gazing into the spaces beyond the boundary-line of time? What would she
find in these mighty spaces?
What was the distant headland seeking? Or had it already obtained
satisfaction? And was that the reason it could be so silent and
unstirring, so oblivious to its own cruel nakedness, its austere
isolation?
Would such a satisfaction come to her if she gazed long enough in the
same direction? Was life only one incessant fumbling for something
beyond the border-land of earth and sky? What was this elusive
something which needed this terrible, concentrated seeking, this cruel
stripping of earth glamours, before it could be found? It must be
something colossal, something overwhelmingly satisfying, if it were
worth the cruel rigors by which alone it could be obtained.
Then suddenly she knew that the great, majestic something hiding in
the lofty spaces, who required this all-concentrating seeking, was the
Infinite Himself.
She had not thought much about Him before; she had taken Him for
granted, as she had taken great abstract things for granted. But now He
became a person, a living reality. Her spirit had all at once pressed
upward, seen Him, found Him!
She knew now that, all unconsciously to herself, she had been groping
for Him all her life, that all souls fumble for Him even though they
may not be aware of it; but that very few press up to Him until they
had been bleached white by sorrow.
Now she knew He permeated all. His majesty hung like a trailing
robe illumining the throbbing atmosphere. He was everywhere. He was
everything. How dense she had been not to comprehend Him before!
As she looked into the shimmering spaces it seemed all at once as if
her soul had become a filmy fragment of the luminous beauty above her
and that it rose timidly, but eagerly, and touched the royal, majestic
garments of the Infinite. And somehow she was aware that He felt
her pressure and that for the rest of her life there would be some
wonderful bond between them! He would never forget the touch, and she
could not; it had been like touching the mainspring of life, coming
in contact with the Power Station of the universe, the gigantic Power
House that set all the machinery of stars, moons, suns, and comets in
motion and kept them ever supplied with the forces they needed for
their brain-reeling circuits. She had touched _That_, and it was not a
that; it was a Person, a living, vital, magnetic Being, approachable,
sensitive to touch, waiting for appeal, and eager to be sought!
She stood transfixed with wonder and amazement; so this was--God!
Why did not everybody talk about Him, rave about Him? Why had no one
ever told her about Him!
And it was possible to lay a detaining hand on this great, wonderful
Being and speak to Him. Yes, prayer was laying a detaining hand on God
and speaking to Him--she--knew it now!
She lingered for some time on the cliff, then at last very reluctantly
she turned to go.
VIII
THE DAWN
Isma began to descend the headland; in her heart burned a great
exaltation and in her eyes shone an infinite peace. A solemn, majestic
twilight crept up from the plain below, wrapping its dusky mantle about
the far-away hills and the imposing cliffs.
It was getting late; she began to hurry down to the road which climbed
from the flats over the lower shoulder of the headland.
As she was half-way down the steep slope she saw a tall figure coming
up toward her.
Could Falcon have returned earlier than he expected? He did not
think he could reach home till midnight or the next morning. Her
heart gave a joyous bound. But no, this was not her cousin’s strong,
broad-shouldered figure.
All at once she stood still, for she had recognized the man--it was
Lord Berriedale.
For a moment a horrible fear seized her. The thought of the utter
loneliness of the place, Falcon miles and miles away, not a house in
sight, her home too far away for protection, no one able to hear her
call, made her waver in alarm. But she shook her fears from her. Why
should she be afraid? Were not the spaces above her filled with the
Infinite to Himself, the God she had just discovered? Nothing could
harm her in His presence. Her lofty peace returned.
The man had climbed rapidly and reached her now.
“Good evening, Isma,” he said, a little out of breath, and the girl
noticed he looked strangely excited. “Isma,” he continued, with curious
agitation, “I have come to--take you--away.”
She glanced at him quickly. “Is Beatrice worse?” she inquired,
anxiously.
“No, she is not worse. But we are not going to The--Bluff--”
“Whatever do you mean?” the girl asked, perplexedly.
“Why, just this, that I can’t stand things as they are any longer and
that I am going to--take you away.”
“Take me away?” she repeated, in uncomprehending astonishment.
“Yes, away from everything and everybody and have you all to myself,”
he said, with feverish doggedness.
“But you surely can’t be in earnest--”
“Of course I am. I have never been so much in earnest about anything.”
“But--but--” she still spoke with vague bewilderment.
“There are to be no more ‘buts’; the car is here, our suit-cases in it.
I have ordered rooms--”
“Our suit-cases--mine?” Her eyes had widened.
“Yes. Everything is arranged. I went to your house first, you know, saw
Miss Livingston, who directed me here. I told her Beatrice was much
worse and that I am going to take you back with me and asked her to put
you up a few things, and she packed your suit-case, and your coat and
hat and everything are in the car.”
“Lord Berriedale, have you gone quite mad?” she exclaimed, regarding
him in utter amazement.
“Yes, I think I am mad, but it is all with love for you. I only know
that I want you and that I am going to have you.”
Isma had turned very pale. She began to realize that the man before her
was desperate. Whatever could she do with him?
However, before she could reply, he continued, rapidly: “Isma, if you
will only come with me I promise to make you happy! I know you are
afraid of a conventional law which binds me at present to--another. But
I tell you conventions are nothing; they are only like obstacles in a
race made to be leaped over by those who have courage and dash enough
to take them! And you need not fear the censure of the world. Society
always applauds those who audaciously clear the barriers placed to
scare away the feeble from their desired goal.”
“You are quite mistaken, Lord Berriedale. Conventions are not like
hurdles in a race; they are protecting fences, keeping people from
slipping into horrible ditches.” She spoke evenly and calmly.
“Even pitfalls may be safely crossed. I will see that you do not get
hurt. I swear it! We will soon be able to marry and in a few years go
home, and then everything will be all right.”
“I absolutely refuse to believe you can be serious, that you really
mean to insult me by making such an outrageous proposition!” Isma
suddenly seemed to have grown taller.
“Of course I am serious--”
“But even if you have forgotten about Beatrice, your wife and my
friend, there is--my cousin.”
He laughed mirthlessly. “Now don’t refer to that sham engagement of
yours. Good Lor’! Isma, what do you take me for? Do you think I am
taken in by that hoax! Why, any fool can see it is only a fake, one of
your cousin’s ingenious devices to shield you from--scandal.”
“You have no right to say that.”
He took a step nearer and looked her full in the face. “You know it is
the truth. Now, Isma, can you give me your word of honor that you are
really going to _marry_ your cousin? Is your engagement a real one,
with kisses and hot embraces?”
There was no sound in the dimness but the flutter of dusky wings and
the deep thud of waves crashing against the rocks far below them on
the seaward side of the cliff.
“So he has not even kissed you! I knew it!”
“I refuse to answer your impertinent questions.”
“They are not impertinent. I have a right to find out; for if you are
not another man’s property, it is all the more reason why you should be
mine.”
“Still, I do belong to my cousin, for I--love him.”
The man confronting her laughed again. “Do you really expect me to
believe that, when you don’t even allow him to kiss you? No, Isma,
women do not treat men they love the way you treat him.”
“All the same, I am speaking the truth. I love him with all my heart.”
She made the confession with superb dignity.
“But, Isma, I can teach you to forget him. If you are taken from him,
you will in time love me. I can always make women love me, if I try.”
“You could never make me forget him, and I could never love you in any
case.”
“Isma, I can make you care. Only give me a chance. Come away with me
where I can have you to myself--”
“Please don’t repeat that horrible insult.”
“And do you mean to say you blankly refuse to link your future with
mine?”
“It is unnecessary to answer such a question. And now I really must go
home.” She made a movement toward the road, but he stepped in front of
her and blocked the way.
“You don’t suppose I shall let you go, do you? After all this waiting
and these weeks of torment I mean to have what I want now, and if I
cannot have it with your consent I must take it without. But, Isma”--he
had spoken bruskly; now he added, in a softer tone--“I do not want to
hurt you, do not want to use force.”
“Force?” she questioned, incredulously. “Nowadays a man cannot take a
woman and run away with her against her will. It can’t be done.”
“I did not mean that. There are other ways of gaining my end.”
What could he mean? Would he embrace and caress her as he had commenced
to do on the night of the picnic? Her heart beat with sudden alarm; the
thought of his touch was revolting. Still almost instantly she grew
calm again. God was there, brooding over the earth. He would protect
her.
As there was no reply, her companion said, “Isma, don’t drive me to
anything that might be--distasteful to you.”
“I don’t understand you,” she said, confident he was powerless to hurt
her.
“Then I will explain. It comes to this. I mean to have you at any cost.
If you will not do as I ask, I will keep you here all night, and when
to-morrow comes--you will be glad enough to--comply with my terms.”
She drew a hard breath. “Lord Berriedale, is it possible you can be
such a fiend as to deliberately set about ruining my reputation?
Haven’t you hurt me enough already?”
“I don’t _want_ to do it; that is just what I am trying to make clear
to you. But if you refuse my request--can’t you understand there is
nothing else for me to do? You see,” he continued, “though that fool
engagement of yours does not mean anything, it has annoyed me a good
deal. I can’t stand seeing you regarded as another man’s property. You
have dangled that confounded cousin of yours before me too long, and
now the engagement must come to an end.”
“But--I should not break off my engagement because of--that.”
“No, but he will.”
“No, he will not. He would believe me when I told him the truth,” she
cried, in panting anger.
“What truth?” inquired her companion, with a leering smile.
“That--that--”
“My dear Isma, when to-morrow comes you will not want to meet your
cousin’s searching eyes.”
She gasped in the darkness. “Have you become a demon as well as a
maniac?” she asked, her eyes wide and dark with horror.
“I may be both to-night; still I--love you! And Isma,” he went on,
“if you want to know who loves you most you can find out now. After
to-night your cousin will never come near you again; he will not touch
you or have anything more to do with you--that is the extent of his
affection! Now mine is different! I would take you stained, smirched,
any way, anyhow, as long as I had you. Your cousin will only take you
if he can have flower, bloom, and all. I would receive you even if all
the bloom had been rubbed away. Still, of course--I would rather have
you as you are--”
While he was speaking she had crushed back her dread. She refused to
believe that God could forsake her; her soul had pressed up toward Him,
she had touched Him, He would not forget that touch!
“But you cannot have--me at all.” There was no fear in her voice; it
was serene and unwavering.
Lord Berriedale looked at her wonderingly. Was her courage
unconquerable or did she fail to realize her imminent danger?
“What is to stop me? I am stronger than you.”
“God,” she said, raising her face suddenly. “Don’t you believe in Him?”
“God,” he repeated, taken aback. “I dare say there is such a Being. I
wouldn’t refute the theory; but what has He got to do with it?”
“He will take care of me.”
“Do you think He has time to patrol these lonely shores looking after
one woman? He is too much occupied with stars, suns, and millions of
worlds.”
“He is everywhere,” she said, with quiet solemnity. “He is here filling
these great spaces, bending over the world. I have found that out
to-night. He is great enough to look after everybody. He has fought
even for one woman who needs Him on these lonely shores.”
“Time will tell. However, I did not come here to talk theology; I have
arranged a far more interesting program.”
The dusk had deepened; but even in the semi-darkness Isma looked
beautiful. The suggestion of white skin, flashes of luminous eyes, the
slender lines of her form, the grace of shoulders and hips, were made
mystically alluring by the veiling shadows.
“Great Cæsar! you are lovely!” the man cried, a wild gleam in his eyes.
Then he made a movement as if he would have caught her to him, but she
recoiled in horror, her face blanched to a deathlike pallor.
Was Lord Berriedale right? Had God no thought for one individual? Was
He too much occupied with worlds and stars to notice her pitiless
plight!
She heard the gulping of the waves on the other side of the headland.
It seemed as if they were trying to attract her attention, hoarsely
calling her to them.
If God would not protect her, the sea might; in its cold arms she would
be safe. Of course that would mean she could never see Falcon again,
yet if the Infinite did not send her help she would not be able to
look into her cousin’s clean, questioning gaze in any case. There was
no alternative but--the waves.
She turned quickly and rushed up the steep slope that led to the
cone-shaped summit.
But her companion guessed her intention. In a moment he was beside her
and laid hold of her arm.
“Isma,” he said, in a voice shaking a little, “you shall not do that,
you shall not! Isma,” he went on, facing her, “would you really rather
be embraced by the cold waves of death than by--me?”
For a moment her confidence had wavered, and in her desperation she
would have thrown herself into the sea. Now her trust returned. God
could not, would not leave her in the lurch. He must protect her!
The man before her repeated his question.
“A thousand times yes,” she answered, with a courage and dignity he
could not comprehend.
“But you have no choice.” He laughed, in an ugly, blood-curdling way.
“To-night we shall see who is the stronger, your--God or the demon in
me.”
In the dimness his eyes suddenly glittered upon her with ungoverned
rage and something even more hideous.
She shuddered and drew back, but he sprang forward and clutched her to
him.
She closed her eyes in terror and everything reeled into an agonized
blackness. But instantly she pulled herself together. No, she must not
faint, must not lose courage; even on the brink of ruin help would be
sent her; the man holding her in the strangling embrace would not be
allowed to conquer.
She opened her eyes and as she looked over his shoulder her attention
was arrested by two points of light rushing madly across the plain. It
was a motor, driven at a frenzied speed toward the cliff.
Some human being was near, help was at hand! If only she could reach
the road before the car passed the top of the track and turned down the
other side of the headland! But how was she to get away from the iron
grip which held her?
Another desperate prayer-rocket flashed from her soul.
In the struggle they had moved and Lord Berriedale suddenly stumbled
over a large stone. His hold on Isma relaxed for a second. She wrenched
herself away. He fell heavily to the ground and she ran frantically
toward the road.
The car was mounting the steep ascent now. In a few minutes it would
reach the summit of the hill; she rushed on faster. To call would be
useless; no voice could be heard from a distance above the loud panting
of the machine. She hastened her flying steps. She must not stumble; if
she fell-- But no, she would not fall on the rough, uneven slope-- He
who was helping her would see to that!
A few more steps and she had reached the road and stood, a white,
ghostlike figure, a few yards in front of the rapidly approaching motor.
There was a quick clapping on of brakes, the car stopped almost
instantly, and a well-known form leaped from the driver’s seat.
It was Falcon! She was safe!
She took a step forward, made a little appealing movement; then his
arms caught her and gathered her to him.
“Oh, Falcon!” she moaned, piteously, the swift relief and the sense of
the awful horror she had been through mingling in the cry.
“Good Heavens! Isma, whatever has happened?” her cousin asked, in
terrible agitation.
But she did not reply. She stood leaning against him, her body shaking
with long, sobbing breaths.
“Isma, what has happened? For God’s sake, tell me!” he implored, with
frantic concern. “Is it--Berriedale again?”
She shuddered and suddenly clung to him.
He breathed in a tense, jerky way as he drew her closer and asked no
more questions.
They stood for some time in deep, agitated silence, heart throbbing
against heart, frenzied anxiety mingling with remembered terrors
and quivering relief; a silence which held clinging arms, enfolding
protection, a strength steadying weakness.
Then gradually into the stillness crept an exquisite peace. The girl’s
shuddering sobs abated. The ghastly horrors, the hideous scene on the
cliff receded, and Isma was conscious only of the man who held her.
She was resting against his breast and in his embrace was something
stronger than protection. A great joy stole into her heart; her
breathing became deep, even, calm.
“Are you feeling better now?” asked Falcon, at length, bending over her.
He felt the long sigh of utter contentment that passed through her.
“You are--too good to me, Falcon,” she whispered, in a voice heavy with
happiness.
“This has--comforted you?”
Something in his tone roused her.
“Oh, Falcon, you know it,” she breathed, tremulously, dropping her head
to his shoulder.
His breast heaved as he strained her to him.
Her languorous serenity had gone. A wild joy rushed into her soul!
He loved her! She knew it now! There was famine in his arms, an
insatiable hunger. His touch reminded her of the drought-stricken
plains, his words about the pain of being scorched came back to her. He
had been terribly scorched; she could feel how cruelly he had burned
and suffered. The knowledge strangely excited her and set her aflame
with a desperate yearning to satisfy his parched emotions. And with
her longing to comfort him she became more acutely conscious of his
nearness; the delight of lying pressed against his breast grew into an
agonized sweetness almost too intense to be borne! The strength went
out of her limbs, her whole body trembled with an ecstasy of weakness.
“Good God! Isma, how shall I ever let you go!” he ejaculated, as he
crushed her to him afresh.
He had drawn her away from the glare of the motor-lamps and the soft
darkness enveloped and isolated them. They stood panting, moved with an
agitated rapture, conquered by their emotions, cemented together by an
anguish of love.
There were footsteps approaching, but in their delirious oblivion they
had not heard them. Now Lord Berriedale spoke close beside them.
Dazed, they drew slowly apart.
“Sorry--very sorry to--disturb you,” he was saying, “but I am afraid I
must trouble you to drive me home, Folkestone.”
Instantly Isma and her lover became conscious of their surroundings.
They were standing on the cliff road beside the car. Their minds began
to pick up the threads of the past. The horrible experience the girl
had passed through came back to her, only softened and robbed of its
power to hurt her.
Falcon remembered the long, harassing day he had spent, the terrible
speed at which he had traveled all those hot sun-scorched hours, beset
by fear and awful foreboding that urged him ever at a more frantic
pace toward the girl who might need him! He had not stopped at his own
home on the way, but was rushing straight on to The Palms when Isma’s
terror-stricken form arrested him on the road.
But he must reply to the man who had just spoken.
“I wonder you dare to come near me, Berriedale,” he said, trying to
control his anger. “Don’t you know that I am the last man you should
encounter just now?”
“You are not a brute, Folkestone, and I am badly hurt--arm smashed,
knee injured as well; can’t possibly drive my car back, and I am alone
to-night.”
Isma came up to him quickly. “Lord Berriedale, did you get hurt--when
you--fell?”
“No,” he answered her, hastily, “not then, only as I was trying to
reach the track I must have got out of my course a bit, for I stepped
into air and landed on some jagged rocks--that did the damage.”
“Come here into the lamplight and let us see what is the matter,” said
Captain Folkestone, moving to the front of the motor.
But the injured man refused. “No, thanks,” he said, decidedly. “I am
not going to have Miss Folkestone harassed with that sight. However, if
you will be kind enough to let me sit down and take me home at once I
shall be grateful.”
Falcon opened the door of his motor and Lord Berriedale limped into the
nearest seat, and they noticed his left hand held the right arm bent
against his chest.
Captain Folkestone started the engine quickly, Isma sat down beside
him, and silently they stole down the steep descent.
The girl looked into the soft darkness where the cliffs stood out like
phantom battlements against the dim summer-night sky. The air was warm
and laden with languorous fragrance from the bush and the pungent
odor from the sea. Far down in the swarthy gloom she could hear the
passionate sighs of the waves as they cast themselves against the rocks.
As they approached The Palms, Isma said, without looking at her cousin:
“Falcon, will you let me come with you to The Bluff? I may be of some
use and--I--” she added, in a lower voice--“I want to come.”
“No, not to-night,” he said, reluctantly. “You see, I may be very late
getting back. I must get Berriedale to bed and wait till the doctor
arrives. It would be too much for you; you are tired--”
“But you are tired, too, after that long, strenuous day. Please let me
come,” she urged, turning to him.
“No, I mustn’t be so selfish. You need a good sleep--”
They had reached the avenue.
Falcon sprang out to help the girl to alight and walked over to the
gate with her. There she stopped him, saying: “Now don’t come any
farther. I shall be all right. Take him home quickly. He is in great
pain.”
“I think I had better come up to the house with you.”
“No, no, please don’t. Get Lord Berriedale home as soon as possible. He
must be suffering dreadfully.”
She held out her hand to him as she said, in moved tones: “Falcon, I
can’t express all I want to say to-night. I--”
“Neither can I--just now.”
He pressed her hand in a deep, intimate way in the darkness and his
touch was an embrace.
“Good night,” she whispered.
“Good night,” he said, stooping over her. “Isma, I am coming to you
to-morrow for my summer and--my Paradise.”
Isma was still by the gate when the throb of the machine had died
into silence. She stood riveted to the spot where her lover’s hand
had touched her and where he had bidden her the brief but significant
good night. She felt dazed and numb, yet curiously alive. So much
had happened since she left the palm avenue some hours before. The
night had been crowded with events. First, there had been the exalted
experience on the cliff--the never-to-be-forgotten finding of God! The
headland had been a lofty temple, a sacred Bethel where the spaces had
revealed to her the presence of the Infinite.
Then had come the horror of her encounter with Lord Berriedale. She
shivered again as she thought of it. But the fearful wrestling with
evil had given her new confidence in God. He had not forsaken her. He
had sent Falcon to rescue her, save her! Her eyes suddenly shone in the
darkness. This beautiful, dreadful evening had also brought her the
revelation of her cousin’s love. Her breathing fluttered and one hand
went up as if to steady her throbbing heart. The thought of their time
together on the road overwhelmed and bewildered her.
Above her the palm leaves murmured drowsily and at intervals she heard
the dull crash of sleepy waves as they tumbled headlong and confused on
the dreaming sand.
The girl also began to feel oddly confused. She tried to think clearly,
but could not. Everything had all at once become blurred and unreal;
nothing was real any more except the burning pressure of Falcon’s arms
and--her great trust in the Infinite.
She made her way slowly toward the house. She was very tired. She
must go to bed, sleep long, and dream of her lover’s embraces and the
watching, caring--God.
IX
CRUCIFIED!
It was nine o’clock. The sun streamed into Isma’s room, but the girl
was still fast asleep, her long hair billowing like a cloud of flaxen
gold around her.
Miss Livingston opened the door gently and entered the room with a
breakfast tray.
“Still asleep, Baby?” she said, softly moving nearer the bed and gazing
with admiring devotion on the fresh, luxuriant beauty of the sleeper.
“I brought your breakfast up, deary,” she said, a little louder,
placing the tray on a small table near the bed, and as the girl stirred
and opened her long-fringed eyelids, heavy with sleep, she continued,
“so you came back, after all, last night. Minnie heard you come in.
Here is a letter for you,” she added, as Isma, now awake, held out
gleaming white arms for her morning embrace.
“You had better read the note, dearest. It came from The Bluff just now
and the man--”
Her companion sat up, tore open the envelop, and read its contents
hurriedly. As she read the rich bloom faded a little from her cheeks.
“Lord Berriedale had an accident on the cliff last night,” Isma
explained to the elder woman when she had put down the note. “He
stepped into one of those deep, rocky hollows and was very much hurt.
Falcon drove him home. Beatrice says his right arm is badly fractured,
a nerve is injured, and the doctor doesn’t think he will ever get the
use of his arm again. Also one knee is sprained. Of course Beatrice is
dreadfully upset. I must get up and go to her immediately. I won’t wait
for breakfast.”
“You needn’t hurry so much as that. The chauffeur has to find Lord
Berriedale’s car. It appears he left it somewhere up on the cliff road
last night. That will take a little while, so you will have plenty of
time for breakfast. By the way, I thought Falcon had gone up north. How
did he happen to be in this neighborhood, too?”
“He must have hurried terribly to get back so early--”
“I suppose he came to look after you. Isma, I wonder do you half
appreciate his wonderful care of you? It is really marvelous the way
he watches over you. I have never seen such devotion! And you are so
horribly cruel to him. Fancy, all the time you have been engaged you
have not given him one single evening. It is a wonder he puts up with
it!”
The girl laughed happily. “Are you going to lecture me on that subject,
too! But there is no need now, I assure you. For the future I am not
going to neglect him, I promise you!”
When Isma was ready to start she said to Miss Livingston: “If Falcon
comes over this morning, please explain that Beatrice sent for me, and
ask him to come back this afternoon. I shall be home by three o’clock;
but tell him I don’t want him to come to The Bluff for me. I want to
see him here.”
Lady Berriedale was lying on a couch in the sunny morning-room when
Miss Folkestone arrived. She stretched her hand out to the girl and
said, in a choked little voice: “You are a dear to come. I want you
specially to-day, for you will be able to--comfort Neville. I--cannot.”
Isma bent and kissed the tremulous lips. “Beatrice dear, don’t say such
things. Of course you can comfort--him.”
The frail, agitated woman took the girl’s cool hands between her own
feverish ones and pressed them solemnly. “Isma, you don’t know what it
means to see the man I worship suffering as Neville is suffering and
being unable to make things easier for him! You can have no idea what
it is like to stand aside helpless and inert--lie in here because I am
not wanted--there.” She made a pathetic little gesture in the direction
of her husband’s room. Then all at once she turned her large, burning
eyes on her companion. “But _you_ can soothe him, _you_ can comfort
him.” She waved the girl’s attempt at protest impatiently aside. “No,
Isma, it is no use bolstering me up with false hope. I have had my
eyes opened. Neville told me--this morning”--she lowered her eyes
and the flush in her cheeks deepened--“what he--meant to--do-- All.
Only, Isma”--she glanced up imploringly--“don’t judge him too harshly.
Remember he was desperate, beside himself, mad with longing and love!
Life had become unbearable without you. Can’t you understand? But he
does love you, he does--in the same hot, impetuous way that I--love
him.” She stopped suddenly, choking, then, making a great effort to
control her voice, she continued, “Isma, do you really--love your
cousin, for--if you don’t--”
The girl started. “You know I do, Beatrice.”
“You have said so, but you have not acted like it, and that made
me think that if, after all--you didn’t--care for him, there might
be--hope for--Neville--later,” she finished with supreme courage.
“Beatrice, how can you--suggest such a thing?” cried the girl, her
eyes wide with pain. “It is too terrible! Besides, I swear to you I
love Falcon. There was a misunderstanding between us, but it has been
cleared away now--”
“Ah, I see. I am glad for your sake. Still--how I wish it might have
been--otherwise for--Neville.”
“Beatrice, you surely can’t wish that!” Isma exclaimed, unutterably
touched by the depths of her friend’s selfless devotion.
“I do wish it, Isma; I mean it. I should feel happier when I--go if
only you might have--cared for him.”
Great tears sprang into the golden-gray eyes and splashed down the
girl’s softly curving cheeks.
“Beatrice,” she whispered, “I can’t bear it--I can’t!”
“You see, I love him--and you,” said her companion, simply.
After a sad, tremulous pause Lady Berriedale continued: “Isma, will you
go to him now? He--needs you.”
Miss Folkestone drew back quickly. “Not that, Beatrice--not that!” she
pleaded, in alarm.
“Yes,” persisted the woman on the couch, eagerly. “I want you to do it,
Isma. Do it for my sake if you will not do it for--his.”
“Oh no, Beatrice, don’t ask that,” she replied, still struggling
against the inevitable.
“Now, Isma, be kind. You will have so much happiness in the future,
can’t you at least spare him a little sympathy?”
Her companion saw it was useless to try to escape the ordeal. “Very
well, if you insist on it, I will go, but only if you come with me.”
The invalid rose from among the cushions and, leaning on the arm of
her tall, strong friend, they walked together to the injured man’s
apartment.
On the threshold Lady Berriedale stood still and said, “Isma has come
to see you, Neville”; then she pushed the girl gently into the room and
closed the door behind her.
Lord Berriedale lay white and large-eyed among a pile of elaborate
pillows, his damaged arm, bandaged and in splints, resting stiffly on
the coverlet. His face was drawn and its pallor accentuated by his
black eyes and his pale-blue silk sleeping-suit.
A light flittered over his features as Isma came toward him. The color
had died out of her cheeks, but her face looked peculiarly calm.
The man on the bed moved his left hand as if he would have held it out
to her, then suddenly checked himself.
“I suppose you would rather not shake hands,” he said, a little
awkwardly.
“It is hardly necessary,” replied his visitor, in a voice that
harmonized with the serenity of her expression.
He gazed at her with questioning scrutiny. “I wonder why you have
come?” he reflected, aloud.
“Because Beatrice wished it and because you are in--pain.”
He laughed in a hollow, mocking way. “And so you are sorry for me
because of--this.” He pointed scornfully to the bandaged arm. “A slight
hurt like that will rouse your pity, but when I am racked body and
soul in the inferno itself you pass me by unmoved!” He tried to raise
himself, dragging at the injured arm in his effort to reach out and
draw a chair nearer the bed.
“Don’t--please don’t move,” said Isma, hastily, moving the chair closer
and sitting down beside him.
“What does it matter about these wretched limbs!” He laughed again.
“The pain in them is a mere pin-prick, a pleasure, a delight, compared
to--the other!”
“Please don’t refer to that,” replied the girl, looking away.
“I thought you had come to give me a little--sympathy!”
“So I have.”
“Then give it to me about the thing I need it most.”
The fierce appeal in his voice made her glance at him. He looked
haggard and his eyes seemed strangely glazed.
Miss Folkestone sighed suddenly.
“Isma,” he began, regarding her intently, “are you--sorry at last?”
“I am,” she replied, steadily.
“You don’t--hate me quite as much as--usual?”
“I should never have hated you at all if--” She ceased speaking and
looked down at her hands moving restlessly in her lap.
“I have been a consummate ass! I might have known _you_ were not won
the way I have always tried to--gain you,” he said, bitterly. “Your
cousin was wiser than I, after all. Last night I thought him a perfect
fool for not making better use of his opportunities; but I see now he
knew what he was about; he could wait, and that is where I have failed!”
“Is that the--_only_ thing you have--found out?” Her clear eyes looked
questioningly into his.
“No,” he replied, a faint color creeping into his pallid face, “I have
been more than a--fool--I have been--”
She stopped him with a gesture. “You need not say it.”
“Isma,” he said, after a silence, “I should like to ask you to--forgive
me; but I suppose that is too much to expect--”
She did not reply at once, so he continued: “I meant to-- Well, you
know what I--intended last night--but please remember that I was
maddened with longing for you. I couldn’t endure the talk of your
marrying your cousin, couldn’t tolerate seeing him near you--though he
had little enough for an engaged man, Heaven knows! But you made it
all up to him last night, didn’t you! Can you imagine what it meant
to me to see you together--like that! The sight has been with me ever
since. I can’t forget it; it has been burned into the very tissues of
my brain! Isma, I am being punished--fearfully punished--”
“I am so--very sorry,” murmured his companion, confused and troubled.
But the man did not seem to hear her.
“I wonder,” he reflected, aloud, “how many men you have driven to
distraction.”
“Lord Berriedale, I have not come to discuss these things with you,”
she said, with gentle firmness.
Again he did not heed her. “Isma, why don’t you understand? Why have
you no sympathy with the poor devils you are sending--to hell!”
The girl shivered. “How can you say that to me! I have never given men
any--encouragement!”
“I know it. It is not your fault, of course. It is your magnetic,
extravagant womanhood, your bewildering loveliness, which does the
damage! You are no coquette; no one knows this better than I. You are
the purest, the most noble woman I have ever come across; still, you
draw us to our destruction all the same. Your personality is like
champagne that goes to the head--”
“Lord Berriedale, please don’t talk like that or I shall have to leave
you. You mentioned beauty of character. Why are you so blind? Why can’t
you see that the most beautiful, most self-sacrificing woman who ever
lived is the one linked to your life? She is the personification of
selflessness and goodness! If you had heard what she said to me this
morning, I think it would have touched even your heart and made you
rejoice that you had been given such a wife!”
The man beside her sighed deeply. “Beatrice is good,” he assented, “and
if I had only been her brother-- But her husband--” A shudder passed
through his frame. “Isma, you can’t know what it means to be--that to a
woman you feel toward as a--sister, while your whole vitalized manhood
clamors for--some one else! Isma, it is--hell--_hell_!” He reiterated
the last word in a voice which made the listening girl turn cold. She
thought all at once what it would mean to surrender her womanhood to
any one but Falcon. It would be ghastly! So the man beside her had
suffered like _that_!
Instantly she stretched out her hand to him and he clasped it eagerly.
“Isma, do you understand--at last?”
“I think so,” she replied, very softly.
Lord Berriedale released her hand and took a pocketbook from under
his pillow, opened it, and took out a few loose papers on which were
written some verses.
“This is a Danish poem,” he said, handing her the sheets. “A friend of
mine translated it and gave me a copy. The translation is a very rough
one, but the meaning is clear. Read it and you may understand a little
more fully what I have been through.”
Isma read:
CRUCIFIED
As I looked over the earth
I saw cross beside cross.
I saw them raised,
I heard them fall;
Bloodstained were they all.
Crosses for the living
I saw they were.
Crucified they hung,
Pair beside pair.
Strange moans rang into the air,
Sobbing their torment by day and night.
Crucified they hung
To the same brutal wood,
Man to woman,
Soul to soul!
Not wedded by heart-bonds,
Not tied by love’s rapture,
Condemned to suffer lifelong years,
Bleeding together, hand by hand!
Blanched they hung on the same ghastly tree
Hand to hand,
Foot to foot,
Knee to knee.
Who suffered most
God alone knew!
If one hand is clenched in rebellious revolt,
And the pair struggle who are tied together,
The nails cut deeper into the wound--!
The flesh must be ripped
If one will be freed.
And yet forever the scar will burn!
Man and woman,
You _must_ learn
Those nails will hold
Till life shall end!
Never again the gap will heal,
Never will close the bleeding wounds,
Even after days and years.
The torment you shared,
The blood ye bled
At the same moment,
Will bind you together
Till the slumbers of death!
Once bound, ye hang
Hopelessly chained
Foot to foot,
Hand to hand,
Bearing the nail-prints
Till life’s solemn end--
Crucified! Crucified!
To the same fatal wood
Man to woman,
Soul to soul!
For a long time she did not raise her eyes from the paper, but when at
last she looked up tears glistened in her lashes and her lips trembled.
“Is it like that?” she breathed, a sob in her voice.
“Yes,” he murmured, an odd glassiness in his gaze.
Impulsively the girl bent over him. “I forgive you--now,” she whispered.
“Because you have seen--the cross?”
“Yes,” she faltered.
Lord Berriedale looked out of one of the windows at the stirring,
sunlit ocean, and the curious fixedness in his glance made Isma think
suddenly of the bare cliff she had watched the night before, gazing
abstractedly out to sea.
“Lord Berriedale,” she said, softly, “perhaps it is only from the cross
that we learn to look beyond the scenes of earth--”
“Yes, perhaps so. But what do we find--there?” he asked, almost wearily.
A very bright color leaped into the girl’s face and she dropped her
eyes for a moment in reverent shyness. Then she lifted them suddenly
and said, in a low, clear voice, “There we find--God.”
The man turned to her. “And--God protected you, after all--last night.
He did not fail you and--He was stronger than the demon in me. Isn’t it
strange,” he continued, looking down on his bandaged limb, “that the
arm which held you so cruelly will never be of--use to me--again.”
She gazed at him with dazzling tenderness.
“I am sorry--so very grieved. Still--perhaps from your cross you, too,
will find--the Infinite.”
He shaded his eyes with his hand, and they were both silent for some
minutes.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, at last.
Then with another gentle pressure on his fingers Isma stole softly out
of the room.
X
MIGRATING BIRDS
When Isma left Lord Berriedale’s room she walked out on the balcony and
stood looking over the vast country that stretched beyond the garden
and avenue.
She wanted to be alone and have time to think. Her whole being was
in a turmoil. She felt as if she had been standing at the foot of a
cross and witnessed a terrible crucifixion. The man she had just left
was hanging on the cruel wood; she had never realized his suffering
before. Now her heart went out to him in burning pity. He had sinned,
sinned hideously; he had made desperate attempts to tear away from the
nails which held him; but each effort had only torn at the wounds and
increased his pain.
And Beatrice? She was on the same cross, enduring fresh lacerations
each time her husband tried to break away.
Isma sat down in one of the low balcony chairs.
The world was full of crosses; she could see them now. It seemed as if
it held nothing but those instruments of torture--a whole vast globe
full of them! Cross beside cross, rearing up their naked, cruel forms,
as desolate sentinels on graves! The earth had been changed into a
great cemetery--not a calm resting-place for the dead, but a graveyard
for the living. This acre of the dead held alive men and women, who
could moan, weep, laugh harsh, bitter laughter, abuse one another, tear
at one another’s wounds, men and women who bled, who made themselves
and one another bleed!
Isma pressed her hands, tightly against her eyes. So _this_ ghastly
thing was--life!
Presently her hands dropped from her face and she looked into the
cloudless blue spaces arching high above the endless sun-bleached
plains.
For some time she sat motionless, gazing into the immense blueness.
Out there was the Infinite and peace. But if He were all-powerful,
living Himself in the region of calm, why did He allow this agonized
suffering on the earth? Could He not bring peace there also? He had
made the earth beautiful, ravishingly lovely! It was a vast, enchanting
paradise ablaze with flowers, alive with chirping birds, humming with
insects, shimmering with white, radiant sunlight. Why had this place of
wonderful beauty been turned into a graveyard? Why--why?
Then suddenly as she glanced dreamily about her the bare, ugly crosses
seemed to change. They were no longer instruments of torture, hewn
together to rack their unfortunate victims. They had all at once
become pillars which raised those who hung on them above the earth, so
that they might have a clear vision of the Infinite who was trying to
draw their attention to Himself.
The girl closed her eyes. Understanding had suddenly come to her.
“So here you are, Isma! I did not know you had left Neville. How is he?
Were you able to comfort him?” asked Lady Berriedale, who had just come
out on to the balcony.
“I don’t know about that, but don’t worry over him, Beatrice. All will
come right. He is fighting through.”
A great tenderness welled up in Isma’s heart for the friend who loved
so desperately, so selflessly, the man chained to her who had failed to
satisfy her burning passion.
“Beatrice,” said the girl, taking the hot, restless hands, “I do feel
all is going to come right between you--”
“How can you say that when you know everything as you do?” There was
deep reproach in the rasping voice.
“I can’t explain, Beatrice, but I feel it. It came to me quite suddenly
just now.”
“That all will come right?”
“Yes.”
Lady Berriedale sighed. “I don’t see how it can.”
“No, you may not see that; still, it will.” There was conviction in the
words.
“Do you really think he will ever--love me?”
“Yes,” Isma replied, with a far-away look in her eyes. Apparently
she was gazing at something so distant that it was beyond the scene
spreading before her.
“Isma,” said her friend, with awe in her voice, “you are not thinking
of--earth.”
“No, I was thinking of a beautiful experience I had early last
evening,” and she told her eager listener about the staring bluff
and the discovery she had made on the headland. “And do you know,
Beatrice,” she continued, a flush in her cheeks and warmth in her
voice, “that it has made everything different. On the way here this
morning, as I looked at the sea, the coast-line, the breakers, the
flowers, the hills, the clouds, it came to me that all the color, the
exquisite outline of form, the grace, the radiance, were merely the
shadow of His wonderful personality; that the tender loveliness here
was only God’s shadow cast on the earth to remind us of Him and His
gorgeous beauty.”
“Isma, how glorious! How I wish I had thoughts about God like that!
Still,” she continued, perplexity coming in her voice once more, “I
don’t see the connection between that and Neville loving me again.”
“Why, don’t you see when He is so close, when He has power to do
everything, He can put things right for you? There was a terrible
misunderstanding between Falcon and myself, but He put it right last
night.”
“I am truly glad to hear that, but--I have only such a little
time--left.” The big black eyes glistened with a dewy brilliance.
“Life for all of us is only brief. We are like birds that come here for
the summer, build nests, and then migrate to another shore.”
Her companion shivered. “Isma--the migrating is so--terrible--the
flight over the fathomless ocean with its engulfing water awful!” She
trembled again. “If only, like the birds, we might migrate in flocks,
have warm companionship, familiar forms taking the journey with us--
But for one solitary little bird to start alone across those heaving
waters--”
There were footsteps in the hall. Now Rex appeared in the doorway.
“Captain Folkestone is at the ’phone and wants to speak to you,” he
said, addressing Isma.
The girl rose. The thought of Falcon suddenly overwhelmed her; she had
been living in the sorrows of others. Now her own happiness returned to
her with the suddenness of a delicious shock.
She hurried down-stairs, picked up the receiver and said a very
breathless “Hullo!” into the instrument.
“Is that you, Isma?” came Falcon’s low, pleasant voice in her ear.
“Yes,” she answered, her heart beating so rapidly she could scarcely
speak.
“How are you--terribly knocked up to-day?” There was keen anxiety in
the words.
“No, splendid, thank you!” she assured him, with a sudden radiance
in her tones. His tender concern had steadied her and brought her an
exuberant joy.
“That sounded fine! I was so afraid you would be tired out.”
“Not at all; but--did you go over to The Palms this morning?”
“Of course. Do you think I could wait till this afternoon?”
Her happy laugh rippled into the ’phone. “How nice of you!”
“I should have come to The Bluff after you if it hadn’t been for your
message telling me to wait. I really came to carry you off for the day.
I wanted to take you a few miles up the coast and make you rest on the
sands all day and--play with me.”
“That would have been--lovely! I am so sorry I have missed it; but
there is still--to-morrow.”
“I have other plans for that.”
“Really? What are they?”
“I can’t explain just now--I will tell you this afternoon.”
“Is it something--nice?”
“Yes, heavenly!”
“Then I am longing to hear it.”
“You sha’n’t wait a moment longer than I can help! But I mustn’t keep
you standing any longer. You won’t be late this afternoon, will you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Alas! I must say good-by till then,” he said, reluctantly.
“Never mind, time will soon pass and this afternoon will come--”
“This morning seems to be the longest I have ever spent--but I suppose
three o’clock is bound to come round some time.”
“Yes--it won’t be long now--so good-by.”
“Good-by till--summer.”
XI
THISTLE-DOWN
Captain Folkestone had just finished speaking to Isma on the ’phone and
had gone into his sitting-room and stood by the mantelpiece looking at
a large bowl of sulphur-colored roses; his cheeks were flushed and in
his eyes was still the strong light his talk with the girl had brought
there.
The room was very charming with its high-paneled wainscoting of
blackwood, its dark-brown felt carpet strewn with golden-brown rugs,
its handsome blackwood furniture and long tusser curtains that hung in
graceful folds by the large open windows through which the warm summer
air, heavily perfumed by flowers, came softly into the room.
An excited bee shot in from the garden and darted noisily about the
room.
Falcon watched it with detached interest. The bee made a sudden exit
just as his attention was arrested by the buzzing of a motor.
He glanced out into the riot of sunshine and flowers, in the direction
where the long drive lined with flame-trees opened into the garden,
and saw a car making its way rapidly toward the house.
He started a little; it was Lord Berriedale’s big motor. It took the
turning to the front door with an elegant swing and stopped abruptly.
The chauffeur opened the door and a small, closely veiled woman got
out--it was Miss Brentford.
If Captain Folkestone was surprised, his face did not betray his
feelings when presently the visitor was shown into the room and he
greeted her in his usual courteous manner, which held graceful ease as
well as a touch of formality.
“How very delightful of you to come and see me, Miss Brentford!” he
said, taking her proffered hand. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”
The girl had thrown back her veil. “What a delightful room!” she
exclaimed, looking round the sunlit, luxurious apartment with its
valuable paintings, numerous books, fine bronze statues, and Persian
rugs with their long silk fringes.
Captain Folkestone drew forward a low easy-chair and asked his guest to
be seated.
Rita sank down among a profusion of yellow cushions, allowing herself a
few minutes’ pleasant talk with her handsome host before disclosing the
real object of her visit, which she knew would be distasteful to him.
For some time they chatted in their usual friendly way; then Miss
Brentford caught sight of a clock on the mantelpiece and saw it was
getting dangerously near lunch-time. She sat up with a jerk and her
face looked all at once perturbed as she said:
“I suppose you are rather surprised I should come to you like this?”
“Not at all. It is the most natural thing for my friends to come to see
me and they are always welcome here,” he assured her, graciously.
“It is very nice of you to be so cordial. However, I wouldn’t have
come--unasked--unless there had been--serious issues at stake,” she
ventured, heading in the direction of her goal.
Captain Folkestone smiled in his disarming way.
“Serious issues! Why, that sounds quite formidable, and formidable
things are not for the summer. If I were you I wouldn’t worry about
them on a day like this. Come out in the garden and let me show you my
flowers; that is far more appropriate in this splendid weather.”
“No, thank you, I would rather stay indoors; the sun is very warm.”
“I am sure the drive must have been hot. Let me get you an iced drink.”
“Thank you, I don’t want anything like that. I only want to talk to
you.”
“That is very charming of you; but let us leave serious things alone;
they are only meant for dull climates and--winter.”
“But this one cannot wait. When winter comes it might be too late--”
“It is always wise to wait with formidable things till it is too late,”
her companion observed, pleasantly.
“Now you are talking nonsense and you ought to be serious,” the girl
replied, a little petulantly.
“My dear Miss Rita, I always find it such a good plan never to be what
I ought to be,” he laughed.
“That is most tiresome of you.”
“Not at all. It is the people who are what they should be who are
tiresome, for they have the annoying habit of expecting every one else
to come up to their own immaculate perfection, and that is horribly
aggravating of them! And, by the way, talking nonsense is most
sensible, for then people do not believe you mean what you say.”
“Is that an advantage?”
“Certainly, for no one will stop to contradict you or argue with you,
then.”
Miss Brentford looked toward the clock again. She moved uneasily. Too
much time was being wasted before she disclosed her errand.
“Captain Folkestone,” she said, a little nervously, for it was very
difficult to screw herself up to the point of attack when confronted by
those smiling, dominating eyes, “I have come to speak to you on a very
delicate matter this morning, and I do hope--you will not be offended
with me--”
The man before her laughed genially. “I am never offended at anything
people say to me. Why should I be? Words are only like thistle-down,
and no one in their right mind will take thistle-down seriously. One
only brushes it away and--forgets.”
“Still, if a friend came to warn you about some--awful danger--” said
the girl, making a violent plunge toward her object.
“No friend ever comes to warn one; only enemies do that.”
“I cannot agree with you there. If you were on the point of making some
terrible mistake, undoubtedly it would be your friend’s duty to try and
prevent it--”
“My dear Miss Brentford, you surely wouldn’t be cruel enough to prevent
any one from making a mistake, would you? Why, the only enjoyable thing
in life is making mistakes.”
“And the consequences?” inquired his companion as one who had scored a
point.
The Guardsman shrugged easily. “One is far too busy making other
mistakes to bother about them.”
It was just dawning on the girl that her host was deliberately keeping
her from accomplishing her plan, and a hot anger leaped up in her
toward the woman who was so sacred to him that he courteously yet
decidedly made it clear he refused to discuss her.
She drew herself up and her dark eyes flashed as she said, “Captain
Folkestone, I believe you know what I have come to say this morning
and you are trying to keep me from saying it.”
“In that case I suppose you will see that it is quite superfluous
to--say it.” His quiet, agreeable tones held an underlying significance.
“No, indeed, for what I have to--tell you would open your eyes--”
“Open my eyes! Whoever wants his eyes open! Why, the reason the world
is so interesting and people so fascinating is because one always looks
at them with one’s eyes shut.”
“But if you marry with your eyes closed you will marry the wrong
woman,” she retorted, making a desperate attempt to break through his
wordy entanglements.
He laughed with unruffled serenity.
“And what man wants to marry the right woman? It is far more amusing
and entertaining to marry--the wrong one.”
There was a knock at the door and a servant announced that luncheon was
ready.
“Of course you will take pity on my loneliness and have lunch with me?”
said Captain Folkestone, hospitably.
The girl stood for a moment, pale, irresolute, her face working, her
hands moving nervously. She had been defeated, hopelessly defeated, and
now there was nothing for her to do but to make as dignified a retreat
as possible.
“No, thank you, the car has to be back in time to--take--your cousin
home at two o’clock. It appears she has a very important engagement
early this afternoon. The other motor has gone to town, so I must hurry
back.”
Her host saw her to the car, shook hands elaborately, and then the girl
was whirled hastily away from the flower-laden garden that gleamed in
the midday sunlight as if it had been strewn with gorgeous jewels.
However, Rita did not notice the flowers. She leaned back in the
mauve-colored, well-padded seat, feeling suddenly weak with impotent
rage. She had been beaten, horribly beaten. The soldier had rendered
her utterly powerless! It had cost her a good deal to make this attempt
to save him from a disastrous fate; but her endeavor had been a
failure, her purpose thwarted, and her thrust foiled. In fact, she had
not even been permitted to strike; her smiling host had politely but
uncompromisingly taken her weapon from her before she could use it.
She recognized her complete helplessness as she sped homeward under the
glittering flame-trees. Why had she been so ineffectual? How was it her
words never carried weight? No one took any notice of her opinion; she
could not influence anybody, not even her sister. Why was it--why? But
everybody listened to Miss Folkestone. She could sway all the people
around her. Was this merely because of her beauty? Ah, that fatal
fairness! It seemed to the girl like a dreadful juggernaut crunching
its way relentlessly over all her plans and desires. If only she could
see that vivid, colorous blondness lying cold and inert, deprived of
its riotous vitality in the narrow bed of the dead! Then alone she
would be safe and able to have her way!
A hard glint came into the black eyes burning behind the closely drawn
veil as she looked unseeingly into the effulgent sunlight.
XII
SUMMER
I did not know, when first I took your hand,
And felt a thrill I could not understand,
How you would turn my world to wonderland--
I did not know!
Isma stood by the mirror in her room fastening some deep-pink roses
into the corsage of her pastel-blue _crêpe-de-Chine_ gown. She had
returned from The Bluff half an hour before; it was now five minutes
to three and Falcon might arrive at any moment. Her fingers moved
with nervous haste. She dropped a dawn-flushed bud, picked it up
quickly and pinned it in more securely. Then she surveyed her superb
reflection in the glass with absent-minded scrutiny. She had made her
toilet carefully; on this day of days everything must harmonize with
the greatness of the occasion. She had chosen this frock with its
rich embroidery and girdle of tawny gold because Falcon had specially
admired it.
“Captain Folkestone is in the drawing-room,” a maid announced and
withdrew.
The color in Isma’s cheeks deepened. A strange, fierce excitement made
her suddenly tremble, feel weak and unable to move. She stood gazing
into the mirror with parted lips and unseeing eyes. The roses on her
bosom shook. How was she to walk down-stairs and into that room? How
was she to face her cousin, meet that intent blue gaze and greet him
calmly? If only she could have rushed to him and buried her blushing
face on his shoulder before he had time to look at her! She wanted to
hide--must hide. Her shyness was overwhelming!
But she must not keep Falcon waiting. With a violent effort she pulled
herself together and hurried down-stairs. However, as she opened the
drawing-room door and entered, everything swam before her. She saw
only a blurred vision of roses, masses of roses everywhere, dark red,
pink, and cream, their perfume scenting the air with heavy sweetness.
Amid this profusion of flowers a stalwart figure was coming toward her.
One look into his eager, smiling eyes and her vision was blurred no
longer; it cleared instantly. She lost consciousness of the flowers,
their drowsy perfume, her own nervous shyness, and her whole attention
became absorbed by the man approaching her. In one glance she took
in every detail of his appearance. It seemed to her he had never
looked so adorable as he did at that moment, his face flushed and
his eyes shining with something which sent a riotous joy pulsating
through her veins! Then very gently his dear hands were laid on her
shoulders and, holding her at arm’s-length, he looked at her with an
expression which made her feel completely in his power.
[Illustration: ISMA]
“Isma,” he said, “I have come for those--kisses you wouldn’t give me
the other day--”
A hot wave of color mounted to her face and her glance fell before his.
As no answer came he went on: “Isma, why wouldn’t you give them to me?
Why have you been pretending you did not--care? Did you want to see
what I look like when I am demented?” He was still smiling, but his
tone held a slight unsteadiness.
She looked up at him reproachfully. “Oh, Falcon, you know it
wasn’t--that.”
“Then why in the name of wonder did you--?”
“I didn’t think--you wanted--”
“Isma, you couldn’t seriously have thought such a thing.”
“But I--did.”
“How could it be possible? And how was it your own feelings didn’t help
you to understand mine? Tell me, Isma”--he bent over her now--“didn’t
you ever want me--close? Want me to--?”
“Of course,” she breathed, in burning confusion.
“Then why on earth have you racked us both like this?”
“I--I--didn’t think you--cared,” she faltered.
He drew back in utter astonishment and his hands fell from her
shoulder. “Not cared!” he exclaimed, incredulously. “After I had thrown
up everything and followed you across the world, been at your beck and
call ever since--simply lived for you! Besides, I told you myself on
the day we became engaged--in this very room, don’t you remember?--that
I would follow you wherever you went, and you said it was absolutely
useless. You didn’t give me one ray of hope--”
“But you did not say _you_ would. You only said ‘one man,’ and I
naturally thought you referred to--”
“Berriedale? And do you think I should be pressing his--unlawful suit?”
“I only thought you meant it as a--warning.”
He looked at her in perplexed amazement. “Good God! Isma, what a
misunderstanding! Still,” he added, after a pause, “what a mercy I
discovered you did care--a little bit, after all!” As he said the last
words he laid his hands caressingly on her shoulders again.
His touch unnerved her and she was silent for some moments before
asking, timidly, “When did you find out--last night?”
“No; I knew before then.”
The girl glanced up at him quickly. “Before--?”
“Two days ago I was certain.”
“What--made you certain--then?”
“Well, you didn’t seem--very happy on the way home--”
“And you guessed why?”
“I--couldn’t very well help it. Besides, there were other things that
day. To be quite frank with you, there had been things all along which
pointed--in that direction; for instance, on the night of the ball when
my arm--touched you, you seemed to find it difficult to--”
“Oh, Falcon, I was so--miserable that night. I couldn’t help
showing--it,” she said, brokenly.
He drew her a little closer. “Isma, what made you so--miserable that
night?”
Her drooping lashes trembled.
“Tell me, Isma,” he pleaded, as she did not speak.
“Falcon, you know,” she breathed.
“Were you--wanting--me as much as I--wanted you?” he murmured, close to
her ear.
“Of course,” she admitted, almost inaudibly.
He made no reply, but his breath came in short, panting gasps. Then
suddenly he caught her to him.
For some minutes they stood without speaking, silenced, made motionless
by the paralyzing sweetness of the contact.
At last Falcon said, “Tell me, how long have you--cared?”
The question roused her from the physical lassitude his embrace had
produced in her. “Ever since we first met--in England,” she replied, in
a low voice.
He started. “All that time! Heavens! If I had only known! Isma, how
could you keep it from me so long?”
“Several times I was afraid you had guessed--”
“I did think now and again that-- But whenever you had given me the
least ray of hope you always took such care to be specially indifferent
and aloof afterward--that put me off the scent.”
“Anyhow, I gave my secret completely away the other day,” she said, her
voice becoming faint again with the narcotic of his embrace.
“Yes, but I had to drag it from you--use horribly brutal methods--”
“You knew all the time you were--hurting me?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t help it. It seemed the only way of making
you--surrender, and I assure you it hurt me more than it hurt you.”
At last she lifted her head slightly and said, “But Falcon, how could
you--love me if you doubted me and thought that I--?”
“Isma, I never really doubted you. In my heart I knew all the time that
you were the dearest, most unselfish little girl in the world!”
“But till quite lately you were always so sarcastic and contemptuous--”
“That was only because I was desperate. I saw how the world misjudged
you, and I was just trying to sting you into prudence. Isma, can’t you
understand how I felt about it? It was terrible to have such a slur
cast on you--”
“Still, you knew all the time that I didn’t--”
“Of course I knew--knew that you were only sacrificing yourself, your
reputation--everything for your friend. All the same, I was distracted
with anxiety in case your courage might be the means of entrapping you.
Isma, I was at my wit’s end to know how to guard you!”
She looked up at him with shiny eyes. “Oh, Falcon, you have been
perfectly wonderful! No one in the world would have been so good to me!”
He stroked her soft cheek tenderly.
“Isma,” he said, after a pause, “when we are married and you have got
used to me I want you to tell me about--last night--”
A tremor passed through her. “And--you don’t want to know--before?” she
breathed into his coat.
“No, for whatever happened, it could not have been your fault.”
“Oh, Falcon,” she whispered, “you _do_ care as much as, or more
than--he.”
He frowned. “Who dared to say I didn’t?”
“He said--”
“What did he say?”
“That--you wouldn’t have anything more--to do with--me if--if--”
He held her to him with bruising force. “He dared to talk to you
about--such things--”
In the silence that followed he felt her burning humiliation and
hastened to say, “Isma, don’t let us think of it just now--”
“But, Falcon, I must tell you this,” she whispered into his shoulder.
“I was wonderfully protected last night. God sent you to me--”
“Heaven be praised I managed to reach you when I did!” he murmured,
huskily.
The underlying depth of feeling in his tone made the girl all at once
realize it would be lovely to confide to him her beautiful experience
on the cliff; but she would wait a little. He was sure to stay for the
rest of the day, and when twilight came they would stroll out under the
palms. That would be the time to share with him her sacred things. The
thought of telling him about God thrilled her suddenly; the intimacy it
implied held a new, delicious sweetness!
“Falcon. I have something beautiful to tell you--”
“Yes, little girl,” he replied, in a low voice. “You don’t know how I
long for your confidence, have you talk to me freely--open out to me,
share everything--”
“But I think I would rather wait till to-night. You will stay all the
evening, won’t you?--so after dinner we will go out under the palms and
talk.”
“That will be perfectly delightful. What a gorgeous evening we shall
have, and evening is the time for confidences, isn’t it?--and we have
so much to say to each other, so much to make up!”
“But Isma,” he went on, after a pause, “do you know you haven’t given
me those kisses yet?”
Her breathing grew perturbed and she pressed her face nervously against
his shoulder.
“Isma, you are surely not shy with me again? Just give them to me at
once and you will feel much better.” As he spoke he raised her head and
she made no resistance.
For some moments he stood looking into the confused, upturned face,
with its flushed cheeks, quivering nostrils, and long, downcast lashes.
Then beneath his gaze the heavily fringed lids opened slowly and the
golden-gray eyes lifted timidly to his. But the cloudy shyness vanished
as their glances met, caressed, melted into one and clung together,
and something which was half a gleam and half a mist came into the two
pairs of eyes which held each other as if they could not tear apart.
“Good God! how I love you, Isma!” cried Falcon, in a voice stifled with
emotion.
The girl paled and something blinded her.
The next moment their lips had met in a long, convulsive kiss.
Staggering and stunned, they drew apart, only to be swept together
again and again.
“Oh, Falcon,” she half sobbed, reeling against him as his lips released
her at last, “I can’t--”
His iron strength steadied her, and, leading her to a couch in a
corner of the room, he sat down beside her and took her into his arms,
pillowing her head on his breast. For some time he sat regarding the
golden head resting against his heart with strange, glistening eyes;
then he said, in a curious, vibrant tone: “Isma, do you know what
happened just now? In those kisses you gave yourself to me body and
soul.”
She stirred slightly. “Didn’t I do it--before?” she asked, faintly.
“Not fully. You gave me your love before. Now you have given me
yourself, made that complete surrender it has been so hard for you to--”
She was fully roused again. “Falcon, it wasn’t hard, truly it was not.
I--I--have just been longing to--” she assured him quickly, raising
her head and looking up at him with eyes which were deep and dark with
passionate yielding.
He bent over her and drank thirstily of the love-wine her soul poured
out to him.
His kisses and the paroxysms of emotion which had swept over them had
in some mysterious way brought them closer, and it seemed to Isma that
every thread of obscuring garment had for the moment been torn aside
and that he looked straight into her heart. Her shyness vanished as if
by magic. It became a delight to lay her inmost feelings bare to him.
She could have no secrets from him any longer; she did not wish to have
any. She was his, every part of her belonged to him; he had a right to
every emotion stirring in her soul. The passion of their lips had made
them one. And the knowledge of this brought with it a deep elation,
an overwhelming happiness. She could not repress it, could not keep
it out of her eyes; they sparkled suddenly into his, brimmed with a
reckless joy which dared to look at him with the triumphant right of a
possessor. She regarded his immaculately shaved cheeks, the brown waves
of his hair, the soft cleft in his firm chin with adoring scrutiny.
He responded at once to her changing mood.
“Well,” he said, at length, “and what do you think of--your property?”
She colored slightly, but met his probing gaze with dauntless
approbation. “I think it is just the dearest, the most lovable thing
God ever made!” Her golden eyes caressed his every feature.
He suddenly paled.
But the emotion he showed spurred her on to gayer abandonment, and she
laughed the happiest, silvery laugh that had ever rippled over her
scarlet lips. “Oh, Falcon, it is a perfect disgrace, the way I show you
how much I love you--but I can’t help it!”
He caught her to him and there was fire in his embrace. “It is the most
delicious thing you ever did, you adorable little summer witch!”
She leaned back in his arms and surveyed him laughingly, teasingly.
“But you don’t really love me as much as I--”
He closed the red, tantalizing lips with his, and his kisses leaped
through her like flames. “Take that back! If you dare to say these
outrageous things and smile at me in that bewildering way, I shall--”
“Falcon,” she half cried and half laughed, “I am so happy I don’t know
what I am doing or saying.”
“Isma, stop being so absolutely bewitching! Can’t you see you are
making my brain reel, that you are confusing me, intoxicating me--with
your alluring ways!”
“But, Falcon, it doesn’t really matter if we go quite mad over each
other, does it?” she said, regarding him with eyes that smoldered with
love and tenderness under their long, drooping lashes.
“No, it doesn’t matter in the least, provided we have enough sense left
to go through the--marriage ceremony to-morrow.”
She sat up quickly. “What _are_ you talking about?”
“Your and my wedding, of course,” he replied, in a level voice.
She looked at him in breathless astonishment. “Falcon, you are not
serious?”
“I was never more serious in my life. It is all being arranged--”
Her mood changed again. “But I can’t--” she whispered, in sudden
consternation.
“My dear little girl, you can. All you have to do is to step into my
car to-morrow morning and say--‘I will’ a little later on--”
A rich color dyed her face and throat. “Oh, not so soon!”
“Isma, don’t you love me well enough to want to be with me--all the
time?”
The hurt in his tone touched her. “Of course, but, Falcon, you don’t
understand--” she said, beginning to tremble.
“Of course I do,” he answered, his eyes eloquent with comprehension.
“Don’t you think I knew you were shy and nervous when you came into
the room this afternoon? But--wasn’t it all right? I didn’t overwhelm
you too suddenly, did I--and don’t you think you can trust me to make
everything all right for you to-morrow and--afterward?”
She clung to him suddenly. “You know I trust you absolutely. You always
make everything easy for me, and you don’t know how much I love you for
it!” she murmured, her lips close to his neck.
“So you want me to make love to you again!” he smiled, cuddling her to
him. “Isma, when we are married I am going to show you what I really
can do in that line.” Then he held her at arm’s-length and gazed at her
with passionate adoration.
She laughed blushingly.
“Now don’t you look like that again or I shall have to-- Oh, Isma,” he
broke off all at once, “why won’t you understand that I can’t possibly
wait! First you dazzle and bewilder me till I go clean off my head with
longing for you, then you wonder why I love you so frantically that I
can hardly wait another day to have you!”
“But--I love you--as much--”
“Yet you don’t want to marry me!”
“Yes, I do--”
“So you do, do you! All I can say is you have a funny way of showing
it.”
She leaned against him suddenly and there was utter abandonment in the
movement.
“Then you will--come with me--to-morrow?”
“Of course--if you wish it,” she breathed, tremulously.
* * * * *
It was dark. But a mellow, roseate light found its way into the garden
through one of the drawing-room windows and fell softly on Isma’s
figure as she stood under an archway of creepers saying good night
to her lover. Her black Ninon evening gown was sleeveless and in the
semi-darkness her lovely shoulders and arms gleamed strangely white.
Falcon regarded her silently for some moments. Then all at once he
folded her to him and buried his face against the sumptuous whiteness
of her shoulder.
Her soft arms stole about his neck as she gently pressed him to her.
The soldier drew a long, blissful sigh. “Isma--this is--heaven,” he
murmured, in tones laden with ecstasy.
After a pause he raised his head reluctantly. “But I must tear myself
away. It is getting late and you must have a good sleep. But think
of it--to-morrow about this time we shall be together at the Blue
Mountains, and, Isma--I shall not need to--say good-by.” His voice held
a curious exultation.
“Falcon,” she whispered, laying her cheek against his, “I can’t think--
It will all be too--wonderful--”
“You are glad now I arranged it so--soon?”
The glistening arms about his neck tightened. “After being with you
like--this I couldn’t--bear it--if you--hadn’t--”
He crushed her to him. “Isma, only this one good-by and--then--”
In the warm, perfumed darkness two figures clung tremblingly together,
while their lips met in a caress which held agonized longing as well as
rapturous anticipation.
XIII
THE NETTLE
“Neville, what do you think has happened?” cried Miss Brentford, almost
hysterically, as she swept into her brother-in-law’s room.
“My dear Rita, how can I guess what happens anywhere when I am a
prisoner between these four walls?” replied the pale man on the bed,
with a touch of irritation.
The girl began to pace the floor in frenzied excitement.
“What is it?” inquired the patient, realizing that something unusual
had taken place.
Miss Brentford stood still and there was a wild, desperate look in
her black eyes as she said: “Captain Folkestone has just rung up to
say--good-by. He and Isma were just starting for Sydney. They are to
be--married this afternoon. All is arranged.”
She stopped breathlessly, waiting for some fiery response, but none
came; the man among the pillows did not stir.
“Neville, how can you lie there so quietly, staring into space as if
this meant nothing to you? Stop acting--you don’t need to pretend with
me.” She almost screamed at him in her exasperation.
Lord Berriedale’s dark eyes moved slowly from the windows through which
long rays of sunlight streamed into the room and lay in large golden
pools on the purple carpet, to the trembling form standing before him.
“Rita, I am not pretending. Only,” he sighed deeply, “I knew this had
to--come--”
“How did you know that?” his companion demanded, fiercely. “She did
not love him and--” She stopped, making a little choking sound in her
throat.
“Didn’t love him, Rita! If ever a woman loved a man she loved--him!”
“I don’t believe it. She could not love anybody--doesn’t know the
meaning of the word!” she flung at him, hotly.
An odd, ghostlike smile hovered for a moment about Lord Berriedale’s
pale lips and his gaze seemed all at once fixed upon a scene which was
not visible to the girl beside him. “Rita, you don’t know what you are
talking about. In any case, do you think she could satisfy a man like
Folkestone if she could not answer fire with fire? I used to think him
cold, but, by Jove!--” Again his eyes looked abstractedly into space.
“Neville, I went to him two days ago to try and--make him give her up.
I was going to tell him everything and open his eyes--”
Lord Berriedale’s abstraction had vanished. “Yes, and what did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything. He simply refused to discuss her; wouldn’t
even let me mention her name.”
“How could he prevent that?” One slim hand began to tug at his
honey-colored mustache.
“Oh, you know his way! He just smiled, looked more handsome than ever,
fenced and talked; everything I said he turned off--wouldn’t allow me
to approach the subject.”
“Rita, that was because he knew you don’t understand his cousin.”
“Who can understand such depths of treachery!”
“You are absolutely wrong. There is no treachery about--Isma. She is
the finest, grandest woman--”
“You ought to be the last man to say that, for you know better--” she
interrupted him, vindictively.
“I know better than any one how utterly--untemptable she is.”
“You men always shield a beautiful woman!”
The girl began to pace the room again, her ungoverned despair sweeping
over her once more. “Oh, Neville, I shall go absolutely crazy.
I--I--can’t bear it--I can’t!”
Her companion sighed heavily, but he did not speak.
“I shall go mad--I know I shall--”
All at once she came over to the bed and threw herself into an
easy-chair beside it and buried her face in the counterpane.
One long, slim hand was laid on the black, girlish head. “Poor little
Rita!” whispered a voice so full of sympathy that she hardly recognized
it as her brother-in-law’s. “If only I could make it easier for you!”
The girl lifted her face and looked long into the kind eyes regarding
her. “Neville, do you think my going to him spurred him on to--?”
“No, dear, not at all. Folkestone would have done it, anyway. He has
waited a long time, shown excellent self-control, and behaved with a
restraint I envy him. But a man like that will not wait always, and
when he does act he means business.”
Miss Brentford looked at him in amazement. “How can you bear to talk of
it so--calmly! You speak as if it did not concern you in the least.”
“I am resigned--that is why,” he replied, meeting her glance calmly.
“Don’t you want to--kill the man and take her from him?” Her eyes held
a fierce, merciless glitter, and the man beside her felt thankful that
Isma was safely out of Rita’s way at present.
“What would be the use? I am helpless. I must stay--here, while
another--”
The expression on his face made the girl all at once realize what
he was passing through. “Poor Neville!” she murmured, for a moment
forgetting her own grief in her realization of his.
“You need not pity me. I deserve it all; besides, I could never have
made her happy.”
“Would that count as long as you--had her?”
“It didn’t count before. I would have taken her at all costs. But it
counts now.”
“Why now?”
“I can hardly explain, only I have been thinking about--God.”
His companion, stared at him in astonishment. “Good gracious, Neville,
you don’t mean to say you are turning religious!”
“Why not?” he asked, in level tones.
“Well--you are hardly a--suitable subject for--that kind of thing, are
you?” she replied, with merciless candor.
“It is men like me who need religion most--”
“And what good can it do you?” she challenged him, scornfully.
“I don’t know yet. Perhaps religion may not help me, but God might.”
The girl had risen. She stood looking in cold defiance at her
brother-in-law. Then she suddenly burst out laughing, a hideous,
horrible laugh. “Neville, you are crazy already, absolutely dotty!” and
with another ugly laugh she bolted out of the room.
* * * * *
“Rex, is the world coming to an end or what?” asked Miss Brentford,
bursting into the library where she knew the secretary was comfortably
installed with a novel and his cigarettes.
The man in the deep armchair put down the book he was reading
and looked up in indolent anticipation. He had heard the girl’s
conversation on the ’phone with Captain Folkestone and knew about
the coming wedding, and looked forward to an interesting talk on the
subject.
“Has anything else gone wrong?” He spoke with solemn intonation which
seemed to refer to Lord Berriedale’s accident and that the secretary
hoped no more calamities had taken place.
“Anything gone wrong indeed! What do you think, Neville has
turned--religious!”
Rex showed distinct signs of disappointment.
“Is that all?” he said, indifferently, picking up his book again. “You
really frightened me and made me think it was something serious.”
“Well, isn’t it serious that Neville is going mad?”
“Do you consider religion a madness?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
A light shot suddenly into the pale-blue eyes. The secretary saw a
new excitement ahead of him, a fresh way of tormenting another being.
“No, on the contrary, I think it shows jolly good sense,” he answered,
settling down to enjoy himself.
“Rex!” exclaimed Miss Brentford, angrily, “you are only playing, and I
am in no mood for jokes.”
“Indeed I mean what I say.”
“But you are not religious--far from it.”
“That doesn’t say I don’t approve of it. I don’t take exercise myself,
yet I thoroughly believe in it, all the same.”
“You are too lazy,” commented his companion.
“Exactly. Most people are too lazy to be religious. It is too great a
strain on their intelligence and too great a strain on their bodies.”
“Strain on their bodies?” queried the girl, in surprise.
“Yes, of course. When people become religious the body has to toe the
line as well as the soul, and between ourselves I believe it is the
strain on the body that keeps most people from religion. They don’t
say so, naturally. They have far nicer little ways of explaining
the situation. They are either assailed by doubts or they are too
enlightened and clever or too large-minded to accept such old-fashioned
ideas. But all the time it is the strain on the body it involves that
frightens them off.”
“Still, if you believe in it, why aren’t you religious yourself?”
interrogated the girl, uncertain whether her companion was in earnest
or not.
“For the simple reason that others fight shy of it. I don’t want my
habits interfered with. I like too many things religion condemns, so I
keep away from it and stick to my habits.”
“Isn’t that rather foolish?” suggested Rita, with a veiled display of
interest in spite of her scoffing tones.
“Of course, madly foolish. But then, with all our twentieth-century
culture, cleverness, and knowledge, we are nothing but a set of innate
fools! We know the great monster Death is after us, that sooner or
later it will track us down. If we had one iota of sense, we would--”
“What would be the use--we can’t alter the fact,” interrupted Miss
Brentford, impatiently.
“We certainly cannot alter the fact that Death is at our heels, yet we
might alter--others.”
“What others?”
“Our fate Beyond.”
“Rex, do you really mean _you_ believe in a state Beyond?”
“Of course I do; no one with any reasoning power could help it. There
is no waste in nature; life everywhere rises out of life; death is
just a crisis, a horrible, disgusting crisis; still, merely a critical
juncture--an autumn crisis in which decaying vestures are shed. But the
real life is not cast off in autumn. It is left free to be robed again
in fresh garments, and the new garments will be on the same pattern as
the old.”
The girl regarded the secretary skeptically; however, in her skepticism
smoldered a secret fascination. “That sounds very plausible; yet, after
all, we don’t know--no one has told us.”
“No, but we have been given minds which can think, conjecture,
reason. We were never told about the power of electricity, still, by
conjecturing and reasoning it was found.”
Rita sat in silence for a while. Before her mind had risen a torturing
vision of two people flying along in a car on dry, summerlit
roads, and soon--soon-- No! She could not tolerate the idea; it was
preposterous, unthinkable! She must make Rex talk again, anything to
keep her brain from the picture it insisted on bringing before her. It
was difficult to switch off her mental energy into another direction,
yet these new thoughts and the astounding fact that Rex should expound
them made them seem peculiarly interesting.
“Yes,” she admitted, half absently, “but we have got away from the main
issue. I don’t see that that has anything to do with it. If there is an
after-state, we shall arrive at it whether we are religious or not.”
“Certainly. All the same, religion has a great deal to do with it, for
it makes people sow wheat and not tares; it is very insistent on that
point. Now don’t you see the connection? The coming life must spring
from the seed of this one, and, as a plant cannot one season be a
nettle and the next a rose, it follows that if we are nettles here we
must be nettles There and be _treated_ as obnoxious weeds.”
The girl rose hastily. _Nettle--nettle!_ The horrid little word pressed
itself into the tissues of her brain.
A couple of days ago she had wondered why she had so little power over
other people; why her words carried no weight; why she was ineffectual,
influenced nobody; why no one had come very intimately into her life;
why every one kept her at arm’s-length, and now she suddenly saw
the reason--she was a nettle, a horrible nettle which stung anybody
who touched it. She had nearly stung her sister to death; she wished
to sting Isma into her grave; her words had been full of spite and
venom, her actions obnoxiously selfish! She saw herself as a loathsome
nettle stinging all who touched her life. And if there really was a
state Beyond, what would happen to her? Would she still go on stinging
so poisonously, so venomously, that she would be forever unloved and
abhorred? What a terrible destiny!
“Some people think Death transforms us into angels,” Rita flung at the
secretary, after a pause. “That is a much nicer theory than yours.”
Rex smiled ironically. “Yes, and almost as reasonable as the Santa
Claus illusion.”
“And why shouldn’t it be true?” demanded Rita, defiantly.
“The Santa Claus myth?”
“No, no, you stupid man, not that--”
“Oh, I see; you mean the angel theory?”
“Of course.”
Rex sighed patiently. “Now do use your brains! How could Death
transform one into an angel? Can the canker-worm develop the bud it
attacks into a flower? Death has no power except to decay. It is like a
moth getting into a garment; it doesn’t beautify--it destroys.”
“In that case it kills outright.”
“Yes, the garment, but not the wearer.”
Rita walked toward the window. However, the sight of the hot sunshine
glistening on trees and flowers made her turn away hastily, for in this
blinding radiance two people were driving--
“I hate all this sunlight!” she said, her cheeks all at once paling.
“This is a horrid country; everything is ablaze; it is a land on fire
that glitters and burns. I loathe it!” she cried, turning on the
secretary with sudden vehemence.
“My dear girl, I assure you I had no hand in inventing or making
Australia.”
“But you like it,” she protested, wrathfully.
“This certainly is a flame-land. It is vivid like fire. Its breath is
like the breath of a furnace; even the wide spaces above are scorched
by the heat from its great body; its voice is the roaring voice of
flames! It is a land that sets people on fire, and, Miss Rita, if I
stay here much longer”--Rex looked up at her with eyes that glowed with
a sudden, mysterious light--“I shall be in flames myself.”
Australia was an extraordinary country. It had changed her whole
world, made all familiar things crumble into dust and strange new ones
take their place. Captain Folkestone had gone out of her life--she
writhed again. Neville had become religious! Beatrice was dying! Rex
talked like a bishop and said he was catching fire! And Australia was
responsible for this horrible conglomeration of upheavals! Why had she
come to this place of wild, abnormal things to be whirled like an atom
into fathomless immensities, to be thrown into its flaming purgatory?
Ah, why?
The girl stood still, regarding Rex for some moments in curious
silence, then she turned and walked slowly out of the room.
XIV
BLOODWOOD
When tea was over that afternoon Lady Berriedale went to see her
husband and sit with him for a while.
She had a nasty paroxysm of coughing as she sat down beside the bed.
When the coughing had subsided she made a few preliminary remarks
before saying, a little nervously:
“Neville, I have been so--sorry for you all day--”
Lord Berriedale made a restless movement as if he wished to check her,
but she would not be interrupted. “Dear,” she continued, making a
further effort, “I am going to say what I want, so just listen to me. I
should like you to know that I had planned--everything so differently.
I wanted you to have had what you--desired, after I had--gone. But
now--” She hesitated.
The man’s left hand closed over his wife’s trembling one. “Beatrice,
you have been far too generous,” he said, in a voice which shook
slightly. “I have not deserved such--kindness.” Then he drew his hand
away and moved it shadingly across his eyes as if to hide something he
did not wish her to see.
Lady Berriedale turned her head away and her brimming glances searched
the room for something to distract her attention and help her to
composure. After a time her eyes lighted on some loose papers lying on
a small table in front of her. Mechanically she picked up the sheets
and saw that they held some verses written in a hand she did not
recognize. Half absently she began to read “Crucified.”
Her attention became suddenly fixed, the hectic flush in her cheeks
deepened, and she sat so still that her husband looked up, wondering
what kept her so motionless.
A deep stain crept into his pallid face as he discovered what she was
reading. “Beatrice, don’t; please don’t,” he said, in agitated tones.
“It will only hurt you.”
She dropped the paper and met his disturbed gaze with eyes that held
an unearthly calm, then she said: “Nothing can hurt me more than I
am already hurt. I have lost--all; or, rather, found--I had nothing
to--lose.”
She picked up the paper again and finished the verses, while the color
in her husband’s cheeks faded to an ashen pallor.
For some time she sat with the thin sheets before her, staring fixedly
at the words as if they had cast a hypnotic spell over her.
The stillness in the room was like the silence that follows the verdict
of doom; it held an awful fatality, a sense of irrevocable destiny.
“Neville,” she said, at length, breaking the dreadful pause, “your life
has been--like that?”
He made no answer, and his eyes evaded hers.
“Neville, why didn’t you--let me--know sooner and I would have--set you
free?”
If she had spoken such words before, he would have assured her he did
not want release; but now empty avowals were useless and the moment too
solemn for prevarication. To have uttered an untruth just then would
have been like uttering it before Eternity itself. Their naked souls
stood face to face with each other at last; all veiling garments of
falsehood and insincerity had fallen away.
“You could not,” he replied, after a short silence, forced to
undeviating sincerity.
“Yes, I could. I would have--gone away, and after a time you could have
had a--divorce on grounds of desertion.”
“That would have been--useless.”
“You mean she would not have--married a divorced man?”
“Yes, she wouldn’t have done that even if she had--cared: But,” he
went on, in a different tone, “do not regret anything. It could not
be--helped. Nothing could have altered it. Marriage binds till--death.”
Lady Berriedale sat looking vacantly before her as if her inner eyes
were gazing into some terrible reality she must accustom herself to
face. After a pause she repeated, absently:
“Hand to hand,
Foot to foot,
Man to woman,
Soul to soul.”
The man on the bed shuddered. “Don’t, Beatrice, don’t,” he pleaded,
closing his eyes.
For some time neither of them spoke and in the silence the wide, black
chasm of despair stretched out before them in paralyzing desolation.
“The cross holds till--death,” she said at last, staring fixedly at the
fatal verses; then after what seemed another interminable pause she
rose and walked slowly out of the room.
* * * * *
It was midnight. Through Lord Berriedale’s wide-open windows gleamed
the summer-night sky with its myriad host of tranquil stars.
The door opened gently, and a white-clad form moved softly toward the
bed.
“Are you asleep, Neville?” whispered his wife, coming close to him.
The figure among the pillows shrank away a little, but the merciful
darkness hid the sudden movement, also the hostile expression in the
sleepless eyes.
“No,” he replied, in schooled tones, “I am not.”
Lady Berriedale hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the silken
bedspread, while her husband lay gazing at the white blur beside him,
not choosing to assist her in overcoming her evident embarrassment.
“Neville, I want to--talk to you,” she said, with apparent effort.
“Couldn’t you talk to me--in the daytime? If you become--excited now,
you know you will not be able to--sleep at all,” he said, with a
distinctly uncompromising note in his voice.
“I shall not be able to--sleep, anyhow, and--it will help me to--talk
to you. I have been thinking of those--verses and--everything,” she
went on, more hurriedly. “How could I help it! It all seemed so
hopeless, such an irremediable tragedy! Life, generally, appeared a
fearful chaos, a cruel muddle, and I was almost distracted as I thought
about it. Then all at once some talks with Isma came back to me. We
were speaking about life and came to the conclusion it was only a
prison-existence; that this planet was merely a prison-house for the
criminals of the universe--the worst criminals, for every one sent
here is executed. It seems to me this thought alone can explain all
the suffering, misery, and heartache abounding on this earth. But,
Neville, fancy entering the next world as criminals! Isn’t it awful!
What chances of happiness could we have under such circumstances! And
perhaps Death is not even the execution; it may merely be a door,
a horrible door, that leads to--a worse doom. Neville, when I am
so--near, when I shall enter it so--soon, can’t you understand that I
should be terribly anxious?” She spoke rapidly, excitedly now.
Her husband clasped her hand in quick sympathy. “Of course, Beatrice,
of course I can.”
After a slight hesitation she went on more calmly, a gentle hush
coming into her tones. “But, Neville, I have been praying lately, not
just offering formal petitions to some far-away, unheeding Being, but
talking to a real Person--what Isma calls laying a detaining hand on
God and speaking to Him. I have asked Him about--everything and to help
me when all alone I shall enter the Great Beyond. I have been horribly
afraid of it, Neville; but”--in the starlit gloom he saw the sudden
light that came into her large, shadowy eyes--“I am not afraid any
more, for all at once I remembered something I have not thought of for
years, and it has taken away all my fears. It is this.” She lowered her
voice before saying: “Neville, God so loved us that He sent His only
Son down to this desolate prison-house to die for us poor criminals.
Think of it--die for us! He was put on the scaffold of the cross
for our sakes, and now--we can enter eternity, not as malefactors,
but--free! Oh, Neville, you can’t imagine what this means to me!
“I unearthed my Bible to read about it, and do you know the first place
my eyes lighted on as I opened the hook was the passage about the
dying thief, and as I read it seemed to me he really represents the
whole of suffering humanity--dying on the cross of sorrow and pain--yet
unable to open the gates of--Paradise. It was only when the thief asked
the Spotless One at his side to remember him when He came into His
kingdom that he received the immediate promise of--Eden. And Neville,
isn’t it wonderful! We can all ask Him--everybody can--to remember us;
and He is not far away; He is beside us, and the moment we really ask
we receive the promise that we shall be with Him in Paradise! Isn’t it
beautiful!”
The soft darkness veiled the trembling form among the pillows and the
moisture glistening in the black eyes.
There were some moments’ silence; then Lord Berriedale raised his
wife’s emaciated hand to his lips and kissed it reverently before
saying, brokenly, “And, Beatrice, it is only when we are on the cross
ourselves that we learn to think of--the Crucified One and ask Him
to--remember us.”
In the dimness he saw her face transfigured as she said, softly, “The
cross is the trysting-place between heaven and earth; the cross is the
ladder to--Paradise.”
* * * * *
Outside in the still, warm night a shuddering sigh went through the
dreaming flowers in the garden and the stars gleamed as if they were
smiling down on the earth through tears.