Part 11

For some minutes they drove along in silence.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Charrington, following up the line of her thought, “that's a man for you--thinks the whole world moves round the axis of his own life. But I like him. He has a good face. Still,” she mused, “a man isn't everything, although once I--but never mind, there is always a way of bringing them to time.”

“You don't know Barney, Mrs. Charrington,” said Iola; “nothing can ever change him.”

“Pish! You think so, and so, doubtless, does he. But none the less it is sheer nonsense. Can you tell me the trouble?”

“No, I think not,” said Iola softly.

“Very well. As you like, my dear. Few things are the better for words. If ever you wish to come to me I shall be ready. Now let us dismiss the thing till after dinner. Disagreeable thoughts hinder digestion, I have found, and nothing is quite worth that.”

With such resolution did she follow her own suggestion that, during the drive and throughout the dinner hour and, indeed, until the moment of her departure, Iola was not permitted to indulge her anxious thoughts, but with Mrs. Duff Charrington's assistance she succeeded in keeping them deep in her heart under guard.

As Mrs. Duff Charrington kissed her good-night she whispered:

“Don't face any issue to-night. Don't settle anything. Give time a chance. Time is a wonderfully wise old party.”

And Iola, sitting back in the carriage, decided she would act upon the advice which suited so thoroughly her own habit of mind. That Barney had made up his mind to a line of action she knew. She would set herself to gain time, and yet she was fearful of the issue of the interview before her. The fear and anxiety which she had been holding down for the last two hours came over her in floods. As she thought of Barney's last words she found herself searching wildly, but in vain, for motives with which to brace her strength. If he had only been angry! But that sad, tender solicitude in his voice unnerved her. He was not thinking of himself, she knew. He was, as ever, thinking of and for her.

A storm of wind and rain was rapidly drawing on, but she heeded not the big drops driving into her face, nor did she notice that before she reached her door she was quite wet. She found Barney waiting for her. As she entered he arose and stood silent.

“Barney!” she exclaimed, and paused, waiting. But there was no reply.

“Oh, Barney!” she cried again, her voice quivering, “won't you tell me to come?”

“Come,” he said, holding out his arms.

With a little cry of timid joy she ran to him, wreathed her arms about his neck, and clung sobbing. For some moments he held her fast, gently caressing with his hand her face and her beautiful hair till she grew quiet. Then disengaging her arms, he kissed her with grave tenderness and put her away from him.

“Go and take off your wet things first,” he said.

“Say you forgive me, Barney,” she whispered, putting her arms again about his neck.

“That's not the word,” he replied sadly; “there's nothing to forgive. Go, now!”

She hurried away, praying that Barney's mood might not change. If she could only get her arms about his neck she could win and hold him, and, what was far more important, she could conquer herself, for great as she knew her love to be, she was fully aware of the hold her ambition had upon her and she dreaded lest that influence should become dominant in this hour. She knew well their souls would reach each other's secrets, and according to that reading the issue would be.

“I will keep him! I will keep him!” she whispered to herself as she tore off her wet clothing. “What shall I put on?” She could afford to lose no point of vantage and she must hasten. She chose her simplest gown, a soft creamy crepe de chene trimmed with lace, and made so as to show the superb modelling of her perfect body, leaving her arms bare to the elbow and falling away at the neck to reveal the soft, full curves where they flowed down to the swell of her bosom. She shook down her hair and gathered it loosely in a knot, leaving it as the wind and rain had tossed it into a bewildering tangle of ringlets about her face. One glance she threw at her mirror. Never had she appeared more lovely. The dead ivory of her skin, relieved by a faint flush in her cheeks, the lustrous eyes, now aglow with passion, all set in the frame of the night-black masses of her hair--this, and that indescribable but all-potent charm that love lends to the face, she saw in her glass.

“Ah, God help me!” she cried, clasping her hands high above her head, and went forth.

These few moments Barney had spent in a fierce struggle to regain the mastery over the surging passion that was sweeping like a tempest through his soul. As her door opened he rose to meet her; but as his eyes fell upon her standing in the soft rose-shaded light of the room, her attitude of mute appeal, the rare, rich loveliness of her face and form again swept away all the barriers of his control. She took one step toward him. With a swift movement he covered his face with his hands and sank to his chair.

“O God! O God! O God!” he groaned. “And must I lose her!”

“Why lose me, Barney?” she said, gliding swiftly to him and dropping to her knees beside him. “Why lose me?” she repeated, taking his head to her heaving bosom.

The touch of pity aroused his scorn of himself and braced his manhood. Not for himself must he think now, but for her. The touch of self makes weak, the cross makes strong. What matter that he was giving up his life in that hour if only she were helped? He rose, lifted her from her knees, set her in a chair, and went back to his place.

“Barney, let me come to you,” she pleaded. “I'm sorry I went--”

“No,” he said, his voice quiet and steady, “you must stay there. You must not touch me, else I cannot say what I must.”

“Barney,” she cried again, “let me explain.”

“Explain? There is no need. I know all you would say. These people are nothing to you or to me. Let us forget them. It matters not at all that you went with them. I am not angry. I was at first insane, I think. But that is all past now.”

“What is it, Barney?” she asked in a voice awed by the sadness and despair in the even, quiet tone.

“It is this,” he replied; “we have come to the end. I must not hold you any more. For two years I have known. I had not the courage to face it. But, thank God, the courage has come to me these last two days.”

“Courage, Barney?”

“Yes. Courage to do right. That's it, to do right. That is what a man must do. And I must think for you. Our lives are already far apart and I must not keep you longer.”

“Oh, Barney!” cried Iola, her voice breaking, “let me come to you! How can I listen to you saying such terrible things without your arms about me? Can't you see I want you? You are hurting me!”

The pain, the terror in her voice and in her eyes, made him wince as from a stab. He seemed to hesitate as if estimating his strength. Dare he trust himself? It would make the task infinitely harder to have her near him, to feel the touch of her hands, the pressure of her body. But he would save her pain. He would help her through this hour of agony. How great it was he could guess by his own. He led her to a sofa, sat down beside her, and took her in his arms. With a long, shuddering sigh, she let herself sink down, with muscles relaxed and eyes closed.

“Now go on, dear,” she whispered.

“Poor girl! Poor girl!” said Barney, “we have made a great mistake, you and I. I was not made for you nor you for me.”

“Why not?” she whispered.

“Listen to me, darling. Do I love you?”

“Yes,” she answered softly.

“With all my heart and soul?”

“Yes, dear,” she answered again.

“Better than my own life?”

“Yes, Barney. Oh, yes,” she replied with a little sob in her voice.

“Now we will speak simple truth to each other,” said Barney in a tone solemn as if in prayer, “the truth as in God's sight.”

She hesitated. “Oh, Barney!” she cried piteously, “must I say all the truth?”

“We must, darling. You promise?”

“Oh-h-h! Yes, I promise.” She flung her arms upward about his neck. “I know what you will ask.”

“Listen to me, darling,” he said again, taking down her arms, “this is what I would say. You have marked out your life. You will follow your great ambition. Your glorious voice calls you and you feel you must go. You love me and you would be my wife, make my home, mother my children if God should send them to us; but both these things you cannot do, and meantime you have chosen your great career. Is not this true?”

“I can't give you up, Barney!” she moaned.

To neither of them did it occur as an alternative that Barney should give up his life's work to accompany her in the path she had marked. Equally to both this would have seemed unworthy of him.

“Is not this true, Iola?” Barney's voice, in spite of him, grew a little stern. And though she knew it was at the cost of life she could not deny it.

“God gave me the voice, Barney,” she whispered.

“Yes, darling. And I would not hinder you nor turn you from your great art. So it is better that there should be no bond between us.” He paused a moment as if to gather his strength together for a supreme effort. “Iola, when you were a girl I bound you to me. Now you are a woman, I set you free. I love you, but you are not mine. You are your own.”

Convulsively she clung to him moaning, “No, no, Barney!”

“It is the only way.”

“No, not to-night, Barney!”

“Yes, to-night. To-morrow I go to Baltimore. Trent has got me an appointment in Johns Hopkins. You will never forget me, but your life will be full again of other people and other things.” He hurried his words, seeking to strike the note of her ambition and so turn her mind from her present pain. “Your Philharmonic will bring you fame. That means engagements, great masters, and then you will belong to the great world.” How clearly he had read her mind and how closely he had followed the path she herself had outlined for her feet! He paused, as if to take breath, then hurried on again as through a task. “And we will all be proud of you and rejoice in your success and in your--your--your--happiness.” The voice that had gone so bravely and so relentlessly through the terrible lesson faltered at the word and broke, but only for an instant. He must think of her. “Dick will be here,” he went on, “and Margaret, and soon you will have many friends. Believe me, it is the best, Iola, and you will say it some day.”

Like a flash of inspiration it came to her to say, “No, Barney, you are not helping me to my best.”

In his soul he felt that it was a true word. For a moment he had no answer. Eagerly she followed up her advantage.

“And who,” she cried, “will help me up and take care of me?”

Ah, she struck deep there. Who, indeed, would care for her, guard her against the world with its beasts of prey that batten their lusts upon beauty and innocence? And who would help her against herself? The desire to hold her for himself and for her sprang up fierce within him. Could he desert her, leave her to fight her fights, to find her way through the world's treacherous paths alone? That was the part of his renunciation that had been the heart of his pain. Not his loss, but her danger. Not his loneliness, but hers. For a moment he forgot everything. All the great love in him gathered itself together and massed its weight behind this desire to protect her and to hold her safe.

“Could you, Iola,” he cried hoarsely, “don't you think you could let me care for you? Couldn't you come to me, give me the right to guard you? I can make wealth, great wealth, for you. Can't you come?”

Wildly, with the incoherent logic and eloquence of great passion, he poured forth his soul's desire for her. To work for her, to suffer for her, to live for her, yes, and to give himself to her and to keep her only for himself! Helpless in the sweeping tide of his mighty passion, he poured forth his words, pleading as for his life. By an inexplicable psychic law the exhibition of his passion calmed hers. The sight of his weakness brought her strength. For one fleeting moment she allowed her mind to rest upon the picture his words made of a home, made rich with the love of a strong man, and sweet with the music of children's voices, where she would be safe and sheltered in infinite peace and content. But only for a moment. Swifter than the play of light there flashed before her another scene, a crowded amphitheatre of faces, tier upon tier, eager, rapt, listening, and upon the stage the singer holding, swaying, compelling them to her will. Barney felt her relaxed muscles tone up into firmness. The force of her ambition was being transmitted along those subtle spiritual nerves that knit soul and mind and body into one complex whole, into the very sinews and muscles of her frame. She had hold of herself again. She would set herself to gain time.

“Let us wait, Barney,” she said, “let us take time.”

An intangible something in her tone pulled him to a sharp stop. What a weak fool he had been and how he had been thinking of himself! He sat up, straight and strong, his own man again.

“Forgive me, darling,” he said, a faint, wan smile flitting across his face. “I was weak and selfish. I allowed myself to think for a moment that it might be, but now I know we must say good-bye to-night.”

“Good-bye?” The sting of her pain made her irritable. He was so stubborn. “Surely, Barney, it is unreasonable to ask me to decide at once to-night.”

He rose to his feet and lifted her gently.

“You have decided. You have already chosen your life's path, and it lies apart from mine. Let me go quietly away.” His voice was toneless, passionless. His fight of two days and two nights had left him exhausted. His apparent apathy chilled her to the heart. It was a supreme moment in their lives, and yet she could not fan her soul's fires into flame. He was tearing up the roots of his love out of her life, but there was no acute sense of laceration. The inevitable had come to pass. A silence, dense and throbbing, fell upon them. Outside the storm was lashing the wet leaves against the window.

“If ever you should want me to come to you, Iola, one word will bring me. I shall be waiting, waiting. Remember that, always waiting.” He tightened his arms about her and without passion, but gravely, tenderly he lifted her face. “Good-bye, my love,” he said, and kissed her lips. “My heart's love!” Once more he kissed her. “My life! My love!”

She let the full weight of her body lie in his arms, lifeless but for the eyes that held his fast and for the lips that gave him back his kisses. Gently he placed her on the couch.

“God keep you, darling,” he whispered, bending over her and touching her dusky hair with his lips.

He found his hat, walked with unsteady feet as a man walks under a heavy load, her eyes following his every step, and reached the door. There he paused, his hand fumbling at the knob, opened the door, halted yet an instant, but without turning he passed out of her sight.

An hour later Margaret came in and found her sitting where Barney had left her, dazed and tearless.

“He is gone,” she said dully.

Margaret turned upon her. “Gone? Yes. I have just seen him.”

“And I love him,” continued Iola, looking up at her with heavy eyes.

“Love him! You don't know what love means! Love him! And for your paltry, selfish ambition you send from you a man whose shoes you are not worthy to tie!”

“Oh, Margaret!” cried Iola piteously.

“Don't talk to me!” she replied, her lip quivering. “I can't bear to look at you!” and she passed into her room.

It was intolerable to her that this girl should have regarded lightly the love she herself would have died to gain. But long after Iola had sobbed herself to sleep in her arms Margaret lay wakeful for her own pain and for that of the man she loved better than her life.

But next day, as Iola was planning to go to the station, Margaret would not have it.

“Why should you go? You have nothing to say but what would give him pain. Do you want him to despise you and me to hate you?”

But Iola was resolved to have her way. It was Mrs. Duff Charrington who fortunately intervened and carried Iola off with her to spend the afternoon and evening.

“Just a few musical friends, my dear. So brush up and come away. Bring your guitar with you.”

Iola demurred.

“I don't feel like it.”

“Tut! Nonsense! The lovelorn damsel reads well in erotic novels, but remember this, the men don't like stale beer.”

This bit of worldly wisdom made Iola put on her smartest gown and lay aside the role she had unconsciously planned to adopt, so that even Mrs. Duff Charrington had no fault to find with the sparkling animation of her protegee.

But to the three who stood together waiting for the train to pull out that night there was only dreary, voiceless misery. There was no pretence at anything but misery. To the brothers the moment of parting would be the end of all that had been so delightful in their old life. The days of their long companionship were over, and to both the thought brought grief that made words impossible. Only Margaret's presence forced them to self-control. As to Margaret, Dick alone knew the full measure of her grief, and her quiet, serene courage filled him with amazed admiration. At length came the call of the bustling, businesslike conductor, “All aboard!”

“Good-bye, Margaret,” said Barney simply, holding out his hand. But the girl quietly put back her veil and lifted up her face to him, her brave blue eyes looking all their love into his, but her lips only said, “Good-bye, Barney.”

“Good-bye, dear Margaret,” he said again, bending over her and kissing her.

“Me, too, Barney,” said Dick, his tears openly streaming down his face. “I'm a confounded baby! But hanged if I care!”

At Dick's words all Barney's splendid self-mastery vanished. He threw his arms about his brother's neck, crying “Good-bye, Dick, old man. We've had a great time together; but oh, my boy, my boy, it's all come to an end!”

Already the train was moving.

“Go, old chap,” cried Dick, pushing him away but still clinging to him. And then, as Barney swung on to the step he called back to them what had long been in his heart to say.

“Look after her, will you?”

“Yes, Barney, we will,” they both cried together. And as they stood gazing through dimming tears after the train as it sped out through the network of tracks and the maze of green and red lights, they felt that a new bond drew them closer than before. And it was the tightening of that bond that brought them all the comfort that there was in that hour of misery unspeakable.

XIII

A MAN THAT IS AN HERETIC REJECT

The college year had come to an end. The results of the examinations had been published. The Juniors were preparing to depart for their summer work in the mission field. Of the graduating class, some were waiting with calm confidence the indications of the will of Providence as to their spheres of labour, a confidence undoubtedly strengthened by certain letters in their possession from leading members of influential congregations. Others were preparing with painful shrinking of heart to tread the weary and humiliating “trail of the black bag,” while others again, to whom had come visions of high deeds and sounds of distant battle, were making ready outfits supposed to be suitable for life and work in the great West, or in the far lands across the sea.