Chapter IV: Part I: The Immortal Flame (4)

As the night wore on the gaiety increased, talk became more animated and laughter more spontaneous, restraints relaxed and the dancers had an air of greater abandonment. Men talked more freely to their favorite girls and young couples strayed oftener into the moonlit garden and remained there for longer periods.

Lord Berriedale had danced with Isma again, and now he stood talking to her in the middle of the room during an interval.

In spite of the girl’s apparent calmness and polite interest in her host’s conversation, at times there was a flicker of restlessness in her luminous eyes which suggested she would rather not be in such a conspicuous position.

Many eyes were upon the distinguished-looking pair. Miss Folkestone had been the center of attraction all the evening, heads had been turned in her direction, and people had whispered and exclaimed at her extraordinary beauty. Now she was evoking a deeper interest, a more piquant curiosity.

Lord Berriedale was fully conscious of the observation his marked attention to her was exciting; but he was not displeased. He was playing a game and fully realizing the effect of each move. Isma should be his some day, and if he could not gain her along the straight-open main road, there were always byways leading to the same destination. He was quite aware that Captain Folkestone was aiming at the same goal and that the fascinating officer might be a greater obstacle in his path even than his wife. But, then, there were means of disarming his rival if he should really become dangerous; at present there was no sign of this. The soldier was too cool, and coolness never won a woman’s heart. However, if he should intrude, there was a weapon in the making to be used against him. The captain made a god of honor and would never marry a woman whose character was tarnished, no matter how infatuated he might be; so if he could be convinced that Isma was really his, Berriedale’s, property, her cousin would fall out of the ranks at once and his rivalry be at an end. Lord Berriedale’s present plan was to show Folkestone that his cousin was an unsuitable mate for him. This could be done in different ways; the first step was to get the girl’s name coupled with his. This had already been accomplished at home and some very nasty gossip had been started. However, now while they were in Australia things must be given a more direct and convincing aspect.

Of course it was distasteful to Lord Berriedale to bring such a slur on the character of the woman he meant to make his wife later on. But he knew that once they were married things would soon be forgotten, and, even now, though society slandered her, it still received her with open arms, for she was a great ornament to its drawing-rooms and there had never been any actual proofs against her. As for the pain he was causing her in the mean while, he would make up for that by and by. He would pour his love upon her when she was his, lavish upon her everything his position and wealth could bestow! She should be clothed like a princess, her beauty enhanced by priceless jewels. He glanced down at her now with something in his dark eyes which made Isma involuntarily shrink from him.

“I should like to go back to Beatrice,” she said, in a level voice.

“No,” his half-closed eyes still caressed her under their golden lashes, “you cannot run away from me at present. Every one is looking and you would only make yourself more conspicuous by flight. Flights are useless things. Haven’t you found that out by this time?” Then his manner changed. “Isma,” he went on, in low, seductive tones, “come with me into the garden. I want you to see the moonlight on the roses. Night’s kisses, the dew-pearls, are on their soft petals. Let me show them to you?”

“Lord Berriedale, how can you suggest such a thing?”

“Why not? Flowers cannot hurt you, and there we should be away from spying eyes.”

The girl paled. “Please do not talk like that--people will hear you.”

“People will not hear me, but they can see you turning white. Isma,” he went on, with a touch of pleading, “you surely cannot grudge me a few moments’ joy? Haven’t I kept my promise to you all these weeks, barely glanced in your direction, kept out of your way, and now this evening when you look so entrancing and I want a little kindness don’t you think you might give it to me?”

“You are breaking your promise now.”

“No, for I am not making love. I am only asking for friendliness. What could be more innocent? Every one is admiring you. Why may I not have the same privilege as a crowd of strangers? Isma,” he broke out, his love flaming up, “how can I help adoring you? You look as radiant and shimmering as your own Australian sunshine! Isma, my beautiful--”

“Isma,” said another voice close beside them, “Miss Nelson, a friend of your mother’s, is most anxious to meet you; but she is going home almost immediately, so will you come and speak to her now? You will excuse my cousin, Berriedale, won’t you?” added Falcon, turning to the other man.

As the girl and Captain Folkestone walked toward the other end of the room the band struck up an alluring melody and dancing commenced again.

The officer talked easily as they made their way over the polished floor, and in his light, pleasant conversation there was not the faintest suggestion that he knew he had been acting as a rescuer.

When they were about to enter the sitting-room he said, in the same easy tone, “Miss Nelson is in here, and I thought it a good plan to take you to her at once.”

His companion faced him questioningly. “She did not _ask_ you to bring me?”

“Well--no,” his eyes met her gaze steadily. “Still, I knew she would be charmed to meet you. Who would not?”

The pink in the girl’s cheeks deepened. Was he only thinking of his name again, always and only guarding that? A hot wave of annoyance leaped up within her.

“Your thoughtfulness is praiseworthy, no doubt, but has it never occurred to you that some thoughtfulness borders on--interference?” she said, lowering her eyelids, but not before he had seen the smoldering anger between her lashes.

Falcon did not reply, but led her through the open door to a small room where a lady with gray hair and smiling eyes sat on a high-backed settee talking to a rather forbidding-looking woman in black.

Captain Folkestone introduced his cousin to the lady with the amiable face, and after chatting with them for some minutes he went away, and did not speak to Isma again that night except to say a brief good-by when he was leaving.

* * * * *

As Miss Folkestone went to her room after the guests had gone she met her host on the landing. He had not been there when she began to ascend the stairs and must have come from a small room opening on to the landing. Had he been waiting there to speak to her? A sudden fear clutched at her heart.

He stood before her now, holding out his hand, and she could not very well avoid taking it.

“Good night, my love with the glorious eyes and the maddening hair,” he murmured, in a low voice, lifting her hand suddenly and pressing it to his heart.

“Lord Berriedale, how dare you!” she cried, in an undertone, wrenching her hand away from him. “Please let me pass.”

He stood aside and allowed her to walk on.

At the same instant a door on the first floor shut noiselessly and Miss Brentford stepped back into her room.

Rita stood for some moments ashen, her dilated eyes staring vacantly before her; then her sharp white teeth closed over her lower lip and she drew a long, gasping breath.

So that was what Rex had meant! She understood his hints now! How blind she had been not to have discovered it before! But how could any one suspect such treachery!

Of course her sister must be told as soon as the visitors had gone back to town. There must be no upheavals while they were in the house. However, the day after to-morrow when they had all departed Beatrice should hear the news then. The girl’s dark eyes gleamed with a catlike brilliance. Never again need she fear the beautiful Miss Folkestone as a rival. She was powerless to hurt her any more!

Rita stood for a long time looking absently into space, her white face working, horror and triumph mingling in the unearthly glitter in her eyes.

Only one more day and then--

* * * * *

At the same time Captain Folkestone dashed along the moonlit road by the sea at a frenzied pace. He gripped the steering-wheel as if his fingers were steel; his face looked ghastly and his lips were tightly compressed.

When he was near the avenue leading to Isma’s house he stopped the car, got out, and stood leaning over the gate, gazing down the drive under the stirring palms. The girl was not there. The little red house was empty of her presence; so was the flower-scented garden. She had stood under the swaying palm leaves and looked back at him once and in her eyes there had been a strange emotion which seemed to match his own, and as their gaze met something in them had leaped together; but now--

Into the face above the gate came an anguish which was terrible.

Suddenly the man turned away, sprang into the motor, and sped up the steep road leading over the moonlit cliff.

XIV

A SINISTER SUNSET

The following morning the viceregal party returned to Sydney. The remaining visitors spent the morning playing tennis, croquet, and strolling about the garden.

A fishing picnic had been arranged for the evening and the cars were to start at five o’clock. It was impossible for Lady Berriedale to venture on such a long outing after the late hours and excitement of the previous night, so she had decided to stay at home. Of course Isma was anxious to remain with her, but her friend would not hear of it.

“You must go and take my place and look after everything,” she said, finally; and as her husband came into the room she added, “Fancy, Neville, Isma wants to stay at home with me, but I have just told her that she is to go and _take my place_.” She finished with a mischievous smile, looking at her companions as if she expected some light response. However, they were both singularly silent. The girl had suddenly turned to look out of the window and Lord Berriedale was regarding one of his long, shapely hands with detached interest.

“I am sure Miss Folkestone will look after our guests perfectly, so you need not worry about it in the least,” he said, at length, and, murmuring something about having promised to take some one round the cliff, he strolled out of the room again.

Late in the afternoon four large cars stood panting in front of the house and the picnickers came out and took their seats.

Captain Folkestone and other guests from the neighborhood were to join the party at the river where the fishing had been arranged.

The sky was gray with soft glimpses of remote blue. The distant hills were wrapped in a larkspur-tinted haze through which the shape of trees was faintly indicated. Out of the calm ocean rose green breakers moving imperiously toward the shore, flinging themselves headlong on the quivering sand. Silver gulls glided lazily by on silent wings and made occasional swoops into the foaming water.

A mile down the road the motors turned inland toward the tense blue hills. Vast plains opened out before them, where mallee-fowls darted in and out among the bushes and the sunburnt grass stood stiff and yellow at the feet of the ring-barked trees.

The road led through immense forests, dusky with jungle gloom, brooding with heavy mystery, and where the occasional twitter of birds sounded timorous and grave. At times the cars mounted steep hills, and at others descended into gaping, timber-lined valleys.

After about two hours’ traveling there was a gleam of water in the distance, and soon afterward a calm, wide river which ran beside the road for a mile or two was reached; then, after passing a sharp bend, the picnickers arrived at their destination and found the rest of the party already awaiting them.

Greetings followed, and presently small groups began to stroll about the river-bank, while the chauffeurs lighted a fire and boiled the billy.

Toward the west ran a plain fenced in by rough-looking hills smothered in trees. The main part of the stream still flowed beside the track, but it had subdivided into three long arms, which spread in erratic contortions over the wild, marshy flats, forming deep pools in lower places and growing narrow and sleek near the more sloping banks. The place was a terrible conglomeration of tangled thickets, wriggling streams, deep lagoons, and treacherous, rush-covered bogs.

Wild shrieks of birds rang spasmodically through the air, fishes jumped, and there was the continual whir of large-winged insects.

The plain was two miles long, and near its upper end, at the feet of the challenging hills, stood the only house in sight, belonging to the man Lord Berriedale had engaged to take the party across the river in his boat, so that they could walk over to the second arm of the stream, where the best fishing was obtained.

It had been decided to have tea before crossing the river. The long table-cloth had been spread out on the grass and Isma was decorating it with fluffy yellow wattle. Once as she looked up from the blooms she saw a beautiful kingfisher skimming over the surface of the stream, his gorgeous plumage of azure and deep orange reflected in the pearly gray water.

The girl sighed a little. If only she might be free like that bird! she thought, as she went on with her work. Presently the billy boiled and the visitors seated themselves round the impromptu table on the grass.

The men were in a hurry to commence the sport, so there was not much time given to superfluous conversation.

Miss Folkestone was pouring out tea and the drivers were handing the cups to the guests. She had not spoken to Falcon that day, but only bowed to him in the distance. He was now sitting next to Miss Brentford, talking rather gravely to the animated girl.

When the meal was over the boatman began to row the picnickers across the stream.

Lord Berriedale, the secretary, and some local men went in the front load, as they were to arrange where the rods were to be placed. Then gradually the others followed, till there were only Isma and the chauffeurs left; the girl stayed till the last to see that everything was carefully packed up, and when the baskets were stowed away in the cars she strolled on to a small rise surrounded by tall shrubs and sat down on a log, feeling glad to have a little time alone.

In the east the clouds had cleared, but toward the west they had thickened and hung like an impenetrable curtain, hiding the sinking sun. All at once there was a rift in the sooty masses--the slit widened, and presently a large sun swelling into hugeness thrust a gross yellow face into the aperture and fixed its ferocious stare on the scene below till, helpless and abject, the earth sank into hypnotic stupor. The long, shrubby plain turned a seasick green, even the pools and streams swooned with ghastly horror.

For some moments the sun hung quivering with fiery intensity; then with a sinister reluctance the great blazing ball sank below the opening in the black, smokelike clouds.

Isma sat as if petrified, watching the awful sunset, and when the yellow glow had disappeared, through an opening among the stunted trees she saw the marshland with its many glimpses of water, the bluish, unhealthy hue of one in a seizure.

The girl shuddered.

There seemed forces lurking about her which had power to subdue even the most desperate resistance.

As she looked a smudgy, colorless twilight crawled from nowhere and spread over the bush-tangled flats; it climbed up the sides of the bold, imperious hills and reached toward the dim, sullen sky. The dusk advanced on stealthy feet, but with unhesitating determination. It folded trees and rushes in a swarthy embrace and stooped to kiss the breathless waters. It seemed as if the evil power blazing from the setting sun had returned and was now claiming the victims it had cowed, as it advanced ruthlessly through thickets and bogs.

Suddenly the weird call of the boo-boo owl rang through the twilight.

Isma started, a sense of horror came over her, a feeling of awful foreboding.

Why had she been kept waiting so long? Why had the boat not returned for her sooner?

She listened for the splash of oars.

She heard it now, but it seemed curiously distant. She waited, listening, growing more uneasy--the faint splash had ceased altogether.

But now there was another sound--some one was coming up behind her. She turned, expecting to see one of the drivers, but the tall form approaching was--Lord Berriedale.

“Is the boat ready?” she asked, mechanically, her senses numbed by the shock of finding herself alone with her host.

“No,” replied the man, coming closer. “It has gone with the chauffeurs. I came over myself to send them off.”

“But--but--it will come back for--me,” she faltered, rising.

“No, it will not come back for either _you_ or _me_. I have sent the boatman down the river to fish. He is in my pay to-night, you know,” said her companion, peering into her face in the dusk.

“Lord Berriedale, what does this mean?” asked Miss Folkestone, now thoroughly roused.

“It simply means this, that you and I are to spend a long time together to-night. Isma, I have waited so long I can wait no longer. I have been tormented enough; now it is my turn to have a little respite! Why, even my own wife suggested you should take her place this evening, and by the gods you shall!” he said, in a tone which made the girl stiffen with horror.

“So you have trapped me,” she murmured, in a voice which did not seem her own.

“There was nothing else to do. You would not listen to pleadings. I warned you not to strain my endurance too far--”

“And you had no consideration for me--or my reputation?” Life was coming back to her voice.

“I considered your reputation, I assure you. No one over there knows we are here alone. I have seen to that. They axe not all fishing in the same place, as we arranged at first, but are divided up into small parties, only two or three together and each group a long distance apart. I had a purpose in placing them like that. I am supposed to be fishing with Rex in a dark bend, and if any one should find our corner and ask for me, they will be told that I have gone to visit some other rods. The whole place is one wild tangle of bends, sudden turns, matted shrubberies, and though it looks so flat there are steep banks as well as the sinking marshland. It would be most dangerous to start straying about. Besides, it would take half the night to track any one in that great wilderness. Now, you see, I have thought it all out, so that we can be quite sure we shall not be disturbed and that no one will know we are here. You are, of course, also supposed to be fishing somewhere over there, and each group thinks you are with one of the others. I have arranged everything with the utmost care.”

“Now I know you are absolutely unscrupulous!”

“Isma, it is quite impossible for me to live without you. I must have you--I must! To-night my arms shall teach you what love means--”

The girl had closed her eyes for a moment and even in the twilight she looked pale.

Good God, what was she to do out here in this savage loneliness, the rest of the party too far away to hear her call, separated from her by that impassable stream, the terrible thickets, the lagoons and bogs! The man was in earnest; his voice, his demeanor held remorseless determination. His arms should teach her! She shuddered with a revulsion of loathing--to be touched by him! She shivered again. But perhaps, after all, if she appealed to his better nature, he might relent; she would make the attempt.

“Lord Berriedale,” she began, in a softer tone, “think of Beatrice, her high opinion of you, her love for you. If she ever found out about--this, it would kill her! Won’t you be merciful? You could make her ideally happy. Won’t you--?”

“Of course I will,” he responded, quickly. “I will lie, pretend--do anything, if only you will promise to be mine--afterward?”

“How can you suggest such a thing--when your wife is still--?”

“Yes, she is still--here, but she will not be here--long.”

“You are cruel, utterly pitiless, and you--married her,” she reminded him, sternly.

“Good Lor’! and haven’t I suffered for that mistake! However,” he went on, in a different voice, “I warn you I am not going to do penance for it all my life. Sooner or later I mean to take my happiness and you shall be mine.”

“Your fidelity is worthy of a woman’s trust, isn’t it!” she flung at him, scornfully. She stood before him erect; all fear had vanished.

“I swear I would be true to _you_.”

“Yes, you have given me a fine display of your faithfulness!”

“Isma”--he had paled--“don’t you know you could hold any man forever--?”

A sudden glimmer on the trees made him turn for a moment and look at the big moon which had risen above the black eastern hills. Long rays of silver stole over the plain and lay caressingly upon the silent lagoons. Leaves began to shine, grass stems and stalks to glitter; shadows crept sullenly away to the shelter of trees and matted undergrowth. A metallic radiance flooded the whole scene. Lord Berriedale’s dark figure stood out against the silver-lit background and the gleaming light fell full upon the girl who stood motionless before him.

“Isma,” he said, suddenly, and in his eyes was something akin to the power she had seen in the stoking sun and felt in the glowering dusk. “I can see your wonderful eyes, your hair--the hair I am always longing to touch and the lips I--dream about. Isma, to-night I shall touch that hair and your lips shall be mine--”

The girl looked round for some way of escape, but there was none. They were standing on a small rise inclosed by thick shrubs; there was only one opening and her captor was standing in front of that. She might be able to press through the thicket, but it would be too slow a process; the branches would only imprison her and make her more helpless.

Her companion had guessed her thoughts.

“My dear Isma, it is no use looking for ways of escape, for there are none--you are utterly in my power to-night. But,” he went on, changing his tone, “I quite understand your scruples--why you are reluctant to surrender at present, and to show you that I respect your principles I am willing to make a compromise with you. I will let you go and not touch you at all if you give me your word of honor that you will be mine the moment I am--free. Now, Isma, I warn you I am terribly in earnest, and if you will not make the promise I shall take what I want to-night.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then came the steadfast, courageous reply, “No, I cannot make such a promise, for I could never be yours.”

“Isma, I will give you five minutes to make up your mind. When they are over you must either give me your word of honor that you will marry me or I--take--”

There was no answer.

By the light of the moon the man looked at his watch. “Five minutes from now,” he said, quietly.

Again there was no reply.

A ghastly silence followed. The two figures stood motionless in the moonlight; the man’s eyes were fixed upon his watch, the woman stood resolute, determined, but pale as death itself.

“The five minutes are up,” said Lord Berriedale at last. “Which shall it be, your promise or--?”

“I cannot make the promise, for I should only break it afterward.” Her voice was low, but firm.

“By Jove! you have pluck! Still, even that fine courage of yours will not save you now.” He moved toward her.

“Lord Berriedale, I warn you--I am strong.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “My love is strong enough to conquer your resistance. But, Isma, you might as well _give_ me what I want. Believe me, it would be much better for you if you did.”

“I can give you--nothing.”

“Not even those--kisses?”

“Nothing.”

“Very well.”

Then, before she had time to draw back, his arms were round her, crushing her to his wildly beating heart while his stormy kisses beat upon her hair.

She made a desperate attempt to free herself; but her efforts were useless, and the more she struggled the more steely became the arms of the man who held her. He was far stronger than she had imagined and she realized her utter helplessness, yet she strove to resist him, turning her face away that he might not touch her lips. He should not--

But after a time her strength began to wane; it was oozing from her. God in heaven, would no one come to her rescue! If only Falcon knew of her plight, he would find a way to reach her!

Then quite unexpectedly Lord Berriedale relaxed his hold, and Isma, too, heard the sound which had startled him.

There were running footsteps on the road.

As the girl sprang away she gave a sharp, piercing cry.

A few seconds afterward there was a crashing and tearing aside of bushes; then another figure emerged from the tangle and stood in the full white light of the moon.

XV

THE MOONLIT ROAD

After an awkward pause Lord Berriedale said: “Good Lor’, Folkestone, whatever has happened to bring you over here at this breakneck speed? Was there an accident? Has any one fallen in the river?”

“No, nothing has gone wrong over there, but--I was not quite sure that my cousin was happy here, so I came to see, and, judging from the appearance of things, it was just as well I did,” Falcon replied, with quiet significance. “That cry sounded anything but a happy one.”

“Miss Folkestone was no doubt nervous at hearing the hasty footsteps, and naturally thought something terrible had taken place. However,” he continued, turning to go, “now that you are here and can look after your cousin, I must get back to my other guests.”

The officer glanced anxiously at the girl, and in the moonlight saw that she looked utterly exhausted and that she was trembling violently.

“I shall take my cousin back to her own home to-night. She looks quite ill. Will you be good enough to explain to Lady Berriedale? You and I will have a talk another time,” he called after the retreating figure.

Isma never quite remembered how she reached Falcon’s car that evening. After the awful terror and strain, she was only conscious of a boundless relief, and retained merely blurred impressions of the weird scene, with its glinting trees, matted tangle of bushes, and the snakelike, curving river, silvered in places by the moon, and ominously black where the tree-covered banks flung their inky shadows into the deep, still waters. She was only aware that Falcon was with her, that she was safe; that he was helping her, touching her, leading her gently to the motor, and, when she was seated, tucking a rug carefully about her before he took the wheel.

They drove some moonlit miles in silence, while she leaned back in almost drowsy content. It was good to be there, near her cousin, and feel the strong shelter of his presence! But after a time something disturbing crept into the sweet relief. The events of the evening began to intrude themselves upon her consciousness. She saw again the dreadful sunset, the terrorized plain; once more the menacing dusk gathered about her, the ghastly scene by the river came back to her; she felt the steely arms crushing her--those suffocating embraces! She closed her eyes and shivered in horror.

“What is it, Isma--are you cold?” came the anxious question from her companion, and one hand reached over and tucked the rug more closely about her.

“No, thank you, I am not cold.”

Falcon looked at her again and clenched his teeth.

Presently he moved a little nearer so that their shoulders touched. His supporting touch had a strange effect on her; it made all which had taken place fade into dimness again and brought back the delicious sense of rest. It was lovely to sit beside him and feel the comforting strength emanating from him, while the steadily rising moon poured its cool, soothing radiance on a fevered world.

All at once she felt a great sigh pass through her companion. Why did he sigh? Was she the cause of it? What an anxiety she had been to him and how splendidly he had come to her rescue! He had been so tactful and gentle, not uttered a word of reproach! And she had not even expressed her appreciation, her gratitude. Suddenly she felt acutely alive; her tiredness and inertness had all gone. How had Falcon crossed that dark, foreboding-looking river? How had he reached her? She must find out, but first she must thank him.

“Falcon,” she began, her voice soft and warm, “you have been too wonderfully good to me--you have simply been--”

He interrupted her quickly. “Please don’t say anything about that--only, but tell me, are you feeling better yet?”

“Yes, ever so much better, thank you, but,” she went on, a little timidly, “how did you--I mean, what made you leave the others and--come?”

“Well, I was not at all happy about the whole arrangement. It looked a bit queer, especially when you stayed behind. However, I thought the chauffeurs were there, till I saw them come over without you and they told me that--Lord Berriedale was with you.”

“But--I thought you had gone to the other arm of the river where you could not see the boat arrive?”

“So we had. Miss Brentford and I were stationed a good way down the stream. But I left her with some of the other people while I went over to see what had happened to you. Before I reached the main portion of the river I met the drivers and they told me you were on this side with Berriedale. I hurried down to the landing-place to get the boat. However, it had gone a long way down the river and the old boatman either could not or would not hear my call. That, of course, made me still more anxious to get across.”

“Yes, and how did you manage?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Well--it was a little difficult. I did not dare to risk swimming so far in such icy water; but I remembered there was a ridge at the rapids a mile higher up, which I had often crossed as a boy, when the water was low as it is now. So I hurried as fast as bogs and thickets would allow, reached the falls, and then fate was kind to me, for the moon had risen and showed me the right crossing. That made all the difference, for there are deep pools on either side; however, I got over all right, reached the road and when near the camping-ground your voice guided me to you.”

“Oh, Falcon, I shall never be able to thank you enough!” she said, a deep tremor in the words.

“I don’t want any thanks--don’t trouble about that.”

They had joined the coast road now; only another mile and they would be at Isma’s home.

The car hummed along by the sea which lay like a sheet of shimmering silver between the great towering headlands.

When they came to the entrance to The Palms Captain Folkestone slowed down, stopped the car, and helped his cousin to alight; then he walked over to the gate with her, but stood still without opening it.

“Isma, I must ask you one question before you go in. Tell me,” he looked away from her, “what had Berriedale done to make you cry out like that?”

The girl started. “Falcon, please don’t ask me.”

“But I must know.”

“Well, of course, I did not like being there--”

“There was more than dislike in your voice; there was--terror.” He had turned to her now and in the bright moonlight he saw her agitation. “Tell me why?” he insisted.

“I can’t--I can’t--”

“Then I shall have to ask him.”

“No, no,” she cried, “you mustn’t do that.”

“Then tell me yourself.”

There was no answer.

“Was it really--as bad as that?”

“Falcon, please don’t!” There was deep pain in her tones.

“You mean me to infer--?”

“No, don’t infer anything.”

“Is there nothing to--infer?”

Again there was no reply.

“There is something, then?”

Her head suddenly drooped.

“Isma, tell me.” He came a little closer and went on, in a strange, moved voice, “Isma, couldn’t you confide in me just this once?”

“Oh, Falcon, it isn’t that--” Her tones were imploring and her fingers caught at the gate convulsively.

“What is it, then?” he asked, his face almost touching her own. “Did he take any--liberties with you?”

She started violently.

“So he touched you?”

She placed her elbows on the top railing of the gate and buried her face in her hands while a half-stifled moan escaped her lips.

Captain Folkestone blanched. “Great God! what has the man done to her!” he muttered through his teeth, and after a pause he said, hoarsely, “For Heaven’s sake, Isma, don’t keep me in this awful suspense!”

His voice wrung her heart. Must she really tell this clean, honorable man the degrading thing, that she had been embraced and kissed by her friend’s husband! She pressed her hands to her face in an agony of shame. Her mortification was greater than she could bear!

“He--he--” She began her confession with a desperate effort.

“Yes, what did he do?” The words came from panting lips. “Did he--kiss you?”

Her head sank lower. “My--hair,” she scarcely breathed.

“And did he--embrace you?”

“Y--e--s--”

“Anything else?” The question held a startling intensity.

“No,” she whispered.

He drew a long breath, then took her hands from her face and crushed them in his own.

For some minutes neither of them spoke.

“I must not keep you standing out here any longer; you are tired and must rest,” he said, at length, releasing her reluctantly and opening the gate for her to pass through.

Silently they walked toward the house, where the lights in the lower rooms mingled feebly with the brilliant moonlight.

When they had reached the front door the girl held out her hand to her companion and said, tremulously, “Falcon--I can’t thank you--I can’t--”

“Don’t try. I want no thanks, only some day perhaps you will--” He did not finish the sentence, but raised her hand and laid his burning lips against her fingers.

A moment afterward he was gone.

* * * * *

Isma went to sleep at once from sheer exhaustion that night, but even in her slumbers she could still feel the burning kiss pressed against her fingers.

XVI

THE BOMB

“The mail has just arrived and there is quite a budget of letters for you, Miss Rita,” said Rex, the next morning, as he came into the drawing-room where the girl sat limp and tired in a deep armchair well piled with cushions.

The secretary was in a motor-coat and carried a cap in his hand; he was evidently on the point of going out.

Miss Brentford turned a white face and large, vague-looking eyes toward him. “Are you going out--before breakfast?” she asked, absently.

“Yes, going on most important business for his lordship,” and he handed a bundle of letters to the girl huddled in a weary heap among the violet-tinted cushions.

The letter lying on top was addressed to Miss Folkestone in Lord Berriedale’s large, characteristic writing.

A sudden animation came into Miss Brentford’s listless face. “What is this?” she asked, holding up the envelop, with a curious gleam in her eyes.

Rex made a quick movement to secure the letter.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Miss Rita! What a stupid mistake! I suppose in my hurry I put it among yours. Well, I must be off. Can’t wait a moment. This is most urgent,” he said, striding out of the room, and a few moments afterward the girl heard a car buzzing down the drive.

So Neville had written to Isma and Rex was taking the letter to her. He had received instructions to hurry, the business was urgent--so that was it! Of course last night when her brother-in-law had told them that Miss Folkestone had been taken home by her cousin, as she suddenly felt ill, she, Rita, had guessed that this was only an excuse, for the girl had looked splendid during tea, and she was too strong and healthy for such unexpected turns of indisposition, and that the real cause of her departure must be looked for in another direction. However, the excuse given was good enough to pass muster with the other guests. But the question was, why had she gone home? Rita would not have attached so much importance to the incident had it not been for Captain Folkestone’s strange behavior. During tea he had been restless and moody, and when they had crossed the river and arrived at the spot where they were to fish he had removed their rods and joined another group of friends; then he had suddenly left and not returned again. Rita had spent a miserable evening wondering what had made him go off like that; but her misery reached its climax when they returned to the camping-ground and found he had taken his cousin home. The thought that the man she loved had been with the woman she hated on the moonlit road together for hours nearly maddened her, and she had lain sleepless till dawn, tortured by the vision of them alone in the vast white solitude of night!

There could be no doubt about it, his cousin had cast her spell over Captain Folkestone, too. Rex had suggested it long ago, but she had not believed it then; now she could not close her eyes to the horrible certainty. Had he not quite voluntarily chosen to leave her, Rita, to take the other woman home!

Miss Brentford shut her tired, pain-racked eyes. Oh, what suffering Isma had brought her, what pain! What magic could this girl possess to make all the men mad about her!

She had noticed that one of the aides-de-camp, even on that short acquaintance, had also succumbed to her mysterious power, and as for Neville--a withering smile of contempt played for a moment round her bloodless lips. He was making a complete fool of himself. How she loathed that flaxen-haired creature! But what could have passed between her and Neville last night to make her leave so suddenly? She had noticed that her brother-in-law was not himself when he joined them the previous evening; he had been grave, very absent-minded, and had given quite impossible answers to casual questions. A deep pucker crept in between Miss Brentford’s heavily marked brows. Whatever could have happened? Neville had been in the first boatload to cross the river and Isma was going to wait till the last, so how could they have quarreled? Could he have returned to the camping-ground after he had arranged all the fishing groups? Yes, that must have been it! She had not seen him for two hours; during that time he must have gone over to Miss Folkestone. Her cousin must also have crossed and had evidently disturbed them, then the scheming, unscrupulous girl had pleaded that she was not well and asked him to take her home--apparently she meant to keep her hold on him as well.

Miss Brentford suddenly sat up and clenched her small hands, while an awful look came into her dark eyes. She was able now to put an end to his infatuation and must do so at once. Isma should not be allowed to rob her of this splendid soldier! If he knew that his cousin was flirting desperately with Neville, a married man, he would turn from her in disgust. Yes, his eyes must be opened immediately. But of course her sister must be told first--only, how would such knowledge affect her in her delicate state of health?

The girl moved uneasily and an expression of fear passed momentarily over her haggard face. The doctors had said that Beatrice must on no account have worry or shocks. Still, how could she keep this dreadful news from the one it concerned so vitally? Wasn’t it better for her sister to know, so that she could stop the thing before it went any farther? Yet, suppose the shock should kill her? After all, wasn’t it kinder to let her brother-in-law go his own way and allow her sister to be deceived both in husband and friend? She was quite happy at present, so why disturb and disillusion her?

Then her thoughts went back to the man she loved gloriously alone with his cousin on the silvered road. Her pale face looked all at once distorted; that sort of thing must end, at all costs. She could not endure another night of torture like the last!

The hollow boom of the breakfast gong rumbled through the house.

Miss Brentford started slightly, rose slowly, and stumbled wearily across the room.

In the hall were bustle and life. Ladies dressed for traveling descended the stairs, servants carried down monogramed suit-cases; groups of men stood talking by the open front door, looking into the blazing sunshine and making remarks about the heat of the morning, and discussing the sport of the night before.

However, soon all the guests were assembled in the large dining-room and Rita took her sister’s place at the table, as the invalid never came down to breakfast.

The girl had not seen her that morning; she had purposely avoided going to her room, as she wanted Neville to tell her that Isma had gone home. He always went in to see his wife before going down to breakfast, and he would naturally tell her then.

It seemed to Miss Brentford as if the meal would never end. Every one was talking gaily--the visitors had evidently enjoyed their stay at The Bluff and were going home in high spirits.

When at last the guests left the dining-room their hostess had just come down-stairs. She looked decidedly better that morning, her skin was not so sallow as usual, the color in her cheeks less hectic, and the hollows round her eyes not so prominent. She smiled happily and made gracious remarks to everybody; but after a while she looked round as if searching for some one, and, turning to her sister, asked: “Where is Isma? Hasn’t she come down yet?”

So she had not been told, after all--why not?

“Didn’t Neville tell you this morning?” asked Rita, evading the questioning glance. “Miss Folkestone was not well last night and her cousin took her home soon after tea.”

“Not well, Rita--and no one has told me till now! How strange! I must drive over and see her presently.”

The visitors were crowding round to say good-by; they had all decided to leave early so as to avoid traveling in the hottest part of the day, and Lady Berriedale had to give them her full attention. But when the last car had vanished down the long gravel drive she followed her sister into the drawing-room and said: “Tell me about Isma. Whatever was the matter with her?” Then Rita’s white face caught her attention. “My dear child, are you ill, too? You look as if you hadn’t slept all night.”

“No, I am not ill,” began the girl, turning to the window, a slight tremor in her voice, “but--” She stopped irresolutely. Now, when there was such a good opportunity for striking the fatal blow, she wavered. Should she not be merciful to the invalid who had so little of life left to her? But again the picture of the handsome Guardsman driving alone with the fair-haired temptress came up before her. No, she could not afford to be generous--she could not! It was impossible to endure another night like the last!

“Well,” demanded her sister, watching her with some perplexity.

The girl swallowed hard. “I was awake all last night, and that naturally makes me tired to-day,” she replied, making the plunge.

“Child, how was it that you did not sleep? That is not like you.”

The girl stiffened. She had committed herself. Now she must go on.

“I was thinking of something--something which had upset me horribly.” Her voice was uneven and her breathing labored.

“Something upset you horribly? Whatever is it?” asked Lady Berriedale, coming closer and looking at her sister with a puzzled air.

Rita’s heart hammered in her breast, her throat tightened. Should she draw back? Could she draw back? No, she had said too much for that: she must go on.

“Yes, something which will upset you, too, when you hear it. That is why I hate telling you.”

“What can it be?” There was sudden fear in the thin, weak voice.

“It is about--”

“Yes, tell me quickly--”

“Neville.” The word almost choked her.

“About Neville?”

“Yes, and--”

“And some one else?”

“Yes--” She turned quickly and threw her arms round her sister’s trembling form. “Don’t let it make you ill, Beatrice dear, will you?” she pleaded. “I shall never forgive myself if it does, and yet I think you ought to know about it.”

“Tell me,” replied the elder woman, without returning the embrace, a terrible foreboding making her voice cold and strange.

“He and Miss--”

Lady Berriedale tore herself from the girl’s trembling arms and looked at her with angry eyes. “If you mean Isma, I will not have you say another word. You have always disliked her and been jealous of her and I refuse to listen to your nasty insinuations.”

“All the same they are true,” remarked her companion, in chilly tones. The last words had killed her pity and roused her opposition. “I first noticed it the night of the dance. Neville was paying her a lot of attention, you remember, but I had heard hints of it before.”

Lady Berriedale laughed harshly. “Ah, is that all your mean little soul has to go on? I tell you they are both innocent! Neville has always been true to me and a splendid husband, and Isma is the most noble, the most honorable woman in the world!”

“If you had seen them on the stairs together after the ball, you would not have thought them so innocent,” retorted the girl, coldly.

“What were they doing there?”

“You should have seen that before you defend them so blindly. I was in my room, every one else had gone to bed, when I heard low, murmuring voices. I opened my door gently and there was your noble Isma standing close to your husband while he pressed her hands against his heart.”

“You are mistaken. Your jealous mind puts such a horrible interpretation on what was probably an absolutely harmless act.”

“I suppose it is also invention on my part that your precious friend went home unwell last night--by the way, she looked perfectly splendid at tea; but she and Neville must have quarreled, for he was in a bad humor after she had gone and would hardly speak to any one, and this morning Rex had to rush off before breakfast with a fat letter for her--trying to appease the offended goddess, I suppose.”

“I refuse to believe it. I shall ask Isma herself.”

“Yes, go and face her with it. Ask her if what I have said is not true and make her show you Neville’s letter. Ask her why she went home early and make her swear that she is speaking the truth, and then see who is right! It has made me perfectly furious that you, poor, trusting dear, should be so completely deceived by this unscrupulous person, who does not even consider friendship too sacred to use to gain her own ends! All the time she has pretended to be your friend it’s only Neville she has been after!”

“Don’t--don’t, Rita! I will not believe it! I will not listen to you!” cried her companion. Still, the pain in her voice showed that the cruel words had gone home. “I will go and ask Neville at once.”

“No, don’t ask him yet. Get the truth out of Miss Folkestone first, then you can face Neville with it afterward.”

“I shall go to her this afternoon, and Rita,” she added, a terrible expression in her dark eyes, “if what you have told me to-day is untrue, I will never have you inside my house again.”

“Very well; but insist on seeing Neville’s letter; for after all these other things your devoted friend might not stop at falsehood, either, when she is in a tight corner. See the letter, then you will be able to judge for yourself.”

“Yes, I will do that,” said Lady Berriedale, moving toward the door, and there was great dignity in her bearing as she left the room and went up-stairs to her own apartment.

“After all, it did not upset her so very much,” thought Rita, sinking down on a lounge in the cool drawing-room. “Neville is not worth worrying about. However, it is all done now, anyhow, and when Beatrice sees that letter--”

* * * * *

When Lady Berriedale came down to lunch there was a great change in her. The hollows round her eyes had deepened, her sallow skin looked parched, the feverish expression in her eyes had intensified, and she breathed in a jerky, irregular way. She carried herself with an almost stiff dignity, but she seemed perfectly composed.

“My dear, whatever is the matter? You looked so well this morning,” began her husband, with real concern.

“I am very well, thank you. I am going over to see Isma directly after lunch.”

“Indeed, you mustn’t dream of doing such a thing. You would faint on the way in this heat. Miss Folkestone can come to you.”

“You forget she is not well.”

“She will be more fit for the drive than you. I shall go over presently and bring her back with me.”

Rita shot a meaning glance at her sister, but the elder woman did not appear to notice it.

“Thank you. I wish to go myself.”

Then suddenly a great rush of blood mounted to Lady Berriedale’s face; she drew a long, gasping breath and fell back in her chair.

“Rita,” she whispered, faintly, “please tell Thomas to get Abbott to help me up-stairs.”

Her husband was beside her in a moment, ready to assist her, but she brushed him aside and preferred to wait for her maid.

* * * * *

When Lord Berriedale was alone he stood with drawn brows, gazing out into the brilliant sunshine. Whatever could have gone wrong to make his wife refuse his assistance? She had never done such a thing before. He would go at once and persuade Isma to come. She would be able to soothe the invalid and make her happy again.

But would she come? He had not much hope that the letter he had written that morning would effect a reconciliation and bring the girl back to The Bluff; but if he went himself and explained that Beatrice was ill and upset it would bring her. He knew her kind heart could not refuse to minister comfort to her friend and she would have courage enough to return with him in spite of what had happened the night before.

His eyes flashed with a strange fire.

Yes, Isma would come when she knew about Beatrice--his difficulty was all at once solved.