Lynda, that winter day, had undertaken her task with unwonted energy.
She had never done a similar piece of work before. In her early
beginning she had rather despised the inadequacy of women who, no matter
what might be said in defense of their ignorance regarding the rest of
their homes, did not know how to design and plan their own nurseries.
Later she had eliminated designing of this kind because so few asked for
it, and it did not pay to put much time on study in preparation for the
rare occasions when nurseries were included in the orders. But this was
an exception. A woman who had lost three children was expecting the
fourth, and she had come to Lynda with a touching appeal.
"You helped make a home of my house, Mrs. Truedale, but I always managed
the nursery--myself before; now I cannot. I want you to put joy and
welcome in it for me. If I were to undertake it I should fail miserably,
and evolve only gloom and fear. It will be different--afterward. But you
understand and--you will?"
Lynda had understood and had set herself to her work with the new, happy
insight that Betty's little baby had made possible. It had all gone
well until the "sleeping corner" was reached, and then--something
happened. A memory of one of Betty's confessions started it. "Lyn," she
had said, just before her baby came, "I kneel by this small, waiting
crib and pray--as only mothers know how to pray--and God teaches them
afresh every time! I do so want to be worthy of the confidence of--God."
"And I--am never to know!" Lynda bowed her head. "I with my love--with
my desire to hear God speak--am never to hear. Why?"
Then it was that Lynda wept. Wept first from a desolate sense of defeat;
then--and God sometimes speaks to women kneeling beside the beds of
children not their own--she raised her head and trembled at the flood of
joy that overcame her. It was like a mirage, seen in another woman's
world, of her own blessed heritage.
Filled with this vision she had fled to Betty's, only to find that Betty
had fled on her own account!
There was no moment of indecision; welcome or not, Lynda had to reach
Betty--and at once!
She had tarried, after setting her face to the river. She even stopped
at a quiet little tea room and ate a light meal. Then she waited until
the throng of business men had crossed the ferry to their homes. It was
quite dark when she reached the wooded spot where, hidden deep among the
trees, was Betty's retreat.
There was a light in the house--the living room faced the path--and
through the uncurtained window Lynda saw Betty sitting before the fire
with her little dog upon her lap.
"Oh, Betty," she whispered, stretching her arms out to the lonely little
figure in the low, deep chair. "Betty! Betty!" She waited a moment, then
she tapped lightly upon the glass. The dog sprang to the floor, its
sharp ears twitching, but he did not bark. Betty came to the door and
stood in the warm, lighted space with arms extended. She knew no fear,
there was only doubt upon her face.
"Lyn, is it you?"
"Yes! How did you guess?"
"All day I've been thinking about you--wanting you. Sometimes I can
bring people that way."
"And I have wanted you! Betty, may I stay--to-night?"
"Why, yes, dear. Stay until you want to go home. I've been pulling
myself together; I'm almost ready to go back to Brace. Come in!
Why--what is it, dear? Come, let me take off your things! There! Now lie
back in the chair and tell Betty all about it."
"No, no! Betty, I want to sit so--at your feet. I want to learn all that
you can teach me. You have never had your eyes blinded--or you would
know how the light hurts."
"Well, then. Put your blessed, tired head on my knee. You're my little
girl to-night, Lyn, and I am your--mother."
For a moment Lynda cried as a child might who had reached safety at
last. Betty did not check or soothe the heavy sobs--she waited. She knew
Lynda was saved from whatever had troubled her. It was only the telling
of it now. And presently the dark head was lifted.
"Betty, it is Con and I!"
"Yes, dear."
"I've loved him all my life; and I believe--I _know_--he loved me! Women
do not make mistakes about the real thing."
"Never, Lyn, never."
"Betty, once when I thought Con had wronged me, I wanted to come to
you--I almost did--but I couldn't then! Now that I am sure I have
wronged him, it is easy to come to you--you are so understanding!" The
radiance of Lynda's face rather startled Betty. Abandon, relief,
glorified it until it seemed a new--a far more beautiful face.
"All my life, Betty, I've been controlling myself--conquering myself. I
got started that way and--and I've kept on. I've never done anything
without considering and weighing; but now I'm going to fling myself into
love and life and--pay whatever there is to pay."
"Why, Lyn, dear, please go slower." Betty pressed her face to the head
at her knee.
"Betty, there was another love in Con's life--one that should never
have been there."
This almost took Betty's breath. She was thankful Lynda's eyes were
turned away; but by some strange magic the words raised Truedale in
Betty's very human imagination.
"I sometimes think the--the thing that happened--was the working out of
an old inheritance; Con has overcome much, but that caught him in its
snare. He was ready to let it ruin his whole future. He would never have
flinched--never have known, or admitted if he had known--what he had
foregone. But the thing was taken out of his control altogether--the
girl married another man!
"When Con came to himself again, he told me, Betty--told me so simply,
so tragically, that I saw what a deep cut the experience had made in his
life--how it had humbled him. Never once did he blame any one else. I
loved him for the way he looked upon it; so many men could not have done
so. That made the difference with me. It was what the thing had done to
Con that made it possible for me to love him the more!
"He wanted the best things in life but didn't think he was worthy! And
I? Well, I thought I saw enough for us both, and so I married him! Then
something happened--it doesn't matter what it was--it was a foolish,
ugly thing, but it had to be something. And Con thought I had never
forgiven the--the first love--that I had sacrificed myself for him--in
marriage! And no woman could bear that."
"My poor, dear Lyn."
"Can't you see, Betty, it all comes from the idiotic idea that men--some
men--have about women. They put us on a toppling pedestal; when we fall
they are surprised, and when we don't they--are afraid of us! And all
the time--you know this, Betty--we ought not to be on pedestals at all;
we don't--we _don't_ belong on them! We want to be close and go along
together."
"Yes, Lyn; we do! we do!"
"Well--after Con misunderstood, I just let him go along thinking I
was--well, the kind of woman who could sacrifice herself. I thought he
would want me so that he would--find out. And so we've been eating our
hearts out--for ages!"
"Why, Lyn! you cruel, foolish girl."
"Yes--and because I knew you would say that--I could come to you.
You--do not blame Con?"
"Blame _him_! Why, Lyn, a gentleman doesn't take a woman off her beastly
pedestal; she comes down herself--if she isn't a fool."
"Well, Betty, I'm down! I'm down, and I'm going to crawl to Con, if
necessary, and then--I think he'll lift me up."
"He'll never pull you down, that's one sure thing!"
"Oh! thank you, Betty. Thank you."
"But, Lyn--what has so suddenly brought you to your senses?"
"Your little baby, Betty!"
"My--baby!" The words came in a hard, gasping breath.
"I held him when he died, Betty. I had never been close to a baby
before--never! A strange thing happened to me as I looked at him. It was
like knowing what a flower would be while holding only the bud. The
baby's eyes had the same expression I have seen in Con's eyes--in
Brace's; I know now it is the whole world's look. It was full of
wonder--full of questions as to what it all meant. I am sure that it
comes and goes but never really is answered--here, Betty."
"Oh! Lyn. And I have been bitter--miserable--because I felt that it
wasn't fair to take my baby until he had done some little work in the
world! And now--why, he did a great thing. My little, little baby!"
Betty was clinging to Lynda, crying as if all the agony were swept away
forever.
"Sometimes"--Lynda pressed against Betty--"sometimes, lately, in Con's
eyes I have seen the look! It was as if he were asking me whether he had
yet been punished enough! And I've been thinking of myself--thinking
what Con owed _me;_ what _I_ wanted; _when_ I should have it! I hate and
despise myself for my littleness and prudery; why, he's a thousand times
finer than I! That's what pedestals have done for women. But now,
Betty, I'm down; and I'm down to stay. I'm--"
"Wait, Lyn, dear." Betty mopped her wet face and started up. She had
seen a tall form pass the window, and she felt as if something
tremendous were at stake. "Just a minute, Lyn. I must speak to Mrs.
Waters if you are to stay over night. She's old, you know, and goes
early to bed."
Lynda still sat on the floor--her face turned to the red glow of the
fire that was growing duller and duller. Presently the door opened, and
her words flowed on as if there had been no interruption.
"I'm going to Con to-morrow. I had to make sure--first; but I know now,
I know! I'm going to tell him all about it--and ask him to let me walk
beside him. I'm going to tell him how lonely I've been in the place he
put me--how I've hated it! And some time--I feel as sure as sure can
be--there will be something I can do that will prove it."
"My--darling!"
Arms stronger than Betty's held her close--held her with a very human,
understanding strength.
"You've done the one big thing, Lyn!"
"Not yet, not yet, Con, dear."
"You have made me realize what a wrong--a bitter wrong--I did you, when
I thought you could be less than a loving woman."
"Oh, Con! And have you been lonely, too?"
"Sweet, I should have died of loneliness had something not told me I
was still travelling up toward you. That has made it possible."
"Instead"--Lynda drew his face down to hers--"instead, I've been
struggling up toward _you!_! Dear, dear Con, it isn't men and women;
it's _the_ man--_the_ woman. Can't you see? It's the sort of thing life
makes of us that counts; not the steps we take on the way. You--you know
this, Con?"
"I know it, now, from the bottom of my soul."
* * * * *
It was one of Betty's quaint sayings that some lives were guided by
flashlights, others by a steady gleam. Hers had always been by the
former method. She made her passage from one illumination to another
with great faith, high courage, and much joyousness. After the night
when Lynda made her see what her dear, dead baby had accomplished in his
brief stay, she rose triumphant from her sorrow. She was her old, bright
self again; she sang in her home, transfigured Brace by her happiness,
and undertook her old interests and duties with genuine delight.
But for Lynda and Truedale the steady gleam was necessary. They never
questioned--never doubted--after the night when they came home from the
little house in the woods. To them both happiness was no new thing; it
was a precious old thing given back after a dark period of testing. The
days were all too short, and when night brought Conning running and
whistling to the door, Lynda smiled and realized that at last the fire
was burning briskly on her nice, clean hearth. They had so much in
common--so much that demanded them both in the doing of it.
"No bridges for us, here and there, over which to reach each other,"
thought Lynda; "it's the one path for us both." Then her eyes grew
tenderly brooding as she remembered how 'twas a little child that had
led them--not theirs, but another's.
The business involved in setting old William Truedale's money in
circulation was absorbing Conning at this time. Once he set his feet
upon the way, he did not intend to turn back; but he sometimes wondered
if the day would ever come when he could, with a clear conscience, feel
poor enough to enjoy himself, selfishly, once more.
From McPherson he heard constantly of the work in the southern hills.
Truedale was, indeed, a strong if silent and unsuspected force there. As
once he had been an unknown quantity, so he remained; but the work went
on, supervised by Jim White, who used with sagacity and cleverness the
power placed in his hands.
Truedale's own particular interests were nearly all educational. Even
here, he held himself in reserve--placed in more competent hands the
power they could wield better than he. Still, he was personally known
and gratefully regarded by many young men and women who were
struggling--as he once had struggled--for what to them was dearer than
all else. He always contrived to leave them their independence and
self-respect. Naturally all this was gratifying and vital to Lynda.
Achievement was dear to her temperament, and the successes of others,
especially those nearest to her, were more precious to her than her own.
She saw Truedale drop his old hesitating, bewildered manner like a
discarded mantle. She grew to rely upon his calm strength that developed
with the demands made upon it. She approved of him so! And that
realization brought out the best in her.
One November evening she and Con were sitting in the library, Truedale
at his desk, Lynda idly and luxuriously rocking to and fro, her hands
clasped over her head. She had learned, at last, the joy of absolute
relaxation.
"There's a big snow-storm setting in," she said, smiling softly. Then,
apropos of nothing: "Con, we've been married four years and over!"
"Only that, Lyn? It seems to me like my whole life."
"Oh, Con--so long as that?"
"Blessedly long."
After another pause Lynda spoke merrily: "Con, I want some of Uncle
William's money. A lot of it."
Truedale tossed her a new check book. "Now that you see there is no
string tied to it," he said, "may I ask what for? Just sympathetic
interest, you know."
"Of course. Well, it's this way. Betty and I are broke. It's fine for
you to make roads and build schools and equip the youth of America for
getting all the learning they can carry, but Betty and I are after the
babies. We've been agonizing over the Saxe Home--Betty's on the
Board--and before Christmas we are going to undress all those poor
standardized infants and start their cropped hair to growing."
Truedale laughed heartily. "Intimacy with Betty," he said, "has coloured
your descriptive powers, Lyn, dear."
"Oh, all happy women talk one tongue."
"And you _are_ happy, Lyn?"
"Happy? Yes--happy, Con!"
They smiled at each other across the broad table.
"Betty has told the superintendent that if there is a blue stripe or a
cropped head on December twenty-fourth, she's going to recommend the
dismissal of the present staff."
"Good Lord! Does any one ever take Betty seriously? I should think one
of those board meetings would bear a strong family resemblance to an
afternoon tea--rather a frivolous one."
"They don't. And, honestly, people are tremendously afraid of Betty. She
makes them laugh, but they know she gets what she wants--and with a
joke she drives her truths home."
"There's something in that." Truedale looked earnest. "She's a great
Betty."
"So it's up to Betty and me, now," Lynda went on. "We can take off the
shabby, faded little duds, but we've got to have something to put on at
once, or the kiddies will take cold."
"Surely."
"We think that to start a child out in stripes is almost as bad as
finishing him in them. To make a child feel--different--is sure to damn
him."
"And so you are going to make the Saxe Home an example and set the ball
rolling."
"Exactly, Con. And we're going to slam the door in the faces of the
dramatic rich this Christmas. The lambies at the Saxe are going to have
a nice, old-fashioned tree. They are going to dress it themselves the
night before, and whisper up the chimney what they want--and there is
not going to be a speech on Christmas Day within a mile of that Home!"
"That's great. I'd like to come in on that myself."
"You can, Con, we'll need you."
"Christmas always does set the children in one's thoughts, doesn't it? I
suppose Betty is particularly keen--having had her baby for a day or
so." Truedale's eyes were tender. Betty's baby and its fulfilled mission
were sacred to him and Lynda.
"Betty is going to adopt a child, Con."
"Really?"
"Yes. She says she cannot stand Christmas without one. It's a rebuke
to--to her boy."
"Poor little Bet!"
"Oh! it makes me so--so humble when I see her courage. She says if she
has a dozen children of her own it will make no difference; she must
have her first child's representative. She's about decided upon the
one--he's the most awful of them all. She's only hesitating to see if
anything awfuller will turn up. She says she's going to take a baby no
one else will have--she's going to do the biggest thing she can for her
own dead boy. As if her baby ever could be dead! Sometimes I think he is
more alive than if he had stayed here and got all snarled up in earthly
things--as so many do!"
Conning came close to Lynda and drew her head back against his breast.
"You are--crying, darling!" he said.
"It's--it's Betty. Con, what is it about her that sort of brightens the
way for us all, yet dims our eyes?"
"She's very illuminating. It's a big thing--this of adopting a child.
What does Brace think of it?"
"He adores everything Betty does. He says"--Lynda smiled up into the
face above her--"he says he wishes Betty had chosen one with hair a
little less crimson, but that doubtless he'll grow to like that tint
better than any other."
"Lyn, have you ever thought of adopting a child?"
"Oh!--sometimes. Yes, Con."
"Well, if you ever feel that you ought--that you want to--I will be glad
to--to help you. I see the risk--the chance, and I think I would like a
handsome one. But it is Christmas time, and a man and woman, if they
have their hearts in the right places, do think of children and trees
and all the rest at this season. Still"--and with that Truedale pressed
his lips to Lynda's hair--"I'm selfish, you seem already to fill every
chink of my life."
"Con, that's a blessed thing to say to a woman--even though the woman
knows you ought not to say it. And now, I'm going to tell you something
else, Con. It's foolish and trifling, perhaps, but I've set my heart
upon it ever since the Saxe Home got me to thinking."
"Anything in the world, Lyn! Can I help?"
"I should say you could. You'll have to be about the whole of it.
Starting this Christmas, I'm going to have a tree--right here in this
room--close to Uncle William's chair!"
"By Jove! and for--for whom?"
"Why, Con, how unimaginative you are! For you, for me, for Uncle
William, for any one--any really right person, young or old--who needs a
Christmas tree. Somehow, I have a rigid belief that some one will
always be waiting. It may not be an empty-handed baby. Perhaps you and I
may have to care for some dear _old_ soul that others have forgotten. We
could do this for Uncle William, couldn't we, Con?"
"Yes, my darling."
"The children cannot always know what they are missing, but the old can,
and my heart aches for them often--aches until it really hurts."
"My dear girl!"
"They are so alike, Con, the babies and the very aged. They need the
same things--the coddling, the play, the pretty toys to amuse
them--until they fall asleep."
"Lynda, you are all nerves and fancies. Pretty ones--but dangerous.
We'll have our tree--we'll call it Uncle William's. We'll take any
one--every one who is sent to us--and be grateful. And that makes me
think, we must have a particularly giddy celebration up at the
Sanatorium. McPherson and I were speaking of it to-day."
"Con, I wonder how many secret interests you have of which I do not
know?"
"Not many."
"I wonder!"
Truedale laughed, a bit embarrassed. "Well," he said, suddenly changing
the subject, "talking about nerves reminds me that when the holidays are
over you and I are going away on a honeymoon. After this we are to have
one a year. We'll drop everything and indulge in the heaven-given luxury
of loafing. You need it. Your eyes are too big and your face too pale. I
don't see what has ailed me not to notice before. But right after
Christmas, dear, I'm going to run away with you.... What are you
thinking about, Lyn?"
"Oh, only the blessedness of being taken care of! It's strange, but I
know now that all my life--before this--I was gazing at things through
closed windows. Alone in my cell I looked out--sometimes through
beautiful stained glass, to be sure--at trees waving and people passing.
Now and then some one paused and spoke to me, but always with the
barrier between. Now--I touch people--there is nothing to keep us apart.
I'm just like everybody else; and your love and care, Con, have set the
windows wide!"
"This will never do, Lyn. Such fancies! I may have to take you away
_before_ Christmas." Truedale spoke lightly but his look was anxious.
"In the meantime, let us go out for a walk in the snow. There's enough
wind to make it a tussle. Come, dear!"