Chapter 9

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.