“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?”