Chapter I: Part I: The Immortal Flame (1)

I

THE HIDING-PLACE

“My hiding-place--my beautiful retreat!” she exclaimed, under her breath, and looked with passionate intensity at the wild, rocky coast-line which stretched as far as eye could see on either side of the cliff where she was standing.

“I am safe at last,” she whispered, a calmer expression taking the place of the haunted look in her eyes. “No one will find me here--I shall live and die in this secluded spot.” She walked a few steps backward and forward on the narrow conelike rock. “Who would follow me,” she cried, defiantly, as if challenging some sudden fear. “No, no, here I am secure--_quite safe_,” she repeated, emphatically, in her low musical voice, making a further attempt to quell her stirring misgivings.

For some time she stood absolutely motionless, looking out to sea. The late afternoon sunshine fell on her tall, white-clad form making it look like a statue carved out of some strange ethereal substance.

All at once she glanced again at the long line of massive cliffs, and stretched out her arms as she whispered in soft, yearning tones, “Oh, you big immovable crags, give me some of your calm, let me learn to be still as you are still!”

Her arms dropped to her side, but she continued to gaze at the great imperturbable headlands--nothing affected them! Giant waves, ferocious tempests, had flung their fury against the bulky battlements, yet nothing had conquered their colossal strength.

Isma Folkestone turned toward the land. Behind the cliffs lay a long, low plain, covered with stunted trees, spider-bushes, grass-trees, and other flowering shrubs, and between these a little silvery road crept gingerly toward the distant, heavily timbered hills.

The girl looked down with unseeing eyes on the shrubby flats. The blue shadows on the plain were lengthening. The slanting sunbeams caught the spider-bushes, rich in scarlet blossoms, and made them flame like blood-red jewels. A lofty silence began to descend on everything around her, a hush peculiarly accentuated by the soft murmurs of the sea as it settled to rest at the feet of the purple headlands.

The woman on the cliff felt the mellow calm stealing into her heart also. She closed her eyes and breathed very slowly. Then suddenly she looked up in terror; the vision her mind had conjured up behind her closed lids drained the color from her face. Oh, those pleading, fiery eyes, would they never cease to torment her--would they follow her wherever she went? Was there no respite from the burning shame they evoked? Why could she not forget? She would never look into them again--that at least was certain; but why did the memory still scorch her with its humiliating degradation!

A blush as vivid as the gleaming spider-flowers on the plain spread under her flawless skin. The last lingering rays of the setting sun turned the thick waves of her flaxen hair to flaming gold.

Isma raised a white, perfectly shaped hand and put a shimmering strand into place. She sighed as she felt its silken texture. What use had great beauty been to her? It had brought nothing but heartache and humiliation. Her red lips parted into a bitter smile. But the smile soon faded and a fixed, determined expression came into her eyes, the alluring eyes with their wide, bewildering lids and their thick fringe of black lashes; they had done harm enough, brought shame and anguish enough; now no one except her old governess should look into them again.

If only her beauty had brought her a gleam of real happiness, she could perhaps have endured the rest, but it had not done so. It had brought admiration, favor, homage in the teeming world from which she had fled, but it had not given her one single draught of unalloyed joy.

There had been moments when she hated her extraordinary loveliness; she hated it now. What was the use of adulation if with it had come envy, slander, shame, and mortification!

What was the use of the world’s clamorous adoration, its fierce desire to possess her, when the only man-- She trembled and a stinging mist blinded her eyes at the thought of his ironic glances and scarcely veiled contempt. She straightened proudly; she had come to this retreat to forget that also. Those protecting headlands would not only shut out the mad, excited world with its fiery, insistent pleading, the world which had petted and worshiped her and at the same time envied and slandered her, but those huge, immovable stones must also blot out the memory of the handsome Australian soldier with his mocking smiles and cruel sneers.

She glanced across the low plain to the far-away hills, behind which the sun was setting amid a shimmering haze of lilac and saffron yellow. Beyond this high range of hills lay her cousin’s estate; she was only a few miles from his boundary! But she was quite safe; he had not visited his old home for many years, and it was not likely he should come back now. The gay, sparkling world held too many attractions for the fascinating guardsman; it had opened all doors to him, showered distinctions and invitation-cards upon him, bestowed admiration and honor. He had been sought out and idolized as much as Isma herself, and when they had danced together at brilliant balls and elaborate functions they had always been considered the handsomest couple in the room. But as they swayed over the highly polished floors in rhythm to enchanting music the girl had been conscious of the cold contempt in his touch and the sarcasm in his polite speeches. How he hated her for bearing his name and having allowed scandal to tarnish it! If only she had not been related to him, not been his second cousin, he might have treated her differently, but he could not forgive her for having smirched the name in which he took such a pride. However, she must forget that, too; the massive cliffs must shut out the whole of the past, and she would hide in her little home by the sea.

She turned to the right, where a wide beach curved far below her between the two giant capes. At the back of the sand was a short stretch of coarse, stiff grass and beyond that the bay was lined with palms which almost hid a red two-story house.

The girl looked out to sea again. The great expanse of water was unrippled and lay like a polished surface of lavender-tinted calm. The ocean would teach her that even the wildest turmoil can cease and the immense spaces above would lift her thoughts from herself to loftier things. All at once she became conscious that there existed bigger things than those she had encountered in the world she had left behind her. There was a wild, daring place in this boundless solitude which suggested something colossal she had not been aware of before. She wanted to reach out after it. If only she could forget the past! If only the burning shame might be lifted from her! She bent her head and her lips quivered. She, too, had been proud of the fine line of ancestors from which she had sprung. But now the splendid old name stood soiled before the world, and she--_she_ had stained it!

Her head sank lower. The horrible irony of it all--the pity of it!

But she refused to think of it any more. Had she not thought and writhed till the mortification had nearly maddened her? Had not the endless months she had spent in India and Ceylon on her way to Australia--months of torture and consuming pain--been punishment enough, purgatory enough, to atone for what had never been her fault? Might she not have respite now? She had come to this vast loneliness in order to forget--she would not remember any more! Her brilliant life had been a mockery, a failure. Why had it been so? Why? Why?

She glanced into the primrose-tinted spaces hovering over the wide plain below. Could not the greatness, brooding out there in the yellow sunset, answer her burning question? She must find the answer, and here in the seclusion by the sea, in this immense aloneness, far from the cruel, merciless world which had laid such homage at her feet and at the same time thrust a dagger into her heart, she would come to understand.

But suppose the world should penetrate even to this seclusion--if it should pursue her here--?

She laughed suddenly at her own fears. Such a thing was impossible! The world was too far away to reach her, and her cousin--? His estate was certainly only a few miles away, still he never came to look after it; he had left it all these years in the hands of his trusted overseer and would probably go on doing so. The great metropolis held Falcon too closely; he could never tear himself away from all it contained and the brilliant career it offered him.

Yet if he should come?

She made a violent gesture with her shapely hands. No! No! Fate could not be so unkind! It had been cruel enough; surely it could not be so maliciously brutal as to allow this man to come and mock her in her loneliness!

No, she was at least safe from that. What could be more improbable than that the delightful officer of the guards should come out and look after his sheep!

Again she glanced down the darkening plain. The saffron hues had faded, and a soft, impenetrable dusk crept over the extensive flats below, giving them an air of subtle mystery.

The huge wings of night were spreading over the earth, and under those dark pinions brooded a strange silence.

“There is rest here,” murmured Isma as she made her way between the shrubs down the steep slope to the little house nestling among the palms. “My sweet haven, my little hiding-place, here I shall find solace.” She added, confidently, “He will not come.”

From one of the larger trees a night-bird all at once uttered a fierce, piercing shriek.

The girl shivered a little and hurried toward the palm-lined bay below.

II

THE PALM-GROVE

Isma Folkestone sat on a rustic seat in her palm-grove, her white-robed figure a moving network of shade and palpitating light. The sunbeams and the swaying shadows from the great fan-shaped leaves vied with each other in adding elusive enchantment to her rich, colorous beauty. Her hair under the picturesque garden hat was the color of summer-kissed plains; in her cheeks glowed the vivid flush of dawn and her lips were red like spider-flowers. Her large golden-gray eyes--the shade so frequently seen in Australia--were wide-spaced and luminous and so full of expression that they seemed almost weighted with loftiness and undaunted courage.

Just now the girl was gazing dreamily into space and there was an air of aloofness and unearthly calm about her whole personality. For some time she remained in reflective abstraction, then gradually she became more conscious of her surroundings and began to listen to the leaves switching noisily about her. They seemed eager to attract her attention and rustled in unhappy agitation as they bent toward her.

Miss Folkestone looked up at them and smiled.

“You dear whispering things, what are you so excited about to-day? What are you trying to tell me? Is the breeze teasing you, or are you--lonely? Be thankful to be alone; it is life’s greatest gift--it holds nothing better.” She sighed a little as she continued, “Once I thought differently; I longed to be out in the gay thronging world and drink deep of its joys--” Her splendid eyes lowered and a tremor passed through her. “I have tasted all I wanted and--more. Now my only wish is for loneliness and my only prayer for peace.” She sighed again and added, “But rest is coming to me now--I am in harbor at last.”

The palm leaves crackled uneasily and shook in excited protest. Then they whispered more loudly, more hoarsely, as if desperately anxious to make their meaning clear; but Isma had stopped listening to the palms, her ears had caught the sound of a horse cantering on the road. People rarely passed that way, as there were no houses in the near neighborhood, only stretches of sheep-runs, marshes, thickly timbered hills, beaches, and great dominant headlands.

The horse had stopped, or had she only lost the sound of its hoofs as it passed the damp corner where a little stream bubbled across the road?

There was the click of the gate.

Isma glanced down the long palm avenue. A visitor to her retreat--who could it be? Perhaps it was only a stranger who had lost his way, or possibly the manager of her cousin’s estate had heard of her arrival and come to see her. She remembered him quite distinctly, though she had not seen him since she was sent to England ten years before to finish her education.

The horse was on the gravel drive now; she heard his crunching steps on the pebbles, and a few moments afterward he and his rider came into view.

The girl’s heart gave a sudden bound and she gripped the wooden seat hard as she caught sight of the tall, soldierly figure on the gray, foam-flecked thoroughbred. But she recovered her composure instantly, rose quickly, and went forward to meet her distinguished-looking visitor.

He dismounted lightly, slipped the bridle over his arm, then, raising his smart riding-cap, bowed ceremoniously over her outstretched hand and said, smiling satirically, “So it is really true that my beautiful cousin has entombed herself in this vast solitude--”

The woman he addressed stood before him, tall, dignified, and there was a reflection of his irony in her voice as she replied, “You don’t mean to say you have come all this way to find out?”

“Why not? We were all astonished when we heard that our gorgeous bird of paradise had left the gilded cage and flown back to its native haunts in Australia. We were naturally a little skeptical at first--can you wonder?--but I, having more curiosity than the rest, came to see.”

For a moment the rich rose tint in Isma’s smooth, perfectly molded cheeks deepened. Falcon had actually torn himself away from the life he loved, his brilliant position--everything, and had traveled those thousands of miles for her sake! A strange tumult surged up within her, then subsided as suddenly as it had come. Of course he had only taken all this trouble because she bore the same name as he, the name he had always guarded with the jealousy of a lover. He had merely come to discover if she was really in earnest and meant to settle down in safe seclusion, severed from the dangers and temptations of the past. And when he had satisfied himself on this point he would probably return to all that was dear to him.

“And now that you have seen that I am really here,” she said, her eyes measuring him with a touch of mockery, “I hope you are satisfied.”

The gray thoroughbred was pushing its soft muzzle against Captain Folkestone’s sleeve, but he had no thought for the animal.

“Satisfied--what about? That your new rôle is as--becoming as--the old?” he suggested, with courteous insolence, his handsome blue eyes taking in every detail of her attire and noting that the extreme simplicity of her white gown only accentuated the rich curves of her lovely form and that her simple garden hat with its swathe of turquoise _crêpe de Chine_ was remarkably becoming.

Isma flushed under his gaze. So, he thought, she was only posing, after all, striving after effect, merely changing a rôle! “I suppose you would have liked me to take the veil,” she flung at him, indignantly.

“It is hardly fashionable to join sisterhoods nowadays; besides, it is so inconveniently binding, the garb is so hideous and the setting of such a life most monotonous. This,” he glanced round at the idyllic beauty of the palm-grove with its glimpses of blue sea and rocky headlands between the great fanlike leaves--“this is a far more artistic way of doing it; the background is enchanting and everything is so delightfully unfettered--the way back is always open.”

“No,” she replied, emphatically, “the way back is _not_ open--it is barred.”

“Most effectively barricaded with cobwebs,” he assented, smilingly.

The girl straightened as she looked coldly into his deriding eyes.

“By Jove! the rôle _is_ becoming!” he exclaimed, with fresh mockery in his tones.

“I suppose you would prefer to see me behind real cloister walls,” she observed, a dull flush of anger staining her face.

“My pretty cousin, how can you suggest I should prefer anything so outrageous!” he exclaimed, with mock horror. “If you were cloistered, I should not even have the pleasure of seeing you, and it would have other appalling disadvantages--the sacrifice of your glorious hair, for instance,” and he glanced at the silken yellow waves before adding, “it would be a thousand pities to go to such fatal lengths; I am sure your modification is far wiser.”

She turned a little impatiently from him toward the house half hidden among the trees.

“Won’t you come in and have some tea? I am afraid I have been rather inhospitable, keeping you standing out here all this time,” she said, with frosty politeness.

“No, not to-day, thank you. I arrived only this morning; now I must go back and get my car in order after its long journey. I just came over to see that you were all right; though I am only a cousin, I have the privilege of looking after you occasionally. But you are not living here alone, are you?”

The horse had grown tired of caressing Falcon’s unresponsive sleeve and was now fidgeting to get enough rein to reach Isma.

His master pulled him back with a jerk as the girl replied: “No. Miss Livingston, my old governess, is with me.”

“I am glad of that. But do you really intend to settle down here?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“It will be very lonely and you might find it--dull.”

“I shall not find it dull and I like solitude.”

“Indeed!” There was polite doubt in the exclamation.

The girl made no reply, so her cousin went on. “Perhaps you will fill in the time with some serious thinking,” he suggested, smilingly, taking off his cap and allowing the breeze to play with his brown hair, which had a charming tendency to wave at the ends.

“What would you recommend me to--think about?” she asked, her eyes looking probingly into his.

“Well, as you ask my opinion, I should strongly advise you to give some thoughts to the subject of--prudence.”

She winced and the warm blood leaped for a moment into her face. When it had died away she stiffened, and her cold, angry eyes met his as she said, “Why should I think about--that?”

Her companion smiled amiably. “Because--well, don’t you think it quite possible that while you have been so much occupied with--other subjects you have neglected this important one?”

Miss Folkestone laughed scornfully. “Perhaps, as you consider me so ignorant in this direction, you might even think it advisable for me to get a coach.”

“It would certainly not do you any harm to have one.”

“Possibly you would like to offer your services,” she scoffed.

“I am afraid you would not accept them,” he replied, quietly.

“Why not? Do you think I should be afraid that your vast amount of knowledge on the subject would discourage me?”

Captain Folkestone looked at his cousin in feigned surprise. “Discourage you! Could anything do that? I was under the impression that was an impossibility!”

The gray horse had given up fidgeting; now it gave a loud, impatient snort.

“Oh, well, I must be off,” said the soldier, lightly, “but I am delighted to have found you looking so radiant--more bewitching than ever!”

With courtly grace he bent over her rather reluctant hand as he said good-by, and a few moments afterward he and his Arab mount disappeared in a bend of the avenue.

When the sounds of the cantering hoofs had died away the girl clasped her hands tightly together. “Merciful God!” she murmured, brokenly, closing her eyes, her face white to the lips, “he has come--he has come--”

Above her the palm leaves drooped in silent consternation and occasionally a convulsive shudder passed through them.

III

USELESS CARGO

On a small creeper-veiled balcony facing the sea Isma and her old governess were having tea half an hour after Captain Folkestone’s departure. A slight breeze from the ocean had sprung up and moved the bignonia trails heavy with golden blossoms rhythmically to and fro. From the garden below rose the strong scent of jonquils, freesias, and stocks, and from the bench a short distance away came the thud of waves with regular precision.

Miss Livingston, reclining in a deck-chair among a pile of green cushions, regarded her companion with a pucker between her scanty eyebrows.

The old governess was a small, thin woman with drooping shoulders, iron-gray hair, and a kind, humorous face. She was very plain, but there was an air of genial guilelessness and youthful optimism about her which gave the impression that she had not met disillusions in her journey through life, or if she had encountered any she had had the rare uncommon sense to look the other way while they passed. Also Miss Livingston had preserved her love of romance, or rather the love of romance had preserved her, from the hideous disease which destroys youth in the soul more quickly than any other malady, that fatty degeneration of the emotions called complacency. So though the little ex-governess was over sixty, she was still young in the things which matter; her mind was sunny and her heart still warm.

Just now she was puzzling about the change in her beloved charge. The girl had looked so radiant after luncheon, when she saw her stroll out under the palm-trees, and now, only a couple of hours afterward, she was pale and there was a strange, perturbed light in her eyes. What could have brought about the change? She kept wondering as they talked about indifferent things, but as she could not come to any satisfactory conclusion she asked at last:

“Baby, what is the matter with you? You looked so bright and splendid this morning, and now you are so white-- Are you not well, dearest?”

Her companion put her cup down on a small wicker table standing near her as she replied: “Thank you, I am quite well--I am always well, you know. But,” she went on, turning the conversation into another channel, “why do you still persist in calling me ‘Baby’? Don’t you think it is rather absurd, now that I am over twenty-five and so big? If I had been a small, fluffy kind of woman, it might not have sounded so absurd; but for my type--”

“That is all nonsense,” interrupted the old lady, vigorously; “because you are so tall and magnificent do you think it makes any difference to my feelings for you? I came to you when you were a wee, motherless mite, a little bundle of white, pink, and gold lovableness, who adored being kissed and cuddled. You became my Baby then, and my Baby you shall stay till the end of the chapter!”

The flaxen-haired girl rose, came over and sat down on a footstool beside her friend. “You darling!” she murmured, slipping an arm round the drooping figure; “how good you were to me in those dear old days!” She sighed regretfully. “If only they could have lasted always! But your Baby is grown up now, terribly grown up. She has _lived_--she is a woman of the world to-day,” she finished, a slight tremor in her voice.

“Now you are talking nonsense again,” the small lady protested, fondly. “You are just as much a baby as ever, only you have been out in the world and found it is not peopled with innocent children--that is what makes you feel so grown up.”

The girl shook her head sorrowfully. “No, deary, that is not it. If only you knew all, why I am here to-day, you would not talk like that.” There was deep pain in the large gray eyes as she turned them to an opening among the creepers, where she could see the northern headland beyond the garden jutting out sharply against the clear blue sky.

Miss Livingston took the soft white hand lying close to her own brown one and pressed it tenderly. “Girlie, I am not going to ask any questions about the past. What you wish to keep from me I do not want to know. Only, if the past hurts, try and forget it. Don’t you know that the same Kind Spirit who invented memory also invented forgetfulness, and that it is just as important to cultivate forgetfulness as to train memory?”

“Do you think so?”

“Of course. Forgetfulness is simply throwing useless cargo overboard. If you overladen a ship, it will go down. If you overburden a soul, it will do likewise. In life much cargo, good and bad, is put into our ships; we must simply fling the useless away into forgetfulness or we shall be swamped.”

The girl sighed. “A good many ships go down, I am afraid.”

“Yes, and all because they have not the sense or perhaps the courage to fling away the useless cargo.”

“Still, it is difficult, for some things cannot be flung away.”

Isma rose and went to the edge of the veranda; there her hand began to pluck restlessly at the orange-tinted flowers. “I have had a surprise this afternoon--a great surprise,” she said. Then after a pause she added, with difficulty, “Falcon is here.”

Her companion started. “Falcon here!” she exclaimed, excitedly. “You don’t mean to say so! Are you quite sure? How do you know? No letters or wires have come to-day.”

“Yes, I am quite sure, for he was here just after lunch for a little while.”

“Why, girlie, that is the best news I have heard for a long time! To think that the dear fellow should actually be here--how delightful! Now we shall have an interesting time, for of course he must be desperately in love with you--”

The girl moved suddenly. “In love with me! Why, he hates me--positively detests me!”

Miss Livingston laughed heartily. “How perfectly ridiculous! As if any man could! Anyhow, do you think he would travel half across the world after you if he hated you? Nonsense! By the way, is he as handsome as ever? I have not seen him since he left Australia all those years ago.”

“Yes, I think you would consider him even better-looking now. He is terribly run after and admired. Women make him enough pretty things to fill a palace.”

“But--you don’t mean to say he has turned out _that_ kind of man?” There was real distress in the old lady’s tones.

“Oh no, he doesn’t court that sort of thing--he likes being popular, of course, but I think the tokens of conquest rather bore him; he is too much the open-air independent Australian to care for overmuch petting and pampering. However, you will be able to judge for yourself, for he is sure to come over and see us soon, and when you see the way he--treats me you will never again accuse him of being in love with me!” she finished, in a tone which greatly puzzled her companion.

* * * * *

It was night. A land breeze stirred fitfully among the palm leaves and made them rattle noisily together. The sky was clear, yet the stars seemed strangely distant and dim. The ocean lay wide and calm. Near the shore breakers rose as dark, finlike ridges, that became darker and sharper as they advanced and finally broke with a loud crash into a white blur on the shadowy sand. The headlands terminating the small bay in front of the palm-grove bulged black and monstrous against the dull sky. The night was quiet, but it held a brooding awe, a savage majesty.

The red house near the beach was in darkness, and it seemed as if its inmates were restfully asleep. But after some time the front door opened noiselessly and a tall figure made its way softly down the stone steps, through the perfumed garden with its whispering shrubs and stirring leaves, then crossed a stretch of rustling grass and a few minutes afterward reached the firm, gently sloping sand.

The girl stood for some moments looking out on the big expanse of dimly lit water, her breast heaving as if she had been running fast. Then she began to walk up and down the beach in frenzied agitation. At last she stopped abruptly and, flinging her hands out before her, cried under her breath: “Falcon--why did you come--oh, why! Why couldn’t you leave me to my loneliness in peace! Why have you come to torment me, fling your taunts at me, your contempt! Are you trying to hunt me into a real nunnery, where you can be sure your name will be guarded and protected behind the pitiless walls?”

A bat swooped down and brushed against her hair, but she hardly noticed the insolent touch of its furry wings.

“If only you would believe in my sincerity, that I will never return to the dangers of the past, that I am not posing--not acting a part--” she murmured, brokenly.

Her hands dropped to her side and she raised her head in sudden pleading. “If only you would treat me differently--be serious, angry with me, anything but lashing me with your caustic irony!”

Why should she not go to him, explain all and--

But what would be the use? He would not believe her when appearances were so strongly against her. No, she would not explain. She lifted her head proudly. Let him think what he liked! She would continue to meet him with his own weapons. She would treat his insolence, his insinuations, with icy contempt. The Folkestone blood ran in her veins, too; their people had not been cowards, never cringed nor flinched at pain. She would show him he was dealing with one of his own race, who was strong enough, courageous enough, to walk in lofty indifference to his scathing derision and stinging mockery! Her eyes flashed and she straightened haughtily as she began to pace up and down the beach again.

It was long past midnight when at last Isma made her way back through the scented garden to the sleeping house.

IV

THE SEA PEARL

Captain Folkestone stood by the sea, near the palm-grove, and looked searchingly about him. He had been told at the house that his cousin was on the beach. Now he glanced up the sunlit curve of sand to find her, and it was not long before he saw a splash of glittering gold near the southern cape and made his way toward it.

As he approached the spot he saw the girl lying closely wrapped in a tawny gold-tinted garment. She was evidently not expecting visitors, for her hair was done in a long thick plait which fell over her strong, firm shoulder and lay glittering on the warm, dry sand.

The soldier stood suddenly quite still and breathed unevenly.

Isma was motionless and her eyes were closed. Was she asleep? He took a step nearer in the soft sand, but she did not hear him and her face was calm with the serenity of slumber.

He watched with a curious expression in his Irish-blue eyes, which held no irony or contempt now. How perfectly her features were chiseled, from the fine straight brow, half veiled by the yellow waving hair, to the well-rounded, forceful chin! And her skin--could marble have been whiter or rose petals more delicately smooth?

As he gazed the sleeper made a slight movement--there was a sudden flash of dazzling white limbs and a bewildering form half concealed by a cream Canadian bathing-suit.

The man watching changed color.

Merciful Heavens, what alluring loveliness was given to some women! Isma had inherited the renowned beauty of the Folkestones, and what a curse it had been to her! He made some inarticulate sound between his teeth, his eyes riveted on the maddening display of snowy splendor and bewitching contours.

Could she really be asleep in the bright sunlight? He came a little closer and looked full into her upturned face. As he gazed, the inner corners of her well-marked brows lifted slightly as if she were in pain, and a tremor passed through her like the half-convulsive shudder of a sob, her long lashes quivered and all at once he noticed that they were moist. Had the girl been weeping in her sleep? He caught his breath. Isma’s lashes wet--!

“Isma,” he said, in a strained voice. “Isma.”

The wide, clear lids opened slowly and eyes, still heavy with sleep, looked up, dazed and bewildered. Then she discovered the man beside her and an agonized flush spread over her face. She sat up quickly and gathered the wrapper closely about her.

“I must have been asleep,” she faltered, in deepest confusion. “I--I--was just going to have a bathe.”

The strange expression had vanished from Captain Folkestone’s face and there was no trace of it as he apologized profusely for disturbing her and added, in cool, bantering tones, “But don’t you think it is unpardonable waste to lavish those enchanting blushes on a mere relative?”

The girl had risen and drew herself up to her full height as she said, coldly, “I think it would have been better if you had stayed at the house while they sent for me.”

“I am deeply sorry for intruding--as I said before, but how could I know you were on the point of bathing and that you would object to a most appreciative audience? You forget that mixed bathing is in vogue here; however, I suppose your excessive modesty would not permit such laxity!”

The irony in his words stung her. Would he never forget, never be merciful! She turned her face away for a moment, then, lifting her head a little higher, without replying, she began to walk back to the house.

Her cousin followed her, his eyes on the heavy trail of flaxen hair reaching almost to her knees and gleaming in glossy radiance against the duskier gold of her gown.

“Isma,” he said, coming to her side, “why do you hurry so? I want to talk to you.”

“When I am presentable I shall be at your disposal.”

“But you don’t need to bother--I have already seen you--and I assure you you have never looked more charming than in this artistic wrap. When that artist admirer of yours wants to paint your portrait again I should advise you to wear that shade of gold.”

The girl met his remark with disdainful silence and quickened her steps.

She felt his watchful scrutiny. Did he think she was merely posing, acting a part? Was that why his face had hardened?

When they reached the house Isma took her cousin into the drawing-room and asked him to wait for her there.

After she had gone Captain Folkestone sank down on a sofa and began to look round. It was a delightful room, not too large or too small, spacious without being aloof and stately, and furnished with a taste that gave evidence of unusual refinement as well as a great love for harmonious color schemes. The predominating shades in the room were _vieux rose_ and dull umber; these hues mingled in the covering of chairs, divans, cushions, carpet, curtains, blinds, and ornaments. The woodwork and doors were a deep umber and the paper on the walls a dull rose. On the mantelpiece, and everywhere else where flowers could be placed, were big bowls filled with stocks of various shades--mauve, white, rose, and dull purple--scenting the air with their sumptuous fragrance.

It was not long before the girl returned. She was dressed in ivory-white, and as she sat down on a low chesterfield the room made a soft colorous background for her vivid yet mellow loveliness.

She did not speak, but with hands lying idly in her lap waited for her cousin to tell her what he had come to say.

“Isma,” he began, glancing down at his wristlet-watch, “Benson tells me he has heard that you want to sell some of your coast land.”

“Yes, I thought of doing so.”

“Is it--necessary?” he asked, without raising his eyes.

She ignored the point of his inquiry. “I should like to sell some of it.”

“Isma,” he said, with slight hesitation, “if you are in difficulties, won’t you tell me--won’t you let me--?”

She interrupted him quickly. “No, thank you, I am not in any difficulties.”

“Still--you want to sell?”

“Yes.”

“Then I should like to buy the land.”

“Why do you want it? It is no good for sheep--”

“No, but I should like to put up a cottage. I have always wanted some sort of a place close to the sea.”

“But what is the use when you are not there--not living here, I mean?”

“But I am going to live here, going to use it,” he answered, regarding her steadily. “I am sending in my resignation to the Guards, and for the future I shall stay in Australia.”

His cousin looked at him incredulously. Falcon coming back to live at his old home, leaving his regiment! What could it mean?

A flood of warmth rushed through her as she listened breathlessly to his next words.

“You are a little surprised, no doubt; but I really ought to give some attention to my places--I have neglected them shockingly for years and Benson is getting old--they are too much for him.”

The girl leaned a little forward and clasped her hands round her knees. “What will London do?” she asked, with a touch of friendly banter.

“My departure will have scarcely been noticed in the face of more important exits.” He watched her intently. However she was quite unconscious of the significance of his words.

“Who else is leaving?” she asked, the friendly smile still hovering round her lips.

“Surely you know?”

“How could I? I have been traveling for months, till quite lately--”

“But letters--they can always reach you.” His tones were hard and unapproachable.

“I have had very few since I came home--I didn’t want any.”

A few moments ago their attitudes to each other had relaxed, but now Isma was conscious that the old hostility had returned, and she vaguely wondered why.

“Do you mean to say you don’t know who has taken The Bluff and is arriving almost immediately?” asked the man, a sharp edge in his voice.

The Bluff was a magnificent house situated on a big craggy headland a few miles down the southern road. Who could have taken it? As the girl looked at the hard glitter in the soldier’s eyes a terrible apprehension made her feel suddenly cold.

“Who?” she asked, scarcely able to formulate the word. Who else could be coming to spoil her solitude and pry into her seclusion?

Her cousin’s eyes were like points of steel probing into hers as he said:

“Lord Berriedale.”

Isma caught her breath and every vestige of color ebbed from her face.

For some moments there was a deathlike stillness in the room, a stillness harsh, uncompromisingly cruel. Then the girl made a desperate attempt to veil her agitation from the stern gaze fixed upon her.

“Why--why--” she began, but the sentence ended in a gasp.

The sternness in Falcon’s face vanished instantly and gave place to the ironical expression she knew so well.

“Why should Lord Berriedale come out here, and to this particular neighborhood? Could anything be more obvious? For his wife’s health, of course--what else could it be? You know her delicate state; the doctors have ordered her to a warm climate--there are evidently no warm climates nearer than Australia, and apparently The Bluff is the only suitable house available on our large continent; so naturally Berriedale is only too glad to secure it, especially as it has the great advantage of being near The Palms so that his wife can resume her delightful friendship with you.”

Isma did not speak. She had leaned a little farther forward and her hands were clasped round her knees so tightly that her fingers were quite bloodless.

Lord Berriedale at The Bluff! All her difficulties, her pain, her humiliation back again! Her flight had been useless. Her hiding-place would afford no security now. She might as well have stayed in the old life, for she would have been far safer there. In this lonely spot everything would play into the fowler’s hands, all would be against her and help him to track down his prey.

She scarcely noticed Falcon’s stinging sarcasm. After all, he was only voicing what their world thought and said. Did not every one believe that her friendship for Lady Berriedale was only a blind, a cloak hiding her relation with her husband? But her cousin’s next words stabbed her.

“I always admire friendships between women, it is so beautiful to see the way they treat one another--they are so loyal, so _true_.” He smiled deridingly at her.

She straightened and flushed hotly as he goaded her to retort. “Women _are_ true to one another and they sometimes think more of a friend’s happiness than their own reputation!”

“Of course, and that is why the world, looking on, applauds such sacrifice so vigorously!”

Isma rose and went over to an open window. What was the use of trying to convince her cousin or any one else that she was innocent? Explanations only met with scorn and distrust. There was no help for her. Still, what was she to do? Should she attempt another flight? No, she could not do that; it would only rouse Lady Berriedale’s suspicion, and, whatever happened, the invalid must not be made unhappy, but be allowed to live the few paltry years yet allotted to her, in her fool’s paradise. So she must stay--stay and be compromised again. If only Falcon had not been there, a cruel, merciless spectator, mocking and judging her in her pitiful plight!

Captain Folkestone had also risen and stood near the mantelpiece, regarding the silent girl at the window, the soft, rose-tinted curtains making a splendid background for her graceful form.

Why had this woman been given a beauty which drew men with such maddening longing to possess her, and made them ready to go to the end of the world, even face ruin, on her account? Why should the fate of men be placed so irrevocably in one woman’s hands?

“Isma,” said Falcon, after a long pause, in quiet tones, “what about that land?”

She turned to him slowly. Why did he want to buy it? To be nearer and able to spy more readily upon her?

“I don’t think I will sell it, after all,” she said, evenly.

“Very well, then,” the soldier replied, picking up his cap. “I suppose for the future you will be so much taken up with _Lady Berriedale_ that you will not have much time for me,” and after a formal good-by he left the room.

When he had gone Isma stood by the window for a long time so motionless that she scarcely seemed to breathe. Then at last she lifted her head. After all, she was a Folkestone; she would show Falcon that no circumstances could terrorize her, and she would at least face the perilous future with fearless dignity!

V

THE BLACK CROSS

The spring morning sunshine poured its buoyant radiance on the big, forbidding-looking bluff which made an imperial basis for the imposing house situated on its summit.

The Bluff, named after the rocky battlement on which it stood, was not only stately, but picturesque. Its lower story was of rough-cast and the rest of the building covered with bronze-green shingles, also it was ornamented with heavy beams, numerous wooden gables, balconies, and verandas stained dark green.

The house on the headland faced the sea, but on its landward side, sloping gently down to the main road a quarter of a mile away, was a beautiful garden and a long avenue of great Moreton Bay fig-trees.

The Bluff had not only a magnificent view of the ocean and the broken, imperious coast-line, but it also commanded an extensive vista of undulating tableland which rolled in monotonous grandeur toward the far-away horizon.

Just then the sunlight fell full on the tree-sprinkled plateaus, flooding them with an amber-hued, unearthly brilliance, accentuating their vastness and making them look as if they were moving, striding wearily onward farther than eye could see. It seemed as if these sunburnt plains had always stumbled forward, through years, through lifetimes, through centuries, always exhausted, yet dragging tired feet to a still farther horizon.

On one of the broad balconies at The Bluff stood Lady Berriedale, her large, restless eyes looking beyond the garden and the long drive shadowed by the fig-trees to the great stretch of tree-dotted tableland.

“Australia--Australia,” she murmured, half aloud. “How strange that we are actually here!”

There were slow, gentle footsteps behind her. The hectic flush on her thin cheeks deepened as she turned to the man coming toward her.

Lord Berriedale was distinctly good-looking. He was tall and carried his rather slight figure well, though not with the bracing straightness of a soldier, and there was a refined grace about him which gave charm to his personality. His skin was as fair as a girl’s, his hair, brows, and small mustache the color of honey, making a strange contrast to his large coal-black eyes, which in spite of their dark hue had not usually an intense, but generally a calm, enigmatic expression. All the same, those jet-black orbs, almost feminine in their liquid softness, gazing lazily beneath golden drooping lashes, could at times light up with volcanic fires and produce a very disquieting effect.

“Neville,” said his wife, in a high-pitched, slightly rasping voice, “I believe I shall get quite strong here in this wonderful climate. How splendid of you to think of it and bring me here--you are always so kind and thoughtful!” She raised her eyes, brimming with gratitude and devotion, to her husband, but he was not looking at her; his gaze was fixed on the vast country before them, where stanch old gum-trees glittered in the warm sunshine. Torrential rains had swept over them, hot summer suns bleached them, but nothing had been able to vanquish their gaunt, persistent strength.

“I am glad you feel like that, dear,” replied Lord Berriedale, without turning to her. “Australia is, I believe, the healthiest country in the world--and you think you will like being here?”

“Like it--I shall love every minute of it! It is so different from any place we have seen before. It is so huge and the gum-trees so wise-looking and clever. Look at them now out there in the brilliant sunlight--don’t they look human! and there is a sinuous strength about them which appeals to me. They remind me of strong men who have done a hard day’s work and gone out in the plains to reflect. They have such a wondering air, as if they were solving big questions; gum-trees are philosophers--not like the exotic variety who dabble in mere theories, but the deep thinker who has toiled and deals with realities.”

“Yes,” agreed her husband, half absently, stroking his small, fair mustache.

“Neville,” continued his wife, “this seems to be a place one can think in--it compels thought. At home one had no time; each day was crowded to overflowing with things which appeared important at the time, but how trivial they seem when one is confronted with--this!”

“Didn’t India have the same effect on you?” inquired her companion, with apparent interest.

“No, not at all. India is so teeming with humanity, every available space occupied, one could not get away from people. Here it is different. Australia is so roomy it is possible to take a step backward without treading on any one or having somebody step in front and obscure the view. When too close to the seething masses of men one cannot understand life, and it is apt to become a moving blur, drawing one into its chaotic confusion.”

“I wonder if you take a step backward and look at life that way, what you will see?” remarked her husband, with well-disguised indifference.

“I don’t know yet. It takes time, for the panorama is so great, but I somehow feel it is going to alter my attitude toward everything.”

“You don’t think you have viewed life correctly before?”

“No, I have a strange feeling that I have missed something vitally important.”

“I wonder what that can be?”

“I cannot tell at present, but it seems as if the gum-trees are nearer the truth than I. Do you know these lines of an Australian poem? They keep coming into my mind,” and in her thin, rasping voice she quoted:

“See the swelling breast of the gums,
Hearts panting for the Invisible above, tugging at their chains;
Immortal longing in those wistful shapes;
Waves and waves of leaves pressing up to the Infinite.
There one spray of gray-white blossom. The hope of one brings
Its heart’s blood red to the young tops.
Yet it prays, and will ever pray--as man prays.

“Aren’t they beautiful!” she exclaimed, after repeating the verse. “But I am afraid we are not as devoted as the gum-trees--we do not pray as much as they do.”

“Perhaps not.”

“But Neville, in this vast continent there is prayer,” she went on, impulsively, her brown eyes burning; “not the conventional elegant prayers uttered in churches, but wild, daring prayers, wrung from souls battered by tempests, cauterized by tropical suns; souls who have fought untamed elements, wandered alone in trackless plains; souls grown sinewy, virile, strong, whose prayers are like fire-balls shooting straight to the feet of the Infinite.”

“My dear, how imaginative you are to-day!” Lord Berriedale replied, without enthusiasm.

Instinctively his wife changed the subject.

“Neville, wasn’t it wonderful that you should have heard of this house so near Isma--doesn’t it seem as if some kind Providence had arranged it all for us?”

Her companion moved his position and again his long slim fingers went up to his fair mustache.

“Yes, it does seem rather remarkable that The Bluff should be available just now and that we should have happened to hear of it,” he replied, evenly.

“I wonder Mr. Lambert could bear to leave it for so long! It is such a lovely house and the gardens and grounds so fine.”

“His wife and daughters got tired of the loveliness--they preferred Europe for a few years. I believe Lambert would rather be here, though. However, he was delighted to let us have the place--so much better to have it tenanted than shut up with a caretaker.”

“Neville,” there was childish joy in the emaciated face, “won’t Isma be surprised to see us this afternoon! It must be so lovely for her out here. I wonder whatever made her come?”

“It is her old home, you know, and I suppose the place appeals to her, as it does to you.”

“But it can’t have the same effect on her as it has on me, for she has not you to enjoy it with her, and that makes all the difference!” She took a step toward her husband and looked up at him with glistening eyes; however, he had evidently not noticed her advance, for his attention was fixed on the crimson roses winding up the pillars of the balcony and sending their vigorous trailers along the railing.

Lady Berriedale began to regard the flowers also, and her thoughts returned to her friend. “Poor Isma has no Neville to make life beautiful for her! I wonder why she has not married yet, with her scores of admirers? But you don’t know how I have missed her all these months. Somehow, once she has entered into one’s life, she becomes a necessity ever afterward--she has such a way of coming in and taking possession! Neville, if I were a man, I know I should fall desperately in love with her--I couldn’t help it--”

“Dear, you are really talking too much, and you know the doctor has forbidden you to talk much in the morning. Come in and lie down for a while, or I am afraid you will not be able to go out this afternoon.”

His wife placed a thin, transparent hand on his arm and leaned on him heavily; but her leaning was not merely weakness seeking support, it was more the weight of a great love abandoning itself to the object of its affection.

“Darling,” she murmured, “it is so lovely to have you all to myself! At home you were always so busy, but now--we can have a second honeymoon.”

He pressed her hand gently. “Yes, I do hope you will be happy here; we will go for long drives, have picnics by the sea, and when you are strong enough you shall bathe--”

“Oh, Neville, how lovely that will be--I feel ever so much better already! Only,” she added, a little wistfulness coming into her voice, “it seems far too wonderful, as if it could not really come true!”