Rarely did Iola allow herself the luxury of a downright burst of passion. With her, it was hardly ever worth while to be seriously angry. It was so much easier to avoid straight issues. But to-day there was no avoiding. She surprised herself with a storm of indignant rage so heart-shaking that after it had passed she was thankful she had been alone.
"What's the matter with me?" she asked herself. She did not know that the whole volume of her ambition, which had absorbed so great a part of her life, had come, in all its might, against the massive rock of Barney's will. He would never yield, she knew well.
"What shall I do?" she cried aloud, beginning to pace the room.
"Margaret will tell me. No, she would be sure to side with Barney.
She would think it was wicked to go on Sunday, anyway, and, besides, she has Barney's rigid notions about things. I wish I could see ****. **** will understand. He has seen more of this life and--oh, he's not so terribly hidebound. And I'll get **** to see Barney." She would not acknowledge that she was grateful that Barney could not come to see her, but she could write him a note and she could send **** to him, and in the meantime she would accept the invitation. "I will accept at once. I wish I had before I read Barney's note. I really had accepted in my mind, and, besides, the arrangements were all made. I'll write the letters now." She hastened to burn her bridges behind her so that retreat might be impossible. "There," she cried, as she sealed, addressed, and stamped the letters, "I wish they were in the box.
I'm awfully afraid I'll change. But I can't change! I cannot let this chance go! I have worked too long and too hard! Barney should not ask it!" A wave of self-pity swept over her, bringing her temporary comfort. Surely Barney would not cause her pain, would not force her to give up her great opportunity. She sought to prolong this mood. She pictured herself a forlorn maiden in distress whom it was Barney's duty and privilege to rescue. "I'll just go and post these now," she said. Hastily she put on her hat and ran down with the letters, fearing lest the passing of her self-pity might leave her to face again the thought of Barney's inevitable and immovable opposition.
"There, that's done," she said to herself, as the lid of the post box clicked upon her letters. "Oh, I wonder--I wish I hadn't!"
What she had feared had come to pass. She had committed herself, and now her self-pity had evaporated and left her face to face with the inevitable results. With terrible clearness she saw Barney's dark, rugged face with the deep-seeing eyes. "He always makes you feel in the wrong," she said impatiently. "You can never think what to say. He always seems right, and," she added honestly, "he is right generally. Never mind, **** will help me." She shook off her load and ran on. At her door she met Dr. Foxmore.
"Ah, good-morning," smiled the doctor, showing a double row of white teeth under his waxed mustache. "And how does the fair Miss Lane find herself this fine morning?"
It took the whole force of Iola's self-mastery to keep the disgust which was swelling her heart from showing in her face. Here was one of Dr. Bulling's friends, one of his toadies--and he had a number of them--who represented to her all that was most loathsome in her life. The effort to repress her disgust, however, only made her smile the sweeter. Foxmore was greatly encouraged. It was one of his fixed ideas that his manner was irresistible with "the ***."
Bulling might hold over him, by reason of his wealth and social position, but give him a fair field without handicap and see who would win out!
"I was about to do myself the honour and the pleasure of calling upon you this morning."
"Oh, indeed. Well--ah--come in." Iola was fighting fiercely her loathing of him. It was against this man and his friends that Barney had defended her name. She led the way to her studio, ignoring the silly chatter of the man following her upstairs, and by the time he had fairly got himself seated she was coolly master of herself.
"Just ran in to give you the great news."
"To wit?"
"Why, don't you know? The Philharmonic thing is settled. You've got it."
Iola looked blank.
"Why, haven't you heard that the Duff Charringtons have surrendered?"
Iola recognized Dr. Bulling's words.
"Surrendered? Just what, exactly?"
"Oh, d-dash it all! You know the big fight that has been going on, the Duff Charringtons backing that little Redd girl."
"Oh! So the Duff Charringtons have been backing the little Redd girl? Miss Evelyn Redd, I suppose? It sounds a little like a horse race or a pugilistic encounter."
"A horse race!" he exclaimed. "Ha, ha, ha! A horse race isn't in it with this! But Bulling pulled the wires and you've got it."
"But this is extremely interesting. I was not aware that the soloists were chosen for any other reason than that of merit."
In spite of herself Iola had adopted a cool and somewhat lofty manner.
"Oh, well, certainly on merit, of course. But you know how these things go." Dr. Foxmore was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The lofty air of this struggling, as yet unrecognized, country girl was both baffling and exasperating. "Oh, come, Miss Lane," he continued, ****** a desperate effort to recover his patronizing tone, "you know just what we all think of your ability."
"What do you think of it?" Iola's tone was calmly curious.
"Why, I think--well--I know you can do the work infinitely better than Evelyn Redd."
"Have you heard Miss Redd in oratorio? I know you have never heard me."
"No, can't say I have; but I know your voice and your style and I'm confident it will suit the part."
"Thank you so much," said Iola sweetly; "I am so sorry that Dr.
Bulling should have given so much time, and he is such a busy man."
"Oh, that's nothing," waved Dr. Foxmore, recovering his self-esteem, "we enjoyed it."
"How nice of you! And you were pulling wires, too, Dr. Foxmore?"
