The roses came early that June. Truedale and Lynda went often on their
walks to the little church nestling deep among the trees in the Jersey
town. They got acquainted with the old minister and finally they set
their wedding day. They, with Brace, went over early on the morning.
Lynda was in her travelling gown for, after a luncheon, she and Truedale
were going to the New Hampshire mountains. It was such a day as revived
the reputation of June, and somehow the minister, steeped in the
conventions of his office, could not let things rest entirely in the
hands of the very eccentric young people who had won his consent to
marry them. An organist, practising, stayed on, and always Lynda was to
recall, when she thought of her wedding day, those tender notes that
rose and fell like a stream upon which the sacred words of the simple
service floated.
"The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden" was what the unseen musician played.
He seemed detached, impersonal, and only the repeated strains gave
evidence of his sympathy. An old woman had wandered into the church and
sat near the door with a rapt, wistful look on her wrinkled face. Near
the altar was a little child, a tiny girl with a bunch of wayside
flowers in her fat, moist hand.
Lynda paused and whispered something to the little maid and then, as she
went forward, Truedale noticed that the child was beside Lynda, a
shabby, wee maid of honour!
It was very quaint, very touchingly pretty, but the scene overawed the
baby and when the last words were said and Truedale had kissed his wife
they noticed that the little one was in tears. Lynda bent over her full
of tenderness.
"What is it, dear?" she whispered.
"I--I want--my mother!"
"So do I, sweetheart; so do I!"
The wet eyes were raised in wonder.
"And where is your mother, baby?"
"Up--up--the hill!"
"Why, so is mine, but you will find yours--first. Don't cry, sweetheart.
See, here is a little ring. It is too large for you now, but let your
mother keep it, and when you are big enough, wear it--and remember--me."
Dazzled by the gift, the child smiled up radiantly. "Good-bye," she
whispered, "I'll tell mother--and I won't forget."
Later that same golden day, when Kendall bade his sister and Truedale
good-bye at the station he had the look on his face that he used to have
when, as a child, he was wont to wonder why he had to be brave because
he was a boy.
It made Lynda laugh, even while a lump came in her throat. Then, as in
the old days, she sought to recompense him, without relenting as to the
code.
"Of course you'll miss us, dear old fellow, but we'll soon be back
and"--she put her lips to his ear and whispered--"there's the little
sister of the Morrells; play with her until we come home."
There are times in life that stand forth as if specially designed, and
cause one to wonder, if after all, a personal God isn't directing
affairs for the individual. They surely could not have just happened,
those weeks in the mountains. So warm and still and cloudless they were
for early June. And then there was a moon for a little while--a calm,
wonderful moon that sent its fair light through the tall trees like a
benediction. After that there were stars--millions of them--each in its
place surrounded by that blue-blackness that is luminous and unearthly.
Securing a guide, Truedale and Lynda sought their own way and slept, at
night, in wayside shelters by their own campfires. They had no definite
destination; they simply wandered like pilgrims, taking the day's dole
with joyous hearts and going to their sleep at night with healthy
weariness.
Only once during those weeks did they speak of that past of Truedale's
that Lynda had accepted in silence.
"My wife," Truedale said--she was sitting beside him by the outdoor
fire--"I want you always to remember that I am more grateful than words
can express for your--bigness, your wonderful understanding. I did not
expect that even you, Lyn, could be--so!"
She trembled a little--he remembered that afterward--he felt her against
his shoulder.
"I think--I know," she whispered, "that women consider the _effect_ of
such--things, Con. Had the experience been low, it would have left its
mark; as it is I am sure--well, it has not darkened your vision."
"No, Lyn, no!"
"And lately, I have been thinking of her, Con--that little Nella-Rose."
"You--have? You _could_, Lyn?"
"Yes. At first I couldn't possibly comprehend--I do not now, really, but
I find myself believing, in spite of my inability to understand, that
the experience has cast such a light upon her way, poor child, that--off
in some rude mountain home--she has a little fairer space than some.
Con, knowing you, I believe you could not have--lowered her. She went
back to her natural love--it must have been a strong call--but I shall
never believe her depraved."
"Lyn," Truedale's voice was husky, "once you made me reconciled to my
uncle's death--it was the way you put it--and now you have made me dare
to be--happy."
"Men never grow up!" Lynda pressed her face to his shoulder, "they make
a bluff at caring for us and defending us and all the rest--but we
understand, we understand! I think women mother men always even when
they rely upon them most, as I do upon you! It's so splendid to think,
when we go home, of the great things we are going to do--together."
A letter from Brace, eventually, made them turn their faces homeward. It
was late July then.
LYN, DEAR:
When you can conveniently give me a thought, do. And when are you
coming back? I hope I shall not shock you unduly--but it's that
little sister of the Morrells that is the matter, Elizabeth
Arnold--Betty we call her. I've got to marry her as soon as I can.
I'll never be able to do any serious business again until I get her
behind the coffee-urn. She haunts me day and night and then when I
see her--she laughs at me! We've been over to look at that church
where you and Con were married. Betty likes it, but prefers her own
folk to stray old women and lost kids. We think September would be
a jolly month to be married in, but Betty refuses to set a day
until she finds out if she approves of my people! That's the way
_she_ puts it. She says she wants to find out if you believe in
women's voting, for if you don't, she knows she never could get on
with you. She believes that the thing that makes women opposed,
does other things to them--rather unpleasant, unfriendly things.
I told her your sentiments and then she asked about Con. She says
she wouldn't trust the freest woman in the East if she were married
to a slave-believing man.
By all this you will judge what a comical little cuss Betty is,
but all the same I am quite serious in urging you to come home
before I grow desperate.
BRACE.
Truedale looked at Lynda in blank amazement. "I'd forgotten about the
sister," he said, inanely.
"I think, dear, we'll _have_ to go home. I remember once when we were
quite little, Brace and I, mother had taken me for a visit and left him
at home. He sent a letter to mother--it was in printing--'You better
come back,' he said; 'You better come in three days or I'll do
something.' We got there on the fourth day and we found that he had
broken the rocking chair in which mother used to put him to sleep when
he was good!"
"The little rowdy!" Truedale laughed. "I hope he got a walloping."
"No. Mother cried a little, had the chair mended, and always said she
was sorry that she had not got home on the third day."
"I see. Well, Lyn, let's go home to him. I don't know what he might
break, but perhaps we couldn't mend it, so we'll take no chances."
Truedale and Lynda had walked rather giddily upon the heights; the
splendour of stars and the warm touch of the sun had been very near
them; but once they descended to the paths of plain duty they were not
surprised to find that they lay along a pleasant valley and were warmed
by the brightness of the hills.
"It's--home, now!" whispered Truedale as he let himself and Lynda in at
the front door, "I wish Uncle William were here to welcome us. How he
loved you, Lyn."
Like a flood of joy memory overcame Lynda. This was how William Truedale
had loved her--this luxury of home--and then she looked at Truedale and
almost told him of the money, the complete assurance of the old man's
love and trust. But of a sudden it became impossible, though why, Lynda
could not have said. She shrank from what she had once believed would be
her crowning joy; she decided to leave the matter entirely with Dr.
McPherson.
After all, she concluded, it should be Con's right to bring to her this
last touching proof of his uncle's love and desire. How proud he would
be! How they would laugh over it all when they both knew the secret!
So the subject was not referred to and a day or so later Betty Arnold
entered their lives, and so intense was their interest in her and her
affairs that personal matters were, for the moment, overlooked.
Lynda went first to call upon Betty alone. If she were to be
disappointed, she wanted time to readjust herself before she encountered
other eyes. Betty Arnold, too, was alone in her sister's drawing room
when Lynda was announced. The two girls looked long and searchingly at
each other, then Lynda put her hands out impulsively:
"It's really too good to be true!" was all she could manage as she
looked at the fair, slight girl and cast doubt off forever.
"Isn't it?" echoed Betty. "Whew! but this is the sort of thing that ages
one."
"Would it have mattered, Betty, whether I was pleased or not?"
"Lynda, it would--awfully! You see, all my life I've been independent
until I met Brace and now I want everything that belongs to him. His
love and mine collided but it didn't shock us to blindness, it awakened
us--body and soul. When that happens, everything matters--everything
that belongs to him and me. I knew you liked Mollie, and John is an old
friend; they're all I've got, and so you see if you and I hadn't--liked
each other, it would have been--tragic. Now let's sit down and have tea.
Isn't it great that we won't have to choke over it?"
Betty presided at the small table so daintily and graciously that her
occasional lapses into slang were like the dartings of a particularly
frisky little animal from the beaten track of conventions. She and Lynda
grew confidential in a half hour and felt as if they had known each
other for years at the close of the call. Just as Lynda was reluctantly
leaving, Mrs. Morrell came in. She was darker, more dignified than her
sister, but like her in voice and laugh.
"Mollie, I wish I had told you to stay another hour," Betty exclaimed,
going to her sister and kissing her. "And oh! Mollie, Lynda likes me!
I'll confess to you both now that I have lain awake nights dreading this
ordeal."
When Lynda met Brace that evening she was amused at his drawn face and
tense voice.
"How did you like her?" he asked feebly and at that moment Lynda
realized how futile a subterfuge would have been.
"Brace, I love her!"
"Thank God!"
"Why, Brace!"
"I mean it. It would have gone hard with me if you hadn't."
To Truedale, Betty presented another aspect.
"You can trust women with your emotions about men," she confided to
Lynda, "but not men! I wouldn't let Brace know for anything how my love
for him hobbles me; and if your Con--by the way, he's a great deal nicer
than I expected--should guess my abject state, he'd go to Brace and--put
him wise! That's why men have got where they are to-day--standing
together. And then Brace might begin at once to bully me. You see,
Lynda, when a husband gets the upper hand it's often because he's
reinforced by all the knowledge his male friends hand out to him."
Truedale met Betty first at the dinner--the little family dinner Lynda
gave for her. Morrell and his wife. Brace and Betty, himself and Lynda.
In a trailing blue gown Betty looked quite stately and she carried her
blond head high. She sparkled away through dinner and proved her happy
faculty of fitting in, perfectly. It was a very merry meal, and later,
by the library fire, Conning found himself tete-a-tete with his future
sister-in-law. She amused him hugely.
"I declare," he said teasingly, "I can hardly believe that you believe
in the equality of the sexes." They were attacking that problem at the
moment.
"I--don't!" Betty looked quaintly demure. "I believe in the superiority
of men!"
"Good Lord!"
"I do. That's why I want all women to have the same chance that men have
had to get superior. I--I want my sisters to get there, too!"
"There? Just where?" Truedale began to think the girl frivolous; but her
charm held.
"Why, where their qualifications best fit them to be. I'm going to tell
you a secret--I'm tremendously religious! I believe God knows, better
than men, about women; I want--well, I don't want to seem flippant--but
truly I'd like to hear God speak for himself!"
Truedale smiled. "That's a common-sense argument, anyway," he said. "But
I suppose we men are afraid to trust any one else; we don't want
to--lose you."
"As if you could!" Betty held her small, white hand out to the dog
lying at her feet. "As if we didn't know, that whatever we don't want,
we do want you. Why, you are our--job."
Truedale threw his head back and laughed. "You're like a whiff of your
big mountain air," he said.
"I hope I always will be," Betty replied softly and earnestly, "I must
keep--free, no matter what happens. I must keep what I am, or how can I
expect to keep--Brace? He loved _this_ me. Marriage doesn't perform a
miracle, does it--Conning? please let me call you that. Lynda has told
me how she and you believe in two lives, not one narrow little life.
It's splendid. And now I am going to tell you another secret. I'll have
to let Lynda in on this, too, she must help me. I have a little money of
my very own--I earned every cent of it. I am going to buy a tiny bit of
ground, I've picked it out--it's across the river in the woods. I'm
going to build a house, not much of a one, a very small one, and I'm
going to call it--The Refuge. When I cannot find myself, when I get
lost, after I'm married, and am trying to be everything to Brace, I'm
going to run away to--The Refuge!" The blue eyes were shining "And
nobody can come there, not even Brace, except by invitation. I
think"--very softly--"I think all women should have a--a Refuge."
Truedale found himself impressed. "You're a very wise little woman," he
said.
"One has to be, sometimes," came the slow words. And at that moment all
doubt of Betty's serious-mindedness departed.
Brace joined them presently. He looked as if he had been straining at a
leash since dinner time.
"Con," he said, laying his hand on the light head bending over the dog,
"now that you have talked and laughed with Betty, what have you got to
say?"
"Congratulations, Ken, with all my heart."
"And now, Betty"--there was a new tone in Kendall's voice--"Mollie has
said you may walk back with me. The taxi would stifle us. There's a
moon, dear, and a star or two--"
"As if that mattered!" Betty broke in. "I'm very, very happy. Brace,
you've got a nice, sensible family. They agree with me in everything."
The weeks passed rapidly. Betty's affairs absorbed them all, though she
laughingly urged them to leave her alone.
"It's quite awful enough to feel yourself being carried along by a
deluge," she jokingly said, "without hearing the cheers from the banks."
But Mollie Morrell flung herself heart and soul into the arranging of
the wardrobe--playing big sister for the first and only time in her
life. She was older than Betty, but the younger girl had always swayed
the elder.
And Lynda became fascinated with the little bungalow across the river,
known as The Refuge.
The original fancy touched her imagination and she put other work aside
while she vied with Betty for expression.
"I've found an old man and woman, near by," Betty said one day, "they
were afraid they would have to go to the poor-house, although both are
able to do a little. I'm going to put them in my bungalow--the two
little upstair rooms shall be theirs. When I run down to find myself it
will be homey to see the two shining, old faces there to greet me. They
are not a bit cringing; I think they know how much they will mean to me.
They consider me rather immoral, I know, but that doesn't matter."
And then in early October Brace and Betty were married in the church
across the river. Red and gold autumn leaves were falling where earlier
the roses had clambered; it was a brisk, cool day full of sun and shade
and the wedding was more to the old clergyman's taste. The organist was
in his place, his music discriminately chosen, there were guests and
flowers and discreet costumes.
"More as it should be," thought the serene pastor; but Lynda missed the
kindly old woman who had drifted in on her wedding day, and the small,
tearful girl who had wanted her mother.