"No, you must listen to me. Sit down." Barney obeyed her word and sat down. "Now, hear me, and hear me fairly. I am not going to say that Dick was free from blame, nor was Iola either. Whose was the greater I can't tell. They were both young and, to a certain extent, inexperienced in the ways of life. Circumstances threw them much together and on terms of almost brotherly and sisterly intimacy. That was a mistake. They ignored conventions that can never be safely ignored. Just at that time Dick's life was made hard for him. His Church had rejected him."
"Rejected him?"
"Yes, rejected him. He was refused license by the Presbytery, was branded as a heretic and outcast from work." Margaret's voice grew bitter. "Do you wonder that he grew hard? Perhaps they could not help it--I can't say--but he grew hard. Yes, and worse than that, grew away from his faith, from his friends, and from those things that keep men straight and strong. He grew weak. The hour of temptation came upon him. You and I have seen enough of that side of life to know what that means. He broke faith with you--no, not with you. He was loyal to you, but he broke faith with himself and with her. For a single moment, that moment at which you appeared, he yielded to passion, and bitterly, terribly, has he suffered since that moment. How terribly no one knows. He has tried to find you, but you would not be found. He wronged you, Barney, but you have made him and all of us suffer much." The voice that had gone on so bravely and so firmly here suddenly trembled and broke.
"Made you suffer!" cried Barney, with bitter scorn. "How can you speak of suffering? You have everything! I have lost all!"
"Everything?" echoed Margaret faintly. "Ah, Barney, how little you know! But, no matter, God has brought you together and you must not do this wicked thing. You must not continue to break our hearts."
"Break your hearts? Margaret, what's the use of words? I had a heart, too, and a brother whom I loved and trusted as myself, yes, more than myself, and--I had--Iola. All I have lost. My work satisfies me for a few months, but try as I can this awful thing hunts me down and drives me mad. There is nothing in life left for me. And there might have been much but for--"
"Stop, Barney!" cried Margaret impulsively. "There is much still left for you. God is good. How much better than we. You can't forgive a fellow-sinner. Oh, shame! But He forgives and forgets, and surely you ought to try--"
"Try! Try! Heavens above, Margaret! Try! Do you think I haven't tried? That thing is there! there!" smiting on his breast again.
"Can you tell me how to rid myself of it?"
"Yes, Barney, I think I can tell you. God's great goodness will do this for you. Listen," she said, putting up her hand to stay his words, "God is bringing a great joy to you to shame you and to soften you. Here, read this." She handed him Iola's letter, went to the window, and stood with her back to him, looking out upon the great sweeping valley below.
"Margaret!" The hoarse voice called her back to him. His hard, proud, sullen reserve was shattered, gone. His lips were quivering, his hands trembling. The girl was touched to the heart.
"Margaret," he cried brokenly, "what does this mean?" He was terribly shaken.
"It means that she wants you, that she needs you. Dick was going to-morrow to bring her back to you, Barney. That was his one desire."
"To bring her to me? To bring her back to me? Dick? Dear old boy! and I-- Oh, Margaret!" He put his trembling hands out to her. "Forgive me! God forgive me! Poor Dick! I'll see him!" He started toward the door. "No, not how," he cried, striving in vain to control himself. "I am mad! mad! For three long years I have carried this cursed thing in my heart! It's gone! It's gone, Margaret! Do you hear? It's gone!" He was shouting aloud. "I feel right toward Dick, my brother!"
"Hush, Barney dear," said the girl, tears running down her face, "you will wake him."
"Yes, yes," he cried, in an eager whisper, "I'll be careful. Poor old boy, he has suffered, too. Dear old Dick! And she wants me!
I'll go to-night! Yes, to-night! What's the date?" He tore at the envelope with trembling hands. The letter dropped to the floor. Margaret caught it up and opened it for him. "A month ago and more! Yes, I'll go to-night. Oh, Margaret, what a blasted fool I am! I can't get myself in hand." Suddenly he threw himself into his chair. "Here!" he ground out between his teeth, "get quiet!" He sat for a few moments absolutely still, gathering strength to command himself. At length he got himself in hand.
"No," he said in a quiet voice, "I shall not go tonight. I shall wait till Dick is better. Just now he must be kept quiet. In the morning I expect to see him very much himself. We can only wait and see."
Through the night they waited, Barney struggling mightily to hold himself in perfect control, Margaret quietly doing what was to be done, her whole spirit breathing of that self-forgetting love which finds its highest joy in the joy of another. At the break of day the nurse came to the door and found them still waiting.
"Mr. Boyle is awake and is asking for you, Miss Robertson."
"Let me go to him," cried Barney. "Don't fear." His voice was still vibrating, but his manner was calm and steady. He was master of himself again.
"Yes," said Margaret, "go to him." Then as the door closed she stood once more before the Gethsemane scene. "Thank God, thank God," she said softly, "for them the pain is over."
For half an hour she waited and then went up to the sickroom. She opened the door softly, went in and stood gazing till her eyes grew dim. On the pillow, face down, Barney's head lay close to Dick's, whose arm was thrown about his brother's neck, and on Dick's face shone a look of rapturous peace. As Margaret moved to leave the room Dick called her in a voice faint, but full of joy.
"Margaret," he said, a smile breaking like light through a dark cloud, "my head was broken, but I'd have all the bones in my body broken, just to have Barney set them. We're all right, eh, boy?"
Slowly Barney raised his face, tear-marked, worn, but radiant with a peace it had not known for many a day. "Yes, old chap," he said in a voice still tremulous in spite of all his self-command, "we're right again, and, please God, we'll keep so."
