There are spaces in all lives that seem so surrounded by safety and
established conditions that one cannot conceive of change. Those
particular spots may know light and shade of passing events but it seems
that they cannot, of themselves, be affected. So Truedale and Lynda had
considered their lives at that period. They were supremely happy, they
were gloriously busy--and that meant that they both recognized
limitations. They took each day as it came and let it go at the end with
a half-conscious knowledge that it had been too short.
Then one late October afternoon Truedale tapped on the door of Lynda's
workshop and to her cheery "come," entered, closed the door after him,
and sat down. He was very white and sternly serious. Lynda looked at him
questioningly but did not speak.
"I've seen Dr. McPherson," Conning said presently, "he sent for me. He's
been away, you know."
"I had not known--but--" Then Lynda remembered!
"Lynda, did you know--of my uncle's--will before his death?"
"Why, yes, Con."
Something cold and death-like clutched Lynda's heart. It was as if an
icy wave had swept warmth and safety before it, leaving her aghast and
afraid.
"Yes, I knew."
"Will you tell me--I could not go into this with McPherson, somehow; he
didn't see it my way, naturally--will you tell me what would have become
of the--the fortune had I not married you?"
The deathly whiteness of Lynda's face did not stay Truedale's hard
words; he was not thinking of her--even of himself; he was thinking of
the irony of fate in the broad sense.
"The money would have--come to me." Then, as if to divert any further
misunderstanding. "And when I refused it--it would have reverted to
charities."
"I see. And you did this for me, Lyn! How little even you understood.
Now that I have the cursed money I do not know what to do with it--how
to get rid of it. Still it was like you, Lynda, to sacrifice yourself in
order that I might have what you thought was my due. You always did
that, from girlhood. I might have known no other woman could have done
what you have done, no such woman as you, Lyn, without a mighty motive;
but you did not know me, really!"
And now, looking at Lynda, it was like looking at a dead face--a face
from which warmth and light had been stricken.
"I--do not know what you--mean, Con," she said, vaguely.
"Being you, Lyn, you couldn't have taken the money, yourself,
particularly if you had declined to marry me. A lesser woman would have
done it without a qualm, feeling justified in outwitting so cruel a
thing as the bequest; but not you! You saw no other way, so you--you
with your high ideals and clear beliefs--you married the man I am--in
order to--to give me--my own. Oh, Lyn, what a sacrifice!"
"Stop!" Lynda rose from her chair and, by a wide gesture, swept the
marks of her trade far from her. In so doing she seemed to make space to
breathe and think.
"Do you think I am the sort of girl who would sell herself for
anything--even for the justice I might think was yours?"
"Sell yourself? Thank God, between us, Lynda, that does not enter in."
"It would have, were I the woman your words imply. I had nothing to gain
by marrying you, nothing! Nothing--that is--but--but--what you are
unable to see." And then, so suddenly that Truedale could not stop her,
Lynda almost ran from the room.
For an hour Truedale sat in her empty shop and waited. He dared not seek
her and he realized, at last, that she was not coming back to him. His
frame of mind was so abject and personal that he could not get Lynda's
point of view. He could not, as yet, see the insult he had offered,
because he had set her so high and himself so low. He saw her only as
the girl and woman who, her life through, had put herself aside and
considered others. He saw himself in the light such a woman as he
believed Lynda to be would regard him. He might have known, he bitterly
acknowledged, that Lynda could not have overlooked in her pure woman
soul the lapse of his earlier life. He remembered how, that night of his
confession, she had begged to be alone--to think! Later, her
silence--oh! he understood it now. It was her only safeguard. And that
once, in the woods, when he had blindly believed in his great joy--how
she had solemnly made the best of the experience that was too deep in
both hearts to be resurrected. What a fool he had been to dream that so
wrong a step as he had once taken could lead him to perfect peace.
Thinking these thoughts, how could he, as yet, comprehend the wrong he
was doing Lynda? Why, he was grieving over her, almost breaking his
heart in his desire to do something--anything--to free her from the
results of her useless sacrifice.
At six o'clock Truedale went downstairs, but the house was empty. Lynda
had gone, taking all sense of home with her. He did not wait to see what
the dinner hour might bring about; he could not trust himself just
then. Indeed--having blasted every familiar landmark--he was utterly and
hopelessly lost. He couldn't imagine how he was ever to find his way
back to Lynda, and yet they would have to meet--have to consider.
Lynda, after leaving her workshop, had only one desire--she wanted Betty
more than she wanted anything else. She put on her hat and coat and
started headlong for her brother's apartment farther uptown. She felt
she must get there before Brace arrived and lay her trouble before the
astoundingly clear, unfaltering mind and heart of the little woman who,
so short a time ago, had come into their lives. But after a few blocks,
Lynda's steps halted. If this were just her own trouble--but what
trouble is just one's own?--she need not hesitate; but how could she
reveal what was deepest and most unfailing in her soul to any living
person--even to Betty of the unhesitating vision?
Presently Lynda retraced her steps. The calm autumn night soothed and
protected her. She looked up at the stars and thought of the old words:
"Why so hot, little man, why so hot?" Why, indeed? And then in the still
dimness--for she had turned into the side streets--she let Truedale come
into her thoughts to the exclusion, for the moment, of her own bitter
wrong. She looked back at his strange, lonely boyhood with so little in
it that could cause him to view justly his uncle's last deed. She
remembered his pride and struggle--his reserve and almost abnormal
sensitiveness. Then--the experience in the mountain! How terribly deep
that had sunk into Truedale's life; how unable he had been to see in it
any wrong but his own. Lynda had always honoured him for that. It had
made it possible for her to trust him absolutely. She had respected his
fine position and had never blurred it by showing him how she, as a
woman, could see the erring on the woman's part. No, she had left
Nella-Rose to him as his high-minded chivalry had preserved her--she had
dared do all that because she felt so secure in the love and sincerity
of the present.
"And now--what?"
The bitterness was past. The shock had left her a bit weak and helpless
but she no longer thought of the human need of Betty. She went home and
sat down before the fire in the library and waited for light. At ten
o'clock she came to a conclusion. Truedale must decide this thing for
himself! It was, after all, his great opportunity. She could not, with
honour and self-respect, throw herself upon him and so complicate the
misunderstanding. If her life with him since June had not convinced him
of her simple love and faith--her words, now, could not. He must seek
her--must realize everything. And in this decision Lynda left herself so
stranded and desolate that she looked up with wet eyes and saw--William
Truedale's empty chair! A great longing for her old friend rose in her
breast--a longing that not even death had taken from her. The clock
struck the half-hour and Lynda got up and with no faltering went toward
the bedroom door behind which the old man had started forth on his
journey to find peace.
And just as she went, with blinded eyes and aching heart, to shut
herself away from the dreariness of the present, Truedale entered the
house and, from the hall, watched her. He believed that she had heard
him enter, he hoped she was going to turn toward him--but no! she went
straight to the never-used room, shut the door, and--locked it!
Truedale stood rooted to the spot. What he had hoped--what trusted--he
could hardly have told. But manlike he was the true conservative and
with the turning of that key his traditions and established position
crumbled around him.
Lynda and he were married and, unless they decided upon an open break,
they must live their lives. But the turning of the key seemed to
proclaim to the whole city a new dispensation. A declaration of
independence that spurned--tradition.
For a moment Truedale was angry, unsettled, and outraged. He strode into
the room with stern eyes; he walked half way to the closed--and
locked--door; he gazed upon it as if it were a tangible foe which he
might overcome and, by so doing, reestablish the old ideals. Then--and
it was the saving grace--Truedale smiled grimly. "To be sure," he
muttered. "Of course!" and turned to his room under the eaves.
But the following day had to be faced. There were several things that
had to be dealt with besides the condition arising from the locking of
the door of William Truedale's room.
Conning battled with this fact nearly all night, little realizing that
Lynda was feeling her way to the same conclusion in the quiet room
below.
"I'm not beaten, Uncle William," she whispered, kneeling beside the bed.
"If I could only see how to meet to-morrow I would be all right."
And then a queer sort of comfort came to her. The humour with which her
old friend would have viewed the situation pervaded the room, bringing
strength with it.
"I know," she confided to the darkness in which the old man seemed
present, in a marvellously real way, "I know I love Conning. A
make-believe love couldn't stand this--but the true thing can. And he
loves _me!_ I know it through and through. The other love of his
wasn't--what this is. But he must find this out for himself. I've always
been close when he needed me; he must come to me now--for his sake even
more than for mine. I am deserving of that, am I not, Uncle William?"
The understanding friendship did not fail the girl kneeling by the empty
bed. It seemed to come through the rays of moonlight and rest like a
helpful touch upon her.
"Little mother!"--and in her soul Lynda believed William Truedale and
her mother had come together--"little mother, you did your best without
love; I will do mine--with it! And now I am going to bed and I am going
to sleep."
The next morning Truedale and Lynda were both so precipitate about
attacking the situation that they nearly ran into each other at the
dining-room door. They both had the grace to laugh. Then they talked of
the work at hand for the morning.
"I have a studio to evolve," Lynda said, passing a slice of toast to
Truedale from the electric contrivance before her, "a woman wants a
studio, she feels it will be an inspiration. She's a nice little society
woman who is bored to death. She's written an article or two for a
fashion paper and she believes she has discovered herself. I wish I knew
what to put in the place. She'd scorn the real thing and I hate to
compromise when it comes to such things. And you, Con, what have you
that must be done?"
Truedale looked at her earnestly. "I must meet the lawyer and
McPherson," he said, "but may I come--for a talk, Lyn, afterward?"
"I shall be in my workshop all day, Con, until dinner time to-night."
The day was a hard one for them both, but womanlike Lynda accepted it
and came to its close with less show of wear and tear than did
Truedale. She was restless and nervous. She worked conscientiously until
three and accomplished something in the difficult task the society woman
had entrusted her with; then she went to her bedroom and, removing every
sign of her craft, donned a pretty house dress and went back to her
shop. She meant to give Truedale every legitimate assistance, but she
was never prouder or firmer in her life. She called the dogs and the
cats in; she set the small tea table by the hearth and lighted just fire
enough to take the chill from the room and yet leave it sweet and fresh.
At five there was a tap on the door.
"Just in time, Con, for the tea," she called and welcomed him in.
To find her so calm, cheerful, and lovely, was something of a shock to
Truedale. Had she been in tears, or, had she shown any trace of the
suffering he had endured, he would have taken her in his arms and
relegated the unfortunate money to the scrap-heap of non-essentials. But
the scene upon which he entered had the effect of chilling him and
bringing back the displeasing thought of Lynda's sacrifice.
"Have you had a hard day, Con?"
"Yes."
"Drink the tea, and--let me see, you like bread and butter, don't you,
instead of cakes?"
They were silent for a moment while they sipped the hot tea. Then,
raising their eyes, they looked suddenly at each other.
"Lyn, I cannot do without you!"
She coloured deeply. She knew he did not mean to be selfish--but he was.
"You would be willing even to--accept my sacrifice?" she asked so softly
that he did not note the yearning in the tones--the beseeching of him to
abdicate the position that, for her, was untenable.
"Anything--anything, Lynda. The day without you has been--hell. We'll
get rid of the money somehow. Now that we both know how little it means,
we'll begin again and--free from Uncle William's wrong conceptions--Lyn--"
He put his cup down and rose quickly.
"Wait!" she whispered, shrinking back into her low armchair and holding
him off by her smile of detachment more than by her word of command.
"I--I cannot face life without you," Truedale spoke hoarsely, "I never
really had to contemplate it before. I need you--must have you."
He came a step nearer, but Lynda shook her head.
"Something has happened to us, Con. Something rather tremendous. We must
not bungle."
"One thing looms high. Only one, Lyn."
"Many things do, Con. They have been crowding thick around me all day.
There are worse things than losing each other!"
"No!" Truedale denied, vehemently.
"Yes. We could lose ourselves! This thing that makes you fling aside
what went before, this thing that makes me long--oh! how I long, Con--to
come to you and forget, this thing--what is it? It is the holiest thing
we know, and unless we guard it sacredly we shall hurt and kill it and
then, by and by, Con, we shall look at each other with frightened
eyes--over a dead, dead love."
"Lynda, how--can you? How dare you say these things when you
confess--Oh! my--wife!"
"Because"--and she seemed withdrawing from Truedale as he
advanced--"because I have confessed! You and I, Con, have reached
to-day, by different routes, the most important and vital problem. All
my life I have been pushing doors open as I came along. Sometimes I have
only peered in and hurried on; sometimes I have stayed and learned a
lesson. It will always be so with me. I must know. I think you are
willing not to know unless you are forced."
Truedale winced and went back slowly to his chair.
"Con, dear, unless you wish it otherwise, I want, as far as possible, to
begin from to-day and find out just how much we do mean to each other.
Let us push open the doors ahead until we make sure we both want the
same abiding place. Should you find a spot better, safer for you than
this that we thought we knew, I will never hold you by a look or word,
dear."
"And you--Lyn?" Truedale's voice shook.
"For myself I ask the same privilege."
"You mean that we--live together, yet apart?"
"Unless you will it otherwise, dear. In that case, we will close this
door and say--good-bye, now."
Her strength, her tenderness, unmanned Truedale. Again he felt that call
upon him which she had inspired the night of his confession. Again he
rallied to defend her--from her own pitiless sense of honour.
"By heaven!" he cried. "It shall not be good-bye. I will accept your
terms, live up to them, and dare the future."
"Good, old Con! And now, please, dear, go. I think--I think I am going
to cry--a little and"--she looked up quiveringly--"I mustn't have red
eyes at dinner time. Brace and Betty are coming. Thank heaven, Con,
Betty will make us laugh."