“This is pretty serious business, Linda,” said Peter gravely. “Having gone this far you are in honour bound to finish. It would not be fair to leave me with half a truth. What is the result of this impersonation?”
“Oh, Peter,” sobbed Linda, breaking down again, “you’re going to hate me; I know you’re going to hate me and Marian’s going to hate me; and I didn’t mean a thing but the kindest thing in all the world.”
“Don’t talk like that, Linda,” said Peter. “If your friend is all you say she is, she is bound to understand. And as for me, I am not very likely to misjudge you. But be quick about it. What did you do, Linda?”
“Why, I just wrote these letters that I am telling you about,” said Linda, “and I said the things that I thought would comfort her and entertain her and help with her work; and these are the answers that she wrote me, and I don’t think I realized till last night that she was truly attributing them to any one man, truly believing in them. Oh, Peter, I wasn’t asleep a minute all last night, and for the first time I failed in my lessons to-day.”
“And what is the culmination, Linda?” urged Peter.
“She liked the letters, Peter. They meant all I intended them to and they must have meant something I never could have imagined. And in San Francisco one of the firm where she studies—a very fine man she says he is, Peter; I can see that in every way he would be quite right for her; and I had a letter from her last night, and, Peter, he had asked her to marry him, to have a life-long chance at work she’s crazy about. He had offered her a beautiful home with everything that great wealth and culture and good taste could afford. He had offered her the mothering of his little daughter; and she refused him, Peter, refused him because she is in love, with all the love there is left in her disappointed, hurt heart, with the personality that these letters represent to her; and that personality is yours, Peter. I stole it from you. I copied it into those letters. I’m not straight. I’m not fair. I wasn’t honest with her. I wasn’t honest with you. I’ll just have to take off front the top of the highest mountain or sink in the deepest place in the sea, Peter. I thought I was straight. I thought I was honourable. I have made Donald believe that I was. If I have to tell him the truth about this he won’t want to wear my flower any more. I shall know all the things that Marian has suffered, and a thousand times worse, because she was not to blame; she had nothing with which to reproach herself.”
Peter put an arm across Linda’s shoulders and drew her up to him. For a long, bitter moment he thought deeply, and then he said hoarsely: “Now calm down, Linda. You’re making an extremely high mountain out of an extremely shallow gopher hole. You haven’t done anything irreparable. I see the whole situation. You are sure your friend has finally refused this offer she has had on account of these letters you have written?”
Suddenly Linda relaxed. She leaned her warm young body against Peter. She laid her tired head on his shoulder. She slipped the top letter of the packet in her lap from under its band, opened it, and held it before him. Peter read it very deliberately, then he nodded in acquiescence.
“It’s all too evident,” he said quietly, “that you have taught her that there is a man in this world more to her liking than John Gilman ever has been. When it came to materializing the man, Linda, what was your idea? Were you proposing to deliver me?”
“I thought it would be suitable and you would be perfectly happy,” sobbed Linda, “and that way I could have both of you.”