“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.