Chapter VI: Part II: I (2)

Yesterday he had not allowed her to say all she had meant to tell him. He had courteously, yet decidedly, changed the subject. Still, she had been able to throw out enough hints to show him how treacherous Isma had been to her friend!

However, even the thought that Miss Folkestone could no more stand in her way had no power to comfort her now. Her conscience cried loudly, vehemently, and would not be silenced. Again Rita could see the livid face with its gruesome, deathlike calm resting on the pillow. Would no smile again soften the tightly compressed lips? And would the shrunken form in a few days be laid under--

No! no! She could bear no more. Her thoughts in the lonely room would drive away her reason! She must get away from the stillness which held these awful specters. She would go to the sea, the ever-stirring, restless ocean. It was never silent, always roaring or muttering under its breath. Was it always noisy because, like herself, it could not endure the austere, accusing silence?

She snatched up a long coat, made her way hurriedly out of the house, down the garden path, till she reached a small track which led past the cliff to the beach.

As she approached a belt of weather-worn she-oaks she came upon Rex sitting on a bench, one knee across the other, and a cigarette between his lips.

His presence brought her a sudden sense of relief.

“Rex,” she exclaimed, stopping in front of him, “whatever brings you out so early?”

“My dear Miss Rita, I should be absolutely heartless if I could sleep when her ladyship is dy--so ill.” He corrected himself.

The girl winced, but sat down beside him.

“Rex, isn’t it appalling! I haven’t slept, of course, not closed my eyes once, and I didn’t sleep the night before, either. It is all too dreadful!” Her horror was beginning to find vent in words.

“Yes, indeed! But have you heard how the patient is this morning?”

“No, not yet. Nurse promised to let me know if there was any change, so apparently there is not.”

“That is a good sign. She is holding her own at present, then. All we can expect, isn’t it? I wonder,” he continued, with puckered brow, “what _could_ have given her such a nasty turn! Something must have done the mischief. I wonder could some meddling gossip have--”

He stopped and glanced at his companion, who had gripped the seat for support. “Miss Rita, I do believe you are ill, too!”

“Nonsense, Rex! I’m all right.”

He looked at her with indolent scrutiny as he added: “I suppose his lordship hasn’t told you the news yet. He wouldn’t have the heart. I mean he would not be able to think of such things just now--”

“What news?” asked the girl, sitting up quickly.

“Captain Folkestone rang up last night and asked for you, but as you were with her ladyship I couldn’t disturb you. However, Lord Berriedale was down-stairs just then, so I asked him to come to the ’phone, and Captain Folkestone evidently told him about his engagement, for I heard his lordship congratulate him--”

“Engagement!” stammered Miss Brentford, her pale face becoming grayer. “Who--?”

“Is there any need to ask? His beautiful cousin, of course. Who else could it be?”

Rita sank back against the seat, her bloodless lips uttering an inarticulate cry.

“Great Cæsar!” exclaimed the man beside her. “I believe you are going to faint. Let me take you indoors.”

“Don’t be an ass, Rex,” Rita almost screamed at the secretary. “Of course I am not going to faint. Still, are you really in earnest? Aren’t you just--?”

“As if I should joke on such a solemn subject--at such a serious time, I mean. How could you suggest I should be so brutal? But as soon as you can you must ring up the happy man and tell him how delighted you are. He will be in the tenth heaven to-day. Think what times they will have together now. Shouldn’t like to come upon them unexpectedly under the palms on a moonlit--”

He stopped suddenly, for the girl had risen and stood livid and trembling before him. “Rex, if you say another word, I’ll--I’ll--strangle you,” she shrieked.

Then the white, shaking form with the desperate black eyes turned suddenly and fled back to the house. She made her way hastily to her own room, locked the door, and, moaning loudly, threw herself on the bed.

So she had committed that hideous crime--for nothing! Her sister lay at death’s door--for nothing! Her life was endangered to no purpose! Her own nightmare, her future sufferings, would be for nothing! All her plans had been thwarted while the unscrupulous Miss Folkestone with her siren-like charm robbed her of the man she had become a--murderess to obtain!

V

THE FATAL KEY

A week after Lady Berriedale’s collapse Isma entered The Bluff once more. She mounted the wide staircase quickly. Her friend was much better and had sent for her. The rose-pink in her cheeks deepened.

The past week had been a ghastly one. Falcon had brought her the news of Lady Berriedale’s seizure the day after it had taken place, and the same afternoon a note had come from Lord Berriedale telling her of his wife’s critical condition and adding more details than her cousin could supply. The letter also told her that the patient had to be kept absolutely quiet; that she was under the influence of narcotics and asleep most of the time. Two days afterward Lord Berriedale had written again to say that his wife seemed to be rallying, her pulse was much stronger, and that as soon as she could bear his confession he was going to make a clean breast of everything, of course as briefly and mercifully as possible. He was very anxious Isma’s name should be cleared with his wife for the patient’s sake as well as her own, for he felt sure, once she knew her friend had been true and he only was to blame, the invalid would wish to have the girl beside her again and Isma’s presence would help her greatly to regain her hold on life. Lord Berriedale implored her to forgive and be merciful.

He did not know what had occurred that fatal afternoon, but he pleaded with her not to judge Beatrice’s words and actions too hardly.

That morning another note from him had arrived, saying he had told his wife everything, that she had most generously forgiven him, and that she sent a message asking the girl to come to her at once, as she was longing to see her and ask for her forgiveness. Lord Berriedale had not congratulated her on her engagement or made the slightest allusion to it in any of his letters.

Falcon had come over immediately after breakfast to take her to The Bluff. He always rang up early to inquire after Lady Berriedale, and when he was told she was much better that morning and had sent for Miss Folkestone he had gone to The Palms at once to drive his cousin to the invalid.

Now the girl entered her friend’s room, her face flushed and her eyes shining.

The nurse glanced with tense curiosity at the beautiful visitor and then quietly withdrew.

“Isma, you are a saint!” cried Lady Berriedale, stretching out her arms and pressing the girl to her heart. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Don’t, Beatrice, don’t,” whispered Isma, trying to keep the patient from becoming excited. “There is nothing to forgive, deary. You simply made a mistake, and even the wisest and best make mistakes sometimes.”

“Darling, you are too good to me!” There were tears in the high-pitched voice.

“Beatrice dear, please don’t get upset, or nurse will never allow me to sit with you again.”

The elder woman made an instant effort to calm herself and said, in a different tone: “Neville has told me everything, and I know now how true and good you have been. But Isma”--the large black eyes looked up at her wistfully--“he loves you deeply--”

Miss Folkestone put out her hands protestingly.

“Beatrice, it can’t really be love--only a slight infatuation--”

“No, you are wrong about that,” replied the solemn voice from the pillows. “It is real love. He doesn’t only admire your outward beauty, but your nobility, courage, your intense sincerity and marvelous generosity. He--” She stopped suddenly and looked up at the girl with deep pain in her glance. “But how terrible of me to talk to you like this, when I ought to be congratulating you! Isma”--she stretched out her arms again--“kiss me and let me wish you all the happiness you so richly deserve--”

Her companion stooped over her quickly, interrupting the words with a caress.

“Darling, what is the matter? Why are you trembling so?” asked the elder woman, pushing the girl a little away from her so that she might look into her face. “Why, there are tears in your eyes, tears when you ought to be all smiles and joy. Why--?” she persisted, regarding the long, moist lashes with deep concern. Then all at once she exclaimed: “Oh, Isma, I know what has made you sad in the midst of your happiness. It is I--”

Her companion silenced the words with another kiss. “Beatrice, don’t let us speak of it again.”

“But now that everything is right between us and I am much better you won’t grieve any more, will you?”

“No, no; I shall feel much happier now.”

Still her friend missed the note of conviction in the voice and looked at Isma with troubled scrutiny.

The girl colored painfully and her head dropped.

“Isma,” began Lady Berriedale, with strange solemnity, “are you quite sure that you love Captain Folkestone?”

Instantly the flaxen head lifted and two steady gray eyes looked at her with intense sincerity from under the wet black lashes. “I love him with all my heart. I have never loved another man.”

The patient breathed a sigh of relief. “You have always loved him?”

“Yes, ever since I met him in London, when I came out and hadn’t seen him for some years.”

“So that is why no other man has been able to make an impression on you, why you have been immune to all love and wooing! But,” she went on, a little perplexedly, “why didn’t you marry him before? This long delay seems an awful waste!”

“He didn’t--care.”

“Not care! How absurd! But is it really only lately that he--?”

The fair head sank down on her friend’s breast. “I don’t know. I have not--asked him.”

“You strange girl! Fancy not asking your lover such an important question. I should have wanted to know the exact moment when he fell in love with me. I should like to know when your cousin first began to care; and if you won’t ask him I will.”

Her companion started. “Beatrice, for Heaven’s sake don’t do such a thing. Promise me you will not!” she cried, in panic.

“My dear child, you are quite incomprehensible. I believe you are afraid of him. But of course I won’t do it if you would rather I didn’t. By the way, I suppose he drove you over this morning?”

“Yes, and he is coming back for me presently.”

“What a dear he is to spare you! Darling,” she continued, looking up at her friend with a tremulous tenderness in her gaze, “I do hope you will be happy--as happy as I thought--I was.”

Miss Folkestone’s arms enfolded the shrunken form. “Beatrice, don’t say _was_--for you are going to be just as happy as you thought.”

Lady Berriedale looked away into space. “How do you think there could be any joy for me, when my husband cares for--another woman?”

“Deary, that is only a passing fancy. It is nothing, and, now that I am engaged, he will not think of--me at all. If only you knew how deeply distressed he has been during your illness you would know how much he really cares!”

The nurse came in just then. It was time for medicine and the patient was not allowed to talk any more.

The next morning Isma found her friend much better and awaiting her eagerly.

“Darling, I feel so much stronger to-day, and I am so glad, for I am longing to have a good talk.”

“Yes,” said the girl, settling down by the bedside when the nurse had left the room, “now we can enjoy ourselves.”

“Isma,” began the rasping voice, “I have been thinking such a lot lately--that is, of course, when I have not been under the influence of drugs.”

“Yes? What have you been thinking about?”

“Do you remember I told you that Neville and I were standing on the balcony on the first morning after our arrival, looking out on the great plains? It seemed to me then that this vast country was a place which compelled one to pray--no, not the stale, lifeless prayers so often uttered in churches, or the sentimental ones prompted by beautiful music, but the impetuous, volcanic prayers bursting from exploding souls. It seemed to me that souls living in this vastness would be strong, lofty, great, capable of majestic passion, and I felt my own life had been so small and mean by comparison. I longed for gigantic strength, to be able to pray like that, and I had a feeling that in this country I should learn. Isma,” she turned her face slightly away and her tones lowered as she said, “I am learning. The explosion has taken place--”

Her companion looked at her with troubled sympathy.

“Oh, Beatrice, if only I could have spared you--that!”

The black eyes looked up at her steadily.

“No, dear, it is a good thing you could not. You have been an angel standing between me and sorrow all this time, yet believe me it is best--this should have come. My soul was so weak and flabby before, it had no strength to rise, no power to look beyond the dust-heap on which it lay. It was a heap of gold-dust, still a dust-heap all the same. However, now, though the explosion has shattered my heart, it has shot my soul out of the dust, given it wings, and though it may still be in a feeble way, yet it is beginning to rise, beginning to mount with its own prayers, and no prayer can go very far unless the soul who prays ascends with it.”

“I am afraid I have never prayed like that,” murmured Isma, with downcast lashes.

“Then the explosion in your life has not taken place.”

“The explosion not taken place!” Miss Folkestone closed her eyes and her cheeks paled. Could her heart be more cruelly shattered than it was at present? She had prayed, too, at times, but prayer had seemed so useless, so ineffective; perhaps that was because, as Beatrice said, her own soul had not risen with the petitions. But her friend was speaking again.

“Isma,” she was saying, “I thought I was--dying--that afternoon. It really seemed as if I were; and even though I may get over this attack, still,” she added, in almost a whisper, “I shall not be--here for long.”

The girl pressed her hand silently; she could not speak.

“And, deary, I have been wondering where I am--going. It is so strange to think of leaving all which is familiar and known and not have the faintest idea where one is going and what the next life will be like. I have thought so much about it and wondered--”

“Perhaps the next world will not be very different from this.”

“In some respects perhaps not. It must at least have as many varieties of existence as this, only each one magnified in the same proportion as eternity is larger than time.”

“Do you mean to say you believe there would be as many grades of joy and happiness, sorrow and misery, as here, and each state magnified by the huge scale of eternity?”

“Yes, surely. Life there will be of colossal dimensions, whether it be a state of joy or--anguish.”

“That is very terrible to contemplate.”

“Everything can be terrible. Eternity is vaster than anything we have ever known, anything we could imagine, and its sorrows and joys must be on the same enormous scale.”

“In that case, it would be an appalling thing to strike a state of misery.”

“You say ‘strike’; do you really think it would be a case of chance, a mere coincidence, what state we reach? That would be too haphazard to fit in with the laws of a universe where everything is worked out with mathematical precision.”

“No, I don’t for a moment suppose our ultimate fate will be determined by chance; still, I wonder what will decide it?”

“It seems to me that in this life we must find the key which will unlock our destiny for us. And Isma,” the invalid turned to her quickly, “do you remember our talk some time ago about Death being an executioner and that only criminals are executed? If that is so, we shall have a very poor chance. Fancy entering eternity as criminals--”

The door opened quietly and the nurse entered.

“I suppose you have come to send me away?” queried Miss Folkestone.

“I am afraid so,” the woman in uniform replied, smilingly.

The girl stooped over her friend and kissed her.

“Don’t worry,” and lowering her voice, so that the nurse, who had gone to the other end of the room, could not hear her words, she added, “remember you can pray, and that will help you to find the right key.”

* * * * *

Every morning Falcon called for his cousin and drove her to The Bluff. He either returned to his own home and came for Isma late in the afternoon or he spent the day at The Bluff and waited till she was ready to go back to The Palms.

Lady Berriedale made rapid progress, and having Isma with her constantly helped her greatly toward recovery. She deeply regretted depriving Captain Folkestone of so much of his fiancée’s society; still, she comforted herself with the thought that the engaged couple would spend their evenings together, and she would have been greatly surprised had she known that Isma and her cousin separated as soon as they reached her gates, and that even during the brief drives they spoke very little to each other.

As strength returned the patient was able to walk into the drawing-room, where she and Isma spent long days together. Frequently Captain Folkestone joined them. He did not always take part in the conversation, but often sat at the other end of the room, occupied with a book or papers.

It was after Lady Berriedale had seen Isma and her cousin together in this way for nearly a week that she began to feel that all was not right between them. They treated each other with every courtesy, of course, still they seemed to avoid talking to each other, and the girl especially fought shy of being alone with her lover. Lady Berriedale had several times suggested they should go for a walk together. However, Isma always declined and insisted on remaining with her friend. Of course that might have been merely an act of unselfish devotion on her part; still, there were other disturbing symptoms which made the elder woman uneasy. The thing which troubled her most was that neither of them looked happy, and she could not understand why. She did not doubt that a deep love existed between them. Had not the girl herself told her how much she cared for the man whose ring she was wearing, and had she not sometimes surprised an expression in the soldier’s eyes when he looked at his fiancée and thought himself unobserved, which told her plainly enough that there was no lack of love on his side? Still, if they both really cared, why did they not seem happy?

One day Lady Berriedale thought she had discovered the reason. Isma was so reserved and she had such strict notions of propriety that perhaps she did not allow the man to whom she was engaged a lover’s privilege, and that this restraint was causing their unnatural attitude toward each other. The more she thought of this explanation of the difficulty the more she felt sure it was the correct one, and, being certain she had come to the right conclusion, she made up her mind to speak to the girl about it at once. So the same day, when the afternoon-tea things had been cleared away, and Captain Folkestone sat reading at the other end of the room, Lady Berriedale began:

“Isma, I am going to give you a good lecture. Do you know your lover does not look a bit happy, and as an engaged man he ought to be brimming over with happiness! I believe it is because you are too prudish and you won’t allow him to show you any--”

She stopped abruptly, for her companion made a violent gesture to silence her as she looked with a terrified expression toward Falcon, who, to her relief, was still reading and had apparently not heard the embarrassing words.

Lady Berriedale continued: “He can’t possibly hear over there, and I must say this, it is not right you should put such a strain on him. If a man loves a woman he naturally wants to--”

“Don’t--don’t--” cried the girl, in a frantic whisper, interrupting her again.

Still her hostess would not be silenced. “It is even hard on yourself--far too great a strain on you both; but on the man it is specially--”

“Beatrice, do be quiet. You don’t know what you are talking about. It is quite all right, I assure you. Falcon doesn’t like that sort of thing,” Isma murmured, in a frenzied undertone, looking fearfully toward her cousin, who was still so absorbed in his book that he did not appear to notice what was going on at the other end of the room.

“Nonsense!” replied Lady Berriedale, emphatically, lowering her voice a little, but its high-pitched quality still striking terror into the embarrassed girl beside her. “Now you are talking rank nonsense. All men like that ‘sort of thing,’ as you call it, when they are in love. Do you mean to tell me that you don’t let your fiancé kiss you when you are alone and--”

“Beatrice,” implored the distracted girl, “for Heaven’s sake don’t talk like that! He will hear you--”

“It doesn’t matter if he does. Isma, don’t be so absurd. I never heard anything like it. You are really most unnatural! When you are engaged to a man you certainly ought to allow him a lover’s privileges. It is cruel not to. Now don’t try to interrupt me all the time. Do you know the best thing to cure you of this silly shyness,” she added, with a flash of mischief in her dark eyes, “would be for me to ask your lover to kiss you here before me--”

There was a movement at the other end of the room. Falcon had risen and looked out of the window, contemplating the weather thoughtfully.

“Isma, if you are ready, I think we had better make a start. I have one or two things I must attend to before dinner. I believe this dry weather is going to last for ages,” he added, joining the ladies.

The girl rose quickly and left the room.

When she had gone Lady Berriedale said: “Isma will be glad to get away from me this afternoon. I have been lecturing her and she did not like it. On the way home you might ask her what I was scolding her about, I believe you will agree with me on the subject. But,” she continued, in a different tone, “I am afraid I have been horribly selfish keeping Isma so much with me. However, now that I am better you must assert your rights and see more of her; you have been far too kind and generous! Now I am going to suggest that you have her to yourself to-morrow; then you can take her out and have a good time together.”

On the way home Falcon did not ask Isma any questions about the lecture; he was rather more silent than usual. He had evidently not heard the embarrassing conversation, for he did not make the slightest reference to it, and his companion was greatly relieved. Not till they approached The Palms did he tell Isma that Lady Berriedale had suggested he should take her for a trip the following day, and added: “You have been in the house far too much lately; it will do you good to have a day in the open air. So may I call for you to-morrow morning?”

It seemed impossible to refuse, for Beatrice would be sure to ask when next they met if they had been out together, and if she had not it would only rouse her friend’s suspicion afresh. So she accepted the invitation and arranged that Falcon should call for her soon after breakfast the following day.

VI

THE FLAME GOD

“Are you quite sure you would like the same run we did before?” asked Captain Folkestone, when he and his cousin left The Palms the next morning.

“Yes. It was so beautiful. I should like a whole day exactly like the last one.”

“Exactly like it?” he inquired. “Don’t you think we might improve on it to-day?”

“I am afraid that is impossible.”

“Why it was only spring then; now it is summer.”

“Would that make any difference?”

“Certainly, for spring is only the promise; summer is the fulfilment.”

Isma did not answer, but looked doubtfully into the white haze quivering over the road.

Last time she and Falcon had driven this way together they had both been exuberantly happy; they had talked freely and looked at each other with shiny eyes. It was spring then. Nature had throbbed with vital life; it had been so gay, so irresponsible, so youthfully joyous, and she and her companion had been joyous, too. Hope had pulsated through her being. She had loved sitting next to her cousin while they were whirled into the radiant sunlight. Of course she still loved being beside him, yet there was a terrible difference in her feelings to-day, for there was no hope in her heart; youth and spring seemed to have died out of her life. Since that other delicious day together ghastly things had happened, and among them there was the farcical engagement to the man beside her. Now she knew for certainty that he did not care. He had made that quite clear on the afternoon when they had entered the meaningless bond; there could be no hope of happiness for her now.

Still, as she gazed into the illumined atmosphere the sorrow in her soul lightened.

It was a typical Australian summer day, both ethereal, mystically unreal, and at the same time throbbing with a sensuous, vital life. The golden sunlight of spring had ripened into the white radiance of summer, a radiance which had condensed into haze and hung shimmering over the road, between trees and bushes, as if it were a living, palpable thing.

“It is going to be very hot to-day,” observed Falcon, after a short pause. “I hope you will not mind.”

“No, not at all. I love the heat,” replied the girl, looking dreamily at the cliffs half hidden by the wistaria-tinted gossamer veil of summer.

Through the glimmering haze the sun peered down on the earth, its face strained and white with vehement intensity.

Isma looked up toward the pallid ball of fire and caught her breath a little. Yes, summer was the mysterious fulfilment of spring. The gay, hilarious season of youth had matured into this tense, pale thing. There was no light-hearted laughter in summer, no mischievous banter, no childish glee, but there were blinding heat, unswerving purpose, blazing passion.

Isma breathed more quickly. Summer held deeper joys than spring. She had never understood summer before. However, she was beginning to understand it now.

A strange elation began to stir within her. Sorrow and trouble fell away; there was no room for sadness in this vast whiteness. But there was room for joy. She was all at once aware that a fiery joy burned everywhere about her. It was not an exuberant, buoyant gladness, but a still, concentrated ecstasy, so fierce that it had blanched the earth and made it gasp by its violent intensity.

The day was passionately virile, it was pale with emotion, yet audaciously triumphant!

Isma felt its hot, tenacious life, and as she became aware of it, it seemed as if its trembling fingers touched chords in her being which had not been touched before.

She was suddenly conscious that she had been waiting as winter waits, as spring waits, and now all at once summer had come to her, bringing with it this luminous heat, breathless excitement, and luxuriant maturity. She felt something within her expand and enlarge, as life expands and enlarges under the powerful rays of the sun. What an extraordinary effect summer had on her to-day! It thrilled her and filled her with a peculiar anticipation.

She and the man she loved were going out together into this white beauty of the sun. They were going into the fiery radiance. They would be alone in the world which was heated and set throbbing by the great Flame God riding in majestic insolence through the burnished heavens! It was wonderful! The thought that Falcon did not care for her did not trouble her now. It was cast into the background, pushed out of sight, and with her was only the consciousness that she was near him, that they were speeding together into the burning splendor of summer!

They had driven in silence for some miles, but the silence between them held no embarrassment now; rather it appeared to hold a mute understanding. It seemed as if barriers, reserves, and the terrible constraint their empty engagement had caused had vanished and that they were now free to enjoy the long day which lay before them.

And what would this summer day bring?

Surely it could not pass without laying some gift at their feet. It was too vital, too richly laden with mystic treasures, for that!

Isma glanced again at the pulsating splendor enveloping the distant hills, half veiling the sea, descending on breakers and headlands, penetrating jungles, caressing leaves and flowers, folding trees in smothering embraces, and lying, panting and mute, on crescent beaches.

“Isma, what are you thinking about?” asked her companion, at last.

“I don’t know that I was thinking at all,” she replied. “I have just--_lived_.”

“Lived? What have you lived?”

“I am not sure, but just--summer.”

Her cousin glanced at her quickly. “Summer is the time when nature lives its hottest, its intensest, life. Were you living like that just now?” There was a peculiar quiet in his tone like the breathless quiet around them.

“One could not help it--to-day.”

“Isma”--he bent toward her--“I want us both to live like that to-day.”

“Yes,” she answered, with averted face and a curious softness in her voice.

For a while they sped on without speaking. It was exquisite to fly together through the illumined spaces by the glimmering, half-hidden sea!

After a time they left the coast-line and turned inland, dashing through great stretches of sun-bleached country, which gleamed in the fierce light like wastes of shimmering stars.

“Our sun-bleached Australia!” murmured the girl, her eyes on the creamy white plains. “Green fields are very good to look at, only they always seem to me very earthy and substantial. These,” she pointed to the grass-covered flats, “look so ethereal and spiritual--as if they were all soul.”

“Their greenness had been consumed by the sun. They are bleached with the pallor of death. Summer has done that.”

“Yes, I know the sun’s power can be terrible as well as beautiful. Still, it seems to me there is something grand about this bleaching into ethereal whiteness.” She spoke with exaltation. To her it appeared just then wonderful to be consumed by the hot passion of the sun. It seemed to her that the devouring heat was cleansing, that it had power to purify and make spiritual.

Her companion turned and looked at her. “You really think so?”

She did not meet his glance. “I do.”

He sighed a little. “You evidently don’t know how it can--hurt.”

She looked away into the luminous haze.

Not know how it could hurt--how little he understood! Was not her heart like these great sun-bleached plains, parched, laid waste by scorching powers! But she was not sorry; to-day she felt strangely glad because of it. It seemed a superb thing to be dominated by, wholly yielding to, these fiery emotions!

The elation within her increased. It was wonderful to feel her whole being aflame with the fire which burned in the dazzling splendor about her! And the warmth in her was all for the man beside her. She felt herself opening out to him in a new, extraordinary way, as if she had all at once received a wonderful gift for loving. She was nothing but love, every part of her a burning cinder, body and soul one leaping flame of love! Everything else had fallen away from her; the past was forgotten, the future did not exist; all beings save the man at her side had been wiped off the face of the earth; only Falcon and her great love lived; she herself did not exist any more except as one big, blazing fire.

The mortification she had felt before because of her emotion had died out of her heart. There was no need of shame for this exalted thing; she wondered now that she could ever have felt shame because of this heat that purified, that burned away not only selfishness, but the whole of the self-life with its detailed sordid smallness. It was something to revel in, feel proud of, even if the man she cared for should have discovered its existence.

But the more she was subjected to this immense power the more she was conscious that it would bring greater suffering into her life. It must bring deepest sorrow. Falcon did not love her, would never really care. She would have to love alone, suffer alone, feel parched with her need of him.

Still, even with this anguish staring her in the face, she was unspeakably glad she loved him. No thought of future pain could daunt her elation now.

They had turned toward the coast again, and all at once Falcon stopped the car.

“Look!” he cried; “there is a rifle-bird on that low branch over there,” and he leaned over Isma and directed her gaze to a bird the size of a magpie sitting on a low bough close to the road.

“Oh, isn’t it lovely!” exclaimed the girl, in an excited undertone so as not to frighten the gorgeous, timid thing. “I have never seen one before.”

“It is one of our birds of paradise.”

“What a wonderful black! It is like the richest plush and satin rolled into one, and look how it gleams fiery purple and emerald green--”

The bird suddenly moved from under some shading leaves into the opening, and the half-veiled sunlight fell on its plumes. It preened its feathers, opened and shut its wings, its luster varying with each new movement from a red metallic purple to the richest shades of green, and each riotous hue a mere ethereal sheen on its plushy black plumage.

Then, uttering a strange note, the winged thing of color and velvet flew away.

When Falcon had started the engine again he said, “Isma, do you know it is a good omen to see a bird of paradise?”

“Is it? Why?”

“Because it indicates you are close to--Eden.”

“Summer is generally close to Paradise, isn’t it?”

“Yes, except when it takes the wrong turning and leads to--drought.”

“It very often seems to do that. Still, if one has had the beauty of summer even for a little while, one oughtn’t to mind about the drought--afterward.” There was strong conviction in her voice.

“I quite agree with you--only, when Eden is so close, why not go straight on and reach it?”

“If it were possible, yes.”

“Isma, it is possible, and I hope to prove it to you before the day is over.” He spoke with sudden earnestness.

She looked away into the bush. What did he mean? Could he know what Paradise meant to her? Perhaps he only thought it meant giving her an enjoyable day!

However, it did not matter. Nothing mattered but being with him, being together, speeding into summer, losing themselves in the filmy haze which enveloped the hills, the bush, the sea, the breakers, and made all seem peculiarly soft and unreal.

Then through the veil of heat the hotel where they were to lunch appeared, the morning had already passed.

Captain Folkestone stopped the motor and once more they made their way into the quaint, long dining-room to the small table where they had sat before, which was now decorated with greeny-white flannel-flowers.

Isma took her seat as in a dream. Still, her dreamy state did not last long, for now when she sat opposite her cousin, when he looked full into her face and she met the strong light in his eyes, the elated loftiness she had felt out in the dense sunlight vanished. She became human again. Little things returned to her life. She was conscious of embarrassment once more. One look from Falcon could set her face aflame and make her strangely, sweetly confused. It had been glorious to feel the exaltation dominating her during the morning, but it was even more exquisite to realize how Falcon’s every glance, his movements, the least inflection of his voice, affected her. During the drive she had been wholly absorbed by her love for him; now she was wholly dominated by himself, and her joy was intensified.

* * * * *

After dinner they drove farther north till they reached the beach they had visited before.

They walked along the sand, looking for the spot where they had rested on their previous outing. It was not long before they found it. However, this time they went higher up among the sand-dunes in the shade of a thicket of bottle-brushes.

Isma did not want to lie down, but sat leaning against a sand-bank, while her companion threw himself down close beside her. He lay on his side, gazing at her with intent blue eyes.

She had thrown back her long, golden veil, and her hair, under the wide brim of her black hat, looked weighted with gold; her skin, fair as the petals of white magnolia-flowers, was strangely radiant, and her eyes, very golden in the suffused brightness, burned with a dazzling intensity. She seemed curiously, vitally alive as the day was fiercely, hotly alive.

She sat with her hands clasped round her knees, looking at the incoming waves breaking languidly on the shore.

The haze had thickened. It shut out the horizon, the hills and bush, everything, except the immediate foreground, and it gave the man and woman on the sands a sense of being peculiarly isolated and alone. Through the dense layers of gossamer the sun burned down with violent persistence, all the more powerful, perhaps, because the Fire God was entirely obscured from view and attacked from its safe fort in the heavens.

“Isma, tell me,” said Falcon, after a lengthy pause, “are you not happier to-day than you were--last time we were here?”

The girl began to sift the sand through her fingers. “Yes, I think so.”

“I wonder why?”

“I suppose because it is--summer.”

“Not because of--anything else?”

“Isn’t that enough? Summer means so much.”

“I wonder what it really means to you?”

She smiled as she picked up another handful of sand and allowed it to trail slowly back to the beach.

“Could one explain?”

“I think you could if you tried.”

She made no reply, and her companion, still regarding her intently, began to play with one end of her long veil.

After a while he released the silken texture, moved restlessly, and, turning over on his back, lay for some time with closed eyes.

Isma could feast her eyes on him now. She loved looking at his well-cut features, his firm but tender mouth, the resolute chin, his delightful hair. He was so close to her she could have stretched out her hand and touched him--if only she had the right! A great stillness crept into her soul, a wonderful awe. If only their engagement had been real, then at this very moment she might have-- But her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden smile curving the well-formed lips she was watching.

“Falcon, why are you smiling?” she asked, the sense of the intimacy which might have been still strong upon her.

He looked up at her quickly.

“Would you really like to know?”

“Yes. You looked as if your thoughts were interesting.”

“They were, I assure you,” he replied, the twinkle still in his eyes.

“Then tell me.”

He turned on his side again, facing her. “I was just wondering what would have happened if Lady Berriedale had carried out her threat yesterday afternoon--”

For a moment the girl did not stir. Yesterday was so far away it almost seemed as if it had not been. Whatever did Falcon refer to? She glanced at him wonderingly. “What--threat?” she asked, a sudden instinctive fear sending the blood to her cheeks.

“Why, the threat Lady Berriedale made, when I stood up and rescued you by asking if you were ready to go home-- Have you forgotten so soon?”

So Falcon had heard those awful remarks, after all! A wave of heat surged through her. She did not speak, but her eyes fell before his disconcerting gaze.

“I was wondering just now what you would have done if Lady Berriedale had asked me to--” He stopped a moment before adding, “For of course I should have had to do it--just to save the situation, you know.”

Isma turned her face away hastily. Still, he saw the deep flush creeping over her white throat and dyeing her perfectly shaped ear a vivid pink.

“I can’t make out what made you say I did not like that sort of thing. I never remember telling you that I did not.”

“No--but of course you wouldn’t,” she stammered, confusedly.

“I wouldn’t be quite so sure about that if I were you. By the way, I hope you have taken your friend’s advice to heart and that you will act on it.”

The girl made no reply; her face was still averted, but the color in her adorable ear had grown pinker.

Captain Folkestone sat up now. “Isma,” he said, in low tones, “you are wearing my ring. Don’t you think you might give me a few of the privileges such a ring generally bestows?”

She started, and the soft, rich curves of her breast rose and sank in fluttering confusion.

The light in his eyes deepened. He looked very alert, every muscle tense, ready to move at the least sign from her.

“Isma, tell me, would it really be so hateful to you if I--kissed you?”

In spite of her overwhelming shyness, she glanced up at him. It seemed as if he compelled her. But her eyes dropped instantly before his and she felt herself tremble as if he were already touching her lips. A dreadful weakness came over her. Falcon’s lips against her own, his arm round her folding her to him--

She turned giddy. It seemed impossible not to yield. She was almost swaying toward him, making the one movement, however slight, he was waiting for, watching for.

Then an awful thought arrested her. He had not spoken of love: he was merely asking for her kisses. Did he only ask because it was summer and the world was astir with passionate abandonment, because she was beautiful and her beauty appealed to him? Even in the days when he hated her her beauty had strangely affected him. Now when he no longer disliked her did he feel it would give him pleasure to caress her and enjoy her physical charm? After all he had done for her, did he consider she might grant him this intimacy? Were these his only reasons for wanting her kisses? Surely, for if he had cared would he not have told her that first?

She straightened involuntarily.

The man watching her with alert scrutiny paled as he saw the movement.

Or perhaps Falcon was testing her, the girl continued to reason. Perhaps he only wanted to see if she held her caresses cheap and was ready to give them to any fascinating man audacious enough to ask for them. Was he trying to see if she were temptable?

If this were so, good Heavens, what cruelty! How could any man be so merciless! But of course he could not know how desperately she cared; could not know that her whole being was quivering to give him what he desired.

She pulled frantically at some grass blades and broke them into small pieces. Then she made a colossal effort to speak calmly:

“You have no right to ask--under the circumstances--”

“Under the circumstances I have. We are engaged.”

“You know quite well that does not mean anything. It is only--”

There was a short, sharp pause.

The face of the man had undergone a great change. All at once he jumped up, took a few steps, bent down and examined a shell, straightened again, and walked still farther away.

Isma watched him with strange, wide eyes; her face, too, had become colorless.

Was he angry with her? No, he did not seem annoyed. He walked about as if leisurely contemplating the bunches of coral seaweed and the various flotsam on the beach.

The girl gazed after his tall, splendid form hungrily. Why had he left her--oh, why? Was he displeased in spite of his apparent nonchalance? Had he expected her to yield, to understand that he was a man and that he wanted what other men coveted? Somehow she had never thought of this before. Falcon had always seemed to her a being apart--made of different material from the other men she had known, a man who lived up to a punctilious standard of conduct; but did he, after all, yearn for the warm, soft things women could give? Of course if only he had cared, how gladly she would have given what he asked!

After a while he came back and suggested it was time to start for home.

As they got into the motor he said, “On the whole the advice Lady Berriedale gave you was excellent, and if you were wise you would take it.” With that he closed the subject and did not refer to it again.

On the way home Falcon talked in his brightest, most entertaining way. But he sat well away from her, and their shoulders did not touch as they had frequently done during the morning.

That was the worst of her cousin, he was such an adept at covering his tracks. If he retreated, no one knew if it were a retreat or if the move had not been part of his original plan.

As Isma listened to his easy conversation she felt confused and puzzled. Was this really the man who had asked for her kisses, whose eyes had looked so irresistibly into her own, who now talked in this nonchalant way as if nothing unusual had happened? But his eloquence saddened her, his amusing stories hurt her.

She looked at the many sand-dunes bordering the seaward side of the road with pensive eyes. She remembered that in the morning as they passed them they had seemed glimmering mountain-tops aglow with an exultant peace; now they appeared to her mere grotesque shapes, gloating monsters watching by the shore for prey.

The whole world had changed. The great white radiance round them held no breathless ecstasy now; it was only a huge, opaque void holding nothing but smarting disappointment.

Falcon had said earlier in the day that spring was the promise and summer the fulfilment--where was the fulfilment? The bird of paradise had not brought them to Eden. There was no Paradise; summer only led to--drought.

All at once the haze warmed and reddened as if some huge fire burned behind its gauzy entanglements. In the bush the white sheen had deepened to lavender and purple and hung with caressing softness between majestic trees and matted undergrowth. Opaline sun glints dipped into the reed-edged pools and motionless lagoons.

Then a faint breath of air came in from the sea. It blew very gently against the filmy, iridescent haze, which shivered perceptibly, then slowly drifted toward the heavily timbered hills.

Isma watched its hesitating, retreating footsteps. She saw the trees and shrubs creep out from the violet sheen in the forest and stand out with definite clearness. The red disk of the sun became visible in the smoky heavens and hung as a huge round furnace dropping slowly toward the western hills.

The breeze from the ocean gained strength; it grew cooler and stilled the throbbing fever in the sweltering atmosphere.

The cliffs near Isma’s home were in sight now and stood out, bulky, plum-colored shapes against the pale lavender-tinted distance.

As the car approached the last plain the girl could see the breeze moving among the trees and bushes. It appeared to her as if it were some distraught, demented thing let loose on the flats, seeking frantically for a lost treasure in the wild chaos of shrubbery.

The waves on the beach had grown noisy and hoarse and sounded as if moaning in sudden pain.

Isma became silent.

Did her companion notice her short replies or their entire absence? If so, he did not betray his observation by look or word.

They had crossed the plain and were ascending the last cliff. Would Falcon stop the motor where he had stopped it the other day? Surely he would give her another chance before they parted! If only he would, how gladly she would yield to him now!

But no, he rushed on without even glancing at the spot where they had stood together and watched the scenery and she had hummed to him “The Little Winding Road.”

Isma’s heart contracted in a suffocating anguish and her eyes filled with blinding tears. She turned her face away quickly, still not till her companion had seen something moist drop from her lashes to her cheeks. He paled and bit his lip, but a moment afterward he continued the conversation.

As they came in sight of her gates a terrible desperation seized her. It made her almost cry out for mercy, implore him to take what she so frantically yearned to give--for, after all, even if he had not spoken of love, were not her lips his? Had they not been kept for him all these years! Of course he had a right to them. How foolish she had been not to have realized this before!

However, he evidently did not want her kisses now. But was he so capricious that he ceased to wish for a thing if he could not have it the moment he asked for it? No, that was impossible; he must have merely been testing her. Still, why had his smiling eyes gazed so irresistibly into her own? Why had he said earlier in the day he wished them both to live summer, that they were on the road to Paradise?

The car stopped.

Her cousin helped her to alight. She thanked him for the beautiful drive, and then, as in some ghastly trance, she found herself walking away from him. But even as she went some awful power tugged at her and almost compelled her to return to him. She walked with difficulty; the violent force dragging at her made it almost impossible to proceed.

Then she heard the hum of the motor--he had gone! She stood still, feeling suddenly faint with longing and disappointment.

She had refused his request; but, merciful God, how he had punished her--how he had revenged himself!

As the man drove up the steep ascent he caught a glimpse of Isma among the palms, standing perfectly still, her head thrown back and her hands tightly clasped.

He gripped the steering-wheel ferociously and looked for a place to turn the car. However, what would be the use of going back? Hadn’t she already refused his love that day? Of course she knew that he cared, yet she chose to put this terrible strain on him. He gave up the idea of returning and proceeded up the headland, his face ashen and grim.

But on the other side of the cliff he stopped the machine and, suddenly covering his face with his hands, groaned aloud.

“Great God! Isma,” he muttered under his breath, “why are you torturing me like this--making us both suffer! You do care, I know it now--but why in Heaven’s name do you pretend you don’t! Is it your pride standing in the way, your shyness, or--what--? Isma, if you go on like this you will drive me to distraction--”