Chapter V: Part II: I (1)

THE HURRICANE

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

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

The girl watched the road expectantly.

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

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

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

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

She started visibly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She rose tremblingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very likely.”

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

“And why not--?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II

PAYING TOLL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her companion drew back slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you destroyed that letter?”

“Not yet.”

“Will you let me see it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

III

BARRED GATES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The girl by the window moved restlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I did not mean that.”

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

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

Of course Falcon was thinking of Lord Berriedale.

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

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

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

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

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

He swallowed hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” she inquired, as he stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why impossible?”

“I simply couldn’t do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, then?”

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

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

Another silence fell between them.

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

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

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

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

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

Isma sighed in resignation.

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

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

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

Isma left the window.

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

IV

TRAMPLED FRIENDSHIP

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

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

But how was it all going to end?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She gave a piercing shriek of terror.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shuddered.

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She pressed her hands against her throbbing eyes.

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

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

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