Lynda sat again upon her ottoman--her capacity for sitting hours without
a support to her back had always been one of her charms for William
Truedale. The old man looked at her now; how strong and fine she was!
How reliant and yet--how appealing! How she would always give and
give--be used to the breaking point--and rarely understood. Truedale
understood her through her mother!
"I want to ask you, Lynda, why do you come here--you of all the world? I
have often wondered."
"I--I like to come, generally, Uncle William."
"But--other times, out of the general? You come oftener then. Why?"
And now Lynda turned her clear, dark eyes upon him. A sudden resolve had
been taken. She was going to comfort him as she never had before, going
to recompense him for the weeks just past when she had failed him while
espousing Con's cause. She was going to share her secret with him!
"Just before mother went, Uncle William, she told me--"
The hand holding the cigar swayed--it was a very frail, thin hand.
"Told you--what?"
"That you once--loved her."
The old wound ached as it was bared. Lynda meant to comfort, but she was
causing excruciating pain.
"She--told you that? And you so young! Why should she so burden you--she
of all women?"
"And--my mother loved you, Uncle William! She found it out too late
and--and after that she did her best for--for Brace and me and--father!"
The room seemed swaying, as all else in the universe was, at that
moment, for William Truedale. Everything that had gone to his
undoing--to the causing of his bitter loneliness and despair--was beaten
down by the words that flooded the former darkness with almost
terrifying light. For a moment or two he dared not speak--dared not
trust his voice. The shock had been great. Then, very quietly:
"And--and why did she--speak at the last?"
Lynda's eyes filled with tears.
"Because," she faltered, "since she could not have come to you without
dishonour--she sent me! Her confidence has been the sacredest thing in
my life and I have tried to do as she desired. I--I have failed
sadly--lately, but try to forgive me for--my mother's sake!"
"And you--have"--the voice trembled pitifully in spite of the effort
Truedale made to steady it--"kept silence--since she went; why? Oh!
youth is so ignorant, so cruel!" This was said more to himself than to
the girl by his knee upon whose bowed head his shrivelled hand
unconsciously rested.
"First it was for father that I kept the secret. He seemed so stricken
after--after he was alone. And then--since I was trying to be to you
what mother wanted me to be--it did not seem greatly to matter. I wanted
to win my way. I always meant to tell you, and now, after these weeks of
misunderstanding, I felt you should know that there will always be a
reason for me, of all the world, to share your life."
"I see! I see!" A great wave of emotion rose and rose, carrying the past
years of misery with it. The knowledge, once, might have saved him, but
now it had come too late. By and by he would be able to deal with this
staggering truth that had been so suddenly hurled upon him, but not now
while Katherine Kendall's daughter knelt at his side!
"Lynda, I cannot talk to you about this. When you are older--when life
has done its best or its worst for you--you will understand better than
you do to-day; but remember this: what you have told me has cut deep,
but it has cut, by one stroke, the hardness and bitterness from my
heart. Remember this!"
Then with a sudden reversion to his customary manner he said:
"And now tell me about Morrell."
Lynda started; the situation puzzled her. She had meant to
comfort--instead she seemed to have hurt and confused her old friend.
"About John Morrell?" she murmured with a rising perplexity; "there
isn't much to tell."
"I thought it was a long story, Lynda."
"Somehow it doesn't seem long when you get close to it. But surely you
must see, Uncle William, that after--after father and mother--I would
naturally be a bit keener than most girls. It would never do for me to
marry the wrong man and, of course, a girl never really knows until--she
faces the situation at close quarters. I should never have engaged
myself to John Morrell--that was the real mistake; and it was only when
he felt sure of me--that I knew! Uncle William, I must have my own life,
and John--well, he meant to have his own and mine, too. I couldn't stand
it! I have struggled up and conquered little heights just as he
has--just as Con and Brace have; we've all scrambled up together. It
didn't seem quite fair that they should--well, fly their colours from
their peaks and that I should" (here Lynda laughed) "cuddle under John's
standard. I don't always believe in his standard; I don't approve of it.
Much as I like men, I don't think they are qualified to arrange, sort,
fix, and command the lives of women. If a woman thinks the abdication
justifies the gains, that's all right. If I had sold myself,
honourably, to John Morrell I would have kept to the agreement; I hate
and loathe women who don't! I'm not belittling the romance and
sentiment, Uncle William, but when all's told the usual marriage is a
bargain and half the women whine about holding to it--the others play up
and, if there is love enough, it pans out pretty well--but I couldn't!
You see I had lived with father and mother--felt the lack between
them--and I saw mother's eyes when she--let go and died! No! I mean to
have my own life!"
"And you are going to forego a woman's heritage--home and children--for
such a whim? Your mother had recompenses; are you not afraid of
the--future?"
"Not if I respect it and do not dishonour the present."
"A lonely man or woman--an outcast from the ordinary--is a creature of
hell!"
Lynda shook her head.
"Go on!" Truedale commanded sternly. "Morrell is a good fellow. From my
prison I took care to find that out. Brace did me practical service when
he acted as sleuth before your engagement!"
Lynda coloured and frowned.
"I did not know about that," was all she said.
"It doesn't matter--only I'm glad I can feel sorry for him and angry at
you. I never knew you could be a fool, Lynda."
"I dare say we all can, if we put our minds to it--sometimes without.
Well! that's the whole story, Uncle William."
"It's only the preface. See here, Lynda, did it ever strike you that a
woman like you doesn't come to such a conclusion as you have without an
experience--a contrast to go by?"
"I--I do not know what you mean, Uncle William."
"I think you do. I have no right to probe, but I have a right to--to
help you if I can. You've done much for your mother; can you deny me
the--the honour of doing something for her?"
"There's nothing--to do."
"Let us see! You're just a plain girl when all's said and done. You've
got a little more backbone and wit than some, but your heart's in the
same place as other women's and you're no different in the main. You
want the sane, right things just as they do--home, children, and
security from the things women dread. A man can give a woman a chance
for her best development; she ought to recognize that and--yes--appreciate
it."
"Surely!" this came very softly from the lips screened now by two cold
shivering hands. "A woman does recognize it; she appreciates it, but
that does not exclude her from--choice."
"One man--of course within limits and reason--is as good as another when
he loves a woman and makes her love him. You certainly thought you
loved Morrell. You had nothing to gain unless you did. You probably
earned as much as he."
"That's true. All quite true."
"Then something happened!" Truedale flung his half-smoked cigar in the
fire. "What was it, Lynda?"
"There--was nothing--really--"
"There was something. There was--Con!"
"Oh! how--how can you?" Lynda started back. She meant to say "How dare
you?"--but the drawn and tortured face restrained her.
"Because I must, Lynda. Because I must. You know I told you I had a
story? You must bear with me and listen. Sit down again and try to
remember--I am doing this for your mother! I repeat--there was Con. At
first you took up arms for him as Brace did; your sex instincts were not
awakened. You were all good fellows together until you drifted,
blindfolded, into the trap poor Morrell set for you. You thought I was
ill-treating Con--disregarding his best interests--starving his soul!
Oh! you poor little ignoramus; the boy never had a soul worth mentioning
until it got awakened, in self-defense, and grew its own limit. What did
you and Brace know of the past--the past that went into Con's making?
You were free enough with your young condemnation and misplaced
loyalty--but how about justice?"
Lynda's eyes were fixed upon Truedale's face. She had never seen him in
this mood and, while he fascinated, he overawed her.
"Why, girl, Con's father, my younger brother, was as talented as Con,
but he was a scamp. He had money enough to pave the way to his own
destruction. Until it was gone he spurned me--spurned even his own
genius. He married a woman as mad as himself and then--without a
qualm--tossed her aside to die. He had no sense of responsibility--no
shame. He had temperament--a damnable one--and he drifted on it to the
end. When it was all over, I brought Conning here. Just at that
time--well, it was soon after your mother married your father--this
creeping disease fell upon me. If it hadn't been for the boy I'd have
ended the whole thing then and there, but with the burden laid upon me I
couldn't slip out. It has been a kind of race ever since--this menace
mounting higher and higher and the making of Con keeping pace. I swore
that if he had talent it must prove itself against hardship, not in
luxury. I made life difficult in order to toughen and inspire. I never
meant to kill--you must do me that justice. Only you see, chained here,
I couldn't follow close enough, and Con had pride, thank God! and he
thought he had hate--but he hasn't or he'd have starved rather than
accept what I offered. In his heart he--well, let us say--respects me to
a certain extent. I saw him widening the space between himself and his
inheritance--and it has helped me live; you saw him making a man of
himself and it became more absorbing than the opportunity of annexing
yourself to a man already made. Oh, I have seen it all and it has helped
me in my plan."
"Your--plan?" The question was a feeble attempt to grapple with a
situation growing too big and strong. "Your plan--what is your plan?"
"Lynda, I have made my will! Sitting apart and looking on, the doing of
this has been the one great excitement of my life. Through the years I
have believed I was doing it alone; now I see your mother's guiding hand
has led me on; I want you to believe this as--I do!"
"I--I will try, Uncle William." Lynda no longer struggled against that
which she could not understand. She felt it must have its way with her.
"This house," Truedale was saying, "was meant for your mother. I left it
bare and ready for her taste and choice. After--I go, I want you to fit
it out for her--and me! You must do it at once."
"No! No!" Lynda put up a protesting hand, but Truedale smiled her into
silence and went on: "I may let you begin to-morrow and not wait! You
must fill the bare corners--spare no expense. You and I will be quite
reckless; I want this place to be a--home at last."
And now Lynda's eyes were shining--her rare tears blinded her.
"You have always tried indirectly, Lynda, to secure Con's greatest good;
you have done it! I mean to leave him a legacy of three thousand a year.
That will enable him to let up on himself and develop the talent you
think he has. I have seen to it that the two faithful souls who have
served me here shall never know want. There will be money, and plenty of
it, for you to carry out my wishes regarding this house,
should--well--should anything happen to me! After these details are
attended to, my fortune, rather a cumbersome one, goes to--Dr.
McPherson, my old and valued friend!"
Lynda started violently.
"To--to Dr. McPherson?" she gasped, every desire for Conning up in arms.
"There! there! do not get so excited, Lynda. It is only for--three
years. McPherson and I understand."
"And then?"
"It will go to Conning--if--"
"If what?" Lynda was afraid now.
"If he--marries you!"
"Oh! this is beyond endurance! How could you be so cruel, Uncle
William?" The hot, passionate tears were burning the indignant face.
"He will not know. The years will test and prove him."
"But I shall know! If you thought best to do this thing, why have you
told me?"
"There have been hours when I myself did not know why; I understand
to-night. Your mother led me!"
"My mother could never have hurt me so. Never!"
"You must trust--her and me, Lynda."
"Suppose--oh! suppose--Con does not ... Oh! this is degrading!"
"Then the fortune will--be yours. McPherson and I have worked this
out--most carefully."
"Mine! Mine! Why"--and here Lynda flung her head back and laughed
relievedly--"I refuse absolutely to accept it!"
"In that case it goes--to charities."
A hush fell in the room. Baffled and angry, Lynda dared not trust
herself to speak and Truedale sank back wearily. Then came a rattle of
wheels in the quiet street--a toot of a taxi horn.
"Thomas has not forgotten to provide for your home trip; but the man can
wait. The night is mild"--Truedale spoke gently--"and you and I are
rich."
Lynda did not seem to hear. Her thoughts were rushing wildly over the
path set for her by her old friend's words.
"Conning would not know!" she grasped and held to that; "he would be
able to act independently. At first it had seemed impossible. Her
knowledge could affect no one but herself! If"--and here Lynda breathed
faster--"if Conning should want her enough to ask her to share his life
that the three thousand dollars made possible, why then the happiness
of bringing his own to him would be hers!--hers!"
Again the opposite side of the picture held her. "But suppose he did
_not_ want her--in that way? Then she, his friend--the one who, in all
the world, loved him the best--would profit by it; she would be a
wealthy woman, for her mother's sake or"--the alternative staggered
her--"she could let everything slip, everything and bear the
consequences!"
At this point she turned to Truedale and asked pitifully again:
"Oh! why, why did you do this?"
There was no anger or rebellion in the words, but a pathos that caused
the old man to close his eyes against the pleading in the uplifted face.
It was the one thing he could not stand.
"Time will prove, child; time will prove. I could not make you
understand; your mother might have--I could not. But time will show.
Time is a strange revealer. All my life I have been working in darkness
until--now! I should have trusted more--you must learn from me.
"There, do not keep the man waiting longer. I wonder--do not do it
unless you want to, or think it right--but I wonder if you could kiss me
good-bye?"
Lynda rose and, tear-blinded, bent over and kissed him--kissed him
twice, once for her mother!--and she felt that he understood. She had
never touched her lips to his before, and it seemed a strange ceremony.
An hour later Truedale called for Thomas and was wheeled to his bedroom
and helped to bed.
"Perhaps," he said to the man, "you had better put those drops on the
stand. If I cannot sleep--" Thomas smiled and obeyed. There had been a
time when he feared that small, dark bottle, but not now! He believed
too sincerely in his master's strength of character. Having the medicine
near might, by suggestion, help calm the restlessness, but it had never
been resorted to, so Thomas smiled as he turned away with a cheery:
"Very well, sir; but there will be no need, I hope."
"Good-night, Thomas. Raise the shade, please. It's a splendid night,
isn't it? If they should build on that rear lot I could not see the moon
so well. I may decide to buy that property."
When Thomas had gone and he was alone at last, Truedale heaved a heavy
sigh. It seemed to relieve the restraint under which he had been
labouring for weeks.
All his life the possibility of escape from his bondage had made the
bondage less unendurable. It was like knowing of a secret passage from
his prison house--an exit dark and attended by doubts and fears, but
nevertheless a sure passage to freedom. It had seemed, in the past, a
cowardly thing to avail himself of his knowledge--it was like going
with his debts unpaid. But now, in the bright, moonlit room it no
longer appeared so. He had finished his task, had ended the bungling,
and had heard a clear call ringing with commendation and approval. There
was nothing to hold him back!
Over in the cabinet by the window were a photograph and a few letters;
Truedale turned toward them and wondered if Lynda, instead of his old
friend McPherson, would find them? He wished he had spoken--but after
all, he could not wait. He had definitely decided to take the journey!
But he spoke softly as if to a Presence:
"And so--you played a part? Poor girl! how well--you played it! And
you--suffered--oh! my God--and I never did you the justice of
understanding. And you left your girl--to me--I have tried not to fail
you there, Katherine!"
Then Truedale reached for the bottle. He took a swallow of the contents
and waited! Presently he took another and a thrill of exhilaration
stirred his sluggish blood. Weakly, gropingly, he stretched his benumbed
hand out again; he was well on his way now. The long journey was begun
in the moonlight and, strange to say, it did not grow dark, nor did he
seem to be alone. This surprised him vaguely, he had always expected it
would be so different!
And by and by one face alone confronted him--it was brighter than the
moonlit way. It smiled understandingly--it, too, had faced the broad
highway--it could afford to smile.
Once more the heavy, dead-cold hand moved toward the stand beside the
bed, but it fell nerveless ere it reached what it sought.
The escape had been achieved!