In this state of mind Truedale devoted himself to business, and Lynda, with a fresh power that surprised even herself, resumed her own tasks.
“And this is love,” she often thought to herself, “it is the real thing. Some women think they have love when love has them. This beautiful, tangible something that is making even these days sacred has proved itself. I can rely upon it—lean heavily upon it.”
Sometimes she wondered what she was waiting for. Often she feared, in her sad moments, that it might last forever—be accepted this poor counterfeit for the real—and the full glory escape her and Truedale.
But at her best she knew what she was waiting for—what was coming. It was something that, driving all else away, would carry her and Conning together without reservations or doubts. They would know! He would know the master passion of his life; she, that she could count all lost unless she made his life complete and so crown her own.
The money was never mentioned. In good and safe investments it lay, awaiting a day, so Truedale told McPherson, when it could be got rid of without dishonour or disgrace.
“But, good heavens! haven’t you any personal ambitions—you and Lynda?” McPherson had learned to admire Conning, and Lynda had always been one of his private inspirations.
“None that Lynda and I cannot supply ourselves,” Truedale replied. “To have our work, and the necessity for our work, taken from us would be no advantage.”
“But haven’t you a duty to the money?”
“Yes, we have, and I’m trying to find out just what it is.”
And living this strange, abnormal life—often wondering why, and fearing much—three, then four years, passed them by.