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.