“Of course. He was coming with me, and both of us were going to call upon you; but, unluckily for me, he couldn’t come, and here I am stranded; and I must say, when you talk like that, I think fate is a little hard on me.”
As the girl looked at him, her expression softened; she felt she had been unfair to him, and she had a keen sense of justice.
“I had no intention of saying anything harsh,” she replied. “I merely told you what I thought any one in your position would do. Don’t you agree with me?”
“I always agree with you, Miss Sartwell. I’m rather a blockhead, at best, don’t you know; but I usually recognize the right thing when some one points it out to me. That’s one great fault I find with myself: I don’t see things till after every one else has seen them; then they all seem so plain that I wonder I didn’t notice them before. People are so impatient with a fellow like me, that sometimes I feel sorry for myself,—I give you my word I do! If they would take a little pains,—but then, of course, no one ever cares whether a fellow goes right or wrong.”
“Oh, yes, they do!” cried the girl, quickly. “I’m sure I care very much.”
“You think you do,” replied Barney, dejectedly; “but you won’t even risk a slight scolding at the school to give me the advice I need at the time I need it most. But that’s the way of the world,” continued the ill-used young man, with a deep sigh. “All I want you to do is to take a short drive with me, and tell me what you know of the disaster, and what you think I ought to do under the circumstances. I brought this turnout from London on purpose to take you out. It isn’t as if I were suggesting anything clandestine, for I came with your father’s approval. I wrote to the mistress of the school, telling her so, but she answered with a sharp reprimand. Then I wrote directly to you, but my letter was returned with an intimation that I was trying to do something underhanded. So you see, I made every effort to be square and honest, but the honest people wouldn’t have it. That’s the sort of conduct that drives men to crime. Then I took to more questionable methods, and got that young fellow—I forget his name—to carry a letter to you. That offended you——-”
“Oh, no!”
“It’s nice of you to say so,” Barney went on, mournfully; “but I am so used to disappointment that a little extra, more or less, doesn’t matter. I see now I was wrong to send that letter in the way I did—I always see those things after; but I was forced into it. I expect to end up in prison some day, and never realize my crime until the judge sentences me. I suppose I ought to be above the need of an encouraging word now and then, but I don’t seem to be.”
“What do you wish me to do?” asked the girl, a shade of perplexity coming over her face.
“All I wish is a little straightforward clear-headed advice. Art beckons me in one direction, and advises me to leave business alone. You said just now that my place was at the works, and that I shouldn’t be idling here when there was so much to be done. Mr. Sartwell quite evidently hopes I shall keep out of the way, or he would have told me of the fire. I seem to be a superfluous person, not wanted anywhere—not even by the police. What do I wish you to do? I wish you to let me take you for a little drive into the country, and tell me how I can help your father at this crisis.”