Two days later Lynda came down from her workshop by the back stairs, and
passed through William Truedale's bedchamber on the way to the library.
It was only ten o'clock in the morning but Truedale had a habit, if he
happened to be in the neighbourhood, of dropping in for a moment at this
hour. If he should to-day Lynda wanted to confer with him about some
details concerning the disrobing of the Saxe infants. She was
particularly light hearted and merry. A telephone call from Betty had
put her in the sunniest humour.
To her surprise, as she entered the library, she saw a small, most
peculiar-looking woman sitting quite straight on the edge of a chair in
the middle of the room.
It was a cast-iron rule that Lynda must not be disturbed at her morning
work. Thomas generally disposed of visitors without mercy.
"Good morning!" Lynda said kindly. "Can I do anything for you? I am
sorry you had to wait."
She concluded it was some one connected with the Saxe Home. That was
largely in her mind at the moment.
"I want to see"--and here the strange little figure came to Lynda and
held out a very dirty, crumpled piece of paper on which was written
Truedale's name and address.
"Mr. Truedale may not be home until evening," Lynda said. And now she
thought that this must be one of the private and pet dependents of Con's
with whom she would deal very gently and tactfully. "I wonder if you
won't tell me all about it and I will either tell Mr. Truedale or set a
time for you to see him."
Glad of any help in this hour of extremity, the stranger said:
"I'm--I'm Nella-Rose. Do you know about me?"
Know about her? Why, after the first stunning shock, she seemed to be
the _only_ thing Lynda did know about--ever had known! She stared at the
little figure before her for what seemed an hour. She noted the worried,
pitiful child face that, screened behind the worn and care-lined
features, looked forth like a pretty flower. Then Lynda said, weakly:
"Yes, I know about you--all about you, Nella-Rose."
The pitiful eyes brightened. What Nella-Rose had been through since
leaving her hills only God understood.
"I'm right glad! And you--you are--"
"I'm Conning Truedale's--wife."
Somehow Lynda expected this to be a devastating shock, but it was not.
Nella-Rose was past reservations or new impressions.
"I--I reckoned so," was all she said.
"You must sit down. You look very tired." Lynda had forgotten Truedale's
possible appearance.
"I _am_ right tired. It's a mighty long way from Pine Cone. And I was
so--so frightened, but folks was certainly good and just helped me--to
here! One old lady came to the door with me."
"Why--have you come, Nella-Rose?" Lynda drew her own chair close to the
stranger's and as she did so, she could but wonder, now that she was
herself again, how exactly Nella-Rose seemed to fit into the scene. She
was like a recurrence--like some one who had played her part before--or
were the scene and Nella-Rose but the materialization of something Lynda
had always expected, always dreaded, but which she had always known must
come some day? She was prepared now--terribly prepared! Everything
depended upon her management of the crucial moments. Her kindness did
not desert her, nor her merciful justice, but she meant to shield
Truedale with her life--hers and Nella-Rose's, if necessary. "Why--have
you--come?" she asked again, and Nella-Rose, taking for granted that
this pale, strange woman did know all about her--knew everything and
every one pertaining to her--fixed her sweet eyes, tear-filled but not
overflowing, upon her face.
"I want--to tell him that I'm right sorry I hated him. I--I didn't know
until Bill Trim died. I want to ask him to--to forgive me, and--then I
can go back."
"What--did--Bill Trim tell you?" Lynda tried with all her strength to
keep her mind cool, her thoughts steady. She wanted to lead Nella-Rose
on and on, without losing the way herself.
"That he burned--he didn't mean to--he burned the letter I
sent--asking--"
"I see! You wrote--a letter, then?"
"Yes. He told me, if I wanted him--and I did--Godda'mighty! how I wanted
him then!" Nella-Rose clasped her poor little work-hardened hands close,
and her small white teeth showed through the parted lips while she
struggled to regain her calm.
"You see--when I gave the letter to Bill Trim, I--I told him--I had
to--that it was Miss Lois Ann's, so he didn't think it mattered to me;
but when he was dying--he was hurt on the big road they are making in
the hills--he was brought to us-all, and Miss Lois Ann and I took care
of him, and he grew right sorry for hating her and not telling about the
letter--and then--he spoke it out!"
"I see. I see. And that was--how long ago--that you wrote the letter?"
Nella-Rose looked back over the weary way she had travelled, to this
moment in the warm, sun-filled room.
"It was befo' lil' Ann came that I sent the letter," she faltered.
"Little Ann?" Lynda repeated the name and something terrible rose within
her--something that would kill her unless she conquered it. So she asked
quickly, desperately:
"Your--your child? I see. Go on--Nella-Rose."
"I wrote the letter and--sent it. I was hid in Miss Lois Ann's cabin--it
was winter--and no one found out! Miss Lois Ann wouldn't believe what I
told; she said when him and me was married under the trees and God
understood, it didn't make me--right! She--helped me, but she
hated--him! And then when he--didn't come, she taught me to--to hate,
and it was right _black_ hate until lil' Ann came. When God let her down
to me--He took the hate away."
Lynda was blinded by her tears. She could hardly see the small figure
crouching in the low chair by the fire.
"And then--Miss Lois Ann went and told my folks--told Marg, my sister.
Marg was married to Jed and she was mighty scornful of me and lil' Ann.
She wouldn't tell Jed and my father--she came alone to me. She told me
what folks thought. They-all thought I'd gone away with Burke Lawson and
Marg felt sorry to see me alive--with lil' Ann. But Miss Lois Ann
wouldn't let her sting me with her tongue--she drove her away.
Then--Burke came! He'd been a right long way off--he'd broken his leg;
he came as soon as he could, and Marg told him and--and laid lil' Ann to
him!"
"And you--never spoke? You never told?" Lynda had drawn very close--her
words were barely above a whisper.
"No. It was this-er-way. First, love for him held my tongue mighty
still; then hate; and afterwards I couldn't!"
"But now, Nella-Rose, _now_--why have you spoken--now?"
"I haven't yet. Not to them-all. I had to come here--to him first. I
reckon you don't know about Burke and me?"
Lynda shook her head. She had thought she knew--but she had wandered
sadly.
"When Marg laid my trouble to Burke he just took it! First I couldn't
understand. But he took my trouble--and me! He took lil' Ann and me out
of Miss Lois Ann's cabin into--peace and safety. He tied every one's
tongue--it seemed like he drove all the--the wrong away by his big,
strong love--and set me free, like he was God! He didn't ask nothing for
a right long time, not 'til I grew to--believe him and trust him. Then
we went--when no one knew--and was married. Now he's my man and he's
always been lil' Ann's father till--till--"
A log fell upon the hearth and both women started guiltily and
affrightedly.
"Go on! go on!" breathed Lynda. "Go on!"
"Till the twins came--Burke's and mine! Then he knew the
difference--even his love for me couldn't help him--it hindered; and
while I--I feared, I understood!"
"Oh! oh! oh!" Lynda covered her aching eyes with her cold hands. She
dared not look at Nella-Rose. That childish yet old face was crowding
everything but pity from the world. Truedale, herself--what did they
matter?
"He--he couldn't bear to have lil' Ann touch--the babies. I could see
him--shiver! And lil' Ann--she's like a flower--she fades if you don't
love her. She grew afraid and--and hid, and it seemed like the soul of
me would die; for, don't you see, Burke thinks that Marg's man is--is
the father, and Marg and Jed lays the trouble to Burke and they think
her--his! And--and it has grown more since the big road brought us-all
closer. The big road brought trouble as well as good. Once"--and here
the haggard face whitened--"once Burke and Jed fought--and a fight in
the hills means more fights! Just then Bill Trim was hurt and told me
before he died; it was like opening a grave! I 'most died 'long with
Bill Trim--'til I studied about lil' Ann! And then--I saw wide, and
right far, like I hadn't since--since before I hated. I saw how I must
come and--tell you-all, and how maybe you'd take lil' Ann, and then I
could go back to--to my man and--there'll be peace when he knows--at
last! Will you--oh! will you be with me, kind lady, when I--tell
your--your--man?" Nella-Rose dropped at Lynda's feet and was pleading
like a distraught child. "I've been so afraid. I did not know his world
was so full of noise and--and right many things. And he will
be--different--and I may not be able to make him understand. But you
will--_you_ will! I must get back to the hills. I done told Burke I--I
was going to prove myself to his goodness--by putting lil' Ann with them
as would be mighty kind to her. I seemed to know how it would turn
out--and I dared to say it; but now--now I am mighty--'fraid!"
The tears were falling from the pain-racked eyes--falling upon Lynda's
cold, rigid hands--and they seemed to warm her heart and clear her
vision.
"Nella-Rose," she said, "where is little Ann?"
"Lil' Ann? Why, there's lil' Ann sleeping her tire off under your
pillows. She was cold and mighty wore out." Nella-Rose turned toward the
deep couch under the broad window across the room.
Silently, like haunted creatures, both women stole toward the couch and
the mother drew away the sheltering screen of cushions. As she did so,
the little child opened her eyes, and for a moment endeavoured to find
her place in the strangeness. She looked at her mother and smiled a
slow, peculiar smile. Then she fixed her gaze upon Lynda. It was an old,
old look--but young, too--pleading, wonder-filled. The child was so like
Truedale--so unmercifully, cruelly like him--that, for a moment, reason
deserted Lynda and she covered her face with both hands and swayed with
silent laughter.
Nella-Rose bent over her child as if to protect her. "Lil' Ann," she
whispered, "the lady is a right kind lady--right kind!" She felt she
must explain and justify.
After a moment or two Lynda gained control of her shaken nerves. She
suddenly found herself calm, and ready to undertake the hardest, the
most perilous thing that had ever come into her life. "Bring little Ann
to the fire;" she said, "I'm going to order some lunch, and then--we can
decide, Nella-Rose."
Nella-Rose obeyed, dumbly. She was completely under the control of the
only person, who, in this perplexed and care-filled hour, seemed able to
guide and guard her.
Lynda watched the two eat of the food Thomas brought in. There was no
fear of Truedale coming now. There was safety ahead for some hours.
Lynda herself made a pretext of eating, but she hardly took her eyes
from little Ann's face. She wanted familiarity to take the place of
shock. She must grow accustomed to that terrible resemblance, for she
knew, beyond all doubt, that it was to hold a place in all her future
life.
When the last drop of milk went gurgling down the little girl's throat,
when Nella-Rose pushed her plate aside, when Thomas had taken away the
tray, Lynda spoke:
"And now, Nella-Rose, what are you going to--to do with us all?"
The tired head of little Ann was pressed against her mother's breast.
The food, the heat, were lulling her weary senses into oblivion again.
Lynda gave a swift thought of gratitude for the momentary respite as she
watched the small, dark face sink from her direct view.
"We are all in your hands," she continued.
"In _my_ hands--_mine_?"
"Yes. Yours."
"I--I must--tell him--and then go home."
"Must you, Nella-Rose?"
"What else is there for me?"
"You must decide. You, alone."
"You"--the lips quivered--"you will not go with me?"
"I--cannot, Nella-Rose."
"Why?"
"Because"--and with all her might Lynda sought words that would lay low
the difference between her and the simple, primitive woman close to
her--felt she _must_ use ideas and terms that would convey her meaning
and not drive her and Nella-Rose apart--"because, while he is my man
now, he was first yours. Because you were first, you must go alone--if
go you must. Then he shall decide."
Nella-Rose grasped the deep meaning after a moment and sank back
shivering. The courage and endurance that had borne her to this hour
deserted her. The help, that for a time had seemed to rise up in Lynda,
crumbled. Alone, drifting she knew not where, Nella-Rose waited.
"I'm--afraid!" she repeated over and over. "I'm right afraid. He's not
the same; it's all, all gone--that other life--and yet I cannot let him
think--!"
The two women looked at each other over all that separated
them--and each comprehended! The soul of Nella-Rose demanded
justification--vindication--and Lynda knew that it should have it, if
the future were to be lived purely. There was just one thing Lynda had
to make clear in this vital moment, one truth that must be understood
without trespassing on the sacred rights of others. Surely Nella-Rose
should know all that there was to know before coming to her final
decision. So Lynda spoke:
"You think he"--she could not bring herself, for all her bravery and
sense of justice, to speak her husband's name--"you think he remembers
you as something less than you were, than you are? Nella-Rose, he never
has! He did not understand, but always he has held you sacred. Whatever
blame there may have been--he took it all. It was because he could;
because it was possible for him to do so, that I loved him--honoured
him. Had it been otherwise, as truly as God hears me, I could not have
trusted him with my life. That--that marriage of yours and his was as
holy to him as, I now see, it was to you; and he, in his heart, has
always remembered you as he might a dear, dead--wife!"
Having spoken the words that wrung her heart, Lynda sank back exhausted.
Then she made her first--her only claim for herself.
"It was when everything was past and his new life began--his man's
life--that I entered in. He--he told me everything."
Nella-Rose bent over her sleeping child, and a wave of compassion
overflooded her thought.
"I--I must think!" she whispered, and closed her lovely eyes. What she
saw in the black space behind the burning lids no one could know, but
her tangled little life must have been part of it. She must have seen it
all--the bright, sunlit dream fading first into shadow, then into the
dun colour of the deserted hills. Burke Lawson must have stood boldly
forth, in his supreme unselfishness and Godlike power, as her
redeemer--her man! The gray eyes suddenly opened and they were calm and
still.
"I--I only wanted him--to remember me--like he once did," she faltered.
She was taking her last look at Truedale. "So long as he--he didn't
think me--less; I reckon I don't want him--to think of me as I
am--now."
"Suppose"--the desperate demand for full justice to Nella-Rose drove
Lynda on--"suppose it were in your power and mine to sweep everything
aside; suppose I--I went away. What would you do, Nella-Rose?"
Again the eyes closed. After a moment:
"I--would go back to--my man!"
"You mean that--as truly as God hears you?--you mean that, Nella-Rose?"
"Yes. But lil' Ann?"
Now that she had made the great decision about Truedale, there was still
"lil' Ann."
Lynda fought for mastery over the dread thing that was forcing its way
into her consciousness. Then something Nella-Rose was saying caught her
fevered thought.
"When I was a lil' child I used to dream that some day I would do a
mighty big thing--maybe this is it. I don't want to hurt his life
and--yours; I couldn't hurt my man and--and--the babies waiting back
there for me. But--lil' Ann!"
The name came like a sob. And somehow Lynda thought of Burke Lawson!
Burke, who had done his strong best, and still could not keep himself in
control because of--lil' Ann! The helpless baby was--oh! yes, yes--it
was Truedale's responsibility. If she, Lynda, were to keep her life--her
sacred love--she, too, must do a "big thing"--perhaps the biggest a
woman is ever called upon to do--to prove her faith.
For another moment she struggled; then, like a blind woman, she
stretched out her hands and laid them upon the child.
"Nella-Rose, will you give--_me_ little Ann?"
"Give her--to--you?" There was anguish, doubt, but hope, in the words.
"I want--the child! She shall have her father--her father's home--his
love, God willing! And I, Nella-Rose, as I hope for God's mercy, I will
do my duty by little Ann."
And now Lynda was on the floor beside the shabby pair, shielding them as
best she could from the last wrench and renunciation.
"Are you doing this for--for your man?" whispered Nella-Rose.
"Yes. For my--man!" They looked long into each other's eyes. Then
solemnly, slowly, Nella-Rose relinquished her hold of the child.
"I--give you--lil' Ann." So might she have spoken if, in religious
fervour, she had been resigning her child to death. "I--I--give you lil'
Ann." Gently she kissed the sleeping face and laid her burden in the
aching, strained arms that had still to learn their tender lesson of
bearing. Ann opened her eyes, her lips quivered, and she turned to her
mother.
"Take--lil' Ann!" she pleaded. Then Nella-Rose drank deep of the bitter
cup, but she smiled--and spoke one of the lies over which angels have
wept forgivingly since the world began.
"Lil' Ann, the kind lady is going to keep yo' right safe and happy 'til
mother makes things straight back there with--with yo'--father, in the
hills. Jes' yo' show the lady how sweet and pretty yo' can be 'til
mother comes fo' yo'! Will yo'--lil' Ann?"
"How long?"
"A mighty lil' while."
All her life the child had given up--shrunk from that which she feared
but did not understand; and now she accepted it all in the dull,
hopeless way in which timid children do. She received her mother's
kiss--gave a kiss in return; then she looked gloomily, distrustingly, at
Lynda. After that she seemed complacent and obeyed, almost stupidly,
whatever she was told to do.
Lynda took Nella-Rose to the station, saw to her every comfort, put a
sum of money in her hand with the words:
"You must take it, Nella-Rose--to prove your trust in me; and it will
buy some--some things for--the other babies. But"--and here she went
close to Nella-Rose, realizing for the first time that the most
difficult part, for her, was yet to come--"how will it be with--with
your man--when he knows?"
Nella-Rose looked up bravely and something crept into her eyes--the
look of power that only a woman who recognizes her hold on a man ever
shows.
"He'll bear it--right grateful--and it'll wipe away the hate for Jed
Martin. He'll do the forgiving--since I've given up lil' Ann; and if he
doubts--there's Miss Lois Ann. She's mighty powerful with men--when it's
women that matters."
"It's very wonderful!" murmured Lynda. "More wonderful than I can
understand." And yet as she spoke she knew that she _did_ understand.
Between her and Burke Lawson, a man she was never to know, there was a
common tie--a deep comprehension.
Late that afternoon Lynda drove to Betty's with little Ann sitting
rigidly on the seat beside her. The child had not spoken since she had
seen the train move out of the station bearing her mother away. She had
not cried or murmured. She had gone afterward, holding Lynda's hand,
through amazing experiences. She had seen her shabby garments discarded
in dazzling shops, and fine apparel replace them. Once she had caught a
glimpse of her small, transformed self in a long mirror and her dark
eyes had widened. That was all. Lynda had watched her feverishly. She
had hoped that with the change of clothing the startling likeness would
lessen, but it did not. Robed in the trappings of her father's world,
little Ann seemed to become more wholly his.
"Do you like yourself, little Ann?" Lynda had asked when, at last, a
charming hat was placed upon the dark curls.
There was no word of reply--only the wide, helpless stare--and, to cover
her confusion, Lynda hurried away to Betty.
The maid who admitted her said that "Mrs. Kendall was upstairs in the
nursery with the baby."
Lynda paused on the stairs and asked blankly: "The baby? What baby?"
The maid was a trusted one and close to Betty.
"The little boy from the Home, Mrs. Truedale," she replied, "and already
the house is cheerfuller."
Lynda felt a distinct disappointment. She had hoped that Betty would
care for little Ann for a few days, but how could she ask it of her now?
In the sunny room upstairs Betty sat in a low rocker, crooning away to a
restless bundle in her arms.
"You, Lyn?" Lynda stood in the doorway; Betty's back was to her.
"Yes, Betty."
"Come and see my red-headed boy--my Bobilink! He's going to be Robert
Kendall."
Then Lynda drew near with Ann. Betty stopped rocking and confronted the
two with her far-reaching, strangely penetrating gaze.
"What a beautiful little girl," she whispered.
"Is she beautiful, Betty?"
"She's--lovely. Come here, dear, and see my baby." Betty put forth a
welcoming hand to the child, but Ann shrank away and her long silence
was broken.
"I jes' naturally hate babies!" she whispered, in the soft drawl that
betrayed her.
"Lyn, who is she? Why--what is the matter?"
Lynda came close and her words did not reach past Betty's strained
hearing. "I--I'm going to--adopt her. I--I must prepare, Con. I hoped
you'd keep her for a few days."
"Of course I will, Lyn. I'm ready--but Lyn, tell me!"
"Betty, look at her! She has come out of--of Con's past. He doesn't
know, he mustn't know--not now! She belongs to--to the future. Can
you--can you understand? I never suspected until to-day. I've got to get
used to it!" Then, fiercely: "But I'm going to do it, Betty! Con's road
is my road; his duty my duty; it's all right--only just at first--I've
got to--steady my nerves!"
Without a word Betty rose and laid the now-sleeping baby in a crib; then
she came back to the low chair and opened her arms to little Ann with
the heaven-given gesture that no child resists--especially a suffering,
lonely child.
"Come here, little girl, to--to Aunt Betty," she said.
Fascinated, Ann walked to the shelter offered.
"Will you kiss me?" Betty asked. The kiss was given mutely.
"Will you tell Aunt Betty your name?"
"Ann."
"Ann what?"
"Jes' lil' Ann."
Then Betty raised her eyes to Lynda's face and smiled at its tragic
suffering.
"Poor, old Lyn!" she said, "run home to Con. You need him and God knows
he needs you. It will take the big love, Lyn, dear, the big love; but
you have it--you have it!"
Without a word Lynda turned and left Betty with the children.