Iola was undoubtedly pleased; her lips parting in a half smile, her eyes shining through half-closed lids, her whole face glowing with a warm light proclaimed the joy in her heart. The morning letters lay on her table. She sat some moments holding one which she had opened, while she gazed dreamily out through the branches of the big elms that overshadowed her window. She would not move lest the dream should break and vanish. As she lay back in her chair looking out upon the moving leaves and waving boughs, she allowed the past to come back to her. How far away seemed the golden days of her Southern childhood. Almost her first recollection of sorrow, certainly the first that made any deep impression upon her heart, was when the men carried out her father in a black box and when, leaving the big house with the wide pillared veranda, she was taken to the chilly North. How terribly vivid was the memory of her miserable girlhood, poverty pressed and loveless, her soul beating like a caged bird against the bars of the cold and rigid discipline of her aunt's well-ordered home. Then came the first glad freedom from dependence when first she undertook to earn her own bread as a teacher. Freedom and love came to her together, freedom and love and friendship in the Manse and the Old Stone Mill. With the memory of the Mill, there rose before her, clear-limned and vividly real, one face, rugged, strong, and passionate, and the thought of him brought a warmer light to her eyes and a stronger beat to her heart. Every feature of the moonlight scene on the night of the barn-raising when first she saw him stood out with startling distinctness, the new skeleton of the barn gleaming bony and bare against the sky, the dusky forms crowding about, and, sitting upon a barrel across the open moonlit space of the barn floor, the dark-faced lad playing his violin and listening while she sang. At that point it was that life for her began.
A new scene passed before her eyes. It was the Manse parlour, the music professor with dirty, claw-like fingers but face alight with rapturous delight playing for her while she sang her first great oratorio aria. She could feel to-day that mysterious thrill in the dawning sense of new powers as the old man, with his hands upon her shoulders, cried in his trembling, broken voice, “My dear young lady, the world will listen to you some day!” That was the beginning of her great ambition. That day she began to look for the time when the world would come to listen. Then followed weary days and weeks and months and years, weary with self-denials new to her and with painful struggling with unmusical pupils, for she needed bread; weary with heart-breaking strivings and failings in the practice of her art, but, worst of all, weary to heart-break with the patronage of the rich and flattering friends—how she loathed it—of whom Dr. Bulling was the most insistent and the most objectionable. And then this last campaign, with its plans and schemes for a place in the great Philharmonic which would at once insure not only her standing in the city, but a New York engagement as well. And now the moment of triumph had arrived. The letter she held in her hand was proof of it. She glanced once more at the written page, her eye falling upon a phrase here and there, “We have succeeded at last—the Duff Charringtons have surrendered—you only want a chance—here it is—you can do the part well.” She smiled a little. Yes, she knew she could do the part. “And now let nothing or nobody prevent you from accepting Mrs. Duff Charrington's invitation for next Saturday. It is a beautiful yacht and well found, and I am confident the great lady will be gracious—bring your guitar with you, and if you will only be kind, I foresee two golden days in store for me.” She allowed a smile slightly sarcastic to curl her lips.
“The doctor is inclined to be poetical. Well, we shall see. Saturday? That means Sunday spent on board the yacht. I wish they had it made another day. Margaret won't like it, and Barney won't either.”
For a moment or two she allowed her mind to go back to the Sundays spent in the Manse. She had never known the meaning of the day before. The utter difference in feeling, in atmosphere, between that day and the other days of the week, the subduing quiet, the soothing peace, and the sense of sacredness that pervaded life on that day, made the Sabbaths in the Manse like blessed isles of rest in the sea of time. Never, since her two years spent there, had she been able to get quite away from the sense of obligation to make the day differ from the ordinary days of the week. No, she was sure Barney would not like it. Still, she could spend its hours quietly enough upon the yacht.
She picked up another letter in a large square envelope, the address written in bold characters. “This is the Duff Charrington invitation, I suppose,” she said, opening the letter. “Well, she does it nicely, at any rate, even if, as Dr. Bulling suggests, somewhat against her inclination.”
Again she sat back in silent dreaming, her eyes looking far away down the coming years of triumph. Surely enough, the big world was drawing near to listen. All she had read of the great queens of song, Patti, Nilsson, Rosa, Trebelli, Sterling, crowded in upon her mind, their regal courts thronged by the great and rich of every land, their country seats, their luxurious lives. At last her foot was in the path. It only remained for her to press forward. Work? She well knew how hard must be her daily lot. Yes, but that lesson she had learned, and thoroughly well, during these past years, how to work long hours, to deny herself the things her luxurious soul longed for, and, hardest of all, to bear with and smile at those she detested. All these she would endure a little longer. The days were coming when she would have her desire and do her will.
She glanced at the other letters upon the table. “Barney,” she cried, seizing one. An odd compunction struck into her heart. “Barney, poor old boy!” A sudden thought stayed her hand from opening the letter. Where had Barney been in this picture of the future years upon which she had been feasting her soul? Aghast, she realized that, amid its splendid triumphs, Barney had not appeared. “Of course, he'll be there,” she murmured somewhat impatiently. But how and in what capacity she could not quite see. Some prima donnas had husbands, mere shadowy appendages to their courts. Others there were who found their husbands most useful as financial agents, business managers, or upper servants. Iola smiled a proud little smile. Barney would not do for any of these discreetly shadowy, conveniently colourless or more useful husbands. Would he be her husband? A warm glow came into her eyes and a flush upon her cheek. Her husband? Yes, surely, but not for a time. For some years she must be free to study, and—well, it was better to be free till she had made her name and her place in the world. Then when she had settled down Barney would come to her.
But how would Barney accept her programme? Sure as she was of his great love, and with all her love for him, she was a little afraid of him. He was so strong, so silently immovable. Often in the past three years she had made trial of that immovable strength, seeking to draw him away from his work to some social engagement, to her so important, to him so incidental. She had always failed. His work absorbed him as her art had her, but with a difference. With Barney, work was his reward; with her, a means to it. To gain some further knowledge, to teach his fingers some finer skill, that was enough for Barney. Iola wrought at her long tasks and practised her unusual self-denials with her eye upon the public. Her reward would come when she had brought the world, listening, to her feet. Seized in the thrall of his work, Barney grimly held to it, come what might. No such absorbing passion possessed Iola. And Iola, while she was provoked by what she called his stubbornness, was yet secretly proud of that silently resisting strength she could neither shake nor break. No, Barney was not fitted for the role of the shadowy, pliant, convenient husband.
What, then, in her plan of life would be his place? It startled her to discover that her plan had been complete without him. Complete? Ah, no. Her life without Barney would be like a house without its back wall. During these years of study and toil, while Barney could only give her snatches of his time, she had come to feel with increasing strength that her life was built round about him. When others had been applauding her successes, she waited for Barney's word; and though beside the clever, brilliant men that moved in the circle into which her art had brought her he might appear awkward and dull, yet it was Barney who continued to be the standard by which she judged men. With all his need of polish, his poverty of small talk, his hopeless ignorance of the conventions, and his obvious disregard of them, the massive strength of him, his fine sense of honour, his chivalrous bearing toward women, added a touch of reverence to the love she bore him. But more than all, it was to Barney her heart turned for its rest. She knew well that she held in all its depth and strength his heart's love. He would never fail her. She could not exhaust that deep well. But the question returned, where would Barney be while she was being conducted by acclaiming multitudes along her triumphal way? “Oh, he will wait—we will wait,” she corrected, shrinking from the heartlessness of the former phrasing. How many years she could not say. But deep in her heart was the determination that nothing should stand in the way of the ambition she had so long cherished and for which she had so greatly endured.
She opened the note with lingering deliberation as one dallies with an approaching delight.
“MY DEAR IOLA: I have always told you the truth. I could not see you last evening, nor can I to-day, and perhaps not for a day or two, because my face is disfigured. These are the facts: At the dinner, night before last, Dr. Bulling lied about you. I made him swallow his lie and in the process got rather badly marked, though not at all hurt. The doctor and his friends will, I think, guard their tongues in future, at least in my hearing. Dr. Bulling is a man of vile mind and of unclean life. He should not be allowed to appear with decent people. I have written to forbid him ever approaching you in public. You will know how to treat him if he attempts it. This will be a most disgusting business to you. I hate to make you suffer, but it had to be done, and by no one but me. Would I could bear it all for you, my darling. The patronage of these people, I mean Dr. Bulling's set, cannot, surely, be necessary to your success. Your great voice needs not their patronage; if so, failure would be better. When I am fit for your presence I shall come to you. Good-bye. It is hard not to see you. Ever yours,
“Barney.”
Alas! for her dreams. How rudely they were dispelled! Alas! for her castle in Spain. Already it was tottering to ruin, and by Barney's hand. She read the note hurriedly again.
“He wants me to break with Dr. Bulling.” She recalled a sentence in the doctor's letter. “Let no one or nothing keep you from accepting this invitation.” “He's afraid Barney will keep me back. Nonsense! How stupid of Barney! He is so terribly particular! He doesn't understand these things. There has been a horrid row of some kind and now he asks me to cut Dr. Bulling!” She glanced at Barney's letter. “Well, he doesn't ask me, but it's all the same—'you will know how to treat him.' He's too proud to ask me, but he expects me to. It would be sheer madness! Wouldn't the Duff Charrington's and Evelyn Redd be delighted! It is preposterous! I must go! I shall go!”
Rarely did Iola allow herself the luxury of a downright burst of passion. With her, it was hardly ever worth while to be seriously angry. It was so much easier to avoid straight issues. But to-day there was no avoiding. She surprised herself with a storm of indignant rage so heart-shaking that after it had passed she was thankful she had been alone.
“What's the matter with me?” she asked herself. She did not know that the whole volume of her ambition, which had absorbed so great a part of her life, had come, in all its might, against the massive rock of Barney's will. He would never yield, she knew well. “What shall I do?” she cried aloud, beginning to pace the room. “Margaret will tell me. No, she would be sure to side with Barney. She would think it was wicked to go on Sunday, anyway, and, besides, she has Barney's rigid notions about things. I wish I could see Dick. Dick will understand. He has seen more of this life and—oh, he's not so terribly hidebound. And I'll get Dick to see Barney.” She would not acknowledge that she was grateful that Barney could not come to see her, but she could write him a note and she could send Dick to him, and in the meantime she would accept the invitation. “I will accept at once. I wish I had before I read Barney's note. I really had accepted in my mind, and, besides, the arrangements were all made. I'll write the letters now.” She hastened to burn her bridges behind her so that retreat might be impossible. “There,” she cried, as she sealed, addressed, and stamped the letters, “I wish they were in the box. I'm awfully afraid I'll change. But I can't change! I cannot let this chance go! I have worked too long and too hard! Barney should not ask it!” A wave of self-pity swept over her, bringing her temporary comfort. Surely Barney would not cause her pain, would not force her to give up her great opportunity. She sought to prolong this mood. She pictured herself a forlorn maiden in distress whom it was Barney's duty and privilege to rescue. “I'll just go and post these now,” she said. Hastily she put on her hat and ran down with the letters, fearing lest the passing of her self-pity might leave her to face again the thought of Barney's inevitable and immovable opposition.
“There, that's done,” she said to herself, as the lid of the post box clicked upon her letters. “Oh, I wonder—I wish I hadn't!” What she had feared had come to pass. She had committed herself, and now her self-pity had evaporated and left her face to face with the inevitable results. With terrible clearness she saw Barney's dark, rugged face with the deep-seeing eyes. “He always makes you feel in the wrong,” she said impatiently. “You can never think what to say. He always seems right, and,” she added honestly, “he is right generally. Never mind, Dick will help me.” She shook off her load and ran on. At her door she met Dr. Foxmore.
“Ah, good-morning,” smiled the doctor, showing a double row of white teeth under his waxed mustache. “And how does the fair Miss Lane find herself this fine morning?”
It took the whole force of Iola's self-mastery to keep the disgust which was swelling her heart from showing in her face. Here was one of Dr. Bulling's friends, one of his toadies—and he had a number of them—who represented to her all that was most loathsome in her life. The effort to repress her disgust, however, only made her smile the sweeter. Foxmore was greatly encouraged. It was one of his fixed ideas that his manner was irresistible with “the sex.” Bulling might hold over him, by reason of his wealth and social position, but give him a fair field without handicap and see who would win out!
“I was about to do myself the honour and the pleasure of calling upon you this morning.”
“Oh, indeed. Well—ah—come in.” Iola was fighting fiercely her loathing of him. It was against this man and his friends that Barney had defended her name. She led the way to her studio, ignoring the silly chatter of the man following her upstairs, and by the time he had fairly got himself seated she was coolly master of herself.
“Just ran in to give you the great news.”
“To wit?”
“Why, don't you know? The Philharmonic thing is settled. You've got it.”
Iola looked blank.
“Why, haven't you heard that the Duff Charringtons have surrendered?” Iola recognized Dr. Bulling's words.
“Surrendered? Just what, exactly?”
“Oh, d-dash it all! You know the big fight that has been going on, the Duff Charringtons backing that little Redd girl.”
“Oh! So the Duff Charringtons have been backing the little Redd girl? Miss Evelyn Redd, I suppose? It sounds a little like a horse race or a pugilistic encounter.”
“A horse race!” he exclaimed. “Ha, ha, ha! A horse race isn't in it with this! But Bulling pulled the wires and you've got it.”
“But this is extremely interesting. I was not aware that the soloists were chosen for any other reason than that of merit.”
In spite of herself Iola had adopted a cool and somewhat lofty manner.
“Oh, well, certainly on merit, of course. But you know how these things go.” Dr. Foxmore was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The lofty air of this struggling, as yet unrecognized, country girl was both baffling and exasperating. “Oh, come, Miss Lane,” he continued, making a desperate effort to recover his patronizing tone, “you know just what we all think of your ability.”
“What do you think of it?” Iola's tone was calmly curious.
“Why, I think—well—I know you can do the work infinitely better than Evelyn Redd.”
“Have you heard Miss Redd in oratorio? I know you have never heard me.”
“No, can't say I have; but I know your voice and your style and I'm confident it will suit the part.”
“Thank you so much,” said Iola sweetly; “I am so sorry that Dr. Bulling should have given so much time, and he is such a busy man.”
“Oh, that's nothing,” waved Dr. Foxmore, recovering his self-esteem, “we enjoyed it.”
“How nice of you! And you were pulling wires, too, Dr. Foxmore?”
“Ah, well, we did a little work in a quiet way,” replied the doctor, falling into his best professional tone.
“And this yachting party, I suppose Dr. Bulling and you worked that, too? Really, Dr. Foxmore, you have no idea what a relief it is to have one's affairs taken charge of in this way. It quite saves one the trouble of making up one's mind. Indeed, one hardly needs a mind at all.” Iola's face and smile were those of innocent childhood. Dr. Foxmore shot a suspicious glance at her and hastened to change the subject.
“Well, you will go next Saturday, will you not?”
“I am really a little uncertain at present,” replied Iola.
“Oh, you must, you know! Mrs. Duff Charrington will be awfully cut up, not to speak of Bulling. He had no end of trouble to bring it off.”
“You mean, to persuade Mrs. Duff Charrington to invite me?”
“Oh, well,” said the doctor, plunging wildly, “I wouldn't put it that way. But the whole question of the Philharmonic was involved, and this invitation was a flag of truce, as it were.”
“Your metaphors certainly have a warlike flavour, Dr. Foxmore; I cannot pretend to follow the workings of your mind. But seeing that this invitation has been secured at the expense of such effort on the part of Dr. Bulling and yourself, I rather think I shall decline it.” In spite of all she could do, Iola could not keep out of her voice a slightly haughty tone. Dr. Foxmore's sense of superiority was fast deserting him. “And as to the Philharmonic solos,” continued Iola, “if the directors see fit to make me an offer of the part I shall consider it.”
“Consider it!” gasped Dr. Foxmore. It was time this young girl with her absurd pretensions were given to understand the magnitude of the favour that Dr. Bulling and himself were seeking to confer upon her. He became brutal. “Well, all I say is that if you know when you are well off, you'll take this chance.”
Iola rose with easy grace and stood erect her full height. Dr. Foxmore had not thought her so tall. Her face was a shade paler than usual, her eyes a little wider open, but her voice was as smooth as ever, and with just a little ring as of steel in it she inquired, “Did you come here this morning to make this threat, Dr. Foxmore?”
“I came,” he said bluntly, “to let you know your good fortune and to warn you not to allow any of your friends to persuade you against your own best interests.”
“My friends?” Iola threw her head slightly backward and her tone became frankly haughty.
“Oh, I know your friends, and especially—I may as well be plain—that young medical student, Boyle, don't like Dr. Bulling, and might persuade you against this yacht trip.”
Iola was furiously aware that her face was aflame, but she stood without speaking for a few moments till she was sure her voice was steady.
“My FRIENDS would never presume to interfere with my choosing.”
“Well, they presume, or at least that young Boyle presumed, to interfere once too often for his own good. But he'll probably be more careful in future.”
“Mr. Boyle is a gentleman in whom I have the fullest confidence. He would do what he thought right.”
“He will probably correct his judgments before he interferes with Dr. Bulling again.” The doctor's tone was insolently sarcastic.
“Dr. Bulling?”
“Yes. He was grossly insulting and Dr. Bulling was forced to chastise him.”
“Chastise! Mr. Boyle!” cried Iola, her anger throwing her off her guard. “That is quite impossible, Dr. Foxmore! That could not happen!”
“But I am telling you it did! I was present and saw it. It was this way—”
Iola put up her hand imperiously. “Dr. Foxmore,” she said, recovering her self-command, “there is no need of words. I tell you it is quite impossible! It is quite impossible!”
Dr. Foxmore's face flushed a deep red. He flung aside the remaining shreds of decency in speech.
“Do you mean to call me a liar?” he shouted.
“Ah, Dr. Foxmore, would you also chastise me as well?”
The doctor stood in helpless rage looking at the calm, smiling face.
“I was a fool to come!” he blurted.
“I would not presume to contradict you, nor to stand in the way of returning wisdom.”
The doctor swore a great oath under his breath and without further words strode from the room.
Iola stood erect and silent till he had disappeared through the open door. “Oh!” she breathed, her hands fiercely clenched, “if I were a man what a joy it would be just now!” She shut the door and sat down to think. “I wonder what did happen? I must see Dick at once. He'll tell me. Oh, it is all horribly loathsome!” For the first time she saw herself from Dr. Bulling's point of view. If she sang in the Philharmonic it would be by virtue of his good offices and by the gracious permission of the Duff Charringtons. That she had the voice for the part and that it was immeasurably better than Evelyn Redd's counted not at all. How mean she felt! And yet she must go on with it. She would not allow anything to stand in the way of her success. This was the first firm stepping-stone in her climb to fame. Once this was taken, she would be independent of Bulling and his hateful associates. She would go on this yacht trip. She need not have anything to do with Dr. Bulling, nor would she, for Barney would undoubtedly be hurt and angry. It looked terribly like disloyalty to him to associate herself on terms of friendship with the man who had beaten him so cruelly. Oh, how she hated herself! But she could not give up her chance. She would explain to Barney how helpless she was and she would send Dick to him. He would listen to Dick.
Poor Iola! Without knowing it, she was standing at the cross roads making choice of a path that was to lead her far from the faith, the ideals, the friends she now held most dear. Through all her years she had been preparing herself for this hour of choice. With her, to desire greatly was to bend her energies to attain. She would deeply wound the man who loved her better than his own life; but the moment of choice found her helpless in the grip of her ambition. And so her choice was made.
Mrs. Duff Charrington at close range was not nearly so formidable as when seen at a distance. The huge bulk of her, the pronouncedly masculine dress and manner, the loud voice, the red face with its dark mustache line on the upper lip, all of which at a distance were calculated to overawe if not to strike terror to the heart of the beholder, were very considerably softened by the shrewd, kindly twinkle of the keen grey eyes which a nearer view revealed. Her welcome of Iola was bluff and hearty, but she was much too busy ordering her forces and disposing of her impedimenta, for she was her own commodore, to pay particular attention in the meantime to her guests. The wharf at which the Petrel was tied was crowded this Saturday afternoon with various parties of excursionists making for the steamers, ferries, yachts, and other craft that lay along the water front. Already the Petrel had hoisted her mainsail and, under the gentle breeze, was straining upon her shore lines awaiting the word to cast off. As Iola stood idly gazing at the shifting scene, wondering how Dick had succeeded on his mission to his brother, she observed Dr. Bulling approaching with his usual smiling assurance. Just as he was about to speak, however, she noticed him start and gaze fixedly toward the farther side of the wharf. Iola's eye, following his gaze, fell upon the figure of a man pushing his way through the crowd. It was Barney. She saw him pause, evidently to make inquiry of a dockhand. With a muttered oath, Bulling sprang to the aft line.
“Let go that line, Murdoff!” he shouted to the man at the bow. “Look lively, there!”
As he spoke he cast off the stern line and seized the wheel, making it imperative that Murdoff should execute his command in the liveliest manner. At once the yacht swung out and began to put a space of blue water between herself and the dock. She was not a moment too soon, for Barney, having received his direction, was coming at a run, scattering the crowd to right and left. As he arrived at the dock edge he caught sight of Iola and Dr. Bulling. He took a step backwards and made as if to attempt the spring. Iola's cry, “Don't, Barney!” arrested Mrs. Duff Charrington's attention.
“What's up?” she shouted. “How's this? We're off! Bulling, what the deuce—who gave orders?”
Mrs. Duff Charrington for once in her life was, as she would have said herself, completely flabbergasted. At a single glance she took in the white face of Iola, and that of Dr. Bulling, no less white.
“What's up?” she cried again. “Have you seen a ghost, Miss Lane? You, too, Bulling?” She glanced back at the clock. “There's someone left behind! Who is that young man, Daisy? Why, it's our medallist, isn't it? Do you know him, Bulling? Shall we go back for him?”
“No, no! For Heaven's sake, no! He's a madman, quite!”
“Pardon me, Dr. Bulling,” said Iola, her voice ringing clear and firm in contrast with Bulling's agitated tone, “he is a friend of mine, a very dear friend, and, I assure you, very sane.” As she spoke she waved her hand to Barney, but there was no answering sign.
“Your friend, is he?” said Mrs. Duff Charrington. “Then doubtless very sane. Does he want you, Miss Lane? Shall we go back for him?”
“No, he doesn't want me,” said Iola.
“Mrs. Charrington,” said Dr. Bulling, “he has a grudge against me because of a fancied insult.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Duff Charrington, “I understand. What do you say, Miss Lane? We can easily go back.”
“Oh, let us not talk about it, Mrs. Charrington,” said Iola hurriedly; “he is gone.”
“As you wish, my dear. Daisy, take Dr. Bulling down to the cabin. I declare he looks as if he needed bracing up. I shall take the wheel.”
“Mrs. Charrington,” said Iola in a low voice, as Bulling disappeared down the companionway, “that was Mr. Boyle, my friend, and I want you to think him a man of the highest honour. But he doesn't like Dr. Bulling. He doesn't trust him.”
“My dear, my dear,” said Mrs. Charrington brusquely, “don't trouble yourself about him. I haven't lived fifty years for nothing. Oh! these men, these men! They take themselves too seriously, the dear creatures. But they are just like ourselves, with a little more conceit and considerably less wit. And they are not really worth all the trouble we take for them. I must get to know your medallist, my dear. That was a strong face and an honest face. I have heard John rave about him. John is my young son, first year in medicine. His judgment, I confess, is not altogether reliable—worships brawn, and there are traditions afloat as to that young man's doings when they were initiating him. But I have no doubt that, however sane on other subjects, he is quite mad about you, and, hang me! if I can wonder. If I were a young man I'd get my arms round you as soon as possible.”
As she chattered along, Iola found her heart warm to Mrs. Duff Charrington, who, with all her sporty manners and masculine ways, was an honest soul, with a shrewd wit and a kindly heart.
“I'm glad now I came,” said Iola gratefully; “I was afraid you weren't—” She paused abruptly in confusion.
“Oh, I'm not so bad as I'm painted, I assure you.”
“Oh, dear Mrs. Charrington, it was not you I was afraid of, it was what Dr. Bulling—” Again Iola hesitated.
“Don't bother telling me,” said Mrs. Duff Charrington, observing her confusion. “No doubt Bulling gave you to understand that he worked me to invite you. Confess now.” There was a shrewd twinkle in her keen grey eye. “Bulling is a liar, a terrible liar, with large possibilities of self-appreciation. But he had nothing to do with this invitation, though he flatters himself he had. He's not without ability, but he can't teach his grandmother to suck eggs. I'll tell you why you are here. I pride myself upon having an eye for a winner, and I pick you as one, and that's why you are to sing in the Philharmonic. Evelyn Redd has a pretty voice. She is a niece of a very dear friend, and for a time I thought she might do. But she has no soul, no passion, and music, like a man, must have passion. Music without passion is a crime against art. So I just told Duff, he's chairman, you know, of the Board of Directors, that she was impossible and that we must have you. I have heard you sing, my dear, and I know the singer's face and the singer's throat and eye. You have them all. You have the voice and the temperament and the passion. You'll be great some day, much greater than I, and, with the hope of sharing your glory, I have decided to put my money on you.”
Iola murmured some words of thanks, not knowing just what to say, but Mrs. Duff Charrington waved them aside.
“Purely selfish,” she said, “purely selfish, my dear. Now don't let Bulling worry you. I pick him for a winner, too. He has force. He'll be a power in the country. Inclines to politics. He's a kind of brute, of course, but he'll succeed, for he has wealth and social prestige, neither to be sniffed at, my child. But, especially, he has driving power. But I'll have my eye on him this trip, so enjoy your outing.”
Mrs. Duff Charrington was as good as her word. She knew nothing of the finesse of diplomacy in the manipulation of her company. Her method was straightforward dragooning. Observing the persistent attempts of Dr. Bulling during the early part of the trip to secure Iola for a tete-a-tete, she called out across the deck in the ears of the whole company, “See here, Bulling, I won't have you trying to monopolise our star. We're out for a good time and we're going to have it. Miss Lane is not your property. She belongs to us all.” Thenceforth Dr. Bulling, with what grace he could summon, had to content himself with just so much of Iola's company as his hostess decided he should have.
It was Iola's first experience of yachting, and it brought her a series of sensations altogether new and delightful. As the yacht skimmed, like a great white-winged bird, over the blue waters of Ontario, the humming breeze, the swift rush through the parting waves, the sense of buoyant life with which the yacht seemed to be endowed made her blood jump. She abandoned herself to the joys of the hour and became the life and soul of the whole party. And were it not for Barney's haunting face, the two days' outing would have been for Iola among the happiest experiences of her life. But Barney's last look across the widening strip of water pursued her and filled her with foreboding. It was not rage; it was more terrible than rage. Iola shuddered as she recalled it. She read in it the despair of renunciation. She dreaded meeting him again, and as the end of her trip drew near her dread increased.
Nor did Mrs. Duff Charrington, who had become warmly interested in the girl during the short voyage, fail to observe her uneasiness and to guess the cause. Foremost among the crowd awaiting them at the dock, Iola detected Barney.
“There he is,” she cried under her breath.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Duff Charrington, who was at her side, “it is not possible that you are afraid, and of a man! I would give something to have that feeling. It is many years since a man could inspire me with any feeling but that of contempt or of kind pity. They are really silly creatures and most helpless. Let me manage him. Introduce him to me and leave him alone.”
Mrs. Duff Charrington's confidence in her superior powers was more than justified. Through the crowd and straight for Iola came Barney, his face haggard with two sleepless nights. By a clever manoeuvre Mrs. Duff Charrington swung her massive form fair in his path and, turning suddenly, faced him squarely. Iola seized the moment to present him. Barney made as if to brush her aside, but Mrs. Duff Charrington was not of the kind to be lightly brushed aside by anyone, much less by a young man of Barney's inexperience.
“Ah, young man,” she exclaimed, “I think I have seen you before.” The strong grip of her hand and the loud tone of her voice at once arrested his progress and commanded his attention. “I saw you get your medal the other day, and I have heard my young hopeful rave about you—John Charrington, you know, medical student, first year. He is something of a fool and a hero-worshipper. You, of course, won't have noticed him.”
Barney halted, gazed abstractedly at the strong face with the keen grey eyes compelling his attention, then, with an effort, he collected his wits.
“Charrington? Yes, of course, I know him. Very decent chap, too. Don't see much of him.”
“No, rather not. He doesn't haunt the same spots. The dissecting-room wouldn't recognize him, I fancy. He's straight-going, however, but he can't pass exams. Good thing, too, for unless he changes considerably, the Lord pity his patients.” She became aware of a sudden hardening in Barney's face and a quick flash in his eye. Without turning her head she knew that Dr. Bulling was approaching Iola from the other side. She put her hand on Barney's arm. “Mr. Boyle, please take Miss Lane to my carriage there? Bulling,” she said, turning sharply upon the doctor, “will you help Daisy to collect my stuff? I am sure things will be left on the yacht. There are always some things left. Servants are so stupid.” There was that in her voice that made Bulling stand sharply at attention and promptly obey. And ere Barney knew, he was leading Iola and Mrs. Duff Charrington to the waiting carriage.
“So sorry I didn't know you were a friend of Miss Lane's, or we would have had you on our trip, Mr. Boyle,” said Mrs. Duff Charrington as he closed the carriage door.
“I thank you. But I am very busy, and, besides, I would not fit in with some of your party.” There was war in Barney's tone.
“Good Heavens, young man!” cried Mrs. Duff Charrington, in no way disturbed, “you don't expect to make the world fit in with you or you with the world, do you? Life consists in adjusting one's self. But you will be glad to know that Miss Lane has made us all have a very happy little holiday.”
“Of that I am sure,” cried Barney gravely.
“And we gave her, or we tried to give her, a good time.”
“It is for that some of us have lived.” Barney's deep voice, thrilling with sad and tender feeling, brought the quick tears to Iola's eyes. To her, the words had in them the sound of farewell. Even Mrs. Duff Charrington was touched. She leaned over the carriage door toward him.
“Mr. Boyle, I am taking Miss Lane home to dinner. Come with us.”
Barney felt the kindly tone. “Thank you, Mrs. Charrington, it would give none of us pleasure, and I have much to do. I am leaving to-morrow for Baltimore.”
Iola could not check a quick gasp. Mrs. Duff Charrington glanced at her white face.
“Young man,” she said sternly, leaning out toward him and looking Barney in the eyes, “don't be a fool. The man that would, from pique, willingly hurt a friend is a mean and cruel coward.”
“Mrs. Charrington,” replied Barney in a steady voice, “I have just come from an operation by which a little girl, an only child, has lost her arm. It was the mother that desired it, not from cruelty, but from love. It is because it is best, that I go to-morrow. Good-bye.” Then turning to Iola he said, “I shall see you to-night.” He lifted his hat and turned away.
“Drive home, Smith,” said Mrs. Charrington sharply; “the others will find their way.”
“Take me home,” whispered Iola, with dry lips.
“Do you love him?” said Mrs. Duff Charrington, taking the girl's hand in hers.
“Ah, yes. I never knew how much.”
“Tut! tut! child, the world still moves. Baltimore is not so far and he is only a man.” Mrs. Duff Charrington's tone did not indicate a high opinion of the masculine section of humanity. “You'll just come with me for dinner and then I shall send you home. Thank God, we can still eat.”
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.