CHAPTER IV
Lynda sat again upon her ottoman—her capacity for sitting hours without a support to her back had always been one of her charms for William Truedale. The old man looked at her now; how strong and fine she was! How reliant and yet—how appealing! How she would always give and give—be used to the breaking point—and rarely understood. Truedale understood her through her mother!
“I want to ask you, Lynda, why do you come here—you of all the world? I have often wondered.”
“I—I like to come, generally, Uncle William.”
“But—other times, out of the general? You come oftener then. Why?”
And now Lynda turned her clear, dark eyes upon him. A sudden resolve had been taken. She was going to comfort him as she never had before, going to recompense him for the weeks just past when she had failed him while espousing Con’s cause. She was going to share her secret with him!
“Just before mother went, Uncle William, she told me—”
The hand holding the cigar swayed—it was a very frail, thin hand.
“Told you—what?”
“That you once—loved her.”
The old wound ached as it was bared. Lynda meant to comfort, but she was causing excruciating pain.
“She—told you that? And you so young! Why should she so burden you—she of all women?”
“And—my mother loved you, Uncle William! She found it out too late and—and after that she did her best for—for Brace and me and—father!”
The room seemed swaying, as all else in the universe was, at that moment, for William Truedale. Everything that had gone to his undoing—to the causing of his bitter loneliness and despair—was beaten down by the words that flooded the former darkness with almost terrifying light. For a moment or two he dared not speak—dared not trust his voice. The shock had been great. Then, very quietly:
“And—and why did she—speak at the last?”
Lynda’s eyes filled with tears.
“Because,” she faltered, “since she could not have come to you without dishonour—she sent me! Her confidence has been the sacredest thing in my life and I have tried to do as she desired. I—I have failed sadly—lately, but try to forgive me for—my mother’s sake!”
“And you—have”—the voice trembled pitifully in spite of the effort Truedale made to steady it—“kept silence—since she went; why? Oh! youth is so ignorant, so cruel!” This was said more to himself than to the girl by his knee upon whose bowed head his shrivelled hand unconsciously rested.
“First it was for father that I kept the secret. He seemed so stricken after—after he was alone. And then—since I was trying to be to you what mother wanted me to be—it did not seem greatly to matter. I wanted to win my way. I always meant to tell you, and now, after these weeks of misunderstanding, I felt you should know that there will always be a reason for me, of all the world, to share your life.”
“I see! I see!” A great wave of emotion rose and rose, carrying the past years of misery with it. The knowledge, once, might have saved him, but now it had come too late. By and by he would be able to deal with this staggering truth that had been so suddenly hurled upon him, but not now while Katherine Kendall’s daughter knelt at his side!
“Lynda, I cannot talk to you about this. When you are older—when life has done its best or its worst for you—you will understand better than you do to-day; but remember this: what you have told me has cut deep, but it has cut, by one stroke, the hardness and bitterness from my heart. Remember this!”
Then with a sudden reversion to his customary manner he said:
“And now tell me about Morrell.”
Lynda started; the situation puzzled her. She had meant to comfort—instead she seemed to have hurt and confused her old friend.
“About John Morrell?” she murmured with a rising perplexity; “there isn’t much to tell.”
“I thought it was a long story, Lynda.”
“Somehow it doesn’t seem long when you get close to it. But surely you must see, Uncle William, that after—after father and mother—I would naturally be a bit keener than most girls. It would never do for me to marry the wrong man and, of course, a girl never really knows until—she faces the situation at close quarters. I should never have engaged myself to John Morrell—that was the real mistake; and it was only when he felt sure of me—that I knew! Uncle William, I must have my own life, and John—well, he meant to have his own and mine, too. I couldn’t stand it! I have struggled up and conquered little heights just as he has—just as Con and Brace have; we’ve all scrambled up together. It didn’t seem quite fair that they should—well, fly their colours from their peaks and that I should” (here Lynda laughed) “cuddle under John’s standard. I don’t always believe in his standard; I don’t approve of it. Much as I like men, I don’t think they are qualified to arrange, sort, fix, and command the lives of women. If a woman thinks the abdication justifies the gains, that’s all right. If I had sold myself, honourably, to John Morrell I would have kept to the agreement; I hate and loathe women who don’t! I’m not belittling the romance and sentiment, Uncle William, but when all’s told the usual marriage is a bargain and half the women whine about holding to it—the others play up and, if there is love enough, it pans out pretty well—but I couldn’t! You see I had lived with father and mother—felt the lack between them—and I saw mother’s eyes when she—let go and died! No! I mean to have my own life!”
“And you are going to forego a woman’s heritage—home and children—for such a whim? Your mother had recompenses; are you not afraid of the—future?”
“Not if I respect it and do not dishonour the present.”
“A lonely man or woman—an outcast from the ordinary—is a creature of hell!”
Lynda shook her head.
“Go on!” Truedale commanded sternly. “Morrell is a good fellow. From my prison I took care to find that out. Brace did me practical service when he acted as sleuth before your engagement!”
Lynda coloured and frowned.
“I did not know about that,” was all she said.
“It doesn’t matter—only I’m glad I can feel sorry for him and angry at you. I never knew you could be a fool, Lynda.”
“I dare say we all can, if we put our minds to it—sometimes without. Well! that’s the whole story, Uncle William.”
“It’s only the preface. See here, Lynda, did it ever strike you that a woman like you doesn’t come to such a conclusion as you have without an experience—a contrast to go by?”
“I—I do not know what you mean, Uncle William.”
“I think you do. I have no right to probe, but I have a right to—to help you if I can. You’ve done much for your mother; can you deny me the—the honour of doing something for her?”
“There’s nothing—to do.”
“Let us see! You’re just a plain girl when all’s said and done. You’ve got a little more backbone and wit than some, but your heart’s in the same place as other women’s and you’re no different in the main. You want the sane, right things just as they do—home, children, and security from the things women dread. A man can give a woman a chance for her best development; she ought to recognize that and—yes—appreciate it.”
“Surely!” this came very softly from the lips screened now by two cold shivering hands. “A woman does recognize it; she appreciates it, but that does not exclude her from—choice.”
“One man—of course within limits and reason—is as good as another when he loves a woman and makes her love him. You certainly thought you loved Morrell. You had nothing to gain unless you did. You probably earned as much as he.”
“That’s true. All quite true.”
“Then something happened!” Truedale flung his half-smoked cigar in the fire. “What was it, Lynda?”
“There—was nothing—really—”
“There was something. There was—Con!”
“Oh! how—how can you?” Lynda started back. She meant to say “How dare you?”—but the drawn and tortured face restrained her.
“Because I must, Lynda. Because I must. You know I told you I had a story? You must bear with me and listen. Sit down again and try to remember—I am doing this for your mother! I repeat—there was Con. At first you took up arms for him as Brace did; your sex instincts were not awakened. You were all good fellows together until you drifted, blindfolded, into the trap poor Morrell set for you. You thought I was ill-treating Con—disregarding his best interests—starving his soul! Oh! you poor little ignoramus; the boy never had a soul worth mentioning until it got awakened, in self-defense, and grew its own limit. What did you and Brace know of the past—the past that went into Con’s making? You were free enough with your young condemnation and misplaced loyalty—but how about justice?”
Lynda’s eyes were fixed upon Truedale’s face. She had never seen him in this mood and, while he fascinated, he overawed her.
“Why, girl, Con’s father, my younger brother, was as talented as Con, but he was a scamp. He had money enough to pave the way to his own destruction. Until it was gone he spurned me—spurned even his own genius. He married a woman as mad as himself and then—without a qualm—tossed her aside to die. He had no sense of responsibility—no shame. He had temperament—a damnable one—and he drifted on it to the end. When it was all over, I brought Conning here. Just at that time—well, it was soon after your mother married your father—this creeping disease fell upon me. If it hadn’t been for the boy I’d have ended the whole thing then and there, but with the burden laid upon me I couldn’t slip out. It has been a kind of race ever since—this menace mounting higher and higher and the making of Con keeping pace. I swore that if he had talent it must prove itself against hardship, not in luxury. I made life difficult in order to toughen and inspire. I never meant to kill—you must do me that justice. Only you see, chained here, I couldn’t follow close enough, and Con had pride, thank God! and he thought he had hate—but he hasn’t or he’d have starved rather than accept what I offered. In his heart he—well, let us say—respects me to a certain extent. I saw him widening the space between himself and his inheritance—and it has helped me live; you saw him making a man of himself and it became more absorbing than the opportunity of annexing yourself to a man already made. Oh, I have seen it all and it has helped me in my plan.”
“Your—plan?” The question was a feeble attempt to grapple with a situation growing too big and strong. “Your plan—what is your plan?”
“Lynda, I have made my will! Sitting apart and looking on, the doing of this has been the one great excitement of my life. Through the years I have believed I was doing it alone; now I see your mother’s guiding hand has led me on; I want you to believe this as—I do!”
“I—I will try, Uncle William.” Lynda no longer struggled against that which she could not understand. She felt it must have its way with her.
“This house,” Truedale was saying, “was meant for your mother. I left it bare and ready for her taste and choice. After—I go, I want you to fit it out for her—and me! You must do it at once.”
“No! No!” Lynda put up a protesting hand, but Truedale smiled her into silence and went on: “I may let you begin to-morrow and not wait! You must fill the bare corners—spare no expense. You and I will be quite reckless; I want this place to be a—home at last.”
And now Lynda’s eyes were shining—her rare tears blinded her.
“You have always tried indirectly, Lynda, to secure Con’s greatest good; you have done it! I mean to leave him a legacy of three thousand a year. That will enable him to let up on himself and develop the talent you think he has. I have seen to it that the two faithful souls who have served me here shall never know want. There will be money, and plenty of it, for you to carry out my wishes regarding this house, should—well—should anything happen to me! After these details are attended to, my fortune, rather a cumbersome one, goes to—Dr. McPherson, my old and valued friend!”
Lynda started violently.
“To—to Dr. McPherson?” she gasped, every desire for Conning up in arms.
“There! there! do not get so excited, Lynda. It is only for—three years. McPherson and I understand.”
“And then?”
“It will go to Conning—if—”
“If what?” Lynda was afraid now.
“If he—marries you!”
“Oh! this is beyond endurance! How could you be so cruel, Uncle William?” The hot, passionate tears were burning the indignant face.
“He will not know. The years will test and prove him.”
“But I shall know! If you thought best to do this thing, why have you told me?”
“There have been hours when I myself did not know why; I understand to-night. Your mother led me!”
“My mother could never have hurt me so. Never!”
“You must trust—her and me, Lynda.”
“Suppose—oh! suppose—Con does not ... Oh! this is degrading!”
“Then the fortune will—be yours. McPherson and I have worked this out—most carefully.”
“Mine! Mine! Why”—and here Lynda flung her head back and laughed relievedly—“I refuse absolutely to accept it!”
“In that case it goes—to charities.”
A hush fell in the room. Baffled and angry, Lynda dared not trust herself to speak and Truedale sank back wearily. Then came a rattle of wheels in the quiet street—a toot of a taxi horn.
“Thomas has not forgotten to provide for your home trip; but the man can wait. The night is mild”—Truedale spoke gently—“and you and I are rich.”
Lynda did not seem to hear. Her thoughts were rushing wildly over the path set for her by her old friend’s words.
“Conning would not know!” she grasped and held to that; “he would be able to act independently. At first it had seemed impossible. Her knowledge could affect no one but herself! If”—and here Lynda breathed faster—“if Conning should want her enough to ask her to share his life that the three thousand dollars made possible, why then the happiness of bringing his own to him would be hers!—hers!”
Again the opposite side of the picture held her. “But suppose he did not want her—in that way? Then she, his friend—the one who, in all the world, loved him the best—would profit by it; she would be a wealthy woman, for her mother’s sake or”—the alternative staggered her—“she could let everything slip, everything and bear the consequences!”
At this point she turned to Truedale and asked pitifully again:
“Oh! why, why did you do this?”
There was no anger or rebellion in the words, but a pathos that caused the old man to close his eyes against the pleading in the uplifted face. It was the one thing he could not stand.
“Time will prove, child; time will prove. I could not make you understand; your mother might have—I could not. But time will show. Time is a strange revealer. All my life I have been working in darkness until—now! I should have trusted more—you must learn from me.
“There, do not keep the man waiting longer. I wonder—do not do it unless you want to, or think it right—but I wonder if you could kiss me good-bye?”
Lynda rose and, tear-blinded, bent over and kissed him—kissed him twice, once for her mother!—and she felt that he understood. She had never touched her lips to his before, and it seemed a strange ceremony.
An hour later Truedale called for Thomas and was wheeled to his bedroom and helped to bed.
“Perhaps,” he said to the man, “you had better put those drops on the stand. If I cannot sleep—” Thomas smiled and obeyed. There had been a time when he feared that small, dark bottle, but not now! He believed too sincerely in his master’s strength of character. Having the medicine near might, by suggestion, help calm the restlessness, but it had never been resorted to, so Thomas smiled as he turned away with a cheery:
“Very well, sir; but there will be no need, I hope.”
“Good-night, Thomas. Raise the shade, please. It’s a splendid night, isn’t it? If they should build on that rear lot I could not see the moon so well. I may decide to buy that property.”
When Thomas had gone and he was alone at last, Truedale heaved a heavy sigh. It seemed to relieve the restraint under which he had been labouring for weeks.
All his life the possibility of escape from his bondage had made the bondage less unendurable. It was like knowing of a secret passage from his prison house—an exit dark and attended by doubts and fears, but nevertheless a sure passage to freedom. It had seemed, in the past, a cowardly thing to avail himself of his knowledge—it was like going with his debts unpaid. But now, in the bright, moonlit room it no longer appeared so. He had finished his task, had ended the bungling, and had heard a clear call ringing with commendation and approval. There was nothing to hold him back!
Over in the cabinet by the window were a photograph and a few letters; Truedale turned toward them and wondered if Lynda, instead of his old friend McPherson, would find them? He wished he had spoken—but after all, he could not wait. He had definitely decided to take the journey! But he spoke softly as if to a Presence:
“And so—you played a part? Poor girl! how well—you played it! And you—suffered—oh! my God—and I never did you the justice of understanding. And you left your girl—to me—I have tried not to fail you there, Katherine!”
Then Truedale reached for the bottle. He took a swallow of the contents and waited! Presently he took another and a thrill of exhilaration stirred his sluggish blood. Weakly, gropingly, he stretched his benumbed hand out again; he was well on his way now. The long journey was begun in the moonlight and, strange to say, it did not grow dark, nor did he seem to be alone. This surprised him vaguely, he had always expected it would be so different!
And by and by one face alone confronted him—it was brighter than the moonlit way. It smiled understandingly—it, too, had faced the broad highway—it could afford to smile.
Once more the heavy, dead-cold hand moved toward the stand beside the bed, but it fell nerveless ere it reached what it sought.
The escape had been achieved!