“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.