Chapter VIII: Part II: I (4)

She wanted to be alone and have time to think. Her whole being was in a turmoil. She felt as if she had been standing at the foot of a cross and witnessed a terrible crucifixion. The man she had just left was hanging on the cruel wood; she had never realized his suffering before. Now her heart went out to him in burning pity. He had sinned, sinned hideously; he had made desperate attempts to tear away from the nails which held him; but each effort had only torn at the wounds and increased his pain.

And Beatrice? She was on the same cross, enduring fresh lacerations each time her husband tried to break away.

Isma sat down in one of the low balcony chairs.

The world was full of crosses; she could see them now. It seemed as if it held nothing but those instruments of torture--a whole vast globe full of them! Cross beside cross, rearing up their naked, cruel forms, as desolate sentinels on graves! The earth had been changed into a great cemetery--not a calm resting-place for the dead, but a graveyard for the living. This acre of the dead held alive men and women, who could moan, weep, laugh harsh, bitter laughter, abuse one another, tear at one another’s wounds, men and women who bled, who made themselves and one another bleed!

Isma pressed her hands, tightly against her eyes. So _this_ ghastly thing was--life!

Presently her hands dropped from her face and she looked into the cloudless blue spaces arching high above the endless sun-bleached plains.

For some time she sat motionless, gazing into the immense blueness. Out there was the Infinite and peace. But if He were all-powerful, living Himself in the region of calm, why did He allow this agonized suffering on the earth? Could He not bring peace there also? He had made the earth beautiful, ravishingly lovely! It was a vast, enchanting paradise ablaze with flowers, alive with chirping birds, humming with insects, shimmering with white, radiant sunlight. Why had this place of wonderful beauty been turned into a graveyard? Why--why?

Then suddenly as she glanced dreamily about her the bare, ugly crosses seemed to change. They were no longer instruments of torture, hewn together to rack their unfortunate victims. They had all at once become pillars which raised those who hung on them above the earth, so that they might have a clear vision of the Infinite who was trying to draw their attention to Himself.

The girl closed her eyes. Understanding had suddenly come to her.

“So here you are, Isma! I did not know you had left Neville. How is he? Were you able to comfort him?” asked Lady Berriedale, who had just come out on to the balcony.

“I don’t know about that, but don’t worry over him, Beatrice. All will come right. He is fighting through.”

A great tenderness welled up in Isma’s heart for the friend who loved so desperately, so selflessly, the man chained to her who had failed to satisfy her burning passion.

“Beatrice,” said the girl, taking the hot, restless hands, “I do feel all is going to come right between you--”

“How can you say that when you know everything as you do?” There was deep reproach in the rasping voice.

“I can’t explain, Beatrice, but I feel it. It came to me quite suddenly just now.”

“That all will come right?”

“Yes.”

Lady Berriedale sighed. “I don’t see how it can.”

“No, you may not see that; still, it will.” There was conviction in the words.

“Do you really think he will ever--love me?”

“Yes,” Isma replied, with a far-away look in her eyes. Apparently she was gazing at something so distant that it was beyond the scene spreading before her.

“Isma,” said her friend, with awe in her voice, “you are not thinking of--earth.”

“No, I was thinking of a beautiful experience I had early last evening,” and she told her eager listener about the staring bluff and the discovery she had made on the headland. “And do you know, Beatrice,” she continued, a flush in her cheeks and warmth in her voice, “that it has made everything different. On the way here this morning, as I looked at the sea, the coast-line, the breakers, the flowers, the hills, the clouds, it came to me that all the color, the exquisite outline of form, the grace, the radiance, were merely the shadow of His wonderful personality; that the tender loveliness here was only God’s shadow cast on the earth to remind us of Him and His gorgeous beauty.”

“Isma, how glorious! How I wish I had thoughts about God like that! Still,” she continued, perplexity coming in her voice once more, “I don’t see the connection between that and Neville loving me again.”

“Why, don’t you see when He is so close, when He has power to do everything, He can put things right for you? There was a terrible misunderstanding between Falcon and myself, but He put it right last night.”

“I am truly glad to hear that, but--I have only such a little time--left.” The big black eyes glistened with a dewy brilliance.

“Life for all of us is only brief. We are like birds that come here for the summer, build nests, and then migrate to another shore.”

Her companion shivered. “Isma--the migrating is so--terrible--the flight over the fathomless ocean with its engulfing water awful!” She trembled again. “If only, like the birds, we might migrate in flocks, have warm companionship, familiar forms taking the journey with us-- But for one solitary little bird to start alone across those heaving waters--”

There were footsteps in the hall. Now Rex appeared in the doorway. “Captain Folkestone is at the ’phone and wants to speak to you,” he said, addressing Isma.

The girl rose. The thought of Falcon suddenly overwhelmed her; she had been living in the sorrows of others. Now her own happiness returned to her with the suddenness of a delicious shock.

She hurried down-stairs, picked up the receiver and said a very breathless “Hullo!” into the instrument.

“Is that you, Isma?” came Falcon’s low, pleasant voice in her ear.

“Yes,” she answered, her heart beating so rapidly she could scarcely speak.

“How are you--terribly knocked up to-day?” There was keen anxiety in the words.

“No, splendid, thank you!” she assured him, with a sudden radiance in her tones. His tender concern had steadied her and brought her an exuberant joy.

“That sounded fine! I was so afraid you would be tired out.”

“Not at all; but--did you go over to The Palms this morning?”

“Of course. Do you think I could wait till this afternoon?”

Her happy laugh rippled into the ’phone. “How nice of you!”

“I should have come to The Bluff after you if it hadn’t been for your message telling me to wait. I really came to carry you off for the day. I wanted to take you a few miles up the coast and make you rest on the sands all day and--play with me.”

“That would have been--lovely! I am so sorry I have missed it; but there is still--to-morrow.”

“I have other plans for that.”

“Really? What are they?”

“I can’t explain just now--I will tell you this afternoon.”

“Is it something--nice?”

“Yes, heavenly!”

“Then I am longing to hear it.”

“You sha’n’t wait a moment longer than I can help! But I mustn’t keep you standing any longer. You won’t be late this afternoon, will you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Alas! I must say good-by till then,” he said, reluctantly.

“Never mind, time will soon pass and this afternoon will come--”

“This morning seems to be the longest I have ever spent--but I suppose three o’clock is bound to come round some time.”

“Yes--it won’t be long now--so good-by.”

“Good-by till--summer.”

XI

THISTLE-DOWN

Captain Folkestone had just finished speaking to Isma on the ’phone and had gone into his sitting-room and stood by the mantelpiece looking at a large bowl of sulphur-colored roses; his cheeks were flushed and in his eyes was still the strong light his talk with the girl had brought there.

The room was very charming with its high-paneled wainscoting of blackwood, its dark-brown felt carpet strewn with golden-brown rugs, its handsome blackwood furniture and long tusser curtains that hung in graceful folds by the large open windows through which the warm summer air, heavily perfumed by flowers, came softly into the room.

An excited bee shot in from the garden and darted noisily about the room.

Falcon watched it with detached interest. The bee made a sudden exit just as his attention was arrested by the buzzing of a motor.

He glanced out into the riot of sunshine and flowers, in the direction where the long drive lined with flame-trees opened into the garden, and saw a car making its way rapidly toward the house.

He started a little; it was Lord Berriedale’s big motor. It took the turning to the front door with an elegant swing and stopped abruptly.

The chauffeur opened the door and a small, closely veiled woman got out--it was Miss Brentford.

If Captain Folkestone was surprised, his face did not betray his feelings when presently the visitor was shown into the room and he greeted her in his usual courteous manner, which held graceful ease as well as a touch of formality.

“How very delightful of you to come and see me, Miss Brentford!” he said, taking her proffered hand. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

The girl had thrown back her veil. “What a delightful room!” she exclaimed, looking round the sunlit, luxurious apartment with its valuable paintings, numerous books, fine bronze statues, and Persian rugs with their long silk fringes.

Captain Folkestone drew forward a low easy-chair and asked his guest to be seated.

Rita sank down among a profusion of yellow cushions, allowing herself a few minutes’ pleasant talk with her handsome host before disclosing the real object of her visit, which she knew would be distasteful to him.

For some time they chatted in their usual friendly way; then Miss Brentford caught sight of a clock on the mantelpiece and saw it was getting dangerously near lunch-time. She sat up with a jerk and her face looked all at once perturbed as she said:

“I suppose you are rather surprised I should come to you like this?”

“Not at all. It is the most natural thing for my friends to come to see me and they are always welcome here,” he assured her, graciously.

“It is very nice of you to be so cordial. However, I wouldn’t have come--unasked--unless there had been--serious issues at stake,” she ventured, heading in the direction of her goal.

Captain Folkestone smiled in his disarming way.

“Serious issues! Why, that sounds quite formidable, and formidable things are not for the summer. If I were you I wouldn’t worry about them on a day like this. Come out in the garden and let me show you my flowers; that is far more appropriate in this splendid weather.”

“No, thank you, I would rather stay indoors; the sun is very warm.”

“I am sure the drive must have been hot. Let me get you an iced drink.”

“Thank you, I don’t want anything like that. I only want to talk to you.”

“That is very charming of you; but let us leave serious things alone; they are only meant for dull climates and--winter.”

“But this one cannot wait. When winter comes it might be too late--”

“It is always wise to wait with formidable things till it is too late,” her companion observed, pleasantly.

“Now you are talking nonsense and you ought to be serious,” the girl replied, a little petulantly.

“My dear Miss Rita, I always find it such a good plan never to be what I ought to be,” he laughed.

“That is most tiresome of you.”

“Not at all. It is the people who are what they should be who are tiresome, for they have the annoying habit of expecting every one else to come up to their own immaculate perfection, and that is horribly aggravating of them! And, by the way, talking nonsense is most sensible, for then people do not believe you mean what you say.”

“Is that an advantage?”

“Certainly, for no one will stop to contradict you or argue with you, then.”

Miss Brentford looked toward the clock again. She moved uneasily. Too much time was being wasted before she disclosed her errand.

“Captain Folkestone,” she said, a little nervously, for it was very difficult to screw herself up to the point of attack when confronted by those smiling, dominating eyes, “I have come to speak to you on a very delicate matter this morning, and I do hope--you will not be offended with me--”

The man before her laughed genially. “I am never offended at anything people say to me. Why should I be? Words are only like thistle-down, and no one in their right mind will take thistle-down seriously. One only brushes it away and--forgets.”

“Still, if a friend came to warn you about some--awful danger--” said the girl, making a violent plunge toward her object.

“No friend ever comes to warn one; only enemies do that.”

“I cannot agree with you there. If you were on the point of making some terrible mistake, undoubtedly it would be your friend’s duty to try and prevent it--”

“My dear Miss Brentford, you surely wouldn’t be cruel enough to prevent any one from making a mistake, would you? Why, the only enjoyable thing in life is making mistakes.”

“And the consequences?” inquired his companion as one who had scored a point.

The Guardsman shrugged easily. “One is far too busy making other mistakes to bother about them.”

It was just dawning on the girl that her host was deliberately keeping her from accomplishing her plan, and a hot anger leaped up in her toward the woman who was so sacred to him that he courteously yet decidedly made it clear he refused to discuss her.

She drew herself up and her dark eyes flashed as she said, “Captain Folkestone, I believe you know what I have come to say this morning and you are trying to keep me from saying it.”

“In that case I suppose you will see that it is quite superfluous to--say it.” His quiet, agreeable tones held an underlying significance.

“No, indeed, for what I have to--tell you would open your eyes--”

“Open my eyes! Whoever wants his eyes open! Why, the reason the world is so interesting and people so fascinating is because one always looks at them with one’s eyes shut.”

“But if you marry with your eyes closed you will marry the wrong woman,” she retorted, making a desperate attempt to break through his wordy entanglements.

He laughed with unruffled serenity.

“And what man wants to marry the right woman? It is far more amusing and entertaining to marry--the wrong one.”

There was a knock at the door and a servant announced that luncheon was ready.

“Of course you will take pity on my loneliness and have lunch with me?” said Captain Folkestone, hospitably.

The girl stood for a moment, pale, irresolute, her face working, her hands moving nervously. She had been defeated, hopelessly defeated, and now there was nothing for her to do but to make as dignified a retreat as possible.

“No, thank you, the car has to be back in time to--take--your cousin home at two o’clock. It appears she has a very important engagement early this afternoon. The other motor has gone to town, so I must hurry back.”

Her host saw her to the car, shook hands elaborately, and then the girl was whirled hastily away from the flower-laden garden that gleamed in the midday sunlight as if it had been strewn with gorgeous jewels.

However, Rita did not notice the flowers. She leaned back in the mauve-colored, well-padded seat, feeling suddenly weak with impotent rage. She had been beaten, horribly beaten. The soldier had rendered her utterly powerless! It had cost her a good deal to make this attempt to save him from a disastrous fate; but her endeavor had been a failure, her purpose thwarted, and her thrust foiled. In fact, she had not even been permitted to strike; her smiling host had politely but uncompromisingly taken her weapon from her before she could use it.

She recognized her complete helplessness as she sped homeward under the glittering flame-trees. Why had she been so ineffectual? How was it her words never carried weight? No one took any notice of her opinion; she could not influence anybody, not even her sister. Why was it--why? But everybody listened to Miss Folkestone. She could sway all the people around her. Was this merely because of her beauty? Ah, that fatal fairness! It seemed to the girl like a dreadful juggernaut crunching its way relentlessly over all her plans and desires. If only she could see that vivid, colorous blondness lying cold and inert, deprived of its riotous vitality in the narrow bed of the dead! Then alone she would be safe and able to have her way!

A hard glint came into the black eyes burning behind the closely drawn veil as she looked unseeingly into the effulgent sunlight.

XII

SUMMER

I did not know, when first I took your hand,
And felt a thrill I could not understand,
How you would turn my world to wonderland--
I did not know!

Isma stood by the mirror in her room fastening some deep-pink roses into the corsage of her pastel-blue _crêpe-de-Chine_ gown. She had returned from The Bluff half an hour before; it was now five minutes to three and Falcon might arrive at any moment. Her fingers moved with nervous haste. She dropped a dawn-flushed bud, picked it up quickly and pinned it in more securely. Then she surveyed her superb reflection in the glass with absent-minded scrutiny. She had made her toilet carefully; on this day of days everything must harmonize with the greatness of the occasion. She had chosen this frock with its rich embroidery and girdle of tawny gold because Falcon had specially admired it.

“Captain Folkestone is in the drawing-room,” a maid announced and withdrew.

The color in Isma’s cheeks deepened. A strange, fierce excitement made her suddenly tremble, feel weak and unable to move. She stood gazing into the mirror with parted lips and unseeing eyes. The roses on her bosom shook. How was she to walk down-stairs and into that room? How was she to face her cousin, meet that intent blue gaze and greet him calmly? If only she could have rushed to him and buried her blushing face on his shoulder before he had time to look at her! She wanted to hide--must hide. Her shyness was overwhelming!

But she must not keep Falcon waiting. With a violent effort she pulled herself together and hurried down-stairs. However, as she opened the drawing-room door and entered, everything swam before her. She saw only a blurred vision of roses, masses of roses everywhere, dark red, pink, and cream, their perfume scenting the air with heavy sweetness. Amid this profusion of flowers a stalwart figure was coming toward her. One look into his eager, smiling eyes and her vision was blurred no longer; it cleared instantly. She lost consciousness of the flowers, their drowsy perfume, her own nervous shyness, and her whole attention became absorbed by the man approaching her. In one glance she took in every detail of his appearance. It seemed to her he had never looked so adorable as he did at that moment, his face flushed and his eyes shining with something which sent a riotous joy pulsating through her veins! Then very gently his dear hands were laid on her shoulders and, holding her at arm’s-length, he looked at her with an expression which made her feel completely in his power.

“Isma,” he said, “I have come for those--kisses you wouldn’t give me the other day--”

A hot wave of color mounted to her face and her glance fell before his.

As no answer came he went on: “Isma, why wouldn’t you give them to me? Why have you been pretending you did not--care? Did you want to see what I look like when I am demented?” He was still smiling, but his tone held a slight unsteadiness.

She looked up at him reproachfully. “Oh, Falcon, you know it wasn’t--that.”

“Then why in the name of wonder did you--?”

“I didn’t think--you wanted--”

“Isma, you couldn’t seriously have thought such a thing.”

“But I--did.”

“How could it be possible? And how was it your own feelings didn’t help you to understand mine? Tell me, Isma”--he bent over her now--“didn’t you ever want me--close? Want me to--?”

“Of course,” she breathed, in burning confusion.

“Then why on earth have you racked us both like this?”

“I--I--didn’t think you--cared,” she faltered.

He drew back in utter astonishment and his hands fell from her shoulder. “Not cared!” he exclaimed, incredulously. “After I had thrown up everything and followed you across the world, been at your beck and call ever since--simply lived for you! Besides, I told you myself on the day we became engaged--in this very room, don’t you remember?--that I would follow you wherever you went, and you said it was absolutely useless. You didn’t give me one ray of hope--”

“But you did not say _you_ would. You only said ‘one man,’ and I naturally thought you referred to--”

“Berriedale? And do you think I should be pressing his--unlawful suit?”

“I only thought you meant it as a--warning.”

He looked at her in perplexed amazement. “Good God! Isma, what a misunderstanding! Still,” he added, after a pause, “what a mercy I discovered you did care--a little bit, after all!” As he said the last words he laid his hands caressingly on her shoulders again.

His touch unnerved her and she was silent for some moments before asking, timidly, “When did you find out--last night?”

“No; I knew before then.”

The girl glanced up at him quickly. “Before--?”

“Two days ago I was certain.”

“What--made you certain--then?”

“Well, you didn’t seem--very happy on the way home--”

“And you guessed why?”

“I--couldn’t very well help it. Besides, there were other things that day. To be quite frank with you, there had been things all along which pointed--in that direction; for instance, on the night of the ball when my arm--touched you, you seemed to find it difficult to--”

“Oh, Falcon, I was so--miserable that night. I couldn’t help showing--it,” she said, brokenly.

He drew her a little closer. “Isma, what made you so--miserable that night?”

Her drooping lashes trembled.

“Tell me, Isma,” he pleaded, as she did not speak.

“Falcon, you know,” she breathed.

“Were you--wanting--me as much as I--wanted you?” he murmured, close to her ear.

“Of course,” she admitted, almost inaudibly.

He made no reply, but his breath came in short, panting gasps. Then suddenly he caught her to him.

For some minutes they stood without speaking, silenced, made motionless by the paralyzing sweetness of the contact.

At last Falcon said, “Tell me, how long have you--cared?”

The question roused her from the physical lassitude his embrace had produced in her. “Ever since we first met--in England,” she replied, in a low voice.

He started. “All that time! Heavens! If I had only known! Isma, how could you keep it from me so long?”

“Several times I was afraid you had guessed--”

“I did think now and again that-- But whenever you had given me the least ray of hope you always took such care to be specially indifferent and aloof afterward--that put me off the scent.”

“Anyhow, I gave my secret completely away the other day,” she said, her voice becoming faint again with the narcotic of his embrace.

“Yes, but I had to drag it from you--use horribly brutal methods--”

“You knew all the time you were--hurting me?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t help it. It seemed the only way of making you--surrender, and I assure you it hurt me more than it hurt you.”

At last she lifted her head slightly and said, “But Falcon, how could you--love me if you doubted me and thought that I--?”

“Isma, I never really doubted you. In my heart I knew all the time that you were the dearest, most unselfish little girl in the world!”

“But till quite lately you were always so sarcastic and contemptuous--”

“That was only because I was desperate. I saw how the world misjudged you, and I was just trying to sting you into prudence. Isma, can’t you understand how I felt about it? It was terrible to have such a slur cast on you--”

“Still, you knew all the time that I didn’t--”

“Of course I knew--knew that you were only sacrificing yourself, your reputation--everything for your friend. All the same, I was distracted with anxiety in case your courage might be the means of entrapping you. Isma, I was at my wit’s end to know how to guard you!”

She looked up at him with shiny eyes. “Oh, Falcon, you have been perfectly wonderful! No one in the world would have been so good to me!”

He stroked her soft cheek tenderly.

“Isma,” he said, after a pause, “when we are married and you have got used to me I want you to tell me about--last night--”

A tremor passed through her. “And--you don’t want to know--before?” she breathed into his coat.

“No, for whatever happened, it could not have been your fault.”

“Oh, Falcon,” she whispered, “you _do_ care as much as, or more than--he.”

He frowned. “Who dared to say I didn’t?”

“He said--”

“What did he say?”

“That--you wouldn’t have anything more--to do with--me if--if--”

He held her to him with bruising force. “He dared to talk to you about--such things--”

In the silence that followed he felt her burning humiliation and hastened to say, “Isma, don’t let us think of it just now--”

“But, Falcon, I must tell you this,” she whispered into his shoulder. “I was wonderfully protected last night. God sent you to me--”

“Heaven be praised I managed to reach you when I did!” he murmured, huskily.

The underlying depth of feeling in his tone made the girl all at once realize it would be lovely to confide to him her beautiful experience on the cliff; but she would wait a little. He was sure to stay for the rest of the day, and when twilight came they would stroll out under the palms. That would be the time to share with him her sacred things. The thought of telling him about God thrilled her suddenly; the intimacy it implied held a new, delicious sweetness!

“Falcon. I have something beautiful to tell you--”

“Yes, little girl,” he replied, in a low voice. “You don’t know how I long for your confidence, have you talk to me freely--open out to me, share everything--”

“But I think I would rather wait till to-night. You will stay all the evening, won’t you?--so after dinner we will go out under the palms and talk.”

“That will be perfectly delightful. What a gorgeous evening we shall have, and evening is the time for confidences, isn’t it?--and we have so much to say to each other, so much to make up!”

“But Isma,” he went on, after a pause, “do you know you haven’t given me those kisses yet?”

Her breathing grew perturbed and she pressed her face nervously against his shoulder.

“Isma, you are surely not shy with me again? Just give them to me at once and you will feel much better.” As he spoke he raised her head and she made no resistance.

For some moments he stood looking into the confused, upturned face, with its flushed cheeks, quivering nostrils, and long, downcast lashes. Then beneath his gaze the heavily fringed lids opened slowly and the golden-gray eyes lifted timidly to his. But the cloudy shyness vanished as their glances met, caressed, melted into one and clung together, and something which was half a gleam and half a mist came into the two pairs of eyes which held each other as if they could not tear apart.

“Good God! how I love you, Isma!” cried Falcon, in a voice stifled with emotion.

The girl paled and something blinded her.

The next moment their lips had met in a long, convulsive kiss.

Staggering and stunned, they drew apart, only to be swept together again and again.

“Oh, Falcon,” she half sobbed, reeling against him as his lips released her at last, “I can’t--”

His iron strength steadied her, and, leading her to a couch in a corner of the room, he sat down beside her and took her into his arms, pillowing her head on his breast. For some time he sat regarding the golden head resting against his heart with strange, glistening eyes; then he said, in a curious, vibrant tone: “Isma, do you know what happened just now? In those kisses you gave yourself to me body and soul.”

She stirred slightly. “Didn’t I do it--before?” she asked, faintly.

“Not fully. You gave me your love before. Now you have given me yourself, made that complete surrender it has been so hard for you to--”

She was fully roused again. “Falcon, it wasn’t hard, truly it was not. I--I--have just been longing to--” she assured him quickly, raising her head and looking up at him with eyes which were deep and dark with passionate yielding.

He bent over her and drank thirstily of the love-wine her soul poured out to him.

His kisses and the paroxysms of emotion which had swept over them had in some mysterious way brought them closer, and it seemed to Isma that every thread of obscuring garment had for the moment been torn aside and that he looked straight into her heart. Her shyness vanished as if by magic. It became a delight to lay her inmost feelings bare to him. She could have no secrets from him any longer; she did not wish to have any. She was his, every part of her belonged to him; he had a right to every emotion stirring in her soul. The passion of their lips had made them one. And the knowledge of this brought with it a deep elation, an overwhelming happiness. She could not repress it, could not keep it out of her eyes; they sparkled suddenly into his, brimmed with a reckless joy which dared to look at him with the triumphant right of a possessor. She regarded his immaculately shaved cheeks, the brown waves of his hair, the soft cleft in his firm chin with adoring scrutiny.

He responded at once to her changing mood.

“Well,” he said, at length, “and what do you think of--your property?”

She colored slightly, but met his probing gaze with dauntless approbation. “I think it is just the dearest, the most lovable thing God ever made!” Her golden eyes caressed his every feature.

He suddenly paled.

But the emotion he showed spurred her on to gayer abandonment, and she laughed the happiest, silvery laugh that had ever rippled over her scarlet lips. “Oh, Falcon, it is a perfect disgrace, the way I show you how much I love you--but I can’t help it!”

He caught her to him and there was fire in his embrace. “It is the most delicious thing you ever did, you adorable little summer witch!”

She leaned back in his arms and surveyed him laughingly, teasingly. “But you don’t really love me as much as I--”

He closed the red, tantalizing lips with his, and his kisses leaped through her like flames. “Take that back! If you dare to say these outrageous things and smile at me in that bewildering way, I shall--”

“Falcon,” she half cried and half laughed, “I am so happy I don’t know what I am doing or saying.”

“Isma, stop being so absolutely bewitching! Can’t you see you are making my brain reel, that you are confusing me, intoxicating me--with your alluring ways!”

“But, Falcon, it doesn’t really matter if we go quite mad over each other, does it?” she said, regarding him with eyes that smoldered with love and tenderness under their long, drooping lashes.

“No, it doesn’t matter in the least, provided we have enough sense left to go through the--marriage ceremony to-morrow.”

She sat up quickly. “What _are_ you talking about?”

“Your and my wedding, of course,” he replied, in a level voice.

She looked at him in breathless astonishment. “Falcon, you are not serious?”

“I was never more serious in my life. It is all being arranged--”

Her mood changed again. “But I can’t--” she whispered, in sudden consternation.

“My dear little girl, you can. All you have to do is to step into my car to-morrow morning and say--‘I will’ a little later on--”

A rich color dyed her face and throat. “Oh, not so soon!”

“Isma, don’t you love me well enough to want to be with me--all the time?”

The hurt in his tone touched her. “Of course, but, Falcon, you don’t understand--” she said, beginning to tremble.

“Of course I do,” he answered, his eyes eloquent with comprehension. “Don’t you think I knew you were shy and nervous when you came into the room this afternoon? But--wasn’t it all right? I didn’t overwhelm you too suddenly, did I--and don’t you think you can trust me to make everything all right for you to-morrow and--afterward?”

She clung to him suddenly. “You know I trust you absolutely. You always make everything easy for me, and you don’t know how much I love you for it!” she murmured, her lips close to his neck.

“So you want me to make love to you again!” he smiled, cuddling her to him. “Isma, when we are married I am going to show you what I really can do in that line.” Then he held her at arm’s-length and gazed at her with passionate adoration.

She laughed blushingly.

“Now don’t you look like that again or I shall have to-- Oh, Isma,” he broke off all at once, “why won’t you understand that I can’t possibly wait! First you dazzle and bewilder me till I go clean off my head with longing for you, then you wonder why I love you so frantically that I can hardly wait another day to have you!”

“But--I love you--as much--”

“Yet you don’t want to marry me!”

“Yes, I do--”

“So you do, do you! All I can say is you have a funny way of showing it.”

She leaned against him suddenly and there was utter abandonment in the movement.

“Then you will--come with me--to-morrow?”

“Of course--if you wish it,” she breathed, tremulously.

* * * * *

It was dark. But a mellow, roseate light found its way into the garden through one of the drawing-room windows and fell softly on Isma’s figure as she stood under an archway of creepers saying good night to her lover. Her black Ninon evening gown was sleeveless and in the semi-darkness her lovely shoulders and arms gleamed strangely white.

Falcon regarded her silently for some moments. Then all at once he folded her to him and buried his face against the sumptuous whiteness of her shoulder.

Her soft arms stole about his neck as she gently pressed him to her.

The soldier drew a long, blissful sigh. “Isma--this is--heaven,” he murmured, in tones laden with ecstasy.

After a pause he raised his head reluctantly. “But I must tear myself away. It is getting late and you must have a good sleep. But think of it--to-morrow about this time we shall be together at the Blue Mountains, and, Isma--I shall not need to--say good-by.” His voice held a curious exultation.

“Falcon,” she whispered, laying her cheek against his, “I can’t think-- It will all be too--wonderful--”

“You are glad now I arranged it so--soon?”

The glistening arms about his neck tightened. “After being with you like--this I couldn’t--bear it--if you--hadn’t--”

He crushed her to him. “Isma, only this one good-by and--then--”

In the warm, perfumed darkness two figures clung tremblingly together, while their lips met in a caress which held agonized longing as well as rapturous anticipation.

XIII

THE NETTLE

“Neville, what do you think has happened?” cried Miss Brentford, almost hysterically, as she swept into her brother-in-law’s room.

“My dear Rita, how can I guess what happens anywhere when I am a prisoner between these four walls?” replied the pale man on the bed, with a touch of irritation.

The girl began to pace the floor in frenzied excitement.

“What is it?” inquired the patient, realizing that something unusual had taken place.

Miss Brentford stood still and there was a wild, desperate look in her black eyes as she said: “Captain Folkestone has just rung up to say--good-by. He and Isma were just starting for Sydney. They are to be--married this afternoon. All is arranged.”

She stopped breathlessly, waiting for some fiery response, but none came; the man among the pillows did not stir.

“Neville, how can you lie there so quietly, staring into space as if this meant nothing to you? Stop acting--you don’t need to pretend with me.” She almost screamed at him in her exasperation.

Lord Berriedale’s dark eyes moved slowly from the windows through which long rays of sunlight streamed into the room and lay in large golden pools on the purple carpet, to the trembling form standing before him.

“Rita, I am not pretending. Only,” he sighed deeply, “I knew this had to--come--”

“How did you know that?” his companion demanded, fiercely. “She did not love him and--” She stopped, making a little choking sound in her throat.

“Didn’t love him, Rita! If ever a woman loved a man she loved--him!”

“I don’t believe it. She could not love anybody--doesn’t know the meaning of the word!” she flung at him, hotly.

An odd, ghostlike smile hovered for a moment about Lord Berriedale’s pale lips and his gaze seemed all at once fixed upon a scene which was not visible to the girl beside him. “Rita, you don’t know what you are talking about. In any case, do you think she could satisfy a man like Folkestone if she could not answer fire with fire? I used to think him cold, but, by Jove!--” Again his eyes looked abstractedly into space.

“Neville, I went to him two days ago to try and--make him give her up. I was going to tell him everything and open his eyes--”

Lord Berriedale’s abstraction had vanished. “Yes, and what did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything. He simply refused to discuss her; wouldn’t even let me mention her name.”

“How could he prevent that?” One slim hand began to tug at his honey-colored mustache.

“Oh, you know his way! He just smiled, looked more handsome than ever, fenced and talked; everything I said he turned off--wouldn’t allow me to approach the subject.”

“Rita, that was because he knew you don’t understand his cousin.”

“Who can understand such depths of treachery!”

“You are absolutely wrong. There is no treachery about--Isma. She is the finest, grandest woman--”

“You ought to be the last man to say that, for you know better--” she interrupted him, vindictively.

“I know better than any one how utterly--untemptable she is.”

“You men always shield a beautiful woman!”

The girl began to pace the room again, her ungoverned despair sweeping over her once more. “Oh, Neville, I shall go absolutely crazy. I--I--can’t bear it--I can’t!”

Her companion sighed heavily, but he did not speak.

“I shall go mad--I know I shall--”

All at once she came over to the bed and threw herself into an easy-chair beside it and buried her face in the counterpane.

One long, slim hand was laid on the black, girlish head. “Poor little Rita!” whispered a voice so full of sympathy that she hardly recognized it as her brother-in-law’s. “If only I could make it easier for you!”

The girl lifted her face and looked long into the kind eyes regarding her. “Neville, do you think my going to him spurred him on to--?”

“No, dear, not at all. Folkestone would have done it, anyway. He has waited a long time, shown excellent self-control, and behaved with a restraint I envy him. But a man like that will not wait always, and when he does act he means business.”

Miss Brentford looked at him in amazement. “How can you bear to talk of it so--calmly! You speak as if it did not concern you in the least.”

“I am resigned--that is why,” he replied, meeting her glance calmly.

“Don’t you want to--kill the man and take her from him?” Her eyes held a fierce, merciless glitter, and the man beside her felt thankful that Isma was safely out of Rita’s way at present.

“What would be the use? I am helpless. I must stay--here, while another--”

The expression on his face made the girl all at once realize what he was passing through. “Poor Neville!” she murmured, for a moment forgetting her own grief in her realization of his.

“You need not pity me. I deserve it all; besides, I could never have made her happy.”

“Would that count as long as you--had her?”

“It didn’t count before. I would have taken her at all costs. But it counts now.”

“Why now?”

“I can hardly explain, only I have been thinking about--God.”

His companion, stared at him in astonishment. “Good gracious, Neville, you don’t mean to say you are turning religious!”

“Why not?” he asked, in level tones.

“Well--you are hardly a--suitable subject for--that kind of thing, are you?” she replied, with merciless candor.

“It is men like me who need religion most--”

“And what good can it do you?” she challenged him, scornfully.

“I don’t know yet. Perhaps religion may not help me, but God might.”

The girl had risen. She stood looking in cold defiance at her brother-in-law. Then she suddenly burst out laughing, a hideous, horrible laugh. “Neville, you are crazy already, absolutely dotty!” and with another ugly laugh she bolted out of the room.

* * * * *

“Rex, is the world coming to an end or what?” asked Miss Brentford, bursting into the library where she knew the secretary was comfortably installed with a novel and his cigarettes.

The man in the deep armchair put down the book he was reading and looked up in indolent anticipation. He had heard the girl’s conversation on the ’phone with Captain Folkestone and knew about the coming wedding, and looked forward to an interesting talk on the subject.

“Has anything else gone wrong?” He spoke with solemn intonation which seemed to refer to Lord Berriedale’s accident and that the secretary hoped no more calamities had taken place.

“Anything gone wrong indeed! What do you think, Neville has turned--religious!”

Rex showed distinct signs of disappointment.

“Is that all?” he said, indifferently, picking up his book again. “You really frightened me and made me think it was something serious.”

“Well, isn’t it serious that Neville is going mad?”

“Do you consider religion a madness?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

A light shot suddenly into the pale-blue eyes. The secretary saw a new excitement ahead of him, a fresh way of tormenting another being. “No, on the contrary, I think it shows jolly good sense,” he answered, settling down to enjoy himself.

“Rex!” exclaimed Miss Brentford, angrily, “you are only playing, and I am in no mood for jokes.”

“Indeed I mean what I say.”

“But you are not religious--far from it.”

“That doesn’t say I don’t approve of it. I don’t take exercise myself, yet I thoroughly believe in it, all the same.”

“You are too lazy,” commented his companion.

“Exactly. Most people are too lazy to be religious. It is too great a strain on their intelligence and too great a strain on their bodies.”

“Strain on their bodies?” queried the girl, in surprise.

“Yes, of course. When people become religious the body has to toe the line as well as the soul, and between ourselves I believe it is the strain on the body that keeps most people from religion. They don’t say so, naturally. They have far nicer little ways of explaining the situation. They are either assailed by doubts or they are too enlightened and clever or too large-minded to accept such old-fashioned ideas. But all the time it is the strain on the body it involves that frightens them off.”

“Still, if you believe in it, why aren’t you religious yourself?” interrogated the girl, uncertain whether her companion was in earnest or not.

“For the simple reason that others fight shy of it. I don’t want my habits interfered with. I like too many things religion condemns, so I keep away from it and stick to my habits.”

“Isn’t that rather foolish?” suggested Rita, with a veiled display of interest in spite of her scoffing tones.

“Of course, madly foolish. But then, with all our twentieth-century culture, cleverness, and knowledge, we are nothing but a set of innate fools! We know the great monster Death is after us, that sooner or later it will track us down. If we had one iota of sense, we would--”

“What would be the use--we can’t alter the fact,” interrupted Miss Brentford, impatiently.

“We certainly cannot alter the fact that Death is at our heels, yet we might alter--others.”

“What others?”

“Our fate Beyond.”

“Rex, do you really mean _you_ believe in a state Beyond?”

“Of course I do; no one with any reasoning power could help it. There is no waste in nature; life everywhere rises out of life; death is just a crisis, a horrible, disgusting crisis; still, merely a critical juncture--an autumn crisis in which decaying vestures are shed. But the real life is not cast off in autumn. It is left free to be robed again in fresh garments, and the new garments will be on the same pattern as the old.”

The girl regarded the secretary skeptically; however, in her skepticism smoldered a secret fascination. “That sounds very plausible; yet, after all, we don’t know--no one has told us.”

“No, but we have been given minds which can think, conjecture, reason. We were never told about the power of electricity, still, by conjecturing and reasoning it was found.”

Rita sat in silence for a while. Before her mind had risen a torturing vision of two people flying along in a car on dry, summerlit roads, and soon--soon-- No! She could not tolerate the idea; it was preposterous, unthinkable! She must make Rex talk again, anything to keep her brain from the picture it insisted on bringing before her. It was difficult to switch off her mental energy into another direction, yet these new thoughts and the astounding fact that Rex should expound them made them seem peculiarly interesting.

“Yes,” she admitted, half absently, “but we have got away from the main issue. I don’t see that that has anything to do with it. If there is an after-state, we shall arrive at it whether we are religious or not.”

“Certainly. All the same, religion has a great deal to do with it, for it makes people sow wheat and not tares; it is very insistent on that point. Now don’t you see the connection? The coming life must spring from the seed of this one, and, as a plant cannot one season be a nettle and the next a rose, it follows that if we are nettles here we must be nettles There and be _treated_ as obnoxious weeds.”

The girl rose hastily. _Nettle--nettle!_ The horrid little word pressed itself into the tissues of her brain.

A couple of days ago she had wondered why she had so little power over other people; why her words carried no weight; why she was ineffectual, influenced nobody; why no one had come very intimately into her life; why every one kept her at arm’s-length, and now she suddenly saw the reason--she was a nettle, a horrible nettle which stung anybody who touched it. She had nearly stung her sister to death; she wished to sting Isma into her grave; her words had been full of spite and venom, her actions obnoxiously selfish! She saw herself as a loathsome nettle stinging all who touched her life. And if there really was a state Beyond, what would happen to her? Would she still go on stinging so poisonously, so venomously, that she would be forever unloved and abhorred? What a terrible destiny!

“Some people think Death transforms us into angels,” Rita flung at the secretary, after a pause. “That is a much nicer theory than yours.”

Rex smiled ironically. “Yes, and almost as reasonable as the Santa Claus illusion.”

“And why shouldn’t it be true?” demanded Rita, defiantly.

“The Santa Claus myth?”

“No, no, you stupid man, not that--”

“Oh, I see; you mean the angel theory?”

“Of course.”

Rex sighed patiently. “Now do use your brains! How could Death transform one into an angel? Can the canker-worm develop the bud it attacks into a flower? Death has no power except to decay. It is like a moth getting into a garment; it doesn’t beautify--it destroys.”

“In that case it kills outright.”

“Yes, the garment, but not the wearer.”

Rita walked toward the window. However, the sight of the hot sunshine glistening on trees and flowers made her turn away hastily, for in this blinding radiance two people were driving--

“I hate all this sunlight!” she said, her cheeks all at once paling. “This is a horrid country; everything is ablaze; it is a land on fire that glitters and burns. I loathe it!” she cried, turning on the secretary with sudden vehemence.

“My dear girl, I assure you I had no hand in inventing or making Australia.”

“But you like it,” she protested, wrathfully.

“This certainly is a flame-land. It is vivid like fire. Its breath is like the breath of a furnace; even the wide spaces above are scorched by the heat from its great body; its voice is the roaring voice of flames! It is a land that sets people on fire, and, Miss Rita, if I stay here much longer”--Rex looked up at her with eyes that glowed with a sudden, mysterious light--“I shall be in flames myself.”

Australia was an extraordinary country. It had changed her whole world, made all familiar things crumble into dust and strange new ones take their place. Captain Folkestone had gone out of her life--she writhed again. Neville had become religious! Beatrice was dying! Rex talked like a bishop and said he was catching fire! And Australia was responsible for this horrible conglomeration of upheavals! Why had she come to this place of wild, abnormal things to be whirled like an atom into fathomless immensities, to be thrown into its flaming purgatory? Ah, why?

The girl stood still, regarding Rex for some moments in curious silence, then she turned and walked slowly out of the room.

XIV

BLOODWOOD

When tea was over that afternoon Lady Berriedale went to see her husband and sit with him for a while.

She had a nasty paroxysm of coughing as she sat down beside the bed. When the coughing had subsided she made a few preliminary remarks before saying, a little nervously:

“Neville, I have been so--sorry for you all day--”

Lord Berriedale made a restless movement as if he wished to check her, but she would not be interrupted. “Dear,” she continued, making a further effort, “I am going to say what I want, so just listen to me. I should like you to know that I had planned--everything so differently. I wanted you to have had what you--desired, after I had--gone. But now--” She hesitated.

The man’s left hand closed over his wife’s trembling one. “Beatrice, you have been far too generous,” he said, in a voice which shook slightly. “I have not deserved such--kindness.” Then he drew his hand away and moved it shadingly across his eyes as if to hide something he did not wish her to see.

Lady Berriedale turned her head away and her brimming glances searched the room for something to distract her attention and help her to composure. After a time her eyes lighted on some loose papers lying on a small table in front of her. Mechanically she picked up the sheets and saw that they held some verses written in a hand she did not recognize. Half absently she began to read “Crucified.”

Her attention became suddenly fixed, the hectic flush in her cheeks deepened, and she sat so still that her husband looked up, wondering what kept her so motionless.

A deep stain crept into his pallid face as he discovered what she was reading. “Beatrice, don’t; please don’t,” he said, in agitated tones. “It will only hurt you.”

She dropped the paper and met his disturbed gaze with eyes that held an unearthly calm, then she said: “Nothing can hurt me more than I am already hurt. I have lost--all; or, rather, found--I had nothing to--lose.”

She picked up the paper again and finished the verses, while the color in her husband’s cheeks faded to an ashen pallor.

For some time she sat with the thin sheets before her, staring fixedly at the words as if they had cast a hypnotic spell over her.

The stillness in the room was like the silence that follows the verdict of doom; it held an awful fatality, a sense of irrevocable destiny.