“Do you—remember your father, Con?”
“Yes.”
“Well, your uncle feared that too much ease and money might—”
“I—I begin to understand.”
“So he went to the other extreme. Every step of your well-fought way was joy to him—the only joy he knew. From his detachment and loneliness he planned—almost plotted—for you, but he did not tell you. It would all have been so different—oh! so different if we had all known. Then he told me a little—about his will.”
No one saw the sudden crimson that dyed Lynda’s white face and throat. “He was very fantastic about that. He made certain arrangements that were to take effect at once. He has left you three thousand a year, Con, without any restrictions whatever. He told me that. He left his servants and employees generous annuities. He left me this house—for my mother’s sake. He insisted that it should be a home at last. A large sum is provided for its furnishing and upkeep—I’m a trustee! The most beautiful thing, perhaps, was the thought expressed in these words of his, ‘I want you to do your mother’s work and mine, while still following your own rightful desires. Make this house a place of welcome, peace, and friendliness!’ I mean to do my best, Con.”
“And he’s left me”—Brace found relief in the one touch of humour that presented itself—“he’s left me a thousand dollars as a token of his appreciation of my loyalty to you, when you most needed it.”
But Truedale hardly heeded. His eyes were fixed upon the empty chair and, since he had not understood in the past, he could not express himself now. He was suffering the torture that all feel when, too late, revealment makes clear what never should have been hidden.
“And then”—Lynda’s low, even voice went on—“he sent me away and Thomas put him to bed. He asked for some medicine that it seems he always had in case of need; he took too much—and—”
“So it was suicide!” Truedale broke in desperately. “I feared that. Good God!” The tragedy and loneliness clutched his imagination—he seemed to see it all, it was unbearable!