PART II

I THE HURRICANE

ISMA sat by the window in her cool drawing-room, looking out into the glaring, dust-laden atmosphere. A hot wind was blowing, bending the flowers in the garden and bruising them against one another. The scorching breeze rushed noisily through leaves, shook slender branches, made palm-trees rattle in angry defiance, and lifted grit and small pebbles high into the air and hurled them rudely at window-panes and doors.

But the girl scarcely noticed the fierce tempest. Her eyes were fixed on the road leading over the northern cape, where dense columns of sandy dust whirled along the track and finally hurled themselves over the steep bank sloping down toward the beach.

The girl watched the road expectantly.

Would Falcon come to see her to-day? She wanted him to come, and yet she shrank from meeting him. What did he think of her now, after the confession she had made him as they stood by the gate in the moonlight? He had been most kind, not uttered one word of reproach, yet she knew what such a disclosure would mean to a nature like his. He had shown signs of terrible agitation, her words had moved him deeply; but—had his emotion been merely due to wounded pride? It must have been a painful ordeal to listen to her degrading experience; yet had his agonized concern only been caused by anxiety for the family honor? What about the burning kiss still scorching her fingers?

The hot blood mounted to her face and her heart beat in a queer, uneven way.

Could he care, after all? But if so, why had he not told her before? They were both free and could have been happy years ago. The rich color in her cheeks paled a little. No, he could not love her. Still, why that desperate agitation?

Another thought darted into her mind. There had been a difference in his attitude toward her since the night of the ball. Could it be that she had betrayed her feelings to him then and that he was moved with deep pity for her?

She started visibly.

Could that be the reason for the change in him? She was painfully aware that for a short time she had lost control of her emotions during their one dance together. After those weeks of cold aloofness, the blinding sweetness of being so close to him, feeling his strong arm round her, had unnerved her and made her momentarily forget everything but the tortuous joy of his nearness! And during that brief yielding had he seen and understood?

She leaned suddenly back in her chair, her whole body aflame with shame.

If he had cared, he would have told her then—must have told her; it would have been inhuman to leave her in the throes of her emotion without relieving her by laying bare his own. No, it was clear he did not love her; he only pitied her and was distressed on her account.

She sat up straight again. She had been appallingly wanting in dignity and reserve; however, she must make amends immediately; she must drive her love into the background and show Falcon she cared for him only as a cousin who had been wonderfully kind to her and to whom she owed a debt of gratitude. Yes, she owed him much—what had he not saved her from the night before!

The awful scene by the river and everything connected with Lord Berriedale came back to her. He had written that morning and actually been thoughtless enough to send the letter by his impudent secretary and allowed such a man to know that he had private important communication with her. Had he not the least mercy, not the slightest consideration for her name!

The letter had been apologetic enough; still, of course, she could not trust him any more, and she had made up her mind never to enter The Bluff again. It would not be safe, for he would only trap her at the first opportunity.

Suddenly the toot of a motor-horn made her start. Could it be Falcon coming now? He had not come down the cliff road, but perhaps he had gone to The Bluff first and was calling at The Palms on his way back.

She rose tremblingly.

A machine crunched heavily on the gravel as it swung up to the front door. Falcon would be in the room in a moment. She sat down again, feeling choked with the violent throbbing of her heart.

The door opened, somebody entered. The turmoil within suddenly ceased and she felt herself turning to stone. The man coming into the room was not Falcon, but Lord Berriedale.

Miss Folkestone rose mechanically. She did not move toward her visitor, but stood motionless, measuring him with proud, angry eyes.

“How dare you come here!” she said, in tones quivering with suppressed fury.

“Isma,” began the man, his face white with tense emotion, “Beatrice is very ill. Something has happened this morning. I don’t know what it is, only it has upset her horribly and made her look awful. She was coming to see you this afternoon, but she nearly fainted at luncheon and had to be taken to bed at once. She wouldn’t let me touch her or do anything for her.”

“I am very sorry for Beatrice. Why didn’t you send for the doctor?”

“Send for the doctor, as if that would do any good! It is not medical treatment she needs. She looked much better this morning; but since then something has happened which is worrying her. It would be useless to try and make her confide in me at present. However, I am sure she would tell you all about it, and you could talk to her and put things right the way you always do and she would soon be better again.”

“There are some things I could never talk her out of—” said the girl, regarding him with cold, accusing eyes.

“You mean that she has found out—that she suspects—?”

“Very likely.”

“But it can’t be—that.” The man was gently caressing his short mustache.

“And why not—?”

“Because, Isma, I have taken special care that she should not be worried with—this. However, even if she imagines something is wrong, you could easily set her mind at rest.”

“Put her mind at rest—that she has a faithful husband?” Her eyes blazed out her contempt for him.

“Isma—don’t. I may deserve your scorn; still, this is hardly the time to express it—every moment is of importance.”

“But you don’t seriously think that I would ever enter your house again?”

“Isma, don’t waste time. Can’t you realize how every second might—?”

“And how am I to know this is not merely another trap you are setting for me?”

“Your own heart will tell you that I am sincere,” he replied, with profound earnestness. “I am not now pleading for myself, but for another who is in terrible need of you. Isma, you who are so strong and well, have pity on your suffering friend! Come at once. If you wait—you may be too late,” he urged, a tremor in his tones.

The girl wavered. “Is it really as serious as—that?”

“It may be. When any one in Beatrice’s state of health becomes as upset as she is at present one cannot be sure what will happen.”

Miss Folkestone did not answer at once. She stood looking up toward the big headland veiled in a glaring haze. What was she to do? Merciful Heavens! why was she always placed in these impossible situations! Was she never to be freed from the sordidness she loathed? Why must she, who had fought so desperately for security, be constantly plunged into new danger?

And if Falcon should come, what would he think if he were told she had gone to The Bluff again and with the man who had insulted her the night before? He could draw only one conclusion from such a course of action.

But Beatrice was ill and in trouble. Her frail body was already ravished with a dreadful disease and a worse calamity hung over her. What if she were already on the point of discovering her husband’s unfaithfulness? No, no, such a catastrophe must be prevented at all costs! She must go and avert this disaster. Surely, there was yet time to stay the hand of Fate? She must go to The Bluff—there was no help for it.

Lord Berriedale watched the silent girl as she gazed intently at the haze-covered cliff, and in his eyes smoldered a suppressed eagerness which was not unlike the glitter in the eyes of some jungle animal as it stalks its prey and watches its every movement from under cover.

“Isma,” he said, at length, “come! Don’t be afraid of me. The chauffeur is there. In any case, if you prefer it, I will walk back. Only come quickly, before it is too late!” he pleaded, with fevered anxiety.

“Very well, I will come this once,” replied the girl, very gravely, “but remember, it is only because Beatrice is so ill, and my coming does not mean that I will ever forgive last night.”

Half an hour after Isma and Lord Berriedale had gone another car sped up the avenue and stopped at the front door of The Palms.

Captain Folkestone sprang up the steps and pressed the bell emphatically.

As the maid opened the door the hot wind rushed into the hall and set the pictures rattling against the walls.

“Isn’t Miss Folkestone at home?” asked the visitor, as the servant did not invite him to enter the house.

“No, she went away with Lord Berriedale half an hour ago,” replied the maid, holding the door open with one hand and vainly trying to keep strands of hair from blowing across her eyes with the other.

A great change came over the soldier’s face. However, the girl was too much blinded by hair and wind to notice any difference in his appearance.

“Perhaps you would like to see Miss Livingston?” she asked, anxious to put an end to the interview and be able to close the door.

“No, thanks, I will not trouble her,” said Captain Folkestone, moving away.

After the door had closed the man stood by the car irresolute for a moment.

Good God! Had Isma taken leave of her senses or was she, after all—? He murmured something inarticulate under his breath and leaped into the motor. Then he plunged into the furnace-like breath of the gale. A cloud of dust enveloped him, showers of grit pelted him; but, heedless of the onslaught, he dashed down the avenue at a reckless speed, and when he reached the road he turned the car toward The Bluff.

II PAYING TOLL

MISS FOLKESTONE did not speak to Lord Berriedale during their drive to The Bluff. She sat away from him in a corner of the car, closely veiled, aloof and dignified. The hood of the motor was up and the side-curtains fastened, yet the hot, stifling air was laden with dust.

When they reached the house Isma went up to the invalid at once.

The green blinds were half drawn in Lady Berriedale’s room and below them a fiery glare came into the apartment, mixing oddly with its prevailing gloom.

The patient lay very still in the large blackwood bedstead; her face was pale and her lips compressed; one transparent hand clutched nervously at the embroidered counterpane and the dark eyes turned restlessly toward Isma as she entered.

“Are you better?” asked the elder woman, holding out her hand in a formal way.

Isma took the proffered hand and at the same time bent over the invalid and kissed the wasted cheek. “Yes, much better, thank you; but you are not well, dear. Tell me, what has gone wrong? Why are you so strange? You are not a bit glad to see me!” There was gentle hurt in the low, musical voice.

Instantly the face among the lacy pillows changed. “Oh, Isma, kiss me again! I know I am perfectly hateful and you are a saint to come to me. Darling, I am not worthy of your love!” she broke out, clasping the girl to her convulsively.

Miss Folkestone stroked the burning forehead soothingly. “Deary, what has upset you so?”

“I am really ashamed to tell you, for now when I hear your dear voice and look into your true, beautiful eyes I cannot forgive myself for having doubted you.”

“You have doubted me, Beatrice?” asked the girl, the pink bloom fading from her cheeks.

“Yes, I have been perfectly wicked all the morning. I have doubted both you and—”

Her companion drew back slightly.

The patient noticed the movement. “Sit down, please. You must not stand any longer; the heat is very trying to-day. Sit down; then we can talk.”

Miss Folkestone dropped into a chair, feeling suddenly limp with apprehension. So the blow she had paid such a price to avert was about to fall, after all! What evil powers had been at work? Who had sown these seeds of distrust and suspicion? But she would know all too soon. The thin voice trailed on.

“Isma, I feel so horrid, so absolutely brutal, telling you this. Still, it is best you should know; then you will see how nasty I really am and not a bit like what you and dear Neville think me—”

She stopped. How strange her companion looked! She was leaning back, with her eyes closed and lips set, as if preparing for some terrible ordeal.

When Lady Berriedale ceased speaking the girl looked up and in her eyes burned a pain which smote her friend with new penitence.

“Dearest, don’t look like that!” she exclaimed, beseechingly. “I know it has been most cruel to doubt you and no one hates hurting you more than I; but when I have told you all and you have denied it I will be so contrite and do all in my power to make up to you both for my horrible suspicions.”

Miss Folkestone leaned over the bed quickly. Perhaps the calamity could yet be prevented; perhaps even now, on the brink of disaster, there might be a way of escape. “Beatrice,” she said, grasping at the straw, “wouldn’t it be much better for you not to talk about it? It will only upset and exhaust you, and, now that you are feeling all right about it—”

“No, dear, I would much rather tell you,” replied her friend, firmly, “for then it gives you the opportunity of denying everything. It is not for my sake I want to give you this chance, but for your own and—his.”

The room all at once swam before Isma. So there was no escape, after all! The trusting little woman looking up at her with large, beseeching eyes must have her heart lacerated by the cruel truth she would have given life itself to keep from her! But, merciful God, why should she be called on to strike the death-blow to such confiding trust! Why must women always bear the brunt of men’s misdoings? Why had Beatrice not faced her husband with the slander? Why did she spare him and tax her, the innocent victim, with his cruel wrong?

“Isma,” went on the high-pitched voice, “I have been told that—that—Neville is not true to me and that—he cares for you.” She finished with an effort. “Of course it cannot be true, but Isma—tell me it is not?” and her eager black eyes looked pleadingly into the gray ones.

“Beatrice, why did you listen to such horrible gossip? Whoever could have told you such a thing?” replied the girl, desperately avoiding the direct denial.

Her friend noticed the evasion and her lips stiffened. “I have been told,” she continued, in more even tones, “that on the night of the ball you and Neville were seen on the landing after the rest of us had gone to bed, and he was pressing your hand to his heart.”

Miss Folkestone sat rigid in her chair. Whoever could have seen them? The world seemed to be tumbling about her. She glanced down at the rich peacock-green carpet, aghast.

“So you can’t deny it,” said the cold voice from the bed.

The girl pulled herself together quickly. She must say something to soothe the woman hiding her wounds under this icy exterior.

“Beatrice, I was coming up late after seeing to things down-stairs and we accidentally met on the landing. Lord Berriedale admired my gown. Oh, Beatrice, you know that men are often impulsive if one looks nice, just the way we are about flowers—”

“Yes, you looked bewildering that night. I don’t wonder you turn the head of every man who comes near you, and of course my husband admired you, too; he danced with you and talked to you a good deal. Still, there is a great difference between admiring a girl and—making love to her on the stairs late at night. You cannot deny that he pressed your hand to his heart?” her friend concluded, in a hard voice.

“Beatrice, such things may mean absolutely nothing,” said Isma, suddenly thinking of the way Falcon, who did not love her, had kissed her hand the night before.

“Very well, then, we will let that pass. But what about last evening? You certainly look tired to-day, but not ill. Were you ill? Was that the reason you went home? Isma, tell me honestly?”

The girl’s eyes wavered before the searching dark ones. “No,” she stammered, at last, “that was not the reason.”

“Why, then, did you go home? Tell me that?”

Miss Folkestone turned a full, large gaze upon her friend. “Beatrice,” she said, in gentle tones, “please don’t ask me all these questions. I would gladly tell you everything, only, believe me, it is far better not.”

“Better not tear the veil from my eyes and let me see I have lived on illusions all this time? But,” her voice became strangely weary, “I am tired of this hoodwinking. I would rather know the truth—rather hurt me, my friend, than deceive me.”

Isma winced. Lady Berriedale had emphasized the words “my friend” and “deceive.” The situation was horrible—gruesome.

“Beatrice,” began the girl, her golden-gray eyes looking with desperate sincerity at her companion, “I am not deceiving you—truly I am not.”

“Then tell me what happened last night. Tell me why Neville wrote to you this morning, a letter so important that Rex had to be despatched with it before breakfast. What was in that letter?”

“Lord Berriedale had hurt me last night and he apologized this morning,” replied Isma, gazing steadily into the flushed face on the pillow.

“Have you destroyed that letter?”

“Not yet.”

“Will you let me see it?”

“No, I cannot do that; it wouldn’t be— You wouldn’t understand.”

“Don’t you think it would be more correct to say that I would understand too well?” said the invalid, a grim smile twisting her thin lips.

“Beatrice, if only you would trust me!” Miss Folkestone had risen and stood, tall and beautiful, her face glowing with pitying love and yearning anxiety.

“Trust you, indeed! Haven’t I trusted you, and what is the result, that I have been most grossly, most appallingly deceived!”

“No, Beatrice, no!” cried the girl, in agony. Then, sinking on her knees beside the bed, she put out her arms to clasp her friend to her, but she drew coldly away. “Beatrice, I have not deceived you—I have not!” she protested, appealingly.

“Very well, if you are truly innocent, then look at me and swear by your mother’s memory that there never has been any talk of love between you and Neville.”

The kneeling figure drew a shuddering breath, but made no reply.

“Oh, I thought so,” muttered the harsh voice from the pillows. “You are guilty, terribly guilty, and—I trusted you so!”

For a moment Isma raised her head and opened her lips to speak—how easily she could clear herself! She need only tell Beatrice the whole truth, that Neville loved her and had pursued her with his devotion, but that she did not care for him and had never for a moment been disloyal to her friend. How easy to lay the blame on the one to whom it belonged! However, such a disclosure would only mean deeper anguish to his wife, so it was better she should think the guilt lay with her, Isma, and that her husband was not much to blame. The girl closed her lips again and her head sank dejectedly down on the bed. She would not speak, would not clear herself.

There was a pause so chilly that it seemed as if a wall of ice had risen up between them; then the invalid said: “Isma, I could have forgiven you more easily if you had come and told me the truth yourself. However, to deceive me and let others inform me, that is— But never mind. I know at last. Still, to think that I, poor fool, who thought myself loved by husband and friend,” she went on, in a different tone, “should have thrown you together—how ludicrous! To think that I was actually encouraging you both, drawing you to him and almost pushing you into his arms—I, his devoted wife, who thought myself so secure in his love, who adored him with a passion which would have died a dozen times for him if it had been possible—I, who doted on every line of his form and the least touch of his hand—that I should actually have been the one to keep you near him and put such a temptation in his way! Can’t you see the ghastly humor of it?” and Lady Berriedale laughed an ugly, harsh laugh which sounded hollow and weird, like the echo of footsteps in a vault.

Miss Folkestone shivered. She put her hand across her eyes as if something had blinded her. “Don’t!” she whispered, faintly; “don’t!”

“Surely, Isma, you see the comedy it has been, don’t you?” Beatrice added, with the same mirthless laughter.

Her companion lifted her head with a proud little movement. The red glare from the window fell on her wonderful hair. She stood tall, lovely, her face burning with a wordless pain and in her large eyes glistened a dumb agony.

“Good God! you are beautiful, Isma—your worst enemy could not deny that! I don’t wonder poor Neville has succumbed! However, I know now that your lofty beauty is only a shell and below it you are heartless, cruel, and false! But you are clever—oh, how clever! What a feat to accomplish, to make the husband your ardent lover and his wife your trusting friend—”

The girl had suddenly reeled, but she straightened quickly and stood motionless for a moment, her face ashen and her eyes looking long and intently at the woman who derided her. Then, without a word, she turned and walked slowly out of the room.

She saw nothing as she made her way down the thickly carpeted stairs. On reaching the hall she was not even aware that Falcon was there talking to Miss Brentford, that Lord Berriedale came out from the library and spoke to her. She did not notice that he opened the door for her and followed her to the motor. She was oblivious to everything but the cruel fact that up-stairs lay her friend, facing the worst agony any woman is called upon to bear, and that she, Isma, could do nothing to comfort her.

She sank down among the cushions in the car and was barely aware that the machine darted forward into the teeth of the fiendish hurricane.

Falcon had gone into the sitting-room and had been watching her from the nearest window. When Lord Berriedale helped Isma into the motor the man looking on clenched his hands and ground his teeth. What had they done between them to make his cousin look like that! He choked back the angry words rising to his lips.

He would follow her presently, after she had recovered a little from the ordeal she had been through up-stairs.

Captain Folkestone stood for some time looking out at the great dust-clouds flying before the pursuing blast. His face was set and grim, and though his blue eyes were following the dust-columns among the fig-trees of the avenue, yet Miss Brentford knew he did not see them, but that his brain was preoccupied, busily working at something which filled her with instinctive dread.

III BARRED GATES

“I SUPPOSE Isma is in now?” inquired Captain Folkestone when he arrived at The Palms an hour after his cousin had returned from The Bluff.

“I am afraid you are going to be disappointed again,” replied Miss Livingston, sympathetically. “Something has upset Isma dreadfully this afternoon. She looked awfully white when she came home. I thought at first that the wind and heat had knocked her up, but it must have been something worse, for she would hardly say a word and went straight to her room, locked the door, and wouldn’t even have tea sent up to her. By the way,” she added, “you must need some refreshment after your hot drive in the gale. Would you like an iced drink or shall I get you some tea?”

“No, thank you, I had tea at The Bluff,” replied the soldier, and continued, in a different tone: “I am grieved—very grieved, about Isma. But would you mind telling her I am here and that I want to see her most urgently? And while you are away may I go and have a wash? I feel too horribly grimy and gritty to talk to either of you at present.”

When Falcon returned to the sitting-room some minutes later the governess told him that Isma was sorry, but she could not possibly see him that day.

Captain Folkestone stroked his smooth cheek thoughtfully, then he said: “I feel horribly selfish giving you all this trouble, Miss Livingston, but might I ask you to take my cousin one other message? Tell her that I am not in a hurry and if she wants to rest I can wait for hours. However, I must see her before I return home to-night.”

The old lady went up-stairs once more, and the second message had the desired effect, for Isma said she would be down presently.

When she entered the room a little later Falcon was alone.

“I am sorry to bring you down against your will,” he began, looking at the girl’s pale, set face, “but there is something I must say to you at once—it can’t even wait till to-morrow.”

“Yes,” replied Isma, listlessly, taking the chair by the window she had occupied earlier in the afternoon and glancing out into the hazy, dust-laden atmosphere.

Her companion regarded her gravely from the hearth-rug, and his somber expression deepened as he noticed the red rims round her eyes and that her curving lips were pressed together as if she were making some colossal effort to keep them from quivering.

The man standing by the mantelpiece breathed unevenly. For some moments there was a deep silence in the room, only broken by the rustle of leaves, the creaking of bending trees, and the muffled sobs of breaking waves.

Then Falcon went over to a small table, picked up a glass of egg and milk and passed it to his cousin as he said: “Drink this, Isma; it will do you good. You used to like that sort of thing when you were a little girl.”

She waved it aside, but he held it to her. “You must take it. I can’t talk to you till you do,” he persisted.

With a weary little sigh she took the glass and drank its contents.

When she had finished Falcon sat down on a small divan a short distance away from her. For some seconds he did not speak, but sat leaning forward, knees apart, looking thoughtfully at the carpet between his feet. Then he straightened suddenly and began: “I am not going to worry you by asking what took place this afternoon. Miss Brentford gave me some hints, and I can guess the rest.”

The girl by the window moved restlessly.

So Falcon knew already! Still, of course, he was bound to know in the end. Everybody would soon be told; Miss Brentford and Rex would see to that. Her character would be in shreds. If anything happened to Beatrice, it would be given out that the trusting wife had at last discovered her friend’s deceit and the shock had killed her. In any case her illness would be laid at her, Isma’s, door as a result of her heartless behavior. It would be said that— The girl shivered visibly. She knew her world, knew what scandal it would make of the things which had happened, and that the name Falcon loved would be dragged into the mire! Society had not had any proof before; gossip had been started on surmises; but now when evidence was available it would not spare her. Every one knew of Beatrice’s devotion to her, and if she cast her off it could only be for most serious misconduct. There was no hope for her.

It would be terribly humiliating for Falcon, too, and he would feel the disgrace keenly. Of course he would try to vindicate the family honor. She was sure he had come to make some suggestion which he thought might mitigate the evil which had befallen her. But it would be useless; nothing could save their name now.

She turned and gazed into the wind-blown garden. How ugly it looked to-day! The leaves were all showing the wrong side; the flowers were disheveled and out of shape. Everything looked tattered and faded in the descending gloom. The sun had not yet set, but the haze hung like a glowering, hideous twilight. Life seemed all at once to have become ugly, colorless, and dark. It had been turned inside out and was showing seams, stains, and frays.

But her cousin’s voice roused her from her dismal thoughts.

“Isma, something must be done at once. Things can’t go on like this—they can’t.”

“No, I suppose you mean that I ought to go away, somewhere out of reach—in the jungle of Africa or in the desert, anywhere out of sight,” she replied, tonelessly, her eyes on the swaying branches beating against the window-panes.

“No, I did not mean that.”

“Anyhow, I think that is the best thing I can do; hide in a place where no one shall be able to find me.”

“That is impossible. There is no such place, for I know one man who will follow you wherever you go.”

Of course Falcon was thinking of Lord Berriedale.

“He will get tired in time, when he sees it is absolutely useless,” she said, a little coldly.

The man on the divan rose and went over to the mantelpiece again. “Is it really quite useless, Isma?” he asked, in a voice which sounded hard by the restraint he put on it.

“Of course it is—quite,” she answered, with decision.

There was rather a lengthy pause. Her cousin had turned away and picked up a small bronze elephant which he pulled at ferociously.

After some moments he put the ornament down and looked narrowly at his companion. Could this be the same woman who had driven beside him on the moonlit road the night before, who had leaned against his shoulder, spoken to him in rich, warm tones, looked at him with eyes so tender that they seemed to melt into utter yielding under his gaze, who now sat aloof and cold with scarcely a glance at him and told him, without a tremor of compunction, that it was absolutely useless to care for her!

He swallowed hard.

However, though Captain Folkestone was extremely sensitive, he was not easily thwarted, and to-day he was doubly determined, for his cousin’s honor as well as his own happiness was at stake.

“Very well,” he said, in a cool, measured way, “it is just as well to be clear on those points first.”

Isma turned and looked at him. But he did not see her glance. He was gazing across the room through an eastern window at the wind-swept, foam-flecked ocean.

His cold, distant manner gave her the impression he had not believed her. A sudden fire flashed into her eyes, but died away almost instantly. Could she blame him, after all? Had she not by her own actions that day made it impossible for him to believe in her? So, forcing back an angry retort, she said, quietly:

“But, Falcon, don’t you think you should have known before? I wanted you to understand, so that you would not— I am so sorry if—”

“Don’t worry about that,” he replied, bruskly. “To be frank with you, I was not quite clear. Certain little things had made me think that perhaps—” He broke off, then after a slight pause he added, “Still, of course, I shall take your word for it.”

As he stood on the hearth-rug, his shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back, his face white and lips set, he looked very much like a man who had just received a stunning blow and was taking it without flinching. But Isma’s senses were too numbed by all she had been through to comprehend.

“Well, I am glad you understand at last,” she said, still feeling uncomfortably certain he did not believe her and only out of pity made a pretense of thinking her innocent.

Falcon made no reply. He still gazed out of the window with narrowed, half-closed eyes.

“But if you don’t think it best for me to go away, what else am I to do?” asked Isma, breaking the lengthy pause.

Her companion suddenly braced himself as if preparing for some ordeal; then he said, in a low, even voice, “There is one thing you can do which will at once ease Lady Berriedale’s mind and remove all slander from you—”

“Yes?” she inquired, as he stopped.

Falcon turned and looked at her narrowly through half-closed lids as he had looked at the sea a moment ago, and said, with visible effort, “You can become engaged to—me.

“Isma,” he urged, “if you become engaged to me, I think we can save—the situation. There will be no scandal then; you will at once set your friend’s mind at rest and give me the chance to protect you better than I can do at present.”

The girl was still silent and she had turned her face quite away so that he could not see the expression in her eyes and the bitter smile curving her lips.

So her heart’s desire had come to her at last! After years of waiting the thing she most desired was within her reach. But, great Heavens! what a mangled, distorted thing it proved to be! It came to her shorn of beauty, a worn, wizened, lifeless thing! The man she loved was asking her to become engaged to him, in an unemotional, business-like way, without one thought of love, not even thinking it necessary to apologize for its absence, expecting her to understand he was making the proposal for her sake, to save her from an appalling situation, yet making it clear she must not expect any sentiment from him! The cruel, mocking irony of fate!

“Well?” he said, at last, as she still did not speak.

“You must know that such a thing is quite impossible,” she said, in a hard voice, her face still averted.

“Why impossible?”

“I simply couldn’t do it.”

No, she could not. This was too much to expect from her! Engaged to Falcon under such circumstances, being daily confronted with the meaningless, loveless bond, being hourly reminded of all it should have meant, moment by moment tortured by it, tantalized by it. No, no! she could not accept release on such terms. Rather a thousand times be disgraced and banished!

“I cannot, Falcon—I cannot,” she repeated, in broken tones.

Her companion winced. So that was the way she felt about becoming engaged to him! It was an intolerably painful thing—too horrible to be endured!

He winced again. Did not this indicate that she must be in love with some one else and found it abhorrent that another man should take his place? Did she care for Lord Berriedale, after all, and was she desperately fighting against this treacherous affection? Captain Folkestone clenched his hands and the veins in his neck swelled. For a moment he was tempted to walk out of the room and never again look on the woman who had brought this terrible thing into his life. But he fought back the temptation, for was there not an added reason why he must not forsake her, if this conjecture was right? He must stand by her and help her fight the awful odds against her.

“Isma,” he began, crushing back the vibration in his voice, “even if it is hard for you, try and put up with it. Can’t you see that it would set everything right? Think what poor Lady Berriedale is suffering at this moment. Do it to relieve her!”

The girl tossed her head in hot rebellion. Must she always suffer for this friend, always be called on to make greater and yet more impossible sacrifices for her sake!

“O God!” moaned Isma, half aloud, dropping back in her chair and closing her eyes.

The soldier changed color and bit his lip. He was at least finding out the truth now when she was off her guard, thrown off her balance by the terrible events of the day. The softness in her eyes and voice the evening before had meant nothing! Her show of emotion when his arm had held her as they danced together two nights ago had also been meaningless! All his dreams mere foam and bubble bursting into a stinging emptiness!

For some seconds the room reeled round him; then he pulled himself together sharply and said, “Isma, don’t you think you are just a little—needlessly—ungracious about it?” Though his tone was restrained, it held the merest suggestion of pain, which made the girl turn and look at him at once. However, the increased density of the atmosphere had made the room dusky, so she could not see that the handsome face was pale and drawn. Still, her voice was very gentle as she said:

“Falcon, I am sorry I have seemed so—ungrateful. Of course I know how noble you are in making such an—offer. Only you would have thought of such a thing! And believe me I value greatly your kind thought in wanting to help me. Still, of course, you must know I could not allow you to make such a—sacrifice.”

“How can you call it a—sacrifice?” he asked, almostly roughly.

“Of course it must be—under the circumstances, and I cannot let you make it—it would be too much for us both.”

“But, Isma, it is absolutely necessary. It is the only way out of the difficulty. Can’t you see that for yourself? Still, of course, our engagement can be just as—you like. We need not—treat each other any differently from—what we do now.”

The bitter smile came back to her lips. Falcon could be satisfied with—that! How little he cared! It was only the family name he was anxious to save. Well, she owed him her help in that. She was too tired to think out other plans, so there seemed nothing else to do but submit to his suggestion. Her cousin had a reputation for such punctilious honor that every one would know there could be no flaws in the character of the woman he intended to marry. And poor Beatrice would be comforted. Yes, it seemed the only solution of the difficulty. She must submit to the inevitable, even if it tore her heart to shreds.

“What is it to be?” asked Captain Folkestone, as he had not received any reply. “Of course you know,” he went on, as Isma still did not speak, “that you are not obliged to—marry me afterward.”

“No, of course not,” came the scornful rejoinder.

“Well, then?”

“I suppose I might as well consent. The farce need not last—long.”

“No, not very long,” he agreed, with a strange flatness in his voice.

Another silence fell between them.

Then Falcon said, “I may announce our—engagement?”

“If you like.” She was still peering into the red dusk in the garden.

“Very well. I must go now. I want to ring up Miss Brentford and tell her at once.”

Isma started. She knew how such news would affect Rita. “No, no, not to-night!” she pleaded, turning to him.

“For Lady Berriedale’s sake it ought to be done as soon as possible. If I tell Miss Brentford, she can pass the news on to—the others.”

Isma sighed in resignation.

Her cousin held out his hand. “Good-by, Isma,” he said, in a strained, low voice, his eyes upon her face in the gloom.

“Good-by,” she replied, tonelessly, placing a cold, lifeless hand in his.

She watched him walk across the room, listened to his footsteps in the hall, the opening and shutting of the front door. She heard his car leap into panting life and its crunching on the gravel as it sped down the drive, and then there was only the mournful soughing of the wind as, exhausted by its savage onslaughts, it sank moaningly to rest among the trees.

Isma left the window.

Falcon had come to the rescue again. Her reputation would be saved, Beatrice comforted, Lord Berriedale forced to retreat; but—but— She groped her way blindly to the door and crept up-stairs to the sultry loneliness of her room.

IV TRAMPLED FRIENDSHIP

WHEN Miss Folkestone had left The Bluff Lord Berriedale went into his study and stood for some time looking up the dusty road as if his eyes were still following the car which had vanished from view some minutes before. After a while he turned from the window and began to pace the floor with even, regular steps. Between his brow was a deep furrow and now and again he stopped for a moment and listened, but no one came to summon him to his wife, and he continued to walk up and down the room with well-controlled restlessness.

What had happened between Beatrice and Isma? Evidently his wife had suspected something was wrong. Had she charged the girl with treachery? It was apparent when she came down-stairs a few minutes ago that she had been through a terrible ordeal. Why had Beatrice not sent for him? Had Isma told her the truth, that she was innocent and he alone guilty? No, she would not clear herself at his expense; she was too noble for that!

But how was it all going to end?

The furrow on his brow deepened and he stroked his fair mustache as he slackened his pace and listened again.

Up-stairs, Lady Berriedale lay in her elaborate bed, her narrow face pinched and ashen, her thin lips tightly drawn together, and a terrible light burning in her deep brown eyes. She was absolutely still. Only her eyes flitted from one object in the room to another, yet seeing none of them.

At times her furtive gaze strayed to the windows, and under the half-drawn blinds she could see the crumpled ocean which in the gale looked like a huge sheet of creased brown paper. She glanced absently at the stunted trees on the nearest cliff, their stems now bent and their leaves looking like tattered rags in the ferocious storm. She heard the weird moans of sea-gulls half stifled by the tempest and saw fragments of clouds flying toward the horizon as if they were being swept ruthlessly into the sea.

But Lady Berriedale had no thoughts for clouds, waves, wailing birds, or whining trees. Her whole consciousness was drawn within, centered on some awful theme which made her oblivious to everything else, and sometimes her lips moved as if she were talking inaudibly to herself.

At last she sat up very slowly and glanced furtively toward the door, then she very deliberately put on a pair of rose-red slippers, and with wavering footsteps crossed the floor and stood still before a full-length mirror, looking long and intently at herself in the glass. A bitter smile played about her rigid lips as she surveyed the reflection of her shriveled form in its rose-tinted crêpe-de-Chine night attire. How pitiful that the luxurious elegance should only cover such an unsightly object! She picked at the ribbons at her breast as if she would have torn them to pieces. What business had such a creature with embroidered silks and dainty ribbons! She looked mercilessly at her scraggy neck, the wizened pallor of her skin, and her dark, sunken eyes encircled by those ghastly shadows.

Then suddenly she turned away from the mirror with a hasty, nervous movement, and her fevered glance sought a large photograph of Isma in a solid-gold frame standing in the center of the broad mantelpiece. It was a lifelike portrait, picturing the girl in all her subtle, vital loveliness. The camera had caught the full, rich gaze of her wonderful eyes, their lofty calm, undaunted courage, and tender sweetness.

Lady Berriedale stood transfixed, staring at the picture with sharp, severe scrutiny.

All at once she dashed across the room, tore down the picture, and threw it violently to the floor, the heavy frame and glass crashing loudly as they struck the tiled hearth.

Beatrice looked with defiant scorn at the splintered glass and Isma’s eyes with their magnificent tranquillity gazing at her now from the peacock-green tiles.

“False!” cried the angry woman, her cheeks ablaze and her white hands clenched; “utterly false! Your beauty is a mask—a mask,” she shrieked, “and you still dare to look me in the face with those deceptive eyes of yours. You are bold and heartless, you cruel, horrible creature!” and one of the small rose-slippered feet stamped all at once across the face of the lovely girl who still looked with untroubled serenity at the excited woman insulting her.

“How dare you look at me like that!” cried the shrill voice in suffocating fury, stamping on the photo again and again. “How—dare—”

Her words were suddenly choked by a violent fit of coughing, and a gush of warm fluid forced itself between her lips, poured down her gown, staining it with a streak of deeper red and running into a dark-crimson pool on the carpet.

A look of horror came into the wide, dark eyes. Was she bleeding to death?

She gasped noisily and turned a ghastly white. She was strangling.

Again she gasped, then swayed and fell heavily against the mantelpiece.

The blow against the hard wood roused her for a moment and she stood half dazed, leaning against the shelf, her eyes stiff and glassy. Good God! Was she—dying here alone!

Suddenly the black cross she had seen illumined in the picture the first morning they had spent at The Bluff flashed into her mind. She could see it standing out from the canvas, moving toward her. Yes, it was coming; it had been waiting for—her grave!

She gave a piercing shriek of terror.

Then something numbed her senses and everything began to fade from her consciousness. She scarcely noticed the door opening, her husband springing to her side and snatching her to him just as she was slowly sinking to the floor.

When she became conscious again it was evidently night, for the gas was alight. There were strangers in the room, a nurse in uniform, and a man came quickly toward her as she moved, bent over her, and she felt a prick in her arm. Then she caught sight of her husband standing at the foot of the bed, his face looking anxious and haggard, and farther away still Rita was huddled wearily in a low chair.

She glanced up at the man who had removed the needle from her forearm and recognized him. He was the doctor she had consulted in Sydney and who had arranged to come to The Bluff if she needed medical attention. It must be very late if he had come all the way from town.

She tried to think what made her ill, but a strange stupor began to steal over her. Why were all these people in her room? Why didn’t they go to bed and sleep? Sleep was so delicious—sleep—

The next time she woke there was faint daylight in the room. The people had all gone—no, the nurse was still there, sitting beside the bed with her eyes closed and her cap a little to one side. She must be asleep; it would be a pity to disturb her.

Lady Berriedale glanced about her wonderingly and gradually memory returned. She remembered Isma’s visit—everything. Her life was at a complete standstill—nothing would ever set it moving again.

She shuddered.

The nurse opened her eyes and spoke in a kind, gentle voice; then she went over to a small table and came back to the bed. There was another prick in her arm and soon afterward the ghastly thing which had happened did not matter, after all. Nothing mattered; the only important thing was this long, delicious sinking into oblivion.

In another wing of the house stood a slender, white-robed form by an open window, looking out into the stirring dawn. There was no wind; only a cool breath came from the pansy-colored hills. Beyond the grounds of The Bluff the long, wide plain lay wrapped in mystic shadows, but trees and bushes were beginning to disentangle themselves from the dusky meshes of night.

Rita Brentford laid her cool cheek against the window-frame and closed her tired eyes. The pale-gray light creeping into the room fell on her white, drawn face. What a night she had spent! A shudder ran through her. How had she lived through this ghastly nightmare! However, dawn had come at last and the black hours were ended, but what about the nightmare? She shivered again—that had not left her; it would never leave her. She knew it would follow her, dodge every footstep for the rest of her days. It seemed as if she had entered into a league with it, made a compact with it, by which she had given this phantom monster the right to shadow her life forever.

One of her cold, limp hands moved across her brow, yet it could not brush away the thing which tortured her. Though her body was weak and spent, her brain worked with pitiless activity. It was like the electric advertisements she had seen from the Sydney harbor flashing out one announcement after another with unvarying precision. Her mind worked with the same ruthless automacity; it brought one scene before her after another. She heard again the piercing shriek, felt herself rushing to her sister’s room, just in time to see Neville gathering the fainting, blood-stained figure in his arms. She could still see the big blotch of dark red on the green carpet, she lived again the endless, merciless hours before the doctor arrived, felt again the nerve-racking waiting for his verdict—hemorrhage of the lungs combined with a severe heart attack. Beatrice’s heart had been weak for some years, but it had never before given any active trouble; the syncope had been brought on by shock.

Rita leaned her head more heavily against the woodwork and a tremor passed through her closed eyelids; her face in the weird light of early dawn looked old and gray.

Her sister was still in a precarious condition; the doctor was not at all hopeful about saving her.

The girl at the window suddenly opened her eyes and there was a terrible glitter in the shadowy orbs. She had nearly killed Beatrice. The news she had imparted to her the day before might yet do the deadly work of taking her life.

A luminous rim appeared over the far-off horizon and gilded the trees and shrubs on the plain. The gold on the flats deepened, leaves shone, grass blades shimmered, and the flowers in the garden received color. But daylight brought no joy to the heart of the girl standing mute and limp, looking into its new-born radiance.

She pressed her hands against her throbbing eyes.

She was a murderess, a black, guilty murderess! She knew her sister could not stand shocks, yet she had deliberately imparted news which she knew might have a fatal effect, and all because— Yes, she saw her action in its hideous selfishness, now the dark hours had revealed her deed in its naked ugliness and shown her that she had sacrificed her sister’s life for the sake of separating Captain Folkestone from his cousin and securing him for herself!

Beatrice still lingered, but she might yet die. In any case she, Rita, had committed the crime which could take her life. Murderess! Murderess! The dreadful word tolled in her brain with maddening persistence.

She lifted her arms as if to ward off a blow. Then she sank into a chair and closed her eyes. But instantly she opened them again and a malicious gleam shot into them. Her cold, proud rival was disarmed at last—her words had at least accomplished that! Captain Folkestone would never have any more to do with her when he knew all that had happened.

Yesterday he had not allowed her to say all she had meant to tell him. He had courteously, yet decidedly, changed the subject. Still, she had been able to throw out enough hints to show him how treacherous Isma had been to her friend!

However, even the thought that Miss Folkestone could no more stand in her way had no power to comfort her now. Her conscience cried loudly, vehemently, and would not be silenced. Again Rita could see the livid face with its gruesome, deathlike calm resting on the pillow. Would no smile again soften the tightly compressed lips? And would the shrunken form in a few days be laid under—

No! no! She could bear no more. Her thoughts in the lonely room would drive away her reason! She must get away from the stillness which held these awful specters. She would go to the sea, the ever-stirring, restless ocean. It was never silent, always roaring or muttering under its breath. Was it always noisy because, like herself, it could not endure the austere, accusing silence?

She snatched up a long coat, made her way hurriedly out of the house, down the garden path, till she reached a small track which led past the cliff to the beach.

As she approached a belt of weather-worn she-oaks she came upon Rex sitting on a bench, one knee across the other, and a cigarette between his lips.

His presence brought her a sudden sense of relief.

“Rex,” she exclaimed, stopping in front of him, “whatever brings you out so early?”

“My dear Miss Rita, I should be absolutely heartless if I could sleep when her ladyship is dy—so ill.” He corrected himself.

The girl winced, but sat down beside him.

“Rex, isn’t it appalling! I haven’t slept, of course, not closed my eyes once, and I didn’t sleep the night before, either. It is all too dreadful!” Her horror was beginning to find vent in words.

“Yes, indeed! But have you heard how the patient is this morning?”

“No, not yet. Nurse promised to let me know if there was any change, so apparently there is not.”

“That is a good sign. She is holding her own at present, then. All we can expect, isn’t it? I wonder,” he continued, with puckered brow, “what could have given her such a nasty turn! Something must have done the mischief. I wonder could some meddling gossip have—”

He stopped and glanced at his companion, who had gripped the seat for support. “Miss Rita, I do believe you are ill, too!”

“Nonsense, Rex! I’m all right.”

He looked at her with indolent scrutiny as he added: “I suppose his lordship hasn’t told you the news yet. He wouldn’t have the heart. I mean he would not be able to think of such things just now—”

“What news?” asked the girl, sitting up quickly.

“Captain Folkestone rang up last night and asked for you, but as you were with her ladyship I couldn’t disturb you. However, Lord Berriedale was down-stairs just then, so I asked him to come to the ’phone, and Captain Folkestone evidently told him about his engagement, for I heard his lordship congratulate him—”

“Engagement!” stammered Miss Brentford, her pale face becoming grayer. “Who—?”

“Is there any need to ask? His beautiful cousin, of course. Who else could it be?”

Rita sank back against the seat, her bloodless lips uttering an inarticulate cry.

“Great Cæsar!” exclaimed the man beside her. “I believe you are going to faint. Let me take you indoors.”

“Don’t be an ass, Rex,” Rita almost screamed at the secretary. “Of course I am not going to faint. Still, are you really in earnest? Aren’t you just—?”

“As if I should joke on such a solemn subject—at such a serious time, I mean. How could you suggest I should be so brutal? But as soon as you can you must ring up the happy man and tell him how delighted you are. He will be in the tenth heaven to-day. Think what times they will have together now. Shouldn’t like to come upon them unexpectedly under the palms on a moonlit—”

He stopped suddenly, for the girl had risen and stood livid and trembling before him. “Rex, if you say another word, I’ll—I’ll—strangle you,” she shrieked.

Then the white, shaking form with the desperate black eyes turned suddenly and fled back to the house. She made her way hastily to her own room, locked the door, and, moaning loudly, threw herself on the bed.

So she had committed that hideous crime—for nothing! Her sister lay at death’s door—for nothing! Her life was endangered to no purpose! Her own nightmare, her future sufferings, would be for nothing! All her plans had been thwarted while the unscrupulous Miss Folkestone with her siren-like charm robbed her of the man she had become a—murderess to obtain!

V THE FATAL KEY

A WEEK after Lady Berriedale’s collapse Isma entered The Bluff once more. She mounted the wide staircase quickly. Her friend was much better and had sent for her. The rose-pink in her cheeks deepened.

The past week had been a ghastly one. Falcon had brought her the news of Lady Berriedale’s seizure the day after it had taken place, and the same afternoon a note had come from Lord Berriedale telling her of his wife’s critical condition and adding more details than her cousin could supply. The letter also told her that the patient had to be kept absolutely quiet; that she was under the influence of narcotics and asleep most of the time. Two days afterward Lord Berriedale had written again to say that his wife seemed to be rallying, her pulse was much stronger, and that as soon as she could bear his confession he was going to make a clean breast of everything, of course as briefly and mercifully as possible. He was very anxious Isma’s name should be cleared with his wife for the patient’s sake as well as her own, for he felt sure, once she knew her friend had been true and he only was to blame, the invalid would wish to have the girl beside her again and Isma’s presence would help her greatly to regain her hold on life. Lord Berriedale implored her to forgive and be merciful.

He did not know what had occurred that fatal afternoon, but he pleaded with her not to judge Beatrice’s words and actions too hardly.

That morning another note from him had arrived, saying he had told his wife everything, that she had most generously forgiven him, and that she sent a message asking the girl to come to her at once, as she was longing to see her and ask for her forgiveness. Lord Berriedale had not congratulated her on her engagement or made the slightest allusion to it in any of his letters.

Falcon had come over immediately after breakfast to take her to The Bluff. He always rang up early to inquire after Lady Berriedale, and when he was told she was much better that morning and had sent for Miss Folkestone he had gone to The Palms at once to drive his cousin to the invalid.

Now the girl entered her friend’s room, her face flushed and her eyes shining.

The nurse glanced with tense curiosity at the beautiful visitor and then quietly withdrew.

“Isma, you are a saint!” cried Lady Berriedale, stretching out her arms and pressing the girl to her heart. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Don’t, Beatrice, don’t,” whispered Isma, trying to keep the patient from becoming excited. “There is nothing to forgive, deary. You simply made a mistake, and even the wisest and best make mistakes sometimes.”

“Darling, you are too good to me!” There were tears in the high-pitched voice.

“Beatrice dear, please don’t get upset, or nurse will never allow me to sit with you again.”

The elder woman made an instant effort to calm herself and said, in a different tone: “Neville has told me everything, and I know now how true and good you have been. But Isma”—the large black eyes looked up at her wistfully—“he loves you deeply—”

Miss Folkestone put out her hands protestingly.

“Beatrice, it can’t really be love—only a slight infatuation—”

“No, you are wrong about that,” replied the solemn voice from the pillows. “It is real love. He doesn’t only admire your outward beauty, but your nobility, courage, your intense sincerity and marvelous generosity. He—” She stopped suddenly and looked up at the girl with deep pain in her glance. “But how terrible of me to talk to you like this, when I ought to be congratulating you! Isma”—she stretched out her arms again—“kiss me and let me wish you all the happiness you so richly deserve—”

Her companion stooped over her quickly, interrupting the words with a caress.

“Darling, what is the matter? Why are you trembling so?” asked the elder woman, pushing the girl a little away from her so that she might look into her face. “Why, there are tears in your eyes, tears when you ought to be all smiles and joy. Why—?” she persisted, regarding the long, moist lashes with deep concern. Then all at once she exclaimed: “Oh, Isma, I know what has made you sad in the midst of your happiness. It is I—”

Her companion silenced the words with another kiss. “Beatrice, don’t let us speak of it again.”

“But now that everything is right between us and I am much better you won’t grieve any more, will you?”

“No, no; I shall feel much happier now.”

Still her friend missed the note of conviction in the voice and looked at Isma with troubled scrutiny.

The girl colored painfully and her head dropped.

“Isma,” began Lady Berriedale, with strange solemnity, “are you quite sure that you love Captain Folkestone?”

Instantly the flaxen head lifted and two steady gray eyes looked at her with intense sincerity from under the wet black lashes. “I love him with all my heart. I have never loved another man.”

The patient breathed a sigh of relief. “You have always loved him?”

“Yes, ever since I met him in London, when I came out and hadn’t seen him for some years.”

“So that is why no other man has been able to make an impression on you, why you have been immune to all love and wooing! But,” she went on, a little perplexedly, “why didn’t you marry him before? This long delay seems an awful waste!”

“He didn’t—care.”

“Not care! How absurd! But is it really only lately that he—?”

The fair head sank down on her friend’s breast. “I don’t know. I have not—asked him.”

“You strange girl! Fancy not asking your lover such an important question. I should have wanted to know the exact moment when he fell in love with me. I should like to know when your cousin first began to care; and if you won’t ask him I will.”

Her companion started. “Beatrice, for Heaven’s sake don’t do such a thing. Promise me you will not!” she cried, in panic.

“My dear child, you are quite incomprehensible. I believe you are afraid of him. But of course I won’t do it if you would rather I didn’t. By the way, I suppose he drove you over this morning?”

“Yes, and he is coming back for me presently.”

“What a dear he is to spare you! Darling,” she continued, looking up at her friend with a tremulous tenderness in her gaze, “I do hope you will be happy—as happy as I thought—I was.”

Miss Folkestone’s arms enfolded the shrunken form. “Beatrice, don’t say was—for you are going to be just as happy as you thought.”

Lady Berriedale looked away into space. “How do you think there could be any joy for me, when my husband cares for—another woman?”

“Deary, that is only a passing fancy. It is nothing, and, now that I am engaged, he will not think of—me at all. If only you knew how deeply distressed he has been during your illness you would know how much he really cares!”

The nurse came in just then. It was time for medicine and the patient was not allowed to talk any more.

The next morning Isma found her friend much better and awaiting her eagerly.

“Darling, I feel so much stronger to-day, and I am so glad, for I am longing to have a good talk.”

“Yes,” said the girl, settling down by the bedside when the nurse had left the room, “now we can enjoy ourselves.”

“Isma,” began the rasping voice, “I have been thinking such a lot lately—that is, of course, when I have not been under the influence of drugs.”

“Yes? What have you been thinking about?”

“Do you remember I told you that Neville and I were standing on the balcony on the first morning after our arrival, looking out on the great plains? It seemed to me then that this vast country was a place which compelled one to pray—no, not the stale, lifeless prayers so often uttered in churches, or the sentimental ones prompted by beautiful music, but the impetuous, volcanic prayers bursting from exploding souls. It seemed to me that souls living in this vastness would be strong, lofty, great, capable of majestic passion, and I felt my own life had been so small and mean by comparison. I longed for gigantic strength, to be able to pray like that, and I had a feeling that in this country I should learn. Isma,” she turned her face slightly away and her tones lowered as she said, “I am learning. The explosion has taken place—”

Her companion looked at her with troubled sympathy.

“Oh, Beatrice, if only I could have spared you—that!”

The black eyes looked up at her steadily.

“No, dear, it is a good thing you could not. You have been an angel standing between me and sorrow all this time, yet believe me it is best—this should have come. My soul was so weak and flabby before, it had no strength to rise, no power to look beyond the dust-heap on which it lay. It was a heap of gold-dust, still a dust-heap all the same. However, now, though the explosion has shattered my heart, it has shot my soul out of the dust, given it wings, and though it may still be in a feeble way, yet it is beginning to rise, beginning to mount with its own prayers, and no prayer can go very far unless the soul who prays ascends with it.”

“I am afraid I have never prayed like that,” murmured Isma, with downcast lashes.

“Then the explosion in your life has not taken place.”

“The explosion not taken place!” Miss Folkestone closed her eyes and her cheeks paled. Could her heart be more cruelly shattered than it was at present? She had prayed, too, at times, but prayer had seemed so useless, so ineffective; perhaps that was because, as Beatrice said, her own soul had not risen with the petitions. But her friend was speaking again.

“Isma,” she was saying, “I thought I was—dying—that afternoon. It really seemed as if I were; and even though I may get over this attack, still,” she added, in almost a whisper, “I shall not be—here for long.”

The girl pressed her hand silently; she could not speak.

“And, deary, I have been wondering where I am—going. It is so strange to think of leaving all which is familiar and known and not have the faintest idea where one is going and what the next life will be like. I have thought so much about it and wondered—”

“Perhaps the next world will not be very different from this.”

“In some respects perhaps not. It must at least have as many varieties of existence as this, only each one magnified in the same proportion as eternity is larger than time.”

“Do you mean to say you believe there would be as many grades of joy and happiness, sorrow and misery, as here, and each state magnified by the huge scale of eternity?”

“Yes, surely. Life there will be of colossal dimensions, whether it be a state of joy or—anguish.”

“That is very terrible to contemplate.”

“Everything can be terrible. Eternity is vaster than anything we have ever known, anything we could imagine, and its sorrows and joys must be on the same enormous scale.”

“In that case, it would be an appalling thing to strike a state of misery.”

“You say ‘strike’; do you really think it would be a case of chance, a mere coincidence, what state we reach? That would be too haphazard to fit in with the laws of a universe where everything is worked out with mathematical precision.”

“No, I don’t for a moment suppose our ultimate fate will be determined by chance; still, I wonder what will decide it?”

“It seems to me that in this life we must find the key which will unlock our destiny for us. And Isma,” the invalid turned to her quickly, “do you remember our talk some time ago about Death being an executioner and that only criminals are executed? If that is so, we shall have a very poor chance. Fancy entering eternity as criminals—”

The door opened quietly and the nurse entered.

“I suppose you have come to send me away?” queried Miss Folkestone.

“I am afraid so,” the woman in uniform replied, smilingly.

The girl stooped over her friend and kissed her.

“Don’t worry,” and lowering her voice, so that the nurse, who had gone to the other end of the room, could not hear her words, she added, “remember you can pray, and that will help you to find the right key.”

Every morning Falcon called for his cousin and drove her to The Bluff. He either returned to his own home and came for Isma late in the afternoon or he spent the day at The Bluff and waited till she was ready to go back to The Palms.

Lady Berriedale made rapid progress, and having Isma with her constantly helped her greatly toward recovery. She deeply regretted depriving Captain Folkestone of so much of his fiancée’s society; still, she comforted herself with the thought that the engaged couple would spend their evenings together, and she would have been greatly surprised had she known that Isma and her cousin separated as soon as they reached her gates, and that even during the brief drives they spoke very little to each other.

As strength returned the patient was able to walk into the drawing-room, where she and Isma spent long days together. Frequently Captain Folkestone joined them. He did not always take part in the conversation, but often sat at the other end of the room, occupied with a book or papers.

It was after Lady Berriedale had seen Isma and her cousin together in this way for nearly a week that she began to feel that all was not right between them. They treated each other with every courtesy, of course, still they seemed to avoid talking to each other, and the girl especially fought shy of being alone with her lover. Lady Berriedale had several times suggested they should go for a walk together. However, Isma always declined and insisted on remaining with her friend. Of course that might have been merely an act of unselfish devotion on her part; still, there were other disturbing symptoms which made the elder woman uneasy. The thing which troubled her most was that neither of them looked happy, and she could not understand why. She did not doubt that a deep love existed between them. Had not the girl herself told her how much she cared for the man whose ring she was wearing, and had she not sometimes surprised an expression in the soldier’s eyes when he looked at his fiancée and thought himself unobserved, which told her plainly enough that there was no lack of love on his side? Still, if they both really cared, why did they not seem happy?

One day Lady Berriedale thought she had discovered the reason. Isma was so reserved and she had such strict notions of propriety that perhaps she did not allow the man to whom she was engaged a lover’s privilege, and that this restraint was causing their unnatural attitude toward each other. The more she thought of this explanation of the difficulty the more she felt sure it was the correct one, and, being certain she had come to the right conclusion, she made up her mind to speak to the girl about it at once. So the same day, when the afternoon-tea things had been cleared away, and Captain Folkestone sat reading at the other end of the room, Lady Berriedale began:

“Isma, I am going to give you a good lecture. Do you know your lover does not look a bit happy, and as an engaged man he ought to be brimming over with happiness! I believe it is because you are too prudish and you won’t allow him to show you any—”

She stopped abruptly, for her companion made a violent gesture to silence her as she looked with a terrified expression toward Falcon, who, to her relief, was still reading and had apparently not heard the embarrassing words.

Lady Berriedale continued: “He can’t possibly hear over there, and I must say this, it is not right you should put such a strain on him. If a man loves a woman he naturally wants to—”

“Don’t—don’t—” cried the girl, in a frantic whisper, interrupting her again.

Still her hostess would not be silenced. “It is even hard on yourself—far too great a strain on you both; but on the man it is specially—”

“Beatrice, do be quiet. You don’t know what you are talking about. It is quite all right, I assure you. Falcon doesn’t like that sort of thing,” Isma murmured, in a frenzied undertone, looking fearfully toward her cousin, who was still so absorbed in his book that he did not appear to notice what was going on at the other end of the room.

“Nonsense!” replied Lady Berriedale, emphatically, lowering her voice a little, but its high-pitched quality still striking terror into the embarrassed girl beside her. “Now you are talking rank nonsense. All men like that ‘sort of thing,’ as you call it, when they are in love. Do you mean to tell me that you don’t let your fiancé kiss you when you are alone and—”

“Beatrice,” implored the distracted girl, “for Heaven’s sake don’t talk like that! He will hear you—”

“It doesn’t matter if he does. Isma, don’t be so absurd. I never heard anything like it. You are really most unnatural! When you are engaged to a man you certainly ought to allow him a lover’s privileges. It is cruel not to. Now don’t try to interrupt me all the time. Do you know the best thing to cure you of this silly shyness,” she added, with a flash of mischief in her dark eyes, “would be for me to ask your lover to kiss you here before me—”

There was a movement at the other end of the room. Falcon had risen and looked out of the window, contemplating the weather thoughtfully.

“Isma, if you are ready, I think we had better make a start. I have one or two things I must attend to before dinner. I believe this dry weather is going to last for ages,” he added, joining the ladies.

The girl rose quickly and left the room.

When she had gone Lady Berriedale said: “Isma will be glad to get away from me this afternoon. I have been lecturing her and she did not like it. On the way home you might ask her what I was scolding her about, I believe you will agree with me on the subject. But,” she continued, in a different tone, “I am afraid I have been horribly selfish keeping Isma so much with me. However, now that I am better you must assert your rights and see more of her; you have been far too kind and generous! Now I am going to suggest that you have her to yourself to-morrow; then you can take her out and have a good time together.”

On the way home Falcon did not ask Isma any questions about the lecture; he was rather more silent than usual. He had evidently not heard the embarrassing conversation, for he did not make the slightest reference to it, and his companion was greatly relieved. Not till they approached The Palms did he tell Isma that Lady Berriedale had suggested he should take her for a trip the following day, and added: “You have been in the house far too much lately; it will do you good to have a day in the open air. So may I call for you to-morrow morning?”

It seemed impossible to refuse, for Beatrice would be sure to ask when next they met if they had been out together, and if she had not it would only rouse her friend’s suspicion afresh. So she accepted the invitation and arranged that Falcon should call for her soon after breakfast the following day.

VI THE FLAME GOD

“ARE you quite sure you would like the same run we did before?” asked Captain Folkestone, when he and his cousin left The Palms the next morning.

“Yes. It was so beautiful. I should like a whole day exactly like the last one.”

“Exactly like it?” he inquired. “Don’t you think we might improve on it to-day?”

“I am afraid that is impossible.”

“Why it was only spring then; now it is summer.”

“Would that make any difference?”

“Certainly, for spring is only the promise; summer is the fulfilment.”

Isma did not answer, but looked doubtfully into the white haze quivering over the road.

Last time she and Falcon had driven this way together they had both been exuberantly happy; they had talked freely and looked at each other with shiny eyes. It was spring then. Nature had throbbed with vital life; it had been so gay, so irresponsible, so youthfully joyous, and she and her companion had been joyous, too. Hope had pulsated through her being. She had loved sitting next to her cousin while they were whirled into the radiant sunlight. Of course she still loved being beside him, yet there was a terrible difference in her feelings to-day, for there was no hope in her heart; youth and spring seemed to have died out of her life. Since that other delicious day together ghastly things had happened, and among them there was the farcical engagement to the man beside her. Now she knew for certainty that he did not care. He had made that quite clear on the afternoon when they had entered the meaningless bond; there could be no hope of happiness for her now.

Still, as she gazed into the illumined atmosphere the sorrow in her soul lightened.

It was a typical Australian summer day, both ethereal, mystically unreal, and at the same time throbbing with a sensuous, vital life. The golden sunlight of spring had ripened into the white radiance of summer, a radiance which had condensed into haze and hung shimmering over the road, between trees and bushes, as if it were a living, palpable thing.

“It is going to be very hot to-day,” observed Falcon, after a short pause. “I hope you will not mind.”

“No, not at all. I love the heat,” replied the girl, looking dreamily at the cliffs half hidden by the wistaria-tinted gossamer veil of summer.

Through the glimmering haze the sun peered down on the earth, its face strained and white with vehement intensity.

Isma looked up toward the pallid ball of fire and caught her breath a little. Yes, summer was the mysterious fulfilment of spring. The gay, hilarious season of youth had matured into this tense, pale thing. There was no light-hearted laughter in summer, no mischievous banter, no childish glee, but there were blinding heat, unswerving purpose, blazing passion.

Isma breathed more quickly. Summer held deeper joys than spring. She had never understood summer before. However, she was beginning to understand it now.

A strange elation began to stir within her. Sorrow and trouble fell away; there was no room for sadness in this vast whiteness. But there was room for joy. She was all at once aware that a fiery joy burned everywhere about her. It was not an exuberant, buoyant gladness, but a still, concentrated ecstasy, so fierce that it had blanched the earth and made it gasp by its violent intensity.

The day was passionately virile, it was pale with emotion, yet audaciously triumphant!

Isma felt its hot, tenacious life, and as she became aware of it, it seemed as if its trembling fingers touched chords in her being which had not been touched before.

She was suddenly conscious that she had been waiting as winter waits, as spring waits, and now all at once summer had come to her, bringing with it this luminous heat, breathless excitement, and luxuriant maturity. She felt something within her expand and enlarge, as life expands and enlarges under the powerful rays of the sun. What an extraordinary effect summer had on her to-day! It thrilled her and filled her with a peculiar anticipation.

She and the man she loved were going out together into this white beauty of the sun. They were going into the fiery radiance. They would be alone in the world which was heated and set throbbing by the great Flame God riding in majestic insolence through the burnished heavens! It was wonderful! The thought that Falcon did not care for her did not trouble her now. It was cast into the background, pushed out of sight, and with her was only the consciousness that she was near him, that they were speeding together into the burning splendor of summer!

They had driven in silence for some miles, but the silence between them held no embarrassment now; rather it appeared to hold a mute understanding. It seemed as if barriers, reserves, and the terrible constraint their empty engagement had caused had vanished and that they were now free to enjoy the long day which lay before them.

And what would this summer day bring?

Surely it could not pass without laying some gift at their feet. It was too vital, too richly laden with mystic treasures, for that!

Isma glanced again at the pulsating splendor enveloping the distant hills, half veiling the sea, descending on breakers and headlands, penetrating jungles, caressing leaves and flowers, folding trees in smothering embraces, and lying, panting and mute, on crescent beaches.

“Isma, what are you thinking about?” asked her companion, at last.

“I don’t know that I was thinking at all,” she replied. “I have just—lived.”

“Lived? What have you lived?”

“I am not sure, but just—summer.”

Her cousin glanced at her quickly. “Summer is the time when nature lives its hottest, its intensest, life. Were you living like that just now?” There was a peculiar quiet in his tone like the breathless quiet around them.

“One could not help it—to-day.”

“Isma”—he bent toward her—“I want us both to live like that to-day.”

“Yes,” she answered, with averted face and a curious softness in her voice.

For a while they sped on without speaking. It was exquisite to fly together through the illumined spaces by the glimmering, half-hidden sea!

After a time they left the coast-line and turned inland, dashing through great stretches of sun-bleached country, which gleamed in the fierce light like wastes of shimmering stars.

“Our sun-bleached Australia!” murmured the girl, her eyes on the creamy white plains. “Green fields are very good to look at, only they always seem to me very earthy and substantial. These,” she pointed to the grass-covered flats, “look so ethereal and spiritual—as if they were all soul.”

“Their greenness had been consumed by the sun. They are bleached with the pallor of death. Summer has done that.”

“Yes, I know the sun’s power can be terrible as well as beautiful. Still, it seems to me there is something grand about this bleaching into ethereal whiteness.” She spoke with exaltation. To her it appeared just then wonderful to be consumed by the hot passion of the sun. It seemed to her that the devouring heat was cleansing, that it had power to purify and make spiritual.

Her companion turned and looked at her. “You really think so?”

She did not meet his glance. “I do.”

He sighed a little. “You evidently don’t know how it can—hurt.”

She looked away into the luminous haze.

Not know how it could hurt—how little he understood! Was not her heart like these great sun-bleached plains, parched, laid waste by scorching powers! But she was not sorry; to-day she felt strangely glad because of it. It seemed a superb thing to be dominated by, wholly yielding to, these fiery emotions!

The elation within her increased. It was wonderful to feel her whole being aflame with the fire which burned in the dazzling splendor about her! And the warmth in her was all for the man beside her. She felt herself opening out to him in a new, extraordinary way, as if she had all at once received a wonderful gift for loving. She was nothing but love, every part of her a burning cinder, body and soul one leaping flame of love! Everything else had fallen away from her; the past was forgotten, the future did not exist; all beings save the man at her side had been wiped off the face of the earth; only Falcon and her great love lived; she herself did not exist any more except as one big, blazing fire.

The mortification she had felt before because of her emotion had died out of her heart. There was no need of shame for this exalted thing; she wondered now that she could ever have felt shame because of this heat that purified, that burned away not only selfishness, but the whole of the self-life with its detailed sordid smallness. It was something to revel in, feel proud of, even if the man she cared for should have discovered its existence.

But the more she was subjected to this immense power the more she was conscious that it would bring greater suffering into her life. It must bring deepest sorrow. Falcon did not love her, would never really care. She would have to love alone, suffer alone, feel parched with her need of him.

Still, even with this anguish staring her in the face, she was unspeakably glad she loved him. No thought of future pain could daunt her elation now.

They had turned toward the coast again, and all at once Falcon stopped the car.

“Look!” he cried; “there is a rifle-bird on that low branch over there,” and he leaned over Isma and directed her gaze to a bird the size of a magpie sitting on a low bough close to the road.

“Oh, isn’t it lovely!” exclaimed the girl, in an excited undertone so as not to frighten the gorgeous, timid thing. “I have never seen one before.”

“It is one of our birds of paradise.”

“What a wonderful black! It is like the richest plush and satin rolled into one, and look how it gleams fiery purple and emerald green—”

The bird suddenly moved from under some shading leaves into the opening, and the half-veiled sunlight fell on its plumes. It preened its feathers, opened and shut its wings, its luster varying with each new movement from a red metallic purple to the richest shades of green, and each riotous hue a mere ethereal sheen on its plushy black plumage.

Then, uttering a strange note, the winged thing of color and velvet flew away.

When Falcon had started the engine again he said, “Isma, do you know it is a good omen to see a bird of paradise?”

“Is it? Why?”

“Because it indicates you are close to—Eden.”

“Summer is generally close to Paradise, isn’t it?”

“Yes, except when it takes the wrong turning and leads to—drought.”

“It very often seems to do that. Still, if one has had the beauty of summer even for a little while, one oughtn’t to mind about the drought—afterward.” There was strong conviction in her voice.

“I quite agree with you—only, when Eden is so close, why not go straight on and reach it?”

“If it were possible, yes.”

“Isma, it is possible, and I hope to prove it to you before the day is over.” He spoke with sudden earnestness.

She looked away into the bush. What did he mean? Could he know what Paradise meant to her? Perhaps he only thought it meant giving her an enjoyable day!

However, it did not matter. Nothing mattered but being with him, being together, speeding into summer, losing themselves in the filmy haze which enveloped the hills, the bush, the sea, the breakers, and made all seem peculiarly soft and unreal.

Then through the veil of heat the hotel where they were to lunch appeared, the morning had already passed.

Captain Folkestone stopped the motor and once more they made their way into the quaint, long dining-room to the small table where they had sat before, which was now decorated with greeny-white flannel-flowers.

Isma took her seat as in a dream. Still, her dreamy state did not last long, for now when she sat opposite her cousin, when he looked full into her face and she met the strong light in his eyes, the elated loftiness she had felt out in the dense sunlight vanished. She became human again. Little things returned to her life. She was conscious of embarrassment once more. One look from Falcon could set her face aflame and make her strangely, sweetly confused. It had been glorious to feel the exaltation dominating her during the morning, but it was even more exquisite to realize how Falcon’s every glance, his movements, the least inflection of his voice, affected her. During the drive she had been wholly absorbed by her love for him; now she was wholly dominated by himself, and her joy was intensified.

After dinner they drove farther north till they reached the beach they had visited before.

They walked along the sand, looking for the spot where they had rested on their previous outing. It was not long before they found it. However, this time they went higher up among the sand-dunes in the shade of a thicket of bottle-brushes.

Isma did not want to lie down, but sat leaning against a sand-bank, while her companion threw himself down close beside her. He lay on his side, gazing at her with intent blue eyes.

She had thrown back her long, golden veil, and her hair, under the wide brim of her black hat, looked weighted with gold; her skin, fair as the petals of white magnolia-flowers, was strangely radiant, and her eyes, very golden in the suffused brightness, burned with a dazzling intensity. She seemed curiously, vitally alive as the day was fiercely, hotly alive.

She sat with her hands clasped round her knees, looking at the incoming waves breaking languidly on the shore.

The haze had thickened. It shut out the horizon, the hills and bush, everything, except the immediate foreground, and it gave the man and woman on the sands a sense of being peculiarly isolated and alone. Through the dense layers of gossamer the sun burned down with violent persistence, all the more powerful, perhaps, because the Fire God was entirely obscured from view and attacked from its safe fort in the heavens.

“Isma, tell me,” said Falcon, after a lengthy pause, “are you not happier to-day than you were—last time we were here?”

The girl began to sift the sand through her fingers. “Yes, I think so.”

“I wonder why?”

“I suppose because it is—summer.”

“Not because of—anything else?”

“Isn’t that enough? Summer means so much.”

“I wonder what it really means to you?”

She smiled as she picked up another handful of sand and allowed it to trail slowly back to the beach.

“Could one explain?”

“I think you could if you tried.”

She made no reply, and her companion, still regarding her intently, began to play with one end of her long veil.

After a while he released the silken texture, moved restlessly, and, turning over on his back, lay for some time with closed eyes.

Isma could feast her eyes on him now. She loved looking at his well-cut features, his firm but tender mouth, the resolute chin, his delightful hair. He was so close to her she could have stretched out her hand and touched him—if only she had the right! A great stillness crept into her soul, a wonderful awe. If only their engagement had been real, then at this very moment she might have— But her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden smile curving the well-formed lips she was watching.

“Falcon, why are you smiling?” she asked, the sense of the intimacy which might have been still strong upon her.

He looked up at her quickly.

“Would you really like to know?”

“Yes. You looked as if your thoughts were interesting.”

“They were, I assure you,” he replied, the twinkle still in his eyes.

“Then tell me.”

He turned on his side again, facing her. “I was just wondering what would have happened if Lady Berriedale had carried out her threat yesterday afternoon—”

For a moment the girl did not stir. Yesterday was so far away it almost seemed as if it had not been. Whatever did Falcon refer to? She glanced at him wonderingly. “What—threat?” she asked, a sudden instinctive fear sending the blood to her cheeks.

“Why, the threat Lady Berriedale made, when I stood up and rescued you by asking if you were ready to go home— Have you forgotten so soon?”