For a while the cousins were silent again, listening to the liquid
notes dropping into the velvet-green stillness.
At last Falcon set the engine throbbing once more as he said:
“I wonder if, after all, the thing we pursue most ardently, most
persistently, does not in the end turn out to be a--will-o’-the-wisp--?”
“If it happens to be as unreliable as the notes of a bell-bird!”
replied the girl, laughing his sudden gravity away.
“I wonder if it is?” he said, turning to her.
But the girl made no reply. She was watching a box-tree they were
passing just then, covered with clematis, the long, frail trailers
foaming with soft creamy blossoms and hanging inert and motionless in
the brilliant sunlight.
After they had left the forest the road took them through a huge
mangrove swamp alive with nesting birds, and when that was left behind
the sea came into view again. Close to the heavy track lay large mounds
of drift sand, some covered with bunches of stiff grass and others
nakedly glimmering in the noon sunlight. On solitary beaches foaming
breakers curled up on the wet forget-me-not-tinted sand.
The car went on. At times it crashed through thickets of great
bottle-brushes aflame with orange-colored cones, and stretches of
lillypilly which reached out branches laden with mauve, pink, and
white berries to detain the travelers. But the motor plodded onward.
It passed through jungles of ti-tree, the tall stems with their
paper-like bark appearing like skeletons seen in moonlight, and their
fine network of branches looking like herring-bones and seeming oddly
incapable of supporting the thick pads of dark-green foliage growing at
their extreme ends.
All too quickly the morning passed away and lunch-time found Isma and
Falcon at the small hotel where he had ordered their meal.
It was a wooden place built in bungalow style, with large overhanging
verandas.
The landlady took the visitors into the dining-room and asked them to
sit at a small table decorated with purple bush-lilies.
Another motor party had arrived before them and were already having
their dinner at a large table at the other side of the room.
Isma looked radiant as she sat opposite her cousin, talking brightly.
The reserve between them had vanished, and there was a new gladness in
Captain Folkestone’s eyes the girl had not seen there before. He was
generally vivacious, but the brightness just then was something quite
apart from his usual brilliance and had a strange, stimulating effect
on her. He watched her intently as she chatted and laughed, showing her
white, dazzling teeth and changing color in her vivid animation.
After all, was Lord Berriedale to blame for losing his head so
completely before such confusing loveliness! Falcon glanced at her
again. He did not seem able to keep his eyes from her--and Isma always
wore such becoming hats. The one she had on just then made her look
perfectly bewildering, and there seemed to be an occult league between
its rich silk lining nestling so softly against her yellow hair and the
rose tints in her cheeks.
“How very discontented that lady looks over there at the other table!”
remarked Isma, when they had finished their first course. “I wonder
why?”
“Most likely because she has everything she wants.”
“That is a strange reason for being discontented, surely.”
“It is the usual one.”
“Perhaps so. I see you are a keen observer, Falcon.”
The man looked long at the girl opposite him before saying, “On the
same principle, I suppose you cannot have all you want, as you look so
far from unhappy?”
The golden-gray eyes met his. “Perhaps I haven’t--”
“I wonder what it is you--want,” he queried, after a slight hesitation,
“and if I--could give it to you?”
“How generous of you to think of such a thing!” she replied, a little
embarrassed, looking out of one of the windows at a lake shimmering in
the distance; then after some moments she changed the subject.
After lunch they went farther up the coast. By a long, quiet beach
Captain Folkestone stopped the car and they walked along the shore for
a short distance.
“Now we must have a rest,” said Falcon, surveying the scene
appreciatively. “Isn’t this a delightful spot! You are fond of sleeping
on the beach, I know,” he added, with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
She blushed under his smiling gaze.
He spread a rug for her on the sloping sand and she lay down, her
hands behind her head, looking into the quivering atmosphere. Over the
horizon was a long belt of soft white clouds which were mirrored in
the scarcely stirring sea. A ship glided slowly past, drawing a long
trail of smoke after it, which hung like a narrow dark mist over the
far-away water. The waves broke languidly on the restful shore, casting
numerous pearls of white sparkling foam toward the figures basking in
the sunlight.
“Isma, have you noticed how few people we have seen to-day, and there
is not a soul in sight? We seem to have the world to ourselves.”
“Yes, it looks like that,” she replied, reflectively.
“If we had the whole world to ourselves, could you be happy?”
Some note in his voice roused her from her reverie.
“Yes, I think so, if we had the earth to ourselves, we need not be much
in each other’s way. You could have one hemisphere and I the other.”
The man broke off a long stalk of grass and put it between his teeth.
“I am afraid that arrangement would not suit me.”
“You are too sociable,” she teased. “You should be more fond of your
own company.”
“I have better taste--I prefer yours.”
“Now you flatter me!”
“Is truth ever flattery? But,” he harked back, “tell me, would you
be happy if we were alone in this beautiful world, not on different
hemispheres, but much closer?”
“That depends,” she replied, guardedly.
“On what?”
“On several things, one of them on the way you treated me.”
He rolled over on his side so that he faced her.
“Isma, how should I have to treat you so that--well--you wouldn’t be
bored to death--under those circumstances?” He had been trying to speak
lightly, but had not quite succeeded.
The girl sat up and looked out to sea.
“Well, to begin with, you would have to stop hurling sarcasm and
contempt at me,” she replied, quietly, her gaze still fixed on the
ocean.
“If we were alone in the world I should not need to do that. I should
treat you _very_ differently.”
She turned a pair of laughing eyes upon him. “I wonder in what way?”
Falcon sat up, too, and edged a little closer.
“I shall not tell you that unless--”
“No--I don’t suppose you know, yourself.” Her eyes still laughed at him
beneath their long, drooping lashes.
“Don’t I! That is all you know!”
“I wonder should I like it,” she mused, in her provoking banter.
“Ah, that is just the point--if I could only be sure--” he replied,
with a slight sigh as he lay back on the sand once more and looked into
the azure dome above, a strange gravity in his eyes.
The girl turned to the sea again. She could not make any reply. Surely
Falcon was not in earnest; he had only been talking as men so often
talk when they are alone with a pretty woman? She had taken for granted
that this was the case and had accordingly given him flimsy, bantering
replies. Yet could there be a deeper meaning in his light words? Why
this sigh and his silence now? Why that intense look last night?
Her heart throbbed tumultuously. But no, he could not really be in
earnest or he would have said more. All the same, she was conscious
that her want of response had in some inexplicable way separated them;
and though later, when it was time to go, Falcon held her hand a little
longer than necessary as he helped her to rise, and though he was as
kind and concerned for her comfort as before, yet somehow she was aware
that their gay intimacy of the morning had vanished.
They had afternoon tea at the small hotel where they had lunched, and
then they turned homeward toward the rocky headlands lying misty and
dreamy in the distance.
When the road was good Falcon let the car out, and it dashed along
exuberantly through the sun-kissed spaces. He talked fitfully, but
often for long stretches of time he was curiously silent.
Half-way home they passed a series of small lakes. The lagoons were a
deep nattier-blue and on their gently sloping banks grew a profusion of
reeds and bulrushes from which came the peremptory squabble of ducks
and the prattle of other water-birds. A number of black cormorants
sat on a protruding snag, and as the car rushed by the birds flew up,
noisily flapping their long, narrow wings and protesting loudly at
being disturbed.
On the last lake near the shining line that divided the deep-blue water
from the brown stone-strewn shore a pair of large white pelicans waded
knee-deep in the liquid splash of color. One of them had its colossal
beak open in the act of swallowing a good-sized fish, while the other
went on calmly searching for prey. The birds were rare and not often
found on the coast, so Isma was glad to have seen them.
As they crossed the wide plain near The Palms Captain Folkestone slowed
down the speed and looked round with strange interest.
Some of the spider-bushes were still in blossom, and mauve orchids,
bush-lilies, and flowering shrubs bloomed in rich profusion among the
stiff sedges and grass-trees.
Presently the motor began to ascend the cliff.
When they reached the highest point on the road Falcon stopped the
engine and suggested they should get out of the car, as they could get
a better view of the beauty lying behind them.
For some moments they stood without speaking, looking over the great
plain, where the last rays of the setting sun had scarcely faded from
the flowers and bushes.
“This view always reminds me of a favorite song of mine, ‘The Little
Winding Road.’ Do you know it?” said Isma, after a pause.
“No,” he replied, still gazing at the vast scene before them. “I don’t
think I have ever heard it. Won’t you sing it?”
“I will hum it if you like.” And in her low, rich voice she began to
lilt the romantic song.
When she had finished Falcon said: “Yes, both music and words must
surely have been written for this place! But would you mind letting me
hear the second verse again?”
Her soft voice repeated the words:
“I sought for love on that road,
I saw it afar on the plain;
I followed the road
And crossed the plain
Then came to the hill again.”
A half-sigh escaped her companion. “The will-o’-the-wisp again,” he
murmured, gravely. “We see the vision on the plain, rush after it, and
find we are only confronted with--a steep hill.”
What could Falcon mean? Why did he talk like that? Was he in earnest,
after all? Ah, if only that were so, how well she would know how to
deal with him! But perhaps his thoughts had no connection with herself.
The colors in the landscape suddenly faded. Still, whatever was in his
mind, she must try and comfort him. She could not endure that sad note
in his voice.
“Oh, you must not take those words too literally. They may only be
written for effect--”
“Anyhow, it is an effect one often finds in real life,” he remarked,
turning to start the car.
As they descended the cliff the lights from the house, like yellow
stars, gleamed among the palms.
“You will come in and have some dinner, won’t you?” asked the girl,
watching the twinkling lights in the valley.
He accepted readily.
When they reached the house the first thing which caught Isma’s and
her cousin’s attention as they entered the brightly lighted hall were
two letters lying on a silver salver on the table. The girl picked
them up hastily, but the man beside her had already recognized Lord
Berriedale’s full-blooded writing on the uppermost envelop.
An instant change came over Captain Folkestone’s features; he looked
suddenly hard.
Isma stood hesitating for a moment, the brightness fading from her
cheeks and eyes; then she led the way into the sitting-room, went
over to the softly shaded lamp, and tore open the letter addressed in
Beatrice’s thin, upright hand, apologizing to her cousin for reading it
then.
It was evidently only a short note, and soon the girl put it down as
she said, “Beatrice is better; still, she is not at all well and simply
begs me to go to her to-morrow.”
With the lamplight on her face, Falcon noticed how pale she had become
and that the fingers holding the unopened letter were trembling.
“But of course you will not think of going to The Bluff after--”
Isma looked out of an open window into the dark-purple dusk for some
moments before saying, “I’m afraid I--must.”
“Isma, you can’t mean that!” His tones were stern.
“Falcon, I shall have to go to her.” There was pleading as well as
decision in her voice.
A steely look came into her cousin’s blue eyes.
“Of course if you are bent on playing about on precipices, I have
nothing more to say.” Then, picking up his cap and gloves, he added:
“If you don’t object, I think I will change my mind and not stay to
dinner, after all. Good night,” and he strode toward the open door.
“Falcon!” There was searching pain in the word.
But he did not appear to have heard the cry.
She followed him to the car. “Falcon, please try to understand. I am
not playing-- Can’t you see--?” she began, tremulously.
“Yes, I do see and I do understand,” he replied, coldly. “Your decision
makes it quite impossible to mistake your intention.” Then his manner
changed and he held out his hand with the old mocking courtesy as he
continued, “My beautiful cousin has been a most intelligent pupil in
the world’s school and has learned the advantage of money, titles, and
high position, and no doubt all she desires will come to her--soon.”
Isma did not take the proffered hand, but stood pale, erect,
motionless, her form flooded by the light from the hall.
“Good-by,” said her cousin again as he took his seat at the wheel, and
soon the throb of the receding car pulsated through the obscuring gloom.
* * * * *
As Isma mounted the stairs to her room she was strangely conscious that
for one brief day she had rambled among the sweet flowers on the plain,
and that now she had come to the uncompromising hill on the other side
of her Eden.
XI
THE FIREWEED
On the morning that Isma and her cousin were driving up the coast
Rex was sitting in the avenue in the shade of the big Moreton Bay
fig-trees, when he saw Miss Brentford coming toward him. He smiled
complacently, lighted a fresh cigarette, and settled down to enjoy
himself. Of course he knew why she was seeking him out. The news that
Isma could not come to The Bluff because Captain Folkestone claimed her
for the day would naturally have a galling effect on the jealous girl,
and she was coming to extract from him every detail of the telephone
message--he always attended to the ’phone and was therefore able to
supply her with full particulars. Also Miss Brentford wanted his
sympathy. It was a strange thing that, though the secretary never gave
sympathy, a good many people brought their troubles to him and expected
comfort, in spite of the fact that they always left him with a fresh
sting in their wounds. He was like a soft cushion with a needle in it;
just as some one laid a tired head back for a rest there came a nasty
scratch.
Miss Brentford had reached the seat, and she closed her red-silk
parasol and sat down beside him.
“Rexie,” she began, a slight pucker between her black brows, “I don’t
think Australia is nearly as nice as I thought it was going to be.”
“My dear girl, how can you find fault with this charming place! The sky
is always blue and the sun is always shining! Of course things are a
little reversed here--at home it was the sun which shirked and did not
know its business, but the servants were excellent. Here the servants
are incapable and the sun works like blazes! However, it is a most
delightful country!”
Rex had only that morning, in a letter to a chum at home, said,
“Australia is like a book without a climax, it just goes on and on
without ever coming to anything, and if it were not that dear, virtuous
Neville has such an obvious reason for being here, I should think he
had gone clean out of his mind, bringing us all to this monotonous
hole!” At the end of the letter he had added a postscript: “It may
interest you to know that we have been fortunate enough to strike the
very spot on this long coast where the beautiful Miss Folkestone has
cloistered herself. Her retreat is a most idyllic place among clumps
of palms, and it has no iron gates barring the way, so she is very
approachable and administers her presence freely to her dull neighbors,
and I must say she is most generous to us at The Bluff.”
The secretary thought of this letter just then and smiled enigmatically.
The girl jerked her parasol impatiently. “Australia delightful! I think
it is hopelessly stupid. It is as boring as people with a sense of
humor!”
Her companion sat up straight with a shocked expression on his face.
“Now you are talking rank heresy, you are indeed going pell-mell
against all our modern notions of excellence! Why, don’t you know
that a sense of humor is the most popular virtue of to-day? In the
old times it used to be, ‘The greatest of these is love,’ but we
twentieth-century people read it, ‘The greatest of these is a sense
of humor!’ So how on earth can you object to people who possess this
supreme modern grace?”
The girl shrugged. “People with a sense of humor are always wanting to
display it, in and out of season. They are obsessed with it, like a
person with a grievance or an old lady with her ailments. Anyhow,” she
went on, in a different tone, “isn’t it frightfully dull here!”
The man beside her looked concerned. “Miss Rita, if you are really
tired of the place and would like to go back, it could easily be
arranged. I would cable--”
“Rex, don’t be so silly! How could I leave just now!” she exclaimed,
kicking a small stone viciously with the point of her low-cut shoe.
“It certainly would be very--unwise.”
“Unwise--it would be heartless when my sister is so ill!” she said,
drawing herself up.
“Ah yes, Lady Berriedale, of course--for the moment my thoughts went in
another direction.”
Miss Brentford blushed at his bluntness; however, she was too much
disturbed in mind to resent it. She picked a twig from an overhanging
branch and studied the thick, dark leaves absently. Then she began very
deliberately to tear them off one by one.
“Are you saying to yourself, ‘he loves me, he loves me not’?” suggested
Rex, with a provoking smile.
The girl flung away the bare stalk. “Rex, you are perfectly hateful
to-day. I am not a school-girl any longer; you are apt to forget that.
Besides, I am not in love.”
“I thought all girls were in love!”
“That is because you don’t know anything about them.”
“No, perhaps not. Well, will you come and have a game of tennis?”
But Miss Brentford had not come out to play tennis.
“No, thank you, it is too hot for that sort of thing. Rex,” she
continued, in a different voice, “do you think things come right in
real life the way they always do in books?”
“Great Christopher! no! That is why books are so much more popular than
reality. They give people what they want and reality never does.”
“Do you really believe that?”
The secretary took out his gold cigarette-case, very deliberately
selected another cigarette, and lighted it before replying. “Of course.
Look round for yourself and see. Do people like to sit down and watch
what goes on round them? No, because if they did it would give them the
blues! Everybody, all the world over, tries to run away from reality.
We all try to forget it exists. That is why we play cards, gamble, go
to races, dance, flirt, attend picture-shows, pay our last pound for
a seat at the opera--all to forget the horrid, brutal thing we call
reality.”
The girl frowned. She did not want philosophical discussion just then.
“Rex,” she said, plunging straight into the subject she had wished to
reach all the time, “did Captain Folkestone really say he was going
to--take his cousin out for the day?”
“Not in so many words. Still, I am sure that is what he means to do.
What a lovely day they will have for their outing! It is just made for
romance and love-making, especially out here in these lonely places
where--”
“He has not taken her out to make love to her,” interrupted Rita,
digging the point of her parasol savagely into the ground.
“What else is he doing it for?” asked the man, with his most suave air.
“Why, he has to take his cousin out sometimes. It is merely his duty.”
“Duty!” smiled Rex, meaningly. “He might pay her duty visits lasting
exactly half an hour while he swallows a cup of tea; but when a man
wants to spend a whole day with a woman there is generally no duty
about it. He does it for pleasure or, more correctly, because he means
business and--”
“But I tell you he doesn’t like her.” The girl cut him sharp. “Haven’t
you noticed that he never talks to her when they are here together--?”
“No, he doesn’t talk to her, but he looks.”
“How absurd you are! I have never seen him glance at her except in the
coldest way.”
“He is too much a man of the world to carry his heart on his sleeve.
However, watch him when he thinks himself unobserved. Why, he looks at
her then as if he would like to elope with her the next moment.”
“Rex, you are dreaming!” cried Rita, in exasperation, and, forgetting
herself for an instant, she went on, hotly: “I will not allow it. She
shall not have him--she shall not!”
“My dear Miss Rita, for goodness’ sake keep calm. Don’t excite yourself
on this warm day. It is truly most injurious. Besides, what difference
can it make to you if he wants to marry his lovely cousin? You are
not in love with him, not in love with any one, so it can’t hurt you.
I always find it such a good plan never to get excited about other
people’s affairs. It saves an awful lot of nerve fag. Leave them to it,
I say.”
“Leave them to it, indeed!” The girl was growing frantic. “Do you think
I am going to allow a splendid man like that to be taken in by an
unscrupulous woman--?”
“I wouldn’t bother myself about that if I were you. It is too hot out
here for such exertion. Anyhow, Miss Folkestone is only playing with
him. He will never be able to marry her for--she would never have him.”
“Not have him! Oh, Rex, you must be going dotty. Why, it is the very
thing she has been aiming at all the time! And haven’t you noticed how
strained and different she seems when he comes into a room?”
“That is only part of the game.”
“Part of the game! Why--”
“Why, indeed! You would surely think he was good enough for her. Most
other girls would accept him readily enough, but the wise and prudent
Miss Folkestone has higher ambitions. She knows where to aim.”
“Rex, what _do_ you mean?” Rita leaned forward and looked into her
companion’s face with half-relieved anxiety.
“My dear girl, it is not for me to give a beautiful woman away. You are
pretty observant, why don’t you see for yourself?”
Just then their conversation was interrupted as Lord and Lady
Berriedale came down the avenue toward them.
The secretary rose and Lady Berriedale sat down on the seat he had
just vacated, a little breathless from her walk.
“Rita,” commenced the elder woman, watching her husband and Rex walk
farther down the avenue, “Neville and I have just been talking of
having a house-party. We ought to return the hospitality shown us in
Sydney. The governor and Lady Carson were awfully good to us the week
we stayed with them. We certainly ought to entertain them here. The
Bluff is big enough to hold a good many people and we could give them
an enjoyable time.”
“My dear Beatrice, they would be bored to death. What on earth could we
do with them?”
“We would give a big dance one night; so many of the squatters about
have called; they all have cars and could come to the ball and we could
have a good number. It would be no trouble to us; the caterers can do
all the work. Another day we can have a picnic; the men can fish, and
the women, too, if they like. We can take them to that lovely river
where you went a little while ago. I am sure they would enjoy it.
Neville and I were thinking it would be a good idea to arrange it for
the next full moon, and he is going to write to the governor to see if
that time would suit him and Lady Carson.”
“But Beatrice,” remonstrated her sister, “it would be far too much for
you, entertaining all those people. Talking a lot always exhausts you,
and even with caterers to do the work you will have to supervise, and
that is very tiring, and you know I am no good at that sort of thing.”
“I am going to ask Isma to come and stay with us for those days and do
that part of it for me.”
“Always that Miss Folkestone! Whatever can you see in such an icicle?”
said the girl, glancing sullenly down at the black-silk sash on her
parasol.
“Now, Rita,” began Lady Berriedale, gently but firmly, “don’t let us
open that subject again. We have discussed it quite enough already. You
know how I feel about Isma, and you ought not to grudge me the pleasure
her friendship gives me. I believe you only dislike her because you are
jealous.”
“Jealous--” shrugged, the girl, disdainfully. “What is there to be
jealous about?”
“Never mind, only, Rita, don’t ever say anything against her to me,
and, while talking on the subject, I wish you to be pleasant to her.
Remember you are in my house and you must be civil to my guests.”
Miss Brentford flushed angrily. “Very well, I will try to remember that
in your house I am called upon to be nice to women, even of that kind,”
and as she rose she added, “Perhaps you would like me to take you back
now.”
“No, thank you. I will wait here till Neville comes.”
“Poor little Rita is jealous of my beautiful Isma,” mused Lady
Berriedale to herself as she watched the girl’s red parasol
disappearing among the trees. “Such a pity she cannot conquer that
feeling of dislike; it makes her look so small and childish.”
XII
BURSTING BUBBLES
As Isma stepped into the purple car the following afternoon one little
word _lost--lost--lost!_ hammered in upon her consciousness as the
breakers thudded in upon the sand.
Falcon had gone out of her life and would never come back. For a
brief moment he had begun to believe in her and had shown signs of
being strongly attracted to her; however, by deciding on the present
course of action she had destroyed his faith in her. Honor stood above
everything with him. He would have nothing but contempt for crooked
dealings and sordid conduct. In his eyes she stood branded once more.
He did not understand the sacrifice. To him she appeared merely an
ambitious woman unscrupulous enough-- She straightened suddenly in the
motor and a burning wave of humiliation surged through her.
She looked out on the sea imploringly as if pleading with it to rescue
her, while the syllable _lost--lost_ dinned itself with bursting force
into her sore heart. Falcon had been insulting, she was angry with
him, and yet--anger and love fought desperately in her soul.
She glanced down over the rocks and saw glimmering emerald waves
swelling high round the stones and heard the heaving splash of the
gulping water. Above it circled sea-gulls uttering loud, fierce cries;
one swooped across the road and spread its silver wings for a moment
over the girl leaning wearily against the mauve cushions in the car,
then it gave a horrible shriek and flew away.
Isma shivered in the warm sunshine.
For her all sunlight had faded; she was in cold darkness, and the
future held nothing but a gaping emptiness.
The machine had passed the rocks and was now skirting a great beach
where snow-crested breakers thundered in upon the sand.
Was that not the way generation after generation had been hurled in
upon life, peopling its shores with sparkling foam-souls, iridescent
bubbles that twinkled in the sunlight for a moment and then vanished
as quickly as they had come, while new waves cast new foam upon the
sands? Yes, that was life! A frail little bubble thrust in upon the
strand, gleaming and glittering for a few seconds and then suddenly
bursting--was it into nothing?
Isma looked on the waves again. She saw how discolored the pure foam
became as it lurched against the dark-tinted beach. Life was sordid.
The souls hurled on its shores became terribly discolored, but--what
about the little bursting bubbles, did they completely vanish? Was
their tiny sparkle only a flash which disappeared into a hollow void to
be no more?
Along the shore a white mist had gathered over the waves and rose
slowly higher and higher in the glowing afternoon sunshine.
The girl watched it half absently. So the bubbles had not vanished into
nothing! They had risen, and were now set free from the cruel battering
and crushing on the hard beach. They had been purified from the ugly,
earthly discoloration and were mounting white, spiritlike, into the
wide, clear vault of blue.
Isma sighed. “If I might but be free from the sordid battering on the
sand!” she murmured. “If only--”
The car had swung up the last hill near The Bluff; in a few minutes it
would be turning into the drive leading to the house.
By the roadside grew a number of gum-trees; some of them looked very
worn and ragged and their leaves drooped like bundles of faded green
threads. A flock of parrots flew up from some of the lower branches and
darted with shrill screams past the motor, their breasts flaming red
against the brilliant azure sky.
Isma started.
More alarming shrieks! Had the birds come to warn her? Was she really
on dangerous ground--so dangerous that not even the most virtuous
strength could protect her there? And yet could there be real peril to
herself? To her reputation and interest it certainly meant ruin, she
knew that; however, that was the cruel renunciation she was called on
to make for her dying friend. She was willing to lay all upon the altar
which might be laid there, without staining her womanhood. Still, was
the path she was treading really perilous to her honor? Lord Berriedale
had gone to greater lengths two days ago than ever before; he had never
previously lost control of his feelings to that extent, and if Falcon
had not come when he did--
She paled at the thought.
But had she not received a humble letter of apology from Lord
Berriedale that morning, assuring her that what had taken place the
last afternoon she was at The Bluff should not be repeated, as he had
himself in hand again? He begged her to forgive him, and if she could
not do so at once, at least not to vent her anger on his frail wife by
depriving the invalid of her cheering presence. Lord Berriedale had
made no excuses for himself, simply pleading that her cold aloofness
had driven him to desperation and momentarily he had given way to
his emotions. However, he promised that in the future all should be
different. There was an air of sincerity about the letter which made
her feel that she could venture to go to The Bluff again if she were
specially careful not to be alone with him.
When she arrived at the house Beatrice was sitting on the veranda,
eagerly waiting to tell her of the plans they had made for the
house-party.
“But,” expostulated Isma when she had heard about the new scheme, “that
would be far too much for you. Even with all the help you can get from
caterers and others you would still have to look after everything
yourself.”
Lady Berriedale took one of the girl’s hands and looked at her
pleadingly. “Isma, that is just what I am going to ask you to do. Come
and stay here and--” She stopped abruptly, for Isma had suddenly turned
white and a look of anguish had come into the golden-gray eyes.
“Isma, whatever is the matter with you? Are you not well? Would you
like some wine?”
“No, no, I am all right, thank you--” she stammered, struggling for
calmness, the color gradually coming back to her cheeks again.
“Dearest, you did frighten me so. I really thought you were going to
faint.”
The girl assured her she was better and Lady Berriedale repeated her
request. “Isma, you will come and stay here and help me, won’t you?”
Her companion looked agitated again. “Beatrice, I will help you as much
as I can, but I cannot come and stay here--that is _quite_ impossible.
I have left Miss Livingston so much, when she came to live with me in
that lonely place she understood I should be there. In the daytime it
doesn’t matter being away, but I really could not ask her to spare me
at night.”
“But of course, dear, she must come and stay here, too. She will enjoy
a little change and seeing all these people.”
“No, really, Beatrice, she doesn’t like being with a lot of strangers.
She would so much rather be quiet.” The girl was making a frantic
effort to escape from the new danger confronting her.
“Still, she could be quiet here, too. I can give her a room in the
south wing, and she need not see any of the other people unless she
likes. Now, Isma, surely you can arrange just for those few days!”
“Truly, Beatrice, I cannot,” replied the girl, with a troubled yet
strangely determined expression in her eyes.
Lady Berriedale drew herself up and a dark flush spread over her sallow
face. “Of course if you _won’t_ come that settles the matter. I shall
not ask you again,” she answered, icily.
“Beatrice!” The name came as a cry of pain.
But the invalid did not relax. “I don’t think friendship is much good
if it is not practical. You are always so unwilling to do me favors.
When I asked you to come to me every day I had to plead and implore.
You showed the same disinclination to be with me then. If you really
cared, you would want to come to me and prove your love in _practical_
ways.”
Prove her love in practical ways! Good Heavens! hadn’t she made
sacrifices enough? Hadn’t she given all her happiness to the woman who
regarded her so coldly now?
She sank down on her knees and buried her face on her friend’s narrow
lap. “Beatrice, you cannot realize what you are saying--you don’t know
what you are asking,” she murmured, between half-stifled sobs.
Lady Berriedale was suddenly seized with a fit of coughing. The girl
was on her feet instantly, her arms round the emaciated form which was
shaken ruthlessly by the fierce paroxysm.
When the attack had passed the patient lay back in her chair, exhausted
and worn. She put a lace handkerchief to her lips, and when she removed
it there were bright red stains upon the linen fabric.
The girl looked at her companion in sudden fear, then she whispered,
remorsefully: “Beatrice, I am so sorry to have excited and vexed you.
Do forgive me? Of course I will come and stay here and do anything you
want.”
Lady Berriedale was mollified. She pressed the fair head to her bosom
and kissed the soft round cheeks with her feverish lips.
When Isma drove home that evening she sat motionless and cold in the
car. The net had tightened about her; struggling was useless. She was
like a bird which had beaten impetuous wings against imprisoning meshes
till at last, bleeding and exhausted, it lay crushed in the relentless
snare.
A few days later Lord Berriedale received a letter from the governor
saying he and Lady Carson would be delighted to spend a day or two at
The Bluff.
Other invitations were then quickly sent out for the house-party and
ball, and preparations were commenced immediately.
“I do hope all this will not be too much for you,” said Isma one day
when she and her friend had spent a busy morning making arrangements
for the coming functions. The girl did all in her power to save the
invalid trouble, but of course she had to talk everything over with her
before making any final decisions.
Lady Berriedale smiled. “With your splendid help I am sure it will not
hurt me, and I am so much better, you know.”
“I wish you had not tired of the quiet so soon,” sighed her companion.
“I tired of the quiet! I should never do that. I could live here
always with just you and Neville! But of course we have to return the
hospitality given us in Sydney, and another thing, I think Neville is a
little dull. He tries to hide it from me and pretends he does not miss
the gay life at home; still, he cannot deceive me. He has become so
grave lately and so absent-minded. This is certainly very comfortable
and nice; still, it is not home, and he is used to clubs and having
crowds of people about him. I am afraid this is boring him. Of course
he is so delightfully good and patient and never complains. Still, I
know he only came out here on my account, though he tries to make out
he came to please himself--so dear and sweet of him!”
Isma had risen and stood looking out of the window over the plains,
with her back to the room.
The last three weeks had been easier than she expected. Lord Berriedale
had kept his word. He had not tried to be alone with her nor by look
or word embarrassed her; in fact, he had treated her with courteous
indifference and had almost gone out of his way to avoid her.
Falcon, too, had left her severely alone. Though he was constantly at
The Bluff, he rigidly avoided all conversation with her, and when it
was necessary to speak to her he did it as briefly as possible. There
was no doubt about his attitude. He had lost all respect for her and
was now in a cool, passionless way giving himself up to humor Miss
Brentford and becoming the gallant attendant she so ardently desired.
Isma was not staying at The Bluff yet, but spent all her time there.
However, the day after to-morrow the visitors from Sydney would arrive,
and then it would be necessary for her to be in the house, arranging
everything for Beatrice and helping to entertain the guests.
As she went about her daily duties she was utterly unconscious that a
pair of dark, hostile eyes watched her constantly. The secretary’s
words had gone home and the jealous girl wondered perplexedly who
the man could be her enemy wished to capture. It could not be
Captain Folkestone, for Rex had said she aimed higher, and Rex was
a shrewd man and rarely missed the mark in his observations. The
only man of higher rank than the soldier in the neighborhood was her
brother-in-law, and of course it could not be he; yet, who could it be?
She watched carefully, for it would be most interesting to find out
Miss Folkestone’s secret. It was a good thing her attention was fixed
in another direction, for then she, Rita, could have the delightful
Captain Folkestone to herself.
But who could the mysterious man be, she wondered continually as
she observed her sister’s friend, who seemed wholly absorbed by her
devotion to the invalid.
XIII
THE BALL
The night of the dance had come. The long avenue leading to The Bluff
was lined with motors, and uniformed chauffeurs strolled up and down
smoking and talking under the great Moreton Bay fig-trees.
The house was ablaze with lights and the many windows flung out a
yellow, agitated radiance which lost itself in the soft moonlit spaces.
The strains of haunting music floated out into the garden and blended
in exotic sweetness with the heavy perfume of the flowers.
A broad red carpet lay over the stone steps before the front door, and
in the wide hall dainty, gossamer-clad figures flittered to and fro
with their partners.
The large ball-room was thronged with dancers, and its walls lined with
numerous spectators who were watching the brilliant scene and the gay
movement of the fox-trot.
On the dais, beautifully decorated with ferns and flowering plants,
at the upper end of the room, sat Lady Carson, the governor’s wife, a
handsome woman, faultlessly gowned and flashing with diamonds, talking
to her hostess. Lady Berriedale was dressed in claret-tinted silk
and the rare old lace on her corsage was richly studded with rubies;
her thin face was glowing and her dark eyes shining with abnormal
brilliance.
As she and her companion watched the colorous stream of dancers she
remarked: “I am much struck with the grace of the Australian girl. It
is quite unique! There is no stiffness in her movements. I suppose her
healthy out-of-door life has not only made her strong, but also lithe
and graceful. When you see a room full of them like this they remind me
of a flock of their own beautiful birds.”
“Yes,” agreed the governor’s wife, “they really resemble them, and
just as some of the Australian birds are the most intelligent in the
world, so the girls here have a bright, sunny wit of their own, and
Australians, both men and women, are so resourceful in emergencies.
They can think like lightning and act almost as quickly; yet there is
not the slightest ostentatious cleverness about them. They are simple
and natural and such irresponsible, lovable dears in their every-day
life!”
“Look!” cried Lady Berriedale, suddenly interrupting the conversation
as her husband and Miss Folkestone glided past in a graceful
tango-waltz. “Don’t they look splendid and how perfectly they dance
together!”
“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed Lady Carson, with unmistakable admiration.
“They are quite the handsomest pair on the floor.”
“Doesn’t Isma look simply heavenly to-night?” went on Lady Berriedale,
enthusiastically. “She is always lovely, but to-night she is gorgeous!
Doesn’t that rainbow gown suit her with its dominant note of yellow! It
seems to blend with her hair, and it shows up the whiteness of her skin
and the exquisite color in her cheeks.”
Miss Folkestone created a sensation wherever she moved. Eyes followed
her constantly, eyes which held wonder and startled admiration. There
was a dewy freshness about her which suggested newly opened flowers,
and she seemed so strangely untouched, as if life had not been able
to mar the bloom resting on her. She wore a rainbow gown consisting
of layers of mauve turquoise and yellow-silk tulle, which shimmered
iridescent in the brilliant light, as cobwebs glitter rainbow-hued at
dawn. The dress was sleeveless, but a pair of turquoise bands on her
upper arms held wings of yellow tulle which gave the effect of sleeves
and made her look ethereal and nymph-like. The girdle was a twist of
the various tints in her gown and a similar twist ornamented her thick
yellow hair. Her slippers were golden, so were her silk stockings, and
round her soft throat lay a topaz necklet of antique design.
In the garden under an arbor of roses Fred Rex sat talking to one of
the Sydney visitors, a slim, flat-backed girl of twenty.
“Isn’t this a glorious evening--far too good to spend indoors,”
remarked the girl, glancing round the garden aquiver with white
unearthly beauty.
“Yes, it is just the kind of night made for lovers,” replied the
secretary, blandly. “Lovers are so keen on half-lights and shadows.
I suppose that is because semi-darkness harmonizes so perfectly with
their own half-lighted intelligence.”
“‘Half-lighted intelligence’!” exclaimed his companion, slightly
nettled. “Do you consider lovers semi-idiots, then?”
“I shouldn’t put it just like that. Still, it can’t be denied that
lovers never use their brains, they might as well hire them out till
after they are safely married.”
“You don’t think it takes brains to make love, then?”
“My dear Miss Alcot,” began her companion, spreading out his hands
deprecatingly, “does it take brains to do what every one else is doing?
It is only when you strike out and become original that you need
intellect.”
“But surely one could make love in an original way?”
A full-blown rose from the branches above suddenly collapsed and fell
noiselessly over the girl’s shoulder into her lap.
After Rex had helped her to pick off the dark-red petals he replied:
“Now how can a man be original in kissing a girl? There is only one way
of doing it, and the greatest fool can accomplish it as well as the
most learned professor, probably a little more effectively.”
The girl moved her small bronze-slippered feet impatiently. “You have
not very high ideals of love, Mr. Rex!”
“How could I? Falling in love is not very elevating--it is very much
the reverse.”
“What a horrid idea! I don’t like it a bit!” combated Miss Alcot.
“You speak as if it were merely my idea, but the very expression itself
shows it has a downward tendency; ‘falling’ means not only a step
downward, but even suggests groveling in the dust.”
“That is entirely your way of looking at it, Mr. Rex. The expression
conveys something quite different! The word ‘falling’ was only meant to
suggest that people may love as suddenly and unexpectedly as they may
fall, and also that in the process they frequently get--hurt. And now
after this interesting little talk I am afraid we must go back, as my
next partner will be waiting for me.”
Near the door of the conservatory stood Rita Brentford and Captain
Folkestone. The brunette was dressed in petunia-red _crêpe de Chine_;
her dull-black hair was done high and in its lusterless meshes gleamed
a number of jewels. Her vivacious face was unusually animated and her
eyes shone with starry brightness. She had never looked prettier nor
more fascinating; but as Isma and her partner glided by, Rita seemed
shriveled and insignificant by comparison.
As the dark girl caught sight of her brother-in-law and Miss Folkestone
her features stiffened.
“Don’t they look well together!” she remarked, with a little movement
of her black fan and a side-glance at her companion, who looked pale
and grave.
As she saw his face a quick pain shot through her heart and, scarcely
knowing what she said, only conscious of a desire to wound, she
continued: “Neville and your cousin are such friends! It is a good
thing my sister is not jealous--”
“Lady Berriedale is a good judge of character. She knows who she can
trust,” replied the man beside her, coldly.
“I beg your pardon, Captain Folkestone,” Miss Brentford apologized,
quickly, closing her fan with a snap. “I forgot you were cousins.”
“Pray don’t distress yourself on that account. I should have said just
the same, I assure you, had we not been related. But,” he added, in a
different voice, “perhaps you would like to have an ice now?”
The girl assented, and they walked off together to the supper-room.
Lord Berriedale had just finished his dance with Isma, and was now
talking to the governor, whom he had known at college years ago.
“And do you intend to stay on this coast all the time you are in
Australia?” asked Sir George Carson, a fine-looking clean-shaven man
with genial brown eyes and an impressive personality.
“Yes. Traveling about does not agree with Beatrice.”
“No, too much of it might not be good for her. Still, you will find the
climate on this coast very trying. The heat is so humid here. I should
imagine the Blue Mountains would suit a case of her kind far better.”
“No, I think not. I hear they have very strong westerlies up there, and
my wife hates wind.”
“Ah well, you know best. By the way, Berriedale, how does this country
strike you?”
The host’s left hand went to his mustache. “I have not been about much
yet, but,” he went on, with a lazy smile, “it seems to me Australia is
a cross-breed between a desert and an oasis. Some parts of it chiefly
resemble the father, the desert; others take wholly after the mother,
the oasis, and some places are a most extraordinary mixture of both.”
“’Pon my word, that is not a bad description!” laughed the governor,
pleasantly.
“What do you think of the country, Carson?”
The elder man considered for a moment before replying. “I have always
thought Australia like one of those fascinating women who hold--for
good or bad, we do not know at first, but she holds. We cannot be sure
we shall be happy with her, yet one thing is certain, we shall never
be happy without her! But here is Folkestone coming up. I shall have
a few words with him. I hear he is resigning from the Guards. I wonder
what is making him do such a thing,” and he turned and began to talk to
the soldier.
“Have you come to take Isma away?” asked Lady Berriedale a short time
afterward, when Falcon joined the little group on the dais.
“Yes, I believe this is my dance,” he replied, smilingly.
As he led his cousin away he talked pleasantly, not appearing to notice
her apparent reluctance to be with him. When they had walked some
distance down the room he stood still for a moment as he placed his arm
round her before joining the dancers.
At his touch the girl suddenly paled, her nostrils quivered, and her
heart fluttered.
Her partner watched her closely. Were these outward signs of agitation
only symptoms of embarrassment and dislike?
As they glided into the colorous sea of moving figures Isma closed her
eyes for an instant. The room and the swirling forms receded; she was
conscious only of the man who held her and the confusing sense of his
nearness. She bent her head. How was she to remain calm when he was so
close to her and his breath came warm and uneven against her cheek? She
stiffened in a great effort at self-possession, then relaxed almost as
quickly, and Falcon felt her yield to his arm.
He changed color and drew a sharp breath. Her sumptuous white shoulder
was so near his own. “Isma,” he muttered, in a strained voice, “it is
very warm in here. You are feeling the heat. Let me take you into the
garden?”
His words startled her into composure. So she was betraying her
feelings to Falcon! Merciful Heavens! how could she have sunk to that!
Had he understood and pitied her?
She straightened instantly. “No, thank you,” she answered, stiffly. “I
am not feeling the heat at all. I am only a little tired. The last few
days have been so very busy, you know; but I should like to go back to
Beatrice soon. I am afraid she is exerting herself too much.”
By some palms in a corner of the ball-room one of the governor’s
aides-de-camp sat out a dance with Rita, and the girl’s restless eyes
were following Captain Folkestone and Isma, as she talked spasmodically
to the man beside her, who was watching the same pair.
“By Jove!” he remarked, feelingly, “Miss Folkestone is ripping! I have
always heard she was--”
“She is dancing with her cousin,” interrupted Miss Brentford, hastily.
“He is leaving the Guards and going to live here.”
“So I hear. Fine-looking fellow. What a handsome pair they are!”
His companion turned a darkened face away.
“Captain Folkestone doesn’t like her,” she could not refrain from
saying.
“Not like her! Why, he looks like a man pretty badly smitten! Did you
see the way he bent over her then--?”
“I think you are quite mistaken,” observed the girl, with scarcely
veiled ill humor. “As a matter of fact, they detest each other.”
“They can act jolly well, then,” replied the man, with a smile, as Miss
Brentford’s next partner came up to claim her.
As the night wore on the gaiety increased, talk became more animated
and laughter more spontaneous, restraints relaxed and the dancers had
an air of greater abandonment. Men talked more freely to their favorite
girls and young couples strayed oftener into the moonlit garden and
remained there for longer periods.
Lord Berriedale had danced with Isma again, and now he stood talking to
her in the middle of the room during an interval.
In spite of the girl’s apparent calmness and polite interest in her
host’s conversation, at times there was a flicker of restlessness in
her luminous eyes which suggested she would rather not be in such a
conspicuous position.
Many eyes were upon the distinguished-looking pair. Miss Folkestone
had been the center of attraction all the evening, heads had been
turned in her direction, and people had whispered and exclaimed at her
extraordinary beauty. Now she was evoking a deeper interest, a more
piquant curiosity.
Lord Berriedale was fully conscious of the observation his marked
attention to her was exciting; but he was not displeased. He was
playing a game and fully realizing the effect of each move. Isma should
be his some day, and if he could not gain her along the straight-open
main road, there were always byways leading to the same destination. He
was quite aware that Captain Folkestone was aiming at the same goal and
that the fascinating officer might be a greater obstacle in his path
even than his wife. But, then, there were means of disarming his rival
if he should really become dangerous; at present there was no sign of
this. The soldier was too cool, and coolness never won a woman’s heart.
However, if he should intrude, there was a weapon in the making to
be used against him. The captain made a god of honor and would never
marry a woman whose character was tarnished, no matter how infatuated
he might be; so if he could be convinced that Isma was really his,
Berriedale’s, property, her cousin would fall out of the ranks at once
and his rivalry be at an end. Lord Berriedale’s present plan was to
show Folkestone that his cousin was an unsuitable mate for him. This
could be done in different ways; the first step was to get the girl’s
name coupled with his. This had already been accomplished at home and
some very nasty gossip had been started. However, now while they were
in Australia things must be given a more direct and convincing aspect.
Of course it was distasteful to Lord Berriedale to bring such a slur
on the character of the woman he meant to make his wife later on. But
he knew that once they were married things would soon be forgotten,
and, even now, though society slandered her, it still received her
with open arms, for she was a great ornament to its drawing-rooms and
there had never been any actual proofs against her. As for the pain
he was causing her in the mean while, he would make up for that by
and by. He would pour his love upon her when she was his, lavish upon
her everything his position and wealth could bestow! She should be
clothed like a princess, her beauty enhanced by priceless jewels. He
glanced down at her now with something in his dark eyes which made Isma
involuntarily shrink from him.
“I should like to go back to Beatrice,” she said, in a level voice.
“No,” his half-closed eyes still caressed her under their golden
lashes, “you cannot run away from me at present. Every one is looking
and you would only make yourself more conspicuous by flight. Flights
are useless things. Haven’t you found that out by this time?” Then his
manner changed. “Isma,” he went on, in low, seductive tones, “come
with me into the garden. I want you to see the moonlight on the roses.
Night’s kisses, the dew-pearls, are on their soft petals. Let me show
them to you?”
“Lord Berriedale, how can you suggest such a thing?”
“Why not? Flowers cannot hurt you, and there we should be away from
spying eyes.”
The girl paled. “Please do not talk like that--people will hear you.”
“People will not hear me, but they can see you turning white. Isma,” he
went on, with a touch of pleading, “you surely cannot grudge me a few
moments’ joy? Haven’t I kept my promise to you all these weeks, barely
glanced in your direction, kept out of your way, and now this evening
when you look so entrancing and I want a little kindness don’t you
think you might give it to me?”
“You are breaking your promise now.”
“No, for I am not making love. I am only asking for friendliness. What
could be more innocent? Every one is admiring you. Why may I not have
the same privilege as a crowd of strangers? Isma,” he broke out, his
love flaming up, “how can I help adoring you? You look as radiant and
shimmering as your own Australian sunshine! Isma, my beautiful--”
“Isma,” said another voice close beside them, “Miss Nelson, a friend
of your mother’s, is most anxious to meet you; but she is going home
almost immediately, so will you come and speak to her now? You will
excuse my cousin, Berriedale, won’t you?” added Falcon, turning to the
other man.
As the girl and Captain Folkestone walked toward the other end of the
room the band struck up an alluring melody and dancing commenced again.
The officer talked easily as they made their way over the polished
floor, and in his light, pleasant conversation there was not the
faintest suggestion that he knew he had been acting as a rescuer.
When they were about to enter the sitting-room he said, in the same
easy tone, “Miss Nelson is in here, and I thought it a good plan to
take you to her at once.”
His companion faced him questioningly. “She did not _ask_ you to bring
me?”
“Well--no,” his eyes met her gaze steadily. “Still, I knew she would be
charmed to meet you. Who would not?”
The pink in the girl’s cheeks deepened. Was he only thinking of his
name again, always and only guarding that? A hot wave of annoyance
leaped up within her.
“Your thoughtfulness is praiseworthy, no doubt, but has it never
occurred to you that some thoughtfulness borders on--interference?” she
said, lowering her eyelids, but not before he had seen the smoldering
anger between her lashes.
Falcon did not reply, but led her through the open door to a small
room where a lady with gray hair and smiling eyes sat on a high-backed
settee talking to a rather forbidding-looking woman in black.
Captain Folkestone introduced his cousin to the lady with the amiable
face, and after chatting with them for some minutes he went away, and
did not speak to Isma again that night except to say a brief good-by
when he was leaving.
* * * * *
As Miss Folkestone went to her room after the guests had gone she
met her host on the landing. He had not been there when she began to
ascend the stairs and must have come from a small room opening on to
the landing. Had he been waiting there to speak to her? A sudden fear
clutched at her heart.
He stood before her now, holding out his hand, and she could not very
well avoid taking it.
“Good night, my love with the glorious eyes and the maddening hair,” he
murmured, in a low voice, lifting her hand suddenly and pressing it to
his heart.
“Lord Berriedale, how dare you!” she cried, in an undertone, wrenching
her hand away from him. “Please let me pass.”
He stood aside and allowed her to walk on.
At the same instant a door on the first floor shut noiselessly and Miss
Brentford stepped back into her room.
Rita stood for some moments ashen, her dilated eyes staring vacantly
before her; then her sharp white teeth closed over her lower lip and
she drew a long, gasping breath.
So that was what Rex had meant! She understood his hints now! How
blind she had been not to have discovered it before! But how could any
one suspect such treachery!
Of course her sister must be told as soon as the visitors had gone
back to town. There must be no upheavals while they were in the house.
However, the day after to-morrow when they had all departed Beatrice
should hear the news then. The girl’s dark eyes gleamed with a catlike
brilliance. Never again need she fear the beautiful Miss Folkestone as
a rival. She was powerless to hurt her any more!
Rita stood for a long time looking absently into space, her white face
working, horror and triumph mingling in the unearthly glitter in her
eyes.
Only one more day and then--
* * * * *
At the same time Captain Folkestone dashed along the moonlit road by
the sea at a frenzied pace. He gripped the steering-wheel as if his
fingers were steel; his face looked ghastly and his lips were tightly
compressed.
When he was near the avenue leading to Isma’s house he stopped the car,
got out, and stood leaning over the gate, gazing down the drive under
the stirring palms. The girl was not there. The little red house was
empty of her presence; so was the flower-scented garden. She had stood
under the swaying palm leaves and looked back at him once and in her
eyes there had been a strange emotion which seemed to match his own,
and as their gaze met something in them had leaped together; but now--
Into the face above the gate came an anguish which was terrible.
Suddenly the man turned away, sprang into the motor, and sped up the
steep road leading over the moonlit cliff.
XIV
A SINISTER SUNSET
The following morning the viceregal party returned to Sydney. The
remaining visitors spent the morning playing tennis, croquet, and
strolling about the garden.
A fishing picnic had been arranged for the evening and the cars were
to start at five o’clock. It was impossible for Lady Berriedale to
venture on such a long outing after the late hours and excitement of
the previous night, so she had decided to stay at home. Of course Isma
was anxious to remain with her, but her friend would not hear of it.
“You must go and take my place and look after everything,” she said,
finally; and as her husband came into the room she added, “Fancy,
Neville, Isma wants to stay at home with me, but I have just told
her that she is to go and _take my place_.” She finished with a
mischievous smile, looking at her companions as if she expected some
light response. However, they were both singularly silent. The girl
had suddenly turned to look out of the window and Lord Berriedale was
regarding one of his long, shapely hands with detached interest.
“I am sure Miss Folkestone will look after our guests perfectly, so
you need not worry about it in the least,” he said, at length, and,
murmuring something about having promised to take some one round the
cliff, he strolled out of the room again.
Late in the afternoon four large cars stood panting in front of the
house and the picnickers came out and took their seats.
Captain Folkestone and other guests from the neighborhood were to join
the party at the river where the fishing had been arranged.
The sky was gray with soft glimpses of remote blue. The distant hills
were wrapped in a larkspur-tinted haze through which the shape of trees
was faintly indicated. Out of the calm ocean rose green breakers moving
imperiously toward the shore, flinging themselves headlong on the
quivering sand. Silver gulls glided lazily by on silent wings and made
occasional swoops into the foaming water.
A mile down the road the motors turned inland toward the tense blue
hills. Vast plains opened out before them, where mallee-fowls darted in
and out among the bushes and the sunburnt grass stood stiff and yellow
at the feet of the ring-barked trees.
The road led through immense forests, dusky with jungle gloom, brooding
with heavy mystery, and where the occasional twitter of birds sounded
timorous and grave. At times the cars mounted steep hills, and at
others descended into gaping, timber-lined valleys.
After about two hours’ traveling there was a gleam of water in the
distance, and soon afterward a calm, wide river which ran beside the
road for a mile or two was reached; then, after passing a sharp bend,
the picnickers arrived at their destination and found the rest of the
party already awaiting them.
Greetings followed, and presently small groups began to stroll about
the river-bank, while the chauffeurs lighted a fire and boiled the
billy.
Toward the west ran a plain fenced in by rough-looking hills smothered
in trees. The main part of the stream still flowed beside the track,
but it had subdivided into three long arms, which spread in erratic
contortions over the wild, marshy flats, forming deep pools in lower
places and growing narrow and sleek near the more sloping banks. The
place was a terrible conglomeration of tangled thickets, wriggling
streams, deep lagoons, and treacherous, rush-covered bogs.
Wild shrieks of birds rang spasmodically through the air, fishes
jumped, and there was the continual whir of large-winged insects.
The plain was two miles long, and near its upper end, at the feet of
the challenging hills, stood the only house in sight, belonging to the
man Lord Berriedale had engaged to take the party across the river in
his boat, so that they could walk over to the second arm of the stream,
where the best fishing was obtained.
It had been decided to have tea before crossing the river. The long
table-cloth had been spread out on the grass and Isma was decorating it
with fluffy yellow wattle. Once as she looked up from the blooms she
saw a beautiful kingfisher skimming over the surface of the stream, his
gorgeous plumage of azure and deep orange reflected in the pearly gray
water.
The girl sighed a little. If only she might be free like that bird! she
thought, as she went on with her work. Presently the billy boiled and
the visitors seated themselves round the impromptu table on the grass.
The men were in a hurry to commence the sport, so there was not much
time given to superfluous conversation.
Miss Folkestone was pouring out tea and the drivers were handing
the cups to the guests. She had not spoken to Falcon that day, but
only bowed to him in the distance. He was now sitting next to Miss
Brentford, talking rather gravely to the animated girl.
When the meal was over the boatman began to row the picnickers across
the stream.
Lord Berriedale, the secretary, and some local men went in the front
load, as they were to arrange where the rods were to be placed. Then
gradually the others followed, till there were only Isma and the
chauffeurs left; the girl stayed till the last to see that everything
was carefully packed up, and when the baskets were stowed away in the
cars she strolled on to a small rise surrounded by tall shrubs and sat
down on a log, feeling glad to have a little time alone.
In the east the clouds had cleared, but toward the west they had
thickened and hung like an impenetrable curtain, hiding the sinking
sun. All at once there was a rift in the sooty masses--the slit
widened, and presently a large sun swelling into hugeness thrust a
gross yellow face into the aperture and fixed its ferocious stare on
the scene below till, helpless and abject, the earth sank into hypnotic
stupor. The long, shrubby plain turned a seasick green, even the pools
and streams swooned with ghastly horror.
For some moments the sun hung quivering with fiery intensity; then with
a sinister reluctance the great blazing ball sank below the opening in
the black, smokelike clouds.
Isma sat as if petrified, watching the awful sunset, and when the
yellow glow had disappeared, through an opening among the stunted trees
she saw the marshland with its many glimpses of water, the bluish,
unhealthy hue of one in a seizure.
The girl shuddered.
There seemed forces lurking about her which had power to subdue even
the most desperate resistance.
As she looked a smudgy, colorless twilight crawled from nowhere and
spread over the bush-tangled flats; it climbed up the sides of the
bold, imperious hills and reached toward the dim, sullen sky. The dusk
advanced on stealthy feet, but with unhesitating determination. It
folded trees and rushes in a swarthy embrace and stooped to kiss the
breathless waters. It seemed as if the evil power blazing from the
setting sun had returned and was now claiming the victims it had cowed,
as it advanced ruthlessly through thickets and bogs.
Suddenly the weird call of the boo-boo owl rang through the twilight.
Isma started, a sense of horror came over her, a feeling of awful
foreboding.
Why had she been kept waiting so long? Why had the boat not returned
for her sooner?
She listened for the splash of oars.
She heard it now, but it seemed curiously distant. She waited,
listening, growing more uneasy--the faint splash had ceased altogether.
But now there was another sound--some one was coming up behind her.
She turned, expecting to see one of the drivers, but the tall form
approaching was--Lord Berriedale.
“Is the boat ready?” she asked, mechanically, her senses numbed by the
shock of finding herself alone with her host.
“No,” replied the man, coming closer. “It has gone with the chauffeurs.
I came over myself to send them off.”
“But--but--it will come back for--me,” she faltered, rising.
“No, it will not come back for either _you_ or _me_. I have sent the
boatman down the river to fish. He is in my pay to-night, you know,”
said her companion, peering into her face in the dusk.
“Lord Berriedale, what does this mean?” asked Miss Folkestone, now
thoroughly roused.
“It simply means this, that you and I are to spend a long time together
to-night. Isma, I have waited so long I can wait no longer. I have been
tormented enough; now it is my turn to have a little respite! Why, even
my own wife suggested you should take her place this evening, and by
the gods you shall!” he said, in a tone which made the girl stiffen
with horror.
“So you have trapped me,” she murmured, in a voice which did not seem
her own.
“There was nothing else to do. You would not listen to pleadings. I
warned you not to strain my endurance too far--”
“And you had no consideration for me--or my reputation?” Life was
coming back to her voice.
“I considered your reputation, I assure you. No one over there knows
we are here alone. I have seen to that. They axe not all fishing in
the same place, as we arranged at first, but are divided up into small
parties, only two or three together and each group a long distance
apart. I had a purpose in placing them like that. I am supposed to be
fishing with Rex in a dark bend, and if any one should find our corner
and ask for me, they will be told that I have gone to visit some other
rods. The whole place is one wild tangle of bends, sudden turns, matted
shrubberies, and though it looks so flat there are steep banks as well
as the sinking marshland. It would be most dangerous to start straying
about. Besides, it would take half the night to track any one in that
great wilderness. Now, you see, I have thought it all out, so that we
can be quite sure we shall not be disturbed and that no one will know
we are here. You are, of course, also supposed to be fishing somewhere
over there, and each group thinks you are with one of the others. I
have arranged everything with the utmost care.”
“Now I know you are absolutely unscrupulous!”
“Isma, it is quite impossible for me to live without you. I must have
you--I must! To-night my arms shall teach you what love means--”
The girl had closed her eyes for a moment and even in the twilight she
looked pale.
Good God, what was she to do out here in this savage loneliness, the
rest of the party too far away to hear her call, separated from her
by that impassable stream, the terrible thickets, the lagoons and
bogs! The man was in earnest; his voice, his demeanor held remorseless
determination. His arms should teach her! She shuddered with a
revulsion of loathing--to be touched by him! She shivered again. But
perhaps, after all, if she appealed to his better nature, he might
relent; she would make the attempt.
“Lord Berriedale,” she began, in a softer tone, “think of Beatrice,
her high opinion of you, her love for you. If she ever found out
about--this, it would kill her! Won’t you be merciful? You could make
her ideally happy. Won’t you--?”
“Of course I will,” he responded, quickly. “I will lie, pretend--do
anything, if only you will promise to be mine--afterward?”
“How can you suggest such a thing--when your wife is still--?”
“Yes, she is still--here, but she will not be here--long.”
“You are cruel, utterly pitiless, and you--married her,” she reminded
him, sternly.
“Good Lor’! and haven’t I suffered for that mistake! However,” he went
on, in a different voice, “I warn you I am not going to do penance for
it all my life. Sooner or later I mean to take my happiness and you
shall be mine.”
“Your fidelity is worthy of a woman’s trust, isn’t it!” she flung at
him, scornfully. She stood before him erect; all fear had vanished.
“I swear I would be true to _you_.”
“Yes, you have given me a fine display of your faithfulness!”
“Isma”--he had paled--“don’t you know you could hold any man forever--?”
A sudden glimmer on the trees made him turn for a moment and look
at the big moon which had risen above the black eastern hills.
Long rays of silver stole over the plain and lay caressingly upon
the silent lagoons. Leaves began to shine, grass stems and stalks
to glitter; shadows crept sullenly away to the shelter of trees and
matted undergrowth. A metallic radiance flooded the whole scene. Lord
Berriedale’s dark figure stood out against the silver-lit background
and the gleaming light fell full upon the girl who stood motionless
before him.
“Isma,” he said, suddenly, and in his eyes was something akin to the
power she had seen in the stoking sun and felt in the glowering dusk.
“I can see your wonderful eyes, your hair--the hair I am always longing
to touch and the lips I--dream about. Isma, to-night I shall touch that
hair and your lips shall be mine--”
The girl looked round for some way of escape, but there was none. They
were standing on a small rise inclosed by thick shrubs; there was only
one opening and her captor was standing in front of that. She might be
able to press through the thicket, but it would be too slow a process;
the branches would only imprison her and make her more helpless.
Her companion had guessed her thoughts.
“My dear Isma, it is no use looking for ways of escape, for there are
none--you are utterly in my power to-night. But,” he went on, changing
his tone, “I quite understand your scruples--why you are reluctant to
surrender at present, and to show you that I respect your principles
I am willing to make a compromise with you. I will let you go and not
touch you at all if you give me your word of honor that you will be
mine the moment I am--free. Now, Isma, I warn you I am terribly in
earnest, and if you will not make the promise I shall take what I want
to-night.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, then came the steadfast, courageous
reply, “No, I cannot make such a promise, for I could never be yours.”
“Isma, I will give you five minutes to make up your mind. When they are
over you must either give me your word of honor that you will marry me
or I--take--”
There was no answer.
By the light of the moon the man looked at his watch. “Five minutes
from now,” he said, quietly.
Again there was no reply.
A ghastly silence followed. The two figures stood motionless in the
moonlight; the man’s eyes were fixed upon his watch, the woman stood
resolute, determined, but pale as death itself.
“The five minutes are up,” said Lord Berriedale at last. “Which shall
it be, your promise or--?”
“I cannot make the promise, for I should only break it afterward.” Her
voice was low, but firm.
“By Jove! you have pluck! Still, even that fine courage of yours will
not save you now.” He moved toward her.
“Lord Berriedale, I warn you--I am strong.”
He gave a hollow laugh. “My love is strong enough to conquer your
resistance. But, Isma, you might as well _give_ me what I want. Believe
me, it would be much better for you if you did.”
“I can give you--nothing.”
“Not even those--kisses?”
“Nothing.”
“Very well.”
Then, before she had time to draw back, his arms were round her,
crushing her to his wildly beating heart while his stormy kisses beat
upon her hair.
She made a desperate attempt to free herself; but her efforts were
useless, and the more she struggled the more steely became the arms of
the man who held her. He was far stronger than she had imagined and she
realized her utter helplessness, yet she strove to resist him, turning
her face away that he might not touch her lips. He should not--
But after a time her strength began to wane; it was oozing from her.
God in heaven, would no one come to her rescue! If only Falcon knew of
her plight, he would find a way to reach her!
Then quite unexpectedly Lord Berriedale relaxed his hold, and Isma,
too, heard the sound which had startled him.
There were running footsteps on the road.
As the girl sprang away she gave a sharp, piercing cry.
A few seconds afterward there was a crashing and tearing aside of
bushes; then another figure emerged from the tangle and stood in the
full white light of the moon.
XV
THE MOONLIT ROAD
After an awkward pause Lord Berriedale said: “Good Lor’, Folkestone,
whatever has happened to bring you over here at this breakneck speed?
Was there an accident? Has any one fallen in the river?”
“No, nothing has gone wrong over there, but--I was not quite sure that
my cousin was happy here, so I came to see, and, judging from the
appearance of things, it was just as well I did,” Falcon replied, with
quiet significance. “That cry sounded anything but a happy one.”
“Miss Folkestone was no doubt nervous at hearing the hasty footsteps,
and naturally thought something terrible had taken place. However,” he
continued, turning to go, “now that you are here and can look after
your cousin, I must get back to my other guests.”
The officer glanced anxiously at the girl, and in the moonlight saw
that she looked utterly exhausted and that she was trembling violently.
“I shall take my cousin back to her own home to-night. She looks quite
ill. Will you be good enough to explain to Lady Berriedale? You and I
will have a talk another time,” he called after the retreating figure.
Isma never quite remembered how she reached Falcon’s car that
evening. After the awful terror and strain, she was only conscious of
a boundless relief, and retained merely blurred impressions of the
weird scene, with its glinting trees, matted tangle of bushes, and the
snakelike, curving river, silvered in places by the moon, and ominously
black where the tree-covered banks flung their inky shadows into the
deep, still waters. She was only aware that Falcon was with her, that
she was safe; that he was helping her, touching her, leading her gently
to the motor, and, when she was seated, tucking a rug carefully about
her before he took the wheel.
They drove some moonlit miles in silence, while she leaned back in
almost drowsy content. It was good to be there, near her cousin, and
feel the strong shelter of his presence! But after a time something
disturbing crept into the sweet relief. The events of the evening
began to intrude themselves upon her consciousness. She saw again the
dreadful sunset, the terrorized plain; once more the menacing dusk
gathered about her, the ghastly scene by the river came back to her;
she felt the steely arms crushing her--those suffocating embraces! She
closed her eyes and shivered in horror.
“What is it, Isma--are you cold?” came the anxious question from her
companion, and one hand reached over and tucked the rug more closely
about her.
“No, thank you, I am not cold.”
Falcon looked at her again and clenched his teeth.
Presently he moved a little nearer so that their shoulders touched.
His supporting touch had a strange effect on her; it made all which
had taken place fade into dimness again and brought back the delicious
sense of rest. It was lovely to sit beside him and feel the comforting
strength emanating from him, while the steadily rising moon poured its
cool, soothing radiance on a fevered world.
All at once she felt a great sigh pass through her companion. Why did
he sigh? Was she the cause of it? What an anxiety she had been to him
and how splendidly he had come to her rescue! He had been so tactful
and gentle, not uttered a word of reproach! And she had not even
expressed her appreciation, her gratitude. Suddenly she felt acutely
alive; her tiredness and inertness had all gone. How had Falcon crossed
that dark, foreboding-looking river? How had he reached her? She must
find out, but first she must thank him.
“Falcon,” she began, her voice soft and warm, “you have been too
wonderfully good to me--you have simply been--”
He interrupted her quickly. “Please don’t say anything about
that--only, but tell me, are you feeling better yet?”
“Yes, ever so much better, thank you, but,” she went on, a little
timidly, “how did you--I mean, what made you leave the others
and--come?”
“Well, I was not at all happy about the whole arrangement. It looked a
bit queer, especially when you stayed behind. However, I thought the
chauffeurs were there, till I saw them come over without you and they
told me that--Lord Berriedale was with you.”
“But--I thought you had gone to the other arm of the river where you
could not see the boat arrive?”
“So we had. Miss Brentford and I were stationed a good way down the
stream. But I left her with some of the other people while I went over
to see what had happened to you. Before I reached the main portion of
the river I met the drivers and they told me you were on this side
with Berriedale. I hurried down to the landing-place to get the boat.
However, it had gone a long way down the river and the old boatman
either could not or would not hear my call. That, of course, made me
still more anxious to get across.”
“Yes, and how did you manage?” she asked, breathlessly.
“Well--it was a little difficult. I did not dare to risk swimming
so far in such icy water; but I remembered there was a ridge at the
rapids a mile higher up, which I had often crossed as a boy, when the
water was low as it is now. So I hurried as fast as bogs and thickets
would allow, reached the falls, and then fate was kind to me, for the
moon had risen and showed me the right crossing. That made all the
difference, for there are deep pools on either side; however, I got
over all right, reached the road and when near the camping-ground your
voice guided me to you.”
“Oh, Falcon, I shall never be able to thank you enough!” she said, a
deep tremor in the words.
“I don’t want any thanks--don’t trouble about that.”
They had joined the coast road now; only another mile and they would be
at Isma’s home.
The car hummed along by the sea which lay like a sheet of shimmering
silver between the great towering headlands.
When they came to the entrance to The Palms Captain Folkestone slowed
down, stopped the car, and helped his cousin to alight; then he walked
over to the gate with her, but stood still without opening it.
“Isma, I must ask you one question before you go in. Tell me,” he
looked away from her, “what had Berriedale done to make you cry out
like that?”
The girl started. “Falcon, please don’t ask me.”
“But I must know.”
“Well, of course, I did not like being there--”
“There was more than dislike in your voice; there was--terror.” He had
turned to her now and in the bright moonlight he saw her agitation.
“Tell me why?” he insisted.
“I can’t--I can’t--”
“Then I shall have to ask him.”
“No, no,” she cried, “you mustn’t do that.”
“Then tell me yourself.”
There was no answer.
“Was it really--as bad as that?”
“Falcon, please don’t!” There was deep pain in her tones.
“You mean me to infer--?”
“No, don’t infer anything.”
“Is there nothing to--infer?”
Again there was no reply.
“There is something, then?”
Her head suddenly drooped.
“Isma, tell me.” He came a little closer and went on, in a strange,
moved voice, “Isma, couldn’t you confide in me just this once?”
“Oh, Falcon, it isn’t that--” Her tones were imploring and her fingers
caught at the gate convulsively.
“What is it, then?” he asked, his face almost touching her own. “Did he
take any--liberties with you?”
She started violently.
“So he touched you?”
She placed her elbows on the top railing of the gate and buried her
face in her hands while a half-stifled moan escaped her lips.
Captain Folkestone blanched. “Great God! what has the man done to her!”
he muttered through his teeth, and after a pause he said, hoarsely,
“For Heaven’s sake, Isma, don’t keep me in this awful suspense!”
His voice wrung her heart. Must she really tell this clean, honorable
man the degrading thing, that she had been embraced and kissed by her
friend’s husband! She pressed her hands to her face in an agony of
shame. Her mortification was greater than she could bear!
“He--he--” She began her confession with a desperate effort.
“Yes, what did he do?” The words came from panting lips. “Did he--kiss
you?”
Her head sank lower. “My--hair,” she scarcely breathed.
“And did he--embrace you?”
“Y--e--s--”
“Anything else?” The question held a startling intensity.
“No,” she whispered.
He drew a long breath, then took her hands from her face and crushed
them in his own.
For some minutes neither of them spoke.
“I must not keep you standing out here any longer; you are tired and
must rest,” he said, at length, releasing her reluctantly and opening
the gate for her to pass through.
Silently they walked toward the house, where the lights in the lower
rooms mingled feebly with the brilliant moonlight.
When they had reached the front door the girl held out her hand to her
companion and said, tremulously, “Falcon--I can’t thank you--I can’t--”
“Don’t try. I want no thanks, only some day perhaps you will--” He did
not finish the sentence, but raised her hand and laid his burning lips
against her fingers.
A moment afterward he was gone.
* * * * *
Isma went to sleep at once from sheer exhaustion that night, but even
in her slumbers she could still feel the burning kiss pressed against
her fingers.
XVI
THE BOMB
“The mail has just arrived and there is quite a budget of letters
for you, Miss Rita,” said Rex, the next morning, as he came into the
drawing-room where the girl sat limp and tired in a deep armchair well
piled with cushions.
The secretary was in a motor-coat and carried a cap in his hand; he was
evidently on the point of going out.
Miss Brentford turned a white face and large, vague-looking eyes toward
him. “Are you going out--before breakfast?” she asked, absently.
“Yes, going on most important business for his lordship,” and he handed
a bundle of letters to the girl huddled in a weary heap among the
violet-tinted cushions.
The letter lying on top was addressed to Miss Folkestone in Lord
Berriedale’s large, characteristic writing.
A sudden animation came into Miss Brentford’s listless face. “What is
this?” she asked, holding up the envelop, with a curious gleam in her
eyes.
Rex made a quick movement to secure the letter.
“Oh, I am so sorry, Miss Rita! What a stupid mistake! I suppose in my
hurry I put it among yours. Well, I must be off. Can’t wait a moment.
This is most urgent,” he said, striding out of the room, and a few
moments afterward the girl heard a car buzzing down the drive.
So Neville had written to Isma and Rex was taking the letter to her.
He had received instructions to hurry, the business was urgent--so
that was it! Of course last night when her brother-in-law had told
them that Miss Folkestone had been taken home by her cousin, as she
suddenly felt ill, she, Rita, had guessed that this was only an excuse,
for the girl had looked splendid during tea, and she was too strong
and healthy for such unexpected turns of indisposition, and that the
real cause of her departure must be looked for in another direction.
However, the excuse given was good enough to pass muster with the other
guests. But the question was, why had she gone home? Rita would not
have attached so much importance to the incident had it not been for
Captain Folkestone’s strange behavior. During tea he had been restless
and moody, and when they had crossed the river and arrived at the spot
where they were to fish he had removed their rods and joined another
group of friends; then he had suddenly left and not returned again.
Rita had spent a miserable evening wondering what had made him go off
like that; but her misery reached its climax when they returned to the
camping-ground and found he had taken his cousin home. The thought that
the man she loved had been with the woman she hated on the moonlit road
together for hours nearly maddened her, and she had lain sleepless till
dawn, tortured by the vision of them alone in the vast white solitude
of night!
There could be no doubt about it, his cousin had cast her spell over
Captain Folkestone, too. Rex had suggested it long ago, but she had
not believed it then; now she could not close her eyes to the horrible
certainty. Had he not quite voluntarily chosen to leave her, Rita, to
take the other woman home!
Miss Brentford shut her tired, pain-racked eyes. Oh, what suffering
Isma had brought her, what pain! What magic could this girl possess to
make all the men mad about her!
She had noticed that one of the aides-de-camp, even on that short
acquaintance, had also succumbed to her mysterious power, and as for
Neville--a withering smile of contempt played for a moment round her
bloodless lips. He was making a complete fool of himself. How she
loathed that flaxen-haired creature! But what could have passed between
her and Neville last night to make her leave so suddenly? She had
noticed that her brother-in-law was not himself when he joined them
the previous evening; he had been grave, very absent-minded, and had
given quite impossible answers to casual questions. A deep pucker
crept in between Miss Brentford’s heavily marked brows. Whatever could
have happened? Neville had been in the first boatload to cross the
river and Isma was going to wait till the last, so how could they have
quarreled? Could he have returned to the camping-ground after he had
arranged all the fishing groups? Yes, that must have been it! She had
not seen him for two hours; during that time he must have gone over to
Miss Folkestone. Her cousin must also have crossed and had evidently
disturbed them, then the scheming, unscrupulous girl had pleaded that
she was not well and asked him to take her home--apparently she meant
to keep her hold on him as well.
Miss Brentford suddenly sat up and clenched her small hands, while an
awful look came into her dark eyes. She was able now to put an end to
his infatuation and must do so at once. Isma should not be allowed
to rob her of this splendid soldier! If he knew that his cousin was
flirting desperately with Neville, a married man, he would turn from
her in disgust. Yes, his eyes must be opened immediately. But of course
her sister must be told first--only, how would such knowledge affect
her in her delicate state of health?
The girl moved uneasily and an expression of fear passed momentarily
over her haggard face. The doctors had said that Beatrice must on no
account have worry or shocks. Still, how could she keep this dreadful
news from the one it concerned so vitally? Wasn’t it better for her
sister to know, so that she could stop the thing before it went any
farther? Yet, suppose the shock should kill her? After all, wasn’t it
kinder to let her brother-in-law go his own way and allow her sister to
be deceived both in husband and friend? She was quite happy at present,
so why disturb and disillusion her?
Then her thoughts went back to the man she loved gloriously alone with
his cousin on the silvered road. Her pale face looked all at once
distorted; that sort of thing must end, at all costs. She could not
endure another night of torture like the last!
The hollow boom of the breakfast gong rumbled through the house.
Miss Brentford started slightly, rose slowly, and stumbled wearily
across the room.
In the hall were bustle and life. Ladies dressed for traveling
descended the stairs, servants carried down monogramed suit-cases;
groups of men stood talking by the open front door, looking into the
blazing sunshine and making remarks about the heat of the morning, and
discussing the sport of the night before.
However, soon all the guests were assembled in the large dining-room
and Rita took her sister’s place at the table, as the invalid never
came down to breakfast.
The girl had not seen her that morning; she had purposely avoided
going to her room, as she wanted Neville to tell her that Isma had gone
home. He always went in to see his wife before going down to breakfast,
and he would naturally tell her then.
It seemed to Miss Brentford as if the meal would never end. Every one
was talking gaily--the visitors had evidently enjoyed their stay at The
Bluff and were going home in high spirits.
When at last the guests left the dining-room their hostess had just
come down-stairs. She looked decidedly better that morning, her skin
was not so sallow as usual, the color in her cheeks less hectic, and
the hollows round her eyes not so prominent. She smiled happily and
made gracious remarks to everybody; but after a while she looked round
as if searching for some one, and, turning to her sister, asked: “Where
is Isma? Hasn’t she come down yet?”
So she had not been told, after all--why not?
“Didn’t Neville tell you this morning?” asked Rita, evading the
questioning glance. “Miss Folkestone was not well last night and her
cousin took her home soon after tea.”
“Not well, Rita--and no one has told me till now! How strange! I must
drive over and see her presently.”
The visitors were crowding round to say good-by; they had all decided
to leave early so as to avoid traveling in the hottest part of the day,
and Lady Berriedale had to give them her full attention. But when
the last car had vanished down the long gravel drive she followed her
sister into the drawing-room and said: “Tell me about Isma. Whatever
was the matter with her?” Then Rita’s white face caught her attention.
“My dear child, are you ill, too? You look as if you hadn’t slept all
night.”
“No, I am not ill,” began the girl, turning to the window, a slight
tremor in her voice, “but--” She stopped irresolutely. Now, when there
was such a good opportunity for striking the fatal blow, she wavered.
Should she not be merciful to the invalid who had so little of life
left to her? But again the picture of the handsome Guardsman driving
alone with the fair-haired temptress came up before her. No, she could
not afford to be generous--she could not! It was impossible to endure
another night like the last!
“Well,” demanded her sister, watching her with some perplexity.
The girl swallowed hard. “I was awake all last night, and that
naturally makes me tired to-day,” she replied, making the plunge.
“Child, how was it that you did not sleep? That is not like you.”
The girl stiffened. She had committed herself. Now she must go on.
“I was thinking of something--something which had upset me horribly.”
Her voice was uneven and her breathing labored.
“Something upset you horribly? Whatever is it?” asked Lady Berriedale,
coming closer and looking at her sister with a puzzled air.
Rita’s heart hammered in her breast, her throat tightened. Should she
draw back? Could she draw back? No, she had said too much for that: she
must go on.
“Yes, something which will upset you, too, when you hear it. That is
why I hate telling you.”
“What can it be?” There was sudden fear in the thin, weak voice.
“It is about--”
“Yes, tell me quickly--”
“Neville.” The word almost choked her.
“About Neville?”
“Yes, and--”
“And some one else?”
“Yes--” She turned quickly and threw her arms round her sister’s
trembling form. “Don’t let it make you ill, Beatrice dear, will you?”
she pleaded. “I shall never forgive myself if it does, and yet I think
you ought to know about it.”
“Tell me,” replied the elder woman, without returning the embrace, a
terrible foreboding making her voice cold and strange.
“He and Miss--”
Lady Berriedale tore herself from the girl’s trembling arms and looked
at her with angry eyes. “If you mean Isma, I will not have you say
another word. You have always disliked her and been jealous of her and
I refuse to listen to your nasty insinuations.”
“All the same they are true,” remarked her companion, in chilly tones.
The last words had killed her pity and roused her opposition. “I first
noticed it the night of the dance. Neville was paying her a lot of
attention, you remember, but I had heard hints of it before.”
Lady Berriedale laughed harshly. “Ah, is that all your mean little soul
has to go on? I tell you they are both innocent! Neville has always
been true to me and a splendid husband, and Isma is the most noble, the
most honorable woman in the world!”
“If you had seen them on the stairs together after the ball, you would
not have thought them so innocent,” retorted the girl, coldly.
“What were they doing there?”
“You should have seen that before you defend them so blindly. I was in
my room, every one else had gone to bed, when I heard low, murmuring
voices. I opened my door gently and there was your noble Isma standing
close to your husband while he pressed her hands against his heart.”
“You are mistaken. Your jealous mind puts such a horrible
interpretation on what was probably an absolutely harmless act.”
“I suppose it is also invention on my part that your precious friend
went home unwell last night--by the way, she looked perfectly splendid
at tea; but she and Neville must have quarreled, for he was in a bad
humor after she had gone and would hardly speak to any one, and this
morning Rex had to rush off before breakfast with a fat letter for
her--trying to appease the offended goddess, I suppose.”
“I refuse to believe it. I shall ask Isma herself.”
“Yes, go and face her with it. Ask her if what I have said is not true
and make her show you Neville’s letter. Ask her why she went home early
and make her swear that she is speaking the truth, and then see who is
right! It has made me perfectly furious that you, poor, trusting dear,
should be so completely deceived by this unscrupulous person, who does
not even consider friendship too sacred to use to gain her own ends!
All the time she has pretended to be your friend it’s only Neville she
has been after!”
“Don’t--don’t, Rita! I will not believe it! I will not listen to you!”
cried her companion. Still, the pain in her voice showed that the cruel
words had gone home. “I will go and ask Neville at once.”
“No, don’t ask him yet. Get the truth out of Miss Folkestone first,
then you can face Neville with it afterward.”
“I shall go to her this afternoon, and Rita,” she added, a terrible
expression in her dark eyes, “if what you have told me to-day is
untrue, I will never have you inside my house again.”
“Very well; but insist on seeing Neville’s letter; for after all these
other things your devoted friend might not stop at falsehood, either,
when she is in a tight corner. See the letter, then you will be able
to judge for yourself.”
“Yes, I will do that,” said Lady Berriedale, moving toward the door,
and there was great dignity in her bearing as she left the room and
went up-stairs to her own apartment.
“After all, it did not upset her so very much,” thought Rita, sinking
down on a lounge in the cool drawing-room. “Neville is not worth
worrying about. However, it is all done now, anyhow, and when Beatrice
sees that letter--”
* * * * *
When Lady Berriedale came down to lunch there was a great change in
her. The hollows round her eyes had deepened, her sallow skin looked
parched, the feverish expression in her eyes had intensified, and she
breathed in a jerky, irregular way. She carried herself with an almost
stiff dignity, but she seemed perfectly composed.
“My dear, whatever is the matter? You looked so well this morning,”
began her husband, with real concern.
“I am very well, thank you. I am going over to see Isma directly after
lunch.”
“Indeed, you mustn’t dream of doing such a thing. You would faint on
the way in this heat. Miss Folkestone can come to you.”
“You forget she is not well.”
“She will be more fit for the drive than you. I shall go over presently
and bring her back with me.”
Rita shot a meaning glance at her sister, but the elder woman did not
appear to notice it.
“Thank you. I wish to go myself.”
Then suddenly a great rush of blood mounted to Lady Berriedale’s face;
she drew a long, gasping breath and fell back in her chair.
“Rita,” she whispered, faintly, “please tell Thomas to get Abbott to
help me up-stairs.”
Her husband was beside her in a moment, ready to assist her, but she
brushed him aside and preferred to wait for her maid.
* * * * *
When Lord Berriedale was alone he stood with drawn brows, gazing out
into the brilliant sunshine. Whatever could have gone wrong to make his
wife refuse his assistance? She had never done such a thing before. He
would go at once and persuade Isma to come. She would be able to soothe
the invalid and make her happy again.
But would she come? He had not much hope that the letter he had written
that morning would effect a reconciliation and bring the girl back to
The Bluff; but if he went himself and explained that Beatrice was ill
and upset it would bring her. He knew her kind heart could not refuse
to minister comfort to her friend and she would have courage enough to
return with him in spite of what had happened the night before.
His eyes flashed with a strange fire.
Yes, Isma would come when she knew about Beatrice--his difficulty was
all at once solved.