“I've hurt my soul,” said Barney. “It happened that Sunday night years ago. I—can't get over it. I am bent like his back.”
“I should think you'd better get over it, then, if that's all,” Thomas Payne said, roughly.
“I—can't, any more than he can.”
“Do you mean your back's hurt? For God's sake talk sense, Barney!” Thomas cried out, in bewilderment.
“It's more than my back; it's me.”
Thomas stared at Barney; a horror as of something uncanny and abnormal stole over him. Was the man's back curved, or had he by some subtle vision a perception of some terrible spiritual deformity, only symbolized by a curved spine? In a minute he gave an impatient stamp, and tried to shake himself free from the vague pity and horror which the other had aroused.
“Do you know that you are ruining the life of the best woman that ever lived?” he demanded, fiercely.
Barney looked at him, and suddenly there was a flash as of something noble in his face.
“Look here, Thomas,” he said, brokenly, in hoarse gasps. “Last night I—went mad, almost, because—I thought—maybe you'd been to see—her. I—saw you coming down the hill. I thought—I'd die thinking of—you—with her. I can't tell you—what I've been through, what I've suffered, and—what I suffer right along. I know I ain't to be pitied. I know—there ain't any pity—anywhere for anything—like this. I don't pity—myself. But it's awful. If you could get a sight of it, you'd know.”
Again to Thomas Payne, looking at the other, it was as if he saw a pale agonized face staring up at him from the midst of a curved mass of deformity. He shuddered.