"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.



XII

HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE

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.



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.

Two high functions of college life yet remained, one, the Presbytery examination, the other, Professor Macdougall's student party. The annual examination before Presbytery was ever an event of nerve-racking uncertainty. It might prove to be an entirely perfunctory performance of the most innocuous kind. On the other hand, it might develop features of a most sensational and perilous nature. The college barometer this year was unusually depressed, for rumour had gone abroad that the Presbytery examination was to be of the more serious type. It was a time of searchings of heart for those who had been giving, throughout the session, undue attention to the social opportunities afforded by college life, and more especially if they had allowed their contempt for the archaic and oriental to become unnecessarily pronounced. To these latter gentlemen the day brought gloomy forebodings. Even their morning devotions, which were marked by unusual sincerity and earnestness, failed to bring them that calmness of mind which these exercises are supposed to afford. For their slender ray of hope that their memory of the English text might not fail them in the hour of trial was very materially clouded by the dread that in their embarrassment they might assign a perfectly correct English version to the wrong Hebrew text. The result of such mischance they would not allow themselves to contemplate. On the other hand, however, there was the welcome possibility that they might be so able to dispose themselves among the orientalists in their class that a word dropped at a critical moment might save them from this mischance. And there was the further, and not altogether unreal, ground of confidence, that the examiner himself might be uneasily conscious of the ever-present possibility that some hidden Hebrew snag might rudely jag a hole in his own vessel while sailing the mare ignotum of oriental literature. Of course, the examination would also include other departments of sacred learning, for it was the province and duty of Presbytery to satisfy itself as to the soundness in the faith of the candidates before them. On this score, however, few indulged serious anxiety. Once the Hebraic shoals and snags were safely passed, both examiner and examined could disport themselves with a jaunty self-confidence born of a thorough acquaintance with the Shorter Catechism received during the plastic years of childhood.

It was, however, just in these calm waters that danger lurked for Boyle. On the side of scholarship he was known to be invulnerable. Boyle was the hero and darling of the college men, more especially of the "sinners" among them, not simply by reason of his prowess between the goal posts where, times without number, he had rescued the college from the contempt of its foes; but quite as much for the modesty with which he carried off his brilliant attainments in the class lists. Throughout the term, in the college halls after tea, there had been carried on a series of discussions extending over the whole range of the "fundamentals," and Boyle had the misfortune to rouse the wrath and awaken the concern of Finlay Finlayson, the champion of orthodoxy. Finlay was a huge, gaunt, broad-shouldered son of Uist, a theologian by birth, a dialectician by training, and a man of war by the gift of Heaven. Cheerfully would Finlay, for conscience' sake, have given his body to the flames, as, for conscience' sake, he had shaken off the heretical dust of New College, Edinburgh, from his shoes, unhesitatingly surrendering at the same time, Scot though he was, a scholarship of fifty pounds. The hope that he had cherished of being able to find, in a colonial institution of sacred learning, a safe haven where he might devote himself to the perfecting of the defences of his faith within the citadel of orthodoxy was rudely shattered by the discovery that the same heresies which had driven him from New College had found their way across the sea and were being championed by a man of such winning personality and undoubted scholarship as Richard Boyle. The effect upon Finlayson's mind of these discussions carried on throughout the term was such that, after much and prayerful deliberation, and after due notice to the person immediately affected, he discovered it to be his duty to inform the professor in whose department these subjects lay of the heresies that were threatening the very life of the college, and, indeed, of the Canadian Church.

The report of his interview with the professor came back to college through the realistic if somewhat irreverent medium of the professor's son, Tom, presently pursuing a somewhat leisurely course toward a medical degree. As Tom appeared in the college hall he was immediately surrounded by an eager crowd, the most eager of whom was Robert Duff, the sworn ally of Mr. Finlayson.

"Did Finlayson see your father?" inquired Mr. Duff anxiously.

"Sure thing," answered Tom.

"And did he inform him of what has been going on in this college?"

"You bet your life! Give him the whole tip!"

"And what did the professor say?" inquired Mr. Duff, with bated breath.

"Told him to go to the devil."

"To what?" gasped Mr. Duff, to whom it appeared for the moment that the foundations of things in heaven and on earth had indeed been removed. It was only after the shout of laughter on the part of the "sinners" had subsided that Mr. Duff realised that it was the spirit only, and not the ipsissima verba, of the devout and reverent professor, that had been translated in the vigorous vernacular of his son.

Unhappily, however, for Boyle, the report of his heretical tendencies had reached other ears than those of the sane and liberal-minded professor, those, namely, of that stern and rigid churchman, the Rev. Alexander Naismith, some time minister of St. Columba's. Not through Finlayson, however, be it understood, did this report reach him. That staunch defender of orthodoxy might, under stress of conscience, find it his duty to inform the proper authority of the matter, but sooner than retail gossip to the hurt of his fellow-student he would have cut off his big, bony right hand.

The Rev. Alexander Naismith was a little man with a shrill voice, which gained for him the cognomen of "Squeaky Sandy," and a most irritatingly persistent temper. Into his hands, while candidates and examiners were disporting themselves in the calm waters of Systematic Theology, fell poor Dick, to his confusion and the temporary withholding of his license. It was impossible but that in the college itself, and in the college circles of society, this event should become a subject of much heated discussion.

Professor Macdougall's student parties were not as other student parties. They were never attended from a sense of duty. This was undoubtedly due, not so much to the popularity of the professor with his students, as to the shrewd wisdom and profound knowledge of human nature generally and of student nature particularly, on the part of that gentle lady, the professor's wife. Mrs. Macdougall was of the old school, with very beautiful if very old-fashioned notions of propriety. Her whole life was one poetic setting forth of the manners and deportment proper to ladies, both young and old. But none the less her shrewd mother wit and kindly heart instructed her in things not taught in the schools. The consequence was that, while she herself sat erect in fine scorn of the backs of her straight-backed Sheratons, her drawing-room was furnished with an abundance of easy chairs and lounges, and arranged with cosey nooks and corners calculated to gratify the luxurious tastes and lazy manners of a decadent generation. Her shrewd wit was further discovered in the care she took to assemble to her evening parties the prettiest, brightest, wickedest of the young girls in the wide circle of her friends. As young Robert Kidd put it with more vigour than grace, "There were no last roses in her bunch." Moreover, the wise little lady took pains to instruct her young ladies as to their duties toward the young men of the college.

"You must exert yourselves, my dears," she would explain, "to make the evening pleasant for the young men. And they require something to distract their attention from the too earnest pursuit of their studies."

And it is a tradition that so heartily did the young ladies throw themselves into this particular duty that there were, even of the saintliest of the saints, who found it necessary to take their lectures in absentia for at least two days in order that they might recover from the all too successful distractions of the Macdougall party.

Among the guests invited was Margaret, beloved for her own sake, but even more for the sake of her mother, who had been Mrs. Macdougall's college companion and lifelong cherished friend. The absorbing theme of conversation, carried on in a strictly confidential manner, was the sensational feature of the Presbytery examination. The professor himself was deeply grieved, and no less so his stately little lady, for to both of them Dick was as a son. But from neither of them could Margaret extract anything but the most meagre outline of what had happened. For full details of the whole dramatic scene she was indebted to Robert Kidd, second year theologue, whose brown curly locks and cherubic face and fresh innocence of manner won for him the sobriquet of "Baby Kidd," or more shortly, "Kiddie."

"Tell us just what happened," entreated Miss Belle Macdougall, with a glance of such heart-penetrating quality that Kiddie promptly acquiesced.

"Well, I'll tell you," he said, adopting a low confidential tone. "I could see from the very start that old Squeaky Sandy was out after Dick. He couldn't get him on his Hebrew, so the old chap lay low till everything was lovely and they were falling on each others' necks over the Shorter Catechism, and things every fellow is supposed to be quite safe on. All at once Sandy squeaked in, 'Mr. Boyle, will you kindly state what you consider the correct theory of the Atonement?' 'I don't know,' said Boyle; 'I haven't got any.' By Jove! everyone sat up. 'You believe in the doctrine, I suppose?' Boyle waited a while and my heart stopped till he went on again. 'Yes, sir, I believe in it.' 'How is that, sir? If you believe in it you must have a theory. What do you believe about it?' 'I believe in the fact. I don't understand it, and I have no theory of it as yet.' And Boyle was as gentle as a sucking dove. Then the Moderator, decent old chap, chipped it."

"Who was it?" inquired Miss Belle.

"Dr. Mitchell. Fine old boy. None too sound himself, I guess. Pre-mill, too, you know. Well, he chipped in and got him past that snag. But old Sandy was not done yet by a long shot. He went after Boyle on every doctrine in the catalogue where it was possible for a man to get off the track, Inspiration, Inerrancy, the Mosaic Authorship, and the whole Robertson Smith business. You know that last big heresy hunt in Scotland."

"No," said Miss Belle, "I don't know. And you don't, either, so you needn't stop and try to tell us."

"I don't, eh?" said Bob, who was finding it difficult to keep himself in a perfectly sane condition under the bewildering glances of Miss Belle's black eyes. "Well, perhaps I don't. At any rate, I couldn't make you understand."

"Hear him!" said Miss Belle, with supreme scorn. "Go on. We are interested in Boyle, aren't we, Margaret?"

"Well, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, sir, in about five minutes it seemed to me that Boyle's theology was a tattered remnant. Some of the brethren interfered, explaining and apologizing for the young man after their kindly custom, but Squeaky wouldn't have it. 'This is most serious, Mr. Moderator!' he sung out. 'This demands the most searching investigation! We all know what is going on in the Old Land, how the great doctrines of our faith are being undermined by so-called scholarship, which is nothing less than blasphemy and impudent scepticism.' And so he went on shrieking more and more wildly a lot of tommy-rot. But the worst was yet to come. All at once Sandy changed his line of attack and proceeded to take Boyle on the flank. 'Mr. Boyle, are you a smoker?' he asked. 'Yes,' stammered poor Boyle, getting red in the face, 'I smoke some.' 'Are you a total abstainer?' And then Boyle got on to him, and I saw his head go back for the first time. Before this he had been sitting like a convicted criminal. 'No, sir,' he answered, turning square around and facing old Squeaky, 'I am not pledged to total abstinence.' Don't suppose he ever took a drink in his life. 'Did you ever attend the theatre?' This was the limit. It seemed to strike the brethren all at once what the old inquisitor was driving at. The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was a weird sound, a cross between a howl and a roar, and Grant was at the Moderator's desk. It will always be a mystery to me how he got there. There were three pews between him and the desk, and I swear he never came out into the aisle. 'Mr. Moderator, I protest', he shouted. And then the dust began to fly. Say! it was a regular sand storm! About the only thing visible was the lightning from Grant's eyes. By Jingo! 'Mr. Moderator, I protest,' he cried, when he could get a hearing, 'against these insinuations. We all know what Mr. Naismith means by this method of inquisition. But let me tell Mr. Naismith—' Don't know what in thunder he was going to tell him, for the next few moments they mixed it up good and hot. Say! it was a circus with all the monkeys loose and the band playing seventeen tunes all at once! But finally Grant had his say and treated the Presbytery to a pretty full disquisition of his own theology, and when he was done my pity was transferred from Boyle to him, for it seemed that on every doctrine where Boyle was a heretic Grant had gone him one better. And I believe the whole Presbytery were vastly relieved to discover how slight, by contrast, were the errors to which Boyle had fallen. Then Henderson, good old soul, took his innings and poured on oil, with the result that Boyle was turned over to a committee—and that's where he is now. But he'll never appear. He's going in for journalism. The Telegraph wants him."

"Journalism?" cried Margaret faintly. She was thinking of the dark-faced old lady up in the country who was counting the days till her son should be sent forth a minister of the Gospel.

"Yes," said Kiddie. "And there's where he'll shine. See what he's done with the Monthly. He's got great style. But wasn't there a row at the college!" continued Kiddie. "Old Father Finlayson there," nodding across the room at the Highlander, who was engaged in what appeared to be an extremely interesting conversation with his hostess, "orthodox old beggar as he is, was ready to lead a raid on Squeaky Sandy's house. You know he has been at war with Boyle all winter on every and all possible themes. But he fights fair, and this hitting below the belt was too much for him. He was raging up and down the hall like a wild man when Boyle came in. 'Mr. Boyle,' he roared, rushing up to him and seizing him by the hand and working it like a pump-handle in a fire, 'it was a most iniquitous proceeding! I wish to assure you I have no sympathy whatever with that sort of thing!' And so he went on till he had Boyle almost in tears. By Jove! he's a rum old party! Look at his socks, will you!"

The young ladies glanced across and beheld in amused but amazed horror the Highlander's great feet encased in a new pair of carpet slippers adorned with pink roses and green ground, which made a startling contrast with his three-ply worsted stockings, magenta in colour, which his fond aunt had knit as part of his outfit for the Arctic regions of Canada.

"You may laugh," continued Bob. "So would I yesterday. But, by Jingo! he can wear magenta socks on his head if he likes for me! He's all white, and he has the heart of a gentleman!" Little Kidd's voice went shaky and his eyes had the curious shine that appeared in them only in moments of deepest excitement, but if he had only known it, he had never been so near storming the gate of Miss Belle's heart as at that moment. She showed her sympathy with Kiddie's attitude by giving Mr. Finlayson "the time of his life," as Kiddie himself remarked. So assiduously, indeed, did she devote herself to the promotion of Mr. Finlayson's comfort and good cheer that that gentleman's fine sense of honour prompted him to inform her incidentally of the existence of Miss Jennie McLean, who was to "come out to him as soon as he was placed." He was surprised, but entirely delighted, to discover that this announcement made no difference whatever in Miss Belle's attentions. At the supper hour, however, Miss Belle, moved by Kiddie's lugubrious countenance, yielded her place to Margaret, who continued the operation of giving Mr. Finlayson "the time of his life." But not a word could she extract from him regarding the heresy case, for, with a skill that might have made a Queen's Counsel green with envy, he baffled her leading questions with a density of ignorance unparalleled in her experience, until she let it be known that Dick was an old schoolmate and dear friend. Then Mr. Finlayson poured forth the grief and rage swelling in his big heart at the treatment his enemy had received and his anxious concern for his future both here and hereafter. In a portion of this concern, at least, Margaret shared. And as Mr. Finlayson continued to unburden himself, during the walk home, regarding the heresies in Edinburgh from which he had fled and the heresies that had apparently taken possession of Dick's mind, her heart continued to sink within her, for it seemed that the opinions attributed to Dick were subversive of all she had held true from her childhood. With such intelligence and sympathy, however, did she listen to Mr. Finlayson discoursing, that that gentleman carried back with him to college a heart somewhat lightened of its burden, but withal seriously impressed with the charm and the mental grasp of the young ladies of Canada. And so enthusiastically did he dwell upon this theme in his next letter, that Miss Jessie McLean set herself devoutly to pray, either that Finlayson might soon be placed, or that the professors might cease giving parties.

The brand of heresy almost invariably works ill to him who bears it. For if he be young and shallow enough to enjoy the distinction, it will only increase his vanity and render his return to sure and safe paths more difficult. But if his doubts are to him a grief and a horror of darkness, the brand will burn in and drive him far from his fellows, and change the kindly spirit in him to bitterness unless, perchance, he light upon a friend who gives him love and trust unstinted and links him to wholesome living. After all, in matters of faith every man must blaze his own path through the woods and make his own clearing in which to dwell. And he may well thank God if his path lead him some whither where there is space enough to work his day's work and light enough to live by.

With Dick it was mostly dark, for it was not given him to have a friend who could understand. But he was not allowed to feel himself to be quite abandoned, for in the darkest of his hours there stood at his side Margaret Robertson, whose strong, cheery good sense and whose loyalty to right-doing helped him and strengthened him and so made it possible to wait till the better day dawned.



XIV

WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN

The Journalistic World has its own diversity of mountain and plain, and its own variety of inhabitants. There are its mountain ranges and upland regions of clear skies and pure airs, where are wide outlooks and horizons whose dim lines fade beyond the reach of clear vision. Amid these mountain ranges and upon these uplands dwell men among the immortals to whom has come the "vision splendid" and whose are the voices that in the crisis of a man or of a nation give forth the call that turns the face upward to life eternal and divine. To these men such words as Duty, Honour, Patriotism, Purity, stand for things of intrinsic value worth a man's while to seek and, having found, to die for.

Level plains there are, too, where harvests are sown and reaped. But there these same words often become mere implements of cultivation, tools for mechanical industries or currency for the conduct of business. Here dwell the practical men of affairs, as they love to call themselves, for whom has faded the vision in the glare of opportunism.

And far down by the water-fronts are the slum wastes where the sewers of politics and business and social life pour forth their fetid filth. Here the journals of yellow shade grub and fatten. In this ooze and slime puddle the hordes of sewer rats, scavengers of the world's garbage, from whose collected stores the editor selects his daily mess for the delectation of the great unwashed, whether of the classes or of the masses, and from which he grabs in large handfuls that viscous mud that sticks and stings where it sticks.

The Daily Telegraph was born yellow, a frank yellow of the barbaric type that despises neutral tints. By the Daily Telegraph things were called by their uneuphemistic names. A spade was a spade, and mud was mud, and nothing was sacred from its sewer rats. The highest paid official on its staff was a criminal lawyer celebrated in the libel courts. Everybody cursed it and everybody read it. After a season, having thus firmly established itself in the enmities of the community, and having become, in consequence, financially secure, it began to aspire toward the uplands, where the harvests were as rich and at the same time less perilous as well as less offensive in the reaping. It began to study euphemism. A spade became an agricultural implement and mud alluvial deposit. Having become by long experience a specialist in the business of moral scavenging, it proceeded to devote itself with most vehement energy to the business of moral reform. All indecencies that could not successfully cover themselves with such gilding as good hard gold can give were ruthlessly held up to public contempt. It continued to be cursed, but gradually came to be respected and feared.

It was to aid in this upward climb that the editor of the Daily Telegraph seized upon Dick. That young man was peculiarly fitted for the part which was to be assigned to him. He was a theological student and, therefore, his ethical standards were unimpeachable. His university training guaranteed his literary sense, and his connection with the University and College papers had revealed him a master of terse English. He was the very man, indeed, but he must serve his apprenticeship with the sewer rats. For months he toiled amid much slime and filth, breathing in its stinking odours, gaining knowledge, it is true, but paying dear for it in the golden coin of that finer sensibility and that vigorous moral health which had formerly made his life, to himself and to others, a joy and beauty. For the slime would stick, do what he could, and with the smells he must become so familiar that they no longer offended. That delicate discrimination that immediately detects the presence of decay departed from him, and in its place there developed a coarser sense whose characteristic was its power to distinguish between sewage and sewage. Hence, morality, with him, came to consist in the choosing of sewage of the less offensive forms. On the other hand, consciousness of the brand of heresy drove him from those scenes where the air is pure and from association with those high souls who by mere living exhale spiritual health and fragrance.

"We do not see much of Mr. Boyle these days, Margaret," Mrs. Macdougall would say to her friend, carefully modulating her tone lest she should betray the anxiety of her gentle, loyal heart. "But I doubt not he is very busy with his new duties."

"Yes, he is very busy," Margaret would reply, striving to guard her voice with equal care, but with less success. For Margaret was cursed, nay blessed, with that heart of infinite motherhood that yearns over the broken or the weak or the straying of humankind, and makes their pain its own.

"Bring him with you to tea next Sabbath evening, my dear," the little lady would say, with never a quiver or inflection of voice betraying that she had detected the girl's anxiety for her friend.

But more infrequently, as the days went on, could she secure Dick for an hour on Sabbath evening in the quiet, sweet little nook of the professor's dining-room. He was so often held by his work, but more often by his attendance upon Iola, for between Iola and him there had grown up and ripened rapidly an intimacy that Margaret regarded with distrust and fear. How she hated herself for her suspicions! How she fought to forbid them harbour in her heart! But how persistently they made entrance and to abide.

The World of Fashion is, for the most part, a desert island of gleaming sands, at times fanned by perfume-laden zephyrs and lapped by shining waters. Then those who dwell there disport themselves, careless of all save the lapping, shining waters and the gleaming sands out of which they build their sand castles with such concentrated eagerness and such painful industry. At other times there come tempests, sudden and out of clear skies, which sweep, with ruthless besom, castles and castle-builders alike, and leave desolation and empty spaces for a time.

A silly world it is, and hard of heart, and like to die of ennui at times. And hence it welcomes with pathetic joy all who can bring some new fancy or trick to their castle-building, rejecting all other without remorse. To this World of Fashion Iola had offered herself, giving freely her great voice and her superb body, now developed into the full splendour of its rich and sensuous beauty. And how they gathered about her and gave her unstinted their flatteries and homage, taking toll the while of the very soul-stuff in her. Devoutly they worshipped at the shrine of that heavenlike and heaven-given instrument wherewith she could tickle their senses, rejoicing, during the pauses of their envies and hatreds, such among them as were female, and of their lusts and despairs such as were male, in her warm flesh tints and full flesh curves and the draperies withal wherewith, with consummate art, she revealed or enhanced the same. For Iola was possessed of a fatal, maddening beauty, and an alluring fascination of manner that wrought destruction among men and fury among women.

To Dick, who, with his brilliant talents, shed lustre upon her courts, Iola gave chief place in her train, yet in such manner as that her preference for him neither lessened the number nor checked the ardour of her devotees. He was her friend of childhood days, her good friend, but nothing more. Upon this basis of a boy and girl friendship was established an intimacy which seemed to render unnecessary those conventions, unreal and vexing in appearance, but which, as the wise old world has proved, man and woman with the dread potencies of passion slumbering within them cannot afford to despise. By their mutual tastes, as by their habits of life, Iola and Dick were brought into daily association. Under Dick's guidance she read and studied the masters of the English drama. For she had her eye now upon the operatic stage and was at present devoting herself to the great musical dramas of Wagner. Together they took full advantage of the theatre privileges which Dick's connection with the press gave him. And at those festive routs by which society amuses and vexes itself they were constantly thrown together. Dick was acutely and growingly sensitive to the influence Iola had upon him. Her beauty disturbed him. The subtle potency that exhaled from her physical charms affected him like draughts of wine. Away from her presence he marvelled at himself and scorned his weakness; but once within sound of her voice, within touch of her hand, her power reasserted itself. The mystery of the body, its subtle appeal, its terrible potency, allured and enslaved him. Against this infatuation of Dick's, Margaret felt herself helpless. She well knew that Dick's love for her had not changed, except to grow into a bitter, despairing intensity that made his presence painful to her at times. This very love of his closed her lips. She could only wait her time, meanwhile keeping such touch with him as she could, bringing to him the wholesome fragrance of a pure heart and the strength and serenity of a life devoted to well doing.

Something would occur to recall him to his better self. And something did occur. Almost a year had elapsed since Barney had gone out of Iola's life in so tragic a way. Through all the months of the year he had waited, longing and hoping for the word that might recall him to her, until suspense became unbearable even for his strong soul. Hence it was that Iola received from him a letter breathing of love so deep, so tender, and withal so humble, that even across the space that these months had put between Barney and herself, Iola was profoundly stirred and sorely put to it to decide upon her answer. She took the letter to Margaret and read her such parts as she thought necessary. "A year has gone. It seems like ten. I have waited for your word, but none has come. Looking back upon that dreadful night I sometimes think I may have been severe. If so, my punishment has been heavy enough to atone. Tell me, shall I come to you? I can offer you a home even better than I had hoped a year ago. I am offered a lectureship here with an ample salary, or an assistantship on equal terms, by Trent. I have discovered that I am in the grip of a love beyond my power to control. In spite of all that my work is to me, I find myself looking, not into the book before me, but into your eyes—I may be able to live without you, but I cannot live my best. I don't see how I can live at all. It seems as if I could not wait even a few days for your word to come. Darling, my heart's love, tell me to come."

"How can I answer a letter like that?" said Iola to Margaret.

"How?" exclaimed Margaret. "Tell him to come. Wire him. Go to him. Anything to get him to you."

Iola mused a while. "He wants me to marry him and to keep his house."

"Yes," said Margaret, "he does."

"Housekeeping and babies, ugh!" shuddered Iola.

"Yes," cried Margaret, "ah, God, yes! Housekeeping and babies and Barney! God pity your poor soul!"

Iola shrank from the fierce intensity of Margaret's sudden passion.

"What do you mean?" she cried. "Why do you speak so?"

"Why? Can't you read God's meaning in your woman's body and in your woman's heart?"

From Margaret Iola got little help. Indeed, the gulf between the two was growing wider every day. She resolved to show her letter to Dick. They were to go that evening to the play and after the play there would be supper. And when he had taken her home she would show him the letter.

On their way home that evening as they were passing Dick's rooms, he suddenly remembered that a message was to be sent him from the office.

"Let us run in for a moment," he said.

"I think I had better wait you here," replied Iola.

"Nonsense!" cried Dick. "Don't be a baby. Come in."

Together they entered and, laying aside her wrap, Iola sat down and drew forth Barney's letter.

"Listen, Dick. I want your advice." And she read over such portions of Barney's letter as she thought necessary.

"Well?" she said, as Dick remained silent.

"Well," replied Dick, "what's your answer to be?"

"You know what he means," said Iola a little impatiently. "He wants me to marry him at once and to settle down."

"Well," said Dick, "why not?"

"Now, Dick," cried Iola, "do you think I am suited for that kind of life? Can you picture me devoting myself to the keeping of a house tidy, the overseeing of meals? I fancy I see myself spending the long, quiet evenings, my husband busy in his office or out among his patients while I dose and yawn and grow fat and old and ugly, and the great world forgetting. Dick, I should die! Of course, I love Barney. But I must have life, movement. I can't be forgotten!"

"Forgotten?" cried Dick. "Why should you be forgotten? Barney's wife could not be ignored and the world could not forget you. And, after all," added Dick, in a musing tone, "to live with Barney ought to be good enough for any woman."

"Why, how eloquent you are, Dick!" she cried, making a little moue. "You are quite irresistible!" she added, leaning toward him with a mocking laugh.

"Come, let us go," said Dick painfully, conscious of her physical charm. "We must get away."

"But you haven't helped me, Dick," she cried, drawing nearer to him and laying her hand upon his arm.

The perfume of her hair smote upon his senses. The beauty of her face and form intoxicated him.

He knew he was losing control of himself.

"Come, Iola," he said, "let us go."

"Tell me what to say, Dick," she replied, smiling into his face and leaning toward him.

"How can I tell you?" cried Dick desperately, springing up. "I only know you are beautiful, Iola, beautiful as an angel, as a devil! What has come over you, or is it me, that you should affect me so? Do you know," he added roughly, lifting her to her feet, his breath coming hard and fast, "I can hardly keep my hands off you. We must go. I must go. Come!"

"Poor child," mocked Iola, still smiling into his eyes, "is it afraid it will get hurt?"

"Stop it, Iola!" cried Dick. "Come on!"

"Come," she mocked, still leaning toward him.

Swiftly Dick turned, seized her in his arms, his eyes burning down upon her mocking face. "Kiss me!" he commanded.

Gradually she allowed the weight of her body to lean upon him, drawing him steadily down toward her the while, with the deep, passionate lure of her lustrous eyes.

"Kiss me!" he commanded again. But she shook her head, holding him still with her gaze.

"God in heaven!" cried Dick. "Go away!" He made to push her from him. She clasped him about the neck, allowing herself to sink in his arms with her face turned upward to his. Fiercely he crushed her to him, and again and again his hot, passionate kisses fell upon her face.

Conscious only of the passion throbbing in their hearts and pulsing through their bodies, oblivious to all about them, they heard not the opening of the door and knew not that a man had entered the room. For a single moment he stood stricken with horror as if gazing upon death itself. Turning to depart, his foot caught a chair. Terror-smitten, the two sprang apart and stood with guilt and shame stamped upon their ghastly faces.

"Barney!" they cried together.

Slowly he came back to them. "Yes, it is I." The words seemed to come from some far distance. "I couldn't wait. I came for my answer, Iola. I thought I could persuade you better. I have it now. I have lost you! And"—here he turned to Dick—"oh, my God! My God! I have lost my brother, too!" he turned to depart from him.

"Barney," cried Dick passionately, "there was no wrong! There was nothing beyond what you saw!"

"Was that all?" inquired his brother quietly.

"As God is in heaven, Barney, that was all!"

Barney threw a swift glance round the room, crossed to a side table, and picked up a Bible lying there. He turned the leaves rapidly and handed it to his brother with his finger upon a verse.

"Read!" he said. "You know your Bible. Read!" His voice was terrible and compelling in its calmness.

Following the pointing finger, Dick's eyes fell upon words that seemed to sear his eyeballs as he read, "Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her, hath committed adultery with her already in his heart." Heart-smitten, Dick stood without a word.

"I could kill you now," said the quiet, terrible voice. "But what need? To me you are already dead."

When Dick looked up his brother had gone. Nerveless, broken, he sank into a chair and sat with his face in his hands. Beside him stood Iola, pale, rigid, her eyes distended as if she had seen a horrid vision. She was the first to recover.