The following day Truedale heard the will read. Directly after, he felt
like a man in a quicksand. Every thought and motion seemed but to sink
him deeper until escape appeared impossible.
He had felt, for a moment, a little surprise that the bulk of his
uncle's great fortune had gone to Dr. McPherson--an already rich and
prosperous man; then he began to understand. Although McPherson was left
free to act as he chose, there had evidently been an agreement between
him and William Truedale as to the carrying out of certain affairs and,
what was more startling and embarrassing, Conning was hopelessly
involved in these. Under supervision, apparently, he was to be
recognized as his uncle's representative and, while not his direct heir,
certainly his respected nephew.
Truedale was confounded. Unless he were to disregard his uncle's wishes,
there was no way open for him but to follow--as he was led. Far from
being dissatisfied with the distribution of the fortune, he had been
relieved to know that he was responsible for only a small part of it;
but, on the other hand, should he refuse to cooperate in the schemes
outlined by McPherson, he knew that he would be miserably
misunderstood.
Confused and ill at ease he sought McPherson later in the day and that
genial and warm-hearted man, shrinking always behind so stern an
exterior that few comprehended him, greeted him almost affectionately.
"I ordered six months for you, Truedale," he exclaimed, viewing the
result of his prescription keenly, "and you've made good in a few weeks.
You're a great advertisement for Pine Cone. And White! Isn't he God's
own man?"
"I hadn't thought of him in just that way"--Conning reverted to his last
memory of the sheriff--"but he probably showed another side to you. He
has a positive reverence for you and I imagine he accepted me as a duty
you had laid upon him."
"Nonsense, boy! his health reports were eulogies--he was your friend.
"But isn't he a freebooter with all his other charms? His contempt for
government, as we poor wretches know it, is sublime; and yet he is the
safest man I know. The law, he often told me, was like a lie; useful
only to scoundrels--torn-down scoundrels, he called them.
"I tell you it takes a God's man to run justice in those hills! White's
as simple and direct as a child and as wise as a judge ought to be. I
wouldn't send some folk I know to White, they might blur his vision;
but I could trust him to you."
Silently Truedale contemplated this image of White; then, as McPherson
talked on, the dead uncle materialized so differently from the stupid
estimate he had formed of him that a sense of shame overpowered him.
Lynda had somewhat opened Truedale's eyes, but Lynda's love and
compassion unconsciously coloured the picture she drew. Here was a
hard-headed business man, a man who had been close to William Truedale
all his life, proving him now, to his own nephew, as a far-sighted,
wise, even patient and merciful friend.
Never had Truedale felt so small and humble. Never had his past
indifference and false pride seemed so despicable and egotistical--his
return for the silent confidence reposed in him, so pitifully shameful.
He must bear his part now! There was no way but that! If he were ever to
regain his own self-respect or hope to hold that of others, he must, to
the exclusion of private inclination, rise as far as in him lay to the
demands made upon him.
"Your uncle," McPherson was saying, "tied hand and foot as he was,
looked far and wide during his years of illness. I thought I knew,
thought I understood him; but since his death I have almost felt that he
was inspired. It's a damnable pity that our stupidity and callousness
prevent us realizing in life what we are quick enough to perceive in
death--when it is too late! Truedale's faith in me, when I gave him so
little to go by, is both flattering and touching. He knew he could trust
me--and that knowledge is the best thing he bequeathed to me. But I
expect you to do your part, boy, and by so doing to justify much that
might, otherwise, be questioned. To begin with, as you have just heard,
the sanatorium for cases like your uncle's is to be begun at once. Now
there is a strip of land, which, should it suit our purpose, can be had
at great advantage if taken at once, and for cash. We will run down to
see it this week and then we'll know better where we stand."
"I'd like," Truedale coloured quickly, "to return to Pine Cone for a few
days. I could start at once. You see I left rather suddenly and
brought--"
But McPherson laughed and waved his hand in the wide gesture that
disposed of hope and fear, lesser business and even death itself, at
times.
"Oh! Jim won't tamper with anything. Certainly your traps are safe
enough there. Such things can wait, but this land-deal cannot. Besides
there are men to see: architects, builders, etc. The wishes of your
uncle were most explicit. The building, you recall, was to be begun
within three months of his death. Having all the time there was,
himself, he has left precious little for others."
Again the big laugh and wide gesture disposed of Pine Cone and the
tragic affairs of little Nella-Rose. Unless he was ready to lay bare his
private reasons, Truedale saw he must wait a few days longer. And he
certainly had no intention of confiding in McPherson.
"Very well, doctor," he said after a slight pause, "set me to work. I
want you to know that as far as I can I mean--too late, as you say--to
prove my good intentions at least to--my uncle."
"That's the way to talk!" McPherson rose and slapped Conning on the
back. "I used to say to old Truedale, that if he had taken you more into
his confidence, he might have eased life for us all; but he was timid,
boy, timid. In many ways he was like a woman--a woman hurt and
sensitive."
"If I had only known--only imagined"; Conning was walking toward the
door; "well, at least I'm on the job now, Dr. McPherson."
And then for an hour or two Truedale walked the city streets perplexed
and distraught. He was being absorbed without his own volition. By a
subtle force he was convinced that he was part of a scheme bigger and
stronger than his own desires and inclinations. Unless he was prepared
to play a coward's role he must adjust his thoughts and ideas to
coincide with the rules and regulations of the game of life and men.
With this knowledge other and more blighting convictions held part. In
his defiance and egotism he had muddled things in a desperate way. In
the cold, clear light of conventional relations the past few weeks,
shorn of the glamour cast by his romantic love and supposed contempt for
social restrictions, stood forth startlingly significant. At the moment
Truedale could not conceive how he had ever been capable of playing the
fool as he had! Not for one instant did this realization affect his love
and loyalty to Nella-Rose; but that he should have been swept from his
moorings by passion, reduced him to a state of contempt for the folly he
had perpetrated. And, he thought, if he now, after a few days, could so
contemplate his acts how could he suppose that others would view them
with tolerance and sympathy?
No; he must accept the inevitable results of his action. His love, his
earnest intention of some day living his own life in his own way, were
to cost him more than he, blinded by selfishness and passion in the
hills, had supposed.
Well, he was ready to pay to the uttermost though it cost him the
deepest heart-ache. As he was prepared to undertake the burden his
uncle's belief in him entailed, so he was prepared, now that he saw
things clearly, to forego the dearest and closest ties of his old life.
He wondered how he could ever have dreamed that he could go to Lynda and
Brace with his amazing confession and expect them, in the first moment
of shock, to open their hearts and understand him. He almost laughed,
now, as he pictured the absurdity. And just then he drew himself up
sharply and came to his conclusion.
He could not lay himself bare to any one as a sentimental ass; he must
arrange things as soon as possible to return South; he would, just
before starting, tell Lynda and Brace of his attachment for Nella-Rose.
They would certainly understand why, in the stress and strain of recent
events, he had not intruded his startling news before. He would neither
ask nor expect sympathy or cooperation. He must assume that they could
not comprehend him. This was going to be the hardest wrench of his life,
Truedale recognized that, but it was the penalty he felt he must pay.
Then he would go--for his wife! He would secure her privately, by all
the necessary conventions he had spurned so madly--he would bring her to
his people and leave to her sweetness and tender charm the winning of
that which he, in his blindness, had all but lost.
So, in this mood, he returned to his uncle's house and wrote a long
letter to Nella-Rose. He phrased it simply, as to a little child. He
reminded her of the old story she had once told him of her belief that
some day she was to do a mighty big thing.
"And now you have your chance!" he pleaded. "I cannot live in your
hills, dear, though often you and I will return to them and be happy in
the little log house. But you must come with me--your husband. Come
down the Big Road, letting me lead you, and you must trust me and oh! my
doney-gal, by your blessed sweetness and power you must win for me--for
us both--what I, alone, can never win."
There was more, much more, of love and longing, of tender loyalty and
passionate reassurance, and having concluded his letter he sealed it,
addressed it, and putting it in an envelope with a short note of
explanation to Jim White as to its delivery, etc., he mailed it with
such a sense of relief as he had not known in many a weary day.
He prepared himself for a period of patient waiting. He knew with what
carelessness mail matter was regarded in the hills, and winter had
already laid its hold upon Pine Cone, he felt sure. So while he waited
he plunged eagerly into each day's work and with delight saw how
everything seemed to go through without a hitch. It began to look as if,
when Nella-Rose's reply came, there would be no reason for delay in
bringing her to the North.
But this hope and vision did not banish entirely Truedale's growing
sorrow for the part he must inevitably take when the truth was known to
Lynda and Brace. Harder and harder the telling of it appeared as the
time drew near. Never had they seemed dearer or more sacred to him than
now when he realized the hurt he must cause them. There were moments
when he felt that he could not bear the eyes of Lynda--those friendly,
trusting eyes. Would she ever be able, in the years to come, to forgive
and forget? And Brace--how could that frank, direct nature comprehend
the fever of madness that had, in the name of love, betrayed the
confidence and faith of a lifetime? Well, much lay in the keeping of the
little mountain girl whose fascination and loveliness would plead
mightily. Of Nella-Rose's power Truedale held no doubt.
Then came White's devastating letter at the close of an exhausting day
when Conning was to dine with the Kendalls.
That afternoon he had concluded the immediate claims of business, had
arranged with McPherson for a week's absence, and meant in the evening
to explain to Brace and Lynda the reason for his journey. He was going
to start South on the morrow, whether a letter came or not. He had
steeled himself for the crucial hour with his friends; had already, in
his imagination, bidden farewell to the relations that had held them
close through the past years. He believed, because he was capable of
paying this heavy price for his love, that no further proof would be
necessary to convince even Lynda of its intensity.
They dined cheerfully and alone and, as they crossed the hall afterward,
to the library, Lynda asked casually:
"Did you get the letters for you, Con? The maid laid them on the stand
by the door."
Then she went on into the bright room with its long, vacant chair,
singing "To-morrow's Song" in that sweet contralto of hers that deserved
better training.
There were three letters--one from a man whose son Truedale had tutored
before he went away, one from the architect of the new hospital, and a
bulky one from Dr. McPherson. Truedale carried them all into the library
where Brace sat comfortably puffing away before the fire; and Lynda,
some designs for interior decoration spread out before her on a low
table, still humming, rocked gently to and fro in a very feminine
rocker. Conning drew up a chair opposite Kendall and tore open the
envelope from his late patron.
"I tell you, Brace," he said, "if any one had told me six weeks ago that
I should ever be indifferent to a possible offer to tutor, I would have
laughed at him. But so it is. I must turn down the sure-paying Mr. Smith
for lack of time."
Lynda laughed merrily. "And six weeks ago if any one had come to me in
my Top Shelf where I carried on my profession, and outlined this for
me"--she waved her hand around the room--"I'd have called the janitor to
put out an unsafe person. Hey-ho!" And then the brown head was bent over
the problem of an order which had come in that day.
"Oh! I say, Lyn!" Truedale turned from his second letter. "Morgan
suggests that _you_ attend to the decorating and furnishing of the
hospital. I told him to choose his man and he prefers you if I have no
objection. Objection? Good Lord, I never thought of you. I somehow
considered such work out of your line, but I'm delighted."
"Splendid!" Lynda looked up, radiant. "How I shall revel in those broad,
clean spaces! How I shall see Uncle William in every room! Thank him,
Con, and tell him I accept--on his terms!"
Then Truedale opened the third envelope and an enclosed letter fell out,
bearing the postmark of the Junction near Pine Cone!
There was a small electric reading lamp on the arm of Truedale's chair;
he turned the light on and, while his face was in shadow, the words
before him stood out illumined.
"Sir--Mister Truedale." The sheriff had evidently been sorely perplexed
as to the proper beginning of the task he had undertaken.
"I send this by old Doc McPherson, not knowing any better way."
(Jim's epistle was nearly innocent of punctuation, his words ran on
almost unbroken and gave the reader some trouble in following.)
Your letter to a certain young person has come and been destroyed
owing to my thinking under the present circumstances, some folks
what don't know about you, better not hear now. I took the letter
to Lone Dome as you set down for me to do meaning to give it to
Nella-Rose like what you said, but she wasn't there. Pete was there
and Marg--she's Nella-Rose's sister, and getting ready to marry
that torn-down scamp Jed Martin which to my way of thinking is
about the best punishment what could be dealt out to him. Pete was
right sober for him and spruced up owing to facts I am now coming
to and when Pete's sober there ain't a more sensible cuss than what
he is nor a gentlemaner. Well, I asked natural like for Nella-Rose
and Marg scrooged up her mouth, knowing full well as how I knew Jed
was second choice for her--but Pete he done tell me that Nella-Rose
had married Burke Lawson and run to safer parts and when I got over
the shock I was certainly thankful for being a sheriff ain't all it
might be when your ideas of justice and liking gets crossed. I
didn't ask any more questions. Peter was sober--he only lies when
he's drunk and not having any wish to rouse Marg I just come away
and burned the letter what you sent. But I've done some thinking on
my own 'count since your letter came and I reckon I've studied the
thing clear on circumstantial evidence which is what I mostly have
to go on in the sticks. I certainly done you a black insult that
day I came upon you and Nella-Rose. I didn't let on, and I never
will, about her being to my place, but no wonder the poor child was
terrible upset when I came in. She had come to me, so I study out,
and found you--stark stranger! How you ever soothed the poor little
thing I don't know--her being wild as a flea--but on top of that,
in I slam and lit out on you both and 'corse she couldn't 'splain
about Burke before you and that's plain enough what she had come to
do, and I didn't leave either one of you a leg to stand on. I've
been pretty low in my spirits I can tell you and I beg your pardon
humble, young feller, and if ever I can do Nella-Rose a turn by
letting Burke free, no matter what he does--I will! But 'tain't
likely he'll act up for some time. Nella-Rose always could tame him
and he's been close on her trail ever since she was a toddler. I'm
right glad they took things in their own hands and left. She didn't
sense the right black meaning I had in my heart that day when she
ran--but you did and I sure am ashamed of the part I done played.
If you can overlook what no man has a call to overlook in
another--your welcome is red hot here for you at any time.
JIM WHITE
Sheriff.
Truedale read and reread this amazing production until he began to feel
his way through the tangle of words and catch a meaning--false,
ridiculously false of course, but none the less designed as an
explanation and excuse. Then the non-essentials dropped away and one
bald fact remained! Truedale sank back in his chair, turned off the
electric light, and closed his eyes.
"Tired, old man?" Kendall asked from across the hearth.
"Yes. Dead tired."
"You'll travel easier when you get the gait."
"Undoubtedly."
"Take a bit of a nap," Lynda suggested.
"Thanks, Lyn, I will." Then Truedale, safe from intrusion, tried to make
his way out of the maze into which he had been thrown. Slowly he
recovered from the effect of the staggering blow and presently got to
the point where he felt it was all a cruel lie or a stupid jest. There
he paused. Jim was not the kind to lie or joke about such a thing. It
was a mistake--surely a mistake. He would go at once to Pine Cone and
make everything right. Nella-Rose could not act alone. Tradition,
training, conspired to unfit her for this crisis; but that she had gone
from his love and faith into the arms of another man was incredible. No;
she was safe, probably in hiding; she would write him. She had the
address--she was keen and quick, even though she was helpless to cope
with the lawlessness of her mountain environment. Truedale saw the
necessity of caution, not for himself, but for Nella-Rose. He could not
go, unaided, to search for her. Evidently there had been wild doings
after he left; no one but White and Nella-Rose knew of his actual
existence--he must utilize White in assisting him, but above all he must
expect that Nella-Rose would make her whereabouts known. Never for a
moment did he doubt her or put any credence in the conclusions White had
drawn. How little Jim really knew! By to-morrow word would come from
Nella-Rose; somehow she would manage, once she was safe from being
followed, to get to the station and telegraph. But there could be no
leaving the girl in the hills after this; he must, as soon as he located
her, bring her away; bring her into his life--to his home and hers!
A cold sweat broke out on Truedale's body as he lashed himself
unmercifully in the still room where his two friends, one believing him
asleep, waited for his awakening.
Well, he was awake at last, thank God! The only difference between him
and a creature such as good men and women abhor was that he meant to
retrieve, as far as in him lay, the past error and injustice. All his
future life should prove his purpose. And then, like a sweet fragrance
or a spirit touch, his love pleaded for him. He had been weak, but not
vicious. The unfettered life had clouded his reason, and his senses had
played him false, but love was untarnished--and it _was_ love. That girl
of the hills was the same now as she had always been. She would accept
him and his people and he would make her life such that, once the
homesickness for the hills was past, she would have no regrets.
Then another phase held Truedale's thought. In that day when Nella-Rose
accepted, in the fullest sense, his people and his people's code--how
would he stand in her eyes? A groan escaped him, then another, and he
started nervously.
"Con, what is it--a bad dream?" Lynda touched his arm to arouse him.
"Yes--a mighty bad one!"
"Tell it to me. Tell it while it is fresh in your mind. They say once
you have put a dream in words, its effect is killed forever."
Truedale turned dark, sorrowful eyes upon Lynda.
"I--I wish I could tell it," he said with a seriousness that made her
laugh, "but it was the kind that eludes--words. The creeping, eating
impression--sort of nightmare. Good Lord! how nerves play the deuce with
you."
Brace Kendall did not speak. From his place he had been watching
Truedale, for the firelight had betrayed the truth. Truedale had not
been sleeping: Truedale had been terribly upset by that last letter of
his!
And just then Conning leaned forward and threw his entire mail upon the
blazing logs!