"Miss Christian, I said awhile ago everything was changing in Ireland. There's big changes coming, even hereabouts, things I couldn't believe would ever happen. I've recently learned a--a fact--a statement that I'm not at liberty to repeat. I was--I may say that I was shocked--but Miss Christian--" the agony in his eyes was in his voice. "Oh! Miss Christian, for God's sake, believe that I knew nothing of it till this day!" He stood up, steadying himself with a hand on one of the high marble pillars of the mantelpiece. "Knew nothing of what?" said Christian, thinking she had mistaken what he had said. "I can't tell you--you'll know soon enough--only I'm just asking you to believe that I had neither part nor lot in it!" Christian had risen, and was standing up; he came a step nearer. "I just want you to understand, Miss Christian, that in this world there is no one I regard like you--no one, nor ever was, nor ever will be--but don't mind that, I only want to say that if there is anything in this earthly world that it's in my power to do for you, or that I could help you in anny shape or form, you will be showing the kindness and mercy of God if you will let me do it for you." He was trembling, and his voice shook, but his nervousness was gone. "The kindness and mercy of God!" he said again. "I would feel it to be that--oh, God! I would!" The tortured spirit in his eyes had given place to another spirit, whose emotion Christian could neither mistake nor respond to, yet its kinship with the immutable fidelity that was in her heart made an appeal that she could not refuse. "Be sure I will ask you," she said, with the pity that her own heart-loneliness had taught her in her voice. "I can't understand what it is that you think may happen; it seems to me as if--" She broke off, held by the thought that disaster could hardly have another arrow in its quiver for her. "You may be sure if I think you can help me, I will ask you. I know I could rely on you," she said, pushing back her own trouble, meeting his wild eyes with hers, steadfast and compassionate. "I'm more than thankful--grateful--you've only to speak--" he stumbled and stammered with words that were all inadequate to his feeling. "I won't detain you; I'm taking your time too long as it is--and I'll have a job to get home too, the river's rising every minute, and so is the storm--" He somehow talked himself out of the room. Christian returned to her work of destruction. The situation in general had not been made easier for her by Barty's tragic offer of assistance in some mysterious and advancing stress, or by the certainty that she tried to shake, but could not, of what his eyes had said to her. But Barty, as he drove home through the storm, felt himself to be a new man, consecrate and apart, ennobled by her promise to rely on him, glorified by her look; and thanked God that, when the trouble came, she would remember that he had had neither part nor lot in it. CHAPTER XXXIX