"Ah, G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion 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 att.i.tude 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 G.o.d! O G.o.d! O G.o.d!" 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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.

"G.o.d 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. "d.i.c.k 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 l.u.s.ts 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 ma.s.sed its weight behind this desire to protect her and to hold her safe.

"Could you, Iola," he cried hoa.r.s.ely, "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 pa.s.sion, 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 pa.s.sion, he poured forth his words, pleading as for his life. By an inexplicable psychic law the exhibition of his pa.s.sion 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."