Chapter III: Part I: The Immortal Flame (3)

“I wonder if it is?” he said, turning to her.

But the girl made no reply. She was watching a box-tree they were passing just then, covered with clematis, the long, frail trailers foaming with soft creamy blossoms and hanging inert and motionless in the brilliant sunlight.

After they had left the forest the road took them through a huge mangrove swamp alive with nesting birds, and when that was left behind the sea came into view again. Close to the heavy track lay large mounds of drift sand, some covered with bunches of stiff grass and others nakedly glimmering in the noon sunlight. On solitary beaches foaming breakers curled up on the wet forget-me-not-tinted sand.

The car went on. At times it crashed through thickets of great bottle-brushes aflame with orange-colored cones, and stretches of lillypilly which reached out branches laden with mauve, pink, and white berries to detain the travelers. But the motor plodded onward. It passed through jungles of ti-tree, the tall stems with their paper-like bark appearing like skeletons seen in moonlight, and their fine network of branches looking like herring-bones and seeming oddly incapable of supporting the thick pads of dark-green foliage growing at their extreme ends.

All too quickly the morning passed away and lunch-time found Isma and Falcon at the small hotel where he had ordered their meal.

It was a wooden place built in bungalow style, with large overhanging verandas.

The landlady took the visitors into the dining-room and asked them to sit at a small table decorated with purple bush-lilies.

Another motor party had arrived before them and were already having their dinner at a large table at the other side of the room.

Isma looked radiant as she sat opposite her cousin, talking brightly. The reserve between them had vanished, and there was a new gladness in Captain Folkestone’s eyes the girl had not seen there before. He was generally vivacious, but the brightness just then was something quite apart from his usual brilliance and had a strange, stimulating effect on her. He watched her intently as she chatted and laughed, showing her white, dazzling teeth and changing color in her vivid animation.

After all, was Lord Berriedale to blame for losing his head so completely before such confusing loveliness! Falcon glanced at her again. He did not seem able to keep his eyes from her--and Isma always wore such becoming hats. The one she had on just then made her look perfectly bewildering, and there seemed to be an occult league between its rich silk lining nestling so softly against her yellow hair and the rose tints in her cheeks.

“How very discontented that lady looks over there at the other table!” remarked Isma, when they had finished their first course. “I wonder why?”

“Most likely because she has everything she wants.”

“That is a strange reason for being discontented, surely.”

“It is the usual one.”

“Perhaps so. I see you are a keen observer, Falcon.”

The man looked long at the girl opposite him before saying, “On the same principle, I suppose you cannot have all you want, as you look so far from unhappy?”

The golden-gray eyes met his. “Perhaps I haven’t--”

“I wonder what it is you--want,” he queried, after a slight hesitation, “and if I--could give it to you?”

“How generous of you to think of such a thing!” she replied, a little embarrassed, looking out of one of the windows at a lake shimmering in the distance; then after some moments she changed the subject.

After lunch they went farther up the coast. By a long, quiet beach Captain Folkestone stopped the car and they walked along the shore for a short distance.

“Now we must have a rest,” said Falcon, surveying the scene appreciatively. “Isn’t this a delightful spot! You are fond of sleeping on the beach, I know,” he added, with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

She blushed under his smiling gaze.

He spread a rug for her on the sloping sand and she lay down, her hands behind her head, looking into the quivering atmosphere. Over the horizon was a long belt of soft white clouds which were mirrored in the scarcely stirring sea. A ship glided slowly past, drawing a long trail of smoke after it, which hung like a narrow dark mist over the far-away water. The waves broke languidly on the restful shore, casting numerous pearls of white sparkling foam toward the figures basking in the sunlight.

“Isma, have you noticed how few people we have seen to-day, and there is not a soul in sight? We seem to have the world to ourselves.”

“Yes, it looks like that,” she replied, reflectively.

“If we had the whole world to ourselves, could you be happy?”

Some note in his voice roused her from her reverie.

“Yes, I think so, if we had the earth to ourselves, we need not be much in each other’s way. You could have one hemisphere and I the other.”

The man broke off a long stalk of grass and put it between his teeth. “I am afraid that arrangement would not suit me.”

“You are too sociable,” she teased. “You should be more fond of your own company.”

“I have better taste--I prefer yours.”

“Now you flatter me!”

“Is truth ever flattery? But,” he harked back, “tell me, would you be happy if we were alone in this beautiful world, not on different hemispheres, but much closer?”

“That depends,” she replied, guardedly.

“On what?”

“On several things, one of them on the way you treated me.”

He rolled over on his side so that he faced her.

“Isma, how should I have to treat you so that--well--you wouldn’t be bored to death--under those circumstances?” He had been trying to speak lightly, but had not quite succeeded.

The girl sat up and looked out to sea.

“Well, to begin with, you would have to stop hurling sarcasm and contempt at me,” she replied, quietly, her gaze still fixed on the ocean.

“If we were alone in the world I should not need to do that. I should treat you _very_ differently.”

She turned a pair of laughing eyes upon him. “I wonder in what way?”

Falcon sat up, too, and edged a little closer.

“I shall not tell you that unless--”

“No--I don’t suppose you know, yourself.” Her eyes still laughed at him beneath their long, drooping lashes.

“Don’t I! That is all you know!”

“I wonder should I like it,” she mused, in her provoking banter.

“Ah, that is just the point--if I could only be sure--” he replied, with a slight sigh as he lay back on the sand once more and looked into the azure dome above, a strange gravity in his eyes.

The girl turned to the sea again. She could not make any reply. Surely Falcon was not in earnest; he had only been talking as men so often talk when they are alone with a pretty woman? She had taken for granted that this was the case and had accordingly given him flimsy, bantering replies. Yet could there be a deeper meaning in his light words? Why this sigh and his silence now? Why that intense look last night?

Her heart throbbed tumultuously. But no, he could not really be in earnest or he would have said more. All the same, she was conscious that her want of response had in some inexplicable way separated them; and though later, when it was time to go, Falcon held her hand a little longer than necessary as he helped her to rise, and though he was as kind and concerned for her comfort as before, yet somehow she was aware that their gay intimacy of the morning had vanished.

They had afternoon tea at the small hotel where they had lunched, and then they turned homeward toward the rocky headlands lying misty and dreamy in the distance.

When the road was good Falcon let the car out, and it dashed along exuberantly through the sun-kissed spaces. He talked fitfully, but often for long stretches of time he was curiously silent.

Half-way home they passed a series of small lakes. The lagoons were a deep nattier-blue and on their gently sloping banks grew a profusion of reeds and bulrushes from which came the peremptory squabble of ducks and the prattle of other water-birds. A number of black cormorants sat on a protruding snag, and as the car rushed by the birds flew up, noisily flapping their long, narrow wings and protesting loudly at being disturbed.

On the last lake near the shining line that divided the deep-blue water from the brown stone-strewn shore a pair of large white pelicans waded knee-deep in the liquid splash of color. One of them had its colossal beak open in the act of swallowing a good-sized fish, while the other went on calmly searching for prey. The birds were rare and not often found on the coast, so Isma was glad to have seen them.

As they crossed the wide plain near The Palms Captain Folkestone slowed down the speed and looked round with strange interest.

Some of the spider-bushes were still in blossom, and mauve orchids, bush-lilies, and flowering shrubs bloomed in rich profusion among the stiff sedges and grass-trees.

Presently the motor began to ascend the cliff.

When they reached the highest point on the road Falcon stopped the engine and suggested they should get out of the car, as they could get a better view of the beauty lying behind them.

For some moments they stood without speaking, looking over the great plain, where the last rays of the setting sun had scarcely faded from the flowers and bushes.

“This view always reminds me of a favorite song of mine, ‘The Little Winding Road.’ Do you know it?” said Isma, after a pause.

“No,” he replied, still gazing at the vast scene before them. “I don’t think I have ever heard it. Won’t you sing it?”

“I will hum it if you like.” And in her low, rich voice she began to lilt the romantic song.

When she had finished Falcon said: “Yes, both music and words must surely have been written for this place! But would you mind letting me hear the second verse again?”

Her soft voice repeated the words:

“I sought for love on that road,
I saw it afar on the plain;
I followed the road
And crossed the plain
Then came to the hill again.”

A half-sigh escaped her companion. “The will-o’-the-wisp again,” he murmured, gravely. “We see the vision on the plain, rush after it, and find we are only confronted with--a steep hill.”

What could Falcon mean? Why did he talk like that? Was he in earnest, after all? Ah, if only that were so, how well she would know how to deal with him! But perhaps his thoughts had no connection with herself.

The colors in the landscape suddenly faded. Still, whatever was in his mind, she must try and comfort him. She could not endure that sad note in his voice.

“Oh, you must not take those words too literally. They may only be written for effect--”

“Anyhow, it is an effect one often finds in real life,” he remarked, turning to start the car.

As they descended the cliff the lights from the house, like yellow stars, gleamed among the palms.

“You will come in and have some dinner, won’t you?” asked the girl, watching the twinkling lights in the valley.

He accepted readily.

When they reached the house the first thing which caught Isma’s and her cousin’s attention as they entered the brightly lighted hall were two letters lying on a silver salver on the table. The girl picked them up hastily, but the man beside her had already recognized Lord Berriedale’s full-blooded writing on the uppermost envelop.

An instant change came over Captain Folkestone’s features; he looked suddenly hard.

Isma stood hesitating for a moment, the brightness fading from her cheeks and eyes; then she led the way into the sitting-room, went over to the softly shaded lamp, and tore open the letter addressed in Beatrice’s thin, upright hand, apologizing to her cousin for reading it then.

It was evidently only a short note, and soon the girl put it down as she said, “Beatrice is better; still, she is not at all well and simply begs me to go to her to-morrow.”

With the lamplight on her face, Falcon noticed how pale she had become and that the fingers holding the unopened letter were trembling.

“But of course you will not think of going to The Bluff after--”

Isma looked out of an open window into the dark-purple dusk for some moments before saying, “I’m afraid I--must.”

“Isma, you can’t mean that!” His tones were stern.

“Falcon, I shall have to go to her.” There was pleading as well as decision in her voice.

A steely look came into her cousin’s blue eyes.

“Of course if you are bent on playing about on precipices, I have nothing more to say.” Then, picking up his cap and gloves, he added: “If you don’t object, I think I will change my mind and not stay to dinner, after all. Good night,” and he strode toward the open door.

“Falcon!” There was searching pain in the word.

But he did not appear to have heard the cry.

She followed him to the car. “Falcon, please try to understand. I am not playing-- Can’t you see--?” she began, tremulously.

“Yes, I do see and I do understand,” he replied, coldly. “Your decision makes it quite impossible to mistake your intention.” Then his manner changed and he held out his hand with the old mocking courtesy as he continued, “My beautiful cousin has been a most intelligent pupil in the world’s school and has learned the advantage of money, titles, and high position, and no doubt all she desires will come to her--soon.”

Isma did not take the proffered hand, but stood pale, erect, motionless, her form flooded by the light from the hall.

“Good-by,” said her cousin again as he took his seat at the wheel, and soon the throb of the receding car pulsated through the obscuring gloom.

* * * * *

As Isma mounted the stairs to her room she was strangely conscious that for one brief day she had rambled among the sweet flowers on the plain, and that now she had come to the uncompromising hill on the other side of her Eden.

XI

THE FIREWEED

On the morning that Isma and her cousin were driving up the coast Rex was sitting in the avenue in the shade of the big Moreton Bay fig-trees, when he saw Miss Brentford coming toward him. He smiled complacently, lighted a fresh cigarette, and settled down to enjoy himself. Of course he knew why she was seeking him out. The news that Isma could not come to The Bluff because Captain Folkestone claimed her for the day would naturally have a galling effect on the jealous girl, and she was coming to extract from him every detail of the telephone message--he always attended to the ’phone and was therefore able to supply her with full particulars. Also Miss Brentford wanted his sympathy. It was a strange thing that, though the secretary never gave sympathy, a good many people brought their troubles to him and expected comfort, in spite of the fact that they always left him with a fresh sting in their wounds. He was like a soft cushion with a needle in it; just as some one laid a tired head back for a rest there came a nasty scratch.

Miss Brentford had reached the seat, and she closed her red-silk parasol and sat down beside him.

“Rexie,” she began, a slight pucker between her black brows, “I don’t think Australia is nearly as nice as I thought it was going to be.”

“My dear girl, how can you find fault with this charming place! The sky is always blue and the sun is always shining! Of course things are a little reversed here--at home it was the sun which shirked and did not know its business, but the servants were excellent. Here the servants are incapable and the sun works like blazes! However, it is a most delightful country!”

Rex had only that morning, in a letter to a chum at home, said, “Australia is like a book without a climax, it just goes on and on without ever coming to anything, and if it were not that dear, virtuous Neville has such an obvious reason for being here, I should think he had gone clean out of his mind, bringing us all to this monotonous hole!” At the end of the letter he had added a postscript: “It may interest you to know that we have been fortunate enough to strike the very spot on this long coast where the beautiful Miss Folkestone has cloistered herself. Her retreat is a most idyllic place among clumps of palms, and it has no iron gates barring the way, so she is very approachable and administers her presence freely to her dull neighbors, and I must say she is most generous to us at The Bluff.”

The secretary thought of this letter just then and smiled enigmatically.

The girl jerked her parasol impatiently. “Australia delightful! I think it is hopelessly stupid. It is as boring as people with a sense of humor!”

Her companion sat up straight with a shocked expression on his face. “Now you are talking rank heresy, you are indeed going pell-mell against all our modern notions of excellence! Why, don’t you know that a sense of humor is the most popular virtue of to-day? In the old times it used to be, ‘The greatest of these is love,’ but we twentieth-century people read it, ‘The greatest of these is a sense of humor!’ So how on earth can you object to people who possess this supreme modern grace?”

The girl shrugged. “People with a sense of humor are always wanting to display it, in and out of season. They are obsessed with it, like a person with a grievance or an old lady with her ailments. Anyhow,” she went on, in a different tone, “isn’t it frightfully dull here!”

The man beside her looked concerned. “Miss Rita, if you are really tired of the place and would like to go back, it could easily be arranged. I would cable--”

“Rex, don’t be so silly! How could I leave just now!” she exclaimed, kicking a small stone viciously with the point of her low-cut shoe.

“It certainly would be very--unwise.”

“Unwise--it would be heartless when my sister is so ill!” she said, drawing herself up.

“Ah yes, Lady Berriedale, of course--for the moment my thoughts went in another direction.”

Miss Brentford blushed at his bluntness; however, she was too much disturbed in mind to resent it. She picked a twig from an overhanging branch and studied the thick, dark leaves absently. Then she began very deliberately to tear them off one by one.

“Are you saying to yourself, ‘he loves me, he loves me not’?” suggested Rex, with a provoking smile.

The girl flung away the bare stalk. “Rex, you are perfectly hateful to-day. I am not a school-girl any longer; you are apt to forget that. Besides, I am not in love.”

“I thought all girls were in love!”

“That is because you don’t know anything about them.”

“No, perhaps not. Well, will you come and have a game of tennis?”

But Miss Brentford had not come out to play tennis.

“No, thank you, it is too hot for that sort of thing. Rex,” she continued, in a different voice, “do you think things come right in real life the way they always do in books?”

“Great Christopher! no! That is why books are so much more popular than reality. They give people what they want and reality never does.”

“Do you really believe that?”

The secretary took out his gold cigarette-case, very deliberately selected another cigarette, and lighted it before replying. “Of course. Look round for yourself and see. Do people like to sit down and watch what goes on round them? No, because if they did it would give them the blues! Everybody, all the world over, tries to run away from reality. We all try to forget it exists. That is why we play cards, gamble, go to races, dance, flirt, attend picture-shows, pay our last pound for a seat at the opera--all to forget the horrid, brutal thing we call reality.”

The girl frowned. She did not want philosophical discussion just then. “Rex,” she said, plunging straight into the subject she had wished to reach all the time, “did Captain Folkestone really say he was going to--take his cousin out for the day?”

“Not in so many words. Still, I am sure that is what he means to do. What a lovely day they will have for their outing! It is just made for romance and love-making, especially out here in these lonely places where--”

“He has not taken her out to make love to her,” interrupted Rita, digging the point of her parasol savagely into the ground.

“What else is he doing it for?” asked the man, with his most suave air.

“Why, he has to take his cousin out sometimes. It is merely his duty.”

“Duty!” smiled Rex, meaningly. “He might pay her duty visits lasting exactly half an hour while he swallows a cup of tea; but when a man wants to spend a whole day with a woman there is generally no duty about it. He does it for pleasure or, more correctly, because he means business and--”

“But I tell you he doesn’t like her.” The girl cut him sharp. “Haven’t you noticed that he never talks to her when they are here together--?”

“No, he doesn’t talk to her, but he looks.”

“How absurd you are! I have never seen him glance at her except in the coldest way.”

“He is too much a man of the world to carry his heart on his sleeve. However, watch him when he thinks himself unobserved. Why, he looks at her then as if he would like to elope with her the next moment.”

“Rex, you are dreaming!” cried Rita, in exasperation, and, forgetting herself for an instant, she went on, hotly: “I will not allow it. She shall not have him--she shall not!”

“My dear Miss Rita, for goodness’ sake keep calm. Don’t excite yourself on this warm day. It is truly most injurious. Besides, what difference can it make to you if he wants to marry his lovely cousin? You are not in love with him, not in love with any one, so it can’t hurt you. I always find it such a good plan never to get excited about other people’s affairs. It saves an awful lot of nerve fag. Leave them to it, I say.”

“Leave them to it, indeed!” The girl was growing frantic. “Do you think I am going to allow a splendid man like that to be taken in by an unscrupulous woman--?”

“I wouldn’t bother myself about that if I were you. It is too hot out here for such exertion. Anyhow, Miss Folkestone is only playing with him. He will never be able to marry her for--she would never have him.”

“Not have him! Oh, Rex, you must be going dotty. Why, it is the very thing she has been aiming at all the time! And haven’t you noticed how strained and different she seems when he comes into a room?”

“That is only part of the game.”

“Part of the game! Why--”

“Why, indeed! You would surely think he was good enough for her. Most other girls would accept him readily enough, but the wise and prudent Miss Folkestone has higher ambitions. She knows where to aim.”

“Rex, what _do_ you mean?” Rita leaned forward and looked into her companion’s face with half-relieved anxiety.

“My dear girl, it is not for me to give a beautiful woman away. You are pretty observant, why don’t you see for yourself?”

Just then their conversation was interrupted as Lord and Lady Berriedale came down the avenue toward them.

The secretary rose and Lady Berriedale sat down on the seat he had just vacated, a little breathless from her walk.

“Rita,” commenced the elder woman, watching her husband and Rex walk farther down the avenue, “Neville and I have just been talking of having a house-party. We ought to return the hospitality shown us in Sydney. The governor and Lady Carson were awfully good to us the week we stayed with them. We certainly ought to entertain them here. The Bluff is big enough to hold a good many people and we could give them an enjoyable time.”

“My dear Beatrice, they would be bored to death. What on earth could we do with them?”

“We would give a big dance one night; so many of the squatters about have called; they all have cars and could come to the ball and we could have a good number. It would be no trouble to us; the caterers can do all the work. Another day we can have a picnic; the men can fish, and the women, too, if they like. We can take them to that lovely river where you went a little while ago. I am sure they would enjoy it. Neville and I were thinking it would be a good idea to arrange it for the next full moon, and he is going to write to the governor to see if that time would suit him and Lady Carson.”

“But Beatrice,” remonstrated her sister, “it would be far too much for you, entertaining all those people. Talking a lot always exhausts you, and even with caterers to do the work you will have to supervise, and that is very tiring, and you know I am no good at that sort of thing.”

“I am going to ask Isma to come and stay with us for those days and do that part of it for me.”

“Always that Miss Folkestone! Whatever can you see in such an icicle?” said the girl, glancing sullenly down at the black-silk sash on her parasol.

“Now, Rita,” began Lady Berriedale, gently but firmly, “don’t let us open that subject again. We have discussed it quite enough already. You know how I feel about Isma, and you ought not to grudge me the pleasure her friendship gives me. I believe you only dislike her because you are jealous.”

“Jealous--” shrugged, the girl, disdainfully. “What is there to be jealous about?”

“Never mind, only, Rita, don’t ever say anything against her to me, and, while talking on the subject, I wish you to be pleasant to her. Remember you are in my house and you must be civil to my guests.”

Miss Brentford flushed angrily. “Very well, I will try to remember that in your house I am called upon to be nice to women, even of that kind,” and as she rose she added, “Perhaps you would like me to take you back now.”

“No, thank you. I will wait here till Neville comes.”

“Poor little Rita is jealous of my beautiful Isma,” mused Lady Berriedale to herself as she watched the girl’s red parasol disappearing among the trees. “Such a pity she cannot conquer that feeling of dislike; it makes her look so small and childish.”

XII

BURSTING BUBBLES

As Isma stepped into the purple car the following afternoon one little word _lost--lost--lost!_ hammered in upon her consciousness as the breakers thudded in upon the sand.

Falcon had gone out of her life and would never come back. For a brief moment he had begun to believe in her and had shown signs of being strongly attracted to her; however, by deciding on the present course of action she had destroyed his faith in her. Honor stood above everything with him. He would have nothing but contempt for crooked dealings and sordid conduct. In his eyes she stood branded once more. He did not understand the sacrifice. To him she appeared merely an ambitious woman unscrupulous enough-- She straightened suddenly in the motor and a burning wave of humiliation surged through her.

She looked out on the sea imploringly as if pleading with it to rescue her, while the syllable _lost--lost_ dinned itself with bursting force into her sore heart. Falcon had been insulting, she was angry with him, and yet--anger and love fought desperately in her soul.

She glanced down over the rocks and saw glimmering emerald waves swelling high round the stones and heard the heaving splash of the gulping water. Above it circled sea-gulls uttering loud, fierce cries; one swooped across the road and spread its silver wings for a moment over the girl leaning wearily against the mauve cushions in the car, then it gave a horrible shriek and flew away.

Isma shivered in the warm sunshine.

For her all sunlight had faded; she was in cold darkness, and the future held nothing but a gaping emptiness.

The machine had passed the rocks and was now skirting a great beach where snow-crested breakers thundered in upon the sand.

Was that not the way generation after generation had been hurled in upon life, peopling its shores with sparkling foam-souls, iridescent bubbles that twinkled in the sunlight for a moment and then vanished as quickly as they had come, while new waves cast new foam upon the sands? Yes, that was life! A frail little bubble thrust in upon the strand, gleaming and glittering for a few seconds and then suddenly bursting--was it into nothing?

Isma looked on the waves again. She saw how discolored the pure foam became as it lurched against the dark-tinted beach. Life was sordid. The souls hurled on its shores became terribly discolored, but--what about the little bursting bubbles, did they completely vanish? Was their tiny sparkle only a flash which disappeared into a hollow void to be no more?

Along the shore a white mist had gathered over the waves and rose slowly higher and higher in the glowing afternoon sunshine.

The girl watched it half absently. So the bubbles had not vanished into nothing! They had risen, and were now set free from the cruel battering and crushing on the hard beach. They had been purified from the ugly, earthly discoloration and were mounting white, spiritlike, into the wide, clear vault of blue.

Isma sighed. “If I might but be free from the sordid battering on the sand!” she murmured. “If only--”

The car had swung up the last hill near The Bluff; in a few minutes it would be turning into the drive leading to the house.

By the roadside grew a number of gum-trees; some of them looked very worn and ragged and their leaves drooped like bundles of faded green threads. A flock of parrots flew up from some of the lower branches and darted with shrill screams past the motor, their breasts flaming red against the brilliant azure sky.

Isma started.

More alarming shrieks! Had the birds come to warn her? Was she really on dangerous ground--so dangerous that not even the most virtuous strength could protect her there? And yet could there be real peril to herself? To her reputation and interest it certainly meant ruin, she knew that; however, that was the cruel renunciation she was called on to make for her dying friend. She was willing to lay all upon the altar which might be laid there, without staining her womanhood. Still, was the path she was treading really perilous to her honor? Lord Berriedale had gone to greater lengths two days ago than ever before; he had never previously lost control of his feelings to that extent, and if Falcon had not come when he did--

She paled at the thought.

But had she not received a humble letter of apology from Lord Berriedale that morning, assuring her that what had taken place the last afternoon she was at The Bluff should not be repeated, as he had himself in hand again? He begged her to forgive him, and if she could not do so at once, at least not to vent her anger on his frail wife by depriving the invalid of her cheering presence. Lord Berriedale had made no excuses for himself, simply pleading that her cold aloofness had driven him to desperation and momentarily he had given way to his emotions. However, he promised that in the future all should be different. There was an air of sincerity about the letter which made her feel that she could venture to go to The Bluff again if she were specially careful not to be alone with him.

When she arrived at the house Beatrice was sitting on the veranda, eagerly waiting to tell her of the plans they had made for the house-party.

“But,” expostulated Isma when she had heard about the new scheme, “that would be far too much for you. Even with all the help you can get from caterers and others you would still have to look after everything yourself.”

Lady Berriedale took one of the girl’s hands and looked at her pleadingly. “Isma, that is just what I am going to ask you to do. Come and stay here and--” She stopped abruptly, for Isma had suddenly turned white and a look of anguish had come into the golden-gray eyes.

“Isma, whatever is the matter with you? Are you not well? Would you like some wine?”

“No, no, I am all right, thank you--” she stammered, struggling for calmness, the color gradually coming back to her cheeks again.

“Dearest, you did frighten me so. I really thought you were going to faint.”

The girl assured her she was better and Lady Berriedale repeated her request. “Isma, you will come and stay here and help me, won’t you?”

Her companion looked agitated again. “Beatrice, I will help you as much as I can, but I cannot come and stay here--that is _quite_ impossible. I have left Miss Livingston so much, when she came to live with me in that lonely place she understood I should be there. In the daytime it doesn’t matter being away, but I really could not ask her to spare me at night.”

“But of course, dear, she must come and stay here, too. She will enjoy a little change and seeing all these people.”

“No, really, Beatrice, she doesn’t like being with a lot of strangers. She would so much rather be quiet.” The girl was making a frantic effort to escape from the new danger confronting her.

“Still, she could be quiet here, too. I can give her a room in the south wing, and she need not see any of the other people unless she likes. Now, Isma, surely you can arrange just for those few days!”

“Truly, Beatrice, I cannot,” replied the girl, with a troubled yet strangely determined expression in her eyes.

Lady Berriedale drew herself up and a dark flush spread over her sallow face. “Of course if you _won’t_ come that settles the matter. I shall not ask you again,” she answered, icily.

“Beatrice!” The name came as a cry of pain.

But the invalid did not relax. “I don’t think friendship is much good if it is not practical. You are always so unwilling to do me favors. When I asked you to come to me every day I had to plead and implore. You showed the same disinclination to be with me then. If you really cared, you would want to come to me and prove your love in _practical_ ways.”

Prove her love in practical ways! Good Heavens! hadn’t she made sacrifices enough? Hadn’t she given all her happiness to the woman who regarded her so coldly now?

She sank down on her knees and buried her face on her friend’s narrow lap. “Beatrice, you cannot realize what you are saying--you don’t know what you are asking,” she murmured, between half-stifled sobs.

Lady Berriedale was suddenly seized with a fit of coughing. The girl was on her feet instantly, her arms round the emaciated form which was shaken ruthlessly by the fierce paroxysm.

When the attack had passed the patient lay back in her chair, exhausted and worn. She put a lace handkerchief to her lips, and when she removed it there were bright red stains upon the linen fabric.

The girl looked at her companion in sudden fear, then she whispered, remorsefully: “Beatrice, I am so sorry to have excited and vexed you. Do forgive me? Of course I will come and stay here and do anything you want.”

Lady Berriedale was mollified. She pressed the fair head to her bosom and kissed the soft round cheeks with her feverish lips.

When Isma drove home that evening she sat motionless and cold in the car. The net had tightened about her; struggling was useless. She was like a bird which had beaten impetuous wings against imprisoning meshes till at last, bleeding and exhausted, it lay crushed in the relentless snare.

A few days later Lord Berriedale received a letter from the governor saying he and Lady Carson would be delighted to spend a day or two at The Bluff.

Other invitations were then quickly sent out for the house-party and ball, and preparations were commenced immediately.

“I do hope all this will not be too much for you,” said Isma one day when she and her friend had spent a busy morning making arrangements for the coming functions. The girl did all in her power to save the invalid trouble, but of course she had to talk everything over with her before making any final decisions.

Lady Berriedale smiled. “With your splendid help I am sure it will not hurt me, and I am so much better, you know.”

“I wish you had not tired of the quiet so soon,” sighed her companion.

“I tired of the quiet! I should never do that. I could live here always with just you and Neville! But of course we have to return the hospitality given us in Sydney, and another thing, I think Neville is a little dull. He tries to hide it from me and pretends he does not miss the gay life at home; still, he cannot deceive me. He has become so grave lately and so absent-minded. This is certainly very comfortable and nice; still, it is not home, and he is used to clubs and having crowds of people about him. I am afraid this is boring him. Of course he is so delightfully good and patient and never complains. Still, I know he only came out here on my account, though he tries to make out he came to please himself--so dear and sweet of him!”

Isma had risen and stood looking out of the window over the plains, with her back to the room.

The last three weeks had been easier than she expected. Lord Berriedale had kept his word. He had not tried to be alone with her nor by look or word embarrassed her; in fact, he had treated her with courteous indifference and had almost gone out of his way to avoid her.

Falcon, too, had left her severely alone. Though he was constantly at The Bluff, he rigidly avoided all conversation with her, and when it was necessary to speak to her he did it as briefly as possible. There was no doubt about his attitude. He had lost all respect for her and was now in a cool, passionless way giving himself up to humor Miss Brentford and becoming the gallant attendant she so ardently desired.

Isma was not staying at The Bluff yet, but spent all her time there. However, the day after to-morrow the visitors from Sydney would arrive, and then it would be necessary for her to be in the house, arranging everything for Beatrice and helping to entertain the guests.

As she went about her daily duties she was utterly unconscious that a pair of dark, hostile eyes watched her constantly. The secretary’s words had gone home and the jealous girl wondered perplexedly who the man could be her enemy wished to capture. It could not be Captain Folkestone, for Rex had said she aimed higher, and Rex was a shrewd man and rarely missed the mark in his observations. The only man of higher rank than the soldier in the neighborhood was her brother-in-law, and of course it could not be he; yet, who could it be? She watched carefully, for it would be most interesting to find out Miss Folkestone’s secret. It was a good thing her attention was fixed in another direction, for then she, Rita, could have the delightful Captain Folkestone to herself.

But who could the mysterious man be, she wondered continually as she observed her sister’s friend, who seemed wholly absorbed by her devotion to the invalid.

XIII

THE BALL

The night of the dance had come. The long avenue leading to The Bluff was lined with motors, and uniformed chauffeurs strolled up and down smoking and talking under the great Moreton Bay fig-trees.

The house was ablaze with lights and the many windows flung out a yellow, agitated radiance which lost itself in the soft moonlit spaces. The strains of haunting music floated out into the garden and blended in exotic sweetness with the heavy perfume of the flowers.

A broad red carpet lay over the stone steps before the front door, and in the wide hall dainty, gossamer-clad figures flittered to and fro with their partners.

The large ball-room was thronged with dancers, and its walls lined with numerous spectators who were watching the brilliant scene and the gay movement of the fox-trot.

On the dais, beautifully decorated with ferns and flowering plants, at the upper end of the room, sat Lady Carson, the governor’s wife, a handsome woman, faultlessly gowned and flashing with diamonds, talking to her hostess. Lady Berriedale was dressed in claret-tinted silk and the rare old lace on her corsage was richly studded with rubies; her thin face was glowing and her dark eyes shining with abnormal brilliance.

As she and her companion watched the colorous stream of dancers she remarked: “I am much struck with the grace of the Australian girl. It is quite unique! There is no stiffness in her movements. I suppose her healthy out-of-door life has not only made her strong, but also lithe and graceful. When you see a room full of them like this they remind me of a flock of their own beautiful birds.”

“Yes,” agreed the governor’s wife, “they really resemble them, and just as some of the Australian birds are the most intelligent in the world, so the girls here have a bright, sunny wit of their own, and Australians, both men and women, are so resourceful in emergencies. They can think like lightning and act almost as quickly; yet there is not the slightest ostentatious cleverness about them. They are simple and natural and such irresponsible, lovable dears in their every-day life!”

“Look!” cried Lady Berriedale, suddenly interrupting the conversation as her husband and Miss Folkestone glided past in a graceful tango-waltz. “Don’t they look splendid and how perfectly they dance together!”

“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed Lady Carson, with unmistakable admiration. “They are quite the handsomest pair on the floor.”

“Doesn’t Isma look simply heavenly to-night?” went on Lady Berriedale, enthusiastically. “She is always lovely, but to-night she is gorgeous! Doesn’t that rainbow gown suit her with its dominant note of yellow! It seems to blend with her hair, and it shows up the whiteness of her skin and the exquisite color in her cheeks.”

Miss Folkestone created a sensation wherever she moved. Eyes followed her constantly, eyes which held wonder and startled admiration. There was a dewy freshness about her which suggested newly opened flowers, and she seemed so strangely untouched, as if life had not been able to mar the bloom resting on her. She wore a rainbow gown consisting of layers of mauve turquoise and yellow-silk tulle, which shimmered iridescent in the brilliant light, as cobwebs glitter rainbow-hued at dawn. The dress was sleeveless, but a pair of turquoise bands on her upper arms held wings of yellow tulle which gave the effect of sleeves and made her look ethereal and nymph-like. The girdle was a twist of the various tints in her gown and a similar twist ornamented her thick yellow hair. Her slippers were golden, so were her silk stockings, and round her soft throat lay a topaz necklet of antique design.

In the garden under an arbor of roses Fred Rex sat talking to one of the Sydney visitors, a slim, flat-backed girl of twenty.

“Isn’t this a glorious evening--far too good to spend indoors,” remarked the girl, glancing round the garden aquiver with white unearthly beauty.

“Yes, it is just the kind of night made for lovers,” replied the secretary, blandly. “Lovers are so keen on half-lights and shadows. I suppose that is because semi-darkness harmonizes so perfectly with their own half-lighted intelligence.”

“‘Half-lighted intelligence’!” exclaimed his companion, slightly nettled. “Do you consider lovers semi-idiots, then?”

“I shouldn’t put it just like that. Still, it can’t be denied that lovers never use their brains, they might as well hire them out till after they are safely married.”

“You don’t think it takes brains to make love, then?”

“My dear Miss Alcot,” began her companion, spreading out his hands deprecatingly, “does it take brains to do what every one else is doing? It is only when you strike out and become original that you need intellect.”

“But surely one could make love in an original way?”

A full-blown rose from the branches above suddenly collapsed and fell noiselessly over the girl’s shoulder into her lap.

After Rex had helped her to pick off the dark-red petals he replied: “Now how can a man be original in kissing a girl? There is only one way of doing it, and the greatest fool can accomplish it as well as the most learned professor, probably a little more effectively.”

The girl moved her small bronze-slippered feet impatiently. “You have not very high ideals of love, Mr. Rex!”

“How could I? Falling in love is not very elevating--it is very much the reverse.”

“What a horrid idea! I don’t like it a bit!” combated Miss Alcot.

“You speak as if it were merely my idea, but the very expression itself shows it has a downward tendency; ‘falling’ means not only a step downward, but even suggests groveling in the dust.”

“That is entirely your way of looking at it, Mr. Rex. The expression conveys something quite different! The word ‘falling’ was only meant to suggest that people may love as suddenly and unexpectedly as they may fall, and also that in the process they frequently get--hurt. And now after this interesting little talk I am afraid we must go back, as my next partner will be waiting for me.”

Near the door of the conservatory stood Rita Brentford and Captain Folkestone. The brunette was dressed in petunia-red _crêpe de Chine_; her dull-black hair was done high and in its lusterless meshes gleamed a number of jewels. Her vivacious face was unusually animated and her eyes shone with starry brightness. She had never looked prettier nor more fascinating; but as Isma and her partner glided by, Rita seemed shriveled and insignificant by comparison.

As the dark girl caught sight of her brother-in-law and Miss Folkestone her features stiffened.

“Don’t they look well together!” she remarked, with a little movement of her black fan and a side-glance at her companion, who looked pale and grave.

As she saw his face a quick pain shot through her heart and, scarcely knowing what she said, only conscious of a desire to wound, she continued: “Neville and your cousin are such friends! It is a good thing my sister is not jealous--”

“Lady Berriedale is a good judge of character. She knows who she can trust,” replied the man beside her, coldly.

“I beg your pardon, Captain Folkestone,” Miss Brentford apologized, quickly, closing her fan with a snap. “I forgot you were cousins.”

“Pray don’t distress yourself on that account. I should have said just the same, I assure you, had we not been related. But,” he added, in a different voice, “perhaps you would like to have an ice now?”

The girl assented, and they walked off together to the supper-room.

Lord Berriedale had just finished his dance with Isma, and was now talking to the governor, whom he had known at college years ago.

“And do you intend to stay on this coast all the time you are in Australia?” asked Sir George Carson, a fine-looking clean-shaven man with genial brown eyes and an impressive personality.

“Yes. Traveling about does not agree with Beatrice.”

“No, too much of it might not be good for her. Still, you will find the climate on this coast very trying. The heat is so humid here. I should imagine the Blue Mountains would suit a case of her kind far better.”

“No, I think not. I hear they have very strong westerlies up there, and my wife hates wind.”

“Ah well, you know best. By the way, Berriedale, how does this country strike you?”

The host’s left hand went to his mustache. “I have not been about much yet, but,” he went on, with a lazy smile, “it seems to me Australia is a cross-breed between a desert and an oasis. Some parts of it chiefly resemble the father, the desert; others take wholly after the mother, the oasis, and some places are a most extraordinary mixture of both.”

“’Pon my word, that is not a bad description!” laughed the governor, pleasantly.

“What do you think of the country, Carson?”

The elder man considered for a moment before replying. “I have always thought Australia like one of those fascinating women who hold--for good or bad, we do not know at first, but she holds. We cannot be sure we shall be happy with her, yet one thing is certain, we shall never be happy without her! But here is Folkestone coming up. I shall have a few words with him. I hear he is resigning from the Guards. I wonder what is making him do such a thing,” and he turned and began to talk to the soldier.

“Have you come to take Isma away?” asked Lady Berriedale a short time afterward, when Falcon joined the little group on the dais.

“Yes, I believe this is my dance,” he replied, smilingly.

As he led his cousin away he talked pleasantly, not appearing to notice her apparent reluctance to be with him. When they had walked some distance down the room he stood still for a moment as he placed his arm round her before joining the dancers.

At his touch the girl suddenly paled, her nostrils quivered, and her heart fluttered.

Her partner watched her closely. Were these outward signs of agitation only symptoms of embarrassment and dislike?

As they glided into the colorous sea of moving figures Isma closed her eyes for an instant. The room and the swirling forms receded; she was conscious only of the man who held her and the confusing sense of his nearness. She bent her head. How was she to remain calm when he was so close to her and his breath came warm and uneven against her cheek? She stiffened in a great effort at self-possession, then relaxed almost as quickly, and Falcon felt her yield to his arm.

He changed color and drew a sharp breath. Her sumptuous white shoulder was so near his own. “Isma,” he muttered, in a strained voice, “it is very warm in here. You are feeling the heat. Let me take you into the garden?”

His words startled her into composure. So she was betraying her feelings to Falcon! Merciful Heavens! how could she have sunk to that! Had he understood and pitied her?

She straightened instantly. “No, thank you,” she answered, stiffly. “I am not feeling the heat at all. I am only a little tired. The last few days have been so very busy, you know; but I should like to go back to Beatrice soon. I am afraid she is exerting herself too much.”

By some palms in a corner of the ball-room one of the governor’s aides-de-camp sat out a dance with Rita, and the girl’s restless eyes were following Captain Folkestone and Isma, as she talked spasmodically to the man beside her, who was watching the same pair.

“By Jove!” he remarked, feelingly, “Miss Folkestone is ripping! I have always heard she was--”

“She is dancing with her cousin,” interrupted Miss Brentford, hastily. “He is leaving the Guards and going to live here.”

“So I hear. Fine-looking fellow. What a handsome pair they are!”

His companion turned a darkened face away.

“Captain Folkestone doesn’t like her,” she could not refrain from saying.

“Not like her! Why, he looks like a man pretty badly smitten! Did you see the way he bent over her then--?”

“I think you are quite mistaken,” observed the girl, with scarcely veiled ill humor. “As a matter of fact, they detest each other.”

“They can act jolly well, then,” replied the man, with a smile, as Miss Brentford’s next partner came up to claim her.