At Washington, Truedale telegraphed to Brace Kendall. He felt, as he
drew nearer and nearer to the old haunts, like a stranger, and a blind,
groping one at that. The noises of the city disturbed and confused him;
the crowds irritated him. When he remembered the few weeks that lay
between the present and the days when he was part and parcel of this
so-called life, he experienced a sensation of having died and been
compelled to return to earth to finish some business carelessly
overlooked. He meant to rectify the omission as soon as possible and get
back to the safety and peace of the hills. How different it all would be
with settled ideas, definite work, and Nella-Rose!
While waiting for his train in the Washington station he was startled to
find that, of a sudden, he was adrift between the Old and the New. If he
repudiated the past, the future as sternly repudiated him. He could not
reconcile his love and desire with his identity. Somehow the man he had
left, when he went South, appeared now to have been waiting for him on
his return, and while his plans, nicely arranged, seemed feasible the
actual readjustment struck him as lurid and impossible. The fact was
that his experience of life in Pine Cone made him now shrink from
contact with the outside world as one of its loyal natives might have
done. It could no more survive in the garish light of a city day than
little Nella-Rose could have. That conclusion reached, Truedale was
comforted. He could not lure his recent past to this environment, but so
long as it lay safe and ready to welcome him when he should return, he
could be content. So he relegated it with a resigned sigh, as he might
have done the memory of a dear, absent friend, to the time when he could
call it forth to some purpose.
It was well he could do this, for with the coming of Brace Kendall upon
the scene all romantic sensation was excluded as though by an icy-clear,
north wind. Brace was at the New York station--Brace with the armour of
familiarity and unbounded friendliness. "Old Top!" he called Truedale,
and shook hands with him so vigorously that the last remnant of thought
that clung to the distant mountains was freed from the present.
"Well, of all the miracles! Why, Con, I bet you tip the scales at a
hundred and sixty. And look at your paw! Why, it's callous and actually
horny! And the colour you've got! Lord, man! you're made over.
"You're to come to your uncle's house, Con. It's rather a shock, but we
got you as soon as we could. In the meantime, we've followed directions.
The will has not been read, of course, but there was a letter found in
your uncle's desk that commanded--that's the only word to express it,
really--Lynda and you and me to come to the old house right after the
funeral. We waited to hear from you, Con, but since you could not get
here we had to do the best we could. Dr. McPherson took charge."
"I was buried pretty deep in the woods, Ken, and there was a bad hitch
in the delivery of the telegram. Such things do not count down where I
was. But I'm glad about the old house--glad you and Lynda are there."
"Con!"--and at this Brace became serious--"I think we rather overdid our
estimate of your uncle. Since his--his going, we've seen him, Lyn and I,
in a new light. He was quite--well, quite a sentimentalist! But
see--here we are!"
"The house looks different already!" Conning said, leaning from the cab
window.
"Yes, Lyn's had a lot to do, but she's managed to make a home of the
place in the short time."
Lynda Kendall had heard the sound of wheels in the quiet street--had set
the door of welcome open herself, and now stood in the panel of light
with outstretched hands. Like a revelation Truedale seemed to take in
the whole picture at once. Behind the girl lay the warm, bright hall
that had always been so empty and drear in his boyhood. It was furnished
now. Already it had the look of having been lived in for years. There
were flowers in a tall jar on the table and a fire on the broad hearth.
And against this background stood the strong, fine form of the young
mistress.
"Welcome home, Con!"
Truedale, for a moment, dared not trust his voice. He gripped her hands
and felt as if he were emerging from a trance. Then, of a sudden, a deep
resentment overpowered him. They could not understand, of course, but
every word and tone of appropriation seemed an insult to the reality
that he knew existed. He no longer belonged to them, to the life into
which they were trying to draw him. To-morrow he would explain; he was
eager to do so and end the restraint that sprang into being the moment
he touched Lynda's hands.
Lynda watched the tense face confronting her and believed Conning was
suffering pangs of remorse and regret. She was filled with pity and
sympathy shone in her eyes. She led him to the library and there
familiarity greeted him--the room was unchanged. Lynda had respected
everything; it was as it always had been except that the long, low chair
was empty.
They talked together softly in the quiet place until dinner--talked of
indifferent things, realizing that they must keep on the surface.
"This room and his bedchamber, Con," Lynda explained, "are the same.
For the rest? Well, I hope you will like it."
Truedale did like it. He gave an exclamation of delight when later they
entered the dining room, which had never been furnished in the past;
like much of the house it had been a sad tribute to the emptiness and
disappointment that had overcome William Truedale's life. Now it shone
with beauty and cheer.
"It is not merely a place in which to eat," explained Lynda; "a dining
room should be the heart of the home, as the library is the soul."
"Think of living up to that!"--Brace gave a laugh--"and not having it
interfere with your appetite!" They were all trying to keep cheerful
until such time as they dared recall the recent past without restraint.
Such an hour came when they gathered once more in the library. Brace
seized his pipe in the anticipation of play upon his emotions. By tacit
consent the low chair was left vacant and by a touch of imagination it
almost seemed as if the absent master were waiting to be justified.
"And now," Truedale said, huskily, "tell me all, Lynda."
"He and I were sitting here just as we all are sitting now, that last
night. He had forgiven me for--for staying away" (Lynda's voice shook),
"and we were very happy and confidential. I told him some things--quite
intimate things, and he, well, he came out of his reserve and gruffness,
Con--he let me see the real man he was! I suppose while he had been
alone--for I had neglected him--he had had time to think, to regret his
mistakes; he was very just--even with himself. Con"--and here Lynda had
to pause and get control of herself--"he--he once loved my mother! He
bought this house hoping she would come and, as its mistress, make it
beautiful. When my mother married my father, nothing mattered--nothing
about the house, I mean. Before my mother died she told me--to be kind
to Uncle William. She, in a sacred way, left him to me; me to him. That
was one of the things I told him that last night. I wish I had told him
long ago!" The words were passionate and remorseful. "Oh, it might have
eased his pain and loneliness. When shall we ever learn to say the right
thing when it is most needed? Well, after I had told him he--he grew
very still. It was a long time before he spoke--the joy was sinking in,
I saw that, and it carried the bitterness away. When he did speak he
made me understand that he could not trust himself further on that
subject, but he tried to--to explain about you, Con. Poor man! He
realized that he had made a failure as a guide; but in his own way he
had endeavoured to be a guardian. You know his disease developed just
before you came into his life. Con, he lived all through the years just
for you--just to stand by!"
From out the shadow where he sat, Brace spoke unevenly:
"Too bad you don't--smoke, old man!" It was the only suggestion he had
to offer in the tense silence that gripped them all.
"It's all right!" Truedale said heavily. "Go on when you can, Lynda."
"Do you--remember your father, Con?"
"Yes."
"Well, your uncle feared that too much ease and money might--"
"I--I begin to understand."
"So he went to the other extreme. Every step of your well-fought way was
joy to him--the only joy he knew. From his detachment and loneliness he
planned--almost plotted--for you, but he did not tell you. It would all
have been so different--oh! so different if we had all known. Then he
told me a little--about his will."
No one saw the sudden crimson that dyed Lynda's white face and throat.
"He was very fantastic about that. He made certain arrangements that
were to take effect at once. He has left you three thousand a year, Con,
without any restrictions whatever. He told me that. He left his servants
and employees generous annuities. He left me this house--for my mother's
sake. He insisted that it should be a home at last. A large sum is
provided for its furnishing and upkeep--I'm a trustee! The most
beautiful thing, perhaps, was the thought expressed in these words of
his, 'I want you to do your mother's work and mine, while still
following your own rightful desires. Make this house a place of welcome,
peace, and friendliness!' I mean to do my best, Con."
"And he's left me"--Brace found relief in the one touch of humour that
presented itself--"he's left me a thousand dollars as a token of his
appreciation of my loyalty to you, when you most needed it."
But Truedale hardly heeded. His eyes were fixed upon the empty chair
and, since he had not understood in the past, he could not express
himself now. He was suffering the torture that all feel when, too late,
revealment makes clear what never should have been hidden.
"And then"--Lynda's low, even voice went on--"he sent me away and Thomas
put him to bed. He asked for some medicine that it seems he always had
in case of need; he took too much--and--"
"So it was suicide!" Truedale broke in desperately. "I feared that. Good
God!" The tragedy and loneliness clutched his imagination--he seemed to
see it all, it was unbearable!
"Con!" Lynda laid her firm hand upon his arm, "I have learned to call it
something else. It has helped me; perhaps it will help you. He had
waited wearily on this side of the door of release; he--he told me that
he was going on a long journey he had often contemplated--I did not
understand then! I fancy the--the journey was very short. There was no
suffering. I wish you could have seen the peace and majesty of his face!
He could wait no longer. Nothing mattered here, and all that he yearned
for called loudly to him. He simply opened the door himself--and went
out!"
Truedale clasped the hand upon his arm. "Thank you, Lynda. I did not
realize how kind you could be," was all he said.
The logs fell apart and filled the room with a rich glow. Brace shook
the ashes from his pipe upon the hearth--he felt now that he could trust
himself.
"For the future," Lynda's calm voice almost startled the two men by its
practicability and purpose, "this is home--in the truest, biggest sense.
No one shall even enter here and feel--friendless. This is my trust; it
shall be as _he_ wished it, and I mean to have my own life, too! Why,
the house is big enough for us all to live our lives and not interfere
with each other. I mean to bring my private business here in the rooms
over the extension. I'll keep the uptown office for interviews. And you,
Con?"
Truedale almost sprang to his feet, then, hands plunged in pockets, he
said:
"There does not seem to be anything for me to do; at least not until the
will is read. I think I shall go back--I left things at loose ends;
there will be time to consider--later."
"But, Con, there is something for you to do. You will understand after
you see the lawyers in the morning. There is a great deal of business:
many interests of your uncle's that he expected you to represent in his
name--to see that they were made secure. Dr. McPherson has told me
something about the will--enough to help me to begin."
Truedale looked blankly at Lynda. "Very well, after that--I will go
back," he spoke almost harshly. "I will arrange affairs somehow. I'm no
business man, but I daresay Uncle William chose wise assistants."
"What's the matter with you, Con?" Brace eyed his friend critically;
"you look fit as a fellow can. This has demanded a good deal of
self-denial and faith from us all, but somehow this duty was the biggest
thing in sight; we rather owe him that, I fancy. You know you cannot run
to cover just now, old man. This has been a jog, but by morning you'll
reconsider and play your part." There was a new note in Kendall's voice.
It was a call to something he hoped was in his friend, but which he had
never tested. There was a sudden fear, too, of the change that had come
to Truedale. It was not all physical. There was a baffling suggestion of
unreality about him that made him almost a stranger.
"I dare say you are right, Ken." Truedale walked the length of the room
and back. "I own to being cut up over this. I never did my part--I see
that now--and of course I'll endeavour to do what I should. My body's
all right but my nerves still jangle at a shock. To-morrow the whole
thing will settle into shape. You and Lynda have been--well--I cannot
express what I feel." He paused. The hour was late, and for the first
time he seemed to realize that the old home was not his in the sense it
once had been. Lynda understood the moment's hesitation and smiled
slightly.
"Con, there's one other thing in the house that remains as it was. Under
the eaves the small room that was yours is yours still. I saw to it
myself that not a book or picture was displaced. There are other rooms
at your disposal--to share with us--but that room is yours, always."
Truedale stood before Lynda and put out his hands in quite the old way.
His eyes were dim and he said hoarsely: "That's about the greatest thing
you've done yet, Lyn. Thank you. Good-night."
At the door he hesitated--he felt he must speak, but to bring his own
affairs into the tense and new conditions surrounding him seemed
impossible. To-morrow he would explain everything. It was this slowness
in reaching a decision that most defeated Truedale's best interest.
While he deplored it--he seemed incapable of overcoming it.
Alone in the little room, later, he let himself go. Burying his tired
head upon his folded arms he gave himself up to waves of recollection
that threatened to engulf him. Everything was as it always had been--a
glance proved that. When he had parted from his uncle he had taken only
such articles as pertained to his maturer years. The pictures on the
walls--the few shabby books that had drifted into his lonely and
misunderstood childhood--remained. There was the locked box containing,
Conning knew full well, the pitiful but sacred attempts at
self-expression. The key was gone, but he recollected every scrap of
paper which lay hidden in the old, dented tin box. Presently he went to
the dormer window and opened it wide. Leaning out he tried to find his
way back to Pine Cone--to the future that was to be free of all these
cramping memories and hurting restrictions--but the trail was too
cluttered; he was lost utterly!
"It is because they do not know," he thought. "After to-morrow it will
be all right."
Then he reflected that the three thousand dollars Lynda had mentioned
would clear every obstacle from his path and Nella-Rose's. He no longer
need struggle--he could give his time and care to her and his work. He
did not consider the rest of his uncle's estate, it did not matter.
Lynda was provided for and so was he. And then, for the first time in
many days, Truedale speculated upon bringing Nella-Rose away from her
hills. He found himself rather insisting upon it, until he brought
himself to terms by remembering her as he had seen her last--clinging to
her own, vehemently, passionately.
"No, I've made my choice," he finally exclaimed; "the coming back
unsettled me for the moment but her people shall be my people."
Below stairs Lynda was humming softly an old tune--"The Song of
To-morrow," it was called. It caught and held Truedale's imagination. He
tried to recall the lines, but only the theme was clear. It was the
everlasting Song of To-morrow, always the one tune set to changing
ideals.
It was the same idea as the philosophy about each man's "interpretation"
of the story already written, which Conning had reflected upon so often.
At this time Truedale believed he firmly accepted the principle of
foreordination, or whatever one chose to call it. One followed the path
upon which one's feet had been set. One might linger and wander, within
certain limits, but always each must return to his destined trail!
A distant church clock struck one; the house was still at last--deathly
still. Two sounded, but Truedale thought on.
He finally succeeded in eliminating the entangling circumstances that
seemed to lie like a twisted skein in the years stretching between his
going forth from his uncle's house to this night of return. He tried to
understand himself, to estimate the man he was. In no egotistical sense
did he do this, but sternly, deliberately, because he felt that the
future demanded it. He must account to others, but first he must account
to himself.
He recalled his boyhood days when his uncle's distrust and apparent
dislike of him had driven him upon himself, almost taking self-respect
with it. He re-lived the barren years when, longing for love and
companionship, he found solace in a cold pride that carried him along
through school and into college, with a reputation for hard, unyielding
work, and unsocial habits.
How desperately lonely he had been--how cruelly underestimated--but he
had made no outcry. He had lived his years uncomplainingly--not even
voicing his successes and achievements. Through long practise in
self-restraint, his strength lay in deliberate calculation--not
indifferent action. He hid, from all but the Kendalls, his private
ambitions and hopes. He studied in order that he might shake himself
free from his uncle's hold upon him. He meant to pay every cent he had
borrowed--to secure, by some position that would supply the bare
necessities of life, time and opportunity for developing the talent he
secretly believed was his. He was prepared, once loose from obligation
to old William Truedale, to starve and prove his faith. And then--his
breakdown had come!
Cast adrift by loss of health, among surroundings that appealed to all
that was most dangerous in his nature--believing that his former
ambitions were defeated--old longings for love, understanding and
self-revealment arose and conquered the weak creature he was. But they
had appealed to the best in him--not the evillest--thank God! And now?
Truedale raised his head and looked about in the dim room, as if to find
the boy he once had been and reassure him.
"There is no longer any excuse for hesitation and the damnable weakness
of considering the next step," thought Truedale. "I have chosen my own
course--chosen the simple and best things life has to offer. No man in
God's world has a right to question my deeds. If they cannot understand,
more's the pity."
And in that hour and conclusion, the indifference and false pride that
had upheld Truedale in the past fell from him as he faced the demands of
the morrow. He was never again to succumb to the lack of confidence his
desolate youth had developed; physically and spiritually he roused to
action now that exactions were made upon him.