"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 ******st 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 ****** 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!"
