he said, handing her the sheets. “A friend of mine translated it and gave me a copy. The translation is a very rough one, but the meaning is clear. Read it and you may understand a little more fully what I have been through.”

Isma read:

CRUCIFIED

For a long time she did not raise her eyes from the paper, but when at last she looked up tears glistened in her lashes and her lips trembled. “Is it like that?” she breathed, a sob in her voice.

“Yes,” he murmured, an odd glassiness in his gaze.

Impulsively the girl bent over him. “I forgive you—now,” she whispered.

“Because you have seen—the cross?”

“Yes,” she faltered.

Lord Berriedale looked out of one of the windows at the stirring, sunlit ocean, and the curious fixedness in his glance made Isma think suddenly of the bare cliff she had watched the night before, gazing abstractedly out to sea.

“Lord Berriedale,” she said, softly, “perhaps it is only from the cross that we learn to look beyond the scenes of earth—”

“Yes, perhaps so. But what do we find—there?” he asked, almost wearily.

A very bright color leaped into the girl’s face and she dropped her eyes for a moment in reverent shyness. Then she lifted them suddenly and said, in a low, clear voice, “There we find—God.”

The man turned to her. “And—God protected you, after all—last night. He did not fail you and—He was stronger than the demon in me. Isn’t it strange,” he continued, looking down on his bandaged limb, “that the arm which held you so cruelly will never be of—use to me—again.”

She gazed at him with dazzling tenderness.

“I am sorry—so very grieved. Still—perhaps from your cross you, too, will find—the Infinite.”

He shaded his eyes with his hand, and they were both silent for some minutes.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, at last.

Then with another gentle pressure on his fingers Isma stole softly out of the room.

X MIGRATING BIRDS

WHEN Isma left Lord Berriedale’s room she walked out on the balcony and stood looking over the vast country that stretched beyond the garden and avenue.

She wanted to be alone and have time to think. Her whole being was in a turmoil. She felt as if she had been standing at the foot of a cross and witnessed a terrible crucifixion. The man she had just left was hanging on the cruel wood; she had never realized his suffering before. Now her heart went out to him in burning pity. He had sinned, sinned hideously; he had made desperate attempts to tear away from the nails which held him; but each effort had only torn at the wounds and increased his pain.

And Beatrice? She was on the same cross, enduring fresh lacerations each time her husband tried to break away.

Isma sat down in one of the low balcony chairs.

The world was full of crosses; she could see them now. It seemed as if it held nothing but those instruments of torture—a whole vast globe full of them! Cross beside cross, rearing up their naked, cruel forms, as desolate sentinels on graves! The earth had been changed into a great cemetery—not a calm resting-place for the dead, but a graveyard for the living. This acre of the dead held alive men and women, who could moan, weep, laugh harsh, bitter laughter, abuse one another, tear at one another’s wounds, men and women who bled, who made themselves and one another bleed!

Isma pressed her hands, tightly against her eyes. So this ghastly thing was—life!

Presently her hands dropped from her face and she looked into the cloudless blue spaces arching high above the endless sun-bleached plains.

For some time she sat motionless, gazing into the immense blueness. Out there was the Infinite and peace. But if He were all-powerful, living Himself in the region of calm, why did He allow this agonized suffering on the earth? Could He not bring peace there also? He had made the earth beautiful, ravishingly lovely! It was a vast, enchanting paradise ablaze with flowers, alive with chirping birds, humming with insects, shimmering with white, radiant sunlight. Why had this place of wonderful beauty been turned into a graveyard? Why—why?

Then suddenly as she glanced dreamily about her the bare, ugly crosses seemed to change. They were no longer instruments of torture, hewn together to rack their unfortunate victims. They had all at once become pillars which raised those who hung on them above the earth, so that they might have a clear vision of the Infinite who was trying to draw their attention to Himself.

The girl closed her eyes. Understanding had suddenly come to her.

“So here you are, Isma! I did not know you had left Neville. How is he? Were you able to comfort him?” asked Lady Berriedale, who had just come out on to the balcony.

“I don’t know about that, but don’t worry over him, Beatrice. All will come right. He is fighting through.”

A great tenderness welled up in Isma’s heart for the friend who loved so desperately, so selflessly, the man chained to her who had failed to satisfy her burning passion.

“Beatrice,” said the girl, taking the hot, restless hands, “I do feel all is going to come right between you—”

“How can you say that when you know everything as you do?” There was deep reproach in the rasping voice.

“I can’t explain, Beatrice, but I feel it. It came to me quite suddenly just now.”

“That all will come right?”

“Yes.”

Lady Berriedale sighed. “I don’t see how it can.”

“No, you may not see that; still, it will.” There was conviction in the words.

“Do you really think he will ever—love me?”

“Yes,” Isma replied, with a far-away look in her eyes. Apparently she was gazing at something so distant that it was beyond the scene spreading before her.

“Isma,” said her friend, with awe in her voice, “you are not thinking of—earth.”

“No, I was thinking of a beautiful experience I had early last evening,” and she told her eager listener about the staring bluff and the discovery she had made on the headland. “And do you know, Beatrice,” she continued, a flush in her cheeks and warmth in her voice, “that it has made everything different. On the way here this morning, as I looked at the sea, the coast-line, the breakers, the flowers, the hills, the clouds, it came to me that all the color, the exquisite outline of form, the grace, the radiance, were merely the shadow of His wonderful personality; that the tender loveliness here was only God’s shadow cast on the earth to remind us of Him and His gorgeous beauty.”

“Isma, how glorious! How I wish I had thoughts about God like that! Still,” she continued, perplexity coming in her voice once more, “I don’t see the connection between that and Neville loving me again.”

“Why, don’t you see when He is so close, when He has power to do everything, He can put things right for you? There was a terrible misunderstanding between Falcon and myself, but He put it right last night.”

“I am truly glad to hear that, but—I have only such a little time—left.” The big black eyes glistened with a dewy brilliance.

“Life for all of us is only brief. We are like birds that come here for the summer, build nests, and then migrate to another shore.”

Her companion shivered. “Isma—the migrating is so—terrible—the flight over the fathomless ocean with its engulfing water awful!” She trembled again. “If only, like the birds, we might migrate in flocks, have warm companionship, familiar forms taking the journey with us— But for one solitary little bird to start alone across those heaving waters—”

There were footsteps in the hall. Now Rex appeared in the doorway. “Captain Folkestone is at the ’phone and wants to speak to you,” he said, addressing Isma.

The girl rose. The thought of Falcon suddenly overwhelmed her; she had been living in the sorrows of others. Now her own happiness returned to her with the suddenness of a delicious shock.

She hurried down-stairs, picked up the receiver and said a very breathless “Hullo!” into the instrument.

“Is that you, Isma?” came Falcon’s low, pleasant voice in her ear.

“Yes,” she answered, her heart beating so rapidly she could scarcely speak.

“How are you—terribly knocked up to-day?” There was keen anxiety in the words.

“No, splendid, thank you!” she assured him, with a sudden radiance in her tones. His tender concern had steadied her and brought her an exuberant joy.

“That sounded fine! I was so afraid you would be tired out.”

“Not at all; but—did you go over to The Palms this morning?”

“Of course. Do you think I could wait till this afternoon?”

Her happy laugh rippled into the ’phone. “How nice of you!”

“I should have come to The Bluff after you if it hadn’t been for your message telling me to wait. I really came to carry you off for the day. I wanted to take you a few miles up the coast and make you rest on the sands all day and—play with me.”

“That would have been—lovely! I am so sorry I have missed it; but there is still—to-morrow.”

“I have other plans for that.”

“Really? What are they?”

“I can’t explain just now—I will tell you this afternoon.”

“Is it something—nice?”

“Yes, heavenly!”

“Then I am longing to hear it.”

“You sha’n’t wait a moment longer than I can help! But I mustn’t keep you standing any longer. You won’t be late this afternoon, will you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Alas! I must say good-by till then,” he said, reluctantly.

“Never mind, time will soon pass and this afternoon will come—”

“This morning seems to be the longest I have ever spent—but I suppose three o’clock is bound to come round some time.”

“Yes—it won’t be long now—so good-by.”

“Good-by till—summer.”

XI THISTLE-DOWN

CAPTAIN FOLKESTONE had just finished speaking to Isma on the ’phone and had gone into his sitting-room and stood by the mantelpiece looking at a large bowl of sulphur-colored roses; his cheeks were flushed and in his eyes was still the strong light his talk with the girl had brought there.

The room was very charming with its high-paneled wainscoting of blackwood, its dark-brown felt carpet strewn with golden-brown rugs, its handsome blackwood furniture and long tusser curtains that hung in graceful folds by the large open windows through which the warm summer air, heavily perfumed by flowers, came softly into the room.

An excited bee shot in from the garden and darted noisily about the room.

Falcon watched it with detached interest. The bee made a sudden exit just as his attention was arrested by the buzzing of a motor.

He glanced out into the riot of sunshine and flowers, in the direction where the long drive lined with flame-trees opened into the garden, and saw a car making its way rapidly toward the house.

He started a little; it was Lord Berriedale’s big motor. It took the turning to the front door with an elegant swing and stopped abruptly.

The chauffeur opened the door and a small, closely veiled woman got out—it was Miss Brentford.

If Captain Folkestone was surprised, his face did not betray his feelings when presently the visitor was shown into the room and he greeted her in his usual courteous manner, which held graceful ease as well as a touch of formality.

“How very delightful of you to come and see me, Miss Brentford!” he said, taking her proffered hand. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

The girl had thrown back her veil. “What a delightful room!” she exclaimed, looking round the sunlit, luxurious apartment with its valuable paintings, numerous books, fine bronze statues, and Persian rugs with their long silk fringes.

Captain Folkestone drew forward a low easy-chair and asked his guest to be seated.

Rita sank down among a profusion of yellow cushions, allowing herself a few minutes’ pleasant talk with her handsome host before disclosing the real object of her visit, which she knew would be distasteful to him.

For some time they chatted in their usual friendly way; then Miss Brentford caught sight of a clock on the mantelpiece and saw it was getting dangerously near lunch-time. She sat up with a jerk and her face looked all at once perturbed as she said:

“I suppose you are rather surprised I should come to you like this?”

“Not at all. It is the most natural thing for my friends to come to see me and they are always welcome here,” he assured her, graciously.

“It is very nice of you to be so cordial. However, I wouldn’t have come—unasked—unless there had been—serious issues at stake,” she ventured, heading in the direction of her goal.

Captain Folkestone smiled in his disarming way.

“Serious issues! Why, that sounds quite formidable, and formidable things are not for the summer. If I were you I wouldn’t worry about them on a day like this. Come out in the garden and let me show you my flowers; that is far more appropriate in this splendid weather.”

“No, thank you, I would rather stay indoors; the sun is very warm.”

“I am sure the drive must have been hot. Let me get you an iced drink.”

“Thank you, I don’t want anything like that. I only want to talk to you.”

“That is very charming of you; but let us leave serious things alone; they are only meant for dull climates and—winter.”

“But this one cannot wait. When winter comes it might be too late—”

“It is always wise to wait with formidable things till it is too late,” her companion observed, pleasantly.

“Now you are talking nonsense and you ought to be serious,” the girl replied, a little petulantly.

“My dear Miss Rita, I always find it such a good plan never to be what I ought to be,” he laughed.

“That is most tiresome of you.”

“Not at all. It is the people who are what they should be who are tiresome, for they have the annoying habit of expecting every one else to come up to their own immaculate perfection, and that is horribly aggravating of them! And, by the way, talking nonsense is most sensible, for then people do not believe you mean what you say.”

“Is that an advantage?”

“Certainly, for no one will stop to contradict you or argue with you, then.”

Miss Brentford looked toward the clock again. She moved uneasily. Too much time was being wasted before she disclosed her errand.

“Captain Folkestone,” she said, a little nervously, for it was very difficult to screw herself up to the point of attack when confronted by those smiling, dominating eyes, “I have come to speak to you on a very delicate matter this morning, and I do hope—you will not be offended with me—”

The man before her laughed genially. “I am never offended at anything people say to me. Why should I be? Words are only like thistle-down, and no one in their right mind will take thistle-down seriously. One only brushes it away and—forgets.”

“Still, if a friend came to warn you about some—awful danger—” said the girl, making a violent plunge toward her object.

“No friend ever comes to warn one; only enemies do that.”

“I cannot agree with you there. If you were on the point of making some terrible mistake, undoubtedly it would be your friend’s duty to try and prevent it—”

“My dear Miss Brentford, you surely wouldn’t be cruel enough to prevent any one from making a mistake, would you? Why, the only enjoyable thing in life is making mistakes.”

“And the consequences?” inquired his companion as one who had scored a point.

The Guardsman shrugged easily. “One is far too busy making other mistakes to bother about them.”

It was just dawning on the girl that her host was deliberately keeping her from accomplishing her plan, and a hot anger leaped up in her toward the woman who was so sacred to him that he courteously yet decidedly made it clear he refused to discuss her.

She drew herself up and her dark eyes flashed as she said, “Captain Folkestone, I believe you know what I have come to say this morning and you are trying to keep me from saying it.”

“In that case I suppose you will see that it is quite superfluous to—say it.” His quiet, agreeable tones held an underlying significance.

“No, indeed, for what I have to—tell you would open your eyes—”

“Open my eyes! Whoever wants his eyes open! Why, the reason the world is so interesting and people so fascinating is because one always looks at them with one’s eyes shut.”

“But if you marry with your eyes closed you will marry the wrong woman,” she retorted, making a desperate attempt to break through his wordy entanglements.

He laughed with unruffled serenity.

“And what man wants to marry the right woman? It is far more amusing and entertaining to marry—the wrong one.”

There was a knock at the door and a servant announced that luncheon was ready.

“Of course you will take pity on my loneliness and have lunch with me?” said Captain Folkestone, hospitably.

The girl stood for a moment, pale, irresolute, her face working, her hands moving nervously. She had been defeated, hopelessly defeated, and now there was nothing for her to do but to make as dignified a retreat as possible.

“No, thank you, the car has to be back in time to—take—your cousin home at two o’clock. It appears she has a very important engagement early this afternoon. The other motor has gone to town, so I must hurry back.”

Her host saw her to the car, shook hands elaborately, and then the girl was whirled hastily away from the flower-laden garden that gleamed in the midday sunlight as if it had been strewn with gorgeous jewels.

However, Rita did not notice the flowers. She leaned back in the mauve-colored, well-padded seat, feeling suddenly weak with impotent rage. She had been beaten, horribly beaten. The soldier had rendered her utterly powerless! It had cost her a good deal to make this attempt to save him from a disastrous fate; but her endeavor had been a failure, her purpose thwarted, and her thrust foiled. In fact, she had not even been permitted to strike; her smiling host had politely but uncompromisingly taken her weapon from her before she could use it.

She recognized her complete helplessness as she sped homeward under the glittering flame-trees. Why had she been so ineffectual? How was it her words never carried weight? No one took any notice of her opinion; she could not influence anybody, not even her sister. Why was it—why? But everybody listened to Miss Folkestone. She could sway all the people around her. Was this merely because of her beauty? Ah, that fatal fairness! It seemed to the girl like a dreadful juggernaut crunching its way relentlessly over all her plans and desires. If only she could see that vivid, colorous blondness lying cold and inert, deprived of its riotous vitality in the narrow bed of the dead! Then alone she would be safe and able to have her way!

A hard glint came into the black eyes burning behind the closely drawn veil as she looked unseeingly into the effulgent sunlight.

XII SUMMER

ISMA stood by the mirror in her room fastening some deep-pink roses into the corsage of her pastel-blue crêpe-de-Chine gown. She had returned from The Bluff half an hour before; it was now five minutes to three and Falcon might arrive at any moment. Her fingers moved with nervous haste. She dropped a dawn-flushed bud, picked it up quickly and pinned it in more securely. Then she surveyed her superb reflection in the glass with absent-minded scrutiny. She had made her toilet carefully; on this day of days everything must harmonize with the greatness of the occasion. She had chosen this frock with its rich embroidery and girdle of tawny gold because Falcon had specially admired it.

“Captain Folkestone is in the drawing-room,” a maid announced and withdrew.

The color in Isma’s cheeks deepened. A strange, fierce excitement made her suddenly tremble, feel weak and unable to move. She stood gazing into the mirror with parted lips and unseeing eyes. The roses on her bosom shook. How was she to walk down-stairs and into that room? How was she to face her cousin, meet that intent blue gaze and greet him calmly? If only she could have rushed to him and buried her blushing face on his shoulder before he had time to look at her! She wanted to hide—must hide. Her shyness was overwhelming!

But she must not keep Falcon waiting. With a violent effort she pulled herself together and hurried down-stairs. However, as she opened the drawing-room door and entered, everything swam before her. She saw only a blurred vision of roses, masses of roses everywhere, dark red, pink, and cream, their perfume scenting the air with heavy sweetness. Amid this profusion of flowers a stalwart figure was coming toward her. One look into his eager, smiling eyes and her vision was blurred no longer; it cleared instantly. She lost consciousness of the flowers, their drowsy perfume, her own nervous shyness, and her whole attention became absorbed by the man approaching her. In one glance she took in every detail of his appearance. It seemed to her he had never looked so adorable as he did at that moment, his face flushed and his eyes shining with something which sent a riotous joy pulsating through her veins! Then very gently his dear hands were laid on her shoulders and, holding her at arm’s-length, he looked at her with an expression which made her feel completely in his power.

ISMA

“Isma,” he said, “I have come for those—kisses you wouldn’t give me the other day—”

A hot wave of color mounted to her face and her glance fell before his.

As no answer came he went on: “Isma, why wouldn’t you give them to me? Why have you been pretending you did not—care? Did you want to see what I look like when I am demented?” He was still smiling, but his tone held a slight unsteadiness.

She looked up at him reproachfully. “Oh, Falcon, you know it wasn’t—that.”

“Then why in the name of wonder did you—?”

“I didn’t think—you wanted—”

“Isma, you couldn’t seriously have thought such a thing.”

“But I—did.”

“How could it be possible? And how was it your own feelings didn’t help you to understand mine? Tell me, Isma”—he bent over her now—“didn’t you ever want me—close? Want me to—?”

“Of course,” she breathed, in burning confusion.

“Then why on earth have you racked us both like this?”

“I—I—didn’t think you—cared,” she faltered.

He drew back in utter astonishment and his hands fell from her shoulder. “Not cared!” he exclaimed, incredulously. “After I had thrown up everything and followed you across the world, been at your beck and call ever since—simply lived for you! Besides, I told you myself on the day we became engaged—in this very room, don’t you remember?—that I would follow you wherever you went, and you said it was absolutely useless. You didn’t give me one ray of hope—”

“But you did not say you would. You only said ‘one man,’ and I naturally thought you referred to—”

“Berriedale? And do you think I should be pressing his—unlawful suit?”

“I only thought you meant it as a—warning.”

He looked at her in perplexed amazement. “Good God! Isma, what a misunderstanding! Still,” he added, after a pause, “what a mercy I discovered you did care—a little bit, after all!” As he said the last words he laid his hands caressingly on her shoulders again.

His touch unnerved her and she was silent for some moments before asking, timidly, “When did you find out—last night?”

“No; I knew before then.”

The girl glanced up at him quickly. “Before—?”

“Two days ago I was certain.”

“What—made you certain—then?”

“Well, you didn’t seem—very happy on the way home—”

“And you guessed why?”

“I—couldn’t very well help it. Besides, there were other things that day. To be quite frank with you, there had been things all along which pointed—in that direction; for instance, on the night of the ball when my arm—touched you, you seemed to find it difficult to—”

“Oh, Falcon, I was so—miserable that night. I couldn’t help showing—it,” she said, brokenly.

He drew her a little closer. “Isma, what made you so—miserable that night?”

Her drooping lashes trembled.

“Tell me, Isma,” he pleaded, as she did not speak.

“Falcon, you know,” she breathed.

“Were you—wanting—me as much as I—wanted you?” he murmured, close to her ear.

“Of course,” she admitted, almost inaudibly.

He made no reply, but his breath came in short, panting gasps. Then suddenly he caught her to him.

For some minutes they stood without speaking, silenced, made motionless by the paralyzing sweetness of the contact.

At last Falcon said, “Tell me, how long have you—cared?”

The question roused her from the physical lassitude his embrace had produced in her. “Ever since we first met—in England,” she replied, in a low voice.

He started. “All that time! Heavens! If I had only known! Isma, how could you keep it from me so long?”

“Several times I was afraid you had guessed—”

“I did think now and again that— But whenever you had given me the least ray of hope you always took such care to be specially indifferent and aloof afterward—that put me off the scent.”

“Anyhow, I gave my secret completely away the other day,” she said, her voice becoming faint again with the narcotic of his embrace.

“Yes, but I had to drag it from you—use horribly brutal methods—”

“You knew all the time you were—hurting me?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t help it. It seemed the only way of making you—surrender, and I assure you it hurt me more than it hurt you.”

At last she lifted her head slightly and said, “But Falcon, how could you—love me if you doubted me and thought that I—?”

“Isma, I never really doubted you. In my heart I knew all the time that you were the dearest, most unselfish little girl in the world!”

“But till quite lately you were always so sarcastic and contemptuous—”

“That was only because I was desperate. I saw how the world misjudged you, and I was just trying to sting you into prudence. Isma, can’t you understand how I felt about it? It was terrible to have such a slur cast on you—”

“Still, you knew all the time that I didn’t—”

“Of course I knew—knew that you were only sacrificing yourself, your reputation—everything for your friend. All the same, I was distracted with anxiety in case your courage might be the means of entrapping you. Isma, I was at my wit’s end to know how to guard you!”

She looked up at him with shiny eyes. “Oh, Falcon, you have been perfectly wonderful! No one in the world would have been so good to me!”

He stroked her soft cheek tenderly.

“Isma,” he said, after a pause, “when we are married and you have got used to me I want you to tell me about—last night—”

A tremor passed through her. “And—you don’t want to know—before?” she breathed into his coat.

“No, for whatever happened, it could not have been your fault.”

“Oh, Falcon,” she whispered, “you do care as much as, or more than—he.”

He frowned. “Who dared to say I didn’t?”

“He said—”

“What did he say?”

“That—you wouldn’t have anything more—to do with—me if—if—”

He held her to him with bruising force. “He dared to talk to you about—such things—”

In the silence that followed he felt her burning humiliation and hastened to say, “Isma, don’t let us think of it just now—”

“But, Falcon, I must tell you this,” she whispered into his shoulder. “I was wonderfully protected last night. God sent you to me—”

“Heaven be praised I managed to reach you when I did!” he murmured, huskily.

The underlying depth of feeling in his tone made the girl all at once realize it would be lovely to confide to him her beautiful experience on the cliff; but she would wait a little. He was sure to stay for the rest of the day, and when twilight came they would stroll out under the palms. That would be the time to share with him her sacred things. The thought of telling him about God thrilled her suddenly; the intimacy it implied held a new, delicious sweetness!

“Falcon. I have something beautiful to tell you—”

“Yes, little girl,” he replied, in a low voice. “You don’t know how I long for your confidence, have you talk to me freely—open out to me, share everything—”

“But I think I would rather wait till to-night. You will stay all the evening, won’t you?—so after dinner we will go out under the palms and talk.”

“That will be perfectly delightful. What a gorgeous evening we shall have, and evening is the time for confidences, isn’t it?—and we have so much to say to each other, so much to make up!”

“But Isma,” he went on, after a pause, “do you know you haven’t given me those kisses yet?”

Her breathing grew perturbed and she pressed her face nervously against his shoulder.

“Isma, you are surely not shy with me again? Just give them to me at once and you will feel much better.” As he spoke he raised her head and she made no resistance.

For some moments he stood looking into the confused, upturned face, with its flushed cheeks, quivering nostrils, and long, downcast lashes. Then beneath his gaze the heavily fringed lids opened slowly and the golden-gray eyes lifted timidly to his. But the cloudy shyness vanished as their glances met, caressed, melted into one and clung together, and something which was half a gleam and half a mist came into the two pairs of eyes which held each other as if they could not tear apart.

“Good God! how I love you, Isma!” cried Falcon, in a voice stifled with emotion.

The girl paled and something blinded her.

The next moment their lips had met in a long, convulsive kiss.

Staggering and stunned, they drew apart, only to be swept together again and again.

“Oh, Falcon,” she half sobbed, reeling against him as his lips released her at last, “I can’t—”

His iron strength steadied her, and, leading her to a couch in a corner of the room, he sat down beside her and took her into his arms, pillowing her head on his breast. For some time he sat regarding the golden head resting against his heart with strange, glistening eyes; then he said, in a curious, vibrant tone: “Isma, do you know what happened just now? In those kisses you gave yourself to me body and soul.”

She stirred slightly. “Didn’t I do it—before?” she asked, faintly.

“Not fully. You gave me your love before. Now you have given me yourself, made that complete surrender it has been so hard for you to—”

She was fully roused again. “Falcon, it wasn’t hard, truly it was not. I—I—have just been longing to—” she assured him quickly, raising her head and looking up at him with eyes which were deep and dark with passionate yielding.

He bent over her and drank thirstily of the love-wine her soul poured out to him.

His kisses and the paroxysms of emotion which had swept over them had in some mysterious way brought them closer, and it seemed to Isma that every thread of obscuring garment had for the moment been torn aside and that he looked straight into her heart. Her shyness vanished as if by magic. It became a delight to lay her inmost feelings bare to him. She could have no secrets from him any longer; she did not wish to have any. She was his, every part of her belonged to him; he had a right to every emotion stirring in her soul. The passion of their lips had made them one. And the knowledge of this brought with it a deep elation, an overwhelming happiness. She could not repress it, could not keep it out of her eyes; they sparkled suddenly into his, brimmed with a reckless joy which dared to look at him with the triumphant right of a possessor. She regarded his immaculately shaved cheeks, the brown waves of his hair, the soft cleft in his firm chin with adoring scrutiny.