"And he's going this fall," said Dick aloud, "or no 'varsity for me." He pulled a letter out of his pocket. It was from his football comrade, young Macdonald, offering, in his father's name, to Barney and himself positions in one of the lumber mills far up the Ottawa, where, by working overtime, there was a chance of making $100 a month and all found. "And we'll make it go," said Dick. "There's $300 apiece for us, and that's more than we want.
Poor old chap!" he continued, musing aloud, "he'll get his chance at last. Besides, we'll get him away from that girl, confound her! though I'm afraid it's no use now."
A deeper pain surged up from the bottom of Dick's heart. "That girl" was Iola. The night before, as they were driving home in the growing dark, with halting words and with shamed face, as if he were doing his brother a wrong, Barney had confided to him that Iola and he had come to an understanding of their mutual love.
Dick remembered this morning, and he would remember to his dying day, the sense of loss, of being forsaken, that had smitten him as he cried, "Oh, Barney! is it possible?" Then, as Barney had gone on to explain how it had come about, almost apologizing, as it seemed to Dick, for his weakness, Dick, seeing in the gloom a gleam of hope, had cried, "We'll get you out of it, Barney. I'll help you this summer." And then again the inevitableness of what had taken place had come over him at Barney's reply: "But, Dick, I don't want to get out of it." At that moment Dick's world changed.
No longer was he first with his brother. Iola had taken his place.
In vain Barney, guessing the thought in his heart, had protested with eager, almost piteous, appeal that Dick would be the same to him as ever. In the first acute moment of his pain he had cried out some quick word of bitter reproach, but the look on Barney's face had checked him. He was glad now that he had said nothing against the girl. And as he thought of her in the saner light of the morning, he felt that he could not be quite fair to her, and yet he wished it had been some other than Iola. "It's that confounded voice of hers, and her eyes, and her whole get-up.
She's got something diabolically fetching about her." Then, as if he had gone too far, he continued, still musing aloud, "She's good enough, I guess, but not for Barney." That was one of the bitter things that had survived the night. She was not good enough for his brother, his hero, his beau ideal of high manhood ever since he could think. "But there is no one good enough for Barney," he continued, "except--yes--there is one--Margaret--she is good enough--even for Barney." As Barney among men, so Margaret among women had stood with Dick, peerless. And all his life he had put these two together. Even as a little fellow, when saying his prayers to his mother, next in the list to Barney's name had always come Margaret's. She was like Barney in so many ways; strong like Barney in her relentless devotion to duty; she had Barney's fine sense of honour, of righteousness, and Barney's superb courage, and, more than anything else, the same unfathomable heart of love.
One could never get to the bottom of it. No matter what the drain, there would still be love there.
It was the thought of Margaret that had set his heart singing within him this morning. Even last night, after the first few moments of pain, the thought of Margaret had come to him, bringing an odd sense of happiness, and early this morning the first consciousness of loss, that had made him tighten his arm hard about his brother, had been followed by that feeling of happiness, indefinable at first, but soon traced to the thought of Margaret.
For the first time in his life he thought of her unrelated to Barney. He had always loved Margaret, rejoiced in her high spirit, her courage, her downright sincerity, her deep heart, but never for himself, always for Barney. The first resentment that Barney should have passed her by for one like Iola had given way to a timid fluttering of heart that strengthened and deepened to a great joy that the way to Margaret for him stood open. For himself, now, he might love her. With such marvellous swiftness does love work that, when his mother bade him go "pay his duty to the minister," his heart responded with so great a leap of joy that he found himself glancing quickly at the faces of those about him, sure that they must have noticed.
And now he was on his way to Margaret. It was as if he had to make acquaintance of her. He wondered how she would greet him and he wondered what he should say to her. What would she be doing now?
